What's with the chapter title, Jewel? It's my nerdy version of "stuck between a rock and a hard place." Or "stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea."

Being between Scylla and Charybdis is an idiom deriving from Greek mythology, which has been associated with the proverbial advice, "to choose the lesser of two evils." But like the idiot I am, I accidentally swapped the two names and I'm stubborn about changing the chapter titles now that everything is "done," so here we are. LOL

The moral of this story, my deer reader? Double-check your work before you finalize it.

Chapter 1: "You Can’t Hug Your Children with Angelic Arms"

Without further ado, chapter two:

“Two souls left for dead on the streets of the Porn District have vanished; citizens of Cannibal Town are rumored to blame,” Tom Trench of 666 News announced.

“I told you,” Katie Killjoy chimed in, “these Angelic Weapons are providing additional services between exterminations. How many cannibals do you suppose those two sinners fed?”

Tom replied rather sardonically, “I don’t know, Katie, how many?”

She glowered at him. “That was rhetorical, you dipshit!”

Grace shook her head as she stared down at the boob tube, flinching at the sharp pain from moving her neck. She could feel the wound that had finally knit itself together reopen in spots and more blood ooze down her chest. This was getting really obnoxious. Really obnoxious, just like all of Hell’s commentators and news anchors.

So she tried finding something else worth watching on TV. The station she turned to played Heil Honey, I’m Home! Grace couldn’t change channels from that one fast enough and hoped her passing by it wouldn’t contribute to its ratings. Knowing that it had been a real sitcom on earth when she was alive was stomach-churning enough.

It never surprised her to come across The Jerry Springer show in Hell but she wasn’t in the mood for that amount of depravity after what she’d survived this afternoon. And so she settled for Way-Down-South Park, which she found only marginally more offensive than its earthly counterpart.

She tossed her TV remote onto her battered old recliner and plodded into the kitchen, her neck throbbing with each step. Grace took a few minutes to put away the groceries she’d managed to pilfer from the market. As luck oddly had it, her horrific and highly visible wound was quite the conversation-starter and served well to distract the shop employees while she engaged in her five-finger discounting.

As she considered what she would make herself for dinner, Grace thought to try healing herself again. While she typically didn’t need to apply her saliva to heal her own wounds, she was desperate to make this damn thing stop bleeding. She licked her palm and pressed it to the cut on her neck and focused. Hard. 

It stung something fierce, which gave her hope that this would do the trick.

One full episode of Way-Down-South Park later, Grace pulled her hand from her neck. All that remained was a dull, tolerable ache. Fucking finally!

Grace plopped food into Wubby’s bowl before satiating her own hunger. Food in Hell, or at least that which Grace had ever been exposed to since she died, was hardly what she would consider palatable. For her, the act of eating was done simply to avoid the feeling of starvation.

If she knew then what she knew now, would she have behaved differently when alive? 

Could I have stifled my hypersexuality? No more than I can change my skin or eye color.

Night fell as it always did in Pentagram City, heralding Grace’s usual bleak thoughts of her afterlife. This was around the same time she used to cut herself simply to feel anything. For years, even pain had been a respite from the nothingness in which she wallowed.

Naturally, nighttime was when her TV decided to call it quits on her, the screen going dark save for the brilliant spot of light in its center. Grace took the “smack it on its side” approach to troubleshooting but that did her no good. It remained dead.

In the ensuing silence of her hovel, Grace noticed a quiet static buzz.

A staticky programming cue—a melody of chimes—played from the radio on her entryway table.

Her widening gaze slid over to it. She didn’t recall turning it on. Of course, memories of her afternoon were fairly well muddled in a haze of physical agony. She had little recollection of the first hour or so after returning to her apartment.

“Attention all sinners: Hell’s favorite radio host is back on the air!” 

Grace’s wide gaze attained a raised eyebrow. Hell’s Favorite Radio Host sounded … more than a little dated. Had her little shitty radio somehow picked up a broadcast from a century ago?

