Epilogue

EPILOGUE

December 25, 2024

- 2 years later -

“ W elcome to Saint James’s Asylum for Women.”

Sweeping open the door, I welcome the group of tourists. Some of them carry the book I published about the DiSanti Massacre. They all hold a flashlight and have a thoughtful gaze that does little to hide their trepidation.

They’re in for quite the ride.

When the last person comes through, the door clangs shut with that unnatural bang. The first yelps already echo through the dark corridor.

The first of many to come, I’m sure.

I gaze up at the camera that’s placed in the top corner and smile at the secret audience lounging in the basement. A shiver of need teases my insides.

“We all react differently to fear. This tour is scary, it’s why you signed up for it. However, if it gets to be to much and you need an out, simply follow the green emergency exits. It’s one of the few alterations we gave the building. You can always leave.” I look around, making sure to catch each and every gaze. “Always.”

“How long do people usually last?” An older woman asks.

I try my best to swallow the chuckle that bubbles to the surface. “It takes us twenty minutes to climb down the stairs and visit the isolation room where Laura DiSanti was held. So far, no guest has seen that place.”

“Wow,” someone mouths.

“Exactly. Now, you’ve all signed the terms and conditions that are part of this visit. Saint James truly is haunted, and not just by a troubled past. Things happen here. Creepy things. So be careful with what you film, because this place is not for the faint of heart.” I smile at a guy with an old-fashioned camera. It’s similar to the one I used the first time I came here, two years ago.

The group chuckles.

“No one is changing their mind? Then switch on those lights and let’s go.”

Lights flicker around as we slowly move forward.

“Don’t linger in the rooms,” I warn. “Because you might just end up getting locked in.”

Another wave of nervous smiles.

Soon, they’ll be begging to get out.

“Do we also get to go upstairs to visit the bedrooms?” The guy with the camera asks. His glasses are crooked.

“We can. If you’re still with me.”

I’ve barely finished my phrase when a light pangs at the end of the hall. People panic and shine their flashlights around. There’s nothing to see.

“Stay with me, and you’ll be fine,” I chuckle. “This ghost is rather fond of me.”

This time, no one laughs.

Signing with my light, they follow me closely. “On the ground floor, we find hobby rooms and the kitchens,” I explain. “Over the past two years, we have discovered a lot in this place, but there still are—and probably always will be—secrets.” I glance at the moving rocking chair and smile.

“In your book, you mention that Laura DiSanti wrote in her diary that she felt misunderstood,” the young guy asks.

“Absolutely. She felt like a victim for being sentenced here. While really, she had committed no crime.”

“What about the baby?” Someone asks.

“We believe the baby died in childbirth.”

“Who was the father?” The guy asks.

Turning over my shoulder, our eyes meet. “That remains a mystery as well, I’m afraid.”

“She couldn’t have been innocent, though,” the older woman mutters. “Look at this place. Even without the litter and peeled-off walls, it looks daunting.”

“She didn’t deserve to be in isolation for six months,” someone says.

The group agrees.

“That would drive even a normal-thinking person insane.”

“Perhaps.” I wait as some of the braver visitors take a look inside the rooms. “But we can’t ignore the fact that the day she came out, she killed six people. What does that tell us?”

“That she was insane?” An older man asks as he helps his wife return from one of the rooms. Behind her the rocking chair still moves.

“Perhaps. However, that’s hard for us to judge. In today’s society, a crime of this caliber is first-degree murder. Had she planned them during her months in segregation? Possibly. But unfortunately, we will never know. She wrote only a few words in her diary on that day, December 16, 1952.”

“And what was that?” The camera guy asks.

Turning around, I stare right into the lens. “I will haunt you for this.”

“My god, that’s creepy,” someone whispers.

“Absolutely. The walls are littered with terrifying messages. Especially inside the isolation room. We’ll head there in a minute once we have finished our tour on the ground floor.” I usher them inside the large restrooms.

Most of them look around in awe.

Even I am captured in that permanent flashback every time I set foot here. The moment my eyes laid on Bran that very first time.

“Mister Anderson.” The camera guy sounds panicked. He’s looking through the mirror, and I know what he sees. “Mister Anderson,” he repeats. He has dropped his camera, and even in the twilight, I see that his eyes are large behind his glasses. “There’s someone out there.”

I smile reassuringly while my heart rate picks up. Fucking yesss… “If you see something, just stay still.”

