Eleanor closed the bedroom door softly behind her, not wanting to awaken Theodora, although the noise of a door closing would hardly disturb anyone, she thought, who slept so soundly as Theodora; I learned to sleep very lightly, she told herself comfortingly, when I was listening for my mother. The hall was dim, lighted only by the small nightlight over the stairs, and all the doors were closed. Funny, Eleanor thought, going soundlessly on her bare feet along the hall carpet, it’s the only house I ever knew where you don’t have to worry about making noise at night, or at least about anyone knowing it’s you. She had awakened with the thought of going down to the library, and her mind had supplied her with a reason: I cannot sleep, she explained to herself, and so I am going downstairs to get a book. If anyone asks me where I am going, it is down to the library to get a book because I cannot sleep.
It was warm, drowsily, luxuriously warm. She went barefoot and in silence down the great staircase and to the library door before she thought, But I can’t go in there; I’m not allowed in there—and recoiled in the doorway before the odour of decay, which nauseated her. ‘Mother,’ she said aloud, and stepped quickly back. ‘Come along,’ a voice answered distinctly upstairs, and Eleanor turned, eager, and hurried to the staircase. ‘Mother?’ she said softly, and then again, ‘Mother?’ A little soft laugh floated down to her, and she ran, breathless, up the stairs and stopped at the top, looking to right and left along the hallway at the closed doors.
‘You’re here somewhere,’ she said, and down the hall the little echo went, slipping in a whisper on the tiny currents of air. ‘Somewhere,’ it said. ‘Somewhere.’
Laughing, Eleanor followed, running soundlessly down the hall to the nursery doorway; the cold spot was gone, and she laughed up at the two grinning faces looking down at her. ‘Are you in here?’ she whispered outside the door, ‘are you in here?’ and knocked, pounding with her fists.
‘Yes?’ It was Mrs Montague, inside, clearly just awakened. ‘Yes? Come in, whatever you are.’
No, no, Eleanor thought, hugging herself and laughing silently, not in there, not with Mrs Montague, and slipped away down the hall, hearing Mrs Montague behind her calling, ‘I am your friend; I intend you no harm. Come in and tell me what is troubling you.’
She won’t open her door, Eleanor thought wisely; she is not afraid but she won’t open the door, and knocked, pounding, against Arthur’s door and heard Arthur’s awakening gasp.
Dancing, the carpet soft under her feet, she came to the door behind which Theodora slept; faithless Theo, she thought, cruel, laughing Theo, wake up, wake up, wake up, and pounded and slapped the door, laughing, and shook the door-knob and then ran swiftly down the hall to Luke’s door and pounded; wake up, she thought, wake up and be faithless. None of them will open their doors, she thought; they will sit inside, with the blankets pressed around them, shivering and wondering what is going to happen to them next; wake up, she thought, pounding on the doctor’s door; I dare you to open your door and come out to see me dancing in the hall of Hill House.
Then Theodora startled her by calling out wildly, ‘Nell? Nell? Doctor, Luke, Nell’s not here!’
Poor house, Eleanor thought, I had forgotten Eleanor; now they will have to open their doors, and she ran quickly down the stairs, hearing behind her the doctor’s voice raised anxiously, and Theodora calling, ‘Nell? Eleanor?’ What fools they are, she thought; now I will have to go into the library. ‘Mother, Mother,’ she whispered, ‘Mother,’ and stopped at the library door, sick. Behind her she could hear them talking upstairs in the hall; funny, she thought, I can feel the whole house, and heard even Mrs Montague protesting, and Arthur, and then the doctor, clearly, ‘We’ve got to look for her; everyone please hurry.’
Well, I can hurry too, she thought, and ran down the corridor to the little parlour, where the fire flickered briefly at her when she opened the door, and the chessmen sat where Luke and the doctor had left their game. The scarf Theodora had been wearing lay across the back of her chair; I can take care of that too, Eleanor thought, her maid’s pathetic finery, and put one end of it between her teeth and pulled, tearing, and then dropped it when she heard them behind her on the stairs. They were coming down all together, anxious, telling one another where to look first, now and then calling, ‘Eleanor? Nell?’
