2018 - Three days after the earthquake

"If you don't mind my asking... How long has your son been staying next door?" asked Father Jeremiah over coffee.

Breakfast was over and Michael was in the living room watching cartoons. Jeremiah and Constance could see him from where they sat at the table.

Constance put her hands around her cup but didn't lift it. She just looked into the black, alcohol-laced liquid. "Since the day he died... in 1994."

Father Jeremiah's brows shot up. "Oh. I see. Do the current owners... They know about him?"

She set her cup down gently. "Yes. They are... aware of him." She got up and went over to where she kept her picture of her son and daughter - the last one she got of them together. She lovingly brushed a finger next to Tate's smile. So rare then. So rare now. "Tate. My boy." She handed the framed photo to the priest. She curled her hand to her chest like she was cradling a memory. "That's him there, with his sister. Adelaide. Addie."

Jeremiah took the picture and looked at it. He'd seen it in the kitchen, of course. But Constance had many photos on her walls and she didn't speak of anyone in them. Looking closer at the two people in the picture, he was again struck by the sense that he'd met the young man before.

He gave the frame back to her. She returned it to its home on the counter.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"The world gave me four children," she said bitterly as she sat back down. "And it ripped them away again. Talking about it is... heartache." She lit a cigarette and turned her attention to Michael in an attempt to stop herself getting misty-eyed. It didn't work; her eyes filled with tears anyway. "You see, it wasn't enough for my babies to die. Oh, no. This place has two of them trapped in that house." She looked back over at the priest. "It might have me too. Maybe it's just that God knows that my children - and Michael - still need me."

"Two of them?"

Constance nodded while she inhaled smoke. "Tate and Beauregard. Beau. He's the... gentlest..." Her tears overcame her ability to speak. She set her cigarette down and went for a tissue to blot her face with.

"I'm so sorry, Constance," Jeremiah said. "I don't mean to cause you more pain."

She waved her hand to dismiss the apology. Once she'd finished cleaning herself up she returned to the table. "My pain has nothin' to do with you. But it has everythin' to do with why I've stayed here all these years."

"Yours is the most unusual situation I've ever heard of or known," Father Jeremiah admitted. He would like to know more, in fact, but he didn't want to press her on such a sensitive subject. "But I'll help you in any way I can."

She smiled radiantly at him and put her hand on his. "I know you will, Jeremiah. You've already done so much. And for that I am truly grateful."

Billie Dean came in then, dressed for the day in a sporty top and pleated skirt. "Good morning," she bid them both. Then: "Ready?" she asked Constance.

Constance nodded and put out her cigarette. "Billie Dean and I are goin' next door for a bit. Watch Michael?"

The priest agreed and the ladies left. After they left he checked on Michael then went and got an old book out of his collection. He settled in the living room with it where he could keep an eye on his ward while he did some research.

...

Billie Dean and Constance entered the old mansion through the back door. Billie Dean wanted to contact Violet but she wasn't about to go into Murder House alone after Tate's reaction last time.

"Violet?" Billie Dean said. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. "It's Billie Dean. I'm here."

The teen girl appeared near the center island with a smile. She wore winter clothes because they suited her mood since she didn't have to worry about the weather. "It's good to see you," she said. She extended her smile to Constance, who returned the look gracefully.

Billie Dean smiled and moved to embrace the girl. "It's good to see you, too, Violet." The medium stepped back but kept her hands on her slender shoulders. She looked at her sincerely. "How are you?"

Constance lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter. She'd only had two puffs when she saw Tate skulk by the hall doorway. He glared at her. She didn't react. She just kept alert.

"I'm all right I guess," Violet said in a tone that said otherwise. "Weird shit's been happening lately."

"I know," said Billie Dean. She gave the girl a reassuring squeeze then let go. "It's not just you."

Tate slunk by the doorway again, closer this time. Constance sucked one more drag from her cigarette then put it out. "Excuse me just a moment, ladies," she said and headed into the dining room.

Billie Dean knew her friend was going to deal with the one spirit that she was leeriest of so she didn't mind being left alone with Violet. She felt confident she could handle just about anything else the house might throw at her.

