Vincent Sinclair House Of Wax Novels & Stories

"Do you think I don’t want to scream? Do you think I don’t wish to have the truth ripped from me? But listen, fox…if I share what I know, the house will hear it. And if the house hears…” Suddenly, the void around them trembled as a low hum echoed through the darkness, sounding like locks clicking shut. The maid flinched and covered her ears. “It’s listening right now. It’s always listening.” Vincent snarled defiantly into the air. “Let it listen! I'll burn it all to the ground!” The hum grew deeper, resembling a growl of its own. The maid fell to her knees, gasping for breath. "You don't get it…you’re not just fighting him anymore. You're fighting the house itself."

"No!!!" Tina was shrieking, "My baby!!! I'm so sorry!!!" Zach came rushing in. "What's wrong?! What happened?! What are you crying for?!" Tina could only keep wailing, "My baby… My baby!!!" Feeling a sense of foreboding, Zach walked up and unwrapped the swaddle to see that it wasn't my daughter, but the son they were so obsessed with! The bastard's cheeks were purple, and he wasn't breathing at all, clearly having been strangled to death.

They didn't trust him with the rest of his following — it was wise of them not to trust him. I held my breath as we made our way down the hall, straight to the back where the smallest cell was located behind a door made of silver. Sylvain put on a set of padded gloves, turning the massive lock anti-clockwise to open it. A low growl rumbled in my chest when the door opened and I was greeted with silver flooring. This was a new cell, one designed by Sydney. It was everything a werewolf didn't need. It was a fucking acute form of torture.

I waved down a cab and got in with Vianne. She kept her head on my shoulder the entire time while I patted her hands which were placed on my things. Vincent got fucking lucky today. If Vianne had not stopped me from going back into the hallway for the second time, I would have broken every single bone in his body. We reached the house which was only a few minutes away from the Sinclair mansion. Vianne stepped out while I pulled out my wallet and passed a few dollars to the cabman. The security man let us into the small bungalow. The walls were painted white and there were small flower pots placed in every corner of the small compound.