All language subtitles for GothRARBG

And there,
ladies and gentlemen,

on the other side of the lake,

we have the famous Villa Diodati,

where Lord Byron,
greatest living English poet,

resides in exile,

Romantic, scholar, duelist

and best-selling author
of "Childe Harold."

He was forced
to leave his native land

after many scandals,

including incest and adultery
with Lady Caroline Lamb.

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know,"
she called him.

Bedroom. Top right.

Oh, look, Polly.
What a pleasant surprise.

Unexpected visitors.

Come on!
Put some back into it!

Aye-aye, Captain!

He's so close, I can taste him.

Shelley! Shelley!

- Don't let him get away!
- Shelley!

- Shelley!
- Come here! Shelley!

Come on, Mary.
Don't be a stick in the mud. Ahh!

I always said he'd run off
with another woman.

Get off me,
for God's sake! Leave me alone!

Sanctuary!

Quick! Quick! My hand!

They're coming!

Hurry!

What are you trying to do,
wake the dead?

Wake the servants.

Much more difficult.

Mary, come on!

Mary!

- Come on, Mary. Let's--
- Ohh!

They must have followed us
all the way from Geneva.

What a spectacle!

What's he going to think
of us arriving like this?

Poor Rabbit. Poor Pexi.

Those girls are insane.

They love me.
How can they be insane?

She hates them, because they say,
"What does he see in her?"

What do you see in her?

I don't know. What do I see?

Bless my soul, Mr. Shelley.
Good to see you again.

- Terrible day.
- Nonsense.

Oh, Murray, hello.

Lord Byron read
of your arrival in Geneva.

Did he? Oh, damn.
I wanted it to be a surprise.

Oh, Miss, it will be.

Did you see
the lightning outside?

One could hardly avoid it, sir.

It was like
the end of the world.

Then let us live and love
so that people will say,

"The Devil as well as God
is an Englishman."

Voilà!

Ah. Voilà, indeed, Miss Clairmont.

That you should follow me
a thousand miles

says something about you.

Or something about me.

Shiloh.

We meet again.

I've dreamt of this
since Piccadilly Terrace,

- when we argued metaphysics.
- Yes.

And you read your poetry.

The more I read your poems,
Shiloh, the more beauty I find.

You're most welcome.

You are all welcome.

Ah. So civilized.

Well, I should hope I am,
if nothing else.

Oh, I'm sure you are,
if nothing else.

I should have introduced you.

I never dream of traveling anywhere
without my menagerie.

- What's wrong?
- Nothing.

Nothing.

♪ I wish my baby, it was born ♪

♪ Lying smiling
on its father's knee ♪

♪ And I was dead
and in my grave ♪

♪ And green grass
growing all over me ♪

I diagnose all the symptoms
of a broken heart.

I should demand a second opinion
if I was you, my dear.

Ah!

This is Dr. John Polidori,

a man with no biography
of his own,

commissioned to write mine.

A pleasure to meet the greatest
English poet of his generation.

Uh, I was to be
in Geneva tonight,

but the wild weather--

Even his cronies there
have grown bored.

I was going to say that I hope
you do not object, sir.

Object? Not at all, sir.

Ah, tolerance is a virtue,
my dear Shiloh.

Alas, I have no virtues.

I trust there are some
left in this house.

- Miss Godwin, I--
- Mrs. Shelley.

Well, by nature, if not by name.

♪ For to let the world know
that I died ♪

♪ For love ♪

A robust little opium.

Opiates.
Laudanum in liquid form.

My lord,
dinner awaits your pleasure.

She also awaits my pleasure.

Mm.

What's for first course?

Your lips!

- Second course?
- Your body!

- Dessert?
- Your soul!

Of course, I eat merely to live.

Imagination is my sustenance...

for such time as life offers
more pleasure than death.

Well, I say, at least we've
converted you to vegetarianism.

Yes. Meat gives
too bloody a complexion.

Vinegar, on the other hand,
gives an aesthetic paleness.

And I thought you drank it
in mockery of the crucifixion.

