Disclaimer: Crimson Peak is Guillermo Del Toro's property, Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, The Lodgers to Brian O'Malley. Emma, Constance and I are self-inserts. The old lady from Camden Market belongs to Chibimelodee.
Summary: Ghosts are real and everything happens for a reason. Is this why Marina and her friends find themselves trapped in Allerdale Hall a few days away from Christmas?
Author's note: This story was written for me by « Emma » and « Constance » from Chibimelodee as an Advent Calendar two years ago. Please note that all three of us are french and while we do know our way around English, we might still make some mistakes. Feel free to let us know! As the three girls are french and start to speak from this chapter, I'll put the translations of their sentences right next to them so you know what they say.
At the Candlelight
Chapter 4: Sweet Dreams are made of these
Constance was running, a loud music playing in her unicorn earpods, her high ponytail swinging with every step. She didn't know where she was headed and didn't know why. All she did know was she absolutely hated running. For her, running was only useful when you were being chased. Was she being chased ?
Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world
And the seven seas,
Everybody's looking for something.
Nevertheless, she was currently jogging in a weird red and black sweat suit she knew she didn't own. The rhythm of the music triggered her memory to work and, taking a quick look at her surroundings – big beautiful trees and a lot of verdure -, fear began to trickle down her spine.
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused.
She didn't stop, mumbling between her teeth :
« Je n'aime pas ça ! J'ai l'impression d'être dans un épisode de Grimm !... Avec ma veine, je vais me faire attraper par un loup-garou… Je le sens… ». (I don't like it! I feel like I'm in a Grimm episode! With my luck, I'm going to be abducted by a werewolf!)
Trying to keep her head on her shoulders and not think about a possible attack, she carried on, only to stop when she spotted a small crafted toy on the side of the road. She hastily removed her earpods, the music still echoing through the damp forest.
Kneeling to have a better look at it, she repressed a shudder. She had always hated automatons and this one looked particularly frightening. Moving closer, she discovered it was a white-face gentleman with painted black hair, a red harlequin diamond outlining his left eye and two golden cups in his hands.
« Forcément, tu dois être maquillé comme un clown ! Comme si tu n'étais pas déjà assez effrayant, toi ! » (Of course, you have to have clown make-up ! As if you weren't scary enough as it is !)
Constance grumbled between her teeth. Not really knowing why, she slowly outstretched her hand to take it but, as her fingertips brushed the toy, it began to move, making her jump and yelp in surprise. Another song began playing softly as a light cold rain started to fall, wetting Constance slightly.
Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
I want to walk in the open wind
The doll's arms lowered, dropping a blast ball from a cup in its hand. It then covered the ball with another cup and it pretended to drop it into one of the cups. To her great surprise, she enjoyed the handiwork, even if the doll still freaked her out. Something in her was hypnotised by the repetitive movements of the little wooden man. As if it spoke to her soul, watching the automaton performed its trick seemed to dispel her fear, arousing in her a curious feeling of peace and security. A light cold breeze tickled her cheek and for a moment, she swore someone had touched her. Closing her eyes, she embraced the feeling, savoring the cool air, like billions of delicate and invisible butterflies coming to kiss her cheek.
I want to breathe in the open wind
I want to kiss like lovers do
I want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you
So baby talk to me
A faint brush on a nearby bush made her jumped away. She got up on her feet and turned back quickly, the forest disappearing in a blur, replaced by the long corridor of the English mansion. She took a step, a light fabric brushing her legs. It was definitively not her previous jogging. Her gaze dropped to her new outfit : a long and lacy white nightgown which clearly didn't belonged to her era. It was truly a beautiful piece of clothing. Its light touch against her skin was as delicate and caressing as a lover. Moths were embroidered with golden thread and seemed to dance across the light fabric with every step she took. Her hair fell wildly around her shoulder, its dark brown color contrasting with the immaculate fabric of the gown. In this dark and gloomy corridor, she looked like the White Lady, wandering through a ruined castle, appearing in the cold moonlight. She noticed her unicorn earpods were back in her ears, playing another song by Eurythmics.
Look what the night dragged in
It's a pocket full of misery
And trouble on the wind
You spoiled the best years
Of your life
You took them all in vain
Now you think that you're forgiven
But you can't be born again
Holding a candelabra with a shaky hand, Constance began to step into the hall, chanting softly :
« Je suis en train de rêver… Calme-toi !... Ce n'est qu'un rêve… Rien qu'un rêve… Rien ne peut m'arriver… Ce n'est qu'un rêve… ». (I'm dreaming… Calm down! It's only a dream, nothing but a dream, nothing can happen to me, it's just a dream.)
