Hey guys!

So I'm back again. I had a multiple reasons for abandoning this story, I won't bore you with them, but I'm here now, and hopefully, I'll be able to continue on. :D

Thank you, for your kind words reviewers (Guest, universe without a soul, Martine 9295, Demona Evernight and bbymojo) it was eventually all of you whom drove me back here! :)

For the Guest who commented about Supernatural: I did get a few elements from that, but only the background - how their mom was killed by a demon, leaving the father with the two, and one of them left, but that's all, and I don't plan on involving anything else, well, outside a few hunter-things. :) I actually plan on getting it rather on the spiritual and witchcraft-side... But I won't spoil anything.

Thank you for reviewing, again, and have fun reading! Warning: I don't have a beta, and English isn't my native language.

When I regained my consciousness, I was rewarded with a tremendously pounding head. I never had a hangover before, but I was sure it was way worse than any human could produce by overdrinking – for a moment, I got the idea that maybe my head wasn't whole anymore, but rather torn apart, pieces of Charlie-skull and brain-matter scattered across the floor like a dropped watermelon. Instinctively, I reached for the back of my head which seemed to be the source of the pain without opening my eyes.

That's when I felt a movement, hands reaching out for mine, and without thinking, I grabbed both of it, eyes shooting open to meet the coal-black orbs of Tate. My realization didn't affect my grip on his wrist. He was dead, anyway. I could break his wrists and he'd just heal up.

"Calm down, Charlie, it's me," he spoke in a soothing manner.

"You're supposed to be comforting?" I squinted up at him; his face was upside down, but I don't think that it was only the strange angle playing tricks on me when I saw a bit of hurt flash in his eyes.

The ache started to withdraw, meaning that instead of feeling like I was wrapped in a blanket of dull, throbbing soreness, it started to feel like my head was stabbed by knives again and again. I wanted the blanket back.

Taking in the surroundings, I quickly comprehended that I was lying on the basement floor, the cold concrete pressing against my lower half and back, but my head laid on something soft and moving. Without a second thought, I sat up, jerking my head away from Tate's legs and crotch. Physically, I regretted the action immediately when the stabbing feeling intensified and a wave of nausea hit me. Mentally, I accounted it as a moral victory. No matter how touchy-feely my father and brother got with them, they were ghosts; ghosts aren't roomies.

"Oh, shit-fuck," I groaned, my voice hoarse and cracking. How the hell have I got down here?

"You fainted and fell down the stairs," came the answer for my unasked question from Tate; from very, very close. I was still holding his wrists and pulled him with me when I jerked up, and now he was once again in intimidating closeness to me. Clambering away, I faced him.

"What? I fainted?... Did you push me down, you dick?!"

Tate's eyes widened, as if he was surprised anyone would think he'd be capable of such things. "No! Of course not! I've tried to catch you but I was too slow…"

Thinking it over, the last minute before the fall seemed to be a faded memory, but I did recall a tug on my arm; a dull pain radiated from my left upper-arm. I didn't see anything in the half-light of the basement, but I was sure I'd sport a nice bruise.

"Are you sick?" Tate asked curiously, his head tilted to the side like a puppy. A homicidal puppy.

I didn't want to thank him for not taking advantage of my fainting and kill me; but I decided that this earned him the right to ask questions and be answered. So, I shook my head 'no'. "Just, ah… My powers. They seem to make me a beacon for dark energies, almost like moths flying toward any light… They always make my head hurt; sometimes I get sick, too. This house is like a fucked up assembly center, but down here it's even worse."

"Will you faint again, then?"

"Not likely. It's like… How should I put it for you? Like, when you step into a room or any space and you feel a lot of different smells at once, and after some time, you just don't feel them anymore. Human mind is a curious thing; it makes you forget anything if you get used to it." Like how you can forget about someone being dead when they simply don't look dead. Shaking my head again, I pinched the bridge of my nose before smirking. "Don't be so eager. You won't have my head anywhere close to your junk again."

Tate cracked a dimple-showing smile, and leaned slightly back, leaning back on his arms. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Teenage boys and their hormones. They make them think with their penis even after death.

Remembering what brought me down here in the first place, I took a deep breath and fought my way to a standing position. Tate jumped up to help but I waved him away. "Alright, enough messing around. Chop-chop, get to work!"

"Are you sure? You may have a concussion. Maybe you should see a doctor."

