Silent Hill

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  1. [​IMG]

    You lie. Silent there, before me.

    The coffin was always there. It slept in nightmares. You saw it, long before, felt its roots go through stone, its wood and nails becoming rot. You nestled it, in the dream hollow, laid your sleeping head upon it. That coffin, that abhorrent box, where only bone and tears would echo.

    You dreamed of it. And it dreamed of you. As dead and longing. It reached out, crossed one step from horror into half-light, and made itself manifest. That coffin, that vessel where now they are stuffed.

    It was always there. Waiting.

    Your tears they mean nothing. To me.

    Still you cannot cry. Ten long hours into the night since the message came. You have stayed in motion, crossing darkness, riding slow through silhouette and ghost-land. And for what? For one you cannot cry for. Why then do you come? Why move at all and stretch a hand for old bones and shattered memory? You do not remember. Mannequins and dolls are crumpled and still you come.

    The other asked you, begged you. What once was God. Mother. Father. Now they plead for you to be with them, to share with them. As if you ever mattered. As if it will change these things and more.

    The wind. Howling at the window.

    No one on the roads. No shapes on the hills nor between the trees. It is a lost place, the highway empty.

    Forgotten is the world. When last you ate it was daylight and now your body's starved and dry. You pay it no attention, like the cellphone out of battery, the radio turned to static, the maps thrown aside. The journey has stripped you of all but the destination, the thought of them, waiting... in the coffin... by the coffin...

    The love. You never gave I. Give to you really. Don't deserve it but. Now there's nothing. You can do.

    Ceremony. All is ceremony - you feel that now. Going through the motions. You were asked to come because you had to come, because they are they and you are you. It is the ceremony. On the highway you are changed, translated from flesh to symbol. The mourner. The tearless child. The witness.

    Every act is but a casting. Every word a mantra. And this the veil to drape upon the dead.

    You know this now. It changes nothing. You would have always come.

    So sleep in. Your only memory of me. My dearest. Mother.

    So long has passed since you saw them. Will the living still remember you, and be as you remember them? Or will the one who greets you seem as mangled as the corpse below, twisted all by time and suffering? Do you even look the same?

    It was always you. That I despised.

    And how can you know? In the mirror is the face forgotten, the painting torn for five long years. A piece of you was ripped away, and with it all the veins and muscles that might have bound you to this world.

    I don't feel. Enough for you to cry.

    So why not be alone, you tell yourself. For if you see so little within you, what chance has any other. Friends, family... lovers.. what chance have they? Only gore awaits them. Only filth. Let them look away. Quickly look away.

    So insignificant sleeping dormant. Deep inside of me.

    Perhaps you will end it here. A good place to die, out here in the darkness, on the empty highway, between the choking hills and the jagged trees. No one would miss you. To stop thinking in that moment. To fill that hole inside with blood or bullet, with blade or shattered glass. To burn and crush and be torn away.

    Why not end it here? Right here.

    Are you hiding away? Lost...

    But one thing pulls you on. More than seeing them. More than laying your hand upon that coffin, upon that chill and marbled face.

    The question of why they came here. Of why they come here now. This hideaway, this retreat they loved so secretly, so intimately. This town beyond the hills and woods, at the end of the empty highway.

    Perhaps you're happy without. Me.

    They tried so hard to help you. In their way. In their special, twisted, violent, foolish way. After the blackout. After you forgot yourself. After you came back. It was desperate. Like a panic. A frenzy of misplaced love, that made them nothing but the first to be pushed away.

    If I had died. I would have never felt sad at all.

    And therein lies the cancer. The rot. That parasite Love. To make you hate and pity, to feel and be dead to. To dwell in horror and in beauty and see each one the same.

    Why can't you feel just one thing? Just one intent towards them? One simple emotion for those who carried you, wailing and twitching from the womb?

    You will not hear me. Say I'm sorry.

    Perhaps in the end, they are part of you. The part that matters. The link between the waking and the lost. Those five years, in which you were lost entirely. They are an abyss that only your parents... perhaps... may bridge. The only hand within the night.

    And now one of them is gone.

    And with them goes one half of that chance, that prayer that whispers deep inside. That hope that it can be answered. What happened to you. Where you went in those years.

    The answer is fading.

    Here's a lullaby to close. Your eyes.

    The darkness yawns. The sleep is coming. When they slip away, you will be lost, the blackout will consume you.

    The sleep is coming.


    You have to be there.

    You have to know.

    You have to see them.


    In Silent Hill.

  2. Part One

    Of all the questions racing through the mind of Benedict Karova, the most profound in that moment was how the night had turned to day.

    He could not remember it. All had been haze of white lines and headlights, the road out of Morgantown crazed with traffic. Then the long highway had become anaesthesia as the mountains swallowed up his car. The night had been heavy, leaving only picture frames of passing trees and canyons beyond the railings. Was it 10 o'clock or 11 when he got in the car? And when had he last stopped for gas? It was a blur.

    The town billboard was silvered in moonlight, and he remembered the same hue upon the detail of the Lakeview. Coffee-stench and witching cold had attended the man at the hotel reception, that strange and silent man who told Benedict he was expected and handed him a key. And there had been a glow, like dawn-break, at the latticed window of his room as he set his bags down and fell face-first upon the bed.

    And now? Now he stood on the lawn of the Lakeview Hotel, by the wooden jetty protruding into the lake. And it was morning.

    The letter was still in his coat pocket. Mother's hand. The paper smelled like lipstick.

    Your father's dead, Benedict.

