Late the following morning, Clara set out to the backyard with a razor blade and a clear mind—she had told Cordelia about a potential gardening endeavor in their new home, and using her earthy powers, she was able to create beautiful flowers, trees, shrubs, hedges, and other types of vegetation. She first focused on the existing shrubs and trees, touching the small leaves or the trees' trunks and concentrating on making them more alive, lush and vibrant. When she finally took out the razor blade, she made a cut across her veined wrist to make herself bleed generously as she quickly walked to a patch of dirt that looked as though it had been there for a while. She concentrated as her blood dripped on the earth, creating a bush of pink peonies before covering another similar-sized patch with a cluster of strawberry plants—once they were grown and became ripe by mere concentration, she plucked one and ate it.

By the time Clara made towering flowers grown around the posts of the gazebo with ivies in the lattice, she walked to the side of the house and caused her drops of blood to grow ivy up the side of the house—little did she know she was not alone in the new garden of her own design. She turned around to suddenly see the image of an old woman with deep red hair walking slowly toward her, admiring Clara's horticultural creations before looking directly into the young woman's eyes—she gasped upon seeing the woman's discolored iris and wrinkled face; she also wore a maid's costume.

"Uh…" Clara was suddenly speechless.

"I hope I haven't upset you," the strange old maid said, "being here so unexpectedly."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the young woman asked, covering her bloody wrist and approaching her.

"I'm Moira," the elderly woman said. "I'm a maid."

"Huh, interesting," Clara said with a giggle. "Cordelia never said anything about hiring a maid."

"Oh, I've been here for a long time," Moira replied.

"Well, my sister and adopted mother and I moved here yesterday," the young woman explained. "We came from San Francisco. I was born in New Orleans with my sister, though."

"Welcome to the neighborhood," the old woman said, looking around at what she could see of the fruits of Clara's labor. "Did you grow these?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Well…" Clara trailed off, "it's a long story, really."

"Yet you're bleeding," Moira said, pointing her wrinkled finger at the profuse amount of blood dripping from her wrist. Clara sighed and bit her lower lip.

"That's…kinda how my power works," she said.

"Power?"

"Yeah, I can grow things," Clara clarified, taking a step back from the strange old maid. "See, this is why…uh…it's hard to explain. You wouldn't understand."

"I might be able to," Moira told her. "Me of all people, I know that there are some things that cannot explained by rational thought."

"I'm not perfect, but believe me," Clara began, "I think I'm pretty rational."

"So can you explain how you made all these…beautiful flowers?" Moira asked.

"That's going to be hard," Clara said, "because having powers isn't something that can rationally be explained. See, I inherited mine from my parents. My sister has them, too."

"Can she make things grow, as well?"

"No," Clara answered. "She can burn things."

"Oh, dear," the old maid answered, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Yeah, so I'm the fortunate one. If a plant already exists and is in rough shape, I can make it green again. If I let my blood drop on soil, I can create anything I want," Clara explained. "If I think of a color or the name of the plant, a corresponding plant will pop up and grow from the ground."

The old maid seemed speechless, her disfigured iris staring at Clara curiously—where did she come from, she asked herself.

"Your secrets are safe with me," she said.

"Eh, these powers are a part of me," Clara stated. "I don't always tell people, but even if I do and they ostracize me for it, I won't change. I can't change. I'm me."

"Fair enough," Moira said. "Then again, we are all just lost souls, aren't we?"

"Huh?"

Moira walk over to one of the patches of dirt that had been replaced by a pink peony bush and leaned down slowly to take a better look at the beautiful, flat petals that bunched up to make the flower. Smiling slightly, she looked back at Clara, who managed to stop the bleeding she created from her razor blade.

"I love what you did here," the old maid praised. "It's very nice. This is where I'm buried."

"What?" Clara asked with disbelief. "But—"

"It's a long story, but remember," Moira added, "not everything can be explained by rational thought."

Ding-Dong!

