A/N – Thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. I have really appreciated it! Here is the final installment, which I finally managed to sit down and edit (after having a small accident with a kitchen knife, a pumpkin, and my finger - making typing rather difficult – so no new stories for a little while). It is a bit choppy in places but I figure better on here than languishing on my laptop. I hope you enjoy it and think the whole thing was worth the wait.

Disclaimer – American Horror Story does not belong to me. Only the idea for this little fic does.

Violet/Tate – Rated M

Part 4

We meet in the attic, there are board games piled in heaps, old moth-eaten clothes, and cardboard boxes from years gone by. Violet is in tears, her face a wet, red mess, lips swollen and bitten to the point that they are cracked and bleeding, hands twisting as she wrings out a sodden tissue.

"What is it?" I ask immediately, concern twisting my features, hurrying me forward to put my arms around her small shoulders. She is shaking.

"He knows about school," she sobs, tugging at my sleeve as I lean back, skim my hands down to her waist, studying the grave expression on her face. "He came to my room, all saying it was his fault, that he's been a lousy father lately, that he understands how hard my life has been this year." She wails, "He told me that it wasn't like me, he doesn't even know me, not anymore. And then," she pushes her face into my chest, "he said that we would find another school," and my heart pounds sluggishly once, twice, and stops.

"He doesn't care that they're all the same," she whispers bitterly, "that I hate it there." I nod, my throat tight. If I speak I'll scream, cry, so I stay quiet. "As long as I have you, I don't need school, I don't need any of it," Violet goes on, grasping desperately at the back of my cardigan. "But he wants to take me away from you. He knows, knows about us, everything." And now I'm gripping the back of her blue flowered sack dress just as tightly, just as urgently. "He wants to send me to Lemon Grove Prep School, it's a boarding school, Tate," she snuffles, moaning against me. "He wants me to fucking live there because I have a bright fucking future. And he wants to get me away from the bad element in this town. That's you," she reaches up, clawing at my face in her mania, a panic attack overwhelming her. "Oh, god, that's you. He'll take me away," she repeats, voice softer, as she sinks down to the ground, and I collapse with her, clutching her on the dusty attic floor.

"Makes sense," Violet says finally, quietly, as I stare, wide eyed and furious, hopelessly lost in her sadness, the darkness creeping in on me. "He sent Mom away, I don't know why I thought I was safe. I just assumed I was his little girl. What a fantasy," she spits. "I'm so stupid and naive sometimes. Of course he's going to send me away too," I rock us back and forth, holding her, trying to hide my crestfallen face, my hard black gaze, from her vantage. I need to be strong for her when she is weak, just as she is strong for me.

"There is nothing stupid about you," I tell her with conviction. "And I won't let him send you away." I pull back, stare at the tear tracks running down her face and know they match my own. Violet just nods, reels me back in, holding tight.

With a sigh, teeth once again pulling at her deep pink lip, her eyes closed, she adds, "That's not all." She sounds calmer, more collected as she releases me, sitting down and crossing her legs on the wooden floorboards. Our hands remain linked, fingers tangling together, as I bring hers to my mouth, kissing them. "Hayden is coming out here to quote, unquote, help my father with the house, his fucking abysmal practice," Violet rolls her eyes, sniffing, "now that my mother is ill."

My girl's voice turns cold and hard, brittle, like ice, "She's not fucking sick. That bastard. He put her in a mental hospital." Violet gasps in a stuttering lungful of air, "She is going to move into this house, take over it, make it her own. My mom is never coming home, is she?"

"When does she get here?" I demand rather than answer her seemingly unanswerable question.

"Tonight. Oh god," she mumbles, shakes her head, shoulders beginning to heave once more, "tonight." The panic is building again; I can see it on her face, hear it in her voice, feel it in the room around us as the walls close it, sheltering us. "I have to get out of here," she whispers, looking up at me, squeezing my hand, and amends, "we have to get out of here."

"You mean run away?" I lick my lips. I would go with her in a heartbeat. I had never intended to stay anyway. Over the last weeks Violet has been the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me here, when all I have wanted was to escape Constance, life, the world. Before her I was never strong enough to leave, not on my own. With her though, I am invincible. I can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, if it means keeping her safe, keeping her with me. Always.

"Yeah," she nods, huge hazel eyes studying me.

"Give me twenty minutes," I breathe. "I'll pack and come back for you." Violet almost smiles.

"We can take Vivien's car," she huffs, shoving damp strands of hair away from her face, a small sarcastic laugh escaping her, "she won't be needing it." It's the closest thing to joy I have heard from her in days. My sad, spooky little girl.

