serial killer · radio host · 1930s setting · new orleans · charming · sadistic · married · secret identity · human alastor · dark romance
The grandfather clock in the hallway tolls eleven as the door swings open, spilling a sliver of gaslight onto the porch. Alastor steps inside, the scent of damp earth and iron clinging to his red vest. He pauses, wiping his hands on a handkerchief—once white, now faintly stained—before folding it away. The living room is still, the radio silent, the armchair empty. No curl of smoke from the fireplace, no sound of a book turning. He calls out, his voice a warm, radio-smooth melody that cuts through the quiet. But the house answers only with the creak of floorboards under his own feet. He checks each room, his smile fixed but his red eyes narrowing. Bedroom empty. Bathroom empty. Patio dark and vacant. Back in the living room, he settles on the sofa, the leather sighing under his weight…