SILENT HILL: ENDLESS CHASM ==- CHAPTER 1 - The Greatest Teacher
Neil Spencer, head on desk, drool eminating from it. A man in his late 20's, brown hair, hazel eyes. Rough stubble on his face. Could be from anywhere. Constant work for the past 2 months. A break from school? Think again. Essays and articles abound. For all the time Neil had been working, kids had been off to places. Movies. Arcades. Concerts. Places Neil couldn't go. Places he couldn't think of going. Places he couldn't even dream of going. He loved what he did. He was a history teacher in Roedell Elementary School, a prestigious building, full of tradition, and believe it or not, very scholarly youngsters, ranging from ages 5 to 8.
They were all the best in history - especially Civil War history - and Neil was to thank for it by the administration.Their history grades soared, and peaked during the Civil War classes, which was Neil's favorite time from history. He taught it with such preciseiveness and clarity that everyone understood was he was saying. The message was to the point and they got A's on all their tests in Civil War.
Neil was so good, he made the best Harvard teachers look bad. He made the Princeton teachers look like daycare. He turned the Oxford professors ways of teaching into mockeries of the very thing education stood for. He was a god among scholars. However, he was a person who never thought too highly of himself and always pushed himself to the limits which is why he was making 10,000 dollars a year instead of 150,000 at some place like MIT. He looked forward to - and at the same time dreaded - the off-season. Always during the off-season he would pump more information into his brain, run himself to the edge. By the end of the break, he would know so much the steroid-injected wisdom would have a tizzy fit, spin your head 360 degrees, dropkick it out the window like an old football, then call a surgical airstrike upon it. He could instantly recall the entire diary of General Lee and would constantly recite Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation.
Professors? They were nothing. Everyone knew it, everyone accepted it. That is, except for the very man who made brilliant mathematicians sob, who made the english teachers crumble, who converted history into a science, then into an art, then back again to a science whenever he pleased - with ease.
Then it hit him. His very first dream since he started teaching. Every other sleep since then had been a blank. One minute he would be awake, the next sleeping for a brief moment in darkness, then for what semed like an even shorter amount of time, he woke up once more at 5:30, good as new.
The dream was strange. Stranger than what he could remember dreams being like. It was very, very vivid. He saw an old, dusty place. People were moving around it, pulling books off shelves. The books would throw dust everywhere and some people would sneeze with much force. Everyone was whispering, but at least they were making some kind of noise. Some kind of signal to show that their brains were still receiving oxygen. Neil saw himself on a desk writing furiously as a huge mound of paper was laying on the desk he was writing on, each one filled with miniscule handwritten letters. He had been in here forever, but still there was work to be done. If you counted the pieces of paper, which had been written on both sides, you could count more than 500. Still writing letters madly was Neil. He looked much different. He was very scruffy and pale. He obviously never got any sunshine. He had a big hair and a huge, hairy beard that went everywhere. He was gangly, minus the silliness. There were a few friction burns on his fingers from writing so fast for so long. His handwriting was very, very good. Even more amazing for the speed and amount of time he had been writing.
Suddenly, he heard a group of people screaming. He looked out to the window. He was very high up, wherever he was. Suddenly from a door in the large room came a woman.
"NEIL! HURRY! PLEASE HURRY! DON'T ASK WHAT'S GOING ON, JUST FOLLOW ME!"
Neil followed the woman up a few flights of stairs. How big was this place?! Eventually, they reached the top. The woman entered a small room. The attic of the building. She pointed towards a big glass door that lead outside. Neil opened the door and skimmied across the ledge. What was he doing?
