Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay?

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

A/N - This chapter got so long that it needed me to break it into two parts and this chapter is still the longest of this series. And my power went out in the middle of posting, so I lost all of my edits. Hope I caught everything my second time through but my brain was elsewhere by then, moving onto later chapters. I apologize for the long time between posts. Life outside of fanfic is a bitch.

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

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Halloween – Part 1

2000

Ben continued to see Tate, Violet had even come in with her brother a few times, days the boy seemed particularly agitated. After the incident with the two of them in his carport the doctor had thought about terminating the teen as a patient but decided that it was wrong to turn his back on someone so clearly in need. And it kept the sister close, something that the older man found himself enjoying. He was sure to bring her up at least once every session, just to learn a little bit more about what made the young willowy blond tick. As her brother spoke, grinning, boyish, shaggy hair in his eyes the doctor would let his mind wander. Imagining her, Violet, spread out before him, blush rising up her cheeks, down her elegant neck, delicately boned hands trying to cover her small breasts, and his tongue would grow thick, mouth filling with saliva, dick twitching.

His thoughts of that girl never ceased to entertain him, excite him. And the fact that his patient was so clearly in love with her, obsessed with her, when he was such a damaged fuck, amused the doctor even more. Ben realized he had barely listened to a word the boy had said, thoughts elsewhere, but it was time to wrap things up.

"Tate, would you mind meeting outside of my office next week?"

The boy gazed back perplexed. "Outside of the office? Like outside the house?" He bit his lip, glanced nervously toward the empty seat beside him on the couch.

"I apologize," Ben grinned. "My wife and I are hosting a Halloween party for the orchestra. My wife's a cellist," he explained, not knowing exactly how much Tate knew about the Harmon's, their private lives, what they got up to, what they did. "And the house is going to be crazy, I'm afraid. Caterers, decorators. Not a very conducive environment for therapy. So," he paused, white toothed smile still in place, "anywhere you would like to meet is fine with me."

"On Halloween?"

"Yes. If you don't mind. Of course, we can cancel if you prefer..."

"No," Tate agreed quickly, "no, that's fine. Can we maybe get coffee?"

"Of course!" Ben announced, clapping his hands before ushering the boy out the door.

Children ran past, their happy voices and laughter filled the air. There were witches and vampires, Frankenstein's monsters and princess. Parents scurried by smiling, others groaning, yelling, chasing sugar-fueled hyper kids down the walkway. The park sat in the middle of a small shopping center, benches and tables scattered across the green lawn, a fountain bubbling away behind them.

The moment they had arrived, spying Dr. Harmon already seated, Tate offered to put in their coffee orders. It was black for the doctor, something with lots of sugar and caramel for Violet. And knowing her brother, the strangest flavor combination he could come up with for himself. The number of possibilities, options, thrilled him, made him grin like a kid in a candy store. His sister had been left behind with a grin and a wink, her cheek resting on her palm as she gazed placidly at his retreating back.

"So, what are you doing here, Violet?" Ben asked, drawing her out of her quiet reverie.

She sat up, looking at the man across from her at the wooden picnic table. "Tate wanted me to come," she told him, shrugging. Not that she could, or would, mention the fact that she wasn't going to be stuck in the house, on Halloween, while her brother skipped off to enjoy his freedom without her.

"Shouldn't you be off having fun with your girlfriends, planning your costumes for some party tonight?" His condescending smirk made Violet's blood run cold. There was something about Ben Harmon that she despised. And it wasn't just his perving. Though that made her skin crawl, the way his eyes followed her, viewing her body with some sort of ownership, an unknown confidence.

Fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater she stared directly into his eyes, "Tate's my friend." Her gaze on him, solely on him, impassive and detached, made the doctor squirm. Her eyes, their depth, their hardness, were out of place on her cherubic, girlish, face. There was something about her. Something other worldly. Magical, mysterious, but dark. And so hauntingly beautiful.

