by SincereJester

{Hope all you readers are enjoying this; we know the spirit of the Peak certainly is…} 

Part 7 

The house breathed, a deep rasp of agonized pain, burdened
with its miserable secrets. The rotting walls sheltered their latest addition,
still wet with bathwater and blood. The ghost wavered over her own corpse,
unseen, as her children fled from the horrible house. She could not ever leave
this place, not even when her mutilated body was discovered and removed; no,
she would remain. Freed from physical constraints and of time, she was now
bound by her spirit to dreadful revelation. She could envision things that had
happened, were happening, and would happen…and none of them offered salvation
or comfort. Perhaps this was Hell, then. The children would return, there would
be others, she must warn them…

Far below, the earth oozed, laughing. There were so many
buried there, some noble sacrifices imbued with forgotten magic, some tossing
restlessly in their muddy graves, all submitting to the eternal of this place.
Let this new one rage, let her flutter and flail with her silent screams. Let
the play begin!

In the empty attic, the moths danced with the little
stick-bug fairy, spinning around and around endlessly in the still summer air.

The waning moon shone weakly overhead, barely lighting the
trailing dirt road. Hand in hand, the siblings had walked for several hours as
the moon followed them. The sound of their breathing mingled with the scurrying
of insects and rodents unseen in the brush; their gasps at the rare hooting of
an invisible owl.

“Let’s rest,” Lucille suggested, and Thomas nodded gratefully,
dropping her hand. They were both tired and worn from the events of the night,
and Thomas was hiding his fear of being out in the dark vastness of Crimson
Peak. There weren’t many trees this near the path, but Lucille took his hand
again and let them from the road to a small hollow sheltered by scrubby bushes.
They sank down, happy to be off their feet for a few moments at least. They
nibbled at the bread they had brought.

“It will be dawn soon,” Thomas remarked.

Lucille brushed the crumbs from her nightgown. “We’ve come a
long way; the crossroads should not be too far from here.  Would you like to sleep a bit?”

Thomas nodded and pulled off his coat. Settling next to her,
he draped it over them both, curling his legs up beneath him. Lucille wrapped
her arms around him, and they fell into an exhausted slumber.  Soon the moon slipped beneath distant
hillside and the sky began to brighten.  The sister and brother were so soundly asleep
that they didn’t even stir as a horse came racing down the road toward the
town, or later when a party of riders returned at full gallop, followed shortly
by a wagon. It was only when the sun was rising in a hazy sky and the birds
began to sing in the meadow that they awoke, and they made their way back onto
the road.

@8@

Finlay hoisted the stack of branches onto his shoulder. The
wood would have to dry a bit more before it would be suitable for kindling, but
with the lady of the house returned and the wood stores depleted in her
absence, he needed to replenish the supply. His mistress was expecting more
company today, so it was only right to see to this little task.

Finlay was a simple man, in more ways than one. His family
had served the Sharpes almost as long as Allerdale Hall had been standing. His
small brick home was a short walk from the mansion; a groundskeeper’s hovel
that was larger than he needed but served him as well as it had his father and
grandfather before him. A small windbreak of saplings surrounded the place, allowing
him some privacy [or more likely, to hide the servants from the view of the
gentry living or visiting Allerdale Hall.] He preferred it that way. With the
decline of his responsibilities to the house, he was able to spend his time out
in the wild meadows of Crimson Peak, hunting rabbits and gathering what he
needed from the land, if it was kind enough to yield it to him. His needs were
few and basic: shelter, food, some drink, a good fire when it was cold, and the
entertainment of remembering the old stories and songs told to him when he was
a mere lad. He didn’t need much else, and was content.

He made his way to the kitchen door, humming one of the old
songs. Frowning, he stopped: the door was standing wide open, as if it hadn’t
been latched. He knew it had been locked when he had left the afternoon before,
after all the deliveries had been made. Poor Miss Lucille had locked it up
after them, when he had joined the porters on a rare trip to town for some
company. Too much company, probably, but the horse knew the way back, luckily. “Hullo?”
he called, peering through the doorway. “Lady Beatrice? Miss Lucille? Hullo!
Master Thomas?”

