Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 8: A Fall From Grace
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 8: A Fall From Grace - After his father's passing in 1822, Silas Wolcott returns home to discover he has inherited a fortune beyond necessity. However, soon, he must uncover the secrets of his House and bloodline. With the help of his stalwart butler, a seductive vampire, and his own intellect, Silas must navigate a power FAR greater than any of mortal comprehension.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Historical Alternate History Paranormal Vampires Cream Pie Halloween Royalty Violence
“For the historical audit brings so much to light which is false and absurd, violent and inhuman, that the condition of pious illusion falls to pieces... ‘he who destroys illusions in himself and others is punished by the ultimate tyrant, Nature.’”
— Friedrich Nietzsche, Thoughts Out of Season, Part Two: The Use and Abuse of History for Life (“Vom Nutzen und Nachtheil der Historie für das Leben”), originally published in 1874. Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici and Adrian Collins. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, Delphi Classics, 2015. Public domain.
Few pains in this world tried Jonathan Pellham’s constitution more than a hangover. When he was not around the Dean of Dreibruch or a clergyman, he would call it ‘A damned trial and then some’, but in the company of the poor or those that did not know who he was, he would openly call it, ‘A bitch and a half’.
So far as he understood the medicinal issue of a hangover, it was simply a matter of dehydration. One could regain sobriety by drinking water, milk, fruit juices, or even weak alcohol. That did not especially make his morning of bacon and eggs at the local tavern especially meaningful when he ordered whatever fruit juice they had and some cold water.
It all went down well enough, sure, but that did not mean he enjoyed the process of getting a clear head. Talking to Josiah only seemed to anger the Dreibruch lawyer. He had become an attorney for the University to help it educate young minds as well as further the interest of medicine and the sciences.
He did not have the mind for such learnings, but logic, reason, and arguments, Jonathan was good at, so he had become a lawyer to defend those practices. That and the pay was pretty good.
He made just over two thousand dollars a year. There was more money to be made in New York, and there were those that were corporate lawyers, who made excess of five thousand dollars a year, but he could not put a price on his comfort and ability to see old friends.
That was until he felt the chilling in the corridors of Wolcott Manor when Jonathan Pellham crossed the threshold into the study. He shivered at the development.
What sane man allowed his home to get so ... dead?
He had come to speak of endowments for Dreibruch and the noble duty of wealthy men to prop up institutions wiser than themselves, but as his gloved hand grazed the doorknob and the heavy wood swung open on protesting hinges, those finely prepared words vanished like smoke in the breeze. Concern for his once-friend entered his mind.
This was a strange sight, not of the components, which were Silas Wolcott seated near the window, or the books that were strewn, the light from candles rather than the sun at such an early hour.
It was the disheveled hair, and wrongness of his face that threw Jonathan off. Silas appeared, by Jonathan’s estimation, to be haunted.
Jonathan stopped at once.
“My God, Silas,” he said, quietly. “You look positively—ghastly.”
Silas turned toward him slowly. He did not rise, but he offered his guest a seat as a good host should.
“I imagine I do.”
“What has happened?” Jonathan asked as he accepted the chair to sit in.
Silas hesitated.
“I went looking,” he said, “for the truth.”
“Well,” Jonathan remarked blithely. “That’s certainly ominous.”
When he saw that words had no effect on the Wolcott, he abandoned the strategy of being casual or completely juvenile with the Dreibruch connection.
“Silas,” he said, gentler now, “I am guessing that your father’s death has weighed heavily on you, but what, for God’s sake, has you like this?”
“You remember my father?”
Jonathan nodded.
“Yes. He was a surly bastard, but a decent fellow, all things considered.”
“He was not the man I supposed he was,” Silas whispered white shaking his head.
Jonathan shook his head at that notion. While he did not know Richard Wolcott as well as he knew Silas, there was an understanding of the man in Jon’s mind.
“Silas, that is nonsense. Your father was a boring coin counter,” Jonathan said. “No matter what you learned about him, he was not some maniacal villain. I think the truth is that you clearly need rest. You look as though you’ve swallowed poison.”
The thought crossed Silas’s mind as a more morbid idea to consider. However, to end one’s own life was as taboo as sacrilege. Silas could no more entertain that thought than make a deal with a devil.
