The next afternoon, Father Jeremiah paid the mansion next door a visit. Tate answered when the gloomy doorbell rang. He presented an awkward demeanor. He was in his normal form, wearing a long-sleeved striped jersey and a pair of baggy pants that almost swallowed his old Chucks.

"Hey," he said, feeling weird inside seeing the guy and knowing the little boy ruse was up.

"May I come in?" the man said politely.

Tate hesitated then stepped back out of the way. Once Jeremiah was inside, the teen shut the door. Then he led the way into the great room. It looked the way Chad liked it best, even though Tate preferred it the way he remembered it. He didn't feel like asserting himself to change it, though, so he led the priest over to the collection of hard sofas and chairs and flopped on the longest couch. He barely bounced.

"Sooo," he opened. "You probably want to yell at me, huh?"

Jeremiah took a seat in the chair nearest the teenager and looked at him closely. Trying to see Ethan in the older boy's features. "I try not to yell unless I need to be heard," he said. "I do want to speak with you, though, and I would appreciate honest answers."

Tate's gaze scurried away then came back to the guest. "Yeah. Okay."

"Who are you? What is your name? Are you a child or a teenager?" Father Jeremiah had more questions but stopped at that for the time being.

"My name's Tate Langdon," he answered. He fidgeted with his ring, turning it around and around. "My mother is Constance. You know her. I died in this house when I was seventeen. I started pretending to be a kid when Michael and I met through the fence because I wanted to be friends with him. I figured he wouldn't want to be friends with a big kid so I stopped being big." He lowered his chin and looked morose. "Are you mad at me?"

"No but—" The priest frowned thoughtfully. "Why pretend to be someone else?"

Tate shrugged. "Why not? I couldn't be me anyway. Constance didn't want him to know who his real dad was."

Father Jeremiah's eyes widened for an instant as he digested that tidbit. "Oh."

Tate's smile got crooked at that. "Yeah. I'm his dad. I guess. Sperm donor?" He shrugged again and drew his knees up to his chest, getting his dirty sneakers on Chad's couch with a detached sense of satisfaction. "She's right, you know. I'm no dad. Mine ran off when I was a kid. What would I know about being a father?" He tipped his head, not blinking. "You do a pretty good job, though. Maybe if my mother brought a priest home when I was little, instead of all those college guys, I would've turned out different."

Jeremiah's brows went up and he coughed softly. "She didn't 'bring me home'. I was sent here by my Order to ensure that Michael fulfills the prophecy concerning his birth." He studied the teen across from him, taking in the fortress of knees. "Forgive me but... were you a spirit at the time you—"

"Got it on?" Tate prompted. A cheeky grin dimpled his cheeks. "Put a bun in the oven? Yeah." He looked proud of himself, even though the act had been disturbing for him at the time. He wasn't going to dwell on reality while he was trying to rattle Father Jeremiah. The guy was fun to shake up.

"Interesting," said the priest, deliberately ignoring the crude way the boy spoke. He could tell he was being baited. "I didn't know that was possible."

"Nobody did," Tate agreed. "But I guess it is." He uncurled and grabbed one of the throw pillows to hug to his chest. "I don't know though. I've had sex with Violet a lot and she's never gotten pregnant. But she's also dead, like me."

Father Jeremiah nodded slowly at the rapid-fire over-sharing. Not the information he was hoping for. "So what is your relationship with Chad and Patrick then? If they're not your parents?"

Tate looked down at his hands and tugged his sleeves down over his fingers. "They used to live here but they died." He rolled his eyes to the side, then amended: "I killed them. Not because I didn't like them. I totally liked them. I still do. I mean, Chad can be a real dick-hole about some things and so can Pat, but at least they don't hate me anymore."

"You liked them but you killed them anyway?" Jeremiah found that logic hard to follow.

When he heard how strange that sounded, Tate made a face. "I told you: It's a long story. Basically they were going to leave without giving Mrs. Montgomery a baby and I couldn't let them do that." That didn't sound any better so he added: "Nora's baby was killed back when she and her husband, Charles, lived here. She's been sad about it ever since. She used to keep me safe from the bad things in this place when I was little. She saved my life lots. So... I told her I'd help her get a baby."

That was quite a story to take in and Father Jeremiah didn't rush the process. He was already familiar with a good deal of history surrounding the mansion but assimilating the inside details brought a whole new clarity to the picture.

"Michael's not their son though," he noted.

Tate shook his head. "The next owners after them... Vivien Harmon. She's his mother."

Jeremiah was still puzzled. Something wasn't quite adding up for him in the explanation. "Why kill the Warwicks, then?"

Tate looked at him silently. It was such a direct question, he had to consider it. "They were going to leave."

The priest's brows steepled. "Wouldn't the outcome have been the same if they'd lived?"

The teen shook his head, slowly because he was sorting through it himself. He'd never thought the matter through. "Who knows how long it would've taken the house to sell? Maybe never. Mrs. Nora needed a baby and they weren't going to have one."

