He leant with his ear against the dry cracked wood of the door, listening. Whatever was making the noises, and there was only one thing that could be making them, was now upstairs, in the room at the top of the house. He shivered in the cold air, air that hadn't been disturbed for years, air that brushed against the nape of his neck and chilled him. The smell was overpowering as well, musty and stale and unclean somehow, as if the fumes from the remains in the basement had permeated the whole of the house. But worse than the cold air, worse than the smell, worst of all was the dark.

            It filled the room so completely, not even a stray shaft of moonlight came in through the boarded up windows. Not even the greasy oil lamp light from the hallway outside shone though the cracks round the door. And in that darkness, the noises. Scraping, scratching. Dragging sounds. Whining sounds. The sound that dying things make. They moved from overhead and he knew, knew certainly, that it was coming down from its room for him. Not the dream version, not the dark shadow-thing from the night before, and the one before that, and that, stretching back months now. Not the fake one, but the real. He grabbed at the door handle in the musty dark and pulled the door open. Outside, in the hallway, all was shadows. They writhed up and down the walls, like things trapped behind glass, smearing themselves against it. The scraping had become footsteps, or rather, footfalls, the sound of someone descending. Running pell-mell past the shadows, he bolted back to the stairs and the lamplight that shone up from the lobby of the house. The shadows were quicker though, and the carpet, which had been so thick and fine just minutes before, rotted away under him. The walls shed their paper like old snake skins, it peeled off in great sloughs, disintegrated by the time it reached the floor. The smell intensified too, musty and dry becoming rotted and wet, the smell of old wood decomposing. Old wood, and other things too.

            At the top of the stairs he stopped and looked back. The darkness was absolute, it had leaked out of the room which had been such a brief respite, leaked down from the uppermost room, leaked out of the walls and the decomposing air. There was no sign of its occupant, but surely it wasnt for show? Surely this was its precursor, like the rotted red carpet beneath his feet, the shadows laid out for its owners passage. Not waiting to see if there was any truth to this, he half ran, half fell down the stairs, with the wood groaning around him. At the bottom he already knew that the front door was locked. But what about the window? After all, he'd managed to get in that way, why couldn't he escape from the same route? But where the cold night air had blown in like a knife's edge, and brought him in with it, there were now only bare boards. Rotted and corrupt, but still nailed over the window with nails red with rust. There was no escape here. So that left only one way, and that was down into the basement, with its own horrors and unsolvable mysteries. The shadows were coming like a filthy and polluted waterfall down the stairs, bringing a tide of feotid air with them. Delaying would be disastrous. So, down he went, first down the hallway and then further down the rickety stairs that led into the basement.

           The red digits on the clock said three thirty-five. Zeke Clairborne lay awake in bed, staring at the bedside table, with its clock, a glass of water and the torch* he kept close at hand for the worst nights. Zeke was twelve years old. He hadn't had a full nights sleep since he was nine.

            He suffered from a recurring dream, in which he was lost in a landscape utterly alien, yet so familiars he knew it better than his own home town. Lying there now, in the darkened room, with its stifling heat and the noise of the house settling, he knew he only had to close his eyes and he'd be there. He reached out and pulled the torch under the covers, flicking it on to check it worked. It lit up, a circle of light that illuminated Zeke's thin, pale face under the sheets of his bed. Bracing himself, he rolled over and pulled back the sheets, and the light from the torch seemed suddenly inconsequential.           

            An orange glow shone down on the bed, giving Zeke's pale skin an unhealthy sheen. A warm wind blew at the sheets of the bed, as he climbed out, barefoot onto the rocky ground. It was hot underfoot, with tufts of hard dry grass poking up. The desert stretched off into the distance in every direction, underneath the eerie, caustic afternoon sky. Zeke set off across the barren landscape, torch in hand. There was no sun in the burning sky, but it shone with a light that seemed to smother the ground. It was like walking through a furnace, the horizon a heat haze of orange and brown. Looking back, Zeke saw his bed left far behind, lying alone and out of place. The wind gusted at the sheets, lifting them up and away like a shapeless bird, to be lost in the sky. Zeke carried on.

            His heels bled by the time he reached the gorge. It ran from east to west across the blighted dreamscape as though some monstrous claw had gouged a line in the dirt that it dared him to cross. Standing on the edge and looking into that abyss, Zeke saw faces carved into parodies of pain stare back at him. The fissure was so deep it disappeared into darkness far below. The only way across, Zeke knew from experience, was the bridge further to the right. There was no point delaying, He set off. Once there, he knew it would no longer be a simple matter of crossing the gap. The bridge was perilously thin, the ropes knotted into crude rails, the wooden planks crawled with worms. Before making the crossing however, there was one thing left to do. Zeke looked back the way he'd come. On the horizon, there was a shadow in the haze. It was Christian.

            Zeke had never seen him. He was as dark as the night itself, and just as unstoppable. He came relentlessly across this desert land where he seemed so at home in the heat and under the burning sky. On countless occasions he'd come close to tearing at Zeke, stopped at the last by the torch, which seemed to be the only thing Zeke could bring with him to this hot endless place. Realizing that time was short, Zeke began the crossing. Every board creaked. The ropes twisted themselves as if loathed to be touched by his hands. The air that blew up from the fissure stank of sewers and filth, and the bridge swayed like an animal, hoping to throw its unwanted passenger from its back. But Zeke had made this crossing many times. They were all tricks, he knew. The bridge, the wind, the earth and sky all conformed to Christian's will. Any way he could think to slow Zeke's progress was made real in this place. Only the light of the torch showed the truth: that the bridge was only wood, that the ground was only stone. Small comfort, however, when the rock on the far side of the chasm rippled, and from under every stone and pebble crawled a creature so misbegotten mother nature would have wept. Insects with shiny black carapaces, legs in their twitching hundreds, eyes in their glistening thousands. They emerged into the afternoon heat like survivors from a nuclear war, hungry for the flesh. Their clicking noises were carried by the wind across the fissure to where Zeke still made his way across the bridge. They made his stomach turn, each one like a clockwork wind-up toy, busily scurrying on spindly legs. But there was no time to stop, because at the other end of the bridge, the way Zeke had just come, Christian took his first step onto the wooden boards. They responded instantly, violently shaking themselves. Was it Christian's will that shook the bridge, to topple Zeke into that pit beneath? Or did the wood want to rid itself of that shadowy touch that repulsed it into spasm? For Zeke, there wasn't time to find out. Braving the scuttling insect army, he stepped off the bridge, flashing the torch this way and that, the ground becoming clear wherever the light passed. Running through the field of chattering bugs he made his way to a curious forest.

            Curious? Perhaps. It was like no forest he'd ever seen in the natural world, but then, it was far from natural. A great many stakes had been driven into the earth at irregular intervals. They rose straight sided into the air six or seven feet until they spread four branches at the top: two legs and two arms. Each stake was topped with a corpse, skewered in the heat and left to rot. They swayed in the wind, which whistled through the holes the maggots had made in their flesh. It was almost a tune, Zeke had been here so many times, so many nights, he could hum it himself. If there were words, he had only to ask his pursuer, who had also made the edge of the forest, the insects seeking favor, or death, as he strode firmly forward, at his feet. Weaving between those bloodied trees, Zeke set off again, with only the wind whistling amongst the decayed corpses. Occasionally a bird, feathers missing and smeared with red, would cross overhead, cawing as it circled in the sky. At last the gruesome trees began to thin, giving way to bare rocky ground once more. There was only one point of interest, a pool of seething water some way ahead. Zeke set off towards it, the heat intensifying as he grew closer. The water in the pool boiled in the burning air, bubbles rising to the surface and popping, flicking gobs of burning water into the air. Zeke had passed this scorching lake before, but never thought it occupied. Now he was proven wrong, a dark shape rose to the top. A triangular fin broke the bubbling surface, followed by the snout of a shark, all gleaming teeth. It smiled up at him, boiling water running into its mouth. It showed no discomfort at this. Zeke stopped to look.

            "There isn't time to sight see," said the shark, cocking its head back in the direction of the corpse forest. Zeke was shocked.

            "You can talk?" he said. The shark nodded, and grinned.

            "Oh yes," he agreed. "Very much so." He cast another sidelong glance to the tree line. Zeke took the hint, and looked, but only the rogue vulture could be seen wheeling about.

            "Can you help me?" asked Zeke. The shark bobbed up and down. "Was that a yes?" Zeke questioned.

            "Yes," said the shark. "Come on in." He swam a little way from the edge. Zeke looked incredulous.

            "In there? But, it's boiling!"

            "I know," confirmed the shark. "But its the only way out. At least he can't get you." Again he looked back to the forest. There was no sign of anyone, but the corpses where shaking in a wind that was verging on gale force. "He'll be here any minute," said the shark. "Come on in - the water's fine." Zeke turned down the offer.

            "What is he?" he asked, pressing the shark for information on his pursuer. The shark narrowed its eyes.

            "He's called Christian," he replied, gulping in boiling water.

            "I know that," said Zeke. "But what-"

            "How do you know?" interrupted the shark. Zeke looked non-plussed. "Who told you?" asked the shark.

            "I... I dont know," Zeke admitted. The shark looked knowledgeable.

            "Isn't that the way of dreams?" he said to Zeke. "Sometimes you just know these things? So, you already know what it is." The shark spat water towards Zeke, who dodged nimbly to one side. "Come in here, he doesn't like the water," offered the shark. But Zeke had had enough. There wasn't time to talk to the shark. The subject of their conversation had emerged from the forest. He was still only a silhouette, but now covered from head to foot in the insects from the gorge. Zeke set off at a run, away from the pool and across the burning ground. "Come back!" yelled the shark, but Zeke wasn't waiting around. Glancing back he saw the shark duck below the surface as Christian walked pass, shedding insects on to the ground and into the pool.

