I cannot find any patience for those people who believe that you start writing when you sit down at your desk and pick up your pen and finish writing… - Shirley Jackson

All of the village was of a piece, a time, and a style; it was as though the people needed the ugliness of the village, and fed on it. The houses and the stores seemed to have been set up in contemptuous haste to provide shelter for the drab and the unpleasant, and the Rochester house and the Blackwood house and even the town hall had been brought here perhaps accidentally from some far lovely country where people lived with grace. Perhaps the fine houses had been captured — perhaps as punishment for the Rochesters and the Blackwoods and their secret bad hearts? — and were held prisoner in the village; perhaps their slow rot was a sign of the ugliness of the villagers.

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

...Perhaps someday they would grow as dragons.