‘Coming? Coming?’ she heard far away, somewhere else in the house, and she heard the stairs shake under their feet and a cricket stir on the lawn. Daring, gay, she ran down the corridor again to the hall and peeked out at them from the doorway. They were moving purposefully, all together, straining to stay near one another, and the doctor’s flashlight swept the hall and stopped at the great front door, which was standing open wide. Then, in a rush, calling ‘Eleanor, Eleanor,’ they ran all together across the hall and out of the front door, looking and calling, the flashlight moving busily. Eleanor clung to the door and laughed until tears came into her eyes; what fools they are, she thought; we trick them so easily. They are so slow, and so deaf and so heavy; they trample over the house, poking and peering and rough. She ran across the hall and through the game room and into the dining-room and from there into the kitchen, with its doors. It’s good here, she thought, I can go in any direction when I hear them. When they came back into the front hall, blundering and calling her, she darted quickly out on to the verandah into the cool night. She stood with her back against the door, the little mists of Hill House curling around her ankles, and looked up at the pressing, heavy hills. Gathered comfortably into the hills, she thought, protected and warm; Hill House is lucky.
‘Eleanor?’ They were very close, and she ran along the verandah and darted into the drawing-room; ‘Hugh Crain,’ she said, ‘will you come and dance with me?’ She curtsied to the huge leaning statue, and its eyes flickered and shone at her; little reflected lights touched the figurines and the gilded chairs, and she danced gravely before Hugh Crain, who watched her, gleaming. ‘Go in and out the windows,’ she sang, and felt her hands taken as she danced. ‘Go in and out the windows,’ and she danced out on to the verandah and around the house. Going around and around and around the house, she thought, and none of them can see me. She touched a kitchen door as she passed, and six miles away Mrs Dudley shuddered in her sleep. She came to the tower, held so tightly in the embrace of the house, in the straining grip of the house, and walked slowly past its grey stones, not allowed to touch even the outside. Then she turned and stood before the great doorway; the door was closed again, and she put out her hand and opened it effortlessly. Thus I enter Hill House, she told herself, and stepped inside as though it were her own. ‘Here I am,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ve been all around the house, in and out the windows, and I danced——’
‘Eleanor?’ It was Luke’s voice, and she thought, Of all of them I would least like to have Luke catch me; don’t let him see me, she thought beggingly, and turned and ran, without stopping, into the library.
And here I am, she thought. Here I am inside. It was not cold at all, but deliciously, fondly warm. It was light enough for her to see the iron stairway curving around and around up to the tower, and the little door at the top. Under her feet the stone floor moved caressingly, rubbing itself against the soles of her feet, and all around the soft air touched her, stirring her hair, drifting against her fingers, coming in a light breath across her mouth, and she danced in circles. No stone lions for me, she thought, no oleanders; I have broken the spell of Hill House and somehow come inside. I am home, she thought, and stopped in wonder at the thought. I am home, I am home, she thought; now to climb.
Climbing the narrow iron stairway was intoxicating—going higher and higher, around and around, looking down, clinging to the slim iron railing, looking far far down on to the stone floor. Climbing, looking down, she thought of the soft green grass outside and the rolling hills and the rich trees. Looking up, she thought of the tower of Hill House rising triumphantly between the trees, tall over the road which wound through Hillsdale and past a white house set in flowers and past the magic oleanders and past the stone lions and on, far, far away, to a little lady who was going to pray for her. Time is ended now, she thought, all that is gone and left behind, and that poor little lady, praying still, for me.
‘Eleanor!’
For a minute she could not remember who they were (had they been guests of hers in the house of the stone lions? Dining at her long table in the candlelight? Had she met them at the inn, over the tumbling stream? Had one of them come riding down a green hill, banners flying? Had one of them run beside her in the darkness? and then she remembered, and they fell into place where they belonged) and she hesitated, clinging to the railing. They were so small, so ineffectual. They stood far below on the stone floor and pointed at her; they called to her, and their voices were urgent and far away.
‘Luke,’ she said, remembering. They could hear her, because they were quiet when she spoke. ‘Doctor Montague,’ she said. ‘Mrs Montague. Arthur.’ She could not remember the other, who stood silent and a little apart.
‘Eleanor,’ Dr Montague called, ‘turn around very carefully and come slowly down the steps. Move very, very slowly, Eleanor. Hold on to the railing all the time. Now turn and come down.’
‘What on earth is the creature doing?’ Mrs Montague demanded. Her hair was in curlers, and her bathrobe had a dragon on the stomach. ‘Make her come down so we can go back to bed. Arthur, make her come down at once.’
‘See here,’ Arthur began, and Luke moved to the foot of the stairway and started up.
‘For God’s sake be careful,’ the doctor said as Luke moved steadily on. ‘The thing is rotted away from the wall.’
