Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization (25 page)

Now, in the kitchen, he was crying, too. “I know. I know.”

Lucille looked as small and frightened as he had been back then, when he had let her take his punishments. When he had not spoken up. When he had not been a man.

He had to be, for Edith. She had finally brought light into this house, his world. His
soul.
He could save her, when he had not saved Lucille.

But he loved his sister, he did; she had been his world for his entire life.

“You couldn’t leave me, could you?” she asked.

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” he sobbed.

She kissed his tears away. They clung to each other, orphans who could have been freed by the deaths of their nearly demonic parents, but were too haunted instead. Stripped of everything but darkness. Too late, too late for light?

* * *

It watched, it exulted. It had them where it wanted them.

And the sad little specters that cried out for justice?

Inconsequential.

And delicious.

Outside, the scarlet ring of snow grew, a sucking bog of bloody clay, the sins of the Sharpes made visible for all to see.

Behold, I show you a miracle.

I show you the seventh circle of hell.

I
T HAD BEEN
snowing back in Buffalo when Alan began his crossing nearly two weeks before.

In London, he had been told that the snowfall was at record levels. But here in Cumberland, it was the worst—another in a series of violent snowstorms that had shut down most of the roads. He had not seen another soul in days.

By the time he reached the village’s postal depot and climbed down from his covered carriage, he was more than half-frozen. Despite growing up in Buffalo, he had never been so cold. He wished he could linger for a hot meal and a hotter bath, but nothing could stop him from getting to Edith now that he was so close. Ever since Holly’s revelation that Sir Thomas Sharpe already had a wife, Alan had existed in a perpetual state of fear for her. Cushing had known that Sharpe was a fortune hunter, but had he realized the Englishman was a bigamist? His supposed sister, Lady Sharpe… was she his real wife?

Leaving his luggage for the moment, he walked stiffly over to an official-looking man and said, “I need directions for Allerdale Hall.”

The man shook his head. “Can’t get there on that horse. And there’s none to be had. We’re closed for the winter.”

Alan groaned inwardly.

“Can I get there by foot?” he asked.

The man grimaced and looked meaningfully at the snowstorm. “It’s well over two hours following the road.”

Alan set his jaw. “Then I better get going.”

He made provision for the storage of his trunk but decided to take his medical bag. Heads turned his way as the postal clerk wrote him a receipt and villagers frowned at the young man’s stubborn ignorance. A few muttered under their breath, and he heard what they were saying. An American, then, with no idea what could happen if the weather got
really
foul. A man in a bright yellow muffler argued that someone should go with him, but did not directly offer to do so.

Irritated and more than a little worried about the likelihood of his survival, Alan wrapped his muffler around his face, pulled his hat on firmly, and headed back out into the weather. The snow was falling harder, and to make matters worse, it had begun to sleet.

An older man shuffled after him, hand raised, but seemed to think the better of it. Behind Alan, the depot gate shut, and he was all alone in a world of ice and snow.

* * *

Hours later, gusts of sleet buffeted Alan as he staggered down the road.

“Then move the trees, the copses nod
,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
‘O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on! The prize is near.’”

He set his face in a tight, grim line. If only he
could
ride.

He had been reciting Tennyson’s poem about Sir Galahad over and over to keep himself going. He was caked in frozen sweat and thirstier than he had ever been. And tired. So very, very tired. To walk he had to lift the weight of the heavy snow with the tops of his boots, every step a strain, and the snow kept falling, filling, masking the footsteps he left behind.

There was nothing for it but to press on, despite the temptation to collapse in the slush. He should have listened to the man at the depot, rested, and eaten. If Edith was in trouble, what possible aid could he offer her? She would bear the burden of his hubris. No knight in shining armor, he.

His right foot broke through the powdery crust and he slid into ice crystals. He began to pitch forward, arms windmilling, dropping his doctor’s bag. He brushed a spindly tree trunk with his right hand and grabbed hard. He gripped it with his left and steadied himself.

His thigh muscles seized up and he grimaced, drawing in shaky breaths. Then he realized that his means of support was not a tree trunk but a pitted and weathered signpost, crusted with snow.

The top had broken off, and so, there was no indication of its intended purpose, except that it was planted in front of a fork in the road. He frowned. His directions to Allerdale Hall had not included any intersections such as this. A freshet of anxiety trickled down the back of his neck; he hoisted each foot out of the piled-up, bluish chunks of snow and studied the jagged end of the post. Then he scanned the area for the top of the marker, but a visual sweep revealed nothing but a few thin sticks and a couple of large rocks. The howl of the wind created a counterpoint to the crunch of the snow under his boots; reluctantly he walked a circle around the post and experimentally kicked at a few chunks of snow. The first three collapsed but the fourth held. He knelt and picked it up.

With anxious fingertips he gradually unearthed the remnant of the wooden sign. It had lain beneath the snow for so long that it had begun to decompose. He read —
DALE
—— 3
MI
—. So did this mean that Allerdale Hall was perhaps only three miles away? An hour, maybe two, then, if he maintained an average pace.

And if he went the correct way. Should he go right or left at the fork? He could not tell from the sign. His attempt to hold it resulted in the wet, fibrous fragment shredding in his grasp.

Alan swore and dropped the pieces, which were carried into the snow by a heavy, mean wind. Layers of snow and gusts sharp as razors; he couldn’t imagine himself fighting his way through it for half a mile, let alone three. Or six, if he discovered that he had chosen the wrong road.

