2018 - day after the funeral

Maria approached the sinkhole in the back yard, getting close enough to look down into its dark depths. It was a lure to the dead nursing student, one she'd been watching from the window since it opened up a week ago. She didn't know why it attracted her so. That's why she finally decided to go downstairs to check it out.

Getting close to it didn't resolve the strange feeling. Neither did looking into the hole. So she stood there, gazing into the black well, trying to sort out what it was that compelled her. It was just a hole. She had never seen a sinkhole before but it didn't look like anything special. Yet the draw it had was undeniable.

She stood there for a long time before resisting the hypnotic effect. She knew if the twins saw her just standing there in the yard for hours they would tease her for it so she decided to go back inside. She could consider the puzzle of the hole just as easily from the upstairs window.

The slender ghost girl turned away from the sinkhole. Then she felt something brush her middle. She looked down just as a tendril of shadow tightened around her waist. It snatched her off her feet and hauled her down into the sinkhole. Her scream died as quickly as it began.

...

"You're doing it wrong."

Child-sized Tate glanced up from his work. Chad was looking across the dining table at him disapprovingly.

Tate made a face. "It's stamping," he said. He looked at the newsprint he'd been inking. It looked fine to him. "It can't be wrong."

Chad sighed loudly and moved over to the side of the table where the boy was sitting. "If you don't put the stamp down exactly right you get gaps." He stabbed an accusing finger at an area where the border pattern didn't quite meet. "It's not that difficult. Just watch the edge of the stamp, not the top."

Tate squinted at the spot. "I can hardly see that."

"But you can see it," said Chad. "Now you're going to have to fill it in by hand."

"God," Tate said. "You're shitting me."

"Don't curse," Chad said. "And no. I'm not. I told you: It has to be straight."

Patrick eyed both of them. He was trimming corners off craft board and trying to stay out of it but the constant bickering was starting to grate on his nerves.

"It's not going to matter if there's a couple of little places that aren't exactly one-hundred-per-cent perfect," Tate insisted. "Nobody's ever going to look that close."

"I will," said Chad.

Tate rolled his eyes. "Besides you."

Chad left Tate's side to go back to where he'd been dividing up small swatches of colored paper. "If you can't do it right, maybe I should find something easier for you to do."

"I didn't want to do this in the first place!" Tate objected. "I wanted to cut stuff."

"You don't need to be cutting anything," said Chad.

Tears welled up in Tate's eyes. He wasn't sure whether he was being picked on or just paranoid.

"Would you two stop?" Patrick interjected. "Just for a few minutes? I feel like I'm in PBS hell."

"He's ruining the border," sniffed Chad. "Excuse me if that bothers me."

"I'm not ruining it!" Tate fumed, near to crying again. He grabbed the stamp and slammed it down in the pad. Then he stamped the page in random places a few times before smashing the stamp back down on the pad. He folded his arms and glared at Chad. "There! Now it's ruined."

The flash of anger dwindled as soon as Tate registered the outraged look on the man's face.

"Go to your room, young man," Chad ordered, barely keeping himself from squeezing the paper pieces he'd been sorting.

Tate retreated quickly but slowed once he was out of the dining room. He took the stairs just to make the trip to his room take longer. It helped him convert panic back into anger. Why did Chad have to be so anal about stupid things like stamps? It was worse than Mrs. Nora and the baby. He'd certainly looked like Tate had stabbed his baby when he stamped the paper up.

"Ghosts are so fucking weird!" he said as he kicked the bedroom door shut.

He went and sat down on the floor near his bed, back to the wall, and folded his arms over his knees. He tried to remember what life felt like; what being alive felt like. Did it feel like this? He kind of thought it did but everything had been so messed up for so long, he really didn't know what 'normal' was supposed to be. He wasn't sure he'd ever known. But he was certain 'normal' didn't involve freaking out over stamped paper.

The door opened and he looked over. Patrick came in. For an instant Tate was glad to see him - he wasn't Chad, who had looked ready to gut him over the stamping fiasco. But it also meant that Chad had probably sent him. Which was never a good thing at moments like these. Reactionary tears sprang to Tate's eyes.

Pat closed the door and, to the boy's surprise, he came over and sat down beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments then Patrick looked at him.

