Had to do this for English, so I thought I'd post it on here as well. Hope you like it!

~Louisa

Emily snuck outside. Rebel. She thought to herself. But who cared? Definitely not her foster parents. For all they cared she could get ran over by a bus, although what bus ran at around at midnight?

The crisp night air penetrated through her simple jeans and sweater. Her dark hair whipped around her face, and she spit out some that had gotten into her mouth.

She focused on her target of destination: the largely-held-to-be-haunted mansion, two blocks away.

The old house was the subject of many dares. It was infamous for the singing that could be heard on the quietest of nights. Many had gone in. Few had come back. Even fewer had remained sane. The two that had remained sane refused to talk, and people wanted to demolish the home.

It had used to house seventeen-year-old Emily Roth, her father, Robert Roth, and Emily's two-year-old brother, Michael Roth, until Emily had died in an accident that had happened in the house. Her father, stricken with grief, had packed up and moved to the other side of the country, dragging Michael Roth with him. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to Emily Roth, and then the "curse" had started, over two centries ago.

The old house was what had taken her mother and brother. Her father died in a car crash when she was two, and then she had been taken by social services. Six times had she run away, only to be put back into yet another foster home.

She had nothing but a lacrosse stick and a flashlight to face down the ghost of Emily Roth—whom she shared the first name with—which drove people insane or killed them on a regular basis.

Emily made her way down the street, turned right, and made her way down another block, where she finally stood at the rusted, wrought iron gates.

She could here the legendary singing. Some had speculated that the holes in the house had made the whistling sound as the wind passed by, but this was no whistling. This was actual singing: Emily could make out slightly indistinct words.

If anything, instead of warning Emily, it made her incensed. A freaking ghost was having a better time with undead life than she was with real life. This ghost had taken her family away from her, and she was going to get it back, or die trying. She was speculating that it was going to be the latter, but at least she'd have her family back, even if it was in hell.

Selfish of her, she knew, but she wanted her old life desperately. She hated that old house with a fiery passion. Her family's bones were there. Her five-year-old brother, her forty-five-year-old mother, along all the others. If she couldn't get her family back, she could darn well avenge it.

And that would start with killing the ghost of Emily Roth. How do you kill a ghost? Emily pondered.

She jumped the fence and made her way through the familiar paths stealthily. She hated these gardens. Emily had tried to get her mother to change the flowers in the gardens, but she refused.

She opened the door just wide enough so that she could slip through, knowing how far it would go until it would creak. The singing was louder now.

Emily followed the sound upstairs, and leaped quietly over two of the steps which she knew would squeak unless she didn't put weight on them.

Emily followed the sound to a room, and then she began to notice the smell. It smelled like very heady perfume mixed with charcoal and rotting corpses. She swallowed back her fears.

The good news: the rotting corpses smell came from a dead pigeon. The bad news: a wisp of gray smoke was sitting on the bed she knew well.

The ghost of Emily Roth was sitting on Emily Wright's old bed.

Emily hefted her lacrosse stick and slammed it down over the ghost's head as she sang something from the eighteen hundreds. The stick sailed through her like she wasn't there and broke in half upon meeting the rock-hard mattress.

If a chunk of smoke can smile, this one did. She spoke hollowly, like speaking from a long, echoey cave, or over a telephone that was connected to Australia from here.

"Many have tried that, young one, but all have failed. Alas, I have failed to kill myself as well as you killing me has failed." Emily Roth's accent was hard to place, like she was reading from an old book: like from Shakespeare's time, only without all the thee, thy, and thous.

Emily knitted her eyebrows together, but didn't say anything.

"Singing is my only pleasure now. I have many who hunt me, and none who can. The house has, a curse, you might say, on it, trapping me and the others who await true death, here, in this dark tavern." she said, sighing a bit.

She wasn't like a Harry-Potter-type ghost, polite or rude or outrageously funny. Just sad. She wasn't scary.

"So many have tried to free me, yet no mortal can do so. The men who do die, the women who try wither to dust, the birds and animals that come here are gutted after a short time."

"So pleasant." Emily muttered to herself. "Just what I wanted to hear before I die."

"You have spirit, young one. You have yet to be driven mad, and do not show fear of imminent death. Few have made it out after I've made my warning, and yet once they die, their souls are tethered here with me."

Emily snapped. "You took my family! This-this hellhole took away from me the only thing I felt safe with! I've been on the run since I moved out of this hellhole! My mother, my brother couldn't hear your singing, yet I went to sleep to it almost every night! Then they die, and I'm wondering if I share the same stupid fate that they did, which is die on a full moon, as it is now!" Emily yelled at her.

The wisped of smoke drifted farther away from her, as if in shock or pain. "'Tis was you?"

Acting on impulse, Emily smacked the ghost. Unlike the lacrosse stick, her hand made solid contact on the mist. The ghost gasped, and suddenly you could see a very beautiful girl in a hoop skirt, with an old-fashioned hair style. She had dark hair and eyes, with porcelain skin. The expression on her face was complete and total shock, as if she had never been touched before, even if it wasn't very friendly.

Suddenly Emily was surrounded by ghosts, at least seventy of them. She ignored most of them and looked for her mother and brother.

Her attention was jerked back to Emily Roth.

"You have less than a few minutes, Emily Wright. I'm surprised you've lasted this long, but you either die or go." she said urgently. "The curse has gotten worse since you've been here. You stir old memories for the house."

"No." Emily said, making a split-second decision.

She took her broken lacrosse stick and slammed it into the rotten floorboards. They broke like tissue paper, and she fell, down, down, down, into the blackness, as the ghosts around her vanished into the night with last murmurs from her mother, a soft thank you from Emily Roth, and happy squealing from her five-year-old brother.

She woke up in an ambulance with a paramedic watching her closely. "You got out, and destroyed the house as well. You are some miracle worker." he shook his head. "You have your father's spirit. You saved them."

Emily understood that he was one of the two that had made it out sane, and managed to nod, tears streaming down her face, mourning her mother, brother, and her namesake: Emily.

Thank you…