The kitchen was dark and the fires unlit. His footsteps
echoed on the floor. He set down the bundle, alarmed by this unusual quiet.
“Milady, is anything amiss?” There was no response, and Finlay grew more and
more worried as he tiptoed into the foyer. The sturdy front doors were still
bolted shut. Maybe Lady Beatrice had taken ill again, or perhaps they all had.
He mounted the stairs, crossing the walkway and knocking on her chamber door.
“Milady? Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” he called out, and pushed the door open.
The room was as empty as the kitchen, but there was a smell that raised the
hairs on the back of his neck as soon as he detected it: blood, and the fetid
scent of something dead. “Lady Beatrice?”

Yelling in terror, Finlay dashed from the room at the
gruesome sight of his murdered mistress. Without a pause he fled the house and
ran back to his house. Shaking, he saddled his horse and tore off down the road
at top speed.  Wide eyed he had barely
stopped to tie up his horse before bursting into Farlam’s police station in a
panic. He stammered out his discovery, begging them to come at once. Not
accustomed to such sensational crime, the authorities reacted at once to return
to Crimson Peak. Constable Webber and Inspector Root rode out on their own
mounts followed by a wagon bearing Dr. Frederick Jones, Farlam’s foremost
surgeon and acting coroner, a court recorder, and the distraught Finlay.

Constable Webber was a steady, cautious man and wouldn’t
allow any other to enter the house before he had searched the premises,
together with Inspector Root. The murder scene was one of the most dreadful
sights he recalled having seen, and it would haunt him for months after.  Fortunately he was not required to remain in
the room for long: he was sent off to observe other parts of the house and to
check on Finlay, who couldn’t be persuaded to go farther than the stairs.

After excusing himself for a bout of retching at the bloody
sight, the court recorder returned with his sketchbook in hand and began to
draw, as delicately as he could, the entire scene. Inspector Foot and Dr. Jones
conferred in hushed tones over the bathtub and its gory contents. Dr. Frederick
retrieved several of the sheets from the bedroom as Inspector Foot drained the
tub.  With the utmost consideration they
lifted the cold but limp body from it and laid it out on the sheets spread over
the tiled floor. Carefully they removed the bone cleaver from the unfortunate
woman’s skull; a difficult task, it having been embedded so deeply. Setting the
weapon aside, they covered the naked corpse from unnecessary exposure before
continuing their examination.  It went on
for some time.

Constable Webber had
gotten Finlay a sizable drink to settle his nerves and had finally gotten the
poor groundskeeper to recall the events leading up to the discovery, starting
from the day before.  The simple fellow
had stammered out everything he could recollect, repeating himself when
Inspector Foot appeared in the kitchen. Suddenly Finlay paled. “Oh, I had
forgotten the young ‘uns!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t seen them, either, and I left
without thinking!”

“Children?” Inspector Foot asked. “There are children in the
house?”

“Young Master Thomas and Miss Lucille, yes,” Finlay replied,
shaking at the thought of what might have happened to them. “Their rooms are in
the attic, sirs, but I had no sight or sound of them when I came in.”

Constable Webber leaped to his feet and dashed up the
stairs. He returned shortly, only to report that the attic was deserted, and
that there had been no sign of violence in all the rooms. Had they been
abducted, then? Or had the poor things witnessed the crime and run off? Where
were they?

Dr. Jones was preparing to have the body of Lady Beatrice
removed to the wagon and driven to the mortuary in High Street in town, but
since there was great concern over the missing children, they decided to
unhitch the horses from the wagon to search for them. The surgeon would remain
with the body at Allerdale Hall as each of the remaining men took off in different
directions with hopes of finding the Sharpe siblings, safe and unharmed.

The two small figures were hand-in-hand when Constable
Webber found them near the crossroads, on the dirt road to Farlam. He was not
given to outbursts of emotion but he nearly wept with relief at finding them.
They were shivering and mute with fright, it seemed: the boy was particularly
reluctant to be placed on the saddle beside his sister as they returned to
Allerdale Hall. The girl merely murmured her thanks at their rescue, holding
tight to her brother all the way back. He could only imagine what they had
endured that night.

Finlay wrung his hands and wept when the children were
brought back to their ancestral home.
Inspector Root was as business-like and professional as Finlay was mawkish,
seeing that the children went up to dress after the night’s exposure, in order
to distract them from the sight of Dr. Jones’ proceedings.  He had questions to ask them, and did not
delay in doing so. Thomas was questioned first, and Lucille gave his hand a
quick, firm squeeze before going to the kitchen to prepare something hot and
substantial for them and the officers.  