He saw tons of people down below, screaming and shouting at something around the corner. He finally made it around. He screamed at the sight. He screamed ever harder as his voice's pitch went up. And up. Higher and higher until it sounded like ---
An alarm clock. Neil groaned and shuffed his head on the table. It kept on ringing and a very groggy Neil mumbled something inaudible about the clock. It was becoming very irritating, but Neil was too tired to turn it off. He almost fell asleep again. Finally, he got the energy to move his arm very slowly towards the clock and he slammed down on the top of it, sending it toppling down, making a funny bell sound as gravity slammed it into the carpet flooring of Neil's apartment. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at his clock, then at his work. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, stretching his arms out. He pulled out a cloth and wiped the drool off from the table. He then stood up, stretching his back and legs. The stretch made him dizzy. He yawned again and trudged over to the refrigerator like an old man. He opened it up and the light inside turned on, making him close his eyes. All the windows were still draped so that the light wouldn't get in. His eyes adapted to the light and then he looked around. Orange Juice. Butter. He pulled both the items out and set them on a counter about 5 feet away, then pulled a bag of bread off the top of the fridge and set it down next to the other items. He hooked up his toaster, put two pieces of bread inside them, then pushed down on the levers. While it toasted, he opened up a cabinet revealing many plastic cups and mugs. He pulled out a mug and poured some juice into it. It filled up to the top and then completely ran out. It would be until friday, or rather tomorrow, that he would get his paycheck. He had ten dollars left in his account. He took the empty carton and threw it away into an empty trashcan which he had changed bags the night before. It made a soft noise as it hit the mass produced material and then made a thunk as it hit the bottom of the can.
He turned on the kitchen light, and as soon as the light came on and the switch made a little click sound, the toaster rung and the newly toasted popped out. He walked back over to the toaster and pulled out the toast. He withdrew a paper plate from another cabinet and set it on the counter, then putting the toast that was searing his hand on top of it.
"Ah, shoot."
He accidentally grabbed 3 plates. Coincidentally, like the orange juice, it was the last of its kind residing within the apartment.
"Oh well, they're cheap. I can always get some more when tomorrow's pay comes through."
A knife was laying nearby. He cut into the butter and spread it across his toast. He then put the butter away. Finally, he grabbed the plate and his juice and turned on his small TV.
"--and then, he ran away."
Just audio. Then the visuals appeared. A bearded man was on television. The History channel. He was being interview by a squirly looking man with a moustache. The moustached man said, "So, what is your final opinion?"
Neil began to drink his juice as the bearded man put his finger up and said, "It is not my opinion, it is the truth. Custer did live! He survived his last stand!"
Suddenly, orange juice cannonballed out from Neil's nose, nearly hitting the TV. Neil laughed and said during his laughter, "Oh boy! We've got a real loon here! Dream on!"
He watched the interview of the so-called historian and consumed his breakfast. After he was done, he was ready for another long day of writing. So he wrote. He wrote through the whole day and into the night. He put down his french fry box and burped. "Excuse me." said Neil.
He had bought a fast food dinner with his last 10 dollars. He sat up, moving his chair aside as well as his new 250 pages of writing. He went to the bathroom and washed his face with freezing water, then went over to the toilet, opening his zipper. He thought for a moment as the toilet water turned green. He was trying to think of the Civil War... He couldn't. After about 15 seconds, he was done and pulled up his zipper. He flushed the toilet and went back over to his desk, sitting down at the desk. He thought and thought. He couldn't. He couldn't think of anything. He was out of ideas. Out of everything. He was mentally exhausted and he had nothing else to write about. He knew nothing else. He had put most of his serious stuff into this enormous book he had been writing. According to his contract, he was to write a 350 page book. He had only written 300. Where would he get the other pages worth of information? He only had 4 days left until he had to send out the finished work.
He put the idea to bed as well as himself. He hoped it was just his brain getting to him, being that it was very late and that you can't usually think straight at 3:00 AM. The warm, wonderful bed welcomed him. He crawled in. Bliss. All the parts in the world came together at that moment as he plunged into deep sleep.
----------------------------------
A blur. What was this place..? He looked around. He was in the room from before. The room where he was writing everything in the library. Everything looked different. Old. Delapidated. He looked around the room and was overwhelmed by sadness. He once knew this place at one time or another.
Another blur, this time closer to him than before. He looked around. Without warning, air raid sirens vibrated the room as they sung their terrible song. It was so loud that Neil curled up onto the floor, grasping his head in pain. Then it stopped. The floor felt cold. He looked at it.
