Some days later, I saw a dream. An exceptional one, since I still remember its ending: it morphed into a pair of thin legs sticking out of soapy water. I woke up without realizing where I was; nothing but the unfamiliar darkness and dim colours teeming inside it. Eventually I recognized my own bedroom and my own bedsheets; the pillow was soaked in sweat. Since sleeping was impossible, I got up and continued those seemingly meaningless investigations with the pagan religion and its history. The town Marsden had mentioned – Silent Hill – felt like a practical point to start from. Search engine gave a depressing impression about this settlement: lots of accidents and disappearings had taken place there. Some kind of lethal illness was mentioned, as well as a murder case: two children had been killed in front of their own home. According to an ancient newspaper article, the delusional felon had been talking about the red devil after getting caught.

I collapsed against the chair's back, rubbing my aching eyes. I stood up slowly and decided to make some coffee; an unnerving feeling appeared and made me restless. It felt like I had found something – that something being miserable pieces of history when looking into this town; as if there was something wrong with it. Such a naive thought, of course, based on less fortunate past events. But that was one more thing which I couldn't understand: I had nothing but past events. As if all activity there had stopped some ten or fifteen years ago; I couldn't find anything topical related to the town.

Smell of fresh coffee brought me back to the kitchen. I filled my cup and stepped on the balcony; it was freezing outside. I was about to call Sam until realizing what time it was. With no one to talk to, I started making quiet plans: next day I would send copies to Marsden and wait for his comments – then it would be time to take distance; another car trip to somewhere; perhaps New York. It was hard to say whether I wanted to take Sam with me, like she had proposed before. I had lots of chaotic thoughts to arrange, and surely that would be easier with someone like her. As I thought about all that – going on a drive with her and talking about this absurd religion – I was almost happy; this plan felt reassuring. Scent of cold air got mixed with the coffee; it was perfect.

Eventually I returned inside, shivering a bit. I refilled my mug, returned to the table and threw some quick glances at more search results. There were several pictures of a lake surrounded by steep hills, as well as a large hotel with really beautiful architecture. According to one prominent article, Silent Hill developed into a tourist attraction after the town's coal mine was closed – which happened in early 20th century. This was easy to understand, given the peaceful landscapes. So it was nothing but a small town in the middle of nowhere, with some unfortunate history and marginal religious movement – and still, this town having connections to the red book made me both worried and interested. Visiting the place personally was the logical next step, but I wasn't ready to take it so soon – why would I even go there? To perform a pagan ritual? I had no acceptable ways to rationalize such ideas.

I closed the laptop as my eyes got sore. It was almost two in the morning; lots of time for further attempts to get proper sleep. I finished the coffee and stood up – that's when it happened again. Involuntary searching movements and the phrase that got stuck inside: Hey Fae, time for bed. All routines and that manufactured contentment simply disappeared – as always, I sunk quickly. I threw the cup against wall, fell on the chair and started crying. It is somewhat impossible to describe those moments; how meaningless everything becomes. There was a confusing, distant hatred towards all things around me, since they had no value left. I don't know how long I wept there; in this regard it's hard to remember details. Supposedly I went to bed after tiring myself out and fell asleep from exhaustion – and as usual, I recall no dreams.


Cloudy Saturday arrived. It was time to call Sam.

''Speaking'' she answered.

''It's Emily. Are you busy today?''

''Not at all...''

''I'm going for a drive...got way too much to think about. Still want to come along?''

She became quiet for a moment.

''...where are you headed?''

''New York – that is, in Manhattan. There's this cafe I usually visit.''

She took another pause, yet her answer wasn't difficult to guess:

''...sure. I'll come. Are we doing it today?''

''Yes. Actually, would you be ready in an hour?''

''I would'' she said with hints of excitement in her voice. I suppose Sam really didn't have anything meaningful to do anymore.

''Great...see you soon then.''

