[Antique store: Atticus and Louis]
Atticus was wandering.
Did that sometimes. Wandered between bars. Wandered the streets and sidewalks. Wandered for no reason other than the main area of town smelled like life instead of death. Was tired of the woods. Was tired of the container he called home. Was tired of a lot of things. So, Atticus drank. Drank, wandered, read books that were so dogeared and familiar that the words blurring didn't matter.
Tonight, had been reading the The Fall of the House of Usher, an old favorite. Wasn't always fond of Poe, but his current mood definitely aligned with the macabre old addict. Reminded him of a story a colleague had told him once, and that led him to the antique store.
Hadn't seen Louis in ages. Hyperbole, but close enough. Tonight, he just walked through the door. Didn't see the sign indicating the store was closed. Barely heard the jingling of the bell. Was sloshed, tired, mussed and wrinkled. Held a beer bottle in his hand. Glass, not aluminum. Or was it tin? Figured an old friend wouldn't mind if he carried something in to quench his thirst.
As per usual, Atticus didn't sway or trip. Wasn't that drunk. Was just drunk enough to dull the edges, but that was all. The large group of haunts that followed him remained outside for the time being, clustered like moths to a light and faces against the glass. They were dark entities with splotches of death in vibrant red, and they were only visible to him. He ignored them and their perpetual lamentations, and he approached Louis at the counter. Good thing about being drunk: The dead found it harder to become rotting fleshly things he had to torch.