Penguin Classics, $17.00, ISBN 978-0-14-303998-3
Horror, 2006 (Reissue)
The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson’s 1959 gothic horror masterpiece, is sublime, chilling, and utterly superior to its many offspring. You’ve heard of them: the 1999 film adaptation, a veritable house of horrors where bad CGI roams free, or the Netflix series, which decided to swap Ms Jackson’s dread-soaked ambiguity for a dysfunctional family drama. But the book walks alone in its brilliance.
The story begins with a classic horror setup. Dr John Montague, a scientist with an unfortunate interest in the paranormal, invites three strangers to investigate the sinister Hill House. There’s Eleanor, a shy, lonely woman who could unravel at a harsh look; Theodora, her bohemian counterpart, oozing confidence and charm; and Luke, a ne’er-do-well heir whose job is to ensure no one sues. Together, they brave Hill House, a place so steeped in malevolence that it practically hums with menace.
Ah, but the real horror is in Eleanor’s mind. Is she connecting with something supernatural, or are we watching her psyche crumble under the weight of loneliness and suppressed trauma? Jackson makes you feel like the walls are closing in, and you’re never quite sure if it’s the house or Eleanor herself doing the squeezing.
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, 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.
Shirley Jackson is nothing short of a literary sorceress. Her prose doesn’t just describe; it possesses. From the first page, Hill House is alive—malevolent and breathing. The line *“whatever walked there, walked alone” has more spine-chilling power than an entire catalog of slasher films.
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.
And oh, the ambiguity! Is the house haunted? Is Eleanor losing her grip on reality? It’s a delicious guessing game that Jackson refuses to let you win. She plays psychological horror like a maestro, proving that the scariest ghosts are the ones you can’t see—or worse, the ones in your own mind.
Now, let’s address the elephant in the haunted room. If you’re looking for spectral jump scares or poltergeists gleefully flinging furniture, you’ll be sorely disappointed. Hill House doesn’t rely on such plebeian tricks. Instead, it marinates you in dread—slowly, expertly, until you realize your nails are chewed to the quick. Some might call this a flaw; I call it elevated horror.
Admittedly, the pacing can feel as slow as molasses in December. Eleanor’s neurotic inner monologue is equal parts fascinating and exhausting, and for all its brilliance, the novel does occasionally teeter on the edge of navel-gazing. But these are minor quibbles, like finding a cobweb in an otherwise perfect Victorian library.
For those who love their horror with layers—psychological, supernatural, existential—The Haunting of Hill House is essential reading. Shirley Jackson doesn’t just craft a haunted house; she builds a labyrinthine prison for the mind and dares you to step inside. Forget the flashy adaptations and pick up the original. It’s a terrifying, beautiful, and utterly worthwhile visit… just don’t expect Hill House to let you leave unscathed.
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.
Go on, brave reader. If you dare.
