October is nearly upon us and the spoopy times are a-comin’! So let’s talk about Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, obviously.
The novel is a mainstay in high schools and colleges all over the country, and there’s a lot happening in those hundreds of pages — everyone sucks, everyone’s sad, and everyone’s mad. It’s great. But early on, there’s a particular passage from our narrator, Mr. Lockwood, relating a series of nightmares he’s had while staying in the Heights — Wuthering, obviously, and not to be confused with 96,000? Dollars? Holla!
ANYWAY, so this dude Lockwood is having some nightmares and one of those nightmares scared me so intensely as a reader that I still think about it a decade and a half after reading the book for the first time. In it, a small ghostly hand grabs his hand from outside of a window and he hears a child’s voice crying, “Let me in!”
First of all: No, thank you. It’s probably this creep sitting outside the window to take me to see horrifying visions of Christmas past and then devour my soul or some sh*t.
Lockwood is like who the hell are you? And the child’s voice cries “Catherine Linton!” And then Lockwood basically thinks, oh hell no, I am not going to go down the road of why this bitch is haunting me. Then he sees a creepy little kid ghost face staring at him through the glass and absolutely no empathy comes out of our man Lockwood, no, sir. He straight up pulls that kid’s wrist across the broken glass of the window pane until it lets go and there's blood everywhere.
“Oh surely an exaggeration,” you’re thinking — read the actual paragraph for yourselves, then!
As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious grip, almost maddening me with fear.
I have legitimately been haunted by this scene from Wuthering Heights since I was 20 years old—which, incidentally is how long that little kid ghost was haunting the moors, which I'm sure is just a coincidence and not significant at all. But it is horrifying and I’m probably going to have a nightmare because of this Chosen One of the Day so thanks a lot, internet.