Silent Hill: The Manipulated Dead
by Elliot Bowers
"Infinitely Late at Night"
Music by HIM
Chapter 3—The Mask
1.
Lights glaring ahead, this vehicle zoomed through the darkness. The lights made for the only illumination, twin blazing sources of brightness. There was no daylight and had not been for a long time. The way this vehicle was zooming, it was moving as if in fear of something in pursuit. The radio played something.
…Don't worry about me
I'll be alright!
It's just infinitely
…late at night
There must have been light at some point in this landscape. As there was plant-life growing to the left and right of this darkened highway-road, they must have had some source of light with which to live and grow. That was not now, and seemingly not ever. Darkness dominates the land…
Now it's dark, thought the operator of the vehicle as he drove this vehicle along the straight night-darkened highway. Left and right of the road was almost nothing but vast gloom-shrouded plains of grass, a cloud-coated sky that glowed faintly with moonlight above. He kept driving straight with little but the sound of the radio for company. This middle-aged man wasn't really paying attention to what was playing on the radio—just keeping his eyes ahead, his mind on the case.
Right now, Douglas Carter—private detective—was on this interstate highway going north. The highway stretched long enough that it went beyond Oregon. Not that he was actually going to Oregon, but the town he was headed for was pretty darned close. Driving this interstate was so boring and prolonged a task that a person could actually end up in the next state and not notice the difference—except for maybe the green route-signs above: poorly illuminated green-metal signs mounted up high.
But those signs were almost forever behind there. And it was part of forever before one would ever see such highway route-signs again. There were also almost no buildings out here--save a few abandoned industrial facilities he passed some ways back. There were not even other vehicles on this road to break monotony. Played the radio:
…Infinitely late at night!
Is this a black-out?
…Or am I losing my sight?
It should have been noon out
…The sun should be bright!
Driving this prolonged highway was much like driving through some kind of cosmically questionable void where there was nothing but road ahead and cloud-shrouded night sky above, twin beams of headlights shining ahead like dual eyes…and that darkness ahead. There was nothing but more road and more of the same, the driving going on and on with the roadway going off into a dark horizon… The malaise brought Douglas into a sort of semi-hypnosis that let his mind drift through some of the basic facts of this case—something he'd been thinking about during this ride, thinking of that among other things.
This was an especially simple case. A town's priceless artifact had gone missing. It could not have been misplaced as there was security around it. Someone stole it. Now the detective had to find out who or what stole it.
By priceless, the lawyer representing the town's interest said that the artifact could not have a reasonable price. But everything had some kind of price. Even if it was just a simple number in a book, everything has some kind of monetary value—even people. Money makes the world go 'round and 'round.
The detective made some telephone calls out to the nearest public university. It was summer, and things were especially slow there. So the few professors of that school's archeology department were glad to answer questions. They even set up an impromptu conference-call setup: multiple professors in a college office fielding questions by way of telephone speaker and microphone.
According to the archaeologists, the artifact-in-question had an appraise value well beyond six hundred-million dollars if it was ever brought to auction. It was because the artifact was in nearly flawless condition despite three millennia of existence. And yes, that would be well beyond the figure of six hundred-million dollars. He asked those professors how and why the artifact could be worth so much.
Its existence flies directly in the face of perceptions regarding pre-historic North America, the professors said. The artifact is the only one of its kind in existence. There is almost no historical context within which it exists. The society that created it seems to have vanished.
The artifact was a silvery animal-mask of high polished metal. Its upper section of the mask was shaped like a well-defined muscular forehead, two chrome-like hemispheres fitting over the eyes, while the lower section of it was skeletal—bared metal teeth. Most distinctive were the solid metal ears that jutted above the forehead. So say the university archeologists, the polished metal mask is representative of a pre-historic rabbit-human deity: a deity of strength, fertility and wisdom, the deity being a hybrid…
A rabbit? More like a monster, thought Douglas as he remembered the photos of the thing. What kind of rabbit has a muscular forehead and a skeletal mouth? That would make it the Reaper, wouldn't it?