Oh, you damned atheist.

Thank God, and I will be damned.

He does everything to cultivate
a cadaverish image

short of sleeping in a coffin.

It has been known.

The grave has certain qualities.

Sometimes when I have looked
at a face that I loved,

I can see only the changes
that death would one day make.

The worm feasting
on lips now smiling.

The hues and features of health

changed to the livered tints
of putrefaction.

You'd do well to embrace death,
my dear.

Immortality is for poets.

Beware of the view bank.

They hire glasses
at DeJong's Hotel

to spy at the wicked English
across the lake.

Then I shall do my best
not to be wicked.

On the contrary. Let us
blind them with our wickedness

if that is what they want.

What do you expect?
Your reputation precedes you.

In Geneva, they lock up
their daughters after dark,

for fear of the Englishman
prowling the countryside.

Which is a measure
of the Genevese.

Remember I'm Swiss, you beast.

Ah, but of course.

Switzerland is a selfish, cursed,
swinish country of brutes.

It just happens to be placed

in the most romantic region
in the world.

Only the English
are more unbearable,

Which is why I am here,
the imprisoned poet.

- The exiled lord.
- The fugitive.

Fugitive? From what crime?

From fact and fantasy.

Tell the truth, Albe.

He's the Devil.

Show them your cloven hoof.

Never do that again,
you stupid bitch!

- You don't frighten me.
- Don't I?

- No.
- Don't I?

No.

- Don't I?
- No!

Don't I?

No.

If you want to scare us,

first you have to catch us!

- Come on! Hide-and-seek!
- Yes!

Party games?

Is fear a game?

You will play.

As long as you are
a guest in my house...

you will play my games.

Then I shall go to my room.

Shiloh?

For God's sake, come back in!
You'll kill yourself!

Lightning is the fundamental
force of the universe,

the ether, the spirit!

You're mad!

Science was a fascination
I shared with Mary's father.

At Eton, I'd study the work
of Cornelius Agrippa.

Smells and fumes filled my rooms,

and the hum of the galvanometer.

Sky is your galvanometer tonight.

I surrounded myself
with the instruments of life,

beckoning the spark of creation.

Ah, Shelley,
the modern Prometheus.

But perhaps
something alive can be created.

Galvanism has given token
of such things,

although I'm not really qualified
to comment on such scientific--

What is your field, Doctor?

I think of myself
as a general physician.

However, the processes
of the mind interest me

more than the body.

I have written a thesis,
"De Morbo Oneirodynia."

Yes, yes, yes, we know, Poli.

The causes and effects
of sleepwalking and nightmares.

Do you believe dreams
can explain and illustrate

the waking state of the mind?

Poli's dreams are
invariably the same--wet.

I've transcribed
my dreams since--

Opium dreams?

All dreams.

Nightmares?

It is an age
of dreams and nightmares.

Oh, yes, and we are merely
the children of the age.

But we have all
been weaned on blood.

"The Castle of Otranto,"
"Vathek," "The Monk."

- I see it in the page.
- And more fun than any Bible.

Yes.

I picked this up from a bookseller
in Geneva last week.

- "Phantasmagoriana."
- Ghost stories.

Yes, from the German.

- Let me.
- No! Wait.

Time enough.

Chill my blood.

Family portraits.

"On that fateful night,

"I remember moonlight
bathed the windswept shore

"which bordered
our ancestral estate.

"Our daughter was late,
very late,

"and I stood anxiously
awaiting any sign of her return.

"I could see nothing.

"I could hear
only the low moaning

"of the wind in the trees,

"a moaning that somehow drew
my tired and nervous mind

"to a shape hanging twisted
like a discarded plaything

from the hideous branches."

"Consumed with fears for
the safety of our youngest child,

"I flew to the window
and shut it tight

"and perceived
in a part of the grounds

"less dark than the rest
the same figure from the vile portrait

"in its gray mantle,
advancing towards the castle

"with slow and
soundless deliberation,

"shrouded by a veil of mist

that reeked of the charnel house."

