Asgerald Hill

Photo by Katelyn Greer on Unsplash

The wilting rose, which had long been forgotten in the void, was once a noble shade of red. Its mesmerising fragrance filled the air, enveloping everything in its sweet embrace. And the damp soil welcomed the fallen petals, each one a symbol of innocence lost. 

My eyes traced the contours of the drooping crimson flower. I refrained from touching it. A sudden jolt of fear paralysed me. I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

The searing ache in my heart was like a sharp dagger twisting and turning without mercy. I averted my gaze to escape the bewitching flower’s harrowing grasp.

The mansion before me was a shadow of its former self. With creaky floorboards and peeling walls, it whispered secrets from the past long forgotten.

The boarded-up windows bore down on me like piercing eyes. The door yawned open like a mouth, weathered and worn by years of neglect. 

As I entered the front garden, my eyes lingered on the enchanting flowerbed and the dilapidated shed before turning my attention towards the mansion that beckoned me like a lover’s touch. 

I felt the resistance in the marrow of my bones as I pushed the grating door open. The weight of it strained my weakened muscles.

A grand staircase loomed ahead. I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay at the very top. Twisting like a snake, the scent of rain-soaked oak filled the air. It breathed.

The doors downstairs, made of dark wood, were evenly spaced on either side of the massive staircase. I ran my fingers over the cold, rusted knob. The doors remained stubbornly locked.

I didn’t notice the closet attached to the spandrel at first. But as I stood in front of the last door to the left, it caught my attention. I didn’t know what made it stand out to me. It looked familiar, like something I knew too well but couldn’t remember. 

I barely took a step forwards when a curious din from the second floor broke me off. My eyes followed the winding stairs up, taking in the ornately decorated handrail that led to the landing above.

Upon reaching the second floor, I found myself facing a hallway lined with a multitude of doors. The striped wallpaper peeled wherever I lay my eyes, some parts even ripped by what could only be a wild beast. 

I counted each door as I trudged through the dim hallway. Most of them were unmarked, some numbered but hardly discernible from the passage of time.

Memories of my childhood came rushing back as I stood there, in the middle of the hallway, of what was once my home. The guesthouse, once filled with lively chatter, now stood in silence. Its empty rooms echoed with sombreness and melancholy.

The last time I looked up this place, I read the authorities were planning to demolish it. As they should. How many years had it been? I couldn’t even remember. So why was this place still here? 

The musty smell of old wood and peeling paint filled the air as I traced my fingers along the striped walls. It was as if the guesthouse never existed. My distraught mind erased all memories of it. Yet every nook and cranny was etched into my mind like a map of my past.

When I was six years old, my parents became my legal guardians. A Good Samaritan found me on the edge of the forest and took me to the local orphanage – at least that was what was told to me.

The townspeople called me the ‘Wonder Child’. I often wondered why I was given that name. No one, however, offered an explanation. I was kept in the dark for far too many days. 

I vividly remember the day I found an old newspaper and was reminded of the past for the first time in years. I was apparently the sole survivor of a homicide. That was the truth everyone tried to shield me from.

I was found naked and vulnerable, my body drenched in blood that had soaked through my clothes. Something terrible happened to me, something so unspeakable that the townspeople vowed to keep it a secret and bury the truth.

The article was penned by Mr Parker, a journalist who had retired two decades ago. I didn’t contact him back then. I tried to forget, to push the memories of my haunting past to the back of my mind and pretend they never existed. But with each passing year, the mysteries of my past weighed heavier on my mind and bore me down. 

The faint aroma of coffee greeted me as I knocked on Mr Parker’s door two weeks ago. The crisp air of late October filled my lungs as I drove through winding roads for two and a half hours to find answers. I had to. The past haunted me and drove me up the wall each passing year. 

My adoptive mother’s lips were sealed tight, she wouldn’t tell me a thing. To protect me from the painful memories, she said. Despite all of this, my curiosity got the best of me. 

The psychiatric ward became a second home to me in my late twenties and beyond, with the same routine day in and day out. Now and then, my anxiety would spiral out of control, and no medication could ease the symptoms.

