Ashes and Ghost
The fog is so thick it seems to penetrate his skull, as well as every crevice. There is no sound of nature audible, save a rustling wind, moaning in his ear. He stands there, breathing calmly, letting his eyes adapt to the unique form of snow-blind exhibited by the mixture of fog and the sunlight's reflection. His clothes are dampening from all the moisture. The gaping maw of a tunnel through which he came is fading, losing ground in his memory, like he just started here. He reads the weathered sign.
Welcome to Silent Hill
The ethereal atmosphere of the place unnerves him, but he has learned to deal with such emotions, considering he can sometimes get the same feeling when he opens the closet door, or gets into bed; the notion, at times the knowledge that something will reach out and latch on to you. He's often been in situations that, while dissimilar to this place, facilitated the same feeling of the calm before the storm, so he doesn't pay attention to his gut, which is screaming for him to leave this place, run now, forget the car and don't even think about looking back. He may not have nerves of steel, but he occasionally makes use of an iron will. His gut remains ignored because he used to run at what he thought was behind him, but no longer. He will not be afraid. Has no reason to be.
He walks on, remembering the glimpse of the lake he saw earlier, and wonders how it could look so pristine. He then remembers this is a tourist town, and upkeep is surely a requisite for a good economy, but this leads him to wonder why anyone would come here in the face of all…this ubiquitous…fog. Only someone looking for a place to hide. The realization hardens his resolve, his willingness to finish unpleasant business. He has to be here.
He marches down the hill, leaving his car in front of the boarded-up thru-way.
He crosses the guardrail, not knowing what to expect, but certainly not expecting…nothing. The town is dead silent: no engines, transformers, or generators. He feels an apprehensive knot turn in his stomach, a decidedly powerful reaction. The sun is constant, yet dim, and the fog is a wall as it sits all around him, unmoving. He walks on, past the rusty cars, the empty streets, and the dark edifices looming on either side. He is reflected on all the shop's windows, depriving him of the ability to see the other side and amplifying his isolation.
The anxiety is not dissolving. Rather, it is starting to accrue, and he can't dismiss the feeling offhand. Stop being a chickenshit. He tries to calm himself while walking down the center of some street; he couldn't read the sign due to the fog. He walks up directly to a street sign, at least to calm down his disorientation, if not to serve as a point of reference for some later time. It reads the intersection of Saul and Harris when he sees a sign for Neely's Bar, 'Next Left, on the corner of Neely and Sanders.' He stops in his tracks.
Bars in small towns are the refuge for the castoffs of society; the denizens too socially inept or innately fucked up to hold a conversation or a meaningful relationship are quickly ostracized. Acquiescing to the pack instincts of primates, these rejects ostracize themselves further by congregating at a bar and drinking until they forget their woes. In short, the detritus of society, a way station for the washouts of the world. Precisely who he expects to be looking for. He heads off. It is lucky the bar is so close, because that feeling in the pit of his stomach is growing. He hasn't felt this sort of apprehension since…
He's about to give in and flat-out run for the rest of the way when he sees a light flicker and partially illuminate the entrance to the bar, machinery wheezing to life in some near back alley. The door is open, and the light stays on, albeit a dismal, lonely light. He can identify with it, however, and is comforted by the sign of human presence, or at least working electricity. He strolls in. The bar is mainly unremarkable; a few clean tables with chairs stacked on top of them, unlit neon signs everywhere. The only thing standing out is the smell, which is reminiscent of something he cannot place, vaguely unpleasant…
"Hello? Anyone in here?" he asks, impulsively looking out the windows to check his surroundings.
"Yes, I'm here. What can I do you for?" comes the twangy reply from behind the bar, accompanied by shuffling noises.
He exhales a deep sigh of relief, the knot in his stomach unrolling.
"Man, I thought I was the only one in this town." He says, walking towards the bar.
"Noooope. Plenty of interesting people around here, I can attest to that." The voice's answer wavers with jocularity.
"Well then, where is everybody? Some kind of parade, or maybe…"
The bartender laughs him off good-naturedly.
"No, no, no, people around here are quiet. Not necessarily shy, they just show up when they want to. Fairly easy to do, what with the abundance of fog and all. There is a reason this town was christened Silent Hill."
The delivery may have been deadpan, but he still thinks it was an acerbic comment, though he doesn't know why. Sounds like the moving of boxes in the storeroom continue.
"How does that explain that there are no cars running, or children yelling, or electricity humming above me, or even that there hasn't been one sign of---"
"Now look here, young fella, you a city boy or something?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"Well, then it's fairly obvious to me that this town isn't quite your cup of tea, now is it? Yes, this place is very quiet. True, you don't hear some modern amenities being used. Is that any reason to think this is some sort of ghost town? I mean, what kind of crazy talk is that? This town is a major tourist spot, hotels and such owned mainly by old people. And this town is currently out of season, so what most of the old folks have left to do is count their money and sleep. So no one's out. This town also elects to try and conserve energy, so on Sundays, when most, if not all businesses are closed, they turn off the juice. If there's a kid in town, they wouldn't be here; they'd be off in the residential district, or playing around at the lake. And a bar usually doesn't heat up until evenings.
And just because the noise level's a bit low and unaccustomed for your tastes you have to assume fantastical theories?"
He realizes his fear has gotten the best of him, and thus he is definitely screwing up his first impression. Not the easiest way to coax information out of someone.
"Look, sir, I'm sorry for being abrasive. You're right that this place unnerves me, but it's not the absence of sound, it's more the absence of people. It's just that I'm not used to being afraid in addition to being alone."
