Grave love, p.1
Grave Love, page 1
GRAVE LOVE
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A Dark & Spicy Paranormal Halloween Haunted House Ghost Reverse Harem Romance
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USA Today Bestselling Author
FAEDRA ROSE
COPYRIGHT
Grave Love © 2023 Faedra Rose
Cover Art by Artscandare
Interior Formatting Draft2Digital
Published by Gemini Rose Press
All characters, settings, locations, and all other content contained within this book are fictional and are the intellectual property of the author; any likenesses are coincidental and unknown to author and publisher at the time of publication.
This work and its components may not be reproduced without the express written permission of the author and Gemini Rose Press.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
www.geminirosepress.com
CONTENT NOTICE
This book is a work of fiction and contains content that may be upsetting to some readers. It is intended for mature audiences only. You have been warned.
This book features the following themes:
NonCon/DubCon, Sexual and Physical Violence, Multiple Partners, Breath and Blood Play, Stalking, Praise and Degradation, Bondage, the Occult, and Murder.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Disclaimer
DEDICATION
BLURB
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to everyone for whom being caught by the ghosts you feared—and the dark, twisted fantasies of what they might do to you—was far more thrilling than the importance of surviving the encounter...
This Darkly Ever After is for you!
BLURB
When curvy starving artist Victoria Austen purchases a remote and derelict manor in the English countryside with her meager inheritance, she thinks she’s landed her dream home... but she couldn’t be more wrong. Because Haywood House is filled with unseen nightmares.
Victoria’s never believed in the paranormal, but the ghosts of Haywood House don’t care. They have an unquenchable and unholy thirst that demands slaking—and this Halloween Victoria’s on the menu.
CHAPTER ONE
Haywood House looms tall, like a gothic sentinel standing with its back to the light of the full moon of All Hallows’ Eve. Her shadow swallows the large, unkempt, and overgrown countryside gardens. And before me, the old wrought iron gates are covered in lush ivy, creaking and moaning against their rusty hinges. It’s a spectacularly beautiful property with infinite potential. And it was dirt cheap. According to the listing the home belonged to the Haywoods’ and had successfully been kept within the family for some three hundred years—until its most recent owners passed away.
The real estate agents were suspiciously keen to be rid of it, now that I think about it, but as a proverbial starving artist, with nothing but a Bachelor of Arts under my belt, and the meagre inheritance I received when my parents died in a car accident... well, I figured beggars can’t be choosers. It seemed smarter to invest, and set down roots, than rent and hope for permanency in some distant, unforeseeable future that may never manifest.
Swallowing my anxiety, I clamber out of the car and fumble with the gritty lock by the dim glow of my park lights. It takes some jiggling and a few choice curse words, but the ornate key finally finds its mark and with a satisfying clunk! the lock yields to me. Leaving it to hang from the gate, I push each side open so that I can drive through. The wind howls around me like a wild banshee, whipping up my long hair, jostling vines, and prickling my skin with gooseflesh. This is it, I think excitedly. As of tonight, I’m officially a homeowner.
The real estate agents warned me to wait until morning to move in, but I’m not afraid of the dark and I’m certainly not superstitious. Halloween is a fun holiday based on ancient European traditions and death rites, nothing more. And I’m certainly not about to let a little wind and the shifting shadows of gnarled trees keep me from my dream home. I mean, what better plan is there than to move into my gorgeous—if not slightly derelict —house on the spookiest day of the year? It’ll certainly make for a good story in the years to come!
Slipping back into my faded but trusty red hatchback, I slip her into gear and edge my way slowly through the gates and down the impressively long, straight driveway. I take my time, peering into the inky blackness of the gardens, trying to make out what features I can in the obscuring, all-encompassing shadow of the house.
I drink in the rambling red roses, thick, glossy hedges, ancient weeping willows, a reed-choked lake, as well as what looks to be a small fenced off private family graveyard. Not to mention several spectacular weather-worn angels, their wings relaxed, faces buried in their hands as if in eternal mourning. Their beauty is haunting.
An icy chill whispers down my spine, but I shake it off without too much thought. Everything about the Estate cries out in despair and disrepair, and it tugs at my heartstrings. It’ll be a lifetime’s worth of work but restoring this piece of architectural magnificence and local heritage will be well worth it in the end. I’m sure of it. Haywood House just needs love, I reason. She just needs a caretaker to nurse her back to her former glory.
I pull up on the cobblestones out the front and switch off the ignition. Time to see exactly what we’re dealing with! Slinging my handbag over my shoulder, I grab my duffle bag off the backseat and step out into the night once more. Then using the torch on my phone to see by, I unlock the double front doors with surprising ease. Motes of dust stir, dancing in the shaft of light cast by my cell as I step over the threshold and into the darkness of the house.
The foyer is cavernous and grand, and the appointments are of a typically baroque style—lavish and opulent to a fault. A sigh of awe ripples through me at the sight. Some tend to find the era and its designs quite gawdy and over the top, but I personally love them. The seventeenth through eighteenth centuries was a time when everything was seen as art. From the chairs you sat on to the beds you slept in, to the cornices on the walls and the wallpapers that covered them. No detail was spared. Beauty was everywhere if only you looked.