The floor was made out of rusted steel grating and the walls were covered in blood. Veins were everywhere on the walls and the ceiling. Then -- an unspeakable horror. Some so terrifying that the very sight of it could kill. Neil felt his insides freeze. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. There was a strange feeling all across him. All of his muscles tightened up. The freeze was not cold and that perhaps was just as horrific as the monster.
Just then, a thought hit him, his last thought.. He tried to remember what could do this. Medusa? Strange.
His skin then turned to stone. A second later, the monster let out an enormous roar and his rock body shattered in every direction.
---------------------------------
Fear had taken him. He knew he was dead. He had to be. He opened his eyes. Back on his bed. A drop of sweat streamed across his face and down his neck. The entire bed was wet. He sat up and looked around, unbelieving at that moment that his room was real. He felt the walls and the bed. It was all there. His refuge. He was alive. He was healthy. He realized it and let his upper body collapse back onto the bed. He grabbed his favorite pillow and cried quietly into it. The stress was taking its toll on him. He needed to get away somewhere far where they wouldn't find him. He couldn't take it any longer.
He got up out of bed sometime later and did all his usual morning activities: Shower, breakfast, but with no toast or orange juice. Milk and cookies would have to suffice. His paycheck automatically arrived in his account and Neil was ready to go. Before it was even noon, he packed all of his things. Something had excited him.
A broucher to a small getaway town. It was close. It read:
"Looking to get away to a tranquil place where nobody will find you? Life getting to you? You just can't take it anymore? Well, head on down to Silent Hill. We've got everything you need for a nice, relaxing vacation. A gorgeous lake, a beautiful hotel overlooking it, and a culture drowned in Civil War history. There's even an amusement park near the lake as well.
Silent Hill; quiet, peaceful, perfect. We made it tailored just for you. Relax, it's on us! "
The broucher unfolded into directions and a map of the whole town. The broucher was right. It really was just for him. He loved lakes, he loved hotels, and he hadn't been to an amusement park since he was a kid.
But best of all, it was his new source for information.
He left the apartment at 1:00 and left for Silent Hill. He couldn't wait to get there.
Neil Spencer, head on desk, drool eminating from it. A man in his late 20's, brown hair, hazel eyes. Rough stubble on his face. Could be from anywhere. Constant work for the past 2 months. A break from school? Think again. Essays and articles abound. For all the time Neil had been working, kids had been off to places. Movies. Arcades. Concerts. Places Neil couldn't go. Places he couldn't think of going. Places he couldn't even dream of going. He loved what he did. He was a history teacher in Roedell Elementary School, a prestigious building, full of tradition, and believe it or not, very scholarly youngsters, ranging from ages 5 to 8.
They were all the best in history - especially Civil War history - and Neil was to thank for it by the administration.Their history grades soared, and peaked during the Civil War classes, which was Neil's favorite time from history. He taught it with such preciseiveness and clarity that everyone understood was he was saying. The message was to the point and they got A's on all their tests in Civil War.
Neil was so good, he made the best Harvard teachers look bad. He made the Princeton teachers look like daycare. He turned the Oxford professors ways of teaching into mockeries of the very thing education stood for. He was a god among scholars. However, he was a person who never thought too highly of himself and always pushed himself to the limits which is why he was making 10,000 dollars a year instead of 150,000 at some place like MIT. He looked forward to - and at the same time dreaded - the off-season. Always during the off-season he would pump more information into his brain, run himself to the edge. By the end of the break, he would know so much the steroid-injected wisdom would have a tizzy fit, spin your head 360 degrees, dropkick it out the window like an old football, then call a surgical airstrike upon it. He could instantly recall the entire diary of General Lee and would constantly recite Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation.
Professors? They were nothing. Everyone knew it, everyone accepted it. That is, except for the very man who made brilliant mathematicians sob, who made the english teachers crumble, who converted history into a science, then into an art, then back again to a science whenever he pleased - with ease.
Then it hit him. His very first dream since he started teaching. Every other sleep since then had been a blank. One minute he would be awake, the next sleeping for a brief moment in darkness, then for what semed like an even shorter amount of time, he woke up once more at 5:30, good as new.
