House Upon A Hill - Mystery, Thriller

hey all, just wondering if anyone is interested in reading this. as the title says, its a mystery and a thriller, so it might seem a little slow off the mark at first, but it should get better. if u do read, plz tell me what u think, then ill send more.

thanx, Aradaël

House Upon A Hill

Alexander Paxinos stood in the entrance hall of the house, taking in his first glimpses of the house’s interior. He took a step forward on the wooden floorboards, admiring the beauty of this aged house. He had not expected it to be so magnificent yet homely, so large yet seeming so small, so atmospheric. He could hardly contain his excitement, like a little boy about to open his Christmas presents. At last he could live somewhere in peace. Paxinos, in his late 20s, was of a medium build with large questioning hazel eyes. His dark brown hair was lank atop his head and had perfect, fair skin.
“What does Monsieur think of it?” The voice came from behind, the real estate agent desperate to sell the house and then take his two hours off for lunch. His name was André Brelliers.
A quick daydream faded and Paxinos turned to the short real estate agent. “Pardonne,” he said, preparing himself once more to practise his French. “Oui. I love it. I’ll buy it.” The short man winced at the accent. Luckily he could speak English.
Brelliers seemed to sigh heavily in relief and said, “I am glad Monsieur likes it. Shall have a look at the other houses in the area or not?” He stressed very much the “not”.
“No,” Alexander replied offhandedly, and the agent appeared to sigh again. “However, would I be able to move in now as I have nowhere else to go?”
“Monsieur, you can do whatever you wish. It is your house now. The furniture is still inside; I will call a removalist to collect it. It is from the previous owners, you see.”
“No, leave the furniture as it is. I have no furniture of my own. I’m starting a new life here and I think the furniture will provide me with some company.”
The real estate agent looked quizzically at Alex, wondering if he had understood right.
“As you wish, Monsieur. I will arrange a meeting with my employer, you and myself for the payment of the house and the ownership of the furniture. Until then, Monsieur, I wish you all the best in your new house and with your, err, new life.”
“Merci,” Alex thanked and shook the agent’s hand warmly. It was good to have that sense that things were about to start getting a whole lot better.
André Brelliers let himself out, the light from outside briefly illuminating the floating dust hanging in the air all around the house. Alex didn’t mind it that way.
What few belongings he owned were contained in a few suitcases that he left lying on the foyer floor. He would have time to put them away tidily later. Alex had an obsession for cleanliness and tidiness. Everything had to be put away in its proper location. There would never be anything found out of place if it was because of him.
He resisted the urge and continued through the foyer past the elegant staircase of white-painted wood and faded red carpet. There were photographs of scenic locations in black frames on the pale wall.
To his left was the lounge room, a large open space with pale pink carpet and cream walls common in the downstairs area. Large, comfortable-looking, dark green lounge chairs sat around the room, covered with translucent plastic to keep the dust off. A couple of dark-stained coffee tables sat in the room along with an upright piano of the same wood.
At the other end of the room was a wide opening into the dining room. A dark table stood there with chairs around, looking like people were sitting there already conversing. Tall cabinets lined one of the walls. Through a small door was the kitchen, looking rather aged with its moth-eaten hangings on the window and blackened cupboards. The dishwasher looked highly out of place in such an old room.
As Alex continued past the cupboards, he saw a rumpus room with multiple lamps on tables and on the floor to lighten the room. Apparently, the blinds in the room were fixed in place and the previous residents had been unable to open them. There was also a second staircase leading to the next floor.
The family room was rather uninspiring compared with the rest of the floor; a simple table and some mismatched chairs. There was a sliding door on one side to the back yard. The space at the furthest end of the room was empty, devoid of any furnishings or paintings, making it seem rather barren, sad and open, which Alex did not like. He would have to buy new furniture for the space.
There was a door at the end of the room that led to a corridor, in which the light had blown. He left the door open to see. There was a laundry and toilet to his left as well as a room that had stairs leading down to the basement. Alex wasn’t particularly interested in that at the moment. On the other side of the corridor was a room filled with bookcases with hundreds of books. Alex presumed it was a library and looked forward to going through them all. There was a control panel with a keypad attached to one of the bookcases. Alex pressed them all but nothing happened. He would have to ask the real estate agent Brelliers about that.
He returned to the entrance hall and picked up his suitcases. However, he was only able to carry one up the narrow staircase. The top of the stairs opened up to a large space to his right and a corridor to his left. The room at the top of the stairs had a large window set into the front wall and an expensive-looking telescope peered out the window. Alex also saw two doors to separate bedrooms behind the telescope room.
Andre Brelliers had told Alex that the main bedroom was on the third floor up a flight of stairs behind a door. That door was diagonally opposite the staircase but Alex decided to see the rest of the second floor first.
Down the corridor, immediately to his left was the toilet, then the main bathroom. On his right was a door that opened to a small room, presumably a study. There was already an old desk and leather chair sitting inside. The room also had three doors out of it; a rather unusual feature thought Alex.
At the end of the corridor was a door to a third bedroom. The door was locked and he didn’t have any keys except the one for the front door. That was annoying. Brelliers should have told him first and given him the keys. The whole house belonged to him, now; that’s what Brelliers had said. Well, he wanted to see the whole house. He had a mind to call him up but thought it could wait until tomorrow.
The corridor turned right, and then became a T-intersection, with a final bedroom through a door to his left as well as the corridor leading to the games room, the room above the rumpus room. It had a few lounge chairs facing a screen most evidently used to project movies onto. To the right, the corridor continued around the outside of the study, making a square. A sliding door opened to a balcony that gave Alex a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside. He did not go out onto the balcony, he could see perfectly from where he was standing.
He walked back around to the main staircase and lugged his suitcase through the door and up the stairs to the third floor. The main bedroom was the only room on the floor, apart from an ensuite and storage compartment. A queen-sized bed took up much of the room. There was also a stylish dressing table from the early 20th century, complete with framed oval mirror and a white lace cloth on the table.
Alex set down the suitcase and jumped onto the bed, not bothering to take off the plastic covering it. It creaked just as he liked and he smiled to himself. He would enjoy living here very much.

