The look on his face was so adorable. The excitement in his eyes was like that of a young boy on Christmas morning. It would break his heart if the place he so longed to see weren't still standing.
"Has anyone even been to this place since your grandmother left?" I asked.
"I don't believe so." He answered, still smiling.
"After grandmother passed, it was left to father, and he was always much too frightened to come up here." He added.
"I suppose the book had something to do with that." He chuckled.
Ah yes, the book. 'The Haunting of Crimson Peak' The novel that made Edith Sharpe a household name.
"Why do you think she kept her deceased husbands name to write under? Didn't that hurt your grandfather?" I asked.
"No. Grandpa Alan understood that she wanted to honor him in some way. Given that he passed away so young...The book implies that he may've even saved her life."
I turned my gaze to the window, seeing nothing but a wasteland of dead grass and emptiness. There were no animals, no birds flying overhead. It all felt so eerie to me.
"You don't honestly believe in all that nonsense do you, dear? Ghosts and goblins?" I asked.
He placed his hand on my thigh and squeezed gently, an amused chuckle danced off the cusp of his breath.
"Well, Grandmother surely did. I believe all stories, even ghostly fairytales have a ring of truth to them."
As we pulled up to the old rusted archway, withered and worn by time, with dry, twisted ivy that imbedded itself in the barley legible letters.
"Allerdale Hall..." he said, softly, almost in a whisper. Wonder filled tears moistened his eyelashes as the large, old estate came into view.
"It's here." He exhaled, as the relief seemed to wash over him.
Indeed, here it was. I would be lying if I said I wasn't impressed. From the description his grandmother gave of it in the book, the house was already in dire states over 50 years ago.
The fact that this old place hasn't completely disintegrated by now is unbelievable.
The closer we came to the house, the more obvious the years of wear and lack of upkeep have affected it. Dry, dead ivy crept up the crumbling, gapped bricks. What few windows, that weren't completely shattered, had long deep spiderweb like cracks running up the length of them.
The house seemed unstable as it sat crooked upon its foundation. It was hauntingly beautiful in a way, but to my husband, August, it was like finding a long lost piece of his childhood.
"Come darling! Shall we go inside?" He said, eagerly stepping out of the car and making his way to the door.
"Is it safe?" I asked, following behind him.
He pulled an old ring of keys from his jacket pocket. It wouldn't surprise me if the whole thing turned to dust as soon as he placed it into the keyhole.
"Here we go." He beamed. And with the turn of the key, the door creaked open. The musty smell of aged dry rot swept over us like a wave.
"Goodness gracious..." I whispered, covering my nose with the sleeve of my coat, hoping to filter the scent.
"Oh...Sybil..." he gasped. As we stepped inside, it felt as if we walked into a time capsule. All the furniture, paintings, drapes, all seemingly left just as it was when Edith left. Just as she'd described in her book.
"It's incredible August." I said, admiring the intricately carved stair case.
The ceiling seemed to have a large gaping hole in the center of the foyer, letting the daylight spill in from overhead.
"It's magical, isn't it Sybil?" He said, completely awestruck.
Actually, magical is the only way I could describe it.
It was a stunning home, but the atmosphere felt heavy, almost sorrowful.
"It definitely has personality." I said, making my way toward where the light shone through. Loose boards groaned beneath my feet, and the snap of an old board sent me stumbling forward.
"Sybil!" August grabbed my arm and pulled me back into his chest.
"Darling, are you alright?" He asked, pulling up the hem of my skirt to check for injury.
Bright red spatters along my shoes and stockings made my heart race. Blood? Have I stepped on a rusted nail?
"I'm bleeding!" I gasped, almost in tears. Gus looked up and smirked at me, before wiping the chunky red gunk onto his fingers.
"I don't think so dear. See?" He brought his hand up to show me.
"Clay. Scarlet red clay." He added, rubbing it between his fingers.
I looked down at the floor, no wonder the house seemed to lean, it's sinking into the ground.
"Just like in grandmothers story, red clay seeping up through the floorboards."
Everything about this place seemed to entrance him. He walked past the staircase and into a large sitting room in the back.
"The piano! Sybil! Look!" He quickened his pace and sat proudly at the dusty old grand piano. He pressed his fingers on the discolored keys, forcing out of tune notes to echo throughout the house.
"I bet I could tune this right up!" He beamed, as he looked back at me. He wanted me so badly to be as excited as he was.
I faked it as best I could. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to be excited. I know how much this means to him, but, something feels off to me. I can't shake this dreadful feeling I've had since setting foot in this house.
"Come. Let's check out the bedrooms!"
Bedrooms? He expects me to brave those rickety stairs?
Before I could say anything he was barreling up the steps.
"Careful!" I called to him, but my concerns fell on deaf ears.
"It's gorgeous, Darling!" His voice echoed. Before I could reach the top, he met me half way.
"That settles it then. Come, dearest, help me with the bags."
"Bags?... What bags?"
YOU ARE READING
Crimson Lace: A Crimson Peak love story (Thomas Sharpe)
Paranormal*COMPLETED* Sybil McMichael was happy to accompany her husband, August, to the place his grandmother, Edith Sharpe, wrote about in her most famous Novel. Once there, she finds that her husbands intentions were fueled by more than mere childhood curi...
