Help! My Husband is a... Vampire?!

Chapter 1: Nail in the Coffin

1819

The squeaking of George's soaking wet oxfords was outspoken only by the booming of neighboring thunder. The McCartney estate, with its sprawling stone walls, was currently caught up in a torrential downpour. Quickly untying his leather shoes, he muttered to himself about how wet the laces were and sat them next to the front door.

He had been out to visit with his parents–it was something George made an effort to do at least once or twice throughout the week, should time allow for it. He'd do odd jobs for them around the house and yard. (And if he couldn't, he now had access to funding for finding someone who actually could.)

Erecting his posture and standing still for a moment, the tall and lanky man took in his surroundings with an air of disbelief.

George Harrison and James Paul McCartney were newlyweds. That is, about three months into their marriage (and only six months into their relationship). The courting had happened oh so fast, and the two of them came from such drastically different backgrounds to boot. George could have never even begun to dream that he'd one day be inside of "McCartney Manor," as it was known colloquially; much less never to reside in it. The residence was truly stunning, inside and out. Even the journey to it was enough to entrance the most skeptical of men, and send them off believing in the most mystic and devilish things.

To the beholder, the dense canopy of ancient oak and elm trees parts to reveal the imposing silhouette of the mansion. Its dark, weathered granite walls rise triumphantly from the evergreen floor, adorned with intricate carvings and embellishments that speak of a bygone era of opulence. Turrets punctuate the skyline, their pointed spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a historic giant.

Oh–and who could forget the grounds! For they are as bewitching as the castle itself. Lush, manicured gardens sprawl out from the base of the territory, their vibrant blooms contrasting sharply with the dark, tangled undergrowth of the surrounding forest. Stone pathways wind their way through the gardens, leading visitors past bubbling fountains and intricately sculpted topiaries.

At the edge of the woods, a crumbling stone wall encircles a sprawling cemetery, its weathered gravestones bearing silent witness to centuries of McCartney family history. Ivy creeps up the olden stones, weaving a tapestry of greenery that seems, ironically, to breathe with a life of its own.

The castle's façade is dominated by a grand entrance, flanked by towering statues of mythical creatures–a griffin whose stony gaze seems to follow your every move. Above the ingress, a massive wooden door, studded with iron, beckons visitors to step into a realm of wealth, mystery, and intrigue.

And stepping through that door is exactly what George did. Only this time, chilled to the bone by rain and evening.

Pushing through the heavy doorway, one is greeted by the dim glow of flickering torches that line the sprawling walls of the entry hall. The air is heavy with the scent of age-old wood and musty tapestries, lending an atmosphere of ancient grandeur to the space.

The interior of the home is a labyrinthine maze of corridors and chambers, each more richly adorned than the last. Ornate chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow across the polished marble floors below. Elaborate stained-glass windows depict scenes of medieval lore, their vibrant colors dancing in the sunlight that filters through the canopy above.

Despite its resplendence, there is an air of melancholy that hangs over McCartney Manor. It is as if the weight of centuries, secrets, and sorrows has settled into its very bones. The sound of rustling leaves and distant whispers fills the air, lending an eerie ambiance to the otherwise tranquil surroundings.