"Sometimes I feel like doing that too," the man said.

Tate gave him a funny look.

Pat propped a knee up and folded his hands over it. "When we bought this house, we were going to fix it up and resell it. Flip it and get something we could live in." He smiled without humor. "The nursery was the only project we actually finished together." He gave a short sigh. "I can paint walls. Fix things. But I hate crafting. I can't tell you how much I hate it. How much I hate doing it-" He stopped short of saying 'with him'.

"Why do you do it then? I mean, I have to. But you could just say no."

"What else is there to do?" Patrick paused then added: "He and I fight about enough things already. Crafting's something to do to pass the time. Not my personal go-to but... something's better than nothing. So we craft a bit. Eventually he gets tired of telling me I'm wrong and takes over. Fighting with him over it is pointless. You should know that by now. You have to choose your battles in life. It's even more important when you're dead, I think."

Tate felt a snag on his fingernail and chewed on it. "I wasn't trying to battle him. I just got mad."

"...and destroyed his project."

"It was just some paper," Tate said sullenly. He picked at the sole of his shoe now, tearing a bit off.

"You know that's not how he sees it."

Tate frowned. He didn't like where the conversation was going so he stopped participating.

"You're going to have to apologize to him later," Patrick said.

Tate didn't say anything. He just got teary-eyed and kept picking at his sneaker.

"All right," said Patrick. He knew when the lines of communication were dead. He squeezed the boy's shoulder then started to rise. "Let's get this over with."

Tate looked up at him and tears slid down his cheeks. "You don't have to punish me," he said. "You don't even want to."

"That's not the point," Pat said.

"I thought you were going to be cool about this!"

Patrick frowned at him. "When have I ever been cool about you throwing a tantrum?"

There wasn't an instance Tate could name; he didn't even have to think about it. But for some reason he'd thought this might be such a time. He got to his feet slowly. More tears leaked out.

"This sucks," he said emphatically. "This totally fucking sucks! You don't even want to do it!"

Patrick ushered Tate toward the bed and the inevitable. A tawse was the man's weapon of choice, a fork-tongued strap of black leather left over from his living days. He'd picked it up a week or so before he died. It had never actually seen use in life. Its home for the past few years was on a nail in Tate's closet. He went to get it while Tate dropped his bottoms and assumed the position, bent over the bed.

Considering the situation, Patrick went easy on the boy, delivering just ten strokes to his bare backside before letting him up to cry it off. Afterward, Pat took his time hanging the tawse up to give himself a chance to cool down. Without anger to inhibit his libido, he found corporal punishment arousing, which was inconvenient at times like this.

When he finally turned back, Tate had his jeans up despite the discomfort it caused. Technically he had the ability to heal the damage but they had a standing rule that said no rapid healing for 12 hours. Tate had broken that rule once, early on, and suffered for it. He hadn't broken it since.

"Why do you always do what Chad tells you to?" The boy's tears made his words petulant more than accusatory.

Pat went over to where he was and sat down on the end of the bed. "I don't. This wasn't-"

"Yes, you do!" Tate cut him off with a hurt glare. He hadn't finished buttoning his pants; arguing was more important. "You do every single thing he tells you to do!"

"No. I don't."

"Yeah, you do," Tate said. He made another futile attempt to fix his jeans but he was too worked up to concentrate on two things at once. "Name one thing you ever did that wasn't Chad-approved!"

Patrick grabbed his nearest arm and pulled him closer. "Stop being a brat. Do you want a real spanking?"

Tate met the stern look with a sulk and fresh tears. "No."

Patrick scooped him up then and deposited the boy in his lap in a way that kept pressure off Tate's bottom. "What's going on? You've been acting out all week. Are the nightmares getting worse?"

Tate shifted a little and shrugged. "I guess. I don't know." He looked up to make eye contact, brief and unhappy. "I hate my mother."

Patrick gave a short laugh. "Who doesn't? Chad said she was over here again. Did she say something to you?"

"Yeah," Tate said. "She said I should go be by myself."

"Sounds like something she'd say," Patrick said. He put his arms around the boy in his lap. "I don't think she approves of our arrangement."

Tate shifted again, this time so he could see Pat's face better. "Yeah." He thought about it then decided: "I don't care though."

"Good."

