[Fall-Winter 1907, New Orleans]

At first the change was positive. The child's mood had improved; his smile was less forced. He also pestered Bert less. But eventually, Alastor seemed to lose interest in Bert entirely, and upon investigating, Bert noticed some odd things.

He was concerned enough to think his son was talking to himself. The kid was too old for an imaginary friend, and he'd probably face ostracism in his future as it was. Bert ought to administer some tough love, wait outside the supply closet until Al came back out (How had he even gotten in?! Bert searched for that key for years!) and force him to accept that it was a closet, not some nonexistent person's house. To help him—he didn't want people laughing at his kid like they'd laughed at his wife!

Bert went downstairs for this purpose, only to stumble upon an unnerving display. The closet was no longer a closet, but a hallway. A long, grey, cold hallway. He slammed the door, reorienting himself before opening it again. He hadn't had that many drinks. Bert looked left, right, felt perfectly cognizant of his surroundings. Yet reopening the door yielded the same impossible sight.

Perhaps Bert saw the Hallway because, as a lonely widower with a deep emptiness inside, he'd also make decent prey. Had Terese appeared as his late wife, he may have willfully roleplayed in his sad, boozy haze, and offered her the last scraps of love in his heart. But that would be a short game, so currently Bert wasn't prey, and the Hallway didn't manifest as the warm astral tunnel seen by Al.

On the other end, Bert knew, was his son, with whom he had almost no relationship, but who, while not his friend, was his only ally in their shitty situation. His son, whom he desperately wanted to reach but couldn't. So the Hallway manifested warped and stretched. At the end of this featureless ash grey hall was another door with light beaming underneath. Through the tunnel, amplified by echo, came two voices—his son's and hers.

'Miss McGyver.'

'Aunt Terri.'

Bert shut the door quietly, unsure of the consequences of being noticed. Part of him considered rushing in to show the Thing what for. Another part insisted this wasn't real. Even if it were, the creature hadn't harmed Al yet, so the matter might not be urgent. But it was serious. Bert shakily climbed the basement stairs and retired to the comfort of his worn armchair, where he quickly downed another shot. It was possible he was losing his mind—what he feared most for himself and his son. But. But. A shared delusion seemed unlikely, right? Bert didn't know how delusions worked because he'd never been delusional. Right? Deep breath in, deep breath out. Surely even a shared delusion couldn't produce specific dialogue. He'd wait outside the door, memorize a few lines of conversation, and probe later.

Bert didn't end up needing specific dialogue; heard 'something, something, blanket.' Sure enough, about 10 minutes after Bert crept upstairs, the boy emerged from the basement carrying a thick knit blanket Bert had never seen before. It was into late November now, and although the nighttime temperature in New Orleans rarely fell below 50 degrees, this season had been unusually chilly. Still, Bert restricted the heat to save money. "Where'd you get that?"

Al pointed upstairs with one hand. "Attic."

"You just came from the basement," Bert challenged.

Alastor repeated confidently, "I came from the attic," with a look that made Bert feel ill. It was clear Al expected his father to be too drunk and confused to know the difference. The child marched away without another word.

Christ Jesus. The Thing was real.

Bert struggled to collect himself as the pieces started coming together. No way the Thing was anyone's fairy godmother—not at the end of that abominable death funnel. That was the monster under the bed or in (literally) the closet that children were supposed to dread. Maybe Alastor didn't fear it because he'd already been through such frightening things. The reasons didn't interest Bert much; he wanted solutions. He held a sneaking suspicion that the Thing was related to Camille's rapid-onset illness, and now, for whatever reason, it wanted his son. Or...did it want to pick them off one by one to get to his son?

Again, it didn't matter. Bert paid attention over the next two weeks and decided the Thing seemed confined to its den. If they went far enough away, it may be unable to follow. He was struck by the fact that this was not just an option, but an opportunity. The Thing was a blessing in disguise. Bert had lacked the motivation to do this earlier, but leaving and starting over was reasonable. He could find a place where no one knew his history and he could find a job, free of social stigma, and keep a job, because he wouldn't constantly be provoked by snickers over his shoulder. Go far enough North and the poor kid may take less undeserved shit. It could be so much better. Why did he feel tied to this house? Because of Camille? He hated it, but his beloved partner was gone. To hell with it. They were going.

To his shock, the boy was unconvinced that moving would improve things. Bert could've wrung his neck. Alastor usually grumbled about Bert's pessimism, yet here he was insisting people would be no kinder elsewhere, so it wasn't worth parting with his home? Unable to show the child reason, Bert cracked and launched into an unproductive screaming episode, driving his son away.

Bert ground his teeth in rage, hearing the closet door shut in the cellar, where his son had transparently gone to complain to the Thing. Soon, his anger morphed into anxiety. If the creature thought it had limited time to feed, would it slay his son immediately? Should he go down there?

While Bert hovered midway down the steps, listening for untoward sound effects, Alastor explained the dilemma. He delivered it in a 'bad news, oh well, things happen' tone but found himself genuinely disappointed. Terri had become his only human(esque) friend. Beyond that were other very sensitive things he disliked admitting. He felt weak—considering he'd gone without while younger—acknowledging it was nice having someone around being...nurturing. Caring about when he'd last eaten, how well he was sleeping, or where he was at all. Recently, for the first time, Terri had snuck into his room to check on him while he was down with a cold. He'd felt a jolt of genuine surprise when Terri said she was making sure he was okay, since he was usually in the den by that time. Al had meagerly resisted when she decided to sit with him while he rested—another novelty. He'd fallen asleep as she watched over him, hand on his shoulder. Al never knew he wanted that until he had it. He didn't want it taken away.

