In this chilling horror story, The Eery Story of Edward Mordrake unfolds as a haunting creepy story set in the fog-laden shadows of 1872 Victorian England. Edward Mordrake, a wealthy heir cloaked in aristocratic charm, hides a terrifying secret. Cursed with a grotesque second face on the back of his head—a malevolent entity with a sinister will of its own—Edward is tormented by relentless whispers.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Cursed Heir
Mordrake Manor stood like a forgotten sentinel on the misty outskirts of London, its gothic spires shrouded in the perpetual fog of 1872. The estate’s stone facade, weathered by centuries, was choked with ivy that seemed to pulse in the dim light, as if the house itself breathed.
The air was heavy with the acrid tang of coal smoke, mingling with the damp, earthy rot of autumn leaves that carpeted the overgrown gardens. Inside, the manor’s corridors stretched endlessly, their oak-paneled walls absorbing the flicker of gas lamps and the faint, mournful creak of floorboards.
Candelabras dripped wax onto marble floors, casting trembling shadows that danced like specters. It was a house of secrets, and none was darker than that of Edward Mordrake.
At twenty-two, Edward was the sole heir to the Mordrake fortune, a vast wealth amassed through railways, colonial trade, and shrewd investments. His face—sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, chestnut curls—could have made him a darling of London’s high society, a fixture at balls and operas.
But Edward was a prisoner, confined to the manor’s shadowed halls by a secret so grotesque it defined his existence. On the back of his head, hidden beneath meticulously arranged hair and high collars, was a second face: a malformed, eyeless parody of his own, with a lipless mouth that twitched with malicious intent.
Born with craniopagus parasiticus—a parasitic twin absorbed in the womb—Edward called it his “diabolical twin.” It was no mere deformity; it was alive, sentient, and cruel, its whispers a ceaseless torment that clawed at his sanity.
Edward’s life was one of isolation. The manor’s grandeur—its crystal chandeliers, its library of leather-bound tomes, its tapestries depicting Mordrake ancestors—was a gilded cage. He could not risk exposure in London’s glittering salons or bustling streets. His wealth, though vast, was a hollow comfort, for every mirror, every reflective surface, was a threat.
He wore hooded cloaks indoors, avoided polished silver, and kept his back to walls during rare social encounters. The manor was his sanctuary and his prison, its silence broken only by the wind’s howl through cracked windows and the relentless voice of the face: You’re alone, Edward. You’ll always be alone.
The manor housed Edward’s family: his mother, Lady Beatrice, fifty, a frail woman whose rosary beads clicked incessantly, her piety a shield against despair; and his sisters, Margaret, sixteen, and Eliza, fourteen, whose youthful energy was stifled by the house’s gloom.
They knew of Edward’s condition, a secret enforced by their late father, Lord Henry, with threats and bribes. “The Mordrake name must remain untarnished,” he’d declared, his voice cold as iron.
Beatrice’s love for Edward was tinged with sorrow; she prayed for his soul, her eyes red from sleepless nights. Margaret, studious and curious, often lingered near Edward’s study, hoping to understand her brother’s distance.
Eliza, playful and impulsive, left drawings and notes under his door, her attempts at connection met with silence. They loved him, but they feared him too—feared the brother who flinched at their touch, whose eyes sometimes held a darkness not his own.
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Chapter 2: The Seeds of Malice
The diabolical twin was a parasite not just of flesh, but of soul, its presence a festering wound in Edward’s mind.
Hidden beneath his chestnut curls, the second face—eyeless, lipless, a grotesque mockery of his own—seemed to pulse with a life that was not human. Its sockets, though blind, followed shadows in the dim light of Mordrake Manor; its mouth, though mute, twisted into sneers that chilled Edward’s blood.
The whispers began as a child’s nightmare, soft and elusive, like the rustle of dead leaves in the manor’s overgrown gardens.
The first whisper came when Edward was nine, a bright boy with a penchant for sketching birds in the manor’s library. He’d been perched on a stool, charcoal smudging his fingers, when the voice slithered into his thoughts: The sparrow in the garden trusts you. Break its wings.
