Alastor's Death

Death

New Orleans, Louisiana: 1922

The soft moss and grass of the bayou caved beneath Alastor's boots easily. It was early, nearing six in the morning- yet it was still dark out. The sweat clung to his skin in the humidity of the swamp, however a slight breeze of autumn swept through the area. It was nearly vacant, this specific neighborhood was shrouded in trees and marshlands.

No one would hear a thing.

He smiled silently as he crept gracefully through the shrubs and onto a thin dirt path. It was almost as if he was one with nature- he did not disturb even the weeping willow vines as the cascaded around his shoulders. Mosquitoes had come and claimed his light tanned skin- his arms were marred with deep white scars and freckles dotting the skin. Not that he minded too much, he felt at home with the buzzing of the sleepy swamp.

The house he had skulked to was small and appeared to lean slightly to one side- not uncommon for houses built on this land. It was made of a dark brown wood with a tin roof that glistened with the early morning dew. He had walked a few miles through the night in order to get here. He'd stalked his prey like a cougar in search of his next meal.

Not far off from what he had in mind.

He crept around the house quietly and assessed his best entry point as to not alert the man inside. He'd spotted this young man in a butcher's shop a few days ago. Something about his subtle muscles of working within the woods made Alastor's mouth water slightly. He hadn't had a fresh meal in a month or two and was beginning to get antsy.

Alastor touched the back door knob inquisitively to see how much noise it would create. The entire house seemed to moan quietly with the wind. He glanced over at the fenced in area near the front porch. There were three dog houses. He scoffed silently to himself and began to apply a slight bit of force upon the old door. Dogs simply made everything a pain- and their meat was not worth the trouble. Much too grainy and stringy for his taste.

When the door did not give immediately- he opted for the small switch blade within his back pocket and began to pick the lock as delicately as possible. The slight clicks of the metal blended in very nicely with the cicadas humming in the swamp. He grinned a sick grin when he felt the lock give way and he began to slowly stalk inside.

His tall and thin frame slipped through the crack in the door with ease as he closed it very quietly behind himself. His eyes were wide as he stared at the floor and carefully chose where we would step. There were only two real rooms as the outhouse was a few yards away. He eyed the old iron stove and the rather ugly sofa near one of the windows. Alastor kept to the edges of the main room and stepped upon carpet where he could until he reached the bedroom door.

He sucked in air through his teeth excitedly and licked his canines. The excitement drummed through his chest as he noticed the door was not even shut all the way. He took a slicing knife from its specially made holster on his belt- he had an entire assortment of butcher's knives on his waist with a delicate leather pouch for each of them. He'd asked a dear friend to make it for him- she asked no questions and was delighted to make it.

Alastor slipped through the shadows until he peered down at his victim. His disheveled dark hair sprawled onto the pillow with a few pelt blankets over his torso. His scruffy beard did little to cover the many tiny scars and imperfections upon his face.

Alastor grinned again- he was so hungry. There was nothing in this world comparable to that of freshly killed meat. After the work had put in to find and kill the game before hacking away at the meat and finally being able to prepare it. He wondered what he'd make. Perhaps a few fillets from the thighs and love-handles, a stew with the fattier parts of the body, a gumbo with diced muscle and cooked with the bone marrow.