On a Hill

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Drama Sci-Fi. Edit Cast Series cast summary: Kevin Bacon Jackie Rohr 10 episodes, Aldis Hodge DeCourcy Ward 10 episodes, Jonathan Tucker Frankie Ryan 10 episodes, Mark O'Brien Jimmy Ryan 10 episodes, Lauren E. Siobhan Quays 10 episodes, Amanda Clayton Cathy Ryan 10 episodes, Jill Hennessy Jenny Rohr 10 episodes, Jere Shea Hank Signa 9 episodes, Blake Baumgartner Kick Ryan 9 episodes, Grayson Eddey Tony Ryan 8 episodes, Nora Murphy Marie Ryan 8 episodes, Kevin Chapman Minogue 6 episodes, James Michael Cummings Tommy Hayes 6 episodes, Catherine Wolf Rachel Benham 5 episodes, Zoe Margaret Colletti Edit Storyline In the early s, Boston was rife with violent criminals emboldened by local law enforcement agencies in which corruption and racism was the norm - and then it all changed in what was called the "Boston Miracle.

Certificate: TV-MA. Country: USA. Language: English. Runtime: 60 min. Sound Mix: Stereo. Color: Color. John had to do that on his own, and he did so just as his pursuer leaned over him. I remember letting out a sigh of relief as he finished the last of the wine in front of the fire. There was a moment of silence between us, and I realised that the entire bar was bathed in an anxious reticence.

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One which was almost tangible, as if those present wanted to speak, but dared not. But I could see from his expression that he did not believe me. He had been consumed by whatever myths and superstitions the locals had fed him. I concluded that his psyche had been poisoned. Of course I felt that the land lord and others meant well, but I was sure that a conventional explanation would hopefully cure him of his afflicted mind. The bus will be here in the afternoon and we can travel back together. A couple of miles into my journey the rain came down in sheets.

Visibility was terrible, but I just wanted to leave. I lost control of the car and went straight into a tree. I was survived, but the car is a write-off. As long as you were OK. How about another drink? As I did so, John grabbed my arm forcefully. There was something else on that road. I saw him standing there. A man… I think. At least, it appeared like a man.

I swerved to avoid him.


The last thing you would want around here would be to accidentally kill a local. I sat back down as he conveyed to me his predicament. After the incident with the car, which was towed back to the inn by Dale, John tried everything he could to leave. Each time he attempted to use the local bus there would be a problem. It would breakdown, or there would be a landslide stopping it from entering the village — he even claimed that was why I had been stranded over night, because he had intended to take the bus again that day.

The man was adamant. Several times he had even tried to hike to the nearest town, but on each occasion he was beaten back by bitter and perilous weather which appeared without warning. He had even tried to phone for help, but his mobile phone seemed to have no signal, while using a land-line resulted in a continuous static. The same applied for anyone who tried to make a call on his behalf. While I could not explain everything that had happened, I was certain that a series of rational and conventional events could account for each.

It seemed madness that someone so obviously intelligent and articulate be made to believe such nonsense. I genuinely felt sympathy for the man. You come to an old part of the country with a haunting landscape. It seems like another world compared to the modern life of London. Then you are provided with paranoia fuel.

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A myth that the locals believe about a cursed part of the land. Taking all that in, you have some terrible luck hitting a tree with your car, and before you know it, you believe the whole thing. Perhaps you even imagined the figure on the road. Maybe even the whole encounter. That or, who knows, maybe you had food poisoning or a virus of some kind and hallucinated the entire thing. It was obvious that he remained unconvinced, but I felt that it was my duty to take this poor soul out of that village, back to Glasgow where he could hopefully make arrangements to get home.

I had seen the damage that unfounded beliefs could cause amongst people and communities before, and I was genuinely appalled by it. I just wanted to help. The next day I rose early with a singular purpose. While I had to get home to work on my assignment, the bus was not due until the early evening, which gave me just enough time to persuade John to come with me in the most dramatic of fashions: To go to the hill myself. I knew that if I returned without any of these strange experiences that perhaps he would forget about the superstitious nonsense which the villagers had afflicted him with, and leave on the bus with me.

