Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 14: The Messes We Make
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 14: The Messes We Make - 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
“We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes have yet to open. Fear the Old Blood.”
— Provost Willem (as portrayed by Steven Elliot), Bloodborne, written and directed by Hidetaka Miyazaki. Developed by FromSoftware. Published by Sony Computer Entertainment. Copyright © 2015 Sony Computer Entertainment Inc. Originally released March 24, 2015 (North America).
It was a gray afternoon that had the unique New English quality of being suspended in time; though if one were to ask the company of any respectable lady or gentleman, they would hear the resident say it was a wonderful day for a walk despite the overcast. That did not mean the weather surrendered to the day nor tipped into twilight.
That was what it was to live in the beautiful state of Connecticut in 1823.
In the sitting parlor of Wolcott Manor, the fire did its best to animate the gloom, but even flame felt slow and reluctant in such air. That did not prevent its owner from being diligent in the task of his work. Since becoming acquainted with the Princess Sophia of Great Britain, Silas found his philanthropy was all he was good for anymore.
Silas Wolcott sat with a crystal tumbler in one hand as he put down his pen after an extensive letter writing hour. The contents of his drink were all but untouched, but page after page of parchment had been written on by the young gentleman.
Across from him, coming into a high-backed chair trimmed in worn mahogany was Jonathan Pellham. The lawyer bore the look of a man whose mind constantly wandered down ivy-choked corridors rather than the statue of impropriety that Silas knew him to be. This meant only one thing to the Wolcott, Jon would be leaving soon to return to Dreibruch University.
The attorney could not know of the good his celebratory festivity had wrought for Silas, but in a unique way, Silas was indebted to Jonathan, for without the scholar of the law, Silas would never have met the princess, who was bringing such productivity to Silas’ life.
“I must say,” Jonathan drawled after a moment of companionable quiet, “your home has become all the more beguiling since the princess took residence. Not that it was ever dull—but there is an air of mystique with this royal member and her entourage staying with you.”
“Is that so?” Silas asked, sipping at his drink.
While Jonathan was distracted by the conversation, Silas started to fold some of his letters and turning over pages, so his friend might not be aware of the contents within.
“Indeed. The townsfolk believe you’re either halfway to greater success or halfway to ruin with the courting of this princess,” Jonathan chuckled, sipping his own brandy. “I dare say neither would surprise me.”
“Why is that?” Silas queried with an authentic curiosity.
“You know how these sort of courtings go, Silas. The public is fine with a man of industry, making a fortune, and even inviting society to where he is. However, we are American, Connecticut men. The common folk are content with us dressing up like kings and queens, but to marry with the offspring of one might seem as if an overstep.”
Silas let out a restrained string of laughter.
“Then you and the public will be quite happy to hear that her Highness is simply an extended guest of mine for now, and not a romantic interest.”
“Is that so?” Jonathan asked.
The representative of the house of learning seemed more curious than Silas had only a moment before.
“It is, indeed,” Silas replied. “There is no great tale behind it, Pellham. She finds the country air agreeable, and for now, she helps me stay productive.”
“Ah, yes. A young man with a fortune is never in search of a wife, but rather of a cause to put his time into,” Pellham said with an air of mockery.
To that, Silas raised an eyebrow and the lightness of the joke sunk to the floor.
“Of course, then,” Jonathan remarked.
His smile was warm, but his eyes were keen to find some other facet for the conversation to turn to.
“So long as you find her and her company agreeable, I make no judgments,” Jon said with raised hands. “God knows a man is entitled to companionship in a house this large. I think it is unlikely that you will play host for so long.”
Silas lifted his glass, swirled it once, then set it down again. Like his father, he only gave people a few chances to make an error in his presence.
“Some people are best left unremarked upon until they leave,” he said with warning.
Jonathan accepted the evasion like a man sorting through chess pieces: a gambit noted, but not pursued. To shift the conversation with practiced grace was the correct course ahead if he were to make headway on the tasks he had been sent to New Haven to accomplish.