He broke the stare, let his eye flit downward, taking in her clothes, barely concealed breasts, long column of her neck, purple blue bruises on either side of her throat. He knew they were from Tate's hand, fingers clenched tight, probably as he fucked her. And that made Ben flush with heat, with need. He saw her like a painting, a canvas, vivid mixture of colors, light and shadow. On that day in particular she was a riot of color to him; in an oversized mustard yellow cardigan, a blue floral babydoll dress, cut indecently short, buttons running down the front, mismatched, half hanging open to reveal tantalizing glimpses of milky flesh. She wore Chuck Taylors, identical to her brothers; it was the first time Ben had witnessed her wearing shoes.

Ignoring his blatant ogling Violet added, "And I'm already wearing my costume." A pair of floppy white bunny ears, dirty, ratty, were tucked into her long straight honey colored hair.

He wondered that she never wore anything pretty or new. Every item of clothing he had seen her in was tattered, fraying at the seams, a hand-me-down from Tate. Was it what she wanted? What she liked? Or was she being neglected, refused by her mother?

The boy was just the same though; in a green striped sweater, sleeves ripped to let his thumbs slip through, a pair of ancient torn jeans. And he was wearing a set of black cat ears, a costume to match his sister's. Ben had shaken his head seeing them. "Violet likes to dress up," Tate explained, beaming at the petite girl, who he stood with, hand in hand, with out shame or concern, minutes earlier, asking what kind of coffee the other man wanted.

Ben never stopped grinning at her, he couldn't, the moment, the situation, was too perfect. His eyes took in the expanse around them, casually observing the park's other occupants, no one paid he or Violet a scrap of attention. The boy was no where to be found, busy. Finally he spoke, giddy, feeling young and restless for the first time in months, since moving to the opposite coast. "Because, you see, I think I know why," her eyes narrowed at him, lips puckering. Reaching under the table, he pressed his palm to her knee, straining further upward, fingers tickling her soft bare thigh.

"Dr. Harmon," she began, her expression unwavering, not a muscle moved, though one under his hand twitched, her voice was stern, hard like steel and cold. He flexed, digging into her flesh, and she smacked his hand away, glaring daggers.

"Don't deny it," he told her, gaze serious, his mouth a gash across his supposedly handsome face. "I see the way you look at me. You want it as much as I do." Her mouth opened in reply but he was already up, moving, sliding onto the bench beside her, the heat of his hand back on her leg, inching impossibly higher.

Violet's eyes cast over his shoulder as she seethed through clenched teeth. "You, demented fuck. I don't want anything from you. I can feel your fucking eyes on me every time I'm in that office. I hate it. I want nothing," she spat the word, "to do with you. Stay the fuck away from me."

The slap knocked her half sideways, nearly toppling her from the bench, his smile never faltering. Her hand immediately went to her face, touching the heated, throbbing flesh of her cheek, the taste of blood in her mouth. Wide eyes took in the man seated next to her and Violet suddenly thought, if only Constance were a couple of decades younger, Dr. Harmon would have been just her kind of man. Probably still would be considering the age of some of men she saw come and go from her mother's place next door.

"Now you listen to me," he fumed, taking her by the elbow, twisting her arm painfully. "I'm offering you an opportunity, a chance."

"To fuck you?" she hissed, trying to shake him off.

"Oh, little girl, little girl. So brave. So fierce. You know I like that." His tongue ran along his teeth. Violet felt sick.

"He'll kill you, you know. And I won't be able to stop him."

"Who? Tate?" Ben smirked, his expression turning conspiratorial, voice lowering. "That's just my point. I can help you, Violet. I see the kind of hold he has over you. What he does to you," his eyes traveled down her body, lingering, making the girl squirm, shift, try to wrap her cardigan more tightly around herself with her free hand. "I could get you away from him, protect you."

"Protect me from my brother?" she wanted to laugh. "Why would I need protecting from him?"

