The noise of that bookshelf being quite literally torn off the wall reverberated within that small house, the sound alone bringing a soft simper to the were-King's features as he leaned against a nearby wall, entirely out of direct view of that living room and the path he was sure Frost would tread. It took several moments before he heard the soft thud of those footfalls against the floor above him, the sound alone immediately drawing his bright green eyes towards the ceiling in an anticipatory fashion. His head cocked to the side as those footsteps moved down the staircase, drawn like a moth to the flame to exactly where he so wanted that man to be. Tetradore hardly waited to hear the man's confusion at the so called haunting that had only just begun. Rather, those shadows clung to his form as his body vanished, instead reappearing but moments later in what he was assured would be the emptiness of Frost's bedroom. For a moment, the man simply stood there, taking in the minute details of the room before slowly stepping up to the doors of that closet. A small frown crossed his features as he reached for his back pocket, fishing out a blade. He ran that sharpened edge across the pads of those middle three fingers, hardly perturbed at all by the momentary sting of pain as he stared at the veritable canvas in front of him.

Tetradore particularly enjoyed subjecting his best friend to those array of horror movies that lined his shelves at home, they were perhaps his favorite under the action and racing ones the two so enjoyed. This, he was assured, was what they always did in those movies and yet, he was momentarily stumped on what to write on that wall. It was always something particularly mysterious and cryptic like...'please save me' or 'she's coming'. Or accusatory like 'I know what you did last summer', wasn't that a movie title? Not that it'd apply anyways since it'd only been two months since his so called death and that was hardly in the summer. He supposed he could always write Red Rum but...that would have been a bit obvious of the movie he was referencing and then all his efforts would be utterly useless. He shifted ever so slightly before his fingers reached out to smear his own blood on that pristine white door. It was a simple word he'd settled on, repeating it throughout the room and on the walls. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. It was everywhere. That blood dripped and trailed down the walls at various angles, that word simply repeating over and over. It was painted on the bathroom cabinets and the mirror, hidden behind that shower curtain. Tetradore had to reopen those wounds several times in order to combat his own quickly healing system, the result of which still splattered the man's carpet and left the were King feeling slightly light headed and yet, he was quite pleased with his work.

It was only once he was done that he bothered to actually walk on those floors, letting them creak under his weight as he dragged those drying fingers along the wall of the hallway. He knew well where Frost was, he could feel him down the stairs, he could hear his voice calling out to those women that made up his pack and yet, Tetradore knew as well as he did that they were not coming. It was with a glimpse of fearlessness that Tetradore found himself continuing down that hall towards the stairs, entirely unperturbed with the damage he knew Frost could do to his frame if he caught him. After all, in this game, he perhaps had the upper hand. Instead, Tetradore was wholly content to provide the illusion that there was someone, something, coming for him, intending to meet him head on and yet, that power of teleportation so took over his body entirely before he even got within Frost's view, that noise so abruptly ceasing entirely before he appeared in a different part of the house, hardly moving lest he was heard. With all the work he'd done, it would be a shame if his own movement caused Frost to not be given the opportunity to appreciate it.

Still, this continual use of his power and his own choice to drain his blood from his body had certainly had an effect upon him. This was exactly why Tetradore had spent the past two months or so in hiding - allowing his body to heal and strengthen back to that endurance he'd once had. Regardless, he was going to need something to eat if he wanted to keep this up. Perhaps, once he ensured that equine-were had made it upstairs, he would see to visiting that kitchen. After all, there was surely something worthwhile within those cabinets and, he was fairly certain he could create some sort of chaos within there. It was too bad, really, that he didn't possess Raven's telekinesis. The damage he could create with that would be....startling, he was sure. Still, all he needed was Frost just enough afraid that, perhaps, he might so be able to latch onto to manipulate the man how he wanted. Perhaps that alone was enough to so override the man's nearly unbreakable will. And if not? If not, Tetradore would merely have to get more creative, either way, Frost was in for a particularly long month.