The poor young lady must have been in shock, Dr. Jones
thought as he returned to the house, seeing how she performed her tasks in a
daze. She only shook her head when given the unfortunate news that her mother
had met with an untimely and gruesome death, but of course she and her brother
may well have been present when the crime was committed, although one hoped
they had not actually witnessed it. Dr. Jones was gentle and mild in conveying
the news to her that the body would be transported to the funeral home in Farlam,
and that perhaps she knew of anyone else that should be notified? The
dark-haired girl stared at him unblinking for several long moments before
replying that she knew only that Mother’s solicitor had visited just the other
day, and that there had been some arrangement made with an aunt in Surrey. She
was most obliged to the esteemed doctor, and asked if she might be allowed into
her mother’s quarters, in order to select an appropriate gown for Lady Beatrice’s
burial. Might she also have a lock of hair by which to remember her? Lucille
asked, to which he agreed as being most appropriate a gesture for a grieving
daughter.  He left her to her duties.

As if she were sleepwalking, Lucille made her way up the
steps to the master bedroom, gliding across the carpet without hesitation,
removing her mother’s dark mourning clothes from the armoire and laying them
across the bed. Turning, she moved to the washroom as if drawn to it, a moth to
flame.

The walls were still spattered with drying blood, the tub
streaked with crimson red. The tiles on the floor had streaks of brownish-red
in places. Lucille’s first thought was how to scrub the place clean, for she
had the sudden desire to rid herself of any trace of her mother’s presence from
the room. It did not stem from remorse or guilt: she was the lady of the house
now, and it simply would not do to have it in such a condition. Her unblinking
eyes fell on the bone cleaver, set aside and now forgotten, on the marble sink
top. What a fearsome thing it was, with its heavy, thick blade and curved
handle, almost like a battle ax, a weapon of war. Well, to her it was, and she
had won the battle against her hateful mother. She had brought down that
killing blow as if to counter every wicked word her mother had ever spat at
her, every blow of the cane that bruised and broken her body. She took up one
of the discarded sheets from the pile of bed linens and wrapped up the blade
without a second’s hesitation. Like the ring, this was hers, a memento.  She would hide it away, keep it, for Mother.

She carried the bundle under her arm, stashing it in the
larder when she returned to the kitchen to tend to the food. When she found a
moment, she dashed down the winding stone steps to the clay pits beneath the
house, where vast vats of murky red mud bubbled in the shadows. She pried up
one of the flagstones and tucked her prize beneath it, hastily replacing the
rock and returning upstairs. She fought to keep her face bland and unsmiling as
she busied with the meal.

Thomas came in, his face quite solemn, escorted by the
police constable. Although he remained silent, his eyes told Lucille that he
hadn’t revealed anything of the truth during his questioning. He had kept to
their story.  Lucille was proud of him,
her little brother now growing into an adult, the new lord of Allerdale Hall.
Together, they truly had no equal. They would be unstoppable in whatever they
set their minds to achieve.

Beneath them, the mud vats bubbled, the disturbed surfaces
swirling as if awakening. The pipes rattled as blood-red silt coated the
interiors, settling like rust. The disembodied vapor of their ghostly mother
stood unseen in the empty tub, shaking, eyes wide in horror, and screamed a
silent scream.

by SincereJester

Most certainly NSFW, this part! Crimson Peak is hungry, and will not be easily sated….

Part 6

To Thomas, Lucille was ethereal, with her white skin and
shift, and dark hair and eyes. As she returned to the nursery carrying the
jewelry box, she saw him and smiled, hiding the box deep inside one of the
crumbling walls, behind a fluttering mass of moth wings and torn cobwebs. She
slipped on a robe over her shift, leaving it loose, and sat on her bed. She
unraveled each of her trailing braids, the wavy locks covering her shoulders
like a dark, silken cloak. Humming, she took up a hairbrush and began to smooth
them out.  Lucille appeared quite
collected, even happy, but her hands shook, and she did not look in the mirror.
The stones on the ring caught the dusky light.

The house watched, the dark fey presence of it waiting.

