Chapter Twenty-One

"At the Feet of the Faithful"

Enthusiasm tempered as I stepped outside of the bar.

I knew I had to go back to the park, and I had a pretty good idea where I had to go once at the park. For the first time, I knew for certain that it was actually possible to get to where I wanted to go, as I had been there once before.

The problem was getting there from where I was. Yes, I knew that it was possible. However, the last time I found myself on this side of town, getting across to the park was seven different kinds of pain in the ass.

From where I stood now, there were two ways to get there that I knew about. One was to go back the way I came, via the tunnel on Saul Street. Considering what sort of company called that particular stretch of the street home, I wasn't very keen about that route. And of course, there was also the route I had taken to get to west South Vale the first time, that being the Woodside and Blue Creek Apartments. However, that route was much longer and almost certainly more dangerous. No way did I want to traverse that. And the memory of Brookhaven and its wicked-looking transformation was still bakery-fresh in my mind. Who was to say the apartment building didn't undergo that same shift into an evil, pus-drenched doppelganger? No thanks, the non-evil, non-pus-drenched doppelganger was plenty bad enough.

However unappealing those two options were, there weren't many others to consider, if any. Both roads leading north to Nathan Avenue on this side were totally impractical, by virtue of them, and the buildings lining them, looking like Godzilla used a sand wedge to tear a massive divot through South Vale. There was no way of telling how wide those horrid crevasses spanned, and unless I suddenly gained the ability to walk on thin air, I wasn't about to find out.

All in all, the options sucked, every one of them. I eventually decided that the option of going back through the Saul Street tunnel probably sucked the least. It was dangerous, and freakishly terrifying, but it was also the quickest way, and that decided it for me.

So, I turned around and walked back towards Saul Street. Neely's Pub was very close, and I tried not look at it as I passed it, but I couldn't help it. The messages scrawled on the pitted walls were simply too much, too sharp to ignore.

And yet, it was those messages that solved my problem. Not the contents of the messages, but the look of them. They looked like they were done with blood-red spraypaint, and that picked at my mind like a toothpick until I remembered that these weren't the first such messages I had seen around here. In fact, I had seen one other, and as luck would have it, it was very close by. Once it came to mind, I remembered it perfectly.

The door that opens in darkness leads to nightmares.

Well, you couldn't get any more provocative than that, huh? It most certainly was dark, now. The door didn't open before, it didn't even seem to be functional, but it was dark now, and I knew too well that meant more than just the sun being up or being down here in Silent Hill. The sun went down and Brookhaven Hospital turned into something right out of that one Adrian Lyne film from a few years ago. There was no telling how many other changes took place here in town, even if they appeared to be more subtle than Brookhaven offered.

It wasn't very far to Katz Street, and even as I strolled past the Woodside Apartments, I was unmolested by the creatures of the night.

The construction barrier was still where it was, and the red message was also still in attendance.

How literal was that message going to be, I wondered. Would I step through to find that western South Vale was the sort of pestilential hellhole that the hospital became? Would some sort of new toothy horror ambush me three steps in and make mincemeat of me? Would the door even open?

No way to tell except to try, of course.

I touched the knob, and my hand jumped away, as if shocked. It wasn't, not literally, but perhaps figuratively. The knob was ice cold. I touched it again, tapping it a bit and finally resting the loop of my hand around it. It was absolutely freezing. I quickly turned the knob, and the first half of the message proved correct. The door knob was no longer broken. The small hairs on my arm raised and bristled as I pushed it open, wondering just what on earth, or not on earth, I would find behind this door.

To my immediate surprise, what was revealed to me was not a Brookhavenesque diseased colon. Things in front of me looked no different than things behind me. I stepped through, and let go of the door handle. Strangely, the handle didn't let go as easily as it should. It was so bitterly cold that the sweat on my palms had frozen, and fused my hand to the knob. Right away it brought to mind that Christmas movie, the one where the kid stuck his tongue to a frozen flagpole. Luckily for me, I was able to get away from it without the help of the fire department. As if there were a fire department here anymore, anyway.

