Shrouded in mist for a hundred years, Silent Hill sits bleakly on the shores of Toluca Lake. Once quaint and comforting, the formerly picturesque town has fallen into disrepair. Buildings rot and crumble, roofs bend beneath the weight of age; A sick breeze moves between the streets, pushing litter and debris. It smells of death and sugar, disease and suffering, it's soured scent weak, sweet, and pale.

The mist that encapsulates the town never fades; it is a constant, haunting reminder of the horrors of the past, of Silent Hill's terrible tragedy that ripped it from the very fabric of life, leaving it standing, alone and forgotten, uninhabitted by man or beast. Yet there are rumors, whispers in the night, of children stolen from their homes, whose bodies are found broken and torn upon the welcome sign and strewn along the main street. Each year before the snows falls, and again when it melts into nothingness, criminals are lead through Silent Hill to clear away the bodies that accumulate.

At night, the lake remembers those it has taken into it's watery embrace. There are those who would swear they have seen the dead dance upon the surafce of the lake, ever surrounded by the thick fog of the shore, and in the unholy darkness that descends upon the town, the sounds of screaming and machina rise upon the sweet-rot winds to chill the hearts of those unfortunate enough to hear.

Yet once the town was idyllic, a sanctuary for those seeking such things. There are remnants of that happiness as you wander along the broken, dmaged streets; a doll lies, torn into pieces, in front of a cafe. The leash of a beloved family hangs over a crumbling fence. The boathouse lies in ruin, each vessel beneath its sagging roof a victim of termites and time. The world has moved on, and left Silent Hill behind, trapped in a hell inescapable.

There is a darkness that descends upon the town, a night so black and foul it distorts the senses and sickens the heart. The fall of such an unholy evening brings upon the air the smell of fire and things that die. It is no place for the living. And yet, as the last of such evil pulls back in the face of a new dawn, four new bodies liestill, unmoving, where they have fallen.

Jack's Inn
Corner of Nathan and Munson
Thursday, April 17th, 5:23am

Jack's Inn sits at the crossroads, a run down dilapidation of a building once white with green and white striped awnings. Now the soot of time has left it's mark upon the building, and boasts only varying shades of grey, brown, and black, streaked upon the outside by reddish tinted darkness along the doors and windows outside. The awnings, once bright and cheerful, are now but tattered rags, and flutter weakly in the sweet-rot wind coming in from Toluca Lake.

Facing the seventeen room colonial masterpiece, there is a long and broken path of shattered flagstones, the walk grown thick with strangled weeds the color of decaying vomitus. At the start of the path, the passage is flanked by a pair of stone creatures whose heads have long since been removed. The walk is liked with ovwegrown dying bushes, ending at the wide stretch of wooden steps, the paint peeling in many places, the wood rotting in most. Up the five steps there is the porch, which runs from corner to corner. To the left, facing, hangs the remains of a swing. Only one side is attatched, and the fabric seat is stained a dark reddish black.

To the right, facing, is a seating area of three once white wicker chaises, similarly stained and discolored. Lining the porch roof are hanging baskets that trail only dead vines. The front door, marked by handprints that drag down along the surface, is wide open, revealing a suffocating blackness. It is the lobby.

To the left is a stairwell. There s one sofa, torn and exposing stuffing and springs, and two armchairs in similar distress. The two armchairs face the sofa, and between the chais and the sofa is a coffee table, on leg broken, and the table has been snapped cleanly in two. Behind the two armchais is a hearth, inside of which can be seen the remains one can only hope are human.

Directly before the door, against the wall, is the front desk. Hand prints are all over the front of the desk and the top. In what looks like spray paint, the words CALL YOUR MOTHER are written in block letters. There is an old fashioned cash register, drawer open, empty. the pop up tabs indicating the last purchase read .13, and beside the register is an open book. It is the hotel register. There is an overturned cup of pens, a silk plant, and a jar.

To the right are four tables, overturned, and sisteen chairs, broken and unusable for seating. Along the wall runs a counter with stained, handprinted cabinetry, that is broken and missing in places. It is in the center of this mess that there lies a body.

