The middle of October was the first time Michael set foot in the house in over a month. When the kindly, lovely Swede opened the door to welcome him in, he was in pure shock at the sight before him. It had been the girl who he had seen die tragically in the house, falling over the top railing and onto the first story before his very eyes. It was the beautiful young woman whom he had collected gently in his arms so he could lay her down on her bed, as though she were merely sleeping. Her dead, murky blue eyes seemed to stare off into space as she took slow, long drags of half a cigarette.

She had been wearing all black, and her skirt was longer than usual. Michael eyed the soft, translucent crinoline layers as they tapered up to a strapless, corseted top. Her bosom heaved over the top of the sweetheart neckline substantially, but what shocked him most was that her hair was clipped short. Her golden curls reached her soft, feminine jawline, and they were somewhat messy and tousled, a few stray strands caressing her forehead as they hung down. She also was not wearing a full face of makeup—she looked sickly pale and dead; simple as that.

"Amy?!" he exclaimed. "What the—"

"Ja, she has returned to us," Britta said. "Not all who come back return in the same way as they were alive."

"But…but can she talk?" he asked.

"Yeah, I can talk," Amy replied, a strange calmness in her voice. He had never seen her like this—she was always boisterous.

That was the moment Michael stepped up on the staircase and sat next to her. She smelled like a strong perfume, but he didn't know what. It was overpowering, making him suspect that an excess amount had been applied to mask the odor of death.

"How long have you been alive?" he asked, making eye contact; the dead, fish-like look in her eyes was enough to frighten him, but he tried to mask it as much as he could.

"A month," she answered, taking the cigarette between her lips and taking a long drag only to billow out the smoke afterwards.

"Hm," he grunted—there was a silence before he spoke again. "What did you see?"

"Huh?"

"You know, what did you see when you died?" he asked. "They say when you die, you go someplace."

"No, no," Amy replied, putting out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray that was already full of fifteen cigarette butts from that one sitting. "I didn't see shit." She paused, taking a slow, even breath. "I saw absolutely nothing. It's black. Nothing but eternal darkness."

Michael just stared at her, the aroma of her heavy perfume overpowering his nose as she continued in a hoarse whisper.

"I swear, it's this house," she added.

"You think you were trapped here?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's all a bunch of shit, really," Amy replied, taking a fresh cigarette and pyrokinetically lighting the tip before taking her first drag. "I died when I was little and came back without problems. Now, I feel like I'm going insane."

"That why you cut your hair so short?" Michael questioned.

Amy could've sworn she heard footsteps around them—was it a ghost? No, it was Clara. Little did they know she had been behind the doorway of the foyer, beginning to listen to their conversation. Hearing Michael's voice again made her think of the night he had his way with her, taking her in cold blood while Amy lay dead back home. It sent an all-too-familiar chill up her spine.

"I don't even know," Amy replied. "It feels lighter. I won't have to d-deal with brushing it anymore."
"Well, do you feel any different other than—"

"What the fuck?" Amy snapped, standing up suddenly and looking down at him as the heels of her boots planted into the wood of the stairs. "Is it not obvious?! Of COURSE I feel different! I'm not myself anymore! I'm going insane!"

Michael saw empty tears begin to roll down her face, and the candelabra that was next to her was immediately gripped in her hand as she made her way up the staircase, leaving her ashtray behind. As soon as he took the liberty of following her up to the second story of the house, she turned around and looked at him with such a look that it nearly scared the soul out of him—he wasn't afraid of anything. This was different.

"We think pain is the worst feeling!" Amy continued, her voice forceful and loud enough for Britta and Clara to hear downstairs. "It's not! It's far from it! How could anything be worse than this void blackening my soul?! I can't feel SHIT anymore!"

Michael remained expressionless as he followed her down the hall and toward her bedroom door, but as soon as Amy's hand went to the knob, she turned to look at him again.

"I can't take it anymore…" She sighed, tearfully expressing her inner emptiness. "I…just wish I was left to die. Being six feet under would be so much better than being here!"

With that came the slamming of the door accompanied with a locking sound. Michael leaned closer, hearing the faint sounds of sobbing and whining. Then, he heard footsteps that sounded almost absent, but when he turned, he saw none other than Violet with a somber look on her sad face. She was wearing a floral dress over a long-sleeve red shirt and a hat with simple boots on her feet.

"She's been sad since she was brought back," the ghost of the girl said. "I think you should go now."

