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Song: Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

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Again, I woke up. This time for real. I looked around, alone in my room. Trembling, I flung off the bed covers and got to my feet. I'm clumsy, teetering on my plaster cast, dizzy from the ingested drug. "Thomas?!"

A muttering, hideous shape was rolling through the shadows of the upstairs corridor. It was me. In my wheelchair. Week and disoriented, I stopped; my head lolled...a moan broke the silence. Another moan. Down the hall, sitting outside Lucille's room was the dog. I reached the threshold and pushed the door aside. I stood in front of a mirror. A man, behind me, kissed the nape of a woman's neck and embraced her suggestively. She moaned but....

....she saw me!

The man turned around-






















Is THOMAS!!!!!!!!

Gasping, I blindly rolled myself towards the stairs. The dog ran ahead, barking like a mad thing. Suddenly, the wheelchair jerked to stop. Sharpe was there, holding me in place. I flailed at him, he fended me off, his face a picture of calm. Then Lucille loomed up, stirring a glass of water and bringing it to my lips. I hurtled myself out of the wheelchair. I hit the floor with a thumb, only to be rolled onto my back.

Thomas put a knee on my chest and pinned my arms. He glanced at Lucille and nodded. She again comes close with the drinking glass. She slapped me, hard, then swiftly grabbed my nose and forced the solution down my throat. Gagging, I spit the liquid at the woman's face. "Who are you? Who are you, really?" I asked the monster. "Who do you think?" She asked me back. "You're not his sister!" Lucille slapped me again and forced more liquid down. "I am." I struggled, reaching for the chair. I tried to crawl, buy Thomas kneeled next to me, holding me down. Then everything went black.

Silence.

Then, the boom of the door knocker.

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The snow has stopped. Drifts were everywhere. Lucille opened up to find a Dr. McMichael on the doorstep, carrying his black bag and a large book - one of the bound volumes from the local paper. His horse and sleigh were in the driveway. "Good afternoon, Miss Sharpe. How's Edith doing?" The doctor took off his hat and shook the woman's hand. "She's asleep right now, Doctor." Lucille answered. "That's fine. Fine. And your brother??" He questioned. "He's gone to the post office. He'll be back shortly." Alan nodded, slowly. "I see." A slight tension built up in the air. "Dr. McMichael, last night... didn't go well. Edith awakened several times, crying out. We were all of us up til dawn." Lucille lied. "If she's in pain, I should see her-"

"No, no. She's finally getting her rest. I wonder, do you have more opium? In the dark, we broke the bottle." The sister was eager to poison me. "Of course." Alan patted his bag. "In here." Lucille's smile was bittersweet. "But come inside. There's no reason for you to freeze to death."

Still in his overcoat, Dr. McMichael was seated on the sofa, decanting some liquid opium into another small bottle. Lucille tended to the fire and sat opposite him, eyeing the drug. "Well. Back home, everyone's clamouring for some news. Tell me, Miss Sharpe, how's her book been going?" He looked up for a second. "Oh, she talks of nothing else. Quite the imagination, that one." She chuckled. "A writer's talent is one I've always envied." Lucille lifted her eyebrows. "You have a taste for fiction, Doctor?" He nodded. "I do. Although in my experience, actual events can go far beyond one's wildest imaginings."

The bedroom was dark. Laying under the covers, barely moving, I heard the distant voices, as if in a dream. Carefully, I raised myself up. "Alan-?" Across the room, the dog was alert, tail thumping. I looked at the open door, then reached for the rubber ball on the night stand. With supreme effor, I rolled it into the hallway. It almost reached the stairs, when the dog scampered and - brought it back! "No - no..." Fighting off nausea, I again picked up the ball. Throwing it...
The dog instantly went after it. But, in the hall, the animal recoils as one of the hissing spectres - Pamela Upton, the blind girl - springs forth from the shadows!

A dry, bony hand guided the rolling ball to the steps.

sir thomas sharpe // crimson peakWhere stories live. Discover now