{"id":20373,"date":"2025-03-02T23:23:24","date_gmt":"2025-03-03T03:23:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=20373"},"modified":"2025-03-02T23:23:27","modified_gmt":"2025-03-03T03:23:27","slug":"shirley-jackson-the-summer-people","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/shirley-jackson-the-summer-people\/20373\/","title":{"rendered":"Shirley Jackson: The Summer People"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: \u201cThe Summer People<\/em>\u201d is a disturbing story by the acclaimed American author Shirley Jackson, published in September 1950 in the magazine Charm<\/em>. The story explores the story of an elderly couple, the Allisons, who, after years of spending their summers in a quiet country cottage, decide to extend their stay beyond the usual season. However, this harmless decision triggers a series of unexpected events.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Shirley<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Summer People<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Shirley Jackson
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Allisons\u2019 country cottage, seven miles from the nearest town, was set prettily on a hill; from three sides it looked down on soft trees and grass that seldom, even at midsummer, lay still and dry. On the fourth side was the lake, which touched against the wooden pier the Allisons had to keep repairing, and which looked equally well from the Allisons\u2019 front porch, their side porch or any spot on the wooden staircase leading from the porch down to the water. Although the Allisons loved their summer cottage, looked forward to arriving in the early summer and hated to leave in the fall, they had not troubled themselves to put in any improvements, regarding the cottage itself and the lake as improvement enough for the life left to them. The cottage had no heat, no running water except the precarious supply from the backyard pump, and no electricity. For seventeen summers, Janet Allison had cooked on a kerosene stove, heating all their water; Robert Allison had brought buckets full of water daily from the pump and read his paper by kerosene light in the evenings; and they had both, sanitary city people, become stolid and matter-of-fact about their backhouse. In the first two years they had gone through all the standard vaudeville and magazine jokes about backhouses and by now, when they no longer had frequent guests to impress, they had subsided to a comfortable security which made the backhouse, as well as the pump and the kerosene, an indefinable asset to their summer life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In themselves, the Allisons were ordinary people. Mrs. Allison was fifty-eight years old and Mr. Allison sixty; they had seen their children outgrow the summer cottage and go on to families of their own and seashore resorts; their friends were either dead or settled in comfortable year-round houses, their nieces and nephews vague. In the winter they told one another they could stand their New York apartment while waiting for the summer; in the summer they told one another that the winter was well worthwhile, waiting to get to the country.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since they were old enough not to be ashamed of regular habits, the Allisons invariably left their summer cottage the Tuesday after Labor Day, and were as invariably sorry when the months of September and early October turned out to be pleasant and almost insufferably barren in the city; each year they recognized that there was nothing to bring them back to New York, but it was not until this year that they overcame their traditional inertia enough to decide to stay in the cottage after Labor Day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere isn\u2019t really anything to take us back to the city,\u201d Mrs. Allison told her husband seriously, as though it were a new idea, and he told her, as though neither of them had ever considered it, \u201cWe might as well enjoy the country as long as possible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Consequently, with much pleasure and a slight feeling of adventure, Mrs. Allison went into their village the day after Labor Day and told those natives with whom she had dealings, with a pretty air of breaking away from tradition, that she and her husband had decided to stay at least a month longer at their cottage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt isn\u2019t as though we had anything to take us back to the city,\u201d she said to Mr. Babcock, her grocer. \u201cWe might as well enjoy the country while we can.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody ever stayed at the lake past Labor Day before,\u201d Mr. Babcock said. He was putting Mrs. Allison\u2019s groceries into a large cardboard carton, and he stopped for a minute to look reflectively into a bag of cookies. \u201cNobody,\u201d he added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut the city!\u201d Mrs. Allison always spoke of the city to Mr. Babcock as though it were Mr. Babcock\u2019s dream to go there. \u201cIt\u2019s so hot\u2014you\u2019ve really no idea. We\u2019re always sorry when we leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHate to leave,\u201d Mr. Babcock said. One of the most irritating native tricks Mrs. Allison had noticed was that of taking a trivial statement and rephrasing it downward, into an even more trite statement. \u201cI\u2019d hate to leave myself,\u201d Mr. Babcock said, after deliberation, and both he and Mrs. Allison smiled. \u201cBut I never heard of anyone ever staying out at the lake after Labor Day before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, we\u2019re going to give it a try,\u201d Mrs. Allison said, and Mr. Babcock replied gravely, \u201cNever know till you try.