On the afternoon of the day when Mrs Montague was expected, Eleanor went alone into the hills above Hill House, not really intending to arrive at any place in particular, not even caring where or how she went, wanting only to be secret and out from under the heavy dark wood of the house. She found a small spot where the grass was soft and dry and lay down, wondering how many years it had been since she had lain on soft grass to be alone to think. Around her the trees and wild flowers, with that oddly courteous air of natural things suddenly interrupted in their pressing occupations of growing and dying, turned towards her with attention, as though, dull and imperceptive as she was, it was still necessary for them to be gentle to a creature so unfortunate as not to be rooted in the ground, forced to go from one place to another, heart-breakingly mobile. Idly Eleanor picked a wild daisy, which died in her fingers, and, lying on the grass, looked up into its dead face. There was nothing in her mind beyond an overwhelming wild happiness. She pulled at the daisy, and wondered, smiling at herself, What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

‘Put the bags down in the hall, Arthur,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘Wouldn’t you think there’d be someone here to help us with this door? They’ll have to get someone to take the bags upstairs. John? John?’

‘My dear, my dear.’ Dr Montague hurried into the hallway, carrying his napkin, and kissed his wife obediently on the cheek she held out for him. ‘How nice that you got here; we’d given you up.’

‘I said I’d be here today, didn’t I? Did you ever know me not to come when I said I would? I brought Arthur.’

‘Arthur,’ the doctor said without enthusiasm.

‘Well, somebody had to drive,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘I imagine you expected that I would drive myself all the way out here? Because you know perfectly well that I get tired. How do you do.’

The doctor turned, smiling on Eleanor and Theodora, with Luke behind them, clustered uncertainly in the doorway. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘these are my friends who have been staying in Hill House with me these past few days. Theodora. Eleanor Vance. Luke Sanderson.’

Theodora and Eleanor and Luke murmured civilly, and Mrs Montague nodded and said, ‘I see you didn’t bother to wait dinner for us.’

‘We’d given you up,’ the doctor said.

‘I believe that I told you that I would be here today. Of course, it is perfectly possible that I am mistaken, but it is my recollection that I said I would be here today. I’m sure I will get to know all your names very soon. This gentleman is Arthur Parker; he drove me here because I dislike driving myself. Arthur, these are John’s friends. Can anybody do something about our suitcases?’

The doctor and Luke approached, murmuring, and Mrs Montague went on, ‘I am to be in your most haunted room, of course. Arthur can go anywhere. That blue suitcase is mine, young man, and the small attaché case; they will go in your most haunted room.’

‘The nursery, I think,’ Dr Montague said when Luke looked at him inquiringly. ‘I believe the nursery is one source of disturbance,’ he told his wife, and she sighed irritably.

‘It does seem to me that you could be more methodical,’ she said. ‘You’ve been here nearly a week and I suppose you’ve done nothing with planchette? Automatic writing? I don’t imagine either of these young women has mediumistic gifts? Those are Arthur’s bags right there. He brought his golf clubs, just in case.’

‘Just in case of what?’ Theodora asked blankly, and Mrs Montague turned to regard her coldly.

‘Please don’t let me interrupt your dinner,’ she said finally.

‘There’s a definite cold spot just outside the nursery door,’ the doctor told his wife hopefully.

‘Yes, dear, very nice. Isn’t that young man going to take Arthur’s bags upstairs? You do seem to be in a good deal of confusion here, don’t you? After nearly a week I certainly thought you’d have things in some kind of order. Any figures materialise?’

‘There have been decided manifestations——’

‘Well, I’m here now, and we’ll get things going right. Where is Arthur to put the car?’

‘There’s an empty stable in back of the house where we have put our other cars. He can take it around in the morning.’

‘Nonsense. I do not believe in putting things off, John, as you know perfectly well. Arthur will have plenty to do in the morning without adding tonight’s work. He must move the car at once.’

‘It’s dark outside,’ the doctor said hesitantly.

