She was tired of thinking and tired of remembering, and wanted now only to
sit by the rock with its plaque, her back to the artwork, and eat the last
few M&M's from the package she had retrieved, along with her backpack, from
her truck. With birds singing, and the sun shining, it was actually a very
nice morning. A breeze blew in from Toluca Lake, whispering through tender
new leaves that speckled every tree and bush with fresh greenery.
Something rustling through the undergrowth to her right, across the road
and up the hill from where she sat, could have been a rabbit. A morning
like this in Hot Springs or Asheville, or probably anywhere else, would
lull her to sleep. But here...
She refused to think of it. She didn't want to cry again, or think about the card in her backpack, the sole reason she was here. She didn't want to think about anything at all. She was weary and all she wanted to do was sit and enjoy the sun's warmth, in the cool breeze, which already carried a hint of that legendary Toluca County humidity, which every summer curled paperback book covers, mildewed velvet-upholstered furniture, seeded moss, and gave the scent of living green things to every room and every empty house closed up for even a day.
But there was no time to think of anything anymore, suddenly, as from the tunnel behind her came the sound of tiny feet sprinting toward the grate, slapping against concrete and splashing through puddles. A voice, unmistakably that of a little girl, cried, "Mama! Mama!"
Augusta closed her eyes sadly. Some camper's child run away from the tent and playing hide-and-seek inside dark Wiltse Hill Tunnel. Which surely was dangerous. Augusta jumped to her feet, rushed to the grate, and squinted into the dark.
Though the tunnel curved slightly as it dug its way through Wiltse Hill, light filtered in from the far side, reflecting off walls now slick with moisture and moss, and shimmering off puddles collected along the tunnel floor. A little girl ran forward through the dark, sheathed in silhouette from the sunlight behind her.
Any moment now she would trip and go sprawling, and start to bawl. Augusta cringed.
"Baby?" she called tentatively, "Baby, slow down! You don't want to fall down and get hurt!" She knew she would want a stranger to show the same concern for her child, and hopefully she could keep this little girl safe until her mother could find her.
The girl only ran faster through the dark, her voice bubbling over with delight as she called for her mama. And soon she reached the grate and burst into the sunlight that shone through it. Her face was wreathed in joy, stretched into as wide a grin as she could manage, showing beautiful, tiny, perfectly white baby teeth.
"Mama, what are you doing here?"
Augusta's world began to go gray at the edges as she reeled and the noise and color was leached away from everything around her. She felt cold all over, and if she made another move, she would surely hit the ground in a dead faint and break her nose against the pavement.
A little girl, who couldn't be more than five, stood at the grate. Her skin, like Augusta's, was the color of dark chocolate and was smooth and perfect. Augusta had always been blessed with a perfect complexion and had hoped to pass it along to her daughter, remembering the teasing suffered even in elementary school by children who were prone to acne or scarring from insect bites.
Her hair was pulled back into braids and tied with ribbons, the way Augusta had always worn her hair as a child. Untie the ribbons and brush out the braids and her hair would stand out in all directions like a dandelion gone to fluffy seed. Augusta now wore her hair oiled and pulled back into a glossy bun that was somehow both matronly and youthful, held in place with a seashell comb, which only accented her lovely face. Her daughter would probably grow up to do the same.
She wore jeans embroidered with bright red hearts, and a white sweatshirt with a happy scene of Winnie the Pooh holding hands with Piglet emblazoned across its front. Augusta's secret passion was sewing, and the cheerful red hearts on the little girl's jeans were unmistakably her handiwork. And at home in her bedroom, this child would have quilts and pillows and beautiful things to hang on her walls, all lovingly hand-sewn by her mother.
Dizzy, and feeling as though all her blood had drained out, Augusta mouthed the word several times before she could finally give it voice: "Baby?" she gasped.
"Mama, are you okay?"
"Mary-Elizabeth? Is that you?" Augusta stumbled forward, then fell to her knees against the grate, and found herself eye to eye with the little girl, whose expression of joy had given way to fear.
"Mama, what's wrong?"
This was wrong. It couldn't be. A coincidence – a horrible, cruel coincidence. A little black girl, five years old, named Mary-Elizabeth, wearing jeans embroidered with red hearts that looked exactly like those Augusta would have sewn for her daughter.
