Disclaimer: Eileen, Henry and all "Silent Hill" characters therein are property of Konami, not me. The only thing I claim rights to is Zowie and the story itself.

Warnings: Strong, gory imagery.

Other: Admittedly, I took some liberties with the concept of Silent Hill as a tainted town and how it affects its residents, but I don't see any harm in bending the "rules" of the town for the sake of a fan story. All the same, please read with an open mind.

It had been drizzling ash for just over five minutes. Before then, the early afternoon sun sliced insistently through the clouds to light the backyard in patches. The branches of the walnut tree that had been planted decades before Henry and Eileen decided to move into their quaint two-story townhouse with the blue shutters on Munson Street swayed in a breeze that was too delicious to pass up. The curtains were parted, windows were flung open and the house was steadily filled with the coppery scent of unfiltered water, presumably from the lake up the street, and gardenias. Henry stood at a window, his hands splayed on the ledge, and sniffed at the air until his head swam.

The clatter of dishes was enough to tear him away from his feasting on the wind. Eileen was in the kitchen, fiddling with the knobs on the stove. Henry stood in the alcove and watched her. Slim figure draped in a scant camisole and jeans, bare feet. Her hair was just long enough now to gather in a low ponytail. She was preparing tea, using her favorite kettle, the one with the trellis pattern that crept upward toward the lid. A gift from her grandmother who had painted that pattern in her youth. Eileen turned the stove on higher and held the kettle just over the burner, her gaze suddenly drawn to the little slot window over the sink. Clouds gathered, effectively blotting out the sun, and ash began to fall. In fifteen minutes the siren would blare. They didn't know how that worked, how the town knew, but ash was always the precursor to the siren.

Without looking at him, she said, "Put the dog outside, Henry."

He didn't budge from his spot in the alcove. Merely eyed the animal in question: a handsome English Pointer snoozing on the couch in the living room, his head burrowed between the folds of an old afghan. He was a stray they found trembling beneath a parked car last autumn, half-starved and still a puppy. But he was an affectionate dog who came eagerly running to them when they called. Henry named him Zowie for the crosshatch of black fur on his side in the shape of a "Z", only because Eileen had adamantly refused to call him Zorro.

"Maybe," he began, turning his palms outwards in an entreating gesture, "we'll be safe today."

Eileen cautiously assessed the clock overhead. Almost nine minutes had passed already. In another six, the siren would sound from the dark recesses of Silent Hill and the streets and anything wandering them would darken and morph into an unrecognizable mass of scars and gaping wounds and chapped, bloody, screaming mouths. If one were lucky enough to remain unchanged, one still had to contend with monsters that could only have been conceived from the combined imagination of one hundred mad men. Groaning creatures fused to wheelchairs, begging for death through lips where their eyes should have been. Eileen nearly made the mistake of leaving the house during this time once. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard something gasping, coughing wetly, scratching on the front door from the outside. It spoke to her, she supposed, in a raspy, mangled language; inviting her to be its plaything. The next day she invested in steel bars and bolts, designed to keep all manner of unspeakable horror from breaking in. The clerk ringing her up understood. When he was a teenager, his little sister was accidentally locked outside. The girl pounded and shrieked at the windows, but something came and tore her to pieces before her parents could let her back in. There was barely anything left to cremate.

It was like the town had a curfew and was swift to punish anyone who broke it.

Eileen's face was a portrait of impending terror; her eyes widened to an almost impossible circumference, lips parted and slightly trembling.

"Put Zowie out," she demanded in a voice that was tiny and frightened and not entirely her own.

He nodded, patted his thighs and somberly called the animal's name. Zowie leapt from the couch, trotted into the kitchen and stood by his empty food bowl, looking between his owners with a patient expression. Henry bent and hooked two fingers through the dog's collar, leading him out the back door.

"Sorry, fella, not right now."

What little natural light there had been was now dimming to the point of being snuffed out entirely. The clouds overhead were black as coal and Henry quickened his pace, wanting to get this errand done as fast as possible. There was a chain wound around the walnut tree, the end of which he affixed to Zowie's collar. The Pointer whined and nuzzled his master's hand. Henry, in return, scratched him generously behind the ear before darting back into the house. He lingered in the kitchen, ash dusting his hair and clothes, listening to his dog howling with an aching heart. Eileen cupped his cheeks, a thumb grazing the stubble on his chin.

"I'll lock the windows upstairs. Can you take care of things down here for me?"

He gave a noncommittal "yeah", all of his focus on the slot window facing the backyard. She crossed the room, closed the hatch and unfurled the bamboo screen, cutting off his view.

"Don't look, honey. It'll just upset you." Then she ascended the stairs, leaving him alone.

