In the aftermath of a family tragedy, an aspiring author is torn between love for her childhood friend and the temptation of a mysterious outsider. Trying to escape the ghosts of her past, she is swept away to a house that breathes, bleeds - and remembers.

Lucille Sharpe: Will you stay with us for the night?
Dr. Alan McMichael: Well, if you incest.
Edith Cushing: You are monsters! Both of you!
Lucille Sharpe: That's exactly what our mother told us in her last moment.
Edith Cushing: Ghosts are real, that much I know. I've seen them all my life...
Thomas Sharpe: You're so... different.
Edith Cushing: From who?
Thomas Sharpe: ...everyone.
Lucille Sharpe: [Looking at the dead butterflies] They're dying. They take the heat from the sun, and when it deserts them, they die.
Edith Cushing: How sad.
Lucille Sharpe: No, it's not sad, Edith. It's nature. It's a world of everything dying and eating each other right beneath our feet.
Edith Cushing: Surely there's more to it than that.
Lucille Sharpe: [Looking at Edith] Beautiful things are fragile... At home we have only black moths. Formidable creatures, to be sure, but they lack beauty. They thrive on the dark and cold.
Edith Cushing: What do they feed on?
Lucille Sharpe: Butterflies, I'm afraid.
Thomas Sharpe: [From trailer] A house as old as this one becomes, in time, a living thing. It starts holding onto things... keeping them alive when they shouldn't be. Some of them are good; some of them bad... Some should never be spoken about again.
Lucille Sharpe: She knows everything. She stopped drinking her tea, but I poisoned the porridge.
Thomas Sharpe: Lucille, stop it! Do we have to do this? Must we?
Lucille Sharpe: Yes.
Thomas Sharpe: [from trailer] Where I come from, ghosts are not to be taken lightly
Thomas Sharpe: The nearest house is miles away, and the closest town is a half day's walk.
Thomas Sharpe: There is nothing to hold us in America.
Edith Cushing: I see.
Thomas Sharpe: Your novel. I read the new chapters and having delivered it in the morning. Will you still like to know my thoughts?
Edith Cushing: If we must.
Thomas Sharpe: It's absurdly sentimental. The aches that you describe with such earnestness, the pain, the loss. You clearly have not lived it at all. In fact, you only seem to know what other writers tell.
Edith Cushing: That's enough!
Thomas Sharpe: You insist on describing the torments of love when you clearly know NOTHING about them. I'M NOT DONE YET! What do you dream on? A kind man?A pure soul to be redeemed? Affection? Affection has no place in love, Edith. I advise you to return to your ghosts and fancies, the sooner the better. You know precious little about the human heart or love or the pain that comes with. You are nothing but a SPOILED CHILD!

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