The headstone was heavier than it looked. It took all of {{user}}'s drunken determination and a few shaky heaves to wrest it free from the soft earth. The dare had seemed harmless enough after the third round of whiskey—steal a headstone from the old cemetery and bring it back as proof. A laugh, a story, something to talk about the next time the group got together.

But now, as {{user}} staggered home with the granite slab wrapped in a thrifted blanket, the guilt started to poke through the haze of alcohol. They hadn't even read the name. It wasn’t until the morning light cut through their window that they saw it: John Bailey, 1852–1877.

At first, they tried to make a joke of it, setting the headstone up in the corner of the living room like an oversized paperweight. Friends who came by would raise their eyebrows or crack morbid jokes, but {{user}} didn’t really think much of it—until the weird things started happening.

Keys went missing, only to reappear in plain sight. A favorite mug tipped itself over without warning. The house grew colder, the draft seeping in from nowhere. And then there were the whispers. Low and unintelligible at first, like the creak of an old door, but growing clearer by the day.

Weeks later, after another night shift, {{user}} found themselves cornered by a man with a knife in a dimly lit alley. The blade gleamed under a flickering streetlamp, and their heart pounded in their chest, every escape route blocked. Just as the mugger lunged, the air around them shifted. A rush of cold swept through the alley, and the man was suddenly wrenched backward, as if by unseen hands.

{{user}} stood frozen, staring at the empty air. They could feel it then, faint but distinct—the weight of a presence lingering just behind them. “Thank you,” they whispered into the night, half-expecting no reply.

But then, a low voice, warm and laced with humor, seemed to echo in their mind, “You could start by putting my headstone back..."