Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 7: That Which is Done in the Dark...
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 7: That Which is Done in the Dark... - 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
“I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever after be poison to me.”
— H. P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu, originally published in Weird Tales, Vol. 11, No. 2, February 1928. Public domain.
Thomas led the way for the both of them. While Silas knew where the basement was, Thomas was intimately aware of the confines that they would be entering. The stone steps groaned beneath the following steps of Silas, but for the butler, no sounds were made.
For Thomas, the air thickened as they descended. He knew what awaited them in the cold, lonely room, and shame welled within him. Perhaps, Silas would not judge him, but Thomas would judge himself.
Thomas held the lantern aloft, allowing both to see.
At the base of the staircase, the door stood locked, and Thomas had to reach for a ring of keys. This was one given to him by Richard Wolcott personally. After turning the key, Thomas pushed the wooden entry open with the familiarity bred from thousands of uses. The hinges did not so much as protest its movement from one who knew it so personally.
He knew what laid in the chamber would be a private blasphemy to the young Wolcott.
The laboratory had once been a combination of a basement and wine cellar with the capability to act as a store room for provisions in the past. Those domestic purposes were no longer in effect as they had long since been stripped away for the needs of Richard Wolcott.
Books lay open across the tables alongside tomes bound in dark leather or stranger skins still. Twine kept some of the writings closed, and for the ones that were open, they bore letters in alphabets that had not been used since antiquity, and some that looked entirely fictional.
The pages were scribbled in with notes next to diagrams and artistic renderings of the human bodies. A malevolent malignancy permeated the intelligence, which always made Thomas recoil as a good Christian man, yet still he had obeyed the orders of his employer.
Strange glass tubes lay coiled like serpents, and a brass basin filled with markings that there had been fluid in them, but in the end, after such neglect and abandonment from the death of Richard Wolcott as well as Thomas’s lack of return, much of the evidence was disappearing.
Silas took one step and froze. He did not know how to accept every part of what he saw. This was an abomination to nature itself. There were items of science and scholarly work like the glass and tubes as well as books, but they had been twisted for the uses of his father’s private experimentation. There was no doubt in his mind that his father had crossed lines of morality. He could barely take a step forward when his shoes had met with a sticky substance, which Silas mistook for syrup.
Upon closer inspection, Silas found that the floor bore wide streaks of brownish-black. There was no doubt in his mind that this was old blood.
There were smears and handprints decorated the lower halves of the stone walls of this goreish plasma. The scent was nearly unbearable, a marriage of copper, rot, and scorched salt.
In the far corner—beneath a sheet that was both hastily thrown and partially fallen—two cadavers lay forgotten.
He could not look long enough to interpret what they looked like. Silas was doing all he can to not vomit in the room; though, at this point, he would have called it a tomb. This was a mausoleum to two people who had not been given the dignity of a burial.
Silas choked. He turned away and bent over, both hands on his knee. The bile rose sharp and hot from his throat into his mouth, but he forced it back with a grimace and several shuddering breaths. The taste lingered to remind him of the foulness of his environment.
Thomas offered a neatly, squarely folded, white handkerchief.
“Breathe through it, sir,” he said softly. “The stench will settle. Breathe more through your mouth than your nose.”
Silas accepted the linen and pressed it to his lips. Further still, he followed his butler’s advice.
“What ... what in God’s name—”
“This was your father’s work,” Thomas said, voice grave but free of emotion. He turned his head in shame before adding, “Where I assisted.”
“How many?” he asked desperately. “How many bodies did he desecrate down here?”
Thomas did not lie. How could he when he had known this young man all his life, and he had become so incredibly proud of him as of late?
“Twelve, when he died.”
Silas stared at him. He could not hide his loathing and disgust. While Silas loved Thomas as a mentor and friend, the betrayal of the ethics that he thought they shared was beyond measure for the Wolcott man.
“Where are they now?” Silas stammered out. “Where did they go?”
Thomas’s gaze drifted to the side, as if the shadows themselves were recalling his labor. Silas was not one to miss that detail.
“Since you became master, I have removed them. Person by person. When you were away, when everyone slept, when I knew I would have about three hours in the dead of night and would be undisturbed, I moved them. I did not want to clean the blood up until the bodies were gone.”
Silas said nothing for a long time. He walked, haltingly, through the wreckage of his father’s secrets.
“You should have cleaned the blood,” Silas said clinically. “The body does not produce more of it so long after death.”
He said the words distantly. No part of him enjoyed this. It was disturbing and gross to all of his intuition for good living. He almost let out a morbid laugh; they were dead, not living.
“That was not the case during the experiments,” Thomas replied. “Some returned with life, blood and all. Some did not. I could not know what would happen after your father’s death.”
“I see,” was all Silas could say.
His eyes looked at the blood on the walls, specifically the hand prints. That must have been where they moved after they had been brought back. However, he understood that his father met with limited results, given he did not revive Silas’s mother, Elizabeth Wolcott. The thoughts of his good, caring, and doting mother was reason enough to go to these lengths. That was the one openly loving part of Richard Wolcot, so Silas understood.
At last, Silas’s eyes settled on the books.
They sat on the table in a heaviness combined with an awful silent watching that bothered Silas.
He reached out, trembling slightly, and placed a hand upon the vellum page.
“Do they work?” he asked.
“They work,” Thomas said at last. The words emerged with the weight of truth begrudgingly spoken. “But not as your father desired. Not with the clean precision of pure resurrection that he demanded of them.”
Silas’s gaze did not lift from the opened tome beneath his hand. He stared at the paper as though that had been what had murdered his father and not the greed for powers beyond that of mortal men. Good men are called to be humble and know the limitations of coveting dominance especially in the arcane.
“Yet my father pursued this,” Silas said. He scoffed and shook his head. “Of course he did. A man who earned his wealth with cold deliberation ... He counted every coin and made sure that each venture was calculated. ‘Steady acquisition, my boy. That is how our empire will be built.’ He would say that so often as a child. But then he still chose this as the path to excess. And for what? Power he was not meant to have!”
“Your father was ever a man of industry, Silas,” Thomas said nervously.
It was not the sentence itself that was the problem. It was obvious that he was uncertain if he had a right to say his employer’s name. Silas could see that, and almost immediately went to comfort his friend, but then he stopped himself. The butler had something of importance to say, and Silas would need to hear, not speak, if he was to grow.
“Men like him cannot accept loss easily. When your mother was gone and there was nothing he could do about it, he accepted the truth that she was gone, but when there was a chance that she could be returned to him, he grew dissatisfied with mundane pursuits. The flesh and spirit became his obsession like any business. For him, sir, there had to be a way to bring her back. If magic was real, and he found it was, there was no reason that it could not be used for his purpose of piercing and passing through the veil that separated life and death, and to return her to him for the rest of their natural lives, but ... death does not often yield.”
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