"I suppose you have a point," the man acknowledged. He couldn't pick at the situation too much since it led to Michael's prophesied birth. Whatever it took to get that done, he supported.

"Are you going to tell Michael?"

Jeremiah pressed his lips together briefly, thinking. "No. If you want him to know who you are, that's your business. I don't see that his knowing will help him in any way at this point. If that changes, I'll let you know."

Tate relaxed and smiled. "Cool. You know, when I first met you, I didn't like you. But you're pretty cool."

"Er. Thanks?" The priest rose. "Thank you for speaking with me, Tate. I'll see you again soon, I'm sure."

The teen stayed planted on the couch while the man saw himself out. Once he was gone, Tate reached for his hair. Tugging the short, uneven locks around his fingers made the anxious feeling inside him calm down some. He hoped Father Jeremiah wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't tell.

—

Tate didn't know it but Chad had been listening in on the whole conversation. The dark-haired man routinely eavesdropped on anyone he could, but that chat had been particularly alluring given its nature. He'd long wondered why Tate had killed him and had never found a way to broach the subject that wouldn't shut it down before the conversation even started.

Tate had told the anti-priest the reason he'd killed the Warwicks was because they were going to leave but the very next thing he told the man was that he needed to get rid of them to make way for a new family that would have a baby. Those were two incompatible reasons. He and Patrick were going to leave, which would have opened the house up. A new buyer wouldn't have surfaced any sooner just because they were dead.

Chad headed to the kitchen, wanting a drink to help him mull through the quandary. He poured himself a glass of red wine even though it was only 1 o'clock. He tended to reserve the red for dinner but threw reservation to the wind. One he had a nice big glass he propped himself against center island. Taking a steeling breath, he let in the last living memories he could find.

Gala apples. Apples were always his weakness, especially now. They had to be the right shade, the right shape, the right smell. He hated the wax the commercial grocers coated them in. It might preserve the fruit but it made it look like plastic and it absolutely killed the smell.

He and Patrick had been fighting about the apples, he seemed to remember. The memory was watery and distorted, like seeing and hearing through rippled glass. Did he send Patrick to get new ones? Or was that Ben? Why were the memories running together? Just how many times over the years had he sent either of them to the market for apples? For an instant he was horrified with his own penchant for repetition then let it go. He had more important things to stew over.

The fight had been a particularly nasty one. Chad had called him out on screwing around with the guy at the gym and he'd left. Like he always did in those end days. Chad put away a glass of wine and was surprised when Pat returned. He was wearing that stupid gimp suit the Stock Room clerk had talked Chad into buying in a desperate attempt to win Patrick's affections back. No returns. Ridiculously expensive source of regret.

Patrick had put it on to mock him but it had actually looked rather sexy on him, which caught Chad off guard, as he didn't find any of that "scene" stuff the least bit appealing. At that moment, though, there had been something darkly magnetic in the predatory way he moved.

Only it wasn't Pat under the hood.

Chad downed a large gulp from his glass and winced as it went down hard. The thought of finding Tate the least bit sexy, even accidentally, disgusted him. It was like being kissed awake by a lover only to discover it was the family dog licking him.

He vaguely remembered trying to apologize to the person he thought was Patrick, then things got muddy. There was some kind of scuffle. Apples. There were apples floating all around, red and green.

He shook his head and refilled his glass, which was nearly empty by that point. The next clear memory he had was of being in the basement, unable to breathe, and seeing Tate standing over him. He was still wearing the rubber suit but he had the hood off. He was talking to the old maid they'd hired to do light cleaning; she had in her hand the gun Chad had bought for safety. She gave it to Tate and told him to shoot the men.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Tate shot Patrick without hesitation. The sound of the gun was so loud, it made Chad's ears ring. He still couldn't breathe; he felt like he was drowning.

The glass trembled in Chad's hand as his lungs began to cramp. He really did feel like he was drowning! He gave a harsh cough and spat up some water. He slammed the glass down, sloshing wine on the surface of the island as he reached for the counter to steady himself. The feeling began to ease and he started to breathe more freely.

He kept forcing the memory even though his heart was still racing. Tate had shot Patrick, but it seemed like the man was already dead. His eyes were open and he wasn't moving; he didn't react when he was shot in the chest. Chad remembered reaching for him, almost touching Pat's limp hand. He remembered hearing another loud bang.

Now they'll be together forever.

The last words Chad heard Tate speak before the darkness closed in.

He coughed again, this time hacking up blood. He darted to the sink and spat out a mouthful, quickly running some water to rinse the coppery taste away. His chest felt tight again but he was too stubborn to let the pain come back more than that now that he understood what was happening. He was annoyed the stigmata had the nerve to bother him at all, after so many years of repressing it. He coughed up some bloody phlegm and rinsed that away as well. After drying his hands and face he moved back to the island, feeling shaky.

He was determined to see this through but he needed to steady himself with more wine. He wiped up the spill and then refilled his glass, draining nearly half of it immediately.

