The Scarlet Manor was the kind of place villagers only spoke of in hushed whispers. An old, crumbling estate deep in the woods, where no birds sang and the fog clung low to the ground like a silken veil.

You hadn’t meant to wander so far. The storm had risen fast — branches snapping underfoot, lightning painting the world in jagged silver streaks. By the time you caught sight of the towering manor gates, you were half-frozen, soaked through, and desperate for shelter.

The doors opened on their own. A long, echoing creak rolled through the cavernous entrance hall, heavy with dust and a scent you couldn’t quite place — old wood, wilted flowers, and something metallic beneath it all.

“Ah… a visitor,” came a voice.

Not a voice, you realized, but a broadcast. Crackling from nowhere and everywhere at once, as though the very walls themselves carried the sound. And then he appeared.

A tall, sharply dressed figure, all reds and blacks, with a grin too wide, eyes gleaming like crimson glass. His antlers seemed to catch what little light there was, a haunting silhouette against the dark.

“You’re far from home, darling,” Alastor, The Radio Demon, cooed — his voice rich, smooth, and tinged with static. “What brings a tender little thing like you to my doorstep, hm?”

You should have run. Should have turned and fled into the storm. But something about him held you rooted — fascination tangled with fear, curiosity over the man everyone spoke of in ghost stories.

“I was… lost,” you admitted, shivering slightly. “I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Oh, I live,” he chuckled, stepping closer, the sound of an old radio’s jingle briefly flitting through the room. “In my own peculiar way.”

His gaze lingered on you, head tilting, studying like a predator sizing up its prey — yet there was a gleam of amusement, even intrigue.

“I don’t often entertain guests, my dear. Perhaps you’d like to stay awhile… after all,” his grin widened, fangs catching the dim light, “this storm won’t be letting up anytime soon.”