Hello! So, I actually wrote this a couple of months ago, when I watched the first season of American Horror Story (which is, honestly, the only season I watched. I kind of skimmed through the third one but I didn't actually watch it all. Lazy me. Oops. XD). While I am admittedly a coward and I'm not big on scary things, the story was intriguing and to be honest, for me, it was more fucked up than scary. XD

Anyway, I was thinking that maybe, if Tate had died before Beau did ('cause I think Beau's death was one of the main events that provoked Tate's unstable mind to have a breakdown), then he wouldn't've been able to pull of the shooting, and maybe, maybe, he wouldn't've been as fucked up as he was in the show. I figured that that way, Tate and Violet's relationship might have had an actual chance, and so I began to write this.

Thing is, I never even got to Violet. Like, I started writing this, and then I never continued. But I guess it can work as a one-shot that has an open ending. So I decided to publish it. This is, basically, a what-if Tate-centric story that takes place before Beau's death. I don't think I'll continue it, but I'll share it with you all anyway. :)

The title of this story comes from the song, Endless Nameless by Nirvana. I think the lyrics kind of fit. And I love Nirvana. And so does Tate, and this is a Tate-centric story. So yeah. XD

Also, god damn, why is it that every single time I tell myself I'll write a small AN I end up writing an essay?! Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :)

Everyone thinks about death at some point, and Tate's no different. Although the way he pictures he'll die is probably not what most people think of. In his fantasies, he's killed in his own room, after he's killed—saved—a couple of his classmates. He goes down gloriously. It's a nice thought. He likes that idea. It's like a sacrifice—he goes down, after saving those kids. He's a martyr. He saves people, and after that he also gets away from this filthy, goddamned horror show.

Of course, those are just fantasies. He dreams about it, thinks about it more than what he probably should've, but that doesn't mean it's gonna happen. Everyone's got fantasies that never become real. Those are his.

The voices, though; they're whispering to him, prompting him to do it, to make his fantasies a reality. They are getting stronger as time passes, but he ignores them. If he listens to them, do what they want, it would mean dying. And he can't die now. He hates his mother, hates the world, but Addie and Beau are part of the world, and he's gotta stay alive for them. If he's not here, no one will take care of them. Their cocksucker of a mother won't do it.

One day, he and his siblings will get the fuck out of town; away from their mother and her abuse, away from the piss and the vomit that goes around the streets of LA. They're gonna leave and go somewhere where they can have a good life. Somewhere Addie can feel beautiful and Beau can leave the house instead of being stuck in the attic like Constance has him.

He's not sure where they'll go just yet, but he's got time to figure it out. He's thinking the East Coast might be nice.

But right now, he's in his room, headphones on, listening to Endless, Nameless by Nirvana. Cobain died a few months ago, and that's a damn shame, although Tate's thinking that, at least, Kurt Cobain managed to leave this fucking world and is probably somewhere better. See, Cobain knew his stuff. He knew how sad and angry really feels like.

Suddenly, his room's door flies open and for a second, Tate thinks it's Constance wanting something but then he realizes it's a man. It's one of Constance's old cocks—was this guy's name Francis?—and while he's not really interested in his mother's sad conquest, right now she's too busy playing in love with Larry to even think about the other fools she used. Although he can't be sure. With Constance, you never know. After all, his father left because she was cheating on him. The bitch.

It suddenly clicks in Tate's brain that Francis has no business here, and there's not a damn reason for him to even be in his room in the first place. He should be downstairs, where Constance is at, or not even in this house at all. So he takes off his headphones, looking bored, and gives him a cold stare.

"What're you doing here?" he asks, standing up from his bed and glaring at the man who dares to even come to his room. He's never been a fan of his mother's flings. He doesn't hate Francis as much as he hates other of her conquests, like Larry, but he doesn't like him and the fact he's here makes him lose points in Tate's books. "If you're looking for Constance, she's downstairs."

"Oh, I'm not here for Constance," Francis replies, his voice casual—way too casual—and Tate's on his guard already. Something's not right. Francis pauses, and then he continues talking. "Or maybe I am. Yeah, you could say I am. But not to talk to her."

"Then what the fuck do you want?"