No, there was no major, world-altering difference on this side of the door, as far as I could tell. It was still dark, it was still warm, and everything had that mournful, abandoned look to it that it had since I came. It was only now that I realized how different the nighttime was. Never in my life had I been downtown anywhere in such darkness. Central Ashfield was always alight, even in the wee hours of the morning. Any good-sized population center in America could undoubtedly claim the same. Even when the summer rainstorms and the November nor'easters came blasting through, knocking over power and phone lines like a punch of tenpins, you could always count on walking down Main Street and seeing the soft, inviting glow of electric lighting.

It wasn't totally absent here in Silent Hill. Here, as over on the other street, the stoplights still functioned, and still cycled through their different signals. The crosswalk signs also alternated between stop and walk according to their set rhythm. But that was it. No lights in any of the buildings, at least none visible from the streets. No lights of signs or storefronts, no lights from cars…

That's when I got a bright idea, and I couldn't believe I hadn't tried it before. Cars! There were cars all over the place. I must have passed a dozen of them since the Saul Street tunnel alone! There was obviously no one around, so why not commandeer one of these? Brilliant, Sunderland!

Parked along the curb was a relatively recent Honda Civic. The doors were locked. I unhooked the pipe from its holster and bashed the window. The first time it bounced off of the glass, leaving a hole and a myriad of cracks spidering from it in every direction. I struck the glass again, and this time it popped like a grenade, sending a shower of tiny shards exploding within the car and without. I unlocked the door and opened it. I brushed the glass off of the seat with my hand (it was the shatterproof kind, which leaves safe little chunks instead of wickedly sharp fragments), and sat in the cab seat. There were no keys, as expected, and I had never hotwired a car before, but I had seen it done on television a million times, and never once did it look like anything difficult. I had plenty of time to play around with it, as it was considerably unlikely that the original owner was about to pop in suddenly and protest what I was doing.

Yet, I didn't even have time to rip the panel off before it hit me that I didn't even need to waste my time trying. The darkness of the cab was due to the interior light not working, even when I toggled the switch. I flicked the headlights. Nothing there either. This car was deader than dead, and all the fancy wiring in the world wasn't going to amount to a damn thing.

I broke into the next vehicle, this one a station wagon. It too had no battery power. I didn't even bother trying the others. They were all dysfunctional. And of course that had to be the case, because otherwise it would have just been too fucking easy. I shrugged. The park was right around the corner and up the road anyway. I could hoof it.

I stepped out of the station wagon and turned towards the Munson Street intersection. I didn't even cover five paces when the radio belted out a fresh wave of whiny, wavy static. Anymore, the sound of static was toying with my instincts. I immediately got on the defensive every time I heard it. I did this time too. This time, however, it didn't matter.

This time, I heard what was coming perhaps a split second after I got warned of its presence. It was a squealing high-pitched whine, much deeper and more immediately distant than my pocket radio, like someone ran steel wool down the length of a brushed metal slab, up and down repeatedly and quickly. The sound was almost familiar, dancing wildly on the very edge of my mind thanks to the rush of surprise, but I couldn't place it right away. Not until I saw the dark shape rush past me on the ground, blurred by the inky darkness.

It was far too fast and far too dark to even hope to follow with my eyes, but it was noisy enough that I could listen for it. It was so amazingly fast though, I could barely keep up. Within the span of a second it would completely encircle me, though it didn't seem to be making a concentrated effort to attack.

I had the Glock out and ready, because now I knew what I was facing, and if I had to attack it, I wanted to be able to damage it without being in range of its acid should it try to spit up on me.

The screechy Brillo-pad noise continued as the straight-jacket darted haphazardly in random directions. Then, it paused for a moment, and then the screeching was replaced by a loud, sharp tapping. Tap, tap, tap. It had stood on its feet now, and was ambling towards me from the left. The radiance from the flashlight glared hard against the slick, snot-like coating of gunk with which it was covered. It gurgled with anticipation as it closed in on me, the sound as thick and phlegmy as its physical appearance.