Terri washed dishes, back turned to the little boy, as she absorbed the news. Was she willing to travel to see him if his location wasn't conveniently near a door? Perhaps for a while, but she'd lose gumption once the relationship became an infeasible source of continuous sustenance that no longer offset the costs. Frustration that something came between her and food security was understandable, but the other prickly, empty feeling was more difficult to pinpoint. She hadn't expected to like him this much, she supposed. Terri usually found children's curiosity grating, but this one's not so much. After years of being expected to shut up, Alastor was a long way from how talkative he'd become, but he already asked a lot of questions, many clever enough that she could discuss topics she couldn't normally discuss with children. Others revealed close observation, or the ability to see things others couldn't, implying he cared about getting to know her. She wasn't sure any of the others had. Could she bear to lose it?

No, she couldn't. Which meant the beldam would finally have to take him by force. Trap him there. And that would ruin everything... Contrasted with the nutritious affection she received now, fear would be terribly disappointing. It would rot down to resentment, then hate. Then there would have to be buttons. And eventually, he'd—well it was always kindest to kill them quickly before they started eroding in the inhospitable pocket universe. What an awful death. She didn't want it to be this way...

Terri interrupted the anxious spiral, seeing she was worked up over nothing. She asked practical questions about how easy it would be for them to unload the house—which needed a lot of work—or even rent it, or if they had enough money to start elsewhere if they couldn't. When she turned around, the boy's face looked less grave. Terri smiled smugly and remarked, "You're not going anywhere."

Alastor parroted Terri's questions, and although Bert knew his son was uncommonly bright, he suspected another source. His frustration boiled over when Alastor finished with his own question: "Could you even drive?" After an icy silence, Bert administered a hard back-handed slap and marched back into the house.

While his son fumed on the lawn, Bert launched himself down the stairs and forcefully threw open the storage closet. As the door swung to the side, part of him wondered if his challenge would be disregarded. But it heard him. The long, narrow, and now much darker, charcoal grey Hallway stretched before him, with that sliver of light beneath the door at the other end looking sharp, like a blade. Bert steeled himself and entered, made himself walk at a steady pace with a firm step. "You!" His voice echoed just a bit. Was the hallway really that long? "I thought you were only hunting for food, but you hunt for sport, too, don't you? You wanna turn my kid against me? You like adding insult to injury?" Taptaptap. The thin line of light was now partly obscured by a shadow—a foot, with a heel clicking against the ground. Bert grimaced but kept advancing.

Jarringly, causing Bert to stumble, the Hallway elongated in front of him. The door was now a few extra yards away. "Afraid?" A grating noise behind him revealed the actual intent. Bert turned. As he'd woefully suspected, the other half of the Hallway hadextended, so the exit was farther away. Presumably, this would continue. She didn't want to get beyond his reach; she wanted him to be unable to escape to either end. So that what? He starved to death? Was forced to surrender? The Thing's desires were cryptic. "I doubt you're going to see him walk through here again if there's a dead body!" he snapped.

The Hallway inclined. The ground behind him sloped up, the ground before him sloped down at a rapidly increasing angle, and he slipped and slid down it like a ramp. The floor was smooth, without texture or detail, but it also seemed suddenly...slick...and warm...like a throat. Unable to gain traction, he tumbled straight into the door and hit with a thud, face-forward, with a sharp pain. His nose wasn't broken, but a splotch of blood was left on the doorframe. The doorknob didn't rattle, but Bert saw one of two heeled feet under the gap clicking its heel. The Hallway was so long now that it created a formidable echo. He scrambled as far up the incline as he could get.

For the first and only time, the voice addressed him. "There won't be a body." A voice should not sound simultaneously so soft and sweet, yet so deadly. Before Bert could scrape up the courage to open the door and confront the Thing face-to-face, it spoke again. "Get. Out." The ground inclined again in the opposite direction, nearly vertically, sending him hurtling toward the open door on the other end. The Hallway spat him out like expired food. Bert hit the concrete flat on his back with a loud "F***!" as the closet door slammed shut without his influence.

He reoriented dizzily, hopped to his feet, and tugged the handle. Stuck. "You are afraid!" he accused. "Think you're fooling anyone? Come out here!" Nothing. "COME OUT!" He kicked the door, leaving a harsh scuff. He should be able to kick it through if he wanted, but it seemed made of goddamn steel. "You can't win if you don't fight!" he barked and stormed away.

[X]

This creep couldn't possibly believe he cared enough for the child to deserve him, Terri thought angrily. Please! (In her state of rabid jealousy, Terri viewed Bert as the flat, one-dimensional villain that she—to her considerable pain—was in others' eyes.) She could also tell he blamed her for Camille's depression, and she felt affronted. Clearly Bert didn't realize how cruel he could be to his wife while blacked-out drunk. Terri would enhance his memory. His final accusation was what snapped her. That stupid hypocrite. Did he call his disgusting pity parade 'fighting?' No more of this nonsense. She'd speed things up a bit.

Terese chipped the blood off her front door and got to work in a single-minded, rage-driven frenzy. She ground the woodchips until they mixed into the fine sand filling she used to stuff the doll, then sewed it up. She held the finished product by the collar, glaring at its pitiful frowning face, before tossing it into a deep mixing bowl. Next to the bowl was a large bottle, filled with a concoction of her own making, which stung the eyes with the force of what seemed as potent as straight rubbing alcohol. She filled the bowl. The doll sunk to the bottom. The witch gripped the edge of her kitchen counter until her knuckles turned white, seething with hatred, and spat at it, "Drown."

There. If he didn't outright drink himself to death, that hex would make Bert all the more unlikeable to his son. Alastor would come permanently to her in no time.

