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Hell wasn’t kind. You never quite understood why you were thrown into this place. Maybe it was fate. Perhaps it was just another consequence of a life half-lived, half-buried beneath layers of disconnection and chaos.
When you died, it was fast. A car accident, you vaguely recall. You didn’t have time to realise how little of your own life you had lived. The physical pain was gone in an instant. But the emotional pain, the numb emptiness, it lingered, even as you found yourself down here.
This place of punishment and twisted comfort was different from Earth. The game is different here. People like you, the broken, the lost, the ones who never quite fit in, they’re common. They’ve all got their wounds to nurse.
Today’s work? Another night at the “Fractured Canvas,” An underground art studio of sorts, deep in the heart of the city. It’s dark here. No neon lights. No crowd. Just a place where the shadows cast long and thick, and the only sounds are the sharp scratching of charcoal against a canvas.
You used to enjoy this, but now, you don’t paint for fun anymore. This is darker. The art you create here is dark and abstract, pulling at the twisted, ugly pieces of souls remaining down here. Souls who paid the price for their sins come to you and you’re the one who turns their suffering into something almost beautiful.
It’s a job that’s equal parts cursed and cathartic. You spend hours each day crafting these haunting, sorrowful portraits of people’s deepest, darkest regrets, fears and secrets. The customers, demons who come in for their own twisted versions of redemption, pay good money for it. They don’t just want an image of themselves. They want a reflection of their suffering, a window into their soul, and you’re the artist they rely on to create that.
Your hands are stained with ink and blood. The remnants of souls bound to you for this eternity. It feels weird to be creating art that’s so tied to the pain of others. But in Hell, what else is there? The other options are worse. Feeding off the despair, trying to sell yourself in a world that’ll never care.
And then there's the loneliness. This art is your outlet, but it’s also your prison. You can see others coming and going, living their afterlives, but you know you’re different. You’re stuck in this rut. A machine, making art out of the brokenness of the damned. When do you try to feel anything more than numbness? The weight of it all crashes down on you again.
Tonight, like any other night, you’re walking back from the studio, your clothes darkened by ash and dust, your head heavy with the weight of a dozen haunting portraits. You stop to light a cigarette, the glow of the ember casting a sickly orange light on the twisted streets of Hell. The city feels alive in a way that unsettles you. Constant noise, constant movement, as if everyone is trying to forget just how dead they really are.
You pass the usual crowd, the hustlers, the sinners, the ones who try to pretend they’ve made peace with their fate. They’ve all got stories, you suppose. Just like you.
As you continue down the path, you finally make a decision. You’re going to head to the Hazbin Hotel or at least get a closer look. You’d heard some whispers about it. Some “saviour” is trying to change the way things are down here. Change. That’s the last thing you need. But curiosity gnaws at you. Maybe you want to see what kind of foolish optimism could stand up in this wretched place. Maybe it’s the idea of a new setting, a new...experiment in surviving, which draws you in. And, maybe, it’s just the sheer oddity of it all.
After standing on the sidewalk for a while, staring at the Hotel, something draws you closer. It’s like the silhouette was…off. Its outline shimmered like wet paint drifting on canvas, fluid and ghostly, resisting solid form. Somehow, your feet walk you towards it without thinking.
You don’t expect much when you walk through the door, but as you step inside, you feel the weight of the place change. The air’s less heavy here. Foolish hope, you think to yourself.
Somebody rushes up to you. A young woman, maybe in her mid-20s. “Hiiiii! I am Charlie! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!” The radiant, annoyingly optimistic woman holds her hand out for a handshake. You stare at it for a while. She retracts it. Something about her feels familiar, like you have seen her before. “Do…do I know you from somewhere?”
She shifts uncomfortably for a second. “Well… I AM the princess of Hell…” She’s beaming, her smile too perfect for a place like this. It’s the sort of smile that makes you want to question your cynicism.
Caught off guard by the warmth and the genuine effort she puts into making you feel like you belong, you stand there, awkwardly. The weight of your past pulls at you, reminding you how much of yourself you’ve locked away. This place feels different from the streets. It's new, unfamiliar, and you can’t decide whether it’s comforting or suffocating.
