Lightning on Red Hill

Wild, blustery and unsettled winds flew down from the snow-capped Himalayan peaks and swept past mountains and passes. They tore mercilessly at the trees of the forest and houses on the hills. The skies had grown dark, with black, menacing clouds looming over the hillside. In the gathering gloom, the wind had dropped, the chirping of birds had halted and the insects were silent. Then, with a sudden burst of the wind, came the gusts of freezing rain, accompanied by sleet and hail. They rattled against the windows and chimneys, flung themselves at the walls and continued to groan and whistle.  

I thought that it’d be over in an hour or so but it did not. It got bad, with icier darts of pelting rain pricking the earth. I heard the punishing storm roaring outside and felt pity for the travellers who had got lost in it. It was better to be tucked away in the safety of your home, rather than being out in this threatening weather. I was at Miss Tyler’s friendly, lighted cottage, located halfway up a rounded hill, well-hidden from the storm. Miss Tyler was sitting opposite to me in her bed, under thick Kashmiri blanket while I was braving the biting cold in an armchair by donning two sweaters and an overcoat. 

For hours, we sat and saw the storm throw itself at our windows, whose ill-fitting shutters could not do much to keep it out. The flame of the lamp on the bedside was flickering, terrifying us into darkness. It went out twice, but we managed to light it again. Outside, now both thunder and lightning were at play. My ears were ringing with frequent sizzles of blue lightning that would light up the ruins on a hill called the Red Hill. It stood far away at a distance, across the fields, from Miss Tyler’s cottage. 

I looked up as it got hit by a flash of lightning, every now and then. From my own cottage in the village below, I had never seen the ruins on Red Hill but at it was a totally different view from Miss Tyler's cottage. It was called Red Hill mostly by my village people because of the rich iron deposits in the rocks on the hill which gave its soil a red colour. 

“You just saw the ruins on Red Hill, didn’t you?” Miss Tyler, white-haired, pink cheeked asked. 

“Yes, Miss Tyler. I wonder who used to live there, it is getting struck by lightning more than often.” I replied. 

“Quite right. The place was struck by lightning always when there was a storm like this one.” 

“Did the owners of the house left it because of the lightning?” 

“No, not because of that-not exactly, though it was one of the reasons they wanted to leave the place. The hill is named after the owners, you see.” 

“The owners?” I cried out, confused. “But people say that it is because of the iron deposits in the rocks that the hill is called Red Hill.” 

“That is a made-up story to hide the truth, young man.” Miss Tyler said, coughing. “The family was called the Reds which first settled here. There’s a mystery behind the family’s disappearance and how their sprawling house on the hill fell into ruins after that. All that is left now is a few stunted trees and wild shrubs and grass on the hill along with the ruins in which wanders the ghost of the lady of the family.” 

“The hill is haunted. I never knew it.” 

“You must know it now. But you go exploring it if you want. The ghost does not trouble anyone.” 

“But how did the family die in first place?” I demanded. 

“Ah!” Miss Tyler sat up in bed and looked at me incredulously. “There’s a story behind it, mind telling you.” 

“I’d be obliged if you can share the story with me, Miss Tyler.” I beamed. 

She nodded. “Certainly. Listen to it, if you find it true.” 

“The story goes back to my teenage days when I lived with my mother in this very cottage. At that time, we had just settled here about a year ago and our cottage was newly built. Your village, too tucked into the fold of a mountain was inhabited by very few people then who barely knew us and we didn’t have much company. Then, came one day, when some work started on the hill opposite to our hill, workers were at work, constructing a house. A man of midget height and blue eyes with a slight crafty look, must have been in his thirties was overseeing the operation. On enquiry, we found out his name was Jack Red and his family was moving on this hill. The house was completed in a few months and a large, spacious house it was.” 

“The family moved in soon and started living out there- a husband, his wife and two little sons. The husband, was a man with money, and they were quite prosperous. He went to the town in the morning and returned in the evening. The woman, a sloppy figure against her slender husband was jolly one. She took care of the house while the children played on the hill. Sometimes she sang outside her house, sitting under the trees. She had a gentle, fine voice and we’d enjoy hearing her singing her heart out. And what a jubilant, friendly lady she was! She often dropped by at our cottage for tea, giving us company while sometimes we went to her place. It is because of her that we no longer felt lonely in the hills.” 