Well, okay… So the profs said it was the deity of a rabbit-human hybrid, so that was what the mask must represent—much as a child or abstract artist will draw a claw-fingered, bulbous-limbed figure and title it "nurse." Since they spent half their lives studying such things, they must be right. He read those descriptions of the artifact before seeing the plethora of official town photos of the thing. All the same, it looked an awful lot like a monster. And he knew monsters: Twice in his line of work did he see have to see them.
Both those times involved dealings with the defunct town of Silent Hill. He once told Heather that it was one screw-w-wed-up town. Douglas wasn't the only one with a negative opinion of that place. G-g-gives me the ch-ch-chills, said somebody to him once—a refugee from that town. Trouble was, nobody ever bothered to move back to that town even after the "pollution" problems there were allegedly dealt with.
About the guy who said ch-ch-chills… He went back to Silent Hill on regular visits. They found his burned-up corpse not too much later after a certain girl and a certain private detective took to final dealings with that landscape, that place—that screw-w-wed-up town.
Just as he was driving along this highway, problems of that town went on the road. There were rumors of similar problems in other towns, minor outbreaks of problems in other places. In one case, almost an entire apartment complex full of people went missing—the people just…gone. It was as if they were swallowed up by another world. The building's superintendent disappeared too. A little investigation and it so turns out that the superintendent had a son and daughter-in-law who disappeared in—where else—Silent Hill… G-g-gives me the ch-ch-chills…
You're God-damned right it does, thought Douglas. Now the idea of that creepy hybrid human-rabbit mask of polished metal was giving him the same kind of ch-ch-chills. A priceless artifact, a town's treasure was dedicated to some kind of pre-historic human-rabbit god. He thought he heard enough about town-based religions and thought he wouldn't do any jobs any more for anything even vaguely smacking of religions and cults and towns with hints of creepy doings!
But these were nice people, the ones from which he took this case. And these days he never turned down a case. Now here he was, on the road, on the hunt for something that was almost worshipped by a town—worshipped to a tune above six hundred-million dollars or higher. Well okay, so the artifact wasn't worshipped. It was just a precious museum piece.
Something wasn't right about this business, though. For one, how could it just up and go missing from an alloy vault in the basement of Owl Creek's city hall? Douglas suspected an inside job, but all the security personnel are thoroughly searched before leaving the vault in the town hall. Then they had the metal detectors: one at the vault's entrance, one in the hall, one at the building's exit. "Hsst!" exclaimed the radio. He fiddled with the knob.
There should have been no way the thing went missing. It was it noted that security personnel are required to have their vehicles thoroughly clean for end-of-shift inspection. And there was more security than that—if possible. Besides, no one would want to walk out wit the creepy thing: nobody wanted the thing. It looks like death, they said. Besides, what the Hell kind of mask is over ten thousand years old? "Bzzt… The number is prophetic, isn't it?"
He glanced down again at the glowing readout of the car-radio, this time slowly twisting the knob slightly to the left. "Meanwhile, the police and their six-legged… Bzzt… Hisst!" The car radio began making insane static noises. What? If there was anything Douglas hated more than thing that didn't make sense, it was something that interrupted his thought processes. He glanced down at the radio just long enough to twist the tuning knob.
Yeah, the younger folks had car-radios with press-button tuning. Heather sometimes had something to say about the thing when riding with him. But he liked his analog tuning: push-button computerized radio-tuning was too delicate. "Fwis-s-s-sh… Hisst!" complained the radio. "According to Douglass' brain, a loss of blood-oils in the pipes led to violence among the red children who… Hiss, bzzt!"
