Silent Hill 4 – The Room

Desperation – By Ashford2ashford

Rating: Mature – for Yaoi (Henry/Walter) and later on, graphic violence

AN: First Silent Hill fic and it's a SH4 tribute!!! Hope you like it…

Chapter One – From the Beginning

Henry Townshend had never been particularly good looking.

His eyes were sullen and sunk into his face. Chin covered with bits of stubble that he'd missed during shaving. Face caught half way between being chubby or thin – not quite right. His hair was always messed, usually in his eyes were the hairdresser had missed a few strands. It was clear to most people just by looking at him that he wasn't well groomed. Clean, yes. Well groomed?

His clothes were the same. The same baggy shirt with the same shirt underneath. The same trousers ending with the same shoes. He looked untidy, tired, and always off in his own world.

Henry Townshend was never really talkative.

In fact, his neighbours often commented to the superintendent how the young male seemed to flinch when spoken to, or cast his gaze downwards when people walked past him in the hallways of South Ashfield Apartments. Too many times had they seen him sat in the laundry room gazing into the whirring machine at his clothes before noticing anyone was there.

"What's wrong with the machine in your room?" Frank Sunderland was not intimidating in the least, but the young male flinched anyway. He had motioned to the washing machine that day; Henry's attention guided to his clothes whirling in front of him.

"My…my machine broke."

Henry Townshend had a hushed voice that sounded as though he permanently had a sore throat. His American dialect sounded marred by something foreign too; as if he had come from another country, despite what his I.D. said.

Henry Townshend had once had a run in with Richard Braintree in the halls of the upper floor and had been forced against the wall harshly with the older male screaming in his face about "watching where he was goddamn going" and "respecting his fuckin' elders".

Henry Townshend had also occasionally glanced upwards and met the eyes of his neighbour Eileen Galvin. His gaze soon returned to his shoes, but the neighbours of the apartments had exchanged knowing glances and had smirked at the slightest hint of a smile upon the quiet man's lips.

They knew that Eileen had sparked his interest. They could see it in his eyes, even if he didn't yet know it himself.

But then…

Henry Townshend disappeared.

Henry Townshend locked himself in his apartment and refused to come out.

People started talking. They called him "weird" and "reclusive". Eileen Galvin became worried for his safety. Frank Sunderland became nervous. Apparently, Henry Townshend was not the first man to lock himself in that apartment.

People passed by the door of room 302 on a daily basis, wondering what happened to the young male inside its walls. Was he starving to death? Was he alive? Was he hurt?

What they didn't know what that Henry Townshend clawed at the door for a period of five days.

What they couldn't hear was the husky pleading voice from the other side of the locked door; rattling chains in a vain attempt to get out of the prison he had been placed in.

How were they to know that Henry Townshend was not okay, not dead, and unusually so not starving to death?

It all started from that day…

"Eileen."

No answer.

"Eileen!"

Desperate this time.

"EILEEN!"

I sank down into despair and sighed deeply, turning with my back to the wall. My knees hugged to my chest, a bottle of wine in my hand, I stared long and hard at the floor until my eyes started to hurt.

Behind me there was no reply as usual.

It had been a small discovery. A peep hole that led into room 303, carved out into the wall behind a chest of drawers in my room. I could see my next door neighbour clearly through it, going about her business as usual. Sometimes I shouted to her…

That brings me to where you joined me.

It's been five days since I first became locked inside my apartment. Not locked inside as in someone outside was playing a practical joke – if that were the case, the superintendent would be in here right now, and the joker would be out on his ass in the middle of the street.

No. Instead, I woke up five days ago to find that someone had bolted my room with chains and god knows what from the inside!

I've tried pulling at them, I really have, even tried kicking the door down. That didn't work. It's like my room is stuck in a different dimension or something. My windows are sealed shut, the glass won't break, and my door refuses to let me out. I can scream and cry all I want, and no one will hear me.

On the plus side, I don't get hungry or thirsty any more. I'm actually just drinking this bottle of wine out of boredom. It's my tenth bottle in five days. I know you can't see any bottles lying around here, but believe me it is. It keeps refilling itself. After I'd drunk it for the first time, I threw it in the bin as one normally would, but when I opened my fridge the next morning, there it was!

If this apartment is haunted, then there's a ghost out there who loves to see me when I'm drunk. Call me sick or twisted, but there's nothing to do in this apartment but play with cameras and play with myself. My television is broken, my radio crackles static, and I'm not really in the mood for reading. So when I've had a few, or in this case ten, I simply lie back on my couch and start to…well…I need not be graphic.

Then the headache starts, and it's not because of the alcohol. It's like there is something screaming at me to not commit such acts on the couch, so I roll off onto the floor and the headache stops. This room likes to remind me of where my place is in this.

By that point, though, I'm usually too into my act that I don't question it.

Again, it's sick. I'm aware of that. No need to remind me constantly. Trust me, I feel guilty and ill every time I do it.

That's not the half of it.

Whenever I do it, it's like there's something watching me do it. My room watches me. It has a life of its own.

Then there's that voice…

Sorry, I'm getting carried away in my own thoughts. I'm forgetting to tell you everything.

Whenever I close my eyes, there's this voice inside my head that's whispering to me about what's going to happen to me, to this room, and how it's coming for me. The number '21' keeps getting repeated to me, and the voice starts to chant "21121…21121…21121…"

The nightmares haunt me…gristly nightmares…

Like I said…it speaks to me whenever my eyes close.

So when I'm lay there on the floor, trying to think of other things, the voice talks to me, and I feel as though I'm surrounded by this sudden coldness. The room seems to fall away and I feel as though I'm being displayed before someone – that cold and emptiness moving around my flesh. I can't stop myself. My hand moves faster across my flesh as my free hand claws at thin air.

"That's it, Henry…let go…lose control…"

"Oh….oh….yes…" My voice can barely squeak a reply as my hand moves automatically into a rhythm that makes me throw back my head and call out loud.

"My 21…my Receiver of Wisdom. Go on…lose control…become mine…"

In that moment I do. I can't stop myself. My hand is clawing at nothing, and my other hand seems to have gone into overdrive. It's not even part of me anymore, I can't feel it!

"N…NO!" My voice is hoarse, and I can feel tears running down my flushed cheeks – red from either drink or heat, I can't tell.

Then my eyes force themselves open and I'm staring at a blank ceiling, and my hands drop limply to my sides as I lie there transfixed by the overhead fan rotating innocently.

After that…well…you know…I clean myself up…and then drink some more…

Which leads me to where I am now, huddled in the corner of my room, a bottle in hand, my shirt messed up (more so than usual) and my cheeks bright pink. I've tried calling for Eileen so many times now over the past five days that I'm starting to think that saving my voice is becoming an option.

Then I hear the crash…like the tearing down of a wall…from inside this apartment!

I move over to the door and listen…I can hear whispering in there…like several voices talking at once. My hand is grasping the door nervously…before I force it open.

Ashford2ashford: And there we leave it for another day.