I still remember the night my mother came to me. I was just a child, standing in the hallway of our Buffalo mansion, when her ghost appeared—pale, weeping, her voice a whisper on the wind: 'Beware of Crimson Peak.'

Now, ten years later, I’m standing at the edge of that very peak. Allerdale Hall looms behind me, its stone bones cracking under the weight of the red earth. Snow falls, but it’s not white—it’s stained, bleeding crimson from the clay below.

I came here as Edith Sharpe, a bride in love. I believed Thomas. I believed his sorrow, his dreams, his touch. But the house has shown me the truth. The tea Lucille gives me burns my throat. The ghosts won’t let me sleep. And last night, I found the trunk—Enola’s name carved into the wood, the recordings playing voices of women just like me.

I hear footsteps above. Lucille is coming. I have minutes, maybe less. The deed is signed. Alan is bleeding in the cellar. Thomas—my husband—stands between us, his eyes full of regret.

Do I run? Do I fight? Or do I finally write the story that will bury them all?