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An enigma with a charming aura. Everyone knew who she was, but there was an unspoken rule not to talk to her. Most sinners were too scared to even talk about her. As if it would bring a curse on them.
Most of the Pentagram City inhabitants knew her by Rosalia because of the roses that adorned her feathery hat. Roses that grew from the eye sockets of an unidentified skull resting on the crown of it. Hushed whispers told stories of Cannibal Town, the strange territory under her control. A guarded place that seemed just as closed off from the world’s knowledge as she was.
Tales spun of what happened to the souls she lured away with her irresistible smile and charisma. Usually she went after powerful overlords and won their hearts with her spells. On occasion she targeted younger men and women who reckoned that a small conversation was the polite thing to do. Conversations just long enough to ensnare them in her witchcraft.
But what happened to them was a mystery. The victims never remanifested as a sinner ought to do after dying, raising all kinds of questions and rumors. Was Rosalia an ancient power that defied afterlife law? Were the victims converted into her hoard of mindless citizens? Or something else entirely? Sometimes that curiosity alone compelled the younger sinners to avoid the cautionary tales. In other rare cases, a new sinner was just too fresh to even know the horror story they were stepping into when she came out to hunt.
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A clumsy young lad, fresh out of the fates’ hand. His death had been so sudden and unexpected that the reek of Hell came as a rude awakening. But who was he kidding? Of course he knew his luck would run out eventually, it just so happened to be much sooner than he thought. Someone who was so eager to embrace the unknowns of the future would surely pay for the risk at some point.
The hands of fate also have their way of being cruel; Bestowing punishments upon souls as seen fit. This lad earned himself a head made of plastic, glass, and metal. A clunky square television with his face lighting up the front in sickeningly bright RGB. Even among the exotic sinners around him, he seemed to be an anomaly. Why shouldn’t they be scared?
For Earth, television was the shiny new novelty. The technological box capable of displaying images from miles away. Bringing people under its spell just as the radio did before it. Bringing both awe and fear as humanity questioned its future. For Hell, it was a mystery. A curse. Deemed just as forbidden as the cannibal huntress. An object of the unknown.
Nobody dared to speak to him. Not even attempt to mug him, which was a surprise in these evil-infested streets. for all they knew, he was an omen of bad luck. Something inorganic, but not entirely mechanical. A creature riding on the line of alive and double dead.
When her warm voice reached out to him, it was like a comfort that he’d missed for all the weeks since manifesting here.
“Why, hello, dear! You are a unique young man, aren’t you?” Her tone sounds sweet and kind. The voice of one who only wants to lend a helping hand.
He blinks. Processing if she was indeed talking to him or something else. The puzzled look that flickered over his monitor brought a chuckle from the woman.
“I mean you! Yes, you! What’s your name?”
He stutters for a moment. Still not fully acclimated to the way his voice vibrates out from the speakers on his head. “I’m Vox. Or at least that’s what I’ve taken up calling myself, ma’am.” His manners were as sharp as ever. What a delight.
“Vox certainly has a ring to it! It sounds just as unique as you are. You may call me Rosie.” Her cheerfulness and giggles somehow makes him feel safe. Invited. Wanted. Someone in this wretched Hellhole actually wanted to talk to him. “I don’t mean to bother you, young man. But do you happen to be new around here?”
Another blink. Time seemed to disappear in this realm, nothing but a 12 hour clock and one’s own diligence to keep track of a never-changing red sky. No planets or stars to follow. Only one burning light in the sky that never moved. “It’s been a few weeks, I’m sure,” he recalls, “Why?”
“Oh! Very new! Have you happened to hear about Cannibal Town?” Her friendliness almost makes him forget to question the ominous name of the town.
“I…Have not.” He muses back. Eyeing her somewhat suspiciously.
“Well despite the name, it really is a pleasant place! We’re having a dance party in the square if you’d like to join!”
Vox considers her offer. Given the other names he’s seen in Hell…the Doomsday District, Red Light Town, and the like, this doesn’t sound like the worst. Even if it was crawling with real cannibals, they would have very little interest in his biomechanical body. Perhaps this could be fun. Afterall, since he died once, dying again couldn’t be too bad. He accepts the offer.
Rosie leads him on.
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Vox’s mind conjures up images. Expectations. Streets full of blood, rabid beasts running with viceral in their mouth, hungry eyes staring at him. The fantasies raced. Swirled. Suddenly he feels like this is a bad idea. A weird sinking feeling in his gut.