“I might have,” Silas said, his smile curdling.
Jonathan shook his head at Silas’s ghastly sorrow being masked by a pathetic veneer of a sad grin. Such deception of himself and others would not, and with an immense fortune at his disposal, Silas had no reason to be swallowed up by the horrible concept of depression.
“That’s it!” Jonathan exclaimed. “You’re coming with me tonight!”
“What? Where?” Silas asked, confused.
“There’s a tavern in town. You need roast beef, good booze, and foolishly empty conversation. None of this crypt-mourning business you seem to be in! You’re not your father, Silas. Not if I have a say in the matter!”
Silas stared at the man as if he were drunk, which was not entirely far from the truth.
“Jon, that doesn’t...” he trailed off.
Silas wanted to say that a fun-loving evening would not solve all of Silas’s problems. However, he could see that Jonathan’s exuberance would know no bounds and accept no rejection.
“Very well,” he sighed. “Return by five o’clock.”
“Just like old times,” Jonathan said with a grin.
Eleanor Taylor busied herself by the hearth in the early afternoon light within the kitchen. Lunch had been served for the workers and Silas. She had received notice that Mister Wolcott would be dining in town with a friend, so she had an unusual amount of time with her.
She had a copy of Don Quixote in her hand. While she enjoyed the tale, she wished he had found dragons to tilt at rather than windmills. She had almost picked up the book The Monk, but she had heard questionable murmurings about that novel, so she had chosen something more agreeable to her simpler sensibilities.
When she looked up, Eleanor saw that Thomas Wilson was wringing his hands. This was something Eleanor had not seen him do in many years, and so, for him, it was altogether unusual.
“I wonder,” he said, softly, “if you’ve a moment, Miss Taylor.”
She set the book aside gently and dusted her hands with her apron.
“For you, Thomas, always,” she remarked honestly. “Sit yourself down.”
He complied before folding and putting his gloves on the table.
“Well then,” the cook asked sweetly. “What is troubling you?
“It’s Silas,” he said at last.
“That would make a reasonable amount of sense,” she said with a kind smile. “That young man has been struggling to find himself, and you have been helping direct him. Don’t you deny it? I have eyes to see even if the others don’t.”
“He came to me asking about his father, and he asked me things that I felt he deserved answers for, and I told him what I thought was right and true, but now I wonder if I led him further astray.”
She could see the struggle in the man’s eyes and words. It was clear his battle was more real than ones fought with gunpowder and bayonets.
“Did it do him harm?” she wondered
Thomas exhaled, long and quiet, before giving her a nod of his head.
“I believe it did...” he barely got out. “In his heart and mind, and maybe in his trust of me, but I meant to protect him.”
The butler shook his head in shame.
“But my protection was through concealment, so it did more harm than good, I suspect,” confessed Mister Wilson.
She studied him for a moment. She knew he would not be able to interpret her eyes. To see Thomas so unsure of himself was a unique experience for Eleanor. If she pushed too hard, she might hurt his pride or crush his feelings, and for a man like Thomas, pride was a powerfully fragile motivator.
Ego was likely the single-most powerful driver that kept him going when all else had abandoned him. However, when that conceit was destroyed, there would be nothing left of the man that she had known so well.
“Did you hurt anyone?” she asked.
There was an extended pause before his answer came. She observed him exhale in shame. This was entirely unlike Thomas. He was a man of honorable principles. That he would hesitate gave her pause.
“Yes,” he said. “Many, I think. It was not by choice at first, and I believe harm also came from my silence.”
Eleanor looked down at her hands, then back at Thomas. She was thinking, as good women do, on how to help him. She did not live her life in service to men but to be caring and selfless in those moments was all one small human could do for another, and she knew, in her heart, that such a gift could mean the world when one was lost in despair.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quiet and kind.
“I do not know what you did,” she said. “Perhaps it’s best that I do not know, but I do know this—if we waited to be perfect before offering love, the world would be emptier than it already is. We are to forgive others. And, perhaps harder still, we are to forgive ourselves.”
Thomas’s eyes watered, and he looked away in shame, for a man of his upbringing and manners understood that a woman should never see him lose tears from his eyes. Once more, the disdainful arrogant quality of pride overcame him.
