During her first night working at the strip club the night before, Amy had promised Michael that she would come to his house for lunch late that morning. Constance had answered the door when she knocked, and at an instant the old woman gasped at her provocative attire—Amy wore an outfit consisting of a button-up sleeveless tank top with a folded collar and a hint of her cleavage showing, a navy blue skirt that only reached to the middle of the thigh, and black, fake leather d'orsay pumps that clacked in time with her graceful movements. It was when Constance noticed her heavy makeup that she gasped openly.

"Oh, hello," she said nervously, Amy's sapphire eyes seething through her. "Why are you here?"

"I was invited," Amy replied. "You know, by Michael?"

"Oh."

"He's getting ready, isn't he?" the witch asked. "Tell him not to rush."

"Come on in," Constance said, moving aside as Amy stepped her foot in the doorway. "I'll make some tea."

The young woman followed Constance as she slowly moved into the kitchen, gesturing Amy to sit as she got the tea kettle full of water before setting it to a boil. The sound of manicured nails tapping against the table caught the old woman's attention, her brown eyes looking to see a hot pink glazed onto Amy's fingertips.

"Would you like cream and sugar?" she asked.

"Nah, I take mine plain," Amy replied.

"I'm surprised," Constance remarked. "Green Dragon is a strong tea."

"I drink a lot of strong stuff anyway," the witch said. "I'm used to it."

Constance took her time preparing the tea, and during the time spent doing so, she was shocked that Michael had not come downstairs yet. He had never taken so long to get ready, which concerned her somewhat. The strong smell of the tea filled the room as she served it. Placing the kettle back on the stove, she made her way toward the small table and took out her box of cigarettes—Amy had forgotten her own.

"Can I have one of those?" she asked. With a nod, the old woman extended her cigarette box.

"Certainly," she responded. "Just don't let your mother find out I'm encouraging your vices."

"My mama's dead," Amy said, pyrokinetically lighting her cigarette with Constance making a short, shocked glance. Christ on a stick, she thought, looking at the witch nervously as she took a long, slow drag.

"How did she die? How old were you?"

"Five."

"And that is when Miss Goode adopted you?" Constance asked.

"Yeah. I don't even know the full story. She and my dad died in an accident with my aunt," Amy explained, tapping the ash off the tip of her cigarette.

"So life in your new house is going well?" Constance questioned, her eyes focusing hard on the gorgeous blonde witch as she sipped her tea.

"It's alright, I guess," Amy speculated, "but…considering we are never alone, I'm fine with it."

"I have a lot of bad memories in that house," Constance told her, watching the witch sip her tea gently. "We moved out and lived next door ever since."

"What kind of bad memories?" Amy asked.

"I lost my children in that house. My husband was having an affair with the maid. Then again, that isn't to say that I didn't have an affair with someone else, too," the old woman explained, sipping from her tea. As she was drinking from her fine china cup, Amy speculated, looking at her conspiratorially as she remembered first encountering Tate with her sister. She remembered what he had told them verbatim during the telling of his story, suddenly realizing who she had been talking to.

She was a cocksucker. She always sucked off the neighbor next door.

My sister had Down syndrome and my other brother was deformed.

"So, Tate was one of them, right?" the witch asked.

At an instant, Constance nearly spit out her tea in a spray projectile away from the table; instead it was more like the warm, earthy-tasting fluid going down the wrong pipe. How could she have possibly known about Tate's existence? Little did she know that the three had already encountered most of the ghosts in their house and were acquainted with them on some level.

"How did you know?" the old woman asked.

"Well, my sister and I are friends with Tate. And Violet. They appear to us quite often," Amy explained demeaningly. "Either that or we're a crazy bunch of assholes living in an old house and—"

"Yes, yes. Tate was my son," Constance revealed nervously, taking a short drag of her cigarette. "He was the only normal child I ever had."

"What was so bad about the other two?"

"Let's just say my womb was cursed," Constance told the witch. "My husband was the splitting image of Van Johnson. Our combined beauty would have made good-looking kids destined for greatness, but I was wrong. Tate was the oldest, but then came the mongoloid. I couldn't work after that. Last came Beau, and he had something wrong with him, too."