All those anxieties subside when they arrive. Citizens are nicely clad in the wear of early 1900’s America. Everyone is smiling and orderly, hardly even batting an eye in Vox’s direction. They set up the square for the party, designating a dancing space and the feasting tables. A sigh escapes when he realizes all the worrying was for nothing.
“This is a nice setup you’ve got!” Vox chimed. Not knowing that every step drew him further into the trap. Every glowing smile, playful strum of instruments, lively tap of dancing feet. Nothing but a show to draw in the ignorant soul.
Vox dances with them in their energetic steps. Caught up in the music and the rhythm. The way they all seem to sing in unison, like one voice shared among a throng of bodies. Every worry he might form just completely dissolved in the face of it all. Replaced only with his own smile and blind joy. For the first time since coming to Hell, he doesn’t feel like the stranger or the bad omen. He feels like one of them.
Even if he can’t eat their food or sing their songs by heart, something about being here makes him feel like he could stay forever. Time dissolves even further as the party wears on. It almost surprises him when citizens retreat to their homes. How long has it been? His body feels like it just started. Rosie’s hand rests on his shoulder softly. “Ma’am!” he squeaks in surprise, “I suppose I should be going home now, too?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Rosie’s voice drips with tenderness, “You are home.”
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Vox’s feet feel stuck to the floor. Nothing holds him there except some strange decision weighing within himself. Like his body physically does not want to leave this place. Before he finds the will to say anything, Rosie is already filling the silence.
“My son wasn’t able to join the party. He’s awfully sad and alone. Won’t you at least meet him before you go?” Her voice sounds sincere. Something inside tells him that it’s not. But the thoughts running in his head do not follow the actions he’s taking, almost like a puppet being tugged along by strings. Not caring at all for the feelings of the puppet.
He’s following her without realizing. To a large building in the square signed Rosie’s Emporium. The door opens only to let them in, then closes behind. Somehow he knows that’s the sound of a cage door clanging shut. This is the point of no escape and he played along every step of the way. Chasing after every crumb of bait. All for what? To be another chapter in a larger series of cautionary tales?
But even though he knows this, there's no hurry to escape. If his story kept going, he can't see it getting any better than it has been. “Are you alright, dear?” Rosie's tender voice reaches out.
“As well as I can be.” He replies. His own voice dragged down with surrender and hopelessness. Nobody ever has taken him seriously. He's never meant anything. Never been important or powerful. Why start pretending, now that he's at the end of the line? Rosie's expression is soft, almost filled with pity, as she leads him to a changing room.
Everything in this emporium shines with gothic charm. Expensive. Classy. Like walking into a monarch's secret mansion. The light of his screen reflected back from the tile floors and shiny white crowning of the walls. Once they reach the room, he stands up on a small round pedestal. Mirrors surrounding him nearly on all sides.
“Stay here, sweetie. I promise everything will turn out alright for you.” The spell of her voice kept him calm, even when all else told him to be afraid. Nothing about this night set quite right. From the moment he saw the cannibals bringing dead bodies to the party, red flags waved in his mind. The uncanny kindness they displayed. The extreme cheer and perfect manners. One alarm after the other, telling him it was all too good to be true. Yet he danced right along. Sang their tune. Why? Was he that pathetic and desperate to feel wanted?
Suddenly a small creature catches his attention. A doll walks into the room, an assortment of different rough cloths sewn together. Moving entirely on its own with no strings or mechanical innerworkings. Vox’s skin crawls inherently, but inside he isn’t afraid. Unsettled at the worst. Something about the poor thing, the way it waddles and bumps into objects, gives him a sense of familiarity. Just like him, this strange little doll exists on the edge of alive and not quite.
“Hey there, little guy.” Vox smiles. The doll pauses. Looks up. Its button eyes fixate on his screen. Perhaps some sort of connection is taking place. Perhaps it’s another episode of false hope. Vox senses it might be the latter when more dolls come walking in. Dolls that are much more confident in their hand-crafted bodies. They bring along thread, needles, scissors, and other sewing tools. Fear rises up in his chest. “H-Hello there! There’s uh…there’s lots of little guys now, huh?”
