6

More days went by and still no response from Charlie's father. To battle her anxiety and boredom, Isobel settled into a routine which included daily walks to the library. She was getting through the regular books at a pretty quick pace and always needed a new supply. The demonology book, however, was a slog. Aloysius of the Family Goetia had a knack for turning sentences into run-on paragraphs and his prose were so flowery, with so many unnecessary words, that Isobel had to often reread whole sections to understand what was being said. But it did have a lot of interesting facts about how Hell functioned.

Along with her daily walks and reading, Isobel began to explore more of the hotel. Walking the halls, she found a kitchen and the rooms of the other tenants. As she wandered she took extra care to avoid Alastor, which greatly annoyed him, but she did not want to have another eyeball eating conversation.

One evening, on her way to her room, Isobel was faced with an uncomfortable situation. She stopped at the mouth of a hallway and noticed both Nifty and Alastor at the end engaged in a lively conversation. She groaned. Does she walk on and face the murderous glare of Nifty and the creepy presence of the Radio Demon? Perhaps the two of them together would decide to just murder her there on the red carpet.

Her eyes trailed around looking for an escape of some kind until they landed on a door with the word 'roof.' Sure, why not.

By the time she reached the top, Isobel was huffing and puffing. She hadn't realized how many floors there were, most not being used, but as she stepped out into the dying light, a calmness overtook her. A soft breeze played at the wisps of hair that had fallen from her braid. As she walked to the edge she saw the lights coming on around the city and for the first time she could almost appreciate a kind of beauty to it. From this distance it was not harsh, or wretched, or smelly, or loud, just peaceful. All she could hear was the sound of the wind and it put her in a state close to serene.

She sat on the edge of the roof, took out her phone, and played her music. She sang every song as loud as she could. Maybe Heaven would hear her.

Once the sun sank below the horizon, the darkness became oppressive and Isobel descended from the rooftop. She was feeling better than she had since she arrived in Hell, and decided she was in the mood for some company. However, once she had reached the ground floor all she found was an empty lobby. All was quiet except a rustling from behind the bar.

As Isobel came around to investigate, she found Nifty rummaging around bottles, most likely chasing a bug or two. Isobel cleared her throat.

"Where is everyone?"

Nifty looked up at her with her one orb-like eye and shrugged. "They all went out."

"All of them?"

"Yup," Nifty climbed up and sat on the bar top. "They all had plans."

"Like what?" At this point Isobel was just grateful that Nifty was talking to her instead of threatening her with a knife.

"I don't know." She gave a little shrug before leaping down to the floor.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me tonight then." Isobel was trying to sound friendly and inviting. Nifty just looked her up and down.

"No, I'm going to kill bugs." She went to leave, but stopped and turned back so as to make her point clear. "You're not invited."

"Understood."

She was beginning to get the impression that Nifty did not like her. She wondered why and sighed as she leaned on the bar. She pushed that thought aside for now and decided that if she was going to spend the night alone, might as well entertain herself. She went behind the bar and poured herself a whiskey sour. She winced as she took her first sip. The alcohol was not great and the ice didn't seem to actually make anything cold. She had come to realize food and drinks were never hot enough or cold enough. Everything was just lukewarm or tepid. What she wouldn't give for a hot meal. So hot it burned her tongue. But she was in Hell after all and she had to take what she could get.

She took her drink to the lobby and turned on the TV. Absolute garbage, as always, so after flicking through the channels briefly she shut it off and sat taking a few more swallows. She then noticed a large box sitting in the corner. It was covered with a fine layer of dust, but as she lifted its hinged top it revealed to be, as she expected, a record player. It looked pristine, barely used if at all. She flipped a switch and the platter started to rotate. If only she had a record.

She investigated the bottom of the box and, sure enough, found a cabinet. All of the records inside were old musical artists, most Isobel had never heard of, but there were a few gems in the pile. She found Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald... She finally stopped on Etta James.

She could use some Etta James right about now.

