Misty Day joined the women on the second morning, arriving at dawn with a picnic basket and a folding stool. Billie Dean was napping in a camp chair nearby but Constance didn't need sleep and was alert when the shawl-covered witch arrived.

"Can I help you?" Constance demanded, drawing her own wrap closer around her shoulders. She had a chenille blanket about her, for comfort more than warmth. The cold December air didn't bother her. She liked it because it smelled like home.

"I came to help you," the swamp witch corrected.

She pushed her head scarf back and offered the ghost woman a smile. Misty was an older woman who had once been pretty but her looks had faded in the absence of care. Her gray hair was a snarled mass, poked through with feathers, beads, and bone shards.

"Help us?" Constance sniffed indignantly. "How?"

The swamp witch shook out her stool and set it down near Billie Dean. She put the picnic basket beside it, then settled on the stool with a soft grunt. "I brought food. And companionship in these tryin' times."

She looked up at the man on the cross, who was ashen and barely breathing. She wouldn't be much assistance to him but she wasn't there for him.

"Who are you?" asked Billie Dean sleepily. She'd been roused by the other two, even though they were speaking quietly.

"Misty Day," the witch smiled. She put out a hand and her wrist jangled with a multitude of bracelets.

"Billie Dean," responded the medium. They were close in age but Billie Dean wore it better. She could no longer indulge in manicures or spa treatments, but the local hair-cutter was talented and Billie still knew how to apply makeup. She shook the other woman's hand."You're one of the... the witches."

Misty smiled and her eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure at being recognized. "That's right." She squeezed Billie Dean's hand before letting go. "I brought ya some breakfast." She motioned to the basket on the sidewalk.

Constance huffed an annoyed sound and readjusted her wrap. She didn't want the swamp hag there but her presence did save Billie Dean the trouble of getting herself food. Still. "Best check to make sure there's no poison in those apples."

"Oh, Constance," the medium dismissed.

"I wouldn't poison her," Misty said with a guileless smile. "If I wanted her dead, I wouldn't have bothered walkin' all this way." Finding the subject too silly to waste more words on, she changed the subject. "Have you been to that li'l camp on the corner? It's the most charmin' thing I've seen in ages."

Constance rolled her eyes. "I'm heading home," she said. "I'll be back later."

She made good on the threat, but it was the Montgomery Mansion she went to.

—

Tate could sense his mother searching for him and suffered a strong urge to hide. He was sure she was going to make him go hold the pee bucket for the priest again and he didn't want to do it. Hiding from Constance was never a good idea, though. The inner conflict made his stomach upset. Which he thought was terribly unfair since he was dead and shouldn't get sick. Being evolved wasn't quite as awesome as he expected it to be.

"There you are."

She had found him. He wasn't hiding but he hadn't come out looking for her either. He was just hanging around in the shadows of the basement, hoping she would go away.

"What do you want?" Tate couldn't keep the defensive tone out of his words.

She looked at him in an appealing way and reached to pet his hair. "I'm gonna need you to check on Father Jeremiah."

Tate gave a huge, martyred sigh. "I knew it. Toilet duty."

Her expression hardened and she let her hand drop. "The man is sufferin', Tate! Have some God-damned respect!"

"It's not my fault he's there!" Tate said, missing the gravity of the man's predicament. "Why are you leaving him there anyway? Why don't you tell Michael to let him go?"

She blinked fast to drive back the tears that were brightening her eyes. "Some things are bigger than just one person."

That made no sense to the teen. He frowned. "Why don't you just kill him then? He wouldn't be suffering."

Constance gritted her teeth. She knew he wouldn't understand the complicated situation. "Sweetheart, it's not that simple. Death isn't the go-to answer for the problems of the livin'."

"I can let him go for you," Tate volunteered. "Then it wouldn't be your fault. If Michael gets mad at me, I'll just tell him to fuck off."

His mother grabbed his face, not sure whether to smother him in kisses or shake him. "Tate! Just—" She forced herself to calm down and smoothed his uncombed curls with her palms to keep from hurting him. "Hold the bucket for Father Jeremiah. All right?"

Tate couldn't refuse a direct order from his mother but he didn't have to like it.

