This child . . . a remarkable boy. Destined for greatness

The hot steam from the shower twined around Michael and Winona, encasing their dampened bodies in the suffocating haze of lust that ignited like wildfire between the two with every teasing kiss. Michael had started to discover just the right places to bite or lick in order to make his little lover arch into him with a moan—and oh, how he absolutely loved the little mewls that escaped from her trembling lips as if she simply couldn't help it, as if it was painful to hold them in.

"Michael." The boy's name slipped off of Winona's tongue like a desperate prayer to God as the boy continued the sinful assault of his lips on her neck. He was situated directly between her graciously parted legs as her ass sat firmly planted on the edge of the sink, her toes curling as his teeth nipped at her flesh, the balls of her feet resting lightly atop his firm buttocks. He was wearing nothing but a towel, (courtesy of his very recent shower), the plush dark gray material hanging off of his sculpted hips in a way of enticement that was simply unfair to the eyes of the beholder. Winona, however, was fully dressed—lanky limbs cloaked in the simplistic outfit that she'd been doomed to wear for all of an eternity—that was, unless the notorious Billie Dean Howard decided to go on a little shopping spree and buy the teenage girl an entirely new wardrobe.

Droplets of lukewarm water slipped from the stringy strands of Michael's drenched curls, soaking Winona's sleek, black t-shirt through-and-through as his lips formed into an enthusiastic "o" shape around her slightly exposed collarbone. He was slowly mastering the art of marking the dainty girl with an assortment of hickeys—hot, pink tongue desperately lapping over the freezing flesh. It was as if he were a starving artist, and she was a beautiful, blank canvas, patiently awaiting the presence of his needy mouth. Thus, the young, inexperienced man painted pretty portraits along her flesh, clammy palm flattening against the fogged surface of the mirror in a weak attempt to steady his jelly-like legs.

Winona untangled her frigid fingers from his sopping wet hair, dipping down to meet the warm, heaving flesh of his mostly muscular back. Her hands trailed along the beaded bursts of water along his spine, fingertips teasingly toying with the bumpy surface.

At the simplistic touch, Michael outwardly groaned—a previously foreign sound to the girl wrapped around him like a weed. The noise graced Winona's ears, emitting a scattered series of goosebumps along her arms. For a split second, the girl couldn't quite remember how they'd ended up like this—her fully-clothed self perched up on the sink, back arched, toes curled—lithe legs tangled around the towel-clad hips of Michael Langdon, who'd emerged from a steamy shower only moments prior.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't invisibly snooping before hastily revealing herself to him. Initially, he'd dramatically jumped at the sight of her in the doorway, cool bursts of the outside air showering his skin with a multitude of raised bumps. Winona hadn't even asked if she could come in, she simply did. Cold, bare feet gliding along the damp tile floor, a cheeky smirk strung across skinny lips. Michael uttered an inquiry, one so low and shy that it barely graced her ears, greedy hands tangling within his wet locks as she'd tugged his face to hers.

Their faces parted, noses grazing as Michael peered into the dark depths of Winona's chocolate orbs, puffs of labored breaths hastily emerging from between his slack and flushed lips as he took in the sight of the lovely lady in front of him. His eyes roamed over her body—over the delicate curve of her clothed breasts and the way her center was slowly inching closer to his as if she was positively desperate for some sort of friction. The girl was blossoming before him like a fresh baby rose in its first glorious summer of life—his touch served as the sustenance​ of a generous rain, his kisses like little sprinkles of miracle grow, helping her flourish into a thing of absolute divinity.

Like a moth to a flame, Winona dove in to pepper a solid, shy smooch over the tender area in which she could see Michael's pulse fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. The strangled, needy groan that resonated in his throat encouraged the girl to flick her tongue over the sensitive flesh, tasting his moist skin before lightly taking him in between her pearly white teeth. In an unconscious need for him, Winona's hand began to make a slow path from Michael's heaving chest and down to his flat and toned stomach, her fingers lightly grazing the top of the thick towel that rested mere inches above the bulge that was only growing harder the closer she got.

