SILENT HILL:

FORTUNATE SON

Chapter One:

Bad Moon Rising

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,

That well-known name awakens all my woes.

-Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"

'It always starts with a letter.'

That was what I thought, near the end of the day.

The things you never want to hear, never want to have happen to you, they all seem to start with a letter. A letter from your dad, telling you your mom's not looking good and doesn't have much time left. A letter from the draft board, telling you where to go and who to see about taking an exciting trip to Cambodia or Hanoi or Iraq, and what the consequences of your absence will be. A letter from an old friend, telling you to meet him in a vacation town.

That last one sounds out of place, doesn't it?

Under normal circumstances, I may have agreed with you. The person who wrote this letter to me, however, was far from a friend in my eyes. And someone who I knew to be the type who didn't write.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Joseph Wade. Maybe thirty years ago, when it meant something, I would have said "Joseph Wade, Private First Class of the United States Army".

That's right. Military man, born into a military family. Got the scars and bars to prove it. "Military Veteran" isn't actually much of a well-looked upon term these days, though. Maybe if you were on the beach at Normandy, or fighting the Nazis out of Britain, or some other glorious tale like that.

If your war was Vietnam, though…well. Not so much. Can't speak for the boys that fought in the Gulf War, or what's happening in Iraq right now, but from experience, Vietnam's not a war you're necessarily always proud to tell your grandkids about. It's not one the public gave you a hero's welcome for either, when you came back. Lucky me, though, that's the one I got.

There's not a day that goes by that I'm not reminded of it. I can see the face of a foreigner's child and think 'That one looks kind of like the one we fished out of hut we roasted'. Sometimes I see someone following behind me, out of the corner of my eye, and within moments I'm stopped, letting them pass by me. It's nothing against them, I just don't want to get stabbed or shot when I'm not looking.

There's lots of other little things, but I won't get into them. We'd be here all day. People must think 'what a weird old bastard he is!' when they see my strange behavior, but strange behavior comes with the condition that I brought back from 'Nam; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. You've probably heard about it somewhere. Maybe you even paid attention.

It hits everyone who has it a little differently. Fits and attacks, of the anxiety and panic-y kinds, are most common, and they're triggered by different things. Some people get hostile, almost feral. Others shut down. I've done both. It's never any fun. It broke up my marriage, and now I only get to see my kid, Helena, a few times a year. Never for as long as I'd like.

I have to take medications with names I couldn't pronounce at gunpoint for the PTSD and depression each day. Once when I wake up. Once midday. Once before bed. And they work, don't get me wrong. I'm a lot better than I was before people started giving a shit about people like me, and I'm used to routine behavior. It's one of the benefits Boot Camp instills upon you.

The day I got the aforementioned letter started like that. Me taking my pills with a tall glass of water, fresh out of bed after making sure all my faculties were in order. Next stop, bathroom to freshen up. Following that, breakfast-a cup of coffee and some off-brand Raisin Bran cereal, and a check of the mail.

Among the regular clutter; my monthly bill from the superintendent, handful of offers from banks and other places looking to make a buck from a busted up veteran, I saw a letter. No stamp, no return address. By postal service code, it probably shouldn't have even been there. But here it was, with my name written, neatly in print, on the front of the envelope.

I set my other mail down on the table in my dinette, and set to opening the mystery letter. Inside, folded up, was a map, and a note written on a piece of scrap paper that looked like it had about five cups of coffee thrown onto it before being written on. The thought amused me, and I raised my coffee cup to take a drink of my own.

Then I saw the text on the letter. My coffee became an afterthought.

" Joseph,

Silent Hill. Find me.

Isaac."

Isaac. Isaac. Isaac.

The name repeated through my mind, on loop. A broken record, reminding me of Vietnam. The memories that name brought with it were worse, though. Worse than the faces of the dead I still see at night. Worse than the smell of gunpowder, napalm, sulfur, cordite. Worse than the fires mingled with burning tires and rust and scorched tree bark and leaves, scattering like a rain of brass petals.

The devil himself could have signed a letter telling me my soul was forfeit to him, and I wouldn't have had the chill that torn scrap with those six words gave me.

Isaac Curtis was alive.

I got up from my chair, and tossed the letter and the still-folded map down onto the table. I put my tennis shoes-my pre-tied 'panic shoes'-on, grabbed a green zip-up jacket from the closet I kept my outdoor clothes in, and within a minute I was out the door, locking it behind me.

