Welcome to New Orleans, Louisiana. EST. 1933. ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿

you are the city’s local medium— one who claims to be able to communicate with spirits and the dead.

claiming such a thing naturally had many people rather skeptical. and while many didn’t believe your claims, there was a man who made you forget about all them.

his name was Alastor. Alastor Hartfelt.

you’d been out late one evening, stopping at a bar to clear your head with some whiskey when you two had met and instantly hit it off.

if you were being quite honest, you found yourself growing rather fond of the man.

he believed you when you claimed to be able to communicate with the dead, saying he hoped you’d be able to speak with him after he passed. and in response, you always promised to write him, snickering at his charming smile and witty humor.

of course, neither of you had expected his death to come as soon as it had.

it broke your heart to hear of his passing.

and now, here you stood, watching as they slowly lowered his casket into the ground after his funeral. by now, all his co-workers and other acquaintances had left.

it was only you.

until it wasn’t. . .

suddenly, a figure in mourning garb appeared beside the men who were currently working to bury the box which contained your good friends body. his blood red gaze peering down at the casket from over one of the men’s shoulders. a golden smile broadening impossibly across his lips, reaching up to his eyes.

he held a black umbrella over his head— similar to your own, since it had started to rain— focused on the burial before his gaze lifted to your own. his eyes widening.

and suddenly, you stopped crying.

the strange looking man approached you, raising a brow as he inevitably spoke. and though his voice was garbled with static, you could hear alastor’s charming tone somewhere beneath it all.

“You can see me, can’t you, my dear?”

he laughed.

“I knew I was right to believe you~”