2020 - The Murder House
I want to hold you close
Soft breath, beating heart
As I whisper in your ear
I wanna fucking tear you apart...
Michael found the interviews that followed Nora's to be maddening and tiresome. It wasn't because he was disappointed that none of the ghosts proved themselves worth saving - he harbored no expectations otherwise - but they also failed to curb his ever increasing hunger for causing pain and suffering.
It had delighted him to see Hayden's thin shell of confidence crack under the pressure he applied in order to reveal how frightened and wounded she was underneath. But despite the misery most of the spirits had languished in for years, they displayed surprising fortitude when faced with Michael's attempts to expose their shame and weakness.
After Nora, Michael interviewed her useless husband. The doctor was heartened by his wife's rejuvenated attitude, even after she dismissed him when he tried to rekindle their relationship. She told him he had failed her, while Michael had given her the luxurious existence she always craved. Montgomery merely nodded in agreement as Michael enumerated the doctor's many failures, especially his wife's disappointment in him.
"Yes, yes," Montgomery mumbled, barely coherent as his eyes failed to focus on anything in particular. "Nora would have been better off marrying someone else. I don't think I ever really understood her. She certainly never understood me. But, she is happy, you say? That is good, very good. That gives me some manner of peace, at least."
Michael couldn't understand how Montgomery could find any sort of peace or happiness knowing his wife no longer loved him. The man gave up far too easily, Michael thought. But he allowed the doctor to continue his pitiful existence. Montgomery's lunacy was surely to blame. It was impossible to break what was already broken.
Patrick, on the other hand, was perfectly sane, though his weaknesses were clear as day. All Michael thought he had to do was seduce him and then deny him when he was at his most vulnerable.
It was all too easy at first. Michael knew he was physically attractive, one of the few useful things he had inherited from his biological parents, and it gave him a thrill to watch Patrick's face flush and breath quicken as he leaned in close. As Michael described Patrick's loneliness and claustrophobic, destructive relationship with Chad, the ghost nodded in agreement. He never looked away from Michael's face but gazed confidently back, clearly expecting the evening to end with both of them in Michael's bed.
Michael had not even finished the first stage of the interview when Patrick's expression shifted suddenly. His eyebrows knit together and he cocked his head away.
"What did you just say?" Patrick interrupted.
Michael paused, confused. "I said that it must suck," he emphasized the word and let his mouth hang open for a moment before continuing, "to not have anyone to get a little strange with. Especially now that you don't even have Halloween to find a stranger to fuck…"
Patrick laughed, interrupting again.
"You find something funny?" Michael asked.
"No," Patrick said. "Not funny. I think I just realized something and it is most definitely not funny." He stood and began to walk to the door.
"This interview isn't over," Michael said.
"It is for me," Patrick said. "There is someone else I need to talk to."
Michael couldn't allow him to just leave. It was all about control and Michael would lose it if Patrick walked out the door.
"I said…" Michael said and telekinetically forced Patrick away from the door and back on to the couch. "We aren't finished here." Patrick's terrified expression vanished all too quickly and he immediately stood again.
"I think we are," he said. "Look, I'm not interested in whatever you're trying to do here. I'm not going to sleep with you or whatever the hell else you want. And I know this means I won't be able to be brought back to life and that's fine. I don't want to go to your shitty sanctuary anyway." He walked to the door again and began to turn the knob.
"Oh don't worry," Michael said as he curled his hands into fists. "You won't."
Patrick's scream was cut short by the flames that instantly engulfed him, wiping him from existence.
As irritating as Patrick's interview had been, it was Maria who frustrated Michael the most.
She agreed to sit on the couch across from him when she was called for, but she did little else besides answer his questions in the briefest way possible. When he began to question her about God and why He had deserted her, she merely smiled.
"He never abandoned me," she said. "It may be harder to feel His presence surrounded by the evil of this house, but He is still here. He is everywhere."
Michael chuckled. "Hasn't the evil, as you call it, that has transpired here been enough to convince you that God simply doesn't exist?"
"It has done the opposite," Maria said. "I have seen evidence of the existence of the devil, which can only mean the existence of his enemy."
"And the apocalypse," Michael said, "how could your God have allowed such a thing to happen?"
"Everything has its time. Even the earth. But I have not given up hope. I trust in God's plan. He will save all of us, even if it is in a way that none of us can see."
Michael realized he was gritting his teeth. He released his jaw with effort and tried to appear unruffled by her annoyingly persistent faith. He tried more questions, more ways to break through the walls she had built up so he could squeeze her soft, defenseless core.
"How will God save you if your soul no longer exists?"
Finally, her lips dropped their exasperating smile and quivered slightly. Now she would beg for mercy, he thought.
But she didn't. Her quaking hands folded around the cross she still wore around her neck and she started to pray.
"My Lord God," she began. "Even now resignedly and willingly, I accept at Thy hand, with all its anxieties, pains, and sufferings, whatever kind of death it shall please Thee to be mine."
Prayers no longer physically hurt Michael to hear, but they pained him in a different way. As Maria repeated her plee, something scratched at Michael's heart. Memories of killing rodents and cats came to the forefront of his mind. They were followed by more recent events: witches gunned down, warlocks massacred, and billions of humans incinerated in a moment.
