Hey guys! Welcome to part two, it’s very exciting (as all the parts will be I hope) Let me know what you think in the comments and have a good day. <<<3
If you don’t like being confused, read Part One first!
The house on the hill has been her home for three months and two days. She can’t decide how she felt about this. She likes how the house on the hill looks, but it never feels quite right. It holds too much weight and sighs far too often. The ceiling sagging with memories and the floorboards swollen with ghosts she had nothing to do with. She never has a problem with the ghosts but they always steal her cheese and her hair ties. She buys both at least once a week.
She is also fairly certain something is living in the walls, something a lot larger than the walls can support. She’s not scared of said certain something. She just wishes it wasn’t so loud. She doesn’t sleep often but when she does, it seems more active. More hungry. Maybe she should feed him, or her, more often. Maybe she should start feeding it in general. Maybe it liked oranges.
The house on the hill is filled with smells like ginger bread and gasoline and had pictures of children who grew old many moons ago and tire swings the ground had long ago swallowed. The house on the hill is filled with ghosts and monsters and creaky banisters.
The house on the hill, despite all these things; is not the worst building she’s lived in. In fact, it has begun to become a home.
It is a Wednesday, her favorite of the days, and she is coming in with a bag of groceries in one hand and a ring of keys in the other. 40 rings in all, just enough. She picks the right one, all the others jostling together in a symphony of jangles. Her bag almost slips out of her hand and an orange rolls out and down the hill. She watches as it goes, it rolls and rolls until she can’t see it anymore. She sighs, the orange was too good for the rabbits.
Once inside and unladen she sits down at the kitchen table. She usually does so to listen. Tonight she does so to wait. For three months and one day she had been working on her job, had been fulfilling her purpose. But now that it is three months and two days, the job is over and she doesn’t have much to do.
There’s a tether tying her to the house, the field it sits in and what lays beyond. She is waiting, waiting to be untied and set free, waiting for someone to stop by and tell her she can leave. That, or someone was either several days late or they weren’t coming at all.
The road stretches out until it’s two parallel lines meet in the distance. His eyes and hands ache for different reasons caused by the same action. He murmurs along to a song that blares out of the radio, it’s poor quality causing the bass to screech. His lips are chapped and he makes a mental note to buy some chapstick the next time he stopped for gas. The green light of the clock bleeds onto the torn leather of the seats, it reads 2:47 am. He needs to stop soon, his eyelids are getting too heavy to hold up.
He had slept in a motel the night before, a rare luxury. If he is honest with himself, he knows he couldn’t afford the motel if he wanted to keep driving for much longer. He should save the money for gas and food. But he was cold and he only brought two blankets in the truck so he felt he didn’t have much of a choice. Plus his favorite show had been on and he has yet to miss an episode. Tonight is not as cold, still cold but not so bad. However he didn’t want to sleep in the truck tonight either, not that he ever really wanted to sleep in the truck for the first place but. Tonight he would either find somewhere else to stay or just drive until he fell asleep at the wheel.
He doesn’t want to admit why. He can’t admit why. Not even to himself. He tried this morning and the thought just shriveled into the back of his mind. He couldn’t admit why. Because he had never been scared before. Not like this. He gets scared easily, his eyes always wide and his hair on the back of his neck sticking straight up. In highschool, he would refuse to even watch trailers for horror movies because those would stick in his brain for months. Every time he’d open the trash can he’d hold his breath while he checked for a monster or a body. Every time he’d go into a dark room he’d close his eyes and pause for a second, expecting a clown or whatever else had latched onto his mind. When his friends would take him to a haunted house he would hold someone’s hand so tight it’d bruise.
He is a coward. He knows that, he could admit that.
But this is a different kind of scared. A kind of scared that has been following him since the last time he stopped for gas. One that’s coiled around his stomach and pulsing around his head. One that’s making him too afraid to sleep outside. He tries to think of another option. He can’t stay at a motel, won’t stay in the truck.
So then what? What other option dose he have.
The bags of chips, none of which he ended up eating, rustles as he hits a pothole too hard. He slams his head on the roof of the car and slams his tailbone on the seatbelt. He pulls to a stop as the car lets out horrifying noises. Screeching and screaming, tearing across the clear, quiet night. Some of them, noises that had nothing to do with potholes. Just the car deciding to die. He waits for the dramatics to stop, tapping on the steering wheel with his fingers. She does this often, tried to give up on him so she could retire to a junkyard where some dogs would use her worn leather seats as a throne. He knows how to deal with it, let the car fuss and whine until eventually, she would rumble on. Either that or open the hood and fix things to the best of his ability. He prefers the first option if he was completely honest. So he grabs a bag of vinegar flavored chips and let them burn his lips, turning up the radio to compete with the car’s hysterics.
The stars stand over him, watching and waiting for him to quit stalling. For him to stop avoiding his purpose.
He may be a coward. But he is also very stubborn. Even if he doesn’t realize he’s being so.