"Why should I listen to you?" Michael retorted.

"Well, you shouldn't," Violet said crossly. "You will listen to Clara and the old lady, though. I mean, think of Amy. If you really cared about her, you'd leave her alone."

"Please," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Tate left me alone when I told him to," she said. "Come to think of it, I don't even think he's really sorry for killing Amy."

"Are you sure he's my dad?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yeah, but you don't have to call him that when you see him," Violet said. "I hated my parents. I hate it here, still, after all these years."

"Then why don't you go?" Michael asked, hesitating on his words. "Wait, you're trapped, right?"

"Yeah," she said sadly. "There's no hope for us. We are all just lost souls."

The sound of shoes walking against the surfaces of each stair step caught their attention as Violet and Michael turned their heads to notice Britta and Clara coming up, most likely to see what he had been doing and if Amy was in good spirits considering she was snappy. Each witch dressed differently in their respective, signature looks—Britta was clad in a raven black, knee-length dress with a halter-styled neckline and short sleeves of intricate lace. Her two bracelets were on her thin wrists, and her petite legs were covered by gray hose, tapering down to her thin ankles and simple black loafers. Clara, who glared at him subtly with her clear blue eyes and pulled the shawl of her late mother closer to her, was wearing a forest green dress that went just above the knee with a flowy skirt and fitted top, cinched at the waist with a thin, faux-leather belt. Her boots were flat, and she was wearing knee-high socks underneath them. Her black hair was high up in a ponytail that hung freely down her back.

"Why are you still up here?" the younger witch asked. "You need to get out. Now."

"I told you," Violet said, crossing her arms over her shoulders.

Michael shook his head and scoffed until he saw a sharp, concentrated look from the youthful-looking, century-old Swede—little did he know that his mind was being manipulated and bent to her own will. Reason—it was entirely subconscious.

"Leave," Britta dictated softly, putting her hand out with her palm facing downward. "Please. Tack så mycket."

As Michael turned on his feet and walked down the stairs by Britta's sheer willpower, Clara looked to her great-grandmother and sighed, her eyes curious as they heard the faint sound of the front door closing downstairs.

"Did you just make him leave?" Clara questioned.

"Ja," Britta said. "It is one of the powers I master."

"Could I learn? You can teach me," the girl smiled, moving a stray raven strand from her forehead.

"It is not always learned, but I will try," the Swede agreed.

At dinner that night, Michael and Constance sat across from each other at their table in the kitchen feasting on marinated sirloin tips, buttered baked potatoes, and chopped carrots. The elderly woman looked across the table at her grown grandson, noticing the stoic expression written across his emotionless face—had something been wrong?

"Michael?" she asked. "What's the matter?"

There was no answer; he just kept eating his food.

"Michael? Are you hearing me?"

"I'm not deaf," he replied, taking a sip from his beverage.

"Something is wrong," she told him. "You're never this silent." Michael just sighed and shook his head.

"If I told you, I wouldn't hear the end of it," he remarked.

"What do you—" Constance paused, thinking for a moment. Michael just looked at her and let out a snorting chuckle.

"What's with you?" he asked.

"Y-You didn't go in that house, did you?" she asked worriedly.

Michael was silent for a minute, building up Constance's anxiety. Of course he had—otherwise, he wouldn't have found out about his biological, albeit dead, parents. He wouldn't have found out why it was his grandmother who raised him all these years. He boldly took his response in stride.

"And what if I did?" he asked. Constance looked at him, the rim of her wine glass to her lips, her brown eyes glaring as she took a quick sip and plopped the glass back on the table.

"I told you to never step foot in that house!" she said fumingly. "I told you that before!"

"Doesn't mean I have to listen to you," Michael responded, taking a sip of his beverage. "I'm a grown man."

"Christ on a stick, Michael!" Constance snapped.

"Why the hell shouldn't I visit my friends in the house?" he asked. "I'm still stuck here and I'm twenty-five. I need some entertainment."

"I know you've been going there every weekend! What did I tell you about those places?!" Constance snapped, taking a sip of wine.

"Actually, I have not actually been there for over a month, thank you," Michael retorted snottily.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Constance whispered to herself, lighting a fresh cigarette from her pack. "I raised you your whole life, and I've tried to steer you away from those…filthy vices!" Her voice turned to a harsh whisper, leaning forward to make eye contact with her grandson. "I have had clean up every one of your bloody messes since you were little! Now that, I couldn't help, but I've tried to make you steer away from these…other disgusting behaviors!"