My life took a turn for the worse. I was supposed to settle down with the woman of my dreams and climb the corporate ladder. But instead, everything fell apart and slipped from my grasp like fine sand. I couldn’t stop it. 

I felt like I was in a constant fog, my mind unable to focus, and my senses dulled. Something was off about me. Although everyone around me doubted me, I had an unwavering belief that the key to my cure lay hidden in the past. 

When Mrs Parker peered at me through the crack in the door and asked who I was, I hesitated. I told her I was a journalist and needed Mr Parker’s input for an article I was writing, which wasn’t entirely accurate but had a grain of truth to it, nonetheless. 

Upon entering the drawing room, a pungent odour of aged urine and burnt coffee overwhelmed my senses. When he saw me, Mr Parker quickly folded his newspaper and set it aside. His face was etched with wrinkles as deep as the grooves of a vinyl record.

I started our conversation with traditional pleasantries, mindful of the importance the older generation placed on such formalities. His eyes followed my every move as I introduced myself as a junior journalist in need of his help. 

“Please accept my apologies for my abrupt arrival, Mr Parker. However, there is something crucial I need to ask you.”

As I spoke, Mr Parker placed his emerald teacup on the saucer and peered at me intently through his round glasses. 

“I know most of my juniors at The Local Times. You’re not one of them.”

I gave a small, closed-lip smile. “I began my employment not too long ago, sir. I am a stranger to you, as you are to me.”

“Pray, what brings you here? The Local Times have some of the best journalists in the country, I reckon.”

“Sir, I would like to inquire about a case you reported two decades ago.”

Mr Parker shifted in his seat. The leather sofa creaked beneath him. He cleared his throat and cast a glance at his wife. Mrs Parker rose from her designated seat beside me and the sound of the door closing reverberated throughout the room. 

“May I inquire as to which case has aroused such keen curiosity?”

I drew a deep breath.

“The Asgerald Hill Homicide, sir.”

As I looked into Mr Parker’s eyes, I noticed a subtle shift in his expression that I couldn’t quite place. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes as if to get a better look at me.

“That case has remained unsolved for quite some time. It has gone cold, and there’s no evidence or witness to follow.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There’s a witness, a child. You reported—”

Mr Parker stood up, his eyes laced with distress in the course of a few seconds.

“A child whose memory has failed him! You call that a witness, Mr…?”

“Jensen, sir,” I said, adding to prevent any further questioning. “But what if that child now pursues the truth?”

I watched his lips move soundlessly, forming sentences that were filled with doubt. As I rose to my feet, I could feel my heart racing in anticipation of what was to come. 

“Mr Parker, please! I am in search of answers… answers only you can provide.”

He shook his head, scared out of his wits. Every time I tried to get closer, his body tensed up, and he recoiled in fear. Startled, I didn’t know what to do and remained rooted in place. Mrs Parker entered with a silver tray, which clinked with the sound of fine china. When she saw her husband’s gaunt appearance, she baulked.

“My dear, what’s the matter?”

Not once did Mr Parker take his eyes off me. I was taken aback when he flung his teacup in my direction. The sound of the shattered china shook me, and I couldn’t help but stare at the broken pieces on the grating floorboards. 

“GET OUT!”

“Please, Mr Parker, I—”

I winced as the tray hit my head, and warm blood trickled down my face. As I looked up at the elderly man, I couldn’t help but notice the fear etched on his face. The words escaped my lips before I could even process what I was saying. 

“Even after all these years, what is it that still haunts you and prevents you from disclosing the truth, sir?”

“I know nothing!”

“You’re lying! I need to find out! I must! It’s the only way I can sleep in peace—”

“Then sleep not!”

After saying my goodbyes, I walked out of the Parkers and into the crisp air. The shock left me feeling dizzy and confused, unable to make sense of my surroundings. 

With one of my leads rendered useless, I had to rely on the only remaining one. The guesthouse. It stood as a testament to the events of the past where something wicked took place.

That haunted place affected Mr Parker so deeply that he went out of his way to avoid any mention of it. Just what happened there? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. 

The path onwards was riddled with peril, I knew that much. But the sleepless nights had taken their toll, and the hallucinations were a constant reminder of my deteriorating mental state. The weight of exhaustion hung heavy on my eyelids, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every moment felt like an eternity, a torture that was driving me to the brink of insanity. 