‘It won’t hold both of you,’ Mrs Montague said positively. ‘You’ll have it down on our heads. Arthur, move over here near the door.’
‘Eleanor,’ the doctor called, ‘can you turn around and start down slowly?’
Above her was only the little trapdoor leading out on to the turret; she stood on the little narrow platform at the top and pressed against the trapdoor, but it would not move. Futilely she hammered against it with her fists, thinking wildly, Make it open, make it open, or they’ll catch me. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Luke climbing steadily, around and around. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, ‘stand still. Don’t move,’ and he sounded frightened.
I can’t get away, she thought, and looked down; she saw one face clearly, and the name came into her mind. ‘Theodora,’ she said.
‘Nell, do as they tell you. Please.’
‘Theodora? I can’t get out; the door’s been nailed shut.’
‘Damn right it’s been nailed shut,’ Luke said. ‘And lucky for you, too, my girl.’ Climbing, coming very slowly, he had almost reached the narrow platform. ‘Stay perfectly still,’ he said.
‘Stay perfectly still, Eleanor,’ the doctor said.
‘Nell,’ Theodora said. ‘Please do what they say.’
‘Why?’ Eleanor looked down and saw the dizzy fall of the tower below her, the iron stairway clinging to the tower walls, shaking and straining under Luke’s feet, the cold stone floor, the distant, pale, staring faces. ‘How can I get down?’ she asked helplessly. ‘Doctor—how can I get down?’
‘Move very slowly,’ he said. ‘Do what Luke tells you.’
‘Nell,’ Theodora said, ‘don’t be frightened. It will be all right, really.’
‘Of course it will be all right,’ Luke said grimly. ‘Probably it will only be my neck that gets broken. Hold on, Nell; I’m coming on to the platform. I want to get past you so you can go down ahead of me.’ He seemed hardly out of breath, in spite of climbing, but his hand trembled as he reached out to take hold of the railing, and his face was wet. ‘Come on,’ he said sharply.
Eleanor hung back. ‘The last time you told me to go ahead you never followed,’ she said.
‘Perhaps I will just push you over the edge,’ Luke said. ‘Let you smash down there on the floor. Now behave yourself and move slowly; get past me and start down the stairs. And just hope,’ he added furiously, ‘that I can resist the temptation to give you a shove.’
Meekly she came along the platform and pressed herself against the hard stone wall while Luke moved cautiously past her. ‘Start down,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Precariously, the iron stairway shaking and groaning with every step, she felt her way. She looked at her hand on the railing, white because she was holding so tight, and at her bare feet going one at a time, step by step, moving with extreme care, but never looked down again to the stone floor. Go down very slowly, she told herself over and over, not thinking of more than the steps which seemed almost to bend and buckle beneath her feet, go down very very very slowly. ‘Steady,’ Luke said behind her. ‘Take it easy, Nell, nothing to be afraid of, we’re almost there.’
Involuntarily, below her, the doctor and Theodora held out their arms, as though ready to catch her if she fell, and once when Eleanor stumbled and missed a step, the handrail wavering as she clung to it, Theodora gasped and ran to hold the end of the stairway. ‘It’s all right, my Nellie,’ she said over and over, ‘it’s all right, it’s all right.’
‘Only a little farther,’ the doctor said.
Creeping, Eleanor slid her feet down, one step after another, and at last, almost before she could believe it, stepped off on to the stone floor. Behind her the stairway rocked and clanged as Luke leaped down the last few steps and walked steadily across the room to fall against a chair and stop, head down and trembling still. Eleanor turned and looked up to the infinitely high little spot where she had been standing, at the iron stairway, warped and crooked and swaying against the tower wall, and said in a small voice, ‘I ran up. I ran up all the way.’
Mrs Montague moved purposefully forward from the doorway where she and Arthur had been sheltering against the probable collapse of the stairway. ‘Does anybody agree with me,’ she asked with great delicacy, ‘in thinking that this young woman has given us quite enough trouble tonight? I, for one, would like to go back to bed, and so would Arthur.’
‘Hill House——’ the doctor began.
‘This childish nonsense has almost certainly destroyed any chance of manifestations tonight, I can tell you. I certainly do not look to see any of our friends from beyond after this ridiculous performance, so if you will all excuse me—and if you are sure that you are finished with your posturing and performing and waking up busy people—I will say good night. Arthur.’ Mrs Montague swept out, dragon rampant, quivering with indignation.
‘Luke was scared,’ Eleanor said, looking at the doctor and at Theodora.