He froze, his pencil snapping in his grip. The words were not his, yet they came from within, cold and sharp as a blade. He tried to ignore them, focusing on the sketch—the sparrow’s delicate feathers, its bead-like eyes—but the voice persisted, weaving images of power, of control: Feel its bones snap. Be strong. For days, it hounded him, a shadow that clung to his every step.
One misty morning, unable to bear the torment, Edward crept to the garden, where ivy strangled the stone walls and the air smelled of damp earth and decay.
A sparrow hopped on a crumbling fountain, oblivious to the boy’s trembling hands. Do it, the voice hissed, and Edward, tears stinging his eyes, lunged. His small fingers closed around the bird, its frantic wings beating against his palms.
He squeezed—too hard, too fast—and felt a sickening crunch. The sparrow went still, its tiny body limp. Edward dropped it, sobbing, as the face’s laughter echoed in his skull, low and guttural, like gravel scraped across bone. He buried the bird beneath a rosebush, its thorns pricking his skin, but the face’s glee was a stain he couldn’t wash away: Good, Edward. You’re learning.
The next year, at ten, the face’s demands grew darker. Pip, the family’s spaniel, was Edward’s shadow, a gentle creature with soulful eyes that followed him through the manor’s shadowed halls.
The voice targeted Pip with a venom that made Edward’s stomach churn. The dog loves you, it whispered, as Edward tossed a stick for Pip in the courtyard. Show it pain. Show it you’re master. Edward resisted, his nights spent clutching his pillow, whispering prayers his mother had taught him.
But the voice was relentless, painting visions of blood and power: Strike it, Edward. Feel its life fade. It spoke in the quiet hours, when the manor’s silence was broken only by the creak of beams and the drip of wax from dying candles.
One evening, as dusk cloaked the estate in gray, Edward lured Pip to the stables, his hands shaking with a piece of stale bread. The dog wagged its tail, trusting, as the voice urged, Now, Edward. Now.
He picked up a stone, its weight cold and heavy, and struck Pip’s flank. The dog yelped, its eyes wide with betrayal, and Edward struck again, harder, until Pip lay whimpering, blood matting its fur. The face’s laughter was deafening, a cacophony of delight that drowned Edward’s sobs.
He fled, leaving Pip to limp away, but Lady Beatrice found the scene, her screams piercing the night. Lord Henry beat Edward, his belt cracking like thunder, but the true punishment was the face’s voice: You did well. You’re mine.
The cruelty escalated as Edward entered his teens. At fifteen, during a rare outing to a village fair, the face turned its malice outward. The fair was alive with laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and mud, but Edward felt only dread, his collar high to hide the face.
A drunken farmer, stumbling through the crowd, brushed against him, muttering a slur. The voice seized the moment: He disrespects you. Push him. Hurt him. Edward tried to walk away, his heart pounding, but the voice was a tide, pulling him under: Do it, or I’ll never stop.
In a moment of weakness, he shoved the man into a ditch, the splash of water and the farmer’s curses lost in the fair’s din. Edward ran, his breath ragged, the face’s laughter a venom in his veins: More, Edward. You crave it.
By seventeen, the face’s demands turned inward, toward the manor’s heart—his family. Margaret, his studious sister, twelve at the time, was his closest confidante, her quiet questions about his books a rare comfort. But the face despised her curiosity. She knows too much, it whispered, as Margaret read by the fire, her glasses glinting. She’ll tell. Stop her.
Edward resisted, locking himself in his room, but the voice was relentless, painting visions of Margaret’s betrayal: She’ll expose you. Silence her. One night, unable to sleep, Edward found himself in the hallway, a kitchen knife in his hand, the blade catching the moonlight. The voice urged, Cut her. Just a little. Teach her fear.
He crept to Margaret’s room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. She slept, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, unaware of the blade trembling in his grip.