Cordelia went to answer the door as soon as she heard the doorbell ring. She adjusted the lightweight collar of her blouse before opening to door to see a young man with blond hair and an old woman bearing some resemblance to the young man. The old woman had silver hair in a wavy, graceful updo with young light brown eyes. Unlike most old women she had seen, she did not have a slight hunchback or seem to have health problems—her back was perfectly erect and she wore a brown velvet jacket over a knee-length plum dress.

"Hi," the old woman said. "We live next door. I'm Constance Langdon. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Cordelia," the blonde witch said as she extended her hand to shake it politely. "Cordelia Goode."

She looked to the left to see the young man; he had a charming, handsome exterior, and definitely was in his twenties. His flaxen hair was short and shaggy, and he had a defined jawline and a neck that was thicker than average. He was tall with broad shoulders and strange olive eyes that seemed to stare down at Cordelia as though they had smiles of their own; as though they were taken from a sinfully handsome physical form of a grotesque demon and put in his sockets. They seemed to smolder, giving him a mysteriously malevolent air.

"This is my grandson, Michael," Constance said with a sly smile.

"It's nice to meet you," Cordelia said with a smile, extending her hand; Michael smiled a closed grin but did not shake her hand.

"You, too." His voice sounded somewhat like a young man in his late teens, but it had the maturity and depth of a grown man.

"Will you welcome us in?" the old woman asked.

"Oh, uh, yes!" the witch smiled. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Tea is fine," Constance said, taking a seat in the parlor-turned-living room; she turned to look at her grandson. "Come, Michael."

The two neighbors sat on the sofa, and within five minutes, Cordelia returned with homemade tea of jasmine, rose, and a pinch of white sage. Sitting in the lounge chair with its back directly diagonal from the fireplace, the two neighbors leaned and took their glasses of tea shortly after the witch took hers. Constance took a sip, sucking her teeth quietly as she tried to distinguish the flavor. It tasted very much like something one would put in a savory gourmet dish.

"Hm, what kind of tea is this?" she asked.

"My own recipe," Cordelia smiled.

"Which is…?"

"Some jasmine petals, rose hips, and a pinch of sage," the witch said. "I brought some with me during the move."

"Where did you come from?"

"San Francisco," Cordelia answered, "but I am originally from New Orleans."

"Are you married?" Constance asked, prying with her calculating light brown eyes.

"No, not anymore," the witch said, sipping her tea gingerly as to not get burned. "I was widowed a long time ago."

"Hm, it's a shame you didn't have nay children of your own," the elderly woman with the wavy hairdo said; meanwhile, Michael's eyes were fixed on the tree outside the window.

"I actually adopted," Cordelia said. "Two girls, they're sisters. Their parents died when they were young." Constance just cocked her eyebrows up and put her teacup down, her eyes fiercely analytical.

"Christ on a stick," she muttered. "They say when a child loses a parent, they feel their own mortality just creeping in."

"It depends on the child, of course," the older witch stated. "My girls are just as alive as ever. They're both special in their own ways, and they both know they are loved and have someone to trust. I would know." Cordelia set her cup down on the coffee table. "My own mother was barely ever there for me."

"Well, we all have our deficits," Constance said. Cordelia watched as the elderly woman seemed to rummage through her purse; pulling out a box of cigarettes, she extended it to the witch, who shook her head thinking she was being offered one.

"No, thank you. Um…could you please not smoke in my home?" the witch asked politely. Constance stared dead into her eyes, shaking her head slightly.

"Why not? Never seen a cigarette before?" the old woman jeered.

"Please don't smoke in my home, or I will have to ask you to leave," Cordelia said; using concilium, the power of mind control, she made Constance put away her box of cigarettes; once she did, she stood up and looked around the place—Michael remained in his seat as his grandmother took a huffy breath.

"We should go," she said. "Too many bad memories in this house."

"Then why did you come?" a youthful female voice asked.

