It was two years ago
that Henry Townshend moved into
Room 302 of South Ashfield Heights,
an apartment building in the medium-sized city of Ashfield.
Henry was happy and enjoying
his new life.

But five days ago, something
strange happened.
He began to have a recurring dream
each night.
One other thing…
He couldn't leave Room 302…

Silent Hill: 302

Chapter 1: Fallen

I woke up from one nightmare into another.

The worst part was knowing that this one would never end.

I opened my eyes slowly, almost mechanically. I knew what I had to face, and although I dreaded it, I still had one last sliver of hope that I was wrong.

The room around me was dark and cold. Light came dimly from the lamps still, but it was a reddish glow that accentuated the blood-like stains that covered everything. The air was heavy, and either a haze was in the air or my own vision was blurry. These days, I couldn't be sure.

I reached out and touched the wall, half-expecting my hand to come away wet with blood. It did not, however; the wall was as dry as that of a normal apartment, and as cold as I felt inside.

How long had it been since I had touched another person? How long had it been since I had spoken to another person?

No, no, it hadn't been that long ago at all. I looked around at the room and nodded to myself. Yes, I had spoken to people just recently…but they had been victims. Did that count? They had been here with me, cut off from the outside world.

And now, it was just me.

I am entirely alone.

No, I wasn't alone. It would have been better if I was. Somewhere, he was here as well, watching me with those too-familiar eyes of his, and probably passing judgment in his own calm way.

Was he here right now? I let my gaze dart around the room, feeling inexplicably paranoid. It wasn't that I was afraid, exactly—no, not at all. Whenever I saw him, though, I felt doubt and despair begin to creep into my mind, telling me that perhaps I had lost after all. Our last confrontation hadn't gone well, for reasons I was reluctant to think about.

In fact, the entire apartment was starting to fill me with despair.

I've failed, with no way out, no chance of salvation, no hope remaining…

"No!" I growled out loud, leaving my resting place to look elsewhere. This couldn't be…

I glanced down and noticed in the eerie light that the state of my own clothing wasn't far above that of the room. I grimaced. That was fitting, I supposed.

I looked at the lamp and wondered if there was any way to get it to shine a little more brightly. Maybe these walls could just be cleaned.

If I lit some Holy Candles, would they drive this darkness away?

I shivered, suddenly wondering when it had gotten this bad. It was impossible to tell that this apartment had once been bright, clean, and warm. These bloody hues were its permanent colors now. The walls were marred from things forcing their way in, the windows were so opaque as to suggest there no longer even was any world other than this one, and the room felt about as welcoming as a prison.

Had it been a gradual change? Is that why I hadn't noticed before? Had it come on suddenly, driven by powers beyond even my understanding of this place? Or was it me—had I grown so accustomed to the things I saw that even this hadn't fazed me before?

I had the sudden conviction that this was a terrible, evil place.

But this is my…

"No!" I shouted again. This was only a nightmare. I had enough of them, after all. I would wake up soon. After all, none of those horrors could truly come here. Room 302 was sanctuary. This…

This could not be reality.

I began to run again. I had to get out of here. It didn't matter where I went, so long as I got out of this room.

I laughed weakly when I saw the space where the front door used to be. It was barely visible now, just a faint outline in the reddish wall. That certainly wasn't going to help me escape, but fortunately, I knew another way out.

The bathroom door wouldn't budge. After all of my attempts to force it open failed, I stared at it in dismay. Had I done that? Could I have been so disoriented as to actually lock myself in? Next I went to the laundry room, and I met with similar failure.

In a sudden panic brought on by my feelings of despair and claustrophobia, I raced around the apartment wildly. There had to be something; there always was something. I threw aside papers, magazines, an article on the Wish House…finally my gaze landed upon the storage box in the living room.

Holy Candles.

I had to try. Even though I wasn't sure what I was afraid of, or what I thought those little candles could possible do, I dove for the box. It was locked tight, giving no indication that I could force it open any more than the doors.

I laughed hysterically and resumed my mad search of the apartment. There was a painting that seemed unusual, and when I took a closer look at it, I realized that it showed twenty-one people.

