"Amy, you can't go to work tonight."
The blonde had just started getting ready the following night, a Saturday and usually when strip clubs were bustling. She had been wearing a red, satinesque mini dress that had a skirt so short that her buttcheeks were showing below her fitted garter belt which held up her sheer black stockings. The top had fitted cups for her generous bosom, pushing them up at an evened-out look. In her earlobes dangled black chandelier styled earrings made of opaque Swarovski crystals. As she applied her mascara, Clara had been standing in the doorway of her bedroom recalling what had been on the morning news.
"Clara, don't baby me," the blonde insisted, the covered lash comb applying the product to her eyelashes.
"A guy was murdered in the back alley last night. Did you not see the news this morning?" The older sister was getting aggravated, but Amy kept her bold head about her.
"Clara, that was yesterday! Yesterday's news! Geez, what's it going to take?" Amy questioned, screwing the lid of her mascara back into the tube before tossing it in her makeup caddy to grab a fluorescent shade of lipstick and start applying it.
"Amy, you never know. You need to be careful nowadays," her older sister advised.
"Where's Britta?" Amy asked, changing the subject as she applied her lipstick in even layers over her lips.
"Don't change the subject!" Clara exclaimed. "You're not even listenin—"
"I asked you a damn question," Amy snapped. "Where. Is. Britta?"
"She's taking a nap," her older sister finally answered. "She just fell asleep."
"Well," Amy said, finally getting up from her mirrored vanity table and putting her jacket over her skimpy clothing, grabbing her purse and slinging it on her shoulder. "Tell her I'm leaving."
"Be careful, Amy," Clara said worriedly.
"Yeah, and if I don't come back tonight," Amy began sarcastically, "be sure to visit the place and bring your power of resurgence and your healing hands. Kay?"
The blonde walked by her, and Clara just followed her rapidly down the hallway, shocked by her dark humor.
"Amy, that is not funny! Don't joke like that!" her sister said. "You've died before, and I've had to—"
"Blah blah blah!" Amy blurted loudly as she went down the stairs rapidly. "I'm going to work! I'll be late if you keep babbling! Bye!"
Clara just shook her head as she slowly went down the stairs. The door had shut, but the older sister made sure her protective intentions were with Amy. How could she have been so belligerent about something heinous that had happened at her own work place? How could she have been so indifferent to her own safety? Why did she have to act so above everything all the time? No matter what the answers to those questions were, Clara would not feel any different about the fact that Amy was indeed unstoppable in her behavior.
At the club, Amy had gone into the back room, something of a dressing room more like, and sat down in one of the director-style chairs. Taking a few sips from a freshly-opened water bottle, she sat back and looked at the other dancers who had made it to the six-to-three shift. One was a blonde, and the rest had black or brown hair that coordinated with their deep tans. Then she craved a smoke right then and there, so she took one from her bag and put the butt to her lips, igniting the end with her powers as she took a drag. One of the other exotic dancers had been watching.
"You can't smoke in here," she said.
The other stripper had been a brunette in an ice-blue lingerie set—Amy just looked at her with hard, intensely azure eyes and blew out the smoke. As it billowed from her crimson lips, the other just looked at her with shock.
"The boss isn't here yet," Amy stated, taking another drag. "So why don't we all smoke? Take a load off, hm?"
"I don't smoke," the other blonde stripper said. "None of us do."
"Hm, so I'm assuming weed is very different, then?" the blonde witch assumed cynically. "I wouldn't think so."
"I bought a few joints from the convenience store earlier," a brunette in black said, "but I don't think I'll share any with you."
"Hm, I didn't plan on sharing with you either," Amy sneered, nearly cackling mischievously. "Thanks for asking."
"Okay, okay," a raven-haired stripper with short hair said. "Stop, can we?"
"I will if she will," the brunette in a black metallic bikini said, pointing at Amy, who just smiled and chuckled to her heart's content as she continued to smoke her cigarette.
