AN: I started this a few months back. I absolutely love Crimson Peak and think it's a really underrated film. I've wanted to write something for this fandom for a while, but didn't have a whole lot of confidence before now.

I've used the original script, the original screenplay, Guillermo Del Torro's original notes on the characters, and the movie novelization to write this short little story. I've also included quotes, both from the film and the novelization, at the beginning of each chapter.

It's not much, but I'm pretty proud of this story. I hope you enjoy!

"I feel as though a link, a thread, exists between your heart and mine. And should that link be broken either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die. And you... You'd soon forget about me."

"Never. I could never forget you."

Chapter 1

Ghosts are real. That much Edith Cushing knew.

Though, contrary to popular belief, they were not something to fear. For Edith, they were her protectors, her allies. Her mother's specter had sent her warnings, to beware of Crimson Peak. The ghosts of the women who haunted Allerdale Hall had saved her from their own shared fate, as did the ghost of her late husband.

Thomas. He had appeared to her when she had been defending herself against Lucille, his deranged elder sister. Had Lucille not been distracted by Thomas's spirit, Edith was sure that she herself would have died.

And when it was over, and Lucille was dead, Edith approached the apparition of her husband. His skin and hair were as white as the snow that billowed around them. His eyes were golden, as were the corners of his mouth and the edges of his clothes. The rims of his eyes were stained crimson, as though he had been crying tears of blood. The front of his shirt was stained with blood, too. It was also smoking and spiraling out of a gash upon his left cheekbone.

Edith felt tears spring to her eyes as she lifted her hand to cup his smoking cheek. It felt as though a gust of wind was whipping at her hand as she pressed it to his face; he was nothing but swirling air. But Thomas's eyes fell shut, as though he could feel the warmth of her and was savoring it.

When Edith pulled away from him, he disappeared in a gust of wind and snow. He was gone.

With nothing left to keep her in Cumberland, Edith returned to America. She was able to purchase a little apartment for herself in Buffalo. Much of her time was spent at her typewriter, breathing life into all the stories she conjured up.

Within a year of her return, she wrote and published her first novel. She based it upon her experience at Allerdale Hall, and even titled it Crimson Peak. A few details were edited, of course. Names changed, certain facts were fictionalized, and there was a happy ending for her characters. Originally, the finale of the novel was very much like how the true events had played out, but that was quickly changed. "No one likes to read tragedies these days," her publisher had told her. "We'll leave that up to Shakespeare." Though she knew that that suggestion was mostly due to the fact that she was a woman and was expected to write happy endings, Edith didn't find herself minding too much. She had wanted a happy ending in her own life, so she gave her characters the ending she secretly wished had played out: she gave her hero his redemption and his life.

She went on to write a few short stories, but none were quite as successful as the that first novel of hers.

Four years had passed since Thomas had died. Four years since she had returned to Buffalo, but she had not remarried.

There was a time where she and Alan had tried courting, hoping that a romance would bloom between them, but it was not meant to be. It felt wrong to Edith. Yes, she loved Alan, but she wasn't in love with him. And in her heart, it felt like a betrayal to Thomas.

Thomas is dead, she told herself. However, she could not shirk those feelings of disloyalty.

"I could never forget you," she had once told him. But forgetting wasn't the problem. Remembering was.

Remembering every stolen kiss and shared glance was hard. Living without him was hard. Even worse was that she had to live as though she did not carry a ludicrous amount of hope within her wounded soul.

They never found his body, she would tell herself. They only found Lucille's. Perhaps he made it out.

No! the rational side of her would counter. I saw his ghost. Thomas is dead.

So often she had ridiculed Thomas for looking to the past, but what was she doing now? "You won't find me there," she had said. "I'm here."

"I'm here, too," was his reverent reply before he had kissed her. Before they had finally, finally made love to one another.

But now... Now, he only existed in the past.

...

