Chapter Thirty-Six:

"Silver Lake, Silent Letter"

On the lake, the deep forbidden lake,

The old boats go gliding by

Neil Young

The door was old, heavy, and I had the damnedest time pulling it open. God knows a lot of that was just from being spent. I was pretty worn out. I was twenty-nine years old, and if I wasn't at my physical peak, I wasn't long past it, but it had been through things that were considerably more strenuous than it was used to. I was sore in a dozen places, and I was also tired. I had no watch and I had no sense of time at all anymore. The weirdness that I experienced in Brookhaven, and all of these blackouts from falling down the HOLEs really screwed things up for me. I could have been out all night, easily.

Yet, what I saw when I finally wrenched that door open was nothing short of a complete and massive surprise.

Sunlight!

Well, not great, warm, beaming rays, no. But sunlight! I was outside again! That omnipresent fog was still very much in attendance, and it was still unseasonably cold, but it was outdoors. It was out of the claustrophobic confines of the labyrinth. It was fresh air. And, it was warmer than the meat freezer.

How in the hell? My mind wanted to know, how in the hell am I outside? Did I not fall down hundreds of feet through those HOLEs?

That sounded logical, but even before I saw daylight, I had serious questions about the nature of those HOLEs, and what I saw now, well, it didn't quite confirm anything, but it certainly gave me ideas, ideas that had been slowly taking root over the last few hours. Ideas like, maybe there's some sort of weird, transdimensional shit going on here. Obviously, physics had taken a holiday, but…

I stepped out onto a wooden platform, and it was completely surrounded by water, which spanned in every forward direction as far as the fog allowed me to see. I walked along the dock, and carefully, because the beams and planks were quite old, and there might very well be a rotten board or two. Who knew? How long has it been since human feet last trod upon them? For that matter, had human feet ever trod upon them?

The dock spanned about thirty feet and then angled left, towards the water. On the wall to my right was a large sign.

WARNING!
AIDING IN THE ESCAPE OF A PRISONER

IS A FELONY OFFENSE.

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!

in bold, menacing letters. I turned away and walked the length of the pier. I didn't know for certain what I was going to find at the end, but a part of me knew. The prison was behind me, so the sign appeared to indicate. Yet, if I was to take everything pragmatically, it should also be several hundred feet tall, built into some enormous sheer rock face. There was no way I could see that far in any direction, skyward included, but I didn't need to. I knew it wasn't that tall at all. I was beginning to think I knew where I was.

The lake. I was somewhere on the lake. There were plenty of lakes in this part of the state, but even though it felt like I hiked twenty miles through the labyrinth, I couldn't believe I had emerged upon the shores of any lake besides Toluca. It wasn't settled in my mind though until I reached the rickety end of the short pier, and I found several small rowboats, lined up as if waiting in queue, maybe for Sunday communion. They were tied to the struts along the length.

The boat launch.

I pulled the map out of my pocket. It was damp, and had obviously been soaked through at some point, but it was still quite readable. I searched the south shore for the Boat Launch, and the north shore for the Lakeview Hotel. It was almost a straight shot north, easy as pie on a clear day, as you could see straight across to the other side of the shore. As far as lakes go, Toluca wasn't gigantic, certainly nothing but a little piss-puddle compared to the Great Lakes that weren't very far to the west. It was just a small lake and there were dozens like it in this part of Maine. Of course, today was anything but clear. The north bank of the lake could be a million miles away, for all that my eyes were telling me. It would be slow-going, without a doubt, but…

Then I saw it, in the distance. At first I thought it was just some trick of the eyes, that maybe I was seeing something. I think I read once that people under intense emotional stress were prone to suffer from mild hallucinations. Nothing like being on an acid trip, nothing like seeing sixth-dimensional trees and eyeballs growing out of my hands, but small things, usually like shadows or movement that aren't really there, children's bedtime-paranoia bullshit. Sometimes it could also be flashes of light or color.