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Physically, Mrs. Allison decided, as she always did when leaving the grocery after one of her inconclusive conversations with Mr. Babcock, physically, Mr. Babcock could model for a statue of Daniel Webster, but mentally . . . it was horrible to think into what old New England Yankee stock had degenerated. She said as much to Mr. Allison when she got into the car, and he said, \u201cIt\u2019s generations of inbreeding. That and the bad land.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since this was their big trip into town, which they made only once every two weeks to buy things they could not have delivered, they spent all day at it, stopping to have a sandwich in the newspaper and soda shop, and leaving packages heaped in the back of the car. Although Mrs. Allison was able to order groceries delivered regularly, she was never able to form any accurate idea of Mr. Babcock\u2019s current stock by telephone, and her lists of odds and ends that might be procured was always supplemented, almost beyond their need, by the new and fresh local vegetables Mr. Babcock was selling temporarily, or the packaged candy which had just come in. This trip Mrs. Allison was tempted, too, by the set of glass baking dishes that had found themselves completely by chance in the hardware and clothing and general store, and which had seemingly been waiting there for no one but Mrs. Allison, since the country people, with their instinctive distrust of anything that did not look as permanent as trees and rocks and sky, had only recently begun to experiment in aluminum baking dishes instead of ironware, and had, apparently within the memory of local inhabitants, discarded stoneware in favor of iron.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison had the glass baking dishes carefully wrapped, to endure the uncomfortable ride home over the rocky road that led up to the Allisons\u2019 cottage, and while Mr. Charley Walpole, who, with his younger brother Albert, ran the hardware-clothing-general store (the store itself was called Johnson\u2019s because it stood on the site of the old Johnson cabin, burned fifty years before Charley Walpole was born), laboriously unfolded newspapers to wrap around the dishes, Mrs. Allison said, informally, \u201cCourse, I could<\/em> have waited and gotten those dishes in New York, but we\u2019re not going back so soon this year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHeard you was staying on,\u201d Mr. Charley Walpole said. His old fingers fumbled maddeningly with the thin sheets of newspaper, carefully trying to isolate only one sheet at a time, and he did not look up at Mrs. Allison as he went on, \u201cDon\u2019t know about staying on up there to the lake. Not after Labor Day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, you know,\u201d Mrs. Allison said, quite as though he deserved an explanation, \u201cit just seemed to us that we\u2019ve been hurrying back to New York every year, and there just wasn\u2019t any need for it. You know what the city\u2019s like in the fall.\u201d And she smiled confidingly up at Mr. Charley Walpole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rhythmically he wound string around the package. He\u2019s giving me a piece long enough to save, Mrs. Allison thought, and she looked away quickly to avoid giving any sign of impatience. \u201cI feel sort of like we belong here, more,\u201d she said. \u201cStaying on after everyone else has left.\u201d To prove this, she smiled brightly across the store at a woman with a familiar face, who might have been the woman who sold berries to the Allisons one year, or the woman who occasionally helped in the grocery and was probably Mr. Babcock\u2019s aunt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Mr. Charley Walpole said. He shoved the package a little across the counter, to show that it was finished and that for a sale well made, a package well wrapped, he was willing to accept pay. \u201cWell,\u201d he said again. \u201cNever been summer people before, at the lake after Labor Day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison gave him a five-dollar bill, and he made change methodically, giving great weight even to the pennies. \u201cNever after Labor Day,\u201d he said, and nodded at Mrs. Allison, and went soberly along the store to deal with two women who were looking at cotton house dresses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Mrs. Allison passed on her way out she heard one of the women say acutely, \u201cWhy is one of them dresses one dollar and thirty-nine cents and this one here is only ninety-eight?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re great people,\u201d Mrs. Allison told her husband as they went together down the sidewalk after meeting at the door of the hardware store. \u201cThey\u2019re so solid, and so reasonable, and so honest<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMakes you feel good, knowing there are still towns like this,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, in New York,\u201d Mrs. Allison said, \u201cI might have paid a few cents less for these dishes, but there wouldn\u2019t have been anything sort of personal in the transaction.