The Other Side of the Hill

A precursor to " NO RESTRAINT" (from October 11),  I have the beginning backdrop for our victim/heroine for our lovely asylum patient Christina. There is a third and last installment, but it will be a few days before I am finished marinating it and post it.  Don't worry though, I have something for you during the interum. I hope you like it and enjoy coming here. 


For my new friends., I thank you very much for your kind words and visits. I look forward to getting to know you. 








Christina had hoped to find peace in her new home.  It was quiet and remote, leaving all the angst, fear and despair swirling behind her. She stepped in to her running shoes and headed out comforted by the gravel crunching under her feet.  She breathed deeply while the trees swayed, applauding her efforts. The road was bent and twisted, riddled with hills that pushed her to her physical limits. Christina had found her initial runs grueling and painful, but as she continued, she felt herself growing stronger; more confident.  She would run to the top of the steepest hill and stop. Looking down at the old house, she shivered.


It sat alone, abandoned;  it's window eyes long dark were lashed by ragged filmy curtains. Its majestic form seemed frail and bloated with neglect. Once cheerful flowerpots that had brimmed with lovely color and flowery shapes sat frumpish and mad, decorated only with dead brown twisted spikes. A picket fence frowned, missing pieces like gaping decayed teeth. The gate lolled open in a lonely yawn.  Christina watched it, felt it beckon her.  The leaves giggled and tickled her,swirling around as if pushing her toward it.  For months she fought them, choosing instead to turn and run home. But the imagery seemed to stick with her. She dreamt of the house; imagining dark dangerous shapes that would call her, threaten her and try to swallow her. It left her soul icy but morbid curiosity combined with something familiar pushed her instead to the library's archives with the hopes of finding something.


One thing that kept cropping up was that the house was never right. No one would stay there for long and it had been surrounded by tragedy and horror from the first nail hammered in during the late 1800's. The original owner was the man named Presser who served as the town vicar and judge.  Mingling the two became deadly and wicked for the entire town.  He wielded his own brand of brimstone justice on any who crossed his path in the business or religious arenas.  Women refusing his advances were branded harlots and sinners;  destroyed along with their children (the children were always first so as to certainly crush the wills of the mothers and possibly "save" them when the good judge offered solace). Men who stood up to his crooked, shoddy business practices were also targeted. The house (and primary occupant) were burned mysteriously in the early 1900's though the frame miraculously survived.  A new home was reconstructed on the site in the 50's by a husband and wife. After he had been killed in a tragic accident, his wife remained though a recluse and considered unstable.


Strangely, the wife died with equal tragedy many years later. There were many leads but back at the time it took place, there was not enough technology to support the police theories.  The woman in question, a care giver of sorts, had covered her tracks just enough to keep the authorities at bay.  They couldn't prove their suspicions and so the horrible bludgeoning went unsolved. The woman remained free.  The history trailed off with the prime suspect, vanishing silently into the pages of forgotten records and in to the world of anonymity. 


Christina spoke with her neighbors, happy at first to find them filled with their own tales and hear-say. It turned into a collection of Ray Bradbury theories and stories.  She would smile to herself as the possibilities rolled out in front of her.


"They were lovers."
"She was a psychopath"
"She was insane"
"It was Elvis and then he left the building."


Nevertheless, the house still called to her and one afternoon she made the mistake of listening all too closely.  She had gone farther and harder than usual ending up as always at the top of the hill.  The house seemed to tremble with anticipation upon her panted arrival.  She slowly approached, hearing the soft wind beg her to come closer, to help. On the porch, reaching to push open the door, she felt a tingle rush under her skin.  The house seemed to sigh when she entered the foyer, reveling in her company at last.


"Hello?" she asked, feeling foolish as the word bounced off the marred walls. Of course no one was there. Christina stood with her eyes closed, listening to the house. It shifted and embraced her.  She felt heavy and choked with dread? Fear?  The sun outside gave up on her and drifted cowardly behind some clouds so as not to witness anything too severe.  She willed her feet to scuff along the dirty floor staring fascinated by the ghostly shapes of covered broken furniture. She waited.


The sun peeked back out satisfied that the worst was over.  Encouraged, the guest began to explore. Nothing was off limits. The old relic welcomed her in its own fashion. The bedrooms offered luxurious raccoon nests wreaking of damp dust and punked wood softened by drips and leaks. The study and formal rooms held awkward shadows, leaving the dining and kitchen left to see.  She still tiptoed through the house, afraid to stir someone. She had failed. The creaking and groaning within the walls became louder.  She dismissed it as the varmints who now resided. The wind giggled and danced around her with icy fingers that pulled at her, poked through her clothing.  The voice was soft and helpless. She strained to hear it again as it begged for assistance.  Christina started back through the house following it. Down the hall she crept to a back bedroom.  The house grew darker, colder.  She could now see her breath though sweat trickled along her neck and upper lip. At the end of the hall in this forgotten room was darkness.  The shapes shifted like thick bubbles and rushed up upon her with a hissing almost a growl.  It wasn't fear she felt but something much greater. Something that sent a scream through entire body. Her heart raced, her nerves burned and she wasn't sure if she could move.  The voice crawled up her skins around her neck and slid into her ear where it began to infect her brain.  It laughed and threatened her. It promised horrible things and damage. Christina hit her knees and begged to be left alone. The laugh was meant to be soothing and reassuring but it wasn't. Christina had been possessed. She belonged to something else now.  Though it let her go home, she was never the same.


She chittered with her new invisible roommate; laughing and talking through indistinguishable conversations. Anger and a combative nature became normalcy.  She frightened people with her vile graphic threats and violent behavior. It wasn't above Christina to self inflict so as to drive one of her cruel promises home to a possible victim; as sickening demonstration. Her parents tried to help at first but ended up leaving town abruptly.  According to Christina, they simply parted ways, agreeing to live and let live.  They were discovered six months later charred in a burn barrel at the back of the shack on the other side of the hill.  A neighbor girl who had asked Christina to curb her dog fell victim to a terrible hit and run accident that left the neighbor with one eye and a shattered leg. Christina was questioned.  Her answers were nonsensical and violent. She threatened the police; attempting to "carve one like a turkey" with a pen.  It landed her in a psychiatric prison where she would spend most of her time alone; watched by white coats and kept company only by the voices in her head.