Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

00 : Prologue

The afternoon began as typical, with more of the summer camp's daily routine — a few hours of unstructured time, where we could escape the counselors' watchful eyes so long as we stuck with our assigned activity group. The idea, I figured, was to keep us busy and out of trouble — and so we gathered near the mess hall beneath a shaded pavilion, out of the heat of the summer sun.

There were a total of four of us, plus a dog.

Jonathan Gagnon radiated charm — hazel hair glinting in the sunlight as he flashed a smile that felt a little too practiced. His voice carried a a bit of a lilt, like he was showman selling something; and he had a tendency to lean in close when he spoke, as if letting you in on a secret. His eyes, though, darted around, always reading the room.

Megan Miller barely looked up — pretty face frozen in a permanent frown as she hunched over her smartphone. Her slender frame seemed to bristle with annoyance, fingers jabbing at the screen, as if the spotty reception were a personal betrayal. She'd chosen to wear long sleeves, despite the weather — probably as a countermeasure to insects.

Andrew Davis stood taller than the rest — crew cut and muscularity lending him a quiet authority; he was hot. I hadn't really talked with him much, but in the few instances where we'd directly interacted, my impression was that he spoke sparingly, with a slow, deliberate choice of words, weighing each phrase before giving it forth aloud.

His dog, Luna, a sleek black-and-tan mutt, stayed close to his side, ears perked and alert. He'd gotten special permission from the camp to keep Luna with him at all times — something about continuing her training as a mental health support dog in everyday situations.

The counselor had set the rules: We could do whatever we wanted, but we had to share our plans to the staff beforehand, and stick together as a group. Jonathan had been quick to pitch a forest trail hike, enthusiastically making it sound like he'd already mapped out every step.

"It's just gonna be a couple hours," he said, grinning wide. "Clear trail, great views — and with any luck, we'll be back before dinner. What do you say, Taylor?"

Andrew, not keen on a potentially dangerous activity away from oversight, countered:

"I was thinking we could play a game of frisbee in the field by the cabins," he said. "Luna needs the exercise, and it'd be good for her training. She's learning to stay focused around people, so a group game would help."

I scuffed my sneakers in the dirt, torn. Frisbee seemed safer, but the hike offered something new, a chance to stretch my legs and clear my mind. Megan, on the other hand, didn't bother voting — responding merely with a shrug and a muttered "Whatever."

The vote tipped in favor of the hike, two to one. I'd wavered but raised my hand for the trail at the last second, drawn to the novelty of seeing something beyond the familiar environs of the camp. Or more accurately, I'd leaned toward frisbee at the start, but Jonathan's charisma had won out in the end.

Ultimately, the plan we'd settled on was fairly simple: Hike westward from Saratoga Valley along a marked trail to Maine State Route 73, near South Vale, then loop back eastward to camp along the road.

The morning weather report, crackling through the mess hall's old radio at breakfast, had promised a sunny, windy afternoon, so we opted to travel light. No heavy gear; no extra baggage. I brought along my stainless steel thermos, replenished from the water cooler in the mess hall, and the first-aid kit the counselor had given us — both neatly tucked into my backpack alongside my pocket-clip flashlight.

Sharing our finalized route with the counselor, we got a nod of approval, and set off from the western side of the campsite. Promising adventure, the forest trail stretched before us, air sharp with pine and warm earth. For a moment, I imagined that this might actually be worth it.

The morning's promise of clear skies didn't hold.

By mid-afternoon, a thick mist rolled in, blanketing the forest in a way that made the pines look like shadowed giants. The air turned cool — more akin to late autumn than summer — and I shivered, breath catching in the damp chill. I paused to dig my hoodie from my backpack — the dark gray fabric soft as I pulled it on, zipping it up against the sudden drop in temperature.

We'd lost the sun's position to the gray haze; and the trail, so clear when we'd started, now blurred behind the cast of the mist. I didn't have a phone by which to confirm our location via GPS, but it probably wouldn't have much helped, given how frequently Megan had been complaining about spotty reception, even back at camp.

At some point, we must've strayed from the path without realizing it, because we stumbled unexpectedly into a clearing that hadn't been marked in the map the counselor had provided.

The sight we came across stopped us cold.

Squatting at the center of the clearing was a figure — impossibly tall, with skin as pale as death, crisscrossed with scars and sutures — tearing into the headless corpse of a uniformed policewoman.

Her yellow raincoat, mold-stained and noticeably too small, hung open, revealing a torso marked with a fresh Y-incision and a number of older abdominal scars. Visibly, her lower legs and forearms — the section exposed by her sleeves — seemed to have been replaced with crude, rusted iron prosthetics; and long, wavy black hair spilled from her hood, half-concealing a face that seemed almost beautiful, even that her mouth was unnaturally wide.

Between her legs, there was —

"Is that a ..." said Megan, trailing off. "What the fuck ..."

"It's gotta be some kinda cape," Jonathan replied, "Maybe a Changer. There's no way a freakshow like this ain't a parahuman."

I bit my tongue, thinking to snap at Jonathan; but before I could speak, the monster shifted its attention — her hidden eyes locking onto us from beneath the shadow of her hood.

On the ground, amidst a puddle of gore, there was a discarded revolver, glinting quietly in the dull daylight; and apparently taking notice, Andrew grabbed ahold of it.

"This way," he said, dashing back through the trees; and turning as one, the rest of us followed suit, plunging back into the mist-choked woods.

We tore through the forest, branches snapping underfoot as the mist curled around us like a living thing. The trail we'd followed seemed to be gone entirely, and the path before us was now a tangle of roots and slick mud, threatening to trip us with every step.

Luna bounded ahead, her body a blur beside Andrew, who clutched the revolver with white knuckles. Jonathan's breath came in sharp gasps behind me; while Megan occasionally stumbled — sneakers unsuited to the wilderness slipping on wet leaves.

The metallic clank of the creature's prosthetic legs echoed through the trees, steady and unrelenting — growing closer despite our frantic pace.

The realization hit like a stone in my gut: We couldn't outrun it. Though the mist seemed to somewhat obstruct its vision, the creature's stamina was unnatural, and its pursuit patient, like a persistence hunter — a predator wearing down prey.

My legs burned; my chest tight with the cold, damp air. Glancing back, I caught glimpses of the yellow raincoat through the haze — its mold-stained fabric a sickly smear against the dark pines. We were definitely advancing faster over the uneven terrain, dodging brambles and low branches; but the creature didn't require speed to gain on us. It just kept coming.

Andrew skidded to a halt, his voice cutting through our panic.

"We can't keep this up," he said, low and firm.

He turned to face the direction of the clanking, Luna growling at his side.

"I'll stay here with Luna — try to slow it down," he said. "You three get to the road, and try to find help."

His eyes were steady, but his grip on the revolver trembled slightly.

Jonathan nodded too quickly, his face pale.

"Yeah, man, good call. I'll lead the girls to safety, so don't worry."

His voice had an edge, like he was already calculating how this could work in his favor.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the clank of iron on stone was closer now, and Andrew's jaw was set.

"Go," he barked, waving us off.

We didn't wait. I bolted forward, with Megan and Jonathan at my heels — the forest swallowing Andrew and Luna as the mist closed behind us.

The revolver cracked — once, twice — sharp against the muffled quiet. I flinched but kept running, sneakers sinking into the mud. The shots hadn't stopped the clanking. It faltered for a brief moment — and then resumed, louder, angrier. A low yelp — Luna's — pierced the air, followed by a heavy thud.

My stomach twisted, but beyond that, the creature didn't pause. Its footfalls kept coming, relentless, as if Andrew's stand had only spurred it on.

I'd noticed something, though — building upon my earlier observation regarding its vision.

Each time we slipped out of the creature's sight — weaving through thickets or dipping into ravines — its pace slowed. This gave me an idea — one that made my heart race, but felt like our only shot.

I grabbed Megan's arm, pulling her to a stop behind a massive pine. Jonathan nearly collided with us, his breath ragged.

"This thing," I whispered, my voice low but steady. "It's about as sight-dependent as we are — but it loses track when it can't see us. Look over there —"

I pointed to a hollow framed by gnarled roots at the base of a nearby tree, half-hidden by ferns.

"Hide in that," I said. "Stay quiet, don't move until you're sure it's gone. Then try and head for the road."

Megan's eyes were wide — face pale under the mist's clammy sheen. Jonathan nodded, though his jaw twitched like he wanted to argue.

"What about you?" Megan's voice was barely a hiss, her fingers clutching her phone like a lifeline.

"I'll lead it away," I said, meeting her gaze.

It wasn't because I wanted to play at being a hero — I wasn't that stupid. It was simply a matter that splitting up gave us better odds. If I could draw it off, keep it chasing me through the woods, they'd have a chance to slip away. If I were alone, I could make use of the trees — the mist — to stay ahead, at least for a while.

"Go. Now."

They didn't argue. Megan scrambled toward the hollow, with Jonathan following right after.

When they'd vanished into the shadows of the roots, I took a deep breath, and bolted in the opposite direction. The clank of the creature's prosthetics shifted, growing louder as it turned toward me. My chest tightened, but I kept moving, weaving through the brambles, trusting the forest to hide me just long enough.

The creature's iron footfalls thundered behind, but each dodge away from line of sight seemed to widen the gap.

When I was sure Megan and Jonathan were beyond its reach, I ducked behind a massive tree trunk. With its bark rough against my back, I squatted low, pressing my hand over my mouth to muffle my ragged breaths.

Any attention now would be bad. Just let it move on.

Behind me, on the other side of the tree, the clank of prosthetics passed on, slow and searching — then faded into the distance, swallowed by the forest's eerie quiet.

I waited; then slipped away in the opposite direction, moving as softly as the slick leaves allowed.

The mist thinned as I pushed on, and the trees parted to reveal a stretch of blacktop — Maine State Route 73.

A weathered sign nearby pointed westward: South Vale, half a mile.

My chest tightened at the name. Gram lived there, in the town where Mom had died; where her funeral had been held a year ago. I'd chosen this camp partly because it was close to Gram's, though I hadn't visited since.

The connection felt heavy now, like a thread pulling me forward.

A light rain began to fall, pattering on my hoodie and beading on my hair. The mist lingered, cool and clammy, and I cursed myself for not packing a foldable umbrella, just in case.

I shivered — the forest's damp chill settling into my bones. I didn't know if the creature was still out there, but standing still wasn't an option.

My first instinct was to get back to camp and report what had happened — to bring help for Andrew, Luna, and the others.

I didn't have a phone. Dad's aversion to them since Mom's accident meant that I'd never replaced the one I'd tossed out after her funeral. With no way of calling for help, I started trekking eastward along Route 73 — the rain-slicked asphalt glinting beneath the faint light that filtered through the mist.

I hadn't gone far when the road ahead vanished into chaos. A hillside had collapsed, spilling mud and splintered evergreens across the blacktop in a tangled mess. It hadn't been mentioned in the radio report in the morning, and the dense forest on either side seemed too thick to bypass.

Even if I could've pushed through, the thought of re-entering the woods stopped me cold. It was irrational, perhaps, but I felt distinctly safer on the open road — as if that creature, with its clanking prosthetics, wouldn't follow me here. I shook off the thought, knowing it didn't make sense — but it lingered even so.

With camp cut off, I turned westward toward South Vale. I could borrow a phone there — maybe at Gram's house, if necessary.

The road was eerily empty, no cars or tire tracks, but I chalked it up to the mudslide blocking traffic. My mind churned as I walked, piecing together what might happen next.

If Megan and Jonathan made it to this side of the slide, they'd likely head to South Vale too, meaning we could meet up. But if they reached the other side, they'd probably push on to camp, raising the alarm. Either way, South Vale was my best bet.

The rain had settled into a steady drizzle as I reached the observation deck overlooking Toluca Lake. The lake stretched out below, its surface a dull silver under the heavy mist, rippling faintly where raindrops touched it. The deck's metal railing gleamed, slick with condensation, and the air carried a faint tang of algae and wet stone.

A faded sign pointed to a tunnel leading to South Vale, my next step, but my bladder demanded attention first. A small building off the parking lot housed public toilets, and I figured it was smarter to deal with that now than regret it later.

I approached the toilets, pausing at the entrance to peek inside. The place was empty, no sound of footsteps or running water, just the faint buzz of a flickering bulb. Satisfied, I stepped in.

The stall was grimier than I'd hoped — tiles stained with neglect, the air thick with mildew and stale water. Nose wrinkling at the filth, I moved to handle my business, trying not to gross myself out. Afterwards, I adjusted my shorts, tugging them into place, and headed to the sink. The soap dispenser was nearly empty, but I managed to coax out enough for a quick scrub, the cold water biting my hands.

The mirror above the sink was clouded, edges darkened with age. My reflection stared back — hair plastered to my face, hoodie damp and clinging.

My mind slipped to the creature in the clearing — its pale skin crisscrossed with scars, the fresh Y-incision stark against its torso.

Those scars; the features of the body — they were too much like Mom's.

I remembered a trip to Toluca Lakeside when I was younger, her bikini showing the midline scar from my cesarean and another, a faded hockey-stick scar from some surgery in her teens.

I'd asked her about them once, sitting by the lake, my voice small.

"Does it feel bad, showing them like that?"

She'd smiled, her dark hair catching the sunlight, and leaned closer.

"I'd never feel embarrassed showing them like this, Taylor, because I willingly took them on when bringing you into the world. I consider them a badge of honor."

Her tone was warm, steady, and I'd felt a quiet awe at her confidence. She'd never explained the other scar, something about a kidney transplant from her youth, brushing off my questions with a laugh.

The creature's scars matched too closely — down to the hockey-stick scar — and the thought clawed at me. Mom had been gone since 2008, buried in Silent Hill after the accident. Even if parahumans were involved — and I'd found no trace of cape activity around here on Parahumans Online — it had to be a coincidence. One year of rot and degeneration wouldn't have left any soft tissue on a corpse, much less in a state where I could recognize scarring.

And, between its legs —

I splashed water on my face, and stepped back into the parking lot. The rain cooled my skin, grounding me. Enough of that, for now. I had to keep my mind focused on the task.

A path through the woods descended from the parking lot near the tunnel, winding into the mist-choked trees, but I ignored it. The tunnel was the safer choice, its tiled walls promising a direct route to South Vale. Retrieving the flashlight from my backpack, I clipped it from my hoodie's pocket, its beam cutting through the gloom as I entered.

The tunnel was longer than I'd expected. My footsteps rang out, blending with the sound, and I kept my pace steady, the light bobbing ahead.

When I emerged, the road became Nathan Avenue, an elevated stretch with a wide sidewalk. The mist hung thick, softening the outlines of distant buildings, but South Vale's shape was visible ahead.

A stone staircase led down from the sidewalk, and I cut across the street to take it — following Wiltse Road along a gurgling stream. The path was short, and it led me to Sanders Street in downtown South Vale.

The streets of South Vale were just as I remembered them — quaint storefronts with polished windows; clapboard facades painted in soft creams and grays. Sanders Street bustled in my memory, filled with the chatter of tourists and the hum of weekday life — but now it was silent, the shops locked tight, their awnings dripping with rain.

The silence was wrong.

The mist clung to everything, muffling the patter of drizzle and softening the edges of buildings, making the town feel like a half-remembered dream.

I scanned for a public phone along the way, but found none — no coin-operated boxes, no signs of life to borrow one from. The emptiness gnawed at me, the streets too deserted for a weekday, no cars parked along the curbs, no tire tracks cutting through the shallow puddles. The air smelled of wet brick and faint floral notes, maybe from the marigolds in a nearby shop's window box.

At the corner of Sanders and Lindsey, I froze.

There, in the middle of the intersection, was an impossible sight: Mom's totaled Toyota Prius, its front crumpled, blinkers still flashing weakly in the rain. Blood splattered the blacktop, trailing from the shattered windshield — broken from the inside, it seemed — fading as the rain diluted it into a pinkish smear. No body, no source for the blood, but I knew who it had to be.

My chest tightened, breath catching in the damp air. This was where she'd died, one year ago, texting while driving, the police report said. But the wreckage had been cleared long ago. How was it here now, fresh and bleeding?

"What's going on here?" I said aloud.

I stepped closer, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the wet asphalt in my nose. This couldn't be real. Had to be some kind of trick — maybe on account of a parahuman.

A sound cut through the silence — a familiar melody, tinny and electronic; one I'd recognize anywhere. It was the MIDI ringtone from my old Motorola RAZR, a sample of Michelle Branch's "Everywhere," a song Mom had loved.

My breath hitched. I hadn't heard that sound in one year, not since I'd thrown the phone away after her funeral, unable to bear its connection to her. The notes looped, insistent, coming from somewhere on the rain-slicked blacktop near the wrecked Prius.

I followed the sound, heart pounding, until my eyes caught a glint of metal in a puddle. There it was — a Motorola RAZR, heavily cracked but unmistakably similar to mine, its screen flickering faintly. I hesitated, the rain cold against my skin, then crouched and picked it up, water dripping from its edges. It vibrated in my hand, the ringtone blaring.

My throat tightened, but I flipped it open and pressed it to my ear, voice shaking.

"Taylor, I know you're scared and confused right now, but trust me, you're going to be okay," came a voice — Mom's voice, warm and steady, just as I remembered it. "Make your way to Alchemilla Hospital, and you'll understand everything."

The line went dead before I could respond, the phone's screen dark and lifeless. I stared at it, the rain pattering on my hair, my mind reeling. Alchemilla Hospital was across Lake Toluca, a long trek from here.

Mom was gone — dead in this very spot, according to the police report. Yet her voice had been so clear, so real. My stomach twisted, but I shoved the phone into my backpack.

I couldn't process this now.

I needed a phone — one that wasn't dead — to call for help, and Gram's house was closer.

I turned south along Lindsey Street, the narrow townhouses looming through the mist, their colonial facades tidy but lifeless. In the distance, I caught sight of scaffolding draped in white construction tarp, blockading the street beyond Gram's place.

"What's even happening in this town?" I muttered.

The creature in the forest, the crashed Prius, and Mom's voice — parahuman involvement was the only explanation that halfway made sense. And yet, these things seemed designed — wrought — to target me. Who would do such a thing? Why?

Gram's narrow two-story townhouse came into view — its white siding and navy door unchanged since my last visit. The Subaru Outback I recognized as hers sat in the street-side parking space. No lights glowed inside, and the windows showed no movement.

I rang the doorbell, the chime faint through the door, but no one answered. Peering through the front window, I saw a tidy interior — floral cushions on the sofa, with no sign of disturbance — but it felt empty, abandoned.

Remembering the communal backyard from childhood visits, I circled to the narrow fire alley a few units north. Gram's back door, leading to the kitchen, was surprisingly unlocked.

The hinges creaked softly as I stepped inside — the air warm and still. The townhouse was silent, no hum of appliances or footsteps — just the faint drip of rain from my hoodie onto the floor.

"Gram?" I called.

There was no response.

The kitchen smelled faintly of lavender and old wood, the air warm despite the chill I'd brought in from the rain. The inside of the house was just as I remembered — elegant, traditional, with a Colonial Revival charm that felt like stepping into a photograph. The hardwood floor gleamed under the soft glow of a ceiling light, and floral-patterned curtains framed the windows.

Black-and-white photos lined the walls, snapshots of Gram and Gramp in their youth: Gramp in his Vietnam uniform, stern but young; later as a photographer in New York, his eyes sharp behind a camera.

Gram's photos stole my breath — her as a young actress in off-Broadway plays, her dark hair and wide smile so much like Mom's it hurt to look. I'd seen these pictures before, on rare visits to South Vale. Now, at fourteen, I saw the resemblance clearly. Gram in her twenties could've been Mom's twin.

I pushed the thought aside. There were bigger things to deal with.

I moved through the house, my sneakers leaving faint wet prints on the floor. The living room was pristine — floral cushions on the sofa, a knitted throw folded neatly over the armrest. A small table held more photos, including one of Gram on a New York stage, mid-performance, her expression fierce and alive. The electricity worked, the warm glow of lamps chasing away the gloom, but the landline on the kitchen counter was dead, no dial tone.

I checked the router in the corner, turning it on — but though the power activated, there was no internet, even after several minutes of waiting.

No signal — no way to call for help. The silence pressed in, broken only by the soft patter of rain outside.

A faint noise caught my ear — a low, crackling hum that broke the house's stillness. Following the sound, I got up from where I found the router; pausing momentarily on the landing of stairs to confirm that it was indeed coming from upstairs, before tracing it to Gramp's study.

The door was slightly ajar, a warm glow spilling through the gap. I pushed it open, revealing a classic hardwood library, shelves heavy with books and old camera equipment. The hum came from a Sony pocket radio on the wooden desk, its static laced with faint, indistinct voices or music, too garbled to make out. A table lamp was on, casting soft light over the desk, as if someone had just stepped away.

My eyes fell on a pocket map booklet for Silent Hill, lying open beside the radio. Red pen marks circled spots on the map — road obstructions, maybe, like the tarp I'd seen outside. Someone had been navigating South Vale's chaos, same as me? It could be of use.

I took stock of the other items on the desk. A pack of bright neon orange Post-It Extremes stood out, their vivid color perfect for leaving messages — maybe for Megan or Jonathan, if they'd reached town.

I grabbed them, figuring they'd be handy for marking my path or signaling for help. A red Uni-ball Jetstream pen sat nearby, its ink bold and clear. I took it too, slipping it into my backpack's side pocket. It would serve as plausible deniability.

The radio was next — I switched it off and stowed it with the other items, hoping it might pick up something useful outside South Vale's mist.

On a whim, I opened the desk drawers, my fingers brushing over old receipts and photo negatives until I found a box cutter, its handle worn but solid. Whatever South Vale was hiding, I'd have to face it beyond these walls.

I slipped out through Gram's back door, and crossed the communal backyard, quickly moving through the narrow fire alley, emerging onto Lindsey Street.

Choosing to head south, I slowly made my way toward the scaffolding I'd seen earlier — its white construction tarp looming through the mist like a curtain across the roadway.

The tarp was taut, secured tightly, and glistened with rain, blockading the street beyond Gram's house. I pulled the box cutter from my hoodie pocket, and sliced through the tarp with a quick, firm cut. The fabric parted easily, revealing what lay beyond.

The blacktop of Lindsey Street had crumbled away, exposing a rusted rebar frame beneath — like a skeletal lattice where the ground should've been.

No concrete filled the gaps. Just wide, jagged spaces dropping into a dark abyss below.

Mist existed only in the town; it didn't extend beyond it.

And beyond — the structure stretched southward, all the way to the horizon, glinting wetly in the faint light. It was impossible, unnatural, like the town itself had been hollowed out and replaced with this corroded nightmare.

"Seems like we really aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto," I whispered.

Chapter Text

I don't know who will find this — maybe Megan or Jonathan, maybe somebody else trapped in this place — but if you're reading this, you're likely in the same situation as me.

I made it through Wood Side Apartments and Blue Creek Apartments a bit earlier, past a section of apartment boarded up from without. When I finally emerged onto the street, the world had changed. Day had vanished, replaced by night.

There something else that's different. Unlike the deserted streets on the other side of town, the darkness isn't uninhabited.

If you're standing at the corner of Munson and Katz, you might have already seen them — those things crawling through the alleys.

The lower halves of women, severed at the waist, dragging themselves forward on their legs in a lurching, unnatural crawl. A slick, writhing tentacle — an intestine? — protrudes from the stump, coiling and snapping at the air.

Their clothing is tattered: One might have shredded pantyhose clinging to its thighs, another a single grime-streaked high heel dangling from a foot. I don't know what happened to them — to the original women — but as is, they're not your friends.

They're predators, and they're searching for you.

I'm naming them "Leggers" tentatively, for obvious reasons.

These Leggers don't see the way we do. They're blind to details — shapes, faces, anything precise — but they're drawn to light and sound like moths to a flame. That tentacle of theirs isn't just for grabbing; it's how they sense you. It quivers at the faintest noise, tilts toward any glow.

I've seen them pause, tentacle swaying, when I turned off my flashlight, only to lunge when I stepped on a puddle. Stay dark, stay quiet, or they'll find you.

Pocket radios pick up something when the Leggers are near — a static crackle that grows louder the closer they get. It's like a warning, a way to know they're stalking nearby.

Don't rely on it. The noise it makes draws them in. I learned that the hard way when I left it on too long, and a Legger's tentacle whipped toward me through the mist. If you're carrying a radio, keep it off unless you're sure you're alone. It'll betray you otherwise.

Don't use your flashlight; its glow will pull them straight to you. Even running can betray you — the scuff of shoes or snap of a twig is enough to set their tentacles quivering. Move slowly, walk softly, and let the moonlight guide you.

Leggers linger in the open, their tentacles swaying as they search for sound or light. If you stay silent, you can slip past them unnoticed.

When you keep your flashlight off, your eyes start to adjust to the darkness. It takes a moment, but the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the mist begins to reveal shapes — curbs, street signs, the outlines of buildings.

Leggers become easier to spot, their unnatural silhouettes twitching in the open. If you move carefully, you can weave around them. The darkness isn't your enemy; it's your shield, letting you glide past their reach without a sound.

I don't know who's reading this — could be anyone lost in this fog — but if it's Megan or Jonathan, I hope you're still out there. I'm heading north toward Alchemilla Hospital, across Toluca Lake. If you find this note, follow me if you can, or leave a sign so I know you're alive.

The Leggers are everywhere, but you can avoid them if you're careful. Keep moving, stay quiet, and maybe we'll meet up soon.

— Taylor H.

Chapter Text

The Lost Prayer Town of Perseverance: A Forgotten Chapter of Silent Hill's Colonial Past

By Dr. Evelyn Whitaker, Silent Hill Historical Society
Published in the Toluca Lake Quarterly, Fall 1981

Nestled in the shadow of Toluca Lake, the history of Silent Hill, Maine, is a tapestry of fleeting triumphs and quiet tragedies. While much has been written about the town's 19th-century penal colony and coal mining days, few records survive of its earliest colonial ventures. Among these is the obscure story of Perseverance, a Puritan prayer town established in the early 17th century for Native American converts. Its brief existence, culled from fragmented colonial ledgers and archaeological finds, offers a poignant glimpse into the region's formative years - a chapter all but erased by time and calamity.

A New Beginning on Toluca's Shores

Perseverance emerged in the wake of English settlement around 1635, when Puritan colonists began to assert control over the lands surrounding Toluca Lake. Unlike the later town of Silent Hill, which would rise as a penal and industrial hub, Perseverance was a missionary endeavor, founded to Christianize and assimilate a small group of Native Americans displaced from a distant community - likely in southern New England - devastated by an epidemic in the early 1630s. These converts, numbering perhaps fifty souls, had endured catastrophic loss, their families and traditions shattered by disease. To Puritan clergy, they represented an opportunity to build a model Christian community, a beacon of divine order in the wilderness.

The town's name, Perseverance, encapsulated both the Puritan ideal of steadfast faith and the converts' resilience. Established under the guidance of missionaries, possibly led by a figure like Pastor John Faraday (a name mentioned in a 1638 Massachusetts Bay letter), Perseverance was envisioned as a new beginning. Its settlers - men, women, and children - embraced Puritanism with earnest devotion, adopting English dress, language, and worship. They built a modest settlement near Toluca Lake, its wooden church and scattered homes reflecting the austere geometry of Puritan village life. Fields for corn and wheat, supplemented by fishing in the lake, sustained their fledgling economy.

Unlike other colonial outposts, Perseverance stood apart, isolated by its remote location and singular purpose. The converts, cut off from their original kin and barred from contact with local tribes by missionary decree, relied solely on their faith and English overseers. The land itself, unremarkable save for its proximity to water, offered no hint of the sacred status later attributed to the region by indigenous lore. To the Puritans, it was simply another tract to be tamed, its potential bound to the labor of the faithful.

A Fragile Existence

For much of the 17th century, Perseverance endured as a quiet, if marginal, community. By the 1640s, its population may have grown to 100-150, swelled by births and the occasional arrival of other displaced converts. The church, presided over by rotating missionaries, was the heart of daily life, where converts memorized scripture, sang psalms, and labored to prove their devotion. Men tilled fields and crafted tools, while women managed households, their lives governed by the rhythms of prayer and toil. Colonial records, such as a 1644 report from a visiting magistrate, describe the town as "orderly, though poor in means," its residents diligent but dependent on sporadic aid from Boston.

Yet, Perseverance's isolation was its Achilles' heel. Far from colonial centers, it struggled to trade its meager surplus of fish and crafts. English settlers in nearby settlements, wary of Native converts despite their piety, offered little support, viewing Perseverance as a curiosity at best. The converts' prior epidemic had left them frail, their numbers too small to sustain robust growth. The region's climate - cold winters, humid summers - posed no extraordinary hardship, but the lake's waters, if improperly managed, could harbor disease. Dysentery and fevers, common in colonial towns, likely took a toll, though the community's faith sustained them through such trials.

The converts' commitment to Puritanism was unwavering. Unlike other prayer towns, where tensions over old customs simmered, Perseverance's residents left no trace of their former traditions. Their lives, as a 1645 sermon fragment notes, were "wholly given to Christ," a testament to the missionaries' success in forging a new identity. Yet this very dependence on Puritan structure made the town vulnerable, its survival tethered to the fragile threads of leadership and health.

The Epidemic and Abandonment

The Silent Hill region's early colonial history ends in tragedy, and Perseverance was no exception. A mysterious epidemic swept through the settlement, as recorded in a 1654 colonial dispatch held in our archives. Likely smallpox or influenza, the disease struck with devastating force, exploiting the close quarters and weakened constitutions of Perseverance's residents. The converts, already scarred by a prior epidemic, bore the brunt, with mortality rates possibly exceeding half the town's population. Missionaries and overseers, though less affected, succumbed or fled, leaving the community leaderless.

The epidemic unraveled Perseverance's fragile order. The church, once a sanctuary, stood silent as survivors grappled with loss. Puritan theology framed the plague as divine judgment, urging repentance, but no amount of prayer could stem the tide. Fields went untended, and trade with the outside world ceased as neighboring settlers shunned the afflicted town. By the mid 1660s, Perseverance was abandoned, its survivors - perhaps a dozen - scattering to other Puritan communities, their faith guiding them to new refuges. The town's wooden structures, left to rot, were swallowed by the encroaching forest, leaving little to mark its existence.

Echoes in the Present

Today, Perseverance is a ghost in Silent Hill's history, its story pieced together from scant records and archaeological finds. In 1978, a dig near Toluca Lake uncovered rusted tools, pottery shards, and a partial church foundation, tentatively linked to the prayer town. These artifacts, now housed in the Silent Hill Historical Society, speak of a community that strove for permanence but found only transience. Unlike the later penal colony or the cultic intrigues that haunt our town's reputation, Perseverance left no enduring legacy - no descendants, no myths, no monuments.

Yet its failure shaped the region's early trajectory. The epidemic's shadow deterred settlement for decades, leaving Toluca Lake's shores to the wilderness until the 18th century's penal experiments. In a town like Silent Hill, where history seems to whisper through the streets, Perseverance's story feels oddly fitting - a fleeting dream, extinguished by forces beyond its control. As we walk the lake's edge, we might pause to consider those forgotten converts, their prayers lost to time, their perseverance a silent testament to the fragility of beginnings.

Dr. Evelyn Whitaker is curator of the Silent Hill Historical Society and author of "Toluca's Chains: A History of the Penal Colony."
Visit the Society's museum at 112 Nathan Avenue to view artifacts from Perseverance and other chapters of our town's past.

Chapter Text

01 : Thoughts on the Motive of the Culprit

Standing on Carroll Street, I pressed the last neon orange Post-It note onto the signpost, smoothing its edges to ensure it stayed put.

I hoped that Megan or Jonathan — or really, anyone else trapped in this warped version of Silent Hill — might find it; but I wasn't sure that they'd even come this way.

My heart wasn't racing anymore. The initial panic from the forest had faded, and a cold, analytical clarity took its place. I needed to make sense of this place — to understand what was happening.

There were four distinct sources of what I'd encountered here:

First, there were elements of the town as it should be.

Gram's house — the black-and-white photos of her and Gramp; the Subaru Outback parked out front — these fell into this category. The shops on Sanders Street, with their cream-colored clapboard and dripping awnings, fit this too, being exactly as I remembered South Vale from childhood visits.

These were the anchors — the parts of Silent Hill that felt real, untouched by whatever was twisting this place.

Second, there were elements pulled from my past.

Mom's totaled Toyota Prius sat at the corner of Sanders and Lindsey — the exact spot where she'd died in 2008. My old Motorola RAZR also fit this category.

Third, there were objects of convenience — things that seemed placed for my use.

The pocket map booklet in Gramp's study had been left open on the desk like someone meant for me to find it. As for the Sony pocket radio and Mom's voice on the phone — the former had utility in locating the Leggers; but the words Mom had spoken made it clear.

Someone was guiding to a destination — to Alchemilla Hospital.

Fourth, there were the obstructions and threats that didn't belong in the Silent Hill I knew.

The scaffolding draped in white tarp, the boarded-up apartments (I was certain that they weren't boarded-up in the actual town), and the abyss; the Woman in the Raincoat and the Leggers — these elements felt like they were forcing me to move forward, or in a particular direction.

The one responsible for all of this had to be a cape. No one else could dig into my head like that — drawing from things I hadn't thought about in a year, and manifesting them as something concrete.

Either way, the precision of it — the way it targeted my trauma — was unsettling.

The ability to manifest memories physically suggested a power that could manipulate perception or reality itself. Maybe a Master, messing with my emotions to steer me; or a Shaker, warping the environment to trap me.

The various obstacles I encountered acted like a stick, prodding me forward; while the map, radio, and voice were the carrot, dangling a path to follow. It was a setup, a calculated effort to drive me to the hospital.

But if their goal was just to get me to the hospital, they could've done it directly — knock me out; teleport me; or even just ask nicely. Instead, they'd built this elaborate maze of fog and threats — which meant there was more to it.

Maybe the journey itself served a purpose, like testing my resolve or feeding off my reactions? Or maybe the cape's power had limits? Maybe they couldn't move freely? Like they were stuck in one place, and needed me to come to them — needed me to feel agency in clearing the obstacles; to actively engage with their designs.

I'd never heard of a cape with the power to create an illusion or pocket dimension this vast. Someone capable of reshaping reality like this would be a heavy hitter, beyond anything I'd read about in PHO.

The setup felt personal, but I wasn't alone when this started. Jonathan and Megan had been with me in the forest, facing that scarred, raincoat-clad figure. Now, standing here, I wondered what they'd seen, and whether their experiences in this town mirrored mine, or cleanly diverged.

The Woman in the Raincoat had felt like a twisted reflection of Mom — but Jonathan and Megan might not have seen her the same way. The cape pulling the strings could've tailored the monster to their minds, conjuring something unique to their pasts — maybe a figure tied to their own regrets or fears.

If their version of her had different features, or if they'd encountered entirely different creatures since we split, it would mean the cape was crafting individualized nightmares for each of us.

Alternatively, the raincoat figure might've been mine alone, while Jonathan and Megan faced their own manifestations later. The Leggers didn't connect to anything in my past — no memory or fear I could pin down. They could be tied to Jonathan or Megan, shaped from their memories to herd them toward Alchemilla.

I had no way to know for sure without finding them, but the thought that we were all being manipulated in parallel made my skin prickle.

If this cape could access my memories, they knew my weaknesses — my guilt over Mom's death; the way I sometimes wondered if her last text was meant for me.

They were betting on me reacting emotionally — not rationally. I wasn't going to give them that.

I was about to brave the section of Carroll Street with the Leggers again when flicker of movement caught my eye, moving through the mist.

A familiar figure — slender, hunched over, with the telltale glint of a smartphone screen — slipped through the entrance of the building to the southwest; what had to be a hospital of some sort, from the ambulances parked out front.

It was Megan Miller — but before I could even call out to her, she'd disappeared through the hospital door.

My pulse quickened, not from fear but from the sudden clarity of purpose. If Megan was here, she might have answers — about what she'd seen, what she'd faced; whether this town was twisting around her memories too.

I didn't know if Megan was following her own set of breadcrumbs, or fleeing something worse than what I'd seen. Either way, finding her could confirm whether we were all being funneled to the same place — or if Alchemilla wasn't the only destination in this cape's game.

Chapter Text

BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL

PATIENT MANIFEST AND AUTOPSY REPORT
Date: ██████ 19, ████

Patient: Jane Doe (Identity Pending)
Admission: 02:47 PM EST
Cause of Admission: Motor Vehicle Accident (MVA)

INITIAL ASSESSMENT:

████████ patient, estimated age ██-██, admitted following a high-impact vehicular collision. Patient presented with severe trauma, including bilateral crush injuries to lower limbs (below knees) and upper limbs (below elbows). Vitals upon admission critically weak, bordering non-extant:

• Heart Rate: 32 bpm, irregular
• Blood Pressure: 62/38 mmHg
• Respiratory Rate: 6 breaths/min, shallow
• Oxygen Saturation: 74%
• Glasgow Coma Scale: 3

Immediate resuscitation efforts initiated, including IV fluids, epinephrine, and mechanical ventilation. Despite interventions, vitals failed at 03:12 PM EST. Patient pronounced clinically deceased at 03:15 PM EST.

AUTOPSY REQUEST:

Police Department (Jurisdiction: ██████████) requested expedited autopsy at 03:45 PM EST, citing concerns related to ██████████. Request noted as unusual due to ██████████.

AUTOPSY PROCEDURE:

Autopsy commenced at 04:22 PM EST. Standard Y-incision performed, revealing extensive internal trauma consistent with high-impact collision. During examination of thoracic cavity, at approximately 04:31 PM EST, spontaneous cardiac activity resumed (heart rate detected at 48 bpm, irregular). Autopsy halted immediately. Resuscitation protocols re-initiated.

POST-RESUSCITATION STATUS:

Patient stabilized minimally by 05:10 PM EST. Vitals remain critical:

• Heart Rate: 56 bpm, irregular
• Blood Pressure: 78/44 mmHg
• Oxygen Saturation: 82% (with ventilation support)

Due to irreparable damage to limbs, surgical team, acting on advisory from ██████████, elected to proceed with emergency amputation of affected limbs (bilateral below-knee and below-elbow). Prosthetic limb replacement initiated, utilizing biomechanical implants. Procedure ongoing as of 06:00 PM EST.

ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS:

Notable physiological anomalies observed, including accelerated tissue growth related to secondary ██████ characteristics (details: ██████████). Further analysis pending.

NOTES:

Case flagged for high-priority monitoring due to unusual clinical presentation and police interest.
All personnel involved under strict confidentiality protocols per ██████████.
Awaiting further instructions from ██████████ regarding disposition and additional testing.

Attending Physician: Dr. Jennifer Carter, MD
Supervising Pathologist: Dr. Marcus Lin, MD

Chapter Text

The cemetery was quiet — a small clearing ringed by old pines that stood like silent sentinels under a pale August sky.

Taylor stood on the clipped grass of the cemetery, the hem of her black dress brushing her knees. The dress was too tight, and it smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs; picked out by Gram, probably from her Mom's old wardrobe.

She tugged at the sleeves, and kept her eyes fixed on the polished mahogany of her mother's casket. It gleamed dully in the muted daylight — a closed box that hid what remained of Annette Rose Hebert.

The Anglican priest, a wiry man with a gentle voice, read from a worn prayer book:

"We commend to your mercy, O Lord, the soul of your servant Annette ..."

His voice was steady and practiced, but it felt distant to Taylor, like a radio playing in another room. She glanced at her father, Danny, standing rigid beside her, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed but dry, fixed on the casket as if he could will it to stay above ground.

Gram stood on Taylor's other side, long black hair streaked with gray and pulled into a tight bun. She held a single white lily, fingers trembling slightly as she gripped the stem.

Only a handful of people had come: Two of Annette's old colleagues from Brockton Bay University — a soft-spoken woman named Ellen who'd taught English with her; and a thin man named Paul who'd been a student friend of both Annette and Danny. They stood a respectful distance away, heads bowed, their black clothes stark against the green of the grass. No one spoke beyond murmurs of condolence, and the air felt heavy with things unsaid.

The priest continued, "... and we pray that you grant her eternal rest."

Taylor's chest tightened. She didn't believe in this — not the prayers; not the promise of heaven. Neither did her dad — not really. Her Gramp, Richard Morgan, had grown up in the church, though he never seemed to care much for it. But Gram had insisted on the service, saying it was what Annette would've wanted — a nod to the family's roots.

Taylor didn't argue. It didn't matter. Nothing would bring her mom back.

The casket was lowered into the ground with a soft creak of ropes, the sound cutting through the priest's words. Taylor's eyes drifted to the headstone, already in place, its granite surface catching the light.

The words felt too small, too tidy for the woman who'd filled their house with laughter; who'd read Shakespeare to Taylor at bedtime; whose body was marked by scars, merely for bringing Taylor into the world.

Taylor's throat burned, and she swallowed hard, pushing down the grief that threatened to spill over. Gram reached for her hand, her grip warm and firm despite the tremble. Taylor squeezed back, glancing at her grandmother's face — timeless, youthful, but etched with quiet sorrow.

Gram's eyes were wet, but she held her chin high, the lily now resting on the casket's edge.

Danny didn't move, didn't reach out. He just stared as the first shovelful of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thud.

Ellen stepped forward, placing a small bouquet of roses beside the lily.

"She was brilliant," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Paul nodded, saying nothing, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

The priest closed his book, and the group stood in silence as the groundskeeper continued filling the grave. Taylor wanted to say something, to scream or cry or tell them all how her mom had been more than brilliant — how she'd been everything — but the words stuck in her throat, heavy as the dirt piling over the casket.

When it was over, the small group dispersed quietly. Gram lingered, touching the headstone lightly. Danny turned away, walking toward the car, his shoulders hunched.

Taylor stayed a moment longer, staring at the fresh earth, the closed casket now hidden beneath it. They'd said it was for their sake — to spare them the sight of Annette's body, broken by the crash. Taylor didn't believe it. She didn't want to think about what they weren't saying.

She turned and followed her father — the weight of the day settling into her bones.

I held the page, rereading the words.

"... her casket was closed, to keep us from seeing her body."

Was this accurate? Or was it the cape messing with me?

Chapter Text

02 : Megan and the Nurse

My pocket-clip flashlight, hooked to my hoodie's breast pocket, cast a steady beam across the page.

"... is it to prepare a backstory for the Woman in the Raincoat?"

A fiction was fabricated — and so to convince me it was real, a justification for its existence was devised.

The alternative was that the document was real — but was it? I'd found it in a stack of documents, within a drawer that I arbitrarily opened, sandwiched between unrelated paperwork. It was a bit too out of the way to call it conspicuously placed, but —

Just what were the chances that I'd find something specifically relevant to my situation, searching through drawers on a whim?

I folded the manifest carefully and slipped it into my backpack. Real or not, it was a clue, and I wasn't about to leave it behind.

Through the door, my flashlight's beam cut across the corridor. The cool air in the corridor wasn't particularly stale, but it had a bit of an antiseptic bite — a chemical odor that wasn't quite overpowering, but distinctly unpleasant.

The set of double doors leading to the cafeteria didn't budge when I tugged at the handles. Peering through the wire-mesh windows, I saw only shadows — outlines that might've been tables or chairs, standing amidst the faint moonlight that filtered in through the windows.

"Megan didn't come this way, huh?"

The door marked 'Medical Records' was locked. A little further on, a side corridor ended at an unmarked door — likewise locked.

I returned to the lobby, where a short hallway split to the left beneath an arch. There was a men's restroom and a locked locker room door; and then the corridor terminated at a set of double doors marked as 'Inner Ward.' It'd be helpful if they were unlocked — but no dice.

I sighed and turned back. Off the other side of the lobby, the checkered linoleum flooring continued down a corridor to the left; and at the corner, hanging on a grey brick wall above a bench, there was a picture of the building.

Brookhaven Hospital, ca. 1920.

I thought for sure that it was built in the 50's or 60's, given the interior — but I guess they could've renovated?

The leftward corridor ran along the front of the building, with a row of windows lining the right wall. Opposite, a door marked as 'Examination Room 1' stood beside a bulletin board; and at the end of the hall, one set of double doors opened into a stairwell, while another gated the corridor to the left.

The door to the corridor turned out to be locked — but the other one wasn't. I pushed it open, and found myself faced with a choice.

"More likely she's upstairs than in the basement," I decided. "Up it is."

I found her on the second floor, in a room marked as L2. She was slightly hunched over, standing by one the doors to the room — reading something off the screen of her phone.

She started at the sound of me entering the room, and spun around — face twisting with something I couldn't quite read. Fear, perhaps — or something else?

"Hey," I said, stepping to the center of the room. "Are you al-"

"B- Back away," she said, interrupting me. "And hands where I can see them."

What? What had brought this on?

It wasn't like she was threatening me; but she was clearly distressed, as if she'd encountered something that had shaken her — or worse, someone.

As the calmer party, it fell to me to placate her.

"Alright," I said, raising my hands and backing away. "I dunno what happened to you, but —"

"I ask the questions," she said. "Do you have any weapons on you?"

I hesitated, but decided that without a little give, the conversation couldn't move forward.

"I have a box cutter."

"Slowly take it out and put it on the floor."

I made to comply, slowly unshouldering my backpack, and unzipping it — withdrawing the box cutter, and carefully placing it on the floor.

In the first place, I hadn't encountered anything truly dangerous besides the Woman in the Raincoat, and it was unlikely that I could harm her with a box cutter of all things. If Megan wanted it, she could have it — though, what exactly had she experienced that she thought a box cutter would make a difference? Was it just a matter of having options in case anything went down?

"Kick it over," she said.

I did so, and she squatted to pick it up — never taking eyes off me. Once it was in hand, she extended the blade, confirming that it indeed had a cutting edge.

"Next question," she said, retracting and pocketing it. "Have you met anyone since we split up in the forest?"

'Anyone,' huh? I supposed that she wasn't referring to the monsters.

The fact that she was asking at all likely meant that for her, the town was empty of intelligent life; but given that she'd parted ways with Jonathan at some point, was it a probe as to whether I'd met him? I couldn't know for sure.

"No," I said. "Town's utterly deserted, except for the few monsters lumbering about."

Her lips thinned. It looked like she was really hoping that I'd say otherwise.

"Then, have you managed to get into touch with anyone?" she asked. "The police, maybe?"

"No."

She cursed under her breath, and then raised her phone, furiously tapping out a message.

She had internet in this place? Never mind the fact that we were reasonably deep within a building without electricity, and thus likely shielded from any phone signal — if she could contact somebody online, she should be the one calling for help.

"Hey —"

Before I could voice complaint, a metallic noise caught my attention — an obtrusive scraping across the floor outside the door I'd entered from. I turned, bringing the beam of the flashlight to the door; but there was no seeing through the narrow glass window to the side. Only the flashlight reflected back.

There was a bang against the door — followed by another, and another. With each, the metal of the door dented further — physically deforming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Megan in a panic — making to exit through the door she'd been standing before. It slammed behind her, and I heard a distinct click.

"Shit," I muttered, rushing to the door. My hands gripped the handle, twisting hard, but it didn't budge.

