1932

Anthony Kane had purchased the Montgomery estate with the help of his mother, Agnes. The property was so big, he had hoped the space would allow him room to live his own life, or at the very least provide him more privacy than he'd had growing up. It hadn't worked out that way, though. While cleaning the place up took a lot of time, his mother still found plenty of opportunities to hound him about his hygiene and his lack of ambition.

He tried to ignore her nitpicking, but once the cleaning was all done, she had even more time to seek him out. And she would. She would come find him in whatever room he'd sealed himself in. She would barge right in without knocking or apology for interrupting him yet again. What he was doing behind that door didn't matter: He wasn't allowed to have secrets from her, even though he was nearly 30 years old.

She had caught him masturbating a couple of months ago when she barged in on him in the bathroom of all places. To punish him for such dirty behavior, she had turned on the hot water and let it run till it steamed. Then she forced him to wash his hands in the scalding water while she watched and berated him for being so disgusting.

The burns had nearly healed but were hidden now by blood. Her blood.

They had had another fight, this time over the dishes. He had put a saucer in the sink instead of washing it immediately.

"The bugs!" she had nagged him. "Every time you leave dishes in the sink, it attracts the bugs! I don't want the kitchen full of them. They walk all over the plates and spoons and everything. And you know what else those beasts walk in, Anthony. They walk in filth! Feces! Do you want to eat feces?"

He had said something to her then, but the words were a blur. Somehow the marble rolling pin found its way into his hand and he hit her with it, right on the head, as hard as he could. Her eyelids fluttered and then blood poured out of her nose and her mouth. There was a lot of blood, but she still tried to talk.

He hit her again and again, to shut her up, until she lay on the floor and didn't get up. Her head was a pulpy mess, unrecognizable by the time he dropped the rolling pin. Her blood spread so fast he didn't have a chance to sidestep it.

Anthony stood staring at the mess he had created, shocked by his own actions. He felt disconnected from the moment and was beginning to believe it was all just a very intense fever dream.

"The head is a loss," said a man behind him. "But the rest might be salvaged."

Anthony spun around so fast he nearly knocked himself off balance. He hadn't heard anyone come into the room. The man standing there had brown hair and wore an old-fashioned suit and tie. He was donning a surgeon's gown over his clothes and it, too, was old-fashioned.

"Well, don't just stand there, man," the fellow said to Anthony. "Lift her up. Let's get her to the basement."

Anthony blinked a few times, finding it hard to concentrate. He felt drugged. It had to be a dream. So, he went with it. He lifted his mother's body by the armpits and dragged her to the basement. Once there, he deposited the bleeding corpse on the operating table there. The whole area was hazed in a light mist that diffused the supernaturally bright lighting. Everything looked new and clean, another sure sign the whole thing was a dream. While Anthony watched, the doctor proceeded to part out his mother's body with a bone saw. The man talked to himself while he worked. In the end, he jarred up her organs and called the rest a loss.

The police found Anthony three days later, wandering the streets naked, muttering to himself about "the bugs". He was arrested, assessed, and shipped off to a mental ward. The mansion was eventually foreclosed on and put up for sale again, with no record of Agnes Kane's disappearance or murder.

...

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

...

2032

The door shut behind Constance and a strong sense of nostalgia swept over her, so powerful it made her gasp. She closed her eyes and for a few moments, she was transported to the past.

"Trick or treat!" Adelaide cried joyfully from the stairs. She was 10 years old and wearing a dark green and red holiday dress.

"Not trick or treat," her father Hugo corrected her from the doorway to the great room. He was holding 5-year-old Tate in his arms. Both were dressed for the occasion. "It's 'merry Christmas', Addie."

"Merry Chrissumess!" Tate cheered.

Beauregard started to howl from his highchair in the kitchen because he felt left out. The sound shattered the moment and brought the blonde woman out of her reverie. The real house was silent and dark. Dead.

Constance plucked a cigarette from her purse and lit it, needing the smoke to soothe her. The past was too heart-wrenching to dwell on for long. She blinked back tears and tried to focus on why she was there. Jeremiah's medallion: She was there to retrieve it.

She headed up the stairs, on high alert. She wasn't afraid of death. She was concerned that someone in the house who hated her might do something worse than kill her. She hugged herself as she ascended the boxy stairs, feeling strangely aware of her mismatched wardrobe as she went. She felt like a bag lady in her own home. She put the odd feeling as far from her thoughts as she could and headed for the attic pull cord.