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStaying on to the lake?\u201d Mrs. Martin, in the newspaper and sandwich shop, asked the Allisons. \u201cHeard you was staying on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThought we\u2019d take advantage of the lovely weather this year,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Martin was a comparative newcomer to the town; she had married into the newspaper and sandwich shop from a neighboring farm, and had stayed on after her husband\u2019s death. She served bottled soft drinks, and fried egg and onion sandwiches on thick bread, which she made on her own stove at the back of the store. Occasionally when Mrs. Martin served a sandwich it would carry with it the rich fragrance of the stew or the pork chops cooking alongside for Mrs. Martin\u2019s dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t guess anyone\u2019s ever stayed out there so long before,\u201d Mrs. Martin said. \u201cNot after Labor Day, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess Labor Day is when they usually leave,\u201d Mr. Hall, the Allisons\u2019 nearest neighbor, told them later, in front of Mr. Babcock\u2019s store, where the Allisons were getting into their car to go home. \u201cSurprised you\u2019re staying on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt seemed a shame to go so soon,\u201d Mrs. Allison said. Mr. Hall lived three miles away; he supplied the Allisons with butter and eggs, and occasionally, from the top of their hill, the Allisons could see the lights in his house in the early evening before the Halls went to bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey usually leave Labor Day,\u201d Mr. Hall said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ride home was long and rough; it was beginning to get dark, and Mr. Allison had to drive very carefully over the dirt road by the lake. Mrs. Allison lay back against the seat, pleasantly relaxed after a day of what seemed whirlwind shopping compared with their day-to-day existence; the new glass baking dishes lurked agreeably in her mind, and the half-bushel of red eating apples, and the package of colored thumbtacks with which she was going to put up new shelf edging in the kitchen. \u201cGood to get home,\u201d she said softly as they came in sight of their cottage, silhouetted above them against the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGlad we decided to stay on,\u201d Mr. Allison agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison spent the next morning lovingly washing her baking dishes, although in his innocence Charley Walpole had neglected to notice the chip in the edge of one; she decided, wastefully, to use some of the red eating apples in a pie for dinner, and, while the pie was in the oven and Mr. Allison was down getting the mail, she sat out on the little lawn the Allisons had made at the top of the hill, and watched the changing lights on the lake, alternating gray and blue as clouds moved quickly across the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Allison came back a little out of sorts; it always irritated him to walk the mile to the mailbox on the state road and come back with nothing, even though he assumed that the walk was good for his health. This morning there was nothing but a circular from a New York department store, and their New York paper, which arrived erratically by mail from one to four days later than it should, so that some days the Allisons might have three papers and frequently none. Mrs. Allison, although she shared with her husband the annoyance of not having mail when they so anticipated it, pored affectionately over the department store circular, and made a mental note to drop in at the store when she finally went back to New York, and check on the sale of wool blankets; it was hard to find good ones in pretty colors nowadays. She debated saving the circular to remind herself, but after thinking about getting up and getting into the cottage to put it away safely somewhere, she dropped it into the grass beside her chair and lay back, her eyes half closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooks like we might have some rain,\u201d Mr. Allison said, squinting at the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood for the crops,\u201d Mrs. Allison said laconically, and they both laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kerosene man came the next morning while Mr. Allison was down getting the mail; they were getting low on kerosene and Mrs. Allison greeted the man warmly; he sold kerosene and ice, and, during the summer, hauled garbage away for the summer people. A garbage man was only necessary for improvident city folk; country people had no garbage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad to see you,\u201d Mrs. Allison told him. \u201cWe were getting pretty low.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kerosene man, whose name Mrs. Allison had never learned, used a hose attachment to fill the twenty-gallon tank which supplied light and heat and cooking facilities for the Allisons; but today, instead of swinging down from his truck and unhooking the hose from where it coiled affectionately around the cab of the truck, the man stared uncomfortably at Mrs. Allison, his truck motor still going.