The possibility that he could have, even should have, chosen a different path seared through him. He still could. Nothing was permanent, save for the few souls he had destroyed for good. The rest he could bring back. Every last human he had killed could be brought back to life.
The effort of it would kill him, but it could be done.
Michael closed his eyes and swallowed back a groan. As painful as the prayer was, the idea of turning against his father and his destiny was even worse. Doing so would mean admitting he had been wrong, that he was nothing more than the monster his grandma told him he was.
Destroying Maria took more effort than usual. When she was gone, her useless prayers silenced forever, Michael slumped in his chair and put a hand over his eyes.
"Father, forgive me," he whispered. He had been tempted. He could only hope he had acted quickly enough to prove his devotion to his father yet again.
Still, he was shaken and decided to seek solace by finding Nora. He had an idea for something that would make him feel better. It was a gift he had been saving for a special occasion, perhaps their arrival at the sanctuary, but he supposed now was as good a time as any.
Besides, he wanted to see the envy in Constance's eyes when she saw Nora wear his magnificent offering.
Martha was curling Nora's hair when Michael walked into the master bedroom.
"Not quite so tight," Nora scolded. "I don't want to look like a schoolgirl."
"I don't see why it matters," Martha said, slamming the iron down and brushing out a curl. "You have a bloody hole in the back of your head for Christ's sake."
"Language," Michael said. "You know I don't like that name mentioned in this house."
Nora beamed at him through the mirror she was facing. "Michael," she said. "How good to see you. I have been meaning to speak to you about the help. I should like to hire a new servant. One with more gentile training."
"Good luck with that," Martha said. "Not a lot of available applicants these days."
Michael waved her out. "Go and prepare dinner," he said. "I'll help Mrs. Montgomery finish her toilet." As soon as Martha left, Michael picked up the iron and began tenderly wrapping a strand of Nora's glistening hair around it.
Nora chatted away about her day and the way she now ran the household. Michael knew she had become nothing less than insufferable toward the other ghosts. With great satisfaction, he had watched her take to her new status with vigor. She demanded the highest respect from the other inhabitants, especially Constance and Vivien. Years of watching other women take over as the lady of the house had taken their toll and Nora took her revenge by ordering them about.
"I suppose I should be grateful the Harmon woman has such strong maternal instincts," Nora said. "She doesn't seem to mind continuing to play nursemaid. That child never stops crying. The other woman is intolerable. She always was a horrible moth...Oh!" She cried out when Michael accidentally stuck a hairpin in a little too forcefully.
"Forgive me," he said.
"I remember when her son was young," Nora continued as she dusted blush on her cheeks. "Never paid him the slightest attention. Such a sweet boy, too. Is he still here?" She picked up a tube of lipstick. "I feel as if I haven't seen him…"
"Not that one," Michael said, eager to put a stop to the current topic of conversation. Nora paused, the lipstick an inch from her lips. "This one is my favorite." He picked up another color. "It has been for quite some time."
Nora read the sticker on the bottom. "Ravish Me Red. Well, that is hardly decent."
"Allow me," Michael said firmly. He knelt in front of Nora and began applying the bright red color to her pale lips.
"There," he said when he finished. "It suits you." Nora smiled, but some hesitation remained. "I have something for you, a gift." He knew those words were all it would take to regain the sparkle in her eyes.
Michael withdrew a jewelry box from inside his velvet jacket and opened it. Nora gasped, her eyes wide.
"They're real," Michael said before Nora had a chance to ask. "I have always believed rubies to be the most glamorous of all." Nora's hand shook as she picked up one of the earrings and held it up to examine it. Eight rubies dangled from the hook like drops of glittering blood. "Do you like them? I must admit, they were not easy to find. But I knew that such beauty should not be destroyed." He would not tell her how he knew of their existence or the morbid story of how they were passed from their original owner to a sadistic, yet pathetically weak-willed doctor.
"I love them," Nora whispered and quickly fixed one and then the other to her ears.
"They bring out the roses in your cheeks," Michael said.
He could barely take his eyes off her all evening. The earrings caught the light of the fire as they sat in the living room and her lips stood out, stark against her snowy skin. In that moment, he felt confident and secure in a way he never had before. He had a mother who loved him and he had made her a queen.
"Martha," Michael said to the Gray who stood nearby, ready to refill his wine glass at any moment. "Find Constance Langdon. Tell her I wish to meet with her tomorrow. Nine o'clock, sharp."
Even with his newfound self-assurance, Michael stayed up all night devising exactly what he would say to his grandmother and agonized over every word.
But when he walked into the office the next morning, it was not Constance, but Tate who paced anxiously around the room.
"I don't recall inviting you," Michael drawled, trying to sound as uninterested as possible. "Where is mommy dearest?"
"She doesn't want to talk to you," Tate said. His tone was confident, rehearsed even, but the way he fiddled with the ring on his thumb and looked anywhere but at Michael betrayed his fear.
"I'm surprised," Michael said. "Not that she doesn't want to talk to me - she made it perfectly clear she would rather die than speak to me again - but I thought her instinct for self preservation would be stronger." Tate's eyes flicked to Michael and away before he swallowed hard. "I suppose you have all figured out what happened to Patrick and Maria by now. That is why you are here, isn't it? Come to ask me to spare her life? Why? I thought you hated her."
"People change," Tate said.
