Chapter Thirty-Seven:

"Checking In"

I think there was a part of me that was overboard on the optimism, even though I would never expect such a part of me to have survived this ordeal. It did, though, and it was that part of me that expected my journey to end now, for everything to be over the moment I stepped foot onto this hallowed ground, that expected our Special Place to be drastically different than the rest of the town, warm and inviting, Mary waiting at the door to greet her beloved husband. I think that all but the most clinically depressed have this optimistic bug in them somewhere.

That optimistic part of me was usually disappointed, as is everyone's, probably. That's the nature of this sort of thing, I guess. This was no exception.

The door I entered was the hotel's rear courtyard entrance, and it led into the rear access hall. It would have probably been a more dramatic entrance to have entered through the front door, which led into the Lakeview's large, beautiful lobby. But, sometimes the mundane wins out, and I found myself in the hall instead.

Even still, there was something about being within the Lakeview's walls again. It was dark, but the place was lit well-enough by the outside daylight. It was enough that I was able to skip on using the flashlight for awhile, as there wouldn't be many places in here that weren't near windows of some kind. The place was quiet as a church on a Monday morning, except for a slight underhum buzzing lightly in the lower ranges of the human audible range. The hum reverberated and kicked periodically, the faint pulse of moving air, which meant that the boiler in the basement was still operating.

The hotel itself showed signs of its own sort of life, but there was no evidence of human presence. Mary and I had lodged here for years, usually for a week at a time. Once, the second or third year we stayed here, I had a sleepless night, and I just couldn't shake it. So, I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and took the elevator down to the basement level. Most of the basement was staff area, but there was a bar down there as well, a neat, dark little place called Venus Tears. It was maybe two-thirty, three in the morning, and even then, there were a few souls wandering the halls, and there were three others in the bar then, not counting the night-shift alcohol-jockey. I ordered a Narragansett and sat at the bar. The guy next to me was cradling a martini, taking it in small sips to make it last. We ended up chatting for awhile, for over an hour, until fatigue finally caught up with me and I excused myself. It was a good time, really. Relaxing. Even at three in the morning, a guy can get those things at this hotel.

Not today, though. Today the place was in lockstep with the rest of Silent Hill. No people. No camera-toting tourists walked these halls, no chambermaids pushed laundry carts, no aroma of late breakfast or early lunch (a guess, I had no idea what time it really was) coming from the café down the hall. Nothing. It was really depressing, but also welcome. Explaining my appearance would be a hell of a chore, what with my still-damp pants soaked with muck, my jacket and shirt stained with blood, as much of it mine as not. There were also no signs of creatures of the damned, though, and that was decidedly acceptable, for however long it lasted.

My footfalls were soft upon the carpet, but in the oppressive silence, each was as loud as a rubber mallet striking a wall. And, I guess, oppressive was the right word to describe the atmosphere. I think that's where the real disappointment was born. Did I expect Mary to be standing here, with a full brass band and bunting and tinsel and champagne to greet me, as a reward for surviving the horrors I'd been subjected to all this time? Of course I didn't. But nor did I expect things to be so… depressing, as if the very eaves of the place were filling me with anxiety and reticence, perhaps by osmosis. I thought that perhaps there would be a sense of fulfillment, or at the very least, a notion that perhaps I was near my goal, near a resolution.

Yet, there was a slight reassurance here, something that had been completely missing from everyplace else I had been so far, and even with the overbearing sorrow that seemed to be almost physically present here, that reassurance was just as tangible. It was recognizance, it was familiarity. This was the Lakeview Hotel, the best four-star this side of the Canadian border, the Jewel of the Lake, Western Maine's premier lakeside getaway. It wasn't quite jet-set material, but it was damn close. I had been here several times over several years. Mary loved Silent Hill. It was her Special Place, but this hotel was the centerpiece. I knew it intimately, had wandered around just about all of it between all of our visits.