The dolls all grin wickedly and show off their tools. He knows they aren’t in the business of kindness, but his movements are slowed. Body unresponsive to the barrage of thoughts in his mind. Before he knows it, the creatures are crawling all over him like bugs. Tugging at his clothes. Cutting here. Snipping there. Restraining him with threads to keep him from fighting. Their impish giggles ring into his head as he feels dozens of hands grabbing every corner of his frame.
“Be careful! Hey! Leave that on!” He protests as they slip off his suit and take the scissors to his pants. Little hands gripping his shirt and pulling it apart so that buttons fly across the room. The minions make quick work of stripping him bare before leaving the room. Vox pants softly in the silence. Stuck feeling vulnerable and forced to see his naked reflection in the mirrors.
He realizes that this is how he always feels. Undesirable. Subhuman. Nothing. The fancy layers he adds to his body only serve for decency and his own sense of self-worth.
Soon the dolls return bearing a white gown and strange jars. A few of the dolls crawl up onto his shoulders and he freezes. What were they doing? His curiosity was enough to keep him in place as they opened the jars. A spiced oil cascaded down his body, dressing him in a scent of cinnamon, myrrh, cane, and cassia. He never was religious in life, but this oddly makes him think of some holy oil. A purification of a sort.
Then the white gown is pulled over his body. The cloth absorbs the oil and spreads it evenly. Soaking him in the substance. The dolls also bring jewellery to adorn his body. Necklaces. Bangles. A white veil over his screen. For a moment, he feels like a bride. Being prepared for an unholy groom. Above that, he knows what this is really all about.
He’s being prepared as a sacrifice.
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Although the dolls have no expression, Vox senses that they are mourning for him in a way. Their sewn arms cross in front of their fat, stuffed bodies. Heads tilted downward. The changing room door opens. He’s free to move onto the next stage of this ritual. Part of him hopes he’ll see Rosie again. Perhaps get one last facade of love and kindness before this nightmare ends.
As he steps forward, his path is covered by silk cloth. Guiding him through the room. Down the hall. Candles light his path along the floor, but all else hides in darkness. Anxiety grows. His steps less sure. But he can’t stray from this path. He can’t even be upset. This is the way he paved himself, and deep inside he knows that this is the end.
The journey stops at the frame of a gaping door. The final room of this hellish maze. Vox pauses for a moment. Takes a deep breath. His only semblance of being alive. He finally steps in. The door locks closed behind him. Darkness is so thick that his screen can’t provide any sense of direction. There is carpet under his feet, though. A rug at the very least. A few steps forward. He trips over his own foot and nearly falls flat forward. What an introduction that would’ve been. Can’t even be a proper sacrifice.
He looks to the side and catches a faint glimpse of bone and fresh visceral. Something meaty and wet squishes under his foot. It doesn’t take a genius to put pieces together, and he’s relieved for his lack of a sense of smell. Having a TV for a head served him right for once. Another step forward. He knows he’s not alone. The darkness around him moves and shifts. Tricks of the imagination indiscernible from actual movement.
There's a puff of air on the back of his neck. The warmth dances all down his back and over the soaked gown. He stiffens. Fear seizing him up. Yet he doesn’t feel the need to fight or flail. This was just part of his story. A soul doomed by the narrative. A large tongue licks from the top of his back all the way up to the base of his monitor. It’s slimy. Perfectly smooth. Muscular. Like a tentacle that can constrict to separate the body from the head in moments. He already knows what his fate will be as the tongue wraps twice. Thrice. From the corner of his camera, he can see the teeth coated in angelic gold. Once those tear into him, there will be no pulling himself back together. No respawns, do-overs, or remanifestations…if they were ever an option in the first place.
One last sigh. He closes his eyes. Accepts as fate crashes around him.
But it’s not the fate he expected.
The monster drags him across the room until his back falls against something soft. It feels like layers of wool and blankets patchworked across each other to make a nest. The tongue unravels from his neck and a cold nose presses against his chest. Sniffing. Exploring. Going down to his belly, back up to his neck. Taking in the scent of the spices mixed with his natural scent. The creature’s clawed hands also feel over his form, flick at the shining adornments. He can’t help but giggle and squirm from the monster’s curious poking. “S-Stop it!” the words slip out his speakers.
A low, threatening growl chills his whole nervous system. “I-I’m sorry!” he can barely get the apology out before he starts shaking. Adrenaline-laced substance pumps through his systems– A fabricated form of blood. His built-in will to live suddenly outweighed any form of surrender. Somehow he felt there was a chance. A second chance to find purpose in this twisted afterlife. Every moment that passed without him being strangled, bitten, or torn apart filled him with this hope. Even if he couldn’t see the monster in the dark, he knew it was looking at him with curiosity. Familiarity. Fondness of a sort.
