He breaks roughly from the dream. He saw a park, green lawns, blue skies, children playing. From that peaceful image he is quickly shaken back into reality, as he finds himself sitting in a dank looking office in the dark, staring at an empty brown cabinet, shards of glass sitting at his feet.
Memories trigger within him. He frantically fingers his neck, expecting his hand to return covered in blood. It's clean. He calms himself and examines further. A thin line is present where a gaping wound should be. He was certain a blade had come across him just now, before he passed out. But there is no evidence of this except… a scar? How could the wound heal so fast? Had he been lying against this wall for weeks? More questions.
With the aid of a nearby desk, he pulls himself up into a standing position. This room is just like the rest, filthy and rusted. He was still trapped in this basement, deep below the surface of the lighthouse.
He studies the cabinet on the wall. Forced entry has seen the glass shattered and the contents inside removed. Wait, no… there's an old piece of paper here. The typed letterhead shows contact details, presumably of this institution.
'Meadowbank Asylum for the Criminally Insane, West Stanford Street, Silent Hill'
So, he was in a mental asylum? Further inspection of the letter told him of the date of printing; 14th June 1962. A solitary word is present in the centre of the page, in blue handwritten ink.
'Hello.'
That's it: hello. Jones notices pressure indentations on the paper, so he flips it over and examines the back. More written words say:
'Sorry, we're closed… But for you, we can make an exception,'
He flashes the light around the room but there is nothing of further interest, so he heads for the exit.
He now finds himself in some sort of examination room. Broken tiles litter the ground, leaving holes in walls that follow through to aging brown paint on rough stone. Cabinets hang lopsided, cracks in the ceramics knocking them off centre. Various surgical implements, all rusted and old, lay on rotten wooden tables. There doesn't seem to be another way out of the room.
In the corner nearest too him, Jones notices a plastic curtain, partially drawn, a filthy hospital gurney poking out from beyond the gap.
"Strange," he ruminates, staring at the solitary bed spread.
Cheek hits floor. A cold sensation passes over him. His skull is still shaking from the strike. Ears aren't working properly.
He tries to resist as someone picks him up with one strong arm and slams him hard onto the filthy bed. As his back contacts, it feels like thousands of tiny pins are jutting up into his flesh.
He gets a blurred look at the attacker as it straps his arms and legs in tightly. But that's all it is, a blur. Though he determines the shape is humanoid, whether it's human is a different matter entirely.
His eyes sting as a halogen lamp flickers into life above him. He squints to block out the pain. The man or monster begins to examine Jones closely. It runs its slimy hands down his arms, seizes his wrists; tests how sharp his fingernails are.
A filthy, clawed hand with three, no, two and a half fingers plus a thumb pinches his cheeks firmly, piercing skin. The glare from the light blocks out the creature's face, even as it leans closer to examine Jones' eyeballs, forcing his eyelids open for an excruciating amount of time. It's wearing a white uniform, Doctor's scrubs stained with blood.
It prises his mouth open and runs its mutated index finger across both lines of teeth. Jones considers biting down hard but he's frozen in terror, the rancid taste left behind by the ogre's finger heightening his fear. He begins to cry out desperately, hoping that there is still someone left who can help him.
The creature grunts in disapproval, before shoving a strange, slimy object into Jones' mouth, an oral blindfold designed to block out its victims screams. Whatever it is, the slimy texture makes Jones throw up inside his own mouth, and he begins to choke on the unwanted expulsion.
The creature mocks Jones with a throaty laugh, watching as he thrashes around, unable to breath. The Detective composes himself as best he can and manages to swallow the discharge down, bit by bit, until eventually his airways become clear once more. Tears form in his eyes as his baser instincts begin to take over. He tries to spit the offending object out of his mouth but it appears to have anchored itself in, wrapping miniscule tendrils around his exposed tongue.
Jones looks on in horror, as the creature brandishes a surgical saw, which he scrapes across the front of his own hand, testing its sharpness. A thin cut opens up, as the creature nods in satisfaction.
"Perhaps we should look inside your head, J… -"
J? ... Jones? The creature has a man's voice and it knows who he is! Or maybe the voice belongs to someone else? Maybe there is someone else inside the room?
In Jones' dreamlike state, the words seem to echo like the speaker was alive inside his head.
"Don't worry," he chortles, "Just a little joke. We may be underground, but we couldn't get away with murder here," he pauses, quelling his amusement, "In all seriousness though, there is a problem, don't you agree?"
Jones tries to cry out but the living lump of meat parked in his mouth prevents his words from filtering through.
"Yes that's right!" the voice cries, responding generically, "You do have a problem!"
Whoever he is, he sounds like he's done this a million times before.
"You see… I'm on the verge of retirement. I've watched a hundred thousand patients spill through my doors and well, I ain't gonna lie to ya, you're the last of a pretty sick bunch,"
Jones continues to cry out to no avail.