‘Luke was most certainly scared,’ he agreed from behind her. ‘Luke was so scared he almost didn’t get himself down from there. Nell, what an imbecile you are.’
‘I would be inclined to agree with Luke.’ The doctor was displeased, and Eleanor looked away, looked at Theodora, and Theodora said, ‘I suppose you had to do it, Nell?’
‘I’m all right,’ Eleanor said, and could no longer look at any of them. She looked, surprised, down at her own bare feet, realising suddenly that they had carried her, unfeeling, down the iron stairway. She thought, looking at her feet, and then raised her head. ‘I came down to the library to get a book,’ she said.
It was humiliating, disastrous. Nothing was said at breakfast, and Eleanor was served coffee and eggs and rolls just like the others. She was allowed to linger over her coffee with the rest of them, observe the sunlight outside, comment upon the good day ahead; for a few minutes she might have been persuaded to believe that nothing had happened. Luke passed her the marmalade, Theodora smiled at her over Arthur’s head, the doctor bade her good morning. Then, after breakfast, after Mrs Dudley’s entrance at ten, they came without comment, following one another silently, to the little parlour, and the doctor took his position before the fireplace. Theodora was wearing Eleanor’s red sweater.
‘Luke will bring your car around,’ the doctor said gently. In spite of what he was saying, his eyes were considerate and friendly. ‘Theodora will go up and pack for you.’
Eleanor giggled. ‘She can’t. She won’t have anything to wear.’
‘Nell——’ Theodora began, and stopped and glanced at Mrs Montague, who shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘I examined the room. Naturally. I can’t imagine why none of you thought to do it.’
‘I was going to,’ the doctor said apologetically. ‘But I thought——’
‘You always think, John, and that’s your trouble. Naturally I examined the room at once.’
‘Theodora’s room?’ Luke asked. ‘I wouldn’t like to go in there again.’
Mrs Montague sounded surprised. ‘I can’t think why not,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘I went in and looked at my clothes,’ Theodora said to the doctor. ‘They’re perfectly fine.’
‘The room needs dusting, naturally, but what can you expect if you lock the door and Mrs Dudley cannot——’
The doctor’s voice rose over his wife’s. ‘—cannot tell you how sorry I am,’ he was saying. ‘If there is ever anything I can do . . .’
Eleanor laughed. ‘But I can’t leave,’ she said, wondering where to find words to explain.
‘You have been here quite long enough,’ the doctor said.
Theodora stared at her. ‘I don’t need your clothes,’ she said patiently. ‘Didn’t you just hear Mrs Montague? I don’t need your clothes, and even if I did I wouldn’t wear them now; Nell, you’ve got to go away from here.’
‘But I can’t leave,’ Eleanor said, laughing still because it was so perfectly impossible to explain.
‘Madam,’ Luke said sombrely, ‘you are no longer welcome as my guest.’
‘Perhaps Arthur had better drive her back to the city. Arthur could see that she gets there safely.’
‘Gets where?’ Eleanor shook her head at them, feeling her lovely heavy hair around her face. ‘Gets where?’ she asked happily.
‘Why,’ the doctor said, ‘home, of course,’ and Theodora said, ‘Nell, your own little place, your own apartment, where all your things are,’ and Eleanor laughed.
‘I haven’t any apartment,’ she said to Theodora. ‘I made it up. I sleep on a cot at my sister’s, in the baby’s room. I haven’t any home, no place at all. And I can’t go back to my sister’s because I stole her car.’ She laughed, hearing her own words, so inadequate and so unutterably sad. ‘I haven’t any home,’ she said again, and regarded them hopefully. ‘No home. Everything in all the world that belongs to me is in a carton in the back of my car. That’s all I have, some books and things I had when I was a little girl, and a watch my mother gave me. So you see there’s no place you can send me.’
I could, of course, go on and on, she wanted to tell them, seeing always their frightened, staring faces. I could go on and on, leaving my clothes for Theodora; I could go wandering and homeless, errant, and I would always come back here. It would be simpler to let me stay, more sensible, she wanted to tell them, happier.
‘I want to stay here,’ she said to them.
‘I’ve already spoken to the sister,’ Mrs Montague said importantly. ‘I must say, she asked first about the car. A vulgar person; I told her she need have no fear. You were very wrong, John, to let her steal her sister’s car and come here.’
‘My dear,’ Dr Montague began, and stopped, spreading his hands helplessly.