The face’s voice was a chant: Do it. Do it. Edward raised the knife, his breath hitching—but then Margaret stirred, murmuring his name in her sleep, and the spell broke. He dropped the knife, the clatter echoing in the silent room, and fled, his heart a drum of guilt and terror.
The next morning, Margaret found the knife, her eyes wide with confusion, but she said nothing, her silence a wound deeper than any blade. The face laughed, undeterred: Next time, Edward. Next time.
Edward’s diary, hidden in his study, became his confessor, its pages stained with ink and tears:
The whispers are a plague, born of Hell itself. He speaks of sparrows, dogs, strangers… now Margaret. He wants her blood, says she’ll betray me. I hurt Pip, I pushed a man, I stood over my sister with a knife—I’m losing myself. His voice is louder than mine, his will stronger… I fear what he’ll demand next.
The face’s malice was a growing shadow, its whispers a chain that bound Edward’s soul. Each act of cruelty—sparrow, dog, stranger, sister—tightened its grip, pulling him deeper into a darkness he could not escape.
The manor, with its creaking halls and watchful portraits, was no longer a home, but a crucible where Edward’s sanity burned.
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Chapter 3: A Fragile Light
Clara Langley was a rare exception to Edward’s solitude. Nineteen, with golden hair and eyes like summer skies, she was the daughter of Lord Thomas Langley, a business associate of Edward’s late father. Their quarterly visits to discuss railway investments were the only times Edward allowed himself to hope.
Clara was beautiful, her laugh like bells echoing in the manor’s gloom, but it was her kindness that captivated him. She spoke to him as an equal, not a curiosity, her questions about his books—Shelley, Byron, Kant—genuine, her smile free of pity.
Their first meeting, two years prior, had been in the library. Edward, reading alone, had startled when Clara entered. “You have a poet’s soul, Mr. Mordrake,” she’d said, her voice warm, and he’d blushed, his collar high to hide the face.
Over time, their conversations deepened—literature, music, the stars—always within the manor’s walls, where Edward felt safe. Clara seemed to care for him; her glances lingered, her letters, delivered discreetly by a maid, were filled with warmth: I cherish our talks, Edward. They make this old house feel alive. He loved her, a secret he guarded fiercely, though the face despised her: She pities you. She’ll betray you.
Clara’s visits were a balm, but they sharpened the face’s malice. During one meeting, as she laughed over a shared jest, the face whispered, She mocks you. End her. Edward’s hand trembled, spilling tea, and he excused himself, fleeing to the garden where the cold air might drown the voice.
Clara, sensing his distress, followed. “Edward, are you unwell?” she asked, her hand brushing his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” he lied, his back to a tree to hide the face. “Just… the air in there is stifling.”
She studied him, her eyes soft. “You don’t have to hide from me,” she said, and his heart ached with the impossibility of truth. The face’s whisper cut through: She’ll expose you. Kill her now. He fled to his room, locking the door, the voice a storm in his mind.
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Chapter 4: The Escalation
For nearly a year, hope had flickered in Edward’s heart, fragile as a candle flame in a storm. His mother, Lady Beatrice, had sought out Dr. Alistair Godwin, England’s most renowned physician, a man whose name was whispered in medical circles with reverence.
Godwin, a gaunt figure with piercing gray eyes and a reputation for miracles, had spent months studying Edward’s condition—craniopagus parasiticus, a parasitic twin absorbed in the womb, leaving only the grotesque second face.
The family had clung to the possibility of surgery, a desperate bid to free Edward from the thing that tormented him. Beatrice’s rosary beads clicked incessantly, her prayers a frantic plea for salvation; Margaret, sixteen, pored over medical texts, hoping to understand her brother’s affliction; Eliza, fourteen, left drawings of angels outside his door, her childish faith a balm against the manor’s gloom.
Edward, confined to his chambers, dared to dream of freedom. He imagined a life without the whispers, without the face’s malice—a life where he could face Clara Langley, the woman he loved, without fear of betrayal.