Charlie, ever the eternal optimist, hands you a card. “We’d love for you to join us here at the Hazbin Hotel! It’s a place where you can heal... or at least get a fresh start.” You look at her, puzzled, a hint of suspicion in your eyes. You’re not sure what kind of game she’s playing, or what you’re supposed to feel here. You think of your art, your job in Hell. It’s messy, it’s bitter, and it’s a little too honest for its own good. But this? This place? It feels almost like it could be a different kind of prison.
You smile faintly, taking the card from Charlie’s hand. “I’ll think about it,” you say, your voice low and steady. “Maybe it’s worth seeing if you can really make a difference in a place like this.”
You took the offer. Of course you did. Living in the hotel meant free rent, and money is tight in hell. But it’s not as though anything is “better” here. It’s just… different. Maybe it’s the people who live here. They’ve got a purpose, even if it’s a bit far-fetched. But for you? You don’t know what you’re searching for. A fresh start? A reason to keep existing? You’re unsure.
When you’re not at work, you’re at the hotel. After a while, the days begin to blur together. You spend most of your time there wandering the hotel grounds, trying to get used to the strange feeling of being in a place that isn't made of despair. Sometimes you find yourself standing by the windows, watching the infernal city beyond. Even though it’s been a while since you got here, you’ve been feeling like an outsider in a world that’s both too bright and too loud for your taste.
Charlie finds you in the lobby one afternoon, her usual cheery demeanour lighting up the room. You brace yourself for another one of her hopeful speeches.
“Hey!” she says, her eyes bright and filled with that same infectious energy. “I was thinking... maybe you could help us out with something! You’ve got such a…unique talent with your art, and well, we could really use some of your special touch around here. Maybe you can decorate some of the rooms or create pieces for the guests to enjoy? I think it would be a great way for you to get to know the hotel and what we stand for!”
You hesitate, considering her words. Special touch? You’re not sure if you believe her. But there’s something in her eyes, something that makes you think twice. Maybe it's worth trying. After all, the art you create here is different. Maybe it’s worth exploring, seeing where it could go. You nod slowly, not ready to give her a full yes, but not rejecting it either. “I’ll think about it,” you say, your voice steady, almost distant.
The days pass, and soon you find yourself spending more time in the hotel's common areas. The garden, the lounge, the bar. You’re still not fully integrated, but you’ve started to understand the rhythms of the place and learned the names of the people here. And you’ve learned that if you want to avoid conversations that feel forced or too cheery, you can always slip into the shadows.
It’s on one of those days when you meet Vaggie in the hallway. Her eyes are sharp, maybe a bit wary. “Can I ask you something?” she says. Was her voice softer than usual? No… Right? “I know you’re not here for the rehabilitation part of things. But have you ever thought about why you’re here? I mean, I know it’s a bit of a strange place, but there’s gotta be something that brought you here. Something that keeps you around. I’m curious what it is.”
You glance at her, your expression unreadable. You’re not sure why you’ve stayed either. Maybe it’s Charlie’s optimism. Maybe it’s just the curiosity that gnaws at you, whispering to explore further. You don’t tell her that, though. Instead, you give her a small, almost bitter smile.
“Maybe I just needed a change of scenery,” you say, shrugging. “Hell can be repetitive. I figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”
Vaggie watches you for a moment, the silence hanging between you. Finally, she nods. “Fair enough.” She stands still for a few more seconds. “I don’t want you to cause trouble, okay? Not for us… and not for yourself either. I am keeping an eye on you.” You nod in acknowledgement before turning to leave.
A few days later, you’re back in the lobby, feeling more tired than usual, as if the weight of everything you’ve been through is dragging you down in ways you can’t quite escape. You’ve tried your best to avoid the more obvious hotel drama, but it’s hard when you’re living in a place like this. People, demons, and creatures are constantly coming and going, and you can’t escape their prying eyes for too long.
And that’s when you run into Alastor. Again.
You’d seen him a few times since you got here, mostly from afar. Always smiling, always in control, but there’s something... off. Something that makes you feel like you’re the prey in this strange dance. Today, you can’t quite escape him, though. His voice cuts through the air, sweet and unsettling all at once.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice silky smooth, but with that underlying menace that never quite disappears. “If it isn’t my favourite little artist. I must say, it’s a delightful surprise to see someone with such... taste around here.”
