2018

"This is it," Stan the Eternal Darkness tour guide said with a grandiose wave at the old mansion. "Murder House. The realtor has given permission for you to be here for one night, from dusk to dawn."

The group he addressed was a collection of eight people, a self-appointed paranormal investigation troop from the syndicated ghost-hunting show, 'Mission: Paranormal'. They were doing a set on California haunted houses and the Murder House of Los Angeles was choice since it hadn't been explored by another group yet.

"Please leave the house in the condition you found it. Your insurance is liable for any damages." The tour guide dropped out of his official voice to note: "The realtor wanted me to say that part."

"Thank you," the show's host, Nick Carver, said with false good humor. "Why don't we get started then?"

The rotund tour guide unlocked the front door and stood aside. Five people went in while the other three returned to their van to start unloading and setting up equipment. Stan followed the host's group into the entrance hall.

"It's so pretty! Look at the stained glass!" gushed a red-headed woman named Andy. She started taking pictures with the complicated camera she had on a strap around her neck.

"Charles Montgomery spared no expense in giving his wife the house she wanted," intoned Stan. "But money and great stained glass windows can't buy happiness."

"Thank you," said Nick briskly. "We can find our way from here." He looked up the staircase with the wonder of a boy on Christmas morning. "Hey, Dave. Come get some video of this stairwell. And we're going to need at least four- no, five cameras upstairs. Two on each floor, plus one in the attic."

A well-built Hawaiian fellow armed with cumbersome video equipment moved to the winding upward flight. Stan wasn't expecting to be dismissed so readily but his feelings weren't bruised. There were plenty of tourists in California who wanted to hear his improvisational spiel.

"Have a great show," he said on his way out. Then, in a knowing undertone: "Try not to die..."

...

Violet pulled up her email. She'd been checking it daily. At least she thought she had. Days had a way of blurring together in the house. According to the date, it had taken Billie Dean over a week to get back to her but there at last was an email. Excited, the girl opened the message.

Dearest Violet,

I am positive I will always remember you. I'm very happy you've reached out to me. I'm glad to know email is a method you can use to stay connected to the outside world. Maintain that. You'll need that connection.

In answer to your questions, as long as a thing exists, there is possibility for change. Life - and death -is all about change. Very little in our world is static. Very little indeed.

But in my experience, most ghosts are stuck in a dream-like state where time means nothing. Does this match with what you've experienced?

Affecting change inside a bubble where existence is basically a repeating moment can be almost impossible if the ghost in question isn't aware that they are dead or refuses to accept that fact. Primarily it's a desire for change that facilitates it. Spirits can change, but from what I've seen it is a slow process. A good person in life isn't going to suddenly become a villain in death.

But change in ghosts isn't always for the better. Once a soul loses touch with empathy and humanity, it can become something far worse than any living thing could ever be. I've known lost souls that have become that way over time.

Please take care of yourself, Violet. I am in New York for the next few weeks but I will try to book some time in Los Angeles, if you would like me to come and visit you.

Your friend,
Billie Dean

Violet re-read the email twice then sank back into her pillows. She decided that she wanted Billie Dean to visit. They could learn a lot from one another, she was sure. She was set to start typing her reply when there was a pounding at her bedroom door. She was rarely disturbed when she was holed up in her room so she pushed the computer aside and slid off the bed.

"Who is it?" she called as she moved toward the door.

"There are ghost hunters in the house!" one of the twins called back. "Come see!"

Violet pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall. The tween twin ghosts Troy and Bryan were there, bloody and grinning ear to ear.

"Come on, Violet," said Bryan. He backed toward the stairs, waving to signal she should speed up.

"Come on, Violet!" insisted his brother. Troy tugged on her arm once. Then both boys ran to the staircase.

Violet followed them to the zigzagging flight of stairs. "Ghost hunters? What are you talking about?"

The twins were already down the stairs, having skipped most of them with a quick dematerialization. Violet descended a couple of steps then she, too, disappeared. She reappeared in the downstairs hallway and oriented on the sounds in the living room. There were lights and rigging and wires everywhere. Normally the house looked like she remembered it but whenever then living intruded, the home she'd known in life faded away.