Michael turned his face to the doorway to see Amy, who stood there with her graceful, long fingers fiddling with an indent in the carved wooden arch wearing a very flattering outfit; a white crop top with cups that only accentuated her generous cleavage, pink flip flops that matched her pedicure, and light denim bootcut jeans. Her black winged, cat-eye makeup only made her penetrating, vivacious blue eyes stand out, and her lips were painted with purplish-pink lip stain. The young man just admired her every feature, especially the loose blonde curls that cascaded down neatly over her shoulders. Cordelia cringed slightly at her adopted daughter's outfit choice, but made a necessary introduction.

"Um, this is my younger…uh, daughter, Amy," she said. Constance was repulsed by the provocative clothing choice, but was still gracious as she made her acquaintance.

"It's nice to meet you," the elderly woman said. "I'm Constance Langdon."

"I'm Amy Day," the young blonde said.

"This here is my grandson, Michael," Constance said. "We are on our way home now. Come, Michael."

"I think we should stay a little while more," Michael said, still admiring the young woman standing in the doorway.

"Michael, let's go home," Constance said, more firmly than ever. "You can visit anytime."

"Uh, yes," Cordelia said nervously. "Um…I-I'd be happy to have you. Have a nice day."

As Constance and Michael made their way past Amy, he could not take his eyes off her, yet when they neared the front door, Michael noticed her azure gaze staring back at him coolly. Her stare was not mean or snobbish like it normally was—it was just serene and curious, analyzing his features as though he was some rare find from a mining expedition. He was indeed handsome, but there was something about him that alarmed her, and it all radiated through his smoldering olive eyes.

Just when the front door opened, Clara, with her wrist wrapped with a bandage, approached the scene and stood by her older sister.

"Who were they?" she asked curiously.

"Neighbors," Amy said; she then took a second glance downward to her sister's cut wrist wrapped in the tape bandage. "Okay, why the hell are you bleeding?"

"I was just…I made a garden in the backyard," Clara replied. "I just came out here to check up and see what was going on."

"Clara, why do you hurt yourself?" her younger sister asked with the least bit of concern in her voice. "Why don't you just buy seeds like a normal fucking person, plant them in the dirt and make them grow?"

"It doesn't hurt me, Amy," the young dark-haired witch replied. "Besides, even if it does, they didn't say 'beauty is pain' for no reason."

Amy rolled her eyes—"you're such an idiot, Clara."

That night, Amy had just taken her bath and gotten into her pajamas consisting of a low-cut tank top and a pair of heather gray drawstring short shorts when she was at the bathroom sink to exfoliate her face and remove makeup. Because she wore so much on a daily basis, it was hard to take off—not even cold cream, suggested by Cordelia, would get rid of the mask of cosmetics she had applied so often. Once the majority of it was finally off, she looked in the mirror to see the image of a young man behind her; he definitely did not look much older than Amy, but perhaps he was a year or two younger. Even more startling was his voice—there was eerie air about him.

"Hello."

"EEK!"

Amy nearly dropped the towel she had used to wipe her makeup off with, and there were still traces of black eyeliner smudged like the outer portion of a raccoon's eyes as she stared at the teenaged figure. Aside from his frighteningly normal dark brown eyes, his hair was shaggy and straw-colored; it seemed to flatter his comely face well. He was wearing a black and green-striped, long-sleeve shirt and a pair of blue jeans with plain Converse shoes. A few golden, curling tresses fell down her face, but when she pulled them aside, a sour expression and the teenaged boy was still there.

"Who the hell—" She cut herself off and pointed toward the door, hissing violently with gritted teeth. "Get out!"

"I only wanted to—"

"GET OUT!" Amy screeched. "CORDELIA! CLARA?!"

"You don't have to be scared," the teenaged boy said, completely ignoring her shouts for her family members. "I've been here for a long time. I only wanted to meet the new people living in this house."

"No! GET OUT!" the blonde shouted. "Just get out of my house!"

"Amy? What's the matter?"

