The building was the Ridgeview Medical Clinic, Augusta discovered. It was
a large, old Victorian office building, ten stories tall and completed in
1902. In the mist its dark brickwork and crowd of turrets and stone
gargoyles loomed ominously above, glowering at the shops and apartments
across Lindsey Street. Dozens of Silent Hill physicians had their offices
here; there were optometrists, dentists, pediatricians, podiatrists,
dieticians and others.
The building seemed undamaged, as did those, old and exquisite and of the same vintage as the Ridgeview Clinic, across the street, with their shops at ground level and several floors of apartments with dormer windows jutting out above. These were beautiful old buildings, and though they were sturdy and had been built to last, Augusta doubted they could have survived the kind of cataclysm Amethyst had described to her last night.
Was it only last night? Her sense of time seemed to have gone awry. Amethyst might have told her about Silent Hill's destruction, and she might have read the plaque back at the entrance to Wiltse Hill Tunnel an hour ago, or a day, or a year.
The trees lining Lindsey Street appeared unharmed, like the trees near the tunnel. A wave strong enough to sweep South Vale away should, at the very least, have sheared the branches from these trees, yet here they were, overspreading the street where, Augusta noticed as she peered into the swirling white fog, there were even cars parked here and there, as though their owners had simply left them and gone shopping, with every intention of coming back as soon as they found a bargain, or a special treasure they absolutely couldn't live without.
It was wrong. There was a town here; it was gone now.
Why did that phrase keep rising to mind? She crossed to the far side of Lindsey Street and inspected the shops, feeling the eyes of the Ridgeview Clinic building's lofty gargoyles on her back. The show windows in every store were undamaged and behind their glass stood all manner of goods, undisturbed. Here was an art gallery with paintings on easels and small sculptures on pedestals. Here was an antique shop with a red velvet fainting couch in its window, along with a pair of fancy end tables and lamps with stained glass shades. Here was a fabric shop with a display of drapes that were probably much nicer than anything its customers could create, no matter how much expensive cloth they might buy here. Here was a candy store...
Augusta looked closer and pressed her nose against the glass. She remembered this store well, and had shopped here often to appease the cravings of her insatiable sweet tooth. J. Porter and Sons' Candy Kingdom. There were blocks of fudge and homemade chocolate bars in the window. There always had been, along with all manner of other candies and tempting sweets, protected from sunny days by the shade of broad, dark-green awnings. Augusta looked up to see that Porter and Sons' awnings hung in tatters from their frames, which somehow wasn't surprising. Now and then, a snowflake drifted down through one of the ragged holes. She looked back; the candy had caught her eye. It seemed to be moving – undulating, with tiny bits and trails trundling away, then back again. In the dimness she could barely see, but finally realized the candy was swarming with ants and fat centipedes and other insects. They ate their fill and crawled away, and others replaced them. And there were dead flies, a multitude of dead flies, in the window, and the tiny white cards on which the prices were marked were blanketed with dust. Augusta backed away and turned, and the silence of the street and its rolling mists and snowflakes enveloped her. There was something unutterably frightening about the candy store, with its treats and goodies left to decay. Had the ants and insects been feasting here for five years?
With her back to the storefronts, she edged back toward the fabric shop watching, still feeling as though something was observing her with intense interest. Except for the rolling, heavy fog and the occasional snowflake, nothing moved on Lindsey Street. Not even the leaves of the trees that lined it. She turned and again saw the beautiful drapes hung in swales and valences, clouds of gorgeous cloth skewered on a long gilt curtain rod. At first they appeared to have been made of thick, rich-looking fabric. Yellow velvet, with an old-fashioned pattern of large dark ovals, but as Augusta looked closer, she saw that the ovals were irregular and ragged. Some were large, others small. Some weren't ovals at all, but were instead trails of something dark winding their way randomly here and there.
Mildew. As if this expensive fabric had been hanging in the window a long, long time. Perhaps even five years. Five years in the mist. Augusta waited for the vertigo to come again. She stood still, and breathed deep, but nothing happened. Her body finally seemed to have adjusted to a world slid off its foundations. She stared; there were more dead flies in the window, and more dust. There were cobwebs.
Five years ago, had the wave simply missed this part of South Vale? If so, why couldn't South Vale at least have been rebuilt? Why couldn't the whole town? Why was it cold and why was it snowing? A bubble of panic began to rise, and Augusta trembled...
Then forced it down. Smothered it until it disappeared and was gone entirely. It didn't matter. Her daughter was somewhere out there and she had the scratches on her hand to prove it.
