C
Chip The 3rd
Guest
Original poster
In my restless dreams, I see that town... Silent Hill...
James Sunderland rolled and tossed about in the tiny motel room bed as his mind reeled from his experiences, back in Silent Hill.
"Eddie, have you gone NUTS?"
"I needed someone to punish me..."
"Thanks for saving me, but... I wish you hadn't..."
Disjointed. That was the state of James' mind at that moment. Everything blurred together, creating a cacophony of noise that warped in pitch and tone, into a static-like tone.
James woke up with a start. There was nothing, nothing but blackness. Grumbling, he stood and flicked on the lights.
"Comeback," he heard something mutter in the brief moment before his room was illuminated. And then the phone rang. Slouching somewhat, James sauntered over to the landline phone hooked onto the wall and picked it up.
"Hello...?" he greeted half-heartedly, expecting a realtor or something.
"Hello...? Hello...? Hello...?" repeated the familiar voice on the other end.
"Wh-who is this?" asked James, slightly worried, but also annoyed. Was this some punk kid screwing around?
"Who is this? Who is this? Who comes here? Who?" sang the obnoxious whine on the other end.
"Hey, kid, this isn't funny!" James lashed, "it's five in the goddamn morning!"
"Come back."
"What?" James dropped the phone, then scrambled to pick it up.
"Come. Back. Comeback. Come back. Sunderland. James. Pick up laundry, see my dead wife..."
James knew now who, or what, was calling.
"You go to hell!"
"Hill."
"HELL! With the rest of your kind! Creepy hick tourist trap, who cares for you?!"
"Language, Mr. Sunderland. You missed something. Come back to me. Or I. Will come. To you."
Dial tone. James immediately got to packing. It was time to return to that special place...
James Sunderland rolled and tossed about in the tiny motel room bed as his mind reeled from his experiences, back in Silent Hill.
"Eddie, have you gone NUTS?"
"I needed someone to punish me..."
"Thanks for saving me, but... I wish you hadn't..."
Disjointed. That was the state of James' mind at that moment. Everything blurred together, creating a cacophony of noise that warped in pitch and tone, into a static-like tone.
James woke up with a start. There was nothing, nothing but blackness. Grumbling, he stood and flicked on the lights.
"Comeback," he heard something mutter in the brief moment before his room was illuminated. And then the phone rang. Slouching somewhat, James sauntered over to the landline phone hooked onto the wall and picked it up.
"Hello...?" he greeted half-heartedly, expecting a realtor or something.
"Hello...? Hello...? Hello...?" repeated the familiar voice on the other end.
"Wh-who is this?" asked James, slightly worried, but also annoyed. Was this some punk kid screwing around?
"Who is this? Who is this? Who comes here? Who?" sang the obnoxious whine on the other end.
"Hey, kid, this isn't funny!" James lashed, "it's five in the goddamn morning!"
"Come back."
"What?" James dropped the phone, then scrambled to pick it up.
"Come. Back. Comeback. Come back. Sunderland. James. Pick up laundry, see my dead wife..."
James knew now who, or what, was calling.
"You go to hell!"
"Hill."
"HELL! With the rest of your kind! Creepy hick tourist trap, who cares for you?!"
"Language, Mr. Sunderland. You missed something. Come back to me. Or I. Will come. To you."
Dial tone. James immediately got to packing. It was time to return to that special place...