To the rest of New Orleans, you are a beautiful enigma—the silent lounge singer at 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘙𝘰𝘰𝘮, safely tucked away under the protection of your family’s grand hotel. To the rest of the city, Alastor is the most charming radio host. Together, you are the picture-perfect, newly engaged couple of the high-society calendar.
It is a beautiful illusion. Right up until a federal wiretap reveals that someone inside your own home is leaking your secrets to the dangerous cult you escaped from.
As the paranoia mounts and your sanctuary turns into a cage, you are forced to play a deadly game of chess. You have to cut the strings before it’s too late—but how do you run when you don't know if your charming fiancé is your only shield against the dark... or the one orchestrating the entire broadcast?
༺༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻ ♰ ༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:
✦ Psychological horror, dread, and paranoia
✦ Depictions of panic and anxiety attacks
✦ Period-typical oppression and surveillance
✦ Cult dynamics and occult themes
✦ Dark romance and manipulative/gaslighting dynamics
(𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦: 𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴.)
Side Note: When the talks is between sign langue and notebook. Bold is the notebook and italic is her signing. There are cases when internal monolgue comes into play, that is Italic without these ("").
༺༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻ ♰ ༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻༻
Chapter One: Broken Silence
The light. It's brighter than last time.
You squint behind your oval, rose gold sunglasses, cursing the dim lamp for burning your eyes with such blasphemy. With a quick shift of your head, you angle the intrusive glare out of sight. A shiver racks your body as the a/c unit blasts cold air directly over your skin, setting the blinds into a slight, rhythmic sway. The stark white room feels trapped between the warm glare of the lamp and the dull grey light bleeding through the window. You listen to the rain, the pitter-patters of it beating against the window in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. You could feel a phantom slick of water sliding down your skin. The cold and wet feel that made your skin crawl just thinking about it. To many this would be peaceful but for you, it felt like a reminder back at the estate. When the storm rolled through the night, the clouds were dark and gloomy. You could hear the priestess chant, the master is displeased. We must atone. We must offer.
“How are you feeling today, Irene?” A warm baritone voice breaks through the silence.
The memory echoes, pulsing behind your eyes. You could feel your lips part wanting to finish the rest of the chant. We must atone…for our sins. We must offer…the one—
You blink, staring at Dr. Carter who was seated right across from you. You forgot he was here, how quiet and motionless this man was. For a moment you didn’t move, then you picked up a pen and wrote down on your notepad: “Just like any other day.”
The sharp tapping of Dr. Carter’s pen against his notepad snaps you back to the present. “Just like any other day? Elaborate, please.”
“Yes, Irene.” Dr. Carter said sternly, his voice carefully stripped of the frustration building beneath his surface. You knew how well to get under his skin. “It’ll give me an understanding of what this feeling of ‘just like any other day’ means to you.”
You sighed heavily. “It just feels like nothing is happening. Like–” You paused your writing trying to find a good word for it. “Like I’m trapped?”
“How trapped, Irene?” Dr. Carter shifted in his brown leather chair, his hands folding on top of his clipboard. “Trapped like you were in the estate?”
You paused. You stared at the notepad debating how you wanted to answer that question. You knew this all too well, reading in those therapy books gave you insight. In a way, it prepared you for times like this. This is how a therapist gets you—they bring up the past by relating what you’re feeling, then get you to open up to speak freely. But, you were too smart for this; you weren’t going to step into that trap like the others would. “No, like ‘I have no say in doing this therapy’ kind of trap,” You wrote, looking up at him.
His dull brown eyes stared at you. There was no emotion on his face but you can tell by his eyes was conflicted—frustrated. Many times he gets too close to cracking you open and many times you push back with the same force. It was a tug-of-war to see who could get the other to break first. And you were sure this man had more gray hairs now than he has ever had before. You watch him pull back the blinds taking a peak outside, his eyes glued to the rain. “What about the rain? Does that remind you of anything?” Dr. Carter adjusted back in his seat, setting his pen over to the side.
“Besides it being hot, rainy, and humid like Okefenokee Swamp, not really.” It was a lie, you knew it and he knew it too. Yet, he didn’t pressure you into it further.
“Then what about your parents?” You flinched from his words as if his words were a hot iron, threatening to re-open a burn that never truly healed. “Did your parents ever make you do something in the rain? As a punishment, perhaps?”
Your right hand clenches hard around the pen, as if a physical force could hold down memories crawling their way to the surface. Your jaw ticked. You knew he would go for that blow and had tried to prepare for it, yet the mere mention of them still cut deep. You just shook your head in response, not daring to write it out. You couldn’t trust yourself even if you tried. You could feel your hands tremble without looking at them. Your body knew too well of what happened. It was imprinted in your very bones like a branding on a bull. You took a deep breath then slowly drew it out, recomposing yourself. Dr. Carter had always told you that whenever your anxiety kicked up, you just needed to take slow deep breaths to calm it down. Sometimes they help and other times, they feel like a nuisance.