Michael felt a spark of excitement from his head down to his toes, involuntary and lurid visuals of a panting and bare Winona spread out underneath him as she cried out his name in a spellbinding cloud of lust raiding his mind. He imagined the soft curve of her mouth around his–

"Winona," Michael spoke the girl's name with a slight whine as his fingers curled around her wrist, pulling her dainty, wandering hand away from where she had just barely invaded the underneath of his towel. The boy gulped, adam's apple visibly bobbing as he tangled his digits within hers, bringing​ their hands up in order to plant a generous, open mouthed kiss on the top of her frigidly pale palm. Not once did he break eye contact, tilting her small chin upward with his knuckle when she attempted to avoid his gaze out of sheer embarrassment. Winona wondered how she could have possibly read the situation incorrectly, a valid answer mockingly evading her as her stare wandered down to the evidence of Michael's arousal.

Winona formed the quick an uneasy solution that Michael probably didn't want to go there with her simply because she was inevitably dead. Suddenly, the girl couldn't get out of the room fast enough, awkwardly tumbling from her position on the marbled white countertop and onto the floor that was now slick with the perspiration of humidity. She nearly fell, but curiously, Michael had not relinquished his hold on her hand, an amused cheshire grin tugging at his lips as he pulled the resistant girl back into his chest.

Michael Langdon thought very carefully before he spoke, trying to make sense of the desperate fog that had taken over his brain, hand soothingly petting over Winona's silky locks of dark hair as the mirror began to slowly clear with the reflection of their entangled image. He could see the girl's fragile vulnerability, and realized with prideful pleasure that her heart now rested in the palm of his hand—not Jack's. He could squeeze the life right out of her with carefully timed indecision, or he could feed on the nectar of her sugary sweet want until they were both breathless and floating on a cloud of pure ecstasy.

"Winnie, I just–" The sonance of Michael's voice was stuttered, his ample lips pouted in a frown as he so obviously tried to make sense of what he wanted to say. However, all the lanky, handsome boy could muster was a simple and apologetic 'n-not yet' as he hoped that his ghost girl would not be offended. Quite frankly, Michael wanted to. He just wasn't ready—unsure of himself and what to do.

A sea of wide and comforting blue met Winona's hooded orbs of liquid cocoa as her heart swelled with Michael's frazzled statement. In that moment, she knew that his hesitancy to be intimate had nothing to do with a lack of desire for her. The girl felt as if her heart was safe—to be nurtured like never before under Michael's tender care—unsuspecting to the glorious victory he felt at having her so securely wrapped around his finger.

⁂

The sun hung like a dripping pool of molasses in the sky, bathing all that dwelled underneath in a glowing, reddish hue as the day slowly drifted into evening.

Although it was barely half-past-seven, Michael was fast asleep within the crook of Winona's arm, a puddle of drool collecting upon the inner flesh of her bicep. His left arm lay draped over her belly, idle fingers twitching as the young man vividly dreamed within her arms. She never quite got over how innocent he looked whilst unconscious—pretty little eyelids flickering as the gorgeous blue orbs beneath presumably rolled. He was a spazzy little fucker, lanky legs sporadically jerking in random intervals. Most of the time, Winona had to stifle a giggle, in fear that she'd wake him from his sleep.

"You are my sun," Winona whispered, daintily brushing a stray curl from his sealed eyes. He stirred slightly, pointed nose burying into the curve of her arm as Michael dramatically exhaled, but did not waken.

"My moon," she added, tightening her hold on his lax frame.

"And all of my stars."

A sudden crash from downstairs broke Winona from her pleasant trance, eyes warily widening as she glanced in the direction of the open doorway. Michael violently flinched, but did not wake—flexing arm tightening its hold on her torso.

Mere moments later, consciousness consumed the boy. Sleepy fingers wiggled, greeted by nothing but the cold, stale air as Michael's eyelids flung open, revealing a stark-empty spot beside him.

