The Haunting of Hill House

by Shirley Jackson

  “This childish nonsense has almost certainly destroyed any chance of manifestations tonight, I can tell you. I certainly do not look to see any of our friends from beyond after this ridiculous performance, so if you will all excuse me—and if you are sure that you are finished with your posturing and performing and waking up busy people—I will say good night. Arthur.” Mrs. Montague swept out, dragon rampant, quivering with indignation.

  “Luke was scared,” Eleanor said, looking at the doctor and at Theodora.

  “Luke was most certainly scared,” he agreed from behind her. “Luke was so scared he almost didn’t get himself down from there. Nell, what an imbecile you are.”

  “I would be inclined to agree with Luke.” The doctor was displeased, and Eleanor looked away, looked at Theodora, and Theodora said, “I suppose you had to do it, Nell?”

  “I’m all right,” Eleanor said, and could no longer look at any of them. She looked, surprised, down at her own bare feet, realizing suddenly that they had carried her, unfeeling, down the iron stairway. She thought, looking at her feet, and then raised her head. “I came down to the library to get a book,” she said.

  2

  It was humiliating, disastrous. Nothing was said at breakfast, and Eleanor was served coffee and eggs and rolls just like the others. She was allowed to linger over her coffee with the rest of them, observe the sunlight outside, comment upon the good day ahead; for a few minutes she might have been persuaded to believe that nothing had happened. Luke passed her the marmalade, Theodora smiled at her over Arthur’s head, the doctor bade her good morning. Then, after breakfast, after Mrs. Dudley’s entrance at ten, they came without comment, following one another silently, to the little parlor, and the doctor took his position before the fireplace. Theodora was wearing Eleanor’s red sweater.

  “Luke will bring your car around,” the doctor said gently. In spite of what he was saying, his eyes were considerate and friendly. “Theodora will go up and pack for you.”

  Eleanor giggled. “She can’t. She won’t have anything to wear.”

  “Nell—” Theodora began, and stopped and glanced at Mrs. Montague, who shrugged her shoulders and said, “I examined the room. Naturally. I can’t imagine why none of you thought to do it.”

  “I was going to,” the doctor said apologetically. “But I thought—”

  “You always think, John, and that’s your trouble. Naturally I examined the room at once.”

  “Theodora’s room?” Luke asked. “I wouldn’t like to go in there again.”

  Mrs. Montague sounded surprised. “I can’t think why not,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I went in and looked at my clothes,” Theodora said to the doctor. “They’re perfectly fine.”

  “The room needs dusting, naturally, but what can you expect if you lock the door and Mrs. Dudley cannot—”

  The doctor’s voice rose over his wife’s. “—cannot tell you how sorry I am,” he was saying. “If there is ever anything I can do . . .”

  Eleanor laughed. “But I can’t leave,” she said, wondering where to find words to explain.

  “You have been here quite long enough,” the doctor said.

  Theodora stared at her. “I don’t need your clothes,” she said patiently. “Didn’t you just hear Mrs. Montague? I don’t need your clothes, and even if I did I wouldn’t wear them now; Nell, you’ve got to go away from here.”

  “But I can’t leave,” Eleanor said, laughing still because it was so perfectly impossible to explain.

  “Madam,” Luke said somberly, “you are no longer welcome as my guest.”

  “Perhaps Arthur had better drive her back to the city. Arthur could see that she gets there safely.”

  “Gets where?” Eleanor shook her head at them, feeling her lovely heavy hair around her face. “Gets where?” she asked happily.

  “Why,” the doctor said, “home, of course,” and Theodora said, “Nell, your own little place, your own apartment, where all your things are,” and Eleanor laughed.

  “I haven’t any apartment,” she said to Theodora. “I made it up. I sleep on a cot at my sister’s, in the baby’s room. I haven’t any home, no place at all. And I can’t go back to my sister’s because I stole her car.” She laughed, hearing her own words, so inadequate and so unutterably sad. “I haven’t any home,” she said again, and regarded them hopefully. “No home. Everything in all the world that belongs to me is in a carton in the back of my car. That’s all I have, some books and things I had when I was a little girl, and a watch my mother gave me. So you see there’s no place you can send me.”

  I could, of course, go on and on, she wanted to tell them, seeing always their frightened, staring faces. I could go on and on, leaving my clothes for Theodora; I could go wandering and homeless, errant, and I would always come back here. It would be simpler to let me stay, more sensible, she wanted to tell them, happier.

  “I want to stay here,” she said to them.