Though face down, it is clearly male by the athletic frame, with fine sandy blond hair, spiky and wild on top. His scuffed black combat boots are untied, but he looks almost paramilitary; The body is dressed in black cargo pants, a lightweight black sweater, belt with two flaps lengthwise on the back, and a thin yet sturdy looking black tactical vest with the word SWAT on the back in reflective white.

Beside the body, near the turned away face, are a pair of glasses, lying useless on the floor. By one of the tables there is a backpack, high end and fairly expensive. It is open, as if someone has gone through the contents. The body moves, coughing and sputtering and shifting. Hands slide under, push, and he raises his head, looking around with a painful wince. Immediately, he reaches to his face then sees the glasses near him. Folding them neatly, he fits them inside a pouch of his vest and sits, looking around at the strange and unfamiliar territory.

Christ, where the hell...? What am I... He rubs his face, heaving a heavy sigh, unable to recall arriving here. Color drains from him as he realizes he remembers very little. He recalls only his name, Christoper Chatterton, and that he is 24.

"Holy s***," he whispers. "Holy s***, what happened here?"

Rosewater Park Parking Lot
Nathan Ave.
Thursday April 17, 5:23am


Rosewater Park, on the shores of Toluca Lake, was once a vibrant and magincal escape for many, yet has fallen into disrepair with the rest of the town. Bordered on three sides by a wide boardwalk lined with several viewing glasses operated by coin, food concessstion carts, and taffy pullers, the inner area of the park once treated guests to a playground and gardens, though the vegetation has overgrown and stagnated. Bloodstains, as if bodies had been dragged along the wood, abound. Several of the boads are loose or broken. The sound of the wind coming off the lake si liek a mournful moan.

The parking lot is wide and long enough to fit a total of forty cars, though now there are only seven, each one dented and broken, all glass smahes. They sit in dead, rusted decay, three with doors open, and bodies left inside. In the cent of the craked tarmac lies a woman.

Her hair is long, pin straight, and black as night. She is dressed simply, in a lightweight black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her biceps, revealing old scars on her wrists. Her faded blue jeans are loose and sit low onher hips. The knees are torn, and the fabric is splattered with dried paint. Her black combat boots are worn and dusty, and a leather satchel lies beside her, contents spilled as if someone had been looking for something.

Moaing, she rolls ont her back, gasping for air. The sky is invisible. She sees only the thick, tenebrous fog, covering and suffocating. In this visibility, she can see only one car to her left and nothing else. Her flesh crawls, and she draws herself to her knees, looking around again and again for something familiar. Finding nothing of comfort, she closes her eyes, counts to three, and opens them again. The landscape has not changed.

Man, I must have... A knot forms in her stomach, weighting down her fear as acid burns within her chest.

"Oh my god," whispers Delilah Drake, 21. "Where the hell am I??"

Silent Hill Flower Shop
Sanders St.
Thursday April 17, 5:23am

The shop is small, but once it was inviting. The flagstone ath is broken, stones missing, and the lawn has grown waist high. A curved metal bar reaches up from the wild, but the sign that is attatched hs been carved with symbols and glyphs and splattered with a dark colored substance. The wide bay window of the shop is no more than a broken, jagged outline, the glass long since vandalized. The door hangs half off hinges, and inside one can see the violent remains of a store.

To the left is a line of refrigerated glass displayes, but the light fixtures have been smashed with the glass, and are hollow husks. empty buckets with viscous fluid lin the bottom three rows, and empty vases fill the rest of the shelves. An arm sticks out of one bucket, the meat slack and slipping away at the fingertips, no longer driping an ooze that has puddled on the floor.

Along the back is the counter and register. A computer monitor, screen smashed, sits on the counter. The register is newer than the Inn's, but is closed. Behind the counter are rolls of cellophane and rolls of floral print paper. Above the rolls are shelves with ribbons and other items. There is a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

On the door, in what looks like Spray Paint: YOU DIED LAST NIGHT.

To the right are tables and shelves, broken and piled onto the floor. But it is the counter that one must pay attention to. Slumped over the counter is a muscular man, his long black hair braided. From this angle, it's difficult to see any facial features. An arm hangs over the counter, tattooed beneath a black tee shirt. Slowly he heaises his head, and a silver pendant clatters against the countertop as he rises.