Alex Paxinos had organised it so that once a week the grocer from the nearest town delivered a supply of food to his house, while travelling the route usually taken for his other customers. There was a large pantry down in the basement that was able to keep foods dry and edible as well as a cold storage room that was another room that was locked. The nearest town was Rouen and that was over an hour away so Alex didn’t feel too inclined to buy his own food, especially when it could be delivered without too high a cost.
The wealthy sum of money Alex owned was mostly his father’s, once a rich businessman and banker, now resting peacefully in his grave. He had had no other sons apart from Alex and his wife had divorced him early in Alex’s life so most of his wealth passed onto Alex.
Alex hadn’t done much with his life and he knew it; he felt lazy and pathetic, especially when he thought of what his father had accomplished at the same age. Joseph Paxinos had always wanted his son to become successful, as he had done. When he realised that his son wasn’t the businessman-type, he tried to turn Alex’s interests to journalism. The trouble was, Alex was too creative and imaginative to even think of the concept of spending his life interviewing people about real events and their lives. It sounded incredibly boring to him; he didn’t want to stick to the facts, he wanted to do whatever the liked.
At school, Alex had been exceptionally good at art, especially painting. He loved all sorts of painting, whether it was still life or landscape painting. However, he considered painting only a large hobby, despite the fact that he went to numerous classes of art and the history of art at college. His real passion was writing novels. He loved books and could read a large book in a night. Joseph had always disagreed with his reading obsession; too much reading would cause your mind to split in two, he said. Too much nonsense about things that could never happen would deter the mind from deciding what was reality and what was not.
However, Alex wrote in the same fashion as his favourite authors and presented to his teachers enthusiastically. They were not as enthusiastic responding to them, as they were concerned about his essay writing, reports and speeches that he made. They were always suffering as he put all his thought into writing.
After a few years into studying the arts and creative writing at university, he came to have a permanent mind-blank. He couldn’t think of any new ideas, or for that matter anything to write at all. There was still the painting talent and he thrived for that for around a year, sending pieces of work into various competitions and galleries. They judges were always very encouraging but Alex felt that he needed to get his writing skills back.
He thought that countryside might do the trick, as he loved being able to look out a window to a scenic spot and be inspired. America would not do the trick, however; he needed to get out of the country for a completely new start. He said goodbye to his very disapproving father and flew to France. And there his memory started to become fuzzy.
The plane trip to Paris airport was hijacked and some people were killed. Alex himself had been severely injured with cuts and bruises over his body and a blow to the head. He had remained in hospital for some time, alone in his own world, oblivious to the rest of the world. The doctors were able to help him recover and explained to him that the blow had caused a severe haemorrhaging to the outer brain, the place where memories are stored. This meant that he would occasionally lose track of his surroundings momentarily and have no recollection of what happened. The doctors said that the loss of memory would not be further damaging to his brain and that they would eventually become more rare.
He remained in hospital for a further few months, and then was permitted to leave. He bought an apartment in Paris with a view to just a boring street with roaring cars. He loved the city, however; he loved all the sights and seeing something different each time you turned a corner. Paris was very inspiring for Alex’s artistic flair, yet it still didn’t provide anything for his writing.
He moved out into the countryside, staying in hotels and B&Bs, looking for a place suitable to begin a career. He gradually travelled northwest, feeling compelled to travel in that direction, feeling that there was something special in Normandy. There were the beaches of Omaha and Utah from World War II to inspire him, but it was not quite what he had in mind.
Eventually, he came to a place just outside of a city called Bolbec. It was close to the group of houses widely spread out that his house was now a part of. He stayed in Bolbec, inquiring constantly at the real estate agency for a house to move into. He did not want to build a new house; he wanted that feeling of antiquity.
Apparently, the area was so popular for an old house in the perfect French countryside that there was a list of people simply waiting for others to move out. So, for his particular house, there was quite a queue. However, they all seemed to disappear and for a short time no one lived in the house; Alex wasn’t sure if it was because they had moved in and hadn’t liked it or that they found someplace better and took their names off the list.
And now the house was his, surprisingly quick he thought, but it was his nonetheless. He had found the inspiration he needed near Bolbec but this house was the final stretch to secure him a real kick-start to his life. He would see that his father would approve of him again.

