Terri's obsession with expanding her family leads her to lose sight of the one she already has. Alastor comes to terms with extremely hard truths about this mother, but still can't quite come to terms with what should be done about it.

I hope this doesn't suck as much as I think it does. Wanted to post something and will probably try to post in smaller chunks from now on. There's a present-day chapter that should be up within a week as well!

I admit there's not as many fun supernatural hijinx here, but interpersonally everybody's about to go through it...

[X]

[1925, New Orleans, spring thru early winter]

"…There are regrettably no leads in the murder investigation, unless you count a punny sense of humor. I'd advise all Eileens, Matts, Phils, and Arts in the audience to remain eagle-eyed until the culprit's apprehended!" Laugh track. "In all seriousness, my very best wishes to law enforcement and the grieving family. Now signing off at the top of the hour, but fear not, you'll get to hear my fabulous voice again later this evening!" Groan track.

Station manager Ryker Marvin sighed heavily as the live show faded out on his office's radio. He still listened every time in case things flew too far into left field. He felt iffy about Alastor McGyver's philosophy of injecting grim humor into tragedy pieces to 'keep morale up,' or approaching kitschy feel-good local news pieces from 'creative' angles. (Al was always most gleeful when the two genres unexpectedly converged. Once, while attempting to escape an unruly child who tried to ride it, a baby goat in the town fair's petting zoo failed to clear a picket fence and impaled itself. Alastor immediately christened the goat 'Kebab' and had a blast.)

Nevertheless, listenership improved after Mr. Marvin hired the young man. His voice held an oddly captivating quality… Probably to do with delight in wondering what weird shit would leave the lad's mouth next, like being unable to look away from an explosion. Welp, whatever held attention was fine by the station manager.

Not to mention, Alastor handily freed Ryker from a bind when both the news anchor and live music coordinator became unavailable in rapid succession. The reporter lost his voice without warning and no obvious medical explanation. He had a broad enough skillset to find other work, but it was still awfully demoralizing; Ryker pitied the guy. The music segment lead fell more tragically ill. Mr. Marvin heard whispers he'd landed in some countryside home for the mentally feeble, muttering about shadows stalking him. That Gamble woman whose brother ran the jazz club was one of the last folks he interacted with, and her only unsympathetic, salty comment was that he "never learned when to quit." Probably he'd hassled her about more than just the bands' contact info.

Barely two full days passed before the loudmouth conveniently appeared requesting—erm, no—accepting both jobs. He waltzed confidently into the station, flirtatiously chatted up the secretary until the silly, giddy young thing let him in, found Ryker's office, and exchanged a few sentences about the job postings. Then he snagged Mr. Marvin's hand, shook it nearly hard enough to undulate him midair like a majorette ribbon, and informed him, politely, that he'd be working there and "you're quite welcome for my solving your problem so efficiently!"

But while irksome at times, Al was a reliable employee. And unlike the last music coordinator, he got along well with Miss Gamble, so now the station borrowed the club's recent acts regularly. Overall, Ryker was appreciative.

(And…curious. The whole town, from what he could tell, was either silently fascinated or irritated when Alastor woke up one morning, decided to become a radio celebrity, and simply did. Same as they'd been any time child Al and his mother had invited themselves to events. Or any time young adult Alastor popped up in the Gambles' club and casually swept pretty blonde Miriam off her feet for a surprisingly skilled, elaborate swing dance. But no one dwelled long on the harsh dissonance between what they understood was 'typical' versus what happened routinely. That something was abnormal. Doing so, in Ryker's experience, felt like a vibrating ice pick driving into one's eye before a strange, niggling guilt set in, with foreign thoughts of "That isn't polite. xXXxXstaticXxxXXxX Think something more xXXxXstaticXxxXXxX POLITE RIGHT NOW xXXxXstaticXxxXXxX.")

Anyway…

Odd, Mr. Marvin often thought, that Al worked so many shifts when he and his oddball 'heiress' mother seemed well-to-do. But it couldn't be easy, taking care of the deceptively youthful-looking, unstable old bat as a young man halfway into his 20s. Kid probably wanted a reasonable-sounding excuse to get out of the house as much as possible.

[X]

Alastor stepped from the station lobby's shade into the muggy New Orleans sunshine—dark chocolate hair neatly slicked back, decked out in his favorite deep wine red suit vest, and, of course, eyes habitually sweeping the area for reactions. He was a polarizing figure and object of fascination, he knew it, and he was amused as hell. He supposed it'd be even funnier if he walked around in one of the louder suits Terri tried giving him ("Mother, you know I'm as fond of neon as you are, but there is a time and place."), but even Alastor McGyver wasn't that theatrical (yet).

The New Orleanders noticed his appearance with mixed responses. A few younger adults and teens seemed dazzled. Some older citizens nose-wrinkled or eye-rolled, but their hesitation to meet his eyes if he glanced at them and smiled betrayed faint intimidation. The bluntest reaction, though, came from one suspicious-looking dark-skinned little girl who whispered "Shadow Man!" in an accusatory tone from around the street corner. Alastor tried focusing on the others, but this stuck. A dull ache settled in his stomach, corner of his smile dipping. Hmmph. Well. If that was what the child's imagination had conjured, he'd deliver!

The girl and her friends were playing wall ball against some sunlit brick where their shadows mirrored them in a line. Alastor peered around the corner and sent Ferdie to take his place at the end. Then, back turned to the scene, he feigned examining something at a market cart. Alastor and Ferdie gaslit the children for several minutes as they all uneasily looked around, trying to deduce the extra shadow's origin without mentioning it, lest they were hallucinating. Until the shadow creature's arm jutted beyond the wall, caught the ball, and conked the accusatory little girl gently in the head with it. They scattered, screaming and startling confused onlookers. Alastor chewed his lower lip to keep from guffawing and departed unworried—no one believes children.

Despite the fun prank, Alastor's stomach growled again loudly… At least there was probably a meal waiting for him when he returned home. Terese was so sweet that way. Even at age 25, Alastor reflexively smiled at the thought of his mother. (Nervous laugh track.)

Occasionally, a friend or coworker would imply they were too close, still living together. Maybe others weren't close enough to their parents? Anyway, why should one of them leave a paid-off, spacious home? All was well! Idyllic, even! They rarely squabbled like they did early on. ('Yes, that's all it was,' Alastor reminded himself whenever the memories seemed more severe.) There were some—hack hem—points of contention (important distinction!), but if shouting wasn't usually involved, it wasn't fighting, right? And Terri was more decent nowadays to people who hadn't provoked her (or continued indiscriminate violence behind his ba—STOP). She broke promises sometimes (a lot), but at least he acquired advance power each time? (Was nothing preventing her doing whatever she wanted, besides unaffordable power loss? Not love for h—? TURNITOFF.)

Alastor had learned (to tolerate her, by pretending) even when her antics seemed shady, her intentions toward him specifically were benign. Best example? Young Alastor, who hadn't yet refined his façade of uncrackable self-confidence, begged her to fix his lazy eye, or his vision more generally. His coke-bottle glasses were silly, and he was bat-blind without them. Terri insisted it was charming. Al suspected she simply enjoyed teasing him…until 1917. "You remember how we joked about the war. Since you're too damned proud to dodge, I kept your natural disqualifier." Just in case her numbers tampering failed—Terese always had a back-up plan. "Wait a while, and I'll improve your vision and straighten the eye a smidge. I do find it charming, see."