    Yes, your father. Never her husband. Never Ben or Benny or my poor, poor child.

    Mother's hand.

    The man at reception said she was 'in-town'. Whatever that meant. He assumed she was out there, in Silent Hill, beyond the resort area, shopping for last flowers or making last arrangements. No doubt the funeral would be proper. It was always proper with Mother.

    He just had to wait.

    Funny. The doctors had said the same thing, after he woke up in the hospital bed. The first lie of his rebirth.

    A little rowboat idled by the jetty, knocking back and forth on the posts as gentle tides rolled out of the mist. He just could make out an island, with trees like veins upon it. But he could not see the other shore. Silent Hill was hidden. For now. It was like the Lakeview Hotel was a world apart. A stopping-off point. A limbo.

    The man at reception said there were others coming. Benedict was not the only guest. Nor was he the only one arriving for a funeral.

    Strange how suffering craves an audience.

    He shoved his hands into his coat pocket, felt his scarf moist with his breath, and stared again at the lake.

    The funeral would be in four hours. All he had to do was wait.
    #2 Asmodeus, Feb 12, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 22, 2014
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  3. David stared out the bedroom window. The silky white curtains framed his wistful scene as if drawing him up through those clouds and into heaven, but he knew better. There was no heaven for him. Just beyond the glass was the fog-covered island on which Lakeview Hotel stood. It looked deceptively peaceful.

    The drive here had already slipped from his mind, a distant memory as foggy as the air he'd driven through to get to Silent Hill. It all drew back into the recesses of his mind, fleeing from his grasp like everyone close to him fled after his episode of amnesia. It didn't even really matter how he'd gotten here. The only thing that mattered was that he'd be there to watch his mother... laid to rest.

    Why did it have to be her? The one who nurtured and cared for him? He'd gotten the letter from her husband. Gregory. It read "Dear Son, I am so sorry to have to write you with such terrible news, but you need to know. Your mother passed away recently and we're having the funeral in Silent Hill. I know we parted on poor terms, but I know how much she always meant to you. I'll see you there. Love, Dad"

    Son? Dad? How could he dare use those words after everything he'd put mom through? What he put David through? Like hell he was sorry to give bad news. If he cared so much about hurting the people around him, why did he let himself get drunk every night? Why did David have to hide in his room and pretend to be asleep while being tormented by the awful sounds as that man mistreated mom?

    Taking a deep breath and sighing, he turned from the window and walked out of his room. The hallways were quiet and still that morning. He considered it a small mercy that he wouldn't have to put on a smile for anyone as he trudged downstairs.

    As he stepped out the door he could just barely make out a silhouette by the jetty. He groaned inwardly and donned the mask of someone who still cared about life before approaching.

  4. Maureen Sanders was sitting on a bench facing the lake... It wasn't too far off from the jetty... She held the letter she received from her mother... The first and possible the last one she received in what seemed like forever... She read the letter she had received telling her to come here another time;

    Dear Maureen,
    I'll just get straight to the point of this letter, as you didn't seem to remember me that well...Your father; "Nathan Sanders" Has passed on recently. He was murdered, the killer was never found... I wish we were able to talk to you more, I wish you'd remember who we were... I pray you'll at least come to his funeral... It'll be held at the town called "Silent Hill" in Lake view hotel... It's a shame he wasn't able to live to see it... Speaking of seeing.... I would love to see you again... It's been so long my little Maury.... See you soon... I hope...
    Your loving mother,
    Amelia Sanders

    She regretted leaving her family, if she had stayed... She might have been able to stop the murder from her family.... She looked up at the island in the distance, it was enveloped with fog, Lakeview hotel was just barely visible through it. "Silent hill..." She thought" "He would have loved it there... I hope I can make it up to him.... Ever since that case of "Amnesia" as the doctors had called it... He's faded from my memories... Just like the rest of them... I hope I can make it up to you... Father... It should have been me there... I should have been the one that died... I wish I didn't leave like the coward that I was... I could have stopped it..."

    A stray tear made it out of her eyes and flowed down her cheek, she quickly wiped it away and put away the note again, looking around at her surroundings... She noticed two others, one was standing at the jetty, another was approaching him... She considered joining them for a moment... "Why not... I could use a distraction from my thoughts..." She reasoned... She got up, and silently approached the two men a little nervously...
  5. It had arrived without warning. That is what Grandma Moore said to Grandpa Moore. It had arrived without warning or welcome. Grandma had cried that day, cried tears of bitterness and anger. Of course Lindy had heard the arguments and endless debates between Grandma and Grandpa, but she cared about as much as a child with only four years of real memories would. Lindy hadn't been able to read the letter her mother had written to her.

    Something, though what Lindy didn't know, bothered Grandma Moore. The letter had arrived without warning, causing chaos in Grandma Moore's normal well scheduled life. Her son's death was a burden. Lindy was a burden. But Lindy could not change that, nor had she the desire to. Lindy was just as stuck as the old woman was. There was nowhere else that Lindy could go, her mother was an impossibility for reasons completely unknown, once more, to Lindy. The young girl was tossed aside, again. Again. Again. But what would anyone want to do with a child without memories.

    "Remember Lindy, you are going to the funeral without Grandma and Grandpa. Lindy. Lindy are you listening child?" Lindy sat on the bed of their hotel room, a blank stare attached to the wall. Grandma Moore was a blundering idiot, insisting on asking if the young girl was listening. She wasn't deaf.
    Tears were beginning to well up in the old woman's eyes. Lindy could tell Grandma Moore was crying because of the short panicked breaths she was taking. Those stupid little butterfly breaths that she insisted on making whenever she was over come by emotion. They annoyed Lindy to no end.