"Did someone mention a doctor?" A man popped up from one of the jumbled corridors, dressed in white from his pants to the cap on his head, except for the thick black rubbish-gloves he had on. He could have been considered good-looking; that is, if you didn't mind the maniac smile on his face as he seized me. "I'm a doctor. Should I help you? Or are you here for the treatment?" he asked, glancing meaningfully over at Tate, who didn't look pleased at all.

"She doesn't need you, go away," the blonde demanded, and, much to my surprise, the doctor (whom I knew must have been Charles Montgomery, the builder) complied, walking away while muttering something about disrespect. Only then have I realized how that feeling of ghostly presence was constant down here – and it didn't come from Tate.

There must have been at least a dozen ghosts around, probably even more, and I didn't know whether it was making me more intrigued or paranoid. I've never met so many ghosts at one place before, not to mention how different they were, which sparked the fire of curiosity burning in my soul. What was so special about this place? And, at the same time, this constant feeling of ghosts also hid them, a huge mess of chaotic shadows, a murky, thick mist of pitch-black aura which they could all blend into.

Suddenly, I felt vulnerable; almost as if something took away my sight. I wouldn't have been able to tell if someone appeared right behind me. But I wasn't about to let them know this, not even Tate; or, especially not him.

"So, there's a lot of you down in the basement, right?" I asked finally, trying to sound casual when actually I was pretty much wary of everything around.

"Yeah, we mostly stayed here or up in the attic when there were… other residents. Your dad said we can go upstairs if we want to, but I guess the others just feel more comfortable here."

Let the ghosts roam freely around? Good job, Dad.

"It's not that bad, though," I shrugged, stuffing my hands into my pocket and casually walking around, looking at the stuff scattered here and there mindlessly. "Why didn't you want me down here? You can't scare me, if that's what you were op-"

I was cut short, when Tate suddenly grabbed my arm and yanked me toward him harshly. I liked to think that I was strong; but, no matter how I've tried to struggle, Tate had this deathly grip on me, awakening a rise of fear inside me, appearing as fierce anger on my face.

"What the hell, dude? Let me go!"

"Don't go there," he said, completely ignoring my demand; my fight didn't seem to affect him, either, as his voice was merely more than a whisper.

"Why not?" Like hell was a ghost going to tell me what to do!

"Because he wants to hurt you."

Sneering, I stopped trying to shake Tate's hand off of me; in exchange, seeing as I wasn't going to run toward that dark corner he was pulling me away from, he slowly let me go. "'He' who?"

"Thaddeus," Tate shrugged, saying the name as if I should have known the answer already. Obviously. "Ronald fixed every hole around the house to keep everything from coming in, including rats. He's… hungry. And you're the only living thing around."

As if on cue, an animalistic, morbid grunt sounded from the dark; focusing my gaze, I could see the dull edges of a drawer or table, and something was definitely moving under that. Suddenly a claw-y hand stroke out of the shadows, groping thin air, and then it withdrew, accompanied by a spiteful hiss.

I scrunched my nose and mouth in disgust.

Tate leaned closer; I was only shorter than him by an inch or two, but it seemed like he suddenly towered over me. "Scared you yet?" His voice made it obvious that he was grinning.

"Twilight-fangirls scared me more than this," I stated, though I was actually worried about Thaddeus. It came back to me by then that this was the name of the Montgomery-baby; but it wasn't exactly he that scared me; it was the fact that different energies were coming from that corner, which I've never encountered before. I couldn't even put my hands on how was it different, exactly.

Tate frowned. "What's Twilight?"

"Believe me: you don't want to know."

Now that I thought about it, Tate seemed to resemble Edward in some ways; all the more reason for me to dislike him.

"Sooo how come you didn't sense he was there with your magical third eye?" Tate taunted, nodding toward the corner. My eyes shot up to meet his, gaze roaming over his features, trying to figure out his game. On the surface, he seemed to be simply trying to start a conversation and maybe burn me a bit, because he was a dick. I had this overwhelming feeling, though, that there was something else; there was a reason for him to stick with me, and it surely wasn't my otherwise winning personality.

I cursed myself for letting my guard down around him, even if only for a few minutes. I couldn't make the same mistake again.

"He's different," I stated bluntly. I've learned that you can't lie credibly without letting some truth slip through. "Is he dead, too, or what?"