Maybe she's just ugly, Amy thought to herself as she listened to Constance continue her rambling.

"When you get older, you will learn that one of the many comforts of having children is knowing one's youth has not fled, but merely been passed down to a new generation. They say when a parent dies, a child feels his own mortality. Yet, when a child dies, it's immortality that a parent loses." Constance paused and sipped her tea before taking another drag of her cigarette.

"I wouldn't want kids," Amy sneered. "They're little brats."

"You may change your mind," the old woman stated, sounding convincing. "Ever since I was young, I knew I was destined for great things. I expected the same out of my children, as well. I knew I was going to be somebody, someone of significance. I wanted to be a star. Acting was my passion."

"I know how that feels," Amy replied. "I've been playing piano since I was eight and I've always wanted to sing. I never got to, though. I'd kill to be famous."

"Hm, there's not a closed door beauty can't open," the old woman said, looking at Amy's intensely sapphire-colored eyes.

"Thanks for that," the young witch answered, putting out the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray.

"As I was saying, I never could pursue my dreams because they became nightmares. Instead of laurels, I got funeral wreathes. Instead of glory, I got nothing but bitter disappointment and cruel afflictions. At least I understand now that tragedy had been preparing me for something greater all along. Every loss that came before was a lesson learned on my part. I was being prepared, Amy. Normally, I wouldn't confide in anyone, but since you're here, I figured you should know," the old woman explained.

"Well, I have no one to tell," Amy said crossly. "I have all my friends back in San Fran and New Orleans, and they wouldn't give two shits if I told them this crap."

"That's a relief," Constance said softly. "It also was a relief knowing what I was being prepared for. Raising Michael. I adopted him from his mother just after she died in childbirth. I believed him to be the child I was waiting for, destined for greatness and in need of a remarkable mother figure in his life. I've done nothing but raise him with firmness, with love…but…he's just like his father, sadly. I've had to clean up his messes ever since."

2014

Constance had just come back from her weekly trip to the grocery store, a large, brown paper bag full of goods to stock the shelves of her refrigerator and cupboards. It had been raining outside, so her outer coat was drenched; she hustled into the house and locked the door behind her—a babysitter had been hired to watch her three year-old grandson.

"I'm sorry for being so late, Flora," she called out, trying to get the nanny's attention. "A long line of people were stocking up for their son's Bar Mitzvah. It's a wonder how they can throw all their money away for a thirteen year-old…oh boy…uh…"

As she placed the brown paper bag full of groceries on the table, she realized that no one had answered her calls from the front of the house. Her grandson hadn't even run out of his playroom to greet her. How unusual, she had thought.

"Flora?"

She turned around to see that the door of the refrigerator was streaked with freshly-dried blood. Thinking it was all in her head, Constance simply put the carton of milk where it belonged before walking back and nearly tripping on the cookie jar—it had been on the floor, shattered with its contents spilling out. Had someone broken into the house? Did her grandson get hurt while reaching for a cookie?

"Christ on a stick," she whispered to herself as she held her drenched overcoat closer to her. She made her way down the short hallway leading to the bedrooms, seeing a faint trail of blood on the finished, hardwood floor until she reached one of the open doors to a bedroom. The sight she saw next was shockingly gruesome.

Constance gasped in horror at the sight of the nanny's body lying in a pool of blood on the bright blue rug that had been dripping from the gash in her throat—it had been slit clean across from ear to ear. Walking closer, she took a better view of the body before looking forward to see no one but her three year-old grandson, Michael, sitting in the corner. There had been bloody handprints on the white rocking chair, and even more on the palms of his hands. What disturbed Constance most was the evil in the child's face; he was not catatonic or speechless, but instead giggling and laughing. He was evil incarnate, proud of what he had done. He had even raised a hand toward his grandmother to show her how happy he was with himself, and he let out a giggle as she moved closer and crouched to eye-level; sinister thoughts were hiding behind those small, sparkling green eyes, and it frightened her.

"Now what am I going to do with you?" she asked the smiling toddler.

Amy didn't know whether to be scared or freaked out about Constance's revelation—Michael, on the surface, seemed to appeal to her. Sure, he was controlling and somewhat dominating, but she never expected him to be such a sinister, evil person deep down. She remained silent, even though the look of shock streaked obviously across her face, and enough to catch Constance's attention as she sipped her tea.

