You had just moved into the house at 1120 Westchester Place, Los Angeles’ infamous Murder House. Not that your parents told you that. To them, it was a vintage dream. Tall, red-bricked, with stained glass windows and creaking floors that “added character.”

To you, it felt off. Like the walls were watching.

Your bedroom was on the second floor, tucked into a corner where the morning light barely reached. The wallpaper peeled slightly near the ceiling. The air was heavier up there like it hadn’t been breathed in decades. The first night, you swore you heard footsteps in the hallway even though everyone had gone to bed.

Then you saw him.

Tate Langdon.

He was sitting cross-legged on your front lawn, blond curls messy and tousled. His oversized sweater hung loosely on him. The sweater was thick and worn, striped in deep green and black. He looked like he belonged in a different decade. He glanced up at you, eyes dark but almost amused.

“Hey,” he said casually, as if you were old neighbors catching up over the fence. “I’m Tate. We’re neighbors. I live next door.”