Watching her struggle made me sick.
Why Thomas felt the slightest attraction to these weak, fragile women, I'll never know.
She pulled and tugged at Finlay's rigid body, only managing to move him but a few feet into the house.
She irritated me. Her ever weeping eyes, her pale thinning lips, and even thinner hair. I assumed that watching her suffer would bring me some amusement, but, her complete and utter patheticness does little more than irritate me.
"STOP! Just, Stop!" I called out,
She seemed to cower a little as I stormed up to her.
"Could you be any more useless?!" I asked.
"Go! Put something on! If I'm forced to look at your disgusting body a moment longer I'll vomit. GO! NOW!"
She didn't reply, she just turned away, sniveling in that pitiful way that she does, and hobbled up the stairs.
"Hurry up!"
Ugh. How I hate her. If it weren't for the fact that we'd be stuck with her if she were to die in this house, I'd have gotten rid of her already.
After dragging Finlay's body to the lowest level of the house, and tossing him into one of the clay vats, I began to feel an odd sensation...pain? I hadn't felt pain in so long I'd forgotten what it was like.
My hands ached. As I brought them up to look at them I noticed.
Were August's fingernails always so dark?
I watched as, right before my eyes, my fingernails continued to blacken, with blue spider like veins creeping down my fingers.
How odd...How uncomfortable...
I must consult the book, certainly there's a clue as to why this is happening to me.
I hurried back up to the sitting room. I could feel the ache in my hands subside, as I quickened my pace toward the piano.
I checked my hands again. The veins had faded away, and my finger nails had lightened, slightly, to a disgusting brown color.
"What the hell..." I whispered.
I quickly lifted the lid to the piano, exposing the treble strings within.
Wedged beneath them, laid the key to my salvation. The tome that held the solution to my dilemma.
"Phasmology: A study of spirits, and the paranormal."
I always thought it was silly of mother to collect so many obscure books over the years. Who would've guessed that the answer to all my problems was right here, in this house, all along?
I peeled apart the molded pages, still amazed at how well the information from the possession chapter helped me.
I flipped through, hoping to find an explanation for the issue with my hands, and...aha!
"A victim of possession is easily identifiable. The suspected victim will not roam far past a particular area in the home. This is because the invading spirit is still partially attached to the original vessel object, and will be until the body either completely absorbs its new host, or expires entirely."
Oh, wonderful...
"In the event that the possessed subject does stray from the original vessel, the body will degenerate rapidly, causing the subject to rot if not returned to the object promptly."
I shut the book and placed it on top of the piano, seething at my horrible luck, that I couldn't have been tethered to something portable, like a vase or something...
"Goddamnit...." I hissed, slamming my hand down onto the sour noted keys.
No matter. I won't be in this body for long. After this storm ceases, Finlay's family is bound to send someone up here to search for him. And when they do, the McMicheals are as good as gone.
I could hear Sybil's timid footsteps as she returned to me.
I needed to be more mindful of her, especially if I was going to pull this off.
"Come here to me..."
She hesitated at first, but began to make her way cautiously toward me.
"Y-yes?" She trembled.
I grabbed her hands, and inspected them. They were quite bony, and icy, it was if she had no blood flow at all.
She flinched as I grabbed her face.
So thin, sickly even. She's in even worse shape than I'd realized.
She's definitely a far cry from the plump, glowy-skinned wench she was when she and her husband first arrived here. I can't say that I'm surprised. Allerdale Hall is an unforgiving place.
Still, even in her debilitated state, Thomas still seems to find some sort of worth in her. I can't see it myself, which, I never understood his fondness for Edith either.
I could feel my grip tightening on her face, my fingers digging into the sunken in hollows of her cheeks.
I couldn't stop myself, this ugly little piss ant of a woman. How I hated her. I felt so conflicted. I wanted to hurt her, make her suffer. Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't she pay for taking my beloved's attention? Causing him to cast me away as if I were never here at all, as if I never mattered to him.
"A-August!" She finally managed to loosen herself from my grasp.
"I can't have you dying on me, Sybil...Go, sit by the fire place and warm yourself..." I said, not even attempting to hide the destain in my tone.
Without another word she did as she was told, like the mousey coward she was.
Let's hope this storm passes quickly, for all our sakes. The urge to kill her is impossible to ignore as it is...
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...
