The village was cast upon by a mass of derelict stone and gnarled trees. There was the soft trickle of water from the beat up fountain, located in the center of the small little conglomerate. Above, upon high clouds, sat the ominous moon, appearing with cracks due to the broken branches. It was in the middle of nowhere, and was known as Little Whitemound, although others knew it as Witchville.
Kenneth Strangways was an amateur photographer, for the Metropolitan. He wasn't paid, and his pictures were only ever used in the section hidden in the middle that only drunks read, and then promptly forgot about. And so here he was, investigating the one building in Britain that had yet to be seen.
The Kenmale Inn, established 1888. Grey and wooden, and supposedly inhabited by demons. He'd been sent from London, because Smith had been off somewhere with her aunt. Reportedly once a mental asylum, now an inn that no one wanted to stay in. People disappeared overnight, with no explanation and no further sighting of them. No evidence of murders or kidnappings. It was a bonafide mystery. A mystery he couldn't be arsed about.
He walked inside and nodded to the woman behind the old, damp filled reception counter. "Room for one, registered under Strangways." he said, gruff and to the point. The woman, about
50, wearing semi rags, reached for a box of loose keys and picked out a rusted one. She gave
him a glimmering gaze.
"Ye be careful now. There be ghouls around 'ere, no doubt 'bout it!" she whispered. He nodded, rolled his eyes and took the key. She tugged it back quickly.
"Hey!" he protested. She shook her head.
"Ye best heed me warnings, lad. Ye may not survive the night if ye're not wary!"
"Just give me the key, you old...hag." he growled. She tossed him the key, sighed, and went back to her desk. He went upstairs, plonked his bags and camera on the old, dusty bed in his small, ugly room. Outside was bleak, with only an old woman sat outside. Her eyelids were saggy, covering her eyes. She held her hands together, and began to warble.
"A night in a day, they won't go away, oh bring us a moment of silence
A man in a mask, who made it his task, oh bring us a moment of silence
A knife in the back, a slip in the track, has brought us this moment of silence."
He was tempted to open the window and shout down at her to shut up, but she stopped, stood up, and felt her way back inside of her house. He lay down, mumbled, and stood up again.
He got outside with the camera, and began papping away at the building. He got shots of
windows, of cobwebs and of the interior. It was getting dark, and tiring work had been done without effort. Bed was something he didn't really feel was necessary, but knew getting an early night meant he could get an early rise and leave early. He slipped under the covers, not even bothering to get changed into pyjamas.
He was about to doze off at around 11, when he heard a noise. Something like a cricket crossed with a baby's rattle. He opened his eyes, thought he saw something, and turned to turn on the light.
He didn't know why he was turning on the light, so closed his eyes and tried to doze off. He heard an odd sound, sat up, looked around, swore he saw a shape in the darkness, and turned to turn on the light.
Why was he putting on the light? He had no idea. He turned back to bed, but was met with a shadowy figure standing over him.
"The Doctorrrrrr mustttt beeeee broughtttttttt." it hissed, before Strangways was taken without the chance to scream.
DoctorWho
A MomentofSilence
Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge Stewart stepped out of the jeep, immediately met by the yellow car known as Bessie. Inside was the Doctor, wearing a red jacket, and his assistant Jo Grant. They got out of the car and stepped across to the Brigadier, walking briskly through the cold evening air.
"Ah, Doctor. You made it in one piece I see."
"Yes, although no thanks to your frankly underdeveloped directions, right Jo?" "No offence Brigadier, but the Doctor's right. We almost drove into a river." The Brigadier rolled his eyes, and began to walk alongside the duo.
"Now, I suppose you both know why we're here?" he asked. The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck.
"Yes, well I seem to have missed that part of the phonecall."
"Hmm...yesterday evening, an amateur journalist and photographer went missing. No sign of him, his bed isn't dressed and his belongings are still here."