            Running on sore and scorched feet across the rocky ground Zeke almost tripped as a sharp edged stone jiggled free from its neighbors. A tremor was shaking the land this far out, and the pebbles and rocks were dancing across the ground. The sky had changed as well, it seemed closer somehow, nearer to the ground. Zeke was having difficulty keeping his balance on the bucking ground, but Christian had no problem traversing the dancing rocks. The distance between them closed, and Zeke began to panic, rocks flying up around him as Christian moved ever closer. Something brushed the back of Zeke's neck and he yelled out in terror, tripping over a rock and falling forwards. He fell, but not to the ground. The rocks flew apart and the cracks between them grew to chasms, and he fell into the black innards of the earth--

            He was smothered by some hot heavy thing, pressing into his face and tying his arms to the side of his body. He wriggled, but it was like being wrapped in cloth or something similar... He pulled his hands up to his face and clawed at the material, pulling it away in one motion. Cool air and pale light washed over his face. He was in his own bed again, tangled up in sweat-soaked sheets. The thin curtains hung open and the misty haze of the morning light shone into the room. Something dug into his back as he turned over - frantic burrowing in the sheets revealed it was the torch. It was dim in the daylight. Zeke turned it off, and replaced it on the bedside table. From downstairs, his mother called up to him. Wriggling free of the sheets, Zeke got out of bed and went over to the window.

            The town was blanketed in thick, smothering fog. Perhaps it was the way the mountains loomed up over the town, or the cold lake that separated the old town from the newer area to the south, but the fog seemed to be a permanent feature of the town. It was into this fogged and quiet world that Zeke stepped half an hour later, on his way to school. Traffic was minimal on even the clearest days, and the school had only one bus. Zeke found it quicker and easier to walk. Quicker, because the bus drove so slowly. Easier, because he didn't have to endure the taunts of the other children.

            At the end of Zeke's street, a small shadow loomed up out the mist. Zeke paused just for an instant, the memories of his dream like fog in his head. There was no need to worry though. The haze parted and Tyler Norris, Zeke's long time, and only, friend, came strolling up. He looked the same as Zeke, thin and pale in the fog, with limp hair that hung over his eyes, which were deep set, like Zeke's. There were differences between the two though. Zeke's eyes were dark, and were shadowed from so many sleepless nights. Tyler's hair was darker than Zeke's. And Tyler had a strange, faint mark around part of his neck, as though he'd had some sort of accident in the past. Zeke waved hello.

"Hey," he said, his breath adding to the mist slightly.

            "How's it going?" asked Tyker. His breath did not show in the chill morning air. "You look bad today. Real bad." Zeke looked a little distant for a few seconds before agreeing.

            "Yeah. Yeah, I had another dream."

            "About... about that Christian?" asked Tyler, knowing what the answer would be.

            "You haven't told anyone have you? At school, I mean?" asked Zeke. "I don't get on with anyone as it is. They all think I'm crazy." He hung his head.

            "You know I wouldn't," Tyler reassured his friend. "Come on, though, we'll be late if we don't get moving." He motioned with his hand in an effort to drag Zeke from his thoughts. Zeke conceded, and they walked off into the mist.

            Zeke liked the school. With its ordered, structured lessons, and its walls covered with bright paintings and pictures. He enjoyed the laughter in the playground, even if he wasn't part of it, or on occasion the cause of it. He relied on the teachers, who taught him how things were in the world. How some things were real, and some things were not. That was important for Zeke, and he enjoyed that aspect of school most of all. Tyler seemed indifferent to all these things, however. For him it was just a case of sitting in the classrooms, making notes, handing in homework. Tyler was a very quiet child. He was never asked to answer questions, or clean the blackboard. He didn't speak to the other children much, and even when he did he didn't always get a reply. The other children left him alone, the way they left Zeke alone, unless some incident brought him to the center of attention. One such incident occurred at lunchtime. Tyler had gone to get a table in the lunch hall, whilst Zeke had queued patiently in the cafeteria. On the way to Tyler's table, weaving across the crowded hall, a voice had called Zeke's name, or so he'd thought. Turning to look he saw nothing there, but on turning back he tripped, and stumbled forward. His can of cola, which he'd opened in the queue to quench his thirst, toppled and spilt. Trickling off the edge of the tray, it splashed onto Megan Whiteley's pale pink coat, which she'd hung over the back of her chair. Her reaction was instant.

            "My coat! Look what you've done!" she yelled, looking over her shoulder and pushing her chair back. This further unbalanced Zeke, who stumbled backwards this time, cola dribbling down his own jacket. He hadn't realized he'd splashed her coat, and looked at her in incomprehension.

            "I'm sorry?" he asked, getting his balance. Megan was rising from her chair, coat clutched in her hands.

            "You should be!" she snapped. "This was new, and its worth a lot of money!" She dabbed at the coat with a napkin. Zeke realized what had happened.

            "Oh.. I'm sorry," he apologized.

            "No you're not!" retorted Megan. "You don't even know what you've done! You've got that dopey look in your eyes again. You never know whats going on in the real world! You're such a weirdo! Just get away from me!" She sat back down, scraping her chair loudly back into place, leaving Zeke standing dumbly with all eyes on him. There was a ripple of laughter in his direction. He hurried over to Tyler before that ripple turned into a wave.

            "What's going on?" Tyler asked. Zeke placed his tray on the table and sat down quickly.

            "I don't know. I dripped cola on her coat or something I think," explained Zeke. He noticed the damp patch on the front of his own jacket. "I got it on me as well," he added morosely. Tyler, who had a packed lunch, pushed a serviette across the table. "Thanks," said Zeke, getting to work on the cola stain. They sat and ate in silence for a while, the chatter in the hall turning to the mundane things of life: television, school, homework. Zeke had almost finished when Megan and her friends, including her boyfriend Joshua walked past. Tyler looked up and was about to say something when Megan upended a carton of blackcurrant juice on Zeke's head. He cried out in surprise.

            "Oops, oh my," said Megan, her voice all condescending concern. "I'm sorry Zeke, really I am. I guess I didn't know what I'd done." She carried on past his table and out of the hall, leaving Zeke with juice dripping off his hair and face. Tyler leapt up.

            "That little..." he started, but Zeke interrupted.

            "Tyler, please, sit down. People can see you," he said. Tyler looked down at him.

            "But she just-" he began.

            "I know," said Zeke calmly. "But, everyone's looking this way. Please, lets go. I need to go to the toilets and get cleaned up." Zeke got up amid the sea of watching faces, some of them just staring, most of them laughing. Zeke could feel his cheeks begin to burn. "Don't forget your lunchbox," he said to Tyler, who was dutifully following him. Zeke hurried out of the lunch hall and away down the deserted corridor towards the toilets. Through the windows was only the swirling gray fog that looked like it would last all day. Pale light illuminated the pictures drawn by students on the walls -  a tower, a bowl of fruit, a shark in the sea. Zeke pushed open the door to the toilets. Tyler followed him in. Zeke stood dripping over a sink.

            "You want some tissue?" Tyler asked awkwardly.

            "It's ok," said Zeke. "I'll get it." He ran his hands through his dripping hair then grabbed a handful of tissue paper from the nearest cubicle to dry his face. Tyler stood awkwardly while Zeke dried himself off as best he could. He threw the sodden tissue paper into the bin in the corner, and stared into the mirror over the sink. Tyler swallowed nervously.

            "Zeke? We should get going. Lunch time is almost over." Zeke made no reply. "I'll wait outside," said Tyler, motioning to the door.

            "Alright."

            Zeke was silent all afternoon. Even the teachers must have noticed, because not a single question was directed his way, and no one sought any answers from him, regarding lessons or lunchtime. When the end of the school day finally came, Zeke filed out of the classroom without saying a word. Tyler caught up with him at the school gates.

            "Hey! Wait up!" he panted. Zeke stopped and turned to look at his friend.

            "Alright, but I'm warning you, I'm in no mood for talking," he informed Tyler.

            "That's ok," said Tyler, shrugging his indifference. Zeke marched off, though not too quickly, and Tyler kept pace at his side. They'd almost reached the corner when a shout caused them both to turn around.

            "Hey! Hey you!" It was Megan's boyfriend Joshua. He was running towards them. Zeke was about to ask what the matter was, but Tyler was quicker off the mark.

            "Run!" he ordered Zeke. Zeke looked at him blankly.

            "Why?"

            "He's not here to chat, is he! Think about it!" said Tyler, breaking into a run. It dawned on Zeke that Tyler was correct. Joshua looked anything but friendly. Zeke turned on his heel and started to sprint after Tyler, who had gotten a good head start. Joshua wasn't about to give up so easily though.

            "Damn it! I'll get you! You can't run as fast as me!" he yelled after the retreating pair. As they rounded the corner, Tyler pointed down the street.

            "The lights are changing!" he said through gritted teeth. "Cross the road! Now!" He veered across the street. Zeke followed, running across the path of a slowing car. Its brakes squealed, and the horn blared. Joshua had not been so quick, he was still looking for a way around the traffic and across the road. Tyler and Zeke dodged the slowly moving crowds of mid-afternoon shoppers. Up ahead a side street led to a more secluded area used for dropping supplies. Tyler noticed it.

Zeke awoke in the darkness. Squat shapes loomed over him to either side. The sky was a formless mass of charcoal smoke. The ground beneath his back was as cold as ice, and the air stank of oil. The breath of the mist licked over his face. The base of his spine ached uncomfortably. He rolled over on the cold ground, the reeking oil fumes seeping into his nose and mouth. He gagged and pushed himself up on trembling arms. The fog curled up with him.

            Where am I? he thought. There were no answers forthcoming. The place was like limbo, no noise, no movement, no life. Zeke looked around, but he may as well have had his eyes closed. There was nothing in the dark squat surroundings that gave any clue to his whereabouts. He staggered to his feet, and stood shaking from the cold for a few seconds. Confident he wouldn't topple straight back down, he turned around. He was in a long dark alleyway, and the only light seeped through the fog.

