Vampyre | Book I of Bloodlines | Free on Inkitt & Kindle Unlimited
House of Horrors

Viola

For days, I’ve been pondering how I ended up here—not just the logistics but the deeper reason for my presence in this house.

One thing my mother used to say, which my father echoed after her passing, always stuck with me: “There are no accidents. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be at any given moment.”

So, according to the beliefs of both my parents, I’m meant to be right here, in this place, married to this man, if one could even call him that.

Sitting in the garden, I take a deep breath and survey my surroundings. The house itself is beautiful and grand, and the gardens and grounds are immaculate and teeming with wildlife. It’s a home any woman would dream of living in, though that dream would quickly turn into a nightmare once they learned about the abuse being William’s wife entailed.

Fortunately, I feel absolutely nothing anymore. I was broken before arriving here, and everything William does to me pales in comparison. In fact, a part of me wants him to destroy me from within so that I might feel something other than this emptiness. A piece of me is missing, and every passing day widens that void a little more.

I don’t love William—he cannot break my heart or disappoint my expectations. I expect nothing from him, yet I can’t comprehend his motivations. I’ve been trying to figure him out, but I can’t claim to know much about him beyond a few facts and whatever he’s chosen to reveal, if any of them were even “facts.”

Shakespeare famously wrote that the world is a stage, and we are all merely players—my husband must be a seasoned performer in this game. Little does he know, I’ve spent my entire life concealing my true self, playing the role of the perfect daughter on a public stage. My life, it seems, was a rehearsal just for this moment. Now, I can play this game.

Continuing my walk, I stumble upon a flower bed lined with hundreds of Lily of the Valley. They’re early bloomers, and the flowers have already faded, leaving behind little red berries. This particular plant was one of my favorites as a child, and my mother taught me everything about the plants in our garden. The scent is rich and beautiful, but I’ll never forget when my mother warned me about its toxicity: “Just two leaves are enough to poison a small animal or child. It’s best not to ingest it.”

I was five years old at the time—I take a moment to consider the ratio needed to poison a man William’s size. With his muscle mass, I’d say he’s about nine five-year-old children, so eighteen leaves should be enough to make him seriously ill—at least twenty to kill him.

I shake my head to dispel my intrusive thoughts and let out a sigh as I continue walking. I shouldn’t entertain such thoughts—I’ve never been one to harm another living being. I’m not even sure if I’m capable of it, but then again, I’ve never been pushed to confront these thoughts until now.

In ancient Rome, poison was frequently wielded as a weapon. Many of the books I’ve read highlighted plants like belladonna, yew extracts, hemlock, hellebore, and opium. I never cared for tales involving poison—it felt like a deceitful and dishonorable method of defeating an adversary, often associated with women—a double insult. But how else is a woman to defend herself against someone like William, a formidable force and likely a skilled fighter? When he took me for the first time, his large hand enveloped my entire neck as he bent me over and forced himself upon me. I felt his strength. I knew the moment he touched me that I couldn’t resist him. I always anticipated this would happen after we married, but not like this. His eyes were cold, filled only with a primal desire to consume my flesh.

This is my life now.

As the day winds down, I replace myself heading to the library. This is the one place where I feel somewhat safe. Surrounded by the stories of heroes and legends, I replace distraction within these pages, hoping for inspiration other than contemplating poisoning my Lord husband.

After an hour of reading “The Portrait of Dorian Gray,” I begin to hear peculiar noises emanating from an unidentified location.

Initially, I attempt to ignore the sounds, but my curiosity overtakes me. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, listening intently, I discern that the noises originate from behind one of the bookcases. Could there be a secret room concealed back there? Or perhaps my imagination has been influenced by too many Sherlock Holmes novels.

Placing my ear against the books, I close my eyes. The atmosphere is so hushed that I can hear the rhythmic thumping of my own heart in my ears. As I hold my breath and concentrate, a sudden pang shoots through my head, fleeting but intense. In the darkness of my mind’s eye, I see a pair of glowing red eyes take shape and fixate on me. The swirling pools of mist within them seem to gaze into my soul, revealing even the most hidden and inappropriate thoughts I bury deep within myself, thoughts I share with no one.

“Hide, little one,” a hoarse and gravelly voice echoes deep within my mind, searing my head with a painful heat while simultaneously sending ice-cold shivers through my bones.

“He is coming,” the eerie voice adds ominously.

