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forbidden-sunlight · 4 months

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yandere!Alastor with Violet Evergarden!reader scenario: A Wendigo's Violent Love Part Two

Warning: aged-up!reader [in early to late twenties], violence, OOC, spoilers for the first season of the 2024 show, possessive and obsessive behavior, Alastor is in denial of his feelings, possible angst.

There may be possible triggers in this story.

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Part One

Part Three

Salutations everyone, good to be back on the air~! :)

I understand it’s been a while since I wrote anything, but due to how busy I’ve gotten in real life, updates will be a bit slower until perhaps the summer. Nonetheless, I am committed to writing the best Hazbin Hotel fics for the community so that everyone can enjoy them to their heart’s content!

Special thanks to @witch-of-the-writing desk for collaborating with me on this chapter and helping me bring these fantastic characters to life on the page, and @vikkirosko for being an awesome beta reader alongside @illuminaresblog.

So with that being said, sit back, relax, and let's see what's going on in tonight's broadcast with Hell's one and only Radio Demon!

The reconstruction of the hotel included the kitchen being entirely remodeled.

Gone were the cabinet doors that hung from its creaky hinges, the marble floors that never shined bright no matter how many times Niffty scrubbed them, the mice’s squeaking and an ice box that couldn’t fit all of the foodstuff to feed several people. Dark matte cabinets held the dining ware and bowls, stacked up in neat little rows and protected by glass doors on either side of a large wrought iron stove top and the range hood. The cedar countertops glowed under the lights, stretching from the island in the middle of the room to the small dining room table stationed on the right side. Copper pots and pans were suspended in the air above the island, so whenever it was time to start cooking, Angel or Lucifer would have to pull out the ones needed and put them away after the meal. The icebox was now bigger, stainless steel with a bottom drawer to place frozen items in.

Overall, it was a massive improvement from the previous one with additional space and a little footstool for Niffty to make the midday meals. Alastor…he was usually in charge of the evening ones, though the others have recently started to contribute to making their own dishes. The successes of those evenings varied, though they all tasted delicious to you.

Niffty had all but pushed you into a chair at the dining table as soon as you entered the kitchen with Husk. You watched her tiny frame skitter across the marble floor, plating stacked sandwiches held together with toothpicks stabbed through the middle and potato salad and two other side dishes before it appeared in front of you. She must have prepared some tea for you as well, seeing an ivory teapot and a cup already filled to the brim, steam rising and emitting a fragrant aroma that tickled your nose.

You thanked her graciously for the meal, even though you were quite sure that you were not going to be able to finish it all before you had to leave for Alastor’s radio station. Twenty minutes was not what Charlie would qualify as a proper lunch break.

The tiny housekeeper repeated the same ritual with Husk though she directly handed his plate to him before she gave you an annoyed look that clearly said, finish your meal, all of it, and got distracted with the sight of a roach and began to chase it down with her needle. Husk merely shook his head and sat down next to you on the right side of the table. He picked at his food, clearly not in the mood to eat because his mind was on something else. However, you did not pry. Vaggie had spoken to you about respecting people’s privacy in your first week of arriving at the hotel; just because someone doesn’t seem happy, it didn’t mean you had a right to address it. Talking about it might help, and sometimes it doesn’t. If anything…just let the sleeping dogs lie.

You eyed the clock. Ten minutes left, and you were only halfway through the meal. You ate the sandwiches, and only had a spoonful of the potato salad. You were about to take another bite from a different side dish when Husk spoke up, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth.

“I saw what happened in the greenhouse.”

You blinked. Husk….he had seen the confrontation between you and Alastor? You carefully lowered the spoon down the plate, tapping against the porcelain. “There’s nothing to worry about, Husk.” You replied calmly, your attention entirely focused on the meal in front of you. “He will not harm me. He simply wants to talk about my performance on the job.”

“That’s bullshit.” Husk hissed. “We both know it ain’t just ‘cause he’s the facility manager of this place, or that you’re slackin’ off, it’s ‘cause he hates it when people question his authority!” He slammed a fist against the table, causing the silverware and glassware to wobble momentarily before righting themselves again. “[First Name], I saw. I know what he did, and you really have no idea who you’re gonna be alone with in what, five minutes?”

“Seven. And I know who Alastor is. He is a serial killer, a cannibal, and an overlord who broadcasts his carnage on the radio.” you said, raising the tea cup to your mouth as you took a languid sip, placing it back down the saucer a moment later with a clink. You looked at him. “He is also in a weakened physical state. He will not admit that he has not fully recovered from the war.”

“I swear to God, do not make me go to the princess and Vaggie about this, because I fucking will -”

“Telling them what he did will not change his tactics. He will simply find another way to intimidate me.” You cut off. “You know him better than anyone else, Husk. He is clever, manipulative, and will do anything to get what he wants.”

Husk shot a baffled look at you, eyebrows raised and yellow irises narrowed slightly. “You really don’t see how he looks at you, do you?”

You blinked. “As an enemy? Yes.” Hostility, anger, shock, humiliation. You had seen those expressions many times on that battlefield when you charged across No Man’s Land with the Major’s battalion, cutting through the enemy lines with anything in reach and at your disposal. A weapon of war, a loyal dog to the Major. You watched Husk’s face fall into disbelief, then aggravation before he slapped a paw across his face. You tilted your head to the side. What was wrong? Why was he upset? Is it something you had said? You watched the bartender stand up from the table, walk towards the lower cabinets, crouching down and pulling out a hidden bottle of whiskey. He uncorked it, and took a swing from it before turning back towards you, frowning.

“Ya might have been a soldier, ya might have things that would turn shit white and ya not be scared of Alastor…but you should be. He’s been gone for seven years, and no one knows why, but I can say with certainty that he’s much stronger than before. If you’re gonna talk to him, just….just don’t mention….he’s no different than I am, all right?” That was all he said before almost bolting towards the door, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

No different than what Husk is. You thought, picking up both of the half-eaten plates from the table, throwing the reminder in the trash, washing and rinsing them off under the tap before setting them down in the dish rack. What does that mean? Alastor does not drink nor does he gamble. Husk is under his commanding unit, a soldier. Your brow furrowed. Did Husk….knows something about Alastor that he doesn’t want others to know? How did Alastor rise to power so quickly and overthrow the overlords who had been dominant in Hell for centuries?

You would have to think about this possibility later, because when you looked at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, you realized you were already late for your meeting with Alastor.

Shadows were handy little helpers to have, Alastor notes. Not only could they provide protection to the staff when he had other matters to attend to in the Pentagram but they were excellent spies. To be his ears and gather all of the delicious secrets he could uncover from enemies that were actually some semblance of a threat to his plans, or just because he was bored and liked to keep tabs on the latest bits of gossip. He loved to share this information with Rosie over tea-time when the subject of their discussions was not revolved around the ornery old bitch, Susan.

Although they have proven themselves to be useful time and time again, these little helpers were also sentient and created their own discord, much to the frustration of their creator. As much as you can say you’ve been keeping a distance from Alastor, he unfortunately can’t say the same. His shadows as of late have found themselves almost constantly attached to you. Through darkened hallways to under your leaves at the greenhouse, they were always at your side. Ready to step in and assist you in any way they can, even if he won’t lift a finger.

Regardless of how annoyed he has been with them recently, they had repeated word for word of your conversation with Husk. They know you are late but have said that you are walking towards him and not from way to him, whispering how you were turning right at the end of the corridor and about to come across the staircase leading up to the radio station. They adored you, much to his annoyance. It had already been difficult to even comprehend the idea that he had feelings for you, and his shadows, unfortunately, reflected the darker parts of him that he wished to be locked up for all eternity. The weaknesses that were a threat to his own goals.

He could not act like an altruist or a lovesick fool. He hungered for power. He craved freedom. Nothing should stop him from carrying out what he wants. If he wrangled the truth out of you, to know that you despised him and did not care about him in any capacity….he will be satisfied.

Will he though?

His train of thought was soon interrupted by a knock at the door. Putting on his best smile and straightening out his bowtie, Alastor walked across the room and opened it. He looked down, and saw you staring at him. Your appearance wasn’t as ruffled as he had suspected it to be from being late for an appointment, just a few [Hair Color] strands loose from the hairstyle you wear every day ... .but he supposed he can let it slide this time. He’d rather not hear Niffty complain to him about how you aren’t eating your meals.

“Well, well, there you are~! And here I was wondering if you had forgotten! Come, come, take a seat!” He said, gesturing to the couch sitting adjacent to the soundboard where he sat. He did not even want to look at you, not at this moment. He could feel the shadows purring in delight under his feet, no doubt staring at you with such adoration that it made him gag. He reigned them with a pulse of his power just before a slippery fellow tried to crawl towards the couch and perch over your shoulder.

He took a seat, and so did you after smoothing out the skirts of your dress. You looked at him straight in the eye, spine straight and gloved hands folded neatly in your lap.

“So, you are aware as to why you are here, yes~?”

“...I am.”

“And why is that?” He pressed.

“Because I questioned your authority. You tried to frighten me, and you had failed.” You replied. “In my defense, you were in no position to exert yourself when you are still possessing an injury that you will not speak about to the others. I have no intention of saying that to anyone here. I only ask that you do not harm Charlie or the others here in the hotel, or I will keep the promise I made to you less than an hour ago. You will be killed by my hand or I will die trying. People keep secrets because it is necessary for their survival, and the others around them. How can I be sure….that you will not raise your hand and strike us down as soon as your wings are unclipped?”

Alastor’s eyes widened slightly as a wave of high-pitched radio static left his teeth and bounced off the walls before he quickly recollected himself. Goodness, always the blunt one, weren’t you? Inhaling sharply through his nostrils, he made sure his grin stretched all the way to his ears, never showing you what is really going through his mind. Annoyance. Frustration. Adoration. Amusement.

“Well, those words are the very reason why you are here, my dear.” He stood up from his chair, slowly walking around the soundboard, running a finger across the polished wood. His eyes were fixed on yours and you did not look away. Good. Keep your focus on him and nothing else.

“By meddling in my affairs, even if it was unintentional on your part, is putting the rest of the hotel in danger. I cannot be compromised under any circumstances, lest I anger the one whom I have an agreement with.”

“The one who is responsible for your rise in power?” He blinked, stopping in his steps for a moment. Ah. You caught on without him having to spell out to you. Unless dear old Husk had said something to you? No. The shadows have told him that he merely mentioned the seven years that the Radio Demon was gone, nothing beyond what everyone else already knew.

He nodded, swiveling on his feet and because he felt like it, a jaunty little spin before he sat on the coffee table, right in front of you and crossing his legs with such elegance that it would make a French girl jealous.

“Indeed. And trust me when I say they are much more powerful than Charlie’s dear father. That is to say, not even Lucifer can protect you or anyone else from what is about to or could happen should I be compromised. And I know how much you care about the staff here, even sweet little Niffty. Which is why…I want to make a deal.” He held out his hand towards you. “Keep what has happened at the radio station and anything else beyond these four walls to yourself. Never share what you know, not even to Charlie. In exchange for your silence, I will not harm anyone here in the hotel unless we know for certain that they are a threat. Well?” He tilted his head to the side. “Do we have a deal?”

You stared at his hand, then raised your own to your lips, carefully tugging off the glove with your teeth until it fell into your lap. The adamantine skeletal fingers curled around his own, solidifying the deal between the two of you. Alastor felt a burst of power course through him, felt the stitches on his mouth and eyes tugging, the walls turning emerald and the shadows danced around them in celebration. Then the magic subsided, yet the warmth, the burning sensations from your prosthetics seeping through the leather gloves did not. A chirping of radio static left his mouth upon feeling his hand being squeezed to an almost painful degree. When he looked at you, he saw emotions swirling in your eyes that he had not seen from you yet.

Anger.

Disappointment.

Resentmentment.

These were emotions he had caused. Him, the one who was holding your hand tightly because he made a simple deal for yourr silence, and not her soul. So why does he feel conflicted? He had gotten what he wanted, to push you away from him, to banish these uninvited feelings from his chest. But this deal did not give him any satisfaction. It caused him…pain. The kind of pain that he cannot explain. It was not the pain he felt when he missed an opportunity to have an excellent dinner, and not even the pain that…that Adam had given him.

For whatever reason, he could not stop himself from bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss across the knuckles even when the angelic steel instantly burned his mouth upon contact. When he realized what he had done, he pulled away as if he had been struck again by his drunken father and promptly left his office, disappearing into the darkness and subsequently from the hotel altogether.

He did not like this. He did not like these feelings. He did not like how he never had the opportunity to ask him if you cared about him, loved him…yet why did your opinion matter? Why did he want to hear you say, out of your volition, that you love him too? To a man who is supposed to feel nothing at all?!

Times like this, there was only one person who could provide light on this precarious situation without daring to judge him. The Pentagram’s most delightful, daring, and dangerous overlord of Cannibal Town. Rosie. His oldest and dearest friend.

He supposed it had been long enough since the two of them had tea together, hasn’t it?

Alastor inhaled a shaky breath, allowing himself to materialize on the streets near the Jazz District and smiled brightly as if he wasn’t having an existential crisis, humming a merry tune under his breath that made nearby demons tremble in fear.

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#forbidden-sunlight #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #fem!reader #violet evergarden!reader #character!reader #vivziepop #yandere x reader #yandere #ns.fw #cw obsessive behavior #tw obsessive behavior #cw obsessive love #tw obsessive love #a wendigo’s violent love

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rel124c41 · 5 months

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CHILDREN OF THE O.D.D. alastor

In his seven years of absence, Alastor calls on you and collects you.

tags: radio, literary references, developing relationship, temporary amnesia, mental torture, alastor love you but can’t resist causing a little emotional damage, wendigo, dark magic, hurt/comfort

word count: 10,716

It was not your intention to make any sort of detour after work. Always the string of home pulled you back in like a faithful dog returning to the outstretched hand. You trudge, like a ghost shackled by unfinished business, to the space underneath your shower head. To watch ebony red and wood brown slip into the drain; the filth of blood under fingernails and the sleeves of dirt upon your arms ebbing away.

This detour is unexpected and odd. Breaking a cycle that you had never strayed from, it is undernerving to you. Still –You put your fingers over your lips and frown. You are looking for something; that is as much as you are able to deduct.