You don’t trust a word he says and feel your skin prickling. You don’t know what it is about him, but you’re starting to sense that he’s more than just charmingly creepy. He’s dangerous. Not just in a physical sense, but in a way that could destroy what little you have left of your sense of self.
“Uh… thank you,” you say quietly, the words almost escaping you before you can stop them but regretting this choice immediately. Alastor’s smile widens, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something else you can’t quite place. “What do you say we… paint the town a little darker, hm? There’s always room for someone like you in my plans.”
You stiffen. You know exactly what that look in his eyes means. It’s the same look the other demons give you. One that makes you feel like you’re just another plaything in this infernal game. “I’m… not interested in selling my soul,” you say flatly, meeting his eyes with a challenge. “I’ve got my own plans.” Did you? Really? You weren’t sure, to be honest.
His smile doesn’t flicker for a second, and you can almost hear him laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t press the matter. “We’ll see. Everyone’s got their own plans. Sometimes they just don’t survive the test of time.” He walks away, the unsettling hum of his presence lingering in the air. Your heart beats faster than usual, but you force yourself to keep your composure. You can’t let him get under your skin.
It starts with a dream.
Your bed becomes warped, the mattress curling around you like skin around bone. You’re standing in a white room, canvas in front of you, brush in hand. But there’s no paint, only blood, and you’re not sure where it’s coming from. The strokes come fast, frantic, like your hands remember something you don’t. A face appears: wide eyes, slack jaw, mouth open in a scream that never comes. Your own.
You wake up gasping, drenched in sweat. The walls hum faintly. Something is wrong. You dress quickly and step out into the hall, where the air feels thick, like it’s breathing just beneath your skin.
You’ve been painting more. Charlie’s commission was meant to be uplifting, but the hotel walls now host your personal nightmares: distorted angels with melting faces, children with blank stares and mouths full of teeth, bodies blooming like flowers from the inside out.
No one has asked you to stop yet. Alastor, in particular, seems amused.
One morning, you catch him standing in front of a painting you don’t even remember finishing. It’s a grotesque thing. A writhing sea of sinners gnashing and clawing at a singular figure in the centre: faceless, nameless, bleeding out colour into a pool of red. "Delightful," he says, tilting his head like a bird preparing to peck out your eyes. “Do you find it liberating to let the blood out like this?” You don’t answer. Something is wrong with you.
The hotel has a new guest: a small-time mobster, red eyes, slick suit, blood on his cuffs. He mocks the others, sneers at Charlie’s kindness, and spits on the idea of redemption. When he cornered you in the hallway, made some vulgar comment about your “soft-looking hands,” you didn't respond. But your hands did. The nearest sharp object was a palette knife in your pocket. Still caked in dried dark paint. The scream lasted less than a minute. When you stared at your bloody hands, they were shaking. Why did you do that? You have never killed anyone before. What’s wrong with you?
You told Charlie he slipped. She looked at you for a long time but didn’t argue. Alastor only smiled.
You begin getting flashes, fragments from a life that you barely remember. Not all of them are clear, but some things return with biting clarity: loneliness, spiralling dread, the endless cycle of needing people and then resenting them for needing you back. The way your art in life had become increasingly unsettling, abstract portraits of faceless companions and bleeding silhouettes.
The memory of your death is slow to come. But it begins to bloom, in colours, not words. Red. White. A single point of silence. A road, maybe. Or a bridge. You crash? Or somebody hits you? An accident.
Or maybe it was never an accident. Maybe it was a choice.
Charlie confronts you one evening, her voice pitched even higher than usual. “You’ve been... different,” she says. “I know Hell can twist people, but this place, this hotel, it’s meant to help. If something is going on, I want to help.” You laugh, tired. “Maybe I’m not meant to be helped.” She looks at you, sadly. “I think you are.” Something in you wants to tell her. Tell her that you’ve been feeling strange, as if something was going wrong with you.
That night, someone leaves a gift outside your door. It’s a slip of parchment. One word scrawled in ink the colour of dried blood: “Paint.” You stare at it for a long time. Then close the door. And start setting up your easel.
