Silent Hill: Broken Rose

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Original poster
Posting Speed
  1. Speed of Light
Writing Levels
  1. Douche
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences

I got a letter...

A steering wheel, gripped.

A windscreen, pale in the fog light of morning.

A car, dull green, come to rest at the crossroads, engine killed.

There was a face in the glass, as if a ghost had come to hover inside the vehicle. Ashen hair, strands once brown now lost to silvered grey. And the skin once pitted and coarse with life's hardships was sunken. He was almost lost beneath the fog, the subtle slants of sunlight... lost to dust.

There was a pop... the squeak of leather seats... the softest thud as his boot touched the pavement. The man stepped out of the car, a brown longcoat falling around the shape of his prison-hardened body.

The trees weren't moving, every branch and leaf hung in suspension, just as the fog seemed unmoving, a white haze to surround the morning. His hazel eyes tracked, regarding the town in sorrowful sweeps.

No one was up yet. The town was still sleeping.

Thank God. He closed his eyes and let the silence comfort him. Nothing seemed to get through the fog, not even the distant rumble of the mountain highway he had entered from.

He stepped to the centre of the crossroads. Bachman Road to the north, taking him back to the highway. Finney Street ahead, taking him...

A slight clattering sound.

The man looked over to the left, peering through the shroud of fog, where the outline of the Convenience Store struggled against the glare. The owner was probably opening up for the day, the only other soul who stirred in the early morning.

The man slipped his hands into his coat pockets, covering the red-raw stumps of bitten nails. And then he moved towards the store, each footfall seeming to echo against the wall of fog. He had left his car door open, as if forgetting it.

His hand came to rest on a news stand, and he stared at the grime-black windows of the Store.

The softest touch.

He looked down, seeing the fragment of paper. It wrapped itself around his leg, forced by the slightest breeze to nudge against him. He knelt and picked it up, opening out the creased and tattered advert.

He read. He paused. His other hand reached into his inside pocket and took out a duplicate.

Both adverts identical, his own a little cleaner than the one he had found.
<p>I can help you...</p><p></p><P>In this tired world, do not sneer at me,</p><P>as you have sneered at all other things.</p><p>Do not cast away my offer and think me</p><p>fraud or foolish. But please, if you have</p><p>courage left to believe in anything...</p><p>Believe in me.</b></p><p></P><P>Carmen Azalea, Exorcist of demons</p><p>7, Finney Street, Silent Hill</p><p><b>Let the sleepers rest once more.</b></p></i></td></tr></table></center>

He turned over the original in his hand. As before, the underside was cleaner... smoother... lighter...

And it bore his name, written in crimson ink.

Benedict Karova.

Musical Score: Her Determination - Resident Evil 3

The fog was not thick, but what lay within it's murky depths was indecernable, and the air seemed drenched withn a tense silence, even the sound of the cars screaming down the highway had faded to this silence, the ominous lack of sound passing into a quiet rustling of the bushes on the edge of the town in a soft, gentle breeze that had only recently started to blow.

"We should have brought more suitable clothes Mitchell" a voice, it's accent seemingly an attempt at russian Russian, chided, though there was only one figure walking across the road, passing a seemingly abandoned green car.
Mitchell drew his open leather jacket around himself, shivering in the cold of morning.
The sun had only recently risen, and it's rays could not seem to penetrate the fog enough to lift night's chill.
"dude, what other clothes did we have? we had to sell everything else to get here" this time his voice had a clear american accent, though once again it seemed he spoke to himself, with no other living being nearby.
"We had the overcoat, you could have sold this broken leather peice of shit and kept the overcoat, then at least we wouldn't have been freezing our balls off" the Russian accent returned as Mitchell seemingly laughed at his own words
"alright Mikhail, you win, we could have sold the jacket and kept the overcoat but we didn't, you were there too remember, in any case, keept quiet and let me do the talking, dont want to scare this CArmen, Exocist of Demons off with both of us chating away" at that Mitchell stopped talking and looked around to take stock of his surroundings, he had walked across the crossroads, and to his right he saw the street go off into the murky fog, several shops, though all appeared shut at this early hour, he turned to the left to see the outline of a general store in the fog and standing by a news stand, looking into a bit of paper.
The man looked rather intense, so Mitchell didnt try to make the man notice him, rather he kept lookign around, and saw not a whole lot else, other than the grimy footpath and street leading off into the fog in four opposite directions.