The floor was as cold as a crypt against her bare feet as she kept walking slowly, shivering slightly. On the walls, the boards and tiles were as frigid as stone coffin lids, portraits staring down at her through their immobility, the flickering light of the candles seeming to give them life. Statues did not move until one looked away. And then… was it just the light ? Moths fluttered, dipped and dove. Attracted by the light, flying so near they could burn their wings, they escorted her wandering with their deadly flights.
Just ahead of her, a shadow turned the corner. Creeping, shambling. It knew its way around. It hadn't always. But there was a reason it moved in such a bizarre manner. But Constance missed it, didn't see it… Or couldn't ? Who was it ? Should she followed it ?
Her pulse raced, sweat trickling down, sticking the lacy fabric to her skin as she tried to see through the darkness of the house. A faint flickering light appeared below a door at the far end of the corridor.
Shaking away her fears, Constance took slow and cautious steps. She internally cursed her curiosity, but the want of knowing what was behind that door was too strong for her to go away, just like her will to escape the silencing glare of the portraits and the darkness where threatening shadows hid.
Taking her time, she held the candelabra at eye level, observing the long corridor closely. At her left, a white marble statue missing a face was holding a woman's skull, perhaps pondering the mysteries of eternal rest. At the base of the statue, carved letters stood out of relief, some of them obscured by clumpy red stains : B LOVE W FE. Beloved wife. Clearly a funerary monument. In spite of herself, she shuddered, the statue clearly upsetting her. What kind of husband could have, one day, wanted to represent his dead wife like this ? The only answer she could think of was Henry the VIIIth, if he had wanted to keep a souvenir of Anne Boleyn ! She absolutely needed to show this statue to Marina… Once she was awake… If this statue actually existed and was not just a mere figment of her overflowing imagination… Shaking her head fiercely, she quicked her step, trying not to look at the other morbid paintings and macabre statues.
Arriving in front of the door where the light seemed to be coming from, Constance took a deep breath, letting the cold air enter her lungs in an attempt to calm her racing heart. All of this was a dream, right ? So, what harm could be done to her if she entered ? Nothing bad could happen in dreams, only fear… Breathe in and out, in and out, in, out... Focusing on her breathing helped her to stay calm, to steady her shaky hand as she reached out for the doorknob.
A slow, agonizing moan resounded through the corridor, making the woman shiver in dreadful anticipation. She swallowed hard. Fear struck her, making her impossible to move. All she knew was her feet wouldn't answer her. Her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat, making her feel lightheaded. The door opened slowly by itself with a loud creaking. Then, her feet began to move of their own volition, despite her fears and protestations.
I walk into an empty room
And suddenly my heart goes boom
And when I think that I'm alone
It seems there's more of us at home
The room was empty and, strangely, it was clean. No dust, no spiderwebs, no huge spots of clay on the ground. Just a pleasant fire that lit the whole room in a homey atmosphere. Fours armchairs circled the fireplace, the crimson fabric shining with the gleam of the flames. As she stepped closer, she distinctly saw names, embroidered with finesse on each chairs. Margaret McDermott. Pamela Upton. Enola Sciotti. The last one had no name, only a dandling golden threat which seemed to be waiting to be used.
Feeling like her legs were about to give up from all her emotions, Constance sat on the fourth armchair, enjoying the warm and comfort. Never in her life had she been sat in a such comfy chair. It was as if it was made for her. It was like it was welcoming her.
Cold wind made the fire flicker, almost extinguishing it. Despite the sound resounding in her earpods, Constance clearly heard several people coming. Shaky and agonizing breathing… Coming closer… A guttural moan followed by the creaking of wheels… Coming even closer… She didn't dare to turn around and just closed her eyes, wishing to wake up from this nightmare, her hands clinging hard to the armrests. A heartbreaking wail… Coming closer… Turning around her… Coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time… Fast heartbeats resounding on the room… Faster… Faster… Even faster… Mixing with the jerky breath… Everything was spinning around her… Whinings became death rattles… And the heartbeats that kept going faster… The sounds grew deafening, maddening, oppressive… Until… the silence… a heavy silence… a deadly silence…
Without explications, everything stopped. Her own heartbeat and breathing were the only things she still could hear. Rattled, she tried to focus on her breathing, opening slowly her eyes, afraid of what she might see. She couldn't repress a relieved sigh when she realised that she was still alone in the room with the fire roaring in the fireplace. Putting a shaking hand on her chest to feel her heart, she concentrated on its fast beats, slight slowing down second after second.