Tate seemed to ponder for a moment before shrugging, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his torn jeans and then he turned on his heels. "No idea. Your father's room is this way."

I paid one last glance toward Thaddeus' hideaway; a gurgling grumble and sounds of scratching sounded from the gloom, and with a sigh, I followed Tate. The blonde boy led me through a tortuous labyrinth of corridors; smaller and bigger rooms were opening here and there, some sealed by a closed door, some had none. I felt multiple presences, catching a glimpse of a few clothed bodies moving around, but I paid them no mind on purpose. I was sure they knew that I saw them; I had to make sure they also knew they didn't scare me.

Eventually, Tate came to a halt at what I guessed would have been the last room in the basement, given how far we've come. It was basically a dead-end, surrounded by thick concrete walls on both sides, and in front of me was a simple black door, or at least that's how it appeared to be; I had the feeling that it was carved with magical symbols and possibly hinted with salt, too.

I took on the role of initiation and went to open the door, the ghost-boy stepping aside to make me room; fortunately it wasn't closed and after opening it, I've managed to flick on the lights, too. Behind was a simple room of medium size, some book-shelves stuffed with old volumes stood guard pushed to the opposite wall, and between them was a huge map of LA hanging on a nail. There was also a round desk with two chairs in the middle, papers and pens scattered across it, but nothing else. Standing few steps away from the door, I put my hands on my hips as I squinted around, searching for anything particular.

"So, what's your plan?" Tate asked, leaning loosely against the doorway. Usually, I would have avoided answering him, and maybe I would have closed the door, too. But I wanted him and all of the ghosts to know what I've got – both mentally and physically.

"Ever heard of Project Greek Island?" I retorted the question, circling the desk, stroking around the bottom of the board.

"No. What the hell is that?"

"It was a secret government program during the Cold War," I explained in an absent-minded way as I kept searching around. Finished with the table, I went to investigate the map. "In the late '50s, they made a deal with the hotel Greenbrier which built its new wing around that time. What the people didn't know, though, was that underneath the new wing was a classified facility which would have hosted as a secret emergency relocation center in case of a nuclear holocaust, including housing all of the Congress. They also had a broadcast center made which had all these backgrounds to make it look like they were still broadcasting from Washington. Long story short: no visitors above knew about the center; the government agents posed off as the hotel's audiovisual employees. That is, until a reporter in 1992 unveiled it and the bunker was decommissioned."

"Cool," Tate breathed in astonishment. Usually when I got into a subject, people got bored of me, and maybe they didn't tell me straight away to shut up, I could see it written all over their faces. Tate, however, seemed like he was really into it as he sunk into his thoughts with amazement written all over his features. He then raised his head and bore his black irises into mine. "You think your dad has something similar around? A secret passage or room?"

He was smart, I had to admit it; and this also made him all the more dangerous.

"Well, yeah… The Greenbrier is in West Virginia; and the wing which under the facility was built is named 'West Virginia Wing'. He and I, we… liked watching these revealing tv shows together. I remember that this one was his favorite."

There was nothing on the map, so I moved on to the shelves; my father didn't like television and modern stuff, he downright refused to have a laptop, and he always said, that books had more in them than any computer could ever host.

This seemed to be exceptionally true when, pushing some books out of the way, I saw a tiny, kind of ugly-shaped wing scratched into the concrete wall. No wonder Liam didn't see it, it would have went unnoticed by me, too, if I didn't know what to look for. A satisfied grin spread on my face when, after a bit of pushing and pulling, I could lift a thin block of concrete out to reveal a weather-beaten plastic folder inside the nook. I took it out, put the block back, and walked over to the table, my back facing the door and Tate who tried to peek over my shoulder anyway.

I scattered the content on the wooden surface, and the more I recognized, the less I understood. They were mostly a bunch of news articles cut out, copies and torn-out pages of books and a few notes with my father's handwriting. I only spent a minute or two, trying to see the big picture here but it seemed totally incoherent. One article was about how Violet Harmon and her baby brother went missing, I got that, belonged to the history of the house alright; the other one was about an elderly woman found dead thirty miles away, and one about a gas blast. There was even one about a case where Native Americans were protesting for a land that got taken away from them; they said it belonged to them, the state said it belonged to the bank since they couldn't pay their mortgage and stuff.

