NOTE: This chapter is written in Tate's point of view, hence first person.

My mom wanted me to be the perfect son—my sister had Down syndrome and my other brother was deformed. I looked and seemed the most normal, but I didn't realize how disturbed I was until close to twenty years after dying. I died in 1994, but even when I died, I was far from the perfect son. I gave my mother hell.

I hated her—she was a cocksucker.

Amy giggled, and Clara stopped her by darting such a look at her as she lightly slapped her upper arm. Tate just continued, rolling his eyes.

No, I'm serious. She was a cocksucker. She always sucked off the neighbor next door. Then my dad up and left, leaving me with her. How sick is that?

"I'm sorry to hear that," Clara said. "I mean, did your mother abuse you?"

Verbally, yes. She was a bitch. I even remember my last Thanksgiving—she wanted to say grace.

"Oh, mother, can I?" I had asked. Larry, her boyfriend, just looked at me—I hated him, too, if not more than my mom.

"Sure, son." I was not his son—my brother and sister liked him, though. "It's about time you became part of the family."

"What an asshole," Amy stated.

Yes, he was. So we all held hands and I said what I had to.

"Which was?" Clara asked. Tate cleared his throat and continued.

"Dear God, thank you for the salty pig meat we are about to eat, along with the rest of the indigestible swill," I had said; I could feel my mom's eyes boring holes into me. "And thank you for our new charade of our family. My father ran away when I was only six. If I'd have known any better, I would've joined him. And, also...because she's been trying to get back into this house ever since she lost it. Also, a big thank you for blinding the asshole that's doing my mother, so that he can't see what everybody knows. She doesn't really love him."

As I looked over to where my mom was sitting, I was right—she looked like she wanted to kill me. I heard my sister say something.

"Amen."

"You sure told him off," the blonde said with a chuckle.

Well, he didn't live for long anyway. I set him on fire in 1994. I found out he killed my little brother, Beau. He was sitting at his desk, minding his own business—something snapped inside my head. I poured gasoline all over the bastard. Then I flicked a lit match on him and watched him die.

When my mom found out I killed him, she had been drunk and out of her mind—she beat me. I can still feel her hitting me sometimes when I think about it.

"Do you realize what you've done?!" she screamed at me.

Soon after, I found myself digging a deeper hole. I snorted a shit ton of cocaine. Then I went to my school, Westfield High, which had a school shooting—I was the one who did it. I walked into the library and killed fifteen kids.

Clara and Amy backed away, staring at each other and at Tate, who seemed unswayed by their fear of him.

What can I say? I prepared for the noble war. I was calm because I knew the secret. I knew what was coming and I knew that I was unstoppable. Even I couldn't stop myself. I kill people I like.

"Uh, excuse me," Amy sneered, "I hope you don't plan on killing us. I'll drop a house on you before you even try." Tate just looked at her strangely and shook his head.

I was different then.

"Don't you feel any remorse for your actions?" Clara questioned in a calm voice.

I wasn't sad, for sure. In fact, I didn't feel anything at all, not even that. It's a filthy world we live in—a filthy goddamn world and honestly, I felt like I was helping them by taking them away from the shit and vomit that ran through the streets. I was helping them by taking them to a cleaner, better place. There's something about all that blood I saw when shooting them—man, I would've drowned in it. One of the girls begged for her life, but I didn't hold back because at the time, I thought one less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate more tolerable was a public service.

That same night, a SWAT team came into my house, all with guns aimed at my chest. They barged into my room; a gun was hidden beneath my pillow. I distracted them by making a gun gesture with my hand to my head. Pow.

As soon as I hurried for the gun, they shot me. My guts were pumped full of lead. In fact, I landed on the bed before bouncing off the edge to where you are sitting.

Tate directed his outstretched index finger to Clara, who looked down at her place on the floor as she freaked out inside.

"Uh…huh?"

Some other ghosts in this house are my victims, too. Not just those kids from school. I killed Chad and Patrick—

"Wait a second," Clara interrupted. "Who?"

They were the owners of this house before the Harmon family. They were a gay couple. Nora wanted a baby, so I killed them so that a new family with a young child could move in. I staged a murder-suicide for them, but I stuck a hot poker up one of their asses. Not the best move on my part.

"No shit," Amy snided. "But who the hell are the Harmons?"

"And who's Nora?" Clara added.

You'll meet her soon. I'm sure of it.

"Answer me," the young witch with blonde, curling hair demanded, "who were the Harmons?"

Just a nice family. They moved here in 2011 from Boston. The dad was a psychiatrist who ran his business from the study downstairs. He had a wife, and his daughter was Violet, the only light I have ever known.

"And this was her room?" the dark-haired older sister reaffirmed kindly. Tate nodded slowly, but he had a somber expression on his face—Clara, remembering how he mentioned his forced departure from her, leaned in closer and stared into his eyes with her clear blue ones.