    Grandpa Moore finally arrived with the last of their luggage, one look at Grandma Moore was enough for that angry glint to return. Grandpa no matter what people believed was an angry violent man. Just like father, echoed that same voice in her head. "Lindy. Get your jacket. Its time to go and let your Grandmother rest." His voice was as tight and thin as the lines in his old face. The vein in his forehead sticking out.

    Lindy picked up her doll and its brush. With the brush, she began to groom her doll's stringy unkempt looking hair Completely ignoring her Grandfather. "Lindy. Now." Grandpa Moore's voice was getting louder just as Grandma Moore's panicked breaths were becoming stupid helpless sobs. Lindy continued to brush the doll's hair, still unsatisfied with the amount of shining silkiness in the blonde hair. She felt a firm hand yank her arm toward the direction of the door, the brush fell to the floor with an inaudible sound as Lindy was dragged out the door.

    Grandpa Moore yanked her arms through her red jacket, snatching the zipper up which caught at least three times on its way up. "You insolent little brat." Lindy only glared coldly at her grandfather, he spat useless words like this all the time. The scent of alcohol lingered as a bitter after scent on his breath. He had been drinking again. Grabbing Lindy's small hand, he towed her in the direction of the dilapidated elevator of the Hotel called Lake view.

    The young girl's hand was cold and dead in Frank Moore's hand that gripped tight. There was already people at the dock, where a boat floated its nose pointed to the foggy island. Lindy watched as the fog rolled above the treeline of the island across the lake. Lindy was beginning to feel something knot in her stomach, was it fear?

    "Is this the boat headed for..." Frank paled as he looked upon the island, Lindy looked up and watched his adam's apple bob when he swallowed. "The island?" Lindy blinked, frowning just so slightly as she wondered where exactly she was being boated off to. Pulling her hand out of his, she walked toward the dock. Her black dress shoes tapping against the wood of the jetty. There was a man in a scarf, a woman who looked nervous, and yet another man who just seemed lost. Reaching the end of the pier, Lindy sat at the edge. Her short legs not long enough for even the toes of her feet to skim the water's surface. Lindy didn't have to look back to see that her grandfather had retreated back to the hotel. Abandoning her with strangers. Maybe it was the prospect that her mother was near that let the slightly drunken man leave a small child with a group of strangers. Or maybe it was that her grandparents had never really had any love for such a child without memories or emotion.

    She couldn't see her self in the water. The water wasn't clear enough. The water was too restless. Just like the past seven years.
    #5 Wanderfool, Feb 13, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 13, 2014
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  6. Five years.

    Half a decade.

    One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days.

    That's the gap I have in my life, this vast, swallowing abyss where thoughts and feelings and memories used to be. A nauseating fog that has seeped out from some unimaginable place of nightmares and madness to eat away at who I was. Leaving only fragments of the Crispin Hale that was.

    Stop and imagine just how much you have changed in five years. How different a person you are, the things you've experienced, the people you've met? Losing so much time doesn't change you. It breaks you. You cease to be as the person you apparently once were. You don't remember this man that the people clustered round your bed seem to think you are. The concerned friends. The relieved lover. They're just faces, all meaning and significance torn away from them. I've come to realise in these last two years the pain and hurt I no doubt inflicted upon them. Especially her, that beautiful stranger with vibrant red hair who told me we were engaged to be married.

    I would like to say that it was the blackout that ruined her life, and not me.

    But that would be a lie.

    It wasn't the blackout that lashed out like I did. Amnesia did not burn all the bridges to the life that had once been mine. These things and more were my choices, and now I'm left to live with them.

    Jesus fuck, when did it get so dark around here? The engine of the 1973 Mustang growls it's way along the winding roads leading to my destination and suddenly I realise that night seems to have long since fallen. Have I been driving longer than I realise? Is this bastard fog playing tricks on me, drowning out the light? As a man with five years of his life vanished and a penchant for the drink I'm used to having gaps in my memory, but this feels... different, somehow. Wrong.

    Goddamn, I need another drink.

    Those two beers for the road seem like hours ago, now, and the bottle of Jim Beam lying brown bagged in the passenger seat looks more and more tempting every time I look at it. But I need my wits about me right now; these roads are lethal even at the best of times, and now they're locked in fog with no sun to alleviate it. So I push that itch away and keep focused on the road, trying to ignore the tingling in the back of my throat. To pay no attention to that little vocie whispering "just a sip..." over and over again.

    Finally a large white sign on the side of the road comes into the beam of my headlights, a welcome promise of civilisation amidst all this black. Faded and peeling gold letters on a dark background, informing me that I've finally reached my destination. 'WELCOME TO SILENT HILL'.

    "Goddamn," I mutter to myself, "that only took fuckin' forever."

    The Mustang snarls it's way into town, a reassuring and familiar din amidst the quiet of this sleepy, fog-glamoured town. "By name by nature..." I observe as the sign for the Overlook Hotel points me to the right. My eyes take in as much detail as they can; this was the place my mother loved passionately, a place she would often speak of with reverance. But it was a secret passion, a hidden tryst that I was not to know much of.

    But now she is dead, and I drive to meet a man I once knew as father. A man who, when last we spoke, I promised to maim or kill if we ever saw each other again. Time doesn't heal wounds, it just glazes over them with thin beige paint and hopes that everybody pretends not to notice. And most people do; the deception is more comfortable than the truth, this I know all too well.

