You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Some houses don’t end when families leave. They linger, clinging to every voice, every echo, every shadow that ever crossed their halls. They hold onto laughter and arguments, footsteps and silences. Some swear the walls themselves grow heavy with memory, bending and breathing like lungs that refuse to stop.

On a quiet road in St. Louis, there is one of those houses.

It was a modest two-story, painted once in cheerful white but long since faded to a tired gray. A porch that sagged just slightly. A roofline meant for practicality, not grandeur. To passersby, it should’ve been forgettable. A structure among thousands. But this one became unforgettable.

Neighbors whispered. Families packed in and packed out. Police wrote reports of noise complaints that had no source, missing persons with no trail, and incidents that left even seasoned officers uneasy. Researchers brought equipment and theories, and still left with more questions than answers.

They simply called it: the house on Ashwood Lane.

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