Prologue.
"What you see behind me isn't water. It's frost.
"Late yesterday afternoon in the town of Silent Hill, fisherman Joseph Wylam was angling near this spot over Toluca Lake when his boat capsized, its bow torn on a treacherous patch of rock.
"Wylam climbed a safety raft and tried to paddle his way to shore. However, when he lowered himself into the water, it wasn't the mild fifty-two degrees as is the average median temperature around this time of year, but a startling eight degrees Fahrenheit.
"Wylam suffered immediate shock and would have drowned had it not been for the intervention of his boating partner. Unfortunately, this wasn't enough to save him, as he later passed at Kindred Hospital of complications brought on by aggravated hypothermia. Wylam was fifty-six years old at the time and had no known next-of-kin. The partner, who prefers to remain anonymous, is expected to be discharged with a clean bill of health.
"Today, a light sheen of frost has laid across the entire lake surface, and is solidifying even as I speak with no apparent signs of stopping. As you can see, various forms of wildlife have fled the area.
"To say this is bizarre is an understatement, baffled locals claim. Researchers brought in to study Toluca Lake have called it the strangest phenomenon they've witnessed in years. Although they cannot yet determine why, they hypothesize the rock that overturned Wylam's boat may have been, in fact, a detached ice floe.
"We'll bring you more details as this investigation continues."
James Sunderland, who was declared missing along with his wife Mary in June of 1994, shivers in the thick vapor blanket paramedics have draped over his shoulders. The lake's sediment and composite minerals have bleached his hair a sickly bluish green.
Moisture caresses his grayed flesh. He's sat in the water for so long that most of his clothes have unraveled at the seams. His right jacket sleeve curls on the ground beside him, dwelling in the puddle he grows with the droplets he sheds.
They're attempting to pry the shell of a broken boat from an old vehicle. James watches machinery crack open the crushed and sodden remains of a teal Chrysler, watches flotsam spill over the pavement in a wash of decay, and asks whose car that is.
Yours, Mr. Sunderland.
James blinks, readjusting his swollen eyes to sunlight. Liquid overflows and runs down his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks, pinkened by blood.
I don't remember.
An EMT pulls down his lower eyelid, shining a beam directly into his socket. The iris takes a moment to get fixated, and the pupil's dilation response time is rather delayed.
What day is it? James asks.
Tuesday.
He nods, as if the answer holds some meaning.
One paramedic nudges the other. We've got to get this man to a hospital.
It's 2002. Commute thins as the roads wind through the hills. The firs surrounding the neighboring valleys sweep low, burying their roots deep within the slopes.
For a town whose reputation hinges on misfortune, this morning proves an extraordinarily rare and beautiful exception. Clear skies shine while local flora bursts with the green blossom of summer.
No mist radiates from Toluca Lake; today it resembles a placid mirror, reflecting the passing houses and various boats drifting on its surface. Police cruisers keep sentry for miles along its circumference, where officers standing before fluttering tape deny access to disappointed tourists.
The town basks in August beauty while ice creeps and crackles over the surface of the lake.
"Since yesterday, more floes have emerged, bewildering residents and investigators alike.
"Despite the torrid weather, a thin sheet of ice has completely covered the lake and appears to be expanding outward, reaching an estimated speed of 0.48 inches per hour. Where this ice came from, and why it has started a push, remain to be seen. Right now, those who live close to the shore are urged to evacuate inland until the state withdraws its declaration of emergency.
"The invasion appears to show no signs of slowing down. Here at Rosewater Park, brickwork and parts of the observation deck have already been claimed by ice. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep my balance on the slick ground, and you can feel the rapid plunge in temperature the closer you approach.
"All traffic to and from Silent Hill has been gridlocked for the time being."