It was a dark and stormy night. I saw the house. The shingles were falling off, eight or nine missing on each side. The door was halfway off the hinges, which were corroded to the point that they could not move. On one side, the right, the window on the second floor had the shutters missing and the other window, the glass. I trotted along the dirt path toward the house. I walked up the decaying steps that led to the front porch and went through the door.

From what I could see under the dust and cobwebs, It used to be a very nice mansion, complete with jade necklaces and silver chalices. Now it was just a home for ghosts. The main room had two blue chairs and a couch with gold frame circa the 1800's, now covered in white tarps. I wonder what happened here.

I remembered a story on the news. This house used to belong to Robert Hansen, a famous fisherman with an inheritance from his mother. Next week, in fact, would be the 200th anniversary of his disappearance. It happened one night, on a fishing expedition with three other men. They were found on a deserted island, one dead and the two others delusional, speaking of cannibals. Robert, though, was never seen again.

I walk into a hallway and up the stairs. There has to be something here that's cool. I looked inside a bedroom. I saw a bed with something engraved on the headboard. "For my darling, Larissa. Love your beloved, Robert." I searched around the mahogany wood dressers, finding a stack of letters and began reading one.

"Dear my lovely Larissa, I am having a wonderful time at sea. The boys and I are doing fine. We are catching plenty of fish. I hope things are doing well on the homestead. Tell Charlie and Katie that Pa will be home soon. We are on the coast of the Bermuda now and wish I could be there sooner for Katie's fifth birthday, but I can't. I love you and hope to see you again soon. Love your pal, Robert."

I put the letter back and kept exploring. In the next room, a child's room, was a little bed, a rocking horse, and a few other wooden toys. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a candlestick and a photograph of a young girl, about age three, and a man. On the back of the photo were the words, "My Katie, I will always love you, Pa." I put the picture and the candle in my knapsack and kept going.

The next room was a young boy's. After looking around a bit, I saw a note with a saddened feeling on the bed, that read "My Charlie, age seven. Will you always be in our thoughts and prayers, Ma." I leave the room just as a crash of thunder hit. In the hallway, there was a photograph of a woman, all alone, in front of a casket. The body was a young girl, presumably Katie, about age ten. Part of a newspaper article next to the photo reads, "LARISSA TRUMAN HANSEN, AGE 31, DECEASED Larissa Hansen, Widow of Robert Hansen, was found dead in her home September 12, 1881. Cause of death, Slit throat. Suspected of suicide."

I put the items in my knapsack and left.A crash of lightning, I turn around. A woman holding a bloody knife appears. I run. Down the stairs, out the door, and along the now muddy dirt path. I don't stop running until I am home. Along the way, I lost the knapsack with the candle and the photos. I don't care. I think about what happened today all night. The widowed Larissa Hansen committed suicide because everyone she loved had died.

The next morning an article in the paper reads, "CHILD FOUND DEAD, THROAT SLIT, NOTE FOUND ON BODY SAYS... "YOU'RE NEXT".