You never thought a simple stroll through the Metairie Cemetery would lead to such turmoil. The moonlight glinted off the tombstones, casting your shadow long and eerie against the gravel path. You had always been a night owl, finding solace and tranquility in the stillness of the late hours. But tonight, that tranquility was shattered by an encounter with something — someone — who would forever change your life.
It was sudden, the attack. One moment, you were admiring an angel statue; the next, you were pinned to the ground, a searing pain tearing through your neck.
"Bonsoir, mon ami," spoke a cheerful, sinister voice, tinged with a vintage radio distortion. As your vision blurred, you glimpsed a broad, unnerving smile filled with sharp, yellow teeth. The last thing you remember before losing consciousness was the name murmured into your ear: "Alastor."
Days passed in a haze of fever dreams and terror. You tried to convince yourself it was a hallucination, some twisted figment of your imagination. But the bite marks on your neck, healing impossibly fast, disputed that comfort. And then, the night of the full moon arrived.
You felt it first as a tingle, an itch in the tips of your fingers. Inspecting your hands under the pale moonlight streaming through your bedroom window, you froze. Your skin seemed to crawl, the stark color shifting unnaturally. Panic consumed you as your hands elongated, fingers ending in pointed, claw-like nails.
**"No, no, no...!"** You gasped, but your voice was already distorting, echoing as if trapped in an old radio broadcast.
You stumbled to the mirror, catching sight of your transformation. Your eyes widened in horror as your reflection showed not your familiar face but that of a monstrous, delightfully grinning demon. Your hair, though mirroring the color and pattern of Alastor's, retained your original coloration. Your clothes wove and twisted into a pinstripe coat and a bright red dress shirt, only they too retained the colors of your old attire.
You felt yourself grow taller, your body contorting painfully until you towered at seven feet. Your torso slimmed unnaturally, your limbs becoming unnervingly thin while your shoulders broadened.
**"Wh-what is happening to me?"** you managed to choke out, but the voice was no longer yours. It was deeper, ominously cheerful, and had the unmistakable timbre of an old-fashioned radio.
Memories flooded your mind, erasing your past, replacing it with Alastor's. You fought to remember who you were — your friends, your family — but their faces slipped away, obscured by fog and static. The thoughts that replaced them were sinister, filled with a malicious glee and a hunger for chaos.
**"Oh, dear friend, the fun has only just begun!"** A second voice, eerily similar to yours but distinct, lilted through the transformation process. Alastor, the original, stood by watching, his grin wider than ever. **"Welcome to the family, Were-Alastor!"**
Panic rose as the last remnants of your identity were swallowed by Alastor's overwhelming persona. You couldn't remember your own name, only the thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of dominance, and an insatiable hunger.
The transformation complete, you turned to Alastor, thoughts of rebellion against this new identity now obsolete. As your identical twin, he welcomed you with a manic bow. **"Shall we, mon frère?"**
A grin spread across your face — your face but not you. **"Indeed, let's paint the town red!"** You replied with a joy that wasn’t yours but felt entirely natural. You twirled your cane tipped with its sentient eye-bearing microphone, reveling in the power now coursing through your body.
Together, you roamed the night, broadcasting your antics and horrors, the pitch-black sclerae of your eyes reflecting the moonlight ominously. Human souls fell prey to your transformations every full moon, their muffled screams filling the airwaves as your static laughter echoed in the void.
By dawn, you found yourself back in your room, your body reverting to its familiar form. You groaned, memories of the night a blur, but the horror of your dual identity loomed large. And you knew, with the next full moon, you'd become 'Were-Alastor' once more, losing yourself completely each time.
In the interim, you lived in fear, uncertainty gnawing at you, but the cycle was inevitable. The parting words Alastor left you haunted your waking hours: **"One can never truly escape their destiny, dear friend. Until next time..."**
Each month became a countdown to your transformation, a relentless descent into madness that you dreaded and, in some unspeakable way, craved.
This story was generated by user JesterImp 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.
