The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
“The common decency. After all, John, I did come all this way, and so did Arthur, just to help out, and I certainly must say that I never expected to meet with such cynicism and incredulity from you, of all people, and these—” She gestured at Eleanor and Theodora and Luke. “All I ask, all I ask, is some small minimum of trust, just a little bit of sympathy for all I am trying to do, and instead you disbelieve, you scoff, you mock and jeer.” Breathing heavily, red-faced, she shook her finger at the doctor. “Planchette,” she said bitterly, “will not speak to me tonight. Not one single word have I had from planchette, as a direct result of your sneering and your skepticism; planchette may very possibly not speak to me for a matter of weeks—it has happened before, I can tell you; it has happened before, when I subjected it to the taunts of unbelievers; I have known planchette to be silent for weeks, and the very least I could have expected, coming here as I did with none but the finest motives, was a little respect.” She shook her finger at the doctor, wordless for the moment.
“My dear,” the doctor said, “I am certain that none of us would knowingly have interfered.”
“Mocking and jeering, were you not? Skeptical, with planchette’s very words before your eyes? Those young people pert and insolent?”
“Mrs. Montague, really . . .” said Luke, but Mrs. Montague brushed past him and sat herself down, her lips tight and her eyes blazing. The doctor sighed, started to speak, and then stopped. Turning away from his wife, he gestured Luke back to the chess table. Apprehensively, Luke followed, and Arthur, wriggling in his chair, said in a low voice to Theodora, “Never seen her so upset, you know. Miserable experience, waiting for planchette. So easily offended, of course. Sensitive to atmosphere.” Seeming to believe that he had satisfactorily explained the situation, he sat back and smiled timidly.
Eleanor was hardly listening, wondering dimly at the movement in the room. Someone was walking around, she thought without interest; Luke was walking back and forth in the room, talking softly to himself; surely an odd way to play chess? Humming? Singing? Once or twice she almost made out a broken word, and then Luke spoke quietly; he was at the chess table where he belonged, and Eleanor turned and looked at the empty center of the room, where someone was walking and singing softly, and then she heard it clearly:Go walking through the valley,
Go walking through the valley,
Go walking through the valley,
As we have done before. . . .
Why, I know that, she thought, listening, smiling, to the faint melody; we used to play that game; I remember that.
“It’s simply that it’s a most delicate and intricate piece of machinery,” Mrs. Montague was saying to Theodora; she was still angry, but visibly softening under Theodora’s sympathetic attention. “The slightest air of disbelief offends it, naturally. How would you feel if people refused to believe in you?”
Go in and out the windows,
Go in and out the windows,
Go in and out the windows,
As we have done before. . . .
The voice was light, perhaps only a child’s voice, singing sweetly and thinly, on the barest breath, and Eleanor smiled and remembered, hearing the little song more clearly than Mrs. Montague’s voice continuing about planchette.
Go forth and face your lover,
Go forth and face your lover,
Go forth and face your lover,
As we have done before. . . .
She heard the little melody fade, and felt the slight movement of air as the footsteps came close to her, and something almost brushed her face; perhaps there was a tiny sigh against her cheek, and she turned in surprise. Luke and the doctor bent over the chessboard, Arthur leaned confidingly close to Theodora, and Mrs. Montague talked.
None of them heard it, she thought with joy; nobody heard it but me.
9
Eleanor closed the bedroom door softly behind her, not wanting to awaken Theodora, although the noise of a door closing would hardly disturb anyone, she thought, who slept so soundly as Theodora; I learned to sleep very lightly, she told herself comfortingly, when I was listening for my mother. The hall was dim, lighted only by the small nightlight over the stairs, and all the doors were closed. Funny, Eleanor thought, going soundlessly in her bare feet along the hall carpet, it’s the only house I ever knew where you don’t have to worry about making noise at night, or at least about anyone knowing it’s you. She had awakened with the thought of going down to the library, and her mind had supplied her with a reason: I cannot sleep, she explained to herself, and so I am going downstairs to get a book. If anyone asks me where I am going, it is down to the library to get a book because I cannot sleep.