She watched the group from the doorway. Troy and Bryan were in with the living adults, throwing snap-pops and investigating the equipment.

"I wonder if any of that stuff will work," she said.

"It won't," said Troy. "Not if we don't let it." His brother giggled.

"You're going to sabotage their mission?"

The two redheads grinned.

Violet rolled her eyes. "What is with you guys and other people's property?"

They ignored her and went back to poking around. The investigators were as busy as a hive of bees with Nick telling his crew what to do and them trying to do it without running into each other or tripping over the scattered wires.

Technical difficulties ensued thanks to the twins. The first issue cropped up when Bryan loosened the power strip that fueled the main console where the group was setting up their computer monitors. It took the investigators several minutes to discover the loose plug during which time the twins were howling with laughter.

"What a circus," said Travis. He'd come up behind Violet and was regarding the chaos in the living room with a mixture of amusement and awe.

Violet grimaced. "This is going to be a nightmare."

"How long do you think they'll be here?" asked Travis.

"Overnight," the brothers supplied helpfully. Troy loosened another plug across the room.

"Shouldn't be too bad then," Travis said.

Violet was so sure. "Yeah. We'll see."

They watched the ghost hunters come and go, move equipment about, check handheld gadgets and swap previous "real experience" stories with each other for the cameras.

"I always thought I'd be on film," said Travis wistfully. He drifted closer to cameraman Dave. Dave was engrossed in checking the settings on the camera designated for the attic. "Man! Why couldn't they have come closer to Halloween? Then maybe I coulda been on TV!"

"Doing what?" asked Violet.

Travis smiled and straightened. "Looking good!"

Violet laughed. "You have to do more than that to get on television."

"Well, I woulda danced or something," said Travis. He ducked out of the way when Dave got up suddenly, even though he didn't have to. Dave would have passed right through him. "Maybe told ghost stories about this place. I know 'em all."

"You do?"

"Heck yeah," Travis boasted. "I started in the attic and worked my way down. Well. Not exactly. It was more like... I was in the attic and then on the second floor and then kind of in the basement some-"

"Right," Violet interrupted to stop him going on forever. "I get it. So... You know everybody's story here? Every ghost?"

Travis thought about it then nodded, a motion that made his long brown hair sway. "Yeah, pretty much. Turns out? There's a lot of really sad dead people here."

"I sort of gathered that, too."

"Oh, hey," Travis said, perking up. "Do you think if I stood right in front of their camera and did that thing where we let people see us…? Maybe that'd get me on film?"

"I'm guessing if ghosts could make themselves appear on film," said Violet. "There'd be a lot more pictures of them. Real pictures."

Travis sighed and nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right." The other cameraman, Garrett, came in and the pretty-boy ghost's mood instantly improved. "I'm still going to try though."

Violet rolled her eyes but the guy's optimism made her smile in spite of herself. She left Travis to his attempt at afterlife stardom and went back upstairs.

...

The laptop was sitting on her bed where she'd left it. Violet belly-flopped on the covers beside it and lay there face-down. Earlier she'd known exactly what she was going to say to Billie Dean. Now she wasn't sure. Talking to the woman in person would be much easier. It would take forever to write out everything Violet was thinking and feeling.

She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Spirits can change.

The first weeks without Tate had been the hardest. Waking up and reaching for him; knowing he wasn't there and wouldn't be. Knowing that he would never again surprise her with his weird but sincere ways of letting her know he cared. It was so much lonelier without him close. In the past when she'd started missing him she summoned to mind all the people he'd wronged, starting with her own family. She did it again now to chase back her mixed feelings.

Tate had forced himself on her mother. That revolted the teen on a personal social level and it also made her feel somewhat cheated on. But mostly it just grossed her out. He had lied to Violet and to her dad more times than she could count and probably even more than she knew. He had murdered 15 people at his school when he was alive. After he'd died, he'd killed at least two more people. Possibly more.

But then he'd also saved Violet and her mom from the crazed home invaders. He'd tried to save her life again when Violet had overdosed on those pills Leah gave her. He'd scared the hell out of Leah to stop her picking on Violet at school before that. If he'd lied to her about any of that, she knew it was only to protect her.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her parents were obviously divided on the subject and so was she.