    But when you make your profession out of deception, you have precious little time for it yourself.

    There's a few other cars in the parking lot: guess I'm not the only guest in town just now. My kill the engine of my car and shoulder open the door, and the cold immediately hits me like a freight train. Cursing furiously, I hurry round to the trunk and tug it open, retrieving a heavy black overcoat and hauling it on over my black suit.

    The chill is abated somewhat, but still hammers at my face and exposed skin. Working quickly, I grab my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder before slamming the trunk and moving round to the passenger seat. Retrieving my bottle of bourbon, I've almost closed the door when I remember one final thing. An added precaution.

    A means to follow up on an old promise.

    Reaching into the glovebox, I pull out the heavy folding blade and stuff it into the pocket of my overcoat.

    They tell me that my mother was murdered, after all.

    And I do believe I might know who did it.
    #6 Childish Grumpino, Feb 14, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 20, 2014
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  7. “Love Mom”

    read the back of a photograph. I turned over to see a younger version of myself. The version of me that did remember, that was not plagued by brutal nightmares. My name is Sonoma, I
    can't remember the last five years of my life. My father came to me with a large portfolio of drawings I can't even remember creating. Ink portraying vile creatures that demanded something unknown of me, one masterpiece after the other raining confusion down in torrents and unearthing a sickening fear in me. It wasn't too long after I was alone, The voice found me. Unfathomable it was, convinced I had slipped off into an endless reeling loop of madness, replaying the conversation with ‘myself’ over and over again. Then, one day, it followed me. I was Mary with a little black sheep that followed her everywhere she went.

    “Do you not want to know?," It would say,"I could tell you everything, Sonoma” It offered.

    “No” I would say instinctively. Even still, I am indecisive, to know or not, to search for what my body expelled. The voice sounded like a man, and tells me that his name is “Crowley” like Aleister Crowley, but when I asked, the voice said he never heard of him.
    I wasn't here to bury mother and I had a feeling deep within that she wasn't even here. No, there was something else here, and with my father now afraid of me there is no telling when he would show his cold calculated face. Strange was the way to describe what was happening yet still an understatement. Gloom beckoned forth, flashes of misplaced moments, and a futile resistance to survive it. Crossing over to a deafening silence, I held my eyes on the ceiling, face up on the bed. I needed some air. Sitting up, I placed the photograph on the bedside table, and upon reaching the window, opened it just a crack.

    “You don't know any of these people?” The voice inquired.

    I turned my head to the dank lakeview room, feeling Watched, my eyes lingering on the door for a moment and then back out of my window to ignore what wasn't there. Or what I ‘Thought’ wasn't there. My thoughts raced to remember how I had arrived in Silent HIll, Funny, I knew why I came yet the answer of ‘how’ began to press on my mind like a cancerous shadow. Beside me propped on the window sill was a Pink Stuffed bunny rabbit with ear that stuck straight up. It wore a green bowtie and blue overalls. I hadn't noticed it there before and turned to look over my shoulder one more time.

    (To view larger image click he link and visit the gallery)

    “Ignoring me now?” The voice chattered, “Curious all these Funerals? Yes?…” There was a sinister tone of this voice, and in the air was where it lingered to be unseen. I left the window for a moment to fetch my sketching papers and pencil to begin sketching the trees.

    Desperation set for a stillness in my chest, something inside pleaded for my heart to stop. This was like putting together a 500 piece puzzle and knowing you only had 400 pieces making me hesitated to carry on. Feeling that the truth was worse than the fiction, but, I was wrong. Reality would soon take on an innumerable amount of dark and twisted turns. There was this stifling abandonment that left the air of the hotel stale and untenanted. Despite the modern environment there was an archaic nagging and Cynicism that effused from this place.

    One hand holding fast to the spiral of my drawing papers and the other hastily scribbling a heavier texture into the shadows of the wicked twisting branches that stuck up from the fog like claws of demons reaching up into nothing. I stood at the window watching the fog roll in thicker and thicker.

    “I don't want to talk to you, Don’t bother me right now, Crowley." I whispered, seemingly to nobody.
    #7 Fijoli, Feb 14, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 18, 2014
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  8. "Be quiet, he's..."

    The words expired in the air, as quickly as the thought that birthed them. And what that thought was... had been known for but a moment. It preceded confusion and blankness. What had it been? Recognition? Mistaken identity? Delusion?

    Benedict and David faced one another, dark-clothed facsimiles, red-haired halos in the fog. And David saw the nuance of the mistake on Benedict's face. He almost assumed David to be another, then remembered himself, then felt embarrassed, then apprehension at a stranger. The cycle had been rapid and entire. Its own flavour of disturbing. Benedict took a step back.


    The water lapped. It was the first time they had heard it. Lake Toluca had been silent till now, and only as they turned to one another did it seem to find sound, to break with single convulsion to a realer plane. Darkness to water. Death to being. It was the perfect sound for them - the sound of slipping, of washing away. Their sound. A sound for David and Benedict.

    "I'm Benedict." He said it after a minute of of staring. Sixty seconds in which his eyes seemed to bulge from that narrow-carved skull, pushed out by a turgidity of thoughts. His hands went in his pockets. His shoulders slumped. Already he was smaller than David, withered beside his stoutness. "Are you here for the funeral?"

    Perfect punctuation came at the question's end when Maureen's foot disturbed the gravel bank. The men looked sidewards and saw her silhouette completing their triangle. A hazel woman, framed by the hotel behind her, half in fog. What had drawn them together?

