Edith stepped off the carriage, below the looming gate of Allerdale Hall. The hills were as barren as she remembered, the metal entryway rusted and bent.
The clay had seeped up the snow, painting the aftermath of a brutal massacre, one void of survivors.
Iron creaked in the wind.
"You sure this the right place, sir?"
Edith nodded.
The carriage rider gave the estate another look before hesitantly giving his reins a whip. One hill and he disappeared from view, the sound of his horses faded to silence.
Solemnly, Edith studied the behemoth architecture in the distance, with its jagged roofline and asymmetric towers that spiralled endlessly into the grey sky. There was no source of light from any of the windows, the attic dark. No movements, no sign she was being watched. No sign she wasn't.
To Edith's surprise, the gate was locked. To keep intruders out or to keep monsters in?
A violent image struck Edith then, of herself on the other side of the metal bars, shaking them desperately while footsteps crept up from behind. Two sets of them, their hands on her as she was forcibly dragged back in.
Controlling her breath, Edith let the cold metal fall from her fingertips.
A brutal smash. Then another, and another, until metal surrendered with a cry.
The rock dropped by Edith's feet, as she proceeded onwards.
Her boots sank deeper and deeper into the clay, as did her walking stick, the land swallowing her every step. She bit her lips at the sight of Thomas's invention, tilted with one side submerged. The winter had not treated the machine kindly, its shine gone, its belts sagging.
Looking at it now, it was hard to believe how animated it was once was, livening the landscape with all types of exciting grumbles and hoots. It had been the cumulation of all their hopes and dreams, cheerfully digging its way into the future.
The future.
Edith's hand trembled around her walking stick, as she forced herself to continue.
It was at the main door that Edith found her mind in another spiral, her willpower faltering. Nature had cleaned up some evidence but not all. There remained faint splatters on the stonework, dark trails from where Alan bled. From where Thomas stabbed him.
She could see them both. She could see them both standing right before her, as if no time had passed since that moment.
Another breeze, one strong enough to shake her hat and free a few strands of blonde hair. The coldness crept through her clothing and down her spine.
No longer was she alone, Edith knew, as she turned in the direction of the howl.
There it stood, alone in the field.
The last moments of a gangly silhouette, disjointed and as red as the ground. Its bent skeletal arm, hollow eyes and mouth fading away like smoke in the wind.
A fearsome sight, enough to stop the heart of any man. It only calmed Edith's, as she finally removed her hat.
"Thank you, Margaret."
The door opened without resistance.
And thus, Edith Sharpe was home.
.
The architecture was dizzying and endless, narrow hallways and twisting stairwell that had Edith lost within a labyrinth.
Moths fluttered, as Edith pushed open the door.
"Thomas?"
The dust settled, revealing an empty workshop. He was not here either.
Heart pounding, Edith made her way to the next room, her pace increasingly rushed. She was cutting through another beam of light, passing through window after window, when something caught her eye.
To her left was one of the mansion's many empty rooms. Through the crack in the door was the shape of a wheelchair.
An empty wheelchair.
Edith's blood turned cold, as the crack widened to reveal all tethers abandoned on the floor, one belt still hanging off the arm. The belt looped air.
Edith breathed.
Her foot backed, creating a creak in the floorboards.
More moths fluttered, shifting the shapes in the wallpaper, obscuring the shadows. Flies crawled in the cracks and ceilings.
Edith breathed.
Another creak. She whipped around, expecting a knife, a shriek, a plunge.
Still nothing.
The entire house was too quiet.
As Edith passed through the rooms, she wondered how many she had checked, how many she had left. She never did count them.
What if all of them turned out empty?
What if Thomas was not here?
A sharp turn. She reached the elevator. There it waited, rusted and creaky as with everything else, promising a one-way descent back into hell.
What if Thomas was here.
What if he had been beneath her this whole time.
Edith breathed.
No.
She had to keep looking.
As she turned the next corner, she stopped. Her eyes locked on the wisping figure three doors down.
Pamela.
The ghost stared back, then vanished.
Edith's hand reached into her jacket, as she approached the source of sound.
"...never did him any harm… killed all the mice in the farmer's barn… but kill..."
Her hand stopped at the knob, as she pressed her ear to the door.
"... the well... ding dong bell…"
Her heart stopped.
"...what a naughty boy was that…"
Everything forgotten, Edith pushed her way into the bedroom. She stopped breathing.
"... to try to drown… the pussycat."
On the bed was Thomas, staring blankly at the wall. His wrists were bound above his head, locked against the post of the bed. He hadn't seen her, nor reacted, even as Edith ran back to shut the door.
"Thomas," she whispered, as loud as she dared. Edith ran forward again, nearly throwing herself onto the bed, bursting with relief. Her knee hit the mattress, and she was all but on top of him, cupping his face with her hands. "Thomas."
He blinked, as if he could not tell what he was seeing. It took even longer for her voice to reach him, but once it did, his eyes widened with life, his body jolted up.
"Edith?"
"Thomas," Edith cried. Before she could help it, she had him in a hug. His position did not allow him to return the gesture, only lean into her embrace.
She ended the contact just as abruptly, as she kept his gaze locked with hers. "I'm getting you out."
Edith did not want to think how long Thomas had been strapped here. His wrists were angry with welts, parts of his skin broken. His hair had fallen down to his shoulders, ungroomed, his body emaciated. There were tears in the stitches of his clothes that were rumpled and gone too long without wash.
It seemed like Lucille had taken everything away from her brother except his life, leaving him to cling on by the threads.
"I'm here now. I'm here." Edith closed his hand in hers as if doing so would send him her strength. Her chest ached at the sickening bruise coloring one side of his face, the cut lip.
Lucille had hurt many people before but never her brother. The situation was worse than Edith had thought.
"Lucille… where is she?"
At the mention of his sister, the light in Thomas snuffed out like a cap to the candle, his earlier joy giving way to sadness, then fear.
His eyes floated to the door.
.
Moisture dripped from the bathroom walls, ages of growth and decay having painted them a sickly green. Despite being two floors up, the air breathed like a dungeon, the only warmth from the many dancing fires of the candelabras.
The flickers attracted a fluttering moth. Lucille, whose chin and neck basked in the glow, pinched the moth by the wing before it incinerated itself.
She gave the frantic thing a fond, pitying look. The sight of its struggles had her in a trance, as she continued to tap her fingernail against the edge of the tub. Red water rippled with music, her hair in a float up then down, vining in all directions like tendrils.
Deep below the surface of the water, something rested against her bare thighs. The object was heavy and dense, the handle just submerged.
Smiling, Lucille brought the fluttering moth to her lips, as if for a kiss. As if to whisper secrets. As if to seal them.
The wing snapped.
The moth fell, joining the other insects on the bathroom floor.