2018 - October 31, afternoon

Patrick brought the bag of smaller pumpkins into the kitchen; the larger pumpkins he left on the porch where the cab driver had helped place them. Pat wasn't concerned with gourds at the moment. He set the bag down on the island and went to find Chad. The black-haired man was easy to locate: He was just in the dining room, still shaving the first pumpkin he'd been working on all morning.

Chad glanced over when he entered the room. He was only going to glance but when he saw Patrick's expression and caught the vibe he was putting off, Chad put his scraping tool down.

"What's wrong?" he asked with a touch of concern.

"Tate's going to Westfield on Halloween."

"Oh," said Chad. "That. Yes, I heard. Going to go put some pesky spirits to rest." He said it like he didn't believe it would work. He picked up his tool again and started to shave pumpkin shell. "Did you get the large pumpkins like I asked?"

"Chad!" Patrick said. "He's going to Westfield! The place where he killed fifteen people!"

Chad looked over, brows high. "And?"

Pat felt a familiar wash of frustration. Why was it that everything he found important, Chad always didn't? "And he shouldn't!"

"Why not?" said Chad. He propped himself with one hand on the table. "It's his history to sort out."

Patrick stared at him.

Chad lowered his chin a little. "It's not like he's going to die in there."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?' Chad demanded, slamming his shaving tool down on the tabletop. "What? You want to stop him? Then go!"

"I just thought-"

"No, you didn't!" Chad was close to yelling. "You never think about anyone but yourself! You're not even thinking about him now! You're thinking about how YOU'LL feel if something happens to him!"

He turned away then and put both hands on the table to steady himself. Then he launched into his tired old internal 'I will not cry' mantra.

Pat stood there feeling very helpless. He needed someone in his corner. And what he had was a screaming queen about to fall to pieces in the midst of pumpkin peels. He passed a hand over his face and looked away. "I'm going with him," he said quietly.

Chad looked over, so surprised he forgot about crying. "What?"

"I'm going with him."

Chad frowned and straightened up. "Why?" Though he'd hurled the challenge at Patrick, he hadn't expected him to actually do it.

Pat 's lips tightened. "Because he needs me." He paused. "He needs us."

The dark-haired man's expression echoed that of his estranged husband. He stood there for several long seconds, his gaze locked with Patrick's. Then he sighed heavily.

"I wanted a baby. I could have had late night feedings and shit-filled diapers. But noooo. That would be too easy for Chad Warwick. No, I get stuck with the school shooter with more fucking baggage than LAX." He wiped his hands on his apron and arched his brows at Patrick. "Before we commit to this field trip, let's find out what he's actually planning."

...

After giving it a lot of thought Tate decided he should tell his mother about his plan to go to Westfield. He wasn't sure what he expected from her. It was possible it was an ego thing: He thought she might be interested. Proud, maybe? Probably not. His stomach fluttered as he stepped up onto the porch in his teen aspect. He didn't know why he was nervous except that the last time he'd seen his mother things had gone so very badly.

He didn't want to apologize. He didn't want to deal with any of the last time. He hoped she felt the same way. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn't. When he got to the porch he paused, nerves overcoming him. He felt like he was walking into a trap even though it was his idea to come. He braced himself and entered the house. He didn't think to use the doorbell because it was his mother's house. He hadn't gone there very often over the years but he still thought of her property as his.

The first person he saw was the priest. The guy was sitting on the loveseat in the front room with a very thick, very old-looking book in his lap. He looked surprised to see Tate and set his book aside.

"Hello," Father Jeremiah said, friendly despite the unexpected intrusion. "Tate, isn't it?"

The teen nodded and stopped in the center of the room. He eyed the priest. "Why are you here all the time?"

"I help your mother care for Michael," he said.

"Don't you have a house of your own?"

Father Jeremiah smiled. "No. I have very little by way of worldly possessions."

"Yeah, I like to travel light, too," Tate said without any thought behind the words. "Where's Constance?"

"She's in the sitting room," said Jeremiah. He had that impression again that he'd met the teen before somewhere, in some note-worthy circumstance. It was an aggravating sense given he couldn't attach it to anything and it kept occurring.

"Thanks," Tate grunted and headed that way.

And there she was, sitting on the longer of the two couches crowded in the room. She was doing needlepoint on one of those wooden wheels. Tate shifted nervously in the doorway.

"Come on in," said Constance, jabbing her needle into the trapped cloth. "No sense comin' over here if you're not goin' to talk to me."

He came the rest of the way in and went over to the short couch. He sat on the edge and knit his fingers between his knees. The sleeves of his sweater almost swallowed his hands. "Mama, I'm... I'm going to Westfield. Tonight." It felt good to just dump it out there like that, no beating around the bush.

She glanced up but didn't stop stitching. "Why would you want to go and do a foolish thing like that for?"

He squeezed his fingers together tighter. The snake ring on his thumb bit into his knuckle. "I'm trying to fix things."

"Fix things." She nodded but it was a staccato movement. A bitter smile tugged one side of her mouth. She looked back to her needlepoint, pushing the needle through more viciously. "You think you're just gonna' to 'fix things' by marchin' up to that school, cryin' a few crocodile tears and sayin' you're sorry?"

