The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
“Please, sir,” Luke was saying meekly, “who is planchette?”
The doctor sighed irritably. “Imbeciles,” he said, and then, “Sorry. The whole idea annoys me, but if she likes it . . .” He turned and poked the fire furiously. “Planchette,” he went on after a moment, “is a device similar to the Ouija Board, or perhaps I might explain better by saying that it is a form of automatic writing; a method of communicating with—ah—intangible beings, although to my way of thinking the only intangible beings who ever get in touch through one of those things are the imaginations of the people running it. Yes. Well. Planchette is a little piece of light wood, usually heart-shaped or triangular. A pencil is set into the narrow end, and at the other end is a pair of wheels, or feet which will slip easily over paper. Two people place fingers on it, ask it questions, and the object moves, pushed by what force we will not here discuss, and writes answers. The Ouija Board, as I say, is very similar, except that the object moves on a board pointing to separate letters. An ordinary wineglass will do the same thing; I have seen it tried with a child’s wheeled toy, although I will admit that it looked silly. Each person uses the tips of the fingers of one hand, keeping the other hand free to note down questions and answers. The answers are invariably, I believe, meaningless, although of course my wife will tell you different. Balderdash.” And he went at the fire again. “Schoolgirls,” he said. “Superstition.”
3
“Planchette has been very kind tonight,” Mrs. Montague said. “John, there are definitely foreign elements present in this house.”
“Quite a splendid sitting, really,” Arthur said. He waved a sheaf of paper triumphantly.
“We’ve gotten a good deal of information for you,” Mrs. Montague said. “Now. Planchette was quite insistent about a nun. Have you learned anything about a nun, John?”
“In Hill House? Not likely.”
“Planchette felt very strongly about a nun, John. Perhaps something of the sort—a dark, vague figure, even—has been seen in the neighborhood? Villagers terrified when staggering home late at night?”
“The figure of a nun is a fairly common—”
“John, if you please. I assume you are suggesting that I am mistaken. Or perhaps it is your intention to point our that planchette may be mistaken? I assure you—and you must believe planchette, even if my word is not good enough for you—that a nun was most specifically suggested.”
“I am only trying to say, my dear, that the wraith of a nun is far and away the most common form of appearance. There has never been such a thing connected with Hill House, but in almost every—”
“John, if you please. I assume I may continue? Or is planchette to be dismissed without a hearing? Thank you.” Mrs. Montague composed herself. “Now, then. There is also a name, spelled variously as Helen, or Helene, or Elena. Who might that be?”
“My dear, many people have lived—”
“Helen brought us a warning against a mysterious monk. Now when a monk and a nun both turn up in one house—”
“Expect the place was built on an older site,” Arthur said. “Influences prevailing, you know. Older influences hanging around,” he explained more fully.
“It sounds very much like broken vows, does it not? Very much.”
“Had a lot of that back then, you know. Temptation, probably.”
“I hardly think—” the doctor began.
“I daresay she was walled up alive,” Mrs. Montague said. “The nun, I mean. They always did that, you know. You’ve no idea the messages I’ve gotten from nuns walled up alive.”
“There is no case on record of any nun ever being—”
“John. May I point out to you once more that I myself have had messages from nuns walled up alive? Do you think I am telling you a fib, John? Or do you suppose that a nun would deliberately pretend to have been walled up alive when she was not? Is it possible that I am mistaken once more, John?”
“Certainly not, my dear.” Dr. Montague sighed wearily.
“With one candle and a crust of bread,” Arthur told Theodora. “Horrible thing to do, when you think about it.”
“No nun was ever walled up alive,” the doctor said sullenly. He raised his voice slightly. “It is a legend. A story. A libel circulated—”
“All right, John. We won’t quarrel over it. You may believe whatever you choose. Just understand, however, that sometimes purely materialistic views must give way before facts. Now it is a proven fact that among the visitations troubling this house are a nun and a—”
“What else was there?” Luke asked hastily. “I am so interested in hearing what—ah—planchette had to say.”
