Note: Basically my theory on Tate's little…operational problem…is that outside of the house he is a ghost first, functioning human second. His blood doesn't really pump, he can't really breathe the air, he's sort of a shadow of a human, something that's not quite right. Inside the house, whether fuelled by the delusion that they are indeed still somewhat alive or just the energy and power of the house, the ghosts can function all but normally, which is why every time that Tate is able to have sex during the series, it takes place in the house, just not outside of it.

I hope that answers a few of your questions about this!

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They sat together in the soft firelight, and Tate, feeling as though he owed Violet something after such a disappointment, broke his usual rule of talking about herself. His experiences earlier today still fresh in his mind, he told her about school; how little it mattered, although when you were in it it seemed like the be all and end all of everything. He wanted to help her – he knew she had an even harder time there than he had.

Violet's head suddenly swung around, looking at the hilly crest of sand behind them.

"Someone's here," she said quietly.

A group of teenagers, dressed in matching zombie schoolkid outfits, were walking down the beach toward them. They circled the campfire.

"Nice costumes," said Violet mockingly. "What are you, the Dead Breakfast Club?"

"You know, there's a whole lot of beach, guys," said Tate, attempting to keep his voice friendly. He really couldn't afford much else to go wrong with this night, and he'd only just placated Violet.

"Good job, Tate," said a burly boy in some sort of sport uniform. Tate started the sound of his name. "You finally came out of hiding. We've been waiting for years for you to show your face but you like Mommy's little safe house, don't you?"

Tate tried to see their faces better in the flickering light, but there was nothing recognizable about them. "I don't know you," he said in confusion.

"I'm actually surprised you have the balls to show your face around here," said a pretty brunette, leaning down to his level.

"Yeah," added the girl behind him. She looked different to the others – more detail had gone into her brain-splattered makeup, and her gothic clothing was at odds with their uniforms. "Maybe you should've worn a mask."

"I'm not really into Halloween," Tate said, attempting a smile.

"But this year's different, right?" she continued, her voice derisive. She looked at Violet, and Tate's smile disappeared. "You have a date. How cute is that?" She leant forward, and Tate put a hand on her arm.

"Leave her alone," he said firmly. The girl stood, and Tate stood in response, shielding Violet.

"We don't want her," interjected the first boy. "We want you."

"How 'bout we drown him?" said the goth girl eagerly. Tate saw Violet roll her eyes. He realized she was more used to this kind of senseless bullying than he was.

"No, we should shoot him," said the boy. "Right between the eyes."

Before he could reply Violet was standing between them. "Ha ha." Her voice was deadpan. "Halloween prank."

"Can we please erase this bitch?" the malice in the goth girl's voice made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. Violet spun back to face her.

"Yeah," another boy chimed in. "How does he get a girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you?" he asked the others.

"Nope," said the football player with a smirk. "I haven't had sex in a long time."

They were closing in, their mocking banter more pressing. Tate reached for Violet's arm. "Come on," he said quietly, "Let's go. This beach sucks. And they should pick up the trash."

He waited anxiously to hear the sound of pursuit, but glancing back moments later he saw that they hadn't moved.

They didn't speak on the way home. Violet was quiet, and Tate could see she was shaken. He knew how much bullying upset her. She didn't let go of his hand until they reached her room once more. Somehow, the house felt safer to Tate than ever before.

He walked into the room while she shut the door, and waited.

Violet turned to him slowly. "Are you seriously gonna act like nothing happened at the beach? They totally knew you, Tate."

"But I don't know them," he said.

"Then why do they hate you?"

He had been struggling with this question the whole way home. Was this some sort of off-kilter prank that Chad had organized to bust up his date? He had briefly wondered if they might be kids from Violet's school that had been out to cause trouble.

"They're just high school assholes," he answered, more to himself than Violet, "I mean, the world' full of them. It's these popular kids that get off on being mean and cruel. I…I thought you understood that."

Violet's expression confused him. "Tate, I can tell you're totally freaked out…" she paused, glancing toward the window.

The creepy howling and barking sound effects that Chad had set up by the gates to go off when anyone entered had started up again. Violet and Tate looked at one another. Surely it was too late for trick or treaters by now. They moved to the window and peered out the slats.

"Its them!" Violet exclaimed. "They followed us here?" her voice hardened. "This is bullshit."

Tate reached for her, but Violet shook him off, and he fell back. He had never quite seen Violet in this state before; he felt completely out of his depth. She strode to the desk, grabbing a pair of scissors from a pot of pens, and stormed out the room. Tate followed her down the hall, invisible, and watched her fling open the front door. He dithered behind the windows, wondering what she had planned.

He heard the schoolkids taunting her from the driveway, and his blood boiled again.

"This is private property. I have every right to call the cops." He was proud of his Violet – not a tremor in her voice.

"Go ahead, call them, you'll probably need them," called out on of the girls.

"Screw that. She deserves whatever happens to her."

"Yeah. Cause she's like those lonely fat chicks that marry guys on death row. You are deeply, deeply disturbed."