"Do they?" Michael asked, letting the question float between them for an uncomfortable moment. "Ben doesn't think so. And of course, there was that unfortunate incident with my servant the other day. Doesn't seem like you have changed much at all." Michael noticed Tate's jaw clench and his nostrils flare. "But, since you are here, we may as well have a little chat. Have a seat." Tate looked from Michael to the door and shuffled uncomfortably for a moment.
"Ok," he said finally and sat on the sofa, running his hands nervously over his jeans. It felt strange to see Tate look so nervous, frightened, even. Stranger still was the way Michael used to be intimidated by the boy he sat across from. The same boy who had rejected and banished him the way he could banish a common spirit.
"This probably feels quite familiar to you, doesn't it, Tate? All your hundreds of sessions with Ben. Tell me, have they amounted to anything?"
"Yeah," Tate said.
"They have?" Michael prodded. "How?"
Tate chewed his lip in silence, a hint of insolence in his eyes.
It was remarkable how much more connected Michael felt to Tate than to any other spirit in the house. More than any other soul, living or deceased, he had ever come across. Unlike his dealings with others, Michael didn't have to guess anything about Tate's tragic background. He understood Tate's past rage, confusion and desires with uncanny clarity, more than Tate understood it himself.
They had much in common and there was just as much that Michael had learned since they had last seen each other, much he could teach the boy who looked more like a younger brother than his dad.
"Your silence hasn't convinced me," Michael said. "Not that I blame you. Ben probably needs the help of a therapist more than anyone else here."
"He's helped me a lot," Tate said. Michael leaned lazily back in his chair and pressed his fingers to his temple. He nodded for Tate to continue, who exhaled nervously before doing so. "Yeah, he helped me work out stuff with my mom and all the crazy shit in my brain. The visions, well, memories I guess, of all the stuff I did, all the people I hurt. He helped me face it instead of just...repressing it all."
"And that has brought you peace?" Michael asked. "These people, they have forgiven you?" Tate squirmed a little in his seat.
"Some of them," he said.
"But not all of them. Not, what is his name, Phil? The poor man still doesn't seem to even realize he is dead. Chad seems doomed to only forgive one person over and over again. Well, not anymore. But Patrick gave no indication of extending you any mercy before I destroyed him." The last bit was the only lie of the bunch. Michael had a suspicion that it was Tate who Patrick was rushing off to speak with in the middle of their interview.
"Certainly not Ben," Michael continued. "He doesn't seem to be the forgiving type. Yet you seek it anyway. Why is that? I can't help but wonder what it is you are hoping to gain. The father you never had, perhaps?"
"I'm not hoping to gain anything," Tate said. "I had to take responsibility for what I did and I have."
"Have you?" Michael asked. "And doing so is what made Vivien forgive you? And Violet?"
Tate glared, silently accusing Michael for the power his father had exerted over him years ago. "No," Tate managed to say through a clenched jaw. Michael chuckled.
"No," he echoed. "They think you were under some sort of demonic influence, don't they? That doesn't really count as forgiveness does it? Who told them? Was it Cordelia?" He hated even saying her name and spat it out like it was poison. "Perhaps one of her minions? I know they were here. I could smell their paltry magic on Violet. Some spell, I presume?"
As he said it, he realized there was some of that same odor lingering around Tate. He couldn't sense what it was exactly, almost as if there was something blocking his natural clairvoyance. There was something around Tate's neck, Michael noticed for a mere moment before instantly forgetting about it all together.
"You don't really believe them, do you?" Michael asked.
"I believe Violet," Tate said. "And Vivien knew way before Madi...I mean, before Violet found out."
"But what does that mean?" Michael uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "If you weren't in control, what does that say about you? Are you telling me that you didn't care about Nora? That her heart wrenching desire for a child meant nothing to you? What about Beauregard? His death did not cause you great distress that stirred you to avenge his death?"
Tate's forehead creased with uncertainty and he looked away.
"And then, of course, there is Violet," Michael said, causing Tate's eyes to snap back to his. "You killed people, not just to try to save her life, but to keep her from even learning the truth about her demise. You wanted to protect her from the same torture and bewilderment you went through after you learned you were dead. Your love for her was blinding, if misguided. What is the saying? You loved her, not wisely, but too well. Though, I suppose, if it wasn't you who did those things, then maybe you didn't love her so very much after all."
"I did love her, I do," Tate said. "But those things I did, even if I did do them for her, or Nora...it doesn't make them right."
Michael rolled his eyes and slumped back. "Did Ben tell you that? Or was it Constance? She certainly has a habit of being a hypocritical bitch. Right and wrong." He laughed scornfully. "Do you honestly still believe there is any such thing? Tell me, Tate, aren't you tired of being so sorry all the time?"
"Of course I am," Tate said. "If there was any way I could go back and…"
"That's not what I mean," Michael interrupted. "I used to be like you. Always apologizing, always feeling as if there was something wrong with me. But then I realized, it was Constance who made me feel that way. And then it was Ben. It wasn't until I met a woman who accepted me for who I was that I realized how much time I wasted feeling guilty.
"I destroyed the world for that woman," Michael said, allowing the tears that had formed in his eyes to slip down his face. He was not ashamed of them, they were yet another testament to his great love for Ms. Meade. "I accepted my true nature, just as you can, Tate, just as you did when you were alive."
Tate tilted his head away, his mouth gaping open slightly and his nose wrinkled in what looked like disgust.
