DWC Short Story: The House on Crimson End

In the small town of Thornwood, there stood a house on Crimson End, a sturdy, two-story structure with ivy-clad walls and a broad front porch. It had witnessed the passage of time, and within its walls, three women lived through different centuries, each leaving an indelible mark on the house and its history. The house, with its creaking floorboards and whispering walls, held more than just memories—it held secrets. 

1784: Elizabeth

Elizabeth Thompson arrived at the house in 1784, a young widow at the age of twenty-five. Her husband, James, had perished in the American Revolutionary War, leaving her alone with their infant son, Samuel. The house on Crimson End had been a gift from her late husband’s family, a place where she could find solace and start anew.

But solace was hard to come by. The war had left the town in ruins, and Elizabeth struggled to make ends meet. The garden behind the house, once lush and green, was now barren and dry. Elizabeth spent her days tending to it, her hands raw from the toil, trying to coax life from the unforgiving soil. At night, she would rock Samuel to sleep, the crackling flames the only sound in the silent house.

Elizabeth’s marriage had been brief but passionate. She and James had married in the spring of 1782, a union born of both love and necessity. They had met when James was stationed in Thornwood. Their marriage was filled with laughter, dreams of the future, and whispered promises of a life together. But the war tore James away, and the news of his death shattered Elizabeth’s world.

As the years passed, Elizabeth found herself growing stronger. She was no longer the frightened widow who had arrived at the house with a babe in her arms. She had learned to rely on herself, to find joy in the small moments—a bloom in the garden, the sound of Samuel’s laughter, the warmth of the fire on a cold night.

One cold winter night, as Elizabeth sat by the fire, she felt a warmth that was not from the flames. It was a feeling of comfort as if the house itself was offering her a silent embrace. She smiled for the first time in months. Slowly, the garden began to flourish again, and Elizabeth found solace not just in the house but in her own strength. By the time Samuel was a young boy, the house on Crimson End had become a home, filled with laughter and love.

Despite the hardships, Elizabeth found happiness in her son’s growing independence and the blossoming of the garden. The house, which had once been a place of sorrow, now echoed with the sounds of life and love. Elizabeth had found peace, not in forgetting James, but in embracing the life they had created together.

But there was something else, something Elizabeth couldn’t quite explain. Every now and then, she would find things in the house that she didn’t remember putting there—a small brooch on the mantel, a book of poetry on the bedside table, a letter tucked away in a drawer. The letter, written in a neat, unfamiliar hand, spoke of love, loss, and hope, as if it had been written just for her. The name at the bottom was Margaret Ellis.

Elizabeth wondered who Margaret was and why her words felt so familiar, so comforting. It was as if Margaret had lived through the same heartache, the same struggles. Elizabeth began to feel a connection to this mysterious woman, as if their lives were somehow intertwined.

One evening, as she sat by the fire reading the letter, she heard a faint whisper, like the rustle of leaves in the wind. She looked around, but there was no one there. 

The house was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone. It was as if the house was alive, watching over her, guiding her through her darkest days.

1884: Margaret

A century later, in 1884, the house was owned by Margaret Ellis, a schoolteacher in her mid-thirties. Margaret had never married, a rarity in that era, and had dedicated her life to educating the children of Thornwood. She had inherited the house from her aunt and moved in with her younger sister, Clara, who was bedridden with a chronic illness.

Margaret’s life was one of duty and sacrifice. She would rise before dawn, prepare lessons for the day, and care for Clara before heading to the schoolhouse. 

The house, now worn with age, seemed to mirror Margaret’s own exhaustion. The once bright paint had faded, and the roof leaked during rainstorms. But Margaret took comfort in the familiar creaks and groans of the old structure, which had become a constant in her ever-demanding life.

Margaret’s decision to remain unmarried was not for lack of suitors. In her youth, she had been courted by several young men, but her heart had belonged to only one—Thomas Carter, a charming and intelligent man who had promised her the world. They had been engaged, their future bright with possibility, but tragedy struck when Thomas was killed in a factory accident just months before their wedding.

The loss devastated Margaret, and she threw herself into her work to cope with the grief. She became a beloved figure in Thornwood, respected for her dedication and kindness, but she remained distant, her heart guarded. The house on Crimson End became her refuge, a place where she could hide from the world and nurse her wounds.

As the years passed, Margaret faced her greatest hardship: Clara’s health deteriorated rapidly. Despite Margaret’s best efforts, Clara passed away one summer evening. The house felt emptier than ever, the silence almost unbearable.

Grief-stricken, Margaret threw herself into her work, but the loneliness gnawed at her. The children she taught became her solace, their laughter echoing through the empty halls of the schoolhouse. One day, as she was grading papers by the window, she noticed a small sprout growing in the garden—a plant she hadn’t sown. 

Margaret took it as a sign from Clara, a reminder that life goes on. She tended to the sprout, and over time, it grew into a beautiful rose bush.

The house, too, began to feel alive again. Margaret would often sit on the porch in the evenings, watching the roses bloom, and felt a quiet happiness she hadn’t known in years. The house, which had witnessed so much sorrow, now stood as a testament to resilience and the enduring power of love.