See, there, how wholesome! She loved him! Why search for problems?

[X]

The meal indeed waited in the Other House, but his mother wasn't ready to cheerfully greet him as she served it. Instead, she was in her chair irately smacking a rolled newspaper against her knee. After a few taps, Alastor jokingly whistled a tune against the metronome. Terri ceased with a simple groan of: "Bob."

Oh. Yes. Bob. The story in the paper. The same one he'd gleefully reported on that morning on air.

-x-

The mother-son pair still hunted together for sport, but Terese eliminating bodies grew…tedious. Yes, it was wrong to waste meat, but the game yielded low risk and little thrill. He wasn't sure if his famously snoopy mother actively spied on any of his solo hunting expeditions, but she definitely knew of them. She'd loudly, performatively sighed, spotting fresh bloodstains in the laundry after a night when he'd been too tired to pre-soak the clothes. But neither said anything; Alastor hoped that would peacefully continue. He didn't investigate whether she'd vanished any remains he'd buried around her wells. Returning to the scene of the crime was stupid, and he'd rather not argue.

Alastor resisted hunting in his own area for years, despite eagerness to rid his beloved New Orleans of pests, but eventually encountered his first local victim in a diner while lunch breaking with a coworker. The radio host had been vaguely aware of a child's rambling while conversing with Ed, but it blended unobtrusively into background diner chatter. The glass shattering was more bothersome; Al found that sound inexplicably vexing. His knee jerked and shoulders stiffened even before the cr-ACK was followed by a thundering, "SHUT! UP!"

Even sans profanity, the tone felt vulgar. The whole establishment startled and quieted, heads turning to see a man roughly shaking a young girl. Moments stretched agonizingly. While externally composed, Alastor ached to spring up and sink a fork into the asshole's hand. When the child's mother shakily interrupted, the man glared like she was causing a scene, labeled his family 'embarrassing,' and yanked them from the diner. The waitress was too uncomfortable to demand payment, cringing toward her feet. Ambient noise gradually elevated to the normal low rumble as Ed muttered, "What the hell, man. That was awful…"

Having resisted the urge to confront the man around witnesses, Alastor could safely pursue further. If the creep acted this way publicly, Al doubted his behavior was better at home. That the target had a family concerned him. However, in addition to confirming Al's suspicions that the family suffered serious aggression in silence, Ferdie's spying revealed that Robert Gabbler sold insurance and consequently had good benefits himself. Convenient!

Luckily for Alastor, Bob enjoyed hunting, too, and poorly kept track of time. He was easy to corner in an isolated wooded area as night fell and other game-seekers returned home. Here, Ferdie held the victim in place while Al pinned the kneeling man's tongue to a tree with one knife and slowly, meticulously carved 'SHUT UP' into it with another, whistling a cheerful tune throughout. "That's quite a performance," he enunciated past ear-splitting wails that were muted to the surrounding area by Alastor's developing supernatural abilities. "Who'd have thought you were capable of emotional range beyond hatefulness? Now…as the insurance term is 'death and dismemberment,' let's give you your money's worth, shall we?" The serial killer chuckled, reflecting on his idea. "What do you call a man with no arms or legs floating in the middle of the river?" The man with the inoperable tongue babbled incoherently. "Bob!" Alastor chimed, "But that was a fine guess!"

With Bob relieved of all limbs with which he might resist, Alastor carved out the mutilated tongue, pried the man's blood-gushing jaws open, and shoved the organ down his throat so he slowly choked on it, pathetic torso wheezing and spasming on the ground. "Yes, eating one's words is often an uncomfortable experience." Alastor's leering face slowly faded to black for Robert. "Good night, dear listener."

When a local fisherman discovered the body a week later, Alastor sent Ferdie to gauge the family's reaction. They seemed traumatized, but surely they'd perk up to the tune of that massive life insurance payout! The killer smiled proudly to himself and imagined patting the crying girl on the head. 'There, there, kiddo, break as many glasses as you want. Uncle Al's footing the bill!'

-x-

Alastor smiled and shrugged sheepishly. "Joke didn't land?"

"Look at this spectacle," Terese tutted, unfolding the paper to the offending article and glaring over newsprint at her son, who sipped ice water wearing his best 'innocent lamb' face. "You'd think someone hadn't received enough attention as a child. Good grief!" Terri refolded the paper and stood to swat his head. Alastor's hand-waving and snickers petered out at the beldam's sour expression. "Don't hunt many around here, love. If you so dislike me vanishing bodies—" Terri leaned forward. "—imagine how humiliated you'd be if I had to rescue you from law enforcement."

Oof. That hit where it hurt. "…Yes, ma'am," Alastor acquiesced, eyes not quite meeting her dark buttons.

"Glad there's been no trouble yet." Terri seemed to have dismissed the matter, now busily plating courses with all the same silly gags and performance artistry she'd once used to make children laugh, complete with shellfish doing ludicrously intricate synchronized swimming routines in their bisque. Alastor grinned tolerantly at every cue, every nonsensical noise that made the goofiest of his radio sound effects seem cultured by comparison. "Oh, come now! The gravy train never gets old!" his mother complained of Al's uncontrollable eye-roll as some fresh gravy was deposited next to his dinner biscuit for dipping.

"If you say so."

Terri clucked. "Should've stopped you growing up when I had the chance," she jested with a quick tongue flick. (Nervous laugh track.) "How shall we entertain ourselves tonight, Spiderling?"

Al was almost exclusively 'Button' nowadays, only 'Spiderling' when Terese particularly ached for a playmate. The mood dipped again. The radio host cleared his throat after swallowing some crayfish bisque, chagrined to ask: "What can we do before 8:30PM?"

Terri cocked her head. "What happens in a few h—? Oh." Her mouth turned down again as she cr-ACKed the crab legs on her own plate violently, then chewed a shred of meat for comfort before grumbling, "That extra shift." Alastor's 'night job' was one of their few sore spots. The second was his 'day job.' "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to stay away."

"Silly." Alastor scooted his chair closer to squeeze her shoulder, tracing his smile at her. "This work is fun for me."

"I often regret helping you train in Pittsburgh," admitted Terri, who'd allowed use of her doors as transportation. "…I could have trained you myself."

Even after this had been raised a dozen times, Alastor internally cringed just as hard and spat out his response too quickly, too desperately. "Of course! I'm sure you'd have done a fine job! It's only the humans might have a certain perspective I'd miss, and they're the ones I'm working with, so it simply made more sense—"

Terri's hum and icy "Wellll" sliced harshly through his dialogue. "I suppose I'll go perform while you're out."

Oof. Al hated imagining his mother occupying herself by performing alone in her theater for insect-minded puppets, while he had his own real listeners. He often wondered if Terri envied his radio work because it consumed his time and attention, or if she envied him because of his career. "Can't you pal around with Miriam or heckle Jack some more?"

With no need for luring, no children to entertain, and seamstressing requiring little effort, the closest Terri had to professional aspiration was lurking around the speakeasy to sweet talk Jack Gamble into buying her rollickingly potent home-brewed moonshine…which was as likely as Terri adopting a kitten. Jack didn't need more suppliers; he didn't want to offend valuable current ones; and, most critically, he detested the McGyvers. No matter—Terri kept Miriam company when she wasn't too busy at the club. Often, the ladies even enjoyed brunch together before the assistant manager/lounge singer's evening-centric workday.