“I’m here to tell you about the newly rebuilt Hazbin Hotel! What would you do if I said there’s a place for you?” He was singing now, accompanied by a plinky-plunky piano. “A place completely free of shame and doubt—well, just about! What would you do if you could start it all anew? Well, come to our hotel and you’ll find out!” He broke his melody to say, “There’s plenty of room for you here at the Hazbin Hotel!”

The announcer, who Grace had a hunch really liked to hear the sound of his own voice, continued on. She stood from her recliner and approached the radio, drawn to it by morbid curiosity.

He went back to singing now; a different tune: “We’ve got top-notch service in the fiery depths of Hell. We believe in every poor soul’s rehabilitation and we want to save you from the horrors of Hell’s eternal damnation. We get to know each and every one who passes through our doors, so come on, check in, and let the fun begin, you beautiful Hazbin!

“We’ve got the best of the best of the best in hotel management: we’ve got a single-peeper housekeeper; we’ve got hell’s top bartender; we’ve got an optimistic little leader who’s got more pep than a cheerleader! We strive to be Hell’s number-one destination. We wanna save your soul from Hell’s yearly extermination.

“We welcome heathens big or small, it doesn’t matter if you’re unhinged, you beautiful Hazbin!”

The radio switch was sitting undeniably in the ‘off’ position. She switched it on and back off; that did nothing to stop the advertisement from playing.

Grace shifted the box away from the wall only to find its power cord coiled up behind it neatly, and very much not plugged in.

Her heart thumped hard in her chest, causing her to recoil a couple steps. “What the fuck—” And then she realized it was the first time she’d ever really noticed her heart do anything since she arrived here. “Oh, what the fuck!”

“The Hazbin Hotel has been bringing a little Heaven to Hell since 2019 and we sure hope you, Grace Bedgood, will join us!”

Well, if reality was going to take a break from rationality, Grace was going to take a break from it, as well. She shrieked, grabbing the radio with the intention to break it by flinging it as hard as possible at the nearest wall.

She would have made a damn fine Imperial Stormtrooper with aim like hers; Grace sent the radio sailing right through her ground-floor apartment’s living room window with a spectacular crash.

And now the apartment had a broken window. “Ohhhhhhhh shit,” she whispered.

Maybe the things that went bump in the night outside wouldn’t notice. Maybe Hell’s bug population wouldn’t bother moving into a domicile that wasn’t all that much cleaner than the outside. Maybe—

Grace would have no such luck.

Glowing red eyes with pink irises blinked open in the pitch black just outside the window frame. Why was such a bad neighborhood so poorly lit?

Oh, that’s right. Busted streetlights nobody fixes.

She took a single step back. 

Okay. Red glowing eyes outside. That doesn’t have to mean danger. Maybe they’re just looking out of curiosity. Maybe they don’t see me at all.

The eyes narrowed on hers.

Uh oh.

Just below the now slitted eyes, a sinister, yellow-fanged smile appeared evoking thoughts of a wicked Cheshire cat.

Grace took a step to the right; the pink irises seemed to track her movement. Hoping it was coincidence, she took four steps to the left. The eyes followed and the smile widened.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Without further thought, Grace shrieked, “Wubby!”

The cat emerged from her hiding spot beneath the recliner and Grace scooped her up, bolting for her apartment door.

Grace stood outside the Hazbin Hotel, clutching Wubby in her arms. It was beautiful, bright and dazzling, but also huge, imposing, and had a look about it like poor-as-fuck-Grace couldn’t even afford to breathe the air around it let alone go inside and stay there.

She stared. 

Coming here had been a last resort. She had nowhere else to go and with a shattered window in her slum of a neighborhood, staying at her apartment was not safe—regardless of the demon staring at her through the darkness, looking as if it would revel in dismembering and devouring her slowly.

Coming here was incomprehensible; what possessed her to go to the place her suddenly-scary-ass-magic-radio advertised as if that was the prudent course of action? This should have been the last place in Hell to which she fled.

Grace took a big step back. I can’t do this.

But what choice do I have?