‘John, you astound me. Is it your belief that I do not know whether it is dark outside at night? The car has lights, John, and that young man can go with Arthur to show him the way.’

‘Thank you,’ said Luke grimly, ‘but we have a positive policy against going outside after dark. Arthur may, of course, if he cares to, but I will not.’

‘The young ladies,’ the doctor said, ‘had a shocking——’

‘Young man’s a coward,’ Arthur said. He had concluded his fetching of suitcases and golf bags and hampers from the car and now stood beside Mrs Montague, looking down on Luke; Arthur’s face was red and his hair was white, and now, scorning Luke, he bristled. ‘Ought to be ashamed of yourself, fellow, in front of the women.’

‘The women are just as much afraid as I am,’ Luke said primly.

‘Indeed, indeed.’ Dr Montague put his hand on Arthur’s arm soothingly. ‘After you’ve been here for a while, Arthur, you’ll understand that Luke’s attitude is sensible, not cowardly. We make a point of staying together after dark.’

‘I must say, John, I never expected to find you all so nervous,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘I deplore fear in these matters.’ She tapped her foot irritably. ‘You know perfectly well, John, that those who have passed beyond expect to see us happy and smiling; they want to know that we are thinking of them lovingly. The spirits dwelling in this house may be actually suffering because they are aware that you are afraid of them.’

‘We can talk about it later,’ the doctor said wearily. ‘Now, how about dinner?’

‘Of course.’ Mrs Montague glanced at Theodora and Eleanor. ‘What a pity that we had to interrupt you,’ she said.

‘Have you had dinner?’

‘Naturally we have not had dinner, John. I said we would be here for dinner, didn’t I? Or am I mistaken again?’

‘At any rate, I told Mrs Dudley that you would be here,’ the doctor said, opening the door which led to the game room and on into the dining-room. ‘She left us a splendid feast.’

Poor Dr Montague, Eleanor thought, standing aside to let the doctor take his wife into the dining-room; he is so uncomfortable; I wonder how long she is going to stay.

‘I wonder how long she is going to stay?’ Theodora whispered in her ear.

‘Maybe her suitcase is filled with ectoplasm,’ Eleanor said hopefully.

‘And how long will you be able to stay?’ Dr Montague asked, sitting at the head of the dinner-table with his wife cosily beside him.

‘Well, dear,’ Mrs Montague said, tasting daintily of Mrs Dudley’s caper sauce, ‘—you have found a fair cook, have you not?—you know that Arthur has to get back to his school; Arthur is a headmaster,’ she explained down the table, ‘and he has generously cancelled his appointments for Monday. So we had better leave Monday afternoon and then Arthur can be there for classes on Tuesday.’

‘A lot of happy schoolboys Arthur no doubt left behind,’ Luke said softly to Theodora, and Theodora said, ‘But today is only Saturday.’

‘I do not mind this cooking at all,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘John, I will speak to your cook in the morning.’

‘Mrs Dudley is an admirable woman,’ the doctor said carefully.

‘Bit fancy for my taste,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m a meat-and-potatoes man, myself,’ he explained to Theodora. ‘Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t read trash. Bad example for the fellows at the school. They look up to one a bit, you know.’

‘I’m sure they must all model themselves on you,’ Theodora said soberly.

‘Get a bad hat now and then,’ Arthur said, shaking his head. ‘No taste for sports, you know. Moping in corners. Cry-babies. Knock that out of them fast enough.’ He reached for the butter.

Mrs Montague leaned forward to look down the table at Arthur. ‘Eat lightly, Arthur,’ she advised. ‘We have a busy night ahead of us.’

‘What on earth do you plan to do?’ the doctor asked.

‘I’m sure that you would never dream of going about these things with any system, but you will have to admit, John, that in this area I have simply more of an instinctive understanding; women do, you know, John, at least some women.’ She paused and regarded Eleanor and Theodora speculatively. ‘Neither of them, I dare say. Unless, of course, I am mistaken again? You are very fond of pointing out my errors, John.’