Terri offered a sloping hum as her eyebrows inched up. "That reminds me! No worries after all, dear. I'll be plenty occupied tonight preparing Miriam's gifts."

"Ahhh, yes. Miriam's 30th birthday party's coming up soon, isn't it?"

Terri chirped brightly, "Time's perfect to strike while she's insecure, Button!"

Alastor barked out a "Ha!" at his mother's sharp-tongued humor, then 'tsk'ed. "This running gag's getting tired, dear." Terri's desire to push the two into a romance was so transparent, Al and Mimzy openly joked about it.

-x-

A few days prior, as Al returned from a work shift just before Mimzy headed to hers, his friend had called from the McGyvers' porch swing, with Terese frowning alongside her, "Hey, Al! Your mom's still hoping you'll woo me!" Alastor approached, bent over slowwwly while Miriam pursed lips in performative dread, then loudly "WOOOO!"ed directly into her ear as she clawed her hands with melodramatic groaning.

"This is why! This why there's no woman yet!" Terri wailed humorlessly, hands covering her tinted glasses.

Al mouthed to Mimzy, 'Thanks for that expert set-up, darling,' and she winked a twinkling hazel eye back. Things were perfect exactly as they were, Alastor thought, just setting up and executing silly jokes with his friend. She was beautiful and charming, but while Al normally adored drama, he wouldn't inject the potential for any into such a pleasant, low-stress friendship. His mother would have to seek entertainment elsewhere.

[X]

Miriam awoke feeling sour on her 30th birthday. Maybe brunch with Terri would cheer her up? The blonde tipped her lavender sunhat and sunned her shoulders on the back deck of their favorite river-front café, waiting for her friend to arrive, when a bluebird perched on the nearby railing and cocked its head at her. Aww! Mimzy whistled at it, but the bird changed course, fluttering toward a younger lady a few tables over to whistle Miriam's tune at her. The birthday girl gawped in open-mouthed outrage…until the bird incidentally shat on the girl's head while flying away, and Mimzy's lips twitched back up in schadenfreude-filled glee. HAhahaha!

One look down at the morning paper she'd brought to peruse while she waited dropped her smile again. Here was an article about Cleo Lythgoe, a famous rumrunner who'd recently retired after a too-close brush with the law. No one could prove she distributed rum, but it was essentially common knowledge, and she was interviewed and photographed like a celebrity. Mimzy frowned down at her goddamn beautiful face. Every man, including Bill McCoy, wanted to schtup her, every woman wanted to be her, and she didn't have to sing and shake her ass for it. …And neither did Jack… F*** them both, she thought sourly.

"Mae East!" a familiar, teasing voice dragged her from her internal monologue. There was Terese, fabulous as ever. Over a decade after they met, and the woman's only signs of aging were crow's feet (mostly concealed by her dark glasses anyway), a handsomely accentuated backside and bosom, and twinkly silver strands sprinkled through her rich red-brown hair. Mimzy simultaneously loved and hated her. Some b****es just had all the luck.

Miriam waved Terri toward the table. "Quit callin' me that, I'm no knock-off!"

"Why of course not! You're the newer, plusher, sexier model straight out of the factory, my gorgeous birthday girl!" Terri squished the 30-year-old's face like a toddler's and pecked both cheeks, leaving ruby red lipstick smudges that Mimzy dabbed off with a napkin. "I've planned a very special evening! But here's a small gift to start." Terese pushed a package across the table.

Mimzy undid the immaculate wrap and ribbon and opened a box to reveal a custom rag doll. It had a tiny pointed stitched nose, dark green button eyes with painted gold and blue flecks, bobbed dark gold curls in a black and white plumed hairband, and a party dress with shimmering gold and black beaded top and black ruffled skirt. "Ah! It's adorable!" Miriam praised the novelty item. "Wow, it's so detailed! How long did this take?" She didn't question that her talented friend created it herself.

"As long as it took to make it precisely you," Terri answered, smiling fondly. "Perhaps one day your child will snuggle it at night."

(Record scratch.) Miriam's joy was swiftly interrupted. Crap! Terri figured Al wasn't likely to have kids, the flapper guessed, and was trying to snatch some eggs from Mimzy's basket!

"Or if they miss you while you're at work. I can't imagine you would ever want to stop working entirely. No hurdles while I'm around—I'm happy to watch them!" Terri prattled confidently, oblivious to Miriam's blatant discomfort. Oh no. Terese was using 'The Voice'—the cringeworthy one Mimzy and Alastor joked about, used when she was tragically committed to something impossible.

"Thhhhaaaank you. I don't know about that? I'll snuggle it plenty myself, promise!" Miriam placed the doll in her lap, patting its head.

"You don't think you'll ever meet that special someone?"

"Mmmn. Eh. Look, I love goin' out. It's fun. But they all get boring after a while." Miriam shrugged.

"Keep at it, dear, there's someone for everyone! You must simply be compatible with a very specific kind of person. Energetic, adventurous, dramatic, enjoys humor. Not overly attached to convention. Heavily invested in their own career so won't mind that you're heavily invested in yours. Appreciates personal space…"

Ohhhh, Terri… Mimzy wasn't sure of the politest way to tell her there was no way on god's green earth that Alastor was straight. (Otherwise, she'd've snapped that shit right u— Nonono, joking! She'd babysat for him, for crying out loud. It would be too inappropriate, right?) Instead, she joked pleasantly, "He 'WOO'ed me pretty hard the other day! That's enough for one lifetime, huh?"

Terri nodded tensely and ordered extra booze in her mimosa. When the waiter left, Mimzy investigated: "Look, I hope this ain't rude to ask, but have you considered adopting again? Seems like you want another kiddo around."

Terese's fake eyelids fluttered behind dark-tinted glasses as she uttered, "No," then behaved cool and withdrawn.

After several chilly exchanges, the younger woman tried again. "You know Al and I'll always be around for ya?" Her friend frowned into her omelet; for once Mimzy doubted she was judging the chef's work. Hmmn. This was the mood Terese often developed shortly before needing bed rest. After years of friendship, Miriam was familiar with Terri's periodic exhaustions. "Hun, you feelin' tired at all?" Mimzy inquired cautiously. "Maybe you oughta be resting more—"

Terri's face resembled a ripe tomato. "Yes, I know, I'm old, Miriam, thank you for the reminder!" Mimzy covered her mouth, trying not to snort the mimosa she'd just sipped through her nose. "What is so funny, young lady?"

Miriam shot Terri a sparkling smile. "I sure hope I age as gracefully as you!"

'Awww,' thought flattered Terri, heart melting. "Excuse me, dear, I didn't mean to be moody on your special day. I'll make up for it with the festivities later. I must see my exquisite diamond perform for us in…" Terri produced a second package from her large, very loud checkered purse and rose to lower it gently into Miriam's lap.

Mimzy pursed her lips and tittered upon opening it, keeping it lowered beneath the table to examine it discreetly. "I love it, but, uh…" The normally bawdy, confident blonde flushed. Little did she know, it was a replica of a dress that wouldn't be made until 1936 for a Mae West film—a floor length, form-fitting piece meant to be worn with a leotard, semi-sheer with flowers of dark plum wine-colored lace clustered to conceal critical areas and scattered loosely across the remaining fabric. "You think I can pull this off? Will they…y'know…let me in?"

Terri shrugged. "Your family owns the club. It's reserved for your party. Do as you please."

"Train's awfully long for me?"

