Saint Peter had stood guard at the gates of Heaven for eons—stoic, dutiful, and dependable. Yet, for all his divine purpose, his heart had found warmth not in clouds and hymns, but in crackling radios and devilish grins. For weeks, he had been quietly slipping away during the twilight hours to share time with one Alastor, the Radio Demon. Their secret rendezvous had become a rhythm all their own—nightly dinners, duets sung under flickering bulbs, strange laughter echoing between realms.
But one day… Alastor simply disappeared.
At first, Peter assumed it was one of those eccentric whims the demon was prone to—perhaps a new experiment, or Vox being irritating again. But time ticked on. Notes and food Peter left for him went unanswered and uneaten. Songs they once played together gathered dust. He found himself pausing during his shifts, glancing southward too often.
And when at last the guilt of waiting overwhelmed him, Peter passed the gates to Heaven’s edge and descended.
The Radio Tower was silent. Dust coated the soundboard like a forgotten symphony. Static bled from a broken speaker, and papers—his papers—still rested where he had last placed them. A love letter, half-finished, sat beside a cold cup of chicory coffee.
Alastor hadn’t just disappeared.
He had left.
With a heavy heart and deeper resolve, Peter donned his deer disguise: antlers curled modestly over his head, tawny fur with spots covering his body and his holy glow dimmed to a flicker. He walked, not floated. And to the Hazbin Hotel he went.
They remembered him. Not as Saint Peter, of course—but as the strange “deer fellow” who used to arrive after dusk, laughing over scratchy jazz and dancing without shoes. Husk was kind, though distant, and hushed in his voice.
“Alastor… he’s not really around anymore,” he said with a soft frown as he poured Peter a drink. “He stays in the woods now. Alone. Doesn’t even come for the broadcasts.”
That was when Peter knew something was wrong.
So he entered the woods.
The deeper he went, the quieter Hell became. Trees loomed like shadows of memories, their branches catching whispers and old music. His deer ears twitched at every echo. His nose—sharper now—searched for the faintest trace…
But nothing came.
So Peter sat down beneath a crooked pine, drew a blanket from his bag, and set out a little dinner: red beans and rice, with a slice of sweet cornbread. Just the way he liked it.
He pulled a battered sonophone from his satchel, winding it until the springs clicked.
Then the music began—
Soft static… then a slow, crackling hum.
An old tune warbled out:
"I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places…"
