Chapter Thirty-Four: Halloween, 2016
I guess I've mostly gotten used to being a permanent resident of the L.A. Murder House. I don't really have a choice anymore, though, do I?
It's been a few months now. Even though I miss my family terribly, it's not all terrible. I do have my Tate and of course Nora. Elizabeth has become a really good friend of mine—she even let me see her death wounds, which I guess is kind of like a sign of friendship here.
I'll admit I was morbidly curious, because of course I'd seen the grainy black and white photos of the Black Dahlia murder, but here she was. The actual Elizabeth Short, and my curiosity got the better of me so that I wanted to know.
The man who killed her may have been a surgeon, but none of his knife work was kind to Elizabeth.
Nora has shown me hers, too: a gaping, bloody hole in the midst of her pretty blonde curls. She told me that she had put the barrel of the gun in her mouth before pulling the trigger. There was no entrance would like in my own head, but the exit wound in the back of hers is huge.
I'd seen Tate's before, but he showed them to me again. Such clean holes—the bullets moved so fast that there's hardly any blood on the outside, just little rivulets. It's obvious most of the damage was internal.
It took a whole month until I would allow my own to show back to me in my mirror reflection.
On my right temple is a small hole ringed in blood, with a burn around the circumference because the barrel of the gun was pressed flush with my skin. The trajectory of the bullet didn't send it in a completely straight line. I'm not sure if that's just how guns work or if I moved. I can't remember. But on the left side of my head is a much bigger hole. If I part my hair just so and angle my head just right, I can see into my own skull through the exit wound.
It didn't really make me feel sad to look at it. I didn't really feel anything. It was just like a fact of life, something I'd have to deal with now. But I—and everyone else—can only see it if I want them to, so that makes it a little easier to live with.
I think that being here hasn't been so bad because I'm one of the very few who can get a reprieve from the house when I want it. I'm convinced that how far you can wander from the house has to do with how much Nora likes you. It is her house after all. Tate and I can go for about six blocks in any direction, and stay there for a couple of hours.
We can't reveal ourselves, though. My face was plastered everywhere after I died. News stories ran for a solid two months, which is an eternity in today's media. Tate and I watched them at Constance's house, while Michael pointed excitedly at the TV.
"Callie, that you!" he would babble.
The police were confused by the evidence, or lack thereof. They couldn't find any DNA evidence—no fingerprints, no skin cells, no hairs. All they had to go on was a make and model of the gun used, which they were able to figure out from residue left on my skin and examining my wounds, and fibers from a black pair of gloves that they just couldn't find.
They did question Tate and Constance, but neither were able to provide information because they both had excellent alibis. Tate really put a lot of thought into it all and made sure to have all of his bases covered.
My family never returned to the house. They didn't even take any of the furniture or anything, so the house is still fully furnished. The only things the movers collected for my family was their personal items and valuables.
The house even still has electricity and running water, but that's only because my death has greatly increased the appeal of the Murder House again and the state of California decided to foot the bill for preserving the house until someone else is brave enough to move in.
So far, thankfully, that hasn't happened yet.
The house has only had one living visitor in months. Lacey.
She braved it to break in one sunny day, tears streaming down her face, to come up to my bedroom and leave a parting gift. It was her Naked palette, which I'd always envied but could never justify spending that much on makeup.
It was such a Lacey move that I laughed despite myself, a little too loud. Just loud enough that Lacey actually heard me, I think. She suddenly stopped crying and looked around the room before smiling just a little bit.
She ran out of the house, and I don't blame her.
For all the relative freedom the house allows me, it hasn't let me be able to do the one thing I've very much wanted: See my family.
But today is Halloween. Which means from sunset to sunrise, I can go anywhere I want.
"Are you ready?" Tate's voice comes from behind me. I've been watching the sunset from my bedroom window. The cleaners sent to the house weren't quite able to get all of my blood out of the apple green walls. There's still a faint stain that Moira would really like to clean, but she can't. That might reveal us.
"I guess so," I say with a sigh. I feel Tate's hands on my bare shoulders, giving the crown of my head a kiss. I don't know why, but I felt like I should look nice for tonight. Even though the night is too cool for it, I'm wearing a sundress. It's not like I can feel the cold, anyway.
"Let's go." Thankfully, my parents told Constance their new address. It's a few towns over, but it won't be that hard to get there on a bus. Even though it's Halloween and we can roam like the living, we still don't have to be seen unless we want to be seen.
And believe me, we don't. I would get recognized in an instance even if Tate's face and name have already melted into oblivion.
We easily get on a bus that will go to my family's new town. I lay my head on Tate's shoulder and close my eyes. I don't really sleep, but I keep them closed anyway. I try to give myself a pep talk in my head. You can do this. You're fine. Tate is with you. You'll be okay.
I wish Nora would have gone with us, but she doesn't leave the house. Not ever.
It only takes us a little over an hour to get there. The new house isn't nearly as big as the Murder House, but they're a family of three now rather than four. They don't need as much space, I suppose.
There are lights on inside the house, but the porch light is off. A note is tacked to the door: Please, no trick-or-treaters. This family is in mourning.
That is enough to send an icy knife into my chest. Mom loves trick-or-treaters.
I am fully corporeal for the night, so I can't go into the house without alerting anyone. I have to appease myself with gazing through the windows.
I'm sure if we still had blood flow, how tightly I'm holding Tate's hand would have stopped his by now.
My parents are in the living room together. The TV is facing away from us, so I can't tell what's on it, but it's clear from Dad's expression that he isn't watching it anyway.
Mom is curled up beside him, tucked under his arm. She is staring at rather than reading her book. They look like anchors for each other, like they would both float away if they aren't connected to each other.
It takes me a little while to find Rhett's new bedroom. I couldn't figure it out at first because his bedroom light isn't on—it's completely dark inside.
Tate has to give me a bit of a boost so I can press my face against the window and see into it better.
Through the darkness, I can make out my brother. He's grown even in these few months. It doesn't look like he's had a haircut in a while; his strawberry blonde hair is falling into his face.
Rhett is laying on his bed in the dark. He is tossing something up in the air and catching it. His movements seem mechanical, automatic, like he's done it so often that he can do it without a second thought.
It takes me a moment to realize that the thing he is tossing is the red ball he used to roll with Beau up in the attic of the old house.
I don't even realize I'm crying—sobbing—until Tate pulls me away from the house.
We sink down onto the grass, Tate cradling me against his chest, as I gasp for air I don't even need and tears fall heavy down my face.
I think we must sit there all night. Neither of us make a move or sound until Tate says, "We need to leave now, Callie. We have to back before the sun rises."
I don't know what would happen if we aren't, and I don't really care. I am numb as Tate pulls me to my feet. But before we leave, I go back to the windows. I find my parents' bedroom and I blow kisses to their sleeping forms.
Rhett is still awake, though. Still tossing the ball. I press my face against his window again.
"I love you, Rhett," I whisper. I don't bother to conceal my face—we're outside, so I didn't think he'd hear it. But he suddenly sits bolt upright, looking around his room with wide eyes.
He doesn't smile like Lacey had. He breaks down into tears. I run from the window, taking Tate's hand as I go, and we run all the way back to the bus stop.
On the way back to the house, I keep my eyes open. They sting, because I'm out of tears. I'm all cried out.
Halloween has not made me feel better, like I thought it would. I thought seeing my family alive and well would give me some reassurance. Instead it has gutted me so entirely that I feel like nothing more than a shell letting Tate hold me and whisper nice things to me.
But I still don't regret my decision.