—

The priest was unconscious when Tate got there. Waking him to agony just to ask him if he needed to piss seemed unnecessary. So he left the bucket with the two old ladies who were camped out at the base of the cross and went home. He had better things to do than sit around waiting when someone else was already there, doing just that. He could tell Billie Dean didn't approve but he didn't care. He put up with her living in his house because his mother said so, but he still didn't like the medium.

When he got back to the house he headed up, up, all the way to the attic. He wanted to add the bead he'd stolen from Misty Day to his treasure box. It was a fine bead, polished bone. It was carved in the shaped of a tiny skull. He wondered, as he looked at it, if it was a tooth or some other bone. Was it animal? Human? Such a mystery and a wonder.

He stopped short of his hiding spot when detected motion in the shadows ahead. Suddenly Rubber Man was there, closing in on him. Startled and confused, he scampered back a few steps before thinking to address the person.

"Who's in there?"

Rubber Man stopped. Then he started to laugh. It was muffled but it sounded like...

"Michael." Tate was annoyed. He had already told the guy before not to mess with the rubber suit. "What're you doing with that? It's mine. Take it off."

"No," Michael said. "I'm taking it. I'm going to wear it at my birthday party."

"Why?" Tate asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because I want to," said Michael smugly. "I want to wear it when I impregnate Vivien."

"Vivien?" Tate gawked. "But she's your mother!"

Rubber Man grabbed him by the flannel and pulled him close. Almost nose-to-nose. "And you're my father." Michael's voice was distorted by the mask. It made him sound monstrous. He shoved Tate up against the nearest wall and pinned him there.

"Let go." Tate felt his temper flare.

"I've missed our playtime," said Rubber Man. He brushed his thumb over the teen's lower lip, bringing the scent of vinyl with it.

Tate wasn't sure if it was Michael or the suit he was dealing with.

"Take off the hood," Tate insisted. He knew how different things were when the hood was on. Michael might not be in control of what he was doing. "We can play Grand Theft Auto."

He tried to grab the hood himself but Rubber Man caught his wrist. Then the slick black suit pressed up close, simulating the act of sex in a slow pelvis-to-pelvis grind that made the fine hairs on Tate's arms stand on end.

"I want to play a new game," Rubber Man's words were a coarse whisper, right next to his ear.

It was too much for Tate. He disapparated, leaving the rubber suit in the attic while he fled to the far corner of the basement. He reappeared under the old card table, where his digger toy and action figures were. It was one of his favorite hiding spots. He felt safer there but was still rattled by the encounter. His instinct was to repress the whole thing and pretend it didn't happen, but he knew that wasn't the answer this time.

Sure, he could forget it, but that would leave him open to being blindsided by another weird encounter. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand out wildly. Either it was the infernal gimp suit saying those things or Michael had really gone off the deep end with the Antichrist thing. Either one was possible. The suit was capable of inspiring anything in its wearer, but the situation with Father Jeremiah might have had some weird effect on Michael. He was like a dad to the young man.

Tate was Michael's father, technically. He didn't like to think about that either, but it was true. Michael wouldn't even be around if Tate hadn't done bad things in the rubber suit himself. His eyes burned with guilty tears. If Michael hurt Vivien, that would be Tate's fault, too. Michael was his responsibility, even if he had never been a father to him.

Miserable, Tate hugged his knees and put his head down. After a long time he came to the conclusion that Violet needed to know. She would think of something. But he didn't want to see her reaction to what Michael said. He thought about writing it on her chalkboard, but he didn't want anybody else to see it. He could write a note but that still held the risk of someone else seeing. Writing it was too permanent a confession.

He had to talk to her about it.

—

Author's Note:

My mother used to say to my siblings and I: "I hope you have a kid just like you, only worse!" She called it the Mother's Curse.

I guess my oldest sister must've been pretty bad, because she never had kids.

Being Michael's dad is something Tate's never really owned. Just another elephant-sized thing he's done that he successfully disassociated himself from. Except Michael can't be shut out as easily as the kids from Westfield. Like Tate, he's kind of determined to be noticed.

Next time: Michael has an "A-ha!" moment. And we're not talking animated pop music videos.