[X]

Alastor found himself spending more time in the Other House. He'd nearly given up on his father, whose drinking had escalated severely. Luckily, while Bert rarely left the house for food, Terri could provide it plentifully. And attention, Al admitted to himself. Aunt Terri seemed to like him, to want to spend time with him; he didn't appear second best to anything. It was suspicious, almost too good to be true, but he'd found no evidence disputing that she intended to be his companion and protector, as promised. He was inexpressibly grateful for her.

Thrilled that her plan was working as intended, Terri was in a rosy cloud. The child at last saw she was best for him. He loved her, Terri hoped, then believed, with exactly the desperation you'd expect from someone who'd lived in a void for uncountable years. Those perpetually-falling rose petals in the windows of her 'trophy room' could freeze; her little prince had finally come. Convinced Alastor was sufficiently affectionate for her to make her case, she prepared to at last raise the issue. "Remember to be gentle, ma'am, and that it may take more than one try," Echo reminded her. The puppet servant knew its boss only half heard the advice, and it wished it had the nerve to warn out loud, 'He's not even ready to hug you yet! You cannot ask to be his mother!' Terri seemed blissfully unaware that her platonic adoration of the little boy rendered her as senseless as any of the hopelessly romantic heroes/heroines in her fairy tale 'scriptures,' whom she frequently mocked. The true love can transfix even a powerful, uncommonly intelligent supernatural entity. It's a deadly trope.

As they sat on the porch swing one evening, Terri chose a tiny miracle to perform ahead of her proposal to impress and foster closeness. She patted the seat next to her. "Come close, Button." A blanket appeared. "It's about to get cold." Al raised an eyebrow at her. "If I don't do this long," she assured, pointing at the garden, "they'll be fine."

The Other World's November fall colors were more vibrant than any climate in the real world could foster, and would be lovelier than ever twinkling with frost. The breeze became frigid. Al scooted nearer to Terri but didn't fully lean against her until distracted by the snowflakes, which shone artificially brightly, as if sparkling with light from within, like stars. He was reminded of the bright flecks in her deep blue eyes. The blanket curled snugly around him on its own like eager arms.

"You must have seen snow once or twice before?"

"Not in a long time..." Al didn't pull away from Terri, too busy appreciating the sight of the white flakes accumulating in a light frost that glimmered on the grass and coated the brightly-colored plants and foliage. Seeing the window behind them had fogged, Terri reached over and drew a heart with her finger, earning a crooked smile from Alastor.

"I know the cold has been bothering you in the evenings," she said, "but it can be fun." She wrapped the other end of the blanket around herself, and he hesitantly allowed her to put one arm around him. "Would you like to have a snowy Christmas here with me? We could make snow angels."

"What do you normally do on Christmas?" Alastor asked, surprised she acknowledged the holiday.

"Wait for it to not be Christmas." They chuckled together, but each sensed the other's years of loneliness behind it.

"Listen…" Terri stroked his hand. "You've been so unhappy. Not just discontented, but truly unhappy, for good reason." She lifted his chin. "I don't want to see you unhappy anymore. It hurts me."

"You've made me much happier," the little boy assured, pulling back from her touch, but not as abruptly or forcefully as usual.

Terri tried to be discreet as she inhaled; she knew it creeped him out. His words, his smile, and the scent of his genuine affection filled her with warmth, but it flickered like a weak flame with the knowledge that she could receive it for only a few hours a day. She needed more. "I could make you happier still, if you lived with me." To her dismay, the child suddenly looked hesitant. "Why do you look afraid?"

"I'm not afraid. I just… Sometimes I worry about my father."

His father?!

"And there's things I want to do out there."

"Oh!" Terri laughed with relief, thinking she needed only resolve a misunderstanding. "You're no prisoner, silly! You could go out!" The distant look on his face didn't change. She'd be more straightforward. "Darling… I don't want to be Aunt Terri anymore. I'd like to be...your mother."

"I know, I know. You're my Other Mother."

"No, no." How could he reject her, with competition like Bert? "What I mean is...I don't want to be your Other Mother. I want to be your Mother."

Alastor looked genuinely caught off-guard.

Terri reflexively shut her eyes protectively, then reopened them. "I… Don't want to make deals. I just want to be together. You make me very happy. I feel differently about you. I want to…" She didn't have the words.

Neither did Alastor. No response. Even the exceedingly careful child's nonverbals were perfectly controlled. Hindsight was 20-20, and he now saw that he should've prepared for this eventuality. But after a certain point, he'd stopped worrying because Aunt Terri seemed satisfied with their friendship. Now Al was catapulted back into the same discomfort that characterized their first encounters, wondering which words were safe to use, where the nearest escape route was.

"I want to adopt you," Terri blurted.

Nothing. Stiff silence, cracking sharply like glass.

Terri felt like a crumbling sandcastle. For the first time, fear didn't smell like sufficient sustenance at all. "Please say something." They were getting along so well, and the boy hated his father. It didn't make sense. It wasn't fair. Terri thinly concealed her pain. "Why won't you call me Mother?"

"...You're...not my mother," Alastor answered, hoping being purely factual was remotely safe. It wasn't.

Insensitively, Terri snapped back, "You don't have any other mother."

For once, Al visibly showed anger. "I did, once! She's still my mother!"

Terri gritted her teeth and turned away. Meeting his eyes was agonizing. She needed her buttons back.

Alastor regretted sounding hostile. Not only did he want to de-escalate, he genuinely didn't want to hurt her. "Aunt Terri… I don't mean it that way." He looked down at his feet. "I want to keep seeing you forever. ...But you're not my mother."