‘My dear——’

‘I cannot abide a slipshod job in anything. Arthur will patrol, of course. I brought Arthur for that purpose. It is so rare,’ she explained to Luke, who sat on her other side, ’to find persons in the educational field who are interested in the other world; you will find Arthur surprisingly well informed. I will recline in your haunted room with only a nightlight burning, and will endeavour to get in touch with the elements disturbing this house. I never sleep when there are troubled spirits about,’ she told Luke, who nodded, speechless.

‘Little sound common sense,’ Arthur said. ‘Got to go about these things in the right way. Never pays to aim too low. Tell my fellows that.’

‘I think perhaps after dinner we will have a little session with planchette,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘Just Arthur and I, of course; the rest of you, I can see, are not ready yet; you would only drive away the spirits. We will need a quiet room——’

‘The library,’ Luke suggested politely.

‘The library? I think it might do; books are frequently very good carriers, you know. Materialisations are often best produced in rooms where there are books. I cannot think of any time when materialisation was in any way hampered by the presence of books. I suppose the library has been dusted? Arthur sometimes sneezes.’

‘Mrs Dudley keeps the entire house in perfect order,’ the doctor said.

‘I really will speak to Mrs Dudley in the morning. You will show us the library, then, John, and that young man will bring down my case; not the large suitcase, mind, but the small attaché case. Bring it to me in the library. We will join you later; after a session with planchette I require a glass of milk and perhaps a small cake; crackers will do if they are not too heavily salted. A few minutes of quiet conversation with congenial people is also very helpful, particularly if I am to be receptive during the night; the mind is a precise instrument and cannot be tended too carefully. Arthur?’ She bowed distantly to Eleanor and Theodora and went out, escorted by Arthur, Luke, and her husband.

After a minute Theodora said, ‘I think I am going to be simply crazy about Mrs Montague.’

‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said. ‘Arthur is rather more to my taste. And Luke is a coward, I think.’

‘Poor Luke,’ Theodora said. ‘He never had a mother.’ Looking up, Eleanor found that Theodora was regarding her with a curious smile, and she moved away from the table so quickly that a glass spilled.

‘We shouldn’t be alone,’ she said, oddly breathless. ‘We’ve got to find the others.’ She left the table and almost ran from the room, and Theodora ran after her, laughing, down the corridor and into the little parlour, where Luke and the doctor stood before the fire.

‘Please, sir,’ Luke was saying meekly, ‘who is planchette?’

The doctor sighed irritably. ‘Imbeciles,’ he said, and then, ‘Sorry. The whole idea annoys me, but if she likes it . . .’ He turned and poked the fire furiously. ‘Planchette,’ he went on after a moment, ‘is a device similar to the Ouija Board, or perhaps I might explain better by saying that it is a form of automatic writing; a method of communicating with—ah—intangible beings, although to my way of thinking the only intangible beings who ever get in touch through one of those things are the imaginations of the people running it. Yes. Well. Planchette is a little piece of light wood, usually heart-shaped or triangular. A pencil is set into the narrow end, and at the other end is a pair of wheels, or feet which will slip easily over paper. Two people place fingers on it, ask it questions, and the object moves, pushed by what force we will not here discuss, and writes answers. The Ouija Board, as I say, is very similar, except that the object moves on a board pointing to separate letters. An ordinary wineglass will do the same thing; I have seen it tried with a child’s wheeled toy, although I will admit that it looked silly. Each person uses the tips of the fingers of one hand, keeping the other hand free to note down questions and answers. The answers are invariably, I believe, meaningless, although of course my wife will tell you different. Balderdash.’ And he went at the fire again. ‘Schoolgirls,’ he said. ‘Superstition.’

‘Planchette has been very kind tonight,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘John, there are definitely foreign elements present in this house.’

‘Quite a splendid sitting, really,’ Arthur said. He waved a sheaf of papers triumphantly.

