AN: A reader pointed out the inconsistency in my Tate-timeline (regarding chapter 5). They're right, and it was good to have it brought to my attention, but I thought I'd address this now to save trouble later. This story is only going to be canon compliant through roughly episode 5/6. As for Tate's timeline and the flashbacks, for reasons of propriety and content (this story will probably nudge the edges of R-rating from time to time), I've set it that Tate's father died when he was about 14 (in 1991). A few chapters back another reader suggested I not worry too much about making this story canon compliant as new episodes came out, and whilst I did try for awhile, I'm beginning to realise they are right – it's too hard, when one doesn't know where the show is really headed. Hopefully you guys will still enjoy the story as a stand alone that will quite likely head in a different direction to the show! Cheers

1992

Tate closed the basement door behind him with a soft click. His heart beat was pounding in his throat, his fingers shaking as he turned the knob until it stuck. The hallway was deserted, the house silent. He leaned against the door, closing his eyes.

He'd been visiting the things in the basement for just over eight months. When Moira had first suggested he go down there he'd brushed it off, figured it for the babblings of some bitter slut who'd lost her job. But curiosity and boredom had got the better of him. One rainy afternoon, when his mom was out running one of her many 'errands', Tate had gone down into the dark, dank basement for the first time since his father had died.

At first he hadn't seen much. It was feelings, mostly – a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, an accelerated heart-beat, a kind of coldness…and the nausea. He'd felt so sick the first few times he'd explored the basement…so much so that he'd often thrown up later, when he was lying in bed trying to sleep. But he hadn't seen anything: not at first. He was almost convinced he'd just been freaking himself out – working himself up into such a state that he had nightmares about what could be lurking in the basement…strange shapes moving in the darkness. Things with too many teeth.

But then one night it had started talking to him. The basement thing. He wasn't sure what it was, exactly. He still wasn't sure. It wouldn't let him see its face. But it was smart. And it was funny. And it was almost as pissed off at the world as he, Tate, so often was.

Sure, he'd been scared of it initially. Its voice sounded…wrong. Not human, somehow. A wheezing, child-like tone that reminded him of the voices they gave to animated puppets in those creepy made-for-TV movies they showed around Halloween. But over time, he came to realise that it didn't want to hurt him. It was lonely, like he was. They shared many of the same views: disappointment in how the world worked. Anger at the people who kept it that way.

And it liked blood, just as much as he did.

It was nice…to find someone he had something in common with.

Tate walked down the hallway as quietly as he could, pausing at the foot of the stairs to listen. Nothing. Not a sound from upstairs – no footsteps, no music, no voices. His mother and his sister were asleep. He let out a small sigh.

"What are you doing, Tate?"

Adelaide stood behind him, staring at him quizzically from under a mop of wavy brown hair. She blinked, eyes wide and bright like an owl.

Tate shook his head at her, putting his finger to his lips.

"Shh, okay?" he murmured, reaching out to take her arm, tugging her toward the stairs. "You should be asleep. You know mom hates it when you wander around at night."

"I was playing."

"Playing?" he raised an eyebrow at her as the two of them walked up the stairs. "Playing with what?"

"With the lady."

"What lady?" Tate frowned at her. Adelaide had always been a weird little girl – their mother always said so. More often than not she could be found standing in the corner of a room, staring fixedly into space, head cocked to the side like a small dog listening for a sound too high for human ears to hear. She'd laugh for no reason, start conversations with walls, or floorboards, or the ceiling fan. But that was normal kid stuff – or so Tate had always figured. Every little kid had an imaginary friend. Addy's imagination was just better than most.

But now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure. He'd always dismissed Addy's oddities as childish fantasies – coping mechanisms, maybe. It's not like she had that many friends – Constance made sure of that. But wasn't he, himself, aware now of something lurking in the house? Some unseen presence? He'd been talking to it for months…

Addy smiled, reaching out for Tate's hand.

"The lady who comes to the house. She's always so sad. But I talk to her. She brushes my hair sometimes. She likes me."

Tate nodded, slowly.

"Do you have any other friends in the house, Addy?"

Addy nodded enthusiastically.

"What about dad?" they'd reached the top of the stairs now, and Tate stopped outside the door to Adelaide's room. "Do you see dad ever?"

