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Alastor had always loved sewing. His mother taught him at a young age, impatient at always mending his clothing for him. He would run through the woods behind their cozy cabin, circling swampland and chasing rabbits, squirrels, and rodents until branches tore his clothes and skin. Great gashes formed along his shirtsleeves and the knees of his trousers, the too-long hems fraying and staining as he trod upon them. Then, finding the tears with his deft little fingers, he’d begin to fuss at them. He’d pull at the threads and shove the whole of his arm through the once-small holes, amazed at the way the fabric could degrade so quickly once that first cut had been made.
Worse still was the staining. The thin cotton offered no protection, so each pull of a briar on his clothes was a nick of his delicate skin. Blood leaked slowly from every laceration and—just as slowly—stopped, wounds scabbing over. Still, he paid no mind to the tearing of his own flesh in pursuit of his prey. The thin matchsticks he called his legs beat into the ground and he ran, faster and faster, chest burning from the strain but grinning all the while. Only when the creature found its way to true swampland would he stop and lean, panting, against a tree trunk. Despite his gleeful determination for the chase, his mother taught him better than to risk falling to the gators.
As he sunk down to sit in the muck, staining his backside, he’d spot the hole at his knee. Upon pulling at the edges, he would discover, with a hiss, a hole in his own skin. By then, of course, the scrape would be closed. He only ever fell at the beginning of his hunts, far too absorbed in the thrill of the chase by the end to lose his footing, and too distracted to notice something as slow as the forming of a scab. It was odd how they only seemed to form when one was unaware of it, as though the body couldn’t perform under scrutiny. Like breathing. A person needs to be distracted for their body to function, must rely only on instinct. Like his running.
Then he’d stick his nails under the scab and rip.
He’d pick at the healing skin, ignoring the pain or perhaps reveling in it, smiling all through his investigation. What was the scab made of? Simply hardening blood? No, blood itself would dry but never set that way, like icing hardening on his mother’s sugar cookies. How did it form at all? From the edges of the wound, as the skin slowly grew together? Or from the center, so as to protect the most sensitive parts? He resolved to study the wound this time, to observe the healing. But as his mother always said, a watched pot would never boil. He’d soon grow bored of watching the scrape slowly stop leaking clear fluid and drag his nails over the wound once more, letting the healing start fresh as he walked the long trek back to the cabin, mouth watering in anticipation of his mother’s jambalaya.
Other times, the creature wouldn’t make it to the swamp. Other times, it would corner itself against a fallen trunk too large to jump over and too entrenched in muck to crawl under, or a formation of rocks, or instead dive for safety into a burrow.
These times were Alastor’s favorites.
He, too, would dive at the burrow, or the corner, hands outstretched. The rabbits were the easiest to catch. They’d run, of course, but eventually they’d freeze. He’d snatch them by their long ears, their powerful back legs, their fragile necks. He’d hold one by the scruff, simply watching. Its nose would twitch. He could see the fear in its dull eyes.
Then he’d pull the creature close to his chest, stroking its velvet ears. They were so soft, and its body so warm, and its heartbeat so fluttery. He’d rub his fingers gently along the fuzz and pet carefully down its back. He’d feel it shaking in terror, but still he’d stroke its fur, moving eventually to feel the pads of its feet, but always returning to the lovely ears.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the rabbit would relax. Its heartbeat, still so much faster than his own, would slow from a flutter to a quick drumbeat. Its shaking would quell. Its eyes would dare to blink, then dare to close from its horrified stare. It would sink into his arms, dare then to lean into his touch. To trust him. Then, ever so gently, his little fingers would find their way back to its neck, rubbing the underside of its chin. Then he’d snap its neck.
The rabbit would tense for a fraction of a second, then slump entirely, as a marionette with cut strings. Its whole body would relax in a mockery of its earlier trust. Smiling, Alastor’s hands would return to its velvety ears.
Of course, this was before his mother trusted him to carry a pocket knife. That little folding blade opened a new world to him. As soon as she presented it, he ran towards the woods to test it on the bark of the nearest tree. But before he could make it past the yard, his mother warned him that the knife was to be his responsibility.
“If you dull it, you’d best sharpen it,” she said, “or it won’t be much use, will it? And you’ll clean it, and you make sure not to lose it, ‘cause when you need a new one it’ll be your pocket money.”
So he wouldn’t test it on a tree. Surely the bark would be too rough. A hanging vine, perhaps? That wouldn’t be any test at all, not for his knife. Before he could consider his options further, he heard a rustle. He turned his head towards the noise, to the rushes, where they shook slightly from a movement within. He caught a glimpse of brown fur, and before he could think his little knife was in his pocket and the hunt began.