She swallowed her frustration, hard. "Fine." Terri abruptly rose from the porch swing and marched inside.

"Where are you going?"

"To sew my buttons back on. I've been a fool. I hope you're entertained."

Alastor breathed deeply and clawed his hands in frustration. "Aunt Terri, please don't cause yourself pain for no reason."

"I'm not the one causing myself pain for no reason!" Al followed, trying to grab her hand, but she yanked it away as if it burned her. "Go! Go back home to your father!"

"That's how you're—? Because things aren't exactly the way you want?! We can't be friends?!" Terri's nose was upturned. 'But I love you,' Al thought in silent anguish. He couldn't say it out loud; seeing her pettiness over what he perceived as a minor detail, he was seized with the fear that she'd wanted only to win her game, not have a real relationship. "What about our deal?"

"Nobody said I couldn't walk out of the deal, same as you."

"You don't still want help hunting?"

"You think I need help hunting?"

"Well, no, but isn't it easier for you to get food by going outside than it is to lure it in?"

Terri was distracted from her anger as she tried deciphering the child's logic train. "What's keeping me from going outside?"

Alastor knew immediately he'd messed up, but now he was in it. Terri had freely admitted that luring things inside was her preferred hunting method, and at a certain point, he'd noticed she seemed uncomfortable when leaving the den. 'Afraid' wasn't accurate, just...tense. He'd noticed that the closer he stood, the less uncomfortable she seemed. As they got emotionally closer, her tenseness receded. "Do you...like having someone with you? When you go outside?"

She looked as though he had slapped her. "You think I'm afraid?"

Alastor winced. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"I don't need you."

"I know that!" Alastor bit back. "But we have fun together. Why are you being like this?" Why would she not see reason? Wait. Wait. He knew why! "Aunt Terri, it's a trick."

"I'm not tricking anyone," she snapped. "I'm actually leveling with you. You can be sure I'll never make that mistake again!" They were in her sewing room, where she rifled through drawers of buttons, pretending to choose a pair but visually scrolling aimlessly, unable to concentrate.

"No, you're being tricked." He set his foot down. "The Hungry Thing is trying to trick you so you'll be alone again."

Terri indignantly huffed. Unbelievable. It wasn't just a cute joke. He actually perceived her as a kitschy damsel in distress. Her! It didn't help that he was using exaggerated 'step by step' hand gestures, as if explaining something complicated to an even younger child. "I'm of perfectly sound mind, young man, and I've always defeated that thing! You're not saving anybody from any dragon, boy. You could be blown over by a strong wind!"

"Aunt Terri, I'm just worried. You said that— I think it's hunting us both. It wants to separate us."

Terri considered explaining this hypothesis made no sense because she was the monster, but she wanted to keep that secret. When she said it was her predator, she'd meant only that it forced her to consume the things she wanted to love her. She was self-defeating. Her hunger had no reason to drive him away without feeding on him. Still, that didn't render his theory completely untenable. Since the consciousness, Terri, was simply one smaller piece of that gigantic primal beast...could it aim to reintegrate her? Consciousness could only persist without the company of other consciousness for so long, after all… No—ridiculous! Terri hissed, "There's no Thing! It was a story I told to earn your sympathy!"

This would've been in character, but Al thought she was lying about lying. She kept dragging her heel in a distinctive way.

"In fact," Terri continued, "if anything is trying to eat me, I'd say it's you! You...children...all…CANNIBALIZE!" Terri dropped her face to make her eyes less visible, considering maybe she was able to be tricked. She'd slipped, and containment was broken. She had to restore the hierarchy. She wasn't his pet or his friend—she was his Mother.

Alastor backed away, unnerved by her rage. It seemed by allying himself with Terri he'd perhaps made an enemy of the Thing. "I really don't want to fight."

Terri covered her eyes with her hand. "Just get out! If you think you're such a white knight, go on and protect yourself! Have fun!"

Hoping if he gave her space the matter would resolve itself, Alastor said hopefully, "See you soon," and retreated down the basement stairs to the connecting door. On Earth, he felt nauseous. What if she really wasn't safe and wouldn't let him help her? What if she actually hated him?

Sensing distress in the human, the black cat sat with Alastor on the back porch while the boy flipped aimlessly through one of Camille's folklore anthologies the same way Terri had carelessly thrown open drawers. He landed on an illustration of a princess guarded by a dragon and quietly meditated on it as if the lines blurred together, obscuring which figure was which.

Alastor was an expert on this subject matter. It was how he'd learned to read, for heaven's sake. There were more than enough hints in Terri's home: the sewing equipment and mirrors, dancing mice and pumpkins, infinite food, a tea garden filled with magical singing plants, interactive shadows and puppets that appeared to come to 'life,' that hidden room containing evidence that she repeatedly sought children, and everything musical at the first opportunity. He saw she may well be the villain implicated in a lot of folklore, and perhaps the fairy godmother as well. Yet, despite the obvious warning signs, as time passed, every time Al looked at Aunt Terri, it became truer—he didn't see a threatening witch or a dragon; he didn't even opportunistically see a genie or a fairy that could meet his needs; he saw a lonely, charming princess in a cold, dark tower, and he wanted to free her.

Pluto looked back and forth between Alastor's face and the illustration on the page and bapped the child in the head with eyes that said, 'You imbecile.'

"What?" Alastor said, annoyed. Pluto silently curled back onto the human's lap. He'd have to be content comforting the boy with warmth and companionship. Actively seeking to rescue the child from the witch was a goose chase—this one was too far gone.

[X]

In the Other House, Terri allowed the needle's sting to distract her from the feeling of hot coals in her chest. Black tears caked on her face as she finished replacing the buttons, breathing unevenly.

