He lay against the floorboards of his new, old room, resting between sets of sit-ups. He could not believe he was here again, staring at the same cracked ceiling. He thought this house and all of its ugliness was behind him. And, Christ, now he was back at Westfield. He turned his head to look at the two shotguns lying underneath his bed. The sight of them calmed his breathing.

He heaved himself up again. With each contraction of his muscles, he exhaled in strong puffs, grunting slightly as he neared the end of his set. His ab muscles burned, but he forced them to keep working. The pain helped to clear his mind. He liked losing himself to it. At last he stopped, falling back, his core on fire. He only allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before turning over to begin his push-ups.

Finished at last with his punishing workout, he stood before the mirror to check his progress. He ran his hand over his chest and stomach, slick with sweat, noting the increased definition. He wasn't ready yet, but he would be. Soon.

He pulled a black t-shirt on, tousling his curls. He remembered then what he'd meant to check for yesterday when they were moving in. He took the chair from his desk and carried it to his walk-in closet. He set it down and stepped up, still unable to see above the high shelf. He reached up, his hand searching, until his fingers touched upon the box. He slid it to the edge of the shelf and gently brought it down, stepping off the chair. It was a black, rectangular case with a latch that he flipped up now with his thumb.

The top creaked open to reveal pictures, the ones Nora had shared with him. On top was the black and white photograph of Nora, her husband, and her baby, the one she'd lost. Tate gazed at his image, so beautiful and innocent in his white christening gown. Tate sat on his bed and pulled out the other pictures – one of the house when it was first built, no yard, only dirt. It was strange to think of this house as ever being new. Gazing at the picture now he still could not see it without its taint.

He closed the box gently and flipped the latch down. He moved to his door, listened for a moment to be sure they'd all gone to bed. The less he had to see Lawrence's fucking rodent face, the better. It was still, so he slowly opened his door and slipped silently down the hall. When he reached the attic, he paused before pulling on the ladder's string. He hoped it wouldn't squeak too badly. He tugged it and it came down with a mild whine. Tate unfolded the steps and climbed, one hand clutching the box.

He heard Beauregard's ragged breathing before his blonde head reached the opening. He placed the box on the floor and pulled himself the rest of the way up, his fatigued arm muscles shaking with the strain. He caught his breath and then crossed the dusty floorboards to check on his brother. In the moonlight from the small window, Tate watched him sleeping fitfully. The sight of Beauregard back in this place, chained like a fucking animal made Tate feel like he might hurl. He knelt down beside Beau's head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking his brother's hair.

He went back to retrieve the box from where he'd placed it on the floor. He took it to his hiding place, ducking past the attic's eaves. He removed a square of wood in the wall, revealing a small hole that contained some of the treasures he'd pilfered during his childhood. He placed the box among them and sealed it up again.

Back in the hallway, he gently pushed the attic door up until it closed with a small thud. He waited in the dark a moment to confirm the hush of sleep was undisturbed. He made his way down the stairs, the moonlight filtering through the stained glass helped him find his way. At the bottom he paused to prepare himself for a visit to the lowest level of the house.

He reached for the basement door, but it unlatched before he could touch it. A rush of cold air swirled around him. The familiar smell of dust and dankness invaded his nose. If his loneliness had a smell, that was it. It was in the air that surrounded his childhood. And now here he was, back again, descending into the darkness.

He pulled the chain on a single bulb. It cast shadows among the boxes and junk Constance had thrown down there to deal with later. It was quiet with the exception of his breathing. The hair on his arms raised as his skin buzzed to detect the strange life he knew to be lurking somewhere in the shadows. He walked deeper into the basement, all his senses heightened, as if he'd done a line of coke. The charged sensation grew as he turned into a small room, faint white light seeping through the dirty window. Nora sat on an old chest, her eyes searching the room curiously.

"Nora –" Tate said gently.

She turned and searched him, unrecognizing.

"Who are you?"

"It's me, Tate."

Her eyes darted as she searched her memory. It must've come up blank because she turned away, her curiosity turning to despair.

"These are not my things," she whispered. "I don't recognize any of this." She shook her head sadly.

Tate moved to her side, careful not to startle her. He knelt down.

"Nora, I'm Tate. Remember?" She continued to shake her head slowly, her eyes fixed at a space just beyond his shoulder. "My family moved back in here." His soft voice caught on the word "family", the mockery of it twisting his gut.

"These things – they're not mine," she whimpered.

Tate knew their moving in had disturbed whatever kind of peace Nora was able to find. He placed his hand gently on hers. "And where is my baby?" she cried softly. Now she looked right at Tate, searching him for the answer. Tate looked at her sadly.

"I don't know."

She slowly turned her head, dismissing him. He pulled his hand away and left the room. He walked slowly through the cavernous basement. Why had Constance been so hell bent on returning to this place? What could've been her reason for whoring herself out for this – this temple of misery?

A scuttling in the corner interrupted his brooding. He turned cautiously towards the source of the sound. A ragged grunt beckoned him. He ventured further across the room to the darkest shadows. He crouched down slowly and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Slowly, the figure faded into his view, just a hazy outline at first, and then the savage, bloody features filling in. Its eyes met his and the flash of recognition ignited in both boy and beast. The gruesome creature heaved itself at Tate, who shot back just out of its reach. "Easy!" Tate called angrily. At the sound of Tate's voice, it retreated slightly.

Tate steadied himself, crouched down again at a safer distance, his legs ready to spring back if necessary. The creature paced back and forth on its mutilated limbs. Tate watched, feeling an odd mix of repulsion and reunion.

"I guess you'll always be here. Won't you?" he whispered to the fiend.

If that's what you want.

Tate gazed at the bloody hole of a mouth and clawed hands. The beast reeked of rotting flesh. Yet in his disgust, Tate realized that he did want it to be here with him in this house. He wanted this thing, - this sin and pain and hate incarnate. It was so pure in its evil, Tate surged with a dark energy in its presence. It coursed through his veins.

Tate ventured closer to it. It grunted and hissed in agitation. Tate was not afraid because he realized, for the first time, that he was only looking at himself - a boy, lost and torn and wanting.

There, in the darkness, Tate vowed to make himself a sacrifice. He would give in to the beast's hunger, let it feed on him, And with this sacrifice, others would never have to realize. They would never have to see. He would save them all from the horror of ever knowing that its eyes, the eyes of the beast, are their own eyes, and theirs alone.