Richmond Cemetery, established in 1848, was a quiet place filled with memories, history, and secrets buried beneath weathered headstones. Many famous "residents" rested here—Civil War soldiers, governors, university presidents, ambassadors, senators, prominent local politicians, and a few infamous outlaws whose stories were told in hushed tones.

At its heart stood the small, squat stone building, its heavy iron door padlocked, ivy creeping over walls that once echoed with whispered grief. Generations ago, bodies were kept there through brutal winters. Those old stone buildings are called receiving vaults. They were commonly found in cemeteries and were used to temporarily store bodies during winter months when the frozen ground made grave-digging impossible. Once spring thaw arrived, bodies would be moved from these vaults to permanent graves. This was Richmond’s second cemetery.

Richmond's original cemetery had long since filled beyond its intended capacity, graves stacked layer upon layer. The first had once sprawled just across Main Street, directly opposite the wrought-iron gates of the current grounds. Officials assured the townsfolk that every single body had been meticulously transferred when the new cemetery was established. Yet, despite these assurances, whispers persisted—dark, stubborn rumors—that only the headstones had been relocated.

Beneath the CVS, the storage buildings and parking lots, forgotten bones waited restlessly. Adding to the cemetery’s haunted reputation was the existing iron fencing, relocated just after the Civil War. Originally, it had surrounded the courthouse, serving as a makeshift corral for Union prisoners captured during the Battle of Richmond until they were paroled to go back home, wounded and defeated.

Now, that same fencing ominously seemed to hold back the spirits of Richmond, separating the living from the dead. Gregg "Shoeless" Smith had always found comfort wandering here after dark, his flashlight slicing through mist, illuminating forgotten names carved deep into granite and marble.

At seventeen, he felt restless, trapped by his small-town life. Richmond Cemetery offered him solitude and a strange sense of connection to history. His nickname, "Shoeless," came from his habit of discarding his shoes in childhood, wandering barefoot despite his mother’s frustration. Now, older but still searching, the nickname stuck, symbolizing his desire for freedom. One bitter November night, Shoeless's routine was interrupted.

His grandmother had recently passed, buried near the old stone building. Grief pushed him toward the cemetery more frequently, hoping to find peace beside her grave. As he approached the old building, something strange caught his eye—the padlock lay shattered on the cold ground, fragments gleaming ominously under the moonlight. Curiosity surged, overpowering caution, and he pushed the iron door open. It groaned as if protesting an intrusion into its slumber. Inside, darkness reigned thick as velvet. Shoeless's flashlight beam trembled across rough walls stained with age and something darker.

At the room's center, a jagged, impossible hole pulsed gently, glowing faintly like embers breathing in an unseen hearth. He felt compelled closer, boots scraping softly over stones once slick with mourning tears. An electric sensation danced over his skin as he reached towards the shimmering rift. It widened hungrily, and before his fingers touched it, the world lurched violently.

Shoeless stumbled through, emerging disoriented into gaslit streets coated in snow, ringing with the distant, clanging bells of horse-drawn carriages. He recognized buildings yet unfamiliar—shops he knew as law offices, hotels that were now office space.

He was in Richmond, but not the Richmond he knew. He wandered through streets that seemed frozen in time, observing faces gaunt with hardship, eyes wary and suspicious. Voices murmured softly, conversations hushed and secretive.

Unease tightened Shoeless's chest, each step dragging heavily in accumulating snow. "You shouldn't be here," came a low, gravelly voice. Turning sharply, Shoeless faced a figure standing half-shadowed under a streetlamp, long coat dusted white. Eyes gleamed strangely, knowing, haunted.

"Who are you?" Shoeless demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The caretaker," the man replied simply, stepping forward into clearer light. His face bore marks of countless winters, a road map of suffering etched deep into pale flesh.

"That portal’s not meant for the living. Only the dead."

"How do I get back?" Shoeless asked, dread pooling icy cold in his gut. The caretaker's eyes softened with a hint of hidden knowledge.

"If you can convince one of the living to take your place—to willingly cross into this realm—you might be able to return. But such bargains are rare and costly."

Panic surged through Shoeless, and he turned away, running frantically back toward the stone building that had brought him here. The streets twisted confusingly, buildings seemed to move, and shadows stretched unnaturally. His breaths came ragged, steam billowing into the icy air, as he reached the place where he'd entered.

But the holding vault was not there.

Only an empty plot, a vacant space in the snow-covered earth. Shoeless felt the world tilt beneath his feet, and despair gripped his heart.

Days passed, though time itself felt distorted, fluid. Shoeless wandered aimlessly, growing thinner, paler, more ghost-like himself. Each evening he returned to the spot, hoping the stone building would reappear, that the portal would open once more. But the holding vault remained stubbornly absent, a distant memory.

One night, weary and weakened by hunger and fear, Shoeless spotted the caretaker again, shuffling slowly along the road, lantern swinging gently. He followed cautiously, hoping the strange figure might hold answers. The caretaker paused at the edge of the town square, quietly watching townsfolk bustle by, their breath visible in the frigid air. His eyes searched the crowd carefully, sadness evident in his posture. After a long moment, he turned slowly and began carving symbols into the snow-covered earth—ancient, indecipherable marks glowing faintly in the moonlight.

Shoeless watched in silent awe, realizing the caretaker was performing a ritual he couldn't fully comprehend, yet one that carried unmistakable power and sorrow. The caretaker stood and met Shoeless’s gaze, sadness deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

"We’re ghosts here," he said quietly, words heavy as stones. "Trapped between worlds. Between life and death, love and loss. We fade slowly, memories forgotten by those we left behind."

Shoeless's chest tightened painfully. "There has to be a way out."

"Only acceptance," the caretaker murmured, turning away into darkness. "Only acceptance—or a costly bargain."

Months passed, each day blending into the next, a relentless cycle of hope and heartbreak.

Eventually, Shoeless became another silent figure haunting Richmond’s forgotten streets, his name carved quietly onto a distant headstone back home, a whisper of a boy who once walked through a door that should never have opened.

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