Room 201 of South Ashfield Heights. For seven years my home, and for the first time in a while, I was leaving there in a panic. Last time it was because I was having an anxiety attack-a documentary about the war on TV bringing back too many memories.

I passed by people as I walked down the hall,

don't make eye contact they think you're fucking insane

To the stairs. Elevator would be too confining, too slow. I had to get out, get out, get out now. When I made it outside I started walking. That's all I wanted to do…no. No, that's a lie. I wanted to run. I wanted to get as far the fuck away from that building as I could. But I walked. My bills would wait. The credit card companies could go do something off a bridge. I needed to get away. Escape.

I stopped at a convenience store for a few necessities that clinked around in the grocery bag, costing me half a week's paycheck. I'd make it back, I told myself. I needed this, I told myself.

On a whim, my next stop on my aimless journey was a café. I normally despise places like that, but in my current mental state, the last place I needed to be was home. I ordered a coffee to make up for the one I'd abandoned at home, and sat outside to drink it. I could feel myself coming down from the attack, but indoors was still a no-go right now. I drank the coffee, collecting my thoughts as best I could. Isaac Curtis was a name I could never forget, but one that I'd pushed to the back of my mind. It only ever rose up to the surface occasionally, bringing a bunch of bad stuff with it; Anxiety, Depression, Night Terrors.

As I considered the letter, and what it meant, I heard a chair scrape against the concrete, being pulled back so someone could sit across from me. I didn't look up at them. I wasn't so impolite as to ask them to move, but they could have picked a better place to sit, and a better person to talk to. I was taking a drink of coffee when they spoke.

" You know, a buddy of mine once told me something." A familiar voice spoke, as I took a long drink of my coffee. " He said, 'Russ, you ever catch me drinkin' at a hoity-toity café, you better pop me right on the fuckin' noggin'."

I lowered the cup and looked up to see an elderly man, about ten years my senior, wearing a priest's robe beneath a matching black trench coat. He wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses over his eyes, and his face wrinkled when he smiled. He reached across the meshed table and lightly tapped my head.

" Well," I responded with a smile, relaxing for the first time since I'd gotten up, " I once had a buddy tell me that he'd never want to bother a man drinking a nice cup o' joe, and he'd probably leave 'em the hell alone, lest HE get popped in the noggin'."

The priest nodded a little, thoughtfully, before replying, still smiling. " That guy was probably a real asshole, huh?"

" No doubt." I smiled back, reaching across to shake the hand of my best friend, Father Russell Williams, who shook it with such warmth that the January cold seemed to leave for a moment.

Not many priests I knew of were like Russell Williams, but then again, most people didn't serve in a war with their priest. I first met him back when I was first deployed, and he was basically our unit's 'Team Dad'. He was the most senior of all of us, built like a grizzly bear. His hair was brown, then, and the tattoos on the fingers of his left hand, spelling out "1967", the year he was deployed, weren't as faded. He didn't speak about his future, but I don't guess any of us in the unit thought "Papa Will" would go on to become "Father Williams". I guess somewhere around the time he came back he found God.

I couldn't say the same for myself, but for some reason the old bastard didn't give up on me. He'd seen me smiling and seen me in tears, and I was happy to say he was part of the reason I've been sober for about five years now. Something that filled me with guilt when I glanced down at the grocery bag full of beer bottles.

" How in the world have you been, Joe? I haven't seen you since the last meetup." he said, speaking of the last time me and our biker buddies, all vets, met. Russ was the leader of the group. We weren't like the kind of bikers that centered our lives around it, the kind you hear getting rowdy or anything, more like weekend riders meeting up once or twice every month and hitting the road.

" I've been better, I gotta say." I chuckled, rubbing the back of my head nervously. Russ's smile dropped and he folded his hands, looking suddenly like the pastor again. I'd been to his service a couple of times, but never frequently enough to be called a regular or even a member of the church.

" What's happened, Joe?" he asked, before spotting the bag through the ornate meshed pattern of the café's table. He turned his head, seeing the bottles inside, and looked back at me, sadly. " Oh, Joseph, you haven't."

I was guilty in an instant. I shook my head, making sure to make eye contact with him before I said, " Not yet.", lowering my head. He put one of his hands, on my free arm.

" Is whatever's troubling you that bad?" he asked, softly.

I nodded. " To me, yeah". I felt his hand squeeze my arm, and looked back up at him.

