The Haunting of Bly Manor (2020) s01e08 Episode Script

1
- Run!
- What about Miles?
It's okay, okay?
We gotta get out of here.
- Where are we going?
- I don't know, anywhere. Anywhere.
- Flora!
- No! I don't like this game!
- I'm not leaving!
- Shh! Flora!
And you can't make me!
- Shh! Come on! We gotta go!
- Miles, where are you?
Toward the middle of the 17th century…
…there lived in the province of Hampshire,
a widowed gentleman.
His name is of little account.
I shall take the liberty
of calling him Mr. Willoughby.
A name, like his own,
of a highly respectable sound.
He'd been left a widower
after some six years of marriage,
and had devoted himself
to the care of his progeny.
Two daughters born
at an interval of five years apart.
The elder, Viola,
the younger, Perdita,
in memory of a little girl
born between them
who had lived but a few weeks.
Their father in the ground,
they faced a dire necessity for marriage.
For both maidens, neither a male,
stood to lose control
over Mr. Willoughby's economic affairs.
And of the manor in Bly,
their lifelong home.
Women in that time had nothing.
No present, no future,
without a tie to a man.
So, they were as little girls once more.
But now with nothing
in the world but each other.
The two sisters were,
at this time, in all the freshness
of their youthful bloom.
Perdita in her sweetness,
Viola in her wit.
And Viola, of course,
in the finest of dresses.
Always.
Among the young men,
their friends and neighbors,
there were many excellent fellows.
Several devoted swains,
and some two or three
who enjoyed the reputation
of universal charmers,
or conquerors.
But Viola knew them for what they were.
Gluttons, opportunists, vultures.
Vultures poised
to pick the carcass of their father.
To pillage his wealth via his daughters.
No, Bly must stay in the family,
and the sisters must stay in control.
Less everything be lost
to the same grave.
Thus led to Viola's invitation
to a distant cousin.
One Mr. Arthur Lloyd.
He was, in reality, no paragon.
He was an honest, resolute,
intelligent young man.
Rich in pounds sterling,
in his health and comfortable hopes.
And his little capital
of uninvested affections.
Viola had made certain
to be absent when he arrived.
This left Perdita
to entertain the traveled cousin,
while Viola bode her time,
and, in doing so,
learned he was a gentleman.
He had a handsome face.
He had studied and traveled.
He spoke French, he played the flute,
and he read verses aloud,
with very great taste.
And just as Perdita
began to feel the stirrings
of a true interest in the young man…
Viola explained she was late
because of a dispute
over uncollected rents.
Some, seeing opportunity
in her father's passing,
hadn't assumed
she knew how to keep the books.
The story was true,
but it was also theater.
In fact, every detail
of Viola's entrance was a pageant.
The sweat from her ride,
the wildness of her hair.
The business, the books.
The riding boots in the foyer.
Even the portrait hanging beyond,
commissioned by Viola
as a part of her true message to Arthur.
He may marry her, or marry her sister,
but there should be no mistaking
the true authority of Bly Manor,
nor the way things would be done.
The wedding was a small affair,
fitting the business arrangement
that it was.
A fine outcome for Viola,
who had meant
to maintain her ladyship over Bly,
and a fine outcome for Perdita,
who had always enjoyed
the comfort of her birth station.
…to have and to hold
from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
till death us depart.
According to God's holy ordinance,
and thereto I plight thee, my troth.
I, Viola, take thee, Arthur,
to be my lawfully wedded husband,
to have and to hold from this day forward,
for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health,
to love, cherish…
Till death us depart.
Um… And obey.
To love, cherish, and obey.
The vicar believed this
an innocent omission.
It was not.
A surprise not to Perdita,
who knew her sister better than any.
And a surprise not to God,
thought Perdita,
as her sister's strategic union
was blessed.
He'd made her that way, after all.
The transaction done,
the business concluded,
the manor saved,
young Viola turned her eyes inward.
She would sleep.
She would wake.
