Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization

by Nancy Holder

  Lucille moved close to her brother, perhaps as close as his bride would stand, and he did not move aside. Distracted, perhaps, as she prepared a tea tray for him to take upstairs to Edith. Perhaps… guilty.

  Haunted.

  “Once she signs the final papers, she will be gone,” Lucille said. “In the meantime, don’t make another mistake.”

  Looking troubled, yet saying nothing, he put away the red tea tin and picked up the tray.

  * * *

  Edith would never have thought it possible, but she was beginning to warm up as she soaked in the claw-foot tub. It had been lovingly cleaned and she had added a few handfuls of the fine bath salts she had packed in her trousseau. The scent of roses brought vague memories of their wedding. She had moved through the ceremony like a sleepwalker, and she wished she remembered more of it. She had still been in shock.

  The wind blew past the windows, howling; the panes rattled in the round leaded window above her. Edith sank a little deeper into her bath.

  Then she thought she heard a noise: a whisper, perhaps, or someone… crying? She tried to hear over the sudden triphammer of her heart. Lucille had been right about the need to rein in her active imagination. She leaned back and allowed the steam to relax her. Yet she found herself replaying the episode with the elevator. It was an enormous house, and Lucille had not been there when they’d arrived. Someone could have slipped into the house while Finlay was unloading Edith’s trunks from the carriage. True, there were no other homes for miles around, and the village was far away, but a disgruntled servant, perhaps, or some other person… Thomas and Lucille hadn’t shown the slightest bit of curiosity about the possibility of an intruder.

  They’ve lived here all their lives, she reminded herself.

  There was a rustling in the bedroom. She jerked, listening.

  “Thomas?” she called. He had promised to bring her some tea.

  Then the little dog trotted up to the edge of the tub with the red rubber ball in its mouth.

  “No, not now,” Edith murmured.

  But the winsome pup whined and wagged its tail, insistent. She smiled; she could see how the plucky little thing had survived out on the heath.

  “Oh, all right.” She reached out—the air was bracing—and took up the ball. “Fetch!” She threw it and the dog took off like a shot, flying out of the bathroom into the gloom.

  Edith thought she heard the rustling again. But still no Thomas. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her call. They had yet to be… familiar with one another. He had never even seen her in her nightdress. The mysteries of the marriage bed remained such. But now, in their home… perhaps he was laying a hot water bottle between the sheets and stoking the fire. It moved her that a baronet should perform such menial duties. This would not stand. As soon as she could transfer her funds, the Sharpes would live as they once had.

  The dog returned victorious, miniature jaw champed down on the ball, and it dropped the prize at the base of the tub once more.

  “Shh, quiet now,” she told it, still listening for Thomas. She wondered what she should do; she had not brought all her nightwear in the bathroom, assuming she could slip into the bedroom to make herself more presentable. Or not, if Thomas was of a mind…

  The dog yipped and tapped its nails on the tile, impatient.

  “Oh, all right, fetch,” she said again. And she threw the ball once more. It ran off; in a flash, the furry creature reappeared, ball in mouth, barking, even more excited.

  She threw the ball yet again and the pup ran after it again. She waited, one ear pricked for the sounds in the bedroom. She could still hear someone in there. Dear Lord, could it be Finlay? If he was the only servant, he might even be unpacking her clothing. The thought embarrassed her. She would have to do something. But first, she’d gather up the dog and keep it with her. There was no telling which parts of the house were unsafe, as Lucille put it, and she wouldn’t want the pup to crash through a weak section of the floor or lose itself in a warren of cluttered rooms.

  Seconds ticked by, and the dog did not return. Perhaps a full minute. Her anxiety began to rise. She half-rose from the water, absolutely certain that someone was in the bedroom. Someone who by now should have made their presence known.

  This is off, she thought. This is strange.

  She thought again of the woman in the elevator, and gooseflesh broke out all over her body, even the parts submerged in the steaming water. Then the dog trotted back into the bathroom. But this time it did not have its toy. It sat proudly, awaiting praise.

