6 years later...
Alastor had taken up a second job the day after his 20th birthday. The 1920s had brought with it a high demand for home radios, and Alastair was one of the lucky few to sell them. The lines were lengthy and the days longer, but Alastor's boss's company allowed their salesmen to pocket extra money for each radio they sold, so that was enough for him to buy his mother her own radio within the first week of his new job. When he'd plugged it in and the first notes of a song had come through the speakers his mother had been immediately transfixed. Through her new fascination of the home radio, came a new goal for Alastor: Being on it.
While Alastor wasn't at work, however, his actions turned towards... darker things. When his mother laid down in bed for the night each day, he was out the door and wandering down the dark alleyways of New Orleans.
He hadn't meant to kill again. He'd only been walking home from work one late night when someone had attempted to mug him at knifepoint, a piece of dark cloth covering the bottom half of their face as they brandished their knife in his.
"Empty your pockets." The man had demanded, his head turning to look up and down the alley for any sign of danger other than himself. When his eyes met Alastor's, however, they weren't as hardened as his words. He was all threat and no action. "Do it now or I'll stab you where you stand."
Alastor put his hands in his pockets, but instead of grabbing his money, his fingers instead wrapped around the handle of a knife he kept on him in case of an occurrence such as this. It was a sleek silver pocket knife, one that had belonged to his father, with a mother-of-pearl inlay. One that had been quickly drenched in the robber's blood when he'd looked away once more to scan for any curious bystanders.
The sound of metal clattering against the stone beneath their feet was followed immediately by splats of blood. The man's eyes once again met Alastor's, horror crossing his features before being quickly blotted out by pain when the knife's pulled back and quickly stabbed into his abdomen again.
"Unfortunately for you," Alastor'd laughed. "You just attempted to steal from the wrong fellow."
The man drops to the ground, blood bubbling up from between his lips as he tries to draw a breath. He gurgles instead, and attempts to cough to clear his airway. His hand flails uselessly on the ground beside him, searching for his fallen weapon as a way to defend himself.
Alastor kneels down beside him and presses the blade of his knife to the soft flesh of the man's throat. "Be still." And with one quick, fluid motion, he slits the skin open, sending blood flowing from the open wound and down to the rocks beneath them. He watches as the man goes to grip his own ruined throat, trying in vain to stop the heavy bleeding. Soon, though, his movements still and his hand drops lifelessly to the ground, empty eyes starring up at nothing.
The rush that courses through his body causes goosebumps to rise on his arms, a cold chill leading them from down in the base of his spine. He exhales a deep breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, a smile breaking free on his face.
He'd forgotten how good it felt to watch the life leave someone's body, and this was the first time he'd watched that life drain from someone's eyes. All consciousness and fear fading into a dull, washed out stare.
Almost immediately the voices begin again, rising from their usual ever-present whispering to loud, insistent cries.
"Another."
"KILL ANOTHER."
Alastor cleans the blade off with the mugger's shirt, then rises and brushes off his trousers. He closes it and tucks it back into his pocket before turning and walking away from the body. Every step he takes away from the alley, the more demanding the voice grow.
"More blood. More d̴͙̝̼̫̦̊͘͘e̴̮̪̅́͂̅̀̏̕͘͝ą̷̧̛̹̟̲͉̫̺̙̎̃ţ̶̭͍̖̂͊́̍̊̈́̕ͅͅh̸̛͎̀̃̔̈́̌̋. M̷̡̧̰͕͉̞̬̳̀́̋̇͑̆͝͝ȍ̶͍̫͎̦͊̎̓̈́͘͜͠͠r̴͓͗̆͆̏̾e̶̤̠̝̠̠̞̜͔͚̚ ̶̡̢̨̹̫̩̤̓͊͛̈́͂ͅc̶̰͐̄͊͌̌͝ą̷̻̮̄̃̇̔͝r̶̢̆̔̄̍̂̓͆̎̔͠n̸̨̪̝̜̜̊͊̃̐̓̅͠a̶̡̳͕̹̻̦̯̳̼̱̓̅g̴̢̰̱̭͎̝͕̉e̶."
He slaps his hands over his ears, trying to drown them out. The urge had never fully gone away. The craving had only lessened as the years had passed, flaring up to an itch he couldn't scratch unless he killed again. Now it was all back full force, with the voices in his head only pushing him further.