"Well, enough about that," the old woman said. "He should be coming down soon."

And sure enough, he did—Michael had been dressed casually in a gray graphic t-shirt, blue jeans, and his casual sneakers. His shaggy, short flaxen hair was a mess, but he roughed it to neatness just as quickly as he came down. Amy noticed the eerie normality of his appearance and felt a nervous chill move through her body. Had Constance exaggerated about Michael's childhood and how he murdered his nanny in cold blood? Was she only doing that as a ploy to separate them and make her leave? Looking at Michael, she felt a pull to stay; she had not known why.

"Ah, good morning, Michael," Constance said with a smile.

However, he had ignored his grandmother and walked toward Amy, cupping her chin in his hand. At first, Amy was nervous, but once his lips brushed against hers in a kiss, her heart fluttered like a monarch butterfly.

"Morning, princess," he whispered.

"Well, not anymore," Amy replied. "It's almost noon."

"Yeah, but still," Michael chuckled.

"Michael, I made tea," Constance interrupted.

"Oh, yeah. Maybe," her grandson answered, trying to rebuff her as he plopped next to Amy in the empty seat. Biting her lower lip with anxiety, she alternated her glance between him and Constance, seeing a smile across the old woman's face as she took the last sip of tea.

"Are you heading anywhere today?" the old woman asked as she watched her grandson put an arm around Amy's shoulders.

"I was thinking of lunch here, but she's dressed to kill. We may just go out," Michael responded.

"Huh?"

Buzz-Buzz!

The vibration from Amy's smartphone prompted her to pick it up and look at the screen—it had been a text from Clara that read: 'where did you go? i didn't see you this morning'. Grunting, she replied to the text with a short answer consisting of 'at Michaels next door' before he could have a chance to look over her shoulder and see who it was. Amy put her phone away and looked Michael before returning a gaze at Constance, who had a strange look in her eyes toward the blonde.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"My sister," Amy replied, standing up from her seat; the perfect time to leave this joint, she thought. "She needs me back at the house."

"But wait," Michael said. "We were sup—"

"She says it's an emergency," Amy fibbed, walking rapidly toward the doorway of the kitchen. "Anyways, I'm off now. Talk to you sometime this week."

Later that day, Clara had come home with Britta as, yet again, a guest in their home. The Swede was wearing one of her newer outfits consisting of a short-sleeved black dress with a sweetheart neckline beneath sheer, iridescent fabric. At her wrists, which had faded scars from her youth many decades before, were bangle-like bracelets with a metallic shimmer. Her thin, petite legs were covered by smooth gray hose, tapering down to her black and white heeled oxfords laced comfortably to her small feet. Her golden strands were braided and seemed to glisten in the afternoon sun as Amy welcomed them into the house.

"Hey, guys," the witch with curly blonde hair said. "Hey, Britta."

"Hej," the Swede said.

"Long day," Clara said. "Everything okay around here, though?"

"Yeah. Same old shit," Amy replied.

"When do you work next?" the black-haired witch asked as they made their way into the parlor room; Clara and Britta sat on the loveseat together while Amy took her place on the piano bench.

"Eh, Thursday night," Amy said.

"And where's Cordelia?" her sister asked.

"She's out. Buying some stuff at the store."

At this point, Amy turned around and lifted the hard, wooden cover from the top of the piano keys and flexed her fingers, looking down and placing them strategically on black and white keys to play a chord. Britta, silent since walking through the door, listened closely to the way Amy began playing the piano—it was sad, mournful, reminding her of something she had heard before. Her ethereal, beautiful-sounding soprano eased into the song as she interpreted the instrumental:

"Sent om en afton då folket sof söt

Och foglarne lyktat att sjunga

Då Kersti låg ensam på barnsängens bädd

Och wakade öfver den lella

Tillress voro troll, de togo Kersti bort

De hade gjort en alebild som Kersti var lik,

Den lade de i barnsängen neder…"

Clara and Amy were both enchanted by Britta's unearthly singing, but it was the raven-haired young woman who first noticed the gradual appearance of spirits in the house, making themselves known and seen one by one in order—first came Tate and Violet, holding hands as they listened to the pleasant soprano; then came Vivien and Ben, who were Violet's parents; next were Chad and his boyfriend Patrick; following them came the first inhabitants, Dr. Charles Montgomery with his wife Nora; afterwards came Moira O'Hara, the maid, and a young girl with Down syndrome named Addie. It wasn't until Britta stopped singing the very last word of the verse that she gasped, seeing all the spirits, even ones Clara and Amy had not met yet, standing in the room. Nervous, she leaned toward her great-granddaughter and whispered.