‘We’ve got a good deal of information for you,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘Now. Planchette was quite insistent about a nun. Have you learned anything about a nun, John?’

‘In Hill House? Not likely.’

‘Planchette felt very strongly about a nun, John. Perhaps something of the sort—a dark, vague figure, even—has been seen in the neighbourhood? Villagers terrified when staggering home late at night?’

‘The figure of a nun is a fairly common——’

‘John, if you please. I assume you are suggesting that I am mistaken. Or perhaps it is your intention to point out that planchette may be mistaken? I assure you—and you must believe planchette, even if my word is not good enough for you—that a nun was most specifically suggested.’

‘I am only trying to say, my dear, that the wraith of a nun is far and away the most common form of appearance. There has never been such a thing connected with Hill House, but in almost every——’

‘John, if you please. I assume I may continue? Or is planchette to be dismissed without a hearing? Thank you.’ Mrs Montague composed herself. ‘Now, then. There is also a name, spelled variously as Helen, or Helene, or Elena. Who might that be?’

‘My dear, many people have lived——’

‘Helen brought us a warning against a mysterious monk. Now when a monk and a nun both turn up in one house——’

‘Except the place was built on an older site,’ Arthur said. ‘Influences prevailing, you know. Older influences hanging around,’ he explained more fully.

‘It sounds very much like broken vows, does it not? Very much.’

‘Had a lot of that back then, you know. Temptation, probably.’

‘I hardly think——’ the doctor began.

‘I dare say she was walled up alive,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘The nun, I mean. They always did that, you know. You’ve no idea the messages I’ve had from nuns walled up alive.’

‘There is no case on record of any nun ever being——’

‘John. May I point out to you once more that I myself have had messages from nuns walled up alive? Do you think I am telling you a fib, John? Or do you suppose that a nun would deliberately pretend to have been walled up alive when she was not? Is it possible that I am mistaken once more, John?’

‘Certainly not, my dear.’ Dr Montague sighed wearily.

‘With one candle and a crust of bread,’ Arthur told Theodora. ‘Horrible thing to do, when you think about it.’

‘No nun was ever walled up alive,’ the doctor said sullenly. He raised his voice slightly. ‘It is a legend. A story. A libel circulated——’

‘All right, John. We won’t quarrel over it. You may believe whatever you choose. Just understand, however, that sometimes purely materialistic views must give way before facts. Now it is a proven fact that among the visitations troubling this house are a nun and a——’

‘What else was there?’ Luke asked hastily. ‘I am so interested in hearing what—ah—planchette had to say.’

Mrs Montague waggled a finger roguishly. ‘Nothing about you, young man. Although one of the ladies present may hear something of interest.’

Impossible woman, Eleanor thought; impossible, vulgar, possessive woman. ‘Now, Helen,’ Mrs Montague went on, ‘wants us to search the cellar for an old well.’

‘Don’t tell me Helen was buried alive,’ the doctor said.

‘I hardly think so, John. I am sure that she would have mentioned it. As a matter of fact, Helen was most unclear about just what we were to find in the well. I doubt, however, that it will be treasure. One so rarely meets with real treasure in a case of this kind. More likely evidence of the missing nun.’

‘More likely eighty years of rubbish.’

‘John, I cannot understand this scepticism in you, of all people. After all, you did come to this house to collect evidence of supernatural activity, and now, when I bring you a full account of the causes, and an indication of where to start looking, you are positively scornful.’

‘We have no authority to dig up the cellar.’

‘Arthur could——’ Mrs Montague began hopefully, but the doctor said with firmness, ‘No. My lease of the house specifically forbids me to tamper with the house itself. There will be no digging of cellars, no tearing out of woodwork, no ripping up of floors. Hill House is still a valuable property, and we are students, not vandals.’

‘I should think you’d want to know the truth, John.’

