The Chapel on the Hill
“I have learned the truth of it, for this thing I have brought here is wicked and cursed.”
The Chapel on the Hill is a collection of strange tales from the village of St. Jeremy, a place with many secrets and a dark heart. Where everything — even Time itself, perhaps — isn’t quite what it seems. Stories are being published serially on Medium.
The Chapel stood on a large hill at the foot of the Mountain, just off The Old Trade Road. The Hill was domed, and built of broken rock; brambles and dead wood burst through where the rock was cracked, like ancient knobbed hands clutching at the skeletal structure of the Chapel resting crookedly — like a great wounded beast refusing to finally succumb to its mortality — on the rounded peak. There was a rough path carved from the stone leading down from the Chapel to the base of the hill, where three hooded men holding torches stood against the darkness of the night. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a light, cold rain began to fall.
The village of St. Jeremy was quiet and dark. Autumn leaves skittered across the ancient cobbles, caught by the light, crisp breeze. All else was still. The village had a vibrant life once, but it was now stagnant and overcome with silence. There was a small light, faint against the enveloping dark, coming from the inn. The Great Trade Road passed through the village, and long ago someone had built an inn at the crossroad. Once, clearly, it was a popular waystation for the weary, but no one stopped over in St. Jeremy anymore. Most passed it by; the silence that dominated the village made most good men anxious. It cut into them like a cold, blunt knife; an aching, dull presence that set their mind to dark thoughts. And so they traveled on. The inn, with all its many rooms, and its bar, was now empty — save for two men and the keeper.
It is night. You are home. The fire is warm and the lights are bright. There is food and comfort; not luxuriant, but sufficient. Livable. Safe. Outside, the darkness looms just beyond the reach of the light, but that doesn’t matter, you are safe. It’s there, impenetrable on this moonless night, trying desperately to get closer, it fills every crevice the light can’t reach. On nights like these, all homes are islands. You stay inside, in the light; there is life within the light and monsters without. But you are home, and you are safe. The light and the walls will keep the darkness at bay.
The Summer had been dry and hot. It was the kind of baking heat that turned the grass rigid and tan and split the hard, packed dirt. The mechanical buzz of the grasshoppers penetrated all the homes of the Village during the day, and the bright chirps of the crickets punctuated the night. Dust kicked up by travelers on the road would have been seen for miles if it weren’t for the dreamy glimmers in the air. Altimin, the old man had called them: ancient spirits leaving the prison of the earth for the Paradise of the Mountain-top.
There are few things more peaceful than a quiet snowfall, the Witch Hunter decided. He was squatting in front of a small shack, leaning against one of the posts of its overhang, looking out across the dawn. The shack was in a clearing in the middle of a thick, grey forest. The snow deafened all the world around the little homestead; the clouds hung heavy over the forest and all before him seemed at peace.