  “Doggie? Come on, silly. Where is the ball?” she prompted it. It just stared at her in its merry way.

  She heard a thump.

  And the ball came bouncing back.

  By itself.

  * * *

  It watched.

  Blurred by shadow, a slender figure moved in the bedroom. Dark, ghostly, lurching awkwardly, long scrawny arms groping the air like a blind beggar, movements spectral and disjointed. Staggering, unnaturally stooped, as if this time and place were not its time and place.

  The bride, so innocent, rose like Venus from the tub and reached for her spectacles. Her trembling made her clumsy and she only succeeded in dropping them. They clattered on the hard tile but did not break.

  In the bedroom, the figure jerked. Then, drawn by the sound, it peeked around the corner, almost timidly, and pulled the sliding door open.

  Would they see one another?

  The bride finally succeeded in retrieving her foggy, wet glasses and she looped them around her ears. As the condensation cleared, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in a robe.

  Half-hiding, the figure watched her draw near and crouched.

  Still, surely she would see it.

  But why? Others had not seen it.

  Did not see it.

  It glided away.

  And as the bride entered the room, she saw no one there, until her husband entered with a tray.

  “Lucille made you tea,” he told her with a smile. Then he stared hard at her. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.”

  She did not tell him. She did not confide. After all, while she loved him, she didn’t know him all that well. She still had a lot to prove.

  A lot to discover.

  * * *

  Creeping along, creeping along, creeping along.

  Bathed in blue midnight, leaves scattered along the floors of the galleries; curtains shifted. Creaks and groans, reflections, shadows.

  In the snow, on the heath, Allerdale Hall stood by itself against the hills, holding darkness within.

  * * *

  Edith was relieved and happy to be nestled in bed with Thomas, who was fussing over her—raking the fire, pouring and bringing her tea in a lovely cup that spoke of fine things and better times for the Sharpes. Then she took a sip and found it quite bitter. He raised a brow at her grimace, and she was abashed to disappoint him.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  “What is it?” They had never had anything like it in London.

  “Firethorn berries. Very good for you,” he said.

  “It’s a little bitter,” she confessed, and his face took on the haunted, sad expression that seemed to appear at the strangest times—often, when he should be happiest. She did not know what caused his melancholy, but she had promised herself she would wipe it from his face once and forever. She would make him so blissfully happy that he would forget whatever it was that threw a shadow over his spirit.

  “I’m afraid nothing gentle ever grows in this land, Edith,” he said. “You need a measure of bitterness not to be eaten. To survive.”

  It was so queer, the words he spoke, contrasted with the way he spoke them. But it frightened her a bit, and reminded her of what Lucille had said back in Delaware Park when she had collected butterflies to feed her cocoon. That all they had here were insects that thrived on cold and darkness. Black moths. And wintertime flies as well? So Cumberland produced moths, maggots, bit
ter berries, and blood-red clay?

  What was this place she had come to?

  Like a reply, a low, agonized moan filled the room. It raged from one end to the other, lifting up the hair on the back of her neck. Edith was so startled that she nearly dropped her cup as she clung to her husband.

  “What is that?” she cried.

  “When the east wind picks up, the chimneys form a vacuum and, with the windows all shuttered, the house…” his features became pinched, as if he were embarrassed to go on “…well, the house breathes. Ghastly, I know.”

  She shuddered. It was ghastly. It was almost too much for her to take in. The sound was horrible enough, but what it implied was too strange. A breathing house—how terrifying, for children especially. How had Thomas endured it as a little boy?

  “Can something be done about that?” she asked hopefully. She was certain that if he knew it bothered her so badly, and he could repair it, he would. And what of their own children, should they be so blessed, once the two of them consummated their marriage?

  “Nothing,” he replied. “I cried every time I heard it as a child. You’ll learn to turn a deaf ear.”

