The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
“You never know what you are going to want until you see it clearly,” he said. “If I never had a chance of owning it I might feel very differently. What do people really want with each other, as Nell asked me once; what use are other people?”
“It was my fault my mother died,” Eleanor said. “She knocked on the wall and called me and called me and I never woke up. I ought to have brought her the medicine; I always did before. But this time she called me and I never woke up.”
“You should have forgotten all that by now,” Theodora said.
“I’ve wondered ever since if I did wake up. If I did wake up and hear her, and if I just went back to sleep. It would have been easy, and I’ve wondered about it.”
“Turn here,” Luke said. “If we’re going to the brook.”
“You worry too much, Nell. You probably just like thinking it was your fault.”
“It was going to happen sooner or later, in any case,” Eleanor said. “But of course no matter when it happened it was going to be my fault.”
“If it hadn’t happened you would never have come to Hill House.”
“We go single file along here,” Luke said. “Nell, go first.”
Smiling, Eleanor went on ahead, kicking her feet comfortably along the path. Now I know where I am going, she thought; I told her about my mother so that’s all right; I will find a little house, or maybe an apartment like hers. I will see her every day, and we will go searching together for lovely things—goldtrimmed dishes, and a white cat, and a sugar Easter egg, and a cup of stars. I will not be frightened or alone any more; I will call myself just Eleanor. “Are you two talking about me?” she asked over her shoulder.
After a minute Luke answered politely, “A struggle between good and evil for the soul of Nell. I suppose I will have to be God, however.”
“But of course she cannot trust either of us,” Theodora said, amused.
“Not me, certainly,” Luke said.
“Besides, Nell,” Theodora said, “we were not talking about you at all. As though I were the games mistress,” she said, half angry, to Luke.
I have waited such a long time, Eleanor was thinking; I have finally earned my happiness. She came, leading them, to the top of the hill and looked down to the slim line of trees they must pass through to get to the brook. They are lovely against the sky, she thought, so straight and free; Luke was wrong about the softness everywhere, because the trees are hard like wooden trees. They are still talking about me, talking about how I came to Hill House and found Theodora and now I will not let her go. Behind her she could hear the murmur of their voices, edged sometimes with malice, sometimes rising in mockery, sometimes touched with a laughter almost of kinship, and she walked on dreamily, hearing them come behind. She could tell when they entered the tall grass a minute after she did, because the grass moved hissingly beneath their feet and a startled grasshopper leaped wildly away.
I could help her in her shop, Eleanor thought; she loves beautiful things and I would go with her to find them. We could go anywhere we pleased, to the edge of the world if we liked, and come back when we wanted to. He is telling her now what he knows about me: that I am not easily taken in, that I had an oleander wall around me, and she is laughing because I am not going to be lonely any more. They are very much alike and they are very kind; I would not really have expected as much from them as they are giving me; I was very right to come because journeys end in lovers meeting.
She came under the hard branches of the trees and the shadows were pleasantly cool after the hot sun on the path; now she had to walk more carefully because the path led downhill and there were sometimes rocks and roots across her way. Behind her their voices went on, quick and sharp, and then more slowly and laughing; I will not look back, she thought happily, because then they would know what I am thinking; we will talk about it together someday, Theo and I, when we have plenty of time. How strange I feel, she thought, coming out of the trees onto the last steep part of the path going down to the brook; I am caught in a kind of wonder, I am still with joy. I will not look around until I am next to the brook, where she almost fell the day we came; I will remind her about the golden fish in the brook and about our picnic.
She sat down on the narrow green bank and put her chin on her knees; I will not forget this one moment in my life, she promised herself, listening to their voices and their footsteps coming slowly down the hill. “Hurry up,” she said, turning her head to look for Theodora. “I—” and was silent. There was no one on the hill, nothing but the footsteps coming clearly along the path and the faint mocking laughter.
“Who—?” she whispered. “Who?”
She could see the grass go down under the weight of the footsteps. She saw another grasshopper leap wildly away, and a pebble jar and roll. She heard clearly the brush of footsteps on the path and then, standing back hard against the bank, heard the laughter very close; “Eleanor, Eleanor,” and she heard it inside and outside her head; this was a call she had been listening for all her life. The footsteps stopped and she was caught in a movement of air so solid that she staggered and was held. “Eleanor, Eleanor,” she heard through the rushing of air past her ears, “Eleanor, Eleanor,” and she was held tight and safe. It is not cold at all, she thought, it is not cold at all. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the bank and thought, Don’t let me go, and then, Stay, stay, as the firmness which held her slipped away, leaving her and fading; “Eleanor, Eleanor,” she heard once more and then she stood beside the brook, shivering as though the sun had gone, watching without surprise the vacant footsteps move across the water of the brook, sending small ripples going, and then over onto the grass on the other side, moving slowly and caressingly up and over the hill.
Come back, she almost said, standing shaking by the brook, and then she turned and ran madly up the hill, crying as she ran and calling, “Theo? Luke?”
She found them in the little group of trees, leaning against a tree trunk and talking softly and laughing; when she ran to them they turned, startled, and Theodora was almost angry. “What on earth do you want this time?” she said.
