Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill. Konami does. I do not own any characters associated with Silent Hill, or any of that stuff. I just write this fanfic.
Warning: violence, mature themes, death, blood and gore, etc etc. The same warnings as the games, and is rated MATURE for a reason.
Author's Note: I've tried writing this story before and failed miserably. This is my fourth attempt, and I am doing it for LDWriMo (Lemon-Drops Writer's Month) in hopes of getting more than a few sections out of it. I tried doing this as a RP as well, but then E-D crashed, so that went nowhere.
SILENT HILL: CALLING ALL SOULS
Chapter One: Killing Angels
The apartment was silent, as expected at that time of night. It was a double shift, or at least felt like it. There was a breakthrough in the case. Mark took of his jacket, letting it tumble from his arms onto the chair. He could deal with it in the morning. His polished dress shoes clicked across the floor as he walked, the cold tile not letting his passing be quiet. He needed to be quiet. Helen was sleeping.
Tugging, Mark loosened his tie, flinching as the cloth pinched his right index finger. He looked down at the digit in question. It was slightly pink. With a smack, he put the thick file he carried down on the kitchen counter. He was too wound up to sleep yet. Flicking on the lamp, left there just for his late, restless nights, Mark walked over to the fridge, looking in.
It was not as well stocked as usual. He glanced at the calendar. Helen had a schedule she went by, tomorrow grocery day. Sighing, he closed the fridge again, taking a glass from the cabinet and filling it with tap water. It didn't taste right. Mark sat anyway, flipping open the file. They all had to study it. Alan Colefield; the name sounded vaguely familiar, though Mark could not place it. It was late, his mind in an after-work haze.
He should just go to sleep.
Slipping out of his shoes, Mark stood, sock encased feet making much less noise across the tile as he went. Helen had dusted, Mark noticing how the photographs on the wall were crystal clear, like they had been taken yesterday. He smiled at their wedding photos. It had been a perfect day. Looking down shyly, Mark trudged on, glass in his hand. He took another sip, flinching. It would have been better to leave the glass in the kitchen, by the sink. The water was terrible. They needed to get a filter.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar.
"Helen? You up?"
No answer came. That was when Mark noticed the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up, his hand trembling as his fingertips brushed against the door, nudging it further open.
With a crash, the glass shattered against the tile floor, shards falling, water leaping up as though reaching for the heavens before falling to spread into nothingness. Mark dashed over the glass, blood following his feet. Wide eyes took in the room, the blood. It was everywhere. Red. Mark swallowed back his nausea, running for the crimson stained bed. His hands dove into the sodden sheets, throwing them back.
He couldn't look.
Shaking, he sank to the ground, mouth open in a soundless cry. Helen was… Helen…
Colefield knew they were getting close. It was his signature, all over that room. The only thing that did not fit was the usual selection of victim. Colefield always chose someone who grew up in Silent Hill, specifically the Blue Creek Apartments. That had been part of his MO. Mark knew what that meant. If he had been home earlier, it would have been him. Colefield was not after Helen.
Mark stared blankly at the far wall, a gurney passing over his vision. There was a black body bag on it, limp, lifeless. The forensics team was heading in, skimming over the bedroom. His bloodshot blue eyes roamed downward, barely seeing the medic knelt before him, with his foot in hand. Tweezers were pulling out glass shards, bit by bit, putting them in a cup. Mark knew to hold still. It was not that hard to do. He could not even feel it.
"Where is he?"
That voice floated in the apartment, from outside the front door. The crime scene tape lifted, Mark glancing over, not recognizing the form. It wore a brown suit, blue shirt, tie half hanging off. Mark should have recognized him, he knew. It hurt too much to remember anything.
"Mark, you're okay!"
In a worried rush, the man knelt beside the chair, arms wrapping around him. Mark did not move. He returned to staring at the far wall, lips letting out a murmur. "He killed Helen."
"Oh God…" His arms clenched tighter. Mark knew that voice. It was his partner. They had been friends since Mark moved to the big city and joined the police force. They were the station's finest detectives. They hadn't been able to catch Colefield before he struck again. "We'll fry this bastard. I promise. We'll get him."
Mark flinched, medic pulled a large chunk of glass from his foot. A hot rush flooded over the skin. The medic pressed a piece of gauze to it, slowing the blood flow. Mark did not care. He could have bled out then and there and not cared.
