2018 - Two days after the earthquake (cont.)

"Billie Dean, this is my godson, Michael," Constance introduced her grandson formally once they'd arrived at their house. "I'm sorry you had to meet him like this."

The boy in question was still grumpy over the reception he'd received on coming out of the basement. He didn't smile at the medium when she looked at him. She tried to smile but the look was thin. While he was a living presence, he felt too much like Tate to her. The darkness was on him, if not in him. It was Michael who brought the darkness to Constance's house, Billie Dean was sure of it.

"Boys will be boys," Billie Dean said. She lit a cigarette.

"I'm goin' to get him cleaned up," said Constance, putting a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Jeremiah? Could you call for a pizza? I don't feel like cookin'."

The priest nodded and went to the phone. Constance escorted the boy out of the room and Billie Dean sat down at the table. She pulled the ashtray over. Once the pizza order was put in Jeremiah joined her at the table. He peeked into his teacup. It still had tea in it but it was stone cold. He set the cup back down and folded his hands. He looked over at Billie Dean and found her looking at him.

She picked at her manicured nails absently while she studied him. "What are you?"

"I'm a priest," he answered.

She smiled. "Well, yes. But..." She paused. Her plucked brows furrowed slightly. "You... do know you're special. Don't you?"

"Everyone is special," Jeremiah said. "In his or her own way."

Billie Dean peered at him. "Are you here to protect him?" she asked bluntly, if quietly. She didn't want Constance to hear. "Or to protect the world from him?"

Jeremiah didn't answer immediately. "Both. Neither." He shrugged. "I was sent here by my Order to see that a prophecy is fulfilled."

Billie Dean's lips tightened. She tapped her ash in the ashtray then pulled another drag from the filter. "Is it all ending?"

He shrugged again. "I don't believe so. But then... no story truly ends. It simply makes way for the next one." He paused, then added: "We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. First Corinthians."

"I could make a mint writing a book about this," the medium said. She didn't really mean it. It just helped her not think about the gravity of things.

"You wouldn't be the first."

Billie Dean laughed softly and lit another cigarette. "No, I guess I wouldn't."

...

"You know the rule," Chad said sternly.

The man sat on the stool in front of the dressing mirror, hairbrush in hand. Tate, in his child seeming, stood a few feet away, arms folded and an unhappy look on his face.

"It's not fair!" the boy protested, tears in his eyes. "I was helping Pat and I forgot. Can't I just try and fix it now?"

Chad fixed him with a hard look. "What is the rule, Tate?"

Tate shifted his weight. "I'm supposed to fix my hair before you see me," he said grudgingly.

"And yet this continues to be a problem," said Chad. "You can remember the rule so it's not a memory issue, obviously. So I know you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not!" Tate insisted. "I haven't done it in forever!"

Chad arched a brow. "You did just two nights ago. I ignored it then and look where we are."

"Are you serious? There was an earthquake then!"

"There wasn't an earthquake today."

"We were getting rid of that stupid suit!" exclaimed Tate. He blinked away tears of frustration. "That's as bad as an earthquake! And my mom showed up too! And Michael!"

"On a certain level I agree with you," said Chad. "But you had plenty of time to fix your hair between then and dinner."

Tate glowered. How could he argue with someone who knew he was being unreasonable?

"Well?" Chad said, lowering his chin a little as his brows went higher. "Are you going to come here? Or shall we just let Patrick handle this?"

Tate trudged over like he was going to be executed. He hated how Chad always used Patrick like a cattle prod, mostly because it always worked. Nine times out of ten Pat sided with Chad, even if Tate was right. Tate didn't like gambling on odds like that unless it really mattered.

He tugged his pajama bottoms down and flopped across the man's lap. Then he covered his face with his hands. He could already feel his cheeks turning red. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"Now you know exactly how I feel," Chad said.

Chad didn't like violence. However, he'd reached his wit's end long ago with the hair war. He didn't really want to let Pat deal with the situation because he'd be too rough but intervention was necessary. So he did what he did best: He embarrassed the hell out of the boy. He delivered several sharp swats to the seat of Tate's underpants with the flat side of the hairbrush.