A good lie is mostly genuine, the one where a small investigation yields actual truth, but is false in its entirety. Yes, he is afraid, but he's only sorry that he forgot how to handle himself for a moment. He's sure the bartender will believe him. He's done this too many times to lose the touch now.
"Well…apology accepted."
Having ameliorated the bartender's irritation, he hopes he can get something out of this guy. If a bar is a way station, then the bartender is the guide, full of local legends, an encyclopedic knowledge of his regulars, and hopefully a snapshot memory of the irregulars…
"What kind of interesting?" he poses with a slight grin, affecting familiarity while taking a seat on a barstool.
"Oh, most any kind you can think of. Drunks, eccentrics…hey, you mind not leaning on the counter? I just polished it, and it takes a few minutes for the wood to absorb the stuff. Thanks."
He wrinkles his brow slightly and leans back, looking at the bar, which the bartender must take very seriously, because it has an almost unbelievably rich sheen already. He can see himself clearly, even the stubble that dots his neck, but not his face is discernable. He must be trying to waterproof it…
Wait.
He squints to see into the backroom; it's dimly lit, and it stretches beyond his view to the side. Did the bartender move into view, see what he was doing, make his request, and move back to his work? Wouldn't his voice sound different as he moved into the doorway, and then back again? He couldn't see the bartender, how could the bartender see him? Unless there were security cameras, but this was a small-town bar…He wants to lean over and check to see that the bartender isn't squishing himself up under the bar, but he can see clearly already. Nothing there but a bucket marked POLISH, an unused brush lying next to it.
Something isn't right here.
"…yeah, so anyway, crazies, loners, an occasional psycho with a penchant for starting bar fights…typical thoroughfare. Who are you looking for?" The voice replies casually.
No use dancing around the question he needed to ask. This guy didn't miss a trick.
"Anybody new come in the past few days that you remember? Anyone you remember as…unusual?"
"Hey, look, you need to stop trying to be secretive around here, friend. You stay in a town like this long enough, we learn all your secrets. Concerning your 'unusual' quarry; well, that all depends on perspective. How about you tell me what he looks like, and I'll tell you if he's made tracks through here."
He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a worn leather-bound notepad.
"Five foot-eleven, heavyset, tan, brown eyes, shoulder-length black hair, often travels under the names Shane Becker, Saul Berrman, Sherman Betts…"
"Sherman's uh, a whaddayacallim, an alias? Well, if that don't beat all."
His head immediately lifts up.
"You've seen him?"
"Someone's started coming in here every two or three days goes by the name of Sherman, but he don't look nothing like what you're talkin' about." He checks his notebook again.
He is tapping the notebook with his pen excitedly as he asks, "Does he have a tattoo of the infinity symbol on the back of his neck?"
"What's the infinity symbol look like?"
"A horizontal 8, or something similar."
"Yeah, that must be Sherman. But something must have happened to him recently, because he's lost a good bit of weight."
"How recently have you seen him?"
"I don't rightly know."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"I don't know. What kind of business do you have with a man who uses fake names?"
He doesn't appreciate being delayed like this.
"My own."
"Oh, ain't that clever."
"I don't see how this concerns you."
"Well, if you're going to force this guy from where he don't want to leave, which seems to be here, and wish to do ill will on him, I ain't inclined to be the one to let that happen."
Now he's beginning to lose his temper. He doesn't let it show, that wouldn't help. For now, he sweetens his entreaties.
"Look, all I want to do is talk with him. He hasn't done anything wrong. I just want to talk with him, and I would sincerely appreciate it if you could help me."
A pause, like the bartender seemed to be considering it. He leans in closer.
"Sorry, boy. Sherman won't be leavin' on your account."
He realizes he still hasn't actually seen the bartender, and putting a pleading face with his pleading voice could only improve the sympathy factor. But hadn't the bartender seen him already when he asked him to move back? No matter, it would satisfy his own curiosity if he saw the bartender. It would give him some more indicators of how to work him. He moves around the bar quietly and begins heading towards the backroom. As he does, the light in the bar begins to dim. He pays it a quick glance and keeps moving. That smell he's noticed since the beginning is getting pungent, too.
"All we seem to be doing is arguing. Let's try to get off on the right foot. What's your name?" he asks the bartender while pacing towards the backroom, the singular light fading.
"I'm known around here as Sully. And yourself?"
The flight flickers madly, trying to stay alive.
"It's M-"
He reaches the storage room as the light goes out, and is knocked down by a huge rush of wind. Immediately afterwards the whole building is shaken by a shattering thud, knocking all the bottles off the shelf. They shatter on the floor. Undeterred, he looks inside, and judging by the ambient light outside, there is no one is in the storeroom, and there are no boxes. The room is barren.
Something is very wrong in this town.
He is on one knee when his foot lands on a bottle, sliding out from under him. He falls, grasping for the bar and missing, his hand landing in the bucket of POLISH and tipping it over. He gasps in surprise at the sudden intensity of the smell. He is bringing his hand to his face when the synapses in his brain connect. His eyes widen in horror as realizes what the bitter, acrid, copper-ish smell signifies. He knows that stench all too well, from too many places, and too many people.
Something is very wrong in this town.
The light burns back on, shedding bleak light across the bar. The twangy voice of Sully, now two octaves deeper, resonates from all around.
"You got that right."
Disclaimer: Silent Hill is totally owned by Konami, and thus I have no legal domain there. Please don't sue.