With a guttural gasp, Michael sat upwards in the bed, the creaky box spring squeaking beneath his sudden shift in weight. The sheets were wrinkled and wrung around his right ankle, terrified tears prickling within his glistening eyes as he uttered a defeated: "Winnie?"

Michael nearly tripped over his own two feet as he scurried from the room, scaling the stairs nearly three at a time. Thick, blinding tears clouded his vision, bold streaks of shy, blue moonlight creeping through the windows, supplying him minimal light. He sounded like a broken record, Winona's name frantically slipping off of his quivering lips every second-and-a-half.

Once the warm soles of his feet met the freezing wooden floor, a palm clamped over his mouth—silencing the desperate pleas that emerged. Instinctively, his nails clawed at the shockingly slick hand, tearing it away with ease as Winona let out a disgruntled whine.

"Fuck, Michael," she hissed, smoothing the pads of her fingers along the aching flesh. "Are you trying to rip my hand off?"

Michael twisted on his heel, a relieved sigh spilling across her features as the weeping boy tugged her into a bear hug. His chin met her bony shoulder, deeply digging into the surface as he fisted her t-shirt between his hands.

"I th-thought you'd abandoned m-me." He sobbed, holding her close.

Winona flatly frowned, tearing out of his obscenely tight grip so that she could look into his eyes. They were cloudy and dull, an overwhelming essence of despair cloaking his complexion as her palm met his damp cheek.

"I've told you, sweetheart," she weakly began, a bit annoyed at the fact that he'd panicked that easily. "I'm not going to just disappear on you. Not without probable cause, at least. Now, I need you to keep quiet—there's an intruder in the study."

Michael nodded, eyes narrowing as he hurriedly brushed away the streaks of salty tears that had spilled down the apples of his cheeks. Disheveled and miffed that the pesky intrusion of an outsider was the reason for Winona's troubling disappearance, he thought that it was only rightful that whoever had the audacity to do such a thing was taught a lesson that they would never forget. Michael was growing into his emotions in an incredibly alarming manner—his anger and tantrumatic behavior regularly outweighed his ability to come to a fair and sensible conclusion.

Winona lightly rested her forefinger over her lips in a silent "shh" before gesturing for Michael to follow behind her as they made their way closer to the racket that was currently originating from the study. Michael's footsteps were boisterous behind her, his every movement seeming to cause the floor underneath to creak obnoxiously under his weight. As the duo inched closer to the ajar doorway, Winona cautiously turned to Michael, lacing her hands through his as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"I am going to disappear for a moment, so I can go in and maybe run them off before something terrible happens."

Michael opened his mouth in order to protest, the thought of Winona simply vanishing into thin air causing him great distress. With a soft request for Michael to wait in his bedroom and a feather like brush of a kiss on his lips, Winona Wexler disappeared right before the boy's disbelieving eyes. She hadn't even made sure it was okay before she had done so, which further inched Michael over the fine line of disparaging irritation.

Michael's fingers tangled angrily in his locks of honey hair as he let out a displeased whine. Winona—the girl who had basically offered herself to him on a silver platter—had just treated him as if he were nothing more than a child, banishing him into the confines of his bedroom like he was merely overdue for a nap.

"Winona, come back," Michael groaned to himself as he slumped backward into the wall just outside of the study. However, the invisible girl could not hear him, for she was currently watching a sensual show between two young lovers who were blissfully unaware that they had an audience.

Winona sent a book tumbling off of the shelf, and even caused a pen to shoot into the wall as if it were a sharp dart in an attempt to send the two entangled young ladies on their way, but to no avail. The couple continued to kiss, the girl with the silky blonde hair caressing her girlfriend's long raven strands as they moaned into each other's mouths.