It was warm, drowsily, luxuriously warm. She went barefoot and in silence down the great staircase and to the library door before she thought, But I can’t go in there; I’m not allowed in there—and recoiled in the doorway before the odor of decay, which nauseated her. “Mother,” she said aloud, and stepped quickly back. “Come along,” a voice answered distinctly upstairs, and Eleanor turned, eager, and hurried to the staircase. “Mother?” she said softly, and then again, “Mother?” A little soft laugh floated down to her, and she ran, breathless, up the stairs and stopped at the top, looking to right and left along the hallway at the closed doors.
“You’re here somewhere,” she said, and down the hall the little echo went, slipping in a whisper on the tiny currents of air. “Somewhere,” it said. “Somewhere.”
Laughing, Eleanor followed, running soundlessly down the hall to the nursery doorway; the cold spot was gone, and she laughed up at the two grinning faces looking down at her. “Are you in here?” she whispered outside the door, “are you in here?” and knocked, pounding with her fists.
“Yes?” It was Mrs. Montague, inside, clearly just awakened. “Yes? Come in, whatever you are.”
No, no, Eleanor thought, hugging herself and laughing silently, not in there, not with Mrs. Montague, and slipped away down the hall, hearing Mrs. Montague behind her calling, “I am your friend; I intend you no harm. Come in and tell me what is troubling you.”
She won’t open her door, Eleanor thought wisely; she is not afraid but she won’t open her door, and knocked, pounding, against Arthur’s door and heard Arthur’s awakening gasp.
Dancing, the carpet soft under her feet, she came to the door behind which Theodora slept; faithless Theo, she thought, cruel, laughing Theo, wake up, wake up, wake up, and pounded and slapped the door, laughing, and shook the doorknob and then ran swiftly down the hall to Luke’s door and pounded; wake up, she thought, wake up and be faithless. None of them will open their doors, she thought; they will sit inside, with the blankets pressed around them, shivering and wondering what is going to happen to them next; wake up, she thought, pounding on the doctor’s door; I dare you to open your door and come out to see me dancing in the hall of Hill House.
Then Theodora startled her by calling out wildly, “Nell? Nell? Doctor, Luke, Nell’s not here!”
Poor house, Eleanor thought, I had forgotten Eleanor; now they will have to open their doors, and she ran quickly down the stairs, hearing behind her the doctor’s voice raised anxiously, and Theodora calling, “Nell? Eleanor?” What fools they are, she thought; now I will have to go into the library. “Mother, Mother,” she whispered, “Mother,” and stopped at the library door, sick. Behind her she could hear them talking upstairs in the hall; funny, she thought, I can feel the whole house, and heard even Mrs. Montague protesting, and Arthur, and then the doctor, clearly, “We’ve got to look for her; everyone please hurry.”
Well, I can hurry too, she thought, and ran down the corridor to the little parlor, where the fire flickered briefly at her when she opened the door, and the chessmen sat where Luke and the doctor had left their game. The scarf Theodora had been wearing lay across the back of her chair; I can take care of that too, Eleanor thought, her maid’s pathetic finery, and put one end of it between her teeth and pulled, tearing, and then dropped it
“Coming? Coming?” she heard far away, somewhere else in the house, and she heard the stairs shake under their feet and a cricket stir on the lawn. Daring, gay, she ran down the corridor again to the hall and peeked out at them from the doorway. They were moving purposefully, all together, straining to stay near one another, and the doctor’s flashlight swept the hall and stopped at the great front door, which was standing open wide. Then, in a rush, calling “Eleanor, Eleanor,” they ran all together across the hall and out the front door, looking and calling, the flashlight moving busily. Eleanor clung to the door and laughed until tears came into her eyes; what fools they are, she thought; we trick them so easily. They are so slow, and so deaf and so heavy; they trample over the house, poking and peering and rough. She ran across the hall and through the game room and into the dining room and from there into the kitchen, with its doors. It’s good here, she thought, I can go in any direction when I hear them. When they came back into the front hall, blundering and calling her, she darted quickly out onto the veranda into the cool night. She stood with her back against the door, the little mists of Hill House curling around her ankles, and looked up at the pressing, heavy hills. Gathered comfortably into the hills, she thought, protected and warm; Hill House is lucky.