...

2017

"I met our new neighbors," Father Jeremiah said over supper. He instantly had Constance and Michael's full attention.

"Neighbors?" said Constance. "What do you mean?"

Jeremiah passed the green beans her way. "Next door. The old Victorian."

Constance reached for the bowl of vegetables but pulled her hands back just as Jeremiah released it. The dish hit the table with a heavy thump. "Next door? Why, there's nobody livin' there."

"Yes, there is," Michael piped up. "Ethan is. He's my friend."

Constance looked from her grandson to the priest for more clarification.

"A family's moved in," said Jeremiah. "A couple and their son, I believe."

"I didn't see any movin' trucks." Constance abandoned her seat and dove for her cigarettes. Once she had one lit she moved to a window where she could see the silhouette of Murder House against the evening sky. "No lights on."

The priest tucked into his meal and quietly encouraged Michael to do the same. Then, to Constance: "Maybe they're out to dinner. Come and eat."

Constance stared at the house, one arm folded over her middle to act as a shelf for the arm she smoked with. While Father Jeremiah was aware of her fixation with the place, she wore an obsessive expression he had never seen before. Was that fear?

"I was thinking of taking Michael over for a play date," he said, testing her reaction.

"Oh, no," Constance said, shaking her head so vigorously her up-do sagged to one side. "Oh, no, no. He's not goin' in that place. And neither should you." Seeing the looks on the faces of her acquired family she added: "It has... hist'ry."

"History?" the priest prompted.

"That house... has a long legacy of killin' those that live inside it." She waved her cigarette distractedly at the table and massaged her temple with her free hand. "This isn't a subject proper for supper or for children. You two go ahead. I need a drink."

Constance drifted out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

Michael looked at his mentor. "Can houses kill people?"

"Well, if one fell on someone, it could," Jeremiah told him. "But they can't just reach out and kill you, no."

"Was Ethan's daddy mean?"

"He wasn't the warmest individual I've met," Jeremiah reflected after some consideration. "He's a bit unusual, perhaps. But I don't think there's anything to worry about."

Michael smiled, reassured. "I can go over and play then."

"I don't know, Michael," said Father Jeremiah. "It sounded like Mama Constance said no. Even if we don't agree with her reasons, we have to respect her rules."

Michael frowned. "I want to play with Ethan."

"Until Mama Constance says you may, you won't be playing at Ethan's house." Jeremiah's tone was inflexible. "If he wants to come over here, he has an invite. But his daddy said he has allergies and can't go far from home."

"He was in the back yard," said Michael.

"He may not be allergic to things found in yards," said Jeremiah.

"We could play in the yard then."

Jeremiah considered. "Perhaps. We'll ask Mama Constance when she feels better."

Michael's shoulders sagged. "She never feels better."

"We'll ask at breakfast tomorrow."

"All right," Michael said with a dramatic sigh. He speared some meat and stuffed it in his mouth. "Can I help make breakfast?"

"Only if you promise not to drop the eggs," Jeremiah smiled.

...

Constance had to go over. She had no choice. From the moment Father Jeremiah told her there were new occupants in the house, she knew she would have to go. She braced herself with a couple of glasses of bourbon first then went and let herself in through the back door. The key was still where it always had been, hidden on the door frame. She expected to see new dishes and personal belongings but the kitchen was empty. A quick tour of the nearest rooms found them empty as well.

"This isn't right," she muttered and turned to leave.

"Mother."

Constance froze, her heart in her throat. She pressed a hand to her collarbone and turned, tears springing to her eyes. "Tate?"

He stood a few feet away, looking just as she loved to remember him: Seventeen, beautiful and full of promise. The last time last time they'd been together he had looked at her with such hatred, she thought she'd lost him forever.

"I missed you," he said with a sweet smile, arms out.

With a soft cry of joy Constance flung herself into his embrace. She kissed his cheeks, inhaled the scent of him, pet his messy hair. "Oh, Tate, baby. I missed you too. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner. But Mama had things to do. Very important things."

He let her cling to him for several minutes before pulling away enough to make eye contact. Tears streaked both of their faces but hers were more earnest. "I met Michael," he said.

