It’s really a testament to Shirley Jackson that she manages to make simple noises unnerving. This is another one that’s a pillar of its genre, so I can forgive it for things that seem tropey to a reader in 2025. This wasn’t at all what I expected but I found it and its narrator profoundly relatable and earnest as a depiction of the unique kind of loneliness and isolation that comes with being mentally ill and overlooked by others. Ironically left me feeling less alone and recognised, and much like Hill House you want to reach out and grasp Eleanor and tell her she isn’t alone either.