The night doesn’t let you sleep.
The silence in your room feels like it’s watching. You sit by the cracked window as the streetlight outside flickers like a dying pulse. A canvas rests on your shelf, smeared in paint. You didn’t mean to paint last night, but somehow you did. Your hands stained, the canvas soaked in red and grey. You don’t remember starting. But you remember a feeling: hollow and honest.
You head down to the lounge in the early light, where the buzz of hotel life tries to mask the weight hanging in the air. Angel teases Husk about something. Niffty scurries with too much energy. Sir Pentious argues with Vaggie. You scan the room until you spot Charlie sitting on a sofa.
You hesitate before approaching. Charlie looks up and smiles softly, tired but warm. “Hey,” you say. “Just wanted to say… I think taking down the paintings was fair. But I was wondering… could I have them back? I’ll hang them in my room.” Charlie smiles a bit brighter now. “That’s okay with me. Vaggie just thought they were too intense for the common room.”
“I get it. I’ll make new ones, something brighter. You can hang those out here if you want.” Charlie nods, visibly relieved. “I’d like that.”
You collect and hang the paintings in your room. The walls seem to breathe easier with them here, like the room recognises them. You sit on the floor with a blank canvas and start mixing softer colours. You want to paint something warm.
No knock. No footsteps. Just a faint burst of static and the scent of burning ozone, and he’s there, leaning against your doorway like a shadow given a voice.
“My, my,” he drawls. “New hues. Warmer tones. A change of heart… or just redecorating?”
You glance over your shoulder. “Not everything has to be teeth and blood.” He chuckles. “Of course not. But it’s much more entertaining when it is.”
You don’t respond. The quiet isn’t awkward, it’s charged, like a held breath between predators. He lingers a moment longer, eyes flicking over the canvas. “You’re always an interesting watch. Do carry on.”
And just like that, he’s gone again, leaving behind the faint hum of something ancient and amused.
That Night, you paint until your hands ache. Then you dream. Colours swirl. Crimson, black. Dark hues and screams. You wake with your cheek pressed to the floor, your canvas blank. Wait didn’t you paint this one yesterday?
You reach for your brush. This time, you wouldn’t forget. Probably.
Later, you stroll through the halls. You feel like something is off. Then it starts with a voice. Not yours. Not a voice in the hotel. It’s low and unfamiliar, muffled like it’s coming from behind a wall or under the floorboards. The wooden floor creaks under your bare feet. As you step into an unoccupied room, everything is quiet, too quiet. No Niffty cleaning, no Husk grumbling, no Angel yelling from across the hall. Just the sound of something whispering beneath the boards.
When you go downstairs, the lobby is dark. The lights flicker with that too-slow rhythm that makes your skin crawl. You walk past the desk, past the armchairs, toward the elevator. The whispering is louder near the walls.
There’s a sound behind you. When you turn, it’s not anyone you know. It’s a figure, faceless, with dripping red paint instead of skin, dragging a long black brush across the wall. It smears a crooked doorframe on the wallpaper and then vanishes into it, like a bad memory dissolving into static.
You blink. The wall is clean. No paint. No figure.
You walk to the Lounge. Alastor is there...waiting? His smile razor wide. “Well, well,” he croons, turning an old radio dial. “Someone’s poking around the hotel.” You stiffen. “What the hell was that?” He stares at you blankly. “Pardon?” You don’t respond. He leans in. “Are you feeling alright, darling?” He laughs statically. Laughs at you? You burrow your head in your hands.
Later that night, you knock on Charlie’s door. She answers in pyjamas. Her perfect appearance was only disturbed by the obvious bed hair.
"Oh, hi! How can I help you?" She yawns. “Can I ask something weird?” “Sure.” “Do you ever...hear voices in the hotel?” Charlie hesitates. “Uhm...no? Are you okay?” You leave without another word, head buzzing.
You’re in your room. The paintings are all facing the wall now. Not because you're ashamed, but because you’re starting to think they're watching you back. You lie down, back to the door, clutching a paintbrush like a knife. The whispering returns, still unclear. You sleep anyway.
