The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
“Get away with what?” Eleanor asked daintily.
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Theodora said.
“Suppose I’m not, though? You’d mind terribly if you turned out to be wrong this time, wouldn’t you?”
Theodora’s voice was wearied, cynical. “If I’m wrong,” she said, “I will bless you with all my heart. Fool that you are.”
“You could hardly say anything else.”
They were moving along the path toward the brook. In the darkness their feet felt that they were going downhill, and each privately and perversely accused the other of taking, deliberately, a path they had followed together once before in happiness.
“Anyway,” Eleanor said, in a reasonable tone, “it doesn’t mean anything to you, no matter what happens. Why should you care whether I make a fool of myself?”
Theodora was silent for a minute, walking in the darkness, and Eleanor was suddenly absurdly sure that Theodora had put out a hand to her, unseen. “Theo,” Eleanor said awkwardly, “I’m no good at talking to people and saying things.”
Theodora laughed. “What are you good at?” she demanded. “Running away?”
Nothing irrevocable had yet been spoken, but there was only the barest margin of safety left them; each of them moving delicately along the outskirts of an open question, and, once spoken, such a question—as “Do you love me?”—could never be answered or forgotten. They walked slowly, meditating, wondering, and the path sloped down from their feet and they followed, walking side by side in the most extreme intimacy of expectation; their feinting and hesitation done with, they could only await passively for resolution. Each knew, almost within a breath, what the other was thinking and wanting to say; each of them almost wept for the other. They perceived at the same moment the change in the path and each knew then the other’s knowledge of it; Theodora took Eleanor’s arm and, afraid to stop, they moved on slowly, close together, and ahead of them the path widened and blackened and curved.
Eleanor caught her breath, and Theodora’s hand tightened, warning her to be quiet. On either side of them the trees, silent, relinquished the dark color they had held, paled, grew transparent and stood white and ghastly against the black sky. The grass was colorless, the path wide and black; there was nothing else. Eleanor’s teeth were chattering, and the nausea of fear almost doubled her; her arm shivered under Theodora’s holding hand, now almost a clutch, and she felt every slow step as a willed act, a precise mad insistence upon the putting of one foot down after the other as the only sane choice. Her eyes hurt with tears against the screaming blackness of the path and the shuddering whiteness of the trees, and she thought, with a clear intelligent picture of the words in her mind, burning, Now I am really afraid.
They moved on, the path unrolling ahead of them, the white trees unchanging on either side and, above all, the black sky lying thick overhead; their feet were shimmering white where they touched the path; Theodora’s hand was pale and luminous. Ahead of them the path curved out of sight, and they walked slowly on, moving their feet precisely because it was the only physical act possible to them, the only thing left to keep them from sinking into the awful blackness and whiteness and luminous evil glow. Now I am really afraid, Eleanor thought in words of fire; remotely she could still feel Theodora’s hand on her arm, but Theodora was distant, locked away; it was bitterly cold, with no human warmth near. Now I am really afraid, Eleanor thought, and put her feet forward one after another, shivering as they touched the path, shivering with mindless cold.
The path unwound; perhaps it was taking them somewhere, willfully, since neither of them could step off it and go knowingly into the annihilation of whiteness that was the grass on either side. The path curved, black and shining, and they followed. Theodora’s hand tightened, and Eleanor caught her breath on a little sob—had something moved, ahead, something whiter than the white trees, beckoning? Beckoning, fading into the trees, watching? Was there movement beside them, imperceptible in the soundless night; did some footstep go invisibly along with them in the white grass? Where were they?
The path led them to its destined end and died beneath their feet. Eleanor and Theodora looked into a garden, their eyes blinded with the light of sun and rich color; incredibly, there was a picnic party on the grass in the garden. They could hear the laughter of the children and the affectionate, amused voices of the mother and father; the grass was richly, thickly green, the flowers were colored red and orange and yellow, the sky was blue and gold, and one child wore a scarlet jumper and raised its voice again in laughter, tumbling after a puppy over the grass. There was a checked tablecloth spread out, and, smiling, the mother leaned over to take up a plate of bright fruit; then Theodora screamed.
