The Haunting of Hill House (12 page)

“Was anything ever really stolen?” Luke asked.

“As I told you, the companion was finally pressed into saying that one or two things seemed to be missing, but could not say for sure. As you can imagine, the story of the nightly intruder did a good deal to enhance Hill House’s further reputation. Moreover, the Sandersons did not live here at all. They spent a few days in the house, telling the villagers that they were preparing it for their immediate occupancy, and then abruptly cleared out, closing the house the way it stood. They told around the village that urgent business took them to live in the city, but the villagers thought they knew better. No one has lived in the house since for more than a few days at a time. It has been on the market, for sale or rent, ever since. Well, that is a long story. I need more brandy.”

“Those two poor little girls,” Eleanor said, looking into the fire. “I can’t forget them, walking through these dark rooms, trying to play dolls, maybe, in here or those bedrooms upstairs.”

“And so the old house has just been sitting here.” Luke put out a tentative finger and touched the marble cupid gingerly. “Nothing in it touched, nothing used, nothing here wanted by anyone any more, just sitting here thinking.”

“And waiting,” Eleanor said.

“And waiting,” the doctor confirmed. “Essentially,” he went on slowly, “the evil is the house itself, I think. It has enchained and destroyed its people and their lives, it is a place of contained ill will. Well. Tomorrow you will see it all. The Sandersons put in electricity and plumbing and a telephone when they first thought to live here, but otherwise nothing has been changed.”

“Well,” Luke said after a little silence, “I’m sure we will all be very comfortable here.”

Eleanor found herself unexpectedly admiring her own feet. Theodora dreamed over the fire just beyond the tips of her toes, and Eleanor thought with deep satisfaction that her feet were handsome in their red sandals; what a complete and separate thing I am, she thought, going from my red toes to the top of my head, individually an I, possessed of attributes belonging only to me. I have red shoes, she thought—that goes with being Eleanor; I dislike lobster and sleep on my left side and crack my knuckles when I am nervous and save buttons. I am holding a brandy glass which is mine because I am here and I am using it and I have a place in this room. I have red shoes and tomorrow I will wake up and I will still be here.

“I have red shoes,” she said very softly, and Theodora turned and smiled up at her.

“I
had
intended—” and the doctor looked around at them with bright, anxious optimism—“I
had
intended to ask if you all played bridge?”

“Of course,” Eleanor said. I play bridge, she thought; I used to have a cat named Dancer; I can swim.

“I’m afraid not,” Theodora said, and the other three turned and regarded her with frank dismay.

“Not at all?” the doctor asked.

“I’ve been playing bridge twice a week for eleven years,” Eleanor said, “with my mother and her lawyer and his wife—I’m
sure
you must play as well as
that
.”

“Maybe you could teach me?” Theodora asked. “I’m quick at learning games.”

“Oh, dear,” the doctor said, and Eleanor and Luke laughed.

“We’ll do something else instead,” Eleanor said; I can play bridge, she thought; I like apple pie with sour cream, and I drove here by myself.

“Backgammon,” the doctor said with bitterness.

“I play a fair game of chess,” Luke said to the doctor, who cheered at once.

Theodora set her mouth stubbornly. “I didn’t suppose we came here to play
games
,” she said.

“Relaxation,” the doctor said vaguely, and Theodora turned with a sullen shrug and stared again into the fire.

“I’ll get the chessmen, if you’ll tell me where,” Luke said, and the doctor smiled.

“Better let me go,” he said. “I’ve studied a floor plan of the house, remember. If we let you go off wandering by yourself we’d very likely never find you again.” As the door closed behind him Luke gave Theodora a quick curious glance and then came over to stand by Eleanor. “You’re not nervous, are you? Did that story frighten you?”

Eleanor shook her head emphatically, and Luke said, “You looked pale.”

“I probably ought to be in bed,” Eleanor said. “I’m not used to driving as far as I did today.”

“Brandy,” Luke said. “It will make you sleep better. You too,” he said to the back of Theodora’s head.

“Thank you,” Theodora said coldly, not turning. “I rarely have trouble sleeping.”

