Silent Hill

2He clambered forward, pulling himself up onto the cool, polished stone, and knew that he was mad beyond salvation, or had died and was trapped in some terrible netherworld. He was beneath the earth in final darkness: there could be no voices, no phantoms. There would be no light making the steps gleam before him like moonlit alabaster. He was running away from something, through a massive dark cavern filled with obsidian lights and sharp edges. Reflections and scattered light made it impossible for him to see where the walls were, and he ran into them over and over again, covering his exposed skin with painful cuts that oozed blood onto the floor. He caught glimpses of his pursuers: small, gray children, perhaps four years old, who appeared as washed-out albino-like cave animals. Their eyes were sewn shut with thick cord, making him think of shoelaces. He heard no sound as they chased him. They did not communicate or look at him, but they always seemed to know where he was. Although he stayed ahead of them for the moment, he could not get away. Even if he escaped, something else would get him eventually. He was alone in a hostile world— hostile universe. Whether he lived another ten minutes or ten days, he would probably never see another human being, would have only rasping, homicidal monstrosities like these for company until the inevitable end. Countless shadows passed by, his path revealed by the light still gleaming from between his teeth, refracting off crimson windshields and broken glass, the carnage everywhere he looked. As he ran, he could swear he treaded on flesh and bone, a disgusting crack beneath his feet, his shoes slick with fluid and ichor... For the sake of his sanity, he didn’t dare think of it. A gore soaked wall rose before him - a dead end. Turning, he shined the light upon the bestial creatures as they wrestled their way through the twisted metal, the fragments stripping flesh as they went. There was nowhere to run - nothing to defend himself with - his gun clicking on empty. Finally they caught him. There were too many of them to fight off. Ten or twenty strong, they mobbed him and suddenly he was being carried through a secret passage. There was a table at the end, in a rough cruciform shape, made of matte-black metal with nylon straps. The children forced him onto it and strapped him down, immobilizing him. He felt a momentary sense of relief, thinking this is about as bad as it can get. Then they all looked at him, and he somehow knew they could see him through their sewn eyelids. They grinned, revealing mouths full of wickedly-sharp shark teeth. They began to feed on him, swallowing huge chunks of flesh whole. There is an atmosphere of unutterable loneliness that haunts any ruin—a feeling particularly evident in those places once given over to the lighter emotions. Wander over the littered grounds of an abandoned amusement park and feel the overwhelming presence of desolation. Flimsy booths with awnings tattered in the wind, rotting heaps of sun-bleached papier-mache. Crumbling timbers of a roller coaster thrust upward through the jungle of weeds and debris—like ribs of some titanic unburied skeleton. The wind blows colder here; the sun behind the fog seems even dimmer. Ghosts of laughter, lost strains of raucous music can almost be heard. Speak, and your voice sounds strangely loud—and yet curiously smothered. Or tour a neglected formal garden, with its termite-riddled arbors and gazebo. The lily pond is drained, choked with weeds

and refuse. Only a few flowers or shrubs poke miserably through the rank undergrowth. Dense clots of weeds and vines overrun the paths and statuary. Here and there a shrub or rambling rose has grown into a wild, misshapen tangle. The flowers offer anemic blooms, where no hand gathers, no eye admires. No birds sing in that uncanny hush. Such places are lairs of inconsolable gloom. After the brighter spirits have departed, shadows of despair and oppression assume their place. The area has been drained of its ability to support any further light emotion, and now, like weeds on eroded soil, only the darker sentiments can take root and flourish. These places are best left to the loneliness of their grief... The ever-present mists and forbidding silence makes all endeavor seem shallow and pointless. The area is flooded by a silence as vast and deep as the ocean itself, a silence in which undercurrents of nervousness and suspense can effortlessly drown anyone in fear. The sense of forbidding that hangs over this empty place is a more insidious enemy than anything composed of flesh and blood could ever be. It appears as a ghost town, as little signs of activity can be seen in the deserted streets or shattered windows of its forsaken structures. It is only when someone stands amid the ruins that he/she feels alien eyes upon him/her, or notices a shadow move at the edge of his vision. To look upon the ruined buildings and littered streets is to see the discarded hopes and ancient fears of tragic pasts. Everything in Silent Hill is broken and forlorn with sunlight a foreign object within its boundaries. Even the moon with its dark secrets has departed from the sky, and only fog dominates the scene. To accent the unsettling environment, the town’s canyon-like streets possess weird acoustics. A rustle on one side of the city might sound like it is right beside the listener, while a growl next to him might sound like it’s coming from a mile away. Rain, snow and darkness impairs vision, allowing monsters to attack them with ease. There are actually two sides to Silent Hill, as if two realities are pulsing in and out of perception. One is covered in a bright, white mist that moves through and over Silent Hill, but other than that it looks relatively normal; cars are still parked, storefront windows are still intact, and things in general seem mostly undisturbed. The exceptions being the pitted chasms and crevices of mistfilled darkness found at the town’s edges and bisecting certain streets. These collapsed bridges and the massive chasms surround the town, preventing escape — as if some powerful force has been trying to isolate it. The chasms are visible every few blocks, underlying the streets like a grid. They sometimes extend thousands of feet down. Steamy mists cover the chasm bottom, their thick gray surface in grim waves, rolling and breaking against the volcanic cliffs. Desolate and dim, the settlement is surrounded by an impenetrable fog, thick enough that one cannot see several feet ahead. The buildings are dirty and decrepit, the vehicles unworking regardless of condition. Even at noon, the fog captures most of the rays of sunlight, leaving the entire town trapped in a fog-bound abattoir. No visible indication of why or how the town was abandoned is visible anywhere. Technological devices for transportation and communication stop functioning, while radios and walkie-talkies give off faint static. At times, the static grows stronger, until it is impossible for the ears to not pick up the cacophony. Silent Hill to the soul who hears this, as this is a sure indication that the blasphemous beings that roam this town are nearby, patrolling

the streets with a dismal gray sky hovering overhead. The air is warm, too warm for snow, despite the cool, almost cold, breeze whipping by. Snowflakes drift down; not many; they descend lazily, except when the wind gusts, and they seem like fragments of burnt sky, cold bits of ash. They evaporate almost instantly if caught, strangely not even leaving moisture behind. Everything is abandoned, barely working, and damp. The other is a nightmarish reflection of the first town, each of its buildings and locations recreated with a hellish twist. In the mildest cases, the basic lay out of the building or location remains the same. The floor will remain basically the same, but it will become heavily soiled and stained, pock marked with blood and rust. Tiles are sometimes out of place, torn from the floor and strewn about. Blood and rust stain the walls as well, but they are usually further transformed. Typically, they are covered with something out of place, even on top of the blood and rust. Sometimes, the walls are completely covered with padding, other times, sheets or tarps are draped on the walls haphazardly, as though the building were abandoned quickly. Besides strange coverings and blood and rust, other manifestations of decay appear on the walls, as they are sometimes cracked and crumbling. Everything here is dark, derelict, bug-infested, creaky and concealing unthinkable horrors. These general transformations are hardly the whole of it. Other times, bottomless pits swallow up parts of the structure that had been there in the 'normal' world. Nonfunctional escalators run into an endless dark. A wire mesh walkway suspends travelers above a black chasm. What awaits at the bottom of these pits is unknown and best left undiscovered. The sky is a sheet of pitch black without moon or stars, and from which a light warm rain falls instead of the cold snow of this town’s misty counterpart. In some places, walls, floors, and ceilings take on a fleshy appearance. When the transition occurs the windmills, machinery and other structures rise out of nowhere, and the general impression is that the nightmare town is just a speck in the middle of an infinite void, in its own separate reality as if nothing existed except for the metal grid and what is attached to it: nothing but empty space. Besides stained floors and ceilings, other disturbing vistas appear. Windows disappear, or become heavily barred or boarded, becoming impassable. Escape is made that much harder with their disappearance. In the worst cases, the floor and ceiling are composed entirely of flesh that convulses and bleeds. The normal geography of structures stops applying, as even new features are added. These new places are dominated with rust and normal surfaces are replaced with cast iron grills and riveted steel. The air smells sour, and faintly dirty, like one might expect in the center of an industrial town, where smoke and cinders fall and make each breath lifeless, and potent with disease. It is heavy and humid and thick on the lungs. It even feels wrong, in some sixth-sense way that is difficult to explain correctly. It isn’t just the air that is heavy, everything is heavy. As if gravity itself is stronger here, the ever-present force pulls downward with greater strength and intensity here. Visitors to one town can cross over into and out of the two towns against their will, appearing in that location’s counterpart in the other reality. Distorted sirens in the distance mark the transition between the misty town and the nightmare version of the town, playing every time someone shifts between them. The Fog: In any world, mists and fog can plague travelers, blurring senses, concealing terrors, and leading ships to water graves.

One side of Silent Hill has such ordinary vapors as a permanent fixture, but here they are a force more deadly than any natural phenomenon. The fog arrives, born from the lake and rising up, obscuring the gutters, then the sidewalks, then blurring the buildings themselves. It cannot completely hide them, but the blurring is somehow worse; stealing the color and softening the shapes. The fog makes the ordinary look alien. And then there is the smell, an ancient odor that works deep into the nostrils and awakens the back part of the brain, the part that is perfectly capable of believing in monsters when the sight lines shorten and the heart is uneasy. To all eyes, they appear to be normal fog. However it is also the home of wandering monsters, hoping to encounter travelers. The fog surrounds perimeter of Silent Hill, forming an embrace from which nothing, and no one, readily can escape. A person who manages to step beyond the boundaries of the town (somehow getting around the chasms) finds him or herself hopelessly misguided. Upon leaving the fog, he or she finds him or herself in Silent Hill once more. Restrictions: Due to the mist, supernatural senses are rendered useless. The entire town radiates massive levels of P.P.E for reasons unknown, masking the P.P.E of other creatures. Those in the fog cannot see clearly for more than twelve feet (1.2 m) in front of their noses and are –5 to strike perform any long-range combat maneuvers while inside the fog. Opponents are +2 to dodge each other’s attacks and +20 to prowl. Visual details are distorted and it is hard to tell a friend from a foe (45% chance, only sees blurred shadowy figures and shapes for another twelve feet). Note that both radar and sonar are also impaired reduce range by one third and impose a –20% penalty on sensing abilities. Once the sun falls, these penalties worsen considerably as the gray curtain of fog becomes a black wall. At 10 meters, the penalty is -7 to strike. With a source of light, this penalty is reduced to -5. At 20 meters, sight becomes impossible and the rules for fighting blind apply. At night, if the character does not have a light-source, then sight is impossible. Those in the dark Otherworld will experience slightly higher gravity. Physical strength is reduced by 1, speed by 10%, -1 to strike, parry, and dodge. Flight and teleportation is also restricted in this place. The monsters are adapted to this disadvantage and may travel freely. At any given time, a visitor might experience an echo: a sound, sight, smell, or feeling that doesn’t seem to have any cause, but seems to be connected to the location where they occur. Visitors might encounter “phantom odor,” a smell of something that is not really there. Most of the time it is an unpleasant odor—the smell of blood, feces, rotting or burned flesh, that sort of thing. In rare instances, it will be a pleasant aroma such as a bouquet of flowers, a freshly baked cake, nice perfume, etc. Other examples include a muffled female voice that sounds over the PA system of a hospital, seeing sparks fly off roller coaster tracks even though no car rides upon them, feeling a full-body chill upon entering an old freezer (even though it doesn't work). In all

cases, these sensations are the psychic residue of some past event at that location, usually something involving somebody’s suffering or death. In the cases where there is a nice smell, it is usually relates to the final thought of a dying individual, who retreated into a kind memory as they died. Echoes are leftover traces, vague messages that are sent from Silent Hill. Maybe these appear due to tenuous nature of time in Silent Hill. Perhaps they manifest for an entirely different reason. Examples: A muffled female voice that sounds over the PA system of a hospital. Seeing sparks fly off roller coaster tracks, even though no car rides upon them. The distinct bitter, iron smell of blood in a spotlessly clean operating room. Feeling a full-body chill upon entering an old freezer, even though it doesn't work. Visitors may also see lights in the night sky, and experience hallucinations most commonly involving moving shadows, shifting surroundings and calls for help (often from a child). Some also see visions in dreams that warn of a coming danger that is sometimes real, sometimes imagined). For the most vulnerable, it gets to a point where they can’t tell what is real or what is not. Danger lurks in every shadows and the very world around them seems to twist, bend, and close in on top of them. Equipment: Radio: It is a small, hand-held radio. It is rectangular in shape, with a small speaker to one side, two knobs for the dial and the volume and a receiver antenna on top. It has a clip on the back for fastening it and there are no earphone ports. It is a bit battered and chipped from use, and when it is first turned on, nothing happens. No music, no static, nothing. The small plastic contraption will make static when a creature comes within 10 meters, giving +2 to initiative and dodge, but -4 to save vs horror factor. The volume on the highest level emits static, a metallic buzz that sounds more foreboding than such a sound would be normally considered to be. The radio keeps the user in touch with reality, and that when it goes static, it is like a normal radio going static, the user is losing contact with reality. This means a monster is near, and your character is venturing back into haziness, the unreality that is Silent Hill. Flashlight: The flashlight provides light in dark areas. The flashlight is a hell of a lifesaver, no question. However, it is just a small pocket flashlight. Even in a normal, darkened room, it only helps so much. Again it seems as if the flashlight is just barely keeping one in touch with reality, its light keeps the user from fading into complete darkness. One clings to the light to deny the darkness. Each character has one, and they don't seem to ever run out of batteries. And it being an actual utility flashlight, characters can always keep it near their body, specifically their heart. Interpret that as you will. Handgun: The handgun is a semi-automatic blowback Beretta standard model 89 with a .22 caliber, exposed single-action hammer and an ambidextrous manual thumb safety. The gun is lightweight, with a silver barrel and black handle. It is about nine and a half inches long with a v-

notch sight at the rear-end of the barrel. The Beretta is loaded with a magazine that holds eight rounds. Damage is 4D6. Range is 165 feet (50 m) Hunting Rifle: The hunting rifle is a .30-06. It feels heavy and hard in hand, and it definitely needs some cleaning, but there is a shoulder strap, and the magazine holds its full four rounds. It is quite more powerful than the pistol. Damage: 5D6. Range is 2133 feet. Pipe: The steel pipe is three inches in diameter, maybe a foot and a half long. Herbs and Drugs: White Claudia: The imbiber gets to save vs drugs/poisons. A successful save will bring out the user’s most wonderful fantasy for several hours; reflecting their most coveted desires. After it wears off, normal life seems drab and futile in comparison, and the victims aches to experience the transcendent beauty of the drug-induced dreams again. Using the drug more than once a week requires a save of 16 or higher, or addiction will occur. Addicts will begin to lose touch with reality to the point where they take the drug two or three times a day, sleep whenever they aren’t on it, forget to eat or clean themselves and their habits, quit their jobs, get sick and die— usually from malnutrition, dehydration or disease. Long time addicts who use the drugs regularly for six months or more will find that if don’t take it daily, they will suffer hallucinations and see everything in the manner of the Otherworld. These things are either mental delusions or perhaps the drug allows for the Otherworld to be perceived (GM’s choice), but either way the experience seems very real to the victim. The experiences of these nightmares are as painfully realistic as the euphoric hallucinations. Sleep while under the influence is impossible and the victim will live in a constant state of fear, agitation and uncertainty. Characters with an M.E. of 10 or higher will be able to understand that this is an illusion, but are still jumpy, paranoid, and easily startled. At this stage, the addict has to secure a daily dose or slowly become insane and often will do anything to secure a dose. Some addicts suffer fatal heart attacks while under these nightmares. Aglaophotis: Aglaophotis in Silent Hill is quite rare, but it is found in vials containing approximately one fluid ounce. If one drop, no matter how small, lands upon the flesh of someone whose body is currently possessed or otherwise inhabited by supernatural entities, the entity will be expelled but not killed. Unfortunately, any physical damage, scarring, deformity, or mutation that may have occurred while being ravaged by the foreign agents up till the time they were purged remains. Of course, all symptoms, effects, penalties and potential future damage is instantly stopped and the cause/source eliminated. Healing Items: Health Drink: A heavy glucose energy drink contained in a small brown bottle with a nondescript tan label. There are no ingredients or nutritional facts listed, only a small cross and the words “Health Drink” on the front of the label. Imbibing the entire bottle will heal the drinker of 2D6 hit points/S.D.C of damage (if injured).

Energy Drink: Immediately after drinking, the drink raises the following attributes: P.E +1D4+2, P.S. +1D6 and Speed is doubled, plus the character is +2 to initiative. The effect lasts for 2D4 minutes. The side effects are not too bad, aside from the fact that one’s heart feels like it wants to blow out of the chest, it is difficult to catch one’s breath for 2D6+6 minutes, and there is a 0130% chance of passing out for 1D4 minutes. Magical Items: In almost every case, a special action is required to activate the powers of these magical items. A word of command, an unusual gesture, or some ritual is often required to tap the magical energies stored within the item. However, possession of one of these relics does not mean that the owner automatically knows the special actions required to activate the device. He will not know these secrets unless he witnesses the item king used by another or researches history and legend for a hint of the forgotten rituals. It is possible that an artifact may possess a dark intelligence which seeks to corrupt others and which will make them aware of any required actions through an omen or manifestation. A skillful GM can make learning these dark secrets the goal of, or the reward for adventures. Each of the artifacts described herein has some curse or maleficence associated with it. Those who would use the incredible powers of these items must accept the consequences those powers may bring. Many times the costs are far worse than they first appear. Crimson Tome: Many copies of this book exist — most are incomplete or inaccurate in some details and have little or, more often than not, no magical power. The book's binding is a lightly tanned vellumlike material, but clearly not vellum. It is stamped in a weathered crimson color, the letters embossed so long ago they are nearly gone. On the spine of the book are yellowed slivers of something that resembles ivory, and bound into the spine itself is a long, coarse-woven ribbon of bleached white. The pinkish worn binding feels smooth. The spine is hubbed and stamped in gold, but the gold has almost worn away. Within the script fades so that it is impossible to say what color the ink had been. black or purple or perhaps even dark green---but now all the colors have become a pale uniform gray. Then the pinkish cast takes on a bright red. The morocco covers glows blood red. The stamped title shines more brightly as well, and when opened and leafed through the pages have whitened to gleaming like fresh snowbanks, losing most of the signs of age and the inked script stands forth more boldly, the vivid writing clothed in different colors of ink: black emerald green, royal purple, Persian rose. It finally becomes a truly beautiful manuscript, masterpiece of its kind: the gold stamping gleams like fairy-tale treasure. The gilt edge shines like a gold bar fresh from Fort Knox and the morocco binding, rich as a leopard pelt has turned ruby-red and pulses with light like a live coal. The inks glitter and area as vivid and muscular as kudzu and look as if they were bitten into the thick, snowbank-like pages like etching. The seductive Persian rose ink seems to wreathe a perfume around the text. 3White Chrism: It is a vial of a liquid so purely white that it seems to glow.

