Cordelia had packed her bags the following day and flew back to New Orleans that afternoon. It had been a battle of wills before she was finally gone—Britta had the upper hand, especially with her reasoning. In her mind, how could she keep bringing the two sisters back every summer to the place where their family members had been brutally murdered? Once a mother herself, she knew how children absorbed images into their minds, as she could only imagine how terribly Clara had been haunted by the sight of blood puddles, mutilated corpses, and the sight of her aunt having hung herself.

Yes, Cordelia was Clara and Amy's mother by adoption, but in Britta's mind it was quite different. First, as she had grown up in a different time period and had experienced being adopted while a young child, the two concepts were totally different. Blood runs thicker than water, they say—the Swede took it to heart, even though she had treated the former carnies who had lived with her family during her lifetime like family as much as her husband did. Aside from this, she had the children she had given birth to. Yes, she had not been a perfect mother, but it was inarguable that her death had caused turmoil in the lives of her living family.

Two days after the incident, Clara and Britta had gone to their classes at the university, commuting by bus to campus. Amy was left home alone and scared beyond belief—Michael had been on her mind, or at least the personal memory Constance had shared with her. Could it have been really possible for a child so young to murder someone who would be considered physically larger and stronger such as a nanny? What if he had been watching her through the windows in her bedroom?

You're being paranoid, she thought to herself, just stop it. Now.

So she took a cigarette from where she stored them and put it between her lips, concentrating to light it pyrokinetically as she took her first drag, puffing out the smoke as she heard footsteps approaching her ajar door.

"Hello?" a youthful, female voice asked.

"Is that you, Violet?" Amy asked as the nicotine burned her lungs with the next drag.

"Yeah, can I come in?" she asked.

Upon opening the door, Amy glanced over to see the teenaged ghost dressed in a plum-knitted sweatshirt with a pattern that was disproportionate to a gray, floral patterned skirt. She was barefoot against the floor, and her light brown hair was loosely back in a ponytail, allowing anyone who saw her to get a better look at her warm, honey brown eyes, smooth skin, and rosy-tinted lips. She sure looked pretty, but Amy only vaguely complimented her.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," the witch said. "I haven't seen you in a couple days."

"I've been arguing with my parents," Violet said. "My mom's not happy that I'm back with Tate again."

"Huh," Amy said. "Cordelia used to give me shit about boys all the time."

"Where did she go, anyway?" the ghost asked.

"Oh…away."

"Away?"

"Yeah." Amy seemed so nonchalant about the matter, and kept dragging on her cigarette regardless of what Violet was to tell her. "She flew back to New Orleans."

"Really? Why?" Violet questioned suspiciously.

"Lots of reasons," Amy replied, sitting up on her bed as the ghost took a seat on the edge. "I guess my parents and aunt were axed to death by a demon who possessed my aunt. Cordelia waited forever to tell us. In fact, I don't think she wanted us to know at all. Britta took care of her, reasoned with her a bit."

The ghost looked very confused, but when Amy reached to put out her cigarette, she continued.

"I didn't remember anything until Britta brought up that our dad referred to the demon as a 'bad man'. I remembered right off the bat," Amy said. "So she left two days ago." She changed the subject. "Anyways, why are your parents on your ass?"

"Because my mom is unhappy with me being back with Tate," the ghost said.

"I know Tate was a murdering type, but what did he ever do to your mom to make it that way?" Amy questioned.

"Tate raped her," Violet said bluntly.

That was the moment the witch turned her head slowly to meet her honey-brown gaze, delving into their depressing clarity. Had she heard her words right? Had she, her sister and Britta accidentally paired her with her mother's rapist? Had they made a huge, regrettable mistake? Amy couldn't believe it—there were no words.

"What?"

"Yeah," Violet sighed. "He did. It took me a long time to forgive him for not only that, but everything he has ever done. He's killed a lot of people."

"Why did you?" Amy asked, testing her—of course she knew why; the witches had bound their hearts together by a love spell.

"Because I did it for myself. Feeling bad about it won't change anything. It won't change the fact that it happened. Bygones are bygones," Violet clarified. "I'm in love with Tate. I always have been even after that. My mother can't forgive him, which I can see why."

"I would've shot the bastard," Amy said, taking a cigarette from where she stored them and lighting it with her powers, taking a short drag with her intense blue eyes staring off into space. "Britta was raped, she told me. A long time ago. In case you don't remember, she's the Swedish girl you heard singing and you liked it. She even got pregnant from it."