The color had returned to Thomas’ face, now freshly washed.
His shirt was untucked again, and he had removed his waistcoat and tie. He
stood in front of her, barefoot, watching her brush her hair. Lucille looked so
lovely, even with the scratches marring her face, and he felt different, older
somehow. Although no words had passed between them, Thomas understood that he
now would have to care for Lucille as much as she had cared for him in the
past. She had crossed over some unidentified limit that night; something had
been released from the depths of her darkness that could not be locked away
again. She was beautiful the way crystal was beautiful: delicate, fragile, so
easily damaged… Was that how she had seen him all these years? He wondered what
would become of them.

He came to her side, taking the hair brush from her and
running it down the length of the silken strands, slow and evenly paced.
Lucille sighed, letting her head fall forward, relaxed. With each stroke,
Thomas thought, I love you; we’re together now and forever; I’ll protect you,
come what may.

“Thomas,” Lucille murmured, and although it was a whisper,
it was strong in the quiet of the attic. The evening sun drenched the room,
staining everything in it with ruddy-golden light.

“I’m here, darling sister,” he replied. Brushing her hair
back, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder. Light, gentle kisses fluttered
over her skin, to her neck, her jaw, small comforts that held heat within them.
With a twist she pulled off the ring, dropping it to the vanity. She took the
hairbrush from him and set it down, too, as he drew her to her feet. Embracing
her tightly, Thomas continued his barrage of kisses at the small of her throat,
across her neck, any bit of exposure he could reach. She cradled his head to
her, encouraging him, wanting the warmth of his passion to melt the coldness
within her.

His hands freed, Thomas stroked the length of her back,
urged on by Lucille’s touch. He found her hips and grasped them, pressing her
close to him. The sudden wave of agonizing pleasure was jarring, and he held
her like a vise, wondering what would happen without the barrier of clothing
between them. Lucille moved against him, making his moan. She twisted in his grip,
half-dancing as she guided him to the nanny’s room, to the large bed. She broke
free to perch on top of the covers.

Staggering, Thomas fell to his knees in front of her,
overcome with his blossoming lust. Lucille, panting with her own desire, began
to draw up the hem of her shift, exposing her long legs from calf to thigh, up
to her waist. Spreading them wider, she plunged her hand to the center, fingers
tracing along the wet folds. “Come to me,” she beckoned. “Kiss me, make love to
me.”

He reached for her, still kneeling, wanting something he
hadn’t ever experienced before, like they had seen in that book in the library,
the book of lovemaking. He kissed the inner part of her thighs, moving inward,
answering Lucille’s gasps of pleasure with those of his own. He replaced her
hands with his, amazed at the slickness of her on his fingertips, observing
every reaction his touch brought to her.

The house creaked, the wind panting with them through the
halls, roiling in a haze of sinful lust, a forbidden love. Crimson Peak was
ancient and remembered magic that people had forgotten, the sacrifices once
made on it, buried within it…and it was thirsty once more, roused from its
patient trance like a spider in its web, to the vibrations of its entangled
prey .  

With a long moan, Lucille rocked against Thomas’ kisses, her
hands twining in his hair. She relaxed as if melting onto the bed, tugging him
back by his curls. She smiled at him in the crimson light, and he smiled back,
the ocean-sweet taste her still on his lips. She sat up, taking him up onto her
lap; children but not children any longer.

She rocked him gently, like an infant, pressing his cheek to
her breast, and she began to sing. It was a lullaby she often sang to him. “Let
the winds blow kindly/in the sails of your dreams/Let the moon light your
journey/and bring you to me….”

Thomas wasn’t dreaming, of course, and he could hardly keep
still. Lucille undid his trousers, her hand finding his swollen flesh. He gave
a muffled cry as she grasped him, and she shushed him as she had many nights
before.  Releasing her hold, she slipped
out from under him. She stood him on his feet, trading places with him as she
sank to the floor, pulling down his trousers and smallclothes as she did. “Lay
back,” she said, and he did. She stroked the hard length of him, and gently
kissed it before drawing him between her lips and suckling him. He began
whimpering, his vision blurring in the dim light as he closed his eyes. He
never imagined this captive lust, this primal sensation…He felt the need to
move, to welcome her mouth around him, and she moved with him, humming the
lullaby.

Below them, forgotten, smoky wisps of violent red rose like
steam from the sinking body, the water now still as glass and cold. The crimson
earth oozed and pulled at the bricks and boards atop it, as if to tear the
incestuous lovers from their heaven to the very depths.  The house inhaled the sweet sounds of this
offering, binding its black wickedness into their perverted love as the walls
bled.