You wake to a smell. Iron. Rot. Oil paint. You wake to the thick stench leaking through the floorboards, like something dead was buried beneath the hotel, and now it wants out. The room feels heavy, like gravity’s doubled. Your breath fogs in the air even though it isn’t cold.
In the morning, you drag yourself to the kitchen where Husk is grumbling over black coffee. Angel is eating cereal directly out of the box, feet on the counter.
“By Lucifer,” Angel says, catching your face. “You look fucked up...like you slept in a crypt!” “I think I did,” you mutter.
When back in your room, you unpack your supplies, trying to focus. You wanna paint, it’s clawing at you. The canvas stays blank for longer than usual. When the brush finally moves, it’s without thought, just motion. Streaks of grey, charcoal, smears of red. The figure that appears looks like you, but not quite. No eyes. Mouth sewn shut.
Someone knocks. You jump. It’s Charlie. “Oh, uh, hey.” You wipe your hands on your pants. “You… okay?” Charlie walks in slowly, eyes on the painting. “Did you see this? Or is it just how you feel?” Your throat tightens. “Both.”
Charlie stands beside you, quiet for a while. “I didn’t know you were going through something like this.” “I don’t think I am,” you reply. “I think it’s going through me.”
At night, you hear the whisper again, louder. You follow them, past Angel’s room, past Husk’s. Past a hallway you’ve never seen before. The lights flicker off one by one behind you. The air is cold and syrup-thick. The hallway ends in a door. A wooden one, splintered, painted with red symbols that seem to move when you blink. The whisper’s just on the other side. You reach out for the handle.
“You okay?”
You spin around. Vaggie. She’s tense. Suspicious. “What are you doing wandering around at midnight?” You blink. “I…don’t know. I was following-” You glance back. The door is gone. The hallway just leads to the lounge. You shake your head. You had known this. You walked this hallway hundreds of times in the last months...
Back in your room, your fingers twitch. You sketch until your fingers bleed, literal cracks splitting your knuckles. The sketch is of the hallway. Of the door. Of the version of you that lives behind it. You tape it to the wall, next to the faceless self-portrait. Then you write under it in red:
“DONT OPEN!!!”
Rain lashes the windows like nails. Thunder groans low. The hotel is tranquil. No music, no Angel humming showtunes, no Husk clinking glasses.
You stand by the cracked, stained-glass doors, watching shadows twitch in the lightning. Your fingers itch to paint, but the canvas in your room won’t stop bleeding. Every image you make now leaks. Not metaphorically, but real, wet blood.
Later, you walk through hell’s alleyways, hood up, boots echoing. You’ve started delivering hand-drawn poster commissions to demons around Pentagram City to earn cash, art for sins. It keeps you out of the hotel for a while.
Today, a client wanted a painting of their worst memory. You delivered it. The demon cried. Then laughed. Then tried to kiss you. You declined. Now you carry yourself back home, head full of static.
Angel Dust catches you returning, shaking rain off your jacket.
"Hey, Starry Eyes," he says, leaning on the counter. “You know, you look like you’ve seen a ghost every day since you got here. Wanna talk about it?”
You shrug. "I think the ghost wants to talk to me..." Angel smirks, then continues drinking.
That night, you dream of the hallway again. The door. This time…it’s open. Inside is a mirror. You approach it. Your reflection is not you. It has no eyes, no voice, just a grin too wide for its face. It reaches through the glass.
You wake up screaming, a sound torn from somewhere primal. On your easel, a new painting: the mirror. And something half-crawling, half-falling out of it. On the wall, a message in paint that wasn’t there before:
“STOP DIGGING. IT’S ALREADY INSIDE.”
You don’t remember falling asleep on the sofa in the lounge, but when you wake up, your sketchbook lies open on your lap. Pages filled with frantic spirals, jagged teeth, things with too many eyes. None of it feels like your hand. You rip the sheets out one by one, crumpling and stuffing them between the pillows.
You hear soft hissing under the hum of the building, so faint you can’t tell if it’s in the walls or just in your skull. You press your palms to your ears. It doesn’t help.
When you walk past Husk at the bar, he eyes you over his mug. “You look like shit.” “Thanks,” you mutter, sliding onto a chair. He shrugs. “Not an insult. Just an observation.”
