Instead of furniture, the space is dominated by stacks and piles of forgotten things. A small mountain of broken record players sits precariously in one corner, their platters cracked, their needles snapped, some even missing their power cords entirely. Nearby, a bin overflows with a chaotic tangle of umbrellas colourful, drab, torn, and bent, a silent testament to countless forgotten rainy days.

Against a peeling wallpapered wall, a row of shelves sags under the weight of more peculiar finds. Amidst old magazines and chipped ceramic figures, you might spot odd glass vials containing dried, unidentifiable residues, or small, unmarked packets tucked away behind a stack of faded photographs. The whole space feels less like a thrift shop and more like a forgotten hideaway, a silent repository of discarded objects and veiled secrets.

It is about 60F(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Carnation and Sycamore

(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)

Horace stands in the Ola Thrift Store, polishing his weapons before sliding them away in the concealed portion of his leather jacket. He is otherwise alone and unobtrusive at the moment, just doing his thing.

In the early afternoon in Haven Horace finds himself in Olaf’s Thrift shop. The place isn’t very busy today. The last patron that was looking at old jeans decided not to buy and left a moment ago. Just because no one is around and Horace is in a public place doesn’t mean that there isn’t the possibility for something odd or interesting to happen. From the dressing room nearby the man would hear a scratching noise like a cat or small animal was inside trying to get out.

Horace looks around when he hears the scratching, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He doesn’t say anything though, scanning the room to see if there is a worker or another customer who will investigate. His quick search shows that the last customer left, and so he approaches the dressing room door quietly, still listening. Maybe it is a trapped customer? Maybe its someone he doesn’t want to intrude on. Who knows?

The scratching persist, it’s low on the door which seems to reinforce the idea there is a small animal of some kind who’s claws are scratching on the door just on the other side. Then after some intense listening Horace would hear the unmistakable meow of a cat on the other side.

Horace relaxes some and opens the door carefully. How bad can a cat be, after all?

Just a glimpse of a black furball as a black cat bolts out of the ajar fitting room, it takes off, disappearing through some clothing racks. Within the fitting room it is oddly barren, no one left behind any clothes or even empty cloth hangers. The full body mirror that hangs within is where Horace might catch a look at himself, but for some reason, he looks off at first glance. Something is just not right like the mirror is warped or distorting him

The cat is ignored for the time being as Horace catches his reflection in the mirror. He stares at it for a moment, trying to pin down what is wrong about it, the distortion unsettling him. After a few seconds of quiet contemplation he turns away to find the cat and attempt to apprehend the rascal.

Did Horace get fat? Is his hair getting too grey? His clothes don’t seem to fit right in the mirror image he sees. By the time Horace turns away he’s left with the sense he’s having the mother of bad-hair days. It doesn’t take long for the man to see the cat perched on a shelf, it stares at someone with intelligent black eyes while its long tail swishes back and forth. The cat stays where it is as though to watch the impending show when a near clothing rack tips over in Horace’s direction to likely hit him, but at least its not that heavy if it does. It’s more or less a nuisance.

Did Horace get fat? Is his hair getting too grey? His clothes don’t seem to fit right in the mirror image he sees. By the time Horace turns away he’s left with the sense he’s having the mother of bad-hair days. It doesn’t take long for the man to see the cat perched on a shelf, it stares at Horace with intelligent black eyes while its long tail swishes back and forth. The cat stays where it is as though to watch the impending show when a near clothing rack tips over in Horace’s direction to likely hit him, but at least its not that heavy if it does. It’s more or less a nuisance.

Horace dodges out of the way, or attempts to, and curses when he gets hit by the rack. “Stupid thing,” he mutters before turning back to the cat and starts the ancient rite of cat summoning, “pspspspspsp.” He waits for a reaction before taking a step forward, but the thought of the bad hair day lingers, starting to gnaw at the back of his mind.

A shoe becomes ballistic straight for Horace’s head from ten feet away, no one is throwing it. No one is here to see it except for the catch who chills out on a shelf to watch Horace get messed with. Not more than a half second after the shoe comes at Horace, a rolling rack barrels over to the man’s position to strike him too. Nothing so far has come to cause harm, but whatever is throwing things at him is not visible and makes no noise. The cat summoning ritual does not even make the cat blink.

