On a Hill - Michael Whitehouse (epub e reader TXT) 📗

the tractor, pointing to the two adjacent fields he was selling. For the next half hour John sloshed through the mud and grass in his boots, taking photographs of where his clients were thinking of building, while perusing the surveyor team’s notes, comparing them with his own observations. Dale did not wish to accompany him in the survey and so stood by the side of a gravelled path, watching forlornly.

Finally John had finished, but just as he did so his eyes were drawn to a hill a few miles away, one which looked out over the entire area. It appeared to be uninhabited, with what looked like patches of woodland and grassland being its only distinguishing features. Despite its distance, the hill seemed to dominate the horizon, and without verbalising it he felt as though it was special or unique somehow. On returning to the tractor he pointed to it, but Dale seemed unwilling to talk about that particular subject, answering any questions pertaining to it with an icy silence. It was John’s job to keep a portfolio of land which he thought clients might have been interested in, and with what to him looked like a beautiful view of the countryside, it would be something worth appraising for development, especially for a rich business person in love with the Scottish Highlands.

On the short journey back to the farm, John felt compelled to continually glance over his shoulder at the hill and was convinced that his professional instincts were telling him to investigate it more closely. After some annoying persistence Farmer Dale eventually surrendered his silence and spoke briefly on the subject, with obvious disdain for the unusual landmark. When asked who owned it, even if perhaps Dale himself was the landlord, but at the mere mention of this the farmer scoffed saying only: ‘No one owns that place, and no one goes there neither.’ He would not say much else, but before John departed for the inn, the farmer placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and advising him to leave the hill alone, that it was dangerous and that he hoped he would never have to speak of it again. While Dale seemed to fear any mention of it, the overriding impression conveyed was that the old man was dominated by a profound sadness; one which was best left alone.

As much as he was fascinated by the farmer’s warnings, it was not the first time that John had encountered local superstitions - ones which he of course never listened to, otherwise he might have lost out on a few good pieces of land or property throughout the years. The stories locals would entertain him with always seemed to revolve around older, more remote parts of Britain. In the past he had been told tall tales about abandoned houses which carried with them the stain of some murderous deed, or woods which should not be cut down for fear of what lived in them, but without exception nothing untoward had ever happened. There was no solidity to the myths, and while he enjoyed listening to accounts of hauntings and strange beings which prowled the moors and open countryside, he had little time for them in his line of work. Such stories were a fun distraction, but beyond entertainment around a campfire, they served little purpose.

Returning to the inn, he was tired and keen to get to bed, hoping to conclude any business the following day. But before he retired to his room, he decided to have a small nightcap at the bar. The landlord seemed amiable enough, and happy to have someone staying there as the inn’s location often left it quite empty, but his friendly demeanour altered drastically at the mention of the hill. Much like Dale, the landlord seemed reluctant to give any detailed information about it and provided his own words of warning, citing ‘bad ground’ as reason enough to let it be.

Whispers and subtle dissension came from the darkened corners of the room as locals seemed perturbed by John’s questions. No one approached him, but he was well aware of their discomfort. His remark of ‘you’d think the hill was haunted’ which was intended as a joke, provoked only silence. The void of sound left John feeling unwelcome. Quickly, he finished his drink and walked towards the stairs to his room, but as he did so a young woman barely out of her teens gently touched him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear ‘Please don’t go to the hill, no one ever comes back.’

The landlord was within earshot and quickly chastised the girl for even mentioning it, then turned his back while cleaning a pint glass, saying in a stuttered tone: ‘You sleep well, sir. I hope you can conclude your business tomorrow, and get back down to London quickly.’

To John it sounded more like a warning than a simple good night.

 

***

The next day he rose early and made his way downstairs to be greeted once more by the landlord, but the man remained relatively quiet, which John found odd since he had seemed to be quite a talkative fellow when he had first arrived. Dismissing his host as just another individual averse to mornings, John grabbed a light breakfast and then made his way back out to the farm to conclude the purchase of Dale’s land.

As he drove along the quiet country roads, appreciating the impressive landscape even in overcast weather, the farm came into view, but in the distance so too did the hill. He thought that it seemed a little more prevalent or imposing than the day before, with its crooked structure leaning towards the village in the distance, but quickly shook those feelings from his mind, regarding them as the after effects of the townsfolk and their superstitious behaviour. And yet, there was something about that place.

