Eldritch Enactment
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 30: Meetings
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 30: Meetings - 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. From a seductive vampire to a university that wants knowledge, a tale of hubris, fear, and destruction unfolds.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Coercion Consensual Hypnosis Mind Control Gay Heterosexual Fiction Historical Horror School Science Fiction Alternate History Paranormal non-anthro Vampires Anal Sex Cream Pie Squirting Voyeurism Geeks Halloween Royalty Transformation Violence
“I remember our first meeting on the steps of the University — a collegial handshake that would doom us both ... I recognized in you something ... of a kindred spirit. Despite our differences in age and position, we shared a keen fascination for archaeology, folklore, and of course, occultism.”
— The Academic / Narrator (as voiced by Wayne June), Darkest Dungeon II, Denial, Introduction. Directed & Written by Chris Bourassa. Developed and published by Red Hook Studios. Originally released May 8, 2023.
The rain had begun again as it usually did in a New English Spring.
It tapped softly against the windows of Dean Ashcombe’s office with the persistence of patient fingers seeking admission. Beyond the glass, the campus of Dreibruch University was ready for another day of education.
Within, regardless of the grays and blues of the outside, there was warmth.
A fire crackled quietly in the hearth. Despite these comforts, the room retained an atmosphere of peculiar unease. Books remained stacked in precarious towers upon tables and chairs alike. Several volumes lay open across Ashcombe’s desk.
Dr. Wilhelm Kaufman stood near the window with a cup of coffee in one hand.
Dean Theophilus Ashcombe sat opposite him.
Neither man had spoken for several moments.
Kaufman was the one who broke the silence.
“So,” he said, glancing toward the rain-streaked glass, “our mysterious benefactor arrives today.”
Ashcombe looked up from the papers spread before him.
“If the roads are passable.”
“Mm.”
Kaufman took another drink.
“Assuming he arrives, vat exactly do you expect from Mister Wolcott?”
The Dean removed his spectacles and rubbed tired eyes.
“Answers, of course.”
Kaufman immediately frowned.
“That is not an answer.”
Ashcombe leaned back in his chair.
“For the better part of a year we have been studying a substance that should not exist. We have observed properties that challenge conventional medicine. We have watched men recover from injuries they ought not survive.”
“Yes,” Kaufman interrupted. “I vas there.”
“Then you understand my position. We need more information. Maybe the answers will be unconventional, and that is well and good, but as an institution of learning, we need to get to the bottom of this mystery.”
Ashcombe gestured toward the mountains of books surrounding them.
“Like I told you before, I have found patterns in the readings of folklore and historical accountings.”
“Again with patterns?” Kaufman asked, mildly annoyed
Ashcombe ignored him.
“These stories of creatures sustained by blood match how the samples worked. If the natural cannot explain what we have seen, then the supernatural will have to do. What does it matter if the source we have is some fragment of a greater truth.”
Kaufman stared at him.
“You realize how mad zat sounds?”
“Perfectly.”
“And yet you continue saying it.”
“Because it may be correct. Our job as men of science is too keep our mind open to whatever possibilities are before us.”
The physician sighed heavily.
“God help me.”
Ashcombe smiled faintly.
“You see? Even you invoke higher powers when frustrated.”
Kaufman did not counter the comment.
“Very vell,” he said. “Suppose your theories are true. Suppose Mister Wolcott arrives and confirms every impossible thing you believe. Vat then?”
Ashcombe considered the question.
“I sincerely do not know.”
The admission seemed honest.
“That is the problem.”
His fingers folded together.
“If these myths contain truth, then the implications are staggering. We have to keep a broader mind about history, medicine, and theology as a whole will be viewed through an entirely different lens.”
“I suppose so,” Ashcombe conceded. “But should we not be motivated by truth? We cannot solve a problem unless we know the honest circumstances of the situation.”
“I suppose so,” Kaufman conceded. “But what if he disproves everything?”
Ashcombe nodded slowly.
“Then, that too is an answer, and I shall be relieved all the same.”
That answer surprised the physician.
“Relieved?”
“Yes.” The Dean’s voice softened. “Because it would mean I have merely exhausted myself chasing shadows rather than potentially changing the foundational understanding of the world around me.”
Kaufman chuckled. “You know vat I hope?”
Ashcombe raised an eyebrow.
“That he brings more blood.”
The Dean laughed in response.
Kaufman shrugged.
“I am serious. Supernatural. Not supernatural. Demon blood. Vampire blood. Blessed blood. I do not care.” He pointed toward the locked cabinet containing the remaining samples. “I only know zat every time ve study it, ve learn something useful, and ve save lives. Zat matters much more than anything else.”
Ashcombe’s smile widened.
“An admirably practical position.”
“It is the correct one.”
Kaufman rose and straightened his coat.
“You search for revelations. I search for results.”
The Dean looked toward the rain beyond the windows once more.
“And perhaps,” he murmured, “we shall find both before this is over.”
The road to Dreibruch wound through the Connecticut countryside beneath a sky of pale silver clouds.
Silas sat within the stagecoach and watched the world pass beyond the window.
Ordinarily, he had never been fond of travel. There was little dignity in being rattled across rough roads while attempting to preserve one’s posture and patience alike. In moments like this though, he could think and consider all of the details of his circumstance
The horses obeyed their own temperament, the weather obeyed none at all, and the roads seemed designed by men who held a particular resentment toward wheels.
For this trip, he was in good spirits.
Three large wooden crates rested upon the seat opposite him, carrying many jars of the vampire Sophia’s blood. He had a stack of a few books that he was able to obtain that might prove his point, so he was not insane.
