Orphan at the Cemetery,
Students of the supernatural try to classify their anecdotal collections of spectral encounters based on standard criteria, one being, like real estate agents, location, location, location.
Because one theory about ghosts is centered in the idea that some essence of a once-living spirit is tethered to its bones, may haunt its final resting place, and may, on occasion, rise up to clutch at the unwary in morbid, resentful vengeance, a graveyard (the modest form of the term necropolis, city of the dead) is, therefore, the subject of a high degree of superstitious fear.
Crowded cemeteries comprised of tombs, mausoleums, and crypts -- and rumours of strange lights and eerie sounds and necromantic conjurgation among the stones and sepulchers -- enhance this theory of the restless dead rising from their houses. Or uncoiling from catacombs, from those ways beneath the marble.
The fact that cemeteries of that sort were often the abode of refugees, bandits and excavators -- since tomb raiding is also among the oldest professions -- serve to supplement the legends and contribute to the sense that such places are to be avoided, at least in darkness. At midnight when the dead walk, by their choice or another's, when the solitary wayfarer cannot discern, by his lantern-cast shadows, between the real and the unreal -- and fears both.
And I have a true tale to tell about a fiendish twig on the family tree, if you stroll by Friday.