  So it had frightened him as a boy. She concluded that he wasn’t happy to be home, and that made her sad, too. As his wife, her life’s work would be to bring him gladness. He had lifted her from the abyss when her father had died. She would do all she could to keep him from that dark, lonely place where she had been.

  The infernal racket ceased and they settled in together again. As she sipped the very bitter tea, he placed a large wooden box in front of her with an unexpected flourish. She looked from it to him, pleased to see that his smile had returned. It was like the sun breaking through clouds, and it warmed her.

  “What, pray tell, is that?” she asked.

  He had dimples when he grinned. “Ah! This is a surprise. I wracked my brains for a suitable wedding present.”

  She was touched by his thoughtfulness. They had married quickly, and he had been stretched for funds. He had purchased beautiful mourning attire for her father’s funeral, insisting that he could not embarrass himself by accepting her charity in purchasing it for him. Yet he had somehow also managed to procure her a wedding gift.

  On the box was a plaque engraved with the initials E.S. How had he pulled that off so expeditiously as well?

  “Edith Sharpe,” he said unnecessarily. For of course she had practiced writing her new initials, as any young schoolgirl would have done upon accepting a suitor. This, too, pleased her, and she sat for a moment, savoring the sound of her name on his lips.

  Then she opened the box and caught her breath at what she saw: Inside sat a stalwart typewriter. The memory of their first meeting came rushing back and emotion rolled over her in waves. She embraced him; he held her back to look at her, really look, and there was true joy on his face, mixed with… regret? Ah, yes; he was remembering that first encounter, too. It had been at her father’s offices, she typing her manuscript, which he had declared quite good. Then how he and her father had sparred. Her poor father, in the ground now, with her mother.

  My mother, who walked our halls after she was dead. Who warned me to beware of Crimson Peak. Or was that she? What did I really see?

  She held back a sob, then wept gently in his arms over his goodness. She was safe, protected. He closed his eyes and she fell on the bed with him. Now, now it would happen. She was a little afraid, but passion began to overtake her. And the tenderest love for this man.

  His kiss was tentative. He was still reticent. She wanted to tell him that she desired him, but perhaps this was not the time. Their moment had not yet arrived.

  “It’s been an exhausting journey,” he murmured. “You better get some rest.”

  He rose, easing her firmly away. Perhaps he believed that this was best for her, and she was too shy to say otherwise. She really didn’t know too much about such concerns; she hadn’t had a mother with whom to discuss marital matters, and the things the other girls said didn’t seem to make much sense. Eunice had stolen a copy of a book from a stack she’d found in a locked trunk in the McMichael attic and read bits aloud to a giggling assembly that had included Edith. It was mostly about whippings and canings and Edith had declared with certainty that these were not the normal acts that occurred between married people. Edith had been so vehement about it that Eunice had tossed the book at her and said, “Then tell us all about it, Edith, since you know so much. Tell us a story that begins ‘Once upon a time, a trembling virgin married the ghostly lord of a haunted castle…’”

  Here she was, married over a month, and all she knew was that when Thomas drew near, when he touched her, she grew warm and eager, and wanted to find out everything.

  “I’ll have a bath now,” he told her. “Finish your tea, and, if you fall asleep, darling, I won’t wake you up.”

  But I want you to wake me up, she almost said. I want… you.

  Yet as he took one more look at her, her eyelids had already begun to droop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WATCHED.

  The sister spied through the keyhole in the door to their bedroom. She watched her brother refuse to perform his husbandly duties. She smiled and moved away.

  It watched the house’s breath scatter the dried leaves that drifted in, drifted by. The walls were bleeding from fissures in the wallpaper. Stab wounds, or a razor blade slowly drawn across a vein? Moths flew out; maggots fed.

  The mad head of the house was rotting, and night was dragging her wings across the moon, tracing filigree on the floors. In the attic, more black moths were dancing because it was cold, because it was dark. Because they were hungry.

  For the butterfly.

  * * *

  The clock struck midnight, and Edith half-stirred among the shabby elegance of the blue bedclothes.