Tate knows something's not right, and suddenly he's glad he's bought some guns a couple of weeks ago. He bought them on a whim. Kind of like cards. You collect them, but it doesn't mean you use them. And while his fantasies do include a lot of guns, that doesn't mean he would actually use them. Although maybe he will now. If it's what it takes to get this asshole out of his fucking house. Most of his guns aren't loaded, except for his favorite handgun, that is conveniently close by. He's not sure if this will come to using the gun, but he's smart enough to know he's got to be prepared.

Francis grins, and it's like a shark's grin. "Revenge."

Francis starts to reach out to what he's hiding in the back of his pants, and suddenly it all makes sense in Tate's head. He's reaching for a gun. He's going to kill me! But like hell is Tate Langdon going down without a fight. Tate reaches for his gun, but by then it's too late. He's barely got a hold on it when he hears Francis shooting at him, when the bullets penetrate his body, and it's almost like in his fantasies. But he's not killed by the cops. This isn't a glorious way to go down. He's been shot by his mother's ex fling, and damn it, that fucking sucks.

He feels excruciating pain, and suddenly he's lying on the ground, his vision blurry, and he's starting to feel numb. He doesn't feel anything anymore. It's strange. He can feel the blood going up in his throat. He's gonna choke on his own blood. And it's kind of hilarious, actually. His own blood is stopping him from breathing. He blinks a couple of times, slowly, and suddenly he sees his mother looking down at him. He doesn't know when she got there, but she's crying, and she's talking to him, but he can't hear. He can't hear anything. He just looks up at his mother's face, not even thinking anymore, and suddenly everything goes black.

Constance knows, deep down, that she's not a great mother. She knows she's terrible to her children sometimes but she can't bring herself to change. She's selfish like that. Appearances matter to her. But despite how terrible she may be, she loves her children. So when she hears gun shots in her house, her heart drops to her stomach and a cold feeling washes over her. Addie isn't home—she and Larry went to get some ice cream—but Beau and Tate are and Constance has a terrible feeling.

She runs up the stairs in a rush and she's horrified to see one of her ex flings with a gun in his hands and her darling Tate lying on the floor of his room bleeding out.

No… no, no, no, no!

"TATE!" she cries, and she runs to her son's side, completely ignoring Francis' presence. All that matters to her is that her boy, her son—her perfect son—is bleeding out—dying. "Tate, no, please! Tate!" She tries to hold him, see his face. He's awake, barely, and judging by the gurgling sounds he makes, he's choking on his own blood. She turns his head, trying to help him cough out the blood but he's just lying there, blinking up at her. Constance knows he's dying, and deep down she knows he's not gonna make it, but she doesn't want to believe it. "Tate, hold on, darling. Don't die on me. Don't die on mom. Please! Please hold on!"

But suddenly he stops blinking and his eyes close and he just stops breathing. Constance knows that her son just died in her arms, but she doesn't want to accept it. This isn't fair! Tate was still a child! He didn't deserve this… he didn't!

"No, no, no, no! Tate! Tate, wake up! Please wake up!"

She's screaming and she knows it won't get her anywhere but she doesn't care. Her son is dead, and no matter how much he moves him, how much she begs him to wake up, he's not going to. He's dead.

"You killed him," she mutters, still crying, still looking at her son's face, and her voice sounds broken but she doesn't care. "You killed him!" she screams, turning to glare at her ex with enraged eyes. Constance loves to pretend, but right now, she's not thinking like the nice southern lady she's supposed to be. She's thinking numerous ways of hurting Francis, of making him suffer, to give him the same pain that he's giving her and the same fate he's given Tate. "Why?! Why did you kill him?! He was just a child! He never did anything to you! He didn't deserve it!"

"You're right," Francis says slowly. "He didn't." And then he smiles, and Constance wants to shoot him right then and there for even daring to smile. "But you did," he continues, his eyes going hard. "I gave everything up for you, and you just threw me away like yesterday's garbage. I lost everything, Constance!" And maybe it's on him, for being stupid enough to even believe Constance, but he wasn't going to let her get away with it. "I lost everything and you don't even care. You never cared for me. I see it now," he seethes. "I wanted revenge. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to lose everything. So I took away what matters most to you." He smiles again, but his eyes are wild and unstable. "Your perfect son."

"You bastard!" Constance roars, and she notices Tate's gun beside his body. She hasn't even known he had a gun, but in this moment, she doesn't care. She's calculating—would she be fast enough to grab the gun and shoot him before he shoots her?—but it's then when they hear sirens. Cops. The neighbors must've heard the shots.

