Prologue
The heat in Fallujah was almost unbearable, clinging to everything like a second skin. Dust clouds floated through the air, just as the Humvee rumbled through the deserted streets. Private First Class Alex Shepherd sat in the back, his rifle resting next to him, but his attention lay elsewhere. His fingers held a small photograph he tucked in his jacket, where most carried the photo of a significant other, Alex carrying a photo of his younger brother, Joshua. His innocent face stared back at him, a reminder of everything he was fighting to protect. Just how long had it been since he'd last seen him?
His squad mates filled the silence with chatter, their voices crackling over the radio. Private Miller sat next to Alex, leaning on the window. They all had easy chatter, anything to keep their minds off the war. "Hey, Padilla?" Miller called out. "Remember that Camel? Thought you were going to pass out when it bit your hand."
The others laughed, even as they scanned the streets for signs of danger. But Alex didn't join in. His mind elsewhere, tracing back thousands of miles across the sea to a little town in Maine called Shepherd's Glenn. The place he called home. His thoughts kept coming back. Was Joshua all right? Had he grown taller? Did his old flame, Elle, still live in town? Or had she grown past it all, gone to college? More than anything, Alex wondered if his father, Adam, would be proud.
They had all remembered that day a few years ago when the planes hit the World Trade Center. They all wanted to do their part. The Shepherd line had men sign up for service since the days of the Revolutionary War. Alex's dad was a soldier, his father was a soldier, and so on. It felt natural that after all that, it would be Alex's turn to sign up. After making his way through basic training and graduating to the ranks of the United States Army Rangers, Alex hoped his father would finally say he was proud of his son.
He tightened his grip on the photo. His father had always been distant, a man of few words, but lots of expectations. Joining the army wasn't just about serving his nation. It was also about proving something, to himself, and his father. If he came home a soldier, maybe, just maybe, he could finally bridge the gap between them.
A snore broke his thoughts, returning him to reality. Hendricks, the newest of their group, stirred and yawned before mumbling "Man, I had the weird dream… A vanilla milkshake. Does that mean anything?"
Alex and the others chuckled.
"Seriously. Does that mean anything?" Miller asked, rubbing his eyes. "Like is my brain telling me I need sugar or something?"
Padilla laughed, shaking his head. "It means you've got a hell of an imagination man."
Alex smiled, he had trained with some of the guys and had grown close to them. His attention went back to the photo in his hand. As trivial as it sounded, the conversations kept the edge off. But calm never lasted long in a place like Iraq.
Without warning, something seemed to shift. In an instant, those easy feelings evaporated just as every man tensed. The convoy began to move slowly.
And then, the shout came. "RPG!"
The world exploded in a flash of loud and loud sound. The Humvee in front of them had exploded into fire and metal. The second wave hit them, seconds after, throwing Alex and the others to the side of the vehicle. His ears were ringing, and everything dissolved into chaos. Shouting, the ring of machine gun fire, and more explosions. Then, finally darkness.
Alex opened his eyes again, the roar of Fallujah was gone. The smell of smoke and burning rubber was replaced by the fresh smell of rain. He blinked again, vision hazy. He had tried to make sense of the sudden shift. Instead of the military Humvee, he found himself in the passenger seat of an old, beat-up truck. The soft hum of the engine vibrated through the well-worn seats. The steady rhythm of it all pulling out of the edge of a nightmare.
"Welcome back to the world of the living." A gruff voice said from the neighboring driver's seat.
Alex tilted his head to see the man behind the wheel, Travis. That was the name the trucker had given him just outside a truck stop, just along the endless stretch of the road leading to Shepherd's Glen.
"You were out cold for a while," Travis added. "Figured you needed the sleep."
Alex rubbed his eyes, trying to help himself wake up. Was his head still reeling from the remnants of his dream, or was it a memory? Either way, he was no longer in Iraq. For him, the war was over. He had been discharged and headed home. Though "Home" felt distant.
"Anything for our boys in Uniform," Travis said, keeping his tone genuine. "You've been through hell and back. The least I can do is get you where you're going."
Alex nodded but didn't say anything. He leaned his head back against the seat, he was exhausted. The truck gently rocked as it continued down the highway. The road seemed to stretch forever in front of them, Shepherd's Glen was close now. He was going home.
But something in the back of his mind nagged at him, something he couldn't quite shake. The lines between dream and reality seemed like a blur as the familiar landscape of pine trees rolled on. Home didn't feel like it should have. He still held the photo of Joshua in his hand. But this wasn't a feeling of comfort, it was one of foreboding.
At any rate, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The cold winds swept over Shepherd's Glen, carrying with it the scent of wet earth. The trees on the outskirts of town swaying in the breeze, the branches were bare, creaking. To the outside world, Shepherd's Glen was just another quiet, unremarkable town, same as any. Its streets were lined with old colonial-style houses, the lawns neatly mowed, white picket fences, and familiar faces of the neighbors. But as the wind howled through town, and the alleys and over the rooftops, it carried something older, something darker.
