The Horror Was For Love



Memories are born in sepia, and colored with the blood of the past; things that happened, things that could have, things that almost did. Our future is a thing crafted by the fragments left behind…and the stories we take with us. It has been said that the past follows in the footsteps of the present, whether we like it or not—it is a refrain that never ceases to play, but may change with time.

Hope is something we strive for and hold on to everyday—it is the preciousness that is the silver lining. The belief that our dreams can yet come true, that we will make our mark on the future, take hold of the present and say, “I am here, and this is my day—I have crafted it in the image of all I hoped it would be, and all that I could leave behind when my time is done.” And love is perhaps the greatest form of hope. It prevails over everything, stronger than any other strength one can know. Gives us something to live for in a certain transcendence that lifts us and infuses the present and every second forthcoming. The form it takes, whether it provides life, or lends poisonous subsistence to a twisted version of itself—is a cord that separates oblivion and eternity. Nothing leaves a stamp on time like Love, in all the skins it comes in. And in the face of Love, the world can only stand back in awe—and horror.

From the very beginning there was something deliciously, wretchedly beautiful about the perception I had of what Crimson Peak would be. I was excited that a couple favorite actors would be in the movie—Hiddleston, Wasikowska. Excited that the mind that helped get The Hobbit started was making a most gorgeous looking story, told in the perfect image of old Gothic, horrifying romance.

Edith lives with a love for life, for stories, and dreams of a future of continued warmth and possibility. She’s happy with her life in New York, strives to be a writer, and has a fascination for ghosts. She sees them—ever since her mother’s spirit visited her as a little girl. It shows her that a world besides the one we see every day exists. And when Sir Thomas comes in, the first admirer and supporter of her stories, with a brilliant mind and educated taste coupled with the will of a fellow dreamer, well—it is easy for her to fall in love. Only as time goes on, and she gets embroiled in the history of her new home, does she realize the wretchedness she’s married into. And the tragedy that will always live on with her.

Twisted love can be like an alienated terrain—a terrible, wretched landscape that once was awash with sunshine and summer rain—now unknown, confusing—you don’t even know if it is the same thing that it once was. If it was somehow…lost…along the way.


Deep down Thomas is a lonely boy who is desperate for a real future, and finds solace over time in the true, warm love and admiration that Edith showers on him. His is a more complicated, evolving heart of desires. More open, but wholly attuned to the bitterness life has accorded him. He dares to be hopeful, once he sees what hope looks like—Edith. Her warmth, her belief in what life can be.

Lucille is the hardened daughter of an inheritance, a past that she shouldered and sheltered her younger brother from. The woman so afraid of being alone, and whose only love is the one who has shared the life she’d been allotted.

And in the end, all Lucille can do is hold on to what she has had—and destroy what she might lose, in her desperation. Thomas dares to grasp the future with both hands, but is part of the retribution for all the wretchedness wrought. And Edith…she is once again left with the ghosts of all that had passed, and what all could have.

In the end it is our hopes, sorrows, and loves that are the ghosts that follow in our wake. There is always a place for them, where they wait for our return…for the present to come back to them. The tragedy of our sorrowed love is most patient. And in looking back, what is more surreal than seeing the past living there, with every breath we take? And what can we do in the face of such terrible love? And which is more surreal—the past that haunts us, or the love that birthed it? ♥


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Elora Shore is a long time writer and has published a short story (Eloise) and her first collection of poetry, A Road to Count the Days By, available on Amazon Kindle. Her poems have appeared in several magazines. She is working on a romcom and a fantasy trilogy. Follow Elora online at Pendragon and Out My Front Door.

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