Despite living in Silent Hill for eight months, the wail of the siren still startled him. It pinched his nerves and made him feel vulnerable and afraid in a way that he hadn't felt since he was a boy living in morbid anticipation of the day the boogey man would carry him off, would dice him up for a banquet only consisting of bits of dead children. Ironic that now he lived in a place where real boogey man stalked the streets. Their eyes, tumorous membranes, locked on the front door of that townhouse with blue shutters on Munson Street. Waiting, waiting for one or both of the occupants to slip up and walk outside.

There were bolts to fasten, curtains to draw, yet Henry's legs wouldn't move.

"Don't look, honey. It'll just upset you."

But he had looked once. It was a month after they brought Zowie home for the first time. He had piddled on the carpet and Henry put him out for the night at Eileen's insistence. Around two A.M., there had been an awful commotion, yelps and strained growls; it sounded like someone was trying to choke the life out of the dog. Henry recovered a baseball bat from the closet and sprinted downstairs and out the door into the backyard to rescue his pet. Seconds later he prayed for someone to come and rescue him.
Zowie's fur had fallen from his body in dirty clumps. Much of the muscles on his legs and chest melted from his bones in sopping, steaming heaps of bubbling meat. His usually friendly eyes had been forced far back into his head so that when turned his stare to Henry it was like being appraised all the way from Hell. Where once stood an English Pointer with a black "Z" crosshatched on his side now stood a skeletal, four-legged creature with scarcely any flesh that didn't look at least nibbled on. The thing that had previously been Zowie walked in a wide arc around Henry, each step it took made the sick, squelching sound of wet tissue paper being wrung out.

At that point, instinct took over and Henry gripped the bat with a strength he didn't know he was capable of. The Zowie-creature snarled, spittle and blood mingling in rivulets pouring forth from its maw, and lunged. The demon animal came within four feet of Henry when it hit the end of the chain it was hooked to, jerking back with a surprised, high-pitched brrr-YARK. Dazed, the thing got back to its feet and walked in an arc for the second time, strategizing. Henry's breath came in agonizing spurts. His heart thrummed keenly in his chest. Without realizing exactly how, he was back in the bedroom he shared with Eileen and he was shaking her awake. In a panicked voice, he described the encounter outside and begged her to consider moving them elsewhere. She held his head to her breasts, ran her fingers through his hair and tried to explain it all away as a nightmare. He felt like weeping when a burst of noise – a siren – shattered what had otherwise been a quiet night.

Henry coaxed Eileen out of bed, downstairs and stood her in front of the kitchen's little slot window. He rolled up the splintering bamboo screen and pointed outside.

"There. What do you see?" He studied her face, waiting for her reaction once she saw the Zowie-creature. He expected horror, nausea, disbelief. Her compassionate green eyes swept the backyard, the corners of her mouth turned down in concern.

"I see the dog. It's only the dog, honey."

And so it was. The young Pointer cloistered by the walnut tree, ears cocked but otherwise fast asleep.

For a few months thereafter, Henry dutifully put the dog outside whenever the ash rain came. He resisted the temptation to look outside and Eileen slept with the pillow over her head to stifle the injured yapping. It was only recently that he theorized that the dog may remain normal if it was kept inside. The townhouse had been a safe haven for himself and Eileen, after all.
The first time and only time he asked her about it was at Rosewater Park one afternoon. They had both gotten off early from work and met there for a stroll. They were taking turns peering through the view finders by Toluca Lake when the question came up. She turned to him with a hopeless expression that pained him to witness.

"The noise, Henry, the noise. It's bad enough I have to hear it. Do I have to see it, too?"

He apologized and slung an arm around her. He never brought up the topic again although the words sometimes teased his gullet. For the most part, Zowie was still the devoted dog they fell in love with. Still mellow and sweet. It was only once every few days he was to be avoided, when the ash fell. And of that Henry felt most wracked with grief.

Author's Note: This started as a discussion between myself and a friend about Henry and Eileen moving to Silent Hill. Sort of settling down into domestic bliss, you know? She said, "What better way to avoid the horrors of the town than to actually live there?" Of course, some things are still corrupted by the town, like the animals within it.

This story wasn't originally intended to be as much of a downer as it turned out to be. I had planned a marginally different ending (and a shorter fic overall), but the story began to write itself about halfway through and I couldn't help myself, to say the least.

In future fics, I definitely intend to explore the what-ifs of Eileen and Henry in Silent Hill. In some they may be oblivious and happy and in others they may be miserable and feel they don't deserve better circumstances in life. My friend planted interesting plot ideas in my head and I hope you'll all keep reading and enjoying them.

Comments and constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged!

XOXO

FUN FACT: Zowie is named after the main demonic animal in "Pet Sematary 2", my favorite horror movie sequel of all time. Though the dog my Zowie is inspired by was actually an Alaskan Husky.