The Sundial by Shirley Jackson Page A

rock.”
    â€œA trysting place,” said Mrs. Willow with satisfaction.
    â€œNot on
my
land,” Mrs. Halloran said firmly.
    â€œNow the rock is a mountain. And the grass is tops of trees. There is water running down the mountain; it is a waterfall. Like one of those toys—everything shifts and changes, and by the time I see something it is gone. Now it is the sun, very bright. It hurts my eyes. A fire. White. All over, covering everything, even the trees and the waterfall. And colors, red and black. I’ve got to close my eyes.” She put both hands over her eyes and Mrs. Willow sighed.
    â€œIt was my father, almost certainly,” Aunt Fanny said. “Very bright.”
    Gloria leaned forward again and said, “It’s still there, only getting darker. Circles of color, blacker and blacker. No, no, stop,” she said, and she half-rose, her face close to the mirror. “I don’t want to watch,” she said, staring. “Like eyes, eyes all looking, they are going to get out—they are going to get out—shut the window against them, quick—shut the mirror, before they get out! No, wait,” and without looking away she waved Mrs. Willow back, “it’s quiet now. They can’t get out. The others are there. Standing, in a row. Looking at us. They want something.”
    â€œWho do they want?” It was Miss Ogilvie from her corner, straining against her chair as though tied.
    â€œIt is the house. They were standing all in a row and now it is the windows of the house; it looks tiny. It looks like a tiny picture, barely colored. The sun is not shining. There is a bird walking down the terrace, even from here I can see how bright he is, red and blue and green, like jewels.”
    â€œWe have
never
had peacocks on the terrace,” Mrs. Halloran said. “My father-in-law thought them feeble-minded.”
    â€œIt is walking down the terrace and now down the steps onto the lawn. Blue, and green. Tiny, and bright. It is coming straight down the lawn, right at me. I think it sees me and is coming right at me. It has a sharp nose and red eyes and it is smiling, bright and colored and coming faster—make him stop—make him go away—it’s hideous—make him go away!”
    Gloria wrenched away from the table and covered her eyes. Mrs. Willow patted her shoulder and said, “A little brandy, Essex, please,” and looked over Gloria’s shoulder into the mirror skimmed with oil, reflecting distorted cupids and dirty clouds.
    â€œI am sure that it was my father,” Aunt Fanny said. “I would not look into that mirror, of course, but it is not necessary. I know that it was my father, and he has come to see if we are mindful of his instructions. Don’t be afraid,” she said to Gloria. “That was my father you saw.”
    â€œIt was awful,” Gloria said.
    â€œHe was always a very strict man,” Aunt Fanny said, “but good to his children. If I had been in your place, Gloria, I should have said something, or at least made some gesture to show you recognized him. Because of course he has
his
feelings, too.”

5
    â€œYou are not familiar, I think,” Essex said slowly, “with a kind of unholy, unspeakable longing? I mention it to you because I think you may be the only person here who is capable of recognizing such an emotion. It is not a pretty thing to feel.”
    â€œPerhaps you might teach me,” Arabella said.
    â€œIt is a longing so intense that it creates what it desires, it cannot endure any touch of correction; it is, as I say, unspeakable.”
    â€œNo,” said Arabella, “I do not think I can remember that I ever felt anything like that.”
    â€œIt is unholy because it is heretic. It is foul. It is abominable to need something so badly that you cannot picture living without it. It is a contradiction to the condition of mankind.”
    â€œI have always