With one final bang, the entrance of the room exploded inward with a deafening crack — fragments of the doorframe scattering across the floor.

A figure stepped through, dragging a heavy iron pipe — over two meters in length; rusted and stained.

It was a woman — or at least, something that resembled a woman.

She was voluptuous and tall, her curves exaggerated to the point of caricature — accentuated by a nurse's outfit that looked more like a Halloween costume than anything practical.

The dress was tight, and its miniskirt barely covered her thighs — stained with patches of black and crimson and rusted brown, as the hem clung to her hips in what seemed a deliberately provocative way. Torn black stockings hugged her shapely legs; and the see-through fabric was jaggedly ripped and laddered — pinching her flesh, and causing the exposed skin beneath to pucker and protrude. Below, she wasn't wearing any shoes, and the soles of her stocking-clad feet padded across the floor in awkward steps, accumulating grime.

Wrapped entirely in bloodstained bandages, her head was such that I could barely make out the profile of her face — the whole shape twitching sporadically as her body jerked forward unevenly, as if pulled by invisible strings.

She paused in the doorway, pipe in hand; head tilting forward as it twitched, seeming to probe the room — not immediately detecting my presence. Being that her eyes were covered, it was doubtful that she could see; but maybe she possessed a sort of echolocation? I'd read that it wasn't entirely beyond humans, even if it required intensive practice ...

Now wasn't the time. I had to focus — figure what to do while she was still caught up, feeling out the room.

There was a door to the side of the room, on my left; but it was blocked by furniture — a dead end, for all intents and purposes. The door that Megan had gone through wasn't an option.

By process of elimination, the only way out was through her.

I acted before I could second-guess myself. Lowering my shoulder, I charged — slamming into her with the full weight of my body.

The impact was solid — her body lighter than I'd expected, despite her height. She staggered, and the pipe slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor with a heavy metallic clang. I didn't hesitate. Grasping ahold of it, I bolted through the door from which she'd come.

As my sneakers pounded the floor, putting distance between us, my grip on the pipe was awkward at best — the weighting of it rendered uneven by the elbow on the one end, despite the fact that I was holding it with both hands. I wasn't sure how long ago I'd been vaccinated, but the rusted surface felt like it was likely to give me tetanus.

Honestly, it was an uncomfortable wield, and I wasn't sure I could use it as a bludgeoning instrument; but for now, the important thing was to deny her the use of a weapon.

Without a weapon, she was only as dangerous as a movie zombie — hopefully? I didn't know for sure how strong she was, but I definitely outpaced her in running.

I didn't bother with the double doors leading in the general direction Megan had escaped in; I'd tested them prior to entering L2, and they were locked shut. L2 seemed like it bridged two zones of the second floor; and with Megan's locking of the door, passage to and fro was denied — barring some sort of access from the other side of the building.

Megan had been quick to ditch me the moment the going got tough; and so, what even was the point of pursuit? Better to try my luck alone, and not worry about being backstabbed — or at least locate Jonathan.

I pushed through the double doors left of the nurse station. On the other side, a metal latch jutted from the right door — a simple rotating switch that extruded the lock when turned.

I twisted it firmly, hearing a click as it engaged. This should hold, at least for a bit? The nurse didn't seem to have monstrous strength from our brief interaction, but I wasn't about to bet my life on it. In any case, I didn't linger to find out.

My goal was clear: Return to the entrance and escape the hospital as soon as possible.

A staircase stood to the right of the hall, with a wire fence framing the steps, but nothing to obstruct entry. Descending here seemed like the fastest way to the first floor, where I entered from the street; but given the layout of the building, I'd probably find myself somewhere behind the locked doors I'd encountered earlier — maybe in the 'Inner Ward.'

Given that I was approaching the locks from the opposite direction, they shouldn't be a problem?

I descended, arriving at the first-floor landing — but immediately, I was disappointed. A wire fence with a gate blocked the path, secured by a padlock. I tugged on it, hoping it was the sort that would give if enough force applied, but it held firm.

"You've gotta be kidding me."

The way to the basement was blocked as well, so I had little choice. Turning back, I climbed the stairs again, passing the second floor and heading for the third. Maybe there'd be another way down — or at least a place to regroup and figure out my next move.

Exiting the stairwell onto the third-floor landing, I stepped into the dim corridor. To my right, a heavy door stood propped open against the wall, revealing a stretch of hallway. My sneakers squeaked softly on the linoleum as I moved past an inoperative elevator, and continued down the hall.

There was a small window set into the wall at the end, at waist height, but its frame was too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. It opened to an indoor space; and if the way ahead weren't locked, I supposed I would see the other side later?

I kept moving, turning left. A door to the 'Hydrotherapy Room' stood on the left wall, but I didn't bother checking it — it likely just looped back to the hall with the stairwell. I saw a sign marked 'Hydrotherapy' earlier.

Turning down the corridor, there were three open doors on the right, each revealing a padded cell. Another turn, and the hall ended at a set of double doors.

I pushed through, and found myself in another corridor that veered right. At its end, I could see the other side of the window I'd passed earlier.

The hallway split off to the left, forming a T; and beyond, three hospital rooms stood in a row — their doors slightly ajar, revealed neatly made beds and medical equipment. To the right, there was a locked door — probably a storage closet or office — and next to it, a single-stall handicap restroom.

I nudged the restroom door open, peering inside. A single sink, a mirror, and a toilet sat in the small space, the tiles gleaming faintly under my light. Nothing useful — and no surprises either. I let the door swing shut.

The hallway ended at another set of double doors, and I pushed them open — stepping into a large, dilapidated room that felt like a stark contrast to the rest of the hospital.

Large and cavernous, the walls were half-tiled — lined with cracked, off-white squares of ceramic; and peeling whitewash, flaking away in patches. A row of windows ran along the left, and a few more dotted the far wall, opening out into the forward face of the hospital — the night without.

Directly across from the door, a recess in the wall caught my eye. I approached, and my flashlight revealed a rusted metal ladder bolted into the concrete, descending into darkness below.

I approached, shining my flashlight down. The rungs were rusted but looked sturdy enough, leading to what I assumed was the second floor — maybe even the first.

No, not the first.

I remembered walking down the corridor on the front of the hospital on the first floor, and entering a staircase. That had been on northeast corner of the hospital, and I hadn't seen any ladder. I didn't know how far to the north the third floor ran, but likely it was the case that if the map were superimposed over the second floor, this location would be somewhere about the middle of the length of the building — somewhere in the inaccessible block.

"This doesn't put me as far from the nurse as I'd like ..."

I could backtrack to the stairwell from earlier, and explore in the other direction; search for another exit — but given that I was already here, I might as well take a look.

I locked the double doors to the room, then leaned the iron pipe against the wall. Its weight was a hassle, and if I was going to climb down that ladder, I needed my hands free. Gripping the ladder's rungs, I started my descent.

The ladder creaked under my weight, but it held firm — each step echoing in the tight shaft. My shoes finally hit solid ground, and I found myself in a heavily deteriorated office.

The room was a shadow of something that must've been at one point fancy — grand, even, in a way that screamed old-money importance. Now, it was a wreck. The walls were stained with water damage, the once-polished surfaces peeling and streaked with grime. The floor was cracked, littered with bits of debris; and the air carried a stale, moldy scent that mixed unpleasantly with the faint antiseptic tang.

My flashlight swept across a mahogany desk directly before me, illuminating the green banker's lamp that sat upon the surface.

The ladder I'd come down was absurdly out of place, emerging right behind the desk, where a chair should've been. If it was intended as an escape ladder of some sort, there should've been a way for ladder to retract; but as far as I could tell, there was no such thing — and no sign of the chair it had taken the place of.

Before the desk, a threadbare rug stretched across the floor; and beyond it, an arched double door. At either side of the room, doors lined the walls — two on each side. Certainly, they were worth investigating — but I didn't bother testing them just yet.

On the desk, there was a manila folder with a photograph was clipped to the front — a woman's torso, marked with familiar scars.

Scrawled across the folder's tab, there was a label in stark black typewriter script:

The Second Vessel

Chapter Text

The Devotion of the Twenty-One

The Ten Hearts

• 01: The Priest
• 02: The Zealot
• 03: The Martyr
• 04: The Innocent
• 05: The Protector
• 06: The Guide
• 07: The Child
• 08: The Twin
• 09: The Artisan
• 10: The Soldier

The Second Sign

• 11: The Assumption
• 12: Nothingness
• 13: Darkness
• 14: Gloom

The Third Sign

• 15: Despair
• 16: Temptation
• 17: Source
• 18: Watchfulness

The Final Sign

• 19: Chaos
• 20: The Mother Reborn
• 21: The Receiver of Wisdom

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Internal Memorandum: Reassessment of Protocols for the Descent of the Holy Mother

To: ███████████ ██████████ ██ ███ █████
From: Oversight Committee Member, ██████ 7
Date: ██████ ██, ████

It has long been maintained ██████ ███ █████████ that the Devotion of the Twenty-One is a prerequisite for facilitating the descent of the Holy Mother. This sequence of ███████████ ███████ was considered essential to prepare a ████████ ███████████ ███ ██████ for the process. However, recent observations █████████ Subject 02 have provided empirical evidence that challenges this assumption, indicating that such preparations may not be mandatory.

Subject 02, a ██████ ██████████, exhibited spontaneous and arbitrary manifestations of the stigma associated with the Holy Mother, without any prior engagement in the Devotion of the Twenty-One. This development occurred independently of established procedures, suggesting that the descent may arise from inherent qualifications rather than structured interventions.

The identification of Subject 02 occurred at Brookhaven Hospital, where associated medical personnel took her into protective custody. She was initially brought to the facility following a ███████████████ that resulted in apparent cessation of vital functions. Anomalous characteristics observed at the scene prompted affiliates within the ██████ ████ ██████ ███████████ to mandate a detailed postmortem examination. During this procedure, Subject 02 spontaneously regained vital signs, leading to immediate intervention by our hospital associates to secure and monitor her condition.

Upon evaluation, it was determined that the stigma of the Holy Mother had already █████████ in Subject 02. This included preliminary indicators consistent with the expected progression ███████ ███ ███████. Monitoring continues to assess whether this will advance to complete manifestation or terminate prematurely. Regardless of the outcome, this case demonstrates that the Devotion of the Twenty-One may represent an artifact of historical practices rather than a functional necessity. It appears that these steps, while traditionally viewed as ███████████, could be superfluous if a vessel possesses sufficient inherent qualifications.

This finding does not diminish the █████████ ██ █████████ the descent of the Holy Mother, which remains a ██████ ████. Instead, ███████████████, emphasizing the identification and cultivation of qualified vessels over adherence to potentially outdated protocols. Further studies on Subject 02 will inform adjustments to our operational guidelines, with priority given to ███-███████ ████████████ to preserve the integrity of the process.

All associates are advised to maintain discretion and report any anomalies for immediate review. Updates will be disseminated as data accumulates, barring any ██████████ ██ ███████████ to the scheduled proceedings. See █████████ █████████ for reference into ███████ ███████.

End of memorandum.

[ Page 2 of 2 ]

Chapter Text

In the school auditorium after school, the club members gathered on the worn wooden stage, fidgeting with scripts and whispering predictions as the director, Ms. Harper, stood at the podium with her casting list.

Megan sat cross-legged in the front row, flanked by Sophia on her left and Kayla on her right. Sophia leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial murmur.

"You've got this locked down. Your audition was killer — no one else even came close."

Kayla nodded vigorously, twisting a strand of her hair.

Megan allowed a small smile, her confidence buoyed by their words, though she felt a twinge of anticipation knotting her stomach. The role demanded a character who could sway crowds with cunning charm, and she knew she embodied that better than anyone.

Ms. Harper cleared her throat, adjusting her glasses as the room fell silent.

"Alright, everyone, great auditions all around. This year's production of The Crucible is going to be something special. Let's start with the key roles."

She began reading down the list, assigning parts to murmurs of approval or disappointed sighs. Megan's heart quickened as the director approached the major characters.

"John Proctor will be played by Alex," Ms. Harper announced, prompting a round of applause.

Then came the moment.

"And for Abigail Williams, the role goes to — Emily."

A stunned hush rippled through the group, broken by polite claps that sounded hollow to Megan's ears. Emily, seated a few rows back, let out a surprised gasp and beamed, her cheeks flushing as friends patted her on the back. Megan's hands clenched in her lap, her smile freezing into a mask. Abigail Williams — that was her role, the one she had lived and breathed for.

Sophia sucked in a breath beside her. Kayla crossed her arms, her whisper sharp.

"Emily? Seriously? She doesn't have the edge for Abigail. This has gotta be rigged or something."

Ms. Harper continued with the rest of the casting, but Megan barely heard it. Her mind replaying her audition — the praise from peers during rehearsals, the way she had nailed the intensity of Abigail's accusations.

By the time the director wrapped up and dismissed them, the auditorium buzzed with excited chatter; but Megan remained seated, staring at the stage where Emily now stood, chatting animatedly with the director.

Sophia and Kayla lingered with her, their loyalty a small anchor in the rising tide of resentment.

"We should say something," Kayla suggested, her eyes narrowing. "This isn't fair."

But Megan shook her head, forcing herself to stand, her jaw tight.

Inside, a slow burn ignited — anger at the injustice, at Emily's undeserved win, at how easily her efforts had been overlooked. She smoldered with it, the heat building as she watched Emily laugh, already imagining ways to make her regret taking what should have been hers.

Megan slumped into the chair at her desk in her bedroom, the door firmly shut behind her to block out the distant hum of her family's evening routine.

The casting still burned in her mind like an unhealed wound. Emily hadn't even gloated — hadn't said a word. She just smiled shyly and accepted the congratulations; but that only made it worse — as if Emily thought she deserved Abigail Williams without a fight.

Megan's fingers drummed on the keyboard as she powered up her computer, the screen flickering to life with the familiar MySpace login page already bookmarked.

She logged in first to her own profile, scrolling idly through updates from friends; but her eyes narrowed at a post from the drama club group — a generic excitement about the upcoming rehearsals for The Crucible, with Emily tagged in the comments. No brag from her; just a simple "Can't wait!" that drew likes from half the club.

Megan's jaw tightened.

"Can't wait to steal what's mine," she muttered under her breath.

An idea solidified. Why not hit back where it would sting, in the digital space where everyone in their circle hung out?

She wouldn't use her own profile — that would be too obvious. Instead, she'd craft someone new, someone who could say the things bubbling inside her without consequence. Kelly Summers, she decided, a name pulled from thin air — an entirely fictitious girl who could pass as just another student from their school; maybe someone from a different clique who blended into the background.

Megan grabbed her phone and texted Sophia and Kayla in their group chat.

"hey, still pissed about today. thinking of messing with emily on myspace. fake profile, throw some shade her way. you in?"

Sophia's reply came almost instantly: "hell yes"

Kayla chimed in seconds later: "wat kinda profile?"

Megan's lips curved into a satisfied smirk as she typed back.

"call her kelly summers, like some random girl from school no one really knows. i'll start with insults on emily's profile page. maybe message her crap about her looks and that rumor about the math test. you guys create similar fakes and like or comment to make it look real."

"perfect," Sophia responded. "i'll be rachel green or smthing"

"got it," Kayla added. "this'll be fun"

Energized by their agreement, Megan navigated to MySpace's sign-up page. She created the account for Kelly, uploading a generic avatar — a photo of a girl she found online — and filling in vague details to make her seem like an existing student: same school, and a few mutual "friends" added from public profiles to build credibility. Everything was untraceable; she used a throwaway email and avoided any personal ties.

Once logged in as Kelly, Megan searched for Emily's profile. It loaded quickly, filled with posts about drama club and innocuous updates.

Megan's pulse quickened as she composed the first public comment on Emily's latest entry about the play:

"congrats on stealing the role, talentless hack. everyone knows you only got it because you suck up to the director."

She hit post, a thrill running through her. Then, switching to private messages, she typed:

"your glasses make u look like a total loser. and I heard you cheated on that math test. BUSTED."

As she sent it, notifications popped up — Sophia and Kayla had already created their fake accounts and were liking Kelly's comment, adding their own barbs.

Megan leaned back in her chair, watching the screen as the campaign took its first steps. The smoldering anger from earlier had ignited into something sharper, a sense of control that made her feel powerful. This was just the beginning; she'd keep it going until Emily felt the weight of it all.

Over the next three and a half months, as rehearsals for the play proceeded, Megan's resentment festered into a relentless campaign.

What started with snide comments and private jabs on MySpace evolved into something sharper, more invasive. She coordinated with Sophia and Kayla through their group chat, brainstorming ways to twist the knife deeper without revealing themselves.

"we need 2 make her crack," Megan texted one evening, her fingers flying across her phone screen. "post more about how she's faking her way through rehearsals. say she's butchering abigail's lines on purpose."

Sophia replied quickly: "yeah, and I'll comment that everyone's laughing. kayla, u add something about her looking desperate."

"on it," Kayla shot back.

Megan escalated by having Kelly's profile flood Emily's page with daily barbs — accusations of being a teacher's pet, hints that her casting was pity-based, even fabricated stories about her clumsiness during scenes that made her seem incompetent.

The fake accounts multiplied the noise, liking and sharing each post to simulate a chorus of disdain from the school. Private messages grew crueler, mocking Emily's every insecurity: her glasses, her outfits, her quiet demeanor.

"you're just a joke to everyone," one read. "why don't u quit before u embarrass yourself more?"

At school, Megan watched from afar as the effects took hold. Emily's once-eager participation in rehearsals faltered. She stumbled over lines — her eyes darting nervously, as if expecting judgment from every corner. Whispers circulated in the drama club. Unrelated members exchanging glances and low murmurs about the online drama.

Megan felt a surge of satisfaction each time she overheard someone say, "Did you see that post? Emily's getting roasted hard."

But as the production neared its final weeks, Megan decided to push further, sensing Emily was close to breaking.

On an afternoon after rehearsal, she spotted Emily and Ms. Harper alone in a side room beside the auditorium. The director was offering what looked like a bit of extra coaching, with Emily leaning in close as Ms. Harper demonstrated a gesture — their hands brushing innocently in the process.

It was nothing, just a teacher helping a student, but from Megan's angled view through the cracked door, it could be spun into something scandalous. She recorded a brief video, her heart pounding with illicit thrill.

Back home, she uploaded them to Kelly's profile without alteration, captioning the post:

"look at this. emily cozying up to ms. harper. no wonder she got abigail."

She messaged Sophia and Kayla: "check it out"

Sophia's response buzzed in: "OMG that's perfect"

The post spread like wildfire within the network, and soon, real rumors echoed through the club. Unrelated members — kids Megan barely knew — began entertaining the idea as truth.

She overheard one boy in the green room saying, "Dude, those pics are sus. Maybe that's why Emily got the part over better people."

A girl nearby nodded, whispering, "I wouldn't put it past her. Explains a lot."

Megan swelled with pride, a dark glow of victory warming her as she imagined Emily unraveling under the weight of the suspicion.

Then, abruptly, Emily stopped showing up.

First, she took a few days off school, citing illness through a note from her parents — missing crucial rehearsals where stand-ins awkwardly filled her role. Ms. Harper expressed concern in club meetings, but no one pressed.

After that, Emily went silent altogether. Megan assumed she'd won — that Emily had retreated in shame. She eased off, content with the chaos she'd sown.

Days later, lounging on the couch after dinner, Megan half-listened to the local news droning in the background while scrolling her phone.

The anchor's voice cut through suddenly, sharp and somber:

"Authorities have confirmed that a freshman at Middlebury School was found deceased earlier today in a wooded area adjacent to her family's residence. The student, whose identity has not been released pending family notification, is believed to have taken her own life. Police are investigating the circumstances, but at this time, no foul play is suspected. We extend our deepest condolences to the family and community affected by this heartbreaking loss. We'll bring you further updates as they become available."

Megan froze, the phone slipping from her hand. The news report had censored her name, but the blurred photo they used was recognizable to anyone familiar with the student body.

Emily — dead? Because of — what? The posts? The photos? It couldn't be; it was just words, just a game to even the score.

But guilt crashed in behind the shock, twisting her stomach into knots. Confusion swirled — had she gone too far? She hadn't meant for this, not really. Tears blurred her vision as she bolted to her room, slamming the door.

Fingers trembling, she logged into MySpace and deleted Kelly Summers' account in a frenzy — erasing every post; every message; every trace of the bullying campaign.

A urgent message was sent to Sophia and Kayla:

"emily's gone. suicide. delete everything NOW."

Megan leaned against the rough brick wall of an abandoned storefront, her chest heaving under her jacket as she gulped in the cool, misty air.

The town of South Vale stretched around her in eerie silence, its streets shrouded in fog that muffled everything.

She had run until her legs burned, weaving through alleyways and side streets to shake off the nightmare that had unfolded. First, that grotesque woman in the raincoat in the forest; and then, Jonathan had —

She shook her head. For now, she was safe — and fuck Jonathan.

She slid down the wall to sit on the damp sidewalk, her knees pulled up as she tried to steady her breathing. The rain had lightened to a fine drizzle, soaking through her clothes, but she barely noticed.

What kind of hell had she gotten herself into? The streets here were empty, utterly devoid of cars and people. There was just the endless mist rolling in off the lake, and nothing else.

A faint vibration buzzed against her thigh, startling her; and she fumbled for her smartphone, pulling it from her pocket with trembling fingers.

The screen lit up, showing a new text message notification. But that couldn't be right. She glanced at the signal bars — zero, just like they had been since getting lost in the forest. No reception, no bars, nothing. Yet here was a message, timestamped as if it had come through normally.

She swiped to open it, her heart pounding. The sender's name read 'Kelly Summers.'

"Congrats on getting away. That was close."

Megan stared at the words, a chill crawling up her spine unrelated to the weather.

Kelly Summers — the fake profile she had created months ago for that stupid prank on Emily. But she had deleted it; scrubbed everything after — after had what happened. How was this possible?

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, hesitation gripping her. This had to be some glitch, or maybe the phone picking up a delayed message from before the signal died.

Experimentally, she typed back: "who r you?"

The response came almost immediately, as if the sender had been waiting.

"Who do you think?"

Megan's breath caught. It was playing games, just like she had. But how was whoever this was monitoring her? She wiped the rain from her face, glancing about the empty street to make sure no one was watching. Jonathan couldn't have her number, could he? Though even if he did, his phone was as dead as hers.

Before she could reply, another message popped up.

"Doesn't matter right now. The important thing is, from here on out, I'll navigate you through the town. Stick with me, and you'll get out of this."

Megan's eyes widened, her pulse quickening again. Navigate? How could anyone know where she was — what she'd just escaped? She typed back, her words sharper this time.

"how do u know what's going on with me?"

The reply buzzed in seconds later.

"I have my means. Where are you now? What's around you? Give me details—street signs, buildings, anything."

Megan paused, rereading the message. If this Kelly had some kind of all-seeing ability, why ask for updates like that? It didn't add up to clairvoyance or mind-reading. No, it felt more like someone piecing together information from reports or cameras — maybe hacking into something remote. Or perhaps they were nearby, tracking her movements through guesswork and prompts.

Either way, it wasn't omniscience. It was calculated, reliant on her input to fill in the gaps.

But, if she trusted them — if this person could guide her out of here — maybe it was worth the risk.

She scanned her surroundings again — a signpost marked as 'Munroe Street,' intersecting with a 'Rendell Street' down the way; the shuttered cafe she had past, not far away; and the ever-present fog, rolling in like smoke. She briefly described it all in her next text, fingers flying.

The response came swiftly.

"Good. You're closer than you think. Head toward the west, and avoid the alleys if you can," Kelly typed. "Your objective is Brookhaven Hospital."

Chapter Text

03 : The Carrot Draws, and the Stick Pushes

I changed my mind about the pipe.

Standing at the edge of the ladder's shaft, I let it go, watching as the shape plummeted into the shadows below. It clanged dully as it hit the floor of the room below — once, twice, and then nothing.

Descending, I found the pipe where it had landed, its impact having left a faint gouge in the floor tile. Picking it up, I turned to the semi-circular window set into the wall behind the mahogany desk.

The bottom of the window was level with the top of the desk; and it had a double-door at the center of its lower section, flanked by two slightly curved panels on either side. Above, three panels followed the arch of the semicircle.

I'd hoped to open the window — to gauge if I could drop to the ground below without risking injury; and so I tugged at the knobs. The double-doors at the center wouldn't give, either locked by some mechanism I couldn't spot, or otherwise sealed.

Sighing, I swung the pipe against the glass — shattering the pane with a sharp crack.

The office was on the second floor, and so there should've been a ground below. Instead, the darkness swallowed everything, as if the world outside had been erased — just a black void, consuming the building's facade.

The air without carried no breeze; no sound — just a heavy stillness.

The glass shards on the floor had been clouded with grime, but they were translucent enough to let in light. The reason they hadn't was that there was simply no light to admit.

"漆黒一色," I said aloud, the words slipping out before I could think.

Shikkoku Isshiki — pure, unbroken black.

From a young age, my mother had taught me Japanese, weaving it into my everyday life alongside English. She'd sit me down with picture books — pointing out the kanji and hiragana, and patiently guiding me through the pronunciations. By the time I was forming full sentences, I could switch between the two languages without a thought.

Staring now into the void beyond the shattered window, that phrase was what came to mind.

There was no separation line — no horizon to divide ground from sky. It was all a single color — an endless expanse where the distinction between earth and sky dissolved.

I stepped away from the shattered window, dissatisfied. Breaking the glass would reveal something, I'd hoped — some solution to my problems; but I supposed that things couldn't be so simple.

On the desk, the manila file marked as "The Second Vessel" remained — a problem unresolved.

The papers inside had seemed promising enough, at first — but soon, they revealed a dead end.

'The Devotion of the Twenty-One' was akin to a sequence of Tarot cards: The Priest, The Zealot, The Martyr; and so on and so forth, down to The Receiver of Wisdom.

By itself, it wasn't very informative; but the accompanying memorandum implied that these were events in a sequence, used to set the stage for something called 'the descent of the Holy Mother.'

The memorandum claimed that 'the Devotion' wasn't necessary; that if there were a vessel bearing 'sufficient inherent qualifications,' the sequence of the Twenty-One could be omitted altogether. Case in point was Subject 02 — most likely, the Jane Doe from the autopsy report; matching the circumstances of my mother, Annette Rose Hebert.

The police had requested that an autopsy be performed on account of "anomalous characteristics" observed at the scene — perhaps on account that something unusual that had been noticed immediately after the accident, preceding arrival in the morgue. Without engaging in 'the Devotion,' the stigma of the Holy Mother had manifested in Subject 02 — though the language of the memorandum had stopped short of identifying it to the process of the resurrection.

In any case, the Devotions were deemed non-essential; and the exact nature of the Twenty-One remained opaque — just a list of cryptic titles, entirely without explanation. The whole thing circled back into a pointless lack of definition.

All of it could have been fabricated, I knew — created by the cape responsible for the town; manifested to provide a backstory to the Woman in the Raincoat, as context for her existence. I wasn't sure how seriously to take it all, but —

No.

Even if the other document had been a coincidence, this one had been intentionally placed.

Stowing the file in my backpack, I approached the double door to office. I'd checked the rooms on the side earlier. Found a copy of James George Frazer's The Golden Bough, of all things; and few stray documents on what appeared to be sympathetic magic?

Not the sort of thing I imagined a hospital administrator would be interested in, but anyone could have their hobbies. They didn't seem very relevant, though; and so I left them where I found them. The only other thing of interest was a dusty ball of yarn, which I stuck in my backpack, thinking it'd be of use.

I pushed into the hall, the pipe's weight in hand.

This section of the hospital was derelict, as if the decay and water damage had been confined here, sparing the cleaner areas I'd seen earlier. The paint along the walls peeled in long, curling strips; and the floor tiles were cracked, exposing the rough concrete beneath.

There were a set of double doors before me — likely among those that had been locked earlier, barring access to this part of the second floor. From this side, a simple latch secured it.

I hesitated to open it, lingering on the decision. The other side of the door was unknown to me, which was concerning.

The nurse might be lurking, and I'd rather not deal with her if possible. It wasn't as if she was particularly fast or strong, and her responses seemed be based on her limited senses, but — she was a humanoid opponent, at the end of the day; and something in me was resistant to the idea of beating her head in.

On the other hand, I was curious as to whether she was still around ...

"Bah. I'll deal with it."

If the nurse were present, I could simply bolt back and lock the door before she reached me. Worst comes to worst, I had the pipe with me, and I could fend her off — maybe.

A bit ironic that I'd come all this way, only to loop back into the same situation.

I turned the latch; eased the doors open — and then froze.

Ahead was the nurse's station; but the decay hadn't confined itself to the threshold. It had spilled over; spread — compromising the once-pristine area with rot and age.

In certain games, a door from A to B didn't yield a circumstance whereby passing through it from the opposite direction led from B to A.

Often, this was mislabeled as non-Euclidean geometry, after the concept in H.P. Lovecraft; the description of impossible, alien spaces — but this was incorrect. A geometry was non-Euclidean where the rules of flat spaces didn't apply.

This? This was something else entirely — a 'non-reciprocal geometry,' where the connections between spaces didn't follow consistent, reciprocal rules.

I was vaguely aware I was caught in something of the sort; but up until now, it hadn't quite clicked. When I'd broken the window in the office, earlier, I'd seen nothing but a void outside — despite the fact that I'd entered the hospital from the street.

Stunned at the sight of the undifferentiated black, I hadn't paused to consider what it meant.

The decayed hall I stood in at present overlapped with the second floor I'd previously explored. I was occupying the same spatial coordinates — the same location that I'd been in when I confirmed that those doors were locked.

The fact that the nurse was nowhere in sight made sense. I wasn't in the same location.

Taking advantage of the nurse's absence, I moved quickly to explore the area. The double doors to the left of the nurse's station were locked, much as I'd left them in the hospital. The elevator, set against the wall to the left of the doors, was defunct, owing to the lack of electricity.

I checked the nurse's station itself, but it was secured with a keypad — also dead without power. The storage room on the right was of no particular interest, so I skipped it.

The corridor formed a T-intersection, with the double doors to the office being on the longer end. The locked doors by the nurse's station sat at the upper left; and to the right were the rooms L2, L3, and another set of doors. The former two were locked; and while the double doors had a latch lock on this side, the mechanism was jammed.

I backtracked to the front of the office, entering a plus-shaped intersection. Facing the office door, the left branch led to another double door; but it was jammed as well, blocking access to the section of the second floor with a staircase.

I recalled another staircase from earlier — the one in the cleaner version of the hospital, gated on the first floor. If there weren't any obstructions ahead of the plus-intersection, I should be able to reach it?

Turning right down the corridor, and right again, I found the staircase — thankfully unobstructed. Descending, I found the gate on the first floor now open; though the path to the basement was blocked by stacked boxes.

To the right, a straight hallway stretched out, doors lining the sides. These opened into rooms with covered furniture; and to the left, barred windows — of little interest to me, given that they amounted to dead ends. I turned, passing two rooms with windows covered in grime; and then, at the right of the hall, a staircase, facing a hallway flanked on the left with a row of barred windows.

I brought a hand to my hair, combing through it and sighing. Honestly, this was more than a little futile.

What did I hope to even find, searching the building like this? An unbarred window? It would just open into the endless void — not a solution to anything. For the same reason, the front door to the hospital was also useless, assuming that it wasn't locked.

But a thought hit me: The basement.

I hadn't explored the building exhaustively, but there was one location that I hadn't searched at all. The basement was still utterly uncharted.

Pushing open the double doors to the stairwell, I saw the stairs descending, unblocked — just like it had been in the cleaner version of the hospital. The last time I'd been here, I'd gone upstairs.

"Not much of a choice," I muttered.

Descending to the basement, I found the path west blocked by a rusted metal gate. The path south was open, and so I followed it — turning right at a bend, then right again.

My flashlight caught the nurse around the second bend, and I backed around the corner by reflex, heart pounding.

Realizing she probably couldn't see me, I peeked around the edge. The nurse stood there — head twitching; limbs occasionally jerking about. Beyond her, there stretched a long corridor, ending at another rusted metal gate — this one open.

Getting past the nurse without touching her was easy enough, despite the narrow hall. The available space gave me enough leeway to sidestep her twitching limbs.

The real issue was the gate.

Even from a distance, I could see the latch, ready to lock when closed. But closing it risked a creak or bang, which could draw the nurse's attention. If I shut it in one smooth motion, I'd be safe enough; but if something went wrong, the gate might be open long enough for her to rush it.

Leaving it open was an option, but risky. Something on the far side could make noise; though I doubted that any more monsters lurked in the hospital.

Looking at the figure of the nurse, I weighed my options.

'Might as well use it?' I thought. 'Not as if there's another application.'

My solution was the ball of yarn — the one I'd found in the office, now put to use as a tether to the pipe.

Tying one end to the neck, I propped the pipe against the wall by the bend; and letting the yarn unwind as I moved, I slowly sidestepped the nurse — careful to avoid the twitching of her arms.

Once at the gate, I eased it about ninety percent of the way shut. Thankfully, it didn't creak.

Yanking the yarn, I pulled on the pipe, causing it to clatter against the floor. The nurse's head jerked toward the noise, and she advanced to investigate.

As softly as I could, I closed the gate entirely, locking the latch while she was distracted.

Heart pounding, I turned down the corridor, and around the next bend. The hallway stretched on, ending after a distance; but at the far wall, a large hole gaped where the wall had crumbled, rebar jutting across it. I approached, examining it in the beam of my flashlight.

Was this it, then? The way forward? The solution? The other exits of the building led to the void — but what of this?

There wasn't any guarantee it wouldn't terminate in a fatal drop, but —

At this point, I'd locked the way behind me — closed the path back to the nurse. Even if I hadn't, there wasn't another obvious path out of the hospital — was there?

"... the carrot draws, and the stick pushes," I muttered.

Avoiding the rebar, I climbed into the hole.

Chapter Text

6th c. BC - 1st c. AD
The Sacred Grove of Diana, Lake Nemi (Speculum Dianae), ~30km SE of Rome, near Aricia
Rex Nemorensis = "the King of the Grove" = priest-king, guards grove/temple

• challenger (runaway slave/fugitive) sneaks in at night
• finds sacred oak, tries to pluck Golden Bough
• The Golden Bough is critical: breaking off the branch is a divine sign, granting the right to challenge the incumbent Rex Nemorensis in combat.
• fights rex in mortal duel (swords/weapons), in grove
• winner = new rex, defends grove, stays armed & alert

inherent:

• mirrors life/death/rebirth cycle
• authority always at risk, new challengers keep coming

cannibalism = ritual to gain traits (strength, courage, wisdom, spirit power)

• Exo: eat enemies for their qualities
• e.g., Congo Basin - warriors eat livers/hearts for courage/strength
• Endo: eat relatives to keep spirit w/ community
• e.g., Fore people (Papua New Guinea) - eat dead at mortuary feast

like rex ritual: both about dominance, transferring power
succession rituals w/ cannibalism, Africa:

• Jukun (Nigeria): new king eats dead king's powdered heart in food
• makes king sacred, cuts earthly ties
• Bunyoro (Uganda): new king drinks liquid from dead king's corpse (mixed w/ food)
• takes on old king's essence, legitimizes rule

consuming the predecessor sacralizes the new leader
transfers divine or ancestral qualities, reinforcing their authority

Gu poisons (ancient Chinese black magic)

• venomous creatures (snakes, scorpions, centipedes, spiders, toads) in pot
• fight/eat each other, one survives
• survivor = gu spirit/toxin, super potent from combined venoms/essences
• used for curses, manipulation, disease, death

lethal competition for succession
winner gets amplified power

both the Gu poison and Rex Nemorensis involve a contest where the victor gains enhanced power or authority
w/ the survivor embodying the concentrated strength of the defeated

Christian unclean dead = (????~17XX, vampire traditions in early modernity, particularly Eastern Europe)
from: old testament purity laws (Numbers 19:11-13)

• touch corpse = impure 7 days
• impurity spreads to anything touched

death = spiritual/moral contamination vs. resurrection/life

Inversion: in Christian tradition, contact with the dead results in ritual impurity, requiring purification
unlike the empowerment through death in the Rex Nemorensis or Gu rituals
Conception of undead / vampires = spread by the eaten; not gained by the ones eating

Presence of poison? = succession by biting or injury = communication
inversion in more ways than one, spread to those assailed by the unclean dead​

• rex ritual ~ exocannibalism: both transfer power by defeating predecessor
• diff: combat vs. eating, but same idea of taking vitality
• gu poisons = similar via animal fight, survivor gets power
• christian view flips it: the dead stain the living with death
• the one being stained (bitten) inherits the corruption (essence)

Chapter Text

12th October.

The sickness has arrived among us without warning, manifesting first in a handful of residents who complained of sudden chills despite the mild autumn weather.

Fever has taken hold in several households, causing those afflicted to sweat profusely even as they shiver under their blankets. Coughs resound through the settlement at all hours, disrupting the usual quiet that follows evening prayers.

We have proceeded to burn the initial dwellings where the illness appeared, reducing them to smoldering ruins that scatter embers across the nearby paths.

The faithful assemble for communal prayer sessions, their expressions solemn as they bow their heads in unison. John and Abigail take turns leading the group in familiar hymns, their voices carrying steadily over the assembled crowd despite the growing unease.

I deliver sermons emphasizing the boundless mercy of the Lord, drawing from scriptures that highlight grace extended freely to all who seek it, though the weight of current hardships presses upon my thoughts.

15th October.

Three additional individuals have passed away during the course of this day, their remains committed to the earth in hastily prepared graves on the outskirts of the settlement.

The atmosphere in the community is thick with apprehension, evident in the way people glance warily at one another during daily interactions.

Despite this, the residents maintain their religious observances diligently, gathering at appointed times to recite passages from the Bible in whatever language they command best. They kneel outdoors for extended periods, enduring the dropping temperatures without complaint as they implore divine intervention.

I make rounds to the bedsides of the unwell, administering what spiritual solace I can through readings and personal exhortations. The message I convey repeatedly centers on the idea that divine affection is not contingent upon human perfection, but rather flows as an unearned gift to the repentant.

The younger members of the community participate actively in these rituals, murmuring their devotions in a mix of halting English and native dialects that reflect their varied origins.

20th October.

The fever continues its relentless advance through the population, claiming lives in a pattern that seems indifferent to age or prior health.

We have isolated those showing symptoms in designated structures away from the main cluster of homes, though the separation does little to halt the contagion's progress. Another house was set ablaze this morning after its occupants succumbed, the fire consuming wooden frames that had stood for several seasons.

At present, twenty people from our original complement of one hundred and fifty have been lost to this affliction, leaving gaps in the daily routines that once filled the settlement. The inhabitants demonstrate remarkable piety in the face of adversity, organizing impromptu prayer meetings that last well into the evening hours.

I have been overseeing this community in my ministerial capacity for a considerable span of years, observing how their enthusiastic embrace of the faith stems from earlier tribulations that shattered their former ways of life. This longstanding commitment provides a measure of comfort amid the ongoing trials.

The encroaching cold of the season adds to the difficulties, with frost forming on the ground each dawn and lingering until midday.

25th October.

Additional cases emerge daily without respite, straining the resources we have for care and containment.

Prayer gatherings persist with undiminished intensity, the participants voicing their supplications in a harmonious blend that overrides linguistic differences.

Thomas contributes by distributing basic remedies like herbal infusions to the ailing.

My teachings focus on the concept of a love from above that demands no prerequisites, extended equally to the flawed and the striving alike. Yet, in private moments, I ponder the reasons behind such severe testing for these committed souls who have already endured much — those who lost their families to earlier plagues; whose peoples scattered or perished.

External assistance has not been sought thus far, and perhaps that aligns with the circumstances, considering historical frictions that have marked relations with neighboring authorities.

3rd November.

The death count has climbed to forty individuals, each loss marked by a new mound in the growing burial ground.

Further burnings of contaminated residences occur as needed.

The community members uphold their spiritual discipline admirably, forming circles for collective worship that include readings from holy texts, despite their literacy being unreliable.

I find myself increasingly fatigued from conducting multiple funeral services in succession, my throat raw from prolonged speaking in the open air.

10th November.

The situation has reached a point of acute urgency, prompting me to send a rider southward toward the colonial administration in hopes of securing supplies or support. The travel required spans multiple days over rough terrain, necessitating patience for any potential response.

Meanwhile, the devoted here carry on with their observances, showing no signs of faltering in their commitment.

Fifty residents have now perished, reducing the settlement's vibrancy to a subdued shadow of its former state.

18th November.

As of yet, no communication has returned with the messenger, leaving us to manage as best we can under the circumstances.

The temperature has dropped noticeably, with layers of frost coating vegetation and structures alike each morning. Fresh illnesses manifest continually, accompanied by persistent respiratory distress that fills the air with unsettling sounds.

My ministry reiterate the theme of an affection from the divine that remains steadfast regardless of earthly failings — a doctrine that once saw to my exile from mainstream colonial circles.

Those same circles, with their emphasis on merit-based favor — the love of the Lord, conditioned on virtue — appear remote and unapproachable in this moment of need.

25th November.

The rider has come back without tangible aid, bearing only vague assurances of ongoing consideration from the authorities. Such procrastination borders on neglect, especially as fatalities mount without interruption.

Fifty-eight have departed from among us, their absences felt in the diminished attendance at gatherings. The remaining faithful press forward with their rituals, their resolve evident in the regularity of their assemblies.

My reservations toward the colonial leadership deepen, grounded in the far too frequent circumstances where principles proclaimed failed to extend practical compassion where sought.

5th December.

A second appeal has been dispatched, though the interval since the first yields no encouragement.

Winter's grip tightens fully, with snowfall accumulating in drifts that complicate movement between dwellings.

Sixty-five souls are gone, their stories concluded amid this unrelenting outbreak.

A personal chill has settled within me, unrelated to the external climate and suggesting the onset of symptoms.

The community persists in prayer independently when I require brief respites. For this, I am thankful.

15th December.

Aid remains absent, with initial delays from the colony evolving into outright non-response that confirms long-held suspicions.

Their rejection of my views on unrestricted divine benevolence now mirrors this broader indifference toward our plight.

Seventy-four have been claimed by the disease, leaving the settlement eerily sparse.

A persistent cough afflicts me, along with escalating fever that impairs concentration. The absence of another clerical figure here raises concerns for the maintenance of the continuity of proper observances, as only rudimentary ceremonies could proceed without guidance.

22nd December.

My condition deteriorates steadily, marked by weakness that confines me to limited activity.

The inhabitants maintain their worship practices with gravity, their countenances reflecting both grief and determination.

Eighty are lost, a figure that underscores the scale of devastation thus far. Apprehension grows regarding future rituals, as informal proceedings would suffice only in the most basic sense for those who follow.

(The handwriting begins to falter.)

2nd January.

My energy diminishes further each passing day.

Eighty-eight residents have succumbed overall.

(The handwriting falters further.)

10th January.

The weight of the quill proves burdensome in my grasp.

I lack the stamina for extended writing.

(At this point, the handwriting is barely legible.)

15th January.

I can scarce maintain a grip on this instrument any further.

If I should here fall, I pray that the Lord's compassion can serve as a guide. The assurance of divine affection persists unchanging.

(In a different hand, though it resembles the original handwriting.)

Though they are devout, none shall offer them grace in death. Unclean, they will tarry in this place — and they will punish the Wicked.

Chapter Text

04 : Faraday

The tunnel stretched upward at a gentle but uneven incline.

The interior was a sequence of circular bores, seamlessly joined — smooth under my fingers, but thankfully dry. At a height of 5'6", I could almost stand upright, with the ceiling just grazing the top of my head.

There was an ache in my muscles from the day's ordeals — the consecutive hours of walking, running, and climbing; but curiously, I felt no trace of sleepiness, despite not knowing how many hours I'd been active. Without a watch, I didn't have a means of gauging the time.

The current tunnel was longer than the one near the observation deck by Toluca Lake, maybe several times over; but even by a generous estimate, I'd been climbing less than an hour.

By exactly how much, I didn't know; but the battery on my pocket clip flashlight didn't show any signs of running out, and I had the light set on high. I had no idea how long it would've lasted to begin with, but surely it was somewhere within the ballpark of two hours? Give or take.

The tunnel bent left, right, and then left again. Past the first and second bend, a faintly acrid scent made itself known — burning wood, sharp and invasive.

At the third bend, where the way ahead turned into an approximately straight but punctuated incline, the tunnel brightened, lit by an orange glow from what appeared to be the entrance. But by now, the inside of the tunnel was filled with a mist — a thin fog mixed with smoke, swirling as it descended.

I turned off my flashlight to conserve battery, stowing it in my bag. Yanking the front of my t-shirt from under my hoodie, I pulled it over my nose and mouth. The fabric was damp enough with sweat to filter out the larger particulates; but the moist cloth blocked most of the air as well, rendering it difficult to breathe. Still, lacking another option, this would have to do.

The tunnel opened into a hole in a wall, perpendicular to the stone platform beneath it. The latter was littered with crumbled rock — fragmented unevenly between larger and smaller pieces, as if the wall had been broken from within by some incredible force.

Taking stock of my environs on exit, I found a hillside looming behind the wall, resembling a Neolithic burial mound; and all around me, barren trees.

Beyond the hole and platform, a burning gathering of buildings sprawled across a gradual incline, surrounded by woods.

"... a dirt path," I said. "... a camp ground?"

No, not a camp ground.

By the burning buildings, bodies — corpses — knelt or lay toppled, frozen in postures of prayer. Their long hair was for some reason intact, streaked with ash; but they were otherwise naked, heavily burned — their skin charred to black. Despite this, their facial features were recognizable.

Native Americans, by their high cheekbones — eye sockets empty, apparently burst from the heat.

On noticing the bodies, I mistook them for statues at first — then flinched upon giving a closer examination to one of them, backing away on reflex before catching myself.

The cape wanted me to fear; to panic — and that wasn't conducive to anything.

Reasonably, this place was just another projection; a replica of a Tribal territory or a reservation of some sort — though I wasn't aware of any such location in the vicinity of South Vale.

It could be further out, in areas I wasn't familiar with; but if that were the case, was the cape capable of stitching together geography that was nonadjacent — distantly remote?

"Feels off, somehow ..."

It was difficult to tell through the haze and the fog, but the buildings were sprawled out in a loose grid — placed along dirt paths, and radiating from some central point. Those structures that were still partially standing showed a wooden construction, with steep roofs and clapboard sides; but the fires were too intense to make out much more.

The daylight overhead struggled to penetrate the fog; which diffused the fires' glow to a hazy reddish-orange, blurring with distance. As I advanced along the dirt path, what embers were in sight despite the poor visibility floated upward like fireflies; borne by sudden, abrupt updrafts as the cracking of timbers and collapsing structures came, muffled by moisture.

The base temperature of the mist was cool, thankfully; a significant drop from the steam that emanated from the fires — forming as barriers of heat, invisible; unpredictable. Though a few times, walking through what looked like an open path resulted in me being exposed to the steam, I'd gotten away without burns. Unfortunately, the ash entrained in the water vapor stuck to my hoodie and the skin of my legs; and with a few encounters, I was dirty all over.

