“How weary one gets of this constant pounding,” Theodora said ridiculously. “Next summer, I must really go somewhere else.”
“There are disadvantages everywhere,” Luke told her. “In the lake regions you get mosquitoes.”
“Could we have exhausted the repertoire of Hill House?” Theodora asked, her voice shaking in spite of her light tone. “Seems like we’ve had this pounding act before; is it going to start everything all over again?” The crashing echoed along the hall, seeming to come from the far end, the farthest from the nursery, and the doctor, tense against the door, shook his head anxiously. “I’m going to have to go out there,” he said. “She might be frightened,” he told them.
Eleanor, rocking to the pounding, which seemed inside her head as much as in the hall, holding tight to Theodora, said, “They know where we are,” and the others, assuming that she meant Arthur and Mrs. Montague, nodded and listened. The knocking, Eleanor told herself, pressing her hands to her eyes and swaying with the noise, will go on down the hall, it will go on and on to the end of the hall and turn and come back again, it will just go on and on the way it did before and then it will stop and we will look at each other and laugh and try to remember how cold we were, and the little swimming curls of fear on our backs; after a while it will stop.
“It never hurt us,” Theodora was telling the doctor, across the noise of the pounding. “It won’t hurt them.”
“I only hope she doesn’t try to do anything about it,” the doctor said grimly; he was still at the door, but seemingly unable to open it against the volume of noise outside.
“I feel positively like an old hand at this,” Theodora said to Eleanor. “Come closer, Nell; keep warm,” and she pulled Eleanor even nearer to her under the blanket, and the sickening, still cold surrounded them.
Then there came, suddenly, quiet, and the secret creeping silence they all remembered; holding their breaths, they looked at one another. The doctor held the doorknob with both hands, and Luke, although his face was white and his voice trembled, said lightly, “Brandy, anyone? My passion for spirits—”
“No.” Theodora giggled wildly. “Not that pun,” she said.
“Sorry. You won’t believe me,” Luke said, the brandy decanter rattling against the glass as he tried to pour, “but I no longer think of it as a pun. That is what living in a haunted house does for a sense of humor.” Using both hands to carry the glass, he came to the bed where Theodora and Eleanor huddled under the blanket, and Theodora brought out one hand and took the glass. “Here,” she said, holding it to Eleanor’s mouth. “Drink.”
Sipping, not warmed, Eleanor thought, We are in the eye of the storm; there is not much more time. She watched Luke carefully carry a glass of brandy over to the doctor and hold it out, and then, without comprehending, watched the glass slip through Luke’s fingers to the floor as the door was shaken, violently and silently. Luke pulled the doctor back, and the door was attacked without sound, seeming almost to be pulling away from its hinges, almost ready to buckle and go down, leaving them exposed. Backing away, Luke and the doctor waited, tense and helpless.
“It can’t get in,” Theodora was whispering over and over, her eyes on the door, “it can’t get in, don’t let it get in, it can’t get in—” The shaking stopped, the door was quiet, and a little caressing touch began on the doorknob, feeling intimately and softly and then, because the door was locked, patting and fondling the doorframe, as though wheedling to be let in.
“It knows we’re here,” Eleanor whispered, and Luke, looking back at her over his shoulder, gestured furiously for her to be quiet.
It is so cold, Eleanor thought childishly; I will never be able to sleep again with all this noise coming from inside my head; how can these others hear the noise when it is coming from inside my head? I am disappearing inch by inch into this house, I am going apart a little bit at a time because all this noise is breaking me; why are the others frightened?
She was aware, dully, that the pounding had begun again, the metallic overwhelming sound of it washed over her like waves; she put her cold hands to her mouth to feel if her face was still there; I have had enough, she thought, I am too cold.
“At the nursery door,” Luke said tensely, speaking clearly through the noise. “At the nursery door; don’t.” And he put out a hand to stop the doctor.
“Purest love,” Theodora said madly, “purest love.” And she began to giggle again.
“If they don’t open the doors—” Luke said to the doctor. The doctor stood now with his head against the door, listening, with Luke holding his arm to keep him from moving.
Now we are going to have a new noise, Eleanor thought, listening to the inside of her head; it is changing. The pounding had stopped, as though it had proved ineffectual, and there was now a swift movement up and down the hall, as of an animal pacing back and forth with unbelievable impatience, watching first one door and then another, alert for a movement inside, and there was again the little babbling murmur which Eleanor remembered; Am I doing it? she wondered quickly, is that me? And heard the tiny laughter beyond the door, mocking her.
“Fe-fi-fo-fum,” Theodora said under her breath, and the laughter swelled and became a shouting; it’s inside my head, Eleanor thought, putting her hands over her face, it’s inside my head and it’s getting out, getting out, getting out—
Now the house shivered and shook, the curtains dashing against the windows, the furniture swaying, and the noise in the hall became so great that it pushed against the walls; they could hear breaking glass as the pictures in the hall came down, and perhaps the smashing of windows. Luke and the doctor strained against the door, as though desperately holding it shut, and the floor moved under their feet. We’re going, we’re going, Eleanor thought, and heard Theodora say, far away, “The house is coming down.” She sounded calm, and beyond fear. Holding to the bed, buffeted and shaken, Eleanor put her head down and closed her eyes and bit her lips against the cold and felt the sickening drop as the room fell away beneath her and then right itself and then turned, slowly, swinging. “God almighty,” Theodora said, and a mile away at the door Luke caught the doctor and held him upright.