As a writer, such opportunities rarely present themselves. Before I left I spoke with him and made my intentions clear. He pleaded with me not to go, that his fate need not be mine, but after much protestation he accepted that I would not be dissuaded, and reluctantly agreed that should I return without paranormal, supernatural, or otherworldly incidence, that he would leave for Glasgow with me.

After providing me with directions — ones which I was sure would not be forthcoming from the villagers — I made my way out to the supposedly tainted hillside. I must admit that when I saw it at first it did appear… odd to me. Misplaced somehow. The environment appeared to be just as he had described. At least that much was accurate. The road was blocked with rubble and rubbish, and I too found the wooden gate lying at the foot of the hillside.

There was even a stain of blood upon it, certainly making the conclusion of his story more believable. The thought of some maniac up there did give me pause, but even if someone had chased John through the undergrowth, they had probably moved on after being confronted by Dale and the land lord. In any case, a badly wounded John had been able to escape, so I felt confident I would be fine. I did not feel anything out of the ordinary as I crossed the threshold, and while the tangled weave of trees and dead grass did provoke feelings of decay, I was surprised by just how innocuous and commonplace the environment felt.

And there it was. Obscured from the world by a wall of leaves, rotting wood, and grass: The church. But I did not. The church was fascinating, and I, at the very least, wished to see if it was as John had said, with an altar undisturbed inside. It was not difficult to gaze inward, though I shuddered slightly remembering the description of the door being partially blocked by debris, yet it lay wide open unimpeded, and this discrepancy did give me pause once more.

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  • Yet, there I stood, at the threshold peering inside. It was exactly as he had described; the floor strewn with rubble from a failing roof, the altar raised up ahead, an inscription — which by now I had no doubt did indeed read as John had stated — and the doorway leading downstairs to an unknown destination.

    You must understand that at no point did I genuinely think that something supernatural resided there, the very idea seemed laughable; but I did began to question my safety. Thoughts of a hermit or mentally deranged recluse living under a remote church did not fill me with confidence. With no reply, I castigated myself for being so paranoid and stepped inside.

    Thoughts of blood poisoning now entered my mind: Perhaps the wound in his side caused the hallucinations, at least the ones which occurred afterwards? That could have explained his disorientation. The altar stood as he had stated.

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    Realising that I may need to prove that I had been there to reassure the man, I took out my phone and started taking pictures of the church interior. Turning to the darkened doorway which led underneath the building, I felt my heart begin to race at the prospect of descending the stone staircase, but I was compelled to, although not for entirely altruistic intentions.

    Yes, I did want to show John that there was nothing down there, and that the beliefs which seemed to hold him paralysed within the boundaries of the village were unsubstantiated; but I also wanted to know what lay beneath, myself. Why did this church have a subterranean level? Was there a crypt? My curiosity piqued and my mouth watered at the possibility of a published article describing my discovery, of an unknown archaeological find with perhaps an important and valuable relic or two within.

    As I approached the door, I could feel the cold air breathing from below. Using the light from my phone, I calmed my nerves which had begun to grate on me and looked cautiously inside. A steep and narrow flight of stairs dripped down into the ground beneath. The walls were darkened grey and seemed to have been carved or formed with far less care than the rest of the church. I shouted down there once more, but again no one replied and I therefore assumed the place to be abandoned. As I descended, I was surprised by just how long the staircase actually was, and by the time I reached its conclusion estimated that I was at least fifty feet beneath the old church.

    It appeared peculiar to me that a level would be so far beneath the ground and questioned to myself the purpose of it — why had the architects, builders, or followers of the church dug so deep. At the last step I composed myself, and turned to face a darkened doorway at the conclusion of the staircase. The blue light from my phone illuminated everything around. What I saw deeply disturbed me; a large room, the floor littered with rags, stone, and human bones.