“Irene,” his voice was soft and gentle, almost enough to quiet the roaring in your ears. “You’re safe here. There’s no need to be afraid. Ground yourself.” You watched as he leaned close, the smell of aftershave, cigarettes, and cheap cologne filled your nostrils. Dr. Carter gently tapped on your notepad laying in your lap. “Write down, I have no fear of my past and I am safe in the light.”
Your body went entirely rigid, the blood turning to ice in your veins as the air left the room. You froze, a sudden, numbing cold seizing your chest as the color drained from your face. You look down at the notepad then back at him, a silent, desperate question hanging in the look you gave him.
“I know this is hard.” He emphasizes, “but I know you can do it.” Dr. Carter picked up your pen and handed it towards you.
You swallow nervously; with a quivering hand you reach forward, plucking it from his grasp. You stare down at the notepad, feeling the blank paper mocking you. Your stomach twists at the sensation of following Dr. Carter’s order. The pen tip trembles, letting a heavy drop of ink bleed onto the page. At first, it is just blobs of ink and scratches of text before you slowly start to form words. You watch as black tendrils crawl along your skin like cracks splintering through ice. Your hand goes numb, forcing you to drop the fountain pen. Your eyes blur as the deep burning flares in your chest, as though your lungs have been set ablaze. Something wraps around your neck, pressing its cold fingers into your skin. Your hands go instinctively to your throat, you clawing to gasp for air that has been sucked dry.
“Irene!” Dr. Carter called in a panic. His body moved swiftly to your side, taking a hold of your wrist preventing any harm to yourself. His voices were muffled but they were still clear enough for you to make out his words. “Take deep breaths, Irene. Just like we practice, slow, controlled, steady breaths.”
You followed his instructions taking deep breaths while you prayed to your God for forgiveness. Your tears streak down your face as fear takes over you. Never again…you thought…I won’t do this ever again! But, you will, you always come back despite your protest. Despite telling yourself this is a mistake—that he is just another specialist your Aunt and Uncle are wasting money on, bound to fail like all the rest. You close your eyes hearing a sigh from Dr. Carter, you weren’t sure if it was for relief or disappointment. Perhaps he believed his exercise would work, and maybe on others they would. But you—were a lost cause. Always have, and always will.
“Irene,” Dr. Carter says, pausing as if he’s trying to analyze what to say next. “Have you ever been in contact with anyone?”
You tilt your head in confusion.
“What about in the last two weeks? Have you ever called anyone outside of Louisiana?"
“No,” You signed with your hands. “Why are you asking these questions? What does it have to do with me?”
You know you shouldn’t be signing with your hands. It is completely banned in the United States, an offense that could easily land you in jail. But, writing your answer feels far too slow.
You watched as Dr. Carter took a deep breath. There was conflict in his eyes as if he was fighting whether to tell you or not. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, whatever internal battle he had within himself, one of them won. “Your Aunt told me the federal government wiretapped the hotel two weeks ago. They’re saying a woman was making a call from the hotel straight to Calloway's estate. What was discussed is unknown. They were speaking in another language. However, they were able to translate a few pieces. The man on the phone mentioned something about a priestess dying and needing the next Myra. Do you know anything about that?”
You were hesitant then signed. “Yes.”
“Was it you who made the call?” His eyebrow raised, his gaze locking into yours.
“No.” You answer quickly. You both sit there in silence.
It gave you enough time to process everything. If there’s a woman communicating from the hotel to the estate. It must mean they had someone followed or perhaps, he manipulated her. Your eyebrows furrowed trying to make sense of the situation. However, there was only one fact that can be certain: the hotel had an internal compromise. Whether it is a woman feeding your parents information or worse—she is a spy for the FBI and they’re pretending you made the call. Are they trying to flush you out? Get you alone? What did they want from you? It is easy to brush off the FBI with private tutors and give them limited access to only what you want them to see. But now? You are in the open, a sheep in the wolf's den. You had to tread carefully. One small mistake can burst open a pandora’s box. And your semi-stable structure could come crashing down.
“Irene,” Dr. Carter spoke, breaking the silence. “I know these past five years have been hard for you. And I understand that, you could miss home—”
"But I don’t!” You sign quickly, cutting him off.
But, Dr. Carter raises his hand, stopping you from signing more. “I wasn’t finished, my dear.” This causes you to huff and cross your arms. “As I was saying, I understand that you could miss home but I can also see you want to be free from it. I’m not asking this to corner you nor do I think you’ve done anything wrong,” he offers a small, reassuring smile, his voice entirely too calm. “But, if someone out there is trying to frame you, I need you to be completely honest with me so I can protect you. Are you certain that you didn’t make that call?”
You straighten your back, then sign. “Yes, I am certain.”
Dr. Carter nods, “Very well.” He sets his clipboard on the small oak side table. “Your Aunt and Uncle were the ones wanting me to ask you this question. They knew you would never do such a thing but as you know, your family has—” Dr. Carter pauses, searching for the right word to say, “an interesting background history that the FBI would love to get their hands on. Especially with you.”
