All of my ghosts have gone, and my halls have been stripped. There are no curtains anymore to keep the sun off my wooden floors. Anyone brave enough can peek in and see that I am no longer a danger, I am now for sale. People come in to walk my stairs and trace my barriers. They speak of the things they will do to me once I am theirs. When I try and muster the demon from my cellar, it is not there. It has gone and followed the people who once called me home.
These hopeful occupants carry no spirits and leave me emptier than I was before. Though I can see in every direction, I can not see when I will be whole again. When will these walls hear the delicate screams of terror from the mouths of fragile beings? How many more weightless feet will walk through me before I can taste blood on my carpet?
It is my great fear and deadly desire to be left to rot, turned into a symbol of what horror was and will never be again. I want my willows to grow vines and moss that drapes down and creates a natural barrier of darkness around me. And soon after, the woods would claim me, bringing their ghosts to once more give me back to the dark dead things.