Isobel delicately placed the record on the platter and watched it spin. The needle came gently down and that familiar soft, crinkling sound played from the speakers. If velvet could be described as a sound that would be it.

Misty Blue began to play.

Isobel took another drink and swayed her head back and forth. She was not used to drinking and could already feel the effects of the alcohol. She looked around the room and thought, since she was alone…

She pushed the coffee table to the side leaving a large space in the middle of the furniture, a dance floor. It had been so long she had danced. At one point she danced every day, but like so many things in life, it was something lost to time. Taking her drink in hand, she stood in the center and began a slow, steady waltz around the room.

Misty Blue ended and seamlessly flowed into I'd Rather Go Blind, and Isobel became bolder with every mouthful of the bright yellow concoction in her hand. Circling around the lobby, she closed her eyes and began to feel as if she were surrounded by a thick cloud of music.

Unfortunately, her reverie came to a crashing halt as on her second pass around the lobby floor she ran face first into something. Something tall and unmoving. An intense dread filled her as she reluctantly opened her eyes and found herself face to face with a black bow tie. Her eyes climbed up to meet a shining gold smile.

She stumbled back a few steps.

"I'm sorry if the music was disturbing you." she said in a panic. "Oh, shit," the glass slipped from her hand, breaking into several pieces and spilling ice across the carpet. She knelt down to clean up the mess.

"I see you've found the gramophone," Alastor said, still standing there, seemingly unbothered with his hands clasped around his back.

"Uh, yeah. Is it yours? I didn't mean to overstep. Ah," a shard of glass pierced the palm of her hand leaving a small cut where a single bead of blood welled up.

"Not at all," he continued. "It is for all to enjoy, though," he cocked his head as though he was trying to remember. "I don't think anyone ever has." By this time Stormy Weather had begun to play. "May I?"

Alastor reached down offering his hand to help Isobel off the floor. She looked at it suspiciously, then hesitantly took it. With no effort at all he lifted her to her feet, but instead of letting go, he wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her in to continue the waltz.

Taken off guard as she was, she stumbled and even stepped on his foot once before falling into step. She was not used to having a lead and she placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling as though she had to hold on tight to keep up with his long strides.

"I believe you have been avoiding me," He said, not really looking at her.

"You? No, never." She studied her own feet.

"You know, I do find you to be an interesting creature."

"Do you?"

"And it goes beyond your eyes, though that offer still stands."

"Good to know."

"You seem rather modern with your cellular device, how you dress, the music that you listen to."

"This music is from the 60s, but sure."

"And yet you choose to read books, play the gramophone, and know how to waltz."

"Well, I guess you could say I am an old soul."

"Indeed. Leaves me in a quandary, you could say."

"How so?"

"The others here I understand. Perhaps it is because of time or proximity, but you are something of an enigma."

"Nah, I'm nothing special. Also, have you ever thought that maybe you don't really understand them? No one can really fully know another person, right? No one knows what's going on in another's head. I bet there is all kinds of stuff going on in your head that no one knows about."

"Perhaps."

"Maybe you just understand their motives. But I don't have any motives, because I don't know where I am or what to do, so I do nothing. If it makes you feel any better, I don't understand anything."

Alastor stopped the dance and looked down at her, she met his gaze.

"You are rather strange, aren't you?" he said.

"Yup." She stood there unmoving, almost defiant, this time refusing to be the first to break eye contact. His smile widened a little more and he took a step back still holding her hand.

"It was a pleasure." He bent down to kiss her hand, but at the last second he flipped her hand over and kissed her palm, which sent the creepiest of creepy shivers through her. Without another word he left, and as she watched him go a sudden thought came to her.

She looked down at the hand he had been holding, the hand he had kissed. It was the same one she had cut on the glass and it was stained with blood.

"Gross," She muttered.

As Alastor climbed the stairs out of the lobby he looked down at his own hand. A red smear covered his palm.

He licked it clean.