"I'm off the case, aren't I?" Mark did not even recognize his own voice. It was hollow. There was no spark behind it. He was watching his life crumble before his eyes. Mark turned his head. He could see into the bedroom. A camera flashed, blinding him for a moment. There was a symbol drawn on the wall, in blood. He looked down. His hands were still covered in it.
One of the forensics guys walked over, scraping off blood from Mark's hands, putting it in different containers for testing. Mark knew what they were doing. He was the prime suspect. The closest person to the victim always was. He had found her. Some of them gave him suspicious looks. Those were the ones who did not know him. Mark could not kill a soul. He had problems killing spiders. He was a vegetarian. They still looked at him differently.
The samples were gathered. The lab rat went away; the medic was finishing with his feet, wrapping them with bandaging. Mark did not wait to get up, the medic taping the gauze shut as he stood. He cringed, limping over to his shoes. He knew procedure. The department would hold him for questioning. He would be interrogated, kept in the station until he could be ruled out as the killer. It would not be long, he knew. Colefield's signature was all over that room, except for the victim. That was the one odd thing out.
Slipping on his shoes, Mark let himself be led out. Colefield would burn for this.
Pity was never an emotion he had liked. He could see pity in the eyes of the detective, his coworker, sitting across from him. Mark closed his eyes, looking down at the plastic cup of water before him. He should drink it. Mark just stared at it, the ghost of a shadow it cast across the sterile metal table. At least it looked sterile. Mark would not know, nor did he feel like asking. He just would not touch it, not right now.
They had let him wash his hands, after all the samples were collected. Mark still felt like he could see Helen's blood tainting his skin, tinting it red. It was just his head playing tricks on him, he knew, just light and shadow. Mark sighed. "I got home from work late. I took of my jacket, put it on a chair, got a glass of water, took off my shoes and sat down to work. After a short while, I decided to call it a night and headed to the bedroom. When I opened the door…"
His voice was flat. The monotone drone of his words did nothing to fill the void like silence of the interrogation room. Normally Mark was on the other side of that table, asking the questions, scribbling the notes rather than giving a statement and defending himself.
"The coroner said time of death was eight. You were hear with us in the brain storming room until ten. You aren't a suspect, Mark." His voice was supposed to sound consoling, comforting in some way, but Mark took none from it. He looked up, bloodshot eyes finding the sad ones of this colleague. That look hardly helped. Mark looked away. His coworker sighed. "We sent a team up to Colefield's apartment. We'll nab this bitch."
Mark couldn't look up. He couldn't smile at that thought. He couldn't even try. Why Helen? Mark finally picked up the cup, taking a sip. He couldn't taste anything, which was probably good. The water filter had been broken for close to a year, so the water never tasted crisp like it was supposed to. Some inmates joked that the water was so bad just to make men crack.
The man sitting across from him stood, turning and walking out. He left the interrogation room wide open, an invitation to leave. Mark continued sitting on the hard metal chair, at the barely there shadow of the plastic cup under the too bright white light above the table. It was a room meant to make people split at the seams, make them spill everything they had. Mark did not move. There was nothing for him to spill, to confess to, other than his wish that he had been there.
They had him.
Mark walked past the front desk with a smile, a hollow one. The person gave him a concerned look but said nothing. His blond hair some oil around the roots, making it look darker. Grey circles sat menacingly under his dull blue eyes. Every movement was like it was on auto-pilot, no conscious thought there to guide it. He walked past, through the door. No one tried to stop him.
The lights inside the holding area were red, shadows thick and black. Barred cells sat on either side of him. Only a few had occupants. Most people were transferred out quickly, as the dim red lights and the silence drove them to talking, confessing, pleading to be let out. The police had an unfair advantage here. It was too easy to break someone.
It was the third cell on the left.
He stopped outside the cell, looking through the bars. A man sat hunched on the bench at the back of the cell, legs spread with his arms resting on large thighs. He was an overweight man, old too, with a slightly round face and salt-and-pepper stubble poking out from the tanned skin of his jawline. The man's eyes were brown, dark and soulless. Mark knew soulless when he saw it.
Slowly, almost groggily, the man looked up, those dark, beady eyes locking on Mark, staring into dull blues. Mark felt a chill crawl up his spine, drawing a wicked shudder, goose bumps rising up on his arms, hairs lifting on the back of his neck. That face…. Mark narrowed his eyes, certain his fatigue and shock and grief and the lighting were all playing tricks on his eyes. He could not recognize this man. He was a murderer. A stealer of all that was good and true in the world.
