Old memories die hard and they never fade away. Memories written in blood and anger stain the souls and the place where they were created. The Angleson’s house is such an example. That place has been on the market for twenty years now and no one wants to lay claim to it. I can’t say I blame them. One night Old man Angleson cracked and killed his entire family. Eight gentle souls taken in a fit of unbridled rage brought on by drink. The hardest part was watching him hunt down the kids as they tried to hide, whimpering in the darkest corners they could find. The old man knew all the hiding places, since he grew up in the place. No one escaped and when it was over, he left the house and turned himself in. When the police arrived to process the scene, there wasn’t a dry eye among them. They left and men came to remove the furniture and belongings. Then nothing. On occasion, I see the spirits of the children playing in the rooms in happier times and I miss that. I wish someone would buy the place and bring a bit of joy and life back to the house. It’s so lonely with no one here. The emptiness and lingering fear keep the living away from me.