It would surely feel weird to have company on such a trip. However, the thought was also reassuring – which in turn was quite surprising, given that I had always done this alone. I was, of course, eager to hear Sam's opinions about the red book; maybe she could help me make sense of it. I quickly went through some emails, grabbed my jacket and walked out of the apartment building – cold air felt comforting like always. I placed the red book in the compartment next to my car's dashboard. Its cover was striking as ever; gray weather only enhanced the effect. Every time I saw it, the symbol with four circles appeared; a distant thought of those simple shapes and line segments. I started the car and forced myself to focus on driving. Some snowflakes landed on the windshield.

I stopped next to Sam's apartment – she came out wearing a deep green quilted jacket and a beige cap.

''Hello...'' she said while climbing inside the car and fiddling with her mittens.

''Likewise. You familiar with New York?''

''Not at all. I've been there many times but it's so chaotic...it's impossible to navigate there.''

''Chaotic is right...'' I said and continued driving. At the next red lights Sam got ahead of me:

''So did you reach Werner?''

I got confused for a moment.

''...oh, yes. I called him.''

''Was he able to clarify anything? It was about that symbol, right?''

''Yeah – and that's what I actually wanted to talk about...with you, I mean. Marsden told me much more than I had excepted, so now...''

Sam laughed a bit.

''Too much information? When he gets carried away, you might as well run.''

I smiled. The lights turned green.

''That symbol had lots of history...and I want to hear your opinion about it. Is that okay?''

''Sure, go on.''

I told Sam what Marsden had told me – about the cult, its connection to the Natives and its belief system. She listened carefully without saying a word. As I was done, we both remained quiet for a moment – Sam prepared her response for a while:

''I take that you know what this sounds like...the idea of rebirth and your interest towards it.''

''Yes. I know.''

''I could, of course, tell you what you have certainly already told yourself.''

''What would that be?''

''Magic isn't real, to put it simply.''

Sam smiled. Despite agreeing with her, I was surprised by a sudden strike of anger. I hid it, of course, which wasn't hard; the feeling disappeared within seconds. So I said nothing but:

''I know.''

We kept driving in silence – until Sam broke it again:

''I would surely bring Elliot back if it was possible.''

I took a short pause to plan my words.

''Even if I can't give any explanation for this...I think that I have found something. There's a red book in the compartment...its last page contains that symbol.''

Sam seemed to get curious. She pulled out the book with violently red cover and examined it carefully. I waited while she went through the pages, clearly interested. She jumped to the very end.

''Yeah, that's the same drawing...''

''There isn't any notion of the writer, so I have no idea where the book comes from. I just found it from a small bookstore.''

''That makes some sense to me...would be weird to see someone's name on this.''

''That book is one thing...another is the town Marsden had mentioned; Silent Hill. I looked into it – and to be blunt, the place seems somewhat cursed.''

''How so?'' Sam asked while inspecting the prayers. I told her about my little research; about all the weird and tragic incidents. Those combined with the area's history had made me gradually more convinced – I just couldn't regard it all as a pile of coincidences. There was something in that town.

''I suppose you are going there one day'' Sam concluded after my presentation.

''Perhaps. And once again, I know what this sounds like.''

''No, no...I won't judge you.''

Sam returned the book in the compartment – to her, it was rather meaningless. I had no idea what to feel; maybe I was just getting obsessed. Once the book was out of sight, Sam changed the subject like it was nothing. Eventually her genuine enthusiasm distracted me. As we arrived at Manhattan, the mild snowstorm had already covered everything in white.


I didn't get back home until six in the evening, since Sam had invited me to another get-together with two other people from the support group. I didn't know them at all, but she seemed to get along with everyone. After many rounds of confusing board games – which Sam had clearly enjoyed – I resumed to my less social routines: I turned on the TV, grabbed my laptop and sat on the couch. I had three hours to spend; then it would be time for the sleeping pills. Luckily three hours was more than enough to inspect some e-mails, one of which turned out to be interesting: Marsden had sent some comments regarding the red book.

Ms. Conway,

I went through the pages you sent me; they are fascinating, to put it mildly. I don't want to make hasty conclusions, but this indeed looks like a ritual for resurrecting the dead, written down in poetic form. My number one question is the following: why? Why was it important to write these words down? Perhaps they were read out loud during the ceremony. The title calls it 'transcript' which is either very fitting or almost wrong; depends on how the ceremony was carried out in practice.