Obsidian Goblet: An exquisitely wrought obsidian goblet. A gold serpent is wrapped around the base and cup, decorated with ruby eyes and diamond fangs, its mouth is open, and it looks ready to strike. 4Flauros: A pyramid-shaped object, looking like a cross between a trinket and a paperweight, albeit one of unparalleled workmanship and made of crystallized gold. It is tetrahedron, about two inches on each side, and has a square base with four sides slanting up to pyramid formation. Each side is made up of four smaller triangles inside the larger one. There are infinitival cracks in the sides, where one pieces abuts into the next. They would be invisible, but that a residue of blood remains in them, tracing the complex relation to the parts. By running the fingers over its facets and probing of loose pieces, one slowly manages to disentangle the parts of the pyramid until the core is exposed. The ingenuity of the box is that at each stage only one piece can possibly be removed and in only one way. Additionally, the shell work is so perfect that the seams are hard to find, making the solution still harder. A clever individual with a passion for solving the puzzle might spend the better part of a day loosening the first piece, revealing the mirrored surfaces within, which scintillate like the finest mother-of-pearl. In doing so, it also trips a musical mechanism, which begins to tinkle a short rondo of magnificent ordinariness. From there it quickly moves into fresh alignments of fluted slot and oiled peg, which in their turn reveal further intricacies. And with each solution---each new half pull or twist---a further melodic element is brought into play---the tune counterpoints and develops until the initial quirk is lost in enhancement. The tune continues to evolve as each additional piece is moved. From its mirrors issues light: a fitful phospresense, white, cold. 5Other Items: Book of Lost Memories: The book is a thick, hardcover tome, written in English, bound in white leather, with black florid stenciling on the cover and the spine. It measures 14 inches (35.6 cm) wide by 18 inches (45.7 cm) high and is 3 inches (7.6 cm) thick. The pages are twice the thickness of normal paper and appear to have been meticulously sewn into the binding. There is no credited author and no date of publication, nor does it indicate who the publisher is. The typeset is typical of books published in recent years and the photographs are extraordinarily crisp and clear black and white, giving full view to the historic sights of Silent Hill. The illustrations are vivid and near photorealistic; nothing like them has ever been seen before. However, there is no credit to who the author is either. It appears to have been a unique printed copy, meaning that there must be at least one original from which it was made, unless that original was destroyed. The book is in pristine condition; the spine still cracks loudly whenever a new reader opens the book. The book remains silent, however, when a previous reader opens it.

Arrival: Beginnings: The sound of water dripping slowly and methodically nearby is the first thing
they notice as they open their eyes to see the shades and traces of black, white, and gray swirl and dance lazily across their vision. The total darkness has given way to the dark grey of rainclouds, then to the lighter gray of fog. This brightens to the uniform clarity of a heavy mist moments before the sun breaks through. Out of nowhere, a fog has begun to rise. First thin wisps hanging in the air, then thicker billows, and thicker, until it blankets the land like clouds.

The white blindness of fog is another form of chaos, and they have had more than enough disorder to last them for the rest of their lives. The first thing they become aware of is the snow. Large white flakes sift past their faces, gently turning, lazily eddying towards the ground in the manner of fluffy airborne seeds, for there is no wind to drive them. As they stare into the heavens, momentarily confused as to their whereabouts and condition, their hair and eyebrows grow white. Flakes melt on their faces. Dead-gray trees lift their boles and their skeletal, reaching limbs into the gray air. The smell is stale, like that of a centuries-desiccated tomb rather than a damp swamp. A subtle glow is diffused through the drifting mist, a glow which appears to come from the solid surface beneath the mist than from the vapor itself.

Forest: The fog hisses and sings like jangled and discordant harps. Shadows and mists close off
the world behind, and they find themselves in a seemingly endless forest of trees. When they arrive the players stand on a panoramic viewpoint, blocked by fog, but they are aware of the naturist atmosphere by the treetops, winding country lane, and general air of uninhabited space, the forest seems startlingly empty. With each downward step, the fog thickens. They cannot see more than four or five feet ahead. Tripping and taking a nasty ride to the bottom is a distinct possibility. More and more they feel an unnatural suffocating feeling. The woods stretch on, endlessly, without a break. One stream is like another. No sign of habitation: not a weathercock, a well, a fence, a hovel. Down the nature trail they go. As they progress through the forest they begin to notice certain signs of society - fenced areas dictating where we go - and a felled tree. Remarkable how instantaneously the surroundings are blemished by the familiarity of humans. The soil is sandy and damp, and a few times they get their feet caught a bit, or slip. To the left is foliage of all sorts, bushes, many pine trees, and few broad-leaf trees that are in full despite it being so cold. To the right is a very steep drop-off, a cliff that likely would take them right into the lake if they were unlucky enough to fall over it. That thought is compounded once it is noticed that there is a complete lack of railing. Suddenly, they hear something. A low moaning. They peer around in search of the source until they realize that is merely the soft wind passing through the naked branches of the trees around them. All of it ordinary. Peaceful. Yet wrong. Not even three paces forward, they hear it again, and much more distinctly this time. A harsh rustling sound is coming from the trees. But something is wrong about it. It is too deliberate, too evenly spaced. A wrongness in the woods, of something moving within them. Off to the left, they come to a stop, cocking an ear. As if understanding that it had been sensed, the source of the sound ceases to make it.

They couldn't see anything, though they judge that the noises came from beyond their range of vision anyway. A full minute goes by, and they resume walking, unsure of whether they really heard anything at all. And they don't get five paces before they hear it again. There is something, and not just the rustling of movement disturbing the close foliage. There is no mistaking what it is, a growl. Then silence. Then the sound of dry brush and leaves crackling, crunching, snapping underfoot. Something large and nasty is stalking them, and they heard it too clearly now to ignore it. Something is out there, all right, something hidden by the fog and the treeline. And not five paces pass before they hear it again. There is something, and not just the rustling of movement disturbing the close foliage. A guttural sound, unmistakably vocal, but nothing they can imagine possible from human cords. That's when the growl suddenly intensifies. It isn't just an animal sound now, oh no. The growling has escalated into hard, vicious snarls. Now it is slavering and slobbering. It sounds like it is very hungry and possibly eager to perhaps take a bite out of this intruder(s). They become suddenly certain that they are not going to reach open ground, that something is rushing at them from behind, some creature as indefinable as the wrongness that they sense around them. This is too much for an overtaxed mind, not just the inhumanity of the noise but that it has somehow halves the distance, close and getting closer, and if they stay where they are, they should see it. The imagination turns against them, spurring them on by visions of something man-sized and murderous, something which would, in two seconds, maybe as many as five, leap from the mist and knock them down. Predators overhead might be stalking them, leaping gracefully limb to limb, silent and merciless with fang-studded jaws, trailing the hungry drool of a very intent carnivore. Or perhaps without warning, a hideous tunneling something, all teeth and appetite, will explode out of the forest floor under their feet, biting them in half or swallow them whole. The noise of the dead leaves scattered along the path crunch louder as you carelessly trample over them. It is irritating how your imagination keep spewing forth one unpleasant scenario after another, no matter how hard you try to stop it. Those dreadful cries rise behind them again, still in the woods but closer than before. It is louder still, not apparently concerned by the PCs remaining motionless, and without their own movement to confuse their senses, the growl carries very clearly. There is the sound of movement again, but this time it is coming fast, heading directly for them. Two or three voices yowl simultaneously, as if a pack of baying hounds are at their heels, though stranger and more savage than ordinary dogs. Judging by the sound, it is about thirty yards away. Back in the forest. The rustling of displaced brush grows louder. The creature in the woods is moving faster than before. Hell, it is running. The PCs begin to move faster. The thing grumbles again, louder this time. Closer, too. Not more than twenty yards away now. Fear swells step by step, worse than ever, the absolute dead

certainty that it is coming-- what?--that it is for sure gaining on them, that it will drag them down, that it is bent upon committing an act infinitely worse than murder, that it has an inhuman purpose and unknown uses for them so strange they are beyond both understanding and conception. The angry shrieking grows louder, nearer, and now their voices have a more frantic quality...a note of need, of hunger---souring into a cry as alien as the shriek of a nemesis in a nightmare. They can still not see the source of the sound. Being alone in a bosky woods, stalked by a sinister presence, unseen but undeniable. The predator creeps in silence through the underbrush, indistinguishable from the lowering trees among which it glides, as fluid and as cold as moonlight, but darker than the night, gaining on them relentlessly. However, it seems as though the growling has ceased, and they hear no movement nearby. Eventually, the cliff recedes, and the ground spreads out slightly, going off into an even grade and more of the same brush. Visibility is still horrendously low, and then there are no sounds anymore. Trees rustle in the breeze, and from a long way down, waves lap at the lake’s shore. They hear nothing else, though. Nothing louder than the windy rustle coming from the tree line, no large animal-made disturbance made itself known. No throaty growl, no evidence of slavering hunger. No bird songs or the soft scampering of squirrels and other small animals. No hawks wheel in the sky. Nothing rustles in the grass or sits on a tree branch. The only sound and sight of movement is the soft swirling of the wind blowing, and the soft rustling it makes as it passes through the tree branches and bushes. The sounds of visitor's voices filling the newfound silence are almost eerie in and of itself, seemingly distorted somehow. They come to the end of the trail; a circular clearing in the middle of which there is a water well made of stone. It looks dirty and ancient in every way, raised on a pedestal. Stepping up to it and staring into it shows that it is empty. Down at the bottom, they notice a bright red object. Normally, one wouldn't have found something as little as this amusing, but they can't stop staring at it. For some reason, it feels like someone is groping around in their heads when they stare at it. They quickly step away from it as they see a bright red light flash in front of their eyes. Transition to Darkness (optional): The wind grows stronger, and it makes quite a noise in the huge trees. Some of the tallest creak as the higher, slenderer portions of their trunks sway in the inconstant gusts. The woody branches clatter together, and the shaken evergreen needles clickrustle-hiss. The creaking grows louder as well, thunderous, until the noise is painful, until the PCs stagger, stumble, nearly fall, realize that most of the sound isn’t coming from the wind in the trees but from their own bodies, realize that they are hearing their own blood in their ears as their hearts pound faster and faster. Then the forest begins to spin again, and as if spins it pulls darkness down from the sky like thread from a spool, more and more darkness, and now the whirling forest does not seem like a carrousel but like a loom, weaving the threads of darkness into a black cloth, and the cloth billows around them, settles over them, and one can’t see where they are going, stumble again, and fall. Darkness. Blackness. Deeper than night.

Silence.... The fields are bleached and barren-looking, the grain in some parts fallen, and where it is still upright, then not normal in color. In other areas it seems burnt. The bark of each tree is razorsharp and as black as coal from what can be seen. The tops of the trees are shaped like pines, with needles resembling blackened bones. Looking at what had once been the greenest of green shades, what is now beheld is bald, wide avenues, all railways with broken trees tumbled in every direction, as if hit by the most serious of gales. Besides these fallen giants, the standing wood is sickly. There can be no mistaking it. A yellowish tinge is on each leaf, or worse a blackened scorching, as if some acid has been thrown over and among them all. The leaf canopy shows great holes. Upon the raddled ground, bare of anything but the most hardy weeds and burnt and black brackets, one begins to see strange heaps and drifts of a dark dust. A dust that is all that remains of the trees. Not even fungi grows here. No beasts or birds run or flutter or flute through the ruined trees, or play about the tracks. Silence rules the woods. Absence rules them. And here the PCs are, forging on perforce, like the last living things alive upon a dying earth. The way to town has been paved by horizontal trees and in between them the dust has formed mounds which has partly solidified, in a friable, hopeless manner, perhaps from the direct actions of the weather. Where hedges had been, there are sometimes left some bare black twigs and poles. To walk across them is to get over the fallen trees, to have, every yard or so, the trees give way underfoot, meaning that they must scramble and jump to save oneself from a fall. The mounds of dust are much the same; one can sink in them as in the dunes of some hellish beach, or else the humps of powdery soil they have formed crumble. The crooning of a hunter’s horn snaps from a momentary daze; at first the PCs aren’t sure they’ve actually heard it. The sound of belling hounds convinces them otherwise. They look around frantically. Nothing but trees, some of which look as if they can be climbed. Would the unseen beasts be fooled if they take to the trees. Their first impulse is to run; but the undergrowth all around them allows for steady penetration, but not flight. Hide. The trees or the darkness behind them close in, urging them faster along the path, yet they feel as if they are still in the darkening thicket, not running, not moving at all. They mistake several trees or roots beside the path for marker posts or figures waiting for them when a crumpled piece of paper comes scraping towards them around a bend along the path. The paper seems infinitely more human than anything else in the woods. The PCs unfold it and stare, for a moment past comprehending. It is a map, a tracing of the carved map of the walks. It seems a vicious joke, since they aren’t able to locate themselves on it in order to find their way.

Toluca Camp:
(optional scenario): A road sign saying they are on the County 73rd going towards Pleasant River. They also see a small road to their left with a big sign that reads: “Toluca Camp”. The nearest path is marked by a yellow post. The trail of the branch crosses the path and leads under the trees. There are figures, or silhouettes moving there in the fog, from a trunk to the other and then are gone after a fraction of a second, like they were never there at all. The fog has seemingly become stagnant and this makes it look even thicker, and makes the scenery look that more deathly and bleak. Eventually they come to a gate; a tall wooden gate, like the ones that are customary—if not mandatory—at camp grounds, that marks the end of the road for them. At the foot of the door is a dog sitting patiently beside the path. When they are close enough to see, the dog is revealed to be a tree stump with a root for a tail. There are faint sounds in the still air, like secretive whispers full of malice, yet there are no words being spoken, but it is certainly ominous at the very least. Then there are other sounds that one can’t quite make sense of, they sound like chants that fade in and out; children’s voices, but the sound is too faint and could’ve very well been anything else: a bird, some other animal, or even the wind. The odd thing is that there is no wind at all. Halfway along the flat stretch, on the right is a picnic and rest area. The brush has been cleared from beneath the trees. A few wooden tables—anchored to concrete stanchions to guard against theft—and several trash baskets are fixed at intervals under the scattered pines. A sign announces public rest rooms. The PCs walk towards one of the tall wooden doors and push on it. It opens with some difficulty and its hinges creak as though they haven’t been opened for a very long time. Beyond the gate, the PCs find the camp grounds, a series of log cabins set around a large central area. When they reach the central circle of the camp, they see that there is the founder’s statue almost exactly in the middle of all the cabins. The name on the plaque at the foot of the statue is Santi Paredes; but it isn’t so much the statue that calls attention, it is the fact that there is an axe with its blade deeply embedded in Mr. Paredes’ metallic head. They notice that there is actual blood flowing from the crack on the statue’s head. A very thin thread of it, but it just shouldn’t be there. Not seeing a reason why the PCs should even bother going into any of the cabins or the director’s room, they continue along the path, past the mess hall and they see the lake to their left with the tiny pier where the camp’s row boats docked; there is a single boat there, rocking in the

small waves of the lake, looking very lonely. The fog that lifts from the lake’s freezing waters just hangs motionless in the air almost accentuating the hopelessness of the situation, and the last flakes of snow had touched the ground a few minutes ago, leaving everything unnervingly still and motionless. Eventually they reach the tree line at the west end of the camp just beyond the playground and the auditorium. There is a trail leading somewhere from that point and they have no idea where. A tall fence blocks the area and there is yet another gate, held shut with a very heavy padlock. They don’t dare climb the fence because it has razor wire lining the top of it—not a nice sight in a children’s camp—and they feel more apprehensive toward it when they see just barely a hint of red on some of the blades. The image of a child climbing, trying to get past the wire, losing his balance and getting entangled in the sharp blades that lines the wire is an image that comes into their heads involuntarily. They think of maybe breaking the padlock, after all that trail seems to be the only place they can go on from here—unless boating across the lake suddenly becomes a logical option—but they realize that the padlock is too heavy and won’t break no matter how hard they hit it. They think maybe there is a key for it, and the logical person to have it would be one of the camp directors. The one that they think more logical to be the director’s room is the one closest to the lake that has windows with curtains and an American flag on a pole just outside of it. The flag is full of holes and the fabric has become torn and moldy. The windows of the cabin are dusty and they can’t see anything through them. They climb the three wooden steps that leads to the front door of the cabin and push the door in; luckily it isn’t locked. Inside, they find a big mess. The wooden walls are smeared with blood, and it actually looks quite fresh. The bed is a mess; the sheets are thrown all over the place and are sodden with blood. The carpet at the right of the bed is marred by a dark stain like a Rorschach blot. Dried blood spots the wall behind the wooden headboard. A desk to the right, by a window has a large cut in it, as if somebody had hacked it with an axe and had pulled it out with a lot of effort. Even a ceiling fan above overhead—which for some odd reason keeps spinning, very slowly—has its blades covered in blood. The silence is too deep, unnatural. Even a deserted house has some noise in it, occasional creaks and ticks and pops from old wood swelling or contracting, a rattle from a loose windowpane tapped by a finger of wind. But the house is so hushed, that one might think one has gone deaf, except for the sounds the PCs make themselves. The PCs start searching all over the room for anything that might even resemble a key for the huge padlock—a boat to cross the lake would be a welcome finding. They search under the broken bed, in the desk’s drawers and even in the bathroom, but there is no sign of a key. When they lift the mattress they find something that made one gasp in revulsion. There are

pictures underneath it. The pictures are of children; apparently taken from an opening in the girls’ bathroom and they display the little girls showering. Disgusted, the PCs let the mattress fall back down and give up on their search for the key. They start walking toward the cabins. They find that the boys’ dorm is locked with a padlock. They just walk across the central area to the girls’ dorm. The door in that place is wide open. When they look inside they are greeted by a gruesome scene: blood and gore cakes the walls, and the beds are covered in it as well. Viscera and body pieces lay strewn all over the floor And then they blink... ...And all the horrifying things they have just seen are gone. All they see is the inside of a dirty and unkempt cabin. They walk in, looking at the rows of bunk beds at either side. The cabin is very sparse, no decorations at all; just the dusty old beds. There is just a series of horizontal logs, thick and sturdy, set about seven or eight feet apart from each other, that supports the triangular roof. Darkness: The PCs walk out of the cabin and before they are able to go down the steps, everything suddenly goes dark. Unexplainably, it has gone from day to night in a matter of just seconds. Sirens start ringing, loud and deafening. It starts to rain and the air becomes even colder than before. The first instinct that the PCs have is to turn on the flashlight, turn around and look at the cabin, to see if it has changed. They turn the flashlight toward the camp’s wooden gate and it has become a large metallic wall and at either side of it, from the ground starts to come tall metallic fences, rusted and covered with blood that surrounds the entire camp area. The cabins and the bathrooms’ walls disappear and now they are only structures made of rusted metal bars, which looks like cages; and inside of them, instead of bunk beds, are stretchers with corpses covered in white but bloodied sheets, and serum bags with intravenous tubes, hanging from hospital racks. The statue of the camp’s founder has become a fleshy mass that resembles a female body in a crucified position. A long metal shaft comes out of the neck, and the faceless head, which is detached from the body, is stuck to the other end of it, giving it the appearance that the head is floating. There are throbbing tubes wrapped around the body and syringes are inserted in the raw flesh of the arms. The rain stops and fog starts to form, the darkness remains, but everything around them starts to change, to turn back to the relative normalcy. The tall metal fences recede back into the ground, and the deserted cabins start to look like deserted cabins again. They take out the key ring and start trying out each of the ten keys it holds. The fourth key is the one which unlatches the padlock. The gate squeaks loudly as they push it open. Before them there is a trail, walled by trees and bushes at either side.