Two questions popped into my mind. One: what the hell were these supposed to mean? And two: why was my father hiding it? I mean, he was living in a house full of ghosts who were even less natural compared to other supernatural creatures, and in the one room they weren't able to go in to, he hides it away? And he didn't even tell Liam, he just made that shitty comment which only I could-…

Oh.

Oh!

That son of a bitch knew I was going to come here, he planned it all along even though I haven't talked to him for years.

"Shit-fucking shit of fuck!" I excluded, slamming my fist on the table, spending a tingling pain into my knuckles. My eyes roamed over the tangle of papers, hoping to burn them with my gaze, but all I managed to get was a derogatory laugh from behind me. Taking a sharp turn, I squinted at the girl standing beside Tate; Hayden, if I recalled well.

"You should pick up some more curses, sweetie," she remarked with a smug expression. "You're starting to bore me."

"Then you should definitely take all that attitude of yours and shove it up your ass," I spat, turning back toward the table and stuffing the papers back to the folder; even if I was angry, I knew my dad had to have a reason to hide it away, so until I find out what it was exactly, I shouldn't run around the house, showing these to every unlucky bastard around.

"Oooh, someone's slaying! Too bad she's failin'." I didn't even know someone could hate a ghost so much; I mean, the others I've known I hated and feared, but something about the humanly side of these ghosts enraged me, for no particular reason. And Hayden even pushed her luck further.

I pretended, in a very adult way, that I haven't heard her and continued packing up the folder. When I stepped to the bookshelf, I pondered for a moment before pushing the plastic between two thick books; I decided I shouldn't show the psycho-girl the hiding place, after all, I could use it later, maybe.

Although not giving an answer was simply a lack of comebacks from me, it did seem to get on the better side of Hayden. It was her turn to throw a brick at me.

"What's with all the biting, hm, hunter-girl?" she grinned, leaning to the corridor's wall opposite of Tate who didn't look pleased with her presence, judging from the furrow of his brows and how his cross of his arms stiffened. Hayden's gaze flicked to Tate before returning to me. "Tatie-boy confessed to you yet? I mean, that's the way it goes around here… Just ask little Vi."

I raised an eyebrow in confusion, not exactly knowing what was she referring to, but before I could say anything, Tate pushed himself from the doorframe, showing Hayden away.

"Go away, Hayden!" he growled, teeth bared like an attack dog; for some demented reason, I felt a wave of relief flood over me.

Nice people poked at my side all the time; I believed in the saying, everyone has darkness in them, some more than usual, and from my experience, the sweetest smiles hid the most filth underneath. Seeing that darkness emerge from below Tate's boy-next-door attitude and the otherworldly energies getting immense for a moment around him, I confirmed my theory, once again: ghosts aren't roomies. The fact, that someone who seemed nice, but I believed was actually a homicidal maniac tiptoeing closer to verifying my hypothesis with his sudden moodiness was making me calm, actually proved my uncle right: I probably needed professional help. Too bad I didn't care.

"So that's all you need, huh?" I asked him after Hayden disappeared with a last smug glance over me. Tate looked at where she was only a moment ago before turning to me with softened but questioning eyes. "You say 'go away', and every ghost around here actually goes away?"

"Yeah, pretty much," he agreed, nodding slowly, his hands back in his pocket once again. "Why, the others you've met, they didn't?"

Somehow I doubted that neither my dad nor Liam told him about how the other ghosts acted; I suspected he just wanted to talk, but I answered, anyway. Learning about that go away trick was nice; I hoped that by not biting his head off every time he says good morning I might get more of that insider stuff.

"Nah. But waving an iron bar through them usually did the trick for me."

I looked at my watch, and realized I spent more time surfing online and unconscious after falling down the stairs than how I imagined. Liam was supposed to be home pretty soon, I guessed, so I headed to the door. When I walked past Tate, he stood to the side only so much that my hand brushed against his. For a moment, I wondered if he did that on purpose; the next moment, my thought were wrapped around something entirely different as I seized him up good with narrowed eyes.

It didn't go unnoticed by Tate, of course, and he tilted his head with a lazy smile, asking, "What?"

"I'm musing on what would happen if I tried to wave an iron bar through you."

Tate chuckled. "You'd hit me, I guess."

"All the more reason I should try it," I nodded, heading forward on the corridor, glancing into every dark room. "Where's n iron bar when a girl needs it?"