“In any case, I did not come to gossip or impede any choices of life you do or do no make, my friend.”
“Why did you come?” Silas asked.
He did not recognize the tone of his friend as it was one the lawyer only used on official business.
Jonathan reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a letter, its seal already broken.
“My official business for Dreibruch is, for the most part, concluded, but before I depart, I am also bound by honor—and the Dean’s gentle insistence—to deliver this letter with their gratitude.”
“For?” Silas asked, quirking an eyebrow at the letter.
While he had given to his former Alma mater in an absurd show of generosity, he had not expected the Dean to send a letter by way of Jonathan. He was far too relaxed and informal to be used for any serious matter. In his mind, Silas was quickly writing off the letter’s importance as he accepted the paper.
“Your donation of fifty thousand dollars did not go unnoticed, my friend,” Jonathan went on. “It is, after all, a tidy fortune by any measure. Ashcombe was near to tears when he gave me this responsibility.”
“Well, I think you should be glad to get this delivery off of your extensive list of obligations,” Silas said with a light laugh.
“Dreibruch considers your stipend to be miraculous. As such, the Dean hopes to meet you in person in the next year or so. He wants you to observe the fruits of your generosity. There’s some peculiar branch of research that he believes you’ll find ... intriguing and worth your time to view yourself.”
There was a hesitation that Silas did take note of. He accepted the letter and put it where his father’s letter had been, in the top-right drawer of the desk.
“What kind of research does Dreibruch undertake these days? Something useful, I trust. After all, I recall there was a mild referendum to make the university more competitive, so it would be seen as just an important house of learning as Yale, Harvard, or Cambridge and Oxford. Did he choose Astronomy? Agriculture? Mathematics? Medicine?”
The last word was said in hopes that it was the study of medicine, as perhaps Silas could use the knowledge from medicine to better understand what his father had been doing with necromancy before he had died.
Jonathan leaned back. For the smallest of moments, Silas could not read his friend’s expression.
“There’s some engineering, specifically in riflery, medicinal and anatomical, as well as historical studies being undertaken with your funds specifically,” Jonathan said with an air of vagueness. “As we both know, I am not a man of science, Silas, but the Dean takes the endeavors to improve the college most seriously. Right now, he is working with a local hospital to help study childbirth to help reduce the fatality rates between mother and child. He wants both parties to have a more seamless process. I will not pretend I understand it all, but I am told he is making progress, which is the whole point of the University.”
Silas was silent for a moment before standing up and extending his hand.
“Convey to the Dean that I am most touched by his gratitude, and while I cannot make my way to the University right now, I will within the next calendar year. Would that suffice?”
“I believe he will, and that he will be pleased by the response,” Jon said respectfully. “I daresay the entire faculty might bow and scrape before you when they realize you have been such a large benefactor.”
“As they should,” Silas said with dry amusement.
They embraced hands as two gentlemen should before Jonathan retreated and started to withdraw from the study.
“I believe that I should take my leave before I overstay my welcome and your hospitality,” he said lightly, though his tone was not without unease. “And when I return, Silas, perhaps you should host another party? The last one was rather extraordinary.”
“I am sure you enjoyed the company of that particularly married English lady,” Silas jibed.
Jon only flashed a smile in response.
Silas smiled respectfully but it was all the emptier for its need to be cordial.
“We will have to see.”
“Good enough!” Jon said before adjusting his coat, and departing.
Thomas Wilson descended from the carriage that morning. The footman offered a hand, but Thomas declined with a polite nod; after all, he was a servant just as the footman was. Regardless of what others might view as superior ranking, there was no difference to Thomas Wilson.
To know his place was beneath those of pale skin in society was something he had beaten into him since a young age. By no means was he a slave, but Thomas was raised to do for himself, and while he was a servant, he knew his morals and integrity were all he had when he laid himself to go to sleep because, someday, he might not wake up, and all he would have was the kindness he had shown in life. Whether there was a God to greet him or simply endlessness forever, Thomas knew he would face death with his head held high.