Great, now the thing's tuned into some freaky radio station, he angrily thought. Nope, it wasn't fixed yet. So he kept his right hand on the radio knob, twisting the knob while his left hand stayed on the steering wheel. Of course he was trying to keep both eyes on the road. This was the second-to-last place he would want to have an accident—out in the middle of nowhere, darkness all around. But the radio was just such a damned nuisance. Even if there seemed to be nothing on the road ahead, he still kept looking ahead. Something dark and hairy flew past this car and zoomed up to the sky above. "Douglas, what do you know about alternate realities?" asked a robotic voice.
"Who said that!" exclaimed Douglas. The clarity of the voice nearly made Douglas twist the wheel and lose control of this vehicle. It was like there was suddenly somebody in the car with him. There was no response to his particular question save the hissing sound of the radio—and what a hissing noise it was, some squealing and insane sounds mixed in it.
What the Hell was that! There was no one else in this car…. Someone was just here in this car with him. They said something to him and went away. It was some kind of screwy question. What was it again? He thought it said something about realities—more than one reality.
Nobody else was around, though. There was no way somebody could have stepped into a vehicle going seventy miles-per-hour without opening the doors, asking, then opening the door again. Then again, there was no way anybody could move fast enough to unlock the doors and get in here. It could've been the radio—as piss-static bad as it was now. Or it could've been a ghost. G-g-gives me the ch-ch-chills…
Cut that out, he thought to himself. It must have been the radio's reception kicking in well enough to make the stereo-FM function sound more realistic—even just for a secon. A decisive twist of the radio's volume knob, and Douglass clicked it off. Now there was no more of that hiss-buzzing noise filling this vehicle. Damned thing was getting irritating, probably busted when he hit a bump in the road sixty-three miles back or something. That could've jostled some wiring.
Hell, maybe it was the radioactive wastes buried somewhere around here, making for interference. Driving along this night-darkened highway, he did see some particularly interesting signs at the side of the road with the word Danger on them. One of them was something he hadn't really seen since the Cold-War nuke scares of a few years back. It was a sign with a symbol that had three colored triangles arranged inside a circle. That would be the symbol for radiation. Damned nuke wastes are gonna make some pretty interesting animals some day, he thought. Maybe it made for that great big hairy flying thing.
Come to think of it, it was getting to be pretty quiet and lonely in this car. There was just the sound of the tires humming along the as this vehicle continued along. It was an hour yet before he made it to the Town of Owl Creek, anyway. Click! Douglas turned on the radio and slowly turning up the volume. It almost immediately made for that sound of noise filling this car. He turned it low enough as so it wasn't too bothersome before again trying to fine-tune the thing's reception. Again came his right hand in adjusting the radio knob's tuning dial…
Forget it. I'm not gonna muck around with the thing, he thought. That thought left him to leave the radio at the same static-ridden station it was now. It wasn't the usual kind of radio noise and miscellaneous sounds. There were crinklings and clankings in the sounds of the noise… But there was something behind the noise. It was like something was trying to get through, or it was like something designed to scare a middle-aged to older detective. His mind was soon wandering some amongst the other thoughts, thoughts. All the sme, he was certainly getting there. He also had some cinnamon oatmeal cookies to eat too…
Why he thought of that, he did not know. It ought to be that he should maybe think more of carrots than cookies. What if he laid out a trail of carrots, cartoon-rabbit style—right into the Owl Creek Police Station. After all, a guy in a rabbit mask could maybe take on a taste for that vegetable to go with his love of skeletal pre-historic masks dedicated to human-rabbit hybrid gods. That in mind, Douglass drove on along this road through the darkness of night—darkness from the universe.
…
2.
…
An hour before sunrise, Douglas parked this car in a motel parking lot that was just beyond the destination-town's border. The town of Owl Creek was a mere six miles beyond here. But the man had been driving all night, awake all night on the road. He couldn't help but be awake after a few moments of not-so-normal sorts. He opened up the car-side door and stood up, pocketing the car keys in his slacks' right pocket. The trenchcoat he had on kept off the immediate chill of the pre-morning darkness. Oh yes, this was definitely a more northern climate—this far up-state.
