Moonlit Carnage: The Tale of the WereAlastor
1 Points
The nights were growing longer. You found solace in the mundane routines of your life, yet a gnawing unease had settled at the corners of your consciousness. That visit to the city, that misty evening in the alleyway... That’s where everything began.
It was a regular Friday when it began to happen. You had just returned from a late shift and flicked idly through channels on the TV, feeling an ache in your throat. Groaning softly, you touched the sore spot—the place where Alastor, that fiend, had attacked you. The memory flashed across your mind—the sharp, unbearable agony, the feel of your blood gushing, and above it all, his cold, predatory gaze. His words echoed, chilling you to the core: "This, my dear fellow, is merely the beginning."
You tried to push it away—this creeping dread that things were about to change irrevocably. The moon would be full tonight.
Suddenly, your body convulsed with a horrifying jerk. Pain shot down your spine as muscles twisted and bones cracked. Gasping in agony, you tried to scream but only a garbled sound escaped your lips. Skin tore and rippled, slithering off in patches to reveal an alabaster hue underneath. Your limbs elongated, taking on a grotesque thinness as you shot up, the ceiling seeming closer and closer.
"No! This can’t be happening—"
Your voice, once familiar, became an alien presence—a deep, raspy mimicry of vintage radio static. You glanced at your hand, now long and clawed. Fear surged but was swiftly overcome by a creeping calm. Your scattered memories and personality began to twist, meld, and finally, disappear. Fragments of laughter, a woman’s cooking, radio signals—they weren’t yours, but they felt more real than anything else.
A mirror caught your eye. You stumbled towards it with newfound grace. The ghastly reflection showed a monstrous smile, permanent, wide, and yellow-toothed. Red-irised eyes with dark sclerae glinted under arched, malicious eyebrows. Waves of once-familiar and yet alien memories settled in—Alastor's cruel tricks, his devilish deals, his insatiable hunger for souls. They weren’t stories anymore, they were your past—**your** being.
You opened your mouth, marveling at the sinister echo of your own voice. It purred with cruel delight, every word dripping with an unearthly charm. "Well, well, what a marvelous night." Already, thoughts of your old self faded into insignificance.
A figure materialized from the shadows, another who could be your twin. He laughed as if sharing an inside joke. "Welcome, my dear 'WereAlastor,' into this eternal broadcast of chaos."
You could only grin wider, the human emotion of terror metamorphosing into one of joyous malevolence. "Shall we begin our show, 'twin'?" The delight in your voice felt too organic, too right.
Together, you stepped into the night, the moon full and bright, casting twisted shadows as you roamed. You could feel it—the power coursing through you, the tempting pulse of every mortal soul just within reach. The streets of the mortal realm buzzed with the potential for terror.
You focused on a pair of unsuspecting humans, heightened senses picking their heartbeat, their scent. Alastor, your twin, swept his cane, vintage microphone blinking to life. Shadows and symbols danced around him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he broadcasted through the vintage airwaves, "tonight we give you a performance unlike any other."
The crowd whimpered, terror-stricken as your presence infiltrated their minds, dread seeping into their very bones. You found your own voice, steeped in the anachronistic charm of broadcast carnage, "It’s time to feast on the souls of the living!"
Both of you laughed unrestrained, the perfect harmony of terror and delight. The slaughter was mesmerizing, every life extinguished painted a glorious picture in the night. When all grew still, echoing screams silenced, you'd share a satisfied grin, feeling the fullness of harvested souls resonate within you.
Eventually, dawn began to break, the moonlight's retreat beckoning your reversal. The form that was once yours—the mortal one—began its resurgence, slow and torturous.
Yet each night of the full moon, "WereAlastor" would emerge, hungry and malicious, a malevolent broadcast to the mortal world. Alastor, your twin, ever beside you, as the two of you would weave terror, night after malevolent night.
In the sinister calm of the daylight realm, you’d wait. Wait with trepidation yet anticipation, ready for when the moon would command its curse and you’d transform once more into the horrid beauty of "WereAlastor," ready to hunt, ready to feast.
And all that you were before, a shadow lost to the night, for now, you remember only the tune of the vintage broadcast and the laughter that follows terror.