The man casts frantic glances around the shop, taking in the distress and bloodsmeared walls, the arm in the flower bucket.

"What the..."

Josh Rood, 23, has woken up in Silent Hill, recalling only his name.

There are no flowers in the Silent Hill Flower Shop.

ST. STELLA CHURCH
Corner of Nathan and Neely
Thursday April 17, 5:23am

Someone has salted the earth. Where there was once a gently manucired lawn lined with delicate flowers, the grass is now bare in patches and a mottled, molding brown. To the left of the path is a large square wooden sign, once white but now stained with hands and dragmarks, dirt and time. Someone has spraypainted "God is out. Leave a message." on the sign, over the carved "St. Stella Church, Est. 1313" At the base of the sign are two spotlights whose lenses have been smashed.

The walkway is brick, uneven from possibly frost heaves, as if the ground has rolled beneath it. Fetid, swollen entrails line the walkway to the single step at the wide arched double doors of the curch. There is a large satined glass window on either side of the door. On the left, the image is of St. Stella, burning at the stake. On the right is St. Stella on the cross, headless, entrails hanging from a gaping wound in her belly. Both windows are missing colored panes. Pushing open the doors, there is basin of water to the left of the door in a wide foyer. The foyer is lined on all sides with padded benches. Decaying bodies have been arranged in various poses of sexual acts, with several manequins, in a perverse diorama.

Across from the doors are two more doors leading into the place of worship. The doors operate on bolt slides, and have been ripped from the track. The floor is hardwood, cracked and creased and nicked, and ten rowns of high backed cushioned pews line each side of a red carpet leading to the dais. To the left and right, the walls are decorated with stained glass windows depicting important scenes from the life of the blind saint.

On the Dais, the altar has been covered by a bloody cloth, above which a cross hangs. A woman is on the cross, geadless and neaked, her gut ripped open. Entrails spill down in long distended loops that have been there so long that spiders have nested in the spaces of the loops and woven intricate webs. To the left of the altar, a body is stretched uncomfortably over the edge, back bent. From the curve of frame beneath close fabric, the body is that of a woman. Long cinamon colored hair pools around her head. Around her neck, as if choking her, is a tatoo of winding vines and thorned roses.

She is clad in a black A shirt, typically known as a wifebeater, and the black leather pants seem to be painted on. She is only half wearing the beat up motorcycle jacket; it has missed one arm completely and is pinned beneath her weight. From the dangerous 3 inch heels of her black leather boots, one would think she had lost her balance. In her left hand is the strap of a black leather pocketbook, its satchel style flap lifted as if someone has gone through the contents.

Her hazel eyes snap open and she sucks in air, as if her lungs have just started to work again. The first thing that greets her eyes is the victim on the cross, and she scrambles backwards, crablike, till she bumps into a pew. Startled, she jumps and her eyes dart around, taking in the ruins around her. Though she wonders how she came to be here, she says nothing, preferring to keep her fear silent in case she is not alone.

Henrietta "Hank" Preston , 24, wonders, more than anything, how to get out.

His head throbbed, a dull sensation in the back of his head as though he had been smacked with something. His vision blurred as well as he pushed himself up on weak arms to a sitting position. His fingers glanced across the wire frame of his glasses, and he picked them up gingerly and placed them upon his nose, blinking away the headache which was still with him.

He took a cursory glance around the room, wondering where he was, but as he stood it occured to him that he remembered very little, only his name and age. He took a quick general inventory of what he had on his person, searching the nearby backpack as we before slinging it on his shoulders.
"No identification, no maps, nothing, what's worse, half of the items one would think would have gone with the others were missing. An Ipod without headphones, not very useful, a cell phone pouch without a cell phone. He was relieved that he still bore a tactical Kevlar SWAT vest, and a pair of black stilleto's strapped to his back.

Having no real idea of 'who' he was beside having a name, he wondered if he was perhaps some sort of law enforcement. Little did he know that aside from almost seven years of martial arts, and a basic introduction to Law and Security at a local community college with a few private gigs of protection or security, he was about as far from a cut and dry officer as it came.