He smoothed the creases of his dark overcoat before ascending the shallow steps that led to the stolid façade of the law offices of Huntington, Hart, & White.
The very same integrity that told him to know his place in society was he same motivator for walking into the attorney’s domain.
A brass plate bearing the name of the named partners gleamed dully in the late morning light. Surely, with such wealth and notoriety, the plaque would be freshly polished. After all, clients of a certain monetary class valued the subtleties of propriety.
When Thomas turned his head to notice that even the gas lamps glowed with a certain calculated warmth for those people who would not want to welcome one such as Thomas into their home.
Thomas was announced without ceremony by some young clerk who took his name. The younger man had a perfect cut coat, fitting cuffs, but there was an uncertainty in his gait and cadence of his step, which told Thomas that this young gentleman was accustomed to the environment of a law office but not its workings. There was no doubt that this young man was from a good family, but he had no prospects for his professional life, so he was in the office as the clerk.
Mr. Huntington was notified of the guest of Thomas. Within a few moments, Thomas was admitted to a meeting room with a large table for meetings.
Josiah Huntington stood as Thomas entered the room before offering the butler a seat at the table.
“Mr. Wilson,” Huntington said while maintaining his gesture toward a chair with perfunctory grace. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Thomas settled into the offered seat before speaking. This was a small moment to have control over a man that he would essentially be asking a favor of. He needed to be sure of his choice of words. He made sure to modulate his tone to be even, so Huntington did not assume incorrectly about him.
“In the past, you and your firm have expressed concerns regarding the expenditures made by Mr. Silas Wolcott.”
“We have,” Josiah affirmed with a nod. “His expenditures have not been what we have come to expect of the Wolcott estate. Naturally, since the firm is charged with maintaining the financial integrity of the Wolcott estate, there is certain fiduciary responsibility expected of this firm.”
“A charge the firm has managed with confidence,” Thomas said smoothly, inclining his head to sooth the ego of this selfish man. “I believe the firm has not been overseeing much of the fortune since Thomas Wolcott’s death.”
“You should know that to be true,” Josiah said through mildly gritted teeth.
“How would you feel to oversee twenty percent of the family’s annual financial activities?”
“Excuse me?” Huntington replied in form of a question. “A figure of that sum would provide substantial security, which is, of course, the firm’s foremost concern.”
“I am aware,” Thomas remarked. “Most firms are nothing more that people in a building after a balanced ledger.”
“In that way, we agree,” Josiah replied.
“Then allow me to propose an arrangement that will act as a compromise to how transactions operated before. This should render both parties secure,” Thomas said.
From within his coat, he withdrew a folded folio and laid it flat upon the desk. The parchment bore no seal but had clean ink and fine script so as to provide a certain dialect of assurance.
Josiah’s eyes narrowed slightly as he reached for the papers. Clearly, there was some suspicion. He skimmed the first couple of pages with a quick eye for the important contents.
“Five percent growth?” he murmured his question.
“Annual growth,” Thomas said. “As a baseline. Should the investments managed by your firm fail to meet that modest threshold, the firm will, of course, remit the difference to the Wolcott estate directly.”
“I see,” Huntington said slowly. “Why would we ever agree to this?”
The question answered itself. The lustful greed in his eyes was all the truth he needed.
“In exchange for this security,” Thomas added mildly, “the firm is entitled to retain any profits earned above the agreed five percent. No questions. No complaints. Total discretion, provided the family’s fortunes remain untarnished.”
“You do understand we are a law firm not an investment firm of a bank,” Josiah replied as if to reject the offer.
However, the bait was too great of a temptation for a hound of a man like Josiah Huntington.
“Is this authorized?” he asked, though the question was rhetorical.
The lawyer knew well enough that no one but Thomas would dare appear here without permission.
