Disclaimer: All right, Silent Hill and all affiliated characters, concepts, and plot devices are © Konami and KCET. Bottom line – I don't claim to own Silent Hill. I only own a copy of the game. All external references are the property of their respective owners.
It was one year, eleven months, twenty-nine days twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and sixty seconds ago that Henry Cityshend moved into Room 302 of South Sootfield Heights, an apartment building right smack in the side of the center of the smallish-large sized city of Sootfield, which was why it was called Sootfield Heights to begin with. Henry was happy and enjoying his new, mediocre life.
But four days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and sixty seconds ago, something mildly out of the ordinary happened. He began to have a recurring dream each night. One other thing, albeit a negligible one…
He couldn't leave Room 302…
He was in his bedroom, and it seemed his tastes had quickly turned to red without his awareness, for the entire room was coated in it. Even the windows were coated with what looked like tomato paste that had long since expired. Once he'd had enough of that scenery, he exited and made the long and arduous trek to his living room down the short hall.
At least, he thought it was his living room. He couldn't be sure. If it was, it must have been robbed, for a number of the accoutrements he was familiar with were missing. One thing was for sure, the burglars were rather inept, for they'd gone to the trouble of replacing what they'd stolen. But what really got to him was that they'd stolen his record player. His record player! That was like the predecessor to the CD, or something! In its place, the jerks left a broken TV, as if in mockery of his loss. And what the hell was up with that eyesore of a clock?! Now that he thought about it, those burglars were probably the ones responsible for his apartment's new red-on-red with red trim color scheme. Or perhaps that was the work of a really sloppy hazmat team.
He walked over to the door, only to see that that had been burgled as well, and in its place was a crude sketch of what had once been there. 'Picture of a door,' he thought as he examined it. 'I don't know who drew it, but it's certainly in bad taste…' He considered that notion a moment. 'Then again…' he thought, running his finger across the red substance that coated every square inch of his apartment. He brought it to his mouth and tasted it. "Mmm… Strawberry jam," he said. "Still tastes bad, though…" He then walked over to the wall opposite the television to see some photographs, and noted one to be of a man he wasn't familiar with. "With a face like that, I'll bet he has to sneak up on the mirror in order to shave…" he thought aloud as he regarded the unknown person in the picture before moving on to the wall by the sofa. "And this one's even worse!" he said, failing to realize it was an image in the wall itself and not a photograph.
Then, he heard a wet sort of squelching noise as the lights began to flicker. "Damn cheap electric wiring," he grumbled as he turned to the lamp on the small cabinet beside the sofa. He was about to smack it onto the floor in frustration when he suddenly noticed a dark spot appeared on the wall beside him. "And why the hell are the walls bleeding sewage?!" he said as the thick, dark, viscous substance continued to coat that face on the wall. "Don't tell me they screwed up the plumbing, too!"
Suddenly, the face reappeared out of the sludge, except this time it was real. He screamed like a girl when he realized a head was actually poking out of the wall now. "KYAAAHHHHH! IT'S THE GHOST OF MR. CLEAN!" he shrieked as two hands reached out, placed themselves against the wall and began pushing, aiding the thing as it writhed in an attempt to get free. He stepped back, trying to put some distance between himself and the late Mr. Clean, but for some reason found himself unable to look away from the hideous monstrosity as it fell out of the wall and onto the floor. He stumbled backward as the thing before him staggered to its feet, its head twitching violently in a manner familiar to Silent Hill 3 veterans as it continued to advance on him. "Okay, tell you what," he said, having decided to resort to negotiation. "You take a minute to get rid of the dirt and grime and grease in this place while I run around flailing and squealing like an effeminate wuss…" He was cut off as Mr. Clean then fell on top of him, pinning him to the floor. It was then that the truth became horrifyingly apparent to him. "NOOOOO!" he wailed. "ANYTHING BUT YAOI!"
Henry Cityshend woke up in his bedroom, completely free of fruit preserves and gay cleaning agent mascots. "Oh, man…" he groaned as he sat up in his bed. "What a dream. No more White Claudia for me." Then, by force of habit, he took the phone and dialed the superintendent's number, but the result was the same as the last four times he'd tried this. "It still doesn't work, dammit!" he cursed. "This is worse than Alltel!" he said as he slammed the receiver back down on the hook.
He began to walk away, but no sooner had he done so than his phone rang. He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Help…me," a woman's voice said.
