It was beautiful once, they say. The house down the street. Long before subdivisions and apartment complexes it stood, full of life and activity. A light was lit in every window, once. Now only darkness, as it has been for decades. 

Once the home of a wealthy land owner and his beautiful bride, the house seemed to shine with life. They held parties celebrated boisterously. 

But overnight it seemed the light began to die in the house. 

When sickness came, it took hold of both man and wife, but while its grip loosened from him, it held her tight like a vise, slowly squeezing the life from her form. And as he watched his love lay dying, the life faded from him, as well. 

When they buried her, he quickly turned recluse, hiding himself away in the darkening house. Within a year he’d sold off acres of land surrounding the house, save for the small piece it sat on. Houses began to pop up and fill the empty land. 

The town watched as the man and the house deteriorated. He came out onto the porch once in a while, stared off into the distance at the changing landscape. Sometimes he’d stand by his wife’s tombstone, just staring. 

For all his mourning, the man still lived many decades after his wife passed. His broken heart finally gave out on him, no one’s sure when. The grocery delivery man came one day, knocked on the door several minutes to no avail. That’s when he found the bold man, dead. 

They buried him next to his wife. Of course everyone knew that’s what he’d want. 

From that day and every day since, the house down the street remained empty. Now, decades later, the young ones think it haunted. Perhaps someone murdered a family and the angry ghosts still haunt the manor. Reckless teenagers dare each other to enter, to test their bravery, but none do. 

Sadly, though, it’s just a house, that house down the street. A lonely old house on a hill, built with love and great expectations for the future, only to be squandered by death and a broken heart.