Mitchell looked instead to the Street names, he was looking for one in particular and as he found it his hand delved into his pocket, his fingers coming to rest on a folded and slightly crinkled strip of paper, the one that had brought him (and Mikhail) here, to cleanse Mitchell's mind of all the dark thoughts he couldn't bear to have within him any longer, Mikhail to purge the memories that had Torn Mitchell's (and thus his) mind asunder in the first place.

It had been a simple ad, though on the back it bore two names in red ink, both bearing the same initials.

He drove into the night, wanting to arrive in the town before morning came.

That way it would be easy to get a hotel room and spend the night comfortably on a soft bed. Or however soft the beds were in a self-proclaimed resort town. Pillows fluffed just the right way to compliment a recently washed comforter. Hopefully enough to give a peaceful rest before conducting such strange buisness. Why did some hotel bed even matter at this point? Most hotel or motel beds were a nightmare when put under a more revealing light. . . like Ultra-Violet.

But it never happened.

Damn this is a longer drive than I thought. . . maybe I should just call it a night.

Pulling over to the far side of the road, Jack looked at the digital readout of the clock on his car. It read half-past four in the morning. No wonder he felt exhausted right now. At least that food from the truckstop diner still had his belly full. Falling asleep on an empty stomach could really effect a person's dreams. He had heard that somewhere before growing up.

Considering his current goal, bad dreams were the last thing he needed.

Shutting off the engine and the headlights, he was only left with the radio itself. First thing he did was make sure all the car doors were locked. Jack then tuned the radio to that 'easy listening station for in the car, at home, or at the office' and then turned down the volume to around eight. If anyone really wanted to get inside his car they would have to make quite a bit of noise. Enough to wake up this somewhat light-sleeper for certain.

Morning came, with a rude awakening.



King shot up from his sleep to a world of distorted light compared to the clear night he had arrived in previously. Fumbling with the radio knobs in a startled fashion, he finally managed to turn off the blasted thing. Jack didn't bother to notice the fact that the volume had risen to twenty-one before awakening him with such unnerving static. What he DID notice was the ominous fog that had taken control of the highway.

Damn, this is crazy. . .

Immediately he looked around at the door locks of his car out of sheer paranoia. The road had become something out of 'The Fog' by John Carpenter. Some irrational emotion digging at his brain took control enough to have him attempt starting the enging. Jack felt once he arrived in town everything would get much better.

But the car wouldn't start.

"You've got to be kidding. . ."

King knew nothing of repairing cars at all, which left him with even more buisness in Silent Hill today. Now he would have to track down a car mechanic too. Pulling out his cellphone, the realtor tried dialing the number of his auto-club to try getting a towtruck on the way. If anyone would even come out in this fog.

No signal.

I can't believe this. Maybe I'm too far up in the mountains? It's happened before.

Sighing, he gathered up his briefcase from the passenger seat and opened it up. Immediately he opened up his glove box and put a couple roadflares inside. It would help keep him visible on the main road in case someone else showed up. Basically a glaring hitchiker thumb for the fog that now existed all around.

Just need to get into town, then everything can be straightened out. . .

All of his belongings that were appropriate for a buisness meeting were promptly gathered up. Papers and other such materials were already inside the steel briefcase. Road flares were now their roomates in this space. King took the briefcase in his hand after placing his cellphone inside his buisness coat.

Leaving his car, Jack headed down the road after locking it up again.

Welcome to Silent Hill. . .

A sign indicated to him that the town was definately within walking distance. Doubts had crossed his mind that he would be close enough to reach the place before sundown. But now confidence ran through him, partially to ward off the bad feeling in his stomach that the eerie fog around him gave off. Chilling to the bone with just how alone it made him feel right now.

Eventually the sight of buildings came into view through the fog and allowed him a sigh of relief. For all intents and purposes, King believed the most unnerving part of this journey was finished. But not the hardest part. Deep down part of him felt anxiety toward convincing this woman who offered a 'real exorcism' to leave here with him. How would he go about doing it exactly?

Especially now that his car was not running.

Which reminds me. . .

He pulled the advert out of his pocket and read it to himself again.

I can help you...

In this tired world, do not sneer at me,

as you have sneered at all other things.

Do not cast away my offer and think me

fraud or foolish. But please, if you have

courage left to believe in anything...

Believe in me.