The path led to a small plaza, where surrounded by perimeter stairs, there was a platform of planks, and a stone well at the center.

Atop the stairs, a man sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands steepled. Clad in a plain black Geneva gown, he was in his late thirties — handsome but sullen; his gaze slightly off to the side, as if distracted.

Hesitantly, I approached; but before I could speak —

"You are the interloper," he said dispassionately.

It was a simple statement of fact, spoken as if he was relating the weather. But interloper? It sounded as if he was accusing me of interfering with something.

"Who are you?" I asked, clutching the damp fabric of my shirt to my mouth.

He turned to me, looking into my eyes with a cold gaze, half-lidded — utterly devoid of emotion.

"You may refer to me as Faraday," he said.

A cape name? Never mind that he wasn't hiding his face.

It was presumably a reference to a Faraday cage, but I wasn't sure how that made sense given the wide array of phenomena that I'd so far seen instantiated. Maybe it was something basic, like a reference to how being stuck in the town prevented communications with the outside?

"The seed of the tree falls far," he said. "You haven't the qualifications to reconcile the lost who are denied the Lord." He frowned. "And yet, there's something about you ..."

By 'tree,' was he referring to my mother? The rest of it — it was all just cryptic bullshit with religious undertones, like he was speaking more to himself than me. Given that I hadn't the 'qualifications' or whatever, it didn't have much to do with me either way.

Was this guy sound of mind? He was talking like a lunatic. Better not be one of those religious capes, who thought his powers were bestowed by God — though, that wasn't in theme with his chosen cape name ...

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "And are you responsible for all this? The town being the way it is?"

"You accord me responsibility?" He lightly chuckled, humorlessly. "I suppose in a sense I am — as a caretaker to this place. But here, the outcomes that are foreordained come to certain fruition — visited upon the Wicked here drawn with inevitability." He tilted his head slightly. "And yet, you don't number amongst them. Uninvited, you have come. How?"

Caretaker, but not creator.

Was he claiming that this pocket world was something he'd inherited? He made it sound like he had no responsibility for the 'contents encountered'; that whatever came up was ultimately inevitable.

Further, I wasn't among the 'Wicked,' who were apparently 'invited' to the town. Lacking further information, I supposed that he was referring to Megan and Jonathan? But the criteria for 'Wickedness' wasn't clear, and could in fact be entirely arbitrary. Ignoring the fact that Megan had — well, ditched me — it wouldn't do to think of them in a negative light, just because some weird guy said so.

But the self-proclaimed caretaker of the town wasn't sure why I was here, huh?

"Even if you ask me that, you expect me to know the answer?" I asked.

He made a dissatisfied expression, and stood, turning his back to me.

"No matter," he said. "I've other business to attend to."

He raised his hand; and though I hadn't noticed until now, blind corpses lumbered forth in approach, hands clasped in prayer — the sound of the fire just barely covering a chanting of psalms. Ahead, Faraday turned his face in profile.

"I leave you to the company of the faithful," he said.

"Wait!"

Ignoring me, he walked past the well, into the mist. I gave chase; but more than a few steps beyond in the direction he'd vanished in, there was the smoldering remains of a collapsed building blocking the way; and corpses slowly approaching from every direction.

There was nothing to be done about the corpses, because they were blind and slow-moving, lacking an obvious means of attack; but they were distant enough for now that I didn't need to bother.

That said, owing to the particularly narrow spacing between the structures on this side of the plaza, the collapse of the building — originally two stories — entirely blocked off the path, making it so that I could be cornered in the resulting dead end if I stayed too long.

Looking about, I spotted across the collapsed building something tall in the distance, obscured by the mist — a church or a meeting hall of some sort?

Faraday had vanished while proceeding in this direction; and while we were speaking, I hadn't heard any loud noise that could've indicated the collapse of the building. Presumably, that meant the wreckage was already here at the time; but even that he'd teleported away or something, his heading at the moment of departure could mean something.

Deciding my destination, I backtracked and made my way around the building to the right, turning to look at the corpses as I passed.

They were gradually reorienting toward me as I advanced, despite the fact that I wasn't making much noise relative to the burning in the background. Could it be that these things were detecting my vital signs somehow? I didn't know what it was they were using as a basis to track me, but —

An incredible heat seared my arm, and I screamed, stumbling and falling. As quickly as possible, I took off my backpack, and then my hoodie, throwing it to the ground.

Smoke rose from the fabric of the hoodie as the sleeve began to burn, rapidly turning black and eating away. I hadn't noticed, but not three meters away, the charred corpse of a naked woman was standing in prayer, trudging steadily toward me as she continued to recite psalms. She was close enough that I could sense a heat coming off of her — something that hadn't been present in the kneeling bodies I examined earlier.

Grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulders, I backed away.

I could see it — the thing that had burned me. There was a faint distortion in the air about her, slight enough that one could write it off entirely; and though it was difficult to spot through the mist, directly above her body, the air was clear.

She was burning. They all were. The flames weren't visible, but they were definitely present.

All of a sudden, my circumstances seemed a lot more life-threatening.

Thankfully, the sleeve of my t-shirt was intact, and my arm seemed uninjured. Not attempting to mask my face, I broke into a run, making sure to stay clear of the corpses that dotted the path ahead of me.

The church or meeting house was in sight. Making it through the double doors, I entered; slammed them shut. There wasn't a lock on the doors to hold the corpses if they approached, but searching for a means to block the passage, I found brackets on either side of the doorframe — a holder for a heavy wooden bar, which I located leaning on a wall nearby.

With some trouble, I lifted the bar, hefting it into the brackets.

If the corpses set it to their minds to burn this building, the barring of the doors would be of negative benefit, as I would be trapped — unless there were some other exit? But for now, I chose to trust in the hint that Faraday had left — if indeed it was a hint.

I turned from the doors, scanning the dim interior of the narrow vestibule. On bare and whitewashed walls, a window on either side illuminated the inner double doors — slightly ajar. Pushing past them, I took in the vast chamber before me.

Within, a few narrow windows were the only source of lighting; though a pair of simple chandeliers — one back, one forward — dangled from the ceiling, each holding a few unlit candles. Rows of backless benches were arranged in parallel across the wide-planked floor; and two massive hearths flanked the length of the hall, with chimneys rising into the ceiling.

At the back, behind the raised lectern, I spotted my quarry: A gaping hole marred the surface of the wall, edges jagged with splintered wood and crumbled plaster.

Walking up to it around the lectern, I looked within. A tunnel of circular bores descended unevenly at a slight incline underground.

I blew out of my mouth, sighing.

"And deeper into the rabbit hole I go."

Chapter Text

Parahuman Response Team Case File

Case Number: #74
Case Title: Anomalous Disappearances and Suppression of Parahuman Triggers in Silent Hill, Maine
Classification: Open Investigation (Closed Pending Updates)​

Date Opened: March 15, 2003
Date Closed: January 22, 2009 (Pending)​

Lead Division: Parahuman Response Team Northeast (PRT NE)

Related Agencies: Silent Hill Police Department (henceforth known as SHPD), Federal Bureau of Investigation (henceforth known as FBI), Maine Bureau of Parks and Lands (henceforth known as BPL), Protectorate​

Summary: This case documents a series of unexplained disappearances primarily affecting out-of-state travelers in the vicinity of Silent Hill, Maine, and the surrounding Toluca Lake area. Investigations have revealed no consistent cause, though independent factors such as suicide have been identified in isolated instances. Additionally, the region exhibits an anomalously low rate of parahuman trigger events, falling below the 1st percentile for both urban and rural benchmarks. No evidence of parahuman involvement has been substantiated, despite multiple inquiries. The case has been closed pending new developments, with unofficial advisories issued to avoid the area.​

Timeline

• 1921: Establishment of the FBI Central Records System (CRS). Earliest documented FBI inquiries into disappearances around Toluca Lake begin, noting sporadic reports of missing persons in the forested regions adjacent to Silent Hill. No patterns identified at this stage.
• 1930s-1950s: Intermittent FBI case openings occur in response to isolated vanishings, often involving hikers or travelers; and on several occasion, ships and boats. Corpses occasionally recovered with causes of death attributed to natural elements or accidents. Local SHPD handles initial responses, with federal involvement limited to cross-state elements.
• 1960s: Expansion of tourism infrastructure around Toluca Lake, including development of lakeside attractions and increased visitor traffic. Corresponding spike in reported disappearances and suicides, with annual incidents rising by approximately 150% compared to prior decades. FBI opens multiple files, investigating potential serial activity or environmental hazards, but finds no overarching connections.
• 1970s: Continued low-level FBI monitoring. Reports of missing persons stabilize but remain above national averages for similar rural areas. SHPD attributes most cases to wilderness misadventures. No federal closures achieved due to lack of resolution.
• 1980s: Emergence of initial suspicions regarding organized activity in the region, prompted by clustered vanishings. FBI escalates inquiries, including undercover assessments of local communities. No conclusive evidence emerges.
• 1993: Founding of the Parahuman Response Team (PRT). Preliminary reviews of existing FBI files on Silent Hill are conducted as part of broader national anomaly assessments, though no immediate action is taken.
• 1995: First PRT site visit to Silent Hill following a report of a missing out-of-state individual with potential parahuman connections. Joint operation with SHPD yields no findings. Protectorate consultation requested but deferred.
• 1997: Higher-profile disappearance involving a parahuman-affiliated traveler prompts Protectorate involvement. Field team led by █████████ ██████ conducts surveys of Toluca Lake and surrounding forests. No parahuman signatures detected.
• 1999: FBI shares historical data with PRT NE, highlighting long-term patterns. PRT opens informal monitoring file. Investigations expand to include Saratoga Valley State Park, ruling out environmental contaminants.
• 2001: Series of three vanishings in quick succession, including one recovered corpse ruled as suicide. Protectorate deploys specialized scanning equipment. Reports note improbably low parahuman activity in the region, though not yet quantified.
• 2002: Statistical analysis of national trigger events reveals Silent Hill region falls below the 1st percentile, with zero confirmed triggers despite population metrics suggesting at least incidental occurrences. Urban areas nationwide average 1 parahuman per 8,000 residents, while rural areas average 1 per 26,000; the local rate defies these ratios, failing to meet even the statistical floor for a town of 12,000.
• March 15, 2003: Formal opening of Case 74 by PRT NE, focusing on suppression of parahuman triggers and linkages to disappearances. Joint task force with FBI and Protectorate established.
• 2004: Investigations into potential religious cult influences in the area. Interviews and surveillance conducted independently of SHPD due to concerns over local permeation. No substantive links established.
• 2005-2007: Ongoing monitoring, including aerial surveys and data cross-referencing with BPL records. Additional vanishings reported, but causes remain isolated. Statistical anomalies in trigger rates confirmed through expanded datasets.
• 2008: Comprehensive review by ███████ █████████ concludes no actionable evidence of parahuman causation. Recommendations for closure issued.
• January 22, 2009: Case 74 closed pending updates. Unofficial advisories circulated to PRT and Protectorate personnel designating Silent Hill as off-limits for non-essential operations.

Background

Silent Hill is a small town located in Maine, with a population of approximately 12,000 residents. The town is bisected by Toluca Lake, an inland body of water that serves as a natural divider between its northern and southern sections. Surrounding the lake are extensive forested areas, much of which remains uninhabited and undeveloped, though not designated as parkland by the BPL. To the east lies Saratoga Valley State Park, providing a contrast to the otherwise unmanaged wilderness. The region presents as a typical New England locale, characterized by seasonal tourism and a economy reliant on local services.

The town maintains an extraordinarily low crime rate, with incidents of violence or property crimes falling well below state and national averages. Notably, parahuman-related crime is entirely absent, with no recorded cape activities or conflicts in the area. This absence extends to general parahuman presence, contributing to the anomalous profile of the region. Despite its serene appearance, Silent Hill has been associated with periodic disappearances, primarily affecting individuals from outside the state who venture into the town or nearby forests.

Historical records indicate that these events have persisted for decades, predating modern investigative frameworks. The integration of such patterns into PRT oversight arose from broader assessments of unexplained phenomena potentially linked to capes. While initial federal interest focused on conventional explanations, the escalation in the post-1980s era prompted reevaluation through a parahuman lens.

Investigative History

The SHPD has served as the primary local responder to incidents in Silent Hill, handling initial reports of missing persons and coordinating with external agencies when necessary. FBI involvement dates back to the establishment of the CRS in 1921, with multiple case files opened over the subsequent decades to address clusters of vanishings. These early inquiries often centered on potential criminal networks or environmental risks, but consistently failed to identify a unified cause. In many instances, recovered remains pointed to independent factors, such as suicide or exposure, without broader connections.

PRT engagement began shortly after its founding in 1993, with preliminary reviews of existing FBI dossiers. By the mid-1990s, site visits were conducted to assess any parahuman elements, particularly in cases involving out-of-state travelers. Protectorate teams participated in higher-profile investigations during the late 1990s and early 2000s, deploying resources to scan for anomalous signatures. Despite these efforts, no evidence of cape involvement materialized, though the persistence of the phenomena warranted continued monitoring.

Joint operations between the PRT, FBI, and Protectorate intensified in the early 2000s, incorporating advanced analytical tools to cross-reference disappearance patterns with national datasets. Concerns regarding potential infiltration of local law enforcement by unidentified religious cults led to the exclusion of SHPD from certain phases of inquiry. Independent assessments, however, yielded similarly inconclusive results, with no definitive ties established. The impact of any such permeation on overall investigative efficacy remains undetermined, as parallel efforts without local involvement also uncovered no significant leads.

Anomalous Phenomena

Disappearances in the Silent Hill area predominantly involve out-of-state individuals, with reports often originating from travel routes through the town or explorations of the surrounding forests. Corpses, when recovered, frequently exhibit causes of death consistent with suicide or natural demise, but no pattern links these across cases. The 1960s marked a period of heightened incidence, coinciding with expanded tourism development around Toluca Lake, which likely increased exposure of visitors to the region and amplified reporting.

A key anomaly pertains to parahuman trigger events, which occur at rates significantly below national benchmarks. In urban environments, triggers average one per 8,000 residents, while rural areas see one per 26,000; the Silent Hill region falls below the 1st percentile for both, with the low population rendering even incidental triggers statistically improbable.

Comparative incident tracking for parahuman activities positions the Silent Hill vicinity under the 0.2 percentile threshold, registering no verified cases amid infrastructural factors — such as highway proximity and seasonal visitor surges — that ordinarily align with episodic disruptions. Nationwide benchmarks show an averaging of 0.8 events per 1,000 kilometers of roadway annually, and for outlying districts, 0.3 per the equivalent span; yet the locale registers null across monitored periods, undermining projected baselines for a settlement with comparable connectivity.

This suppression, unaccounted for by demographic or environmental factors, prompted the formalization of Case 74 in 2003, though prior PRT and Protectorate inquiries had already flagged the area.

Investigations into religious cults active in the vicinity have explored possible organizational influences on the phenomena. Evidence from FBI sources suggests permeation of local institutions, including law enforcement, but nothing conclusive has been substantiated. Efforts to map cult activities have not revealed direct correlations with disappearances or trigger suppression, maintaining the unresolved status of this avenue.

Current Status

As of 2009, Case 74 remains closed pending new developments, following exhaustive reviews that failed to yield actionable insights. The absence of a consistent cause for the disappearances, coupled with the unexplained suppression of parahuman triggers, underscores the need for ongoing vigilance. Unofficial designations have marked the town and its environs as off-limits for PRT and Protectorate operations, to mitigate risks to personnel.

Monitoring protocols include periodic data cross-checks with FBI and BPL records, ensuring rapid response to any escalations. No active field investigations are authorized at this time, with emphasis placed on archival analysis. Future reopenings would require substantive new evidence, such as emergent patterns or parahuman linkages.

Recommendations for affiliated agencies stress avoidance of the area unless mission-critical, with reporting channels established for any incidental observations. The case exemplifies the challenges in addressing low-visibility anomalies, where empirical data defies conventional explanatory models.

Chapter Text

20th February 1667

I take quill to paper this day not for sermon or scripture, but to commit to record the troubling passage of my dear acquaintance, Francis Norton, whose earthly coil has but recently been shed under circumstances that gnaw at the edges of reason.

As minister to this town, I have borne witness to many departures — fevers that claim the young, agues that fell the sturdy — but Norton's end carries a weight unlike any other; a shadow that lingers in the mind like mist over the harbor at dawn.

We were not kin by blood, yet our paths intertwined through the solemn duties of the Court of Assistants, where he served with steadfast resolve, and through quieter moments of discourse on matters divine and temporal.

Now, with his body consigned to the earth scarce three days past, I feel compelled to recount the final weeks of his life, lest the details fade into the oblivion that claims so much of our fragile existence.

It began, as near as I can trace, in the waning days of January, when the snow lay thick upon the ground and the winds from the bay howled like distant echoes from forsaken realms.

Norton, ever the robust figure despite his sixty-five years, confided in me during a visit to my parsonage that he had been afflicted with restless nights. He spoke of dreams that pulled him from his bed — visions of vast, uncharted waters lapping at crumbling shores, where figures moved in silence amid ruins that bore no mark of Christian hand.

I dismissed it then as the burdens of age or perhaps the residue of old campaigns against the wilderness folk, for he had seen much in his service to the colony. Yet his eyes, usually sharp as a magistrate's judgment, held a flicker of unease, as if he glimpsed something beyond the veil of our ordered world.

By the first week of February, his condition worsened. He missed the Sabbath service, a rarity for one so devoted, and when I called upon him at his dwelling near the training field, I found him pale and disheveled, his attire rumpled as though he had wandered the streets in the dead of night.

He admitted to episodes of somnambulism — sleepwalking, as the learned call it — wherein he awoke in odd places: once by the ferry landing, staring across the water toward the shadowed hills of Arkham to the north; another time amid the graves of the burying ground, his hands caked with frozen earth as if he had clawed at the soil in search of something lost.

"It is as though an unseen force beckons me," he murmured, his voice low, lest the servants overhear.

I pressed him for details, but he waved them aside, attributing it to indigestion from hasty meals or the weight of unresolved affairs in the court. Still, he mentioned preparing his will, a prudent act for any man of means, though the haste in his tone suggested more than mere foresight.

The incidents grew more frequent as the month progressed. Twice he vanished entirely for hours, only to be discovered by neighbors or watchmen, stumbling back toward home with a dazed expression, his lips moving in silent utterance.

On one such occasion, the 10th I believe, a fisherman from the wharves claimed to have seen him standing motionless by the water's edge, gazing toward the northeast as if drawn to some distant call from the wilds of Maine.

Norton's explanations faltered; he spoke vaguely of a recurring apparition — a charred man come from the mists, whispering of debts unpaid from years past. I urged him to seek counsel from the elders or even a physician from Boston, but he resisted, insisting it was a private torment, perhaps a trial from the Almighty to test his faith.

Then came the final disappearance, on the eve of the 15th. He had dined with me that afternoon, our conversation turning to matters of the colony's expansion and the fragile outposts among the converted Indians. His mood was somber, laced with regret over decisions made in haste during times of strife, though he named no specifics.

That night, a storm brewed, the kind that rattles shutters and stirs unease in the soul. Come morning, his bed was empty, his chamber undisturbed save for a single candle burned low.

Search parties scoured the town — through the narrow lanes, along the riverbanks, even into the fringes where the forest encroaches like a patient encroacher. It was not until midday that his body was found, slumped against a weathered stone in a forgotten corner of the old mill yard, his face contorted in an expression of profound terror, eyes wide as if fixed upon some horror invisible to mortal sight.

No marks of violence marred him, no sign of struggle; the chirurgeon pronounced it a failure of the heart, brought on by fright or exhaustion.

Yet as I stood there, gazing upon his rigid form, I could not shake the sense that something deeper had claimed him — a retribution woven into the fabric of things unseen, echoing from events long faded into the annals of our colonial endeavors.

12th March 1667

The relentless grip of winter lingers over Charlestown, with frost etching patterns on my windowpanes that resemble forgotten runes from some distant, uncharted epoch.

Sleep evades me these nights, my thoughts ensnared by the enigma of Francis Norton's demise, a shadow that clings to my spirit like damp fog rolling in from the bay.

As his minister and confidant, I could not abide the unease; it gnawed at me ceaselessly, prompting me to seek permission from his kin to peruse his private papers. His widow, gracious in her grief, granted access to his study, a chamber cluttered with ledgers and missives accumulated over decades of service to the colony.

I spent long hours there, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink, sifting through documents in hopes of uncovering some thread to explain his tormented final days.

At first, the endeavor yielded nothing but frustration. Deeds of land, accounts of court proceedings, notes on trade with the Dutch — mundane relics of a life dedicated to order and governance. No mention of his nocturnal wanderings, no confessions of the spectral beckonings he had hinted at during our last supper.

I emerged each evening with eyes strained and spirit wearied, questioning whether my pursuit stemmed from divine guidance or mere mortal folly.

Yet persistence is the virtue of the faithful, and so I returned, day after day, until chance intervened in the form of Elder Josiah Hale, a mutual acquaintance encountered by happenstance at the market square amid the clamor of vendors hawking wares from vessels newly arrived from England.

Hale, a man of somber demeanor who had served in Boston's circles, inquired after Norton's passing with genuine sorrow, for they had shared discourses on colonial matters. As we spoke beneath the overcast sky, I ventured to describe the peculiarities surrounding Norton's end — the sleepwalking episodes, the body discovered in rigid terror.

To my astonishment, Hale's face paled, and he confided that Governor John Endecott had met a similar fate scarce two years prior, in 1665. Stricken with unexplained vanishings in the night, Endecott was found lifeless in his garden, his features etched with an expression of abject horror, as if he had beheld something from the abyssal depths beyond human ken.

Hale knew this from private letters exchanged among the elders, details not bandied about in public lest they stir unrest. I had no personal acquaintance with Endecott, the stern architect of our colony's foundations, yet his name stirred a vague recollection from Norton's papers — a fleeting reference amid the stacks.

Emboldened by this revelation, I hastened back to the study that very afternoon, the wind whipping through the streets like whispers from concealed watchers. I scoured the documents with renewed vigor, overturning every bundle until I unearthed a series of correspondences from Endecott himself, dated from the mid-1650s.

These were not the formal edicts of governance but personal letters, penned in a hand that betrayed urgency beneath its disciplined script. They alluded to a town called Perseverance, a remote settlement by a lakeside in the Maine territories, where efforts to gather the native converts had faltered amid some unnamed calamity.

Endecott's words were cryptic, urging Norton to maintain discretion in council deliberations, warning of risks that could undermine the colony's stability if aid were extended unwisely. Regret laced the lines, as if revisiting a decision that haunted him even then.

Alas, possessing only the letters received by Endecott, I lack the full exchange — no replies from Norton, no enclosures to illuminate the context of Perseverance's plight. What transpired there? An epidemic, perhaps, or strife with the unconverted tribes?

The missives offer scant detail, yet they repeatedly mention Thomas Wiggin, the commissioner for those northern reaches, as a figure entangled in the affair. Wiggin's name appears with implications of shared counsel, perhaps even complicity in whatever resolution — or denial — emerged.

This connection unsettles me deeply, for if Endecott and Norton both succumbed to akin torments, might Wiggin bear some mark of the same inscrutable force? I have resolved to seek him out, though he resides in the distant precincts near Lord's Bay.

Tomorrow, I shall prepare for the journey, gathering what provisions and inquiries I may, driven by a compulsion that feels less like choice and more like an inexorable pull from shadows yet unnamed.

21st March 1667

The spring thaw has come to Charlestown at last, melting the ice along the riverbanks and unveiling the greening earth, yet my heart remains encased in a chill that no season can dispel.

My journey to the northern reaches near Lord's Bay proved more arduous than anticipated, the roads muddied by rains that seemed to pour from skies heavy with unspoken judgments.

Upon arrival, I sought out Thomas Wiggin's residence, a sturdy house perched on a rise overlooking the turbulent waters, where the winds carry faint echoes from the shadowed coves of Innsmouth far to the east.

To my dismay, I learned from a somber neighbor that Wiggin had departed this world the previous year, in 1666, under circumstances eerily akin to those that claimed Norton and Endecott — nights plagued by wanderings into the wilderness, culminating in his body discovered at the edge of a desolate marsh, frozen in an attitude of unspeakable dread, as if pursued by phantoms from realms beyond the stars.

His widow, frail and bedridden with a lingering affliction that saps her strength, received me briefly in her chamber, her voice a whisper amid the creaking timbers of the house. She spoke little of her husband's torments, her eyes averted as though fearing to summon them anew, but granted my request to examine his papers, directing a loyal servant to escort me to his office.

The room was a repository of colonial records, shelves bowed under the weight of volumes and bundles tied with faded ribbons, the air thick with the musty odor of secrets long sealed. Alone there, save for the servant's watchful presence at the door, I delved into the correspondences, my hands trembling slightly as I untied packets from Endecott and Norton, their seals cracked like barriers to forbidden knowledge.

The letters revealed the fate of Perseverance, that ill-starred prayer town by a remote lakeside in Maine, where John Faraday, a minister of fervent conviction, had labored to shepherd native converts toward the light of Puritan faith.

In October of 1654, an epidemic descended upon the settlement like a scourge from unseen depths, ravaging the population of one hundred and fifty souls down to a mere sixty-two by the spring of 1655.

Faraday's first plea for aid arrived in November, when a hundred yet survived, beseeching supplies, medicines, and reinforcements from the Massachusetts Bay Colony to stem the tide. Yet no help came, the requests tabled amid deliberations that masked deeper reluctance. A second entreaty in December met silence, and Faraday himself succumbed in January 1655, his final days marked by isolation and despair.

The survivors, those hardy sixty-two, rebuilt as best they could, their numbers inching upward in fleeting respites, only for the cycle to renew — epidemics recurring with merciless persistence, each wave eroding the community until, by 1664, none remained; the town was swallowed by the encroaching wilds as if erased from the map of creation.

The denials persisted through the years, enforced by Norton, Wiggin, and Endecott. Even after their terms in office concluded, their influence lingered like a pall over subsequent councils — their authority on the matter pointed to as the justification foremost to continue the policy.

They cited practical considerations: the peril of contagion spreading to English holdings; the strain on meager resources amid territorial expansions; the fragility of alliances with unconverted tribes who viewed the prayer towns with suspicion. And at each juncture — each resurgence of the epidemic — the reasons for rejection were ever the same.

Faraday's exile on charges of heresy — his doctrine of the Lord's unconditional love, clashing against the orthodox tenet that salvation demanded virtue and unyielding labor — played no direct role in their calculus, the letters insisted; it was not prejudice but prudence that guided this.

Still, the outcome was a profound cruelty, the abandonment of souls entrusted to the colony's care — a decision that festered in their consciences like an unhealed wound.

As I pored over the papers by the flickering light of the lamp, I came upon the waning missives of the exchange. Endecott's hand grew unsteady in these later writings, confessing pangs of guilt that manifested in sleepless vigils. Norton's responses echoed with veiled remorse, allusions to debts that no earthly ledger could balance. Wiggin's writ tied them all in a web of shared culpability.

Whether it was a curse that emanated from Perseverance's forsaken grounds — some ethereal retribution woven by the spirits of the departed — or if it was merely the gnawing of guilt that unraveled their minds and bodies, driving them into those fatal nocturnal pursuits, I cannot ascertain.

The evidence whispers of forces beyond mortal reckoning, yet reason bids me attribute it to the burdens of conscience — the weight of choices that condemned an entire town to oblivion.

Chapter Text

05 : Jonathan I

I was free of the hole — back on the surface; in daylight, or what passed for it, given the heavy fog.

The opening was set into a bare, unmarked wall on a squat, rectangular structure — a boxy thing made of weathered concrete, with no windows or signage to hint at its purpose. It looked like some kind of utility enclosure, though I didn't know enough to call it anything specific.

The street was relatively clean, with smooth asphalt that stretched out into the distance in both directions; and the buildings lining it were tidy. There weren't any of the signs of the decay I'd seen in the hospital; or, for that matter, the ash-choked ruins of the village.

This felt closer to the 'normal' Silent Hill — or at least as normal as this pocket dimension could manage.

I leaned against the concrete wall for a moment, breath steadying in the wake of the climb through the tunnel; the frantic sprint from the corpses in the village.

My skin felt grimy. The ash from the haze clung to my face, arms, and legs; streaking my t-shirt and shorts. Probably, I felt filthier than I looked. Brushing the ash on my arms, it smeared into a smudged mess, sticking to my sweat-dampened skin.

I had to do something about this.

Across the street, a large building caught my eye — a general store, with the front facing a parking lot.

A tall, unlit pylon sign stood at the entrance of the lot, proclaiming the name of the business as 'Bradbury General Store.' Beneath it, smaller text indicated the presence of public toilets inside.

It looked promising, supposing the doors were unlocked. Though if necessary, I didn't rule out engaging in some breaking and entering.

The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a single car parked near the far edge. I passed it as I approached, spotting a sticker on the back that read 'Baby On Board.' Seemed like it was in a decent condition, much like the automobiles I'd seen earlier in South Vale. There was nothing inside that was particularly of note, save for the baby seat.

The store itself was a low, wide structure — a facade of beige brick and glass windows, with posters advertising sales on foods and milk. A row of rectangular plastic trash bins lined the side of the building, though there was no litter or obvious stench to suggest recent use.

Stepping off the asphalt of the parking lot and on to the sidewalk that encircled the building, I walked along the front of the store, looking within.

It seemed like the refrigeration was still on, given the lights from the open-front fridge; but whether the stuff inside was safe to eat would have to wait until I could give them a closer examination.

But first things first. Reaching the door, I tested the pull plate on the left side — confirming that it was in fact unlocked.

"Lucky me," I said, pulling the door open and entering.

Now, to wash off.

Standing at the sink in front of the restroom, I wiped my face with a damp paper towel.

I'd gone through over half the stack in the paper towel dispenser, soaking them in the cold water to scrub the ash from my skin.

Finally feeling clean, I stuffed the soggy pile of paper towels on the sink into the trash bin under the towel dispenser, and tugged my t-shirt back on. The fabric clung to my damp skin — wetter now than it had been from sweat alone. My shorts were no better, but at least they didn't stick to my thighs. I put my glasses back on.

The air conditioning hummed faintly, sending a chill through me as the wet clothes settled against my body. I shivered, crossing my arms briefly to rub some warmth into my torso.

The deserted state of the store — the whole town, really — had allowed me to strip down to clean my clothes without the worry of anyone potentially getting a peepshow. It felt odd, standing there exposed in public, but I made do where I could.

Were a tree to fall in the woods with nobody around to hear it, it didn't matter how much noise it made.

I stepped closer to the wall mirror for better look at my body and clothes. My hair hung in damp, wavy strands — clean but slightly dripping. I tilted my head, checking for any lingering smudges of ash.

My skin looked fine — pale from the cold water, but without a trace of the grime that I could see. My t-shirt, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Faint grayish stains clung to the fabric from the remnants of the ash that wouldn't come out, barring a proper machine washing.

I decided it was good enough for now. Once my clothes dried, a few stains here and there wouldn't matter, as far as it was relevant to my exploration of the town. The important thing was to get rid of the loose ash so that it wouldn't stick.

My backpack, sitting on the counter beside the sink, was unfortunately still speckled with the stuff. I'd thought about wiping it down, but the risk of water seeping in through the soft exterior and ruining the documents or electronics inside stayed my hand.

The ash would have to stay for now — at least until I properly got back to civilization.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder, and gave my reflection one last glance. I was as clean as I was going to get for now.

Under the watchful eye of the security camera, I walked before the open-front fridge along the left wall, examining the contents beneath the fluorescent lights: sandwiches, in clear plastic containers; salads, with little dressing packets tucked beside them; yogurt parfaits; fruit cups; and even a few sushi rolls.

Most of the stuff looked fine, but a few of the items caught my attention. A couple of sandwiches near the back had cloudy patches on their bread; and a few of the salads had pieces of lettuce that had wilted into slimy, brownish messes.

An indefinite amount of time had passed since the stock in this place had been replenished from the real world. Just how long, I couldn't guess; but the spoiled items were enough to make me wary of the rest. Constantly hunting for a toilet wasn't my idea of a good time, on top of all the other hazards I had to potentially look out for.

I turned away from the fridge and made my way over to the cafe area on the far side of the store, pausing where the self-service station hugged the wall next to the checkout counter.

The coffee machine loomed there — a sleek, complicated contraption with buttons and dials that promised everything from espresso to flavored lattes. I stared at it for a moment, trying to decipher the instructions printed on the sticker.

It looked like you needed to pay at the cash register first, get a cup, and then fiddle with the settings. With nobody manning the shop, there wasn't a need to pay; but there were too many steps, and far too many chances for something to go wrong. The milk could have soured in the time since the machine had last been maintained, for example; or one of the options could output something utterly undrinkable.

I decided that it wasn't worth the hassle.

The water machine next to it, though, seemed safer. It had two spouts labeled 'hot' and 'cold,' and the sign above the center proudly declared that the cold water was regularly cycled through the boiler.

I wasn't sure about the water's safety, as stagnant water in a tank could potentially be a breeding ground for who-knows-what; but I figured I could test it.

Stepping behind the checkout counter, I found a stack of disposable coffee cups sitting neatly beside the cash register. Grabbing one, I held it under the hot water spout and pressed the button. A thin stream of steaming water filled the cup up to an eighth before I stopped it.

Bringing it to my lips, I took a small sip. The water tasted clean, with no odd aftertaste or metallic tang. Good enough.

With the matter of the water settled, I began piecing together a small meal. The central aisles of the store held shelves of packaged goods, and I wandered through them, scanning for something quick and safe. My eyes landed on a familiar red-and-white package: Nissin Cup Ramen, chicken flavored.

I blinked, surprised to find the brand carried by a convenience store in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Maine. It wasn't exactly a common sight, but I wasn't about to complain.

I grabbed one — remembering to retrieve a pair of disposable chopsticks from behind the counter — and headed back to the self-service station to fill it with hot water.

The beverages were in the glass-front refrigerators along the back of the shop; and I got myself a bottle of Coke Zero — still good by the looks of it; and more importantly, satisfyingly chilled. If in fact it had gone bad, I'd know when I tasted it, in any case.

Tucking the bottle under my arm and heading back toward the front of the shop, I noticed on the cashier's counter a box of Pepperidge Farm Soft Baked Chocolate Chip Cookies. The things had enough preservatives that their time till expiration was measured in months. Deciding that it was safe enough, I grabbed a single-serving pack and headed to the seating area.

The floor-to-ceiling windows along the front of the seating area offered a view of the empty parking lot outside, though there really wasn't much to see. At the chair along the counter at which I'd placed the instant noodles earlier, I settled down, setting the cola and cookies down before me.

It had been approximately three minutes since I filled the ramen cup with hot water, going by clock atop the cashier's counter. I peeled back the lid, watching the steam curl upward while I split the disposable chopsticks. A quick test of the noodles confirmed that it was still too hot, so I cracked open my Coke Zero.

The first sip of the soda was refreshingly crisp; but it wouldn't do to drink it all in a single go before I had my noodles. Instead, I tore open the cookie pack next, taking a bite or two while the noodles cooled. The chocolate chips were rich, and the cookie overall was soft and slightly chewy — the sweetness dulled slightly by the Coke from earlier; but no matter. A few more bites, and the richness of the chocolate would overpower the soda — assuming I didn't drink any more before the cookie was done.

Once the noodles were tepid and slightly swollen, I stirred them with chopsticks. Nissin Cup Ramen was the type that didn't require extra packets of seasoning. Everything was mixed in to begin with, ready to eat with the application of hot water; but stirring it helped to break the block of ramen into strands, making it easier to eat.

The first bite was warm and salty. I alternated between sips of Coke Zero and bites of ramen, letting the soda cool the build-up of heat along my esophagus. Soon enough, the noodles were gone, leaving behind only the broth; and I sighed.

I leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under me as I gazed out the window at the empty parking lot. The broth had by now cooled off, and I sipped at it, temporarily putting off the Coke as I enjoyed the warmth; the savory flavor, now without the distraction of the noodles.

I was nearly done when I noticed a figure in the distance, emerging from the mist. Jonathan — hands tucked in the pockets of his light jacket — looked for all the world as if he was taking a leisurely stroll through the park. Sighting me, he smiled and waved, casually approaching the entrance of the convenience store.

The bells on the entrance jangled as he entered, and he walked up along the checkout counter, greeting me with what felt like pointless cheer.

"Taylor," he said. "Thank goodness. I've been wandering all over this town looking for you. Thought I'd never track you down."

I set the cup of almost-finished broth down, greeting him tiredly.

"I've been looking for you too, Jonathan," I said. "Or at least, I'd hoped to run into somebody from the group."

Jonathan slid into the chair next to mine, one hand still in his pocket, the other resting on the table. His hazel eyes scanned the room briefly.

"Nice place," he said. "Looks like we can resupply here."

"The prepackaged meals are rotten, but everything else is fine," I said. "Thankfully, this is the 'normal' version of the town, so the monsters shouldn't be of issue."

I paused, reminded that there was no guarantee that Jonathan had experienced the same things that I had.

"Uh, you've seen them right?" I asked. "The monsters, I mean. Other than the woman in the raincoat."

Jonathan's smile faltered for a split second, but he recovered quickly.

"Yeah," he said. "Lots of them. They're a pain, aren't they?" He chuckled lightly. "Took some doing, but I got a grip on things. Managed to get by."

I couldn't tell if he was dodging the question on purpose or just being cagey, but I let it go.

Come to think of it, I'd originally left Megan in Jonathan's care, back in the forest. When I met her again in the hospital, she hadn't mentioned Jonathan directly, but they'd definitely split up at some point.

"What's up with Megan?" I asked. "I ran into her earlier, but I didn't get to speak with her for long. She seemed — jumpy? Bolted at the first opportunity. Did something happen between the two of you?"

Jonathan's expression softened, and he looked genuinely apologetic, his brows knitting together.

"Yeah," he said. "We had a bit of a falling out. Nothing major. Just — well, tension, you know? This place gets to you." He forced a smile. "But don't worry, when I see her next, I'll make her understand I've got her back. I want what's best for her."

He looked me in the eyes, expression serious.

"As a guy, it's my responsibility to look out for you girls," he said. "The town is dangerous, Taylor. You've seen it."

His tone rubbed me the wrong way. It was patronizing — almost chauvinistic; like he'd already decided he was in charge, and that it was a done deal.

"What's got you so concerned?" I asked.

Jonathan leaned forward.

"We're stuck in Silent Hill," he said. "No way back to the real world — least, not that I've found. Maybe there isn't one." He paused, letting it sink in. "I'm thinking it's a cape thing, you know? Some kind of parahuman power messing with us. But I haven't seen whoever's behind it. I mean, it could be the woman in the raincoat, but ..." He shook his head. "Megan and I didn't encounter her again in the forest after we split up from you. Makes me think she's not even in town. So what if the cape's not here at all? What if we're stuck in some kind of Gray Boy situation, where we've been abandoned here to rot?"

I mulled over Jonathan's reasoning. I knew about Gray Boy, of course — the serial killer who trapped people in endless time loops; abandoned them to relive the same moments forever.

But thinking about it more, this didn't feel like that.

I'd met Faraday, back in that village. If there was a cape responsible for this, it was almost certainly him — the self proclaimed 'caretaker' of this place. Not some distantly absent puppet master.

Problem was, there were still too many things I didn't know about the town. Better to explain it when I had a grasp on how it worked.

"Gray Boy's loops didn't allow for this degree of freedom," I said. "We're allowed to freely wander — explore the town. Maybe there's some kinda objective, like we're supposed go to a particular destination?"

I drank the last of the broth from the ramen cup, and set it down. Putting the wrapper of the cookie pack within, I tossed it into a trash receptacle by one of the shelves nearby.

"I dunno," I said. "I don't have any particular basis for saying this, but it doesn't feel like we've just been abandoned."

It was weak logic, and it didn't even sound very convincing to me; but I felt like there was something to it — a bedrock of truth, underlying the guesstimation and hypothesis.

Faraday had talked about 'outcomes that are foreordained' being inevitable. Wasn't that another way of saying that for each visitor to Silent Hill — each of the 'Wicked' — there was a set path and end point?

"Maybe," Jonathan allowed. "But if we're stuck here forever, you and Megan are lucky." He smiled. "After all, you've got me to look out for you."

Before I could respond, he pulled his hand out from his pocket, revealing a revolver. My breath caught.

"Found this in the forest," he said, his tone a matter-of-fact. "Megan and I circled back to that clearing — you know, the place where we saw the policewoman's body? We were looking for Andrew and Luna, but they were nowhere to be found. The gun that Andrew had was present, though — so I picked it up." He raised the gun toward me. "It's a revolver. Not a lot of ammo — but I found some more. A lot more. Enough to keep me going indefinitely, no matter how many of those creatures are out there."

His eyes flicked to my t-shirt, and a smile crossed his face — making me more conscious than ever that the fabric was still damp, clinging to my skin.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a softer, almost conspiratorial tone.

"I have a proposal for you, Taylor," he said. "Stick with me. Let me keep you safe. I'll make sure that nothing happens to you. We're in this together, right? It'll be like Adam and Eve."

His smile tightened, and he thrust the barrel of the revolver against my breast.

"If you refuse," he said. "Well, I'll just have to insist."

Chapter Text

Thoughtography

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Thoughtography, also known as psychic photography, projected thermography, nengraphy, and nensha (Japanese: 念写), is a rare anomalous ability allowing individuals to instantiate pigmentation on physical objects through mental effort, accompanied by a consistent clairvoyant capacity to perceive obscured or distant objects within the ability's range.

Confirmed as a genuine phenomenon in scientific studies beginning in 1994, thoughtography affects approximately 0.001% of the global population and is considered a minor power with limited practical applications. Initially hypothesized as a nascent form of parahuman ability, subsequent research established that it lacks key indicators associated with parahuman powers, such as the requirement for a trigger event. Bearers of thoughtography do not necessarily possess a corona pollentia, a brain structure common in the general population but confirmed in individuals with active parahuman abilities. However, in rare cases where thoughtography coexists with or is expanded by a distinct parahuman power — often oriented toward offensive or combat applications — the individual may exhibit a gemma in addition to the corona pollentia.

Though historical claims of thoughtography were largely attributed to fraud, the ability, including its clairvoyant component, was empirically validated in controlled experiments. As a power, it involves the remote manipulation or alteration of existing substances to produce pigmentation, or the generation of new pigmentation, with no functional distinction between these modes; all verified users possess both capabilities. The resulting pigmentation integrates seamlessly into the target object, forming part of its surface material, though it may resemble externally applied substances like ink. Thoughtography is typically restricted to distances of 20 meters or less, with clairvoyance enabling accurate targeting of substrates without requiring line of sight. The ability has negligible utility in combat scenarios due to its focus on visual instantiation and perceptual targeting rather than destructive or kinetic effects.

Interest in thoughtography peaked in the mid-1990s following its confirmation but has since waned, overshadowed by the more dramatic manifestations of parahuman powers. A small cadre of researchers continues to study it, positing that its relatively straightforward neural correlates, including those tied to its clairvoyant perception, could provide insights into the mechanics of external power expressions, which remain opaque in parahuman cases.

History

Prior to its scientific validation, thoughtography was the subject of numerous claims, many of which were later exposed as fraudulent through methods such as sleight of hand, chemical manipulation, or photographic trickery. These historical assertions often involved attempts to project mental images onto photographic plates or film, purportedly capturing thoughts, dreams, or visions. No documented fraudulent claims emerged after 1980, with the phenomenon transitioning from pseudoscience to verified anomaly following rigorous testing in the 1990s.

Key Historical Claimants

• Louis Darget (active c. 1890s–1910s): A French military officer and amateur scientist, Darget experimented with "photographing thoughts" by having subjects, including his wife, focus on mental images while holding photographic plates to their foreheads or faces in darkened rooms. He claimed these produced "V-rays" or vital radiations that imprinted images such as eagles, bottles, and portraits (e.g., of Beethoven during piano performances). Investigated by neurologists like Jules Bernard Luys and physician Hippolyte Baraduc, his results were initially taken seriously but later attributed to chemical inconsistencies in development processes and thermal effects from skin contact.
• Eva Carrière (active c. 1900s–1920s): A French medium studied by psychical researcher Albert von Schrenck-Notzing, Carrière claimed to manifest ectoplasmic forms during séances, onto which she projected mental images, a process Schrenck-Notzing termed "ideoplasty." Her demonstrations involved apparent materializations of faces and figures, published in Schrenck-Notzing's 1923 book Phenomena of Materialisation. Subsequent examinations revealed the use of magazine cut-outs and other props, with magician Carlos María de Heredia replicating her effects using everyday items like gauze and combs.
• Chizuko Mifune (active 1910): A Japanese clairvoyant from Kumamoto Prefecture, Mifune asserted the ability to imprint mental images onto sealed photographic plates through concentration and breathing exercises. Tested by psychologist Tomokichi Fukurai of Tokyo University, her public demonstration in September 1910 involved reading hidden messages, leading to widespread media scrutiny. Though Fukurai endorsed her powers, critics highlighted poor controls, such as unsupervised access to test materials. Mifune's involvement ended tragically with her suicide in January 1911 amid controversy.
• Ikuko Nagao (active 1911): Another Japanese subject associated with Fukurai's research, Nagao claimed to perform nensha by visualizing images onto unexposed photographic plates sent to her remotely. Fukurai documented successes in imprinting symbols and scenes, but experiments were undermined by suspicions of tampering, including broken seals on plates. Nagao ceased participation and died of illness shortly thereafter, with Fukurai publishing details in his 1913 book Clairvoyance and Thoughtography.
• Ted Serios (active 1960s): An American from Chicago, Serios purported to project mental images onto Polaroid film using a handheld tube device, often while intoxicated. Endorsed by psychiatrist Jule Eisenbud in his 1967 book The World of Ted Serios: 'Thoughtographic' Studies of an Extraordinary Mind, Serios produced hundreds of images under observation. Skeptics, including magician James Randi, later demonstrated that his results could be replicated via sleight of hand and pre-exposed film.

Verification

The 1994 confirmation of thoughtography occurred during experiments led by Japanese researcher Dr. Satoshi Kawaguchi at the University of Tokyo's Parapsychology Lab. Involving eight subjects identified through nationwide screening, the study documented repeatable instances of pigmentation instantiation on paper and other surfaces under controlled conditions, ruling out fraud through video surveillance and material analysis. This marked the shift from skepticism to acceptance.

Post-1994 demonstrations have included a 2002 study by the European Anomalous Phenomena Institute, where three thoughtography users instantiated detailed patterns on metallic surfaces, analyzed via electron microscopy to confirm material integration. In 2005, a collaborative U.S.-Japanese trial with five participants explored range limits, verifying effects up to 18 meters in non-line-of-sight scenarios. These factual validations have been replicated in smaller-scale academic settings, though funding remains limited.

Mechanics

Definition and Scope

Thoughtography is defined as the mental instantiation of pigmentation onto existing solid objects, achieved through either the rearrangement of surface molecules or the generation of new pigment particles. The resulting coloration integrates seamlessly into the object's structure, indistinguishable from natural pigmentation under microscopic examination. For example, an image formed on paper appears woven into its fibers, rather than resting atop them like applied ink. This integration distinguishes thoughtography from superficial applications, ensuring permanence unless the object itself is physically altered.