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThought you folks\u2019d be leaving,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re staying on another month,\u201d Mrs. Allison said brightly. \u201cThe weather was so nice, and it seemed like\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what they told me,\u201d the man said. \u201cCan\u2019t give you no oil, though.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d Mrs. Allison raised her eyebrows. \u201cWe\u2019re just going to keep on with our regular\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfter Labor Day,\u201d the man said. \u201cI don\u2019t get so much oil myself after Labor Day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison reminded herself, as she had frequently to do when in disagreement with her neighbors, that city manners were no good with country people; you could not expect to overrule a country employee as you could a city worker, and Mrs. Allison smiled engagingly as she said, \u201cBut can\u2019t you get extra oil, at least while we stay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see,\u201d the man said. He tapped his finger exasperatingly against the car wheel as he spoke. \u201cYou see,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cI order this oil. I order it down from maybe fifty, fifty-five miles away. I order back in June, how much I\u2019ll need for the summer. Then I order again . . . oh, about November. Round about now it\u2019s starting to get pretty short.\u201d As though the subject were closed, he stopped tapping his finger and tightened his hands on the wheel in preparation for departure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut can\u2019t you give us some<\/em>?\u201d Mrs. Allison said. \u201cIsn\u2019t there anyone else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know as you could get oil anywheres else right now,\u201d the man said consideringly. \u201cI<\/em> can\u2019t give you none.\u201d Before Mrs. Allison could speak, the truck began to move; then it stopped for a minute and he looked at her through the back window of the cab. \u201cIce?\u201d he called. \u201cI could let you have some ice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison shook her head; they were not terribly low on ice, and she was angry. She ran a few steps to catch up with the truck, calling, \u201cWill you try to get us some? Next week?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t see\u2019s I can,\u201d the man said. \u201cAfter Labor Day, it\u2019s harder.\u201d The truck drove away, and Mrs. Allison, only comforted by the thought that she could probably get kerosene from Mr. Babcock, or, at worst, the Halls, watched it go with anger. \u201cNext summer,\u201d she told herself. \u201cJust let him<\/em> try coming around next summer!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no mail again, only the paper, which seemed to be coming doggedly on time, and Mr. Allison was openly cross when he returned. When Mrs. Allison told him about the kerosene man he was not particularly impressed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cProbably keeping it all for a high price during the winter,\u201d he commented. \u201cWhat\u2019s happened to Anne and Jerry, do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anne and Jerry were their son and daughter, both married, one living in Chicago, one in the Far West; their dutiful weekly letters were late; so late, in fact, that Mr. Allison\u2019s annoyance at the lack of mail was able to settle on a legitimate grievance. \u201cOught to realize how we wait for their letters,\u201d he said. \u201cThoughtless, selfish children. Ought to know better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, dear,\u201d Mrs. Allison said placatingly. Anger at Anne and Jerry would not relieve her emotions toward the kerosene man. After a few minutes she said, \u201cWishing won\u2019t bring the mail, dear. I\u2019m going to go call Mr. Babcock and tell him to send up some kerosene with my order.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAt least a postcard,\u201d Mr. Allison said as she left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As with most of the cottage\u2019s inconveniences, the Allisons no longer noticed the phone particularly, but yielded to its eccentricities without conscious complaint. It was a wall phone, of a type still seen in only few communities; in order to get the operator, Mrs. Allison had first to turn the sidecrank and ring once. Usually it took two or three tries to force the operator to answer, and Mrs. Allison, making any kind of telephone call, approached the phone with resignation and a sort of desperate patience. She had to crank the phone three times this morning before the operator answered, and then it was still longer before Mr. Babcock picked up the receiver at his phone in the corner of the grocery behind the meat table. He said \u201cStore?\u201d with the rising inflection that seemed to indicate suspicion of anyone who tried to communicate with him by means of this unreliable instrument.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is Mrs. Allison, Mr. Babcock. I thought I\u2019d give you my order a day early because I wanted to be sure and get some\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat say, Mrs. Allison?