There are things that Tom makes sure not to tell his parents. Father always scoffs at the white faces of the maids, telling them that it's perfectly natural for a child to have an imaginary playmate or two. But he has seen how wide his mother's eyes become at each new story and she will keep to his bed for at least a week afterwards, arms wrapped tight around him, as though afraid that someone-or something-might snatch him away.
It is a silent rule in the house that Mother is not to be made to worry and he feels dreadful each time he breaks it.
So, no, he doesn't run to his parents with tales. And, besides, what he sees isn't always frightening.
The man who has his name is always nice. He fixes all the toys that Mother can't mend with her needle and thread, making a point to show how each piece fits to the next. He is never too busy to answer any question that Tom might have and comes up with the most brilliant games. He kisses him goodnight on the forehead too each night as he is tucked into bed, just like Mother and Father do.
Tom tried to mend him too one day, using bandages and tape just like Father used in his own office. Yet none of it would stick, no matter how much he used, and the red wisps kept slipping through his fingers. The man said that it wasn't his fault and that some things simply could not be fixed then pleaded with him not to cry over such a horrible fact. He even rubs his back later, letting him cry after Father scolds him for using up so much supplies and then Mother scolds Father, which is just as bad.
It is the woman he is afraid of.
Sometimes she is very nice. She teaches him how to play the piano, gently nudging his fingers into the correct position when he hits a wrong note instead of striking them. She even teaches him how to make tea-the proper way-for Mother, although he doesn't understand why the man gets so upset about it, flipping the tray over, and making him swear never to do so again. She does bestow goodnight kisses, but she does run her fingers through his hair, telling him all sorts of stories until he falls asleep.
But she does other things too; things that aren't so kind. She doesn't like it when Tom speaks of Mother and especially not when Mother comes to play with him while she is already doing so. She even tried to slam the piano lid down on Mother's fingers when she tried to play along with him. A maid who scoffed at him speaking to what seemed the empty air, broke both of her ankles on when she tripped down the stairs, all while insisting that someone had pushed her. And his last governess, who had rapped on his knuckles for entertaining "foolish notions" and even locked him the closet as punishment once, fled from the house after indulging in her favorite bottle of whiskey without realizing mold had grown around the lip and growing sick as a result.
She whispered all of this to him at night, intermixed with her stories, all while swearing that it was all done for him. The man tried to stop her sometimes, but then she would start to yell which at times just seemed worse. One time she had even tried to hit the man, only stopping when Tom began to cry. More often than not the man would simply hold Tom close, telling him that she was only doing what she thought best and that she would listen if she truly told him to stop.
Which was why when he felt the cold hand wrap around his ankle that night, Tom had simply mumbled, "I can't play now, Auntie Lucille." But the hand had only tightened at his words, hard enough to make him yelp, and then it began to tug, bringing him to the floor with a thud. What he saw there made him scream loud enough to bring half the house running.
Mother had sprung into action, bundling up the sheets with their vibrant red handprints and shoving them into the grate, using the poker to make the evidence burn quicker. Father held onto him the whole time, more scared than Tom had ever seen him, gathering Mother into his arms as well when she knelt down before them.
Nestled between his parents it would have been easy to ignore the other pair of eyes on him, but he couldn't bring himself to.
Thomas was standing by the fireplace, a finger pressed to his lips, but Lucille was smiling, as if she knew just what the red thing, its head near caved in, had hissed at him.
"Return to Crimson Peak. Return home."
This was born from an idea that simply wouldn't leave me. In case it was unclear, Tom is actually Thomas Sharpe's son, although Edith and Alan believe it safer to let the boy think otherwise. There might be more of this in the future, if only because there is still a great deal to be explored through various viewpoints!