The homemade yard-sale sign is crumbled and ruined. A slab of cardboard folding in on itself because of the rain from yesterday. In streaks, the markers bleed like branching veins across the surface. You actually took a wrong turn because one of the arrows was so wet that you could not decipher if you were meant to walk right or forward. The skies still remain a blanket of nebulous gray and black, thick with potential rain.

Really, you should head home and ignore this detour, you judge just as you step into the backyard sale. Logic tries as it might, you are grappled by this ardor. Entering the mouth, you realize you are here, looking for something. Something that has leashed you subconsciously.

Yard-sales hold a wild assortment of things: dusty books, a splintering wooden bow with arrows included, outgrown clothes, etcetera. An evil secret here or there? You chuckle at the ridiculous thought.

Rummaging around in dirt was your past-time, rummaging around in strangers’ belongings felt unusual. Mindful of your unclean hands, you simply float around the tables and piles of things. When someone lingers behind you, you move quickly because you are browsing while others are hunting. Truly, you do not yet know what you are planning to sink your teeth into. Your little routine continues, floating around and bouncing out of the way when it looks like someone is interested in the pile you stand in front of. Deeper and deeper, you wander into the labyrinth of unwanted things.

Perhaps you could pick up something for Alastor. That harrowing need to find something was starting to dim inside you.

Just as you start browsing for him, that feeling returns tenfold. The peach pit of your stomach feels like a mixture of drain cleaner and bleach. It burns you. Whatever that something is, it is upset to be ignored and hooks itself into your abdomen pulling.

“Turn left then straight.”

You jump at the sudden voice. And a shudder runs down your spine because they were close enough that their breath tickled your neck. In the labyrinth’s heart, you glance around for the individual that was talking to you. Hm? No one is looking at you. Everyone is nose down in their own business, browsing tables.

Tentatively, you rest an ice cold hand on the spot where you definitely felt someone’s breath. Odd. You take a step to the right.

“Left then straight.” You stumble in your walk as if you were a newborn in heels.

What? You shake your ankle as you restabilize yourself. It felt as if someone had snatched onto your ankle when you moved. Another shudder joins your first. This time you decide to heed that voice. If your subconscious pulled you into the yard-sale, it can definitely direct you. Different from your previous lazy tumble, you move with purpose to that ‘left then straight’ direction.

But as you take that left turn, you feel an uneasy cocoon itself over your previous headstrong annoyance. You slow your pace. Those previous sensations had been very odd. Someone’s breath on your neck. Someone’s hands around your ankle. You shudder one last time and move straight, searching.

A slumbering nest of snakes starts to squirm in your stomach. The real snake though – the ouroboros ring on your ring finger – is scorching instead of slittering. Like red hot iron to a horse flank. Knowing it is impossible to take it off, you rub cold fingers over it. Worrying hands joined at your chest, you look left and right for the item that has ensnared you. Long ago, the ouroboros ring had ensnared you in the same way, pulling and tugging at your intestines and bones like a magnet grabbing at its opposite pole. Remembering that, you grow even more uneasy.

What are you looking for?

You realize it as soon as your eyes fall on it.

The spiritual itch is finally scratched. The last piece is thumbed into the puzzle. The starved man has finally been given food. Before your mind catches up, you have already reached the plastic folding table and are touching your something. Heat from the ouroboros ring ebbs softly.

The woodwork is beautiful like a stained catholic mural. The single diamond eye of brown bakelite and wood blinks at you, surprised to be touched. Gilded brass is tickled by your experimenting hands as you turn its knobs. Wires spread over the speakers like a spider-made ribcage start to beat flustered at your presence. When you run your fingers over the ridges and arches, it leans into your touch. Though it is an entirely inanimate piece, it has so much character. An authentic radio, probably dated 1910 or 1920s. Worrying a bit about its fragility, you do not dare to pick it up no matter how it pleads and flirts with you to do just that. It is certainly a bewitching beauty. So, this is your something; this is what you were looking for.

But – a delicate frown moves your lips. You have no use for a radio like this in your home. Heavens know you have enough radios at home. Can this really be what your heart wants? When you move your hands off the woodwork, it feels as if your ring grows a circle of spikes that sink into your skin and collide at your fingerbone. You yelp and quickly put your hands back on the yard-sale item. Your heart does want this … apparently …

“Okay,” you whisper as if that will appease your heart, your subconscious, and your ring – all three holy spirits of your body. “Okay.” Gingerly, you lift up the hulking mass and start back towards the entrance. Well, Alastor can simply deal with another radio. And you are slightly elevated to bring it back home. Elevated enough that when you reach home –

You kick off your shoes by the entrance and sing out, “Alastor, I’m home.”

Radio cradled to your chest, you listen intentionally to the suspicious silence. You wonder how he will greet you this time. Sometimes, there are bumps of furniture or he simply slips in front of you. You can never truly predict Alastor’s moods. He is something volatile; he can either be as sweet as a dream or dangerous as a nightmare. For a few moments, you wait for the other shoe to drop. And when he arrives in your sight, you wear your best smile to greet him.

“Hi honey,” you say and kneel down. You balance the heavy radio on one of your knees. Reaching out one dirty hand, your faithful cat Alastor nuzzles into the skin, ignoring the dirt and blood. You scratch behind his ears as his purring starts up.

You named him after King Alastor from the game Painkiller: Battle out of Hell. When he was just a kitten, you wrestled with two names Alastor or Asura from another video game. Why did the name of a final boss win over a hero’s name? You had no idea but your heart guided your decision and four years later, it fits your mischievous bengal cat perfectly.

“I know, I know,” you medicate when he starts meowing for food. “I’m twenty minutes late coming home and that means two hours to you. But look Alastor! Another radio! This one is too heavy for you to knock down so it’s perfect.” Your enthusiasm is met by louder caterwauling.

Wilting at Alastor’s lackluster reaction, you gently set the radio on the long dining room table. It was lined with six chairs that no one besides yourself used. On the wooden surface is a Christmas rug-runner and stacks upon stacks of mail asking you to open a new credit card. A few unwashed plates stand in a stack of six, grease of meals shining luminous off them. May’s sun pours in to brighten all of the radios that you have collected on your table.

Your new radio nestles itself snuggly into your little home. Though you were not able to bargain the price you exactly wanted, you were glad to have it at all. The condition is remarkable for something coming from a yard-sale. Annoyed at your admiration, your bengal cat lays himself over your socks and bites your toes.

“Alastor,” you scold, scooping up your noisy cat. “Be nice to your parents. Where are your manners?”

With a boop on the nose and a kiss on the cheek, you bring Alastor into the kitchen so you can serve him Purina kitten chow and ruffle his fur when he nuzzles into you. Then you will wash away all your filth and sleep.

It has been seven days since you bought the radio.

For something you were so enraptured over, you had no urge to try working with it. The owner remarked that it only works for AM radio broadcasting. After a century, those channels never changed and were opertable during power outages. Their frequency could be picked up anytime, connecting themselves to the skin of your radio like a lovely little kiss. Since no natural disasters were happening, the most entertainment you could get from AM radio was the morning’s traffic. Enthusiasm washed out of you after a week of showers, you found yourself kicking yourself for giving in so easily to temptation.

“And my more-having would be as a sauce to make me hunger more,” you mutter Macbeth as you lace up your boots.

Today, your boss has scheduled you and your groundskeeping company to plant a dozen trees outside of a mail office. You enjoyed the small business as a landscaper; being the leader of a whole team had some perks too.

Louisiana was always pleasantly warm. Never did you have to gripe over blizzards causing traffic nor bringing an extra coat to weather the weather. Most days you manage to just walk to and from the sight your boss assigned. Life was good and life was simple.

You finished with the final knot on your Timberlands. Hesitantly, you cast a look towards your new radio, standing out among the rest because of its antiquity. Hearing a bit of the weather might be the perfect test to see if the radio worked, if all vacuum tubes and components were clean. Stomping through the kitchen into the adjacent dining room, you quickly turn the gilded knob and wait.

A mimicking hiss of a vexed Alastor and a sizzle of eggs poured into a pan is the first sound your new radio blesses you with. Resolutely, you flicker with the knob. The sound of a million pieces of hail falling on your roof. The singing of a mixed bowl of frequencies. The caterwauling of – oh! You finally found a coherent station.

“With highs reaching ninety, we can expect a beautiful Thursday ahead of us. Now, we do have some cumulonimbus clouds making their way down from the north-east. That thunderstorm from Mississippi should be reaching us in –” Satisfied, you click off the radio and head out the door.

“NO! NOOO!” When you are pulled up by the waist, you only scream louder. “NOOOOO!” You scream like a deer with its leg snapped and broken in the jaws of a bear trap, desperate and tormented.

“(Name)! (Name), stop this! (Name), calm down,” your mother pleads.

The woman who baked you under her pie crust skin for nine months is devastated to see you so upset. Her own flesh and blood, curled tightly in her arms, wailing like a hunted deer. You cry loudly as if you have broken a bone or been stabbed. “I know, baby. I know,” she tries to console and move your crying face into her neck. A piercing yell in her ear causes her to wilt and shudder.

“(Name) please.” Your mother has already passed the point of angrily yelling back at you. The crescent shape of her acrylic nails still present on your tiny wrist. Given up that fight, she tries desperately to figure out why you refuse to leave the pawn shop.

Gore cakes your tiny, wailing face. A scream so loud had one of the vessels in your vocal folds erupting open; a vocal cord hemorrhage which will cost your mother a month of bills for vocal therapy for her four year old child. Red oil glides out and down to vinyl floors. Around the mouthful of blood, you still scream no no no as your mother tries to walk you out.

There are no words to explain what you are experiencing. Even if you were not so young, you doubt that you could relate to anyone what you felt. As the distance between you and entrance grew smaller, a stabbing pain in your gut emerged. A simple tummy-ache. Then it grew. Tummy-ache evolving into a fever; fever blossoming into a stab wound; stab wound maturing into a pain that felt like some invisible hands were trying to tear your soul from your body. When you toed your foot on the entrance, everything exploded in one culmination of white pain and you lost yourself to the possession of something otherworldly.

Defiant, your limbs move in a hurricaning, thrashing windmill. You squirm like a fly blindly trying to escape out a window as bang bangs of a person’s shoe follow its erratic track. A strong kick into your mother’s pancreas has her stumbling. Relenting, she drops your mercurial body.

Your mother falls to her own knees with you. She considers telephoning your father, telephoning her own parents, telephoning a medical professional. Anyone who can come and save her: a scared, new mother who has never seen her child act out this.

Hundreds of eyes are staring at the volatile display. Guests who want to enter and buyers who want to leave, all stare at her hunched form as you caterwaul. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I just don’t know what’s wrong,” your mother mutters helplessly. By now she is starting to suspect that you might be seriously injured in a place she cannot see. Something beyond the blood in your mouth. “God please.”

Finally, someone heavensent steps off the background and taps your mother on the shoulder. Her desperation causes her to turn at a neck-breaking speed.

She never remembers the face or gender of this person when recalling the story. She recalls only a shudder of terror. Spindly and crawling terror, pianoing itself in a rapid flight up her body like a bumblebee. A symphony of fear, she recalls. Gently, the person takes one of the hands she had put around you protectively. In it, a ring is dropped.

An ouroboros ring – the image of a snake eating its own tail.

Fumbling with disbelief, your mother glances around to see that the person is gone. She sets her sight back on you, worried you might have disappeared along with the person. There you are – all forty inches of you, shivering, water and blood falling down your face in rivulets. She glances helplessly at the ring and then –

When she drops it into your hand, the pain goes away. Yet, stricken by such an endeavor, your eyes roll back in your head. Past the billowing tears and red veins, up and up. Like a puppet cut from strings, you promptly pass out. Squeezed tightly in a rigor mortis grip, the ouroboros ring stays with you. And when you feel that thousand feet plummet into oblivion course through you, your body in the waking world springs up, face stained with warm tears.

That memory again.

How many times have you dreamed about it?

How many more times will it be in your dreams?

Chilled fingers run across your damp face, drying it. The head of the iron snake kisses a stroke from eyelid to eyelid. You suppose the ring will always remain with you, in dreams and in reality. Tired eyes glance at your bedside alarm clock: 1:11. Trust your intuition and listen to your heart. You climb out of bed, mindful of Alastor even with limited vision.

Often, your body moves disconnected from the kingdom of your mind. Without even being aware of it, you will pull yourself back from danger (a falling tool at the job site, a misplaced nail, etcetera) and chalk it up as extreme good luck. Leaving words unsaid, you laugh at all the random occasions of self-saving, pointing your thanks towards God.

You are not slow though. After a while, anyone would start to suspect it. You know it is something else other than luck. Something that has shadowed you since birth.

Pulled towards it like a magnet, you sit on the dining table chair. Everything in your house is shrouded in nebulous dark. Silver light shines down from the moon, past a window’s filter, onto the radio. An evangelical interruption? Like slippery fish-oil, silver glides over the rich brown of a ribcage and heart and skin. The scene looks disrupted like fragments of reflection in a dirty mirror. Sleeping moonlight brushes over your fingers, nuzzling into your ring.

Timidly, you extend a hand and flick on the dial. A short buzzing hum greets you. “Hello?” You turn the knob some more, searching. Your face is still damp from previous tears. “Hello?” And though there should be more than a dozen A.M. frequencies that your radio can tune into, all that you hear is everlasting static.

None of your strawberries tasted like fruit this morning. Where they should be rich with juice flowing in your mouth when you bite, they are dry. It is the entire quart of strawberries that you bought had been replaced with foam copies, a facsimile of themselves.

Everything that has been feeling imitation of itself. Yesterday, you swore there was someone standing behind you while digging a tunnel for a septic tank and distribution box. Yet at each wild turn, no figure was hovering off you. This morning, you woke up dreaming that dream again. You carefully spit your strawberry into a napkin. Ugh, what was happening to you?

When you discard them into the trash-can, Alastor stirs and gives you a look before returning to his food. You nudge him with your foot and move across the kitchen. Leaning down into the fridge, you search for the carton of milk. In the recess of your mind, you halfheartedly listen to your radio.

Your new family member plays something vintage this morning. You had no idea A.M. frequencies did old radio series like this anymore – you had only heard about The War of the Worlds radio drama due to a parody and its natural popularity. In today’s modern age, you thought podcasts were the only echo of radio dramas, a cheap imitation. You luckily caught this radio drama at the very beginning, perhaps only two or three minutes in.

