Me and Miss Spider

by wantedthehighway

A mysterious entity with a god complex lures a lonely little boy in New Orleans into her web; Alastor's relationship with his mother is unlike what anyone had imagined; Charlie's philosophy is tested by her trying new client; the troupe tries not to be duped in a face-off between two con artists; and surprising family secrets come to light. (CW: abuse, racism/sexism)

14. Lock and Shock Meet Barrel

Still struggling with the present arc head of the beast that is this massive story, but it's coming along, and the next few chaps will be present. It makes the most sense to place this past arc chapter here anyway. Promise this won't become 'person of the week tries rescuing child Al.' Next past arc piece cuts to adult Alastor and Miriam.

[X]

[Spring 1908, New Orleans]

"The hardened House of Usher withstood the hurricane; it could only be destroyed from within. Madeline battered down the door to her basement tomb, sloshing through stormwater. Flooding would destroy her saving grace if she didn't act soon to topple the family monument with the matches her brother left alongside her 'memorial' candles. In peaking vengeful rage, she ignited the stores of gunpowder in the basement and extinguished in a blissfully quick death at the blast's center, hoping her brother burned."

Alastor applauded his mother's new ending. Compensating for missing his younger years, she insisted on reading at bedtime. Alastor politely allowed it. Terri expended energy on his luxury; he'd indulge her whims. She loved describing brutal intra-familial aggression, then contrasting with a bubbly: "Thank goodness we have a happy family!"

"Agreed," Alastor yawned, smiling as his mother patted his face, lit a crackling flame in the Other Bedroom's fireplace, and dimmed the gas lights. He was full of venison chili, snug between a fur blanket and faintly cinnamon-smelling sheets in the artificially cool room. Al removed his glasses, reached for the bedside table, and accidentally tumbled a glass of water. Both items hit the hardwood with a harsh cr-ACK!

"Careful, Button." In moments, the glass reassembled and repositioned itself neatly. Terri held up his glasses. "Fixed! …Alastor? Love?"

The noise was excessively startling, and Alastor had sprung up in bed, ears ringing. How had it felt sharp? "Thank you. I…think I was nodding off," he dazedly replied.

"You had a strange look. Hope this isn't the precursor to another night terror." He woke sometimes, gasping and shuddering, after dreaming of his 'father' and the mirror. Terri re-tucked the blanket around him, soothingly rubbed his shoulder, then stuffed the Terri doll into his arms.

She'd quit physically hovering while he slept but often placed that doll in bed like he was a toddler who needed a teddy. (He remembered the doll's purpose and properties, though his memory of why he'd received it was muddled—more impressive double think.) "Mother," Alastor sighed in embarrassment.

"Don't need protection from monsters?" Terri teased, sitting it on the bed's edge. She thoughtfully gazed between the doll and her son. "Just remember she's there." Peck. "Sleep soundly. You know how I love you."

[X]

[Fall 1909, New Orleans]

Terri had worried Alastor's self-brainwashing would fail, that his love wasn't genuine, but it grew clear he'd truly accepted her as his mother. They were a real family, she assured herself.

He'd changed, mostly in ways she enjoyed. Al could still be hyper-responsible, but only when Terri required it. The once prematurely adult child was easy-going and playful now, finally a 'normal' kid with a mother to look after him. He remained empathetic—for her. For others, Al rarely softened nowadays. His mother was a queen, everyone else a lowly court jester. Now that someone cared what he said, he talked for mind-numbing stretches. This quirk, the hyper-theatricality, and the ungodly puns intensified following the injury. She'd grown tolerant. More concerning was the boldness.

When Terese admitted that, technically, he'd healed his gunshot wound, a most ominous, disaster-predicting look manifested. Terri groaned, resisting the urge to bottle-spray him like a pet. "You're not invincible, understand?" But Al's reasonable fear of injury vanished with this knowledge and head trauma's effect on his impulse control.

Parenting was exhausting. She wasn't used to maintaining her body or house for such long stretches, or such an untamable child. Usually, Al was gentlemanly, patient, and apologetic after angering her, even if she'd been irrational; but sometimes he had terrible ideas, and if she pushed the wrong button, he bit back venomously. So, confrontations were infrequent but explosive. One of the worst erupted the day he accidentally ran her down and crash-landed while mattress surfing. Alastor hissed and rubbed a shoulder while Terri realigned her doll-like synthetic body with a series of awful creaks and cracks. "Were we normal, you might've broken our necks!"

"…But we're not?"

Terri found her own lax requirements for Alastor embarrassing. Other children would've suffered dearly for dreaming of his escapades! Seizing the opportunity to restore order, the beldam snapped her fingers. "Push it up." It was less about corporal punishment than humiliation via feeling small and weak—one of few tactics to which Alastor responded. As the boy finally wheezed on the landing with the mattress, she commanded, "Now apologize." He would have, if not for that outlandish punishment! Now Alastor glared silently. "Really? We're not through?" In the closet he went! Terri rarely banished Al behind the mirrored door; he usually snapped into line quickly. Why was he being so contrary today?

Things had added up. Whenever Alastor politely asked to visit Camille's grave, jealous Terri listed a dozen tasks she needed help with. She disassembled Bert's ham radio to use parts for other projects, asking why Al needed it when she'd built him a better one. She transparently conveyed disappointment in his 'limited' musical talent. (This while he did his best to entertain her, performing Vaudeville skits with the puppets; and despite that, while he played mediocrely, he understood how several instruments worked, could dance, and carry a tune. Apparently, she'd only be satisfied with a savant.) Minor, but annoying, was the tack.

-x-

Sometimes, Al had thought, wincing while separating the tack from his behind in the Other Bed, Terri's maturity level disappointed. "That wasn't even a clever prank, Mother."

"You think I, a grown woman—"

"How else did it get there? I'll see you tomorrow." Alastor left, nose upturned, while Terri's lip curled at a puppet servant lingering in the hall. She said nothing, wouldn't admit to enslaving conscious entities lest she lose the boy's respect.

Insects only accomplished so much, and she aimed to divide her attention less for puppeteering around her son. Weekly, she set the other rations to work. Eternally children, they struggled to feel solidarity with someone treated much better, by comparison. They dubbed Alastor 'wicked stepbrother.'

The wraith's glee at Terri's disappointment was pungent. "I smell something spoiling. Ought to eat it soon," the beldam hinted threateningly. This dead child didn't give a dancing rat's ass. His days were numbered anyway. Probably, he thought smugly, so were Alastor's.

-x-

What happened when Terri locked Alastor in a closet? He talked, knowing she'd hear. Recollections of encyclopedia entries. Practicing languages he was learning. The dictionary definition and every conceivable synonym for 'oblivious.' (Odd choice, Terri thought, obliviously.) Announcing two rats fighting like a ball game. Guessing the weather everywhere he'd visited through a well. Retelling every fairy tale caricature of her. Never ran out of steam, even as his voice rasped. If she muted him, he tapped in Morse. Blood boiling, Terri opened the door. "What are you doing?"

Voice returned, Alastor chirped, "Outlasting my enemies!" (In Terri's kitchen hung a needlepoint with 'Outlast Your Enemies' in blood red stitching, depicting a woman tolerating stings while stomping a beehive.)

"Since when am I your enemy?"

"Since you locked me in a closet."

"Do you remember why?"

"I do not recall. I would like an attorney." Alastor remained combative; being thrown behind the mirrored door magnified his rage for reasons he didn't understand.

How dangerous continuously testing her was. Terri's fist kneaded the side of her dress. "Apologize."

She never apologized! Alastor mimed zipping his mouth. When Terri barked, "You want to stay in there?!" he 'unzipped' to retort, "I'm not afraid to be alone." (Canned gasps.)

Terri gritted her teeth, clenched every muscle, vividly recalled attacking him—No! She managed evenly, "You don't mind being alone? Fine," dragged him roughly back to the basement door, and pushed him into the New Orleans house without another word.

Concerned she'd snap in her fatigue, almost 2 years after the mirror incident, when Alastor was nearly 10, Terri decided she must rest more fully and frequently than for a few hours on nights he slept on Earth. She'd start immediately, rest for a solid 24 hours and return to a compliant, adoring child who'd missed her. She deconstructed everything, peacefully drifted into black, and woke up…a week later. Fuuuuuu—Wait! She'd diffuse this with humor! The boy excelled at coping that way. Plenty of dead parent jokes were made while he'd adjusted.

Meanwhile, Alastor agonized when prodding the Terri doll yielded no response as days crawled by. He wasn't afraid (there was enough food for now, and he could figure out how to move forward), he was crushed. His vision blurred at the sight of the abysmally normal storage closet, and he was struck by a memory of tugging Camille's dead, pulseless wrist as her body draped outside the oven, and another of his father pulling his gun's trigger. Don'tleavedon'tleaveDON'TLEAVE. All that effort to keep him, only to decide he wasn't worth it? He'd believed she wanted him… How DARE she abandon him?! By the last day, Alastor entertained dismembering and disemboweling her doll with the most brutally serrated kitchen knife available—and snapped out of it as his stomach growled. Oh. He was only needlessly overemotional because he was hungry. "She'll come back," he assured himself aloud to Pluto. When she did, he'd act completely nonchalant, Al decided, even while aggressively sawing sandwich bread.

Pluto accepted slivers of ham, tail swishing happily. More satisfying still was the murderous expression Alastor shot the doll and kitchen knife. Terri hadn't considered 'molding the child in her image' could backfire, Pluto silently chuckled. How could modeling for a child that it's normal to violently lash out when feeling unloved possibly go awry?

Terri found Alastor calmly sharing lunchmeat with the cat as if nothing were amiss. He cracked a wry smile at Bert's old line, "I went out for milk," but barely acknowledged her further. "Come now, would I abandon such a fun project so soon?" Crickets. "Not glad to have me back? Imagine the alternative."

"I remember being alone."

"No, the other other one. With the foggy glass eyes and wooden tail," Terri joked of the 'New Mother' folktale. "Terribly unfashionable. How embarrassing to walk around with that dork!" His empty laugh felt like 1000 cushion pins. Souring, Terri spitefully leaned into the misunderstanding. "Be thankful I changed my mind. Overconfident, feeding your rations to vermin!" Pluto scampered away. "I returned because I missed you. If that's not reciprocated, perhaps I'll go for good," she threatened.

Rage. "Go on. I parented myself when I was 5."