“Stay still?” Someone gasps. Fear and nervous energy fill the air.

“But—” Camera man spins around and watches the door. “He’s coming this way.”

“They won’t come here, I promise.” I clasp a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “But we have to move.”

“Where are we going?” The older woman asks.

“Downstairs. To where they kept the troubled patients.”

She looks at her husband, then back at me. “Thank you for this remarkable visit, but I am leaving now.”

Once the first person drops out, more follow. It’s always like that. Only a few of them are left when we head down the stairs.

“Be careful down here,” I warn. “The floors are pretty messy.”

We have barely taken a few steps when panic breaks out.

“What’s that?” someone asks.

Those little shitheads.

“Let’s just keep on going,” I encourage. Upstairs, footsteps race over the floors.

“No! I want out!” One of the girls screams.

I point to the green flash. “There’s an emergency exit on your left, you?—”

She and her friend ran off before I could finish my phrase.

“Okay,” the camera guy chuckles uncomfortably. He’s the only one left.

I smile at him and point at the camera. “You seem well prepared?”

“Yes, I—I—I—” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I am a little nervous. The history of this building is so interesting.”

“Are you a psychology student?”

He shakes his head. “I study history. Actually—I wasn’t meant to be here today. I was supposed to be in Maine. There’s another building there with a similar story, an old school with an interesting disappearance. But life can take strange turns and…well—” He lets out another nervous chuckle. “Here I am.”

Ouch. This poor guy is making me feel guilty for what’s about to happen.

“Life tends to have its ways.” I step aside when we get to the isolation room. “Be very careful now, because this is where stuff gets really creepy. Good luck.”

He goes inside. “Wow…” I hear him say, caught up in the moment and not paying attention to me.

I switch off my light and quickly make my way to our backdoor. Camera man doesn’t notice I’m gone until the walls are opening up for me.

“Mister Anderson?” He calls out. “Mister—” It’s the last thing I hear of him.

Stone smoothly glides back into place and I’m once more facing our corridor. Christmas lights welcome me home. Toeing off my shoes, I quickly walk to the living room, where my twins are already sprawled out on the couch and watching the screen.

“I feel sorry for him,” I say. The young student is no longer filming, but running for the stairs instead.

“Maybe we should give him a little…smoke?” Bran teases.

“Don’t you dare,” I snatch the remote out of his hand. “That kid makes me think of my younger self.”

Castor quickly presses a random button and someone screams inside the asylum. “Oops.” He rumbles with laughter when I glare at him. On camera, we see the camera guy leave the door.

“Well, he made it out in one piece,” Bran smirks. “You’ve given him the time of his life. Speaking off…” He gets up and saunters toward the Christmas tree. I only now notice that the table has been set for three.

“You have been busy.”

“Of course he has been.” Castor pulls me onto his lap. “While you were out there making money, B was cooking like the pretty housewife he has become.”

“Oh, fuck off. You were the one who wanted duck.”

“And you wanted to please your brother, didn’t you?” Castor wiggles his brows when I curl my hands around his neck and press him close. His lips are soft and welcoming. “Hmm. Love it when you spook them out like that, little freak. Yeah, that’s it, rub yourself on my thigh.”

A Christmas carol fills the room. Bran’s humming to the lyrics as I’m getting lost in the moment.

Castor presses his hand against my crease, teasing the plug I’m wearing. He lifts my hips to take off my pants.

“Trust me?” He whispers. In his hand, he now holds black lace.

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” He slides the silky material over my face, blanketing my eyes. “Does this feel good?” His whispers, making my skin itch with need.

I moan my reply as he pushes me against his erection.

Cool fingers land on my throat, and I tilt my head back in acceptance. “You want to try the Christmas cocktail I made?”

I open my mouth for Bran and swallow around strawberries and vodka. “Hmm…so good.”

“Right? I’ve got something else you might like as well.”

Castor laughs breathily. “Get up and turn around, flower.”.

My mouth falls open when I feel him leave wet, open kisses on my ass cheeks. Then he nuzzles my plug.

“Want more?” Bran asks.

I nod and let him feed me. Castor spreads my ass cheeks, takes out the plug and licks inside my hole.

“More?”

“Yes,” I rasp.

Always more.

Castor sits me down while sliding his cock slowly inside me. It burns, but I welcome the sting as he slowly takes possession. Molding my tunnel to the shape of his erection, he places his hands on my thighs and positions himself until he’s fully sheathed.