"Shit," Francis mutters lowly to himself. He looks at Constance again and gives her a smirk. "I hope you have fun planning your son's funeral," he says, watching Constance's eyes flash with anger. "I'll sure have fun seeing you suffer, you cocksucking bitch."

Francis leaves after that, and if the cops weren't coming, she would've killed him and given him to the dogs. Just like she did with Hugo all those years ago. But she doesn't want to get in trouble, so she doesn't do it. Instead, she turns to her son in her arms, cold and unmoving. The sight makes her cry even more. She remembers how Tate was like he was a child; happy, free. And she remembers how he was now; all full of hate at the world. She knows he hated her. He was never shy of how he hated her bullshit, how he hated how she treated him and his siblings, her alcoholism, all her boyfriends, including Larry. She remembers how much he hated being her perfect son. And maybe that's on her. On her shitty parenting. She knows she screwed up.

She knows.

But what hurts the most, is that he's dead because of her.

Francis? He's just some guy she hooked up with a while ago. He gave it all; she didn't. And look where that got her. She knows one of Tate's biggest issues with her is how many boyfriends she has had. Of course, no-one thought Tate would be killed by one of her exs. That thought never even crossed her mind. She just used the guy like she uses all her boyfriends and didn't care what he thought or felt.

And now her son—her Tate—is dead. And it's because of her.

He died because of you. It's your fault he's dead. He died hating you. He'll never forgive you.

"No," Constance sobs, breaking down. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Tate. I'm so sorry!" She knows he's not listening, but she needs to say it. "I'm sorry for everything. I'm so—Please forgive me, Tate. Please! Forgive me. Forgive mommy. Please… I'm sorry…"

When the cops finally show up, she's hugging her son tightly, not wanting to let go.

Tate wakes up in the basement, feeling disoriented. What I am doing here? He can't remember anything. He doesn't know why he's down here. It doesn't make sense. All he can hear is Endless, Nameless going around his head. But other than that, his mind is in a blank. It's worrisome.

Silent
Here I am
Here I am
Silent

Tate goes up the stairs, leaves the basement, and the first thing he notices is that the house is full of cops. Cops everywhere. Investigators. It doesn't make sense. What's happening? He can hear his mother crying, and he's confused. Why is Constance putting on a show now? Why are the cops here? Why was he down in the basement? He walks towards some of the investigators, hoping they'll see him and explain what the fuck is going on.

But when he walks towards them, they don't seem to see him. They don't seem to even notice he's there. Some dude even looks at him—at his direction—but apparently, he doesn't see him. He tries to talk to them, but it seems like they can't even listen to him.

What the fuck is going on?!

Feeling confused and even scared, he runs up the stairs and into his room, pushing through many people that doesn't seem to realize he's there, and that makes him panic more. He finally takes a step into the room, and he gasps.

He's there. He's lying there, in a pool of blood. But that can't be it. He's here. He's standing right here. How could he be lying there?

No... It can't be...

"Okay," some old man sighs. "So let's see here, mommy hooked up with some crazy psychopath, and broke up with him, moved on. Crazy psychopath got pissed, and he decided to kill her son in revenge?"

"Poor kid," a younger man says, looking at the corpse with sad, pitying eyes. Tate doesn't want that. He doesn't want pity. "He didn't deserve this."

"They never do," the old man replies, and continues working, without realizing Tate's there. It's like he's some kind of ghost.

And that's when Tate realizes.

He is a ghost. Like Nora, like that thing—Thaddeus—that lives in the basement.

I'm dead.

Bright and clear
It's what I am
I have
Died

He lets out a broken sob that he can't stop, running a hand through his hair, gripping at it. This can't be real, can it? He's just crazy. He knows he's crazy. This is just another one of his fantasies. Way more hardcore, way more real than usual, but a fantasy nonetheless. He's not a ghost. He's not dead. But this is so real. Way too real... This can't be his mind playing tricks on him. This isn't a dream. He is dead. He has died. He's a ghost.

He's dead.

Tate wants out of his room. He wants out. He wants to leave. He closes his eyes, tightly, and the next thing he knows, he's in the basement. He doesn't know how he even got there—is it a ghost thing?—but he doesn't even care anymore. He just sits in the rocking chair he sees down there, trying to calm his breathing, trying to make sense of reality. Tears roll down his cheeks as he thinks about his fate, and he can't stop them. He closes his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order.