"The intent
of the undead monster

"had become horribly clear.

"Escape was impossible.
We were trapped in his web

"without the strength
or knowledge

"to combat
his dark and awesome power.

"Urged by a perverse compulsion,
already gorged on my daughter,

"it now sought to take from us

"the innocent heir
to its accursed line.

"I felt suddenly icy cold.

"The vile stench of the tomb
gripped my senses

"as the ghastly apparition
entered the room.

"Paralyzed with fear,
I watched helplessly

as the specter
moved towards the bed."

You bloody, childish,
bloody imbecile!

Christ! Leeches!
Some sort of joke?

Some sort, yes.

He's been trying
to bleed me for everything

from syphilis to heartburn,
the bastard!

They only suck blood, my lord.

- Excusez-moi.
- Christ. Leeches.

Human worms, no more so.

Oh, calm down.
It was just a silly prank.

Laudanum, the elixir of life,
according to Paracelsus.

Yes, and who are we to argue?

"As the specter turned away
from the unconscious child,

"it started towards me.

"I was petrified with horror.

"I was completely at its mercy...

"neither able to move

nor shut my eyes."

- What is it?
- I'm all right.

But suddenly
I had an image of a woman

I'd been told I'd meet,

and the madness was that she had
eyes in her breasts.

I have some ether.

Bugger ether! I want laudanum.

How many drops
do you take a day?

A hundred? A thousand?
Five thousand?

I can handle it.
I don't need a quack's opinion.

Just this headache in my brain
like a scorpion.

Oh, it had a happy ending.
I hate happy endings.

He should have butchered
the little brat.

I'm sorry I interrupted.
Let me take up the next--

The ghost has gone.

Why don't we invent
our own ghost stories?

- A competition?
- Yes!

The five of us.

What about
a dark English nobleman

who draws women to him,

sucks their blood
and discards them empty?

Oh, yes,
or an obscene Italian doctor

raised by the Benedictines
who turns to sin and buggery?

What about a murder--

Or is murdered.

Yes. Our own ghost stories.

I've always wanted to write
the idea of a classical vampire...

in a modern setting.

What about you, Mr. Shelley?

I'm too restrained
by narrative prose.

Not so Miss Godwin.

Oh, I defer
to the more experienced writers.

Alas, my only talent
is a good singing voice.

Hardly your only talent,
my dear.

An oak tree struck
by lightning. That's odd.

It seemed...alive.

Lightning has a power
beyond our--

Our imaginations, yes.

But aren't our imaginations
even more powerful?

Lightning destroyed it,
but our imaginations...

brought it to life.

To create a ghost story
is nothing.

Quickening of the heart.
A brief half-image of terror.

In the end, nothing.

But to create a ghost...

Isn't your theory
that lightning

can endow a lifeless being
with life?

Perhaps that same lightning
in our minds

- can take lifeless thoughts--
- You are bored with poetry...

- No, sir, I'm bored with life.
- Obviously.

So am I. Let us see if we can't
bridge the Stygian gloom, eh,

- and if we can't--
- We can!

We can!

A gardener unearthed it

in the grounds
of Newstead Abbey.

Horrid.

Yes,
The skull of the Black Monk.

I saw the old boy's ghost once
the night before my wedding.

His appearance was said
to herald disaster.

Is it terribly hot in here?

Yes, as hell.

Come, come.
You need some fresh air.

I saw a spirit once,
a 10-year-old,

and two bullets
passed through its face,

and he vowed death
to my wife and sister.

Good, good.
Conjure up all your ghosts.

I-I don't understand.

Sometimes I--

Oh, it's easy
to understand them, Doctor.

They have it in mind
to raise the dead.

Can I get you anything?

Something for fear,
if there is such a thing.

Fear?

Fear of the dead.

- I'm sorry.
- No, no.

Please. Tell me.

My hus--

Shelley is too full of
his own tragedies to bear mine.

Oh, I daresay if he didn't
already have a wife in England,

you'd be married.

We were wonderfully happy once.

We would meet
at my mother's grave.

