(Author's Note: The song Silence by Lucia goes really well to this first piece.)

October 31, evening

The sun was setting. It sparkled on the waves and made them impossible to look at for long. Tate sat in the sand, watching the tide roll in and out. The steady sound soothed him. It was like a heartbeat. Being outside the house and alone felt strange; naked, almost. It was invigorating and intimidating at once.

His thoughts drifted with the waves. He wondered - if he jumped in and started swimming - how far he could get before the house reeled him back in like a fish. He wondered if his mother and Addie would miss him if he swam so far away the mansion couldn't reach him. Adelaide wrote him sometimes from her special college. Mama had told him that's where she was. She brought him Addie's letters when they came but he could tell that she was growing distant. Living in England made it impossible for her to visit and Tate couldn't go to her. Losing her was a slow, dull, achy process. It was something he tried not to think about and he didn't want to think it about now.

Tate threw a rock into the surf then hugged his knees. He'd thought coming to the beach would make him happy but it just made him feel lonely. He thought about showing his favorite spot to Patrick and Chad. Then he imagined Chad complaining about getting sand in his loafers. Tate smiled. He knew that the man would have the sense to wear appropriate footwear to the beach but he still found the mental image amusing. He suspected Pat liked the beach. He seemed like the sort of guy who would.

But the beach wasn't very friendly this time of year. It was cold, gray, and deserted. It was dead. Like Tate.

The sun disappeared under the water, leaving a hazy smudge of blood red light on the horizon where it vanished. The waves were black.

...

The sun had just set when the flood of trick-or-treaters hit the streets. The air was cool and promised to get colder once the sun set, so many groups wanted to get an early start. At around six Constance and Father Jeremiah brought Michael over to Murder House costumed and ready to collect candy. Father Jeremiah was dressed as a traditional Benedictine monk. Constance was a witch in heels impractical for walking long distances. Michael was a dragon. They were joined by two black-cloaked figures wearing Guy Fawkes masks, one tall and one Michael's size. The adults exchanged greetings.

"Are you ready to go collect some candy?" Constance asked the boys.

Michael cheered but Ethan said nothing. He just folded his arms. Constance arched a brow at him. She thought about calling him out on his behavior but if the worst he was going to do was give her the silent treatment, she would count herself lucky. The small band joined the rest of the pedestrians and set off down the street to pester neighbors for goodies.

From his bedroom window Tate watched them leave. He wondered how long it would take his mother to figure out that it wasn't him in the costume. He didn't expect it would fool her for long, even if Chad kept quiet the whole time. But he hoped it would buy him enough time to do what he needed to do.

The alarm clock went off, assaulting the air with Bodies, a song that only a deaf person could sleep through. Tate slapped the 'off' button to stop the chaotic noise. He'd set it a half hour earlier than he'd told the others he was going to leave so he could get a head start. As much as he appreciated and even wanted the company, this was something he had to do alone.

He went over to the bed and dropped to his knees. He fished a shotgun out, checked the shells in the chamber and put the weapon on the bed. Then he pulled out the second one. He checked and then dropped her alongside her mate. Mickey and Mallory, named after the shooters in Natural Born Killers. Then he grabbed the handgun - John Dillinger - and checked it as well. Loaded and ready for action. He put the safety on and stuffed Dillinger into the back of his waistband. He put Mickey and Mallory in the duffle bag on top the extra ammunition.

He shrugged his Union frock coat on and pulled his hoodie out of the neck, so it wasn't smashed uncomfortably against his shoulders. He would've liked a Rebel coat better but it was what had been available in the attic. It felt good to wear it again. Despite the fact that he was completely sober, he felt wired. Electrified. He was a bolt of lightning straight from the hand of God. It was amazing to discover he felt even more powerful than the day he set off for Westfield the first time.

The memory flicker made him blink. He shoved the thought away quickly. He didn't want to think about first times. Or memories. Just about what he needed to do now. He couldn't afford to think about anything else. If he did, he would panic and run. He was already sweating profusely. Or maybe that was just the layered clothes making him do that.