            I remember, he thought. Tyler and I split up. I ran down the side road. I fell and must have hit my head. As if to confirm this theory, his head began to ache. There was no point in staying here. It was obviously some late hour, and Zeke had no wish to remain alone in the town with the smothering fog. Unsure of which way the main road lay, he trusted to luck and set off into the gloom.

            His luck was not good. The roadway ended in a chain link fence set with a single gate. Sighing, Zeke retraced his steps until he reached the other end of the alley. This too ended in a high fence of rusted wire. There was no gate or any other means off passing.

            Where did this fence come from? How did I get in? Zeke wondered. Perhaps it's pulled across at night, after the last delivery. Satisfied that this was the case, he returned to the far end to try his luck with the gate. It was not locked, and squeaked on its hinges as Zeke pushed it open. Another alleyway lay beyond, fog moving like a grey tide between the high, faceless brick walls. Pipes and power cables criss-crossed the alleyway above his head as Zeke pressed on further into the murk. The alleyway turned twice with sharp right angles, terminating in another chain link fence with another gate. Passing through, Zeke found himself in another bland, limbo-like alley. A distant siren could be heard, its sound rising and falling in time to the movement of the dense fog. The ground underfoot was becoming more treacherous with every step as well. It was slick with either water or oil. The fog made it impossible to tell which, buts Zeke's nose could. The stench of oil was unmistakable, but it was tainted with a sharper scent that Zeke couldn't identify. Again the alleyway twisted and turned, leaving Zeke confused as to which way he was going. Up ahead another fence was just visible through the fog. He hurried towards it, eager to be free of this maze of fog and turns. The gate was slick with something cold and slimy, and Zeke pulled his hand back in disgust. He examined his fingers but there was no way to discern what it was in the darkness. He reached out again tentatively and unlatched the gate. It swung outwards. On the other side was a wide street. Relief rising, Zeke waded through the fog and out into the open road. A few lone streetlights cast a dim pallor up onto the front of some enormous gothic building directly in front of him. A black door stood in a shadowed recess carved from huge blocks of stone, and black windows stared like blind eyes from the upper reaches of the architecture. None of this concerned Zeke, however. He turned left and set off down the street. Ten paces, however, and his progress was impeded by another fence. It was made of the same rusted chain, and slick with some filthy liquid. Its very positioning threw Zeke into confusion.

            Why is there a fence right across a road? There was no gate set into it, no way through. How cars were supposed to pass was a mystery. How it had gotten there was another, and why was a third. Faced with so many problems, Zeke about-turned and set off down the road. No less then twenty yards and another fence, identical to the one he'd just turned his back on, loomed up.

            What? Another one? This makes no sense. Again it was impassable, and slickened with its slimy coating, unclimbable, not that Zeke would have considered that as an option. His choices were now severely limited. In fact, he could see no way out of the run of streets and alleyways he was in. The fog was rolling in from through the fence, and a bitter wind had started to blow. Zeke shivered in his jacket, and realized that the only way was to shelter in the recessed doorway of whatever building rose up to his left. He made his way up over to the worn stone steps of the building, and climbed up. The fog, which wasn't as thick this close to the doorway, enabled Zeke to notice huge handles in the doors at the top of the steps. The wind was just as cold by the door, and Zeke shivered. He didn't relish the thought of spending the night outside. In desperation and hope, he tugged on one of the huge ring shaped handles on the stone doors. He wasn't expecting it to swing open, which it didn't, but it did move slightly. Zeke pulled harder, straining against the massive weight of the door. It slid open with the groaning, cracking sound of stone on stone. Surprised that the doors were unlocked at such a late hour, but relieved that he wouldn't be out in the cold, Zeke stepped inside.

            It was dark and cool, but not cold, inside. The air was dry and musty. Zeke was in some sort of drab reception area. A wooden desk was visible in the gloom, and a small set of double doors were straight ahead. He didn't have the strength to shut the massive stone door, and he didn't want to accidentally lock himself in, so he left it ajar. Thinking that there might be a phone on the reception desk, he went to investigate. He was disappointed. The desk was bare. There wasn't a single clue as to what this building was, or what it was used for. Worst of all, there was no phone.

            Still, thought Zeke, there must be a phone somewhere in this place. And if the door is unlocked, maybe there are some people here too. He decided to explore, realizing there was no point in just sitting around waiting for the morning to come. He tried the small double doors. They were also unlocked, and led into a large room that smelt of dust and paper.

            It was a large room, but it seemed more like a series of endless corridors. High shelves that reached up into the gloom stretched off into the distance. It dawned on Zeke that the building was a library, a huge gothic library. Strange, but he'd never heard of such a place. Silent Hill was a small town, and Zeke had lived there all his life. He had thought that the only library in town was at the school. He puzzled over it as he wandered down between the shelves. Zeke had always been fond of books. Adventures in foreign lands, lost civilizations, science fiction and science fact. He would read them all, over and over, until he knew the pages by heart. Light was filtering down from the high windows, pale and ghostly. Up ahead the shelves were placed to form an intersection. Left, right or straight ahead. When faced with such a choice, Zeke always chose right over left. He did so now, and set off down this new path. A shaft of light slanted down, illuminating something left in the aisle between the shelves. Slightly disapproving of this, Zeke bent down to pick the book up. As he did so, he heard something shuffle in the nearby murk. He jerked up swiftly, looking around.

            "Is someone there?" he called out, though not too loudly. "Hello? I'm lost. Is there someone around?" There was no answer, and no more noises. Zeke put it down to the settling of the shelves, and bent back down to retrieve the discarded book. It was leather bound, chunky and heavy. It had no title, or any discernable symbol on its cover. Slightly puzzled, Zeke opened it up. As he did so, the pages began to turn by themselves, rippling along until they stopped in the middle of the book. Zeke peered at the writing in the darkness. It was a large, copperplate script. As he tried to make it out, the writing blurred, and Zeke vision with it. He felt suddenly nauseous. His head spun, then it seemed as though his sight had fallen backwards, into his own brain...

            Zeke was standing in a park, on a rare sunny day in Silent Hill. There were children playing on swings and slides. Laughter drifted on the warm breeze. As Zeke walked around the edge of the park, he looked up, as though he were expecting someone to approach. No one was paying him any attention. He glanced around. There was a feeling of someone missing, a strange sense of deja vu not quite complete. He looked up at the sun. It became glaringly bright, and Zeke threw up his hands to shield his eyes...

            There was a thump as the book hit the floor. Zeke stood there, his arms over his face. He blinked in the sudden darkness, spots flashing before his eyes. The park and the sun had gone, replaced by the dusty gloom of the library. Zeke slowly lowered his arms. He looked around, disorientated by what had just happened.

            "Weird," he whispered. He remembered the park, and that day perfectly. It was the day he had first met Tyler Norris. Zeke had fallen over, and scraped his knee on the ground. No one had noticed, apart from Tyler. He had run over to Zeke to see what the problem was. That was who was missing from the memory. There was another sound, this time unmistakably from behind. Zeke spun around. There was nobody there.

            "Tyler?" Zeke called out. Ridiculous to think it was him, but Zeke could no longer be certain of anything. There was no answer. Leaving the book lying on the floor, Zeke headed back the way he'd come. When he got back to the intersection of shelves, he took the right hand turn again, or straight ahead, coming from the entrance.

            "Tyler!" Zeke shouted, louder this time. There was still no reply, but another book had been left on the ground. As Zeke came up to it, he realised that it hadn't been dropped carelessly, but placed there, so he couldn't miss it. He picked it up. Again, it was heavy and unmarked. Cautiously, he opened it, expecting the pages to turn and flip. They did, stopping again at a certain page. The words blurred, and Zeke felt the sensation of falling backwards, toppling into himself...

            Zeke was bouncing an old football on the grass in his own back garden. It was late afternoon, and already the fog was rising. He turned to face the high wooden fence at the bottom of the garden, and called out to Tyler, only he wasn't there. Nevertheless, Zeke dropped the ball onto the ground, lined it up with a nudge of his foot, and then kicked it. It sailed down the garden, and bounced off the fence with a satisfying thud. Zeke laughed, and called out.

            "You missed it again..."

            The book slammed shut as it hit the ground. Zeke stood shaking and confused. That had been the time that Tyler had accompanied him home from school. They had kicked that tattered old football around until the moon had come up and the fog got too thick to see more than a few feet away. The only thing missing was Tyler. Where was he in these memories? Surely he hadn't forgotten that Tyler had been there? Dismissing these thoughts, Zeke hurried on down past the shelves, picking up his pace. Up ahead the shelves intersected again. Zeke was ready to turn right, but glanced to the left and noticed a brighter light at the end of the shelves. Rather than stumble around in the dark, Zeke advanced towards the dismal glow. The shelves up ahead appeared to reach an end. Zeke quickened his pace, eager to be free of the labyrinthine aisles. Suddenly the shelves opened up, and Zeke was standing in a cavernous space beneath a high dome.

            It was obviously the centre of the library. The light was coming from a series of thin windows set just below the vast curving dome. Dust floated in the air, becoming momentarily visible as it past through the rays of light. The floor was patterned with an increasing complex design, that began with a series of circles at the edge of the floor, and worked its way inwards. At the centre, where the patterns would have reached their pinacle, stood a pile of books. Zeke approached them with caution. His footsteps echoed as he made his way across the cold stone floor. He was worried that this would attract the attention of whoever was shuffling around, but realised that he would also be able to hear their approach, should anyone try to sneak up on him. The thought relaxed him, and he turned his attention to the stack of books.

            They had been heaped up in scores, piled one on top of the other until the stacks had slipped and formed a random jumble of nameless, indistinguishable volumes. Zeke picked up the nearest one. He paused before opening it, and glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing to see in the gloom. The air was still and silent. Satisfied he wouldn't be assailed, he opened the book. It ran through the pages, this time coming to rest near the end. Zeke felt his consciousness slip, and then he was closing his eyes against the growing light...