He would write love poems.

We would kiss,
pledge eternal love.

Last year in March,
we--we had a child.

It was born prematurely and died.

Oh. My prayers.

In my idle moments,

I'd dream that my little baby
came back to life again,

that it had only been cold,

that we rubbed it
before the fire,

and that it had lived.

My fear, Doctor, is...

I said I'd give anything

to bring that child
back to life again.

Let death be our witness.

Our minds will do the rest.

This is not a game.

She's overexcited,

- that's all. She--
- I'm not a child.

Gaze into the eyes.

Conjure up
your deepest, darkest fear.

Call that fear to form, to life.

M-Mo--

Mother.

This--This is...

your mother.

Stop. Stop.

S-Stop. Stop!

Hurt--Hurting--

Stop! Stop them!

Daddy! No!

They're hurting me!

I'm...

Open your mouth.
Open your mouth. Be still.

Be calm! Be still.

Shelley!

It'll be all right, Claire.

- Can I do anything?
- Poli, be gentle with her.

Take her upstairs.

It'll be all right.

Just hold her gently.

Sleep is nature's balm.

It's not the first time.

It happens at certain times...

of the month, strangely enough.

Sometimes at night
when we were in Church Street,

she'd shriek and scream
and go into dreadful convulsions.

Claire's horrors, we call them.

Doors slam when no one was near.

Pictures flew from the walls.

I remember one night

her bed shook under her
like an untamed stallion.

Poor, poor, excitable child.

Ah, Shiloh!

Laudanum?

You're behaving
as if it was a game.

Ah, but that's exactly
what it was.

And all the more fun for being
played with a straight face.

And was it fun for Claire?

My mother died in childbirth.

They brought in puppies
to suck the overflowing milk.

Claire couldn't know that.

I said Claire
couldn't know that.

- Do you hear me?
- Perhaps we should go.

Cross the lake in this weather?

You're madder than
I gave you credit for, Shiloh.

I wouldn't advise
moving Claire anywhere tonight.

- I'm not leaving her with him!
- What about William?

The boy will be all right
with the nanny for one night.

Stay or go.

It makes no difference to me,
I assure you.

I'm, uh...

I'm very sorry about the, uh--
about the leeches.

It was, uh...

stupid.

Is--

Is there...anything I can--

I can do to, uh--to--

Justine!

Justine!

Augusta.

Augusta.

Augusta.

Augusta.

Go to sleep.

She's so infatuated with him.

Who wouldn't be?

And when it burns out,

when he casts her aside
like he did with all the others,

she'll be shattered.

Oh, Mary.

He's already bored with her.
She can't see.

Of course she can't see.

Claire knows
exactly what she's doing.

It was her idea
following him here.

I know.

She seduced him.

Remember, Mary,
you can't blame it all on him.

Can't I?

He's a brilliant man.

Well, a brilliant man
can still be--

- Be what, evil?
- Yes, if you like.

That's what he likes--
mystery, unanswered questions.

Why did he exile himself
from England?

What is his secret? Why--

There is no secret.

Oh, for God's sake,
stop defending him.

At worst, he practices
something we believe in, too.

- Hmm?
- Free love.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Ah, my little friends.

Shelley.

Go away! You bastards!

Take yourselves
off to a brothel,

and don't come back!

What's the matter?

There was something
at the window looking at me.

- A dream.
- You don't believe me!

- There's nothing out there.
- What's that knocking?

- A door banging in the wind.
- No.

I'll go and look
if it'll make you feel better.

But go back to sleep.

Mary?

Mary.

Can you feel it?

Can you hear it?

It's his.

It's his.

What's wrong?
What did you see, Shiloh?

It's here.
Can't you smell it?

The smell of the grave.

- You need to sleep.
- Sleep?

Only the opium
makes it possible.

- Are you sick?
- Sick?

There is an affliction,
narcolepsy,

and its sufferers
face the possibility

that they might, at any moment,
fall into a trance,

a trance like death.

Enviable.