Provoked, Terri stretched. "Do you care how exhausting it is, maintaining myself to be with you? I give you everything, and you sass me! You were supposed to give back. I collapsed for a week because you make me physically sick! I might as well go since clearly you wish me dead!" As she dematerialized in a disconcerting loosening, collapsing, and vanishing of 'string,' Alastor's façade cracked. He looked mortified. Registering it in the Other House, Terri cursed, cracked her heel off against the ground and scraped the floor, exploded the range, and shrieked over the self-injuries to her extended body (more interesting than putting a fist through a wall, but no less painful).

"He didn't laugh?" asked deadpan Echo, on cue with the fire extinguisher.

"Echo, one of these days your voice box is going in the trash!"

[X]

Alastor ventured to the Other House a few hours later, relieved to see the passage in the supply closet. Those violent thoughts about the kitchen knife embarrassed him now, and concern overshadowed his righteous anger. Terri's whatever-it-was was acting up again. He'd give her a hug with his other gift.

He'd concluded by now that Terri consumed fear, respect, and affection like meat (and stubbornly ignored the implications for their relationship). But Al more recently discovered it not only sustained her, but reversed damage from another ailment, which probably exacerbated her psychological issues.

-x-

Shortly after she'd explained his self-healing ability, Al injured himself playing the knife game. "Here's a trick," Terri said, tenderly kissing his cheek. His rate of healing tripled.

Al noticed her muscles un-tensing as she lingered in his grateful embrace. "Is this why you like so many hugs? Am I healing something?" Terri patted his head and started a new conversation. Later, when she fell into a cozy doze on the Other Couch as they listened to her radio, Al didn't care when the program lapsed into static. Perhaps now he'd get an honest answer. "Mother," he whispered, "what am I healing?"

Alastor suspected rightly. Terri's nutritional gains were depleted too rapidly because of how she was uniquely yoked to the Thing, which indeed wished to reintegrate her. She refused to dwell on this stressor, entering denial states much like Alastor's while conscious, thus her genuine surprise when the Hallway behaved mutinously. But half asleep, she failed to suppress the answer. Choppily emerging from radio static came: "IT's AlwAaayYs EatiNnnG MeEeEee."

Hahaha—question regretted! For a week, Al awakened repeatedly in a cold sweat at the gruesome imaginary sound of wet, gnashing CHEWING.

-x-

Mother made overreacting an art form. But she was ill and had no one else. …And he loved her. Alastor tried to hate Terri sometimes but couldn't. Her quirkiness, playfulness, quick-wittedness, and their shared interests always reignited his love. Al only wished she'd explicitly apologize! He'd prefer that to any gift imaginable. 'She loves you, too, she's just the only person worse at feelings than you,' he thought, but uneasily felt a sense of…distance. Wait…literally, was the Hallway longer?

Alastor passed three quarters through the dark, then encountered the extra door. Terri had warned of this. Opening the usual door revealed more hallway with a sliver of light beneath the next barrier; the other opening displayed the same. "I want to see my Mother," he hissed, following the usual door's path…leading to a circle of eight. The last one slammed behind him, echoing. The circle wasn't large enough, hinting that many doors concealed long, empty corridors, despite false light beaming underneath. The door behind him now opened to an identical circle.

'If I die this way, Mother will be furious with me,' Al fretted, before laughing at the absurdity. "I know exactly where she is," he lied, opening a door. Pitch black. Another. Same. He imagined every tunnel, infinite; his mother always too far away. He'd never, ever reach her— No, dammit, he smelled corn muffins! Alastor twisted a third handle. Other Basement. "You lose. I'll always find her!" he spat at the Hallway. "Chew on that!"

Al dashed up the basement steps as hastily as the first time he'd arrived. When he reached the landing, Terri called, "Button! You know I dislike you walking through there alone! I would've called when they were ready!" He found her in the Other Kitchen baking corn muffins with the air of someone trying to diffuse a bomb. "I didn't mean it, love. It was excessive. Perhaps I need more sleep. You know? How I love you?"

Alastor didn't mention the Hallway, to avoid upsetting her further. "This isn't necessary, Mother."

"You'd prefer something else?" Terri whipped around, smiling desperately, waiting to be directed. Her hand wringing over her frilly apron stopped when Alastor lifted his apologetic protein plate of attempted barbeque. He was…making a peace offering to her?

"I forgot how this drains you. I'll cook for you, too, but…you may need to teach me?"

Terri eyed his burnt eyebrows, the mangled, blackened meat, the charcoal smudges on his shirt. She melted into warm chuckling, levitated the plate away, and welcomed him into a hug, breathing in relief, "Such a forgiving darling. I love you so much. ...I thought I'd nap and fell asleep longer than intended. I didn't want to leave. You realize I don't deliberately hurt you, mon étoile?"

'You could still say you're sorry,' thought Alastor while his mouth answered robotically, "Of course, Mother. I don't mean for you to feel ill, either."

Terri shushed him. "Disregard that, Button. I was emotional. You don't make me ill. You help. But I've been fatigued lately. Suppose we invent something? Babysitters."

"Infants are annoying, but that seems harsh, don't you agree?"

Terri facepalmed with both hands. Freed, her son backed away, giggling. "You've never heard this term because rich folks have nannies and most others live near their families. That won't always be true, so people will pay teenagers poorly to corral their children while they rest."

"I didn't have anyone really watching me before I met you."

Terri affectionately rubbed a thumb over Alastor's patchy right eyebrow. "You've become more adventurous since then, gremlin."

"I was just alone all week."

"…Which I would not have allowed deliberately."

Alastor thought his mother should rest for her health, and she sounded so ashamed just then. "If it makes you comfortable," he sighed.

[X]

How to avoid unwelcome attention? Leaving Alastor in the Other House prevented full deconstruction, but she wasn't keen on inviting anyone into his side. Solution: Terri deconstructed most of the house, leaving just a few rooms intact, allowing Al and the help to stay inside and enabling sleep that was adequately restful but not so deep she'd lose time. The beldam found some extraordinarily rock-dumb male 20-somethings around various doors, dragged the captives to her den (well, two—the third conveniently fell down a well), and ordered them to watch her son, swearing, coyly, she'd reward them later. Even under maximum siren spell, their cooperation was humorous. Captured by a monster, thrown into a half-constructed acid trip of a house, and they eagerly accepted it like a weird porn plot. Ha! Mommy like dummy!

But she never got to play with her toys. After each long nap, she found the babysitter mangled dead. They'd have lost their heads anyway, but this was unexpected. "What did he do?!" she asked the first time. "I'll puppeteer the body. We'll go zombie hunting. You can punish him more!"

"He didn't hurt me. He said...derogatory things about you."

Slurs? No, Terri concluded—sexual remarks. Sun and moon, that was the point! "Leave them for me next time, will you, darling?" she requested vaguely.

"Surely it's worth more points if I kill them first," Alastor wheedled, seeming innocent to her intent.

"This is about not having to cook?" They playfully competed now. Loser made Sunday dinner. Alastor improved at preparing a—hack hem—wide variety of meats.

"You keep targeting such lean meat it's tough to mine the carcass. …Can we still zombie hunt, please?"

"Absolutely, love. But go get your play shirt. Let's not get more blood on your good clothes."

Terri was baffled as this pattern continued. Was he territorial? They were merely toys—they wouldn't steal attention from her son! Meanwhile, Al's 'cluelessness' was faked. 'For your safety, I'll leave you with a strange man in a splintering house' didn't hold water. (It did to Terri. Al underestimated how bonkers crazy she was.) Surely this was a convoluted excuse to schtup attractive babysitters. Alastor secretly felt Terri required supervision herself—she shouldn't sully herself with these idiots!

"This is ridiculous!" Terri complained at the tiny cockblocker. Al posed innocently, hands clasped behind his back, holding a stick. Behind him, the third comatose babysitter swung by the ankles from an attic beam like a piñata. "Why them? Can't you go kill a cat?"

"You think I'd kill a cat?!" Alastor gasped, visibly offended, as his human victim swung behind him.

"Your criteria for who 'deserves it' are awfully flexible, Mr. Ethics," Terri couldn't help but remark, although she knew this argument led nowhere. Alastor was sensitive to teasing about his vigilantism's inconsistent parameters. Once, his redirected outrage sent the Other House's turbine wheeling down the hill.

Terese returned to the matter at hand. "I see you don't care for the boys. I thought they'd do better at controlling you, but clearly not. We'll try a girl." Wait. Idea! "Will there be fewer shenanigans if we use one from here and you stay on your side of the house?"

This radical change in approach signaled Terri's ulterior motive had shifted, but Alastor was less curious than disappointed, since he wouldn't hunt a lady. No fun! "Won't she notice things?" he asked to dissuade Terri.

"Only if you let her. Stay on your best behavior."

[X]

A new ulterior motive existed indeed. Terri had found a girl already. A long game had seemed ideal, but physical maintenance lost her many gains. She couldn't bear to end it, though; she loved him. With no guarantee that the Hell Takeover plan would work, Terri covered her bases. The long game remained worthwhile if she developed a brood for continued sustenance; she was proactive in finding the mate.

Terri exhausted a radius around every door in search—couldn't throw just anything at a breeder of this caliber, and they'd all have to get along. One girl, about 5 years her son's senior, stood out. She was flawed but clever and cute, with a cherubic face framed by dark gold curls, pinchable cheeks, and a tiny, pointed nose. Easily baited by food—that was convenient. And her voice! Imagine the siren ability with that in the gene pool! She was also a delinquent. Terri considered turning down such an unruly child (Alastor was devilish but mannerly), but Miriam was funny, and they shared interests. Her family dabbled in organized crime, so she was trained to shut her mouth as needed. Best of all, she had a relative in New Orleans to whom Terri could easily reroute her, since things in New York weren't good.

Miriam Gamble had been showered with affection as a child by parents who lost interest once she was less tiny, adorable, and pliant. Now she labored for their attention, overperforming at every activity. She excelled at singing. Didn't help. She dressed fashionably to impress her mother. No reaction. She was good at cards—would her father play? Nope. Uncountable attempts. LOOKATME! But they treated her like furniture. Her father was rarely home; her mother, often home but across the house engaged in a conspicuously one-person activity.