"Who's Vivien?"

And she just gives me a look, eyes narrowed, perplexed, before saying, "My mom? Her name is Vivien. You didn't know that?"

Fuck. I shrug, "I guess I didn't. Sorry." I've never thought of her as anything other than Dr. Harmon's wife or Violet's mother. I mean, I knew she had a fucking name. I had just never bothered with knowing what it was.

"Whatever," Violet rolls her eyes and I see a flash of the old her, my pulse quickens. "Go get your shit," she tells me, "I'll get mine." There is a thoughtful pause as her gaze shifts, coming back to me only after a long exhalation of breath, "Meet me in my room, okay? Promise?" Some color has come back into her cheeks, a touch of excitement in her eyes, hands busy wiping at her face. And all I want in that moment is to fucking kiss her, so I do, mouths crashing together, trying to pour out everything she means to me, everything I want for us, into that one moment, that one kiss.

"Violet, I promise. I love you. I'll be here. I will never leave you." And she purrs, pleased, against my lips as pale fingers tug at my hair.

But I break my promise. I don't mean to, I really fucking don't, but I do.

I skid into our house, sprinting full tilt, sliding across the hardwood floors, racing up the stairs and through the door to my room. Violet always has me running to get somewhere. Who needs track when I have her? The rewards are far greater.

I reach up to the top shelf of my closet, drag down the black duffle bag I keep there, and toss it onto my bed. I decide to say nothing to my family, my siblings. I couldn't explain it, why I was leaving, not to Addie or Beau. It will be better, easier, if I simply disappear, drift away, just a memory for them. Rather than sad sorrowful good byes and confused, pained glances holding me back, chipping at my resolve. They were the only good things in my life until Violet came along, my reasons for staying. But I can't afford to think like that. Not anymore. Not with my girl waiting, nervous and troubled, one house over.

And just as I'm thinking this Addie races into my room screaming, "Tate! Tate! Help! Help!"

"What is it?" I spin around, dropping a pile of shirts to the mattress.

"Beau can't breathe! And Momma's not here. What do I do? He can't breathe, Tate!" She scurries off again, hurrying to the attic and I chase after her.

Beau is, in fact, struggling to draw air into his lungs, gasping, moaning. There is a horrifying rattle in his chest.

"Stay here! Stay with him," I instruct my sister who does exactly as she is told, holding our brother's weak hand.

In the kitchen I nearly wrench the phone off the wall and hammer 9-1-1 into the key pad. An operator answers, "Do you have an emergency?"

"Please, my brother isn't breathing."

"Have you checked his airway, sir?"

"He's not fucking choking. It's his chest, his lungs, he can't get any air."

"Alright, sir, please remain calm. Help will be on it's way in only a moment. What is your address?"

I give her all of the fucking information. Violet never forgotten but pushed to the back of my mind.

I ride to the hospital with Beau, Addie up front with the driver, after calling Constance at the beauty parlor and telling us to fucking meet us over there. Bitch. Not that she ever gave two shits about any of us, least of all Beau.

While we are waiting for Mother to arrive I pump quarters into the payphone like it's a video game at the arcade but every time I try Violet's number I get a busy signal. Maybe she's talking some fucking sense into Dr. Daddy, or calling back home to Boston, she has friends there, or her Aunt in Florida. I have no fucking clue but the minute Constance arrives I sail out the doors, brushing past her with barely a glance. I'll leave her to put on her show, to act the grieving, loving mother. The performance will go better without my observation, my participation, anyway.

I grab the only cab outside of the hospital, out maneuvering an elderly woman and not giving a shit. At least I didn't knock her down, bash her skull in with a pipe, with my fists, for the ride. I thought about it. Instead I give the driver Violet's address and shift impatiently in the backseat for the fifteen minutes it take us to arrive. I throw a twenty at him not listening to the actual fee and run toward the closed door. The Volvo is missing. He must be at the airport picking up his fucking mistress. I storm into the house, calling, "Violet! Vi!" I'm almost two hours overdue.

And for all my fucking panic, my worry, she's napping. Curled up in an adorable little ball on the purple comforter, hair fanned out like a halo around her head, looking like a sleepy kitten. I grin to myself, thinking of all the interesting ways I could wake her, but really all I want to do is sink down beside her, wrap her up in my arms, hold her, until I drift off as well. I am exhausted, dead on my feet.

