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Do Deer Dream of Spiders?
Jul. 27th, 2024 11:49 pm[ New York City was a beautiful place. Full of life. Bursting with scenery. Alastor wanted to leave immediately.
But, ahhh, no. It would do him no good to hop on the next flight back down to New Orleans simply because he missed home. At least not with the damnable FBI involved in tracking down what the media was dubbing The Bayou Butcher. It seems that either the wrong person tuned in to his latest show and sent a recording to the local authorities, or perhaps he simply wasn't as careful as he thought he had been in selecting his last victim. Regardless, the motion activated camera system he had posted along the foot path leading to his little shack had activated while he was slumbering off that meal, giving him barely enough time to escape through a hidden entrance before the front entrance was being kicked in.
At least he still had his recordings.
Every single show he's recorded since beginning his official career as a serial killer all squashed down onto an external hard drive, currently locked safely in his hotel room's safe along with the hunting knife that had once belonged to his maternal grandfather. Safe and sound while he sat at a little table just outside an even littler cafe sipping his coffee. He was just about to reach for his cup once more when he felt the soft caress of a hand that didn't truly exist on the backs of his fingers, something that would have made him drop the cup entirely ha he not been used to it by now. ]
Easy now. We have only just arrived, you realize. [ He said, voice soft and low behind the rim of his coffee cup as he felt the presence of his shadow hovering near. Its whispering, maddening, chittery voice brushed right against his ear as he turned the page of his book. ] No. Patience. When we are sure to have not been followed, then we shall have a meal. No sooner.
But, ahhh, no. It would do him no good to hop on the next flight back down to New Orleans simply because he missed home. At least not with the damnable FBI involved in tracking down what the media was dubbing The Bayou Butcher. It seems that either the wrong person tuned in to his latest show and sent a recording to the local authorities, or perhaps he simply wasn't as careful as he thought he had been in selecting his last victim. Regardless, the motion activated camera system he had posted along the foot path leading to his little shack had activated while he was slumbering off that meal, giving him barely enough time to escape through a hidden entrance before the front entrance was being kicked in.
At least he still had his recordings.
Every single show he's recorded since beginning his official career as a serial killer all squashed down onto an external hard drive, currently locked safely in his hotel room's safe along with the hunting knife that had once belonged to his maternal grandfather. Safe and sound while he sat at a little table just outside an even littler cafe sipping his coffee. He was just about to reach for his cup once more when he felt the soft caress of a hand that didn't truly exist on the backs of his fingers, something that would have made him drop the cup entirely ha he not been used to it by now. ]
Easy now. We have only just arrived, you realize. [ He said, voice soft and low behind the rim of his coffee cup as he felt the presence of his shadow hovering near. Its whispering, maddening, chittery voice brushed right against his ear as he turned the page of his book. ] No. Patience. When we are sure to have not been followed, then we shall have a meal. No sooner.
