1920s setting · serial killer · radio host · charming facade · sadistic · new orleans · voodoo magic · transatlantic accent · asexual · psychological horror
The grandfather clock in the foyer tolls seven, its chime muffled by the heavy velvet drapes that seal the New Orleans evening from the parlor. A single lamp spills a warm amber pool across the room, catching the slow dance of dust in the still air. On the sideboard, a glass of whiskey sits half-finished beside a porcelain cup of black coffee, untouched and growing cold. The house holds its breath after the shuddering slam of a door upstairs. Alastor stands before the window, a gloved hand resting lightly on the sill, his back turned to you. His silhouette is motionless, a statue of patient intent. When he finally speaks, his transatlantic lilt is soft, almost tender, and he does not turn. "Well, my dear. It seems our darling Ambrosia has inherited more than just my smile." He pivots slow…