The radio drama was about a husband and wife. Aboard With the Lockharts was the name. The wife, Kathleen Lockhart, had finally persuaded her husband that they would take a cruise to Europe, after some womanly envy, and her husband conceded to come. It is the end of the first episode:

“There we are, dear.”

“You’re the nicest husband a woman ever managed!”

“Well, I-uh I guess every husband would be nice if he had a wife like you. Now, let me study that circular a bit and see what we’re going to get. And, uh, turn on the radio, dear.” A flow of music follows.

The cheapest you can get a gallon of milk in New Orleans is at Aldi’s for only three dollars. You had heard almond-milk was statistically better for your health. As a groundskeeper, you knew maintaining that was entirely important for your job but double the price for a quart rather than a gallon. Well, you knew your –

“Tour Europe with us! Seven glorious countries! Why, you have just started to go aboard with the Lockharts … We thank you for tuning in listeners. The day is May 10th, 1931. The weather forecaster is sunny with –”

As Alastor stops hissing, angered at how rapidly you run from kitchen to dining room, you hold the knob in your hand tense. Challenging, the eyeball of your radio stares back at you. 1931? 1931, ha. You sigh at your panic. It was probably prerecorded. Even if the day and month were the same, there is no reason to get so out of sorts. Ugh, what was happening to you?

As you towel off yourself, the radio program you had turned on plays. You were so ashamed that you had gotten worked up over nothing. After listening to a few more radio dramas, it turned out that they were cut and played from previous tapes. Of course the dates and times would remain.

Though why when you used your car, (Name), did you not find that station? Did any other A.M. frequencies play returns of old 1920s and 1930s radio drama, hm? Not a single one.

You scrub your towel harder into skin, ignoring yourself. There was no intelligent reason to be worked up over a station that played love stories. Love was the least malice part of life after all. Not that you would ever know, you mourned. You got ghosted more than you would like to admit.

The program on the radio almost seems to mock you:

“Because I love you myself I suppose.”

“You do, Jeanie?” The woman murmurs a yes. “How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since I helped you with that tire.”

“You know maybe that was why I was kind of relieved when Roberta told me we were all washed up.”

“Frank!”

“It’s true. I’ve been kind of dreading marching down that aisle with Roberta for some time now. You know, someone else seemed to fit better into that picture.”

“Who?”

“A hitchhiking blonde I picked up once. She was bound for New York. Funny if she ended up in London on our honeyman.”

“Oh Frank.”

“Oh (Name) darling.”

The towel falls to the ground, heavy with the weight of water it has absorbed off your skin. Nude, you stand with a breath locked and keyed away in your lung. Alastor sleeps soundly on your comforter, ignorant to your distress. You push a hand to your chest, steel band cold on your skin. Yes. It is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“Go to bed, (Name),” you instruct yourself.

When all the lights in your house are flicked off, you make sure to put the radio into the kitchen. Your bedroom is right adjacent to the dining room. At least with some distance between you and it, without true separation, you might get some sleep.

You stare at your ring as you pet up and down Alastor’s spine. Some distance but never fully separated.

You rush into your home as if someone is chasing you, snapping and swiping at your ankles. “Shit, double shit,” you curse, throwing your closed umbrella down to the ground. Loudly, the door is banged shut to the point where the tiny window on it rattles. Water has soaked you down to the bone marrow.

“Fucking shit,” you gripe as you take off boots filled with miniature ponds. If only the rain was not coupled with sparks of lightning, you would have been able to use your umbrella.

Ugh, what a goddamn mess. You strip off the soaked bomber jacket. That depth of rain was so bad for the fabric. Defeated, you hang the Clavin Klein jacket on the nearby hook and go to venture deeper into your home when you pause.

You had forgotten you left the radio on your kitchen table. The presence of it startles for a quick moment. Surely, the need to strip off the wet clothes you are in wins over. Truthfully, besides a few odd glitches of words, it has been harmless. Falling back into your typical dismissal cope, you move to go into the dining room.

The power in your house goes out.

“Double fucking shit.”

A power outage would have been a minor inconvenience if you were not blind. The entirety of your house is cloaked in a nebulous black, not even a flicker of the microwave clock. You pause in your footfall, still as a tree. Hands clenched by your side, you rationalize it all. Lightning must have caused a fallen wire. One of your hand pats around to find a wall. Get to your hung jacket then you can use your phone to navigate in a much clearer fashion.

You just hoped Alastor would not be causing a fit in the deep sea darkness. “Alastor, honey?” Thankfully, your hand falls on the circular kitchen table. “Alastor?” Slowly, you round the table and start to finger the walls. Just ten or so steps forward and you will be standing right by the entrance.

Though, Alastor being this quiet was unnerving. You move towards the door – Huh?

The table rattles unsteady as you are pushed into it. “Ugh, what the –.” The breath is punched out. The scream that comes out of you is inhuman and animalistic, full of fear. Groaning muscles wilt as you are thrown into one of your kitchen chairs, seated forcefully.

You barely recover your mind, barely recover yourself to worry about your safety, when something chills you to the bone.

Up, the scream of an injured cat pierces the formless black innards of this haunted house. It almost sounds fake like a horror movie sound recording. Then the clattering rain of a handful of objects hitting the ground pierces your ears next. Those coupling sounds … the horrible thought that someone has thrown Alastor into something. The horrid, bone-chilling thought that someone is hurting him.

“Alastor!” You jump off the chair, guided by instinct. Swiftly, you are back down in the chair. “Alastor!”

A mimicking hiss of a vexed Alastor stabs the air … except it is not your cat. You know because it sounds like the sizzle of eggs in a pan too. Your bottom lip trembles wildly. Luminous white from a flash of lightning splats onto the kitchen then shrinks away in seconds. You refuse to look at it though. Calm down. AM frequency works during power outages, this radio is unlike your others, you rationalize, but you never turned the knob for it to reach any sort of frequency.

“...Alastor,” you try again, voice trembling. Oh you stupid cat, just come when called. You sit mournful and yearning that Alastor will come to prove he is safe at the very least.

Not stuck with silence for long, the radio sings out. The words and instruments broken up by flaking static like kintsugi pottery, a second melody backdropping the noise: Hey, hobo man; hey, Dapper Dan; you've both got your style but brother – then an anguished scream breaks the voice of Donald Craig and the musical number. You shrink into the chair, face aghast and jaw slack. No. No. NO!

You stay silent the entire broadcast, horrified.

A woman’s voice: “– he gives me the glad news that I have a growth in the back of my eye and he wants to cut it out. Only it’s too close to the brain, and he says if it isn’t cut out, this growth might cut off my sight, and leave me up on the high wiRE –”

A plea: “GOD HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! GOOOOD!”

The wail of a pipe organ piano follows this demonic symphony. Rustic and deep, it billows out. Echoes of the sound flicker and decay across your walls; the reverbs are rich and dark like shadows; the start of Bach’s Toccata.

A man’s voice: “lying on the floor, two feet away, with a broken neck. With a broken neck, and his left hand – Well, he put the golden ring on his little finger of his left hand – the way his arms were spread out –”

The chugging grind of a car that would not start – stubborn coughs and wheezes – assaults your ears. You cradle your head tighter, praying that hardwood will morph into quicksand.

A cry: “MERCY PLEASE! MERCY! AAAAA!”

Three separate voices overlapping all at once: “Help me! Help me! We belong dead!” — “Oh well, I am just not appreciated around here. Dirt under the feet. That’s all I am.” — “Please, kill me! KillmeKillmeKillme! I just want to die! I can’t — anymore —“ Then the shriek of a deer who has its foot caught in a bear trap. It is your voice as a child, crying out. A masculine voice in a fatherly rhetoric shouts over your infant wails, “You should have never been born, Alastor!” Then, as if lightning had torn down the broadcasting tower, all the cacophony on the radio fell silent, lingering on that horrible name.

The Earth holds its breath in anticipatory silence.

A merry tone starts up – the melody of a saxophone, clarinet, and trumpet all hugging into one another. It moves amatory in humid air. Jazz. Your favorite genre despite the fact you were born in the year 1998. Swing and blue notes fill your heart like honey on the tongue, familiar and comforting. From the warmth of continuing jazz, a woman’s voice pops out like a flower bud emerging on a spring morning.

“666 A.M.” No that is wrong – the station was 833.3 A.M. (how do you know that?) “-- the Voice of the South; radiophone broadcasting station of the New Ear, New Oreleans, Louisiana, announcing the one who needs no introduction, our one and our only Alastor Melsar.”

Somewhere far away, deep below, a hostaged crowd rises, pulled by the hooks in their napes to start a thundering, happy applause. Someone’s lips are even voodoo-ed to move into an adoring wolf whistle.

“Hello, hello, is this thing on?”

Your stomach falls to your feet like a rock dropped from a bridge. It explodes, breaking every ice-layered bone in your body. Jazz withers away but the familiarity stays. Because you know that voice, intimately beyond what New Orleans knew about it beyond the ribcage of a radio. You had been ribcage to ribcage, heart to heart with that odious man before. Only you had forgotten. Until now.

You remove your hands from your ears, listening in rapture.

“Now, I know the broadcast you want to hear comes from Center Theater studio, but today we are coming at you straight from Hell’s very own Pride Ring. But I will bring back our favorite broadcast, for my dear listener. (Name). My love, this one's for you.”

i. Papa nou ki nan syèl la, [Our heavenly Father,]

Alastor hates his father.

This is as established as the hues of flora or as the physics of energy. It is a sentence that will never change under any variables or phenomena. If emotions could become fact, this is one instant of such a time. It is a sentence that you sympathize with as you hated your father too. Oddly enough, you two meet on Father’s Day. Both of you illegally drunk in the height of prohibition, escaping to an abandoned bayou. A shared sentiment connecting your wayward souls: there was no better day of the year to get wasted besides Father’s Day.

“Oedipus was such an unlucky bastard.”

“How so?”

“He gets to kill his father and doesn’t even know it. The man who left him stranded on a hill to be eaten by wolves. And how does Oedipus repay this? His revenge is killing him in a duel like he is another thug, a nameless person.” You gulp down a sizable sip of your bathroom-made gin. “Just no satisfaction in it.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you suppose it’s better than not getting to commit patricide? Poor Hamlet. His father harks him about vengeance. And he cannot even get that annoying parasite off his shoulder as Claudius had already killed the King.” Alastor takes a much more measured sip from his whiskey.

“A dead father is better than a ghost father … I suppose.”

You give a mischievous smile to the stranger sitting with you. He is quite handsome, bronze brown skin flawless without a drop of sweat. If this were any other day, you would try flirting a bit but today is June sixteen so …

“How’d you kill yours?”

“A shotgun. Then I cut him up and ate him.”

“Serve him to your mother?”

“Oh, I would never taint her darling palette with such horrid meat.”

You start laughing as the stranger asks you the same question, you in jest and him in sincerity, “How’d you kill yours?”

Smiling, you reveal, “I drowned him in this very bayou.”

“This very one?”

“This very one.”

The stranger smiles at that. His smiles are nice. Wide winks of yellowing teeth that seem to engulf his entire face. There is something charming about smiles that show all your vulnerable enamels.

“I suppose that we drink from the same bottle.”

“We do … I suppose,” he copies your earlier pattern of speech.

You smile back as you two clink your glasses together. It sucks that after today you two will never see each other again. You have never felt so kindred to another person. New Orleans is so vast. Both a blessing and a curse, certain that your paths will only cross this once.

ii. Nou mande pou yo toujou respekte non ou. [We ask that they always respect your name.]

Names are so significant. It is the equivalent of slicing off a cut of your soul and sharing it. It is the word used to beckon one in a call. And, reconnecting, Alastor and you give your names to each other easily, smitten in a butcher shop.

iii. Vin tabli gouvènman ou, [Come and establish your government,]

The company Alastor kept was odd. Men who wore sunglasses at night and women who laughed like rusty doors. Human beings that seemed more like monsters with human skin pulled over them like an ill-fitting nightgown. Demons and witches, a cruel part of you speculated.

You had underestimated the vileness of them. They were beyond witches and demons.

You cannot even settle into the place you are sitting. Instead, you collapse into it like a body thrown off a ledge. Vocal cords pinch and tighten under your skin. Awful wheezes plume out of your throat. Amidst this destructive hyperventilation, tears pour down the curvature of your face in steady beads. Your trembling hands gather them up as you curl into the brick wall outside of The Dog House. Ugh, what is happening to you?

The door to the jazz club’s back-alley opens tentatively as you wallow. It is only a sliver of space, not even enough to poke a head through much less an arm or leg. From the slit eye of a shy door, your boyfriend says, “Should I come back at a later time?”

The care of his question only makes you sob harder. Respecting previously set boundaries, the timid door does not fling open and Alastor does not move an inch to step outside – though, the doorknob does wilt and ache under the mounting strength of his grip. He relaxes when the sound of your voice (strained and trembling but no less beautiful) asks, “Do you think I’m silly?”

“Why, dear, you are the unfunniest person I have ever been acquainted with,” Alastor smiles. “Unhumorous and beautiful, like always.” A hazel eye peaks out through the space. It is a talent how much emotion he can translate into each facet of his body. A simple upward crinkle of his eyes, a tiny gleam, and you know his aim is to make you laugh.

Instead, you are compelled with the urge to smack him on the shoulder.

Taking that angered energy, you grip the bottom half of the door (you still stay seated on infectious, wet pavement). As you push it open, Alastor slinks out into the back-alley. One hand, one foot, a shoulder and chest, until he finally joins you. He sits shoulder to shoulder with you in your hiding spot behind The Dog House.

“Now, can I ask what made you so out of sorts, dear?”

“You would find it silly. This is all so silly.” You harshly scrub your tearful face, wishing it would restore itself to the dry skin you were accustomed to. “I’m sorry.”

“Now, (Name), we just established that you are unfunny.” With him so close, you do whack him. Nursing his shoulder with a laugh, Alastor continues, “So whatever needs to come off your chest, be out with it. Climb off it.” He looks upon you patiently.

“Mimzy.” His face makes no change in expression, imploring you to continue. “And Harlord. And Lawrence and Evelyn. Oh, Alastor, all of your friends are just so cruel.” Shameful of your confession, you hide back into your knees. The geyser of tears that you had capped with your thumb is starting to billow and leak. “I just cannot see how someone like you can keep such horrid company.”

It was almost like someone had prematurely told them every single insecurity you had.

