When I died, I thought I would finally get some peace and quiet. No more obligations, no more noise. Just silence. Then the family moved into my house. Scaring them away was easy. A flickering light here, a broken plate there. I was subtle at first, just to test the waters. When they didn’t take the hint, I escalated. A shadow in the hallway, whispers in the night, and the coup de grâce, an upside-down cross on a steamy mirror. The mother was Catholic. That did the trick. Then another family moved in. I was irritated. This was my house. I had earned my silence. And yet here they were, laughing, talking, filling the space with life like I wasn’t even there. I started small again. The usual tricks. They blamed faulty wiring, a draft in the attic. When that didn’t work, I got bolder. I slammed doors, pulled blankets off them, and made my presence undeniable. One night, things got out of control. The father had been mocking the idea of ghosts, waving a flashlight around, laughing. I was furious. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. The bookshelf toppled over. I thought it would just scare them, but the daughter had been standing too close. A sickening crack filled the room as wood met bone, and she crumpled. The family left the next morning. The guilt stayed, though. I told myself it was an accident. That I wasn’t a monster. But wasn’t that what the living did? Justify their worst impulses? I didn’t want to be that thing, the kind of thing the stories warned about. I had my solitude again. Decades passed. Dust settled. The world outside moved on, but the house stayed still. Empty. Mine. Then he moved in. I thought the rumors had faded, that my story had been swallowed by time. I was wrong. He had heard about me. About the hauntings. The darkness. But unlike the others, he wasn’t afraid. He was excited. I should have been able to drive him out like the rest, but he was different. He didn’t scare. He didn’t run. When the lights flickered, he laughed. When the shadows stretched too long, he welcomed them. He left knives out in the open, whispering things I didn’t want to hear. And then came the worst part. The first night, he brought a woman home. She never left. Now I’m trapped here, forced to watch the horrors he commits under my roof. He tells them, the ones who enter, the ones who scream, that the house wants this. That the spirits crave blood. That I drew him here. I pound against the walls, rattle the doors, try to scream warnings through the vents. But no one hears me. Not over their own cries. I thought death would bring me peace. I was wrong.