Silent Hill Farms:
(Optional Scenario) Down through the high forest to lower terrain, out of the trees to a broad, planted field. They pass by a wooden fence, old and in need of repair, beyond which there is a large water tank, of the type that is supported by beams high above ground, and then several structure loom, all humble and yet mysterious. A barn, a stable, outbuildings and a farmhouse. The fence ends upon a wide wooden gate with a big sign that reads: "SILENT HILL FARMS" and then starts again and continues forth. The farm is more of a compound lumped in the middle of a great, irregular field. The road terminates in a hard-packed lot bordered by a sprawl of sheds and shacks, gutted chicken coops, and labyrinthine hog pens fallen to ruin. The Silent Hill farms is ten acres of gently rolling fields which have not been tilled in nearly a decade and has been taken over by rich green grass, plus seven acres of dense woodlands. The main house, a Queen Anne dominates. Beyond a deep backyard, shingled to match the house and with windows flanked by white shutters, stands a small barn with a gambrel roof. The barn is large and red, trimmed in white, roofed with black slate. The double barn doors are secured by a length of stout, rust-encrusted chain, fastened with an old padlock. All of the sheds and other buildings are painted white, as is the nine-room house at the front of the property. Beyond the hard-packed barnyard earth lies a recently mown lawn, a concrete birdbath, beds of roses, an abandoned bicycle on its side, a grape arbor entwined with vines, clothed with leaves, hung with fruit. Upwind from the barn, ancient trees spread bare branches over the high walls of the house. Through the tunnel of the ardor, and then across more grass, they approach the farmhouse. The three-story fieldstone house stands a hundred yards in front of the barn; yellow with a turret and a sagging porch that wraps around two sides. A plywood sheet has been nailed into a broken window. A toilet bowl lays in the weeds. They walk past an ancient tractor with wild stalks of Indian corn growing through its open hood. The house is a full three stories of spires, gables, spinning iron weathercocks, and acres of slate tiles. A monster of a house, yet somehow hunched upon itself. It is a brooding and squat and low as a brick and timber mausoleum. The detached garage seems new. So too does the tarp and plastic-sheeted nurseries, the electric fence that partitions the back forty into quadrants, and the military drab shortwave antenna array crowning the A-frame barn. They glance up and see a black, backlit figure staring down at them from one of the second floor windows. At the back porch, brick steps lead up to a weathered plank floor. The front hall is dim, the walls lined with picture frames that hang askew. A narrow staircase climbs to the second floor. There is a smell in the air, a humid, oddly male scent...like sweat.

The first floor has eight rooms plus a spacious kitchen with modern appliances, two baths, two fireplaces, and front and back porches for sitting and rocking on summer evenings. The second floor’s hallway feels tilted underfoot, so much that they have to touch the wall to steady themselves. Floorboards are missing. A chandelier hangs with crystal pendants float above the stairwell, furred with lint and cobwebs. A small bedroom located under the pitch of the roof. A card table with a chipped wooden surface stands against one wall, a humming typewriter sets upon it, and a sheet of paper rolled into the platen. The corridor is even more crooked than the one upstairs, visibly knocked out of true, as if the house had been jarred by some seismic event, and the front end no long er lined up with the back. They open a door to the left, close to the end of the hall. The PCs flinch from the stink and the furious humming of flies. An unpleasant human warmth spills out and over them. It is the darkest room yet, a spare bedroom, and they are about to close the door when they hear something shifting under the sheets of the bed, covering their mouths and nose with one hand and will themselves to take a step forward, and to wait for their eyes to adjust to the light. The disturbance has no human source. It is a rat. The filthy thing is between the PCs and the doorway. It is hissing, squeaking, glaring at them with bloody eyes, as if threatening to prevent their escape. It is a big rat. Its pelt isn’t smooth, but oily and matted and dull. There is something dark and crusted at its ears, probably blood, and there is bloody foam dripping from its mouth. The Stable: The stable is a single-story fieldstone building with a slate roof. The long side walls have no exterior stall doors, only small windows high under the eaves. There is a white barn door on the end, which rolls open easily. One of the stable doors is open now. They see a smooth dirt floor, rusted chains and hooks dangling from the beams, a chainsaw hanging from the wall. Beyond the concrete threshold, which is flush with the ground, the stable floor is composed of soft, tamped earth, as pale as sand. Five empty stalls with half-doors stand to each side of the wide center promenade, more spacious than ordinary barn stalls. On the left, beyond the final stall, is a large tackroom, where saddles, bridles, and other equipment had been kept. It is empty except for a built-in sink as - long and deep as a trough. To the right, opposite the tackroom, are top-access bins where oats, apples, and other feed had been stored, but they are now all empty as well. On the wall near the bins, several tools are racked business end up: a pitchfork, two shovels, and a rake.

Darkness: In the rain its stone is even darker, windows even blacker. Still, it is just a house, bricks, timber and glass, a man-made place and nothing more than that. An old building that appears weary with its own age, made more sinister because of the knowledge of what is behind its walls. Barn: In fact, it looks like merely the ruins of a barn. Even in the dank-drenched night, where shadows drip off shadows, the building's decrepit condition is obvious. Instead if describing a straight line, the steeply pitched roof swags from peak to eave. The walls are a little catawampus to the foundation, time-tweaked and weatherwarped at the corners.

Wish House:
(Optional Scenario) North-East Cliff: They are at the beginning of a path made only of dry cracked dirt and is illuminated by a single lonely lamppost. There are dark pine trees all around them, and grass and rocks, and a few rickety wooden fences. A cool breeze blows through their clothes and rustles the trees slightly, bringing the fresh smell of water to their nostrils along with the scent of the trees. The fog pervades this place; it is spread throughout virtually every inch of the grass and trees. There is an old stone well here, too: dark and deep, and looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. The deserted path winds on. Is there anyone in these woods besides the PCs? They hurry on, searching for a junction to interrupt the endless silent parade of trees, trees beyond counting on either side of them, trees massing into penetrably secret dimness. Abandoned and abused walls introduce them to what appears to be several conspicuous industrial buildings. There is a large rusted door, surrounded by large, equally discolored walls around fifteen feet in height. To the right is something that immediately grabs their attention. It looks like some type of altar. A thick dark column is in the center, with a small platform positioned on top of the pillar. Five branch-like things protrude about two feet from the base. Upon closer examination, one notes with some unease that this thing reminds them of a decayed hand. In fact, the texture of the material appears to be almost flesh-like in consistency. In the middle of the platform is some type of archaic sigil drawn in blood red. Set into the ground behind is a sheet of some type of translucent, silky material held aloft by three poles that appear to be made of bone. By the doors is a sign: Danger. Do Not Enter. Storage Room A: Once inside, the visitors are on a declining steel ramp with a chain-link fence on either side in a large concrete room with an upper and a lower level. On either side on the upper level are fenced-off areas with large rusted, sealed metal drums lined up along the walls that ooze an unknown liquid into the ground, possibly the reason for the danger sign. The drums are piled around the lower level as well. The whole place looks like a factory...but there are no machines or equipment or anything, just pipes and sealed steel drums. Their only guess is that this is an old storage pit of some kind that must have been abandoned for years if the level of

dust and grime is any indication. What seems to be an entrance to a sewage pipe sticks out from one of the walls, barred off and dry. They continue down the path and down another ramp when the sound of something metallic and heavy falling nearby alerts them. Turning around they see a pipe tumble down the ramp to stop a few inches ahead of them. The pipe is about three feet long, turned reddish orange from severe rust and looks as if it could pack a bit of punch against someone. As they walk further into the space, the PCs become aware of a faint buzzing sound that comes and goes. Whenever it is nearby, they can stop and look around, but they can’t see anything. They flinch with a shriek when they hear and feel something whir past the side of their heads, startling them—something small. They look around, frantically-at first, they can't see it in the darkness, then, suddenly, it is coming at them—it looks like a bat. It is only when it is knocked to the ground that they realize that it isn't a bat at all, but a giant black moth, which twitches on the ground, and practically spins in circles on its back as it struggles. Their stomachs turn as they realize what they have to do. They raise their feet, and slam it down on the insect, crushing it. As they kill it, blood pools beneath it, actual red blood. Not wanting to contemplate this any further, they hurry along to the next gate and go through it. Storage Room B: 6In the next area is more concrete, more pipes, as well as huge rust-colored plastic vats filled with some kind of foul-smelling liquid—the stench is that of rot, flesh and blood rotting, but with a twist of chemical smell thrown in. Whatever is in the barrels isn’t completely organic, and probably wasn’t useful for food or fertilizer or anything, but it isn’t chemical enough to keep from decomposing. What it is and what it was used for is anyone's guess. But, luckily (and inexplicably), they find a box of ammunition. Through the next gate is where the concrete ends, and they are outdoors once again. One more gate, and they are back on a dirt path. Their eyes scan the vicinity, searching for any signs of danger. There are none. However, there is something else equally as interesting. Parked on the trail in plain sight is an old beat-up, pale-yellow automobile (a '78 Chevy Nova). The engine is running, spitting out clouds of gray exhaust and the driver's side door is open, as if whoever had managed to drive it into here had just left it idling for a minute. The break pedal is engaged and the lights are on Through the window the PCs can see all sorts of things scattered on both the driver's and the passenger's seat. Moving around to the driver's side, they pick up a scrap of paper that had been written on. Bringing it to the headlights, they read: It's been awhile since I came here to Silent Hill. Maybe I'll meet the Devil this time. They say the Goat Lord still blunders the darkest woods, that sometimes he meets up with a lost hiker. On nights like this, it seems likely. -Jasper Gein

The paper doesn’t seem like it was any part of a diary, unless it was the type of spontaneous diary where all the scraps of it were kept in a book somewhere. There is also a memo pad: I'm not sure what that nosy guy meant when he said: "His home is the orphanage in the middle. The lake is northwest. So the opposite is southeast." The nosy guy said one other thing I don't understand. "If you bring the dug-up key, you can't go back. Put it away somewhere before you return there." Nahkeehonan Quarry: Opening the black iron gate, they enter an area crested with a great rock dotted with many crystal geodes, candles glowing about it. The dancing red light reminiscent of votive candles. The PCs stare at it in both wonder and confusion, taken aback by the sheer size and oddness of it. Flames flickers on its surface, giving the geodes a grisly sheen. The quarry is not in itself such a terrifying spot, nor is the path along its rim. It is a public footpath, no less and no more: a poorly kept, poorly illuminated walkway around the edge of what had once been a productive quarry and was once the communal rubbish-tip. The wall that kept the walkers from falling a hundred feet to their deaths below is plain red brick. It is eight feet high, so that no one can even see the depth on the other side, and is lined with pieces of broken milk bottles set in concrete, to dissuade anyone from scrambling up onto it. The path itself had once been tarmac, but subsidence had opened cracks in it, and it is dusted with loose gravel. Stinging nettles grow to child height in the meager dirt at the bottom of the wall, as do sickly scented flowers. Peering down the black, sheer cliff of the quarry is a lake of green and brackish water. The opposite end of the quarry, far from the sheer wall and the pool, abandoned diggings and blastings have left a litter of boulders of immense size to either side. The paths winds down between huge boulders, all the huger in this narrow landscape of tree and rock. Rock springs up underfoot through the soft debris, and where one not walks on stone is a soft carpet of browned pine needles and tiny pine cones which crush underfoot feet, or scud away at a kick. There are enormous boulders here among the pine trees; mossy, but not moist, with two great hollows in their rounded bodies. The two enormous stones stand parallel to one another, about twenty feet apart. Stretching up to a height of at least twelve feet, they are an imposing monument. Standing between the rocks is a small, incomplete fence with a trail of lit candles positioned carefully on the wood. There is an unusual quality about the boulders: two spiral symbols are carved into them, one on each boulder. Their gray surfaces glow eerily in the flickering light. Eastern Path: They go through another gate, continuing along the path, until they come to a point where there are four poles stuck in the ground in a square formation right in the middle of the path. There are several wooden spears that are attached to a canopy-looking apparatus apparently rigged to slide down the poles and impale whoever is in the middle of the four poles. Between the rocks and along the path is a wooden fence, and the PCs see dozens of lit candles, thick cylinders of wax arranged on the rocks and on the nearest granite ledges and formations, with strange inscriptions on them. The candlelight drives the darkness back only a distance of about fifteen feet. The letters are bright red, as if written in crayon or chalk. Path to Wish House: The PCs tread carefully into the subsequent areas, which are once again forested instead of treeless gravel. Except for another stone well, only foliage occupies the first section. The second is a different matter. All the way in the back of the path, they see a tall fence of corrugated metal, about eleven feet

high, encircling a substantial area of land. Two simple doors surrounded by a cobblestone border greets any potential visitors, while a small sign next to the gate that says: "Silent Hill Smile Support Society 'Wish House”. In the dim fogginess the PCs can vaguely make out the outline of a large building behind the door. They grab the handle and push the latch on top—it gives easily. Wish House Courtyard: In front of them is a large cleared-out area, surrounded on all four sides by a corrugated fence that has to be at least ten feet tall. This area is huge compared to the others, and with good reason. Situated in the very center of the terrain is a large, two-story Victorian home with plain wood trim with a wooden deck for a porch along the front. The structure has seen better days; even at a distance, the cracked walls and peeling paint of the house’s decaying exterior are plainly visible. Its windows dark, half are haphazardly boarded shut. Only its rundown porch is lighted and the front steps are swaybacked. The floorboards on the porch haven't been painted in years. Scattered around the premises are old tire swings, crib, monkey bars, and other equipment and toys, remains of a neglected playground long since fallen into a state of disrepair—all set along one corrugated metal fence and toys scattered on the ground. The chains on the swings have built up rust and they squeal like things in pain. It strikes the PCs then, how gray everything is, the same uniform shade of gray. Neither light nor dark, just...gray. Even the trees and the ground...they should be a deep, vibrant green or brown, but no, they are gray as well. If not for the little pen of colorful balls sitting in front of the building and the illegible red writing by the door, the whole scene would have looked like an old black-and-white photograph. Would have been better in sepia tones, though. But they also see something colorful in peripheral vision, so they turn and see that the The corrugated fence is decorated in several places by colorful drawings done in bright crayons that stretch from one side of the fence to the other; mainly grass, picket fences, and flowers done in multicolored chalk. A sign on the left stone column border reads: The Outside is filled with dangerous things. If someone goes Outside without an adult’s permission, the Master is sad. What kind of this place was this? As they ponder that unsettling thought, another unusual thing catches their attention. A stone with red writing lurks near one of the tire swings. The writing, upon close examination doesn’t look like real writing so much as long lines of scribble and weird symbols. Is it a coded language of some sort, or just gibberish done by a child? They go up the wooden steps to the porch of the orphanage—slightly bowed and worn smooth, from many years of use—and try the door—naturally, it is locked. A crumpled piece of paper lies at their feet. It is a child's drawing. What appears to be a crude picture of a young woman standing in a room. The scribbled handwriting at the bottom of the paper reads, "mommy, I miss you. Walter." They can go around the right side to see if it has a back door, but there is only the fence with another gate. There are three other doors in the fence, one in each corner. Path to Cemetery: Past the gates is a longer stretch of path that leads to a stone wall with heavy wooden doors. There is a well there as well, a little ways in front of the wall. Like the northeast

trail they have followed, this one is also fenced off into sections, probably by the people at Wish House in order to keep track of the children more easily. Wish House Cemetery: At the end of the trail is a high stone wall with a door in it. The PCs grasp the handle and enter. As they open the gate, the rusty hinges groan. Inside is what appears to be a small, old quiet cemetery illuminated by torches placed in the alcoves of the walls situated in the corners. It appears to be old, uncared for graveyard that has suffered many damages from rain, wind, and vandalism. The dense forest is dark and silent, the only noise from the constant low buzz of the lamps above them, washing the scene in a sorry orange. It is so quiet it was almost serene, the only respect the graveyard has here. They step forward onto the soft, cushy ground. Nothing greets them, which is a short, happy release despite how lonely it looks. Orange light flickers over the crumbling gravestones and moves in their inscriptions. The ground is moist, and feet sink into the marshy grass as one walks into the cemetery. There are several large gravestones spread haphazardly around the area, with large monuments here and there. Some of them are unshapely and very worn, so their function, if any, is immediately disguised, but most of them are easily recognizable. Some of the graves are marked only with sticks, one arranged in a cross, several others adorned with a strange, concentric emblem. There is red writing on some of them, and the inscriptions on most of the others are so old and weathered that one cannot read most of the names. There are words written on several of the gravestones, but they are not names of the deceased. A few of the stones are engraved prophecies of doom and gloom. Some of them even read, "Best Wishes to Wish House". Headstones as congratulatory greetings? In those open areas closer to the gate, however, the enduring and anachronistic twilight brightens the yard enough to reveal that some gravestones have been targeted by busy vandals. Simple rectangles of granite, carved angels, two Latin crosses, one cross of Calvary, one Celtic cross, molines, botoness and patriatchals have been toppled and broken. The area is surrounded by stone walls, but on either side the walls become tall railings, and beyond them are what seem to be parts of something that had once been alive. The cemetery itself seems well-tended, if the location even requires tending. There are things along the walls that suggest it does; poles, wooden boards, scattered gardening equipment leaning against the walls and lying about along them. On the other side of the graveyard is a large freshly dug grave, surrounded by masses of mud, excavated earth, covering some areas of grass. Inside is an open coffin of plain rotting wood, roughly nailed together from a few boards. It is completely empty, except for the numbers “11121" written on the bottom in red. In the back wall is a door with a strange, round, red symbol on it, a few of feet across. It is lit by four torches which give off a steady orange glow in the still air. The door itself is locked soundly; disallowing entry. The symbol has an outer ring and an inner circle, with pictures and symbols in both. One can't help but be fascinated by it—it has a sort of artistic quality that makes it both beautiful and disturbing at the same time.

