The wind howls through the streets as you clutch the scarf around your neck tightly, each step echoing through the deserted alley. In the midst of an ordinary night, an inexplicable fear claws at your mind. The dangers tonight seem less tangible, more insidious than mundane city crime. Ever since the attack from that sinister figure, life hasn't felt real.
You've been avoiding mirrors, scratching at the scar on your throat—a gruesome souvenir from Alastor’s bite. His final words had been sinister and cryptic. “This is merely the beginning of your curse,” he had said, his smile unnaturally broad, yellow teeth glinting maliciously.
Tonight, the full moon rises, its silvery light cascading over the jagged skyline. Gripping your scarf, unease prickles your spine as you hurry toward home. But each minute drags longer. Each sound morphs into haunting whispers, making you feel observed, hunted.
At last, you slam your door shut, trying to barricade yourself against an enemy that isn't fully known. Heart pounding, you glance at the moonlight filtering through your curtains. The grip of fear tightens as your skin prickles with an unnatural sensation. Something is very, very wrong.
You clutch your sides, suddenly retching in pain. Every nerve feels like it's on fire, thoughts jumbled. “No, this can’t be happening!” Your voice is a mixture of disbelief and confusion. You stumble into the bathroom, grasping at the sink for support, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Not your own reflection, but his—the Radio Demon’s.
“Gah!” You yelp, staggering backward. But the image haunts the glass: a face twisted into Alastor's, every detail a perfect match.
Bones crack, stretch. Muscles bulge then reconfigure. The pain of transformation confines you in a beautiful, tragic nightmare. Pinstripe fabric weaves itself over your skin, the brilliant reds of Alastor’s coat enveloping you in immorality. As your voice croaks, changing pitch, it distorts into an eerily vintage timbre.
"No! No!" You shout, knowing deep down that just calling out or struggling is futile. Your fingers elongate into claws, skin paling into a sickly beige tone. Each change seizes a part of you, your humanity slipping away with each forceful heave of transformation.
Finally, the agony ceases, replaced by an unnatural buoyancy. You float over the floor, light as air. Memories crash over your consciousness—it isn’t your childhood home, but a radio station in 1933. Not your mother, but a figure from New Orleans. Your human name fades into oblivion, replaced only by Alastor.
You blink, finding not your room, but an audience of souls watching you, looming like shadows. A haunting familiarity seeps into your smile as energy sizzles at your fingertips. The microphone on your newly-acquired cane perks up like a loyal companion. Red light flares from its central eye, flickering playfully as you speak. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is...Splendid!” The words roll from your tongue, dripping in delight. They are not your words, but Alastor’s, twisted from your very essence.
Your gaze shifts to the full moon gracing its command upon you. Alastor—your brother, your twin, yourself—materializes next to you, sharing the revelry in his beaming grin. “Ah, dear doppelgänger! Welcome aboard the night’s broadcast,” he chimes, voice filled with an unsettling cheeriness.
The world folds around you like a sinister soundscape, and now, broadcasting not from Hell, but Earth, the hunt begins. Each step is a calculated dance, shadows bending to your will. Every cry, every slogan from you sounds like it’s emanating from vintage radios placed in unseen corners across the mortal realm.
**Were-Alastor chuckles darkly,** "Good evening, my dear listeners! Join us in this radiant night, for tonight we dine on fear!" The voice—your voice—mesmerizing mortals with its ghostly chime.
As both Alastors terrorize the mortal world, each kill is tinged with cruel joy, each soul reaped adding resonance to the night's broadcast. The intoxicating power, each transformed moonlit night, becomes your only reality. Former friends and family are mere echoes, unknowns now.
When the full moon wanes and sunlight pierces the gloom, you fall to the ground, undone by morning’s grace. Panting, battered, human once again. Pieces of yourself are strewn like remnants of forgotten dreams.
Your own voice, shaky and small, croaks, "What...what have I become?" But already, deep inside, you know. Another night will come, another transformation. You’ll fight, certainly, but deep down, you fear you'll lose yourself completely to the demon Alastor—the Radio Demon—known simply as Were-Alastor.
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.
