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Return to Murder House
(Welcome Home)

Present day - 2018

Violet stared at Chad in disbelief.

The dark-haired man was leaning on the kitchen island where he had a bottle of red wine out. Violet had grown accustomed to his visits: He and her parents had gotten downright neighborly over the years. He would even babysit sometimes, helping care for the newborn the Harmons had lost, in life, to the house. But while Violet had gotten used to Chad's endless love of design and his outspoken intolerances, she wasn't used to discussing Tate with him.

"Look," Chad said, thick brows arching. "I'm not telling you to sleep with him. All I'm saying is that he's gone through some interesting changes over the past five years that you might want to see. I'll admit I didn't think it was possible. But Patrick, your father, and I make quite the super-team."

Violet picked up a cigarette and lit it. She pulled a hard puff then shook her head. "I don't believe it." She exhaled smoke and peered through the haze at Chad. "Whatever he's said to you, whatever you think you've seen," she shook her head again. "It isn't real. It's not really him. It's an act."

Chad lifted his wineglass, fingers curled under the bowl in a way that doubled as a permissive gesture. "You know best, of course."

"Don't try that reverse-psychology shit with me," warned Violet. "It doesn't work for my dad. It's not going to work for you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chad said with a touch of disdain. "I'm only speaking from previous years of experience and from the standpoint of someone Tate actually murdered."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Violet challenged.

Chad fluttered his free hand at her. "No need to get pissy, Goth-zilla. What I'm saying is: If two people he violently murdered can work through their issues with him, then maybe - just maybe - your situation isn't as terminal as you think."

"No." Despite her firm tone, Violet's curiosity was piqued. She hadn't seen Tate in over seven years though she had thought about him more than she would admit. She loved him and missed him and she found the idea of seeing him, changed or not, far too compelling. "No. Not a chance."

"Suit yourself," said Chad. He downed the last of his wine and set the glass in the sink. "Let me know if you change your mind."

He left the room. Violet crushed her cigarette out and shoved the ashtray away forcefully. She wanted to see Tate. She didn't like that she wanted to but she did. Why Chad cared whether she did made no sense. If anything he should hate Tate more than most of the ghosts, with the exception of Patrick. And what did Patrick think? Chad had implied he felt the same way but it was never safe to assume anything with those two.

Violet sighed and raked her fingers through her long hair. Why did being dead have to be so complicated?

...

░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░

...

Violet found her dad in his office. He was playing around with one of the laptops at his desk when she knocked from the open doorway.

He smiled warmly. "Come on in, sweetie."

She moved over to his desk. "Hey, dad. What're you up to?"

"Just reading the news."

"Anything exciting?"

He shook his head. "Just the same old stuff: Celebrity DUIs, politics and global warming."

She obliged him a chuckle but she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "I saw Chad."

"Oh?"

Something about the tone of that simple response struck Violet as suspicious. "Yeah. He said I should go see Tate."

"Did he?" Her father was impossible to read, which was even more suspicious. He was only guarded when he had something to hide.

"Yeah." Violet folded her arms, posture shifting to stubborn. "Did you put him up to it?"

"Of course I didn't put him up to it," Ben denied, mildly affronted.

Violet stared at him.

"I didn't! Why would I?"

"Chad said you and he and Patrick made a 'super-team'," said Violet. "Like you've all been working on a car or something." She shifted her weight, studying her dad. "Why're you even talking to him?"

The question edged too close to things Ben had no intention of discussing with his daughter, especially when she had her hackles up. "It's been seven years. A lot's changed."

"You're dead because of him," Violet flared.

"I'm dead because of what I did," Ben countered calmly. The angrier Violet got the more in control he felt. "And because of what the people who killed me did."

Violet found his calm demeanor infuriating. "He raped your wife!" That barb stung, evident in her father's wince. She regretted the mean blow but she didn't take it back.

"That's something we've been working through," Ben said tightly. It was the understatement of the decade.

"Working through?" Violet echoed incredulously. "What, is mom in on this, too?"

Ben felt that moment of control slipping away. "No. Not yet."

Violet was done listening. "You're nuts."

He took a step toward her but she ducked out the door and literally vanished. Ben sighed and sank into a chair near his desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose. That had gone worse than he had feared.