Had she been born, Mary-Elizabeth would have been named for Augusta's mother, who had been known throughout her life as Kitty, because of her love of cats. Mary-Elizabeth, Augusta's daughter, would have been called Kitty as well. This was her chance to finally wake from this dream. No matter what else, surely this little girl, who couldn't be her daughter, would not answer to that nickname.
"Kitty?"
"I'm here, Mama! Are you okay?"
She couldn't faint. Wouldn't let herself faint. You can't do that, no matter how much you want to – your child is more important. No matter how much pain you were in, no matter how much shock you were in, no matter how much blood you had lost, your child came first, and you must not do anything to leave her in danger. It was what Augusta had always believed. She grabbed the woven cables and squeezed until they bit into her palms, and pain shrieked a stinging alarm along her nerve endings. She could not faint and leave her child alone in that dark, dangerous tunnel, where she could fall and hurt herself.
Kitty had taken a step back, and looked as though she would start to cry.
"Kitty, honey, Mama's okay. I just got a little dizzy. That happens sometimes when you stand up too fast."
"Are you sure?" Kitty took a step closer, then another, then placed her tiny hands – they were so warm, and so alive! – over Augusta's fingers, wrapped around the cables.
Tears began to spill down her cheeks as Augusta looked into her daughter's eyes and said, "I'm sure. Oh, baby, I'm sure. It's so good to see you..."
Then, her daughter was gone. An arm as black as a shadow snaked out of the darkness behind her, wrapped around her waist and yanked her backward into the tunnel. She screamed, and as her fingers were torn away from Augusta's, her tiny fingernails tore into Augusta's skin, and raked parallel gashes across her knuckles. Kitty struggled and fell forward, and reached out to her mother, and Augusta threw herself to the ground and thrust her arms through the grate. She caught hold of her daughter's hand, and the thing pulling Kitty back into shadows roared its fury.
There was nothing there, though – no silhouette, no shadow, only a pair of arms descending out of nothing, whose hands now were clenched like a vise around Kitty's ankles, pulling. Kitty had begun to weep.
By tugging at Kitty, the arms pulled Augusta forward. Her face hit a cable, which bit into her cheek, but she wouldn't let go of her daughter's hand. She had come too far and suffered too long to let go.
But with a final vicious yank, Kitty's hand was wrenched from Augusta's grasp, and she watched as her daughter was pulled backward into the blackness to disappear, wailing and sobbing all the way. Augusta leapt to her feet and threw herself against the grating. She could still hear Kitty's screams, as she called for her. All she saw, however, was Wiltse Hill Tunnel, through which Highway 26/73 once entered Silent Hill. It was dark inside and damp, with only the faintest light entering from its mouths to illuminate the moss and puddles. There was no sign of Kitty or of the arms, as black as the tunnel's darkness, that had pulled her away, and yet her screams still echoed again and again off the tunnel walls. Someone was torturing her little girl, carrying her off into the darkness, and her little girl was afraid and crying for her mother.
Held back by the woven cables of the "Welcome" sculpture, Augusta discovered agony.
And then the black arms came for her. They erupted, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, from every space between the woven cables, some grasping at her while others clutched at the air. In the sunlight, they looked ghostly, yet as solid as stone, or the cables. Dozens had wrapped around her and pressed her into the cables, pulling harder and harder and crushing the breath from her lungs. She couldn't scream, in pain or surprise, and found it increasingly difficult to even draw air. The arms crushed her against the cables as she struggled and finally pulled one of her arms from their grasp, but a black arm shot out to grab it and pull it back, where other grasping hands clutched and pulled. Her arm slammed against the cables, and the pulling, tugging arms strained and her forearm broke once, then again in another place and began to bend in ways an arm was never meant to bend as it was pulled through the cables and into the tunnel. The pain was breathtaking.
A rib broke, with pain like a silent gunshot. Then another rib broke, and another.
The arms waved in the air, all of them reaching for her. She was stunned by the pain. Black hands pulled at her hair, and crushed her face into the cables. Hands now wrapped around her throat. Her other arm broke now at the elbow, and began to bend the wrong way, then the forearm snapped in half and was pulled through the cable grating.
Her broken ribs began to splinter, and her skull to split, and the hands wrapped around her neck deftly snapped it, and she was finally free of the terrible, terrible pain, and could no longer hear her daughter's screams which still echoed through the tunnel.