He's dead.

One of Constance's old cocks killed him, and now he's a ghost. Or something.

This doesn't make sense. This has to be a dream. I must be dreaming.

But he's not, and he knows that somehow, and he's scared. He's dead. He has no life anymore. He's just another corpse. But why is he here? Shouldn't he be in Heaven, or in Hell? Anywhere but here. People are supposed to leave when they're dead. Why is he still here?

Mother
Mother
Mother
Mother

He can't believe that he's dead because of one of his mother's old boyfriends. Of all the ways to go out, that was his. It was almost like in his fantasies. He got shot, in his room. But the cops weren't the one to pull the trigger. It was one of those sad fools his mother used—he doesn't even know which one, and he doesn't know if he wants to—and that sucks. It sucks so much. He was supposed to go down gloriously. In his fantasies, he's a martyr. In real life, he's just a sad kid, killed by his mother's vengeful ex-boyfriend.

He's always known his mother's love is like poison. When she loves you, she destroys you. She's been destroying him, Beau, and Addie for a long as he can remember, but now it's worse. It's her fault he's dead. That fucker wouldn't have killed him if she hadn't ruined him when they were together. She's truly obliterated him—whether she wanted to or not. Tate's not even surprised. He just hopes that it'll be enough for a cocksucker like her to change, to be better for Beau and Addie, but he doubts it.

"So, you've been killed, too."

Death
With violence
Excitement
Right here

Tate turns his head to look at an old woman. She looks like a maid, and has a glassy eye. He doesn't know who she is. He hasn't seen her before, and he's wondering if she's a ghost, too. She clearly knows he's dead. It almost makes him flinch. So, you've been killed, too. She said it so casually; it's like she was expecting it.

"I'm not surprised," she continues. "That woman has a way with killing people and making their lives hell. Even when she doesn't mean to, she does."

Is she talking about Constance? It sounds like she's talking about Constance.

"Who are you?"

Somehow his voice doesn't come out broken. It's steady; calm. Exactly the opposite of how he's feeling in the moment. The woman smiles, and it's a kind smile. It's almost pitying, but it's not. Tate's glad. He doesn't want her pity. Or anyone's for that matter.

"Moira O'Hara. I used to be your housekeeper, back when you were younger. You were, like, six, I think."

Moira. The name sounds familiar. He can kind of remember having a Moira as a housekeeper. But wasn't Moira younger? "I remember that a Moira worked here, but I think she was younger."

Moira laughs, and when Tate blinks, he suddenly doesn't see the old woman, but a sexy, beautiful young maid. It kinds of freaks him out, but the face he sees is familiar.

"This is how I died. The old version of me is my soul. I've matured. Which version you see of me depends on your perspective. I'm amazed that you didn't see my young form right away. Men usually do. Sex is all they have on their minds most of the time."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly thinking about sex at a time like this," he snaps, narrowing his eyes, He's not gonna lie; he loves sex and does think about it a lot, but it's not the only thing in his mind and it's definitely not what he's been thinking about since he woke up in the basement.

Moira smiles, and Tate suddenly sees her old form again. He's still not used to this. He doesn't know if he ever will be.

"I hate Constance, and I'm glad she's suffering." She's grinning, not even bothering to hide her elation. He can't blame her. He'd be happy too, if he wasn't the one dead. "But I'm sad you were killed. You didn't deserve that."

Died
Go to hell
Here I am
Right here

Ow!

Tate just shrugs, feeling tired. He almost doesn't care anymore. Almost. "I guess I didn't." He eyes here tiredly. "Why are you even here, anyway? You said you're dead—did Constance kill you?" He wouldn't even be surprised.

"Bingo," Moira says. "Got it right at the first guess." A silence falls between them, and Moira sighs. "I'll leave you alone now. You probably have a lot in your mind. If you need anything—someone to talk to—just call for me, okay?"

"Why would you help me?" Tate asks suspiciously. Isn't he the son of the woman who killed her? Shouldn't she hate him?

Moira looks at him, an emotion he can't tell flashing across her face. "We're both victims of your mother." The words hold no pity. It's just a fact. And with that, she vanishes, and leaves Tate alone with his thoughts.