With only a few administrative duties left to perform, John was hopeful that he could be finished by noon and then make the long 7 or 8 hour drive back to London, finishing up some loose ends before taking part in his usual routine. On a desk in his apartment sat a 30 year old bottle of Balvenie malt whiskey, which he would pour a glass from after completing an important deal. This would be accompanied by a cigarette or two - the only time he smoked as he couldn’t trust himself to not succumb to the habit - a takeaway meal and the next day off from work, to do as he pleased. These were the times he enjoyed the most; the conclusion of a deal and a little break before, once again, being sent to another remote corner of the British Isles.

Sitting in Farmer Dale’s cottage, John enjoyed the cosiness of the place and its antiquated decorations which reminded him of his grandmother’s house as a child. Many of the facings were original and he was certain that much of the house must have stemmed back countless generations. Dale himself seemed in a more pleasant mood than the day before, making his guest a cup of tea and a sandwich while John prepared the last of the paperwork.

As the old farmer pottered around with a kettle and a pair of cups in hand, John glanced through a nearby window, noticing that the house itself looked out towards the nameless hill a few miles away. Without thinking, he mentioned casually that those at the inn seemed wary of it too.

On giving John his tea, Dale sat down at the opposite end of the kitchen table, stirring his cup thoughtfully. There was another silence, similar to that of the evening before and despite the cosy surroundings, John once again felt uncomfortable. Then, eventually, that unsettling feeling gave way to annoyance. Why should he not simply ask why people were so afraid of it? These were just superstitions, and it was madness to think that in the modern age people could still be swayed so easily by simple stories.

After toying with the idea of remaining quiet, John finally broke the silence: ‘Mr Dale, I don’t mean to be rude, but ever since I arrived in the village, people seem to be acting strangely about that hill, and they treat me like I’ve committed a crime just by mentioning it.’

‘Perhaps you did,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have mentioned it at all, son.’

‘With all due respect, I just wanted to know who owned it as I thought it could be good for the area, an exciting property development.’

‘Property development,’ Mr Dale scoffed. ‘The only thing that should be done with that place is that the ground be sowed with salt.’

‘It’s just a hill.’

‘Just a hill…,’ the old farmer trailed off for a moment, looking out of the window towards the uncomfortable subject of their discussion.

‘Mr Dale,’ John said, this time more softly, ‘I’ve been to many scenic locations around the UK. I know that some areas have stories, they get a bad name, or just seem a little frightening, but in my experience I have never come across any of them that couldn’t be put down to simple superstition. I’ll even prove it.’

‘Prove what, lad?’ said Mr Dale, suddenly apprehensive.

‘I fancy a stroll before I head back to London. I think I’ll take a look.’

Standing up abruptly, the farmer appeared now more anxious than angry. His upper lip quivered and he had the appearance of a man who had been hiding a destructive amount of stress from the outside world, just waiting to be vented.

‘You mustn’t go there!’ he shouted.

‘Please, Mr Dale. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ John’s thoughts now turned back to the deal at hand, and with nothing signed yet he did not wish to jeopardise it with his curiosity. How would he explain that to his client?

The old man slumped back down into his seat as his eyes glazed over, as if fighting a losing battle against an onslaught of terrible memories.

‘I lost my son to that place…,’ he said, trailing off.

‘Oh God, I’m terribly sorry, Mr Dale. Please accept my apologies, let’s just forget the whole thing.‘

‘No, it’s not your fault.’ The old farmer smiled across the table with a sorrowful countenance. ‘No one talks about my boy. I’m not allowed to. The locals think that just speaking about him and the others will somehow bring more misery down to the village.’

After a brief pause of contemplation he broke down, saying: ‘He was a good lad. We’re not built to lose our children. Oh God…’

Burying his head in his hands, he began sobbing uncontrollably. John did not know what to say. He could only offer: ‘I’m so sorry. Is there… Is there anything I can do?’

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Dale sat back in his chair mournfully. After a few deep breaths he composed himself and then spoke, his voice quivering with held back emotion: ‘No one knows when it started, and no one knows why.’

‘What started?’ asked John, his compassion now overpowered by his curiosity.

‘I grew up in this village and even when I was a boy people didn’t have a clue. Sure, they talked about old stories, about a dispute between two powerful families which went back hundreds of years.’ Dale leaned forward scratching the greying stubble on his chin before continuing, ‘But no one knew their names, at least no one who was willing to talk about the hill. The deeds to that land are probably sitting in some solicitor’s safe with the owner living the high life somewhere, unaware of the price we’ve all paid.’

‘Surely there must be a record of the owners?’

‘I’m sure there is, lad, but you won’t find anyone around here who wants to know. Over the years, the odd person would ignore the warnings and venture up there. Normally kids daring one another to have a go. But they never come back.’ Dale shuffled in his seat uncomfortably as tears began to fill his eyes once more. ‘My boy… He