"Violet," he glanced left, right. "I know." The way he said the word made it clear that he didn't know anything, not really, that like everyone else he was blind, could never, would never, understand. "I saw you, the two of you, after that first session. You have to know that's wrong. It's against nature. For fuck's sake, it's illegal." The doctor took a breath, continued, "Your brother is violent, cunning, obsessive. And he's charming. He can pretend. That's how psychopaths operate. He's possessive too, isn't it?"

He was. And she knew Ben Harmon was right, that everything he said about Tate was true. But Violet also recognized that the good doctor understood her brother so very well because deep down he was the same. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

"And you're afraid of him." There. That was where he was entirely wrong. The only thing Violet had ever been afraid of, when it came to Tate, was losing him.

As she checked again for her brother, hoping desperately to see him approach, while at the same time fearing that it might actually happen, that he would kill Harmon right there and then, he was no where in sight. Her anger, her indignation, was steadily growing as the doctor continued to paw at her, his hands on her arms, her legs, sliding along the dip of her waist.

"Just stay the fuck away from me," she spat. "From both of us. This session is over. You're done seeing Tate."

Ben chuckled, tossed his head back, eyes dancing, thrilled. "So I had it wrong, did I? You're the dominant force." He nodded, seeing it then, the picture, more fully. "And he's the lap dog." His smirk was vile, made her skin crawl. "Did you seduce him, you little slut? Let him think it was his idea, getting inside you? Make him unable to want any cunt but yours?" The older man changed tactics in a heartbeat.

Violet, for the second time, thought of her mother.

"I could have him arrested, you know. The things he's told me in sessions, what I know about him, people like him. His fantasies. He is a menace, a danger to society. Tate is beyond my help. He is beyond anyone's help."

"How fucking dare…"

"But I don't have to make that call. Not if say, you were to do something for me."

"Do something for you," she repeated, furious.

He took her words as an invitation to continue. "Tonight, meet me by the potting shed in my backyard. The spot where I see you smoking," her gaze narrowed at him. "Oh yes, Violet," his grin grew, "I know a lot more about you than you might think."

"Somehow I doubt it, fucker," she stood, wrenching free, storming across the expanse of green between he and the coffee shop without a backwards glance.

"I'll see you later then, Violet!" Ben called pleasantly at her retreating form, watching as she intercepted her brother, taking two cups from his hands, tossing what the doctor assumed was his drink into a nearby trashcan. He beamed as he sat there, imaging all of the terrible, wonderful, pleasurable ways he could twist her, bend her to his will, his cock balls deep in her sopping teenage cunt, and let the sun warm his face. It was going to be a Halloween to remember, he was sure of that.

When she told Tate what happened, why she had dragged him away, his eyes were dark, the color of pitch. A violent, relentless storm of hatred and loathing. She saw death in his gaze, had seen it enough times to identify it, and kissed his lips until she tasted it too, tasted her blood in his mouth. Violet knew what he was thinking, what he was going to say, possibly before he did.

"He's a monster. He can't stay in this house." Her brother nodded to himself, "He has to die. We have to kill him."

They were in the living room, the well-dressed, bickering, forms of Chad and Patrick lingered in the kitchen. Chad had his requisite glass of white wine in hand while Patrick stared on, bored and sullen. Violet figured it was only a matter of time before the taller man was slinking away, trying to suck someone off, get his dick wet, before he was trapped for another year.

"Well, you can't kill him here or he'll never leave," she whispered as they both glanced sideways at the two men.

Tate took his sister in his arms, held her close, and with a grin danced her across the open expanse of the room, cleared of furniture for the party later that evening. The radio was tuned to the golden oldies station, broadcasting a mixture of Halloween classics like The Monster Mash and the current song they were listening to, My Girl. Her brother sang softly along with the tune, lips at her ear, moving her effortlessly in his arms, and she laughed. As children, Violet and Tate had attended ballroom dance classes at their mother's insistence and were fairly skilled in dipping and twirling across the hardwood floors of their home. It had driven Constance to distraction, their practicing, their giggling, so they had done it all the more.

