A solitary house facing north becomes the central character here. It never receives sunlight, and its grand white columns and tall windows seem less elegant than watchful and empty. Fletcher builds an eerie, quietly oppressive mood: the wind rattles the windows as if someone inside is struggling to get out, doors lead nowhere, squirrels live in the walls, and old trees stare into the rooms. The house feels trapped in time, weighed down by failed efforts and unfulfilled longing. Even the covered hole opening to the attic suggests curiosity or escape kept shut. The speaker’s feeling is not violent fear so much as a slow, tired unease—each passing minute repeats the same worn-out story, leaving only futility.
Prologue — Summary
The house that I write of, faces the north: No sun ever seeks Its six white columns, The nine great windows of its face.
It fronts foursquare the winds.
Under the penthouse of the veranda roof, The upper northern rooms Gloom outwards mournfully.
Staring Ionic capitals Peer in them: Owl-like faces.
On winter nights The wind, sidling round the corner, Shoots upwards With laughter.
The windows rattle as if some one were in them wishing to get out And ride upon the wind.
Doors lead to nowhere: Squirrels burrow between the walls. Closets in every room hang open, Windows are stared into by uncivil ancient trees.
In the middle of the upper hallway There is a great circular hole Going up to the attic. A wooden lid covers it.
All over the house there is a sense of futility; Of minutes dragging slowly And repeating Some worn-out story of broken effort and desire.