"Maybe," Tate frowned.

"On Halloween."

Why did everyone keep saying that like it was a super big deal? "Why not? Nobody'll be there except the dead people."

"You'll miss trick-or-treat with Michael," she said archly, eyes on her needlepoint. "He's been lookin' forward to it for weeks."

"You said I couldn't see him again unless I took Doctor Harmon's drugs," he said, picking at a cuticle.

"I said I wasn't bringin' him over to that house anymore unless you did," she corrected stiffly. "That's the trouble with you, Tate. You always hear what you want to and not what's bein' said."

He chewed on his thumbnail and tried to remember the conversation. He thought she'd said what he said but now he wasn't so sure. He was really upset that day and he never remembered well when he got really upset. Tears stung his eyes and he tried to blink them back. He didn't want to disappoint Michael and he did like going trick or treating last year, even if it was kind of silly.

"I could go after."

She laughed, once, derisively. "Right. That'll happen."

"Before?"

She leveled a steely gaze at him and he noticed she looked less old than he remembered. Maybe he was misremembering that too.

"Tate," she said, finally setting the wooden hoop down in her lap. "You can either spend Halloween with your family or you can go spend it with those teenagers."

"Mama," he objected, hurt all over again. "You're making it sound like it's a party! I killed those people! That's what everybody keeps saying!"

"Oh, you killed them," she said in a low and serious way. "Which is why they're not gonna care what you say or do if you go there."

She got up then and her needlepoint fell to the sofa. She crossed the short distance between them and sat beside her son. She stroked his hair back behind an ear. He eyed her suspiciously, a bit afraid that she might slap him.

"Honey, you know Halloween's the one time the spirit world and the real world cross over," she crooned gently. "Why would you go there the one night when they might actually be able to hurt you?"

He looked at her, dark eyes lined with unshed tears. "Because I have to."

"Jesus H. Christ, Tate!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

She paced a few steps away, her satiny house robe flowing behind her. She grabbed a cigarette and lit one, then turned to glare at her son balefully, her own eyes bright with tears now. He looked back at her unhappily. The sight of her fighting back tears made his fall.

"You're not goin' to that school," she said and the words were a guillotine.

"Mama..!"

"NO, Tate." She snapped. Smoke swirled serpent-like around her face as she exhaled. "You're not goin' and that's final." She sucked on her cigarette like she was daring him to say something. When he didn't, she said loftily: "You're goin' trick-or-treatin' with Michael so you better be sure Chad has somethin' for you to wear."

He slumped into the folds of his sweater and hugged himself. Tears dripped on his lap and he sniffled wetly. "Can I go now?"

She thought about telling him no just to make him suffer for upsetting her but she wanted to come out of the situation the good guy. "Go on. We'll be over there at six."

Tate left hunched into himself so much that he barely came up to her shoulder when he brushed past her, despite being in his teen form. He practically ran back to the house then quick-stepped up to the attic. He tucked himself into his hidey-hollow there between the walls and cried till he couldn't cry anymore. It took a couple of hours before he surfaced from his personal misery. His eyes had that swollen feeling and his sides hurt.

He didn't feel any better for the extended bout of angst. He heaved a deep sigh and thought about sleeping. But he was thirsty and starting to feel cramped. His hidey-hole was great for bawling in private or masturbating without fear of Chad intrusion but it wasn't much good for anything else. So he finally emerged.

The air in the attic was almost sweet compared to the dusty, stale stuff inside the walls. And as soon as Tate was fully back in it, a red rubber ball hit his foot. He tracked the direction it had rolled from and smiled faintly. He picked it up and carried it back into the shadows where he plopped down on the floor next to the old broken high-backed wheelchair. It hadn't always been broken; he and Addie had busted the wheel years ago racing it around the other junk.

"Hey, Beau," he said. He rolled the ball back into the darkest point of the attic. "Know what?"

Of course Beau didn't say anything but he rolled the ball back. Tate caught it.

"I'm going back to school," he said and rolled the ball back once more. He laughed and a few hot tears leaked out. Funny. He thought he was empty of them. "Mama thinks I'm not."

The ball came back and he heard Beau grunt. Tate caught the red toy and rolled it around between his palms.

"I don't know. I guess maybe I should just... Fuck. I don't know." He sighed and rolled the ball back again. The ball bounced against his leg. He picked it up again. More tears dripped off his chin. "What should I do, Beau?"

He rolled the ball to his older brother and looked into the shadows. He could see Beauregard move around in the darkness. His brother whined and rocked in place. He didn't roll the ball back to Tate. So Tate went to him. He put his arms around his big brother and cried. He got Beau's tattered t-shirt wet and a bit snotty. It wasn't an intentional slight; it was just how things had always been between them. With as messy as Beau was, getting close to him meant being messy too.

...

2018 - October 31, late afternoon

Chad and Patrick were both sitting at the dining table when Tate entered, in child form. Chad had called him down but there wasn't any food on the table so it couldn't be for a meal. The way the dark-haired man had his hands folded on the table hinted at trouble so Tate got nervous. He stayed in the doorway. He didn't know what he'd done wrong but he figured it was safest to keep his distance till he knew.