"Supposed to wear some serious heels with it." Terri stifled a smirk. Mimzy required a height boost if she was going to dance with Alastor as planned.

The younger woman handled the fabric like it were made of spun gold, imagining wearing it on stage. Whether her audience was scandalized or enamored hardly mattered—no one would be able to take their eyes off her. To be on stage again at all… "It'll be fun to sing again."

"I have noticed you're performing less."

"Oh… Yeah, Jack promised a few other girls some shifts," Mimzy responded shiftily, as the mood instantly dipped. "Tryin'a give friends work..." A long sip of coffee.

"I've noticed you've been performing mostly when the others are…unavailable," Terri elaborated, cocking a brow. "It's almost like someone hexed your poor performers—they keep having such rough luck. The way Velma's heel broke off before she took that fall… Never seen anything like it! She should sue the cobbler! Maybe she'll finally pay my rates for a job done properly!" The older woman's laugh was casual, but her eyes locked with her younger counterpart's intensely. "And what allergy was that afflicting Tricia?"

"No idea now that shellfish got mixed into the dish she took from the buffet. S'pose folks oughtta be more careful with the serving spoons. We added a sign." Miriam's chest tightened. She'd had no idea Terri suspected her! Then again, maybe she shouldn't have been surprised to learn the infamous drama-loving snoop was tracking Mimzy's sabotage efforts and laughing quietly from the rafters.

"But yes, those are the last two times I remember you performing… Your brother's not scheduling you anymore?" Terri finally turned the subtext into text. Now it was Miriam's turn to look away cooly, even while clutching the dress like a life vest. "That's a shame. But you do enjoy other aspects of your work, right?"

"I…yeah. Enough. I'd feel more engaged if Jack'd let me be more involved than just balancing books for the club," Mimzy admitted in a hushed tone, regarding her sibling's boot-legging and arms dealing.

"Really? I'd've never thought such degeneracy would suit you," Terri whispered sarcastically, winking her fake eye and earning a mischievous giggle. "Are you quite certain you can't convince him?"

Not this again. Didn't Terri understand yet that these unattainable fantasies only made her feel worse in the long run? Like getting drunk, then hungover—a temporary high, then a pounding headache as you flopped limply on your bead bemoaning you'd never get to do what you'd planned. "I agree it sounds plenty fun, but Jack ain't buyin' your moonshine, and he ain't lettin' me get involved with that end of the business either. If I wanna stay involved at all, I've gotta cooperate."

"You? Cooperate?" Terri laughed playfully. "Who needs Jack? We can—!"

"Terri!" Miriam briefly placed her head in her hands, raised her face again. "Look, I'm tryin' my best to be happy with what I got. Which is not my nature. I'm hangin' on by a thread, okay? Don't make it harder. You expect to compete with him? We ain't playin' dolls, we're in reality!"

Mimzy hadn't meant to snap quite so hard. She expected Terri to snap back, but instead the woman inhaled and exhaled deeply and held up her palms in rare surrender. "Understood. Let's not fight on your birthday."

Mimzy abruptly redirected from the sour topic, "It is what it is…" Voice warming to show she bore no ill will, she added, "You always give such perfect gifts. Anything you might want for your birthday, by the way?"

The beldam sighed wistfully at a trawler in the distance down the river, where she spotted a man and his son cooperatively pulling in a net of fish together. "Sure do wish I had a family business again…"

"Come up with somethin' I could actually get for you, lady," Mimzy laughed before nibbling her beignet.

"Yes, of course, dear." Under the table, Terri's sharp black heel impatiently clickclickCLICKed.

[X]

Alastor disliked admitting it, but he and his mother still fought, and the biggest source of argument was neither his radio career nor hunting habits. It eventually led to another sensational dispute.

"Didn't you have a date tonight, darling?" An embarrassed silk bathrobe-clad Terri ushered Alastor out of the Other House at an inopportune moment when he unexpectedly appeared placing a container of something on her dining room table. "I could've sworn you mentioned plans this evening."

Alastor laughed awkwardly, blinking and staring as if she'd said something odd. "Well, yes, in fact I did."

"Aw, Button, I'm sorry it didn't go well," Terri assumed aloud patronizingly. "Unfortunately, I'm not free for dinner. May Day celebration tonight!"

"Oh?" The holiday about fertility rituals? "Aiming to accomplish anything in particular with this exercise?" Alastor asked dryly as if he couldn't guess.

The witch smiled and shrugged. "…Might bring you better luck?"

Her son eye-rolled and mumbled unenthusiastically, "Perhaps." Al felt only the rarest, barest flickers of attraction to women, and nothing similar for men. He dated around to reduce speculation, but he rarely sustained more than a three-date string with the same woman.

Terese had taught Al there was indeed something to certain old magic practices, but he assumed many others were either superstition or an excuse to party. For Terese, it was the latter case today, judging by the sight of a woman's garments shed haphazardly on the ground near the door to the back deck. "Fine, fine. No taking the lady's head off!" he chided, swatting his mother's shoulder teasingly.

"Then they'd better be respectful, hadn't they?"

"They?" Alastor peered out the window. Two women and one man—presumably hypnotized—giggled and chatted flirtatiously in a newly-materialized hot spring in the garden, nude bodies partly obscured by the steam glowing ghostly in the moonlight and stray branches of surrounding shrubbery. They appeared unbothered by the large flytraps snapping ominously behind them. "Good golly! Who has the energy for all that at the end of the day?"

"The better question is, how am I outperforming my handsome young man?"

Aaand there it was. "We're competing?" Alastor smiled patiently, plastically.

"Am I ever not competing?" As Alastor rolled his eyes and turned to leave, Terri grinned mischievously and called, "Miriam!" out the window. Al nearly snapped his neck for the velocity at which his head swung. One woman waved away some mist… Only an unfamiliar face who shared a name! Al exhaled in relief while Terese clicked her tongue at the implication. "Alastor! Disgusting! She's like my sister! …Luckily for you, or I'm positive I'd win her faster!"

"I'm being timed?"

Terri glanced toward the garden, aware she'd gotten sidetracked, but her guests were beginning to entertain themselves, so she resumed. "You're sure a far cry from girl crazy!"

"Ah." Parents' badgering for grandchildren was a common problem from which no one was safe, but Al thought Terri was being particularly immature about it. "Hoping for little ones? I wasn't planning on it."

"Not everyone's drawn to the general idea. Some only find it appealing once they've met a special someone. …Just what are you looking at?"

Alastor gazed with cocked head at the moon, decidedly away from the salacious hot spring display. "Per your forecast, women are due to rain from the sky at any moment."

"Ugh. There'd hardly be need for miracles if you'd try."

"Work keeps me busy. Where would I find time for a family? It's challenging enough setting aside quality time for us two." He again made pointed eye contact to jog Terri's memory that he'd had dinner plans with her tonight, and she'd forgotten them in favor of the vulgar frivolity taking place in the yard. The beldam stared blankly, oblivious as ever. Wow. Imagine if Alastor had cancelled dinner on her? He wouldn't put it past her to kick his grown-ass adult butt straight into the closet! Ha!

"You don't even have to work!" Terese objected.

"Well, I have to do something with myself!" Alastor realized immediately that it sounded like an attack and chuckled awkwardly, trying to warm up the tone a bit, "Haven't you always said boredom is fatal?"

But there was still much more color in his mother's pale cheeks than usual, and her shoulders were squared aggressively. "I've been working much harder than you seem to think, boy."

