The house on the hill, stood empty and still, no fire did burn within. No merry clamor, no cheerful din, did echo through; no not a sound to be heard, no cheer to be found here. No, the house merely stands here, a source of superstition and fear.
They say the owner killed his wife, over some internal strife. They say she roams there still, her presence leaving a ghostly chill, as she searches still for her erstwhile lover. She loves him still, though he loved another, he that killed her, he now lives in constant fear, under the church where he once wed her.