I had one trip back in college, and I'm not likely to remember it in any great detail, but what I do remember quite well is that the weird shit I saw was very transient, it never stayed in place or seemed to have any solid form. It was like the world was liquid, and so was everything in it. That's what hallucinations are generally like, or so I've always believed since my teenage years.

The light I saw in the sky wasn't like that. It wasn't fluid at all. When I closed my eyes and re-opened them, the light was still there. Ditto when I turned my head away and back. The light was still in the exact same position, twinkling brightly and clearly in spite of the viscous fog, and I was certain I knew why.

It's a beacon. I'm being called over, being guided. Rowing across the lake in such poor visibility would be dangerous, if possible at all. But someone wants me to make it safely. It's her. It's Mary. She's really there!

Now, of course, I wasn't completely naïve, nor was I stupid. I was all too aware of how possible it was that something else was calling me across the lake, something with blood-stained butcher's whites, a six-foot spear, a bad attitude and a horrible love for irony. But even now, even after seeing so little to sustain my hope, it was still there. It had been bent rather violently over the last day or so, but it had yet to break.

I picked out the rowboat that seemed to be in the best shape. Its paint job was still pretty fresh, and the name "TOLUCA DUKE" was etched along the prow, along with the number five. The rope was tied tightly around the strut, in a big knot, but it was frayed along its length. The wire-cutters would have made short work of it, but I must have dropped them somewhere along the line. There was Angela's knife, but I didn't even like touching that thing, much less use it as a tool. I fished around in one of my pockets, the one that held my small ammunition cache, when I found the solution.

It was the pocket-knife. I had completely forgotten about it hours ago. I got it from the dead guy at the end of Nathan Avenue, way back when I first met Maria. Its edge was dulled a bit, but it still chewed through the wet cord of the rope without a great amount of difficulty. I pulled the boat towards me until it touched the pier, then I stepped gingerly into it and sat on the rowing bench, where I sat still and unmoving until the rocking finally subsided. There were a pair of wooden oars on the floor of the boat, which I looped through the rowing holes. I kicked away from the dock and paddled out into the open waters of Lake Toluca, which was as dark and ominous as a summertime thunderhead.

I rowed the boat slowly, trying to keep as even a trajectory as possible. Thankfully, the shining light in the sky remained a constant, and was still perfectly visible. That piqued my curiosity a bit. The fog made everything beyond a few feet disappear in a graywash. Within thirty seconds even the pier behind me had completely faded from view, leaving nothing for my eyes except my boat, the lake, and the beacon of light.

I pumped my arms, keeping them in a steady rhythm. It was pretty strenuous at first, but once I settled into a pattern, it was okay. Lift, push, drop, pull, lift, push, drop, pull, lift, push, drop, pull. It was pretty mindless work, and I kept it slow enough that it wouldn't wear me out. After all, what was the hurry? I had no sense of time, other than it seemed that I spent the entire night underground in the prison and labyrinth.

Or did I?

It just didn't make any sense. I went down that first HOLE in the Historical Society and four more before all was said and done. Hundreds of feet into the earth, easily, and I couldn't accurately measure my walking distance with any sort of accuracy but if it was less than two miles, I'd eat this boat. The only place I should have realistically expected to emerge was somewhere in central Asia, at the rate I was going. Journey to the center of the world, just like the book.

But no, instead, I pop out of the rear of the prison, right at the boat launch. I came to the Historical Society because my mysterious, unseen friend left me a note that pointed me there. I also came because I saw the Boat Launch marked right behind the Society on the map, and since the Nathan Avenue bridge spanning one of Toluca's tributary streams was completely demolished, crossing the lake on a boat seemed like a very logical solution to my problem. And, after my excessive detour, I find myself maybe fifty feet from where I started. Maybe.