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison raised her voice a little; she saw Mr. Allison, out on the lawn, turn in his chair and regard her sympathetically. \u201cI said, Mr. Babcock, I thought I\u2019d call in my order early so you could send me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMrs. Allison?\u201d Mr. Babcock said. \u201cYou\u2019ll come and pick it up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPick it up?\u201d In her surprise Mrs. Allison let her voice drop back to its normal tone and Mr. Babcock said loudly, \u201cWhat\u2019s that, Mrs. Allison?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought I\u2019d have you send it out as usual,\u201d Mrs. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, Mrs. Allison,\u201d Mr. Babcock said, and there was a pause while Mrs. Allison waited, staring past the phone over her husband\u2019s head out into the sky. \u201cMrs. Allison,\u201d Mr. Babcock went on finally, \u201cI\u2019ll tell you, my boy\u2019s been working for me went back to school yesterday and now I got no one to deliver. I only got a boy delivering summers, you see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought you always<\/em> delivered,\u201d Mrs. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot after Labor Day, Mrs. Allison,\u201d Mr. Babcock said firmly. \u201cYou never been here after Labor Day before, so\u2019s you wouldn\u2019t know, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Mrs. Allison said helplessly. Far inside her mind she was saying, over and over, can\u2019t use city manners on country folk, no use getting mad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you sure<\/em>?\u201d she asked finally. \u201cCouldn\u2019t you just send out an order today, Mr. Babcock?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMatter of fact,\u201d Mr. Babcock said, \u201cI guess I couldn\u2019t, Mrs. Allison. It wouldn\u2019t hardly pay, delivering, with no one else out at the lake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat about Mr. Hall?\u201d Mrs. Allison asked suddenly, \u201cthe people who live about three miles away from us out here? Mr. Hall could bring it out when he comes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHall?\u201d Mr. Babcock said. \u201cJohn Hall? They\u2019ve gone to visit her folks upstate, Mrs. Allison.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut they bring all our butter and eggs,\u201d Mrs. Allison said, appalled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeft yesterday,\u201d Mr. Babcock said. \u201cProbably didn\u2019t think you folks would stay on up there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I told Mr. Hall . . .\u201d Mrs. Allison started to say, and then stopped. \u201cI\u2019ll send Mr. Allison in after some groceries tomorrow,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou got all you need till then,\u201d Mr. Babcock said, satisfied; it was not a question, but a confirmation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After she hung up, Mrs. Allison went slowly out to sit again in her chair next to her husband. \u201cHe won\u2019t deliver,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to go in tomorrow. We\u2019ve got just enough kerosene to last till you get back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe should have told us sooner,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was not possible to remain troubled long in the face of the day; the country had never seemed more inviting, and the lake moved quietly below them, among the trees, with the almost incredible softness of a summer picture. Mrs. Allison sighed deeply, in the pleasure of possessing for themselves that sight of the lake, with the distant green hills beyond, the gentleness of the small wind through the trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The weather continued fair; the next morning Mr. Allison, duly armed with a list of groceries, with \u201ckerosene\u201d in large letters at the top, went down the path to the garage, and Mrs. Allison began another pie in her new baking dishes. She had mixed the crust and was starting to pare the apples when Mr. Allison came rapidly up the path and flung open the screen door into the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDamn car won\u2019t start,\u201d he announced, with the end-of-the-tether voice of a man who depends on a car as he depends on his right arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with it?\u201d Mrs. Allison demanded, stopping with the paring knife in one hand and an apple in the other. \u201cIt was all right on Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Mr. Allison said between his teeth, \u201cit\u2019s not all right on Friday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you fix it?\u201d Mrs. Allison asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Mr. Allison said, \u201cI cannot. Got to call someone, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho?\u201d Mrs. Allison asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMan runs the filling station, I guess.