Is this based on the boardgame?

It's good. Keep writing.

ha! I like it keep goin!

thanks for ur encouragement guys. however, ive needed to change the setting to make it easier and actually possible for the story to continue smoothly. So now the story is set in England, about an hour north of York. sry bout that, but heres some more.

thanx again, Aradaël

by the way, i didnt know there was a boardgame. what is it? wats its about?

Alex had unpacked most of his clothes and put them away in the cupboard in the main bedroom, checking for spiders and any other unwanted visitors. He pulled off the plastic covers to all the furniture he could and opened all the windows to let in some of the fresh spring air. The air began to smell less musty and cleaner.
Just as he was filling the sink with hot water – he was thankful that there actually was hot water – there came a loud knocking from the front door. He went to it slowly, trying to look out of the cloudy glass on either side of the door to try and see who it was. He was not sure that he wanted to see anyone at the moment. However, whoever it was seemed to know that someone was already inside the house as they kept knocking. Finally, Alex opened the door.
Standing on the front porch was a woman around Alex’s age, perhaps a little older, and she was holding a plate filled with strange-looking food. There were several other people behind her: an old married couple, another couple in their forties with a girl of around 10 and a boy of around five. There was also a man in his late thirties. They all had a plate of some form of food.
The woman smiled warmly at Alex’s shocked expression, and then kissed him on both cheeks, shocking him more; he had not expected all his neighbours to visit him at once. In fact, he hadn’t really thought about his neighbours at all.
“Hello, my name is Chloé Jacques,” she introduced herself in English with a strong French accent. She had short blond hair that framed her face well and she had a stunning smile. “I’m your neighbour from a mile down the road. These people are your other neighbours. They can all speak English and they’re all from France except for David.” She pointed to the man in his late thirties. He had combed-back brown-grey hair, a large nose and striking blue but bleary eyes. He also had a two-day stubble and a long shirt with a loosened tie. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.
He stepped forward and shook Alex’s hand a little stiffly. “I’m David Willows,” he said with an English accent. “I’m sorry about this quick meeting but I have to leave pretty soon.” He shrugged. “My job and my living quarters aren’t very compatible.” He handed Alex and plate of hot sausages on rolls. “I thought you might like some food you can actually recognise. Well, I’ll be off. I’ll see you again sometime.”
“Nice to meet you,” Alex said and David turned and went down the path to his car. His eyes focused back on his visitors. He had to let them in.
“Uh, you can all come inside if you want,” Alex said and he tried to motion with his arm to get them to come inside.
They assembled in the kitchen/family room area where Chloé introduced the old man, with swept-back white hair and a seemingly constant grave expression, as Pierre Messante and his wife Joelle, short in stature with curly grey hair, sparkling blue eyes and a tight, smiling mouth. She was wearing an old cardigan and had a walking stick. She handed Alex a plate of toasted sliced baguette with some form of cheese on top with a kiss on both cheeks in the traditional French style.
The younger married couple were Jean-Patrice and Michelle Albert; both had dark hair, Michelle’s grew down to her just below her shoulders. Jean-Patrice was wearing a smart-looking winter jacket and his wife had one over her shoulders, evidently Jean-Patrice’s also. Their two children were Nathalie, wearing a long pink dress and had surprisingly fair hair and a gorgeous face with a matching smile. Thomas was five and was looked quite pale and his green eyes stood out from his otherwise quite plain face. He had dark hair like his parents and combed to one side.