He shouldered his duffle bag and pushed the window open. He climbed out and half-hopped, half-willed himself down to the ground. Tate took a quick glance around even as he was hurrying across the lawn. His pulse was quickening. At any moment any one of his self-appointed guardians might catch him and shit would really hit the fan. From all ends. It was both a source of extreme fear and an intense high.

He ran the whole way to school.

...

(Author's Note: Play the album version - not video version - of Radioactive by Imagine Dragons here, for best effect.)

Tate stood on the crest of the dead hill overlooking the parking lot of the high school. All was quiet. The building lay before him like a fortress to be conquered. It was a presence unto itself that transcended the people within it. It was a living entity - a hostile being - and it was his nemesis. The house that held him was a conscious thing; Westfield High was a conscious thing too. And it hated him as much as he hated it. It poisoned everything that went in it, stripped the living of their color and life and souls and spat out more poison in the form of homogenous, politically-correct zombies.

They stared each other down. Mist hazed the cold October air. It was silent as death. The school's black window-eyes locked with Tate's, glassy and glittering and full of loathing. He could feel its desire to uproot itself and chase him down. But even if it could, he wouldn't run. He was done running. He reached into the duffle bag and grabbed Mickey. He pumped the barrel and readied himself for battle.

He took a bold step forward and was hit hard from the side.

For a moment he thought he'd been struck by a car, it was that hard and fast and painful. He was knocked off his feet and hit the ground hard enough to wind him. The shotgun flew from his hand on impact. Kyle scrambled up out of the tackle with practiced ease and chased after it like it was a football.

Tate rolled to his side and tried to catch his breath. He tried to tell himself he didn't need to catch his breath since he was dead but that didn't work. It never did. Kyle grabbed the gun up out of the dry grass and turned it on Tate, who put his hands up.

"Wait!" he croaked.

Kyle didn't wait. He shot Tate in the head. Then he shot him in the heart with the second round.

...

Violet hugged herself and glanced down the street though she didn't expect to see Tate. Not really. And she didn't. There were a few groups of trick-or-treaters still prowling the dark sidewalks.

"They're not here, dad," she said at last. She had a very bad feeling and it was making her impatient.

Ben tried to peek in through one of the dark windows of Constance's house but couldn't see anything. He didn't want to admit it but he knew she was right. They already knew Tate wasn't in the old Victorian either. Chad had informed him of his and Patrick's intention to play decoy for Constance so that had to be where they were: Still out leading the woman astray.

But where was Tate?

"He's at the school," Ben said. He couldn't be positive, of course, but he knew his patient well enough to make that leap. "Come on."

They left the porch and headed for Westfield.

...

Tate stirred. His chest and head hurt. A lot. He put a hand where it hurt the most and felt squishy wetness with his fingers and a wiggly tickly feeling inside his head. He snatched his hand away. He was pretty sure those were brains he was touching.

"Don't move."

He looked toward the source of the voice and saw Kyle standing over him, with Mickey trained on him. He had Tate's duffle bag too, slung over one shoulder. Tate did the sensible thing and kept still.

"Where's the shrink?" Kyle demanded down the barrel of the black weapon.

"The... shrink?" Tate responded. His head hurt a lot. It was hard to think. "Doctor Harmon?"

"Yeah," grunted Kyle. "Where is the son of a bitch?"

Tate frowned. Why was Kyle looking for Doctor Harmon? "He's... I don't know. I think he's back home."

"Where does he live?" demanded Kyle, getting testier. "Tell me where he lives!"

"Lives?" Tate squinted. Then he realized Kyle thought Ben was alive. He laughed but the sound turned to a cough. He spat up some blood.

Kyle thought Tate was laughing at him so he kicked him hard in the leg. Tate yelped and coughed up more blood.

"Where is he?!" the jock yelled, losing his temper.

"I don't know!" Tate said. "Probably on his way here!"

"You're lying," said Kyle over the gun.

"No, I'm not." Tate scooted back a little, lifting his hands to show he wasn't up to anything. He just wanted more space between himself and the other guy's feet. He was trying to heal himself and that was hard to do while being kicked. "Why're you looking for him?"