The attic was even darker than the house, but Constance was able to navigate by the slivers of light that the dormers let in. She knew exactly where to go. Jeremiah's medallion was right where she had stowed it. Despite the chill in the air, the metal pendant was warm when she took it in her hand.

"Here it is, Billie Dean," she said.

It was only then that she realized the medium wasn't with her. She scrunched her eyes shut briefly, feeling dizzy. Thinking back, she knew Billie Dean couldn't have been with her. It just hadn't registered. But if the woman wasn't with her, where was she?

Constance dropped the medallion into her purse, put the cigarette out, and left the attic. She didn't trust her senses at the moment. She knew she needed to get the pendant out of the house before she lost herself entirely to memories and the urges she could feel tickling her thoughts; a growing desire to rejoin the dead.

She got as far as the front foyer when she heard a voice behind her.

"Mama?" Tate asked. "Where are you going?"

Constance paused and had to look back. He stood there right behind her, looking just as alive as could be, half-swallowed by his oversized mustard-yellow sweater. His expression was impossible to read, so she saw what she wanted to see.

"I've got to give somethin' to Billie Dean," she explained. "Then I'll be back." She kissed his forehead then went to open the door.

It wouldn't budge.

"Michael doesn't want you to leave," Tate said. He came closer, his worn Chucks squeaking on the wood floor.

Constance turned back to him and arched a brow. "Since when do you care about what Michael wants?"

She had him there.

"He said you left," the teen sulked at her, rather than answer her question.

Constance let go of the door handle and went over to where her son slouched. She cupped his round face with her hands and caressed his cheeks. Tried to pet away the look of mistrust.

"You can see plain as day that I didn't leave," she pointed out rationally. "Michael lies when it suits him. He's a lot like his father that way." Her words cooled at that last.

Tate caught the subtle barb and looked away. A tear was dislodged with the quick glance and she gently wiped it up.

"I'm gonna go out there now and give Billie Dean what she's waitin' for," Constance reiterated, her chin tucked down and brows high. She was instructing him as well as informing him. She would never get out of the house otherwise. "Then I will be right back. I promise."

She let go of him then and took a step back, toward the door. He sulked at her some more but when she tried the handle this time the door opened freely. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her boy was still, at the core, her boy. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped outside.

Billie Dean was down at the car by that point, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the front bumper. She straightened up when she saw the front door open.

"Constance!" she cried, dropping her cigarette as she hurried toward the woman who emerged.

They met midway up the sidewalk to the porch. Constance reached in her purse and pulled out the necklace. "This is it," she told the other woman, pressing it into her hand. "Keep it safe."

Billie Dean took it, but she shook her head, not understanding. "Why give it to me? You—"

"I'm not comin' with you," Constance said. She tried to force a smile, but it crumbled and fell apart, leaving a fragile, weary look.

"What?" Billie Dean said, trying to smile too because she wanted this to be a joke. "Of course, you're coming. We have to—"

"No," Constance cut her off again. "You have to. I have stay here. I have…unfinished business." She gave the medium's hand a squeeze with both of hers, trying to impart an ocean of feeling in that one gesture. "I would only slow you down, anyway. I'm not as young as I used to be."

They both shared a short laugh that was almost ironic. Then Billie Dean grabbed her in a fierce hug which Constance returned.

"All the visions I've been having," the psychic sniffled when she let go. "And I didn't see this coming."

"Go on, now," said Constance, waving her away, wanting her gone before they both broke down bawling. "Time's wasting."

Billie Dean took a breath, wanting to say more, but she realized that there was nothing left to say. So, she put on a resigned smile and headed back to the car. She paused before getting in, to take one last look at the house she hoped she would never see again.

Constance was on the porch by then, watching her from the shade of the tiled awning. The blonde woman raised a hand in silent farewell. Billie Dean did the same thing, then got into her car. She reminded herself of all the reasons she would be glad to be done with Constance Langdon and her fucked up family. It helped stem the flow of her tears a little as she drove away.

—

Author's Note:

This update comes later than usual due to the death of my partner. I have a couple of chapters written ahead and this is my escape hobby, so I won't be going on hiatus. Just wanted to let you know what's going on with the erratic posting. I've had my hands full taking care of things and things will be busy for a bit longer as we say goodbye.

This chapter brings us home, literally. 100 years of horror in one location. Anthony and his mom were inspired by Psycho. His mom was the first at the mansion to flip out about cleanliness and keeping the house tidy. She's the one Tate saw in the halls when he was little.

Next time: We're taking a trip to the other side.