And it was true. You remembered seeing a dark Ford V8 sedan parked outside of your school. It was always there, 3 o’clock on the dot, when all the students got out to return home or look for a parent picking them up. There were two men in the car, one blonde and the other brunette. They would often wear sharp dark suits with crisp shirts and matching fedoras, looking entirely too formal for a casual drive. They never got out of the car; they just stared straight through the windshield watching you. It was strange, you never thought anything of it at first until you mentioned it to your Aunt and Uncle. You watched their expressions shift from happy to pure concern, but they were quick to mask it. You knew something was wrong. A certain restlessness settling in your chest like a calm before the storm. Until one day, you overheard their conversation while walking by your Uncle’s office.
“What are we going to do, Cedric?” Your Aunt Iris asked, concerned filled her voice.
“Nothing.” Uncle Cedric answered, “if we take action against the FBI or even withdraw Irene from the high school, it would raise their suspicion and allow them to use the court to get a warrant. For now, we lay low and pretend everything is okay. They must already know Irene had told us about their stake-out at the high school. We just carry on, my love. Irene needs us more than ever, and if we act rashly she may feel like her whole world is collapsing. We made it this far by getting her out. We can't let the walls fall around her.”
You stood there feeling perplexed about the situation. The sound of footsteps from inside made you hurry down the hall turning the corridor and using the wall as your hiding place. You peered around catching your Aunt and Uncle leaving the office. Just in the nick of time. You sighed with relief, you were worried that you would get caught, but your silent quick feet let you escape in time. A blessing, you might add; all those years in the estate taught you the ways to stay silent as a mouse. You hummed, feeling your hands twitch at the thought of the estate—the prison—your home. Shaking off the feeling, you went back to your bedroom to do homework that was due tomorrow.
“And Irene?” You looked up at Dr. Carter, who broke you out of your trance-like state. “If you ever need anything, please stop by my office.”
You nodded, then stood up placing your fountain pen in your pocket after you placed the cap on. You handed back the borrowed notepad to Dr. Carter and gave a smile of goodbye as you grabbed your coat on the way out. You took a deep breath, feeling a gush of fresh air filling your lungs.
“Therapist,” a rich baritone spoke out. “They always love to dig into things they aren’t supposed to, am I right, my dear?”
Your sage green eyes shifted over to the brown leather wingback chair. And there he sat with a composed stature, with his tailored red vest fastened over his crisp white shirt, with two black bands on each side of his arms. His red tie was securely tightened with a gold clip to the left side of it. His legs were crossed as he held up the newspaper but you could see a glint in his oval glasses.
With a small, quiet sigh, you pulled out your familiar small notepad and quickly wrote, “Alastor, what are you doing here? Aren’t we supposed to be meeting tomorrow for rehearsals?”
“Well, my dear,” he said, folding up the newspaper and setting it back on the stacks next to him. “I figured it would be more gentleman-like if I escorted my future fiancée back to her home.” He grinned, his voice a low, smooth purr.
You looked away feeling your cheeks heat up. “I see.” You wrote holding it out towards him.
Alastor didn’t look at the notepad. He stood up, towering over your frame. You felt small compared to him, and a slight gulp escaped your throat from his imposing charm. The smell of sharp oak cologne filled your senses. It was nice, but you didn’t dare act like you enjoyed his scent.
“Does my lovely fiancée not want to see me?” A finger hooked under your chin, pulling you to look at him. You could feel your breath get caught in your throat. “It’s not very nice, darling, to ignore this favor I’ve done for you. Can I at least get a ‘thank you’?”
Your hands gripped the notebook and pen tightly. The sound of the radio playing softly in the background filled the deathly tension between the both of you. You quickly took a step back and curtly thanked him. His grin never wavering as he grabbed the umbrella next to the chair he was sitting at.
“See that wasn’t so hard.” His voice sounded as if he were antagonizing you. “Come, our chariot awaits.”
You walked forward next to him. The buzzing static from the radio caught your attention. “In this world all secrets can be hidden. Like the abyss to your dark past that you’ve kept to yourself, my dear. But every secret doesn’t stay long. It spills out like ink on paper, and yours will be shed soon.”
Your heart pounded against your chest as you looked up at Alastor who was adjusting his jacket, seemingly oblivious to what you heard. You swore you heard his voice come through—it was crisp, almost mechanical. The speaker hissed with a cruel, rhythmic hum. You question if your mind has gone truly crazy especially the after shock you went through. Was it him or did Alastor truly speak through the radio? Your mind felt like it was racing, but it came to a stop when Alastor gently nudged you. Your eyes shifted, noticing he was holding out his arm towards you. You took that as a sign it was time to go, your hands gently wrapped around his arm as he opened the umbrella. You looked back at the radio again. A deep–seeded worry filling inside of you. You couldn’t shake the terrifying thought that this was just the beginning—or worse, that your mind was truly unraveling, and you desperately needed to go back on your medication.