"If you want, maybe you can tell us about her?" she offered. "I'd love to hear, and my sister here would, too."

I would, but—

"Tell us," Amy insisted. "Please?"

Alright. This isn't going to be easy.

"We understand," Clara said. "Take your time."

Violet was a very beautiful girl. She had…long light brown hair…beautiful, sparkling doe eyes…but she was a very sad girl, too. I had appeared to her father and pretended to be alive. Then again, for many years, I denied that I was dead. I shared with him memories that had happened that I only just then began to remember. Dr. Harmon prescribed me pills, but I didn't take them.

"Why not?" Clara asked.

You really want to know?

The sisters nodded and looked at each other before taking deep breaths at their own paces.

Because I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work.

Amy's eyes suddenly widened, a seductive, smoldering look in her intensely azure eyes as she continued to listen to him.

He stopped seeing me because I crossed the line. I didn't find anything wrong with it—I was in love. I even remember catching her red-handed cutting herself. She stood in the same spot near the bathroom sink as you did.

He pointed at Amy, who furrowed her defined eyebrows inward.

"You're doing it all wrong," I had said. "If you're trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. They can't stitch that up." The moment I said that, she turned around and gasped just seeing me stand there.

"How did you get in here?" she asked me.

"Also, you may want to lock the door," I told her. I shut the door for her. I thought I was doing her a favor. I was wrong—she tried to…kill herself for real.

Tate sniffled, looking down at his hands as he recalled every detail he tried to explain.

I found her unconscious in her bedroom. I dragged her down the hallway to the bathroom and turns on the shower head. I screamed her name. I made her puke up the pills, but it wasn't enough.

"So she died…that way?" Amy asked, her voice getting softer. Tate didn't answer, but he continued on with the aftermath of the incident.

I took her to her room when she woke up. She was crying, and I was there to hold her. She was reading a book, and I stood at the foot of her bed. The book was about birds.

"I like birds, too," I said. She was quiet at first, but answered.

"Why?"

"Because they can fly away when things get too crazy," I responded. She was silent again, but I looked at her. "Are you going to tell your parents?"

"About what?" she asked, turning the page.

"The pills?" Yeah, I forgot to mention she swallowed pills. So Violet just shook her head slowly, her eyes down at the open book.

"They won't care," she muttered under her breath. "Bottom line is, I'm sad."

"Me too," I told her—then I realized there was something I had to get off my chest.

"Which was?" Clara asked.

I wanted to tell her I loved her, but I noticed she hadn't been even bothered to talk to me. I teared up right in front of her.

"You've changed," I said. "You don't talk to me anymore. You're distant and cold. I don't know what I've done, but I'll leave you alone from now on if that's what you want. Is that what you want?"

She looked up at me, her eyes still sad from what had happened.

"You know why I'd leave you alone, Violet? Because I care about your feelings more than mine, and that's because I love you."

Tate sniffled, remembering as he described the events to the sisters.

"There I said it, not just on some chalkboard. I would never let anybody or anything hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone."

And I really didn't—before meeting Violet, I didn't know what emotion was. She was the light who guided me through my darkness. She became my girlfriend after that, not just some girl I dated. I took her to my favorite places even though she showed no interest in their history and how they had to do with my life whatsoever.

Amy proceeded to rest her head on the plush rug of her sister's bedroom, fiddling with a loose, golden curl that had misplaced itself from her hair. She bit her lower lip and sighed complacently.

"Sometimes to feel, you need to have pain," she said blankly.

The greatest pain was when she told me to go away.

"Why did she tell you to go away, Tate? Clara questioned, resting on her front with her feet swiveling behind her in the air.

Because I hurt people. I didn't want to be like this. I wanted to be a good person. I've changed since then. I will wait forever for her to take me back, and the day she does, I know that she will forgive me for what I've done. She was all I wanted and all I had—she still is, and I won't give up.

"After hearing your story," Clara said kindly, "I don't think you're as bad a person as you say Violet thinks you are. We all make mistakes, and people change. Even though you are dead, I believe that you can still change and redeem yourself for the things you did. Nothing's ever truly impossible, and if you'd like, I will be your friend. Amy will be your friend, too."

You're alive. Both of you. I don't want you hurt. I don't want to hurt anyone anymore.

"At least you admitted it," Amy said, "and didn't lie like a son of a bitch. I actually appreciate that, and I don't mind being friends."

"It was nice to meet you, Tate," her older sister said. "I'm sorry to cut our hangout short, but I need rest. Classes start in the morning." Amy also stood up and adjusted her shorts as she walked toward the door. Tate just looked at her and followed her down the hall. However, when Amy turned around, she saw that he had vanished completely.

"Uh…" She muttered. "Good night, Clara."

"Good night," her sister responded.

As she walked out of her sister's room, she could have sworn that she had seen the image of a girl out the corner of her eye.