The Turn of the Screw
A young governess, two strange children, and a terrible secret at the heart of a grand country house.
Page 1
A young governess, hired by a charming but distant gentleman in London, arrived at Bly, a beautiful country estate. Her instructions were clear: take complete charge of his orphaned nephew and niece, and never trouble him about them. As her carriage rolled up the drive, the house seemed like something from a storybook. A stout, kind-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Grose, came out to meet her, holding the hand of a little girl of perfect beauty. "This is Flora," Mrs. Grose said warmly. "She's been so eager to meet you." The child curtsied. "And what of my other pupil, Miles?" the governess asked. "He returns from his school soon," the housekeeper replied, her smile tightening just a little. "He is a wonderful boy." The governess felt a surge of hope. She would give these children everything. She would be the best governess they could wish for.
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The first few weeks were a dream. The children were angels, the house a delight. One evening, walking alone in the garden as twilight fell, the governess was thinking how happy she was. She paused, admiring the grand old house. Then she looked up at one of the old towers and froze. A man was standing there. He was not a servant. He was pale, with sharp features and red hair, and he wore no hat. He was not looking at the view; he was looking at her, with an intensity that felt like a challenge. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, he turned and was gone. "Who was that?" she whispered. "What right does he have to be here?" A chill ran through her. "He was looking for someone," she thought with sudden dread, "and not for me."
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A few days later, a letter arrived from Miles's school. The headmaster had expelled the boy, stating only that he was an "injury" to the other students and could not return. Mrs. Grose found the governess staring at the paper in horror. "What is it, miss?" the housekeeper asked. The governess handed her the letter. "Expelled? Our Miles?" Mrs. Grose cried, refusing to believe it. "But he's so good!" "The headmaster says he is a corrupting influence," the governess said, her voice shaking. "What am I to do? I am forbidden to trouble their uncle." She folded the letter with a sharp crease. "We will say nothing. I will keep him here. I will protect him." Mrs. Grose looked at her, her eyes full of fear. "Protect him from what, miss?"
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One Sunday, the governess was walking with Flora by the lake. She had recently seen the strange man from the tower again, this time peering through the dining-room window. Now, as Flora played, the governess felt a sudden chill. She looked across the lake and saw a woman standing there, dressed in black, her face a mask of terrible sadness. She was pale, tragic, and utterly out of place. The governess knew, with a certainty that froze her blood, that this woman was not of this world. She looked down at Flora, who was pretending not to see, carefully turning her back. "She sees her too," the governess realized with horror. "And she is pretending. They know." She grabbed Flora's hand. "Let's go back to the house, darling," she said, her voice tight. "Now."
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That evening, the governess sought out Mrs. Grose. "I have seen them again," she said urgently. "The man, and now a woman." She described them: the man with red hair; the woman in black, pale with despair. Mrs. Grose listened, her face draining of color. "Quint," she whispered. "Peter Quint. The master's valet." "And the woman?" the governess pressed. "Miss Jessel. Your predecessor." The governess stared. "But... they are dead." "Yes, miss. Both of them." Mrs. Grose then told the terrible story: how Quint and Miss Jessel had been secretly involved, how they were a bad influence, "too free" with everyone, especially with the children. "They were wicked," Mrs. Grose wept. "And the children saw it all."
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One night, the governess felt a presence in the silent house. Taking a candle, she saw him. Peter Quint was standing on a landing of the grand staircase. He was not looking at her, but staring down into the dark hall, as if searching for one of the children. Fear seized her, but a wave of protective fury followed. "What do you want here?" she breathed, though no sound came out. She held her ground, meeting his vacant gaze as he turned. "You will not have them," she vowed silently. "They are mine." For a long, silent moment, the dead man and the living woman faced each other. Then, slowly, he turned and retreated into the darkness, vanishing. She had faced him, and he had gone.
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The governess became convinced Flora was secretly meeting with Miss Jessel. She and Mrs. Grose found the girl at the far side of the lake. There, across the water, the governess saw the ghost. "She's there!" the governess cried, pointing. "Where, you wretch?" she demanded of Flora. "Admit you see her!" But Mrs. Grose saw nothing. And Flora, her face contorted with a terrifying hatred, turned on the governess. "I don't see anyone! I never have!" she screamed. "You're cruel! I hate you!" She turned to the horrified Mrs. Grose. "Take me away from her! Take me away!" With that, the child collapsed into a storm of shrieks, falling violently ill. The governess had tried to force a confession, and had broken the child completely.
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Flora was gravely ill, consumed by fever and a terrifying aversion to the governess. Mrs. Grose was now convinced the house was unsafe. "I must take her away, miss," the housekeeper said, her face grim. "I must take her to her uncle in London." The governess, defeated, could not argue. She watched from an upper window as the carriage was brought around. Mrs. Grose, helped by a footman, carefully carried the bundled, shivering child out of the house and settled her inside. Flora did not look back. The governess was now utterly alone with Miles. As the carriage pulled away, she saw his small, pale face watching from the schoolroom window across the hall. "What did he do at that school?" she wondered. "And what does he see now?"
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That evening, the governess and Miles sat for dinner in the vast, empty dining room. This was her last chance. "Miles," she began. "I want you to tell me what happened at your school." He tried to charm his way out of it, but she persisted. "Who did you hurt? What did you say?" As she pressed him, a movement at the window caught her eye. It was Quint, his pale face pressed against the glass, staring in at the boy. He had come for Miles. The governess sprang to her feet. "There!" she cried, pointing. "Do you see him? Is it him? The coward you've been protecting?" Miles stared at the window, his eyes wide with a terror beyond anything she had ever seen. "Tell me who it is!" she commanded, holding the boy close. "Speak his name and he will be gone forever!"
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She had won, but she had lost. Miles had shrieked the ghost's name—"Peter Quint—you devil!"—and the figure at the window had vanished. The boy was free. But as he turned to her, his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped. Now, days later, the governess stood on the long drive where she had first arrived full of hope. A simple carriage waited to take her away. The house behind her was silent, empty of children. "I failed them," she thought, pulling her cloak tight against the cold. "I have nothing left." She looked one last time at the grand, dark house, then turned her back on it and stepped into the carriage, leaving Bly to its ghosts and its silence.
About this story
- Audience: general readers
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