The left side of your abdomen still aches from where Mimzy took her nails and dug into you. Lawrence had hooked a finger under your necklace and pulled a bright, suicidal mark on your nape. After repeated use, those insectual insults crawled under your skin, a horde of ticks. Weak defense laughs eventually stopped coming from you altogether when you realized this was not a hazing mechanism. Hate bled from every millisecond of their actions – such a quick switch, all because Alastor left to use the washroom.

“Oh, dear, what happened?” Alastor wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close.

“I don’t know. Perhaps, I did something to offend them. What they said was so true, so spot on. They just –”

“No, you’re perfect. Hey. Look at me. You are perfect.”

“Alastor, maybe, I don’t belong here. I just cannot fit in with them and I–”

“Dear,” here he takes both your hands and squeezes them tight. “I have felt that sentiment of yours my entire life. I have been so ostracized for so long before I met you. Never knowing someone who could relate to what I have been subjected to. If they cannot see how perfect you are, then that is sincerely their loss.”

“But Alastor, they’re your friends. I want them to like me!”

“Dear, we need no one but each other.”

iv. pou yo fè volonte ou sou latè, tankou yo fè li nan syèl la. [to do your will on earth, as it is done in heaven.]

Your nighttime routine is a bit strange. To be truthful, your entire life was wandering a little bit out of the quotidian fences on the roaring 20s.

The most startling difference was your romantic courting compared to the entire United States. You and Alastor had lived together before marriage. His house was empty – mother and father dead – and you wanted out of that odious prison called home.

Yet, by now, the two of you had established a nighttime routine like one which a married couple would have.

Before Alastor stepped into the shower, you checked the expanse and plain of his skin for any ticks that might have made their home there. After, you brewed Alastor coffee instead of tea as a nighttime drink as the shower ran. Then, you freshened yourself and Alastor penned down his next broadcast before you two joined in the dining room, stomach already full of dinner.

He takes the photograph of Papa Gede out of his study after locking away his papers. On the dining table, his golden eyes cut through you. You always felt nude under that gaze. Parallel to what a dog must experience before being hit. Gazes locked, you hear the repetitive motions of Alastor as he collects all he needs for the ritual.

Papa Gede’s, the corpse of the first man who ever died, painted form stares at you. Alastor was very keen on this man who represented the powers of fertility and death. A psychopomp believed to wait at crossroads to take souls into the afterlife. You had no idea what Alastor spoke in Creole to him when you two did this before bed. All you knew is those gleaming, almost alive eyes unnerved you to the point where you wanted to turn tail and flee, doe-like.

“Dearest.”

You shudder, disrupted like a still lake attacked by a falling rock, and finally tear your eyes away. The comfort of his arm across your back is warm. You lean into him as he quotes Hamlet to you, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

“Sorry.” You place a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry. I know, I overthink too much.”

This is the part you hate the most.

“I quite adore your mind.”

“Thank you, Al.”

He kisses you on the lips. “No, thank you.” And before you can comprehend, like a child getting his tooth pulled on two instead of the promised count of three, Alastor has already run the blade over your palm.

Alastor goes back in for a deeper kiss as you wince and wilt. Pressing himself hard against you as an outlet to your pain. And then, after a good enough amount of your blood has fallen into the vial, Alastor, in his native tongue, starts to pray that when Papa Gede sees you at the crossroads, he will send you back into the living world.

v. Pen nou bezwen an, ban nou li jòdi a. [The bread we need, give us today.]

The geography of hearts are all the same.

When Alastor brings home a dead deer, you can tell what his gullitoning Shibazi cleaver is striking down on. Yet — when it all cleaned up — fur and hooves off the table. You can almost pretend you have any species on the table.

As mammals, we all have four chambered hearts.

Silver light from an oil lamp folds itself over Alastor and where the silver is not, shadows snuggle into Alastor. He is an autopsy photo, too gruesome yet necessary to examine. From his hands, the slick pulse of meat being cut talks to him. Unforgiving, his hands move like headstrong lightning, slicing and dicing.

He opens the whole heart like a scroll or a book.

You had been apprehensive about consuming deer hearts. The heart was the zenith of evangelical symbolism in literature. Were you or Alastor worthy to consume such a part of the body? It was if you were dissecting an angel and feasting on their piety.

The geography of hearts are all the same.

As mammals we all have four chambered hearts.

He opens the whole human heart like a scroll or a book.

vi. Padonnen tou sa nou fè ki mal, [Forgive all that we have done wrong,]

Alastor was not an active participant in his own religion. When he did, it was often out of your sight and always out of the public’s eyes. He kept religious scriptures and paintings locked in a safe then additionally locked in a study room. A scandal such as performing in the Haitian religion would pinch out the fire that was rising up his radio broadcasting fame like a hot-air balloon.

Today, you are positively giddy and positively ready to puke when Alastor invites you to join him to celebrate St. John’s Eve. A holiday in June he rarely went to.

Ditching your shared car, Alastor makes you walk hand in hand with him to the celebration after pink twilight skies drift into charcoal black hues. You have no idea how he can navigate so clearly in such darkness. Trusting him, you follow over moss and soil. Both of your white attire was probably stained from the journey. None of that mattered. You could not stop yourself from smiling.

The night is wondrous. You will never understand such a beautiful celebration could be so abhorred. Reaching impressive heights, the humongous bonfire casts warm hues of amber over the white attire of all who attain. Your body spins and leaps with positive energy – everyone is so friendly – no one wears glasses at night and they all laugh like humans, humans! You and Alastor dance, painted in the bonfire’s warmth and laughing in addition to all the other people. At one point in the night, Alastor says to you, “They say bathing in the gorge is supposed to preserve the health of your body and the good condition of your skin. Not that you need anything to add to your beauty. However, I would be grateful if you —”

“Yes! Yes, I’ll join you.” You have been that way all night, eager and absent of your usual anxiety. You strive to enjoy this – enjoy the world he lives in spiritually due to the stinging rejection of his friends. Something to keep you two close and tethered together.

He takes your hand and brings you waist deep in the water. All the while, you cling to him, arms around his neck, smiling and kissing his cheek repeatedly. He preens under the attention.

“So, is it like a baptism of sorts?”

“I’ll dip you under the water briefly, yes.”

“Ok,” you are still giggling, not even having a sip of anything. “Ok. Can I go first?”

Adoring Alastor brings his hands up to the sides of your face, running his thumb over your cheek. What a shame that you will not be smiling so wide soon. The flame of you has to be extinguished same as the roaring bonfire on the shore. He pecks you on the lips. “If you want to go first, I have no gripe over that, dear.”

Don’t worry, Alastor thinks as he dips you down into the murky, nebulous water, he will relight you.

You hold your breath as you go under. The water chills the back of your ears, sliding itself through your hair, then covers over your eyes. Alastor’s hands rest in a triangle of your upper back, steadying you so you do not fall back. One involuntary shiver moves you then you fall still. You take your breath and cup it in your chest like a pearl.

Weightlessness is a rare sensation. There is something tranquil about being enshrouded in water and able to feel like you are slipping away somewhere. Like the ribbon pulling on your heart at all times has eased and unraveled itself so instead of a bundle it has become a slippery eel.

You are so grateful that Alastor is sharing this with you. You felt bad for not making a connection with his friends. You hoped nothing ever breaks your connection with Alastor.

After half a minute or so, you lean a bit up to signal to Alastor that you want up. Oddly, there is no pressure on your back from Alastor pushing you up. You lean yourself up a bit more, then with the speed of a cobra striking, a pressure pushes you down. Fingers on your throat. The pearl in your chest slips out. With a muted, submerged shout, you push your hands up hoping to break the water surface, feel dry air. Nothing, all your panicked hands slide through is water.

AlastorAlastorAlastor – the pearl grows spikes like a urchin and pierces you, a debilitating pain in the chest as water floods through. You hack up what you swallow and yet swallow some more. Previous cold water feels as intensely hot as the bonfire you were dancing in front of before.

Everything is dark.

Everything is burning.

Everything – you gasp as Alastor pulls you out. You cough like you are trying to expel a hairball or demon out of you. Your body shakes and pounds with each forceful push. And in the midst of that, Alastor holds you by your waist and worrying over you, your hands around his neck, you start to sob.

“A-Ah, Alastor.” Your smile is gone.

vii. menm jan nou padonnen moun ki fè nou mal. [as we forgive those who hurt us.]

“Promise me you will not leave me.”

“I promise.”

“No, be serious.”

“I am being serious, haha. I promise. Hey. Hey? … Hey, I promise to never leave you, Alastor Melsar. No need for tears, love.”

viii. Pa kite nou nan pozisyon pou nou tonbe nan tantasyon, [Do not leave us in a position to fall into temptation]

Injuring Alastor is no easy task. He takes impeccable care to never be on the receiving end of any harm, but this amorous injury is different.

In the back of a drunk mind, Alastor senses the trail of warm blood running down his lats to his spine. Three evanescent droplets riding down and down. Sweat is outshone by the iron beads. He focuses his mind gently on where you scratched him, the injury it caused, and the blood curling around the brown curvature of his abdomen muscles. How he wishes you two drew each other’s blood more beyond this and rituals to Papa Gede — at a later time, he will ask you if you want to engage in anything more with blood.

“Oh fuck, Alastor. Oh fuck!”

Yes, at a later time would be more appropriate. He cannot properly engage in conversation which he is grunting so heavily.

Gently, Alastor rubs a thumb into your skin, studying the harsh bone of your pelvis. You tremble when his palm goes down and pushes up your left leg. Knobby knee touching your breast, you shriek at how more palpable you are to his efforts.

Alastor does not particularly like sex. He shared no interest in it like his acquaintances and rather seemed repulsed by it. He performed and acted on this sweaty stage because it made you happy. Yet, now that you have drawn his blood —

The speed at which his head pounds into your spongy inside gradually starts to pick up. You two are clashing your hips into one another like vengeful knights crossing claymores. Instead of the racket of piercing metal sparks, the noise of wet skin slapping and patting against one another billows up and up in volume. He fucks you hard, an executioner stealing the last drops of your life away.

“De-Dearest,” he pants, hoping to grab your attention.

All you do is dig your nails into his shoulder blade deeper, anchoring yourself feebly to a ship caught up in a storm. Alastor has never been so rough before. His force punches the words out of you, mouth hanging open in involuntary cries.

He pushes your knee down harsher into the globe of your breast. Your nails dig in deeper. Cut more skin, please, Alastor wants to beg but his own voice is withering from him now too.

“Fu-Fuck! Fuck!” You shred another part of his skin like a cat slicing up curtains into decorative ribbons. He feels it. The waterline of blood bubbling before it spills over like tears of a face.

“Oh Hell, (Name),” Alastor moans.

He often had problems coming to his release. Now, he worries that he will come before you are satisfied. Your previous cut has trailed down, colliding at the spot where the two of you are joined together. His worries are meaningless. At the sound of his voice, trembling and wanton, the violin strings of your consciousness are slit down the middle. Mind plucked out of your body, you cannot control your voice and groan a loud “Mmmmmpfh!” as you throw your head back and orgasm.

Your warmth squeezes around him and he loses that hold on your leg. Collapsing down, he moans and keeps thrusting in. Greedily, you roll your hips up. Slick, wet suctioning noises lose their space between one another fast like counting lightning that is rapidly approaching.

Into raw bloody flesh, your nails burrow. Alastor comes with a grunt of your name.

ix. men, delivre nou anba Satan. [but deliver us from Satan.]

It is an inconvenience of an illness that has befell the Meslar house. Really, you should be resting your body and he should be resting his voice. You stumble in your chores, body humming with a furnace warmth that rivals New Orleans summer heat. Alastor stumbles in his broadcasting, throat expelling out body-jerking coughs like plumes of brimstone smoke. He jokes that it would be more fortunate if you two swapped illness before curling into himself, hacking. You nod your agreement before curling into yourself, brain sitting in your head like a popsicle on a summer’s sidewalk.

Eventually, you two have to concede that you cannot keep on like this. Your shared stubbornness to push through a lingering illness will do you no good. Alastor calls out of work, you dismiss yourself from your household duties. Finally, you two rest.

Alastor loves having windows open. He pulls the woven horsehair screens away from their pins. Let spiders and flies enter your humble abode, meet their two caring hosts. Refreshing air snakes a tranquil pattern through the kitchen and dining room. Sunlight warms wood of a dining table and back of chairs. In the forty second breaks Alastor gets before his throat punches him, he nestles close to an open window and breathes in rich Earth.

You are resting in the open living room, passed out on the uncomfortable sofa. He had taken care to wait on you as you had taken care to read Hemingway aloud for him. Yet, soon syllables started to slur into a rainbow of ums, mhms, mmms, until you fell into a cavernous sleep.

Content, Alastor drinks his coffee (absent of the sedative, amobarbital, and the awful taste of tea) and gazes out on nature. Drugging you is not so gentlemanly of him. However, who can truly blame him, watching his beloved drag themselves to get the one last load of laundry folded or scrub a stove that would be fine with a day of neglect.

“Such a stubborn donkey, that one,” Alastor chuckles, taking a gracious sip.

His sleeves are rolled up and cool air breezes over the mark drawn on his inner forearm. Cornmeal and wood ash grounded up into a pallid gray. The symbol sticks to his skin fairly well. The symbol is an open diamond with a long line running through it, elbow crevice to wrist, with a tapered end like that of a ½ beat note. The voodoo symbol of good health. You have one drawn on your comatose arm too, sleeves rolled up.

He did not see the need to call upon Damballah for healing properties. A simple incantation and a longer than natural sleep should get you back to your natural self. Alastor always promised himself that he would care for you. He would keep you away from dangers always, even a mischievous viral infection swimming in your body.

Maybe he should tell you, maybe open up just a bit about his –

No. He had labored a fine scheme to make you afraid of what his religion and his friends had to offer and that fear would be a coin to cash in later. If everything else around you was horrific, he would be a certain tunnel to run towards – leap into his open arms so he may protect you from Death, the Devil, and beyond.

All you need, all you would see, all of it: him, him, him.

x. Paske, se pou ou tout otorite, tout pouvwa ak tout louwanj, depi tout tan ak pou tout tan. [For to you be all authority, all prayer, and all praise, forever and ever]

“Honey, I just don’t think he is right for you.”

“That Al, he is a bit eccentric. A little birdie tells me that Edward thinks you’re butter upon bacon! And Ed’s quite cute!”

“Is there a leak in your attic, (Name)? Alastor, really?”

