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The house had stood long before names were forgotten, its brickwork blackened by decades of soot and mourning. No laughter lingered there—only the low groan of timber settling like old bones beneath a shroud. Locals swore the windows watched them, glassy-eyed and patient, as if awaiting a return that would never come. She was the first to die within its walls, though not the last. A young woman, pale even in life, bound to the house by grief too stubborn to rot. When the gas lamps were lit at dusk, her footsteps could be heard pacing the upper hall—soft, deliberate, never hurried. Those who climbed the staircase claimed the air grew colder with each step, thick with the scent of wilted roses and extinguished candles. At midnight, the doors would breathe. Hinges whispered open and shut of their own accord, and mirrors clouded as though someone exhaled against the glass. In the nursery, a cradle rocked gently, though no child had drawn breath there for half a century. The ghost stood in the doorway, hands folded in mourning, eyes hollow yet searching—forever waiting for the knock that never came. No one who slept in the house left unchanged. Some woke screaming, clutching memories not their own. Others simply vanished, their belongings found neatly arranged at the foot of the bed, as if prepared for burial. The house does not hunger, they say—it remembers. And in remembering, it refuses to let go.