Silent Hill: The Dream Machine
…
Chapter 10
by Elliot Bowers
"She Doesn't Live Here Anymore" (Por Vida remix)
original music by Alejandro Escovedo
remixed lyrics and music by John Cale
…
There were all kinds of creatures ambling and waddling around here, stalking and moving along the grounds of the Longhorn Estate as the piercing golden rays of morning illuminated streaks of brownish mist. Just as carnivorous beasts leave behind the bones of slaughtered prey, the light left behind the streaks of mists after burning away most of the fog. And that was all there was of what once obscured the air and covered over the distorted beasts that roamed the land of this estate: beasts that found no other refuge as the engines throughout town were annihilated, obliterated, gone.
Now the creatures were no longer so bold and aggressive. The headless deer-things with six legs, their necks of bristling horns, they stayed close to the forest that bordered this back field. Those dog-like things without any legs at all, they slid along the ground in the tall grass, keeping their furry heads low. Some of the leathery skinned bird-creatures that only appeared the night before, they stayed out of sight, away from the field and in the trees: some of the trees bleeding red blood from cracks in their trunks. The purple-furred apelike creatures, the ones with electromechanical gas-masks bolted to their faces, they were a bit more bold as they strutted around with rusty metal pipes in their paw-hands.
Allof the animals became all the more timid and reclusive as the morning light burned brighter, searing more of the fog away. The animals clung closer to the ground, staying in the low-lying gray mists, and some of them stayed closer to the surrounding forest. "Erg-ach!" squealed a dog-thing at one point, hit with a few rays. There was simply not enough fog to keep some of these creatures comfortable. Worse yet was how the nightly fogs were simply weaker with every passing hour these past few days. This world was becoming less habitable instead of more habitable.
There was less fog in the air now. And the sun was far too bright. Where were the engines now? What of the Deniers? Things were going to become a great deal worse. A mile away from the rear grounds, far over on the other side of the estate, the front gates stood tall and dark: made of what seemed to be wrought-iron metal: blackened metal, now with a slick coating of slime and patches of red moss. The slick fungal coating on the metal was now drying out as sunlight shone on it: drying it out. Then it began to vibrate as a r-r-r-rumbling sound approached…. The dark bikers were coming here.
…
Elsewhere in Pleasant River, in the downtown area, the inside of the sealed café also began to lighten and brighten: the floor now clean and newer in appearance. There were now plenty of mannequins seated at the tables and in dining booths by the windows, every seat in the place was occupied by some carved figure in clothes. And the grime that coated the outside surface of the windows was lessening and letting in more light. Even the rotating stools in front of the counter were occupied by mannequins that seemed carefully poised and balanced. Bzzt! The florescent light fixtures flicked on and made the inside even brighter. Then the television over the quick-order dining counter came on. Bzzt! One of the florescent light-fixtures flickered again, and one of the mannequins tumbled to the floor, yet vanished before it actually struck the hard surface…
Bzzt! The lights flickered yet again. Shapes began to whirl around the room as the…air became different. It was such that the shapes and light here became blurred and different. It was the sound of something…coming this way. These lights alternated to the point that there seemed to be just as much darkness as there was light. The florescent light-tubes stopped flickering…
And…that was when this place seemed to come alive. The lights came on, and this place was all full of sound and talking. Maire stepped out from behind the curtain of the small stage at one side of the café. She was dressed much like before: green jeans-shorts, a green tee-shirt with open black leather jacket thrown over for comfort, and almost-clunky calf-length boots for footwear. When she looked around now, she saw that the café was full of all kinds of people: all of them sitting at tables and such, chatting and smiling. Even the man in the swarthy man in the white business suit and the people in the silvery suits seemed to be happy, though their reflective helmets effectively hid their heads from view.
The tall waitress approached the small stage: dressed in the outfit of long black skirt and white blouse. "Welcome again and again, Maire," she said. "You've come back to the back, again and again," she said. "The oatmeal will lose our flavor next. We know that we will have to worry." The waitress smiled and pointed to the television over the counter. "Have you seen what is on television?"
Though the tall waitress smiled, Maire did not when she looked in the direction indicated by the pointing hand. Looking away from the waitress, the girl turned her green-eyed gaze to the television suspended over the counter. The television now looked bigger and more square in design and flatter: a "flat screen" television that had a great deal less machinery in the back: a different kind of appliance than the kind she had seen in this café before. And even from over here, Maire could see that the device's picture quality was unbelievably realistic: more as if a person was looking through a window that could see into another place, a real image.
The head waiter behind the counter noticed that Maire was looking. Perhaps she would like to see something more…revealing? This in mind, hee glanced up at the television. The channel changed, and he resumed his work.
Now it showed another show: if one could call it a show. The picture was that of four muscular men sitting at a table at this café. At the center of the table was a champion-sized gigantic bowl of what looked like flavored oatmeal: perhaps six gallons of the stuff thoroughly sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. They were drooling, eyes wide open and wanting to devour it.
All four of them were dressed differently for their dining occasion. One figures was dressed in a white cloak that covered his shoulders, his eyes looking at the huge bowl of oatmeal. Another figure was muscularly bare-chested: his chest-hair a deeper shade of red than the hair atop his head. He too was also looking at his meal-to-be. The third figure, in contrast, looked weak and thin, his skin as sickly and haggard-looking as the black shroud draped over his thin shoulders. And somehow, the fourth one at the table looked worse than the one in the black shawl: this fourth figure looked almost skeletal, a very bony sort of face: though the shroud he had over his shoulders was of a bleached-white. The grin on his face seemed stuck on: almost a rictus. And then…
There was the…blasting sound of an air siren the kind of loud machine that blasted warning sounds to entire cities when things happened. The noise was…too damned loud! Maire clamped her hands over her slightly pointed ears as the sound of the wailing siren blasted out of the television's sound-system. She had small, slender hands: proportionate to the rest of her: and they were not able to block out much of the sound. Or rather, it seemed as if the siren was a wailing siren right here in the café. Even with her hands over her ears, the noise was just so cursably, painfully powerful!
No one else in the café seemed to mind. In fact, to their ears, it seemed like…music. This seemed so as people at the tables beginning to cheer and clap, some of them wriggling and swinging their elbows and clicking their fingers. It looked as if they were dancing in their seats. Noise? What noise? Hell, girlie, this ain't noise! Get those pointy ears of yours fixed! Why don't you try listenin', huh? This stuff sounds goo-o-od…!
It was…too…loud! Maire sank to her knees and hunched herself as if to keep out the sound. It did not, the sound actually becoming slightly louder as her bare knees were in contact with the top of the little stage: sending the vibrations up through the stage and through her skin, vibrating her bones and sending the sound to her head. Despite the sudden pandemonium, she knew that she had to look up at that television over there.
They were having a good time, too. The figures on the television were having themselves a Hell of a time too, eating ouf of that gigantic, massive bowl of cinnamon-flavored oatmeal. Gobbling and chomping, they were using gigantic spoons to scoop up the stuff and gobble it down. One of them was even using a combination of big spoon and fingers and wholly swallowing without even bothering to chew. Except now, it was beginning to look less like oatmeal and more like ground brains… The bowl had changed to resemble the upper portion of a sawed-off skull.
Please no, she thought as she saw what was playing out on the television. Except that was no mere television show. Please, let it not be! Hands still clamped over those ears of hers, she stood up from where she was hunched on the stage. Then she made a run for the café door. The "show" on the television actually showed something that was happening! She hoped she could find her Sister before it was too late.
…
Kablam-m-m! The gritty metal front gates of the Longhorn Estate exploded, and the four dark bikers came r-r-r-r-oar-r-ring in on their gigantic motorcycles. They all had huge moon-like smiles on their faces as they rode right on into here, their weapons were now thoroughly greased with the dark oily fluids that passed for animal blood. The dark biker of the odd rifle took both hands off his motorcycle's handlebars and took aim with his signature weapon. He fired, and six animals were suddenly burnt to ash: blown away by the wind. Next the dark biker of the great knife swung his weapon as well: neatly splitting four other animals bodily in half. Wham! The dark biker of the nunchaku raised his weapon one-handedly and swung it down , and five animals were suddenly squashed flat, as if by the gigantic poke of a deific finger.
