"Dance of the Were-Alastor: A Moonlit Symphony of Terror"
2 Points
1
You remember the moment with unnerving clarity, as if it were stamped into your very soul. It began with an ordinary day, laced with the mundanity of work and familiar faces. Workplace chatter hummed in the background until you stumbled upon the deep, unsettling gaze of a stranger; a manical shimmer betrayed his seemingly flawless smile. A sudden coldness permeated the room. And before you knew it, he lunged. The last thing you felt before the world faded to black was the excruciating tearing of flesh at your throat and his triumphant whisper, "This is only the beginning."
Now, nights become a battleground.
It's the full moon again, and your body tingles with that now-familiar sensation—both dreaded and irresistible. You scramble for stability, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, staring into the mirror. Your brown eyes reflect palpable terror, and you're screaming, "HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE! IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN!" But your voice falters, snatched away by the darkness that crawls up from the pit of your being.
The first pang hits your core, wrapping cold chains around your ribs, crushing breath from your lungs. Your spine jerks, contorting until the room spins. Your reflection in the mirror twists, shifting and bending unnaturally. Bones stretch and elongate. Your clothes burn away in strips and are replaced by crimson pinstripes, manifesting from the air itself.
"No… No!" you cry, clutching at fragments of your consciousness as they slip through your fingers like fine sand. Panic surges, but it's a futile grasp at a fading reality.
Broad shoulders fill out a fitting coat, long black dress pants covering stretching limbs. Beige skin replaces your own, your features distorting with each cruel tug of the curse until you're staring—a stranger no longer—Alastor.
"Were-Alastor," the voice hisses in your head like a snake coiling around prey. It’s your voice, yet not your voice, overlayed with that unmistakable vintage-radio distortion.
You try to stop the changes, shouting internally, "This isn't me! REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!"
But it’s too late. Those memories—of parents, friends, and mundane life—evaporate, replaced by an eerie carousel of scenes from a past life you never lived. A life in the 1930s. A radio announcer with a Cheshire cat's grin, basking in the painful chaos that followed in his wake.
“This... This can’t be…” you mutter, or rather, Alastor grins from behind that permanent smile in the mirror.
By now, you've fully become him, though you hold on to a tiny fragment that still screams in the vast emptiness of his dominating persona. The transformation is complete: seven feet tall, lanky yet terrifyingly strong, and with eyes that gleam red in the moonlight. The vintage microphone-tipped cane manifests in your grasp, it's sentient eye glaring forth from its depths.
"Ah, here we are," you—no, Alastor—declare, marveling at the cane while memories flood in, erased and rewritten. "This night is ours to dance upon, dear Were-Alastor."
A distant, discordant chuckle startles you; the real Alastor appears, smirking with the same cheshire sensation. “My, don’t you look splendid, mon frère grotesque.”
You’re both broadcasting now, voices echoing across the mortal realm via unseen airwaves, plunging innocent homes into madness. Screams rise from below, and the thrill invigorates your twisted soul.
“Isn’t it delightful?” Alastor—the original—conveys as he summons shadows to dispatch more chaos.
You respond automatically, without hesitation, without your own will. “Absolutely thrilling, my dear Alastor. Let’s feast."
“What a lovely idea," Alastor agrees. "Off we go—mortals to terrorize, souls to claim.”
You traverse through a portal, stepping into the mortal world like a sinister déjà vu. Bodies writhe in agony, souls ripe for the taking.
A mother clutches her children as you approach, that familiar dread soaking her pores. You smile, oh how you smile, with yellow-tinged teeth ready to feast. Utterly lost in the giddy night of terror, you murmur, "Plenty for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?"
Soon enough, dawn pierces the sky, and with it, the curse recedes. You’re left, panting and drenched in sweat, an ordinary human once more. Fear and guilt clench your heart as memories flood back—memories that now feel spectral, occluded by darkness.
And thus, the cycle continues. Each full moon promises your complete surrender to the maniacal specter residing within. You are eternally dancing on the edge of self and oblivion, trapped within the shackle of becoming the Radio Demon’s twin brother, the dreaded Were-Alastor.
For in this cycle, each time the moon is full, you will once again find yourself stripped of your humanity, and the deep, vintage voice of the Radio Demon murmuring in your ears, "This is only the beginning."