Michael looked down at the wine glass that Constance had again picked up to take another sip of. He was silent before giving his response.

"Amy and Clara are nice girls," Michael said. "Nothing is disgusting with them."

"But…you said Amy was dead," Constance recalled. "You said you watched her die with your own eyes."

"I did, but she's alive now," he replied. "I actually saw her today."

"Christ on a stick," she muttered. "Wait a minute, don't tell me you mounted that poor sister of hers…did you?!" Now she sounded quite scared, but Michael kept his emotionless cool.

"Yes, I did," he said dismissively. "And she liked it. Any questions?"

"How could you do such a thing?!" Constance shouted, feeling tears forming in her eyes. "That's all you do! Hurting people for the thrill! I can't help that you have tendencies! I've done all I could, but you…were graced with so many gifts! Why can't you bring yourself to use them?!"

"I use them everyday," Michael said.

"Dear Lord!" she cried out. "You need to stop! STOP! I can't take it anymore! Twenty-five years, I've lived in this house with nothing but regret! You were my hope! The one child that would not be such a screw-up! But look at you! You're no better than that son of mine who shot up Westfield and raped his girlfriend's mother just to have YOU!"

As tears fell from her eyes, Constance sniffled but felt herself becoming lightheaded. She took another sip of wine to try and smooth it over, but it only made her feel worse. Michael, in the meantime, was watching her wrinkled skin become paler and more sickly-looking. When she began to speak again, he listened as her breathing became gradually short and her eyes became droopy.

"Keep talking, grandma," he pleaded. "I'm listening to what you have to say."

"Y-You killed t-those people…a-at that….sleaze joint…" she stuttered, feeling unusually drowsy and lightheaded. "I-I know you d-did. I-It was a s-s-shock y-y-y-ou….n-never…got…c-c-cau—"

The lightheadedness and heavy drowsiness got to her as she fell unconscious on the kitchen floor. As soon as he heard the thud of her body hitting the linoleum, he got up from his seat and gently walked over to check up on her. Leaning down, Michael took a napkin and unfolded it to make it thinner, facilitating the act of checking her pulse.

She was dead.

Now to dispose of the body, he thought.

He picked up the cigarette that had dropped on the floor when Constance did, putting it out safely so nothing would catch fire. He proceeded to clean up the dishes, washing each one to pristine condition and throwing away any scraps left over. After all of this was set, Michael cut up garbage bags so that they could be laid flat out on the linoleum, and he put the dead body of his grandmother on it before gathering the materials he needed to prevent any traces from staying in their kitchen.

Butcher knife? Check.

Bleach? Check.

Old rags? Check.

Extra trash bags for coverage of surfaces? Check.

Acid-bleach solution? Well, he had to find it in the basement for fifteen minutes, but yes. Check.

And from there, he began.

Within an hour, Michael had worked at severing the limbs from Constance's dead body. Her body was stripped of all clothing despite the fact that he was repulsed by the thought of her being naked. He had never seen such a sight, but it still grossed him out s much as the reeking odor of death starting to come up his nose. The acid-bleach solution was in a plastic tub, where he placed each body part gently as the solution fizzed like clear soda water, eating off the flesh and turning it to sludge. The torso was hard to dissolve in the solution, but before he could even sever the head from that part of the corpse, he looked up and gasped in shock.

Amy had somehow made it into his house.

She had looked almost the same as she had earlier when first seeing her alive again. It was still hard for him to believe that she had been dead only to be brought back to life again. Her chin-length, uneven curls hung and framed her gorgeously feminine, albeit pale, face, and her murky blue eyes looked at him steadily. She was still in the same strapless, corseted dress with a black crinoline skirt and knee-high boots. The black lace gloves were still adorning her fatal hands. Startled, he dropped the torso onto the edge of a flattened trash bag and looked up at her dead, fish-like eyes.

"H-How did you get in here?" he asked forcefully.

"The door wasn't locked," Amy answered calmly. "I just so happened to sense death."

Looking down at the vat full of acid-bleach solution and the sludge mixed with it, as well as the torso Michael dropped, she took a quiet sigh and looked down at him.

"How did you kill her?" she questioned.

"Hm, just some cyanide in her wine," he replied. "It's all it took. She's an old lady."

