Edith returned to the villa feeling more accomplished than she had in a long while. With letters sent to both Alan and her publisher, she felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She'd soon be back in Buffalo, where, if she couldn't escape Thomas' ghost, at least her dear friend could offer her solace.

Buffalo was also home to Doctor Ignatius, the only true medium she'd ever come across. The man could speak to the spirits as though they were in the same room with him, not dwelling on some distant psychic plane. He wasn't one for cheap parlour tricks – no exploding lightbulbs or shaking tables, no covering a woman's head with a sheet so that she could speak what were supposedly the words of the dead come back to haunt the living. Doctor Ignatius had no time to exploit the ignorance of the weak and the terrified, which is why no one, outside of a handful of individuals, knew he was a medium at all.

Edith wouldn't have known either, if her publisher hadn't convinced her to invite several individuals of high social standing to her home to listen to her read from Crimson Peak, in the hopes that their endorsements would sell even more copies of the novel. She spent the better part of an hour greeting each and every person who arrived, all the while wearing her favourite lilac dress. As she moved across the room, her mother's spirit whispered in her ear, Dear child… you look like a picture of a summer's day... When she finally got around to greeting Alan and Ignatius, his guest, she was blushing with embarrassment. "All these people here, just to listen to me read," she said as she scanned the room. "I can't believe it." She smiled at Alan. "This is all I've ever wanted."

"You've earned it," he said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You're exceptional."

"It's almost time," she said, glancing at the clock. "How do I look?"

"Lovely," he said. "Perfect."

"I feel so flushed," she replied. "I must look an absolute fright."

"Nonsense," Ignatius said. "You look like a picture of a summer's day."

Edith stared at him. "Funny," she said. "My mother would say the very same thing." A knowing glance or two later, and Ignatius knew he'd been caught.

She soon discovered the doctor wasn't an avid deceiver at all. "I simply couldn't think of anything to say to assuage your fears," he said over a glass of brandy. "So I'm afraid I borrowed your mother's words, since I felt they described you so aptly."

"You can speak to the dead, then?" she asked. "Or do they simply speak to you?"

"They do most of the speaking, it's true," he replied. "But I occasionally get a word in edgewise. I notice you have the gift too, though you haven't been able to refine it as of yet. If ever you need my assistance, Miss Cushing, here's how to get in touch with me." He handed her a slip of paper, upon which he'd written his telephone number in fine script. "Call any time, day or night. The dead don't keep the same hours as we do, after all."

I'll go home, and then I'll go straight to Ignatius, she thought. He'll know what to do to put Thomas' soul to rest.

She removed her hat and coat, then hurried up the stairs to her room, where she tossed them both onto her bed. She wanted out of her town dress and into something less constricting and formal as soon as possible. Dressed only in her underclothes, she brought the dress to the walk-in closet and stepped behind the door to hang it up.

By the time she noticed his scent in the room, it was too late; the door eased back on its hinges and knocked her against the wall. Edith turned as the grain of the wood came within inches of her nose. She gasped as the door pinned her in place. "No, no, no!" she cried, slapping her palms against the wood and shoving with all her might. "Thomas!" She pushed and pushed, but the door wouldn't budge. Her fear gave way to a sudden and intense anger. "Stop it! Let me go this instant, Thomas! I mean it!" There was no response. "You can't scare me," she whispered, easing her way to the edge of the door, thinking she could slip around it and escape. "I'm not afraid of you, Thomas. You know that." With no reply, she slapped her palms against the wood and resumed her shoving.

The door flushed through and through with Thomas' warmth. She felt a steady thump – the beating of a man's heart – deep within the wood. The grain softened until it was hot and smooth; until it felt just as his skin felt, when she finally pressed her body against him that frigid night. "Don't do this," she murmured, pressing her cheek against this spectral flesh. "I'm sorry I couldn't let you go, but I will, I promise. I'll make everything… right… between us…"

The door began to bounce on its hinges, easing up and then urging itself against her body over and over again. She felt the heat of him fill her groin. A soft whimper escaped her lips; she brought them to the door, where they parted wide enough to allow her tongue to pass through. She ran the tip of it against the spectral flesh, and tasted him.

The spectre passed through her; she felt as though she couldn't get close enough to him, to the part of her house he now possessed so that he could find a way into her, body and soul, from beyond the grave.

How could she say no? How could she continue to apologize for keeping him with her, when she so desperately wanted him to stay? So she welcomed him, in all his forms, and let him bring her to that same moment of beautiful agony that he'd brought her to years ago, when they were man and wife.

He would be her home – yes - until she found her way home again.