  “I’ve already spoken to the sister,” Mrs. Montague said importantly. “I must say, she asked first about the car. A vulgar person; I told her she need have no fear. You were very wrong, John, to let her steal her sister’s car and come here.”

  “My dear,” Dr. Montague began, and stopped, spreading his hands helplessly.

  “At any rate, she is expected. The sister was most annoyed at me because they had planned to go off on their vacation today, although why she should be annoyed at me . . .” Mrs. Montague scowled at Eleanor. “I do think someone ought to see her safely into their hands,” she said.

  The doctor shook his head. “It would be a mistake,” he said slowly. “It would be a mistake to send one of us with her. She must be allowed to forget everything about this house as soon as she can; we cannot prolong the association. Once away from here, she will be herself again; can you find your way home?” he asked Eleanor, and Eleanor laughed.

  “I’ll go and get that packing done,” Theodora said. “Luke, check her car and bring it around; she’s only got one suitcase.”

  “Walled up alive.” Eleanor began to laugh again at their stone faces. “Walled up alive,” she said. “I want to stay here.”

  3

  They made a solid line along the steps of Hill House, guarding the door. Beyond their heads she could see the windows looking down, and to one side the tower waited confidently. She might have cried if she could have thought of any way of telling them why; instead, she smiled brokenly up at the house, looking at her own window, at the amused, certain face of the house, watching her quietly. The house was waiting now, she thought, and it was waiting for her; no one else could satisfy it. “The house wants me to stay,” she told the doctor, and he stared at her. He was standing very stiff and with great dignity, as though he expected her to choose him instead of the house, as though, having brought her here, he thought that by unwinding his directions he could send her back again. His back was squarely turned to the house, and, looking at him honestly, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry, really.”

  “You’ll go to Hillsdale,” he said levelly; perhaps he was afraid of saying too much, perhaps he thought that a kind word, or a sympathetic one, might rebound upon himself and bring her back. The sun was shining on the hills and the house and the garden and the lawn and the trees and the brook; Eleanor took a deep breath and turned, seeing it all. “In Hillsdale turn onto Route Five going east; at Ashton you will meet Route Thirtynine, and that will take you home. For your own safety,” he added with a kind of urgency, “for your own safety, my dear; believe me, if I had foreseen this—”

  “I’m really terribly sorry,” she said.

  “We can’t take chances, you know, any chances. I am only beginning to perceive what a terrible risk I was asking of you all. Now . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “You’ll remember?” he asked. “To Hillsdale, and then Route Five—”

  “Look.” Eleanor was quiet for a minute, wanting to tell them all exactly how it wa
s. “I wasn’t afraid,” she said at last. “I really wasn’t afraid. I’m fine now. I was—happy.” She looked earnestly at the doctor. “Happy,” she said. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, afraid again that she was going to cry. “I don’t want to go away from here.”

  “There might be a next time,” the doctor said sternly. “Can’t you understand that we cannot take that chance?”

  Eleanor faltered. “Someone is praying for me,” she said foolishly. “A lady I met a long time ago.”

  The doctor’s voice was gentle, but he tapped his foot impatiently. “You will forget all of this quite soon,” he said. “You must forget everything about Hill House. I was so wrong to bring you here,” he said.

  “How long have we been here?” Eleanor asked suddenly.

  “A little over a week. Why?”

  “It’s the only time anything’s ever happened to me. I liked it.”

  “That,” said the doctor, “is why you are leaving in such a hurry.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes and sighed, feeling and hearing and smelling the house; a flowering bush beyond the kitchen was heavy with scent, and the water in the brook moved sparkling over the stones. Far away, upstairs, perhaps in the nursery, a little eddy of wind gathered itself and swept along the floor, carrying dust. In the library the iron stairway swayed, and light glittered on the marble eyes of Hugh Crain; Theodora’s yellow shirt hung neat and unstained, Mrs. Dudley was setting the lunch table for five. Hill House watched, arrogant and patient. “I won’t go away,” Eleanor said up to the high windows.

  “You will go away,” the doctor said, showing his impatience at last. “Right now.”

  Eleanor laughed, and turned, holding out her hand. “Luke,” she said, and he came toward her, silent. “Thank you for bringing me down last night,” she said. “That was wrong of me. I know it now, and you were very brave.”

  “I was indeed,” Luke said. “It was an act of courage far surpassing any other in my life. And I am glad to see you going, Nell, because I would certainly never do it again.”