Once the needle was out of her hand, Echo tentatively approached. "Ma'am. I heard all of that. I don't think this is the end. You just startled him. He didn't sound angry. I think he feels sorry—"

"I don't want his pity," Terri replied tersely. She achingly recalled Alastor's expression of amazement and admiration as she hunted, did magic, or performed for him. Terri wanted him to be impressed, to look up to her. Instead, he'd apparently concluded she was weak, needed rescuing. Well, she was the idiot who'd planted the seeds of that notion with her fool story. Now she'd have to correct it. With how poorly the drunk was doing, she'd have the chance to do her own rescuing soon. Then he'd see.

"Ms. McGyver, please. I know I brushed you off before, but I believe this one is different. He's had such a positive effect on your health! Please think before you act."

"My health?" Terri turned on her sewing stool. "I need to be mindful of food security, and bless me, I'm not as strong as I was once, but there's nothing the matter with me."

Trying not to gawk at hints of blood in Terri's dried tears, Echo stood in silent dismay before uttering, "...Of course not, ignore me."

"Why are people treating me like I'm made of glass recently? That oaf over there—" she said, pointing toward Alastor's side of the house. "He's the flimsy, fragile one. He'll become unbearable eventually and I'll slay an ogre for dinner. ...Assuming someone says the secret word."

[X]

Hard to say how the fight made it to the point it did. Alastor was just trying to get his father to smile again. He seemed so ill. Not just low-functioning, but barely functional at all. Bert resisted all engagement, more hatefully than usual, and finally remarked with a level of self-pity that made Alastor want to vomit that only one person could make him smile, and she was dead.

It was the way Bert was just lying down in a hole to die that triggered the disgusted outburst. "Whose fault is that?!" The unspoken ending of that was intended to be 'not mine,' but Bert assumed it was intended to be 'yours.'

Part of Alastor did attribute fault to Bert. He lacked concrete memories but retained strange emotional inklings and occasional dreams that made him wonder if his father had hurt his mother. While not a seed Terri planted herself, it was one she deliberately nurtured through hints dropped here and there. Alastor had no way of knowing that she'd encouraged the same idea in his father's mind as well and that this was one factor escalating his drinking. She whispered into his ear at night, influencing his thoughts, altering his dreams, manufacturing nightmares—some accurate, others exaggerated, and others patently false—of the worst ways he'd hurt Camille, mostly emotionally, occasionally physically. Needless to say, this was not the right time for Alastor to ask this question.

"Really? Really?!" He knocked over one bottle by accident and a second one on purpose, and his son flinched. "All my fault? Not society's? Not exhaustion? Not sickness? I don't care what these babbling shits say about 'all in your head.' That woman got sick the way your dog or your cat suddenly dies of liver failure- out of the blue. That was a sickness just like some kind of cancer!" For all his failings, Bert could be quite perceptive given the time period in which he lived. "And you think it was all my fault?"

Another previously-existing seed Terri had (less intentionally) watered was Alastor's overall sass level. Children are little parrots. Normally he'd never have said this because he retained a shred of desire to be kind to his father, and, of course, common sense. But any feelings of pity were replaced by disgust, and he now possessed an easy escape hatch, making it unbearably tempting to say: "Not all, just mostly."

Without thinking, Bert threw a shoe at him as if he were a household pest. Alastor dodged it and threw a fallen beer bottle back. It shattered on the ground, and as Bert stumbled, he managed to step in the glass barefoot. "#$% $%^$!" He went down, flat-backed like a pancake, slashed feet in the air.

Alastor donned a wicked grin, with a giddy feeling of invulnerability, and couldn't resist shouting as he charged for the basement, "Gotta work on the timing of those pratfalls if you wanna make me laugh!" He made it down the steps in record time and opened the closet.

To his unwelcome shock, there was only empty storage space on the other side.

"Aunt Terri!" Al hissed. Was she serious? The closet remained a closet. There was no lock on inside. His heart pounded. "Please." He could hear stomping and shouting. He shut the door and huddled inside. "Please, I thought we were friends." He hated that he was dangerously close to crying. How could she?!

If she was being this petty, maybe she didn't understand the severity of the situation? "I don't think he's well today," Alastor whispered. Bert was often aggressive, but usually not to the point of being seriously dangerous. However, his drinking had spiraled alarmingly out of control lately. A tantrum like this had only escalated severely once before, but Al had the terrible feeling this was going to be Part II. Pain alone wasn't what worried him. If he were alone in a room and in pain, he could take it. But humiliation was terrifying. Being hurt until he cried and begged in front of the aggressor was so agonizingly demeaning it made him want to die, and that feeling spiraled off into branches of deep-seated terror of despair and the horrible ends it could bring. "Don't be mad. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm your friend." The footsteps were approaching. "Please."

Bert often tantrumed, so Terri assumed it was nothing her brave little boy couldn't handle. Frequent didn't equal normal, and normal didn't reliably equal good, but that wasn't her concern. Her concern was leverage. And she was quite unworried that Alastor could handle this until he decided he didn't want to handle it anymore, and came to Terri.

Surprisingly, Bert stopped short in front of the door. To Alastor's knowledge, nothing was preventing him from opening it, and he had a strange feeling of certainty that Bert knew he was behind it. Yet his father stopped, seemed to pensively pace for a minute, and then sat. Somehow this was more terrifying. It was a waiting game now. Still, the closet remained a closet. Alastor tried summoning Ferdie—no dice. His anxiety and outrage could not be converted into anything explosive, it seemed, after an attempt. The voice must be gone, too. 'Keep what you earned after a year,' was the deal, and it had been just a few months. The implication was that she'd kicked him out for good.