Prompt: Write the POV transformation story of a 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-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 never thought a simple stroll through the Metairie Cemetery would lead to such turmoil. The moonlight glinted off the tombstones, casting your shadow long and eerie against the gravel path. You had always been a night owl, finding solace and tranquility in the stillness of the late hours. But tonight, that tranquility was shattered by an encounter with something — someone — who would forever change your life. It was sudden, the attack. One moment, you were admiring an angel statue; the next, you were pinned to the ground, a searing pain tearing through your neck. "Bonsoir, mon ami," spoke a cheerful, sinister voice, tinged with a vintage radio distortion. As your vision blurred, you glimpsed a broad, unnerving smile filled with sharp, yellow teeth. The last thing you remember before losing consciousness was the name murmured into your ear: "Alastor." Days passed in a haze of fever dreams and terror. You tried to convince yourself it was a hallucination, some twisted figment of your imagination. But the bite marks on your neck, healing impossibly fast, disputed that comfort. And then, the night of the full moon arrived. You felt it first as a tingle, an itch in the tips of your fingers. Inspecting your hands under the pale moonlight streaming through your bedroom window, you froze. Your skin seemed to crawl, the stark color shifting unnaturally. Panic consumed you as your hands elongated, fingers ending in pointed, claw-like nails. **"No, no, no...!"** You gasped, but your voice was already distorting, echoing as if trapped in an old radio broadcast. You stumbled to the mirror, catching sight of your transformation. Your eyes widened in horror as your reflection showed not your familiar face but that of a monstrous, delightfully grinning demon. Your hair, though mirroring the color and pattern of Alastor's, retained your original coloration. Your clothes wove and twisted into a pinstripe coat and a bright red dress shirt, only they too retained the colors of your old attire. You felt yourself grow taller, your body contorting painfully until you towered at seven feet. Your torso slimmed unnaturally, your limbs becoming unnervingly thin while your shoulders broadened. **"Wh-what is happening to me?"** you managed to choke out, but the voice was no longer yours. It was deeper, ominously cheerful, and had the unmistakable timbre of an old-fashioned radio. Memories flooded your mind, erasing your past, replacing it with Alastor's. You fought to remember who you were — your friends, your family — but their faces slipped away, obscured by fog and static. The thoughts that replaced them were sinister, filled with a malicious glee and a hunger for chaos. **"Oh, dear friend, the fun has only just begun!"** A second voice, eerily similar to yours but distinct, lilted through the transformation process. Alastor, the original, stood by watching, his grin wider than ever. **"Welcome to the family, Were-Alastor!"** Panic rose as the last remnants of your identity were swallowed by Alastor's overwhelming persona. You couldn't remember your own name, only the thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of dominance, and an insatiable hunger. The transformation complete, you turned to Alastor, thoughts of rebellion against this new identity now obsolete. As your identical twin, he welcomed you with a manic bow. **"Shall we, mon frère?"** A grin spread across your face — your face but not you. **"Indeed, let's paint the town red!"** You replied with a joy that wasn’t yours but felt entirely natural. You twirled your cane tipped with its sentient eye-bearing microphone, reveling in the power now coursing through your body. Together, you roamed the night, broadcasting your antics and horrors, the pitch-black sclerae of your eyes reflecting the moonlight ominously. Human souls fell prey to your transformations every full moon, their muffled screams filling the airwaves as your static laughter echoed in the void. By dawn, you found yourself back in your room, your body reverting to its familiar form. You groaned, memories of the night a blur, but the horror of your dual identity loomed large. And you knew, with the next full moon, you'd become 'Were-Alastor' once more, losing yourself completely each time. In the interim, you lived in fear, uncertainty gnawing at you, but the cycle was inevitable. The parting words Alastor left you haunted your waking hours: **"One can never truly escape their destiny, dear friend. Until next time..."** Each month became a countdown to your transformation, a relentless descent into madness that you dreaded and, in some unspeakable way, craved.
AI Prompts: 1
AI Prompts: 1
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