They entered a dusty inn, and were led upstairs to another room. There was a mess of bed sheets, as well as a cluster of items on a dusty dresser. The Doctor picked up a notepad from this group, and flicked through it.
"You know, for a journalist this man had very little written down. In fact, there's nothing in here at all." he remarked. The Brigadier sighed.
"Well, Doctor, what do you make of it?" he asked. The Doctor looked at him.
"Well, obviously alien interference. Smells like warm glass, obviously teleportation. Brigadier, I'd like to stay the night here."
The Brigadier shook his head.
"Out of the question Doctor. UNIT needs you around for further analy "
"My dear Brigadier, you won't get any better analysis than fieldwork." the Doctor smiled.
"And you'll need an assistant for analysis, Doctor." Jo mentioned. The Brigadier rolled his eyes, hiked his shoulders up and contracted his hands behind his back.
"Benton!" he barked. Sgt. Benton walked briskly inside. "Yes sir?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
"Stand guard outside this door until tomorrow morning. Let no one in except for the Doctor and
Miss Grant. Understood?"
Benton nodded, and set about finding a chair to sit down on. He wiped off a layer of dust and dead flies, let out a breath of exasperation, and sat with his back to the wall outside the room. The Brigadier left the room, leaving just Jo and the Doctor.
"Doctor?" Jo asked. The Doctor turned to face her. "Yes Jo?"
"Mind if I have a look around? Just to see if anyone else is about?"
The Doctor gave her a little smile, one she knew was meant to convey a moment of pleasure at the disobedience of the Brigadier's orders. She left the room, and started to investigate the corridor that ran from the left of Benton down around 5 meters. Nothing big. She looked into each room. They all looked similar; beds all dressed, a dresser next to a window. It was as if no one had ever used them ever, not even a layer of man made dust sat on the surfaces. She reached
the end, and found a door. It was wooden, probably mahogany. She reached down, and tried turning the doorknob. It rattled, but the door remained firmly disinterested. Definitely locked, but there was no sign of any keyhole. She shook her head, decided it was nothing and went back to the Doctor.
"Find anything Jo?" he asked, perched at the edge of the bed. "Nothing really. I did notice something though."
He raised an eyebrow, and she continued. "It's...the silence. It's so quiet, it's as though "
"As though you could reach out and grab the quiet?" the Doctor concluded. She nodded.
"Yes, well, I reckon it's time for a rest don't you?" He nodded to Benton, who nodded back before closing the door. The Doctor gave Jo the bed, opting instead to sleep on the floor.
His eyes flashed open. The door was off its hinges, the body of Sergeant Benton dumped through its path. He felt the bump on the back of his head, but ignored it, instead checking the bed. The bedsheets were in crumples, but that wasn't his problem. The bed was empty. Jo was gone.
Anhourlater
"We've scoured the area." "And?"
"No sign of Miss Grant."
The Doctor sighed. The Brigadier walked to the window, looking out at the bland ground. "How's Benton doing?" the Doctor asked.
"Sergeant Benton's fine. He's the least of our worries now, though Doctor. What do we do?" "What do we do, Alastair? We fight back."
The two men turned to look at the figure who stood in the doorway. He was tall, young, dressed in purple with a bowtie. He looked at the Doctor and smiled.
"Who the devil are you?!" the Brigadier asked. The Doctor's eyes widened.
"It can't be!" he exclaimed. The stranger nodded.
"See, he gets it. Same can't be said for the people behind this. Well I say people, really I mean things. Or its. Or Thing Its. Sorry about the interruption, just thought I'd pop by."
The stranger walked towards the Brigadier and looked in his eye. There was something so old about his eyes, something so warlike yet gentle.
"Who is he, Doctor?" he asked.
"Well, Brigadier, he's one of them." the Doctor sighed. The stranger smiled.
"Not just one of them, thethem. Hello, I'm the Doctor. And I know just what we're dealing with."
