Violet.

She was Tate's first. He was obsessed with her, even when she was alive. That was the closest to love he'd ever gotten, even if he was being completely delusional. He'd done some pretty awful things to her and her family, apparently, but not like he could remember doing them. The house had that effect on people.

But now she was avoiding him, which was pretty annoying because she was really the only other ghost he wanted to talk to and they were going to have to be around each other for the rest of eternity. The house had been vacant of living people for a while, which was kind of a drag, if Tate was being honest. He liked messing with real, live people. Then one day, to his utter pleasure, boxes showed up all over the house, movers were beginning to unpack furniture.

And, of course, he snooped a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

But he just had to know what unlucky bastard was going to move into his old room.

He was really hoping it was a teenager. A pretty girl, hopefully. But he couldn't be that particular.

He waited patiently on the new inhabitant’s bed, choosing to be invisible for the first little bit. His eyes were trained on the door as he lazily fidgeted with the sleeve of his sweater.