Crimson Peak

1

Ghosts are real.

This much, I know.

The first time I saw one,

I was 10 years old.

It was my mother's.

Black cholera

had taken her.

So, Father ordered a closed casket,

asked me not to look.

There were to be

no parting kisses.

No goodbyes.

"And the Lord

said unto me..."

No last words.

"...take thy

place beside me..."

That is

until the night

she came back.

My child.

When the time comes

Beware of Crimson Peak.

It would be years before

I again heard such a voice

or understood its

desperate warning.

A warning from

out of time

and one that I

came to understand

only when it

was too late.

Barley mead and ale!

I got sweet and bitter!

Barley mead and ale!

Apple, sir?

Straight out of

the oven this morning.

Edith!

Alan. When did you get back?

Two weeks ago.

I thought Eunice

had told you.

No,

I hadn't heard.

Oh. She made a

conquest in London.

What are

you doing here?

I'm setting up my

practice upstairs.

I'm to meet

Ogilvie at 10:
00

to see if he wants to

publish my manuscript.

You do know

it's only 9:
00.

I know, but I couldn't

wait any longer.

And I want to make some

corrections anyway, so...

If you have any free time,

please come and visit.

We met him at

the British Museum

last fall, when we

were visiting Alan.

Mother. You wouldn't believe it.

He's so handsome.

And he has crossed the ocean with

his sister, only to see Eunice again.

Mother, he's here

on business.

It seems he's a baronet.

What's a baronet?

Well, an aristocrat

of some sort.

A man that feeds off land

that others work for him.

A parasite with a title.

This parasite is perfectly charming and

a magnificent dancer.

Although, that wouldn't

concern you, would it, Edith,

our very young

Jane Austen?

Though, she died

a spinster, no?

Mother, please.

That's all right.

Actually, Mrs. McMichael,

I would prefer to

be Mary Shelley.

She died a widow.

Alan.

Ah, Miss Cushing.

You're early.

Just a little.

A ghost story.

Your father didn't tell me

it was a ghost story.

Oh, it's not.

It's more a story with a ghost in it.

Mmm-hmm...

The ghost is

just a metaphor.

A metaphor?

For the past.

Well...

Lovely handwriting.

Nice confident loops.

Miss Cushing,

may I offer a

word of advice?

He told me it

needed a love story.

Can you believe that?

Ogilvie's

old-fashioned.

He said that just

because I'm a woman.

Everyone falls in love,

dear. Even women.

I don't want to write

a love story like that.

Well, my darling, I was hoping

to make this a celebratory gift.

I'm a builder, dear.

If there's one

thing I know,

it's the importance of

the right tool for the job.

It's beautiful.

But actually, Father,

I was hoping to type it,

in your office.

Type it?

I'm submitting it to

The Atlantic Monthly,

but I realize now that my

handwriting is too feminine.

It gives me away.

Without a doubt.

But what you

must appreciate,

is the way that the molding

is incorporated into

the overall design

of the clock.

It'll take me all day,

but it does make it look rather handsome,

don't you think?

Yes.

Good morning, miss.

Forgive the interruption.

I have an appointment with

Mr. Carter Everett Cushing.

Goodness. With the

great man himself.

I'm afraid so.

"Sir Thomas Sharpe,

Baronet."

He'll be here shortly.

Thank you.

You're not late,

are you?

He hates that.

Uh, not at all. In fact,

I'm a little early.

Oh, I'm afraid he

hates that, too.

I'm sorry,

I don't mean to pry,

but this is a piece

of fiction, is it not?

Yes.

Who are you transcribing this for?

It's to be sent to New York tomorrow,

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