“I waited for you by the brook—”
“We decided to stay here where it was cool,” Theodora said. “We thought you heard us calling you. Didn’t we, Luke?”
“Oh, yes,” said Luke, embarrassed. “We were sure you heard us calling.”
“Anyway,” Theodora said, “we were going to come along in a minute. Weren’t we, Luke?”
“Yes,” said Luke, grinning. “Oh, yes.”
4
“Subterranean waters,” the doctor said, waving his fork.
“Nonsense. Does Mrs. Dudley do all your cooking? The asparagus is more than passable. Arthur, let that young man help you to asparagus.”
“My dear.” The doctor looked fondly upon his wife. “It has become our custom to rest for an hour or so after lunch; if you—”
“Certainly not. I have far too much to do while I am here. I must speak to your cook, I must see that my room is aired, I must ready planchette for another session this evening; Arthur must clean his revolver.”
“Mark of a fighting man,” Arthur conceded. “Firearms always in good order.”
“You and these young people may rest, of course. Perhaps you do not feel the urgency which I do, the terrible compulsion to aid whatever poor souls wander restlessly here; perhaps you find me foolish in my sympathy for them, perhaps I am even ludicrous in your eyes because I can spare a tear for a lost abandoned soul, left without any helping hand; pure love—”
“Croquet?” Luke said hastily. “Croquet, perhaps?” He looked eagerly from one to another. “Badminton?” he suggested. “Croquet?”
“Subterranean waters?” Theodora added helpfully.
“No fancy sauces for me,” Arthur said firmly. “Tell my fellows it’s the mark of a cad.” He looked thoughtfully at Luke. “Mark of a cad. Fancy sauces, women waiting on you. My fellows wait on themselves. Mark of a man,” he s
“And what else do you teach them?” Theodora asked politely.
“Teach? You mean—do they learn anything, my fellows? You mean—algebra, like? Latin? Certainly.” Arthur sat back, pleased. “Leave all that kind of thing to the teachers,” he explained.
“And how many fellows are there in your school?” Theodora leaned forward, courteous, interested, making conversation with a guest, and Arthur basked; at the head of the table Mrs. Montague frowned and tapped her fingers impatiently.
“How many? How many. Got a crack tennis team, you know.” He beamed on Theodora. “Crack. Absolutely top-hole. Not counting milksops?”
“Not counting,” said Theodora, “milksops.”
“Oh. Tennis. Golf. Baseball. Track. Cricket.” He smiled slyly. “Didn’t guess we played cricket, did you? Then there’s swimming, and volleyball. Some fellows go out for everything, though,” he told her anxiously. “All-around types. Maybe seventy, altogether.”
“Arthur?” Mrs. Montague could contain herself no longer. “No shop talk, now. You’re on vacation, remember.”
“Yes, silly of me.” Arthur smiled fondly. “Got to check the weapons,” he explained.
“It’s two o’clock,” Mrs. Dudley said in the doorway. “I clear off at two.”
5
Theodora laughed, and Eleanor, hidden deep in the shadows behind the summerhouse, put her hands over her mouth to keep from speaking to let them know she was there; I’ve got to find out, she was thinking, I’ve got to find out.
“It’s called ‘The Grattan Murders,’ ” Luke was saying. “Lovely thing. I can even sing it if you prefer.”
“Mark of a cad.” Theodora laughed again. “Poor Luke; I would have said ‘scoundrel.’ ”
“If you would rather be spending this brief hour with Arthur . . .”
“Of course I would rather be with Arthur. An educated man is always an enlivening companion.”
“Cricket,” Luke said. “Never would have thought we played cricket, would you?”
“Sing, sing,” Theodora said, laughing.
Luke sang, in a nasal monotone, emphasizing each word distinctly:“The first was young Miss Grattan,
She tried not to let him in;
He stabbed her with a corn knife,
That’s how his crimes begin.
“The next was Grandma Grattan,
So old and tired and gray;
She fit off her attacker
Until her strength give way.
“The next was Grandpa Grattan,
A-settin’ by the fire;
He crept up close behind him
And strangled him with a wire.
“The last was Baby Grattan
All in his trundle bed;
He stove him in the short ribs
Until that child was dead.
“And spit tobacco juice
All on his golden head.”
When he finished there was a moment’s silence, and then Theodora said weakly, “It’s lovely, Luke. Perfectly beautiful. I will never hear it again without thinking of you.”
“I plan to sing it to Arthur,” Luke said. When are they going to talk about me? Eleanor wondered in the shadows. After a minute Luke went on idly, “I wonder what the doctor’s book will be like, when he writes it? Do you suppose he’ll put us in?”
“You will probably turn up as an earnest young psychic researcher. And I will be a lady of undeniable gifts but dubious reputation.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Montague will have a chapter to herself.”
“And Arthur. And Mrs. Dudley. I hope he doesn’t reduce us all to figures on a graph.”
“I wonder, I wonder,” said Luke. “It’s warm this afternoon,” he said. “What could we do that is cool?”