As these thoughts haunted me, the ninth door creaked open from the inside, the sound echoing throughout the drafty corridor. I took a deep breath and advanced towards it, determined to uncover its secrets.

The odd room came into view at last. I couldn’t help but notice the striped wallpaper that was peeling all around me, the velvety rug that was covered in a layer of dust, and the frigid air that took my breath away. It was so cold it felt like needles on my skin.

With every whistle of the wind, the door rocked back and forth, letting in the chilly air from the cracked windows. The room was filled with vibrant colours, from the emerald bedspread to the cerise cabinet and the deep black of the writing desk.

I picked up an old piece of paper from the desk and ran my fingers over the rough texture of the parchment. The poem followed the structure of an English sonnet, but the unfamiliar words had a distinctly Celtic feel to them. It struck me as odd that an English sonnet was paired with a language of the past.

I tucked the poem away and turned my attention to the cabinet, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room. It was a treasure trove of history, with rows of dresses that had seen generations pass by. As I shifted through the dresses, my fingers brushed against something sharp. The intricate details of the filigree caught my eye, and as I looked closer, I noticed a nail at the end stained with blood – my blood. Holding the nail up to the string of sunlight, I could see the tiny grooves etched into its tip.

Just as I turned my head towards the cracked door, I heard a loud thud and the sound of shuffling feet. I ventured out into the hallway, and the cold, still air made the hairs on my arms stand up. I searched the entire corridor, my eyes straining to see through the dim lightning. But there was no one here. 

The silence was deafening. The only sound was the beating of my heart. As I ambled to the end of the hallway, an oval window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling at the very end of it caught my attention. 

A family grave lay in silence, surrounded by a destroyed wire fence that swung back and forth in the wind. The grass was dry and unkempt, subtly dancing in the breeze and beckoning me to come over and explore the garden, and so I did. 

The chill of the damp air and the musty scent of the ancient tombs reminded me of the fragility of life. The graves were adorned with wilted flowers and weathered headstones, marking the resting place of the Aldanes family.

A droplet landed on the tip of my nose. Looking up to the heavens, the grey clouds loomed overhead and threatened to unleash a downpour. As I decided to call it quits and return tomorrow morning, my foot slipped.

Something got stuck in my foot. I thought it was just a plain stone at first, but when I picked it up, I noticed it wasn’t. It was a piece of a wooden doorknob. I strained my eyes to see the details on the chipped surface, but all I could make out was the slithering body of a snake or a winding figure.

Photo by Gwendal Cottin on Unsplash

A chill ran down my spine and I shuddered. The weight of the past suddenly hit me and I threw the wooden piece before collapsing onto both knees. I doubled over. A searing ache tore through my insides.

The world around me faded away and all I could hear was the sound of my screams echoing through the air. I rocked back and forth like a distressed child. Memories of the past flooded my mind like a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. As I trembled like a sick dog, one memory stood out amongst the rest.

The pain slowly subsided and in its place came the demonic cackling of the wind. It sounded like the chorus of witches serving the Beelzebub. My bloodshot eyes looked more crimson than blood and held no emotion – they were as empty as shells. 

I gasped for air. My heart raced out of control. The beat of my irregular heart sent waves of tremor through every fibre of my being. I could feel the mud crushing underneath me as I curled into a fetal position and let the rain wash over me. 

When I finally came to my senses, I was shivering and soaked to the bone. My limbs, numb from the cold, refused to support me as I tried to stand up, and I crumpled onto the wet ground.

My face was covered in mud, but I could still feel the icy raindrops beating down on me as I gazed up at the darkening sky. 

The night sky was clear; the stars shone like diamonds against the blackness. Where was I? I shook my head to get rid of the haziness. My eyes flickered to the towering guesthouse. My mind drew a blank as I tried to recall why I had come here. Then it hit me.

I covered my ears, trying to block out the piercing sound that seemed to come from every direction. It was like a switch had been flipped, and the pain brought back the harrowing memories for a second time.

