Shirley Jackson, patron saint of all things terrifying
THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE
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 contin ued 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.
This week, I’ve delved into some intense brainstorming for a new project (at least, I hope so!). I tend to not speak too much about writing in its infancy: is it superstition, the idea that once words are shared the entire project will fizzle or the concept of simply holding it in my heart before releasing it? I’m not exactly sure - maybe, a bit of everything.
But what I do know and don’t mind sharing is my love and obsession with my own patron saint, Shirley Jackson. She slays at the uncanny, making the mundane spooky and the domestic and psychological inner lives of her characters entirely terrifying.
So, as I spent yesterday thinking about the plot, setting and logistics of this infant premise, my mind kept wandering back to Hill House and the opening paragraph of The Haunting of Hill House. It is one of the most perfect and divine openings of any literature - Gothic or not - and in so few sentences, sets the scene and spine of horror for the rest of the narrative.
Book Riot has an article of 48 Terrifying Quotes from The Haunting of Hill House, but why not just read the whole book! I swear, it’s great. While you’re at it, you can supplement your Shirley reading with the recent biography, A Rather Haunted LIfe by Ruth Franklin.
But back to that opening paragraph: it personifies the house, sets the reader up for an experience that will no doubt be haunted and uncanny, as well as posits a sense of isolation and dread (‘whatever walked there, walked alone’).
At the moment, St Shirley and her ouvre are acting as a creative lodestar; guiding me through the sludge and excitement that is this project. I hope the flavour and foreboding comes through just like in Shirley Jackson’s work, and light and dark are refracted throughout my story.
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