"My mother did as well," Violet said. "Twins. She died in this house of childbirth. One of the babies survived and the other was stillborn. I forget where the surviving one went."

"That makes Tate the father," Amy muttered to herself, thinking into it a bit more. "Our neighbor was his mother…" Then it seemed to make sense. "Michael…Michael?!"

"That was his name!" Violet said as she suddenly recalled the moniker. "Nora was offered it, but rejected it. Moira was offered to be his nanny and godmother, but she said she wasn't trained."

"Michael…is Tate's son," Amy stated, finally figuring it out. "Oh my god, how did I miss that? Even more, Clara?! She's the clairvoyant!"

"Beats me," Violet said. "Maybe tell them when they come home? Do you know Michael?"

"Yeah, I fucked him," Amy smirked. "He also wants me, too. Now, he just gives me the creeps. Constance, too."

"She was always making fun of my mom and Moira," the ghost said. "I didn't hate her. I just didn't like what she said half the time."

"I can see why," the witch said. "I just hope Britta and Clara receive the news well and keep their mouths shut. I want to be the one who tells Michael the truth."

When Clara and Britta came home that afternoon, the raven-haired witch went straight to tending the garden with her other two family members joining her. It had been a lovely day, sunny with a cool breeze. Upon entering with Amy behind her, Britta looked around at the gorgeous greenery that had transformed the backyard into one big, spacious garden. The trees stood mightily, towering over the rest of the flora with verdant leaves, and the shrubs were the perfect length. On strangely-placed patches of soil were a bush of peony flowers and a cluster of strawberry plants. Within the latticed supports of the wooden gazebo were ivies woven between each cross of wood, and near the posts were tall lupines the color of the dark remains of sunset.

Then she saw Clara reach for the petals of one of the flowering plants, and the outer parts that were dry and browning had returned to their original color.

"You grow these?" the Swede asked, looking at the tall, stalk-like, vivid amethyst flowers.

"Yeah," the black-haired witch said proudly, an otherworldly look in her eyes. "I made all this."

"It is…vacker."

"What?"

"It is what we say when we see something beautiful," Britta explained.

"Then why don't you just say the English word?" Amy asked with annoyance. "Why do you have to make it so hard?"

"Why should I do so?" her ageless great-grandmother asked, cocking one of her thin, beige-colored eyebrows upwards. "I did not think it to be personal."

"We don't know Swedish," Amy sneered coldly.

"Maybe you can learn."

"That's not a bad idea," Clara smiled, looking back as she held her hands against the trunk of one of the towering trees; her blue eyes were clear and attentive.

"Many of the magicks my ancestors taught me while I was on the Other Side were in the old language," Britta said. "None spoke English until I died and entered their realm."

"Exactly my point," Clara chuckled, looking down at the plant she had revived the petals of. "Amy, I don't think it would hurt to learn a second language."

"Eh, Spanish bore me enough in school," the blonde witch said as she rolled her eyes, her hands on her hips. "Though it has gotten me laid a few times."

The Swede darted a look of disgust at Amy, who chuckled right after expressing her train of thought. It had appalled her so much how she was so brash and boastful about her sex life that it drove Britta insane. Living in a different time period with a rigid viewpoint influenced by personal experiences, she had seen sex as dirty and the cause of most problems. Yes, she had been a married woman and succumbed to the whims of her husband, giving birth to five children with four miscarriages in the process. She had felt this way being a devoted Christian before her death, but it was the sights she had seen after death that deeply instilled this thought into her head. The latter view had come in when she had been sitting with several other female relatives on the Other Side, watching the vile things that had been done between her husband and daughter.

"It is veryäckligt how young women act in these times," the Swede muttered.

"If you got something to say, say it to my face," Amy snapped, her sapphire eyes hard and full of aggravation.

"Amy!" Clara exclaimed, leaning to pick some strawberries from the plant they grew from and putting them in a container she had brought out. "Let's not start now!"

"No, Clara," her blonde sister protested. "She needs to get her head out of the past. What, are you cranky because you missed church?"

"You're going to get hurt, Amy," Clara said through gritted teeth. "Stop!"