As for now, there are only two details that sound notably familiar to me. First one is the term 'white wine'. The Penobscots used a certain flower called White Claudia in their rituals; eating its seeds would result in hallucinations. Said flowers were abundant around Toluca, which explains (among other factors) the tribe's activity there. Could the 'white wine' be related to this plant? I don't know, to be honest, but the idea is intriguing.

Secondly, there is the poem on tenth page: 'on this holy land, in place that is silent'. Could these lines refer to Toluca Lake? That would be one of the hasty conclusions I wanted to avoid; interesting nonetheless. It seems that no other poem refers to the location of this ritual. Of course, there is a naive connection between the expression 'silent place' and names Silent Hill and Place of the Silenced Spirits. Yet, like I mentioned on phone, the town used to have another name (perhaps more than one during its history), so I shouldn't get too excited. I will look into this matter next week when I have more time.

Best Regards,

W.M.

Reading Marsden's message wasn't comforting; I felt uneasy. The feeling lasted long enough to make me delete the whole email and set the laptop aside for a moment. I went to the balcony to catch some cold air – more and more snow fell down; the eastern storm was setting over Allentown. That uneasy feeling turned into dizziness, so that I had to return inside and fall on the couch, suddenly utterly tired. In my thoughts, that symbol kept flashing; drawn in black against white background. I took my notebook from the drawer and ruffled the pages for a while – slowly, the words gluskabe, man from nothing, red devil, god and crimson one started making troubling sense to me: whatever was residing in Silent Hill had many names, given by different people in different times. That, or I was simply wrong about it all.

I jumped around my notes until reaching one of the cited prayers: I lay down, from trembling hands brimful of white wine – this sentence got stuck in my thoughts and circled around. Apparently Marsden's explanation never truly reached me, despite its simple logic. What other options were there? Only the existence of black magic, but hallucinogenics and human nature already explained everything – without breaking laws of nature. And yet I couldn't accept it; there was more in those prayers than mere descriptions of drug use. There had to be.

I threw the notebook on the table, closed my eyes and fell eventually asleep. Following night was restless: I woke up often and walked clumsily around the living room. My head was aching; the red book was still lying on the table, next to my notebook – the shade of red almost glowed in darkness. I turned on the TV, even if its bright, cold shine made my forehead sting. Some kind of talk show was on – reruns, maybe. Some reality shows too; I can't remember any details of those. A commercial came up with a sunny beach and some palm trees. That was the trigger; how sunlight filtered through them, blinking and jumping around, glittering against blue sky. I started crying and kept doing so until falling asleep. How could it work like that? I would never meet my daughter again, and this was (once more) explained to me by a palm tree.

Didn't wake up until 6 a.m. – it was still dark outside. I had, apparently, turned the TV off before getting exhausted. Sweeping orange light pulsated behind the windows as a plow truck drove along the street. Headache was now gone, replaced by unbearable thirst. It was way too warm inside, so after a glass of water I returned to the balcony. Neighbouring alleyway, where the plow truck couldn't even fit, was completely covered in snow. I stared at the smooth white blankets over parked cars and traffic signs, glittering in the lazy, electric glow of the streetlights. Only one pedestrian was walking past a cafe, under the snow-covered canopy. As they took the next turn left and disappeared, the street became empty: I looked around to spot other active people, but there was no one in sight. The scraping sound got gradually weaker; then it was gone.

I returned indoors and went straight to kitchen for some coffee – and as the deeply red light of the power switch came on, another low appeared: I fell on the floor, weeping. I simply missed her; she wasn't there and would never be. Throwing around kitchen utensils didn't change this fact, but I did so anyway. One of the knives cut a long wound on my left hand; faint wave of nausea arrived as cold tap water joined the blood. After some medical gauze and another moment on the floor, I filled a mug with coffee and returned to the living room couch.

I opened my laptop and started planning a trip to Maine.