She took a baby step forward, raising a fist to knock on the door—because that’s what a totally normal, sane soul does at the entrance of a hotel. It was late, and they were in Hell. Grace had no idea about the etiquette of Hell hotels. 

She also didn’t have a reservation. Maybe they wouldn’t even have room for her.

I’m so fucked. Too scared to go in, no place else to go. Did I actually succumb to that mugging and go to like Super-Duper-Extra-Hell?

A chill raced along her neck, then down her raised arm as the night seemed to gather around her like inky tendrils. Something was watching; Grace looked over her shoulder. Little red-eyed, black demons encroached on her, writhing against their green glow amid the darkness.

Her arm tightened around Wubby as she recoiled with her back to the hotel door.

Go inside? Or be ripped apart by a hoard of ravenous fiends? Wubby nuzzled into her chest with a pitiful mew, serving as a reminder she was responsible for another soul.

She whipped around, pounding on the door. “Let me in! Let me in!”

There was an immediate scuffle inside. Raised voices. And then the door flew open, a flushed, svelte—and vaguely familiar—blonde demon answering the door. Before she could greet Grace, Grace sprinted inside the building, plastering herself against the farthest wall she could find. 

Now that her heart started beating again, if it ever stopped pounding, Grace would consider it a miracle of biblical proportions.

The blonde demon peered outside, shrugged, and then closed the door gently before turning toward Grace.

“Please,” Grace managed to gasp. “I’m so scared!”

The demon approached slowly, raising her hands in a submissive gesture. “It’s okay. You’re safe here—”

Wubby wriggled free of Grace’s arms and leapt down, deciding just then to go about her cat business. “Wubby!” Grace cried, although too frightened to chase after her.

“It’s okay. I’m sure she’s just going to find KeeKee.” Then the blonde demon gasped. “Oh! You’re hurt!”

Grace glanced down at herself; without Wubby in her arms, her blood-soaked blouse was on full display. It was instinct to blurt, “I’m fine.”

Grace was, in point of fact, not fine. She was as far from fine as she was from redemption. She was the demon equivalent of what might happen if a goat rodeo took place inside a dumpster fire. And, being the Hot Mess Express, Grace refused to back down from her ‘fine’ assertion. “No—really—”

The blonde demon took Grace’s hand and led her over to a ridiculously opulent, plush red velvet settee and pushed her gently onto it. That’s when it clicked: Grace knew why this demon was familiar. 

She was no demon. She was Hellborn, and not just any Hellborn. This was the soul who ended the last extermination prematurely. “You’re the Princess of Hell!” yelped Grace.

And Hell’s Princess had taken a knee at Grace’s feet as if their social statuses were reversed. This is some Princess-Di-Mother-Theresa insanity going down right here.

“I’m Charlie,” she introduced herself. She pointed at the other visitors—residents—guests? in turn and introduced them. “That’s Vaggie, my girlfriend … and guardian angel.” White-blonde, greyish purple soul. Missing an eye. And currently ducking her head with a wicked blush in her cheeks. “And that’s our housekeeper, Niffty.” Puny little woman with the features of … a roach, maybe? in what looked like a poodle skirt covered with a blood-stained apron. “Our boys are—” She glanced around.

“Otherwise engaged,” said Vaggie with a chuckle and a voice much deeper than Grace expected. “I’m sure they’ll be along shortly. When there’s excitement, none of them are ever too far away.”

Grace forced herself to wave at them in greeting but refused to offer her name; anonymity was the only thing she had left in her possession.

“We’ve gotta get you out of your blood-soaked clothes,” Charlie decided as if Grace had no say in the matter.

Nonetheless, Grace gave feeble protest. “Oh, no, you really don’t need to—”

Charlie sized her up, her gaze lingering on Grace’s chest, before glancing over her shoulder from Vaggie to Niffty, and then down at her own chest. 

Vaggie, who had thighs any soul would be lucky enough to suffocate between. Niffty, who was just all-around a tiny thing. And Charlie, who had the kind of figure Grace would have died to have in middle school. 

The kind of shape I almost did die for in middle school, she reminded herself with an inward cringe. 