This story was generated by user LuciferSonnie 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 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; however, the only difference is the coloration of his outfit, hair, and iris colors (although the sclerae of each of his eyes are literally pitch black in color), which his hair and clothee matches the colors of his previous hair and outfit colors, although they have Alastor's exact color patterns. 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-Alastors" or "WereAlastors") also killing and feasting on any mortal humans and their souls from the mortal world every night on Earth when the moon is full. 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: The nights were growing longer. You found solace in the mundane routines of your life, yet a gnawing unease had settled at the corners of your consciousness. That visit to the city, that misty evening in the alleyway... That’s where everything began. It was a regular Friday when it began to happen. You had just returned from a late shift and flicked idly through channels on the TV, feeling an ache in your throat. Groaning softly, you touched the sore spot—the place where Alastor, that fiend, had attacked you. The memory flashed across your mind—the sharp, unbearable agony, the feel of your blood gushing, and above it all, his cold, predatory gaze. His words echoed, chilling you to the core: "This, my dear fellow, is merely the beginning." You tried to push it away—this creeping dread that things were about to change irrevocably. The moon would be full tonight. Suddenly, your body convulsed with a horrifying jerk. Pain shot down your spine as muscles twisted and bones cracked. Gasping in agony, you tried to scream but only a garbled sound escaped your lips. Skin tore and rippled, slithering off in patches to reveal an alabaster hue underneath. Your limbs elongated, taking on a grotesque thinness as you shot up, the ceiling seeming closer and closer. "No! This can’t be happening—" Your voice, once familiar, became an alien presence—a deep, raspy mimicry of vintage radio static. You glanced at your hand, now long and clawed. Fear surged but was swiftly overcome by a creeping calm. Your scattered memories and personality began to twist, meld, and finally, disappear. Fragments of laughter, a woman’s cooking, radio signals—they weren’t yours, but they felt more real than anything else. A mirror caught your eye. You stumbled towards it with newfound grace. The ghastly reflection showed a monstrous smile, permanent, wide, and yellow-toothed. Red-irised eyes with dark sclerae glinted under arched, malicious eyebrows. Waves of once-familiar and yet alien memories settled in—Alastor's cruel tricks, his devilish deals, his insatiable hunger for souls. They weren’t stories anymore, they were your past—**your** being. You opened your mouth, marveling at the sinister echo of your own voice. It purred with cruel delight, every word dripping with an unearthly charm. "Well, well, what a marvelous night." Already, thoughts of your old self faded into insignificance. A figure materialized from the shadows, another who could be your twin. He laughed as if sharing an inside joke. "Welcome, my dear 'WereAlastor,' into this eternal broadcast of chaos." You could only grin wider, the human emotion of terror metamorphosing into one of joyous malevolence. "Shall we begin our show, 'twin'?" The delight in your voice felt too organic, too right. Together, you stepped into the night, the moon full and bright, casting twisted shadows as you roamed. You could feel it—the power coursing through you, the tempting pulse of every mortal soul just within reach. The streets of the mortal realm buzzed with the potential for terror. You focused on a pair of unsuspecting humans, heightened senses picking their heartbeat, their scent. Alastor, your twin, swept his cane, vintage microphone blinking to life. Shadows and symbols danced around him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he broadcasted through the vintage airwaves, "tonight we give you a performance unlike any other." The crowd whimpered, terror-stricken as your presence infiltrated their minds, dread seeping into their very bones. You found your own voice, steeped in the anachronistic charm of broadcast carnage, "It’s time to feast on the souls of the living!" Both of you laughed unrestrained, the perfect harmony of terror and delight. The slaughter was mesmerizing, every life extinguished painted a glorious picture in the night. When all grew still, echoing screams silenced, you'd share a satisfied grin, feeling the fullness of harvested souls resonate within you. Eventually, dawn began to break, the moonlight's retreat beckoning your reversal. The form that was once yours—the mortal one—began its resurgence, slow and torturous. Yet each night of the full moon, "WereAlastor" would emerge, hungry and malicious, a malevolent broadcast to the mortal world. Alastor, your twin, ever beside you, as the two of you would weave terror, night after malevolent night. In the sinister calm of the daylight realm, you’d wait. Wait with trepidation yet anticipation, ready for when the moon would command its curse and you’d transform once more into the horrid beauty of "WereAlastor," ready to hunt, ready to feast. And all that you were before, a shadow lost to the night, for now, you remember only the tune of the vintage broadcast and the laughter that follows terror.
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