
The old house at the end of the street had always been shrouded in mystery.
In the summer and spring, the old wood starts to settle becoming strangely still and desolate. Winter and Fall it moans and wanes. A very erking sound as if it were crying it leans side to side as the wind and snow push it in all directions.
There is an old legend the older kids tell. They say the house was built in the 1900s. The couple who first lived there was domestically violent. The wife beat her husband, humiliated him, and always threatened to take the kids and leave.
One day the poor man had enough and attempted to kill his wife with a kitchen knife. Like a tragic end to most marriages, she survived and filed for divorce taking the kids with her. The husband was forced to leave and seemingly disappeared, while the wife kept the house. As the story goes, the husband would stalk the house, break in at night to see the kids and play tricks on the wife while she slept. Knocking on the walls, slamming doors, making objects disappear. Slowly driving her mad. He became her ghost, a damned soul she created that wouldn’t rest until he had revenge.
Patiently he waited, and the wife became more and more paranoid. Constantly, checking the locks, doors, windows, every nook and cranny. Even contacted an exorcist to rid her of this ghost, but her shadow never went away. Soon it was time, the children went away to their worried grandparents. That night he crept into her room, startling her awake. Dragging her off the bed. This time he would be sure to finish her off.
“Please” the wife begged as he stood over her with a hatchet. Tears poured like raindrops down her cheeks. Any sane person would have stopped looking at the damsel in distress, but all the man saw was the woman who’d beaten him, and spat insults despite all his pleading. A person he truly despised a person at his mercy.
“ I never knew peace, but once you’re gone I’ll find it. You’ve tormented me for years and as I look into my pathetic wife's eyes one last time. I pray you will never find yours.”
He raised the hatchet and slaughtered her.
Since then every owner who lived there reported screams and feelings of restlessness at night. Every last tenant has moved within the year.
The bravest of the kids would often test their courage and walk up those old wooden steps on the anniversary of the wife's death. Only to find the window and doors slightly open.
Most wet their pants and run home claiming they heard “ Mom call for dinner.” Only the bravest stayed and entered the house.
All never returning home.
To the adults they simply disappeared, runaways, playing hooky. They quickly became paper children, their unchanging faces appearing in the back of the newspaper.
To us children, we believe the unrestful spirit of the wife took them, maybe the husband never died and still lives there. Protecting his peace.
Submitted By Kayla Gullage
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