    This time there was no mistaken recognition. The stare Benedict had for Maureen... the intimacy it presumed... was of another nature. Maureen had felt its kind since the moment of puberty. She knew that stare; had felt it upon her. She had seen it behind the eyes of men, stretching back into ancestry, into the primal simplicities of gender. In Benedict is was manifold. Without apology or restraint.

    He was not a good man.

    In the mist behind them, a fourth figure, a haggard one, deposited a girl, shook off her hand and left her at the jetty. But this would have to wait.

    There were no more questions. Someone else would have to break the silence.

    One slam begat another. No sooner had Crispin closed the car door when he heard the sound again, like an echo, across the gravel parking lot between hotel and mountain road. Shapes in the mist, defined like sculptures. Painted for him.

    A woman in tight jeans and leather, every article hugging her figure, gripping a car door to stop it closing.

    Before her a man, old, trembling. A grandfather, trying to get into the seat.

    She wouldn't let him. Her head twitched, the marks of speech, animated and intense. The grandfather shook his head, ducked into the car, pulled the door from her fingers and got it shut. In the passenger seat was another who sobbed. She was stooped and grey like him.

    The young woman got her fingers to the half-open window, kept it from closing, bent down to inflict more words upon the old couple. The engine started. The car pulled away, faster than goodbyes. It lurched into the mist and gave the woman only inches to dodge.

    She was left in profile, watching the vehicle vanish, blonde hair in strands around a curling smile.

    Then she turned and came straight for the hotel, with a leather squeak to her every motion. A pack of cigarettes left the jacket, a cancer stick to her mouth, and as she bit down her eyes found Crispin. She changed her angle only slightly.

    Then she was there, standing with him by his car.

    "Got a light?"

    He never knocked.

    This, beyond all things, defined him. Bartley LaFleur was a man who never knocked.

    To dwell on that was to wonder how he saw the world. That all rooms were his? That there was nothing private or sacred to be given space? That no veil could hold him. That he had a right to interfere.

    The door drifted open behind Sonoma, and in the plastic eyes of the bunny doll his silhouette was glimpsed. Powerfully built, after all these years. A weight at once physical, academic... resolute.

    "I asked you not to bring your sketch book." Her father's voice was soft. He didn't use emotion. Nor was it cold, overly-logical. It was simply the voice of Bartley LaFleur. Perfect. Sickening for that fact. The perfect father by presentation. A monster by deeds. "Did you even read the letter?"

    He did not cross the threshold of the hotel room. But it was not for want of an invitation. It was a power-play. He would not enter his daughter's world. He would observe from a distance, block the exit, and cast his shadow on her. A shadow formed by electric hall-lamps harsher than the fog-light.

    "How do you feel, Sonoma?"

    An empty question. A ritual. A trap.

    He remained in the doorway.
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  9. Maureen was getting a little nervous with Benedict's staring... As if she wasn't nervous enough already... At first glance it seemed like the average stare a man usually gave her... Something felt different about it though... Even if the stare gave her that usual feeling of nervousness... Hesitantly... Curiosity over-riding her nervousness, she stepped into the group, trying to avoid meeting Benedict's stare.

    "Hi.." She spoke, her voice was a little quieter than she intended it to be... She swallowed a little, then forced herself to continue talking "Are you two here for the funeral too?" The question seemed a little obvious, yet she didn't want to just simply assume they were... She felt a little out of place to say the least speaking with others like this, it's been a while since she's had a proper conversation with someone...

    She stood there awkwardly waiting for a response, all the while wondering how many others if any others were here...
  10. David showed no reaction to the rapid progression of emotions across Benedict's face. Whether he hadn't noticed or didn't care could not be easily deciphered. He gave Benedict a friendly smile and offered his hand to the stranger. "David, and... yes." His voice held with it a tone of resignation. He crossed his arms, creating a barrier where moments before there had been a warm invitation. Just as he began to turn away from the man to look out across the lake, the crunching of footsteps across the loose gravel registered in his mind. Looking over to its source he saw a woman approaching.

    She looked plain, what with her blue jeans and her simple shirt and jacket. Even her braided brown hair looked like something he'd seen on a dozen other women in the recent past. It didn't matter though. He gave her the same friendly smile he'd given Benedict only moments before. His arms uncrossed and his thumbs slid into his pockets, as if giving a subtle beckoning for her attention. He replied softly but confidently, "Yeah. Seems that way, miss?"
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  11. "Sanders... But you can call me Maureen..." She smiled a little; it was a nervous smile... She looked towards the distance where the fog enveloped an island... "Do you know what Silent Hill's like?" Her parents had always talked about how wonderful the place was, though they never really went to see for themselves... Strangely enough that's the only thing she remembered clearly about her family after the blackout... She needed to know why...
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  12. “How do you feel, Sonoma?“ Mocked Crowley’s disembodied voice, echoing after Bartley. “I dare say your Sprightliness is quite lacking my little lass” the words followed by a circumambient laughter.

    Artistic motions went interrupted as I turned, whole bodily, towards my father. As for my sketchbook, I folded it closed and tucked it neatly under my arm. “Daddy...” I said, pondering to myself what Monstrosities he was seeing in me that I wasn’t. My curiousness lingered long yet fell away into silence, I had been asked a question, and what I do remember is ‘respecting’ my father. I wasn’t to speak until spoken to, and once spoken too, my response was subsequently expected. “I feel go-…” Oh…yes…I couldn’t lie to him either…,”Strange, Daddy, I feel very strange, out of place” I answered assiduously to not evoke any further analysis under my father’s microscope. This wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last of my so called ‘evaluation’.

