1.1.1 Shadowfall

I would like to thank Stephen King's The Shining for some inspiration, and I'd also like to point out that though these characters are mine, Silent Hill is not. It is owned by Konami, not me. Please do not sue me. Thank you. Sentences or words in parentheses and italics represent Jack's guilt/conscience trying to force blame upon him.

2 Chapter One: Jack's Journey to Silent Hill

The melodic chime of bells, a cool, sweet breeze, the soft, white light shining through the billowing curtains. The clock struck two in the afternoon in the small, yet comfortable, house on the corner of Ash and Main. The kettle of water that had been boiling for some hot tea on a cold autumn day still whistled, the only sound echoing through the tiny abode. The chilled wind blew through the window, making the curtains shift and rustle.

This would have seemed pleasant, if not for the fact that the window had been shattered, shards of glass covering the table. The house was cold, almost freezing, and a thick fog had rolled in through the window, a light snow, oddly early in the season, had begun to fall, sticking to the grass of the lawn, turning it into a white carpet. The silence was eerie, all consuming. No cars, no people, not even a dog barking. It seemed as if the silence and fog were trying to crush anything that dared stand before them with an incredible pressure, the power of this eerie atmosphere.

A single trail of blood streamed slowly from beneath the closed bathroom door, quiet sobs of fear and resignation filling the cold air, ending in a choked scream. Utter silence enveloped the calm day, and the snow fell a bit faster, covering most everything in town, leaving very few shapes spared. But most prominently, stood the rusty, riveted surface of an old road sign, showing a lake and smiling people, looking decayed and deformed due to the endless years of rust covering the surface. In bold, neon gold letters, the sign proudly proclaimed "Welcome to Silent Hill, the happiest town on earth! You'll never want to leave!"

And to anyone who had entered that town, it seemed to mean that you'd never leave at all.

* * *

A lone car, a small VW Beetle from the late 70's, came down the road, tires cutting a path through the newly fallen snow.

Jackson Craft couldn't help but wonder why it would be snowing this time of year, even in North Dakota. It had been a little over a week ago that he had gotten the package in the mail. It had been from his daughter. He was 39 and his daughter was 18. She had left home without ever saying goodbye.

When he got the package, he was both frightened and belated. It had been a small figurine, carved in her image, but one half was smeared with clotted red fluid. Blood. He checked the postmark and decided right away that he must check for her in this town, this "Silent Hill."

He had packed an overnight bag and climbed into his beat-up old Beetle, making sure to pack his trusty .38 special. A gift from dear old Dad, may that bastard rot. A boozer, a wife and child beater, and a petty criminal. Only good thing he ever did was blow his own damned brains out. A little filtering of the gene pool.

His mother had always been a bit of a milksop, sliding around the house in a constant haze of sorrow and sadness. He loved his mother dearly. He loved his father too, but his father was also a figure to be feared and respected. "Spare the rod and spoil the child, Jackie boy. Take your licks and act like a man," his father had said before his death.

His mother seemed to become vibrant. He had forgotten she was a meager 28 years old when dear old Daddy passed on. She was suddenly young and alive and happy. Life was good. His mother had died two years ago, shortly after his daughter had left. She went in her sleep, happy and calm. He loved her so much. He had lost two important people in his life in a matter of months. He had calmed and settled, hoping to hear from his daughter. God how he had craved a drink. But he never touched the stuff anymore. He had been on the wagon for three years, and it'd take six strong men to drag him off and force him to drink.

He'd been on the wagon ever since the (hit and run killing, you dirty son of a-)

incident that had happened. A man had been jogging late at night, Jack was drunk, swerving; he had hit the guy and the man died. Jack spent some time in jail, but his daughter bailed him out. She had to drop out of school for that, to get all the money she had been saving just to get his worthless hide out of jail. That made it all the worse that she had left, still resentful about it. He had to find her and make sure she was okay, to make it right. He had to make it right by Kat. Her name was Tabitha, but they called her Tabby or Kat as a joke. He had to find Kat, because he knew something was wrong.

The rusted metal sign loomed into his windshield. Something wasn't right… It was leaning into the road!

"Oh hell!" he yelled, jerking the wheel to the left, the car sliding and slamming into a snow bank, half buried in a ditch. He groaned, reclining back against the faux leather seat, a throbbing pain filling his temples. "I almost hit that (jogger, runner, innocent person, murderer) damn sign."

At times like this he wanted a drink so badly, anything to calm his shattered nerves. He opened his eyes slightly and stare out at the sign again... It hadn't been in the road at all; it was off to the side. He must have been seeing things due to the storm. The snow and wind had picked up, already blocking most of the windshield.

He quickly grabbed his bag, gun in his jacket pocket, and stepped out of the car. He bent down by the rear tire and cursed his luck silently. Three flats and a broken oil line. His car was worthless now.

"Well old girl, I guess this is goodbye. You were good to me. Keep your grill clean." His high, slightly nasal laughter filled the cold air for a mere second before he turned and started toward the calm, beautiful town of Silent Hill.

Beautiful my ass, Jack thought, glaring sourly at the small main street stretching out before him. A shopping arcade, a few small restaurants, small two-three floor apartments. One thing was for sure. It was calm. Too calm. Dead calm.

The fog was thick, but not too thick that you couldn't see the storefronts and the fact that none of the lights were on. Nobody walked the darkened streets. No cars were parked along the road. Somewhere above his head a traffic light flashed red, nothing else. This wouldn't have been so weird if it weren't for the fact that this phenomenon was happening all over town at the exact same time. The silence was deafening, a constant roar, a buzz in his ears that screamed, Jack-o, you should be hearing something, seeing people. This place is weird. If I were you I'd haul my lanky hide outta this place.

The constant pressure of the silence on his eardrums, the cold fog attacking his skin and eyes like razor blades of ice each time the wind blew. This was beyond eerie. It was surreal. Like some dream gone wrong.

Suddenly he spotted motion out of the corner of his eye and turned, seeing a young woman dressed in a blue uniform running into the fog. It has been a split second, but he got enough information. Police officer. Tall. Pretty well built. Slender. Short brown hair. He turned on his heels and broke into a light jog, his breath puffing out in long clouds of steam, the moisture crystallizing in mid air, only to disappear and shatter like the (bones of that poor jogger, that poor bastard, the one you ran dow-) glass of a window.

He told his mind to shut up, to let the past rest. But somehow, he felt it wouldn't die until he died, and when that thought crossed his mind, a chill finger of dread traced a path up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was like someone had just walked on his grave.