And now, the road at the front of the estate was becoming full of animals. Various kinds of things crawled, staggered and what-not in getting over to this winding road. Some of them laid themselves flat against the paved surface. The ones with limbs to stand on stood up relatively straight and in defiance. Those creatures that had faces now put on looks of grinning delight. Then they all started making noises, a collective racket with whatever they had for orifices. There was squealing and grunting, whining and even some chirping. The purple-furred ape-things beat their rusty metal pipe-weapons against the ground and slapped their electromechanical gas-masks to add to the pandemonium. This was their territory!
But not for long. That was because the dark bikers were continuing their mad and wrathful path of destruction as they continued their way to the mansion. The dark biker of the great knife swung his weapon to and fro one handedly as he rode, while the dark biker of the nunchaku made whirling blows from his side. As for the biker of the odd rifle, he had his weapon aimed forward with one hand and was leisurely shooting: blasting dozens of luckless creatures into blackened ash-statues with every squeeze of the trigger. The dark biker of the scythe was pleased. And so they rode, wrecking and obliterating, decimating the masses of animals as they continued. The dark bikers were also aware of what was overhead. Yet the dark bikers did not care: They had the confidence of invincibility.
Overhead were creatures that resembled leathery balloons with lumpy bottoms: allowing them to float up on high. Their lower bodies consisted of crusty half-shells with large eyeballs, looking around and below. Below the eyeballs were hair-thin tentacles that waved through the air to assist in changing direction. Floating right along with them was a dead man in hunting clothes, arms waving and legs dangling.
It was a phantom, someone long dead and made a victim of the contamination. Even in death, the contamination is able to use people. Of course, dead people were not supposed to be up in thhe air like that! Then again, those gaseous-bodied balloon animals were not supposed to exist, either. The floating phantasm soon did a flopping turn in the air to turn and look at the bikers as they continued along.
…
2.
…
This leisurely side-room in this mansion: on the first floor: was again the place Miss Gauche used for business. The business was already done, and things were certainly a great deal worse than she hoped. Now she was again placing protective jewelry on her body as the last of the Deniers crawled out of here through slime-lined holes in the left wall. The last of the six-armed beings was leaving now. When its rearmost set of arms vanished into the hole, the opening closed itself up and became a large patch of oily black. By the time Miss Gauche was pulling on her long black dress, fastening the buttons, even that gray stain was fading.
There is hope yet, she thought to herself as she fastened the last of the buttons up to her neck. No number of blasphemers can halt the mighty hand of God! She thought of the pale-haired child who was still imprisoned upstairs. We yet have the catalyst, thought the tall womanShe reached to the nape of her neck to fluff out lengths of her red hair: shook her head and stroked it in place as so it cascaded straight down her back. The catalyst has power. She smiled. And there is one engine that has not been destroyed by the blasphemers. Even though she knew that the dark bikers were en route to this place, though she knew that they were slaughtering waves upon waves of the blessed right this moment, she still had faith.
She especially had faith in the power of the catalyst. The catalyst… Yes, the power of the catalyst would bring about the end of the threat. Or it would be the end of this town's existence before it was fully blessed by the angels who so generously bestowed the engines to Samuel Longhorn. Her bare feet and ankles brushing the hem of her long dress, she strode towards the desk. In a drawer of the desk was a rusty red-metal box with something in it.
…
Here in the bedroom, Selena was bundled and swathed in the large quilted blanket she had taken from the bed. The bed itself was generously large and would have been comfortable: save the fact that it still had those gold-alloy restraints. Even going close to the bed still gave her terrible hot headaches. But now that she had taken the blankets from the bed, the carpeted floor had been as good a place as any to lie down and sleep for the night. Even as the morning rays of dawn shone through the window and her eyes opened, she still lie there, thinking. She should be happy soon, considering what she had seen while asleep: in touch with the minds of the animals that floated outside. And yet, she also felt extremely worried. The bikers were destroying everyone and everything that kept her trapped in this place. Would they destroy her as well?
Click-click! The door opened, and in strode Miss Gauche: along with a doctor-thing. This doctor-thing was dressed much like other doctor-things: a black-smeared lab-coat for a top, with black-and-gray striped pants with thick-shod feet. Except this doctor-thing was wearing a sort of cylindrical helmet over its head. Or was it really a helmet? Selena had the idea that the "helmet" was actually part of the doctor-thing's body by now, and to try tearing off the helmet would probably result in a tearing of the being's flesh. With its helmet-head stiffly atop its body, its thick shoes made slight clomping sounds as it followed Miss Gauche.
And Miss Gauche was walking over to where Selena lie. Selena quickly threw off the blankets, clad only in a simple nightgown, and tried to quickly crawl away…only to collapse when Miss Gauche came too near. It was that jewelry, the accursed gold jewelry! Had the damned witch not been wearing it, Selena would certainly have made her dead with a thought.
Except Miss Gauche was wearing the jewelry. And she was therefore in charge of this situation. Selena could only flop to her back and weakly writhe on the floor, her breathing becoming weak and shallow as the proximity of Miss Gauche drained her strength.
"Child, your power is needed," said the tall red-haired woman. Selena managed a scowl with what little strength she had now, her large green eyes angry. The girl did not even feel strong enough to voice an insult. She was, however, able to transmit an especially nasty and obscene to Miss Gauche's mind. "Oh-ho! Is that so? Quite a bit of colorful imagery for such a young lady! Well, never mind your lack of discipline. Some of your power will be used…with or without your consent."
The tall woman took a step back, and the doctor-thing stepped forward. The being reached into its grimy labcoat pockets to take out something long and dangerous-looking. It was an especially large syringe: the sharp long point at least five inches long. The cylindrical shaft at the base of the needle was crusted with rust and grime. Even touching the thing, let alone having it penetrate the flesh, looked to be something to bring about disease.
Please no, thought Selena, staring at the obscenely huge syringe. But there was no escaping, not with Miss Gauche's gold jewelry making her feel even too weak to stand. The pale-haired little girl could only mewl in fright as the doctor-thing reached down. His thick arm worked fast, the three-fingered hand grabbing her.
He had her by the neck: lifting her up off the floor as so her bare feet dangled beneath the hem of her nightgown. As the doctor-thing's cancerous hand gripped her neck, she could feel the gritty nodules and griminess of the doctor-thing's thick thumb as it pressed her throat closed. He was squeezing too hard, squeezing and…hurting! She began to see…darkness closing in around her vision. Yet the worse was not yet.
The worse was actually when the doctor-thing plunged the needle into her chest, penetrating her sternum and going somewhere deep inside. Her body spasmed once, her cry of pain choked off; the doctor-thing was still squeezing her neck with one hand while using the needle with the other. The doctor-thing flipped his thumb beneath the plunger of the syringe as so his thumb could pull it back. This made for the syringe sucking something from deep within Selena's body. There, it seemed to stay for too long.
After what must have been a very long time, feeling herself fading, she saw the doctor-thing painfully pu-u-lling back, the grotesque needle in his hands. Wide-eyed, her eyes looked at the thing once in her chest, her blood lubricating the long point of the needle. Except her own blood was actually a dark carbon color, the color of oil. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she fainted. The last thing she heard was Miss Gauche saying, "I do hope that is enough…for the sake of both of us. Now we…"
…
Some time later, Miss Gauche was on the first floor: passing through the Western corridor of this mansion. It was a corridor as grand as the rest of this grand house, tall and spacious enough to house giants, with wood paneling along the walls and a red-carpeted floor. The red-haired woman's still-bare feet made no sounds as she walked along, the only sounds coming from her being the slight clinking of jewelry and the whisper of her long black skirt along the carpet. She was aware of these things, so many things now. It was odd how one notices minor details on the way to one's own death.
No, she would not believe that. This was not her end, as death is a lie. As she neared her destination, she more tightly gripped the six inch-long cylindrical object in her left hand. It was the metal hypodermic syringe full of the catalyst's blood: fresh blood, still warm. And since it was the catalyst's blood, it was more warm than it should have been. She could nearly feel it burning her hand: more so as she neared the workshop. The burning sensation soon intensified to the point that she had to pocket the thing, feeling it burning through cloth.