...

2015

"Michael, this is Father Jeremiah."

The four year old looked up, up, up the long legs of the man Mama Constance introduced him to. The stranger wore black trousers and a black shirt, tucked in. He looked like a living shadow to the boy. The priest's face was forgettable to Michael except those sharp, dark eyes; eyes like a crow's.

"Hello, Michael," smiled Father Jeremiah. He crouched down to get on eye level with the child.

Constance hovered, uncertainty tinting her hostess smile. "Father Jeremiah is goin' to be joinin' our little family. He'll be your teacher."

Michael shifted his attention from the priest to Mama Constance and back again. "Why's your name 'Father'? You're not my daddy."

Father Jeremiah laughed. It was a warm, rich laugh; not mocking. "'Father' is what they call priests who have done very well at their jobs. It's the Church's way of letting you know that I'm a good teacher."

"Are you going to take me to school?"

"Your school will be here," said Jeremiah, motioning to the home around them.

Michael was puzzled. This was not how television said school should be. "Why?"

Constance shifted, trying not to let her growing nervousness show. She wasn't sure how Michael would take to the priest and she worried that she'd end up with another body to dispose of. But after Billie Dean had failed her in the advice department, other sources had pointed her to Father Jeremiah. If he could rein Michael in, it would be justify any amount of "Hail Mary"s the priest demanded of her.

It wasn't that Michael was a naughty child. He was no more mischievous than other boys his age. It was his lack of conscience and predisposition for casual violence that made him impossible for Constance to manage alone. Not that he was ever violent toward her. On the contrary, he was very loving. He was so much like Tate at that age that, in her alcohol-fueled moments of blind rage, she tended to forget who and what Michael was. And he, like Tate - like all of her children - cowered before that rage. But he was dangerous. She lit a cigarette and turned away from the man and boy.

"You're very special, Michael," Jeremiah said sincerely. "You need something more than a normal, boring school can provide. You need a teacher all your own to help you reach your full potential."

Michael didn't understand some of the big words but he got the gist of what was said. "Are you going to sleep in Mama Constance's room?" It was a valid question. He knew several men already had.

The priest laughed his warm laugh again while Constance swept back into the conversation. "Oh, no, sweetheart," she crooned. "Father Jeremiah's going to stay in-" She choked up and couldn't call it Addie's old room. Even though the girl had been run down in the street four years before, the pain was still fresh. "The spare bedroom down the hall."

Michael tilted his head, regarding the priest for a thoughtful moment. "Okay."

Relief made Constance's smile radiant. "Father Jeremiah'll be movin' in tomorrow. I thought we could have a nice supper together then."

"With chocolate ice cream?" asked Michael brightly.

"I'll bring some personally," Father Jeremiah promised.

...

The following week was enjoyable. Father Jeremiah settled into the spare room and Michael got to discover how much fun it could be to have a male role model. Mama Constance was more at ease than she'd ever been, which meant an abundance of cookies and kisses. At the end of the week Mama Constance said goodbye and, fortified with three suitcases, she left the boys for a much-needed rest in the form of a weekend at the spa.

It was as much Father Jeremiah's idea as it was Constance's. She wasn't sure it was a good idea but she had removed everything sharp from the house after the nanny incident and Father Jeremiah had her cellular number. The spa was in-town, only a few minutes away, and she would call regularly while away just to be certain nothing unfortunate happened. It was enough for Constance to convince herself to get into the taxi. She didn't look back as the car carried her away.

It was the first time Michael had been left with someone else since nanny died. He liked Father Jeremiah and for the first few hours things went as they had over the past week. But when it came time for bed Michael wanted to stay up late since it was a special time. Father Jeremiah thought they should stick to bedtime as usual. The disagreement ended with Jeremiah physically moving a howling Michael into the boy's bedroom. He set the hollering child down in the middle of the room.

"Put your pajamas on," Father Jeremiah said. His deep voice cut through the tantrum. "I'll be back in a few minutes so be ready to brush your teeth."

Jeremiah left the room and shut the door. Michael's scream turned to one of rage. He threw himself at the closed door, hitting it hard enough to shake it in its frame. He tried to yank the door open but Jeremiah held the knob. Thwarted, the boy assaulted the door, snarling like an animal. He was stronger than any child his age.