“Fuck,” I choke.

“More?”

“Yes.”

“Is it good?”

I swallow the drink. “So good.”

Castor digs his nails into my hips. “Move, flower. Ride my fat cock.”

With each roll of my hips, my muscles unclench a little more, melting the sharpness of his intrusion as I open up for him.

“That’s it,” Castor praises, tightening his grip. It still stings a little, but fuck…it feels so good at the same time. Parting my lips, I take in a deep breath of air. It comes out on a moan when he hits my prostate.

“F-fuck…”

“So good,” Castor suckles at my earlobe. “So sweet.”

“Want more?” Bran asks.

“Yes.”

“Open wider, sweetheart.”

“I—” I forget the rest of my phrase when he presses the head of his dick inside my mouth. “Hmmm.”

“Suck him, flower. Make him feel good.” Castor lifts his hips to my rhythm, fucking me deep. I gag when Bran takes that moment to slide to the back of my throat. They both chuckle. My cock loves the attention, slapping against my stomach as I’m riding Castor like my life depends on it.

Arching my back, I let Castor clasp my chin to keep me in place as Bran fucks my face with fast, deep thrusts.

“Look at you opening up for me, sweetheart,” he pants. “You’re taking it all, aren’t you? So good.”

Behind me, I feel Castor tense. His grip tightens, but his rolls become sluggish as his breathing becomes ragged.

Bran grabs a fist full of hair and pulls his dick even deeper, keeping me there, face forward, choking on his cock, while Castor shudders and grunts as he empties himself into me. He kisses my throat, then slowly pulls my head back and my mouth off Bran. My face feels hot and sticky from saliva and snot. My eyes water behind the blindfold.

“Fuck, look at you. Full with my come.”

Bran helps me stand up, and I feel the insides of my thighs wetten with come. A finger traces the wet line, followed by a hum. “Hmm. You taste good, brother.”

“Turn around, sweetheart. I want to drink from your cock.”

I moan when they turn me around. Planting my hands on Castor’s shoulders for balance, Bran’s dick nudges at my entrance, his breath hot on my neck. He slides into my loosened hole with a satisfied grunt.

My knees weaken when Castor wraps his mouth around the head of my cock. He licks around the slit, humming as he does so, then licks his way down to my balls.

“Oh, fuck.” I grit my teeth, afraid to lose it too fast.

The moment Bran picks up his rhythm, moaning as he rocks back and forth and pushes me deeper into Castor’s mouth, I know it’s a losing game.

“Oh, sweetheart, the way you’re fucking his throat is perfection,” Bran grunts. “You’re sliding in, owning that filthy mouth like he’s your slave.”

Castor hums around my dick, probably a protest. I laugh, despite my arousal, then let my head falls back and against Bran’s solid chest.

“Your hole is perfection,” Bran rasps. “And those globes, hmm.” He pinches my ass, then slides his hand over my back, all the way up to my throat.

I know what will happen next. I brace for it.

His teeth nip into my flesh, sucking and licking. Every single inch of skin he can get his teeth on.

I moan, hips stuttering as my eyes roll back. “Mark me,” I whisper. My climax roars through me and my knees give, making Bran hold me up. I hear Castor moan around my spurting cock.

I’m still on my high when I feel Bran’s dick swell. Pressing a hand against my stomach, he pulls me even closer, before he releases everything he has. He shouts through his orgasm and his chin lands on my head so I can feel his entire body shiver.

He drops a kiss on my hair and breathes me in. “Fuck, that was good.” He slides off the blindfold, holding me against him.

Castor gets up, tracing his fingertips over my eyes as he hums. My insane obsessions.

Later on, we get dressed in the Christmas suits we got at Thatcher and Son, and sit down at the table. Castor serves us more of Bran’s cocktail while Irving Berlin’s White Christmas plays through the speaker.

“For your next publication, you should really consider making drawings of the asylum.” Bran eyes the canvas I made for the living area. “People would love that.”

“Perhaps.”

“Those are next year’s resolutions,” Castor says. “First we celebrate Christmas, then we go and check if your victim hasn’t drowned yet.”

“They’re just single water drops,” Bran mutters. “It’s not like it’s going to kill him.”

“Well, three million drops of water still fill the bucket, brother. Just saying.” Castor winks at me, laughing when I giggle.

“Merry Christmas loves.”

“ Merry Christmas. ”