Carmen Azalea, Exorcist of demons

7, Finney Street, Silent Hill

Let the sleepers rest once more.

But his name was not written on the back in crimson ink.

Or anywhere on the advert for that matter.

Did that mean something?

Either way he entered the town with quite a professional walk befitting his choice of clothing. A steel briefcase held in the firm grip of his left hand swayed slightly with each step. One step after another. . . which brought him closer to the town until he finally started to pass a few buildings. The utter lack of people walking the streets put butterflies in his stomach.

More and more the fog which blanketed this entire resort town seemed to be just as terrifying an entity as the corn in a Stephen King tale. Soon the urge to find an open buisness consumed him entirely as a solution to the compounding sense of isolation. In fact one of the first places he noticed was a place where the non-existant yet somehow alluring aroma of coffee lingered.

The five to two cafe. . . heh. . .

King approached the door without hesitation.

The blue sky stretched forever, contrasting with the luscious green grass. White blossoms danced before her eyes, swaying on a gentle spring breeze. Dew glistened on supple petals, the heads of the flowers hanging sleepily. 'It would be a much better sight with you – with me.' The breeze shifted, rustling loose strands of ebony hair. 'I never felt so lonely, then you came along.' She tilted her head, craning her neck ever so slightly into the breeze just as it seemed to move away. What a tease. 'Now what should I do? I'm strung out, addicted to you. My body aches now that you're gone… My supply fell through.'

"Fucking asshole."

The young woman grumbled irritably, the song's lyrics hitting a raw nerve that drew her back to reality. She winced, her back aching as she opened her eyes to find herself lying halfway off the couch, the backs of her hands touching the cold floor. Heavy light of the afternoon was already streaming through the blinds, illuminating particles of dust as they drifted through staccato beams. Her gaze wormed lazily through the room, shortly coming to rest as the sharp point of a discarded needle on the floor came into focus. She slowly let her eyes drift closed, her loose hair being ruffled by the fan as it passed by.

'Oh, I feel your stress~'

The cheap radio crooned to her, the static that crackled through the vocals sounding oddly…in place. She slowly stretched, her body arching like a cat, toes curling as they decided to cramp on her. "Ow, shit!" she hissed as the cramp moved up to her calf. Her legs struggled, her body sliding until she tumbled off the couch and hit the floor hard, limbs splaying out like a drunkard's. After a few moments, a low groan escaped her lips. She slowly shifted her body until something caught her attention. Her limbs froze, her heart becoming a cold lump in her chest.

Her focus shifted wildly as it tried to zone in on the tip of the needle that was glinting wickedly barely a centimeter away. She slowly closed her eyes, wincing as she felt the point disturb her eyelashes. Placing one hand firmly on the floor she pushed herself back toward the couch, extracting herself to a safe distance just as the mail slot roughly squeaked open and letters thudded onto the doormat. She jumped, startled, more curse words escaping her.

Pushing herself off the floor she padded to the door and scooped up the loose letters. Final Notice. Final Notice. Life Insurance Offer. Publishers Shithouse Sweepstakes. Final Notice.

"This is America, bill me."

Junk. Junk. Final Notice. Ad. Junk. . .

". . .huh?"

I can help you…

In this tired world, do not sneer at me,

As you have sneered at all other things.

Do not cast away my offer and think me

Fraud or foolish. But please, if you have

Courage left to believe in anything…

Believe in me.

Carmen Azalea, Exorcist of demons

7, Finney Street, Silent Hill

Let the sleepers rest once more.

She didn't know why she stopped to read it or how it even caught her attention, but that was nearly a week ago. No point in dwelling on it anyway since her ass was already firmly planted in a bus seat. The young woman's hand fumbled through the contents of her inner breast pocket, pushing past a pack of cigarettes and the folded ad to her cell phone. She flicked it open with practiced ease, re-reading the last message she received.

[I'm gone.]

'Gone'…It was a little too cryptic for her taste. It certainly was too vague a message for his intelligence. Being subtle wasn't exactly his strong point. Anyway, she'd figure out the problem once she got there…

Sighing, the woman settled back against the window, pulling one leg up onto the seat next to her and resting her head against the cold glass. Her eyes drifted closed behind her shades, shutting out the droning engine and the murmurs of the other passengers. She heard a mother muttering softly to her child, keeping her voice a gentle whisper as it drifted off to sleep itself. The bus hit a bump, her head wobbling slightly as the shocks absorbed it into a calm rocking motion. Darkness settled in deeper, closing around her body. The mother continued to whisper…

". . .you must try to remember me."

