Disclaimer: I don't own anything Silent Hill related, but most characters and ideas are of my own creation.
Overview: People end up in Silent Hill. It wants them, and they don't know why. They must help each other, and at the same time help themselves; there is the horror of Silent Hill that they can all see, but there is also the personal horrors that the evil exploits and manifests. Each of the 3 main characters has his/her own past nightmares that are seized and manifested.
Thoughts: I decided to tackle the source of the evil, or at least a source; however, do not despair, because I have done a considerable amount of research, and believe that the idea and outcome is a very possible and believable scenario in relation to the games. The Red God will play a large part in the game, as will key Order members (some believed dead), past enemies, as well as new enemies created to replace the old ones thought defeated. Pyramid Head will appear, as will Valtiel, and Metatron (which I consider to be Valtiels counterpart). I hope I haven't given too much away, but enjoy!
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Philip Snow lay spread-eagled on his bed. He twitched slightly and tried to fidget his way out of the cold, sweaty sheets which clung to his damp skin. It was not a hot night however; in fact, it was deathly cold, but Philip Snow was used to the cold. Every night his dreams were polluted by cold and acrid tundra of frost, lichen, and in the centre of it all, and great stone temple capped with snow. He'd wake up at the foot of a great set of wooden stairs that were carved into the plateau on which the temple sat, and he would climb them slowly. In his mind he wanted to turn around. Running away and freezing to death in the endless everlasting wasteland was better than what he knew was coming. But his body was not in agreement with his mind, and like he was spurred on by and invisible force he would continue to climb the stairs, agonizingly slowly. He'd climb them for an eternity, the heavy aching cold seeping further and further into his bones with every impossible step… But just when his body was about to freeze solid and he would be unable to continue further, he would reach the summit of the stairs and would gaze left to right, right to left, left to right at his surroundings. The temple would be squatting menacingly in the middle, omnipresent, unmoving, but ominous, and the ground beneath his feet would be glowing slightly; pulsating with the heartbeat of a great and powerful beast, but he would not welcome it. Even though the solid, dead land was the worst thing he thought he could ever experience, the phenomena of the pulsating ground seemed to be infinitely more terrifying. Thoughts of an infinite creature filled his mind, a creature so impossibly huge that no distinguishable features could be made out. It would spread across the land, cover the sky and crush him with an unimaginably powerful weight… But that was just his mindless speculation. He would emerge from his thoughts kneeling with his head bowed at the foot of the temple door. He would stand up, and attempt to push it open. The huge oak panels would open only slightly before jamming, and a heavy golden orange glow would emerge from the cracks. He would slam himself into the door, and when it still refused to open his would put his eye to the crack in an attempt to see what was on the other side. The orange glow would envelop him and…
…he woke up a little after dawn and groaned wearily. His body ached with the cold he'd endured all night, and his skin was clammy with fevered sweat. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, opened them, and winced as strong yellow sunbeams cut through the open blinds and struck him in the face. Propping himself up on a pillow he lay there for a few minutes and waited for his eyes to get use the light. He glanced at the figure in the bed beside him and smiled lovingly. His girlfriend of 3 years Rachel Morley lay on her front as he gently stroked her long, silky brown hair. Her big blue eyes blinked open and she gazed up at him, returning his glance.
'Morning,' she whispered.
'Good morning.'
Rachel yawned and reached for the tall glass of water on her bedside cabinet. She took a swig.
'I wish we hadn't decorated this room so damn modern,' said Philip. He jumped out of bed suddenly and padded into the en-suit bathroom.
'Why?' she called after him, slipping her slim naked frame from under the damp sheets and wrapping herself in a pristine white towel.
'It's so bloody white!' he called back. 'Every morning I have to sit with my eyes barely open for about ten minutes until they get used to the light. It's so annoying…'
She smiled and looked around the room. White walls, silver metallic furniture, floor to ceiling mirror. She took another swig of water and as she did so, left the refuge of the warm sunlight. 'Jesus Christ, it's cold,' she yelped suddenly.
'I know,' Philip laughed. 'It has been for about 3 weeks. I don't think it's gonna shift until after winter to be honest. Come have a hot shower before breakfast! That'll make you feel better.'
Rachel followed him into the bathroom and wrapped her arms around his bare chest as he stood brushing his teeth in the mirror. She gently stroked his black 5 o'clock shadow. 'Shave this off and you can join me if you want,' she whispered into his ear.