Perhaps it was the room, she'd think.
It was her mother's room.
Her parents' bed, and now hers.
Seized by a restlessness
new to her heart,
she would walk.
She would sleep.
She would wake.
She would walk.
Perhaps it wasn't the room, after all.
No, perhaps it was something else.
Viola found that under its purpose,
her marriage may have
some amount of love to it, after all.
I have no honeyed words to speak.
It is fierce out there.
But you are fiercer.
Bly belongs to you.
And they will try to take it from you,
as they did me.
But I will not let them.
Instead, we shall move mountains, my girl.
It is you.
It is me.
It is us.
Those were the rosy times,
after Isabel was born.
But nothing holds,
and all things change, given time.
Change does not often announce itself.
It does not trumpet its arrival.
No, change is emergent.
By the time one realizes it has arrived,
it has already set its teeth.
As for Viola…
…her suspicion began as small,
as inconsequential
as the tickle in her lungs.
Viola had an inordinate love of dress,
and the very best taste in the world.
A taste her husband would indulge.
Innumerable yards
of lustrous silk and satin,
of muslin, velvet and lace
from all over the world,
and all manner of expense.
Some as rare and rich
as if they were spun of threads of jewels,
all passed through her cunning hands,
without a word of boast
coming from her lips.
No, from her lips, only the sickness…
…impossible, finally, to ignore.
It is not the plague.
Oh, thank God.
But it is not good news.
She has the lung.
- What does that
- How long?
- What-What does that mean?
- How long, doctor?
Months. Months at the most.
And I would keep her separate
from the rest of you.
O-Our daughter.
She cannot sleep without her mother.
Separate.
You will treat her.
Cure her.
- I do not know that I can.
- You will.
You will. God help you, but you will.
No.
No, I want to be in our bed.
We can't, love.
I want to be in our bed.
Arthur.
- Please.
- Isabel.
Think of Isabel.
And all things exhausted,
the vicar came again to Bly,
but to perform a rite far more melancholy
than the rosy song of matrimony
he sung before.
"I go, and prepare a place for you."
"And I will come again,
and I will take you to myself,
so that where I am,
there you may also be."
Sister…
You must repeat the rite.
Say the words after me.
"I go, and prepare a place for you."
"And I will come again,
and will take you to myself,
so that where I am,
there you may also be."
Oh, sister. Let us try again.
"I go, and prepare a place for you."
No.
What did you say?
No.
I do not go.
Just tell your god…
That I do not go.
Viola, you must repeat the rites.
It is not about your body
any longer, my love.
It is your soul we must treat.
- It is your soul I worry for.
- No.
Perdita, no.
You tell them, sister.
You tell this priest
and the god he fawns upon.
You tell them "no."
God wants her soul to be pure,
as he welcomes her home.
God should know better.
She is as he made her.
If she says she will not go,
she will not.
Time paid her no mind.
Days to weeks, to months, to years.
Round and round the sun,
the indifferent planets spun.
And, then…
Isabel.
…five times around the sun,
and all is different.
Isabel.
A few more minutes, please.
You cannot even read that book.
I can read enough.
Bed.
As I said before, thrice.
No.
A quick dance.
No.
Just one, then.
- But it is time for her to bed.
- Just one.
Good sir.
Ah, you see.
Oh, you're getting quite good at this.
Yes, I think you are almost ready.
We need music.
Oh, we do not.
In fact, to learn to dance,
we need only numbers.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Step, two, three.
Turn, two, three.
Auntie, we need music, do we not?
We need sleep.
Oh, you are just an awful bore.
Oh, am I?
Do you even know how to dance?
I know how to dance,
indeed, young miss.
I never see you dance.
She has you there, Perdi.
I know very well.
- Oh, oh, no, no, no, no…
- Just one.
Let's show the young thing
how it's done proper.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Step, two, three.
Turn, two, three.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Viola had surpassed the predictions
of the physicians and priests alike.
Held alive, some would whisper,
by stubbornness alone.