There was a moment of silence, and in that time, Michael was somewhat creeped out by the fact that Amy didn't react like most people would to the sight of dismembered body parts. Most people would flinch or rush to call the police—Amy had not done so; rather, she kept a straight face.

"Why did you kill her?" she asked.

"She needed to go," he said. "I'm not the mistake. She was."

"Is that what she called you?" Amy asked.

"She said I was no better than my father, but I've planned on killing her for a while now. I didn't want a messy send-off," Michael explained. "Not that this isn't, but…"

"Well, the blood's on your hands," Amy said, taking a step back away from the threshold of the doorway.

"So are you going to help me out here?" he asked, sort of begging for assistance in Constance's disposal.

"No." There was a silence. "The blood's on your hands. You killed her, you clean it."

Michael, just as he was placing the torso in the fizzing solution, looked up at Amy with an aggravated glare.

"You don't even seem bothered!" he exclaimed with a grunt. "Here I am, dissolving body parts and you're just standing there. Aren't you going to call the cops on me, sweetheart?! Or are just here to piss me off?"

"If I were any more sane of a person," Amy began testily, "I would've screamed, ran, and called the cops. They'd lock you away for sure. Maybe put you on death row. Either way, I don't think I'd give a flying fuck where you'd end up."

That did it—Michael was officially incensed by Amy's cynical sarcasm. Standing up, he pointed to the back door down the hall and gritted his teeth so hard it hurt.

"Get out!" he hissed. "GET OUT! Stupid slut!"

"You have a lot of balls!" Amy barked, "calling me that! You think I haven't heard it before? I was a slut, but not anymore! Death opened my eyes and showed me that life isn't just hunky-dorey bullshit people make it out to be! Can you say the same about yourself, asswipe? CAN YOU?!"

The torso was immediately followed by the head of his grandmother as the solution fizzed to dissolve the flesh from bone material. Michael was silent, and once he was done, he looked over at Amy, who was breathing heavily from expressing her anger.

"Think twice before you judge me, asshole," the revived witch said. "I won't tolerate it, especially from you, Michael."

Gathering up all the dirty garbage bags that were soiled with blood, he opened the trash compactor and hid them beneath a bunch of other crushed trash before closing it and pressing the button to activate the compactor. There were only a few specks of Constance's blood on the linoleum, but he cleaned them with the bleach and old rags immediately before moving the vat of acid in the corner. Amy approached him, aggravated by him ignoring her, and put her gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Are you hearing me, Michael? Are you deaf?! C'mon, talk! I know you have balls! Use them!"

At that moment, he couldn't take anymore; pulling her close to him and pinning her against the wall, he hungrily pressed his lips to hers in a fuming, fervent kiss. Strangely enough, she had tasted like mint toothpaste, and Amy struggled to get him away but failed as she succumbed to his strength. She grunted until she felt his lips becoming softer over hers, gently caressing her mouth as he gave her lower lip a gentle tug.

"Amy," he sighed, their eyes meeting. "I…don't want to lose you again."

The black-clad witch looked up into his olive-green eyes with a scowl, but he took her thin, corseted waist into his arms briskly and held her close. Amy, however, did not return the embrace, and once Michael noticed this, he looked down at her strangely.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I don't know if I really meant those things I said to you," she stated.

"Saying you wouldn't give fuck what happened to me?" Michael asked.

"I don't know how I feel about you anymore," she replied softly. "I can't feel jack shit."

"Well, I know how I feel about you, Amy," he whispered softly, kissing her upper cheek just below her eye. "I love you, and I want to make you feel something. Anything."

Amy let herself go; by simply placing her head against his upper chest, it told Michael that it wasn't entirely true that she felt absolutely nothing at all. He held her close again, kissing the top of her short, blonde curls as he watched her close her eyes out of contentment. He knew she was in need of comfort—he knew exactly how to give her what she needed.

A/N:

So Michael finally decided to "end" his grandma…no surprise there.

FUN FACT: Serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer disposed of his victims mainly by dismembering the bodies and dissolving each part in an acid solution that worked to burn the flesh away from the bones. After this was done, it would then be flushed down the toilet or poured down the tub drain. In this chapter, Michael does the same with Constance's body.

Let's hope Amy doesn't lose it before it's too late? _ Just a note to people who didn't quite understand how her powers have changed since dying a second time—she is still pyrokinetic (the power of fire), and she had necrokinesis before, but now it's gotten to the point where she had to wear gloves to prevent her from killing people/things unintentionally.

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