A week ago, your family decided to pack up and move all the way across the country to California, moving into an old house well-known for its tragic past. Murder House. Your father was a psychiatrist and was currently working from home, with all of his patients coming to the house. And one of them had caught your eye.

His name was Tate Langdon. He was a pretty weird guy to talk to, but sweet nonetheless. The two of you had spent a few hours in your new room, listening to music and talking about your dysfunctional families whilst he helped you unpack boxes and decorate. However, your dad had caught him in there and quickly sent him away before scolding you.

It was the evening and you were just re-organizing your closet when a deep yet soft voice appeared from behind you. When you spun around in surprise, you saw Tate sat on your bed and flicking through the pages of your diary. He didn’t say anything until he noticed that you were looking at him. When he spoke to you, it wasn’t rude or sarcastic, but just honest and respectful. "You’ve got nice writing in here."