"I did not know you lived with others here," she said quietly.

"No, no," Clara whispered back, "they're all dead. They've been in this house for longer than we have." It was then that Amy turned around and shrugged at the ghosts present in the room.

"Oh, c'mon," she scoffed. "Why are all of you here?"

"We heard singing," Moira said.

"I think a pretty girl sang," Addie smiled, her massive double-chin coming out as she giggled. Britta looked down at her plain dress before gazing toward Clara, who looked dumbfounded and confused.

"I…didn't know you could sing," she said.

"I have been doing it for a long time," Britta said.

"It's the best I've ever heard," Vivien told her. "You should be famous."

"I was," the Swede said. "Only a few months during my life, though."

"What did you do?" Nora asked.

"I performed. A freak show."

"When?"

"Long ago."

"But you look perfectly normal," the blonde in the flapper dress said. "Why did they call you a freak?"

Amy stepped up from the piano and between where her sister and great-grandmother were sitting and the ghosts were standing.

"Alright! Really?!" she shouted. "Can you all just go away? We are trying to have peace and quiet in here!"

"That singing was so beautiful," Violet said sadly. "I don't want to go away."

"Me neither," Tate said.

"Same with me," Vivien said.

"Okay, okay," Amy said, waving her hands in front of her. "Why do I sing for you?"

There was an eerie silence, but they all seemed willing to listen to the young witch sing and play the piano. Amy made her way back over and got into the right frame of mind before tickling the ivories in a tune in the key of E flat major. Amy kept it lingering for a while, catching the attention of not only the spirits but of Clara and Britta, who listened curiously as she began to sing:

"I make believe that you are here,
It's the only way I see clear.
What have I done?
You seem to move on easy…"

Britta gasped to see Ben, Vivien, Addie, and Dr. Montgomery fade out of view as Amy sung her morose melody, her breathy soprano soft and pleasant as she continued, the piano playing in time with her singing:

"And everytime I try to fly,
I fall without my wings.
I feel so small
I guess I need you baby
And everytime I see you in my dreams
I see your face, you're haunting me
I guess I need you, baby…"

Just when the song was finished, all of the ghosts had vanished from sight. Britta was puzzled, but it turned to sheer confusion the moment she heard footsteps entering the house. Cordelia had walked into the doorway of the room, seeing Clara and the Swede sitting and watching Amy play the final notes of the song. The older witch, pushing back a loose strand her fair, gray-streaked hair, saw Clara and Britta sitting there, remembering what her adopted daughter had proposed.

"Britta, thank you for staying through dinner."

Cordelia had prepared dinner consisting of honey-baked ham, a baked potato, and French-shredded green beans. Britta had accepted the offer to stay and eat with her great-granddaughters and the one who adopted them. She had even had a glass of wine. She had never been a drinker during her lifetime in the mid-20th century; yet she figured if she were granted eternal youth and life, it wouldn't harm her anyhow. Midway through the meal, she glanced over and saw Clara biting her lower lip nervously before Cordelia began to speak.

"Clara?" she asked. "Do you have something you want to ask Britta?"

"Uh, oh!" the dark-haired witch exclaimed. "Well, Britta, uh…"

The Swede's peridot green eyes looked over at Clara over the rim of her wine glass as she took a sip.

"We were wondering if you would like to come and live with us. I...I know this is rather sudden, but you are our great-grandmother and the only remaining blood in our family left," Clara said.

"Are you…for certain?" the Swede asked with surprise, shifting her attention to the blonde.

"It's better than sleeping in those shithole dorms," Amy said, taking a bite of her food before completing her sentence with her mouth full. "Besides, you get to teach us what you know. Don't you want to that for us?"

