Eldritch Enactment
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 32: A Measured Dose
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 32: A Measured Dose - 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
“Waste not; want not.”
— Traditional English proverb. Attested in various forms since the 18th century and commonly associated with principles of thrift and frugality. Frequently attributed to Benjamin Franklin due to similar maxims found in Poor Richard’s Almanack (1732–1758), though the proverb itself predates Franklin. Public domain.
The operating room at Dreibruch University possessed none of the grandeur one might associate with scientific triumph, for it was simpler and unadorned than what might be expected of a well funded medical room.
The chamber had once been used for anatomical instruction and retained the severe character of such a purpose. Whitewashed walls to show cleanliness and maintain a sense of sterilization. Germ theory was only really starting to catch on in North America, but Ashcombe considered the idea to hold such notions that he had the room cleaned at least one day.
The smell was a mixture of spirits, carbolic preparations, sweat, and blood was powerful for anyone not wearing a face mask.
The patient was a mine worker from the western edge of Connecticut, and he laid unconscious upon the operating table.
Weeks earlier, he had presented with persistent abdominal pain, weight loss, and vomiting. By all conventional understanding, he should have been dead within a year.
Dr. Kaufman intended to prove otherwise using the sketches and diagrams that Silas had provided.
His sleeves were rolled above the elbows. His hands had been washed multiple times, but that did not stop them from being stained in the blood of his patient.
Ashcombe stood beside him, assisting.
Since this was an experimental surgery, he accepted the risk and blame should this whole process go wrong.
Silas Wolcott remained slightly removed from the table, holding his pages of anatomical sketches and surgical diagrams, so as to help however he could...
The operation had already lasted several hours.
No one wished to prolong it further, especially Kaufman.
He worked in silence, so as to preserve his concentration and do his absolute best work. Furthermore, surprising to others, he found the internal organs of humanity to be fascinating. With the numbing agents and methods to put his man in a state of unconsciousness allowed for Kaufman to be inside of the being without causing harm.
“Retractor,” he ordered.
Ashcombe placed the instrument into his hand immediately.
Kaufman adjusted the tissue with painstaking care, hoping to save a human’s life. If the surgery did not kill him, the disease surely would have.
The exposed cavity glistened beneath the lamplight.
Silas watched as the physician compared what lay before him with the diagrams.
For all of the excitement that this procedure might work, Silas was concerned for the life of the patient. What if he was wrong? What if this doomed them anyway? This sight of blood and gore also made him feel uncomfortable.
This reminded him of his visions. The fact that he constantly had to remind himself was that they were trying to save a life, not end it.
The physician exhaled slowly.
“There.”
His finger indicated a section of diseased tissue.
Ashcombe leaned closer.
“You are certain?”
“As certain as I can be. No one else is doing what we are attempting, and cancerous tissue is usually only found in autopsy, not a living patient.”
There was honesty in his words rather than confidence.
The diseased section was carefully isolated.
A clamp was applied.
Then another.
Every movement occurred with deliberate movement paired with cautious expectation.
The room seemed to shrink around the operation.
The rain and lamps and distractions vanished from Kaufman’s life and sigh. All that existed was the patient.
Consideration was taken in every motion, but when Kaufman made a decision, there was no hesitation in the action.
Silas felt an odd sensation while observing. The operation reminded him of engineering where one misplaced measurement could destroy an entire bridge or dam.
Kaufman removed the diseased section with a scalpel.
No one spoke, but both Silas and Ashcombe stared in amazement.
The tissue was an ugly, darkened mass.
A small shiver passed through Silas while a stare of amazement was on Ashcombe’s face.
“Did you save him?” Ashcombe asked
Kaufman’s eyes remained upon the wound.
“We vill know shortly.”
The reconstruction proceeded.
Needle. Thread. Clamp. Scissors.
The sequence repeated with mechanical regularity for Kaufman. Ashcombe wrote down details as much as possible.
No movement was wasted by the surgeon.
The hours of preparation, study, and argument culminated in a succession of actions so mundane that an observer might have mistaken them for sewing.
For all the hours of preparing for this, the action itself felt so small to Silas, yet nevertheless, it was breathtaking to observe.
Yet every stitch represented another refusal to surrender a human life.
At last, Kaufman pulled back when he placed stitches over the skin. His shoulders sagged when all of the stress of the procedure was done.
He removed his spectacles and declared: “Done.”
Ashcombe released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Silas lowered the diagrams.
Kaufman looked toward Ashcombe.
“Your contribution?”
The Dean nodded. Ashcombe moved toward the locked cabinet.
Silas immediately understood what he intended.
The Dean removed a small glass vial.
Within rested the crimson liquid of Princess Sophia’s blood.
Kaufman stepped back and watched how the alterations would take place.
“You are using very little,” Kaufman commented
“A very little is all I require,” Ashcombe said. “You removed the cancerous mass, and you prevented internal bleeding. The only healing should be to seal the stitches and encourage healthy clotting if I understand all of the principles?”
The physician nodded.
Ashcombe drew a minute quantity into a primitive syringe.
The Dean approached the unconscious patient. He inserted the needle and pushed in the fluid A single measured dose entered the man’s bloodstream, and then the syringe was withdrawn.
Ashcombe set the syringe aside.
Kaufman folded his arms. “And now?”
The Dean looked down at the sleeping man.
“Now,” he said quietly, “we wait and discover whether myth and magic wishes to participate in medicine.”
The offices of Huntington, Hart, & White was a respectable New England law firm whose entire purpose was to fulfill every client’s desire, and provided this service with stability, discretion, and a healthy appreciation for contracts.