            Zeke was walking across the lunch hall, the noise of the other pupils in his ears. He was carrying a tray, balancing his lunch and a can of cola. He looked around, then stumbled, spilling cola over Megan's coat, which had been draped over the back of her chair. She pushed her chair backwards, tripping Zeke again, and got up to shout at him.

            "My coat! Look at what you've done!" Her voice echoed slightly. "This was new, and its worth a lot of money!" Zeke mumbled an apology, and headed over to the table where Tyler had sat. There was no one there. Zeke sat down, and picked up a serviette that had been left on the table, and began to dry his own cola stained jacket...

            Zeke closed the book, and placed it back on the pile. He picked up another, and let it flick through the pages until it came to a stop. The room blurred, and an orange light permeated everything...

            Zeke was standing under the burning afternoon sky. The rocks underfoot dug into his unprotected soles. A hot wind blew about his face. In the distance, a great amny stakes had been driven into the ground, each one topped with a skewered corpse. Zeke turned around, and there on the horizon was Christian. He came across the scorching desert as though blown on the wind, shadows billowing out like ragged moth wings. Even as he got closer, Zeke could make out no distinguishing features. The man was as black and shapeless as the void. He seemed almost to swoop down upon Zeke, his form growing bigger and bigger, until Zeke's vision was obscured...

            The blackness had invaded the library. It lurked in every aisle, between every shelf. Shapes flickered past the high windows, casting shadows down into the cirlce where Zeke stood. He'd been calling out the wrong name as he had wandered through the library. It wasn't Tyler who was hiding here. It was something else entirely.

            "Christian?" Zeke said. There was a sigh from the shadows, echoed across the empty space in the centre of the library. Zeke turned around where he stood. Something flitted across an aisle. There was another noise from behind Zeke, and as he turned he saw more shapes, darting from shadow to shadow, shelf to shelf. Panic began to rise in Zeke. The sighing came again, rising and falling, echoing back and forth. He was surrounded in the middle of this room. He started to jog towards the closest aisle, dread fear making him realise that with all the turns he had made, he no longer knew which way was the way out. He made the cover of the shelves, the paper in the books rustling, shadows lurching crazily in the distance. The shuffling noises started again. They were coming from the next aisle along. Up ahead Zeke saw a gap in the shelves. He was certain that his pursuer would leap out, so he stopped and backtracked, until he reached the large circular room. He skirted around the edge, choose another aisle, and headed down into the murk. The shuffling had increased, and Zeke guessed that he had more than one hunter. There was a series of loud thumps, as though books were being torn off the shelves. Suddenly, the shelf to Zeke's left shook, and books rained down. Zeke held his hands above his head and ran on, the shelf shaking again, then slowly beginning to tip. Zeke pelted down the aisle, books sliding off the shelves and tripping him up. Ahead, the shelves intersected. More books fell down, and the shelf toppled over completely. Zeke tripped and fell out of the shadow of the falling shelf, catching himself just before he hit the floor. Behind him the shelf crashed against its neighbour, books smacking the ground as they slid from their places. The gentle sighing had become heavy breathing. Zeke pressed on through the dry darkness, the sound of tearing paper in his ears. He turned right at the next opportunity, then left, then right again. Scraps of paper were filling the air, pages torn from the books that his unseen pursuers had ripped up. Ahead, in the shadows, something lurked. A hulking animal shadow that put Zeke in mind of a wolf or bear. It passed across from one aisle to the next. Zeke stopped motionless. Apparently it hadn't seen him, but even so Zeke felt his knees tremble. He crept forward, paper snowflakes filling the air, and peeked around the edge of the bookcase. The beast had moved further off into the library. Zeke felt relief rise in his chest. He was about to chance running across to another aisle when several large books were pushed off the shelf next to Zeke's head by unseen hands. Zeke jumped back with a yell of surprise. That, and the noise of the falling books, made the beast turn back and look right at Zeke. It was a silhouette from snout to tail, except for its eyes, which glowed bright white like headlamps, and its teeth, which were yellowed and dripping thick, glistening saliva. Zeke cried out in fear, and ran.

            The beast snarled, a primeval roar that shook the very bones in Zeke's body. Zeke stumbled, and fell, hands going out to catch himself just in time. Half crawling, he pulled himself around a corner and clawed his way up the nearest shelf until he was standing upright. He pulled himself along the shelf, legs threatening to give out in terror at any time. Behind him he could hear the beast's slavering growl, and slimy spit hitting the floor in great hot gobs. Zeke sobbed, his breath rattled in his throat,  his chest was tight and painful. He stumbled along, clutching at the edge of the shelves wherever possible, not daring to look back. Several times he felt hot rancid breath on the back of his neck. He tried to push his tired legs to move faster, but he felt as though he was running through glue. His vision blurred with tears. All he could see was aisle after endless aisle of books. Torn pages fluttered about, and the shodows at the tops of the shelves let out whoops and cries, like excited chattering monkeys. He turned a corner, certain it would be his last, when a light became visible through the falling pages. Zeke cried out in hope. Surely it was the way out. He'd been wandering around this gothic vault for so long the sun had come up, and its light shone through the door which he had left open. His heart pounding, Zeke let go of the bookcase and began to sprint for the light, and salvation. The beast must have realised its prey was escaping, for it let out a terrible roar of defeat, and began to increase its speed, taking huge bounds down past the shelves. But Zeke was triumphant. Racing past the last of the books, he came running out into the light. It was not sunlight.

Zeke awoke in a cool white place that might have been heaven had there been any angels around to confirm it. He was laying in a cool bed made with pristine sheets in a small white room. It had a single window and door, a bedside table with a vase of wilting flowers, and a chair. Zeke focused on his surroundings more closely. Tyler was sitting in the chair, swinging his legs in the air.

            "Hello," he said cheerfully, noticing Zeke's scrutiny.

            "Where am I?"

            "In hospital," said Tyler. "You fell and hit your head. We were being chased, remember?"

            "I was in a library," said Zeke. Tyler laughed.

            "You dreamt about a library? Thats a new one." Zeke shook his head.

            "I didn't dream it... I was there. At least," he said, thinking of the obvious unreality of the place, "I think I was. How did I get here?"

            "Ambulance, I guess," said Tyler, slipping off the chair. "I'll go and get the nurse," he said, and pushed the door open and slipped out.

            "Wait!" called Zeke, but his throat was sore and dry, and his cry was little more than a hoarse whisper. He lay his head back on the soothing pillow, and the whiteness of the room blurred the finer details out of Zeke's sight. The fog was still around, the view from the window was as white as the walls. After some unknown passage of time, the door reopened. It was the nurse, a young woman with short hair and a relaxing smile. She also had a hyperdermic needle in her hands.

            "Hello young man," she said, all honey and warmth. "I see you're awake."

            "What's going on?" asked Zeke. The sight of the needle had panicked him. It meant nothing good, he was sure. "Where's Tyler?" The nurse looked cheerfully nonplussed.

            "I'm sorry, I don't know anyone named Tyler. Is he your father?" She rolled the sheets down the bed enough to uncover Zeke's arm. His jacket had been removed and his sleeves had been rolled up.

            "No, he's my friend. He came to get you... to tell you I was awake. What's that?" he asked, trying to move away from the needle. The nurse held his arm softly but firmly. There was no way to avoid the shot.

            "Now don't worry about this, it's just to help you sleep. You had a nasty bump on the head, and we've still got to get your parents here," the nurse said. She slid the needle into Zeke's arm. He was too numb to feel it go in.

            "Tyler?" he mumbled in confusion. The nurse shook her head.

            "There's no Tyler here," she said. "Perhaps he'll come and visit you later though? Won't that be nice." She rolled the sheets back into position and went to leave. "Now you get plenty of rest," she was saying, but Zeke couldn't hear it clearly anymore. The white faded to grey, then to black, and he quickly fell back into unconsciousness again.

            When he came to, he was hot and it was dark. The white room was stained an orange colour that shone in through the window. He felt a rising sense of apprehension - was he back in the dream? Struggling free of the sheets, he clambered out of bed, head swimming and guts churning. He tottered to the window. Outside it was as black as pitch. The light came from a streetlight outside, that did nothing to lift the darkness. He stumbled over to the door, grabbing hold of the bed for support as he passed. The room lurched sickeningly as he walked. Waiting for the waves of nausea to pass, he rubbed at his eyes to clear the sleepiness from them. Trying for the door once more, he managed to get it open.

            The corridor outside was warm and dark. It stretched off to the left and right. It went down as well, the floor nothing more than rusty chain-link fencing over a black void. Vertigo threatened to topple Zeke. He leant against the doorway for support. From some distant place, the sounds of machinary could be heard, a grinding, squealling noise of metal in pain. Zeke stumbled out into the corridor. The walls were metal, bare and rusted in places, and coated with peeling paint in others. Grime and muck was smeared in several places, giving off the stench of sickness and sewage. Zeke turned to the right and set off down the hallway, the grating floor groaning beneath his feet. There were doors set into the walls at regular intervals, but none that Zeke could open. They all seemed to be locked. Up ahead another corridor bisected the one he was in. There was a squeaking noise as well, that rose and fell with regularity. It was getting steadily louder, and therefore closer, but from which direction Zeke couldn't tell. He reached the intersection of corridors and looked. Nothing to the left or right, and nothing straight ahead. He turned to look the way he'd come, and sure enough there was something approaching from the darkness. It was a hospital trolley, pushed by some white-coated orderly with a mask on his face, and attended by a white-coated doctor. As it came closer, Zeke also realised that the trolley was occupied. He pressed himself against the wall to let the conveyance pass. As it did so, he saw that the patient was tied to the trolley with thick leather straps. His eyes were wide and unblinking. The doctor, Zeke also noticed, was carrying a tray. Neatly laid out on it were surgical implements of the sharpest degree. And finally, the orderly, his features hidden by the white guaze mask, was not so disguised that Zeke couldn't make out the mass of scar tissue that was his face. None of the trio paid any attention to Zeke, and they went straight past without saying a word. Only the continous squealling of the trolley's wheels made any noise. They faded into the darkness and were out of sight and sound altogether within moments. Zeke stood away from the wall. He returned to the intersection of the corridors to decide his best course of action. Because all the options were issentially identical, he instinctively turned to the right. He set off down the corroded hallway, and was pleased to notice a growing light in the distance. A single florescent tube was hanging from the ceiling. Its light was weak and fitful at best, but at least it illuminated his surrounds a little more. His hope was dulled when he realised that there was little to see. Only the peeling walls and locked doors that meandered off into the darkness. He carried on, the groaning metal noise in the background constant, until finally the corridor terminated in a set of double doors. They were not locked, and swung open when he pushed. Beyond, was some sort of ward.