Eventually, Miriam's desire to connect with her parents fizzled. She found a new audience. Boys looked at her all she wanted, and she usually got smokes or booze out of it. Kids thought it was a gas when she hustled the neighborhood bully at cards out of money he stole by force; they praised her for smoothly shoplifting candy and sodas for them. Now her parents took notice. Miriam's behavior, judged delinquent even in boys, was considered especially unnatural for girls. They threatened to pawn her off on her brother, strict boarding schools, or—at their angriest—psychiatric institutions.

When her mob-dealing father criticized her delinquency, Miriam laughed. More hurtful were her mother's complaints to her husband, staff, or friends over for coffee that she'd thought having a daughter would be fun, and why couldn't Miriam be normal. No one ever chastised the society woman. They always laughed as she scathingly critiqued her daughter, pointedly loudly, echoing down the hall between the drawing room and her daughter's bedroom.

Terri rejoiced. Easy job! She knew Miriam had stolen from her parents before. Each time ended in a thunderous screaming match, and that was petty theft. So, the beldam sent mice into the New Yorkers' home to snag bigger bills and more valuable trinkets. Nothing like instigating a good fight to dislodge the target from home!

The lost value was more alarming and the accusations false, so rage on both sides was nuclear. Miriam's mother railed at her for compulsive lying. "Some people could stand to be less honest," Miriam growled.

Mrs. Gamble hit back with, "Maybe you're compelled to steal to compensate for how cheap and trashy you are! Maybe you should look the part!" and seized Miriam's nicest clothes for consignment. "I'll make some money back this way, but I expect you to come up with the rest."

"I can make the money in a few days at cards—"

"—with your delinquent friends. Or more theft. Can you not find any respectable ways to spend your time?"

"Well, whaddyou do, Delia, besides spend money on ugly jewelry, make bad pottery, yell weak insults down a hallway, and screw the gardener?"

Mrs. Gamble slapped her and was shocked when Miriam hit her back. That simply didn't happen! Fueled by years of angst, a full-fledged cat fight erupted— hair pulling, slapping, pushing into kitchen chairs and walls. It only lasted a minute total. Then they retreated to opposite ends of the room, wheezing.

"For god's sake, they're clothes!" Mrs. Gamble gasped.

"You seriously think this is all about the clothes?!" Miriam wailed. "And— I mean— You started this fight over a missing necklace!"

"You're CRAZY!" Delia hollered. Last straw. To Jack in New Orleans she went.

-x-

"Any concerns, ma'am?" Echo asked as Terri whistled while they spied on this scene together.

"Nope, Alastor prefers everything with extra spice!"

"I meant she doesn't seem to respond to parental figures."

"Luckily I'm not competing with the parents, I'm competing with the brother."

-x-

Miriam detested her family but loved New York City and was heartbroken to leave it, despite her brother's assurance in August 1909, when she arrived, that New Orleans was a fun town. At least she got along decently with Jack, who taught Miriam to shoot to vent her anger and introduced her, just before it took off nationally, to jazz.

There was a catch. Privately, Jack enjoyed Miriam. Publicly he behaved like her mother—ashamed, disparaging, making mean-spirited jokes in front of his peers ("Quit trying to get people to call you Mimzy. Makes you sound like a Storyville girl."), then suddenly friendly again once they left. She accepted any small improvement for now.

[X]

One advantage to Miriam's recent relocation: she wasn't biased against 'the Irish witch and her yippy lapdog.'

Gossiping locals described Terese as a drama-loving snob who conveniently valued manners in everyone but herself and housed several personalities, as if rapidly switching amongst characters in a stage show. One minute mannerly and restrained; smacking someone else's kid in the head for rudeness; judging other women's adherence to feminine virtues; wagging her finger at her son for showing off. The next minute, crashing house parties wearing eccentric fashions designed for younger women; delivering withering insults; eschewing societal demands of females; flirting subtly with both young men and ladies; starting unwanted contests everywhere.

Terri's competitiveness was maddening because she never seemed to lose. She'd flounce away with blue ribbon for best apple pie in town, asking, "Who is second best?" and delight in the resulting bickering. In business, McGyver was a seamstress who completed jobs in record time without assistants and was very smug about it.

Terese and her adoptee were so alike, newcomers assumed he was hers. He was roundly hated by men and boys—Al's preferred targets for pranks and condescending verbal runarounds. Women's opinions split over whether he was an obnoxious troll or delightful gentleman.

The mother and son were too inseparable. Alastor trailed her like a puppy, chattering a mile-a-minute (to hold her attention), dramatically overacting as if in a Vaudeville program and showing off at every opportunity (struggling to be noticed next to her). When Terri crashed parties, he acted as her 'chaperone,' to the cringing nausea of witnesses. (Terri wasn't opposed. Needing always to be center of attention, when eyes shifted elsewhere, she needed her son as back-up.) Al circled her legs like a guard dog, warding off suitors deemed unworthy of Queen Terese.

When not body-guarding Terri, Alastor mingled, dramatically gesticulating and enunciating in his immaculate starch-ironed suit like the most formal of Muppets. He butted into adults' conversations about arts or current events, unabashedly hopping on chairs to make direct eye contact. Instinctively, everyone knew to tolerate him, although they couldn't articulate why. Newcomers who laughed or sneered were silenced by natives, who advised it wasn't worth it, feeling profound, creeping dread.

-x-

The first time Terri brought the kid to a local dance, a doorman nodded tersely at a paper bag affixed to the door, assuming that was that. Alastor imagined the sound of a rusty hinge creaking as Terri's head swiveled slowly from the bag to the man. He hoped she was outraged by the discrimination. Sadly, nothing so wholesome—self-important Terese was appalled that someone defied her. She'd bring her child wherever she pleased! "It's the lighting," she challenged. "If we step inside—"

"Look, neither of you were invited. If you were, you'd come in the back."

Terri's scowl grew longer and sharper in a reality-warping way—a trick of the light? "I'm going to count to three. One…two…" The man thrust his hand up to Terri's nose as she forcefully stepped forward. She crashed into it and waddled backward in her black and white dress like a penguin, cringing in revulsion. The doorman spluttered with laughter. He was distracted by how Al's shadow seemed to stretch behind him as he snarled in protective rage, when suddenly pain. With inhuman strength, Terri crunched the offending hand like tissue paper. "I doubt anyone will believe you. I'm very dainty, aren't I, Button?"

"I open all her jars," Alastor joked, but he felt uncomfortable being 'rescued.' She could've let him handle this, right? Sure, he'd requested protection at age 7, but her flaunting that she dictated improvements to his life was— No, Mother only wanted to help and didn't realize how it came across, Al told himself. He disliked that she cared only if he and she, specifically, were disrespected and overlooked prejudice generally, but…it was more comfortable not to dwell on it. Turn it off.

Terri patted Alastor's head and snapped her fingers. The partially hypnotized man meekly stepped aside. His obedience didn't deter Terri from bashing his head against the door. He collapsed and leaned, groaning, against the outside wall. Al enjoyed the outcome, but how would this be explained?

Then XXxsXxxxXxtXxxXXXaxxxxxtxXxxxiXxXXcXx

Inside, Terese promised to hypnotize the band to play any song Al wanted. "Excuse me," she sirened as two observers looked ready to grab Terese and Alastor by the shoulders and toss them out, "this sweet angel is my true love. I'll dance with him if you don't mind." The innocent sentence exploded in listeners' brains with the force of a bomb. Everyone at the party inexplicably understood that this was allowed, and their disapproval must be silent.

-x-

In the 1910s South, a rumored bisexual, social norm-defying Yankee Irishwoman and her mixed-race adopted son would be targeted with threats or violence. Remarkably, Terri's troubles seemed minimal. (Serious offenders were handled privately. Alastor watched as a man was hided and transformed into a scarecrow for the seasonal corn maze Terri built in the den. He 'ooh'ed and 'ahh'ed unflinchingly at gore and loved watching vile individuals suffer.) The McGyvers' house was egged once. Just egged. All three teenagers died of black widow bite somehow. ("Should've cleaned their rooms more! You know those things hide in piles of clothes," Terri brazenly lied to disapproving Alastor, who felt the appropriate reaction to a prank was simply another prank.) Anyone making more than passing snide comments suffered record-shattering cockroach infestations. Surely coincidences, but it left an impression. Children insisted Terri was a witch. Adults theorized she had mob connections; how else could she evade harassment?

The rumors were based on rare McGyver sightings. Terese and Alastor were usually hermits, content in their own fabulous company. Yet despite rarely leaving their house, they expected everyone to believe they were well-traveled and cultured. No one knew how Terri obtained such fresh foreign imports, but there must be a logical explanation.

These had to be exaggerations, Mimzy thought, but she'd like to meet these amusing crackpots.

[X]

Terri was eager to meet Miriam, too. Introducing the kids early was good strategy. From what she knew of future media, little boys often fell hard for pretty babysitters.

Luckily for Terri, Mimzy seemed interested in making her own money. She already made some through effortful, strategic trickery, so Terri suspected she'd work if given the opportunity. Shortly after the third babysitter's demise, Terri discreetly trailed Miriam to a store where the girl shoplifted and lurked outside. She struck without warning, snatching Mimzy's smuggled candy and chiding, "What have we here, young lady?" over the pre-teen's shoulder.

Mimzy snatched it back. "My snack. What of it?"

"Not paying for that?" Mouth twitching with silent laughter, Terri continued knowingly, "I see. You don't get an allowance because you'll spend it all on junk food!" Miriam grumbled and walked away, but Terri followed. "You can put yourself into cardiac arrest if you like, if you make your own money!"

"By?" the girl asked skeptically, gazing straight ahead as she aggressively bit the chocolate.

"My son is a sweetheart, but he has so much energy. I need a rest. What if I paid you to watch him?"

"Why me? We've never met. I'm Miriam Gamble."

"Terri McGyver." The woman glowed, aware she was infamous.

Mimzy stopped walking, intrigued, and looked Terri up and down. This explained the flashy, puffed-sleeved, diagonal-striped dress. It resembled one she'd once admired outside a high-end New York department store window. Had McGyver made it herself? Wanting this ally, Miriam fawned, "The woman, the myth, the legend! Where ya off to? Invited to some party with other fancy designers?"

Terri giggled and batted her hand. "I need time to myself is all. Thought you seemed a good choice." She gazed out the upper corners of her fake eyes in the universal 'I know a secret' signal. "I expect your family's made you hard to rattle?"

Jack was also involved in gun and recreational drug trade. Miriam supposed people gossiped about him, too. "Uh, why's this rumor a plus? What'll this kid do to me?"