“Are you all right?” Luke called, back braced against the door, holding the doctor by the shoulders. “Theo, are you all right?”
“Hanging on,” Theodora said. “I don’t know about Nell.”
“Keep her warm,” Luke said, far away. “We haven’t seen it all yet.” His voice trailed away; Eleanor could hear and see him far away in the distant room where he and Theodora and the doctor still waited; in the churning darkness where she fell endlessly nothing was real except her own hands white around the bedpost. She could see them, very small, and see them tighten when the bed rocked and the wall leaned forward and the door turned sideways far away. Somewhere there was a great, shaking crash as some huge thing came headlong; it must be the tower, Eleanor thought, and I supposed it would stand for years; we are lost, lost; the house is destroying itself. She heard the laughter over all, coming thin and lunatic, rising in its little crazy tune, and thought, No; it is over for me. It is too much, she thought, I will relinquish my possession of this self of mine, abdicate, give over willingly what I never wanted at all; whatever it wants of me it can have.
“I’ll come,” she said aloud, and was speaking up to Theodora, who leaned over her. The room was perfectly quiet, and between the still curtains at the window she could see the sunlight. Luke sat in a chair by the window; his face was bruised and his shirt was torn, and he was still drinking brandy. The doctor sat back in another chair; his hair freshly combed, looking neat and dapper and self-possessed. Theodora, leaning over Eleanor, said, “She’s all right, I think,” and Eleanor sat up and shook her head, staring. Composed and quiet, the house lifted itself primly around her, and nothing had been moved.
“How . . .” Eleanor said, and all three of them laughed.
“Another day,” the doctor said, and in spite of his appear
ance his voice was wan. “Another night,” he said.
“As I tried to say earlier,” Luke remarked, “living in a haunted house plays hell with a sense of humor; I really did not intend to make a forbidden pun,” he told Theodora.
“How—are they?” Eleanor asked, the words sounding unfamiliar and her mouth stiff.
“Both sleeping like babies,” the doctor said. “Actually,” he said, as though continuing a conversation begun while Eleanor slept, “I cannot believe that my wife stirred up that storm, but I do admit that one more word about pure love . . .”
“What happened?” Eleanor asked; I must have been gritting my teeth all night, she thought, the way my mouth feels.
“Hill House went dancing,” Theodora said, “taking us along on a mad midnight fling. At least, I think it was dancing; it might have been turning somersaults.”
“It’s almost nine,” the doctor said. “When Eleanor is ready . . .”
“Come along, baby,” Theodora said. “Theo will wash your face for you and make you all neat for breakfast.”
8
Did anyone tell them that Mrs. Dudley clears at ten?” Theodora looked into the coffee pot speculatively.
The doctor hesitated. “I hate to wake them after such a night.”
“But Mrs. Dudley clears at ten.”
“They’re coming,” Eleanor said. “I can hear them on the stairs.” I can hear everything, all over the house, she wanted to tell them.
Then, distantly, they could all hear Mrs. Montague’s voice, raised in irritation and Luke, realizing, said, “Oh, Lord—they can’t find the dining room,” and hurried out to open doors.
“—properly aired.” Mrs. Montague’s voice preceded her, and she swept into the dining room, tapped the doctor curtly on the shoulder by way of greeting and seated herself with a general nod to the others. “I must say,” she began at once, “that I think you might have called us for breakfast. I suppose everything is cold? Is the coffee bearable?”
“Good morning,” Arthur said sulkily, and sat down himself with an air of sullen ill temper. Theodora almost upset the coffee pot in her haste to set a cup of coffee before Mrs. Montague.
“It seems hot enough,” Mrs. Montague said. “I shall speak to your Mrs. Dudley this morning in any case. That room must be aired.”
“And your night?” the doctor asked timidly. “Did you spend a—ah—profitable night?”
“If by profitable you meant comfortable, John, I wish you would say so. No, in answer to your most civil inquiry, I did not spend a comfortable night. I did not sleep a wink. That room is unendurable.”
“Noisy old house, isn’t it?” Arthur said. “Branch kept tapping against my window all night; nearly drove me crazy, tapping and tapping.”
“Even with the windows open that room is stuffy. Mrs. Dudley’s coffee is not as poor as her housekeeping. Another cup, if you please. I am astonished, John, that you put me in a room not properly aired; if there is to be any communication with those beyond, the air circulation, at least, ought to be adequate. I smelled dust all night.”
“Can’t understand you,” Arthur said to the doctor, “letting yourself get all nervy about this place. Sat there all night long with my revolver and not a mouse stirred. Except for that infernal branch tapping on the window. Nearly drove me crazy,” he confided to Theodora.
