AN: Okay, first of all: thanks for reading this in advance, I really appreciate that you took time out of your day to read my work, it means so much and ily all! I'm happy to take requests so if you have an idea or just a topic, character or pairing you'd like me to write a letter on, please go ahead and pm me! I'm starting this off with Violet. For the next few chapters I'm going to focus on Murder House characters, because I've only watched the first few episodes of Asylum and Coven but if you make a request for one of those characters I'm sure I can work something out for you.

Sorry this is so long, I'm gonna stop boring you now aha. It would mean so much if you guys could all leave a review, even just a quick one, thankyou! x

"I couldn't stop loving Tate. I haven't stop loving Tate. I never did. I never will."

January 1st, 2012

If you're reading this, please get the fuck out of this house. This hell. My name is Violet, and I died in here. My story isn't important, I'm insignificant. But I have to get my words out of my head and onto paper, because everyone else in this place is as insane as I am. They think they know my pain. We've all suffered here, we've all died in here, but that's where the similarities end.

I never thought I'd be in love, but I never thought I'd become a ghost, either. Shit happens, right? Wrong. Not this amount, not all in this one house. It shouldn't, but it did. And it'll happen to you, too, if you don't get out before it takes you. I met a boy. Spoiler: he's dead. I thought he was misunderstood, like me. I thought he was different, like me. And I thought he was attracted to the darkness, like me, but he is the darkness. I found out the hard way.

I was pretty messed up, even before the house. At least, I thought I was. I was lonely even when I was surrounded by people, I longed for the feeling to not feel at all and I would give anything to be in a room full of living, breathing people and feel sad like I did, because now I just feel empty. This place... It does that to you. Why would I want to be sad? Isn't it better to feel nothing at all? No. When you're sad, anything remotely positive that happens can raise your mood. Right now, I don't even have a mood anymore. I'm not living, because I'm dead, I'm just existing. We all are. In fact, we aren't even existing. We're... Floating in the darkness between life and death and we can't escape it.

My dad cheated on my mom after she had this brutal miscarriage. He thought moving house would make it all okay again. Did I mention she walked in on them? Him and a student of his, Hayden. She turned out to be a psychotic twist, and maybe you guessed, but she's dead too. That whore is trapped here too, and we're trapped here with her.

School sucked. Westfield High. The girls here and their designer bullshit and me trudging in with my fedora and cigarette with a cloud of smoke flowing like a cloudy river around my face kinda clashed. Look at me, making puns. I guess I was polluting their perfect, clean air. God, what I'd give for a cigarette right now...

He was my sanctuary. Tate. He made me okay again when I was with him. Tate cared about me, he would never leave me, and he told me he wouldn't let anyone or anything hurt me. I believed him. I guess he didn't count on himself hurting me more than any high school bitch or blade ever could. That's the thing, about being happy for a reason, for one reason. Don't. Because you can always lose that reason to be happy, and it destroys you.

I discovered that he had killed 15 kids, shot up his school. My school. So I finally did it. He told me I took so many. I don't remember how many pills I shoved down my throat so I could forget the horrors he was hiding from me and himself, so I could forget it all and cease to exist. I didn't want to believe that Tate was a bad person. Even when I knew, I went straight to that school and I asked a guy he had paralysed if he had been bullied, desperately searching for an excuse. But there is no excuse for killing 15 kids, all different kids, for taking them down with him. I told the guy that good people don't just have a bad day and start shooting people, and he made me see sense. The cold, hard fact, that maybe Tate wasn't a good person.

I didn't want to live in a world where the boy I loved was a killer. So I killed myself. When I felt my cold body being dragged across the ground and the even colder shower water stabbing my skin like daggers, when I heard him wailing my name and begging me not to die on him, I started begging myself not to die, too. Tate told me I died crying, that he held me. That I died loved.

Before I was aware that I was as dead as him, I continued loving him, but not like before. He knew I was different towards him, he said so. But I still lay there in my bed, with him. I couldn't stop loving Tate. I haven't stopped loving Tate. I never did. I never will.

My mom died after me, he had raped her. Though Nora, another ghost (you guessed it) tells me she drove him to it, that he only did it for her so she could have her baby back, I can't forgive him... Because it killed her. That baby- that thing, whatever it was... It killed my mom. He killed my mom.

So I told Tate to go away. And it worked. I told him that I believed I had changed him, that I believed his words because I did, but it was too late. I couldn't and can't and will never be able to forgive him. I feel like even though I'm already dead, some part of myself died everytime I think of him, so I try not to. I see him sometimes, I hear him crying and hurting himself, punching walls in fits of rage. It takes everything I have not to stop him. Everything. Sometimes, he leaves messages and words on my chalkboard. I never reply to them. He could follow me everywhere if he wanted, beg me for forgiveness, apologise countless times until I give in, because I know I will, and make excuses... But he doesn't. Because it'll only hurt me more, and he cares about my feelings more than his, just like he always did.

Tate told me that if you tell a ghost to "go away", they will. Maybe that'll be useful for you. If you see a beautiful boy with golden hair and the darkest, most mysterious eyes you've ever seen around, tell him to go away. Please. Tell him to go away, before he becomes your world without realising he's tearing you apart inside, slowly, and then all at once. Don't be the depressed, dead girl. Don't be me.