In Praise of "The Uninvited"
A perfectly misfitted, recently rediscovered cozy ghost story
That photograph is a perfect version of how I’ve always imagined Cliff End — the remote Cornwall mansion at the heart of Dorothy Macardle’s haunting 1942 novel, The Uninvited.
The book was a wartime bestseller, published first in Great Britain as Uneasy Freehold. Its American title came along the same year on a hardcover edition from the Literary Guild.
But my own copy is a now-battered 1969 paperback, with a damsel-in-distress cover and a banner that reads “A Bantam Gothic Novel.” I’m not sure when I acquired this item, but there’s a faded stamp from a used bookstore where I often browsed.
Apparently I just bought it on a whim — which is odd, because I hate suspense, and never read horror on purpose. But in the intervening years, I’ve read and re-read The Uninvited until its cover disintegrated and its glue barely holds together.
So when Fanfare asked for submissions last Halloween on the theme “the book that terrified me most,” I decided to write an appreciation of The Uninvited.
Since I’m not a fan of horror fiction, and I really love this book — you might think I just have a low threshold for scary. And that might be so. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I‘ve decided there’s a meaningful difference between merely scary and truly terrifying. And while being scared doesn’t much interest me . . . being terrified, as it turns out, is a fascinating experience.
At the most basic level, The Uninvited is a well-written haunted-house-romance, fancied up with some Freudian undertones. But any simple description falls short of explaining why the British edition was reprinted thirteen times in its first two years.
In America, the handsome Literary Guild version was followed by a fancy Dial Press edition in soft cover, then by my Bantam mass market paperback, which also went through quite a few printings. So it’s fair to say a lot of readers really liked this book.
One reason would be the excellent writing. An admired Irish playwright, journalist, and historian, Macardle combined wonderful descriptions with engaging characterizations, believable dialog, and a genuinely inventive plot.
In fact the story was so good that by 1944 it had been made into a hit movie, starring Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey as the siblings who set out to restore an old house on the coast of Cornwall and find themselves in the midst of a complicated haunting. Like most adaptations, the film keeps enough elements of the book to be recognizable, but leaves behind a lot of the texture and depth that made it a great reading experience.
The movie remains a favorite on Turner Classic Movies, however, while the book itself went out of print in the 1970s, and wasn’t available again until 2015, when the Dublin publishing company Tramp Press re-printed it in their “Recovered Voices” series.
So at the baseline, this is a good story, well-told. But when we get to why it’s terrifying, reasons are more complicated.
The novel starts off with a picturesque domestic adventure, when Pamela and Roderick Fitzgerald come across a (mysteriously) empty seaside house while on holiday. It’s available for a (suspiciously) affordable sum, and they decide on impulse to give up their unsatisfying city lives. Roderick will finish his play, while Pamela painstakingly refurbishes Cliff End.
This prelude goes on for quite a while, drawing us gradually into their new life, and introducing several key characters: Stella, who had once lived in the house; her stern sea-captain grandfather; the Fitzgerald’s beloved housekeeper; and a variety of local characters. Nothing strange happens — at least not exactly.
But there are hints, of course.
One room of the house is unnaturally cold, and we learn that a tragedy had occurred on the precipice near Cliff End, when Stella’s young mother fell to her death. There are rumors in the village . . .
And eventually, sounds of ghostly weeping begin to be heard at night.
Though Pamela can feel a presence, Roderick is skeptical. And since the story is told from his point of view, we go along with him on a journey from disbelief to reluctant acceptance — and eventually, on a quest to discover the true cause of the haunting.
All of which is complicated by his growing affection for Stella, and her increasing obsession with Cliff End. Stella believes the ghost of her mother is reaching out to her, but as the manifestations become more intense, it seems undeniable that an unseen presence means her harm.
The dramatic story of Stella’s childhood — long concealed by her domineering grandfather — begins to emerge. And as she draws ever closer to a nervous collapse, the Fitzgeralds, the town doctor, and a ghost-hunting lawyer try to unravel the mysterious conflict that is turning Cliff End into a house of nightmares.
Memorably detailed scenes cast a spell over the reader, as seemingly disconnected events slowly weave into a pattern, and the sleuths race to understand what it all means. They discover that Stella is in danger not only from a malignant ghost, but from a living woman who means to destroy her psychologically . . .
By this time Roderick, Pamela, and their accomplices have conducted research, devised experiments, and held a completely believable seance, all in the spirit of applying rational skills to an irrational situation. They succeed in solving the mystery — but that doesn’t dispel the danger, and in the end they need a great deal of courage to save Stella and bring peace to Cliff End.
So now it’s time to focus on why this book “terrified” me.
Simplest answer: I identified with the characters — and they are terrified. Not in a scream-y way, but in ways that are psychological, philosophical, spiritual, and physical, all converging in a series of escalating experiences. Step by step they have to question beliefs and disbeliefs, assumptions and intentions, until there is nothing left but doing what they must.
The “ghosts” in this story are not vaguely disturbing apparitions. One is a wraith of hatred whose presence sucks all the warmth out of your body. One is a well of sadness so deep you are engulfed in a shared grief. And one is not even dead, but so consumed with vengeance that she has more in common with the dead than with the living.
Another reason I find The Uninvited genuinely terrifying: It has the kind of compelling rhythm where ordinary life edges in and out of extremes. A dinner party is disrupted by a ghostly visit. The priest comes for tea and suggests an exorcism. Pamela and Stella make a leaf fire in the garden while Roderick works on his play — driven, as he later realizes, by the dark energy at work in Cliff End.
So we are reminded of how easily our everyday complacency can be pierced by unexpected, even unbelievable, events. Could a column of mist materialize on my staircase at 3 AM? Will it slowly transform from writhing ectoplasm into a faintly human figure?
The white, flowing shroud was a gown now and I saw hands. They were poised over the banister rail…as though the mist was crystallizing…
Unlikely — but not impossible. And that in a nutshell is why a truly convincing ghost story is truly terrifying.
But there’s one more reason why The Uninvited is especially disturbing: It touches on our deepest and most human fears.
Feeling unloved, or helpless, or betrayed. Becoming the target of overwhelming and uncontrollable forces. Failing an ultimate test . . .
Until I started writing this appreciation, I hadn’t realized how many layers there are in The Uninvited — or that its subtle complexity is exactly what makes it terrifying. Macardle’s novel is not just a ghost-hunting thriller, it’s also a study of class prejudice, psychological manipulation, gender bias, and nationalist identities.
Setting aside all that weightiness, this book is just a really great read. I loved it before I’d even thought about why, because it did the one thing a great read must do. It took me to another reality, and made me want to return.
Originally published in Fanfare.