The dream was strange. Stranger than what he could remember dreams being like. It was very, very vivid. He saw an old, dusty place. People were moving around it, pulling books off shelves. The books would throw dust everywhere and some people would sneeze with much force. Everyone was whispering, but at least they were making some kind of noise. Some kind of signal to show that their brains were still receiving oxygen. Neil saw himself on a desk writing furiously as a huge mound of paper was laying on the desk he was writing on, each one filled with miniscule handwritten letters. He had been in here forever, but still there was work to be done. If you counted the pieces of paper, which had been written on both sides, you could count more than 500. Still writing letters madly was Neil. He looked much different. He was very scruffy and pale. He obviously never got any sunshine. He had a big hair and a huge, hairy beard that went everywhere. He was gangly, minus the silliness. There were a few friction burns on his fingers from writing so fast for so long. His handwriting was very, very good. Even more amazing for the speed and amount of time he had been writing.
Suddenly, he heard a group of people screaming. He looked out to the window. He was very high up, wherever he was. Suddenly from a door in the large room came a woman.
"NEIL! HURRY! PLEASE HURRY! DON'T ASK WHAT'S GOING ON, JUST FOLLOW ME!"
Neil followed the woman up a few flights of stairs. How big was this place?! Eventually, they reached the top. The woman entered a small room. The attic of the building. She pointed towards a big glass door that lead outside. Neil opened the door and skimmied across the ledge. What was he doing?
He saw tons of people down below, screaming and shouting at something around the corner. He finally made it around. He screamed at the sight. He screamed ever harder as his voice's pitch went up. And up. Higher and higher until it sounded like ---
An alarm clock. Neil groaned and shuffed his head on the table. It kept on ringing and a very groggy Neil mumbled something inaudible about the clock. It was becoming very irritating, but Neil was too tired to turn it off. He almost fell asleep again. Finally, he got the energy to move his arm very slowly towards the clock and he slammed down on the top of it, sending it toppling down, making a funny bell sound as gravity slammed it into the carpet flooring of Neil's apartment. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at his clock, then at his work. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, stretching his arms out. He pulled out a cloth and wiped the drool off from the table. He then stood up, stretching his back and legs. The stretch made him dizzy. He yawned again and trudged over to the refrigerator like an old man. He opened it up and the light inside turned on, making him close his eyes. All the windows were still draped so that the light wouldn't get in. His eyes adapted to the light and then he looked around. Orange Juice. Butter. He pulled both the items out and set them on a counter about 5 feet away, then pulled a bag of bread off the top of the fridge and set it down next to the other items. He hooked up his toaster, put two pieces of bread inside them, then pushed down on the levers. While it toasted, he opened up a cabinet revealing many plastic cups and mugs. He pulled out a mug and poured some juice into it. It filled up to the top and then completely ran out. It would be until friday, or rather tomorrow, that he would get his paycheck. He had ten dollars left in his account. He took the empty carton and threw it away into an empty trashcan which he had changed bags the night before. It made a soft noise as it hit the mass produced material and then made a thunk as it hit the bottom of the can.
He turned on the kitchen light, and as soon as the light came on and the switch made a little click sound, the toaster rung and the newly toasted popped out. He walked back over to the toaster and pulled out the toast. He withdrew a paper plate from another cabinet and set it on the counter, then putting the toast that was searing his hand on top of it.
"Ah, shoot."
He accidentally grabbed 3 plates. Coincidentally, like the orange juice, it was the last of its kind residing within the apartment.
"Oh well, they're cheap. I can always get some more when tomorrow's pay comes through."
A knife was laying nearby. He cut into the butter and spread it across his toast. He then put the butter away. Finally, he grabbed the plate and his juice and turned on his small TV.
"--and then, he ran away."
Just audio. Then the visuals appeared. A bearded man was on television. The History channel. He was being interview by a squirly looking man with a moustache. The moustached man said, "So, what is your final opinion?"
Neil began to drink his juice as the bearded man put his finger up and said, "It is not my opinion, it is the truth. Custer did live! He survived his last stand!"