"He's enthusiastic," Terri said cryptically. "I'll send you off with dinner, plus cash." Miriam agreed. How bad a gig could it be? "How about…next Sunday?" The day after Day of the Dead? Terri didn't want to party? Jack said New Orleans had incredible festivities. That said, it was Miriam's first year and she wanted to party. No argument.

After Terri departed, Miriam noticed three kids loitering near the corner. "Gonna do it?" the littlest asked.

Mimzy puffed up like a show poodle, practically sparkling. "Think I wouldn't?" She recognized one. "Wanna play poker after, Tim?" He was awful at it. She'd triple that cash!

"You're not making it out."

"Buddy, you understand she's not a witch, right?"

"Because of the kid, doofus. Have you seen how he smiles at anyone who's not his mother?" All three kids mimicked the devious grin.

"Sounds precious," Miriam joked. "Think I'm gonna run out screaming? Bet on it!" She'd quadruple the cash and show off! Mimzy noted their wagers and strutted away.

[X]

Scheduling immediately after Halloween and Day of the Dead offered Terri a double boost—a big meal, then a relaxing food coma.

Impersonating a human provided a less gory way to feast on a holiday when it was socially acceptable to terrify children. In October 1908, she'd enthusiastically prepped the yard for her new tradition. She'd already erected a taller fence around the house for privacy…rendering it impossible to see what you'd be walking into on Halloween.

Word traveled the neighborhood that McGyver was handing out whole candy bars, but demanding recipients complete a needlessly complicated, shockingly dangerous obstacle course. Kids rarely obtained their candy. The most benign prank entailed reaching into the candy bowl to be grabbed by an icy-cold hand (Terri's unscrewed metallic creation) and turning to find her waving a handless arm in their face, exclaiming, "Oh, you found it!" Others who'd come alone claimed they'd been chased by monstrous-looking rats, insects or, once, a scarecrow. If anyone believed such tall tales, no evidence remained—only stuffing. (The only way for a scarecrow pursuing you to be more disturbing was watching it helplessly crumble to dust as it tried its best.)

Alastor was fully on board. He made jack-o-lanterns spit fire from their eyes and mouths; stretched and twisted children's shadows under flickering lights; used reality-warping conjuring power so needles and nails—layered, passably but threateningly, like stalactites and stalagmites in makeshift tunnels—appeared to gnash like teeth; whispered siren voice to convince fleeing trick-or-treaters Terri's sawdust creations pursued them long after they'd deteriorated. All in fun, no harm done.

Still, he asked if they should worry about rumors. "Phht! Of course not! Nobody listens to children!" Terri chortled as Alastor plastically smiled with infinite tolerance.

In October 1909, the HOA failed to ban Terese's 'friendly holiday challenge,' but local police promised they'd examine it for safety, due to allegations that kitchen cutlery, carpentry tools, and sewing equipment were involved. Terese springily greeted the inspector, "Happy Halloween, Officer Flannigan! How about that tour?"

Mildly scraped-up Alastor popped out of a tunnel like a meerkat as Flannigan leaned to peer inside, earning a yelp. "I assure you it's navigable," Al worded carefully. He'd lectured Terri that, by definition, games couldn't be impossible to win. "I make sure she plays fair! Look!"

Flannigan left only fuzzily recalling what he'd seen, but certain he'd found it funny. He, the kid, and the mom had all laughed together, so surely it was harmless?

Miriam never saw the yard on Halloween, goofing off with other neighborhood tweens/teens rather than trick-or-treating. The glaring red flag of an obstacle course was disassembled before she arrived.

[X]

"I challenge you to defeat this one! She's a fearsome mobstress," Terri joked the morning of November 2nd. Al rolled his eyes, preparing for new prey. He wouldn't hurt a lady, but he'd tease and annoy to his heart's content. Terri tweaked his shoulder, whispered, "Don't write her off yet," and left to prepare snacks for the company.

Hearing knocking, Al answered the door with, "Pleased to meet you, I'm Alastor," and outstretched arm. As the sun's glare faded and the babysitter became more than blurry silhouette, he absorbed Mimzy. Her confident stance; combination of innocent round face with sparkling hazel eyes hinting at something diabolical underneath; impeccably fashionable presentation clearly meant to intimidate, in her bloused soft pink top with darker orchid checks, black and white plumed hair ribbons, orchid skirt (high enough to see ankles, oh my), and well-shined black boots. The spark of lifelong obsession was lit. (Capturing Al's attention was challenging, so this was some of Terri's best work.)

"Nice to meet ya. I'm Miriam." This was Alastor? Hardly menacing. But maybe Terri was a witch—how else could she bring this Charlie McCarthy doll to life?

Miriam accepted Alastor's handshake without hesitation, which was welcome. His lazy eye drifted nervously, but he remembered to be hospitable. "Mother's making coffee and pastries. Come have a seat."

Entering the drawing room, Miriam realized the gossipers hadn't exaggerated Terri's eccentricity. (Reflecting that the house's sparseness might seem suspicious, Terri decided to decorate.) The enticing scent from the kitchen couldn't detract from the back of a taxidermized alligator being used as a coffee table. "Where'd she get that thing?!"

"Mother wrestled it herself. Someone told her she couldn't. That! Wouldn't! Do!" Al sang, finger-wagging invisible naysayers. "She likes proving she's the 'apex predator.' Quite endearing!" Miriam's disturbance faded into laughter at the presumed joke. Next, she flung her hands up, noticing a sharp beak and beady eyes. A wide, split wood mobile of taxidermized crows, spaced far apart, hung from the ceiling. Breeze through the large windows teetered them in a staggered way that prevented all from descending at once. "An 'attempted murder!'" Alastor delivered the punchline. "My idea!"

More normal items included framed collections of preserved, colorful insects and a piano. (Terri, to applause from Alastor, had built herself a second one from scratch.) Miriam couldn't quite pinpoint what was wrong with the white keys' texture. (Terri took pride in this constructive use for the many teeth in her trophy room.)

Startling Miriam, the cat launched itself from the ledge of the open window, pawing frantically and leaving claw marks down her stockings as she squawked. "Girl! The basement!" Pluto yowled, unintelligibly. "Talk sense into him! He's deluded!"

"What's gotten into you?!" Alastor scruffed Pluto's neck and carried him outside as Terri left the kitchen.

"Miriam, lovely to see you! I thought I heard you come in. You've met Alastor?" Terese set a tray of coffee and pastries with a mouth-watering scent on the gator table, motioning for Miriam to sit and take one.

The coffee's cream and sugar were already added, but one sip revealed it was precisely as Mimzy liked. "He just rescued me from the—"

"Vermin? My son keeps strange pets, I'm afraid. I've tried telling him that thing only sees him as a food source." (Canned ironic laughter.)

"Uh… Well, thanks so much, Ms. McGyver, but you didn't have to do all this." Mimzy bit the pastry and melted into the couch. It resembled a lightly-powdered donut but had a fluffier croissant-like texture and oozed chocolate raspberry ganache. "Mmn! This is delicious! "

"Thank you, dear! But I did need to do this. There's no one else to help me. You are appreciated. In fact, if you come again, I'll make you a dress. You seemed to like my other one. Perhaps we have a similar style? Some may find it too loud, but not everyone can be fabulous." Miriam wouldn't object. While she made what she had look remarkably good, she had few nice clothes left. "We rarely have company. You should stay for dinner, instead of wrapping it up." Terese gravitated to the piano bench and remarked, "I hear you have a lovely voice." Where had she learned that? "I'd like a little canary to sing with me!" She played a few bars we'd recognize from 'Paparazzi.' "Let's enjoy some songs after dinner. Or a game. Do you like cards?"

McGyver's welcome was excessive but sweet. Miriam brightened, grinning devilishly. "Don't tempt me. You may finally lose at something! Sure, I'll stay a while."

"Alastor, darling!" Terese called as the boy re-entered. "I expect you and Miriam to be uninjured later."

"I can manage that."

Terri hummed, summoning Alastor with hinging hands. He walked briskly into her arms. Her fingers drummed against his upper back, eerily possessive. A normal little boy would've melted into the floor in shame, but Alastor seemed unbothered. Miriam told herself she was being too judgmental, but it was so ick. Terri cupped her hand, whispering in Al's ear. ("In an emergency, enough of the house is assembled to hide in.") Then—Mimzy couldn't believe her eyes—they rubbed noses. Ewww!

"See you soon, Button." Terri looked at Miriam seriously, requested, "Don't let him die," and departed through the front door. She reappeared in her den, which crumpled and folded, with her body, into the black recesses of the Hallway like a pop-up book. Naptime.

"You two are close, huh?" Mimzy remarked, untwisting her face's 'examining a dying sewer rat' expression.

Al's stomach churned as the pretty girl gawked like he was a freak. "You'll have an easy job today," he said curtly. "I don't need supervision. I allow this so Mother feels comfortable. Do as you please." He went outside, eager to hide as he flushed an impossible shade of red. Pluto meowed at him. "I know, how rude! Is my mother not allowed to hug her own son?" Al cluelessly 'agreed.'

Miriam's judgmental stare compounded how she scrambled Alastor's brain. He detested the fluttering of his heart and prickly heat in his skin. He'd make her heart pound uncomfortably, too, the 9-year-old thought mischievously, resolving to do every conniption-inducing thing imaginable. Energy juice would help!

Miriam grimaced as the kid trotted by sipping black coffee like it was apple juice. And there was that sinister grin she'd heard about! "Are you allowed to drink coffee?" Maybe, Mimzy hoped, he'd fast-forward through hyperactivity in half the time, then caffeine crash?

Nope. The crash never came, and the behavior was unprecedented. Terri hadn't been joking! The boy played with knives—juggled them, stabbed between fingers as fast as he could, threw them at trees. He mattress-surfed. She caught him dangling upside-down from a third story window ledge like a bat. Miriam dragged him back inside by the ankles. He hissed, hitting the floor on his ass. "Ain't lettin' your mom kill me because you're an idiot!" Mimzy bellowed with well-trained lungs. "I have plans for my life!"

The girl was unbearably pretty, even when terrified or fuming. Alastor cast the unwelcome, overstimulating feelings away, smirking at her reactions when a lamp flared for no reason; the tea kettle whistled shrilly with the stove inert; or a shadow in her peripheral vision rose against the wall like a stretched, horned specter but collapsed into place when she whipped her head.