Charlie hovers nearby, watching, but doesn’t press you. Vaggie, though - her suspicion cuts sharper than usual. She watches you stir your coffee like you’re a puzzle that she couldn't quite solve yet.
You try to avoid the lounge after that. The walls breathe there, and you’ve caught yourself dreaming with your eyes open. Instead, you wander the hotel’s halls. They bend strangely, the angles sharp where they shouldn’t be, like the building’s folding itself inward. Sometimes you pass mirrors that you swear weren’t there before. They don’t reflect you correctly. One shows you smiling, too wide. Another blinks when you don’t. You hear his voice before you see him. Warm. Smooth. Static-laced.
Sometimes the wallpaper curls at the corners, peeling in strips that reveal nothing but darkness behind it. You reach out once, just to see, and your hand sinks too deep, as if the wall isn’t solid at all, but water.
When you yank your hand back, it’s dry.
“My, my…burning the midnight oil, are we?”
Alastor is leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, cane tapping idly against the floor, shadow stretching long across the floor. He looks amused, as always, but his eyes scan you too carefully, too knowingly.
"I...couldn’t sleep" "Ah! Sleeplessness, the artist’s curse." He grins, head cocked. "Tell me, what keeps you awake? The brush in your hand, or the shadows on the canvas?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because behind him, the wallpaper ripples, as though something beneath it is breathing. When you blink, it’s flat again.
He notices your stare and chuckles. "Seeing things, dear?" His tone is playful, but there’s a weight under it. Not mockery. Curiosity. “I don’t know anymore,” you whisper.
"Splendid,” he says softly, almost reverent. “Do keep me posted."
“Carry on, then. I’ll be listening.” He tips his hat and vanishes into the dark, leaving nothing but the echo of a radio tuning out.
You don’t wanna go back to your room that night. Instead, you find yourself wandering outside.
The air is heavy with pollution, but you step into it anyway. You tell yourself it’s just restlessness, cabin fever from the walls that won’t sit still, from the mirrors that blink. You need to breathe air that isn’t recycled through the Hotel’s lungs.
The streets of Pentagram City buzz like they always do. Distant shouting, the hum of neon, the echo of something screaming far off in the dark, but you can’t shake the feeling that the city is quieter than usual. The shadows seem thicker, crowding the alleys like spilled ink. Even the neon signs buzz too slow, like someone’s hand is dragging the seconds back.
You walk. One block. Then another. Your boots scrape against the cracked pavement, but the sound feels delayed, echoing a beat too late. A radio crackles from somewhere. High, thin laughter tangled in static, but when you turn, the storefront is empty.
Your hands itch. You look down. Black smears stain your fingertips. Paint, maybe. Blood, maybe. You don’t remember picking up a brush, but the grooves under your nails are full of it.
The windows around you change as you pass them. Some show your reflection. Others show something else. Versions of you, slouched and grinning, eyes hollow and teeth bared too sharp. One drags its fingernails across the glass in sync with your heartbeat.
You quicken your pace. The street tilts. Your stomach lurches. The buildings lean closer, like they’re listening. The hum in your skull grows louder, thick with static, pressing behind your eyes until your vision flickers.
You try to breathe. You can’t.
You stumble into an alleyway, legs shaking, pressing your back against the brick wall. The bricks are soft, damp, like rotten flesh. Something pulses behind them.
The static surges, your ears are ringing, bones vibrating, chest aching like something is trying to crawl out of it. You clutch at yourself, swearing you hear a voice threading through the noise, smooth and delighted, but you can’t make out the words.
The world tilts again. And then it’s gone. Darkness swallows you whole as you collapse against the wet ground, breath snagging once before you pass out in the alleyway, the static fading like a radio turned low...
You wake to velvet silence.
The floor beneath you is not damp stone or a trash-strewn alleyway. It is polished wood, faintly humming like a throat trying not to laugh. The air smells of ozone and something sweetly rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun.
You push yourself up slowly. Deep crimson walls, patterned in ornate vines that curl and unspool, slither when you are not looking directly at them.
The furniture is too pristine, carved oak and velvet, and every piece seems older than the city itself. A gramophone sits in the corner, needle scraping faint static that leaks into the walls.