Mrs. Montague waggled a finger roguishly. “Nothing about you, young man. Although one of the ladies present may hear something of interest.”
Impossible woman, Eleanor thought; impossible, vulgar, possessive woman. “Now, Helen,” Mrs. Montague went on, “wants us to search the cellar for an old well.”
“Don’t tell me Helen was buried alive,” the doctor said.
“I hardly think so, John. I am sure that she would have mentioned it. As a matter of fact, Helen was most unclear about just what we were to find in the well. I doubt, however, that it will be treasure. One so rarely meets with real treasure in a case of this kind. More likely evidence of the missing nun.”
“More likely eighty years of rubbish.”
“John, I cannot understand this skepticism in you, of all people. After all, you did come to this house to collect evidence of supernatural activity, and now, when I bring you a full account of the causes, and an indication of where to start looking, you are positively scornful.”
“We have no authority to dig up the cellar.”
“Arthur could—” Mrs. Montague began hopefully, but the doctor said with firmness, “No. My lease of the house specifically forbids me to tamper with the house itself. There will be no digging of cellars, no tearing out of woodwork, no ripping up of floors. Hill House is still a valuable property, and we are students, not vandals.”
“I should think you’d want to know the truth, John.”
“There is nothing I should like to know more.” Dr. Montague stamped across the room to the chessboard and took up a knight and regarded it furiously. He looked as though he were doggedly counting to a hundred.
“Dear me, how patient one must be sometimes.” Mrs. Montague sighed. “But I do want to read you the little passage we received toward the end. Arthur, do you have it?”
Arthur shuffled through his sheaf of papers. “It was just after the message about the flowers you are to send to your aunt,” Mrs. Montague said. “Planchette has a control named Merrigot,” she explained, “and Merrigot takes a genuine personal interest in Arthur; brings him word from relatives, and so on.”
“Not a fatal illness, you understand,” Arthur said gravely. “Have to send flowers, of course, but Merrigot is most reassuring.”
“Now.” Mrs. Montague selected several pages, and turned them over quickly; they were covered with loose, sprawling penciled words, and Mrs. Montague frowned, running down the pages with her finger. “Here,” she said. “Arthur, you read the questions and I’ll read the answers; that way, it will sound more natural.”
“Off we go,” Arthur said brightly, and leaned over Mrs. Montague’s shoulder. “Now—let me see—start right about here?”
“With ‘Who are you?’ ”
“Righto. Who are you?”
“Nell,” Mrs. Montague read in her sharp voice, and Eleanor and Theodora and Luke and the doctor turned, listening.
“Nell who?”
“Eleanor Nellie Nell Nell. They sometimes do that,” Mrs. Montague broke off to explain. “They repeat a word over and over to make sure it comes across all right.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “What do you want?” he read.
“Home.”
“Do you want to go home?” And Theodora shrugged comically at Eleanor.
“Want to be home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Home.” Arthur stopped, and nodded profoundly. “There it is again,” he said. “Like a word, and use it over and over, just for the sound of it.”
“Ordinarily we never ask why,” Mrs. Montague said, “because it tends to confuse planchette. However, this time we were bold, and came right out and asked. Arthur?”
“Why?” Arthur read.
“Mother,” Mrs. Montague read. “So you see, this time we were right to ask, because planchette was perfectly free with the answer.”
“Is Hill House your home?” Arthur read levelly.
“Home,” Mrs. Montague responded, and the doctor sighed.
“Are you suffering?” Arthur read.
“No answer here.” Mrs. Montague nodded reassuringly. “Sometimes they dislike admitting to pain; it tends to discourage those of us left behind, you know. Just like Arthur’s aunt, for instance, will never let on that she is sick, but Merrigot always lets us know, and it’s even worse when they’ve passed over.”
“Stoical,” Arthur confirmed, and read, “Can we help you?”
“No,” Mrs. Montague read.
“Can we do anything at all for you?”
“No. Lost. Lost. Lost.” Mrs. Montague looked up. “You see?” she asked. “One word, over and over again. They love to repeat themselves. I’ve had one word go on to cover a whole page sometimes.”