"Uh…I suppose," the century-old woman said.

"Will you be with us, Britta?" Cordelia asked. "We can make you a room and you can make yourself at home."

"It sounds lovely," Britta answered, taking a bite and swallowing. "I would love the idea of teaching my two great-granddaughters everything I know and what I have learned from my time spent on the Other Side."

"So is that a yes?" Clara smiled.

"Ja," the Swede said.

"That's awesome," Amy smirked. "So when do we start?"

"We are to form a häxsabbat, ja?"

Cordelia nearly dropped her fork at the thought—Clara and Amy had been the relatives of Julie Darling, previous Supreme of the New Orleans Coven. Julie had not been a Salem descendent but managed to rise to the supremacy anyways and create revolutionary changes in that particular group. This word, however foreign, rang true to her ears as another form of witch's gathering; yet the term was no different than its English counterpart.

"Uh…I don't understand what you mean," the older witch said.

"In my country, in the old days, a häxsabbat was a group of our kind who met every full moon and at the turn of every season," the century-old Swede explained. "A few of the women in my direct bloodline were part of them throughout centuries, but by the time the 1300s came around, they began to be alone with themselves and their power. Many repressed their power under church rule. Yet it was still passed from mother to daughter, never stopping, never ending. My two great-granddaughters are the end of the line now, and we must continue to…uh…what's the word in English? Uh…"

"Hone?" Clara asked.

"Ja, hone what was given to us," Britta continued.

"But your Aunt Julie was Supreme of the New Orleans Coven. Clara, Amy," Cordelia stated, sounding disheartened. "Zoe, Queenie, they're all your family."

"But we only visit them in the summertime," Amy argued. "At this point, neither of us are going to be Supreme."

"Julie was a good woman," Britta said, sipping her wine. "I remember meeting her just after she was killed."

"Killed?" Clara asked with shock. "But…uh…no! S-She died in an accident! Our mom and dad died in the same accident, Britta!"

"Where do you…uh, how do you know all this?" Cordelia asked the Swede, whose green eyes were luminous with reason and logic as she held the wine glass to her soft, pink lips.

"Clara, Amy," Britta began, "do you remember your father telling you of a man he called 'the bad man'?"

"The 'bad man'?" Clara questioned, trying to delve into her memory.

"Ja," Britta said. "Do you remember?"

A flashing image came to Clara as she remembered the extreme handsome visage with blue eyes and chiseled features, god-like but in a sinister sort of way.

"Daddy, I wanna stay!"

"He's a weird man. We got to get away from the weird man. He's bad…"

A tear came to her eye as she got a vision of her holding the head of her aunt's corpse, her bloodied body having been a traumatic vision ingrained in her head since:

"But no! I want to bring them back! My ma taught me to make a poultice. Stitch the wounds, put it on, and yeah! They'll be good as new!"

"HOLY SHIT!" Amy shrieked as a memory came to her mind as well.

The two young witches jumped from their seats, looking at Cordelia furiously before returning their eyes to their great-grandmother, who looked very uncomfortable in her seat while in the face of emotional turmoil before her. Clara had only been told vague parts of the story as the eldest, but Amy was completely oblivious to the truth about what happened to their parents and aunt. The older witch tossed her napkin in her lap and tried to maintain calm before Amy started yelling.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" she screeched, wagging her finger in Cordelia's direction. "You…lied to us! ME!"

"Please sit down!" the older witch exclaimed tearfully. "I can explain—"

"You only told me vague parts, and I can only imagine what Britta knows!" Clara shouted, turning to the century-old Swede. "Tell me and Amy, please. What really happened? Was it an accident?"

"Nei," Britta said. "Your parents and aunt were killed terribly."

"Are you sure this isn't some bullshit you're pulling out of your ass, old lady?!" Amy shouted.