While they stand there looking at it, one feels an unsettling tug inside one’s head, almost as if this thing should mean something to the PCs. But how can it? They’ve never seen it before, not ever, and they have no idea what it is. At the foot of the door in a corner alcove lies a long simple club-like bamboo pole with its end wrapped in rags, like a huge cotton swab. On the candlestick next to it the words 'Holy Flame' are inscribed. It would make a decent club, actually, given its length and weight, but its intended purpose is obvious: it is a torch. It isn't dipped and oil and won't stay on fire for long if they light it now. Northwest Path: They head for the northwest door in the yard. The trail here leads through more fenced-off areas. They go downward on the trail to a long abandoned dirt road that cuts through the low-flying part of the forest. 1D4x10 minutes later, at the bottom of a broad ravine, is a long treeless area for the service of which the road had been apparently constructed. Here the land is badly scarred. Part of the face of the ravine wall has been sheared off, and other parts of it look chewed. A large horizontal mine bore pierces the heart of the looming ridge. The entrance is only half hidden by an avalanche that has come down so long ago that silt has filled in the spaces between the stones; good-sized trees have grown up with their roots webbed through the jumbled rockfall. Coal Mine: The PCs step around the strangely, bent and gnarled trees around the wing of fallen rock, and into the horizontal shaft. There is nothing but the echoes of passing wind inviting them inside. They walk, a small sense of calm returning to them. The walls are lightly veined with coal and what might be milk-pale quartz. Massive, tar-coated support timbers are unevenly spaced along both walls and across the ceiling as if they are the ribs inside the carcass of some enormous creature. Though massive they are in poor condition, cracked and sagging, splintered, crusted in some places with fungus, probably half hollowed out by rot, and some of the angle braces are missing. One gets the feeling that if one leans against the wrong beam, the roof will come down on them in an instant. Around a corner, into an intersecting tunnel that is much roomier than the first, its width in part dictated by the rich vein of coal that has occupied the space. Somewhere far above, a sullen sky roofs the world, and somewhere wind rustles trees and snow blankets the ground and new flurries fall, but that life of color and motion exist overhead, beyond so many meters of solid rock that it increasingly seems to be not real but a fantasy life, an imaginary kingdom. The only thing that seems real is stone—a mountain-weight of stone—dust, occasional shallow pools of stagnant water, crumbling timbers with rusted iron braces, coal, and darkness. The PCs disturb coal dust as fine as talcum powder. Nuggets and a few large chunks of coal lie along the walls, and small islands of coal form archipelagos through the puddles of scum-coated water, and in the walls the sheered edges of nearly exhausted veins of coal catch the frost-white flashlight beams and gleam like black jewels. These mountains are limestone with seams of coal. Sometimes the seam goes straight into the mountain, but not often. It usually angles in and the coal shaft follows one or more seams. Those shafts are propped with timbers, and generally slate lies above the coal. Take out the coal, slate falls, even sometimes when propped. Three times they will come upon heaps of broken and abandoned, machinery, equipment, random yet

strangely artful piles of metal, long-handled tools, loose pipes and other artifacts designed for specialized mining tasks that are as arcane to them as the laboratory devices of an alchemist. Some subterranean passages are nearly as wide as highways, some narrower than the hallways of a house, for they are a mix of actual mining shafts and exploration tunnels. Ceilings soar to twice and thrice their height, then drop so low that one has to hunch down in order to proceed. In places the walls have been carved with such precision that they almost seem poured of concrete, while in other places they are deeply scored and peaked. Several times they find partial cave-in, where one wall and sometimes part of the ceiling has come down, cutting the tunnel in half or even forcing them to crawl through the remaining space. They advance noiselessly as possible toward the wide end of the shaft, passing through light and shadow, light and shadow. At the intersection of horizontal shaft, it is about sixty feet wide, but it is two hundred feet long, three quarters of its length lying to the right. The timbers are old but still newer than any of what they have seen heretofore. Considering the width, this is more an immense room than just another tunnel. The place seems cavernous, a huge storeroom of some sort, filled with hundreds of stacked wooden crates, reinforced barrels, and riveted metal boxes, stacked to the ceiling. The is room lined with racks of mining equipment. Grimy old iron shovels, picks, axes, and ladders are all stored on hooks here, their edges corroded and half-eaten by rust. In the middle of the room, they see a few beaten sleds and worn carts. Giant drilling machines, heavy excavators, rail tracks, and ore cars clutter the main chamber, all of them motionless. There are not one but two rows of amber electric bulbs hanging parallel under metal hood, which creates a checkered pattern of light and darkness on the floor. They spot something interesting lying against the dirt wall: a very large pickaxe, its head is red and rusty, but still pointed and lethal. It looks like it would make an nice weapon, so they bend over and pick it up, it’s very heavy, but as soon as one does, they are hit hard with a terrible feeling that is hard to describe, especially because there is no real reason for it—sadness, hopelessness, desperation, as if it was cursed. The more they look at it the more the curse seems to pass on to them; willing for them to pick it up and yet pushing them away from the danger at the same time. They drop the pickaxe, and as it hits the ground with a heavy thud, the feeling stops, as quickly as it began—they look down at it and see that something is inscribed on the handle: DESPAIR. Tearing their gaze away, they let the pickaxe be. The place stinks horribly, like the drums from earlier, but with a freshness, as if something in there hasn’t been dead for months. As the PCs slowly move forward into the chamber, they can see why. The other side of the room is not any better. Above them is a metal track, like the kind used for track lighting, but heavier and rusted...and hanging from the track at the other end of the room steel platforms line the walls and three hang from the ceiling. Strapped upside down in each one lies a desiccated corpse, wrapped in thick metal industrial tubing, with legs dangling from it. They appear nearly identical, although this was done by surgery and reconstruction, not by coincidence or simple choice of victim. They have been wrapped in sheets of skin sewn together down the center to fit tightly around their faces and torsos, hiding any distinguishing features, though it seems that they are all women based on the proportions of their hips and shoulders.

Care has also been taken to ensure they are all of similar height; with a wave of revulsion, the PCs notice that some of the corpses have had parts of their legs cut off and then reattached to ensure a uniform length. The skin around them has dried as well and it resembles old leather. They exude less smell than expected, in part because there is little of them left to stink. Up ahead, the corridor widens into a dead-end chamber blocked by a giant metal door with a wheel lock in its center. Surrounded by iron reinforcement strips and heavy rivets, the barricade looks impregnable. Despite the abandoned appearance of the mining facility, the mechanism is well-oiled and maintained. The metal hatch swings wide, so they go through. Toluca Lake Overlook: Beyond the hatch is a cliff with the edge fenced off: a little scenic overlook. Toluca Lake rests in misty darkness beyond the fence that separates ledge from ravine. The view from here is really quite nice, one can see all the way to the lake. They gaze out to the clouded waters. It is huge and dark and serene, surrounded by trees and mountains. The lake is not very wide, but its many miles long. The overlook is quite elevated, and on a clear day one can imagine you could even see the houses of Old Silent Hill from here, but today is anything but clear. The fog is very, very thick. If they could see around the cliffs to their left, South Vale Silent Hill would have been there, sparkling in the dark. It is still tranquil and soothing to gaze at, the small town of Silent Hill resting just beyond the dark waters of the lake. There is a small painted sign that says “Toluca Lake” by the fence, and a few choice monuments or gravestones are scattered across the ground, including an old ruined statuette of a goddess of some kind, on a large pedestal, a symbol on the shield that the statuette is holding has a tri-circle symbol. Reaching out a hand, they find that the strange metal shield is loose, that it is in fact just a plate and not part of the statue at all. One is able to remove it from the statue by accidentally breaking the arm of the statue. Once they do, they realize that it is some kind of crested medallion—it looks important, but it is also about the size of a dinner plate Some of the monuments have the same strange red writing on them. A three-legged wooden torch or lamp stands by the way they have come, but it is unlit. There is something bright on the ground: a flat white box with a red cross on top: a first-aid kit. Wish House: The Wish House again looms in front of the PCs, decrepit and abandoned. South-East Path: There is an uninhabited area beyond, which is a relief. Beyond the far gate is a small fenced-in space with several large trees that partially block the sky. The grove is almost chillingly silent, the only things breaking the peaceful atmosphere being the dense fog and the bloody bandages wrapped around the trunks of the pine trees littering the uphill path to the next gate. There are also some strange bloody poles in a cluster by some trees by the far gate, but, like almost everything else around here, their purpose is obscure. Just in front of the PCs is a large oak tree. Or at least it seems to be a tree—there is a suggestion of humped and knotted roots at the bottom and amazingly tangled branches with the bark missing from one side and more of the red writing. The tree marks an arc of level ground where a long-defunt compost lays. It seems that from the tree's overarching mass a fine, impalable panic rains down. As if the tree

itself, this crooked old leafy mortal, radiates its terror at the PCs arrival. The PCs stand in this faint rain of fear, like a warning breathed down by the tree. Roots spread out all around the tree, white and ghostly in the darkness. Though their fear is dire, their hesitation has left them. Their legs have carried them too many miles and years on this path to retreat from its terminus. Its terminus, the compost patch --- a sunken crust now which the oak's canopy overhangs. A dried, sunken vegetal crust which to the PCs is terror itself, a patch of Absolute Zero. They've come to the brink of the worst place in existence. They see it then, reaching up from the base of the tree A hand. Larger than human. Pale. Knobby Slightly bluish. It appears there in the ground before them, its fingers curled down into the dirt as if climbing out of a grave. Another white hand is just making its way up out of the ground. Then they take a closer look, and feel a huge wave of relief wash over them as they see that they are only severely deformed, abnormal tree roots that have been exposed by some recent disturbance of the soil. They then discover at their side something they had not noticed: a trowel standing upright, stabbed into the air. They take it and, crouching down, the PCs began to dig up the earth just underneath the tree roots. They dig without thinking exactly where to dig. The dirt is stamped down but not hard-packed. One is able to dig into it easily with just their bare hands. The first inch comes up in chunks, but further down the soil is looser. Precisely the opposite of what ought to be. Someone has dug a hole here within the last couple of days. They have dug down perhaps a foot and a half, and now they carefully scoop more soil out until they have cleared away the dirt under the hand-root, enough to see something small and metallic hidden inside. They kneel down at the last and scrape the soil away with their hands. It is an old key, rusty, but somehow covered in fresh blood. The key has an inscription on it as well. It takes a few seconds to read because it is so minuscule, but the PCs can see it all without needing magnification. The holder of this key will wander for eternity. Even without the inscribed sentence the key has an air of pessimism to it that you don’t like. Still they may pocket it, planning to return to the Wish House right away. Meanwhile, a single PCs has found him or herself staring at writing and reading what it said in his/her mind.

October 1. He told me I could write whatever I wanted because nobody will ever see it. I like to write. My teacher taught me how. October 2. I played with Bob. It was fun, but I went too far away and "he" got angry. October 3. I played with Bob again. I went even further this time... The PC squints and the words shift into an unknown language. Staring harder, the PC realizes that the words never shifted into an unknown language—they were always unrecognizable curves and lines that don't resemble any kind of language that civilization ever wrote. The other PCs cannot read the writing Inhaling shakily, you didn't like reading that diary. Whenever you speak the words, the outlandishness of the unfamiliar alphabet seems to crawl under your tongue, raking against your vocal cords in glee as you read the words. Feeling as though you have drank a few shots of hard liquor, your head buzzes with a small ache, corresponding with the sick tension in your throat. It is awfully strange and uncomfortable, yes, but what harm can words do? Wish House Courtyard: Faltering for a moment, the PCs wonder if their vision has suddenly decided to go berserk on them. Everything is blurry and twitching, hurting one’s eyes and confusing their minds. Shrugging it off, they run through the area into the next one. And the next one. It isn’t long after they enter the gate for a third time before they realize that they are simply running through the same area over and over again. The holder of this key will wander for eternity. The PCs stop and backtrack to the previous area. Their vision returns to normal, the key’s prophecy as clear as day. They use the key in the lock of the front door. It clicks open, the corroded hinges squealing and they go inside. Main Room: The interior is too dark to see anything so they wait, holding their breath, their ears acutely sensitive. A creak that may have just been the house settling sends their heart pounding, their nerves taut. The pupils of their eyes enlarge and objects in the dark take on a more definite shape. The interior of the alleged orphanage is exactly as the outside of the structure implied. The single large room is almost Dickensian in its gray dilapidation. The place looks like it had been

abandoned for years; bare and dilapidated. The paint is gray and leperous, falling away in scabby clumps. The windows are smashed, only a few jagged points of glass embedded in the rotten frames. Old furniture is haphazardly strewn about plain wooden floor, most of it crumbling from extensive decay. The air is heavily tinted with the odors of mildew and dry rot. Ragged holes— some only as large as a hand, others nearly as big as a door—have been knocked in the walls. Tables are tipped over, and papers lie strewn on the floor. Kids' art supplies are scattered across one of the tables. Some of the furniture has been smashed and has been gathered in piles. It is as if the place had been ransacked, or vacated suddenly. A fine layer of dust covers everything in sight and spider webs are present in the corners of the cracked, discolored walls. The PCs step through the clutter of the living room, examining the scattered objects for anything useful. There is plenty of evidence that children once lived here in the form of old drawings depicting an assortment of things; flowers, people, and a few imaginary monsters. There are also a few very old, worn-out toys. Sitting in the middle of the room is a vintage cylindrical electric heater, still running to ward off the chill in the air. There is a bulletin board just inside the door, too, covered with warnings about being good and obeying the adults and not going out into the woods without permission. A single spotlight shine from a pile of rubbish, and the PCs see with a shiver that the light has no apparent source of electricity, since its cord is cut off. Children's drawings lie scattered on the tables. A short, terse memo lying at the foot of a crumbling cupboard gives a clue as to the goings on in the orphanage: "Have you found Alessa yet?? How is Walter's progress coming along? Send me a report." In the corner of the room diagonal from a door is what looked to be an altar that had been hastily tipped over. There are tapestries on the floor, a candelabrum, and a very old tattered book, all scattered in the corner on top of the remains of a collapsed table. Picking up the book shows that it is falling apart and most of the pages are too faded and fragile to read, but on one page several lines are still legible: The Second Sign And God said, Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil. Be then released from the bonds of the flesh, and gain the Power of Heaven. From the Darkness and Void, bring forth Gloom, and gird thyself with Despair for the Giver of Wisdom. The Third Sign And God said, Return to the Source through Sin's Temptation. Under the Watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless Chaos. Only then will the Four Atonements be in alignment.” This is evidently a scrap from the cult's documents - a part of their sacred text, perhaps? The PCs feel a chill run down their spines. How the orphans who had been put up at this so-called shelter must have been indoctrinated by the cult. Was this the kind of thing they had been teaching the children? Shrine: The first thing they notice is a placard on the door, yellow, with a baby drawn on it. The apprehension grips their senses as they remove the plate, seeing the word ‘Source’ engraved on the back of it. The room inside is low-ceilinged, with enough wooden pews to seat fifty people

comfortably, all of them facing a long table set up on the opposite side, with candles and chalices and a white cloth blanketing it, and tall candlesticks on either side, as tall as a man. They all look perfectly clean, like they where about to be used. Ancient, yellowed wallpaper is peeling off the walls and hanging in long loops across the ceiling, like old bunting left over from a festive occasion a hundred years ago. The room is lit with a bright, flickering orange light, but it isn’t coming from any of the candles. The room is dusty and smells vaguely of mildew, but it isn’t littered with rubble as many of the other chambers are, there are only scattered pieces of lath and a few chunks of plaster and a couple of ribbons of wallpaper on the floor along the far wall. There is a short flight of steps up to the second floor. Upstairs Dormitory: The dormitory is unexceptional in the same way the living room downstairs was. Two rows of bunk beds are neatly arranged along the two walls, with two identical desks positioned at the foot of the beds. Dreary curtains block out any light that might come in through the windows and the bare floor creaks under the weight of footsteps. There is a semi-comfortable bathroom nearby; perhaps the “Master” preferred that the children not venture downstairs after lights out. Some of the beds have toys or scribbled drawings and coloring books on them. All of them are sheathed in a fine layer of dust as is the floor. Little clouds of dust rise with each step the PCs take. One must be careful not to breathe in too deeply; there is enough grime to cause serious choking. The PCs can taste the staleness in the air each time they inhale. At the very back of the room is something that immediately sets nerves on edge. It is the symbol; the same one from the altar way back in the forest. They note morbidly that it appears to have been traced with blood. Just as they decide to leave, the emblem on the wall begins to glow with a dim ethereal light. Suddenly, the window panes next to the beds shatter in an explosion of glass as rusted iron bars appear out of nowhere. The PCs instinctively cover their faces to protect their eyes from the flying shards. When it is over, the windows are completely barred off from the balcony outside. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of grains of glass litter the floor and the mattresses. The demoniclooking emblem is still illuminated on the wall, but now it is raining down little rivulets of red onto the floor. Darkness: Wish House Courtyard: As they reach the courtyard around Wish House, the smoke has become increasingly thicker, but not as thick as to cause them to choke—however, the smell of burned wood is quite strong. Wish House had been a moderate-sized but imposing structure before, with two floors and windows all the way around on the top floor. Now is it nothing more than charred rubble, the entire building having collapsed in on itself. All that remains is what was once the floor, and is now nothing more than a raised platform, that is surrounded by stray pieces of wood. The whole building is gone. It has burned down completely. A half-burnt piece of notepaper lies on the ground just in front of the ramp. On it is a handwritten message: "Something's here but nothing's here.I feel something from the well.Something's

missing...Aaaaaaaahhhh!!!!!It has begun!!! And strangely enough, below the written screams and panic, is a neat little signature: Jasper" But also on this platform is something odd and interesting: a dark figure just visible through the smoke, sits up on the porch boards. It looks to be sitting in a chair or something...and it has no head. They slowly walk up the fallen boards up onto the foundations of the building. The dark figure does not move. A closer look reveals an old-fashioned and rusted wheelchair sitting on the surface, and on the wheelchair sits the charred, limbless and headless torso of a life-sized wooden doll, which is also burned, but not beyond recognition. Going up a plank that has been placed as a ramp and examining it more closely, find that carved onto the wood is a message: “Though my body be destroyed, I will not let you pass here. To prepare for the Receiver of Wisdom … I cut my body into five pieces and hid them in the darkness. When my body is once again whole, the path to below will be opened. If you are the Receiver of Wisdom, you will understand my words. The ritual has begun...’ That makes sense. The torso is missing two arms, two legs, and a head. Find five wooden body parts and place them back onto the wooden dummy, like some twisted kids' toy. Along one of the fences is a small slide and draped over its ladder is a chain. South-East Path: After a short survey of the area, they approach a well, peering down it and lowering the torch as they do so. It is obvious that it is no longer in operation—it is dry and full of garbage, dirt, various nuts, some animal corpses, and what looks like dung. On top of the careless pile of litter is a person's leg. It is charred to a crisp, so any details are hard to make out, but it is definitely a leg. They chase the limb around until they press against the stone wall. Reaching down, with hips teetering on the edge of the well. Pushing themselves up and away from the depths of the well, the PCs drag the limb out. Once in the brighter light it is easy to see that it is not a human's leg, just a simple mannequin's left thigh and shin. Despite how relieving this should've be, the PCs don't feel any better. It is obvious that the left leg is the only thing they need from this area. While the other PCs look down the well, red letters catch another PC’s eye, carved and painted into two stones near the gate, red letters that once again make sense. October 4. My cheek hurts. I hate him. October 5. I got hit again. I didn't do anything wrong. I wish he was dead. A slight headache begins to grow in the PC’s mind as she/he reads the words. Pulling their eyes away from the letters, the PC tries his/her best to focus on anything else but that. October 14. I did a good job reading today. I was so happy. But the 21 Sacraments for the Descent of the Holy mother was hard.

October 16. Some important people came today. One of them... Cemetery: The flickering light shines on the planes of the mannequin's head, nestled comfortably between pine needles, mud, and discarded cigarette wrappers. Keeping the torch's fire away from their head but still shining downwards the best they can, the PCs bend over the edge of the well to retrieve the head. Wish House Courtyard: At first, nothing seems to be happening; and then, the doll seems to tremble, its head begins to twitch and shudder as it comes to life. Its hands grab the rims with hollow clunks, and it leans its body back slowly, pulling the rims and moving the chair back smoothly. As it does, its head falls back and it opens its mouth in what looks like a silent scream. The mouth shouldn’t be able to move the way it does, as there are no joints in those spots—it is as if the head is made of flesh, even though it still has the color and texture of burned wood—and it makes the display even more disturbing. It shakily leans forward again, shuddering, takes the rims again, and repeats the motion, backing onto a incline, at which point it rolls off and violently falls off the edge of the raised floor as the chair collides with some of the debris, sending the doll to land on the ground, in an awkward position, as the chair lies on its side, one of its wheels still spinning slowly and then grounds to a stop. There are two handles set into the floor, into a trapdoor in the foundation where the doll had been. As they approach, a rectangular black shape becomes more visible. The black shape is a hole in the wooden floor, a large trapdoor in the floor where below is a stairway. The PCs peer down into the glow emanating from the hole; they no longer need light to see that there is a short wooden staircase. The hole is deep, the stairs stretching down to a distance that must have been well beyond the Wish-House's rear wall. They bend low and try to see more, but it is useless. They descend a few steps. There is a door, and from where they are perched, it looks as though it is made of metal. They climb down a few more steps and they notice that there seems to be little gap between the door and its frame: the land this close to the lake is prone to floods and if the lake rises above the banks, then water would have cascaded down those steps and swamped whatever lay beyond the door. So what is beyond? They go down, the sound of their own breathing seeming to echo off the confining walls around them. In the room at the bottom of the steps, they find themselves in what looks like an underground chapel, with a lighted altar. It is very plain and industrial; nothing but four walls and a floor of gray concrete colored only by cracks, mold, and the red tri-circle symbol is painted on the wall behind the altar. The red halo hovers above a casual altar that has several books, bottles, a silver chalice and candles stacked on it. The fire that had destroyed the rest of the building has spared this room, and the altar and hangings are unmarked. One book in particular catches their eye—it is leather-bound with a dark green binding and thin worn pages. It appears to be a bible of some kind, though whatever religion it belonged to is a

religion that the PCs aren't familiar with. The scripture is in English, though, and is accompanied by sickeningly detailed drawings that depict blasphemous scenes and rituals. The Descent of the Holy Mother: The 21 Sacraments The First Sign And God said, At the time of fullness, cleanse the world with my rage. Gather forth the White Oil, the Black Cup and the Blood of the Ten Sinners. Prepare for the Ritual of the Holy Assumption. The Second Sign And God said, Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil. Be then released from the bonds of the flesh, and gain the Power of Heaven. From the Darkness and Void, bring forth Gloom, and gird thyself with Despair for the Giver of Wisdom. The Third Sign And God said, Return to the Source through sin's Temptation. Under the Watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless Chaos. Only then will the Four Atonements be in alignment. The Last Sign And God said, separate from the flesh too, she who is the Mother Reborn and he who is the Receiver of Wisdom. If this be done, by the Mystery of the 21 Sacraments, the Mother shall be reborn and the Nation of Sin shall be redeemed. The words are misleading and seem to be tainted by some sort of underworld truth. The PCs can almost sense the presence of the people who must have filled this room once, when it was in use. At night, after the orphans were asleep, they must have gathered here to worship their god. After scanning the small basement and finding nothing else of interest, they turn to the small door on the left, with a ten-inch, circular depression in the middle. This has to be the way out; there is no other exit. They grasp the handle and turn it, but the door is locked. They feel a moment of panic. Is there a key that they have missed? But there is no keyhole in the door, only the round depression about ten inches in diameter. Then they suddenly understand. They draw out the round plate with the red symbol marking it that they had found at the statuette, and return it to the door into the basement's wall. It fits like a charm, and after they twist it tightly into place there is a loud click, and the door knob moves smoothly.