" What's happened?" he asked, again, pulling his chair around to the side of the table, closer to me so I could keep my voice down. I thought for a few moments. This man knew me, knew every one of my secrets. I didn't need to sit in a confessional booth to tell him, and he wouldn't spill them at gunpoint. He knew what had happened in 'Nam.

" I got a letter. From Isaac Curtis."

I saw Russ's mouth open only a little in surprise, but for someone like him, it was telltale for a greater shock. That's probably how I looked when I saw the signature on the letter. He took his hand away from my arm and thought, for a few moments. " I see. You're sure it's him? Not some prankster, someone that knows-"

" The only one I've told is you. I didn't even tell Sarah." at this, he pursed his lips and thought harder. Sarah was my wife, now ex. We'd met before the war, and married afterwards. We even had a daughter. But as the years went by, my mental condition worsened. And she couldn't handle it. The weeks of me waking at night, screaming, going into rage induced fits. I said and did some things I should never do to someone I married, and I can't blame her for leaving. We don't hate each other now or anything, and I still get to see Helena, our girl, now and then, but…it doesn't stop me from missing them.

" You're positive it's him?". Russ's voice snapped me back into reality. " Is it his same style of writing?"

" It's been so long that I can't even remember." I admitted.

He nodded. " Silly question, sorry. What did it say?" he went on.

" Just four words: 'Silent Hill. Find Me.', and his name."

He once again opened his mouth, this time at the mention of Silent Hill. " Oh…hm." he murmured, ponderingly. " I've heard the name somewhere before, but I can't recall where. I'd assume it's a town, if he's asking you to find him…"

" Do you think he's still alive, though?" I asked, my voice hopefully carrying the weight I meant the question to have. He turned and looked at me.

" I can't say, Joseph. I wasn't there, and you were the last one to see him. Nobody would blame you for what happened, but.."

I put my head in my hands, squinting my eyes like a kid that was getting too much shampoo in his eyes in the bath. I felt the sting of tears, and felt the memories coming back to me once more. Russell put his hand on my shoulder again. " Joseph, it's up to you." he said after a few moments. " It's up to you, if you want to try to find him. I won't question whatever decision you make, but going somewhere to get plastered isn't going to solve a thing. We both know that. Think really hard about what you're going to do."

I nodded. The sting around my eyes went away as I took in deep breaths, choking back a sob. Finally, once finally relaxed, I spoke once again.

" I think…I think I have to." I said, decisively. " If I don't, then I'll just wonder for the rest of my life. I've got too many things eating away at me, and I need to know." I chuckled a little, trying to add some humor to the strange, grim situation. Russ nodded. " You'll have to figure out where Silent Hill is yourself, though. I can't help you there."

" I think I have an idea on how to find out. I should…probably head back home." I said, rising up, leaving my empty coffee cup for a waiter or waitress to get. Russell stood with me and gave me a short hug, but one I probably needed.

" You'll be alright." he said with a smile. " You know if you need to talk, I'm a phone call away." he says. " By the way, how much did you pay?" He asked, nodding down to the bag of beer. It took me a minute to piece together why he asked.

" Oh, you don't have to." I said, running my hand across the back of my head, feeling my dark hair bristle against my fingers.

" I have to. You don't need this, Joe. You're stronger than you think you are. I'll dispose of it." he said. He'd reached down into the bag to see the receipt by now, after checking it with squinted eyes, he released it, took his wallet out, and handed me fifty dollars. I saw the look in his eyes, and knew he wouldn't accept a denial of the charity. He took the bag, in exchange, and I knew there wasn't any fighting with him. I couldn't, even if the thought had crossed my mind before he left.

With his free hand, he gave me a quick, halfhearted salute, one that I returned with a small smile after pocketing the two twenties and a ten. " Take care of yourself, Joseph. Good luck and God bless you." he said, turning after I'd said my "Goodbye", and heading down the street.

For a few moments I was alone, standing outside the coffee shop, before I took my tenuous first steps back to South Ashfield Heights. Russell was right; I could run and hide all I wanted, but that letter was still going to be there. I needed to check some things, have a plan, before I went out blind. First order of business was finding out where Silent Hill was. I didn't know where to look, myself, but I knew someone who did…

" Sarah? Yeah, it's me, Joseph." I said, nervous, into the phone's speaker. Even after all this time, talking with Sarah still felt like I was trying to talk to someone who I'd done wrong, each time. Probably because I had done wrong. It wasn't her fault for the awkwardness, of course, but even so, what do you say? 'I miss you, I want a second chance? Without you I'm just a bitter old man counting the days until the big dirt-nap?'. I made conversation, simply out of habit. Catching up on things, all that.