"I can outwait you, Michael." Father Jeremiah didn't let go of the doorknob.

The boy responded by throwing a lamp against the shut door. It shattered, making a huge mess that Michael ignored. He waited a moment to see if Father Jeremiah would open the door and when he didn't it enraged the child all over again. He threw several things next: Toys, a chair, the laundry basket, his pillow, shoes. He threw everything he could but the door remained shut. Eventually he tired and sat down on his bed to sulk. A few minutes later Father Jeremiah entered.

"You're not in your pajamas," Jeremiah observed. The mess around the door could have been invisible for all the attention he paid it.

"I'm not going to bed!" Michael folded his arms stubbornly.

"Looks to me like you're already in bed."

Michael launched himself at the priest. Father Jeremiah caught him and held him at arm's distance. Even winded the child was almost as strong as a grown man. It was no challenge for Jeremiah but a normal guy would have had his hands full.

"The only thing you're going to get by behaving this way," said Jeremiah patiently as Michael struggled to kick and claw at him. "Is trouble. Settle down and put on your pajamas." He knew he'd be ignored but he was obliged to warn the child.

"I hate you!" Michael shrieked. His angry tears made it hard to see. "You stupid man!"

The struggle lasted several minutes until Michael exhausted himself. Once he stopped pressing the attack Jeremiah released him. The boy sat down on the floor, panting and refusing to make eye contact. The priest turned away to fetch some pajamas from the dresser. He'd just put his hand on the drawer when he had to turn back around and catch hold of Michael's arm. The boy had grabbed a jagged chunk of ceramic from the broken lamp and was going to use it as a weapon. Jeremiah sent a jolt of negative energy through the child's arm. It had an effect similar to a Taser: Michael went limp, stunned but conscious. The piece of ceramic fell harmlessly to the floor.

Jeremiah exhaled roughly and frowned. He let Michael sag to the floor and squatted beside him, turning the child's face so their eyes met. "I know you can hear me so listen well. You cannot kill me. Trying to will only piss me off. "

He scooped up the little boy and dropped him on the bed. He proceeded to change Michael from his day clothes into his footie pajamas. By the time he was finished the boy was beginning to regain control over his tingling limbs. Jeremiah plucked the chair from the mess and hauled it over to the bed. He sat down, elbows on his knees, and watched Michael come around.

"You'll recover soon," he said. "But I hope you remember this moment. You have a destiny, Michael, and you will lose it if you don't learn to control yourself. I've been sent here to make sure that you do."

Frustrated, tired, and furious, Michael found the ability to cry. He got no sympathy from the man sitting beside him.

"I'm serious," said Father Jeremiah sternly. "If you keep trying to hurt others, there are people who will put you down. They'll lock you away where you'll never touch another person. They'll run tests on you. Cut you open and weigh your insides to see how different you are from 'normal'."

Michael swallowed, eyes widening. "I wanna go to sleep," he croaked, throat tight.

"You will," Father Jeremiah said. "But first hear what I'm telling you." He got really close to Michael then, almost nose to nose. "You will learn to obey me. Until then life will be very, very difficult for you." He stood and moved to the door, pausing to say: "Finish getting ready. When I return in ten minutes you'd better be in bed. Tomorrow you're going to clean up this mess you made."

.

Author's Note:

When American Horror Story season 1 ended, I expected the 2nd season to pick up the story where the first left off. Even though I liked Asylum, I still wanted - needed - to know what happened to the ghosts in Murder House. So I turned on my imagination and wound up with enough material to write Season 1-point-5.

This story is written in the same style as the show and it features pretty much every character from the show, at some point or another. Each Episode is 6 to 8 chapters long; this isn't a short story but it hits hard, quick. I've rated this work "M", for horror and general squickiness, starting with the very next chapter.

I'm NOT kidding. This is a seriously disturbed fiction, written with the intention to traumatize hardened horror fans. If you're under 18, please turn back now! This fiction isn't safe! It will introduce you to ideas unsuitable for anyone that will crawl into your head and stain you from the inside. You've been warned.

That said, if you're into music to read by, my Playlist is in my profile. It's the stuff I listened to while I was writing this; the soundtrack to the show that was playing in my head.