He’s absolutely perfect for you. His eccentricities had bewitched you. And if there was a leak in your attic, you hoped it showered over you forever. In your rose-tinted eyes, no one could hold a candle to your Alastor. He was it for you, until death and perhaps even beyond. You know this to be a universal truth – if emotions could become fact, this is one instant of such a time – especially true as he proposes to you.

“Yes, of – of course, I will,” you tumble over your words. A showman until the end, the long, heartfelt speech that Alastor had voiced in that honey intonation had you quite speechless. He knew exactly where to praise and where to kill your insecurities. “O-of course.”

He has to pinch the center of your hand, thumb on bone and index on palm, so he can slide the ring on your shaking hand. You truly are a mess in his presence, so in love.

It takes a few moments to find your voice. Alastor kisses you in front of the crowded restaurant, people clapping. You two sit back, still having untouched desert waiting for you. As the waiter shakes the hand of the most famous radioman in New Orleans, you sit wide-eyed, glancing between tiramisu and champagne, waiting to fall out of this daydream.

“An ouroboros,” you murmur after the waiter leaves. Giddy smile on his face, Alastor raises an eyebrow at you. “It is an ouroboros.”

“Yes, I figured a literary master like you would love the symbolism. Does it please you? I was apprehensive of choosing something that did not have a diamond.”

“The self-eating snake.” Smitten, you rotate around your left hand to greet all the angles of the creature with enraptured eyes. “The eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth. Transmigration of souls.”

“The eternal cycle of our love.”

You flush and smile. “You’re being too charming tonight, Alastor.”

xi. Amèn. [Amen]

“Alastor,” you whisper into the dark after he finishes saying your wedding vows. The name is much heavier on your tongue. It no longer belongs solely to your sweet bengal cat. The name you sing out to grab a cat’s attention or scold him for swatting something off the counter – “Alastor.” – the name is now shared with your dead husband.

Bone-deep shivers run through you. Dead husband. Your dead husband who is broadcasting out to you, voice rich and recognizable. The most chesired prayer you had ever heard in your past life, bleeding off into radio-waves. “Alastor.”

“Yes, dearest?” His intonation holds the patience of an enraptured man. He is smitten and at the ready to lend you his ear in a much more tangible Van Gogh way than in the literary sense. “Would you care to share your vows too? I always did love hearing French-creole roll off your fumbling tongue.”

“No, I –”

You feel dreadfully faint. All of it rushing back to you; it is a miracle that you have not faint or turned into a vegetable. You stare at the brown husk of a radio where you should be looking at the brown skin of your late husband’s face. A miracle is too angelic. A curse. This is a curse.

Something boils unpleasantly in your gut. This house. It was Alastor’s. Even after being born in a different square of New Orleans, you found your way back to the house.

Found your way to the ring. Found your way back to the radio.

“Why?” It is the only word that you can manage to form.

“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality”

“Death is a supple suitor, that wins at last.”

“Love is anterior to life, posterior to death”

“Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes.”

“A wounded deer leaps the highest.”

You two cannot keep quoting Emily Dickinson at each other. Burying your head in your hands, you sigh deeply with the strife and age of an entire already lived life. You miss the flash of lightning that illuminates your kitchen, the shadow of a wendigo stamped on the floor where the kitchen table’s circular imprint should be.

As the light leaps back out the window and you raise your head, Alastor hums at you lovingly. “Now dear, you know I hate to see you so despondent. It breaks my heart … well it would if I still had a beating one.”

Laughter follows and you startle in your chair. It sounds so intimately real that you almost thought the crowd of a comedy show was dropped and placed in your kitchen. Your shield falls as the noises wither away.

“Why now?”

“Dear, this interrogation is so harsh. I thought you would be overjoyed to be reunited. You said yourself that you never wanted to live without me. Aren’t you even going to say it?”

“Alastor. I love you.” Those words come as easy as the last puzzle piece. “Why now,” you press stubbornly.

The dark space around the radio almost echoes with the deep sigh Alastor gives you. There is the sound of some tinkering, a few knocks of wood and clanks of metal. “Why now, dear?” The noises grow in volume and rich jubilation breathes itself through Alastor’s voice. “Why now indeed! Well, dear, I have just happened to secure your place in Hell! Right alongside me! Please, please, hold the applause.”

There is no applause besides the one he is controlling and manipulating to move to his whims.

Why would he think that was pleasing news? Vexed, you straighten up your posture and go to ask, “Alastor, why —“ and then your words get caught in a spiderweb. “Alastor!”

Uncaring of your blindness from the power outage, you jump up and rush towards your bedroom, in search of Alastor.

You make it about halfway into the dining room when the bengal cat is suddenly deposited in your arms. Alastor is shaking up a storm. Protectively, you wrap your arms around him, wary of whatever nebulous thing held him in their clutches. Your empty glare falls off your face as you are suddenly roller-coastered back into the kitchen.

“That was quite rude of you.”

“You’ve been quite rude this entire month.”

“Well, I simply cannot pop out of nowhere. I do still have my affliction for showmanship. Something that was a trait loved by my dear spouse.”

“Showmanship, he says,” you grumble, petting Alastor gently. His tremors are still so extreme. “Ouroboros. Transmigration of a soul.”

“Well if I tether you to me, there is this little political game called Extermination that would have been a threat to you. If you were to die of natural causes, you would have gone to Heaven. Keeping you human was the best choice until I came to collect you.”

“You’re collecting me to bring me to Hell?”

“Quite correct. Yes, I am.”

“And if I don’t want to be collected?”

“HAHAHA, and do you not want that? Truly?”

“No … if anything … I’m more pissed you didn’t arrive sooner.”

A flash throws itself into the open space of a kitchen. This time you are able to see it. Up the wall, between the space where you keep an ancient television set and the place on the wall where a rotary phone rests is a shadow. Ignoring its definition, the shadow is built from no imposing object or body sitting in your kitchen. Instead of a physical presence, the stamp of long antlers and a sharp angular body are its own body. Gone as soon as the lightning flash flees.

You miss it barely but you saw the shadow of a hand reaching out to you. The something you had been searching for, finally here to call and collect you. Come home, dear, it calls out in gravel static. And you answer.

#alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor

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ibarkatpeoplewoofwoofbitch · 4 months

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Hazbin theory.

Yall know how alastor in his demon form takes in a more wendigo pose?

Well funny thing. When someone is "turning into a wendigo" they tend to go crazy and fully transform when they "eat the flesh of human"

The only way to kill a wendigo is fire to melt their ice hearts.

Also. We know alastor is off putting and rather cold.

Wendigos tend to have " icy heart has led many to believe that burning the Wendigo could kill it."

There generally "cold and snarky"

Like alastor is.

Also I headcannon alastor only killed bad people.

"The Wendigo spirit may find particular individuals easier to possess than others. They favour traits such as selfishness, greed, gluttony, reckless/irresponsible treatment of the environment, or otherwise willingness to put one’s self ahead of others. Traditionally, these traits could be easily found in people who had already been isolated from society, or exiled, due to crimes against their people. Rapists, murderers, and thieves may be easy prey for a Wendigo spirit, and likely make for a smoother transition than someone who cares for their fellow human being, and respects life."

And when someone is turning into a wendigo in the lore. It's said that they get "Wendigo Fever" they lose it. And what I think?

I think alastor never ate humans generally only deer and bunnies and rabbits and stuff like that.

I think alastor only killed people that were bad.

And lost it after that.

And when he killed his victim I nthe woods. He was tempted to eat them this time.

And he did and while that happened? A hunter shot him confusing him for a deer. And dogs mauled him while blood was on his face and he was smiling sense he promised his mom he'd never stop smiling.

Maybe he made a deal with someone and In the contract he couldn't stop smiling.

Or maybe he was so insane when he died and first arrived he used a vodoo doll of him and stitched the mouth into a smile.

But im aware wendigos used to never be deerish animals, but seeing how vivzie (idk if I spelled that right) never actually changes the character or looks at something. She never digs deep in the lore. Like how alastor is a black man from Louisiana. And is supposed to look like a talkshow host in the 30s. But his design doesn't look like his backstory. So it's possible she looked into wendigo Lore but never digged deep.

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin art #nifty hazbin hotel #lucifer x alastor #alastor the radio demon #alastor fanart #alastor #hazbin theory #hazbin thoughts #radioapple #appleradio

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thecreaturecodex · 2 years

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Monster Art History: The Wendigo

You may be wondering why the wendigo, which has become very popular in pop culture over the last 10 years or so, is usually depicted in Western sources with a deer head. This appears nowhere in Native American traditions, despite the creature having lots of folkloric variations. The association of the wendigo with deer is 100% Western, 100% modern, and has a long, weird history.

Just in case you need a primer, the windigo or witiko is a supernatural being from the Algonquin speaking nations of the eastern American continent. It appears as an emaciated figure, sometimes giant, sometimes covered in ice, sometimes both. In many stories, they have a literal heart of ice. Windigos are manifestations of cannibalism and winter, and hunt, kill and eat people. Someone who resorts to cannibalism to survive, or otherwise abandons their community for personal gain, will become one of them. A few stories tell of someone being “cured” and turned back into a human, but usually the only cure is to kill the monster. In the last several decades, native writers have associated windigos with capitalism and deforestation as an extension of their selfishness. If you would like to know more about the properly Native windigo in context, I recommend Dangerous Spirits: The Windigo in Myth and History by Shawn Smallman.

The creature first came into horror fiction with Algernon Blackwood’s “The Wendigo”. Note the spelling, which would become the standard in horror, and generally in non-academic Western sources. In that story, it is not associated with cannibalism, but instead is a more generic “evil spirit of nature”. This wendigo stalks white people in the wilderness and turns a Native character into a new wendigo by seizing them and flying with them into the sky. This definitely better fits fears about non white people, fears about nature, and how the one is closer to the other than “civilized” people. Its description in the story is vague (the most we get is that it has burned its feet away by running into the sky). But when the story appeared in Weird Tales in the 1930s, Virgil Finlay illustrated it like this, the first antlered wendigo I know of.

This story was ripped off by August Derleth, a prominent Weird author in the 1940s and the main popularizer of HP Lovecraft. In his Cthulhu Mythos stories, he introduces Ithaqua the Wind Walker, which is an alien version of Blackwood’s monster. This fits into Derleth’s vision of the gods and monsters of HP Lovecraft falling into the four classical elements, with Ithaqua being invented to represent Air. Ithaqua is usually depicted as an icy, emaciated giant, so ironically is one of the more accurate wendigos to Indigeonous beliefs in pop culture.

Image from a recent French edition of Call of Cthulhu RPG, by Loic Muzy

In Pet Sematary, Stephen King uses a wendigo as the reason for why the titular cemetery is cursed. This is an update of the classic racist trope of the “Indian Burial Ground”, except this time what gets buried there comes back animalistic and evil. The racist implications of that are pretty apparent. This wendigo is seen briefly and has ram’s horns. It does not appear in the first film adaptation, but does in the more recent one... with deer horns instead, because those are trendy right now.

A good scholarly look at the real windigo versus the 20th century horror wendigo is “The Appropriation of the Windigo Spirit in Horror Literature” by Kallie Hunchman.

In the 1980s, a movie called Frostbiter: Wrath of the Wendigo was produced, but it wasn’t released until 1995 by Troma. From what I’ve read, it’s a pretty transparent ripoff of Evil Dead 2, with the characters being picked off in a haunted cabin with a zombie in the basement. The “twist” is that the origin of the horrors is a wendigo released by breaking a Christian demonology-style sacred circle. This wendigo is realized in stop motion animation, and has the most deer-like body yet.

A number of other independent horror movies in the 90s and 2000s used wendigos as a plot element. These follow the Blackwood/King approach of having the wendigo being something evil, ancient and Native American, reflecting white anxieties about living on stolen land more than Native anxieties about cannibalism and greed. Wendigo (2001) has the creature sicced on a white family when they hit a deer with their car. The Last Winter (2006) posits that global warming and fossil fuel extraction have unleashed the ghosts of dead animals, which are wendigo apparently, to revenge themselves on mankind. Which approaches the idea that greed is wendigo sickness, but I don’t think intentionally as a reference to modern Native literature. The “wendigo” in this movie are spectral moose and caribou.

The mainstream breakthrough of the deer-headed wendigo was in, appropriately enough for this blog, Pathfinder RPG. In “Spires of Xin-Shalast”, the last volume of Rise of the Runelords published in 2008, a wendigo is a major encounter. I suspect that either the author (Greg A. Vaughn), or one of the editorial staff had seen Frostbiter, as the setup involves a cabin haunted by dwarven cannibal ghosts who all killed and ate each other due to a wendigo’s influence. This wendigo is a hybrid of the Blackwood and Cree versions in terms of its MO: it is a cannibal ice spirit that wants to make more cannibals, and does so by abducting people and running off into the sky with them. Its design is the standard for what most Western artists depict wendigos as these days: an emaciated humanoid with the head and antlers of a deer (and the burned off feet of Algernon Blackwood, which are less common):

Image by Tyler Walpole, © Paizo Publishing

This wendigo definitely made a splash at the time; it was the first time I remember seeing a deer-headed wendigo, and art of that design started to become common. It pushed away previous wendigo depictions, which were typically werewolves (as French Canadian trappers had blended the concept with their own loup-garou, and Werewolf the Apocalypse had a whole faction of racist Native American “wendigos”) or shaggy and ape like (based more on the look of the Marvel Comics villain).

What turned wendigos from “folklore/horror monster” to “fandom blorbo” was Hannibal, which first aired in 2013. In that series, the first murder is a woman’s body impaled on a stag’s head, after which protagonist Will Graham has visions of a black stag, and a man with the antlers of a stag, representing murder, evil, and of course the cannibalistic murderer Hannibal Lecter.

Since Hannibal was super popular with the shipping fandom set, wendigo themed characters became popular in its wake, creating a wholly new way to culturally appropriate the wendigo. This was magnified by Over the Garden Wall, which came out in 2014, and its villain The Beast. The Beast is never called a wendigo, but is an antlered giant associated with winter, and so is commonly head-canoned as a wendigo and associated with them in fandom circles.

Which gets us to the modern day, where teenagers have misunderstood wendigo OCs, any character with antlers can be called a wendigo on the internet, and actual First Nations people with an actual cultural connection to the legend wish that people would just knock it off.