Vivien Harmon was in the dining room, humming along, her hips swaying, as she occasionally called out questions or directions to the male ghosts in her kitchen who she believed to be decorators. It figured that, even on Halloween, their day off from the world of the dead, those two would still be in the house putting up fucking cobwebs and miserably carving pumpkins, rather than enjoying themselves.

"We'll do it tonight." Tate decided. "You can lure him out. Away from the party. And I'll be waiting."

Violet sighed, unsure. Her brother's plans rarely went as intended. And she didn't like the idea of being used as bait either.

Noting her hesitancy he pushed, "Think about it, Vi. Mrs. Harmon could move on, be with that security guy, move away from here. Maybe she'd be able to have a baby with someone else. Don't you think she would be happier? If we just got rid of him?"

She studied his determined face, knowing she had little choice, that she wouldn't be able to change his mind. But it still made her sad, misery curling up inside her knowing that murder, death and destruction, were her brother's answer to everything. His lips brushed hers and, for a moment, she melted into his embrace.

Leaning back Violet shook her head, "Don't try to manipulate me, Tate. You're no good at it." He scowled, pouted. His sister running her thumb along his full lower lip, "But if you really want me to, I'll help you."

"You will?"

"I always do, don't I? But you owe me after last time. And believe me, I'm going to collect."

"I want to go on a date. A real date. With you. Like a couple. Just us, together."

"We're always together," he kissed her mouth, smiling.

"In this house," his sister reminded him. "I want to go out there and hold your hand and smile and laugh and get drunk, hiding like we used to, sneaking smokes, and whatever." Her eyes were steely, "You promised me."

"This is my payment?" She nodded.

"Alright," Tate agreed, smirking. "Tonight, before their party starts. We'll go out."

Violet received a note as she soaked in the tub, the one where her body had been found, her favorite in the house. It was a scrap of paper really, cut and folded into the shape of a heart, and in her brother's scratched handwriting, a few lines by Keats:

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting, and forever young;

It informed her to be ready for their date by five o'clock, when he would arrive for her. She swooned a little, smiling to herself, and glancing over her shoulder, around the smaller bathroom, to be sure that no one, specifically Tate, saw her moment of girlish weakness, as she pressed his note to her damp breast.

When the doorbell rang out at the specified time Violet thought nothing of it, assumed it was another delivery for the party, coating her lips with Vivien's lipstick, seated at the older woman's vanity. She had tried to dress the part. It was her first official date after all. But the selection of clothing available to her was meager. Finally, in a fit of pique, she tore a white lace dress from Mrs. Harmon's closet, it was two sizes two large and hung on her frame but that suited the girl fine. She added a flannel shirt, one of her brother's and a belt around her slim waist, finally throwing a battered cardigan over it all, and lacing up her Doc Martens.

The front door opened and she heard a surprised, "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Harmon. I'm here to pick up Violet." His sister's head swung as she heard her brother below.

"Oh," the other woman sounded almost disappointed, motherly in a way, "I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong house. There's no Violet here." But the girl in question was charging down the stairs, hair flying around her face, sticking to darkly painted lips.

"Tate," she breathed. He wore the same clothes as earlier but was clutching a black rose in his hand. The smile that broke over his face when he saw her made Violet's stomach flip-flop, her heart stutter, air trapped in her lungs.

"Well, well, well, isn't this just adorable. Norman Bates, Jr. and twisted little sis off for a night on the town." Violet narrowed her eyes at Chad as Tate glared menacingly. Vivien cast her gaze between the two men, unsure of what was transpiring.

"Do you know him?" she turned to look at her decorator then back at the boy, but the younger was gone, nearly vanished from sight, as he stepped out through the gate, a petite girl on his arm, his mouth on her neck as she laughed, swatting at him. A shiver ran up Vivien's spine, a cold wind inching up her flesh, giving her goose-bumps. It made her think of someone walking over her grave. But in the end she laughed it off, it was Halloween after all, kids played tricks, and she had the event of the season to host in only a matter of hours, no time to waste.

