''Thank you for letting me know...I take that you don't need company this time.''
I stared at my wounded hand while listening to Sam's speech – the fingers were shaking slightly.
''Yes, this is something I do on my own.''
''...of course.''
''Just don't worry about me. The town is far away, so I won't be back soon.''
''You said it's in Maine, right?''
''Yeah, it takes at least ten hours to drive there.''
''Huh, okay. Are you...''
A long pause – I suppose Sam was trying to ask about my intentions.
''Yes? Go on.''
''...what are you going to do there? You have...any concrete plans?''
''No, not at all. Like I told you, everything related to this town is just history – even the maps I found are really old, so I have no idea what to expect. If the place is still active, I might find more about the red book.''
''Right...sorry, I'm prying again.''
''You're not, since I chose to tell you about this. I'll just visit the town and see what I can see. We'll go for a coffee once I get back.''
''...okay, sounds good. But call me if you need something.''
''Will do.''
I hung up and sat on the sofa, feeling a bit dizzy – perhaps because of the knife wound. It was sore and unpleasantly warm, yet I barely noticed: all my attention was aimed at the car ride. I had to avoid the actual reason of this trip for the sake of my own mental health. Sam already knew about that reason; it wasn't like she could find something out and start laughing at me.
If Marsden was right, the red book's ceremony could have taken place in Silent Hill. Therefore, I could try to repeat it and bring Fae back – the whole idea was simply insane; utter insanity and nonsense. And it still feels like that, even at the moment of writing these lines. I didn't even know any specifics of the ritual; should have at least waited for Marsden's further comments before driving across several states. But I was already too far gone for any rational explanations – and would keep going much further.
I had packed everything in one large sports bag; this black uneven sack standing next to the door, ready to get thrown in the car. It was a bit over eight in the morning, so I could reach the town before late evening – if everything went well. Only one more preparation remained: I made some coffee, poured it in a thermos and stuffed the bottle inside the bag. A strap went over my shoulder as I left the apartment.
It was snowing outside – I adjusted the jacket's collar to keep the tiny freezing flakes outside. Once my luggage was lying on the passenger seat, I started driving. In terms of geography this trip was simple enough: just follow the interstates to I-95 which leads almost directly to central Maine. From there it would get a bit more complicated since the town was so secluded: because of Toluca Lake and the Appalachian Mountains, one had to circle around (or go through) huge forests in order to reach this place. Closest neighbouring settlement was the town of Brahms, though visiting it would have been an unnecessary detour. It was faster to use small roads and drive past the Baxter State Park.
I turned on the radio and relaxing music filled the car (probably some kind of jazz). Thanks to the weather – which could have been described as mild snowstorm – there wasn't much traffic. This bizarre orange glow made the streets unnaturally bright, as the snow reflected every light beam. Only a single taxi was driving in front of me; I stared at its intensely red tail lights through the dense cloud of snowfall. As the cab took a turn, I continued forward to the highway. Almost no one else was using the interstate: for a long time I drove through white, flickering emptiness. Visibility improved as I passed the storm's border. Now huge maple trees appeared around me; their leafless branches looked stunning in white.
And so I kept driving.
Interstate 78 passed through several towns until connecting to 95. New York's presence made this area rather busy – I got stuck in traffic as some kind of construction work slowed things down. Being well-prepared, I used these moments as coffee breaks. After some bigger cities and a bridge over the Hudson River, I was able to leave the interstate. Highway N9 was notably more peaceful – until Bridgeport, where I had to take several additional breaks. As I reached I-91, it started snowing again. Sky was completely covered by a single, smooth blanket of clouds; weather got gradually darker. I had been driving for almost three hours at this point, but I wasn't tired at all – just annoyed to acknowledge how many hours were still left.
Every now and then my surroundings seemed to repeat themselves: smaller roads hidden beneath huge trees and open fields; then a bigger settlement. This theme would present itself again and again until I started doubting my navigation skills. Eventually exhaustion and other natural problems arrived as well; after four hours of driving the need to stop became painful. I took a turn away from the interstate; it led to a smaller road. Tall snow-covered pine trees surrounded it completely – and the nearby gas station as well. I pulled up next to the pumps, sighed heavily and stared at the windshield; some small snowflakes kept landing on it. Eventually, once my tired back allowed it, I stepped outside and headed to the station's tiny shop. I would have to take some gas too – a full container was already in the trunk, but it was reserved for emergencies and the drive back home.
