Questions and Questions and Questions

    Finishing The Haunting of Hill House will leave one with many questions, but perhaps one of the most pressing is that of how much of the story we as readers actually got to see. The story begins before we get our limited perspective – the history of the house, the deaths, the turmoil – and ends beyond what we’re allowed to see. We only get a brief, foggy window into the goings-on at the old Hill House, and much like watching the countryside move past through a rainy windshield, there’s much that readers don’t get to see.

    While many books give the readers a sort of ‘bird’s eye view’ perspective, in which we are given as much information as we need to understand the story as it unfolds, Hill House gives us no such luxury. Much like amateur paranormal investigators in an old, crooked house, we as readers are helpless against whatever forces are exerted against the story, and by the end of the experience no one can be sure what was real and what wasn’t. The narration holds us hostage and drip feeds information and answers, yet there are simply more questions and mysteries than can be solved. The audience is submissive to the text, brought along for the ride regardless of where it may go.

    Yet, who is behind this narration? The narrator’s limited perspective would imply that it would be one of the characters, as they would not have the meta knowledge of an omniscient voice. All signs seem to point to our narrator being Eleanor, as we spend much of the novel inside of her head – yet there are some times where we briefly step into the shoes of other characters as well. The conclusion I have come to is that it is a narrator with omniscience, yet it is one that chooses not to share all of its observations. The narrative knows exactly what’s going on, whether the ghosts are ‘real’ and what influence is corrupting Eleanor, it knows all of the secrets that we are not privy to, and yet the truth is kept from us.

    Some say this novel relies on terror, not horror, and this is quite true. Human beings are creatures that have undeniable curiosity and a need to know things. The monsters we don’t see will always be scarier to us than the ones that we can, as our imaginations run themselves into the ground when we don’t have the answers we crave. The fact that the narrative withholds information from us is by design, not incidental or a simple result of stylistic differences. If we knew exactly the nature of the house, the fear would lessen considerably. Even though we naturally crave answers to what happened here, the story cannot give them to us without destroying itself and the tension it built.

    Ghosts? Demons? Eleanor’s own latent powers gone awry? Perhaps even a Salem-esque mass hysteria brought on by contaminated food or water? Even the most suitable answer would feel like an anticlimax, because people will naturally be less afraid of things they can understand. The story would lose its power to unease the readers by explaining itself too thoroughly, as much of its power comes from not allowing the audience to keep its balance. Like a funhouse with a floor that shifts, it would be helpful, yet antithetical, to give someone handrails to hold onto.

    When one loses their balance, instinct kicks in and they will reach out to try and steady themselves. Much in the same manner, readers of open-ended and enigmatic fiction such as this will create their own answers. Once again, this is by design. A narrative that ties up every loose end has no need for readers to continue to think on it, and will not remain in the mind for nearly as long. Yet, stories that raise unanswered questions, leave room for theorizing and debate, those stories cling to the inside of a reader’s head like a leech. Is that not the goal of most authors? To leave an impact on the reader, remaining immortal inside of the heads of others?

    When I read, I read for the experience. I read to live through the characters, to walk paths I’ll never be able to in my real life. It’s enriching and entertaining, and serves to stimulate one’s imagination with something far removed from reality. As a sort of escapism is part of what I read for, it may come as a surprise to know that I do quite enjoy horror. To read something for the escape, for the experience, it doesn’t necessarily mean wish-fulfillment; it is just a satisfaction of the innate human hunger for new things one hasn’t seen before. I have no personal desire to be haunted by unknown entities in an old house, yet sharing in those encounters through a novel is an entirely different story indeed.

    Another factor is the fascination. As much as I do enjoy stories that are easily digestible and cohesive, I do just as much love a story that leaves me with questions. I naturally love to theorize and discuss the media in which I consume, for as a writer by nature I like to build off of what others create. If a narrative comes to me full of holes and open ends, I take fresh clay and fill those gaps in – this does not mean the original narrative was flawed or lacking, not at all, for the process of my own alteration is part of my enjoyment. I like seeing a story that isn’t fully contained in a bubble and still has room to grow, even if it will never have an official continuation. It makes for an enjoyable discussion to ask others who have had the same experience whether they believe the hauntings at the old Hill House were real or not.