Poor Strangers, They Have So Much To

The Idea Of A Series Of Items, Following One Another Docilely, Forms The Only Possible Reasonable Approach To Life If You Have To Live It With A Home And A Husband And Children, None Of Whom Would Dream Of Following One Another Docilely.

No, The Menace Of The Supernatural Is That It Attacks Where Modern Minds Are Weakest, Where We Have Abandoned Our Protective Armor Of Superstition And Have No Substitute Defense.

I Delight In What I Fear.

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.

My Name Is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I Am Eighteen Years Old, And I Live With My Sister Constance. I Have Often Thought That With Any Luck At All, I Could Have Been Born A Werewolf, Because The Two Middle Fingers On Both My Hands Are The Same Length, But I Have Had To Be Content With What I Had. I Dislike Washing Myself, And Dogs, And Noise. I Like My Sister Constance, And Richard Plantagenet, And Amanita Phalloides, The Death-cup Mushroom. Everyone Else In Our Family Is Dead.