Water Prison:
(Optional Scenario)

The path leads to a building. They can see a corner of the wall beyond the furthest bend in the path. It comes into view. It is very rundown, the glass in the windows are all broken or cracked, the roof is completely rusted and the greenish paint on the walls is peeling off. One can see a small river leading from the lake into the side of the warehouse. There is a large square hole that appears to have been built to allow the water to run through the building. The PCs don’t know what the water's purpose is or even what the warehouse has been built for, seeing as there are no visible signs anywhere. There are three floors of cells, a shower-and-kitchen area on the first basement level, and a second basement at the bottom. The three cell floors have eight cells each, with a small round room in the center of each floor. This is a guard room, and it has eight peepholes, one into each cell, so one guard could watch up to eight cells at once. It is an ingenious design. The floors are connected by a circular staircase on the outside and by a ladder up through the middle, so the guards could move around freely with minimal contact with the occupants of the cells. Prisoners could have gone for a long time without seeing anybody or talking to anybody, just hearing the guards’ footsteps and knowing that they were being watched. The cell floors could be rotated around. The second and third floors have wheels in the guard rooms that turn the floors to the left or right. The whole prison is powered by electricity, but the electricity seems to be partially out when the PCs get here. The lights in the halls work, and the lights in the guard rooms, but the cell lights are out. Circular Cell Hallway: The inside of the structure is black, no lights, except for the one street light outside, quiet except for the sound of dripping water somewhere in the distance. It is a ringshaped hall sparsely lighted, cold, and damp. The walls are covered with reddish-blackish-gray tile, red brick and concrete, mildewed and moldy like the floor. They are curved in smooth arcs, one inside the other, and lit by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Several feet down the corridor, they come across a small, damp piece of paper stuck to the concrete. One is just able to peel it off of the floor without ripping it in two. It is handwritten in a scrawling, shaky hand. It appears to have fallen out of a diary or a notebook, and the small handwriting on it reads: Lucky! I finally escaped from the cell. I decided to take a careful look around this building. The scariest place was the 1st floor basement. There's a kitchen in the northeast, but next door in the northwest is a death chamber. To get in there, you have to punch in the right numbers. I don't know the numbers, and it was too dark to even see the panel, so I didn't go in. Cells: There are eight metal doors along the circular walls, each with a barred window. Some of the cells are locked, and some are open. Each is identical: a small, nearly wedge-shaped room that has only a stone slab for a bed on the right, a small table with a stool for sitting on to the left, and a toilet and sink. No light to speak of, and no windows, save for the one on the door, and a small round porthole high up on the opposite wall from the door. All of the fixtures are small, child-sized. The smell of mold is everywhere in this place, and small slug-like creatures scale the walls. Everything is dirty and grimy and mildewed, and the sinks and toilets look as though they hadn’t been used in a long time. Some of the cells hold old clothes; others are bloodstained. All seem damp and moldy.

They go over to the nearest cell and its little barred window is just low enough for them to see through without stepping on tip-toe. The stone floor is slightly angled towards a round black hole in the far corner and they can only guess at the reason: somewhere in the prisoner there is probably a huge covered cesspit, drains from these dungeon-like rooms running to it. On the opposite side to the hole, they can just make out a narrow stone slab, its filthy, stained mattress without bedsheets of any kind. The smell is even worse here. There is a noose hanging from the ceiling in one of the cells, and a note lays on the cold slab of a bed below it. The handwriting is a bit crude, but not difficult to read: I’m sick of being watched. The idea of being in a room where someone has committed suicide makes one’s skin crawl. As they are on their way out, they hear heavy footsteps and a moan. A shadow passes in front of the door, all their insides jump, the hair on the back of their necks begin to rise. Another moan, this time it seems closer, directly on the other side of the door, the PC’s breaths begin to quicken. They find themselves staring at the noose. What happened to make this the way it was? What was this place? They have no idea where it could be coming from, especially with how large it seemed—perhaps the round window. Then it is gone, and then they hurry out the door. If they open the next cell they see something odd: about five tall, fleshy brown stalks that appear to be growing out of the floor, at the top of each one is a head that looks somewhat like a brain, covered in red blotches, as if it were bloody. They sway back and forth, ever reaching upwards, making a strange sound reminiscent of the sound heavy rain makes on a roof, but do not seem too threatening. Still, there is nothing of interest in the room. The stalks don’t do anything but stand there waving their bulbous heads at the PCs, but if one of the PCs touches, it stings. Fortunately they will able to take several down with a single swing of the steel pipe, so they aren’t a problem after that first one. Once struck, they just shrivel up and disintegrate into a dry powdery substance. After the ‘toadstools’ have been disposed of, the PCs find nothing else of interest in the disturbingly dirty room. The next door is locked, but the one after that isn’t. They see a box of handgun ammunition on the bed, as well as bright red writing on the wall. The person who wrote it was apparently short, because it is a child’s writing. It has suffered from the extreme humidity of the air, leading to the letters leaking and dripping downwards, making it hard to read. It is still manageable, though it looked upsettingly like a child’s handwriting. I’m being watched from the middle room. Why would a child be imprisoned in a place such as this? Not wanting to contemplate this further, they leave the room, taking dull note of what appears to be multi-person shackles on the floor. One dearly hopes that whoever wrote that only had the handwriting and not the age of a child. The next door is locked. They have checked all the cells, so the only place left to go is outside the hall through a pair of double-doors. Vacant Room: Beyond the doors is a long rectangular room with vents high up in the walls, a door on either side. A note posted on the wall catches their attention and they walk forward, fear rising in them as this handwriting is also quite sloppy. However it has a certain conformity to it that suggests an older mind behind the pen, calming them only somewhat. The note reads: To get to the surveillance rooms in the middle of this complex, you have to use the corpse disposal chutes in the cells. However, on the 1st and 2nd floors, these cells are locked. That's so the kids wouldn't discover them. So you have to get to the 1st floor from one of the cells on the 3rd floor.

I know how to do it, but it's really a pain. Also, the lights only work on the 2nd floor. There is the impression that the note originally had more to it but the page ran out, and there is no second page attached. Apparently, one has to drop down through the chutes from the third floor to move around. This explains the locked doors that they have found on the first floor. In the little room in the prison, only one of the two side doors is open Spiral Staircase Access: The double doors on the left lead to a long, enclosed spiral staircase that curves downward around the inside of the outer wall of the building. Iron grille serves as the floors, and one can see down to another level. Unlike the other corridor joining the cells, however, this one seems to slope downwards. The stairs are damp and disgusting like above, but they are permanently stained parchment yellow and red by substances the PCs would not like to think about. There are also red iron ladders set into the wall, probably for easier access up and down the levels, though some steps are broken or missing.. Interior Spiral Staircase: The ladder takes them down one level. There are double doors on the floor below as well, but they are locked from the other side.The only other direction was to keep going down. At least the stairs seems to be clear of anything dangerous further down. It seems considerably steeper than the previous stairway. As soon as they open the door to the downstairs staircase, they hear something strange. An eerie noise floats up the hallway to them...a human voice, fading in and out. It is like singing, but without rhythm or joy...or much pitch, either. The voice is alone, so there is only one singer. As the PCs walk downward, their eyes catch the gleam of something metallic on the ground by one of the pillars. It turns out to be a small silver disc, like a medallion, with a thin leather cord to hang it by. It looks as though it has been casually dropped there and forgotten, but it still shines, so it hasn’t been here very long. The image on the front is of a Madonna and child. It seems like an ordinary image at first, but as one squints at it in the harsh light, one realizes that whoever has sculpted it has produced an amazing level of detail in the faces, and it is plain to see that they looks alike. Very alike. They seem less like mother and child and more like siblings. Warmth seems to emit from the metal, a soft sort of grace that seems to faintly dull their pain. The singing becomes louder and more clear. The voice is definitely a man's, and he is singing about something that can’t quite be made out...singing listlessly and tunelessly. Their footfalls echo as if ghosts were following close behind. Water Wheel Room: At the bottom of the stairs is an open door, and the spiral stairway continues beyond the door, leading into an enormous circular room that takes up the whole floor, as big as the entire prison in diameter and is two stories tall. The ceiling disappears into darkness, suggesting an endless ascent. The walls are comprised of wrought-iron slats, colored rusty red, and the floor is the same cold stone. The steps continue about three-quarters of the way around the room, until they meet the floor. Massive gears and wheels poke through a hole in the floor, starkly lit by one bright light that casts long, eerie shadows in the otherwise dark room. Sunk deep into a large hole in the floor is a gigantic waterwheel. It is almost large enough to reach the

ceiling, and it seems to be made of wood. There is no water running onto it, so it is still, and the room is very quiet except for the faint sound of sloshing water down below the wheel. It is awe-inspiring and oddly beautiful, timeless even. The wood seems very old and is worn smooth by the water, but it doesn't look rotted at all. The spray from it is cool and refreshing. Posted by the edge of the waterwheel well, there is a rusted, water-stained sign; a key hanging down from a hook at its top. They pull off the key that hangs over the sign. The sign is streaked with rust, but they can just about make out the words. It appears to be a kind of reminder to those working at the prison. The sign reads: To turn on the lights in the 3rd floor cells, turn this waterwheel. Remember that the water must flow in the direction of the waterwheel. Of course, you also have to open the sluice gate on the roof. So that means there is some kind of water machinery up on the roof of this place, and the lights on the third floor aren’t going to do much unless it was running. Water to waterwheel to generator equals power to the lights. The key has an “up” arrow engraved on it. The water tower prison definitely seems to be more than just a correctional facility. From what little they have gathered, even the guards appear confused and had a constant worry of forgetting how the tower worked. This sign is just another reminder of how the guards at the prison wrote down everything in order to remain in control. Something long and massive is dangling from the ceiling, above the water and at about at the height of their heads. Long, and pale, and rippling, with purple and red lines along its length. As they begin to approach it, it twitches, nearly causing them to jump out of their skins. The PCs stand perfectly still until they are sure it isn't going to attack them, then they gradually relax. The things that they had thought are giant umbilical cords are actually giant worms-or at least in this area they are. It suspends from the ceiling, just ... hanging there. They see something at the corner of their eyes, and turn to the left to see another one, rising above the floor level from the water area below, where it twists and sways around for a few seconds before dropping back down, almost as if it were putting on a show for the PCs. They watch them for several seconds, as the worms move around and pop up and disappear randomly. What in the world are these things? If they're not here to attack the PCs, what are they doing here? Do they mean something? Either way they don’t have time to think about, because four more of the flying creatures emerge from the depths of the hole where the gears are. The PCs whack the pipe at each of them, making them fall to the ground where they can be stomped properly. Near the bottom of the steps is a door in the outside wall, raised up off of the floor above a hump that covers the shaft of the wheel; a door marked ‘Generator Room’. The door, set over a connection between the gears and the generator that raises the floor a considerable height. This is the only door, and it bears the red symbol of the cult, signifying their exit. Generator Room: Through the door is a generator room. In the middle of the room and taking up most of the space between the walls is a giant humming and whirring motor that apparently controls the water wheel because it is mostly cylindrical-shaped and one can see that the inner parts are spinning. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made of severely rusted steel, and everything is splattered with blood.

Once they have made their way around and past the generator, the room becomes a long hall, about the length of a football field, at the end of which they see a door, likely the door that leads out of the Water Prison. But it is what is blocking the door that stops them in their tracks. They blink a few times, hoping that they aren't really seeing what they think they are seeing. They approach slowly-since the door is still so far away, and the room is dimly lit, they can hold out hope that they are seeing things, until the objects in question come into view and the PCs can see them a little more clearly, and now there is no mistaking it. About halfway into the room, not one, but no less than six of the twin-headed birdlike creatures stand in front of the door in two rows of three, as if in some kind of military formation. As the PCs apparently come into their view, every single one raises up on one hand and points at them with the other in that strange birdlike stance, mutely marking them out. Until this point, they haven't had to fight more than two at a time, and even that was risky... Once again, the PCs can be glad that these things-for whatever reason-always wait for their victims to make the first move, as they need the time to think. The PCs can hear them whispering "Receivers...Receivers...", so quiet that it barely echoes in the large dark room, all addressing the PCs as their title of this damned place. Your hand immediately goes to the doorknob behind you, but you can only tug at it helplessly, hearing the broken head of the wiry key jiggle inside the lock. Far ahead you can see the faint shape of the white door behind the troop of the monsters, beyond your reach. Keeping yourselves plastered against the close wall, you never take your eyes off of the monsters should they move. As the PCs step forward slowly, the double-heads on either side of the first row suddenly take off running in their direction in unison, their infant faces expressionless, their long hands easily eating up the distance between them and the PCs. Swinging the pipe wildly, they hear a satisfying crack as the heads knock together and the masks shatter, but that only causes the lines of monsters to shift and waver before they all lope forward. You wish your weapon had a longer reach as you swing with all the power your weak arms can give. All you hear is the crowded whispers of the voices and the blood pounding in your head, as well as the guttural growls of the monsters as they cannibalize the remains of their bleeding comrades. You twist your shoulder around and your body follows suit to clip a face on the chin before smashing its skull in an overhand swing. If one of the PCs falls, read the following: There are too many of them, and you get hit and beaten far more than you can handle. Collapsing in the frenzy of dirty robes and oily feathers, you frantically try to crawl away from the bony fingers and gnashing ceramic faces as they close in over you, worming your way between two pale thin arms between him and the door. The problem is getting to them in time to stomp the monsters to death. They can knock down two, stomp one, and the other one will be back up before one can do the same to it. That is the more painful part of the process.

They stomp one and stomp another, and then they look around for the next... ...and there are none. Six bodies lie at their feet. It is done. There has to be another source of power in the building, as the bare bulbs and the lights in this room are on. What it is, or where it could be, one has no idea...but it might be behind the door at the other end, the one with the strange circular sign on it. Why not go look? It isn't very far away...or maybe it is. The ceiling at the end of the room is now just above their heads. Its normal size turns out to be an optical illusion. The apparent length of the room had been an illusion caused by a rising floor and a lowering ceiling as one got nearer to the back of the room. It is a disorienting experience that was designed to make anyone in the room feel even more confused and lost. They keep walking and walking, and end up standing at the foot of the enormous door. They step back a few paces and look up at it, awed. It isn't as huge as the waterwheel, but it is easily twenty feet high. Even in their wildest imaginations the PCs can’t come up with a purpose for having a door of this size in any place, even a freight warehouse. This door is designed like any household door, not like a garage or warehouse door. Everything down here is huge, actually...the door, the engine, the waterwheel. It all dwarfs the PCs, proving a very novel experience. One hasn't felt this small since one was a child. When they touch the door there is a sensation like a very weak electric shock—not enough to make them jump but just enough to give them a feeling of discomfort. Electrical discomfort—and the hairs rising on the back of their necks. And chills too, sick chills like you get with the flu. The doorknob is bigger than a man's head, and out of reach. Besides a door latch keeps it from moving any further. So, this is a dead end. From the faint ‘up’ carved into the handle of the key they have acquired and from the sign’s notice, one figures their next destination is to go to the roof. Cylindrical Staircase Exterior: Opening the door the PCs have to pause a moment, blinded by white light. As soon as their eyes get used to the foggy brightness of outside they shiver in the freezing wind. They are back on the circular stairway, but now they are outside the building. They are standing on an inclining steel walkway that spirals to the top of the cylindrical building. There is no railing, and as they look over the edge, they see nothing but the whiteness of fog, as if it were somehow built in the middle of a bottomless pit, and there is nothing below, but fog. This part of the stairway run around the outside of the building, exposed to the elements, and when the PCs look backward they can see the whole staircase going up past two more floors to the roof. They climb a short ladder just by the door and find themselves on the asphalt roof of the little room they just left. The whole tower is surrounded by water. Waves crash in the sea (sea? Or lake?) far, far below, well below the level of the waterwheel in the basement. It stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions. There is no ground to be seen at all, and the PCs can’t see the bottom of the tower, either. It is as if the whole building was suspended in midair.

