On a Hill, Michael Whitehouse [hardest books to read .TXT] 📗

door. There was nothing left for it, he had to push the jarring fear which now gripped him, out of his mind. Slowly he turned to face whoever was behind him. For a moment he thought that he would be faced by the strained faces of those from his imagination, but the hall was devoid of life; empty, yet still the sound of feet scuffing cold stone, like sand paper on skin, filled the air.

John’s frozen gasp rang out as something moved in the corner of his eye. Turning quickly to the darkened doorway which led underneath, the head of an indecipherable figure moved as its body raised up slowly with each shuffling step from below. Terror coursed through his veins to such a degree that his rationality melted away only to be replaced by pure instinct. As he burst into a sprint, jumping off the platform leaving altar and inscription behind, he felt a deep and unyielding fear tear at his insides. Stumbling as he landed, the impact dislodged more debris from above as several pieces of large stone smashed into the church floor, one narrowly missing his head by only a few inches.

The exit drew ever closer, and fevered thoughts now filled his mind as he scrambled over and through piles of ruined and forgotten sediment, dead skin cast off by the ancient building without remorse. For a moment he felt surrounded, impressed upon by a man of the cloth preaching of sin and ancient evil, while a pitiable and diminished congregation huddled together in fear of what walked nearby.

As the footsteps scuffed the dirt and dust ridden floor, John’s clarity of mind returned, and as he began to climb up a large pile of broken wood and stone - the door to safety on the other side - his curiosity calmed his nerves momentarily. The dread he felt in his stomach told him to continue onward, out into the open, away from that place, but his need to know was relentless: He had to look. Taking a deep breath, he turned cautiously towards the altar, slowly casting the light from his phone towards the darkened staircase. The air in the hall now grew colder, John’s panicked breath visible in the dim light. Darkness seemed to cloud his vision yet what he could decipher was unmistakable. A tall figure now stood in the doorway, but a deep impression of tortured and perverted humanity emanated from it. Both man and thing exchanged a long and silent stare. Then a croaking string of syllables emerged from the figure’s mouth, a language long forgotten and while its precise definition eluded John’s understanding, the contempt which it spoke of did not.

The shape in the doorway now moved forward and as it intimated its sullen movements, John cried out in terror, haphazardly clinging to the rubble, attempting to reach its summit and then make his way to the door. Now he did not care for silence, his clambering movements echoing throughout the hall, several pieces of stone plunging once more from the roof. As he reached the top of the mound, at the very last moment he peered above only to see a rock as large as a man hurtling towards him. Jumping for his life, he tumbled down the other side of the debris pile. As his body rolled down towards the floor a searing pain wrenched through his side. Slamming against the stone ground, the impact surged into his bones leaving him dazed momentarily. Staggering to his feet he looked down only to recoil in horror. A large chunk of wood had impaled itself several inches into his right side. Blood poured from the wound as he almost instinctively pulled at the piece of wood, it grating against his insides before finally being removed.

He let out an anguished scream, but as he did so he turned to a noise from behind. The pain in his side was agony, but the sight he beheld was worse than any sensation. The figure in the door was writhing on its belly, dragging itself at an impossible speed over the rubble and towards him. It’s body blackened, the bandaged remnants of a white shroud, sliding over the jagged surface with ease.

Stumbling in shock, John was paralysed with fear. Then the realisation took him; escape was close. Limping badly towards the door, its slight opening now within grasp, he shoved his body through the gap into the light outside. The door pressed and prodded at the wound in his side, sending strikes of pain piercing through his abdomen. With one last push he screamed, the force of his momentum causing him to fall to the ground outside. Looking up through the gap stared the entombed figure with its face sneering from inside, its arm outstretched, spitting a vile and deafening groan out into the retreating sunshine.

John did not take his time to observe the creature, he staggered once more to his feet, his hand now drenched in blood as it clenched the open wound in his side. Moving as quickly from that place as he could, leaving the church grounds behind, he was sure that he could hear voices from deep inside as he fled - the yells and vitriolic protests of long since gone clergy and congregation, mocking, resentful, and despised.

In his haste he had lost track of his direction, unfamiliar with the surroundings. In the grip of panic he limped on as fast as he could, but disorientation took him and before he was aware of how or why, he found himself surrounded by a maze of broken and toppled gravestones.