The workshop door was just ahead, to the left. Argh-wragh! She pressed her lips together and tensed her shoulders as she kept going along, hearing the growling of the unseen presence. Rr-rgh… "You cannot do anything to me," she said aloud. "Before long, even you will be less rebellious and more inclined to follow! "Snarl and growl as you please, we will not be stopped." Finally at the doorway, she opened the door and went in.
Flick-flicker… Inside, the square workshop-room was a wonderful mess. It would have been grotesque to anyone else's eyes, the eyes of those who did not understand. Flicker… The hard floor was now interspaced with thick metal plates, greaed with blood. What were once hard walls were now crumbling in places. This exposed piping and wiring behind there, some of the wiring torn. That could be one of the reasons why the florescent lights along the ceiling blinked: flick-flick every so often. The flickering of the lights could also be caused by another reason: a more important one.
Flicker! Flick-flicker… She stood in the middle of the floor, hands at her sides. It was now or never, really. For once she would have to strip herself of the protections that had kept her separated from the blessing. Now was the time to show her faith. It would not do for her to approach the engine with things that would interfere with its operation. What did she have to fear but bliss?
So her hands went to the first buttons of her black dress near her collar. She undid the first few buttons, exposing her neck and bosom.. Moving faster, she undid the rest of the buttons and slid the black dress off of her shoulders: exposing the rest of her body. The jewelry had to go as well: especially the jewelry. So she pulled it all off: the anklets, the thin gold chains that draped her slim waist just above the hips, the gold wrist-cuffs, everything. Taking off her clothing was one thing. But to take this off made her feel the most vulnerable.
Or it made her more open to receive the blessing. Now completely without clothing or protective jewelry, her body naked and unprotected, she approached the thick, heavy lead-metal door at the far end of the workshop: the metal syringe burningly hot in her left hand. Squee-squee-squee-squee… There was a wheel-lock mechanism on the thick lead-metal door, a wheel lock that was spinning itself open…. Sque-e-e… The door itself opened.
They summon me, she thought to herself. They were here already, in the sealed room that contained the engine. They must have sensed that she had the blood of the catalyst. And they were waiting. This opened…the way…to chaos.
The sound of the engine was loud and aggressive, filling the darkened space with noise. The lights were flickering with such rapidity that it was more dark than it was light, and the air was swirling about. This was the small, radiation-sealed inner-room held the engines and other relics that Samuel Longhorn had obtained from the forest. Now the lights were flickering like mad to add to the noise, adding to the swirling indoor wind-storm stirred up by the noisy activity of the engine on the floor: the wind sweeping across her bare skin and whipping her long red hair. Deniers crept and groped along the ceiling, their heads vibrating like mad as they approached the tall, slender naked woman with the catalyst.
"Blessed be…! Oh, blessed be!" she shouted, the indoor wind and noise snatching away her shout. Yes, the angels were coming to personally bestow their blessing! This was truly what a life of virtue brought her, a deliverance of blessing from God.
Suddenly, she realized that her left hand was numb and would not work. The hypodermic dropped to the floor and rolled on its side. Why? It was because the palm of her left hand was burned to the bone. Looking away from her quick-roasted hand, she saw that the metal hypodermic was now glowing red-hot. No wonder why the syringe was made of metal instead of plastic: to better withstand the potentially high temperatures of the liquid within. The hypodermic had been so hot that it burned skin, muscle, and nerves almost instantly. Now her left hand was useless. She tried to take a step towards the hypodermic amidst all this noise and frenzy. She never made it. Something grabbed her and snatched her into the engine.
She was gone. As the room continued to shake and quake with noise and activity, wind and chaos, the hypodermic needle rolled to a stop against the far-end wall. A Denier scrambled down from the ceiling and along the wall: its head vibrating and making for a greasy gray splotch in the wall. Out of this gray splotch crawled something.
It was a blood worker that crawled out, getting to its feet. This muscular-bodied midget-thing in coveralls easily picked up the burning-red hypodermic: hands sizzling but still holding. Where the blood workers came from, things were sometimes hotter than this. "Shoop, roodle-eklric!" exclaimed the midget-thing, doing a little hop of joy. Then it walked over to the engine, opened up a small circular cover, opened up the back of the hypodermic, then poured the catalyst's blood in.
The engine's noise increased threefold. Now it was not only noisy, but it shook and thrummed with such intensity that the floor was beginning to show cracks where it was bolted down. A side of the engine slid open and red smoke began to billow forth. The red smoke filled this inner room, began to spread outward… It would soon fill the mansion itself. And the smoke laughed: a familiar laugh made distorted by the qualities of the smoke itself.
…
3.
…
When Selena regained consciousness, she was lying by the bedroom window: the light of day shining down on her. Every breath brought a pain to her chest. Her throat ached from having been squeezed, every breath making for a slight whistling sound. Upwards still, her head was full of pain. It took an effort for her to sit up. Eyes squinting, she managed to tuck her legs under her and sit up, then pulled herself up. She managed to get on top of the wooden stool as so she could see outside. She had to see what was happening now.
A look through the window gave a third-story view of developments on the rear grounds of this estate. There were animals out there, herds of those distorted things galloping, slithering, flying and such in getting around to the front. And there were streaks of brownish mist floating ghost-like, though much of the fog itself was gone. Both the fog and the animals were thinning out: the fog less dense, the animals fewer in number. The mists and such in the air outside the window was now thing enough to cast a direct glow of sunlight. The bright yellow-white sunlight still irritated her milk-pale skin a bit, but it still felt so good. Though the black dress she had on was horrid and depressing, it was not enough to dampen the goodness of the sunlight shining on her.
Arwhoo! An animal howled off in the distance, probably over in the forest that surrounded the rear grounds. It was probably a war-cry of some kind. War cry or not, she knew that the dog-things, the headless deer-creatures, those purple-furred apes in the electromechanical gas-masks, all the animals were losing the battle. She could sense it: sense their fading numbers. Whoever or whatever it was that they were fighting against outside, it must be a truly mighty and ultimately invincible force: a force whose victory must be inevitable as it continually slaughtered the distorted beasts to the last.
Thump! "Uh!" she gasped, quickly turning her head to the right so fast that lengths of her hair whipped, and some of it got in her eyes. But she dared not move to flick lengths of hair out of her eyes. She dared not move at all. Thump! Thump-thump-thump! Something was pounding on the walls next to the grated air vent. No, that was not an accurate assessment. The pounding was coming from inside the walls. And the sunlight that came into this room seemed to darken: as if the light in here was being consumed. Oh no, please, went her mind. Please no, not again, not again… Not…again…!
The thumping sound…became a more rhythmic sort. Choonka-chnooka-choonka… Selena had heard that sound before. Oh, yes she did. That steady beat was regular and heavily mechanical in sound. It was the sound made by an engine. Now the sound of the engine was coming through the vent. A glowing red mist wafted out from the vent, going along the floor, along with the sound of mixed laughter.
"No-o-o!" shrieked the girl, nearly tumbling off of the perch-like wooden surface. She looked at the window, making it rattle as she tried to use her mind to make it open up. Except the window would only go rattle-rattle-rattle…and not go up. Something was keeping the window closed even to the strength of her mind. She broke her concentration enough to try using her hands alone. Small hands, delicate girl-child hands… Of course she could not pull up the window. She then tried pounding the glass and did not care about possibly cutting her hands and wrists. Leaping and falling to her death was preferable to being taken by whatever was in the glowing red mist.
"Forever the dawdler, you are," snarled a voice in the indoor mist as it came closer. It was vaguely like the voice of Miss Gauche, along with dozens of other voices. The voices were speaking in chorus. Yet Miss Gauche's voice dominated. "We want to use what you have. Surrender yourself, child! You will know bliss!"