All that time playing video games, or time spent doing other things before coming to New Haven, apparently pays off and Horace is able to jump out of the way of the shoes and racks, but there is crease in his brow. “Ghosts,” he surmises to no one and tries to get closer to the cat, still attempting to get it to come to him, occasionally glancing to the exit.

It’s not hard for Horace to dodge the incoming debris, but it keeps coming and coming. The cat never moves except for the idle swish of its tail. An antique silverware box pops open near where the cat is perched and out of it rises silver forks, knives, spoons menacingly hovering in the air to threaten to become the next set of projectiles at Horace. When the man steps closer to the cat a fork launches points first at him, then a spoon whips for his forehead. The closer he tries to get, the more rapid fire the utensils come at him

The man takes a smack in the forehead from a spoon which just stings while the 4 points of a silver fork jam just deep enough into his shoulder to stick. The momentary distraction of being hit with the silverware results in the cat suddenly not being on the perch anymore when he looks again. Instead a quick glance finds the cat on the other side of the room, standing at the base of some used weight lifting equipment. Thats when it becomes painfully obvious who is orchestrating the assault on Horace. Two five pound barbells lift off the ground on either side of the cat, preparing to launch.

Horace tries to matrix bend himself out of the way of the flying flatware but gets smacked with the spoon and poked with the fork, his thick leather jacket taking the brunt of it but he does make a tactical withdraw back behind a jewelery counter and frowns. “Cat doesn’t want to be saved,” he mutters before squinting at the mirror. “Two options, figure out what is going on, or get out of here.” He turns back and sticks his head up over the counter to check out the cat, and assess his chances of getting out of the store unharmed. When the barbells come towards him, he makes a dive for the dressing room to get out of the way.

Five pound barbells sail over head like a warning shot and when they hit a wall they thud with some impact. Thats when a twenty five pound disk weight begins to rise, the next shot prepared for Horace as the cat stares at him with malicious intent in those black eyes. The cat is not quite between Horace and the exit but it is closer than him and to get out he’d have to get quite a bit closer to the animal to slip past.

Horace let’s out a soft sigh and hides behind the wall of the changing room before pulling out his pistol. “What do you want?” he yells out to the cat, glancing towards the mirror to try and catch a glimpse of the cat. “I was the one who let you out of the room.”

In the mirror reflection Horace finds the cat which doesn’t look all that different but its the figure behind the cat. Human but darkly shrouded that is lifting up the next weight to throw that Horace can see in the mirror and judge the location of the being that way, the cat merely seems to mark roughly where the invisible figure is at the time but its the mirror that lets Horace see it for himself.

Horace squints into the mirror at the dark figure and puts his pistol away. That isn’t going to do much but draw attention and maybe cause collateral damage. He quickly looks around looking for something that might help stall the onslaught, or deal with the creature.

Within the mirror lies the answer and Horace overlooked this on first glance, the man in the mirror that looks like him but older, fatter and more worn out isn’t matching Horace’s movements, he motions to Horace to try and get his attention then he tries to mimic hammering the glass with an invisible hammer in his hands. He seems almost desperate to get Horace to pay attention and even shouts silently at him.

Horace gives a tactical assessment of the situation and draws out his pistol again, firing three rounds into the mirror so that it breaks without him having to leave the relative safety of the wall.

BANG BANG BANG! The mirror shatters at the gunshots in the thrift store. The weight that was lifted to be thrown at Horace suddenly drops to the floor where it was as if dispelled. The cat stops watching like a silent observer and makes a scared hiss and bolts for the door to get the hell out of there. It leaves quickly out of the room and leaves Horace alone but somewhat confident he’s saved himself further trouble. Aside from the fact he just fired off three shots in a public store. He might want to run off before that becomes trouble of its own.

Horace does just that. Securing his weapon in his shoulder holster he comes to his feet and looks around, one giant mess, three new bullet holes, and likely police in route. With that he pulls his jacket closed and saunters out of the store and into the cold afternoon air. (OOC: Thanks for another encounter!)