“A signature can be added with a simple prompt for posterity’s sake. While this may not be Mr. Wolcott’s main focus at the moment, but I believe we both know how quickly he will become single-minded when his attention does fall on the subject.”
“Understood,” Josiah said, recalling the recent philanthropy.
“See that you do,” Thomas remarked. “So long as outcomes are satisfactory, I believe this is a path that will produce positive results for both your firm and the Wolcott estate.”
Josiah Huntington read the remainder of the documents in near silence. By the time he reached the final clause, his pen was already in hand to sign unceremoniously. Count on an attorney to read the fine print, but only see a result that produced profit for them. As Josiah returned the signed folio, he allowed himself a faint, civil smile for the colored servant.
“Your confidence in us is appreciated, Mr. Wilson,” he said with joy touching his eyes.
With what he needed in hand, Thomas departed and closed the door behind him with a respectful slowness, so as not to even remotely come close to slamming the door.
The lawyer could not know that he had helped preserve the legacy of the Wolcott dynasty. What did it matter if Thomas had to make it appear as though he had his employer’s permission or this was about lining the coffers of a law firm? The end results would be all tat mattered at the end of the day.
A month after the departure of Jonathan Pellham, another night of cool air and intrigue graced the Wolcott Manor. Silas had seen fit to host another grand affair that had started after nine o’clock in the evening, so as to act as a flexing of his wealth that Silas Wolcott did not have to be awake with the morning light.
He did not need Jon to fill out his guest list. His previous celebration, along with rumors flitting from Boston to Paris, the manor’s halls found themselves quite filled to the brim with individuals wanting his favor and attention.
Of course, the well dressed Wolcott only had eyes for his vampiric princess.
The ballroom had newly imported chandeliers and grand floral arrangements from the Caribbean. Crimson roses and pale lilacs stood in deliberate juxtaposition of any design that might have been at play. This was an affair so extravagant that no guest could focus on the people, food, or even the band playing.
Princess Sophia of Great Britain moved with sovereign ease, which of course she would as royalty and a supernatural creature. Silas had come to find her unique heritage to be all the more alluring for him.
Few men had the attention of a princess; none in the world could boast the combination of a princess who was also a creature of the night.
As she approached him, he discovered that she was not alone.
He observed the two figures at her side. Their united presence instilled some mix of power, mundanity, and elegance.
The first was a woman with ice-blue eyes that spoke of ageless patience. There was a cold of old winters and fallen monarchies in her gaze. No matter what other features accompanied her, it was the orbs in her skull that pulled him back.
Sophia introduced her only as Madame Elizabeth of Russia. There was no surname given, nor was one asked for. She smiled with the softest baring of teeth, which signaled to Silas that she might be more like the Princess Sophia than either let on.
The second companion was a man of complexion that had seen the sun of the desert more often than seeing the cold days and nights of New England. There was an inscrutability to his gaze.
Latif was what he called himself when he shook Silas’s hand.
“That might very well not be his actual name,” said Princess Sophia.
Nevertheless, the caramel skinned man spoke with the lilt of a cultivated Parisian. His clothes were that of robes, rather than a suit or coat, meant for older deserts. A perfume of amber mixed with ash was about him.
The four of them moved from the ballroom, allowing the guests to be entertained by each other. This was the brilliance of the party. No one would know that their joy was a cover for the real work that was being undertaken. Excuses were made for the host to disappear from the crows, and they were off.
At last, for four found themselves in Silas’s private study where so much work of his had taken place.
“Elizabeth, Latif,” Sophia said. “This is Silas Wolcott. He is the one with the unique question that you may yet come to answer.”
Elizabeth studied Silas for a moment. She did not get close, nor did she touch him; nevertheless, she inspected him as she might look over produce.
“You have his eyes,” she said, voice like chilled water. “But not his cruelty.”
“Who is ‘he’?” Silas asked, keeping his voice calm.
