— Whispers —
Author's Note: You may notice a very peculiar format in this chapter. It's simply there to distinguish Alex's thoughts from his spoken words, as I commonly use italics for music lyrics and when a character is singing. Hope it isn't confusing, distracting, or look too sloppy. I'm more than willing to listen to any alternatives anyone has to offer.
It's funny how you can remember meaningless little details leading up to something, but the moment itself is just a haze. It was the last summer I spent in Shepherd's Glen, when I took Josh to the Lakeside Amusement Park. My father was planning Josh's first hunting trip that weekend, which I wasn't invited to.
Maybe I was a little jealous, but I was mostly afraid I'd lose my little brother. My father was already trying to turn him against me, thinking I was some kind of bad influence on his good little soldier. I just wanted Josh to have some fun, the kind of fun he'd never get with my father. I just wanted him to be a kid, and to see that not everything my father told him was the truth.
I remember telling him to wait for me outside the bathroom. I couldn't have been more than a minute. But when I came out, Josh wasn't there. He was just gone. The only thing left was the Robbie the Rabbit doll I'd won for him.
I've pretty much always known what happened to my brother, even if I didn't like thinking about it. It was the same thing that happens in about every case when a child goes missing in a public place. An "abduction" they called it. But my father, I don't know what he believed. Christ, I don't know what he's made himself believe.
All those files I read in his office, it seems like he thinks some cult took Josh. Maybe to sacrifice him to some god, maybe to make Josh one of their own. I don't think the "why" really matters to him. He just wanted to put a face to the person that took my brother. He just wanted a "who". My father didn't go to Silent Hill to find my brother. He went there to find someone to blame, I guess because I didn't stay around to take it.
— — — — —
The cold slithered across Alex's skin, reminding him of the heavy dread of loneliness sinking in his stomach. He stood before the Sheriff's station near the bulletin board, caught in a no-man's land between two impulses. One urged him towards the cemetery, the other pushed him back to Elle.
He finally became tired of rushing from one side to the other and sat down on the wall where he sat with Elle earlier, the missing faces on the bulletin board following him with their dead eyes.
"She's safer in there," he spoke aloud, hoping the logic in his decision would somehow find more meaning in spoken words. But his thoughts of Elle melted together and formed a voice within his head, countering his own words.
You just left the only person that hasn't forgotten about you.
"I don't know what I'll come across. I can't take that risk. Not with her."
Alex pulled the empty magazine out of his Colt 1911, setting it in his jacket pocket and starting to feed it bullets as he had done with the 9mm pistol.
She's the only person that still gives a shit about you. You just locked her in a jail cell and left her alone for the sake of a man who's probably better off dead.
"I owe it to Joey."
You don't owe him shit. Joey made his own choices.
Alex tried to ignore the voice, focusing on the ammunition clip he was filling with .45 caliber bullets.
Just like led PEZ, he thought to himself with a smile.
You enjoy the loneliness, don't you?
"She hasn't seen those things," he answered aloud, releasing his thoughts into the real world to give them more weight than the nagging echo in his mind. "Maybe I'm the only one who can, or maybe they're just drawn to me. Either way, she's better off in there by herself than out here with me."
No. You've grown used to this idea of you being alone in the world. You've embraced it, and now you'll do anything to keep it.
Alex's fingers suddenly stopped as his head tilted away from the half-filled magazine, his focus draining into his ears as they picked up a low rumble in the distance. The generator.
He wondered how much gas was left in it. Maybe he should fill it up before he left.
But Alex shook his head hard, scattering that notion into a million harmless pieces. The cemetery was so close. He could be back with Mr Bartlett in minutes. His fingers plucked the next bullet out of the box of ammunition and slid it into the ammo clip.
You love the idea. Why is that? Some leftover teenage angst?
"I can't remember anything," his lips started to sing softly, trying to drown the lingering voice in his head. "Can't tell if this is true or dream."
What is it Alex? Self-pity or self-fulfilling prophecy?
"Deep down inside I feel to scream. This terrible silence stops me."
And what about Wheeler? Curtis? Your mom?
"Now that the war is through with me, I'm waking up I can not see."
You gonna go save them all? While Elle waits in that cell by herself?
"That there's not much left of me, nothing is real but pain now," he continued to sing, his head trying to shake that voice away.
You've only seen those things when you're alone. How can you be so sure she won't see them? All alone in that jail cell, nowhere to run.
"Hold my breath as I wish for death. Oh please God, wake me."
Where you left her.
Alex loaded the last round into the magazine and tossed the box of ammunition back in his duffel. He pulled the ammo clip out of his jacket pocket and held it before the metal jaws of his prosthetic, bending his left elbow until the shiny three-fingered claw clamped around the magazine.