    I could not tell how many bodies had been left to rot there, for they were too numerous. The chill in the air was pronounced, and I felt frozen to the core not just by the cold of the stone which surrounded me, but by the sorrowful feeling I felt inside. It was almost as if I could imagine people huddled down there, spending their last moments hidden from the sun. The very impression I had, was that they had died there, yet I did not know why I was so convinced of this. Taking a few pictures, I then entered what I can only describe as… a mass grave.

    I was careful to not disturb the bones, but I am ashamed to say that I felt the crunch of a few under foot. To the right lay a doorway leading into another chamber, and while I did not wish to disturb the tomb any more than I already had, I felt compelled to know the entire story. That is, what else was down there. Above the doorway sat a stone cherub, carved with a degree of artistic flair, putting it at odds with the room full of bones, but the childlike face wore a strange grin upon it. Not of joy or playfulness, but of taunting and sadomasochistic indulgence.

    The very sight of it left me with a feeling of revulsion, and so I quickly entered the other chamber to be removed from its gaze. Inside was a large room, much grander than the one before. I could tell immediately that something of importance to those who had built the church had once been housed there. The walls were adorned with beautifully carved symbols, some Christian, but many of a nature I could not identify. In the centre of the room lay a block of solid stone three feet across. A large hole lay to its side. On the rock was the following inscription:.

    As I pondered the epitaph I peered into the hole. The grave was vacant, but I was glad that I had seen it before walking around the room, as it was deep and wide enough to have given me a nasty fall. Being stranded down there with a broken leg was not something that I wished to consider. The dirt inside the grave was stained black by what looked like a deposit of charcoal throughout, and the fringe of the hole was surrounded by a circular pile of dirt.

    The air of the place was beginning to affect me intensely. Each breathe inward was jagged and cold, and the discomfort was such that I decided I had seen enough. While taking a few pictures to document the tomb before leaving, the flash from my phone brought something on the floor into sharp focus.

    Covered in earth and dirt lay a book which poked out slightly from the ground. Gently blowing the dust from it, I carefully lifted it up, resting the book on top of the makeshift gravestone. The binding was ancient, peeling slightly as I ran my hand over it. The dark red cover, which I could not identify the material out of which it had been made, spoke of time gone by and of stories lost yet important.

    Deep down I knew that such an item should be removed carefully and studied by scholars, but as a writer, my passion for a story compelled me to see what it contained. Opening it, I was amazed. This was a chronicle. A hand written account of the history of the church, its congregation and the hillside. A snapshot of a people long since forgotten. It was written in a linguistically confused tone, as the wording seemed to be a mix of Old Scots English and phrases in a language unfamiliar to me, one which I assumed to be Celtic or Gaelic in origin, however, the passages in Old Scots I could read to a degree.

    What follows is a loose recollection of what had been inscribed there. In the 15th century a group of refugees came to that area in search of a place they could call home. The valleys — or glens as they are known in Scotland — were uninhabited at that time, as too was a strange hill which dominated the landscape. The people were from a place called Dungorth, and they had escaped from the laird there who had ruled that region at the time; fleeing his persecution as he was a brutal and merciless ruler who punished all who did not follow his beliefs.

    In all they numbered only in the hundreds, and while their elders wished to settle in the glens, a prominent priest amongst them claimed that to bless the lands, and to ensure that no ills would befall their community, the hill must be settled first — a beacon of holiness casting a shadow of protection on all below.

    Disheartened, the elders began to follow his example, as it was typical of the time for people to be God fearing. There, on that isolated and baleful hillside, they built a small settlement, but almost immediately a few of the settlers began to fall ill. A sickness which could not be explained and which often resulted in a feverish madness.

    The priest blamed a number of standing stones which were peppered throughout the hillside, remnants of — to him at least — an old and heretical religion. It was decided under his supervision that the people should build a church. With the presence of consecrated ground, it was thought that the effects of whatever resided on the hill previously, would be eradicated. Despite their efforts the sickness only grew worse, and many began to suspect that the priest himself was in league with the abhorrent forces at play.