‘There is nothing I should like to know more.’ Dr Montague stamped across the room to the chessboard and took up a knight and regarded it furiously. He looked as though he were doggedly counting to a hundred.

‘Dear me, how patient one must be sometimes.’ Mrs Montague sighed. ‘But I do want to read you the little passage we received towards the end. Arthur, do you have it?’

Arthur shuffled through his sheaf of papers. ‘It was just after the message about the flowers you are to send to your aunt,’ Mrs Montague said. ‘Planchette has a control named Merrigot,’ she explained, ‘and Merrigot takes a genuine personal interest in Arthur; brings him word from relatives, and so on.’

‘Not a fatal illness, you understand,’ Arthur said gravely. ‘Have to send flowers, of course, but Merrigot is most reassuring.’

‘Now.’ Mrs Montague selected several pages, and turned them over quickly; they were covered with loose, sprawling pencilled words, and Mrs Montague frowned, running down the pages with her finger. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Arthur, you read the questions and I’ll read the answers; that way, it will sound more natural.’

‘Off we go,’ Arthur said brightly, and leaned over Mrs Montague’s shoulder. ‘Now—let me see—start right about here?’

‘With “Who are you?” ’

‘Righto. Who are you?’

‘Nell,’ Mrs Montague read in her sharp voice, and Eleanor and Theodora and Luke and the doctor turned, listening.

‘Nell who?’

‘Eleanor Nellie Nell Nell. They sometimes do that,’ Mrs Montague broke off to explain. ‘They repeat a word over and over to make sure it comes across all right.’

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘What do you want?’ he read.

‘Home.’

‘Do you want to go home?’ And Theodora shrugged comically at Eleanor.

‘Want to be home.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘Home.’ Arthur stopped, and nodded profoundly. ‘There it is again,’ he said. ‘Like a word, and use it over and over, just for the sound of it.’

‘Ordinarily we never ask why,’ Mrs Montague said, ‘because it tends to confuse planchette. However, this time we were bold, and came right out and asked. Arthur?’

‘Why?’ Arthur read.

‘Mother,’ Mrs Montague read. ‘So you see, this time we were right to ask, because planchette was perfectly free with the answer.’

‘Is Hill House your home?’ Arthur read levelly.

‘Home,’ Mrs Montague responded, and the doctor sighed.

‘Are you suffering?’ Arthur read.

‘No answer here.’ Mrs Montague nodded reassuringly. ‘Sometimes they dislike admitting to pain; it tends to discourage those of us left behind, you know. Just like Arthur’s aunt, for instance, will never let on that she is sick, but Merrigot always lets us know, and it’s even worse when they’ve passed over.’

‘Stoical,’ Arthur confirmed, and read, ‘Can we help you?’

‘No,’ Mrs Montague read.

‘Can we do anything at all for you?’

‘No. Lost. Lost. Lost.’ Mrs Montague looked up. ‘You see?’ she asked. ‘One word, over and over again. They love to repeat themselves. I’ve had one word go on to cover a whole page sometimes.’

‘What do you want?’ Arthur read.

‘Mother,’ Mrs Montague read back.

‘Why?’

‘Child.’

‘Where is your mother?’

‘Home.’

‘Where is your home?’

‘Lost. Lost. Lost. And after that,’ Mrs Montague said, folding the paper briskly, ‘there was nothing but gibberish.’

‘Never known planchette so co-operative,’ Arthur said confidingly to Theodora. ‘Quite an experience, really.’

‘But why pick on Nell?’ Theodora asked with annoyance. ‘Your fool planchette has no right to send messages to people without permission or——’

‘You’ll never get results by abusing planchette,’ Arthur began, but Mrs Montague interrupted him, swinging to stare at Eleanor. ‘You’re Nell?’ she demanded, and turned on Theodora. ‘We thought you were Nell,’ she said.

‘So?’ said Theodora impudently.

‘It doesn’t affect the messages, of course,’ Mrs Montague said, tapping her paper irritably, ‘although I do think we might have been correctly introduced. I am sure that planchette knew the difference between you, but I certainly do not care to be misled.’