“What do you want?” Arthur read.
“Mother,” Mrs. Montague read back.
“Why?”
“Child.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Home.”
“Where is your home?”
“Lost. Lost. Lost. And after that,” Mrs. Montague said, folding the paper briskly, “there was nothing but gibberish.”
“Never known planchette so cooperative,” Arthur said confidingly to Theodora. “Quite an experience, really.”
“But why pick on Nell?” Theodora asked with annoyance. “Your fool planchette has no right to send messages to people without permission or—”
“You’ll never get results by abusing planchette,” Arthur began, but Mrs. Montague interrupted him, swinging to stare at Eleanor. “You’re Nell?” she demanded, and turned on Theodora. “We thought you were Nell,” she said.
“So?” said Theodora impudently.
“It doesn’t affect the messages, of course,” Mrs. Montague said, tapping her paper irritably, “although I do think we might have been correctly introduced. I am sure that planchette knew the difference between you, but I certainly do not care to be misled.”
“Don’t feel neglected,” Luke said to Theodora. “We will bury you alive.”
“When I get a message from that thing,” Theodora said, “I expect it to be about hidden treasure. None of this nonsense about sending flowers to my aunt.”
They are all carefully avoiding looking at me, Eleanor thought; I have been singled out again, and they are kind enough to pretend it is nothing; “Why do you think all that was sent to me?” she asked, helpless.
“Really, child,” Mrs. Montague said, dropping the papers on the low table, “I couldn’t begin to say. Although you are rather more than a child, aren’t you? Perhaps you are more receptive psychically than you realize, although”—and she turned away indifferently—“how you could be, a week in this house and not picking up the simplest message from beyond . . . That fire wants stirring.”
“Nell doesn’t want messages from beyond,” Theodora said comfortingly, moving to take Eleanor’s cold hand in hers. “Nell wants her warm bed and a little sleep.”
Peace, Eleanor thought concretely; what I want in all this world is peace, a quiet spot to lie and think, a quiet spot up among the flowers where I can dream and tell myself sweet stories.
4
“I,” Arthur said richly, “shall make my headquarters in the small room just this side of the nursery, well within shouting distance. I shall have with me a drawn revolver—do not take alarm, ladies; I am an excellent shot—and a flashlight, in addition to a most piercing whistle. I shall have no difficulty summoning the rest of you in case I observe anything worth your notice, or I require—ah—company. You may all sleep quietly, I assure you.”
“Arthur,” Mrs. Montague explained, “will patrol the house. Every hour, regularly, he will make a round of the upstairs rooms; I think he need hardly bother with the downstairs rooms tonight, since I shall be up here. We have done this before, many times. Come along, everyone.” Silently they followed her up the staircase, watching her little affectionate dabs at the stair rail and the carvings on the walls. “It is such a blessing,” she said once, “to know that the beings in this house are only waiting for an opportunity to tell their stories and free themselves from the burden of their sorrow. Now. Arthur will first of all inspect the bedrooms. Arthur?”
“With apologies, ladies, with apologies,” Arthur said, opening the door of the blue room, which Eleanor and Theodora shared. “A dainty spot,” he said plummily, “fit for two such charming ladies; I shall, if you like, save you the trouble of glancing into the closet and under the bed.” Solemnly they watched Arthur go down onto his hands and knees and look under the beds and then rise, dusting his hands. “Perfectly safe,” he said.
“Now, where am I to be?” Mrs. Montague asked. “Where did that young man put my bags?”
“Directly at the end of the hall,” the doctor said. “We call it the nursery.”
Mrs. Montague, followed by Arthur, moved purposefully down the hall, passed the cold spot in the hall, and shivered. “I will certainly need extra blankets,” she said. “Have that young man bring extra blankets from one of the other rooms.” Opening the nursery door, she nodded and said, “The bed looks quite fresh, I must admit, but has the room been aired?”
“I told Mrs. Dudley,” the doctor said.
“It smells musty. Arthur, you will have to open that window, in spite of the cold.”
