One clear and moonlit night, a local man was making his way home through Castlewellan. The streets were quiet, and the town was settling into sleep. Hoping to save time, he chose a familiar shortcut—through the old graveyard.

As he walked between the weathered headstones, something made him stop in his tracks. From somewhere nearby, he could hear a faint, repetitive chipping sound—sharp and deliberate, as though someone were striking stone.

Curious and slightly uneasy, he followed the sound through the rows of graves. As he approached the source, he saw a lone figure hunched over a headstone, seemingly chiselling away at its surface.

The figure didn’t seem to notice his presence, continuing to chip slowly, methodically.

“Excuse me,” the local man called out, his voice unsure. “What are you doing here this late at night?”

The figure straightened, turned slightly, and replied in a low voice:
“They have spelled my name wrong.”

That was all he said.

The man stared in disbelief. There was something off—the figure looked too pale, too still, and there was no sign of tools, no sound of footsteps or breath. A sudden chill gripped him.

Realising that whatever he had just witnessed wasn’t natural, the man turned and ran—fleeing the graveyard as fast as his legs would carry him, heart pounding, the chilling words echoing behind him.

To this day, he swears the encounter was real.

And on quiet nights, some say that if you pass through the Castlewellan graveyard, you might still hear the faint tap of chisel on stone—a restless soul correcting a final mistake carved in granite.