Tate pulled back, his heart pounding. This had gone beyond a joke now. Whatever it was they thought they knew about him, this was a very personal, very deliberate attack. He searched their faces, desperate to work out some connection with who they might be. Could they be friends of the gays that had somehow, impossibly, pieced two and two together and worked out what he'd done? They didn't exactly look old enough to be close friends with Chad or Patrick.

To be honest, they didn't really look likely to be close friends themselves – two of the boys were tall and skinny, obviously a little geeky, while the boy and girl in cheerleader and quarterback costumes were the picture of high school royalty. The gothic blonde was something else entirely. All that Tate knew of high school could be easily condensed into one fact: People didn't tend to associate with those at lower levels of the social food chain.

They were still taunting Violet, and at once he realized they were closing in on her.

"What did he do to you?" Violet yelled at them.

"She doesn't know," exclaimed one of the girls in disbelief.

"Know about what?"

"How have you not heard about Westfield high?" asked the quarterback slowly.

"We just moved here."

"Pick up a yearbook, bitch," snarled the goth.

"Or read a newspaper."

"We're kind of famous."

Violet laughed. "So you're popular. And you're pissed off I don't know who you are."

The goth advanced, and Tate's pulse thrummed. "Let's put her down, out of her misery." He heard her say. He couldn't bear to stay behind the doorway any longer.

"Leave her alone!" he called out, flinging the door open.

"Finally!" called out the quarterback. "The prodigal son returns."

Violet looked at him in relief, hurrying to his side.

"Come on down, man, we've got some questions."

"Go inside. I can handle this," Tate said firmly to Violet.

"I seriously doubt that," said the cheerleader. The group stepped forward in unison.

"Go inside," Tate said to Violet harshly. Her eyes widened in fear.

"No!" she said urgently. "They want to hurt you!" he looked at her stubborn little face and felt a desperate kind of gratefulness, tempered by rising fear. Of course she'd never willingly leave his side, no matter how confused she was or how badly he'd ruined her night. But she was in danger, here, and no matter how brave she was he couldn't let her get hurt on his account. He steeled himself.

"You wanna talk to me?" he called out. "Let's see how fast you can run." He let go of Violet's hand and sprinted between them down the driveway. A moment later, five pairs of feet were thundered after him, and Violet was safe.

Tate was a fast runner; smaller and lighter than the quarterback, he kept a fairly steady lead. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but found his feet leading him back to the beach.

At the bottom of the sand dunes his legs gave out at last, and he stopped, bent over double. They were close behind him; in a moment they had circled around him once more.

"I used to run track," he panted.

"We know." They said.

"Is somebody going to explain this to me?" he snarled.

"Do you believe in God?" asked the goth.

Tate smirked. "Is that what this is about? You guys are with Campus Crusades?"

The goth girl lunged at him, throwing him backwards into a metal bin. "You asked me if I believed in God and put a gun to my head," she said through gritted teeth, her hands tight around his collar. "I said yes. It wasn't even true and I said yes. And then, you pulled the trigger."

Tate pulled back. "What is this?" he demanded. "Is this part of a Halloween act? Because the makeup, it's chilling, but the performance-"

He felt a blow to the stomach and doubled over again as the quarterback threw him into the sand.

"No more bullshit, Tate," he roared. "You owe us an explanation."

Tate clutched his stomach. "Why are you doing this to me?" he yelled. "What do you want?" The boy kicked him again in the stomach, harder this time.

"Why did you target the jocks? I never did anything to you!"

"It wasn't just the jocks, man." The tall boy with long hair approached, and to Tate's relief the quarterback withdrew slightly. "I mean look at me, look at Amir. Did you ever once go to a football game? This guy was honor roll, man. He could've been Valedictorian. Asshole!" he kicked Tate in the stomach. "I'm not gonna change the world, okay? But he could have. He could've been something and you ruined all of that potential."

Tate struggled to listen as he dragged himself onto the metal bench they'd kicked him against.

"We wanna know why. You owe us that." The cheerleader was crying now.

"Way more than that," snapped the goth.

"You've got the wrong guy, okay?" said Tate.

"No, don't you dare," cried the cheerleader, her voice high with anguish. "We have been looking for you for years!"

"He's screwing with us." said the quarterback.

Monster mask, face of a dead thing. Tate's fantasy, the one he told Ben on his first day of therapy. For the briefest moment, his skeletal face flashed before his eyes. What was the connection – why remember that now? What were these kids doing to him?

"Get out!" he screamed, hitting his head to dispel the images. "Get out of my head!"

"We aren't in your head," said the cheerleader. She was close to him now, leaning down to stare up at his face. "We are right here."

"Come on, Chloe. The sun's coming up," said the jock.

"Please just say it," said the girl, and her voice was soft now. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. "Just say what you did."

He looked her in the eye, the face of this stranger that seemed to know him so well, searching desperately for a spark of recognition, the tiniest memory.

"I should be thirty-four years old," she sobbed. "And married, with babies…"

"I don't know you," Tate said quietly. He felt tears in his own eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up at the others. "I don't know you."

They looked back at them, frustrated and hurt. The goth reached over and pulled the cheerleader away. "Come on," she said softly. "We've gotta get going."

They turned away from him together.