‘At any rate, she is expected. The sister was most annoyed with me because they had planned to go off on their vacation today, although why she should be annoyed with me . . .’ Mrs Montague scowled at Eleanor. ‘I do think someone ought to see her safely into their hands,’ she said.
The doctor shook his head. ‘It would be a mistake,’ he said slowly. ‘It would be a mistake to send one of us with her. She must be allowed to forget everything about this house as soon as she can; we cannot prolong the association. Once away from here, she will be herself again; can you find your way home?’ he asked Eleanor, and Eleanor laughed.
‘I’ll go and get that packing done,’ Theodora said. ‘Luke, check her car and bring it around; she’s only got one suitcase.’
‘Walled up alive.’ Eleanor began to laugh again at their stone faces. ‘Walled up alive,’ she said. ‘I want to stay here.’
They made a solid line along the steps of Hill House, guarding the door. Beyond their heads she could see the windows looking down, and to one side the tower waited confidently. She might have cried if she could have thought of any way of telling them why; instead, she smiled brokenly up at the house, looking at her own window, at the amused, certain face of the house, watching her quietly. The house was waiting now, she thought, and it was waiting for her; no one else could satisfy it. ‘The house wants me to stay,’ she told the doctor, and he stared at her. He was standing very stiff and with great dignity, as though he expected her to choose him instead of the house, as though, having brought her here, he thought that by unwinding his directions he could send her back again. His back was squarely turned to the house, and, looking at him honestly, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry, really.’
‘You’ll go to Hillsdale,’ he said levelly; perhaps he was afraid of saying too much, perhaps he thought that a kind word, or a sympathetic one, might rebound upon himself and bring her back. The sun was shining on the hills and the house and the garden and the lawn and the trees and the brook; Eleanor took a deep breath and turned, seeing it all. ‘In Hillsdale turn on to Route Five going east; at Ashton you will meet Route Thirty-nine, and that will take you home. For your own safety,’ he added with a kind of urgency, ‘for your own safety, my dear; believe me, if I had foreseen this——’
‘I’m really terribly sorry,’ she said.
‘We can’t take chances, you know, any chances. I am only beginning to perceive what a terrible risk I was asking of you all. Now . . .’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘You’ll remember?’ he asked. ‘To Hillsdale, and then Route Five——’
‘Look.’ Eleanor was quiet for a minute, wanting to tell them all exactly how it was. ‘I wasn’t afraid,’ she said at last. ‘I really wasn’t afraid. I’m fine now. I was—happy.’ She looked earnestly at the doctor. ‘Happy,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, afraid again that she was going to cry. ‘I don’t want to go away from here.’
‘There might be a next time,’ the doctor said sternly. ‘Can’t you understand that we cannot take that chance?’
Eleanor faltered. ‘Someone is praying for me,’ she said foolishly. ‘A lady I met a long time ago.’
The doctor’s voice was gentle, but he tapped his foot impatiently. ‘You will forget all of this quite soon,’ he said. ‘You must forget everything about Hill House. I was so wrong to bring you here,’ he said.
‘How long have we been here?’ Eleanor asked suddenly.
‘A little over a week. Why?’
‘It’s the only time anything’s ever happened to me. I liked it.’
‘That,’ said the doctor, ‘is why you are leaving in such a hurry.’
Eleanor closed her eyes and sighed, feeling and hearing and smelling the house; a flowering bush beyond the kitchen was heavy with scent, and the water in the brook moved sparkling over the stones. Far away, upstairs, perhaps in the nursery, a little eddy of wind gathered itself and swept along the floor, carrying dust. In the library the iron stairway swayed, and light glittered on the marble eyes of Hugh Crain; Theodora’s yellow shirt hung neat and unstained, Mrs Dudley was setting the lunch-table for five. Hill House watched, arrogant and patient. ‘I won’t go away,’ Eleanor said up to the high windows.
‘You will go away,’ the doctor said, showing his impatience at last. ‘Right now.’
Eleanor laughed, and turned, holding out her hand. ‘Luke,’ she said, and he came towards her, silent. ‘Thank you for bringing me down last night,’ she said. ‘That was wrong of me. I know it now, and you were very brave.’
‘I was indeed,’ Luke said. ‘It was an act of courage far surpassing any other in my life. And I am glad to see you going, Nell, because I would certainly never do it again.’
‘Well, it seems to me,’ Mrs Montague said, ‘if you’re going you’d better get on with it. I’ve no quarrel with saying good-bye, although I personally feel that you’ve all got an exaggerated view of this place, but I do think we’ve got better things to do than stand here arguing when we all know you’ve got to go. You’ll be a time as it is, getting back to the city, and your sister waiting to go on her vacation.’
