There was a house that haunted me as a child, and it still haunts me. Many people think that small towns are cute and country, even romantic in certain people's opinions. But many people would be surprised to find that such was not true of my home town.

The house on the hill sat overlooking the small town I grew up in. It's old windows looked down on the town, like the many eyes of a deranged monster. The dark paint was chipping off the walls of the house, the roof undoubtedly had many leaks, but the sense of it's evil, it's darkness, never faded unlike the actual look of the house.

For a small town a lot of crime happened. Disappearances, in which the person (or their body) was never recovered, happened all but too often. Killings, rapes, and many other crimes happened regularly. When I was a child I believed the haunted house stories, like the ones that the house on the hill somehow infected people, and the town, turning them into vile monsters. But as I grew older I lost the belief in the stories, tales, and legends. After all, what seventeen year old believes in things like real haunted houses that seem to infect towns and make the townspeople become like horrific monsters? No seventeen year old know-it-all will believe that, well at least most won't. So I left, the things I'd seen in that small town still haunted me nevertheless. I moved to the city, where there was crime, a lot of it believe me. But that feeling that resided in my small hometown, that haunting and sense of overwhelming evil, was not there. To me is seemed that the crimes that occurred in the city were either logical, to a point, or they were completely illogical. But at least here wasn't that house on the hill that haunted my dreams, my nightmares.

And so after nearly fifteen years of living in the big city, I came back. I came back to find out the truth behind the old house, and the town that grew more evil and grew more accustomed to darkness everyday.

The truth came slowly, through many hazards and obstacles, but it came. Incidents, disappearances, murders, they all started to connect. They fit together like pieces in a puzzle, yet it created more questions than it answered. Nevertheless, it all seemed to point to the old house on the hill. The one that seemed to look down and torture the town and infect it until the town itself was a mirror, reflecting the evils of the house, Everything led to that house, everything.

The history of that house was as evil as the town had become. There were numerous killings that happened in that house, beatings, torturing, rapes, serial killings. There was even a fire in the house nearly a hundred years ago that killed twenty people, although the old news articles from then suggested that one: the fire wasn't an accident. And two: that not everyone who died during that fire was killed by the fire. In other words, there was a mystery inside the mystery. After awhile it seemed that the ghosts of the house were reflecting the evils done to them to the town. Everything seemed to be leading to me to the house, so I went up there to say hello to the evil that lived in that house on the hill, to say hello to the things that haunted me, and to end them.

When I entered the house it had the feeling, that feeling of overwhelming evil and misery. The ghosts came out, they fought me, tried to drive me insane, for they knew that I was the only one that knew their evil secret. But they failed, and I burnt the house to the ground until not one piece of wood remained uncharred. The say fire purifies, lets hope they were right.

And now I sit in that old town, my bedroom window has a view of the burnt remains of that old house. I still feel the evil, and the ghosts. They're still here, but maybe they'll be easier to live with without their mirrored evil infecting the small town. Some say that all wounds heal with time, well I say all wounds become less painful with time, and some are easier to live with than others.

-The End-