Images began shifting through her mind, clearly at first before a thick fog began to intrude, morphing the figures into dark shapeless mounds that flailed in the mist. The bus hit another bump that startled her, her eyes fighting to open as her head wobbled once again, a sliver of muted light forming a dim horizon before it was dampened into oblivion.

". . .and your true self as well."

Weariness weighed down her limbs, her mind and body grimacing at the prospect of having to move again so soon. She could feel the ground beneath her feet, the sense that she had reached her destination. She resisted for a moment before a clear voice drew her back from the emptiness.


The bus hit another bump, startling her so bad she thought they had slammed into another vehicle. Her body lunged forward, her hand reaching out to brace herself. She flailed, nearly tumbling off the bus stop bench.

"You're here."

She looked up at the stop's name.

[Silent Hill]

The roar of the Impala's engine cuts through the silence of the morning like a knife, the headlights attempting to pierce the thick fog that seems to surround the region of Silent Hill.

My GPS-device gave out around twenty minutes ago, so I've had to resort to using an old road map. Mind you, the map seems to be doing a better job than the GPS was; at least the map can show exactly where all the roads are, whereas the expensive TomTom device could never quite figure out where the fuck it wanted to go, changing the route every five miles or so.

Just as well I left last night, all things considered.

In the passenger seat beside me, the flyer Michael had sent my way lies just under the map, the corner still visible. I pull the sheet of paper out from under the map and gaze at it, reading the faded letters.

I can help you…

In this tired world, do not sneer at me,

As you have sneered at all other things.

Do not cast away my offer and think me

Fraud or foolish. But please, if you have

Courage left to believe in anything…

Believe in me.

Carmen Azalea, Exorcist of demons

7, Finney Street, Silent Hill

Let the sleepers rest once more.

I don't know why I keep checking it. Every five minutes, I seem to grasp the sheet and read it over again, as if I have to keep reassuring myself that what I'm doing right now is the right thing to do, that this is going to work. I want to believe in this Carmen Azalea, so badly. I want to believe she can rid me of my past. Yet I've seen so many frauds, so many people who claimed they could help and yet could not...

...Fuck it, I'm here now. The time to turn back was hours ago. If I don't do this now, things will never change.

Suddenly the radio, which up until was happily blasting out tracks from our fourth album, 'Dark Dreams and Inspirations', let's out a roar of static and other bizarre sounds. Swearing, I slam my fist on the off button, but the hideous sounds continue. Continuing my stream of curses, I attempt to end the static, not paying attention to the road, not noticing the rocks looming just to the side of the road--

The Impala slams into the rocks and becomes airborne, spinning slightly and landing with a screech of metal scraping across asphalt. The force slams my head against the steering wheel, which lacks any air-bags due to it's age, and I am knocked unconsious.

When I come to, the Impala is upside down, and it takes me a minute to get my seatbelt undone. Swearing because of the pain and frustration, I manage to get the door open and crawl out of the car. Looking down at the vehicle, I don't need a mechanic to tell me that it's totaled; there's no way this baby's gonna get going again.

Glancing up, I notice what the car has come to a stop in front of. A large sign just before a turn round the side of the hill the road was following.


There were two things Benedict failed to notice.

First, that the mist seemed to almost be inside the Convenience Store, erasing the edges of perception as it did the town.

Second, that the shelves were empty, cleared out all at once or else derelict from long ago.

All that remained were fragments of paper, scraps here and there between the two aisles of the little shop. And the cooling cabinets by the far wall were frozen over, entombed in deepest sleep like the rest of the town.

Benedict stood by the counter in his longcoat, a small smile playing on his face as he squeezed the doll. It was a toy bunny rabbit, left by the empty register, the only object of any colour or life in this barren space.

He re-clipped the strap of the teddy's dengerees, eyes sorrowful even as he smiled.

It was the face of a man recalling a memory... a feeling...

He must have had a toy bunny rabbit, sometime... somewhere before...

Placing the doll back down, Benedict's hand moved across the dust-caked surface of the counter, coming to rest on the only other object present. It was a notepad, mounted in the wood, its white sheets unused. Benedict turned over its leather cover, tilting his head to frown at the clear red symbol inscribed upon it.