Within a couple of hours, Amy had given a few lap dances and had socialized with more male customers than any shift she had worked during her short time there. However, it was her first time dancing up on an actual stage with a pole involved—to the beat of heavy techno, Amy busted out the most provocative, erotic moves she could in time with the music. Groups of male customers had gathered around here small stage in particular, watching her spin on the pole as she worked her hips. It was the typical scene—dollar bills of various quantities positioned on the stage, men whistling at her dance moves, cat-calls about how she looked, and so forth. When she pulled the top of her dress down, all the men gasped and threw on onslaught of dollar bills on the stage—one had even volunteered to slide it beneath her garter.
Little did she know she was being watched—Michael had arrived at about eight-thirty, and the first thing he saw was her dancing on the pole, surrounded by men tossing dollars up at her. He had kept an eye on anyone who tried to do anything stupid with her onstage, even if it was putting money in her garter. He had seen the man, aged twenty-five or so with good looks, do so as his rage built up within. He had not had any drink in his system, either—he had only come to see Amy, yet he wasn't happy with what he saw.
About a half hour after her stage set had ended, Amy had already gotten back in her clothes and was socializing with customers again, even getting paid by customers to do so. A lot of them had been divorcees with no other way to spend their free time, which made Amy do nothing but laugh inside at stories of their kids, how terrible their wives had been to leave them, how crappy their jobs were; it was all just a big, laughable mess.
Her break came at about nine or so—she had gone out to smoke with the same brunette stripper she had been arguing with before the night started. She had brought out her box of joints, keeping true to her promise not to share any. Once they were outside, Amy pyrokinetically lit her cigarette and the smoke billowed as she puffed.
"How did you light that without a lighter?" the other stripper asked, pulling her coat closer to her.
"It's a cheap trick," Amy stated. "Anyone can do it."
"Can you teach me? I'd save money on lighters," the brunette chuckled.
"Maybe."
"So you're new, I know that," the other stripper said. "Where are you from?"
"I was born in New Orleans, but then moved to San Fran when I was five. We recently just moved here, though," the witch explained. "It sucks. I need a car around here."
"You need a car everywhere," the other stripper said, the skunk-smell escaping her mouth as she blew from the joint. "Phew, it's making me nervous being out here.
"Why?"
"Because of that…guy. I saw the news, he got his throat cut by someone and left for dead," the other stripped expressed nervously.
"Nah, that won't happen to us," Amy said.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because it won't. Don't worry," the blonde witch said. She suddenly felt her eyes widen in shock over a loud noise that sounded like a bang.
POW!
"Oh my god!" the brunette said, tossing her joint to the ground and stepping on it with her stripper heel platforms. "What was that?! Oh my god! Someone got shot! L-Let's go! They could need help!"
"It was probably a tire popping," Amy said in denial. Was that really a gun, she asked herself.
"No! I'm serious!" the brunette said.
"Fine! I'll go! Geez!"
The two made their way over to the source of the loud, violent pop as they tried to follow the sound as it was happening. However, Amy was the first to hear faint grunts coming from what sounded like a victim. They came to the back alley of the club to total darkness—only a faint silhouette could be seen, that of a man with a jacket making his shoulders look broader and more intimidating. Gasping as her gut tried to identify who it was, she made a fist with her right hand only to open it and conjure a ball of fire to help her see. The stripper who had been with her glanced over with fear at Amy, who held fire in her hand, before looking ahead to see four bodies gunned down and the person who did it.
"Oh my god! Amy! What is that? Who are these people?" she exclaimed.
"Michael?!" Amy exclaimed
POW!
The blonde let out a scream to see the stripper next to her be shot in the chest, dying as soon as the bullet hit her heart as she fell back on the black asphalt. The fire in Amy's hand grew substantially as her jaw dropped at the sight, feeling her body shake as she felt Michael's presence draw closer near. Her sapphire eyes looked orange as the fire blazed before her; she was prepared to throw it at him if he were to harm her.
"Why did you kill her?!" the blonde hissed. "She was innocent! She did nothing to you!"
"I didn't want a witness," Michael said; Amy was really frightened by the fact that he showed absolutely no remorse for killing four men and the stripper who had been present alongside Amy to witness that he was the murderer.
"I'm calling the cops," the blonde said. "You're a sick son of a bitch!"
The moment she took her phone out to dial 911, Michael snatched it and tossed it against the metal dumpster so hard it fell apart on impact. Amy was shocked and truly scared now, especially when he tried to pull her close to him—was he trying to hurt her?
