The New Republic has an excellent look at Shirley Jackson and why she is “in the class of writers who require fierce advocates to keep her work alive. Her horror is domestic; it takes place in the familiar world of the kitchen, the family, and known and loved objects. It unsettles too much to be read comfortably.”
THOHH is the first thing I recommend to folks who are looking for an entree into horror/supernatural/ghost stories. It’s got the trappings of lit fic but also the straight-up chills of the haunted house story that SJ invented. I’m re-reading it for, maybe the half-dozenth time right now. It’s like curling up in a warm blanket...only haunted and with a fucked-up geometry. Bad blanket!