Philip smiled and reached for the razor.
- - - - -
At the breakfast table Philip sipped a scalding cup of black coffee and rubbed his temples, impatiently thumbing his way through the morning's paper.
Rachel sat opposite him and bit into an apple. 'What's wrong honey? Did you have that nightmare again?' she asked, placing her hand on his.
'Yeah, I have it most nights these days. I haven't had a decent nights sleep in weeks. Thank god for coffee ey?' he laughed dryly.
'Maybe you should go see a doctor or psychologist or something,' Rachel pressed, clearly concerned for his mental health.
'Nah, I'm fine. Just need another couple of coffees, and I'm ready for work,' he protested, talking a mouthful of hot coffee and choking it down hurriedly.
'OK, if you're sure,' said Rachel, backing off but not at all convinced. 'I'm going to go get dressed'. She went back into the bedroom, slipping her dressing gown off as she did so.
Philip sighed and put his paper down. He got up and opened the small fridge that the young couple were given by his parents when they first moved into the two bed roomed apartment over 18 months before. He sighed again when he saw the contents, and pulling a pad of paper from a nearby draw began to draw up a shopping list. Halfway though writing 'bread', there was a scratching at the window and he looked up to see a large black cat pawing in his direction and meowing loudly. He smiled and rushed over, opening the window and gathering the cat into his arms. 'Hello my little moggy,' he cooed as he struggled to shut the window with just a little finger.
Rachel came into the kitchen dressed in a smart pair of black trousers, a blue blouse and a black jacket. She smiled at Philip as he pampered the cat. 'Philip, leave the poor thing alone and get dressed. You've got work in 20 minutes.' She looked at her watch. 'Ahh, shit I'm gonna be late. I have to go!' She ran up and kissed him on the lips, gave the cat a hasty stroke, grabbed a small briefcase and lunged for the door.
'See you tonight babe!' he called after her, but she'd already gone. Philip smiled and dropped the cat onto their small two-seater sofa before putting his black leather jacket on and grabbing the keys to his motorbike. He glanced at his watch. 'I'm gonna have to be bloody quick to get to work on time,' he muttered to himself, running out of the door and slamming it shut behind him.
- - - - -
It was 7:32am according to Geoffrey Simmons' alarm clock, and that meant he was still alive. He lay splayed out on the floor of a very dark room, and the only light was the red glow of the alarm clocks digital screen. He sat up and groaned as his head thundered with the force of the mother of all headaches. He flicked on a small lamp to his left and noticed the 3 empty bottles in the corner of the room, one stood upright, one on its side, one broken. He flicked his tongue around his mouth, tasting the combination of vomit and whisky on his teeth and breath.
He staggered to his feet and entered the hallway. 'Why aren't I dead?' he grumbled. The entire apartment was blacked out, so he flipped every light switch he came across, except of course those which he knew had strong bulbs. He entered the bathroom but left the light off, instead propping the door open with an old newspaper (that for some reason was on the floor). The light from the upstairs landing was enough for him to see the toilet. He bent over suddenly and retched emptily. There was nothing left in his stomach of course; it was all over himself and the floor of the utility room. He collapsed onto the floor and mused over his pitiful life.
He'd never been in a successful relationship. At the age of 5, his mother committed suicide, and at the age of 8, his father was beaten to death by 3 teenagers who thought he was the local burglar (that had a sick calling card of murdering all pets in the houses which he robbed). This was completely untrue. Geoff's father was his world after his mother died, and he was a kind and gentle man, with a stable 9 to 5 job. No new purchases magically appeared in the house, and he rarely went out.
After his father's death, Geoffrey went to live with an aunt in London and was brought up over the next 8 years very strictly. At the age of 16 he left his aunt and began to train to be a police officer. After 5 years he joined the Toluca County police force and now, at the age of 36 he was a homicide detective. His job had taken it's toll. He had become desensitised to death and violence, and his lack of compassion had left him with only 4 short-lived relationships with women in his whole life. He'd hit rock bottom a few weeks beforehand and was getting drunk far too often for any normal human being. He didn't care though. He wanted to die.
He lay there on the bathroom floor barely conscious, head thumping for god knows how long. Then his mobile phone began to ring. Groaning, he pulled it out of his pocket and put it to his ear.
'Hello, Geoffrey Simmons speaking,' he said, trying to put on the most normal voice he could muster.
'Geoff, it's me, Robin. Where he hell are you man? Work started an hour ago,' said the voice on the other end.