“Then, what happened to the family? Did lightning not strike their house?” I remarked. 

“Clearly, that’s a strange mystery. The lightning did not strike them though wildest of storms came and go. But they would often hear the lightning too close to them. The women, Mrs Red would often tell my mother that it might strike them any moment and she is afraid for her children. In fact, she had suggested her husband to move down to the village but he had refused, for some reason. Lately, she had been telling my mother how much her husband had changed since they came here. He no longer talked nicely to her, spent time with her or showed any interest in the affairs of the house. He had been retuning late, often drunk, from the town. She had wanted him to change his ways but he did not. That man, whose wife loved him so much.” 

“Did she try to find the reason?” 

“Of course,” said Miss Tyler. “But she could get no clue. He had hidden his tracks cunningly and she got to know the reason from him just before she died.” 

“Oh! What was it? How did she die?” I asked, startled. 

“Well, the legend that goes around is that one stormy night when the wind was moaning and the rain was beating down on the roofs of the houses, blue jagged bolts of lightning struck the house on the Red hill, killing everyone in it.” 

“What a bad end!” 

“Nothing worse for the wife and children who were already dead by that time. But good end for the devilish husband.” 

“What do you mean, Miss Tyler?” 

“The husband had poisoned his wife and children the night just before the storm started.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he had fallen in love with another beautiful girl in the town, prettier than his wife. He had wanted to marry the girl, but his wife and children were an obstacle to the marriage. So, to get rid of them, he poisoned them. Just after she had her food, he told her that he loved another women in the town and intended to marry her. For this reason, he had poisoned her and his children.” 

“So how did the husband met his death?” 

“That night only the husband packed his belongings, his money, a few clothes, articles from the house of value. He had wanted to run away with the girl to some other place in the country for here, he’d get caught for murdering his wife. But just before he left the house forever, lightning fell on it. He died instantly. Next day, when my mother went to their house to gift Mrs Red a basket of luscious purple plums, she found the wife lying dead in the kitchen. The children quiet in their beds with white foam gushing out of their mouth.” 

“And the husband?” I asked. 

“He was found in their room, with the safe of the room open and fat wads of bank notes, flowing out of it. My mother contacted the police. It was investigated that the husband was a part of a drug gang and made his money through gambling. You may, now, draw your own conclusions as to the truthfulness of this story.” 

“No, I believe you, Miss Tyler. You must be right in every sense, having lived in the hill station for seventy years.” I said, getting up from my place, after Miss Tyler had finished her long-winded account of the story of Red Hill. Outside, the rain had stopped and the wind had grown less harsh. I scrambled down the hill, with some difficulty and walked to my cottage in the village down the valley. 

A day or two later, when the skies become clear blue, the clouds white, welcoming and the breezes turned to gentle gushes of wind, I left my cottage to climb up the Red Hill. I crossed the settlement, went up the road that wound up at the Red Hill, opposite to Miss Tyler’s hill and saw what was left-only rubble. Parts of marble tiles of the floor were visible at places, broken at some, buried into the earth. On my approach, rats and lizards scuttled out of the stones in beneath. Bits of side walls stood and in one corner I could make out cat hidden in the disused fireplace. It came out, purred, then climb up a stunted pine tree on the hill. 

The place was a mess with wildflowers, coneflowers. chicory and buttons, and wild grass growing out of the crumbling ruins. In a corner, another tree was growing out of the floor, its branches trying to gain space around the plaster-stripped walls. 

I touched the floor to feel the place where Mrs Red’s body had been found but the stone just gave me coldness and a hand lathered with dust. That woman, who, in an earlier time, had been a happy thing had turned into sawdust because of her simple, innocent nature. They found her and her sons’ charred bodies along with her husband’s the next day. Calling it the play of lightning the matter had been hushed, but no one knew how this lady had actually met her end.  

A bunch of whistling Himalayan thrushes sang from the trees. I looked up at them, but they flew away. Perhaps, they were bored in this deserted place. I, too felt lonely, in need of a friend, so I began descending down the Red Hill. 

When had left the Red Hill at some distance, I thought I heard a soft lovely voice rising above the elements of nature. Looking back, I could not see anybody on the hill. Only the trees. 

Perhaps it was the sound of the wind blowing. But Miss Tyler had told me the ghost of Mrs Red resides on the hill. And truly, it sang, for it was in love with life.