In his study, surrounded by books on philosophy and anatomy, he wrote in his diary, the ink trembling on the page:
The surgery is my last hope… If Godwin can cut it away, I’ll be free—free to live, to love Clara, to see my sisters without dread. The whispers grow louder, but I cling to this chance. I must.
But the face mocked his hope, its voice a serpent’s hiss: They’ll never cut me out, Edward. We’re one. Its eyeless sockets seemed to gleam with triumph, its mouth twitching as if savoring his desperation.
Edward pressed his hands to his temples, willing the voice to stop, but it slithered on: Your family wants you dead. The surgery is their lie.
The day of reckoning came on a rain-soaked evening, the manor’s windows rattling under the storm’s fury. Dr. Godwin arrived, his black coat dripping, his face grim as he was ushered into the drawing room. Edward, forbidden from the meeting, lurked outside, his ear pressed to the heavy oak door, his heart pounding like a trapped bird.
The face whispered, gleeful: Listen, Edward. Hear their betrayal. He strained to catch the muffled voices, his breath shallow, his fingers clawing at the doorframe.
Lady Beatrice’s voice, frail but resolute, broke the silence: “Dr. Godwin, please—tell us there’s hope. Edward can’t endure this… this thing much longer.” Her words cracked, a sob swallowed by her clasped hands.
Margaret, her voice steady but laced with fear, added, “We’ve read your papers, Doctor. Your work on cranial anomalies—you’ve saved others. Can’t you save him?”
Eliza, barely audible, whispered, “He’s so sad… I just want my brother back.”
Godwin’s reply was a knife, cold and precise: “I’ve studied the case exhaustively—dissections, consultations, every text on parasitic twins. The face is intertwined with Edward’s brain; the blood vessels, the nerves… they’re inseparable. Surgery would almost certainly kill him. The risk is too great—I won’t do it.”
Beatrice gasped, her rosary beads clattering to the floor. “But he’s suffering!” she cried. “You must try—please, for my son!”
“There’s no precedent for success,” Godwin said, his tone heavy. “The face is not just flesh; it’s… unnatural. I’ve seen its movements, its… awareness. I cannot, in good conscience, proceed.”
Margaret’s voice trembled: “Then what do we do? He’s fading—locking himself away, avoiding us. What’s left for him?”
Eliza’s sob broke through: “He’s not Edward anymore… He’s scared all the time.”
Edward, hidden behind the door, felt his knees buckle, his vision blurring with tears. The surgery—his last hope, his dream of freedom—was gone.
The face’s laughter erupted, a guttural roar that shook his skull: I told you, Edward! They can’t tear us apart! We’re forever!
He clutched his head, his nails digging into his scalp, but the voice was relentless, dripping with triumph: They want you dead—your mother, your sisters. The surgery was their excuse to kill you. I’m the only one who knows you, loves you.
“No,” Edward whispered, his voice a broken thread. “They love me… They want to help me…” But the face’s words burrowed deep, planting seeds of paranoia: Beatrice prays for your death. Margaret reads to find ways to betray you. Eliza’s drawings mock you. I’m your truth, Edward—your only truth.
He stumbled back from the door, his back against the cold stone wall, the manor’s shadows swallowing him. The storm outside roared, lightning illuminating the portraits of his ancestors, their painted eyes glaring with accusation.
He fled to his study, the floorboards groaning under his frantic steps, and collapsed at his desk, his diary open before him. His pen scratched wildly, ink splattering like blood:
It’s over. Godwin won’t cut it out—says I’ll die. The face laughs, says it’s my only friend, that my family wants me gone… I hear it now, louder than ever, saying they planned to kill me. I don’t believe it—I can’t—but it’s in my head, always in my head. I’m drowning.
The face’s voice swelled, a chorus of malice: Forever, Edward. You and I, bound eternal. They hate you—Clara, too. She’ll betray you, expose you. Only I love you. Edward slammed his fists on the desk, a glass shattering, its shards glinting in the candlelight.
The manor seemed to close in, its walls breathing, its air thick with the scent of mildew and despair. He thought of Clara—her golden hair, her kind eyes—and the face’s whispers turned venomous: She pities you. She’ll tell the world. Kill her before she does.
