The True Haunting Within Hill House
When I first started reading The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (1959), I thought I was in for a fun spooky-season comparison between the novel and the Netflix series created by Mike Flanagan in 2018. What I didn’t expect was to uncover an emotional, psychological depth, and a character I found perhaps a bit too relatable for comfort.
Rediscovering Hill House
One of the first things that struck me was that the Netflix series actually wasn’t my first introduction to Jackson’s story. As I read the opening chapter where Dr. Montague invites a small group of strangers to help investigate the potential supernatural occurrences at Hill House, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen this before.
Now, a mysterious invitation to a creepy mansion isn’t a new trope by any means. Stories like The House on Haunted Hill (1959), Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939), and even Clue (1985) use a similar setup: strangers brought together for a purpose steeped in mystery and suspense. But this one felt oddly specific to me. I could clearly picture Liam Neeson, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Owen Wilson wandering through a lavish but malevolent mansion.
It turns out, I wasn’t imagining things. When I was younger, my friend and I watched The Haunting (1999), directed by Jan de Bont, which was itself an adaptation of Jackson’s novel. It starred Neeson, Zeta-Jones, Wilson, and Lili Taylor as Eleanor, the lonely protagonist at the story’s heart. Reading the book made me realize just how far that adaptation (and the Netflix series) strayed from Jackson’s original vision.
That’s not a criticism of Flanagan’s series. When my friend first suggested we watch it, I was hesitant, as I usually am with horror. But the series’ eerie atmosphere and complex characters drew me in immediately (even if I did my usual trick of focusing slightly off-screen whenever something particularly terrifying appeared).
Flanagan’s series pays homage to Jackson’s work in spirit rather than plot. The show reimagines Hill House as a multigenerational family saga, where the “ghosts” that haunt each character are often symbols of grief, trauma, and memory. In that sense, it explores how our fears shape us, and how the past refuses to stay buried.
I’ve rewatched The Haunting of Hill House several times since its release, and it remains my favorite of Flanagan’s series. I planned to rewatch it again after finishing the novel for a full comparison, but for now I wanted to reflect on what resonated most deeply from Shirley Jackson’s original story.
Haunted by Ourselves
Going into the reading, I expected to meet the ghosts from the show, including the Bent-Neck Lady or the Tall Man with the cane. Instead, aside from a few history lessons and urban legends, there are no overt ghosts in the novel. Instead, Jackson’s approach is subtler and more unsettling.
What I found wasn’t a haunted house in the traditional sense, but a study of how our own fears, doubts, and insecurities can distort our perception of reality.
“She could not remember ever being truly happy in her adult life; her years with her mother had been built up devotedly around small guilt, small reproaches, constant weariness, and unending despair. Without ever wanting to become reserved and shy, she had spent so long alone, with no one to love, that it was difficult for her to talk, even casually to another person without self-consciousness and an awkward inability to find words.”
— The Haunting of Hill House, p. 6
The novel is told primarily through the limited perspective of Eleanor Vance, a 32-year-old woman who spent over a decade caring for her demanding, invalid mother. After her mother dies, Eleanor realizes she is alone and has lost her sense of identity. She’s timid, uncertain, and quietly yearning for connection. When she receives a mysterious invitation from Dr. Montague to join his investigation at Hill House, she defies her sister’s disapproval and seizes the opportunity, determined to do something—anything—for herself.
“She would be touched with the little cold thought: I have let more time go by…. I am going. I have finally taken a step.”
— p. 14
As I read, I found myself relating to Eleanor’s anxious sense of “falling behind.” With the constant scroll of social media, it’s far too easy to compare your life to others’: the dream jobs, perfect relationships, new homes, and milestones. Meanwhile, I’ve often felt like I was running to catch up, doing my best but always falling short.
Like Eleanor, I’ve found myself thinking, I missed my chance. Rationally, I know everyone’s path unfolds differently, and that social media is just a highlight reel, but insecurity is a stubborn ghost. Once it settles in, it’s hard to banish.