\u201d Mr. Allison moved purposefully toward the phone. \u201cHe fixed it last summer one time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A little apprehensive, Mrs. Allison went on paring apples absentmindedly, while she listened to Mr. Allison with the phone, ringing, waiting, finally giving the number to the operator, then waiting again and giving the number again, giving the number a third time, and then slamming down the receiver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo one there,\u201d he announced as he came into the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s probably gone out for a minute,\u201d Mrs. Allison said nervously; she was not quite sure what made her so nervous, unless it was the probability of her husband\u2019s losing his temper completely. \u201cHe\u2019s there alone, I imagine, so if he goes out there\u2019s no one to answer the phone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat must be it,\u201d Mr. Allison said with heavy irony. He slumped into one of the kitchen chairs and watched Mrs. Allison paring apples. After a minute, Mrs. Allison said soothingly, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go down and get the mail and then call him again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Allison debated and then said, \u201cGuess I might as well.\u201d He rose heavily and when he got to the kitchen door he turned and said, \u201cBut if there\u2019s no mail\u2014\u201d and leaving an awful silence behind him, he went off down the path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison hurried with her pie. Twice she went to the window to glance at the sky to see if there were clouds coming up. The room seemed unexpectedly dark, and she herself felt in the state of tension that preceded a thunderstorm, but both times when she looked the sky was clear and serene, smiling indifferently down on the Allisons\u2019 summer cottage as well as on the rest of the world. When Mrs. Allison, her pie ready for the oven, went a third time to look outside, she saw her husband coming up the path; he seemed more cheerful, and when he saw her, he waved eagerly and held a letter in the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFrom Jerry,\u201d he called as soon as he was close enough for her to hear him, \u201cat last\u2014a letter!\u201d Mrs. Allison noticed with concern that he was no longer able to get up the gentle slope of the path without breathing heavily; but then he was in the doorway, holding out the letter. \u201cI saved it till I got here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison looked with an eagerness that surprised her on the familiar handwriting of her son; she could not imagine why the letter excited her so, except that it was the first they had received in so long; it would be a pleasant, dutiful letter, full of the doings of Alice and the children, reporting progress with his job, commenting on the recent weather in Chicago, closing with love from all; both Mr. and Mrs. Allison could, if they wished, recite a pattern letter from either of their children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Allison slit the letter open with great deliberation, and then he spread it out on the kitchen table and they leaned down and read it together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDear Mother and Dad<\/em>,\u201d it began, in Jerry\u2019s familiar, rather childish, handwriting, \u201cAm glad this goes to the lake as usual, we always thought you came back too soon and ought to stay up there as long as you could. Alice says that now that you\u2019re not as young as you used to be and have no demands on your time, fewer friends, etc., in the city, you ought to get what fun you can while you can. Since you two are both happy up there, it\u2019s a good idea for you to stay<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Uneasily Mrs. Allison glanced sideways at her husband; he was reading intently, and she reached out and picked up the empty envelope, not knowing exactly what she wanted from it. It was addressed quite as usual, in Jerry\u2019s handwriting, and was postmarked \u201cChicago.\u201d Of course it\u2019s postmarked Chicago, she thought quickly, why would they want to postmark it anywhere else? When she looked back down at the letter, her husband had turned the page, and she read on with him: \u201c\u2014and of course if they get measles, etc., now, they will be better off later. Alice is well, of course; me too. Been playing a lot of bridge lately with some people you don\u2019t know, named Carruthers. Nice young couple, about our age. Well, will close now as I guess it bores you to hear about things so far away. Tell Dad old Dickson, in our Chicago office, died. He used to ask about Dad a lot. Have a good time up at the lake, and don\u2019t bother about hurrying back. Love from all of us, Jerry<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFunny,\u201d Mr. Allison commented.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t sound like Jerry,\u201d Mrs. Allison said in a small voice. \u201cHe never wrote anything like . . .\u201d She stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike what?\u201d Mr. Allison demanded. \u201cNever wrote anything like what?