So where would she be? The card in her backpack bore the return address of a school on Lamb Avenue in the Windowbox District. She had lived with Joseph not far away from Lamb Avenue, on St. Germain Avenue. But beyond those two ideas, she couldn't imagine even where to begin searching. Kitty had been dragged away, but where to? In the mist the silence was crushing.
She sighed. The only thing to do was search. Street by street, building by building, until she found Kitty, or found a clue that would tell her where she was. She turned away from the window, and began to walk down Lindsey Street. She would go south until the road ended, then come back north on the opposite side of the street. Then she would search both sides of Nathan Avenue between Lindsey and Martin streets, then go down Martin, then up. Then search both sides of Nathan Avenue between Martin and Neely, then search Neely. Down one side, then up the other side. Street by street. Building by building.
She passed the candy shop, where the insects gorged themselves on old, decaying chocolate and fudge. She passed a coffee shop, then a children's clothing shop – she peered inside and saw nothing but racks and rows of clothing, little dresses and jackets, and miniature pairs of jeans and shoes, little sweaters and T-shirts and blouses moldering in the gloom. She passed a barbershop, then another art gallery. Then there was nothing more. The building on her right had collapsed, with only a jagged ruin of wall, complete with a shattered window, remaining. The rest was gone, fallen into a chasm whose floor was lost deep in the mist.
And so was the far side of the hole. There might have been nothing at all beyond it, as far as Augusta could see in the fog and flurry. She walked to her left, stepped down from the sidewalk and into Lindsey Street, following the lip of the canyon. Deep down in the mist she thought she could hear running water. Amethyst had said the underground streams beneath Silent Hill had swollen and chewed away at their walls, and caved in the streets above. But this large? She traced the chasm all the way across the street, where she found another ruined building spilling into the hole. Part of its façade had fallen into Lindsey Street as well, though. Amid the fallen bricks, broken beams, and shattered glass, broken bits of china and badly tarnished forks and spoons littered the street. This was Durousseaux's, a store that once sold fine china, silverware, and kitchenware. She stared at its ruins, stunned. There was nothing to do now but head north along Lindsey, until she got to Nathan Avenue again.
She hadn't searched Nathan Avenue. Hadn't searched the woods along the roadside. Oh, Christ, she prayed. Kitty might have been lying there all along, hurt and needing her. She would never forgive herself if something had happened to her while she was down here in South Vale, pissing around and wasting time in the ruins of Lindsey Street. She had to go back.
Augusta began to run.
The building seemed undamaged, as did those, old and exquisite and of the same vintage as the Ridgeview Clinic, across the street, with their shops at ground level and several floors of apartments with dormer windows jutting out above. These were beautiful old buildings, and though they were sturdy and had been built to last, Augusta doubted they could have survived the kind of cataclysm Amethyst had described to her last night.
Was it only last night? Her sense of time seemed to have gone awry. Amethyst might have told her about Silent Hill's destruction, and she might have read the plaque back at the entrance to Wiltse Hill Tunnel an hour ago, or a day, or a year.
The trees lining Lindsey Street appeared unharmed, like the trees near the tunnel. A wave strong enough to sweep South Vale away should, at the very least, have sheared the branches from these trees, yet here they were, overspreading the street where, Augusta noticed as she peered into the swirling white fog, there were even cars parked here and there, as though their owners had simply left them and gone shopping, with every intention of coming back as soon as they found a bargain, or a special treasure they absolutely couldn't live without.
It was wrong. There was a town here; it was gone now.
Why did that phrase keep rising to mind? She crossed to the far side of Lindsey Street and inspected the shops, feeling the eyes of the Ridgeview Clinic building's lofty gargoyles on her back. The show windows in every store were undamaged and behind their glass stood all manner of goods, undisturbed. Here was an art gallery with paintings on easels and small sculptures on pedestals. Here was an antique shop with a red velvet fainting couch in its window, along with a pair of fancy end tables and lamps with stained glass shades. Here was a fabric shop with a display of drapes that were probably much nicer than anything its customers could create, no matter how much expensive cloth they might buy here. Here was a candy store...
