In Edinburgh’s shadowed heart lies Greyfriars Kirkyard, a graveyard where the earth itself seems to groan with malice. Established in the 16th century, its tombs and mausoleums stand as sentinels of decay, their stones etched with the names of the forgotten. Yet it is not the silence that terrifies, but the cacophony of the unseen—the Mackenzie Poltergeist, a spirit of such ferocity that it defies the grave.
Sir George Mackenzie, a persecutor of Covenanters, rests here—or rather, does not rest. Since his tomb was disturbed in 1998, his wrath has unleashed a tempest of horror. Visitors to the kirkyard report scratches, burns, and bruises inflicted by invisible claws. The air grows thick with a presence that chokes the breath, and the sound of footsteps circles in the dark. The Covenanters’ Prison, a walled enclave within, harbors the shades of the tortured, their skeletal forms glimpsed through the bars, their whispers a litany of vengeance.
I entered that cursed yard as dusk bled into night, my lantern trembling in my grasp. The cold was a living thing, coiling about me, and from the tomb came a growl that was no wind. A force seized me, hurling me against the stones, and I fled, marked by welts that wept blood. Greyfriars is no resting place—it is a battlefield of the damned, where the living are prey to a fury that knows no end.
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