"Come sit down," Chad said, unlacing his fingers to motion to the chair across from Patrick. Chad was, of course, in his usual seat at the head of the table.

Tate came over, moving cautiously and with many wary glances at both of his fosters. "What?" he asked as he slid into his seat.

"A little birdie told us that you've got plans for Halloween," said Chad, lacing his fingers again.

Tate shifted a little. "Jesus. Nothing gets by you guys."

Chad smiled tightly. "You're only just now figuring that out?" He lifted his chin, trying to rise above the urge to bicker. "Patrick and I are going with you."

Pat gave Chad a quick, curious glance. It had been his impression that they were going to ask Tate about accompanying him, not tell.

Tate looked from one man to the other. "You are?" he asked, brows scrunching.

"That's what families do, Tate," Chad said in a tone that suggested everyone knew that. "They face problems together."

Tate fidgeted and picked at the sleeve of his pullover. Families face problems together. "That's a new one on me," he smiled but there were tears falling out of his eyes all around it, robbing it of its devil-may-care attitude. He wanted to add more, to be funnier, so they wouldn't see how much such a simple statement could affect him but he couldn't think of anything.

"Yes, well," dismissed Chad. "No shocker there."

Patrick gave him a Look. Then, to Tate he said, "What are you planning to do when you get there?"

Tate picked at his sleeve some more, tugging a loose thread free to wrap around the tip of his finger. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm going."

Patrick and Chad exchanged glances then both of them looked at Tate. He fidgeted some more.

"Mama said I couldn't go. She wants me to go trick-or-treating with Michael."

Pat sat back in his chair with a disgusted air and Chad rolled his eyes.

"Why did you tell her you were going?" Chad asked.

Tate shrugged. "She's my mother."

"Marginally," muttered Chad. He shot Patrick a glare when his significant other kicked his foot under the table.

"I'm supposed to be at Westfield at seven o'clock but she wants to meet at six," Tate went on. He'd learned to tune out some of the comments Chad made. It was just easier that way than arguing with every little nasty thing he said. "If I don't show up, they're gonna think I chickened out."

"Who cares what those George Romero rejects think?" Chad wondered. He really didn't understand. "They can't come in here. They can only come around at Halloween. It's not that hard to avoid them. You did it for years."

"I don't want to avoid them!" Tate exploded, pounding one small fist on the table. Despite his size, there was enough force to the blow to rattle the harvest centerpiece Chad had arranged. "I've spent the last thirty years avoiding them and I'm tired of it!"

"Twenty-four," said Chad.

"What?" Tate blinked. More tears fell.

"Twenty-four years," Chad supplied. "Not thirty."

Tate rolled his eyes and sagged in his chair. "Whatever! I'm done!"

"So you're going to go?" Pat interjected. His deep voice was a strange comfort in the sea of Tate's stormy feelings.

"I don't know," the boy said. He shoved a finger in his mouth to nip viciously at the ragged cuticle while he thought about it. "If I do, mama'll come. I just know it. I can't have her coming to Westfield. Not..." He shook his head, not even wanting to picture it. "She can't."

Chad propped his elbows on the table, laced his fingers again and used them as a raised platform to support his chin. His eyes met Pat's and they exchanged a few looks meant only for them. When Chad finally looked at Tate again, he did it with a dramatic sigh.

"All right," he said. "Here's the deal. We'll run interference for you this once. Just this once. Because I am not going to make it a habit of putting myself between you and your mother."

Tate frowned, not following.

"We'll distract Constance," said Patrick. "So you can get to Westfield."

Tate was floored, both by the offer and by the fact that he couldn't figure out how they were going to pull it off. "How?"

Chad smiled. It was a tight smile but it was laced with self-satisfaction. "Leave the details to us. You worry about what you're going to do when you're knee-deep in the prom of the living dead."

...

Author's Note:

"Knee-Deep in the Dead" was a the first episode of the game Doom, set in the UAC facilities. Eric Harris made a Doom II wad (level) called UAC Labs that was a single-person level that was stocked with all kinds of weapons but got so thick with monsters so quickly that you couldn't possibly win. You end up on a tall podium in the center of an arena filled with a veritable sea of the worst creatures in the game - hundreds of them - and they all want to kill you. And then the podium goes down...

Night of the Living Dead was created by George Romero (Chad referenced him and the living dead). Prom Night was a cheesy slasher film about a killer at a prom dance. Interestingly, the Knee-Deep episode of Doom was largely designed by a guy named John Romero - no relation to George. His bloody head on a stick is a monster in Doom II and has his voice played backward saying "To win you have to kill me".

The scene with Tate and Constance was somewhat inspired by a scene from the first episode of Bates Motel. Another fun coincidence: Just as I was writing that last sentence there, the TV behind me started playing the music from Psycho - a pistachio commercial that said Norman Bates does it in the shower. Haha.

Next chapter: Going back to Westfield. Brace yourself. And check out my Playlist on my Profile here if you haven't.