09-14-2025, 11:50 PM
In the autumn of 1705, a silence fell over the McCall household in Lurgan. Margorie, a beloved wife and mother, had succumbed to a violent fever. Her husband John, a doctor himself, was heartbroken but fearful of the sickness spreading to their children. With a heavy heart, he ordered a swift burial in the Shankill Cemetery.
There was one final, grim detail: a valuable wedding ring, stubbornly stuck on Margorie’s swollen finger. Unable to remove it, John buried his treasure with his wife, a final token of his love.
But in the shadows, other men saw a different kind of treasure. That very night, two body snatchers slunk into the graveyard, drawn by rumors of the doctor’s wife buried with a jewel. They pried open the fresh coffin and there it was—the glint of gold on her finger. When the ring wouldn’t twist free, one drew a knife. It was not a grave robber’s blade that woke her, but the searing pain of the cut—the shock jolting her body from its deathlike coma.
Margorie McCall sat up and screamed into the darkness.
The thieves didn't wait to see if it was a woman or a wrathful spirit. They vanished into the night, never to rob another grave, leaving their shovels and their prize behind.
Cloaked in dirt and her own burial shroud, Margorie climbed from her own grave and stumbled home through the sleeping town. She arrived at her door, a phantom in the moonlight, and knocked.
Inside, John was comforting his grieving children. At the sound, he paused. “If your mother were still alive,” he murmured, “I’d swear that was her knock.”
He opened the door to his nightmare and his miracle. There stood his wife, pale as a specter, her hand bleeding, but very much alive. The shock was too immense for his heart to bear. John McCall collapsed on the threshold, dead where he fell.
He was laid to rest in the very plot Margorie had so recently vacated.
Margorie recovered, lived a long life, remarried, and had more children. When she finally died for good, she was returned to Shankill Cemetery. Her gravestone tells her incredible story in just four words: “Lived Once, Buried Twice.”
There was one final, grim detail: a valuable wedding ring, stubbornly stuck on Margorie’s swollen finger. Unable to remove it, John buried his treasure with his wife, a final token of his love.
But in the shadows, other men saw a different kind of treasure. That very night, two body snatchers slunk into the graveyard, drawn by rumors of the doctor’s wife buried with a jewel. They pried open the fresh coffin and there it was—the glint of gold on her finger. When the ring wouldn’t twist free, one drew a knife. It was not a grave robber’s blade that woke her, but the searing pain of the cut—the shock jolting her body from its deathlike coma.
Margorie McCall sat up and screamed into the darkness.
The thieves didn't wait to see if it was a woman or a wrathful spirit. They vanished into the night, never to rob another grave, leaving their shovels and their prize behind.
Cloaked in dirt and her own burial shroud, Margorie climbed from her own grave and stumbled home through the sleeping town. She arrived at her door, a phantom in the moonlight, and knocked.
Inside, John was comforting his grieving children. At the sound, he paused. “If your mother were still alive,” he murmured, “I’d swear that was her knock.”
He opened the door to his nightmare and his miracle. There stood his wife, pale as a specter, her hand bleeding, but very much alive. The shock was too immense for his heart to bear. John McCall collapsed on the threshold, dead where he fell.
He was laid to rest in the very plot Margorie had so recently vacated.
Margorie recovered, lived a long life, remarried, and had more children. When she finally died for good, she was returned to Shankill Cemetery. Her gravestone tells her incredible story in just four words: “Lived Once, Buried Twice.”