His heart hammering, Thomas grabbed at the blankets as he
began to lose himself. He gulped in air, desperately pulling breath into his
lungs as the intensity at his core increased. Lucille abruptly let go, sitting
back, concerned. “Thomas?” she asked her lips dark and eyes wide.

With a half-strangled cry, Thomas clutched at the clothes
rumpled at his feet, frantically trying to stem the wet burst that the sudden
release around him allowed. Lucille let out her own cry of dismay and moved to
assist him. His coughing gasps became quiet shuddering sobs as Thomas stood
shaking in the last of the dusky red light. Above him, the moths flapped and
fluttered their wings in the shadows. “Sh, sh,” Lucille hushed him. “It’s all
right, my darling, it will be all right. Don’t cry, dearest…”

“I c-couldn’t breathe,” he stammered.

“But you can now, can’t you?” she replied firmly. He nodded.
“There, then. Go change into your nightshirt. “She stared after him as Thomas
shuffled from the room, clutching his clothes. She shivered, hugging her arms
around her. The darkness seemed to reach out from the corners and surround her.
She felt suddenly small, weary.  “Thomas?”
she whispered, following after him.

Thomas stood in the common room of the nursery, dressed in
his nightclothes, eyes downcast, fidgeting.
He had lit the candles, the pale light flickering over his solemn
expression. “I’m sorry, Lucille.”

“You needn’t apologize, little brother,” she answered.
“There’s no shame in it. We are bound together, Thomas, bound to this house. We
are the last of the Sharpes, heirs to Allerdale Hall. Lord and lady of Crimson
Peak.” She embraced him tenderly, reassuring him. “Nothing can change that, now
or ever.”

Thomas shivered, doubts racing through him, but he dared not
voice them. He closed his eyes, retreating to the safety of his own thoughts
and merely held on to his sister in the shadows in silence as the candles
burned lower.

“We need to leave here,” Thomas murmured. “We need to leave
tonight, Lucille. We should just go.”

Lucille sighed. She knew he was right. As much as they would
try to shut out the rest of the world, it would come to them far sooner than
they would ever want. They could not just bar the door and expect to be left
alone.  But the necessity of their escape
made her indignant. This was their home; theirs by right and bought with pain
and suffering. They couldn’t simply abandon it. “Not before morning, sweetest,”
she argued. “This house and everything in it is ours. Ours! Without it, what do
we have?”

Thomas stared at her, eyes shining with emotion. “We have
each other. I promise you that, Lucille. We will always protect each other,
forever.”

“But…where will we go?” Lucille questioned.

“We’ll walk along the road; eventually it goes to Falham.
Then we can go to Surrey together, or London, or anywhere we wish. But we’ll be
together.”

“And what about Mother?
If anyone finds out what happened…”

“They won’t. I won’t tell, and you won’t. We’ll make up a
story,” Thomas suggested.  “You’re good
at stories.”

“It’s not as though she struck herself, Thomas…Oh, wait!
Let’s say that a robber came in and threatened to kill her if she didn’t give
him all her jewels and the keys to the silver cabinet! And we hid and ran away
because we were scared he’d kill us, too.”

Thomas nodded eagerly. “They’d have to believe that, since
Mother would never give up those keys and there’s hardly any silver left
anyway. And you hid the jewelry box.”

Lucille stood up, excited. “They will never part us if we
tell them that story!” She began to embellish the story in her mind, how they
had been sent up to the attic to go to bed; that they had heard a strange voice
in the house, and Mother screaming, and then nothing, and had climbed out a
window to escape into the night out of fear. It would work, this little fiction!
“Come on, then, let’s get on our coats and take some small things with us. I’ve
a few coins, and we must take some candles and a flint…” Lucille and Thomas
raced about, gathering a few necessary possessions. Lucille took up her
mother’s ring, reluctantly stashing it with the others in the box; she dared
not take it with her. Rushing down the stairs into the kitchen Lucille stuffed food
into their bags. She insisted that Thomas wear his jacket, and he threw it on
over his nightclothes. Following after her brother, she stepped out into the
dark embrace of the night on Crimson Peak. Thomas reached back, taking her
hand, and they fled across the hills like butterflies freed from a net.