The combativeness peaked that evening, when he caught her rummaging through the liquor cabinet. Rattled by Al's supernatural hijinks, Mimzy impulsively slugged the 1.5 shots from one taster bottle and slipped two other tasters into her skirt's waistband, beneath her bloused top. Hearing a stern 'hack hem,' she turned to find Alastor motioning 'give it here.' "What're you looking at? Gonna search me?" She decided to fork over one, hoping he wouldn't tattle.

The little boy scrambled onto a kitchen counter and returned it to the cabinet. "Underage drinking and theft while watching a child!" he gasped theatrically from his higher vantage point. "What would your mother say?"

"Not sure," Miriam lied, "and I don't care."

"Did she pass?" Alastor asked carefully.

"We like each other so little I pretend so. Personally, I'm glad not to be a growth on my mother's hip!"

Alastor darkened. "I'm glad I'm not such an ungrateful snit that I pretend my mother is dead."

"You don't get to scold me. You're a little boy, no matter your corny imitation of a socialite. What crawled up your shorts?" Mimzy unleashed the withering burn, "Did the ventriloquist leave her hand up there too long, Charlie McCarthy?" She mimed ramming her arm up some unlucky puppet's ass and forcing it to nose-boop her, crooning with sickening sweetness.

Shame burst through Al's veneer. He looked squashed, defeated. Something had hit too close to the mark. (Static shock zapped at Miriam's stockings. Wha—?!) "Gracious, what's the harm in hugging her? I want my mother to be happy, and I'm smart enough not to reject my only family!"

Miriam saw red. "WE REJECTED EACH OTHER VERY EVENLY, WISE GUY!" Alastor flinched. Wow. Then, rebounding swiftly after the outburst, the girl curled into herself, sniffling. After this conduct, she presumably wouldn't be re-hired. Even the town freaks would send her away. Mimzy dabbed tears daintily with one knuckle. "My parents are back in New York. They got sick of me. Can't really tell if my brother likes me…"

Alastor's face crinkled with sympathy as it normally did exclusively for Terri. Miriam's expressiveness was foreign but oddly beautiful; she wore tears like diamonds. Even engaged in an act he deemed undignified, she was pretty. And interesting—definitely layers to this one. He offered his own handkerchief. "Perhaps you can find a new family? I did. And…I understand Mother's estranged from her birth family as well. That's why I indulge her so much," Al explained the excessive PDA. "I want her to feel cared for."

"Oh, geez. Whaddya think caused it?" Mimzy asked as she realized, for the first time, under all the guff he gave her, the kid was sweet as well as unnervingly precocious.

"She, perhaps, has, um—" Alastor tapped his head. "—a touch of something that makes her challenging to befriend. But we're just the right type of odd for each other." Ick, too much sharing. "Why do you drink already?" he redirected.

"Guess folks'd say I'm 'troubled' or something, but I don't feel sad, I feel...bored."

"You're not trying hard enough to entertain yourself," Alastor chided.

"Oh, I try. I entertain others, too. Not everybody likes how. Not my family, anyway. Luckily, I won't need a family because I'll have fans once I'm a professional singer."

"Oh? Mother says my stand-out talent is talking like a book. When I go into radio, I'll be sure to play your greatest hits. ...I'd appreciate you not mentioning what I shared?"

"Sure thing, no rumors about you having a heart. Your reputation as an emotionless troll is safe."

"Ah. What a relief." Their sense of humor was similar. Al hadn't experienced that before, excluding Terri, and Bert to an extent. As Miriam and Alastor exchanged considerably warmer smiles, his heart skipped again (dammit!). "I won't mention this either, assuming you…" Alastor made the 'give it' motion. Mimzy 'ughed' and relinquished the last taster from her skirt's waistband. "Thank you. Yes, can't have my mother slapping the voice right out of you when you have big plans."

"Thanks. Now…can we have a more normal experience for the next few hours, pal?"

"What constitutes 'normal?'"

"You and your mom like games, right? Hide and seek?"

"You mean, I hide and you pretend to seek while robbing us?" Despite considering this beneath him, Al recalled a good hiding spot. "If you really want to play, I think I'd win."

[X]

Alastor suspected rightly. While seeking, Miriam swept the house for things to pilfer. Terri was a living myth; any household artifact might separate kids from their allowance! Exploring locked drawers with a hairpin yielded nothing worth taking, but she'd found the gun cabinet. Nice to know where the things that go bang are.

Alastor hadn't set any limits, so she checked his room. A cloth doll replica of Terri sat propped against the pillows of the neatly made bed. They rubbed noses even while he slept? Ewww!

Curiously, in his closet, she found a Day of the Dead offering. In a family photo taken when Al looked about 3, his birth mother held him, and everyone looked surprisingly jovial, even grouchy Bert. (He'd probably enjoyed toying with the camera, and Camille had probably wasted two shots making funny faces.) No food, to avoid attracting pests, but there were flower petals, a tiny doll (Camille's gris-gris), and some scrap metal (from the ham radio). Why was this buried here, not displayed in the household? Terri couldn't be jealous of two dead people? Well…this wasn't her business. Miriam shut the closet.

Mimzy hesitated at Terri's room, then imagined smug Alastor behind the door, unhidden, assuming she was too chicken to look. Not a chance! She swung it open, but found a surprisingly plain bedroom—more like a guest room than one a flashy, eccentric dame lived in. Must've entered an unused room by mistake?

Sunlight reflected off a surface and the glint caught her eye. On the vanity was a piece of jewelry. WAIT. Couldn't be—her mother's missing necklace?! (Yup. Terri took it from the Other House, intending to hawk it, but something distracted her.) Miriam's jaw dropped, but her rational brain insisted it was a coincidence. Still wild. Its disappearance incited rage because of its supposed uniqueness. Where had Terese found such a similar item? Ugh, no matter. She preferred to erase the necklace and all associated memories from her thoughts. Mimzy proceeded to the basement.

From a few stairs down, small, lightweight Alastor burrowed into the insulation in the basement ceiling, as he'd watched Pluto do. He giggled at what his oracle mother called it, gleefully, whenever the cat sat in it: 'cancer nest.' Phht. Sounded like fear mongering! He nestled into the cozy carcinogen cocoon and dozed off before Miriam checked the basement, although he'd intended to monitor.

After investigating some large boxes, Mimzy almost returned upstairs, when the cat meowed loudly. "Good grief, you again." Pluto kneaded at…a doormat? In front of a storage closet? The cat nosed the mat and prodded one spot particularly. Miriam lifted it and found a button-headed key. People did this at their front doors. Why here? Curiosity propelled her to unlock the door.

Like Bert, Mimzy made good prey herself, so she saw the entrance, but no hallway, or even a closet. Her characteristic impatience truncated the Hallway. The Other House lied directly behind the door, creating the impression of walking into a mirror. She kicked a foot through twice, stunned to hit nothing solid, then stepped in and, in fascination, ascended the Other Basement steps.

Mother. Of. God.

Mimzy rubbed her eyes. When had she nodded off to dream this fragmented puzzle-piece structure, with walls that dissolved into something like wet thread in jagged clumps, leaving no barrier between the room and a cold sky of stars? Planks missing from hardwood floor and patches of rug blipped from existence revealed, alternately, starry sky or white blank space. Miriam stepped gingerly into a short hallway that led to nothing, barely together, with features that bent and warped like melting taffy. Still-discernible elements mostly copied the New Orleans house but included things that seemed taken from other homes entirely. A few reminded her eerily of her house back in New York.

The hallway grew, assembling plank by plank before her amazed eyes (Terri's barely-awake mind assumed Alastor was there and required it.), toward a place she wasn't meant to see. Mimzy startled before a mirror, on high alert for a doppelganger. After exhaling in relief at the innocent reflection, she noticed something else—an overpowering aura of hunger, or rather, insatiable desire. Greed, gluttony, selfishness. Repulsive, but familiar (something she disliked about herself), it entranced her. Something she didn't want to but had to see lied behind that door. Miriam twisted the handle.

Bodies. Corpses, buttons sewn over the eyes. Darkened, crusted trails of blood down the faces, in various stages of consumption and pungent decay. An unfortunate number, hung like carcasses in a meat locker. Chunks taken, surrounded by jagged bitemarks. Newer ones still dripped from open wounds. Most disturbingly, she heard…whimpering.

Hand pressed to her mouth, Mimzy closed the door with barely a click and backtracked numbly. In a heavy cloud of shock, she couldn't scream or run, so luckily her soft, quiet movements didn't wake Terri. She tip-toed to the Other Basement's closet, closed that door. Click. Dazedly climbed the stairs, picking up speed at the landing to bolt for the exit. Only on the New Orleans lawn did she scream. Two blocks away, her legs ceased moving. She wheezed beneath a gas streetlamp, hands on her knees, so disoriented she had to remind herself what she'd fled. That ghastly sight. Wait…the…kid? Oh, crap, the kid!

'He ain't my kid!' her self-preserving side whined.

'He's nine! Get back there! You're bigger than somebody for once! Drag him out!'

'No, idiot, she doesn't want you! She won't follow if you keep run—' Wait...that might not be true. The necklace. Those uncanny features of the Other House. How many Earth homes might it connect to? Had the witch done something to guide her here? 'There's no reason,' she thought, but felt knots of worry in her gut.

The babysitter groaned into her fist at her own trademark stubbornness. If the witch was pursuing her regardless, she should help that boy. Miriam, who usually prioritized herself, couldn't explain why she felt so protective, but obeyed her instinct. 'Get the kid out of the house. That's it for now. More later,' she instructed herself, reigning wheezes into normal deep breaths.

'You cannot do this.'

'Pretend you can. It's acting. We don't get stage fright.'

'What if he ran in to get her?' As her body prickled back to life, Miriam felt the key gripped tightly in her hand. She'd locked the door and taken it instinctively, accustomed to relocking and returning keys on pilfering adventures. Her mouth curved up in relief. Who knew if it locked Terri in, but it would keep Alastor out for now. Good enough.

Okay, lights, camera, ac— Wait. She vomited into a bush. Ugh. Now action!

[X]

The slamming basement door and Miriam's screams luckily roused Alastor in the 'cancer nest' before the insulation smothered him. His first discovery: the door was locked, key missing. Dammit! If he didn't feel stupid enough now, his mother would make him feel like a drooling pet rock later! Al summoned Ferdie, but the pair made little progress taking the door down before an upstairs door slammed again.

