A Dance Among the Damned ((Alastor x Reader))

Overcast

"Ms. [L/N]?" A shaky male voice was accompanied by what could only be described as panicked pounding upon your worn and creaky door.

Glancing up from your current sewing project, which happened to be your worn apron from your low paying job, you set the fabric down on the cushion beside you on your worn leather love-seat. You popped the needle into your thick little fabric tomato to hold it still and stumbled over to the weathered door.

Mental note: Clean your apartment.

Gripping the brass knob that was almost completely black with grime and from the cheap metal it was made out of, you jerked open your door. The thing had a tendency to lock up on the hinges and jam.

Standing there, whiter than snow, was a man you knew quiet well, James. He was out of breath, shaking like he had hypothermia and his already pale skin was drained of blood. He had a hand braced up against the door jam and the other on his knee, bent over and desperately trying to catch his breath.

"A-ah Mr. Jazeel," You called to him, your voice hoarse from lack of use. "Are you alright?"

After a few more shaky and wheezy breaths, the man stood up with a bit of a cough, blinking his dulling green eyes. "I'm sorry ta bother ya, ma'am, but we got ourselves a problem." He jutted his thumb in the direction towards the exit. "I think it's best if ya take a look yourself."

Worry start its twisting in your gut as your own face paled a bit. Nodding quickly, you turned your head towards the little makeshift coat rack you had by the door and snatched your [f/c] jacket and slipped it on. It wasn't really much, just a thin wool sweater you found at the small flea market that occurred every two months in the neighboring city. Of course you couldn't really afford much, with the wages you make. Rent was hell for you, and the protection fee. Oh the protection fee put on the hard working people of your little town. It drained everyone of their hard earned cash. So whenever you could get something cheap but nice, you always took it without putting you in debt.

Following your friend down the hall, you maneuvered your way past your concerned neighbors stepping out of their apartments upon hearing all of the ruckus. And once you made it out the worn doors, your expression twisted into a white sheet of pure horror.

At your feet was a scarlet sheet of blood, creeping closer to your worn shoes, causing you to step back. Trembles crept into your muscles and you couldn't stop even if you wanted to.

Before everyone at the apartment, was a bloody mangled corpse of some you knew.

He was the only one in your apartment complex that couldn't pay his fee for the month.

This was what it was like in this shit hole of a town. You didn't pay the local fee, there was no where you could hide. Even if you tried to run, where would you go? Everyone here was already struggling to support themselves and feed the children they have with them. And you knew that if you ran, you'd probably die quicker when another gang finds you and get their grubby bloody hands around your neck.

A hysterical wail split the air, originating from from a woman standing behind you. She rushed from the crowd and fell to her knees before the corpse, her cheeks red with the tears that poured down her pretty little face. A few more screams escaped her sobbing form and you quickly recognized who this woman was.

It was Ms. Blackwell, a little four foot six woman with two little boys around the ages of six and eight. And the man on the ground, gutted brutally and scarred with a mark of an 'X' on his forehead, was Mr. Blackwell. He was a very good man, a local tailor that taught you to sew up your aprons whenever they became worn and you weren't able to get anymore from your work place. He even sewed up your little worn denim jacket when you tore it on a post rushing to get to work.