"You look beautiful," he told her first, making her blush, then, "I got you this." Tate handed her the flower. "I know how you don't like normal things."

"I love it," she smiled, already imagining it and the note, tucked safely away in the pocket of her sweater, nestled into her box of keepsakes, hidden in the wall of the attic.

Her brother walked her down the road, holding her hand, casting furtive glances her way, smiling and stealing kisses, until they arrived at the beach. Their beach. The one they would go to when the world closed in, got so small neither could stand it. When Constance was being a cunt, drinking, bringing home man after man, screaming and wailing, roaring in their faces and attempting to lock them in their rooms. It was an escape, a place to go and forget about all of that, to remember that there was a whole wide world out there, waiting.

When they were seated on the sand, a small fire burning before them, his arm around her slight shoulders, as the sun began to set in the distance, Violet reached into her brown leather satchel, the same one she'd had since junior high, and presented a vivid blue bottle of gin with a flourish. "Drink?" she asked.

Tate laughed, "Fuck. This is just like when we were kids."

"I know," she smirked, taking a long pull, and wincing slightly. "But it's easier to steal the good shit from the Harmon's."

Violet passed the bottle to her brother who took an equally deep swallow, before leaning in, pressing his lips to hers. Tate slowly pushed his sister onto her back in the sand, covering her body with his own, her wrists held high above her head as his hips lazily moved against her heated center, cradled between her thighs.

"Mmm," she grinned, "this is just like when we were kids too." And he huffed a laugh against her neck, teeth dragging along her flesh.

Violet was practically tripping on air as they made their way back to the house, the darkness shrouding them as they meandered through scores of children running up and down the street, plastic pumpkins and pillowcases at their sides.

"Are you ready?" her brother wondered as they approached the expanse of freshly cut green grass, the sounds of a party: music, tinkling of glass, voices, and laughter, wafting through the night air.

His sister nodded, biting her lip. She could feel a trickle of wet slide down her thigh, Tate seeping out of her. On the front porch, jack o' lanterns glowing, the solid wood door open to the street, her brother backed her up against the wall, mouth urgent and furious on her bruise lined throat, her jaw, her lips. His fingers wormed inside of her, pumping, thumb bumping her clit, as Violet's legs went weak.

"Here?" she hushed. "Now?"

"I want you to look desperate," he told her sheepishly, removing his hand, sucking their mingled fluids from his fingers, as her eyes flew open with a sound of quiet disbelief.

"Tate," she hissed, but he was gone, vanished from sight.

Violet waited, on the edge of enraged, frustrated, and took a deep breath, then angrily, with halting movements, raised her small fist and knocked on the door. No response. She tried the doorbell. A moment later, Ben Harmon, dressed in a black cape with a crystal goblet of red wine in his hand, clearly already drunk, arrived on the other side of the glass. His face went from amused, to devious, to frighteningly aroused within seconds of taking her in.

The girl was flushed, cheeks a warm pink color, her hair a rat's nest coated with sand, dress dirty, dipping down, hanging off her right shoulder. She stared back at him, wide eyed and intoxicated, maybe high, swaying slightly on her feet. She had never looked so sweet, so enticing. Ben couldn't wait to get his teeth on her, into her. His cock slamming her wet hole, pounding into that place she had likely never had a man. A real man. Only a boy, exerting his will, his selfish demented needs on her. Had he ever made her cum? Because Ben knew he could, would. And she would beg him never to stop, just as Hayden had. Tiffany had. Rebecca. All of his lovely little ladies left sadly behind in Boston.

"Can you come outside?" she queried, nibbling that plump, painted, lower lip.

"Just a minute," he replied, turning and calling, "Be right back, Viv!" Before stepping out of the house. "I knew you'd come around," he smirked, reached for her, but Violet shifted, moving back and away from him, before walking down the front path and away. Did she want to play? Was he supposed to chase her? Ben felt like he had been doing nothing but for weeks and weeks.

