Eight: Dead End.
Myron's path came to an abrupt stop just south of the Katz Street Intersection. His map showed that if he could continue north, he would reach another Intersection back onto Nathan Avenue. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be happening.
The road had, quite literally, vanished. The earth had fallen away, or sunken into itself. The jagged, twisted concrete and metal edge of the roadway emptied into nothing but a chasm of fog. From his position, Myron couldn't see the other side. On either side of the road, the buildings that had once stood securely atop their foundations teetered precariously over the rim.
Myron had heard the stories that the fires beneath Silent Hill had undoubtedly caused some structural damage over time, but he could have never anticipated an entire road disappearing into the earth.
To Myron, it seemed unlikely that any sort of subterranean fire could have done such damage, as there were no indications of neither smoke nor flame. In fact, if anything, the damage seemed recent, as if some unimaginable tremor had hollowed the earth out beneath the road.
"Well...Fuck." Grumbled Myron, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Isn't this just dandy?"
"You shouldn't talk to yourself." chimed a voice somewhere behind the doctor.
Myron nearly jumped out of his skin, yelping in surprise and whirling around with alarming speed. He almost went for the gun he had tucked away, but stopped himself. More out of confusion than true coherent thought.
"And you should also watch your mouth. That's not very fucking polite, y'know." The voice had come from an unexpected source: A child. A little girl, to be precise, in what appeared to be a white lace dress with a red neck tie of some sort.
The girl had long, stringy black hair and skin as pale as freshly fallen snow. Her lips were an unusually bright ruby red, and she seemed to be barefoot. Under one arm, she carried a dirt-encrusted stuffed rabbit doll.
All together, she looked like a normal enough child, if a bit pale and unkempt. Save, that is, for a large bloody swatch across her stomach. It was difficult to tell if she'd been injured, or if she was merely smeared with crimson.
"Who...Who are you? What're you doing in a place like this?" Myron said, sidestepping around the girl. He didn't know why, but he felt...Suspicious...around her. "And are you injured? Is that your blood?"
The Girl tilted her head and stared at Myron, crossing her arms behind her back. An inquisitive pose, of course. "I don't see how that's any of your business. But I can answer your first question. Y'know, for a Shrink, you sure look funny."
Myron stopped and stared at the girl in silence for a long moment. How could she know anything about him? It didn't seem possible.
"You're not the first Psychiatrist or Psychologist to come through here, you know. We've had several. We're always getting unbelievers and skeptics. It's actually kind of funny..." The girl began to giggle wickedly, tipping back and forth from one foot to the other, as if excited.
"How do you know me?" Myron asked. He was feeling more and more uncomfortable. That sense of being watched from somewhere beyond sight had come back, and seemed to grow stronger.
"Oh, we know you very well here. We like to keep an eye on those with a vested interest in our little town. You're Dr. Myron Willowes, a succesful Author and practitioner of the Psychiatric sciences. You're once married, once widowed, and have no living family. You enjoy a recreational drug habit and you're also a borderline alcoholic." The girl continued to speak, sing-songing her way through every aspect of Myron's life, both professional and personal.
"Who the hell are you, kid?" Myron said, now feeling VERY much like going for his gun and heading back to his base camp.
"Me?" The girl chirped, giving an abnormally wide, toothy grin. "Why, I'm just a little girl from around here. They call me many things, but you can call me Christabella..."