The scope of thoughtography is inherently limited, with effects confined to a personal range varying by individual but generally not exceeding 20 meters. Unlike many anomalous powers, thoughtography does not require line of sight; users can target objects behind barriers, provided they are within range and mentally visualized. Instantiation is restricted to manifest, solid substrates such as paper, photographs, walls, or fabrics. Attempts on gases produce no results, while liquids show partial success — coloration manifests persistently, but the image dissipates rapidly, rarely retaining form beyond a few seconds due to fluid dynamics.

Every verified user exhibits both rearrangement and generative capabilities without distinction, allowing flexibility in application. The power's minor nature precludes forceful effects, focusing instead on subtle visual changes. Practice enhances proficiency, enabling faster activation, greater accuracy, and even dynamic images resembling animation, though unpracticed users typically produce static results.

Process of Instantiation

Thoughtographic instantiation operates through two primary mechanisms: rearrangement and generation of surface particles. Rearrangement entails the spontaneous reorganization of existing surface molecules, achieved either through physical repositioning to emulate the appearance of substances like paint or through chemical recombination to produce the desired coloration. Generation involves the creation of new pigment particles that bond to the surface, integrating with existing molecules at boundary zones to achieve the intended visual characteristics. These generated particles are not always chemically bonded to the substrate except at contact points, yet they remain embedded in the surface, ensuring stable and permanent coloration. Neither process generates detectable exothermic or endothermic heat changes, and no nuclear-level manipulations have been observed, indicating that thoughtography operates strictly within molecular constraints.

The inability to instantiate thoughtography in vacuums or gases arises from the requirement for a "graspable" particle substrate, such as those found in solids or liquids. In gases, the dispersed nature of particles prevents the necessary clustering for manipulation, while vacuums lack particles entirely. This limitation is attributed to the clairvoyant component of thoughtography, which lacks the resolution to target and manipulate individual particles in gaseous states, as the associated perceptual field cannot resolve such sparse or dynamic molecular structures.

Thoughtographers rarely exhibit conscious control over particle selection, with the process occurring subconsciously. In rearrangement, the power selects the nearest chemically stable configuration of existing particles that achieves the desired coloration. In generation, it produces particles of the lowest molecular weight and atomic mass that yield a stable, visually accurate outcome. Most instantiations combine both processes, seamlessly blending rearranged and generated particles to form the final image, though users typically remain unaware of these microscopic dynamics. The subconscious nature of particle selection results in approximations of the intended appearance, prioritizing chemical stability and visual fidelity over precise molecular control. Emerging evidence suggests that training may enhance the ability to influence particle choice, potentially allowing for more deliberate manipulation of molecular structures, though most thoughtographers focus solely on mental visualization of the desired image.

A notable extension of thoughtography's capabilities involves the replication of structural coloration, akin to the butterfly wing effect, where vibrant, iridescent colors emerge not from pigments but from the microscopic arrangement of structures that interact with light. In nature, this phenomenon, observed in species like the Morpho butterfly, results from layered or ridged scales smaller than the wavelength of visible light, causing interference, diffraction, or scattering. These structures amplify specific wavelengths while canceling others, producing shimmering colors, such as metallic blues or greens, that shift with viewing angle. In thoughtography, such effects are achievable when the combined rearrangement and generation processes yield a solution that is both the lowest-cost — using the nearest stable configuration for rearrangement or the lowest molecular weight for generation — and the closest match to the desired visual appearance.

When a thoughtographer visualizes an iridescent or structurally colored outcome, the power may prioritize forming microscopic ridges, layers, or gratings on the substrate's surface, mimicking natural photonic structures. For rearrangement, this involves reorienting existing surface molecules into patterns that diffract light appropriately. For generation, new particles are created and arranged into nanoscale structures integrated with the substrate, ensuring stability while producing the desired optical effects. These structural colorations, like their pigment-based counterparts, remain permanent unless the substrate is physically altered. The ability to produce such effects depends on the user's proficiency and the complexity of the visualized image, with trained thoughtographers demonstrating greater precision in replicating intricate light-interference patterns. This interplay of rearrangement, generation, and clairvoyant guidance ensures that thoughtography can produce not only pigment-like results but also dynamic, structurally driven visual phenomena, broadening its expressive potential within its molecular and range constraints.

Neural Correlates

Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) studies on thoughtography users reveal consistent activation patterns, providing a window into its mechanics. During instantiation, the user's visual cortex activates to form an inverted representation of the intended image, mirroring typical neural processing of visual stimuli (e.g., a perceived tree maps as an inverted tree on the occipital lobe wall). This mental image is then projected externally via an unidentified mechanism, manifesting as pigmentation on the target.

Unlike parahuman powers, where fMRI scans of the corona pollentia and gemma yield highly variable and incomprehensible results across individuals, thoughtography's neural signatures are broadly replicable and comprehensible. The activation sequence begins in the associative areas, propagates through the occipital lobe, and culminates in output, with the image mapping as a straightforward, inverted form. This decipherability has led persistent researchers to hypothesize that studying thoughtography could illuminate broader power mechanics, particularly how internal neural states influence external reality.

Activation speeds vary by individual: some require 5 to 20 seconds of concentration, while others achieve results in under a second or instantaneously. Proficiency improves with training, reducing latency and enhancing detail. In cases where thoughtography intersects with parahuman abilities — such as enhanced offensive variants — the presence of a gemma correlates with expanded capabilities, though pure thoughtography users lack this structure.

Connection to Clairvoyance

Thoughtography is intrinsically linked to a form of clairvoyance, with all verified thoughtographers exhibiting clairvoyant perception limited to the effective range of their thoughtographic abilities. This connection manifests as an ability to perceive visual information remotely, bypassing physical obstructions such as walls or opaque barriers, provided the target is within the individual's personal range. Unlike thoughtography's instantiation effects, which perform poorly on liquids and fail entirely on gases or vacuums, clairvoyance operates independently of the medium, allowing perception through or within any environment without degradation.

The association between thoughtography and clairvoyance was first empirically demonstrated in 1995 by Dr. Satoshi Kawaguchi at the University of Tokyo, building on his prior validation of thoughtography. In these experiments, subjects were tasked with instantiating images on targets concealed behind visual obstructions, such as sealed containers or partitioned rooms. Successful pigmentation required accurate mental visualization of the hidden object, implying a perceptual mechanism beyond standard senses. Control trials confirmed that subjects could describe obscured details in real-time, with accuracy rates exceeding 90% when within range. These findings have been replicated by independent teams, including a 1998 study by the American Society for Anomalous Research involving four thoughtographers, and a 2003 multinational collaboration led by the European Anomalous Phenomena Institute, which tested six participants under varied obstruction conditions, yielding consistent results.

Functional MRI scans of thoughtographers during clairvoyant tasks reveal an always-active, real-time expansion of the visual field within the occipital lobe. This expanded perception appears as a distinct neural overlay, separate from pathways associated with standard ocular vision, yet fully interoperable, enabling seamless integration of clairvoyant input with normal sight. The acuity of clairvoyant perception is typically high, with an average angular resolution of approximately 1 arcminute — comparable to undegraded human foveal vision — though individual variation exists, ranging from 0.5 to 2 arcminutes. Sensitivity and resolution can improve with targeted practice, analogous to enhancements in thoughtographic proficiency through training.

Clairvoyance remains susceptible to disruption, however. Intense distractions can temporarily suspend the ability, causing a lapse in extrasensory input until focus is regained. Additionally, users can consciously suppress it, often described metaphorically as "closing their third eye," to conserve mental energy or avoid sensory overload. Critically, the functionality of thoughtography's pigmentation instantiation depends on active clairvoyance; when clairvoyance is impaired — whether through distraction, suppression, or experimental interference — attempts at thoughtography result in no observable effects. This interdependence arises from the lock-step modulation between the user's internal neural representation of reality and the external world, where clairvoyant perception serves as the foundational bridge for accurate targeting and manifestation.

Limitations and Applications

Thoughtography's primary limitation is its lack of direct combat utility, as it produces no kinetic force, heat, or structural damage, with effects limited to aesthetic or informational pigmentation. Its range, typically 20 meters or less, restricts its use in dynamic tactical scenarios. However, the associated clairvoyant ability — enabling perception of obscured or distant objects within the same range — introduces niche tactical applications. This clairvoyance allows thoughtographers to visualize and target substrates behind barriers or in concealed locations, facilitating covert marking or signaling in contexts like surveillance or reconnaissance where line-of-sight is obstructed. The scale of instantiation, while confined to the 20-meter range, can vary significantly, allowing for detailed and expansive designs on large surfaces, such as entire walls or vehicles, provided they are within the user's reach.

Applications extend beyond artistic expression and forensic marking to strategic uses, such as encoding messages on hidden surfaces for secure communication. For instance, a thoughtographer could imprint identifiers or complex patterns on objects inside sealed containers or behind walls, accessible only to those aware of the mark's location. Data encoding on durable surfaces remains viable, with the potential for intricate designs due to the power's variable scale, though practical constraints arise from the user's proficiency and focus. Ethical concerns have precluded experimental attempts to instantiate on biological tissues, leaving the feasibility of such applications unexplored. Despite these capabilities, thoughtography's minor status relative to parahuman powers, even with clairvoyant enhancements, has diminished research interest, positioning it as a scientific curiosity with specialized, non-transformative applications.

See Also

• Anomalous Ability
• Clairvoyance
• Parahuman
• Thinker

Further reading

• Eisenbud, Jule (1967). The World of Ted Serios: "Thoughtographic" Studies of an Extraordinary Mind. New York: William Morrow & Co.
• European Anomalous Phenomena Institute (2003). Thoughtography in the Post-Parahuman Era. Brussels: EAPI Press.
• Fukurai, Tomokichi (1913). Clairvoyance and Thoughtography. London: Rider & Co.
• Kawaguchi, Satoshi (1995). "Empirical Validation of Nensha: A Study of Eight Subjects." Journal of Anomalous Phenomena, 12(3), 45–62.
• Schrenck-Notzing, Albert von (1923). Phenomena of Materialisation. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn blinds of his bedroom window, casting striped shadows across the hardwood floor.

The space was reasonably tidy — books stacked neatly on the shelf by his desk, and a few posters of hockey players curling at the edges on the walls — but his bed bore the rumpled evidence of haste, a pile of yesterday's jeans and a faded T-shirt tossed atop the comforter.

The door stood firm with its lock engaged, a small brass key turned earlier in the quiet click that ensured solitude.

He had slipped back upstairs after the midday meal, the faint echo of his mother's voice trailing from the kitchen below:

"Jonathan, n'oublie pas de faire ta lessive plus tard (remember to do your laundry later)!"

He had mumbled a vague "Oui, maman" over his shoulder, the words rote on his tongue, as automatic as the sign of the cross he'd traced that morning during Mass.

The priest's homily on charity had droned on in steady English, but back home, the family's chatter over tourtière had folded into French without pause, his father's gravelly laugh punctuating stories of the mill's latest breakdowns.

He went through the rituals — the weekly pew-sitting and murmured prayers — but they sat light on him, traditions observed more for the rhythm of the day than any deeper pull.

Undressed for in comfort of his bedroom, he settled into the worn desk chair, the computer's fan humming softly as the screen flickered to life.

His fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up a familiar site where videos buffered in grainy succession — the kind that demanded headphones to muffle the low, rhythmic sounds spilling from the speakers. Leaning back, he let the afternoon dissolve into that private haze.

A chime cut through the audio — the sharp ping of Yahoo Messenger. The window blinked open: Eric was online, his avatar a pixelated hockey stick.

A message popped up: "dude u gotta see this. its insane."

An attachment followed, a file dragged into the chat box, the thumbnail a blur of pale skin and fabric against a stark white wall.

He clicked it open, and the image filled the screen. The figure dominated the frame, posed in a way that caught the light just so. No landmarks behind — just a blank expanse — turning the whole thing into something anonymous, plucked from nowhere.

Heat flushed through him, unbidden and sharp. This was the sort of thing that lingered, the kind he might revisit later when the house quieted again. But who was it?

He squinted, tracing the lines with his eyes — the subtle arch of the back, the way the swimsuit clung. The face looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Incredibly hot, though. Undeniably.

"whoa," he typed back, thumbs quick on the keys. "thats wild. whos the girl?"

Eric's reply landed fast: "u wont believe it."

He smirked at the screen, pausing the video with a click.

"ok ill bite. who is it?"

A beat, then: "its jamie. yeah that jamie. in a wig lol."

No way. His mind reeled, the quiet kid from class materializing in memory — Eric's shadow, always hovering at the edges of lunch tables or hallway clusters, clad in his hoodie. Jamie with his downcast eyes and clipped responses; the sort who melted into the background rather than draw eyes.

He stuck close to Eric, sure; but never pushed in, content to nod along in those rare bursts of conversation, like he was nursing some secret tether to the group without ever quite claiming it.

The simple fringe of synthetic hair shifted everything, softening angles into something else entirely — a veil that tricked the eye into seeing curves where none should be.

He kept the thought to himself.

"no frickin way. jamie?? ur shittin me."

"swear to god dude. he sent it to me. trust."

The revelation settled, twisting the heat into something sharper, more electric.

Jamie, of all people — the one who barely raised his voice above a murmur in the halls; who vanished into his own little corner during free periods. That Jamie could look like this?

He leaned closer to the monitor — the details of the image unfolding in his mind a wholly new impression of Jamie, now that he knew.

An idea sparked, sly and insistent: why keep this gem buried? Share the thrill, but strip the name. Let it land like a mystery, and watch the reactions unfold in real time. His friends would eat it up, dissecting the 'girl' without a clue to the punchline, their guesses flying wild.

The power of that, holding the truth just out of reach ...

He dragged the file from the chat, the cursor snapping it into the conference window — the Y! Groups tab open to the cluster he ran with, where Eric and Jamie weren't members.

Jacob was lurking, his green dot lit; and Liam and Sam were active too. There were seven in the roster, but these three idled most reliably, trading dumb links and trash talk on slow days.

He dropped the attachment into the box, the preview thumbnail blooming small but teasing, and hit send.

"check this out boys. found gold."

Jacob pinged first, his handle flashing: "holy shit jon. thats fire. who tf is she? can i forward to my bros? theyll lose it."

He grinned.

"go for it man. spread the love. just dont say where it came from."

Liam chimed in next, slower burn: "damn. poses like she knows whats up. u hittin that or what?"

"nah just sharin the wealth," he fired back, pulse quickening at the hook sinking in.

Sam rounded it out: a fire emoji, then words tumbling: "yo thats next level. bet shes got stories. u got more?"

"Not yet," he typed, leaning into the keyboard's glow. "But keep an eye out. This ones goin viral in my book."

They sat side by side on the bleachers, the metal cool beneath them despite the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun. The track curved away in front of them, alive with the steady rhythm of runners pounding the lanes — some in focused sprints; others in leisurely jogs, their breaths puffing in the crisp air.

A light breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass from the nearby field, mingling with distant shouts from a pickup game on the courts. He watched idly, his backpack slung at his feet, while Eric fidgeted beside him, twisting a water bottle cap on and off with nervous energy.

Eric's face twisted with regret, eyes fixed on the ground. The photo's spread through the school's unofficial student mailing list had left ripples no one had anticipated.

"I shouldn't have sent you that photo, man," Eric said, voice low and edged with regret, staring at his sneakers as if they held answers. "If I hadn't, none of this would've happened. Jamie's in the hospital now, and it's my fault. He tried to ... you know. What do I do? He must hate me now. How do I make this right without making it worse?"

He listened, keeping his expression neutral — though inwardly the words stirred a calculated unease.

The photo's spread had spiraled beyond control. Jamie's reaction — slashing his wrist in the bathtub — was currently perceived by those without context as an event entirely unrelated, as the figure in the photo remained unrecognized; but if he spoke up, revealing the image to be a shot of himself only ever meant for Eric's eyes, everything could unravel.

In a world riddled with capes, some Thinker might latch onto the thread — peel back secrets with unerring precision; trace digital footprints, or read through intentions like an open book.

He doubted any hero or villain would bother with a small-town incident like this, but the mere possibility grated — the idea of being caught off guard by some unpredictable intervention; by powers cutting through the fog of obscurity like a knife. Better to sever that thread entirely.

He placed a hand on Eric's shoulder, steadying him with a calm gaze.

"Hey, take it easy. It's not all on you. I'll handle it — I'll go talk to Jamie myself, smooth things over. You don't need to stress; I'll make sure everything's squared away."

Eric looked up, relief flickering in his eyes.

"You sure?" he asked. "I mean, he's my friend. I should —"

"Trust me." He kept his voice firm and reassuring. "He'll understand once I explain. Just give me a bit, and it'll be fine."

As Eric nodded slowly, exhaling a shaky breath.

"If you say so, I'll leave it to you."

He leaned back against the bleacher rail, mind already mapping the hospital visit, the words he'd choose to ensure silence — subtle, effective, leaving no loose ends for anyone to exploit.

He was good at choosing the right words, after all.

The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the linoleum floor.

He followed the nurse, her white shoes squeaking softly as she led him to a room at the end of the hall. She paused at the door, offering a warm smile to the figure inside.

"One of your classmates is here to visit," she said, her voice gentle before stepping back. "I'll give you two some privacy."

She retreated, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click, then turned the lock to ensure no interruptions.

The room was small, clinical, with a single window letting in pale afternoon light. A tray of untouched food sat on a rolling table, and the faint beep of a monitor punctuated the quiet.

Jamie lay propped against pillows, pale under the fluorescent lights, bandages peeking out from the sleeve of the hospital gown. His frame caught the eye — delicate in its contours, with a waist that tapered narrowly and hips that flared.

Ever so slightly, the gown hinted at the subtle swell of his breasts.

Jamie's eyes flicked up, his confusion evident. They had never spoken, and their paths had only crossed in the crowded halls at school.

"You're ... Jonathan?" Jamie asked. "Why are you here?"

Jamie's voice was soft; hesitant — unaccustomed to attention from someone like him, a near-stranger from school.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice low and deliberate.

"Would it make sense if I said I was the one Eric sent the photo to?"

The reaction was immediate — Jamie's breath hitched, his fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket.

He smiled, a slow, disarming curve of his lips.

"Hey, calm down," he said. "Let's talk this through. First, you need to know Eric didn't mean any harm. He sent it to me thinking it'd stay between us. He didn't expect me to share it."

Jamie's shoulders eased slightly, though his eyes remained guarded, searching for intent. The words seemed to settle him — if only slightly — his grip on the blanket loosening.

Leaning back in the chair, he continued, his tone casual but pointed.

"When I shared it, I didn't say it was you," he said. "Nobody knows. Honestly, I thought it was kind of thrilling — wondering if someone might figure it out. See past the wig and realize the 'girl' isn't what they thought." His smile widened, a glint of private amusement in his eyes. "That wig did a lot of work, didn't it?"

The color drained from Jamie face, his body rigid as if braced for impact.

He watched the Jamie's reaction with a detached curiosity, letting the moment stretch before speaking again.

"You can hate me for it," he said, voice smooth — almost soothing. "Blame me all you want for spreading it. But here's the thing. If you point the finger at me, you'd have to tell everyone you're the one in the photo. That you're the 'girl' they're all talking about. Are you okay with that?"

His smile didn't waver, but there was an edge to it now, sharp and deliberate.

Jamie's voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, trembling with unease.

"What do you want?"

He tilted his head, the smile softening into something almost friendly.

"Nothing major," he said. "Just a favor here and there. You know, something to keep things between us."

He had always found it amusing how easily the mind could be tricked into rewriting its own story, especially in girls his age. A rush of adrenaline from something as simple as crossing a rickety bridge, and suddenly that pounding heart; that quickened breath — it all got pinned on whatever explanation felt right in the moment.

It wasn't real, of course — just a fiction the brain cooked up to make sense of the body's signals — but it felt true enough to them.

Set up the right circumstances — guide that misdirected spark — and you could steer their reactions anywhere you wanted. A little danger, a shared thrill, and they'd start seeing you in a whole new light, open to suggestions they might otherwise brush off.

It was like flipping a switch, turning hesitation into something warmer, more inviting.

That had been the whole point of suggesting the forest hike back at camp. A casual walk through the woods, far from the counselors' eyes, offered the perfect chance to peel away from the group.

If things went smoothly, he could end up alone with either Megan or Taylor — just one of them, not both — and let the isolation work its magic. The uneven trails — the sense of being cut off from everything familiar — would stir up that subtle edge of excitement, making it effortless to nudge things toward the formation of a closer connection — the kind that unfolded naturally under the right pressure.

But that cape — the freak in the yellow raincoat — had derailed everything.

The chase through the mist had left his plans in tatters, forcing him to prioritize survival over opportunity. Now, after Taylor had split off to draw the thing away, he pushed through the underbrush with Megan in tow, his mind already recalibrating.

The forest loomed around them, pines shrouded in fog. He scanned the trees methodically, ears straining for any metallic clank that might signal the creature's return.

"Why are we going this way?" Megan whispered, her voice tight with fear as she clutched his sleeve. "We should head back to camp. That thing could be anywhere. Let's just get out of here before it comes back."

He forced a reassuring smile, patting her hand gently even as irritation flickered beneath the surface. Her constant fretting grated on him, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, but he kept his tone calm, steady.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm just making sure it's really gone. We don't want to run right into it on the way back, right?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening on his arm, but she followed as he led them deeper into the woods. The mist clung to their clothes, but he moved with purpose, circling wide to cover ground without straying too far.

Branches snagged at his shirt, and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot made her flinch, but he pressed on. No sign of the raincoat; no unnatural sounds cutting through the haze. Satisfied that the immediate threat had passed — likely still chasing Taylor, if she hadn't already been killed by the thing somewhere; or otherwise shaken it off — he adjusted their path, steering them back toward the clearing where it had all started.

Megan's protests grew quieter as they walked, though her unease radiated off her in waves. She didn't grasp his reasoning. Returning to camp too soon would mean counselors, questions, and an end to any privacy. He needed space to think — to regroup.

The clearing emerged from the fog like a bad memory, air thick with the metallic tang of blood. The policewoman's body lay headless, sprawled where they had first seen it.

Megan averted her eyes immediately, turning her back to the scene with a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh God," she said. "I can't look. Is ... is Andrew here? Or Luna?"

He knelt beside the corpse, scanning the ground quickly. No trace of Andrew or the dog — gone, vanished into the mist; perhaps dragged off or fled in another direction. But half-buried in the leaves, there was the revolver Andrew had snatched up earlier; had fired at the freak.

"What's taking so long?" Megan urged, her voice rising an octave as she hugged herself against the chill. "We need to leave."

"Just a moment," he replied softly, his gaze fixed on the weapon.

He reached out, fingers closing around the grip. The revolver was cool and heavy in his hand, a solid weight that sent a surge of confidence through him. Holding it made the world feel smaller; more controllable — like he could bend circumstances to his will with a single pull of the trigger.

He checked the cylinder briefly — still a few rounds left — then slipped it into his pocket, the bulk pressing reassuringly against his thigh.

"Sorry about that," he said, standing and brushing off his hands. "Nothing here we can use. Let's head back to camp."

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the clearing, his mind already turning over new possibilities.

The gun changed things, added an edge he hadn't anticipated. And with the cape out of the picture for now, maybe the hike's original intent wasn't entirely lost.

He had zero intention of heading back to camp.

Chapter Text

06 : Jonathan II

I didn't turn my head before the age of five, because my 'eye' was never closed.

It wasn't like the eyes in my head, which could blink shut against the world. This one stayed open, feeding me sights from every direction within its reach, at all hours, even when I 'slept' — a constant bubble of vision that wrapped around me like an invisible cloak. Consequently, turning my head was entirely unnecessary.

Mom had explained it to me once, when I was three and staring at the kitchen wall without moving, watching the neighbor's cat through the brick as if it were right there in the room. She had the same 'eye,' she said — a family gift; nothing to worry about — but also, distinctly not normal.

Most people — like Dad, for example — didn't have the 'eye,' and couldn't see all the way around their head like we could. It was a rare gift, said Mom.

I never knew before then that it was strange; but being at the time a kid who'd rarely left the house, the very small social context that I lived in comprised of me, my Mom, my Dad, and whatever guests we had over. It wouldn't be until later that I comprehended that by 'most people,' she wasn't talking about just a couple.

My earliest hobby was drawing — crayons on paper; fat lines of red and blue that smeared under my fingers, turning Mom's old sketchbooks into battlegrounds of color.

But soon after I picked it up, I found it easier to draw with my 'eye.' There wasn't any need for crayons or pencils anymore. I could just stare at a sheet of construction paper on the table, picture the lines in my mind, and watch them bloom there.

Mom called it thoughtography, her voice warm as she traced with her fingers the lines of the drawing I made — a wobbly dragon, whose flame breath cast it in shadow to contrast the brightness of the fire.

"You're a natural, Taylor," she said, ruffling my hair.

At first, my art was still — frozen moments captured on sticky notes, or on the backs of old envelopes I'd snag from Dad's paperwork. A flower here, a face there — mine, Mom's; even Dad's. But slowly, as the months blurred by, I learned to animate them.

It began with simple tricks: a stick figure waving on a napkin, its arm jerking in a loop when I pushed a little harder with my 'eye.'

Mom showed me how to do it properly, her own demonstrations flickering to life on the fridge door — a bird's wings beating against the painted metal surface; a deer running through a forest of magnets.

Animating on flat surfaces came easy after that. All I had to do was draw in a sequence, switching between frames like the flip-books Gram sent — each one bleeding into the next as the whole thing moved. I'd spend hours in the living room, turning notebook pages into marching ants or swirling storms.

When I turned four, I tried to animate on our old CRT TV.

The initial attempt failed, ruining the TV. I'd thought the process was the same as animating on paper, but instead it left a permanent unresponsive patch on the screen — a dark blotch where the colors wouldn't change no matter what channel we switched to.

Dad sighed but didn't scold me. He started picking up old TVs from yard sales on weekends, letting me experiment in the basement where I could take them apart without worry; tinker with them to figure out how they worked — but only when he was looking on, to make sure I didn't hurt myself. I was for the time being forbidden from touching our main TV, which Mom somehow managed to fix.

The correct process turned out to involve controlling the release of electrons — modulating it in time to the raster motion of the deflection yoke, 15,750 times per second, multiplied by three, for number of colors on the TV. An image was broken into a sequence of lines, and rapidly shot at the screen — a level of abstraction that stretched my young mind; but I managed.

As a child, I didn't know the proper terminology for the parts of a CRT TV; but through trial and error and sheer resolve, I acquired enough of a grasp to make it work — though not without ruining a huge number of those salvaged TV sets along the way. Being able to remain 'awake' while I slept meant that I could get a lot of practice in.

By the time I turned five, I could animate on a television reliably. Mom eventually allowed me to try it again on the main TV in the living room, after I demonstrated what I could do on a beat-up model in the basement.

I didn't realize it at the time, but the sequence I animated as showcase of my skills — photorealistic, in black and white — must've looked a lot like one those pretentious art school film projects.

I sat at the kitchen table at breakfast, spooning cereal into my mouth with back to the living room TV. The local news droned on — some announcer rattling off the morning's headlines; but I wasn't listening. I was too busy being amused by my latest creation, half-giggling as I chewed.

Foghorn Leghorn wound up his feathered arm and hurled a pie straight into the face of the news anchor. His voice droned on, undisturbed, reporting on the morning's traffic as whipped cream and pastry splattered across his image in cartoonish glory.

Foghorn made no sound — just strutted off-screen in that proud rooster swagger that was his signature. Pausing in my crunching of cereal, I laughed out loud.

Mom, standing at the counter pouring coffee, caught the entire sequence.

"Taylor," she said, her voice gentle but firm.

She was still in her pajamas, as she didn't have early classes that day. Brockton Bay University gave her the flexibility to adjust her teaching schedule, letting her stay home with me rather than sending me to preschool. She'd been doing that since I was born, making time for me in ways most moms couldn't.

"Yeah, Mom?" I replied, not turning around.

My 'eye' let me see her without moving — her slightly furrowed brow; the way her fingers tightened around the mug. I kept eating, scooping another bite as I watched Foghorn reset on the screen, ready for another pie toss.

Mom sighed, reached for the remote, and turned off the TV. The announcer's voice cut off mid-sentence, leaving the kitchen quiet except for the faint clink of my spoon against the bowl.

"Taylor, there's something serious I need to talk about," she said, setting the remote down with a soft thud, and seating herself at the kitchen table.

Her tone wasn't angry, but it had that weight she used when she wanted me to really hear her.

I looked at her through my 'eye.' She was gazing at me intently, resting her elbows on the table, the coffee mug before her.

"You know about your power — how you can make pictures with your 'eye,' like I can?" she began. "There are other people with powers out there. Capes, they're called. Some of them wear masks and costumes, claiming to be heroes; but a lot of them ... they're monsters in human skin." She fixed me with a steady gaze, expression serious. "They hurt people, Taylor. They destroy homes; take away families — and they do it because they can."

I tilted my head, a chill starting to creep up my spine.

My power was just for seeing; for drawing — for making Foghorn Leghorn throw pies, or sketching flowers on my bedroom wall. It wasn't like the stories Dad read me about heroes flying or lifting cars. But Mom's words painted pictures in my head that I didn't want — twisted figures lurking in shadows, their eyes glowing with malice.

Mom's eyes softened a fraction, but her voice stayed firm.

"Your power isn't like theirs, Taylor," she said. "It's not 'super' in the way that theirs are. It doesn't let you fight or fly or blast things apart. But that doesn't matter to them. If you use your power outside, in public, where anyone can see, someone might mistake you for one of them. Or worse, they might realize you're different, special in your own way. And standing out like that ... it's dangerous."

She leaned closer.

"Imagine it, sweetie — bad capes; villains with powers that twist minds or summon fire from nothing, finding out that that your 'eye' can see through walls. They might come for you in the night, slipping through windows, or waiting in the alleys on your way home from the park. They could grab you; force you to use your 'eye' for their awful plans — spying on secrets; tracking people who think they're safe. Or gangs — rough men with knives and guns — thinking you're a threat or a tool they can use. They'd pull you into their world — force you to do things for them, or die. And the heroes? Sometimes, they're no better. They might take you away; lock you up to 'study' your sight, claiming it's for your safety — but you'd never come home again. I don't want that for you, Taylor. I can't let that happen."

Her words wrapped around me like cold fingers, squeezing tighter with each detail. I saw it all in my mind's eye — faceless villains with jagged smiles; brutes holding baseball bats, ready to threaten me with a beating; and shadows reaching out from every dark corner, trying to pull me in.

I didn't fully grasp the depth of it at five, but her vivid descriptions burrowed deep, spawning nightmares of being chased through the streets — whispers promising pain, if I ever let my power show.

Years later, looking back, I understood why she laid it out so starkly.

She was shielding me from the game of the capes — a world where being unmasked as someone with a power meant that you had no choice but to become involved in the conflicts and schemes of parahumans, whether you liked it or not. But at the time, all I felt was a bone-deep terror that made me want to hide under a table; to bury myself a blanket, and shut my eyes.

From that day on, I stopped using my power outside the house. I closed my 'eye' when we left for the park or the store — keeping it tightly shut to avoid standing out. And by the time I went to kindergarten, there was nothing in my public behavior to suggest that I had any powers at all.

Some secrets were best kept in case of a rainy day.

The cold barrel of Jonathan's revolver pressed against my damp t-shirt, biting into my skin just below my collarbone.

"I suspected it when you were wearing a hoodie, but you're a real slut, aren't you?" he said, his voice low and smug — his hazel eyes glinting with something dark and predatory. "Did you think I wouldn't notice you weren't wearing a bra?"

My heart pounded, but my mind raced faster. The gun wasn't cocked. He hadn't pulled the hammer back before jamming it against my breast.

I didn't know much about revolvers, but it seemed like the hammer this particular gun had to be cocked in order to fire. In other words, he wasn't planning to shoot — not yet.

This was a threat; a power play, meant to scare me into submission. As to the intent behind his words —

I wasn't about to let him corner me.

My left hand shot out, slamming his right wrist aside, knocking the revolver away from my chest. In the same motion, I swung my right fist, connecting hard with his jaw. His head snapped to the side, and a grunt escaping his lips.

I didn't wait to for him to react. My backpack bounced against my shoulders as I bolted from the chair. The half-empty bottle of Coke Zero sat on the table, but I wasn't sticking around to grab it. I could get another one later. I sprinted toward the back of the shop.

'Looking' to Jonathan's eyes — the surface his corneas — I willed a pitch-black pigment to cover them. He screamed.

"Shit!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. "What did you do to me? Are you a cape or something?"

I didn't stop to answer; but deafening *bang* echoed through the store as I cleared the chips aisle. Glass shattered somewhere behind me, shelves exploding as the bullet tore through them. It missed me by a mile, but my pulse spiked. Staying put wasn't an option.

Jonathan's tone shifted, desperate now, as he tried to backpedal.

"Taylor, wait! I'm sorry!" he called out, his voice trembling. "That was a bad reaction, okay? I didn't mean to shoot!"

He held the revolver by the trigger guard, dangling it from his finger like a peace offering; his other hand raised in surrender.

"I swear, I won't shoot again," he said. "Just — calm down, undo this thing. We can talk this out, peacefully."

A clumsy attempt to deescalate, but his words — utterly contradicting his attitude just moments earlier — only made my skin crawl. I ignored him, reaching the glass-front refrigerator that stocked Coke Zero. Carefully opening the door, minding not to make noise that crossed the threshold of the air conditioning, I grabbed a fresh bottle and eased the door shut.

Jonathan was still calling my name, his voice growing louder, more frantic.

"Taylor! Come on, don't do this to me!"

I crouched low, moving toward the main entrance. Except for the hum of the refrigerators and the central air, the only noise in the store was Jonathan's stumbling as he tried to navigate blind, knocking over displays.

My sneakers barely made a sound; but when I reached the front entrance and pushed it open, the bells above jangled loudly. I ducked instinctively.

Another *bang* split the air. The door shattered, glass raining down around me, shards skittering across the sidewalk.

"Goddamn filthy cape!" he shouted. "Get back here!"

I was already outside, sprinting across the parking lot. My 'eye' caught Jonathan fumbling toward the front of the shop, the revolver tight in his grip. He was cursing under his breath, face twisted in frustration.

I didn't look back.

The black pigment I'd forced into his corneas wasn't a temporary thing. He'd be blind for good, barring outside assistance. It wasn't a nice thing that I did, but part of me felt a grim satisfaction.

All the bullets in the world wouldn't help him if he couldn't shoot.

Chapter Text

From Encyclopedia of Esoteric Symbols, by Dr. Eleanor Hayes.
Oxford University Press, 1982.

Rebis

Rebis (from Lat. res bina, "double thing" or "thing of two parts"). In alchemical tradition, the Rebis represents the ultimate union of opposites, embodying the perfected state achieved through the Magnum Opus, or Great Work. This symbolic figure is typically illustrated as a hermaphroditic being, combining male and female attributes in a single form, signifying the reconciliation of polarities such as spirit and matter, active and passive principles, or sulfur and mercury. The Rebis emerges as the culmination of the alchemical process, where the practitioner attains a transcendent equilibrium, often associated with the creation of the Philosopher's Stone. Historical depictions, such as those in medieval manuscripts, portray the Rebis with two heads — one male and one female — surmounting a single body, sometimes standing atop a dragon or encircled by symbolic elements like the sun and moon. This imagery underscores the Rebis as a microcosmic reflection of divine wholeness, drawing from ancient philosophical roots in Hermeticism and Gnosticism.

The concept of the Rebis traces its origins to early alchemical texts, where it symbolizes the final integration following a series of transformative stages. It is not merely a metaphorical device but a profound emblem of spiritual rebirth, wherein the alchemist internalizes the process to achieve personal enlightenment. In practical terms, the Rebis relates to the chemical wedding, a key operation in which disparate substances are fused to produce a higher unity. This fusion is not limited to laboratory work but extends to psychological and metaphysical dimensions, influencing later esoteric traditions including Rosicrucianism and Freemasonry.

Etymology and Historical Context

The term "Rebis" first appears prominently in alchemical literature of the Renaissance, though its conceptual forebears can be found in earlier works. It derives from the Latin res bina, emphasizing duality resolved into oneness. Early references include the Turba Philosophorum (c. 12th century), a collection of dialogues among ancient philosophers that discusses the unification of binary elements in the pursuit of the elixir. By the 16th century, figures like Paracelsus elaborated on similar ideas, describing the hermaphroditic nature of primal matter in his Archidoxis Magica (published posthumously in 1570). Paracelsus viewed the Rebis-like state as essential for healing, linking it to the balance of bodily humors.

In visual art, the Rebis is vividly captured in emblem books such as Michael Maier's Atalanta Fugiens (1617), where it appears in engravings accompanied by fugues and epigrams, illustrating the harmonious blend of opposites. These depictions often include alchemical apparatus, reinforcing the Rebis as both a product and a process. The symbol's persistence into the modern era reflects its adaptability, appearing in psychological interpretations by thinkers like Carl Jung in his Psychology and Alchemy (1944), where he equates it with the integration of the anima and animus.

Stages of the Great Work Leading to the Rebis

The path to the Rebis unfolds through the primary stages of the alchemical Magnum Opus, each representing a phase of transformation. These stages — Nigredo, Albedo, and Rubedo — mirror the decomposition, purification, and reintegration of matter, culminating in the alchemist's assumption of a hermaphroditic state. This state evokes the primordial unity of Adam and Lilith, who, according to certain Kabbalistic interpretations, were originally created as a single hermaphroditic entity in the image of God, before their separation. The Rebis thus restores this divine archetype, elevating the practitioner to a godlike wholeness.

• Nigredo (Blackening; Putrefaction): This initial stage involves the breakdown and dissolution of the prima materia, the raw substance from which all transformation begins. Putrefaction signifies the death of the old form, where impurities are fermented and corrupted to reveal hidden potentials. It is a period of chaos and decay, essential for stripping away superficial elements, much like the rotting of organic matter to foster new life. Historical texts, such as the Rosarium Philosophorum (1550), describe this as the "dark night" of the work, where the material turns black, symbolizing the submersion into the subconscious depths.
• Albedo (Whitening; Purification): Emerging from the Nigredo, this stage purifies the blackened matter through washing and distillation, achieving a luminous white essence. It represents the ascent to a receptive, feminine state, often likened to the moon or mercury, where volatility gives way to clarity and subtlety. The albedo refines the soul, purging residual corruption to prepare for higher union. In Basil Valentine's Azoth (1613), this phase is depicted as the virgin's milk, emphasizing its nurturing, passive quality that awaits activation.
• Rubedo (Reddening; Integration): The final stage introduces the Philosopher's Sulfur — a fixed, masculine principle — to the purified albedo, igniting the reddening that signifies full integration and vitality. This sulfur acts as the active, solar force, often symbolized by gold or the red lion, which impregnates the feminine mercury to produce the Rebis. The result is a ruby-red tincture, embodying the harmonious blend of opposites and the attainment of immortality. As detailed in the Mutus Liber (1677), this reddening completes the cycle, transforming the alchemist into a being of balanced duality.

Comparative Symbolism

The Rebis finds parallels in other esoteric and religious icons, highlighting its universal theme of androgynous divinity.

• Levi's Baphomet: Éliphas Lévi's depiction of Baphomet in Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magie (1856) shares striking similarities with the Rebis. Baphomet is portrayed as a winged, goat-headed figure with feminine breasts and a phallic caduceus, embodying the synthesis of opposites — male and female, human and animal, light and dark. In Lévi's system, Baphomet serves as a symbol of the astral light, the mediating force in occult operations, and represents the magician's mastery over binary forces. Unlike the Rebis, which focuses on alchemical transformation, Baphomet functions as a templar idol in Lévi's narrative, guiding initiates toward gnosis through equilibrium.
• Ardhanarishvara: In Hindu mythology, Ardhanarishvara is the composite form of Shiva and Parvati, half-male and half-female, as described in ancient texts like the Puranas (c. 3rd–16th centuries). This deity symbolizes the inseparability of purusha (masculine spirit) and prakriti (feminine matter), essential for cosmic creation and balance. Ardhanarishvara's role is to demonstrate the unity underlying diversity, promoting harmony in devotion and yogic practice. Compared to the Rebis, it emphasizes eternal divine androgyny rather than a achieved state, yet both underscore the sacredness of integrated duality.

Theoretical Interpretations

In her Hermetic Horizons: Reinterpreting Alchemical Myth (1978), Dr. Evelyn Whitaker presents a speculative interpretation of the Great Work as the completion of Creation. She suggests that the biblical narrative of God resting on the seventh day, found in Genesis, implies a deliberate pause — read by medieval scholars as an opportunity intentionally left open, allowing humanity to complete the act of Creation. Along these lines, Kabbalistic sources, such as the Zohar (13th century), describe Adam's original hermaphroditic form as a reflection of God's divine image; and alchemical texts like Abraham Eleazar's Uraltes Chymisches Werk (1735) connect the Philosopher's Stone to a restoration to divinity and divine power. Whitaker argues that independently, these are unrelated facts; but taken altogether, alchemists may have seen a path by which the Magnum Opus could reasonably advance.

In Whitaker's framework, the creation of the Philosopher's Stone is equated with producing the Elixir of Immortality; but it's more precisely an elixir that elevates the alchemist to the Rebis state. This process by which the Philosopher's Stone is arrived at parallels the practitioner's inner transformation, where the sage (masculine intellect) unites with the maiden (feminine intuition) to achieve wholeness, as per the union of the related psychological archetypes (the anima and animus), detailed in Carl Jung's Alchemical Studies (1967). The alchemist becomes a co-creator to God, completing the work of Creation, and raising themselves out of incompleteness to be reborn as the Rebis — a perfected human, embodying divine unity.

In line with this, Paracelsian texts, such as the Archidoxis magica (1570), posit that the Rebis is not merely a symbolic ideal, but a state attainable via the ingestion of elixir; in Whitaker's theory, a process by which the alchemist assumes an evolved consciousness and a hermaphroditic flesh — coming into the image of God, as Adam before the fall.

Bibliography

• Eleazar, A. (1735). Uraltes chymisches Werk.
• Jung, C. G. (1944). Psychology and alchemy. Routledge & Kegan Paul.
• Jung, C. G. (1967). Alchemical studies. Routledge & Kegan Paul.
• Lévi, É. (1856). Dogme et rituel de la haute magie.
• Maier, M. (1617). Atalanta fugiens.
• Moses de León. (13th century). Zohar.
• Mutus Liber. (1677). [Emblem book].
• Paracelsus. (1570). Archidoxis magica.
• Rosarium Philosophorum. (1550). [Illustrated treatise].
• Turba Philosophorum. (12th century). [Arabic compilation, translated into Latin].
• Valentine, B. (1613). Azoth.
• Whitaker, E. (1978). Hermetic horizons: Reinterpreting alchemical myth. Yale University Press.

Chapter Text

She awoke on a cracked sidewalk, her cheek pressed against damp concrete that smelled faintly of mildew and earth.

A thin veil of fog hung over the street, muting the world into shades of gray. Her head throbbed, a dull pulse behind her eyes, and her limbs felt heavy, as if she'd been running for hours.

Blinking, she pushed herself upright, her palms scraping against the rough pavement. Her clothes — glasses, a fitted denim jacket, a pink graphic tee with a faded heart design, and slightly worn jeans — were familiar; were hers, though she couldn't recall the last time she'd put them on.

They were the kind of outfit a middle school girl might pick for a casual day — comfortable, yet carefully chosen to fit in. She ran her fingers over the jacket's frayed cuffs, seeking comfort in their familiarity.

Memories flickered, jagged and incomplete. Cruel words on a glowing screen, comments on MySpace that stung like needles: 'talentless hack,' 'total loser.' The shame of seeing her insecurities — her glasses; her quiet voice — mocked in public posts and private messages.

She remembered the weight of it — the way it made her shrink in rehearsals — but the faces behind the words were a blur. She never knew who sent them, and the memory cut off abruptly, like a film reel snapping mid-scene.

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts aside. Those fragments weren't helping her now. Where was she? Why was she here?

She stood and scanned her surroundings. The street stretched out, lined with shuttered storefronts and faded signs. A pharmacy with a 'Closed' notice sat across from a diner, its neon sign dark and lifeless. The fog softened the edges of everything, making the buildings loom like half-formed shapes in a dream.

No cars; no voices; no hum of life — just silence, broken only by the faint drip of water from a nearby gutter.

She took a tentative step, then another, breath catching in the damp air. The street felt oddly familiar, like a place she'd seen in a photograph or a half-remembered movie; but she was certain she'd never been here before. The contradiction nagged at her.

Her name — she couldn't remember it. Who forgets their own name? She pressed her lips together, refusing to let the fear take hold. She needed to focus, to figure out where she was and how to get out.

There was a T-intersection ahead, with the right side of T blocked off by scaffolding and a white construction tarp. Turning left, a rusted signpost caught her eye, its lettering barely legible: 'Neely Street.'

The name meant nothing, but the sight of it stirred that same eerie familiarity. She glanced down a second intersecting road — 'Sanders Street,' according to the sign — and saw more of the same: empty buildings, fog, and silence.

A name surfaced in her mind, unbidden: Kelly Summers.

It felt right, like a key fitting a lock she hadn't known was there. She paused, testing the word in silent intonation.

Kelly Summers. It wasn't her name — she was sure of that — but it was as good as any; a placeholder to fill the void until her real one came back.

A faint ringing cut through the silence, sharp and insistent. Kelly froze, her heart lurching. The sound came from a public phone booth ahead. She approached cautiously, peering inside. The booth's phone hung on its hook, silent, but on the small metal table beneath it sat an old flip phone, its screen glowing faintly as it vibrated with each ring.

She hesitated, glancing around the empty street. No one was there — no footsteps; no shadows. But the ringing persisted, demanding attention.

Kelly pushed open the creaking door and picked up the phone, flipping it open with a trembling hand.

"Bennett, where are you?" a woman's voice snapped from the other end, sharp and impatient. "You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!"

Kelly's brow furrowed.

"Who are you?" she asked.

A pause, then a scoff.

"You've gotta be kidding me. A damned kid? Where's Bennett? Put him on, now."

"I don't know any Bennett," Kelly said. "I just found this phone ringing in a booth."

The woman muttered a string of curses under her breath, too muffled to make out clearly. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped but controlled.

"Fine. I'm Dr. Jennifer Carter," she said. "A man named Bennett was supposed to deliver something to me, but clearly that's not happening. You got a name, kid?"

"Kelly," she said. "Kelly Summers."

"Alright, Kelly," Dr. Carter said, her tone softening slightly but still edged with urgency. "I need a favor. Bennett was picking up three items for me, and I can't get them myself. Someone's watching the drops — don't ask who, it's complicated. Point is, they won't place the next item until the previous one's been picked up. You follow?"

Kelly blinked, processing the words.

"You want me to pick up your stuff?" she asked. "Why me?"

