Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 6: To Do Good Work
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 6: To Do Good Work - 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
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
— Common English proverb, often attributed to Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153). The sentiment closely parallels the French phrase “L’enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs” (“Hell is full of good intentions and wishes”), cited in a letter dated November 21, 1604, from Saint Francis de Sales to Madame de Chantal. See: Spiritual Letters of St. Francis de Sales, ed. Henrietta Louisa Farrer Lear, Rivington (London, Oxford, & Cambridge), 1871, p. 70. Public domain.
It was another gray morning when Jonathan Pellham arrived at the discreetly respectable building on Middle Street. Despite being unaccustomed to boots, he wore the trappings because the damp, thawing sleet had turned the cobbles into a treacherous slush. He scraped them at the entrance thoroughly before entering. It was unbecoming to bring dirt, grime, slosh, or filth into a fine establishment such as the firm of Huntington, Hart & White.
The state of a man’s footwear might say more about him than his reputation in such quarters.
When he entered, he saw a clerk or secretary out front. It seemed prudent to give his card to the man, who accepted it with mild surprise. When Jonathan added he wanted to see the man representing Silas Wolcottand, the clerk led him upstairs where a senior partner was working on some form of legal work or another. The wood-paneled office that smelled of ink, tobacco, and unkempt legal volumes.
Josiah Huntington did not rise at Pellham’s entrance. He merely gestured at the seat across from his writing desk. He was a narrow man in body and mind, and the sort whose politeness was a thin lacquer over cold calculation.
When it came to being a lawyer, Jonathan could respect that this Josiah Huntington looked the part. From the tailoring of his coat to the freshly polished pair of eyeglasses, he was every bit the man that was accustomed to pretending patience while also counting minutes for the purposes of exact billing.
“Mr. Pellham,” he said smoothly.
He wrote down some numbers onto the parchment for a few moments. He analyzed his work, and when he felt sure of his tabulations and the printing of the letters, he looked up.
“You find us in the midst of tax season,” he replied. “However, I can always make time for a fellow Dreibruch man. Do you take coffee? Or tea?”
“Thank you,” Jonathan replied as he seated himself. “But no. This is intended to be a brief visit, not a social call, sadly.”
He opened his coat slightly, drawing out a folded letter and resting it on his knee. While he did not intend to open it for the lawyer, it went to show his credibility to the opposite man. The sigil of their shared college was on the letter.
“I understand,” he said evenly, “that Mr. Silas Wolcott recently made a gift of fifty thousand dollars to Dreibruch University.”
“That would appear to be the case,” Josiah remarked dryly. “Most would consider such a gift to be a generous act.”
Jonathan fixed him with a level gaze. He tried to keep his appearance serious. His need for personal connection might have welled up from Jonathan, but the reminder from Theophilus was ringing in his ear.
“It was a curious gift,” he said. “I knew Silas back in university, and after graduating, he was indifferent to academic institutions. It was a welcome to our Board, but the Dean is curious; hence my journey.”
Josiah leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. He considered the question curiously.
“Silas has become ... unpredictable as of late,” Josiah said, taking off his glasses. “Since his father’s death and inheriting his family’s fortune, he has taken to making eccentric decisions, including giving large contributions of monetary value to others. He does this without counsel, nor anyone but his butler.”
The way Josiah seemed to hold disdain for the servant was either class or race related by Jonathan’s summation. While he could not be sure, it was clear that Josiah believed himself to think very highly of himself over this butler or even Silas.
“Sudden generosity needn’t imply instability,” Jonathan replied quietly.
“No, perhaps not,” Josiah agreed. “However, I suppose fifty thousand dollars is a substantial sum that benefits you while I must wonder why he would part with such wealth. He diminishes his very estate with each such indulgent behavior. As his family’s legal representative, I must question the foresight of this young man and further his mental faculties.”
Jonathan said nothing to those words. Both he and this Josiah were in the legal field, but scarcely had Jon seen such blatant narcissism and greed on the face of another man. He studied the elder lawyer for a moment to be sure of his assessment. It was all there; concern masqueraded as stewardship but for Jon, this behavior rang hollow.
Josiah was too polished, too rehearsed in his words. He had to have said them to himself in a mirror or maybe he had spoken with his other partners. He was not anxious for a client’s welfare, but for a dwindling account that he could no longer effectively direct. Jonathan wondered what this law firm was up to when Richard Wolcott was ill.
“I’ve known Silas since we were teenage boys,” Jonathan said at last. “He was always peculiar in his thoughts, and some of our professors thought he was too concerned about removing moral ambiguity, but never have I seen a sign that he was unsound. He has a keen mind that might be superior to most men in this city put together—yourself and myself included.”
“A keen mind, you say?” Josiah repeated, the word curdled in his mouth. “Yes. That seems to be the fashion these days: keen imagination over practicality? It will not do.”
Jonathan stood, brushing a crease from his coat.
“I thank you for your candor, Mr. Huntington,” Jonathan said. “I did wonder about my old friend, but if what you say is true, it sounds as if he has simply been struck by the spirit of generosity rather than any actual impediment. I will speak to Silas myself soon enough”
Josiah offered a faint, cool smile and rose at last to see his guest out. He could tell he had been insulted, but since it had been dressed up in cordiality, Mr. Huntington could ill afford to cause a scene. Much rather, he stood up and offered his hand.