“Eleanor?” They were very close, and she ran along the veranda and darted into the drawing room; “Hugh Crain,” she said, “will you come and dance with me?” She curtsied to the huge leaning statue, and its eyes flickered and shone at her; little reflected lights touched the figurines and the gilded chairs, and she danced gravely before Hugh Crain, who watched her, gleaming. “Go in and out the windows,” she sang, and felt her hands taken as she danced. “Go in and out the windows,” and she danced out onto the veranda and around the house. Going around and around and around the house, she thought, and none of them can see me. She touched a kitchen door as she passed, and six miles away Mrs. Dudley shuddered in her sleep. She came to the tower, held so tightly in the embrace of the house, in the straining grip of the house, and walked slowly past its gray stones, not allowed to touch even the outside. Then she turned and stood before the great doorway; the door was closed again, and she put out her hand and opened it effortlessly. Thus I enter Hill House, she told herself, and stepped inside as though it were her own. “Here I am,” she said aloud. “I’ve been all around the house, in and out the windows, and I danced—”
“Eleanor?” It was Luke’s voice, and she thought, Of all of them I would least like to have Luke catch me; don’t let him see me, she thought beggingly, and turned and ran, without stopping, into the library.
And here I am, she thought. Here I am inside. It was not cold at all, but deliciously, fondly warm. It was light enough for her to see the iron stairway curving around and around up to the tower, and the little door at the top. Under her feet the stone floor moved caressingly, rubbing itself against the soles of her feet, and all around the soft air touched her, stirring her hair, drifting against her fingers, coming in a light breath across her mouth, and she danced in circles. No stone lions for me, she thought, no oleanders; I have broken the spell of Hill House and somehow come inside. I am home, she thought, and stopped in wonder at the thought. I am home, I am home, she thought; now to climb.
Climbing the narrow iron stairway was intoxicating—going higher and higher, around and around, looking down, clinging to the slim iron railing, looking far far down onto the stone floor. Climbing, looking down, she thought of the soft green grass outside and the rolling hills and the rich trees. Looking up, she thought of the tower of Hill House rising triumphantly between the trees, tall over the road which wound through Hillsdale and past a white house set in flowers and past the magic oleanders and past the stone lions and on, far, far away, to a little lady who was going to pray for her. Time is ended now, she thought, all that is gone and left behind, and that poor little lady, praying still, for me.
“Eleanor!”
For a minute she could not remember who they were (had they been guests of hers in the house of the stone lions? Dining at her long table in the candlelight? Had she met them at the inn, over the tumbling stream? Had one of them come riding down a green hill, banners flying? Had one of them run beside her in the darkness? and then she remembered, and they fell into place where they belonged) and she hesitated, clinging to the railing. They were so small, so ineffectual. They stood far below on the stone floor and pointed at her; they called to her, and their voices were urgent and far away.
“Luke,” she said, remembering. They could hear her, because they were quiet when she spoke. “Doctor Montague,” she said. “Mrs. Montague. Arthur.” She could not remember the other, who stood silent and a little apart.
“Eleanor,” Dr. Montague called, “turn around very carefully and come slowly down the steps. Move very, very slowly, Eleanor. Hold on to the railing all the time. Now turn and come down.”
“What on earth is the creature doing?” Mrs. Montague demanded. Her hair was in curlers, and her bathrobe had a dragon on the stomach. “Make her come down so we can go back to bed. Arthur, make her come down at once.”
“See here,” Arthur began, and Luke moved to the foot of the stairway and started up.