Was that a human shape standing in front of him? He squinted at a thickened blur hovering in bold relief against the white, and every sleepless night on the steamer crashed down on him. He waited, every molecule of his body quivering with anxiety. He needed help; if the dead ever intervened in the affairs of the living, he prayed that they would do so now. Panting from cold and fatigue, he was poised for revelation.

But it was only the signpost. He set his jaw, feeling foolish and desperate. There was so much snow he was afraid he might drown in it. It had buried his ankles and was piling up around his shins. Dear
God
, he was so exhausted. If only he could lie down and restore his strength.

If you lie down, you will never get up again
, he told himself sternly.
Make a move, man. Otherwise you’ll die here.

He looked left, scanning a treeless horizon… and then it occurred to him that the view on the right was forested. Though it was cloaked in heavy snowfall, he could see that the barren land to the left dipped into a bowl shape. It was unnatural; the rest of the area consisted of low, rolling hills. He thought a moment. What had Mr. Desange told him? That there had been another mine carved into the landscape by the Romans. And that that mine had been located adjacent to that of a present-day mining family—very likely the Sharpe property.

Then he blinked. Was he seeing properly? He staggered forward. Puddles of blood dotted the snow. He rushed closer.

No, it was clay. Of course it was clay. The brilliant scarlet treasure that had driven Sir Thomas Sharpe to deceit and perhaps even to murder.

To the left, then.

“Then move the trees, the copses nod
,
Wings flutter…”

Alan resumed his trek.

* * *

Edith woke up, weak and wobbly, but grateful that she was still alive. Then her stomach clenched into a thousand knots of burning pain. With a grunt, she staggered into the bathroom and fell down on her knees before the toilet. She vomited gouts of blood, her stomach cramping in merciless spasms until she feared she had no blood left.

I thought he had saved me
, she thought.
He took away the tea.
He had sworn. He had promised…

But she was sicker than ever. The pain was more than she could stand, and it shook her to her core that he could ever have considered doing this to her.

That he
had
done it to other women. Or, rather, allowed Lucille to do it.

She staggered back into the bedroom, wondering if he had actually slept through all the noise that she’d been making. He could not possibly have lain there and ignored her. No human being could be so cruel.

“Thomas,” she rasped. “Thomas, I feel very sick. I need help.”

She pulled back the bed sheets. There was no one there.

The wheelchair, then; she fell into it and began to push the wheels with all the remaining strength she possessed. She couldn’t think past her immediate need for aid. Killing her was one thing, but to make her suffer like this?

The wheels squeaked. She had to stop and start many times. She had barely made it into the hall, but her body was bathed in sweat and her trembling arms seized up from the exertion.

As she inched along, a threatening net of menace dangled above her: If anyone came after her, she would not be able to outpace them. She was a hapless target. But she had been all along.

She pushed the wheels, dismayed by her increasing weakness. She wouldn’t be able to fit the chair into the elevator and she would never be able to make it to the bottom of the stairs unless she fell down them. And what difference would that make? She couldn’t leave.

But she could get to the kitchen and put something in her stomach to soak up the poison. Bread. There was cream for tea. She needed something to shore up her strength.

She needed, she needed.

Where was Thomas? Had he abandoned her? She had dared to believe that she would live. But now, as the horrible poison cloyed her organs, she almost wished to die. But she would not give him the satisfaction, nor give herself permission to give up. Were he and Lucille even still in the house? Is this how they killed their victims—glutted them with poison, then left them to die alone? It would be the coward’s way.

Thomas’s way.

Why promise to take her side, then do nothing? Did he find pleasure in raising false hopes? Perhaps he had lost his nerve.

Or perhaps he was outside right now, clearing the road. Harnessing the wagon.

He must do it faster
, she thought.
I am running out of time.

She could not die here. She could not become trapped, tapping out warnings for the next unsuspecting bride.

Unless I am the last. With my money, he will have the funding for his machine.
Black anger washed over her as in her mind’s eye, his jubilant face projected over her father’s ruined body. Thomas had so rarely smiled around her. He had not masked his wickedness with the same ease as Lucille. He had not enjoyed hurting her.

But Lucille had.

I will not give her the satisfaction of my demise. And if Thomas killed my father, I will show him no mercy.

She pushed on the wheels with aching wrists. Maybe he would come soon to check on her. Or maybe Lucille would. That thought urged Edith to move faster, and she winced as the effort tore at her stomach muscles.

The corridor stretched out before her like an endless blue-gray mine shaft. What catastrophes skulked behind those doors tonight? She prepared herself to roll past them, toiling with her sickened body, struggling not to unnerve herself with harrowing fancies. It would have proved impossible for Edith to be more frightened than she was.

Then a whisper wafted down the corridor. Breathy, unnatural. Echoing from everywhere and nowhere.

Edith jerked as cool air crested over her head like a giant sigh. Smoky syllables twined around the curtains and scattered the black leaves littering the floor. Cobwebs quivered like dead hair.

No one came forward. No one appeared.

This, then, was a speaker for the dead.

Edith pushed the wheelchair forward, and then into an icy chill that slid fingers into her rib cage and squeezed her heart. The syllables became words:

“
Lasciare ora. È necessario lasciare ora.
”

She stopped wheeling and listened hard. It was Italian. “
Ora
” meant “now.”

There was something on the stairs. Shudders ran up and down her spine like a hand trilling the keys of a piano. The thing shifted. Edith couldn’t quite see it; she thought of Alan’s spirit photographs and concentrated.