Just when Winona was about to make her presence fully known, the leggy blonde turned on her heel, abruptly detaching her lips from her starved lover's as she eerily peered into the blank space in which Winona's spirit resided. It was her eyes that the ghost girl noticed first—forest green like a sparkling sea of sapphires so bold in their captivity that one could get lost for hours in their endless depths. There was something heart achingly familiar about the golden haired beauty—something in the soft curve of her lips and her sharply defined cheekbones. The answer hit Winona like a ton of bricks when her gaze fell onto the tattered and dated patch that rested on the breast of the loosely fitting leather jacket that hung over the girl's stick like frame.

Tennant was etched in thick black letters over the ragged and stained white of the patch, something that almost looked like blood sticking out like a sore thumb in the top left corner. The last time Winona had seen that jacket was when its owner had been splattered like roadkill over the pavement with his baby's ultrasound picture hanging out of the breast pocket.

She was the baby. Jack's baby.

"Gemma, can we just get out of here, now? Didn't you say your dad's old girlfriend died here?"

"Yeah–" Jack's daughter clipped as she looked around the room. She had that curious look on her face that her dad had always displayed right before he landed himself in a mess of trouble. "Hush, Irene. I think I heard something."

Irene dramatically huffed, puffing her plump lips outward in a sigh as she brushed her black hair away from her olive toned skin. Fear was etched plainly into the lines of the girl's concerned face, and Winona dared to guess that—like her father—little miss Gemma had coerced her needy girlfriend into breaking in to the Murder House with the undeniable charm that ran deep within the Tennant bloodline.

Gemma Tennant braced her hands over her bony hips as she tilted her face upward in defiance of the urge to flee that was rising up in her chest like bile. "Take off your pants."

Winona inwardly groaned, trying to think of a harmless way to scare the couple off before something awful happened to them, and she knew that Michael had to be getting antsy at this point. The boy drank in her affection as if it was mother's milk—like he would practically starve without it—or do something reckless.

Just when the Indian looking girl had her skin tight jeans halfway down the expanse of her bulbous ass, exposing the bright pink material of her lacy thong, the door to the study suddenly flew wide open, the handle to the door banging into the wall in a way that would clearly leave an indentation in the molding. In the open entry stood an infuriated Michael Langdon—sinister shadows from within contorting his face in a way that frightened even Winona. From under the thick hood of his dark lashes, his eyes burned as if his uncontrollable anger was rising straight from the seventh circle of hell.

In this house, darkness was never far away. It was always there—waiting to wrap its nightmarish tentacles around even the purest of souls—like a demonic poltergeist, its inescapable wickedness clawed the sacred sunshine within before you even realized it had crept inside—until there was nothing left but a gaping black hole of doom.

Alarming sirens went off in Winona's brain when her eyes fell on the sharp glint of the menacing butcher knife that rested in Michael's cobra-like​ clutch. Before the two girls had time to see, Winona bolted into Michael without a second thought, practically tackling him as she ushered his rigid frame from the doorway and into a drafty, neighboring room. It was evident that the boy was more than miffed with her heroic act—his atrociously venomous facial expression plainly giving him away as the two tumbled messily onto the cold floor.

Without warning, white hot pain seared through Winona's eternally fruitless stomach, causing her to cry out in blinding agony as her eyes frantically met Michael's. Still straddling her panting lover as if they had just been engaging in a steamy make out session, it was a feeling of heartbroken disbelief that coursed through Winona when she realized that Michael Langdon had plunged the blade of the kitchen knife directly into the center of her gut.

His breathing was labored, thinning dramatically as he struggled to make sense of what he had done. A series of pleading "no's" tumbled hushed and frightened from his lips as a torrent of scarlet red blood gushed from the wound that he had inflicted. Winona's fingers were covered in the sticky substance, widened eyes glued to where the blade was lodged inside of her as her trembling hands struggled to remove it.

"What have you done?" Winona cried as a series of coughs rocked her body, her own blood rising up from her throat and seeping down her lips and onto Michael's shirt. He openly cried at the sight of it upon his chest, oozing through the thin fabric as it coated his slick, heaving flesh.

At the sudden sound of the racket, the loving duo within the adjacent room immediately halted their actions; Gemma's roaming lips freezing over the goosebump-riddled flesh of Irene's inner thigh.