Away from the town, far beyond the view of those who slept comfortably in their homes, a different gathering was taking place. The undesirables, strangers, transients, and drifters unlucky to find themselves in Shepherd's Glen had been rounded up. Their faces contorted with fear and confusion. They had all been taken in the dead of the night, blindfolded and bound, herded like cattle towards the dense woods just outside of town.
Unfolding amid trees was an ancient ritual.
The captives were cold, terrified, and tired. They heard nothing but the whispers of the masked figures that surrounded them. They moved with quiet precision, their faces hidden behind masks, gas masks, warped animal faces, deformed human features, and twisted symbols none of them could comprehend. They moved in unison, as though connected by an unseen force. Their presence was unnerving.
The captives, men and women, child and elder, trembled as they were being dragged to the center of the clearing. Their bodies were weak, minds racing to understand what was happening. Some prayed, others cried. But all of them knew they had to know. That whatever was about to happen, would not end well for them.
And then, the chanting began.
"Sator arepo tenet opera rotas. INRI natura integra. INRI, INRI, abracadabra..."
Their words were ancient, a weight of history none of the captives understood. The masked figures chanted to one another in unison. Voices rose and fell, growing louder until the very air seemed to hum with power.
"Sator arepo tenet opera rotas..."
The captives felt their hearts pounding. They didn't know what they were saying, but their bodies instinctively recoiled in fear. The chant filled the clearing, through the trees and the ground, as if the earth itself had joined their ritual.
One of the captives, a young man, strained hard against the ropes binding his wrists. He looked around trying to find something, anything that could explain the nightmare they were in. His gaze fell on one of the masked figures standing away. She, or at the very least, thought it was a she, wore a mask made from the skull of a ram. The curved horns reflected off the firelight. In one hand, she held a torch, flames flickered in the icy wind, casting an eerie glow.
Her voice cut through the chanting like a blade. It was calm, measured, an icy coldness that sent shivers down the captive's spines. "For one hundred and fifty years, we have honored the covenant."
The young man strained to listen, terror in his chest growing as she spoke each word.
"This town," the woman continued, voice rising above the chanting. "Was not built on stone or soil, but on sacrifice and blood."
The captives exchanged looks of panic, but there was no escape. The masked figures closed in all around them, their movements slow and deliberate. It was as if they were enacting a dark, sacred ritual that was passed through the generations.
The woman in the ram skull mask stepped forward. She raised the torch high above her head. The flames crackled and roared through the cold night's air. "Tonight!" she said, voice with reverence. "We honor that covenant once more! Tonight, we give tribute!"
The captive's confusion turned to sheer terror as it sunk in. This wasn't a random act of violence. This was a ritual, one with roots far deeper and older than any of them could have imagined. Shepherd's Glen held secrets, and those secrets demanded blood.
The young man struggled hard, the rope burning into his wrists. He tried to cry out, but his voice caught in his throat as he watched the woman approach with the torch, her shadow loomed against the firelight. Around him, the chanting grew louder and louder, more frenzied, as if the masked figures were trying to summon something out of the air.
"Sator arepo tenet opera rotas... INRI, INRI... abracadabra!"
The words pounded in his head, the rhythm beat in sync with his heart. The masked figures began circling the captives, their movements synchronized with the chanting, the hands outstretched to the flames, as if drawing power from the fire itself. Their masks, some human, other gas masks, others animal, shifted and twisted in the dancing light, making it impossible to tell who or what was underneath.
The woman in the ram's skull mask stopped in front of the captives, eyes hidden by the mask. She raised the torch higher, flames casting a hellish glow on her mask. "By this fire," she toned "We cleanse the impure. By this fire, we ensure the safety of Shepherd's Glen for another generation."
With a slow, deliberate movement, she lowered the torch on the ground, the flames at the grass and leaves. The heat intensified as the fire spread, consuming the gas-soaked foliage at their feet. The chanting reached a pitch, masked figures raising their hands towards the sky as the fire began to roar. The flames grew taller, hotter, and brighter.
The young man screamed. He wasn't the only one, they struggled against the bonds, and their voices drowned by the wind and the chants of the masked figures. The fire spread all around, flames devouring everything in their path.
Through it all, the woman in the ram skull's mask watched it silently, the torch held as high as the flames consumed the offering to their god.'
Many miles away as this unfolded, Alex Shepherd stirred in his seat. Something told him that the home he was returning to was not the same as he had left. There was something beneath the surface, dark and waiting.
"Almost there, soldier," Travis muttered as he glanced at Alex. "Almost home."
Author's Note:
Thank you for taking the time to read this newest fanfic of mine. While I am currently working on Silent Hill 1 Fanfic called Silent Hill: Descent in Darkness. I felt compelled to write my own spin on Silent Hill Homecoming. I have decided to merge the first four games and the others like Homecoming into one universe. This story is a direct sequel to Silent Hill 2: Echoes of the Past.