Augusta looked closer and pressed her nose against the glass. She remembered this store well, and had shopped here often to appease the cravings of her insatiable sweet tooth. J. Porter and Sons' Candy Kingdom. There were blocks of fudge and homemade chocolate bars in the window. There always had been, along with all manner of other candies and tempting sweets, protected from sunny days by the shade of broad, dark-green awnings. Augusta looked up to see that Porter and Sons' awnings hung in tatters from their frames, which somehow wasn't surprising. Now and then, a snowflake drifted down through one of the ragged holes. She looked back; the candy had caught her eye. It seemed to be moving – undulating, with tiny bits and trails trundling away, then back again. In the dimness she could barely see, but finally realized the candy was swarming with ants and fat centipedes and other insects. They ate their fill and crawled away, and others replaced them. And there were dead flies, a multitude of dead flies, in the window, and the tiny white cards on which the prices were marked were blanketed with dust. Augusta backed away and turned, and the silence of the street and its rolling mists and snowflakes enveloped her. There was something unutterably frightening about the candy store, with its treats and goodies left to decay. Had the ants and insects been feasting here for five years?
With her back to the storefronts, she edged back toward the fabric shop watching, still feeling as though something was observing her with intense interest. Except for the rolling, heavy fog and the occasional snowflake, nothing moved on Lindsey Street. Not even the leaves of the trees that lined it. She turned and again saw the beautiful drapes hung in swales and valences, clouds of gorgeous cloth skewered on a long gilt curtain rod. At first they appeared to have been made of thick, rich-looking fabric. Yellow velvet, with an old-fashioned pattern of large dark ovals, but as Augusta looked closer, she saw that the ovals were irregular and ragged. Some were large, others small. Some weren't ovals at all, but were instead trails of something dark winding their way randomly here and there.
Mildew. As if this expensive fabric had been hanging in the window a long, long time. Perhaps even five years. Five years in the mist. Augusta waited for the vertigo to come again. She stood still, and breathed deep, but nothing happened. Her body finally seemed to have adjusted to a world slid off its foundations. She stared; there were more dead flies in the window, and more dust. There were cobwebs.
Five years ago, had the wave simply missed this part of South Vale? If so, why couldn't South Vale at least have been rebuilt? Why couldn't the whole town? Why was it cold and why was it snowing? A bubble of panic began to rise, and Augusta trembled...
Then forced it down. Smothered it until it disappeared and was gone entirely. It didn't matter. Her daughter was somewhere out there and she had the scratches on her hand to prove it.
So where would she be? The card in her backpack bore the return address of a school on Lamb Avenue in the Windowbox District. She had lived with Joseph not far away from Lamb Avenue, on St. Germain Avenue. But beyond those two ideas, she couldn't imagine even where to begin searching. Kitty had been dragged away, but where to? In the mist the silence was crushing.
She sighed. The only thing to do was search. Street by street, building by building, until she found Kitty, or found a clue that would tell her where she was. She turned away from the window, and began to walk down Lindsey Street. She would go south until the road ended, then come back north on the opposite side of the street. Then she would search both sides of Nathan Avenue between Lindsey and Martin streets, then go down Martin, then up. Then search both sides of Nathan Avenue between Martin and Neely, then search Neely. Down one side, then up the other side. Street by street. Building by building.
She passed the candy shop, where the insects gorged themselves on old, decaying chocolate and fudge. She passed a coffee shop, then a children's clothing shop – she peered inside and saw nothing but racks and rows of clothing, little dresses and jackets, and miniature pairs of jeans and shoes, little sweaters and T-shirts and blouses moldering in the gloom. She passed a barbershop, then another art gallery. Then there was nothing more. The building on her right had collapsed, with only a jagged ruin of wall, complete with a shattered window, remaining. The rest was gone, fallen into a chasm whose floor was lost deep in the mist.
And so was the far side of the hole. There might have been nothing at all beyond it, as far as Augusta could see in the fog and flurry. She walked to her left, stepped down from the sidewalk and into Lindsey Street, following the lip of the canyon. Deep down in the mist she thought she could hear running water. Amethyst had said the underground streams beneath Silent Hill had swollen and chewed away at their walls, and caved in the streets above. But this large? She traced the chasm all the way across the street, where she found another ruined building spilling into the hole. Part of its façade had fallen into Lindsey Street as well, though. Amid the fallen bricks, broken beams, and shattered glass, broken bits of china and badly tarnished forks and spoons littered the street. This was Durousseaux's, a store that once sold fine china, silverware, and kitchenware. She stared at its ruins, stunned. There was nothing to do now but head north along Lindsey, until she got to Nathan Avenue again.
She hadn't searched Nathan Avenue. Hadn't searched the woods along the roadside. Oh, Christ, she prayed. Kitty might have been lying there all along, hurt and needing her. She would never forgive herself if something had happened to her while she was down here in South Vale, pissing around and wasting time in the ruins of Lindsey Street. She had to go back.
Augusta began to run.