‘Don’t feel neglected,’ Luke said to Theodora. ‘We will bury you alive.’

‘When I get a message from that thing,’ Theodora said, ‘I expect it to be about hidden treasure. None of this nonsense about sending flowers to my aunt.’

They are all carefully avoiding looking at me, Eleanor thought; I have been singled out again, and they are kind enough to pretend it is nothing; ‘Why do you think all that was sent to me?’ she asked, helpless.

‘Really, child,’ Mrs Montague said, dropping the papers on the low table, ‘I couldn’t begin to say. Although you are rather more than a child, aren’t you? Perhaps you are more receptive psychically than you realise, although’—and she turned away indifferently—‘how you could be, a week in this house and not picking up the simplest message from beyond . . . That fire wants stirring.’

‘Nell doesn’t want messages from beyond,’ Theodora said comfortingly, moving to take Eleanor’s cold hand in hers. ‘Nell wants her warm bed and a little sleep.’

Peace, Eleanor thought concretely; what I want in all this world is peace, a quiet spot to lie and think, a quiet spot up among the flowers where I can dream and tell myself sweet stories.

‘I,’ Arthur said richly, ‘shall make my headquarters in the small room just this side of the nursery, well within shouting distance. I shall have with me a drawn revolver—do not take alarm, ladies; I am an excellent shot—and a flashlight, in addition to a most piercing whistle. I shall have no difficulty summoning the rest of you in case I observe anything worth your notice, or I require—ah—company. You may all sleep quietly, I assure you.’

‘Arthur,’ Mrs Montague explained, ‘will patrol the house. Every hour, regularly, he will make a round of the upstairs rooms; I think he need hardly bother with the downstairs rooms tonight, since I shall be up here. We have done this before, many times. Come along, everyone.’ Silently they followed her up the staircase, watching her little affectionate dabs at the stair-rail and the carvings on the walls. ‘It is such a blessing,’ she said once, ‘to know that the beings in this house are only waiting for an opportunity to tell their stories and free themselves from the burden of their sorrow. Now. Arthur will first of all inspect the bedrooms. Arthur?’

‘With apologies, ladies, with apologies,’ Arthur said, opening the door of the blue room, which Eleanor and Theodora shared. ‘A dainty spot,’ he said plummily, ‘fit for two such charming ladies; I shall, if you like, save you the trouble of glancing into the closet and under the bed.’ Solemnly they watched Arthur go down on to his hands and knees and look under the beds and then rise, dusting his hands. ‘Perfectly safe,’ he said.

‘Now, where am I to be?’ Mrs Montague asked. ‘Where did that young man put my bags?’

‘Directly at the end of the hall,’ the doctor said. ‘We call it the nursery.’

Mrs Montague, followed by Arthur, moved purposefully down the hall, passed the cold spot in the hall, and shivered. ‘I will certainly need extra blankets,’ she said. ‘Have that young man bring extra blankets from one of the other rooms.’ Opening the nursery door, she nodded and said, ‘The bed looks quite fresh, I must admit, but has the room been aired?’

‘I told Mrs Dudley,’ the doctor said.

‘It smells musty. Arthur, you will have to open that window, in spite of the cold.’

Drearily the animals on the nursery wall looked down on Mrs Montague. ‘Are you sure . . .’ The doctor hesitated, and glanced up apprehensively at the grinning faces over the nursery door. ‘I wonder if you ought to have someone in here with you,’ he said.

‘My dear.’ Mrs Montague, good-humoured now in the presence of those who had passed beyond, was amused. ‘How many hours—how many, many hours—have I sat in purest love and understanding, alone in a room and yet never alone? My dear, how can I make you perceive that there is no danger where there is nothing but love and sympathetic understanding? I am here to help these unfortunate beings—I am here to extend the hand of heartfelt fondness, and let them know that there are still some who remember, who will listen and weep for them; their loneliness is over, and I——’

‘Yes,’ the doctor said, ‘but leave the door open.’