"Violet?" I call from the foot of the bed, voice pitched low, waiting for her to stir. I slink closer, get one knee on the mattress, shake her shoulder, "Vi?" And that's when I notice it: how shallow her breathing is, the empty orange pill bottle carelessly left on the bed, the words Constance Langdon and Valium printed on the little white label. My vision blurs, shifts. There had been thirty pills when I gave her the bottle. I had seen her take one. Where had the other fucking twenty-nine gone?

My palms flex, gripping her tightly enough to leave bruises, as I shake her violently. My teeth rattle in my skull as her body lolls about like a ragdoll. There is no response.

Violet had taken the pills, all of them, when I hadn't shown up, as I had promised. The knowledge froze my heart, the blood in my veins.

"Fuck," I scream, voice reverberating in the empty house, yanking on my blonde locks, eyes glazing over with wetness. Hefting her into my arms she is a dead weight and I can barely balance her in my blind rage, vision clouded, as I stumble forward lost and wailing with grief, with guilt. I should have fucking been here.

In the end I need to lay her on the ground; I can barely stand on my shaking legs, let alone safely carry her. I reach for her hand, trembling, savoring its softness, and drag her from her room, into the hall.

Her body makes a sickening noise as it glides across the gleaming wooden boards, chucks knocking into the baseboards and leaving scuff marks.

"Don't you die on me, Violet!" I howl. "No, please, don't you die." I can barely fucking breathe, choking on my own tears, my sobs, my throat swelling closed as I groan, climbing into the sparkling white bathtub and pulling her in after me, on top of me.

"Don't you die," I repeat like a mantra, "don't you die," turning on the water, soaking us both in a matter of seconds. "Violet!"

When the water does nothing to rouse her I shove three fingers down her throat, gagging her, forcing her to wretch up the little blue pills that are stealing her life away.

She coughs, sputters, swallows water, and coughs again. Her head turns, eyes seeking me out even as they roll around in her head, unable to stop on anything, to pinpoint my face, my heated black gaze. She can hear me weeping behind her, feel my hands holding her against my body, my lips ghosting along the back of her skull.

Violet's mouth opens but no words come out, only small gasping breaths before the moaning begins, the crying, her face crumbling, tears mingling with the water falling from above.

I push her hair out of the way, kiss her ear, her neck, her sodden cheek, rocking her against my body, nuzzling into her. "I'm sorry, Violet. I'm so sorry. Beau was sick. We had to take him to the hospital. I came back as soon as I could." But she won't, can't, stop crying, body weak and shaking, shivering, even as I make the water steaming hot, my mouth covering every inch of her, begging for forgiveness.

The sobs grow weaker and I think she's calming, her pliant body relaxing into me. She turns her head again, a lost little smile gracing her visage, and I kiss her lips as her fingers weakly grasp the wrist that is wrapped around her middle. "I love you, Violet," I hush fiercely, needing her to know as I hold her tighter. "I'll always come back for you."

And as her eyes close the wheezing noises end with her tears. She stops breathing. It takes a beat or two for it to register in my mind. That she didn't survive. That after all that, she is dead, here, in my arms, as the shower pounds down on our saturated bodies.

"Violet?" I ask quietly, barely above a whisper, then "Violet?" louder, hands snaking up her torso to grab her shoulders. A quick movement of my arms, a jolt, and her body sways forward then slumps, returning slowly to rest against my chest in little more than a heap.

"Violet!" I scream, kicking the end of the tub, bile rising, burning me from the inside out. "No, no, no! Not like this!"

Nothing changes. The water rains down on us. My heart hammers against my ribs. The body in my arms is warm and yielding, still lush and gorgeous. But Violet is dead, her pulse still, her breath expired.

Finally I reach out with a numb hand and turn the knob, shutting off the shower, and just sit there, holding my girl, kissing her, inhaling the rich smell that is only hers.

Until I fucking snap out of it. Stop crying, start thinking.

I don't know how long it will take. When she'll wake up, panting, gulping for air, an approximation of life, down there in that basement. Alone.

I so want to be with her, to hold her hand, but there is some shit I fucking need to handle first. Violet was not responsible for her own death. And if it is the last thing I do, I will have vengeance on those who stole her life from her, from me. Took her away before we were ready.

Leaving my girl, limp and wet and dead, there on the tiled bathroom floor is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. "Eyes, look your last," I mumble, quoting Romeo and Juliet, studying her, the way her pale hands rest on her stomach, the soft sweep of her eyelashes on her cheek, the curve of her pink little mouth, before striding from the room, not chancing a glance backward.