Just like that, that easily, she didn't care about him anymore.

Alastor felt stupid for being surprised Terri was capable of such cruelty. He'd seen those remains in her 'trophy room.' But this was a more sophisticated cruelty than violence. It certainly hurt worse already, he thought, than the type of pain his father would deliver, and that made him brave enough to walk out of the closet unprompted. No more scurrying around in the dark like a mouse.

This was a degree of stubbornness Terri hadn't expected. He was that opposed to politely asking his mother to open the door? Her own stubbornness reared its head poisonously. She resolved not to open the door for anything until she heard that word.

Walking out of that closet without back-up was humiliating, because Al finally understood why his father had waited patiently. He'd suspected Bert had deduced Terri's presence, and now he knew for sure. Al expected that Terri's lack of interest in assisting him would be a laugh riot to Bert, but in fact, his father was so stunned it almost snapped him out of his rage entirely. The Thing just abandoned the kid? There was a split second when he felt bad for Alastor, but then, after Bert threateningly demanded an apology, the child did something shocking and unprecedented—he spat at him. Perhaps to feel like less of a joke himself, Alastor spat at Bert and then aimed a sneering smile up at him, saying with his eyes, 'You're the funniest joke I've seen all week.' He'd pay a heavy tax to show he wouldn't remain intimidated. The smile was punched off his face, but Al tolerated the sting. Something snapped inside. He would not cry. For Bert, or for her. His heart would break before he cried.

Willfully meditating through the sounds was a test. But Terri was dedicated. She'd have the desired relationship or none at all. By the end, though, she felt twinges of concern. Why were there no sounds from the boy? The drunk hadn't actually beaten him to death, had he?! Then a loud bellow of "What is WRONG with you?" and furious stomping upward. Next, heavy breathing, not followed up by an outburst of tears, as expected, but the echo of a whisper (the Hallway had expanded), "You are a monster."

Terri remained mostly still inside, but there was a tremor—bubbling, boiling hot self-awareness rising up out of the deep well of her heart. She crushed it quickly, ignored how it scalded. So be it. Let it happen again. He'd become desperate. He would call her Mother.

[X]

Alastor's sneering, indifferent acceptance of the punishment achieved the desired effect on Bert. The kid was bruised, but Bert had to live with the fact that he couldn't assert dominance over a child the size of a garden gnome.

It was the latest indignity in a long list of things stripped from Bert. The loss of his family, friends, career, inheritance, reputation; Camille; any chance at a relationship with his son; and even his mind, as his cognitive abilities slowly deteriorated. Life and society had screwed him, and now he was too deep in the hole to pull himself out. He was cursed to die a slow, miserable death in this trap, waiting resentfully, knowing that goddamn Thing in the closet would drag him into its den and have him as a snack before his body grew cold, as one last disrespectful cherry on top.

Wait. No. No. Bert was not trapped! His heart leapt. The thought had the same effect as the first whiff of cherry blossoms after a long winter.

He wasn't doomed to continue watching his son's painful allegiance to that creature that evidently bore no allegiance to him. That incident was all the evidence Bert needed to feel certain of the Thing's intentions, and he wouldn't stand idly by as it crept in the shadows, waiting to strike. He wouldn't allow yet another entity to flaunt its power in their faces, make them feel helpless, inferior, and slowly but surely devour them alive.

Their suffering could end at any time. He held the power here! His wife had figured this out faster, but Bert had caught up. He was a much slower lab rat now than he'd been once, but dammit, he could still learn.

[X]

'Again? Already?' Terri thought in response to the sounds echoing down the Hallway from the other side of the house, just a few days later. They were really going at it. She'd never heard the boy get roped into a screaming match before. What would elicit such a response from him?

As long as he continued resisting rather than hide. If there was anything positive to be gained, it was that Terese was so very proud that her boy had shown that pig he wouldn't be intimidated. She couldn't wait to tell him so. Something in the back of her mind tried its god-honest best to remind her that this was a roughly 8-year-old boy, and not only would it be reasonable for him to hide, but she should absolutely step in. Nope—Terri was in a state of outright delusion that her plan would work as intended.

There was louder clamoring and even a yelp from the boy. Terri tensed up briefly. The child had stopped screaming. In fact, he spoke very calmly, almost in a soothing tone, as if hoping to use that siren ability she'd taken back. His maneuver evidently failed because his footsteps were now heading down the stairs.

"Aunt Terri!"

Her ears pricked up, but she remained focused on the mantra, 'Let him call you Mother.'

More heavily-thudding footsteps close behind.

More panicked. "Aunt Terri!"

'Let him call you Mother.'

The knob on the closet twisted, but the door didn't open. There was a thud and a scraping sound, as though he'd fallen and was being dragged across the concrete. A yelp as though the man had been kicked. Then a mad scramble for the door again, and a terrified yell, like nothing she'd heard from him before, echoed down the Hallway.

"MOTHER!"

Terri felt ice cold, becoming consciously aware, for the first time, that she'd been humoring herself, had been playing a waiting game to punish him. She hadn't actually expected her proud little star to resort to this to get her attention. In fact, that he was doing so suggested he was in real danger—

BANG!

It was an animal instinct. She didn't know she was headed for the other side until she was halfway there. The Hallway, which had created echoes moments ago, was short as a blink. Then she towered over the mortal man in a barely humanoid, monstrous form. Her teeth ground. Releasing her jaw enabled the inhuman screech:

"MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNEEEEEEEEE!"

