Stephen Church Road stretched dark beneath towering trees. Past a small bend, tourists missed the graveyard that locals knew well. Gothic graves bore plain names—Long, Brown, White—but others carried more imagination: Perry, Peter, Wollencroft.

A group of young men claimed the graveyard as their meeting place. They sat on the stones and invented stories about the dead, spinning tales from the names carved above them.

One evening they discussed Mervin Anna Durai and his epitaph borrowed from Shakespeare:

“Blessed be the man who spares these stones, Cursed be he who moves my bones.”

Vandals broke the grave that night. The boys arrived to find it open, the coffin disintegrated, the skull exposed. They fled and never returned.

Fifteen years passed. The men gathered at the graveyard and recalled their old mischief. They laughed and traded stories. Each carried a secret though.

One man broke the silence. “We all know who opened that grave, don’t we? And what happened after.”

They nodded. Another pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket. The headline reported a man found dead, his skull crushed by a gaur. Police discovered he had vandalized a grave the night before.

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