The House on the Hill
The House on the Hill
Amelia Dansie October 27, 2021
There once was a house on a hill. A hill covered in dewed grass, with wild flowers popping up in a systematic pattern. A path leading to the house, from a road on the other side of the trees. The path grooved with the tire markings from frequent cars passing. Moss and ivy covered stone walls with faded white trimming sat on the spring hill. The stone house provided hospitality to a classic family. The littlest child, a boy with brown curls and sky blue eyes, would run around the house and yard looking for fun. His brother would yell and his sister would stare for they both disliked the little boy. The little boy felt lonely. He believed no one paid attention to him. He had no friends. To cope, the boy went to the library in the house and started to read. He read stories of adventure and mystery. He found comfort in the stories. The little boy found friends in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The boy traveled and discovered different aspects of life. He solved cases with Holmes and his trusty sidekick John Watson. The boy grew sad again. To be like Sherlock he needed a sidekick or friend. His brother wouldn’t do it, nor would his sister. The boy made a goal, he would spend his life searching for his friend.
On one sunny day, the boy’s mother raced outside to meet an approaching car. A girl with hair and eyes like coco stepped out. The boy’s mother dragged her inside the house. The boy hid in the corner writing out an adventure plan when she walked through the door. The boy looked up to see the little girl admiring the abundance of books. He crawled out of his corner and walked to the girl.
He held out his hand and asked, “I am going on an adventure. Do you want to join me?” The girl shook her head and held out her hand. Sprinting down the stairs and hallways, hand in hand. They made their way out of the house on the hill and started their adventure.
The girl was the explorer and the boy, a detective. She looked at the horizon into the future, while he stayed in the present looking for clues. There was no mystery there, only quests and imagination. They ran across the floral hill, and through the forest of green. They would go into the cemetery, full of gravestones that made no sense. The boy would create different ways to how the people died while the girl would stand amazed. He would move fast going from one grave to another. The girl would fall behind.
“Keep up Watson,” The boy would say as he switched graves. He would call her his “Watson” hoping it to be true.
The two would go down to the beach, splashing each other in the water, and casting sand upon the boy’s siblings. One day while on the beach the boy decided they were pirates. He raced across the sand, and up to the grass. The girl made no noise. He turned around only to find her back on the beach coughing.
“Watson?” He asked, confused. The boy ran towards her. The girl was coughing, and her knees and palms were bleeding.
“Watson?” He asked again with a note of panic in his voice. The girl’s mother swept her up, and took her out of sight.
“Watson!” the boy screamed hoping his friend would call back. The boy was dragged back to the house on the hill.
Days passed by with no answer. The boy sulked in his room. Sad because he was back to square one. Two weeks after the incident a letter was given to the boy.
The girl had moved because of medical problems. The boy was never to see her again. At the bottom of the letter she signed “-- Watson.” Tears filled the boys face as he ripped the letter to shreds. He had lost his Watson, and there was no one around to be the replacement.
Years passed by and the boy grew up. The girl was a childhood memory he never wanted to relive. To him, she was a fantasy and something that had never happened. He achieved his dream of becoming a detective. The house on the hill grew feeble and desolate. The boy and his brother had moved to the city, and the boy’s sister was sent to an island far away. The boy became the cities best consulting detective. He was finally becoming like Sherlock Holmes, but there still was no Watson.
One day as the boy went home after a long day, a letter was placed on his doorstep.
“The cafe down the street… 2:30 Tomorrow. We need to talk,”- W
At 2:31, the boy scanned the cafe waiting for the mysterious person from the letter. Then through the door walked in the little girl.
“Hello, Holmes,” She said. The boy gaped at her. She was different from his memories. The girl wasn’t short and boyish. Now she was beautiful to him. She sat down, batting her eyelashes and clearing her throat. Pink lipstick and a thin line of eyeliner had been applied daintily to her face. The girl said there was a reason why she needed to talk to him. It had been a long time since they had seen each other. The girl apologized for not talking earlier, but like him she tried to push the memory aside. For her, the look of the boy running through the sand trying to help her get back on her feet and screaming for her, would not leave her mind. The girl confessed her love for him. Saying that all those days of running around the yard, she had fallen for him. As she kept talking, the girl started to get angry. She wanted the boy to respond to her and to say something, but he just sat still. The girl got angry about the time in between. He could have written to her, but the boy had not.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I had tried to get rid of you from my mind,” The boy retaliated emotionlessly. The girl pushed out her chair and stood up.
“You were always like this. Blind, looking for someone perfect. When you couldn’t even see that your friend was always there. Running around with you directly under your ego. Where you can’t see.” The girl walked back to the door. Leaving the boy with the last remarks of “Goodbye, Holmes.”
The boy sat still for the next hour. Trying to recount what had happened. The moment took time for him to process, yet there was no reaction. Becoming a detective had blocked out his emotions. Tired the boy went back to his apartment. He decided to get some house work done, and started opening his mail. At the end was a small package from his brother. Hoping it was something related to a case, he opened it. A small brown leather covered book slipped into his hands. The boy skimmed through the pages. Pictures of his life in the country spun like a memory. In each picture of him, was the girl. They were holding hands, smiling, and acting like the best friends they were.
The boy fell to his knees. She had been right. The boy had spent so much time looking for this one best friend, when he already had one. His own John Watson. The boy raced to the phonebook trying to find her name, but he couldn’t find it. His phone beeped, telling him to pick it up. The police needed him. The location was out in the countryside, there had been a murder and he was needed.
There once was a house on a hill. A hill covered in dead grass, with wilted flowers popping up asymmetrically across the meadow. A path leading from a road on the other side of the falling trees up to the house. The path grooved from the police cars racing up to the house. Picture the house on the dying hill. A stone house giving hospitality to different types of animals and dust. An invasive species of ivy covering every inch of the left side of the house. Police tape barricaded the door.
The boy raced up the hill to his employers. A man led him down to the beach. Washing up the blood spilled on the sand, into the water. A beach faded with memories in his head, of angry siblings and pirate adventures. The boy stopped in his tracks.
A girl with hair and eyes like coco. Knees and elbows bleeding from a fall. Signs of cough-up joined the blood on the white sand. Pale blue skin, scratch marks from stress, pink lipstick and eyeliner drawn on her face daintily.
The house on the hill grew to become a painful memory. A memory of love and heartbreak. The boy sat next to his best friend, muttering if only he had understood they wouldn’t be there. He still held onto her hand. Refusing to let Watson go.
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