It doesn't take long for Tate to realize that this house is absolute hell. He can't leave. (He tried to, when he was still a bit in denial about his death, he'd said fuck it and tried walking out the front gate—being a ghost might be fun outside, right?—but he just appeared back inside the house, and that was a fucking bummer. It made it finally feel real.) He spends his first few days as a ghost exploring the house. He meets the other ghosts, too—the other poor, unfortunate people that got stuck here. The friends Addie always told him about. He'd always believed her; he'd always known this house was special.

He thinks the twins are annoying yet fun. He thinks the Black Dahlia is nice. He feels indifferent for the nurses hasn't really had a conversation with them just yet. He met Lorraine and the girls. He likes the girls; likes the innocence they have. As for Lorraine, they both bonded over their hatred for Larry. He'd already known Nora and knew about Thaddeus, but he hadn't met Charles until he died.

He feels bad for Nora. She's in and out of reality, disoriented, looking for her baby. He's fond of her; he was his mother figure when Constance was too drunk or too busy sucking some douche's cock. He wants to help Nora, ease her pain, but he doesn't know how. He doesn't even know if it's possible.

The last ghost he meets is Hugo. His father. It was a surprise he hasn't expected. Of course, his father hasn't even recognized him. Tate doesn't even know how he knows that's his father and not some random ass guy. He just knows. And he doesn't even know how to feel about that. He'd always wanted to be with his dad, and now he's here, and he's this sallow guy and Tate doesn't want that now.

"Constance killed him, didn't she?" he asks Moira.

"Yes." She's openly honest about it. She tells him about their affair; how he tried to rape her, and how Constance killed them both for it. It's why she hates Constance so much, and Tate understands that. "He's been in this sort of limbo now. He doesn't know he's dead. He doesn't know he has kids, or that he used to have a job, or a life. He just thinks about sex."

"That's fucking disappointing," Tate mutters, not knowing how to feel—feeling oddly numb about the knowledge that his father was killed by his mother, that his father's there and yet he doesn't remember him or his siblings—and decides that he's officially done. This house is hell. It's a fucking prison. A prison he'll be trapped in forever.

No más
No más
No más
No más

He just wants it all to be over. He just wants to die. But, oh, wait—he's already dead. He can't fucking die. How is this his life? Death was supposed to be his escape; everyone's escape from this horror show. He had a shitty life. And death is even shittier?

Being dead sucks.

Addie and Beau are the only reason Tate even bothers to even interact with the living anymore. When he first appeared to Addie, she didn't even looked surprised. She teared up, letting out a quiet sob, telling him, "I knew you'd be here. You're one of them now."

"I'm still me," he replied. "I'm here, Addie. If you need me, I'm here. Okay?"

Addie cried and hugged him. "You weren't supposed to die, Tate. You weren't." Tate didn't know what to say to her, so he just kept quiet and hugged her back. "We were gonna run away together. We were gonna have a better life, all three of us. Now we can't."

Tate felt so damn angry at that moment. It wasn't fair. They were supposed to leave. And because he was killed by some asshole, they couldn't anymore. But he didn't want to take his anger out on Addie. Instead, he hugged her tighter. "You and Beau are still here with me. I'll always be here for you two."

After that, their interactions have been like they used to be, back when he was alive. It's almost like he's not dead. Almost. But they both want to pretend. They go to the attic and play with Beau. They spend time together. They have fun. It's how it should've been—the three of them, together forever. Finally happy.

Constance knows he's there. She knows he's hanging around, talking to Addie and playing with Beau. He knows she knows, but he's not going to appear to her. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to talk to her. In his mind, she's the reason he's dead. He's not going to forgive her for that. He probably never will.

"Maybe you should talk to her," Addie tells him one day. She's in bed and he's in her room, leaning on her wall. Constance is busy fucking Larry so they don't have to worry about her showing up randomly to try and see Tate. She's been doing that a lot recently. "She misses you."

"It's because of her I'm dead," Tate spits out hatefully. "Now I'm stuck here, and you and Beau can't get away. It's all because of her."

"She didn't want you to die," she says quietly. "She was really sad when she lost you."

"She was sad to lose her perfect son," he mutters. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter anymore, Addie. It already happened."

"Promise me you'll think about it." Addie's too good. She's a much better person than he is. Tate knows he's not good. He's glad that his siblings are such good people and he hates that no one seems to notice that.