Scrubbing her tired eyes, Constance blinked a few times before, in front of her very eyes, the beautiful golden thread used to embroider the names began to unpick, the thread disappearing once the name was gone. First, Margaret McDermott… Then, Pamela Upton… Finally, Enola Sciotti… Voices resounded in the room :
« Say… that you love me »
« We had plans to leave but I can't »
« Let it be know that they did this »
«I'm dying»
« I don't want to die »
They stopped abruptly, cries of a baby taking their place. Turning around to find the place where the sound came from, Constance discovered a white cradle. She could swear it hadn't be there when she has arrived but now, it was swinging slightly, making the wooden parquet creak. The atmosphere of the room seemed to carry the infant's anguish, accentuated it, instilling an intense sorrow in Constance's heart.
The cries became louder, the baby clearly needing attention. Shaking with fear and anticipation, Constance went closer to the crib and noticed the beautiful hand-carved patterns in the wood of the tiny bed. The lacy yellowish curtains blocked her view, stopping her from seeing the infant. The crib swung harder as the cries grew louder, but the sound of her heartbeat deafened her. Her ears buzzed dreadfully while she took slow steps toward the craddle. Poor baby… Alone… It needed love, care… She ignored her own fear and deep seeded desire to run away … She must protect it, reassure it…
« Ne pleure pas, bébé… Je suis là maintenant ! Tout ira bien… Je vais m'occuper de toi… » she whispered, moving apart the old lace. (Don't cry, little one… I'm here now! Everything is going to be okay, I'll take care of you.)
She froze in shock as she stood in front of an empty cradle, thick crimson clay in the place where the baby should have been. The clay began to flow down the crib, red as blood, a crying baby skull forming in the liquid clay. The clay ran out heavily on the floor, staining the end of her nightgown. Constance stumbled, stepping backward awkwardly. She did her best not to scream at the horror scene she was witnessing. Huge streaks of crimson clay on her once-immaculate nightgown made her look like she was stepping out of a crime-scene.
« Do not have fear. He means no harm. » A voice called from behind her in a warm tone.
« No fear ! C'est facile à dire… Il… Il était… Il pleurait et… Et puis, tout à coup, je me suis retrouvée face à face avec le bébé de Rosemary ! » (It's easy to say ! He… He was… He was crying and all of a sudden, I faced Romsemary's baby !)
« Rosemary ? Who is Rosemary ? I can swear it's not her child ! » The voice said ; clearly disappointed.
Constance breathed deeply… Obviously, she wasn't alone in this room anymore ! The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her stomach knotted. There was no escape, the door had disappeared. Constance pivoted on her heels to face the speaker, trying not to listen to her fearful conscience.
A tall, lanky man with long black hair approached. The bluest eyes she ever seen were focused on her.
« Dans son oeil, ciel livide où germe l'ouragan, la douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui tue. » she whispered for herself. (In his eye, livid sky where the hurricane sprouts, pain is fascinating and pleasure kills.)
His face was chiseled, a discreet scar was under his left eye. His dark hair neatly arranged, yet a few errant curls refused to be tamed. Those features struck at her heart a moment as her brain tried to conjured words to describe him : grand, élégant, mystérieux. (Tall, elegant, mysterious). He was dressed in a dark velvet suit that had once been resplendent, perfectly cut to mold his slim build. Other words sprang to her mind : un charme envoûtant. (An enchanting charm)
As he drew closer, her pulse hammered in her skull, she stepped back, her eyes flickering with fear. Gauging her reaction to him, he held up both hands, in a sign of surrender as he drew near.
« No need to fear me, Miss Ravenswood. » he said, his upper-class British accent falling tantalizingly on her French ears, « I am actually here to protect you. »
Mentally taking note to thank her sister for having her watch all those silly English series in english, Constance had no problem to understand the handsome man. She had a vague idea how to answer in his language, but her brain refused categorically to give her access to her English notions. She had to make a superhuman effort to pronounce a few words.