This is, of course, impossible, especially since they are only on the second floor. But, again, they have to remember that logic doesn't apply here. There is a cool breeze blowing by, and the freshness of the air is a shock to the system after the stench one has been living with for hours. A deep breath of it makes one a little dizzy. Footholds feel unsteady, and they feel suddenly very aware that a strong wind could send them right off the edge into the water. They shiver—both from the cold, and from the fear of falling, possibly eternally—as they hug the wall, ghostly and mottled in the thin gray fog, and climb another short ladder to the second floor. Then they see a ladder to their right, so they climb up, being careful not to look down, as it is just to the side of the floor, and losing their footing will be fatal. The ladder leads to an outcropping, and another short ladder which leads back onto the inclining path and a set of double-doors, which they go through. Second Circular Cell Hallway: The second floor greets him with double doors, allowing the PCs access to the warmer (but still damp) inside. He found himself in a hallway very similar to the first floor, designed exactly with doors leading to the inside cells. Like the first floor the first three doors are locked. They run into a patch of those strange brown mushroom fungi in the hallway. Fortunately, it only takes one swing of the pipe for them to die instantly. Just as they have finished off the last one, there is a wet splat behind them. The PCs spin around, but there is nothing coming down the hallway at them. They have no idea what had made the noise, but whatever it was, it is close by...so they look downward. Sure enough, at their feet is an abnormally large slug—blind and slimy.. It is about a foot long and a shiny, slimy bluish-gray, and is oozing happily along the floor, leaving a shimmering trail behind it. It must have dropped off of the ceiling or was sucking itself up the lichen-covered wall, because it hadn’t been there before. Cells: There isn’t much else to see on the second floor. Some of the cells are locked, and some aren’t, as they had been on the first floor. They can peer through the windows in the doors, though, to see inside. They are dark except for the light from the peepholes on the other side, but even in the dark one can see that a few of the rooms have large round holes in the floors that take up most of the free space in the middle of the cells. Those are the corpse disposal chutes, presumably. The ones who built this prison were doing something to these children that were so horrible that they needed to build in holes to dump their bodies into, regularly. The next room is unlocked, and looks exactly like the others seen so far, except there is a diary on the table, open and flipped to the latest entry. The PC’s see that it is yet again a child's handwriting. Educated, certainly, but still a child. It reads: I’ve been watching the surveillance room’s peephole the whole time, and sometimes he’s there. I can tell ‘cause I see a shadow move or hear his footsteps. The shadow passes over again. Whenever that happens the PCs get the

uncomfortable sense of being watched, but try as they might, they can never get a glimpse of the watcher. Feeling a little uneasy, they return to the main hallway, looking for more open doors. The next room has something unusual—several ritualistic cups filled with black powder. Some of it is wet, causing the powder to form a sludge. Picking one up, they see that the label on it has previously been removed. There isn't a strong stench to it, but it has a distinct burned smell, like some sort of tar. None of the containers are quite full, indicating usage. Bending down and rummaging around under the bed will cause one to nearly cut oneself on the rusty blade of a sword with a triangular handle. As they are standing there, looking at the sword, there is the feeling that they are not alone, as if the children who had lived in this cell and drank the black things in the jars and stashed the sword under the bed is watching them. As if all of the children, the ones who had lived and died here and been pushed through the holes in the floors down to the butcher's room downstairs, are watching the visitors and waiting and now the PCs just want to get out of there, away from their stares, whatever the hell it is that they are waiting for them to do. The PCs want to run, away from those invisible dead eyes, to leave these cells and their memories behind them forever. But, that isn't an option, not yet. The next room has a shirt and a pair of pale blue pants hanging from a clothesline that stretches across the room. They are disturbingly similar to prison garb, the shirt made out of extremely cheap cotton. The pants are stained, though it is obvious someone had tried to clean it up at least —but with limited supplies. The room smells faintly of garbage and stale urine, and the only sound is that of dripping water, and of something small scuttling in the darkness. A note on the wall grabbed his attention. It still looks like a child's writing, and as they read the note they began to understand what exactly is happening here—or at least part of it. I peed my pants. I gotta wash them so no one finds out. I just saw a shadow, I think someone saw me. Even the sentence structure of the note sounds like it came from a kid. The unknown prisoners in the cells seem to have a peculiar mix of obedience and rebellion; but all of them live under the oppression of being watched from that inner room, through the portholes. Reading these messages in the cells, the PCs feel their almost palpable presence; their fear, and also their belligerence at being locked up. They have searched every cell on this floor, so they go out the double-doors to the spiral path outside, where they go up another ladder up to the third floor. Third Floor Circular Cell Hallway: Up on the third floor, there are more slugs everywhere. Other than that, it is more of the same: dimly lit, plain brick walls, dampness and chill, along with the unmistakable smell of mold, still looking for all the world like a medieval dungeon to the point where you’d almost expect to see wailing emaciated prisoners in ragged clothing chained to the walls. Outside, in the damp corridor, they see something in the corner of the eye—in the hall, just at the point that is within their vision, before the walls curve too far—that they think looks like a large man wearing a black, hooded cloak. Somehow, when one knows what something is, it’s easier to deal with it, even if all one is doing is trying to figure out the quickest way to kill it or get past it.

They turn to look at it and realize that they are quite mistaken. What they are facing, now, is some sort of 'baby'...thing. It stands about their size, maybe larger, with not just one face--but with two infant heads squashed together under a black hood. Their complexion is pallid and eyes appear swollen shut. Cupid bow lips pout as both head crane to get a better look at the PCs. Their eyes flicker to their 'feet', and realize that broad hands serve as balance; long, tapered fingers curled against the floor. And it is standing there... Looking at them—despite it having no eyes, thought one has no doubt that it can see, or at least sense their presence. Suddenly, it raises one hand off the floor, shifting its weight to the other hand—the effect is startlingly bird-like. The black cloak it wears drifts around the creature and its tattered edges flutter as one hand lifts and points at the PCs with one pasty white finger, following their every movement. In a deep voice, it utters a single word: “Receiver.”, sexless and eerie. But its mouths do not move. The word drifts towards them like wisps of smoke. They freeze. Like a stork, the creature of indescribable traits stands on one hand, the only limbs to its name. The other hand points as it hoarsely whispered the word ‘Receiver’ over and over. Other than that it stands as still as a statue. Suddenly, something hits one of the PCs in the shoulder—the PCs stumbles a little and lets out a yell before they realize it is just one of the giant slugs falling from the ceiling and plopping against the shoulder on its way to the ground. Unfortunately, this is enough to alert the creature and it suddenly lets out a battle-cry that sounds a baby’s scream in a low pitch, and charges at them with surprising speed, its massive form causing a stomping sound as its hands pounds the concrete floor. It stops a few feet away and pulls one of its hands back. They are just able to jump backwards out of the way before its swipe connects with the air where they had been standing. Then, to their surprise, it doesn’t lunge at them. Instead, it turns and runs away, and stops after a few steps to stare off into the distance as if fascinated by some shiny object. What does this thing want? Up close, it smells like mildew and wet fur. If attacked, all that the attempt does is get the creature’s attention. It turns around and stares at the PCs, seemingly curious about them, as if it has no idea why someone would want to hit it like that. A second strike, and it rampages back and forth down the hallway. It is going to be a lot harder to get close enough to let loose on it the next time. Still, they watch it carefully, and just as it is running toward them they can strike it for all it is worth. That knocks it to the floor, and a fast stomp to one of its heads is enough to finish it off. Now it lies motionless before them, facesdown in the muck, a dead mound of smelly wet hair. But what is this terrible creature? They look at its infant faces, still as expressionless in death as

they had been in life, and at their tightly shut eyes; and theirs stomach turn to think that they have just killed something that looks so much like human infants. Then, they remember that they are standing out in the middle of a hallway, exposed, and it is possible that these things travel in packs. Cells: They duck into the nearest unlocked room to try to pull themselves back together. The bed is covered in blood...and that the stain is about the same size and shape as a small child. This vile-looking residue appears to be gummy but must be brittle with age, because otherwise it would have lent an appalling odor to the cool damp air. The next cell door is unlocked. Inside there are a clothbound volumes scattered everywhere— open, closed, stacked, broken, on the floor or on the bed, and appear to be so decrepit, humidity has sloughed the titles from their spines. The next one has a huge round hole in the middle of the floor—it is easily big enough to fit through, gaping like a huge round mouth in the darkness of the cell. Besides, there is blood surrounding it, which didn’t help to reassure them. Just then, they hear a footstep, and the room falls into darkness, then lightens again. Something is moving around on the other side of the peephole, in the guard room. There’s somebody in there! Of course, if there’s a guard room, there could be guards, and one probably doesn’t want them to know that the PCs are here. They slip back out into the hallway and make their way to the other cells as quietly and quickly as possible. The next cell also has a hole in the floor. The unsettling amount of blood soaking the makeshift bed in the corner gives the PCs an idea for what the holes are used for. Their minds flash to the kids, and an unbearable amount of sympathy goes out to them wherever they are, even if they aren’t alive. The next cell after that has clothes laid out on the bed. There is no stench and no stain, just the dirty clothes placed perfectly on the bed, as if to mimic a human being. It is poorly done and the shirt is open, revealing no flesh underneath. There is only a note on the table, which reads: Now it will look like I’m sleeping. Were those footsteps? I wonder if he saw me. Only a child would think this was a good idea to sneak out of the room and lay out his clothes on the bed as a diversion for the watcher. Only a child, and that makes them uneasy because they had been hoping to see something that would convince that—if nothing else—at least they were wrong about the prisoners being children, and, instead, they find evidence that convinces them that they are right after all. At this point there is no denying that there were actual children in this place— and that there is little difference in appearance between when the children were here and now. One of the cells is full of brown mushrooms, and there is a small, thick book. It looks like a journal bound in dark red leather and it reads: To get to the surveillance rooms in the middle of this complex, you have to use the corpse disposal chutes in the cells. However, on the 1st and 2nd floors, these cells are locked. That's so the kids wouldn't discover them. So you have to get to the 1st floor from one of the cells on the 3rd floor. I know how to do it, but it's really a pain.

Also, the lights only work on the 2nd floor. The next room is another one that has a hole in the floor. The following one has a dusty diary on the table, that had probably belonged to the young occupant of the cell, which reads: We had beef stew yesterday. In the cafeteria, I heard there’s a death chamber behind the kitchen, and they take meat straight from the dead people and cook it. That really scared me. Probably only a rumor, but still unsettling. There is another one on the bed: I’m in trouble. I stood in front of the surveillance room and yelled as loud as I could, but nobody came out. The last room is empty, save for some clothes on the floor. More red writing on the wall catches their attention: I wanna hide but I can’t hide. Sluice Gate Control Area: The PCs climb up the ladder to the last floor. The huge metal double doors open readily, and they are on the sunlit, gray roof. The walls are tall and edged with barbed wire. Fog swirls within them. Water for the waterwheel is contained in a large square pool that surrounds a small central room. In front of them is a set of steps that leads to a door—another door with the same round symbol as the design around the infamous holes—but it won’t open. Backing up they realize that it is on the side of a water tower. The actual tank is roofless, whether from a storm or the hands of man. The pool itself is fourcornered, like the hole for the waterwheel downstairs, and each corner is blocked off by a small wooden gate that leads to a deep hole. So, the water will run down these holes once the gates are opened. A foreign smell comes up from the tank, causing them to hold their breath. The water is dark and shiny as oil, and laps against the sides, but nothing surfaces. Around the other side of the tower is another set of steps that leads to a valve. The wheel is stiff at first, they must struggle a bit to get it unstuck from its slightly rusted position, but eventually it gives way, and as it is turned around, it creaks and as the sluice gates lifts up and the rushing water pours down into the holes and the prison facilities below, presumably to the waterwheel in the basement. Sheltered from the breeze they are only slightly chilled on the roof. It is actually a pleasant feeling. Third Floor Cell: In a cell under the newly working lights, the PCs examine maps for the first, second and third floors. The hydroelectricity has granted them a bright white light that hums softly above. Even so the hole is shrouded in darkness. If they turn their heads they can barely see the floors of the rooms below, illuminated from above. They can’t see well enough to accurately predict the height of the fall. Hopefully, there is a set of holes that they can get to that will drop them straight down. According to the map, there are cells on the second and first floors that are locked, one above the other, and both are below a third-floor cell with a hole. The cells

below the one with the hole have holes as well. If the guards had to do this all of the time, hopefully it isn't that dangerous. Hopefully. Unfortunate design for a building, though. One would think the guard would just take the stairs. They are guards after all, so they would have keys to get where they needed to go. But the PCs do not, so down the holes it has to be. They look down at the hole. Are they really insane enough to try this? It is too dark to see where the hole leads, or even if it has a bottom. They have been through every door that wasn't locked or jammed, and had only found one key, which they have already used on the only door it opened. There is nowhere else to go. It occurs to them that if they can get some forward momentum going, they might be able to overshoot the hole on the next floor and land safely on the other side. The floors are thick, and there isn't enough space for a running start. You take a deep breath and jump forward and hope for the best. Turns out that is enough. The PCs land safely next to the hole on the next floor down. Shower: The PCs land in a large room shaped like a quarter circle, with rusty shower heads along the walls, and a door, in the basement, surrounded by cracked concrete walls ribbed with mold. A shower room then, for the children? "Receiver!" They look around and realize that there were actually two of them, but only one has spotted them. It closes the distance quickly and it delivers an attack that is somewhere between a stomp and a downward swipe. As they attack one, the other will start moving towards them, and they will have to switch attention to that one, at which point the other one will start moving towards them again. They have never been quite this close to one before, and they notice for the first time how disturbing it is seeing the faces of two babies react in pain whenever the creature is struck. The pale faces crease back in an infant's expression of immense sadness. The mouths opened, showing no throat. They let out a sort of sighing cry that is low with the sound of defeat. No breath from the mouths brushes their faces like one would expect. Instead the monster starts collapses, almost falling on his legs. Finally, it falls...and lands on top of one of the PCs. You scream more in disgust than pain--it weighs much, but worse than that is being able to imagine what the creature must look like under its cloak by the way it feels, which is sensation you would rather not experience and scramble out from under it.

Directing their eyes away from the dead bodies they look upwards, seeing bent showerheads, pipes, and the hole they have dropped down from. They now notice the strong, earthly smell. Ladder Hallway: In the next area the locked double doors, that they have come across earlier when they were on the enclosed stairs, are now on their right. The door across from the one they have just fled through are locked, but to their left is a small, grime-bordered hallway that ends in a large circular room with a ladder in the middle, leading up to a hole in the ceiling. Surveillance Room 1st Floor: Sure enough, on the next floor up the PCs find themselves in the first-floor central guard room—a room mirroring the cylindrical tendency of the entire building, peepholes line the wall. One is able to look through each of the eight peepholes and see into the rooms on the first floor, even the locked ones. Like those on the third floor, three of the rooms have chutes in the floors. There is an old metal desk and swivel chair in the guard room against the wall pushed up between two peepholes, and a notebook left on the desk: This place continues to deteriorate. The doors to a number of cells no longer open. As a result, the kids inside can no longer go outside. But the less they know about that, the better. I can't open the doors, but from this room, I can watch them get more and more emaciated each day. With no food and never showering themselves, they turn into smelly little grey lumps in there. Following the suggestion of an engineer, we've disposed of the corpses by digging a hole below the cells. Since each floor of this building can be rotated independently, we can dispose of the bodies without the others noticing by aligning each cell with a body in it vertically. P.S.: Chief, I bet you're just dying to see the interrogation room behind the kitchen. I understand your feelings, but have you noticed? There are three rooms with bloody beds. One is on the 1st floor, one is on the 2nd floor, and one is on the 3rd floor. If you line those three rooms up, then it's "bingo." This wasn't simply child abuse—this was terrible, nightmarish mistreatment of barbarous proportions. The mind reels. Did this sort of thing really take place here, or is it some kind of illusion? And if it did happen, then why was it allowed to continue? And how could anyone do something like this, and continue to live with himself? And as if simply knowing this information wasn't traumatic enough, there the PCs are, literally in the middle of where it all happened. As painful as it is, they look through the peepholes—it is too easy to imagine children screaming to be let out from inside of these tiny, dark, filthy cells which, in the end, would turn out to be the last thing they'd ever see. The attitude of the guard who watched over the children is beyond disgusting. As the children wasted away in the cells because of the malfunctioning doors, the guards did nothing to save them; instead, they simply tried to dispose of the bodies without letting the other kids know. They see nothing really new by peering into the other portholes—just the same rooms from a different angle—but they notice that the room with the bloody bed is seen through the hole that is just to the right of the desk, and that another room is brightly lit. That’s how the place was designed...the observation holes are high up in the walls, so that the prisoners could be seen, but they couldn’t tell who was watching them.

That note has told them something new. Well, a few new things, but as horrific as the thought is of children starving to death in their cells because noone could be bothered to fix the doors, it isn't of immediate usefulness. Apparently, not only can the floors be rotated, but it is possible to get into the "interrogation room" by the kitchen by moving the floors around. There is a bloody bed on each floor (They have already run into the one on the third floor, so they know that is true), and if they can line them up one could drop down all the way into the kitchen area. Looking at the maps, they realize that it must be what is behind the locked door they have just seen. There is nothing else, but a fondly used nightstick leaning against one of the desks. It is light, and surprisingly it seemed rather maneuverable with a tether on the end to be wrapped around the wrist. Having seen everything in this room, they climb up the ladder to the second floor. Surveillance Room 2nd Floor: The second floor guard room is quiet. It is much like the first, except for two things...the note on the similarly placed desk which reads: To keep a close eye on the kids, it's important to keep the cells well lit. The lights on the 3rd floor were originally bought as searchlights. As a precaution against a blackout, they were set up to run on a private generator. There's a hydroelectric generator in the basement. To light up the 1st and 2nd floors, use the corpse disposal chutes. Since each floor of this building can be rotated, you can light up any of the cells by matching up the holes. Repeating this periodically is an effective way to keep the kids fearful and wellbehaved. P.S.: Chief, if you turn the valve in the middle of this room, you can easily rotate the cells. You can't rotate the 1st floor, so align the 2nd and 3rd floors with the 1st floor cell that have the blood-stained bed. By the way, if you're using the peephole in this room, it's easy to make sure you're doing it right. Give it a try. Also, please don't forget to open the sluice gate on the roof. Much appreciated, Chief! And the rusty red wheel on a pillar across from the ladder. The note mentioned that the second and third floors are the ones that rotate, so this is probably the means that is the handle used for rotating the floor that the note had mentioned. They peer into the nearest peephole, then step over to the wheel and give it a good turn to the right. The grinding of the gears and the squeaking of the wheel echoes very loudly in the little round rooms like the one on the roof had. There is a loud rumbling sound, and the building rolls and shakes for a few seconds. Now, the cell behind the peephole is different...there is a hole in the floor where there hadn't been one before. It looks as though the floor has rotated one cell to the right. So that is how it worked. A good haul on the wheel will turn the rooms in either direction. The note said something about keeping the kids in line by doing this, to disturb them, that along with starving in their cells, seeing nobody, hearing horrible things happening in other cells, and prone to disorienting torture at the whim of the guards they never saw... Surveillance Room 3rd Floor: The PCs go up the ladder again to the third floor. No desk here, but there is a simple memo taped to the wall: The Secret Number for getting through the door in back of the kitchen this month is "0302." Thanks for your cooperation.