When the older man hung back at the door she tossed a careless glance over her shoulder, batting her lashes, coated with his wife's mascara, coquettishly. "Are you coming?" He could barely contain himself, nearly tripping over his own feet to follow her. Because Ben Harmon was coming, in every way possible.

They crossed the lawn, passed through the front gate, and out onto the sidewalk. "Where are we going?" He asked as they found themselves on another lawn, surrounded by rose bushes, the thick trunk of a Spanish Chestnut at her back. His neighbor's house.

"Right here. No one will be able to see us between the house and the trees." The man smirked, she was a devious little girl. And so very ripe. He stumbled forward, blood boiling, fueled by alcohol, need and lust, groping her, one hand immediately on her breast, the other on her waist tugging her lower half to meet his. Dr. Harmon groaned as her stomach brushed his erection, trapped and desperate against the zipper of his black dress slacks as his lips descended to brush her own. Violet squeaked, surprised, and tried to push him off, her palms on his chest, but he was too large, immovable. When his tongue shoved past the tight seam of her mouth, she felt as though she might cry.

Violet had never kissed anyone aside from Tate; had never wanted to. She tasted revulsion and fear, felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She wanted Ben Harmon to go away, to stop touching her, to leave her alone. She wanted Tate to show the fuck up and end their stupid game. It wasn't fun, her body pressed against another man's, his fingers inching the hem of her dress up. It was nothing like their games used to be. There was no thrill, no rush of adrenaline, anticipation, only misery and heartsickness.

As his palm massaged, kneaded, her pert breast through his wife's dress, nipple pebbling under his attention, Violet closed her eyes, waited, trying to remain calm, breathe through her nose as she felt the first streaks of wetness run down her cheeks. It wasn't long after that. The pressure against her hands suddenly lifted, gone, as the doctor was brutally pulled from her, yanked back, a flash of light as the wire around his throat reflected the streetlamps. Ben's face turned red, purple. He reached for her as the garrote in her brother's hands tightened, twisted, cutting off his air supply, slicing through the meat of his neck, blood running down in rivulets.

Harmon struggled, thrashing violently, fought as best he could, but Tate had always been strong, stronger than he looked, and being dead gave him still further advantage, power. The older man couldn't get his fingers between the cord and his air way and within a matter of silent moments, his eyes rolled back, his arms fell to his sides, legs collapsing, his body folding into itself in a heap.

Tate looked up at her, a strained grin on his face but his sister could barely see him through the saltwater clouding her vision, blinding her. "Violet, you're crying," he rushed forward, put his arms around her shoulders as they heaved silently, the ridges of her spine scraping against the rough bark of the tree.

"He," she began, sniffed, sobbed. "I didn't want to. I didn't like it." Her face rubbed along his soft black cotton t-shirt, sweater abandoned somewhere on the ground. "Only you, only you, Tate. Please don't ever make me…"

"I won't," he hushed, "I won't. Fuck. I'm sorry, Violet." He shushed her, stroking the column of silken hair at her back.

Chad was waiting by the kitchen door, glass in hand, sneer in place as he watched the pair shuffle home, Tate leaving Dr. Harmon with a final swift kick to his side, bones cracking and breaking. He applauded sarcastically. "So, who's next, kids? Sweet Vivien?"

"No," Tate grumbled, "not her." Violet swiped at her eyes, crushed against her brother's side.

The other man shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the party beyond, before stating, "You two have serious mommy issues. But at least I won't have to worry about that handsome fucker hanging around here for all eternity." Then, with a final disgusted glare, he returned to the crowd in hopes of finding Patrick, not blowing someone in the en suite.

Tate stroked Violet's pink stained cheek, feeling the cool wetness on his knuckles before running his nose along the same path. "Seeing him," he swallowed, onyx raging eyes hidden from her view, "touching you," he moved to her neck, bit down, sucked, marking her as his words died on his tongue. She responded by pushing her body forward, lifting her hips to rub against him, making her brother moan. Tate grabbed her thigh, wrapping the leg around his waist and leaning her against the bricks.

