Our first jointly owned marital home was a converted Norman church in rural Essex, on the Stour Estuary, surrounded by graveyard with commemorative stones in the basement floor, plus font. The occupants had been moved to other resting places when it was deconsecrated (though our cats did bring up a human jaw bone complete with several teeth one evening).
Some friends were freaked out by the very idea. It must be haunted!
Why on earth would you haunt the place where you were buried, rather than the places that you’d spent your life?
It was the most peaceful, lovely place. Our very young daughter and I often put little bouquets on the graves.
Three things slightly bothered me: a couple of cans of food seemed to jump off of the kitchen shelves when we were packing the shopping away one evening, soon after moving in, no apparent reason. I went in early next morning and said out loud, “you’re welcome to stay here, but please don’t do anything like that again, it’s not nice.” (Never told my husband I’d done that, nothing else happened). On another occasion, the police turned up banging on the door, insisting that there’d been a series of 999 calls from our then landline, with the caller hanging up each time. They insisted on coming in and looking round (embarrassing, 3 month old baby, house was a tip!)
Finally, hoovering and singing along to loud music one afternoon, a funeral cortège appeared and drove up to the graveyard. We hadn’t been notified, I had no idea what to do so turned off the hoover and the music and stood quietly whilst the ceremony went ahead. My husband rang round the next day and complained that we hadn’t been informed. It was a lady whose husband had been buried some 20 years earlier and they had bought a double plot. That there was a new grave outside did unnerve me for a while.
The most frightening thing that happened was very much human activity, though. We’d bought new bikes for us all, left them in the (imagine traditional) church porch. The very next day, they were gone. That was scary as hell. We were a good 1/2 mile off the road, up a track, in farmland. Suggested someone was watching.
As my Cornish father in law always said, “‘‘tis not the dead you need to fear, but the living”.