This 1927 masterpiece of horror and suspense was perhaps the most influential of the "old dark house" subgenre, and in fact, the U.S. publication was titled "The Old Dark House," spawning the classic Universal horror film of the same name featuring Boris Karloff fresh off of his success with "Frankenstein." The influence of this novel on the horror genre in general, from haunted house stories to slashers, cannot be understated. It is fortuitous that I reviewed an 80s paperback original earlier this month called "Evil," by Richard O'Brien, my surprise discovery of the year. Now I understand just how fully that novel was not only influenced by "Benighted," but was in a sense a more modern remake. Check out my review on Goodreads for more details. But now, on to the topic at hand...
"Benighted" is not so much a story about a spooky house as it is a novel about the first World War. Just like film and literature in the 70s examined how our culture changed post-Vietnam, so were similar sentiments explored in the 1920s. "Benighted" is perhaps one of the best psychological studies of post-war trauma, loss, and redemption I have ever read. You just have to read it to see what I mean.
It is all thinly veiled in a redemption story of a young and bitter war veteran named Penderel, who is the third wheel on a road trip across the Welsh countryside with his pal Phillip and Phillip's wife Margaret. Penderel is "as cynical as a taxi driver," scarred by the loss of his brother at the battle of Passchendaele and his own experiences in the so-called Great War, and frustrated by his own attempts to pick up the pieces of his life in a seemingly meaningless and loveless existence, taking to drink in order to feel something, anything other than the hopeless mundane.
"With us the whole thing has got to be so careful, so ordered, has become so conscious, asks for so much planning and safeguarding, that we never arrive at any real enjoyment or ease, to say nothing of sheer rapture. We’re like people walking on a tightrope, and the only real pleasure we get is when we say to ourselves, 'Well, that bit’s safely passed.'"
When a vicious thunderstorm blocks both their advancement and retreat along the washed out road, they seek shelter in a 17th Century country estate inhabited by the Femmes and their mute, hulking servant. We at first only meet an old, lonely couple, a brother and sister, two living ghosts of a bygone era. They are like animals being startled in their dark den, blinking and befuddled by the sudden light brought in by these strange young people who suddenly appear at their door. It is quite endearing to read about them bustling and scurrying to provide some meager shelter for their sodden guests. But there are evidently secrets in this house, as we discover there are other members of the household, but they remain upstairs and unseen behind great wooden doors.
Penderel manically bounds into this scene eager for the chance at a little adventure, for something different, like an addict seeking novelty. And such begins his story. Playwright Priestley treats his arc like a stage production, even going so far as to say, "What a pity people didn’t really think of life as a play, taking care to come on properly, to say and do no more than was necessary, and then to make a good clean exit."
Little explanation is given for what follows, but we do not need it. It is only the ensuing drama that matters, and we know that it will not be pleasant thanks to Priestley's darkly delicious sense of dread with which he paints his literary canvas, a technique which will inform the later work of Lovecraft.
Things start picking up when later on they are joined by another stranded couple, Gladys and Sir William. There is little to do but to sit around the fire and wait out the storm, forcing our protagonists to spend time with each other. They share drinks and stories about their pasts, their ambitions, and their regrets. Though some readers may feel that the narrative was too often broken by these moments of dialogue and waxing philosophic, the real meat of the marrow is in these bones. Because it is within the human connection that evolves in the face of horror where the themes of the novel really shine. "...it seemed strange that people whose hearts were empty could meet on such a night and talk through this darkness without loving."
And we do grow to appreciate and love all these characters by the end as real and complex human beings. People don't often know what they have until threatened with loss. This is one of the therapeutic qualities of reading horror literature, to appreciate where you may find yourself and to never take anything for granted. Outside, a raging thunderstorm tears down trees and levees, washes away roads, and with thunder and pounding meant to evoke the sounds of war, five benighted people find refuge in an old dark house, and for a moment, isolated from the distractions of daily life around them, they are able to spend time making real connections to each other, meaningful connections that could last a lifetime would it not be for the cruel hand of chaos.
And for this reason, the horror becomes all the more palpable. One of the most poignant scenes involves Gladys and Margaret locked in a dark room while awful things are happening in the house. They can't help. They can't intervene. They can't even see. They can only hear. The small room where they are confined is reminiscent of the strictures of time and space for women of the era whose loved ones were off fighting in the trenches--future hopes and plans suspended in a type of purgatory, their fates completely tentative on who should coming knocking on that door once the battles are over.
So many thanks to Valancourt Books once again for bringing a masterpiece back into print for a new generation of horror fans and lovers of good literature alike. "Benighted" receives my highest recommendation.