The happenings of Hillstead Heights

Chapter 1.

Herbert Von Ickstein sat perched on the very edge of the seat, so far in fact, that every time the old bus rattled and jutted over a particularly bumpy patch of road, it threatened to topple him off. He stared anxiously out the window as the green fields and unkept hedges lining the road rambled past. Laying across his lap was a polished briefcase and a black bowler hat, both of which he held onto with extreme precaution. He was alone on the bus, besides the old man sitting down the front deep in conversation with the driver. The bus slowed as the road sloped and wound its way down into what Herbert could see was a little town. He could see smoke puffing from chimneys and neat rows of fences lining the streets. Hillstead Heights, which contrary to its name, lay in a valley surrounded by rolling hills dotted with white specks that Herbert could just make out as sheep. It was here in this sleepy little town that there had been a number of strange occurrences reported.

Markus Digby, an old farmer, had awoken one morning to find half a dozen of his sheep on the roof of his hay shed with no logical means up or down. It had taken the better half of the day and reenforcments from Greensman Hitch fire brigade to safely remove them. Marjorie Tillman, the local seamstress was walking home one evening, when she was accosted by a swarm of flying teacups and saucers, that upon being batted to the ground, scuttled away drunkardly to then simply vanish, leaving little puffs of blue, green and pink smoke behind. Then only last week, Mrs Weatherly had heard her tabby cat, Grimpey talking in plain English to her grandfather clock. Wether this related to the other odd occurrences, or just further proof of Mrs Weatherlys dwindling sanity had been a topic well discussed by the residents of Hillstead Heights.

It was these happenings, and numerous others that had drawn the attention of the Inspectors of Magical Disturbances, or Spectors as they were commonly referred to. Spectors weren’t always well received, as the vast majority were rather stuffy, sticklers for rules and frankly pompous. Herbert was no exception. He held firm to the belief that rules were made to be followed, and rarely was there ever a situation where leniency would be allowed.

In a way, Spectors are like the magical policemen, checking peoples magic licenses are in date, their fees paid and NO underage hooligans using magic without a licence. While using magic might seem completely different from driving a car, the laws are actually quite similar. Once you’ve reached 16 years old, you can take a test, under the instruction from your local Inspector. If your town is remote, like Hillstead Heights, you and your family take a trip to the next biggest town where you sit your test under the intense scrutiny of a surly Inspector. If your lucky, and you get him on a good day you may be given a satisfactory result and your receive your learners license. To perform magic, you must be in the presence of a fully qualified and licensed witch or wizard. After a certain amount of time, hours spent and logged using magic, you sit a practical exam with said Inspector and permitting you pass twice in a row, you are awarded your conditional license. This allows you to perform magic on your own but with certain conditions. Finally, once you’ve met all those requirements and your time is up, you sit your final exam with the head Inspector. If it happens that day falls on his birthday and his Ma baked him his favourite spiced apple cake, then you may be lucky to become a fully licensed witch or wizard, but if it falls on a day where a slight breeze ruffles his ever so manicured hair, one can assume that no licenses will be handed out, and you will return home disappointed. It is also the Inspectors you call when you have a magical complaint. Which brings us to Hillstead Heights.

The bus shuddered to a stop outside a worn out old bus stop, and Herbert disembarked with a curt nod to the driver. The driver returned the gesture with a scowl as the door creaked and wheezed shut. Consulting his map, Herbert set off down the narrow street to Paddymore’s Inn. Upon announcing he would be in town on official government business, any rooms that may have been vacant suddenly were occupied and the only room he could get was rather pricey. From the outside, Miller Paddymore’s Inn looked as though it may have been vacant, but on second glance, Hebert could see small dim lights flickering behind grubby window panes. The man behind the counter bore a striking resemblance to a pile of rocks. A hulking form, all crude lines and blunt features he wore an apron that appeared entirely too small and a tiny name badge that read ‘Walter’. Herbert approached the bar and coughed nervously. The smell wafting from what he presumed was Walter, but hoped was a wild billy goat beneath the counter, assaulted his nose and made his eyes water. Herbert knew that smell all too well and it bought back memories of his younger days which involved many an incident in Troll hovels. Memories he didn’t care to think on.

So, Walter was at least half troll, Herbert theorised and made a mental note to document that, but any thoughts of checking work papers was quelched when he looked up and met Walter’s glower. Herbert swallowed, “Von Ickstein” he said, and his voice came out a nervous peep. Walter pulled out a key from his apron pocket and Herbert noticed stuck to the back of the wooden room number, a piece of used Squibbles Laughing chewing gum. Walter noticed it too, and if Herbert hadn’t know trolls better, he would have sworn Walter looked embarrassed. The room Walter led him to was small, dark and cold. There was an old sofa along one wall, it’s arms completely thread bare, and a dusty lamp with its shade askew in the corner. Walter promptly left the room leaving Herbert in stunned silence staring around the tiny room that cost him almost a weeks wage.