    Some of the elders rose up against him, but under his orders, members from the church congregation executed those who rebelled. Fearing for their lives, many of the settlers who were outraged by the priest and his followers, fled in the night, escorting the remaining elders to the lands below. Most made it off of the hill, but some returned wailing and frightened, believing themselves to have been stalked by uncertain and unearthly figures in the woods, unable to escape.

    To save their lives, they pledged undying fellowship to the priest and his church. Claiming to be receiving visions from the almighty himself, the holy man assured the villagers that if they carried out his explicit instructions that they would all be saved. Each night they gathered in the church as the priest spewed forth his visions and damning, seething hatred for those who had left. It became clear to some that he had gone mad, but by then the man had formed a strict and brutally loyal conclave of followers who hung on every word and prophecy, making any rebellion sure to be a violent, bloody, and uncertain one.

    Many spoke of dreams without form, blinded by darkness, and several families were found in their homes, suffocated in the night. The priest blamed those who had escaped and told stories of how they were the source of the darkness which had persecuted his people, cursing them to a desperate end.

    Bitterness and anger swept through the community and several villagers were selected to descend the hill and bring back the elders who were to be judged and sacrificed if need be. But no one could leave. No matter how hard they tried, the church loomed large, no matter which way they walked, down or up, they would appear where they had begun, confused and disorientated. The sickness spread, and the village watchmen one by one were found choked and mutilated in the streets, with witnesses claiming to have seen strange entities prowling around at night.

    In the panic, those left had no option but to cling to their religion for salvation, in the hope that the church would protect them. They huddled together underneath its roof, in abject terror for what approached from the shadows outside. Here, the writing changed markedly, becoming jagged, fervent, and more pronounced.

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    The priest himself had taken over from the town chronicler who he had deemed to be unsatisfactory. Several pages followed, pockets of English entangled with what looked like Latin, and a number of unusual and indecipherable languages. Each page was filled with pain and scorn for those who had left, and then, the words just stopped. Standing there in that Stygian and foreboding place, I ran my fingers across the spine of the book and could see clearly that the last page had been torn out. What it could have contained, I did not know.

    I felt overwhelmed by the account which I had just read as a very real and palpable fear surged throughout my body. I could not avoid the coincidence and I began to suspect that something had in fact affected him after all; something tangible. Perhaps a contaminant in the ground. A poison maybe? I had read about pockets of methane gas escaping through the earth and at sea which had killed many, but it was not out of the question that something similar, perhaps in a smaller dose could in fact have caused mass hallucinations, sickness, and even madness.

    It was the most feasible explanation I could come up with. Yet, why had I not been effected? Perhaps, as the chronicle had stated, some people were more immune to the contaminant than others. My attention now turned once more to the grave, or at least what was left of it. Did they re-bury it in another location? Perhaps his followers were worried that his grave would be vandalised. The answer became clear to me almost immediately: They had burned him in his grave, under the very church he had built; the hole where his body once lay, now marked eternally by the blackened stains of smoke and ember.

    I shuddered at the thought that he may have been thrown down there and set alight while still alive. The air now grew noticeably colder, but this was not what marked the beginning of my ordeal. I leaned over, looking closely at what I saw on the rim of the grave. I could not bring my self to believe it. In the darkness I must have missed it, but now it was unmistakable. There on the edge of the grave was a hand print, blackened and burned, as of someone clawing their way out of their eternal and forsaken pit.

    My breath spiralled slowly out of my mouth, congealing in the icy surrounds while my heart raced at the mere possibility of what had risen from that hole in the ground. As the air grew colder still, I stood up and made my way to the foot of the stairs — I had to get out of there, into the sunlight, into the open.

    It was then that I heard it. At first it was merely the impression of a sound. Then more definite, rising in intensity and clarity. Something stirred above. Many of them, groaning and lamenting, crying for their lives in unison. Chants in the darkness, both Christian and of something older, a fetid religion that had best been left in the ground. As the wails of misery ascended, a single voice rose up out of the cacophony. Deafening and terrible, it spoke of the end of days, of betrayal, and of unimpeded sin.