Edward’s hands trembled, his breath ragged. He loved Clara, loved his sisters, his mother—but the face’s lies were a poison, twisting his thoughts.
The surgery had been his lifeline, and now it was severed. He was trapped, a prisoner to the thing that lived within him, its laughter a chain around his soul.
The manor’s gloom pressed down, the storm’s howl echoing the chaos in his mind. He was alone, save for the face, its voice a cruel promise: We’re one, Edward. Forever.
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Chapter 5: The Breaking Point
The failure of the surgery had shattered Edward Mordrake, leaving him a hollow husk in the suffocating gloom of Mordrake Manor. The gothic halls, with their sagging tapestries and flickering gas lamps, seemed to tighten around Edward, their shadows clawing at his sanity.
Edward’s mother, Lady Beatrice, had retreated into fervent prayer, her rosary beads clicking like a death knell through the night. His sisters, Margaret and Eliza, moved through the house like wary specters, their laughter silenced by the weight of Edward’s decline.
He avoided them, fearing the face’s newest obsession, its words a poison that festered from the surgery’s collapse: Your sisters know your shame. They’ll tell the world—end them. The voice was a blade, sharp and unyielding, as Edward watched Margaret and Eliza in the parlor, their chess game a fleeting echo of happier days.
Margaret’s thoughtful frown, Eliza’s soft giggle—they were lifelines he could no longer grasp. They plot against you, the face hissed, its laughter a low, guttural rasp. Kill them, Edward. Be free.
He fled to his chambers, the heavy door slamming behind him, its thud reverberating through the manor’s hollow heart. He pressed his hands to his ears, his nails digging into his scalp, but the voice was inside him, inescapable: They hate you—Beatrice, Margaret, Eliza. They wanted the surgery to kill you.
Edward’s breath hitched, his vision blurring with tears. He loved his sisters, their gifts—Margaret’s books, Eliza’s drawings—stacked untouched outside his door.
But the face’s lies, seeded in the overheard conversation with Dr. Godwin, took root: They’re liars. They’ll expose you. He paced the room, the floorboards groaning, the storm outside rattling the windows like a beast clawing to get in.
Clara Langley’s final visit was a cruel flicker of light in his darkness. She arrived with her father, Lord Thomas, her golden hair catching the candlelight, her eyes—bright as summer skies—searching his face with a tenderness that broke his heart.
They met in the library, its shelves heavy with dusty tomes, the air thick with the scent of old leather and wax. “I’ve missed you, Edward,” she said softly, her hand brushing his, her touch a fleeting warmth against the cold dread that gripped him.
For a moment, the face’s whispers stilled, and Edward dared to hope, his voice trembling as they spoke of poetry—Shelley’s longing, Byron’s defiance. Clara’s laughter, soft and clear, was a lifeline, pulling him from the abyss.
“You make this house feel alive,” she said, her smile a beacon in his shadowed world.
But as she left, her father’s arm guiding her through the manor’s arched doorway, the face’s voice erupted, dripping with venom: She’s lying, Edward. She’ll expose you. Her blood will silence her lies. The words were a dagger, twisting in his chest.
He loved Clara—her letters, hidden in his desk, were proof of her care, her words a shield against despair: Our talks are my joy, Edward. Never change.
Yet the face painted visions of her betrayal—her lifeless body sprawled on the manor’s marble floor, her golden hair stained crimson, her eyes empty as its own sockets. Kill her, it urged, its laughter a sickening gurgle. She pities you, mocks you. End her.
Edward staggered to his study, his hands shaking as he lit a candle, its flame trembling in the draft. The manor’s walls seemed to pulse, the portraits of his ancestors glaring with accusation, their painted eyes mirroring the face’s blind malice.
He opened his diary, his pen scratching wildly, ink splattering like blood:
He wants Clara dead—my Clara, my only light. He says her kindness is a lie, that she’ll ruin me, just as he says of Margaret and Eliza. The surgery was my hope, and now it’s gone… He tells me they all wanted me dead, that he’s my only truth. I’d rather die than harm her—than harm any of them—but he never stops. He’s winning. I’m losing myself.