“Don’t look back,” she cried out in a voice high with fear, “don’t look back—don’t look—run!”
Running, without knowing why she ran, Eleanor thought that she would catch her foot in the checked tablecloth; she was afraid she might stumble over the puppy; but as they ran across the garden there was nothing except weeds growing blackly in the darkness, and Theodora, screaming still, trampled over the bushes where there had been flowers and stumbled, sobbing, over half-buried stones and what might have been a broken cup. Then they were beating and scratching wildly at the white stone wall where vines grew blackly, screaming still and begging to be let out, until a rusted iron gate gave way and they ran, crying and gasping and somehow holding hands, across the kitchen garden of Hill House, and crashed through a back door into the kitchen to see Luke and the doctor hurrying to them. “What happened?” Luke said, catching at Theodora. “Are you all right?”
“We’ve been nearly crazy,” the doctor said, worn. “We’ve been out looking for you for hours.”
“It was a picnic,” Eleanor said. She had fallen into a kitchen chair and she looked down at her hands, scratched and bleeding and shaking without her knowledge. “We tried to get out,” she told them, holding her hands out for them to see. “It was a picnic. The children . . .”
Theodora laughed in a little continuing cry, laughing on and on thinly, and said through her laughter, “I looked back—I went and looked behind us . . .” and laughed on.
“The children . . . and a puppy . . .”
“Eleanor.” Theodora turned wildly and put her head against Eleanor. “Eleanor,” she said. “Eleanor.”
And, holding Theodora, Eleanor looked up at Luke and the doctor, and felt the room rock madly, and time, as she had always known time, stop.
7
On the afternoon of the day that Mrs. Montague was expected, Eleanor went alone into the hills above Hill House, not really intending to arrive at any place in particular, not even caring where or how she went, wanting only to be secret and out from under the heavy dark wood of the house. She found a small spot where the grass was soft and dry and lay down, wondering how many years it had been since she had lain on soft grass to be alone to think. Around her the trees and wild flowers, with that oddly courteous air of natural things suddenly interrupted in their pressing occupations of growing and dying, turned toward her with attention, as though, dull and imperceptive as she was, it was still necessary for them to be gentle to a creation so unfortunate as not to be rooted in the ground, forced to go from one place to another, heart-breakingly mobile. Idly Eleanor picked a wild daisy, which died in her fingers, and, lying on the grass, looked up into its dead face. There was nothing in her mind beyond an overwhelming wild happiness. She pulled at the daisy, and wondered, smiling at herself, What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
2
“Put the bags down in the hall, Arthur,” Mrs. Montague said. “Wouldn’t you think there’d be someone here to help us with this door? They’ll have to get someone to take the bags upstairs. John? John?”
“My dear, my dear.” Dr. Montague hurried into the hallway, carrying his napkin, and kissed his wife obediently on the cheek she held out for him. “How nice that you got here; we’d given you up.?
“I said I’d be here today, didn’t I? Did you ever know me not to come when I said I would? I brought Arthur.”
“Arthur,” the doctor said without enthusiasm.
“Well, somebody had to drive,” Mrs. Montague said. “I imagine you expected that I would drive myself all the way out here? Because you know perfectly well that I get tired. How do you do.”
The doctor turned, smiling on Eleanor and Theodora, with Luke behind them, clustered uncertainly in the doorway. “My dear,” he said, “these are my friends who have been staying in Hill House with me these past few days. Theodora. Eleanor Vance. Luke Sanderson.”
Theodora and Eleanor and Luke murmured civilly, and Mrs. Montague nodded and said, “I see you didn’t bother to wait dinner for us.”
“We’d given you up,” the doctor said.
