2018

Billie Dean and Violet sat in the living room together while Constance went to find her son. They were on the long couch, Billie Dean prim in her cream-colored skirt and satin top and Violet hunched over, wearing her favored layers of earth-tone comfort clothes. She had a cigarette in one hand and kept it near her chin for easy access.

"I really want to see him," Violet admitted. "But it's weird. It's like... There's something holding me back. I don't know. I've had a lot of weird dreams. Sometimes I forget what's a dream and what's real."

Billie Dean nodded sympathetically. "I've heard that from other spirits. I think it's important to try to... to be as human as you can when you're awake. Doing the things you would do if you were alive helps keep the memory fresh. When you always skip the stairs, for instance," she smiled at Violet's sheepish expression. Then she got serious again. "Reality starts to slip away more rapidly. I believe you're only as bound to this reality as you choose to be, Violet. But if you lose touch with it, it can be hard to find your way back. Most that I've seen don't."

Violet frowned at that last bit. "What do you mean, they don't?"

The medium lit a cigarette and leaned back into the corner of the sofa. "It's easier to lose aspects of humanity than it is to regain them. I think there's a trade-off. Whatever a spirit gains from losing that humanity... they have to surrender in order to be like a human again. Does that make sense?"

"Not... really," said Violet.

Billie Dean nodded; her flipped blonde hair didn't move. "Think about the stairs. Humans cannot go from the second floor to the first floor without using them. If you stop using the stairs, you are automatically a little less human."

Violet got that and it scored too close for comfort. She nodded and sucked on her cigarette as she could tell her friend wasn't finished.

"In order to become more human, you have to give up the luxury of going where ever you want in the house on a whim." Billie Dean spread her hands. "Now a simple matter of stairs isn't going to change a ghost from being like you to being something out of the Amityville Horror. But where do you draw your line at?"

"I can't make the walls bleed," Violet said.

"You can't," the medium agreed, exhaling smoke. "But there are spirits here who could. Under the right circumstances I bet they would."

Violet glanced around reflexively even though there was nothing special to be seen. She put her cigarette out after another drag. "How do they do it?"

Billie Dean shrugged. "I have no clue. I try to avoid spirits that can do things like that. They tend to be... more unpredictable. It seems to be part of the trade. You aren't just losing the stairs. You're gaining the ability to move through space in ways no human can. Can you tell me how you do it?"

The girl blinked a few times. "I... guess. Well. I could but I don't think it would make any sense to you since you can't do it."

"Try me."

Violet took a breath. "It's like... You go to step forward only instead of your foot landing on the floor in the room you're in, you just sort of... move forward a little more, um, it's like quickly only you don't speed up. You just sort of picture where you're moving to. Only it's like you can see where you're going. Like where you are and where you want to be sort of blur and when you get done stepping forward, you're just... there."

Billie Dean smiled. "I think I understand what you mean." She put her cigarette out.

Violet pulled her legs up into a criss-cross position. "So you think maybe that's how others, they do things like the blood? They see it happen and so it does?"

She looked up at the wall and concentrated. Nothing happened. Probably just as well; half a dozen ghosts would probably freak out at her if she got blood all over the place.

"I wish I knew," said Billie Dean. "But I don't even understand how I do what I do. Why should I be able to sit here talking to the ghost of a dead girl? But I can't turn it off. Everywhere I go, I see dead people." She laughed. "It's true. Sometimes I pretend like I don't see them because so many think they can tie up their pasts if they just find someone who can hear them."

"Is the world that crowded with ghosts?"

Billie Dean nodded then tipped her head. "What's interesting to me is how few there are in relation to how many people have died throughout time. When you think about how long people have been alive - and dying - it's actually a very small amount of individuals who wind up stuck here. It's why I find places like this house fascinating. It's in areas like these that the truth of the universe can be found."

Violet smiled. "You sound like a Nostradamus DVD commercial."

...

Constance didn't have to look for Tate; he was right out in the hall waiting for her. He looked at her with unbridled hope and expectation. She went over to him and straightened his sweater. Then she pet his cheeks with both of her hands. His hope was such a delicate thing. Beautiful to behold, so easy to crush.

"After what happened last time I should never let Michael come over here again," she said. She tried to sound stern but he was already beaming at her. He knew her too well. There was no sense trying to string him along so she relented. "I'll bring him to your party. But only for two hours."

"Thank you!" Tate cheered and grabbed her in an enthusiastic hug. "Thank you, mama, thank you sooo much!"

She let him carry on for a little bit then patted his back till she got his attention. "Don't make me regret this," she said, fixing him with a penetrating look.

He let go of her and looked sincere. "I won't." Then he was hugging her again. "Thank you!"

Constance gave him a squeeze but the teenager was too big to hang off her like he was trying to do. "All right, honey. You're goin' to knock us both over."

Tate released her again and put on his sweetest face. "It's okay if Chad helps with the party, right?"

