The House on the Hill
The house on the hill is dark. There are no window panes left for the moon to reflect on, and there’s no one in town who can remember when the electricity worked. Rumor has it, the lovers who last occupied the house on the hill shot themselves in the master bedroom. Rumor has it, the spinster who last occupied the house on the hill was lynched for witchcraft on All Hallow’s Eve. Rumor has it, the family of four who last occupied the house on the hill had their brains scrambled by the aliens who came down from the skies to find people to probe.
Nobody goes up to the house on the hill. It’s never been overrun by addicts, it’s never been the turn-your-stomach dare for a pseudo-courageous middle schooler. The door is boarded up and untouched. The house on the hill is crumbling, imploding, but the warning signs erected on the property are unnecessary. Nobody wants to explore the house on the hill.
There’s something angry about the house on the hill, and it’s seeped into the town. The businesses are all failing or a full step past. The one playground is full of weeds and what isn’t rusting has been gutted for half-hearted backyard entertainment. The congregations have begun attending services a town over, and young couples leave before they trade vows. The lover’s lane has been untouched for over a decade; the gas station only sells cigarettes and two-dollar beers. The geriatric owner never checks IDs, even when he knows a patron is underage. In the town with the house on the hill, everyone deserves an escape.
No one looks up to the house on the hill anymore. The dying structure bleeds anguish; even the hardiest optimist can’t resist the permeating misery of the house on the hill. In the dead of night, when the townspeople huddle beneath rotting quilts seeking any relief from their melancholy, the lights flicker on in the house on the hill.
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