\u201d Mrs. Allison turned the letter over, frowning. It was impossible to find any sentence, any word, even, that did not sound like Jerry\u2019s regular letters. Perhaps it was only that the letter was so late, or the unusual number of dirty fingerprints on the envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know<\/em>,\u201d she said impatiently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGoing to try that phone call again,\u201d Mr. Allison said. Mrs. Allison read the letter twice more, trying to find a phrase that sounded wrong. Then Mr. Allison came back and said, very quietly, \u201cPhone\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Mrs. Allison said, dropping the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPhone\u2019s dead,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rest of the day went quickly; after a lunch of crackers and milk, the Allisons went to sit outside on the lawn, but their afternoon was cut short by the gradually increasing storm clouds that came up over the lake to the cottage, so that it was as dark as evening by four o\u2019clock. The storm delayed, however, as though in loving anticipation of the moment it would break over the summer cottage, and there was an occasional flash of lightning, but no rain. In the evening Mr. and Mrs. Allison, sitting close together inside their cottage, turned on the battery radio they had brought with them from New York. There were no lamps lighted in the cottage, and the only light came from the lightning outside and the small square glow from the dial of the radio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The slight framework of the cottage was not strong enough to withstand the city noises, the music and the voices, from the radio, and the Allisons could hear them far off echoing across the lake, the saxophones in the New York dance band wailing over the water, the flat voice of the girl vocalist going inexorably out into the clean country air. Even the announcer, speaking glowingly of the virtues of razor blades, was no more than an inhuman voice sounding out from the Allisons\u2019 cottage and echoing back, as though the lake and the hills and the trees were returning it unwanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During one pause between commercials, Mrs. Allison turned and smiled weakly at her husband. \u201cI wonder if we\u2019re supposed to . . . do<\/em> anything,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Mr. Allison said consideringly. \u201cI don\u2019t think so. Just wait.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison caught her breath quickly, and Mr. Allison said, under the trivial melody of the dance band beginning again, \u201cThe car had been tampered with, you know. Even I could see that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison hesitated a minute and then said very softly, \u201cI suppose the phone wires were cut.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI imagine so,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a while, the dance music stopped and they listened attentively to a news broadcast, the announcer\u2019s rich voice telling them breathlessly of a marriage in Hollywood, the latest baseball scores, the estimated rise in food prices during the coming week. He spoke to them, in the summer cottage, quite as though they still deserved to hear news of a world that no longer reached them except through the fallible batteries on the radio, which were already beginning to fade, almost as though they still belonged, however tenuously, to the rest of the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Allison glanced out the window at the smooth surface of the lake, the black masses of the trees, and the waiting storm, and said conversationally, \u201cI feel better about that letter of Jerry\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI knew when I saw the light down at the Hall place last night,\u201d Mr. Allison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind, coming up suddenly over the lake, swept around the summer cottage and slapped hard at the windows. Mr. and Mrs. Allison involuntarily moved closer together, and with the first sudden crash of thunder, Mr. Allison reached out and took his wife\u2019s hand. And then, while the lightning flashed outside, and the radio faded and sputtered, the two old people huddled together in their summer cottage and waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe Summer People\u201d is a disturbing story by the acclaimed American author Shirley Jackson, published in September 1950 in the magazine Charm. The story explores the story of an elderly couple, the Allisons, who, after years of spending their summers in a quiet country cottage, decide to extend their stay beyond the usual season. However, this harmless decision triggers a series of unexpected events.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":16124,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[572,595,570],"class_list":["post-20373","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-horror-en","tag-shirley-jackson-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":595,"label":"Shirley Jackson"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/Shirley-Jackson-Los-veraneantes.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":127,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":595,"name":"Shirley Jackson","slug":"shirley-jackson-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":595,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":6,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20373","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20373"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20373\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16124"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20373"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20373"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20373"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}