His head ached, as if a knife was being slipped through the cavities of his brain. Closing his eyes he pressed his fingers into the sockets and moved from the counter, leaving the antique notepad behind.

As he reached the door, the pain faded. Benedict opened his eyes again, but as he lowered his hand he caught sight of his wrist watch. Again he frowned, turning the digital display to read it.


He could have sworn it was Sunday...

Perhaps this was why the watch's previous owner had thrown it in the trash, along with the coat.

Something brushed against his neck.

Benedict's blood went cold, his sweat glands opening almost instantly as he whirled. His body temperature leapt as he swatted at the tiny moth, batting it away from his coat. It fluttered back between the shelves and Benedict gripped the front door, exiting the store quickly with a thudding heart.

Looking in through the window revealed no one sitting at the counter right now. But maybe someone was in the back getting ready for customers. It all depended on whether or not the door was locked. Spending the morning here could actually be rather relaxing. . . it would be rude to call upon that exorcist lady TOO early after all. Plus a decent cup of coffee would probably do him some good.

His hand reached out for the door to open the cafe, finding it to be unlocked. That meant the place had opened up for the day already. Good thing too. A person meant he could get directions toward Finney street and could go there later today at his own leisure.

Going inside painted a different picture however. . .

First impressions of this town called silent Hill painted a picture of a sleepy little town that had served as a resort town. Other agents had worked the area before and the property value actually wasn't that bad given some of the bad history. Crime had gone up a little from some drug activity in the past few years. Not to mention the Walter Sullivan case. . . but at least the murderer was dead now.

Now the picture was changing.

Inside the 5 to 2 Cafe was more than empty, it looked completely abandoned. Not only that. . . it looked as though it had been that way for weeks now. An unsettling feeling started to take even deeper root inside of the young man holding a briefcase. The place looked ransacked by looters and the power wasn't on at all. When exactly was the last time an agent had come out to the town? King couldn't remember such information right now for the life of him.

This is wrong. . . what the hell happened here? It couldn't have happened all in one night could it? Just what did I miss by sleeping?

Despite his inner fear of what had gone on to cause the scene before him, the young man entered the Cafe all the way. Searching near the front only let him see a rundown pinball machine along with empty coffee cups. Jack couldn't find anything of real use to explain what had gone on to cause this strange situation.

Except. . .

"A map? Well now. . ."

King muttered aloud while disregarding the fact that someone might still be around inside the Cafe. He put his briefcase down on the counter before going to pick up what looked like a folded up tourist map of Silent Hill. Opening it up only caused a greater mystery to unfold before his very eyes as Jack looked at strange markings on the map. Some locations were circled while others had X's on them.

One of the X's was at one street over from where he had come into town. On top of that there was a red circle at the local gas station as well. Someone had obviously owned this map before he picked it up. But where had they gone off to? What were they even marking on the map? And was it possible they would be coming back for this map?

"Huh. . .?"

Should he go there to check and find out what an 'X' on the map stood for? Jack folded up the map and placed it in his inner coat pocket before turning back toward the counter. A noise of scurrying movement suddenly came from behind the cafe counter where his briefcase now rested. Something told him that staying here in a confined space was not any safer than going outside.

"Is somebody there?"

The distinct feeling that he was no longer alone suddenly caused Jack to wish for the unsettling solitude again. Somehow the isolation felt less threatening than to know another living being was around here. Inside he felt that anything still around in a place like this was either extremely dangerous or IN extreme danger.

At that moment, he noticed the most frightening thing he had seen in real life. On a barstool about two stools away was a dismembered hand. Luckily his lack of breakfast meant there was nothing for him to vomit up if his stomach were weak enough. There could be absolutely no mistaking a human hand for any other object. Fear sank it's fangs into Jack at what message such a sight implied:

Someone was missing a hand.

Rather than investigate it, King wanted to stay far from the hand and just leave. But then the young realtor noticed a strange marking CARVED into the flesh. one that did not look anything like some random impulse of self-harm. . . but rather a disturbing work of art that held some forbiden purpose. Curiousity rooted his feet to the spot while fear shackled him from taking any offensive action.

A finger twitched.

"Oh god. . ."

The hand rose up, supported by the fingers rotted by decay. One could almost compare it to a certain bizzarre family pet. Only this one did not have some strange endearing quality of misunderstood goodness. Rather . . . Jack felt he had a very good understand of just how evil a creature like this was at the moment. Now it turned to face toward him, if the wrist stump counted as the creature's rear end.

