I'm reading the Shining by Stephen King. According to Kindle, I am 40% through the novel about Jack Torrance, a disgraced school teacher, who takes a job as a caretaker of the Overlook Hotel in Colorado (really called the Stanley Hotel, built around 1909). He takes his timid wife and eccentric but wise and psychically gifted son with him during his stay over the winter months. It's his last chance to complete his great novel and a chance to get his life back in order after he was fired for hitting a boy at a private school back east. He is hoping for time away, to work on his novel, his family, and enjoy the mountain air. Nothing says writer's retreat like being secluded in a snow bound mansion emptied of all tenants and workers, right? That seems like a good plan, right?
I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.
It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.
See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.
Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.
My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.
When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.
I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.
It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.
I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.
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