He looked at his watch. 'Shit… I over slept. Cover me for another 10 minutes?'
A sigh on the other end. 'This is the last time I'm doing this Geoff. Sort your life out mate.' Then the phone was put down.
Geoffrey stood up and brushed himself down. Grabbing his toothbrush he began to get ready.
- - - - -
At around 8 o'clock, Geoffrey Simmons sneaked through the doors of police HQ and managed to get to his desk unnoticed. A tall black male approached him.
'Jesus Christ Geoff! You said 10 minutes!' he hissed, sitting down at the other side of the baby blue wooden booth.
'Sorry Rob, I was in a bad way and really needed to scrub up. I'm still over the limit from last night as well, so I ran to work instead of drove,' he protested smoothly, grabbing the dirty mug off his desk and going over to the coffee jug.
'Look, whatever man, just don't do it again! If the boss finds out, he'll fire both our asses, and I have kids man. I can't afford to be covering your ass every god damn day!' Robin continued.
'Yeah, OK, I'm sorry. I'll sort myself out. For the sake of your kids.'
Robin nodded. 'Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.'
'Can we get down to business now? We're already nearly an hour and a half behind,' said Geoff, grabbing a handful of paperwork and sifting through it randomly.
'Yeah, c'mon, lets get down to it'.
- - - - -
Philip Snow sat at his desk in the upper levels of his local bank and tapped away furiously at his keyboard, glancing frequently to and fro at the two monitors. As an accountant Philip spent a lot of time typing away at a computer and as a result, he developed RSI in his wrists and neck. He had claimed compensation and gained about £6,000 (enough to put a deposit down on his and Rachel's apartment). This made a lot of staff there resentful towards him, because they too tried to sue the bank for RSI but he was the only one to win. One of the most resentful members of staff was his partner, Larry Woodshaw.
'Good morning Philip. Made any successful claims today?' the fat ginger-haired 28 year old asked as he strolled over and took a seat at a desk not far from him.
'Get a life you fat moron. I got 6 grand. Who cares? We both earn so much more than that every year, so what's your damn problem?' Philip yelled suddenly.
'Chill out!' Larry exclaimed as suddenly and as loudly as Philip had. Their boss heard and came investigating.
'Is there a problem here?' hissed the grey, thin, smartly clad executive.
'No problem,' said Philip through gritted teeth. He jumped to his feet and sped off to the bathrooms, trying to stop the horrific rage he was feeling from spilling over.
Seating himself in the only cubicle without a 'Danger: Wet Floor' sign, he thought of his dream, of all things.
…that orange glow. What is it? What is happening inside the temple which is producing such a glow...?
There was pounding on the door.
'Hello? Who's in there? Come out, now!' Philip woke to find himself lying on the floor of the cubicle, and there was a familiar coppery tang in his mouth. Blood? Thinking quickly, but without reason, he jumped to his feet and crouched over the toilet seat. The figure on the other side of the door bent down and he could see the shadow of his head as it peered into the crack. 'Is there anybody in there? Shit. The door's jammed again. I'd better go get the janitor. He'll sort it.'
The sound of footsteps faded and when they were gone completely he opened the door and peered out. No-one was there. Something had happened though. The room was darker than usual, and the smell of blood was everywhere. It was cold too. Too cold for a well heated building like a bank. He rubbed the warmth back into himself and exited the toilets.
'What the…?' he didn't finish his sentence. There, sitting propped up against the wall was the corpse of a middle-aged man that he recognised by face as one of his colleagues, and he matched it to the voice of the man who was in the toilets with him mere seconds before. The walls were splashed with blood, and his ripped open abdomen dripped fresh gore. 'What had caused those wounds?' he thought. His chest cavity had been cracked open like a shellfish, and his innards spread out across the corridor in a grizzly ritual fashion. There was a low whistling squeak that was constantly fluctuating in the distance, and Philip followed the sound. The lights flickered steadily and a light red mist was settling in the corridors. The sound led him away from the corpse and into a disused part of the building where old computer parts and boxes full of old papers were stored. He entered a small side room and there on the ground was a small handheld radio. The sound was static and feedback, but on closer inspection he noticed that there were no batteries in it. Puzzled, he dropped it into his pocket and began to make his way back to the corpse, his mind filled with confusion and anguish, the radio continually buzzing and squealing. Suddenly the mist began to get heavier and heavier. He couldn't see what was in front of him, walking into a door handle, the sharp metal corner biting into his leg and causing him to fall. He hit the ground, couldn't see anything…
…woke up on the toilet cubicle floor, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth was present, and a pounding headache had settled upon him. Suddenly remembering what had happened he leapt to his feet and dashed out into the bathroom. All was normal. No mist, no cold, no darkness. Just the bank. The same toilets he visited everyday were the same as usual. He put it down to a manic episode, mentally agreeing to Rachel's previous advice to see a doctor, and decided to continue with his work. He left the bathroom and sure enough, there was no corpse. He shook his head and sat back down at his desk, a confused look on his face. Taking a swig of cold coffee, he briefly patted his face and massaged his temples, trying to bring the life back into his body. The warm sunbeams coming in through the windows seemed to avoid him somehow, so he just sat and shivered in his uniform. He decided to put on his jacket, and breathed a sigh of relief as its heavy warm folds enveloped him.