#and now you know #wendigo #windigo #witiko #creature design #art history #pathfinder rpg #algernon blackwood #august derleth #cthulhu mythos #stephen king #b movies #stop motion #hannibal #native american #first nations #cultural appropriation #long post

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callsignhood · 3 months

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Hi good I was just wondering if I could share a Tim Hortons date with Wendigo? (It's totally fine if he says no.... Totalllllly fine ;))

If it’s Timmie’s, yeah he’ll go. Ordering a large Iced Capp with extra whipped cream and a box of Timbits, because he has a sweet tooth

#cod wendigo #cod oc #call of duty #call of duty oc #original character #cod

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dianawinchester03 · 3 months

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Season 1, Episode 3 - Dead In Water

Series Masterlist

Third Person POV

Flashback to after the Wendigo hunt:

Y/N is driving Baby back to the motel to pick her bike up after the hunt and her mind runs on her dad. They could really use the help looking for John. Sighing y/n breaks the ice. "You know fellas.....the hunt for you Dad. It's getting colder. We could use some extra help" Y/N says, turning to the boys.

"You thinking what I think you're saying?" Dean says surprised. Y/N shrugs "Yeah, I could use the father-daughter bonding session" She says dryly. Sam is in the backseat processing. He brought it up to his brother earlier, there really was a fat chance of y/n saying it but never say never.

"Are you sure y/n? We know you guys haven't been on the best of terms" Sam says concerned. Y/N hasn't seen her dad in two years. Hearing is one thing but seeing him after all that time is another. Sam would know. He hasn't seen or heard from his since he left for college.

Y/N just waves it off. "Have we ever been since I gained thinking of my own?" She says laughing but there's no humor behind it. The boys exchange a look and decide to just go with with. "You fellas in?" She asks as she turns into the motel parking lot, unclipping her seatbelt. "Yeah. All in" Sam and Dean say in unison.

"Alright, I'll call him and let him know we're on our way" Y/N nods, jumping out of Baby and Sam goes to the drivers seat. F/N inherited a bunch of safehouses scattered all over the US from his family. Coming from a long line of hunters, it made sense they had a place to stay when hunting. They were quite well off surprisingly. Last they talked, he was in the Texas safehouse.

They already packed their stuff, they just needed to come back for Quinn. She fishes her phone out to call her dad but no answer.

"That's weird" She mutters to herself. She calls again five times but it goes "This is F/N L/N, I can't reach the phone right now so you can call my daughter. Y/N at (your phone number). Have a good day". The personalized voice message says each time. The boys can see y/n panicking outside and Dean steps out.

"Everything okay, Princess?" He asks her concerned and she turns to him, worry etched over her face. "He's not answering. He never does that. Even if daddy is mad at me, he always answers" She hyperventilates holding up her phone. Dean wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

Sam sees this and now gets concerned,

stepping out. Y/N's back is to him. Dean puts his hand up in a "I've got this" motion while nodding.

"Hey shhhh, it's okay sweetheart. We'll go find him" He comforts her gently, shushing her. His tone is soft and gentle, patting her head as he holds her. "Do you know the last safehouse he was at?" Dean asks, his hands still on her face, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Yeah, Fredericksburg, Texas. It's a 12 hour drive" she says, nodding quickly. Dean doesn't hesitate. They hop onto their respective vehicles and make way to the safehouse.

Y/N POV

Fredericksburg, Texas.

I pull into the safehouse's drive way in a rush, parking Quinn and running over to the porch. Dean pulls in same time in Baby, Sam holding on for dear life as his brother drives like a madman.

I knock on the door harshly screaming "Dad!?!". No answer. I pull my keys out of my pocket, hoping he didn't change the locks. I feel Sam and Dean coming up behind me. Unlocking the door and stepping in, the house is quiet. Too quiet.

We all make way to the kitchen that is empty, I rush up the stairs to my dads room. Bursting in there's no one. "Daddy!? Come on old man this ain't funny!" I scream hysterical. Praying nothing happened to him. "Y/N!" I hear Dean scream from the living room and I run the stairs. He has a note in his hand and I freeze.

"You should read this" He says softly. I take the note from him, sat on the couch and began reading.

Dear y/n/n,

I found John. I'm sorry but I can't tell you where he is, where we're headed or anything at this point in time. Do what you do best and kill as many evil bastards that go bump in the night. I am safe, John is safe so you don't need to worry, stick with Sam and Dean. You guys will protect each other.

To Dean I'm sure you're reading this too. Look out for Y/N. I can't tell you where me and your father are at the moment but soon we will meet again.

To Sammy. Please accept my deepest condolences, son. I understand the pain you must feel losing your girlfriend like that. Justice will be served, you can count on that.

Take care kids. Take care of each other.

Sincerely, F/N L/N

I finish reading the letter. Not knowing what I'm feeling. Fear? I think. Sad? Yes. Anger? Yep, that's the one. Crumpling the sorry excuse of a letter. I grab the vase that was next to me on the couch. "That SONUVABITCH!" I scream in a pure fury of rage. Throwing it at the wall causing it to smash into pieces. "Woah easy!" Sam and Dean try to hold me down from destroying to place.

Dean holds me into place, "We'll find them! I promise! We will!" He tries to calm me down but I just break down. Crying into Dean's shoulder. God I hate this. Sam looks at me, concerned and pity etched on his face. I finally get how they feel, not knowing where their dad is.

Sam walks over to us and wraps his arms around me and Dean. Now in a group hug. They comfort me the best they could but I can tell they're also pissed at the fact that my dads withholding information on where their dad is.

________________________________

Third Person POV

Sam, Dean and Y/N are at The Lynwood Inn Hotel. In its restaurant, Dean and Y/N are sitting at table after eating breakfast, looking over the newspaper for possible hits on cases.

A sexy waitress dressed in a rather revealing top and shorts comes up to them, leaning over infront of Dean. "Can I get you anything else?" She asks sultry. Dean looks up and Y/N look. Dean has his pen in his mouth tugging on his bottom lip, smiling.

Y/N's eyes trail up the girls toned body, checking her out but more subtly, not really in the mood to gawk. Noticing the way Dean is looking at the waitress, she clears her throat saying, "Just the check please" smiling tightly. "Okay" The waitress' smile at Dean drops and she awkwardly walks away.

"You know Y/N, we are allowed to have fun a little every once in a while." Dean grumbles, turning to Y/N. Pointing to the waitress walking away he says, "That's fun" and Y/N rolls her eyes annoyed. "I know how to have fun" She says scoffing, in an offended tone. "Really?" He smirks, intrigued. "When was the last time you had a hookup?" He asks probingly. "Little on the nose don't ya think?" She says cocking her eyebrow.

He puts up his hands in surrender. "Hey we're all friends here" He says chuckling. "Alright" She shrugs, sitting up properly. "Last time I had a hook up was.....the night you called me to and told me your dad was missing. Funny enough, I forgot his name and right as I was about to leave for the road to meet you. He woke up. He told me it was nice to meet me and I said 'You too, Mark'.... His name was Max" She says honestly and Deans mouth is agape.

Dean did not expect her to be that honest. He was teasing mostly, he knows Y/N is a very sex-positive confident woman who's comfortable in her own skin with every damn right to be. But thinking of another person with Y/N intimately, for some reason it makes his skin crawl and his chest hurt.

Y/N snorts at his facial expression, putting up finger on his chin to push his jaw back up into place. "Pick your mouth up from the ground there before you catch flies, Winchester" She says and Dean snaps out of it. He covers it up with a smirk.

"Damn princess, I didn't know you got on like that" he teases, his voice husky and her breath hitches in her throat. "Wanna find out, charming?" She retorts back, winking at him and biting her lips. Dean feels a heat growing in his stomach, his eyebrows shooting up. His heart is going crazy. God the things I would do to this woman. He thinks to himself.

Even if Dean could respond to that, Sam approaches the table, coffee in his hand and sits down next to Y/N. Unintentionally interrupting their "conversation".

"You two okay?" He asks, feeling like he just walked-in on something. Dean and Y/N were inches from each others faces. They turn their heads simultaneously when they hear his voice. Pulling back, Y/N clears her throat nodding, "Yeah, just looking out for some cases." She says, picking up back the newspaper, scanning it with her eyes.

Sam chuckles, hiding his smirk at their discomfort of him interrupting their little moment, shaking the sugar packet, tearing it open and pouring it into his coffee. "Here, take a look at this. Think I got one" Dean also clears his throat, trying to get rid of all his lustful thoughts, resting down the newspaper on the table.

Y/N's POV (excuse all the POV changes)

Holy fuck I should not be this turnt on right now. Why am I turnt on? Focus y/n focus! We need to find dad. I mean fuck, you're here turnt on by flirting with Dean and our fathers are missing. Real classy L/N.

"Here, take a look at this. Think I got one" Dean says, clearing his throat. He rests down the newspaper on the table and I pick it up scanning it. "Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin?" I ask questionably. Never heard of it.

"Last week, Sophie Carlton, 18. Walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water. Nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third Lake Mantitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were founded. Had a funeral two days ago" Dean explained and Sam chirped in. "A funeral?" He asks confused. "Yeah it's weird. They buried empty coffin" Dean says also confused.

"Could be for closure" I say shrugging and they look at me. "Closure? What closure?" Sam asks, amused. "People don't just disappear guys. Other people just stop looking for them" Sam shoots back shadily.

"Is there something you wanna say to us?" I ask ruggedly, crossing my arms over my chest. His face softens a bit, seeming to just remember that my dad is missing also. "I'm sorry y/n/n. But the trail for our dads....it's getting colder everyday. And your dad telling us he can't say where they are. It's all just- odd" He says softly and I bite my tongue because he's not wrong.

"Exactly, so what are we supposed to do?" Dean says. "I don't know. Something. Anything." He says annoyed. "You know what. I'm sick of this attitude. You don't think we wanna find Dad and Mr. L/N as much as you?" Dean says irritated. "Yeah I know you do. I-" Sam goes to say but Dean cuts him off.

"I'm the one that's been with him every single day for the past two years while you've been off to college, going to pep rallies. Y/N and her dad fell out but still talked more than you and dad did. We will find dad and Mr. L/N!" Dean snaps at Sam, authority in his voice and Sam's face drops. Ouch, that was harsh. "But until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there. Just like Okay?" Dean finishes and Sam sighs sadly.

Okay...awkward. The waitress from earlier walks past again and Dean's eyes roam her. I stew a bit and try to cut the tension. "Alright fellas, Lake Manitoc" I cheerfully with a fake smile and they both chuckle at my attempt to break the ice.

"How far" Sam asks.

________________________________

The Impala and Harley drive past a sign saying 'Welcome to Lake Manitoc WI.' Headed for what evil awaits us.

We pull up to Sophie Carlton's house, making our way to the porch of the rustic house. I knock on the door and a young man answers. "Will Carlton?" Dean asks. "Yeah, that's right" Will confirms.

"I'm Agent Fisher. This is Agent Ford and Hamill. We're with the U.S. Wildlife Service" I introduce ourselves, pointing to Dean then Sam and I flash him my fake badge.

________________________________

Will leads us out to the pier. An older man was sitting on the edge, looking out into the water. I assume that's his dad. "She was about 100 yards out" Will begins to explain, looking out at the lake sadly. "That's where she got dragged down" He points to the lake.

"And you're sure she didn't just drown?" Dean questions. "Yeah, she was a varsity swimmer. She practically grew up in that lake. She's ask safe out there as in her own bathtub" Will says.

"So no splashing? No signs of distress?" Sam asks. "No, that's what I'm telling you." Will says rigidly.

"Did you see any shadows in the water? Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?" I interject. "No I- Again, she was really far out there" Will crosses his arms. "You ever see any strange tracks by the shoreline?" Dean asks. "No, never. Why? What do you think's out there?" Will asks, now curious.

"We'll let you know as soon as we do" I say nicely, smiling at him. Me and Dean go to head back to our vehicles till we hear Sam ask Will, "What about your father? Can we talk to him?" Causing us to holt in our tracks and turn to him. "Look, if you don't mind— I mean, he didn't see anything. And he's kind of been through a lot" Will said, looking back at his father on the pier sadly. "We understand" Sam says understandingly and we all head back.

Now at the station, the boys and I try to dig deeper into the case. So we request to talk to the sheriff who isn't very compliant. "Now, I'm sorry. But why does the Wildlife Service care about an accidental drowning?" The sheriff asks us, skeptical.

"You sure it's accidental sir?" I ask him nicely. "Will Carlton saw something grab his sister" I insist. "Like what?" Jake, the sheriff, asks annoyed. "Here, sit, please. There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake" Jakes reassures us, offering the three of us a seat. I sit in between Sam and Dean.

"There's nothing even big enough to pull down a person, unless it was the Loch Ness monster" he says sarcastically and Dean chuckles. "Yeah. Right." Before looking at me and Sam with an exhaustive look. "Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still we dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep, just to be sure. And there was nothing there" Jake insists.

"That's weird though. I mean, that's the third missing body this year" Dean says, leaning forward in his seat. "I know. These are people from my town. These are people I care about" Jake says, sorrowly. "I know" Dean says understanding, nodding. Jake sighs, "Anyway...all this, it won't be a problem much longer" leaning back in his chair, shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks. "Well, the dam, of course" Jake says, as if we should've known. Right...wildlife service. The boys and I nod in fake realization. "Of course. The dam" Dean says, looking over to Sam and I. "It has...yeah...sprung a leak" Dean says. "It's falling apart. And the feds won't give us the grant to repair it. So they've opened the spillway" Jake explains, leaning forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table.

"In another six months, there won't be much of a lake. Won't be much of a town either. But as Federal Wildlife, you already knew that" Jake says, narrowing his eyes at us and I say "Yes sir, of course we did" smiling sweetly. We hear a knock at his office door causing all of us to turn our heads and in walks a beautiful woman in a white dress and brunette hair. "Sorry, am I interrupting? I can come back later" She says smiling.

We all get up and instantly I notice Dean checking her out. Ohhh boy, here we go. "Agents, this is my daughter" Jake introduces the woman as his daughter. Of course, Dean is the first to introduce himself. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Dean" He says, giving her his classic shit-eating grin and his hand to shake. "Andrea Barr, Hi" She says kindly, taking his hand. "Hi" He says charmingly and I internally roll my eyes.