Kyle stepped forward, closing the short distance between them. He kept the gun trained on Tate's head. "You move again and I will shoot you again." They looked at each other for a long moment, then he said: "Why would he come here? Was he going to help you kill everybody again?"

"I wasn't going to kill anybody!" Even as he said it Tate knew how unbelievable that sounded.

"Just because you put a bullet in my head doesn't make me stupid," said Kyle. "Get up."

Tate got to his feet, wobbling a little. He needed time to heal but it hurt like hell when he tried to fix the head wound. It wasn't something he could do immediately - or at all if he was being forced to move around. "Where're we going?"

"To school." Kyle prodded Tate in the side with the barrel of the shotgun. "Move."

They headed down the hill to the parking lot where they crossed the long stretch of black pavement. It occurred to Tate that it was the first and only time anyone his age had walked to school with him. It just came at the cost of dying twice.

The closer they got to the lurking building, the more nervous Tate felt. This was not how he wanted to approach the thing: A prisoner with sucking head and chest wounds. But being so close let him know his idea of trying to gun the place down never would have worked. It would have been like throwing pebbles at an elephant.

"Don't you want to wait for Doctor Harmon?" Tate asked, slowing. It was easy to do slow in the heavy Doc Marten's boots he wore. "I'm sure he'll be here any minute."

"When he gets here, I'll know," said Kyle. He motioned with the shotgun to the maw of the school-creature, the twin glass front doors.

Tate looked at it warily. The last time he'd seen that vicious mouth, he'd blasted it out. The shards had cut his face but it was worth it to see the thing take such a blow. Now it grinned at him evilly, eager to gobble him up.

Kyle poked him hard in the back with the gun. Tate gathered his nerve and stepped inside the little space between the dual sets of doors. He suddenly felt like he was in juvenile detention again. He started to panic inside which made tears spring up. He did not want to cry in front of Kyle. Oh, God, no. He rolled his eyes while keeping them wide in an attempt to get rid of the tears without shedding them. It didn't work.

They passed the trophy case beside which hung the memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in 1994 on the school grounds. Tate caught a glimpse of his blurred reflection in the dark bronze then they were past it.

The world flickered and went bright. He was walking alone. The halls were crowded. It was daytime and he could still smell the gasoline he'd used to set Larry on fire. He heard lockers slamming and people talking loudly and suddenly Kyle was poking him in the back again. The lights flickered and went out, leaving him and the football player alone in the dark once more.

"Where are we going?" Tate vaguely recalled asking that before.

"The gym." Kyle hadn't experienced what Tate just did. The school looked as it always did, to him.

Tate snorted. "I hate gym. Can't we go to the track instead?"

"Not for class, douche-bag," said Kyle.

"What, is everybody waiting there to hang me or something?" Tate asked. He tried to make it sound light-hearted but inside he was all kinds of jangled up. Even if he couldn't die permanently he didn't want to be publicly executed.

Kyle didn't answer him. When they got to the gym, it was empty and dark, like the rest of the school. The only source of light was coming from the weight room in the back. It wasn't necessary for Kyle to prod with the shotgun for Tate to figure out where to go, but the bigger teen did anyway.

"Open it," said Kyle when they reached the door with the tiny window in it.

Tate did. Another poke to the back urged him into the room. The first thing he noticed was the smell of dust, metal and old sweat. The next thing he noticed were the three other guys lounging about the room. Two were sitting on the weight benches and a third was idly curling a dumbbell. They were all bigger than Tate. Two were football players like Kyle, pals of Douglas' that Tate had tangled with more than once back when they were all still alive. Tate thought the last guy might be on the basketball team. Maybe he was just one of the generic assholes that ran around with the jocks. He couldn't remember. All of them stared at him.

"I can't believe it," the black footballer said, getting up from the bench he'd been warming. On his feet he was easily six foot tall. He even had a pencil-thin moustache he'd been nursing when he was alive. The side of his head was a bloody mess, as was his shoulder. He came over to where Kyle had Tate at gunpoint and looked down at him. "You actually got him."

"Yeah," said Kyle. "I took this off him." He lifted the shotgun then patted the bag. "And this."