"So... Your email was vague," she said to the younger woman. "What's been going on?" She lit a cigarette and then offered one to Violet.

"I don't know. My dad..." Violet took the cigarette. Billie Dean lit it for her. "You know Patrick and Chad?"

"Yes. The gay couple."

Violet nodded. "My dad and them... I guess they've been doing something with Tate. It's like they've been... I don't know. Reprogramming him or something. I don't really know for sure."

Billie Dean frowned. "Reprogramming?" She reflected on the events of yesterday. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I don't really either," admitted Violet. "I tried talking to my dad but..." She shook her head and sucked on her cigarette again. "I don't know. He's been acting kind of weird in general, the past couple of months. He's been spending a lot of time with that creepy doctor in the basement."

Billie Dean leaned on the island and lightly tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "Doctor Montgomery?" Her neatly-plucked brows arched briefly. "He built this place, for his wife."

"Yeah," Violet said, expression flickering. Tate had told her about the Montgomeries. "I've seen them and their baby. Doctor Montgomery asks me if I want an abortion every time I go down in the basement."

"I'm glad I don't see him more often," Billie Dean said with a tight smile. She sucked on her cigarette and looked at the teen, weighing how much she thought the girl could handle. She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Violet, the evil in this house is spreading. It's already covered Constance's house now as well as this one."

Violet stared at her.

"Whatever's behind it wants to get out," the medium said, exhaling smoke with the words. "And it's succeeding."

"Is there anything we can do?" Violet asked.

Billie Dean shook her head. "I don't know. Possibly. I'll know better when I've talked to some of the others."

Violet pulled on her cigarette one last time then snuffed it in the ashtray. "Do... Do you think I should... see Tate?"

Billie Dean regarded the girl thoughtfully. "I think you should do what you feel you have to. But please be careful Violet. We tend to find what we look for. If you do see him it might be best if he doesn't see you."

Violet nodded, seeing the wisdom in her words.

"I'm going to be here for the next two weeks," Billie Dean said. "But hopefully we'll know better what to do in just a couple of days. If you need me - for anything - I'm right next door. I'll give you my cell number. You know Constance's?"

"I... don't think so. I don't have a phone," Violet said. "They cut mine off a few years back. I've got an Instant Messenger program on one of the laptops though. We can leech internet off the neighbors but there's no way I've found to leech phone service."

Billie Dean considered that. "I haven't used anything like that but I can bring my tablet by this evening if you think you can help me set it up."

"Sure," said Violet. "Just don't leave it unguarded. Someone will take it."

...

Constance found her teenage son just outside the room looking very unhappy. She took him by the arm and steered him out to the central hallway, away from the kitchen. He went with her but he sulked silently the whole way.

"What are you doin'?" she said.

Tate folded his arms. His fingers disappeared into the sleeves of his flannel shirt. "Why'd you bring that lady back here? Why's she talking to Violet?"

"They're friends, sweetheart. Friends do that," Constance said patiently.

"Are they talking about me?" He looked over her shoulder back in the direction of the kitchen.

"I really don't know," his mother said. "You need to let them have their space."

"Why does that lady hate me so much?" Tate asked. He looked at Constance with red-rimmed eyes. "I never did anything to her."

Constance sighed and brushed his messy hair back so she could see his face better. "She doesn't hate you. You're just a strong presence, sweetheart. She's sensitive."

That didn't make Tate feel better. "I don't like her."

"You don't have to like her," Constance said, her tone cooling. "But she's my friend and I won't have you scarin' her."

Tate didn't like the subject anymore so he changed it. "Why didn't you tell that priest guy about me?"

"What should I have said? I had a son but he's dead now?" Constance asked defensively, unfazed by the sudden change in topic. She'd managed her son for too many years to be thrown so easily.

"That's what other moms would do," Tate guessed, just as defensively. There were hurt and angry tears in his eyes.

"Other moms. Do you think it's easy bein' the mother of a-" She waved a hand at the whole of him. "Boy like you? I'm doin' the best I can. I'm tryin' to raise your son."