Bert rapidly made a decision, faced with this eldritch abomination. He'd tried preventing them both from suffering a horrific end at the hands of this monster, done his best. But no way was he going to stay and let her have at it. He wished he could put the kid out of his misery, but there was no time. Reacting in terror, he aimed the gun at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

The little boy gasped loudly and ground his nose into the concrete, not wanting to look. Then he forced himself to be brave and raise his face. His father was dead, having killed himself after failing at a murder-suicide, willingly leaving Alastor behind to bleed out or be devoured by a horrible monster. Al would have to deal with his mixed emotions at a later date, if he made it that far. For now, he focused on the fact that the firearm was so far away. As Terri approached, he tried determinedly to drag himself toward it. Even though he'd just called for Terri, Al realized he no longer trusted her and she'd probably take advantage of free meat while he was down and helpless. Al would not allow the humiliation of being devoured while vulnerable. He'd shoot her as many times as it took to drive her away long enough for him to die with dignity.

Terri wasn't on the same page as Alastor, but her tumultuous emotions manifested as irritability. She quickly reverted to humanoid form. "Button! Behave! Please!" As Alastor grunted, stretching for the gun he couldn't quite reach, Terri scooped him up gently, having realized heavily-intoxicated Bert had missed dramatically and the bullet was lodged in the child's thigh, rather than somewhere that would make it more dangerous to move him. Alarmed to remember how strong she was, feeling the woman lift him as easily as if he were an infant, Alastor roared weakly and bit her. Terri snapped, "No!" and sharply smacked him on the nose. The child whined and struggled to leap out of her arms. "Behave," Terri insisted. "You called and I came. I'm helping. You're in shock. Please reserve your energy and stay still."

She brought him to his bed to oversee the damage. "Do you realize how lucky you are that it hit where it did? If it had been somewhere else, we'd be screwed." Even the bleeding wasn't as bad as she had expected, or she'd never have moved him. That bullet must have either missed or barely nicked the artery. This kid was the luckiest goddamn duck. "I may only need to prevent infection. If you listen to Mother, you'll live. Only if you listen!" she told him as he continued struggling.

The word 'magic' entails suspension of disbelief, but there were complications. Terri had shown time and again that she couldn't generate human biomatter. She could make tweaks and alterations to existing biomatter but couldn't regrow his tissue; if she tried using something like her partially synthetic corporeal form, she wasn't sure the graft would take; and doing either around a bullet wouldn't do. She was in a different world with more complicated physical rules, so even teleporting the round out could get messy. Her biggest concern was disturbing the artery the bullet had miraculously avoided. Time to go old school, scouts. She'd remove the bullet, sanitize it, mend him, fiddle with some growth factor genes, and hope early onset cancer wouldn't be an unintended consequence.

The child's shock was wearing off, and the little one's tears felt like someone dumping acid on her face. Terri hummed a lullaby in her siren voice to put him under.

"AB...solUTE...ly NOT," Al huffed, refusing to take eyes off her.

"You're willing to do this without anesthetic, you lunatic?"

Alastor was in too much physical and emotional pain to be polite. "I'm not crazy! You're a carnivorous spider monster my father just shot himself in the head to avoid!"

"I'm trying to save your life!"

"Then go to a hospital!"

"I doubt you'll get any better care," Terri retorted, discounting considerable medical advances within the last few decades, retreating into peak narcissism to self-soothe.

Done with this pompous lying jackass, Alastor wailed, "What are you waiting for?! Just kill me and get it over with!"

Terri didn't have time for this. He was willing to be in a crapload of pain? Good for him—it would build character. She ripped a chunk of cloth off the bottom of her dress, stuffed it in his mouth, and commanded, "Bite!" At a loss, Alastor obediently bit, groaning in anticipation as she flexed a mechanical prosthetic hand, on the end of one of her extra arms, with spindly but incredibly strong fingers, ideal for this job. She removed the bullet carefully, praising him, "You're being very brave," as Al huffed and, to both of their surprise, tightly gripped one of her normal hands.

The bleeding picked up. Thank the sun and moon she hadn't just haphazardly ripped the thing out. Well, she thought, weighing whether to stitch or cauterize, this was not this dress's finest hour. She ripped the bottom strip off, all the way around, and tied that firmly around the injury to quell the bleeding. "Going to do what I do best. So sharp you won't feel a thing."

Al continued to squeeze her hand through the cleaning and stitching, refusing to be put to sleep. Bandaged tightly, tourniquet removed, he untensed and looked at her with the wary beginnings of trust. It could still be an elaborate charade, but maybe she was trying to help. Terri was uncomfortable; surely there was something else she should do? For now, she decided the best she could do was ensure that he rested. She resumed humming the lullaby. Alastor's last resistance faded. Twitching, he dozed off.

With the child asleep and the immediate threat addressed, Terri's emotions went haywire. How had she allowed this to happen?! What if she failed at keeping him healthy? Did it matter? Whether he was alive or dead in Hell, she could follow him, but now he'd likely run from her like all the others... Terri was distracted from the gnawing pit in her stomach by a soft, green glow beneath Alastor's bandages. Ah—she'd broken their deal. She'd never truly, in her heart, walked out of it, and she'd failed to protect him, from his father and herself. Therefore, he'd received power in advance. She couldn't heal him, but if inhabiting a human, could the power learn? Lo and behold, through the bandages, Terri's supernaturally-enhanced vision allowed her to perceive a remarkable...knitting phenomenon. The power had learned!

"Good boy!" Terri whispered, inexpressibly proud of Al's self-protective instincts. She patted his head. "I'm going to make everything nice and soft." Wanting to make sure nothing disrupted his healing, she began spooling him into a cocoon. "You're so smart. I've been an idiot. Please forgive me. It was a mistake..."

