Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 1: The Heir Returns
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Heir Returns - 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
“Ruin has come to our family.”
— The Ancestor/Narrator (as portrayed by Wayne June), Darkest Dungeon, written by Chris Bourassa and Tyler Sigman, developed by Red Hook Studios. Directed by Chris Bourassa. Copyright © 2016 Red Hook Studios Inc. Originally released January 19, 2016.
The Wolcotts came to the New World as second sons of a minor English noble house in the 1600s. They were disinherited, but with stolen silver and an unyielding hunger for equitable justice, they would make a mark on this world.
By the early 1800s, the family’s influence coiled from New Haven to Boston. They had members of the family that had signed the Declaration of Independence and men who died heroes in war. Their very influence was quiet yet altogether undeniable.
After the burning of Washington in 1814, Silas Wolcott’s father, Richard Wolcott, had extended an immense personal loan to the U.S. Treasury at 18% annual interest. James Madison was a brilliant President, but when it came to financial matters, such as failing to purchase Florida from Spain, one might consider him out of his depth. Circumstances such as those made it difficult for him to not accept the desperate arrangement or else fall in the ashes of national disgrace.
This was an arrangement made in secret, so as to never tarnish the legacy of the presidency as well as protect the name of James Madison and the United States Treasury. If everyone knew that such a large portion of repairs was paid for by a single family (let alone one man), the country might lose faith, so a cover story was made about families in the Washington area paying as well as a raising of funds by Congress to repair the building.
The debt was repaid slowly, painfully, over six harrowing years. While interest was nice, Richard Wolcott also asked that in return for his private financial backing that Congress exempt the Wolcott estate from all federal taxation until the year 1900. This contract was signed and sealed even if some whispered. But what did that matter? They could only whisper.
It was a Tuesday, the First of October in the year 1822, when the carriage slowly went down the old and bumpy road.
He knew every rock, bump, and smooth part to the path. Of course he would. After all, he had grown up on this road. As the only son to Richard Wilcott, it was Silas’s duty to know all he could of the area.
He had been raised on the American ideology that there were no lords, no dukes, no viscounts, no princes and certainly no kings. A man was what he made himself to be. No amount of money, privilege of birth, or circumstance could change the fact that they were all human.
If one needed a reminder, they only needed to be knocked over and scrape their knee or cut their hand. One could be smarter, faster, stronger, or more spiritually inclined, but at the end of the day, everyone’s blood ran red.
His father had taught him that.
His father.
The wind had turned at the merest thought to his sire. This shift in breeze came not from the sea, but from the barren hills beyond Hartford, and it carried with it a dry, unwholesome chill that whispered through the ivy-choked stones of Wolcott Manor.
As he stepped out of his carriage slowly and without the help of his servant. He was a man in every sense of the word, and it would do him no good to lean on anyone in this tumultuous time that was to come.
He noted the fire lamps sputtering in their sconces to cast long shadows upon the oaken panels of the great hall when Silas Wolcott crossed the threshold to the manor for the first time in a handful of years.
His boots were still damp from the chill of Boston streets. He was to make his way in the world, and he could not stay his whole life in Connecticut. Nevertheless, the tanned leather found an uneasy purchase on the familiar flagstones. Was this from the news of his father’s ailing health or was it from the slickness with autumn’s decay.
He had not been summoned in such an urgent fashion since his mother’s death some eight years prior. Though he traveled with all haste by coach when on the road and riverboat when taking the Connecticut River, the house did not greet him with its usual warmth of home.
There was no clamor of anxious but joyful servants or even a hush of prepared and spirited debate that his father was keen to have. Rather, an overwhelmingly devastating silence struck him with a blow powered by an ancestral stillness that was capable of settling in the bones of his flesh but capable of leaping into the lifeless estate in order to haunt the very walls.
The first face he saw in the house was the old black butler, Thomas. The attendant met Silas at the vestibule with red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips.
He was not a slave, nor would he or his family be anything other than free men so long as the Wolcott’s had any say in the manner. That the south continued their deplorable practice of slavery went against every tenet of Christendom as Silas understood the matter. Besides the fact that Christ had called all men to do unto others as they would have done unto them, it was a failing in sensible morals.
That one of Silas’ relatives had signed the Declaration of Independence that had sworn that ‘All men were created equal ... with certain unalienable rights’ was reminder enough to hold himself to a certain standard of being. Silas could not stomach Thomas Jefferson for practicing slavery after writing such a masterwork of a document, but he took pride in the knowledge that one Oliver Wolcott was a relative to the family. Though, supposedly, they also had relations to Samuel Huntington as well, but that was more obscure.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.