Nothing happened – until my eyes finally opened. I was lying on the pavement right in the middle of the courtyard. As I got up, thin blanket of snow fell down across my jacket. Calm, white light pushed through the fog around me; it was snowing again. I stumbled past some ornamental bushes, trying to remember what had happened. Once I entered the lobby, only a few obscure and rapid images appeared: the creatures, whole school filled with water, that sudden night – it had been a dream, of course, triggered by past experiences. As simple and trivial as that. There was evidently nothing wrong with the school; it was just an aged and abandoned building. My clothes weren't soaked in water and those things – children with distorted faces – hadn't really attacked me. Bad dreams tend to be absurd and this one wasn't an exception.

Despite such trivial reasoning I already knew that mere dream couldn't explain this: the wound on my hand had actually been bleeding and my ankle was bruised, as if twisted violently. I stepped outside and stood there, in front of the main doors. I looked at the bright, snowy mist; how snowflakes appeared through it and floated down. It was so quiet again. As I started walking to my car, more details formed one by one: the four chalk-drawn circles, two line segments between them – that's when it happened; that's when something had happened. And the whole building had become rotten in an instant.

I climbed on the driver's seat as the whole dream came back in chaotic fashion, sounds and sights merged together. At first there was nothing but hellish anxiety; I was shivering. Yet eventually things started making more and more sense: some kind of logic was evidently there. I took more coffee from the thermos and stared at the white ornamental trees; at the abandoned apartments behind them. Every now and then I would realize being utterly tired, but recent events overpowered this feeling easily – I had way too much to think about.

I grabbed the red book from the glove compartment and went through several prayers again, but they felt distant and useless: I saw no connection between the writings and that living nightmare. However, the single words of my notebook proved much more helpful: power of wish caught my interest – the tribe had believed that such power could be used especially around Toluca Lake. This idea was certainly related to dreams with physical effects, so a naive conclusion came to my mind: could I just wish to have her back? The town was indeed unnatural, but was it unnatural enough for pure magic? I had no answers back then, but it would have been too easy; writer of the red book had done much more than just wanted something – at least so it seemed.

I threw both books in the compartment and opened the gauze around my hand. The cut was intensely red, though it didn't bleed anymore. Sharp pain made me nauseous again as cold air touched the wound. After washing it and applying a new piece of white cloth, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Last seconds of that dream were still distant, but now they approached me: whole courtyard filled with water, standing at the roof's edge – and during that moment, my phone had been ringing. I pulled it out and stared at the pixelated row of numbers: one missed call. The number was familiar too. I called back; answer came quickly.

''Wahrmann.''

At first I said nothing – who was I actually calling to? The voice was that of my colleague's, but something about it bothered me.

''Wahrmann'' the man replied without changing his tone.

''...Emily here.''

''Ah, hello. I tried reaching you yesterday...to be blunt, could you stop by the office? Tomorrow or perhaps even tonight?''

''No, I can't.''

''Really? We could use the help...and expertise.''

''I can't come.''

Distant sounds emerged from the background. The man continued after a brief pause:

''That's unfortunate. You busy at home?''

''...yeah.''

''Okay, understood. It's hard to find a sitter in such short notice...I know that problem. Anyway, I'll keep you posted on the news, okay? See you next week.''

Call got disconnected. I chose the number again; no one answered – nothing but the ringing tone. I tried calling Sam too, but that's when the field disappeared completely. This was less surprising: I was able to sense all these absurdities – hear them, see them and apparently even get hurt by them – while they defied pure logic.

Remaining still wouldn't get me anywhere, so I decided to keep moving. The engine turned on; for a moment its muffled rumbling sounded unreal. I arrived on Bradbury Street, which would get me to Bachman Road – and Bachman Road led to the church. I passed a few parked vehicles and the northward Levin Street; some tall metallic fences were placed on it, with a couple of colourful signs attached to them. Apparently the street had been closed due to construction work, and it wasn't the only one: right before the next crossroads some thin shapes pushed through the fog. Another set of metallic fences with two signs on them: Road Closed and Infrastructure Update – I started getting worried and backed up to an alleyway; both of its sides were filled with garages. I moved slowly through the narrow path, past garbage cans, wooden fences and some ornamental trees behind them. Tiny snowflakes kept falling down.

