It is Halloween Night. Amateur historian Mark Davenport has driven his eighteen-year-old nephew Nigel to see the ruins of a moated manor house deep in the countryside. The youth is none too enthusiastic about this excursion, having unsuccessfully suggested to his uncle that a trip to the local IMAX to see ‘Scream III’ would have been much more in keeping with the spirit of Halloween. The deeper they drove into Devon the darker it got.

The path up from the car park was lined with hollowed-out candle-lit pumpkins, illuminating the route to the summit. The night air was crisp, presaging a heavy frost.

Suddenly, they were confronted be a gaggle of eighteen-year-old schoolgirls, all carrying lanterns and wearing white skeletal cat suits and masks. Grabbing Nigel by the hand, they bustled him off into the undergrowth. Mark smiled on hearing the giggles emanating from the bushes and walked on alone towards the moonlit silhouette of the old mansion.

Up ahead was a wickerwork archway, from which clusters of fairy lights were suspended by silver twine. In the shadow of the arch stood a slender female figure, silhouetted against the burnt-out remains of the old hall. The woman (of indeterminate age) was clad in a long black satin cloak, embossed with the signs of the zodiac.

“Welcome to Bedlam Hall. I am Tanya, official gatekeeper and your guide for the evening,” she announced in a husky voice, which had just a hint of an East European accent. Her unkempt jet-black hair hung menacingly across her mascara-ringed eyes. The only jewellery she wore was a necklace of filigree silver depicting a cobweb, in the centre of which a large black spider was devouring a yellow bee.

The woman’s complexion was a deathly white, made more menacing by an ugly Z-shaped scar down one cheek. The lips of her down-turned mouth were blood red and slightly parted to reveal two fearsome incisors, and her red-painted nails were more like miniature talons.

“And where is your nephew who travelled here with you? Nigel, I believe.”

“Errm… we got waylaid on our way up from the car park. By a pack of ghoulish girls.”

She gave a wry half-smile. “They’re mine.”

“ALL of them?”

“In a manner of speaking. Tell me, is your nephew a virgin?”

“Like all adolescents he masturbates, of course. But if you mean ‘has he experienced intercourse yet?’ then the answer is ‘no’.”

She smiled and nodded. “My girls will take care of that. He’ll have a smile on his face like the Cheshire Cat when you see him later! Zo… now you are alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Follow me.” She swivelled round and set off at an alarming speed. As her cloak fluttered over the gravel pathway it was impossible for Mark to check her footfalls, though it seemed to him that she almost floated over the ground. “First we will view the Great Hall, or what’s left of it.” Clusters of long-eared bats whistled past their heads.

They entered a cavernous roofless space, whose elaborate marble floor was bathed by brilliant moonlight. It was dissected by the black shadows of the massive beams above, which were all that remained of the original roof structure. Remnants of charred panelling clung doggedly to the brick walls. The space had a distinctly funerial feel.

Tanya glided towards a raised dais at the far end of the hall. On a battered oak refectory table in front was an impressive array of cut glass decanters and silver drinking goblets. She turned to her visitor. “You like wine, I take it?”

“Certainly. What is its provenance?”

“The vineyards of the Transylvanian valleys, where I originally come from.”

“Really? When was that?”

“1879.” She glanced up at the charred roof beams. “Three years before the fire.”

“Arson?”

“Faulty electrical wiring. This was the first private residence in England to have electricity, you know. There were cowboy contractors even in those days!”

She pulled a glass stopper from a decanter and flung it over her shoulder onto the floor, where it shattered into shards. “This one is known as Satan’s Blood.” Slopping the ruby red liquid into the goblet until it overflowed onto her gloved hands, she handed it to Mark. “See what you think.” Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him intently but made no attempt to pour herself a drink.

After a tentative sip: “It’s err… well… pretty powerful, I’d say.”

“Eighty-six per cent proof, my friend.”

“Jeez!” He spat out the rest of his mouthful in disbelief.