            It was dimly lit by a flickering bulb that hung from the ceiling. Several beds were spaced out along the walls. Each one was occupied. Upon closer inspection Zeke discovered that they were hardly beds that these patients rested on. They were made of metal, and had straps and wheels on them, much like the trolley he had seen outside in the corridor. The patients were not resting either. They were all securely strapped onto their trolleys, and they made low moaning sounds as they occasionally twitched and strained against the leather bonds. None of the trolley-beds had sheets or covers, but all the patients were wrapped tightly in bandages, which were largely soaked with blood and pus, and smeared with fecal waste. Several had wild looks on their faces but seemed unable to focus on Zeke. A few had their whole heads swathed in bandages, with only eye and nose holes slit in them. Drips next to each trolley fed a sickly yellow liquid into each patient via a tube stuck into their arm. Zeke hurried across the ward and through a second set of double doors on the far side, desperate to be away from the moaning patients.

            The next room offered little comfort. It appeared to be a nursery, but the walls were just as corroded as the corridors and the cots were made of splintered wood. Each cot held a baby, most of which were crying out, but there were no nurses to be seen. As Zeke made his way across the room, he noticed the the baby in the last cot was standing up. Its hands had tightly clutched the bars of the cot, despite the splinters that stuck out of the wood. Its skin was mottled brown and its features were contorted and twisted. It looked thoroughly diseased. As Zeke watched, it began to jerk and spasm, as though it were suffering from a seizure, but only its head was twitching, snapping back and forth and round on its scrawny neck. It stopped for a moment, looking in Zeke's direction, then its frantic twitching began again. Zeke passed quickly through the door and found himself in another long corridor.

            As he set off down this new and seemingly endless route, he heard a splintering, crashing sound from the nursery. Turning back, he saw the door swing open, and the twitching baby toddled into view. It had broken free of its cot, and stood with a sharp piece of wood in its hand. It stood in the centre of the corridor watching Zeke, and its head started to twitch once more. Zeke set off at a run down the hallway, looking back to confirm that the baby was indeed following him. It moved slowly, compared to Zeke, but he wasn't about to take any chances. He passed several more doors, most of them locked, a few opening into more wards. Finally he saw a door that might offer some salvation. It was a large, heavy looking door set back into the wall. If only he could get it open, he could pull it shut again, and hopefully shut the baby out. He reached it, and tugged hard on the large metal handle. The door began to swing open, but it was a lot heavier and thicker than it looked. Certainly the twitching baby would not be able to open this door, thought Zeke. He struggled to stop it slamming shut on him as he slipped through the narrow space between the door and the frame. The door's own weight closed it behind Zeke, and he heard something click into place. Satisfied that he was safe, he took a good look at his present surroundings.

            There wasn't much to see. He was in a narrow corridor lit with a row of bare bulbs. The walls here were painted white, and the floor was solid, instead of rusty chain-links. A row of heavy looking doors lined each wall. Every door had a small round window, like a port hole, set into it. Zeke moved up to the first door and peered in. The glass was thick and the view inside was distorted somewhat, but the room beyond was small and well-lit. It was actually more like a cell, and it had padded walls, and a single occupant. A man, with a shaved head and a straitjacket, was rolling around on the floor. His eyes, when Zeke caught a glimpse, were roving madly around in his sockets, and spittle was smeared around his mouth. Zeke stepped away from the door, and went to the next one along.

            The cell was identical to the first one. It too had an occupant, tied in a straitjacket and leaning against the wall. He looked calm and composed, but had a most intense look, which seemed to be focused on the wall of his cell. As Zeke was about to walk away, the man's eyes slid around to concentrate his stare at Zeke. Unable to return the look, Zeke retreated from the door and walked to the next one. The was a sudden roar of noise from the door he'd just left, and it made Zeke jump.

            The composed man was no longer calm, but throwing himself against the door, his face pressed up to the window, phlegm foaming from his mouth and smearing on the thick glass. Zeke backed away until he was up against the far wall. The man seemed to be shouting, but the heaviness of the door and the padding of the cell muffled his words. The man's face was contorted, and his eyes were bloodshot, and Zeke could just about make out the words by reading his lips. Suddenly, the patient fell silent, biting his tongue until he was spitting blood from his mouth. He collapsed out of sight, and Zeke moved off down the corridor.

            The last door on the right had a light on through the window. With trepidation Zeke stood on tiptoes to peer in. There was a smear of blood on the glass. The cell, however, was empty. But signs of its last occupant were plain to see. The cell was full of blood. It was stained onto the padded walls, it pooled on the floor. It was smeared over the far wall as well. Zeke could make out words:

            Look Behind You

            Zeke looked over his shoulder. The window in the opposite door was dark. He crossed over to it. Surely no one was being kept in a dark room? He peered into the gloom. There was just enough light to make something out. Was that a figure back there? It seemed to be crucified on the far wall of its cell, but not nailed to a wooden cross. It was held up by thin pipes of metal, sharpened to points. They were inserted through the flesh, piercing the skin and holding the figure upright. There was a bar through each forearm and another passing across the crucified figure's shoulders. It was too dark to make out all the facial features, but its face was twisted in a display of profound pain, a metal point appearing at both temples. Zeke staggered back, and ran down the rest of the corridor, and struggled with the door at the end, desperate to get out.

            Once outside, the corridor returned to its twisted self, the sounds of grating metal much louder. Zeke realised that he should make he way down to the ground floor, and out of this place as quickly as he could. He set off to his right, walking at a swift pace, looking for a flight of stairs or an elevator, or some clue to which floor he was on. Up ahead the hallway forked. Deciding to take the right hand corridor, he turned and almost walked into the twitching baby that had pursued him from the nursery. Zeke yelled in horror. The baby was not so surpried. It raised its filthy hand, splintered stake held up, and stabbed it towards Zeke. It missed, but only by a fraction, as Zeke had staggered back in surprise. He turned and ran, past the corridor he'd come from and into the darkness.

            The baby picked up speed as well. Zeke stumbled onwards, tripping on the chain-link floor, until he passed a dark recessed space in the wall. Almost falling, Zeke stopped and took a few tentative steps forwards. There were stairs at the back, leading down. Unfortunately, they were pitch black. Not a single bulb illuminated the stairwell. Zeke hesitated. Surely attempting the stairs in darkness would be a suicidal attempt. A panting sound from behind made him glance back. His miniature executioner was gaining ground. Zeke made up his mind. Putting his hand out to the wall, he began down the staircase. The wall was rough and corrosive, and scraped at his palm. The stairs were not as hard. They were shallow and wide, which made the going a lot easier. Distressingly, this would mean the same for his pursuer. He had hoped that the baby would trip down the stairs in the dark, but it seemed they'd be no problem, even to such a small child. In the darkness, Zeke felt the wall stop under his hand, and the steps levelled out. He was on a landing. Reaching around he realised that the wall and the stairs continued. He began down the second flight. A snuffling noise from above heralded the arrival of the twitching baby. Zeke felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and sweat dampened his back. He began to go faster, nearly missing a step in his rush, and catching himslef before he fell headlong down the rest of the stairs. The baby was having no such problems. Zeke wondered if it could see in the dark. Finally the stairs levelled out again, and a dim light from up ahead showed that Zeke had finally come down a floor. He ran towards the light, desperate to be away from the snuffling thing chasing him in the darkness. Zeke ran up to the first door he came to, deciding that he'd throw the baby off by taking the most complex route he could.

            As soon as he'd pushed open the doors he realised he'd made a terrible error coming into this room. It appeared to be some sort of operating theatre, and it stank of blood and bones. The high walls were lined with all manner of decrepit machines, and several masked doctors in blood stained coats were gathered around a trolley that stood in the middle of the room. As they moved to see who had entered, Zeke got a glimpse of the patient. He'd been opened up by the doctors. Skin, flesh and bones all moved apart to expose the tender innards, most of which had been strung on a complex, but horrible sharp and rusty metal framework that stood next to the trolley. The doctors stared at Zeke, but he couldn't tell if they were angry or surprised, for their faces were covered by guaze masks stained a filthy brown colour. Several of the doctors had livid and disfiguring scars, and their hands were wounded with vicious cuts. One of the doctors began towards Zeke, shouting something that was muffled beneath his mask. Even so, Zeke couldn't understand a word. The doctor spoke in a voice so low it was almost a growl, and none of the words made any sense. It was as though he was speaking another language entirely. The other doctors began to advance as well, and Zeke stepped backwards, pushing the door open as he went. He stumbled back out into the corridor, the scent of blood wafting out with him. The panting, mumbling sound of the twitching baby reached his ears. Glancing around he saw it was only a few feet away at best. It had seen its target, and began a tottering run towards Zeke. It was met by the group of doctors who came striding out of the operating room, and Zeke used the confusion as an opportunity to escape. He ran aimlessly, taking turn after turn. Sometimes he ran through corridors lit with a row of bare bulbs, more often down hallways that were so black he had to put his hands out in front of himself to ensure he didn't run headfirst into a wall.