"I'll not partake of that!" screamed Selena though her throat ached, voice becoming raw. Now she was sure that she was now inhaling bits of the red mist and taking it into her body. Exhaling, she then clamped both hands over her mouth and nose. If she inhaled any of the contaminated air, with the glowing red mist…
"You are rude still! Foolish child of the sidhe, you are in need of discipline!" went the voices in the glowing red mist. A black shadow stood up from the mist, becoming solid: Miss Gauche in her black dress. Except now there was something very wrong with the woman: very wrong, indeed.
The skin left exposed by her long black dress: her feet, hands and face: was now a pasty, bruised gray that was streaked black where the veins stood out. Some of the oily black actually oozed from open sores in her skin. Her red hair was now slick with the blackish-gray stuff, limp and wet against her shoulders. As for her eyes, they were…changed. Now there were just pools of darkness staring out from a grayed face. Selena felt a headache coming on as she stood in proximity to the woman-thing: the manifestation of what was once Miss Gauche as Selena last saw her.
It was this phantasmal manifestation: this ghost: that reached down and roughly grabbed Selena's wrists! She glared at the ghost, thought a dark thought and imagined a powerful strike. She was glad to see the phantasm's head snap to the right. Indeed, the ghost of Miss Gauche had none of the protections she had in life, none of that accursed jewelry. The phantasm's grip on her wrists lessened somewhat.
Except the hands did not totally yield. The grip tightened. Then, other hands hands began to touch her. They were soon pinching and shoving. Selena's eye's squinted, mouth open in slight gasps of pain and fear. And that was when the glowing red mist had her. The burning stuff went into her mouth and nose, inhaled down her trachea and into her lungs. It filled her, also filling her head with headache and weakness. A thousand voices filled her head…with laughter and amusement even as the substance filled her body. Aah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…! We've got you now, child of the sidhe! Haw-haw! Oh yes we do! You're ours! Eh-ha-ha… Whoo-o-oo… Selena felt her body weakening. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she wilted, her wrists still gripped by the phantasm. As her mind was overcome with reddened darkness, she knew that they were going to do something terrible to her. And she would not be the same when they were done.
…
This almost seemed too easy. All that the other girl had to do was open up one of the front doors to this grand house and walk in. She turned to close the door behind herself. Too easy, it was. It was so much so that perhaps she did not even have to dress for adventure and speed: her current outfit of jeans-shorts, tee shirt and oddly clunky boots: a black jacket worn over for protection against possible animal attacks. She could easily protect herself against physical threats, but she still should have considered more protective clothing. Too much was going on now. Things were not safe.
There was a great deal of chaos going on outside, so much in the way of noise and violence. The dark bikers: the strangers: were at work in laying waste to anything that so much as dared to try to stop them. They were invincible. But that did not mean the animals couldn't try! And trying they were out there, throwing themselves at the four dark bikers: their weapons cutting, crushing, blasting and flashing hordes of the distorted beasts. The animals were having too much fun in going after the dark bikers, so why bother with one skinny young waif of a girl?
Simply being within the mansion itself was no guarantee of easiness and safety, though. The wide-open space of the grand front hall: with its wide floor space: stretched out before her. That staircase went upstairs and to rooms, and there were too many doors at floor-level. There could be any number of rooms: even rooms not originally built with the mansion itself. And within those rooms could be…things waiting for her: things from the Other world. Some of those things could even be immune to her.
Her sister was here. She had to be found. As it was, too many of Maire's kin had been lost to oblivion: lost to contamination and suffering. Maire could not live with herself if she did not at least try to save her Sister. So she stood up straight, took in a deep breath, and began taking steps towards the right. There was enough interference within this mansion to give her a slight headache. Yet Maire could still sense Selena's presence somewhere within here. It was in this direction…
Also in this direction was some of the household help! At least six maid-things dropped down from above, writhing and gasping, their red-veiled heads wagging about. Then they stood up. All of them were armed with various things good for bludgeoning, cutting and killing those who would try to enter this mansion. Those were kitchen knives, steel pipes, long rectangular pieces of wood for clubs, and one of them had a snub-nosed pistol. They were all stagger-walking in this direction.
Maire dealt with that one first. She looked at the maid-thing with the snub-nosed pistol. A thought, a sudden blast of sound, and the maid-thing with the gun was suddenly not there anymore: the pistol clattering to the floor as there was now no longer a hand holding it. That sort of trick took a lot of strength out of her, yet the results were thorough and satisfying.
Another thought, and the pistol floated up into her hands: a surprisingly clunky and large weapon. Guns were certainly not designed for people of her stature. Even if she was not sure if she could use it, at least the weapon was no longer in their hands.
Then another one of the maid-things began stagger-walking closer. It was one of them with the pieces of lumber. And the way it brandished the wood, it was fully intent on hurting her.
She made that one go up in the air: then hurled the thing at its fellow creatures. The effect was much like hurling a life-sized doll at an arrangement of large bowling pins. Except in this case, the bowling pins so happen to be grotesque things Hell-bent on mutilation and murder. They went sprawling to the floor.
Cl-clunk-clunk! Maire turned to see that three more maid-things had dropped out of nowhere: too close. There was just enough time for Maire to give a quick thought, hurling one of them away and towards the far wall. The other two were soon within striking distance. One of them wriggled its head and began to swing a piece of lumber. Maire was also aware of another maid-thing behind her just beginning to swing a piece of wood…
The next thing she knew, she was on her back, limbs sprawled and hair in disarray. Her back… Part of her upper back felt numb and cold in one part: up around her right shoulder. The numbness blocked off all feeling in her right arm as well. The maid-thing that struck her made some sort of gagging exclamation sound of victory before raising the piece of lumber to finish the job.
She gave a quick thought, and that maid-thing staggered back. It was enough time for Maire to sit up, find the gun and hold it up: heavy and clunky. But using assistance from her mind allowed her to keep the weapon held: even one-handedly. And she squeezed the trigger. Crack! "Aigh!" she shrieked as the thing recoiled, nearly breaking her left wrist and making for a tug at her left shoulder. And that made for another one of the maid-things tumbling back and away.
Her left arm hurting, right arm numb from the shoulder-down, now both arms hurt. She stood, still with the revolver still in her possession. It was a good thing that she did. The rest of the maid-things were coming for her. So she glared at a cluster of the maid-things and mentally prepared to do something awful to them. She thought of all the hate and trouble they caused, all of the pain and suffering. The air began to heat up…
Lightning struck: jagged florescent forks of blue energy raked out to blast the maid-things. At least five of the maid-things were made charred black statues of their former selves. Others were on their backs, no longer moving. Also, the other maid-things were stunned. They simply stood with their heads wriggling.
Indeed, Maire had used another one of her tricks: another one that cost her a great deal of spiritual strength. But what did not require a great deal of that strength was usage of the pistol. She raised the weapon, aim shaky… Squee-squee-squee-squee…!
The wheelchair struck her from behind, making her go into a flopping sort of fall. She landed on her back again: onto her right shoulder…which had already been severely injured before. The numbness…was now replaced with intense pain that spread throughout her body and to her head. It made her see dazzling spots of pain and a wave of darkness that covered over her mind in a wash of darkness and cold. She had the idea that the maid-things were coming closer to finish her off. At the least, she had tried to save her sister…
…
The maid-things surrounded the still, sprawled figure of the pale-haired girl. Their heads wriggled and spasmed about as they stood there. When they were sure that there was no more trouble, some of the maid-things dropped their improvised weapons as they grabbed the girl by the ankles and wrists: not caring how injured her arms were. Squee, squee, squee… It was the sound of that rusty wheelchair again. It was moving more slowly now as it maneuvered itself into position. The maid-things then flopped the girl in the wheelchair: an arm dangling over the right side and head at a far-tilted angle in the same direction, her long moonsilk hair sprawled half-covering her peaceful face. Its passenger in place, the wheelchair began to take the girl away. Squee, squee, squee, squee, squee…
…
4.
…
She was vaguely aware of her physical self: her body. This was an odd feeling to be both of a body and apart from it at the same time. She knew that her body was still in the wheelchair, the wheelchair being in a dark and windy place: surrounded by a broad circle of fire on a platform of metal plates: with grates to cover over the gaps. Darkness above, the circle of fire made for the light here. The fire… It was coming from somewhere, but she could not be sure as things were just so vague and just…so…blurred. Her Sister was here! Yes, her Sister was also in one of those infernal wheelchairs. Though her Sister could not hear, at least she was still alive. They did not destroy her.