"Whatcha, deaf?!" the voice snapped at him. "I said, help me! This program says my computer needs a programmable vertex/pixel shader to run it, and it's bein' a bitch!"
"What are you talking about?!" Henry demanded.
"Waitaminute…this isn't tech support, is it?" Henry just gave a blank stare before responding.
"No," he said flatly.
"Dammit!" the voice swore, and the line went dead. Henry looked at the receiver and then noticed the cord was cut.
"Oh, lookit that," he said. "Always wanted a cordless." He placed the receiver back on the hook and made his way to his window.
Gazing out, he saw a Hispanic woman loitering around the subway entrance. After putting on a weird pantomime act for herself, she turned to face in his general direction to offer a stage actor's bow before leaning to the side and tap-dancing down the flight of stairs leading to the subway. Henry only had three words for the display. "What the hell?" He decided not to think about it too hard, because thinking had a tendency to make his head hurt. He just turned and exited the bedroom.
He walked down the short hall, and the first thing he did upon entering the main room was turn his attention toward the door, which was sealed by a haphazard network of chains draped over it. "Five days ago…" he said. "That's when I first had the nightmare. I haven't been able to get out of my room since then. The phone doesn't work, the TV doesn't work… I can't even get anybody to hear me when I yell." He grinned to himself. "Which means I can make all sorts of disparaging comments about them as loud as I want and not have to worry about them kicking my ass!" he said with a satisfied nod. "Anyway, where was I…? Oh, yes!" He cleared his throat before continuing. "My whole world has suddenly turned insane. Rather nice of it to join me, actually. Anyway, my door's chained up, the windows have been replaced with Plexiglas and sealed shut with Krazy Glue, and on top of that, the door's chained up from the inside, which would've been less awkward to mention had I done so while I had been on the subject of the door. I just felt like mentioning the windows to separate the two!" He sighed to himself. "Now that I've gotten my obligatory monologue out of the way, how am I going to get out of here?" he said as he stared at the door, as though trying to bore through it with his eyes.
Suddenly, a trace of red appeared on the door where he was staring, and it continued to expand as strawberry jam bled through and formed a sloppily scrawled out message.
You've been Punk'd!!
"What the hell…?" Henry said again. "What's goin' on here…?" He then heard something striking a hard surface outside, and he smashed his face against the door as he put his eye to the peephole. Through it he could see a pretty young lady with a grocery bag standing in the hall just outside the door. "That's Irene Calvin from next door…" he said to himself, as though directing a guided tour as the woman outside bent to retrieve a few items she'd dropped. Henry then continued to speak in a poorly-feigned Australian accent. "If oah could git eyaut of 'eeh, oah'd rahn ahp to 'er and jyam moah thamb ahp 'er bahtthole!" he said, giving the thumbs-up as an example. "Tha'd really piss 'er off, and she'd prob'ly slap me with a loasuit, but not befoa slappin' me senseless!" He grinned amusedly to himself, for that had been the most entertainment he'd had in the time he'd been there since finding himself trapped in his apartment. He then noticed Irene was looking straight at his door, and for a moment, he was afraid she might've heard him. He was relieved when he realized that she was just zoning out.
"Oh, man…" she muttered as she snapped out of it. "I hope my luck changes before the party." Henry grinned again.
"She wants me," he said, his ego inflating like that Bobbie the Rabbit hot air balloon he saw outside his window in the distance on occasion. He watched as Irene then made to move on, but the bottom of the bag ripped open under all the weight of its contents, spilling everything inside onto the floor again.
"Dammit!" she cursed as she knelt down to collect the fallen foodstuffs. It was then that Henry noticed numerous multicolored handprints on the wall of the hall opposite his door, one row of eight over another row of seven. It appeared someone had been fingerpainting, and they had the gall not to invite him!
Dejected again, he hung his head and noticed a scrap of paper on the floor, which he picked up and read.
Y doesn't u Wake up?
After wondering who could possibly be stupid enough to mistake him for their mother, he discarded the note and wandered aimlessly into the small kitchenette to the right of the door, where he absently opened the refrigerator and looked inside. "Man, I have got to get a job!" he muttered as he regarded its interior, which was completely empty save for a bottle of white wine and another of chocolate milk. He took both and, after closing the fridge, went over to regard the storage chest beside the television. "This chest could hold a lot of stuff," he said to himself. "Hell, I know that!" he replied, feeling stupid for having stated the blatantly obvious. He then started shooting a few glances between the chest and the items in his hands, as though contemplating a decision. "Well, why the hell not?" he shrugged as he deposited the milk inside just because he felt like it. He kept the wine with him as he then went over to the bookshelf and looked behind it for no good reason.
