WARNING: The following story is fundamentally erotic in nature, but it is first and foremost a horror story. Unlike some stories in the "erotic horror" category on this site, this story is meant to be genuinely frightening. If you have ever been a victim of sexual violence or someone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, you may find this story disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.
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My mother had this weird hobby of collecting really old books. When I was growing up, she had an entire library of full of these massive, ancient tomes, some of them dating back hundreds of years, that she kept in the basement of the large Victorian mansion in which we lived. My sister Agnes and I were sometimes allowed to go down there under our mother's supervision, but we were never allowed to touch any of the books.
Our mother always told us that the books were extremely delicate and expensive and, if we were to touch them, we might accidentally damage them. We trusted our mother and we didn't want to damage her books, so, while she was alive, we always followed her rules and never touched any of them.
Then, when I was twenty-two and Agnes was twenty, our mother unexpectedly passed away in her sleep. This came as a total shock, because she was only forty-four years old and in very good health. We had all expected her to live well into her nineties.
Her death naturally came as a very traumatic experience for both of us, since our father had died before Agnes was even born. I had apparently known him when I was very little, but I couldn't even remember his face. Our mother almost never spoke of him and she kept no pictures of him around the house. Thankfully, Agnes and I still had each other to lean on.
Our mother had no living relatives aside from us, her only offspring. She had no siblings, parents, or even cousins that were still alive. Consequently, she named Agnes and I in her will as the sole inheritors of all her property, including the house, all of her money, and all of her books. We were astonished to find that our mother had been far wealthier than either of us had ever realized. We'd always known she'd had money, but neither of us ever guessed how much she really had.
"How on earth does a relatively obscure freelance writer on medieval history who never wrote a single bestseller become a triple millionaire in just a couple of decades—all while raising two daughters as a single mother?" Agnes asked, gazing in awe at the reports of how much money we had just inherited as we sat at the old dinner table in the dining room.
"What I'm wondering is why she kept us in this crappy old mansion and never moved us into a nicer place, since she had so much money," I scoffed, looking around the dark room, which was illuminated only by a dim ceiling light directly above the table. "This place always creeped me out. It's so old and I've never been able to understand why it's always so dark."
"Maybe she was sentimental," Agnes suggested.
"More likely she just had a massive fetish for old stuff," I muttered under my breath. It was several weeks after our mother's funeral and we had mostly recovered from the shock of her death, so I didn't feel as guilty mocking her as I would have felt if I had done it sooner after her death.
Anyone looking at Agnes and I as we were sitting there would've had a hard time guessing we were full sisters. We both had our mother's pale, milky white skin and her bewitching good looks, but the similarities between us ended there. My hair was long and flaming red, while Agnes's hair was as black as raven. My eyes were emerald green, while hers were icy grey. While her face was completely without the slightest trace of markings, my face was covered in freckles. Though she was two years younger than me, Agnes was taller than me by several inches. We looked more like cousins than sisters.
Suddenly, I heard something.
"Agnes, do you hear that?" I asked.
She looked up from the papers and listened.
"I don't hear anything," she replied, a confused expression on her face.
"It sounds like music coming from the basement," I told her. "Really old, creepy music."
"Mom always loved that medieval choir stuff. Maybe she left some of it playing," Agnes suggested.
"We should go down there and check it out," I decided.
Agnes and I walked through the long, dark hallways of the house to the door to the basement. Sure enough, we heard eerie choral singing in medieval French coming from down there.
"It's so strange," I whispered. "It's been well over a month since Mom died and I don't remember hearing music coming from down there before."
I slowly turned the handle and opened the door. There was no light in the stairwell and the light switch to the light in the basement was at the bottom of the stairs, so we could not see anything. Together, Agnes and I descended the spiral staircase that led into the basement in near complete darkness. When we reached the bottom, I felt around for the light switch and, when I felt it, I turned it on.
Even with the lights on, the basement had always kind of freaked me out. It was a single, very large room with hardwood flooring. The whole room was illuminated by two small lights in the ceiling and there were no windows, so it was always dark down there. It also always seemed ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, so I had obviously made sure to put on a sweatshirt before I went down there.
The walls were lined with old, wooden bookshelves that were completely filled with old books. All of the bookshelves were neatly organized. At the far end of the room stood an antique desk with a desk lamp on it and a bookshelf over it. Strangely, the desk lamp had been left on and there was a single book sitting on the desk, opened to a certain page.
I was very confused by this, so I walked over to the desk. Agnes followed after me. I looked down at the centuries-old handwritten manuscript that had been left lying open. Then I looked over at Agnes, who seemed equally surprised by the turned-on desk light and the open book as I was.
"Did you come down here at any point and put this book here or turn the desk light on?" I asked her.
"No. Never," she replied, shaking her head. "Mom must have left it like this before she died."
"That's so strange," I remarked. "She was always such a neat freak. I don't think she ever left a book lying out or a light on the entire time we were living with her. She'd always yell at me to put all my things away as soon as I was done with them."
I sat down in the desk chair and carefully examined the book. I could tell that it was extraordinarily old. The pages were enormous sheets of vellum parchment with the words handwritten on them using ink in beautiful calligraphic script.
"Maybe she left it here for us to find," I suggested.
I partially closed the book, holding the page with my hand, so I could look at the cover to see what the titled was. To my surprise, there was no title. The book's ancient, leather cover was impressed with intricate gold designs, but there was no title. I turned back to the page the book had been left open to.
"What does it say?" Agnes asked.
"It's talking about these things called 'incubi,'" I told her. "It says they are demons that appear in the forms of extraordinarily handsome men and they seduce women. It says they are extraordinarily talented lovemakers, beyond all human comparison."
I turned the page to see, on the other side, a detailed, full-color, hand-painted illustration of the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my entire life sitting nude, sprawled across a bed. He was as pale as I was, with long, flaming red curls, emerald green eyes, freckles, thin pencil-shaped eyebrows, a pointed chin, and pointed ears—all of them just like mine. His body was well-toned and athletic and, between his spread legs, rose a massive cock, drawn in such detail that I could even see the veins. Written beside the illustration was a label which read "incubus."
"Ooh la la," Agnes giggled. "Looks like someone just met her dream boyfriend."
"This can't be right," I muttered. "The man—I mean, incubus—in this illustration looks too much like me for this to be coincidence."
"Maybe Mom made this book herself just to screw with us?" Agnes suggested.