It wasn't close enough to get me though, and I had plenty of time to run before it was a real threat. I jogged down Katz and turned right onto Munson. The radio noise faded away, back to its soft, dormant state. Behind me, the sounds of my pursuer did as well, melting away into the darkness and silence.

I took Munson Street in a light, steady jog. Twice the radio woke up for a moment and then went back to sleep. I never saw what triggered it, either time.

Before long, Munson emptied out onto the much larger Nathan Avenue, the only real main road on this side of the lake. I crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side. A fence lined this part of the road, and I followed it west for a little until it opened up into a path, one lined with trees and neatly-kept hedges and paved with rusty red cobblestones. It was the west entrance to Rosewater Park.

The stagnant air picked up a little into a breeze as I ventured into the park. It carried with it the scent and sound of the lake up ahead. I could hear the ebb of the waves gently sliding against the observation deck and the shores, and the clean, earthy smell that makes a good freshwater lake enjoyable. It was nice to know that even though the whole world seemed to be rapidly descending into madness all around me, one could still find traces of normalcy here and there.

However, the pitch-dark hedgerows of the park helped keep me from getting too comfortable. Never mind whatever might be hiding behind them, the hedges themselves looked imposing and threatening. I think anyone who ever saw that one Stanley Kubrick movie, the one about the haunted hotel, would feel the same way. I followed the main pathway past the park office and down some steps. The half-high brick wall eventually opened up into the park's interior, and that's where I was going.

I passed a small, abandoned sitting area and a gazebo, and then underneath a long terrace that was overgrown with verdant ivy. Here and there I made a wrong turn or two, but Rosewater Park wasn't really that large, and it didn't take me too long to find the statue.

The statue itself was about life-sized, I reckoned, though it was perched upon a large, waist-high block of marbleized granite. The park had been dedicated sometime in the 1880s, and both statue and base were around almost as long. The sculpture depicted a woman shrouded in a shawl and cowl, her eyes closed, her face cast downward, and her hands clasped together in prayer. Doubtlessly, the ravages of both time and the cruel winters of western Maine were what did a number on this one, though. Most of the fine features were worn completely smooth, and the deeper creases were already beginning to wear themselves even. Nowhere was this more evident than on the dedication plaque. Whoever took a chisel to this didn't do so good a job, for many of the letters were completely worn away. All that remained was enough to tell that the woman's name was Jennifer Carroll and that she was a victim of persecution. The details were gone, though given the nature of the statue, one could easily reason that the persecution was of a religious nature. Oddly enough, there were no Christian symbols present on the statue at all. Christians weren't historically in the habit of being on the receiving end of religious torment in this region, but there were some instances, thanks to a million differences in beliefs. She might have been one of those. Of course, Christians weren't the only players around. For instance, I had read once of a weird cult that used to be en vogue in these parts once. Can't imagine a cult would be able to get a statue commissioned in a public place, but you never could tell.

However, what I was looking for was below this well-worn plaque. On the ground at the foot of the statue was a mound of raised dirt, bare in the midst of grass. I knelt down. The ground was soft and damp, I could feel some of it soak into the fabric of my jeans. I plunged my hands into the soft soil and tore away at the mound, flinging dirt to the side.

Sure enough, my mysterious friend didn't let me down this time, either. Buried about four inches was a metal box. I cleared off the dirt around it and removed it from its hiding place.

The box was made of tin, and was fairly unremarkable save for the fact that this patient who buried it seemed to really value whatever was inside. A solid steel clamp was bolted very tightly around the tin box, tight enough that I couldn't even budge it. Ergo, the wrench.

Had the box been left here for a few more weeks or so, the bolts would have likely rusted to the point where a wrench might not be enough. Already, small red patches clotted the small gap between the clamp and the bolt, but it wasn't so bad yet. I wrenched off one bolt, then the other, and tossed the defeated clamp aside.