Yes, they were here: the missionaries from the Other world. From her disconnected position, she saw them as reddish-brown shadows: outlines of looming figures with distorted heads. They were standing on the concrete. The figures had tried to do things to her just as they had done things to her Sister. Now they were awaiting the results of their red handiwork. She could almost hear their minds growling in anticipation for the blessed results.
They sought to utilize her Sister: her Kinfolk: as a catalyst for whatever they wanted to do: as part of their plans. Over her prolonged stay in the town, Selena had been subject to the contamination of their kind. They made her impure to change her to their ways. Worse yet was how they were able to infuse further contamination into Selena's body to the point that the outcome must be terrible. And they were only worsening things.
There was no time to waste. Maire had to act. She concentrated her thoughts and…solidified…her awareness. She imagined inhaling with her lungs, the beat…of her own heart in her chest, also imagined…the weight of her boots on her legs in shorts… Her jacket was comforting…over…her shirt. Now her…awareness was solid and real again.
Maire was fully within her body: feeling and aware through her senses…and also feeling a numbing headache. Hearing through her ears, she opened her eyes and sat up in the wheelchair. There was something around her neck: squeezing her neck-muscles and pressing her throat. She brought her fingers to the band of metal and felt the runic writing on it: a torc. It was likely responsible for her headache. Though she could not feel the writing, she had a very good idea as to what it meant. And it was not good. The writing had a purpose matching the rest of this place of darkness. Indeed, this was a dark place: a cracked and rusted platform-floor of metal plates extended over darkness, some of the plates missing and replaced with rusty grating. The circle of fire that went around came from engines on fire: engines that gave off a low thrumming.
This circle of fiery engines had the width of a merry-go-round ride. And somehow, the engines all around had been arranged with such neatness that the burning metal contraptions did not have any space between them. They were arranged to form a close a circle as possible to facilitate things. The Deniers, the doctor-things, all the beings that served the Machinery of the Other World may be entities of blood, rust, infection and contamination, but they were always especially artful of their operations and actions.
Those of their kind that failed to properly execute that which was done for the Machinery, they were punished: remade to better serve the Machinery. Such beings were actually here as well. Maire could see the charred outlines of Deniers on top of the burning engines. But she did not have to look carefully to know that her Sister was also here and becoming aware. She could feel her Sister's mind struggling to regain the energy of consciousness. There were also the distorted-faced doctor-things, four of them. Their backs to the fire, the wind fanned the flames and made their shadows dance. It also managed to make their faces look worse than they already were. Four Missionaries, two victims… Added together, the sum was proper and fitting.
Two human-shaped figures floated out from the windy surrounding darkness. One was dressed in a ragged, torn tuxedo-jacket and pants, a red-smeared shirt beneath the jacket. And the other floating figure was female, dressed in a long black dress. It was indeed that person floating down here. Or rather, it was the ghost of the person: the phantasmal form of Miss Gauche. She looked just as solid and as real as any human being. Not even the pain and madness of a contaminated death could stop her from trying to bring her plans to fruition.
"Gyach!" exclaimed the phantasm of the tall woman, a mouthful of oily black, pudding-like subtsance from her mouth to go splat on the plate-metal flooring of the platform. She opened her mouth. "I sense that…you…are awakened," came her words, though her mouth did not move. "We have two catalysts. Summoning God…will not…be hard!" She raised her arms, and the wind howled.
The phantasm of Samuel Longhorn, the one in the ruined tuxedo, opened its mouth to expel a gobbet of black. "The engines burning, the darkness beyond…your universe…is spread open," he said. "It is a welcoming…gesture… Catalysts in place…and renewed engines…burning hot, God's descent is facilitated. They have seen to it. Are they not generous?"
Maire glanced left at Selena, who was sitting up in her wheelchair as well. Her Sister was fingering the torc around her own neck. "Nay, 'tis not generosity which compels the Otherworld," began Maire. "Thou must have verily seen truth beyond the veils of fictions at some point!" The girl was becoming so emotional now that her accent became more pronounced. "Thy spirit hast fallen subject to thy corruption! 'Tis corruption. 'Tis thine ideal of contamination. Do ye not see thine downfall in thy actions?"
"I see-e-e…an imperiously spoiled child of the sidhe," said the open-mouthed phantasm of Miss Gauche, staring in Maire's direction with night-darkened eye-sockets. She floated some steps closer to Maire. "They have warned…that you-u-u resisted…the blessing. Unlike…your Kin, you…have not taken to the Red. Why not…join your Sister-r-r…in…blessing?"
Maire glared at the phantasms, floating with feet just above the plate-metal floor: everything above covered in sheer windy darkness. She also glanced at her sister in the other wheelchair, slumped over and looking defeated. The source of their power was all around. Though Miss Gauche and her erstwhile partner: Mr. Longhorn: had been killed, not even death could stop them. It actually made them stronger. And all around was the broad burning circle of their accursed engines. Her sister could not help. Both of her strongest enemies were here… The situation seemed almost hopeless. Would it not be better to simply…give in to the warm darkness?
Of course not! "I'll not give in, ye horrid brethren of all things sinister!" screamed Maire. Ignoring the pains in her arms, she reached for the platinum torc around her neck. She used a twist of her mind to assist her hands and was able to break the circle of metal. Both of the phantasms then howw-wled in frustration and anger. The defiant pale-haired then stood up out of the rusty wheelchair she was in, girl looked at the broken thing in her hand. She made the torc levitate, then sent it hurling into the surrounding darkness beyond the circle of burning engines.
"…Oogh!" howled the phantasm of the tall woman. She quickly floated over to near the circumfrence of burning engines: floating as close as she dared as if she was still alive. Then both the phantasm of the tall woman and the once-rich man quickly floated back over to Maire. Both figures had their oily hands outspread and were fully intent on doing something terrible to her. She was unsure what, but it was no doubt something terrible. The fingers of hands could reach into her body to do more than physically kill her. No, the phantasms could also directly contaminate her with the very same stuff of darkness that pervaded them. There were things worse than death, especially in this place.
The pale-haired girl made a run for it, though her legs still felt weak: legs flashing and leather jacket fluttering as she ran along. The phantasms were close to her. Yet she was fast, as fast as the wind. And when she came to the very edge of the circle of fire, she was sure to keep running. She was very sure to run in circles, going around right to left and back again: running in the direction known as clockwise. The phantasms still followed, reaching with their hands and trying to catch her: giving her a severe headache as their spiritual malignancy radiated outward towards her.
Maire could feel their closeness just as she felt the flames of the burning engines at her left. Those accursed things would likely try to pursue her for an eternity if she failed here. Since she was still physically alive, she did not have an eternity to evade them as her body would soon tire. Yet the deed had to be done. This circling had to be completed.
She made one fast and very energetic run all along the edge of the engines. This done, she staggered a few more steps and collapsed: her legs beneath her as she used her arms to support herself. It was not that the run itself should have exhausted her. It was all of this place. The air itself, something was wrong with the air. It was heavy and felt wrong in her lungs and had that reek of contamination. There was the heat, the radiation from the burning engines. And worse still were the two phantasm and all of their hate. Gasping for air, her head aching, Maire looked up at the two figures…when there was that r-r-r-rumbling sound.
The phantasms stopped their hovering approach and looked off in a direction somewhere to Maire's right: beyond this circle of burning engines… There was a sunrise golden-colored glow from above: a florescent-brightness that glowed to white and…burned the darkness and: for a time: made everything here seem brighter than daylight. The light made Maire squint her eyes, but it felt…wonderful. The feeling burned away all of her physical pain and hurt, all of her hopelessness. She stood up off of the rusty plate-metal floor. On her feet again, she tilted back her face and outspread her arms: letting the feeling fill her. It was…bliss.
The light…soon faded, but it was all that Maire needed. She looked on the phantasms and saw that they were weakened and somehow: bound to the plate-metal floor. She stepped closer without fear to see that both phantasms were miraculously pierced through with glowing metal blades that had miraculously come down from above during the glow, blades with triangular wooden handles. The glowing blades continued to glow with the brightness of that light. Both phantasms writhed and made sucking, gasping sounds: not able to move.