He bathes once he's home, letting the warm water wash away the darkness of the alley from his skin. He picks at his nails, cleaning dried blood from beneath them with his fingers and teeth. It was a shame to waste meat, but he could smell the sickening scent of alcohol eminating from the man's pores and breath once he'd gotten close enough. And he refused to eat filth such as that.
The next morning when he walks into the living room, his mother sits in her chair already. She's shaking her head, a tsk of distaste leaving her lips. "They found a body." She says, small frail hands rubbing together in concern. "Stabbed to death, they say. Loaded down with stolen wallets."
Alastor glows inside. "Pity." He forces himself to say. "But good in itself that there's one less piece of trash out in the streets."
Genevieve nods silently, eyes never leaving her radio. "Be careful out there," She says then. "I can feel a darkness approaching."
"Of course, mother."
Little did she know, her own son was the darkness she could feel approaching. A darkness that was already upon them.
5 months pass, and with them do the demands in his head. The shouting voices go back to subtle whispers in the back of his mind, prodding at him and pleading to be heard. His late night trips hadn't stopped, however. Alastor found himself sleeping less and staying out late more, watching the streets of New Orleans refuse to hide even after the day his last victim had been found. The bustle had continued on, drunken groups on the street singing loudly, music spilling out of the bars along the Quarter, and prostitutes lingering on the corners, their thick, cloying perfume drawing in even the most sober of men.
In the midst of all this, a man stands on the corner of Jackson Square, yelling bible verses out at those who pass him. He yells about the sins of the flesh, condeming those drunk and those attracted to the pull of the women selling "sin". As Alastor passes, the man's next words prick his interest. "Repent! Turn your backs to the darker ways and find salvation! Lest you end up as another corpse in our city's alleyways." He proclaims. "It is forbidden to murder, as it says, 'You shall not murder'! Exodus 20:13, Deuteronomy 5:17."
Alastor chuckles to himself, thumb gently rubbing the cover of his new pocket watch that danges from a chain at his side. The "sins of the flesh" held no pull for him, but the severing of said flesh did. Any one of the people around him could be the next corpse in an alleyway, the next victim who made the voices scream loud enough that he would have no choice but to silence them. Each and every last one of them was oblivious to this potential fate, unable to sense the presence of this wolf creeping amongst sheep. Would tonight be the next night that the crowded streets of New Orleans soaked up the blood of yet another unfortunate soul?
A crowd stands outside of the windows and doors of a bar up ahead, peering in at the scene inside. The mass of bodies calls to him, pulling him in to join them in their spectating, to camouflage himself yet again.
A woman's clear voice rings out above the chatter and laughter in this bar, calling to her any attention that previously was divided. The air in and around the bar stills in anticipation as silence falls. Then, the sound of a saxophone and trumpet start up, diving into a rendition of "Crazy Blues".
"I can't sleep at night,
I can't eat a bite,
'Cause the man I love,
He don't treat me right."
Alastor stands up taller, straightening to his full 6 feet, and peers over the heads of the crowd in front of him.
The woman on the stage wears a sparkly red dress, a feathered boa around her shoulders. The lights that shine on her are so bright that for a moment Alastor doesn't see that she's a Negro woman. From a quick glance around at the crowd, some have faces full of awe while others have those of disgust. He watches a white man spit on the ground in her general direction before walking away from the bar window in anger.
While the races didn't normally mix in public places, this bar seemed to be the exception, with a man who was very apparently the owner of the place standing protectively by the front of the stage. His eyes scan the crowd, seemingly daring someone to act out of line towards the singer.
Alastor's eyes go back to the man who was stalking away, and he feels the whispers in his head grow louder. The path he was taking led to the dark, rough waters of the Mississippi, where if a body washed up on the shore of it, anyone would assume they'd drunkenly stumbled in and drowned.
"Go."
With one last glance towards the bad, Alastor begins walking down the path the man had taken. Within moments he catches up to him, watching as he kicks a glass bottle against the rocks causing it to shatter into pieces in the dirt.
"Damn city," the man mumbles. "Letting a damn negro get up on that stage."
"One less piece of trash..."
Alastor follows him further towards the waterline, away from the lights of the quarter. He's careful to stay in the shadows, watching from a safe distance but still close enough to strike at a moment's notice.