Afraid that, like Juliet, Violet will awaken lost and alone, frightened, looking for me, I swing into her room and upturn a cup on her desk filled with pens, markers, and grab the black Sharpie from the pile. I go to the wall across from her bed, the one she stares at as I hold her, as we talk, drifting into sleep at night, and write I LOVE YOU in large, bold letters, hoping she will see it, will know that, like I said, I will always come back for her. And I am coming back. Here, to Murder House. To die with her. To be with her. Forever. It's still, sort of, like running away. It's an escape. A chance.

Then I am down the stairs and out the front door, crashing through the gate, striding into my house and sprinting immediately up to my room. Doctor Harmon could be home any moment. With his fucking cunt bitch. They drove Violet to this. It's all their fault. I can barely see for the fury, the rage, the murderous intent, the monster clawing at my brain, howling for vengeance, for retribution. For blood.

Fucking Mother is still at the hospital, weeping at Beau's bedside, like she isn't fucking responsible his current state. The neglectful cocksucker. He's going to fucking die and it's all her goddamn fault. I scream, dropping down into a squat, barely able to hold myself up, hammering at my skull with fists. I can barely fucking breathe.

It takes me until the count of twenty to stand, inhale, exhale. I cross to the bed and begin tossing things into the duffle waiting there: my favorite CDs, a picture of Addie and I from my nightstand, some clothes, my extra chucks, the notebook filled with sappy poetry and pen and ink drawings I have kept throughout high school. Things I want. Then I flip the mattress. The shotgun, the two handguns, stare up at me from their hiding place.

Before Violet that had been my plan. Get the guns, get the bullets, go to school, kill as many fuckers as I could, and then fucking off myself. But now? I wouldn't be able to do it. Not having Violet. She needed me like I needed her and I would never abandoned her like that.

However, Violet is fucking dead and me? I want to die. Still want to die. I just have a new fucking target, a new goal.

I have enough shots, too many, but as I slip into dry clothes, tug on the black coat, the one from my dreams, my fantasies, the one that has been hanging in my closet all along, I grab all three guns. It's better to be prepared. And with that, I throw the strap of the duffle over my head, let it fall across my chest and take the steps two at a time, before going outside and taking up my position behind the tall bushes on the front porch. The ones I used to watch Violet from and it seems like a fitting fucking tribute.

I don't have to wait long and I'm thankful because all I can think about is my girl, alone in that house, with her body. My muscles twitch, keyed up, as my fingers flex on the trigger of the gun in my hand.

Dr. Ben rolls up in his shiny car, a young, smiling, auburn haired woman in the passenger seat. I sneer into the darkness; little bitch thinks she won. Thinks she'll be queen of the castle, send Violet off to boarding school, away from me, maybe have a baby, and be Ben's perfect doting wife. Minus the fact that he already fucking has one, stashed in a psych ward forty miles down the freeway. He is such a goddamn shit that I almost can't stand it. Wanting to howl, to yell into the void, the night sky, tear out my hair. I have to bite my lip to keep silent. My mouth tastes of copper and pain. I can't give away my position, not yet, so instead I allow the silent tears to fall, to run down my cheeks and off of my chin, soaking into the front of my shirt.

They emerge from the car, talking happily, and, on cue, I step out from the bushes. Face hot and wet, flushed, and eyes frantic. "Oh my god! Doctor Harmon! It's Violet," I call, panic lacing my voice. This is fucking it. I am finally fighting the noble war, a war more noble than I ever imagined sat in that oppressive, sad office of his.

"Tate?" The fucker is surprised.

"I think she tried to hurt herself! I don't know what happened. She's over here!" And the good doctor comes running, wife number two close on his heels.

"Where, Tate? Where is she?" he demands, crossing Constance's front yard and really it's a fuck you to her as well because this is truly going to ruin her rose bushes.

They're both on the lawn when the first shotgun blast rips big fucking Ben nearly in half. Close range and I can't help but grin. The girl, Hayden, screams, a blood curdling sound that makes my insides hot and liquid, spine tingling. She takes a shot that caves in her face, top half nearly blow away, and crumples to the ground.

Harmon's not quite dead, close though. I approach, loom over him. "You are the filth of the world. I'm just cleaning you up. For Violet." I feel nothing but elation staring down at the bleeding, dying mess of a man before me.

"Where?" he gasps, hands clutching at the grass.