"Stop it! Stop! Michael! Stop!" she shouted, feeling her own strength being overpowered by the young man.
Somehow, she felt weak and powerless, so she gave in—he pinned her against the brick wall of the back alley and put his palms against the rough red brick. Her lips were at his mercy as he claimed her with animalistic fervor. She smelled of sweet flowers. When she felt his hands softly groping her large, cupped breasts, she felt calm despite tears running down her face. Strangely enough, Michael had started to show emotions beyond his realm of capability as well.
He broke the kiss and looked down into her eyes, their sapphire hue vaguely becoming known through a light in the distant end of the alleyway as he lifted the back of his fingers to her face and caressed her smooth skin.
"W-Why did you kill them?" she wept. Michael sniffled, looking down at her tearfully.
"I did it for you!" he replied emphatically in a heartfelt manner. "I did it for you."
"Why?"
"I got so angry when they paid you attention. You've been distant from me. I…got so angry and…I…" Michael was suddenly at a loss for words, but he still kept Amy pinned so that she wouldn't move away from him.
"S-So that gives you a reason to be a sick fuck?" Amy questioned nervously.
"Amy, I've been doing stuff like this my whole life," he replied. "I…well, I have been taking my anger out like this for a long time. I killed my nanny when I was three, and—"
"Oh my god!" the witch exclaimed. "She was right!"
"Who?" Now he was getting skeptical.
"Uh…n-nothing, I—"
"Tell me who!" he commanded silently through gritted teeth. Amy was scared again, the anxiety racking her nerves to oblivion.
"Uh…well…"
"Constance?" Michael questioned. "C'mon. You can tell me. Who told you?"
"Yes! Yes! It was her!" Amy whimpered. "Please let me go?! Please?"
"Ugh, I knew it," Michael said, shaking his head. "She had to go and ruin a budding relationship with something so stupid."
"I seriously didn't believe her at first," Amy said as he loosened. "You couldn't have. You were too little to kill your nanny."
"Well, believe it," Michael told her. "She wouldn't give me a cookie, so I slashed her throat. I finger-painted my rocking chair with her blood. It was a lot of fun."
"Oh my…" Amy was speechless, having no words to express her fear as he continued.
"I killed another babysitter when I was seven. She wouldn't put on Sesame Street, so I stabbed her in the heart," Michael explained emotionlessly. "Then in high school, well, three lucky people got their rewards in due time."
"W-What do you mean?" Amy asked nervously, frightened by his morbidity.
"My freshman year, this one kid, I'll never forget him, we had been friends and working on a project together. He was apparently very smart and knew a lot of things, but he set me up to fail when we presented. So I had him meet me afterschool near a lake and I bludgeoned him with a lead pipe," he said. "Stupid asshole actually trusted me."
Amy listened, not saying a single word as he continued to confess his crimes to her.
"When I was a junior, I was dating this girl. She was more popular, and I lost my virginity to her. The next day, she went around school telling everyone how lousy I was. So I didn't get mad, I got even," he clarified. "I raped her before stabbing her repeatedly. It felt good to get my revenge. One less high school bitch to make the lives of those less fortunate more tolerable is, in my opinion, a public service."
"Ew, that's why you were so rough with me?" Amy asked with disgust.
"C'mon, you liked it," Michael smirked.
"Uh, no," the witch sneered. "Just…l-let me go, already!"
"I'm not finished!" Michael exclaimed. "Want to hear about my last victim from high school?"
"No, I think I get the picture! Let me go!" Amy exclaimed, beginning to struggle against him.
"Hm, I don't want any secrets between us, sweetheart," he said. "I was a senior when I snapped someone's neck in a fight. The family didn't even press any charges. They thought I sat on his head." He paused, a silence among them as Michael looked out in the distance to see if anyone else had been there. "Now, you tell me your secrets, princess."
"I don't have any, now let me go!" she shrieked.
"You were tossed against a tree trunk in your backyard this weekend," he said. "I couldn't help but notice. Who did it?"
"That's none of your business," Amy snapped. "Let me go."
"Tell me, Amy! It's only fair!" Michael exclaimed. "And what about that fire you held in your hand just to see a few minutes ago? Huh?"