Running his finger through his wild hair, Chris checked his ipod for any hint of his identity, music playlists, videos, that might clue him in to his personality. He couldn't listen to anything at the moment lacking headphones, but perhaps he'd at least have something to look forward to should he find some.

"Feels like I just fell into a Fricken Horror story." he says to none in particular. Moving to the overturned tables, he inspects the wreckage. With a heave, he pulls off a sturdy Table leg as a crude blunt implement, but something was better than nothing. Exploring the room, he finds the words CALL YOUR MOTHER painted in block letters upon the wall. His mother? He tried but for the life of him couldn't recall her name, much less put a face to the woman who had birthed him. It did however make him think of looking for a phone. Ducking behind the desk, he inspects the cash register, (lifting the cash drawer from the tray), reading the registry, taking some extra pens, and the jar (if it's empty). He was in survival mode in a strange place, and perhaps his paranoid neuroticism might actually come in handy for a time.

(Don't want to include too much at a time, will let you reply before continuing)

"This is getting more than a little wierd" Chris says as he holds the bottomless jar in front of him peering through the top and out the hole of the bottom. He picks up the registry book and flips through it, until he comes across his, and three other names that supposedly checked out on the same date he did. The names on the check out registry matched some of the items he had found in the register drawer, and as he pocketed the registry book and the picture of Del at the Lake, he took to the sealed envelope and sliding his stiletto out from his belt sheath, sliced open the thin layer of glue that held the two halfs of the envelope closed, and looked inside. "Let's just see who you are HP, Harry Potter, or perhaps Hank Preston?"

As Chris looks at the photo within the tri-folded paper, the realization that he murder weapons were far too similar to the weapons he bore for mere coincidence made his hands tremble and he dropped the page, watching the photograph float lazily to the floor.

"Jeesum Crow!" He cursed aloud. Pulling the stilleto' from their protective sheathes, he inspected them for any signs of use.

~~~
Allowing for comment based on his findings
~~~

Deciding he needed more information, he flips through the registry once more, to find the room he was supposed to have been staying in, and resheathing his knives and putting the letter and photo into a vest pocket, hefts his table leg as he looks for the key hook or wherever they might keep the room keys.

Hank drew her knees to her chest, eyes closed against the grisly surroundings. She knew, by the feel of the wooden pew at her back, the grit on the floor, and the smelll of death that permeated everything, that she was not dreaming.

"No, not dreaming," she whispered. "So I have to get out of here..."

As she dropped her arms to the side and stood, her foot knocked the pockeybook. She dumped out the unfamiliar contents, crouching over the found objects. A tube of shocking red lipstick, TUMS, cigarettes...She flicked open the switchblade and snapped it closed, the action feeling natural, almost reflexive.

What does that say about me? she wondered, and tucked it in the back of her pants. She stuffed the rest of the things in the pocketbook and adjusted her jacket before slinging the pocketbook over her shoulder.

Hank did not believe she had the stomach to explore her surroundings. As it was, her puls was racing dangerously, and the hairs on the back of her neck had risen. A strange crawling sensation came over her.

Feels like I'm being watched. Better get out of here and find a phone.
To be safe, she took the switchblabe back out of her pants and held it tight, ready to flick the blade at a moment's notice. Slowly, she made her way along the prews and stood in the foyer, her stomach churning at the sight of the manequins in illicit postions with dead people. Careful not to disturb them, she pushed the door open with her hip and stepped out into a thick fog.

the first thing she noticed, aside from the atmospheric wierdness, was the complete and total silence, an utterly profound stillness like she was deaf. Hank resisted the urge to call out, unsure who might answer, if anyone. Vision was limited. She could only make out vague shapes of buildings. She stopped at the end of the walk and read the sign, chuckling despite herself.

Leave a message, eh? Fitting, in this place. Looking left, then right, she bit her bottom lip and sighed before turning left and walking into the fog.

Deliah opened her eyes again, but her vision blurred with the sudden onset of tears.

"Stop it," she whispered. "Stop, stop, stop. THis isn't helping."

Delilah reached for the satchel, pawed through it expectantly. She hoped for a cell phone. What she found was disappointing.