R-r-r-rumble… Maire staggered and stood awkwardly as the heavy vibrations shook the floor of plate metal and rusty grating: making everything unstable. Could it be…? She did not think that the dark bikers: the riders: could not come here. But she heard them, felt them. Turning, the girl also saw the beginning of them getting to work though she could not see them beyond the wall of flame.
R-r-r-rumble… Clank-k-k-k! Three of the huge engine-machines exploded into chunks of red-hot shrapnel. The rumbling of the unseen bikers continued its way around. Clank! Another engine was destroyed: its flame extinguished as its parts were scattered. This lead to a weakening of the other engines, their flames going lower. Those engines were being undone and destroyed.
Something else was also happening. Maire turned back to look at the two phantasm impaled on the plate-metal floor. In fact, two sections of the floor came up and slid aside. Out from the floor climbed a group of blood workers: those broad-bodied dark midgets in coveralls. They made grunting sounds as they worked together to lift the plates on which the two phantasms were impaled with glowing blades. This way, they were able to lift up the phantasms as if they were meals on trays.
One of them hobbled over to the square hole in the floor to move aside some more plates. This opened up an even wider hole: an opening darker than the depths of the universe. It was also big enough for the blood workers to throw in the phantasms of Miss Gauche and Mr. Longhorn: who scree-e-eamed as they vanished into that abyss. "Elkric, roodle-ee nw-w-w-wod!" declared one of the other-worldly midget-thing before also hopping down into the abyss. The rest of the blood workers followed: hopping down into the darkness down there.
Then they were gone. Maire carefully walked over to the edge of the widened square hole, getting as close as she dared lest she fall in. The last of their screams faded off now as those two enemies were swallowed by the void: down there in the world where the Others came from. And all around, the circle of engines was now wrecked: the sound of the dark bikers r-r-rumbling off into the distance. Chunks of the engines still smoldered with remaining, sputtering flames. Yet even those were going out.
It was over… "Aye," said the girl gently, "No more will those two be harbingers of trouble to their own world." That was also true for any world. Now all that Maire had to do was take her Sister out of here. Between the two of them, they could summon the way out. So she happily walked over to where her twin was slumped in the other wheelchair. Maire would have thought that the brief-lived glow from above would have also helped Selena. But maire should have noticed something…
She did not, only bearing in mind the desire to help her Sister up out of the wheelchair during this moment of victory over the invaders. Selena's head jerked up: eyes looking at Maire. And the eyes were not the green color they should have been.. They had…changed.
"Sister! What darkness is this?" asked Maire, staggering back. Crack! Red lighting…flashed from above and struck. Maire felt a numbness seize her body and fell backwards: having a glimpse of the dark-red band of metal still around her Sister's neck before the impact.
Selena was contaminated, of course. All of that time in Pleasant River, out after dark had done damage enough to her purity. Then there was all of that time with Miss Gauche. Further worse was how much was done to her in this place. There was no telling how much time, how many opportunities, that They had to change Selena after changing her body.
Whimpering in pain and suffering, she had been nearly paralyzed by that strike of red lightning, Maire struggled. Her struggles only amounted to a weak writhing. She was vaguely aware of her own Sister: her contaminated kin: coming closer. Selena felt a weight on her abdomen as her Sister straddled her. Hands encircled Maire's neck and began to squeeze. It was so easy as Maire was so slim a girl, her neck slender and delicate as she lie paralyzed and weakened: not able to resist…
…
"Hail Bridgett, hail the light
….Greetings to dreams of sound
Come to me, bring aid to me
….For they are all around.
"A fallen land, this darkened place
…Across a burning sea
Another land, another world
…May lightning carry me."
…
There was a roaring sound of wind. It was the sound of the air itself being torn asunder. Melted wheels of a vehicle were rapidly spinning as the huge, flaming vehicle ambled along the plate-metal surface: as if it was any old roadway. It was the burning bus which slow-w-ed to a stop on its ever-melting tires. And it did stop. At the front-right of the vehicle, the door slowly sque-e-ealed open on flame-heated hinges…
…
5.
…
The concrete floor of the house basement was usually dark and shadowy due to there just being three light fixtures throughout the place. Now the place was very well-lit with portable florescent lights: the kind of lights that photographers used to better illuminate subjects such as fashion models: smiling or frowning. Except in this case, though the subject of photography was beautiful, she was not smiling. That was because she was dead. Her pale blonde hair partially curtained her pert face, a face in the calm repose of what is believed to be the final rest: a blue chalk outline around her body. Fwick, went the flash of a camera. Fwick-fwick!
She lie dead-still, looking so small and forlorn. Slim and small, she was not close to five feet in height and slender: porcelain-toned skin and white-blonde hair curtaining her face. She had on calf-length boots on her feet and jeans-shorts, with a tee shirt for a top: an open black-leather jacket thrown over for warmth. The jacket seemed large and floppy on her slender body, the calf-length boots clunky and perhaps for a girl older than her. It made the police want to put a blanket over the body. Except there was no point to doing that: The dead need not be comforted against the cold. They had the peace of eternity to bring them all the comfort they needed.
All around, the police were especially lively. Both uniformed police officers and plain-clothes personnel were dusting for fingerprints throughout the basement: checking the basement entryway, using close scrutiny for footprints other than those who lived here, and taking plenty of photographs. Fwick! They wanted to be absolutely sure that they found any and all sorts of possible evidence regarding the dead girl: who seemed to be a murder victim.
…Subject has been identified as Maire Ni Sidhe. The subject is of Nordic-Irish descent, official age being 16 years: though her adoption records are not fully reliable. (See attached.) Subject is of slim build and small stature: four feet in height, though with no unusual proportions indicative of dwarfism, stunted growth or otherwise. Such also leads to physical estimates of the subject's true age varying between nine years and nineteen years of age. The body has not been moved, yet there are no immediate signs of violence as the cause of death. An autopsy report is pending.
Indeed, the police department of Pleasant River wanted to get right on this case. For a young girl to die alone after foul play, that was an injustice in their eyes. They would certainly find the killer: if there was one. Or it could have been suicide. They had not moved the body yet.
"Hey Karl, I'm gonna go ask the captain if we can bring down the homeowners now," commented Police Sergeant Smith, finishing up some notes on his notepad. He was talking to another one of the team that was handling the fingerprints-dusting. "I think it's time." A nod from him, and he pocketed his notepad, then went over to the police captain heading up this case. The captain agreed.
A woeful glance at the fallen girl, and carefully went up the basement stairs. He was up there for a minute while the forensics work continued down here. Fwick, went the cameras of the photographers. There was still the silent swishing of the tiny soft brushes used to dab fingerprint-revealing powders on metallic and other surfaces. Notepads still scribbled detailed notes about the scene. Then Sergeant Smith came back down the stairs with the elderly couple following: both the husband and wife rail-thin and frail themselves, both still dressed in pajamas and thick woolen robes.
They stood at the foot of the stairs, looking over at the body of the girl next to the furnace in the center of this basement. The elderly man's blue eyes were stern, but his clenched jaw quivered ever-so-slightly. His gray-haired wife simply stared with eyes wide open as if she could still not believe the sight. The elderly woman turned her stare to look at the police captain, her husband also looking. They waited until he stopped.
"I'm sorry to have asked for you two to have returned down here, sorry for the inconvenience," said the police detective: a tall man in beige slacks and buttoned white shirt, long trench coat worn over. His black shoes were of soft, dark leather. "It is simply that the evidence we have so far is contradictory. According to both your statements and the physical evidence we have collected, there is no sign of forced entry or even entry from outside." He looked at the husband. "You, Mr. Montaigne, claimed to have heard the furnace malfunctioning… Animal sounds coming from the vents, you say? And upon your coming down the stairs, you claim to have discovered the body of the girl. Then you went to seek out your wife to confirm what you were seeing: before she, in turn, used an upstairs telephone to call us. And you found her just as she is, where she is, now."
