Prologue
I was eleven when I went to Hill House. I went because of Dad - he had a very important business conference and as much as I liked product pitches and diagrams of pie charts, I didn’t want to get in the way, as I had told him two nights before. It was quite inconvenient, but luckily, by the way my face looked completely desperate, he gave in and arranged to for me stay with someone. Of course I had to bring Katy, my five-year-old sister, but at least it was a change from my normal, boring summer holidays. Unfortunately, the only family member who was available at such short notice was my great aunt Margaret. From what Dad told me, Margaret lives on her own in a decaying, Tudor mansion, always covered in mist and fog. Sometimes he used to scare me with stupid stories about ghosts roaming about the house at night, but I don’t fall for that anymore. The sky is grey and ever darkening and the grounds around the house are dull and lifeless. Hardly any animal dare enter it and no birds fly over the house. There is a rumour from the local towns people that Hill House’s moors and woods are filled with bad omens and spirits, but I never believe in those sorts of things.
Nobody had ever been inside the house except for Margaret and her husband Joe, who passed away quite suddenly. They were anti-social people, so never came to family gatherings, or even left the house for that matter. Most people have forgotten them over time and hardly ever noticed them. It’s almost like they lived in their own little world.
