Marcel Manor (Lunatic Moon Series) by Mandy M. Roth continues… (remember you can’t get this version anywhere but here. Also, this page is set up for those 18 years and older. If you are here and not at least 18, please leave.)
Present Day, America
Marcel sat within his home—his castle—his manor. The grandfather clock ticked by, reminding him that time passed slowly, very slowly. The hour grew near when darkness was at its strongest. Though it seemed anymore the dead could reach through the veil whenever it suited them. They were no longer bound by hands on a clock. That being said, the witching hour held the most power for them, allowing them to spare him no pity. And they never did. For over a hundred and sixty years they had followed him, torturing him, reminding him of what he’d done, of the lives he’d taken and of the fact he was no longer a man. He hadn’t been human for so long he vaguely recalled what it had been like.
He’d had a family once—a mother, sister and father. He had no one now. They were all dead and gone, yet silent to him, unlike his victims. His family had died with the knowledge he’d lost his humanity and had become the stuff of nightmares.
The clock struck three a.m., and Marcel stiffened, already knowing what was to come. The room around him blurred. Mist eased under the doorframe and seemed to seep in from the windowsills. Everything around him changed. The grandfather clock vanished, replaced by a wooden chair with straps and restraints. Marcel flinched at the sight of the chair, the remembered pain as fresh today as it had been in the late 1800s when he’d found himself at the hands of “healers”.
Even more so than he.
The doctors had sought to cure him of his ills. To rid him of his voices and the darkness he harbored. Their treatments were barbaric and did nothing to stop the demon or the voices. All they did was serve to anger the demon more.
The room shown to him now, one he knew wasn’t real, had been one he’d spent far too long in. The scratch marks he’d clawed into the stone walls were there, mocking him, reminding him of the time he’d spent held captive within, unable to do anything beyond claw and cry out in agonizing hunger.
They’d given him just enough blood to survive, but not enough to thrive. He’d been a testing marvel, something they relished the chance to study. No help was ever offered. Only pain. Only death.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the horrid memories. They’d brought him beggars and street urchins to feed upon whenever he’d been so hungry that the demon he carried took the lead. He’d taken so many lives in a place he’d thought would provide sanctuary. They’d made him an even bigger monster, and the spirits haunting him rejoiced in the agony seeing the room caused him.
Their laughter, maniacal, surrounded him.
“Look,” they said in unison. “Remember.”
“No more!” he shouted with a start.