Re: carriage house - michael and atticus
Atticus didn't bother feeling bad for Atticus. That kind of thing didn't do any good. Nothing came from pity. Hadn't changed Atticus' fate ever, feeling badly. When he was young and wanted to close his eyes tightly enough to make the rotting dead disappear, feeling sorry for himself had changed nothing. Wasn't feeling sorry for himself now. Wished things hadn't turned out how they had, but that wasn't a forefront thought. No point in that either, and he smiled when Michael asked about the boombox. "Still play 8-tracks in my car." He did. Was hard to find them. Was hard to find cassettes. But Atticus liked hunting them down. Call it a hobby.
Michael claimed the beer, and Atticus sat back against the couch cushions. Slouched with feet planted wide on the floor. Hadn't forgotten their conversation at all, but had always known Michael wasn't normal. Was actually better now, if Michael wasn't a ghost. Atticus didn't recommend becoming a ghost. Had yet to meet one happy haunt.
He watched as Michael picked up the journal, unaware of the other man's thoughts about the decor. Atticus hadn't touched anything here. Hadn't redecorated. Hadn't done anything to make the place his own. Seemed wrong somehow, given what he'd done to his parents' lives. But Atticus didn't know about Michael's thoughts, and he was more concerned with the silent specters in the upper level. Michael wasn't a concern. Michael wasn't a threat. Atticus was hoping the cold and bitter air that came with ire and poltergeist activity stayed away. For now, it felt warm. Normal. Nothing to worry about as Michael folded the journal closed.
"Should've seen my place in New York. Nothing like this." He shook his head. "Haven't read all of them yet. She kept individual journals per year. Have read all of the one you're holding. Started backwards. Seemed appropriate, since some residents mentioned are still living in the house. You should sleep." There was no segue to accompany the earnest statement. He took another swig of his beer, and he lit a Red and slid the pack over, in case Michael had taken up the habit.
The photographs, which were facedown on the coffee table and no longer hidden by the journal, those Atticus didn't touch yet. "Wife sounds like she was a piece of work."