Then, bit by bit, she was pulled through the grating. The arms withdrew into the shadows of Wiltse Hill Tunnel and finally the birds, fallen silent since Kitty first began to scream, started to sing again as the wind blew in off Toluca Lake and Augusta's truck sat in the observation deck's parking lot in the sun.
She refused to think of it. She didn't want to cry again, or think about the card in her backpack, the sole reason she was here. She didn't want to think about anything at all. She was weary and all she wanted to do was sit and enjoy the sun's warmth, in the cool breeze, which already carried a hint of that legendary Toluca County humidity, which every summer curled paperback book covers, mildewed velvet-upholstered furniture, seeded moss, and gave the scent of living green things to every room and every empty house closed up for even a day.
But there was no time to think of anything anymore, suddenly, as from the tunnel behind her came the sound of tiny feet sprinting toward the grate, slapping against concrete and splashing through puddles. A voice, unmistakably that of a little girl, cried, "Mama! Mama!"
Augusta closed her eyes sadly. Some camper's child run away from the tent and playing hide-and-seek inside dark Wiltse Hill Tunnel. Which surely was dangerous. Augusta jumped to her feet, rushed to the grate, and squinted into the dark.
Though the tunnel curved slightly as it dug its way through Wiltse Hill, light filtered in from the far side, reflecting off walls now slick with moisture and moss, and shimmering off puddles collected along the tunnel floor. A little girl ran forward through the dark, sheathed in silhouette from the sunlight behind her.
Any moment now she would trip and go sprawling, and start to bawl. Augusta cringed.
"Baby?" she called tentatively, "Baby, slow down! You don't want to fall down and get hurt!" She knew she would want a stranger to show the same concern for her child, and hopefully she could keep this little girl safe until her mother could find her.
The girl only ran faster through the dark, her voice bubbling over with delight as she called for her mama. And soon she reached the grate and burst into the sunlight that shone through it. Her face was wreathed in joy, stretched into as wide a grin as she could manage, showing beautiful, tiny, perfectly white baby teeth.
"Mama, what are you doing here?"
Augusta's world began to go gray at the edges as she reeled and the noise and color was leached away from everything around her. She felt cold all over, and if she made another move, she would surely hit the ground in a dead faint and break her nose against the pavement.
A little girl, who couldn't be more than five, stood at the grate. Her skin, like Augusta's, was the color of dark chocolate and was smooth and perfect. Augusta had always been blessed with a perfect complexion and had hoped to pass it along to her daughter, remembering the teasing suffered even in elementary school by children who were prone to acne or scarring from insect bites.
Her hair was pulled back into braids and tied with ribbons, the way Augusta had always worn her hair as a child. Untie the ribbons and brush out the braids and her hair would stand out in all directions like a dandelion gone to fluffy seed. Augusta now wore her hair oiled and pulled back into a glossy bun that was somehow both matronly and youthful, held in place with a seashell comb, which only accented her lovely face. Her daughter would probably grow up to do the same.
She wore jeans embroidered with bright red hearts, and a white sweatshirt with a happy scene of Winnie the Pooh holding hands with Piglet emblazoned across its front. Augusta's secret passion was sewing, and the cheerful red hearts on the little girl's jeans were unmistakably her handiwork. And at home in her bedroom, this child would have quilts and pillows and beautiful things to hang on her walls, all lovingly hand-sewn by her mother.
Dizzy, and feeling as though all her blood had drained out, Augusta mouthed the word several times before she could finally give it voice: "Baby?" she gasped.
"Mama, are you okay?"
"Mary-Elizabeth? Is that you?" Augusta stumbled forward, then fell to her knees against the grate, and found herself eye to eye with the little girl, whose expression of joy had given way to fear.
"Mama, what's wrong?"
This was wrong. It couldn't be. A coincidence – a horrible, cruel coincidence. A little black girl, five years old, named Mary-Elizabeth, wearing jeans embroidered with red hearts that looked exactly like those Augusta would have sewn for her daughter.
Had she been born, Mary-Elizabeth would have been named for Augusta's mother, who had been known throughout her life as Kitty, because of her love of cats. Mary-Elizabeth, Augusta's daughter, would have been called Kitty as well. This was her chance to finally wake from this dream. No matter what else, surely this little girl, who couldn't be her daughter, would not answer to that nickname.
