First of all: Silent Hill belongs to Konami and not me. I do not claim ownership of Silent Hill or its franchise in any way, bla bla bla. All original characters and the like belong to me.
PROLOGUE
I sit at the desk and write. I have been writing for hours, what feels like forever. He made me. I have to write everything for him, write all I have seen, all I have felt. That's why I am here, I know.
I finally know.
I'm utterly alone. The world no longer exists beyond the light of the lamp on this desk. I am floating in an endless void. The room he locked me in no longer exists and
No.
That is wrong. The room exists, but it's not a room. I know I am not making this easy for you – if anyone is ever to read this beyond him – but please understand it is as hard for me to imagine as it is for you to read, and I'm the one experiencing it. I don't think there's any words in the english language that aptly describes it. But I think that if I had to choose one, I'd have to go with "contracting".
It is shrinking, becoming smaller. I momentarily look up every once in a while, though never stop writing – I dare not stop writing – and never see anything. I never spot the wall of the room coming toward me in the inky blackness beyond the light. All the same, I know it is true. I can feel the claustrophobia that invades my mind. And still I keep writing.
Why did I come to this town? To say it was a mistake is so much an understatement it should be illegal. There is some cruel irony, in this, you know. Dying alone. I've never liked people, and twelve hours ago if you'd asked me I'd have said I'd rather die alone. Of course, I would probably be thinking of in my sleep, or in a hospital bed. Not like this. I don't now what this will be like. I don't even know if it will hurt. But it still terrifies me.
Maybe that's not coming through in my words, the terror I feel. I don't know why, actually. It's like my fingers are writing independently of myself, so they don't have to take the burden of the creeping fear and nausea in my brain. I don't want to die.
I don't want to die. I don't want to fall asleep. I don't want to feel my consciousness slipping away when I know I'll never wake up, to fight a battle I know I'll lose. I can't get my mind off it. I can't think, I'm so scared.
The desk shifts, pressing itself against my ribs as it's pushed against a floor that isn't there anymore. I don't dare look up from my writing anymore. I'm scared I might look up and there won't be anything there. And I'm ever more scared I'll look up, and there will be something to see. A paradox.
The desk presses harder into my chest, and then starts to pull away. Quick as I can I snatch the pencil and paper off its surface, hugging both close to my chest as I continue to write. I know the desk disappears, although I never take my eyes off the paper. I know. It's just me, sitting on a chair, writing, in the middle of an endless black universe. The space is now very small. I have to get to my ending.
It's all around me now, I know. It's almost over. I can feel it, though it hasn't touched me yet. I can feel its breath on the back of my neck, though it doesn't breathe. I still keep writing, although my wrist and fingers ache from being used for hours. He said that if I stopped writing I would die. I still keep writing, but I think it will kill me anyway. It can feel it now, it's touch. It is taking me. It's like ice. It's sliding up my leg, like a living liquid. The darkness itself, or the room. No difference. It's sliding up my pant leg, along my calf, touching me. I'm scared of what it will do to me.
I think it wants to do more than kill me. It's pressing against my back, now. I hate being touched, but I think it likes it. It's pressing against my head like some unwelcome, distasteful giant hand running itself through my hair. It's up to my thighs now, wrapping itself around the flesh. Tasting me? God, I'm so afraid.
It runs over my shoulders, like groping hands. I can feel its weight pushing on my shirt, trails of blackness reaching down – pressing against my chest. It's like someone is trying to squeeze me until I collapse. The pressure is immense. I can't feel my feet anymore, my calves are going numb. I don't think my feet are there anymore. My fingers are still scratching into the notepad, although I can't see. I'm blind. The room is up past my hips, sliding over my stomach. It has my whole body, everything but my arms. So I can keep writing for him.
I can't breathe anymore, it's crushing me
I have to stop writing.