“Niff?” Charlie announced. “Can you get us the most modest outfit you can find in Angel’s closet for our new guest here?”

Grace tried objecting again, “I couldn’t—”

“You must!” Charlie insisted.

“I don’t mean to impose. A-and—besides, I don’t have anywhere to change!”

“Nonsense! You have a room here.”

“Oh, I didn’t make a reservation—”

“You don’t need one. Everyone who comes through that door has a room waiting for them.”

Well. That’s … kind of Twilight Zone-y. Okay, surely she won’t have a rebuttal for this: “I can’t pay—”

Charlie stood decisively. “Now. I won’t hear anymore objections. Come on, I’ll show you around while Niffty gets you a change of clothing.”

The first thing Grace did in her hotel room was to hop in the shower. Hell may have reeked, but that didn’t mean she had to.

She emerged to find on the bed what must have been the outfit Niffty pulled from Angel’s room.

It could have past for lingerie, maybe, if it had about twice as much fabric. Really, there was little reason in putting it on for as little as it covered.

In a tiny display of mercy, a plush red robe had been laid out beside it. 

Grace curled up in the robe on the far end of a sofa in the main area of the hotel. She’d debated what to do or where to go next but had yet to find Wubby so she figured it was important to be out where her cat could possibly find her rather than hiding in a closed room. 

The other residents-slash-staff stood around, watching her in silence. Expecting her to … what, exactly? Sing? Dance? Juggle?

There were two more sinners than had been present before she washed; Grace assumed those were Charlie’s aforementioned ‘Our boys.’

She took stock of her spellbound audience; a tall, shapely pink and white spider—who, judging by similarities in physique must have been Angel. A white, red, and dark brown winged cat-man; ‘Hell’s top bartender,’ if memory served and her assumptions on his attire were accurate.

The tiny little … roach? cyclops? The ‘single-peeper housekeeper,’ undoubtedly. Seemed easier just to think of her as, simply, Niffty. 

The one-eyed white-blonde, purple sinner, Vaggie.

And of course, the Princess of Hell, Charlie. Charlotte Morningstar. Daughter of Lucifer Morningstar.

O … kaaaay …

How was any of this real?

This group was bizarre, even by Hellish standards.

The bartender proved Grace’s theory when he brought her a drink. He offered the glass with a small, encouraging smile. “It’ll help settle your nerves.”

What she really needed was a tonic strong enough to nuke her nerves straight into the next ring of Hell and maybe drown enough braincells that all she was left with was autonomic function. Now that she was feeling something again, her fear was reaching critical mass.

But calming her nerves would have to suffice for now. She’d consider herself lucky if she could sleep anytime in the next few weeks after the last twenty-four hours.

“I know beggars can’t be choosers and all,” Grace said softly, “but I’m not exactly comfortable in Angel’s outfit. The thong is coming—”

“Oh! Yes!” the spider moaned as if he was also coming.

Grace frowned. “—dangerously close to being nestled irretrievably in my lower intestine.”

Vaggie tipped her head to the side, addressing Charlie. “Y’know, sweetie, this could be the perfect opportunity to practice your powers and make our guest some clothing that’s more suited to her tastes and comfort level.”

“Oh, I don’t know —” Charlie started.

“Remember what we were talking about with using your powers? Here’s your chance!”

Grace broke in, “I don’t mean to impose.”

“Y’know … the more I think about it, the more I think that the fear in our new guest’s eyes positively reeks of Alastor,” the spider remarked. “Angel Dust, by-the-way,” he introduced himself from across the room. “That’s Husker.” He nodded toward the bartender.

Husker corrected Angel Dust, “Just Husk is fine.”

“Alastor doesn't stink anymore,” Niffty piped up. “He showered this morning. I helped!”

Vaggie grimaced. “OK, gross. I sure hope that’s not true.” She augmented, “The helping part, I mean.”

“So …” Charlie sat on the other end of the same sofa as Grace. “How did you hear about us?”

Grace felt very much the dik-dik in headlights. “ … Word of mouth?” Yeah. That’s accurate and far less creepy than the truth.