He began walking for the motel office. At the daily rate he was being paid by his current client, he could actually afford a day's rest at a luxury hotel. That would be nice…if there were any such hotels hereabouts—just this motel on the side of the highway. Still on his mind was some worry about how things were going. Things like what happened last night shouldn't happen anymore. Things like that just shouldn't. Douglas entered the check-in office.
Inside, he found it to be so much like many other motels used before. There was the same kind of carpeting, hard dark-maroon carpeting met the feet on walking in. There was a waist-high check-in counter of somewhat worn wood-colored Formica. The wood paneling on the rectangular walls was of a lighter color, always wood paneling. Maybe some of the features had different colors from other motels. Maybe the front-desk clerk was there or in the back room. Almost every motel he had been in had the same look and same setup. These places must all have the same interior decorators and same architects… Or they were not-so-overtly all held in common by the same corporation.
This time, the front-desk clerk was not out front. Bin-n-ng! He tapped the bell. Out of the door came a lean-jawed sort of fortyish man in buttoned blue shirt and dark vest worn over, beige slacks and red leather shoes to complete the outfit. "Good morning, sir," he said. "Would you like a room?"
A room… Just then, Douglas wondered what would happen if he said, No, I stepped in just to buy cinnamon. Of course I want a room! Why else would I enter a motel's check-in desk? Hmmph, some of Heather's attitude must be rubbing off on him—having lived with the girl for so long. "Yes, please. I'm just dropping for a stopover, really. Just for the morning—five hours."
"That'll be seventy," said the clerk. "And how are you paying, sir?" Douglas gave the money in travelers' checks. "Thank you." The clerk turned to get a key. "Room 6 should be to your liking… By the way, sir, may I inquire about your destination?"
Douglas decided to answer. Talking to random locals was sometimes a way to get extra information. "Sure, you can ask. I'm going to Owl Creek on business. Why, is there a big event? Something happen?"
"Not exactly," answered the clerk. He shrugged. "When you said on business, it was somewhat against the usual. Owl Creek is a really big destination for retired vacationers at certain times of the year. It is getting close to being one of those certain times. Oh-h-h, people come from all kinds of places to go there."
"Really?" asked Douglas. "You know, I thought the town's main business was chemical refining. They've got a big chemical plant set, a good old manufacturing town. Thought that was the main draw, talking about jobs."
"Ah, chemicals," said the clerk before putting both hands in pockets. "Well! Enjoy your stay, sir. This desk is always open if something comes up. Our rooms lack satellite television because of the impossible reception, but there is basic cable…" He nodded.
"Thanks," said Douglas. You haven't said anything important, but thanks all the same. In just seconds, that clerk went from vague curiosity to a quick-and-businesslike manner. He was hoping to get something out of the clerk, maybe a mention of the museum. He turned to open the motel door—opened and walked out.
Walking the motel parking lot in the pre-dawn darkness, this detective had a hint of realization. He stopped to think about it… Maybe he did get some kind of information out of the clerk. What the clerk didn't say was maybe just as important as what he did say. Owl Creek's museum had an entire floor dedicated to the religious beliefs of local Native American tribes. It would sounds pretty boring to most people these days. Heather liked reading up on the occult, but she largely avoided religious stuff, as she put it.
Religious stuff, it was. He went back to the car to get his suitcase. A few more steps brought him to Room 6. Odd thing, he so happened to be parked in front of the very same motel-room he was given by the clerk. Click-click… A dry metal sound and a surrendering of the doorknob indicated that the door was open. After going in and getting ready for a nap of several hours, he thought of that religious stuff. The missing artifact was the biggest part of the religious stuff at that museum—the reason why they hired him to find it. The trustees of that Owl Creek museum could have gone to the FBI, but then they wouldn't have given him a case.