Miriam pushed through fear by wearing pure, unfiltered rage at the creature like a life jacket. "Kid! You come out and talk to me right now!"

Alastor groaned. Okay. He'd take the door down later and go 'reason' with her now. If she'd seen the den, it was so fantastical, surely he'd convince her she'd imagined it? Had Al been less distracted, he'd have heard suspicious-sounding rummaging and clicking before he reached the top of the basement stairs.

Alastor donned his award-winning 'I'm an innocent dumpling' smile as he located the babysitter, who'd returned to the entryway. "Miriam! Where have you been? Got frustrated and went to blow off steam? I'm sure you'd have found me eventually."

He was...lying? For the monster? Or didn't he know? No, he did. That explained the homey doormat. "I've been in the basement," Miriam interrupted flatly.

"Mother noticed there may be a gas leak in the basement," Alastor lied. "Someone's coming to address it this week. I apologize—how irresponsible of me to not warn you! Whatever you hallucinated must have been frightening. I'm glad you left and got fresh air right away!"

"I didn't imagine squat!" Mimzy countered, bending to look him dead in the eye. "I saw. The. BODIES!" She trembled, recalling the butchered victims. "Probably fifty! Half-eaten! Still crying!"

Al knew there were former victims. But half-eaten? Conscious? Huh? …Nope! Alastor wouldn't consider it. "You certainly hallucinated."

Mimzy covered her mouth, silently screamed into her hands at this idiot child, and composed herself. "Look. I only want you to leave the house and talk," she wheedled. "Did you 'visit family' over the holiday?" Alastor shook his head 'no.' "Then let's go to the cemetery to discuss where you'll be staying."

A fire flared in Alastor's brain. He didn't intend to run away. Pretending to, however, was sorely tempting after Terri's fake abandonment maneuver. Time for revenge. "Miriam, I completely agree. You need more fresh air to revive your senses." He silently instructed Ferdie to adjust something in his bedroom—a passive-aggressive art project he worked on whenever he felt angry at Mother. "Whenever you're ready."

[X]

"Not a bad temperature. Let's stay out a while. I'm sure you'll feel better."

The kid was sickeningly committed to this bit. Refusing to acknowledge anything serious afoot, he'd blathered for blocks about the World Series and new flight altitude records. "What kid cares this much about the news?" Mimzy groaned.

"For a while, the paper was nearly all I had to read besides Grimm's Tales."

Sour mood briefly lifting, Mimzy guffawed, "You read the full guidebook on cannibal fairy witches and still believe she's befriended you?! Heck, kid, you're supposed to be smart! You're lucky a girl showed up," she teased. "We always see through her faster."

Unamused, Alastor grumbled, "Deep breaths, Miriam. Fill your lungs with clean air."

The cemetery gate was locked, so they hopped the shorter side of the stone wall. Many offerings to the dead remained. The collection of grave markers, statues, and house-like crypts looked more like a vibrant living town throwing a carnival than a burial ground. Candles lent a warm, orangey glow that enhanced the popping colors of fresh fruit cornucopias, marigolds, intricate papel picado art, and religious iconography intermixed with fanciful painted skulls. When Alastor pointed at Camille Marcelin's flat stone marker, which was not only undecorated but pitifully overgrown, the juxtaposition was glaring. "...When's the last time you came?"

"Before my father died, about 2 years ago." Too ashamed of this offense to face his birth mother, Alastor shifted his gaze to his feet.

"It's only a few blocks away." Al nodded without comment. "Your father's not here," Miriam noted.

"We assume he died," Alastor corrected quickly. "His body wasn't recovered."

Mimzy remembered the hidden closet display. Not only a literal monster, Terri was also too self-absorbed to care about the kid's grief. Disgusting. "Let's pull the weeds, huh?" They knelt to tidy the grave together. "Remember your mother?"

"No." Al sounded matter-of-fact but disappointed. "My father promised she loved us, even though she...left us. I think he was correct. She left gris-gris by our beds before she...did it. Little dolls, for protective magic. Her last wish was for us to be safe."

"Don't think you're fulfilling that wish, buddy." Mimzy barreled ahead through Alastor's glare. "Al, you're not a gullible kid. Why stay with Terri?" She whipped her hands. "Your fresh air's not doing crap, 'cause I saw what I saw."

Al abandoned all pretense. "Mother's going against her nature for me. It's been years, without evidence that it's a trick. She says I make her happy."

In his fleeting vulnerability, Alastor's young age showed. Mimzy saw how dearly the little boy wanted this, watching his eyes crinkle at the edges behind the glare of moonlight in his glasses. This felt like kicking ice cream out of a toddler's hand, but it was necessary. "What if that's what she tells everyone?"

Alastor tried suppressing it, but the awful middle part of his and Terri's first outing flooded back. Must this girl force him to recall something so unpleasant about his mother?

-x-

Terri sighed at a further hurdle to their fun. Looking around, she spotted a homeless man near the curb. She grabbed the still-spellbound doorman by the collar, pointed, and sirened, "You sent him away when he begged for change, so he came back and beat you up."

"Mother!"

"There needs to be some explanation for this, son. We're passing the buck."

"Mother, he was entertaining, but the other fellow hasn't provoked us at all. I don't want to—" Alastor was resilient to the siren voice, but not immune. Terri brute forced her way into his brain. Before he faded out and yielded, the seizure of his will felt violent.

"Button," Terri sirened soothingly, ushering him inside, "I care about you. Other humans are garbage. You're worth a million…of the worthwhile ones," she added, whatever that meant. He heard her, but the words meant nothing yet, just pretty, inoffensive notes in a calming song.

As Al stood at a table near the window scoping out the hors d'oeuvres, he saw a paddy wagon come for the innocent homeless man. Terri quickly popped a deviled egg into his mouth and spun him around, promising to hypnotize the band to play any song he wanted.

-x-

That. Had she met someone else she liked, instead of him, would she care about his suffering or just laugh at it? Plus, Terri was so mercurial, and Alastor had seen the many eyes that Greg suggested— What if she did tell everyone she loved them? How quickly could Terri cycle through 'you's? She claimed others pushed her away, but... No, too awful. Alastor yanked the weeds extra hard. "I'm not debating this. She's my mother. I love her."

"Does she love you?"

"Don't ever ask me that!" Alastor stood and fast-walked away.

Miriam followed. "Sometimes families don't stay together." Her voice cracked as personal feelings filtered in.

"Exactly. Mine and her first families fell apart. Ours will stay together no matter what!"

Mimzy's heart pounded at the vivid memory of the meat locker. She circled Al, stopping him in his tracks. "Alastor, parents can get bored of kids, just nobody talks about it. Something terrible will happen if she does! Maybe she loved those kids once and then one day—" Miriam mimed flipping a light switch. "—she didn't."

"Miriam, I'm here right now to get even for…things. Then Mother and I will make up, and you, if you're smart, will return our key and be left out of it!" Al knew where the key was, although it made him blush. Something poked at the fabric near Miriam's chest. She knew never in a million years would he—Crap! "Do I look like I need help?"

"Kid, I could sit on you and crush your little lungs. Yes, you need help."

"You're only putting yourself in danger! Mother has a bad temper."

"So do I."

"She may not have the presence of mind to realize you meant well! Your self-preservation instincts need work!"

"My self-preservation instincts work fine!" Miriam untucked her shirt and removed the revolver from McGyver's gun cabinet, hidden like the vodka tasters in her skirt's waistband. That was the first thing she'd retrieved once back in that death trap!

Alastor had noticed the bulge but assumed it was more stolen liquor and lacked the energy to argue. "What do you expect that will do, you lunatic?"

"I'm not CRAZY!" At least, Mimzy's gun-toting, kleptomaniac ass was more in touch with reality than Alastor.

"Fine. You're an adept criminal mastermind," Al sarcastically told the beautiful lunatic.

Mimzy remembered her mother's laughter, which she'd wished just one person had called cruel… She refused to believe no one else had noticed this; they either did nothing or gave up. "Someone needs to not quit until you leave!"

Alastor was frustrated enough to almost emote, explaining angrily through gritted teeth, "She's not a monster. She loves me. She sees me. That I'm worthwhile."

"She wants you to believe she's the only magical genius who can see you're not trash?! That c***!" Alastor gracefully pretended not to hear such coarse language spewing from the lady's mouth. "I've just met you, and, Al, you're an annoying snob, but you are worthwhile. You pretend to be a jerk, but you're a nice kid, and I like you, okay?"

Momentarily, Alastor's closed-off heart felt touched, even fuzzily elated.

Then came the distraction.

[X]

"Any bones broken?" Terri's refreshed voice called from the entryway. She found a mattress at the foot of the stairs. Pluto lounged on it, rolling and shedding, in the height of cat luxury. "Again?!" If he'd been this wild, he'd scare the girl away! Ugh! "Better get that thing back up, or you're sleeping on the floor, not the couch or my mattress, bedwetter!" she loudly lied with purpose, hoping to punish Al by embarrassing him in front of Miriam.

No reply, not even a sassy retort of "Yellow journalism! (Ba dump chick!)" No amused snort from Mimzy. The house seemed…empty. Terri didn't scry immediately. It might be a game; she wouldn't ruin it, or at least wouldn't cheat until she got bored. …Why was the basement door cracked? ...The key was gone.

Terri scried through reflective surfaces across the house, even while physically rushing between rooms in panic. It struck her, during the search, through the Terri doll's eye, that the Alastor doll sat next to it on her son's bed. But that was in her house. Dazed, she opened his door. On the bed was a second Alastor doll, this version with a pair of white stone eyes and wooden tail. Its devious smile said, 'You were too naughty, so I left.'

Alastor's punchline didn't land. Terri shrieked, "That! Little! RAT!" He'd worked on this in secret, fantasizing about leaving? She hadn't expended this much effort on anyone in uncountable years, and he had the nerve to think she didn't love him enough?! She'd eat the ungrateful brat's blackened little heart RIGHT OUT!

Wait. Terri emerged from her tunnel-visioning rage with shuddering breaths. If he'd had this personal joke for some time, why not act until today? …Those barely perceptible movements earlier… The babysitter had nosed around and turned her child against her!