Jean-Patrice gave Alex a pot of hot, tasty-smelling soup, which Alex nearly dropped from the weight. Alex was no body-builder but the pot was huge; Jean-Patrice had to be pretty strong to carry that even just from his car. Michelle set down on the kitchen bench a much smaller pot that contained chunks of veal and mushrooms swimming in a creamy, orange-brown sauce. Chloé explained that it was a French dish called Blanquette de Veau and was very nice.
The little girl, Nathalie, presented Alex with some pastries with evidently something inside, though Alex knew not. She almost pulled him down to kiss him on both cheeks and said, “Welcome, Monsieur. I hope you like it here.” Alex didn’t know of the French tradition to kiss everyone when you meet him or her and was rather taken aback.
Chloé laughed however as she noticed. “It will come to be natural when around us,” she said.
Alex suddenly felt rather foolish. He had been so surprised by this meeting that he had forgotten to introduce himself. “I’m Alex Paxinos,” he told them all, and then told them they could sit down and so the neighbours began to seat themselves around Alex’s table.
“You do not mind?” Chloé asked.
“Uh, no, its fine,” Alex muttered.
The food was set on the old tablecloth and Alex ran around the kitchen trying to find plates. Then the very unexpected yet very delicious meal began. Most of the people talked to each other but Chloé conversed with Alex. The other neighbours would presumably learn anything from her when they left.
Alex told Chloé the general outline of how he had come to buy the house as simply as he could, although her English was very good. She explained that it was odd because the houses in the area they were currently living in were only very recently sold then bought again, seemingly at the same time. She had asked various people from the real estate agency and the surrounding areas, but there was no hint of any problems in this particular area. Chloé suggested that it might have been because a new factory was beginning construction very close some of the houses and it would cause disturbances.
She also asked in a slightly snobbish way if Alex was going to learn French. When he said no and she looked slightly crestfallen she suggested that he helped her with her English, and perhaps even tutor her, as she had recently arrived from France. He briefly demonstrated his current French abilities, which made her shudder and decide to always speak English around Alex. Alex was delighted – he had made a friend immediately. The two of them agreed that they could begin teaching and learning the day after next. Chloé was also kind enough to plan to call the real estate agency herself to come and see Alex about the few problems. She thought that the people working there were slack and barely satisfied their clients and customers. She was not happy with their lack of concern for Alex and for her; for she had had numerous problems when she first moved in.
Eventually, the meal was finished and the plates and dishes were taken to the kitchen, leaving Alex to finish the job. There was still an amount of food left, but the meal had left Alex feeling as though he wouldn’t have to eat until dinner the next day. The guests soon left, thanking Alex for his hospitality, even though he hadn’t really done anything. They wished him luck with his new house and career, whatever that might be. Chloé left last, staying back to help Alex wash up the dishes. They said goodbye and Alex was left by himself again, thinking to himself how lucky he was that he had bought this house. And as much as he had liked the sudden company and immediate new friends, he still loved being by himself in the house, revelling in its atmosphere, ideas for stories already coming to his mind.
He could see why the French often had a nap after lunch; he was feeling pretty sleepy himself. So after he had packed the plates and cutlery away, and after he had placed the leftover food in the fridge – luckily that had been on, along with the rest of the electricity – he went upstairs to his new large room, lay down on his new, but old, soft comfortable bed and quickly fell asleep.

