I’ve read Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House before. It might’ve been before I started this blog, or it might’ve been before I started writing about the books I’d read. Either way, when I search for a post on it, I don’t find one. This is a classic novel in the genre, but I found it rather sad both times I’ve read it. Eleanor is such a compelling, abused and discarded character. But in case you’re unfamiliar with this psychological horror story, here are the basics: Hill House is haunted. A professor, Dr. John Montague, somewhat hapless, decides to gather a couple of sensitives to try to investigate the hauntings. He plans to write a book about it. The two women he invites, Eleanor and Theodora, both had some psychic or Fortean experiences. The owner of Hill House insists that a member of the family be present, so Luke, a carefree young man, joins them.
The house “manifests” in various ways, but the occurrences while they’re there, center on Eleanor. Eleanor lives with her domineering sister after having been a caregiver for her dominating mother. She’s never been able to develop her own self, and she desperately wants to be accepted. She’ll lie to make that happen, but not maliciously. In fact, she’s quite childlike. While the half-hearted investigation takes place, the others begin to suspect Eleanor may be behind the events, or some of them. Then John’s insufferable wife arrives with her pretentious friend. Eleanor acts out, doing a foolhardy stunt that leads the others to dismiss her from the house. The story is creepy, but, like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, more like sad.
I decided to re-read it as autumn began to be felt in the air, and I had read a couple other of Jackson’s novels that I remembered better because they were more recent in my experience. Quite often this story is compared to Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw, another ambiguous ghost story involving a young lady who wants to be accepted. These characters are compelling in a Poeseque kind of way. Critics complained of my using Poe’s observations in Nightmares with the Bible, but these stories, by a woman and a man, are further exhibits in the case. They add a poignancy to the events because even as we’ve made some progress in women’s rights we still have a long way to go. No one doubts that Jackson’s writing is laced with metaphors. None of her characters can be considered “normal.” And yet, it’s the house that brings it all out. It’s a story worth pondering again.
