Tate Langdon was an inch shy of being six feet tall. He had bright blond hair, bottomless dark eyes, porcelein skin, pale lips, and prominent bone structure. This was mostly due to how thin his face was. He had a rather sharp jaw line and hollow cheeks. This seventeen year old boy's life was cut short by the S.W.A.T. team's raining bullets in 1994. His spirit now haunts Murder House. One of the pitfalls of being undead was boredom.
Tate had driven all those he cared about away with his gruesome crimes. There had been rumors that a new family had, most unwisely, purchased the house in spite of its horrific history. Married parents with their infant son and teenage daughter were to move in any day now. Tate tore his stare from his bedroom, knowing that he needed to find a place to hide for the time being.
Tate ducked back into the hall bathroom as soon as he heard the running footsteps and a girl about a head shorter than he was dashed past him. He may be a ghost, but, he was not invisible. Tate listened closely ... the girl was crying. That mess of thick, curly, dark hair did not belong to Violet nor did his glimpse of her olive skin. Tate peaked out of the doorway, glanced left and right, then tracked down the girl ... to his old bedroom.
Tate glanced over his shoulder as the deep voice of the man whom was probably her father yelled up the stairs, "You are a child under our roof! You have no say! You will be at the party, Maria-Elena!"
Her name certainly was prettier to Tate than Violet's, especially with how her father had rolled the 'r' in her name.
The girl, Maria-Elena, screamed back at him in rapid Spanish from within the bedroom, "¡Yo no soy un niña! ¡Querría verle me hace voy!"
She made to kick the door closed but Tate wedged his foot in. Maria-Elena simply grumbled through clenched teeth and Tate heard her flop down on the bed. Once she resumed crying, Tate chanced getting a full look at her. She was wearing the smallest pair of black shorts he had ever seen. Her long tan legs were completely revealed.
She was not thin but she was not fat either ... she had a very blessed figure. She had wide hips and her breasts were rather big but not porn-star looking. It all seemed natural, especially with how her breasts parted beneath her layered tank-tops what with her laying on her back. Her wild dark hair encircled her face cast in the sunlight raining in through the sheer curtains hiding the windows.
"Woah," Tate breathed when he at last saw her face.
She had large and heavily lashed dark eyes. Her brows were the same shade of brown as her hair and her lips were mauve. Her olive skin was blemish free. She was almost ... perfect. Except, Tate noticed that her nose had been broken.
Whether it was from a hit or from some sport, he was anxious to know. He yanked his head back when Maria-Elena suddenly sprung to her feet. If she was to be at this party, Tate would try to find a way to meet her officially. With his back flat against the wall in the hallway, he tried to clear his head. He had not felt this good since the first time he saw Violet ... the girl who would never forgive him.
Christmas Eve Party
Maria-Elena was wearing a fitted pale pink dress with a layered flounce on the right side which ran from her shoulder to the hem around the middle of her thigh. She was wearing warm burgundy tights and pale ink heels. Her long curly dark hair was hitched up on one side by a crimson clip. Her tawny skin glowed in the accented candlelight. Tate anxiously chewed his fingernails and fussed with his wavy blond hair.
The house was reeking with scented candles and the steam of the hot supper waiting in the dining room. He had decided to pretend to be a boy from the neighborhood. Tate tried to pin his arms at his sides in an attempt to not look like a nervous-wreck in case Maria-Elena glanced in his direction. He took a sip of his apple-cider and glanced up at the mistletoe dangling in the doorway. Maria-Elena was so beautiful, Tate felt in his heart that he could not insult her with the presumption that she'd want him to kiss her. When he had first talked with Violet, the lonely girl immediately soaked up his offer of friendship.
But, he had the feeling that Maria-Elena was all storm and no calm. All thoughts of Violet, the girl who had broken his heart, were lost the moment Maria-Elena and Tate's eyes locked onto each other. Brown to brown, they were like magnets. This was something Tate had not expected but had been hopelessly fantasizing of. She observed him for a few seconds more before her raspberry lips widened into a kind smile.
Tate was so dumbfounded, it was a wonder how he managed to keep a grip around his glass. He was vaguely aware of his left hand rising up and waving weakly in her direction. When she giggled, Tate's pale skin flushed and his hand dropped like a lead weight back into his corduroy pants pocket. Like a child, Tate stepped through the throng of neighbors and ran down to the basement.
"Shit!" Tate growled to himself. "Fucking shit!"