Suddenly, orange juice cannonballed out from Neil's nose, nearly hitting the TV. Neil laughed and said during his laughter, "Oh boy! We've got a real loon here! Dream on!"
He watched the interview of the so-called historian and consumed his breakfast. After he was done, he was ready for another long day of writing. So he wrote. He wrote through the whole day and into the night. He put down his french fry box and burped. "Excuse me." said Neil.
He had bought a fast food dinner with his last 10 dollars. He sat up, moving his chair aside as well as his new 250 pages of writing. He went to the bathroom and washed his face with freezing water, then went over to the toilet, opening his zipper. He thought for a moment as the toilet water turned green. He was trying to think of the Civil War... He couldn't. After about 15 seconds, he was done and pulled up his zipper. He flushed the toilet and went back over to his desk, sitting down at the desk. He thought and thought. He couldn't. He couldn't think of anything. He was out of ideas. Out of everything. He was mentally exhausted and he had nothing else to write about. He knew nothing else. He had put most of his serious stuff into this enormous book he had been writing. According to his contract, he was to write a 350 page book. He had only written 300. Where would he get the other pages worth of information? He only had 4 days left until he had to send out the finished work.
He put the idea to bed as well as himself. He hoped it was just his brain getting to him, being that it was very late and that you can't usually think straight at 3:00 AM. The warm, wonderful bed welcomed him. He crawled in. Bliss. All the parts in the world came together at that moment as he plunged into deep sleep.
----------------------------------
A blur. What was this place..? He looked around. He was in the room from before. The room where he was writing everything in the library. Everything looked different. Old. Delapidated. He looked around the room and was overwhelmed by sadness. He once knew this place at one time or another.
Another blur, this time closer to him than before. He looked around. Without warning, air raid sirens vibrated the room as they sung their terrible song. It was so loud that Neil curled up onto the floor, grasping his head in pain. Then it stopped. The floor felt cold. He looked at it.
The floor was made out of rusted steel grating and the walls were covered in blood. Veins were everywhere on the walls and the ceiling. Then -- an unspeakable horror. Some so terrifying that the very sight of it could kill. Neil felt his insides freeze. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. There was a strange feeling all across him. All of his muscles tightened up. The freeze was not cold and that perhaps was just as horrific as the monster.
Just then, a thought hit him, his last thought.. He tried to remember what could do this. Medusa? Strange.
His skin then turned to stone. A second later, the monster let out an enormous roar and his rock body shattered in every direction.
---------------------------------
Fear had taken him. He knew he was dead. He had to be. He opened his eyes. Back on his bed. A drop of sweat streamed across his face and down his neck. The entire bed was wet. He sat up and looked around, unbelieving at that moment that his room was real. He felt the walls and the bed. It was all there. His refuge. He was alive. He was healthy. He realized it and let his upper body collapse back onto the bed. He grabbed his favorite pillow and cried quietly into it. The stress was taking its toll on him. He needed to get away somewhere far where they wouldn't find him. He couldn't take it any longer.
He got up out of bed sometime later and did all his usual morning activities: Shower, breakfast, but with no toast or orange juice. Milk and cookies would have to suffice. His paycheck automatically arrived in his account and Neil was ready to go. Before it was even noon, he packed all of his things. Something had excited him.
A broucher to a small getaway town. It was close. It read:
"Looking to get away to a tranquil place where nobody will find you? Life getting to you? You just can't take it anymore? Well, head on down to Silent Hill. We've got everything you need for a nice, relaxing vacation. A gorgeous lake, a beautiful hotel overlooking it, and a culture drowned in Civil War history. There's even an amusement park near the lake as well.
Silent Hill; quiet, peaceful, perfect. We made it tailored just for you. Relax, it's on us! "
The broucher unfolded into directions and a map of the whole town. The broucher was right. It really was just for him. He loved lakes, he loved hotels, and he hadn't been to an amusement park since he was a kid.
But best of all, it was his new source for information.
He left the apartment at 1:00 and left for Silent Hill. He couldn't wait to get there.