“We could ask Mrs. Dudley to make lemonade.”
“You know what I want to do?” Luke said. “I want to explore. Let’s follow the brook up into the hills and see where it comes from; maybe there’s a pond somewhere and we can go swimming.”
“Or a waterfall; it looks like a brook that runs naturally from a waterfall.”
“Come on, then.” Listening behind the summerhouse, Eleanor heard their laughter and the sound of their feet running down the path to the house.
6
“Here’s an interesting thing, here,” Arthur’s voice said in the manner of one endeavoring valiantly to entertain, “here in this book. Says how to make candles out of ordinary children’s crayons.”
“Interesting.” The doctor sounded weary. “If you will excuse me, Arthur, I have all these notes to write up.”
“Sure, Doctor. All got our work to do. Not a sound.” Eleanor, listening outside the parlor door, heard the small irritating noises of Arthur settling down to be quiet. “Not much to do around here, is there?” Arthur said. “How d’you pass the time generally?”
“Working,” the doctor said shortly.
“You writing down what happens in the house?”
“Yes.”
“You got me in there?”
“ No.”
“Seems like you ought to put in our notes from planchette. What are you writing now?”
“Arthur. Can you read, or something?”
“Sure. Never meant to make a nuisance of myself.” Eleanor heard Arthur take up a book, and put it down, and light a cigarette, and sigh, and stir, and finally say, “Listen, isn’t there anything to do around here? Where is everybody?”
The doctor spoke patiently, but without interest. “Theodora and Luke have gone to explore the brook, I think. And I suppose the others are around somewhere. As a matter of fact, I believe my wife was looking for Mrs. Dudley.”
“Oh.” Arthur sighed again. “Might as well read, I guess,” he said, and then, after a minute, “Say, Doctor. I don’t like to bother you, but listen to what it says here in this book. . . .”
7
“No,” Mrs. Montague said, “I do not believe in throwing young people together promiscuously, Mrs. Dudley. If my husband had consulted me before arranging this fantastic house party—”
“Well, now.” It was Mrs. Dudley’s voice, and Eleanor, pressed against the dining-room door, stared and opened her mouth wide against the wooden panels of the door. “I always say, Mrs. Montague, that you’re only young once. Those young people are enjoying themselves, and it’s only natural for the young.”
“But living under one roof—”
“It’s not as though they weren’t grown up enough to know right from wrong. That pretty Theodora lady is old enough to take care of herself, I’d think, no matter how gay Mr. Luke.”
“I need a dry dishtowel, Mrs. Dudley, for the silverware. It’s a shame, I think, the way children grow up these days knowing everything. There should be more mysteries for them, more things that belong rightly to grownups, that they have to wait to find out.”
“Then they find them out the hard way.” Mrs. Dudley’s voice was comfortable and easy. “Dudley brought in these tomatoes from the garden this morning,” she said. “They did well this year.”
“Shall I start on them?”
“No, oh, no. You sit down over there and rest; you’ve done enough. I’ll put on the water and we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
8
“Journeys end in lovers meeting,” Luke said, and smiled across the room at Eleanor. “Does that blue dress on Theo really belong to you? I’ve never seen it before.”
“I am Eleanor,” Theodora said wickedly, “because I have a beard.”
“You were wise to bring clothes for two,” Luke told Eleanor. “Theo would never have looked half so well in my old blazer.”
“I am Eleanor,” Theo said, “because I am wearing blue. I love my love with an E because she is ethereal. Her name is Eleanor, and she lives in expectation.”
She is being spiteful, Eleanor thought remotely; from a great distance, it seemed, she could watch these people and listen to them. Now she thought, Theo is being spiteful and Luke is
“Later,” Luke said uncomfortably. “The doctor has just set up the chessmen.” He turned away in some haste.
Theodora, piqued, leaned her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes, clearly determined not to speak. Eleanor sat, looking down at her hands, and listened to the sounds of the house. Somewhere upstairs a door swung quietly shut; a bird touched the tower briefly and flew off. In the kitchen the stove was settling and cooling, with little soft creakings. An animal—a rabbit?—moved through the bushes by the summerhouse. She could even hear, with her new awareness of the house, the dust drifting gently in the attics, the wood aging. Only the library was closed to her; she could not hear the heavy breathing of Mrs. Montague and Arthur over their planchette, nor their little excited questions; she could not hear the books rotting or rust seeping into the circular iron stairway to the tower. In the little parlor she could hear, without raising her eyes, Theodora’s small irritated tappings and the quiet sound of the chessmen being set down. She heard when the library door slammed open, and then the sharp angry sound of footsteps coming to the little parlor, and then all of them turned as Mrs. Montague opened the door and marched in.
“I must say,” said Mrs. Montague on a sharp, explosive breath, “I really must say that this is the most infuriating—”
“My dear.” The doctor rose, but Mrs. Montague waved him aside angrily. “If you had the decency—” she said.
Arthur, coming behind her sheepishly, moved past her and, almost slinking, settled in a chair by the fire. He shook his head warily when Theodora turned to him.