The Haunting of Bly Manor

Narrator:
We lay my love and I beneath the weeping willow. But now alone I lie, and weep beside the tree. Singin', "O willow waly, by the tree that weep with me." Singin', "O willow waly, 'til my lover return to me."

Family friend:
[toasting the married couple] I want to warn you all, you young people have absolutely no idea what you are letting yourselves in for. Oh... Here's a horrifying statistic. Did you know that almost half of marriages these days do not end up in divorce? That means there's a strong probability that you two get to watch each other die. And that's the preferred outcome. To truly love another person is to accept that the work of loving them is worth the pain of losing them.

Narrator:
The housekeeper was no stranger to muddy footprints. A few times a year, it seemed, she started her days with a mop. Always the same path. From the door to the forbidden wing, and back again.

Father Stack:
[to Miles] Death is something to mourn, not fear. And you've had to deal with death far, far more than a child your age should.

Narrator:
Miss Jessel found herself, as she walked the grounds of Bly for the first time, wishing that she might never leave. And it turned out, she never would.

Narrator:
The housekeeper knew, more than most, that deep experience was never peaceful. And because she knew this ever since she'd first called Bly home, she would always find her way back to peace within her daily routine, and it had always worked. Always.

Owen:
[joining Mrs. Grose at the bonfire] We can't count on the past. We can't count on the past. That's what I learned taking care of Mum. Hm. It's kind of what dementia is, isn't it? I supposed I learned a lot on this. I mean, we - we think we have it trapped in our memories, but memories fade, or they're wrong. Any of us could die, at any moment. Or we could forget our entire lives, which is like dying. So then, think about it. We can't count on our future, either. No past. No future.

Mrs. Grose:
Oh, my God, it's scary, I know, but, Owen, you're young. Like, you have a past, you have a future. Now, I'd argue you can count on both. Poor, sweet, drunk man.

Narrator:
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.

Narrator:
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 being 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.

Narrator:
With 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.

Older Flora:
You said it was a ghost story. It isn't.

Narrator:
No?

Older Flora:
It's a love story.

Narrator:
Same thing, really.