What was going on here? Just where in the hell was I, really? For a good while I thought I was in Silent Hill, and that something really terrible had happened, that the shit hit the proverbial fan in some terrifically horrible way. The town was abandoned, and in some places, demolished. Savaged. Monsters roamed the streets and haunted the dwellings, nightmares of impossible biology and hideous appearance. One of them sported a red pyramid headgear, and he was more of a threat than any five other creatures. That one seemed to have a special affinity for me. The others, with a few exceptions, didn't seem overly-aggressive, and were a greater danger to me when I wasn't aware of their presence. Thanks to the radio, that didn't happen nearly as often as it might. So far, I'd been able to avoid or defeat most of them that I had the misfortune to come across. Pyramid Head was a different story altogether. He was a hunter. He was tracking me, it seemed at times. He backed off the first time we came to blows, but since then, our encounters had almost always ended with him having the upper hand.

But now there was more to factor. Things went to shit while I was in Brookhaven Hospital. The entire interior of the place metamorphed into a sickly doppelganger of its original form, as if it hadn't been bad enough to begin with. After that, there were the HOLEs, and the prison and labyrinth and the twisted perversion of reality that went along with them. It seemed like perhaps the metaphysical fuckery began with that strange shift in the hospital. But did it? I didn't know. It was impossible to know. I never considered myself lacking too sorely in the imagination department, but now I was giving it a hell of a workout. I was relying on it almost exclusively anymore, just to arrange what I was seeing into something that bore enough of a passing resemblance to normalcy that it kept me from taking an irrevocable trip over the edge.

None of it really mattered, though. I was not likely to receive answers to my questions. What was I going to do, ask Pyramid Head? Excuse me, you there with the spear, can you lay it all down for me? Of course not. But, in all honestly, I was still selfish. I realized as much, even then, and I didn't care. I didn't know if Silent Hill was the victim of some kind of plague or alien invasion or merciless act of God. I didn't know if this was really Silent Hill at all, or if perhaps I was in some kind of alternate reality, a Dimension-X deal straight out of the Twilight Zone. Hell, maybe I was dying and this was all some extraordinarily fucked-up fever dream of some kind. I didn't know and I didn't care. I came here for a reason, and that reason was Mary. Mary was all that mattered. I came here to find her. And then what? I didn't care about that, either. Whatever happened would happen. I didn't even have a clue as to what I might say to her. I love her, and I missed her so much, but what else? Didn't matter a bit. Words would certainly come. The possibility that she wasn't here didn't even factor. The possibility that she was an undead zombie or something even worse didn't factor, because, deep down, I knew that couldn't be right. She was here. The letter said so.

I let go of the oars for a moment and reached in my breast pocket. At that moment I had to see it again. To read the letter again, it wouldn't be a panacea but it would be damned close. Dad was fond of saying that 'Nam was a train wreck because we didn't really know what we were fighting for. Well, I knew what I was fighting for. It was in my pocket.

The photo was the first thing I caught onto, the one with Mary gazing into the camera I held, with a sweet smile and warm love all over. The good days, those were. Before the disease, the mystery disease that befuddled the doctors and stole Mary's life one cruel piece at a time, a little more each day until it finally took too much. It was such a long and torturous time for her.

How long was it? My voice of reason was getting rather persistent lately. How long was she sick? How long was she suffering?

It was a long time. Exactly how long? I didn't remember. It seemed like all the days jumbled together, became something that was completely formless on the small-scale, all of it just one long miasma.

How long was it?

I don't know, damn it! I didn't tally the fucking days!

How long was it? When did she die? What day did Mary die? Maybe you can't remember anything else, but certainly that's a day you cannot have forgotten!

Bullshit! It was…

When? When did she die? What day did she die? That stupid voice was annoying, but it was right about that. That's the kind of date that should stand out prominent among all others, especially considering that it was what led me to where I was right now. So what day was it?

I couldn't remember. For the love of God, I could not remember what day my own wife died. But, that was just stress. Had to be. No way I could really forget something like that. I just had to clear my mind and think straight, that was all.