But Margaret, like Elizabeth before her, began to notice strange occurrences in the house. She would find letters, written in an old-fashioned script, hidden in the most unexpected places—a drawer, a bookshelf, even under the floorboards. 

These letters spoke of a woman named Elizabeth, who had lived in the house a century earlier. Elizabeth’s words were filled with hope and determination, her love for her son, and her memories of a lost husband.

Margaret was captivated by these letters. It was as if Elizabeth was reaching out to her, offering her comfort and understanding. Margaret would sit by the fire, reading the letters aloud, feeling as though Elizabeth was there with her, listening to her voice.

One night, as Margaret was reading one of the letters, she felt a chill in the room, despite the warmth of the fire. She looked up and saw a faint outline of a woman standing by the window. 

The figure was dressed in a simple gown, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. Margaret blinked, and the figure was gone. But she knew what she had seen. Elizabeth had been there, watching over her, just as Margaret had watched over her sister.

The house on Crimson End was more than just a home; it was a bridge between the past and the present, a place where the lives of these women were intertwined. Margaret felt a deep connection to Elizabeth, as if they were kindred spirits, both having suffered loss and found solace within the same walls.

1984: Rachel

In 1984, the house on Crimson End was sold to Rachel Collins, a young artist in her twenties who had left the bustling city life behind in search of inspiration and peace.

The house was in disrepair, the ivy overgrown, the windows cracked, but Rachel saw its potential.

Rachel had been struggling with self-doubt for years. She had dropped out of art school and drifted from one job to another, never quite finding her place. The house, with its history and character, seemed like the perfect place to start over.

Rachel’s relationship with art had always been complicated. She had grown up in a home where creativity was encouraged, but the pressures of success had taken a toll on her. 

Her parents, both accomplished musicians, had high expectations, and Rachel often felt she could never measure up. Her brief marriage to David, a fellow artist, had ended in a bitter divorce, further shaking her confidence.

David had been her first love, and their relationship had been intense and passionate. They had met in art school, where they bonded over their shared love of painting. But as their careers took different paths, the cracks in their marriage began to show. 

David’s success only highlighted Rachel’s struggles and their relationship became strained. The divorce left Rachel feeling lost and directionless, unsure of her place in the world.

At first, Rachel’s life in the house was filled with frustration. The renovations were costly, and her savings dwindled quickly. The townspeople were kind but distant, and Rachel often felt isolated. But there was something about the house that called to her, a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt in years.

One stormy night, as Rachel worked on a painting in the old attic, she heard the wind howling through the rafters. The sound reminded her of stories her grandmother used to tell, of the women who had lived in the house before her. She felt a connection to them, as if their spirits were guiding her.

Inspired, Rachel began to paint the history of the house. She painted Elizabeth, toiling in the garden with Samuel by her side. She painted Margaret, sitting on the porch surrounded by roses. And she painted herself, standing in the attic, the wind blowing through her hair, determined to make something of her life.

As she painted, Rachel felt the house come alive around her. The ivy seemed greener, the air fresher, the light brighter. 

The house, which had seen so much pain and joy, was now filled with hope. Rachel’s paintings sold quickly, and soon she was able to complete the renovations.

But it wasn’t just the house that inspired Rachel. She began to find letters, written by women who had lived in the house before her—Elizabeth and Margaret. 

The letters spoke of their lives, their struggles, and their dreams. Rachel felt a deep connection to these women, as if they were guiding her through her own journey.

One evening, as Rachel was sorting through an old trunk in the attic, she found a small box. Inside, wrapped in a faded piece of cloth, was a brooch. It was simple, yet elegant, with a delicate engraving on the back. Along with the brooch was a letter, written in a flowing script.

“To the woman who finds this, know that you are not alone. We have all walked this path before you, and we are with you in spirit. 

This house is a place of healing, of hope, and of love. Wear this brooch as a symbol of our connection, and know that you are part of something greater than yourself.

The letter was signed, “With love, Elizabeth and Margaret.”

Rachel felt a tear slip down her cheek as she held the brooch in her hand. The weight of the past, the lives of the women who had lived in the house before her, pressed down on her heart. But it wasn’t a burden; it was a comfort. She wasn’t alone. She had Elizabeth and Margaret with her, guiding her, and helping her find her way.

Rachel began to wear the brooch every day, feeling the connection to the women who had come before her. The house, once a symbol of hardship, had become a beacon of creativity and community. It was a place where the past and the present intertwined, where the lives of three women from different centuries were forever connected.

As the years passed, the house on Crimson End became more than just a structure; it became a living monument to the women who had found refuge within its walls. Elizabeth’s love, Margaret’s duty, and Rachel’s creativity had all left their mark on the house, and their spirits continued to linger, watching over those who came after them.

The house was more than just a home—it was a sanctuary, a place where time stood still, and the bonds of love and friendship transcended the boundaries of life and death. And so, the house on Crimson End stood as a testament to the resilience and strength of the women who had lived within its walls. Each century brought its own challenges and joys, but the house remained, a silent witness to the passage of time and the enduring spirit of those who called it home.