Recently you'd moved to California with your parents , something about healing from..From your mother catching your dad sleeping with one of his patients.

One of his patients, he was a psychiatrist. And now with the new home - a Gorgeous one might I add , with it's chestnut panels, brick walls , stained glass and hand painted murals. Had an inhome office where he'd already begun to see new patients.

Patients that , unbeknownst to the current residents had, already found their way to death , their very souls haunting , embedding themselves into every inch of paneling the house held.

One of which was Tate, a troubled boy who came to your father about his want to harm others. Or. How he's already harmed them , Your father - Ben. Was none the wiser , listening as Tate recounted the events.

You , weren't far from being off either. The scars on your arms like the paint on the walls proved so. Assuming your father had been busy with a patient downstairs, you'd forgotten to lock the hall bathroom , standing with your sleeve down and a pocket knife in the other.

You'd assumed the boy he was seeing had gone home judging by the hallway creaks.

"You're doing it wrong y'know." His voice came from the cracked open door, watching the liquid seep from the open wound. "Vertical..You have to do it vertical. They can't stitch it up that way."