It was strange to Thomas Sharpe, to wake in a house that didn't moan and cry. It was strange for him to wake still warm, able to move his fingers and toes, his skin not marred by the freezing wind. Allderdale Hall was part of his past now, a dark, rotting memory that lingered in his dreams and hid in the shadows during daylight. Lucille was dead, Edith had moved on, now happily married to Dr. McMichael and yet, it was still strange
Whilst Thomas' mental memories were hazy, the physical memories were much more prominent: the scar on his cheek, the line even whiter than the tone of his skin, and the colour of his eye. In Lucille's rage, she had punctured his skull with a tool file, shoving the harsh metal implement into the man's brain, rupturing his eyeball in the process, and now - whilst his brain had healed - his eye had not. The white of his sclera was now permanently tainted crimson, and his sight lost.
Rising from his bed Thomas flexed his limbs, his body aching, and the headache that resided in his skull a permanent fixture. The doctors had given him various concoctions to relieve the pain, but nothing had helped. All that was left of Lucille was the scar and the pain - losing that all together meant forgetting her completely, he could not do that. Not now. As he headed downstairs, the fireplace in his living quarters still glowed from last night's fire, his latest literary read (Edith's latest work) lay page-down on the table, next to the empty glass of scotch and an equally empty bottle. He lived a simple life now, far away from Allderdale, from Cumbria, from all of it.
Leaving Allderdale was hard when his sisters presence still lingered. Even after a rage filled Edith caved in her skull, she lingered, like a bad smell. The place was full of death; it shuddered and shook at night, the ghost of his Mother and now his sister roaming the halls as Thomas tried to sleep. They scratched at the doors, rattled the handles and screamed profanities only Thomas could hear. Like a child he hid under the covers, the pounding in his head unbearable, but eventually, he decided to go. Thomas stayed to watch the winter leave, as the blood red hills turned back to white, then to green of grass - and when Spring finally arrived and the wind no longer chilled him to the bone, he left. Closing and locking the doors was met with wailing from his sister like he had never heard, even when she was alive. When he slept there, when he slept in their bed, she would whisper her anger and hatred, but it would quickly be soothed with words of love and affection. Her breath was like rotting meat and it took all of Thomas' strength not to vomit through her vapour form. She would lie beside him, stroking his face and kissing his neck, as if she were not dead, but as the doors closed, as he shut the book on Crimson Peak, Lucille cursed him.
"The dead can curse the living,". That is what the priest had said when a worried Thomas Sharpe appeared in his confessional box, drenched from the pouring rain - and that is what Lucille had done. She had vowed to never leave him, no matter how far he ran, how deeply he hid, she would find him. She would make sure her never, ever forgot what happened at Crimson Peak.
Thomas had stopped in his tracks, his plan to head to the cold floored kitchen halted as he stood, frozen in the memories, with Lucille's screams echoing in his ears. He had seen snatches of her since moving to his new home, slivers and scrapes of her. Whilst his mother's ghost had been the colour of the clay he so desperately tried to mine, Lucille was blacker than the night itself. Comprised of ash, smoke and hatred, she lingered in reflections, around corners and in the cracks of doors. But never would she fully appear. Thomas heard the lullaby too, every now and again, snatches of his sister's graceful fingers lingering across keys that were no where to be found and that is what he heard now. He did not get emotional any more, the act of crying caused pain in his damaged eye - the tear duct damaged through the attack, but as the ghosting tune of the lullaby caressed his ears, Thomas sunk into the nearest chair and began to cry.
He cried because he was lonely. No, he wasn't lonely; he had the ghost of his dead, vengeful sister - but she was not human. She was far from human. Thomas wanted a human companion. He missed Edith. He had loved her, he had truly loved her, and she was gone. He cried because he was scared, the things Lucille had hissed at him as he'd closed the doors of Allderdale would never leave his mind. Her threats and her anger unsettled his very soul. He cried because he was weary of merely existing. He was not living, he was simply...alive. Despite his money Thomas led a simple life, but he had nothing to do. Shoulders shaking from the sobs that poured from his chest, the room got unnaturally cold, shockingly fast. Thomas didn't have to look up to see whom the hand on his shoulder belonged to.
Lucille stood beside him, her caved in skull tilted at an unnatural angle, set to mimic concern or care for her brother, but as her nails bit into his skin, slicing through the material of his clothes, he knew her intentions were far from sweet. The breaking of her jaw and nose from Edith's shovel-wielding meant Lucille's once sweet voice was now fractured, gravelly and raw. Words were indistinguishable from her wheezing breath but still Thomas understood. Black blood dripped from her destroyed face as she snarled at her brother;
"There is nothing for you here Thomas..." He knew what she was saying; despite seeming sentient, Lucille's ghost only seemed to have a set number of phrases, and this, like every other time, she pleaded with him to die, to end it all.
"We can be together...forever..." the pain from Lucille's hand matched the pain in his head. Thomas avoided eye contact with her, neither his, nor her eyes were up to such a distressing sight, and thankfully, the tolling of the grandfather clock (inherited from their Mother's Father) rang in the hallway. The sound was sharp and clean agains the chill Lucille's presence had created, and she faded away like a breath, disappearing as if she had never been there. His shoulder was fine - ghosts can't hurt the living Thomas - you learnt that when your Mother tried to hit you, her form tottering and swaying with the axe slammed precariously into her skull.
Gathering his thoughts, Thomas ran pale fingers through his unkempt dark hair, and looked across the room to a small work table; on it sat a music box he'd never quite finished, and an idea sparked in his mind. Lucille bothered him not when he was busy. When he worked she was no where to be found, her presence all but forgotten. He also remembered reading about the local orphanage, and how they were requesting things for the children, the difficult monetary times proving a drain on everyone. For the first time in a while, he smiled.
"A chance to start again Thomas;" He murmured to himself, and stood, wiping the tears away, before padding through to the kitchen, humming the ever familiar lullaby.