That was the man who had killed Helen.
"You are Alan Colefield?"
A smile stretched onto the man's fat lips, glinting dangerously in his eyes. Mark edged back from the bars an inch, right hand twitching closer to his holster. There was a thick set of steel bars between he and the man. Mark was safe, but hardly felt it. Not when his home had been violated so recently.
Helen was dead.
"Yes. You?"
For a moment Mark considered not giving his name at all, but it was tumbling from his lips before he could even stop it. "Mark Dennings."
There was a hunger sparked on that fat, red splotched face. The shadows almost made those dints and dings in the old skin look like blood splatter. It couldn't be blood. Mark squinted into the dim, crimson light, morbid fascination wondering if it really was, even as the man, that fiend, spoke again, "I remember you. You used to live next door to me. In room 302."
Room 302. The Blue Creek Apartments. Silent Hill. Mark edged back another inch, swallowing the lump in his throat as he noticed his hand was on the cool, smooth leather of his gun's holster. He let out a shaky breath, concentrating on the man, this Alan Colefield. "How do you know that?"
"Remember me?" Colefield stood, Mark tensing, flicking the holster open. "I lived in room 304. Helen lived in 306, just on the other side of me. I was really surprised when I heard the two of you got hitched."
"You killed her." The seething accusation shot out before he could stop it. Mark's fingers coiled around the frigid grip of his police issue hand gun, index sliding into the trigger pocket. Helen did not live in Silent Hill. Mark was sure of it. He would have remembered, especially if she was just a door down. They did not even meet until they were both in the big city. "You were after me."
Colefield shook his head with a laugh. How dare he laugh? "I was after the both of you. Both born and raised in Silent Hill. Both my neighbors."
In a blur, the gun was pointed at him, eyes focusing down along the line of the black, polished barrel of the gun. His hands were shaking. His eyes kept going in and out of focus, one moment with the end of the barrel in perfect clarity, the next with Colefield's smug face in surrealistic sharpness. Mark had to remind himself to keep breathing.
"Why Helen?"
"Why not?"
His finger clenched, touching the trigger but not applying enough pressure to fire it. The taste of bile lingered at the back of his throat.
"Why us?"
Colefield shook his head, taking off the hat which covered his balding head, wiping his sweating brow with a discolored cloth. His grin was crooked. There was a tooth missing in it. Mark swallowed back the bitter tinge of vomit, refusing to lose his stomach here. Now. No. He couldn't. Mark steadied his aim.
"It is all in the master plan. And the best part, Helen did not even scream."
BANG!
Smoke trailed up from the barrel, Mark's eyes widening as he watched black well up from one spot on Colefield's checked dress-shirt, spilling down his rounded belly. Colefield took a step forward.
BANG!
This one left splatter on the wall behind him, glistening black in the dim, crimson light. His chest was becoming slick fast.
BANG!
Colefield fell back onto the bench of the cell, crooked grin still on his big lips. His head lulled slightly to the side, eyes glazed like a doll's.
BANG!
The door opened at the far end of the hall, the person at the desk rushing in, with two armed officers on each side. They relaxed when they saw it was just Mark. Shaking head to foot, Mark lowered the gun, leaning against the bars behind him, sliding down them until his knees were to his chest, barrel of the gun sagging lazily to the concrete floor.
Alan Colefield was dead. No more blood pumped from the bullet holes. It continued to glisten, shine. Mark had the urge to paint it on the walls, but remained where he was, slumped into the bars of the cell behind him.
He had to leave.
Mark forced himself to stand shakily, pushing his gun into its holster, barely able to get it in there. He staggered out past them.
"Earlier today our private investigator got a hold of a tape which shows that the reported suicide in the holding cells of the police department was actually a homicide. Warning: the footage ahead is graphic and may be viewed as disturbing."
Mark watched the television screen like a moth attracted to the flame, even as it showed the crimson lights of the detention hall in grainy black and white. It was soundless, like an old silent picture show, a horror flick for sure as the gun flashed and went off four times. Mark only remembered pulling the trigger once, and that was barely.
Groaning, Mark rested his head in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut as the reporter on the ten o-clock news continued her story.