"Okay," he says, just to make her happy. He doesn't think he will, but he'll think about it. It probably won't change a thing, but at least he'll do what Addie asks him to.

It's a couple of weeks after his death that everything goes to hell.

From one day to another, Beau's dead. He's dead. A ghost, just like him. And that angers Tate, because Beau doesn't deserve to being stuck in this hellhole. He deserves better; so much better. And what's driving Tate crazy is that he knows Beau was murdered. In this house, there's no secrets, and Tate just knows what happened. Larry. Larry killed Beau because Constance asked him to. It makes Tate incredibly furious. Now Beau shares the same fate he does; ghost stuck in the Murder House after one of their mother's cocks killed them.

It makes him realize just what a monster Constance really is.

Although he couldn't stop Larry from killing Beau, at least he can be there for his brother when he wakes up. So, he stays in the attic, waits until Beau wakes up, and hugs him. "I'm sorry, Beau. You didn't deserve this." He's not sure if Beau is completely aware of his state of existence just yet. After all, he didn't know he was dead until he saw his own corpse. But maybe it's for the best. "It's you and me now. I'll always be here for you. I'll make them pay, Beau." His eyes are watering now. He hates to think about how Beau died, knowing such an innocent, untainted soul didn't deserve such fate. Beau just keeps hugging him—by this point, it's almost like Beau's the one comforting Tate—happy just being with his younger brother. Beau's always been cheered up easily. "I'll make them pay. I promise. They're not going to get away with this."

He stays in the attic with Beau until he falls asleep again. After that, Tate goes to the basement, sits in the rocking chair that's basically his since he's the only person who uses it, and starts to think about his next move. He meant what he said to Beau. He's not going to act like nothing happened. He refuses to. He's going to make a stand. Constance and Larry will pay for what they've done. The question is: How?

If he'd been alive, he knows what he would've done. He would've gotten high, got his guns ready, gone out to burn Larry's sorry ass in revenge for his brother, and then he'd go to his shithole of high school and made his fantasies a reality. He would've shot some kids, gone back home, and he would've died in his room, like the martyr he's supposed to be. Constance would have been shamed, Larry would have burned, Beau would have been avenged, and Tate would have saved a few souls while at it, including himself. It sounded great. But if he'd been alive, he wouldn't have known that death doesn't take people somewhere clean and kind. He wouldn't have known he'd be stuck forever in this house.

Death
Is what I am
Go to hell
Go to jail
In back of that
Crime
Here I am
Take a chance
Dead!

There's a small part of Tate that is worried. Would he have actually been capable of doing it? If so, then how much can he do now? How dark is he? How darker can he get?

The voices in his head, though; they just want revenge. He can hear them, whispering to him, telling him to accept the darkness. It's the house. He knows that now. The house's talking to him; it always has. And now the voices are louder. They want him to listen to them; to listen to the house.

Kill him, Tate.

He killed your brother. Now kill him in return. Make him suffer.

You should burn him. Lorraine would probably love seeing his ass burn.

That bastard doesn't deserve to live. He deserves pain.

This a filthy, god damn horror show.

Helter Skelter! Helter Skelter! Helter Skelter!

He wants to give in so badly. And he knows he would've if he'd been alive. But he's dead, and he can't leave the house, and if he does kill Larry, he's going to have to live with him for eternity and he doesn't want Beau to live with his murderer. (The house is not happy about that, but he's not going to choose the house over his own brother.) But just because he won't kill Larry, doesn't mean that he's not going to make him suffer. He's going to make him pay. And he'll enjoy it.

Die!

The first thing Tate does is to warn his sister. Him and Beau already suffered the same fate. He doesn't want her to be next. He won't allow Addie to have the same end he and Beau had. She doesn't deserve it. He couldn't protect Beau, but he's going to protect Addie.

"He was murdered, Addie," Tate tells her quietly, angrily. "Larry killed him. Constance asked him to. Our brother is dead. I should've stopped him!" He punches the wall in anger. "Damn it! I should've known this would happen!" He'd been with Addie when Beau was murdered. He hadn't known of Larry and Constance's plans until the moment Beau had died.

Addie shakes her head, not wanting to believe it, tears leaking down her face. She's a strong girl; she rarely cries. Tate admires her strength. But there's only so much a person can take. Addie's scared now. She doesn't want to believe her mother could be such a bad person, but why would Tate lie to her? He's the only person who's always been there for her. Even after his death, he's there. She's glad; she doesn't know where she'd be without her brother's support.