            Eventually, out of breath and with his chest and head pounding, he slowed to a walk. He hadn't realised it at first, but he'd followed the scraping, grating metallic noises. Here they were louder than ever. Curiousity got the better of Zeke, he looked around for the source of the noise. He found it without too much difficulty. It was coming from behind one door with a large metal handle. Zeke pulled hard and turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

            Inside was a large room, the biggest Zeke had seen in the hospital. The chain-link floor did not stretch all the way across the room. It ended near to the door, and out of the seemingly bottomless void rose a huge collection of grinding gears and immense cog wheels. They turned in slow, lazy movements, grating and squealling as they meshed against each other. Huge chains rose and fell, each one disappearing into the darkness, for the ceiling was too high to see, just as the floor vanished into an unfathomable pit.

            Massive rusty pipes snaked across the room, hissing and belching steam from chinks and gashes in their sides. Zeke was about to leave when he noticed that a thin segment of the chain-link floor ran along the wall and disappeared out of sight behind the screaming machinary. Not wanting to go back the way he'd come, for fear of meeting the doctors and the vicious infant again, he took his chances and followed the narrow way. There were no safety rails to stop him from toppling off the edge and into the space under the floor, so he kept himself pressed hard against the wall. Up ahead several of the fat, bulging steam pipes jutted out of the wall, and vanished into the gloom. There was no way under them. Zeke didn't relish the thought of climbing over them, but he had no other choice unless he wanted to go back the way he came. He reached out when he was close enough, to check if they were hot. They weren't, but they shook and trembled as the steam roared through them. Zeke braced himself and strated to climb over them. There were three in total, all pressed together in a row, but each one large enough for Zeke to fit inside. He crawled over them steadily, the pressure vibrating up through his hands and feet. As he clambered over the second pipe, a sharp hiss and a cloud of steam erupted outwards. Zeke yelled out. The steam was hot, and he fell sideways. Fortunately, the steam had burst out between him and the edge, so Zeke fell against the wall. His hand throbbed where the steam had caught it, but he didn't have time to stop and see to it now, in case of further eruptions. He hurried on across the final pipe, and climbed down the other side. The narrow path lead to a larger ledge on the far side of the room, and Zeke could make out a door. He hurried over to it, trying to make out his hand in the hot darkness. It was stinging and tender. Using his other hand, Zeke opened the door and emerged into a long, thin corridor that had a faint aroma of cigarette smoke. There were no doors, so Zeke had only one choice, and that was to continue straight ahead. A few fluorescent lights illuminated the hallway, and up ahead was a door, set with two glass panels. Through them Zeke could just make out swirling grey clouds. He hurried onwards, hoping it was the fog outside he could see. As he got nearer, the smell of smoke got stronger, but he didn't hesitate in pulling the door wide open.

            It wasn't fog he had seen, it was smoke. It billowed out in huge grey clouds, choking Zeke as it swirled off down the hallway. The room beyond was full of squat, shadowy figures, placed at various points, and all unmoving. Zeke held his sleeve over his mouth and crept in. The cigarette fumes stung his eyes and made him wheeze. He looked around and saw that all the figures were seated in threadbare and stained armchairs. Every single one was wrapped from head to foot in bandages, stained brown by the smoke. Ten paces into the room and Zeke could no longer see the doorway through the fumes. He meandered across the room, trying to find a means of exiting the place before he choked to death, when he heard a voice call out.

            "Over here!" Zeke looked around. The voice, a thin piping voice of a young girl, called out directions. "Keep coming forwards. A little more. Thats it." Zeke could now see the speaker. It was indeed a young girl, sitting in a wheelchair next to a window. She has wearing an old fashioned knitted cardigan and her legs were wrapped in a tartan blanket. "I'm Mary," she said. Her face was thin and pale, and her breath was shallow. Zeke presumed it was from sitting in such a smoky room.

            "I'm Zeke. Look, I'm lost, and I need to get away from here," said Zeke. Mary nodded.

            "I know, I know," she said, her voice calm and reassuring. "It's Christian, isn't it? He's following you." Zeke was dumbstruck.

            "You know about him? Christian, I mean?" Mary nodded.

            "Yes, he's here, in this very hospital. Very close by. You must get away, but not by the door. Climb out of the window." She moved her arm a little, and motioned towards the window.

            "The window? But, what floor are we on? Won't I fall?" asked Zeke. Mary shook her head.

            "Don't worry. We're on the ground floor. You'll see the ground outside the window when you open it. You must hurry, though." The smoke shuddered suddenly, ripples going through it. Both Zeke and Mary looked around.

            "That's him," murmured Zeke. Mary obviously agreed.

            "He's almost here," she said, not more than a whisper. Zeke turned his attention back to the window. It had obviously not been opened in some time. The paint around the edge had stuck the window shut. Zeke struggled, and felt the window give way a little.

            "Hurry!" said Mary, her voice almost a sob. The ripples in the smoke had become waves, and it appeared as though the smoke was being pushed up against the walls. The air was also warming up. The window made a slight cracking sound. Zeke forced it as hard as he could.

            "What about... you?" asked Zeke through gritted teeth. He grabbed the bottom ledge of the window with both hands, and pulled it up. It slowly scraped upwards an inch. His burnt hand was on fire with pain. Tears formed in his eyes.

            "I'll be fine," said Mary. "In this smoke, he'll overlook me." Her voice was filled with panic, though. The air was becoming unbearably hot. Suddenly the window shot upwards, and a blast of icy cold air rushed in, pushing the smoke back. Zeke yelped in pain. He had caught his burnt hand when the window opened. Mary screamed as well, but not in pain.

            "Look!" Zeke turned around, nursing his blistering hand. Standing in the doorway, the smoke billowing around him, was the unmistakable silhouetted figure of Christian. Zeke went to grab Mary's hand, but she pushed him away.

            "Go on!" she insisted, grabbing hold of the wheels of her chair. She began to edge backwards, into the smoke. "Hurry!" Christian had been slowed down by the freezing wind, but he didn't hesitate for long. He began to advance. Zeke looked at Mary, suddenly unsure of what to do.

            "The window!" stated Mary, looking sharply at Zeke. He turned towards it, the air so cold it made the sweat on his brow chill to ice water. He started to climb out, one leg, then the other. Christian, realising that speed was of the essence, picked up his pace, but Zeke had already made it through the window. There was a slight drop on the other side, and he fell onto soft grass, blistered hand first.

            "Ow!" he winced, picking himself up. Christian was at the open window, but making no attempt to climb through after Zeke. Taking his chance, and offering a prayer to Mary, he stumbled away into the night, cradling his throbbing hand, and not looking back.

Chapter Four: The Preserving Dark

            Zeke walked for a long time. The wind was as cold as a steel blade, and cut just as deeply. The fog swept in so thick Zeke couldn't even see his own feet. After an unknown distance, Zeke felt the land begin to rise. Stark figures of trees loomed up out of the freezing fog. He was climbing up out of the valley, he knew. He kept on going, near exhaustion, when the fog cleared and the moon shone down. Zeke hadn't realised it but he was deep in the forest on the mountains surrounding the valley. He looked back. Some distance away he could make out the fog-dimmed lights of the town. He turned back, and continued his ascent.

            After a while the fog thinned out, and by the light of the moon Zeke could make out some sort of black structure up ahead. The trees parted a few yards later, and there in the middle of the woods was an old, decrepit house. Its windows were boarded up, and rope had been tied across the partially collapsed veranda. Zeke wearily climbed the rotten wooden steps, and ducked under the wet rope. The boards were cracked and broken in many places, but Zeke managed to get up to the front door. There was a window in the door, but it lacked glass. A pair of shutters had been nailed up on the inside. Zeke pushed the door. It creaked but was shut tight. He looked around for another means of entry. A small window to the side of the door had a loose board. Further examination revealed that it was held in with only one nail. It looked as though the old board had been removed and replaced many times. Zeke pulled hard with his right hand. His left one was still sore, and swollen. The rotted wood gave way, and fell off leaving a sizeable hole for Zeke to climb through. Several disturbed woodlice and spiders showed some interest as he carefully made his way through the window and into the house. Zeke brushed them off his jacket once he had made it inside. He looked around to survey his surroundings.

            It didn't appear as bad as the dilapidated exterior suggested. There were a few old fashioned oil lamps burning on the walls, the light greasy and weak at best, and the smell permeating the air. The walls themselves were papered in cheap thin patterned stuff, with patches of damp having already eaten large holes. The carpet was thick with a layer of dust, that rose into the air in clouds when Zeke walked across it. The air was musty and dry, but there was a faint underlying stench that Zeke couldn't place.

            A wide staircase rose from the centre of the room to an upstairs landing, whilst two doors and a hallway stretched off from the room that Zeke was currently occupying. Deciding to stick to the ground floor, Zeke tried the first door. It was the front door, and it was securely locked. Turning his attention to the second door, he discovered it led to a small sitting room. A rotting sofa and armchair sat against the walls, and mould had covered a large portion of the ceiling. A bookcase and an antiquated chest of drawers stood side by side beneath a boarded up window. Zeke noticed that all the books on the bookcase had been torn up. Pages littered the floor. Many of them had faded, or the script was covered with mould and damp, but a few were still legible. Zeke picked one up. As he did so, he felt something similar to a minor electric shock in his fingertips, and a burst of bright light behind his eyes...

            Zeke was standing in the sitting room. Thw windows were open, there were trees outside. A middle aged woman sat on the sofa, her eyes open in shock. Before Zeke, standing over him, was a tall, well built man in his early fifties. He wore old fashioned and scruffy clothes, and stubble covered his lower face. In his hands he held a large, heavy looking stick. He raised it above his head, as the woman cried out.

            "No, please, thats enough!"

            Zeke gasped, the page falling from his numb fingers. It was just as it had happened in the library, but Zeke was certain that that sudden sight hadn't been his memory. Perhaps it was the memory of whoever had lived here. Curious, Zeke picked up a second piece of paper, and felt the now familiar sensation...

            Zeke stood in a small room, looking out of a window. It offered a splendid view of the treetops, and, in the distance, a small but bustling town. A sound behind caught his attention, and already he was turning, to see that same man pushing the door open and entering the room. He was holding a muddied jacket. A scowl was plastered across his face, and a thin trail of spittle ran down one side of his rough chin...