He noticed a scrap of a book he wasn't familiar with sitting between the shelf and the wall. He took the book and sat down on the sofa, removing the cork from the wine bottle and taking a swig as he read the contents of the book scrap.
Through the Ritual of the Holy Assumption, he built a world. It exists in a space separate from the world of our Lord. More accurately, it is within, yet without the Lord's world. I don't know what the hell that means, or how that's supposed to work, that's just the way it is. Don't question it!
Anyway, unlike the world of our Lord, it is a world in extreme flux. This is due to its poorly laid foundation, which is the result of the contractor having hired unqualified laborers so he could skim construction funds. Unexpected doors or walls, moving floors, odd creatures, a world only he can control… Anyone swallowed up by that world will live there for eternity, undying. This may sound like a good thing, but it's not. They will haint--
Henry stopped reading and took a moment to consider that word. "'Haint'…?" he said.
Yes, HAINT! Now, continuing on…
They will haint that realm as a spirit. How can the Lord forgive such an abomination? It violates practically every zoning law in existence, and then there's the subject of tax evasion…
The book was damaged just as it was apparently about to get into the legalistic mumbo jumbo, but there was one last bit further on that was still legible, though not really any more understandable.
…It is important to travel lightly in that world, it being a pixilated environment with extreme physical limitations. He who carries too heavy a burden will regret it. Don't even try, because Konami won't let you…
The scrap ended there, which Henry was glad for, considering he found it quite boring. "Meh, this book sucks," he said, tossing it back over to the bookshelf as he took another swig of wine. "Oh well," he said as he got up and walked over to the television, "at least I've still got the tube."
He pressed the power button on the television and was greeted with a black screen. "Man, they've been showing this same show on every channel for five days straight, now!" he complained. Then, he sighed in resignation. "Who the hell am I kidding?" he said, shaking his head. "The TV's been broken for five days, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it." He stood there for a moment, then dropped to his knees, tossed his hands into the air and threw his head back, releasing a cry of absolute frustration that can only be felt by a couch potato deprived of his precious television. "Why, Konami?! WHY?!" he wailed at the ceiling, which regarded him with the silent apathy of an inanimate object. Henry then instantaneously forgot his anguish as he noticed the wine bottle he was holding above his head and brought it down to take another swig of wine.
A sudden crash of shattering glass sounded from the bathroom, which startled Henry enough that he reflexively spewed the contents from his mouth and onto the TV screen in front of him. "Who could that be?" Henry wondered, regarding the noise with the same deference as he would someone knocking on the front door as he wiped his mouth. Upon investigating, he found that his mirror had fallen off the wall and was now lying shattered in the washbasin and on the floor. It was probably because the perimeter of that great, gaping Hole in the wall beside his crapper encroached into the mirror's space and knocked it off. "What…the hell…?" Henry wondered aloud as he approached the Hole and looked in. "Must be termites…" he mused. After considering the Hole's presence for a bit, he had a Retard Moment. "Ahur-hur! Wonder if I can get out this way! Dahur-hur-hur!" With that, he yanked the section of rusty pipe sticking out from the broken section of the wall and placed it in his pocket. That's right, the entire length. He has deep pockets. Then, he took another swig of wine before corking the bottle and crawling into the Hole with all the mobility of an inebriated sloth.
As he crawled along, he thought he could hear whispering voices in the tunnel. "Yeah, it's gotta be termites," he said as he crawled along. In the distance, he could see a light at the end of the tunnel. "Cool! Just like when you die!" he said. He froze in place at those words and considered the weight of what he'd just said. "Nah!" he shook his head, dismissing the thought and continuing on. The light continued to slowly grow ever brighter as he progressed until finally he reached the end of the tunnel. The last thing he remembered was his vision being completely engulfed by the light.
Hell Count: 7 (excluding nonverbal/undocumented occurrences)
A/N: So, what do you think? Overdone? You bet it is! Feel free to review.
The reference to pixilated environments with extreme physical limitations is the property of Hometown. Read her fic, The Reverse Will. It's hilarious.
The Super Mega Retard Moment is the property of Knick Knack. Read her comic, Chibi Silent Hill 2. It's also hilarious…most of the time.