...

Violet found Chad later, still sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by his crafting materials. He hadn't gotten anything done since the blow-up over the border but he couldn't bring himself to leave either. He was just sitting there, hands folded, staring at the shambles of his crafting day.

"Am I interrupting?" the girl asked as she wandered in.

He stirred and took on an 'above it all' air. "No, no. You're fine. As you can see, it's just me."

She moved closer to the table and inspected the various papers and tools scattered about. "What are you doing?"

"Scrapbooking," said Chad. He shuffled some papers around aimlessly. "Trying to, anyway. Against all odds."

Violet slid into the seat at the end of the table near him. "I used to have a scrapbook."

Chad blinked at her in open surprise. "You? Seriously?" He looked mildly impressed. "I didn't know you had an artsy side. Must be hiding under all those dreary clothes you pile on."

"I had a whole album," she said. "One of those big ones you use for science projects. I had all sorts of cool stuff in it. Like... I had these bits of confetti that were shaped like spiders and webs, from my first Halloween party. And I had this tiny Queen of Spades card. A friend of mine was on a sticker kick so there was one page we covered all over in the weirdest shit she could find."

"Interesting," said Chad. His tone suggested it might not be. "What happened to your scrapbook?"

Violet found the stamp pad and pressed her finger into it then looked at the mark. "Accidentally got left behind when we moved here. Most of my pictures of my old friends were in it." She smudged her finger on her thumb, smearing the ink about. "I miss it."

"So make a new one." Chad handed her a handi-wipe for the ink. "I have plenty of things here you could use. God knows it would be nice if someone could appreciate them."

Violet took the wipe. "I don't have anything to put in a scrapbook now. I can't exactly take pictures."

"You can still collect things," he said. He noticed she wasn't using the wipe and did a little hand-wave at her till she started cleaning herself. "Draw things. Something tells me you'd be good with a calligraphy pen."

"I don't know..." she hedged, setting aside the used wipe.

"I'm serious," Chad said. He got to his feet, tossed the wipe away and starting digging through his plastic envelope of pens. "Here. Try these." He brought over a packet of 10 pens in varying nib-sizes and styles.

"I really just came to talk to you," Violet said. She found the package of pens thrust into her hand. "About Tate?"

Chad shoved some newsprint at her. "Use this for practice. It's already ruined." Then he seemed to register what she'd said. "What about him?"

"I was just wondering... What is it you and my dad and Patrick have been doing with him?"

Chad sat back down in his chair and folded his arms over his crafting supplies. "I ask myself that same question sometimes." He could see he was only confusing her so he started again. "We've sort of been his in-patient therapy team the past few years. And let me tell you: It hasn't been easy."

"Why do you even care?" Violet asked, genuinely perplexed.

Chad shrugged. "Honestly? I didn't at first. I just wanted Patrick to stop beating the little shit up all the time. It was very distracting." He ignored the shocked look the girl gave him and started sorting his paper swatches. "After a while... I don't know. He sort of grows on you. Like a rash."

Violet looked dubious. She toyed with the pen while she tried to absorb what he was saying. It took her a moment to respond. "I- Do you think I could maybe... watch him sometime? Without him knowing, I mean?"

"I'm amazed you have the manners to even ask. Most people in this house would just turn invisible and do it without asking." Chad sorted a few more sheets of paper. "When do you want to do it?"

"Tomorrow?" she shrugged.

"All right," he said after consideration. "Come to library tomorrow around one. We'll be in there."

She tugged the cap off the pen and experimentally wrote her name. She liked the way the pen slanted on the 'v' and the 't'. She wrote her name again with a bit of a twist.

"Hey," she said after she'd written her name for a fourth time. "These are pretty cool."

Chad inspected her work. "It's not an Illuminated Manuscript," he said. "But... not bad for a first go. Try the others. They all write differently."

...

Author's Note:

You have to look close but there is a hug in that chapter, as promised. I know it's not much but hopefully it'll get you through the next turn of the spiral.

Next chapter, we're going back to 2017, just before Christmas again. Before Chad started slipping Tate the meds Ben gave him. Before Rubber Man got caught in Tate's room a 2nd time. The ghosts from A Christmas Carol got nothin' on the ghosts of Murder House... or the living, for that matter.