"That's right, detective," answered Arnold Montaigne. "I had my wife check her out, too. Sometimes, a man's mind can play tricks on him. For all I knew, she could've been a life-sized doll that somebody just so happened to throw down here. She does look like a really big kid's toy, so frail and pretty. But my wife knows more about that sort of thing than I do since she used to work in industrial design. She found out that it was a real girl over there. A real girl lying there dead and all alone."
"A real tragedy," said Mrs. Yvonne Montaigne. "A girl that age should have been in school, with a home, with parents who love her. This is a small town, and we all know each other: or at least know each others' faces. Yeah, it's also because… Well, we all have the same common house of worship." She saw the police detective nod. He knew what kind of worship she was talking about. "There was no girl like that in this town: especially someone who looks like that." She shook her head. "So pretty… Was it drugs? She's so small and thin…"
"At this time, we cannot lock down any specific cause for the subject's death," stated the detective. "Yet we are beginning to suspect that she entered the basement through an alternate means. There is that one barred window which she could have squeezed through, but the window itself remains closed. And the door has no fingerprints."
There was a r-r-rumbling from the house's furnace, followed by other sounds of activity"What the Hell…?" exclaimed a police officer over by the murder scene. The detective saw the elderly couple look past him. He then turned to see what the commotion was all about. If anything, it was certainly worth making a commotion about. At least that was true if he could believe what the Hell he was seeing.
Because before the other police could crowd around the scene, he saw the girl…standing up. She used her arms to ease herself up to a sitting position. Then she stood and began to brush herself off as police officers began to take notice and mob over her. If the girl was alive, they wanted to be sure that she was safe. "Excuse me," said the detective before turning away from the elderly couple to see the girl.
"Make way, make way…" said the detective. The other police officers and such hesitated…before letting him through. Some gave rude looks to him despite him being their superior in rank with the department. "Make way, please," he insisted. Thought to himself, Geez, the way they're crowding the girl, they'd think she was the second Coming of the Savior! That, or one would think that some new pop-star had come onto the scene and everyone else had reverted to being infatuated fans. It must have taken a good minute to get through to the girl.
In all his years of police work, covering forensics, he had seen a lot of otherwise amazing things: most of it unpleasant. Corpses would twitch for some time after fresh death. Much later, they would sometimes even burp. And after death, there was the fallacy that fingernails continued to grow; it was actually an illusion created by the retraction of the cuticles due to dehydration of the epidermis. There were a lot of things taught at academies and schools about dead bodies that people had to be told to prevent surprises. Still, the surprises were there: twitching, burping, "growing" fingernails, and all. This police captain had seen plenty. But never, not ever, did he hear about a girl dead for six hours, get up and dust herself off.
Here she was, standing up in a circle of space at the center of this indoor crowd: in her playful outfit and floppy leather jacket, her lengths of long moonsilk-colored hair curtaining the sides of her face. And with one of the bright portable photographers' klieg lights still shining on her, she seemed radiant, a girl of a miracle. It was as she was blessed to look uponIt was no wonder people were staring and crowding around her.
He shook his head, blinked before approaching her, carefully approaching. Who knows, the beautiful girl could drop dead again. He knelt on one knee as so his face was level with hers: a knee of his pressed slacks to the gritty basement floor. "Excuse me… Young miss? I'm Detective Sole. Are you okay?" One of the first things a person had to do in terms of first aid was check for alertness. If she was not alert, then they would be sure to rush her to the hospital.
The girl nodded. She raised her small fingers to a side of her head: to tuck some lengths of hair behind an ear. This gave a clear view of the right side of her pretty face and earlobe. She then put her left hand on the detective's right shoulder and leaned forward as if to kiss the detective on a cheek. Instead, she whispered something into his right ear. It made his eyes go wide, still wide as she righted herself and nodded. Whatever she had said, he believed it: or was frightfully surprised by it.
…
An hour later, the girl had been transported over to the Pleasant River Police Department: over in the municipal complex-area. There was a procession of various police vehicles behind the unmarked detective's car as they went: as if she was royalty. Part of the reason was that the police-band car radios were malfunctioning for whatever reason. But primarily, they wanted to be close to her…just to make sure that she was alright. No one seemed to mind that a cowboy song seemed to be interfering with the police-band frequencies.
In the station itself, she was apparently doing very well and very alert as she sat in front of the police detective's open-cubicle desk. The band-shaped bruise around her neck seemed to have faded, and her mood was markedly bright. She sat with her left leg crossed over right and hands on the edges of the wooden seat. Her hair still curtained a side of her face: making others want to gently reach over and see her face. So petite and pretty, quaint and polite with her slight accent, there were plenty of others in this station who would have adopted her here and now if only to have her for their very own. Her outfit of shorts and tight tee shirt, with black jacket seemed a bit too "mature" for her, but it also seemed to make her seem all the more precious: as if she was a child playing dress-up with her older sister's clothes. Then again, looking at her, there was no way of really telling her age. She had the stature of a young girl, but she also had the lithe, lean proportions of a slender young woman. A petite young woman or young girl, it was difficult to tell. Whatever, she was very pretty.
At least six other police personnel were hanging around the desk and listening to her as she politely answered questions regarding her whereabouts prior to the incident. They all believed her every word. They not only listened to what she said, they listened to the sound of her sweetly gentle, slightly accented voice. Some of the things she had said should have been understood to be unbelievable. And perhaps they would have seemed incredible. The girl had said something about having come out of Silent Hill: prior to what happened to it. She also expressed worry about her adopted parents. Oh, and her name was not Maire.
"Excuse me, detective. I would like to utilize the washroom," she said at some point. How polite! Even the way she asked to use something as common as a bathroom was quaint and splendid. Splendid, elegant, they were all words to go with the girl. Even then, they could not imagine such a beautiful thing being at all soiled.
Of course she could use the washroom! In fact, there were three female police personnel wishing to escort her to the nearest. She uncrossed her legs and stood up. She even gave a slight curtsey before turning to face the oh-so-willing policewomen to show her the way. They were honored to show her the way. It was at the far end of this room. Normally, it was for police use only. But since she was so important, no one would mind.
…
One of the policewomen held open the bathroom door. "If you need us for anything, ma'am, we'll all be right here," she said. "Just shout or say anything!" The policewoman even smiled at the girl. She seemed almost hesitant to close the door. But she did close the door to give the girl her privacy. It left her in here alone.
There were three stalls in this women's bathroom, floor tiling a mottled beige-white coloration, three porcelain-clean sinks at the right with toilet-stalls to the left. Mirrors were above each. Her calf-length boots made slight clunking sounds as she stepped towards one of the sinks: the sink farthest on the left. Turning to face the faucet, she put both hands on the sink and slowly elevated herself up on tip-toes. She was now able to just barely see her own eyes in the mirror, a mirror designed for those adult in height.
Her own face and eyes looked back at her: a view of the bathroom stalls behind her. Her eyes, they were not the dazzling emerald-green orbs seen by others. Because her eyes were ruby-red in the reflection. And as she stared into her own reflection, the mirror began…to fog up. It was as if the inside surface of the glass was taking on a tinge of blood. In the reflection, all three of the bathroom stalls slow-w-wly opened. The lights flickered, and there was a scream elsewhere in the police station. There were twisted, grotesque sounds coming from the air vent: sounds that mixed animal grunts with the churning of strange machines…
…
A view through the sewer-grates and outward was one of the sealed café across the downtown street: this street seemingly abandoned to all vehicular traffic. It was sunset now, the crimson-orange low light of the dying sunlight casting everything in a low and warm glow. All the cars were parked at the curbs, their windows now thoroughly grimed over with that grotesque reddish mixture of grit, dried blood and grease. The car bodies themselves were becoming pitted with rust as the rust-proofing and paint-jobs were being eaten away by airborne contaminants. And it was the very same thing that It was the contamination, and it conquered all on this street as the winds of the fading day how-w-wled along the street. The wind howled along the street: and shook the door of that sealed café: as if the wind carried the spirits of the miserable and the dead, struggling to get out of the street and get in. But that wind could not get in…
Inside…the sealed café itself, the outside was just a vague and reddish-smeared image through the grimed-over picture windows: the last of the sunset glowing its way in to make for some illumination. It was not as if the broken mannequins especially cared about the quality of the lighting. The well mannequins: parts and remains of them: were all over. All the dining booths and square set near the big windows had slumped broken figures that lacked arms or even heads: the wooden heads having rolled onto the floor. Torsoes still dressed in human clothes had sleeves and pant-legs empty of limbs as well: because the disconnected jointed limbs were scattered along the floor, near the tables. They had fallen off as the mannequins had fallen apart. At the round tables throughout the center of the room, the well-dressed mannequins seemed somewhat more fortunate: most of them having remained somewhat intact. Even so, their forlorn figures were slumped across the tabletops.
