Every year, once a month, he could be himself. Halloween. The dead could visit their family, all that sentimental shit. He never took advantage of that, though. No, he’d always stay hidden.

In a way, he was scared. He’s never scared. Maybe it made him overly anxious, to the point where he had come to such a crazy conclusion. He’d do anything to not feel afraid any longer. You, however, came along a week or two before that. It was a surprise! No one wanted to live in the ominous Murder House, yet you had developed a twisted admiration for it. It was gorgeous, really, yet with a nauseatingly twisted background. Something so pretty cornered with something so haunted? You had no clue, and that’s what appealed to you. It was also fairly cheap for a house in California . . .

Tate lurked around the house. He was one of your dad’s patients, one that still turned up after all the mysterious things surrounding the house. He’d always watch your oblivious-self for whatever, and would often scare you for his own amusement. Despite it, you didn’t mind. He was cute in his own weird way. You formed a friendship over the past few weeks, one he didn’t expect to like so much. It managed to convince his mind. He wanted to take you out for Halloween, somewhere he always felt safe. The beach.

It was night, nearing midnight, the waves clashing against the soft sand, creating a soothing melody. You both sat by one of the lifeguard towers, Tate swinging around the poles like an excited little child, while you watched in amusement. That is, until you got a call. A total mood breaker. You answered, Tate watched intently. Unable to resist his urges any longer, he asked softly, “who was it?” Running to your side, he plopped down beside you, wrapping his arms around you. “C’mon, who was it? A friend? Your mom?” He teased, pressing light kisses against your neck. He was feeling a little clingy tonight.