"And as you're the last, it's my duty to sign off in style. It's a simple procedure…"
Procedure, what procedure? Jones' heart threatens to burst out of his chest as the figure in front of him produces a bone saw from the wooden work surface. It's rusty, the teeth of the blade covered in dried blood, a sign that this procedure has been implemented before.
"… Nah, I'm just yanking your chain! I know you're not gonna fall for that one," the voice says, "You're problems are more than just skin deep,"
He interludes with a dissatisfied sigh, "Disappointing as it may be, hacking into your brain would be… unproductive. Besides, I guess he wouldn't be too happy about it,"
Still Jones is given no opportunity to talk.
"Aw hell, who am I kidding?" the voice teases, "I can't deny myself some fun on my final patient, can I now?"
Jones squirms around frantically as the creature lowers the saw towards his cranium.
"Besides, he can't catch me where I'm going,"
A crack; a definite cracking noise! Jones tears his attention away from the fiend to notice the buckle fastening his right arm has slipped out of place, the years and years of rust taking toll on the metal, betraying its function. With all the strength he has, he pulls his arm upwards.
The fabric of the strap strains as he manages to overcome his bonds. The metal buckle snaps open and the belt becomes slack, freeing up his arm. Completing this movement, Jones flings a closed fist into the monster's face, startling it. It drops the bone saw onto the ceramic tiles below.
The fiend slowly arches it's back and leans over, more concerned with picking up the fallen tool than securing its victim. With his free hand, Jones swiftly unbuckles his left arm and sits up, leaning across to his bound feet. In the corner of his eye he notices the creature re-emerge, the instrument of death gripped tightly, ready to strike.
Jones wastes no further time, unbuckling both feet simultaneously and flinging himself from the Gurney. The monster strikes, the saw narrowly missing the back of Jones' skull. Jones writhes on the floor, desperately trying to free his foot, which is tangled in one of the loose leg straps. He begins to panic as the creature slowly trudges around the bed, wobbling the saw menacingly.
Jones pulls on the strap sharply with his leg and the gurney topples over, distracting his enemy. He sits up, the problematic object now in arms reach, and pulls his foot free, falling back and twisting into a prone position. He throws himself up onto his feet quickly and turns to meet his assailant, readjusting his eyes and pointing his now dried off pistol with intent. There is no attacker in sight.
"Spoil my fun why don't ya?" the voice mocks, "Don't waste you're bullets. I'll save you the trouble,"
A flash of light startles him and a deafening crack sounds out from behind the curtain. The tell-tale smell of gun smoke follows. Jones goes down on one knee and stays quiet. A long period of silence passes before the Detective begins to move, one step at a time, the pistol shaking in his nervous hands. With an outstretched arm, he reaches out and grabs the edge of the plastic curtain...
Opening the drapes reveals a mutated figure in a nearby chair, a smouldering pockmark visible in the side of its head. A freshly discharged shell lies on the floor, underneath the pistol gripped by the creature's right hand.
A final, protracted gasp escapes from the dying beast before its clouded grey eyes close for the last time. Jones stands motionless, staring at this aberration of nature. When would this nightmare end?
His gun is still fixed on the monster as he makes his approach. He kicks the creature's weapon away from its hand for safe measure. Even when he stoops to pick up a bloody note on the floor, he keeps one eye fixed on the lifeless form, half expecting it to spring back to life at any moment. Thankfully it refrains from such miraculous acts, giving Jones time to read the hastily scribbled letter.
'Dr. Jeremiah McKenzie, last will and testament.
I give it all to the town, almost everything. My tools, this building, he can have it. But there is one thing he will not take from me. I've been down here for an immeasurable period of time. My body has changed, I have changed. For all eternity I would bring them here, preparing them for the exchange but no, not any more! It's over. I've been saving it for a day like this.
My only regret is that I did not have an extra bullet for you, Jack,'
"Jack?" Cole ponders.
The name is scrawled in red crayon, making it stand out amongst the black ink of the adjacent text, as if it was added to an already pre-written passage. At the bottom of the page, a line is typed, probably some kind of motto: 'Look no further for the key to your mind,'
Though Jones has discovered it first, this note is almost certain intended for Jack Crispin's perusal. He folds it up and places in into his pocket.
"The key to your mind," he mutters, before a connection sparks in his brain.
A door reveals itself behind the curtain. Opening it leads him into a familiar corridor, caged corpses lining the walls. It may be his imagination but their heads appear to have turned. Behind bandaged eyes, they stare at him. He ignores it, shaking the thought from his mind.
Though the combination lock is nearly useless from the rust, with care he is able to spell out the word 'JACK'. It clicks in acceptance, affording Jones his prize. The door swings open and he is greeted by a giant stairwell, leading upwards. As he ascends, the stagnant air of the basement is slowly replaced by a cooling zephyr. He never thought he'd be so glad to see the town again.