REFLECTIONS (A Tate Langdon Fan Fic)

Chapter 1

~~TATE

I hate this place, every day and every night it's all the same. We are trapped in this house for eternity, trapped to hear the constant moans of the others that reside here. By the others, I mean the other ghosts cursed to wander endlessly through these halls along with me. Except when I am near they seem to flee to the darkest corners of the house. My name is Tate, Tate Langdon and I have been dead since 1994 trapped in the Murder House forever. I sat on bare mattress staring blankly at the empty walls and the chipped paint on the walls. My room had seen better days; at least they replaced the carpet. This house is a prison; so many families come here and sometimes they don't all leave. They join us for eternal haunt because no one ever finds peace in this home and I hate to see the happiness in their eyes. Even in their deaths they find happiness to be with one another forever, I will never know what it feels to be loved by anyone. Is God punishing me for my heinous crimes? Is God trying to torture me with this endless loneliness? Is there even a God? If there was then what does that make me? That’s when I heard a pair of tires screeched into the driveway and all I could think was; great another family.

~~LEAH

I stared blankly out the window before opening my small black leather journal that I had kept since the first haunted house, only my eyes were allowed to read and write. I took my pen to start to scribble down into the journal. "My father is playing annoying country music; it is blaring on the radio with my father humming along and my stepmother chiming in. I wish sometimes I was deaf so I could feel peace but I wasn't granted that. We were moving for the fifth time for the last 10 years because of my father was a writer and had to move for research. I guess I didn't care much, I never needed anyone and the subject he chose was at least interesting. He studies the most haunted places in the United States and writes the ghost stories. We lived in a haunted house in which I was born in and my mother lost her life." I paused when I turned to look at the window seeing the figures drag their bodies across the road. I hate it sometimes. I hate watching their body parts slip from their grasp and I feel sadden that they have to repeat this process for eternity. I continued to write into my journal, "It’s sad that no one can see what I see, it would torment them I guess. I guess I should explain what I mean, what I'm seeing they are ghosts that I am seeing about and yes I can see them. I'm a ghost whisperer I guess you can say it happened because I was born in the haunted house. For as long as I could remember I could always see them, no matter where we were and no matter what time. There are more things I can do but my father only knows of the ghost seeing luckily. That's why my father makes the big bucks when he writes the ghost stories because he uses me to communicate with the ghosts. I find them in the Haunted house take notes for myself and they tell me there stories. I tell my father and he makes the profit telling the world about their secrets, whether it was about jealousy or poisoning I find the truth. I do feel cheated sometimes, like I’m being forced to use my gift like this especially since I feel haunted by my own past. With me always traveling away and going to new schools means dealing with either ghosts or worse bullies. The strange thing is my father thinks the ghosts protect me because every time I went to a new school the bullies end up dead. No one really knows what happened to them, the police are baffled and I disappear with my father and my stepmother to the next haunted place and to the next school.” My father caught my attention with the screeching of his tires in front of the next house we were going to be staying. After my father put the car into park I looked at the windows seeing a dark figure stare back at me before disappearing. I turned back to my journal to scribble one more sentence before having to go into the house for the first time. “My name is Leah Hale, I'm seventeen years old and I'm about to walk into the infamous Murder House.”