Suddenly its eyes lit up in the dark. Two giant red circles that resemble dials. Then a Cheshire smile colored in gold light. The very teeth that were supposed to permakill him were now emitting their own smiling glow. For a moment, they didn’t feel too different. Two faces trapped in the darkness. Eyes and a mouth shining at the other. Vox couldn’t help but reciprocate the smile. They didn’t need words, or to see what the other looked like. A small spark of violet electricity shot between their heads. A connection was made.
Can I touch you? See you?
Vox didn’t even say the words. It was a mere thought in his head. As if the beast could share his wavelength, the cold nose pressed into his hand. Hesitant at first. Then he gently slid his fingers over the monster’s likeness. It was human in a way, with a nose, eyes, and mouth in the places one would expect. The monster’s skin was plush like a baby. It had hair, too. Just as soft and pleasant to touch. The hair brushed along the shoulders and angled upward toward the back, giving way to the textural delight of shaved hair underneath. Just as Vox was prepared for this ritual, it seemed that Rosie made sure the beast was equally as suited. Or perhaps the beast was less of one than he thought, and liked to be primed even when nobody was looking. So many questions, too many theories, and not enough answers.
Vox’s hands felt down its neck to its shoulders, where the soft skin was replaced by velvety fur. As he went lower to the arms, the fur was thicker, longer, softer. Suddenly the beast leaned forward, pushing its chest fluff into his screen like a giant plush pillow. It may have been an hour, an entire night, or even a whole day cycle. But Vox stayed in that gentle giant embrace for as long as the beast would hold him. For the first time feeling wanted. Genuinely wanted. Belonging. Belonging to someone.
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“Good morning, Alastor!” A friendly voice spoke from the door. It was Rosie’s voice. She gasped softly at the sight in front of her.
Vox only woke up when he felt the warmth leave him. The beast hid from the light coming through the door, leaving the man alone on his bed. Unscratched. Unbitten. In one piece. Still adorned by his ritual dress and jewellery. He blinked and yawned. Focusing on the woman standing in the door with her mouth hanging open.
“I can’t believe it…”
“Believe what?”
Rosie ran to the bed and took his hands into hers. Excitement lighting in her eye sockets. “All these years, and you’re the only one he’s taken! He’s chosen you!”
Vox’s eyes trailed to the shadows of the room and the dimly glowing face. “Me? Why? I’m…I’m the opposite of special.”
“According to who?” Rosie turned her head sideways. Venturing to touch the side of his box-shaped monitor. “You are special. You’re a lot like him, aren’t you?” Her finger flicked an antenna, drawing out a spark of electricity. Somehow Vox knew what she was hinting at. Their powers. Their signals. Their wavelengths. Even though he hadn’t seen the beast yet, there was something undoubtedly familiar between them. Like they knew each other before they met. Again the question entered his mind.
Can I see you?
The beast brought its face into the light. It was everything Vox imagined when he felt it in the darkness. Soft like a baby. Curious. Bright-eyed with excitement and hope after finding someone it could relate with. Hair that looked and felt like silk. What he didn’t expect was the vibrant red color that dazzled across his color sensors. A black so deep it appeared nearly blue. Angelic gold teeth that could stop a riot with one smile. Atop the giant head also stood two fluffy deer ears that swiveled to the slightest hint of sound. But now they were angled forward, attuned to every noise and static buzz that Vox made. Every signal of thought. Despite the creature’s size, nightmarish features, and conventionally undesirable appearance…Vox had never felt more in love– More motivated to learn every facet of someone until it turned into obsession of the deepest kind.
“Alastor…” The name repeated on his speakers like a mantra. His pupils nearly turning to pixelated hearts. It sounded like the most beautiful word he’d ever heard. That was the beast, the man, the radio demon, who finally made him feel like his second life had a purpose. Like he wasn’t the odd man out, but simply hand picked by fate to connect with this soul in a way nobody else could.
The creature crawled out from the darkness and rested its large head in his lap. Alastor never slept. Never rested. Yet here his eyes closed as Vox petted his hair. Rubbed a thumb over the X between his large eyes. None of them knew exactly what this meant, or what the relationship would look like. But it just felt…right.
And the legendary Rosalia never hunted again.