"Waht the F*** am I supposed to do with this crap?" She asked herself, and looked up, seeing the cars. She stood and dusted herself off, smoothed her hands over her hair. Delilah took a deep breath and cleared her mind of the terror that was sneaking up her toes and legs.

THE GREAT AND POWERFUL GM

Finding nothing in the way of keys, Chris flips though the book, stopping at the pag with his name. Sliding his finger along the line, he finds the number 13 circled at the end of the regster entry. Correctly assuming he was given room 13, Chris heads to the stairs and stops short.

Three step up, messages begin to appear.

YOU DONT
WANT TO
GO UP
THERE
CHRIS

There is a resounding silence downstairs, yet as Chris puts one foot on the stair, he hears a shuffle and drag, repeated, and the sound is moving closer.

There is a single railing on the right wall of the stairway. Once white, it has become discolored by time and bloody handprints. There is an arrow on the left wall pointing back down to the lobby where Chris stands.

The shuffling continues.

Chris wonders if perhaps there's another survivor upstairs, and ever so carefully places a foot on the step, awaiting the owner of the noise to come closer, he'll not approach it, in case it brings danger, but he'll wait for whatever it is to approach to within view.

"God I hope I'm not gonna regret this, he mouth's silently, Sturdy table leg in hand should it be needed."

Memory churned beneath a murky, oily sea of darkness. He was Josh Rood…He knew that much. And he was what? Twenty three? Yes. But that was it...Vague colors, and emotions flickered beneith the dark surface that churned in his mind, but he could not grasp them.

“Ugh….”

Rubbing his eyes and looking around, he frowns. He notices the severed arm and feels a cold ball in his stomach. A dream? This felt too real to be a dream. Pushing himself off the desk, he stretches and runs a hand across his face. Try as he might, he could not remember how he got here, or where “here” even was.

“Where the F*** am I?!”

His pale eyes lock on the spray painted Employee Only door.

YOU DIED LAST NIGHT.
He raised an eyebrow. That was a possibility. But then, glancing around, he noted that his post mortem destination was not the most pleasant. Trying to wrap his mind around what death meant, he felt a faint resentment towards...what? Beliefs? No...Something about how many people perceived life and death churned an anger in him.....Or was he just feeling dead emotions? He couldn't be sure.

Glancing over the room, and noting the Employee Only Door, he started for it. It appeared he was in a flower shop of some sort, although it looked long abandoned. Something about the spraypainted words drew his attention however. Strolling up to the door, he tried the handle....

Oh, Delilah...

Delilah Drake nears the closest vehicle, a Ford pickup pitted with dents, tires long since deflated. THe truck has rested so long in this state that the rims are bubkled, cracked, and the entire body is covered in patches of creeping rust.

There is a body in the bed of the truck. It has been wrapped tightly in cellophane, and the corpse has liquified in many places. There is a keyring visible in the sunken chest cavity, with eighteen keys.

The doors are unlocked. In the glovebox is a sealed envelope, with the letters JR. There is also a picture of a blond boy, early teens, similing at a dark haired brooding boy. There is a pool in the background. There is a bottle opener on the floor of the passenger sied, and the bench seat has been ripped apart. There is nothing else of note in this vehicle.

Beside the truck is a Chevelle hatchback. The car is compressed to the point that one can not open any of the doors, rendering a search here useless.

The next vehicle is also a pickup truck, an early model, and the doors are open. there is a skeleton on the seat, in a seated position. It is a plastic prop. There is nothingin the opeen glove component. There is nothing in the bed.

The vehicle at the far end of the lot is a Cadillac. As with all the other vehicles, the tires are flat. The cadillac is also rusting. There is a tire iron and duct tape in the trunk. There is nothing else in this vehicle.

The fifth vehicle is on the right side of the lot. it is with the sixth, a front end collision. Both front ends are accordianed, and the doors are open. A cellophane wrapped body sits in each car. Unfortunately, the wrapping was not tight, and the fluids have leaked al over the seat and floors, leaving puddles of meatsludge. There are random bodyparts in the trunks.

The seventh car is locked and the doors have been welded shut. There is nothing visible.