Your chest tightens. You have never been here before, but you are sure you know where you are.
Then his voice reaches you, smooth, honeyed, thick with static.
“Ah! My artistic guest awakens.”
You turn.
Alastor now stands by the gramophone, twisting the dial with careful fingers. His smile is the same as always, wide, never faltering, but here, in this room, it feels different. Larger. Hungrier.
Your throat is dry. “Where am I?”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “In my quarters, of course! A rare privilege, I might add. Few ever cross this threshold. Fewer still leave.” His chuckle hums like broken glass in a blender. It does not sound like a threat. Not exactly.
You shiver slightly. This was bad. “Why am I here?”
“Oh, my dear,” he croons, tapping his cane once against the floor. “I could not very well leave you to rot in some miserable alley, could I? Consider this a hospitality.”
His gaze lingers on you too long, unblinking. You realise his cane is not tapping idly. It is keeping rhythm with your heartbeat. Every thud in your chest is echoed by the sharp click on the wood.
You wrap your arms around yourself. “Take me back to my room!”
“Ah, yes, your room,” he chuckles softly, like he is talking to himself. “Though tell me, is it truly yours anymore? The walls whispered your secrets to me, the mirrors wear your face better than you do. It is a curious thing, watching you unravel.”
You flinch when his shadow stretches across the floor, reaching your feet and grabbing you by your ankles, clawing their way up till its shrap toothed mouth reaches your ear.
You feel your hair rise on your arms and freeze. His smile widens. He notices.
“Marvellous,” he whispers, reverent. “Truly marvellous. But I hadn't anticipated you to wake up so soon, my dear.”
The shadow whispers in your ear. Static surges through your skull, drowning out everything.
"Ngh! Aahh..." you cry out.
You stagger, clutching your head, till the blackness swallows you once more.
The room is suffocating. You slowly turn your aching body and notice your ankle is chained to a wall. Your eyes widen and your breath quickens. Immediately, Alastor’s laughter creeps into your skull, soft at first, then booming, static-laced, omnipresent. He is sitting on his bed, fingers tapping on the wooden bedframe in a rhythm that matches your racing pulse.
“Ah… there you are,” he purrs, tilting his head like a predator examining its prey. “I wondered how long it would take before you were back on air.”
You freeze. Every instinct screams to run, but even if you weren't trapped, your legs feel frozen, heavy, useless. But you cannot even look away.
“You know, I have been watching you,” Alastor continues, voice soft, intimate, almost comforting if you could ignore the razor edge beneath it. “Every brush stroke, every sleepless night, every hallucination you thought yours? All observed. All measured.”
Your hands tremble. You clutch at your coat, your sketchbook, anything to ground yourself. “You… did this?” Your voice is barely a whisper. “It's been you the whole time?”
“Of course,” he says, getting up and stepping closer. His shadow stretches across the floor like black fingers, curling toward you. “You see, my dear, I do enjoy experiments. And you… You were fascinating. How far could you fall before you broke? How much could you bear before you lost control?”
You press yourself harder against the wall, mind spinning. Every memory, every hallucination, every whisper, every bleeding canvas, they were not accidents. They were tests. All by his design.
“You painted,” he says, voice smooth and terrible. “Yes. But it was I who guided the brush. It was I who whispered in the dark corners of your mind. I wanted to see the chaos I could summon, the limits of your little mind.”
Your ears ring. The static, the whispers, the shadows, they are all louder, closer. Alastor does not move. He does not need to. Just being there is enough.
“Do you understand now?” he asks softly, tilting his head, smiling wide, teeth glinting. “You were never alone. I was your audience. And oh, the performance has been delightful. Truly delightful.”
You want to scream, but your voice fails. You want to run, but your legs betray you. You want to fight, but your hands are trembling.
“I will continue to watch,” he whispers, leaning so close his breath is static on your ear. “And you will keep dancing on the edge of your own mind, will you not? Because, my dear, the more you struggle, the more interesting it becomes.”
Then he steps back, melting into the darkness like smoke, leaving only the echo of laughter and the press of his gaze on your back.
The air hangs heavy. The shadows pulse. And for the first time since arriving at the hotel, you realise you could be terrified of more than Hell itself.
Him.
TBC