The Lady in Crimson

The moon bled that night. A sickly red, it loomed over Lawler Manor as thought the heavens themselves had opened a wound. The air carried the scent of damp earth and something sweeter- cloying, metallic. The estate, forgotten by the living, perched atop the blackened hills, its towers piercing the night like jagged teeth gnawing at the sky. A creeping mist slithered around its foundation, curling through the dead trees with the likeness of skeletal fingers. The villagers had long since abandoned the road that led to the house, whispering of monsters and mystery, of the lady in crimson that resided there- a specter, a goddess, a curse.

           Jonathan Ashcroft, a scholar, a man of logic and skeptic, did not believe in legends. A letter had come two weeks prior, written in an elegant, sloping hand upon parchment that smelled faintly of roses.

Mr. Ashcroft,

You seek knowledge. I offer you its final form. Come to Lawler Manor on the eve of the blood moon, and behold the truth of eternity.

No signature. Only a wax seal bearing the imprint of a dagger. Such melodrama. And yet, as he stood before the rusted gates he felt the weight of a thousand unseen eyes upon him. The iron gates groaned like dying throats as Jonathan stepped forward, his boots crunching against the gravel path lined with black roses. Their petals, dark as spilled ink, glistened with thick red dew, as though the soil beneath them had been nourished with something far more sinister than water.

The door to the manor was already open.

           A woman, draped in crimson silk stood in the candlelight, framed by the darkened threshold. The fabric clung to her form like blood staining snow, her black curls cascaded over unnaturally pale shoulders, and her lips, red as pomegranate seeds, parted in a knowing smile. The flickering firelight gave her an otherworldly glow, as though she belonged to neither the world of the living nor the dead. “You came,” she whispered.

Jonathan swallowed, brandishing the letter. “You wrote to me.”

“Indeed, I did.” She stepped aside, allowing him entry into the manor.

The house breathed around him. The corridors stretched impossibly long, their oil-painted portraits weeping with age. Several doors lined the hallway, the crystal doorknobs collecting dust. The scent of roses and decay clung to the air, which was so dense one could choke. Shadows hung in the corners, swollen and still despite the flickering candlelight. “Who are you?” Jonathan asked, as each footstep groaned beneath his weight.

She turned her head slightly, “I am what all men seek.”

The lady in crimson led him to a vast chamber, where a gilded frame hung above the fireplace. The flames roared with hunger, twisting and dancing sporadically. Soft light shifted the shadows across the velvet furniture, making the entire room feel like a theatre of the macabre. She gestured Jonathan to sit.

“Tell me, Mr. Ashcroft,” she said, crossing her pale legs in front of her, “why do men hunger for knowledge?”

He frowned. “Because ignorance is a shackle. Knowledge is power.”

She smiled, “Ah, yes. And what has that power given mankind? Peace? Contentment? Or suffering and ruin?”

Jonathan scoffed. “Progress. Civilization. The ability to master the world instead of cowering before it.”

She leaned forward; her eyes gleaming like embers in the dark. “And yet, no matter how much you learn, it is never enough. Knowledge breeds hunger, obsession. You devour wisdom like a starving man at a feast, never satisfied, always craving the next morsel.”

Jonathan hesitated. He had never had a woman ask him these kinds of questions before. “Is it wrong to want understanding?”

Her voice softened like the whisper of silk against skin, almost affectionate. “Not wrong. Merely doomed. Knowledge is a fire, and men are moths- helplessly drawn, burning their fragile wings for a glimpse of something beyond their grasp. You believe yourself above it, but tell me…”

She gestured to the vast, ancient library beyond the parlor. “If I told you there was a book within these walls that held the answer to all things- life, death, eternity- would you open it?”

“I would,” he exclaimed. Her smile widened, slow and terrible, causing his stomach to drop.

“Even if it cost your soul?”

Jonathan hesitated, “there is no such thing as a soul.” She laughed then- a rich, velvety sound that slithered down his spine like a whispered curse.

“Oh, Jonathan. How quickly men discard their faith when it is inconvenient.”

He shifted his gaze to the top of the fireplace. The portrait commanded the room, it was bigger than any painting he had ever seen; its golden frame shining with the glory of an ancient relic. It depicted her, standing in a darkened room, swathed in white lace. Her expression was the same unreadable smile she wore now. But behind her, half-shrouded in shadow, were figures- dozens of them, their faces warped with anguish and fear, their mouths twisting open with silent, mangled screams. Something about the faces unsettled him; they were painted with such realism, as if they had been captured at the moment of their last breath. The longer he stared, the more their expressions seemed to…

Shift.

“Do you paint?” Jonathan asked, attempting to shake his nerves.

She chuckled. “No, Mr. Ashcroft. I do not paint. I preserve.”

His eyes flicked back to the canvas. The figures in the background had moved. He could have sworn they were positioned differently before. Squinting his eyes, he peered beneath the layers of pigment and oil, and then he saw it. A familiar face. His own.  

Taking a step back, the room seemed to close in around him. “This is a trick,” he murmured.

The lady in crimson only smiled. “Is it?”

Jonathan’s reflection stared back at him from within the painting- eyes widening in terror, mouth slightly parted. The figures in the painting began to whisper. Low, rasping voices, overlapping in a horrific symphony of agony. He could hear them in his mind- pleading, warning, sobbing. The realization sent ice through his veins. His body felt heavy, and his limbs, sluggish. The air around him had grown thick as if he was drowning in ink. His oil and pigment body sank deeper and deeper into the background, the vibrant hues of his flesh dulling, merging with the surrounding figures.

He turned to the woman, panic clawing at his chest. “What is this?”

She stepped closer, her scent intoxicating, “you wished to uncover the knowledge beyond the grasp of mortal men.”

His body felt wrong- as though his skin was not his own, like he was unraveling from the inside out. Jonathan’s fingers tingled, fading at the edges, turning to pigment, to brush strokes, to memory. Then, a terrifying thought struck him, “how long have I been here?” he whispered.

The lady cupped his cheek, her touch both ice-cold and burning. “Longer than you think.”

His breath caught in his throat as he turned to a mirror on the other wall. His reflection was gone. He was gone. Only the painting remained.

The next morning, Lawler Manor stood silent. No footprints marked the gravel path. The front door remained locked, untouched by time, and the iron gate was rusted shut. Inside, above the roaring hearth, the portrait had changed once more. The lady in crimson still stood at its center, unaged and untouched, but behind her, in the deepening shadows, the figures had grown. Among them, with eyes full of horror, stood Jonathan Ashcroft, his lips parted in an eternal, soundless scream.

And outside, beneath the waning crimson moon, the roses drank deep.