            Zeke came to his senses. He discarded the page and found another...

            The sitting room again, this time seen through a crack in the door. The man was holding a gun up to the light of the setting sun. He turned it this way and that, then, satisfied, placed it into a drawer in the chest next to the bookcase. He turned and headed towards the door, and the scene blurred suddenly, as if Zeke was running away...

            Zeke was already reaching for the next page...

            A darkened room. The middle aged woman was lying on the bed. Her breathing was heavy. Zeke approached the bed. The woman had a black eye, bruises on her face and neck, and blood on her lips. Even as Zeke watched through borrowed eyes, the pillow was lifted out from under her head and place down across her face. She struggled, hands clawing at the bedsheets, but there was no strength left in her. In under a minute, she shuddered and lay still...

            Zeke let the page fall to the floor. He had a terrible feeling about this place. This was Christian's house. Something terrible had happened here, a long time ago, and it was Christian's doing. Remembering the vision of the gun, Zeke headed over to chest of drawers. He tried all three drawers, from top to bottom. The first two were empty, but in the third lay the gun. It was old and dusty, an antique revolver of some sort. Zeke had seen several guns before, and knew how to check if they were loaded. He opened the chamber up. Sure enough there were bullets inside. Zeke counted five. There was one missing. Zeke pocketed the gun. The rest of the pages were too damp and faded to make anything out. When he picked them up, nothing happened. He left the sitting room and returned to the main hall.

            Nothing had changed. The lamps still flickered in their brackets on the walls, the dust still flew up from the carpet as he crossed over to the hallway. Three doors led off at regular intervals. The first one opened into a small dining room. The table had been smashed into tinder and heaped into the middle of the room. The chairs had suffered the same fate. Rotted curtains hung across boarded up windows. Zeke continued with his exploration of the house. The second door led to the kitchen. A large, grease and dust covered stove was placed along one wall. Several cupboards, home only to cockroaches, hung off the walls above. Pots, pans and crockery were strewn across the floor. A small door at the back of the room had cold air blowing from under it. When Zeke tried the handle, he found that it was locked, and closer inspection revealed it was padlocked as well. Carefully sidestepping the shards of smashed plates, he returned to the hallway.

            The final door opened at the top of a rickety staircase leading down into what appeared to be the basement. A light flickered at the bottom, and a vile stench rose up from some unseeable source. Zeke tested the first step. It was wooden, and creaked terribly, but held his weight. He began his descent. The fourth step down broke as soon as he put his foot on it, cracking in half and smashing on the floor below. Zeke caught his breath. Although he'd carefully tested every step before putting his full weight on it, he wasn't quite expecting the stairs to give way. He tenderly negotiated the rest of the steps. The floor at the bottom was bare concrete, the walls were bare brick. A lamp stood on a barrel in the corner, illuminating three doors.

            "I'll take door number one," said Zeke quietly, and took the door on the left. As he pushed it open, a wave of foul air came out. Zeke reeled back, coughing. He retrieved the lamp from the corner, covered his mouth with his sleeve, and pushed the door open further. The room was of a fair size, the walls and floor brick and concrete. They were decorated, however, and those decorations were surely the source of the vile stench. Cemented into the floor and the walls, were the remains of at least a dozen children.

            Their thin bodies had been arranged into various positions, some sitting, some lying. Several were only skeletons, the bones arranged in isometric patterns and cemented to the walls. Several bodies stuck up at angles out of the floor. Some hung out of the walls, two were either side of the door, as though they were guards. Shattered bones lay scattered about, and rags of clothes were heaped in a rotting pile in the corner. Zeke felt bile rise in his throat. Gagging, he stumbled back through the door, pulling it tightly shut behind him. He sat down on the cold hard floor, spitting the foul taste of vomit from his mouth before he threw up the meagre contents of his stomach. When he felt well enough to rise, he cautiously opened the middle door.

            There was nothing to fear here. It was simply a room full of junk. Old boxes and wooden crates, a roll of carpet, a pile of paintings. In one corner stood a cabinet, covered with cobwebs. Assured that there was nothing of interest here, Zeke moved onto the final door.

            It led to a room that was empty except for a large wooden chest that was wrapped in rope and chained to the floor. Zeke approached it, first with caution, then with a growing sense of puzzlement. What was in the box that made it so important to keep it so securely tied up? It was a complete mystery to Zeke, but before he could set about solving it, a familar voice from behind made he turn and stare in astonishment.

            "Tyler? What are you doing here?" Tyler was lounging against the cold bare wall. He made no attempt to answer Zeke's question.

            "I didn't think you'd ever get here," he said, an unfamiliar whine to his voice.

            "I don't understand. Have you been waiting for me? Where did you go, back in the hospital?" asked Zeke, full of questions. "The nurse said she hadn't seen you.Whats going on? Why are you here? I think Christian is here too. Its not safe." Tyler ignored Zeke, and pushed himself away from the wall. He made a few tottering steps into the room.

            "Of course he's here. This is his house." Zeke looked shocked, and then relieved, as if a piece of the puzzle had just fell into place.

            "That man... he's Christian, isn't he! Please, tell me, Tyler. What should I do?" Tyler reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out an ugly looking cleaver.

            "Stand still," he said. "It'll be quicker that way." Tyler made a roaring noise, his mouth opening impossibly wide. His teeth were long and jagged, his tongue convulsing like an enraged snake. His mouth opened up further and further, until his face was nothing but gaping maw. Zeke had backed away, and stumbled into the rope bound box. As Tyler lunged towards him, cleaver held above his head, Zeke fumble in his pockets for anything to stop Tyler from hacking his head in half.

            His fingers closed around the gun. Not thinking clearly, and with seconds to spare, Zeke pulled the gun on Tyler. It failed to stop him. As he lunged forwards, Zeke squinted and looked away, then pulled the trigger. At point blank range, he couldn't miss. The gunshot reverberated around the small chamber, making Zeke's ears ring. Tyler was thrown backwards, his head cracking as he hit the floor. The cleaver went flying, and clattered into a corner. Zeke let his arms drop down. A trail of smoke from the gun wafted past his face. He walked over to Tyler. His face had lost its beastial look. He wore a puzzled, perplexed look. Above his right eye was a small black hole. A thin trail of blood had welled up and was making its way down the side of his face. He was most definitely dead. Zeke knelt down next to him.

            "Tyler?" he whispered. The was no answer. Zeke reached out and closed Tyler's eyes. It was something he'd seen people do in movies. Then he got up and retrieved the cleaver. He took it over to the chest and sliced through the ropes. Pulling them off, he managed to heave the lid of the chest open. Inside was a thick wooden stick. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was about four feet long and an inch thick, and made of wood so hard it was more like an iron bar. The mystery still wasn't solved. Why would anyone lock a stick in a chest? Zeke recognised it as the stick that the man of the house had been holding. Not wanting to be on the recieving end, he decided to keep it. He threw the cleaver away into a dark corner. It was an ugly thing, and Zeke didn't want it near him. He glanced down at Tyler's limp body as he passed on his way out. He closed the door and left it there in the cold and the dark.

            After making his way back upstairs, Zeke realised that the only way left to go was further up. He knew that Christian was waiting at the top of the house, and delaying would only be futile. Better to get it over and done with, than wait for the monster to come to him. Besides, he had the gun, which put a sense of bravery into him. There was no time like the present, thought Zeke, as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor of the house. As he set foot on the first step, however, the lamp he'd retreived from the basement spluttered and went out. Obviously Christian was to be faced in the dark. Zeke discarded the burnt-out lamp, and continued his climb. At the top was a short hallway with three doors. The first one was an old bedroom, with a mouldy bed and dusty wardrobe. Maggots crawled in the mattress, so Zeke closed the door and continued down the hallway. The second door was another bedroom, this one obviously a child's room. The bed was much smaller and narrower, and there were faded childish scribbles on the walls. There wasn't enough light to see them by, so Zeke gently closed the door and made his way to the end of the hall. The final door creaked open even as he approached it, revealing a dank staircase beyond. Zeke put his hands on the walls to guide himself up. Halfway up he heard a strange squeaking noise, then felt dozens of odd creatures brushing past his head and arms. He gasped, realising that there were bats in the stairwell, and he must have disturbed them. He crouched down and covered his head with his hands, until the squeaking died away and the last of the bats flew off. Then he continued up the stairs. There were ten in all, Zeke counted them as he went up. At the top was a bare wooden door. Zeke pushed it open, and crept through.

            He was in a dimly lit attic room. Light shone in through several cracks in the low ceiling where slates had fallen from the roof. There didn't appear to be anything of interest. Certainly no nightmarish creature leapt from the shadows, claws and teeth bared and ready. As Zeke's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed that the left hand wall had been papered over. He moved closer to investigate. The wallpaper was patchy and faded, and covered with writing. Zeke looked closer, and realised it wasn't wallpaper, but newspaper. Neither had it been pasted up in random sheets. Rather, they were carefully cut out articles, all displaying the same subject. They were articles on missing people. Zeke began to count. The first seven were so old that the paper had yellowed and was wafer thin. His touch all but reduced them to dust. The words were virtually illegible and the poorly taken old fashioned pictures no longer showed up. After the eleventh article, Zeke was able to make out names and dates. Apparently all the missing people were children. The hairs on Zeke's neck began to prickly as he read the dates of each paper. 1948, 1956, 1966, 1974... When he reached the last but one, the sixteenth newspaper cutting, he gasped. The words were clear enough to read, the picture sharp enough to see. The date was 1981, the picture was of a young girl, thin in the face with long hair. The name was Mary Peterman. Zeke traced the name with his finger.