Mummy, you're awake!
Isabel, you know you must not get
too close to Mummy, darling.
Vi, what are you doing out of bed?
You'll catch a chill.
I didn't want to miss the ball.
Come, let us get you back to your room.
I'll prepare some herbs for your tea.
I don't want tea.
I want to talk to my daughter.
Take me to bed.
Of course.
- I apologize.
- No need.
- I can dance with him, you know.
- I know.
I can dance with my own husband.
I don't need you to take that on.
That or anything else.
I would never.
Sleep well, sister.
Some in the village
said death had come for Viola.
Nightly, in fact.
Those first few years,
a dark carriage led by a red-eyed horse,
denied at the door of Bly Manor.
That dark carriage
and its driver denied so often, in fact,
that it would not venture
to Bly Manor again.
- I want to sleep with her.
- You cannot, Viola.
But I feel better today.
You say that every day,
and you look worse and worse and worse.
The Lady of Bly Manor.
I have no ambition.
- Lie.
- Viola, I don't.
Liar.
If he looks at me now and then,
it is because he is lonely.
And he is human.
It is because for the last five years,
the only husbandly duty he's fulfilled
is that of mourning.
- I will not allow it.
- You won't.
I know, I've noticed.
You should think of her, Vi.
Think of Isabel.
What will she be left with?
What memories of you will she carry?
Will it be this? This version of you?
Because, Viola, with love,
let it be anything else.
Just before the sixth year
of Viola's living death,
she summoned to her room
all of the jewels and clothes
she had accumulated
in her days before the sickness.
I will not be buried in my rings.
Or my dresses.
My rings and my lace and my silk.
I can say without vanity now
that I am done with them.
They will be a great inheritance
for our daughter.
And so, you will keep them.
You will watch them, for her.
Till she grows into them.
They're shrouded…
Covered in rose petals.
Keeping their colors
in the sweet-scented darkness.
Do you promise me, Arthur?
Promise you what?
Promise me
that you will keep them for her?
That you will keep the key,
and you will never give it to anyone,
except our child.
Promise me.
I promise you.
The money failing as time went on,
Arthur was required
more and more to business.
Further and further across the oceans,
to places exotic and rich.
And with Arthur gone,
all pretense was put aside.
Perhaps it was the hour.
Perhaps the fact that everything
in this world has that point
beyond which it can bear no more weight.
But that night,
as Perdita beheld her sister,
a thought occurred to her.
The word had come to her
a full year prior,
and like the tickle in Viola's lung,
it had grown in the secret places.
The word had eclipsed
her thoughts at night, and waking as well.
The word began in her chest,
as the sickness did for Viola.
It had spread, insistent.
A whisper in her ear, in her mind entire.
And, now, the word crept
down her shoulder and her elbow,
until the word came to live in her hand.
The word was…
"Mercy."
And the word was a lie.
Because it wasn't mercy
on her mind, or her heart,
as she moved her hand.
It was every slap, every insult,
and every day that had passed.
Every moment after the last rites.
It was a different word
that had infected her all this time.
The word was not "mercy,"
she realized in the end.
No…
The word had always been…
"Enough."
Arthur bore his bereavement
soberly and manfully.
I GUARD
Concerning the widower,
now the Lord of Bly Manor in all respects,
it very soon came to be predicted
that he would marry again.
And there were at least
a dozen young women of whom,
one may say,
that it was by no fault of theirs that,
for six months after his return,
the prediction did not come true.
For in Perdita's eyes,
he felt an echo of Viola's.
And the echo, growing louder,
did deafen him to the songs of others.
They were married, as was becoming,
with great privacy.
Almost with secrecy.
In the hopes,
as was waggishly remarked at the time,
that perhaps the late Viola
may not hear of it.
And on their wedding night,
as Perdita took residence in the bed
which had been her sister's,
each party obtained what each had desired.
For Arthur, a beautiful woman,
somewhat known to him already
by virtue of her lineage.
But Perdita's desires,
as you will have observed,
remained a good deal of a mystery.
