Crimson peak re-telling (Reader x Tomas Sharpe)

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Ghosts Are Real, This Much I Know

You stared at the red stain on the paper. Frowning, you tried to wipe it off, but to no avail. In a moment of bliss you had kissed your manuscript and now it was marred with an imprint of your imperfect lips. Ah well, surely it would make no difference to Ogilvie whether or not the parchment was clean, he would probably reject it anyway. You sighed, feeling the weight of the forces against you. All you wanted was for the world to read the words you had put to paper. You were sure if you were just given a chance, you could make them cringe with the horror with your ghosts in your Gothic fiction.

Your father was no help and you shouldn't have expected otherwise. Although he was the wealthiest man in New York, he had little to no time for you or your "hobbies" as he called them. He was much to busy buying this or selling that. That is, when he wasn't badgering you to get married already and stop taking up so much room in the house with your books and papers. Luckily enough for you, he was away most of the time and the silence of your incredibly large house catered to your writing just fine. The only interference you ever had was your maid, Margaret. In her old age she still looked after you with the same care she always had. Margaret had come into your family when your mother passed away. You were very young at the time. For a while you thought you had forgotten your mother. You couldn't remember what she looked like, what she sounded like.

It wasn't until you were about ten that you encountered her again. Part of you still thinks it was a dream. You remember sleeping in your room, your white night gown snug against your body, your knees tucked into your chest to keep warm. You still had your eyes closed when you heard it. Her voice. You felt cold wrack through your body and you squeezed your eyes shut even harder.

"Beware," you heard her voice. It was as though she were talking through a scratched recording. "Beware of Crimson Peak," she shuddered.

By the time you had mustered enough courage to turn around and she her, she was gone, taking the cold feeling with her.

You had almost forgotten that night by the next year. Margaret was making dinner and your father was away so you were bored. You ventured outside into the cold night, hoping for adventure. Instead you found a cold seeping into your bones that had nothing to do with the weather. You remembered this feeling. You knew it was coming. When she rose from the snowy earth, all sallow-faced and transparent, you balked. You should have run, screamed, attacked, something. But you stayed still. You watched your mother's image as it made a horrible screeching sound. It pointed towards the house and lunged at you. Running back into the house, you found sanctuary in Margaret's open arms. You did not tell her of your encounter. Only when you looked back outside did you realize what your mother had been trying to warn you about. There, just beyond the first trees of the woods were three large, snarling wolves. Had you stayed outside any longer, they surely would have ripped you apart. Imagining the crimson snow, you shuddered, silently thanking your mother.

Glancing down at your manuscript now, you smiled. Your past may have had its horrific events, but it did breed good fiction.

No one in your society understood your passions. All the women you were forced to associate with were unsophisticated and dull. They were merely looking for a man; the thought of which for you was more horrible than the wolves of your childhood. You were forced to attend many society events - balls, charities, dinners, etc. - to maintain appearances and uphold the family name.

It was during your forced participation in these societal events that you first heard the name: Sharpe. At first you ignored the women trying to engage you in their gossip. After a while, however, you heard the name several times and began to listen. Many women were enthralled with a certain man named Thomas Sharpe. From what you heard, he was tall, dark and handsome, as well as mysterious. He and his sister, Lucille, had traveled all the way from England to seek financing in America. While some women were drawn to the dark mystery of the Sharpe's appearance in New York, others were wary. They didn't like the idea of strangers and they sensed something "off" about the two of them. You couldn't pretend not to be interested any longer and asked what some of them meant by that. They couldn't accurately explain to you what they felt other than that it reminded them of that sense they got when they wondered if they forgot to lock the door - a general uncertainty and uneasiness.

You scolded yourself for wanting to meet this mystery man. Surely you had no time for such investigations into a man who was more than likely another wine-loving, wife-abusing brute. And yet the writer in you was drawn to the dark mystery that surrounded him. Little did you know, you would be meeting him the very next day.