"I used to admire you, did you know that?" Michael asked as he brushed the wetness from his cheeks. "I wanted to be just like you. It was the way you carried out your part of my father's plan with such exuberance. It was Hayden who told me. Well, she filled in what I wasn't able to gather by listening in on your sessions with Ben. I idolized you even before I knew your relation to me. Sometimes, I would imagine what it must have been like to take so many lives in the space of only fifteen minutes, the power you must have felt…"
"Stop," Tate said, his shoulders drooping. "Please, don't…"
"There it is again," Michael said. "Guilt. How can I make you understand? What you did was part of a noble plan. You said it once yourself." Tate squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands.
"Let go of your guilt, Tate," Michael continued. "I can free you from it, and this prison. You may not be my father, but you played an important role in all of this. We are part of a trinity of sorts, an unholy trinity, I suppose you could call it. My father, his son, and you, a spirit. You and I will be rewarded in his kingdom that we will help create."
Tate's curved back shuddered. At first Michael thought he was still crying, but quickly realized with dismay that he was laughing. Tate looked up at him, his eyes still misty.
"You're fucking insane," Tate said. Michael looked down at him, making his face a mask. "You think your father cares about you? He doesn't. You're just a tool, like I was. He used me and when he didn't need me anymore, he threw me away. Just like he will do to you, Michael. I promise."
Any last hope Michael had to connect with Tate vanished. If Michael had not had the same doubts about his father, Tate's words would not have provoked him. As it was, Michael had to resist the urge to throttle Tate right there. He wanted to make him suffer, to strangle the life out of him. It was a shame he was already dead.
But there were other ways to make him hurt. Michael smiled and tossed his hair over his shoulder.
"Is that what you think?" Michael asked. "I am sorry to disappoint you. You see, the difference between you and me is that in my father's eyes, I am a Purple. And as for you, well..." He paused and licked his lips. "You're just a Gray."
"I prefer green, actually," Tate said and stood. "Are we done here?" He started walking to the door. Michael didn't turn around to see how far he got before he spoke again.
"Do you know why my father chose you?" Michael said, brushing a lazy finger over his lips. Tate's footsteps stopped. "I know you must wonder. It's not just that you are weak, you always have been, ever since you were a child. But it was what was already inside you that made you such a valuable asset. It was your narcissism and astonishing proclivity for violence. My father barely had to nudge you in the right direction and you destroyed everything that stood in your path. You may have been influenced, manipulated, or whatever you want to call it, but you made the final decision. You were in control when you made the choice to rape my mother."
When Tate didn't respond, Michael stood and walked over to him. The way Tate eyed him gingerly, like a wounded animal, told Michael he had hit a nerve.
"Do you wish to tell Violet?" Michael asked, stepping closer. "Or shall I?
"She trusts me," Tate said. "The witches showed her…"
"They only showed Violet what they wanted her to see," Michael said. "But you and I both know there is more to it than that. Do you think she will still forgive you when she sees the whole ghastly story? Witches aren't the only ones who can cast spells that show the truth."
"Shut up," Tate said.
"It's funny," Michael continued, "with all the time I have spent watching the other spirits in this house, studying them to understand what will break them, I don't even have to guess at what your greatest fears are, or your greatest shame. You are afraid that this charade of a family you have created will learn you truly are a monster after all. You are afraid they will abandon you, the same way they abandoned me."
"I said shut up," Tate said as he attempted to swallow back tears.
"And as for your shame, well, that's easy. It's me, isn't it?"
Being so close to Tate caused Michael to remember the magical odor that clung to him. Michael sniffed and looked Tate up and down. At first his eyes passed right over the thing that hung from the boy's neck. It must have fallen out of his sweater when he had leaned forward on the couch. Even so, it took great effort for Michael's eyes to focus on whatever it was.
A glamour had been placed on the object, Michael realized. Not just any glamour. It was powerful and meant only for him. Cordelia must have cast the spell herself.
"What is this?" Michael asked as he took the thing in his hand. As soon as he had, it solidified and he could make out the details of what looked like an intricately designed pocket watch.
"It's nothing." Tate said. He pulled away and tucked the watch back under his sweater. "Just a stupid thing I found in the basement." He turned to leave but Michael summoned the black latex demon to block the door. Michael was never one to get his hands dirty and he had a feeling things were about to get messy.
The demon immediately shoved Tate against a wall and ripped the watch free to hand to his master. Michael decided to watch Tate struggle a bit before examining whatever it was. The boy was clearly trying to use his ghostly abilities to vanish, but the demon had a supernatural control over him which left Tate desperately trying to wrench himself free.
The watch was clearly protected with several more enchantments, it even stung Michael's hand slightly as he turned it over. One side was decorated with a V wrapped in elegantly swirling vines. He guessed that it was an heirloom of some sort, passed down through a wealthy family.
There was latch release, but pressing it did nothing. Michael tried to pry it open with his fingernails before realizing it had been locked with magic. He tried a few counterspells, but nothing worked.
"A witch gave this to you," Michael said as he stood next to the demon. "Why?"
"She said it would protect me," Tate gasped, tugging helplessly at the demon's forearm the pinned him to the wall. "Obviously it doesn't work."
"If that is all it is," Michael said, "open it for me."
"I don't know how," Tate said.
