Hi guys

I was recently on a book tour thingamy in Ireland and, arriving at my hotel, was horrified to discover that I’d left my copy of Michael Grant’s

HUNGER at home! Very annoying, as I was halfway through and enjoying the follow-up to GONE immensely (by the way, head over here for Barry’s take on the 3rd book in the series, LIES). Now, I have a serious problem, dear reader. I CANNOT sleep without my nightly read. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a pretty brilliant problem – I LOVE reading – but what to do when there’s no book to hand? The instructions on the back of the shampoo sachets just didn’t cut the mustard as far as character and plot are concerned; the safety directions for the heated towel rail left much to be desired from a narrative point of view. But I was in luck. The hotel had what it (somewhat misleadingly) called a ’library’ – actually half a shelf of Dan Browns, Agatha Christies, and Jeffrey Archers. I had almost given up hope when I spied a slim, tatty volume sandwiched between a water-damaged Barbara Taylor Bradford and a dog-eared Danielle Steel. The spine was very scuffed, but my heart skipped a beat as I read -

THE HAU    G  OF HILL H  SE

I grabbed the book and returned to my room. Suddenly, I found myself aware of every creak, every whisper, every shifting shadow, for what I held in my clammy grasp was that perfect piece of fiction – a work of horror so subtle that it both draws you into the story while, at the same time, fine-tuning your senses into the absolute reality of the physical world around you. I had read the book before, many years ago. Now, as I sat up in bed, night light burning, I shivered in anticipation. I was about to enter a place of creeping horrors, of nightmares so shapeless they stay with you long after the terror of the mad axeman and the scarred serial killer has faded.  I was about to enter the world of an author who, as Stephen King has pointed out, never felt the need to shout. I was about to enter the domain of Shirley Jackson’s Hill House.

I’m not going to give you all the biographical stuff about Shirley Jackson – you’re clever people, you can seek her out for yourself (just don’t blame me if you run back to TBM all aquiver!). All I will say is this: to my mind, Shirley Jackson is one of the most important writers of ‘dark fiction’ in history. She had a unique ability to convey atmosphere and dread and a keen affinity for the troubled characters that populated her stories. She wrote many eerie tales; off the top of my head The Witch and her provocative The Lottery stand out as particularly memorable. In fact, The Lottery is now taught as a set text in many American high schools, and still has the power to chill the reader to the core with its message that violence is never too far away, even in the most ‘civilized’ of neighbourhoods.

In many ways The Haunting of Hill House is an anti-haunted house story – when we turn the last page, we are left wondering what really happened to Dr Montague and his guests during that fateful summer. Did a ghostly presence really walk the corridors of Hill House or was each uncanny occurrence the result of an hysterical hallucination projected by a vulnerable mind? In the end, it’s up to the reader to decide.

All this may make the book sound a bit weak in the ‘scares department’, but I guarantee you many a good spine-tingle should you step within these walls. In fact, the opening paragraph alone is one of the creepiest and most gripping in horror history. So much so that Stephen King quoted it in full in Part 1 of his second horror novel, ‘Salem’s Lot.

OK. You guys ready? I’ve picked up the house keys from Mrs Dudley, the caretaker (“I leave before dark comes,” she tells me, “so there won’t be anyone around if you need help.”). We’re walking up the drive, passing under the shadow of Hill House.  Hold on tight to my hand, won’t you…? Wait a minute. That is your hand, isn’t it? Your hand holding mine so close, so tight…? In the dark?

THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE

Shirley Jackson

 

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…

I love this opener because it’s all about setting the mood and tone for what’s to come. It marks out Hill House as something outside Nature itself (unlike larks and katydids, it is dreamless), as well as giving a sense of the house’s solidity, its undeniable ‘there-ness’, its terrifying reality. And the fact that, unlike mortal flesh, its firm walls and sturdy bricks will endure. Hill House is a place of death, and yet is itself deathless. I think it’s the spookiest opening paragraph in horror history but… I could be wrong (I usually am!). So come on, guys, tell me about your favourite opener and why it beats the horror of Hill House!

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