The Russian vampire smiled in reply to him, but she did not give an answer.
Latif seated himself in a carved chair near the hearth. He seemed altogether uninterested in the company at present.
“There is a door in your basement,” Latif said, his voice silky and lit with a touch of foreign music. “It is an entrance to horror beyond your mortal comprehension.”
“Have you seen it?” Silas asked.
He turned from the man to Sophia. She shrugged and shook her head.
“I do not need to,” Latif replied. “I have heard the wails from the place since coming into this nation of yours.”
“What is this?” Silas asked almost aghast by Latif.
“These are the friends I spoke of, Silas,” she said softly. “I believe they may be able to help us with the mystery of what is beneath your home.”
Silas exhaled slowly. He did want answers. If he had to put up with people he did not understand, that was surely worth it still ... right?
“Then we should speak plainly,” he said.
“I am Elizabeth of Russia. I am a scholar, studying the occult since my turning back in 1612,” Elizabeth said respectfully.
“Why did the vampire that changed you do so?” Silas wondered.
“That is a personal question, Wolcott, but since your mystery intrigues me, I will answer. He was an old vampire, having lives almost a thousand years, and he wished to pass on his line to one of importance. The next year my family founded the Royal House of Romanov.”
“That is amazing,” Silas breathed. He turned to Latif. “And you?”
“I am a student of the alchemical arts and witchcraft. While I am not as long lived as this one,” he motioned to Elizabeth, “I have been thorough in my learning.”
“Do you find them acceptable?” Sophia asked.
Silas nodded, and the work was about to begin.
To go down a flight of stairs was often considered mundane; however, for these four people on this day, the trek was proving much closer to a descent into the earth in silence. Not even the lantern or flame made noise as Silas brought them to his basement.
For this absence of noise, there was an ambiance created that made a forgotten crypt feel full of life.
Silas led the group as this was his home. Behind him came Sophia with Madame Elizabeth and Latif following closely in the shadows.
It was not the broken door they passed. They could not know that the tatters were already infamous in its own right between the Wolcott and the Princess for having its lock sundered by Sophia’s unnatural strength.
What lay beyond the dead wood and broken metal, however, was entirely different than any contraption they had seen before. Once within the confines of the basement, their eyes went to the far end of the cellar.
There it was: A door.
That was not correct; to name what they saw simply a door was a deceptive disservice. A door implies the familiar mixed with the practical, such as with hinges, a frame, and ultimately passage passage.
This had familiar aspects of those qualities, but in truth, it was none of those things. The falsity of it made the two oncomers shiver where they stood.
It stood embedded in the ancient stone, arched and almost cyclopean by their shared analysis. Its edges were wreathed in symbols that bled gold and a void of black in many languages that they could not readily or completely understand. It almost appeared as if the runes were shifting between languages no man alive had spoken right before their eyes.
The material was not wood, nor metal, nor any stone known to quarry or mine, which made the two gasp in excitement. For those two, experts in the occult and magic in their own unique way, the edifice breathed.
Madame Elizabeth stopped in her tracks when she was only inches in front of the material. Her fingers twitched as her right hand floated just above the door’s materials. Her face went a stark pale white and contorted in obvious dismay.
“My God,” she breathed out. “That is no threshold built by mortal hands.”
Latif stepped forward more slowly than her, but his features showed that of awe and wonder. He fell to his knees and reached toward the frame of the object.
“I have walked the burned cities of Babel, whispered through cracked temples beneath the sands of Cairo and along the vaults beneath the Hagia Sophia. But never have I seen such majesty as this...”
His voice fell to a hush for a few moments. His mind was clearly running through the possibilities.
“ ... She is right; this was not made by men. Nor djinn. Nor any god that left the world intact.”
While Silas looked to Sophia, he hoped he might see a more rational quality from her, but she was watching the two in their praise for the dark object.
“To open it would be to welcome horrible suffering,” Latif added in a tone just above a whisper. “Something older than angels and less forgiving than devils must have constructed this horrible structure.”