"Don't lie," Michael said. "I am not sure you quite understand how precarious your situation is at the present." He nodded at the demon who released Tate for a mere moment before wrapping its hand around the ghost's neck. "All I need to do is think it, and you will be reduced to ash. So tell me, what does it do? Why has it been so carefully enchanted to keep me from being able to open it?"
"You'll have to ask Cordelia," Tate managed to say.
"Hmm," Michael said with a smile. "But I can't. She's dead."
"Then I guess we'll never know."
"Then you are of no further use to me." Tate's eyes widened as Michael curled his fists.
A gentle touch on Michael's shoulder stopped him from going any further.
"You musn't," Nora said, turning him to face her.
"Nora," Michael said in surprise. He wavered between being unsure of what to say to convince her that what he was doing was justified, and dismayed that she was asking him to spare Tate's afterlife at all.
"Please," Nora said. "For me."
"You don't understand…"
"I do," she said. Her eyes glistened, yet Michael had never seen her look so determined and sure of herself. "But you said it yourself. You would have never been born if it wasn't for my desire to have a child. Tate is the one who brought us together." She tenderly pushed a tendril of Michael's hair behind his ear. The gesture was enough to convince him.
The demon released Tate and the boy sank to the ground, gasping.
Nora immediately abandoned Michael to help Tate to his feet.
"There," Nora said as she stroked the boy's hair. "Didn't I promise I would protect you?"
Her voice betrayed none of the hesitancy or fear that always lingered when she spoke to Michael. There was only compassion and something that sounded irritatingly like love.
"Nora…" Tate began. Michael suspected the two ghosts were about to embrace which was something he knew he could not stand. Destroying both of them crossed his mind, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing Nora. Still, he needed Tate out of the way.
Michael waved his hand and Tate vanished.
"What did you do to him?" Nora asked.
"No need to fret," Michael said. He made an attempt to hide his true feelings, but was unable to keep the disdain he felt out of his voice. "Unless you don't trust me. I would never harm anyone if you do not wish it."
"Then where is he?" Nora asked, not calmed in the slightest by his words.
"He is perfectly safe. I merely granted him the wish that all the spirits in this house share and cut him free from the invisible chains that bound him to this house. I wouldn't worry, if he truly cares for you, I am sure he will find his way back."
"Oh," Nora said. "Yes, I am sure he will come back. If not for me, then for that girl…" She laid a trembling hand on her heart and wandered out of the room. Michael watched her go, his own hands trembling.
The suspicion that he had been wrong about Nora clawed at the back of his mind. He couldn't understand why she still cared about Tate at all, not after he had gone back on his promise to give her his child. Michael had given her so much, yet she still withheld her love from him. It was this confusion that convinced him not to give up on Nora. It was clear she still did not comprehend what his love would do for her.
Constance had never understood either. He supposed he would face her soon, once she figured out her son was missing and came looking for him.
He didn't have to wait long before someone did.
"Where is he?" Violet asked as she walked into her old bedroom without knocking.
Michael set his hairbrush down and stood to welcome her. He was in the middle of his evening beauty routine and all he wore was a silk robe tied loosely around his waist and the enchanted pocket watch around his neck. After focusing on breaking the numerous spells that protected it all afternoon, the silver no longer irritated him, though he was still unable to break it open.
"Who?"
"You know who I mean," Violet said. If she had any fear, it was hidden behind determination. She was dressed simply, as she usually was, her slim figure masked by a loose sweater and baggy dress. There was nothing particularly striking about her, no reason for him to find her especially attractive. But the way she stared him down, with her arms crossed, enticed him.
She was brave, he thought, but also delicate. His father may have needed that bravery to help build his new world, but Michael wanted to possess her delicacy for himself. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to crush or protect it.
"Surely you aren't referring to the boy who raped your mother," Michael said. "Why should you care?"
"I'm not going to play your bullshit mind games, Michael. Just tell me where he is."
"His absence from the house has little to do with me," Michael said. "I merely freed his spirit."
"You're lying. He wouldn't leave without me."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because he knows it would hurt me."
"And he has never hurt you before?"
Violet paused a moment before answering. "Not intentionally."
"Hmm." Michael pulled the desk chair in front of an armchair and sat, gesturing for Violet to sit across from him. She blatantly refused by cocking her head so that her satiny hair fell over her shoulder.
"I will tell you where he is," Michael said, "but only if you sit and talk with me for a while."
Violet held her defiant pose for a moment more before shuffling uncomfortably in the same way Tate had done just hours earlier.
"Fine," she said and sat by practically throwing herself back into the armchair, her expression still fixed. "Just get to the point, ok?"
"What makes you think there is a point?" Michael asked. "Maybe I just want to talk to my big sister. We never had much of a chance to get to know each other before our mother tried to kill me."
"You didn't give her much of a choice," Violet said. "She wanted to protect her family."
"Am I not family?" Michael asked. Violet lifted her eyebrows and gave him the sort of exasperated look one would give a petulant child. With a sigh, Michael turned back to the desk and picked up a small vial filled with glittering black dust. "I heard of the little spell the witches cast. I'm disappointed in you, Violet. I thought you were smart enough to not be so easily beguiled."
"It wasn't like that," Violet said, eying the vial warily.
"No?" Michael rolling it between his fingers. "I'm curious then, what was it like?"
"It's hard to explain."
"I think it would be in your best interest to try."