            "That... can't be true..." he murmured. "I spoke to her not two hours ago, in the hospital!" With a rising sense of dread, he read the final clipped out article. It was dated 1991. The picture was unmistakable. The name was Tyler Norris. Zeke's head began to pound. He read the paragraph that accompanied the picture. "Tyler Norris, twelve, of Silent Hill, was reported missing on the morning of April third. He had last been seen heading north of the town, where a witness saw him heading into the forests that surround the town. His mother said he had been acting a little strange for several days, apparently speaking to himself as though there was somebody else there. He is the latest in a long line of missing children, the first of which was reported back in 1897, when the town was little more than three or four streets..." Zeke stopped. It all sounded terribly familiar. Christian had been hard at work for many years. He re-read a line from Mary's article, The missing girl's body has not yet been found. Zeke thought of the children in the basement. "You didn't look hard enough," he mumbled. He stepped back from the montage of newsapers, and a further clipping caught his eye on the opposite wall. It was surely the oldest, and the words were so faded Zeke could hardly make them out. There were no pictures to accompany the segment. It was a short piece on a local murder. A husband and wife had been found dead in their house on the outskirts of town. The man had been shot once, in the head with a revolver. His wife had been apparently smothered in her bed. Their ten year old son had not been found in the house, it was assumed he had been abducted by the attacker. It dawned on Zeke that it was this house that was the one mentioned in the article. So, the man who had lived here was not Christian.

            "His son must have been the first victim," said Zeke aloud. His body must be down in the basement as well." There was nothing else in the attic. Zeke was about to leave when he noticed a door at the far end of the narrow room. There was some place beyond the attic, it appeared. As Zeke neared that door, he felt his skin begin to itch. He reached the door. There was not a sign of what lay beyond, except for a frantic twitching in the air. As Zeke reached for the handle he heard a buzzing noise, like a swarm of bees. Ignoring it, he opened the door.

            The room beyond was small and circular. He stepped through the doorway, and the door slammed shut behind him. The insistent buzzing reached a higher pitch. There were no bees, the noise was all in Zeke's head. The room was lit with a pale yellow glow. The was no discernable light source. Directly opposite Zeke, on the far wall, was a doorway so black it looked as though it was a solid sheet of lead. The illusion was shattered, though, when a tall man stepped out of the pitch blackness.

            He had a regal bearing to him. His hair was greying, and tied back in a tight pony tail. His clothes were old fashioned and fine, though covered with dust. He wasn't an old man, Zeke guessed he was in his early forties at the latest, but his face had a long, livid scar that ran from forehead to neck, right across his left eye. The eye itself was a white ball of gristle. It lacked both iris and pupil. His right eye had no iris either, only a pinpoint pupil. The buzzing noise subsided slightly. The man's shadow had spread itself out across the walls. It writhed and jerked crazily, as though it had a life of its own. Zeke found his voice.

            "Are you... Christian?" he asked. When the man spoke, his lips did not move, and his voice had a buzzing quality to it.

            "I am."

            "The children... and the people that lived here. You killed them, didn't you?"

            "I did."

            "Who were they? That man?"asked Zeke.

            "My father."

            "And the woman?" though Zeke had a feeling he already knew.

            "My mother," Christian confirmed.

            "You were the missing son," said Zeke.

            "I was not missing. I never left," said Christian. "I waited here, in the preserving dark-" Did he mean the blankness behind him? thought Zeke. Christian continued. "And I called the children to me."

            "You killed them," accused Zeke.

            "You have done the same," countered Christian. Zeke was shocked.

            "I haven't!" he denied.

            "You killed Tyler Norris."

            "I didn't," said Zeke.

            "You shot him."

            "He was already dead! You killed him, all those years ago! Just like you did the other children!" Zeke still had the long stick in his hand. He leant it up against the wall, and reached his hand inside his pocket. "You won't get me that way," he said, and pulled out the gun that had belonged to Christian's father. He held it out in front of him, trained on Christian's face. His hand trembled. Christian made no move. "Well?" asked Zeke. "Don't you have a reason? Why did you do it all?" The shadows on the wall twitched and spasmed. Then without warning, they leapt from the wall, knocking the gun from Zeke's hands. It clattered against the wall, where the shadows reached over and snatched it up. Zeke yelled out in surprise and fear, and scrabbled at the wall, trying to retrieve the gun. Christian advanced. His face was as blank as the walls around him. It offered no hope of mercy or salvation. He was about to perform a scene he had done many times before. Zeke looked hopelessly around. He had nothing to defend himself with, and no one to help him. The gun was gone, Tyler was dead, Mary just the memory of a ghost. Zeke began to plead.

            "Please, don't... I never did anything wrong... please..." Tears were forming in his eyes. He backed up against the wall, the shadows snatching at his hair. As Christian advanced, Zeke began to shuffle away, his back still up against the wall. He was about to plead for mercy again when his foot hit something. It was the stick that Christian's father had once owned. Zeke snatched it up and held it like a sword. "Stay back!" he cried, the point of the stick weaving to and fro as Zeke's arms trembled. Christian smiled, a hard, tight, lipless smile, and took the last few steps towards Zeke, who felt his legs go suddenly weak. He had a few more seconds before he collapsed before the beast. In one last defiant gesture, he lifted the stick, two handed, above his head, then began to swing it down. Christian's whole face changed in an instant. That cruel smile and the taunting dead eyes turned to fear.

            "No, daddy, no," he said. Zeke listened in wonder, but it was too late to stop the swing...

            There was a cracking sound. Either Christian was as light as a feather, or Zeke didn't know his own strength, but as the stick hit Christian on his left shoulder, he fell to the floor in a heap. The stick was intact. It was Christian's bones that had cracked. Zeke looked down in wonder. Christian's face was all crumpled.

            "Daddy, no please daddy," he was saying. Zeke took his chance, and raised the stick above his head again.

            "Daddy please no I didn't mean it-" said Christian, then the stick came down, and he screamed. "Daddy no!" Zeke lifted the stick again. "It wasn't me!" Again the stick sliced through the air. "It was an accident daddy!" Zeke lifted his arms again.

            "Daddy no!"

            And again.

            "Please!"

            And again.

            "Daddy stop!"

            And again, until the stick shattered, and broke in two. Zeke stood there panting for breath. He was spatterd in Christian's blood. His foe lay on the floor, blood and bones sticking out at unnatural angles. The skull had caved in on one side. Two ribs protruded from the tattered coat. The shadows on the wall were in extremis. They writhed and jerked in their death throes. Zeke heard something clatter onto the floor. It was the gun. Tired beyond all belief, Zeke threw the broken cane onto the floor, and staggerd to the door. He tried to turn the handle. It wouldn't move. he took a better grip on it, and pulled hard, but still nothing. In his head, a thin insistent whine began to rise. He turned slowly, eyes widening, and stared open mouthed at the scene unfolding before him.

            The shadows crept across the floor, and disappeared into Christian's bloodsoaked body, which was nothing more than a bloody pulp on the floor. Then, from out of that broken mess, Christian, the real Christian, the one that had chased him through his dreams every night for three years, rose up.

            It was a grotesque sight. The coat hung in rotted tatters around its body. Its arms were flayed and broken, the bones sticking out at elbow and wrist. Blood ran down it like it had stepped in out of a rainstorm, and its hair was patchy and unkempt. Part of its face was missing where the skull had collapsed inwards, slimy and sticky cobwebs were strung across the gap. Its one remaining eye swivelled madly in its socket. But worst of all, in its chest, where its heart should have been, there was simply a gaping black hole. Protruding from this were several thin twisted metal pipes and gristly tubes. The whining noise increased, until Zeke's pounding head felt like it was going to explode. Christian looked down at him.

            "You... little worm..." it said. "Look what... you've done. Look what you've done!" Its voice rose to a scream. "Look what you've done! Look what you've done!" It went lunatic, arms thrashing, limbs flailing, its fingers sharp bony claws, trying to tear at Zeke. "I'll kill you!" it screeched, so loud that Zeke covered his ears. He ducked under its vicious grasp, and scrambled across the floor to where the gun lay, discarded. He snatched it up, fumbling to get it the right way round. Christian's wailing had reached new heights. It was going beserk. Zeke backed himself up against the wall, and took aim. He pulled the trigger, the gunshot momentarily drowning out Christian's whining screams. Zeke squinted as he pulled the trigger. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he had missed. Christian's mad flailing movements had dodge the bullet. Zeke took aim again. He screwed his eyes shut as he pulled the trigger. This time, louder than the gunshot, he heard a roar of agony. Opening his eyes he saw that he'd hit the creature in the arm. It had taken it off completely. The lost limb was splattered against the far wall. Zeke lifted the gun up once more, this time trying hard to keep his eyes open. It didn't help much. He fired, and the bullet grazed Christian's head, slamming into the wall behind it. There was only one bullet left.

            "You... will... die!" Christian screamed, and lunged at Zeke. Zeke pulled the trigger. The was a gunshot, a scream, then a noise like a carton of eggs hitting the pavement. Zeke opened his eyes. Christian was smashed against the wall. The bullet had gone straight into the hole in its chest, and the force had thrown its body against the wall, where it had splattered across the bare boards. It slowly slid down, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. The smell of sewage and rot rose from it. The yellow light in the room dimmed, the shadows disappeared. The darkness that Christian had stepped from faded to reveal a blank panel of wooden wall. Holes appeared in the ceiling, and the door creaked and fell off it hinges. Zeke sidestepped the mess that had been Christian, and walked back through the attic, and down though the house. Everywhere, derilection had set in. The lamps had burnt out, the walls were damp and peeling, the carpet and sodden and disintergrating mess. There were several loud crashes from the upstairs rooms, as the ceilings gave way and collapsed inwards. The extra weight on the floors caused them to drop down into the lower rooms. Zeke hurried to the front door. It was no longer locked. It had fallen from its hinges and lay across the veranda. Zeke vacated the crumbling house, and made it to the safety of the trees. He stopped and looked back. The house had settled, most of its walls still intact, but a large portion of the roof, and the upper floor missing. The dust settled. Satisfied there was nothing more to see, Zeke began the long trek home.