Twenty-one people…

One of them was me. I stared at my own face for a minute, and then I shuddered and turned away. And I had once thought I could be a hero. Once, long ago…those naïve dreamed seemed so far away from this oppressive room.

I shuddered again, because I knew that my thoughts were getting close to those fears that I had yet to fully admit to myself. Offering a silent prayer, although to what, I did not know, I continued on in the hope that I would find something that would tell me that all hope was not yet lost.

A framed photograph caught my eye, and I picked it up. It was untouched enough that I could make out the features of the person in it—a serious-looking man, with short brown hair—but to my alarm, I couldn't quite focus in on who he was.

The past few days were a traumatic blur in my mind, and that photograph was enough to convince me that the last vestiges of my sanity were quickly unraveling. I had to get out of here, even if there was nowhere to go. Maybe then, away from this room—I bit back a sob that seemed to come out of nowhere—I could think more clearly, and piece myself back together. Even the gruesome familiarity of the Otherworlds might be a comfort now.

Yet I had no way of leaving. Refusing to give up, I ran to my last hope—the windows—and began to hit them with the picture frame in my hand. Surely they would break…surely there was something on the other side left to see… There had to be something here beyond just me and this room.

All at once, as if summoned by my growing panic, he was there. I could feel him watching me, as I continued my futile assault on the windows. I stopped, but I didn't turn around. I couldn't. I was afraid of what I might see, and what I might realize.

"Come to witness my fall?" I asked, more calmly than I felt. "There's no hope left for me, is there? What do you expect me to say? That you were right? That I've lost? That everything I did was for nothing, and all of my hopes and dreams were destroyed by the Order?"

The silence that greeted my rambling was more unnerving than anything he might have responded with. "Say something!" I shouted, whirling around angrily.

Our eyes met, for just a moment, and then a fierce pain lanced through my brain. I cried out, gripping my head. The pain was intense, and with it I could feel something else…a second consciousness intruding on my own.

No!

I grimaced and tried to fight what was happening, but images began to bombard me until I was overwhelmed. A cross in the darkness, rising up before me…the Wish House, bleak and terrible…the door of this same apartment, Room 302… On and on they came, until emotions began to sweep through me as well. Loneliness, and terror, and torment so deep—they engulfed my mind until I was no longer sure where my own feelings began and his ended.

I saw bodies, bloody and broken, devastated beyond repair… I found myself questioning my own identity; for a moment I felt a jumble of conflicting perspectives, and with that confusion came a rush of pain and blood…and death.

The full reality of my situation suddenly crashed down on me like an anvil, and the despairing scream that had been gradually building up in the back of my throat burst free.

I found myself running back to that painting I had noticed earlier. Twenty-one people. I looked at their faces, and then I looked down at the photograph I still held. In a burst of lucidity—rare these days—I connected a name to him at last.

Henry Townshend, the Receiver of Wisdom.

"The hero of this tragic tale?" I asked despairingly.

I looked at the photograph, and then I looked at the painting, and I looked at the other faces and then for a moment at the wall of the apartment, and I thought about Miss Eileen Galvin, the Mother Reborn, and then I looked back at the painting.

"This cannot be!" I cried out loud, searching for the hope that had remained in me when I had awoken just a short time ago.

But something had happened, and I could no longer continue lying to myself.

I shuddered and gripped my head, but before I could do anything more, a chill swept through the air. They were coming.

The wall cracked and shivered as the ghost forced his head through into the room. He stared at me with a ghoulish, hate-filled gaze, and I took a step away from Jimmy Stone, the first victim.

A sound caught my ear, and I turned my head to see another one coming, even as he climbed out of the wall. And there, on the other wall—from there, too, they were coming.

The photograph fell from my grip as the ghostly legions advanced upon me. They came closer and closer, and I had one fleeting, bitter regret that I could not have been the hero, before darkness swept over me and I fell to the floor.

Author's note: Well, Happy Walter Sullivan Day, everyone! I thought it was fitting to honor this occasion by choosing this day to release the first part of my new story. Now, I know some of you are probably thinking, "Really, Feriku? This story you've been working on for so long is just a novelization of Silent Hill 4: The Room?" To that, all I can say is...wait and see, wait and see... ;)