Kitchen: At the bottom of the series of chutes is the kitchen, which is small and fading with age. One of the PCs lands painfully on something small and hard. As the PC pushes himself/herself up off the damp floor, he/she sees that it is a bullet, glinting in the dim light of the single bulb that lights the kitchen. They pick it up curiously. It looks not unlike the bullets for a pistol, except that it is silver. One silver .38 round engraved with twisting symbols. It hums warmly between their fingers, just as the medallions did. Looking to be about the same caliber as the pistol, they stuff the bullet away. One bullet cannot make much difference, but it is better than none. It had probably been pitch dark before, but now there is light streaming in from the chutes above. They see kitchen appliances and supplies on countertops and tables. The foul air smells of mold and mildew, of rodent urine, vaguely of vomit, of floorboards cured with layers of spilled alcohol, of cigarette smoke condensed into a sour and underlying all that— and more—is the faint but acidic scent of decomposition. Fortunately, the only enemies around this time were more fungus creatures, although these particular ones are of a different breed—whitish and more snakelike, their heads looking somewhat phallic. After they have dispatched them, the PCs explore, finding nothing but dirty trays with rotting food on them. The tables and benches were pushed about, blocking pathways and imitating chaos. Beyond them is a pair of double-doors to their left. Draped across one of the benches is a single, silver Saint Medallion. Picking it up and hanging it around one of their necks, they ignore the ceiling-reaching tentacles blocking one of his pathways, and turn to the other door. When they approach, they notice a number pad on the left door and a metal placard on the right. Removing the placard and looking at it shows that it has the image of an eye with rays radiating out like the sun and the word Watchfulness etched on it. There is the number pad on the door, as promised. It is the standard three-by-four model with the last number at the bottom. A plaque, another locked door...What are they going to find beyond it? They enter the code into the number pad with a shaky hand, and finally they hear the sound of the door unlocking that tells them that the door is ready for them. They aren't ready for it, but they can’t worry about that now. They steel themselves and turn the knob to the infamous ‘death chamber’. They hurry in, but are nearly overwhelmed by the smell of mold and death. B1 Core: The room beyond is different. The very first thing the PCs notice are round tiles are set into the walls in a honeycomb pattern. Huge round saw blades and metal racks and other ...things hang from the ceiling. The floor of the room is mostly submerged in scummy water that is reddish in color but for a little space by the door and an old rusty metal walkway to its center—a circular concrete platform. On the wall to the right hang rusty rotary blades and other cruellooking implements of pain and death by chains from the ceiling. Hooks hang from the ceiling as well, sharp and pointed, items that should normally be in a slaughterhouse, not any sort of prison or orphanage at all. Racks hang down from more chains—a medieval torture device used to stretch the limbs out until joints were dislocated, ligaments torn, or even worse. Everything - the walls, the saw blades, the walkway, everything - is covered in old and fresh blood—such a

vibrant red. The water in the room slaps heavily against the walls, and there is green and black oily patches on its surface. The smell is truly indescribable. They cross the bridge slowly, not stopping until they reach the other end. They recall the words from the diary that they found in one of the cells...the one that talked about the death chamber behind the kitchen, and what happened to the children who died there. It had been clear as day. Beef stew Before them, a body floats face-up in the water, all three hundred-plus pounds of dead meat lying in a vast pool looking as a vast as a continent, the diluted blood surrounding it. In its belly numbers are carved. On the platform’s bare steel is a white shirt. They kneel to examine the shirt. It is wet and lying in a puddle, as if it had just been fished out from the water. Much too small to have been an adult’s—it has to have been a ... prisoner’s shirt. They pick it up and notice that parts of it are raised and stiff. Upon closer inspection, they can see that there is something written faintly on it in a light colored material on the back of the shirt; they can touch it lightly with a finger and find it to be waxy. They can almost make out a few words, but in this dim lighting, it is impossible to read, invisible against the white fabric. Frustration threatens to overcome them. If this had been left here for them to find, surely there is a way to read the message. Maybe, if the material is wax, they can soak the shirt in some dark colored liquid to make the message stand out. The white words stand out somewhat from the dark red background and are clearly legible now. "My room is on the 2nd floor and I had to drink something with black things in it. I hid the sword with the triangle handle under my bed. That guy, the fat one, took the basement key. Next time I'll stick this triangle sword into that pig and take the key." Right now, however, they want nothing more than to get out of this horrible-smelling chamber. They think that they hear the cells turning rotten in his body, now a factory, a death mill where billions of tiny forces work away nonstop at the process of decay.

Summerland Cemetery: After perhaps a half-mile or so, the path turns from the cliff and
onto soil that is much rockier and firmer. A few more paces, and a large wrought-iron gate appears out of the fog; the first sign of civilization. The wind howls ominously as the visitors stand at the entrance of the Summerland Cemetery. Returning to the woods to avoid the graveyard might take them into the arms of a killer, but on the other hand, the cemetery usually doesn’t feel like the safest place in the world either. A low stone wall surrounds the rows of crypts and tombstones, fashioned from heavy granite blocks so cunningly set together that only a trained eye would be able to find the joints between them. Ivy snakes over it, reaching up onto the top and constricting the wall in green grasp. The wrought-iron gate is huge, rusted and pitted from all moisture in the air, and fashioned in a pretentious neo-gothic style, topped with broken spiked fences covered in rust and dead vines. The gate stretches ten feet into the air and swings open on noisy hinges. It has no lock, and does not give easily. It is old and scaled with rust. When it gives, it gives grudgingly and with ample noisy protest, and it speaks, its voice is cold and harsh, it says “Guilty”. The slate-gray sky seems to press down towards the gray granite monuments, while those

rectangles and squares and spires strain up like the knobs of ancient time-stained bones. In the dreary light, the grass looks gray-green. There are thick-branched trees everywhere, their limbs spidery and leafless, like twisted fingers grasping for something out of reach in the cold sky, and seem to loom precariously, as if about to topple the visitors. Their eyes focus on one tiny white thing that soundlessly and softly falls on the ground. Then there is another, just a few feet away. Then another...and another. When they look up there are dozens of these, falling from above. It is snowing. It is a small amount of snow, really; nothing to be worried about. Within, one can see the graves with stone and marble markers, scrollwork and cherubim carved into them by the sure hand of fate. Here at the Summerland Cemetery a canny observer can witness the entire evolution of a technology of grave markers. In one section rise the limestone memorials, names, dates, and fond remembrances smeared by decades of clammy weather. In an adjacent area leans markers of slate, a sturdier proposition, inscriptions soft and worn but still readable. And finally, the precincts of immortal granite, more permanent. Inspecting the headstones shows that most of them look really old and well worn. Occasionally, letters are eroded—by natural weathering, or in a few cases perhaps effaced by some offended passerby. A successful perception roll and suddenly something shiny is noticed at the base of one of the tombstones. Examining the shining object and wiping away the dirt that half buried the item, it is found to be a doorknocker. The shape of the doorknocker is unusual too; it looks like a monkey's paw curled into a fist. Tilting to the right, the tombstone is made of creamy marble, gray streaked with white, and is topped with a blocky cross. Fat clouds of moss scudded across its face. Reading the words engraved upon the tombstoneHerbert White 1881-1902 No one could wish for more than to have him for a son, But the folly of his father, and the madness of his mother, Left them with naught, but two hundred pounds and three knocks. The next grave behind has a tiny marker, white marble with the carved figurine of a lamb perched atop it. The lamb and tombstone are spotted with black lichen, and the PCs know it is the grave of a child. The inscription reads: Dora Anne Bachman, Born – May 11, 1897, Died – August 12, 1902 Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me Another reads Emil Radcliff, above a date, Aug 27, 1939. Some of the stones show nothing, having been worn smooth by age and merciless elements. Snowflakes still fall gently onto the gray grass of the ground. Silent, white, implacable. The world never looked so lonely. When they are ready to leave, they make their way further from the entrance, moving almost blind through the worn and broken monoliths until they come upon the stone retaining wall. Using it as a guide, they first come upon a small pond. The surface ripples under the drive of wind, then going in a hundred directions as they encounter the thickets of reeds and water ferns which choke parts of the pool. Following the short wall leads them to another wrought-iron gate, which seems to be the way out. Next to this gate stands what appears to be the groundskeeper's quarters, or maybe a mausoleum. It is small, but imposing and vaguely sinister in spite of its stature nonetheless. Within, the walls on the sides are covered with a wide variety of tools for

wood and garden work, held in place by hooks, and positioned with scrupulous neatness. Occupying a space of their own, and isolated in a frame fixed to the wall, are a number of knifelike objects with curving blades and ornately carved handles. They are all completely free of rust. Through the gate they can continue though the gate to the town. If the PCs should pass back through here in an attempt to find their way back out of town, they will find black wrought iron, tipped with fancy spearheads, ten-foot spans of spiked tines interrupted by tall iron poles, each crowned with a brass ball. It blocks the path, as the rumbling continues another length of fence rips its way out of the earth. To the left and to the right, shapes move in the mist that are more lengths of fence, and more iron poles topped with brass balls rising higher and higher up out of the graveyard soil. The fence along the perimeter of Summerland Cemetery is only seven feet high, but this fence, these new lengths rise further, ten feet, then taller, fifteen feet and kept climbing, twenty feet high and stops, the spikes and every brass ball draped in cauls of dirt and grass. They quickly discover that Summerland Cemetery has become a giant maze, its twisting corridors marked off by the fence. It does no good to run because the new paths turn, and turn back on themselves, lead in circles, and are blocked by gravestones everywhere they turn. Frequently, it is obvious that as the fence had shot up through the ground, it had carved its way through the vaults and coffins that lay beneath. The graves have been torn open, and bones are scattered across the ground. Skulls, small and large, some human, some bestial, and some a commingling of both, lay broken around the PCs’ feet. Broken bones litter the ground, and shreds of cloth are caught on the fence – bits of the fine suits and dresses in which the dead of Silent Hill had been laid to rest. Almost all of the graves have been dug up, their contents pulled out, broken to pieces and wildly strewn. Thankfully rare, there are also gobbets of liquefying flesh oozing down the black iron bars, and at one spot there is what can only be a long, blonde wig blackened with mud and hanging limply. Wiltse Road: A trail had led to a gate, and now another gate had led to another trail. This one may have also been a tidy little nature walk at one point, and before that perhaps a logging road, but now there are barricades, construction equipment and tools here and there, and other such encroachments of civilization. The PCs walk down the road for about ten minutes; the forest has begun to thin out and they reach some road works signs and a pedestrian underpass leading to civilization. Before long, the sound of dead leaves crunching underfoot stops and the dirt forest path gave way to a dirt road. Instead of trees and thick undergrowth, they walk through a valley of bare dirt on either side, as if this part of the path had been recently dug up. They guess that it was set to be paved. Sometimes the dirt wall falls away, leading into valleys, but these were all cordoned off by fencing, sometimes consisting of barbed wire strung between posts. None are more than waist-high. However, though these things strongly suggest nearby population, they don't prove it. Nobody mans the equipment or handle the tools. There are no sounds of speech, clashing of iron and rock, or the sound of heavy machinery. They see more artifacts of development as they walk, among them a pickup truck and an old white panel van, but that is all. The hills to either side fall

away quickly, and their path is now bound entirely by fences and makeshift barriers, each one different in appearance. Abruptly, a much larger one appears before them, this one made of stone and concrete. It is another overpass, if the guard rail on its rim is any indication. And then you stop. You aren't sure, but you think you heard footsteps, and not ones belonging to you. You stand still for a moment, and then continue walking, keeping a slightly slower and softer pace this time. They are there again. Slower, plodding, more deliberate than your own, as though you were being stalked. You do not stop walking right away, you just listen. They keep going as long as you do. When you suddenly stop, the footsteps do too. You scan the path all around, but there is no sign of anyone. Nothing growls, though, or snarls. There is nothing animal in this, and though they begin again, this is enough for them to at least try to ignore whatever it might be. Resolving to ignore the noises, you start walking towards the underpass again. The phantom footsteps reappear as if on cue, but you pay them no mind. When the muffled grit under their feet becomes the slap of shoe leather on concrete, the phantom footsteps cease. They disappear once you reach the concrete flooring under the pass. They have to follow the pitted, flaking construct a bit before they find the actual underpass. The area here is strewn with old newspaper and dry litter, stretching into a foggy void. Whatever lay on the other end was still out of sight. They proceed through a chain-linked gate bisecting the length of the tunnel. Traveling swiftly down each twisting alleyway and path, they are surprised to find themselves on a small road overlooking a large canal to the right, the very faint sounds of running water echoing back up the artificial ravine. The concrete floor of the underpass gave way to the ashy color of pavement. This is Wiltse Road, and though it seems too narrow to support automobile traffic, a guard rail marks the edge of the street to their right. A good thing, too, because it is a long way down in that direction. Wiltse is little more than a narrow shelf carved into a nearly vertical wall of rock. It is about here that they hear yet another new noise, but this one isn't the same as the others, in that it doesn’t sound like something that is an imminent threat to them. It is a broad sound, faint and yet strong, as if something is generating some noise, but it is of such a distance that it diminishes by the time the sound reaches their ears. And it isn't just that, but the sound is simply odd in another way. At first it seems to be an odd sort of scream, but the second time they hear it, they can tell it is definitely not a vocal sound: like someone is pulling a sliding metal door open and shut, repeatedly, and in very deliberate rhythm. Every few seconds the noise repeats itself perfectly, their ears can detect no notable variation in the noise. The ghostly, echoing quality to it makes it apparent to them that the source of the sound is nowhere nearby, but it is still unnerving just the same.

Arrival: Through the fog, they can make out the traces and outlines of two-story buildings and
nearby homes; a dawn-like gray breaking over a town: an ordinary modern town beneath a gray sky. Flanked by twenty-foot-high concrete ramparts, they have no view of any of the town immediately around them. They can see only the faint angular lines of the houses on higher hills, huddled under trees. As they ascend the watercourse, the townscape ahead also falls away from sight beyond the levees, as though the fog is a powerful solvent in which all the structures and citizens of the town are dissolving. There isn't much to see as they make their way along Wiltse's gentle curves. At irregular intervals, drainage culverts yawn in the canal walls, some only two or three feet in diameter, a few so large that a truck could be driven into them. The road leads past all those tributaries and continues up the riverbed. Eventually, the natural barriers of rock give way to fencing, first the ranch-style log, then the slat-board kind that rises above their heads, and then buildings, past which Wiltse Road comes to an end. A cold winter wind brings fog and freezing snowflakes like the rejecting hand of Heaven, everything silent except for the wind. The place seems intrinsically, inherently wrong-too quiet, too still, completely without noise or movement. There is a strange, expectant quality, an eerie tension, seems to be part of this place. No birds whistle, no dogs bark, no children play; everyone gone. Absolutely gone. There are no such things in this town. Not one light inside any of the buildings are on, just gloom and indoor darkness. Just buildings: cement, bricks, asphalt, wood, plastic, glass and metal. Even the trees, being the only living things in sight look dead and frozen in time. It looks like the color has been sucked out of everything, and the fog lays motionless for as far as one can see up and down the streets. The evergreens, silhouettes against the slate-colored sky, might as well be sentinels standing in dread anticipation of the advance of powerful armies. The other trees, stripped of their leaves, have a foretokening air, as if they have raise their black, skeletal arms to warn of approaching danger. How can it be that the fog, that most desolate and ghostly of sights, seems more alive than anything they have seen in this place so far? They walk further up to the edge of the sidewalk and stand there, next to two newspaper dispensers, one white and one green. Silent Hill Tribune is etched down the side in peeling letters. One of the papers remains in the faceplate. The headline of the local paper behind the glass reads: “Bill Skins Fifth.” This town looks abandoned by its inhabitants. There isn't one person in view, one vehicle in motion, or even the sound of a bird or another animal. This is a ghost town, if they have ever seen one. No one walks the peaceful sidewalks that pass by these quiet houses...Its factories and recreation grounds and terraces of dark bricks are silent in the pale horizontal wash of light. The old chimneys make faint long shadows across the grass. An old bicycle is parked against a wall.

Severed power lines hang uselessly from their poles. Identical clapboard houses are arrayed in a grid to all sides like barracks. Holes in the roads have not been repaired; some of the windows of the houses are broken; plaster is peeling; walkway steps are cracked and some doorframes are loose. The street names read “Sanders ST.” and “Lindsey RD.” Here, as over on the other street, the stop lights still function, and still cycle through their different signals. The crosswalk signs also alternate between stop and walk according to their set rhythm. But that is it. No lights in any of the buildings, at least none visible from the streets. No lights of signs or storefronts, no lights from cars. They take slow, uneasy steps as they walk down the empty streets. There's almost no sound, except for the shrill pitch of the wind, and a disturbing low, machinery moan of something in the distance. It's subtle, but noticeable. One cannot see the horizon or the sky; the fog makes it impossible to see even beyond half a street's distance. Mixed in with this fog are smoky, mucous colored mists that float throughout and sometimes clung to structures: such as houses and parked cars. In the expanding light, the town tries to reveal its secrets. A sign says ‘No parking anytime’. There is a public bench that looks anything but inviting in this fog and snow. Trees line the side of the road, motionless as the fake foliage in an airless diorama; no limb trembles, no leaf whispers. Cars dot the sides, never to move, just serving to make the area more surreal. The PCs might have as well have been figures in a snow-globe paperweight. On the sides of buildings, posters have been rubbed away unevenly from the exterior walls of shops so that the portions of words remaining spell out bizarre phrases which nonetheless seem vaguely familiar. They walk along shivering. In the distance they hear a siren, the wail strengthening and ebbing. It is riveting, killing the silence. The street they walk is all but deserted. Around them snowflakes hiss as if falling on a hot griddle. After another block they can smell charred timbers.

SOUTH VALE: Over the years, South Vale had been modernized and “improved” almost
beyond recognition, and in 1995 the town of Silent Hill had officially launched a plan to restore the neighborhood to a grandeur only hinted at by scraps like the Ridgeview Medical Clinic and the Nathan Avenue causeway that had survived unscathed the onslaught of vinyl siding, fake stucco, and sheet metal. The plan had been to fill South Vale with trees and flowers, enlarge Rosewater Park, and resuscitate the old- fashioned loveliness hiding beneath decades of poorly thought out renovations. All for nothing. It seems so sad, but it seems everything is sad in Silent Hill now.

Flower Shop: There are two green posters, near the Flower Shop on the opposite side wall,
near the dead end at the east - they are maps of the town. To their left is the fresh-flower area. Beyond the glass doors of the coolers that line the big front

room, roses can be seen, along with supplies of cut ferns and other greenery used to soften bright bouquets and arrangements. The once fresh flowers that hung on baskets and resided in the refrigeration units are now wilted, spotted brown, rotting. To their right, the PCs can see two doors that lead to a washroom and storage room. Two more doors, behind the desk, led to the shop's nursery. The storeroom is gray and almost empty except for three folding chairs, an unfilled water cooler, four wood pallets, and the dim fluorescent light on the ceiling; there are no boxed items nor are there any signs of recent deliveries. There is a small sealed door that is probably an entrance to a refrigeration room. A steady hum from beyond the door confirms that it is still active. Darkness: The flowers that once were simply wilted and dead are now rotted and smell of decay. The once clear windows of the nursery are now splattered with dirt and blood, giving the room an eerie red glow. They also notice a large blood smear that leads through the eastern door and back into the main area of the store. Streets: They reach the next intersection, Lindsey Street, and yet another twist makes itself visible. Only, this isn't a phantom noise or an imagined monster, this one is very real and undeniably disturbing. A long streak of crimson stains the pavement on the road. It was as if a great hand descended from the heavens wielding an enormous paintbrush, which it then dragged in a series of irrational swipes. Had this really been so, it would be possible to imagine that it is only red paint. Of course, it is not. Nor is it random, at least, not entirely. The liquid is what one can only assume is blood. It seems like it is fresh, still wet with a dim shine. It looks as though something very heavy was bleeding here, and worse yet, had been dragged several feet. The trail of blood streaks are in a line curving to the right and seem to turn the corner, heading north on Lindsey. They stare at it for a long moment, and they shiver, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. A new kind of fear tickles their skin, a fear of something they can't even begin to imagine. This blood didn't come from nowhere, something had to have bled, and something had to have dragged it. From the looks of it, it is still fresh. Clearly a terrible crime has been committed under the cover of the fog, but no matter where they look …they see no trace of a victim. This town is by and by tremendously more vaguely terrifying than the cemetery had been; such a desolate open space where a moderately prosperous community had clearly used to be… and where now only a sense of death and abandonment and lost memories holds sway. No doubt it is an entire city transformed into a variation of a graveyard itself. Then, something catches their attention out of the corner of their eye. Something is moving. Their heads snap in the direction of the movement, and they have to squint through the fog, but they are able to see through the milky blur. Something is moving. They can only make out the vaguest of shapes, but as close as they can tell, it looks to be a person staggering off into the

depths of the fog. Walking to where the shadow had been but finding only another streak of blood heading up the street, the PCs still cannot see anything beyond a few yards. They find an alley on their right with another streak of blood leading into it. They can hear bare feet slapping against the pavement.

