Psychotic | Tate Langdon (ON HOLD)

2. History

"Who the hell are you?" I prompt.

The woman extends her arm and holds an open hand out at me. "Vivien Harmon. This is my husband, Ben." She motions her head toward him. I reluctantly shake his hand as well, then slap them at my sides. Silence falls over the room until my parents come running in frantically.

"Are you going to tell us why you're here?" I say in a snarky voice, astonishing myself from the involuntary attitude I'm giving them. Usually around people I'm not fond with I stammer and my cheeks flush a bright red. Sometimes they even make the freckles that cover across the bridge of my nose unnoticeable.

Ben drapes an arm around Viven's shoulders and pulls her in close. "We're the previous owners of this house. Sorry, we came back just to grab a few things we forgot here. Excuse us." At that, they simultaneously walk out of the room and roam around, out of sight. They seem like an affectionate couple who will arbitrarily grab each other and kiss passionately, which I can't see myself doing in my future relationships. I can't even give somebody a hug without feeling unsettled.

Moments later, the same couple returns, except this time a teenage girl seemingly my age walks beside them. Her tresses of dirty-blonde hair is groomed to the side, falling in her face and covering her eye. "Enjoy your life at this house," says Vivien, flashing a smile at us and makes their way out the door.

I shoot them an unnerved glance, then look at my parents who were inspecting the house. My mother brings my father into a hug, and I join in. "She's right. We will enjoy our life at this house," she mumbles.

"How's the lovely family doing today? Sorry for being late." I turn around, my tightly-curled hair whipping over my shoulders to see Marci, the real estate agent that helped my parents buy this house. Her chestnut hair with streaks of gray is trimmed into a pixie cut, and she's wearing a blue pantsuit. She's tightly clutching a clipboard against her chest with a pen intertwined between her fingers.

"No worries," my father replies.

Then, she motions pointe towards the inside of the house. "Let's get on with the tour, shall we?"

We follow her around and she rambles about the architecture. As we proceed to the kitchen, she stops in her tracks and faces us with a disconcerted expression. "Excuse me for not thinking of explaining earlier, but this room just reminds me that I am required to tell you about the rather . . . uncanny history of this house." As soon as the words come out of her mouth, she has my undivided attention. I step closer and listen intently. "The previous owners have quite a past. The daughter of the parents who lived here committed suicide from a drug overdose. Then, the father died of hanging himself also in suicide from grief after his wife passed away from childbirth."

My father's mouth falls agape. "That's unfortunate."

"Wow," my mother says in disbelief, shooting nervous glances at him.

The rest of the house is nothing special, and Marci scurries out of the house, as if she was in a rush to get out. As the day approaches night, I get myself cleaned up and into my pajamas, my mind lingering on the history; I'm inquisitive.

My bedroom has dark purple walls that's chipped in various places, revealing beige. The blankets are white with brown stains here and there. I observe them; making up stories in which caused the stains to be there. Maybe somebody spilled something there–or one of the previous owners was killed there and it's a crimson mark from the blood that faded into brown.

I set my laptop in front of me on the bed and type the address of this house into the searchbar on Google. Many things pop up, but the name that stands out at me the most is Murder House. I click on an article entitled Los Angeles Landmarks: Murder House.

I scroll down and read through.

The house is located in Los Angeles, infamously known as the Murder House. It supposedly is the most haunted place in all of LA, with the murders and suicides that reportedly took place.

Before I can read any further, somebody opens the door and I slam my computer closed. My father is peering his head through the doorway, a smile plastered on his face. "What do you think about your new room?" he asks.

"I like it," I murmur, wanting for him to leave so I can finish digging for information on this house.

He nods, then quietly shuts the door. It's almost as if tiredness slapped me in the face within the past thirty seconds, and I suddenly can't keep my eyes open. I take my computer and lean it against my night table, laying on my side and drifting into sleep.

—

During the night, I've been having eerie dreams. Some were about the events that resemble what occurred in this house; the father hanging on a rope by his neck that's tied to the ceiling, and the daughter shoving the pills into her mouth and chugging them down her throat. However, there's a peculiar dream I had that I don't think was only a dream.

I open my eyes abruptly out of a deep sleep, and standing over my bed is a black silhouette. I'm too fresh out of slumber to react, so I turn myself over and dismiss it.

The next morning, I convince myself it was a vivid dream, but I know deep down that it wasn't.