"Moonlit Curse: The Haunting Transformation of WereAlastor"
1 Points
Moonlight streamed through your bedroom window, casting long and eerie shadows across the walls. You lay in bed, eyes wide open, unable to shake off the memory of that night. The night when the Radio Demon himself, Alastor, attacked you—his teeth sinking into your throat, tearing flesh and staining the ground with your blood. You survived, but the words he whispered before disappearing into the darkness burned in your mind.
"This is just the beginning of the curse."
Days passed, but the wound on your neck barely seemed to heal. It throbbed and pulsed, echoing a sinister rhythm of impending doom. You tried to go about your life, but an ominous feeling loomed over you, growing thicker with each passing day.
It was the evening of the full moon when you first noticed the changes. You stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the sink as a wave of dizziness washed over you. Pain shot through your bones, your skin rippling as if something underneath struggled to get out.
You looked up into the mirror, horror gripping your heart. Your hair began to change color, morphing into the familiar red-and-black pattern of Alastor’s. Your eyes darkened until they were pitch black, leaving only a haunting glow in the center.
"Oh God, no!" you screamed, clutching the sides of the sink, hoping against hope that this was some twisted nightmare.
But hope was forfeit. Your body contorted and stretched; you could feel yourself growing taller, your clothes twisting and warping into a sinister version of Alastor's pinstripe suit. Your fingers elongated, claws replacing your nails. The pain was unbearable, but what scared you most was what came next.
Your thoughts began to fade, slowly, one by one. You held onto the idea of who you were—your name, your memories, the faces of your loved ones—desperately trying to anchor yourself in reality. But they slipped away like sand through your fingers, replaced by something far more insidious.
"Who am I?" you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as it took on a vintage radio timbre.
Your reflection in the mirror grinned back at you—not your grin, but Alastor’s unnaturally broad and malevolent smile. Memories flooded your mind, not yours but his—memories from 1933, of broadcasts, deals, violence, and pleasure in suffering.
“Ah, a charming little transformation, isn’t it?” a familiar voice rasped, cutting through the air like a knife.
You turned to see Alastor standing behind you, his grin matching yours. “Welcome, my dear twin. Or should I say, WereAlastor?”
You tried to speak, to plead, to resist somehow, but the words that escaped your lips were not yours. “It’s a delightful night for some broadcasting, isn’t it, old friend?” The words flowed naturally, effortlessly, and with them, your last vestiges of self were obliterated.
Alastor chuckled, an unnerving sound that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of reality. “Indeed, indeed. Let’s fill the airwaves with delightful screams and terror, shall we?”
By the time you left the house, your former life was a distant echo. You and Alastor prowled the streets, the full moon illuminating your path. Your cane, with its sentient vintage microphone, felt familiar and comforting in your clawed grip. The microphone's eye blinked at you, as if acknowledging the transformation.
"What's the news tonight? Blood and fear?" you quipped, broadcasting your voice in that radio-pitched tone.
As dawn approached, your supernatural spree concluded, you felt the transformation reverse. Again, your body shrank, your features softened, your clothes morphed back to what you had worn as a mortal. You found yourself back in your bed, drenched in sweat and trembling.
"Oh God, I don't want this," you sobbed, clutching at the bedsheets, but the curse had taken root. The memories of the night were hazy, but they left a chilling residue in your mind—a reminder that when the moon was next full, you would no longer be yourself.
And so it began. Each full moon brought the same cycle. Your human persona dwindled, replaced by the horrid perfection of Alastor, the Radio Demon, feasting on human souls, broadcasting terror, and reveling in the anguish of the mortal world.
Alastor would always watch you with a knowing grin as you transformed, welcoming you into the darkness. “Until the next full moon, WereAlastor,” he would say, his voice dripping with sinister glee.
Deep inside your returning human mind, you knew the struggle was futile. The next full moon awaited, ready to erase you again, leaving behind only the Radio Demon within.
"I am Alastor," you would say next time, not as a choice but as your reality, the curse binding your fate ever tighter with each lunar cycle.
