He was sitting on the sidewalk to the now abandoned murder house, watching as you walked by. He was always there, every day when you walked home. You finally got up enough courage to speak to him, stopping on the side walk in front of him.

“So, what’s with the creepy murder house aesthetic you have going on?” You asked.

He laughed at you, standing up and looking down at you.

“It’s quiet. Nobody comes through here, but you. The name’s Tate.”

He held out his hand.