« Miss Ravenswood ? » she whispered, uneased and kind of lost. « Why do you call me like that ? I'm not Miss Ravenswood… »
« My apologies » he said, bowing a little « I assumed it was your name. Your sister did call you like that earlier and… »
« Oh ! No no ! It was a joke… just a joke… I'm not Constance Ravenswood ! It's not my name… I'm not a Disney character ! » Constance grumbled. « Do you speak french ? Cause I'm not really good in English… »
« But you have a lovely accent ! » he said sweetly. Seeing her blush, he smiled shyly and stood straight, searching in his mermory before speaking approximatively. « Je parle un peu français, oui… » (I can speak French a little bit, yes.)
Constance smiled sweetly at his attempt to speak in French and had to repress a laugh. It was quite astonishing how his presence had made her forget all the awful things she had seen or heard previously.
« Vous pouvez parler anglais, vous savez… si vous préférez » she whispered, lowering her gaze as she blushed « je comprends l'anglais si vous parlez lentement… ». (You can speak english you know, if you prefer. I understand english if you speak slowly.)
« Just like me with French ! » the man smiled back before asking « So, what is your name, Miss ? »
« Constance » she answered in a small voice. « Constance … and you ? »
« Sir Thomas Sharpe, Baronet, lucky owner of this lovely house…» He answered with a bit of sarcasm, a charming smile gracing his thin lips and he bowed down just like in the old days, taking her hand to slightly kiss her knuckles. She couldn't help but blushed furiously. When their eyes locked, his smile was a bit tentative and she realized he was as nervous as she was. That only added to his attractiveness, as far as she was concerned.
« By the way, who is this Miss Ravenswood your sister was speaking about ? I fear I don't understand the humor of the situation… » he asked softly, breaking the silence that threatened to settle.
Her eyes widened and she had to repress a giggle. It was not truly a joke and it was not particularly funny. Emma had simply made the habit of comparing her sister to the Phantom Manor's bride because they shared the same name. The comical effect resided in the fact that Constance thought she was in a haunted house since she had believed she had seen ghosts. But she couldn't possibly tell him that… Did he just believe in ghosts ? Was he one ? Was she truly speaking to a ghost ? Her mind rejected this idea, remembering that none of this was real… It was just a dream ! Lost in her thoughts and in his blue gaze, she pulled herself together and sighed deeply before answering.
« Et bien… Ce n'est pas vraiment drôle… C'est juste à cause des points communs… Elle a connu un destin plutôt tragique. Elle habitait avec ses parents à Thunder Mesa. Ils vivaient dans un grand manoir victorien surplombant la ville. La pauvre Constance était fiancée à un homme qu'elle aimait passionnément, mais il n'est jamais venu au mariage… » Constance tried to explain.
(Well, it isn't really funny. It's because of common points. She had a rather tragic fate. She lived with her parents at Thunder Mesa. They lived inside a a big Victorian manor above the city. Poor Constance was engaged to a man she passionately loved but he never came to the wedding ceremony…)
« Why that ? Didn't he love her ? I suppose they were rich… Did he had some reasons to believe she didn't had enough money ? »
« Non… Il n'est juste pas venu parce que son père l'a tué de sang froid la nuit précédent leur mariage… La pauvre fille s'est cru abandonnée, elle a pleuré, et pleuré et pleuré… Et elle est morte… toute seule… le cœur brisé… Elle n'a jamais su la vérité… »
(No, he never came because her father killed him in cold blood the previous night. The poor girl thought she had been abandoned, she wept and wept and wept so more… and she died, all alone, heartbroken. She never knew the truth.)
« What a tragic story ! Why did he kill him ? Did the father find out that he wanted to marry her for the money ? »
« Non, je n'ai jamais dit ça ! C'était pas pour l'argent... »
(No, I never said that! It wasn't for money…)
« Maybe he thought that this man was not worthy enough of his daughter… How did Sir Ravenswood obtain his fortune ? »
« Euh… Une mine d'or… Il avait construit une mine… D'ailleurs, le train de cette mine n'arrêtait pas de dérailler… Il y a eu pas mal de problèmes ! Et puis un éboulement… Le père et la mère de Constance sont morts durant cette catastrophe… C'était la veille du mariage ! Le père est revenu d'outre-tombe pour tué le fiancé ! »
(Well, a gold mine. He had built a mine. Besides, the mine's train didn't stop derailing, there were quite a lot of problems. Then, a landslide ! Constance's father and mother died during this catastrophy. It was the day before the wedding. The father came back from the other side to kill the groom !)