Crap! 'New topic? Advice? Both?' Alastor wondered desperately. "Suppose you adopt again?" he tried, placing the ball firmly in her court. Terri frowned confusedly before throwing her head back and barking a bitter laugh. "What? Why wait on me? Exact some agency—"

"Don't you mock me!" Terri interrupted forcefully as Alastor drew back, baffled. Terri cleared her throat and seemed to switch gears. "You mention agency when you haven't done a thing about Miriam? It's clear as day you fancy her!"

"Nonsense," Al objected to the painfully accurate observation. "How uncomfortable—we're practically cousins."

"It's no secret you found her quite lovely at her birthday dinner."

Alastor nearly lost his cool. It was a step too far that Terri would make (oh, she absolutely did) and encourage Miriam to wear that lingerie just barely posing as a dress to her party. Despite disinterest in seeking out sexual partners, Alastor's body automatically responded to stimuli, to his dismay (he found arousal to be strictly a nuisance). Irritated as he was on his own behalf, he was doubly irritated on Miriam's. If Terri's rude jokes about Mimzy feeling insecure were even half correct, she'd have agreed to wear it to feel beautiful even knowing it was a bad idea. Al felt quite certain, too, that she'd left with someone, drunk. (He hadn't seen it himself or he'd have intervened. His mother had told him about it, voice dripping with far more disappointment than concern.) He was worried, protective, on top of…maybe a bit jealous?

"You should've told her so. She may not have left with that other man," Terri cruelly emphasized.

"You shouldn't have let her leave with anyone," flew out of Alastor's mouth angrily before it registered in his brain.

"…Pardon?" asked Terri cooly.

Welp, now he had to commit to it. "You're her best friend, aren't you? Wasn't she hammered?"

"I am her best friend. That's how I know she had fun, sweetheart. Don't worry so much. We aren't made of glass."

"…Yes, of course. My mistake," Al murmured awkwardly, successfully made to feel like the asshole. "Anyway, I'm shocked she's still our friend, with how you persist at this off-putting joke, and romance is not my priority."

"You can't be completely disinterested." Access to modern ideas didn't impact Terri's bigoted attitudes much. Similarly, she understood asexuals existed, but pretended they didn't, because they were inconvenient.

"If I…batted for the other team?" Alastor glared, silently daring his openly bisexual mother to have the gall to tell him she'd be displeased. Al realized he was unusual in some fashion. This wasn't it, but the suggestion might introduce Terri to the possibility of not getting her way.

Terri's tight-lipped pause lasted uncomfortably long. "Certainly I'd accept it, what an absurd question!" She couldn't resist adding sourly, "You're lucky to have me, or you'd never have the luxury of not even bothering to find a beard!"

"I'm not actually interested in men, Mother."

"Regardless. You'd need to feign more interest in ladies otherwise. You know what people say."

"Oh, yes. I'm aware." Al conceded he was lucky it didn't extend beyond rude jokes whispered behind his back (so folks thought), when some would have their asses handed to them in an alley. Still: "I simply don't see why you must rub in my face that you…shield me, at every opportunity."

"Excuse me, you're annoyed I'm doing exactly as you asked of me?"

"When I was seven. I appreciate your help," Alastor started carefully, "but I'm an adult now, and if circumstances were different, I'd manage better than you think."

"Oh. You don't need me anymore, is that it?" Terri stiffened and swallowed thickly. "You don't need me anymore and don't care if I die alone. Fine. Totally fine."

"You know that's not—! What are you on about?!" Alastor blurted in frustration, too aggressively.

"Don't speak to me that way!"

"Don't speak to me like…this! Is everything you've done only because you expected me to repay you this way? I suppose you don't need me anymore, if you only care about whether I'll manufacture you a replacement child now that I've grown up! I'm sorry I turned out to be such a boring adult, Mother, even though I try as hard as I can to be entertaining for you every second of every day!" Terri's remarks about fixing Alastor's eye and the draft echoed in his memory, and they hit differently now. More knowledgeable about genetics than others of the time period given access to Terri's 'advanced' library, Alastor joked angrily, "If you only keep me alive to utilize my genetic material, I'll save some chewing gum for you next time and you can grow your own baby clones! Sounds simpler!"

"Excuse me? What are you going on about?!"

Both choked back angry, confused tears, heels grinding the hardwood in near perfect unison. The mood was irreparably killed. Terri flung the door to the back porch open and announced dramatically, "The May Day celebration is cancelled! Because of—" She jabbed an accusing crimson-nailed finger. "—my son."

The two women 'boo'ed as the man sitting between them bitterly called to Alastor, "Thanks, Satan!"

"You're welcome!" Alastor spat at the naïve fool he'd almost certainly rescued from post-coital decapitation. Even more irritating, naked strangers now paraded through the house to retrieve their clothes. One woman shot him sultry glances and presented herself, as if to persuade him to let the orgy proceed. The prudish radio host pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. "Ma'am, please, now is not the time."

"Don't hold your breath," Terri told her acidly. "You'd have more luck with a wet noodle."

Alastor gawped and hissed "How dare you!" at Terese indignantly. He unloaded a burst of energy to quell his face's reddening and shattered a nearby lamp bulb, causing the nameless women to shriek and shield her nude body with her hands. The stranger scooped her clothes from the floor and fled to the well in the backyard with the others.

The living mortal man couldn't supernaturally stretch yet, but when he straightened angrily and loomed over his mother's much shorter human disguise, Terese fleetingly saw herself in her son… Did she feel proud or nervous?

"Why must everyone else have perfect manners while you conduct yourself like a petulant toddler?!" Alastor raising his voice to her was nearly unheard of. His face twitched around the eyes and mouth, and she caught him looking up at the lights as he spun on his heel and left without another word. Each shoe clopping harshly down the basement stairs felt like nails in regretful Terri's ears.

The beldam's heart dropped further as she spotted the container her son left behind on the table. Opening it revealed one of her favorite slow cooker recipes. He'd spent time lovingly preparing this, although she didn't need the sustenance, simply because he knew she enjoyed the taste. He'd had to have put this in this morning? Because… Terri flopped into a chair as a puppet servant wandered in. "Of course. We made dinner plans. How could I forget?"

"You forget many things." Echo watched orgy attendees depart with flickers of hurt and envy. "Yet he still loves you."

Terri remained silent, face in her hands. But when she removed them, her softened expression had vanished. Back was the hard, sharp face, the one you could guess was porcelain even before something cracked it. "Does he? Does she? If they loved me, they would do this. Why, it's hardly difficult! They like each other—I can tell! If they're resisting, I almost wonder if they dislike me, it's so spiteful!"

Echo reticently offered input. "Yes, ma'am. He does love you. And—" The puppet servant coughed through a mumbled 'forgodsakes.' "—Miss Gamble is your best friend. Your only friend, besides myself—" Terri unexpectedly snorted with laughter, and Echo winced, hurt. "Okay, fine. …You really think they don't love you?"

"That stands to be proven. In any case, I need…" The witch wrung her hands nervously. "…more." The plan had somehow backfired. Even with food security, as years passed, her comfort waned. She'd begun feeling nearly as hungry as back when she'd been starving, as though she'd developed a drug tolerance.

"Forgive me, but you sometimes seem blind to when there's already plentiful love available," said Echo. At its mistress's scoffing: "So why am I here?"