Luke grinned knowingly at Eleanor, and then turned as the doctor opened the door. “My wild imagination,” the doctor said, setting down the chess set. “What a house this is.”

“Did something happen?” Eleanor asked.

The doctor shook his head. “We probably ought to agree, now, not to wander around the house alone,” he said.

“What happened?” Eleanor asked.

“My own imagination,” the doctor said firmly. “This table all right, Luke?”

“It’s a lovely old chess set,” Luke said. “I wonder how the younger sister happened to overlook it.”

“I can tell you one thing,” the doctor said, “if it
was
the younger sister sneaking around this house at night, she had nerves of iron. It watches,” he added suddenly. “The house. It watches every move you make.” And then, “My own imagination, of course.”

In the light of the fire Theodora’s face was stiff and sulky; she likes attention, Eleanor thought wisely and, without thinking, moved and sat on the floor beside Theodora. Behind her she could hear the gentle sound of chessmen being set down on a board and the comfortable small movements of Luke and the doctor taking each other’s measure, and in the fire there were points of flame and little stirrings. She waited a minute for Theodora to speak, and then said agreeably, “Still hard to believe you’re really here?”

“I had no idea it would be so dull,” Theodora said.

“We’ll find plenty to do in the morning,” Eleanor said.

“At home there would be people around, and lots of talking and laughing and lights and excitement—”

“I suppose I don’t need such things,” Eleanor said, almost apologetically. “There never was much excitement for me. I had to stay with Mother, of course. And when she was asleep I kind of got used to playing solitaire or listening to the radio. I never could bear to read in the evenings because I had to read aloud to her for two hours every afternoon. Love stories”—and she smiled a little, looking into the fire. But that’s not all, she thought, astonished at herself, that doesn’t tell what it was like, even if I wanted to tell; why am I talking?

“I’m terrible, aren’t I?” Theodora moved quickly and put her hand over Eleanor’s. “I sit here and grouch because there’s nothing to amuse me; I’m very selfish. Tell me how horrible I am.” And in the firelight her eyes shone with delight.

“You’re horrible,” Eleanor said obediently; Theodora’s hand on her own embarrassed her. She disliked being touched, and yet a small physical gesture seemed to be Theodora’s chosen way of expressing contrition, or pleasure, or sympathy; I wonder if my fingernails are clean, Eleanor thought, and slid her hand away gently.

“I am horrible,” Theodora said, good-humored again. “I’m horrible and beastly and no one can stand me. There. Now tell me about yourself.”

“I’m horrible and beastly and no one can stand me.”

Theodora laughed. “Don’t make fun of me. You’re sweet and pleasant and everyone likes you very much; Luke has fallen madly in love with you, and I am jealous. Now I want to know more about you. Did you really take care of your mother for many years?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. Her fingernails
were
dirty, and her hand was badly shaped and people made jokes about love because sometimes it was funny. “Eleven years, until she died three months ago.”

“Were you sorry when she died? Should I say how sorry
I
am?”

“No. She wasn’t very happy.”

“And neither were you?”

“And neither was I.”

“But what about now? What did you do afterward, when you were free at last?”

“I sold the house,” Eleanor said. “My sister and I each took whatever we wanted from it, small things; there was really nothing much except little things my mother had saved—my father’s watch, and some old jewelry. Not at all like the sisters of Hill House.”

“And you sold everything else?”

“Everything. Just as soon as I could.”

“And then of course you started a gay, mad fling that brought you inevitably to Hill House?”

“Not exactly.” Eleanor laughed.

“But all those wasted years! Did you go on a cruise, look for exciting young men, buy new clothes . . . ?”

“Unfortunately,” Eleanor said dryly, “there was not at all that much money. My sister put her share into the bank for her little girl’s education. I did buy some clothes, to come to Hill House.” People like answering questions about themselves, she thought; what an odd pleasure it is. I would answer anything right now.

“What will you do when you go back? Do you have a job?”

“No, no job right now. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I know what
I
’ll do.” Theodora stretched luxuriously. “I’ll turn on every light in our apartment and just bask.”