…
Nine o'clock now, it was late morning when he left the motel to drive on into the town of Owl Creek. Everything was a great deal brighter with the pale-gold sunlight shining with a cool gleam. The town was really more a grown-up version of a residential community. There were still plenty forest area, the vast swaths of land occupied by pine-trees. As for human habitation, most all the structures here were houses. Even the downtown area had some office-buildings that resembled bigger houses converted to office-and-commercial space. Maybe the only exceptions were the police station and the museum.
This was the museum—a large, three-story circular building of red brick exterior. The entire structure had the look of a massive brick-lined cylinder. Or a nuclear fallout shelter, he thought. Driving along this main downtown street brought him into the vicinity of the huge place, a place that took up four city blocks' worth of space. He could see it even from miles away. First time he saw that building, he thought it to be weird.
And he still thought it looked weird. All the other buildings in this woodsy sort of town were square and looked normal. That and they were seldom that gigantic. It was as if the thing was the stump-bottom of a gigantic tower would only find in one of those fantasy movies from the 1980s or in a horror novel. There was this one writer who did books and books about stuff like that. What was the name of that author again?
Ah well, he had some questions to ask. Parking was around the back of the round building—so to speak. He turned right at the next intersection. This particular turn was a curve as well. Well, well, well, came the thought, let's just see what the pleasant folks of this museum have to say about seasonal tourism. At least the parking lot wasn't circular. Parking gave him the chance to stop driving so much and have another look at his notebook.
He flipped it open to the latest page. In addition to the previous notes about the artifact, he even had some clippings of articles folded and kept between pages. But his latest notes were regarding the things half-said by that motel clerk. They were hastily written from this morning.
First was written, Said the clerk, tourism is heavy two times of year. It's museum-centered, religious? Below that, he had earlier written, Importance of these times of year? Why wasn't this mentioned by the museum people?
The trustees of the museum were his official client. Though they generously gave him reams of articles and information on the missing metal artifact, missing from the museum, they didn't quite get into the draw of the place. Time to grill the client, he thought as he stepped out of his car. From there, it was a bit of a walk to the massive red building.
…
In the reception area, there was a sort of desk that was a bit like one at a grand hotel—set before the atrium. And like a grand hotel, there were security guards to the left and right. And of course the check-in desk was circular. Behind it sat an elderly man in dapper black-and-white formalwear. Came his gravelly and swampy voice. "Goo-o-d morning to you, sir," croaked the dapperly dressed elder. "H-h-how may I be of assistance?"
My God, the old guy sounds like he's half-dead. Douglas opened his mouth just as he caught movement in the periphery of his right-side vision. And when he turned to look, it was a vision of amazing beauty.
The beautiful girl was confidently striding in this direction. There was this whole impression of slimness and elegance about her, a pale-skinned girl of straight dark hair and elegant face. Her outfit consisted of a pleated black skirt that and long-sleeved white blouse—the pleated skirt only going midway down her wonderful thighs to show quite a bit of her lean legs in stockings, her blouse fitting close to her upper body and being just this side of see-through. She had on small dark shoes to compliment the dark silk of skirt and silky dark hair--straight dark hair that fluttered like a banner of beauty from around and behind her delicate and round sort of face, large exotic dark eyes that were like round jewels. As this elegant beauty came closer, Douglas saw that her wonderful eyes weren't actually dark, but a sort of deep blue color.
Her being a girl was the only way he could put it, or a young woman barely out of her teens. And for some reason, Douglas thought, Heather… Why not? Heather was something like that, both petite and slender—as if she never fully grew up. Her height and slim, athletic physique let her pass for being a teenager for so long. It was just that those eyes made Douglas think of Heather; she had the same odd deep-blue sort of eyes. Except this girl-woman was about six feet in height—just Douglass' height.
She came within six steps and stood primly, feet together, delicate hands at her sides. When she spoke, her soft voice had the delicate staccato of an accent Douglass could not place. But even her voice was beautiful.