"Back in the womb it's much too real," he continued, "In pumps life that I must feel."
You really want to be alone, Alex?
Alex suddenly stopped singing as he reached for his handgun and the moment his fingers left the ammunition clip, it slipped from the grasp of his prosthetic and hit the ground.
Just swallow that barrel. One twitch of the finger and you'll be alone forever.
He stood with a silent brooding that tensed his chest and stiffened his back. His eyes paced between the magazine on the ground and the prosthetic poking from his sleeve. A thousand thoughts mobbed in his head, slowly muffling that voice as they scratched across his skull for a way out. But the voice managed to say one last thing before it disappeared into a haze of a thousand incoherent thoughts.
Just like Joey.
And all at once, those thoughts simultaneously found an escape and a single voice as Alex suddenly screamed with a rage that quickly stormed into the remnants of his left arm and brutally smashed the plastic prosthetic against the wall.
"Useless piece of shit!" he screamed as he swung the prosthetic arm against the bricks. Despite his rage, part of Alex was still reluctant in those first few swings, almost expecting to feel pain in that plastic extension of his arm. But as he found this notion to be untrue with each succeeding swing, he became more violent towards the false arm.
"You're not mine!" He paused in between a series of swings to pull and tug at the prosthetic with his right hand, trying to rip it out of the jacket sleeve.
"I don't want you!" he screamed at it, finding the buckles holding it in place stronger than he expected.
Alex suddenly spun around, facing the bulletin board, and back-handed the sturdy wooden posts holding it up as if turning his anger towards those missing people. And then he did just that.
His hand clawed at the posters and tore them down, flinging them aside into the fog as his lips spewed random profanities that seemed to have no specific target, but were just ventilating fumes of his anger.
Alex's fury slowly dwindled as exhaustion set in with aches and pains shadowing it. And then it came to a complete halt as his eyes settled on one of the remaining faces posted to that bulletin board.
He gazed at the flier Elle had posted of herself, reading the words she wrote upon it, hearing them within his head spoken in her voice, "Have you seen me?"
"This is stupid," Alex spoke to himself between pants of breath as he looked back to the entrance to the Sheriff's station. But as his legs started to move in that direction, a gust of wind suddenly kicked up.
It seemed like Alex's rage had become a separate entity, pushing through the mist in furious circles as it lifted the torn Missing Persons posters off the ground. One of the posters blew into Alex's chest and hugged him tight, seeking safety from the surging wind.
But as he peeled the piece of paper from his chest, he saw that it wasn't a Missing Persons flier. It was a child's crayon drawing.
It showed Robbie the Rabbit, even more anthropomorphic than usual, slumped over on what looked like a park bench. His eyes were just as bulging as usual and traces of red were scratched down his mouth.
Below the picture were words scrawled in a child's dyslexic style:
Why won Robbie WakeUp?
"Josh," Alex uttered as he looked over the picture. But just as the image was burning into his thoughts, the wind snatched the paper from his fingers and carried it down the road in the direction of the cemetery.
Without a conflicting thought left in his mind, Alex grabbed his duffel from the ground, picked up the filled magazine, and followed the wind towards the Rose Heights Cemetery.
He adjusted his dislocated prosthetic on the move, finally popping it back into position, and wedged the magazine for his 1911 just below his left armpit. Alex pulled out his firearm and slid the tip of the ammo clip into the open mouth of the magazine chamber, then quickly slapped the bottom of the clip against his chest before it could slide out and thrust it into the handgun until it clicked into place.
As he forced back the slide with one hand to feed a round into the chamber, the gusts of wind returned and dropped a piece of paper in his path. Alex picked it up, finding it was one of Josh's drawings, but not the one he had held only moments before.
This one was titled:
GiRl n ScaRlet DRess
It was a stick figure wearing a red triangle, the layers of red crayon on it so thick that it almost looked three-dimensional. The figure had long scratches of black hair, and its face had an angry scowl with a second sad expression drawn over it, as if Josh couldn't make up his mind on how she felt.
Below the drawing of the girl in the scarlet dress was more jumbled letters reading:
she Makes Me cRy
Alex's eyes suddenly jumped above the picture and looked ahead as his ears picked up a faint sound in the distance. He saw the outline of a figure running across the street, the details obscured by the fog like a smoke screen.
The drawing floated from his fingers as he released it and pulled out his gun, aiming in on the silhouette. But as he flipped the safety off, his eyes started to recognize the shape as human. Not just human, but a child.