“I believe that I told you that I would be here today. Of course, it is perfectly possible that I am mistaken, but it is my recollection that I said I would be here today. I’m sure I will get to know all your names very soon. This gentleman is Arthur Parker; he drove me here because I dislike driving myself. Arthur, these are John’s friends. Can anybody do something about our suitcases?”
The doctor and Luke approached, murmuring, and Mrs. Montague went on, “I am to be in your most haunted room, of course. Arthur can go anywhere. That blue suitcase is mine, young man, and the small attaché case; they will go in your most haunted room.”
“The nursery, I think,” Dr. Montague said when Luke looked at him inquiringly. “I believe the nursery is one source of disturbance,” he told his wife, and she sighed irritably.
“It does seem to me that you could be more methodical,” she said. “You’ve been here nearly a week and I suppose you’ve done nothing with planchette? Automatic writing? I don’t imagine either of these young women has mediumistic gifts? Those are Arthur’s bags right there. He brought his golf clubs, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” Theodora asked blankly, and Mrs. Montague turned to regard her coldly.
“Please don’t let me interrupt your dinner,” she said finally.
“There’s a definite cold spot just outside the nursery door,” the doctor told his wife hopefully.
“Yes, dear, very nice. Isn’t that young man going to take Arthur’s bags upstairs? You do seem to be in a good deal of confusion here, don’t you? After nearly a week I certainly thought you’d have things in some kind of order. Any figures materialize?”
“There have been decided manifestations—”
“Well, I’m here now, and we’ll get things going right. Where is Arthur to put the car?”
“There’s an empty stable in back of the house where we have put our other cars. He can take it around in the morning.”
“Nonsense. I do not believe in putting things off, John, as you know perfectly well. Arthur will have plenty to do in the morning without adding tonight’s work. He must move the car at once.”
“It’s dark outside,” the doctor said hesitantly.
“John, you astound me. Is it your belief that I do not know whether it is dark outside at night? The car has lights, John, and that young man can go with Arthur to show him the way.”
“Thank you,” said Luke grimly, “but we have a positive policy against going outside after dark. Arthur may, of course, if he cares to, but I will not.”
“The young ladies,” the doctor said, “had a shocking—”
“Young man’s a coward,” Arthur said. He had concluded his fetching of suitcases and golf bags and hampers from the car and now stood beside Mrs. Montague, looking down on Luke; Arthur’s face was red and his hair was white, and now, scorning Luke, he bristled. “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, fellow, in front of the women.”
“The women are just as much afraid as I am,” Luke said primly.
“Indeed, indeed.” Dr. Montague put his hand on Arthur’s arm soothingly. “After you’ve been here for a while, Arthur, you’ll understand that Luke’s attitude is sensible, not cowardly. We make a point of staying together after dark.”
“I must say, John, I never expected to find you all so nervous,” Mrs. Montague said. “I deplore fear in these matters.” She tapped her foot irritably. “You know perfectly well, John, that those who have passed beyond expect to see us happy and smiling; they want to know that we are thinking of them lovingly. The spirits dwelling in this house may be actually suffering because they are aware that you are afraid of them.”
“We can talk about it later,” the doctor said wearily. “Now, how about dinner?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Montague glanced at Theodora and Eleanor. “What a pity that we had to interrupt you,” she said.
“Have you had dinner?”
“Naturally we have not had dinner, John. I said we would be here for dinner, didn’t I? Or am I mistaken again?”
“At any rate, I told Mrs. Dudley that you would be here,” the doctor said, opening the door which led to the game room and on into the dining room. “She left us a splendid feast.”
Poor Dr. Montague, Eleanor thought, standing aside to let the doctor take his wife into the dining room; he is so uncomfortable; I wonder how long she is going to stay.
“I wonder how long she is going to stay?” Theodora whispered in her ear.
“Maybe her suitcase is filled with ectoplasm,” Eleanor said hopefully.
“And how long will you be able to stay?” Dr. Montague asked, sitting at the head of the dinner table with his wife cozily beside him.