"This video tape proves a station-wide cover up centering around the police detective Marcus Dennings, who shot the man in custody. Marcus Dennings, 27, has had a stellar record up to this point—"
With the press of a button, all of the color on the screen sucked into the center and became black, the mechanical buzz of the television vanishing, leaving him in an eerily quiet motel room. The phone was ringing. Mark groped blindly across the round, fake-wood table, finally finding the beige plastic form of the phone with his hand. He lifted the receiver and set it back down.
Moments later, the receiver sprung back to life.
Mark turned his head, staring at the phone. It rang again, shrill, grating. It rang again, incessant, annoying.
Lunging, Mark picked up it before it could ring again. He pressed the receiver slowly to his ear, voice a nervous whisper. "Hello?"
"Mark?"
"Yes?"
There was a pause, a silence, in which it felt like a cord could be snapped with the slightest pluck. Mark pushed back his apprehension, pressing the receiver closer to his ear. "Yes?" He repeated it. It did not need to be, but he did anyway. "Yes?"
"You need to turn yourself in."
Those words clung to the air, resonating on it. Mark heard a car pulling up. He set the receiver gently down on the table, so it would make no noise. Slowly, he crept towards the window, approaching it from the side and leaning just barely around the frame. There were three squad cars out front. Mark strode back over to the phone, picking it up and whispering into it frantically. "I need answers."
"And we won't get any! You blew that when you fucking killed Colefield! We finally had him!"
Mark set the receiver down gingerly again, slipping on his shoes, tying them quickly though carefully. They were his work shoes, polished and still somewhat stiff, but better than nothing. He slipped his keys into his pocket, his gun in its holster and clipped his badge to his belt. Creeping, Mark went to the window on the back side of the motel room, sliding it open, crawling through it and onto the ledge. From out there, he pushed the window shut again, nodding when the old, barely maintained locks fell shut. A malfunction normally, but perfect for now.
Taking a deep breath, Mark edged his way on the ledge, careful to hug to the wall, to not fall. He was only on the second floor. That fall wouldn't kill him. Mark looked back, continuing to move all the while. That fall would, however, break bones. That would make it impossible for him get the answers he needed.
Mark kept edging, sweat beading across his olive skin, trickling down. He was shaking, but forced himself to keep going. He was almost to the tree in the inner courtyard. Almost there.
A loud bang echoed into the quiet morning. They had just broken down the door into the motel room Mark had been in. His quickened his pace, tensing, leaping. He barely grabbed the tree branch. Breathing a sigh of relief, he worked his way down, and was soon on the floor.
His cellphone started ringing in his pocket.
"Shit!" Mark hissed, quickly fishing it out as he ran across the enclosed courtyard. He turned it on silent, shoving it back in his pocket as he flew out into the street. He was parked around front, about fifty feet away from the three squad cars. Mark ducked behind a row of shrubs, scrambling along his chosen path, keeping bent in half in hopes of not being seen. He ducked beside his car, opening the door as quietly as he could, sitting inside it.
The moment he turned that ignition, he knew they would be coming his way. He had to do this quickly and efficiently. Taking a deep breath, he looked behind him. There was a slight slope. Mark shifted it into neutral, letting the car roll backwards. They had yet to notice him. The car rolled into the road, Mark turning the key, slamming it into drive and going. His tires squealed, car standing still for a moment before gunning forward.
He had to go fast. They no doubt realized by now that he was in his car. Hopefully they had not figured out where he was going yet.
The mirror had a horror story to tell.
Mark closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. The blond locks clung together, roots oily. He had not showered in a while. Looking into the tarnished glass of the mirror again, Mark sighed. There were dark grey smudges beneath his blue eyes, and his olive tan had a sickly pale beneath it. He was trembling just standing there. He needed food. There were some fitness bars in his car, in case of emergency, but he had yet to taken the time to eat one.
He was almost there.
Leaning heavily against the sink, Mark flipped on the water. The pipes rattled, but no water came out. From the bronze and green streaks on the wall, over the once white tiles, Mark figured the pipes had busted a while ago. The rest stop looked to be as badly neglected as Mark was, with graffiti on the walls in blacks and reds and purples. Mark glanced over a few of the scrawled messages, faded and warped by too much moisture, but still barely readable. They looked religious.
Shaking his head, Mark moved away from the sink. The water came on. Mark glanced back, eyes narrowing on the stream, rust hued, which flowed from the faucet.
Mark knew, this trip was going to be far from normal.