I'm pleased to hear that Helena is in a relationship now. Her first 'serious' one, since elementary school, where a romantic relationship meant an 'I Like You' and a kiss on the cheek now and then. It almost makes me forget about the occasion for calling.

" Has she told him-" I began, before being cut off by Sarah's correction. I feel an embarrassed heat rise to my cheeks. " Oh. 'Her'. Has Helena told her that her pop's a war vet and not to hurt her?" I ask, chuckling playfully at Sarah's exasperated response. " Well, coincidentally, I wanted to talk with her. Ah, wanted to have her look up directions to a town. She's the tech fiend, y'know. It's for business, I may have a job there." I said, lying and hoping she bought it, feeling guilty about the fib. A few moments later and I heard my daughter's voice on the other end.

" Hey there, dad!" my daughter, seventeen, chirped into the phone. I looked up instinctively at the picture on my living room wall, the most recent school photo taken of her. Dark hair like mine, but pretty blue eyes like her mom's. It's shorter than most other girl's by choice, and I guess that might have been a hint at something, considering what Sarah told me. But she's got her mom's freckles too, and a smile that warms my heart every time I see it. Below it is a newspaper clipping, with the headline,

" North Ashfield High School Wins Girl's Track Meet "

Followed by names of all the girls on the team. But only one name matters to me: "Helena Wade, 16". And a picture below it shows her with her team, and their trophy.

" Hey, Helena. Heard you're getting hitched soon." I said, playing embarrassing dad. Her groan told me I've done my job.

" Daaad." she groaned, though I could hear her smile in her voice. " You know we can't get married, even if I wanted to."

" Ah, I know. I'm just fuckin' with you. I'm happy for you though. Is she good?"

" Yeah, Casey-that's her name-she's really sweet to me. It took mom a while to get used to the idea, but she doesn't seem to mind. Glad you don't, either."

" I'm just happy if you're happy, hon." It was the truth, too. " So, your mom tell you why I called?"

" Nope, she just said you wanted to talk. What's up?"

" Well, a buddy of mine sent me a letter recently offering me work, and he told me to come to a place called Silent Hill. Damndest thing, though, he didn't tell me where it was. I was going to see if you could pull up anything on the computer about the place for me."

" On it." she said, and within moments I could hear the clicking of her fingers against her computer's keyboard. A few more moments. " Got something." she said, followed by a few clicks of her computer mouse. A thoughtful sigh and a humming noise, before she spoke up.

" Alright, here we go. There are actually two different towns in the U.S. named Silent Hill. One's in West Virginia, but you probably don't want that one. It's a mining town, says there are fires still burning underground. Not a safe place. The one you're after is probably the closer one, in Maine. It's a rural town that's popular for vacations, says here. It was built really close to Toluca Lake, and it's popular for couples and people looking for a special place to vacation. Really good place for weddings, etcetera, etcetera…hm. This is odd."

" What?". I feel the hairs on my arms bristle, instinctively. 'Odd' is usually a codeword for 'Bad shit' in my experience.

" Apparently a few people have gone missing there in the last twenty years. Doesn't name names, and the authorities don't seem to think anything's up, since the place is generally so peaceful. A few people suggested that they might have committed suicide by jumping in the lake, but nobody's ever sent a party down there to search. Some folks speculate about people practicing voodoo and witchcraft-y stuff."

" Well that sounds lovely." I say with a false chuckle.

" Yeah. All the same it's got great reviews from travel sites. I wonder what kind of work he'd want you to do at a vacation town though?"

" I'm wondering that myself…" I say, partially to myself. " Anyway, how long of a drive do you think it is?"

" Hmmm…probably no further than half a day's drive according to this map site. Let me know your address and I'll get you directions."

Several minutes later, I've written down the directions. Easy enough to follow. I thought to myself, while copying her instructions, that it was odd I'd never heard of the town if it were such a popular getaway. I couldn't recall even seeing a commercial or magazine ad for it anywhere. Maybe it was more of a word of mouth situation, though.

" Alright, got it. Thanks again, Helena."

" No problem dad. You sure everything's okay?" she asked. The question shouldn't have made me choke, but it did.

" Yeah." I said after a few minutes. " Yeah, it's just been kinda lonely here lately. Why'd you ask?"