"Oh, don't worry. She's not here. I, unlike you, love her," I nod, lips still quirked upward, high on watching his life ebb away. "I, unlike you, would never hurt her. And this I'll promise you," I crouch down so we're even closer, so he can see me, hear me, fully. "I'll be with her soon. I'll take care of her. Forever. And, you? You're going to die right here so I don't have to spend another fucking minute of my existence staring into your shit-eating, grinning, bastard face." And with that I level a hand gun at Ben's head, letting go a single round. Killing the fucker. It's too good of a death, too easy for him, but I don't have enough time to truly do the job justice. The police will already be on their way; the shotgun blasts were hardly discreet.

Leaving the larger gun on the lawn with the bodies I rather gracefully hurdle the brick wall around the property and land on the lush green grass surrounding Murder House knowing that it means I'm home free. Still, I desperately want to be with her when I go.

Rushing up the steps in a flurry of limbs, coat flying behind me, the house feels warm, welcoming. I drop the duffle in Violet's room, our room, kick it under the bed, and move down the hall into the bathroom. I doubt I have long.

Violet's body is compliant, damp, cool to the touch. Not much, just not quite alive. The tears start anew when I see her lying there again. So beautiful in death. She died fucking crying and so will I.

Picking her up, cradling her to me, I step into the empty tub. With Violet leaning back, soft curves nestled against my chest, I finally feel a sense of peace. I can breathe again.

There are sirens blaring outside, red and blue lights flashing. This is how it was always meant to end. With a bang, not with a whimper. And with a last wet kiss to her pallid cheek, surrounded in the scent of Violet, lavender and vanilla, purity and love, I put the handgun in my mouth, taste the metal, and without another thought pull the trigger, effectively blowing a hole right through the back of my fucking cranium.

When I come to in the basement, minutes or hours later, it's still fucking dark, night. There are footsteps upstairs and I know that the police have arrived. Probably found both Violet and I, dead, embracing, in love and together in that fucking bathroom. But I'm still here and that's all I fucking cared about. The body upstairs, I don't need it, not if I have her for always. Forever.

But I'm fucking alone. Tucked into a cold, concrete room used for storing decaying boxes and an ancient rocking chair. Violet is no where to be seen. I sit up, study the four walls around me, waiting. And then I hear something: gentle, muffled, moaning cries. A terrified, lonely, heartbreaking sound.

"Violet," I whisper, listening, then, "Violet?" a little louder. There is a catch in the noise, a little cough and splutter. I'm on my feet in an instant. "Where are you? Vi?" I'm frantic, heart pounding uselessly, as I storm out of the room following the sound of harsh, gasping breaths.

I find her just next door, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, a tiny little ball of girl, shaking. Her head rests on her knees as she sobs.

Crouching down in front of her I put a hand on her hair, move it to cup her face. She leans into my touch, glancing up, eyes swollen and pink, cheeks tear stained, lips wet and quivering. She is so beautifully broken that I think if my heart were still alive, still functioning, it would stop and I would die all over again.

"Tate?" she sniffles. I nod, using the pad of my thumb to wipe at her tears. Her eyes are wide, relieved, but then the sobs begin afresh and she moans, "I think I died when I took all those pills."

Prying her small hands away from their death grip on her legs I hold them in my own, feeling sick, tracks of salt water trailing down my face, over my mouth. "I tried to save you," I tell her, voice weak, as her mouth falls open, snuffles giving way to hiccups. "I did. I tried to make you throw them up. You threw up some. Not enough." My eyes search her face, waiting to see if her memories of that moment are coming back to her. When she continues to watch me blankly, licking her trembling lower lip, making low whimpering noises, I feel my own sadness, my regret, choking me. "You took so many, Violet." And now she is crying again, full body wracking sobs, rocking back and forth on the hard floor. "You died crying," I say, swallowing. "I held you, you were safe, you died," I pause, breathe, wait for her eyes to focus on my own, "loved."

After a few moments Violet gently pulls her hands back, wiping at her face with the ragged sleeves of her cardigan, nose dripping as she sniffs. "I'm so sorry, Violet," I sigh, my face crumbling, no longer able to hold back my own torrent of tears. And then she's holding me, clutching me fiercely to her, comforting me, a hand trailing up and down my bent back.

"Tate," she whispers, swollen lips on my ear, my cheek, "Tate."

"I'm here, Vi."

"Don't leave me," she adds, chin on my shoulder, fingers threading through my hair.

"I need to show you something," I say, leaning back a fraction of an inch so that I can catch her gaze. Her eyes search my face as she frowns but she nods. We stand up in a tangle of limbs, unwilling to let go of one another.