  “Well, it seems to me,” Mrs. Montague said, “if you’re going you’d better get on with it. I’ve no quarrel with saying good-by, although I personally feel that you’ve all got an exaggerated view of this place, but I do think we’ve got better things to do than stand here arguing when we all know you’ve got to go. You’ll be a time as it is, getting back to the city, and your sister waiting to go on her vacation.”

  Arthur nodded. “Tearful farewells,” he said. “Don’t hold with them, myself.”

  Far away, in the little parlor, the ash dropped softly in the fireplace. “John,” Mrs. Montague said, “possibly it would be better if Arthur—”

  “No,” the doctor said strongly. “Eleanor has to go back the way she came.”

  “And who do I thank for a lovely time?” Eleanor asked.

  The doctor took her by the arm and, with Luke beside her, led her to her car and opened the door for her. The carton was still on the back seat, her suitcase was on the floor, her coat and pocketbook on the seat; Luke had left the motor running. “Doctor,” Eleanor said, clutching at him, “Doctor.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Good-by.”

  “Drive carefully,” Luke said politely.

  “You can’t just make me go,” she said wildly. “You brought me here.”

  “And I am sending you away,” the doctor said. “We won’t forget you, Eleanor. But right now the only important thing for you is to forget Hill House and all of us. Good-by.”

  “Good-by,” Mrs. Montague said firmly from the steps, and Arthur said, “Good-by, have a good trip.”

  Then Eleanor, her hand on the door of the car, stopped and turned. “Theo?” she said inquiringly, and Theodora ran down the steps to her.

  “I thought you weren’t going to say good-by to me,” she said. “Oh, Nellie, my Nell—be happy; please be happy. Don’t really forget me; someday things really will be all right again, and you’ll write me letters and I’ll answer and we’ll visit each other and we’ll have fun talking over the crazy things we did and saw and heard in Hill House—oh, Nellie! I thought you weren’t going to say good-by to me.”

  “Good-by,” Eleanor said to her.

  “Nellie,” Theodora said timidly, and put out a hand to touch Eleanor’s cheek, “listen—maybe someday we can meet here again? And have our picnic by the brook? We never had our picnic,” she told the doctor, and he shook his head, looking at Eleanor.

  “Good-by,” Eleanor said to Mrs. Montague, “good-by, Arthur. Good-by, Doctor. I hope your book is very successful. Luke,” she said, “good-by. And good-by.”

  “Nell,” Theodora said, “please be careful.”

  “Good-by,” Eleanor said, and slid into the car; it felt unfamiliar and awkward; I am too used already to the comforts of Hill House, she thought, and reminded herself to wave a hand from the car window. “Good-by,” she called, wondering if there had ever been another word for her to say, “good-by, good-by.” Clumsily, her hands fumbling, she released the brake and let the car move slowly.

  They waved back at her dutifully, standing still, watching her. They will watch me down the drive as far as they can see, she thought; it is only civil for them to look at me until I am out of sight; so now I am going. Journeys end in lovers meeting. But I won’t go, she thought, and laughed aloud to herself; Hill House is not as easy as they are; just by telling me to go away they can’t make me leave, not if Hill House means me to stay. “Go away, Eleanor,” she chanted aloud, “go away, Eleanor, we don’t want you any more, not in our Hill House, go away, Eleanor, you can’t stay here; but I can,” she sang, “but I can; they don’t make the rules around here. They can’t turn me out or shut me out or laugh at me or hide from me; I won’t go, and Hill House belongs to me.”

  With what she perceived as quick cleverness she pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator; they can’t run fast enough to catch me this time, she thought, but by now they must be beginning to realize; I wonder who notices first? Luke, almost certainly. I can hear them calling now, she thought, and the little footsteps running through Hill House and the soft sound of the hills pressing closer. I am really doing it, she thought, turning the wheel to send the car directly at the great tree at the curve of the driveway, I am really doing it, I am doing this all by myself, now, at last; this is me, I am really really really doing it by myself.

  In the unending, crashing second before the car hurled into the tree she thought clearly, Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? Why don’t they stop me?

  4

  Mrs. Sanderson was enormously relieved to hear that Dr. Montague and his party had left Hill House; she would have turned them out, she told the family lawyer, if Dr. Montague had shown any sign of wanting to stay. Theodora’s friend, mollified and contrite, was delighted to see Theodora back so soon; Luke took himself off to Paris, where his aunt fervently hoped he would stay for a while. Dr. Montague finally retired from active scholarly pursuits after the cool, almost contemptuous reception of his preliminary article analyzing the psychic phenomena of Hill House. Hill House itself, not sane, stood against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, its walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.