"Dad?" Violet said as she approached him.

Ben was seated at one of the two long tables in the cavernous room. He had several books open and spread around him in a broad fan. Even more documents filled the spaces in between them.

"Hi, honey," he greeted, glancing up briefly.

"What're you working on?" she asked. She wasn't sure how to lead up to what she wanted to say but she also didn't just want to blurt it out.

Ben looked back to the papers. He hesitated as he debated how to answer that. "Well. I... think I've figured out who my father is. Narrowed it down, anyway."

That was monumental enough to catch his daughter's interest. "No way. Really? Who?"

Violet wanted to know who her grandfather might be. She crowded in next to her dad's elbow, to better see what he had laid out. There were several papers of many colors, with information scrawled on some in longhand while others were typed. Some had old black-and-white photos with them.

"She didn't put a father's name on the birth certificate," Ben said. "My mother. She put Harmon down as my last name but according to these files, that was the name of a doctor at the asylum where she was incarcerated, before she moved south. According to this," he waved at the heap of documents. "The facility was shut down in 1968 and the patients were all just...flushed out into the streets."

Violet's brows inched up. "You think the doctor—"

"Well, I started looking deeper into it and..." Ben sighed and gathered up a sheaf of prints only to spread them out again. "She was a patient of the doctor who turned out to be the Bloodyface Killer. Oliver Thredson. You know who that was?"

"Of course," Violet dismissed impatiently. He should know her better than that. Then she made the connection. "You think he might be your dad?"

Ben shrugged and spread his hands. "It could be Thredson or Harmon. It's also possible another patient got her pregnant. She had a...documented history of promiscuity. Nymphomaniac."

Violet made a grim face. "Christ. Maybe you should quit while you're ahead."

He rubbed his eyes. "You might be right." He forced a smile then. "Was there something you needed?"

Her expression grew more serious. "It's Michael."

Ben's frail smile faded. "What about him?"

"He said he wants to—" Violet almost told him what she knew but the words locked on her tongue. She suddenly imagined how her father would react to the news. On top of what he'd just disclosed to her, things would likely get real ugly for everyone, and fast. "He wants to wear that stupid rubber suit at some birthday party he's throwing himself."

Her dad flinched and she knew she had made the right call to edit the truth for him.

"Did he tell you that?" asked Ben wearily.

She shook her head. "Tate said he found Michael wearing it in the attic, and he was being a royal fucking creep. He told Tate he was going to wear it at his party."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, dad," Violet commiserated earnestly. "Why is it even still here? It shouldn't be. I personally put that shit-sucking thing on the curb, before civilization collapsed. I know you threw it out at least once, too. One of our freaky neighbors should have snapped it up for eBay when we did, if nothing else."

"I think it's part of the curse that is this house," suggested Ben.

"If you think this place is cursed," Violet said, tone curious. "Why do you stay here? You can leave now. Move to another house."

He peered at her in puzzlement. "I don't know. I suppose I don't want to uproot everyone. You, your mom. Moira."

There was an awkward moment as Violet tried to respond without hurting his feelings. "Dad, I'm like. Almost thirty. You don't have to worry about me anymore."

Ben hadn't considered her actual age before. To him, she would always be his little girl. It didn't help that she never aged physically past sixteen years. "I'll always worry about you. You're my girl."

She rolled her eyes but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "I just meant you don't have to stay here because of me."

"Are you trying to kick me out?" he said with a half smile of his own.

"Maybe we should leave," Violet suggested. She pushed her straight hair behind an ear. "We can go as far as the fog reaches. I heard it goes all the way out over the ocean now. We could live in a beach house. One of those rich places right on the sand."

He could tell she was serious and, for the first time in years, Ben considered what it might be like to go someplace else. "Would you like that, Vi?"

For the first time, the teen gave genuine consideration to the thought. "Why not? I mean... We could at least go vacation somewhere, right? Joshua's never been to the beach and he's lived in California his whole—" She realized what she was saying and faltered. "I.. mean... He's never been to the beach, you know? He might like to feel sand and smell the ocean."