First, he crept quietly to the rushes, alert to every sound. The rustling stopped. The creature stilled. He pushed closer, shortening the distance between him and his prey as much as he could before it gained the advantage. He was only inches from the high grass when it rustled loudly, the rabbit taking off, and he followed.
His feet beat into the wet ground, the rabbit’s great hind legs doing the same. It dodged trees and ducked under logs and Alastor followed, leaping over fallen trees nearly as nimbly as his prey. He tore around corners at breakneck speeds. Branches accosted him at every turn, but he simply batted them away, and they raked at his sleeves as they fell back into place. He zipped around another tree, shoes skidding through a particularly slick patch that sent him crashing to the ground, faceplanting into the mud. But the rabbit wouldn’t escape him. He forced himself back up in an instant and returned to his chase.
Just as his chest began burning, he had his break. The rabbit darted off its course and ducked into a hole in the roots of a tree. Grinning wider than before, he fell onto the ground after it and shoved his arms into the hole. He felt around for fur and found it, but the rabbit’s teeth found the fleshy part of his hand, between his forefinger and thumb. He clenched his teeth but managed to grip its back leg and yank.
The rabbit struggled it his grip, but he held it tight. Eventually, as always, it stopped, and the only movement he could feel was its shaking and its heartbeat.
As he stroked its ears, as he pulled the creature close and let his face lean into its fur, Alastor remembered his brand new knife. With a glint in his eye, he knew exactly how to test it.
Moments later, he knelt over his handiwork, admiring the way the red poured from the rabbit’s open neck and pooled underneath, soaking into the muck of the swamp. He wondered how such a little creature could hold so much blood, and how much there would be in something larger. He wondered how the red could so easily disappear into the green-brown of the swamp. He wondered how much of the swamp was already blood, how much more it could hold before anyone took notice.
But then he had to put his curiosity on hold. His knife was dirty, and his mother said to take good care of it, after all.
He turned up at his doorstep wearing more mud and blood than cloth, smiling politely and inquiring when the gumbo would be ready. For his mother, that was the last straw.
“What’d you do out there, boy, roll around with the pigs?” she demanded. “And look at your sleeves, they’re shreds! Your clothes won’t be nothing but patches soon enough!” She sighed. “You stay right there a min’, hon. I’ll bring a tub out, you ain’t gonna track that all over my house.”
She helped him scrub the caked mud from his skin and hair, patching up the worst of his scrapes and cuts, then showed him how to do the same for his clothes.
“Since you got that knife, ain’t no reason you can’t use a needle, too,” she told him with a firm nod, sitting him down beside her. “First thing’s the threading. You can try and poke the little hole ‘til you’re blue in the face, but if you just put the thread across your hand and roll the needle like this…”
Instantly, he loved it. The way the needle poked through the fabric, not leaving holes but easily finding its way between the fibers instead of through them. The way the tears came together, slowly but surely, and with the right stitch disappeared altogether. The way it occupied his hands but not his mind, letting him consider all the curiosities he loved to think of without growing restless. The way, with time, he could take a pile of cloth and some thread and turn it into whatever he pleased.
“Mama’s little helper, ain’t you?” she’d mutter towards her embroidery, smiling so much sweeter than usual, and he’d beam up at her from his own project.
He still ran through the woods, finding rabbits and petting their fur, but he’d bring them back for meat and scarves, and his clothes were hardly ever as mussed. Eventually his mother trusted him enough with his little knife to teach him how to shoot a rifle and let him take it with him on his hunting trips. With his new toy, he soon added larger animals to his list of prey. Wild turkeys, pigs, and once a gator that got too close while he shaved by the river, but his favorite quickly changed from rabbit to deer. They were such elegant creatures, long legs stretched to points but with perfect balance, antlers sprouting powerfully from their regal skulls, and the way they’d freeze just like the rabbits, the way they’d bleed out so beautifully, the way their intelligent eyes betrayed the life escaping them…
When his sewing, too, evolved, there was no other material to use but deerskin. Tanning the hide was a lengthy process—full of scraping and oiling and soaking for days on end—but like most challenging endeavors, it was well worth the effort. Once the skins were prepared, he set to forming the effigies. He made himself first, of course. He snipped a length of his own hair, grown out past his chin especially for the purpose, and stuck locks of it through the scalp of the naked figure using a needle with a broken eye. He made his own shirt and pants in miniature and pulled the doll’s arms through the sleeves. It was far too small to fasten with real buttons, but he sewed the little beads into the fabric nonetheless. The outfit was complete with his signature bowtie.
