What's Hiding on Gaskill Hill?

Have you ever been to a place and just knew there was something there? Knowing in your heart of hearts that someone was there even though you could see no one? Surprisingly, there seem to be many places all over the world that fit the description above. I happened to grow up in just such a place, spending my childhood hearing the bumps and whispers in the night.

Actually, we heard them morning, noon and night, and so did most everyone who set foot on the hill. I have had so many experiences there that it is difficult to choose only one to tell here, but I will do my best. There was always something different about the hill, something strange and alive like nowhere else I have ever seen. I do not know of anyone who has been there and not had a tale to tell about the voices and whispers, seeing ghosts and shadows, things moving on their own.

My father quite literally built our home with his own two hands, molding the blocks, bricks and everything else that went into it right down to the oil-can roof. He built it on top of a fairly large hill, which over looked the city far away. Many an evening we sat out on the front and watched the city lights; they looked like stars shimmering in the darkness. The land itself was mostly sand and was difficult to grow anything in, but my mother managed to grow a few flowers around the house.

One experience I remember very clearly happened after my father passed away. I had married a young man who lived down the road from us. We were both young and just starting out so my mother let us move into the apartment right next door to her for as long as we wanted or needed. I had seen many things on that hill, but this night beat them all.

My husband and I went to bed and had been asleep for a couple of hours when I felt something climbing on me. I tried to push it off thinking it was our cat trying to get my attention. Whatever it was wouldn't stop climbing up on me. Finally I turned on my back and opened my eyes to see a very small man standing on my stomach with what looked like a small sword in his hand. He had long dark tangled hair, dark skin and reminded me of the way the Indians looked in the cowboy movies. His eyes were black and shinning as he screamed, swinging the sword over his head.

I yelled and slapped him off and watched as it ran under our bed. I began pushing and hitting my husband trying as hard as I could to wake him; it felt like an eternity. When he was awake he started trying to calm me down, but it was no use. I told him that I had seen it run under the bed and to my horror he ducked over the edge of the bed to look under it. I just knew that was going to be bad; but nothing happened and he said he saw nothing under the bed. I was so upset and I knew what I had seen, but how would I ever be able to prove it?

In all of the commotion I had not even noticed that when I had slapped the little man he had cut my hand across the palm with his sword. My husband asked me how it happened but when I told him, he looked at me like I was crazy. We lived there for a good long while after that and I never saw the little man again. I have heard stories from my family and others about seeing the little man. We all moved away and the place was sold and the big house torn down.

I still wonder if the little man is there somewhere hiding, waiting for another chance to go bump in the night.