This can't be right i must be dreaming! This is a nightmare right? Hands don't do this in the real world!!!

Leaping toward him revealed a mouth on the palm opened wide to consume human flesh. Now innocent Jack would become the morning meal that would start this appendage's day. Or would he? Through nothing but pure defensive instinct the young realtor swung his briefcase through the air. Due to the smooth surface, it left nothing for the hand and untrimmed fingernails to grab a hold of the stylisj container.

It went flying off to the right, directly into the pinball machine with a crashing sound. Glass that kept the gameplay portion of the container separated from the player had now shattered. Did the mini-abombination die? The creepy appendage certainly seemed to have been taken off-guard by the blow and no longer moved.

Without looking back. . . Jack fled the cafe into the street.
Musical Score: Free From Fear - Resident evil 3 soundtrack

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Mitchell pulled his jacket closer around him, the cold air seeming to have even more bite to it than just moments ago, and shivering slightly, Mitchell went to walk forwards towards his destination, the sooner he could escape this cold and the damned fog, the better.

Mitchell had only got two steps forward when first, the door to the General store opened and the man he had seen earlier and decided to avoid quickly exited the building, looking rather startled.

another three steps and a similar scene, this time preceeded by the crash of breaking glass.
emerging from the '5-2 Cafe' was a well dressed young man with a heavy looking briefcase, he too looked rather startled.

the co-incidence iteself was enough to put Mitchell on edge, his mind imagining all sorts of monsters lurking in the darkness
"Mitchell, dont let our imagination run away with you, focus, we have places to be" Mikhail gently reprimanded Mitchell, taking the initiative and starting to walk again, heading for the house indicated on the advert, though Mitchell/Mikhail still shivered from the cold.

Silence surrounded her, wrapping her in a thick, muffling blanket. Everything seemed to be muted, her thoughts crawling through her head like drunken slugs. It didn't occur to her that rather than the bus station, she was propped up at a simple stop, the rickety bench wobbling as she shifted. At the moment, it didn't matter. The only thing that warranted attention was her arrival; taking care of her…business.

Aylen extended her arms toward the sky, the thick leather of her jacket creaking in protest against the slow movement. A hard sigh escaped her as she continued to stretch before seeming to crumple in on herself. With a forward jolt her elbows came to rest on her knees, her hair falling forward in a dark curtain. She took a few slow deep breaths as a cold, sweaty chill creeped up her spine. Memories of the town tried to flood back, threatening to wash over the wall of calm she had built around herself.

'One breath…Two breath…Three breath...'

"…Free." the word breezed past her dry lips, the faint trace of her breath weaving into the mist.

She remained folded forward, clinging strands of dark hair serving as blinders to the fog. After a few moments, she straightened up, slowly pulling herself away from the bench. The woman's right hand reached up, middle finger extending to nudge her large shades back up the bridge of her nose. The same hand drifted down to her belt, the opposite hand mirroring the movements. With a quick move she tugged up her pants, hands moving in a swift, practiced move as she tightened her belt a few more notches. Her hands continued to flutter from spot to spot on her body in rapid staccato gestures: Pants pulled up. Belt tightened. Shirt straightened. Jacket unzipped. Shoulders back. Posture corrected…

Nudging her shades back up once more and giving her head a quick shake to knock back any wandering bits of hair, Aylen set out on her round. A sardonic smirk twisted her lips as her boots crunched gravel and asphalt, her path taking her away from the sidewalk and onto the road.

'To Serve and Protect…'

Allowing her gaze to slowly sweep over her surroundings, she could make out familiar shapes in the fog. Well, as familiar as shapeless, constantly shifting blobs could go. There did happen to be a method to the madness though, for those who were willing to see. For years now this town had been nothing but a murky, jumbled wasteland to her…It didn't seem to get bad until after she graduated, but others didn't seem to complain about it. If nothing else, she chalked it up to global warming. The world was a constantly changing place. Silent Hill wasn't an exception to that fact.