“We do not know who created it,” Silas remarked. “Part of why you both have been brought here was to open the object or discover its origins.”
“We cannot open it!” Latif exclaimed firmly. After a moment, he calmed himself. “To do so would court disaster. I was not being flippant when I said this would cause great suffering. I may not know what this is, but I know what it is not, and that is good.”
“No,” Elizabeth murmured while her eyes did not leave the runes. “I agree. For now, we should not open it. We must learn more about this gateway. Then, and only then, should we even attempt to breach this monstrosity.”
“It’s in a tongue that predates stars,” Latif said when he was closer. “There’s power here, and none of it mortal in nature. This earth could crumble into dust and nothingness, and this construct would last.”
Silas did not know if that analysis was true. That did not stop him from fearing it might be.
The study of Silas Wolcott was, on most days, a sanctuary of ledger books, a warm but steady fireplace, and the best place to find a respectable brandy in the building. This was a quiet room for numbers and peace for Silas Wolcott by Thomas’s estimation; on this evening, however, while music played downstairs, people danced, and Silas entertained a small party, it felt as though this were the best chance to work on the project he had put all of his efforts into as of late.
Thomas Wilson had entered without knocking. As a butler, he had every right to any corner of the property. Though, he suspected that if Silas knew of his current course of action, he might be viewed as disobedient. Everything Thomas did was in service to the building and the family and all that they had cultivated in the last century. He saw himself as a steward of certain truths that the Wolcott men neglected.
He moved to the desk and unlocked the ledger drawer with a small brass key. He held a candle in his hand to be sure of what he saw.
From beneath the ledger, Thomas turned to look at the monthly expenses. As of the first week of March in the year 1823, he was looking for the money made for the month of February.
From his coat, he pulled a blank piece of parchment. His pen scratched across the paper as he worked out the sum. Twenty percent of the month’s gross revenue would come out to fifteen hundred and seventy-eight dollars.
Not a princely sum to those in the most extravagant parts of the world, but it was a start to a fortune. He hoped Josiah Huntington’s greed and glint of teeth and ambition could be enough to cultivate a sum worthy for the offspring.
Josiah could be clever as a lawyer, but it was the avarice within him that Thomas meant to exploit. Confidence, when mixed with a questionable conscience and motivated by selfish intent, could be used to benefit others, Thomas knew. To barter with men like Huntington was a necessity if one was to survive and flourish in the world; necessary evils were inevitable but useful when guided.
The law firm would be discretion itself and in exchange for access, Lillian would be given security.
This could only work if everyone knew it was for the Wolcott estate, and further, unlike so many bankers and lawyers, Thomas had to be above reproach. He could not make this about himself or lining his pockets to steal money that was not rightly his. This endeavor could only succeed if this was for the barmaid Lillian and the Wolcott bastard she carried.
For Thomas, the legality of marriage was not the sign of a bond of love between a husband and wife. More often than not, marriages in the aristocratic and financially successful world was about currency and social capital.
In that way, a marriage could be many different things at once. If that were so, then of course, this unborn child, though conceived out of wedlock, was of the line of Wolcott and deserved the opportunity to benefit from the heritage that they had unknowingly inherited.
So long as the sum grew, and Silas’s life was not impacted, there was no reason that any facet of day to day life should be affected.
The pen slowed for a moment. Silas could not stop; because if he did, his conscience might get the better of him, and he would feel guilty about keeping this from his employers.
The difference was meaningless to Silas. He could not even notice it was gone. It was fifteen hundred seventy-eight dollars. For the servants downstairs, that amount would change their world, but for one such as Silas, it was a discard. For one such as Lillian, it might allow for her parents to be understanding of her unfortunate circumstances.
Furthermore, to compound Thomas’s case, if Silas were not distracted by the princess and his own longing, he would likely recall his morals long enough to take the proper course when it came to the barmaid girl known as Lillian.
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