"Why do you insist on hitting me so much?" he asked curiously, following me silently as I made my way upstairs.

Out of that thick fog of ghosts, some appeared in their material body for a few moments as I passed by their hiding places, and this time, I looked them right in the face. There was Hayden, of course, rocking back and forth in a chair, and a young guy leaning to the wall next to her. In the next room, two nurses stood by a tub like they just came from a shooting of a rethinking of The Ring; the room after that seemed empty but the smell of smoke and burning flesh choked me for a moment. Thaddeus was still hiding under that table; a part of me wanted to see how he looked, the other was glad for the shadows.

"Nothing personal, it's for… science. Scientifical reasons, you know." And once again, it wasn't a lie; as much as Tate, the Friendly Ghost and his friends made me feel violated, their being intrigued me, too.

Why were they different? How much did they resemble ghosts, if at all? So far they had nothing in common, except for the fact they were dead. But were they? Dead, I mean. Not in the traditional meaning of the word, I supposed; did it mean they were a new type of supernatural? After all, wendigos were sort of dead, sort of alive as well, not to mention they used to be humans. Were those who seemed ghosts anything alike living people? Why were they acting a certain way? Did they actually think like the living? Feel so? They had a physical body, did that mean they felt what happened to it?

A sudden urge of curiosity led me to act as I hastily flicked Tate on the neck. He flinched away, his hand going up to knead the area.

"What the fuck, Charlie?" he yelped, dark eyes going big and round in disbelief.

"Science, dude. Science. So did you feel anything?"

"You flicked me, I felt that," he said, furrowing his brows and shaking his head.

My eyes watched his face, looking for clues of lies, while I asked sharply," You felt that, or you know you're supposed to feel that so you say so, but actually just recall what it used to feel like when you weren't dead?"

Tate's head snapped at that, and for a moment, I wondered if I took it too far and will be punished for letting my guard down, once again. Something did change in the way his eyes flashed in the dim light of the basement; it wasn't anger, but still I felt self-conscious about walking up the stairs, given I've fallen down before already, and he might or might've not pushed me.

He was confused. Why?

"I… I don't… What do you mean?" I stepped out to the light while he was still standing on the stairs, and it struck to me how much his irises resembled the gloom behind him, all soft obscurity. His mind was spinning his ass off, somehow I was sure of that; yet another new thing about ghosts. Seemed like the residents around here wouldn't cease to amaze me. What triggered his sudden baffledness? What was he thinking about?

I couldn't answer him nor ask a question myself, as a loud, rapid knock came from the front door. My and Tate's head snapped to that direction by instinct, only to hear Moira going for it. When I turned back, the blonde boy was nowhere to be seen.

"Ghosts. In the end, they always leave you," I mumbled, sure that some of them could hear me. I felt a presence but ignored it; the sounds of a heating argument caught my attention as I made my way to the front entrance. As I looked at the decoration as I passed by them, I noted how they surely must have belonged to the previous residents. My dad would have never hung a huge painting of trees on the wall, ever.

"I repeat: you're not welcomed here, ma'am," Moira deadpanned to whomever was standing at the porch, her face unreadable but annoyance clearly ringing from her voice.

"And I repeat, you one-eyed wench, you can't stop me." I didn't recognize the voice, but disliked to whomever it belonged to, anyway; it was deep and croaky, a sign of smoking which I resented. My jaw clenched as I stepped next to the red-headed woman.

"But I can," I declared sharply. So I might've not trusted Moira since she was a ghost, but she was a ghostmaid at the house I was currently staying at and she made a mean coffee, so no one had the right to speak like this to her. The mysterious woman looked startled by my sudden appearance, but her angry resting bitch-face melted off of her after a mere moment, taken over by a sickeningly sweet expression which was clearly forced. She looked like a cross between a burn-out pornstar and a character from The Stepford Wives.

"Well, good day, dear. You are Miss Blake, I imagine?"

"Yes," I shot a short answer at her which was clearly much less than what she was expecting. I didn't like her; which meant I had no intention of talking to her. She blinked at me, waiting for me to speak.

"I'm Constance, Constance Langdon," she said finally," I live next door, and… oh, but you know I'm not here to welcome my new neighbor, you seem like a smart girl to me."

I had no idea what she was doing here. "Sure."

She leaned forward a bit, as if she was about to share a secret. "Is it true? Is it true what they said?"