Alex awoke suddenly. He looked out of the window. It was dark, with the faint signs of a greying sky signalling dawn. He was surprised to have slept so long; it was probably close to four in the morning, and Alex didn’t usually sleep for very long.
What had woken him sounded again; the clatter of cutlery on the kitchen bench. He had left the door open and the sound wafted up the two sets of stairs like a bad smell, startling and ominous. He pushed the covers off and made his way downstairs barefoot. He stopped on the landing to the second floor to listen for it again.
The sound came again; a soft but discernible clanking and clinking as though a pair of children were playing tea parties. He reached the bottom of the stairs, his feet thudding the wood dully. Walking into the family room, he turned left to look in the direction of the kitchen. There, the sounds came again, this time more pronounced. He felt a little frightened and flicked on the lights.
On the kitchen bench sat a dirty grey mouse, quivering with fear at the sudden flash of light and looking directly at Alex. He sighed, but then thought that this was simply another problem added to his list. When he came closer to the mouse, it quickly jumped down from the bench and ran away into the shadows.
“Damn it,” Alex muttered. He would inform the real estate about this new problem and would have to start setting mousetraps around the house. He had seen that movie Mouse Hunt and certainly didn’t want to go through anything like the hell they went through, especially with a nice big house and all. Alex just hoped that there was only one mouse.
Once Alex was satisfied that the mouse wasn’t going to return while he was there, he decided he had to put the cutlery away anyway. The funny thing was that he didn’t remember not putting them away before. He thought he had put them away.
Oh well, he thought. I have been tired recently so I’m not surprised I can’t remember.
He sleepily closed the drawers and climbed the stairs to bed, where he once more fell into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning came with a fresh breeze and wonderful weather. The air inside Alex’s house had ceased to be stale and almost felt alive. Alex quickly set to work with a clean rag and began the arduous process of wiping down everything in sight that had an ounce of dust sitting peacefully on it. Alex was obsessive with cleanliness; he couldn’t stand a dirty room, let alone a dirty house. He had no idea that it would take up so much time and energy.
After a while, he sat himself down in one of the green lounge room chairs, tired but definitely not bored. While dusting various items of furniture, he had come to feel more at home with the house. He had opened drawers and cupboards, moved furniture around to suit his liking and tried once more in vain to open the bedroom doors. They were in fact all locked.
Suddenly, an idea came to him; a story idea. He was surprised at how sudden it had come to him. But where could he write it down? He had no paper; that was something he had to order specifically from the grocer who bought it off one of the shops in the town. And then he remembered.
He went upstairs and into his room with the suitcases placed neatly at the foot of the bed. From one of the suitcases, he pulled out a silver laptop. He sat on the bed and set the computer on his lap. Luckily, there was still a small amount of battery left. He quickly typed up his idea, a very basic one at that.