"Because you answered the damn phone," Dr. Carter shot back. "Look, you sound lost, and I'm guessing you're not exactly busy. Help me out, and maybe I can help you figure out what you're doing in this godforsaken place. Deal?"

Kelly glanced around the booth. She had no direction; no answers. This woman's request, strange as it was, offered a purpose, however small.

"Okay," she said finally. "What do I do?"

"Good," Dr. Carter replied, a hint of relief in her voice. "First item's at Gonzales Restaurant. Where are you?"

"Neely Street, by the intersection with Sanders."

"Then it's not too far from where you are," said Dr. Carter. "Head east down Sanders Street. Should be at the end of the block. The item's in a suitcase, tucked under a booth in the back. Grab it, and I'll call you with the next spot. Don't dawdle — someone's watching, and they don't like delays."

Kelly nodded, though Dr. Carter couldn't see her.

"Got it. Gonzales Restaurant. Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," Dr. Carter said, her voice dropping slightly. "Keep your eyes open, because chances are, we aren't the only interested party. I'll call you soon."

The line went dead before Kelly could respond. She closed the flip phone, slipping it into her jacket pocket. The weight of it was a grounding — a small tether to something real in this surreal place. She stepped out of the booth.

Eastward, Dr. Carter had said. Kelly turned, scanning the street. Up ahead, a faded sign emerged from the fog; 'Gonzales Restaurant.'

The door, set at the building's corner facing the intersection, was a wreck — its frame splintered, with shards of glass glittering on the pavement like scattered teeth. Someone had rammed a car into it, the telltale skid marks curving from the street to the shattered entrance. No vehicle remained, but the destruction suggested a robbery.

She stepped closer, her sneakers crunching on broken glass. The interior was a mess: tables overturned; chairs strewn across the floor; napkins and menus scattered like leaves. A cash register lay on its side with its drawer pried open, coins glinting dully in the dim light filtering through cracked windows.

The air smelled of stale grease and something sour. Kelly's stomach tightened, but she pressed forward, her eyes scanning for the suitcase Dr. Carter had mentioned.

In the back, beneath a booth with torn red vinyl, she spotted it — a small, black suitcase, scuffed but intact, half-hidden under a pile of napkins. She knelt, dragging it out. Her fingers fumbled with the latches, popping them open with a soft click.

"Seriously?" Kelly muttered.

The suitcase was empty. She ran her hand along the interior, hoping for a hidden pocket, but found nothing. The item was gone.

The flip phone in her pocket buzzed, sharp and sudden, making her flinch. She pulled it out, flipping it open.

"Hello?" she said.

"You got the suitcase?" said Dr. Carter.

"Yeah, I found it," Kelly said, glancing at the empty case. "But it's empty. Nothing's here."

"Dammit," Dr. Carter hissed, followed by a muffled curse. A pause, then her tone shifted, calculating. "Alright, maybe Bennett got to it first. Doesn't matter. We move on. Second item's in Rosewater Park, at the Patrick Chester statue. Head north on Neely Street, west on Katz, then north again on Munson. There's a side road east off Munson that'll take you to the park. The statue's a guy on a horse — you can't miss it. Item's in another suitcase. Same setup."

Kelly's brow furrowed.

"Rosewater Park? How do I find the —"

"It's not hard," Dr. Carter cut in. "The statue's somewhere in the park. Just keep your eyes peeled."

The line went dead.

Kelly stared at the phone, the screen dark. Dr. Carter's timing was uncanny, calling the moment she'd confirmed the suitcase.

A chill crawled up her spine, unrelated to the damp air seeping through the broken entrance. How did Dr. Carter know? Was she watching somehow, or was it just a coincidence?

Kelly shook her head, shoving the phone back into her pocket. Questions wouldn't help her now. She needed to keep moving.

The bronze statue was toppled from its stone pedestal, sprawled haphazardly across the grass. The horse's body was intact, but the rider's head was gone, leaving a jagged stump at the neck. The pedestal, meanwhile, was covered with graffiti — symbols drawn in red and black spray paint, doing a good job of obscuring the inscription.

Kelly squinted, making out the words beneath the defacement:

The vandalism felt personal, spiteful, but she didn't linger on it. Her eyes caught on a black suitcase half-buried in the weeds near the statue's base.

She knelt, brushing damp grass from the suitcase's surface. Fumbling with the zipper, she opened it.

Empty. Just like before, the compartments were bare.

"Again?" she muttered.

The flip phone buzzed in her pocket, right on cue. Kelly's eyes narrowed; she'd barely opened the suitcase. She flipped the phone open, pressing it to ear.

"Hello?"

"Kelly, you at the statue?" Dr. Carter's voice was sharp, expectant. "Got the powdered White Claudia?"

Kelly frowned, glancing at the empty suitcase

"Powdered what?" she asked. "The suitcase is empty. There's nothing here."

A pause, then a soft exhale from Dr. Carter.

"Alright, calm down. It's fine. Bennett probably grabbed it before you got there. Makes sense." Her voice dropped, as if speaking to herself. "The Order's got a tight grip on the distribution of White Claudia. Can't let the stuff fall into the wrong hands. Bennett's definitely got it."

Kelly tilted her head at the unfamiliar term. White Claudia? She pictured some kind of plant — maybe a flower, white, delicate — but she knew nothing about it, and Dr. Carter didn't seem inclined to explain.

"So, what now?" she asked.

Dr. Carter's focus snapped back.

"Final item's a red tincture," she said. "It's at a place called Heaven's Night, a gentlemen's club. Back of the building, in the changing area, in a suitcase like the others."

Kelly blinked.

"Gentlemen's club?"

Dr. Carter snorted.

"Right. Kid," she said. "It's just a club, okay? Don't worry too much about it. Head south on Munson Street, then west on Rendell. Heaven's Night's right there. Find the suitcase and wait for my call."

The line went dead.

Kelly stared at the phone, her thumb brushing the edge of the screen. Again, Dr. Carter had called the second she'd checked the suitcase. The timing wasn't just good. It was really good.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket. There was just one more item, and Munson Street wasn't too far away. She'd finish the errand.

There wasn't a sign for Heaven's Night — no neon glow or bold lettering. But a nagging intuition pulled at Kelly, whispering that it was close — perhaps behind one of the unmarked doors or locked grates she passed.

At the intersection with Carroll Street, she turned north, the road narrowing as it climbed slightly. A narrower street branched off to the right, leading to a small parking lot. On one of the sides, a set of stairs ascended to a plain door plastered with faded stickers — peeling images of lips, high heels, and cryptic symbols. The walls beside it bore remnants of posters, their torn edges spelling out 'Heaven's Night' in looping script.

Kelly pushed the door open. Inside, a dim hallway was flanked by an empty reception desk. Beyond that stretched a mirrored corridor, and then the main room. Stepping in, Kelly looked around.

A long bar lined the wall, while a raised stage dominated the center, equipped with a pole. A neon sign on one of the walls gave the vague outline of a nude woman.

Kelly's cheeks warmed as realization dawned. This was a place for sexy performances — adult entertainment. She vaguely understood from the whispers she heard at school. Yet, despite never having set foot here, she felt an inexplicable pull toward the back, knowing the route as if from muscle memory.

She navigated past the stage to a side door, she walked past a set of broken game cabinets, slipping into the changing area. A makeup vanity sat against the far wall, cluttered with dried cosmetics.

Kelly froze at the sight of a male corpse slumped against the vanity.

Clad in a trench coat, his skin was leathery and shrunken, with deep slashes across his torso, exposing desiccated flesh. A shattered bottle lay next to him on the vanity, its crimson contents spilled — evaporated into a crusty stain.

Her stomach churned, bile rising as she backed away. The man had dropped a gym bag near his feet, its zipper half-open. Not wanting to approach, Kelly grabbed a nearby umbrella from a stand, extending it to hook the bag's strap and drag it across the floor with a scrape.

Kneeling, she unzipped it. Inside lay two items: A metal chalice engraved with Celtic interlace around the rim, and a caduceus snake winding the stem — the obsidian goblet, she guessed; and a sealed pack of powder marked 'PTV.'

Kelly's eyes widened; she'd heard of PTV before. It was an illegal drug whispered about in hushed tones among the older kids at school.

"This is Bennett," she whispered, piecing it together.

The flip phone buzzed in her pocket, sharp and jarring. Kelly answered, her voice shaky.

"Dr. Carter?"

"You found the tincture?" Dr. Carter's tone was urgent, cutting through the static.

"It's broken," Kelly said, glancing at the corpse. "The bottle's smashed, and the stuff inside's dried up. There's a body here — probably Mr. Bennett? All dried up, like he's been dead forever. But I found a gym bag next to him with a goblet and some ... some PTV."

"Damn it," Dr. Carter muttered, her voice tight. A pause, then calmer: "Alright. Two out of three's good enough for now. Take the goblet and the powder."

Kelly hesitated, glancing at the PTV packet.

"PTV's an illegal drug," she said. "What ... What are you doing with it?"

Dr. Carter's tone sharpened.

"Don't start with me, kid. I'm —" She sighed. "Sorry. I'm dealing with a lot of stress right. Yeah, PTV's illegal, but I've been ordered to use it for ... a certain ritual. For a patient. It's complicated, but under the right circumstances, even an illegal drug can be useful. Just trust me."

Kelly frowned. 'Ritual' didn't sound medical, but she bit her tongue.

"Alright, fine ..." she said slowly, voice laced with hesitation. "So, where am I taking this stuff?"

"The Doctors' Lounge, on the first floor of Brookhaven Hospital," said Dr. Carter. "Exit Heaven's Night through the front, and go west to Carroll Street. The hospital's right there. Go straight through the main entrance into the Inner Ward. The Doctors' Lounge is on the right."

The line went dead, and Kelly stared at the phone. Dr. Carter had called the moment she'd checked the bag, and not a moment sooner. Not when she'd entered the club, and not when she was wandering the halls.

Kelly scanned the room, her eyes darting to the cracked mirrors, the shadowed corners. No cameras, no glint of lenses. If Dr. Carter was tracking her, it wasn't through anything obvious. The thought sent a shiver through her, but she had no time to dwell.

She zipped the gym bag, slinging it over her shoulder. It made her feel a bit sick, holding a dead's man bag like this; but lacking anything else to carry the goblet and the PTV in, it couldn't be helped.

She hurried out, retracing her steps. Once out the door, she turned west toward Carroll Street, and headed to her final destination.

Stepping into Brookhaven Hospital, Kelly was hesitant. The air inside was thick with mist, swirling under dimly flickering fluorescent lights. The walls were rotted away, with peeling paint everywhere; and scattered debris littered the floor. The scent of decay permeating every corner.

She navigated the dim corridors, past the entrance to the Inner Ward. Turning right, she reached a door marked 'Doctors' Lounge,' and knocked.

"Enter," a woman's voice said from within.

It was slightly distorted, but it was probably Dr. Carter.

Kelly pushed the door open, stepping into the dark room. The stench of death hit her immediately, causing her to clap a hand over her mouth, and drop the gym bag.

A coffee table sat in the center, with a speaker phone on the surface, light blinking. On the couch beside it slumped a corpse — headless, clad in a stained white doctor's coat, with its skin shriveled. A nametag pinned to the coat read 'Dr. Jennifer Carter.'

"What are you doing? Aren't you going to open the door?" said the speaker phone, speaking in Dr. Carter's voice.

Kelly stared, realization dawning. She had been speaking to no one — a ghost echo in the wires.

"Hello?" the voice prompted.

Kelly reached for the receiver, lifting it briefly before placing it back in the cradle, silencing the line.

Though Dr. Carter had believed herself real, caught in the midst of unfinished tasks, she was gone, likely as long as Bennett.

But what of Kelly herself?

Her body felt solid, alive; and her heart pounded in her chest. Yet —

Memories flooded back, sharp and unbidden — the ones she had lost.

A girl had committed suicide on a cliff in the woods, jumping and being bisected by a tree branch below. But the perspective was wrong, detached. She recalled a news report — the anchor's somber tone detailing the tragedy. And her recollections stretched beyond that moment, into an aftermath she shouldn't know.

She saw the girl who had bullied her, reflected in a mirror — distraught and broken; dead inside. The girl had never intended such horror, and her regret manifested in an act of desperation — slitting her wrist, the blood pooling as guilt consumed her.

Kelly understood then: She wasn't the bullied girl who had died.

"I see," she said, softly.

She turned — leaving the lounge; leaving the hospital, and stepping out into the fog.

"There's something I need to do," she said. "And I'm the only one who can."

As she walked, the mist enveloped her, swallowing her form until nothing remained.

Chapter Text

07 : The Theater of Your Mind

I crossed the bridge eastward from Old Silent Hill, and was now standing in Silent Hill proper, at the intersection of Sagan Street, an east-west throughfare; and Crichton, the street most proximate to the Orridge River. Northeast of the intersection, a police station loomed in the fog — deserted as expected, with its doors closed and windows dark; locked tight against entry, though it wouldn't serve as much a deterrent against ammunition scavengers like Jonathan.

Alchemilla Hospital was south from here, on the corner of Crichton and Koontz Street. I turned south down Crichton, passing a pharmacy and a small diner; but the road ended abruptly at scaffolding and white tarp, as usual. Beyond it, there yawned a gaping hole that swallowed the pavement, presumably dropping into the abyss.

Sighing, I backtracked to Sagan and headed east, reaching Wilson Street next. Southward from there, the same blockade awaited, sealing off another chasm in the road. The buildings lining the street offered no doors or windows that would open, and no alleys that bypassed the obstruction.

Further on east along Sagan, the pattern repeated at Simmons Street. Again, the structures on either side of the street remained utterly inaccessible.

It was downright supernatural how perfectly the way to Alchemilla had been blocked, forcing me gradually eastward; but thinking about it a bit more, I felt stupid making an observation like that. Parahuman powers were in fact supernatural, after a matter — if supernatural were the right word for it. But this was clearly the intervention of human intentionality.

Faraday wanted me to go somewhere. As to where —

Sagan continued past Simmons, intersecting with Wein Street before bending northward. South on Wein led to yet more scaffolding and tarp; but off to the east, an alleyway opened up between two buildings. The narrow walkway lead to a brief flight of stairs, and a door with a pull handle, which I couldn't see past.

"Bingo," I said, pulling open the door.

A cacophony of electronic beeps assaulted my ears the moment the door swung inward, overlapping in a chaotic rhythm that echoed down the dim corridor.

I propped open the door with a shoulder, letting in the muted daylight. The interior was a narrow corridor, covered in grotesque, fleshy growths. The walls, the floor, and most of the doors were overgrown with twisting veins and cancerous tumors; unconscious, half-formed faces and hands.

Embedded amidst the organic mass were hundreds of open flip phones, the screens flickering with incoming text messages, beeping insistently as they updated — cruel words, targeted at some unnamed teenage girl: insults regarding her appearance; secrets revealed with no regard for privacy; an endless barrage that repeatedly underlined her worthlessness.

Through the beeping, I caught a faint strain of ballet music, reverberating as if emanating through the walls; but here, the walls themselves were ultimately the source of the music.

My sight, which penetrated all obstacles within a ten meter range, confirmed that there was nothing beyond.

The space behind the wall simply didn't exist, much like in the hospital. There, the interiors obstructed by the walls and doors had been utterly void — up until they abruptly manifested to perception on being rendered contiguous to the space I occupied. Ergo, the details filled in the moment I opened a door, present as if they were there to begin with, even though they hadn't been.

I'd reached my intended destination, in other words. If not, there wouldn't be such an obvious display of Faraday's power.

I ventured forth through the winding corridor, carefully avoiding the tumors that dotted the floor. The air carried a metallic tang, like blood mixed with ozone; and the half-formed faces on the walls seemed to pulse in rhythm with the ballet music seeping through the walls.

Most of the doors along the way were sealed by the grotesque growths, but one stood clear, relatively unmarred except for a few veiny tendrils creeping along the frame.

I pushed it open and stepped into what appeared to be the lobby of a theater, spacious and dimly lit.

No ceiling capped the room. Instead, the space above stretched into pitch-black void, seeming to infinitely rise; and a chandelier hung suspended from a chain that vanished into the darkness, casting an uneven glow over the floor. Here as well, fleshy growths clung to the walls and floor, though at lower density, and without the embedded cellphones.

Debris littered the room from damage dealt to it; the remains of fixtures, shattered by physical impact — chunks of plaster; bits of glass; and twisted metal from what might have been railings. The staircase on the right — the left of the lobby — bore the worst of it, pulverized into rubble as if struck by a massive force, rendering it impassable.

Signs of violence extended to the display panels that lined the walls above a reception desk and around the room, with many cracked or flickering erratically. A brief looping video played upon them: an attractive woman in her twenties, smiling warmly as she held a teenage girl. The pair were arrayed in various sizes on every display, including the damaged ones, where the cracks distorted their faces into digital mosaics.

"... who?" I asked.

It was nobody I recognized. Presumably, the girl was the target of the bullying texts on the cellphonees? Though, I was missing context. The text messages; the video — they had the air of something deeply personal, arranged as a psychological attack. But viewing them as a third party, there wasn't much I could figure out.

Was the ballet music that seemingly emanated from the auditorium some sort of clue as to the context? It was the same as in the corridor — muted; produced by the vibration of the walls and the doors. There had to be some kind of connection, but I couldn't figure it out.

The box cutter I'd gotten back at Gram's place was lying amidst a puddle of blood on the floor near the reception desk, smeared in fresh gore; its utility blade substantially shorter than it had been — likely snapped off.

I'd last seen it in Megan's possession, back at the hospital. She'd been pretty desperate at the time — enough to ignore its negligible worth as a cutting weapon; the consumable nature of the snap-off blade.

For her to abandon it —

I had to wonder what exactly had unfolded in my absence. At the very least, the box cutter had recently been used. Megan or whoever had wielded it was likely nearby.

Grabbing it, I swung it to clean it off, and placed it in my backpack.

Without any other clues, I figured the music's implied origin in the auditorium signaled a need to investigate.

I opened the door on the other side of the lobby, stepping into a small, unremarkable room, surpisingly with clean walls and floors, devoid of any fleshy growths or debris.

The contrast struck me as jarring, as if this space belonged to an entirely separate building, untouched by whatever force had warped the rest. This was presumably what the base building looked like, with polished floors and working lights.

The battery of my flashlight, which had in the end only seen use in the one corridor, was going to waste if the rest of the building was lit — or so I imagined. I couldn't really measure the extent to which it had depleted, given that the light was still going strong; but I shut it off anyways, and stowed it. Better to save it in case something came up.

A door to what seemed to be a side corridor stood locked, so I turned to the staircase in the south and climbed to the second floor.

At the landing, two doors confronted me: one labeled for balcony seating, and the other unidentified. Both were locked, with nothing on the other side; but a third door led to another flight of stairs, ascending to a new level. Beyond the door at the top lay a straight corridor to the north, ending at a bend.

I passed the access to catwalk midway, but it too was locked. Further on, the corridor went westward, passing a series of four storage rooms.

My sight worked on these doors for some reason, but revealed nothing useful in the first three rooms — merely instruments, props, and garments, and not a thing of interest. The westernmost room, however, held a makeup vanity with its mirror lights inexplicably on. Atop the desk, there were photocopies of book pages, and a small key labeled 'Catwalk Access.'

Retrieving the key, I returned to the corridor, inserting it into the catwalk door. The lock clicked open, granting me entry to the walkways above the stage.

Anchored to the walls, the metal grating was firm under my sneakers as I made my way to its front edge, where the view of the stage below opened up fully. Muffled ballet music swelled through the theater, distorted and echoing off the walls, masking the faint creak of my steps.

The auditorium had transformed beyond recognition. Where rows of seats would have sloped downward toward the stage, there was now a vast bottomless pit. The walls rose endlessly upward, vanishing into a black void as per the lobby.

On the stage itself, under the lights, two girls defended themselves before a ballerina.

One was Megan — posture guarded as she clutched her arm, the blood staining her sleeve from what looked like a fresh gash. She appeared exhausted, her face pale and streaked with sweat.

The other girl, who I recognized from the looping video in the lobby, wielded a long metal pipe; the same one that I'd lost back in the hospital. She circled, positioning herself between the ballerina and Megan, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down her nose as she adjusted her grip.

Opposing her, the ballerina spun in place, towering at least two meters tall. A wooden box encased her head; and fishing hooks pierced her limbs — through the pale flesh of her arms and legs, drawing rivulets of blood that trickled down her stained white tutu and torn tights.

The hooks connected to a marionette control bar gripped by a cancerous growth, itself suspended by a chain from the void above. Comprised of grasping hands and portions of grinning faces, it manipulated the ballerina like a puppet, jerking the strings to the melody in the background.

Controlled from above, the ballerina danced with unnatural precision, her movements a parody of ballet — pirouettes that spun her across the stage; leaps that cracked the floorboards on landing. Her battements were especially vicious, forming high kicks that sliced through the air with lethal force, forcing the girl with the pipe to dodge frantically.

Blood seeped through the toes of the ballerina's pointe shoes, staining the satin red as her feet pounded relentlessly against the wood.

I needed to sever the control of the ballerina, else the girls would be in serious trouble.

At the far end of the catwalk, there was a length of rope with a small metal weight attached to one end — likely a prop of some sort. I hurried over and snatched it up, dashing back to the center of the walkway, where I could see the chain dangling in the air just beyond my reach — the dangling mass suspended slightly below the catwalk's height.

I couldn't touch the chain or the creature from where I stood; so, gripping the rope, I extended the weighted end and started spinning it in widening circles to build momentum. With a calculated throw, I launched the rope toward the chain holding the monster. The weight arced around the chain, looping back to me with a metallic clink as it cleared the railing.

I caught the returning end swiftly, pulling the rope taut to cinch it around the chain. Hand over hand, I drew the chain closer to the catwalk — the angle of the pull causing the monster to rise slightly as it moved toward me. Winding the weighted end of the rope around the catwalk's railing multiple times, I secured it with a firm tug to anchor the chain in place.

Below, the ballerina's movements faltered, limbs jerking erratically as the chain secured disrupted the creature's control. The fleshy mass shifted its attention upward, locking onto me with palpable hatred in its eyes. Tendrils of flesh bulged against the rope's bindings, straining to break free, but the restraint held firm.

I reached into my backpack, grabbing the box cutter. Drawing it, I extended the shortened blade with a click, and leaned over the railing, arm thrusting forward to stab into the nearest protruding face. It sank deep into the yielding tissue, spurting a dark ichor.

There was a scream — a piercing wail that exceeded the volume of the music. I stabbed it again and again, targeting the hands and the eyes — each puncture eliciting fresh shrieks as the flesh tore, and fluids sprayed across the catwalk.

With a final thrust of the box cutter —

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,​

— the creature convulsed, falling silent; sagging limply upon its chain.

The ballet music abruptly ceased, leaving only the ragged breathing of the girl with the pipe from the stage below.

What the hell was that? It felt like my consciousness cut out for a moment.

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

No matter. There were more important things to worry about.

On the side of the stage, partially obscured behind heavy curtains, a metal ladder descended toward the stage wings. I headed over, gripping the rungs as I began my climb downward.

Below, the unknown girl knelt beside Megan, supporting her with an arm around her shoulders while pressing a makeshift bandage — torn from her own jacket — against the wound on Megan's arm.

The ballerina, freed from the control of the creature, had dropped to her knees, slumped in the center of the stage.

Reaching the floor, I approached the two girls.

"You okay, Megan?" I asked. "And you — whoever you are. Are you hurt anywhere?"

Megan looked up, her expression a mix of relief and lingering pain; but before she could respond, a sharp twitch seized the ballerina's boxed head.

The wooden panels splintered with a crack, with fragments scattering across the planks as the box fell away in pieces, revealing the ballerina's face.

The lower half mirrored Megan's exactly — the same chin; the same nose; the same lips, curled into a sadistic smile. The upper half vanished beneath a chaotic crown of blooming flowers, petals vivid in shades of crimson, obscuring the eyes.

Rising slowly in jerky movements, the ballerina's voluptuous form straightened with unnatural poise, smile unchanging. In a series of spasmodic twitches, she tore the fishing hooks from her limbs one by one — the barbs ripping out as fresh blood welling from the punctures.

From the void overhead, a massive sword plummeted, its dull blade embedding itself point-first into the stage with a resounding thud that vibrated through the floor.

The ballerina's fingers wrapped around the hilt, and as she wrenched it free in a single pull, heaving it behind her head, the music surged back to life.

The wood of the stage beneath our feet began to rapidly decay — blackening; rotting away in a wave of disintegration that spread from the sword's point of withdraw, revealing a rusted metal grating.

Through the gaps, headless musicians came into view, their desiccated flesh in tattered formal wear as they continued to play their instruments with mechanical persistence. The music amplified, no longer muffled by the wood.

The fight had entered its second phase.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Artaud's Crucible: The Theater of Cruelty and the Alchemy of the Stage, by Émile Laurent.
Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1998.

In the progression of a theatrical performance, the gradual departure of figures from the stage serves to distill the audience's attention, channeling what was once dispersed among several presences into a singular, intensified point.

Consider a scene where multiple individuals inhabit the space, each drawing a portion of the viewer's gaze through their actions, gestures, or mere existence; as one by one they exit — whether through deliberate expulsion by others or simple withdrawal — the remaining presences absorb this divided focus, culminating in the last solitary figure who commands an undivided potency.

This is not merely a matter of visibility but of perceptual weight: the audience, initially navigating a web of interactions, finds their investment concentrated, heightening the dramatic tension as the narrative arc builds toward resolution or rupture.

This perceptual shift operates on the principle that removal amplifies rather than diminishes. When one figure actively causes another's exit — say, through banishment, persuasion, or confrontation — the remover inherits a measure of the departed's narrative burden, much like a consolidation of energies in a shared field.

Such acts need not carry malice; a mentor guiding a pupil offstage or a companion parting ways can achieve the same effect, escalating the stakes without implying villainy. The audience perceives this as an organic escalation, where each departure strips away layers of diffusion, leaving the survivors to bear an increasingly heavy load of expectation and meaning.

In this way, the stage becomes a vessel for accumulation, the remaining figures growing in stature not through addition but subtraction, their every movement now laden with the echoes of those who have left.

The director, in orchestrating these departures, must handle the mechanics with precision to avoid abruptness that might fracture immersion.

Timing is paramount: an exit too hasty risks diluting the transfer of focus, while one prolonged can stagnate the buildup. Spatial arrangement plays a role as well; positioning the remover in a dominant line of sight during the act ensures the audience witnesses the inheritance of potency firsthand, perhaps through lighting that subtly shifts to illuminate the survivor or sound cues that underscore the void left behind. Props or set elements might symbolize this concentration — a shared object passed on, or a shadow that merges — guiding the viewer's eye without overt explanation.

The director must anticipate the psychological toll on viewers, ensuring that each subtraction builds tension without alienating them through abruptness. In essence, direction transforms abstract eliminations into tangible shifts in energy, making the stage a living organism that contracts with each loss.

Upon this last figure falls the greatest demand in execution, for they must embody the totality of the production's accumulated force, whether as a central hero, an antagonist, or an ambiguous entity. Their performance requires a heightened physicality and presence, as the absence of others amplifies every nuance: a tremor in the voice, a deliberate pause in movement, or an intense gaze directed outward now carries the full narrative freight.

Antonin Artaud, in his visions for a theater stripped to primal forces, intuited this mechanism of concentration through elimination, aligning it with his broader assault on conventional representation. He envisioned a stage where characters, reduced progressively, transcend individuality to become vessels of metaphysical intensity, their final solitude a crucible for raw, unmediated impact.

This theatrical principle finds a curious parallel in the ancient Chinese practice of gu, a ritual of sorcery wherein venomous creatures — snakes, scorpions, insects — are sealed together in a vessel. Compelled by confinement, they assail one another, devouring and envenoming until only one survives, its toxicity magnified by the assimilated poisons of the fallen. The resultant gu spirit, potent beyond measure, embodies the ultimate concentration of lethality, a survivor forged in mutual annihilation.

Spectators, attuned to patterns of survival and dominance — echoing, in a Darwinian aside, the natural selection where fitter entities persist amid attrition — instinctively attribute greater potency to those who endure. This is not a conscious calculation but a visceral response, where the final figure embodies the culmination of all prior eliminations, drawing the crowd's empathy, antipathy, or awe into a singular channel.

In theater, this concentration serves not biological imperative but perceptual catharsis, elevating the final figure to a pinnacle where the audience's engagement reaches its zenith, the drama's arc fulfilled in unyielding singularity.

Extending this to ensemble works, the principle holds even in non-linear structures, where characters cycle in and out unpredictably; each removal still funnels focus, though the "last" may be transient, a momentary apex before reconfiguration. Directors might exploit this in experimental stagings, using offstage sounds or projections to imply lingering presences, ensuring the concentration feels earned rather than imposed.

For the actor in that culminating role, preparation involves not just memorizing lines but cultivating an awareness of the void, allowing silence and stillness to amplify their command, turning solitude into a force that resonates beyond the curtain's fall.

Chapter Text

Megan stumbled back across the lobby as the towering ballerina pirouetted toward her with lethal grace.

A high battement sliced the air, with the ballerina's leg whipping upward in a kick that connected with the staircase. Cement shattered with a deafening crack, collapsing the structure into a heap of shattered rails and steps, sending chunks of plaster cascading down like jagged rain.

Megan gripped the box cutter's handle, briefly thankful that the kick hadn't connected; but she couldn't relax. If she couldn't injure the ballerina, she'd be next — impacted by a force that could potentially toss her across the room like a ragdoll.

She lunged blindly, slashing at the ballerina's midsection, but the creature spun away. Another attempt followed: a wild swing at the arms; but the marionette wires jerked the ballerina into a graceful arabesque, evading the blade effortlessly.

Megan's vision blurred with tears of frustration and fatigue as she swung blindly once more, the box cutter glancing off the ballerina's thigh in a stroke of sheer luck.

The blade sank into the flesh just above the knee, eliciting a muffled tremor from the boxed head, but no cry of pain. Dark ichor welled around the wound, soaking into the torn tights; yet the ballerina merely paused for a fraction of a second, as if registering a minor itch.

It resumed its dance with renewed ferocity, incorporating the injured leg into its routine. A swift rond de jambe swept low, the embedded blade glinting as it grazed Megan's arm, slicing through her sleeve and drawing a shallow line of blood.

She cried out, stumbling back; but the ballerina pressed on, lifting the wounded leg in a high développé that brought the protruding cutter toward her. The blade struck, its edge embedding briefly in Megan's shoulder before the momentum tore it free.

The box cutter clattered to the floor amid a spray of blood — hers and the creature's mingling in a slick pool — as pain exploded through her body, forcing her to clutch the wound with her free hand.

She collapsed to her knees, the agony in her shoulder sharp; biting. With no strength left and no plan, she was left to tremble from the cumulative toll of chases through the town; the twisted abominations that had pursued her.

The phone in her pocket offered no salvation. Kelly Summers — the person who had texted her directions to evade dangers — had for the past half hour gone utterly silent, leaving Megan utterly alone.

Sobs wracked her frame as she bowed her head, tears mixing with the sweat and grime on her face. She could say nothing more, reduced to broken whimpers, the weight of exhaustion and regret crushing any remnant of fight within her.

The ballerina advanced with deliberate grace, in a slow, hypnotic adagio, each step punctuated by the faint creak and twang of the wires above as they drew taut and released, like the strings of an instrument. The fishing hooks glinted slightly under the chandelier's light, pulling the creature's limbs in precise, elegant arcs that belied the lethal intent behind them.

Megan squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling as she braced for the end. No longer able to outrun her due, she waited for the ballerina to claim her.

A sudden clang shattered the tension, the sharp ring of metal on flesh reverberating through the room.

Megan's eyes snapped open, her breath catching in disbelief. There, interposed between her and the ballerina, stood a girl wielding a rusted metal pipe, her wire-rimmed glasses askew as she braced against the creature's raised leg, the pipe crossed defensively to block the descending kick.

The girl — Emily, impossibly alive — gritted her teeth, trembling under the strain of the attack. The pipe bent slightly from the ballerina's unyielding force, though Emily held her ground.

"Get up," Emily grunted through clenched teeth, her voice strained but resolute as she shoved back against the leg. "Run — now!"

Confusion surged through Megan — a whirlwind of questions about how Emily could be here at all — but the urgency in Emily's command cut through the haze, compelling her to scramble to her feet despite the throbbing pain in her shoulder, and run toward the door.

Emily twisted her body, leveraging the pipe to deflect the ballerina's descending foot with a grunt of effort, the metal clanging harshly as it redirected the kick's momentum. Seizing the opening, she gripped the pipe firmly in both hands and swung it in a wide arc — the first strike glancing off the creature's tutu-clad hip with minimal impact; then, without pause, she reversed the motion into a forceful backswing that connected solidly with the ballerina's side.

The ballerina staggered sideways, teetering off-balance, the wires above jerking erratically. Recovering swiftly, its limbs jerked back into alignment with mechanical precision, preparing for another assault.

Emily didn't wait. She turned and ran after Megan, who was at the door. Once she was inside, they slammed it shut behind them, twisting the lock just as the first thunderous kick landed from the other side, denting the surface inward with a resonant boom. More impacts followed in rapid succession, each one buckling the door further.

The staircase ahead stood obstructed by stacked boxes, overgrown with tendrils of flesh that rendered ascent practically impossible. Without a word, Emily tried the adjacent door, finding it unlocked with a simple turn of the handle.

She pushed it open, revealing a narrow hallway beyond, walls encrusted with fleshy masses. Dim light emanated from sparse fixtures along the corridor, while the space above where the ceiling should be opened to an endless dark void. Still, no immediate threats lurked in the gloom, offering a fleeting sense of refuge.

"Y- you're alive?" Megan stammered, her voice cracking as she leaned against the hallway wall. "Why are you here? Why save me?"

Emily opened her mouth, but a sudden creak from above cut her off — the sharp metallic twang of wires straining under weight.

From the endless void above, the ballerina descended, lowering smoothly into the corridor, its boxed head tilting as its bloodstained pointe shoes dangled inches from the floor.

It landed with a graceful thud, immediately launching into a frenzied spin — elongated limbs flailing in rapid fouettés that gouged deep furrows into the walls.

Megan and Emily bolted down the hallway, their footsteps pounding the uneven floor.

The corridor narrowed until it terminated in a dead end choked with dense fleshy growths, the veiny tendrils twisting across the floor and walls like overgrown roots, pulsating faintly in rhythm with some unseen heartbeat.

Amid the growths loomed a giant face, its features an oversized replica of Megan's own — pale skin stretched taut over the cheekbones, with lips that parted slightly in a neutral line, and a chin that jutted forward with subtle sharpness — embedded seamlessly within the organic mass as if molded from it. In its stillness, the enormous eyes — irises a deep brown that matched Megan's — swiveling slowly to track their approach with unblinking precision.

Megan skidded to a halt before it, her breath seizing in her throat as terror rooted her in place; but Emily grabbed her arm, yanking her toward a door on the left wall, just before the massive face. It appeared sealed by overgrown tendrils that wrapped around the frame, but gripping the veiny handle, Emily pulled with desperate force, yanking it open with a wet rip as the growths tore away.

They darted through the threshold into the adjoining space, slamming the door shut behind them; Emily twisted the lock with a decisive click, sealing it against the ballerina's pursuit.

The stage beyond stretched out under dim illumination from a scattering of overhead lights, its wooden platform polished and free of the fleshy corruptions that plagued the hallway, elevated slightly above what should have been the auditorium floor. Heavy velvet curtains framed the sides in deep crimson folds; and metal beams bridged the expanse overhead, bolted securely to the walls, and supporting clusters of lights.

Here as well, there was no ceiling, and the walls rose indefinitely upwards above the catwalks that spanned the stage.

Under the subdued glow from the few active lights, Megan and Emily staggered to the center of the stage, their chests heaving with labored breaths.

"Do you think it's gone?" Megan gasped, her voice hoarse as she glanced back at the locked door.

As if in answer, every stage light ignited at once, flooding the platform in a harsh brilliance that forced the two girls to shield their eyes. A swell of muffled ballet music erupted, emanating from no obvious source.

From the void above, the ballerina was lowered once more on its wires, descending gracefully until its pointe shoes touched the stage with delicate precision. It executed an introductory révérence, bending at the knees in a deep curtsy, its boxed head dipping forward as the tutu settled.

"I think that answers your question," said Emily, gripping the rusted pipe with both hands as she raised it defensively.

Chapter Text

08 : Megan and the Ballerina

By no means did I consider myself especially intelligent.

The process of interfering with a CRT color TV involved reducing a picture to the extinguishing and igniting of points of light, iterated to a raster pattern — lines of color, red, green, and blue, scanned across the screen at a rate of 15,750 times per second, multiplied by three for the number of hues.

One might assume a mind capable of such a feat was particularly clever, but I certainly wasn't. My mind was quick, maybe; but what I excelled at were dull, repetitive tasks, executing them with speed and precision, like a machine churning through a sequence. That didn't make me smarter than the average person — not by a long shot. It was just a knack — a quirk of my 'eye.'

That's why I couldn't initially figure out how to make pictures on water.

During a bath when I was four years old, I sat in the tub, knees drawn, picturing a bright red star blooming on the surface of the water — willing the image to form; imagining the star's sharp points taking shape across the ripples.

At first, it seemed to work. A red tint spread across the water, shimmering under the bathroom's lights.

My heart leapt; I'd done it! ... but then the color began to break apart, dissolving away into wispy tendrils that swirled and sank into the depths.

The pigment didn't vanish. It just melted into the water — scattering like a dye in the stream.

I tried again, picturing a blue circle this time, but the same thing happened. The color appeared briefly, vibrant for a moment; and then unraveled, blending into the water until it was barely a shadow of what I'd intended.

Frustrated, I splashed the surface with my hand, sending droplets flying. It wasn't working. Water wasn't like paper; it wouldn't hold the image. I gave up, slumping back in the tub, convinced that it was impossible.

And it was impossible — up until a certain afternoon, months later.

I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back to the television, fumbling with a Rubik's Cube. The National Geographic channel droned in the background, showing some distant Arctic scene.

I wasn't paying much attention, but an image happened to catch my notice: a massive iceberg, jagged and pale, drifting across a slate-gray ocean. It looked like a mountain, but it effortlessly floated, which didn't make a lot of sense to me. How could something so huge just sit on top of the water like that?

Mom was at the kitchen table, hunched over a stack of essays as usual, scratching notes in the margins. During the school term, she was always busy with grading, but she never minded if I interrupted her with questions, provided that they were educational.

"Mom?" I asked, still focused on solving the Cube. "Why do icebergs float?"

She set her pen down, considering the question.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, imagine that you have two balls the same size. One's made of fluffy cotton, and the other's heavy clay. The cotton ball's lighter because its stuff is all spread out, not packed tight. The clay ball's heavier since its stuff is squeezed in close. That's what density is — how tightly packed something is. Water's like the clay ball, with its tiny bits all bunched up. But when water freezes into ice, those bits spread out a little, making ice more like the cotton ball — lighter for its size. That's why ice stays near the top of the water."

I pictured tiny bits of water, rearranging themselves; spacing out into ice. This could work, I thought.

The next time I took a bath, I was ready to try again.

Sinking into the tub, I focused on the water, picturing a simple shape — a star, like the one I'd tried before, but white and crystalline, like the frost that coated our windows in the winter. I imagined the water hardening, its tiny bits locking together into something firm.

I thought of ice, cold and solid; the bits spread out, just enough to float.

A chill spread across the surface, faint at first, then sharper, as a thin disc of ice formed, no bigger than my hand.

I grinned. It wasn't dissolving like the pigment had. The ice held its shape.

I wasn't done. I imagined more ice building onto it, like heaping sand on a sandcastle, except that it was sticky and rigid.

The star thickened, edges sharpening as the substance accumulated. I willed the water's pieces to freeze and cling to the underside, reaching down into the bath. The ice grew heavier, dipping slightly below the surface, but it stayed afloat. Then I focused upward, forming a low ridge along the star's edges, glinting like glass.

It wasn't just a flat picture anymore. It was becoming three-dimensional — a fragile sculpture half-submerged, half-reaching into the steamy air.

I leaned closer, smiling — reflection distorted on the surface of the ice; not minding at all as the warmth of the bathwater slightly leeched away. The star gleamed, its frosty points glinting as the water around it gently rocked it back and forth.

I'd done it for real, this time. I created a picture that didn't dissolve; that stood firm against the water's pull.

Out of synch with the music, the ballerina's head twitched violently.

It wasn't just the mimicry of Megan on the lower half of its face that unnerved me. It was a familiarity of the movement itself — something on the tip of my tongue, that I couldn't quite recall.

Then it hit me, like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Jacob's Ladder — an old R-rated horror film that I'd watched years ago.

I'd been far too young at the time, but Mom had let me watch it alongside her. In one scene, the protagonist had been rolled on stretcher through a nightmarish psych ward — something along those lines. There had been a man in the background whose head twitched in the same way.

I'd half-covered my eyes, terrified; but Mom had squeezed my hand, whispering that it was just a movie. The memory resurfaced now, and I could say without a doubt the ballerina's head moved in an identical way. The nurse back at Brookhaven had done the same thing, come to think of it.

Was there something of me, reflected in Megan's monsters? Or had she seen that movie too?

The ballerina loomed, its towering form gripping the massive sword with both hands, lips curled into a sadistic smile.

Megan crouched beside me at the center of the stage, breaths shallow. Blood had seeped through the torn sleeve of her jacket, staining the fabric dark where the ballerina's earlier attack had grazed her arm. Her legs trembled, one knee buckled slightly as she clutched her wounded shoulder, face pale and streaked with sweat. She looked ready to collapse.

The sword descended in a swift arc; but before I could move, the girl with the pipe intervened again, bracing her rusted metal pipe horizontally with both hands. The impact rang out, a sharp metallic clang echoing across the stage.

"Stay back!" she shouted.

I gripped Megan's uninjured arm, digging into her sleeve and the back of her jacket as I pulled her across the rusted metal grating of the stage. Her legs dragged, one foot catching on the uneven surface, forcing me to tighten my hold to keep her upright. She hissed in pain, but attempting to walk nevertheless; not resisting as I pulled her along.

"C'mon," I urged, guiding her toward the back of the stage, away from the ballerina.

"I can't — my legs," she muttered, stumbling; unsteady on her feet. "It hurts too much."

"Just a little farther," I said, tightening my hold. "We've got to get you clear."

This was a losing battle. Sooner or later, the other girl would get worn down, and then the ballerina would advance unimpeded. I had to do something.

Crowned in flowers, the head of the ballerina outwardly appeared as if it had no eyes; but encircled by the pedicels of the flowers growing from its face, there were in fact the folds of eyelids — upon bloodshot sclera, a pair of corneas, concealed behind crimson petals.

Targeting them, I covered them in darkness. I didn't say a word; didn't let on what I'd done — but there was a distinct shift in the ballerina's behavior: It paused its advance and tilted its head slightly, as if testing the sudden absence of sight.

The ballerina didn't swing its sword blindly, as I anticipated. Instead, its lips parted, and a low, resonant hum vibrated from its throat.

It took a step forward, pointe shoes making a thump against the grate — and then another; and then another; its hum gradually growing louder, coinciding with the music's cadence.

Confused, but thinking she had a chance to make a clean hit, the girl with the pipe delivered a hard swing to the creature's midsection; but pivoting with precision in a distinctly inhuman pose, the ballerina's body twisted away, and the pipe sliced through empty air, throwing the girl off-balance. She stumbled, catching herself on the grating.

"Keep moving!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the music. "It's tracking you. Don't stop!"

"What?" the girl asked.

The ballerina's head jerked to one side; and swung its sword, slicing through the air in short, precise arcs as it pivoted toward the girl. Sparks flew as the blade clashed with the pipe.

"Damn it," muttered the girl.

She swung again; but the ballerina deflected the strike with the sword, counterattacking with a slash that narrowly missed the girl's arm.

Blinding it hadn't helped. In the first place, its sight was almost a redundant thing, ancillary to its hearing. But what could I do? Though altering the substance of its tympanic membranes so that they wouldn't vibrate was easy enough, I had no guarantee that that would deafen it.

Examining it more closely, the ballerina's body was entirely absent of nerves. Whatever processes projected its form manifested muscular impulses throughout its body moment by moment. This was the cause of its jerky, unnatural movement. Naturally, its inner ears weren't actually connected to its brain.

It didn't even have a brain. There were just cavities where the flowers were rooted.

Even assuming that it had working central nervous system — which it didn't — my powers were unsuited to directly act on it.

Thoughtography was restricted to the application of colors to the surface of a thing. One could argue that internal organs or nerves had 'surfaces,' but the definition acknowledged by my power wasn't so loose.

A surface required a relatively clear divide of substance, by way of a gas or a vacuum. A rubber ball surrounded by water had no surface, for example. For this reason, my application of color to Jonathan's eyes hadn't been internal; it had targeted the exterior of the corneas.

Of course, once a portion of an object's exterior was substituted with substance that I'd iterated, thoughtography could further act by reaching into the object — adding more molecules along the bottom.

'If messing with its senses produces unreliable results,' I thought, 'I'll stop it mechanically.'

I focused on the ballerina's skin, turning its surface to ice. The freeze spread across its voluptuous form, crackling as it solidified over the tutu and tights in a thin, brittle layer.

It paused for a split second, twitching its head as the ice formed; but almost immediately, it shattered the coating with a sharp jerk of its arm, scattering shard across the grating like broken glass.

I refreshed the ice the moment it broke, refreezing the surface, but the ballerina was strong — impervious to pain; uncaring of the damage it inflicted on itself. It continued to twitch forward in spasms, almost as if it were a stop-motion animation character.

Each swing or thrust of the sword shattered the ice with a resounding crack, sustaining abrasions along its flesh; localized shearing and tearing, exposing underlying the tissue to bruising. Dark ichor seeped from the wounds, but the creature pressed on without hesitation, forcing the girl back.

"Ice?" she said. "What the hell ... ?"

She dodged an overhead slash just barely, the sword briefly embedding in the grating before the ballerina wrenched it free.

"Keep circling it!" I yelled. "Don't let it pin you down!"

She nodded grimly, her glasses slipping down her nose as she panted; but the ballerina lunged forward, sword thrusting like a piston.

The blade connected, running the girl through the midsection with a wet, piercing sound. She gasped, eyes widening in shock as the sword impaled her, protruding from the back of her shirt amid a bloom of blood. The ballerina withdrew the blade, and the girl staggered, clutching the wound.

"Shit," I muttered.

I extended the freeze deeper into the monster's body, pushing it through the limbs. The ice grew in a tree-like spread of tendrils, branching out from inside the surface, piercing the internal structures in jagged veins that gradually expanded; through the ballerina's very core —

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,​

The ballerina's movements were halting as the freeze took hold; but Emily — despite her injury — struck the side of its head with her pipe, the impact landing with a solid thud. The blow was hard enough to tip the monster to its side.

The ballerina teetered at the edge of the stage before toppling over into the abyss below, still holding its sword. The music ceased abruptly, as the headless musicians below the grating fell still.

