☆ Alastor's POV, present tense

Staring down at my gloved hands, I realize how I'm feeling: absolutely bemused.

The thoughts in my mind are swirling like dust in a tornado, and I'm unable to grab onto a single one. They all just fly by, slickly escaping my grasp, only letting me consider them for a fleeting second before they disappear in the cavern of my memory once again.

I rake my fingers through my hair and over my ears, making them bend backwards slightly. I don't mind the feeling. It doesn't hurt.

I'm standing in the woods with the dead body of a freshly killed dear lying limp on the lush green grass beneath my feet. I killed it only seconds ago—it's my dinner.

(Y/N) is back at the house, doing Satan knows what. She was showering when I left, but it has been a while, so she might have gotten out already. Maybe she even fell asleep.

I hope she isn't scared or uncomfortable, being all alone in that big house of mine. I left her a note, telling her where I would be. I wish that I could be there with her now, kissing her and hearing her beautiful voice.

Gah, stop that! I tell myself, growling out loud. Stop thinking about her you obsessive creep.

After I heard her sing the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody, with her voice flowing along with the hum of my piano tunes perfectly, I absolutely knew that there was something special about her.

She doesn't belong in hell.

But it's not only that—her personality is absolutely captivating. Plus, she has talent. She's special, and I told her that I thought so, too.

I just don't understand. I've never felt this way about someone before; it's completely new to me. I don't know how to handle it.

I just sigh and sit cross legged on the ground. There is a plate and silverware set up neatly on a small table nearby, ready for me to dine. But first, I have to do the dirty work; I must skin the dear and cut out the perfect slab of meat for my meal. It won't take very long—I have perfected the technique of preparing venison—and I eat fast.

(Y/N) thinks it is odd that I'm a cannibal. That is the sole reason why I always have, and always will, dine alone in these woods of mine. People are repulsed by me.

I am fine with it, really. Plus, eating by myself is peaceful.

☆

☆ Second person POV, past tense

Your body was covered in nothing but a soft white towel, which you found folded in the guest bedroom closet before you had gotten in the shower.

You had seen other things in the closet, too. Among those items was a shotgun (you were too scared to touch it), a vintage black dress (it was actually quite magnificent, with the silk on the bottom hanging down in flowery tendrils), other, more plain and modern clothes, a mannequin (strange, yes—surprising, no) and a box, which you had not opened, despite your burning curiosity.

Privacy, you had reminded yourself, staring down at the lidded cardboard box. This is still Alastor's house, not yours.

You hadn't grabbed any of the clothes out of the closet, but you were planning on getting some to change into after your shower.

But now there was no need for that.

Frowning skeptically, you saw the neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the counter before you, right next to the bathroom sink. There was a small card-stock note stuck on top, folded into a little tent so that it stuck up and grabbed your attention.

You wondered how the clothes and the note had gotten there. If Alastor put them there, that meant that he must have entered the bathroom while you were showering. Without you noticing.

Strange.

You picked up the note, careful not to get it wet with your hands. The smooth, cursive words were written with a careful hand, and they read:

Dearest (Y/N),
I have gone out to the
woods for dinner. You
understand. I will be
back shortly.

With love, Alastor.

"With love?" you questioned out loud, rereading the note several times over. You understood what he meant—he told you earlier that he was a cannibal and only ate venison. He must have been craving something fresh.

Eww.

Once you finished digesting the words, you sighed and carelessly threw the note back on the counter.

You got dressed in the clothes that were provided for you: An olive green hoodie and plain black leggings... plus clean undergarments. Huh.

The green of the sweatshirt made your eyes pop out magnificently, and when you noticed how pretty they looked in the mirror, you couldn't stop staring at yourself for a good minute or two. But, eventually, you got bored and left the room to go explore. "Alastor?" you called, walking down the stairs with quiet footsteps. "Are you back yet?"

There was no response, so you walked into the living room. The imprints of previous company could still be seen. The chess table was still disorganized from your earlier game with Alastor, and the fire in the fireplace was still alive, but it had died down to a meek rustle. Despite that, everything was strangely quiet and still.

You glanced out of the window above the chess table—the sky was dark. It was getting late.

You had nothing to do. Alastor was out, you were not hungry nor tired, all of his books looked old and boring, and you still didn't have a phone. (That was something annoying about dying—your phone hadn't followed you to hell.)

Just then, you gasped with spontaneous cognizance.

For there was one thing you could do.