Stepping forward tentatively, I inspect the nearby walls for a light switch. I know the home to be an original period property, but surely the family had electricity installed during the early nineteen thirties when everyone else across England had theirs done? But there are no switches or light fittings to be found, and my gut lurches when I find an assortment of used candles and a lovely, but tarnished brass oil burner.
“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant.” And I realize my folly in buying blind. There is no electricity connected and it’s going to cost me a right fortune to have it hooked up in a historic place like this. How am I going to charge my phone or laptop? I wonder. And the situation only goes from bad to worse when I wander into the spacious and extravagant kitchen to find a rustic wood-fired stove caked with years of grime and use. There’s not a hotplate or gas outlet in sight, either. “Fuck me,” I lament, letting my breath out in a frustrated hiss. I’m going to be surviving like I’m actually living in Victorian England!
I dump my handbag on the dusty kitchen table, along with my duffle. I have maybe three days’ worth of charge on my phone if I’m careful and not running it down by using the damn flashlight. So, I hunt for matches, and thankfully come across a draw full of them in relatively short order. “Thank fuck for that.” At least I won’t have to stumble around in the dark. I don’t need to add broken limbs to today’s checklist of things gone wrong, that’s for damn sure.
Fetching the brass oil lantern by the front door, I pray that there’s still enough oil left in reserve to wet the wick and keep it lit so that I can at least explore the place a little and see just what state the rest of Haywood House is in.
CHAPTER TWO
The old floorboards creak as I wander through the house, the shadows stretching before me like intangible fingers. It feels strange and eerie to be alone in a historic building on such a stormy All Hallows’ Eve. Mercifully, the house seems airtight. There are no drafts or gusts of chill breeze that find their way in. Everything is just disturbingly silent—like the grave. It’s hard to imagine that this was once a thriving family home, likely filled with classical music, sweet, mouth-watering aromas, and children’s laughter.
Discovering an old piano in the parlor, I trail my fingers along its dusty white and black keys, pressing down softly as I go. The out-of-tune notes shatter the silence like breaking glass, sending a thrilled shiver down my spine as my heart races. The baroque daybeds artfully arranged around the leisure room are adorned with embroidered cushions, while the heavy, luxurious curtains keep the living space in pitch darkness. We’ll fix that. Approaching a window, I draw the musty-smelling fabric back, soon flooding the room with the radiance of the moon.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn abruptly, a gasp escaping me as I whip the lantern around, raising it against the inky gloom like a shield. “Hello?” I call, every bone in my body instantly vibrating with trepidation. I should be alone. The house has been locked up for months. Holding my breath, heart thumping in my ears, I wait. When I see or hear no fu
Shaking my head at how easily I spook, I smile to myself. “Come on, Victoria,” I mutter. “Calm your tits or you’ll give yourself a heart attack.” Drawing all the curtains back in the parlor, the room is magnificently illuminated, the darkness temporarily chased away. Feeling a touch better, I decide to press on, meandering my way around the lower floor. I find a large bathroom with a claw-footed porcelain tub and an old-fashioned pull-chain toilet. I could complain, but at this point I’m just glad it fucking flushes.
My brows furrow as the soft, distant sound of a tinkling melody begins to play. “What in God’s name?” That can’t be a coincidence... the haunting tune echoes throughout the manor, and this time I find myself more curious and intrigued than frightened by the unexpected sound. Following the strange and beautiful song, I come to the foot of the grand staircase. It’s coming from the second floor!
Taking a deep breath, I edge my way up slowly, one hand on the banister as I go. Dust spills over the edges at my touch, cascading into the darkness below. As I reach the middle landing, I raise my lantern. Then turning in a slow circle, I attempt to get a scope of the walkway and layout of the floor above me. My heart jumps when another shadow slips into an open doorway down the hall. There’s no moonlight up here to cast shadows, no source of light except for that of the oil lamp held tight in my grasp.
The unsettling knowledge has my pulse racing and my anxiety building. Whatever it was, moved independently and in a decidedly unnatural manner. It seemed almost like a figure—like that of a person. Perhaps this old place really is haunted? I muse, poking fun at myself again. Brushing the thought aside, I take the split staircase to my right and step up onto the second story to follow the music.
As I reach the first doorway, I pause and listen. The room is still and silent. The melody continues, clearly resonating from further down the hall. Turning away, I raise my lantern and stop at the next room. Silence. My gut lurches, but I suck in a deep breath and forge ahead, albeit cautiously; like a rabbit caught vulnerable in an open field, painfully aware she’s being closely watched by hungry foxes in the underbrush. The music tinkles on, coaxing me to explore further. There’s just one more room left on this side of the house—the room into which the mysterious shadow disappeared.
