A Haunted House

By
Virginia Woolf

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here,
opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.
“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he
whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”
But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so
read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then,
tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood
pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in
here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft.
And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples,
reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its
yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant
from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells
of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The
treasure buried; the room. . .” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of
sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the
glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the
windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern
sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly.
“The Treasure yours.”
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the
rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through
the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the
trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting
far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we
hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes.
“Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives
straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the
faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,”
she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—”
Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I
cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”
Extract from a sample review for "A Haunted House", by Virginia Woolf
You cannot read Woolf for the plot-line. The technique of close reading is required for this, as she doesn't introduce
elements simply for the sake of setting a scene. If she describes a room as having a chair, it's not the only time one
is going to read about that chair. She'll return to it again and again, looking at it in a new way each time. She does
this with items, ideas, or phrases she introduces, building her effects and the stories through the juxtapositions of
the various elements and the development that comes from returning to and elaborating on them.
The short story "A Haunted House" is a story with meaning, by portraying to us the treasure of life. When two
ghosts are searching through their old house, looking for their "Treasure", the treasure or meaning is revealed to
us. The joy and love shared between two people is the treasure, the treasure of life. By using irony and stream of
consciousness Virginia Woolf is able to reveal the meaning of the story. The joy and love shared between two
people is the treasure of life. It tells the experience of a young couple (particularly the wife) with a ghostly couple
that haunts their home.
Woolf describes the ghosts with, "From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making
sure [...]" Woolf plays with the word "here" in what follows: "'Here we left it,' she said. And he added, 'Oh, but here
too!' 'It's upstairs,' she murmured." Woolf leaves the word "here" undefined, but the repetitions give it emphasis
and signify its importance. She also introduces the word "it," which is left undefined, too, and the repetitions signify
this word's importance as well. The story progresses through the development of the elements--the themes--of the
words "here" and "it." Woolf carries the reader along by defining everywhere "here" both is and is not; the ghostly
couple find "it" and "here" in the garden, in the drawing room, in the house's upstairs, but the living wife, who
narrates, can find neither in these places. "My hands were empty," she says repeatedly. Woolf creates a mystery:
What is the "it," and how can many places be "here," if "here" is where "it" is? As the story progresses, we learn
that the "it" is a "buried treasure," another vague reference, ostensibly concrete, that turns out to be just as
abstract as "it." Woolf develops the reader's sense of the "treasure" and its value as the story continues. The piece
climaxes when both "it and "here" are defined: the narrator realizes what they refer to in the final sentence.
Woolf ends on an epiphanic note: one achieves a higher understanding by adding a different perspective to one's
own. The narrator adds the ghosts' perspective to her view of things, and she's left with a greater understanding of
"it" and "here" and "treasure" than that with which she started. Woolf implicitly has her narrator also recognize that
feelings and sentiments are at least as valuable as material wealth. The story is a fine example of modernism: it
demands the utmost attention on the part of the reader, reality is defined through many eyes, and it explores
abstraction and the adventures of the mind.
Virginia Woolf uses a style called the "Stream of Consciousness", revealing the lives of her characters by revealing
their thoughts and associations. We also see the use of irony, using a word or phrase to mean the exact opposite of
its literal or normal meaning. The irony is that the story is titled "A Haunted House" which made us think that the
house was an evil place. The house ends up being where everything good happens. The ghosts did not haunt
the people, instead they make them realize the treasure they have. By seeing how much the ghosts valued
finding their treasure it makes the people take a harder look at what their treasure is, the love and joy they
share. It is very evident when she says "Now they found it, one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the
margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for one self". The irony draws use in by making us think
that we are about read a trivial ghost story, but instead, gives us a deeper and more meaningful interpretation of
one’s life.