  Another noise, and she opened one eye. Someone was softly crying again. This time she was certain. She turned her head toward Thomas’s side of the bed, but he was not there.

  There was more sobbing, papery, whispering. She looked slowly around. The room felt busy; she saw shapes and tried to make out what they were, seeing faces and hands everywhere and telling herself that they were only chairs and her new typewriter and the fireplace tongs and her tea things. But ice water filled her veins as the memory of the black-faced phantom in Cushing Manor batted at her awareness, demanding entry. She denied it, would not think of it, but her subconscious mined the deep, consuming dread that had never left her since that night in the nursery. It had only lain dormant, waiting to emerge.

  “Thomas?” she called. For perhaps it was he who was crying. She heard it distinctly now, yes, weeping, and she called to mind that he had seemed sad at intervals since they had first laid eyes on Allerdale Hall. An Englishman—a blueblood baronet—surely could not show such weakness in front of his new bride, and so of course he would conceal himself.

  Then she heard footsteps, and the door to the room opened gently.

  She got up. There was no one there—the loose door was simply more evidence of the house’s decay, she reasoned—and she closed it.

  It opened again with a slow, long creeeeak. A sharp chill rippled up her spine as she took a step back. Then, gathering her wits, she stepped out into the hall. Her little dog, which had been sleeping by the fire, followed her out. And she thought of the pup’s little red ball, and the sounds emanating from the bedroom while she had been in the bath. Of the woman in the elevator.

  In a house that breathed.

  * * *

  It watched.

  Holding a candelabra, the bride stepped into the hall with the dog that should be dead jaunting along beside her. When did curiosity flow into dread? It was a question that waited to be answered, though it had been asked a hundred times within the walls of Allerdale Hall.

  The floor was cold as a crypt, the boards and tiles frigid as stone coffin lids. Portraits stared down. Statues did not move until one looked away. And then… was it just
the light?

  Moths fluttered, fluttered, dipped and dove. So hungry.

  Just ahead of the bride, a shadow turned the corner. Creeping, shambling. It knew its way around. It hadn’t always. But there was a reason it moved in such a bizarre manner. Perhaps the bride would find out why tonight.

  But no, she missed it. Didn’t see it.

  Or couldn’t?

  She glided on, and with her long, plaited hair and white gown, she looked like a ghost herself. Like she belonged at Allerdale Hall. Or would, soon.

  Bam! A door slammed shut.

  The bride jumped, a cry dying in her throat. Then she stood stock-still, attempting to locate the source, to make it make sense. She was probably thinking that her husband must have shut a door. But she didn’t call out his name. Fear kept her silent. She didn’t want to call attention to herself.

  Curiosity met dread.

  Or perhaps she still insisted that her door had opened because the wood was rotting and the hinges were rusty; that, like the elevator, dampness and age threw everything off-kilter. Creaks and groans, curtains, snowfall, a house that breathed. There were rats.

  Moonlight spilled; she opened one door in the hallway. Her candlelight flickered over the threshold. Furniture was covered with sheets; dusty ashes were heaped in a fireplace. On the mantel, a candleholder was thickly wrapped in cobwebs, and two crystal goblets stood before a vase of dried roses.

  She shut the door and tried the next. A white marble statue missing a face was holding a human skull, perhaps pondering the mysteries of eternal rest. At the base of the statue carved letters stood out in relief, some of them obscured by clumpy red stains: B LOVE W FE. Beloved wife. Clearly a funerary monument. Perhaps she wondered if some of the bodies were moved from the family plot because of the mining operations. It was clear that the statue upset her, for she shut that door a bit more firmly.

  She opened the next door. That room was completely bare, although the floor was littered with leaves and rat droppings. The fourth room as well.

  It watched as she opened every door in the corridor. The bride was made of stern stuff. The dog withdrew, perhaps bored, but the bride moved on, her gown and hair billowing in the breathy sighs of Allerdale Hall. Her feet must be burning with cold. It could almost see her breath in the stygian frostiness.