My eyes shoot open, and I step back from the books, filled with dread. If the voice is right, William will emerge from God knows where and replace me here.

I hurry to crawl under a nearby desk and hide just in time. The bookshelf I had my ear pressed against slowly creaks open to reveal a small passage inside. I risk peeking out slowly from under the desk to see William holding a large sack. With his back to me, he reaches high on the shelf to push a book back into place, and I hear a mechanism click, almost as if it were locking the secret door. When William exits the library, I stay under the desk for a moment, contemplating my next move.

There’s no way I’m not going in there, but I need to come to terms with the gravity of the consequences first. If William discovers my intrusion, he might do worse than just fuck me, and then there’s no telling what I might discover in there.

I crawl out from under the table and stare at the thick green leather-bound tome that will unlock the bookcase. Without thinking, I climb up the bookcase, but when I pull on the book, I replace it difficult to move. I grip the shelf and make sure my footing is secure before pulling on it again using my body weight. I fall back onto the floor as the heavy bookcase creaks open.

The dark tunnel that stretches out before me hums with a loud silence as I stare into its seemingly endless abyss. My heartbeat accelerates in anticipation of what I may replace, and my lips pull into a smile. Curiosity killed the cat, Viola.

“Yes, but satisfaction brought it back,” I whisper to myself, trying to convince myself that going down this rabbit hole isn’t an idiotic thing to do.

I take a candle from the desk and light it before going into the tunnel. Not wanting to get stuck, I close the bookcase behind me only after replaceing the lever that opens it from the inside.

As I venture further inside, the air suddenly turns ice-cold, and I can see my breath hanging in the chilly air. A shudder spreads through my body, and goosebumps rise all over. One might mistake it for fear, but it’s not—it’s excitement. Maybe since I’ve lost all hope, it doesn’t really matter if I get caught. What part of my life could possibly get any worse at this point? Maybe a monster will jump out, bite my head off, and put me out of my misery. One can only hope.

I reach a door and open it to replace an extraordinary office filled with ancient books, scrolls, images of animals, and beasts of fantastical sorts. Every inch of space is littered with weapons and religious trinkets of all kinds and cultures. As I set down what looks to be an ampule of holy water, I begin to question William’s sanity.

The moment I notice the seemingly ordinary door at the back of the room, I replace myself drawn toward it. I stand there for some time with my hand on the knob, daring myself to open it, uncertain of what could be on the other side. I almost want to say a little prayer for strength, but God left this house long ago, leaving me trapped inside with one of his lackeys. When I finally replace the courage to turn the handle, the door doesn’t budge, and I scold myself for thinking it would open. Of course, it’s locked, you fool.

I lean against the door and slide down until my buttocks hit the floor. It’s not the best idea to sit around and wait to be caught, but I sense there’s something here I’m meant to replace. As I scan the room, nothing out of the ordinary catches my eye—although, in this room, nothing is ordinary.

Just as I go to get up, I notice the keyhole in the door and look through it without a second thought—it’s dark in there.

I set down the candle and cup my hands around my eye to see better. The room on the other side appears huge, but as my eye focuses on the shape in the center, I question whether what I’m seeing is even real—a person is in there.

As my eyes adjust, I discern their attire—black pants and a torn, stained white shirt. Long white hair cascades from their bowed head to their waist, suggesting it’s a woman, yet this person is too large to be female. However, from this distance, certainty eludes me.

My gaze ascends to their ghastly thin, malnourished arms, fixating on the silver shackles encircling their wrists, gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the large, stained glass windows. They’re kneeling, arms outstretched, held up by silver chains extending all the way to the tall ceiling. This is barbaric.

I cover my mouth and pull away momentarily, going over what I’ve just witnessed. Surely this can’t be real. Is William keeping some old man prisoner?

I look again—my need to help this person overriding all common sense. I thought I had it bad, but this is a whole new level of horror, and if William can do this to someone, what’s to stop him from doing it to me if he replaces me here? Before I can ask the captive a question, I notice the insane number of crucifixes surrounding them, almost like a barrier to prevent escape if their chains were ever broken.

“He’s looking for you,” an ice-like voice cuts through the silence, sounding like it belonged to death himself.

Frozen in horror, I stare as the decrepit old man inside the room looks directly at me through the tiny keyhole, seeming to peer into my soul with his bright red eyes glowing in the dark.

It’s a Daemon!

There is more than one monster living under this roof.

“Run,” he commands.