Don't listen to screamers.
Diana never much considered spirits and ghosts her department, that was Sara's bag. Diana preferred things that were flesh and meat and bone. You could break bone of you had too, and most things with meat could be, at the very least, tricked or threatened into backing off if only to protect that meat.
Screamers don't have meat, or fear, or really awareness. They just seem to be able to reason, but it's just a stupid parlor trick.
It was a Tuesday, so in the mid evening Sara was at a soup kitchen in West Philly. The real one, not the TV version. That left Diana alone to answer the emergency call from a friend of a friend of a friend.
The gallery didn't have a name yet, as there was some debate as to what would serve the artists vision versus what would get them a metric ton of press. The short version was the place had been the home of a notable local sculptor who had killed himself after failing to see what he considered his master piece, a nude centurion wielding a sword while grabbing a fawn in what critics suggested was an assault. The artist had impaled himself on the statues weapon and drew his suicide note in his blood on the piece. He blamed a above all things, women.
Not five years later, some genius bought the building and the piece and against family wishes, planned to exhibit one in the other.
Haunted as fuck would be an understatement.
Diana listened as the owner explained the history of the place, looked it over, sighed, and went in.
She got about six feet into the building, the floor had been gutted to make one large gallery space, before she felt a cold wind and heard distant male weeping. She moved closer to a large shape under a white tarp in the center of the room. This, she assumed was the statue.
You'll never amount to anything.
Diana stopped just shy of peeking under the tarp when an errant thought passed through her mind.
What do you even create? Nothing.
"Huh." She said aloud to no one. "That you, Mr. Baptist?"
She heard nothing for a moment, finally pulling back enough of the tarp to see some of the statue.
You take and take and take. You create nothing, you only destroy. You're a killer. How many artists have you Slayed, misunderstanding them, or choosing violence over compassion? How many works of art have you robbed the world of because you killed when you could have...
The errant thoughts went on like that, wailing uncontrollably through her mind. Diana touched her nose, a trickle of blood slipped out, and she wondered how much of a running start she'd need to impale herself...
"Nope." She said out loud and headed for the door of the gallery. Outside, the owner worried actively and with gesticulations.
"Close the gallery and destroy the statue."
"What?! I'm paying you to get rid of the problem..."
"Yes. I'm telling you the only way to go is to destroy the statue. This whole thing is an alter to the dead guys violent narcissism. It lacks his cowardice, and so, it will push and push until its able to kill the women he blamed for his death."
"So it's a ghost? So what? Can't we get an exorcist?"
"It's not a ghost, there's no sentience behind it. Just a will to do something terrible lingering behind. A will without thought. Hiring an exorcist would be like trying to clean your carpet by repainting your walls. You have to dismantle the environment that is letting the intent thrive. You don't have to believe me. Ask around, it's called a screamer, anyone on the hunt will tell you the same. Good luck."
She walked, choice was his.
Three weeks later, the gallery owner was arrested trying to choke out his wife at the gallery while screaming "this is your fault!"
Within a month, the building mysteriously burned to the ground, destroying the statue within.
Diana had an alibi. But that's a different Rule of Hunting.