In an isolated mansion in Eastern Canada, a 15-year-old girl named Marguerite lives with her mother, Katherine, and her maternal grandmother, Julia. The house and its quiet corridors feel distant from the outside world, and Marguerite’s days are colored by a growing sense of paranoia. She talks to her dolls, especially one named Aaron, and keeps painting unsettling images in seclusion. She also takes daily shots she believes are insulin, though the labels have been removed, which adds to the air of mystery surrounding her condition.
Marguerite’s longing to connect with her father, Michael, a writer who has been estranged for a decade, becomes the central impulse of the story. Michael has begun a new relationship with a woman named Anne, yet he arrives with the claim that he wants a divorce from Katherine and intends to mend his bond with his daughter. Katherine and Julia resist this, wary of Marguerite’s fragility, but Michael presses forward, hoping to rebuild a family connection that time has frayed.
As time passes, Marguerite’s attachment to her father deepens in ways that feel almost protective and possessive. She begins to spy on the household through crevices, and the boundary between affection and obsession grows murkier. The unsettling atmosphere intensifies when the household is shaken by violent acts attributed to Aaron—the figure Marguerite has been conversing with in her mind. Katherine is murdered in her bed with the aid of a wooden pole, and Julia is also killed, leaving the survivors to confront a crime that seems to spring from Marguerite’s inner world as much as from any external threat.
After the murders, Michael arranges a beach outing for Marguerite, Anne, and himself, hoping to foster normalcy and healing. Anne senses that the father-daughter bond between Michael and Marguerite has crossed into something troublingly intimate, a concern that is underscored by their intense, almost claustrophobic closeness. Michael’s attentions feel overbearing, and Anne walks away from the scene, exhausted and unsettled, only to be met by a knowing look from Hector at the inn they pass through.
The tension erupts when the family returns home: Anne confronts Michael about his behavior, and the pair attempt to make love. In a disturbing parallel, Marguerite is shown in her room, crying out while apparently engaging in self-stimulation, a scene that underscores the fault lines within the household. Anne, distressed, leaves to seek distance, while a hooded figure in a rain-soaked world seems to cross paths with her on the road. She stops, thinking she recognizes someone, but a misstep sends her toward danger—she falls and is briefly attacked, only to be saved by an unnamed intervention before she can reach safety.
The following day, [Hector] takes Marguerite out on his boat. He offers her beer and makes an overture toward seduction, which Marguerite allows with obvious anxiety. The scene fades to black as the moment of contact lingers, and soon afterward the boat spirals out of control, crashing onto the rocky shore and killing Hector. Marguerite survives and is escorted away by medical personnel, while Michael and Anne drive her home. On the drive, Michael reveals that he has made a call to Boston, hinting at a future displacement.
That night, Marguerite seems to sense that the Boston call means she will be “taken away,” and Michael confirms the looming threat. She places blame on Aaron and asks to let Michael see how he has hurt them all, which he reluctantly permits. Later, sounds of breaking glass echo from upstairs as Michael investigates and is confronted by a hooded attacker who bursts into the crawl spaces. The figure is revealed to be Marguerite, inhabiting Aaron’s persona, who attacks Michael with growing ferocity. The struggle ends with Marguerite collapsing in a corner, sobbing, her true self breaking through the disguise.
As Michael approaches, a recording of the Boston call is played back, revealing a shocking truth: when asking for information about Katherine’s baby, the records department discloses that, rather than a girl, Katherine had delivered a boy sixteen years earlier. This revelation reframes the entire drama, casting Marguerite’s behavior in a new light and leaving the family to grapple with the possibility that a hidden history has shaped the present crisis.
Throughout, the mansion’s claustrophobic rooms, creaking floors, and the fog of suspicion reinforce a quiet, unsettling mood. The film gradually blurs the lines between fantasy and reality, between a girl’s vivid inner life and a family’s fragile dynamics. The relationships—between Marguerite and her father, between Katherine and her daughter, and the tension with Anne—are depicted with a restrained, observational gaze that underscores a tragedy rooted in longing, secrecy, and the consequences of unresolved trauma.