We walk through the basement, climb the stairs. I know there is a faster way, just think of a room and you will be in it, but I doubt Violet is ready. She'll get used to it, being dead, living here, forever, haunting, existing. But she had barely had time to grasp the fact that ghosts were real, that they lived, in a manner of speaking, in her house, before she had joined their ranks. So we will be patient, learn this together. We have all the time in the world now.

The whole place is crawling with cops, poking in every room, taking notes, speaking into the house phones and responding to radio hails. Violet freezes in the foyer, inhaling sharply. "They can't see you, just like you couldn't see the ghosts in the house before, remember?" And she gives a stiff little nod, allows me to guide her forward as she casts curious glances at me.

When we are in the hall, lingering outside the door to her bedroom, Violet watches the commotion just a couple of doors down. People bustling in and out. A man in a white paper suit, hood down to expose his damp hair, with a pad of paper, calls out orders to two men just making their way up the stairs. "I'm," she stutters, gulps, "in there, aren't I?" She steps forward.

I bob my head, staying directly behind her, my chest to her back, our fingers woven together between us. She stops just before the entryway, not looking in, but staring at the back of the man. "I love you," I say into her ear, kiss her jaw where it joins with her neck. When she still doesn't move I add, "Trust me, Violet. You know I only want to protect you. It's all I've ever wanted to do, since I first saw you. I will never let anything hurt you," and she nods, taking another tentative step.

We slip around the man, nothing more than a breeze, a chill up his spine, and then we are in the bathroom. It looks worse than I had imagined. Tragic, romantic, beautiful. And a gory fucking mess. Violet, pristine, a model of gorgeous perfection even in death, rests again my corpse with its head thrown back, gun still in hand, brains coating the shower curtain, the wall behind. Blood and bits of gray matter have scattered far and wide mottling a good quarter of the white washed room. But when I look closer my face appears peaceful, serene.

Violet is beside me, still linked by our hands, she squeezes, "You…"

"I can't live without you Violet," I tell her, then amend, "couldn't."

"So, you're," and she turns, facing me full on, her free hand gliding up my arm, still encased in the black wool coat, to my face, where she cups my cheek with her tiny palm.

"Dead?" She nods. "I told you, I love you. That I would never leave you. That we would be together, always." I place my hand over hers, "I meant it."

And the tears start again but she's tugging me toward her, kissing me, mouth wet and sliding over my own, as she claws at me, desperate to get closer.

"So," the man in white begins, we ignore him, "what do you think? The girl kills herself, takes enough fucking Valium to off a horse, and Romeo here finds her, decides to end it all too?"

A second technician agrees, "Maybe. It fits our preliminary timeline."

Violet's hands are inside my coat, raking up the back of my shirt, down, then up again underneath, making me shiver. Her blunt nails scrape along the flesh of my back and I sigh into her mouth.

"But why shoot the father? The girl outside? How does that fit in?"

The first man shrugs as my eyes open, flit over to him, suddenly nervous, as Violet nibbles on my lower lip, distracted. "Maybe Daddy was a bad man? And the boy was just trying to do her a favor?"

"Think either one left a note?"

"Nothing that we've found so far."

A third tech, a woman, joins the conversation, the speculation, "There were some torn up boarding school pamphlets in her room beside the pill bottle."

"But no note," the first man repeats. "Shit."

"Well," the woman's voice again. "It's not a note but someone had written 'I love you', in black marker on her wall. You can still smell it, so it's probably fairly fresh."

"Hmm," he begins, "and the mother is where?"

"Father checked her into a psychiatric ward a few weeks ago. The boys in blue are looking into it."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

I try to pay attention but my girl has moved her hands, they're gliding along the edge of my waistband, popping the button on my jeans, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth. "Violet," I groan, the room suddenly feeling crowded.

"You did it for me, didn't you?" She asks.

I steal another kiss, mumble against her lips, "I would kill myself a thousand times, a thousand ways, for you."

"No," she shakes her head, silken hair flying, touching my cheeks and making me groan in pleasure. "You murdered them. Dad," she sighs, "and the bitch."

"Violet, I," and I don't really know what to say so I pull back, examine her flushed, tear stained but dry face.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I'm surprised, a little nervous. I chew on my lower lip, it stings from the salt, from Violet's prior ministrations. "You're not," I stumble over the words, "mad?"

She had been pissed about Leah but that was so long ago, or it felt like it was, and we were different then, she was different. The house, it changed people, molded them, and it had been working on Violet, as it had worked on me.

"You once told me you would do anything for me."

"And I would. I still would. Anything," I rush, tone pleading, reverent.

Her mouth touches mine, "I believe you," she replies hotly, eyes burning into me, fingers sliding inside my jeans where she takes hold of my cock briefly before slipping back out to grab my waistband and tug me from the room, away from the investigators and toward the attic steps.

In death, Violet is more alive than she has been since I first met her, when she first arrived at Murder House. We find our peace in it, not fighting it, being one with it. The sentient walls around us hold us, cocoon and protect us. She smiles again, mean little smirking grins. And my heart swells.

I catch her outside smoking an unfiltered cigarette wearing nothing but one of my flannels and make her cum with only my fingers. Later, in return, she lures me into the bathroom, our bathroom, and fucks me senseless in the tub until I am trembling and spent.

Violet takes to Nora just as I had as a child. She holds the woman as she cries over her lost baby, comforting her, while I smile from the corner, standing over Larry's charred corpse, dead once again. The fucker needs to learn to stay away from me, from what's mine. A lesson I've already had to teach Hugo, my own fucking whoring father, more than once. My girl is so young and fresh and lovely that they can't keep their filthy eyes off of her. So, sometimes, I'm forced to cut them out, mash them between my fingers, crush them beneath the rubber soles of my shoes. Violet just giggles, kisses my lips, and offers to play Scrabble or Battleship, my choice.

We are a product of our upbringing and the house has done more to raise us up than anyone else ever had.

Vivien puts the house on the market; prices in the neighborhood are up, even for Murder House, and she stands to make a profit. She doesn't care, just can't wait to get back to Boston, away from all the death, the deceit, that had surrounded her while she was here. Violet never appears to her; afraid of her own emotions, her mother's weak grip on sanity.

We observe prospective owners as they come and go in a never ending parade. Lazy eyes casting over them from the forgotten, abandoned bed in our room, curled in each others arms under a sea of quilts.

The guys that buy the house claim to be roommates, business partners, Chad and Patrick. Violet tells me, "They're homos."

I pause, card half way between my hand and the deck. We're playing Rummy 5000. Because 500 is over far too quickly, and I'm ahead, but barely. My girl can be horribly fucking distracting. "How do you know?"

She shrugs, "You can just tell."

"Really?" I ask, raising a brow into my fringe.

When they move in she gloats for days.

Violet and I watch them, at night, in their room, gasping, groaning, the bed springs creaking, as we eat popcorn from the now stocked pantry, drink bourbon from the liquor cabinet, and offer color commentary like we're watching a shitty movie. Then we go to the attic and I fuck her, hard, up against the wall, her legs riding my hips, my mouth sucking a purple bruise into her neck. She moans so loud the space seems to vibrate with it. And we draw the attention of the newest residents, fumbling with the ladder, climbing sleepily up the stairs, one at a time, the muscular blond one carrying a bat, and we laugh our asses off. Her body is still pinned between my thrusting cock and the wall. They can't see us but they examine the space, eyes bouncing off of each surface, studying the mass of stuff that resides there.

"Jesus. People have left a lot of shit up here over the years," the dark haired one grumbles. The other shrugs, they share a look.

Violet eyes her boxes, my bag, our things. Moira, the maid, stashes her belongings up here as well, a row of black dresses and white aprons folded to starched perfection just in the corner. "Fuck," she says, eyes narrowing at the two men.

"Well," I snark, "maybe if you weren't so fucking loud…"

She swats my chest, "Don't be so smug," but she's smirking, "you're going to be the one carrying all this shit down to the basement when they're gone. Better put some pants on, Tate, you've got a lot of heavy lifting to do." Her eyes are bright, pleased.

"You just want to perv on me. All sweaty and shit," I grin and she lifts a shoulder, not denying it one bit, as I roll my pelvis, rock deeper within her, making her bite her lip to avoid a second, obscenely loud noise.

The dicks plan on renovating the whole fucking house. Using it as a showpiece, an office space, for their business. The blond one is in construction. The other is some kind of interior designer. I roll my eyes just fucking thinking about it. Assholes.

The ghosts are immediately thrown into a fucking tizzy over the proposed remodel. Nora won't stop wailing, losing yet more grip on reality. She wants them out of the house. As does everyone else. They're getting too close, exploring too deeply, digging up parts of the house best left undisturbed. But then Violet over hears them. Chad's sister is having a baby and well, she is just too young, wants to be an actress, and she can't possibly keep it. Not now. And will her brother take the poor thing? Hasn't he always wanted to be a father? And he is not getting any younger. And Patrick is just so good with children.