Her expression hardened but she wasn't surprised. "So much for your not asking for anything more all year."

"I can't do a party by myself," Tate said. "And the priest and Michael'll expect at least one of my so-called parents to be there."

"Why couldn't you have told them Doctor Harmon was your daddy?" she said, still frowning.

"Because Pat was the one who was with me when the priest came to the door," said Tate. It was almost the truth. Sort of.

She waved a hand, dismissing the whole matter. "It's your party. Do what you want. But don't ever say I never let you have your way."

...

When he went looking for him later, Tate found Chad easy enough to find. He was clearing the central ducts and he was more than happy to complain to someone about it.

"I just cleaned them three months ago. They never run," he said. "And yet every month they're black and spewing shit on the ceiling thick enough to make blankets for small villages. I'm so glad I'm not breathing this crap in every day." He pulled his head out of the vent and then peered at Tate oddly.

"I'm going to have a party," Tate told him happily. "Can you help me with it?"

Chad found the request both flattering and slightly interesting. But. "I'm not helping you do anything with you looking like that. And seriously, Tate. The hair? Again?"

Tate looked deeply pained. "Fuck!"

The teen shrank to boy size as Chad closed up the vent. Tate pouted at him.

"Don't look at me like that," said Chad. He dusted himself off. "You know the rule. And you know the consequences."

"It's not fair!"objected Tate. "My mother-"

"You always have some excuse. But I noticed you haven't eaten a single one of your sweaters recently." Chad's look dared him to challenge the statement. "Come on. We'll talk about your party later, over dinner."

...

The hairbrush dampened Tate's enthusiasm quite a bit. At dinnertime it was Chad who had to bring the subject of the party up again as the boy was too busy sulking to do it himself.

"So, Tate," he said once everyone had a chance to tuck into their meal. "You were saying something earlier about a party?"

The boy poked at his stuffing sullenly. "Mama said she'd let Michael come over if I had a birthday party."

Patrick looked at him funny then looked over at Chad, mostly to see how he reacted.

"Well, I suppose any reason's a good reason to have a party," said Chad smoothly. "Though I don't know why you want a birthday party."

"What other kind of party could I invite him to?" said Tate. "A kiddie kegger? Don't think so."

Chad gave him the hairy eyeball. "Watch the tone, young man."

Tate slouched more in his chair and glared at his plate from eye level. He could feel the other two watching him. He was torn. He very badly wanted his party but he also was unhappy and getting madder since he couldn't express himself without getting in trouble. He blinked back angry tears.

"When are you wanting to have it?" Pat asked, trying to defuse the mood.

"August 4th. That's when my birthday is," said Tate. He poked his stuffing some more.

"What sort of theme were you thinking?" said Chad.

The boy shrugged with affected indifference. "I don't know. Whatever you want to do."

Chad liked that answer. "We'll come up with something." It sounded generous but he sort of meant that in the royal 'we'.

They ate for a bit in silence. Then Tate asked: "Can I have a new haircut for my birthday present?"

"No," said Chad without hesitation. It was like he expected the question.

Tate expected the answer. It didn't even make him that much unhappier. He just went back to spearing his food.

...

The boy's sullen mood followed him through the evening, right up to bedtime. He'd mostly forgotten about dream therapy until he got back to his room from changing and brushing his teeth and there was Dr. Harmon sitting in the bedside chair and looking through his notebook. The man smiled; his blue eyes were warm and friendly. Tate instantly felt fifty per cent better.

He shut the door and climbed into his bed. Then he crawled over the blanket hills and valleys till he was over on the side where Ben was sitting. The doctor set the notebook aside and clasped his hands between his knees.

"This morning you said you were feeling pretty good about how things went last night," he said. "How are you feeling now?"

Tate chewed on his fingernails while he tried to compartmentalize that question. "I feel okay. I didn't really have any bad dreams last night but I don't know if that means this is working or if I just didn't have one. You know?"

Ben nodded. "Understandable. It's too early to expect solid results. But you're comfortable with proceeding?"

Tate smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah. Sure." He tipped his head. "Are you okay with it? I mean, that chair doesn't look very comfy."

"I'm fine," reassured Ben. "I've shifted my sleep schedule around a bit so I can stay up and monitor you. I wouldn't be much help if I were sleeping all night too."

"Oh. Yeah," Tate grinned. "I guess that's true. So, what? Do you, like, watch my eyes or something? Or do I talk in my sleep? Chad and Pat said I walk in my sleep sometimes but I think they're bullshitting me. I think I'd notice something like that."

Ben shifted so he could put an arm over the back of the chair. He was wearing more comfortable clothing tonight: Sweats and a loose t-shirt. "You didn't talk in your sleep last night. Or walk. But there are certain signs people give off when they're dreaming... and when they're having bad dreams." He smiled. "I used to know a guy who talked in his sleep."

Tate sat up a little, interested. "Did he say anything dirty?"