The girl collapsed to her knees, blood pooling beneath her. Megan shouted her name — "Emily!" — and dragged herself over, her own wound forgotten in the moment.

Emily, clutching the metal pipe, turned her gaze toward me. Her wire-rimmed glasses sat crooked on her nose, with one of the lenses cracked.

"The ballerina ..." she began, her voice hoarse; faltering. "The ice that covered it. Was that ..."

She shook her head, as if dismissing the thought.

"No, never mind," she said.

She shifted her attention to Megan, who knelt on the grating, face contorted with pain and something deeper — guilt, maybe; or despair.

Emily's expression softened.

"I led you all the way through Silent Hill," she said to Megan. "Out of danger — into danger. I'm the one who punished you; made you suffer. But all of that is over now."

Megan's head snapped up, her eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears. "But I ... I'm the one who —"

Emily cut her off, her tone sharp but not cruel.

"You're egotistical," she said. "Self-centered. Did you really think you were the only one responsible?"

Emily forced herself to her feet, using the pipe as a makeshift cane. She grimaced, sweat beading on her forehead, her breath coming in short, labored gasps. The effort seemed to drain her, but she stood tall, her gaze unflinching as she faced Megan.

"I killed myself," she said. "I'm the only one responsible. But if you want to point fingers at those who indirectly contributed, it was all of you. The ones who spread the rumors; the ones who believed them — every single one of you. You just happened to deal the final blow. What's that, in the end? Just another insult on the pile."

Megan's voice cracked as she tried to respond.

"It's the straw that broke the camel's back! I —"

"— have no responsibility for the actions I took," Emily interrupted, firm and final. "I killed myself, and that's the end of it. Stop making this about you."

She turned, limping toward the edge of the stage, the pipe dragging against the grating with a faint metallic scrape. Megan reached out weakly, her bloodied hand trembling, but the pain pinned her in place.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry ..."

Emily paused at the edge, her silhouette against the shadowed walls of the auditorium. She turned to look back, her cracked glasses catching the light. She offered a sad, fleeting smile.

"Goodbye," she said softly. "And thank you."

Before I could move; before Megan could say another word, Emily stepped off the edge. The pipe slipped from her grasp, tumbling alongside her into the infinite darkness below.

Megan's sobs broke the silence, as she curled into herself, clutching her wounded arm. I stepped toward her.

"Megan," I said. "Are you okay? We need to move."

"Leave me alone," she choked out, her face buried in her hands.

I crouched beside her, searching for words that might reach her.

"We can't stay here," I said, putting my hand on her uninjured shoulder. "It's not safe. C'mon, let me help you up."

She shook her head, shrinking away from my touch.

"Just go," she mumbled. "Please."

I hesitated, my chest tightening. I wanted to help; to pull her out of whatever spiral she was sinking into, but her walls were up, impenetrable. With a sigh, I stood, walking toward the door in the back — glancing one last time at Megan's hunched form.

"Sorry," I said quietly, though I wasn't sure she heard me.

Chapter Text

Worksite Suitability Assessment (WSA)

Employee: Dr. Jennifer Carter
Position: Attending Physician and Forensic Pathologist
Employer: Brookhaven Hospital (affiliate of Anchorage Medical Systems)
WSA Score: 77†

Evaluator: █████ ███████
Date: ████ █, 2008

Professional Background

Dr. Jennifer Carter completed her undergraduate studies at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, from 1995 to 1999, earning a Bachelor of Science in Biology. She then attended Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine in Baltimore, Maryland, from 1999 to 2003, where she obtained her Doctor of Medicine degree. Following medical school, Dr. Carter undertook her residency in pathology at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, from 2003 to 2006. She further specialized through a fellowship in forensic pathology at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in New York City, New York, from 2006 to 2007.

In 2007, Dr. Carter was hired by Anchorage Medical Systems as a pathologist with a flexible role encompassing both clinical and forensic responsibilities. This position allows her to perform standard medical duties at affiliated hospitals while prioritizing specific assignments as directed by the organization. In early 2008, she was transferred to Brookhaven Hospital in Silent Hill, where her duties include routine patient care, autopsies, and specialized attending physician roles.

Current Assignment in Silent Hill

Two months subsequent to the start of her duties at Brookhaven Hospital, Dr. Carter was assigned to conduct the autopsy of a deceased ████████ individual (██████ ██████) who had been involved in a fatal car accident. During the procedure, the subject unexpectedly resuscitated. Subsequently designated as Subject 02, Dr. Carter was instructed to conduct bilateral upper and lower limb amputations on her, due to the extent of the injuries sustained; and to proceed with the installation of prosthetics.

Assigned as the attending physician for Subject 02, Dr. Carter has managed the patient's ongoing care, including monitoring her comatose state and attempting various interventions to improve her condition. Despite these efforts, Subject 02 has not regained consciousness. The organization bore a number of initial expectations regarding Subject 02's recovery and potential suitability to candidacy as the ████ ██████, but these have not come to fruition. Pressure was applied to Dr. Carter by her superiors within Anchorage Medical Systems, who repeatedly approached her with concerns about the lack of progress, explicitly threatening her job security and future career prospects if improvements were not achieved.

Mental Health Observations

Over the course of her assignment, Dr. Carter has exhibited noticeable signs of heightened stress, manifesting in increased irritability during interactions with colleagues, frequent reports of sleep disturbances, and a decline in overall work efficiency. These symptoms appear to stem from the sustained pressure to achieve improvements in Subject 02's condition.

Her performance in standard duties remains competent, but the intensity of the specialized assignment has led to observable fatigue and reduced focus in non-priority tasks. During the most recent psychiatric fitness evaluation questionnaire and interview, Dr. Carter displayed elevated anxiety levels, particularly when discussing the stagnation in Subject 02's status, though she maintained professional composure throughout.

Evaluator's Assessment

The deterioration in Dr. Carter's mental state is attributable to the excessive demands placed upon her regarding Subject 02's care. It is the evaluator's view that the organization's approach in applying pressure was inappropriate, as it has contributed to her current condition without yielding the desired outcomes.

Given that a WSA score of 77 indicates a high probability of crossing the Gehenna Threshold‡, immediate action is recommended to mitigate risks associated with continued employment in Silent Hill. Dr. Carter should be transferred out of the area to a facility in Portland, Maine, for a period of rehabilitation and reassignment to less demanding duties. This transfer will allow for recovery and prevent further degradation.

† WSA scores range from 100, characterized by pathological self-righteousness, to lower values that reflect a parabolic increase in the probability of crossing the Gehenna Threshold. Scores between 80 and 90 are indicative of normative functioning for adults. Evaluations are conducted monthly as part of standard operational procedure.
‡ The crossing of the Gehenna Threshold is a phenomenon localized to Toluca Lake and the surrounding geographic region.

Page 1 of 2.

Mandatory Monthly Drug Evaluation

Subject: Dr. Jennifer Carter
Issuing Authority: Quest Diagnostics (Boston, Massachusetts)
Date: ███████ █, 2008

Objective

The objective of this mandatory monthly drug evaluation is to ensure workplace fitness by screening for the presence of prohibited substances in blood and urine samples.

Screened Substances

• Amphetamines: 0 ng/mL < 500 ng/mL
• Benzodiazepines: 0 ng/mL < 300 ng/mL
• Barbiturates: 0 ng/mL < 300 ng/mL
• Cocaine metabolites: 0 ng/mL < 150 ng/mL
• Marijuana metabolites: 0 ng/mL < 50 ng/mL
• Methamphetamines: 0 ng/mL < 500 ng/mL
• Opiates: 0 ng/mL < 2000 ng/mL
• Phencyclidine (PCP): 0 ng/mL < 25 ng/mL
• Zolpidem: 50 ng/mL < 200 ng/mL
• Cotinine: 600 ng/mL > 500 ng/mL
• PTV: 0 ng/mL < 10 ng/mL†‡

Results

Analysis of Dr. Carter's blood and urine samples indicates no detection of illicit recreational drugs. Zolpidem was present at concentrations consistent with standard prescription use for managing sleep disturbances. Elevated cotinine levels suggest heavy tobacco consumption.

† PTV is a recreational hallucinogen, manufactured from the seeds of a perennial herb, a peony called White Claudia, endemic to the Silent Hill region, specifically growing at the lakeside of Toluca Lake; it has another active ingredient, █████ ██████████, sourced from ████████. Addiction is associated with memory loss and manic episodes.
‡ PTV is issued in dated batches, testing for attainment of the target behavior in users: actions of the individual toward an objective are to be shaped unconsciously by a precognitive instinct that adjusts the actions in exactly the way necessary to achieve it in an ideal manner. Success in this capacity has been inconsistent to date.

Page 2 of 2.

Chapter Text

The woman sat amid the ruins, legs bent beneath her, with knees splayed forward, and feet tucked to either side — the damp earth pressing into her skin, through the ragged hem of her dress. Charred timbers of what had once been sturdy frame houses loomed in jagged silhouettes around her.

Her dark hair fell in matted strands over her copper-toned shoulders, framing a face etched with hollowed cheeks and wide, unseeing eyes rimmed in red. The dress, once perhaps modest in its cut, hung in shreds upon her frame, the fabric torn and soiled, exposing her breasts to the indifferent cold. Blood stained her lips and chin, dripping downward to stain the swell of her chest as she lifted another ragged strip of raw flesh to her mouth.

She tore into it with her teeth, the meat yielding under the pressure, juices mingling with the salty tracks of tears that fell down her dirt-streaked face. A low, ragged laugh escaped her throat between bites, bubbling up unbidden and fracturing into a sob that shook her slender frame, her hands trembling as they clutched the slick morsel closer. The flesh was cool and pliant, catching between her molars as she chewed.

Before her, on the ground, lay the small form of a girl, naked and still; eyes half-lidded in a vacant stare that caught the diffuse light filtering through the mist.

The woman's gaze flicked toward it briefly before returning to the task at hand. She swallowed a mouthful, drawing a fresh peal of laughter from her depths, her body rocking slightly in place as another tear traced its way through the grime.

Fingers dug deeper into the mass, pulling free a glistening piece of flesh that she pressed to her mouth — the metallic tang filling her senses as she bit down again, her breaths coming in shallow, erratic gasps.

She paused only to wipe her chin with the back of her hand, spreading the crimson further; then resumed, teeth sinking into the next portion. Laughter rose once more, choking into sobs that wracked her chest.

Faraday stood motionless in the thickening fog behind her, his gaze fixed on the woman's hunched form as she devoured the meat.

This was the beginning; the foundation of it all.

The epidemic had swept through the settlement like a scythe, claiming one life after another until the number of villagers dwindled to a mere handful.

With each death, fewer hands remained to tend the communal farms that sprawled beyond the cluster of buildings. The fields, once heavy with corn and squash, stood neglected as the able-bodied succumbed or grew too weak to wield a hoe; and left unharvested, they rotted under the autumn sun, their stench carrying on the wind.

Winter had been mild, a small mercy that spared the survivors the bite of frost; but unfortunately, it offered no reprieve from hunger. The stores of grain and dried meat dwindled faster than expected, and the remaining adults, bodies gaunt from labor and loss, made a grim choice to ration what little remained.

At first, they prioritized the children, pressing meager portions of mold-flecked bread and thin broth into their small hands, hoping at least to preserve the next generation.

But starvation was a patient hunter. It gnawed at the adults — their larger frames offering some resistance, but not enough. One by one, they succumbed, collapsing under the weight of hunger and disease. The children, fragile and dependent, followed soon after, unable to withstand the lack of nourishment once the adults could no longer provide.

In the end, only the woman and her child remained.

The woman endured longer, drawing on reserves the child lacked; sustained by the resources afforded by adulthood. But as to the child —

Faraday's exile from the colony had been swift, his teachings deemed heretical by the council of elders who governed. He had preached that the Lord's love was boundless; unconditional — a doctrine that clashed with the colony's rigid creed. To them, salvation demanded a life of unswerving virtue, tireless labor, and adherence to the narrow path of righteousness.

His words, soft with compassion, had stirred unease, threatening the fragile order of their settlement — and so they cast him out, branding his beliefs a dangerous deviation. If he believed that the salvation of the Lord wasn't grounded in any condition, they argued, he was arguing that vice would be rewarded; that the slothful would be admitted to Heaven.

Thereafter, to the Natives he had made his home amongst; who had welcomed him; become his brethren, Faraday shared a different vision of salvation: The earthly realm was fraught with suffering, but in death, the Lord welcomed to Paradise all who departed in a state of grace — a promise sealed in the offering of Last Rites.

Unlike the Popish sacrament, which relied on ordained priests, Faraday's version allowed anyone to administer the rite — a simple act of prayer and intent to usher the dying into divine favor. He had shared this with the Natives, urging them to embrace it as a universal act of mercy, a safeguard for the soul's passage.

Yet, after his own death, the practice faltered. The Natives, with their earnest reverence, had come to see the rite as Faraday's alone — a sacred act tied to his presence; his voice; his hands.

In life, he had sensed their hesitation — their quiet deference when he spoke of the rite — but he had not foreseen how fully they would abandon it in his absence. They held it as his domain, a ritual too holy for their own to perform — and so it faded, unspoken and unpracticed, as the village crumbled under plague and hunger.

What would become of them, if none died in grace?

— this was his curse upon those who had abandoned him: a boundless, mortal Gehenna, infinite; without cessation.

The Natives of the region practiced no tradition of maledictions that endured beyond the grave. Therefore, he would supply one, sourced of the Old World — the impure dead, barred from Paradise and severed from divine love, languishing in eternal agony.

Denied grace, they would visit their suffering upon the living — upon those whose wickedness marked them as deserving. In incarnate death, the innocent would be remade; recreated as engines of torment.

He turned his gaze from the woman; from the child; and the fog swelled around him, thickening until it cloaked his vision in a pale, suffocating veil —

— he strode down a wide, aging hospital corridor, stretching into an endless length of faded tiles and yellowed, peeling walls; of the antiseptic scent of decay. Blood pooled on the cracked linoleum floor, glistening around scattered, dismembered limbs — severed hands; legs; arms. Heads, piled in a heap.

He walked on, past figures in loose, tattered hospital gowns who paid him no heed; a man gnawing at his fingers; a woman rocking back and forth, repeating lines of a nursery rhyme. Some pressed themselves against the walls, their foreheads slamming rhythmically into the chipped plaster, leaving streaks of blood that trickled down their faces. Others shuffled aimlessly, their gowns slipping from bony shoulders, muttering to themselves; clawing at their skin.

Slowing, he paused, face turning slightly to one side, as if catching a faint whisper on the air.

"An Executor was lost?" he asked.

Chapter Text

09 : Alchemilla Hospital

I stepped through the back door, into the sterile, slightly musty scent of the theater corridor.

It was well-lit from the fluorescent lights overhead; clean and unmarred, and free of any fleshy protrusions; but in the moment the door sealed, the stage beyond it transformed — the headless musicians and the wire mesh cage replaced by a perfectly ordinary stretch of wood. The ceiling was in place as if it had never been missing; as if the infinite void had never yawned overhead.

Megan was nowhere to be found.

I paused, then pressed the push bar and reopened the door. Stepping back inside, I surveyed the restored space with my own eyes: the rows of empty seats in the auditorium facing a plain wooden stage under steady house lights, with curtains drawn neatly to the sides.

This was real space — or at least as real as my clairvoyance could confirm. There weren't any mysterious discontinuities to it; no patches of nonexistence that I couldn't see. Past the walls, the rooms and hallways were devoid of humans, but consistently present.

Had Megan encountered her 'inevitability?' I couldn't 'see' her anywhere, or determine if she was alive or dead; but given the circumstances, I leaned toward her being alive — plucked from Silent Hill, and expelled to the world without. She heard what she needed to hear, and the town washed its hands of her.

Wishful thinking, I knew, but I preferred to be optimistic, opting not to read her vanishing away as her being sent to some hell dimension. I was still a bit salty that she'd ditched me back at the hospital, but I didn't wish death on her.

As I walked toward the lobby of the theater, I turned over Faraday's words in my mind.

He had spoken of 'inevitabilities visited upon the Wicked,' as if Silent Hill operated on some inexorable logic, drawing in those who deserved judgment. But what form did that judgment take? Was it a trial meant to break the sinner through punishment, forcing them to overcome their failings? Or something more like a guided process toward closure, where the sinner confronted their regrets and emerged changed — or perhaps not at all?

Megan's encounter with Emily pointed toward the latter.

From the fragments I had pieced together — the bullying texts on those flip phones; the looped video of the woman and girl; and Emily's accusations of shared responsibility — it was clear Megan had played a role in driving her classmate to suicide.

Not the sole instigator, maybe, but the one who delivered the final push — the straw that broke the camel's back, as Megan herself had put it.

She carried that guilt like a weight, and the town had manifested Emily to force a confrontation.

Emily's parting words — rejecting Megan's self-centered apology and claiming full agency over her own death — seemed designed to shatter the illusion of the singular blame that Megan had attributed to herself. It liberated Megan, in a way; and once she heard what she needed, the stage reset, and she vanished.

Whether Faraday had orchestrated that, or presided over it as a caretaker, it seemed Silent Hill functioned less as random torment and more as a mechanism by which to reach a resolution.

The setup reminded me of hell or purgatory; though admittedly, my knowledge on the subject came mostly from scattered references in books or movies — nothing deep from Christian traditions, and I'd only skimmed mentions of Dante's Divine Comedy in a literature class.

Still, it fit: a realm where the souls of the dead, tied to the sinner's past wrongs, were summoned to enact punishment or extract confession. The dead delivered the verdict, and the sinner either atoned or broke under the stress, reaching some endpoint to their story.

For Megan, that meant facing Emily's forgiveness, and being released from her personal hell.

Jonathan's situation was murkier. Whatever sin he harbored, it hadn't revealed itself to me beyond his creeping entitlement and the threat of the revolver. Maybe his closure involved isolation — blinded and alone in that convenience store; stripped of his self-proclaimed role as a protector.

I wasn't eager to find out more. As far as I was concerned, he was as good as gone.

But these manifestations about the town — were they actual souls? I couldn't say for certain, but personally I didn't think so. Ghosts and afterlife just didn't align with how I saw the world.

The ballerina's lower face, identical to Megan's behind those petals, suggested something else: projections, pulled from the sinner's subconscious, shaped by their guilt and memories.

Certainly, they weren't mere illusions. Emily was real enough; and I'd 'seen' the inside of the ballerina when I'd formed the ice.

Faraday's power — or whatever force it was that animated this place — made them tangible; interactive; real enough to harm. The town was tailoring itself to each intruder, weaving into physicality personal purgatories from their own minds.

Where did that leave me, though?

Faraday hadn't known why I'd been brought into Silent Hill, despite his self-proclaimed role as the caretaker of this place. He had regarded me as an interloper — uninvited; supposedly 'unqualified to reconcile the lost who were denied the Lord,' whatever that meant.

I hadn't encountered anything that could be construed as punishment for a sin. The manifestations I'd witnessed on my own — the Leggers; the nurse; the burning corpses — had all felt impersonal, or at least unrelated to me.

I was halfway certain that the nurse had appeared because of Megan, though what it symbolized, I couldn't say. Its face beneath the bandages was disfigured, so I couldn't even determine if it was another Megan.

The only things I'd seen that were definitely related to me were the site of the car accident — the ringing phone and the crashed Prius — and the documents from Brookhaven Hospital. I still couldn't tell if the documents were fabricating some sort of a narrative to manipulate me, or revealing a buried truth; but was it all tied to some sense of guilt within me?

I did wonder if Mom's last phone call had been for me; if I played a part in her accident, but —

Wasn't that too vague for the town to play off of? Silent Hill probably had some sort of threshold of 'guilt intensity' that would result in a response if exceeded; but intellectually, I knew that Mom's accident hadn't been my fault. It wasn't even a matter of me assigning myself responsibility, like Megan had for Emily's suicide. I flat out wasn't the one responsible.

Was the town responding to the guilt that I felt nonetheless? Because Faraday hadn't seemed to think so.

If I was interpreting Faraday correctly, Silent Hill aimed to break sinners through their regrets, and had bypassed me entirely, leaving me to navigate its horrors as an outsider stumbling through someone else's nightmare. But that notably left some questions unanswered.

The woman in the raincoat was definitely related to me, in that she resembled Mom; bore the same distinctive abdominal scars that Mom possessed, for all that she'd been — well, more pneumatic.

But I couldn't confirm that our initial encounter in the forest had actually fallen within the bounds of Silent Hill. Though the transition to Route 73 and entrance to the town had felt seamless, the forest clearing itself could've been outside of the town's influence.

Jonathan had mentioned circling back to search for the woman in the raincoat in the forest after I'd split from the group, saying that he and Megan hadn't encountered her again — inferring that she wasn't present 'inside' of Silent Hill; but there was no way to determine whether they had already entered town at that point, or if the forest remained anchored in the real world.

That said, Jonathan was, frankly, a piece of shit.

His account had been laced with evasion, and given the possessiveness he'd revealed in his later aggression, it could've been something he'd made up on the spot, just to influence me into thinking we were stuck in Silent Hill; to surrender myself to his 'protection.' But if I dismissed his account, I lost any basis to judge whether the woman in the raincoat was actually a manifestation of the town, or something present in the outside world.

Maybe it didn't matter? Maybe Silent Hill could create manifestations in the world without as well? In which case, it could well be that the woman in the raincoat had manifested because of me ...

Come to think of it, Faraday's words had suggested some level of detachment from the finer details of the town's mechanisms, as if he oversaw the broader framework without micromanaging individual elements. He had left me to the burning corpses without particular malice, like a bureaucrat enforcing protocol.

To what extent was Faraday responsible for the things that manifested in the town?

I'd attributed things like spatial manipulation to him earlier; and while he could do that — manifesting the burning town in the company of the 'faithful' — thinking about it a bit more now, I wasn't certain he was responsible for placing things. He didn't even seem aware of me, and didn't apparently care too much.

You'd think that if he was responsible for manifesting the documents, he'd show a bit more interest.

It could be that a 'sinner' simply being present in Silent Hill brought things related to them into existence;or rather, any human being present at all, as I apparently fell without the classification of 'the Wicked.'

In which case, the things that I found — the phone; the documents — were they manifestations of my own mind? Did they have any grounding in reality? The phone call had stated that I'd find answers in Alchemilla, but what would I find there, aside from my mind reflected back at me?

Whatever answers awaited, I'd find out soon enough, I supposed. Stepping out of the theater's unlocked doors and onto Koontz Street, I looked out into the fog.

Alchemilla Hospital lay just a short distance westward.

I turned left onto Canyon Street, the fog muting the edges of the buildings that lined either side. The road stretched ahead in a straight line, empty and silent, with no cars parked along the curbs or signs of movement beyond the haze.

Off to the right, a driveway branched away from the street, leading into a cobblestone lot. I followed it with my gaze as I walked, noting the water fountain at its center.

A statue of a mounted rider stood atop a pillar there, posed in what looked like a heroic stance. The fountain wasn't running, leaving the water in its basin still and a little murky.

Beyond the fountain, a building loomed — a tall, three-story structure that dominated the lot with its solid presence. The front had a covered entrance supported by columns, and the windows lined up symmetrically across the facade, giving it a formal, almost stately look

I paused at the edge of the fountain, reading the plaque mounted on the fountain's low wall:

My gaze shifted to the sign above the entrance, spelling out 'Alchemilla Hospital' in clear letters. This was it — the place the voice on the phone had directed me to; my supposed source of answers.

As I pushed through the double doors and into the hospital lobby, the cool rush of air conditioning hit me like a wall, causing me to shiver involuntarily. It kind of made me wish I still had my hoodie.

The lobby opened up into a two-story atrium, dimly lit by the gray daylight that entered through the windows. Everything else remained dark — no overhead lights; no glowing signs; no screens casting illumination.

Toward the back, a grand staircase of polished marble dominated the center of the space, ascending halfway before splitting against the wall into two separate flights branching off at right angles, one to the left and one to the right. A railing bordered the upper platforms, with the central section overlooking the split, while the right side extended, turning at a right angle and continuing along the perimeter of the second floor.

Beneath the staircase, in the areas flanking its base, reception counters stood on both the left and right, equipped with what looked like integrated digital screens that sat blank and unpowered. At the left, along the wall before the left reception, there were a pair of elevators.

The left one sat open, its interior illuminated — the sole source of artificial light in the entire lobby.

I approached and stepped inside, noting the panel of buttons beside the door. The one for the second floor did nothing when I pressed it. The third-floor button, however, lit up beneath my touch, and the door closed.

The hospital had been prepared for my arrival, it seemed.

As the elevator hummed upward, I extended my sight ahead, probing through the floors and walls. Unalike to the theater or Brookhaven, the spaces resolved consistently, revealing corridors, rooms, and distant fixtures without unusual patches of nothingness. But what I saw on the third floor stopped me cold.

There, in the corridor just beyond the elevator room, a male orderly slumped against a set of automatic sliding doors, propping them open. A deep wound gaped on his neck, and his lungs appeared flooded with blood. He must have drowned in it, choking on his own fluids.

A brief bell rang as the elevator doors parted on the third floor, opening into a room of white marble, bathed in the soft daylight from windows overlooking the foggy courtyard below. I stepped out, and oriented myself, proceeding to the corridor.

To the left, through a doorless opening, stood the automatic door — the lamp overhead casting a harsh glow on the orderly's form.

Approaching the body, I drew close enough to study it in person. His uniform was standard issue, smeared with blood; his facial features slack in death.

I traced the nerves and blood vessels weaving through him, confirming that they all connected per the patterns of normal human anatomy — no gaps; no anomalies in the linkages.

Did that mean he was actually human? A real person caught in this town's grip?

No, I reminded myself. Emily had shown the same: nerves firing to a brain that mimicked the real thing; vessels pulsing with fabricated blood.

She'd been very clearly an echo that the town conjured, pulled from Megan's guilt. Ergo, the orderly's biology proved nothing; he could be flesh and blood, or just another manifestation, indistinguishable from a real human being. I couldn't tell one way or the other.

I stepped past the orderly's body, and entered the ward through the propped-open automatic doors. The lights inside contrasted the shadowed corridor behind me. It felt deliberate, like a not-so-subtle nudge to explore.

Within, bodies littered the floor — nurses and orderlies in clean uniforms, save for the slashes and punctures that killed them. The deaths were recent enough that their blood remained uncongealed, pooling beneath them.

The metallic scent of it hung in the air, turning my stomach as I carefully picked my way forward, avoiding the splatters that marred the corridor at irregular intervals. Nausea rose with each step, the sight and smell combining into a visceral assault that made me swallow hard to keep from retching.

The nurses here were slender, lacking the oversexed, exaggerated voluptuousness of the one that had confronted me and Megan back at Brookhaven.

It gave me a bit of pause. Did it mean that these were real people? Actual victims, rather than merely projections?

Rather, it was perhaps a bit inappropriate to call them victims:

In the rooms adjoining the corridor, patients lay deceased in their beds; but their bodies were grotesque, and not because they were dead.

Some had hypertrophied limbs, swollen to impossible proportions. Others were atrophied to a skeletal thinness; or had body parts that were missing entirely; or crudely added on. The latter were sutured together from disparate sources, like Frankenstein's monster from the movies — patchwork creatures assembled with visible stitches.

What the hell had they been doing here, exactly?

I continued along the corridor. Most held the distorted corpses; but at the far corner of the wing, Room 316 stood apart — the only one without an occupying patient; with its bed sheets rumpled and twisted as if someone had risen in haste, leaving the linens in disarray.

Inside, a nurse in red cardigan sweater lay collapsed near the foot of the bed. She was headless, with the neck ending in a stump, and a clipboard clutched in one hand. A bloody 'XII' had been carved into her exposed collarbone.

She was the sole headless corpse in the entire ward — an anomaly amid the otherwise intact bodies, barring the disfigured patients.

"Why only her?" I murmured.

I kept my distance, unwilling to touch the corpse. Instead, I scanned the clipboard's contents with my sight.

The top document detailed a patient transfer from Brookhaven Hospital, initiated after the attending physician there had gone missing. It described the immense pressure on the doctor to ensure the patient's recovery, mentioning an order placed for PTV, an illegal narcotic, intended here to facilitate a ritual. Didn't offer any explanation for the ritual itself, as if assuming the reader already knew.

The physician had vanished abruptly afterward, with no signs of suicidal intent or foul play. The PTV shipment had similarly disappeared en route, but there was no evidence linking the doctor to its interception.

Beneath that, a separate sheet outlined specifications for replacement prosthetics: body-powered split hook hands and blade legs, both disproportionately long relative to a standard torso.

I recognized the design immediately — they matched the rusted appendages I'd glimpsed on the woman in the raincoat; though the specs here described them as new.

All the documents bore dates from just a day or so ago, before I'd stumbled into Silent Hill. The corpses throughout the ward appeared equally recent, their skin free of pallor or bloating, and without the stiffness of rigor mortis or the onset of decay.

I had no precise knowledge of how quickly these processes set in — hours? days? — but everything suggested that little time had passed since their deaths.

Reading it all gave me a weird, unsettled feeling. The implied course of events pointed to the woman in the raincoat awakening recently, perhaps slaughtering her way through the staff and patients on her exit. If this were true, her revival was perfectly timed to my arrival in town — an improbable coincidence.

Again, I suspected that the documents were fabricating a narrative; or at least mixing lies with truth. The bit about the prosthetics might be accurate, but I'd seen the rust covering them personally. There was no way they were new; and that detail alone cast the rest of information into doubt.

If the woman in the raincoat had been the patient in this room, was she the one responsible for carving the 'XII' into the nurse's collarbone? The mark looked precise, but her prosthetic hooks and blades seemed far too cumbersome for such fine work — clumsy instruments better suited for slashing than etching.

A sudden ring pierced the silence, emanating from my flip phone. I shrugged off my backpack, setting it on my knee, and rummaged through it until I found the device. The screen lit up with an unknown caller, but I flipped it open and pressed it to my ear.

The voice on the other end was unmistakably Mom's, warm and familiar despite the static undertone:

"It seems that you've seen everything," she said. "Head back to the elevator, and make your way to the fourth floor. I'll be waiting for you."

"Who are you?" I demanded. "Are you really my Mom?"

A soft laugh echoed through the line, light and teasing, before it cut out abruptly to a beeping tone.

I stared at the phone for a moment, the screen now blank, then shoved it back into my backpack and shouldered the straps. Retracing my steps through the blood-smeared corridors, I made my way back to the elevator room.

The door of the left elevator stood open as I'd left it; but when I stepped inside, a new button had appeared on the panel — the fourth floor, a level that hadn't existed in this building moments ago; that still didn't exist.

"死 ..." I said.

'Four' in Japanese could be pronounced as 'shi' — the same as 'death.' For this reason, hospitals in Japan frequently skipped the fourth floor, avoiding the ill omen.

I hesitated for a breath, finger hovering over the button. Should I press it, knowing full well the underlying implications?

Rather, if I didn't press it, I got the feeling that there wouldn't be any resolution to this.

I jammed my finger into the button.

Chapter Text

Julia Thompson glanced at the clock on the nurse's station wall.

It was well past the end of Rebecca Adams' shift, and the senior nurse had always been punctual about wrapping up — handing over notes; sharing a quick word about the patients' statuses before heading out.

Julia had come to rely on that routine in her first month or two at this hospital. But tonight, Rebecca hadn't returned, and Julia had only the hum of monitors for company.

The ward itself was in a sealed-off area, accessible only by card key through an electronic gate, unknown to the regular patients downstairs. Back at Anchorage Medical, Julia had signed the related NDAs without much thought — pretty standard fare for a staffing agency, she'd figured. She'd encountered similar documents before, bouncing between long-term care gigs in nursing homes and rehab centers.

Her expertise in handling chronic cases had landed her this job, but the reality of the unmarked ward had been a bit of a shock:

The patients were in general grotesquely disfigured, with hypertrophied limbs, swollen beyond recognition; appendages atrophied like withered branches; or bizarre transplants, sutured crudely into place as if pieced together from mismatched donors.

Most lay in comas, sustained by machines, and questions about their origins were met with silence from Rebecca; but for Julia, the hope was that her efforts would some good for somebody — even if she never met them. Simply being satisfied with the generous pay the job offered was in the end kind of empty.

A beeping drew Julia's attention: The heartrate monitor for Room 316 showed an irregularity — a flatline that shouldn't have been there.

But she was alone at the station this hour; the other staff being occupied elsewhere in the ward, tending to feeds or repositioning bodies to prevent sores. Protocol dictated she stay put and page someone, but with Rebecca unaccounted for and the irregularity persisting, Julia grabbed her stethoscope and headed down the corridor.

The door to Room 316 stood ajar, and Julia pushed it open further. Instead, the scene froze her in place.

The patient — a tall, slender woman with deathly pale skin marred by scars and sutures — was naked and squatting over Rebecca's prone form on the floor, thighs splayed wide in an obscene posture.

Her prosthetic legs — iron running blades disproportionately long, relative to her torso — gleamed dully under the room's lights; her elongated split-hook arm prostheses clutching at the senior nurse's head. Rebecca's red cardigan was soaked in blood, her clipboard still gripped in one lifeless hand.

Dark hair partially obscuring her face, the patient tore into Rebecca's skull with animalistic fervor, teeth ripping through flesh and bone, exposing the braincase in wet, crunching bites. The heart monitor dangled disconnected from the wall, its leads torn free.

Julia's stomach lurched, a scream catching in her throat. She backed away, but the patient's head snapped up, her mouth smeared with gore. Lunging with unnatural speed, her metallic footfalls clanged against the linoleum.

Julia had a head start down the corridor, but a sharp pain exploded in her back as the patient's hook prosthesis pierced through her ribs, puncturing her lungs in a single, savage thrust. She collapsed to the floor, gasping, blood bubbling up her throat as air escaped her chest. The ward spun around her — the bright lights blurring; the distant calls of orderlies reduced to cacophony.

As her consciousness waned, Julia's vision narrowed to the legs of a man approaching from down the corridor. He was dressed formally in a Geneva gown, the hem brushing polished shoes.

She couldn't see his face, but heard him speaking; thinking aloud:

"It appears she's driven purely by instinct, hm?"

He stepped past her, a blade glinting in his hand as he moved toward the room where the patient had left Rebecca's remains.

Chapter Text

The medeoulin stood alone on the narrow shelf of gravel that ringed Chiga-Aki; the Silent Place — the lake the people called Toluca; the Place of the Silent Spirits.

No bird cried, and no squirrel chattered; no wind stirred the pines that crowded the water's edge. Even the lap of wavelets against stone had been stolen away, as though the world itself held its breath.

Ten summers past, he had come here for the first time.

He remembered the weight of the canoe on his left shoulder, the smooth cedar pressing into muscle still soft with youth. Three men walked to his right, three to his left, all of them chosen for strength and for the steadiness of their hearts.

Between them rested the body of old Kisuhs, wrapped tight in milkweed cloth dyed the deep red of sumac. The weave was so fine it looked like a single sheet of autumn sky laid over the corpse.

They had entered the forest at dawn, stepping onto a path no wider than a deer's track. From the first footfall the silence fell. Mist rose from the ground in slow coils, thick as woodsmoke, curling around their calves and climbing until the treetops disappeared.

Each man felt the same chill settle in his chest, the same certainty that something vast and watchful listened to the crunch of their moccasins.

No one spoke. The taboo was older than any living memory: to utter a sound on the journey to Chiga-Aki was forbidden. So they walked with mouths shut, breathing through their noses, the only noises the soft creak of the canoe poles.

When they reached the water, the mist parted just enough to show the lake's black mirror.

The medeoulin had knelt first, setting his end down on the pebbles. The others followed. Together they slid the canoe forward until the prow kissed the surface. Kisuhs lay motionless beneath the milkweed shroud, arms folded, face turned toward the unseen sky.

One by one they pushed. No paddles were carried; hands alone were permitted to touch the vessel on its final voyage. The cedar slid forward with a hush softer than sleep.

When the stern cleared the shore, the current took it, drawing the canoe into the mist until only a faint redness showed where the shroud caught the hidden sun. Then that too was gone.

The medeoulin felt the gravel shift beneath his palms as he rose. Behind him the others stood in a ragged line, shoulders brushing.

None looked back. To turn the head, even once, was to tether the dead to the living world. So they faced the wall of pine and mist and began the long walk home, footsteps already fading into the silence that belonged to Chiga-Aki alone.

Only when the trees closed behind them did the first crow call break the air, harsh and ordinary, as if the forest had been waiting for the spirit to depart before it dared to speak again.

Ten years had carved the boy into a man whose braid, thick and black, hung down the center of a scalp shaved clean on the sides.

His tunic, now dyed in the patterns that announced his calling, clung damp to his ribs. The medicine pouches at his belt held only a twist of tobacco and the smooth white egg he had carried since dawn; and a walking staff was gripped in hand.

Mastery had come at the council fire, when the elders watched him draw sickness from a child's lungs with nothing but smoke and song. They had nodded, solemn, and declared him ready. Yet readiness demanded one final proof: a solitary journey to a place where no mentor walked beside him.

He chose Chiga-Aki, because the path was already etched in his bones; because the silence here was older than any living voice.

The lake belonged to no single village and therefore to every village that spoke the same tongue. The Penobscot, the Passamaquoddy, the Maliseet, even the Micmac far to the east; none planted corn on these shores, and none set fish traps in these waters. War parties skirted the ridge to the north rather than cross the invisible boundary.

The spirits kept the ground neutral, and the people obeyed.

He had told the elders only that he sought the lake's blessing. They approved with grave gestures, unaware that he felt the pilgrimage more duty than devotion. Faith lived in him the way blood lived in his veins, quiet and unquestioned; but the drama of visions and thunderous revelations struck him as stories for boys. Still, he kept the thought behind his teeth; irreverence was a private indulgence.

Three days earlier he had left the longhouse at dawn, slipping away before the village stirred. He traveled light: the pouches, the staff, firewood, and a small bundle of pemmican he would not touch until the return, when he broke his fast.

The trail wound through maple and birch, then climbed a ridge where blueberries grew thick as gravel. At the height of land he paused to drink from a spring that tasted of iron and moss. From there the forest sloped downward into the silence.

The mist rose thinner this time, a veil rather than a wall, letting him see the opposite shore where alder thickets leaned over black water.

He reached the water's edge again, mist thinner now, revealing the lake's far shore as a dark smudge of spruce. Close to the gravel he spotted them — Wôbi-Pskwatawa wji Nikônôjmowôgan; the white flowers of prophecy — growing in a shallow crease where runoff trickled from the hillside. Their petals glowed like fresh snow against the green, stems rising no higher than his knee.

He knelt, fingers careful, and plucked six blossoms, leaving roots undisturbed. The flowers carried a faint sweetness.

He tucked the flowers into the fold of his tunic, against the milkweed weave. He rose, staff planted firm, and made his way to his destination.

He skirted the southern curve of the lake, staff tapping lightly against roots that snaked across the path. The gravel gave way to softer earth, spongy with fallen needles, until he reached the spot where the shore pinched inward.

There stood the boulder, massive and hunched, the surface etched with pale veins of quartz that crisscrossed like lightning. Pockmarks dimpled the stone, worn by centuries of rain and frost, giving it the look of an ancient face turned toward the water.

Before the boulder lay a smaller rock, flat-topped and worn smooth, positioned like a sentinel. It faced the remnants of an old fire pit — a shallow depression ringed with charred stones, half-buried in ash from rituals long past.

The boulder loomed on the far side, casting a shadow. He set his staff aside and unpacked the bundle of dried wood from beneath his tunic — twigs of birch and pine, gathered earlier and bound with sinew. With deliberate motions, he arranged them in the pit, stacking kindling over tinder, then struck sparks from flint until flames licked upward, small and steady.

The boulder bore names from tongues older than memory. Nahkeehona, the elders whispered, a word dragged from the lake by those who came before the Wabanaki — a people erased in wars that left no songs or graves. It meant the Mother Stone, or so the stories claimed; though he doubted the certainty, sensing the guesswork in such translations. In the Wabanaki speech, it was Sèn-Nôdami, the Listening Stone, where spirits pressed close to hear the pleas of the living. Even the lake's name, Toluca, was something that was left from the time before.

From his tunic he drew the white flowers, their petals wilting slightly in the warmth. One by one, he pried open the seed pods with his fingers, extracting the hard kernels and setting them in a shallow mortar of smoothed wood. The pestle fit his palm like an extension of bone; he ground the seeds in slow circles, reducing them to a fine, pale dust that carried the faint scent of earth and promise.

Beside the fire, he selected a fist-sized stone. He placed it amid the flames, watching as heat seeped in, turning the gray to a dull red glow. When it was ready, he lifted it with tongs of green wood and dropped it into a woven basket, watertight with birch pitch and filled to the brim with lake water drawn moments before. Steam hissed upward as the stone sank, heating the liquid to a simmer.

He stirred in the seed powder, watching it dissolve into a milky swirl. To honor the spirits and open the exchange, he pinched loose tobacco from his medicine pouch and scattered it over the fire. The leaves crackled and curled, releasing fragrant smoke that rose in thin spirals, a bridge between earth and the unseen.

No words accompanied the act; reverence lived in the gesture alone.

With a carved ladle of horn, he scooped the brew and drank deeply, the bitterness coating his tongue. He set the basket aside, crossed his legs on the flat stone, and settled into stillness.

The flames danced low, the lake mirrored the sky, and he waited as the sun inched westward.

How much time he spent waiting, he couldn't determine; but come the beginning of the trance, it crept in without warning — the world shifting as red flowers grew across the ground, quickly entering into bloom.

They carpeted the earth profusely, clustering at the roots of every pine and birch; encircling the base of the Sèn-Nôdami like a living shroud. Each blossom emerged stemless, petals unfurling directly from the soil in vivid crimson, turning the forest floor into a sea of scarlet that drowned out all other hues.

He blinked once, recognizing the sign — he had crossed into the meditative state, where silence yielded to voice.

From a dense clump of those flowers at the boulder's foot, a figure stirred. It climbed slowly, as if ascending through an unseen threshold hidden in the petals, limbs unfolding with deliberate grace.

The spirit took the form of a wizened old man, his emaciated body draped in the same red blooms that clung to his skin like second flesh. His arms and legs stretched unnaturally long, joints knobby and pronounced beneath withered muscle.

He settled cross-legged on the gravel, facing the medeoulin, his face a map of deep wrinkles pulled tight in a perpetual grin. Crooked teeth, browned with age, gleamed faintly in the shadowed mouth.

The medeoulin inclined his head in a deep bow, eyes lowered in deference to the entity's ancient power. He spoke then, voice steady but laced with humility, addressing the spirit with the honorific reserved for the unknown elders of the world unseen.

"Ancestor," he intoned, the word carrying like a prayer on the still air.

With careful fingers, he reached into the secondary pouch at his belt and withdrew the egg, its speckled shell cool against his palms. He lifted it high, cradled in both hands, extending the offering toward the spirit as a symbol of respect and exchange.

He continued with a prayer, words flowing in a measured rhythm that recounted his journey's intent:

"O Ancestor, I come humbly to seek your wisdom for my people's health," he said.

The spirit's elongated fingers, thin as birch twigs and twice as long, reached forward, curling around the egg; plucking it from the medeoulin's upraised palms in a single fluid motion.

With a casual squeeze, the spirit crushed the fragile casing, fragments scattering like pale snow onto the red flowers below. From the ruins emerged a tiny embryonic bird, its form barely feathered, limbs twitching in faint, desperate struggle against the inevitable.

The spirit's tongue unfurled, slick and serpentine, wrapping around the bird before drawing it into the grinning mouth. Teeth clamped down with deliberate slowness, crunching through delicate bones in a series of sharp snaps, while thin rivulets of blood seeped from the corners of his lips, staining the wrinkles crimson.

A low, rumbling laugh escaped the spirit then, the sound echoing oddly in the trance-bound silence, as petals quivered in response.

"It never ceases to surprise me," he said, "that the living cling to the notion that we spirits — merely one step removed from you — hold some profound insight into the unseen tomorrows. We glimpse no more than shadows, relaying only in vague hints what might unfold."

The medeoulin nodded slightly, unperturbed by the dismissal.

"No matter," he replied evenly. "Any guidance will suffice."

The spirit's grin widened.

"In that case, there is a fragment of prophecy I can share, though it drifts far from your immediate concerns, lacking the weight you might crave."

He leaned forward, elongated arms folding over his emaciated knees, eyes gleaming with distant amusement.

"This matter touches not a thread in your life, nor likely that of your son's son." The spirit's voice dropping to a resonant murmur. "At some distant point, when the seed of man is proliferate; spread to every hill and valley in this land, all things will unravel to their close. The Mother will arrive then, and be born anew unto the world. She will consume the spirits bound in this place, remaking them; and in that devouring, bring things to an end."

A chill gripped the medeoulin's spine. He'd anticipated mundane insights — perhaps warnings of lean winters or signs for better hunts; yet this revelation spoke of endings on a scale that dwarfed his village, threatening the very sanctity of Chiga-Aki.

His hands trembled faintly, the red flowers seeming to pulse like wounds in his vision.

"Who is this Mother?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Is it Nokomis?"

Nokomis, the First Mother; the Corn Mother — a figure woven into the oldest tales, who in sacrifice offered her body to birth the maize that sustained the people. She embodied selfless giving, her essence transforming into fertile fields, ensuring the endless wheel of life, death, and renewal turned for the tribes.

The spirit shook his head.

"No," he rasped. "The Mother who comes is the Twofold One — the Nis-Pazokw."

The medeoulin leaned forward slightly, brow furrowing beneath his braid.

"Who — or what — is the Twofold One?"

The spirit's eyes, dark pools amid the wrinkles, fixed on him with piercing clarity.

"One who is neither alive nor dead," he replied. "Who can both give forth and receive. Born malformed, yet right and just."

Confusion swirled in the medeoulin's mind. Give forth and receive what?

He knew of course of the grim custom of his people: that malformed infants, the yield of couplings between those close in blood, were not suffered to live. Their lives were ended swiftly as a mercy; to spare the tribe another burden; another mouth that couldn't contribute to the hunt or harvest.

He had never questioned it, viewing the act as a harsh necessity.

But prophecies, when they veered from the tribe's immediate interests, were kept to oneself; to the privacy of a medeoulin alone — not to be shared at council fires or the hearth. He wondered then if similar words had whispered to his predecessors long ago. Had those ancient warnings birthed the very practice of ending malformed lives — a safeguard woven into tradition against some unseen peril?

He shifted on the stone, and pressed the question that burned foremost:

"How can the Mother both arrive and be born? The words pull against each other."

The spirit's elongated fingers drummed idly on his knee, the motion sending faint tremors through the blooms upon him, but his grin held steady.

"It is literal, as I speak it," he replied. "The Mother will arrive, and she will be born anew."

This line of questioning was apparently not useful; and so the medeoulin asked instead:

"Why would the Mother destroy Chiga-Aki? What drives her to consume the spirits bound to this place?"

The spirit's wrinkles folding deeper around his eyes, smiling in what might have been mirth.