Violet let out an exasperated sigh before continuing. "It didn't show me anything new, I guess. It just sort of clarified memories. Like, I was able to notice things I hadn't before. That's how I realized Tate saved my mom. From you."
"And one good deed is enough to make up for an entire lifetime of evil?"
"Maybe not," Violet said, looking suddenly pensive. "But I also saw Tate. Ever since the first day I met him, he was surrounded by this...shadow. I don't know how I never noticed it before. When I looked up and saw him again after the spell, I realized it was gone, and that it had been since the night my mom died. It was just...him."
"What does that prove?" Michael asked.
"It proves that it wasn't really Tate who did those things," Violet said. "He didn't have a choice." Michael smiled, breathing in her certainty that was built on false assumptions. Turning her against Tate would be easier than he thought.
"What a sweet thought," Michael said. "It certainly makes it easier to rationalize your continued infatuation with him. Whatever helps alleviate your own guilt, I suppose."
Violet rolled her eyes. "What guilt? Even if that witch hadn't shown me anything, I would have figured it out eventually. This house has made everyone go batshit. My dad nearly lost his mind. Hell, even Chad was planning on murdering you and Jeffrey. Tate didn't have a chance."
"No, he isn't nearly as strong as you are, is he?"
"Why do you care what I think about him?" Violet asked. "Why did you come back here anyway? You already destroyed the world. We're dead. Why can't you just leave us alone?"
Michael pressed his lips together and refrained from swallowing the ache in his throat that came with her comment.
"I came back," Michael said softly, "for you."
Violet twitched her head back, her eyebrows knit together.
"You can't be that surprised," Michael said, looking away from her for a moment to set the vial back down. He hoped doing so would calm some of her aversion to him. "Didn't I promise I would come back for you? I want to help you, Violet. I want you to be happy and free." She narrowed her eyes.
"What makes you think I'm not happy?" she asked after a moment.
"There is no possible way a girl as remarkable as you could be content living the same endless routine day after day. Not with all you could have been if you had lived."
"Not a lot I can do now, seeing as everything worth living for outside this house is gone."
"That is why I need you." Michael could not contain his enthusiasm and leaned forward. Violet withdrew further into her chair in response. Perhaps she was more afraid than she was letting on. "I need you to help me rebuild what was destroyed-"
"What you destroyed," Violet interrupted.
Michael suppressed a proud smile. "Indeed. But I did it with reason. If you come with me, you can help shape it into a utopia. Yours is the sort of mind I need. You were always an outsider, a free thinker. Whatever you want the world to be will be made so. No more war or pain, only peace. We can make sure of it. You will rule by my side in splendor, not just for the span of a mortal life, but for eternity."
"Sounds like bullshit," Violet said. "I'm not going with you. None of us are. We all decided it would be better to stay here than live in any world you had a hand in creating." She crossed her arms and glared at him, her mouth set with a resolved smirk.
"Is that so?" Michael picked up the vial again. "You would rather stay here and watch your parents slowly lose their minds just as Charles Montgomery did? See them fight and despise each other? Perhaps your father will return to Hayden. Maybe your mother will grow weary of your little brother. Will you take care of him? As for your boyfriend, well, even if he was who you think he is, eventually you will come to resent him for what he did."
Michael uncorked the vial and blew across the top of it, sending black dust into Violet's eyes. It was only a slight variation of the truth spell the coven had used, though much more potent. Instead of merely clarifying events Violet had already seen, Michael was able to show her things that had happened before she was even born. But only the simple truth. Michael had a feeling she would be able to see through any attempts at deception.
"I wonder," Michael said as he showed her Tate walking into Westfield, heavily armed. "If you had been one of his peers, would he have spared your life? Or would you have been gunned down with the rest of them?"
Michael made sure she saw Tate's hesitation during the critical moments before he fired.
"Do you still think he had no choice?" Michael asked. "He once said he killed kids he liked, claimed he was trying to save them by taking them away from the grime and the hurt that comes with living. It seems to me that he knew exactly what he was doing."
Violet shook her head. Her attempts to remain stoic proved futile as she flinched away from what Michael forced her to see.
"He couldn't even remember what he had done," Violet said. "It wasn't him."
"Couldn't remember?" Michael said. "Or simply couldn't face?"
Violet didn't say a word but hunched over and drove the palms of her hands into her eyes as if she could shut out the visions of carnage.
"And then, of course, there was this particularly fateful night," Michael said. Violet looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused as they stared, not at him, but at a reflection in a mirror. The reflection was not hers. It showed Tate as he pulled off a black latex mask and stared back at her, his expression vacillating between a sort of manic determination and wretched abhorrence at what he had just done.
Michael tried to make Violet's mind move on from the vision, but to his surprise, she resisted and they both watched as Tate opened the cabinet to find the razorblades Violet had stolen from her dad. Violet followed him to the attic where he began to strip off the suit as if he couldn't get out of it fast enough.
When he was finally free, he immediately began to slice into his skin, ignoring Beauregard's confused howls. The wounds did not last, but when they had disappeared, Tate seemed calmer. His face was blank as he hid the suit, put on his normal clothes and sat in a corner of the attic with his legs pulled up to his chest and his hands tugging at his hair.
Beauregard continued trying to get his brother to look at him by rolling his ball against Tate's tennis shoes.
