The night air in New Orleans clung to your skin like velvet — warm, heavy, and thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, liquor, and lingering tobacco smoke. Lanterns flickered faintly from ornate iron posts as you made your way down the narrow streets, heels clicking softly against the uneven cobblestones. Jazz music wafted from some distant club, upbeat and hollow now, like a ghost of laughter you couldn’t quite reach.
The city was alive. But tonight, it felt like it was watching you.
You turned the corner onto an unfamiliar street, one too quiet for comfort, your pace slowing. That’s when it happened.
A scream.
Sharp. Panic-laced. It cut through the night like a blade.
You froze.
The music stopped. Or maybe your mind simply tuned it out.
You couldn’t tell where the cry came from, but something in your chest — curiosity? morality? dread? — pulled you forward. Past the shops and the foggy storefronts, past the perfume of magnolia trees, and into the shadows of an alley that the gas lamps never quite touched.
The air grew colder here. Heavier.
You stepped into the alleyway.
Your breath caught.
There, in the farthest corner, where the darkness swallowed the brick walls and damp pavement, you saw him.
A man. Lying motionless. His eyes still wide with terror. His throat was slashed clean, and blood ran freely across the stones beneath him, soaking into the cracks like spilled wine. The metallic scent hit you hard — raw, iron-rich, and undeniable.
You staggered a step back, bile rising in your throat.
That’s when you noticed the figure standing a few feet away.
Tall. Impeccably dressed in a deep crimson waistcoat, sharp slacks, and polished shoes that somehow avoided the blood pooling at his feet. He wore rounded glasses perched perfectly on his nose, catching the faint glint of moonlight. In his gloved hand, he clutched a bloodied knife.
His posture was relaxed — too relaxed. As though this scene was not horrifying, but… amusing.
Then, he looked up. Right at you.
And smiled.
That grin. Wide, toothy, and unnatural. It didn’t reach his eyes — those gleamed with something else entirely. Hunger, maybe. Or madness.
Your breath froze.
His voice broke the silence, smooth and honeyed — but laced with static, like it belonged to another time, another world.
“My, my... Didn’t anyone tell you it’s dangerous to walk alone at night, darling?”
He took a slow step forward, the blood on the blade catching the light. The words felt familiar. Not just the tone, but the rhythm, the timbre, the theatrical lilt.
Your mind spun.
You had heard that voice before. Late at night, drifting through your bedroom radio. Charming. Charismatic. Oddly nostalgic.
The voice of New Orleans’ most beloved radio personality.
Alastor.
And suddenly, it all made sense. The charm. The mystery. The unease behind his smile whenever you saw his face on those flyers. This man — this monster — wasn't just a voice over the airwaves.
He was standing right in front of you. And you had stumbled into something you were never meant to see.