It only stung a little. It was the humiliation that made it hurt. Chad's idea of spanking was mortifying. When the man let him up Tate tugged his pajama pants up and braced for the lecture that was sure to follow. He would have preferred to go hide somewhere dark and alone. He smudged his cheeks with the back of his arm but more tears replaced the dampness.

"This is all on you, Tate," Chad said as he rose. "You know what you're supposed to do. You know the consequences if you don't. We can stop this anytime you're ready to be a big boy and do what you're supposed to."

With a hand on his shoulder Chad physically guided the child onto the stool and turned the brush on his messy blond hair. Tate glared at his lap. He didn't want to see the mirror. "I hate the way you make my hair."

"Do I look like I care?" the black-haired man said without hesitation. "I've told you time and again I am not going to foster Kurt Cobain Junior."

"Kurt Cobain made great music," Tate grumped.

"Tell you what. When you start writing great music and making millions of dollars, then you can wear your hair in whatever ugly way you want," said Chad.

Tate sulked. "Ow!" he protested at a particularly severe yank. "My mom let me do my hair however I wanted."

Chad paused brushing to look at Tate like he'd grown a second head. "You are not seriously going to bring her into this, are you? First: Look at her hair. Enough said right there. Second: Look at where Mommie Dearest's parenting got you."

Tears welled up in Tate's eyes but his sulk remained intact.

Chad went back to viciously rearranging Tate's hair.

...

Later that night Father Jeremiah sat with Michael who was already tucked in. The priest would usually tell the boy a bedtime story but never one from the shelf. Never one that most children his age would hear.

"...and when the dragon fell from the heavens, it swept a third of the stars down to earth with it," Jeremiah concluded.

"Did they burn out?" Michael asked.

Jeremiah smiled. "No. They learned how to move among men. Some even married and had children. But God didn't like that."

"Why not?"

The priest shrugged. "No one really knows. We only know that it wasn't supposed to happen."

That didn't make sense to the boy. "Then why did it?"

"Because it did," said the priest. He ruffled Michael's hair. "Time to sleep."

He tucked the boy in and promised Mama Constance would be along soon to give him his cookie and kiss. Then he let himself out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. He went over to the window and looked out into the night, over at the dark house next door.

...

1986

It had been a long, traumatic day in the Langdon household but it was finally over. Mama had fed the family and, suffering from guilt that inevitably followed one of her tirades, she'd allowed Tate another night in her room in front of the television. This time they watched together. They lay tucked under the thick quilt with her loving arms around him, his head on her satin-covered breast. Occasionally she would pet his hair or skin. For Tate every precious second helped wash away the horror of a day spent locked in the closet. He fell asleep there, listening to her heartbeat, one thumb touching his lower lip.

...

1980

Ben sat in front of the doctor's desk, his hands clasped between his knees. The doctor closed the file folder and smiled at the dark-haired 19-year-old.

"We've come a long way, haven't we?" he said.

Ben smiled. "Yes, we have, Doctor Lanyon."

"Have you decided what you're going to do?"

"I have," said Ben. "I'm going to take that scholarship they offered. I want to be a therapist, like you."

Dr. Lanyon's smile broadened with pride. "Good for you. I think you're making the right choice, Ben. I never would have thought it when I met you but... I think you'll be a good psychiatrist. You have a unique position to guide others from. You've seen both sides of the fence. And you know there's hope."

"If there's hope for someone like me," Ben agreed. "There's hope for anyone."

The doctor signed the release forms. Fifteen minutes later Ben Harmon was riding away from Kirkbride Hills psychiatric hospital in a taxi, toward his adult life.

xxx

Author's Note:

I hope I didn't rush the end here too quick for some of you. I told you I'm hopeless at self-restraint. I was a terror at Christmas as a child. But I'm excited to start episode 4 for you. So. Roll credits. Check my Profile for song suggestions.

FYI, Dr. Lanyon is also the name of a doctor that Jekyll killed in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It wasn't till after I wrote this and re-read it in editing that I noticed Lanyon is just two consonants removed from Langdon.

This episode ranked "Ernest Hemingway" at I Write Like... I followed Stephen King's advice on writing tersely. Hemingway was the father of terse. But as happy as it makes me to score a Hemingway, I think he would be horrified to have his writing compared to this nightmare. Who knows though.

Look for Murder House Revisited, Episode 4: Blood Ties soon. With family, nothing's thicker than blood.