III.

Returning from the hole for the second time, gathering my thoughts. Actually, did I even go anywhere? I woke up, yeah, in my bed. Not at the hole; don’t even remember traversing the hole. Did I? Another dream?, nightmare? It couldn’t have been. I mean: too vivid; I remember too much.

I’ll start from what I first remember. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

THE REST OF THE PAGE IS RIPPED OUT. ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE, THE WRITING HAS BEEN OBLITERATED.

This is not going to be easy. . . . I’ve been back for an hour now. I woke up in bed, to the sound of sirens, the song of sirens singing. What happened in there. . . .

I crawled through the hole, towards a white light, when I came out: I awoke, on an escalator going down down down, descending(THE WRITING STOPS, MID-SENTENCE. TAPED OVER THE MIDDLE OF THE PAGE IS PART OF A RIPPED SHEET OF PAPER) I was descending an escalator. Some kind of factory, but it turns out it was just the Subway—the one right outside my apartment. It seemed familiar, yet strangely distant, but I don’t use it that often—whatever. That’s not important. At the bottom I was holding a three-foot long piece of steel pipe. I don’t know where it came from; I don’t remember picking it up; it was just . . . there, in my hands.

I couldn’t see much; there wasn’t much to see. I could hear footsteps in the distance, but couldn’t determine what from. The tunnel was dark, much more than it should’ve been, but . . . it’s just a dream, I thought. Right?

I walked down the corridor, slowly at first, cautiously, but I was too anxious, terrified? maybe—concerned more than anything. The other footsteps were getting louder, reasonably enough. Looking round the place, things seemed . . . different, from when I was here last. It’d been awhile, sure, probably from the last time I went to Silent Hill, but it was much more derelict than I recall. I still wonder what happened, why so different. Maybe this dream—is it really a dream?—XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I don’t remember what I wanted to say. My mind is racing.

When I reached the end, that woman was there, from outside the Subway, when I woke up. She told me her name was Cynthia, among other things. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I’ll try writing it.

First thing she asked was “who are you?” and then for my name. I told her, asked for hers. She became defensive, responded impudently—also: very curiously. Something about it being her dream, and that I should know it. I couldn’t make sense of it; didn’t want to right then anyway.

She continued: This is just a dream. A really terrible one at that. I hope I wake up soon. I was inclined to agree, but all I could think of was how convinced she was of it being her dream. It didn’t make sense. Thinking back, though, I wish it had been hers. . . .

She offered herself to me then, if I helped her out of that place. Her body pressed against mine, her delicate fingers ran across my cheek and lip.

Awake. Asleep. Awake. A sleep.

Awake.
____ Asleep. _____Awake.
__ Afraid. Aseep.
_Escape. Awake Afraid. Aslep.
_______Asleep.

What am I writing? . . .

I couldn’t exactly . . . refuse, so I told her to stay close. It’s not like it was my place to tell her no: We both needed to find a way out of there; if it was up to me, so be it. EXCURSUS (ON SEVERAL PIECES OF PAPER): Makes me think of this time as a kid. I must’ve been six or seven . . . long ago. Seems like forever sometimes. But how often do I think about that? Rarely. Simpler times, sure, but simpler memories too. Everything was exaggerated, pleasant. Back then adults were one hundred feet tall, could jump one hundred feet high, and were one hundred years old. Or so I thought. Thinking back I realize exactly how ridiculous that all sounds, but given my current situation . . . nothing seems impossible.
_____Anyway. I’d just moved to a new house; I didn’t know anybody in the neighborhood, or at my school. I didn’t have any friends either. I was walking along the sidewalk, along this creek, that went under the road—it was a little bridge built over the creek—and sometimes the older kids would go down there, but it wasn’t easy to get back up to the sidewalk.
As I walked over the road, I could hear this pathetic crying, puling, for help. Sounded like a little girl, about my age. Turns out it was. I called into an opening, couldn’t see much, couldn’t hear much either, but I knew someone was there, under the road. I thought I’d be brave; that I could make a friend.
_____Hopping down the barricade, then climbing down into the creek, the girl slowly came into view; it was still too dark to see anything else yet. I slowly stepped closer, into the light: just as I thought, it was a young girl, my age, from one of my classes. I had no way of knowing if she recognized me or not—she didn’t react any particularly noticeable way upon seeing me—but I guess it wasn’t important.
_____I told her to take my hand, that I’d lead her outta there. She did, cautiously, and followed me out of the tunnel, along the creek, for about ten minutes, neither of us saying a word to the other. When we came to a gradation I felt I could climb, I lifted her up on my shoulders—I was weaker back then; it wasn’t easy to do—and managed to get her onto the safe ground. There was no way for me to reach all the way up, so I had to strategically use the roots protruding from the incline, and hoist myself up. I remember calling up to her, so she could maybe lend a hand, but she never responded.
_____Back at the top, she was gone. Nowhere to be seen. Maybe she went for help, I thought; so I waited a few minutes, strolled up the creek, back to the road. After half an hour, I went home. It was getting late.
She wasn’t at school the next day. She was never at school again. The police searched the town for weeks, but her body was never recovered—that I know of at least. It’s been years since, I thought. All they ever found of hers was a little ragged doll . . . under the tunnel, half-under the surface of the water, stuck beside a rock, with blood on its raggedy face.
_____As far as I know, I was the last person to see her alive. I never came forward. I never told a soul.
She followed me down the subway tunnel, vacant, silent. I wanted to ask how she found herself here, how she ended up in this place, but couldn’t think of how to go about asking it—or what I’d say. Besides: she was convinced it was a dream; it wouldn’t matter what I asked her.