Arthur nodded. ‘Tearful farewells,’ he said. ‘Don’t hold with them, myself.’
Far away, in the little parlour, the ash dropped softly in the fireplace. ‘John,’ Mrs Montague said, ‘possibly it would be better if Arthur——’
‘No,’ the doctor said strongly. ‘Eleanor has to go back the way she came.’
‘And who do I thank for a lovely time?’ Eleanor asked.
The doctor took her by the arm and, with Luke beside her, led her to her car and opened the door for her. The carton was still on the back seat, her suitcase was on the floor, her coat and pocketbook on the seat; Luke had left the motor running. ‘Doctor,’ Eleanor said, clutching at him, ‘Doctor.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Good-bye.’
‘Drive carefully,’ Luke said politely.
‘You can’t just make me go,’ she said wildly. ‘You brought me here.’
‘And I am sending you away,’ the doctor said. ‘We won’t forget you, Eleanor. But right now the only important thing for you is to forget Hill House and all of us. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ Mrs Montague said firmly from the steps, and Arthur said, ‘Good-bye, have a good trip.’
Then Eleanor, her hand on the door of the car, stopped and turned. ‘Theo?’ she said inquiringly, and Theodora ran down the steps to her.
‘I thought you weren’t going to say good-bye to me,’ she said. ‘Oh, Nellie, my Nell—be happy; please be happy. Don’t really forget me; some day things really will be all right again, and you’ll write me letters and I’ll answer and we’ll visit each other and we’ll have fun talking over the crazy things we did and saw and heard in Hill House—oh, Nellie! I thought you weren’t going to say good-bye to me.’
‘Good-bye,’ Eleanor said to her.
‘Nellie,’ Theodora said timidly, and put out a hand to touch Eleanor’s cheek, ‘listen—maybe some day we can meet here again? And have our picnic by the brook? We never had our picnic,’ she told the doctor, and he shook his head, looking at Eleanor.
‘Good-bye,’ Eleanor said to Mrs Montague, ‘good-bye, Arthur. Good-bye, Doctor. I hope your book is very successful. Luke,’ she said, ‘good-bye. And good-bye.’
‘Nell,’ Theodora said, ‘please be careful.’
‘Good-bye,’ Eleanor said, and slid into the car; it felt unfamiliar and awkward; I am too used already to the comforts of Hill House, she thought, and reminded herself to wave a hand from the car window. ‘Good-bye,’ she called, wondering if there had ever been another word for her to say, ‘good-bye, good-bye.’ Clumsily, her hands fumbling, she released the brake and let the car move slowly.
They waved back at her dutifully, standing still, watching her. They will watch me down the drive as far as they can see, she thought; it is only civil for them to look at me until I am out of sight; so now I am going. Journeys end in lovers meeting. But I won’t go, she thought, and laughed aloud to herself; Hill House is not as easy as they are; just by telling me to go away they can’t make me leave, not if Hill House means me to stay. ‘Go away, Eleanor,’ she chanted aloud, ‘go away, Eleanor, we don’t want you any more, not in our Hill House, go away, Eleanor, you can’t stay here; but I can,’ she sang, ‘but I can; they don’t make the rules around here. They can’t turn me out or shut me out or laugh at me or hide from me; I won’t go, and Hill House belongs to me.’
With what she perceived as quick cleverness she pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator; they can’t run fast enough to catch me this time, she thought, but by now they must be beginning to realise; I wonder who notices first? Luke, almost certainly. I can hear them calling now, she thought, and the little footsteps running through Hill House and the soft sound of the hills pressing closer. I am really doing it, she thought, turning the wheel to send the car directly at the great tree at the curve of the driveway, I am really doing it, I am doing this all by myself, now, at last; this is me, I am really really really doing it by myself.
In the unending, crashing second before the car hurled into the tree she thought clearly, Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? Why don’t they stop me?
Mrs Sanderson was enormously relieved to hear that Dr Montague and his party had left Hill House; she would have turned them out, she told the family lawyer, if Dr Montague had shown any sign of wanting to stay. Theodora’s friend, mollified and contrite, was delighted to see Theodora back so soon; Luke took himself off to Paris, where his aunt fervently hoped he would stay for a while. Dr Montague finally retired from active scholarly pursuits after the cool, almost contemptuous reception of his preliminary article analysing the psychic phenomena of Hill House. Hill House itself, not sane, stood against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, its 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.