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.
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 an 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: Moonlight streamed through your bedroom window, casting long and eerie shadows across the walls. You lay in bed, eyes wide open, unable to shake off the memory of that night. The night when the Radio Demon himself, Alastor, attacked you—his teeth sinking into your throat, tearing flesh and staining the ground with your blood. You survived, but the words he whispered before disappearing into the darkness burned in your mind. "This is just the beginning of the curse." Days passed, but the wound on your neck barely seemed to heal. It throbbed and pulsed, echoing a sinister rhythm of impending doom. You tried to go about your life, but an ominous feeling loomed over you, growing thicker with each passing day. It was the evening of the full moon when you first noticed the changes. You stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the sink as a wave of dizziness washed over you. Pain shot through your bones, your skin rippling as if something underneath struggled to get out. You looked up into the mirror, horror gripping your heart. Your hair began to change color, morphing into the familiar red-and-black pattern of Alastor’s. Your eyes darkened until they were pitch black, leaving only a haunting glow in the center. "Oh God, no!" you screamed, clutching the sides of the sink, hoping against hope that this was some twisted nightmare. But hope was forfeit. Your body contorted and stretched; you could feel yourself growing taller, your clothes twisting and warping into a sinister version of Alastor's pinstripe suit. Your fingers elongated, claws replacing your nails. The pain was unbearable, but what scared you most was what came next. Your thoughts began to fade, slowly, one by one. You held onto the idea of who you were—your name, your memories, the faces of your loved ones—desperately trying to anchor yourself in reality. But they slipped away like sand through your fingers, replaced by something far more insidious. "Who am I?" you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as it took on a vintage radio timbre. Your reflection in the mirror grinned back at you—not your grin, but Alastor’s unnaturally broad and malevolent smile. Memories flooded your mind, not yours but his—memories from 1933, of broadcasts, deals, violence, and pleasure in suffering. “Ah, a charming little transformation, isn’t it?” a familiar voice rasped, cutting through the air like a knife. You turned to see Alastor standing behind you, his grin matching yours. “Welcome, my dear twin. Or should I say, WereAlastor?” You tried to speak, to plead, to resist somehow, but the words that escaped your lips were not yours. “It’s a delightful night for some broadcasting, isn’t it, old friend?” The words flowed naturally, effortlessly, and with them, your last vestiges of self were obliterated. Alastor chuckled, an unnerving sound that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of reality. “Indeed, indeed. Let’s fill the airwaves with delightful screams and terror, shall we?” By the time you left the house, your former life was a distant echo. You and Alastor prowled the streets, the full moon illuminating your path. Your cane, with its sentient vintage microphone, felt familiar and comforting in your clawed grip. The microphone's eye blinked at you, as if acknowledging the transformation. "What's the news tonight? Blood and fear?" you quipped, broadcasting your voice in that radio-pitched tone. As dawn approached, your supernatural spree concluded, you felt the transformation reverse. Again, your body shrank, your features softened, your clothes morphed back to what you had worn as a mortal. You found yourself back in your bed, drenched in sweat and trembling. "Oh God, I don't want this," you sobbed, clutching at the bedsheets, but the curse had taken root. The memories of the night were hazy, but they left a chilling residue in your mind—a reminder that when the moon was next full, you would no longer be yourself. And so it began. Each full moon brought the same cycle. Your human persona dwindled, replaced by the horrid perfection of Alastor, the Radio Demon, feasting on human souls, broadcasting terror, and reveling in the anguish of the mortal world. Alastor would always watch you with a knowing grin as you transformed, welcoming you into the darkness. “Until the next full moon, WereAlastor,” he would say, his voice dripping with sinister glee. Deep inside your returning human mind, you knew the struggle was futile. The next full moon awaited, ready to erase you again, leaving behind only the Radio Demon within. "I am Alastor," you would say next time, not as a choice but as your reality, the curse binding your fate ever tighter with each lunar cycle.
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