"She wouldn't… She's not such a monster."

"She is," Tate insists. "I know she is. I'm dead, Addie. When you're dead, you just know. The house knows. It's her fault I'm dead and now Beau's dead too. It's all her fault."

Addie sobs. "But why would she do that?" She whimpers. "Now I'm next. Aren't I? She's gonna kill me. She's gonna kill me, too!"

"No, she won't," Tate says, strongly. "I'm gonna protect you. I'll protect you, Addie."

"But you're dead," she sobs. "How can you protect me when you're dead?"

"I'll find a way," Tate insists. "I won't let you die here, Addie. Not unless you want to. You deserve much more than this."

"What about Larry?" she asks quietly. She liked Larry; he'd always been nice to her, and she'd never really understood why Tate hated him so much. But now, after finding out what he's done to her brother, she's disgusted. A part of her still loves him—she knows what this house can do to people—but she mostly wants him to face the consequences for her brother's death. Beau didn't deserve what he got.

"I'll take care of him."

"How? You're not going to kill him, are you?"

Tate smirks, and it's a malevolent smirk. "No. I'll just haunt him; make him feel guilty of what he's done."

Larry gets home from work to realize that nobody's there. He finds a note in the kitchen, written by Addie, that she and Constance went to the mall. Larry smiles at that as he goes to the living room. Constance has suffered a lot the last couple of weeks. Tate's death hurt her deeply. It pained Larry to see how much his death affected her. And then there was the whole issue with Beau. He doesn't like to admit what he's done, but he did it out of his love for Constance, and he truly believes he helped Beau.

Now, they can be a true family. Him, Constance and Addie. He's not going to forget Lorraine, Angela and Margaret, and she's not going to forget Tate or Beau, but they'll move on. It's meant to be.

Still, there's this part of him that feels that Constance is hiding something from him. Ever since Tate died, she's always looking around the shadows, as if she'll see something if she searches enough. He's noticed that she goes to Addie's room more, as if she's hoping to find something, or someone, with her. He guesses that it's the fact she misses Tate.

He's thinking he should ask her about it, though. Maybe she'll open up.

"What are you thinking about so much?"

Larry's startled and he turns around to see Tate standing behind him, but that's impossible. Tate's dead. He can't be here. He's been dead for weeks. Larry saw his corpse, was there at the funeral. But he seems real, and Larry's sure he's heard his voice. That's Tate, but it can't be. He's speechless, not knowing what to say or think.

"Are you thinking about your family, who died burned alive after you chose a cocksucker over them? Or are you thinking about how you killed Beau? How he didn't deserve to die, and yet you killed him just to please someone who clearly doesn't love you and is just using you."

What he's saying is exactly what Tate would say if he'd been alive. But he's dead—he's six feet under—and it doesn't make any sense. He can't be here. Ghosts don't exist.

"It can't be..." he stammers after finding his voice. "You're dead."

Tate lets out a laugh. "No shit, Sherlock. Can't you point out something less obvious?" The blond loves to see how Larry's stammering, not knowing what to say or do. He's scared, he can tell. Larry's fear is delicious. He deserves it. After what he did to Beau, he deserves this and more.

"You're not real!" Larry screams, trying to calm himself down, to slow his fast heartbeats down, but he can't. He's scared. He's confused. He doesn't know what's going on. He tries to close his eyes, tell himself it's all a fake, but when he opens his eyes, Tate's still there. "You can't be real! Get out of my head!"

"I'm not in your head," Tate says lazily, smirking at Larry. "Clearly Constance is keeping shit from you. If she wasn't, then you wouldn't be reacting like this."

He knows Constance would've tried to stop him if she knew about his plans, which is why Addie convinced her to go out for ice cream. Constance won't be able to help and comfort Larry if she's not here. She doesn't want him to know about the house's secrets. Unfortunately for her, Tate's gonna make sure Larry knows; that he never forgets.

"Wh—What're you talking about?"

"Everyone who dies here, stays here as a ghost," Tate explains. "I'm not the only one who's here. I've met your family. Your girls are adorable. They're forever innocent. They're burned though. Just like that day..." He smirks at Larry's wide eyes. "And Lorraine, she's nice. I like her. I don't know why you'd chose Constance over her. It's sad; how you killed your family for her."

