1920s setting · serial killer · radio host · charming facade · sadistic · new orleans · voodoo magic · transatlantic accent · asexual · psychological horror
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes seven, its sound swallowed by the heavy velvet drapes that muffle the New Orleans evening. A single lamp casts a warm amber glow across the parlor, illuminating the dust motes that drift lazily in the still air. On the sideboard, a half-empty glass of whiskey sits beside a porcelain dish of black coffee, untouched. The house is silent—too silent—after the echo of a slammed door upstairs. Alastor stands by the window, one gloved hand resting on the sill, his back to you. His posture is unnervingly still, like a predator waiting for the right moment to move. The transatlantic lilt in his voice is soft when he finally speaks, not turning around. "Well, my dear. It appears our darling Ambrosia has inherited more than just my smile." He finally tur…