When the man pauses to tie his shoe, stumbling as he does so, is when Alastor attacks. He grips the man by the back of his head firmly, fingers twisted deep into his hair, and forces his face down into the murky water. The man flails, fighting back against the attack, but Alastor lays his full weight on him, forcing his face down deeper into the dirt of the riverbank.
The whispers turn to screams of delight as the man begins to lose the fight, his frantic movements turning jerky and irregular as the water fills his lungs. All at once, his body gives one last shake before going limp, the bubbles in the water ceasing to break the surface.
Alastor stands up, brushing his hands together to clear them of any dirt. The sleeves of his coat are wet at the ends though, he notes with distaste.
"Another."
If there was anything the voices were, it was demanding. Always in agreement. Always present.
"Find another."
He scans his surroundings before melding back into the shadows, heading back towards the lively energy he'd left behind. He nods politely at a couple passing him on the sidewalk, once again putting on his public mask. He knew by tomorrow afternoon the body would be found, and the thought of this causes a grin to break out on his face. Hearing the news of yet another body would send fear throughout the town, and while that meant more caution, if they reported no extra findings then it also meant he could continue.
Two kills in one night would be risky, but with the sheer amount of people in the quarter this night it was... doable.
"Yes!"
Sometimes it was hard to tell which voices in his head were them and which were purely whisperings of his own wants, pushing him to indulge as well.
Alastor walks past the bar again, noting the crowd from outside was now inside, clearing the sidewalk. So he continues past the door without pause, eyes scanning for another potential victim. The success of this depended purely on finding a straggler, someone alone or even clearly inebriated. Those with excessive amounts of alcohol in their bodies couldn't fight back, which didn't make the kill necessarily more exciting, but they all still were in their own ways.
His father, who'd barely had time to register what was about to happen before his head became stray pieces on the forest floor, had by far been the most fulfilling. The robber, who's life had drained from his eyes as Alastor watched had been elating. Then now the drunkard he'd followed to the river, it had been a release. It was quieter in the days after a kill, when the voices in his head were appeased momentarily. Alastor could barely remember a time when his head was completely silent, and even those fleeting memories weren't all the happiest to recall.
"Hey handsome!" A woman ahead of him calls, leveling him with what was no doubt her most dazzling smile. "You lookin' for a good time?"
Alastor internally recoils in disgust at the thought but gives her what he knows to be a bashful smile. "No thank you, ma'am. I'm just heading on my way home." He side-steps her easily when he comes up on her. Despite looking for a victim, he didn't really want to kill a woman. Out of respect for his own mother, he didn't want to possibly take someone else's. Not to mention people took notice of who followed these women back to their rooms, and he didn't need to be known as someone last seen with her.
"Need some company then?" She pushes.
Suppressing a look of horror, he holds up his hand in apology as he continues walking quickly away. The thought of a stranger even touching him made his skin crawl, and the idea of anything more made him want to scrub himself raw with hot water.
As he leaves the light and merriment of the French Quarter, he begins to walk along less crowded streets, where people are stumbling home after a night out. Mostly all are in groups, making sounds of discontentment and frustration grumble through his head. The few that walk alone are frequently checked on by a group that walks ahead, and some are joined or pulled forward.
Too risky.
It takes roughly an hour before he does see someone alone. A man stands in an alleyway throwing beer bottles at the wall, watching the shattered pieces fall to the ground. He's homeless, from the look of his ragged clothing, and standing where there's no light. An easier target.
As the homeless man begins to stumble off, Alastor hangs back for a moment to make sure he's not being watched before following. He turns a corner up ahead, disappearing momentarily from sight befoe Alastor rounds the corner. He was heading towards an unfamiliar residential area from the look of it, but not one that was well-lit luckily.
Tailing him through another alleyway, he creeps closer to his target, quietly pulling his knife from his coat pocket. He would have to make this one quicker than the last, which he didn't prefer, but the roar of anticipation in his head drowned out all concern. He had to move now.
He reaches for the man's dirtied coat as a scream echoes through the alleyway from close by. Startled, Alastor pulls back, then can only watch as the man glances around fearfully before running away.
"GIVE CHASE."
"Follow!"
Swallowing disappointment and anger, he heads towards the direction of the scream. Having lost his kill, he was determined to make up for it.
Whoever had cost him his target's spilled blood would pay for it with their own.