We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
This was a wonderfully dark and creepy book, reminiscent of gothic literature and had me captivated from the very beginning.
Several years ago, someone poisoned the sugar bowl at the Blackwood’s family dinner resulting in almost every family member dying. The three survivors are forever altered by that fateful night.
Mary Katherine, or Merricat, is a bit insane, but in a gentle way. Although 18, she has very childlike tendencies and ideas, such as the fact magic protects their home. Nailing a book to a tree and having secret words so no one can trespass; this all makes perfect sense to Merricat. This makes the book a bit more chilling as it is narrated in the first person by Merricat and has a certain innocence and naivete while slowly retelling the story of how her family died.
Even though she is very meek and quiet, the townspeople are cruel to Merricat and her family; teasing her when she goes into town. Why wouldn’t she want to protect her home and herself from them with the magic she believes in? Especially her sister Constance, suffering from severe agoraphobia and although a bit stiff, deeply loves Merricat. And even though at times Merricat is not the warmest to her Uncle Julian, she is trying to be kinder and wants the three of them to be happy without the townspeople’s cruelty. They’ve already lost so much, it doesn’t seem they can take much more.
Then, a long lost cousin shows up and these three surviving family members must face their past but also their present in a very different way than they are used to. As the story continues, each one of their personalities become more and more disturbing. There are a few moments where each is hit with certain clarity before reverting back to their own type of insanity and that made it so much darker in an intriguing way. It was strange and the ending was not what I expected but kept true to the horror this short little book holds.
Synopsis: My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise, I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cap mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead...