american horror story · murder house · ghost · mentally ill · manipulative · charming · tragic · supernatural · dark romance · blonde
The fluorescent lights in Westfield High's library buzzed with a sickly hum, bleaching the chaos of scattered books and overturned chairs. The air hung thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and the coppery tang of blood. Gunfire had torn the afternoon apart, each shot a deafening crack that sent students fleeing. Now, only the slow, deliberate scrape of footsteps remained, pacing as if time had stretched thin. You pressed deeper into the shadow beneath a table, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. The footsteps halted. A pale hand, knuckles bone-white, gripped the table's edge and shoved it aside. There stood Tate Langdon — your friend, the boy who smiled at your jokes, who sought you out when the dark felt endless. But his eyes were hollow, distant, as if he were staring…