Eleanor reached over and set her hand gently on his. While her touch was not warm in the sense of giving off heat, but there was comfort to the tactile connection that articulated care.
“Tell him the truth of your part in whatever has happened,” she said simply. “Tell him you’re sorry. Whether or not he forgives you ... that’s his choice to make, Thomas. I think you see that.”
A stern look flashed by her conveyed the seriousness of the situation, but there was a kindness that communicated her willingness to help him.
“Your choice is to speak honestly and to ask for that forgiveness for your wrongs,” she said, soft yet strict.
He gave her a single grave nod in response.
“Thank you, Miss Taylor,” he said somberly.
At the use of her title, Eleanor smiled. While she knew he had not entirely returned to form, it was clear to her that the Thomas she knew and cherished was not gone, no matter what misdeed he might have done.
That concept alone gave her that singular faith that allowed humanity to face the darkest of nights: Hope.
“You’re welcome, Thomas,” she said with a sweet smile on her face. “After all, everyone carries burdens; it’s best not to let them harden our hearts.”
Silas pulled himself up by four o’clock. He did not want to be late. He dressed himself accordingly, from shirt to coat and pants. The style of the early 19th century were very much pushing out the look of the Revolution, but that did not stop Silas from having a little flair like his father’s generation.
When he arrived into town, no one seemed to take notice. The tavern did not boast a splendor as anything more than a place to eat cheap food and drink cheap beer. A modest stone façade and a discreet brass lantern above the door were the signs that he had made it to the location of his appointment.
Within, the warmth of candlelight mixed with the scent of mulled spice, wood smoke, and roast meats. It all spoke of a wealth disguised in simplicity that Silas could enjoy. The finer things in life had only seemed to isolate him and make him a depressing creature. Those with nothing seemed to have far more than he could ever have.
It was not public knowledge that the tavern belonged to Silas Wolcott, and he wanted to keep it that way
Jonathan Pellham shook his coat out and gave a low whistle.
“I did not think you would be coming,” Jon said.
“Some things are worth the wait.”
“I suppose that depends on what we are waiting for,” Jon countered with a smile.
They took a table at the far end of the main hall, so they could stay away from the more usual patrons. The two of them had come for a good, yet private, time. It would do no good to disrupt the flow of the establishment or the routine of others.
Ale was brought without request. Jonathan glanced up at the server and gave a charming smile. Silas did not look at her at all. Though, if he had, he might have seen her eyes lingering on him.
The first two rounds passed easily enough. Words were not especially spoken. Roasted meat, mashed potatoes, gravy, and some green something was on the side. They ate quietly, but they did not overly smile or turn dreary in sorrow.
After most of the food was eaten and the drinks loosened their tongues, the lawyer from Dreibruch used the moment to speak.
“You know,” Jonathan said, swirling the dark liquid in his glass with a grin, “I always thought you’d make a damn fine lawyer. You had a rational mind that was obsessed with principles.”
“Well, I am one,” Silas remarked with a small laugh. “I have the degree anyway.”
Silas leaned back in his chair as he thought further on his friend’s words.
“Is that what you thought of me at school?”
Jonathan chuckled. “That, and that you’d probably keel over from exhaustion in the library. Do you remember that autumn you didn’t speak to anyone for weeks? I thought you’d died in the stacks.”
“I was studying Roman law,” Silas countered. “We have top understand historical context to subjects, such as, precedence if we want to make educated arguments.”
“Exactly my point.” Jonathan said with a laugh.
Silas took another long drink. One might have thought he was embarrassed, but there was a softening in his face.
“You know what I really thought, though?” Jonathan went on, tapping his glass thoughtfully. “You would’ve made a hell of a preacher. A touch grim, yes, but you had that righteous passion for the material.”
Silas’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. Jon could not know what he had discovered in his own basement nor the words of his father and the butler.
“And have the weight of other men’s souls on my shoulders?” Silas asked. He shook his head. “I think not. I already feel the burden of my own.”
Jonathan gave a mock-sigh and raised his glass in a toast. He was not trying to be full of himself or arrogant, but his levity was not doing it for Silas.
“I know you would have been a good lawyer if your father had not passed. But then you became head of your estate. That has to be good. Do you even know how much you’re worth, you bastard?”
“It is tasteless to discuss finance,” Silas said with a shake of his head.
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