"By the time of her coming," he said, "all that you know will have faded into dust and memory. The why and how of it isn't something you should be concerned over, save to understand that it is necessary and inevitable; the culmination of many fates, great and small." His tongue flicking briefly across his lips, tasting the remnants of the offering. "But come she shall at the end of all things, welcoming a new age of gods and monsters."

Chapter Text

10 : The Mother

I sat at the dining room table, facing Mom across the polished wood surface. A blank sheet of construction paper lay between us, edges slightly curled from being pulled out of the pack earlier.

Mom's eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of playfulness and assurance, her long dark hair tied back loosely, strands framing her face as she leaned forward slightly.

She gave me a nod, her smile encouraging.

"You can go first this time, Taylor," she said. "Show me what you've got."

I focused on the paper, willing the blue to spread across it. The color appeared instantly, claiming a wide swath from the center outward, smooth and even like a fresh coat of paint.

This was the game known as Attrition, where we battled using nothing but our thoughts, each trying to overwrite the other's hold on the surface; to dye it in our chosen color.

Mom gave me a handicap — a good five seconds — and then her red surged in, pushing against my blue in rippling waves that shifted the boundaries back and forth.

I targeted the red patches to flip them blue again, watching the colors clashing in rapid flickers. The paper transformed before my eyes — sections turning blue only to revert to red, almost as quickly as I could claim them. Mom's red advanced steadily, encroaching on my areas without hesitation, as if she anticipated every move I made.

"Keep going," she said softly. "You've got more in you than that."

The blue held for a moment in one corner, but then her red overtook it, spreading like ink in water — effortless and unrelenting. I zeroed in on a stubborn red spot near the edge, flipping it blue in a flash; but she reclaimed it just as fast, dominating more and more of the sheet. The entire surface pulsed with the back-and-forth, blue yielding to red in larger and larger portions until only slivers of my color remained.

I tried one last push, aiming for the heart of her red territory, but it swallowed my attempt whole. The paper turned entirely red, not a trace of blue left. I slumped forward, my forehead resting on the table's cool edge, arms dangling at my sides.

"It's not fair," I whined, my voice muffled against the wood. "You always win."

Mom laughed.

"It took me years before I could beat your Gram at this," she said. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll grasp it eventually. You've already got so much talent."

I lifted my head from the table, still feeling the sting of defeat, and looked up at Mom with a hopeful squint.

"Is there a trick to it?" I asked.

Mom paused, tilting her head slightly as she considered my question.

"Hmm," she murmured, drawing out the sound. "It's really a matter of practice and familiarity. The more you do it, the easier it gets."

Without another word, she snapped her fingers crisply, the sound sharp in the quiet dining room. Across the adjoining living room, the television flickered to life with a soft hum. On the display, an image of Mom appeared, perfectly replicated, waving enthusiastically with a sunny smile that lit up her features.

"Hey, Taylor," the on-screen version of her said, voice clear and cheerful through the speakers.

Just as suddenly, the television powered off, the screen going dark and silent once more.

Mom turned back to me, her expression one of gentle encouragement.

"You have to at least be able to attain this much, for a start," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the now-quiet living room.

I stared at the blank screen, my mouth slightly open in surprise. I had never seen Mom mess around with the TV before. I had sort of assumed that animating images on it was my own private trick; but here she was, assuming control of the TV effortlessly.

I had never tried turning the TV on or off before. And sounds? That was entirely new territory; I didn't even know where to begin with that.

It made me wonder if Mom had practiced at some point that I wasn't aware of. My sight let me see things around the house even when I was sleeping, yet I'd never caught her manipulating the television. Had she done it when she was elsewhere, like at University? Or had she simply known how from the start?

I crossed my arms on the table and let out a loud, exaggerated sulk, my lower lip jutting out as I huffed dramatically.

Mom laughed again, the sound light and affectionate, and she reached over to tousle my hair.

"I have faith that you'll eventually be able to outmatch me," she said.

The elevator hummed as it rose, the panel light for the fourth floor glowing steadily.

Beyond the confines of the cab, the world fell away into an empty void — nothing but the shaft itself extending upward, its concrete walls rough and unmarked. The hospital I'd left behind lingered below, its floors and corridors intact but receding from my range, until they slipped entirely from awareness, leaving only the isolated shaft pressing on in isolation.

For what felt like minutes, that was all there was — an enclosed ascent through nothingness; the passing of faint seams in the concrete; the subtle vibrations of machinery. No floors branched off, and no doors or mechanisms interrupted the walls. It was as if the building had ended abruptly at the third floor, and this extension defied any architectural logic, forged solely for the journey.

Eventually, the fourth floor entered into range.

The world beyond its windows was a haze, filled with mist that softened the daylight into a diffuse gray glow. Windows lined the walls, their empty frames admitting slivers of that muted light — rows along the first floor, higher ones on the second, and even a third tier on the sides where the structure rose tallest. There was no resemblance here to the hospital's polished corridors; it looked like a ruined warehouse or a gutted factory floor.

There wasn't a reason to expect it to mimic the hospital below, I supposed. It was in the end a floor conjured from nothing, to serve whatever purpose the town demanded.

The elevator dinged softly as it leveled off, the doors parting with a mechanical sigh. A final flicker of the interior light followed, then everything powered down — the panel went dark, leaving the car inert and useless. I had no choice but to step out, onto the charred concrete.

Soot-streaked walls rose around me, fire-damaged and whitewashed in patches. Sections of the gable roof had collapsed, exposing ragged holes to the misty sky above; and debris littered the ground in scattered piles — broken tiles and weeds pushing through cracks, all bearing the marks of long neglect.

Across the floor from the elevator, a figure squatted with her back to me, thighs splayed as she hunched toward the wall: the woman in the raincoat, supported on rusted iron blade legs, curved to resemble the pedes of a cheetah. Before her lay the headless corpse, slender; nude; sprawled on the debris-strewn ground — the exposed brain being consumed by the woman in deliberate, mechanical motions.

Horror gripped me as I registered the eaten woman; the act of cannibalism: gray matter pulled apart in stringy clumps, and the blood pooling beneath the skull's cracked cavity. But there was no turning away.

Up on the cement walk that ran along the walls, Faraday stood overlooking the scene, leaning against the railing. His eyes met mine, registering my presence with a faint tilt of his head.

"I see," said Faraday.

He straightened slightly, gaze lingering on me, as if recalibrating some internal measure.

"I had wondered at the reason for your presence," he continued. "An anomaly capable of consuming an Executor is unlikely to occur by random chance. But with your arrival here and now, it is clear."

Executor? Anomaly?

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded.

Faraday tilted his head fractionally, regarding me with the patience of someone explaining the obvious to a child, if without the condescension.

"This place lays forth inevitabilities for the fates to fulfill; to arrange; to implement," he said. "You are here present by virtue of a tie that you bear to the Lady of the Sorrows — fulfilling the role of the Twenty-First; the Receiver of Wisdom. It is for this reason that you have been set upon your path, attaining a comprehension of her circumstances."

Faraday's words didn't fully make sense to me, but the pieces were starting to fit.

If I followed his logic right, the town didn't simply generate manifestations to carry 'inevitabilities' to their outcome.

I'd pegged the place as a trap for sinners; for the guilty — 'the Wicked,' as Faraday called them. It pulled them in, generated monsters or echoes of people tied to their guilt, and forced a kind of reckoning, whether that meant punishment or a twisted form of closure.

Emily and the ballerina had seemed to me designed to force Megan to a confrontation. But just now, Faraday's talk of the Lady of the Sorrows — the woman in the raincoat — shifted that view. The town had responded to her as well, by calling me here.

To put it in other words, the response generated by the town wasn't restricted to sinners at all; and it certainly wasn't restricted to the conjuration of entities from nothing. Somehow, it twisted probabilities even outside its boundaries, reeling me in from the real world.

How it worked exactly escaped me, but the town had somehow latched onto the woman's connection with me — pulled my identity from her, or whatever tie bound us. It sought me out; steered my choices without me noticing, guiding me step by step into this mess.

I'd signed up for Saratoga Valley Youth Camp thinking it was my own idea, but now I was beginning to doubt that. The influence was sneaky; buried deep, like a whisper I hadn't even heard.

Sinners didn't wander into Silent Hill by accident. The town called them in on purpose.

And the woman's awakening hadn't coincidentally happened a day or two before I got here. It was the reverse. The town had known she would wake up ahead of time; it might have even picked a date for it. It nudged me to sign up for the camp, so that I would show up within its boundaries right around the time she stirred. I couldn't recall the exact date I had registered, but it had to be months back at least.

The town could plan ahead; could schedule things; set them into motion.

But that left the question of what tied me to the woman in the raincoat. What was my link to her?

I wanted so badly for her not to be my Mom. I'd hoped she was something pulled from my head; a monster summoned from memories. But Faraday hadn't lied thus far; and if he could be trusted, she was Annette Rose Hebert — my mother. The thing across from me, eating the dead body, was my Mom.

And if that was true, the dead people on the third floor were likely real as well. Not made up by the town.

My stomach turned hard. I felt like I would throw up right there on the burned floor.

I had read about Bonesaw; saw the news. She joined the Slaughterhouse Nine about four years back; took normal people and turned them into horrors. They became like zombies, full of hate, driven to kill. Twisted things that couldn't go back to being the way they were.

I wondered if this was how it felt for families who lost someone to her. To see a loved one changed into a monster. To know that the person inside was gone, though the body kept going.

Down on the floor, the woman kept at her task, her hooks digging into the soft tissue of the brain with steady pulls.

For a long moment, I watched her; and then made up my mind about what had to happen next. Whatever this town had done to her, it couldn't be let to stand.

"I don't understand a word of what you're saying," I said to Faraday, my voice loud enough to echo slightly off the ruined walls. "But I know my Mom wouldn't want this — to be turned into some 'Lady of the Sorrows' or whatever you're calling her, reduced to eating people like an animal. So I'm ending it right now."

The nerves I needed to target were in the spine, at the base of the brainstem, carrying commands to the rest of her body. If I could disrupt those, her mind would lose its hold, trapping her in a shell she couldn't move.

Depth was no obstacle, ultimately. If I started with a small patch of ice on the back of her neck, and I could build inward from there, layering molecule after molecule to form a sharp spike that would pierce through to those nerves, blocking their signals completely with something nonconductive.

I willed the ice to form — but as soon as the first crystals took shape beneath her skin, something pushed back; stripped me of control over what I'd made; erasing the molecules I'd created.

The woman paused in her eating, her hooks freezing mid-motion as she turned her head toward me, mouth smeared in red. Her eyes caught the light from the windows, a sharp glint flashing in them as she stared straight at me.

What I'd started unraveled in an instant, vanishing as if it had never been.

I realized what had happened: She'd somehow picked up thoughtography — figured out how to undo it. Maybe even remembered. She was after all in my mom's body, and it stood to reason she'd have access to everything Mom could do.

By reaching out with my power, I'd only woken that part of her, stirring an instinct that let her grasp it.

"Interesting," said Faraday, looking on from on high. "Was this how you managed to prevail over an Executor, perhaps?"

The woman held my gaze without blinking, her eyes sharp and unyielding beneath the shadow of her hood, the blood around her mouth glistening under the diffused light from the windows. In that moment, a chill of intimidation crept through me, prompting my body to react before my mind caught up.

I attempted to take a step backward, but my foot didn't move as expected. It was stuck fast to the floor, a sudden layer of ice forming across the sole of my sneaker, spreading upward in a flash.

Before I could process anything, the cold surged, encasing my ankles and calves in a thin sheath that bit into my skin with a sharp, stinging pain; locking my knees in place while similar formations wrapped around my arms from wrists to shoulders. Gripping my torso like a frozen vice, it made breathing a labored effort. I gasped in the discomfort as the ice spread through my clothes, holding me immobile.

Desperate to break free, I focused on the ice encasing me, attempting to reclaim control by erasing it; but as soon as I pushed up against it, I felt the familiar sensation of opposition — recognizing with a pang of nostalgia the game of Attrition, where every effort to claim a section was countered and reversed; eroded in real time.

It had always been like this in those sessions — the back-and-forth pressuring me until my resistance was no more.

The outcome was inevitable: I had never once come out on top against my mother.

The woman pushed herself upright with a slow, deliberate motion, prosthetic legs unfolding until she towered; the last shreds of brain matter and skull sliding between her teeth as she chewed with a wet, crunching sound that carried across the ruined floor.

She swallowed, the movement visible in her throat; then started toward me, each step landing with a resounding clang from her rusted iron blades, sending faint vibrations through the concrete.

Her yellow coat hung open and tattered, swaying with the rhythm of her approach. When she reached me, she lowered herself into a squat that brought her face level to mine, knees bending wide as her pneumatic breasts shifted and settled with a noticeable quiver, so unlike the slender lines of Mom's body.

Up close, the features were unmistakably Mom's — the high cheekbones; the curve of her jaw; the dark waves of hair framing it all — but the eyes held no spark of recognition; only a wild, frenzied gleam that locked onto me without a flicker of warmth.

She leaned in until mere inches separated us, smile stretching wide and unnatural across her blood-smeared lips. Then her split-hook hand rose, the rusted metal clamping onto my forehead.

Her mouth parted slowly, revealing teeth stained red and fragments of flesh still caught between them. A wave of putrid breath washed over me, thick with a stench that made my eyes water —

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,​
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,​
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir, From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,
From the chalice of her gaze spills forth the elixir,

From the chalice of her gaze
spills forth the
Elixir.

Chapter Text

The meeting hall stood quiet after the lesson ended, its high-beamed ceiling casting long shadows from the afternoon light that filtered through narrow windows. The children rose from their benches, bidding Faraday good day, and filing out the door, leaving him to the faint scent of wood smoke from the hearths.

Faraday remained at the front, closing the heavy Bible on the lectern, when a girl approached him alone. She held in her hands a small copy of the Gospels, the pages marked with a strip of cloth.

Stopping before him, she opened the book to a passage she had noted during the reading.

"Master Faraday," she said. "I would know the meaning of these words in Luke. 'The Devil led Him up to a high place and showed Him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And he said to Him, 'I will give you all their authority and splendor; it has been given to me, and I can give it to anyone I want to. If you worship me, it will all be yours.'' What means the Devil when he claims the kingdoms of the world are his to give? Do they not belong to God?"

Faraday looked down at her, considering her question.

"In the New Testament, the Devil is oft called 'the prince of this world' and 'the god of this age.' God, in His wisdom, remains silent upon the affairs of the present world; and in that silence, the Devil crafts every manner of temptation; every manner of lie. He presents the things of this earth — the gold; the power; the fleeting joys — as the true end of all desire, seeking to bewilder the mind and confound the heart, so that men doubt the Eternal Kingdom that lies beyond the veil of tears. Thus, they turn from God and steep themselves in sin, chasing pleasure and riches to escape the suffering the Devil heaps upon the world."

The girl frowned, her brow creasing as she turned the words over in her thoughts.

"I do not see why the Devil would lie in this way," she said. "What does he gain for it?"

Faraday paused, his gaze drifting to the empty benches for a moment before returning to her. He drew a slow breath and answered.

"Scripture does not speak directly to this matter, but I hold a belief of my own," he said. "The Devil is a creature most pitiful, and in that pity, he merits some sympathy from us."

"Why do you say this?"

"Turn to the Book of Job," said Faraday, "and you will find that where the Devil appears, he acts only as the Lord permits. In the end, he serves divine will, appointed as the prince of this world to test the faithful. We alone, in all creation, possess the gift of free will to choose our path. The Devil has no such choice. He must act in evil, bound to his role without escape."

The girl fell silent. She stared at the floor for a time, her lips pressed together in deep thought. At last, she looked up again.

"Even so," she said, "the Devil fills the world with lies."

The girl's corpse stood frozen and headless, held upright by the ice that the Candidate had iterated of her power; her limbs locked in a final posture of resistance as blood dripped slowly from the severed neck onto the charred warehouse floor below.

The Candidate fed on her brainstem, rusted split hooks delving into the exposed gray matter, drawing out strands that she consumed.

From the walk above, Faraday merely observed.

Originally, the Executors set forth could fall to the Wicked alone, being otherwise impermissible to permanent harm — a rule that had held across countless cycles. Yet the girl had proven capable of destroying one, establishing her as an anomaly that demanded attention.

In the Candidate's devouring of her, however, the anomaly had closed itself out, concluding any issue that might have disrupted the ritual. Faraday was satisfied that there was no further cause for concern.

Now, only the transfiguration awaited — at long last, the ascension of a Candidate, marking the end of decades of repeated failures in the enactment of the Holy Assumption; the offering of the Receiver of Wisdom.

In the consummation of the rite, the domain of the Silent Spirits gained the anchor of the Lady's immortal flesh, allowing it to spread past its boundaries into the wider world; ensuring that this Gehenna — Faraday's prison, over which he was prince — endured indefinitely, cleansing the lands beyond the Garden of all the Wicked.

Our Lady of Sorrows was come.

But on the floor below, the Candidate let out a sudden scream, her split-hooks pressing against her scarred belly in a desperate gesture; the cry raw and beast-like, that no human voice could produce, vibrating through the warehouse's empty expanse.

Faraday regarded her in a mixture of alarm and puzzlement, wondering at the cause; fearing that the rite was stilled once again, despite every sign of success.

Her stomach began to bulge outward, the swelling centered in her womb as she drew in ragged breaths, body trembling while her head arched backward, the hood of her yellow raincoat slipping away.

"The Maculate Conception?" said Faraday.

Along the vertical scars on the Candidate's midline, fingers pushed through from within, clawing and tearing at the old wounds until they split open with a wet rip, allowing a female fully-grown — naked and slick with blood — to emerge in a gush of fluid that pooled on the concrete.

Faraday noticed a black blotch blooming across his skin — spreading like ink over his hands, as he lifted his left closer to his face, watching as the flesh started to flake away into nothingness.

"Is this deliverance at last?" Faraday whispered.

Chapter Text

Mystery Surrounds Disappearance of Hospital Ward Staff and Patients

SILENT HILL, Maine — Authorities are scrambling to unravel the baffling disappearance of an entire hospital ward at Alchemilla Hospital, where staff and inpatients from a third-floor unit have vanished without a trace. The Silent Hill Police Department (SHPD) launched an investigation early this morning after family members of the missing employees escalated their concerns, but hospital officials have offered little cooperation, raising serious questions about the facility's operations and record-keeping practices.

The incident came to light when relatives of several staff members, who failed to return home after their shifts on Saturday, August 22, initially contacted the hospital for information. Administrators assured the families they would investigate but provided no follow-up. Frustrated by the lack of response, the relatives turned to the SHPD on Sunday, prompting officers to enter the premises today. Upon gaining access to the third floor, investigators discovered the unmarked ward completely empty — not only devoid of people but also stripped of any incidental paperwork that might have documented the inpatients.

This ward, one of several on the third floor, is typically accessible only to its assigned staff, secured by a card-key system at a set of automatic sliding doors. No signs of forced entry or struggle were immediately apparent, according to preliminary reports from the scene. More alarmingly, a review of hospital records has revealed no entries for the patients who were reportedly housed there, with no identifiable information on who they might have been or why they were admitted. This absence of documentation has fueled speculation about potential irregularities in the hospital's procedures, though officials have yet to comment publicly on these concerns.

SHPD spokesperson confirmed in a statement released late Sunday that the department is treating the case as a high-priority missing persons investigation. "We are working diligently to locate the individuals involved and determine the circumstances of their disappearance," the statement read. "At this time, we urge anyone with information to come forward."

Given the unusual nature of the event — in a town rarely touched by extraordinary occurrences — law enforcement has not ruled out parahuman involvement. Sources within the SHPD indicate that the Parahuman Response Team Northeast (PRT-NE), based in Boston, has been notified and may assist if evidence points to cape activity. Silent Hill has historically seen no such interventions, but the scale and inexplicability of this disappearance have prompted authorities to consider all possibilities.

As the investigation unfolds, hospital representatives have declined to provide details, citing patient privacy and ongoing internal reviews. Attempts to reach administrators for comment have been unsuccessful as of the time of reporting.

Fatal 'Laughing Sickness' Cases Emerge Across New England; Officials Probe Possible Parahuman Involvement

BOSTON, Massachusetts — Health authorities and law enforcement are grappling with a series of unexplained deaths across New England, where adults suddenly developed symptoms mimicking kuru — a rare prion disease known as "laughing sickness" — before succumbing within hours, in incidents spanning the early morning of Monday, August 24.

The condition, characterized by spontaneous outbursts of laughter, severe ataxia, tremors, and rapid neurological deterioration, led to death in as little as four hours after onset. Emergency autopsies conducted on several victims revealed spongiform encephalopathy consistent with transmissible spongiform encephalopathies, yet extensive testing detected no prions, the misfolded proteins typically responsible for such brain destruction and known for their exceptional stability.

All reported victims were adults, with no cases involving minors. While the total number of fatalities remains low — insufficient to classify as an epidemic — a disproportionately high concentration occurred in Silent Hill, Maine, prompting speculation that the town may serve as the epicenter.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), in coordination with state health departments, have ruled out an infectious pathogen, citing negative results from virological, bacteriological, and epidemiological analyses. Transmission vectors, including person-to-person contact or environmental exposure, have been excluded based on preliminary findings.

In light of the anomalous presentation and absence of conventional explanations, the incident has been designated a potential mass killing event. Speculation has turned toward parahuman involvement, with the Parahuman Response Team Northeast (PRT-NE) taking a lead role in the investigation. Officials noted the rarity of cape activity in affected areas, particularly Silent Hill, making any parahuman trigger especially concerning. As of yet, no individual parahuman or group has claimed responsibility.

A PRT-NE spokesperson stated yesterday: "We are treating this with the utmost urgency and coordinating with local authorities to determine if a parahuman ability is at play. The public is advised to report any unusual neurological symptoms immediately."

State police and federal agencies continue to collect data from affected communities, urging calm while emphasizing the isolated nature of the cases.

Missing Teenager Found in Saratoga Valley State Park; Search Continues for Others

SILENT HILL, Maine — Search teams have located one of four teenagers who went missing during a hike in Saratoga Valley State Park, though the circumstances surrounding their disappearance remain shrouded in mystery.

Megan Miller, a participant in the Saratoga Valley Youth Camp, was discovered in the early morning hours of Monday, August 24, in the forested area east of South Vale where she and her companions had been trekking. Miller appeared traumatized and sustained injuries to her arm and leg, requiring immediate medical attention. She has been uncooperative with authorities, declining to provide details about the events following her separation from the group.

The incident began on the afternoon of Sunday, August 23, when Miller, along with Jonathan Gagnon, Taylor Hebert, and Andrew Davis, ventured westward from the camp into the park. Davis, who was accompanied by a mental health support dog in training named Luna, was found later that day in a state of severe distress. He reported encountering a female assailant engaged in cannibalistic behavior near the headless body of a woman he described as a police officer.

An extensive search of the area failed to locate any corpse, but Davis's description aligns with that of Officer Sophie Tremblay, who was reported missing on Saturday, August 22. Tremblay, a member of the Silent Hill Police Department, had not been seen since that date.

As of this report, Gagnon and Hebert remain unaccounted for, with search operations ongoing in the park. The teenagers, all non-residents attending the summer camp program, were last seen together before the reported encounter.

Authorities urge anyone with information to contact the Silent Hill Police Department.

The Silent Hill Herald will continue to monitor developments and provide updates as more information becomes available.

Chapter Text

11 : Interlude: Sadie Morgan

1965

She stepped onto the economy-class deck of the SS President Cleveland, footsteps light against the weathered wooden planks that stretched out under the open sky. The ship, operated by American President Lines, had left Yokohama three days earlier, heading toward Honolulu and then San Francisco, and the vast Pacific rolled endlessly around her, unbroken except for the distant horizon.

She moved toward a secluded corner near the railing, away from the scattered passengers who lingered in groups, their voices muffled by the steady hum of the engines below. The air carried a sharp salt tang, mingling with the faint oil scent from the stacks, and she pulled her coat tighter against the chill wind that whipped across the water.

In that quiet isolation, her thoughts drifted back to the five years she had spent in Tokyo, working with a theater troupe to scrape together enough for this voyage and a new life in the United States.

The troupe's rehearsals and performances had filled her days, a welcome escape from the family she had left behind. She had run away to avoid it all — from her father's harsh words and occasional blows; from her mother, who had enabled him through inaction.

Now, as she leaned against the cold metal rail, she glanced down at the small bundle in her hand — a worn paper box labeled as cold medicine, and beside it, the Japanese passport she no longer needed.

She had crafted that passport, along with an American one, in her low-rent apartment in Tokyo, piecing them together over late nights after work, between her English lessons. Using scraps of paper, ink, and careful cuts, she had replicated the official seals and pages, but her abilities made the difference.

Those powers — clairvoyance, that let her see clearly through obstacles within ten meters; thoughtography, that allowed her to impose textures and colors onto flat surfaces — had awakened during high school, after she started taking the herbal capsules from the box, surfacing alongside the other changes to her body.

At first, she believed the drug enabled them, its hallucinogenic effects unlocking something hidden in her mind. But even after she weaned herself off the capsules two years ago, the abilities remained sharp and reliable, fading not at all.

To gather details for the forgeries, she had visited Haneda Airport in her free time, lingering in the crowds where travelers passed through customs. With clairvoyance, she peered into their documents from afar, noting every fold, stamp, and photograph without drawing attention.

Back in her apartment, she used thoughtography to alter the photo in the American passport, shifting her facial colors and textures to approximate Caucasian features — lighter skin, and different eye hue — while keeping her bone structure unchanged.

The false names she chose felt like armor, and she planned to use the American passport upon arrival, relying on the officials' quick visual checks to slip through. Once in the States, she would build from there, forging paths to real citizenship papers over time.

The box of medicine weighed heavy in her palm now, its red-and-white capsules a remnant she had kept around despite quitting. She remembered how her friend from her hometown had supplied them, starting in her late teens, when the family pressures and tension headaches grew unbearable.

He had mailed them to her in Tokyo, disguised as fan letters to a radio station to avoid notice, since she feared her family discovering her whereabouts. The capsules eased the aches, but they also brought vivid dreams and, eventually, those unexpected powers.

She had thought she needed them to cope, to see beyond the walls closing in, but weaning off proved she could stand on her own.

A wave crashed against the hull, sending a fine spray upward, and she straightened, gripping the items tighter.

No more, she told herself silently. This voyage marked the end of old chains — the marriage; the family; the addiction.

With a deep breath, she extended her arm over the railing and opened her hand. The box and the Japanese passport tumbled downward, spinning in the wind before hitting the dark water below. They bobbed for a moment on the foam, then sank into the depths, carried away by the ship's wake.

She watched until they vanished beneath the waves, then turned, heading back indoors.

1971

She wiped down the last of the Formica counters in the Manhattan diner, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as the evening crowd thinned out.

Her shift had dragged on with the usual rush of office workers and tourists grabbing quick bites, but now the place felt quieter, the clatter of dishes fading into the background hum of the city outside.

She untied her apron, folding it neatly before stashing it behind the counter, mind already drifting to lines in a potential upcoming production. Acting paid sporadically, especially off-Broadway; but her reputation had grown over the past five years, with a handful of notable stage roles that drew quiet praise from critics and directors alike.

According to her identification, she was twenty-eight; perhaps on account of good genetics, her smooth features and bright eyes made her look no older than twenty — a trait that often earned her second glances from customers who mistook her for a college kid moonlighting. She now passed as Caucasian, blending seamlessly into the crowds of New York. Relative to attempting auditions as an Asian, it made things a lot simpler, she'd found.

Saying goodbye to the cook, who grunted back, she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cool air carried the distant honk of taxis and the scent of street vendors wrapping up for the night. Richard's car was parked beside the curb — a reliable sedan he had bought secondhand to haul his photography gear around the city.

He leaned over to open the passenger door from inside, his muscular frame filling the seat, expression serious as always, though softened by the familiar half-smile he reserved for her. At thirty-one, he carried himself with a quiet intensity, his dark hair cropped short; hands callused from years of manual labor, and handling all sorts of machines.

She slid into the seat, leaning over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, feeling the steady warmth of his presence, which had become her anchor over the past two years.

He never said so, but she suspected that she played a similar role for him; in the evenings that they spent together, she often calmed his night terrors.

"Long day?" he asked, his voice low and even, as he shifted the car into gear and eased into traffic.

"Yeah, the usual — spilled coffee and endless refills," she replied, settling back and watching the buildings blur past. "But it's keeping the rent paid while things are slow with the theater. I heard from my agent today; there's talk of a new production opening soon that might fit me."

Her feelings for him ran deep — a quiet trust built from shared evenings talking about dreams and frustrations; his patience never pushing her beyond what she wanted, unlike the rigid expectations she had seen swallow her mother and older sister whole in marriages that left them voiceless and bound.

He nodded, his eyes on the road.

"Good to hear. I've been busy myself — shot a wedding uptown this morning; then spent the afternoon in the darkroom printing proofs for that magazine spread. Freelance life's unpredictable, but it beats punching a clock." He glanced at her, his tone warming. "Got a new client lined up next week, some ad agency needing headshots. Pays decent, enough to maybe take a weekend trip sometime."

She smiled, appreciating how he shared these details without boast or complaint, his self-employed world as a photographer giving him the freedom to create on his own schedule.

"Sounds promising," she said. "You've really built that business of yours. I'm proud of you."

Their conversations often flowed like this; easy exchanges that revealed layers of his life: the late nights experimenting with lighting techniques; the satisfaction of capturing a perfect moment on film, all without the weight of demands or control that had poisoned her views on commitment in the past.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few blocks before he pulled over near a quiet park, the engine idling as he turned to face her fully. His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, his serious gaze locking onto hers with a vulnerability she rarely saw.

"I've been thinking about us a lot lately," he said. "These past two years with you — they've been the best years of my life." He opened the box to reveal a simple diamond ring. "And so, would you be Sadie Morgan?"

The question hung in the air, stirring memories of her father's harsh demands; forcing her into an unwanted engagement, to a man she didn't know — the traditional married life, which had claimed her mother and sister, binding them in servitude; in lives of silent obedience and lost dreams.

But Richard was different. He had shown her respect and partnership, never once trying to cage her freedom or dictate her choices.

She gazed at the ring, its simple band glinting under the streetlight. If she held back now, out of old fears, she would remain stuck in the shadows of what had been, unable to embrace the life she had built.

Taking this step meant risking vulnerability — but without that risk, she couldn't truly move forward; couldn't claim the happiness that waited beyond hesitation.

"Yes," she said, her smile breaking wide as she nodded. "I would love to."

1972

The doctor leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as he scanned the papers on his desk.

"I've gone over all the tests," he said, his voice steady and professional. "There's nothing wrong with either of you. No issues on your side, Mr. Morgan, and none on yours, ma'am."

Richard shifted in his seat beside her, his muscular frame tense under the crisp shirt he wore.

"You're sure it's not me?" he said. "I mean, maybe something got to me. Agent Orange or whatever they sprayed — I don't know how that stuff works, but I've heard stories."

The doctor shook his head.

"No, that's not the case here. But if you don't mind, Mr. Morgan, I'd like to speak privately with your wife for a moment."

Richard nodded, standing up with a resigned sigh.

"Alright. I'll go pay at the front."

He glanced at her, his eyes soft with unspoken worry, then turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Alone with her now, the doctor cleared his throat, his expression turning more guarded. They both knew of the true nature of her body, hidden even from intimate scrutiny; but that wasn't what he wished to speak about today.

"I didn't want to discuss this in front of your husband," he said, "but after running tests on both of you, I've managed to rule out immunological infertility. That leaves only one possibility: histoincompatibility. Simply put, your body rejects your husband's sperm. There's no solution to it at the moment." He paused, his tone apologetic. "I'm sorry."

She sat there for a moment, absorbing his words, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The weight of it settled over her like a heavy curtain, pulling at the edges of her thoughts. She nodded slowly, murmuring a quiet 'thank you' before rising from her chair.

As an off-Broadway actress, she had learned to mask her emotions on stage, channeling them into roles that let her escape the daily grind; but in real life, those skills only went so far.

She stepped out of the office into the hallway. Richard was standing at the front desk, his back to her, waiting patiently as the nurse behind the counter finished a phone call, her pen scribbling notes on a pad.

She moved to the waiting area and sank into one of the vinyl chairs, gaze drifting downward to her lap, where her hands rested, fingers twisting slightly.

Quietly, so that Richard couldn't hear from across the room, she whispered to herself:

"I'll have to do something about this."

1972

She lay in the hospital bed, sweat beading on her forehead as another contraction gripped her body, the pain radiating from her core in waves that left her breathless.

The gynecologist, who also ran the private practice, stood at the foot of the bed, monitoring her progress with a calm nod to the nurses bustling around.

"It's about time we move you to the delivery chair," he said, his voice steady amid her labored breathing; she nodded back.

Two nurses helped her shift, their hands firm yet gentle as they supported her weight, guiding her legs into the stirrups of the chair while the contraction ebbed just enough for her to comply.

The hospital bed was rolled away, wheeled out by another nurse who pushed it through the door with a soft squeak of wheels on the tile floor. She focused on her breathing, inhaling deeply as the doctor positioned himself, gloved hands ready.

The room felt close with activity, the nurses exchanging quiet instructions while one adjusted the sheet over her lower body. Pain built again, sharper this time, and she gripped the sides of the chair, her knuckles whitening as she pushed through it, the effort drawing a low groan from her throat.

Hours had passed like this, each contraction stretching longer than the last, her body straining without respite, though no unexpected issues arose to complicate things further.

"Keep going, you're doing well," the doctor encouraged, his eyes fixed on the task.

She nodded weakly, her mind flashing to Richard waiting in the hall outside, barred by hospital policy from witnessing this.

He had paced with her to the delivery room earlier, his quiet worry evident in the way he held her hand, still haunted by those old doubts from his time in Vietnam, fearing that whatever poisons had touched him might have stolen this chance from them. A mild guilt tugged at her, for letting him believe he had fathered the child; but she pushed it aside, certain it served them both better if he never knew.

Another push followed, the pain peaking in a fierce burn that made her cry out, her muscles trembling from the prolonged exertion.

Finally, after what felt like an endless cycle of agony and brief pauses, the baby's head crowned; and with one more exhaustive effort, the child slipped free into the doctor's waiting hands.

A nurse quickly suctioned the tiny mouth and nose, and the room filled with the sharp cry of new life. The doctor clamped and cut the cord, then wrapped the infant in a soft blanket before placing her in the mother's arms.

She looked down at the baby girl, noting with quiet satisfaction how the little face already carried fair features, smooth and untroubled; altered within the womb to resemble a Caucasian. The child quieted against her chest, tiny fingers curling as she held her close, the exhaustion mingling with a profound relief.

One of the nurses adjusted the sheet to cover her properly, ensuring everything appeared decent, while another stepped out to fetch Richard. He entered moments later, breaking into an expression of awe as the doctor handed him the bundled child.

"She's healthy. No defects at all," the doctor said with a reassuring smile. A white lie, but one that wouldn't found out with any luck.

Richard cradled the baby, his eyes welling with tears that spilled over in silent joy, the weight of his past insecurities lifting at last.

"She's perfect, Sadie," he whispered. "She's perfect."

1994

She stood in the narrow kitchen of the two-story townhouse, wiping her hands on a dish towel after rinsing a coffee mug in the sink. Sunlight filtered through the window overlooking the communal back yard, where neighbors' laundry fluttered, and a few children played tag among the patchy grass.

Silent Hill felt quieter these days, especially in the middle of town away from the tourist bustle; but semi-retired now, she appreciated the slow pace it offered after years in the city.

A knock at the front door pulled her from her thoughts, and she crossed the small living room, its walls lined with framed photos Richard had taken over the years — landscapes of the lake; candid shots of her in costume.

Opening the door revealed Annette, her twenty-two-year-old daughter, standing on the stoop with a tentative smile.

"Mom," Annette said, stepping inside for a quick hug. "I hope it's okay I dropped by unannounced. Dad's at work, right?"

Richard had left early for the photo lab he ran in the downtown; and so she nodded, closing the door behind her.

"He is," she said. "Come in, sit down. You look like you have something on your mind."

Annette had finished her undergraduate degree a year early at Brockton Bay University in New Hampshire, pushing through with summer sessions every year; and was starting into a post-graduate program at the same school, working toward a doctorate in English Literature.

Marrying Danny Hebert during undergrad had worried her at first, fearing it might derail Annette's focus, potentially saddling her with a man who hadn't a source of stable income; but the girl had powered through, and Danny had after his graduation gotten a job with the Dockworker's Association in Brockton Bay — a position in human resources.

In the end, it seemed that she had been worried for nothing; but her remarks had apparently left Danny with the lasting impression that she disliked him, when that wasn't her intent.

"It's about me and Danny," said Annette. "We've been trying for a baby for a few months now, but nothing's happening. I went to a gynecologist alone last week — didn't tell him yet, because I wanted to figure it out first. The doctor said it's genetic incompatibility, and offered a few potential ways to fix it." Her voice softened, eyes meeting her mother's with that familiar trust. "But I came to you because you know best, Mom. What do you think I should do?"

The faint wrinkles on her face — applied by creating lines of tightness with her thoughtography — deepened slightly as she considered her daughter's worried expression.

She happened to be familiar with genetic incompatibility — or as it was formerly known, histoincompatibility. Medicine had advanced these decades past, and as a form of infertility, it was no longer untreatable. However, the treatment was quite involved, and potentially required in vitro fertilization.

Leaning forward, she placed a hand on her daughter's knee.

"There are options, like the doctor mentioned," she said. "But there's an easier solution to the problem."

2009

Her spoon clinked softly against the porcelain of her teacup as she looked up. Outside, the mist hung thick over Lindsey Street, muting the outlines of the neighboring townhouses and turning the morning light into a diffuse gray glow.

Glancing toward the front of the house, she made a confused expression.

"Taylor ... ?"

She set the teacup down on her table, and walked to the door.

Through the glass pane beside it, she saw a figure emerging from the haze, wrapped in a yellow raincoat stained with mold, hanging open awkwardly. The girl's long, pitch-black hair partially obscuring her eyes under the hood, her face blank with confusion. The raincoat did little to conceal her state; she wore nothing else beneath it.

Her granddaughter was supposed to be staying at the Saratoga Valley Youth Camp in the state park to the east. What precisely was she doing here, in such a state?

Taylor approached the door, steps faltering. She opened the door for the girl without hesitation, the air without carrying the earthy smell of rain-soaked brick.

"Taylor? What on earth —"

But Taylor's eyes met hers, wide and unfocused — mouth opening as if to speak, but releasing only an incoherent murmur. She swayed in the doorway and collapsed to her knees.

She sighed, and reached down.

"Let's get you inside, dear," she said, slipping an arm around Taylor's waist to guide her over the threshold.

Taylor managed another mumble, but the words trailed off, her disorientation etching lines of bewilderment across her face.

She tightened her hold, pulling Taylor fully into the warmth of the entryway. Just as she closed the door behind them, Taylor's legs gave way entirely, her body slumping against the wall with a soft thud. She knelt beside her, and brushed back a strand of Taylor's hair, watching as the girl's eyes fluttered without focus.

"Taylor, can you hear me?" she asked, her tone calm as she checked for any sign of injury.

No response came — only shallow breaths; and there wasn't any apparent injury as far as she could identify. Rising, she fetched a blanket from the living room, draping it over Taylor; tucking it around her to ward off the chill.

Heading back to the kitchen, she prepared to make several phone calls — the first to Danny, and a second to Nine-One-One.

She hadn't any idea as to how Taylor had ended up in such a state, but the important thing for now was to make sure she was alright. Explanations could come later.

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae: Silent Hill Arc
by Chapter and Rough Order of Mention

00:

Taylor Hebert:

Our protagonist. Has the abilities clairvoyance and thoughtography.
Was without a bra for most of the story arc.

Unnamed Camp Counselor:

If you think about it a bit, the culprit behind the whole story arc.

Jonathan Gagnon:

A charming gentleman, and an asshole. Probably a sociopath.

Megan Miller:

Phone-addicted, and a coward.

Andrew Davis:

Big, strong, and silent type. Trains a mental health dog, Luna.
Actually got in trouble for punching somebody shortly before attending camp, and was suspended from school for it.
Doesn't feel particularly guilty about it, because the other guy was an asshole.
Was probably spared from Silent Hill as a result.

Luna:

The mental health support dog Andrew is training.
There was supposed to be a chapter in which Taylor dreams that Luna is flying a UFO, but it was dropped.

Woman in the Raincoat / Annette Rose Hebert / Subject 02:

Mother dearest. A cannibal killer with hand and leg prosthetics.
Her breast size is actually substantially bigger than it used to be, due to medication given to her by Jennifer Carter.
Whatever happened to her resulted in the personality of Annette Rose Hebert becoming defunct; though the structures of her brain itself are intact and functional.
She is nothing but an animal that functions on instinct, influenced by Silent Hill to consume the brains of the Twenty-One Sacraments.

Sophie Tremblay:

XVIII. A sexy police officer.
For some reason, rather than a standard issue weapon, she has an engraved revolver.

Sadie Morgan:

Taylor's Gram.
Her wrinkles are actually a product of thoughtography, and she's younger than she appears.
Also, Sadie Morgan is not her real name.

Voice on the Phone:

It sounds like Taylor's Mom, but it's actually the town arranging for the Receiver of Wisdom.

Leggers:

A variety of manifestation, reflecting something in Megan's mind: a description of Emily after her torso had been split by trees, following her jump from a cliff.

John Faraday:

The "caretaker" of Silent Hill. He likes to take responsibility for things that he has no claim to.
He didn't actually curse anyone, probably. It's just that by his absence, his people had no one to give them last rites, and so began to attack people.
Manifestations in Silent Hill are physical expressions of souls, twisted and remade by intense psychic activity. In that sense, perhaps Faraday has some responsibility.

Evelyn Whitaker:

A historian. Dabbled in (the history of) alchemy at one point.

01:

Jennifer Carter:

V. The doctor initially responsible for caring for the Woman in the Raincoat.
She was trying to break her smoking habit, but ended up relapsing due to the stress.
To her credit, she didn't end up addicted to PTV.

Marcus Lin:

Nobody of import, but he was the supervising pathologist charged with caring for the Woman in the Raincoat.

Anglican Priest:

Officiated Annette's funeral. Was told that the corpse in the casket was heavily damaged, so didn't bother to look. Consequently, he didn't discover that the casket was empty.
Was only involved in the funeral at all because Sadie insisted on an Anglican service.
Despite being a priest in Silent Hill, he isn't shady at all.

Ellen:

An English instructor at Brockton Bay University. Attended Annette's funeral.

Paul:

A friend of Annette and Danny. Attended Annette's funeral.

Richard Morgan:

Taylor's Gramp. Deceased. Theoretically an Anglican, but didn't care for church.
A photographer and Vietnam veteran. A serious man of few words.
No relationship with the rancher of the same name in The Ring.

Danny Hebert:

Taylor's Dad. Aware of his wife and daughter's clairvoyance and thoughtography, but helped to keep it a secret.
After his wife died, he's grown somewhat neglectful of his daughter due to depression, but occasionally, he catches himself and puts in effort.

02:

The Nurse:

Has pornish proportions. A manifestation of Megan's mind, reflective of her ideal self.
Under her facial bandages, the face is disfigured, but if it weren't, she'd probably look like Megan.

Oversight Committee Member:

Member of the Order. Highly optimistic about the Woman in the Raincoat and her fulfillment of the role of the Holy Mother. Probably related in some way to the parties that pressured Jennifer Carter.

Ms. Harper:

Made out as a lesbian in a rumor started by Megan.
In actuality, she was in fact a closeted lesbian, but the accusation was over something harmless.

Emily Parsons:

Megan's victim. Killed herself by jumping off a cliff in a forest, whereupon her torso was bisected by a tree.
Doesn't actually appear in the present day of the story.

Kayla:

Megan's Henchwoman #1.

Sophia:

Megan's Henchwoman #2.
Because evil trios always feature a Sophia.

Kelly Summers:

The version of "Emily Parsons" that appears in the story, named after the pseudonym that Megan was using during her bullying of Emily.
A manifestation of Megan's mind: An Emily willing to hear Megan's apology.
It's probably a good thing that Megan didn't grasp her true nature.
Lifted the metal pipe that Taylor discarded in the hospital.
She's surprisingly good with it — about as good as Hinako.

03:

James George Frazer:

A historic figure. The author of The Golden Bough, largely credited with the coining of the notion of sympathetic magic.

H.P. Lovecraft:

A historic figure. Horror writer. The H.P. stands for Howard Phillips.
Had a black cat. His claim to fame was making out obscure traditions as having roots in ancient terrors.

John and Abigail:

Native Americans who were converts to Faraday's brand of Puritanism.
Led the recitation of hymns.

Thomas:

A Native American apothecary. Distributed herbs to the people of Perseverance.
Didn't give anyone White Claudia, though he was aware of it.

Unnamed Rider:

A poor Native American man who was repeatedly sent to the Massachusetts Bay Colony to seek help.

04:

Burning Corpses:

Deceased (burnt) Native Americans in prayer, releasing burning auras.
It almost appears as though they burned themselves in prayer.
They're actually manifestations summoned from Faraday's mind.

Elias Ward:

A Puritan minister serving the Massachusetts Bay Colony, in the district of Charlestown.
Unfortunately, he's far too sane to be a protagonist in a Lovecraftian narrative.
His investigation of the odd behavior of his acquaintance Francis Norton after Norton's death ends up revealing a perfectly reasonable crime.

Francis Norton:

A historic individual (1602-1667), though the account of his life differs in this story.
Served as a deputy of the Court of Assistants in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
He suffered from somnambulism toward the end of his life, with terrible Lovecraftian dreams, described in vague terms.

Mary Norton:

Unnamed in the fic. Theoretically a historic individual, but her role is entirely fictitious.

Josiah Hale:

An Elder of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
Has the role of a friend character who is entirely unaffected by the eldritch horror of a Lovecraftian narrative, despite observing from the sidelines.

John Endecott:

A historic individual (1588-1665).
Served as governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony for multiple terms.
In this story, he died under similar circumstances to Francis Norton.

Thomas Wiggin:

A historic individual (1592-1666), though the account of his life differs in this story.
A commissioner of the northern reaches, at Lord's Bay (later Brockton Bay).
Died under similar circumstances to Francis Norton.

Catherine Whiting Wiggin:

A historic individual (1601-1667), though her role in this story is mostly fictionalized.
In this fic, she's a typical widow who fell sickly because of heartbreak from the death of her husband Thomas.

Unnamed Servant:

A male house servant of Catherine Wiggin, stoic and silent. A typical figure in a Lovecraftian narrative.

05:

Gray Boy:

A member of the Slaughterhouse Nine.
Trapped people in time loops.

Louis Darget:

A historic individual.
A French military officer and amateur scientist, who claimed to be capable of photographing thoughts.

Jules Bernard Luys:

A historic individual.
A neurologist who investigated Louis Darget.

Hippolyte Baraduc:

A historic individual.
A physician who investigated Louis Darget.

Eva Carrière:

A historic individual.
A French medium, claimed to be capable of manifesting ectoplasmic forms, onto which images could be projected.