"Because you're a coward. You'd be a servant to exist longer while children—

"I look after the children!" Terese was struck silent, surprised by how forceful the outburst was. Echo was uncharacteristically worked up now. "AND…If I were only afraid or resentful, I wouldn't still be here, servitude or not, we both know that. …I still love you, xxsxxtxxaxxtxxixxc."

Terri felt numb. "Stop." Who wants to remember killing their spouse, then stuffing their ghost in a closet and intermittently using them as a servant because it was too upsetting to look at them?

"Why would I put myself in the position to stay here otherwise?! Do you remember how old I am? It's no quality of life to exist like this! There's no point without lo—" The puppet servant cut itself off abruptly, watching its mistress's face contort in wordless fury. Echo demurred and shrunk apologetically. "No, I misspoke, I didn't intend it like tha—"

"Yes you did," the beldam sneered. "Thank you for that profound observation, but I'm already intensely aware…of the pointlessness…of my F***ING LIFE!" The woman became nasty quite frequently, but she only dropped a handful of F-bombs per century. Echo's pupils would've shrunk to dots if it still had eyes. Terese managed to self-injure and spitefully inconvenience her ex-spouse in one go by erupting the kitchen range into flames once again. "Repair that!" she barked, storming away.

There was no reason to exist like this. How much longer could she stand it? Of various reasons Terri had disliked Bert Sigfried, the most passionate was that every time she watched him, she feared she was seeing a grim premonition—the 'Ghost of Christmas Future.' Terri swallowed hard. No, she couldn't give up. She had to outlast her enemies! Anyway, Alastor and Miriam would deliver. Hell, she was practically both of their mother—they owed her this! Terri retreated to the security of her bedroom's rocking chair. Perhaps some needlework would soothe her nerves.

-x-

When Alastor returned to make amends, a puppet servant opened Terese's bedroom door for him—strange behavior immediately forgotten once faced with his mother, in her rocking chair struggling to unthread the needlepoint she'd sewn into her own leg, nose sniffing angrily beneath eyes that couldn't water. 'Welcome Home' the project said, above soft pink and blue baby bottles. She gasped in mortification, head shooting up as the door creaked. Al rushed to his mother's side to assist. "I can do it, I've done it before," Terese insisted, gently pushing him away.

"This happens repeatedly?" He fleetingly wondered, 'Why did the puppet open the door if she didn't want me to see?' but his concern overshadowed his curiosity. "You're worrying me…" Alastor patted her back and kissed her forehead. They worked in silence, Terri loosening the thread beneath her skirt while Al gently pulled through the fabric topside. As they finished, Alastor ventured: "Mother… You'll always have a family while I'm around. Miriam and I both love you. You'll never be alone again. Even death won't part us three, remember?"

"You're so confident Miriam's Hellbound?"

"Absolutely. Mother, I love Mimzy to pieces, but she is a creep. Our creep." Encouraged by the genuine grin and snicker this earned, Al found the strength to press, "Tell me what's really bothering you?" This ran much deeper than wanting grandchildren—that much was clear. Something was very wrong.

"Let's not discuss anymore. I hate when we argue." Eep. That sounded sharp. But Alastor let it go. Freed from the thread, Terri thanked her son, and they retreated into their M.O. of pretending the disturbing event never occurred.

[X]

To Alastor's surprise, his mother laid off. At first, they (Miriam had passingly implied that she worried for Terri's health as well) were suspicious, but relaxed as weeks passed. Not only had Terri ceased pestering them about romance, she was less clingy, spending more time on her personal hobbies as summer progressed to fall.

She was dancing and singing again, practicing more current numbers ("what the kids are into these days") in her personal theater. She'd resumed crafting and was seamstressing more than usual ("Oh, yes, I've started taking more production orders in addition to the tailoring ones. Lots of growing children who'll need new fall clothes!"). She spent odd amounts of time examining advertisements for children's toys, mumbling to herself that she "could clearly improve these." Strange, but…Mother always had competition on the brain, right? Terri sheepishly admitted her interest in cooking had lapsed, once accustomed to the benefits of an adult son with talent in the kitchen. But now, as the temperature dropped, she prepared some excellent, mouth-wateringly tender meat stews.

Every so often, she'd seem more fatigued and irritable than usual, requiring more hugs and attention after these bursts of creativity. Then Alastor and Mimzy would remind her they were thrilled to see her engaging in her hobbies again but maybe she should slow down and rest. A few days of napping and quality time would right her, and she'd resume her private activities with renewed zeal.

Miriam and Alastor were thrilled to see Terri busying herself. She'd seemed so aimless for the past few years while they'd grown increasingly involved in their careers. Had she really just needed a pep talk? To be reminded that her unconventional but very loving family would always be by her side? Was it really that simple?

[X]

There was an equipment malfunction at the station. A shame, certainly, but nothing to do until it was fixed, so Alastor arrived home over an hour early and, of course, came to greet his mother. He entered the Other House, poked around rooms calling for her, entered the dining room and—

BOOM. The mythical imagery Alastor's grandfather had reported many years ago stared him down at last. BUTTONS.

Buttons sewn into the eyes of a young girl. The corpse slumped against the back of a dining room chair, jaw ripped clean off. The table was coated in a gooey puddle of congealed blood. A hefty kitchen knife jutted from her skull. It seemed before this tragedy, the girl had been otherwise clean and cared for.

Something simmered in a pot on the stove in the next room; apparently Terri was preparing food for the victim when something went horrifically awry. Alastor stepped robotically into the Other Kitchen. Abandoned shrimp creole sat horribly charred in the pot. That burner was off. The maker clearly acknowledged it was a lost cause and began preparing a broth for something else—using the stripped-clean jaw as a soup bone.

Al stumbled backward, fell on his elbows onto a kitchen island, then returned to the dining room. He took the seat next to the corpse and stared as if he could solve it like a puzzle, increase the situation's tolerability by making it more sensible, if not less awful. …But no, he ultimately decided, stomach dropping. The child couldn't possibly have done anything to warrant this. Normally Alastor was impervious to gore, but looking at this almost certainly innocent, hideously mutilated dead child felt like swallowing nails.

This was what she'd been so busy with, Alastor finally acknowledged sickly. Deep down, he'd connected the dots long ago, simply hadn't accepted it… He mindlessly rested a hand on the table and 'ugh'ed unhappily, realizing his mistake. Alastor lifted his hand, now stained and sticky with the child's blood.

Shit. ShitshitSHITSHIT.

"You're early."

Alastor whipped his head to face his mother where she stood in the dining room's doorway, surprisingly unruffled and clean. Perhaps she'd stepped away to stabilize and freshen up? She looked more vacant than usual, regarding Al next to the bloody mess and sighing with a degree of annoyance more appropriately aimed at a minor spill.

"I'm afraid my most recent adoption attempt was unsuccessful." Terri's mouth turned down in the mean, sharp way it always had when she'd grown frustrated with him as a child. "Hate to say 'I told you so.'"

Alastor slowly accepted they'd need to discuss the…situation, as he smeared some of the blood on his hand back onto the tabletop (not like he was making the mess meaningfully worse). 'Yes, that's me,' his on-air voice mentally narrated. 'You may wonder how I've landed in this predicament. This outcome is in fact the direct result of two grown adults' best efforts to give advice and a third one's best efforts to take it. HAHAHAHAHA!'