Around the midpoint of the alleyway another blockage stopped me: a faintly blue car, which was backed out from one of the garages. Its engine wasn't running, door on driver's side was open – yet there were no visible footprints. I cursed quietly while stepping outside; would it be necessary to backtrack on Midwich Street? Perhaps not, since the church was literally around next two corners. I took a quick look inside the car: some coins and a coffee cup were left on its dashboard, that was all.

Could the driver be nearby? At that point I didn't expect to find anyone, but I did get curious. Keys were not in the ignition, neither in the glove compartment – though it did contain something else of interest: I pulled out a small, black revolver. For a moment I stared at it, realizing that the cylinder was fully loaded. Whole idea of carrying a gun felt absurd – even if the reasons for doing so were even more absurd. Eventually I decided to take the weapon with me; just in case. I continued by inspecting the garage and getting used to the gun's distressing weight. Some wooden shelves and cabinets were placed next to each other, with paint cans and a few spray bottles stuffed in them. Series of wrenches was hung up on the wall; one of the tools was missing. Faint metallic scent was noticeable in the cold air.

A partially open door connected the garage to a backyard, which belonged to one of the Levin Street's apartment buildings. I continued further, trying to spot more signs of activity. The yard was rather small, bordered by tall wooden fences. Two trees were planted in the middle; behind them was standing a green plastic chair. I walked to the house's backdoor – it wasn't locked. Nothing but twilight inside; the apartment was completely empty. Most of it consisted of a small kitchen combined with a dining room; rest was hidden behind another door. One single hallway ran through the apartment and led from the backdoor to the main entrance on Levin Street's side.

Air smelled mildly stale; it was even colder than outside. I closed the door behind me and turned a light switch next to the kitchen – current streamed into its ceiling lamp; lazy orange light filled the narrow space. Turned out the lamp was too worn out to illuminate anything properly; still better than nothing. I walked past the shine to the dining room table and looked around. Next to me stood an old television with angular design. It was placed on a narrow stand which functioned as bookshelf too: three rows of books were arranged in horizontal compartments. Most of them seemed to be novels and short stories. I pulled out a small green book and opened it; some of the kitchen's light landed on its old, worn pages. Title was somewhat interesting: Native American Stories. Apparently the book contained short, verbally expressed tales, which used to have different presentations among different tribes. I read the first entry:

I : The Devil gets fooled

Translated from Abenaki-Penobscot by William Fields

There were Woman and Man at the edge of the Forest, they lived together in harmony. One day, Woman entered the Forest and walked to the River. It was far away, behind the tall Pines, deep inside the Trees. She kneeled and took its bright water, but something was troubling her. The Forest was so quiet. There were no Birds, no Insects. Nothing to see and nothing to hear.

Woman started walking back home with her two pots full of bright water. Then she met someone, someone else walking in the Forest. Now she saw and heard again, but couldn't quite understand any of it. A bizarre sight and a weird tongue that sounded like hers, yet it wasn't exactly the same.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"You know me" said the stranger.

"Now I do, yes" Woman said. It was the Devil she was speaking to.

"Leave me alone, would you? All I wanted was some water" she continued.

"Those pots are heavy and the way Home is long. Where is your Horse?" Devil asked smiling. Woman was quiet since her back was actually aching. It was true that the pots were rather heavy.

"I can give you a Horse for a full Year, any colour you want, if you give me something in return."

"What would that be?" Woman asked.

"What you carry on your chest, beneath those pots. Both of them. After a full Year, I return here to collect my payment."

Woman hesitated for a moment until answering.