‘Unlocked, if you insist.’ Mrs Montague was positively magnanimous.

‘I shall be only down the hall,’ the doctor said. ‘I can hardly offer to patrol, since that will be Arthur’s occupation, but if you need anything I can hear you.’

Mrs Montague laughed and waved her hand at him. ‘These others need your protection so much more than I,’ she said. ‘I will do what I can, of course. But they are so very very vulnerable, with their hard hearts and their unseeing eyes.’

Arthur, followed by a Luke looking very much amused, returned from checking the other bedrooms on the floor and nodded briskly at the doctor. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Perfectly safe for you to go to bed now.’

‘Thank you,’ the doctor told him soberly and then said to his wife, ‘Good night. Be careful.’

‘Good night,’ Mrs Montague said, and smiled around at all of them. ‘Please don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘No matter what happens, remember that I am here.’

‘Good night,’ Theodora said, and ‘Good night,’ said Luke, and with Arthur behind them assuring them that they might rest quietly, and not to worry if they heard shots, and he would start his first patrol at midnight, Eleanor and Theodora went into their own room, and Luke on down the hall to his. After a moment the doctor, turning reluctantly away from his wife’s closed door, followed.

‘Wait,’ Theodora said to Eleanor, once in their room. ‘Luke said they want us down the hall; don’t get undressed and be quiet.’ She opened the door a crack and whispered over her shoulder. ‘I swear that old biddy’s going to blow this house wide open with that perfect love business; if I ever saw a place that had no use for perfect love, it’s Hill House. Now. Arthur’s closed his door. Quick. Be quiet.’

Silently, making no sound on the hall carpeting, they hurried in their stockinged feet down the hall to the doctor’s room. ‘Hurry,’ the doctor said, opening the door just wide enough for them to come in, ‘be quiet.’

‘It’s not safe,’ Luke said, closing the door to a crack and coming back to sit on the floor, ‘that man’s going to shoot somebody.’

‘I don’t like it,’ the doctor said, worried. ‘Luke and I will stay up and watch, and I want you two ladies in here where we can keep an eye on you. Something’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘I just hope she didn’t go and make anything mad, with her planchette,’ Theodora said. ‘Sorry, Doctor Montague. I don’t intend to speak rudely of your wife.’

The doctor laughed, but stayed with his eye to the door. ‘She originally planned to come for our entire stay,’ he said, ‘but she had enrolled in a course in yoga and could not miss her meetings. She is an excellent woman in most respects,’ he added, looking earnestly around at them. ‘She is a good wife, and takes very good care of me. She does things splendidly, really. Buttons on my shirts.’ He smiled hopefully. ‘This’—and he gestured in the direction of the hall—‘this is practically her only vice.’

‘Perhaps she feels she is helping you with your work,’ Eleanor said.

The doctor grimaced, and shivered; at that moment the door swung wide and then crashed shut, and in the silence outside they could hear slow rushing movements as though a very steady, very strong wind were blowing the length of the hall. Glancing at one another, they tried to smile, tried to look courageous under the slow coming of the unreal cold and then, through the noise of wind, the knocking on the doors downstairs. Without a word Theodora took up the quilt from the foot of the doctor’s bed and folded it around Eleanor and herself, and they moved close together, slowly in order not to make a sound. Eleanor, clinging to Theodora, deadly cold in spite of Theodora’s arms around her, thought, It knows my name, it knows my name this time. The pounding came up the stairs, crashing on each step. The doctor was tense, standing by the door, and Luke moved over to stand beside him. ‘It’s nowhere near the nursery,’ he said to the doctor, and put his hand out to stop the doctor from opening the door.

‘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 will 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 door-knob 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 humour.’ 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 door-knob, feeling intimately and softly and then, because the door was locked, patting and fondling the door-frame, 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 righted 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 appearance 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 humour; 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.’