Crimson Peak

Edith Cushing:
Ghosts are real, that much I know. I've seen them all my life...

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.

Edith Cushing:
You are monsters! Both of you!

Lucille Sharpe:
That's exactly what our mother told us in her last moment.

Thomas Sharpe:
[from trailer] Where I come from, ghosts are not to be taken lightly

Lucille Sharpe:
You will stay here, with us... won't you? Wait for the storm to pass.

Dr. Alan McMichael:
If you incest.

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:
You're so... different.

Edith Cushing:
From who?

Thomas Sharpe:
...everyone.

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:
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!

Edith Cushing:
Ghosts are real, this much I know. There are things that tied them to a place, very much like they do to us. Some remained tied to a bunch of land, a time and date, a spilling of blood, a terrible crime... There are others, others that hold on to an emotion, a grief, a lost, revenge, or love. Those, they never go away.

Lucille Sharpe:
But the horror... The horror was for love. The things we do for love like this are ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret. This love burns you and maims you and twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love and it makes monsters of us all.

Thomas Sharpe:
I cannot leave you here. In fact, I find myself thinking about you even at the most inopportune moments of the day. I feel as if a link exists between your heart and mine, and should that link be broken, either by distance or by time, then my heart would cease to beat and I would die.