" I just had a hunch." she responded, and I could almost hear the shrug she gave. " Just don't turn into a missing person's case, ok? Don't make me or mom have to come find you." she snickered. The statement was meant to have humor, but I had to force a laugh. Circumstances wouldn't have allowed a genuine one.

" Alright, hon. I'll call you when I get back. I guess I should start getting some stuff together and set out in the morning. Maybe the town'll do me some good, keep my mind off things." I said.

" Okay, dad. Really, though, just be careful. I miss you." she said.

" I miss you too." I responded. There was a pause of a few moments before I said " I love you."

" I love you too, dad. Take care."

" You too."

And with that, we said our goodbyes, and the phone went silent. A few moments later, it was back on the hook, and I was sitting at my table, once again staring at a letter from a dead man, trying to find the meaning in it.

I looked at the map that came with it, the one I had yet to unfold. I proceeded to do so, and found it to be rather large. It covered up half the table, fully unfolded. Somehow, I wasn't surprised to see that it was a map of Silent Hill.

One particular place on the map, however, was marked by a red circle:

" Cornerstone Apt. Building ".

Looks like I knew where he wanted to meet. I studied the map carefully, before standing up once more and popping my neck. A beer sounded good right about now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not after the meeting with Russell earlier today. I headed into my bedroom, eyes glancing at various items in my dim apartment as I made the trip; Books on the shelf I'd probably never getting around to reading, a Television I'd practically glued myself to, workout equipment in the corner of the living room closet I used to attempt to keep my body from becoming any more achy or worn than it already was.

Once inside my bedroom, I found myself looking up at a wall with several framed photographs lining it. Pictures from Vietnam. There was one of just me; a young boy with short hair, growing back in from its buzz cut I'd gotten for the military, bangs peeking out from under my helmet. In the picture, I'm looking at the camera, forcing the tiniest of smiles, my hands folded over the top of the butt of my gun, my thumb hooked into the strap of a bag I'm carrying off-camera. In this picture I'm still nineteen years old. It was taken on one of my first months on tour.

As the months passed, I would grow closer to the group I'm with in another photograph; a group of grizzled men, by this point all battle hardened. I'm standing next to Russ, then known as "Papa Will", a grizzled man of thirty who wouldn't be out of place in an eighties action movie. Nearby are a black man wearing a bandana to block the sweat from his forehead, and a balding guy with a pot belly sticking out from his open jacket, thankfully covered by a tank top underneath. They're Privates Frank Waters and "Poor Ol'" Jim Thomas, a guy who we used to joke had about as good luck with women in 'Nam as an armless man has playing baseball. There are a couple other boys in the picture, but curiously absent from this one is one of the squad's leaders-even though the real brains of the group was Russell, which everyone knew.

I remembered this man despite his absence in the photograph. Every line on his face. His hard jaw, his thick brow, his cold viper's eyes that had seen men die and a grim mouth that only seemed to smile when he had an assault rifle in his hands and a target in sight.

Gunnery Sergeant Isaac Curtis, my partner on several missions.

I couldn't recall why he was missing from this particular picture, but it was fine. His was a face I didn't need on my wall of memories. It was this picture though, that I wanted to see the most.

I reached for this picture, taking it from the wall, and exposing a safe that, with the superintendent's permission, I had built in. It was a simple white, plastic thing, big enough for maybe a shoebox, with a digital lock on the front.

As I entered the four digit password, "1-9-6-9", I chuckled to myself. 'The worst kind of shit you can get yourself into, the worst news you never want to hear, always seems to start with a letter.' I thought. The digital display on the safe blinked the word "OPEN", and a click told me I could now open its door.

Inside of the safe was a shoebox. I carefully removed it, sweat dampening my forehead as I sat down on the bed with it. It was something I thought I would never need, but if Isaac Curtis really was alive, then I told myself that now was the time to take it out. I could not recall why I kept this memento, what possessed me to keep it in my residence, inside a safe, but life works in mysterious ways. The forces of nature, or the forces of fate, maybe even God, can tell people to do strange things with no immediate apparent purpose.

With a sigh that made me feel ten years older, I lifted the shoebox's lid. Inside it was a tool primarily used by soldiers in times of war. It was a standard issue M1911A1 pistol given to me during my service in the war. Next to it were two clips of bullets, and underneath were forms for my last will and testament, already done up.

I never thought I would need that fucking gun again.

But if Isaac was really alive after all this time, and if he really had called for me…then perhaps I would need to use it one more time.