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Ghosts are real.
The body of Lucille Sharpe lies in a crumpled heap on the ground, lifeless and unmoving at last, the shovel that struck the final blow still in Edith's hand. She leans on it for a moment, trying to steady herself, but she lets it drop when she steps forward towards Thomas, her husband, standing in front of her, dead no more than an hour. The sight is a sadder one than perhaps it should be, all things considered. But she'd loved him before she knew what he was, what he was doing to her, and that's not so easily undone. In the end, she thinks he might really have loved her, too, even if it all came too late. It had still been enough for him to ultimately fight Lucille and die doing so, enough for him to have come back to help her this one last time. Probably not too far from death herself, Edith isn't sure what her chances of winning this battle would have been if not for him, and in spite of everything else, that does mean something to her.
This much I know.
All of the ghosts she's seen before now — her mother's black corpse, the gruesome, blood-red, mangled figures that have haunted Allerdale Hall — have been almost unbearably frightening. This one is different. Thomas is the same pale grey color as the sky, nearly transparent, something like blood drifting up from a wound in his cheek, his sad eyes painfully familiar. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. Neither does she. Instead, she lifts one hand to rest tenderly against the side of his face, and he leans into it, and that's enough. Then, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he's gone, vanishing into the wind like he was never there at all, save for a lingering wisp of the strange smoky substance he'd been comprised of curling around Edith's finger.
She stares at it for a moment, stunned, and then isn't sure if the hot tears that prick at her eyes are for him, or for the rest of the dead left in the Sharpes' wake, or if they're out of relief, or born purely of exhaustion and pain. For a while there, she had been running purely on adrenaline, having no other choice. Now, everything is catching up to her, hitting her all at once, and though she knows she can't stop yet, with Alan still bleeding down in the old mines, hopefully still alive, she can't quite spur herself into movement yet. She has a catalogue of hurts too many to name, not the least of which is the leg she broke, all of Alan's good work setting it probably undone. With the state they're both in, it will be a miracle if they both make it out of here. After everything she's survived, though — tonight especially, but in all the time since Thomas first brought her here, to the very place she was warned about — she doesn't intend to let there be any other option. She didn't make it this far for nothing. She doesn't intend to let Alan have done so, either, after he came all this way to try to help her.
When Edith does take a step, though, the world starts to spin; her knees threaten to give out, and bile rises in her throat. The Sharpes may both be dead now, but what they've done to her continues to take its toll. She means to press on in spite of that, but one look around leaves her too confused to go any further. Gone is Thomas's mining machine, and that dreadful old house. The air is clear, the fine snow that's been falling, hanging over Allerdale Hall like a fog, entirely absent, just like the blood-red clay beneath her bare feet. She appears to be on a street, in fact, albeit one like nothing she's ever seen before, the notion impossible and disconcerting enough that, for a few seconds, it's all she can do not to start to cry. The only real explanation she can think of is that she's further gone than she thought, perhaps hallucinating for real this time, the poison in her system prompting this strange turn of events. All she can say for sure is that just to stand is becoming increasingly difficult, and she grabs desperately at the railing behind her, clinging to it with bloodstained fingers to try to keep herself upright. There isn't much more she can do at all, until someone walks by, wearing clothes the likes of which she's never seen before. That, for the moment, is unimportant.
"Excuse me," she says, trying to sound more apologetic than frantic, and only somewhat succeeding. "I think I need some help."
The body of Lucille Sharpe lies in a crumpled heap on the ground, lifeless and unmoving at last, the shovel that struck the final blow still in Edith's hand. She leans on it for a moment, trying to steady herself, but she lets it drop when she steps forward towards Thomas, her husband, standing in front of her, dead no more than an hour. The sight is a sadder one than perhaps it should be, all things considered. But she'd loved him before she knew what he was, what he was doing to her, and that's not so easily undone. In the end, she thinks he might really have loved her, too, even if it all came too late. It had still been enough for him to ultimately fight Lucille and die doing so, enough for him to have come back to help her this one last time. Probably not too far from death herself, Edith isn't sure what her chances of winning this battle would have been if not for him, and in spite of everything else, that does mean something to her.
This much I know.
All of the ghosts she's seen before now — her mother's black corpse, the gruesome, blood-red, mangled figures that have haunted Allerdale Hall — have been almost unbearably frightening. This one is different. Thomas is the same pale grey color as the sky, nearly transparent, something like blood drifting up from a wound in his cheek, his sad eyes painfully familiar. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. Neither does she. Instead, she lifts one hand to rest tenderly against the side of his face, and he leans into it, and that's enough. Then, just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he's gone, vanishing into the wind like he was never there at all, save for a lingering wisp of the strange smoky substance he'd been comprised of curling around Edith's finger.
She stares at it for a moment, stunned, and then isn't sure if the hot tears that prick at her eyes are for him, or for the rest of the dead left in the Sharpes' wake, or if they're out of relief, or born purely of exhaustion and pain. For a while there, she had been running purely on adrenaline, having no other choice. Now, everything is catching up to her, hitting her all at once, and though she knows she can't stop yet, with Alan still bleeding down in the old mines, hopefully still alive, she can't quite spur herself into movement yet. She has a catalogue of hurts too many to name, not the least of which is the leg she broke, all of Alan's good work setting it probably undone. With the state they're both in, it will be a miracle if they both make it out of here. After everything she's survived, though — tonight especially, but in all the time since Thomas first brought her here, to the very place she was warned about — she doesn't intend to let there be any other option. She didn't make it this far for nothing. She doesn't intend to let Alan have done so, either, after he came all this way to try to help her.
When Edith does take a step, though, the world starts to spin; her knees threaten to give out, and bile rises in her throat. The Sharpes may both be dead now, but what they've done to her continues to take its toll. She means to press on in spite of that, but one look around leaves her too confused to go any further. Gone is Thomas's mining machine, and that dreadful old house. The air is clear, the fine snow that's been falling, hanging over Allerdale Hall like a fog, entirely absent, just like the blood-red clay beneath her bare feet. She appears to be on a street, in fact, albeit one like nothing she's ever seen before, the notion impossible and disconcerting enough that, for a few seconds, it's all she can do not to start to cry. The only real explanation she can think of is that she's further gone than she thought, perhaps hallucinating for real this time, the poison in her system prompting this strange turn of events. All she can say for sure is that just to stand is becoming increasingly difficult, and she grabs desperately at the railing behind her, clinging to it with bloodstained fingers to try to keep herself upright. There isn't much more she can do at all, until someone walks by, wearing clothes the likes of which she's never seen before. That, for the moment, is unimportant.
"Excuse me," she says, trying to sound more apologetic than frantic, and only somewhat succeeding. "I think I need some help."