“What is your apartment like?”

Theodora shrugged. “Nice,” she said. “We found an old place and fixed it up ourselves. One big room, and a couple of small bedrooms, nice kitchen—we painted it red and white and made over a lot of old furniture we dug up in junk shops—one really nice table, with a marble top. We both love doing over old things.”

“Are you married?” Eleanor asked.

There was a little silence, and then Theodora laughed quickly and said, “No.”

“Sorry,” Eleanor said, horribly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be curious.”

“You’re funny,” Theodora said and touched Eleanor’s cheek with her finger. There are lines by my eyes, Eleanor thought, and turned her face away from the fire. “Tell me where you live,” Theodora said.

Eleanor thought, looking down at her hands which were badly shaped. We could have afforded a laundress, she thought; it wasn’t fair. My hands are awful. “I have a little place of my own,” she said slowly. “An apartment, like yours, only I live alone. Smaller than yours, I’m sure. I’m still furnishing it—buying one thing at a time, you know, to make sure I get everything absolutely right. White curtains. I had to look for weeks before I found my little stone lions on each corner of the mantel, and I have a white cat and my books and records and pictures. Everything has to be exactly the way I want it, because there’s only me to use it; once I had a blue cup with stars painted on the inside; when you looked down into a cup of tea it was full of stars. I want a cup like that.”

“Maybe one will turn up someday, in my shop,” Theodora said. “Then I can send it to you. Someday you’ll get a little package saying ‘To Eleanor with love from her friend Theodora,’ and it will be a blue cup full of stars.”

“I would have stolen those gold-rimmed dishes,” Eleanor said, laughing.

“Mate,” Luke said, and the doctor said, “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“Blind luck,” Luke said cheerfully. “Have you ladies fallen asleep there by the fire?”

“Just about,” Theodora said. Luke came across the room and held out a hand to each of them to help them up, and Eleanor, moving awkwardly, almost fell; Theodora rose in a quick motion and stretched and yawned. “Theo is sleepy,” she said.

“I’ll have to lead you upstairs,” the doctor said. “Tomorrow we must really start to learn our way around. Luke, will you screen the fire?”

“Had we better make sure that the doors are locked?” Luke asked. “I imagine that Mrs. Dudley locked the back door when she left, but what about the others?”

“I hardly think we’ll catch anyone breaking in,” Theodora said. “Anyway, the little companion used to lock her doors, and what good did it do her?”

“Suppose we want to break out?” Eleanor asked.

The doctor glanced quickly at Eleanor and then away. “I see no need for locking doors,” he said quietly.

“There is certainly not much danger of burglars from the village,” Luke said.

“In any case,” the doctor said, “I will not sleep for an hour or so yet; at my age an hour’s reading before bedtime is essential, and I wisely brought
Pamela
with me. If any of you has trouble sleeping, I will read aloud to you. I never yet knew anyone who could not fall asleep with Richardson being read aloud to him.” Talking quietly, he led them down the narrow hallway and through the great front hall and to the stairs. “I have often planned to try it on very small children,” he went on.

Eleanor followed Theodora up the stairs; she had not realized until now how worn she was, and each step was an effort. She reminded herself naggingly that she was in Hill House, but even the blue room meant only, right now, the bed with the blue coverlet and the blue quilt. “On the other hand,” the doctor continued behind her, “a Fielding novel comparable in length, although hardly in subject matter, would never do for very young children. I even have doubts about Sterne—”

Theodora went to the door of the green room and turned and smiled. “If you feel the least bit nervous,” she said to Eleanor, “run right into my room.”

“I will,” Eleanor said earnestly. “Thank you; good night.”

“—and certainly not Smollett. Ladies, Luke and I are here, on the other side of the stairway—”

“What color are your rooms?” Eleanor asked, unable to resist.

“Yellow,” the doctor said, surprised.

“Pink,” Luke said with a dainty gesture of distaste.

“We’re blue and green down here,” Theodora said.

“I will be awake, reading,” the doctor said. “I will leave my door ajar, so I will certainly hear any sound. Good night. Sleep well.”