Is it, when you dream of one day
waking up in a coffin

and find yourself
mistakenly buried alive,

enviable?

The storm is calm

compared to what's inside
your poor head, Shiloh.

What is in my head?

One minute, terror,
and the next, love.

Terror has
an irresistible beauty, Shiloh.

Would the smooth neck
of a woman be so desirable

were it not for our secret wish
to see upon it

a trickle of blood?

Hmm?

Forget your women, Shiloh.

Do not waste
your brilliant words upon them.

Poets are for each other.

I was just, um--

Mary!

If you have something to say,
say it.

- Claire.
- Claire who? Do I know a Claire?

Do you love her?

- Were you ever in love with her?
- I have no love for any.

I can hardly be the stoic
with a woman who has scrambled

a thousand miles
to unphilosophize me.

- So you plan to discard her?
- I never plan anything.

- You know she'll be destroyed.
- We shall all be destroyed.

- What do you mean?
- It is the Byron curse.

Sorry, but you're vain to think
that your tragedy means ours.

We shall see.

Do you always torture
those that love you?

- It is a role imposed upon me.
- Yes, the thumper,

a role you seem
ideally suited to.

Ah, and I thought that you,
like your man,

were a great advocate
of free love.

Free love, yes,
but not free pain,

- free madness, free horror, free--
- Finished?

No, I haven't finished.
Do you know why?

Because she's
carrying your child.

Well?

I'm sure even Polidori
can perform a simple abortion.

My God!

Why this sudden concern
for your stepsister?

What do you mean?

Always the three of you,
the same bedroom,

the same bed sometimes.

Claire told me about
your nights in Trois Maison.

- You shared him.
- Rubbish--

You don't care about Claire
or her horrors.

You're afraid. You're jealous.

You're afraid that she'll
steal him from you.

Laudanum is his only mistress.
He doesn't need another.

Admit it.
You know the two of them have--

Ah, violence.

And I thought you
that contradiction in terms,

an intelligent woman.

I've nothing
to fear from Claire.

No. Except the child,

a child that might live.

In one way,
I pray for her baby to be his.

You live for just one person
in this world, yourself.

Oh, my Jesus!

- I'm sorry, Mary.
- What do you think you're doing?

Staying awake. I thought a bath
would help me stay awake.

- One of us ought to be with her.
- Shh.

Shh.

There's no hurry, is there?

I'm afraid, Mary.

It's like the night
at Trois Maison all over again.

The three of us.

Remember? I heard the screams
of a smothered child.

And Claire
kept shouting of the rats

putting their cold paws
on her face.

I can't. I can't.

I can't.

- It's just rainwater.
- Rainwater...

that catches the moonlight
like the trail of a slug?

And that odor.

It's the gutters,
rotting leaves, damp.

Not damp.

Decay.

- It must be trapped.
- Try and rescue it.

I can't stand that noise.

There's nothing I can do.
It's too dark.

You can't let it die.

Mary, that face in the window,
I've seen it, too,

something outside
in the dark waiting.

- Claire!
- Yes, go to Claire.

It's always Claire.

She's your half sister,
not mine.

- What is she to you, then?
- A friend,

a friend that I care for.
Is that a crime?

You're always so close.

I haven't had any choice.

She hasn't left our side
since the day we met,

not even our midnight meetings.

When we eloped to the continent,
you invited her.

Because she spoke French.

Oh, God, you must think
I'm such a bloody fool.

You are a fool.
This stupid jealousy.

Oh, Mary,
there's something out there,

if it isn't already here
in the house already.

- What? What thing?
- I don't know.

Something dangerous.

More dangerous
than your precious lord?

Don't leave me.

Listen.

Bird.

It's all right.
It's escaped.

- Where are you going?
- To Claire!

I'm sorry.

Look, I'm sorry.

Do you remember
once we vowed eternal love?

Just say you still love me,
that's all.

Just say you still love me.

I love you. I love you.

I love you.

Something is in here.

Wait.

Shelley.

I felt its icy breath.

I felt its fangs
sinking into my throat.

No!

Vampire, indeed.