Tears spilled down Tate's cheeks. "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart! What a silly question."

Constance pulled him in for a hug and ran her fingers through his hair. He didn't resist but he didn't hug back either. He needed more convincing.

"Is this about yesterday?" she asked. "I was angry with Michael, honey. Not you. He's a willful child. Like... some other children I've known."

She gently pushed him back and cupped his face in her hands. He pouted at her.

"You like him better than me," he said.

"What?" She blinked a few times, taken aback. "Tate, you are my son. I will always love you more than life itself. Nothin' will ever change that." She made sure he was looking at her when she said: "You will always be my baby."

He found that somewhat comforting. "I miss you," he said and finally hugged her.

She smiled and brushed his damp cheek with the heel of her palm. "I miss you too, sweetheart. Time just gets away from me. I'll try to stop by more often."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now, I need to get back," said Constance, petting his cheek lovingly. "I'll come back around later this week. I've got a present for you."

For the first time that day, Tate's unhappy look eased. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise," his mother said. "Run along now. I'll see you later."

She gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek and headed back to the kitchen. Tate's unhappy look returned.

...

1984

"Mama," Tate sobbed. "Mama!"

It was the middle of the night and the shadows were long across the ceiling. Mean boys in striped shirts had woke the 6-year-old by throwing his toys around and calling him bad names. He told them to go away and they did but he was scared more bad things would come so he didn't want to get out of bed. He'd been calling his mother for a while but she didn't come. She couldn't hear him; she was out cold thanks to Valium and Johnny Walker. He didn't know. He was afraid the monsters had gotten her.

He cried and cried and finally the door to the hall opened. But the pale blonde lady who came in wasn't Constance. It was Mrs. Nora. She looked like her heart was breaking. She came to him with her arms out and he stopped crying. She sat down on his bed and he crawled into her embrace. He wiped his face on the layers of ruffles that made up the collar of her dressing robe then he hooked his arms around her neck.

Mrs. Nora was cool, like the air from the refrigerator, and she smelled like lavender dusting powder. She shifted and rearranged him so that they could sit snugly, her arms around him and his around her. It didn't matter to Tate that she wasn't warm. She was there. She was familiar and gentle and kind. She pet his hair and rocked him slowly and kept the bad things away.

"It isn't right," she murmured to herself. "They shouldn't do this to a child. How can they? It's absolutely deplorable. Irresponsible. If you're going to wipe yourself out on liquor and cigarettes, have the decency to hire competent help!"

She kissed the top of his head then, to reassure him that he wasn't the cause of her distress. "You're all right now though, aren't you?"

He nodded but he kept his face mashed into her robe and his arms around her neck. He wasn't crying and he wasn't scared but he also wasn't ready to be let go. "Tell me a story?" he mumbled.

"A story?" Nora said. She kept rocking him side to side. "I'm afraid I don't really remember any of the ones my nanny used to tell me..."

"Tell me a story about you."

"About me?" she was flattered to the point of tears. It had been decades since she'd heard anyone ask her about herself. "Well. When we came out here, this house wasn't even built yet. Can you imagine that? The city didn't exist. All around were dirt roads and fields."

Tate shifted a little so he could hear her better. "Did you build the house?"

"My husband Charles had it built. It took an eternity but..." She sighed and smoothed his short blond hair with one hand. "It was worth the time. He had the glass for the front windows imported. And the chandeliers."

Tate had no interest in the architectural details of the house even though he wanted to listen to her voice. As late as it was, hearing her ramble on about how the window casings were ordered specifically to match the banister of the central stairs worked better than any faerie tale could. He was asleep for nearly an hour before she noticed. But she held him a while longer anyway.

...

Author's Note:

I listened to Pink Floyd's "Mother" (the movie version, not album) quite a bit while writing Blood Ties. There's a great clip from the movie on YouTube. It's the clip that starts out with the guy in bed, hanging up the phone. You can find other song suggestions in my Profile.

Episode 4 is kind of inverted: Next chapter there's a funeral and it's probably going to be the least emotionally trying moment in the whole episode. So enjoy the funeral while it lasts. It's all a downward spiral from there.