Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to P.T. (Playable Teaser) or the Silent Hill franchise. This is purely for nonprofit.
A Note to the Reader: Welcome all! This is a story based on the events of P.T. and the Silent Hill franchise, and it is intended to explore the story of Silent Hills, my adaptation of the cancelled video game based on the material revealed. With that said, this story only treats Silent Hill: Shattered Memories as canon. Enjoy!
The dense cloud of heavy fog crept upon the street, shrouding the surroundings from view. The smoke rolled with the whistling wind, which pounded against Dawson's ears. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter to block the chilly air.
He took a step forward and an aluminum can clattered away from his feet. The can was but one piece from a collection of trash strewn across the pavement. A garbage bin from the sidewalk lay on its side. Another gust of wind sent the innards scattering.
An electronic crackle resounded from behind Dawson and he twisted around, hand at his hip. The startling noise was just a flickering street lamp, fighting to stay alight. The building behind it was nearly impossible to see, but multicolored lights pushed through the curtain of fog. He squinted to discern the shape of the glow when he heard a growl from an alley nearby.
His breaths came out shallow and shattered as he took a cautious step back. His heart raced. His muscles tensed. His hand gripped the holster at his hip. He could've sworn two yellow eyes watched him from the darkness.
A clatter came from the fallen trash bin and he whipped the pistol from its holster and pointed directly at the axe-wielding man behind him.
"Woah, easy there," the man spoke gruffly through a thick white beard. "What brings you out here, stranger?" He raised his hands in surrender, but didn't drop the axe.
"Back up," Dawson ordered. The man obliged. "What's with the axe?"
"I needed some firewood for the shop. What's with the pistol?"
"It's for creepy lumberjacks who try to sneak up on me." He held his gun steady at the hefty man.
"Just checkin' on the noises," he answered, grim-faced. "We don't get a lot of visitors here." The man's eyes darted back and forth, sweeping the street.
"You alright?" Dawson prodded. "You seem a little on edge."
"We should get indoors," the man said slowly, disregarding the question. "It's cold. Wouldn't wanna get sick now, would ya?" The hoarse voice made Dawson's skin crawl. There was no reason to trust this man, but the gusts of wind were stronger than ever, and he couldn't ignore the goosebumps spreading across his skin.
"You're not wrong there," he admitted. As he tucked the gun into its holster, he noticed the lumberjack lower his hands, but his muscles were still taught with uneasiness. He still scanned the street with his vision. Dawson made a mental note to never keep his hand far from his hip. "Lead the way," he instructed.
The two trekked across the street, fighting against the howling wind. They approached the glowing sign, which became more visible as it grew closer. Hearthstone Diner.
"Grabbing a midnight snack?" Dawson inquired.
The lumberjack swung his axe over his shoulder and held the door open. "Inside," he grunted.
"You're a talker, huh?" Following the order, Dawson walked inside, and the lumberjack followed suit. He pulled the door shut, and the lock clicked. A shiver trickled down Dawson's spine. Hyper-alert, he gauged his surroundings. Quaint diner. Four booths. A bar. Two windows, a stairwell, and a back room. At least he had escape routes.
He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. Why was he looking for escape routes? Something about this town put him on edge in the worst way. And he couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that something was amiss.
An older lady rushed out of the back room, her apron flowing in the wind as she dashed toward them. "Sylas!" she exclaimed, waving a bony finger at the lumberjack. "It's two minutes to night hours! What are you doing outside?"
"This one. He's fresh meat."
"Oh," she replied, her face relaxing as she realized the situation. "What does he need?"
"A bed for the night," Sylas answered.
The woman gave Sylas a sour glance, tilting her head. "And does this young man have a name?"
Giving only a grunt, Sylas walked over to the bar area and grabbed himself a drink.
"It's Dawson," he answered the question himself. "Richard Dawson."
"It's a delight to meet you, Richard," she said with a toothy smile. Air leaked out of Sylas' bottle as he twisted off the cap and lazily let it drop to the floor. It rolled over to the kindly woman, who snatched it up. "That grump is Sylas. Don't let the axe fool you, he's the town teddy bear."
As if to protest, Sylas slammed the handle of his axe to the floor before resting it against the bar.
"I see," Dawson adjusted his jacket, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling chipping away at his resolve. "And you can call me Dawson. I've always hated the name Richard."
"Any particular reason for that?" Sylas piped up.
Dawson looked at him curiously. "Personal reasons."
No doubt sensing the growing tension, the woman stepped between them and shook his hand with her yellow latex glove still clinging to her wrist. "Matilda. A pleasure." The glove was cold and moist, and he inconspicuously wiped his hand on his jeans as she continued. "Everything here is because of me. I own the place. Well, the building, not the town," she corrected. "That's a whole different mess."
"I'm guessing you have a spare room upstairs?" Dawson asked. "Because he was right; I do need a place to sleep."
She smiled almost too enthusiastically as she peeled the gloves from her wrinkled palms. "Follow me."
Dawson trailed her steps as she shuffled to the staircase. As he gave one last look around the diner, he inadvertently locked eyes with Sylas. The lumberck's stare made him extremely uncomfortable, and he hurried up the stairs two at a time.
Matilda reached a rustic wooden door at the end of the hall and handed him a key.
"Breakfast is served at seven," she informed, holding the door open. "Oh, and the bathroom's connected through that door there. Make yourself at home."
Dawson walked inside and examined the space. It was cozy enough to sleep in, even if the cobwebs made it feel decrepit. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "What's your charge?"
"Don't worry about that, dear. It's free for the night."
"Really?" he asked, and she nodded peacefully. "I can't thank you enough." It seemed too good to be true, which is why he wasn't surprised when she followed up with another question.
"One more thing," she interjected. "A young man shows up here with no belongings, half a name, and a gun in his belt." He flinched in surprise. How could she have known about the gun hidden beneath his jacket? Her ancient eyes hid more wisdom than he'd thought. "What brings you to this town, dear?" She gazed at him blankly, not revealing any hint of an expression. Just a dead stare.
He sighed, and took a seat on the bed. "I'm a private investigator," he admitted, swiping his bangs out of his eyes. "I live down south in Dallas. But a client reported a missing person all the way up here. I did some hitchhiking, and here I am."
She soaked up every detail of his story, clearly mulling over every detail. I see. And who is this person?"
His brain battled against itself. Unable to decide on a way to avoid the question, he settled for the truth.
"Jarith," Dawson answered. "His name is Jarith."
He could have imagined it, but he swore he saw a flash of panic in her face. And then, it vanished as expeditiously as it had appeared.
"Ah," she mumbled. "I see." Without wasting another moment, she walked out, pulling the door behind her. "Enjoy your stay," she croaked, and she shut the door with a thud.
A single window allowed the moonlight in through the thick shades. Dawson drew them back, only to be met with two thick wooden boards obscuring most of the view. But between them, he still could see out into the foggy streets. He saw the streetlight flicker. A ladder on a fire escape creaked as it swung freely on its hinges. A sudden gust of wind whistled through the dead trees and dispelled some of the fog, revealing the wicked forest on the outskirts of the town. And looming ominously over the crumbling entrance road, a single sign stood tall.
WELCOME TO SILENT HILL