Albert von Schrenck-Notzing:

A historic individual.
A psychical researcher who publicized claims about Eva Carrière's psychic abilities.

Carlos María de Heredia:

A historic individual.
A magician who debunked Eva Carrière's claims, replicating her effects using everyday items like gauze and combs.

Chizuko Mifune:

A historic individual.
A Japanese clairvoyant from Kumamoto Prefecture, later disgraced in a public demonstration conducted by psychologist Tomokichi Fukurai, where it was demonstrated that hidden messages were shown to her. Committed suicide soon after.

Ikuko Nagao:

A historic individual.
A Japanese thoughtographer, with her feats documented by Tomokichi Fukurai. After experiments she was involved in were suspected of tampering, she discontinued participation, and died of illness soon after.

Tomokichi Fukurai:

A historic individual.
A psychologist, prominent in the research of parapsychology.
Studied Chizuko Mifune and Ikuko Nagao, who both died soon after being disgraced as false psychics.
That's two of two for psychics that Fukurai researched ...

Ted Serios:

A historic individual.
An American from Chicago, famed for his thoughtography, and endorsed by the psychiatrist Jule Eisenbud.
Debunked by James Randi, who demonstrated that his results could be replicated via sleight of hand and pre-exposed film.

Jule Eisenbud:

A historic individual.
A psychiatrist who endorsed Ted Serios.

James Randi:

A historic individual.
A famous magician and professional skeptic.

Satoshi Kawaguchi:

A Japanese parapsychologist of the University of Tokyo, who demonstrated the veracity of thoughtography under controlled circumstances in 1994.
However, the phenomenon he proved fell somewhat short of the capabilities of parahuman powers.

Jonathan's Mom:

French-speaking. Wasn't aware that her son was a sociopath.

Eric:

A close friend of Jonathan's; thinks he's a decent, upstanding guy.
Was the recipient of a one-sided crush from a kid named Jamie, though he wasn't aware of it.
Not very perceptive.

Jacob, Liam, and Sam:

Friends of Jonathan, who he chatted with on Yahoo Groups.
A bunch of horny boys.

Jamie:

A quiet boy who's actually intersexual, developing female secondary sexual characteristics.
Self-identifies as a boy; a closeted male homosexual. Publicly wears clothes that downplay his figure.
He likes the fact that he's developing feminine traits, but doesn't want this to be known to anyone that he doesn't explicitly disclose it to.
Has a one-sided crush on Eric, but this hasn't been discovered by Eric, despite substantial messaging.
Agreed to give "favors" to Jonathan in exchange for his silence regarding his identity as the "girl" in the photo Jonathan distributed.
This remains unknown to Eric, despite Jamie maintaining a friendly relationship with him.
Probably the one who benefitted the most from Taylor and company's excursion into the woods.
Free from Jonathan's influence, he'll be capable of pursuing a relationship with Eric as he desires.

Unnamed Nurse:

A nurse at the hospital Jamie was at after his suicide attempt.
Unfortunately, she was involved in a systemic lapse in judgement, being party to prematurely placing Jamie off of suicide watch and close monitoring.
Though it turned out okay in the end, Jonathan shouldn't have been permitted to blackmail Jamie.

06:

Foghorn Leghorn:

A Looney Tunes character; the subject of Taylor's copyright infringement.

Unnamed Television Anchor:

Extremely boring for a five year old.

Paracelsus:

A historical figure. The father of modern pharmacology.
Wrote some kooky stuff about the Holy Communion that should've totally gotten him excommunicated from the Catholic Church.

Michael Maier:

A historical figure. A German physician, alchemist, Rosicrucian, and composer active during the late Renaissance and early 17th century.

Carl Jung:

A historical figure. A psychiatrist.
Didn't actually believe in alchemy, but argued that it was figuratively legitimate.
Originator of the shared unconscious, the notion that all humans unconsciously process stories in their environments in same general way, extracting the same archetypes; and synchronicity, a phenomenon whereby humans interpret events in such a way as to prioritize the identification of salient similarities, leading to an exaggeration of the apprehension that coincidences have arisen.
A lot of his concepts appear to point to supernatural or paranormal explanations, but this is because the people who interpret them can't be bothered to read.

Adam and Lilith:

The first man, though man in this case is a misnomer, because Adam and Lilith were a single androgynous being.
In certain Kabbalistic traditions, the primordial androgynous being was known as Adam Kadmon.

God:

A hermaphroditic existence.
Silent upon the affairs of the present world.
The "silent" in Silent Hill is "the silence of God."

Basil Valentine:

A historical figure, better known as Basilius Valentinus, though this is a pseudonym.
Wrote alchemical texts.

Éliphas Lévi:

A historical figure. In truth, this was a pseudonym used by Alphonse Louis Constant, a French esotericist, poet, and author.
Dabbled in the occult, writing a number of influential works on the subject.

Ardhanarishvara:

In Hindu mythology, described as the composite form of Shiva and Parvati, half-male and half-female.

Abraham Eleazar:

A historical figure. Writer of works on alchemy.
The name appears to be a pseudonym.

Bennett:

An orderly at Brookhaven Hospital.
No relation to Cybil Bennett.
Killed by the Woman in the Raincoat in a foggy version of Silent Hill, though he wasn't one of the Twenty-One.

Patrick Chester:

A Union soldier in the Civil War.
Killed by the Confederacy.

Edward Chester:

The father of Patrick, and a Union officer in the Civil War.
Founder of Alchemilla Hospital and Toluca Prison, which was originally a camp for prisoners-of-war.
Though he was ultimately killed by the Confederacy, he did some horrific things prior to that, in vengeance for his son.
The inscription on his statue, "In the fires of justice, freedom for all," reads rather suspiciously, no?

07:

The Ballerina:

Has pornish proportions. A manifestation of Megan's mind, reflective of her ideal self as a prima donna; though a prima donna can only be a prima donna with an audience.
As you might expect, Megan is actually deeply insecure about her proportions, feeling herself overly skinny and slender.
In a few years, she'll probably get breast implants.

The Headless Musicians:

A manifestation of Megan's mind, reflective of those who support her in the role of a prima donna.

Antonin Artaud:

A historic figure. Originator of the Theatre of Cruelty, a post-modernist style of theater that emphasizes primitive emotion.
The person for which the theater in which the Ballerina was fought was named.

Émile Laurent:

A posh French theater critic. Probably wears sunglasses habitually, speaking with long drawls and hand gestures.

Charles Darwin:

A historic figure. The father of evolution.

08:

Man in the Psych Ward:

An iconic character in the movie Jacob's Ladder, though he only appeared for a few seconds.
A black man without legs, seated on a medical table, whose head was twitching uncontrollably.
Inspired all the characters with twitching heads in Silent Hill.

Worksite Suitability Assessment Evaluator:

An evaluator employed in the Order.
Showed empathy for Jennifer Carter, though this is probably entirely incidental to his role.

Unnamed Superiors:

Order members that were directly responsible for Jennifer Carter's stress.

Cannibalistic Woman:

The (recreation of the) last survivor of Perseverance, who ate her own dead child to extend her life.
She has symptoms that resemble kuru, but they manifested far faster than expected; though she's been consuming the fallen Native Americans of her town for some time.
Probably, there is a psychological cause for her condition, or she's being affected by Silent Hill.
In actuality, she's a manifestation of Faraday's mind, though she's based on a real person.

The Eaten Child:

A naked emaciated girl.

Psych Ward Inhabitants:

Manifestations of Faraday's mind, recreating the fates of the Wicked.
They're totally ripped wholesale from Jacob's Ladder.

09:

Dead Orderly:

The deceased individual holding the electronic gate open at the front of the Experimental Ward, on the 3rd floor of Alchemilla Hospital.
Killed by the Woman in the Raincoat, who left a gaping wound in his neck.
Alchemilla has a practice of only employing female nurses and nurse practitioners, and male orderlies. These male orderlies are not licensed, typically perform non-medical roles, and are paid roughly a third of the wages of a nurse.
As to why this is, somebody in the Order is deeply sexist.

Other Nurses and Orderlies:

All dead.

Rebecca Adams:

XII. A rather frigid nurse in her late thirties.
Serious about her job; one of several nurses that administrate the Experimental Ward at Alchemilla. Employed by Anchorage Medical Systems, and not a member of the Order.
Does not disclose the origins of the Experimental Ward patients to her subordinates, though she knows that they originate from the Order. Takes her NDAs seriously enough that she waives some ethical considerations; though she treats the patients as well as possible.
Despite appearances, she's rather nice, and treats her subordinates well.
Notably not as voluptuous as the Nurse.
Wears a red cardigan, but has no relation to Lisa Garland.

Julia Thompson:

One of the nurses who died in the hallway.
The only witness to Faraday's presence in the ward.
At the point that she witnessed him, the ward had already entered Silent Hill.

The Medeoulin:

Native American shaman, who in 1573 approached the Nahkeehona on a pilgrimage, to consult to the spirits' wisdom.
Twenty-five years old, married; has a wife and child at the time of the pilgrimage.
The pilgrimage is something that he wants to be finished with, but he doesn't have a choice, because it's tied to his mastery.
He wasn't expecting that the spirit he contacted would actually tell him something notable.
Note that Wabenaki, of which the medeoulin belongs to, share no blood with the Native Americans who later came to inhabit Perseverance, having died to epidemics or wars, or moved north to Canada.
But if they were still present in the region when Perseverance came into being, they probably would've been uninclined to talk with them, viewing them as violators of the Silent Place.

Old Kisuhs:

A deceased Native American man. His soul was added to the collective that resided in the Silent Place; probably remade or processed in some way.
Incidentally, the canoe he's carried in belonged to him in life, though in recent years, it's been his son using it.

Bearers of the Canoe:

Native Americans; members of funerary procession, selected at random from the boys coming of age.
They're tasked with remaining perfectly silent as they carry the canoe into the Silent Place.
They don't have to remain silent before entering the vicinity of Toluca Lake; the distance is roughly two days from their village by foot.

The Flowering Man:

A spirit that answers the medeoulin's call.
Takes the shape of a man with elongated limbs and fingers, covered in spider lily.
He's not actually capable of seeing the future. Rather, he sees inevitabilities:
A being with the features of the rebis will at some point consume the Silent Place, because only a rebis is qualified to do so.
She will come "when the seed of man is proliferate; spread to every hill and valley in this land," because at that point, the population is large enough that the arrival of such a being is likely.
She's going to be "born anew" because in her default form she can't withstand the spiritual pressures brought on by the act of consumption.
She'll welcome "a new age of gods and monsters," because at the point a rebis emerges, prodigies are likely to abound.
In other words, the prophecy is just a statement of fact regarding a future in which human connectivity abounds, bringing forth a rebis. It's not so prophetic when rephrased as such.
Incidentally, he's not referring to a Two-Spirit; that's a concept invented in 1990.

10:

Native American Girl:

Questioned Faraday on the nature of the Devil.
Though Faraday feels some sympathy for the Devil, the girl doesn't.

The Devil:

The prince of this world; the god of this age.
Ascribed by Faraday to take on the attributes of the Devil from Job (the Adversary; the Accuser), who only acts on the permission of God.
Therefore, in the temptation of Jesus in his forty days in the desert, Faraday imagines that he speaks only as God bids.

Jesus Christ:

The word of God manifest.

Silent Hill Police Department Spokesperson:

Most of the statements that cross his desk are bad news.

Parahuman Response Team Northeast Spokesperson:

Works in Boston.

11:

Sadie's Father:

An abusive man. Forced Sadie into an engagement with a man she didn't know.

Sadie's Mother:

Enabled the father through inaction.

Sadie's Older Sister:

Trapped in a life of servitude by her marriage.

Sadie's Childhood Friend:

A boy, a schoolmate of Sadie's, who supplied Sadie with an addictive hallucinogen, supposedly to deal with her stress from her father's expectations, and from her impending marriage.

The Cook:

Tends to answer questions in grunts.
Capable of cooking almost anything, though he tends toward sloppily prepared and oily meals if not specifically requested to avoid these.

The Gynecologist:

Runs a private practice, but simultaneously holds a position in a large general hospital.
Lies to protect the interests of his patients, compromising on his medical ethics.

Unnamed Nurse:

She was busy answering a phone call when Richard approached her to pay.
It was a legitimately urgent call from a patient, and not gossip.
Incidentally, in the early 1970s, patients would pay at clinics directly.

Nurses:

The gynecologist's assistants, helping to deliver Annette.

Chapter Text

The television flickered through the same nine channels again and again. A gray-haired man in a cardigan explained the mating habits of emperor penguins. A woman in a navy blazer read the morning headlines in a voice that never rose or fell. A cooking segment showed a woman whisking eggs — though yesterday, I'd already seen the part later on, where she made custard filling.

I pressed the remote anyway, thumb sliding over the worn rubber buttons, watching the numbers climb from seven to eight to nine, and then back to one. Nothing new appeared. What kind of soulless maniac designed the programming for these channels?

Dad stood at the foot of the bed buttoning his cuffs, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt already creased from sitting in the plastic chair all night. His eyes were pink-rimmed, but he kept smiling the small, careful smile he used when he didn't want me to worry.

"I let them know I'll be late," he said. "Kurt said take whatever time you need."

I nodded. The Dockworkers' Association was quiet this time of year. Half the men were on seasonal layoff, and the other half were waiting for ships that might never come. Dad could vanish for a morning and no one would page him.

"I'll have to use the toilet before I leave," he said.

"Go ahead."

He disappeared into the little bathroom. The door didn't close all the way; it never did in these rooms. I heard the toilet flush, water running; the soft rasp of paper towels from the dispenser. He always used the patient bathroom instead of the one down the hall. I think he didn't want to leave me alone even for thirty seconds.

When he came out he was drying his hands on a fistful of brown paper towels that he folded neatly before dropping into the bin.

He picked his jacket off the back of the recliner, and shrugged it on — thin cotton, which he wore even in summer, because the air conditioning at his office always felt cold to him.

"You sure you're okay by yourself?" he asked. He rested one hand on the bed rail, knuckles brushing the sleeve of my gown. "I can stay longer. I'll call again."

I shook my head.

"I'm fine, Dad. Really."

He studied my face the way he used to when I was little and claimed I wasn't tired right before falling asleep on the couch. Then he nodded, accepting it because he had to get to the office eventually.

"I'll stop at the library on my way back tonight," he said. "Anything special you want?"

"Surprise me."

That earned a real smile, quick and tired.

"Deal," he said.

He leaned over the rail and kissed the top of my head, the same place he always kissed, right where my hair parted. His stubble scratched my scalp. Then he straightened, gave the room one last look like he was memorizing it, and walked out.

The door clicked shut, and I let my head sink deeper into the pillow, putting my right forearm across my eyes.

Nothing fit together quite yet.

I remembered the elevator, rising forever through its shaft. I remembered the warehouse floor; remembered my mother, in her yellow raincoat; the ice she froze me with; the smell on her breath as she clutched my forehead, pushing her face up to mine.

After that, there was a hard cut to white ceiling tiles and the soft beeping of monitors; Dad's hand wrapped around mine while a doctor talked about an 'acute psychotic episode' and 'chemical restraint' and 'favorable prognosis.'

Everything in between had been erased.

They told me Gram found me on her doorstep in South Vale, barefoot and wearing nothing but Mom's raincoat. She'd wrapped me in a blanket and called Nine-One-One. I'd been taken — irony of ironies — straight back to Alchemilla; though the hospital was apparently facing increased scrutiny from the authorities, due to a certain ward straight up vanishing.

Dad had driven through the night to get there. By the time he arrived they'd already shot something into my arm that turned the world off like a light switch. When I opened my eyes again, I was here, in Brockton Bay General.

They moved me out of the ICU two days ago, in the morning. The psychiatrist who came by had kind eyes and a clipboard and asked gentle questions about my state of mind; what I recalled.

I told her a lie: that I didn't remember anything at all.

She wrote something down — I'd been too out of it to note what — and said I could stay on in the regular ward for a few more days of observation while the new medicine settled. A tiny paper cup of pills every morning and night. They tasted chalky and made my mouth dry, but I swallowed without complaint.

There were forty minutes before the nurse came back with her cart and her blood-pressure cuff. If I was wearing a watch, I could set it by the schedule now. I let my arm slide off my face and stared up at the acoustic tiles, counting the little holes the way I used to count cracks in the ceiling of my bedroom.

The television droned on about storm fronts moving in from the Atlantic. Outside the window the sky looked flat and gray, like someone had pulled a curtain across the sun.

I couldn't remember how the confrontation with my mother had gone past a certain point.

At the very least, I could say that that thing — that monster I'd encountered back in Alchemilla — wasn't her anymore; wasn't the woman who'd read me poetry until I'd dozed off; who'd baked lopsided pies on rainy afternoons. Whatever had twisted her — transfigured her into a pneumatic nightmare — had stripped away every last trace of the person I'd once known.

In that sense, my mother was long dead — her essence snuffed out somewhere in that endless mist, replaced by a hollow echo that wore her skin.

But several times, in the quiet stretches between nurse visits the past day or two, I pictured it: the way her hands, the fingers that once braided my hair, had ended up as hooks that gouged.

It should have gutted me, seeing her reduced to that; but the image floated by like a leaf on water, observed but not sinking in.

It wasn't the awful feeling I'd felt a year ago, when the police had knocked on our door, faces carved with practiced sympathy as they handed over the report about the car accident.

That grief had been a weight in my chest for months, sharp and unrelenting, turning every corner of the house into a reminder — the empty chair at breakfast; the half-read books stacked by her side of the master bed; even the faint lavender from her shampoo clinging to the pillows long after Dad had washed the linens twice.

I'd wake up gasping some nights, convinced I'd heard her humming in the hallway, only to find the oppressive silence.

This felt different. Muted somehow, like the volume had been turned down on the whole scene before it could fully play out.

Maybe it was the drugs they had me on. Maybe those chalky tasting tablets had sanded the edges off of what might have been raw.

The uncertainty lingered, though. I knew that trauma didn't always announce itself immediately. It could burrow in slow, waiting for a trigger like a familiar song on the radio or the scent of rain on pavement.

But as I lay there, tracing the patterns in the ceiling tiles with my gaze, I didn't feel that pull toward unraveling.

I wasn't a psychiatrist. I didn't know how these things worked — how the brain sorted its wreckage into neat piles, or let it spill over without warning. All I had was a strange, settling calm that wrapped around me like fog over the lake.

I wanted to think that perhaps what I'd encountered in Silent Hill was nothing more than a dream, but the distinct changes to my powers proved otherwise. Something that had rewritten the rules while I'd slept; substantially expanded them.

When I'd woken up in the ICU, I had an instinctive grasp of the changes. It wasn't words or instructions, but an intuitive understanding of the revised reach and scope of my new abilities, as if my mind had stretched to accommodate.

I hadn't had a chance to play around with them too much yet — not with Dad dozing off in the chair across the room, and nurses padding in every hour to check vitals; but a test yesterday, in the hours Dad was gone — etching the faint outline of a bird into the underside of the overbed table — had confirmed that my older powerset was indeed intact.

As to my new abilities, I'd experimented with a few of them.

I could now assert a zone of clairvoyance to every instance of thoughtography I produced. Simply by creating dots at the boundaries of my range, I could extend my clairvoyance by ten more meters. And if at these extended boundaries, I created yet more dots, my range could be extended once again.

There was no limit, save for the fact that zones of clairvoyance aside from the one centered upon my body needed to be consciously attended to. I wasn't aware of them by default.

And anywhere within my range of clairvoyance, I could project instances of myself, in whole or in part — clones that connected to my consciousness, whose anatomy could somewhat be adjusted; associated with their own zones of clairvoyance, of which I was always aware.

Pinned stationary relative to an object in my range, I could project portals to a pocket dimension, where the other side defaulted to a foggy version of a location adjacent to wherever the portal was instantiated — much like Silent Hill.

Faraday had referred to himself as the 'caretaker' of the town. Could it be that I'd inherited his power? I'd read of the Butchers; of the collective abilities they wielded, which latched on to another host after death. Was I now the 'caretaker,' inheriting Silent Hill in the same manner?

Closing my eyes, I turned my attention to the bathroom door, willing a portal into being. Without so much fanfare, the door now entered into a mist-shrouded duplicate of the space.

I didn't physically move from the bed; it wasn't necessary for me to see inside, because I had clairvoyance over the entirety of it — the dull gleam of the lights on the porcelain toilet; the droplets of water that still splattered the sink; the fold-down seat beneath the shower.

At first glance, there wasn't much of interest in the pocket dimension, but I could unconditionally create and delete three-dimensional instances of thoughtography in it; reshape objects at will, without the requisite anchor of a flat surface. Everything within was treated as if it was formed of thoughtography, apparently having been born from the same process.

I focused on the toilet, erasing it instantaneously; replacing it with a flat stretch of non-slip tiles. Upon the tiles, I summoned a toy car — the kind I'd played with as a kid on rainy days, when Mom had set up obstacle courses from the couch cushions.

The wind-up mechanism was instantiated with a bit of tension to it, which set the car rolling toward the open doorway. Its path remained roughly straight, bumping over the threshold and into the hospital room proper, the wheels spinning on the linoleum until it collided into a wall and came to a stop.

I let it linger there for a moment before willing it gone. Outside the pocket dimension, I remained unable to manifest thoughtography without a surface; I tried to summon another car into the air directly over the bed, but nothing happened.

I couldn't help but think that my version of this fell quite short of Faraday's manifestation of Silent Hill, if indeed it was the same power. I wasn't able to summon monsters like the nurse or the ballerina. In my instinctive apprehension, the capacity to do so seemed entirely missing.

Maybe it required pulling somebody into the space, or entering myself? I didn't exactly feel like experimenting with it right now; and doing so with somebody else, if consensual, required disclosing the details of my power. That carried all sorts of risks.

Assuming I went out as a cape, it'd probably have to wait until I confronted a criminal, just to see if the mist gave form to their fears without my say-so; but it might turn out that I lacked the ability entirely.

Was I actually right about inheriting Faraday's power? Or was it the case that the fog was just a coincidence, like a stylistic echo from the town bleeding into my trigger?

Sans the plano glasses on my bedstand, I sat up in the bed, willing the portal in the bathroom door to vanish. It was gone in an instant, and I decided to push a bit further with my abilities; to test the edges of the parts that were unfamiliar. So far, I'd tried duplicating arms and legs; and today, I'd attempt something a bit different.

I focused on the empty space right in front of me, on the rumpled white sheet beside my knees, letting an instance of my own head materialize. It appeared upright, the neck ending in a clean stump just below the larynx. No blood welled up from the cross-section; instead, the muscles flexed faintly against the sheets, pink and raw but dry. There was no circulation to keep the head alive, but this seemed not to matter.

I blinked the head's eyes open. They were dark and wide, staring back at me with an expression that I kept carefully neutral.

This wasn't thoughtography. I hadn't created the head by layering atoms atop a flat surface. The projections of me somehow skipped that step entirely, blooming into three dimensions wherever I pictured them. Why there was a difference, I couldn't say.

Looking at the head from my body's perspective and vice versa felt straightforward at first, like peering at my reflection in a mirror; but focusing on the features of my face, a wave of unease rolled through me, sharp enough that the room seemed to tilt.

It wasn't nausea, exactly; but all the same, it made me feel an intense sense of disgust. Not stomach-turning, but it may as well have been.

In that double gaze, the faces staring back at me were off, with cheekbones sharper than I remembered; different contours; fuller lips, and a narrower mouth; eyes brighter, less hidden behind the fringe of my bangs.

It was me, but somehow it wasn't, like someone had adjusted the angles that I saw every morning in the bathroom mirror. The features were almost — prettier? — if they weren't so incredibly wrong.

I let the discomfort settle for a moment, breathing through it, closing my eyes.

Replicating limbs or other bits was fine. They were separate from my perspective, and thus manageable, like an extra set of tools that I could wield or discard. But eyes? I didn't know what it was about seeing my own face, but it really messed me up.

Clairvoyance worked differently. I'd experimented with extending my range yesterday — layering sight across the room, and down the corridor. It never twisted like this, even when I observed myself.

The sight of my own face hadn't been of issue.

Sighing and erasing the head, I turned to my right arm — the one not connected to the IV — willing away the forearm and hand; the parts below the elbow. The gown's sleeve hung empty for a beat before the fabric settled against the new stump. I lifted what remained, turning it slowly in the light from the window.

The same erasure that worked on my sketches applied here, too. I could feel the potential, ready to wipe away chunks of myself on a whim. My whole body could go away if I pushed it, fading out until nothing of me remained; but I pulled back from the thought.

This was something that my instincts didn't quite cover, but trying it seemed like a bad idea — like it might lead to something irrevocable. I wasn't ready to find out what.

I willed my missing bits back into place, and they snapped into existence without a hitch — the bones knitting seamlessly under the skin; muscles flexing as blood rushed through veins that hadn't been there a second before.

I curled my fingers into a loose fist, testing to confirm the nerves were all firing right. It felt no different from the rest of me, as if the absence had been nothing more than a momentary lapse in attention. I flexed my wrist once more, watching the gown's cuff ride up over the knob of bone, then let my arm drop to the mattress.

I shifted my gaze to the window along the left wall, the curtains half-drawn against the overcast light.

The glass showed a slice of the city below: the hospital's facade giving way to the street, where cars sat nose-to-tail along the curbs, their hoods dulled by a thin layer of dust from the summer haze.

Across the way, the buildings rose in neat rows, the first floors lined with shop windows that caught the gray daylight in faint reflections — a coffee place with a chalkboard sign propped outside; a dry cleaner next to it with suits hanging like ghosts in the steam.

An alley cut between them, narrow and shadowed, its brick walls scarred from years of weather and neglect. One side bore a set of steps — a rusted fire escape that sagged under its own weight.

A range of ten meters felt like plenty in the confines of the room; but out there, stretched across the open air, it shrank fast. The street spanned wider than that — enough space for traffic to crawl through without scraping fenders.

Getting anything across would mean chaining the reach, hopping from one anchor to the next like stepping stones over a gap too wide to jump.

I slumped against the mattress, closing my eyes to block out the flicker of the television. The first dot came easy, a pinpoint of nothing much on the street lamp right below the window — a curved arm holding the light fixture, with its base bolted into the sidewalk.

My sight bloomed outward with the placement, sharp and unblinking; picking up the grit on the lamp's surface; the faint heat ripple from the bulb, warmed by the sun despite the cloud cover. Pedestrians came into view as well, passing below the lamp.

I pushed another dot across to the matching lamp on the opposite curb. One more hop, and I etched the final dot onto the alley wall, just above the lip of a dented metal dumpster shoved against the bricks.

The fire escape creaked faintly in the breeze, and the air carried a stale undercurrent of garbage and rain-soaked cardboard. I couldn't actually hear or smell it, but 'seeing' the flow and vibration of the molecules clued me in on the environmental details.

Beside the dumpster, I willed a full iteration of my body into being — legs folded in a crouch, suspended a hair's breadth above the ground to account for the drop. It coalesced in the span of a breath — not even a full second — the form solidifying from nothing into a warm, breathing reality: skin over muscle; lungs drawing in the alley's stale air, laced with the tang of rotting fruit from the bin.

But I didn't stop at bare flesh. Layers unfurled outward from the skin in tandem, weaving into fabric that clung briefly to the contours of my body before I introduced molecular cleavage, slicing clean the boundaries to free the clothing as separate wholes: a simple white one-piece dress that fell mid-thigh, its hem straight and unadorned; knee-high socks in soft cotton; and plain white shoes with low heels.

The projection settled, shoes already present to buffer against the grime-slick concrete. The outfit was basic; functional but plain — the kind of thing that might pass without a second glance on a warm day like this.

Maybe I should pick up a book on fashion sometime, I thought; or at least flip through one of those magazines in the waiting rooms downstairs — something to refine the details beyond this stark simplicity.

The dual awareness was a presence on my mind, with the senses of the me in the alley somehow distinct and separate from the me in bed; though the shift of my weight against the fabric of the dress was a bit distracting. I didn't want to bother designing a bra, though, so it couldn't be helped.

The split in perception was still disorienting; but with my eyes closed in bed — not staring at my own face — it wasn't quite so disruptive.

Stepping around the trash bin, I made my way toward the mouth of the alley, taking in my surroundings as I joined the flow of pedestrians.

A woman in scrubs hurried past with a coffee cup steaming in her hand, her gaze fixed on the crosswalk signal ahead. Two men in work vests leaned against a parked van, one lighting the other's cigarette, their conversation lost in the low rumble of an idling bus. None spared me a glance. I fell into step with the sparse morning crowd, bangs falling forward to curtain my face.

Sight had tripped me up back in the room. If I skipped the eyes altogether; left the sockets empty, maybe I could avoid the unease? Or alternatively, I could drape my hair — let the darkness of whatever shadows I'd prowl in swallow the details.

It felt like a trick worth holding on to; something to use along with a mask or a hood, once I decided on a cape name. Using thoughtography, my face could be adjusted as well; though it'd have to be restricted to minor tweaks — nothing blatantly unnatural.

My hand brushed along a chain-link fence bordering a vacant lot, the feeling of the metal grounding the stray ideas as another block slipped by.

In practice, the range of my clairvoyance was infinite, so long as there were solid surfaces. Placing a dot on a rooftop vent, and another on the faded billboard across the way, a slice of the neighborhood suddenly unfolded in my mind's eye.

I could lace the city like that, hopscotching from fixture to fixture until Brockton Bay was under my surveillance in entirety. Crime wouldn't be able to hide. I'd catch the shuffle of a dealer in the Docks; the flash of a knife in the Boardwalk lots; the telltale ripple of a cape warping the air near the Rig. I'd drop a quick tip to the PRT for the powered stuff, and the BBPD for the rest — anonymous calls placed from a burner I'd get from a corner cell phone shop; no face attached.

I wasn't too familiar with the Golden Age of comics, but wasn't there a hero that did something similar? The Shadow, I think he was called. Had a cheesy catchphrase, like 'the Shadow knows.' I could do something like that.

The notion pulled at me as I crossed against the light, weaving past a cluster of teens in hoodies laughing over a shared phone screen. But I reined it in.

Too loud. Too fast. It would light me up like a flare to any thinker, Protectorate or rogue. And the capes on the other side? One wrong matchup, and I'd wake up leashed to some gang's payroll, reporting back on their rivals while they dangled threats over Dad.

No, that wasn't the play to go for. Not without layers. Not without time to map the risks.

I let the extra dots dissolve one by one, the outer edges of my vision snapping back like rubber bands, leaving just the stretch of sidewalk before me in focus.

Mom's voice echoed up from somewhere deep — that kitchen-table talk from years back, about the way capes pulled you under if you showed them your abilities.

She'd wanted this for me: the peace and quiet of anonymity, with my power folded away like a spare key in a drawer, safe and small. But the city ground on around me — grinding people to dust as it rotted, festering in its gradual decline.

This wasn't Gotham City, and I wasn't Batman.

If doing something about it meant that I'd be exposed to danger, then fine — I'd abide by what Mom would've wanted; keep myself clear of the mess. Or something closely proximate, carving out a space where the shadows kept me covered.

Projections made things easier, at least. My real body could vegetate at home, while I was simultaneously out and about. I didn't even need a full clone to do the heavy lifting. Clairvoyance and projection alone could handle things — rearranging a thug's grip on his piece, or etching warnings into fogged windows.

I paused at a bus stop, fingers tracing the scarred wood of the bench as I sat, absently playing out the possibilities in my head. It was worth considering, I thought; but at this point, I wasn't going to commit to it. It needed a bit more thought.

My gaze drifted skyward, and my mind circled back to blanketing the city in dots.

Pushing the risks aside for a moment, the plan crumbled to practical considerations. Even supposing I established city-wide surveillance without issue, I wouldn't be able to handle the sheer volume of crime. I'd catch glimpses of a dozen scenes at once, and each would demand a sliver of attention.

Time factored in as well. Trying to chase every shadow would leave me scattered; overburdened.

Mom had mentioned field hospitals over dinner at some point, her fork pausing mid-bite as she described the system they used to sort the chaos of the battlefield:

Triage — a word that sounded almost gentle, until you realized it was about cutting lives short because you didn't have the time.

Red tags went first — the ones bleeding out but with a fighting chance if you clamped the artery quick enough.
Yellows could hold for a stretch — fractures and burns that throbbed but wouldn't kill in the next hour.
Greens got shuffled to the end — sprains and scratches that people could grit through on their own; the kind of injuries that patched themselves if you just handed over a bandage and pointed to the door.

Black tags were the ones who were too far gone. They weren't spoken of much in her account, beyond the fact that medics learned to walk on by as victims died, suffering in their last moments. It wasn't out of cruelty, but because pouring your last ounce of strength into a vessel that wouldn't hold only hastened the deaths of all other patients.

After Mom went to bed, I'd flipped through the books on the subject, wondering how anyone managed to steel themselves enough to apply the tags. But thinking about it now, it wasn't so mysterious. There were only so many hours in a day, and so many things I could do.

Out here, the principle became something usable; something common-sense — a filter for the going-ons of the city.

Not every wrong qualified as a black, and chasing greens like jaywalkers or litterers would burn daylight on something that would barely tip the scales. But the reds and yellows? A mugging in the making under a viaduct; a drug dealer cornering a kid half his size — these were the things I could do something about.

With my hands in the pockets of my dress, I shifted on the bench, crossing one knee over the other as a bus wheezed to a halt nearby, dumping exhaust as its doors hissed open to spill out a handful of passengers.

I'd start small, I decided; scale up if it was manageable. If it turned out that thinkers weren't of issue, I could begin to act with a bit more freedom; potentially even resolving crimes in the full multiplicity my power permitted.

After a while, with no fresh takes on how to wield my abilities bubbling up to fill the quiet, I pushed myself up from the bus stop bench.

The wood had left a faint imprint on the backs of my thighs, and I smoothed the hem of my dress as I stood, before starting to walk again.

The morning crowd had thickened just a bit, with people in office clothes out on the crosswalks, briefcases swinging like pendulums as they aimed for the glass-fronted towers that loomed over the older brick facades. Downtown Brockton Bay always carried that mix — the sleek high-rises with their mirrored sides, rubbing shoulders with squat four-story buildings that looked like they'd been here since the war.

The scent hit me halfway down the block, warm and insistent, cutting through the faint tang of exhaust from a delivery van idling at the curb.

A food truck squatted at the corner, its chrome sides gleaming under the overcast light, parked nose-in to an office building with revolving doors. Steam curled from the serving window, carrying the sharp snap of grilling onions and the deeper, savory char of meat on a flattop.

No one waited in front of the fold-down counter; just a lone figure inside, broad-shouldered and wiping down the grill with a rag.

My stomach twisted at the smell, a hollow reminder that the hospital's bland oatmeal and fruit cups had worn thin days ago.

I patted my dress pockets out of habit — empty, of course. The projection didn't come with a wallet or keys; those were details I'd overlooked in my haste to test the range. For a second, I considered walking on, letting the projection dissolve and starting fresh somewhere else. But the aroma tugged at me.

It was a simple fix, really. Two dollars for a hot dog, according to the laminated sign taped below the window: bun, sausage, optional relish.

Atoms layered on in the fabric lining my pocket, and two coins materialized, fresh and uncirculated. A quick mental nudge along the molecular cleavage severed them free. No scratches, no wear — just fresh, unremarkable coinage.

It was exact change, to preempt any fuss over smaller denominations. The vendor wouldn't even notice the shortfall until the end of day; and by then, the coins would be long erased from the register.

Clean, traceless. No lingering harm.

I stepped up to the window, and the man behind the counter looked up. His mustache was thick and neatly trimmed.

"Morning," he said, voice carrying a lilt that rolled soft over the r's — maybe Indian, or Pakistani; I'd heard enough accents in the Docks to guess but not pin it down. "What'll it be?"

"One hot dog," I said, fishing out the coins and sliding them across the smooth metal ledge. "Relish on top, please."

He nodded, scooping a bun from the stack and nestling the grilled sausage inside with practiced motions. Covering it with relish and a squirt of ketchup from the pump, he handed it over in a hot dog tray.

"Enjoy. Stay dry if it rains later."

"Thanks." I managed a small smile, stepping away before the irony could settle too deep — the girl who'd just been mapping out ways to drop anonymous tips to the cops, now palming counterfeits like it was nothing.

Intellectually, I knew that what I'd done was wrong, but the weight of it didn't settle in my chest the way it should have. No knot of shame; no twist in the gut. Just a hollow detachment, like the crime belonged to somebody else.

At least it was only a couple bucks, I told myself as I wandered toward the building's shadow, settling on a metallic bench. He wouldn't miss it amid the lunch crowd.

Still, the absence of real regret gnawed at me — guilty that I couldn't muster any guilt.

I lifted the hot dog to my mouth, the bun yielding soft against my teeth; juices bursting sharp and salty on my tongue.

Halfway through the second bite, the thought surfaced unbidden: I could have made this. Right there on the sidewalk, in the shadow of my hand — a perfect replica, bun and all. No cash; no counterfeits; no mental gymnastics to justify it.

I swallowed, the flavor lingering rich and uncomplicated; but the idea bothered me nevertheless.

I imagined assembling atoms into a bun and sausage; the fabrication of the relish; the cellular matrix of the meat. It wasn't undoable. My power had the reach for it.

The thought of sliding something like that past my lips, though — it was revolting, akin to drinking ink from a page.

Food should come from a grill; from grease and fire and someone else's sweat — not willed into shape from my mind.

Taking another bite, slower this time, I let the warmth chase off the notion of a meal made by thoughtography.

I took my time with the rest of it, savoring the way the relish cut through the richness of the sausage. When the last bit of bun disappeared, I crumpled the paper tray in my fist, the grease-slick edges folding easily under my fingers.

Standing, I carried it over to the trash bin at the corner, right next to where the food truck idled with its generator humming low. The vendor was busy now, flipping another sausage on the grill, his back turned as he chatted with a customer in a polo shirt.

The coins lay in the tray of the register, amidst a handful of smaller change. I'd erase them a bit later, once the morning rush blurred from memory, I thought, dropping the tray through the rotating lid of the bin. Honestly, hanging around so long in his presence felt a tad brazen, given that I'd just ripped him off; but naturally, nobody batted an eye as I walked away.

I turned down the next street, the soles of my shoes padding softly against the uneven pavement as another intrusive thought occurred to me:

This body was every bit as real as the one back in my hospital bed; but it was manifested all the same — pulled into shape from nothing but a thought.

So what would happen to the hot dog churning away in my stomach fluids? If I dismissed this projection right here; right now, would the half-digested mess just tumble out onto the concrete?

Unfortunately, the instincts associated with my powers offered no particular guidance on the point.

The uncertainty gnawed at me as I kept walking, past a row of sedans, and around a bend in the road. No eyes lingered on me for the moment, and I veered into the mouth of an alleyway; left a dot amidst the graffiti that streaked the rough surface of the wall, no larger than a freckle.

With the anchor secured, I erased the body; opened my eyes in the hospital bed. In the alleyway, the dot observed me vanishing away, leaving nothing at all behind.

Blinking, my gaze gradually adjusted to the sight of the acoustic tiles overhead.

"In other words," I murmured to the empty room, "anything included within me can vanish away ..."

Chapter Text

The bedroom was shrouded in a deep, transparent dusk. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling glass rose around the perimeter, their electrochromic layers set to a dark but see-through tint that turned the morning view of Lord Street Market into a shadowed image. Black marble gleamed beneath the bed like frozen oil, reflecting the matching ceiling overhead.

Hanae lay on her back amid the white sheets, eyes half-open, watching the draped canopy above her without truly seeing it. The sheets had slipped to her waist sometime in the night, leaving her shoulders and breasts bare to the cool air.

She breathed slowly, letting wakefulness settle over her — gradual; deliberate; under her control. Beside her, Mimi slept on, one arm flung across the pillow, lips slightly parted, black hair spilling in loose waves over the sheets.

A measured knock sounded at the door — three soft taps.

"Enter," Hanae said.

The door opened without a sound, and Saki stepped inside, jacketless as always per Hanae's requirement, the tailored black waistcoat buttoned up to the sternum beneath the swell of her breasts, leaving the white shirt beneath to do all the work of containment. The shirt itself was crisp cotton, almost translucent where the chill from the air-conditioning met the heat of her skin, clinging precisely to every line and curve.

From the bed, Hanae let her gaze linger there for a deliberate moment; a slow, appreciative sweep, before lifting her eyes.

Saki carried a silver tray balanced on one gloved hand: a tall glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, beaded with condensation; and a single crystal tumbler beside it. With her free hand, she pressed a panel by the door, and the ceiling LEDs brightened by degrees, easing the room into a soft, dim amber.

Crossing the marble, she set the tray on the small bedside table and straightened, hands clasped behind her back.

"Ojou-sama," she said, tone level and precise, "it's nine o'clock, as you requested. The shipment from Panama docked an hour ago. The containers are being offloaded now. Will you be personally inspecting the goods?"

Hanae had intended to go down to the warehouse herself. Instead, she stretched, sheets sliding lower, and swung her legs over the left side of the bed.

Bare feet touched cold marble, and she reached for the slim remote on the nightstand, thumbing it. The glass walls cleared in a smooth wave, tint fading until the market spread bright and sharp below.

She poured juice into the tumbler, the scent of citrus rising sharp and clean.

"No," Hanae said, bringing the glass to her lips. The first sip was cold, bright, almost too sweet. "Take care of it for me, Saki."

"Very good, Ojou-sama."

Saki bowed, deep and formal, blonde pageboy brushing her cheeks. She turned, crossed the room again, and closed the door behind her with the same silence she had used to open it.

Hanae rose from the bed, naked, glass cradled in one hand, and walked barefoot around the bed, across the cool marble toward the windows. Her long black hair draped her irezumi — the senaka-bori showing the slender figure of the Miroku Nyorai, but depicted as a topless hermaphrodite.

She stopped at the widest pane, looking across the slopes of the market roofs to the glittering line of the bay beyond. Sunlight poured in now, warm on her skin, turning the orange juice a vivid gold as she lifted it to her lips again and drank.

It had been two years since she had stood in the old family house, and watched Otou-sama's eyes go wide with the realization that his daughter had ordered the purge. Aniue had lasted longer, but the blade had found his throat all the same.

They had both believed the Gokuraku-Kai was to bow; to keep the tribute flowing upward; to stay small and quiet beneath Lung's shadow — typical men, seeking safety above all else.

She had read Lung differently. The Dragon took his monthly due and asked no questions about how the rest was earned, so long as nothing disturbed his sleep.

Borders between the vassal gangs were lines on paper — not chains. Her father and brother had mistaken indifference for prohibition. They had feared growth itself, as though ambition were a louder sound than gunfire.

Oni Lee teleported in, killed, teleported out. Useful, but blunt.

But someone still needed to hold the pieces together; to turn tribute into leverage; to make the lesser gangs forget they had ever worn different colors. That someone would be her.

First, though, a certain old woman had to be dealt with — a relic who remembered when the Gokuraku-Kai had been a force to be reckoned with.

Hanae lifted the glass higher, an idle toast toward the water and the rusted hulks of the Boat Graveyard and the hazy skyline past it.

One day, the city would answer when she spoke.

Saki eased Hanae's Bentley VI to a quiet stop on the cracked apron outside Warehouse 17. The black sedan looked out of place among the rusted containers and salt-stained concrete, the chrome bright against the gray morning.

She stepped out, the jacket of her suit now properly buttoned to the throat, closing the door with a soft, expensive thunk.

Two women waited by the roll-up door. The taller one wore a cropped leather jacket over a crimson tube top and low-rise cargos that rode below the line of her hip bones, a gold chain looping from belt to pocket. Her companion had on a torn fishnet shirt under an open plaid flannel, denim shorts cut high enough that the pockets showed, and knee-high boots with steel caps. Both straightened when they saw Saki.

"Morning, Kuronami-san," the taller one said, dipping her head. "Didn't know you were coming down yourself."

"Ojou-sama sent me to look at the shipment," Saki answered.

The shorter guard flicked her cigarette into a puddle and pulled the door up on its chain. Metal rattled overhead as she keyed the lock.

"This way."

Saki followed her inside. Rows of olive-green containers rose in perfect aisles under weak fluorescent tubes. Two more women lounged against a forklift. They pushed off the machine when Saki approached and fell in behind without a word.

The guide stopped at a container halfway down the third row. A simple padlock hung open on the hasp. One of the forklift guards swung the lever; the door sighed open on greased hinges.

Americans liked to say slavery died with Lincoln, Saki thought as the smell rolled out, thick, warm, and sour. They passed laws, gave speeches, printed pretty posters. Then they bought phones and clothes while the supply chain bled.

In most of the world, the chains had simply gone underground; grown quieter; learned to speak in shipping manifests and container numbers.

Inside the metal box, twenty-three women and girls sat or lay on the bare steel floor. Most wore whatever they had been taken in: torn sundresses, tank tops, a school uniform skirt now gray with filth. Skin glistened with sweat and grime; hair hung in lank ropes. A few had stripped to underwear against the heat, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around shins. Empty plastic bottles rolled underfoot.

In the far corner, two older girls knelt beside a younger one whose left cheek had swollen purple, split at the center, crusted with dried blood. One pressed a folded T-shirt to the injury while the other whispered something too soft to reach the doorway.

The injured girl stared at nothing, eyes glassy, breathing through her mouth in shallow pulls.

Saki lifted one gloved finger toward the girl with the swollen cheek.

"What's that?"

The two women who had opened the door traded glances. One of them shrugged too quickly.

"She fell during loading, Kuronami-san. Clumsy."

Saki's eyes stayed on the injury.

"I asked what that is."

The taller guard from the forklift cleared her throat.

"She wouldn't stop talking back. Kept trying to kick the door. I only tapped her once to settle her down."

Saki's arm moved without warning. Her fist caught the woman square in the temple, a clean, economical strike that sent the guard stumbling sideways into the next container with a hollow boom. The woman hit the floor on her hip, mouth open in shock, one hand pressed to the side of her head.

Saki was no parahuman. The strength came from muscle grafts purchased from Toybox — reverse-engineered from tinkertech, and paid for by Hanae. Real tinkertech rotted in months, but once the blueprints were cracked, conventional polymers could be used to fabricate stable myomere bundles. The enhancements lasted forever, even if they never quite matched the original output.

She had toned down the strength this morning, just enough to drop a grown woman without painting the wall with her brain.

The guard started to push herself up, voice rising.

"What the fu —"

Saki pivoted and drove the toe of her loafer into the steel wall of the container beside them. The metal buckled inward with a sharp crunch, a fist-sized dent appearing as if the wall were tin.

Silence fell.

Saki looked down at the woman still on the floor.

"First time on container duty?" she asked.

A hesitant nod.

Saki crouched, elbows on her knees, until her face was inches away.

"The Arabs dock in one week. They run fingers over every cheekbone, thigh, and tooth. One bruise too many and they knock twenty percent off the lot." Her voice stayed flat, almost gentle. "Next time you feel like teaching lessons, remember that."

The guard swallowed.

"What happens if I do it again?" she asked.

Saki let the question hang long enough for the container's stale air to feel colder. Then she straightened, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her glove, and answered.

"You'll find out how the merchandise travels."