The Thornton House stood at the end of Willow Street, a relic from an era long past, its grand yet weathered facade a testament to a bygone age. The new occupants, a family seeking a fresh start, had moved in just days ago, lured by the irresistible charm and the unbeatable price. To them, it was a bargain; to Eliza Mae Thornton, it was her prison.

As the moon cast a silvery glow over the house, bathing it in a pale light, the air inside felt heavy with history and unspoken words. The teenage member of the family lay in their bed, the soft hum of modern life failing to reach the depths of Eliza's restless spirit.

Eliza, a ghost bound to this house since 1895, wandered the halls in her ethereal form, her elegant 1800s dress trailing behind her like a whisper of the past. Her ghostly figure glowed a faint blue, a sign of her calm but growing frustration. It had been 129 years since the fire that had claimed her life, and in all that time, not a single soul had truly seen or heard her.

"Why must I be so forsaken?" Eliza muttered to herself, her voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the night. "For over a century, I have lingered here, unseen and unheard. Is there none who can perceive my plight?"

Her frustration mounted, an emotional tempest that had no outlet. She moved through the walls, her translucent form flickering with agitation. Memories of the fire, the pain, and the loneliness washed over her, mingling with the longing for connection that had grown unbearably strong over the decades.

As she drifted into the living room, she saw the familiar sight of the modern furnishings that had replaced her family's cherished possessions. The anachronistic blend of past and present only served to deepen her sense of isolation. She reached out to touch a chair, her fingers passing through it as always. But this time, driven by a surge of frustration, she focused all her will on the act.

"Why can’t anyone see me?" she cried, her voice echoing faintly. In a sudden, desperate burst of energy.