A/N: Hello, welcome to my newest story! After a culling my Manage Stories page looked a little empty and I KNOW I'm not switching my Word screen madly because I have a lack of fics I'm working on at the moment :L I decided to find one that looked fun and post it. Poison was the first of a long line of short/semi-short stories revolving around Haunted junk/places. This is the next, however this will come more under the semi-short tag as it's a little more of a plot thick type of deal.

Hope you enjoy!

xoxo
He Who Descends

Ever since I built this house it had seen only tragedy and heartbreak.

My beloved Emmett and I built this mansion as a new beginning, a place to begin a beautiful family of our own. However, after countless, fruitless attempts to create a child, I succumbed to a long suffered bout of Scarlet Fever. My Emmett was soon to follow me, the only obvious cause of his death the heartbreak of losing me.

The next to live in the house were the Brandons – Louise (29), Henry (45) and their seven children; Ethel (19), Theodosia (16), Theodore (16), Mary Alice (12), Judith (9), Archibald (7), and Winnifred (4 months).

Henry and Winnifred both died the year the family moved into the home of pneumonia. Louise lost her eldest son, Theodore, to a horse and buggy accident in town the next year. Ethel had married a local merchant and died in childbirth three months after this, then Judith contracted tuberculosis. Louise quickly sent her middle daughter, Mary Alice, away to an institution after she claimed to be able to see ghosts in the house. Mary Alice died eight months after being committed during a visit home. Archibald died after taking a fall down the stairs, his mother followed shortly after of smallpox. The only Brandon to leave the home alive was Theodosia.

The house was sold by Theodosia who left to live with her husband and his younger sister in their family home. The house was vacant for many years before Esme and Charles Evenson moved in, in 1834.

Esme was with child and soon gave birth to a son in the home. For a time, the house was happy; until Esme could not become pregnant a second time. Charles became enraged and began to beat his lovely young wife each and every night. He soon lost his wife and young son when the eastern wing of the home burned to the ground during the evening. Both mother and child died in their sleep from the heavy, black smoke that filled the home. Charles left two months later with a new woman.

The final family to occupy my glorious home were the Cullens, 1844-1895.

The middle aged couple was Marianne and Jonathon. They had been desperate for a child since they married when Marianne was sixteen. Finally, a few years after moving in, Marianne gave birth aged 27. Their son, Carlisle inherited the house after their death. The early years of the family were wonderful; the longest running period free from overwhelming tragedy. Eventually, Carlisle grew up and used the home as a place for socially unacceptable young men to convene.

Inevitably, the community discovered the unholy goings on in my mansion and decided to approach young Mr Cullen directly; armed with axes, torches, pitchforks and the like.

And on the front lawn, April 7th 1895, aged 21, Carlisle Cullen died for his brethren, along with his lover. A young man named Jasper Whitlock from Texas.

This was by far one of the more tragic stories my home now holds; Carlisle was doused with kerosene and set alight in front of the whole town. Nothing more than a smoking, hideous, reeking pile of jet, black ash was left on the front lawn. That and his poor distraught lover who was promptly 'taken care of' for the 'good of the town'.

Some kind gentlemen took the ashes away soon after the whole issue had died down. A few years later, the real estate that held the house received a large, ornate urn in the mail and promptly placed it on the mantle of my home.

If my very old memory serves me, which sometimes it does and others it doesn't, that was when everything went to Hell.

The house had been relatively quiet, just the lot of us that hadn't wanted to leave moping around and being in a sort of blissfully silent state. We in no way desired to harm or to haunt the living and due to our largely contented attitude, the home did not feel 'evil' or 'haunted'. Many people had been through the home and agreed it was nice; large and stately, very ornate and beautiful. But it was the amount of work the old home required that really sent people away. The energy of the house was nice, just ready for the next set of memories to be made inside its sprawling halls.

These sprawling halls turned to cavernous prisons with the arrival of said urn.