Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization by Nancy Holder Page A

mouth caught in a scream, whether in fury or agony or both, she did not know. She looked back down at the baby, and suppressed every impulse in her to snatch the child out of the crib, unreasonable as that was.
    “It is my belief that houses—places—be it by the chemical compound in the earth or the minerals in the stone, can retain impressions, just like this plate. They can record an emotion or a person that is no longer alive. It’s called an ‘impregnation.’”
    Can that be what has happened in our house?
Edith thought anxiously. And what she had seen…
twice
… within its walls? They were not products of her imagination, but things that were actually present?
    “But not everyone can see them,” she said quietly.
    I did see them.
    I saw her.
    Her stomach clenched.
    “Right.” Alan went on, unaware of her discomfiture. “That man that just left, amongst other ailments, is color blind.”
    More of his collection of phantom images paraded before her—cloudy and half-formed, increasingly disturbing, elongated and unreal… Were they aware, these
things
? Were they memories, recordings? Did they have a reason to come back?
    “He will
never
perceive the colors red or green,” Alan went on blithely. “He only accepts their existence because the majority around him does.”
    Ghosts, did they exist? Were these images of real ghosts?
    And in that picture, that one… did one just move?
    “These…
specters
—” he used her word deliberately, favoring her with a quick nod “—may be all around us and only the ‘developing agent’—those with the specific aberration—can see them.”
    “Or perhaps we only notice things when the time comes for us to pay attention to them. When they need us to see them,” she said. Then she realized how intently he was staring at her, and she colored and looked away. He had been her confidant, the one she had entrusted with her whispered secret that Mama’s ghost had appeared to her. He had been the witness to her humiliation at his sister’s hands when she had learned of it. And he had seen Sir Thomas relish every spine-tingling word of her manuscript, and beg for more.
    “Conan Doyle spoke of an ‘offering,’” Alan continued. “A gesture—an invitation to communicate. ‘Knock once if you mean “yes,”’ or, ‘Touch my hand if you are here.’”
    She was perplexed as to why he was bringing this up. She had not spoken a word of the most recent… appearance to anyone, so it seemed strange that he would revisit a past event that had proved so painful. But he had seen how interested Sir Thomas was in her ghost story. Could this be an attempt to draw her attention away from the Englishman in order to compete for her affections? Or had he realized that in the past, as her friend, he had not been particularly supportive of her work?
    “You’ve never spoken to me about these interests of yours, Alan,” she said, and waited for his reply.
    His face softened. “I feel sometimes, Edith, as if you can only think of me as that childhood friend that climbed the orchard trees with you.”
    She took that in. Was this something more than an invitation to see his new practice?
    “Edith, I understand your fascination with the Sharpes, but…” He hesitated a moment and seemed to come to some kind of resolution. “In your own best interest, proceed with caution is all I ask.”
    I am right
, she thought, a little dazed.
Alan has feelings for me.
    “I can take care of myself, Alan. Don’t presume too much.” Did she sound defensive? “You’ve been gone a long time and now…” She tried to couch her words more gently. “I’ve managed somewhat.”
    His face was unreadable. “You’re right, Edith. I am sorry. My deepest concern has always been for you. If you are happy, then I am happy.”
    And you are a true friend
, she thought, grateful that he cared enough to be concerned for her. He had certainly given her something to think about. She had assumed these…