Probably some mad tourist
with a scissors,

- eager for a lock of my--my hair.
- It's alive!

Though how anybody
even in the dark

could mistake this fop...

for me!

You wouldn't joke
if you saw this thing.

We have.
Yours was the same creature

- that I saw at my window.
- Imagined. Imagined.

The same thing I imagined
I saw in the barn?

Yes. Yes. Imagined.

- That wound was self-inflicted!
- Listen. It was the séance.

Pretty Poli's full
of our talking and Prussic acid!

We dreamt of darkness
and of fear.

We dreamt of creation
and the defiance of God.

Please, yes!

Are you content now that God's
emissary is sent to punish us?

Whom God would destroy,
He first makes mad!

We are the gods now.

We have dared to call
ourselves creators.

And our punishment
is that we have created.

But created what?

Hah!

Vampires, ghosts, demons.

No more, please.
That stuff will drive you mad.

We must remember what was
in our minds at the séance.

It's alive.
Don't you understand?

We've given life
to a creature, a creation,

a jigsaw of all our worst fears
in flesh and blood.

I saw breasts with eyes.

I remember the scents of spirits,
vengeful demons chasing me.

I was almost unconscious

when the smell
of the damn bird hit me.

There was an oppressive weight
on my chest, stifling me.

In your mind,
you were being buried alive.

And what did you see?

She wants
to resurrect her dead baby.

And what did you see, Doctor?

I don't know.
It was dark.

Come on, quickly.
Tell us.

- You're right. I couldn't see.
- You have to tell us.

- Tell us.
- What do you see, my lord?

Leeches sucking your blood?

The Benedictines
riddled you with guilt.

You can't even admit
to your own urges,

- urges for sex, sex with men.
- I'm not the only one!

You fear yourself, your prick,
your cock, your penis.

No, you idiot.
I'm afraid of God.

That's what I'm afraid of,
that He would kill us,

that He would--
that He would destroy us.

I'm afraid of God!

Is there's no escape
from this madhouse?

Claire?

- He's taken Claire!
- Calm yourself.

Calm yourself.
Now look downstairs. Run.

Claire.

Look into my eyes.

I said...

look into my eyes.

I found her.

- Is she hurt?
- Not hurt.

- What then?
- Metamorphosed.

- What?
- It's taken her.

She's locked in sleep,
trapped like a dream in human form.

Shelley!

Somebody, for God's sake,
he's trying to poison himself!

I mean to do it!
Don't come near me!

It's no good. You can't
run away from your own fears.

Let me out!

She's all right.

Part--

Part leech,

part penis,

part grave,

part st--

Mary, you mustn't be afraid.

Fear makes it
more powerful, horrible.

- How can we stop it?
- We must send it back.

Send it back where?
To Heaven or to Hell?

To the grave or to the stars?

We must send it back...
to our minds.

- No.
- Yes.

Yes, we can only destroy
this monster

as we have created it.

- Another séance.
- No.

- Yes. Yes.
- No. No.

No. No. No.

- No. No. Not again. I can't.
- Yes.

We must be exactly
as we were before.

- Claire?
- We must begin now.

- No. No!
- Yes!

Claire!

♪ And I was dead
and in my grave ♪

Shiloh, it's all right.

It's all right, Shiloh.

You did all this.

You--

You brought her here
with a ghost.

Shut up.

No, you damned hypocrite.

Two mistresses to bed,
and still not satisfied.

What?

So you have to go and steal
other people's.

- He hasn't stolen anything.
- I don't want to listen to this.

I just want to kill him.

You bloody fool.

You can't even kill yourself.

Bastard.

Don't laugh at me.

Don't laugh at me.

Don't laugh at me, you bastard!

Bastard! Bastard!
Bastard! Bastard!

Bastard!

I'll give you a duel.

Any time you like.
I'll pay to give you a duel.

You bastard!

Madman!

You flatter him.

Don't include me in any
of your raising of the dead,

or deadening of the living!
I'd be mad!

I would be mad if I were to stay!