During the first three years
of their marriage,
the new Mrs. Lloyd failed
to become a mother in her own right.
And her adopted daughter refused,
at every turn, to see her as a mother.
Arthur, on his side,
suffered heavy losses of money.
This latter circumstance
compelled a material retrenchment
in his expenditure,
and Perdita was,
perforce, less of a great lady
than her sister had been.
She had long since ascertained
that her sister's immense wardrobe
had been sequestered
for the benefit of her daughter,
and that it lay languishing
in thankless gloom in the dusty attic.
It was a revolting thought
that these exquisite fabrics
should await
the commands of a little girl,
and thus,
on the sixth anniversary of Viola's death…
…Perdita had reached her limit.
The house is in disrepair.
Our financials, a disaster.
We have the solution, above our heads.
We cannot even afford
a housekeeper anymore,
and above us, locked away,
are silks, jewels and linens.
- Perdita
- If not enough to save us,
enough to right the ship.
- No.
- She would want us to.
If she could have foreseen
how dire things would become,
how dire you have made things.
- Me?
- Yes.
Or were you not responsible
for our financials, dear husband?
Did you not run our estate
into the damned ground?
More than all,
my sister wanted Bly to flourish.
She would have done anything,
everything in her power to save the manor,
and you know that.
It is for Isabel.
The manor is for Isabel.
And we would let it fall to ruin
before she comes of age?
Once and for all, Perdita…
It is out of the question.
And I shall be gravely displeased
if you return to the matter.
Very good.
Glad to learn
the value at which I'm held.
To feel oneself sacrificed to a caprice.
It is not a caprice, my dear.
It is a promise.
An oath.
An oath.
To Viola.
Of course.
We mustn't dispose of an oath to Viola.
But what right had Viola
to dispose of our future?
What right had she
to bind you to meanness and cruelty?
No more of this.
Perdita?
We return, dear listener,
to another night.
The night in which Viola would sleep.
She would sleep.
She would wake.
She would walk.
She would sleep.
She would wake.
She would walk.
And time went by.
How much time,
it was impossible to reason.
Sleeping.
Waking.
Walking.
Sleeping.
Waking.
Walking.
And in time, as we all do…
…she admitted all.
She admitted she was dead.
She admitted her husband had moved on.
She admitted her daughter
was growing without her.
And she admitted her room was a dream,
a construct, a lie preferred…
To the truth of the trunk.
But there waited for her,
at the end of this purgatory,
a reward in the knowledge that one day,
the door would open.
One day, the locks would see their keys,
and, one day,
Isabel would open her mother's trunk…
And claim her reward.
Both of their rewards.
And day after day, night after night,
an ocean of time,
the moment finally came.
When she beheld her husband,
she saw not the changes
wrought of time, only his sadness.
Only that.
And so, overwhelmed, she…
Slept and waited.
They buried Lady Perdita,
and set about forging a new life.
The business was empty,
the manor was lost.
If not in law, in spirit.
They would move away from here,
sell the manor
and find a quieter life, a smaller one,
made only for the two of them.
The two of them, and also…
Viola.
At last, at least,
she'd be with them both.
Her husband, her daughter.
No matter if they couldn't see her,
couldn't touch her, couldn't hear her.
No matter.
She'd be with them,
and that was all that mattered.
They were leaving Bly,
leaving most
of what remained of their belongings.
Her reward
for all these years of isolation.
For all the ache in her tired heart.
But Arthur had grown a superstitious man
and had seen the horror
on Perdita's lifeless face.
His superstition defied reason,
but he felt confident all the same.
Whatever curse
had claimed his second wife,
he would not risk
his daughter to its icy fingers.
His daughter, nor anyone else.
This final insult
of being cast to the swampy depths,
while her daughter
would grow to womanhood.
This absolute abandonment.
It shattered Viola's heart.
The feeling of being pulled
towards some other place,
some realm beyond,
had faded in the years since her death,
but now she rejected it outright.