I lifted the lid to the tin box. Inside of it was an old bronze key, tarnished almost completely green. It was larger than a normal key, and pretty ornate. The grip of the key was stamped with the design of some kind of coat of arms, and the words Silent Hill Historical Society in small, beveled letters.

I had seen the place before, on our prior trips. It was on the lakeside about a half a mile up the road. I wanted several times to go and check it out, but it seemed like every time Mary and I came here, the place was either closed for renovations or repairs or some damn thing. The only time it was open for business while we were here was the last time we visited, and that time, we didn't really get to do a whole lot of sightseeing. It was a shame too, because it was one of those rare things that both Mary and I both had a steeped interest in. History was always an interest of mine, one of the few subjects in school that really commanded my interest, and New England has about as much to tell about the past as any place in America. Thanks to that, the Society interested me in a broad sense. For Mary, it was a little more concentrated. Normally, as far as I ever knew, Mary couldn't give half a damn about history in general. However, she was utterly fascinated by the past in regards to this little lakeside town, and from all accounts, the history of Silent Hill, especially some of the recent history, was of a decidedly sordid kind. But, we never got to see it first-hand unfortunately.

Looks like I was going to have the chance now.

I knew where the place was, but I gave the map a look anyway. Sure enough, the map listed the Society as a place of interest, and that was true enough. However, the map also showed a boating dock that was situated directly behind the Society.

A boat. That was exactly what I needed. There was no getting to the hotel via Nathan Avenue, but the hotel was right at the lakeside, and it too had a boat dock. The hotel chartered boat rides, a nice little distraction. Not quite a party boat, but for fifty dollars, you could go for a spin around the lake on the hotel's yacht. Mary and I did it every time we came, even on the last trip. Assuming that the Society's dock had a boat handy, and it had to be possible, then I was in business. It would take awhile to row across, and I'd have to take it slow in this damned fog, but I could do it. Though I had to try hard to not think about what sort of monsters might lurk beneath the surface of the lake.

I slipped the key into my pocket and traced my steps back, still keeping a wary eye on the hedgerows and other dark spaces. It was still calm and quiet, the radio included, but I couldn't help feeling edgy. As peaceful as the park appeared to be, there was no way in hell I could hope to take it for granted. Unfortunately, this also meant that I was exceedingly jumpy, since quarters were so tight.

Yet, I was able to navigate my way out of the park without encountering even one of Silent Hill's many interesting inhabitants. Once I started up Nathan Avenue though, I didn't get very far before the radio's dry, sandy hissing began again in earnest. As before though, I kept to the center, following the solid double yellow lane divider, and I kept the pace brisk. As I moved along, the radio hummed in and out as I came within proximity of things I'd rather not meet. Twice along the way I actually saw them, and once, one saw me. It was a straight-jacket. I had plenty of room to avoid it, though.

It occurred to me along the way that I couldn't see very far. It was a strange feeling, to be outside in a completely dark place, without any ambient light to help out. The flashlight didn't see as far as one might think, and this one was only a pocket-sized deal anyway. It only gave me a few feet of visibility. So, as little as I might have wanted to, I moved towards the right side of the road, and stayed within sight of the steel guardrail. If I didn't, I would pass the Historical Society completely and never know it. Well, at least not until I made it to the ruined bridge ahead.

On the other side of the guardrail there was about thirty feet or so of dry land before you reached the lake, and it was thick with trees and small shrubbery. Just like the hedgerows in the park, I felt distinctly uncomfortable being so close to something so concealing, but also like the hedgerows, there was no avoiding it. At least the monotony of it was broken every few feet by billboards. Some were fresh and clear, some were old and fading. Most advertised local businesses, a few national chains. I almost laughed when I saw one that was pointing me to my ultimate destination. Lakeview Hotel! itsaid in bold letters, with a panorama view of the building and grounds, set against the backdrop of Lake Toluca with the sun setting in the west. It was almost as if it were teasing me. Well, it wouldn't be long now. I kept going.

A shape flew through the air, and it made me stop dead in my tracks. I heard it hit the ground in front of me with a clack. As soon as it did, the radio came to life again. The shape was unrecognizable, until it stood and turned to face me.

