Wuthering Heights

An innocent and well-meaning man visits his landlord at the secluded house on the heath called Wuthering Heights. Little does he know what’s in store for him when he arrives in expectation of hospitality. His less than civil landlord and his two inmates seem from another world entirely, as they show neither manners nor affability. A snow storm forces him to stay at the house and it is overnight in the small guest room that he encounters something he would much rather forget…

It is not until he relays his experience to his housekeeper that heir curious history begins to be revealed. He learns the story of Cathy, a capricious girl whose choice to make between her well-meaning husband and another man she has known  for much longer could lead to terrible repercussions, not only for her but for generations to come.

Find out what becomes of her in this classic tale of passion, desire and revenge. This is a story of betrayal that shows how your actions in the past can come to haunt you in the present, and the way you are treated can affect the way you in turn treat those around you. An uncoventional and dark love story, Wuthering Heights is a tale of the crippling side to desire.

'Unsurpassable...I love it' Barbara Trapido

'Passion and romance written like they ought to be' Guardian

I listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again; if possible, still more disagreeably than before.

This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, an dI heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir-bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but, it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple, a circumstance observed by me, when awake, but forgotten.

'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch: instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!

The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but, the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,

'Let me in - let me in!'

'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself.

'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton). 'I'm come home, I'd lost my way on the moor!'

As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window - Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let m ein!' and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear.

'How can I?' I said at length. 'Let me go, if you want me to let you in!'

The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer.

I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour, yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!

'Begone!' I shouted, 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years!'

'It's twenty years,' mourned the voice, 'twenty years I've been a waif for twenty years!'

Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moveda s if thrust forward.

I  tried to jump up; but, could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright.

To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal. Hasty footsteps approached my chamber door: somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehad, the intruder appeared to hesitate and muttered to himself.

At last, he said in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,

'Is any one here?'

I considered it best to confess my presence, for I knew Heathcliff's accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet.

With this intention, I turned and opened the panels - I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced.