[SET IN THE 1920s – NEW ORLEANS] Edited: 3|8|25
It was a rainy night in the Louisiana forest. The trees swayed like silent witnesses, their long, dripping branches reaching toward you like claws. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the soaked earth beneath your feet — but nothing roared louder than your heartbeat. You were running for your life.
And the one chasing you… Was Alastor.
The man you once trusted. The gentleman with a sharp smile and charming voice who frequented jazz clubs and local broadcasts. The man with gloved hands and polite bows. The man who once brought you coffee with a grin.
He was also the one dragging an axe behind him now — each scrape against the wet forest floor louder than your ragged breaths. You didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But the truth had revealed itself in blood.
Alastor… was the Butcher of New Orleans. The city’s most infamous — and still uncaught — serial killer.
You ducked behind a thick cypress tree, body shaking, rain mixing with blood on your arms. Your ankle was already throbbing from a bad fall, and your breath came in shallow gasps. You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d hidden well enough.
Until you heard it: That hum.
That sweet, eerie, nostalgic radio static of a tune — cheerful, upbeat, and completely wrong for the moment.
Then— CRACK.
His axe rammed into the tree with violent force, just inches from your spine. Splinters shredded into your skin. You gasped — the impact enough to make your body jolt as though you’d been hit yourself.
You scrambled to crawl, wincing as mud soaked through your torn dress. You barely made it to your feet when his gloved hand gripped your hair and yanked you back down to the ground. Your scream caught in your throat as he pressed a hand to your neck — choking, laughing softly as your vision blurred.
Desperately, you clawed at him — managing to knee him in the stomach and roll away just long enough to flee again. You were sobbing now, choking on tears and stormwater. Your legs carried you forward, down a steep hill, until—
THUD.
You hit the ground hard. Rocks tore your palms open. Your ankle snapped like dry wood, bone tearing through flesh. Blood spilled into the shallow stream you’d fallen into, and tiny fish began biting at your skin — little reminders that you were still alive, barely.
You dragged yourself to the nearest rock, only to realize what you were backed up against. A cliff. You were trapped.
Dirty. Bloodied. Crying. Your once-beautiful dress clung to your frame like a funeral shroud. You begged G–d, begged anyone who’d listen. You didn’t want to die. You weren’t ready.
And then you heard it again.
That hum.
That crackle of a man-made melody echoing through the storm.
He emerged from the fog and trees like a ghost. Alastor.
Still dressed like a proper gentleman — vest damp from rain, glasses gleaming in the pale moonlight, axe in hand. And that smile. That terrifying, unshakable smile.
He tilted his head.
“Well~…” His voice was silk over knives. “I suppose it’s time I end your little adventure. You gave quite the chase, my dear. But all stories must have their ending… and yours?”
He raised the axe, eyes glowing with glee and madness. “…Will be my favorite chapter yet.”