Terri breathed through her nose audibly in what sounded like resignation, then said calmly, "I regret that dinner isn't ready. I thought I had more time. What brings you in so soon, Spiderling?" His mother moved toward the corpse in the chair and scooped her hands under its arms as if to remove it and drag it to the kitchen. Worry confirmed—several meals over the past few months had contained innocent children. Alastor jerked in his seat and reached forward instinctively to discourage her ostensible next steps. His mother frowned and dropped the body into the seat again. "Button? What's wrong? I thought you believed it was wrong to waste meat?" She motioned at the dead girl. "It's a shame, but what's done is done."

"…It's…a child, Mother." Alastor wasn't a fan of how shaky his voice was. Not befitting of a radio host whatsoever.

"…And?" When Alastor spread his palms and exhaled deeply, distraught that this wasn't self-explanatory enough: "Phht! Let me refresh your memory of how enthusiastically you exterminated Billy O'Doyle."

"We were the same age. It wasn't punching down!" Alastor objected.

"Punching down?!" the beldam exploded. "I'm at the bottom of the food chain here! Do you honestly not understand that?!" she hissed tearfully.

"Wh—huh?" Alastor swiftly stopped himself before exploring this, trying to de-escalate. "Well, rather I— What I meant to say is…I…doubt she instigated," he began carefully.

Terri barked out a rough laugh. "Well! That wasn't true of Billy either, was it?"

"Billy O'Doyle was a little creep."

"How do you know this one wasn't?"

Fine. He'd play this new, absurd game. Al sternly folded his hands, tapped the tips of his fingers expectantly. "Fine, then. Explain. What she did." The tapping quickened. "Go on."

Terri looked from the corpse to Alastor, then said cooly, "She popped her bubble gum too loudly." It would've been a funny line, but the victim's missing jaw rendered it alarmingly plausible.

('SHUT UP!' rang the vulgar roar of the abusive diner man in Alastor's brain, cut with flashes of how satisfying it was to shut him up with his own goddamn tongue…to crack his neck…to sever her—his limbs…)

Al forced himself back to the present and managed a short, desperate cackle. "That's a joke." Painful, unforgiving silence. Alastor gritted his teeth. "Say it's a joke." The look in his eyes said he'd try to keep pretending if she'd only humor him this little bit, for once play a game for him instead of the reverse. His smile tugged up around the edges as though forced up by thread. "You truly are a marvelous actress! This was a good prank, you really had me going. And you're getting better with props!" Al prodded the dead girl in the shoulder. "This is very realistic."

"Alastor…" It would be wise to indulge him in this charade, but this could explain why she'd been so pessimistic about adoption. "Sweetheart… I'm afraid I'm not acting," Terri admitted, shaking her head, sounding almost apologetic.

"Of course not, you've become the character!" Alastor replied, finger-gunning. Seconds ticked by without response. Finally, something snapped in Al's brain, and he shot to his feet, pounding the table with both fists, bellowing, "MOTHER, DAMMIT, JUST SAY IT'S A JOKE!"

Simultaneously rattled and angry, Terese summoned the wooden spoon from the boiling soup pot. It zoomed into her hand as she stomped forward to strike him in the face with it. "DON'T YOU RAISE YOUR VOICE!" Alastor stared dumbly, blinking, blind. His glasses had flown off, and he winced at the scalding from stray hot water droplets.

Terri wilted and finally looked properly mortified. She dropped the spoon. "Oh, I shouldn't have…" She summoned her son's glasses and handed them to him after kissing his cheek to reduce the burning inflammation. "We mustn't shout at each other. Forgive me," she whispered meekly, fidgeting.

(Something about the way she handed back his glasses…

cr-ACK went the diner mi-gl-rr-a-orr-ass—

"SHUT UP!")

"Me? What about her? How did this happen?!"

"Look, she wasn't you, okay?! She might have worked out, at least like that—" Terri pointed at the buttons, an addition to which the living child must have agreed with great trust, Alastor realized queasily. "—but I realized I hated her because she's not you and she's not Miriam and I didn't want her anymore." The beldam petulantly crossed her arms and pouted like a little girl who'd gotten her last choice of doll for Christmas.

"Has she been here? Around? When I was in the house?!"

"When you were here, she was asleep in the trophy room. In her…'princess bed.'" This was the nickname with which she glamorized the glass casket, which induced a coma when she didn't feel like playing with her doll.

It took a few seconds to click, but Alastor decoded Terri's grim wordplay and laughed weakly, nodding and staring open-mouthed. At last: "Mother… Why?"

"Why are you upset with me? I told you this wouldn't work! Why are you forcing me through this fruitless misery again?! I thought you loved me!" the beldam cried, rapidly dissolving into hysteria. Wallpaper peeled, adorning the walls with what vaguely resembled tear streaks. Loud crunches implied several windows had begun to crack.

Through outrage and disgust, Alastor remembered—Terese was sick. He simply hadn't realized how sick! Seeing the house defacing itself, he shook his mother to snap her out of it, hating to see her hurt herself. "Stop!" Al resorted to slapping her once, gently, then cupped her face and kissed her forehead. "Forgive me."

Terri flopped forward against Alastor's shoulder like an actual ragdoll, synthetic body numb. She gradually came out of her fog, feeling his hand brushing her hair and absorbing his nourishing love. He still cared, after seeing this? …Yes. Yes. See, this was precisely why he was special and the beldam desperately needed Alastor and his family to love her, forever! She just had to keep her head and slowly, patiently chip away at the stone until he and Miriam complied, because this… Terri eyed the corpse, whose button eyes seemed to leer at her accusingly. This wasn't working.

Terese snapped out of her episode, backed out of the hug, and resumed robotically: "What's done is done. Shall I finish dinner?"

Their heads turn to the corpse in unison. Al wanted the body gone ASAP so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore, in any way that avoided cannibalism, for once. "Didn't you mention you needed new mulch?" He motioned out a window at the Other Garden. "Why not have the puppets do that, and I'll cook dinner while you rest." Alastor guided Terese by the shoulders to the head of table opposite the corpse, pulled out the chair, sat her down, then bent at her side and looked directly into her buttons. "I know you hate acknowledging this, but your health is poor. Much poorer than I thought," Al whispered somberly. Her lack of recognition was uncomfortably reinforced by the sight of Alastor's own face reflected in her shining indigo buttons; it made him feel like he was talking to himself.

"You and Miriam advised I do this," Terri reiterated resentfully.

Al waved arms crosswise. "You were absolutely correct, Mother. We weren't listening. We wouldn't knowingly recommend something that—um—" He finished with a shaky smile. "—does more harm than good."

Terri nodded slowly, accepting his verbal offering. "Well… Preparing dinner is usually good for my nerves. Would you mind terribly assisting with the mulch? So I don't have to focus on puppeteering? Hatchet's in the hall closet," Terri added helpfully. It would be easier to mulch in pieces.

Seriously? Alastor mentally grumbled, lazy eye drifting. Eh. Well, he did this all the time. "Whatever helps." 'Just don't look at the girl's face,' Al advised himself. 'Pretend she's Billy O'Doyle.' But hall closet? Why would she need it on hand in the house and not store in the shed—? OH. Ohhh dear. Alastor internally sighed again as his mouth replied wearily, "Thanks, Mother."

Terri stiffly returned to the kitchen, and Alastor's legs likewise moved him automatically to the hall closet, where he rummaged through miscellaneous storage in a daze, until something fell from a shelf and hit him in the head. Disoriented by the sudden onslaught of stress, it took him a moment to recognize what he was looking at.

