Nineteen thirty three
“Police, open up!”
A loud banging awakened Alastor from a sitting
stupor. A used cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto the table. He had been
gazing aimlessly at one of his old radios, almost willing it to flick to life. There
was a pile of boxy radios sitting in his office…he refused to sell them, even
as the house and himself began to fall apart day by day. The food ran out, then
the heat. He had to sell his car, his fancy antlered cane…all the material
possessions he could find just for enough canned foods to maybe last a week.
Alastor stared at the fairly recent
bloodstains on his white gloves. He wore a white buttoned shirt with red
sleeves, his black bow tie lopsided. He also wore dark pants and shoes. He
straightened up his round glasses on the bridge of his nose. His brown eyes had
bags under them, his stature displaying an unhealthy thinness. Alastor wondered
if his radio shows would soon be forgotten, discarded away like the furniture
radios he loved so much way back.
Not being in the spotlight as much…radios
gradually falling by the wayside…no more lavish food, fashion and fun like the
previous decade. Here he was, isolated, and now without his audience, he felt
truly alone. The fading bumpy scars along his body, chest and back were the
remaining legacies left behind by his father.
Alastor stared one last time at a black and
white picture of him and his mother, both of them smiling. It seemed like a
lifetime ago that she had been with him. Warmth, strength and happiness in her
eyes through every step of Alastor’s youthful life. Sewing, cooking, singing,
dancing and voodoo rituals would always bring back fond memories of her. What
would she think of him now…a shell of his former glorious self, hidden by a
plastic smile?
And dear Mimzy…the dashing heavyset blonde
flapper girl and perhaps his only friend. One day she was there with him,
singing, eating sweets and drinking the night away. Then the next day she had
died during the Roaring Twenties. A heartbroken Alastor had blamed himself for
her death. Maybe if he had loved her properly…given her the fairy tale romance she
wanted in the first place. Alas, he didn’t want sex and deep intimacy like she
did. He saw her as a close companion, a beautiful friend he could sing and
travel with. He didn’t get a chance to confess his feelings to her.
Broadcasting and killing were the only
purposes in his life now.
The door rattled again. “Open the door and put
your hands in the air!”
How could he have been so careless? Just a few
hours ago, he had brutally slashed the throats of two criminals, a white man
and a black man. They were known to beat innocent people in the poor red light
district along with committing a few rapes. The police hadn’t bothered to go
after them, so he decided to finish the job.
In a rather ungentlemanly manner, he had bitten
into their necks like a starved wolf. And indeed, he was always in search of
food. There was a great scarcity during the Great Depression, thus he resorted
to…unconventional methods to try and survive.
Perhaps Alastor had been a little too
over-enthusiastic about their deaths on the radio. Or maybe it was the trail of
bloody footprints that had led the coppers to his location.
But whatever the case, Alastor knew that the
inevitable was fast approaching him.
Large hands forced the door open and there
stood two police officers with hard round hats, golden badges, black uniforms
and ominous black batons in their hands.
“You’re under arrest for murder in the first
degree, second degree…”
Alastor stood and smiled nervously, “Third
degree, nth degree, I get it, folks…”
A gun shot was fired, the bullet hitting the
wall not too far from Alastor’s head. He dashed into the kitchen. There was a
pile of papers and radios that stood in the way of the door. There appeared to
be no way to escape…
But off to Alastor’s left was a window,
thankfully wide open.
Without hesitation, the man ran forward and
dove out the window, landing in a heap on the snow below. His thin bony form
allowed him to cross the small opening. He took great gulps of air, lifting
himself up and sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Get back here!” the police called. Alastor
climbed over fences and didn’t look back.
The sky was turning blood-red in the sunset. Not
too far behind him, Alastor heard some barking. He peered back and saw two
ferocious dogs, a German Shepherd and a Rottweiler chasing after him. Their
maws were red and their white teeth sharp. The police waved their batons and
followed the dogs. Another gun shot rang out. Panting hard, Alastor shoved
several people out of the way as he ran. He dodged carts and carriages and old
fashioned cars that swerved to avoid him. Horses neighed and reared up while
several people yelped in surprise.
By a stroke of luck, two frightened horses
from a carriage blocked the dogs’ path. Alastor used this opportunity to dash
into a nearby side alley. Catching his breath and grimacing, Alastor climbed
into a nearby green dumpster, rolling deep into the trash. The foul odors
assaulted his nostrils. There were black bags, cans, sloppy food and some
unrecognizable items everywhere. He curled up into a ball, scared despite his
forced smile. His heart stopped when he heard the scraping of feet coming
closer. The two dogs were circling the dumpster, panting, growling and
sniffing.
Alastor didn’t dare move or breathe. They
would find him and it would be the end. There was no way he’d let himself get
arrested.
The dogs sniffed some more and Alastor thought
he heard one of the dogs bark loudly. The silhouettes of the policemen stood at
the alleyway opening.