"I don't even know what is real anymore, Beau," Tate said, propping his chin on his knee. "Do you still get nightmares?" Beau tilted his head. "Of course you don't. You wouldn't even be able to imagine the shit my fucked up mind dreams up." Tate rolled the ball back and forth to his brother for a few minutes.
Michael jerked at Violet's consciousness more forcefully. This was not what he had intended her to see. He began to panic when she pulled right back and remained with Tate in the attic.
"Mom wants me to talk to the psychiatrist who just moved in," Tate continued to Beauregard. "She never wanted me to do that when I was still alive. I don't even think he can help. He's an asshole. You should have heard the stuff Violet said he did."
"Violet," Beauregard repeated eagerly.
"Yeah," Tate said with a smile. "I like her too." Violet smiled back. Michael's hope that she would ever smile at him the same way was unraveling fast.
"I think your shitty spell backfired," Violet said.
"Hardly," Michael said and suddenly Violet was staring at her own body curled into a lifeless bundle on her bed.
"Vi?" Tate opened her bedroom door and peered in. "Are you asleep?" He walked in quietly, looking from the bed to the chalkboard where he had scrawled "I LOVE YOU." Chewing on his lip, he tugged his shirtsleeve over his hand and quickly erased the words. He stood back with a sigh before turning to look at his girlfriend. His forehead creased when he noticed the pill bottle which he picked up and read.
"Fuck," Tate whispered. He threw the bottle aside and started to shake Violet while calling out her name. "Please wake up, Violet. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. Just wake up, okay?" When she didn't respond, he ran into the hall.
"Dr. Harmon!" He screamed as he stumbled down the stairs and darted in and out of rooms. "Ben? Vivien?"
"They're out." Moira appeared out of nowhere. "Do you want them to know you're here? I hardly think Dr. Harmon will be pleased."
"It's Violet," Tate said desperately. "She took these pills...all of them. You have to help me."
"Hmm," Moira said. "I'm not surprised. She always seemed like a weak little thing to me. Didn't stand a chance in this house."
"No," Tate said. "She's not going to die. I won't let her."
Tate vanished and reappeared in Violet's room. He found her cellphone and frantically dialed 911.
"Hello?" he said. "It's my girlfriend, she took too many pills...hello? Can you hear me? Hello?"
"Ghosts can't call outside of the house," Moira said. "I've tried. Poor girl. I suppose I will have to be the one to tell madame when she returns.
"I never understood," Michael said as Violet watched Tate drag her body off the bed and into the hall, "if he loved you so much, why did he try to save your life? Dying meant you would stay together, forever. Why would he risk you growing up, leaving the house and living a life without him?" Michael waved his hand to clear Violet's vision and sat back in his chair, completely sure she would be out of snarky responses.
"You really are evil, aren't you?" Violet said. "Like, Voldemort and Sauron evil. Do you really not get it, or are you just out of tricks?"
Michael scowled, irritated that both were true.
"I did what you asked. Are you going to tell me where Tate is now?" Violet asked. "Or do you have another home movie for me to watch?"
"Tate is where he has always been," Michael said. Maybe he wasn't completely out of tricks. "Just a few miles away, six feet under the ground."
"And his soul?" Violet snapped.
"I told you judgment day had come," Michael said. "I did what was foretold. I reunited his soul with his flesh."
Recognition of what he had truly done dawned slowly on Violet's face and she gaped at him.
"Bring him back," she demanded, though her voice shook slightly.
"Why?" Michael said. "It is more than he deserves and you haven't given me any reason to do you any favors."
"Please," Violet said. "I can't leave him there."
"It doesn't seem like you are in a position to decide."
"What do you want me to do?" She said it with calm determination and Michael believed she was willing to do whatever he asked. It gave him pause as he contemplated what exactly she could do for him. The first thing that came to his mind was asking her to convince Constance to speak with him, but it felt too easy a task and unworthy of the reward she was asking for.
"It's simple." Michael said. "Come with me when I leave here with Nora." Violet took a moment before answering, but her face remained impassive.
"Ok."
Michael studied her as he considered her response. He was not pleased that it took a threat to convince her to join him. What pleased him even less was that she had been persuaded by nothing more than her desire to save Tate. Instead of a glorious gift, she saw it as a noble sacrifice. It was mawkish and nauseating, like one of the novels he had read in Violet's bedroom.
"Very well," Michael said, making up his mind. Tate appeared on the floor between them with a simple snap. He was lying on his side with his legs tucked in as close as a casket would have allowed and his arms covering his face.
"Tate," Violet said as she slipped off the chair and onto the ground next to him. He pulled an arm away cautiously to look at her before quickly scrambling to his knees and squeezing her into a hug.
"I thought I was never going to see you again," he mumbled into her shoulder. "How did you find me?"
"She didn't." Michael said. Tate turned, but kept his hold on Violet. "I brought you back."
"Why?" Tate asked. Michael looked at Violet and waited for her to explain.
"I'm going with him, Tate," Violet said as she gently touched his cheek to make him look at her. He winced in confusion, but didn't protest. "I couldn't let him just leave you there, under the ground, alone…" For the first time since Michael had returned to the house, Violet's voice was thick as she tried to keep from crying. "I love you, Tate. I'll come back, I promise."
Her vow appeared to have the opposite effect than she had intended. Tate grimaced as he hugged her again, his eyes wide and distressed.