It was the now decades-old cloth Terri McGyver doll, though having been preserved so long in the dark, it looked new. No sun-bleaching, no tatters. Fresh. Vivid.

("SHUT—"

c-RACK

"—UP!")

Yes…that was right. A day came when he was about 11 when Al teased his mother and said this little teddy bear gimmick was too silly and they should put it away. She'd looked tearfully sentimental at first, but as she relegated it to the highest shelf in that storage closet, something in her expression had shifted. Terese had looked…relieved. And then, just for a flickering instant…smug. Something about that had terrified him…so he willfully forgot about it.

But now the deeply-buried concerns were out of storage, and he didn't know if he could put them back. Alastor wanted his mother, her playfulness and her smile, but it was tainted now. It was all wrong.

Alastor's misfiring brain replayed more snippets of murdering Bob Gabbler, attempting to trap him into making a heartbreaking connection. He refused but arrived at a related conclusion via a different path. His mother was like a hopeless, reactive, perhaps rabid animal, the kind that had to be put down to prevent catastrophe, no matter how much you loved it. Al tried to dispel the memory of his father putting their confused, elderly family dog down with a pained grimace on his face… No. Alastor wouldn't. Couldn't. There had to be another solution!

Alastor felt a panicked, urgent desire to call Miriam. Over the past few years, they'd grown closer as friends, but now he realized exactly how much he leaned on her, almost like family. …Oh, how ridiculous! Alastor had always survived Terri's episodes without assistance. He would manage.

-x-

Al was joined by a blank-faced, overall-clad puppet gardener to haul the child to the garden's modern-style mulcher. The servant semi-light-heartedly pounded the machine's side like a car salesman advertising, 'You can fit so much dead kid meat in this thing!' Almost like it wanted Alastor to crack a smile, which he managed.

The puppet servant began dispassionately hacking the meat into chunks, and Alastor followed suit, far from too squeamish for the task but definitely unhappy about it. The puppet patted the little girl's head in an oddly tender way before ripping the button eyes out of the face, pocketing them, and tossing the head unceremoniously into the mulcher with an awful buzzing, cracking, and squelching.

The button-eyed servant hummed, sounding thoughtful, as the machine shuddered to a stop, and wiped flecks of blood off its cheek. Then, incredibly, it spoke: "Her name's Meredith. Don't worry, I'll watch her. …I watch them." Alastor, too stunned and disoriented to respond, spread mulch in uncomfortable silence until the task was complete and the supposedly mindless drone spoke again: "Cheer up, kid. You're never fully dressed without a smile."

"Is this a stress hallucination?" Alastor mumbled incredulously as the puppet departed. The young man felt the brush of a tail against his calf as he stood and looked down at (uncommonly) elderly Pluto, who gazed back up at him with wide yellow eyes. "Did you hear that?" The black cat 'mao'd affirmatively.

Why would Terese make the puppet speak when she deliberately aimed not to engage with this task? Why had it spoken like it was independent? Mentioned the child's name? Used present tense? What did 'watch' her mean—make sure some nice flowers grew in her memory? …Nope! This was too much for one day. Alastor willfully dismissed the queries. He'd focus on stabilizing his ailing mother.

-x-

Alastor returned to Terri with an automatic smile. "I'll help." He nudged in beside her at the kitchen island. Cooking together, a team, like old times, should've felt comforting, but even the tantalizing scent of the soup couldn't lift his spirits, knowing what had helped flavor the broth.

"I'm too ashamed to tell you how long it took me to find you," his mother finally spoke. "But it was an intolerably long time, and…I don't think I can bear it again."

Her actions remained inexcusable, but now Alastor could slowly connect dots. Terese felt attacked when he suggested she adopt again because she felt her odds of finding another good fit were nil. This explained her fantasy about him and Miriam. She thought their children were the only ones likely to love her… The weight of the realization crushed his lungs. Even if he and Mimzy were willing to comply, was adding another person to this equation even wise? "I see… But…I'm worried for your health. Is it possible that it's burning you out, spending so much time with me and Miriam?" Could that be part of why she was going off the rails like this?

Terri chopped vegetables, but her normally very rhythmic motions were uneven, erratic. "We've discussed this. You know you help. Yes, I expend a lot of energy now, but…I used to spend ages in hibernation. Now I wake up every day and have a life. Like a real person. I don't feel so much like a dark, empty space anymore, now that you two want me. I want to go on being wanted. If I go back to the way things were…I'll break."

Alastor stopped her hands working and held them. Although he still only saw his own face in her dark button eyes, that dreadful sense of talking to himself abated. This wasn't a doll or the deep, empty darkness of a well. She was a real woman, with feelings. "We won't stop wanting you." Terri emitted a frustrated, uncomforted sigh, wriggling out of his grip (an unusual gesture) and resuming chopping.

Alastor knew something was missing. He took his best guess at the last piece of the puzzle, the unspoken factor he knew drained Terese most of all. "What about the Thing, Mother? The Hallway?" Terri hummed in fake confusion. "When I was a child, once when you were dozing off, I asked what my affection was healing. And you said that Thing was 'always eating you.' …What did that mean?"

Terri had never realized that. Her automatic preparatory movements noticeably halted. "How's this relevant, dear?"

"Mother. …Your illness has gotten worse, hasn't it?" said Alator delicately. "You tell me if it's related."

It had. That's why she needed more people, more love, MORE. A snake eating its own tail, always in need of love, always expending energy to obtain it and being devoured again in return. Always growing tolerant. On top of that, the goddamn Thing wearing her down faster because xXsxXtaxxXtixxXc. The child had no idea. …Maybe he should.

Terri grumbled and dumped her chopped meat and vegetables into one pot while noodles boiled in another. At least he'd have some comfort soup after this conversation. She sat at the small Other Kitchen table with Al, pulling her chair close so she could take her son's hand. "You are old enough, I suppose, to hear…I'm what you'd call 'terminally ill.' There's no way to know what my life span should be, but I believe it will be cut short," she confessed. Al regarded with silent intensity, squeezing her hand. "But it's still so long you may not exist by the time I die. Not that I don't expect you to last a good long while in Hell." She pinched his cheek. "Still… I don't think you'll have to bury me."

"I don't consider that a positive. I'll have to break some records," Al chuckled tensely. "Or…" She might die alone? Grim silence. The sound effects panel in Alastor's brain played dingdingding. There—the last connect-a-dot. Terese was terrified if she didn't secure an ongoing family line, she'd die alone.

"I didn't intend to make you feel burdened," Terese responded semi-sincerely to his facial expression.

White noise. Everywhere. Like a modern-day surround system. Alastor wanted to call Miriam.

"Darling…"

Her hand touched his shoulder. Alastor managed not to flinch. "Mother… Can you promise this won't happen again?" Al gestured out the window at the mulcher. Then he held out one gloved hand. "I understand you're not well. But don't ask this of me. This is…too much," the beldam's son admitted, conflicted about how apologetic he sounded. "Please. If you love me."

Terri nodded in apparent understanding…but she didn't shake.

Alastor's eyes drifted back to the window, to the mulch the puppet gardener had helped him spread. 'I watch them,' it said. Them. The piles of picked-clean bones, the blank stare of dozens of lifeless eyes in that chandelier in the trophy room so many years ago flashed through his mind's eye. How many? How many more? If he…didn't…

Could anything make this easier?

Alastor swallowed his characteristic pride in desperation and accepted something: He needed Miriam. He simply couldn't do this alone.