Feeling the ache shoot through my body, I winced as I forced myself to stand straight. Beads of cold sweat poured down my face as I stumbled towards the barbed wire fence. My legs threatened to give out beneath me.

Fortunately, I parked my Togg just beyond the fence and didn’t have to walk for too long. 

Settling into the driver’s seat, I felt the cool leather against my skin as I double-checked the doors. Exhausted, I took a deep breath and felt the icy air fill my lungs. I barely closed my eyes when I went out like a light.

I slept undisturbed for the next six hours. Like the dead, I heard or saw nothing, too out of it to even think straight. 

When I flung my eyes open everything was a blur. The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, my chest heaved with each laboured breath. I looked around, confused, and the sight of the dashboard and the steering wheel slowly brought me back to my senses.

I shook my head and shifted my eyes to whatever had stirred me awake. Someone hammered on the window.

A stranger’s face pressed against the glass. The pungent smell of sweat hit me like a ton of bricks when I rolled down the window. The woman standing there had a dishevelled appearance, with messy hair and wrinkled clothes. With her wavy, auburn hair catching the light, she stood at only 5 feet but had a sturdy build. 

“Need a hand with anything or…?”

“No, no, thank you. I… I just got lost, that’s all. I hope I’m not in trouble for staying the night here.”

“No, nothing like that,” she said, adding. “Nobody’s been in this place for ages, anyway. Where you off to? I can help.”

“To the countryside, in the southeast. It’s not on the map, so no chance you’d know where it is.”

“Well, good luck finding it, then.”

I thought she was leaving and checked my phone when she returned and said something that immediately caught my attention.

“Keep an eye out around here. You never know who you’ll run into.”

I stowed my phone and put on a half-hearted smile, thinking that the woman was trying to pull my leg or something. 

“Are you talking from experience or just trying to scare me, ma’am?”

“Both.”

“Guess I’m done for, then. Take care.” 

Without a reply back, she slipped away from view. Soon after, I felt a faint vibration in my pocket. The message came from none other than Mr Parker himself.

I sat up straight and leaned forwards, my brows furrowed as I wracked my brain. It was a mystery to me how he found my phone number given that we never exchanged our contact information.

The message was brief and to the point. He wanted me to hit him up. As I read the message again, my eyes darted back and forth across the screen, searching for clarity. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard before I dialled his number.

The phone rang incessantly, and just as I was about to hang up, a faint voice answered from the other end. As I replied, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the guesthouse up ahead. 

“Mr Jensen?”

“Throwing trays wasn’t sufficient, sir? How’d you—”

“Where are you, Mr Jensen? Please…”

With a moment of hesitation, I found myself nibbling on my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The elderly man spoke with a sense of urgency. His words tumbled out in a rush.

“Asgerald Hill.”

“Asger—you must leave! Right now! Mr Jensen? You must listen—”

“I must?”

Tired of being told what to do, I smirked. My adoptive parents, my psychiatrist, and even my fiancée, they all tried to tell me what to do. In the end, where did it take me? The last time they locked me up in the psychiatry ward, I was so close to death that I could taste it. No matter how many pills I took or how much love I received, this consuming force inside me remained uncured. 

“You- you don’t understand! The lock must stay sealed, the destroyed never be rebuilt and—”

A sneer spread across my face as I shook my head in disbelief. What kind of nonsense was this? What had I got myself into? 

“This is getting out of hand, Mr Parker. I’m hanging up.”

“Good Lord! If for no other reason, then for your own safety! You must listen!”

“I’m exhausted, Mr Parker. You know how that feels? All I want is some peace and nothing else…”

“You’ll end up dead!”

I let out a sigh. “Take care, sir. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

I took apart my phone and threw away the pieces, then leaned back in my seat and let out a deep breath. The chirping birds seemed to amplify the hollowness within, as if they were intentionally mocking me with their cheerful sounds.

Turning my head towards the foreboding mansion, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine as its watchful gaze seemed to bore into my soul.

A deep groan escaped my lips as a stabbing pain shot through my heart. There was something about this place that made my heart ache, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was or could be. Honestly, I didn’t want to remember. 

Stepping out of the car, the gravel beneath my feet crunched. I gazed up at the towering building again and felt my throat tighten and choke me out of breath.