What makes Eleanor so heartbreakingly relatable is that in her early chapters, you can see both her fragility and her hope. She dreams quietly of a better life full of freedom, of belonging, of being seen. As she drives to Hill House, she imagines a future that feels just out of reach, telling herself stories about who she could become if only given the chance.
And so, she continues to Hill House.
The Haunting Truth
“What did I do; did I make a fool of myself? Were they laughing at me?” (The Haunting of Hill House, p. 88)
After arriving at Hill House and being immediately put off by its unsettling atmosphere, Eleanor forces herself to enter the “vile” house. Soon, she is joined by the rest of the group: the vivacious Theodora, the rakish Luke, and the inquisitive Dr. Montague. It’s here that Hill House begins to take its toll on Eleanor, and her anxieties start to manifest in increasingly disarming ways.
Eleanor’s mental state fluctuates wildly during her interactions with the others. She swings between moments of giddy camaraderie and moments of deep insecurity. One moment she is making up playful stories with Theodora and Luke, imagining they might genuinely like her. The next she worries if they pity her, mock her behind her back, or worse, don’t think of her at all.
As the strange occurrences in the house grow more intense, Eleanor becomes more and more preoccupied with how she appears to others. Her every word and movement seems filtered through an inner chorus of imagined judgments. Her relationship with Theodora shifts rapidly from affectionate closeness to cold rivalry, and depending on how one interprets Jackson’s subtext, perhaps even something more.
This tension builds alongside a creeping sense of unreliability in the narration. Readers begin to question whether Eleanor’s perceptions are warped by the house’s supernatural influence, her own fragile mental state, or some uneasy fusion of both.
“Let him be wise, or let me be blind; don’t let me know too surely what he thinks of me.”
— p. 157
As the story unfolds, Eleanor becomes more devoted to her fantasies than to reality. She desperately wants connection but struggles to form it because she prefers her imagined version of events. In one scene, she asks Luke to explain why people want to talk to each other, what it is they truly seek to know. When he begins to answer, Eleanor immediately turns inward, analyzing his words until every interpretation feels painful. If he’s kind, she assumes it’s false; if he’s gallant, it must be manipulative. She concludes it’s safer to remain ignorant of what he really thinks.
Ultimately, Eleanor decides Luke is selfish and dull. Her thoughts are sharp and judgmental, even as her outward words are sweet. With Theodora, she does the same, erecting emotional barriers to justify her loneliness. Others are too cruel, too clever, too self-involved; therefore, she must remain alone.
“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.”
— p. 185
By the novel’s conclusion, it becomes clear both to readers and to the other guests that Eleanor is the one most deeply affected by Hill House’s darkness. The narration slips further into ambiguity, blurring fantasy and reality until the two are nearly indistinguishable.
Eleanor oscillates between longing for companionship and retreating into her own mind, where she can script happier outcomes. She fears the messy realities of connection such as judgment, growth, and rejection. Instead she longs for stillness, for a place where stories never end and everything remains just as she imagines.
Many readers describe Eleanor as childish, unstable, or repressed. Certainly, Shirley Jackson leaves room for multiple interpretations: Hill House may be haunted by supernatural forces, or it may be the reflection of Eleanor’s own internal torment. For me, Eleanor represents a lonely, neglected woman who yearns for belonging but fears she’ll never find it. That longing and the ease with which isolation warps perception makes her painfully human.
That, to me, is the true haunting within Hill House: not ghosts or creaking doors, but the quiet fears within our own minds.
The Haunting of Hill House is an unsettling yet poignant exploration of fear, desire, and the yearning for connection. If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend it. And if you can, seek out the Penguin Horror edition, edited by Guillermo del Toro, which includes an insightful introduction about Jackson’s enduring impact.
A Final Note
Stories give us safe spaces to explore themes of grief, anxiety, and isolation—but sometimes, those emotions extend beyond the page. If you’ve ever seen yourself in Eleanor’s struggles, please know you’re not alone. Help is available.
Resources:
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) – offers mental health resources and community support
In the U.S., if you are in crisis, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline for free, 24/7, confidential support.
Select images from The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix, 2018), The Haunting (1999), and the Penguin Horror edition book cover used under Fair Use.