"What the fuck?" Irene hissed, craning her neck to view the open doorway nearby, where a hunched Winona straddled Michael's hips, profusely bleeding all over his wiggling frame.

The two women instantaneously jumped up from their positions, mortified shrieks slipping off of their lips as Irene struggled to yank her skinny jeans back up the slope of her sweaty skin. Gemma was uttering a chorus of commands, fingers latching around Irene's bony wrist in a feeble attempt to drag her from the room.

Winona and Michael hardly noticed their departure, as the two were too busy gawking over Winona's gaudy gash, right above the indent of her bellybutton. The soiled knife had been discarded off to the side, hovering Michael's hip like a forgotten entity. Like a forgotten Winona.

"Winnie," Michael whined, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. His shaking palms met her stomach, clumpy chunks of blood easing into his palm. "Oh, Winnie! Oh my God, I'm so sorry–"

Begrudgingly, Winona's weak glare met his red-rimmed orbs, thick, salty tears coating the balls of his cheeks. Michael obscenely sobbed beneath her, shaking his head in pure disbelief as a series of half-spoken apologies blessed her ears.

"Michael," she wheezed, easing off of his lap, cupped palms still cradling the wound. "I-I have to go–"

"But–"

Blinking hastily, Michael whipped his head around, frantically searching for his Winona, hands violently shaking as they met the cool, wood floor. Smears of scarlet stained the surface, audible pleas stumbling off of his swollen lips as the liquid form of Winona's once existent life stained his clothing, the sharp knife abandoned beside him.

Pitiful wails filled the otherwise silent house as Michael unsteadily stood, shaking hands patting over his heavily bloodstained clothing. It was nearly as if someone else had sunk that knife into Winona's milky white skin.

Michael steadied himself enough to make his way back into his room in order to search for Winona, and nearly threw his sorrowful self on the bed in a fit of despair when he found the room to be empty. That is, until he heard the steady hum of the running shower. Steam billowed from underneath the closed bathroom door as if the water was as scalding hot as it could possibly get.

Quizzically, he raised a bushy brow. He'd never seen or heard of Winona showering. Somehow, she always smelled so abundantly sweet—like a mixture of strawberries and mint toothpaste, even though she didn't own a toothbrush. Did ghosts even have to bathe?

Without an inkling of apprehension, Michael strode toward the bathroom door and twisted the handle in order to sling the barrier wide open. Hot steam hit him full force, the cloud of perspiration obscuring his vision momentarily as he vaguely heard the metallic sound of the shower curtain being pulled aside.

Winona's wary expression met his, sleek, black locks plastered to the curve of her cheeks. Michael openly gawked at the sight of her drenched upper half, mostly concealed by the rusted red curtain.

His voice suddenly emerged, low and weak, mimicking the tone of a troubled child. "Winnie, I–"

"You can come in." She said, words nearly blending together as she spat them out in a rushed statement.

Michael stifled a gasp, pulse achingly accelerating within his chest. Slowly, he inched forward, bare feet nearly slipping on the sweaty tile as Winona disappeared beyond the curtain once more. Although her lungs neglected to intake air, she found herself nearly gasping for oxygen at the thought of Michael easing into the shower along with her.

Messily, the fully clothed bloke literally tumbled into the shower, wild eyes widening at the sheer sight of Winona's rounded ass. Her back was turned, long locks plastered to the pale flesh of her smooth, silky back. The stunning white tile was splattered with watered-down blood. The crimson color coated her arms, which avoided the scalding water like the plague as the water soaked through the frayed ankles of Michael's khaki pants.

Winona's stare eventually met his lanky limbs, an amused chuckle vibrating its way through her nose as she drank up his figure. He was so lean—so tall and stunning and just utterly gorgeous.

"Michael," she giggled, brushing a pestering strand of hair from her eyes. "You wear clothes in the shower?"