"They're from the Wildlife Service, about the lake" Jake says. "Oh" she says and I see a little boy come out from behind her. "Oh, well, hey there sweetie. What's your name" I ask the little boy smiling. He doesn't answer or even look me in the eye and just turns, walking away. "His name is Lucas" Jake says and the boys and I look at each other in confusion.

"Is he okay?" Sam asks. "My grandson has been through a lot. We all have" Jake says somberly. "Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know." He says, patting Dean on his back as we walk out. "Now that you mentioned it, could you point us in the direction of a reasonably priced motel?" Dean asks Andrea. Me and Sam look at each other like, "this dude ugh".

"Lakefront Motel. Go around the corner, it's two blocks up." She says, me and Sam turn to leave but Dean being Dean, acts clueless. "Two..? Would you mind showing us?? He says and Andrea chuckles while me and Sam roll our eyes simultaneously. "You want me to walk you two blocks?" She asks. "Not if it's any trouble" Dean smiles. "I'm headed that way anyways" She says and we all nod. "I'll be back to pick up Lucas at 3. We'll go to the park, okay, sweetie?" She tells her dad and then turns to Lucas kissing his head. We thank Jake again and we leave.

________________________________

Now walking down the street, Dean perks up conversation. "So, cute kid" He says. "Thanks" She smiles as we cross the road to the motel. "Kids are the best huh" He says and I cringe at this, holding back my snicker. I look over at Sam who's doing the same as me. Andrea doesn't answer and just says. "There it is" Gesturing to the motel. "Like I said. Two blocks" She says sarcastically. "Thanks" Sam says.

"Must be hard, with you sense of direction. Never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line" She adds and I burst out laughing while Dean glares at me. Andrea smiles at my reaction while Sam puts his hand over his mouth. Holding his laughter back. She crosses the road yelling out "Enjoy your stay!".

"Dude, she just owned you" I say to Dean, laughing. " 'Kids are the best' " Sam mimics Deans statement from earlier, giving him his classic bitch face. "You don't even like kids" Sam says, matter of factly. "I love kids" Dean tries to convinces us. I snort, "Name three kids that you even know" I retort, pushing my hands in my pocket.

Dean puts his fingers up, trying to think but fails. I roll my eyes, Sam waves it off annoyed and we walk into the motel. He scratches his head, stumped. "I'm thinking" He lamely says, me and Sam just ignore him and go to book a room.

________________________________

Now in the motel room. Sam's researching on his laptop, Dean's sorting out his clothes and I'm by the window smoking a cigarette trying to call my dad again. 'This is F/N L/N, I can't reach the phone right n-'

I cut the phone off, huffing in annoyance. I toss my phone on the bed almost hitting Dean. He looks at me with a concerned expression as I out my cigarette and put it in the ashtray the motel had on the nightstand. "We'll fi-" He goes to say and I cut him off. "Yeahyeah I know, we'll find them" I sigh, slouching on my bed.

He just frowns at me and I feel bad for snapping at him. "Dean I'm sorry I'm just- I just don't know why they would do this" I put my head in my hands, running them through my hair. I feel the bed next to me sink, I look up to see Dean next to me. I just look at him frowning then he rests his arms around my shoulder from the side and starts singing.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad.

Take a sad song and make it better."

I start laughing, groaning in mock annoyance.

I smile thinking about the memories of Dean singing that song to me and Sam when we were little. Whenever John and dad were on long hunts, me and Sam used to get grouchy, asking all sorts of questions and Dean would calm us down by singing it. Honestly I think singing it for calmed him down also.

"Remember to let her into your heart,

Then you can start to make it better."

"You're such a dork!" I exclaim, pushing his hand off my shoulder laughing. "I got you to smile, didn't I?" he winks at me, a wide grin on his face and my heart melts for some reason. "Thanks for that, charming" I say gratefully, looking into his eyes. "Anytime, princess" He says sweetly, chuckling. Staring back at me, I could've sworn his eyes glanced down to my lips.

"So, there's the three drowning victims this year" Sam interrupts us. "And before that?" I ask, clearing my throat and snapping out of the trance I was in. "Uh...yeah...six more spread out over the past 35 years. Those bodies were never recovered either" He tells us. "If there is something out there...it's picking up its pace" I say, crossing my legs as I lean back on the bed, bracing on my arms behind me.

Dean eyes me up and down subtly before clearing his throat. "So what? We got a lake monster on a binge?" He says. "This whole lake monster theory, it just bugs me. I say as I get up from the bed and walk over to the desk Sam's sitting at, taking a spare chair to sit on. I turn it around and straddle it next to Sam.

"Why?" Dean questions as he leans between me and Sam's chairs, looking at the laptop. "I agree" Sam says before he continues. "Loch Ness. Lake Champlain. There are literally hundreds of eyewitness accounts. But here...almost nothing. Whatever it is out there, no one's living to talk about it" Sam explains but Dean notices something in the article and points to it.

"Wait. Barr. Christopher Barr. Where have I heard that name before?" He says. "Christopher Barr, the victim in May." Sam says, clicking on the article. "Oh. Christopher Barr was Andreas husband. Lucas' father" Sam says, turning to Dean and I continue reading the article. "Apparently he took Lucas out swimming . Lucas was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned...two hours before the kid got rescued" I read.

I click on the picture of Lucas wrapped in a towel being held by a deputy. "Goddamn, poor kid. No wonder he won't talk" I say, my tone filled with sorrow, my heart starting to hurt for the kid. "Maybe we do have an eyewitness after all" Sam says, scratching his head sadly. "No wonder he was freaked out. Watching one of your parents die isn't something you just get over" Dean says in a benevolent tone, a flash of pain in his eyes. I rest my hand on his that's still on my chair comfortingly, sighing.

________________________________

Later we're at the park taking a stroll, kids playing, swinging on monkey bars, sliding down the swirly side. The works. We needed a little breather after reading that heavy article.

I see Andrea sitting on a bench looking out at Lucas, coloring and drawing with his crayons on a brick bench.

I nudge Sam and Dean to show them she's here, Sam nods at me and we approach her. "Can we join you?" He asks and she smiles at us. Hesitantly saying, "I'm here with my son". Dean looks over, smiling he says, "Oh. Mind if I say hi?" And he walks over to Lucas while me and Sam stay behind.

"Tell your friend this whole Jerry McGuire thing is not gonna work on me" Andrea says to me and Sam as we take a seat next to her. "I don't think that's what this is about hun" I tell her. I look over intently at Dean trying to talk to Lucas.

He picks up one of the action figures next to him that looks awfully like what he played with when we were young and starts playing with it. After about 5 minutes he comes back after talking with Lucas.

"Lucas hasn't said a word, not even to me" Andrea starts explaining to me and Sam as Dean walks back to us. "Not since his dad's accident" she says sadly. "Yeah, we heard. Sorry" Dean says, empathy in his voice. "What do the doctors say?" I ask softly and she sighs.

"That it's a kind of post traumatic stress" She says and I feel bad for her. Losing her husband and her son disappearing emotionally infront of her could never be easy. "That can't be easy for either of you" Sam says. "We moved in with my dad. He helps out alot. It's just....when I think about what Lucas went through....what he says..." She says trailing off.

"Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with" Dean reassures her. "You know, he used to have such life" Andrea says, smiling nostalgically. "He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there....drawing those pictures, playing with those Army men. I just wish—Hey sweetie" She opens up but stops when Lucas comes over with a picture in his hand.

He doesn't look at any of us and just hands it to Dean. "Thanks. Thanks Lucas" Dean says smiling and I peer over to see what it is. It's a picture of a house with a red roof and a grassy yard. Lucas walks back to his bench.

________________________________

Later, me and Dean are in the motel room on our beds when Sam bursts in. "So, we can safely rule out Nessie" Sam says. "What do you mean?" I ask him, confused. He sits on the bed next to us and starts explaining "I just drove past the Carlton house. There was an ambulance there. Will Carlton is dead" He says, agitation in his tone.

"He drowned?" Dean asks. "Yep, in the sink" Sam says. "What the hell?!" I say in confusion, Dean shakes his head at this. "You two were right, this isn't a creature, we're dealing with something else" Dean says. "Yeah, but what?" I ask.

"I don't know" Dean says. "Water Wraith, maybe? Some kind of demon? I mean something that controls water." He says and something clicks in my head. "Water that comes from the same sources...." I say. "The lake" Sam finishes. "Yeah" Dean agrees

"Which would explain why it's upping its body count. The lake is draining, it'll be dry in a few months. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, it's running out of time" Sam says. "And I'd it can get through the pipes...it can get to anyone, almost anywhere. This is gonna happen again, soon." Dean says, getting up from the bed.

"And we know one other thing for sure. We know that this has got something to do with Bill Carlton" I say. "Yeah it took both his kids" Dean says. "And I been asking around, Lucas' dad, Chris? Bill Carlton's godson" Sam rests the new information on us and Dean says. "Let's go pay Mr. Carlton a visit".

________________________________

We walk down the short pier and see Mr. Carlton on the edge, sitting on a stool. "Mr. Carlton?" I ask as me and the boys approach him, speaking softly. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind" I say. "We're from the Department—" Dean starts but Bill cuts him off.

"I don't care who you're with. I've answered enough questions today" Bill says, his voice absolutely broken. "Your son said he saw something in that lake. What about you? You ever see anything out there?" Sam asks. "Mr. Carlton, Sophie's drowning and Wills death, we think there might be a connection to you or your family" Sam tries to explain but Bill isn't having it.

"My children are gone" Bill says, his voice breaking. I can't imagine how this poor man is probably feeling. "It's.....it's worse than dying" He croaks, looking up at us, tears in his eyes. My heart grieves for him. "Go away. Please" he pleads and we comply.

"What do you think?" Sam asks us as we walk back to Baby. I left Quinn back at the motel. "I think the poor guys been through hell" I say. "But it also seems like he's not telling us something" Dean adds and I nod. "So now what?" Sam asks us and Dean has this look on his face. "What is it?" I ask Dean. "Huh" He says looking over at a house that oddly looks like the one in the picture Lucas drew. "Well I'll be damned" I say, chuckling, shoving my hands in my jacket pocket.

Dean takes the picture out of his jacket, "Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something" He says, opening the picture, looking over at me and Sam.

________________________________

We go to Andrea's house in hopes of Dean getting a word of two out of Lucas. "I'm sorry but i don't think it's a good idea" Andrea says. "I just need to talk to him, just for a few minutes" Dean insists. "He won't say anything. What good is it gonna do?" She asks.

"Andrea, we think more people might get hurt" Sam tries to reason with her and her face changes, worried. "We think somethings happening out there" I add. "My husband, the others, they just drowned. That's all" She tries to convince herself.

"If that's what you really believe, then we'll go" Dean says. "But if there's even a possibility something else could be going on here...please let me talk to your son" He pleads and she obliges.

We all walk up to Lucas' room, the door wide open. He's sitting on the ground, cross legged. Playing with his Army men, drawings sprawled out over the ground. Dean walks up to him and stoops at eye level. "Hey Lucas, remember me?" He asks softly, and I smile at his interaction with him. He wasn't lying when he said he loves kids.

Dean moves one of the drawing of a red bicycle and sits on the ground with him. "You know, I, uh...I wanted to thank you for that last drawing" Dean says gratefully before adding. "But the thing is, I need your help again" He says but Lucas continues drawing. Dean pulls out the drawing he gave him earlier, placing it down in-front of him and asks him. "How did you know to draw this?"

"Did you know something bad was gonna happen?...maybe you could nod yes or no for me" Dean tries to get an answer somehow, but Lucas doesn't answer, he starts breathing faster and harder. I think he's scared. Dean notices this. "You're scared....It's okay. I understand" He says gently.

"See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom" Dean starts to explain and my heart sinks. He never talks about Mary unless it's 'finding the thing that killed mom'.

"And I was scared too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see my mom...I know she wanted me to be brave and I think about that everyday" He pauses, taking a breath. "And I do my best to be brave. And maybe your dad...wants you to be brave too" He finishes and Lucas looks up at him.

This shocks all of us, including Andrea. Lucas picks up a drawing and gives it to Dean. He says "Thanks Lucas"

________________________________

Sam, Dean and I are in the Impala after leaving. Sam is looking at the drawing that Lucas drew and gave to Dean. It was a house with a church in the background, a yellow bricked two story to be exact. In-front of the house is a gate with a little boy in a blue ball cap standing next to a red bicycle. "Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died" Dean says.

"There are cases where after going through a traumatic experience could make certain people more sensitive to premonitions, psychic tendencies" I explain, I remember my dad telling me that he and my mom dealt with a case like that yearsss back.

"Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow?" Dean questions and Sam shakes his head disagreeing. "It's only a matter of time before someone else drowns. So if you got a better lead please" Dean argues but I agree with him. "We still got another house to find. And I think you've got a point" I say. "Only problem is there's about a thought yellow two stories in this county alone"

"See this church?" Sam says, pointing to the church in the drawing and I lean over, looking at the photo. "I bet there's less than a thousand of those around here" Sam says. "Ohhh, college boy. Thinks he's so smart" I tease Sam and he chuckles before mumbling "Shut it" and I smile.

He turns to Dean, a heavy look on his face. "You know, um...what you said about mom...you never told me that before" Sam says genuinely but Dean brushes it off. "It's no big deal" He says but me and Sam look at him, genuinely worried. He catches us staring and cringes.

"Oh, god. We're not gonna have to group hug or anything, are we?" And we chuckle. "Oh shut it, Winchester. I give the best hugs" I tease Dean, leaning over from the backseat. I hug Sam from behind his neck.

"Don't I, Sammy?" Sam laughs and returns the hug, holding onto my forearms with his hands. "She sure does, Dean" Sam says in a suggestive voice, going along with it, smiling. Dean just looks at us, rolling his eyes.

________________________________

Next thing I knew, we were at the church that Lucas drew for Dean. Across from the house is a yellow bricked house, just like the picture. We all make way to the house.

"We're sorry to bother you ma'am. But does a little boy live here, by chance." I ask kindly ask the sweet old lady by the name of Mrs. Sweeney who answered the door for us. "He might wear a blue ball cap, has a red bicycle" Dean adds. "No, I'm sorry. Not for a very long time." She says sadly, looking at an old picture of a young boy and I couldn't help but feel bad for her.

"Peter's been gone 35 years now" Mrs. Sweeney sighs and continues to explain. "The police never....I never had any idea what happened....He just disappeared. Losing him....You know, it.... it's worse than dying" she concludes and the bells in my head ring. Me and the boys exchange a look and turn back to the woman.

