Alternate Ending for Wuthering Heights

A small explanation:

Lockwood is a character that embodies the bourgeois detachment and moral hypocrisy of the majority of Victorian society in Wuthering Heights. He is an unreliable narrator to readers both of the past and current era and although the novel was from his perspective, he remained a passive and static character from beginning to end, (along with other narrator Nelly Dean) reflecting how a stifling environment causes a stubborn hold onto traditional values which results in the failure to grow. I used Mr Lockwood’s narrative voice for this quality of ignorance and self-importance which I believe has caused some readers to be complacent in their readings of the text. (totally not inspired by the botched interpretation of movie… ahem Jacob Elordi playing POC Heathcliff…)

This piece is set in the future, past the ending of Wuthering Heights. Lockwood, out of boredom and curiosity impulsively travels back to the Grange. I did this to demonstrate Lockwood’s lack of growth throughout this undefined time period—the ambiguity in the time period itself was meant to invoke a sense of uncertainty in readers, dismantling their prior conceptions and instead presenting this as an event independent of such biases.

I initially depict the standard Victorian ending for this novel through Lockwood’s eyes: an idyllic vision of Thrushcross Grange restored, Cathy and Hareton domestic, rehabilitated, and harmonious with the monster defeated and the inheritance claimed. Yet, I immediately shatter this idea by associating this ideal of Thrushcross Grange as his Gothic landscape dominated by ruin and fragmentation. The setting of the moors—reclaimed by wind, ivy, and decay—acts not merely as backdrop but as a devouring force that erases the naive assumptions of not only Lockwood but, more importantly, society’s sanitized narratives of redemption and resolution. I did this because the ending of the novel is often misread and misinterpreted, villainising Heathcliff instead of the real monsters (which, of course, is the readers themselves—but they don’t realise it, they are Lockwood!) I really wanted to emphasise that part in my writing. 

ACTUAL CREATIVE

It is through a startling circumstance that I find myself along these dismal moors again! Oh, how impetuous and hasty I am! Back in these dreaded, antisocial heaths; this impulsion, such a habit I have long failed to fix; a sudden calling that emerged within me within these last dreary and desolate weeks. London! A place so stiflingly suffocating for those of a mind as inquisitive as myself. It is a city that simply shuns me! It is simply outrageous, the emotional asphyxiation I have been subjected to, to the sheer extent I am forced to retreat into the confines of this isolated place. Alas, maybe Ms Dean would be keen to express some kind words for my unfortunate situation!

As I paced along those solitary moors, an image of what will soon greet me impeded my mind. A magnificent, refurbished house, glistening with newfound cleanliness and purity from the ordeals that happened in the past, the gardens kept neatly clean, butterflies fluttering around, happy bees pollinating the garden ferns.  A delicate figure draped in jewels would be by the window, humming a tranquil morning song, her harmonies infusing with those of bluebirds frolicking in the backyard. Her husband in the back room, telling stories to a younger generation, himself finally free of the stupidity that devil Heathcliff inflicted, back in his rightful lands, with his rightful inheritance. The epilogue of a villain defeated, as all things should be. And Ms. Dean! To greet me with the most welcoming and hospitable smile, as the relentless gossip catches me up on all the happenings on these tempestuous moors. Oh yes, how riveting it would be! Every word a new track, every sentence a new hill to cross! I wonder what could possibly have happened since my last visit!

As I trudge through the hills, the beats of the wind flapping behind me, my gaze is drawn by some compulsion towards a wrecked pile of brick and stones, teetering at the edge of the moor. Broken, four walls stood tenacious behind it, trying to withhold as it crumbled into dust. It was beautiful once, I could see. Probably a home to some Princess in a better age.  

In the fog, I caught a glimpse of a jagged signpost, slanted and worn; its splendour was beaten down by the insidious decay of the moors, moss creeping around it, enfolding it and tethering it into the midst of the Heath. 

It was a terrible sight, all weather-beaten and greyed, yet it’s in its queerness that there seems to be something enticing about it, a frame of still art by some poor artist on their last pennies on the road. My eyes were drawn to an array of faded white letters, peeling off like old scabs. “Hush Rane” it read, the wind blowing over me, along with some sense of… uncanniness. A long, mournful cry rose through the trees.

Panicked, I read the disheveled words over and over again. At this moment, there suddenly appeared an adverse gust of wind, threatening to tear my body apart as it relentlessly beat against me. I could feel a soft, warm breath tickling my ear, before some doleful moaning erupted in my eardrums!

I jolted back, tumbling back forward on the ground, looking left and right as the abominable muddied dirt and grass smeared on the palm of my hands. Rage poured through me, and terror… terror overtook my body! I began charging into the sign in front like some feral animal! Shameful, when I think about it now. Yet some strange sense of satisfaction arose within me as I saw its last remnants collapse into the ground, and an eerie feeling of recognition…

My heart lurched. Thrushcross Grange? No, it couldn’t be! Yet… yet… The walls–worn, tattered, the windows cracked, the door slightly ajar. I blinked, and for a moment, it seemed to shift before my eyes. Was this truly the Grange? No—no, it was something else. It couldn’t. It couldn’t be. Where was Mrs Earnshaw? The master? Mrs Dean! 

Curiosity evoked, I moved closer. Familiar this place was, yet something about it simply provoked my worst senses! Of course, this meant I naturally couldn't help myself when I saw it there, lying on the floor at arm's length! My fingers brushed over it, and without a second thought, I forced the cracked corners open, and rough-jagged letters came into view.

The likeness between them… startling, I can’t unsee it, can’t unsee her, anywhere. She is there at every moment, she’s here right now. I can feel her pulling me towards her with every passing second—this, today was a sign in itself. God, Catherine, you’re killing me—with every beat of my heart, with every breath I take. Hareton… I saw a new side of him today. How could this be? This repentance has overtaken me. I think it will consume me.

This– Why was this here? In the Grange? I recognised it as Heathcliff’s handwriting… is, is he still here? Looking all around,  I slammed the book shut. No, this could not be happening, I’m hallucinating, Heathcliff has been dead for decades. Yet- 

A turning of the air, a rattling of the windows… a faint… laugh? A sickening feeling poured into me, I knew nothing, except I had to get out—the space was annihilating. But, something halted me in my tracks. Outside there illuminated… figures, silhouetted against the dying light, somewhere out far off on the moor. A boy and a girl. 

Something about them sparked recognition in me, and I itched to join them in their slumber. Yet, the heath forbade me to go any further! My foot sank deep in the earth, and I could almost feel an icy, cold hand grabbing my ankle, forcefully dragging me away from those foggy moors. 

“No!” I yelled, in despair as the wind beat against me, the growling so strong I could hear nothing but it’s bemoaning, wailing in my ear. 

With the letter still clutched in my hand, a second nature overtook me, and in my hurry, I had unwittingly left it behind! No, it was the wind who carried it away, it scattered it into the rubble.

Nature had left me no choice, the only road was out! I took a last glimpse at the structure—t was a majestic sight to behold, truly. Eerie, but majestic. The ivy curling over the broken walls, the angle the place creaked with the wind. 

I shook my head, trying to forget the hallucinations I just had; Whatever this place once was, it was gone now—the moors had won this battle. And it was due time for me to return to London.