It was just before eight o'clock in the evening when the train pulled into the station. It dropped off its handful of passengers, before tugging along out of sight. One of the passengers was a man. His long coat rustled around him as he began to make his way to the nearest hotel.

It had been a few years since he had last been in this city. He had been naive, then. Hoping to win favor amongst people without calling upon drastic measures, or rather, being forced into drastic measures. Then he was simply a puppet, bobbing his head with agreement and yielding to every command of his master.

As he walked further into the city, his grip tightened on the handle of the traveling trunk he carried as he pulled the collar of his coat high up around his face and pushed the brim of his fedora further down his brow. He didn't care much for the style of the hat. He much preferred his old top hat, but the fedora was better at hiding his eyes.

He couldn't risk being recognized. Not yet. Hiding his face had also become a sort of habit as it stirred a sense of insecurity within him.

At one time he might have considered himself handsome with his curling dark hair, striking blue eyes, and high cheekbones. That was before his life fell apart, however.

Now, he had let his hair grow longer, so that the ends fell passed his shoulders. When he was working or reading, he would hastily and messily tie it back with scraps of ribbon to keep it from hanging in his face. His eyes were no longer twin depths of ocean. The left one had been replaced with glass. A decent copy at first glance, but upon further inspection, it was easily identified as fake. And, visible upon his left cheekbone was a jagged scar.

After some time, the man reached the hotel and entered. He stopped in the doorway for a brief moment, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he recalled a memory: a confession, a stolen kiss... Then disaster!

The smile on his lips melted into a frown and he walked to the front desk.

"Good evening, sir," a man with a waxed mustache greeted him from behind the counter. "How can I help you?"

"Er, yes," the mystery man began in a posh English accent, "I would like to book a room, please."

"Of course, sir. How long do you plan on staying with us?"

The man thought for a moment before replying. "A week."

"And the name for you, sir?"

There was a brief hesitation before the man gave his name. "Cavendish. Henry Cavendish."

"Very good, sir," the mustachioed clerk said as he marked it down in his ledger. "You're booked for Room 103, sir. There's a $1.25 booking fee to be paid up front. Then, it is $3.00 a night, not including room service. Your bill must be paid in full upon checkout."

The man nodded and shelled over the money for the fee. The clerk then handed him the key to his room. With a smile he said, "We hope you enjoy your stay here, Mr. Cavendish."

...

When Mr. Cavendish was in his room, his trunk unpacked, he prepared himself for bed. He removed his artificial eye, washed the residual traces of his journey from his body and combed through his unkempt hair (over the years, he had gotten into the bad habit of not combing it regularly, only doing so when it became particularly tangled). He put on his night shirt, then slipped into the bed.

It was a much finer bed than the cot he slept on in the back room of Bobbins' Toys, the toy shop where he had worked and lived for the past four years. Mr. Bobbins was a kind, old man. Mr. Cavendish owed him his life! Had Mr. Bobbins not happened upon his half-frozen body in that wretched snow storm-Mr. Cavendish still had nightmares about it-all those years ago, he would have surely been lost to the world for good.

Mr. Cavendish pushed away those thoughts. Right now he wanted only to sink down into this warm bed and dream of a beautiful woman with golden hair. But, before he blew out the candle and settled in for the night, his gaze lingered upon the book that he had placed upon his bed side table.

It wasn't a particularly old book, but upon first glance, one could tell that it was well loved. The leafing on the cover was worn off in places, the edges of the pages were frayed, and the spine was cracked from the constant opening and closing of the book. Mr. Cavendish looked upon it with deep affection and longing.

"One last time, my love," he spoke aloud, again conjuring up the image of a golden haired beauty. "I must see you, speak to you one last time, then you will be rid of me for good."

He brushed his fingers upon the book's cover in a loving caress, then blew out the candle. Within minutes he was fast asleep.

And on the table the book sat, the scent of candle smoke still in the air. On the cover of the book, written in faded scarlet leafing, were the words Crimson Peak and the name Edith M. Cushing.