"Kiss me," she mumbled and he did, hungrily, lips and teeth and tongue, hands sliding under her dress, thumbs gliding over sharp hipbones and down the crease between thigh and torso, but not where she wanted him so desperately. "Tate," she whimpered.

"Ugh, you're disgusting," a snide voice approached. Violet's eyes shot open and her brother growled at the back of his throat, something feral and dangerous. It was Leah.

They had grown complacent. The Dead Breakfast Club steering clear of the beach, not showing at the park, but it had only been a matter of time before they stumbled upon the duo, barbs on their tongues, hatred in their empty dead eyes. "What is wrong with you? Do you know how sick you are?"

The group surrounded them, sat along the brick wall, leaned against the hood of the Harmon's car.

"Brother lover," Chloe hissed.

The goth girl, Stephanie, head blown wide open to show a flash of graying bloody brain matter, her mouth a thin line, muttered, "Freaks."

"Stop! Stop," Kyle put up his hand, quieting the girls. "That's not why we're here." He turned to gaze, grimace, at the siblings entwined against the wall, shook his head. "Why'd you do it, Tate? You owe us that." He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his letterman jacket. The others huffed, agreeing, leaning in.

Violet rolled her eyes, annoyed, pissed, impatient for the thick heat of Tate's cock inside her cunt, but instead she was stuck outside with the ghouls, making their yearly small talk. "Don't you get it?" she asked them, sneering. "You ask the same fucking question every year. You know the answer. You just can't accept it. That you're dead, that that was all you got. You won't listen, you don't hear." Chloe scoffed, turned her perfect nose up, and it reminded Violet so much of the past, of high school and of bullshit, that day in gym, the day that set everything in motion, altered the natural course of their lives to the path they were currently on, that she felt faint. One stupid fucking moment, on a stupid fucking day. Those bitches just had to be awful, had to take their torment to a new level, making a decision that changed everything, just for a few fucking laughs at the expense of a girl who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

And nothing was different. Those bitches were dead but they were still cruel. How could they not see it in Tate's eyes, in the way he moved to stand between them and her, to protect her, as he had always done. As he had felt he was doing that day.

Some ghosts though were like broken records. They got stuck in the same place, unable to move on, to change the tune, try something new. The Westfield High Fifteen, or whatever catchy tagline the news programs had given them, were like Nora and Charles, like the nurses. There was nothing for them but what happened in those last few moments.

But for Violet and Tate there was so much more. They had found more life in death than they had ever experienced growing up with Constance Langdon, with Hugo. But people like Leah, like Chloe, like Kyle, could never understand the kind of love shared between the pair because they had never experienced absolute, true, unconditional love. The kind of feeling that was all encompassing, all consuming. No one had ever really understood.

A scream rent the night air, surprising all of the former teens, heads swinging in the direction of the house next door. Party goers spilled from the doors, rushing toward the noise. The sibling's mother shrieked, howled into the darkness. Tate grinned, grabbing Violet's wrist, tugging her inside, elbowing through the mass of extravagantly costumed people.

"No! No! You can't just leave. Say it, say it!" Leah screamed after them, neither bothered to look back.

Vivien Harmon held her husband's body until the paramedics, police, arrived, prying her off as she wailed, kicking and fighting. Constance, recovering from the shock of finding a dead man among her prized rose bushes, smoked a cigarette, staring at her former home, and thinking so much for her poor, disturbed, son's therapy. She knew it wouldn't work out, of course, those children were poison, ruined everything they touched, with their selfishness, their greed, their sin. It was their punishment, her punishment. She grimaced, knowing they were in that house, pressed against one another, breaking the laws of god and man, taking their pleasure, giggling and whispering about love, in a filthy pile of blankets. And it sickened her. But, exhaling through her nostrils, she reminded herself, they weren't her fucking problem anymore.

"What is it with that house?" she heard one police officer ask another and shook her head, tapping ash onto the grass. If they only knew.