"We have ex-pec-ted you, Mis-ter. Douglas Carter," said the girl-woman. "A source informs us of your presence. Please be assured that we shall inform you to the best of our capabilities for the sake of returning what belongs to us." To that, the girl-woman tilted her head to the left, put on a smile that made Douglas' heart dance a little. "What aspect of the solstices do you wish to know of? They are reasons fully compatible with the secondary aspects of certain religious beliefs, we can assure you…"
My God, thought Douglas… How long has it been since I left my wife? Marriage to this one wouldn't be so bad, not bad at all! He had a quick imagined image of this girl-woman's elegant legs bare, her blouse off. She would be even more beautiful naked.
What the Hell am I thinking? He blinked. "Good morning to you too, ma'am. I had the idea of coming back for a little extra information that I may have missed the first time around. There were some things that you maybe didn't tell me about." He paused for some seconds when realization hit. "How'd you know what I'd ask?"
"Ah-h-h, the power of gyromancy…" sighed the beautiful girl-woman aloud. Douglas could smell the faint hint of apples and cinnamon, must be on her gentle breath. "We all have needs of questions bearing answers." She closed those beautiful eyes of hers as if in deep thought…then gently shook her head. There was the slightest rippling of delicate musculature in her elegant neck, the silk-whisper movement of her beautiful dark hair. Eyes opening again, her lips moved as she said, "Yet such a thing is not of immediate pertinence to those unfamiliar. You have been selected for the task because of your uncanny abilities at discovering the undiscovered. Yet your answers shall be preserved and respected.
"Fi-irst, let it be known that the two holidays of importance are key times of the year in terms of sunlight. The significance goes back over three thousand six hundred years. There is a day in which the day is longest. And there is a day in which…darkness reigns the majority." She stared with those dollishly large dark-blue eyes of hers.
"What do you mean by that?" What does anything mean? The man was finding himself drawn into the girl's deep blue eyes set in such a figure of dazzling human perfection. So slender, such smooth and beautiful looks…
Did the museum really let her skirt be that short, allowing the sight of such good legs? And though he kept his eyes firmly away from her blouse, the outline of the beautiful body beneath was a sight to behold. This girl was exquisitely beautiful—the sort of girl that ought to be on the cover of every fashion magazine. What the Hell was this raven-haired exotic beauty of a girl-woman doing tucked away in some back-water town, out in the middle of nowhere?
Back to the business at hand. It wasn't as if Douglas hadn't met beautiful women before. But this one was different, as if she wasn't even from this world. Never mind that! "I mean, there must be reasons why so many people come to this town to see the artifact," he asked.
"Of course there are," said the exquisitely beautiful girl-woman, her accent seeming as exotic as her sleek dark hair. "Still remains is how our precious thing is missing. You are so good at finding it. In fact, you may have already found it. Do you understand…?"
"Yes… Yes I do," said Douglas. He was…having a hard time thinking clearly at the moment. I will do my best to make sure that what you want is returned to you. He said something like that. Or did he say someone?
Well, he couldn't be sure of much other than this desire to serve the purpose of whatever this beautiful girl-woman had in mind. His mind was drifting. In the corner of his eyesight, the old man was now something only semi-human with lumpy green skin and what seemed like beige leather clothes. No… That leather looked a bit more like cured human skin—mental images of hunted humans skinned to make clothing for other-worldly creatures. "What?" he exclaimed aloud.
The girl-woman smiled. "Thank you for your visit, Mr. Douglas Carter. Please come again should the need ever arise again," she said, that delicate voice of hers filling Douglas' ear s. And the voice kept resonating with Douglas—kept resonating within him. He was turning to walk back out, get into his car and look elsewhere for information on the artifact. As he left, the beautiful girl-woman in prim clothes stood there with her deep blue eyes seeming to glisten with an inner depth of secrets. Also true was the same of the thing that resembled an elderly man in black-and-white clothes.