One foot after the other I close the small distance between me and the third and final door. I don’t know what possesses me, but as I cross the threshold, I whisper “Hello?” The room is revealed to me by the dim light of my lantern. It’s a quaint bedroom, with a grand four-poster bed, a large triptych mirror, and an old oak wardrobe. By the window an elegant desk takes prime position, vying for the light. And upon it, a beautiful and delicate ballerina twirls, turning slowly in a timeless, antique music box.
Placing the lantern down, I pick the music box up to admire it. It’s stunning. “But how did you start all by yourself? Who turned your key?” I ask, as if someone might answer my query. But no one does. Replacing the music box with care, I draw back the curtains and moonlight streams in, bathing the room in an ethereal luminescence. The shadowed gardens of the Haywood Estate whisper in the wind, the blood red roses swaying, as the reeds jostle and shiver along the shore of the dark lake.
A sudden and inexplicable chill fills the room, creeping from the ground up to prickle at my skin. My breath frosts in the air before me, whorling away into the dust that sparkles like glitter before my eyes. Every instinct in my body is at war with one another. Remain still. No. Turn around. Run! The warnings sound in my mind like air-raid sirens. I’m not alone. With an undeniable certainty that threatens to still my beating heart, I know that there’s something behind me—between me and the door—between me and my only escape route.
“Welcome to Haywood House,” says a breathy, but masculine voice.
My blood runs cold, and I will my bladder to be strong as my legs turn to jelly. With what feels like broken shards of glass slicing up my lungs, I swallow the terror that would drown me alive, and pivot slowly to face whoever... or whatever spoke.
CHAPTER THREE
My soul quakes as I behold the impossible. My brain refuses to believe, and every logical particle in my body rebels against it. Three perfectly identical men dressed in period clothing stand between me and the door. They seem unfathomably real. Am I dreaming? I suddenly wonder as I begin to question everything. Am I even here? Am I still sound asleep at the motel, waiting until morning to move in? My mind scrambles for any remotely feasible possibility—some semblance of reality where I’m not frozen like a statue, face-to-face with a group of what can only conceivably be... ghosts.
Trembling like a leaf, I attempt to swallow my fear. How can this be? Ghosts aren’t real. They don’t exist. The paranormal is all bogus—it’s conspiracy theory shit for the gullible and young at heart. “This isn’t real,” I finally manage to say aloud, though the smirks on the faces staring back at me make me question the validity and truth of my meek statement. There must be... black mold in the house, I reason, grasping desperately for straws. Toxic spores, maybe! Or perhaps the vapors from the old oil in the burner have me hallucinating?
“I’m afraid we’re very real, Victoria,” says one of the apparitions in a cultured and dated manner.
“Let us show you just how real,” echoes another.
“No.” I shake my head emphatically, pursing my lips as I shiver. “I’m experiencing some kind of mental break. You aren’t real. You can’t be. I’m imagining things.” Before I can draw my next breath, the ghosts are inexplicably gone. They just vanish, blinking out of existence; leaving me alone in the moonlight-flooded room as the antique music box continues to play its beautiful and haunting melody.
Without warning I feel the unmistakable sensation of a tongue languidly licking up my neck. I want to scream. I want to move. But I can’t. Then there a hands—invisible, impossible hands—exploring and caressing my body in ways only a lover should. My breasts are groped, and my hair is pulled by the unseen assailants. Instinctively I arch my back, despite my terror, attempting to compensate for the sudden, sharp thrill of pain that sings across my scalp like fire. A gasp escapes me as another pair of hands trails down my body to knead at my pussy through my black jeans.
The buttons of my plaid shirt start popping open one at a time, and a vise-like grip seizes me by the back of my neck, holding me hostage to the unholy ministrations befalling me. Soon my blouse is no longer protecting my modesty, and I feel a sharp tug on my pants as the zipper is undone. It’s too much. It’s not possible. This can’t be happening—and yet it is. It really is. My knees buckle beneath me, and my conscious mind gives up in sheer terror. Then... nothing.
Slowly, I come to, the shadows of the room swimming in and out of my still blurry vision. A shiver ripples through me and I realize I’m cold—so cold in fact that I’m shaking, practically jolting. Or am I? Blinking to clear my eyes, I glance down toward my toes. My heart almost seizes in my chest at the sight that greets me.
One of the mysteriously handsome men is buried within me, slamming his cock balls deep with the force of centuries worth of carnal yearning; at least judging by his earlier attire.
I’m not shaking with cold. I’m as naked as the day I was born and am being viciously fucked by a god damn eighteenth-century ghost! This is real. It’s actually happening! I can feel it. There is no denying the long, solid, and thick flesh penetrating my own. I thrash in defiance, turning my head from side to side, but I can’t break free. What the fuck? I’m pinned and helpless, trapped like a butterfly under glass, held fast by the other two historic deviants.
They watch their accomplice thunder into me with dark, rapt delight.
Unbidden, a tortured moan tears from my lips, and I, too, watch on; with a heady mix of abject horror, disbelief, a small amount of macabre fascination—and to my deep shame, a frightening, and knee-weakening sense of arousal. Glancing between the three of them is uncannily like looking into the triptych mirror. They’re identical fucking triplets!