The hallway led to an intersection with branches going in two directions, and directly into a flight of stairs leading down a level. It was down there where one would find the Venus Tears. I couldn't see that being the place I'd find her, though. I found the Venus Tears to be a calming, pleasant place, but Mary wasn't much of a drinker, and I think she might have joined me down there all of twice. No, that wasn't it. She was here, of that I couldn't allow myself to doubt, but where? Certainly, she would be waiting for me somewhere. The letter said as much. I didn't expect her to seek me out.

Of course she won't seek you out, Sunderland. She's dead. The dead don't seek anyone out. She's dead. How easy it is to forget that when you think about finding her in this hotel, isn't it?

There was truth to that. I couldn't tell that nagging inner voice to stifle itself, because there was some truth. But, logic and order obviously had little meaning in this world. That's a lesson that had been force-fed me in the least pleasant way imaginable. Therefore, I was certainly willing to bend logic myself. Why the hell not? After all, it should work in my favor, if it so often works to my detriment.

So, where else? There weren't wrong answers, there were just too many to think of all at once. Yet, a glance down the east corridor provided a really good place to start.

I walked past the double doors leading to the front lobby and stopped at the end of the hall. In front of me was another set of double-doors, these leading to the staff areas. It was cordoned off with velvet rope. That wasn't it, of course, but to the right of that was another set of double-doors, beautiful dark mahogany. These doors had no knobs, but rather gilded brass handles that spanned much of the vertical length. To the right of these doors was a large brass sign with a name in embossed script, Lake Shore Restaurant.

Of course. Good idea!

The Lake Shore was the hotel's in-house dining establishment, a nice, low-key place. There were certainly fancier eateries in town, but not many. Eating dinner here was something of a ritual Mary and I had come to create over time. When we came for our weekly getaways, we would eat dinner at the Lake Shore twice each time, on the first night, and on the final night. We didn't have a special meal, or even a particular table, but it was still something. I gripped the brass handle and pushed the door open.

The restaurant was well-lit, spilling muted light onto the neat rug, which looked to be patterned after some M.C. Escher design. This was thanks to the huge window and the even larger sliding-glass door which on a clear day offered the diner a damned majestic framed view of Lake Toluca. The walls were lined in paneling up to my waist, and soft, pale pastel wallpaper up to the raised ceiling. The flambeaux-style wall-lamps were all dark, but they weren't necessary. Most of the tables were arranged to my left, packed closely together and blocking access to the kitchen in the back. Chairs sat upon most of them, inverted. Their dark legs rose into the air like denuded trees. Those closest to me were on the floor, pushed under their tables instead of perched atop them. Most of the tables were bare of anything, even the decorative vases. One of them was set with a fresh white tablecloth. A plate and utensils were set upon it, but there was nothing else there. I ran my finger across the plate, and it left a thin track through the fine layer of dust that had settled upon it. Strange, no one's eaten here in awhile, I thought. But was that really so strange? Certainly not. No reason to expect that the Lakeview was exempt from whatever was going on all over town. None at all.

I turned away from the table. The sliding-glass door led to a balcony, and through the fog, more tables and chairs could be seen, though they appeared blurry, as if not completely there. The glass of the door didn't help, as it seemed to be coated in condensation. It was quite a bit warmer in here than out there, to be sure. Near the door was a paneled half-wall divider, upon which was a display of broad-leafed decorative plants. The plants were real, and it was more clearly evident now than ever. Many of the leaves still retained their healthy green, but some were drying out, and their green was leached by a sickly pallor. Some had fallen off, and the perimeter of the display was littered with fallen soldiers, some of them completely brown and brittle. Behind this was another pair of tables, brightly illuminated from the ornate window. On the wall above them were a trio of paintings, each of them depicting a local landscape, donated by a California artist, one Elizabeth Lim.