These were respectable men of learning, so he had to speak their language if he was to convince them of his points.
Silas glanced toward the books and blood. In their own way, to him, they represented answers to questions that he could not quite formulate.
For the better part of a year he had lived in the shadow of uncertainty. Monsters had emerged from fairy tales. Ancient powers had spoken to him in voices that should never have existed. A crown forged from his own failings waited in his coat pocket like a loaded pistol left upon a table that had yet to be fired.
And yet, for perhaps the first time since Jonathan Pellham’s death, Silas felt as though he was moving toward something rather than merely running from the world.
The coach lurched over a rut.
Silas found comfort in the mundane, for that was what he was fighting for. He was battling against the insurmountable all for the chance of allowing the reassurance of ordinary life to go on.
Most people spent their days concerned with crops, wages, marriages, church attendance, and the countless little matters that composed a human existence.
They did not know there were horrors sleeping beneath the foundations of reality.
But they should not need to. They had gone about their lives for thousands of years without this bothering them. They could go on a little longer without knowing.
The idea of an ally in all of this might have sounded ridiculous if this had not been exactly what he had hoped for. He had recalled that Dean Ashcombe had wanted to make a mark with Dreibruch. Using the supernatural was just another method.
An ambitious university scholar and an eccentric New England millionaire were perhaps the only two men in Massachusetts attempting to prove that magic had merit.
Their contemporaries would likely consider them both insane.
Silas could not entirely blame them.
As the stagecoach rolled steadily toward Dreibruch University, Silas discovered that hope felt considerably improved, for this was a place that banished ignorance away to be replaced with knowledge. A little knowledge could be exactly what the world needed.
Thomas Wilson arrived at the offices of Huntington, Hart, & White shortly before noon by way of one of the carriages that Wolcott Manor employed.
Under the care of Richard Wolcott, the house only had one carriage for the needs of the house, which could be damaging as no one could run errands, but the lack of excess saved on expenses. With Silas off at Dreibruch and needing that carriage to return, Thomas needed a carriage to do Silas’s bidding while Eleanor would likely need to get groceries for the house even if Silas was away.
Thomas almost laughed. Despite the fact that Silas was away, both MacPhee and Eleanor were of a certain age where they took pride in their work. For those two, a clean kitchen and a properly kept ground was enough to make life worth so much.
The building of the law firm possessed the same respectable appearance that he had seen when he was last before the construct. Always worn: solid brick, polished brass, and an air of prosperity carefully cultivated to reassure clients that their fortunes were the outer garments meant to lead to a confidence that led to employment.
Whether this reassurance was justified or merely expensive decoration was always in question by those of affluence. Thomas could not be left to care, for when he entered such an establishment, he did not come for confidence and safety; after all, society often reminded him that there was none for one of his ancestry. When he entered a building such as this, he did so in the name of his employer; confidence could be left to philosophers and accountants.
He removed his gloves before entering and surrendered his hat to a clerk whose expression briefly betrayed surprise at finding a colored gentleman announcing himself with such assurity.
“Mr. Wilson to see Mr. Huntington.”
The young man nodded and hurried away.
Some minutes later Thomas was shown once more into the private meeting room where Josiah Huntington awaited him.
The attorney rose from his chair.
“Mr. Wilson.”
“Mr. Huntington.”
They exchanged nods and shook hands before taking their seats.
Unlike their previous meeting, Huntington appeared in unusually good spirits. His smile arrived more readily, and there was a brightness about his eyes that suggested recent success.
Thomas suspected he already knew the reason.
“You seem pleased with yourself this morning.”
Huntington allowed himself a small chuckle.
“I confess there are worse conditions in which to conduct business.”
“So the arrangement has been profitable.”
“It has, and my partners have recognized how safe our coffers have been looking from securing this one account.”
The lawyer folded his hands together.
Thomas waited.
Men often revealed more when silence invited them to continue.
“The investments performed beyond expectations,” Huntington said. “Including dividends, acquisitions, and managed positions, the funds under our supervision returned approximately forty-three percent during the last year.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“Forty-three.”
“An exceptional year.”
“No wonder partners are pleased.”
“They are.”
“And the estate?”
Huntington nodded.
“The secured family funds remain untouched. The heir’s reserve is protected precisely as outlined in our agreement, and the principal continues to grow, which was what you said you wanted.”
That answer satisfied Thomas. For the child of Silas and Lillian, with all the dangers Silas warned about, this sort of arrangement made Thomas feel safe.
“The Wolcott estate appreciates competent stewardship,” Thomas found himself saying.
The compliment pleased Huntington more than Thomas expected.
“We have endeavored to justify your confidence.”
Thomas suspected the attorney was already calculating how much additional profit the arrangement might produce in years to come, and how full the coffers of a single law firm could have.
Thomas did not know if the partners could pull from that money frequently or if there was a ime from that was required, but one way or another, Huntington would profit monetarily as well as benefit in terms of reputational prestige.
Before Huntington could continue down that avenue of thought, Thomas withdrew a folded paper from within his coat.
“There is another matter.”
The attorney accepted the document.
At first his expression remained neutral.
Then his eyebrows began to climb.
The list contained titles.
Some were obscure.
Others bordered upon infamous.
Several appeared so strange that Huntington reread them twice.
“Theogony the Second? The Necronomicon? Multa Opera Michaelis?” he asked.
“Yes,” Thomas said
“A lost continuation of Hesiod? I have not heard of this, not of this Multa Opera Michaelis”
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