Michael stood abruptly which caused both teenagers to flinch. Violet helped Tate to stand, his legs apparently weak from the few hours he had spent trapped in his coffin.
"When?" Tate asked Michael.
"When what?" Michael asked, faking confusion.
"When are we going?" Violet asked.
"You're not going anywhere," Michael said. He turned away from both of them, his hands behind his back. "I'm afraid I have changed my mind. You have proven such a disappointment to me, Violet. Even my own sister has rejected me, if not in word, than in your heart. I suppose it is not a great loss. You may pretend to be brave, but you are as weak as the rest. Weaker, even. Choosing the coward's way out by taking your own life…"
"Don't talk to her like that," Tate said.
"Some would say you were the one who drove her to it," Michael said. "You were quite right, it is your fault she is stuck here. And so is this."
Michael clenched his fists, not even bothering to turn around. He didn't have to see to know what was happening. He heard Violet shriek in agony, followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the ground. It all played out as it had the night Michael had tried to destroy Vivien. But this time, Tate would be unsuccessful.
Tate did not give up easily. When Michael finally turned around, the ghost was still desperately trying to put out the infernal flames that devoured Violet, even as his own shirt began to catch fire.
He was willing to be cremated alongside her, Michael realized with disgust. Maybe the two star crossed lovers deserved each other after all. But Michael couldn't allow them to perish together. It somehow felt like a defeat, like they were showing him something he could never have one last time.
The black latex demon appeared, seized Tate around the middle and lifted him off Violet.
"Let go!" Tate screamed as he kicked and writhed. "Let go of me! Violet!"
Only a few seconds later, she was gone. Not even a single ash remained as evidence that she had ever existed at all.
The demon threw Tate on the ground and quickly covered him with a blanket to make sure the flames were out. Tate threw the blanket aside and got to his feet, letting out a cry of pain as he involuntarily pulled his damaged arms close to his body. They were blistered and bloody, but that didn't stop him from running at Michael.
"Bring her back!" he yelled. Michael transmuted easily to the other side of the room and Tate crashed into a wall.
"I can't," Michael said. The weight of his own words dropped suddenly into the pit of his stomach and Michael realized destroying Violet had solved nothing. If anything, he felt more dismayed than ever.
"You have to," Tate tried to stand again but his arms were shaking so violently that he fell back. "Please, Michael…"
"She's gone," Michael said more forcefully to hide his own grief.
"Michael?" It was Ben. He walked into the room and looked around with fake confidence. "What the hell has been going on in here?" His eyes fell on Tate. "What happened? Where's Violet?"
Tate could do nothing but stare at Ben in horror, his mouth forming silent words.
"Tate? Where's Violet?" Ben repeated, his voice breaking. He looked back to Michael for the answer.
"I am afraid her cooperation was...unsatisfactory."
Ben shook his head wordlessly before his legs gave way beneath him and he sunk to the ground.
Tate managed to move toward Ben in a sort of half crawl. "Dr. Harmon?" he said. "Ben? It's ok. It's going to be ok."
"How is this ok?" Ben asked. "She's gone. Oh my God, she's gone. She's really gone."
As they always did, more ghosts flooded into the room to find the source of the screams they had heard. Nora, Hayden and Beauregard were the first to arrive, followed by Constance.
Michael was so distracted by his grandmother's presence that he didn't notice Beauregard until he had been knocked to the ground.
"Michael!' Beau howled as he held Michael down. Embarrassed, Michael shoved him off and got to his feet. He brushed himself off as if he had been attacked by a dog and looked around to see what he had missed.
Nora was standing apart from the others, her hands covering her mouth in shock, while Hayden was trying to convince Ben to get up.
"Come on, Ben," she said. "We need to get you out of here. "Let's find Vivien, ok?"
"I can't tell her. How can I tell her?" Ben muttered, but allowed himself to be led out of the room.
Constance was on the floor with Tate, her arms wrapped around him as he convulsed with sobs. When she saw Michael looking at them, she gently pulled away, walked directly to Michael, and slapped him.
"Get out of my house," she said.
Michael glared at her. He wanted to hate her the way he hated Cordelia. It had all been her fault, afterall. Being adopted by Ms. Meade, attending Hawthorne School, the apocalypse, none of it would have happened if his grandmother had not kicked him out of her house. And there she was, doing it again, without a hint of remorse.
But he couldn't bring himself to destroy her. Not after he had just lost Violet.
His gaze flicked away, which was all Constance needed to turn back to her son.
"Nora," Michael said, holding out his hand to her. "I believe we have outstayed our welcome. We leave tonight."
She stared at his outstretched hand, motionless.
"Don't go with him," Tate said.
"I think that I must," she said with a sad smile and took Michael's hand.
Once Constance and Tate had left, Michael never saw another spirit while he remained in the house. They stayed hidden away as Martha packed up all the necessities for the long journey ahead.
A carriage for Michael and Nora arrived at midnight. Michael promised Martha a second mode of transportation would follow for her, but knew no such thing would happen. The Gray would live until the food was gone and then join the rest of the inhabitants of the house when her body expired.
As the carriage pulled away, Michael couldn't help but look back in the hopes that someone would be watching him leave. What he saw made him shudder with a premonition of eerie quietus.
The house looked completely vacant, except for one window where a little girl with blonde hair and empty eye sockets watched the carriage vanish from sight.