"Hey! Stop!" he called out as he lowered his gun sites and started to run after the child cloaked in gray mist.
"Wait!" Alex broke into a sprint, quickly making up the distance between him and the child. Josh's name rose from his lungs, but his eyes got a closer glimpse of the child and that name suddenly stopped at the peak of his throat, a formless cry departing his lips.
It wasn't Josh. It was a girl, her dark hair flowing behind her like a cape. But as Alex stumbled upon this revelation, she seemed to gain speed and was suddenly swallowed up by the fog.
Alex's legs just pumped harder, their strides recklessly trying to gain ground as he pursued the smack of her bare feet into the parking lot of the Rose Heights Cemetery.
He started to call out to the vanishing girl, "Just wait a sec–" but his teeth suddenly bit down on those words when he fell and his skull crashed upon the cement.
A flash of red jolted before his eyes, followed by an absolute darkness that slowly ascended back into dull gray. Alex laid upon the ground in a daze, the blow to his head jarring a random memory loose. He could hear familiar words crackling from a radio.
"Caretaker this is Checkmate Four-Niner, over."
He stared into the fog with glazed eyes, his mind wiped clean of any thoughts and his brain feeling as though it were sloshing around within a pool of water, gradually sinking and settling to the bottom.
"What's your Sit-Rep, over?"
"Fucked up beyond all recognition," Alex answered the memory aloud, his spoken words as sobering as smelling salts and driving the last buzz of confusion from his head. He looked back towards his legs and found them caught within a random spool of razor wire, laid out across the entrance to the cemetery.
He gently moved his legs to try to free them from the tangled mess of wire as his palm attempted to massage the pain from his head. But with the movement of his legs, the razor teeth sunk deeper into his jeans until they scraped the surface of his flesh. A panic rippled across his skin that made the hairs stand up to attention and Alex's legs suddenly kicked with the reckless fury of a stampede, digging themselves deeper into those bushes of razor wire.
"Relax. You're here, not there," he spoke to himself, calming the muscles of his legs until they went limp. Then he slowly and gracefully plucked one razor at a time from his jeans until he finally freed both legs.
Alex swayed a little as he stood up, his dazed brain still lingering behind the rest of him. He looked ahead, deeper into the cemetery, but couldn't see the little girl anywhere. With the pain still buzzing in his head, he began to wonder if he'd really seen a girl at all, but then his eyes came across something on the path before him.
It was a faint shade of blood, shaped into a partial foot print.
She must've cut her feet on the wire, he thought.
He found her red footprints became more distinct the further he wandered down the path into the cemetery. Alex pulled out his 1911 and instinctively dropped into a CQB stance, his knees bent and his upper body slouched forward, creating a good balance as well as making himself a smaller target. He aimed his weapon forward, holding his prosthetic horizontally in front of him to rest his hand on for a steadier aim.
It seemed very quiet as Alex put more focus into his ears, listening for the sounds of shuffling feet. Or the buzz of a fly's wings. He kept his eyes forward over the sites of his firearm, only briefly glimpsing to the ground to follow the trail of footprints. They led him through the maze of mausoleums and head stones, gradually transforming from red footprints to circular splashes of blood.
The trail led him right to the front gates of the Bartlett family plot. Alex looked around nervously, searching for signs of the creature he encountered earlier. But the only thing reminding him of what had happened were the uneasy sensations flowing from his memories.
Alex's eyes fixed onto the padlock sealing the gate to the Bartlett family plot and a brief smile rose on his face. He took it as evidence that he made the right decision. Something wanted him to find Mr Bartlett. But his smile quickly sunk as he contemplated over whether that was a pro or a con towards his choice.
He aimed in on the padlock, but stopped just as his finger tightened around the trigger.
"You have bolt cutters dumb ass," he spoke as he lowered his weapon and un-slung his duffel. He fished out the bolt cutters he'd taken from the Sheriff's station and spread the handles until they formed a V-shape. After wedging the lock in the mouth of the bolt cutters, he propped the left handle against the rod-iron gate as he pressed the right handle inwards with his hand.
It was easier than he expected. The lock gave little resistance. Alex dropped the cutters back into his bag and pulled the severed lock off the gate, then threw it as hard as he could over the cemetery walls.
His limbs jolted from the squeal of the gate, unprepared for the sudden break in the silence. He stepped into the Bartlett family plot, but quickly stopped as his eyes found the trail.
"What the fuck?" he spoke in a mixture of apprehension and anger. Alex found the blood trail had become an overflowing scarlet puddle sliding down the steps leading into the Bartlett mausoleum. He quickly pulled out his pistol and aimed in on the entrance to the tomb, then slowly crept towards it.