    My hair was a wavy mess of light brown with strands that strayed out. I attempted to comb them through but it didn’t make a difference as I wordlessly stood there with a look of shame.
    Regardless of the bags under them, My silver eyes were all anyone could look at anyway and perfect facial features symmetrically entranced the weak willed. My unkemptness ended at the never using a brush for I often spent hours bathing and scrubbing my skin. I found myself needing one now, feeling unclean, exposed, and apprehensive.

    The cracked window sucked into the room a sound of whispering boughs while the perpetual mist rolled by. I Promptly shut the window and took a few steps towards the man who raised me, What parts of him dwelt within me even now?

    “I should bathe and relax before you take me to see Mother perhaps that will help?” I ask, and why? His approval wasn’t necessary and yet I sought after it like a flower inches its way from beneath shadow to the light. Even after...What had he done?

    Laughter resounded in the room, “Go on, take a few more steps. Let’s see how far you can get!” Crowley challenged me.


    I wrought of silent despair and was lost to myself, I dared delve so quickly, so eager to sate the need to ‘know’. Father’s Prodigious frame locked me in and this room took on the horrifyingly Divine likeness of my very own sepulcher. Extending my hand, slender fingers stuck straight towards Bartley, reaching for him. He was my only way out in more ways than one, but I didn't know it at the time.


    “Go on, Only a few more” Crowley’s voice expressed supernal tones.

    I Brooded, clenching my fingers together and recoiled. Repelled from my father like a magnet I had to push harder. He, the constant and I the persistent variable, now articulated opposing forces and energies that would only naturally collide in some way or another, the effects would prove inevitably devastating.

    Unlike many times before that I could recall, I was this day, compelled to take the bait.

    #12 Fijoli, Feb 17, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 17, 2014
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  13. A FEW DAYS AGO...​

    I could make up a lot of shit to explain why I get away with doing what I do.

    Perhaps I could say that it's because people are gullible and stupid. Or maybe it's the fault of the society that permits me to make money the way I do (that's a good one, actually; it's everyone's fault, not just mine). Then there's the option of saying it's because I'm a particularly deceptive and malicious piece of shit... and you'd not be far from the truth if that was the approach you took.

    But really? When you take it all apart, it really just boils down to one key thing.


    Grief and I are business partners; it sets them up for the fall, I knock them down. Take this woman I'm sitting in front of as a prime example. Middle-aged, immaculately dressed, expertly-maintained hair and figure suggesting plenty of space income, well-spoken voice demonstrating no small amount of intelligence. Ask her on a good day, she'd tell you that psychics are a load of shit. But this is far from a good day for her.

    You might think that playing the role of a psychic requires little more than guesswork and a bit of empathy: this is true only for shitty TV mediums who care more about prestige and fame than they do about getting caught. This is a con, and it needs more than a little bit of legwork and research. Sometimes, this means sifting through trash to uncover the needed details. Other times, it entails hiring a discreet private investigator to find what you need to know.

    In this case, however, it really just came down to a bit of the wonders of modern technology. A simple Google search gave me all the necessities and more. A recent family tragedy, an open wound in this woman's life; grief has done the lion's share of the work, and all I have to do is finish it.

    "Before we start, let me make sure we're both on the same page here," I begin, keeping my voice level and compassionate, watching her face closely but discretely, "what I do is not an exact art. There are no guarantees with this kind of thing." Covering my bases right from the get go. "That being said, I'm not gonna charge you a cent unless we get results." Crafting a false sense of honesty and openness, tricking her into thinking I'm someone she can trust. "That all okay with you?" She nods, dabbing at her eyes. "Okay then. If you want me to end the process at any time at all, you let me know right away. Now, may I have your hands please?"

    * * *​

    At the sound of closing doors and hushed voices I make sure the blade is stuffed far into my coat pocket before turning around to watch the scene unfold. The woman can't be much older than I am, short platinum blonde hair and clothing that refuses to leave anything to the imagination. She's the picture of youth in comparison to the the couple in the car she whispers to; ancient and weather beaten, grimly dressed, my eyes instantly noting the telltale after marks of my old friend grief on their haggard features.

    The their car is speeding off, and the woman is before me with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

    "Got a light?"

    Reaching up, I pat at a few of my overcoat pockets before retrieving a battered old zippo lighter. I look back to her, flashing a brief attempt at a smile.

    "If you got a cigarette spare."
    #13 Childish Grumpino, Feb 17, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 20, 2014
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  14. David followed her gaze out across the lake, watching the thick fog roll lazily and uncaring through the air. His body had turned so now his back was partially to Benedict. He shook his head. "I don't, I'm afraid. I know they loved this place, but I never got a chance to come here with them." There was a hint of genuine remorse in his tone for a brief moment before he returned to his pleasant facade. His head tilted as he leaned ever so slightly towards her, still facing out across the lake. "I'm David, by the way."
  15. "Well, it's nice talking to you David..." She smiled a little, just briefly though... It felt good, despite awkward talking after so long... She took a momentary glance at David... Then looked at that fog shrouded island in the distance again... Not sure what else to say...
  16. He could feel her eyes on him, and though on the surface he felt as though things were going well his intentions were anything but. If you had asked him to explain the situation he was in now, he would tell you that a pleasant enough woman he'd just met was looking out over the lake with him and enjoying a moment of peace. His face would present no dishonesty, and indeed he would believe his words. Were it possible to pull his subconscious out and give it form to pose questions to, it would say that deep down he knew the silence put Maureen off-balance and vulnerable. That is precisely where he wanted her, whether he knew it or not.