Mannequin!

I was about to leap to the side and get around it. I didn't because I was worried my knee might not like it much if I started jumping around like that. It probably wouldn't be necessary anyway, I could get around it, and I had the pipe to keep it away. The mannequin couldn't swing a pipe of its own, and it couldn't spit acid at me, so I might…

Clack.

This time, from behind. Another one!

I was rooted in place momentarily as I tried to think, but thinking was bad. Thinking would get me killed right now. Had to act. And act I did, the sore knee be damned. This time, I did leap to my left. I couldn't see what the mannequin behind me was doing, but the one in front had moved to cut me off, and they were quicker than I liked. I ran in an arc with the pipe in my hand and ready to deflect the monster. It came close, awfully close, but it didn't quite reach me, and I took off running once I was past it. My breathing was labored and my steps were irregular because I was trying to keep my weight off of my bad knee, but I wanted so badly to get away from them, and to prevent another ambush, that I didn't care. I could bear it for now.

The guardrail and greenery finally gave way to an open lot. A parking lot, to be exact, and there were actually a few cars occupying it. Then, I saw the building. I couldn't tell much what it looked like now. It was pretty unremarkable when I had seen it in the past outside of the Twilight Zone years ago, though. It didn't matter. What did was that I could plainly see the old sign colorfully announcing that I had arrived at the Silent Hill Historical Society. The front door was green and rather ornamental. It was also locked, as expected. I reached in and picked out the old bronze key.

I had just inserted it into the keyhole when I heard a distressed scream from behind me. For a fraction of a second I thought it sounded human, and unfortunately, that was enough to distract me and make me turn my head to look.

That fraction of a second ended when two things happened simultaneously. The first was the radio crackle. The second was a repeat of the scream, and hearing it again made it quite clear to me that it wasn't human.

As if I needed any more proof of that, something came from around the corner, just feet in front of me. My breath caught in my throat when I saw it, when I saw the thin and shapely, yet crusted and disgusting legs, the parody of female attractiveness, all the way up to the head. Which, of course, had no face.

How the hell did they get here?

It was a Brookhaven Nurse, all this way away from the hospital. Like all the others, it had a steel pipe in its hand, and it was coming towards me, no doubt intending to put it to use.

I fought down a surge of flashing red panic as I turned back to the door, twisted the key savagely in the lock, and threw open the front door. I practically flew inside and immediately slammed the door shut. I realized then that I had left the key in the door on the other side, but fortune this time decided to smile upon me. The interior of the door had a latch, and I drew it across just as the first sounds of pounding came from outside. Assuming the nurse didn't try using the key, and as far as I could tell, it probably wouldn't, I was safe at least from this one. I leaned back against the door, catching my breath and waiting for my heart to slow down.

Once it did, I took a walk around the Society, going through a set of double-doors to the building's interior, the sounds of the nurse outside undiminished. The next room was a centerpiece of sorts. There were various paintings and portraits lining the walls, each of them set above a plaque that explained the historical significance of the person or place in question. I couldn't help but look at them even now. There was a portrait of one Silas Tasker, the original director of Brookhaven Hospital. Next to that was a shot of the hospital itself, what looked to be an enlarged photograph. It was dark and blurry and the building itself wasn't but a shack surrounded by tents. It turned out that it was originally a purely medical facility, built to care for victims of some kind of plague outbreak in the latter half of the nineteenth century. There were a few others, too.

Then there was the one on the back wall, this one all by itself, and it definitely deserved to stand out. It commanded attention, and it had mine. All of it. Right from the moment I laid eyes on it, it had me.

It was a painting, oil on canvas. The name of it was "Misty Day, Remains of the Judgement". The physical appearance of it was strong. What was depicted on the canvas was absolutely dominating, to a terrifying degree.

What was depicted was Pyramid Head.