The way she fidgeted haphazardly with the chain of her purse didn't go unnoticed by me; she was clearly a bit neurotic, if not altogether. "I don't know what you're refferi…"

"You can do it, can't you?" she cut in, clearly excited. I liked her less and less, which was a nice surprise, I usually had an amount of dislike toward someone and it stayed that way, changing level was new, even if it meant even more resentment. I arched a brow. "You can bring them back? They can be alive again? "

She sounded hopeful and secretive. I felt like hiding behind the door so she couldn't see me. Who was she? How did she know about my father's plans? How did she know who I was? When people knew seemingly a lot bout you and you had no idea what relations they had to your life, it usually resulted in distrust and a wary feeling of hesitancy. It resulted in downright paranoia for me.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you, lady," I said, taking the place beside the doorknob from Moira. I wasn't sure she'd slap the door in her face if need to be.

"I mean no harm, darling, no need to worry," she cracked a laugh, which was nearly as humorless as me. She spoke as if we were old friends; she was old alright, possibly over sixty, but she sure as hell wasn't my friend. "I merely have, so to say, personal interest in the subject, and would very much like to ask if I can help with anything to contribute to your success."

"Look, Mrs. Langdon…"

"Please! Constance."

"Ahem, sure. So, Constance, let me be clear: whatever you know or you don't know, whatever interest you may possess in whatever goes around here? That's none of your business. And it's not mine, either." Her face fell at that. I pulled up my shoulders, pushing the door an inch closer to closed. "Can I help you with anything else or…?"

She looked at her feet for a moment, dark irises going left to right and to the left again, as she tried to think of the good answer to get what she actually came here for.

"I'm sorry, I think you misunderstood me…"

"Please, leave, Constance."

That finally broke that dumb charade she was posing for, anger sweeping through her wrinkles as she spoke. "Look, little girl, you have no right to…"

"Mrs. Langdon?" Liam's voice was like a saving grace falling from the sky from me; I was starting to get angry, and although I usually preferred reasonable acting, I might've had punched her in the face for telling me what to do.

My newest friend turned around to reveal Liam walking up to the house, his face sporting an emotion I never thought he had: annoyance.

"Little darling," Constance called for him in the honeyed voice she used for me in the beginning. "I thought you weren't home…"

"I'm home now," Liam said, walking up the stairs to stand by her; he was the taller out of the two, but I wasn't sure who was the more determined. "And Dad's already told you you're not welcome here. Go away."

"I'm not one of those… ghosts!" she hissed, saying the last word like a curse.

"Be glad and be gone." With these last words, I stepped aside and after Liam came in, I closed the door, not minding how Constance was just about to say something. Liam, Moira and me watched as she stood before the closed door for a few moments before turning around and walking away, her high heels pattering on the pavement.

"Bitch," I muttered, a sigh of relief leaving my lips. My brother shook his head and pinched his nose, dropping his schoolbag on the floor.

"That was Constance Langdon," he said, exasperated. "She lives in the next house; she's also Tate's mother, and… well, she has had a complicated history with the house and everyone who lives here."

"I suppose she has a complicated history with you and Dad as well?"

Liam nodded. "She knows about, you know, the ghosts, and somehow also about who we are and what we do. Dad said she must have a ghost around here who tells her everything she needs."

"Is it Tate?" I asked, suddenly feeling even less like trusting the boy than before. Tate was the one coming after me, but I also found something in him which led me to tell him more than I probably should have; although it wasn't anything confidential, I still didn't want that weird Southern Psychopath of a Lady to know about it, and since Tate was her son (I remembered what I read about her now), it seemed only fair he'd be her built-in spy, and it would also explain why he was following me around so eagerly.

But Liam shook his head quite assuredly. "No, of course not! Tate and her, they… Well, it's really not up to me to tell anyone, but they have a difficult relationship." He almost laughed when saying 'difficult', so it wasn't hard to imagine what he meant. "But she still acts like this house belongs to her, and she keeps coming back here, poking her nose around."

"Sooo… she's a bitch," I concluded quite bluntly. At that, Liam laughed.