A dangerous virus has been created in an isolated part of the world. The virus had previously been used as part of an experiment on animals.

Alex saved the file as simply ‘Ideas’ and turned the laptop off. He took out the charging cord and plugged it into the wall. He returned to the lounge room, satisfied that the house was doing so much good for him already, and he wasn’t even thinking much.

The grocer arrived later that day, amazingly also French, a lean man with short dark hair, a typical French nose, and a grizzly beard. Alex let him in but the grocer didn’t look like the type to stay and chat. Alex didn’t even know whether the grocer could speak any language, let alone French. All the grocer did when realising his customer would not be having a conversation with him was produce the clipboard with the items bought and cost. Alex wasn’t even able to ask for paper, since waving the paper on the clipboard didn’t seem to work. The grocer simply gave a quizzical look and left, leaving the unpacking of the groceries to Alex.
Alex was able to put most things away and as he did, he quickly thought of the problem he had. He hadn’t ordered for the grocer to deliver at his house. In fact, the grocer shouldn’t even know that anyone was living at the house, as it hadn’t been inhabited for several weeks. It was just another question to add to the many already forming in Alex’s head.
It wasn’t long before he was puzzled again, when he tried to open the cold storage down in the basement. He had found a large pantry down there that was luckily empty as well as a cellar. This wasn’t empty; there were several bottles still left in the corners of the room, fairly old wines by the look of them too. But the mystery – well, it was more like an annoying problem seeming to be repeated over and over – was that the cold storage was locked just like the bedrooms, although the sliding door to the cold storage almost felt welded shut; it did not budge at all when Alex pushed against it with all his strength.
So he had nowhere to put his milk, cheese and other refrigerated foods. The basement itself felt cold enough, however, so he decided to leave the foods in a box next to the cold storage.
As he had been trying to push the door open, Alex had gotten another idea and decided to weave it into his first. When he turned on his laptop again, he typed up:

The story is set in a very cold place, perhaps somewhere mountainous.

Then he typed:

The story is set on a mountain in Russia. There is a science lab on the mountain where scientists have tried to create medicines and vaccinations in below-zero temperatures. One vaccination goes wrong and becomes a virus, thriving from the freezing temperatures.

Once he typed that up, he took the laptop and searched the house for an appropriate place to work on ideas and stories. He tried setting it down and typing in various rooms, but the one he felt that most inspired him was the study on the second floor; the blank, dull, windowless room with three doors. He didn’t know why, but he felt drawn to it, as he had been with the house. He saw the uninteresting and lifeless side to the room, yet he also saw that lifelessness could provide originality and inspiration all by itself. He could also feel something within that room; what it was, he wasn’t sure of.
He placed the laptop on the aged desk and sat in the leather chair, feeling the room closing in around him comfortably, peacefully. He loved the smallness of it compared with the openness of the downstairs area and the outside land.
He began to type without hesitation; the words came freely and easily, and he wondered where they were all coming from. Almost an entire plot came from his mind from the inspiration from the house, taking him into the late afternoon. However, in that room, time did not matter, for there was no way of telling what time it was; there were no windows, not even a clock hung on the wall. Perhaps the previous owners had the same intentions as Alex – to do something without the constraints of time. It certainly worked for him.
He did not feel the need to eat that night; he basically forgot about dinner entirely as he typed more and more. More ideas came to him in that room – random ideas – but ideas nonetheless. He typed those ideas out and fleshed them out as much as he could before actually thinking hard about them.

nice story but there is one nagging thing....why is his last name Paxinos! Thats my surname dammit heh heh anytime Paxinos is mentioned its usually a relative so its odd to see it here.