DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER SEVEN: VIOLENCE

WARNING: This chapter contains sex, violence, homophobia, and strong language. 

The ruins of Forestvale Manor lay beneath a gray sky, silent and wind-worn. Theolinda walked among the charred foundations, where weeds grew through cracks in the stone like veins of memory. The fire had consumed everything — yet something darker lingered, something she could feel in her bones.

She paused by what had once been the grand staircase. The air shimmered faintly. In the distance, something glimmered on the ground — a faint pattern traced in ash and earth. She crouched to examine it, brushing the dirt aside. A symbol. Old, intricate, faintly pulsing beneath the surface.

"Not gone after all," she murmured.
The Manor still breathed.

Across town, life continued — fragile, ordinary — until it didn't.

Rogers' eldest son, Jake, had found in Aaron a love that made him feel alive for the first time. It had begun in secrecy, a friendship that deepened into hunger and tenderness. That afternoon, sunlight filtered through the blinds of the front room, and they gave in to it — the rush of being young and seen and desired.

Aaron's kiss was fire and reassurance; Jake's body trembled under his hands. They moved together in breathless rhythm, not thinking, not fearing, only feeling. Aaron's thumb traced the scar on Jake's hip—the one from falling off his bike at ten—and Jake laughed into his mouth. Their laughter echoed softly, then turned to moans.

And then—

The door opened.

Rogers stood frozen in the doorway. His expression shifted from disbelief to raw, molten rage.

"What in hell is going on here?"

Jake and Aaron pulled apart in terror, scrambling for their clothes. The silence was thick and unbearable. Then, faint and venomous, a voice whispered through Rogers' mind — the Consciousness of Forestvale Manor, reaching him through the lingering psychic ash.

Are you going to allow this filth in your home, Tyler?
Punish them. Show them what you are made of.

Rogers' jaw clenched. His eyes darkened. Something ancient and cruel slid behind them.

"Degenerate," he hissed, striking his son across the face. Jake fell, blood blooming on his lip. Aaron lunged forward, shouting, "Stop it!" but Rogers turned on him, fists and fury, as the invisible Consciousness fed on the chaos, delighted by the spectacle.

Rachel's scream tore through the house. She burst into the room, pale with horror, and shoved her husband back.

"What are you doing, Tyler? Have you lost your mind?"

Rogers' chest heaved. "Our son is a—" The word choked in his throat. "He's sick, Rachel. He needs to learn."

"He needs love!" she cried. "Not this!"

But reason had no place there anymore. Rogers kicked at the boys again, lost to the madness whispering in his skull. Rachel's trembling hands found the phone.

"This is Rachel Rogers. I'm reporting my husband. He's attacking our son and his friend. Please—come quickly."

By the time the police arrived, the once orderly home looked like a battleground. Jake lay bloodied but conscious; Aaron, unconscious beside him. Rogers sat on the floor, staring at nothing. His hands trembled. His knuckles were red.

Theolinda was among the first to enter, drawn from the Manor by the sirens' wail.

Theolinda's voice was steady but cold: "Tyler Rogers, you are under arrest for assault."

He didn't resist. He raised his wrists numbly, as if waking from a dream. "I don't know what happened," he whispered. "I—I heard something. It was telling me..."

Theolinda looked at him sharply. "Telling you what?"

But he only shook his head, eyes distant.

Rachel stood by the doorway, her face streaked with tears. "He hasn't been himself for weeks," she murmured to Theolinda. "He talks in his sleep. He hears voices. I thought it was stress. Now—"

Theolinda nodded. "He needs help. Psychological, maybe spiritual."

When Rogers was led away, his eyes briefly met Theolinda's. For a moment, she thought she saw something else looking back at her — not remorse, but a flicker of that same dark hunger she had felt in the ruins of Forestvale.

The contamination had spread. The Manor's Consciousness was no longer bound to its walls.

That evening, in London, Mia sat with Scarlett in their small apartment, sunlight spilling through lace curtains. The scent of soup still lingered in the air, comforting and ordinary. Yet Mia's mind was restless. She could feel her daughter's thoughts brushing against her own — small, clear impressions like whispers through water.

Mom, I'm playing with my dragon again.

The mental voice was bright, innocent.

"That's lovely, sweetheart," Mia replied aloud, smiling faintly, though her chest tightened.

When she later called Rowena, her voice was quiet, but trembling with concern.

"Rowena, something's happening with Scarlett. She can move objects — and she speaks to me in my mind."

Rowena's tone, calm and grave, came through the receiver.

"Scarlett has inherited the psychic resonance — telepathy and psychokinesis. It was bound to surface sooner or later. These gifts are not dangerous if she learns control. Engage her gently. Respond to her thoughts as if they were words. Normalize it. But make clear she must never use them to manipulate others."

Mia nodded, even though her throat ached. "I'll do that. I just... I want her to have a normal childhood."

Rowena paused.

"My dear, children like Scarlett never have a normal childhood. But they can have a meaningful one — if they are loved."

Mia's gaze fell on her daughter, asleep on the sofa, a faint glow of light around her small hands as if the air itself bent to her dreams.

Something extraordinary had awakened — and with it, something unknown.