Drearily the animals on the nursery wall looked down on Mrs. Montague. “Are you sure . . .” The doctor hesitated, and glanced up apprehensively at the grinning faces over the nursery door. “I wonder if you ought to have someone in here with you,” he said.
“My dear.” Mrs. Montague, good-humored now in the presence of those who had passed beyond, was amused. “How many hours—how many, many hours—have I sat in purest love and understanding, alone in a room and yet never alone? My dear, how can I make you perceive that there is no danger where there is nothing but love and sympathetic understanding? I am here to help these unfortunate beings—I am here to extend the hand of heartfelt fondness, and let them know that there are still some who remember, who will listen and weep for them; their loneliness is over, and I—”
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but leave the door open.”
“Unlocked, if you insist.” Mrs. Montague was positively magnanimous.
“I shall be only down the hall,” the doctor said. “I can hardly offer to patrol, since that will be Arthur’s occupation, but if you need anything I can hear you.”
Mrs. Montague laughed and waved her hand at him. “These others need your protection so much more than I,” she said. “I will do what I can, of course. But they are so very, very vulnerable, with their hard hearts and their unseeing eyes.”
Arthur, followed by a Luke looking very much amused, returned from checking the other bedrooms on the floor and nodded briskly at the doctor. “All clear,” he said. “Perfectly safe for you to go to bed now.”
“Thank you,” the doctor told him soberly and then said to his wife, “Good night. Be careful.”
“Good night,” Mrs. Montague said, and smiled around at all of them. “Please don’t be afraid,” she said. “No matter what happens, remember that I am here.”
“Good night,” Theodora said, and “Good night” said Luke, and with Arthur behind them assuring them that they might rest quiet
“Wait,” Theodora said to Eleanor, once in their room. “Luke said they want us down the hall; don’t get undressed and be quiet.” She opened the door a crack and whispered over her shoulder, “I swear that old biddy’s going to blow this house wide open with that perfect love business; if I ever saw a place that had no use for perfect love, it’s Hill House. Now. Arthur’s closed his door. Quick. Be quiet.”
Silently, making no sound on the hall carpeting, they hurried in their stocking feet down the hall to the doctor’s room. “Hurry,” the doctor said, opening the door just wide enough for them to come in, “be quiet.”
“It’s not safe,” Luke said, closing the door to a crack and coming back to sit on the floor, “that man’s going to shoot somebody.”
“I don’t like it,” the doctor said, worried. “Luke and I will stay up and watch, and I want you two ladies in here where we can keep an eye on you. Something’s going to happen,” he said. “I don’t like it.”
“I just hope she didn’t go and make anything mad, with her planchette,” Theodora said. “Sorry, Doctor Montague. I don’t intend to speak rudely of your wife.”
The doctor laughed, but stayed with his eye to the door. “She originally planned to come for our entire stay,” he said, “but she had enrolled in a course in yoga and could not miss her meetings. She is an excellent woman in most respects,” he added, looking earnestly around at them. “She is a good wife, and takes very good care of me. She does things splendidly, really. Buttons on my shirts.” He smiled hopefully. “This”—and he gestured in the direction of the hall—“this is practically her only vice.”
“Perhaps she feels she is helping you with your work,” Eleanor said.
The doctor grimaced, and shivered; at that moment the door swung wide and then crashed shut, and in the silence outside they could hear slow rushing movements as though a very steady, very strong wind were blowing the length of the hall. Glancing at one another, they tried to smile, tried to look courageous under the slow coming of the unreal cold and then, through the noise of wind, the knocking on the doors downstairs. Without a word Theodora took up the quilt from the foot of the doctor’s bed and folded it around Eleanor and herself, and they moved close together, slowly in order not to make a sound. Eleanor, clinging to Theodora, deadly cold in spite of Theodora’s arms around her, thought, It knows my name, it knows my name this time. The pounding came up the stairs, crashing on each step. The doctor was tense, standing by the door, and Luke moved over to stand beside him. “It’s nowhere near the nursery,” he said to the doctor, and put his hand out to stop the doctor from opening the door.