#vertiically

Amber eyes stare at the cigarette balancing between her pointer and middle finger, ash falling off gracefully as the wind blows gently. Autumn is coming, and Violet can't wait -- it's her favorite season, even though it was much better back in Boston.

She's sitting on the brick archway behind Murder House, admiring the barren backyard, how Constance peeked through her blinds every ten minutes, and the quiet chirping of bluebirds in the trees. For the first time in a while, she's at peace.

That is, until she hears a disturbance behind her.

She turns, sees the disheveled blond hair, and groans, taking another much needed drag of the cancer stick.

Send a ♕ if you're too intimidated to talk/roleplay with me.

        He's lived in this house for a couple of weeks            now, and somehow he's managed to go without            seeing a majority of the ghosts who reside here.            It's a bit of a surprise to him when he turns around            and sees Tate standing there, in his living room.             He hadn't heard a knock-- hadn't heard anyone            come in, and so he raises an eyebrow at the oh,            so quiet intruder, and he tucks his hands into his            pockets. Theoretically, it would be safer to keep            them out, where he can grab a weapon if need            be, but he feels comforted by the lighter in there.