    That was where he wanted everyone.
  17. As his daughter raised then recoiled her hand, Bartley LaFleur simply looked beyond her, as a teacher above the heads of his pupils. The man's spectacled gaze was toward the window, and if he noted her motions he gave no sign.

    "Good. It's good to relax, Sonoma. Feeling strange is understandable in moments like these."

    Moments like these... How many murdered wives had he buried? It was a sick joke to even think that question.

    Lamp-light cut again into the room as he unblocked the doorway and entered with heavy thuds on the floorboards. Bartley's build was angular, made from square fingertips and level shoulders, a chest and belly of equal girth. A black raincoat, slick against his tweed, only worsened this rectangular sense of the man. Pacing to the window, he looked out across the lawn where figures were talking in the mist.

    "I'll be picking you up at 11:15, Sonoma. I suggest you take the time to consider what this day is about. This is not an opportunity for you; not a canvas; not a stage for you to act out upon. A terrible thing was done here. A terrible thing. This is your mother's day. I'm sure you understand."

    No inflection there. It was not a question. Bartley glanced at the bunny doll, then the sketch book, before finally turning. With the fog wreathed behind him Sonoma could see her father's eyes clearly through his lenses. There was sadness there... and something else... that little crack in the veneer that both delighted and alarmed her. Fear.

    "She had been let out, you see? Your mother. The asylum granted medical parole under my stewardship. Four days. We were going to drop by and see you, of course, but..." His hand came down near the dresser table and blunt fingertips drifted to the hotel brochure left there. "She always loved this place."

    The image lingered. Her parents in the car, driving to their old courting grounds, her mother's head lain back on the seat, drinking in the sunlight so long denied, her skin pale beneath the fresh clothes Bartley brought her, yet a smile... nontheless... a smile as she drank that beautiful brevity.

    "We stopped at the overlook," Bartley continued while adjusting his glasses, "So she could go the restroom. And that was the last I saw of her. The body was found on the road the next day." He turned fully to regard her. It was somehow piercing. "So understand, Sonoma, that this is not your day. A lot of people are here, and they deserve their sadness."

    The point was unclear. It often was, such were the worlds of rhetoric and pedantry he bridged. Still, he gave a few seconds to let the words sink in before he next cleared his throat. "Now. I'll be taking that sketchbook, please." He held out his hand.

    But Sonoma's eye had already been drawn by the view behind him...

    They lit one another's cigarettes in the mist, sharing smoke and fire like the kin of old.

    The woman straightened and blew a cloud as she took Crispin in. "Mustang driver. You're not one of his, are you? Too interesting." She flicked her head towards the road, where mist had resettled in the wake of the departing car. "And you haven't run away yet. Maybe we're cousins."

    Her eyes held up the joke. They were bloodshot. Crispin knew a fellow drunk when he saw one.

    "So, you got here early and now you've got some time to kill. Gonna skip stones at the lake? Visit the amusement park? But some fucking cream cakes and a postcard?"

    The change of tone was disconcerting, a restlessness mirrored in the way she smoked. But she didn't look at him. If she had meant to insult him she would have looked at him.

    "A person gets murdered, cut into pieces and left at the side of the road, and they hold a funeral in the same town? Does that sound fucked up to you, Mustang Man? You figure that's the right thing to do? A funeral."

    She lifted her leg abruptly, planting her boot on the fender of his car so she could fix the laces. As she did so her leather jacket rode back from her waist. Crispin caught the flash of the police badge.

    Officer A. Moore

    "Well, maybe it is. Maybe having the funeral here is the right thing to do." She straightened and blew a smoke ring. "Maybe it's perfect. Killers return to the scene of their crimes, right?" The ring stretched into halo, dissipating around Crispin. "And I'll be waiting."

    Whether this was a statement accusatory or conspiratorial, Crispin would never know. For at the moment she finished a cry rang out, echoing around the corners of the hotel and making winces in the heart. It had come from the back lawn, where the grounds met the lake.


    Benedict had watched the exchange between David and Maureen. And however stilted that exchange had been he had watched it jealously, resentfully. He had nothing to add, nothing to say to them. No way to play the game that they were playing. So instead he stared, wide and pale.

    Till the moment that something caught his eye.

    Benedict straightened with a jolt, and stepped forward between the other two. At the same moment, those two saw what he saw. They each flinched, as if collectively waking from a dream.

    And on the jetty, a short distance away, little Lindy climbed to her feet and let out a shout.

    There was someone in the water. A boy. No older than ten. They saw only his head, all dark hair and grime, and the flailing points of his arms. They might have been branches, so feeble they seemed. He couldn't shout to the people on the shore. His lungs were flooded. It was impossible to shout. Only a sick and sucking gurgle announced him. The child dipped beneath the silvered waters, came up, sunk again.

    He was thirty yards from the shore, at the verge of the mist.

    Benedict took a half-step and his faltering was heard in the gravel. The stones squealed and twisted under his hesitance. He lurched forward then back, his mouth hung open.

    "H... help..."

    It was all he could think to do as the little girl on the jetty pointed to the boy and shouted to the others to help him.

  18. Maureen realized the boy was gonna drown if she didn't act fast.. Without any further though.. She took off her jacket and dove into the freezing waters... It was cold to the point that her whole body was almost completely numb, but she didn't care...