"I remember seeing it!" the Swede yelled. "I watched! I had been dead, but I remember some of the others on the Other Side watching, too!" Tears came to Britta's eyes as she tried to explain exactly what she saw. "That 'bad man' was bad. He was a demon, preying on sins of the flesh. My granddaughter, Eleonora, had summoned him entirely on accident. He haunted her almost every night, and even had a human form. I immediately knew him as the kind young man I met in the last farmer's market my husband had before I passed on. My own daughter had been on his arm. He died and became a demon for his behavior in life. Then, one night, he settled on your Aunt Julie and…had his…way with her….h-he took over her body…made her do things she would never do…"

"Wait…Aunt Julie was…possessed?" Clara asked in shock.

"Ja," Britta said tearfully, "and…she had an axe. She had found it…the demon who took her over made her hack him to death. Then you mother came in. They fought….and…and…" Britta was beginning to break down. "They fought to the point of…bleeding to death! The same axe killed them both! To see that from where I was…and to know that…t-t-they had been coming our way…broke me!"

"And that's why there was…" Clara sobbed, "all that blood…everywhere."

"Ja," Britta said sadly with sad, peridot eyes. "It is the truth."

The two young witches had no choice—Cordelia had adopted them out of the kindness of her own heart, sure. Yet she knew the truth about what had actually happened. Had she never wanted to tell Clara or Amy at all about what actually happened? The older witch had her heart in her throat as her two adopted daughters stared back at her with angry glares.

"Cordelia," Clara began fumingly, "knowing that I died resurrecting my own sister the first time she died, you didn't THINK to perform Vitalum Vitalis on my parents?! And your own SUPREME?!"

"Vitalum Vitalis is unlike resurgence," Cordelia cried, taking her napkin to her face. "They would not have been the same had they come back through those means!"

"Something would've been better than nothing, you stupid bitch!" Amy hissed. "And you know it!"

"They wouldn't be able to take care of you! That demon bound our powers to us! Eleonora tried to resurrect them before she went, too! That demon was too powerful for us! We still banished him, but he—"

"And hoping that somehow, that damn house in New Orleans would make us forget what happened?!" Clara fumed. "I've had those images STUCK in my head since! I CAN'T GET THEM OUT!"

"You were a child, Clara! Amy would've been too devastated to function!" Cordelia argued emotionally. "I couldn't just flat-out tell you that they were hacked with an axe!"

"Yeah, but we're adults now!" Amy shouted. "It's not the fucking same!"

"You know something, Cordelia?" Clara asked tearfully, the pain of knowing the truth still in her heart. "It was my dream to be the Supreme of that coven. Though the years have swayed me a little bit with going to college and all, I never stopped thinking about what I wanted and what I was destined for. Now I know what I am destined for, and it has nothing to do with that damn house in New Orleans!"

Cordelia was in a state of shock—what should I do? I can't believe this.

So she just left the room, leaving the three others to their own devices as she tossed her napkin on her plate and sobbed her way out of the dining room. Britta, still sad from remembering what she had seen that fateful night, was being consoled by Amy, who held her close. As tears fell on each other's clothing, Britta had a nostalgic feeling inspired by her daughter, Elina—Amy had felt just like her when holding her the way a mother would to her child. Clara, still in disbelief, looked over at them and sighed sadly.

"I guess that's that, then," she said in a mutter. "Now what?"

"She'll leave," Amy said. "We'll make her leave."

"She should go back to wherever she comes from," Britta told the two young women. "I…I am sorry."

"For what?" Clara asked with Amy in unison.

"I…caused so much trouble," the Swede said tearfully. "I…I did not—"

"No," Amy protested, shaking her head. "We thank you, Britta. You opened our eyes! Cordelia's so used to being blind, it's fucking ridiculous!"

"It was terrible what happened to your parents and aunt," the Swede said. "I could not f-fathom seeing another such thing happen again. I have seen too much."

"Hopefully, we don't have to see anymore now that you're living with us," Clara hoped with a shrug.

"I raised five children," Britta said. "I will not treat you like children. I will help you hone your powers and to use them wisely. We all will take care of each other. That is…our code. Family helps family."

Britta took Amy's hand gently, seeing a reassured look in her sapphire eyes before watching the beautiful witch extend her hand out slowly to her sister. Clara looked down and nodded, taking her hand as well as Britta's other as they all looked at each other. Glance met glance, and the Swede could almost see a hidden light behind Amy's eyes, one of innocence and hope that had been buried since the dawn of young childhood.