For six months now, I have been the current tenant of the murder house. Well not just me, my parents, younger brother and our dog too. And for four and a half months now, I have been the girlfriend of Violet Harmon. I still don’t know what I’d have done without her, especially as I began to uncover the secrets of this house.
Some of the ghosts here are friendly; Nora Montgomery, for example, is like a second mother to me. And Moira o'Hara as well. Violet’s told me the types of things Moira can do, though, and I’ve made her promise me not to try anything with my dad. Violet’s family are also wonderful; her mother and mine clicked right away which is definitely a relief.
However, some of the ghosts in this house are truly bone-chillingly disturbing. The infantata, for example, is a terrifying creature - Nora and Charles’ deceased baby who was dismembered and reassembled by Charles himself. I don’t often see Charles, but from what I’ve heard, he’s someone I don’t want to cross.
Then there’s Tate. He doesn’t really fit a category, though if I had to find him one, I’d place him under ‘Jealous Creepy Ex-Boyfriend who Often Tries to Hit on Me’. It’s strange, because after all this time, he’s still so infatuated with Violet - a little awkward on the current relationship front - and follows us everywhere, lurking behind doors to watch us.
He’s like anathema to me, and if ever I encounter him when Violet isn’t with me, I retreat to my room immediately, and he doesn’t follow. Today, however, is different. There’s a strange air around the house today; even Violet seems very uptight and anxious about something, though she won’t tell me what. So, we’re lying on my bed, listening to a playlist full of songs we both love, matching breaths and holding hands.
There’s a crack in my ceiling which I hadn’t noticed until now, despite lying under it every night. I open my mouth, about to ask once again what’s wrong with her, when - as if some jolt of electricity bolts through her - she sits up suddenly.
“Alright, I’ll tell you.” I push myself up next to her, concerned eyes meeting hers. “Today’s the anniversary of my death.” The silence that falls between us is more intense than the one before. The soft buzz of Morrissey playing through my headphones is the only noise heard for at least a minute.
“I-I’m sorry.” I say finally, realising how stupid that probably sounded to her. She shrugs.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” She gets off the bed and walks out the room, tucking her brown hair behind her ear as she leaves.
As soon as she closes the door, I sigh. God she’s probably really upset and I’ve done nothing but bug her all day. I sit back, leaning against the headboard, and close my eyes, chewing anxiously on my lower lip.
“I can’t believe she never told you about that. Some girlfriend,” a voice scoffs.
“Get out, Tate.” I reply, without even opening my eyes. I hear some shuffling, and open them. Tate’s leaning against my wardrobe, arms folded over his chest, smirking at me.
“You know, she’s probably gonna be mopey like this all day.” He pauses to walk closer to my bed. “Come down to the basement and I’ll show you a good time.” I roll my eyes at how forced and generic that sounds, but he doesn’t care. There’s a shit-eating grin slapped onto his face, and a mocking amusement in his eyes.
“Come on, Y/N, surely you must be sick of the same thing by now.” I stand up, my frame reaching a height just a little shorter than Tate.
“If I go with you will you leave her alone?” I think of all the times he’s bugged her, or cornered her with his attempts at an apology. Sometimes he just stands, watching her. Violet’s told me she can feel it when he does it, but she never points it out.
Tate’s smile widens, and he nods before pulling me down the stairs - me almost falling over - and finally, down into the basement. I never liked it down here. It’s dark and dank and there’s a constant chill down my spine like someone’s watching me.
“Alright, Tate. What do you want.” In the darkness, I can see the outline of his figure move around, walking closer to me until I can vaguely make out the features on his face. He lunges forward, and rams me against the wall. I can feel the pain shoot up my shoulder blades, and my face contorts in an effort not to cry out.