Michael blinked, his considerably widened eyes taking in the sensual sight of Winona's bare, perky breasts as droplets of water continuously fell down her body. He was mesmerized by the delicate pink color of her hardened nipples, his tongue positively yearning to lap and suck at the rosy flesh—truly transfixed by the profound, bountiful curves of her child bearing hips and the curious discovery of her little, outie belly button.

He had never in his life wanted to touch something, (or, rather, someone), more than he did in that very moment. And yet, he stood still as if he were some sort of lustful statue as his clothes only continued to get further soaked.

"N-no," Michael managed to croak, gulping as his mouth watered at the smooth, bare sight of Winona's exposed womanhood.

He had noticed that the horrendous wound of his own affliction had mysteriously disappeared, but that relieving discovery took the back burner as his eyes fully drank in the sight of a fully naked woman for the very first time.

Without waiting for more of a response, Winona began to assist a flustered Michael in the removal of his desecrated shirt, tossing the ruined material to the shower floor as her blood painted the porcelain as red as a sailor's delightful night sky.

His trembling digits met the surface of her stomach, just barely grazing the stained spot where a gaping wound once laid. Now, all that remained was a soft, supple glow—a light pink hue—a melancholy memory.

Michael remained in his drenched pants, chest inordinately heaving as Winona lightly ran the pads of her fingers along his smooth skin. Flushed and flawless, not a lick of hair present, almost as if he were a freshly born baby. The thought alone was slightly amusing, until Winona remembered that the man had—quite literally—physically aged a decade overnight. Day by day, he seemed to grow—to mature. Although he was born only three years prior, he had the mentality of a boy in the latter years of his teenage time. As if he were actually her age.

Everlastingly seventeen.

"Help me get this blood off, will you?" Winona whispered, gesturing towards the clumped clots along her arms and partially down her legs. Sweetly, Michael's glare remained transfixed on her pasty complexion, versus her entirely nude form. It was as if he were afraid to even look, although he'd gotten a short peek only moments prior.

Michael heartily blushed, nodding curtly before reaching out to meet her conflictingly cold arm. Although the water was exceedingly hot and nearly resembled that of an open flame, her skin remained unaltered, not a lick of warmth residing within her body.

Vigorously, he rubbed at the area, ridding her skin of the nearly black blood as it washed down the drain. The entire scenario seemed to be moving in slow motion, their stares clumsily colliding every several seconds as Michael assisted Winona in ridding her flesh of the blood—of the evidence.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Winona." Michael barely breathed, towering over her simply small frame. She smiled, softly and reservedly, fingers encircling his wrists.

"You're not yet aware of your strength, Michael." She assured him, standing on her tippy-toes to press a kiss to his curled chin. "But, it doesn't necessarily make it all right."

Michael's face fell, jaw tightening as he shrugged out of Winona's hold.

"What do you mean?" He queried, brows knit together in bewilderment. She only sighed, attempting to grab his wrists again, but he only backed further away—hooded gaze masked with sliver of hurt.

"Michael, you stabbed me." Winona pressed, jaw clenched and arms crossed. She was suddenly very aware of their predicament, and the fact that she laid completely exposed before him whereas he still wore a pair of slacks was suddenly somewhat awkward. "With a really sharp knife that you intended to use on those women!"

"Winnie," Michael blubbered, choking back routine tears. "I-I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't want to hurt them–"

"That was Jack's daughter Michael! You were going to hurt—o-or kill—my Jack's daughter!" Winona weeped, smacking her rounded fist against the faucet. The steady strand of water immediately ceased, enveloping the tiny space in an undeviating profusion of thick, claustrophobic steam.

Michael quickly shook his head—the same exact way he always did when he was panicked—glassy orbs studying Winona's rigid physique as he reached out to hold her. However, this time, she pulled away, an enigmatic expression strung across her flushed features.

"I just–" she began, pausing briefly as she held herself tightly, as if she were giving herself a hug. "I need to be alone for right now, Michael. Not forever. Just for now."

"But Winnie–"

"Jesus Christ, Michael! It's not forever!" Winona exclaimed, climbing out of the shower as she eyed her soiled clothing, discarded atop the closed toilet seat.

With a sigh, she dried herself off and shuffled into the bloody outfit, Michael's sporadic sobs filling the otherwise stale void. Although her heart physically ached and she wanted nothing more than to just wrap her arms around the weeping boy, he needed to understand that what had happened was wrong. Granted, she was dead, and nothing he could do would ever be worse than the bullshit routine she'd lived for nearly thirty years already, (and will for an entire eternity).

"H-How will I sleep without y-you, Winnie?" Michael cried, but she only frowned, brushing her soaked hair from her eyes before abandoning the distressed man in the idle shower, the bathroom door clipping closed on her heel.

In the little old bedroom that held very recent memories of blooming love stood the physical embodiment of southern royalty—dressed to the nines in all her iconic splendor with a burning cigarette lodged loosely between her painted bows for lips. The woman quite literally clutched her pearls at the sudden sight of Winona, her eyes lighting up in recognition as she took in the haggard, emotionally drained image of the girl with the horrifically bloodied garments.

It wouldn't have been a surprise to find that Constance Langdon had watched as Michael had stabbed Winona Wexler while casually having a smoke in the corner.

"What the actual fuck are you doing in here?" Winona hissed from between rows of bared teeth. The uncomfortable sensation of sopping wet hair on her back was only serving to make her more irritable, and she vehemently wished that she had thought to wrap the thin strands in a towel before her abrupt departure from the bathroom.

Constance let out a low chuckle almost to herself before she took a long drag on her cigarette. She was the type of woman who was going to say what she wanted to say regardless of the emotional impact on the listener. Her truth simply had to be spoken, otherwise it would boil up in her soul like an insufferable black plague.

"What am I doing here?" Constance sarcastically mocked in her lilting, singsong voice. Her semblance of a smile sparkled more brightly than the gleaming set of pearls that hung proudly around her neck as she contemplated the words that were about to spill from her mouth.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" Constance cynically inquired, clearly referencing her grandson. "When he was a baby, I almost thought he was an actual angel—God's little darling, sent down from the Heavens to be raised by me."

"Does this conversation have a point?" Winona snipped, defiantly crossing her arms across her chest. Constance merely laughed—a sarcastic snicker—steadily burning cigarette pinched between two fingers.

"He's got a way with words, don't he?" Constance dryly teased, steadying her weight against the frame of the door. Winona warily glanced over her shoulder, when the bathroom door suddenly opened: revealing a bug-eyed and red-faced Michael, pants soaked and suctioned to his legs.

As if she were nothing but air, the boy passed right through her, sniffling as he shuffled across the floor before collapsing on the nearby bed, the springs angrily squealing beneath his weight.

"Just look at him," Constance scoffed, voice muffled by her cigarette. "Throwing tantrums like a small child. Manipulative little–"

"Last I remember, when he was born, you literally ripped him out of my arms. You couldn't wait to bring him home with you. What changed, Constance? Other than your realization of your completely crap parenting skills?"

"Listen here, Winnie," Constance countered, slender index finger nearly colliding with the tip of Winona's nose. "That boy is nothing but bad news. Don't think I didn't see your little accident earlier with him and that knife."

Winona gulped, palms mindlessly cradling her once bleeding belly as Constance merely snickered, shoving the cigarette back between her lips.

"Get out while you still can. He'll only get worse. More powerful."

"Powerful?" Winona chirped, brows raised. "You're acting like he's some kind of–"

"Just remember this, Miss Winnie," Constance sarcastically interrupted, laying a palm on Winona's shoulder. Hastily, the younger ghost brushed her off. "This time it was your stomach, next time it'll be your throat."

With that, the elderly woman strut towards the door, followed closely by a stream of smoke.

"I'm not afraid," Winona exclaimed. "It's not like he can kill me a second time."

"Oh, darling," Constance cooed, hovering the door as she weakly grinned. "You have no idea what he's capable of."