You will stay or be damned.

Then be damned!

Mary.

I can't go through that again.
I can't.

For God's sake, Mary,
we can do it.

What we created with our minds,
we can destroy.

Yes, like God, we have created,

and perhaps God, like us,
wants to destroy his creatures

before they destroy
their creator.

But God is already dead!

But haven't we raised the dead?

Claire?

Stop her. We need her.

Burn the head.

Don't look at her.

It's madness.
She's terrified of rats.

She's trying to tell us.

Get rid of our fears. Yes.

It's here.
It's too late. There's no time.

Yes. There is time.

We must rid ourselves
of harmful thoughts. Purge--

Claire understands.

She knows.

We must be free.

- It's coming for us.
- Empty your minds.

Quickly. Drop all the hate,
the horror.

We can wipe it away,
like waking from a dream.

No. Thoughts are immortal.
Thoughts can't die.

It can die if we join together
and we form one mind.

Shiloh, give me your hand.

God defier Shelley! Mad Shelley!

Mad creator of life!

- I'll do it!
- It's your creature!

- It's a monster!
- It didn't ask to be born!

Nor did any of us.

It's pleading with us
to destroy it.

Don't you see?
It's talking to us through Claire.

- We must!
- And what if it goes wrong?

What--What if we can't
get rid of the horror?

What if we create more monsters?

Love destroys fear.
Tell her!

Oh! What love between
a mad God and the Devil!

Yes.

Yes, I am the Devil.

Yes, Mary, Mother of Christ.

I am the Devil
that has possessed your lover.

Possession that destroys,

like your wife was destroyed
by your sodomy,

like every lover
you've ever raped--

women, men, boys,
and even Augusta.

For Christ's sake, Mary.

Go on. Tell us, my lord,

how does it feel to fuck
with your own sister?

As pathetic as with any female,
Miss Godwin.

Now let us finish
what we've begun.

No, Mary! No!

Mama.

Mama.

Mama.

- William?
- Mama.

- Mama.
- Baby?

Mama.

Augusta.

Augusta.

No, Mary! No!

No! No! No!

Don't stop me!

I can change it. I saw myself
there in the future.

- No, Mary.
- But if I die now,

- it will all be different.
- Mary, no.

It won't happen.
I was awake. I was awake.

The storm is over.

Is it?

We're dead.

It showed me the torture
it has in store for us.

Our creature...

it will be there
waiting in the shadows...

in the shape of our fears...

until it has seen us to our deaths.

Take that!

- Come on.
- Play racquets.

Shiloh, don't do that.
Here. Let's start again.

That! Here!

So what happened to--
Take that.

And that. Now prance.

To think that in England,
I was woken by larks.

Here it is the song
of the lesser spotted nubile.

Ah, good morning.

Have some lemon tea,
'cause it'll clear your head.

Now, this is doctor's orders,

so it must be taken at least
five times daily. There we are.

Watch the--
Just watch the...

There are no ghosts in daylight.

You'll get used to our nights
at Diodati.

A little indulgence

to heighten our existence
on this miserable Earth.

Nights of the mind,
the imagination. Nothing more.

What about your ghost story, Mary?

Because I rather fancy
a skull-faced woman

deformed because she peeped
through a keyhole

like Tom of Coventry.

My story--

My story is a story of creation,

of a creature who's wracked
with pain and sorrow

and hunger for revenge,

who haunts his mad creator
and his family and his friends...

- to the grave.
- Shiloh!

All right, Mary,
your turn!

Have you
come to play with me?

Three years
after that fateful night,

Mary's son William was dead.

Two more of the Shelley children
later died at birth.

Shelley himself drowned
off the Gulf of Spezia in 1822.

That same year, Allegra,
Claire's daughter by Byron,

also died.

Byron survived her
by two years,

dying of fever
in the Greek War.

His biographer, Dr. Polidori,
committed suicide in London.

Eight years
after the night at Diodati,

only Claire and Mary
remained alive.

But something created that night
1 70 years ago lives on,

still haunting us to this day.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.