'Jesus Christ Snow, you look like shit', came a voice form around the corner. It was Arthur Stone, the same man who was mauled in his dream. Was it a dream? How did his fall asleep on the toilet without realising? He wasn't at all tired, just fatigued for some reason.
'Thanks for the concern Arthur, now if you don't mind, I'm a bit busy right now', he shot back in as monotonous a voice he could.
'I serious Phil, you're skin… You're really pale!' Arthur replied. Philip couldn't tell whether or not it was genuine concern. He was tempted to go back to the bathroom and look himself in the mirror, but after his breakdown in the cubicle, that's the last thing he wanted to do.
'I'm fine, seriously. Just go away'.
Arthur frowned before turning round and heading back to his desk, muttering expletives under his breath. Philip shook his head slightly before continuing with his work.
- - - - -
Geoffrey Simmons sat in a nearby diner and was tucking into a large steak when Gary Lawson entered. He sighed in disdain and dropped his cutlery.
'Ah, Geoff. Just the man I was looking for', Gary beamed. Taking a seat in the booth, opposite Geoffrey.
He was a short, round man. Not fat, but chubby with a large turkey neck. He was bald on top, but still maintained a straw-like mop of greasy black hair around its perimeter. On his nose sat a pair of large round glasses and his upper lip could not be seen for the large fat slug of a moustache.
He slapped Geoff gently round the side of the head. 'How you been buddy?'
Geoff wriggled in the red leather seat. 'Look, Gary, please, I just want to eat my lunch. No more of this bullshit about leaving Toluca County police and coming back to New York. I like it here!' This was a lie, but it was better than New York. 'The crime there is too much for me. Being a homicide detective there is bloody awful. You know how I feel about that.'
Gary laughed and patted his stomach. He waved over the waitress and ordered a coffee. 'You need to stop jumping the gun old lad. I just came here for a coffee and low and behold, you're here! It's just a coincidence.'
Geoff sighed. 'Don't lie to me Gary. I eat here everyday on my lunch break at 12:25, and you know it. We both know why you're here, and the answer is no.'
Gary shook his head suddenly. 'No, it's about a town not far from here. Screw New York, that's not important anymore, I'm talking about Toluca Lake.'
'What about the lake?' Geoff asked, taken aback by the story.
'A town near the lake called Foresbrook has had some weird shit going on inside it. You remember the Johnson case of '96?'
Geoff leaned in. 'You mean that cult of weirdoes? The ones who sacrificed the children? Yeah, how could I forget…'
Gary's head was bobbing up and down uncontrollably. 'Yeah, you remember? Well we think that some similar shit has been going down in Foresbrook. A school bus of teenagers went missing down there a few days ago, and locals in that area say they've heard chanting and seen great big fires burning at night time.'
'Foresbrook, Foresbrook… Where is that? Toluca Lake you say?'
Gary nodded once again. 'Yeah, it's a big lake. Has quite a few towns dotted around it, but it's a very quiet area.'
Geoffrey was intrigued for a reason he couldn't put his finger on. Cult activity and Toluca Lake seemed to ring a bell, but he didn't know what…
'You OK, Geoff?' asked Gary. He could see the puzzlement on his face very clearly.
'Hmmm, yeah. Look, here's my card. Ring me in 2 hours. There's something I have to check.' In a flash he was up, outside the diner, and in his car.
Gary sat with a perplexed look on his face before sighing quite happily. 'Waste not want not, ' he said before grabbing Geoffrey's unfinished meal and digging in.