Ben caught her hand and gave it a gentle, appreciative squeeze. "Let's see if your mother wants to. It could be nice to spend Christmas at the beach."

—

Since they had no jobs or school to be excused from, nothing to pack, and no bills or responsibilities, the Harmons were able to leave that same day. But that didn't mean leaving was easy, for Violet.

She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with Tate, and help him deal with the shit storm she could sense coming. Leaving with her family felt too much like running away. But if she didn't go too, they would ask questions she didn't want to answer. She couldn't tell them what Michael had said he was going to do. It would only freak them out and make things worse.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she told Tate gently as she hugged him goodbye.

The words were a knife in his heart, well-intended but agonizing. He tried to get his feelings under control but he couldn't stop crying. He was losing Violet again.

"Don't forget me," he said. The teary words were muffled by her shoulder.

"How could I ever do that?" she said, unable to help the incredulous statement.

His head was starting to hurt. It always did when he cried too hard. "If I don't let go now, I never will."

They kissed then, deep and long. She could feel his desperation and it squeezed her heart. The kiss tasted like his tears when their lips parted. She cupped his jaw and offered him a reassuring smile. He put his hand over hers for a moment, wanting to memorize the way it felt. Then he slipped away into the shadows.

She had asked him to come with them, but he had to stay. What held him there went far beyond the old house.

...

Tate spent the next three days in Violet's room, curled up in the center of her bed. He propped a picture of her against the pillow next to him so he could see her smiling at him. Occasionally his eyes leaked. Every now and then he had to blow his nose. Other than that, he stayed like that for hours and hours.

The evening of the third day, the door opened and Pat came in. He paused in the doorway to see if Tate would greet him. When he didn't even move, the jock went over to the bed.

"When were you thinking about getting up?" he said, as subtle as a board to the head.

Tate stirred to look at him. "When Violet comes back."

"Uh-huh. And when's that?"

"I don't know," Tate said, shifting so he could look at her picture some more.

"Have fun with that," Pat remarked dourly. "Me, I'm going to the cemetery. Michael's doing some sort of ritual tonight out by the priest's grave."

That got the teen's attention. He rolled over to peer up at the other guy. "He is?"

"Yeah," confirmed Patrick. "It's supposed to happen before midnight tonight."

Tate was confused. "Why?"

"No clue. Those folks from the Order left town yesterday. Maybe it has something to do with that?"

"Huh. They didn't do a funeral for him. Maybe he didn't want the other priests fucking with it," Tate speculated. "He's been acting really weird lately, though. Like. Really weird."

"Emphasizing 'really' doesn't tell me anything," Pat said. "Why don't you get out of bed and come compare notes with Chad and me. If Michael's up to something, we should have some sort of plan."

Tate peeled himself out of the pile of blankets and sat up. It was impossible to mope effectively with Pat standing right there, talking to him.

"I don't know what there is to plan," he said as he slid out of bed. "Even if he is planning something weird, there's not much we can do about it."

"Defeatist attitude from somebody who blew up a school."

Tate shot the bigger guy a flat look. "Not the same thing."

"You're right," Pat agreed. "Keeping tabs on the Antichrist is a much better cause than blowing up a school."

Tate bristled, feeling unfairly picked on. "You dragged me out of bed just so you could give me shit? Nice."

Patrick didn't bother hiding his smile. "No. That's merely an added bonus."

"Do you have to practice to be such a prick?" Tate groused. "Is that why you always take so long in the bathroom? You're practicing in front of the mirror?"

"No practice necessary," the jock volleyed without missing a beat. "You inspire me."

—

Author's Note:

So if you've read my Asylum fic (which I've admittedly neglected while I've been busy with school and conventions), you'll undoubtedly recognize the names Ben dredged up. Any bets on who the baby-daddy really is? Is Ben the Son of Bloodyface? Or Dr. Harmon's kid? Will Ben ever know for sure? If you've read my first Murder House fic-season, you might remember a couple of Halloweens Ben had at the orphanage that might give you a hint.

Yes. That is how long I've been plotting that little gem. Four freakin years, over three fanfic seasons. Talk about a slow build. Happy Lent!

Next time: What the hell is Michael up to now?