« I see… A man who built his fortune with his bare hands… rough from work… Never would such a man have found him worthy of his daughter… He surely had soft hands… »
« Woaw, vous avez vraiment l'air d'avoir un problème… L'argent… Les mains… En fait, ça n'a rien à voir… Le père l'a tué parce que son fiancé voulait emmener sa fille dans une autre ville après leur mariage… Alors elle s'est enfermée dans le manoir… avec tous les invités… Le chagrin et la folie ont eu raison d'elle… Et depuis, elle hante la maison de son père, attendant que son amour vienne la chercher ! »
(Wow, you do seem to have an issue… Money, hands… It has nothing to do with those. The father killed him because he wanted to take his daughter away to another city after they wed. So she locked herself inside the manor with all the guests. Madness and grief got the best of her. Now, she haunts her father's house, waiting for her beloved to come and fetch her.)
« Well, Miss. » he purred, the way he said her name made her chuckle « May I know why your younger sister thinks you have common points with this poor unfortunate soul ? »
« C'est évident… Elle s'appelle Constance… Et puis, elle habite une maison hantée… Et en ce moment, sans vous vexer, j'ai vraiment l'impression d'être dans une maison hantée… »
(It's obvious. Her name is Constance. And she lives in a haunted house. And at this very moment, without being rude, I really feel I'm in one.)
« I see » He laughed softly « You definitively have an odd sibling »
Constance burst out in laughter at his statement
« Non, un peu folle par moment peut-être mais pas plus étrange que la plupart des gens. J'espère juste qu'elle ne soit pas devenue une Cassandre et que je ne devienne pas la mariée morte de cette maison »
(No, just a but mad but not stranger than any other people. I just hope she didn't turn into a Cassandra and I do not become the dead bride of this house.)
His smile died at her last sentence. If only she knew the horror that had been committed here.
« As I said earlier, I will do my best to protect you » he whispered, boldly taking her hand into his long cold ones. « But you must promise me that you will leave this place as soon as the weather allows it. I don't know how much time I will be able to… »
« Pourquoi devez-vous nous protéger ? Sommes-nous en danger ? »
(Why do you have to protect us? Are we in danger?)
Thomas smiled sadly and began to stroke her hand absentmindly as they locked their eyes, lost in each-others' glaze. His touch reminded Constance of the feeling she had felt earlier on her cheek. Had he been there ? Did he truly protect her ? Why hadn't he helped her in the office ? His eyes seemed to offer a window to his sould… She could see his sincerity, his will to protect her, his worry and a deep sadness. Time seemed to stop for both of them, the words of the new song that began to play resounded in Constance's heart.
Underneath your dream lit eyes
Shades of sleep have driven you away.
The moon is pale outside
And you are far from here.
Breathing shifts your careless head
Untroubled by the chaos of our lives.
Another day, another night
Has taken you again my dear.
And you know that I'm gonna be the one
Who'll be there
When you need someone to depend upon
When tomorrow comes
« Promise me, Constance » he whispered, his voice breaking with wistfulness. The young woman could swear she felt butterflies in her stomach as he said her name for the first time.
« I promise ».
Everything turned into a blurr… The room faded, like a chalk drawing being watched away from the rain… The colors trailed away, forms wavered until they disappeared… Thomas… Constance couldn't resolved herself to quit staring at him, her soul clinging to him, forcing him to stay with her. Oh, how she had wished that this nightmare would end, how she had wanted to awake, how she had desired to escape this trip into the darkness of her mind… Until her dream lead her to him… She felt peaceful, protected, serene… It seemed she just found a treasure she didn't know she had lost… Sweet dreams are indeed made of this ! « Stay with me ! » she whispered in a sob.
Stroking her cheek lightly, wiping away her tears with his fingertips, he answered :
« Je ne pars pas… I'm not leaving… You can always find me where the day meets the night… to the frontier between dream and reality… I will always be there ! » And then, he faded away too… A sad smile on his thin lips, his body disappearing slowly, steaming into a white smoke…
A scream rose… Horrible… Full of hate… The shrill creaking of nails scratching a hard area… wood… a door… the door of the bedroom… Constance awoke in a jump, hearing a scary voice coming from out-of-the-grave resounded from the corridor :
« I know you are here ! »