Urging herself to focus, Terri located the kids using the voodoo feature of the Alastor doll and caught snippets of conversation. Terri's rage quickly redirected at Miriam for upsetting her angel. But she was too good an opportunity to discard. Terri had to tame this inadequately fearful girl. She'd promised Miriam a card game, but plans changed.

[X]

Mimzy's boot stuck on something. She shook, tugged. Well, she'd heard the folk tale about the fool who took a heart attack because her dress caught on a branch. She wouldn't fall f— That was really a HAND! The girl screamed and tugged up with the caught foot, exposing more undead arm, then blew the hand off below the wrist with the revolver. Its fingers loosened in shock, and she kicked it away, pieces of decayed limb at her feet. Alastor thought (in a flurry of joy, exasperation, and anxiety) 'Mother!'

The thing's other arm burst through the soil. Miriam fired again when its head became visible. Brains exploded, but the creature was unimpeded. "They're puppets, not real zombies! You're wasting your bullets! Hand over the key!" Alastor groaned.

Completely unearthed, the corpse stood on frail, shaky bones. Unlike the boy, this cobbish zombie didn't hesitate to handle her chest to claim the key, sinking a hand straight down her shirt. Slimy, greasy, rotting—! Miriam stiffened, then, rightfully fuming, cracked its remaining hand off and wailed on the zombie's face with its own body part.

Terri cocked her head as she watched. Were they playing whack-a-mole? She could do that!

Another body emerged from the dirt behind Miriam, who screamed and kicked it in the head, knocking its jaw off. It tugged her to her knees by the skirt and ripped buttons off her blouse in a feeble attempt to dislodge the key. Mimzy pulled what little hair the corpse had left to bean its head against its own gravestone, shrieking obscenities.

"Let them have it!" Al urged. "This won't be a massacre. If you surrender it, they'll only dance poorly!" At a third zombie approaching with palms spread in annoyance: "No, your dancing is wonderful! I suppose it's difficult to puppeteer corpses." This zombie's hands flew to its hips. "Why so irate, Mother? I just went out for milk," Alastor jabbed. Terri's rage melted away. It really was one of Alastor's jokes! The corpse pulled the child into a hug. "Yes, I love you, too, but please be mindful of the conditions!" he gagged.

Miriam fled the zombies toward the woods on the edge of the cemetery, too distressed to notice their behavior growing exponentially sillier. They indeed danced poorly. The handless one backflipped and, too fragile, crumpled upon landing. "Could you have challenged her without desecrating graves?" Alastor asked 'his' zombie.

"I'll tidy up," Terri promised, manifesting beside him as the meat puppet dropped limply to the ground. "You think you're clever, I suppose."

Alastor smirked. "Extremely."

"I asked if you understood that time I left was a mistake. You could've said you were still angry. Use your words? Like you do relentlessly 110% of the time?"

"Consider your own advice," Alastor told the queen of hurling presents instead of apologizing.

"Watch it, young man."

"I suppose I could've approached this differently, without terrifying poor Miriam. Why not take the key back some other way?"

"I'm having too much fun."

Terri's processing power let her continue puppeteering while conversing. Preserving bullets, Miriam clubbed the remaining zombie with a thick branch, which the corpse snapped. Miriam stabbed it with her half's jagged edge. The zombie dramatically flung itself to the ground, stole flowers from a grave within arm's reach, and placed them on its chest. Miriam squawked in confused outrage and ran again, breeching the woods.

Al snickered but noted, "Don't let her take a heart attack. She meant no harm." Terri didn't reanimate the zombie, giving Miriam a break. "I thought you'd be much angrier."

"I was furious. But…you didn't. Run away. …Why haven't you run away?"

"Because you kept me. Why did you keep me?"

"…Because you didn't run away."

Alastor's mouth warbled with silent laughter. He made the rainbow hand signal and whispered, "Settling." However, while absurdly humorous, the 'I kept you only because you didn't run away' logic re-stoked his concerns. "...You'd never grow bored of me, would you, Mother?"

Terri should have felt empathetic, learning her son shared her darkest fear, but she struggled with the concept. A child afraid of her leaving them? Inconceivable! "Button! What a notion!" She patted Al's head dismissively. "You couldn't bore someone if you tried! Enough joking."

"Mother, I'm quite serious," Alastor protested, cringing at the pejorative gesture. "Your trophy room…"

Terri darkened, feeling attacked. "Darling, I've explained, they tired of me."

"What if you were only arguing?"

"They'd have easily made up with me. As you do!"

"What if I disappointed you? Haven't people—?"

"You won't."

This dead end brought little comfort, but Al forced positivity. 'She says it's fine,' insisted the loudest part of his brain. 'Yes, it's fine,' whispered simmering rage, several layers of consciousness deep. 'She'll never reject us because we'd KILL HER FIRST—' Huh? Alastor felt fuzzy, light-headed, like he'd lost a few seconds. Maybe he needed to eat?

Terri lifted his chin. "Listen. We must always make up when we fight. We're each other's only family. Promise?" She lifted a pinkie finger.

"Promise." He hooked his finger with hers.

"We're all settled," she crooned, pinching his cheek. "Now to manage her." Alastor's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but Terri muted him with a snap of her fingers and ignored his flailing. "Stay behind me. I don't trust that maniac."

[X]

Thick, knotted tree branches, even mostly leafless, hampered Miriam's ability to keep watch. It helped for hiding, though, and at least it wasn't too swampy here. She knew she'd be found eventually and tried steadying her trembling hands to better shoot the revolver if needed.

"Awfully quiet, isn't he?"

Miriam's heart thudded at the ominous sentence sung from a few trees back. 'If that kid gets me killed, I'll haunt him,' she thought, creeping toward the voice, revolver raised. "That idiot loves you. Don't hurt him!"

Terri emerged from the shadows with Alastor in tow. Adding insult to injury, the kid face palmed, disappointed she'd fallen for this. Miriam almost barked at him but choked on her own voice, attention captured by Terri's eyes glinting under slivers of moonlight through trees. Buttons!

"You've outdone yourself," the creature announced dramatically. "Never has the monster in the closet had to rescue the child from the babysitter! Proud?" Mimzy just gawked. "Why did you leave the security of my home? Where did you plan to drag my son? Your brother's greasy crime den?"

Mimzy's indignation revved her back to life. "You're callin' my house the crime den?!"

"You attempted to kidnap my child!"

"Counter-kidnap your 'child,' from the look of it!"

"He is my child," Terri snarled. "Tell her, darling." She unmuted Alastor.

"I've tried. Ladies, this is a misunderstanding. Imagine, me allowing myself to be kidnapped! I'm entirely in control!" (Canned tuba notes.) "I do feel like quite a valuable commodity, haha. But no need to fight, there's plenty of this adorable face to go around!"

"Kid, think! This Thing isn't ABLE to be your mother!" Miriam wailed as she cocked the gun threateningly. "It's not...suited! I mean, it can't!"

Terri's outraged bellow of "I'm TRYING!" echoed loudly in the dark as she stretched. Miriam shrieked and pulled the trigger.

The beldam took two well-aimed rounds through the chest, jerking violently and stumbling as the bullets tore through with an unreal patchy tearing—like someone had ripped through a wicker basket, not human flesh—and spatters of some dark substance that resembled B-movie corn syrup dyed the wrong color at the factory. The holes knitted(?!) closed while Terri shuddered. She was physically resilient, but that still hurt like hell. Wide-eyed Mimzy fired again. As if on a hinge, Terri's head snapped back with the force of the bullet and into place again. One of her buttons had cracked, and she angrily squeezed the other half in her fist. Her face had fractured like porcelain! Echoes whistled between the cracks of what resembled a flimsy shattered eggshell. No denying it, that was the sound's source—it was a chilly but mostly breezeless night. Again, Mimzy was profoundly terrified but couldn't scream.

Alastor's shadow, which had been cast behind him, now stretched in front of him, too black, and unpeeled itself from the ground, rising in a position to block Terri from Miriam, with angry ruby glowing eyes, jagged teeth like a wolf, and branching pointed horns like a massive, powerful elk. The child's voice hadn't changed, but Al was ten times more threatening yelling, "Put it down THIS INSTANT!" Blank-faced, Miriam knelt in the damp, leafy dirt, dropped the gun, and sat on her legs, nodding in resignation. Ferdie resumed his normal stature. Alastor let Terri reclaim the revolver and approached his dazed friend. "Sorry I raised my voice. You mustn't shoot her, though. I love her."

Miriam didn't react, busy staring at Terri. The beldam stared back sullenly as her face reassembled. Clearly, she didn't appreciate being seen that way. Neither did she appreciate Al comforting her attacker first. "Explain, young man, how you demolished the others for looking at me 'wrong,' but she wants to kill me, and—"

"Let's discuss this another time."

"I sense bias, Mr. Ethics."

Alastor led stupefied Miriam through the trees and toward the gate as graves magically filled themselves back in behind them. Once near where they'd entered, her vision unblurred and focused on Alastor's open palm. "The key, please?"

She meekly surrendered it and Alastor pocketed it. "S-sorry I shot your mom in the face, kid."

"You only hurt her feelings. Go home and rest, please?" Mimzy opened, closed, reopened her hands, lips parted wordlessly. How could she just...walk away? "Nothing bad will happen. I wouldn't let her hurt you," Al promised, looking very serious. "We're friends."

"What about you?" Then it clicked—the kid's powers, why he wasn't afraid. "Do you help her?" Alastor revealingly didn't answer. This kid was a sweetheart deep down; was he capable of this? "Does she make you do things you don't want to do?" Mimzy whispered urgently.

Alastor thought of the homeless m—XxsXxtXxXaxxtXxiXxXcX. "No," he answered, then awkwardly rubbed his neck and asked, "Can we still be friends?"

Mimzy's mind did its best impression of Alastor's overdramatized Vaudeville voice: 'Hel-lo! I hear you're new in town. I'm a carnivorous mannequin's tiny murder butler, which I know is not ideal, but I will be your friend!' She reminded herself to be grateful the unholy wendigo elf was on her side. "Please reconsider this."

Alastor disregarded Miriam's plea, looking over his shoulder for Terri. "See you soon?"

Miriam nodded to appease him and took her chance to leave, vowing to devise a way to free the child. What could possibly be the witch's appeal? Yards away, she looked back and saw the creature clutching Alastor, stroking his back tenderly, looking so relieved to have him back, as if she cared. Ha! Surely Miriam was too disoriented to think clearly! ...But she wrapped her arms around herself in the late fall evening chill, imagining how that hug would feel.