“Keep searching, he can’t have gone far!” he
heard a voice. The policemen raced ahead down the street, the dogs following
them. The barking and steps faded.
How long he was there, he didn’t know. He
couldn’t believe that his unpleasant idea to hide his scent had worked. Ever so
cautiously, he peered over the ledge. When all was clear, he pulled himself up,
briefly landing in a heap on the hard ground. He stood up, brushing away bits of
garbage from his hair and clothing. He hated smelling and looking so horrible.
Alastor looked around, then made his way down
the quieter evening streets, sticking close to the shadows.
There were wanted posters of him on walls and
telephone poles. Several passerby gave him suspicious glares. Alastor caught a
glimpse at the woods in the fading light. He made his way out of the city and
toward nature as fast as he could. Bare tall trees soon surrounded him. The
chilly evening air cut through his clothes.
Not too far away, he spotted a hulking figure
standing over a deer. He leaned back against a tree, peering to get a closer
look.
The man was a deer hunter, dressed in combat
boots, a vest, pants and a belt of animal pelts. To Alastor’s revulsion, the
man was posing by the wounded stag at his feet. A series of pained groans came
from the animal. Alastor seethed through his teeth; that would not do at all. The
area was still light enough to see shapes and the ground, the full Hunter’s
Moon lighting the way.
As quiet as a mouse, Alastor tiptoed closer
until he was almost behind the man. He spotted a rock and threw it ahead of
him.
“What’s that?” the man grunted, distracted by
the rock. Alastor broke off a sharp piece of the deer’s antler, holding it in
his hands.
The man whirled around, “Hey what are you…”
In an instant, Alastor thrust the sharp piece
into the hunter’s chest. The man gasped and stumbled back, tripping over the
legs of the stag.
“Oh deer,”
Alastor mused as he took careful steps toward the hunter. The man crawled
backwards on his hands and legs. He aimed some kicks at Alastor but he
gracefully moved out of the way. He grabbed hold of the man’s legs and squeezed
as hard as he could. “You call yourself a hunter and you hurt those creatures
like it’s nothing.” Anger burned in his eyes.
The man’s eyes grew wide. “Stay away, you
filthy lunatic!”
Alastor only leaned closer and in the blink of
an eye, landed a hard kick to his face and body. And another. And another.
“Looks like the hunter became the hunted.
Quite the irony!” He spoke like he was talking to an invisible audience.
The hunter cried out in pain but Alastor
didn’t stop. He could see his father’s face in and out of the man’s features.
He saw the feared looks of his victims, the pleading desperation for survival
present in humans and animals alike. The hunter was groaning in terror and pain
like the nearby stag on the ground. Even
in Alastor’s weakened state, he still got the satisfaction of having dominance
over others. They were all the same to him…morsels there for him to maim to his
liking. It was a rare, wonderful feeling that almost made up for him almost
getting caught.
“Kiss all your fawn experiences goodbye,” Alastor sneered, a crazed look on his
face.
The man yelled out again before he gargled for
breath as Alastor pushed the sharp antler point deeper in. He moved it around,
red blood splattering on the cold ground. The man’s eyes rolled back, his head
lolling to the side before falling still.
Alastor walked over to the wounded deer,
silently spoke a prayer and then promptly snapped the beast’s neck. The pained
animal noises stopped. He bent down and used a nearby hunting knife to
carefully skin the animal. He didn’t care that the deer meat was raw, or that
the hanging bits of flesh from the hunter were not cooked.
He was too hungry to even think. He stuffed
the bloody meat into his mouth, his mouth stained red. His shadow briefly
morphed into a grotesque silhouette with glowing eyes and branching antlers.
Alastor chewed and ate until he felt momentarily satisfied.
Stealing a shovel from the hunter’s sack, he
hummed a cheery tune as he began to dig a grave through the snow and dirt. When
the hole was large and deep enough, he dumped the deer hunter’s body into it.
But before he could add dirt on top of the corpse, he heard something. A low
voice and a growl.
More policemen and dogs were trekking through
the woods, following his trail.
Not too far away in the dark, another hunter
carried a rifle in his hands. A couple of hunting dogs strolled by his side.
One of the dog’s ears perked up and it suddenly froze.
The white man hunter peered ahead into the
dusk wood. He saw a tall figure pace back and forth.
“A deer,” he breathed. He gave a signal to his
companions and the dogs charged ahead with loud barks.
Alastor slowly turned around and saw the
canines suddenly rush and leap at him. There was a deer in the headlights look
in his wide brown orbs. The shovel fell from his hands and he cried out. Barks
and howls clashed with his screams as sharp teeth sunk into him at every angle.
Teeth tore at his shirt, his legs, and his skin all over. Rips, tears, the
squelching sounds of flesh being torn. Blood spots stained the snow. Alastor
couldn’t shake the dogs away, even though he tried to escape. His round glasses
fell off his face and landed cracked in the snow.