With every ounce of her considerable will,
as when she was sick,
and against all probability,
Viola would not go.
The eldest of Willoughby's daughters,
once Lady Lloyd of Bly,
remained, some would whisper,
by stubbornness alone.
The pull of that next world ignored,
she instead made her own gravity,
gravity of will,
that would change
the terrain of Bly Manor forever.
And once again, she would sleep.
She would wake.
And she would walk.
As if woken from a nightmare,
she would walk back to her home,
feeling each time that it was a dream.
Feeling that if she walked to her bedroom,
to the room
she once shared with her husband,
her infant daughter,
that perhaps the nightmare would abate,
that she could simply slip
into the warmth of blankets
and nestle herself
to the bosom of her family,
waiting for her all this time.
And she'd stare at that empty bed…
And Viola would remember.
And the remembering itself
was injury anew.
Her heart would shatter anew,
burning in her bosom,
a searing ache that she hoped
would be quenched by the…
Cold, muddy waters of her new manor.
Her new home.
Thus, she would sleep,
and she would forget.
Having forgotten, she would wake.
She would walk.
How many nights, how many walks…
She no longer could count.
Her attention lay only ahead,
only on the bed that was her goal,
and on the daughter she believed,
each time she woke,
would be waiting for her there.
She did not even realize
that a decade had passed,
not even realize, after an outbreak
of plague in the village,
that the empty manor
had become a quarantine
for the coughing death
that ravaged her former community.
Where is she?
What are you doing in here?
It isn't safe.
You mustn't be in this wing
without protection
Where?
And as the plague doctor died,
so he was immediately forgotten,
and a strange phenomenon occurred.
Her gravity, it seemed,
her invented gravity
that held her to the grounds,
that kept her in purgatory,
it would hold others, too.
She would sleep,
and as happens when one dreams,
she would forget.
And having forgotten, she would wake.
She would walk.
Viola faintly noticed
her own attempted exorcism.
And alas, the poor vicar,
the second person
to find himself in Viola's path.
She would sleep,
forget, and forget, and forget.
And with the forgetting,
an ailment altogether monstrous.
All things fade.
All things.
Flesh, stone, even stars themselves.
Time takes all things.
It is the way of the world.
The past recedes, memories fade,
and so, true, does the spirit.
Everything yields to time,
even the soul.
Wake, walk, forget even more.
Her name, forgotten.
Her sister's name, forgotten.
As her memories left her,
so, too, her face.
So little did she remember…
That one night, she found a child
in her daughter's old bed,
and could not remember
who she had been hoping to see.
She had only the faint notion
that she'd walked this far
hoping to find a child,
and here was a child.
It must be the child whom she'd sought.
It must.
She would sleep, and she would fade.
And fade, and fade.
And the others, too.
Those souls held in her orbit,
those unfortunates
trapped in the gravity well
she had made of Bly Manor.
They were fading as well.
The eldest of Willoughby's daughters,
once Lady Lloyd of Bly,
now just a thought, just a feeling,
not a woman at all, not a person at all,
not a name or a face.
Just need.
Need…
And loneliness.
And rage.
Her fate was a nightmare.
A fate that befell all trapped at Bly.
A fate that befell Viola's once sister,
now forgotten in the attic.
Unaware that she'd ever had
a sister at all.
To murder, or be murdered by.
A fate that befell anyone
unfortunate enough
to step into her habitual path.
Stop.
Stop!
A fate that befell a poor valet,
so many years later.
A fate that befell even those
who died of other causes at Bly,
who found themselves
in the grips of Viola's gravity,
even if never
in the grip of her icy hands.
No hope for anyone
with the sad misfortune
to die on the grounds of Bly.
No hope for the victims of Bly,
be they victims of fate,
of vice,
or disease, or of each other.
And no hope, it would seem,
for the young au pair…
…who, having run afoul
of so many of the dead,
those unfortunate tenants
of the gravity well,
and who had finally stepped
into the path of her own fate.