You could satisfy the aching curiosity that burned inside of your chest like a raging fire, whispering tantalizing thoughts inside of your head. It was calling to you—not literally, of course, but you felt like it was—inciting you to just take a peek, because he wouldn't know, he could not possibly know if you looked.

You were going to open the door.

You were only going to take a quick glance. Nothing too bad. He definitely wouldn't know if you did, especially if you kept it to yourself, which you planned on doing. If you didn't tell him, then he wouldn't know.

What happened to respecting his privacy? you asked yourself, but you quickly blew away the thought as if it never even came to you. Acting impulsively, you crept back upstairs and made your way to the door, tiptoeing, even though there was nobody in the house to hear your footsteps.

"Alastor?" you asked the house one last time, just to be safe. When there was no response, again, you knew that the coast was clear.

You turned right when you reached the top of the stairs and saw the door immediately. It was drenched in shadow, with only a little bit of fuzzy light from the ceiling lamp to illuminate it. The silver doorknob looked unnaturally bright against the dark wood as it glimmered in your field of view.

Right there. The door was right there.

Your hand found the knob and grasped it. The metal was cold and slick in your fingers. The air held its breath as you ever so gently turned the knob.

You pushed the door in.

It was an office.

Just a plain old office. It smelled musky and stifling, like the air did not want you to breathe it in. There was a window built into the furthest wall with gray curtains falling over it, but the fabric was too sheer to ever blockout any natural light. You resisted the urge to crack it open—even though you desperately wanted a breath of fresh air—for you were scared that if Alastor noticed a single thing out of place, he would know.

He would know that you had succumbed to the nasty, greedy, inquisitive part of you. He would know that you nosed around in his very own house, in the very room he specifically told you not to go in.

The floor was wooden, but there was a black, circular rug in the center for decoration. The walls were painted a dark brown color, similar to the floor, and there was a full bookshelf leaning against the right wall.

But what really caught your attention was the disheveled desk. Papers that were covered front to back in dark ink spilled over the edge of the table. There was also a crowded billboard hoisted on the wall directly above it.

You ambled over to the desk, your eyes wide as they observed some of the papers. Some contained bunches of scrawled writing, the letters rushed and written by someone who must have been distraught, others containing neater, cursive handwriting—you recognized it as Alastor's, for it was the same as the font on the note he left you—and some even containing symbols that, if you didn't know any better, would seem quite demonic.

You picked up one of the papers and held it with a gentle grasp as you read what was on it.

You stared at the paper, feeling the roughness of it in your fingertips.

'Tell Rosie about Jack. She will take care of him.'

'Meet with Charlie next week.'

'𐤋𐤄𐤕𐤇𐤄𐤓𐤂𐤏'

Who was Rosie, and who was Jack? What was there to tell Rosie about him? Meeting with Charlie, that seemed normal. She was the princess, and he was helping her with the hotel. But those symbols were definitely not normal. What language were they, if any language? What could they mean?

You stared at the paper for longer than you thought. The round red desk lamp on the table provided enough light for you to see well in the eerie office, but it cast shadows over each paper, making the ink appear even more vivid.

Placing the paper down, you turned towards the board.

It was covered in more notes similar to the one you had just read. Most of the sentences were in English, but others were written in that weird scripture that you couldn't understand.

As you were about to pluck a new paper from the board, one with a messy sketch of a person and a circle with a pentagram in the middle, you thought you heard a small sound behind you. It scared you, so you gasped and whirled around and—

"Cupcake?"

Alastor was standing no further than a foot away from you. There was a confused frown on his face, and his smile was small and... unnerved, almost. Like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His hands were not behind his back, but rather at his sides, his fingers sprawled open slightly.

You didn't know what to say, so you said nothing. Instead, you watched his eyes, looking at him with what you hoped was an apologetic expression.

He just looked at you for a long while—so long that you started to think he was paralyzed. When he spoke again, you almost jumped.

"I thought I told you not to go in here."

You began to stutter then, forcing yourself to say something, anything. "I-I'm sorry, I—"

"It's okay," Alastor said, still looking shaken. He reached over and took your arm with his hand—his grip was tighter than you expected. Almost like he needed to hold on to you or else he would collapse or something. "Just don't do it again, alright? Come on."

He led you out of the room, then let go of your arm so he could close the door.

"Alastor, I'm really sorry, I was just—"

"(Y/N). I told you, it's fine," he said with a flustered glare that told you it definitely was not fine. He sighed and straightened his bowtie, then brushed a bit of his hair back. "Just... goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

And with that, he walked back to his bedroom, leaving you standing alone in the hallway.

☆

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