[X]

"Should we…do something?" asked the man in the house nearest the cemetery, lying in bed with his wife, both grimacing.

"You want to investigate gunshots and screaming in a cemetery immediately after Day of the Dead? Absolutely not!"

[X]

Alastor felt calmer as he and Terri strolled home, until his mother said, "If you convincingly promise you won't die unattended, daredevil, we're done with babysitters."

Cold prickles shot down Alastor's spine. "Miriam won't be returning?"

"I'll convince her she had a nightmare. But she may need space until she gets past any lingering sourness. After a while, I'll get her to come around, and we'll be friends. Sound good?" When Alastor exhaled in relief, Terri teased, "I won't murder your true love, little prince."

"Mother, please, how ridiculous," said Alastor, cheeks obviously reddening.

"You have a weakness for bad girls, hmmn? I suppose that's my fault."

Later, when he rested his head on the Other Bed's ungodly soft pillows, after Terri's ceremonial forehead peck, Alastor cracked one eye open. "Mother, please go easy on Miriam. She honestly thought I was in terrible danger." He chuckled through his yawn. "Ridiculous, of course, but quite sweet."

As she caught him pulling the Terri doll close, a perfect warmth enveloped her. 'He loves me.' She hadn't fully believed it until now, but any time she worried he'd leave, he always returned. How had she been uncertain? She should be able to sense it. Had she...missed this before? The question dropped her stomach, as she remembered Alastor asking, "What if you were only arguing?" But she'd focus on the fact that someone loved her now.

Terri slithered away to deal with the girl. Gently, of course. She was important.

[X]

Miriam had arrived home far from her normally carefully-coifed self, sweaty and rumpled from sprinting and caked in leafy dirt. "Shit, is that kid actually the devil?" Jack laughed before her death glare silenced him.

Now, Miriam lied in bed, restless, confused, pained by the memory of the monster holding her child adoringly. Terri clearly treated that boy like a possession. But she paid attention to him. Alastor wasn't antique furniture in a storage closet; he was a well-loved armchair with someone snuggled against him all day. How nice, to be a used, acknowledged possession, not scorned or judged too tacky and garish to put in front of company… What was she thinking?! That kid was in danger! Was she jealous of Alastor's relationship with the monster in his closet?! F***, Miriam despairingly decided, she was crazy!

"Don't cry, sweetie."

Silent tears trickling down Miriam's cheeks splattered as she whipped around. The witch, button eyes unobscured, stood by her bed. She'd come to kill her! Miriam thrust a pillow out like a shield, opened her mouth to scream for her brother, and hyperventilated in terror as Terri muted her. She frantically scanned the room for makeshift weapons.

"I won't hurt you. No one's poaching a firecracker like you when I can have you on my team! Let's be friends." Terri pressed a hand to her heart and announced, "I forgive you," making Miriam want to strangle her. "But," she added darkly, finger raised, "never suggest I don't love my son. And let's not judge each other, shall we? You shouldn't scold anyone about anger management."

Miriam mouthed slowly and clearly, 'You've been watching me. Why bring me here?'

Terese waved her off and instructed, "Listen closely," rhythmically clicking her heel. You can't literally alter memories, but you can persuade the owner to overwrite information themselves. The boy was only unique because he did so unprompted. Terri's heavily-loaded siren voice suggested: "You drank on the holidays and the rumors confused you. You had strange dreams. But you woke, had an ordinary day with Alastor, and stayed for dinner. You feel silly to have suffered such nightmares about us."

Miriam nodded drowsily, reclined, and fell peacefully asleep. Terri brushed a gold curl falling over the girl's face behind her ear, and it dragged a wet streak up Miriam's cheekbone. Poor angry little girl...just needed a hug. Terri gave one and whispered, "We will learn to love each other." The ideal means by which to prevent Miriam from turning Alastor against Terri wasn't fear but friendship.

But no method was 100% effective. She'd make one final adjustment to the dolls. Returning to the Other House, she carefully wriggled the Terri doll from her sleeping son's arms. In her sewing room, she filled a tiny cloth heart with stuffing from the left chest region of the Alastor doll, implanting it in the left hand of the Terri doll. It wasn't only to her benefit. It would protect him, if anything went awry with this girl. Terri stroked her left palm caringly. She only wanted what was best.

[X]

[1911 onward, New Orleans]

The babysitting shift had ended pleasantly with dinner and singing showtunes, but Miriam remained uncomfortable around Terri. Something was disquieting about her eyes. Dark blue, from a distance they appeared black, like shark eyes, pairing appropriately with the incessant tapping of her heel or hand, like a creature that couldn't stop moving lest it suffocate. Mimzy felt the wrongness even if Terri wasn't trying too hard to engage her in small talk or making edgy jokes. Even if she didn't seem to glance furtively across a room and stood innocently yards away looking at something else. Or was she? Behind those dark glasses for light sensitivity, one couldn't tell.

McGyver, however, liked her a lot. She was aggressively friendly and interested in attending Miriam's performances. Mimzy had started working at her brother's club by entertaining and balancing books, without compensation. Jack didn't knock free labor, and Miriam gained an interesting pass time. The club was so special to her, she didn't want Terri raining on her parade, but couldn't banish a customer.

When Terese attended, she was exceedingly complimentary and demanded to dress Mimzy for the next performance. And the next, and the next. "Please, you must let me, I'm your biggest fan!" she insisted, miming a camera shutter in front of her large round sunglasses. Declining made no difference. Eventually, Miriam didn't want to. The dresses were gorgeous, and they fit so perfectly, wearing one felt like being hugged. The talented seamstress/designer made everything—hats, bags, shoes. Soon Mimzy's closet was filled with Terri's work. Surprisingly, Jack seemed displeased. "Y'ain't glad I don't blow so much money on retail anymore?"

"Nobody's that nice for no reason," Jack warned. "Didn't you say she creeped you out, 'til she started giving you free shit?" His sister glared. "Just sayin'."

Mimzy and Terri began chatting after shows, finding they shared similar humor, a love of fashion and music. Before long, Miriam practiced at McGyver's home, and they wrote songs together. They enjoyed jokingly singing one back and forth about two sirens competing for ass and boob men, respectively.

Terri was the only continuous presence in Mimzy's life besides Jack, with whom her relationship grew steadily cooler. Mimzy's magnetic charm made her casual party friends easily, but like Terri, she struggled with intimate friendships. She appreciated the few times a month when Terri invited her for dinner, even wished to be invited more often. (Terri couldn't give the kids too much social exposure yet, or the plan wouldn't work because it would feel much too weird to Miriam.) And unlike Jack, Terri was supportive. Once she caught Miriam frowning into a mirror and said, "Mirrors are never to be trusted. Awfully confrontational things, in my experience." Didn't joke about how Miriam's entertainment career expired around age 33. Insisted she deserved to be paid and Jack should make her a partner when she was older.

After a pregnancy scare at 19, Miriam's brother sent her to a convent, more as a punishment or mean prank than anything. He knew she wouldn't last long, but he'd expected slightly longer. Tween Alastor's eyes lit up when they met during one of her first walks back in town. "Ah! Miriam! I heard the convent returned you! Two weeks! I win!" he informed his mother.

"You bet against me?" Miriam gasped at Terri.

"Still knew you'd be back before the month was out," Terri assured, before motioning Miriam closer. Alastor drifted away. (He'd already done his part. The man in question sustained serious injuries in a freak electrical fire. He could've ruined his friend's life, so Al ruined his.) Terri yanked Miriam's ear and astutely hissed, "I hope he was fun!" before encouraging her to focus on the club and—at the eyeroll—delivering birth control advice. Couldn't have someone else knocking her up! "I'll share anything you need!"

"You hoard these items in bulk? Ms. McGyver, are the rumors true, you rascal?"

"You'd bet against me, Miriam?" This was uncharacteristic of Terri, who regularly leaned into factors that oppressed human women to utilize them as breeders. But she had to slow Mimzy down enough to make up for the age gap and give her own son a fair shot!

Meanwhile, sabotage doubled as bonding time. Terri enlisted Alastor to throw wrenches into Miriam's dates. (This worked for minor inconveniences; she eliminated serious interferences herself, subtly. Steering them elsewhere, ensuring their numbers were drawn for service, or 'vanishing' them outright.) "Must we disappoint her?" Alastor asked to mask his eagerness.

"We're merely exterminating pests for our friend," Terri assured. "These fools couldn't make her happy." She stifled giggles. If the kid obliterated her toys, she couldn't wait to see what he'd do to these clowns!

Familiar with the raw power of humiliation, Alastor took a nonviolent but ruthless approach. He pronounced the shadow of the tiniest insect against a wall, inciting a fellow to leap back rather than kill it. Ferdie surreptitiously re-poured drinks until the man lost count and made an ass of himself, or spiked a meal to induce violent food poisoning. Terri pulled the audio through her radio and she and Alastor laughed together at their personal comedy hour, a glorious montage of epic failures and rejections.

By his teens, Alastor had inklings of Terri's scheme, but didn't face it. Didn't acknowledge that deep down, he enabled this because he benefitted, that he was accomplice to luring his friend into a web and may break his promise not to let Terri hurt her. No, they loved Miriam. Nothing untoward was happening!

Meanwhile, Miriam unleashed gales of devilish laughter while recounting the tales to Terri, who was a perfect friend every time a date disappointed her, offering food and wine while they roasted him together. After a while, she couldn't take romance seriously at all. Boys were just for fun; she'd focus on work.

Miriam routinely let Terri into the club sans cover now, and Terri heaped gratitude on her because: "You're the only one who invites me anywhere."

"You're one of my best friends. You know that, right?" That felt good to say. Mimzy finally had one close friend. After each stage show, Terri crunched Miriam gently into her elbow with the affectionate little squeeze you give something special—how she'd seen Terri hug Alastor, in fact—whispering, "I'm so proud, Shining Star." Miriam closed her eyes in the hug and felt safe.

This was all painstakingly tailored to Miriam's desires, but Terese wasn't acting anymore. Her heart had been won a record-shattering second time in a row. She'd had no luck with daughters or baby sisters before, but Alastor was a miracle; maybe Miriam was, too? Yes, this scheme benefitted everyone. They'd be a perfect family. Three awful jerks, together without any judgment, happily ever after!

...

(Uneasy canned laughter.)