She stayed close to me; I could hear her bated breath, tearing the empty air. Normally: a thousand voices screaming through the corridor, people pushing one another aside, paying tolls, sneering and growling: rabid dogs. Sometimes an awful place. But now: dead air. When she asked How much farther?, she whispered. I didn’t answer.

After five minutes or so of walking—was it that long?, that doesn’t even seem possible—she stopped me, ran into the women’s restroom. She said she was sick; that she was about to puke. While I waited, I couldn’t help but wonder what from. Hangover, I assumed. She certainly didn’t look pregnant. . . .

Ten more minutes went by. Maybe. I don’t have a watch; my perception of time right now is terribly skewed. I heard this growling behind the men’s bathroom door as it creaked open. It was dark inside; I hadn’t heard anything from Cynthia; something horribly wrong was happening.

The door slammed open, and a body came flying out. . . . Some kind of . . . dog, I think, but with its skin peeled off and bandaged, suppurating beneath the surface of its remaining flesh, rotting. It didn’t move once it landed, but two more, living, sauntered out from behind the door, their eyes sewn shut—or were they just grown over & blind?—tongues trailing behind them, dragging along the floor, two feet long, disgusting. They approached the carcass, sniffing the air round it, then the body, and all of a sudden . . . started feeding. Not in any ordinary manner, mind you: Their tongues stiffened, erect, stabbed into the dogs body, followed by a distinct I’m ingesting whatever is inside of you sound.

It was awful.

When they finished feeding, they turned to me, tongues limp, growling, their stitched-shut eyes still attempting, in vain, to blink, their necks contorting, chunks of loose flesh dropping to the concrete.

That steel pipe came in handy.

I smashed the first one in the side of the face as hard as I could. It dropped with a whimper. The second lunged for my leg; I parried, and crushed its left shoulder, then swung at its hind legs, smashing both its knees. Debilitated, lying on the ground, it too wouldn’t cease its snarling. I hated having to do this . . . I stepped down on what was left of its life, hard as I could, shattering its skull into fragments. It was sick. By the time I’d done it, the other one had already stood up, its legs trembling but still enduring the pain. It came forward, slowly, towards me: I knew I had to stop it. I kicked it square in the face, its jaw crumbled, flew into a dozen pieces, its blood still on my clothes, and dropped dead.

It was either them or me.

Afterwards I knocked on the women’s restroom, to make sure Cynthia was all right. There was no answer. I stepped inside: nothing; no trace of her ever being there either. . . . Went instead to the men’s restroom; if she wasn’t there, she wasn’t there. It too was empty. Except for one thing: the hole.

In the back of the restroom, in the farthest wall, there it was. An unusual red design was painted round the circumference, at the very top an unblinking eye, strange runic characters along the outer circle, and some other impossible to descry designs. (Too bad I don’t have any books on ancient runology. . . . Otherwise I’d be set.) On the next page is a drawing of it, without all of the details. Maybe I’ll fill in the rest later on; I’m sure I’ll be seeing it again. . . .

I stood there, listening, looking, for a long time—for what felt like a long time—and concluded that I had to crawl through it; I didn’t know what else to do; it seemed

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