Chapter 2

House of the Rising Son

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"You can see me," Tate said and wavered in his place. One hand splayed on the counter for balance and he shivered at how damp his palm was against the chilled surface. He could have disappeared into another room if he wanted to, but shock kept him planted in the kitchen. Someone could see him regardless of his invisibility, and this someone had just called him Dad.

"Yeah," the guy said. "When your dad's a ghost..."

"Have you always been able to?"

"See dead people?" The teen snorted, preoccupied with some other thought or inside joke Tate wasn't privy to. Tate's fingers twitched with irritation for a long moment. "As long as I can remember. I saw people outside this house all the time, in the backyard, on the porch." Tate wondered how often he'd seen him peeking out the window at Constance's place. He only did it when a police car rolled up and delivered him back to his grandmother. What did Constance call him? He vaguely remembered her yelling the name Michael during late-night arguments. Such a normal name for an abnormal person. Constance was never without an excuse. "I thought they were the owners until I saw they weren't growing any older," Michael continued as he gave the kitchen a once-over. "I've wanted to visit here, ever since I was a kid. The infamous Murder House. Seemed like the sorta place I'd enjoy." Michael patted the counter fondly.

You have no idea, Tate wanted to say. The house got what it wanted - the prodigal son returned.

"I told my friends the Westfield High murderer was here. They probably would've come too if they weren't chicken shit," Michael said. Tate hadn't paid much attention to when Constance visited, but sometimes curiosity got the best of him and he eavesdropped on snippets of her monologues about Michael. Michael played JV basketball at some ritzy private high school for three years – Constance would under no circumstances enroll any Langdon at Westfield again. In his junior year, he became class president. Next year he'd graduate and attend one of the many colleges Tate once planned on going to, live the life he'd planned for himself. That is, before he moved into Murder House. Everyone stuck there knew it didn't offer happy futures.

"What stopped you?" Tate said. "From coming sooner, I mean."

"Grandma. She barred my windows, locked me in my room, the works. Stalked me at school. Crazy bitch. But I figure you already know what she's like."

"I guess so," Tate said as his shock settled into nausea. A slow burn eased up his throat. Maybe he wouldn't have done the things he did if Constance paid him any mind. "You got out either way."

"Took some stealth. A little brute force," Michael said with a grin and massaged the raw knuckles of his right hand. He dug into his pocket and withdrew Constance's spare set of keys to the house. "She didn't hide them too well." He referred to Constance in the past tense. Tate knew him for less than five minutes, but he wouldn't put matricide past Michael. He did kill his babysitter after all.

"You're not really my – " Tate couldn't bring himself to say "son." The word sounded foreign, wrong. He hoped Violet wasn't listening to this. It'd be like the night she sent him away all over again. He imagined her face caving in, pale and slack-jawed as she realized his betrayal. In his desperation, he thought playing dumb and screaming pleas would stop her from saying the final "Go away." But she only yelled back, enunciating the vowels as if she meant to banish him forever.

"Pride and joy," Michael drawled, jolting Tate back to the present.

"Bullshit," Tate said, though when he straightened, the sweat on his back of his neck turned cold and his stomach lurched. He searched for a resemblance between them. They stood eye-level and had the same slouched shoulders, though Michael's were considerably broader. His eyebrows were light, so much so that the lamp overhead made him seem like he didn't have them at all. Tate chose to ignore that he spotted his nose on Michael's face and the same shallow parentheses around his mouth. He wore plaid underneath a weathered jean jacket. Tate briefly wondered if plaid was to Michael as striped sweaters was to him. A corner of un-tucked shirt hung over his jeans. Typical teenager, if it wasn't for his eyes. Michael had the same shape as Violet's, but the pupils stood out like bullet holes against unsettling blue irises. Tate lifted his chin, a silent challenge. "There's no proof." He wasn't a father. The most he amounted to was a sperm donor. Nothing more, nothing less. He felt no attachment.

"Keep telling yourself that, Daddy-o."

"Stop calling me – ," Tate struggled through clenched teeth.

"Grandma showed me this photo of you and your sister – Addie? By the tree. She used to tell me, 'That's your dear sweet father' and 'God rest your soul you don't end up like him.'"

"That's no reason to believe her. She's a compulsive liar," Tate pressed.

"She never told me how you died. When I was old enough I did my own research," Michael took a seat down at the counter, reaching for a silver cigarette lighter by the sink. Violet's lighter. Something so trivial took on great importance when it was in Michael's hands. He was touching Violet's things, smudging her goodness. It was like he was touching her. Tate went to grab it, but Michael was quicker. He stared up at Tate, his eyes shadowed as he flicked the top open. The flame ignited. "I have friends at Westfield. I saw the memorial board. Gotta hand it to you...takes some real balls to do what you did." Tate blinked rapidly, the hot rush of bile on his tongue.

"What?" Tate said. Of course he knew exactly what. He had to live with the guilt for thirty-odd years. Michael was smiling.

"Shooting up a school. Amateur move, if you ask my opinion. If you wanna go out, go out with a bang. Go out doing something that'll change the world. I guess Gran really screwed you over, huh?" Tate's vision blurred, his fingers curled into fists as he battled his better judgment. A day, a minute, didn't go by that he wasn't reminded of his poor decisions. No physical contact, he repeated Ben's mantra, though Ben hadn't said anything about what to do if it was his child.

"I wasn't going to in the beginning. It was the house," Tate said, staring at the floor. "Living here broke me down."

"You're a sick fuck with or without the house," Michael said. "But then again, I guess I am too." His eyes wandered away from the flame, to a point beyond Tate. Perhaps he was reliving some recent crime. He flicked the lighter on, off. On. Off. Again and again.

"Put that down," Tate said.

"Or you'll ground me?" Michael said, deadpan. "Kinda late, Dad. Besides, I didn't come here to be lectured."

"Then why did you?"

"To meet you...," Michael went to say something else, but decided against it. He studied the lighter for a few minutes, eyes trained on the flame. "If the house burned down, what would happen to the ghosts?" Tate tried to match the intensity of Michael's expression during the question. He had no idea what the answer was. They couldn't die a second death, right? If the house was gone, its influence would be too. The ghosts would be free to move on. Whether they'd roam earth-bound or onto another afterlife, he wasn't so sure.

"I don't know," Tate shrugged, inching closer. He could will himself over, but Michael might expect that since he'd seen everything else.

Just then his son rose from his seat, the lighter's flame reflected in his colorless eyes. "Let's find out, shall we?"

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Author's Note: I had The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" on repeat while writing this, so that's where the chapter got its title. :-)

Thank you for all your lovely & encouraging feedback! Hope this chapter met some of your expectations. I had a lot of fun writing Michael's snark. Couldn't decide how to write Tate – I think I leaned more towards his defensive, vulnerable side. Thanks again! Looking forward to your thoughts.