They were all haphazard and in random conditions, these broken things. But common to all of them was how their carved heads all faced one part of the café itself. That is to say, all of the heads: on jointed necks, on floors or atop tables, were facing the little raised stage for performances. The little stage seemed barely there itself as it was near the part of the café somewhat far from the windows: leaving it in shadows and sunset-colored gloom. It was as if the mannequins' heads were watching and waiting for something to happen. Something on that stage, anything happening, would be a welcome change.
Squee-e-e, wheedle… Hum-he-e-e-e…! Some truly horrible squealing sounds came from the speakers mounted in the ceiling, tortured sounds from the sound system. The wiring was still good. Everything outside this place may be contaminated and crumbling, rusting and grimed, but things in here were still in somewhat decent working order. As the squealing and shrieking sounds of tortured electrical machinery faded off into hissing, there were even some traces of a strumming guitar: along with the sound of a girl gasping…
Or it was not coming from the speakers. As the speakers quieted down, the blue velvet curtains of the little stage swished aside. A pale-haired girl emerged: gasping and wheezing through her injured throat, the circular bruise a blood-red color around her pale neck: most of the bruise hidden by her haggard hair. Her leather jacket was ripped, and her once-playful outfit of shorts and tee shirt was smeared with reddish grit in places: with a scratached left arm over her abdomen. Indeed, the real Maire had made it back from that Other place, and she was in pain.
She could be killed,brought to death through physical pain and suffering. Killed, yet she could never die. That was because Maire knew that death was a lie. She would always try to come back. Now that her Sister was gone, someone had to come back. Maire was that someone, had to be that person, especially now. She glanced back at the blue-velvet curtains, making it go closed again.
Her boots made clunking, cumbersome sounds as she staggered towards the edge of the stage… And she fell off, nearly hitting her face. Stunned for a moment, her breathing stopped for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then the rhythm of her lungs resumed as she inhaled and exhaled: letting herself just lie still for a moment to let the pain dissipate at least somewhat. There was too much pain for her to handle at the moment, a little girl with a lot of pain. The pain… It would have just been so much better to lie here and do nothing. It was all over, anyway. Why bother?
Even so, she used her left arm to push herself up to a sitting position: her right arm still paining her to the point that it hurt to even let it move. So she let the limb hand limp. She shuddered as sharp splinters of pain troubled her right shoulder, the entire right side of her body and filling her head. Sitting up eventually allowed her to stagger to her feet, eventually standing. She let her head slump as she resumed her painful pace towards the dining counter to her left. Through the lack of artificial lighting and the haze of pain in her head, it was a miracle that she could make her way along.
Eventually, Maire had made it to behind the counter where there was the console to operate the systems. The tall waitress was no longer in any condition to help operate things… It took some one-handed struggling for her to do so, clicking heavy knobs but she was soon glad to see a low green-colored glow and lights on the panels light up. She turned one knob to the left, then pulled up on a heavy toggle switch.
There was a thump, a spotlight came on: illuminting the head waiter standing on the stage in front of a silvery microphone. That bald-headed man in black pants and white shirt: with black bowtie: had cheeks that were wet with tears. But with fists clenched and jaw shut, he did not weep aloud. There were no sounds from him…until Maire managed to turn up another knob on the console.
A low, sad electric guitar began to make slow twangs through the speakers, backed by thumps and thrums of a bass string instrument. That electric guitar resonated with echoes while the bass made for rock-solid thumps of beat. That strumming bass made for almost the sound of a drum. It made for the back-sound of instrumentation. On stage, the head waiter stopped looking at the floor. He looked outward, backed by the sound of the instruments playing through the speakers. And he began to sing a chant…
Paint your picture…to my front door
Take your smile…for…a r-i-i-ide
I awake…through a bad dream rising
Your kiss, it frames…the sky-y-y
Your footsteps echo in the hallway
Your picture…hangs above…the faucet dripping
…In the kitchen
…It's just the rhythm…
…Of the blue-e-e…
We used to talk…about these days
We used to say…they'd never happen
But now that they've happened
…It makes no difference who I a-a-am!
The instruments went on for the space of a few seconds as the head waiter clenched his jaw shut. The instruments playing through the speakers made for their own music for a time. Then, somehow, there was the sound of a duet to chant out a pair of lyrics.
She doesn't live here…anymore
She doesn't live here…anymo-o-o-ore
That said, the head waiter looked up from the floor. Bitter tears in his eyes, he still stood there. And he resumed the song. Painful though it was, he would continue the song. It was for the sake of those broken figures of the audience. It was for the sake of everyone involved.
I close my eyes and waste a wish
You know I gave you…my ve-ry best
But it wasn't good enough
…You took forever…and all it could ever be!
She doesn't live here…anymore
She doesn't live here…anymo-o-o-ore
We used to talk…about these days
We used to say…they'd ne-e-ever happen!
But now that they've happened
…It makes no difference who I a-a-am!
She doesn't live here…anymore
She doesn't live here…anymore
She doesn't live here…anymore
She doesn't live here…anymo-o-ore!
That was all the head waiter could sing. He looked to the floor, his head lowered in spiritual pain that seemed matched by Maire's physical suffering. From there, the instruments went on. The instruments played on for a little while longer, then they lapsed into silence. The wind outside the picture-window howled on as the sunset out there seemed just slightly darker. The sunset closer, the darkness was coming. Who would bring light and hope this time?
…
A town away, and perhaps a world away, the darkness had already established a territory in this world. This place, something else was askew. Something was descending. The streaking reddish mists and wafting fogs drifted along above and through the metal grating that formed a platform. There had to be something set up now because the ground beneath was almost all consumed by now: a platform over a seemingly infinite abyss, supported by interlaced metal scaffolding extending down into that abyss. Some incandescent lamps extended up from the platform to provide for some lighting and made for glowing globes of light.
This was far from being simply a flat expanse of grated metal and alloy plating. No, there were structures built atop this: structures beyond the front entranceway. Such structures were perhaps the size of houses. Some were smaller, and many of them had odd shapes in the gloom. Pieces and parts of these structures stretched up beyond the glow of the streetlamps with shadowy shapes and forms. One such structure was round in shape, round and surrounded all around with gating that went child-high. Beyond the circular gate was a large, raised circular platform: atop which were various parts and chunks of engines.
Whir-r-r…! Then came some sounds of electromechanical engines revving up beneath the circular platform, followed by a rhythmic clank-clanking of pistons. Clank-clank, went the piston-works as the circular platform began to go round and round. Some of the chunks of engines atop the circular platform had horse-shaped heads. The heads rattled as the power of the engines built up, the platform going in circles. That was important, that the engines moved and whirred.
Clank-clank it circled. By now, there was soon the whimsical, piping tune of calliope music that still came from somewhere within the electromechanical workings of the engines. Even after the structure had been altered to serve the purposes of the Others, it still made that sound. And the horse-heads atop the engines began to vibrate, resonating with sound. It was resonating with the power to summon something awesome.
Once upon a time, this structure was called something else by the original inhabitants of this world. It was called a "merry-go-round,": with seat-bearing parts atop a circular platform that went round-and-round for the enjoyment of the riders. The structure even bore most of its original shape from before. Except now, with the local inhabitants of this world blessed and removed, the merry-go-round had been changed to suit the purposes of the Machine. Blood pulsed through pipes and electricity jolted its way through cables. If not a catalyst, then another means would be used to make way for "God" into the rest of this world: for the reach of this "God" to go beyond the town of Silent Hill...