The bed of flowers that lined the walkway was in full bloom, their vibrant colours dancing in the gentle breeze as I dragged my feet across the garden. The door creaked and echoed through the desolate hall as I crossed the threshold into the mansion.

My heart was heavy with a sense of foreboding. Memories from the past replayed in my mind like a relentless wave in the deep sea, forcing me to remember. My legs gave in to my distraught mind. Something rolled out of my pocket as I briefly lost my footing.

The broken doorknob stopped in front of the spandrel. I drew closer to the closet. What was this strange feeling creeping in? My heart raced and my palms grew sweaty as a surge of fear took hold of me. As I picked up the broken piece, I finally recalled why it looked so familiar. It was part of the closet door. 

I hesitated before opening the closet, fully aware that what lay beyond it would threaten my very existence and make the memories linger. But I had to know the truth. Only then could I cure my deteriorating mind. I completed the puzzle and twisted the doorknob. 

The closet stood wide open.

I dropped to both knees and stopped breathing. The mummified corpse of my dear mother came alive. A tow rope tightened around her bare neck and squeezed the life out of her. The brown strands of hair were all that remained of her former self. 

The moment I touched her hand, she crumpled to the floorboards before me. A cold shiver spread throughout my body. I too collapsed. As I lay there, beside her and gazed into her hollow sockets, I returned to the past and relived what everyone tried to shield me from. 

My deceased mother covered my eyes with what remained of her fingers as if to comfort me, and the world went dark and hazy. In the distance, I heard a car pull over and a shrill voice call my name. Then nothing. Just… silence.

I flew my eyes open. 

I now stood in the past, at a place that had once been forgotten but was now crystal clear in my mind. The spandrel closet. I reached out to her, but it was too late. Again. 

The clatter of the three-legged stool echoed throughout the empty hallway as my mother shoved it. Hanging, choking, dying. Her legs bore the marks of savage torture. I wrapped my tiny, child arms around her sprawling feet and stayed by her side until she grew stiff and cold.

I then grabbed a sharp knife from the kitchen and climbed the grating stairs to the second floor. As I followed the hallway to room nine, the creaking floorboards echoed through the guesthouse in a sombre melody.

A wave of anger washed over me as I entered the dark room, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. Pain and anguish took over me as my little sister’s vulnerable cries pierced the air and echoed off the walls.

At only six years old, Madeleine had already lost both her childhood and innocence to the wickedness of the world. The light that once shone in her eyes faded into a vacant stare, and I watched as it happened. But not that day. 

My father’s laboured breathing and the smell of alcohol in his breath hit me as soon as I cracked the door open. As he pulled my sister’s trousers down, something snapped inside me.

I lunged at him with every ounce of strength I had and stabbed him repeatedly. The blood cleansed my soul. A surge of freedom and empowerment replaced the pent-up emotions within. The metallic smell invaded my senses – even comforted me. It was over now. It was all… 

I met Madeleine’s eyes. She backed away from me, afraid, as if I were a monster. I put the bloody knife away and I drew her close. What I did next, I did for her. To save her from the miserable life that awaited her.

As I covered her misty eyes and slit her throat, I whispered a lullaby our mother used to sing to us whenever our father abused us. The bloody knife slipped from my grasp as she stopped kicking and shoving to break free. Still, I held her close and kissed her with my tears. What I did, I did to spare her from the life that now was mine. 

A hand reached into the past and pulled me out. As I shot my bloodshot eyes open, a scream escaped my lips, and I thrashed about, desperate to break free from whatever held me – refusing to let go of the past and carry on as if nothing had happened.

A punch landed on my cheek, and the ringing in my ears drowned out all sounds. I fell into silence and stared up. Mr Parker’s pale lips moved, but the only thing I could hear was the whisper of leaves in the breeze and my poor mother’s soothing lullaby in my ears. 

The weight of the world pressed down on me. My heart gave out. I took a final breath and turned to face the spandrel where the darkness beckoned me.

As the crimson rose in the unkempt garden, I too wilted away. The darkness of night no longer frightened me or choked me. The nightmare of my past was finally put to rest. 

Now I could sleep.