“For God’s sake be careful,” the doctor said as Luke moved steadily on. “The thing is rotted away from the wall.”
“It won’t hold both of you,” Mrs. Montague said positively. “You’ll have it down on our heads. Arthur, move over here near the door.”
“Eleanor,” the doctor called, “can you turn around and start down slowly?”
Above her was only the little trapdoor leading out onto the turret; she stood on the little narrow platform at the top and pressed against the trapdoor, but it would not move. Futilely she hammered against it with her fists, thinking wildly, Make it open, make it open, or they’ll catch me. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Luke climbing steadily, around and around. “Eleanor,” he said, “stand still. Don’t move,” and he sounded frightened.
I can’t get away, she thought, and looked down; she saw one face clearly, and the name came into her mind. “Theodora,” she said.
“Nell, do as they tell you. Please.”
“Theodora? I can’t get out; the door’s been nailed shut.”
“Damn right it’s been nailed shut,” Luke said. “And lucky for you, too, my girl.” Climbing, coming very slowly, he had almost reached the narrow platform. “Stay perfectly still,” he said.
“Stay perfectly still, Eleanor,” the doctor said.
“Nell,” Theodora said. “Please do what they say.”
“Why?” Eleanor looked down and saw the dizzy fall of the tower below her, the iron stairway clinging to the tower walls, shaking and straining under Luke’s feet, the cold stone floor, the distant, pale, staring faces. “How can I get down?” she asked helplessly. “Doctor—how can I get down?”
“Move very slowly,” he said. “Do what Luke tells you.”
“Nell,” Theodora said, “don’t be frightened. It will be all right, really.”
“Of course it will be all right,” Luke said grimly. “Probably it will only be my neck that gets broken. Hold on, Nell; I’m coming onto the platform. I want to get past you so you can go down ahead of me.” He seemed hardly out of breath, in spite of climbing, but his hand trembled as he reached out to take hold of the railing, and his face was wet. “Come on,” he said sharply.
Eleanor hung back. “The last time you told me to go ahead you never followed,” she said.
“Perhaps I will just push you over the edge,” Luke said. “Let you smash down there on the floor. Now behave yourself and move slowly; get past me and start down the stairs. And just hope,” he added furiously, “that I can resist the temptation to give you a shove.”
Meekly she came along the platform and pressed h
Precariously, the iron stairway shaking and groaning with every step, she felt her way. She looked at her hand on the railing, white because she was holding so tight, and at her bare feet going one at a time, step by step, moving with extreme care, but never looked down again to the stone floor. Go down very slowly, she told herself over and over, not thinking of more than the steps which seemed almost to bend and buckle beneath her feet, go down very very very slowly. “Steady,” Luke said behind her. “Take it easy, Nell, nothing to be afraid of, we’re almost there.”
Involuntarily, below her, the doctor and Theodora held out their arms, as though ready to catch her if she fell, and once when Eleanor stumbled and missed a step, the handrail wavering as she clung to it, Theodora gasped and ran to hold the end of the stairway. “It’s all right, my Nellie,” she said over and over, “it’s all right, it’s all right.”
“Only a little farther,” the doctor said.
Creeping, Eleanor slid her feet down, one step after another, and at last, almost before she could believe it, stepped off onto the stone floor. Behind her the stairway rocked and clanged as Luke leaped down the last few steps and walked steadily across the room to fall against a chair and stop, head down and trembling still. Eleanor turned and looked up to the infinitely high little spot where she had been standing, at the iron stairway, warped and crooked and swaying against the tower wall, and said in a small voice, “I ran up. I ran up all the way.”
Mrs. Montague moved purposefully forward from the doorway where she and Arthur had been sheltering against the probable collapse of the stairway. “Does anybody agree with me,” she asked with great delicacy, “in thinking that this young woman has given us quite enough trouble tonight? I, for one, would like to go back to bed, and so would Arthur.”
“Hill House—” the doctor began.