“Oh?” Charlie bounced in her spot, positively alight.

‘Got more pep than a cheerleader’ seemed on-the-nose for her. Whoever created that ad seemed to know the hotel staff well. At that consideration, Grace sipped her drink, eyebrows darting up. It was tasty but only time would tell if it soothed her the way Husk promised. 

Charlie asked, “Whose word of mouth?”

Oh, fuck me. Grace gulped down a good portion of the drink in one swig. How do I even answer that?

“I …” She stammered, “I don't know. Exactly. It was … an unnervingly … relevant? advertisement that aired on my radio.”

A chorus of voices replied, “Ohhhhh.”

“… That I hadn't turned on for probably years.” She left off the part where the thing hadn’t even been plugged in. It being turned off and yet playing was bizarre enough.

Even so, none of them looked the least bit surprised, as if this sort of thing was an every-day occurrence for them.

Angel Dust and Husker exchanged knowing glances, saying in unison, “Alastor.”

The question Grace really wanted to ask got caught on her oddly dry tongue: But why? Why me?

Motion in front of the accent chair across from Grace caught her attention. Tendrils of black clouds manifested into a tall, slender male form.

Then that ghostly shape took on a corporeal body.

He towered over her, around seven feet of sinister and an eerie blend of prey and rabid predator. His non-human features were that of a stag who had been dipped in strawberry jam. He looked down upon her with an utterly unhinged, feral grin.

She clutched her drink in her right hand and the robe closed at her collarbone with her left, forcing them to remain steady. Can't let him know I'm afraid even if he can smell my fear.

Naturally, he chose that exact moment to sniffle, his expression unchanged but for the tiniest upward quirk of his left eyebrow.

Don’t piss myself, don’t piss myself, don’t piss myself! Grace couldn’t help but do what came instinctively—curling up even smaller. Way to have a sense of self-preservation. Dumbass!

Under the scrutiny of his bloodthirsty stare, the only thing Grace could do was blurt, "Nice rack,” as if he wasn’t intimidating as all fuck.

Angel Dust puffed up his chest fluff. “Hey! Why didn’t you greet me like that?”

The towering demon leaned over her, studying her with his expression unchanged. Still with that grin.

Grace’s eyes widened against her will.

He opened his mouth.

She held her breath. 

Her heart pounded harder yet, so hard she assumed everyone could hear it and probably see it through her ribcage, muscle, skin, and the plush robe. This is it. This is how I double-die.

“Hi.”

Everyone stared like a motley collection of statues.

I’m over here shaking in my stilettos and he says ‘hi’ like it’s a normal Tuesday night?

Never mind that it was, actually, a Tuesday night. It was, however, not a normal one.

‘Hi.’

What the fuck kind of greeting is that?!

The scarlet specter of ‘hi’ infamy then extended his hand for a shake.

She glowered—again, against her better judgment. “Just how stupid do you think I am? I didn't go to Hell yesterday; I know better than to shake anyone's hand here!”

He retreated, twirling his ancient-microphone-topped-staff before leaning back into his stance, tucking both arms—and the staff—behind his back. His grin widened, head tilting at a severe angle with a crack. “Is this the face of a man who would take advantage of a lovely lady such as you?”

No. That just looks like the face of a demon that would devour me alive and revel in my screams while doing so but yeah sure okay, that’s not the ‘face of a man who would take advantage’ of someone like me.

Wow. I managed to actually not say something stupid aloud, for once! Score one for me.

“This is Alastor,” Charlie introduced him. “He’s the host of our hotel.”

Vaggie glowered at him as if he wasn’t the scariest thing on two feet. “Do you think maybe you could refrain from scaring off—” She faltered, then turned her attention to their new guest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Grace whispered, “I didn’t throw it.”

Alastor made an odd sound that could possibly have past for a snicker.

She lowered her gaze, brought the glass to her lips, and muttered her name into it before polishing off the drink. And then she promptly wished she’d thought to give any other name but her own.

Chapter 3: "A Coup de Grâce"

Stay sane, deer friends!