I snatched the photo from the deck and placed it back in my pocket, then I pulled out the pocket's other inhabitant, the letter I got via special, earth-shaking delivery yesterday morning. I unfolded it and looked at it. When I did, my eyes went so wide I thought they would split at the seams.

It was still mostly as I remembered it. The cream-colored paper was embossed with a nice floral motif around the edges, and there was a scripted border in two opposite corners. There were crease marks from the folds, and a few water spots that it had picked up while I was on my adventure. However, something was missing. The most important part, one might say.

The letter was completely blank.

No words. Gone was the letter, and its entire contents, including the flourished cursive flair that had finished its short prose. There was no evidence that any pen had ever touched this particular piece of paper.

Completely blank.

When did she die, Sunderland? How long has she been dead? Come on, big boy. Rack your brains! Find a thinking cap and secure it tightly and then TELL ME WHEN SHE DIED

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I yelled out loud, clutching my head and dropping the letter on the deck of the boat. It came to a rest in a small puddle that had collected, and it soaked itself in a hurry. I didn't care at the moment, because I was scared sick that I might be forced to retract the self-appraisal I had made moments before. I was talking to myself, now. Classic sign of a nutcase, anyone can tell you that. Worse, I was yelling at myself. Telling my own mind to shut the fuck up. I felt like crying, and for several reasons at that.

I reached down to grab the letter from the puddle, and just had it in my fingertips when the boat struck something solid and hard. The collision was so powerful that I was almost lifted right out of the boat, and for a few hanging seconds I was certain it would tip, capsize, sending me into the lake and making me easy pickings for the eager jaws of whatever wonderful new deep-sea leviathan monster had just certainly attacked my little love-boat. I was yelling again now, but the sound was formless and almost feral.

I fear I might not have ever stopped if the boat hadn't turned and struck something again, this time much more gently. It dragged me out of my wailing panic and back into whatever passed for reality in these parts. I looked over at the rear-end of the Toluca Duke, and what I saw took my shouts of mindless terror and transformed them into a sort of dark, uneasy laugh. No deep-sea horror, at least, not today. My boat had instead come into sudden contact with a thick wooden strut, part of several dozen that comprised a standard pier. I looked up at the sky, and I knew it for certain, because the shining, summoning light was now very close, seemingly almost on top of me.

I was here.

I stuffed the now-blank letter back in my pocket and carefully stood up in the boat. I grasped one of the hand-holds on the pier and pulled myself out of the boat. The motion almost made me trip, and it sent the boat in motion. I stood and watched as it slowly drifted away into the close, enveloping horizon.

I was here.

This pier was wider and sturdier than the one on the opposite shore, and it was one quite familiar to me. Together, Mary and I had walked its length on countless occasions, sometimes to board the hotel's yacht for the Toluca Tour, other times just to enjoy the majestic view or take a swim in some of the nation's cleanest lakewater. I walked its length, absorbing the atmosphere and memories right out of the woodwork until the woodwork became a cobbled pathway. I continued walking, noting the pair of circular fountains that stood facing each other on opposite sides of the path, as if daring the other to step across onto its side. Neither seemed likely to try anytime soon. Both fountains were completely dried up, and a dried-up fountain is as dead as anything else.

The cobblestones ended where the deep-finished wooden steps began. I looked up, and if there was any question about it before, it was answered now.

The grand majesty of the Lakeview Hotel stared back at me with the blank, unseeing eyes of sixty guest-rooms. Not a one gave a glimpse of light or human habitation, but I wasn't really expecting that, not even in our special place. If anything, it seemed a little fitting. I only hoped that it was similarly devoid of life forms of other, less-natural stripes.

I walked up the stairs and placed my hand on the doorknob that led to the rear lobby of the Lakeview Hotel. The knob turned easily, and I pulled the door open. As I stepped into the hotel, my mind made one last shot

When did she die?

I didn't sacrifice the dignity to answer the question. I simply ignored it and stepped into the Lakeview, for the first time in three years.

I was here.

7