2013
Clara Oswald stepped firmly inside the TARDIS, right behind the Doctor. "...all I'm saying is that you said we were gonna see art!" she huffed. "...but we did see art!"
"Yeah, ArtGarfunkel!" "So what?"
"Everyone knows Art Garfunkel's only good with Paul Simon!" she exclaimed. The Doctor walked past her and to the console.
"Listen, next time we'll actually go somewhere with art. There's a brilliant moon covered in nothing but Mona Lisa fakes. Think some of them could be mine actually." he said, looking flustered. He set a course for the TARDIS and sighed. Clara looked up as the three wheels of unknown function turned. No clicking though. There was usually clicking.
"Doctor," she began, "what happened to the clicky thing? Y'know, the noise that usually happens?"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean it's gone, obviously. It's so...silent. Have I said this before? I've got some kind of Deja Vu going on."
"It is silent. Silent...deja vu...oh no. Clara, listen to me, if you see anything do NOT take your eye off of it." the Doctor yelled, before he began to root around in his pockets for something.
"What's wrong? Doctor what is happening?!"
"They found me. Thought they'd taken the bait, considered they'd still think I was dead. Thick thick McThicko! That's what I am."
"Who is they?!" "They are "
"The silence Doctorrr. The silence must falllllllll..."
There was a guttural voice, one the Doctor thought he had left behind forever. He had enough time to see the familiar form of a Silent, a form that had taken strenuous mental training to remember, grab Clara before fading into the air.
There was suddenly a flash in the Doctor's mind. Scenes of himself, back when he had the
opera coat and the big nose. Scenes of his companion, Jo, being dragged away. Scenes of good ol' Benton lying unconscious on the carpeted floor of an old dusty inn. He knew he had to break every rule, every law dictated by the swirling ball of time. He had to meet himself. Again.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
"And so that's why I'm here."
The Third Doctor looked at his future self, alarmed. "But the laws of time will "
"Will contradict everything, I know. Time's literally "
"Going to collapse around us. Yes I know. Good to see how brash and undeniably stupid I am in the future!"
"Oi! If I hadn't gotten here you'd still be nowhere near the solution to this problem, who was behind it and where Jo is! So shut it, me, and let...me... talk!"
The Brigadier felt tensions were rising too high, and so interrupted. "Doctor, er the younger one. Or the older one. What are we dealing with?"
The Eleventh Doctor looked at the Brigadier.
"We're dealing with an order known as the Silence. Religious bunch, wear rubbish suits. They erase themselves from your memory as soon as you look away from them. And it's my fault that they're here. Because their only goal is to make sure I'm dead."
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Clara snapped her eyes open, finding herself in a dark and cold room. Her mind could only remember Art Garfunkel and the Doctor, before waking up here.
"Hello?!" she called, desperate but calm. She heard another breath, not hers though. "Who's there?" a voice replied, female and also calm.
"Clara. Clara Oswald."
"Hi Clara, I'm Jo Grant. I don't suppose you know where we are?" "Not sure. Really cold, bit too cold. Are you cold?"
"Yes, unfortunately. Left my jumper in the TARDIS." Clara's eyes widened.
"TARDIS?! Hang on, you know the Doctor?!" "Yes! I'm his assistant! Wait, you know him too?!"
"Yeah, I'm his assis I mean, his companion. Definitely his companion. He's definitely my assistant."
"I wonder when he'll save us."
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Another vehicle pulled up to the outside of the inn. Out stepped a man with shoulder length hair and a cane. He wore a pinstripe suit, and white shoes. He looked up at the Brigadier and walked inside. As soon as he climbed the stairs and entered the room, there was a definite sense of tension and despair.
"I'm Yohman Usta," he smiled, with a thick Eastern European, "I'm the kind of mayor of Little
Whitemound. I understand something happened, no?"
The Brigadier explained the situation to him while the two Doctors stood in the background.
"I dunno about you," the Eleventh whispered to his other self, "but I don't think he's a good guy."