The stone had been like that for generations, from what he had been told. The chunk of granite had cracked from tip to base, that fateful night in 1874. Nothing else had been touched, no other graves affected, no other souls disturbed. Just this one stone.
The dedication had worn away decades before, the records lost to time. Nobody knew any more whose grave it was, nobody knew if their remains were still there. The rumour was that the devil himself had torn the stone asunder, ripping the body from the ground so that his own domain may remain unsullied.
Who could have been so evil that even the devil didn’t want them as his bedmate? What crimes must they have committed to anger Lucifer so?
And who came each month to lay flowers on the grave with no name?