This was something he'd wondered since the day Moira told him to check out the basement. If his father was dead, did that mean he was a ghost? Did that mean he was still around somewhere, lurking in the basement, or in the attic, or in some other neglected part of the house? But all he'd found was the rasping baby voice in the basement, and as intriguing and oddly comforting though it was, he couldn't help but feel disappointed.

Addy wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head.

"No, silly. Daddy left."

"But what if…what if he didn't leave?" Tate pushed, his blond hair flopping over his eyes as he stooped to look at Addy. "What if he's still here in the house somewhere. What if he di-"

Addy's face had gone blank. She was staring at a fixed point behind Tate, eyes wide.

Tate turned.

Constance stood in the doorway of Addy's room, arms folded.

"Out of bed again?" she brushed past Tate, grabbing a hold of Addy's arm sharply. Adelaide winced, her face screwing up into a knot.

"Mom!" Adelaide wailed as Constance yanked her back towards the door to her room.

Constance made a growling sound in the back of her throat, manoeuvring Addy into the room before placing both hands on the little girl's shoulders.

"What have I told you about sneaking around this house at night?" she hissed, shaking Adelaide's shoulders. "Night-time is for sleeping, little miss – and in your own damn bed, not on the floor of the goddamn kitchen or wherever else you end up. This isn't a game, Adelaide. And this is your last warning. No more wandering about – do you understand?"

Adelaide sniffled heavily, her face still screwed up in misery.

"Don't yell at her…" Tate mumbled, weakly. There was no point butting in – he knew that from experience. But the sight of Adelaide distressed made his chest tighten uncomfortably. "C'mon, mom…"

Constance gave Adelaide another little push inside the room before shutting the bedroom door on her. She turned to glare at Tate.

"And what about you?" she demanded, angrily. "What the HELL do you think you were doing out of bed?"

"I went to look for Addy." He lied, smoothly.

Constance's eyes narrowed, but she took a step away from the door, back towards her room.

"Don't think I'm not keeping an eye on you, my boy. Just because you're not a mongoloid doesn't mean you can keep yourself out of trouble. I'm watching. Understand?" she looked at him for a moment before disappearing back inside her bedroom.

Tate rolled his eyes, trying to push down the swell of anger that was threatening to bubble out in a stream of expletives aimed directly at his mother's closed door.

"Understand this." He muttered, and gave the door the finger.

Violet descended the stairs to the basement. It was late – close to midnight – but she hadn't been able to sleep. Her conversation with Moira had unsettled her at first, but the more she thought about it, the more it pissed her off. The stupid old bat hadn't told her anything remotely useful. She still didn't know if Tate was gone (and if so, where) and whether she would be able to bring him back.

The basement had seemed like a good idea. Tate seemed to like skulking around there. Maybe he hadn't even gone anywhere at all. Maybe he'd just been sulking, hiding in the basement, waiting for her to apologise.

She trailed her fingertips along the banister, stepping off the bottom most stair and glancing around the dimly lit room. There was a large moon tonight, but still very little light filtered through the ground-level windows. There was a scent of dry dust, and damp clothing. Basement smell. She'd almost grown fond of it.

"Tate?" she called out, quietly. She felt stupid somehow, calling his name into an empty basement. She was beginning to feel like she'd made him up inside her head. Maybe there had never been a Tate Langdon. Not a proper, flesh and blood one. Not for many, many years. Maybe ghosts weren't real – maybe Constance, Moira – the whole lot of them were just fucking with her, adding to her ridiculous delusion. Maybe she was just crazy. And lonely. How fucking pathetic.

Violet backed up against the stairs, tipping her head back to rest on the wooden banister. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of mould and age and night-time. If she stayed like this, maybe she could imagine him back into existence. It would be just like the night before Halloween – minus the creepy fetish suit, preferably. He'd be here, pressing her against the wall, kissing her neck…

A hand rested on her shoulder.

Violet jumped.

"Vi, honey…." Vivien's voice was concerned, sleepy. "What are you doing down here? It's the middle of the night…"

Violet turned, heart pounding in her chest.

"Mom! You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry honey. Come on up to bed…you shouldn't be down here. Come on…"

From the shadows, Tate watched as Vivien led Violet up the stairs. The basement door clicked shut hollowly.

From the darkness, the voice spoke.

You know what you have to do.

"I know," Tate said, his voice echoing emptily against the slick, dank walls of the basement. "Yeah. I know."