"Alright! Alright! We're witches!"
Suddenly, Amy gasped—Michael had released her from the wall, allowing her some relief as she reveled in the shock of the moment. It was no lie—Clara and Amy had been adopted by a former member of the New Orleans Coven, who had only recently left after Britta, her revived-turned-immortal great-grandmother, came to live with them. They had been born with their powers from an old line that passed their powers from mother to daughter with the exception of their father—yet their mother, unrelated to Britta, was a witch as well. They had been more open about their identities, but to reveal it to someone like Michael was unbelievable.
"You're…what?" he asked in shock, his olive-green eyes narrowing down at her.
"I'm a witch," the young woman said. "But don't get any ideas. I'm not like my sister."
"Your sister? She's one, too?" Michael questioned.
"Yeah. We were born with our own powers. It's nothing major. We aren't the derelicts of society," Amy said. "Actually, we blend quite well."
"Well, if you're a witch, I'm the anti-Christ," the young man chuckled.
Amy just furrowed her eyebrows inward as she peered up at him thoughtfully.
"Huh?"
"Well, my grandma, Constance, called me that one time," he said. "It's total bullshit, if you ask me. I'm not a Satanist or anything. I don't think I'm an evil person."
"But you've killed," Amy stated, contradicting him. "How does that make you a good person?"
"Eh, my whole existence confuses me, Amy. I don't know the answer to that," he replied, looking down at her before taking a glance at the freshly dead bodies of the men and stripper he killed. "My grandma told me she's had me since I was a baby, but where the fuck were my parents in all of this? Why didn't they step up to the plate and raise me? I used to hate my parents. I never met them, but I resented them for not being responsible. If they wanted to have me, then why burden my grandmother? Why make her take the brunt of it all?"
"Maybe your parents couldn't raise you, Michael," Amy said—Tate is his father, she thought. "Maybe certain circumstances made it so that they couldn't raise you?"
"I don't know," Michael said, shaking his head. "No matter how many times I've tried to ask Constance, my grandma, about my parents, she'd get mad at me and say they weren't worth my love anyways. I always begged to differ. Not sure why, but I did."
"Hm, do you think they're dead or alive?" Amy questioned cynically. Of course I know they're dead, she thought, Tate was a ghost long before he raped Vivien, and she died in childbirth.
"Why do you ask?" he questioned. "Do you know something I don't?"
"What's it to you?" Amy asked, crossing her arms as the smell of decomposition began to take up the alleyway. It was a wonder no one came by and saw them standing amongst the murdered.
"Don't fuck with me, princess," Michael commanded.
"Alrighty then. Come to our house tomorrow night. Six o'clock. We'll feed you dinner. I'll tell you what I know."
"But…my grandma says I can't go into that house," he protested, blushing nervously. Amy just leaned up at him, making intense eye contact as she spoke her chilling, spiteful words.
"Have you ever wondered why?" she questioned.
Amy began to walk toward the door leading back into the club, and just when she placed her hand on the doorknob, she felt Michael's presence so close behind her she could almost feel his hard chest against her back. Yet he had only been standing where he had been for the majority of the time. She did, however, hear his voice carry in the darkness.
"I love you," she heard him say.
Amy just turned around, staring off into the darkness that concealed even Michael's own shadow. She sighed, absorbing his words and shaking her head as she opened the door.
"How sweet," she said sarcastically, "but I don't love you, though."
Watching her walk back into the club, Michael felt crushed—normally he felt nothing when things like this happened. With Amy, it was different; he really did love her, and in his mind, he knew she felt the same deep down. Otherwise, why did she have sex with him in the first place? Why had he felt such strong longing for her? Why had his protectiveness been extreme to the point of killing men who paid her too much attention? On the flipside, Amy had become more and more detached as she casually slept with guys in her teens—maybe she had not believed him?
Either way, he was determined—he would win her or, if fate had it, Clara's heart one way or another.
A/N:
Next chapter, there will be more of the ghosts being featured, especially Tate. I know you have been asking to see more Violate, but that's coming up real soon as the story unfolds.
Let's just hope Michael doesn't have sinister intentions when he goes to the Murder House...someone said he was wicked creepy, but what else can you expect from the anti-Christ himself? ;)
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