    The voice yelled and screamed, renouncing all who did not listen, a vengeful sermon from that stone altar above. I cannot put the fear I felt into words. Alone in the cold darkness of a defiled crypt, with no way out other than up and into that church hall where something hideous now relived forgotten and terrible times. The screams grew louder as the banging and scuffing of feet rushed towards the staircase, towards where I stood.

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    • Such pain in those voices, I ran in terror as they flew down the ancient staircase towards me. Without thinking, I jumped down into the empty grave switching the light from my phone off and found myself cowering, shaken to my very core by the agonising voices which cried out against the world, and one another, in the next room — hate and utter despair at evil both outside and in. The roar of agony increased, men, women, children weeping and cursing a God they believed had forsaken them.

      Accusations, persecution, and the tearing of flesh. Then, silence. I clung to the bottom of that charred grave with my fingernails etched into the soil. Any scepticism I had for unseen and hidden forces had receded. Shaking violently in the cold bleakness, I waited for several minutes before switching the light of my phone back on. Peering over the brim of the grave, I pulled myself silently onto the floor. The rooms were empty, all but for the broken bones and skulls of countless lives ruined by whatever evil lay in that hillside. I finally plucked up the courage and with nerves shredded and beliefs shattered, I climbed the stairs slowly, scared rigid at the thought of what might be waiting for me at the top, but it was my only way out, and I would be damned if I was going to end my days the way those poor people had, cowering deep below.

      The hall was empty. As quietly as possible, I crossed the room negotiating debris and rubble quickly but quietly, cutting through an oppressive silence, finally exiting through the doorway to the open air. Once out of the church I fell to my knees, quivering with anxiety as I tried to process the entire experience. My mind then flew back to what had been in that grave, and more importantly, where it was now. Then I knew. The air burned in my lungs as I rushed down the path, within minutes the wooden gate was in sight and I was off of that wretched hill, a place I would never tread again.

      Not for money, not for a story, not for anything.

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      I would have breathed a sigh of relief at this thought, but that was not in my mind. I had to get back to the inn as quickly as possible. Continuing to run as fast as I could, I fought exhaustion and the limits of my own body, and after a time across field and hedgerow, finally the Laird of Dungorth inn came into view. Staggering towards the old building, it was then that I heard it. Screams, of agony, of terror, and for mercy. I knew instantly where and by whom. A new found jolt of stamina found me as I broke into a sprint once more, bursting through the doors into the bar.

      There, the room lay in silence. Villagers sat staring at their drinks while the landlord himself stood motionless, his eyes pointed to the ground. The screams continued from the rooms above. I begged and pleaded for someone to help me, but none would listen. Realising I was alone to confront it, I broke for the stairs, but the landlord forcefully intervened, dragging me back, his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders.

      Allow me to introduce myself again I was with you every place you've ever been I'm the one who held you even when you couldn't stand If you're wondering who can heal your brokenness I can, I can, I can. Allow me to introduce myself again I'm the love you used to think could not exist I'm as sure as where you're standing and as free as the wind You don't have to reach far because this is where I am I am, I am, I am I am. Compartilhar no Facebook Compartilhar no Twitter.

      It's quiet In this house upon a hill You won't mind it Some things you can't know 'til you're still In the silence Where your spinning thoughts slow down In the stillness Things have a way of working out Allow me to introduce myself again I'm the one who held you before time began I've been waiting for you to let me be your friend Everything you ever need is everything I am I am, I am, I am Take your chances There's nothing here to lose Ask your questions I promise you the truth As you ready I want to heal your heart Is it heavy?

      Old wounds have left a mark Allow me to introduce myself again I was with you every place you've ever been I'm the one who held you even when you couldn't stand If you're wondering who can heal your brokenness I can, I can, I can I'll meet you In the house upon a hill How I want to Show you I am real Allow me to introduce myself again I'm the love you used to think could not exist I'm as sure as where you're standing and as free as the wind You don't have to reach far because this is where I am I am, I am, I am I am.

      Nos avise. Enviada por Jorge , Traduzida por Sara. Recomendar Twitter.