"Yeah, I'm sure there are some who would agree with you…" He suddenly looked at Moira who had this unreadable expression on her face as she turned around and walked back to the kitchen. I guessed they had a difficult relationship as well; how Moira died was never clear to me, anyway, there were only some articles on her disappearing and how she was a maid here, under the Langdon's. Some speculated she ran away with Constance's husband, but seeing how she was here, I supposed she didn't quite had the chance to run off with anyone. A grotesque interest awoke in me as I thought more about her; would she be offended if I asked her how she died? Can a ghost be offended?

The ghosts of this house truly started to fascinate me.

I was still thinking about whether or not I should test the limits of these new kind of ghosts when night fell upon LA. My afternoon went on without any particular success of figuring out where our father headed; I didn't go back to the room in the basement, either, and I mostly spent the time on the couch with Liam who asked a tons of questions about what I did in the past years.

The kitchen was empty and quiet as I sat by the counter and sipped my tea; only the lights above the stove were switched on, and they were enough for me. I have, after all, left the kid years behind me a long time ago, when I used to switch all the lights up, as if that would save me. I was stupid; not a single light bulb could save me. And, if I really thought about it, no one could save anyone in this world; even if you do save someone, you do it for yourself, not them. I was doing this for myself, too, right? So I wouldn't feel like I left my little brother in a mess; I set out to save my dad so I could leave them again, with a clear conscious. I was horrible; and, somehow, that felt right in this house.

"Go ahead, show yourself," I mumbled loud enough so the ghost lingering around, whoever they were, heard my words. I wasn't sure it worked until a pair of hands appeared in the corner of my eye, leaning casually against the counter. They were slim and slender, and as I turned toward their owner, I saw a young girl one would call pretty if it wasn't for her emotionless eyes. I recognized her. "You're Violet, right?"

She nodded. "And you're Charlotte."

"At your service. Do you want some tea or something?" Were they able to drink and eat, anyway? I wanted to find out, but Violet seemed to ignore my question. "So you didn't get to run away, either, huh?"

"No," she snorted, cracking a smile with no real emotion behind it. "But I should've. When I still had the chance… Is that even an option? Does anyone ever offer you running away as a possibility?"

"Is it an option? Yes. Is it a solution? Nope. So, whatever made you seek out my glorified company?" Violet, although she seemed a bit spooky with those big kitty cat eyes of her which lacked any emotion, was still better than Hayden who practically had crazy flickering in hers, like a billboard sign.

"I should have run away," she repeated sternly. "I should have, but I didn't, and it's because of Tate. I am dead because of Tate, because of this house, because all this crap."

"So you came here to warn me?" I asked her, amused how everyone here thought I didn't know what I was getting into. Most likely, they couldn't imagine the life we've had, what we've faced already, and how, although this was different, it wasn't unusual to me.

Violet nodded firmly, something flashed in her light eyes finally – was it compassion? "Don't trust them, not even Moira, and especially not Tate. They are going to kill you. Believe me."

An unhappy smile crept upon my face upon hearing her words. "And why should I believe your words, then?"

"You don't have to if you don't wanna," she shrugged carelessly, looking like the teenager she was. How old was she? Sixteen? I would've said she was too young to be dead but that's not how the world worked as far as I was concerned. "I just wanted to let you know; it someone had warned me when I moved in, I'd probably be alive still, going to a university, getting a real boyfriend, a marriage, kids, a family… And now I won't have any."

"You can, still," I pointed out, suppressing a yawn. "If my father succeeds, that is."

I didn't believe in it, and wasn't going to feed her or any other around here with faithless hopes. If that's what my dad opted for, that was his problem, but I wasn't going to take a part in it, no matter how much he wanted.

"I don't think I want to," she said quietly, staring at the floor, but more likely, staring into nothing. "I've had enough taste of the real world."

Now, that was something I could relate to. Happy are the blind ones, who don't see what really awaits them outside, right? And still, from a girl who merely had anything outside this house for years, it didn't seem quite right.

"How did you die, Violet?" My question rang into the silence, making me rethink twice if I should've asked it in the first place. She didn't throw a tantrum, though; quite the opposite, Violet remained calm, sneering as she grinned.

"Don't let any of them fool you. Constance is a bigger problem than how she seems, and Hayden isn't the only crazy one around here, either. The Devil is real; and he can be beautiful." She said the last part as if she was reciting from something, but before I had the chance of asking where, she was gone.

I sipped my tea in heavy silence.

Hope you've enjoyed it! Leave a review so I'd know if you want me to continue, or what you'd like to see in the further chapters. :)