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After everyone had finished rebuilding the hotel, Alastor quickly left for his room. He was glad that he’d one of Charlie’s first aid kits in the wreckage of his radio tower, but it simply wasn’t enough to quell the bleeding from the wound in his chest, and he didn’t want to seem weak by the blood showing on his shirt. He pulled a small first aid kit from under his sink and wrapped a thick bandage around his wound. It was larger than he had realized, but it was fine. He could handle it. Once the gash was properly bandaged, he changed his shirt and rejoined the rest of the residents. They were mourning Sir Pentious together, sharing stories of the snake and smiling bittersweetly. Alastor had never cared for him after he had tried to attack the hotel, so he simply sat in silence and watched them. He was sitting there for an hour before he realized that he was shivering. His heart was beating faster than usual. That was odd. It had been a long day, perhaps he should just go get some rest. He excused himself and went to his room once again. Once upstairs, Alastor decided to listen to his radio and relax. As soon as he thought this, the old device crackled with static and began to play his favorite jazz station. He settled into his favorite chair and let the smooth notes wash over him.
Alastor awoke suddenly, a jolt of pain surging through his wound. His shirt was soaked through with blood, and his shaking had gotten worse. Maybe he should tell Charlie? In any case, he needed to change the bandages before going to get her. As he stood to make his way to the bathroom, the world shifted disorientingly. He tried to keep going, but got mixed around, winding up in the magical bayou he had just installed in his room a few hours prior. He turned to leave, but he was surrounded by the trees. There was no way back into his room. He was in the bayou by his human home. This whole Hell thing must have just been a dream. He had a body to bury anyway. As he turned to finish digging, a loud bang rang out through the forest. A searing pain shot through his head and he fell to the ground. Alastor knew that he had to run. Someone had shot him. They knew where he was, and they were going to see him with the body. He begged his limbs to move, to crawl away, to do anything, but they were frozen. He was paralyzed. He could feel every part of himself, but only move his eyes. He felt something sticky run down the side of his face and knew it was his own blood. He heard footsteps, but they weren’t human. A group of dogs was running towards him, growling. He couldn’t run or even protect his head. They began to tear into his flesh. Each one of their razor sharp teeth felt like a separate dagger, ripping him to pieces. He watched as the dogs tore out his organs, happily gorging themselves on whatever they could. The world unfocused again, and he was standing in a clearing. There was an odd sense of deja vu about it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Just as he was pondering the oddness of the situation, a large beast lumbered out of the trees. It was easily thirteen feet tall, its skin clinging to its bones as though it hadn’t ever eaten. Sharp fangs lined its mouth, easily displayed through its lack of lips. They appeared to have been chewed off, as though the monster ate its own flesh in its desperation for a meal. Odd tufts of rough fur covered its body, and sunken yellow eyes stared Alastor down. The smell of rotting meat emanated from the beast, and Alastor couldn’t help but cough. The putrid creature lunged towards him, biting his arm and sinking its teeth in. The creature was freezing cold, as though no blood was in its veins. Then just as it appeared, the beast was gone. The cuts on Alastor’s arm healed in a matter of seconds, leaving an insatiable hunger in their wake. Everything blurred for the third time, and Alastor was back in his room. The amount of pain he was in was unbearable. His room was dark. How long had he been out, experiencing horrible visions of his past? He felt feverish and cold, but couldn’t pull himself off the floor. He realized in horror that he was lying in a pool of his own blood. There was so much of it. Why hadn’t the cut stopped bleeding? Was there more to angelic light than he had thought? This was the last thing Alastor thought before he slipped into the blackness of death.
The next morning, Charlie would get worried when Alastor didn’t show up to breakfast. She would go up to knock on his door, and would gte no reply. She would then enter and find Alastor dead in a large pool of his own blood, lying on the grass a few feet into his bayou. She would scream a blood curdling scream and the other residents would rush in. They would see him too, and be terrified. Not because he was dead. Not because he was bleeding. Not because they hadn’t known he was injured. No, that was a shock, but not enough to terrify them. The terror came from the vacant smile still etched into his face, unmoving and unphased. Was that smile as much of a tool as he had made it out to be?