"So be it, I agree. Give me a brown Horse then."

"It is yours" said Devil and disappeared. A brown Horse walked through the Pines and carried Woman home with two pots of bright water.

Woman did not tell her Man about the Devil and said that the Horse was a gift from Mi'kmaq. She forgot the agreement with the Devil until a Year had passed. Now afraid, she told her Man everything.

"Do not fear" he said. "I know a way to fool the Devil" promised Man.

"Give me your clothes and let me go in your place" he said and put on what his Woman was wearing. He entered the Forest and walked to the River, past the tall Pines. It was quiet again, nothing to see and nothing to hear.

"A full Year is gone" said a voice behind him.

"Yes, Devil, that is why I am here" man answered.

"Give me your chest and I let you go" Devil demanded, holding a black knife in its hand.

"I would, but my children already drank my chest away" said Man and opened the shirt.

"There is no value in mere pelt. Go, I have no use for you" said Devil and vanished. Man returned home, whistling and laughing. He greeted his relieved Woman. For once, the Devil itself had gotten fooled.

I placed the book down – couldn't help wondering what the original form of this Devil had been. Perhaps an evil spirit or something influenced by Christianity; my knowledge took me no further than that. There was an additional remark on the final page of the story, written with ballpoint pen:

it is not that easy

he left it in the cabinet

use it

I read those lines again and again, stared at the intense curves of the blue ink. Was this message meant for me? Impossible, of course, yet I couldn't get rid of that absurd idea. I had inspected the book out of curiosity; no one could have expected it. As I looked slowly around in search of the referred cabinet, that feeling of dread came back – something was going to happen. Not right now, but soon. I stood up anxiously and investigated the dining room, but its cupboards were mostly empty. Nothing of interest in the kitchen either; just some old plates, beer bottles and a sink filled with water – drain seemed to be clogged.

Only one option remained: a tall wardrobe which stood next to the front door. Some jackets were hung inside, cardboard boxes formed a pile underneath. Above my forehead, an additional horizontal compartment seemed empty – until I spotted something in the corner. A small bottle made out of glass; layer of dust had fallen on it. Brown cap sealed something inside: this oily substance with intensely white colour. The bottle had a small and rather worn label with a single line of text:

I deny thee

Staring at the bottle didn't help me understand any of this – and even so, I kept standing there and looking at the white oil. It's not easy to describe that feeling; there was something almost reassuring about this liquid. Eventually, as I returned to the dining room table, those two words came back to me: white wine. So I sat down, in the shadows of the weak, orange light, and continued inspecting the bottle. Whoever had written that message – and whoever it had been meant for – knew how to use this thing. Use for what – a resurrection? Despite how absurd it was, I started losing my doubts. Slowly I opened the cap and smelled the liquid; it was neither pleasant nor foul. Like an intense aroma of flower.

I stood up and grabbed the green book again. Now the oil bottle started disturbing me; it was such a concrete step towards something insane. There were no more remarks in the book, so I had no idea what to do – other than proceeding towards the church. I sealed the bottle tightly, placed it in my pocket and took out my phone to check time: half past twelve. I should have kept moving while it was still bright, yet three bars of pixels stopped me; field was detected. After choosing Sam's name from the contact list, only the ringing tone remained. Seconds passed slowly.

While waiting, I jumped to the very last tale in the green book. It was a brief and humorously toned story about an ant wandering on Mount Katahdin – I have already forgotten most of its details though.

''Sam'' stated the distorted voice, almost startling me.

''Emily here.''

''...oh, hello. Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch...''

''Then I'm sorry for waking you up.''

''No, no, I shouldn't...sleep in the middle of day. Coffee could help...I mean, of course it will. Always does.''

I smiled faintly while planning my words. It was a bit difficult, as the oil's intense smell kept lingering in my thoughts and causing mild headache.

''Sam'' I started; she seemed to notice the emphasis right away.