Dizzied and gasping for air, he no longer cared where he was, just as long as he could leave the church and its attendant behind. After catching his breath he began to negotiate the old cemetery, some headstones large and looming while others humble and ruined. Then, as if suffering the effects of an unknown poison, the world began to spin and as he tried to catch his breath once more, the stones took on an ominous and menacing form; towering above, blocking out the light, staring forcefully down at him. It was not a graveyard which he now stood in, but a ring of warped stones several feet high. They had weathered many storms - ancient and forgotten - long before the first brick had been laid of that adulterated church. Feeling compelled to somehow become closer to one of them, he reached out a hand, touching its moss covered surface. Flashes of a hidden past now filled his mind, as he felt overcome with faintness. His vision clouded and the world began to spin as an abrupt nausea swamped his senses, one which was so intense that it knocked him to his knees, and though he struggled valiantly against its grip, within in seconds he crumpled to the ground, the wound in his side heaving and throbbing with each beat of his heart. Lying on his back staring above, the sky seemed to pulse and everything around became distorted as though he were detached from the world, viewing it through a thick and warped lens of glass. The light curved inward unnaturally, and the veil of the world drew back as John gazed into the abyss behind. Awareness left him.

***

He awoke to the silence of the earth. Wisps of broken grass touched his cheek as the wind carried them away to an unknown destination. The sky was black, while no truly living thing stirred. John did not know how long he had been unconscious, but the blanket of stars above left him in no doubt that it had been for at least several hours. The sickness remained, though not as potent, but the wound in his side still wept blood. Rising to his feet it became clear that his body was still under the effects of whatever was on that hill. In the intoxication of it, the world still possessed a fluid, watery form, but on closing his eyes for a moment he felt that he had somehow become accustomed to it, at least to the point where he could gain his bearing and find a route to escape.

Luck was on his side as the moon was present above, albeit only as a partial, waning crescent. This provided him with enough illumination to gauge the strange world and its shapes which surrounded him. He was unsure if he remained where he had fallen as the ancient standing stones, which he remembered vividly and with no little sense of dread, were nowhere to be seen. But as he stood there with his hand vainly attempting to stem the blood from his side, a frightening realisation crept towards him. John found it difficult to convey to me in simple words what that was, but he described it as ‘the rules of nature upturned’. Nothing seemed to make sense, for a moment he did not know who he was, why he was there, and what abominable source was causing such illness in him. He seemed to retain the knowledge of the hill and a memory of the church, but his thoughts were turbulent and disconnected. Fleeting moments of identity would quickly be surpassed and replaced by utter confusion. But regardless of the affliction, one constant remained; his instincts pleaded with him to leave that place immediately. But in this fragile state of mind, he could not tell which way would lead him down to the land below, and which route would send him upward, to whoever or whatever sat on the summit. The sensory intoxication was an experience unlike any other - the world unravelled.

A smell of sickness tinged the air. Whether it was his own vomit or the illness playing tricks, he did not know, but within that stench there was something else. A smell of dampness mixed with the unsettling scent of burnt hair. It became so strong that it began to sting John’s eyes, which only furthered his disorientation. Though his eyes were clouded by tears and the world seemed wrong, he now sensed what he could only describe as a presence. The musty smell increased in potency and as it did, John let out a cough. The response to the noise was distinct, and though he believed that it was impossible to know the mind of someone - something approached and it did so with malice and hatred as its companions.

Terror now turned to fleeting purpose as he quietly wandered passed shadowed trees and amongst the wild grass hoping to find his way out. Staggering as he fumbled his way through the darkness, the pain in his side grew and thoughts of dying out there on the hill, never to be found by his loved ones, became apparent. For a moment he thought that he would collapse once more, but while the sickness intensified, it was now accompanied by the sound of dead grass and wilted flora being thrust aside, as something trudged through the undergrowth nearby. John’s vision was now so poor that he could not tell which way was forward and which back, and in fleeting moments of clarity he felt repulsed by the idea of ending up back at the church or the stones, or graves - unsure of what they had been. He was utterly lost, and something which called that hideous hillside home now approached.

Be still.

But silence, nor darkness could shield him. No realm of oblivion could provide obscurity, for a wickedness as old as the earth now stalked a man who once laughed in the face of superstition and myth. The air grew denser and what little light the sliver of moon above provided, diminished as though it were being sucked deep into the ground with no escape. Then, nothing. The noise of branches and grass being broken and pushed aside ceased, and in its place a void of sound, almost unbearable. At the end of his nerves, John could feel any remaining