Josiah Huntington valued all three regardless of how he felt about a client.
The Wolcott account had been a right pain in his ass since the time of Richard Wolcott. Near his death, he had become more eccentric than prudence would allow, but since he was one of the richest men in the country, Huntington could not afford to offend him, so when Silas became the head of the Wolcott Manor, Josiah assumed that he would be easier to manipulate or separate from his immense fortunate. However, both Silas and Thomas had removed any such illusions for Josiah.
Somehow though, when he sat alone in his office on a gray afternoon, Josiah wondered if eccentricity was genetic in the Wolcott line. Before him rested a parcel wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine.
The package had arrived from South America by way of Boston that very morning.
Ordinarily, such deliveries interested him only insofar as they concerned a client’s business. Rare books, however, occupied a peculiar position in his mind. They were often expensive, occasionally useful, offered insight to a client’s mind, and nearly always the source of trouble disproportionate to their value.
This particular volume appeared determined to justify that opinion.
The twine had already been cut. The wrapping lay folded neatly beside the object.
Josiah regarded the book from the safety of several inches.
The binding was old in the extreme. He almost believed that it predated books properly, but that was entirely absurd.
Dark leather covered the boards, though time had rendered its original color uncertain by his appraisal. Strange lettering occupied portions of the cover. Some of the words appeared to be Arabic; others, seemed to be Latin with Greek additions.
He had handled family bibles older than the Republic itself, but he knew in his heart of hearts that this particular tome was different.
The superstitious might consider it cursed, but as a practical man, he knew this book was wrong.
The distinction mattered to one such as him.
Josiah Huntington was the son of a man who had helped build a successful legal practice through contracts, statutes, evidence, and common sense; he inherited this legacy, and because of that piece of his history, he trusted facts because facts generally behaved themselves.
This book inspired none of that confidence.
With visible reluctance, he opened the front cover.
Several pages crackled softly.
The text was dense and foreign. Diagrams occupied certain margins. Strange illustrations appeared throughout.
He closed it immediately and breathed: “No.”
The word escaped before he realized he had spoken aloud.
Josiah leaned back in his chair.
Whatever Mr. Wolcott hoped to accomplish with the acquisition, he wanted no involvement beyond delivering the thing. The firm had paid approximately two hundred dollars to secure the volume through intermediaries and collectors.
That alone bordered on absurdity.
Still, a client was a client.
Reaching for his ledger, he dipped a pen into ink and began writing.
Acquisition of rare volume: $200. There were additional papers to corroborate the sum he put down
Finder’s fee: 15%.
Handling and transportation expenses.
The final figure would undoubtedly be paid without complaint. Silas Wolcott possessed sufficient wealth that such sums scarcely merited discussion.
To be frank, the one Josiah worried about was the guard dog that was Thomas Wilson. That man was a miser if Huntington ever saw one. If he trained up a proper successor, the Wolcott estate would be a house that stood the test of time until the twenty-second century.
Josiah sanded the page and set it aside.
He wrapped up the bundle for the book that his client wanted with considerably more care than he had used when opening it.
The parcel was placed inside a locked cabinet.
The key followed immediately afterward.
Only when he was sure that the door could not be opened did Josiah feel entirely comfortable.
When Thomas Wilson arrived to collect the volume, the book would leave his possession and, God willing, never return.
Josiah Huntington had spent many years learning when an opportunity should be pursued.
Experience had also taught him when a matter ought to be someone else’s problem.
The Necronomicon, he decided, very firmly belonged in the latter category.
The private laboratory of Theophilus Ashcombe had guests on this night, which was very much a rarity. Though intended for chemistry and anatomical study, it had gradually transformed into the sole task of this night’ surgery.
The candle lamps burned steadily.
Dr. Wilhelm Kaufman stood over a worktable examining the notes from the operation.
Silas Wolcott leaned against a nearby cabinet while nursing a cup of coffee that had long since grown cold. He was not one to drink coffee much. He far preferred the beverage of tea and or even some pressed fruit juice.
Both men were discussing the procedure in the fashion peculiar to educated individuals who could not leave a problem alone once it had entered their thoughts.
“The incision should have been smaller.”
Kaufman spoke without looking up. “Perhaps, but I needed to ensure I had a proper view of the landscape, so I felt it was necessary.”
“Make a note, then,” Silas said.
“I shall also add that we can reduce trauma to the surrounding tissue, recovery should improve,” Kaufman went on.
Silas nodded.
“We will need to see what future surgeons say, so we can standardize the method.”
Kaufman grunted. “I dislike hearing that.”
“Why?”
The physician finally looked up.
“My work was pristine. I should prefer to arrive at the conclusion myself.”
Silas laughed softly. “An admirable position. I would believe a man of science would want a determination that was peer reviewed.”
“I prefer outcomes to be based on data, not opinion. Other physicians might not understand what we are doing, but it is the correct course to have more eyes on the work.”
Across the room, Dean Theophilus Ashcombe was engaged in an entirely different undertaking.
Upon a separate table rested several glass vials. One contained a quantity of Princess Sophia’s blood.
Ashcombe studied the vial with intense concentration.
Nearby stood several containers of distilled water and preserved plasma substitutes developed through recent experimentation.
The Dean carefully measured minute quantities into a series of graduated cylinders.
Silas observed him for a moment.
“What are you doing?”
Ashcombe did not immediately answer. He continued his measurements until he was satisfied with the outcome.
Only then did he glance up.
“I am attempting to solve a most immediate problem.”
Kaufman raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
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