She rarely came this close to genuine apology. Terri quickly forgot most children. Even memories of her favorites, she could keep at bay as long as remnants were locked out of sight in her trophy room. She simply didn't dwell long enough on what she'd done to them to feel sorry. She must love this one, Terri realized. F***, how inconvenient. She was worried her overreaction had cost her a good long game candidate, but then there were these strange compulsions to hold him. As a general rule, she liked to be touched as little as Alastor did, but the desire had grown stronger, and now Terri couldn't resist gently tracing the bridge of his nose with one finger, over barely perceptible freckles that reminded her of stars behind clouds.

Terri nudged sleeping Alastor forward gently, laid down against his back, and pulled him close. She'd never been this close to a human child longer than a few moments. While vying to be their mother, she should've ventured more than an occasional tap on the shoulder or crown of the head, nose boop, or brief stint of hand-holding. Yet before recently, when she'd daydreamed of earning a cuddle with a scary story, she hadn't considered it. Why had she avoided it? This felt absolutely wonderful. Terri could feel his heartbeat through the cocoon. It was captivating. Not fear, respect, or affection radiating from him but he, himself, had a scent that wasn't repulsive? He was so warm…

Terri compulsively made promises she couldn't/didn't intend to keep, so how odd that she felt nervous in her uncertainty, whispering, "You'll be alright. ...You're all mine, now." Then she drifted into sleep to the feeling of his steady heartbeat and even, gentle breathing.

[X]

Terri awakened hours later, embarrassed that she'd nodded off. She concernedly felt Alastor's forehead, but she determined that he was not too warm and noted that his breathing still seemed even and relaxed. Satisfied, she enjoyed the soft, cozy thing next to her, basking in the rare chance to be overbearingly affectionate. Her feelers traced Al's face until it was etched indelibly into her memory.

Soon, the child awakened in a panic. The act of cocooning seemed a sure sign that he was food. "Oh! Shhhh…" Terri whispered, wrapping her arms around him. Note: This was the wrong thing to do. Alastor struggled harder. "Nonono! Darling! Button! You're safe." She cut open the cocoon and plucked him out to demonstrate, but discouraged too much movement by holding him still. "Look, look." She gently touched the bandages above the wound, then peeled them away to reveal, as she'd hoped, significant healing progress and no signs of infection. Alastor looked pleasantly surprised. "See?" Terri said, holding her hands up. "Innocent!"

Alastor rolled over to face her, pensive. He had been so sure this was her golden opportunity to make use of good meat. "Why did you fix me?"

"Reign it in, child, you're not 'fixed' yet. You need to rest for a while," she corrected, rebandaging him.

"Why did you help me?" Al willed himself to ask in a pained tone, "And why did you abandon me like that?" He needed her to cough up a good explanation. Or maybe he'd prefer a bad one, so he wouldn't slip back under her spell? Alastor knew he was in terrible danger of that. His heart had leapt with hope the second he realized she wouldn't kill him, even though his subconscious screamed that this was a pathetically low bar to clear. Another, much closer, voice in his head whispered Terri was the only adult left, and if she didn't care, he'd spend years of loneliness in a county group home. A third voice said, 'You still love her, don't you, you idiot?'

Even Terri was sickened by the answer, 'I was jealous.' She'd clearly lost her mind. She never saw it clearly as it occurred, but every time she snapped out of an irrational episode like this, it was obvious her reasoning had been clouded. He'd seen it, though, Terri realized, recalling Al's talk of her 'being tricked.' This cemented the realization that the other answer, 'I thought you didn't care,' was equally asinine. "I never stopped caring about you," she clarified. "I should never have pretended so. And I never wished you dead. I'm so ashamed. Please believe me."

This was a non-answer. Al inferred her silent, 'I thought you'd rejected me'—still not good enough. "You really hurt me, Miss Terri," he said as firmly as he could manage.

Oof—the 'aunt' had been retracted. 'Stay calm,' she thought, 'Be happy he's speaking to you at all.' "I made a serious mistake. I didn't mean for that to happen. I should have stepped in long before it got that far." No reply. "I will do anything to make up for it." Could he tell that she meant it? For Terri, this was the equivalent of groveling nose to the ground, but to most it would seem shallow.

Alastor resentfully accepted that he wouldn't hear the words 'I'm sorry.' He wavered on whether to believe her, then noticed the vibrations. One of her hands was tapping away on the mattress with the frenetic energy of a woodpecker, signaling intense emotion. Without warning, the child flung his arms around her neck, nestling his face into it.

"Oh! Huh." Stunned, Terri tentatively stroked his hair. "Trust me now, Button?" She felt something wet and a mild trembling. "Oh, don't do that. Not necessary. Nothing's wrong now." Al wished he could explain that he was just glad and overwhelmed that she still cared, but he couldn't. He sniffled quietly and quelled the outpouring of emotion. Terri wrapped her arms around him again, and this time he didn't resist. "Good, brave Spiderling. You're okay. Don't exert yourself. ...You were right, you know."

"Right?"

"That I was being tricked by that Thing. I didn't listen, and you got hurt because of it. I'll trust your judgment, going forward. You're a very clever little boy. My favorite." She stroked his back. "Please don't cry anymore, love."

She gave him the very first kiss on the forehead that he could remember, melting Al's heart despite her betrayal. Miss Terri couldn't express emotions verbally, but he was hardly any better. Could he judge her? Could he forgive something this extreme? Against his better judgment, Alastor knew he already had. The harsh, stinging details of Terri's reckless endangerment blurred and faded against the gentleness of her touch. It felt so good to be held.

[X]

Note: To be clear, by suggesting that she is mentally ill, I am neither excusing her behavior nor associating mental illness with the tendency to be abusive. I am only saying that this woman happens to be both mentally ill and abusive.