Clara's voice seemed to carry as she walked down the hall from her bedroom down the hall—she gasped at the figure and looked in horror. The teenager, however, looked back at the terrified dark-haired witch. Her face seemed to be pale with fright.

"W-Why are you in our house? W-Who are you?" Clara questioned cautiously

"Oh, hi," he said. "I'm Tate. I'm also dead."

Amy just shook her head—nuh-uh, she thought, I'll drop a house on his ass.

"No, get out." The blonde's voice seemed to bite him like a rabid dog having been released from its leash.

"I can't," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. "I've been here so long. I died in this house. Once you die here, you're trapped forever. I can't just up and leave."

"Huh?" Clara was extremely confused, and Tate let Amy pass by him so she could step out of the bathroom with the towel—she finished wiping her face, but black makeup was smudged along her lower lids.

"Lots of people have died here," Tate said. "Oh god, why do the living have to make shit so hard?"

"Amy," Clara whispered. "Remember what Robert taught us this summer?"

"Uh-huh?" Amy asked as they leaned into each other.

"I think it's manifesting," the older sister said. "I know it's stupid, but I think he really is dead." Clara backed away from her younger sister and looked straight into Tate's dark brown eyes. "So…I…I guess Moira wasn't the only one?"

"Huh," he chuckled. "I saw her earlier this week."

"You know her?" Clara asked.

"Well, yeah," Tate replied. "We're kinda all under the same roof. I don't really talk to her much, though."

"We can't wake up Cordelia," Amy said coldly. "Let's take this somewhere else."

"My room," Clara offered. "Let's go, uh…your name again?"

"Tate."

"Okay."

When the two sisters and the ghost of Tate entered Clara's bedroom, he looked around nostalgically, remembering violet-painted walls and a violet bedspread and a colorful rug infused with violet squares. Violet—the color and the name stuck in his head even though the room now had a beaded, bright-colored tapestry hung on the wall above the headboard, a string of clear lights illuminating the top of the walls where they met the ceiling, a few wooden shelves bolted to the walls and holding a variety of paperback titles, and a few posters of classic rock icons such as Fleetwood Mac and the Beatles—many of the former. The overall feel of the room was different than he had previously imagined, and he took a sad sigh as he plopped down on the bright teal bean bag chair near her vinyl record player.

"This was her room," he said to himself.

"Who?" Clara asked, getting down on the floor to sit as she looked directly at Tate; Amy joined, but crossed her legs like a pretzel.

"Violet," he replied sadly. "She was my girlfriend."

"Huh," the dark-haired witch said as she stared down at her clear-polished nails. "Where is she?"

"I still see her around," he said quietly. "Not as much as I want to, I guess."

"So why don't you just see her if you love her so much?" Amy asked. Tate frowned, a tear coming to his eye as he sniffled while wiping it away.

"B-Because she told me to go away," he stated.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Clara said apologetically, feeling genuine sympathy in her heart. "That must be very hard."

"It is," he said. "I promised myself I would wait forever…for her."

"That's crazy," Amy remarked.

"Amy." Clara darted such a look at her sister that she knew she meant business.

"That's only if it takes that long. Besides that, I'm still waiting," Tate said.

"She may never come back," the young witch with curling blonde hair sneered. "Why don't you just find another girl to focus your wits on?"

"Because I love Violet," Tate said. "I love her. She's the only light I've ever known. She was the light in my darkness."

"Tate, I'm very sorry to hear about…uh, Violet?" Clara asked.

"Yeah." Tate paused for a moment and leaned back in the bean bag chair, tilting his head back to give a show of his Adam's apple as his eyes diverted to the ceiling fixture that had been there for so long. "It would've been amazing if we died together."

"She's dead, too?" Amy questioned, staring at him coolly with her penetrating blue eyes.

"Yes," Tate said, "But I died before her. Long before her."

A/N:

The story unfolds—Tate and the other ghosts will start making appearances around the house and making themselves known to Cordelia and her two adopted daughters. The next chapter is first-person in Tate's perspective.

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