Wow, there's been a lot more response than I had ever dreamed possible, and I'd like to say thank you for that. The feedback has been astounding, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the others. In it, I thought I'd pay an homage to the old urban legends and horror movies and make this one a little cliched but still enjoyable. Don't worry, this is the only chapter I will truly base off urban legends and the such. I just don't think any good horror story is authentic without this situation though. Agreed? Also, I'd like to clear up that this takes place AFTER Silent Hill 4, but I'm going with the ending where Eileen lived. I can't say much more without giving things away, but it will be explained in good time. Enjoy!

David Struve AKA Aedian Grendle

The billowing bank of dark clouds inched closer as Richard drove. After leaving St. Peter's he'd made a quick detour back to his house and had changed clothes. Before, he'd been in a t-shirt and khaki pants. Now he was in heavy denim jeans and steel toed boots. Though he still wore a t-shirt, he'd decided to wear a leather jacket he'd received for Christmas over it. It was one of the best jackets he owned, but without knowing what kind of situation he'd be in, he wanted clothing that would hold up to any type of occasion.

With the money from Father Jeremiah in his pocket, he'd then gone to Grady's Gun Shop. Now he shifted in the front seat of his car, unused to the hanging weight of the Beretta slung in a leather holster under his left arm. Two clips of ammunition were stuffed in his pockets, and three boxes of ammunition were in the glove compartment. He'd been amazed at how easy it was to buy the handgun after he'd waved several hundred dollar bills under the shopkeeper's eyes.

The shopkeeper had even thrown in a free box of ammunition that Richard had spread equally among his pockets, ensuring the ability to reload if he was separated from his car. A sharp knife the shopkeeper had called a Kabar completed his weaponry. It wasn't enough to stop an army of demons, but it was much more than he'd had before.

'Besides,' his mind said. 'You won't be able to survive Silent Hill by force.' As much as he wanted to disagree, Richard knew it was a valid point. Not even a tank would able to ensure his safety. Speed and quick thinking were all he had.

The soft hum of the tires eventually replaced his thoughts as the miles flew by. Dusk began to fall, and still the bank was out of his reach. He had a creeping feeling that the city wouldn't choose to show itself until night was well on its way. Demons probably wouldn't want you to be investigating in the bright sunshine.

He didn't want to get to the city that late. In his quickness to leave, he'd forgotten to pack anything other than a penlight. While it would enough to investigate small buildings, it would serve no good outdoors.

Dusk slowly gave way to night as Richard willed his Honda to go faster. A glowing sliver of moon gave only the barest need of light, and soon Richard found himself as the only person on the Midwest highway. Darkness blocked his windows, and the only light was the gentle green glow of his dashboard. Outside, his headlights cut a weak swath through the black.

Another hour passed as Richard's foot lowered more and more on the accelerator. Soon the needle passed 100 and still he raced towards the dark clouds.

In the distance, Richard saw what appeared to be a person, standing by the side of the road with his thumb out. Within the span of two heartbeats, his car had flown by and continued on its way, leaving the hitchhiker behind. 'You don't want to go where I'm going buddy.' Richard thought to himself.

Three miles later, he saw the same figure standing on the road's shoulder, thumb extended.

An hour ago, Richard would have told you his life couldn't have gotten stranger. Now he wasn't sure. Just as the speedometer slipped below fifty, he passed the figure. He hadn't been in Richard's sight long enough to get a good glimpse at him, but he looked eerily familiar.

He stopped his car a few hundred yards after where the figure had stood, and glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight, and the only movement was the beginnings of a fog bank that rolled and swirled lazily on the ground.

Scared, but knowing that this was beyond coincidence, Richard turned off the car's engine and opened the door, simultaneously drawing his Beretta. The moonlight glistened off the polished finish, making it look as if Richard held liquid steel in his hand.

With the fog rolling around his ankles, Richard started walking back to where he'd seen the strange hitchhiker. Each step seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night, and even the gentlest footfall echoed through the air.

He walked fifty yards from his car, then one hundred and still heard nothing. The mysterious hitchhiker had vanished, leaving no sign that he'd ever existed.

Turning, Richard saw a canvas bag sitting halfway between him and his car. The fog swirled concealed the bottom half, giving the impression that below the letters ETER'S nothing existed.

Richard walked carefully over to it, holding the pistol out in front of him defensively. As he reached the bag, he reached carefully down and picked it up, nearly dropping it when he realized what he held.

In his hand was an offering bag from St. Peter's Church. Even as he realized what he held, blood began to drip from the bottom onto his shoes. A crimson stain spread along the entirety of the canvas.

As he dropped the bag, retching in horror, it landed with a wet thud and Father Jeremiah's head rolled out onto the highway. The fog swirled away from the grisly sight and the head made a complete circuit, leaving a trail of crimson in a near perfect circle before it came to a rest, wide open eyes staring directly at Richard.

Dry heaves racked Richard's body, and he sunk to one knee before scrambling backwards from the open mouthed priest's head.

