My memories of home are distant, shattered things. The smells are more potent than the meaningless images. So many times I'll be transported back to my old house when I catch a whiff of some random odour I can never completely identify, the smell of incense and burning plants filling my mind with a long-forgotten dread I still try to surpress.
Meaghan thinks I should go see a hypnotist or a psychologist or something, but I don't think so. I don't sleepwalk nearly as much as I used to and that thing with the knife only happened the one time. It's not like I need help.
"These weird problems you always have probably have to do with all that stuff you can't remember."
I don't have weird problems, Meaghan. Everyone's a little weird, right? Now drop it.
"Ow! Fine, you don't have to grab my wrist so hard."
Sorry.
Anyway. It was a hot July when the letter came. Meaghan was the one to find it, unfortunately, which meant I would never hear the end of it. Actually, in retrospect, I could've gotten to it first. I saw the mail slot open as the junk mail and bills pushed through, the brass covering snapping shut when they spilled onto the floor.
The letter sat there, the paper aged and dry. From where I sat, I could only stare at it. I couldn't move but every part of my being was focused on that letter. It was like everything around me slowly melted, the paint slowly peeling from the walls, the windows darkening, mouldings curling and twisting, a distant rumbling making itself louder and louder in the back of my mind accentuated by the high-pitched wail of an emergency siren only rising in intensity…
"What's this?" Meaghan scooped it up and brought me back to reality.
Don't open it! Burn it! Throw the ashes in the sea and make me forget… But of course, I don't say any of that. I just trail her with my gaze as she steps into the dining room and peels open the paper.
"It's addressed to you," she says, reading the brittle slip of paper inside. She doesn't offer it to me or anything, she just keeps reading it. A part of me wants to get angry that she's reading my mail like this, but every other part of me is frozen to the seat. I can't move or speak.
I want to scream.
"It's from your parents," she finally says, never lifting her gaze. She's done reading it, but I can tell she's curious about the way it's written. Perfect calligraphy and India-ink on ancient parchment.
"You've never said anything about your parents." She looks up at me. "Jesus, you're sweating!"
I'm fine.
"You don't look fine. I'm gonna get you some water."
No really, I'm—but she disappears and hands me a glass of water.
What does the letter say?
"They say something's happened to the family business and they need you to take care of it, personally. It doesn't really say anything else. They want you to come home."
Huh.
"Are you sure you're fine? Let me get you some aspirin."
Goddamnit, I said I'm fine!
Glass shatters and there's water everywhere. She glares at me like a stern mother, angry, but there's nothing menacing about her eyes. Oh Meaghan. We're from different worlds, you and I.
I'll get a towel.
She's still got the letter while I soak up the water and grab the broom to sweep up the glass. "Your parents don't mention an address and I've never seen it in our address book…"
Check the return address on the envelope.
"Oh! You're right, here we go."
I had hoped never to hear those two words again.
"Silent Hill."
