Chapter 1
Things That Go Bump In The Night
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Tonight wasn't one of their typical break-ins. Tate didn't hear the drunken laughter of the delinquents who stopped by on occasion, the rocks and beer bottles they chucked at the dustless windows. The house hadn't had a living resident for nearly ten years, but Chad and Moira saw to it that the whole place was scoured at least once a week.
Ben or Tate or whoever was close enough to handle the little fuckers would grab a knife from the kitchen and come out through the back, activating the motion detector light for greater effect. A silhouette with a weapon was a no-brainer. Tate liked to wield a gun, unloaded, per Ben's request. Some were easier to scare than others –Tate'd slit his throat and rasp, "Your turn," as he slashed or pointed the gun at the frozen kid. Physical contact wasn't allowed, another one of Ben's rules. Tate felt like a child, scolded into keeping his hands to himself when he clocked a few teens spraying graffiti on the porch, but he hadn't killed anyone. Whenever he let someone off scotch-free, he liked to think it was a step closer to Violet. He caught her sometimes at her bedroom window, watching him. She barely flinched when he returned her stare and he wanted so badly to tell her that he was changed, that he was protecting people for his benefit, for their benefit. "Enjoy the show?" he wanted to ask every time. What he wouldn't give for another one of their conversations. Her goodbye couldn't have been forever, not if she made an effort to pay him attention. No new ghosts had joined them since the do-gooder Harmons, which had to be some sort of record. Thaddeus greeted the sober ones who found a way in, which was usually through the basement window conveniently left open. No one intervened for that. Tate would chuckle at the screams which shook the house, the escapees who flailed across the lawn and off the property.
Whoever came in this time used the front door. Tate paused during his game of catch with Beau, listening to the creaks on the first floor. The whole house seemed to be listening, holding its breath. The living were so damn loud. Beau groaned when Tate didn't pass the ball back. "Ssh, Beau," he hissed, tiptoeing to the top of the stairs. Tentative steps spanned the length of the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. Tate blinked and found himself by the front door. He found no sign of a forced entry, no broken glass. The door was locked all day. Constance must've stopped by since she was the only one who had keys. She'd never come by this late though. She'd barely visited at all anymore, not with raising a fledgling murderer next door and burying his kills in the backyard. Tate remembered watching her drag the nanny out to the garden, fifteen years before. She had wrapped the body in garbage bags, sealed in duct tape.
"Taking out the trash?" Tate called, moseying up to the invisible border of grass that separated him from Constance. The woman huffed in her journey down the back steps and wiped her perfectly coiffed hair back from her forehead. He couldn't tell if she was pulling the head or the ankles. "Need some help?"
"The baby," she said, her Southern lilt frazzled, "is sleeping. I'd prefer it if you wouldn't raise your voice..."
"See the baby's started early," Tate said, but not without a snag in his voice. Seeing his mother dispose of a body was nothing new, but knowing that a child, his son, did it was fucking creepy.
Constance made a vague gesture, standing with her hands on her hips in the dark. "It was an accident," she said like she was trying to convince herself. She sure wasn't set on convincing him. "Children have tantrums, and they...lash out, they..."
"Whatever makes you feel better."
That was fifteen years ago. Eighteen years since Violet last spoke to him. Tate kept track of the years by the lines embedded in Constance's face and her graying hair whenever she did stop by, the face in the window next door which began to resemble his. She deserved every wrinkle. Every one. She was no mother.
Tate was keyed up. The space around him held a weirdly familiar energy, one that had his skin crawling and his hands shaking. He took a slow, deep breath through his nose. When he was alive, he'd felt the same way before he left the house to begin his attack on Larry and Westfield. It was a potent mix of overwhelming anticipation and anxiety. He wished for a bed to curl on and Violet's breath on his face to cool the building apprehension. The rest of the house must have felt the charge too because Vivian and Violet appeared on the bottom steps, hands clasped together. Tate's unnecessary exhale hitched and he looked away. Hayden materialized at the basement door, shoulders and face hunched in perpetual displeasure.
"Who's here?" she growled.
"Hello?" a deep voice called, not unlike Tate's. Footfalls against the tiles in the kitchen. The women disappeared as Tate followed the source of the voice and made himself invisible. His fists clenched, thrilling at the prospect of cornering the intruder. It'd been weeks since his last scare. A shadow over the threshold of the kitchen. The overhead light was flipped on. Tate willed himself into the kitchen, on the other side of the island. The figure had his back turned to him, half of him craned out the archway. Tate stared at the back of his head, platinum blonde, crew-cut. Probably some dumb jock.
Look at me, look at me, look at me, he taunted. When the intruder turned around, he wouldn't see him. Didn't need to. Tate would come out of nowhere when the moment was right.
But the guy turned around and his eyes, Violet's eyes, focused right on Tate. He wasn't startled, didn't scream. What the fuck? Tate thought. No one could see him, not if he wanted them to. But here was this tool, staring at Tate like he was just as solid as he was.
This wasn't right. He wasn't even afraid. An itch began at the base of Tate's throat from the sweat collecting under his sweater. The young man's eyes absorbed Tate, and recognition settled in, his mouth twitched into a facsimile of a smile or grimace.
"Hey Dad."
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Author's Note: To be continued? Your call! Thanks for reading.