''You heading far?'' cashier asked – a rather young woman with an insect-like tattoo on her neck. Her tone was surprisingly friendly, so I had to struggle for an answer:
''Yes, you could say that.''
''Up north?''
I nodded.
''Hope you like snow then'' she said and smiled.
''I actually do...''
Once the transaction was completed and I had visited the bathroom, it was time to get sick from gasoline fumes. I had to walk around the yard for a moment to clear my head; that knife wound started pulsating. This wasn't a real problem as long as I didn't pay attention to it, so I took some coffee from my thermos and focused on the walls of pines around me. It was almost peaceful – despite the distant humming of the highways. I returned inside the car while sipping coffee; first third of the trip was almost done. Since my only goal was reaching the town, it was easy to concentrate on travelling – even if I knew nothing about the destination itself.
I was about to start the car as my phone alarmed; caller seemed unfamiliar.
''Conway'' I answered, holding the phone with wounded hand; cold sting ran across the skin and climbed up my forearm. I switched hands while cursing quietly.
''Good day Miss, Stephen Lang here. Is it a bad time?''
''No, it's...go on'' I said automatically.
''You visited my store a while ago...''
''Yeah, I remember. So have you reached the previous owners?''
''One of them, yes; she owned the shop with her husband. But unfortunately she doesn't recall that book you were so interested in.''
''...yeah, that's what I expected.''
''Likewise, to be honest. I just find it weird how certain she is about this: apparently there wasn't such book in their collections at all.''
I kept staring at the forest; at the tall, slim shapes of the trees.
''Okay, that sounds...fitting. Thank you for letting me know.''
''You are quite welcome. If the book's origin still interests you, I could go through my own files once more, just to – ''
''No, no...you have done enough already. I appreciate the offer, but...I don't think you would find anything.''
Lang took a short pause.
''...how so?''
''I have looked into this book myself, but I still don't know where it comes from.''
''Okay, I see. So it's a mystery then...''
''You could say that. This thing has lots of history, but it's all really...murky and unclear to me.''
Lang laughed a bit.
''Alright, I'm starting to regret selling it to you...''
I sighed as the gasoline's smell kept spinning in my mind, resulting in a distant headache.
''I'm sorry, Mr. Lang...but I have a meeting to attend, so – ''
''Oh, I apologize. Of course, I let you go now...but if you happen to continue investigating this book and find something, could you let me know?''
''...yeah, sure.''
''Thank you, Miss. Right, goodbye for now.''
I sat there and drank coffee for a long time – until the windshield was almost covered by snow. Driving for another six or so hours felt quite uninspiring, but reaching this town became gradually more meaningful. I knew that the explanation should be simple: an ancient occult writing gets lost and the town is nothing but an ordinary settlement, but I couldn't accept that; there had to be something else too. This place couldn't have such bizarre history without a solid reason – of course, I myself had a very simple reason to think this way.
I took a quick lunch break, got back on the road and joined Interstate 95.
The highway led directly to Maine – I crossed southern state border in Portsmouth. Soon after the surrounding terrain changed notably: steeper hills and endless rows of snow-covered trees appeared around me, while amount of traffic and settlements dropped. For a moment I was almost completely alone (excluding a few truck drivers): just the wide road and another snowstorm. Radio was still on, but I hadn't paid attention to it in several hours – some kind of talk show was running there. Time kept passing until twilight arrived: around 3 p.m. it was already dark.
The interstate led past Newport, which was my staging post. From there, smaller roads through Maine's rural areas would take me to Greenville – and after Greenville, I would enter the central wilderness, pass the mountain range and finally arrive at Toluca Lake. I took a brief pause at local gas station; filled the tank, the thermos and had something to eat. Longer break wasn't necessary, since I had decided to reach the town before nighttime – there were still about three hours of driving left. However, getting rid of the linear interstates made rest of the trip almost enjoyable.
Smaller towns and cities were soon behind me; I continued through thicker forests, while lonely houses and residential areas disappeared one by one. I joined a narrow road that cut through walls of trees; every now and then a few pines dropped snow on the windshield. In this area the Appalachian Mountains formed steeper hillsides on my right; one of the range's notable peaks, Mount Katahdin, wasn't far away. According to my research I was deep inside the old Penobscot region – apparently katahdin meant the greatest mountain in their language. I kept thinking about the tribe and the town's history while moving through the snowy darkness.