'Misty Day' was an appropriate description. There was no real background to the painting. There were these strange, wire-frame cages that showed shapes suspended within, shapes that were vaguely but almost certainly human. And then there was the red pyramid thing, holding a spear like the one he used in the basement to skewer Maria. He stood facing the vantage point of the viewer, and even through the age of the painting (The date was unknown, but it was discovered in 1933), even though it was just the work of someone's imagination (Stephen H. MacGregor), there was a dark, utterly repulsive sort of power exuded from this piece. Not from the physical painting itself, no, not that. It came from the depiction of the Pyramid Head. Even this facsimile, this product of the brush gave off that rotten vibe, just like the real deal, though certainly it wasn't as concentrated coming from here.

Suddenly, there was a very loud blast, followed by a crash coming from the next room. It sounded like someone had fired a cannon or something. Well, not that loud, but definitely that strong. Icy needles of terror needled my flesh. I felt a dread certainty, right down to the pit of my stomach.

He's here. He's waiting for me.

I stood there, both because I was paralyzed with fear and because I was waiting. Waiting for the pyramid thing to crash through into this room and face me again. It finished Maria off, but it hadn't been able to kill me by pushing me off of the roof, and I had made it to the safety of the elevator after he got Maria. I had somehow managed to escape him several times. Now he was here with a vengeance. Now he wanted the blood he was due. There was nowhere to run. I had no choice but to either die, or to fight and die. Not for a second did I entertain the notion that I would be able to defeat him in combat.

So I waited.

And waited.

And he never came.

He had to be waiting for me, then. I thought about that for a moment. Well, if that was the case, he was patient. And, since I couldn't run, and I couldn't hide, I had best go in there. If I'm going to die, I'm going to die on my own terms, not sit here and wait for it. That was a lot more bravado than I thought I was capable of at the moment, but really, it's all that was keeping me from completely locking up and losing my mind. There was no gallows humor, but there was the certainty of fate. That was all I needed, really.

I turned the doorknob and pushed it open forcefully. As if I was going to take him by surprise or something. I think it was some remnants of my bravado acting there. I had the gun in my hand and it was raised to fire.

And at nothing, as it turned out. Pyramid Head wasn't there. The room wasn't empty, but nothing in here was alive and moving. There were more paintings and portraits, and a smashed display case in the center of the room.

There was also a terrifically massive hole in the wall to my left. And it most certainly wasn't supposed to be there. To hell with a cannon, it looked like someone had launched an artillery shell or bomb at the wall. An entire huge chunk of it was completely blown away, reduced to rubble that littered the immediate area.

The fear came flooding back. Maybe he was here after all. Yet, the crashed wreckage of the wall looked like it had come from the opposite side, as if something from outside had tried to get in, and there wasn't anything in here. Even the radio kept blessedly quiet.

I looked into the hole, expecting to see trees and grass and the lakeside shore. That is precisely what I didn't see.

I saw stairs. Stairs leading down, down, down into the empty blackness. The walls and ceiling weren't, really. It was a cave, or something similar. It looked natural, or at least roughly-hewn. It looked very uninviting. Bob Plant and his friends sang about the Stairway to Heaven. This looked to be quite the opposite. This looked like the Stairway to Hell.

And I took that first step without consciously realizing it. Hearing the sound of my footfalls made me conscious, but it didn't change anything. Thoughts of the boat dock and even the hotel drifted away as I descended into this impossible place. I could hear sounds as I did, chief among them a horrid moaning sound, far too loud and powerful to be any of the monsters I had encountered yet. It seemed to come from the walls itself, voluminous to the point where it almost seemed physically tangible. The moan was a strange thing, sounding both hideously angry and woefully sad at the same time.

Yet, I had this weird, dreamy certainty that I wasn't going to find a moaning beast waiting for me at the bottom. That sounds like it should be soothing, but it wasn't at all. No, my dreamy certainty was that what awaited me down here was going to be worse. Far worse.

I found that abyss, after all. I realized it now. This is where my nameless friend was leading me. Now I was in it up to my neck, and as I descended further, down an impossibly long distance, all I could do was to see where it led.