She stepped closer. He picked up her musk perfume for the first time. “Would you like to see my… catacombs?” she purred, stroking his arm.

“Why yes… though the Historic Heritage guide which I found on the internet never said anything about catacombs.”

“That’s because they’re PRIVATE. My exclusive domain. That’s where I live. Follow me!”

Once again, she seemed to glide across the hall floor, headed for a small gothic-arched doorway in a dark corner. She threw back its rusted iron bolts and pushed the creaking door open. Snatching a candlestick from an alcove, Tanya lit it and handed it to Mark. “You go first,” she commanded.

Somewhat unsteadily – due to his recent intake of Satan’s Blood – he began to navigate the steep spiral staircase. The treads were running with water and the whole atmosphere of this tiny tubular space was dank and depressing. Half-way down the descent his candle blew out. Mark froze, expecting Tanya to bump into his back. But there was only silence – save for the ‘drip-drip’ of water onto the stone steps. Suddenly from below a blinding light coursed up the staircase, followed by Tanya’s voice bellowing: “Come on down, Mark! What’s keeping you?”

He cautiously navigated another dozen or so steps, with the light ahead getting ever brighter, finally setting foot on the stone-flagged floor of a huge catacomb, lit by dozens of candles. These were all contained in ornate brass sconces, many with semi-precious stones suspended from their brackets. The visual effect was like standing inside a kaleidoscope. A huge red-and black tapestry, depicting a horned goat, hung on the back wall.

Tanya was seated on a red velvet chaise longue in the centre of the space. She had removed her cloak and was using it as a cushion. Now she wore only a flimsy black lace bra with crimson edging and tiny matching lace panties. “Aren’t you going to get undressed?” she asked suggestively, brushing a hand over one breast. “Then you can come and undress me!”

Mark did as he was bid, remaining several paces from the couch. “Approach my throne!” she rasped. He moved forward cautiously until they were within touching distance. She reached out and stroked the swollen glans of his semi-erect cock. “Mmmm… nice and big, just as I’d hoped! I guessed you were well-hung when we first met at the entrance arch. I’m rarely wrong with my cock assessments.” Narrowing her eyes, she studied his penis carefully. “I’d say about nine inches fully erect. Would I be correct?”

“Something like that.”

“AND it’s got girth,” adding matter-of-factly: “SO important, especially with anal.”

Still seated, she allowed him to unclip her bra. Then she pulled the two bows securing her panties so that the front panel flopped forward. She opened her legs, allowing Mark to behold the most inviting shaven quim, glistening with oil, which twinkled invitingly in the lamplight. Black tridents were tattooed on each of her upper thighs. “I’d simply love you to eat me. Do you enjoy going down on a woman’s wet cunnie, Mark?”

“Love it!”

“Then get on your knees, worm!”

Mark knelt obediently and buried his face in her thighs, which she clamped shut, locking him in. The aroma was a heady blend of the musk-based scent and her own juices. She moaned with pleasure as she came for the first time.

After her fourth orgasm Mark urgently needed to come up for air, but not only had Tanya got him in a vice-like leg lock, but she was vigorously holding his head in place with both her hands, all the while murmuring: “Eat me, you dirty cunt-licking surf!” As his mouth was full to overflowing, he began inhaling through his nose, savouring – and swallowing – her succulent love honey. It was then that he passed out.

Some time later Mark painfully regained consciousness. He was lying on the gravel path beneath the wicker entrance arch, the fairy lights of which had all burnt out. Slowly moving his aching head sideways, he glimpsed the first light of dawn breaking in the east. There was no sign of Tanya, but standing over him was a distraught Nigel, calling his name. “What are you doing down there, Uncle Mark?”

The man gradually took in the image of his anxious young nephew, whose clothes were dishevelled and torn and covered with grass and bracken twigs. His face was liberally plastered with smears of pink and red lipstick and he wore the most beatific smile of satisfaction.