This story was generated by user MorningstarSon with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write the POV transformation story of the mortal human reader being cursed and transformed in every full moon night into an identical twin brother of Alastor (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female), instant clothes change, age progression (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite his best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him completely forget about his past self and only remember being Alastor the Radio Demon). For the reader's WereAlastor/Were-Alastor appearance (after the reader turned into his identical twin brother every full moon night), he is identical to Alastor in every way, in height, proportions, appearance, deep and voice (sounding like it's coming from an old vintage radio), supernatural powers, personality, and preferences. He also has his own thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, being of the different color from Alastor's own sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, whilst also having an eye in the middle of the microphone, and the WereAlastor/Were-Alastor reader uses his microphone-tipped cane to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. For Alastor's appearance, he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He is completely hairless except for his eyebrows, eyelashes, and the hair on the side, back, and top of his head (like a human's). He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). For his personality, Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives the first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. Alastor's behavior, mannerisms, and even his manly voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent (always literally sound like he is talking through a vintage radio), often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. For Alastor's preferences, he likes/loves smiling, invading people's personal space, his mother and her cooking, the "picture show", strong liquor, cooking, people failing, playing pranks, black coffee, bitter tastes, theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and venison; however, he dislikes being touched, dogs (possibly related to his death as a mortal human in 1933), frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, post-30s' technology, and anyone ruining his outfit. The story is that the reader has been cursed by being attacked by Alastor the Radio Demon himself, with Alastor biting the reader in the throat and ripping chunks of flesh, causing major blood loss (the reader however survives, just injured), before Alastor tells the reader it it's only the beginning of the curse. Just days later, at one night, when the moon is full (and after the reader sees the full moon), the reader undergoes a transformation. But he does not transform into a werewolf as he initially believes/thinks by the start of the transformation, instead, the reader transforms (against his will) completely into an identical clone of Alastor the Radio Demon, in both body and mind, every full moon night (the reader tries to fight back all the changes and call for help from his friend(s)/family, but to no avail), leaving the reader now completely transformed into Alastor (known to himself and the terrified humans as "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor" (which Alastor also likes to call himself every full moon night after transforming from a mortal, even claiming to scared mortal humans that he is "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor") due to transforming from a mortal boy every full moon night). The original Alastor, who had placed a curse on the reader just by biting the reader a few nights earlier, watches the transforming the reader and instantly befriends the new Alastor. The new Alastor, formerly the reader, now broadcasts throughout the mortal realm (Earth) alongside the original Alastor, with both the original Alastor and the new Alastor (known as "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor") also killing and feasting on any mortal humans and their souls from the mortal world every night on Earth when the moon is full (the reader transforms back to a normal human when morning arrives, but the reader transforms back into the Were-Alastor when it's a full moon night again). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they are thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: You remember the moment with unnerving clarity, as if it were stamped into your very soul. It began with an ordinary day, laced with the mundanity of work and familiar faces. Workplace chatter hummed in the background until you stumbled upon the deep, unsettling gaze of a stranger; a manical shimmer betrayed his seemingly flawless smile. A sudden coldness permeated the room. And before you knew it, he lunged. The last thing you felt before the world faded to black was the excruciating tearing of flesh at your throat and his triumphant whisper, "This is only the beginning." Now, nights become a battleground. It's the full moon again, and your body tingles with that now-familiar sensation—both dreaded and irresistible. You scramble for stability, gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, staring into the mirror. Your brown eyes reflect palpable terror, and you're screaming, "HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE! IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN!" But your voice falters, snatched away by the darkness that crawls up from the pit of your being. The first pang hits your core, wrapping cold chains around your ribs, crushing breath from your lungs. Your spine jerks, contorting until the room spins. Your reflection in the mirror twists, shifting and bending unnaturally. Bones stretch and elongate. Your clothes burn away in strips and are replaced by crimson pinstripes, manifesting from the air itself. "No… No!" you cry, clutching at fragments of your consciousness as they slip through your fingers like fine sand. Panic surges, but it's a futile grasp at a fading reality. Broad shoulders fill out a fitting coat, long black dress pants covering stretching limbs. Beige skin replaces your own, your features distorting with each cruel tug of the curse until you're staring—a stranger no longer—Alastor. "Were-Alastor," the voice hisses in your head like a snake coiling around prey. It’s your voice, yet not your voice, overlayed with that unmistakable vintage-radio distortion. You try to stop the changes, shouting internally, "This isn't me! REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!" But it’s too late. Those memories—of parents, friends, and mundane life—evaporate, replaced by an eerie carousel of scenes from a past life you never lived. A life in the 1930s. A radio announcer with a Cheshire cat's grin, basking in the painful chaos that followed in his wake. “This... This can’t be…” you mutter, or rather, Alastor grins from behind that permanent smile in the mirror. By now, you've fully become him, though you hold on to a tiny fragment that still screams in the vast emptiness of his dominating persona. The transformation is complete: seven feet tall, lanky yet terrifyingly strong, and with eyes that gleam red in the moonlight. The vintage microphone-tipped cane manifests in your grasp, it's sentient eye glaring forth from its depths. "Ah, here we are," you—no, Alastor—declare, marveling at the cane while memories flood in, erased and rewritten. "This night is ours to dance upon, dear Were-Alastor." A distant, discordant chuckle startles you; the real Alastor appears, smirking with the same cheshire sensation. “My, don’t you look splendid, mon frère grotesque.” You’re both broadcasting now, voices echoing across the mortal realm via unseen airwaves, plunging innocent homes into madness. Screams rise from below, and the thrill invigorates your twisted soul. “Isn’t it delightful?” Alastor—the original—conveys as he summons shadows to dispatch more chaos. You respond automatically, without hesitation, without your own will. “Absolutely thrilling, my dear Alastor. Let’s feast." “What a lovely idea," Alastor agrees. "Off we go—mortals to terrorize, souls to claim.” You traverse through a portal, stepping into the mortal world like a sinister déjà vu. Bodies writhe in agony, souls ripe for the taking. A mother clutches her children as you approach, that familiar dread soaking her pores. You smile, oh how you smile, with yellow-tinged teeth ready to feast. Utterly lost in the giddy night of terror, you murmur, "Plenty for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?" Soon enough, dawn pierces the sky, and with it, the curse recedes. You’re left, panting and drenched in sweat, an ordinary human once more. Fear and guilt clench your heart as memories flood back—memories that now feel spectral, occluded by darkness. And thus, the cycle continues. Each full moon promises your complete surrender to the maniacal specter residing within. You are eternally dancing on the edge of self and oblivion, trapped within the shackle of becoming the Radio Demon’s twin brother, the dreaded Were-Alastor. For in this cycle, each time the moon is full, you will once again find yourself stripped of your humanity, and the deep, vintage voice of the Radio Demon murmuring in your ears, "This is only the beginning."
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