Then, there was the grand piano, in the opposite corner. It was a Baldwin baby grand, and the various house pianists handled the instrument with pleasing skill. My favorite was a middle-aged black man named Calvin, a large, smiling jazz cat who specialized in the works of Oscar Peterson and Vince Guaraldi, but could also reel off something original when he had a mind to. Even Mary, whom no one would accuse of being a fan of jazz music, seemed to enjoy herself whenever Calvin let his dark, nimble fingers dance across the ivories and ebonies of the Baldwin. Calvin wasn't here now, but damned if I couldn't hear the soft tones of "Back Home Again in Indiana" floating in the air, ghost-like. If that wasn't fitting in its own way, I didn't know what was. I took a step towards the Baldwin, half-lost in my memories and the ghost-music.

­BONG!

I was jolted rudely out of my reverie when the notes of Peterson's ghost-music were pierced by a loud, atonal piano note. It was far louder than the song in my head, but that was because it was real. My breath caught in my throat, and my hand shot right for my gun when I heard a laugh issue from the corner. My hand relaxed, because I recognized it right away.

"Did I scare ya?" Laura asked as she slid off of the piano bench and walked past me, sitting back down on a cushion and looking at me. My expression should have provided an obvious answer, but the question was posed earnestly. That's how I answered it.

"Yeah, you did." Calm, no reproach. In a way, I was glad to see her. She was a snot-face, and the last time we were in the same room, she ended up locking me in a room full of monsters, but considering the company I'd been keeping lately, she had displayed the least blatant insanity of any human I'd come across in this town.

"You're here to find Mary, aren't you, James?" she asked. Her eyes gazed around the room, taking it all in, perhaps as I did. "Well? Did you find her yet?"

"No, not yet I haven't" I answered. "Is that why you're here, too?"

She continued looking around the room, not exactly avoiding my gaze, but not making any effort to meet it, either. "She's here, isn't she?" She paused for a moment, but not long enough for me to answer. "If she is, tell me! I'm tired of all this walking!" Now she did look into my face again, hopeful and expectant.

Unfortunately…

"I don't know. I think she is, but I only wish I knew for sure." I said. "This is where I think she is supposed to be, anyway."

Laura rummaged through one of the pockets in her denim skirt, pulling out a folded sheet of paper, the color of cocoa butter. "It's in the letter!" she said, unfolding it. Her eyes moved back and forth as she read her letter, like the bar of a typewriter. Finished, she held it out to me.

"Can I read it?" I asked.

"Yeah!" she said, "But don't tell Rachel, okay?"

I took the letter from her. "Who's that, Laura?"

Laura's face looked comically grim. "She was our nurse, at the hospital. I nicked it out of her locker before I left. She'd blow a gasket if she knew I was snoopin' around."

I raised my right hand, and promised to keep her secret. Then, I read the letter, mouthing the words as I went.

My dearest Laura,

I'm leaving this letter with Rachel to give to you after I'm gone. When you read this, I won't be in this hospital anymore. I'll be gone, gone far away, to a lovely, beautiful place. I wanted so badly to say good-bye to you before I left, but I hope you'll understand why I couldn't. Please, take care, kiddo. Try not to be too much of a terror to the poor sisters.

Oh yes, about James… Look, I know you don't like him much. I know you think he's unfriendly. It's true he can be surly, and he doesn't like to say much, but please don't hold that against him. Underneath it all, he's a really sweet guy. I'm only friends with sweet people, after all. So, give him a chance, okay? As a favor to me.

The reason why I had to say good-bye this way is because, well, I love you, just as if you were my own daughter. I want you to know that. I also want you to know that if things had been… different, if I didn't have what I have, well, I was hoping to try and adopt you. That's why. I'm so sorry. But, don't cry, because I won't. Think happy thoughts. You'll always be in mine.

Happy 8th birthday, kiddo. Love, forever,

Mary

I was numb. Completely, totally numb. The letter fell from my fingers and floated lazily to the floor. I bent over to retrieve it, my movements slow, my body feeling out of sync with my brain. I read it again, from beginning to end, absorbing it all a second time, to make sure I didn't miss or confuse anything.