She continued on her path, her strides measured and strong. Aylen walked with a purpose. No dragging heels for her. It didn't register that she was heading the wrong way, in the opposite direction from her original destination. The distant shadows of buildings faded away around her and were replaced by a depthless, writhing wall of mist. She began to lose herself in the soft jingling of the change in her pockets with each step, making it seem as though she had spurs on. Just like a…

The stuck-pig squeal of tires pierced the ambient silence like a knife, the unmistakable sound of screeching metal following soon after. Aylen cocked her head at the sound as if it were expected. She continued on her path, coming to a stop over the curving hill leading into town. Her figure was given a halo of illumination by the now-crooked headlights of the car. The mist clung to her, making her nothing more than a dark silhouette.

"Looks like you were speeding, Cowboy..." The woman said quietly, her tone laced with vague musing. "Good thing I'm off duty."

Why did his footsteps seem to echo so? It was that more than anything... more than the nagging headache or the veiling fog or the icy feel of fluttering insects in his clothes and hair... that truly struck him.

It was as if the town was resounding every noise he made, throwing back at him the futile emissions of his life. And though he may have stood at the centre of this dreamworld, he was little but the wretched and neglected core.

House after house, tree after tree, slab after slab of concrete. These shapes emerged from the heavy fog and then faded out again. They were all Benedict saw as he made his way down Finney Street. No one was up... no one was stirring.

It was like a ghost town.

But more than that. It was not just the town that had been hollowed out... it was the trees and the air too. Everything was empty... a shell.

And for the life of him he could not decide if it was beautiful or simply abhorrent.

For what seemed like hours, Benedict moved through the haunting tunnel of fog, each footstep thudding like a heartbeat. And in time he lifted his wrist again, hazel eyes focussing on the wristwatch.

Friday, 18th September

How had the watch slipped forward so many days?

Benedict's head ached again. He lowered his wrist and turned his squinting gaze to a particular house that lay in a clearing amid the mist, like some seafaring wreck. It was at the end of the street, just before it fell away into the rough ground preceding the river. The house was set back from the road and joined to the rear of the previous house.


He found himself ascending, each footfall on the steps loud and prominent. The house was like all the others, in that it had no particular smells or sounds coming from it. But there was a sense of coldness, both in the way it looked and from the icy breeze that came from the river.

And there was one thing... one detail that distinguished it from the other houses.

The door was a simple set of iron bars, and on the stone above it the red ink was striking, standing out amidst the bleached hue of fog and stone. As Benedict got to the top of the stairs, his hand moved inside his coat and drew out the advert from earlier. He turned it over, lifting it, pressing the paper to the one of the bars.

The same hand that had written his name on the advert had written words above the door of 7 Finney Street.


Benedict's hand curled around one of the bars. His stomach shifted, a silent belch bringing up the old taste of prison food, the smells and memories of incarceration filling his head for a moment.

Bars like bones... old limbs from which the rotting flesh would fall.

He released his grip, clearing the memories and pushing forward. The barred door opened with the smallest squeak, and Benedict moved into the dark passageway beyond.

Musical Score: Dont Lose Courage - Resident Evil 3 Soundtrack

As he approached
the house, Mitchell felt another shiver run down his spine, over the now forgotten shivers broguht on by the deathly cold.
the old, house was made mostly from weatherboard, though a brick garage was attached to the left side, a paved driveway leading up to the roller door at the centre of the brick structure.

As Mitchell drew closer, his heart began to beat faster and his breathing became shallower as he drew to the steps leading to the front porch.
The weatherboarding that had looked so unremarkable from afar now looked decrepit, run down and worn with age, the pain looking cracked and in some cases chipped.
The same went for the Garage, it looked as though filth had been washing down it's brick face for decades, the stain crossed the whole of the top of the garage, but tapered inwards as it went downwards, looking almost like an upside down triangle, The Roller door was rusted at its edges and looked as though it had been unused in years.

with a shiver of apprehension, Mitchell stood rooted to the spot by nervousness, whilst internally, he and Mikhail Bickered over whether or not to enter.

In the End, it was Mikhail who assumed control, Reaching for the filthy looking handle and opening the door, which creaked almost unnervingly loudly, though the Russian paid it no heed, striding through the door with contemptous ease, though as soon as he had done so, the Internal fighting resumed as Mitchell struggled to re-assume control over his body, his moment of fear forgotten by the promise of mental unity.

A blink of the eyes was all it would have seemed to be, but as he took control of his body he took the opportunity to look around, noticing that not only was the man he had decided to avoid before standing right in front of him, the interior of the house looked only slightly less aged than the exterior, though thankfully, it wasn't as decrepit.
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