Alastor wondered if one of the dogs had
rabies…black spots danced across his vision and a flaming pain raced within his
head. He saw snarling mouths and spinning trees…he felt like he was drowning in
a hurricane filled with monsters.
He yelled out swear words and “Nos!” and
gibberish, gasping for breath. Even
though the pain and blood loss, he kept a strained smile on his face. He stood
on shaky legs, the dogs clinging to him. Tears rolled down his grimy face.
And just when Alastor thought he couldn’t
handle the agony any longer…
Bang!
A gunshot rang out from the hunter’s rifle.
The bullet struck Alastor square between his eyes. The man collapsed dead in an
instant. The dogs briefly mauled at him until the hunter crept closer.
The hunter gasped in shock at the bloodied man
lying on the ground. His clothes were dirty and torn, his hair a mess, and an
unsettling frozen smile lay on his pale cooling face.
“Good Heavens sir, I’m so sorry…” he said,
even though there was no answer.
The police arrived, carrying lanterns the
illuminated the grisly scene. They spotted the dead deer hunter in the hole,
the stag corpse and the dead body before them.
“What’s happened?” one man asked the hunter
who was briefly in tears.
“I-I didn’t mean it, my dogs bit him and I
shot him. I thought that guy was a deer.” He pointed a shaking hand at the dead
Alastor.
“Wait,” the policeman said. “That’s the
Louisiana Lunatic, the infamous serial killer we’ve been looking for. And he’s…dead?”
The hunter stopped crying and peered closer.
“He must’ve killed that guy in the hole…”
The police paused then breathed sighs of
relief. “Thank goodness you weren’t hurt! Come with us, we’ll get you somewhere
warm.”
“You’re gonna be famous soon,” the other
policeman mentioned.
“Really?” the hunter asked with a stutter. “So
I’m not in trouble…”
Then a greedy grin spread across the hunter’s
face. He was a white-skinned man with slick black hair and icy blue eyes.
“What’s your name?” the police asked eagerly.
“Vincent, a member of RCA. But I sometimes
call myself Vox.”
Vincent became famous overnight. His name
appeared in the newspaper and advertisements showing his potential television
programs became widespread.
The headlines were big and bold:
"Breaking News! Louisiana Lunatic found dead in the
woods!"
"Serial Killer Alastor Moreau shot dead by RCA
Employee Vox!"
Vox's
favorite headline read: "Video
Killed The Radio Star! Vox Hailed as Hero After Mass Murderer's Death."
Reporters surrounded Vox by the
dozens.
"How did you survive?"
"It is true that you killed
that maniac before the police could arrest him?"
Vox
bragged about his talents, his race and his exploits with various women. And,
of course, Vox had his share of fans. Vox did not face any charges as he had “merely
killed a villainous bozo by accident.”
"That handsome TV man saved
New Orleans!"
"He's so smart and
brave!"
A
radio announcement went on the air on Alastor's station one last time by Vox
himself:
"1933, Alastor Moreau, (Jan 24th
1899-1933) was shot in the head in the woods yesterday after attempting to flee
police. Witnesses said he appeared to be in distress and was last seen dashing
into the woods from the New Orleans Police Department. Radios, voodoo trinkets,
gris-gris, and half-eaten body parts were discovered in his cabin, house and
shed. Alastor was shot in the forehead by RCA employee and upcoming star Vox. A
brief autopsy revealed that he had been infected by rabies. The public can rest
easy now that the infamous Louisiana Lunatic is now deceased. The only thing I
can say for the man caught like a deer in the headlights, "oh dear, and
good riddance.""
Vox
later enjoyed profits, fame and sex, after television became more prominent in
later years. He traveled all over the country, and soon, the incident was long
forgotten.
Alastor’s
fans of his radio show were notably upset and shocked at the news, but the
majority of New Orleans were thankful that he was gone. His studio and
belongings were either burned or given away. His body was burned as well, ashes
spread in the woods with no proper funeral. Some of his intact radios found a
new home at an antique shop. Some of them were expensive, some were cheaper,
but people were too into the new trend of "Picture Boxes," to think
much of it.
All
traces of the infamous serial killer had been lost to memory it seemed.
Somewhere
in New Orleans, the old radios had been moved to an antique shop in the French
Quarter. All of them were arranged separately on shelves among unfinished TV
models, pots, figures and other objects. Night had fallen and the store was
empty.
With
no explanation, the oldest radio blinked to life, the outer speakers and knobs
blinking faint yellow lights. A strange row of teeth in a wide grin near the
bottom was part of the design. Those lit up golden as well. The hum of static
filled the air.
A
low radio sounding voice spoke through the speakers…demonic and quite different
from the radio’s previous owner…
“Stay tuned folks.” Ominous laughter followed.