“Well, dear,” Mrs. Montague said, tasting daintily of Mrs. Dudley’s caper sauce “—you have found a fair cook, have you not?—you know that Arthur has to get back to his school; Arthur is a headmaster,” she explained down the table, “and he has generously canceled his appointments for Monday. So we had better leave Monday afternoon and then Arthur can be there for classes on Tuesday.”
“A lot of happy schoolboys Arthur no doubt left behind,” Luke said softly to Theodora, and Theodora said, “But today is only Saturday.”
“I do not mind this cooking at all,” Mrs. Montague said. “John, I will speak to your cook in the morning.”
“Mrs. Dudley is an admirable woman,” the doctor said carefully.
“Bit fancy for my taste,” Arthur said. “I’m a meat-and-potatoes man, myself,” he explained to Theodora. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t read trash. Bad example for the fellows at the school. They look up to one a bit, you know.”
“I’m sure they must all model themselves on you,” Theodora said soberly.
“Get a bad hat now and then,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “No taste for sports, you know. Moping in corners. Crybabies. Knock that out of them fast enough.” He reached for the butter.
Mrs. Montague leaned forward to look down the table at Arthur. “Eat lightly, Arthur,” she advised. “We have a busy night ahead of us.”
“What on earth do you plan to do?” the doctor asked.
“I’m sure that you would never dream of going about these things with any system, but you will have to admit, John, that in this area I have simply more of an instinctive understanding; women do, you know, John, at least some women.” She paused and regarded Eleanor and Theodora speculatively. “Neither of them, I daresay. Unless, of course, I am mistaken again? You are very fond of pointing out my errors, John.”
“My dear—”
“I cannot abide a slipshod job in anything. Arthur will patrol, of course. I brought Arthur for that purpose. It is so rare,” she explained to Luke, who sat on her other side, “to find persons in the educational field who are interested in the other world; you will find Arthur surprisingly well informed. I will recline in your haunted room with only a nightlight burning, and will endeavor to get in touch with the elements disturbing this house. I never sleep when there are troubled spirits about,” she told Luke, who nodded, speechless.
“Little sound common sense,” Arthur said. “Got to go about these things in the righ
“I think perhaps after dinner we will have a little session with planchette,” Mrs. Montague said. “Just Arthur and I, of course; the rest of you, I can see, are not ready yet; you would only drive away the spirits. We will need a quiet room—”
“The library,” Luke suggested politely.
“The library? I think it might do; books are frequently very good carriers, you know. Materializations are often best produced in rooms where there are books. I cannot think of any time when materialization was in any way hampered by the presence of books. I suppose the library has been dusted? Arthur sometimes sneezes.”
“Mrs. Dudley keeps the entire house in perfect order,” the doctor said.
“I really will speak to Mrs. Dudley in the morning. You will show us the library, then, John, and that young man will bring down my case; not the large suitcase, mind, but the small attaché case. Bring it to me in the library. We will join you later; after a session with planchette I require a glass of milk and perhaps a small cake; crackers will do if they are not too heavily salted. A few minutes of quiet conversation with congenial people is also very helpful, particularly if I am to be receptive during the night; the mind is a precise instrument and cannot be tended too carefully. Arthur?” She bowed distantly to Eleanor and Theodora and went out, escorted by Arthur, Luke, and her husband.
After a minute Theodora said, “I think I am going to be simply crazy about Mrs. Montague.”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said. “Arthur is rather more to my taste. And Luke is a coward, I think.”
“Poor Luke,” Theodora said. “He never had a mother.” Looking up, Eleanor found that Theodora was regarding her with a curious smile, and she moved away from the table so quickly that a glass spilled.
“We shouldn’t be alone,” she said, oddly breathless. “We’ve got to find the others.” She left the table and almost ran from the room, and Theodora ran after her, laughing, down the corridor and into the little parlor, where Luke and the doctor stood before the fire.