Don't be like Diana Hill

Chapter Two: Hill House

There's a house on a hill, overlooking the sea.

It's two stories tall if you don't include the attic. Made out of wood, (mostly), and spare parts here and there. You can hear the sound of the clock ticking in the silence, and the waves that brush the shore passionately air-to-air. They all sound nice together, a little music box of their own, as long as they clash with the paint on the walls, they'll fit in just right.

The paint on the walls.

Most rooms aren't painted, some are. The exterior has patchwork blue paint all over, and the interior just the same. Though, I've repainted some of the rooms I used the most in my spare time -- the study, the bedroom, and the kitchen. The walls of this house are thin and thick, something that caught my eye when I first came in. When I knock on the wood it appeared hollow but filled in perfectly within. I believed that the structure needed cement to withstand the harsh winds that blew over the hill. The owner made the right choice.

Grooves on the walls made a noise. It sang music with colors I couldn't understand. It was terrifying but beautiful, the music almost like the chimes, in sync with the waters below. And when I had found trinkets laying around, I knew I had found my temporary home.

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    I was thirteen when my mother started going crazy. Going mad rather. It was like she had fallen into a rabbit hole and who she was, sunk into the bottom of the ocean. It was terrifying. To watch it begin. To watch it grow.

    First, she'd spend lots of time in that green room. I would watch from the coroner, peeking over the door. She would brush her hand against the wall again and again. Then she'd just stand there. Silent.

    Until she started muttering phrases. The longer she stood in the room the longer she wasn't there. The longer it started to feel like she had joined dad, but she didn't. She was terrifying. She'd whisper a strange hypothesis or theory, and she wouldn't talk to me for months on end. So, I left.

    I was fourteen and lived with the nearest town's shopkeeper for a few months The shopkeeper and his wife had no children so they took me in as if I were their own. I couldn't explain myself to them regarding my situation or else they'd take my mother and send her somewhere. I knew she could take care of herself at the house, I knew she was still in there somewhere, I just couldn't stay with her any longer.

I kept quiet.

I told them that my parents were gone and that rent was due. I wasn't able to pay for it. Then got kicked out and fled. They believed me, thankfully.

    The shop was full of trinkets and that's where my knowledge of inventions grew. The lovely couple, Mr. and Mrs. Guerra, taught me everything. Until I had to leave again after eight months had passed. Mr. Guerra had fallen sick and because of that, the shop wasn't doing well. I believed that I was cursed after that incident.

    Mrs. Guerra told me that she couldn't support me anymore and that there was too much to pay, from the shop's expenses and Mr. Guerra's medical bill. I was old enough to understand by then, so I nodded and packed my stuff. Before I stepped out the door, however, Mrs. Guerra told me to take anything that I wanted from the shop. She said anything and not to only take one. I could see the pity in her eyes so I took two items: a metal flower pink decoder and a copper watch that had lots of gears and buttons. I didn't know the value of these items held until I found the house.

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Dear Ms. Sartre,

    Your last name caught my interest. There is a philosopher, his name was Jean-Paul Sartre, you may know him. If not, his philosophy was that there was a significant difference between the states of being between things in the world and people. Why am I telling you this? Well, it's come to my attention that you yourself have found an interest in philosophy. How do I know this? I don't. It's a large assumption I'm willing to take the risks for.