It was almost 6 p.m. when two moose passed the road right in front of me – one of them looked at the car in bewilderment before running away. That was all the traffic I encountered; whole forest seemed otherwise empty. Eventually I reached a small crossroads and turned right – there were no guideposts, but this road was supposed to pass Toluca Lake. The ancient town maps didn't really help in this regard, since they were severely outdated. However, I expected to arrive in northern Silent Hill – in the old town.
Another hour passed. The road formed two branches; I chose the left one. Slowly, forest around me disappeared – I got surrounded by uneven snow-covered wilderness; in late evening it presented nothing but a complete, dark void. There were some small buildings on right side of the road, hidden under blankets of snow. Seemingly out of nowhere, a black shape appeared in front of me – another highway; lifted above the smaller road, resting on wide concrete pillars. It went right over my path, though I had no idea where it led to nor where it started from – there seemed to be no traffic on it either. I drove under the construction and passed a group of buildings, thus arriving on a wide perpendicular street. On its opposite side stood a precise row of residential buildings, more or less identical in their appearances. Ornamental trees were placed in front of them in tidy order. I stopped the car next to a green street sign; a name was written on it:
Midwich St.
So I was there – according to the town's map, I had reached Old Silent Hill. While sitting there, in the warmth of my car and looking at the snowy darkness, the whole ten-hour trip felt like one single moment (and it still does). Once this confusion left me alone, I grabbed a flashlight from the sports bag and stepped outside. Snowflakes kept appearing from the pitch-black evening; that was all. No sounds, no lights, not even distant humming of traffic. I walked around the street sign, aiming the flashlight at the lifeless houses – at their black windows, closed doors and snowy mail boxes. But no one was there; this sudden feeling of being completely alone struck me. It was almost dreadful.
I walked to the first front door; sounds of my footsteps felt absurdly loud. I peeked through the door's ornamental window, yet layer of frost blocked the view. Knocking didn't help either; this building was just empty. Same applied to its neighbour, so I returned to the car and inspected the town's map: next to the old town was Central Silent Hill; in south was Toluca Lake and another part of town, built on the southern lakeside. This led me to some kind of valid explanation: the older region had been simply abandoned – perhaps due to its age. But the more I thought about such scenario – one part being active, another being forgotten – the harder it was to believe.
As I stared at the snowy darkness, still awestruck by the absolute silence, the feeling of abandonment only grew stronger – could the whole settlement be empty? This idea was unnerving, but it did make sense to me. Yet in such case, why would anyone plow the secluded roads? I had no trouble driving in the town, thanks to an open path through the thick forest. Without any answers, I returned inside the car and took some coffee – over ten hours of driving had exhausted me, but there was too much to think about. Or rather, there wasn't: blunt reality started reappearing as the ride was now over. I saw only one way to proceed: searching around the town in hope of finding other people, and in the case of finding no one, heading back to Greenville. However, I couldn't really turn back; not anymore. There had to be something to find. If not people, something else – anything that could have helped me.
I was about to get moving as my phone rang. In such deep silence the ringtone sounded like distorted scream; loud enough to startle me. I answered a bit hesitantly, expecting to hear Sam's worried questions – but it wasn't her.
''Hello Emily, Wahrmann here...again. You got home yet?''
That's how it started.
I froze in place, since I recognized this man – not only his voice, but his words as well. I also recalled my own lines from four years ago: Yeah, Fae and I are just taking a bath. But I said nothing. The man continued:
''Could we have another meeting – maybe on Thursday or Friday – and go over the marketing correction once more? Sarah is losing her mind over the sales, claiming that we should remake the whole campaign. I kind of strongly disagree with her...so if you have time, we could meet in some nice place and calm her down a bit. Admittedly, that would calm me down too.''
I dropped the phone and climbed out of the car; fell on the white street. Snow pressed itself against my hands, against the wrappings around the incised wound. That sight; the warped image of her body sunken in water, it became overwhelming. I screamed, leaned against the car and remained there – next to the bright sector, carved in that soundless darkness by the headlights.
