“If you listen close enough,” they say, “you can hear the Lost Lady of Pembrooke Estate. You can hear her through the cracks in the decaying walls of the old manor. Her cries echo through the night, drifting through the trees that guard the haunted forests. Her voice moves with the wind billowing through the town, harmonizing with the wind chimes that dangle above store fronts and aged houses. When all is still, and the music stops, the crunches of the leaves underfoot ring in your ears as a warning to stay away.

“And if you’re lucky enough,” they say, “you can see the Lost Lady of Pembrooke Estate. You can see her through the cracks in the decaying walls of the old manor. Her figure moves through the fields, her fraying dress swaying against the dead grass as her lantern leads her toward town. Her gaunt face never leaves your memory, with her blank eyes that stare through you, to the very core of your very being. When all is still, and the wind slows, she stops mere feet away from you and just watches you, almost daring you to walk away.

“And if you’re lucky enough,” they say, “you can touch the Lost Lady of Pembrooke Estate. You can feel her smooth, olive skin beneath your finger tips as she stands before you. Her hair is wispy as it blows around in the wind, tickling your face. Her dress is worn, made of fabric long past created, but still holds the memories of the years before. When all is still, and the lights go out, she takes your hands in her own… she smiles softly… and you’re never to be seen again.”