''Yeah?''

''I'm now in Silent Hill.''

''Right...so how is it? Rather snowy, I assume.''

It felt like Sam's carefree tone arrived through another dream; passed something shapeless and eventually reached me. For a few long seconds I questioned everything that had happened so far. The feeling never left me alone: it's here even today.

''Indeed, But...''

''But?''

''...to begin with, no one seems to live here anymore. At least this part of town is just empty.''

She was quiet for a while.

''You mean it's a ghost town? I think you predicted that...more or less.''

''It does explain a few things, sure...''

I kept walking around, looking for ways to express myself. Sam waited patiently.

''I really don't know where to start from. It's not like the residents have moved away; they have just vanished. I have no idea why or how, but there is something wrong about this whole area, the whole lakeside. I told you about the natives' rituals, right?''

''I remember. You also said that the town seemed cursed'' she replied without even trying to hide her interest.

''Apparently I was right – in some way. And perhaps the natives were too. There has to be an explanation for this, but I can't...''

While struggling with words, my restless walk led me to the kitchen. Sam's puzzled voice felt more and more distant. Apparently she had noticed my distress.

''Wait, Emily, what's happened?''

''That's exactly the problem: I still don't know. I hear and see things that can't be real – perhaps this call is one of them. I can't spot the difference anymore.''

I looked at the murky water in the kitchen sink; who knows how long it had stood there. Sam remained quiet for a long time.

''Sam?''

''Still here...hold on, I need to think about this.''

Something moved in the water; at first I thought it was an insect. My sight followed the swimming creature; like a thin, peach-coloured worm. It moved around by twisting its flexible body, bumping into the walls every now and then – maybe the light from the ceiling lamp had made it active.

''So...I suppose you have already considered this, but shouldn't you just come back? Sounds like it would be a sensible option.''

''I can't – and yes, I have considered that. But you know why I'm here...why I came here, right?''

''Of course. And to be honest, I always thought it was plain stupid.''

''I know. Me too.''

''At least we understand each other'' Sam stated as my headache grew worse. I left the sink alone and returned to the dining room; the wounded hand felt heavy. Raindrops started rattling against the windowpanes.

''So what are you doing next? Losing your mind in a ghost town isn't something I would support.''

I looked outside while listening to her. Snow was turning into white sludge, temperature had risen notably. This bizarre, somehow unreal twilight had already fallen.

''There's a church nearby...I'll see what I can find there. Assuming the doors aren't just locked.''

''Sounds hopeless.''

Once more I didn't know what to say – of course Sam was right.

''It is hopeless...but I'm not turning back at this point. There's this...''

I stopped abruptly before mentioning the white oil.

''Hm? Go on.''

''...sorry, I just wanted to give you an update – and to hear some rational thoughts for change.''

''Yeah, I kind of realized that since it was you who called me. Just...don't do anything dumb. We have a brilliant movie to watch once you get back.''

''Of course. Honestly looking forward to it.''

She laughed.

''You really had to emphasize being honest about it? But it's fine, I believe you...so, until next time, okay? If you need help with anything, call me.''

''Will do.''

I set the phone on the table, collapsed on the closest chair and swept my forehead; I was sweating. Thin veins of water ran across the windowpanes. The wound got painful, it forced me to stand up and walk around again – until the phone rang once more. I answered, yet heard only one heavily distorted sentence:

''Wahrmann here.''

After that, just static noise. Disconnection was immediately followed by another call; nothing but static this time. I turned the phone off and stood still; listened to the quiet pattering of rain.

Eventually I switched off the light and made my clumsy way back outside. As the door opened, cold raindrops hit my face; the barrier of fog was gone. This sudden change in weather felt wrong, somehow oppressive – just like the events at the school. Only this time I was aware of everything: the scent of wet grass and moist air; the smooth sounds of rain landing on asphalt and empty buildings. Whatever kind of hell I had just walked into, I knew it wasn't a dream.