The next clear thing he could remember was him hiding out in the basement, watching the police take his and Patrick's bodies away. That was such a bizarre moment: Watching his own lifeless corpse get zipped up in the body bag. Listening to the EMTs speculating on the fight they must have had that resulted in Chad shoving a poker up Patrick's ass before shooting them both.

It was humiliating. Chad would never do something like that with a poker, even if it was poetic justice. Tate had told him once that he'd done that because he was mad at Patrick for messing everything up by cheating. Chad had accepted the explanation but hadn't thought more about it at the time.

Tate's last words teased his thoughts. Had he actually said that or was that something Chad's dying brain had cooked up? The boy had claimed he didn't know they would be trapped but, on reflection, that story didn't add up either. Why would he kill them because he was upset that Patrick was cheating? It would make sense if he'd only killed Pat but why both of them? He had told Father Jeremiah that he just wanted to clear the way for a new family to move in. If getting them out of the house was the goal, why not let them just leave alive? At the rate they'd been going, Patrick would have probably left soon anyway, even without his share of the money from the house.

Only one person could answer the questions Chad had... and it was time to ask him.

—

Tate was still in the great room when the Chad went to find him. The teen shrank down to child form and took his feet off the couch when the other ghost came in but there were scuffs all over the cushions. He tried to cover them by shifting the way he was sitting.

It took some effort to ignore the marks but the dark-haired man forced himself to focus. "We need to talk."

Tate's eyes rounded and he reached for his hair. "I'm fixing it!"

Chad rolled his eyes and sat down in the same chair the priest had occupied earlier. "I'm not talking about your hair. But do fix it. What I want to talk to you about is why you killed me."

"You heard us?" he didn't bother expanding on that because either Chad would understand or he wouldn't.

He did understand, being rather fluent in Tate-speak by then. "Yes. And I'm tired of the bullshit. You've told at least three different versions of that story to as many people." He leaned forward a little and fixed the boy with his stoniest stare. "I want to know why you killed me. No bullshit answers. No games." He sat back and waited expectantly.

Tate really didn't like being kid size just then. It made being on the spot feel that much worse. He didn't dare age up though. Chad was being far too serious. He swung his feet and tried to sort out how to talk to the man without saying the wrong thing. It was hard.

"You were going to leave," he said finally. He bit his lip afterward, hard enough to hurt. That felt better than the weird squirrely feeling he had inside. It made his armpits sweat. Which was stupid because he didn't need sweat anymore. He was evolved.

"You told me you didn't know we'd be stuck here."

Tate fidgeted and tugged at his hair a little before catching himself. "I didn't."

Chad frowned and sighed hard through his nose. "Bull. Shit."

Tate frowned too. "Okay. Fine! I did know."

Chad almost felt vindicated but confusion took over. Irritation quickly followed. "Just tell me why."

"I already said!" Tate snapped, feeling badgered. "You were going to leave!"

"You wanted us out!" Chad exclaimed.

Tate flinched and sulked. "I didn't," he mumbled.

And there it was. Chad sat there for a moment, breathing hard and staring at the kid in the rumpled too-big clothing.

"Why?" he asked when he could find his voice.

Tate peeked glumly at him through his messy bangs and brought his knees up again. "I don't know! I guess because I liked you and I didn't want you to leave. The house or each other."

Chad kept staring at him for a few more moments, then fell back into the chair, emotionally and physically exhausted from everything he'd been through over the last hour. "You liked us," he repeated wearily. He needed more wine. Possibly something stiffer. "Both of us?"

"Yeah. I never met anybody like you guys before," Tate said around the cuticle he was chewing on. He pulled the finger out of his mouth and smiled nostalgically. "I used lay on the shaving couch in your room and watch you guys sleep at night."

Chad pushed himself up a little and held up a finger. "One: Creepy as fuck." The other finger went up. "Two: Shaving couch?"

Tate was too used to Chad to be wounded by being called creepy over something that happened years ago. "Yeah. You know. Where you used to get dressed and Pat cut his toenails."

"God, you fucking pervert!" Chad accused, rolling his eyes. "Were you with us all the time?"

"Pretty much," Tate admitted, having the decency to look chagrined, even if it was an act. "You were interesting! I wasn't the only one who watched you either."

Chad shook his head, not placated. "God-damned peeping Tom," he muttered. Then he pushed himself out of the chair. "It's a chaise lounge, you cretin. Not a shaving couch."

He left Tate and headed for the kitchen then, desperately in need of strong drink.

...

Author's Note:

This chapter got unexpectedly super long because Chad butted in. He was not scheduled to but he demanded screen time since people were talking about him. I thought what he had to say was relevant so I left it in. Chopping it up into another chapter wouldn't have read real smooth so... uber chapter.

With my Asylum fic I've tried to keep a consistent word count but that hasn't worked out as well as I wanted. With this one, I don't think I'm going to bother. There are too many pushy characters in this story who want face time.

Next time we're jumping ahead a couple of years to another Halloween. That holiday never gets easier in Murder House...