"You shot him with his own gun?" grinned the shorter jock who had the dumbbell. Tate remembered his name was Lucas or Luke. "Righteous!"

The black guy, Jason, looked at the gear Kyle was holding then he looked at Tate again. He seemed on the verge of saying something but then he balled up a fist and punched the blond boy in the stomach. Tate clutched at his middle and dropped to his knees, in fresh pain. He was glad he hadn't eaten anything all day or it would have come up just then. The bigger guy kicked him in the side. Tate curled up in self-defense but no further blows came.

"What're we gonna do with him?" asked the guy who was still weight-lifting.

Kyle looked down at the balled-up teenager on the floor. "Keep him here. He said the shrink's on his way."

"On his way?" echoed Jason. "Here?"

"Yeah," said Kyle. He was holding the gun looser and no longer had it aimed at Tate. "I'm going to go find that asshole."

"Kyle-" said the guy Tate thought was a basketball player.

"Don't start with me, Josh!" Kyle snapped. It sounded like an argument they were picking back up rather than a new disagreement. "Just keep him here!" He gestured at Tate. "Okay? Can you do that? Please?"

The guy identified as Josh, a tall teen with a ruddy complexion, made a sour face but he didn't press the issue. He just shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

"Once I've taken care of the shrink we can deal with this piece of shit." He nudged the ball of Tate with his foot. Tate didn't move. He was trying to heal as quickly as he could.

"I ain't no damned babysitter," said Luke. He dropped the dumbbell and flexed his biceps. "If there's gonna be some ass-kicking, I want in on it."

"This is between me and him," Kyle insisted, slapping his chest over the heart. "You want to kick some ass? There's one right there!" He gestured to Tate with the shotgun this time. "He's all yours."

The dark-haired jock left the weight room, taking the bag and shotgun with him. Tate stayed curled where he was. He'd missed the gist of the conversation, he was concentrating so hard. It hurt his head to heal it but he forced himself to fight through the excruciating pain. The intensity of the pain grew white-hot and then, in a brilliant flash of agony that made him groan, he felt his head squish back into proper shape. Oh, it was gross. It made him feel sick to his stomach all over again. His eyes leaked tears. But at least his brains weren't on his shoulder anymore.

Jason looked down at him, unimpressed. "What a pussy," he scoffed. He thought Tate was just cowering. "This is the fuck-nut everybody's been pissin' themselves over all these years?" He laughed, confidence growing as Tate continued to lay there. "Real fucking boogeyman. A regular God-damned Freddy Krueger."

He stooped down and grabbed hold of the back of Tate's wool coat and hauled him up by it. Tate let gravity uncurl him and met the guy's dark eyes fearlessly. He tried to put his feet on the floor but The jock was holding him a couple of inches too high.

Jason didn't see the fearlessness. All he saw were the tears. The guy smiled broadly. His teeth were super white against the chocolate brown of his skin. The right side of his head and shoulder were hamburger and his right eye was cloudy white, which made the smile particularly unsettling.

"It's payback time, bitch," he said.

...

Author's Note:

There are several types of inanimate objects that people routinely give names to. Cars, boats, and guns are the most popular. I didn't have to give it any thought when it came to naming Tate's weapons. Mickey and Mallory were the murderous main characters in Natural Born Killers - a film the Columbine shooters referenced when they were planning their crime on their home videos. Tate's ring is the same one Mickey wore throughout the film. John Dillinger was the most notorious and violent of the Depression-era outlaws. He was gunned down in an alley by a group of police and federal agents after drawing a weapon when they went to arrest him. I didn't remember that till after I named the weapon, then went on Wikipedia to find out who he was.

Constance never could bring herself to tell Tate that Addie was dead but I can't imagine he would go very long without asking where she'd gotten to. In the series she seemed like she spent a lot of time in the house whether the current owners liked it or not. So I had Constance forge letters from her. It's her plan to eventually just stop writing and let Tate's memory of her fade. From her viewpoint it makes sense but I'm not sure if it's any less painful for him than finding out she's dead. But I guess it'll keep him from going berserk.

Next chapter: Kyle hunts down Ben and Violet locates Tate. Will anyone be happy with finding what they're looking for?