He avoided Clara’s letters, their delicate script a torment he couldn’t face, fearing they’d fuel the face’s rage. He avoided his sisters, their footsteps in the hall a reminder of the face’s demands: They’ll betray you. End them all. He paced the manor’s corridors at night, the floorboards creaking under his weight, the wind’s howl a chorus to the face’s storm: Kill them, Edward. Be free.
The shadows seemed alive, twisting with the face’s malice, whispering in unison: We’re one. Forever. Edward’s reflection in a passing mirror—a rare, dreaded glimpse—showed the face’s triumphant sneer, its eyeless sockets gleaming as if savoring his collapse.
The manor’s gloom was suffocating, its air heavy with the scent of decay and despair. Edward’s dreams, once filled with Clara’s smile, were now nightmares of blood—Margaret’s throat cut, Eliza’s laughter silenced, Clara’s eyes staring blankly.
The face’s voice was a relentless tide, pulling him under: They hate you. I love you. Kill them. He clutched his head, his sobs echoing in the empty room, the candle’s flame flickering as if mocking his fragility.
The surgery had been his salvation, and its loss was a death sentence—not of the body, but of the soul. The face was winning, its whispers a chain that bound him, its laughter a promise of eternal torment.
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Chapter 6: The Final Act
On the eve of his twenty-third birthday, Edward was a shadow of himself, his eyes sunken, his skin sallow. The face’s voice was deafening, a relentless assault: Do it, Edward. End her.
He sat in his room, a candle flickering on his desk, its flame trembling in the draft. The manor was silent, save for the storm outside, its thunder shaking the walls. The face’s laughter was shrill: You’re mine, Edward. You always were.
He stumbled to the mirror, a rare act of defiance, and stared at the face. Its eyeless sockets gleamed, its mouth twisted into a triumphant grin. “You’ll not have me,” Edward whispered, his voice raw. The face laughed: You can’t escape.
Desperate, Edward ran to his study, his heart pounding. He couldn’t live like this—not with Clara’s life at stake, not with his sisters in danger. The face’s voice was a torrent: Kill her. Kill them all. He clutched his head, tears streaming down his face.
“No!” he screamed, his voice echoing in the empty room. “I won’t!”
In a frenzy, he turned to the wall, his back to the mirror. He slammed his head against the stone—hard, harder, each impact a thunderclap in his skull.
“Stop!” he cried, blood trickling down his neck as the face’s laughter turned to shrieks. You can’t silence me! it hissed, but Edward didn’t stop. He struck again, the pain a distant echo compared to his need for freedom.
The wall cracked, plaster crumbling, blood staining the stone. The face’s voice faltered, its whispers turning to garbled moans.
With a final, desperate blow, Edward felt a sickening crunch—bone and flesh collapsing. The face was silent. He staggered, vision blurring, and collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
As darkness closed in, he smiled, a fragile peace washing over him. “I’m free,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Epilogue
Edward was found at dawn by Margaret, her screams rousing the household. The second face, crushed and lifeless, hung limp, its malice extinguished.
Lady Beatrice, heartbroken, ordered it removed and burned, the flames roaring unnaturally green, as if the face resisted even in death. Clara, learning of Edward’s fate, wept for the man she’d loved, keeping his letters as a private memorial. His diary, found open on his desk, bore his final plea:
Destroy it. Burn it. Let it not curse another soul.
The news of Edward’s death spread, fueled by servants’ whispers and Charles Lotin Hildreth’s article in The Boston Post.
By 1896, it reached Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine, where Drs. Gould and Pyle speculated on craniopagus parasiticus, but offered no answers. The manor fell silent, its halls emptier without Edward’s shadow.
Yet some nights, when the wind howls through the gardens, a whisper lingers—not words, but a sound, soft and sinister, as if the face’s malice lingers beyond the grave.