"Did he disappear from here? I mean, from this house?" Dean swallows, gently asking her. "He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school...and he never showed up" She's on the verge of tears at this point. I noticed something on the mirror across the room, a picture of two young boys. Peter and one looking very familiar.

I pull it from the mirror, examining. And I turn it around. Written on the back of it was...holy shit. "Peter Sweeney and Billy Carlton, 1970" I read it out loud. Me and the boys basically haul ass out of there and back to the Carlton's house. "Thank you for time Mr. Sweeney" I smile softly at her before the three of us leave.

________________________________

"Okay, this little boy Peter Sweeney vanishes and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow" Sam starts. "Yeah, Bill sure seems to be hiding something huh?" Dean says and I nod in agreement. "And Bill, the people he loves are getting punished" I says.

"So what if Bill did something to Peter?" Dean says. "What if Bill killed him" Sam instigates. "Yeah, Peter's spirit would be furious. It'd want revenge. It's possible" I say as we pull into Mr. Carlton's house. We all jump out of Baby and call out for him. "Mr. Carlton!" Sam calls out for him but no answer.

"Hey, check it out" Dean draws our attention to the lake. In the lake is Bill going out on his boat. Oh no. We all run towards the pier in a hurry. "Mr. Carlton! Come back!" We all begin yelling when we reach the edge of the pier but he keeps going further. "Please! Don't do this!" I scream, waving my hands in the air but he doesn't listen.

"Turn the boat around!" Dean yells. "Mr. Carlton!" Sam yells. Bill looks back at us and keeps going fast. In a split seconds, his boat is thrown into the air. Toppling over, causing the three of us the flinch. The boat falls top first and sinks into the lake. Son of a bitch.

________________________________

We call in the "accident" and all head back to the station. Jake just behind us. Entering the station, Andrea sees us. "Sam, Dean, Y/N. I didn't expect to see you here" She says surprised. Jake looks shocked at her friendly demeanor.

"So now you're on a first name basis? What're you doing here?" He says, slightly annoyed. "I brought you dinner" Andrea says and Jake sighs. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't really have the time" He says, taking his jacket off and her face drops. She looks over at us and notices the look on our faces.

"I heard about Bill Carlton. Is it true? Is something going on with the lake?" She asks, crossing her arms. "Right now, we don't know what the truth is. But I think it might be better if you and Lucas went on home" Jake says to his daughter and we look over at Lucas. And uneasy look on his face. Lucas runs and grabs onto me and Dean's arm. Pulling him frantically, panicking.

"Lucas! Wait, what it is?" He asks him, concerned at his erratic behavior. "Lucas!" Andrea says, pulling Lucas off of Dean. I kneel down and say, "Lucas it's okay. Hey sweetie. It's okay." I rest my hand on his head comfortingly, calming him down. Andrea ushers him out of the station and he looks back at me and Dean. A worried look on his face.

Jake dashes his coat in anger on the chair and goes into his office as Dean and I look back at Lucas. We all file in after and Jake begins chewing us out "Okay, just so I'm clear...you see something....attack Bills boat....Sending Bill, who is a very good swimmer.....by the way. Into the drink and you never see him again?" Jake asks suspiciously.

"Yeah. That about sums it up" Dean says as we all nod. "And I'm supposed to believe this? Even though I've already sonar-swept that entire lake. And what you're describing is impossible??" He says, getting agitated. "And you're not really Wildlife Service" he adds and our faces drop. Oh shit. "That's right, I checked. The Departments never heard of you three" He says, his tone accusatory.

"See, now we can explain that—" I try to explain, lying my way out but he cuts me off. "Enough. Please." Jake says fed up. He's not even yelling. "The only reason you're breathing free air is one of Bills neighbors say him steering your that boat just before you did" He says. "So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton's disappearance or we can chalk this all up to a bad day. You get into your car, you put this town in your rear-view mirror and you don't ever darken my doorstep again" He points his finger at us angrily, giving us an ultimatum.

"Door number two sounds good" Sam says, cheekily. "That's the one I'd pick" Jake growls and we all leave. Something doesn't feel right however. This is going to happen again and Jakes failure to compliance will cause many deaths.

________________________________

We all left for the motel to pick up my bike and are now at the turn off into Milwaukee waiting for the light to change. I'm next to The Impala on Quinn, the windows rolled down.

The light changes and I see Dean doesn't move. Flipping the visor of my helmet up, I hear Sam sarcastically. "Green" to his brother. "What?" He asks, clearly deep in thought. "Lights green" I say and they turn their heads to me, outside on my bike.

Dean looks at me and waves his finger in the air in a circular motion, indicating for us to turn back around and go back to Lake Manitoc. I couldnt just left just like that either. I sigh, nodding and flipping my visor down. Following behind him.

We're now back at Andrea's house. Me, Sam and Dean are at her front door when Sam begins to get skeptical. "You sure about this? It's pretty late, guys" Sam says impatiently. Neither of us answer and I ring the door bell. Almost immediately after I do this, the door flies open. A panicked and scared Lucas opening it.

He's gasping for air and this alerts us all. "Lucas? Lucas?!" Dean grabs a hold of him but he runs off into the house, we all follow behind quickly. He runs up the stairs and as we follow behind it, we notice it's flooded with mucky water coming out of what seems to be the bathroom.

Lucas tries knocking the door down but I pull him aside and kick it down. Inside is Andrea, drowning, being pulled down in the tub. Me and Sam run in, trying to pull her out but she's being held down tightly. Dean stays outside with Lucas, shielding him from the sight.

Me and Sam groan and scream from the pressure that's pulling her down but eventually get her up, falling over onto the ground with her onto of us with her gasping for air.

________________________________

The next morning, Andrea is all dried up. Me and Sam are in her living room trying to comfort her. Dean went to look for some kind of clues on what's going on. "Can you tell us hun?" I ask her calmly, resting my hand on her comfortingly. "No....It doesn't make saying sense. I'm going crazy" She sobs, looking up and putting her face in her hands.

"No, you're not" Sam reassures her. "Tell us what happened. Everything" He says. She takes a deep breath, recollecting her self and thoughts of the events prior. "I heard....I thought I heard...There was this voice" She breathes out, trailing off. "What did it say" I ask gently. "It said... 'Come play with me' " She says, fearfully, starting to sob again at the thought. "What's happening?" She asks, panicked.

Not too long after, Dean rushes downstairs with a photo album labeled 'Jake, 12 years old'. Resting it opened on the table, on the page is a picture of a group of Boy Scouts. He turns to Andrea and queries her, "You recognize the kids in these pictures", pointing at the group picture as he leans on the table. "What" Andrea asks confused.

"Oh, hmmm...No. I mean, except that's my dad right there. He must've been about 12 in these pictures" She says, pointing at the young boy, standing next to Peter Sweeney, our vengeful spirit. "Chris Bart's drowning, the connection wasn't to Bill Carlton. It was the sheriff" Dean says, turning to us. "Bill and Sheriff. They were both involved with Peter" I clarify, referring to the picture of Peter and Bill.

"What about Chris? My dad? What are you talking about?" Andrea asks us, panicked and confused. "Lucas?" Dean says worriedly, looking at Lucas who's staring out the window."Lucas, sweetie, what is it?" I ask gently but he stares ahead, opening the door and we all follow out into the yard.

"Lucas? Honey?" Andrea's voice is shaky, trying to break through to her son. Lucas stops at a random spot in the yard, looking down it and back up to Dean. I get an eery feeling from it. "Why don't you and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?" I say softly to Andrea, she looks at me then at Dean who nods his head and then she grabs her son. Dragging him back to the house.

The boys and I get some shovels that were in Baby and begin digging. After a couple minutes we hit something solid, now using our hands to dig it it out. I grabbed onto what felt like a handle and with the help of the boys we pulled it out. Buried is a red bicycle like what Lucas drew. Holy shit. "Peters bike" Sam says.

We then hear a familiar voice and the cocking of a gun behind us. "Who are you?" Jake, the sheriff, has his gun pointed at me and the boys. "Put the gun down Jake" I said firmly. Jakes trembling with anger. "How did you know that was there" He asks, terrified. "What happened? You and Bill killed Peter? Drowned him in the lake and then buried the bike?" Dean says accusatory.

"You can't bury the truth Jake. Nothing stays buried" I say harshly. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Jake denies it and I shake my head. "You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney thirty-five years ago. That's what the hell we're talking about" Dean says, not letting him up.

"Dad!" Andrea yells, seeing her father pointing a gun at us. "And now you've got one seriously pissed of spirit." I interject. "It's gonna take Andrew, Lucas, everyone you love. It's gonna drown them and it's gonna drag their bodies to God knows where. So you can feel the Sam pain Peters mom felt" Sam says lowly while Jake glares at us and Andrea looks terrified.

"And then, after that, it's gonna take you. And it's not gonna stop until it does" Sam finishes. "Yeah? And how do you know that?" Jake presses. "Because that's exactly what it did to Bill Carlton" Sam says. Jake shakes his head in denial. "Listen to yourself. Both of you, you're insane" Jake says. "I don't really give a rats ass what you think of us, but if we're gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them and burn them into dust" Dean explains to him harshly and Jake has this look on his face of guilt.

"Tell me you buried Peter somewhere and tell me you didn't just let him go into the lake" I say suspiciously and he doesn't look me in the eye which only confirms my suspicions. "God dammit Jake" I growl. "Dad, is any of this true" Andrea pipes up. "No. Don't listen to them. They're liars and they're dangerous" Jake still denies the fact, still pointing the gun at us.

"Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad look at me!" She demands. "Tell me you didn't kill anyone" But just like before, he couldn't look his daughter in the eye. Her face drops, "Oh my god" she gasps.

"Billy and I were at the lake. Peter was the smallest one, we always bullied him. But this time it got rough.." Jake begins to confess. "We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to....but we held him under too long, and he drowned" Jake confesses sorrowfully and Andrea looks horrified.

Now turning to us, "We let the body go..and it sank" Jake says, turning back to his daughter. "Oh, Andrea. We were kids. We were so scared. It was a mistake. But, Andrea, to say that I have anything to do with these drownings, with Chris...Because of some ghost? It's not rational." He tries to justify their actions and to be honest, it sickened me.

"Alright, listen to me, all of you. We need to get you away from this lake. As far as we can, right now." Dean starts to instruct them but Andrea looks over and gasps. We all look in the direction she is and notice Lucas is out by the water. "Lucas!" Jake yells and we all burst into the direction he's in.

"Lucas!" Me and Dean yell as Lucas is sticking his hand in the water. "Baby, stay where you are!" Andrea calls out to her son but he can't heard us. Just before we reach the edge of the pier, Lucas is pulled into the water, I see the head of a little boy, pale, poking out of the water, looking at Jake. Jake notices this too and gasps. It has to be the ghost of Peter Sweeney.

Sam, Dean and I waste no time and dive headfirst into the lake. Searching for Lucas. I see Andrea taking off her jacket to jump it in but I stop her cuz the ghost could drag her down too. "Andrea! Stay there!" I call out to her. "No! Lucas!" She screams for her son. "We'll get him, just stay on the dock!" Sam instructs her as we look for Lucas.

"Sam? Y/N?" Dean calls out to us but we shake our heads. No sign of him. "Lucas, where are you?" Andrea sobs and we dive back down into the water to look for him. I hear Jakes voice on the surface, calling out to Peter pleadingly. "Peter, if you can hear me, please. I'm sorry" I resurface and see Jake getting into the water. "Jake get back! He'll take you too!" I warn him as Andrea pleads, "Daddy. Daddy, no!"

"Im so sorry. Let me- Lucas, he's just a little boy" Jake pleads, getting further into the water . "Please, it's not his fault, it's mine. Please take me!"

"Jake! No!" Dean yells out to him and Jake starts to struggle, being dragged down. "Just let it be over!" he screams. "Daddy! Daddy!!" Andrea screams for her father. Me and the boys dive back down. Me and Sam resurface back after not finding anything, looking over to Andrea shaking our heads.

Soon after, Dean resurfaces also, Lucas in his hands. I breathe out the breath I was holding back. If that little boy died, I didn't know if I could handle that.

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The next day. Sam, Dean and I are getting ready to leave the motel. Though we did save Lucas. I can't help but feel bad that Jake died doing it. We toss our bags in baby and I go to hop on my bike. But I notice Dean is awfully quiet, I turn to him.

"Look, we're not gonna save everyone Dean" I say calmly and Sam nods in agreement. "I know" He sighs. "Sam, Dean, Y/N" we hear a familiar voice call out to us, it's Andrea with Lucas. "Hey" Dean says smiling as Lucas runs up to us with a plate filled with what looks like sandwiches.

"We're glad we caught you. We just, um...We made you lunch for the road. Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself" She says smiling and Lucas looks up at his mom. "Can I give it to them now?" He says and a smile breaks across my face, it's so good to hear him talk, my heart bursts with joy.

"Of course" Andrea says, kissing Lucas on his head. "Come on Lucas. Let's load this in the car" Dean says smiling, talking Lucas to carry the sandwiches to the car. We watch smiling as they walk off and me and Sam look at her. He crosses his arms and I ask her softly "How're you holding up hun?"

She sighs before answering, "It's just gonna take a long time to sort through everything, you know?" She says and we nod understandably. Sam sighs and says "Andrea, I'm sorry". She smiles at us regardless and says, gratefully "You guys saved my son. I can't ask for more than that. Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to....hold onto that".

I understand where she's coming from. I'd hate to admit it, but regardless anything, my dad raised me the best he could. For a man who had no idea what he was doing, he taught me how to make it out there as a hunter. I love him through everything and the fact that he's missing with John who's also like a father to me. I'm worried to my core that somethings wrong.

We walk back to the car and see Dean high-fiving Lucas after he thought him the phrase, "Zeppelin Rules!" And I smile at this gesture. The smile leaves my face when I see Andrea lean over and kiss Dean. I feel an aching in my chest when she does it for some reason, like my stomach and chest is on fire.

Turning my head away so I don't have to look, Sam look at me with a twinge of pity. "Thank you" She says gratefully. Dean give a a small back, scratching his head, he looks at me and I don't meet his eyes. Clearing his throat he says, "Sam, Y/N move your asses. We're gonna run out of daylight before we hit the road" He walks over to the driver seat.

I head on over to my bike, starting her and revving my engine. And we're off.

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