He held his creation in front of him. “Still not fully dressed,” he said, and pulled it closer to sew in its bead eyes and embroidered smile. “There.”
His own effigy complete, he moved to his next project. The face, the hair, the dress…soon his mother’s likeness smiled up at him from beside his own.
Alastor made a habit of creating these poppets for anyone he grew to know well. The grocer, the butcher, his colleagues at the radio station, and of course he extended this habit to his afterlife.
He began dolls of dear Niffty and Husker the very day they signed their contracts. The demonic nature of his compatriots had given him a bit of trouble, what with Niffty’s matchstick legs and Husk’s wings and catlike form, but he was nothing if not ingenious, and their twins had each sat smiling at him by the end of the night.
Now, needle grasped between his claws, he observed the newest additions to his collection. Red felt cheeks with a matching suit. An oversized bow and an eyepatch. A furred chest and extra set of arms. His reluctant coworkers all sat in a row before him, their earlier trepidation completely gone from their embroidered faces.
“Finally dressed, my dear Vaggie?” he said with a chuckle. He lifted her face with a claw. “Chin up, darling. I won’t let anything happen to this hotel, or the patrons.” His hand moved to the doll’s back, pinching at her neck and shoulders. “Always so tense. So much anger. Perhaps you’ll be in a better mood with some rest, it has been quite the day.” With a wave of his free hand, the effigies’ cabinet stood open, and he gently nestled Vaggie’s likeness into the plush blankets inside.
“And Charlie!” He stood her up by her hands, dancing and spinning her about the table. “Such a cheerful, charming belle! A shame I didn’t get to finish my song today, eh? Well, I’d love to continue our dance sometime!” He sat her back down on his hand, brushing her hair from her face. “But now’s not the time. Now, you should rest, yes? You’ve had just as eventful a day.” Stroking her hair the whole time, he placed Charlie’s doll beside Vaggie’s, leaning her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Goodnight, princess,” he said, patting her head.
“And finally…” Alastor sighed. Angel Dust had been a challenge, both as a person and as an effigy. Of course there was the problem of his fur, and collecting enough of it to cover the entire skin, but he’d had practice with Husk’s. His extra limbs had also been a trial, but again, Husk had been his guide. No, Angel’s biggest challenge—and the reason the poppet wasn’t truly as complete as he’d like to admit—came with his very face.
He plucked Angel’s likeness from the table, smile strained with annoyance. He examined the source of his problems, absentmindedly stroking the doll’s round cheeks. “Just what are those on your face, dear fellow?” The question had vexed him from the instant he met the effeminate man. “Extra eyes, like the arachnid you are?” If they were, they’d have to be made of beads. Tiny pink beads he’d only be able to acquire in bulk, and then he’d be left with a pile he’d surely never use. “Markings in your fur?” He’d use pastels then, as paints would compromise the fur texture. “Or just more of that gaudy makeup you wear?” In that case, he could leave the dots off entirely. He hadn’t included Angel’s eyeshadow or the girls’ lipstick, after all.
Lost in his thoughts, and frustrated at his lack of accuracy, he found himself fiddling with little details of the doll. He fluffed Angel’s impossibly poofy hair, smoothed the creases of the jacket, adjusted the bend of the legs and the shoulders of the lower pair of arms, anything to make up for the glaringly dotless face.
How could one demon get so under his skin without even being in the same room?
When he felt the air grow thick with static Alastor knew it was time to place Angel’s effigy in the cabinet with the rest. “Despite your grating personality, you do still need to sleep,” he muttered, tucking the doll into the blankets, “if that’s the sort of thing you do. Your activities do suggest more of a nocturnal inclination…”
He hummed thoughtfully and stepped back. He inspected his collection. Husk curled like the cat he was upon a balled-up section of blanket. Niffty was tucked in cozily, little but her single large eye peeking over the covers. Vaggie and Charlie leaned against one another, Angel laying comfortably nearby. A few of his fellow overlords and miscellaneous acquaintances sat around the unpadded perimeter—one television-headed overlord, in particular, bore a few small pins through the screen wishing him a permanent headache. His mother, remade almost as soon as he found himself in Hell, resting peacefully in the plush fabric exactly as he never could convince her to in life. And, of course, himself, standing at the corner. Observing. Protecting.
“Keep an eye on them, mon amie , will you?” he asked himself with a chuckle.
And with that, he closed the doors.
Throughout what was once known as the Happy Hotel, the staff and single patron slept soundly.