Your parents had forced you to move into this house.
After you moved in, you spotted a tour pass your house and call it “The Murder House”.
You decided to do some research and you had discovered many tragic deaths had occurred in your house.
“Oh God,” you muttered.
You heard snickering behind you.
You turned and saw Tate Langdon, the Westfield High Shooter, standing behind you. There were two problems with that. One, he was a murderer. And two, he was supposed to be dead.
You just stared at him.
You found yourself more curious than scared.
“So how does this work? Am I crazy?” you asked.
He gave you a confused look, but shook his head.
“Once you die in this house, you can’t leave,” he shrugged.
“Are you going to kill me?” you asked.
He shook his head.
You hesitated but patted the bed next to you.
“Tell me more,” you said.
“You’re not scared?” Tate asked.
“I should be, but I’m not,” you said.
He sat next to you.
He moved your hair behind your ear.
“I’ve been watching you for a while now,” he said.
You chuckled.
“That’s not the best way to start a friendship,” you pointed out.
“What about a relationship?” he asked.
“I don’t think that’s possible. I mean, you’re kind of not… alive,” you reminded him.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t feel,” he asked, hurt.
You felt bad.
“But we barely know each other. Maybe if we just hang out for a while…,” you suggested.
He nodded slowly.
The next three months were spent hanging out everyday and having sleepovers every night.
One night, Tate climbed onto your bed and snuggled close to you, wrapping his arms around you.
“Tate?” you asked.
“Yes?” he responded.
“What are you doing?” you chuckled.
“Asking you to be my girlfriend. What are you doing?” he asked.
“Accepting,” you smiled.
He turned you over to face him and touched his lips to yours.
“How is it possible that in death, you make me feel the most alive?” he asked.
“I’m just that awesome,” you teased.
You kissed him again.
Maybe this COULD work.