“We will not give up hope, of course.” Mrs. Montague scowled at her husband. “Perhaps tonight there may be some manifestations.”
2
“Theo?” Eleanor put down her notepad, and Theodora, scribbling busily, looked up with a frown. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“I hate writing these notes; I feel like a damn fool trying to write this crazy stuff.”
“I’ve been wondering.”
“Well?” Theodora smiled a little. “You look so serious,” she said. “Are you coming to some great decision?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, deciding. “About what I’m going to do afterwards. After we all leave Hill House.”
“Well?”
“I’m coming with you,” Eleanor said.
“Coming where with me?”
“Back with you, back home. I”—and Eleanor smiled wryly—“am going to follow you home.”
Theodora stared. “Why?” she asked blankly.
“I never had anyone to care about,” Eleanor said, wondering where she had heard someone say something like this before. “I want to be someplace where I belong.”
“I am not in the habit of taking home stray cats,” Theodora said lightly.
Eleanor laughed too. “I am a kind of stray cat, aren’t I?”
“Well.” Theodora took up her pencil again. “You have your own home,” she said. “You’ll be glad enough to get back to it when the time comes, Nell my Nellie. I suppose we’ll all be glad to get back home. What are you saying about those noises last night? I can’t describe them.”
“I’ll come, you know,” Eleanor said. “I’ll just come.”
“Nellie, Nellie.” Theodora laughed again. “Look,” she said. “This is just a summer, just a few weeks’ visit to a lovely old summer resort in the country. You have your life back home, I have my life. When the summer is over, we go back. We’ll write each other, of course, and maybe visit, but Hill House is not forever, you know.”
“I can get a job; I won’t be in your way.”
“I don’t understand.” Theodora threw down her pencil in exasperation. “Do you always go where you’re not wanted?”
Eleanor smiled placidly. “I’ve never been wanted anywhere,” she said.
3
“It’s all so motherly,” Luke said. “Everything so soft. Everything so padded. Great embracing chairs and sofas which turn out to be hard and unwelcome when you sit down, and reject you at once—”
“Theo?” Eleanor said softly, and Theodora looked at her and shook her head in bewilderment.
“—and hands everywhere. Little soft glass hands, curving out to you, beckoning—”
“Theo?” Eleanor said.
“No,” Theodora said. “I won’t have you. And I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
“Perhaps,” Luke said, watching them, “the single most repulsive aspect is the emphasis upon the globe. I ask you to regard impartially the lampshade made of tiny pieces of broken glass glued together, or the great round balls of the lights upon the stairs or the fluted iridescent candy jar at Theo’s elbow. In the dining room there is a bowl of particularly filthy yellow glass resting upon the cupped hands of a child, and an Easter egg of sugar with a vision of shepherds dancing inside. A bosomy lady supports the stair-rail on her head, and under glass in the drawing room—”
“Nellie, leave me alone. Let’s walk down to the brook or something.”
“—a child’s face, done in cross-stitch. Nell, don’t look so apprehensive; Theo has only suggested that you walk down to the brook. If you like, I will go along.”
“Anything,” Theodora said.
“To frighten away rabbits. If you like, I will carry a stick. If you like, I will not come at all. Theo has only to say the word.”
Theodora laughed. “Perhaps Nell would rather stay here and write on walls.”
“So unkind,” Luke said. “Callous of you, Theo.”
“I want to hear more about the shepherds dancing in the Easter egg,” Theodora said.
“A world contained in sugar. Six very tiny shepherds dancing, and a shepherdess in pink and blue reclining upon a mossy bank enjoying them; there are flowers and trees and sheep, and an old goatherd playing pipes. I would like to have been a goatherd, I think.”
“If you were not a bullfighter,” Theodora said.
“If I were not a bullfighter. Nell’s affairs are the talk of the cafés, you will recall.”
“Pan,” Theodora said. “You should live in a hollow tree, Luke.”
“Nell,” Luke said, “you are not listening.”
“I think you frighten her, Lu
ke.”
“Because Hill House will be mine someday, with its untold treasures and its cushions? I am not gentle with a house, Nell; I might take a fit of restlessness and smash the sugar Easter egg, or shatter the little child hands or go stomping and shouting up and down the stairs striking at glued-glass lamps with a cane and slashing at the bosomy lady with the staircase on her head; I might—”
“You see? You do frighten her.”
“I believe I do,” Luke said. “Nell, I am only talking nonsense.”
“I don’t think he even owns a cane,” Theodora said.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Nell, I am only talking nonsense. What is she thinking about, Theo?”
Theodora said carefully, “She wants me to take her home with me after we leave Hill House, and I won’t do it.”
Luke laughed. “Poor silly Nell,” he said. “Journeys end in lovers meeting. Let’s go down to the brook.”
“A mother house,” Luke said, as they came down the steps from the veranda to the lawn, “a housemother, a headmistress, a housemistress. I am sure I will be a very poor housemaster, like our Arthur, when Hill House belongs to me.”
“I can’t understand anyone wanting to own Hill House,” Theodora said, and Luke turned and looked back with amusement at the house.