Don't be too hard on James, Laura.

She did know me. She was telling the truth. This letter was no forgery or fabrication. The flowing script was Mary's, without question, and there's no way a kid like her could even hope to faithfully reproduce it. But… oh, it was so crazy, so disconcerting. So many questions, and while this answered one or two, it added a dozen more. Yes, so many questions. I felt like I might collapse beneath their weight, like an empty cardboard box being sat upon by a large person.

Laura was no longer perched on the cushion. She was now over by the sliding-glass door, her back to me. I watched as she traced her finger across the pane in a sort of zig-zag pattern. Her fingers traced lines across the condensation as mine had through the dust on the dinner plate. She was humming softly.

"Laura?" She didn't answer, continuing to draw her pattern on the door, but she was clearly listening. "How old are you?"

"I'm eight years old," she replied, still focusing on the door, "I just turned eight last week."

Last week.

The numbness returned, creeping through my body like ice water. Last week. If that were really true, then Mary couldn't have died three years ago. Couldn't. But she did!

She didn't.

But I remember!

You don't.

How could this kid…

She's right. The letter's right. It's not dated, but it doesn't need to be. You don't need that. You don't need scientific analysis to know she's right, and that you're mistaken. It hasn't been three years.

I rubbed my forehead. The headache was coming back, possibly to remind me that there were still things inside. Memories, thoughts I had forgotten

buried

deep down. The flash of pain was something almost holy, like a spade breaking earth. And that was accurate, wasn't it? I mean, if I chose to believe this letter and this little girl. It was crazy, but I did. It meant that I didn't know what I really knew, but I believed her.

Maybe, it wasn't crazy at all.

"Could she really be here?" I asked out loud, a rhetorical question given voice, "Is this really the quiet, beautiful place she was talking about?" But, that was a stupid question. That wasn't really in doubt at all. I could feel that much. Laura seemed to feel it, too. There was more to this little girl than meets the eye, that was for damn sure.

She turned away from the window and came back over to me. She sat back down upon the muted blue cushion, smoothing out the fabric of her skirt as she did. "Me and Mary, we talked a lot about Silent Hill," she said. "She had this big photo album, and there were so many pictures. She showed me all of them, and a lot of them were taken here. I know this place from those pictures. She always talked about how much she loved it here, and how much she always wanted to come back. When she left, I found the letter. She didn't say where she was going, but I knew. I knew because she'd been tellin' me all along." She looked at me, perhaps trying to tell if I believed her or not. I think I did, but I had no idea how well my face conveyed my thoughts.

"Maybe you'll get it if you read the other letter," she said, and dug her hands in her pockets again. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates, the whites showing all around. Another letter! She didn't see my anxious surprise, but I bet she heard the gasp I let out.

But…

"Huh?" she cried out, in genuine dismay. "Where is it?" Her rummaging became stronger, more desperate. Suddenly, the movement ceased, and her arms flopped to her sides, as if defeated. She sprang up from the cushion and looked around, searching the floor. "I musta dropped it!" she cried.

I was in motion then, scoping the floor myself, hoping that two pairs of eyes would make the difference, but at the same time feeling a dread certainty that they would not. It didn't take long for me to find out. Without warning, she shot towards the double mahogany doors and darted out of the restaurant. I called after her, but of course she didn't heed me. The door clicked shut behind her, and I was in silence again.

I just turned eight last week.

Thoughts jumbled around even more furiously than before. I didn't make a move to follow her, because I knew she wouldn't let me tag along. She was a lone wolf cub, that one. I hoped she would find it very soon and find me, because I wanted answers, and she was the only one so far who had provided any. But as I stood there, looking at the shape she traced on the door (a cat with comically-large whiskers), that nagging little voice rose within me yet again.

Yes, answers. How well will you handle these answers you seek? One of them rubbed your fur the wrong way, didn't it? What if that's just the beginning?

I didn't know. I just didn't know.

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