As a child my mother always warned me that some things stay living, but I was always quite confused when she said this. Every time she said this to me the horror was alive in her eyes. She said one oddly foggy day, “Run Sylvia, for the house is keeping things alive.” I ran down the halls of our old house and down the red carpeted stairs that seemed to hide stains. I never saw my mother again. As I ran there seemed to be a cackling laugh coming from behind me. Then I saw the craziest thing I think I’ve seen in my life, out of nowhere the house exploded in licking flames, coming out of the doors and windows. I was alone because my father had abandoned my mother shortly after she gave birth to me in that same house.
    Now I’m 26 and I live alone with plenty of space for a companion. When my mother died she left a very large sum of money for me. I loved my mother very much and decided to build myself a house on the very spot our much loved old house burned down with my mother trapped inside. I have always liked the Victorian style so I had the builders almost rebuild the same exact home with a few features that I loved. My house seemed to take on age very quickly. It became a joke to the younger kids as they rode by on their bikes they’d say, “Look it’s the haunted house!” and all the listeners would giggle at the hurtful joke. As I grew older I became more and more convinced that the house might actually be haunted. My mother always said you could hear whispers coming from the walls, a fingernail tapping on the window, or maybe a soft touch on your shoulder as you would lay in bed. The house that burned down I believe was after my mother, looking to torture her and maybe even looking to kill her.
    One night I set down my book and turned off my simple bedside lamp. I laid my head down softly and began to slowly doze off into a deep sleep. Then sccchhh scccchhhh schhhhhhhhh I heard. The noise seemed to be coming from my door to my bedroom, a scratching noise. This was a very similar sound that usually came from my dog Lenny when I was only about four. This was coming across strange to me however, because I was living alone in the house. The next morning was rainy and nearly flooded my gardens which had become quite withered.
    As night came an odd stillness set over the house, I only seemed to hear myself breathing as I walked up the the stairs to go to bed. I looked at the clock, it read 11:46, and I heard a tapping sound as the most horrifying thing came at me.  A witch-like figure ran at me with long yellowish fingernails. She climbed on top of the bed and pressed them into my heaving chest. I screamed and shot up in my bed, it was only a nightmare, but when I looked at the clock it read 11:45. I ran down the stairs and things started to all go wrong. The steps started to sag as i sprinted my fastest down them, I went down and jerked on the front door that wouldn’t budge. I ran to the backdoor but only to find the same witch from my dream. She shushed me as she placed her fingers on my chest with the same yellow fingernails. Then she leaned in close and said, “Sylvia” in a whisper, “for sometimes, the house isn’t the only keeping things alive, but memories.” The witch thrusted her hand into my chest as I slowly lost my balance and fell to the floor. She said, “Now who’s my next victim?” as she glared with her yellowish fingernails and her lips in a smirk.