On a Hill by Michael Whitehouse (7 ebook reader txt) 📖

didn’t listen. And just like the others, he went up and then he was gone.’

‘Surely you went after him?’ asked John in disbelief.

‘Yes, I did. I tried to go up there, but as broken by grief as my wife and other children were, they pulled me back from the foot of the hill. They knew it would take me too.’

‘So, your own son could have been up there, hurt, dying, and you didn’t go after him all because of a stupid superstition?’ The idea that myths and lies could have resulted in a young boy’s death enraged John, yet he felt ashamed of himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

Dale suddenly flew across the table grabbing his now unwelcome guest by the collar, battering him against an old stove. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to!’ Dale screamed, his voice shaking John to his core. For an old man, he was still as strong as an ox.

For a brief moment he thought that the farmer was going to hit him, but then, just as quickly, Dale relinquished his grip, turning his back. ‘When you have three other children to feed and a wife who would be heartbroken, you’d think twice about going up there too. Besides, a few of the boys from the village helped my wife and well, no one would let me go. Not because they cared about me - well, maybe some did - but mainly because they live in constant fear of that place, of what’s up there. That it might come down and pay us all a visit.’

Straightening a chair, the old farmer scribbled his signature on the remaining papers and then asked John to leave, which he did after offering his apologies once more. At the door, both men gave their polite goodbyes with Dale simply adding: ‘There’s an old saying around here: “Best leave alone”. You’d be wise to listen to it.’

 

***

Despite being shaken by the old farmer’s volatile reaction to his enquiries, John was still certain that he wanted to visit the hill. Knowing that those in the village would try to dissuade or even physically restrain him from doing so, he was resolute in driving there immediately from the farm. As he got under way he thought that perhaps some good could come of it. He could break their fear of that place, but it was more so his stubbornness which now motivated him. He wanted to prove he was right, and if he discovered a piece of land perfect for development in the process, all the better.

Getting there was more troublesome than he had first anticipated. While there was a small country road which led to the foot of the hill, it had been apparently blocked off by the villagers. An arrangement of large concrete slabs, red bricks, old wooden posts, and other discarded materials had been unceremoniously dumped at either end of the road, making entrance by car an impossibility and by foot only with great difficulty.

Seeing the very real and physical lengths which the locals would go to in order to stop anyone from accessing the hill, John felt an increasing impulse to reach its peak and then return to the village to let those below know how ridiculous they had been. After leaving his car by one of the blocked entrances, he climbed over the stack of rubble with some effort, careful not to cut himself on anything which protruded, and then made his way along the road. For a moment he considered what he might find on the hillside and the very real possibility of discovering the grim remains of a previous visitor; thoughts which momentarily left him questioning his current course of action.

The road was just wide enough for a single car, and it had obviously been left to the elements for some time, with large potholes scarring its surface and deposits of mud and gravel covering the tarmac in places. As the hill came into view he was struck by how much larger it appeared to be than he had estimated. From distance he would have assumed a quick hike to its peak, but looking at its incline arching away from him, he realised that it would probably take around two hours to reach its crest and that was only if a track or at least good footing could be found. Looking at his watch it was early afternoon, but he believed he’d still have enough daylight to make it to the top and then back to his car safely.

It was there that he began to notice some of the strange landmark’s more peculiar features. It stood quite alone, with no accompanying hills around it, as if it had been left there in isolation, quarantined from the land itself. Its ascent seemed more pronouncedly crooked than it had at distance; asymmetrical, leaning slightly to one side in bizarre fashion, and it’s surface was covered in sporadic pockets of trees, while wild and untamed collections of long grasses; a tangle of dead yellow strands embraced - or strangled - by the green shoots of more successful strains invading all around. Most surprising of all was that there was a man made path which ran up towards the peak, one which he was delighted to discover. It had been spared the onslaught of the wiry and spindly grass which had consumed everything else. For a moment John considered that this was all a hoax and that he was the victim of an elaborate joke, as the path looked well worn as though often used. But then a much darker thought flirted with his rational sensibilities: That the hill itself was leaning inward, enticing visitors, welcoming them to an unknown destination. He quickly dismissed this notion and continued on.

An old gate blocked the way. It was wooden, but had obviously been subjected to the ravages of the Scottish weather for some time, as its surface was partially eaten away by green moss and mould. As it creaked open John stepped over the threshold and as the gate closed behind him, a shiver ran up his spine accompanied by a mild nauseous feeling in his throat. If he had been superstitious himself he would have said that the place was bad, that the air seemed foul, but he was not easily affected by such thoughts. It was more likely that something he had eaten had not agreed with him, rather than the hill itself acting upon his nerves.

Wandering up the path, he attempted to make as good time as possible. The idea of making his way back down at night was not one to be relished, with unsure and unseen footing, and as the afternoon sky was already a little dimmer than it had been at noon, he marched up the hill with intent, excited to take in the view from the top.

The incline increased slightly, and with it so did the sporadic nature of his surroundings. The long grass had claimed everything bar the path, and as clumps of trees occasionally flanked him, he could now appreciate why the locals had come to fear such a place - the reeds of dead grass and ivy encircling each trunk suggesting malevolent purpose. Some of the trees had even fallen over, taking unusual positions at steep angles, appearing as if they head been pulled into the earth, broken by the fingers of grass which had clung to the husks of wood like a very real leviathan - but while the idea was fanciful, somehow the hillside did indeed feel wrong, unnatural in places and as John ascended it, a coldness began to creep up his arms. He had hiked before, and in his job had often been required to brave the wilderness while evaluating land, but this felt different. It was as if the land was affecting the temperature, rather than the weather, making it increasingly difficult to ignore the oppressive atmosphere of the hill.

Stopping for a moment, he rubbed his arms hastily to warm them, pausing to appraise his progress. He was astonished by how far he had actually climbed. He had been walking for no more than twenty minutes, but looking in the direction he had come from, he must have been at least half way up the hillside. But how could he be? At every evaluation of the hill’s size, it seemed to confound the previous conclusion. It was as if the place was warped somehow. John laughed to himself at being so swept up in the impression of his surroundings. Yet, the silence bothered him. No birds, no rustling bushes filled with rabbits, foxes, or even insects. Indeed, the entire hillside felt dead. No, not dead, he thought, but in the grips of death itself. It was, however, winter so perhaps he should have expected the seeming sterility of the countryside, but the quiet still perturbed him.

Then another unusual phenomenon came to his attention. An inconsistency. Something which contradicted his own memory, his very faculties. The path behind was now different. While climbing, John had been amazed by how overgrown the hillside was compared to the track leading upward. This led him to suspect that it was perhaps used regularly, but on looking down the hill, it now appeared to be engulfed by the wandering hands of nature, perhaps not completely but certainly to a far greater degree than it had been before. The grass swept over it, while bushes and trees leaned in nearby suggesting a more rugged terrain than he had initially noticed - yet the path ahead lay clear.

Looking to the world outside and down below, everything appeared distant somehow, almost synthetic in appearance. The colours were not as vivid, the meadows which populated the valleys had forgone their vibrancy, and the sky itself filtered down towards the ground with what John could only describe as ‘false light’.

He struggled to dismiss the unwelcome feelings he was experiencing, and while he continued on for a time, as he climbed, the nausea from when he had first stepped foot onto the hillside returned. The cold sensation which had enveloped his extremities had progressed like a disease, penetrating his insides and chilling him to the bone. John had tried his best to reach the peak, but he was no fool. He knew that not a month passed without a report on the news about an inexperienced walker or climber going missing on a remote mountain, and while the hill was a seemingly more humble prospect, he was now willing to accept defeat, even welcoming it. The surroundings felt menacing and his current physical condition was enough to cause retreat.

Though he had not reached the summit, John decided that if he still made it back to the village after being on the hillside, that would be enough to dispute the their superstitions. Perhaps he would return in the summer to evaluate the land, considering his decision to be a postponement rather than an admission of failure; entertaining the notion that the locals may have been right all a long was not something he wished to do.

There would have to be evidence of his adventure of course. Taking out of his pocket a camera phone, which he used to document his work, John began to shiver as once again an icy sensation crept up through his arms, provoking a desire to be warmed by the fire back at the inn. With a few artificial clicks, he photographed the surrounding hill, then as a joke took a picture of himself forcing a smile with a tangle of grass and trees as a backdrop.

What he saw when he viewed the pictures sent chills through his body. The first photographs of the area turned out as expected, but the last betrayed something through the bushes behind him - what looked like a building of some description. At the forefront of John’s mind he was filled with an impulse to run, to leave that place, but he was