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Back Gallows Hill Save as PDF
Chapters (45)
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Margot’s mouth twisted as she searched through the drawers for large plastic bags and tore one off the roll. She’d need to wash some of the clothes she’d left in the upstairs bathroom or she’d risk running out of things to wear. Not that there would be much salvageable.

Dregs of dirt still lingered in the bathtub, even after rinsing. That could be left for another day. She crouched to pick up the discarded clothes. They were all stained. She’d put them through a spin in the washing machine, just to see whether they could be saved. As she moved to stuff the jacket into the bag, she felt something solid in its pockets. She pulled out the bottle of holy water—entirely forgotten the previous night—and a small parcel wrapped in a dish towel.

The journal.

Margot took care as she unwrapped the book. One corner had become dampened when she fell in the ditch, but the damage wasn’t extensive. She placed it on the bathroom sink as she carefully flipped through the pages.

I wish she’d thought to write her name or even the date. I don’t even know if she’s one of the original Hulls or whether she comes from Ephraim’s line. My own line.

Margot lifted her head. Dark, sallow eyes looked back, filled with weariness, filled with resignation, and Margot felt an unexpected stab of frustration at herself. She didn’t want to think she was the kind of person who just gave up. And yet, wasn’t that what she was doing? Accepting her lot in life and trying to find a way to bear it, just like the past generations.

She looked back at the book. It had been lost for hundreds of years, but it was a snapshot into the winery’s earliest days. It had to be able to tell her something, surely. Some little clue about what was happening.

The hill was under a curse. And curses could be broken, couldn’t they?

She held the journal close to her chest as she turned and jogged for the stairs.

40

Margot chewed her lower lip as she entered the kitchen. She retrieved a butter knife from the drawer and sat at the table, just as she had on the night she found the journal, and began prying its pages apart.

I aſked for ſugar plums but papa ſaid we are ſaving them…

The rain ſeems to never end…

I feel bleſſed to live on top of the hill, thoſe in town cannot ſee half ſofar…

Margot rubbed her palm into her eyes. The journal entries were engrossing in a strange kind of way. They were all small and self-contained. The writer rarely talked about the town meetings or news arriving from across the country. Instead, she documented her life. The little things. The hopes, the disappointments, the small treats she snuck from the kitchen.