Watch out. The gap in the door.
It's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The first thing Dawson noticed was the smell. The staleness of the air reeked like rotting fish. It was a thick, humid smell, one that drained his energy with every breath.
The next surprise came from the coarse, cold surface pressing against his body. He was lying facedown on a stone floor coated in dirt and grime. Fighting through his exhaustion, he forced his eyes open, and gasped. He instinctively shot to his feet, vexed by his surroundings. The room encasing him was made completely of stone. There were no windows. There was no furniture. Nothing. Only a lone wooden door standing directly before him. Baffled, Dawson struggled to recall the night before.
He remembered the Hearthstone Diner, and Silent Hill. The conversations with Sylas and Matilda were still clear in his mind. The most recent moment he could envision was when he fell asleep in the guest bedroom. How did he get here? Had he been kidnapped?
I'm wearing my jacket again, he thought, recalling the exact moment when he'd balled it up and tossed it to the bedroom floor. He felt the uneven weight on his hip. And the gun, too.
The room was only illuminated by a dim amber-colored lightbulb. It buzzed erratically, the noise deafening in the stone prison. The light caught on the stone in an odd way, catching Dawson's sight. Moving closer to the wall, he brushed his fingertips against the surface, and felt nearly-symmetrical lines scratched into the rock. They were tally marks. Covering every surface in the room from top to bottom. Thousands of the wicked lines left not an inch of blank space, he noticed.
"What the f—"
A creak came from the door, and he froze. He didn't see it move, but the heavy door was now slightly ajar and light leaked through the crevice, brightening the room. Every fiber of his being warned him not to open the door, but he didn't have a choice. Dawson swiftly approached the door. He gripped the door handle, his knuckles white. Holding his breath, he slowly pushed the door open, praying nothing was waiting for him on the other side.
And his prayers were answered. The area he entered was a hallway, one that was seemingly empty. It appeared to be the inside of a suburban family home. The hall led to a corner, and other than the door behind him, there was no other path to take. He walked cautiously down the hallway, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The beige walls were adorned with peculiar paintings, paintings that seemed to be of nothing. One was an image of dead leaves, and another was a painting of the cloudy gray sky. None of the other pictures seemed to make sense, and yet they hung on the walls like prized possessions. Halfway down the stretch was a small alcove that held more eerie photos, a potted plant, and a small digital clock above the nightstand that read 23:59. Of which day? Dawson couldn't remember.
He pressed onward, his hand at his hip.
"AS THE CONGRESSIONAL DEBATE OVER—"
Dawson nearly screamed. He instantly flattened himself against the wall, not prepared to see the source of the blaring voice around the corner.
"UP YET AGAIN, WE REGRET TO REPORT—"
He poked his head around the corner, and swore under his breath. It was a radio! A goddamned radio! He should've guessed. The male voice was distorted by a layer of static, and it was intercut with high-pitched electronic whine.
"THE MURDER OF THE WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN BY THEIR HUSBAND AND FATHER."
Dawson approached the radio, passing a row of tall windows on his left and a closed door on his right. He checked it in passing, and the handle didn't budge.
"THE FATHER PURCHASED THE RIFLE USED IN THE CRIME AT HIS LOCAL GUNSTORE TWO DAYS EARLIER."
The noise blasted his eardrums as he got closer, and he grabbed the volume dial, turning it down to a more reasonable level. The radio sat atop a dresser, one that also held a phone, and two framed, black-and-white pictures.
"THIS BRUTAL KILLING TOOK PLACE WHILE THE FAMILY WAS GATHERED AT HOME ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON."
Jesus. His gut reaction was to shut off the radio. But the morbid story had piqued his interest, so instead he paid closer attention.
"THE DAY OF THE CRIME, THE FATHER WENT TO THE TRUNK OF HIS CAR, RETRIEVED THE RIFLE, AND SHOT HIS WIFE AS SHE WAS CLEANING UP THE KITCHEN AFTER LUNCH. WHEN HIS TEN-YEAR-OLD SON CAME TO INVESTIGATE THE COMMOTION, THE FATHER SHOT HIM, TOO. HIS SIX-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER HAD THE GOOD SENSE TO HIDE IN THE BATHROOM, BUT REPORTS SUGGEST HE LURED HER OUT BY TELLING HER IT WAS JUST A GAME. THE GIRL WAS FOUND SHOT ONCE IN THE CHEST FROM POINT-BLANK RANGE. THE MOTHER, WHO HE SHOT IN THE STOMACH, WAS PREGNANT AT THE TIME."
The announcer read the story as if it were nothing but fluff news. But the broadcast chilled Dawson to the core. He looked away, trying to find an escape. He noticed a balcony above him, but it was much too high for him to reach. He turned around, and his heart raced with excitement.
The front door! He thanked his lucky stars and walked up to the door, pulling at the handle. But it didn't budge. He twisted harder, clutching the metal with all his strength, but still nothing. "Damn it!" he cursed, and kicked the door with his boot, but the door was unmoved.
"POLICE ARRIVING ON-SCENE AFTER NEIGHBORS CALLED 911 FOUND THE FATHER IN HIS CAR, LISTENING TO THE RADIO."
He kicked the door again. And again. The wood didn't even crack.
"SEVERAL DAYS BEFORE THE MURDERS, NEIGHTBORS SAY THEY HEARD THE FATHER REPEATING A SEQUENCE OF NUMBERS IN A LOUD VOICE. THEY SAID IT WAS LIKE HE WAS CHANTING SOME STRANGE SPELL."
"Screw it," Dawson muttered. He went back to the windows, and found them reinforced with metal bars on the outside of the glass. Peering out of the glass was hopeless, as the only visible sight was the blackness of night. He was alone.
The radio broadcast reached its end, and only static remained. It blasted loudly, blaring once again. Didn't he turn that down? He walked back over to the radio and spotted the red power dial. He reached to turn it off, when it blared:
"DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW. WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED."
Dawson jumped back, recoiling his hand. The voice, entirely different from the news reporter, seemed to cut through all of the static. It couldn't have been part of the same transmission. It...reacted. He slowly backed away, his hand shaking before him. Escape couldn't come quickly enough.
The only path he hadn't tried yet was the stairwell at the end of the hall, leading to a basement door. The descent beckoned to him, whispering an ominous call. Nothing about this made any sense. He knew nearly nothing. But somehow, he knew this was the path he had to take. And he knew that the nightmare was far from over.