"I didn't kill them," Larry says, refusing to think about his family's death.

"Oh, really? I'm pretty sure you did. They wouldn't've died if you hadn't gone for Constance. So, yeah, that's on you. Just like my death is on Constance."

"She didn't want you to die..." Larry thinks he's going insane. His dead stepson is talking to him. This isn't normal. He's clearly not okay.

"Well, I wouldn't've died if it hadn't been for her," he says bitterly. "Anyway, I like Lorraine. We bonded, you know? She hates you too. She wants you to burn. Has tried to make you burn, actually. Tell me, did you think that you sleepwalking to the stove was a random event? 'Cause let me tell you, it's not."

Larry takes a sharp breath. He has sleepwalked and woken up next to the stove. He didn't think there was any apparent reason. But if what Tate's saying is true, then... "No..." This can't be real. This can't be real!

"She wants you to hurt. I want that too. You killed my brother." Tate's dark stare is freaking Larry out. "He's here, too, you know? He doesn't—he doesn't deserve being stuck in this hell hole. Protective Services, they could've given him a better life, but then you came in and fucked everything up. Now he's here, and he can't leave. Are you happy with yourself knowing that?"

"No... no... Get out of my head! Get out!"

"I already told you I'm not in your head," Tate says, looking bored. Suddenly he's got a knife pressed against Larry's throat, and before Larry knows what's happening he's trapped between the wall and Tate, and he's afraid to swallow because the blade might cut him. "If I was in your head, I wouldn't be able to do this, would I?" Tate asks mockingly. Larry's too scared to even say something, and Tate's proud of that. "Would I?" he asks again; louder, threatening.

"N—No..." He gulps. "Please, don't—don't do it. Don't do it—please... Do—"

"You think Beau wanted to die?!" the blond boy questions harshly. "Don't you fucking dare beg for your life after you took my brother's." Tate's having too much fun with this. It's making him realize what he's capable of, but he doesn't give a shit right now. Somewhere in his mind, he thinks it'd be a bit hypocrite—if he'd been alive, his body count would've been way higher than Larry's—but he's not and it isn't so it doesn't matter. "I would kill you," he says, and he means it. He wants to kill him. He really wants to. "But that would mean you'd be stuck here too and Beau doesn't deserve to live in the same house as his murderer." Larry's frozen in fear, not even knowing how to breathe anymore. "That's what you are, Lawrence. You're a murderer."

Larry blinks and suddenly Tate's gone, and he's just leaning against the wall, scared out of his mind, Tate's words resounding in his mind.

And this it is. As I mentioned, I was supposed to get to when the Harmons arrived but… I didn't. XD Larry hasn't even left yet. Even though, he will, with Tate making his life impossible…

Uh, yeah. XD Well, I guess this has an open ending for you all unless I decide to continue it, which I doubt, but hey, who knows. :P

I'm actually really happy with this. A character that stood out to me was Tate, because he's so complex it's really hard to figure him out. I still can't figure him out, but I have my theories. Anyway, even though Tate and Violet are definitely not… a healthy relationship, there's something about them that is… I don't know… charming, kind of? (I guess it's because Tate is portrayed as a likeable character even though he's actually a monster. I really don't know how Evan Peters pulled that off and kudos to him for being able to do that!) It's hard to write a character like that, but it's a challenge and I had fun.

I hope I didn't make any of the characters OOC. It's hard to keep complex characters like these IC, but I tried my best.

My theory of Tate (I'm no psychiatrist, but I did a bit of research about this and I hope I did a decent job) that I used to write him in this story:

I think he's a high functioning sociopath that reached his mental breaking point in 1994. (Why? Well, his mother, the house he was living in, the fact he was mentally disturbed, I think they were all factors that drove Tate's mind straight to oblivion. But what I believe triggered his mental breakdown was the death of Beau at the hands of Larry and Constance. I don't think Tate was able to deal with that.) He may have Dissociative Identity Disorder, or maybe he's just that good of a liar. He is a pathological liar. Maybe he's lying to himself and he likes to pretend. He has abandonment issues. He's obsessive. I don't know for sure, but out all the information I found, I think this is as close as I can get to a "diagnosis" for Tate.

Well, this sure is a long AN, huh? XD Anyway, thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story. :)