Sure enough, Britta had not gotten angry. She had understood Amy because she was more adjusted to modern society than she was herself. Yet there was no reason to be disrespectful by ridiculing her lack of knowledge and personal opinion. So she gathered her concentration and held out her hand, and before Amy could even look up, she telekinetically tossed her against the trunk of one of the trees. As the posterior part of her body hit the trunk like a ragdoll, she groaned while falling to the soft, lush grass. The Swede walked over to her while Clara just dropped her jaw in shock, shaking her head slowly as Amy tried to bring herself to her feet.

"Ah, you bitch," the blonde groaned while massaging the small of her back. "That hurt!"

Meanwhile, Michael had been watching them the entire time through the window of his bathroom. He had just taken a shower when he heard the sound of soft chatter outside, and the window was his direct source of view into the backyard of the Victorian. He had noticed that the plants became greener whenever Clara went near one, identifying her by her raven-colored hair. He had focused on Amy a little too much, though, seeing her golden curls in the sunlight of the afternoon.

He had been so shocked to see her tossed against the trunk of one of the trees. He asked himself a thousand questions—is she alright? Should I go over? Who pushed her? What was that?

It all seemed so sudden—no one stayed up in the air that long.

Remembering her place of work, Michael had not seen Amy until that Friday night. He just needed to see her again; it was an undeniable urge he had to fulfill.

Vanilla Pleasures was packed with customers, just the average bunch of creepy older men bored with their wives, divorcees with no other productive way to spend their time, and lesbian women out for a good time single or no. When he made his way to the bar, he looked up to see two topless dancers with their balloon-like breast implants bouncing about as they spun recklessly on the poles to loud, bass-filled techno. He sat on a stool and focused on the bartender, who stared back blankly.

"Scotch," he requested.

Michael ended up looking around when the bartender was preparing his drink, his olive green eyes scanning the vicinity of flashing, colorful lights for the one he was looking for. There had been a few blondes walking around, but none were Amy; none could possibly be as stunning, especially with their fake tans and the occasional brown streak here and there.

However, it was totally unexpected that something so drab in color would grab his attention—a black metallic lingerie set that resembled latex including a halter-style bikini top with matching bottoms, complete with a pair of strappy ebony heels that made her legs look long and graceful as she gave a client a lap dance at his table. Her golden curls looked wavier than in their usual ringlets, resembling a failed attempt at using a straightening iron. Her beautiful face was masked by thick makeup; purple and yellow on the eyelids, thick mascara, a hint of blush, and deep red lipstick with contouring at her cheekbones and jawline.

Receiving his drink, Michael took a long, hard gulp to suppress his jealousy and anger toward the man Amy had been lapdancing for. Focusing on his features, he looked to be about thirty with brown hair and glasses just vaguely covering his eyes. Michael took note of what he was wearing even though the lights in the club were flashing different colors, but when a clear-enough light flashed on him, he noticed he was wearing a red pinstripe shirt.

He was so tempted to kill him right then and there when he saw the man sliding a dollar bill of some amount into the side band of her panties. He was even more furious seeing the man give her round bottom a slap. In his mind, that was his job. Michael could feel his blood start to boil beyond belief. How was he going to show him that Amy was his and his alone?

The answer was simple—kill him. Not there, not at that moment, but he knew he had to. He didn't know that luck would strike him at the best time. He had watched the man get up when it was all over, leaving through the back of the club. Michael stalked discreetly, looking around him constantly as to not get caught following the man he had set as the target of his pernicious rage built within.

When he finally left through the back door, he saw the same man in the dark, lonely alleyway dragging on a brand new cigarette. Michael could only see the smoke and the glow at the tip when the man inhaled, yet he snuck up behind the man's silhouette and swiftly grabbed a hold over his mouth to silence him, taking the knife he had drawn from his coat pocket and digging it into the front of his neck, slashing deep and straight across as the man curdled his last breath.

Michael, pushing him face first onto the black asphalt, looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the heinous act he had just committed. He looked down to see the fresh, lifeless corpse laying in a growing puddle of blood that was seeping from the open wound that slashed through his jugular and carotid clean and quick.

"You won't ever touch her again," Michael hissed in a sinister, almost demonic whisper.

Luckily, he had been wearing black.

A/N:

I'm happy to hear that you are all enjoying the story! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited. Means a lot to see that people are reading my work. :3

So Michael seemed unswayed after seeing the three witches demonstrate a few of their powers in the Murder House's backyard-turned-garden. Is he still curious? Let's hope this doesn't come back to haunt everyone…ahem, no pun intended.

Amy knows that Tate is Michael's real father…but the question is, when will she tell him?

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Thanks! :)