Alex had the foresight to switch on his flashlight as he approached the burial chamber. When he came close to the dark entrance, he angled along it, making sure there wasn't anything waiting for him inside. His eyes hesitantly darted between the dark interior and the slick crimson steps, then he finally stepped into the pool of blood and into the mausoleum.
It was nearly impossible to tell where the blood led or originated from as it was painted all across the cement floor. But Alex's eyes focused on a large stone sarcophagus at the other end of the tomb. He couldn't see any engraving on it, and he started to wonder if it was meant for Joey. A reserved grave.
He stepped closer and immersed the stone coffin in the beam of his flashlight, noticing the red liquid oozing down its surface. Then a thought entered his mind and he lowered his head.
"I'm sorry Joey," he spoke, already confident of what he'd find in that coffin. Alex never knew Mr Bartlett very well, but he always seemed like a nice man. Definitely a better father than his own.
Alex raised the sleeve of his right arm just enough to get a glimpse of the broken watch around his wrist.
"I can still give him this," he spoke, then stepped towards the stone coffin. It was sealed by a large slab of marble and when Alex put his hand on the edge, he noticed the blood was seeping through the slit where the stone met the marble. He grimaced slightly, then started pushing all his weight and strength against the slab until it started to slide off.
The blood seemed to act as a lubricant and the marble top slid off easier than expected, falling with a loud crash into the crack between the sarcophagus and the mausoleum wall. But when Alex shined his flashlight into the stone coffin, he didn't find what he expected.
"What in the hell?" He reached his hand inside and pulled out a small porcelain doll, holding it by its matted black hair. When he noticed the scarlet stained dress it wore, he suddenly dropped it and backed away. And then he heard her voice, garbled over the toy walkie-talkie muffled in his pocket.
"—ex — —ator ou– — — —ark, I th— — —hing here."
His hand frantically scrambled for the radio and pulled it out, pressing the speaker against his ear.
"Ple— — — —ack — — — —ared. Somethi— — — — — — hear it — — —".
"Elle?" he spoke into his radio, even though he knew it wouldn't reach her. "Are you alright?"
No answer.
"Elle, it's Alex. Can you hear me?" Just silence. "I'm coming straight back, okay? Just hold on."
Alex waited one more moment, but even the static was quiet. He dropped the radio back in his pocket and moved towards the exit out of the mausoleum, but suddenly stopped when he felt an odd sensation in his chest.
It felt like a tremble, as though his heart had shivered. His legs suddenly became weak, their energy quickly evaporating as the pain in his head grew sharper. Louder.
His knees finally buckled under their own weakness and he fell to the floor, the blood seeping through the fabric of his jeans. He felt his heart shiver again as his ears heard the siren winding up into a piercing scream.
"No," he cried desperately, trying to will himself back onto his feet. But the pain just grew sharper and deeper in his head. As the darkness gathered and the world changed around him, the only thought he could hold onto was Elle, alone.
"God damn it – not now!" Alex hollered with a strength he saved for her, a strength that lifted him back on his feet. But just as he took his first step, his legs collapsed and he fell back to the ground. The fall stirred up the pain congested between his skull and he screamed as the sirens echoed through his ears.
And then it all just became an echo. The pain, the sirens, Shepherd's Glen. They were all just a passing thought in Alex's mind.
He stood up and stroked his flashlight across the interior of the mausoleum. The entrance was gone. He was surrounded by nothing but walls now.
"Fuck!" he screamed, the echo having nowhere else to go and piercing his ears, twisting his expression into a wince. But he could feel a breeze, carrying a damp musty odor with it. He turned towards its direction, finding himself facing the open stone coffin.
He peered over the side, shining his light within the sarcophagus, finding that the flashlight couldn't touch the bottom.
"No, fuck that!" he cried. "You can't keep me from Elle."
He turned back to where the exit should've been, then rushed at the wall that stood there and drove the sole of his boot into it, screaming, "You can't keep me from her!"
But the force of his kick simply ricocheted off the sturdy wall and hit Alex, throwing him off balance. He stumbled backwards and fell against the stone coffin.
Before he could steady himself, he suddenly felt something grip his right jacket sleeve and tighten around his arm. A sudden wave of terror quaked through his body, but he couldn't pull his arm away. It started to drag him into the open coffin.
The beam of Alex's flashlight danced across the walls as he blindly struggled with whatever had a hold on him. His left arm was useless and he started to tip over the edge. He tried to grab onto something, but had nothing to grab with, so he fell into the coffin.
Alex slipped into the darkness, falling, until it felt as though he was just floating in nothingness.