At the same time a maniacal laughter rang out from behind him. Ignoring the pain in his stomach and the weakness in his legs, Richard was on his feet in an instant and sprinting towards his car.

The sound of laughter followed him, gaining quickly as Richard covered the ground between himself and his Honda. Half the distance remained when he heard the slap of another set of footsteps on the road.

Reaching behind himself, Richard fired several shots from his Beretta wildly. The shots lit the night in quick bursts and sent a thunderously echoing crack into the night air, instantly deafening Richard's hearing. Yet not even the echoing thunder of his weapon could stop the sadistic laughter from reaching his ears.

Only ten yards separated Richard from his car when he felt something brush by his sleeve. Instantly the laughter stopped, leaving a deathly stillness to the air.

Not willing to waste his opportunity, Richard sprinted the remaining distance to his car and threw the door open, diving inside and quickly locking the doors. Only an instant passed as he looked down to fumble with his keys, and he looked up at the same time he slammed the key in the ignition and turned the vehicle on, illuminating the road.

Illuminating the road AND the figure that stood in the middle of it. Dressed in a faded blue straight-jacket, the figure wouldn't have caused many to fear him. Even with his shoulder-length dingy white hair there wasn't much that commanded attention.

That's not what Richard was looking at. Richard only saw the head of Father Jeremiah being held in the man's left hand and a bloody crucifix in his right. He only saw the demented gleam that reflected in the man's eyes, and he only saw the faded nametag that graced the man's straight-jacket.

Walter Sullivan

The very name sent shudders down Richard's back as he shifted the car into gear. 'Father Jeremiah lied to me!' his mind screamed even as his foot mashed the accelerator to the floorboard. His Honda's tires screamed as the car shot forward, slamming hard into Walter and throwing him over the car.

The force of the strike sent cracks through his windshield, and left a large smear of crimson along the passenger side of the main windshield.

Richard didn't care, didn't even try to slow down. The serial killer Walter Sullivan had been standing only feet from him holding Father Jeremiah's head. Then it hit Richard. How had Walter made it so far in front of him if he'd killed Father Jeremiah? How had he caught up to a car going 100 on foot?

"You left something back on the road." A deeply rich-toned voice said from behind him. "Something you shouldn't leave behind."

In horror Richard turned his head and saw Walter Sullivan sitting calmly in the backseat, canvas bag on his left side and Richard's Beretta in his right hand. A large cut bled red down the side of his face and stained his hair pink. If he felt any pain, he didn't show it.

To paralyzed by fear to say anything, Richard's foot stayed on the accelerator not speeding up, but not slowing either.

"I wouldn't recommend doing anything but driving." Richard said calmly. "Something…bad could happen." He waved the Beretta slightly in his hand.

Richard swallowed hard and forced his foot to stay on the accelerator. "You're dead. Father Jeremiah said so. This is just a trick from Silent Hill."

"That's strange, we aren't at Silent Hill yet, but here I am. Sitting in your backseat and holding a pistol that you dropped on the road. How do you explain that?"

"You killed Father Jeremiah." Richard said angrily. "You murdered him."

"Number twenty." Walter whispered to himself before raising his voice. "But that wouldn't have happened if you'd listened to Sarah. You never should have opened the box."

"How do you know about that?" Richard shouted, his Honda swerving badly on the road as he looked behind him again. "There's no way you'd possibly know!"

Walter leaned forward from the backseat until his mouth was an inch from Richard's ear. The dry breath of his mouth proving he wasn't an illusion. "Unless I had Sarah." He whispered.

Richard took the opening he'd been offered, slamming on the brakes and sending the unbalanced Walter flying forward through the already cracked windshield. Glass shattered into thousands of crystal shards, showering Richard in a hail of glittering Plexiglas.

Walter's body landed with a sickening crunch before being swallowed by a think wave of fog that suddenly appeared.

Knowing his car was useless; Richard drew his knife and got out. Moving as silently as he could, he crept forward, looking for where Walter had hit. All he found was another pool of blood with his Beretta lying in the middle.

Richard reached down and picked up the pistol, crimson dripped from the handgrip, but he fought down his nausea and re-holstered it. As he put his coat back in place, the fog lifted slightly revealing two more bone-chilling puzzles.

Written on the road in the same blood that Walter had no doubt shed were the words Welcome to Silent Hill Richard. Beside the words sat a small combination two way walkie-talkie and radio.

Richard picked it up and turned it on. The radio remained silent, not even making the slightest noise. With a resigned sigh he clipped it onto his belt and took a step forward, passing the pool of blood.

In the same way the fog had lifted to reveal his weapon and new-found radio, it did again to reveal a city sprawled out ahead of him. A few dozen yards to his right stood a decrepit old sign with scripted letters saying:

SILENT HILL

POP: 5,830

The Safest Little Midwestern Town You'll Find!

Richard had finally arrived at Silent Hill, and as he began the walk down into the city, he heard mocking laughter ringing from the hills and forests around him. Walter Sullivan was still alive.