Page 60 of Grotesque Love

I need a shower.

In the bathroom, I’m once again disappointed that my cheeky stone gargoyle isn’t outside the window, peering in and trying to perv on me.Mal. It was definitely Mal outside the window.

I push those feelings aside.

As the warm water cascades over me, washing away the remnants of sleep and confusion, I try to piece together thefragments of last night. The steam from the shower clouds my thoughts, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. I close my eyes and let the water soothe me, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of my mind.

Was it really all just a dream? I don’t think my imagination isthatgood.

The memory of their touch lingers on my skin, a phantom sensation that both comforts and torments me.

I can almost hear their voices in the gentle patter of the water against the tiles. Did I really lose my virginity to a gentle monster, while another fucked him and a third held me?

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel before quickly dressing and heading downstairs, a sense of curiosity driving me forward. Danvers has already given me my medicine tonight, and as I glance out the window I notice his car is missing from the driveway.

This is the perfect opportunity to explore, and all I can think about is how there must be answers somewhere in this house – it’s just knowing where to look.

I reach the ground floor, pausing to take a moment to scan my surroundings. Will this huge crumbling manor house ever be home? I’ve felt more at ease here in the last few days, exploring with a clearer head, feeling more myself, than I ever have.

But to call it a home…it still feels wrong.

The air always feels heavy with anticipation, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting to reveal their secrets. The dark shadowy corners and closed off rooms taunt me, warning me while also begging for my attention. With each step I take, the truth of last night swirls around me like a thick fog, elusive and just out of reach.

I should probably eat. Sax would want me to eat, wouldn’t he?

Deciding he would –if he were real– I head to the kitchen, smiling when I find containers of soup portioned up in the fridge for me. This feels like something Jas would do, a way to show he cares, I think, as I take one out and reheat it on the stove. I pourmyself a glass of orange juice and sit down to eat my lunch in front of another vase of fresh wildflowers.

No, not a vase.

A glass.

How strange that these flowers have been placed in a drinking glass. Where has the cut-crystal vase from before gone? Did someone or something break it?

Shaking my head, I decide to let some mysteries lie, and eat my food. When I’m done, I wash up and go in search of answers once more.

It feels like it takes hours of wandering the dusty corridors, opening creaky doors to peer into abandoned, neglected rooms, until I find something worthwhile that I hadn’t yet stumbled on in my previous explorations.

A library.

It’s another stale, forgotten space tucked away in a corner of the house. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the walls lined with shelves of ancient books. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and leather bindings, and a sense of reverence washes over me as I step further into the room. I love it here. Maybe even more than the solarium.

I run my fingers over the spines of the books, feeling the ridges and imperfections beneath my touch. There’s a sense of history, a weight of knowledge waiting to be discovered. As I move deeper into the library, no particular book catches my eye. They all seem to call out to me, the muted jewelled tones of the cloth-bound covers adorned with simple foiled titles in gold, all equally beautiful and enticing.

I don’t know where to start. The urge to just grab the nearest tome and sink into a chair and while away the day is overwhelming, but I came here with a purpose. To gather information. I want to know more about the house. Its history. The tower I dreamed of last night which seemed cut off from the rest of the house. I want to know more about the grotesques and gargoyles,to discover why those three can move but the others don’t seem to.

After a while browsing the shelves, a particular book catches my eye. Its cover is just as weathered and faded as the others, but with intricate designs etched into the leather. Carefully, I pull it from its place, blowing off a layer of dust that had settled on top of it.

Opening the book reveals pages filled with elegant script, detailing the history of the house. This is it. This is exactly what I was hoping to find.

I sink into an armchair by the window, completely absorbed in the words that seem to dance off the page, the truth unfolding like a delicate flower blooming in the darkness, revealing secrets long buried and forgotten.

It details the Clifton family, mysterious occurrences, and whispered secrets that have been passed down through time. Parts of the book read like a diary, whereas others have a more formal tone. Every few chapters or so the handwriting changes, leading me to think this book has been passed down through the family and added to by each generation that has resided here.

But what truly captures my attention are the mentions of the tower – the one from my very,veryraunchy dreams.

According to the book, the entrance to the tower was damaged in a fire – blocking off all access to it. That wing of the house burnt down and the tower should have gone up in flames too, but for some reason it remained standing.

Throughout the pages, many of the authors have their own theories on why the tower itself was never damaged, with many of the older entries leaning towards whisperings of magic and witchcraft, curses and the devil.

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