Re: [Diner: Atticus & Hazel]
Wasn't entirely a lie, the thing about the sharpie. Was a new look. There was a reason for it, but wasn't something he was going to tell someone he'd just met at a diner. Was honest enough for the moment. "Room for improvement, sure. But didn't say I hated it and wanted it to die." Gave her a lazy smile. Had never been the type of young person who was dramatic, not to his own thinking. Knew Lear and Billy and Janus would all disagree. Supposed he was dramatic in his own way. Thought maybe everyone had the potential, or maybe everyone had the ability to interpret different things as being dramatic. Probably a combination.
Had never met another Atticus; she was onto something there. Wasn't a common name. "Hazel," he repeated in acknowledgement. Greeting too. Hello, Hazel.
Was taking another sip of his coffee when she commented on the haunt. Didn't really pay attention to them. Was trying not to, anyway. On the island, they'd stayed away. Hadn't been able to compete with the island's much stronger, homicidal ghosts. Had all littered the lakeshore, hoping for a chance to feast. Meant he hadn't needed to deal with them since March. Was out of practice, but they seldom came inside buildings. Only the really desperate ones risked it. Becoming corporeal in front of people was bad, and there was less chance of escape after. Usually only came to charge up outdoors, or in the privacy of his place. Wasn't expecting this one to be close.
Wasn't one of the three had been with him all his life. The woman, man, and child, they weren't inside. Were outside. Were always everywhere, and they were the murderous sort. The older woman, especially, was possessive. Usually kept the other haunts at bay, if she could. But, again, the haunt was inside. Stupid.
Was about to make an excuse for needing to go. Take the haunt with him. But then he felt the familiar tug and suck of energy. Was fast. Was always fast. Too fast to react. Became pale. Became cold. Shivered. Huddled. Pallid. Breathing went shallow. Sweat dotted his forehead. Inconvenient. Slumped.
The haunt, on the other hand, solidified. Materialized in the space. A man in his 20s, a sleeve of ink on one arm, an armband on the other. His vest was riddled with holes. There were bullet burns and rips in the skin that was visible through those holes. The man's hair was dark. He was angry. Haunts, Atticus had learned, became angry. Eventually. All of them. This one came that way from the offset. Gun in his pocket, even in death. The man turned to leave. Revenge. Atticus wasn't conscious now, but would've known the haunt was off to get revenge with his allotted time.