#radiocult

Whenever he did manage to drift off to sleep, his dreams were a vivid mix of comfort and torment.

Sometimes, he dreamed that Alastor was still alive and bright, teasing him relentlessly as always. His subconscious fabricated a picture of their long awaited reunion, the two of them tearfully embracing and scolding each other for waiting so long between visits. The rush of elation from this imagined happy ending faded into heartbreak in the morning, when he inevitably awoke alone.

Another dream, however, repeated in his mind more than any other. It always began the same way: he was alone in the bayou, the only sound the rhythmic lapping of the water's edge and the crickets chirping in the reeds. His body was still, watching, waiting. Suddenly, a twig snapped, and he bolted into the brush without a moment's hesitation. He ran until his legs ached, vaulting over old logs and splashing through puddles of stagnant water. Stray bullets whizzed past his ears as he crashed through the swamp, lungs burning from exertion. He only skittered to a stop when he saw a familiar shape propped up against a tree at an odd angle.

As he approached, his heart stuttered in recognition before dropping to the pit of his stomach.

Alastor stared back at him with lifeless eyes, limbs bent unnaturally and blood still trickling from the gunshot wound in his forehead. The deafening scream Vincent emitted was always enough to wake him up into a reality where his sheets were damp with cold sweat and his pillow was soaked with tears.

As the restless nights passed, Vincent came to the conclusion that he was slowly drowning. The world continued to spin, birds continued to sing, and life went on as always-- but Vincent imagined he was sitting at the very bottom of a lonely ocean, lungs screaming for air.

×××

After two weeks, he returned to his normal life. His coworkers treated him like he was made of spun glass, allowing him a wide berth in the hallways while offering sympathetic glances. Their voices murmured in gentle tones, seemingly afraid he would detonate like a bomb at a moment's notice.

On his first day back, they presented him with a condolence card signed by the entire studio, and politely retreated from his office when he choked up with emotion.

When he was alone again, he stared at the swirly font on the front of the card, reading the words: "Our Deepest Sympathies on the Loss of Your Father." Vincent snorted, wiping the tears from his eyes. How ridiculous, he thought.

The night his father died, he remembered gazing up at the stars as he stood over the makeshift grave. Moonlight bathed his blood splattered face as he leaned on his shovel, watching the stars twinkle across the vast stretch of midnight sky. Even in the dead of night, the world seemed so much brighter then. He felt a lightness he had never experienced before-- he was free.

The universe hadn't lost very much with his father gone. But it felt much emptier without Alastor.

Since his return from Louisiana, Vincent noticed the stars didn't seem to shine in the same way. He lay awake for hours, watching out his apartment window as the moon endlessly circled over the night sky, again and again. It seemed the world had dimmed in a way that was impossible to describe, and nobody knew it but him.

The shadows drew closer as his eyes closed, slowly enveloping and embracing him as he sank into restless sleep.

×××

Six months crept by, each day mirroring the last. Vincent felt numb to it, resigned to go through the motions of life while he processed the loss. He had long since torn through his belongings, hoping to find mementos, keepsakes, trinkets-- anything to soothe the ache in his heart. He had the horrifying realization that he didn't even have a photograph, as Alastor was famously camera shy.

All that was left were Alastor's letters, written in the looping cursive that he loved, the kind that Vincent had to squint over his glasses to decipher. He reread each one over and over again, trying to commit the words to memory.

After a time, he accepted that this was all he had, the letters and the faulty cathedral radio. The only tangible evidence that Alastor had ever existed in his life at all.

Until one day, a dented package showed up on his desk. It was wrapped haphazardly in a crumpled mess of of brown paper and packing tape, with a wrinkled letter plastered to the top.

Using his letter opener, Vincent gingerly sliced open the card, revealing a page of flowery script. It read:

Vinnie,

Sorry it took so long... I didn't have your number or your fancy New York address, so I hope this reaches your studio instead.

I know how much he meant to you, and I know he cared for you, too. I went through his apartment, and I think he would've wanted you to have this.

Come look me up if you're ever in Chicago, weatherboy. My door is always open.

xoxo, Mimzy

He carefully peeled back about five layers of brown wrapping paper, bracing himself for the surprise underneath. With Mimzy, it could really be anything, but it ended up being a plain old white shoebox. The cardboard was slightly dented from rough handling, and the sticker label description was for men's dress shoes. Brows now furrowed in confusion, Vincent turned the box this way and that. He shook it gingerly, hearing only the shuffling of papers within.