“Do let me know what you make of him,” he said at the threshold. “Perhaps you’ll find reason where I found only concern.”
Jonathan accepted the hand and shook it before turning to depart.
“I certainly hope so,” he said in the doorway. He turned and inclined his head.
“Good day, Mr. Huntington.”
“And to you, Mr. Pellham.”
It was another day and another ... three hundred and thirty dollars in a day ... in the study of Wolcott Manor. Silas had coldly calculated money out to the cents and what rolled over when he first thought of the obscenity of the wealthy he had been bequeathed.
The money shook his sensibilities in the beginning, but with time, he was still disgusted by the number, but Thomas was correct. He could do so much more with his time and money if he only focused his efforts. The hospital was making slow, meaningful improvements, and while the tavern was not his main source of focus, he found that when people had a place to enjoy themselves, the community was happier on the whole.
For those reasons alone, Silas smiled. Before the age of thirty, Silas had found a contentment in life that men in their sixties with grandchildren might never know.
The hearth was burning but the study was quiet. It housed volumes from classic literature to law books. There were histories on there that made Silas wish for his father’s resurrection, as only his father could make the past less boring for a child of six.
Silas Wolcott sat slumped in the large chair; the documents of the day were stacked up on the desk, and they had all seen his mind and pen’s attention for the day. He allowed himself a long, meaningful sigh since the servants were retired to their quarters for the day. Everything that needed doing was done. For the first time in a long time, it felt as though there was nothing to do other than know that the weight of legacy for the Wolcott name would inevitably assault his psyche.
He looked down to his lap where a worn volume of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar rested. Its binding had softened by years of his familiar touch. Why should it not? Along with Macbeth, it was one of his favorite plays by the Bard.
He opened it to the scene he favored where Caesar said, “Cowards die many times before their deaths...”
Shaking his head, he could not understand why he was haunted by those words in that moment. Strangely, he did not know why he had been overcome by grief or the paranoia about his own inheritance until the conclusion of cowardice struck him.
Fear had stolen his most noble traits, and through the help of the friendship of Thomas as well as having a goal, he had found himself again. It was in finding himself that his gaze drifted to the envelope atop the writing table.
The letter from his father had sat there for months, completely untouched unless one counted the occasional dusting. The seal of a seven pointed crown sat there as if staring at him. There was a pulsing from it that he could not rightfully explain to anyone and still sound sane.
On this night, the very air seemed to urge him. He had put off his father’s words long enough. With everything right in the world, he would know what Richard Wolcott would say to him/
With a slow breath, Silas reached out and picked up the letter. He reached into the top left hand drawer of the desk and pulled out a letter opening knife. With a flourish, the seal was broken but none of the paper was harmed. He opened it and released the parchment from within.
My Dearest Son, Silas,
If you are reading this, then the chill has finally taken me. Do not trust the physicians’ assurances of what is good or ill with my body, for they know nothing of the true boundary that lies between a man and his death. My body fails not from age or illness but from overreach.
You will not understand these words upon first reading them. It is my intention that by plainly writing of my own life, you will understand both myself and the circumstances around my demise that much better.
What is it that character from that Dumas book you so adore? ‘You know me well?’ Well, I should hope that you ‘you know me better’, my son.
Since your mother passed into the earth, we both know that I have not been the same man you knew in your childhood. I am not one to simply accept your mother’s passing. At first, I wept, but then I labored day and night to bring her back.
I know this will not make much sense to you as a man that might have become clergy if your studies had gone a different direction. No ... I did not seek science or mundane solutions in that of man.
There are other powers at play, and I sought them like a man possessed.
I did not begin as a madman though. I swear that to you upon your mother’s grave. I began as a grieving husband. After she was gone, I realized that science and medicine had failed her, so I became a seeker of truth to remedy this injustice. But where science ends—in my ignorance ... No. In my cowardice, there begins the road I chose.
I sought out any and every option. I listened to fortune tellers, to charlatanes, to wise men ... until it led me to the arcane.
Thomas—ever faithful Thomas—has aided me in this endeavor. He is braver than most scholars I’ve known. With his help, I procured the necessary ... specimens for the application of the magic. Under moonlight, he dug up graves with fresh flesh. We performed the rites according to archaic texts from a bygone age. I had to translate them from older versions of Greek and Nordic languages as well as Egyptian for a Book that claimed to be a representation of death.
At the time, it was all fascinating. I felt like an adventuring magician, discovering the lost arts that humanity had given up in favor of the reckless gamble that we call modern medicine.
In time, our efforts produced results. Some of the corpses would twitch, mumble, ache to rise. We succeeded in motion, but never did a full resurrection come.
The problem was the soul, Silas. The soul is the great gap! You must see this! Know it! You will know it better in the future!
I attempted to cross the veil between live and death, my son! Not merely to rouse flesh, but to retrieve her spirit back to this life!
I constructed a circle, spoke the rites and words of power! I reached further than any modern man has ever before! It was magnificence itself.
The problem is that the veil is not a curtain. When one leans too far after a crossing of this veil, into death, it is not always guaranteed that he shall return in their entirety.
When I came back to my body, I was cold. And no warmth would stay. Not by fire. Not by sun. Not by blood. My physicians were puzzled.
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