"Kitty?"
"I'm here, Mama! Are you okay?"
She couldn't faint. Wouldn't let herself faint. You can't do that, no matter how much you want to – your child is more important. No matter how much pain you were in, no matter how much shock you were in, no matter how much blood you had lost, your child came first, and you must not do anything to leave her in danger. It was what Augusta had always believed. She grabbed the woven cables and squeezed until they bit into her palms, and pain shrieked a stinging alarm along her nerve endings. She could not faint and leave her child alone in that dark, dangerous tunnel, where she could fall and hurt herself.
Kitty had taken a step back, and looked as though she would start to cry.
"Kitty, honey, Mama's okay. I just got a little dizzy. That happens sometimes when you stand up too fast."
"Are you sure?" Kitty took a step closer, then another, then placed her tiny hands – they were so warm, and so alive! – over Augusta's fingers, wrapped around the cables.
Tears began to spill down her cheeks as Augusta looked into her daughter's eyes and said, "I'm sure. Oh, baby, I'm sure. It's so good to see you..."
Then, her daughter was gone. An arm as black as a shadow snaked out of the darkness behind her, wrapped around her waist and yanked her backward into the tunnel. She screamed, and as her fingers were torn away from Augusta's, her tiny fingernails tore into Augusta's skin, and raked parallel gashes across her knuckles. Kitty struggled and fell forward, and reached out to her mother, and Augusta threw herself to the ground and thrust her arms through the grate. She caught hold of her daughter's hand, and the thing pulling Kitty back into shadows roared its fury.
There was nothing there, though – no silhouette, no shadow, only a pair of arms descending out of nothing, whose hands now were clenched like a vise around Kitty's ankles, pulling. Kitty had begun to weep.
By tugging at Kitty, the arms pulled Augusta forward. Her face hit a cable, which bit into her cheek, but she wouldn't let go of her daughter's hand. She had come too far and suffered too long to let go.
But with a final vicious yank, Kitty's hand was wrenched from Augusta's grasp, and she watched as her daughter was pulled backward into the blackness to disappear, wailing and sobbing all the way. Augusta leapt to her feet and threw herself against the grating. She could still hear Kitty's screams, as she called for her. All she saw, however, was Wiltse Hill Tunnel, through which Highway 26/73 once entered Silent Hill. It was dark inside and damp, with only the faintest light entering from its mouths to illuminate the moss and puddles. There was no sign of Kitty or of the arms, as black as the tunnel's darkness, that had pulled her away, and yet her screams still echoed again and again off the tunnel walls. Someone was torturing her little girl, carrying her off into the darkness, and her little girl was afraid and crying for her mother.
Held back by the woven cables of the "Welcome" sculpture, Augusta discovered agony.
And then the black arms came for her. They erupted, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, from every space between the woven cables, some grasping at her while others clutched at the air. In the sunlight, they looked ghostly, yet as solid as stone, or the cables. Dozens had wrapped around her and pressed her into the cables, pulling harder and harder and crushing the breath from her lungs. She couldn't scream, in pain or surprise, and found it increasingly difficult to even draw air. The arms crushed her against the cables as she struggled and finally pulled one of her arms from their grasp, but a black arm shot out to grab it and pull it back, where other grasping hands clutched and pulled. Her arm slammed against the cables, and the pulling, tugging arms strained and her forearm broke once, then again in another place and began to bend in ways an arm was never meant to bend as it was pulled through the cables and into the tunnel. The pain was breathtaking.
A rib broke, with pain like a silent gunshot. Then another rib broke, and another.
The arms waved in the air, all of them reaching for her. She was stunned by the pain. Black hands pulled at her hair, and crushed her face into the cables. Hands now wrapped around her throat. Her other arm broke now at the elbow, and began to bend the wrong way, then the forearm snapped in half and was pulled through the cable grating.
Her broken ribs began to splinter, and her skull to split, and the hands wrapped around her neck deftly snapped it, and she was finally free of the terrible, terrible pain, and could no longer hear her daughter's screams which still echoed through the tunnel.
Then, bit by bit, she was pulled through the grating. The arms withdrew into the shadows of Wiltse Hill Tunnel and finally the birds, fallen silent since Kitty first began to scream, started to sing again as the wind blew in off Toluca Lake and Augusta's truck sat in the observation deck's parking lot in the sun.