As he lifted the lid, his mismatched eyes widened and he immediately slammed it shut again, quickly shoving the shoebox under his arm. He dashed out the doors of the studio, spitting out some bullshit about feeling ill to the bewildered production assistant.

In a haze, he trotted down the stairs and out of the building, into the stifling hot air of the city. The cars honked loudly in the afternoon traffic, engines idling as they waited. Vincent waved down a cab, and waited impatiently for the twelve minutes and forty seven seconds it took to reach his apartment building, his fingertips steadily tapping the box on his lap. The box remained closed until his apartment door finally clicked shut behind him, and only then did he allow himself to tear the box and his heart open again.

Sliding to the floor with his back pressed to the door, he found the box was stuffed to the brim with every letter he had ever written to Alastor. Years of communication, spanning from just before his death to a time prior to Vincent's big move to New York city. Notes and memos and telegrams-- all had been meticulously saved and organized by date.

The box even held the little keepsakes that Vincent had never thought to save; ticket stubs from the films they had seen together, pressed flowers from small bouquets Vincent had brought him, matchboxes from the hotels they had stayed at. Declarations of love in every instance but words, kept safely hidden away in this unassuming box.

He felt the tears dripping from his cheeks as he continued shuffling through the papers, each one carrying a mix of joy and anguish. His vision blurred even further as his shaking hand retrieved a single black and white photograph, slightly fuzzy with age and bent at one corner.

It was an image of the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, grinning at something off-camera. Alastor's handwriting was etched on the back of the photo in feathery script: "1934"

The very year they had met. When Vincent had just graduated from college and moved to Louisiana for his first real job as a production assistant. Two years before they would become anything more than coworkers. He bit his lip so hard he tasted coppery blood on his tongue.

The secretly sentimental bastard.

How could he still be torturing him, even from beyond the grave? It was unfair, it was diabolical, it was... so very, very Alastor. Pressing his palms to his burning eyes, Vincent felt a laugh rip from his throat. Another bubbled out, and another. And before he knew it, he was doubled over in manic laughter, tears streaming down his face.

He laughed and laughed until his stomach hurt and his ribs ached. He only stopped when, for a brief moment, the cathedral radio flipped on in the living room. Vincent paused and listened, eyes wide and tears still shining on his cheeks as audio crackled through the speakers. The sound was soft and distorted, but the music was undeniably jazz.

×××

That night, Vincent found himself wandering through a new dream. Most of the details were abstract, a mess of red and blue, of static and shadow, but the figure before him was clear.

A creature towered far above Vincent like a monolith, his eyes glowing red and yellow teeth bared in an animalistic smile. His form was nothing short of demonic, limbs becoming enlarged and distorted as his joints cracked to accomodate his rapid growth. Heavy antlers expanded above his head, and thick black tendrils protruded from his back to wrap tightly around Vincent's torso, slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs.

The demon was terrifying, resembling an eldritch horror out of one of the films Vincent enjoyed, but something about him was painfully familiar. Something in the expression, or was it the eyes?

As he was raised up to the demon's jaws, hot breath fanning over his face as sharp teeth parted to devour him, snakelike tongue brushing against his shoes-- something finally clicked in Vincent's brain.

"Alastor?"

He jolted awake with a ragged gasp, eyes snapping open. Sitting up in bed, he stared at the wall with a dumbfounded expression as sunlight began to peek through the window.

What the fuck was that?

The images from the dream lingered in his mind as he showered, dressed, and walked to work. They stayed at the forefront of his thoughts as he completed his weather segment, refusing to fade from memory.

In fact, the demon's face was stuck in his head for the next week as he replayed the scene burned into his brain, over and over again. It had to be Alastor, or at least, a different version of him. He had been changed, transformed into something terrifying and unfamiliar... but he was alive.

A new thought began to brew in the back of Vincent's mind. It was insane, he knew that. But he couldn't help but cling to it all the same. He couldn't shake the feeling that Alastor may be dead, but he wasn't gone.

Not entirely.

Vincent spent every night tossing and turning in bed, sleep evading him at every turn. He found himself desperately wanting to see that face again, if only for a moment-- if only to confirm that it was Alastor, still existing within the fibers of a reality apart from his own.

It was another six months before his wish was finally granted.

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YESSS finally picking this one back up again, whew it's been a while! anyway, I like the idea of Alastor not quite 'haunting' Vincent, but his energy is definitely lingering... they're kindred souls after all, and those that love us never really leave us

Thank you for reading!!! 🩵❤️

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