Constance's joy dimmed. She pushed her son back further. "You did? How?"

"Through the fence. Can he come over? To visit? You could come too. And the priest."

"Tate, honey," Constance laughed in shock. "It's not safe for him here! Why do you think I took him out of this God-forsaken place?"

"I want to see him," said Tate. He paused, fishing for the best ammunition to use. "He's my son."

"You're no father," derided Constance. "You can't even leave this house!"

Tate didn't want his feelings to be hurt by her casual callousness but he couldn't help it. Still he stuck to his approach. There was too much to lose if he lost his cool. "I want to see him, mother. Please?"

Constance regarded her dead son. It was very difficult for her to say no to him when he was like this. "Tate. Sweetheart-"

"He's not in any danger now," Tate insisted. He could sense her resolve weakening. "The people who wanted him only wanted a baby. He's not a baby anymore. They won't care about him. Besides, Doctor Harmon and his wife wouldn't let anything happen to him. Neither would Violet."

Constance was almost swayed - till he brought up the Harmons. "I wouldn't trust those idiots to keep a ball of dirt safe."

Tate frowned. "They're not idiots, mother. They just made some mistakes. Like all of us."

"One mistake I didn't make," Constance said as she lit a cigarette. "Was takin' Michael out of here."

"Mother," Tate protested. "It's not like he'd be alone. You and that priest guy-"

"Father Jeremiah."

"Yeah, him." Tate paused. "Who is he, anyway? He's kind of creepy."

"He's Michael's mentor," his mother supplied, exhaling smoke in his direction. "He's a wonderful influence on the boy."

Tate was stung again, on several levels. The whole conversation had him wanting to go slit a wrist or two. "I could be, too."

Constance laughed, short and snide. "How?"

He had no answer for that.

She spared him the embarrassment of trying to scrounge up something. "So who are these tenants that have moved in? Some kid and his parents?" She glanced about like they might pop out of the deserted guts of the house.

"It was just me," Tate said cagily. "I'm the kid. I figured he'd find it less weird than some strange teenager wanting to talk to him."

Constance eyed her son suspiciously. "Father Jeremiah said he met the boy's daddy."

"That was just Patrick. He was just messing around with the guy."

"Why?"

"Because he was bored. He wanted to talk to somebody new, I guess." Tate's fingers disappeared into his long sleeves. "I just want to be with my family. It's so lonely here, mother."

She looked at him and sighed. Then she gathered him up in another hug. After a bit she said, "Do you see Travis around at all?"

"Sometimes. He mostly hangs out with..." Tate looked up her profile, not sure how she would take his next words. "Larry's kids."

Constance's nose wrinkled. "They're still here?"

Tate shrugged without letting go of her. "Yeah. They stay in the attic mostly."

"As good a place for them as any," she said. "I suppose it makes sense Travis would end up with them. He was always so good with animals and children. Maybe I'll see if I can find him before I go."

"Will you bring Michael over?" Tate hugged his mother tighter but she peeled him off.

She went and dropped her cigarette butt in the sink then she turned and leaned back against the counter to look at him. She didn't stand a chance against the forlorn look he speared her with. "I suppose. BUT. Only durin' the day. Only for a short period of time. And he never leaves my sight."

Tate grabbed hold of her again, hugging tight. "Thank you! Thank you!" He let go and beamed at her. "It'll be perfect. You'll see."

"I doubt that," Constance said. She kissed his cheek once more. "I'm going to go see Travis now, honey. Try to be good."

"I will," he pledged. "Just come back soon."

...

Author's Note:

When I was a kid, one of my favorite horror/paranormal movies was Poltergeist. I still adore it. One of my favorite lines from the movie is when the psychic tells the parents of the kid the ghosts have stolen:

"It keeps Carol Anne very close to it and away from the spectral light. It LIES to her, it tells her things only a child could understand... To her, it simply IS another child. To us, it is the BEAST."

I had fun toying with the concept. Only it gets a little twisty when you try to sort out which is which here. BTW, the movie's a cool spawn of the original Twilight Zone episode "Little Girl Lost".

Check out my Playlist for Season 1-point-5 in my profile if you want to hear the soundtrack for this fanfic.