The therapist laughed. "That's what was funny. He would talk to you about anything except personal things. We all thought he'd be a trove of juicy secrets but... nah. He clammed up every time."

"He was probably faking it," said Tate. But he liked the story anyway. "Nobody can lie in their sleep."

"He didn't lie," Ben pointed out. "He just didn't say anything at all."

Tate swung his legs and considered that. He wasn't convinced but he couldn't argue it either. So he changed the subject. "I'm going to have a birthday party in a couple of weeks. Do you want to come?"

"A birthday party?" Ben looked at Tate - really looked at him - and was taken aback by just how much like a child he seemed. He'd noticed the arrested development a long time ago but pairing it with a physically younger form was interesting. "Sure, I suppose. Although I'm guessing Chad will hand down the official invite?"

Tate nodded. "Yeah. Don't tell him I told you either." He rolled his eyes. "Isn't that crazy? I can't even tell people about my own party."

Almost as though he could tell they were talking about him, Chad came in for tuck-in. Tate crawled up the bed and settled in. Ben watched them like an ornithologist might watch a pair of rare birds. Tate wasn't really the age he looked but the therapist had no doubt that he got something out of the tuck-in ritual, as did Chad. What that was exactly Ben wasn't sure. He would have to chew on it later, when he had time to think.

Once Chad left, the patient and doctor talked for a while longer. Then Ben unintentionally bored the boy to sleep telling him about the first practice he worked in. It was a trick he would likely use more deliberately in the future.

... ...

When Ben manifested in the dream, the zombie apocalypse had already hit. It was Tate versus the world. He was doing well for himself: He had a Humvee stocked with an arsenal of assault weapons. His black leather trench coat had seen better days but its tattered state went well with his mud-covered combat boots so he kept it.

He'd been surviving on his own but Ben's arrival warped the dream. Things changed seamlessly so that Ben always been there, part of a successful zombie-slaying partnership. The only thing they could never agree on was who got to drive. Ben always won by virtue of seniority. Other than that he let Tate control where the dream went from there.

The color of the dream was off: Everything looked bleached and drained dry. The world was an action-packed gore fest of cinematic proportions. Ben wasn't a fan of zombie films but in a strange way it became like a video game as he was shooting at targets that were only vaguely human. The bloodshed and splatter was so over the top that it never felt real. It was easy to get into the spirit of it.

Until Tate got bit.

It was just a routine stop to raid for supplies at a K-mart. The horde had come out of nowhere. Ben and Tate were fast but one of the biters was just a little faster and took a chunk out of Tate's forearm. He shot the zombie in the head but the damage was already done. He sat down, pale and losing strength.

Ben crouched beside him and looked at the injury. He was shocked by how quickly it was going necrotic. The infection was racing through the teen's vascular structure, writhing visibly in the veins closest to the skin.

"Tate," he said urgently. "This is just a bad dream. It isn't real."

Tate laughed and coughed at the same time. His lungs were shutting down. "Why's it... hurt so much then?"

He sagged and Ben had to catch him to stop him falling over.

"It's just a nightmare," he tried to reassure his injured companion. He tried to fight back the spread of the infection but Tate's belief was too strong. Ben couldn't stop it. He was losing control of the dream. "You're going to wake up soon. When you do this will all be over."

Tate choked and gave a violent spasm. Ben held onto him until he stopped twitching. Then he stopped moving completely. He went limp. Ben frowned but before he could decide what to do next Tate's eyes opened. They were yellow and blood-shot with infection. His skin was rapidly losing its remaining color. He snarled and grabbed Ben's shoulders and yanked down hard, fully intending to take a bite out whatever he could reach.

Ben used the momentum and flipped forward so that he could twist away. He scrambled to his feet. Tate was slower but not so much that it mattered. He charged at the therapist and Ben had to pull out of the dream.

... ...

He retreated to the chair and pulled the hood off. He felt like he just ran a ten-mile obstacle course. Ben looked over at Tate, who was still sleeping. The doctor couldn't wake him since he was sedated and Ben knew that he didn't have the strength to go in again and try to deal with what he'd left in the dream.

He changed his clothes and sank down into the chair again. He spent the next few hours sitting there staring at Tate, feeling like a failure.

...

Author's Note:

I couldn't write an American Horror Story without including the current American horror staple of zombies. The dream sequence I imagined was a little Zombieland up till the end there.

Tate's birthday party was partly inspired by the one Michael didn't get to have and the one on the album Disney's Haunted Mansion - the original LP. As a kid I loved that thing. I always adored the two-page spread where the ghost child was having a birthday party in the ballroom. It was my favorite part of the book and the story. Well, second favorite. The ghost in the attic that carried his head in a hat box was probably my favorite.

So the next chapter's the last in this episode. I'm finding it hard to summarize the next episode as it wanders all over the place and looks at a variety of characters over the house's timeline. You'll even get to find out about the 4th Langdon child - the one Constance never talks about. So stick around. The best is yet to come.