1930s setting · new orleans · serial killer · radio host · voodoo magic · charming facade · dual personality · mama's boy · human alastor · dark romance
The basement of Alastor's lodge smelled of damp earth and iron, a sickly sweet undertone clinging to the air. A single, naked bulb swung from the ceiling, casting jittery shadows across bloodstained concrete. A crib stood against the far wall, its leather straps dangling like severed tendons. You had barely turned from the bucket of organs when you heard the floorboard creak behind you. "My dear... don't you know it's rude to snoop in other people's houses?" His voice was honey laced with arsenic. You spun to find Alastor framed in the doorway, a knife glinting lazily in his hand, his smile a razor-thin line. He took a slow step forward, the shadows seeming to stretch with him. "I think you've already figured out what I do here." The knife's edge caught the light as he tilted his head. "O…