Knew there was a ghost at the door. Knew there was a man at the door. Atticus was losing himself more and more often in words and a glass, but wasn't entirely out of it. Still, wasn't sure if the ghost would let the man in the door. They stayed hidden from PJ. They knew PJ would lie down in front of an oncoming train for him. That was all that mattered to them. Everything else was unimportant to the haunts. As long as he was alive, healthy, that was all that mattered. That he was isolated now was an unexpected windfall. They were enjoying it.
Atticus wasn't worried about the man at the door. Knew who it was. Knew all about Owen. Matt. Owen. Interchangeable names in the stories he'd been told. Knew, even before he'd met the other man via PJ, that Matt could take care of himself. Owen. Wasn't sure what to call him, but wasn't worried the haunts would harm him. Figured the haunts might even let the doctor in. Not a real doctor, but it was all the same to the haunts. The man at the door had brought the blood, had saved the battery. Suspected they would let him in.
Wondered if he was here to see PJ. Almost called out that she wasn't there.
Don't like her.] Might not want to say that too loudly. Never learned about slighting women? [There was almost a laugh that accompanied that, but it was trapped in Atticus' chest. It rumbled there, became a cough, and Atticus took a long swallow of amber to silence the growl.] Don't worry. Saved me. Likes you. Owes you. Lucky man. [The comment about not letting the fire die again, that did earn a laugh.] Can lie and say I won't. Need me to lie to you?
[Atticus regarded the man at the top of the stairs. Just watched as he was watched. Didn't put the book aside. Rested the open pages on hair-lined chest. Waited. Chuckled.] Smooth is popular these days. Don't much care. [Matt sat, asked about the book, and Atticus pushed his glasses up his nose and lifted the the novel. Read:]
“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
[Lowered the book again. Reached for the pack of crushed cigarettes on the bed beside him, ashtray overflowing, lighter cheap and blue.] Rather be called Matt or Owen?