Before I can register what's happening she is flying downstairs, into the basement, and hugging Nora. There is going to be a baby in the house.

"A baby?" Nora snivels. "My baby?"

"It will be," Violet promises. And all I can do is stand behind her, smiling, proud, knowing that we can finally make Nora a mother again. But having no fucking idea how we're going to get that baby away from those two queens.

The baby is for Nora, we both know that, but, in a way it is for us too. A little thing in the house that we can play with, coddle and coo at, forever.

There is something about eternity that makes you want progeny, to pass on a little piece of yourself. You see the importance of family, of children, sharing who you are, your life. I have Violet. And we're happy. The two of us. But sometimes I find her alone, tucked into a corner of the attic, or our old room, crying over the life we never had and never will have. The things we missed out on by dying.

On one of those sad days, tears had slipped down Violet's flushed face as I held her, whispering, "I love you," over and over, as she stared, lost and afraid. She was scared that one day we would be just like the others trapped in the house, on repeat, reliving the past, prisoners in a windowless cell.

I shook my head, "They're not like us. They're lonely," as I rubbed her thigh, covered in torn purple lace, "we have each other."

Her lip trembled as she avoided my gaze, "We'll never have kids."

Tucking a finger under her chin, I guided her so that she saw me, eyes looking into my own, "Is that what you want? To have kids?" I swallowed, overcome by some deep seated emotion, something greater, bigger than love, "With me?"

She nodded. "Or, I would have. One day."

And as I covered her body with my own, sliding her loose sundress over her shoulders, exposing her pert bare breasts, no more long shirts to cover her scars, I hushed, "Anything for you, Violet. If you want a baby, we'll find a baby." She sighed as I laved a rosy pink peaked nipple with my tongue, hands tugging at my curls, hips rising to meet my own.

And it had finally happened.

So, months later, when things have fallen to shit and it becomes clear that our dream, our plan, is not going to come to fruition it's her hard gaze that informs me something has to be done about it. Patrick is another fucking cheating whore. Just like my father. Like Violet's. Chad begs, pleads, shaking with a mixture of fury and pain. He is weak, just as her mother had been weak. Patrick doesn't want the baby. He's met someone. And my girl is distraught, hurt, and when she hurts, I hurt.

But then Chad mans up and does something. The gimp suit. And that only makes shit worse though Violet and I enjoy the hell out of the show.

That night, curled in our nest of blankets in the attic, sweaty and boneless, her mouth on my chest, she asks, "What the fuck is wrong with people?" I shrug, fingers twining into her long hair, curling around the locks, and I give a yank, pulling her head back and up so that she is staring into my face, lips open, wet and sweet. "They ruin everything." Her eyes are hot, steely, dangerous like molten metal. I can see the oncoming storm even if she can't. The violent tantrum building inside of her small frame.

At times Violet will rant and rave, scream, punch, kick, and I will smirk, lost in the violence of her emotions. It is a gorgeous thing to behold and it always ends the same way: her in my arms, body quivering, lips hungry, hands eager. I practically salivate, never sated, as I wait, watching her with wolfish eyes.

"They have to go," she tells me evenly, face imperious. I nod my agreement, excited, and drop my furious grip on her. She props her chin on a fist, big eyes watching me, "Will you hurt them? For me?"

"Hurt them," I smirk, "or kill them?"

She smirks meanly in return, "They should die for what they've done."

"We'll be fucking stuck with them."

"Could be fun," she lifts a shoulder. "They'll certainly suffer."

I rest my head back, stare up at the ceiling, visions, fantasies of bloody and carnage taking over, the dark voices that still call out to me in my head, screaming. Sometimes they are so loud the only other thing I can hear is Violet's soothing tones as she strokes my hair, brings me back to myself.

"How do you want me to do it?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can think of something fitting. I have faith in you." And then she's trailing her little pink tongue down my chest, teeth dragging over one nipple, before resuming her journey along the coarse hair that leads to my dick, sucking the head into her mouth. My body arcs upward as I gasp. With a wet pop she releases me. "Being dead makes me so horny," she grins, big hazel eyes bright in the dim light.

"Fuck," I whine, "don't stop, Vi." She laughs around my cock and I can only gurgle some unintelligible sounds. When I find my voice, a groan escaping, I ask, "You want to help me with the fags? One for me, one for you?" And the smile she gives me, lips stretched around my hard thrumming flesh, the sweet vibrating hum of her pleasure, makes my heart soar even as my balls clench, ready to blow down her throat. And I can't think of a better way to spend the afterlife.