Prompt: Write a 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 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: The wind howls through the streets as you clutch the scarf around your neck tightly, each step echoing through the deserted alley. In the midst of an ordinary night, an inexplicable fear claws at your mind. The dangers tonight seem less tangible, more insidious than mundane city crime. Ever since the attack from that sinister figure, life hasn't felt real. You've been avoiding mirrors, scratching at the scar on your throat—a gruesome souvenir from Alastor’s bite. His final words had been sinister and cryptic. “This is merely the beginning of your curse,” he had said, his smile unnaturally broad, yellow teeth glinting maliciously. Tonight, the full moon rises, its silvery light cascading over the jagged skyline. Gripping your scarf, unease prickles your spine as you hurry toward home. But each minute drags longer. Each sound morphs into haunting whispers, making you feel observed, hunted. At last, you slam your door shut, trying to barricade yourself against an enemy that isn't fully known. Heart pounding, you glance at the moonlight filtering through your curtains. The grip of fear tightens as your skin prickles with an unnatural sensation. Something is very, very wrong. You clutch your sides, suddenly retching in pain. Every nerve feels like it's on fire, thoughts jumbled. “No, this can’t be happening!” Your voice is a mixture of disbelief and confusion. You stumble into the bathroom, grasping at the sink for support, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Not your own reflection, but his—the Radio Demon’s. “Gah!” You yelp, staggering backward. But the image haunts the glass: a face twisted into Alastor's, every detail a perfect match. Bones crack, stretch. Muscles bulge then reconfigure. The pain of transformation confines you in a beautiful, tragic nightmare. Pinstripe fabric weaves itself over your skin, the brilliant reds of Alastor’s coat enveloping you in immorality. As your voice croaks, changing pitch, it distorts into an eerily vintage timbre. "No! No!" You shout, knowing deep down that just calling out or struggling is futile. Your fingers elongate into claws, skin paling into a sickly beige tone. Each change seizes a part of you, your humanity slipping away with each forceful heave of transformation. Finally, the agony ceases, replaced by an unnatural buoyancy. You float over the floor, light as air. Memories crash over your consciousness—it isn’t your childhood home, but a radio station in 1933. Not your mother, but a figure from New Orleans. Your human name fades into oblivion, replaced only by Alastor. You blink, finding not your room, but an audience of souls watching you, looming like shadows. A haunting familiarity seeps into your smile as energy sizzles at your fingertips. The microphone on your newly-acquired cane perks up like a loyal companion. Red light flares from its central eye, flickering playfully as you speak. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is...Splendid!” The words roll from your tongue, dripping in delight. They are not your words, but Alastor’s, twisted from your very essence. Your gaze shifts to the full moon gracing its command upon you. Alastor—your brother, your twin, yourself—materializes next to you, sharing the revelry in his beaming grin. “Ah, dear doppelgänger! Welcome aboard the night’s broadcast,” he chimes, voice filled with an unsettling cheeriness. The world folds around you like a sinister soundscape, and now, broadcasting not from Hell, but Earth, the hunt begins. Each step is a calculated dance, shadows bending to your will. Every cry, every slogan from you sounds like it’s emanating from vintage radios placed in unseen corners across the mortal realm. **Were-Alastor chuckles darkly,** "Good evening, my dear listeners! Join us in this radiant night, for tonight we dine on fear!" The voice—your voice—mesmerizing mortals with its ghostly chime. As both Alastors terrorize the mortal world, each kill is tinged with cruel joy, each soul reaped adding resonance to the night's broadcast. The intoxicating power, each transformed moonlit night, becomes your only reality. Former friends and family are mere echoes, unknowns now. When the full moon wanes and sunlight pierces the gloom, you fall to the ground, undone by morning’s grace. Panting, battered, human once again. Pieces of yourself are strewn like remnants of forgotten dreams. Your own voice, shaky and small, croaks, "What...what have I become?" But already, deep inside, you know. Another night will come, another transformation. You’ll fight, certainly, but deep down, you fear you'll lose yourself completely to the demon Alastor—the Radio Demon—known simply as Were-Alastor.
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AI Prompts: 1
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