    She began to swim towards the boy, hopefully she can reach him in time... Hopefully she won't be useless...
    #18 York, Feb 17, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 18, 2014
  19. The water was foggy enough alone without the heavy hanging clouds of grey mist. Lindy felt weighted down by all the fog, it was thoroughly depressing. Grandma and Grandpa Moore would have already been there if they had been coming at all. They had most likely taken the cowardly route on a high road back home to Well Springs Circle. Looking down at her doll she stroked the hair and wrinkled her nose. "You aren't my doll, you are just a replacement." Her voice was a sweet soprano, it betrayed something innocent and almost cute. One of which should never be used to describe petite quiet Lindy. Placing the doll next to her on the dock she leaned back on her palms and kicked her feet, enjoying the feeling of them swinging.

    Looking behind her, she saw the adults were still talking amongst themselves completely ignoring her presence. That's how it normally was, it would have been odd if any of them decided to take a seat next to her. Looking back to the island in the lake she tilted her head. There was something strange about it, the place seemed so isolated. Like it was its own universe or world. Faint laughter like that of a child's echoed in the back of her mind, looking over her shoulder again anxiously she felt a chill go up her spine. Frowning, she looked down at the wood. The laughter was becoming louder, until it became a unbearable ringing. Covering her ears she felt tears burning in her eyes, the ringing was painful.

    As she tried to flush out the ringing in her ears her attention was brought back to the lake by an awful smell. Wrinkling her nose she felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice water down her back. The lake was looking back. Two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. The grey murky water washed over the face as it bobbed below the surface, Lindy sat frozen on the dock. The ringing becoming louder now as her head and heart throbbed in time. She didn't feel her mouth opening as she screamed scrambling back from the edge. The boy's eyes had been staring right at her. Shoe catching on a lifted piece of wood she fell back hard, her lungs burning as she screamed continuously, her finger shaking as she pointed at the boy.

    Help... Anyone... Help...

    Her mind raced nearly as quick as her heart, Lindy had never been so terrified. Tears began to stream down her face, Lindy wanted someone to tell her it would all be alright. That the boy would be okay. Even though ever perceptive Lindy knew that the boy had to be dying if not already dead. Just then the nervous woman from earlier ripped her coat off and dove into the lake, a bit of the water splashing onto Lindy's red jacket. Lindy covered her eyes and shook her head, the ringing was going away but not the begging.

    Help me... Please... Help me...

    Standing up again she looked around, her scared doll-like face searching for a familiar face. Searching for a face that would be connected to arms that would hug her. She wanted what every terrified child would want, consolation. A Mother's kiss. A Father's touch. But then just like it always did, it sank in slowly. Lindy was a child with no memories of being a child. Lindy was a child who no one wanted. Lindy was a child whose Mother had abandoned her. Lindy was a child whose father was dead. Lindy was drowning in a sea of strangers. Lindy was alone.

    Help me... I am so cold... I am so alone...
  20. Are you mad if you are aware of madness? I was begginging to suspect that the madness was more aware of me.

    "We stopped at the overlook," Bartley continued while adjusting his glasses, "So she could go the restroom. And that was the last I saw of her. The body was found on the road the next day." He turned fully to regard her. It was somehow piercing.

    Fingers tightly clenched, “no, not yet dove, you aren't ready yet” Words of Crowley sounded in my ears like tenebrous secrets

    "So understand, Sonoma, that this is not your day. A lot of people are here, and they deserve their sadness."

    "Not ready for what" I thought in-between my split conversing, what looked like obedient listening to an elder was, in fact, skilled multitasking.

    "Now. I'll be taking that sketchbook, please." He held out his hand.

    Latching on to my sanity, a familiar and loathsome feeling overcame me, but before I could part my lips to breath, Crowley spat sounding distant "Look!". There, behind my father, stood the unmistakable frame of my mother. Darkness bleeding down her face, she stood quivering, shadows writhing as she raised her narrow finger and pointed at Father. Bloodied in a red dress, her hand drifted to point at me. I looked at Father and then back to an empty hall, silver pools fixed on the frame of his glasses. Our standstill reminded me of those old western films I'd watch with father. They would lock hands and turn, take so many said steps and BANG. It was just that he wasn't a bank robber, and I wasn't 6 years old. A smile broke on my face and as quickly as it came it faded stolen by the sound of cries muffled through the closed window.

    "H... help..."


    "Now's your chance, fly dove, FLY!"

    Crowley's raucous sounding voice demanded my feet to move. Swiftly I was beyond my father and in the hall,spun on heel and compelled by what was missing I pushed myself up on my the tips of my toes and pressed my lips against his forehead.

    "Mother always looked beautiful in red"

    I said descending to my heels, my lingering gaze rested on him, and I 'wanted' to love my father, but with a sudden turn I was off to find the exit and follow the plea for help. The hall seemed to stretch as I contemplated the consequences of my actions. I was sure that at this time I had had enough of it all. The visions, My father, Mother, Crowley and whole mess of it, everything was dismantling. Silent Hill was calling to me and I was going to find out why, even if it was the death of me.

    Was I to believe these visions, trust in what I felt? Was this an insight or just plain fucking madness? Strange how it would wind up being both in the end, ah, look at me, I am always getting ahead of myself...

    I emerged from the hotel into a thick fog, so dense my vision dared not pierce through it. I saw nothing and heard no one, except...for..

    "Well, well, you are full of surprises"

    Crowley...was always there.
    I lifted my head to see a child standing, Lindy in the respite of the fog all by herself. I moved forward towards her, not even thinking of looking back.

    #20 Fijoli, Feb 18, 2014
    Last edited: Feb 18, 2014
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