Alleyway: Fences and what appear to be portable garages with light blue roofs line the small
alleyway, convoyed by old crates and boxes. A narrow one between two large buildings, with rusty pipes and a set of stairs. Several broken windows line up on one side of them. A fence door lies in front of them. Taking in a breath, they push open the fence and step through the gate, only to be met with a sight that makes their blood run cold and bile rise in their throats. Jumping to the side a little, they take in the very first thing their senses let them. A body... no carcass was more like it. One of a mutilated animal, its thick entrails are bundled up in the center, with one part hanging off the side of the thing's rotting flesh in chunks of bone and entrails. The remains don't even hint that the animal had fur at one time, only its pink, torn flesh show, with many of its innards splashing out. Above is a message, its big bold letters nearly a foot high, spread with a closed hand in blood that has dripped nearly to the ground written in blood, “GODISNOWHERE”. The discoloration around the middle, where the wounds...if that can be what they are called... seem to speak of a horror beyond the imagination of any mortal mind. Their eyes tail along the wall opposite where they are standing...that cracked brick wall that seems to be the same rusted color as the dried blood of the creature at their feet. Along the wall, there is another entrance, leading to another, smaller and much more narrow alleyway than the one they had just been through. The gate is not locked, and squeaks on its hinges as it is pushed it open. Another alleyway lays beyond, fog moving like a gray tide between the high, faceless brick walls. Pipes and power cables crisscross the alleyway overhead, as the PCs press on further into the murk. The alleyway turns twice with sharp right angles, terminating in another chain link fence with another gate. Though the fence doors and narrow openings, the fog disintegrates into the air. But before anyone can enjoy it, it is replaced by the threatening dark that had gradually become apparent is now a sudden reality as the world is dipped into it completely. The darkness overtakes everything — dissipating the fog and casting a fine drizzle of rain around them. A distant siren can be heard, its sound rising and falling in time to the movement of the dense fog. It sounds rapidly, with a menacing, threatening tone, as though telling them if they continue, it will be their ruin. They can still hear the water dripping from broken drain pipes and such. Their senses are still filled with that unwelcome odor of decomposition. They ascend along the path given by the rust-colored brick walls. They are careful to stay in the center of the alley, as

though afraid that touching anything will lead to their demise. The sound of the sirens still resonate somewhere, but they have lessened considerably. The PCs’ light moves from one side of the towering walls of the buildings that overshadow the walkway like two leaning giants, to the other. All around the darkness seems to grow, their light finds new things to play upon, finding new shadows to chase away like frightened animals, toying with vision and making the visitors see things that are not there. The ground underfoot becomes more treacherous with every step as well, slick with either water or oil. The PCs thoughts are shattered by a sudden creaking sound. It sounds like a rusty wheel. Following their ears around the corner to the sound, the PCs find themselves in another bland, limbo-like alley. A disbanded wheelchair against a small cove made by the walls of brick, its wheel turning of its own accord, the former occupant missing. It is an odd place to leave such an item. The secretive noises are now more active and fully noticeable. Greater dismay to the nerves is given when it is noticed that the seat is warm, only recently vacated. Could someone have sat here, setting the wheel to revolve in childlike interest? The clicking wheel fades into obscurity as the journey proceeds on. A sign above the den opposite the wheelchair, and before the intersection, reads “Neither here nor there.” The sign on the left side reads “Here” and the sign to the right reads “There.” The “Here” sign leads to a dead-end where they then, once again, step into an even bigger pool of blood. The PCs make a sharp turn and nearly slam into a gurney in the middle of the alley. The gurney is covered in blood-soaked sheets, a familiar shape beneath them: a human body with blood pouring out of the chest area. The blood drips from beneath the bed, creating a pool on the ground. A tingling sense of loss slowly makes its way down their spines. They eye the hospital bed for a moment longer, feeling like an intruder upon a sinister set. And then there erupts another sound, this time much louder then the mere squeaking of a wheelchair. It booms through a chain link fence behind the table with the body. It sounds like it is getting louder and louder...Like something is approaching. The “Neither here nor there” way leads to a game of hopscotch with the last square reading “No Where.” The “There” sign leads to a long, twisted corridor and a dead-end alley at the end of it littered with sharp objects -- many, many scissors, broken glass, pins and saws. The walls are streaked with rust...or perhaps dried blood. The place is barren, empty. Broken windows, flaking paint, rotted walls. Leaves skitter across the floor. Horrifying artifacts and objects — all totally out of place. It's as if they stumbled from a still, gray dream into a noisy and chaotic nightmare. The air grows denser, thick with a grayish haze that seems to hang in layers. For the past few minutes they have been aware of the distant wail of sirens. Now they are not as distant as they had been; they are rapidly growing nearer, louder-an eerie chorus that climbs the scales to a

chilling dissonance. They can feel the hair on the back of their necks standing up. The haze grows denser still, like filthy fog this time of blackness, like smoke. It gets darker and darker the farther they go. As one walks down the narrow confined path, the brick walls on either side become bloodier and bloodier. Obscene messages and confusing symbols are drawn with a grandiose manner with the red bodily fluid, barely readable. The messages scrawled on the pitted walls are simply too much, too sharp to ignore. And yet, it is those messages that give answers to the enigmas. Not the contents of the messages, but the look of them. They look like they were done with blood-red spray-paint. The door that opens in darkness leads to nightmares. One reads. It most certainly is dark, now. Dark already? Wasn't it light a few minutes ago? The stench of oil is unmistakable, but it is tainted with a sharper scent that can't be identified. Again the alleyway twists and turns. The brick wall on either side give way to a rusted colored chain-link fence. Their empty footfalls, which have been echoing along with their excursion, tells the story of their journey, now suddenly sound muted...sounds as though they are no longer stepping along a concrete ground, but through puddle after puddle of crimson blood. Their pace slows, falters, a bit. The sloshing sound comes to their ears with the unpleasant feeling of nausea. The metallic smell fills theirs senses as the path created by the fences gives way to a small opening. The scarlet liquid plagues the ground almost as though it had been the result of a rainstorm. The puddles are large amounts of blood filling the small dips in the concrete. For that much blood, it would have to be many victims. Chunks of what appears to be flesh lie sporadically in the liquid puddles. As they are careful not to slosh over the pieces of raw-looking meat that float in ankle-deep puddles of blood, a shudder of wrongness crawls up the PCs' spines. This is wrong. This is terribly, terribly wrong. Up ahead is another fence just visible through the haze, with another gate taller and somehow more imposing then the first. The gate is slick with something cold and slimy, feeling like the edge of somewhere else, a doorway to darker things. Unlatching the gate, it swings outwards. The sirens swell. More sewage pipes follow overhead. The chainlink fence to the right adds a smell of metal to the disgusting smell of the thick blood that defiles the ground. Insects fly around some larger puddles of blood. In fact the alley walls are now painted crudely with splattered blood, as if a great struggle had occurred every step of the way. A wire fence has replaced one half of the walls now, and blood is not just on the floor now, it also clings to the barbed wire and netting. The stench that had been lacking at the intestine strewn carcass is now abundant, crawling into olfactory senses of visitors. The route, more an encircling labyrinth now, becomes a minefield of body parts along with blood. The remains of a human body is strung upon the links of fence in one corner, devoid of flesh and leaning over, hiding the face beneath, it is covered with blood and IVs, stark naked and milkyeyed. A skeletal ribcage juts out with ragged flesh and thick intestines hang out like chains. One can barely even tell it is a human other than the almost intact face and the figure. It might have been a man, a woman, a child. There isn’t enough to tell. Blood oozes from every pore of what is left of the unfortunate soul that had received this treatment. Its torn flesh hangs like tattered paper across its body. The wounds are definitely knife wounds. But its arms are out like it is supposed to be nailed to a cross. Crucified... It looks horrible. Something lies on the ground in front of it which turns out to be a key. Giving the corpse one last look, the key has a tag on it. Woodside Apartments. Also there is a square envelope. Opening it they find seven folded pieces of paper. Unfolding the

first one; on it, in black ink, is written: If you want to be safe, turn back now. There may still be time before the demons find you. If you're reading this, they've already found me. Please don't let them take you. There's no way out, I've been everywhere, the apartments where you said you'd meet me but never did everywhere. God they're everywhere, I got to find a way out! They unfold the second note which is also written in black ink but the handwriting is much less steady: They were there, I'm certain. But my friend says he didn't see anything. If that's true, does that mean that what I saw was an illusion? But whether that thing that ate human beings was real, or whether it was just some kind of hallucination that my mind dreamed up... one thing I know for sure is that I'm beyond all hope. They unfold the third note. This one is in blue ink and the handwriting is again different: It seems that they're attracted to light. That's why people who need light to see are their natural prey. They also react strongly to sound, though they can't hear the radio. If you want to go on living, you'd be better off just sitting in the dark and staying quiet. But even that probably won't save you. They read the fourth note: If you're trying to fight them, the best thing to do is relax. It's no good fighting if you're crazy with fear. They don't stand well, and I think most of them can be killed, even if they seem tougher than most people. The fifth note, written in the same unsteady hand as the second reads: you can't fight them all! you shouldn't fight them all! that's impossible! no one can fight them all! don't fight them at all! the best thing to do is run away! The sixth note simply says: Run away! The last note. Written in red ink are two words that have been written over and over until they cover the page: Run away!Run away!Run away!Run away!Runaway!Run away!Run away!Runaway!Run away!Run away!Run away!Runaway! Runaway!Run away!Runaway!Run away!Run away!Run away! Run away!Runaway!Run away!Runaway!

Suddenly, what sounds like a laugh, is heard. It is a child's laugh, like a young boy's. The giggling is a forced, manic sound. Without a trace of humor. It is an insane sound of anticipation. Then footsteps. Looking on a ways, where the footsteps are approaching. You keep staring, your pulse so strong you feel as if your veins are going to burst forth from your body. Then you see it... Short bowed legs march on, devoid of skin like the hanging corpse, instead replaced with dry, brittle flesh. Head hunched over but still able to track the visitors. Another creature, then another appears from nowhere each resolutely following the first. Three small, humanoid-esque creatures limp, shuffle, and lope toward the PCs, each holding a short but efficient knife. Three bleeding children, deprived of clothing and skin, just like the torso hanging from the fence. They approach with deadly intent. Their blades gleam. Their eyes do not. The mutilated faces of the children are twisted like a deranged Picasso attempt that has gone too far for even modern art. The veins and muscles pulse all over them, still functioning without the tissue around it to keep it from sliding apart and melting to the ground. Springing through them, they dart back the way they had come. Back through the darkness to whatever fog might be left beyond the gate they've stepped through. They are children, yes... if that was what one could call them...but they also are the demon spawn, possessing the speed to keep right on their heels as they run. An eternity stretches on, with the wailing of the children following them before they finally reach the gate to retreat to safety... It is barricaded. That brick wall continues on behind it, blocking their escape any father. Grasping the fence, they yank on it, as though willing it to open. They had come through this fence, and they planned on leaving the same way. But Fate tells them otherwise. Blocked now the visitors can only turn to await the creatures, who even now are in sight, eager bodies swaying as they approach. All soon gather about the PCs, blades slashing and slicing until the PCs finally succumb to the onslaught. One creature arrives taking an immediate swing, catching the PC with a hefty blow, muscles strong enough to send him/her hard into the locked gate. It is important that you pull no punches at this time and do everything you can to destroy the party in this encounter. No need to worry. All damage taken during this event is not permanent although for purposes of the encounter; treat it as though it were. This should give the PCs a healthy respect for Silent Hill. Do all you can to make this event fast, frightening and deadly. The gate cannot be opened by any means, magical or otherwise. Once all the PCs have been incapacitated in one way or another, read them the following: One hand is raised, a long, sharp and indisputably dangerous scalpel extending from it. Muscle attached to sinew arches as it brings it down upon you as you cry out in pain and shock as it tears through your living skin, drawing blood and agony. You scream again as another knife drives into your back, tearing through more of your muscle. Your eyes flutter shut. You can't hold on any longer. You cannot stay alive. You cannot stand up. You start to fall forwards, your blood spilling onto the pavement below you. You fall into a pool of it as you hit the ground. The splash it makes sickens you, though you cannot think straight. You groan in pain and feel even more blood spilling down both ends of your body. As soon as the child removes the knife, you put your hand on your stomach. You can see the stomach in your

body spilling out. It sickens you almost as much as the pain you endure. Another knife strikes your abdomen. You slowly feel the life flowing out of you. You can't stay awake. You can barely hear the disturbing, yet joyful cries of the children who will soon get what they wanted. You are dying. As you struggle to get up, you are pushed down by the demons. They claw into your clothes and flesh, their tiny, needle- sharp talons dig into your legs right through the material as they climb over each other, high and higher, engulfing you, devouring you. Excruciating pain fills you as tiny fangs find flesh. Their laughter is lost among your own screams, as they stab you to death in the blackness. So this is death. It is not so bad. You could almost welcome the comfort it offers from the pain. It would be so easy to simply let go, to put away the responsibilities you have taken upon yourself, to leave off the struggle. You float in the inviting darkness. You sink down and down, away from the pain, away from everything.

OLD SILENT HILL: This is the northwestern most area of Silent Hill. As the name
implies, this is mainly a residential area for people who had lived in Silent Hill for quite awhile. To the east, Silent Hill First Methodist Church faces off across the square with city hall, and looks like a grand Greek temple of yellow brick and tall white marble columns. The church is small, innocuous, subsumed by other large, contemporary buildings.

CAFÉ 5-TO-9: You can barely feel the ground beneath your back and head. It all seems so
distant to you. Tremors of light and sound invade the crevices of your mind like the flickering of a serpents' tongue. You can still see the flashing of the wicked blades as they slices through the air and toward you. You can still hear the shuffling of footsteps... though... they seem to be retreating, rather than coming at you. With a start, you sit upright, as though violently shoved back into the reality of the situation... the reality... It is soft beneath you. Your body react before your mind even has a chance to understand what is going on. You were laying on your back and you sit up. You scoot back a little, trying to make sense of your surroundings. A bright light has filled the area, chasing out the impending darkness that has wrapped itself around your senses, promising only demise. You take a moment to adjust to where you are... the brick walls... the blood infested concrete on which you sat... the Hellish spawn disguised as children... only to discover that none of that was what you see when your eyes complete their adjustments. you are sitting in a booth near the door of a diner. Those knives had struck you. you were sure of it. In the legs at first, but after you'd fallen from the fence, they'd stuck higher, hitting with more damage and accuracy than you would have liked or even wished to remember. But now...? you are unmarked. Your clothing is in one piece. There is no blood on you. Not even the bit that had soaked into your shoes from walking into the trenched region that housed the crucified corpse... Inside, the place is small, with a checkered floor of discolored linoleum. A single width of tables cushioned with ugly brown cracked padded seats are built into the wall beside the contiguous

windows. The polished dark wood tables at each booth holds an ash tray, a cylindrical glass sugar dispenser, source bottles for ketchup and mustard, gleaming glass salt and pepper shakers, a napkin dispenser, and a selector for the jukebox that stands next to the rest room at the extreme east end of the restaurant. An aisle separates the booths from the long counter, colored mustard yellow, that runs the length of the restaurant, in front of which are swiveling chairs on support poles. On some of the tables glasses stand half-empty; in one ashtray a cigarette has burned down to the butt; a plate of risotto stands next to a basket of stale rolls as hard as cardboard. The dinner possesses a zinc-topped bar, a pinball machine pushed back against the right wall and the jukebox. A blacked-out television is on the counter to the far left. There are posters on the walls, most rotted far beyond the point of readability. The windows are half-covered in blinds. The light filtering in through the shades is white and soft from the fog. The diner appears to be abandoned. Some papers on the window read ‘Help Wanted, Bar Staff’ Another says something about a donation to the Silent hill Historical Society located in South Vale The week’s special reads “Howard J. Smith” and lists “Smith chops,” “Smith steak,” “Smith Stew,” etc. A red radio stands on the far left table, an old blocky cassette player with an AM/FM tuner and an ear plug. They can pick up the radio and turn it over in their hands, fiddling with the knobs, flicking the volume up and down. The only things that changes is the intensity and loudness of the static, otherwise there is no trace of music or voices coming from the speakers. They are inside, but that shouldn't impact the signal very much, yet changing the tuner gets them nothing but different variations of static. Behind the counter the PCs go down a narrow aisle flanked on the left by racks of pots and utensils. In the kitchen, through a set of swinging chrome doors, there's a sound of an electrical appliance. The kitchen is empty. On a counter, an old mixer is running on empty. Suddenly, as if the power was cut off, the old mixer stops on its own. On the right is a series of butcher blocks, a machine used to cut well-scrubbed potatoes into raw French-fries, and another that shreds lettuce. There are knives that could be of use in the drawers. There is a map on the counter, slightly tattered, but still readable. Going over to it and inspecting it reveals that it is the type of map suited for a tourist, very plain, and basic, and showing what is supposedly all the most attractive buildings in this part of the town. The aisle widens into a clear space with deep sinks and heavy-duty commercial dishwashers along the wall to the left. Just as they are about to leave, they hear the soft crackle and hiss of the open airwaves filling the room and sounds like the sighing surf-roar of a far-off sea. Then there is unmistakable yet indefinable change in the sound of the unused frequency. It had been silent just a moment ago. Dead air, and now dead random, meaningless sound. Then it is alive. It is still just the cracklesputter-hiss of static, a silk-soft sound. But somehow different.

You stand in front of the open door, staring at the radio at the far table, afraid to touch it, shivering in the chilly air. The cold seems to be radiating from the radio, carried on the palegreen light that shine forth from the AM/FM dial. That is a crazy thought. It is a radio, not an air conditioner. Not a...Not anything. Just a radio. An ordinary radio. An ordinary radio that has turned itself on without help from anyone. The radio vibrates against the tabletop on which it stands, growing louder. So loud, in fact, that the large front glass windows begins to wobble. How a small thing like that could make such large noise baffles the PCs. It seems to get louder and louder. They take a step towards it. Over the static of the radio comes another sound: wicka-wicka-wicka! They hear wings, leathery wings, shuddering like the membranes of drums. Almost immediately after the step is taken, their vision and hearing seems to crackle and shatter. Stumbling backward, almost falling, they catch themselves against the tall seats aligning the bar. Losing their grip on the radio, it clatters to the floor, still buzzing and droning, as they look up. They can still see shards of glass floating through the air, as though suspended in slow motion as their vision registers on a gruesome, if not unrealistic, sight. It floats before them, leathery wings outstretched on either side and flapping to keep momentum. Sinewy claws tucked out from beneath its body, as though getting ready for an attack. A long beak topped by two beady red orbs opens with a shriek, showing off gnarled and rotting teeth made of shiny metal. They see its weathered scales of its underside. It bleeds from pustules and wrinkles covering its body. And the smell... The smell of ancient, rotting flesh, caked with blood and desiccated human body parts. Nearly gagging, the PCs begin to back away from the creature as it advances in time to their retreating steps. Then it darts for them. They have little time to react. They are ten feet away when it starts approaching them, and it raises its talons in preparation for an attack. Blades scream through wicked flesh, black blood spraying to the air, up the PCs' wrists and to their chests cake a stinking taint that scorch their eyes and burn their senses. Charred skin splits as organs rupture, gastric fluids spill at their feet with each wrenching tear. Harder. Deeper. With possessed intensity the PCs drive the blades through to the hilt, fueled by hate, driven by murderous desire. Slowly getting to their feet, they keep their eyes on the dead animal. The terror settles back into unease and minor panic, and as the adrenaline high wears off their noses start to report the fantastically awful stench this dead monster is giving off, and it makes their stomachs turn. They

have to get away from it. Gagging a bit, they look across the room to where it had first entered, a chill coming in to snuff out the heat brought on by not only the fear, but the rush of adrenalin. For all they know, there could be hundreds of them out there. But the area seems silent, so they aren't immediately alarmed. That's what is so strange. It has gone completely silent. The radio. Moving, somewhat gingerly across the room, they pick up the radio, which had now gone back into silence, not the piercing white noise that they had prior to the encounter with the bird demon. There is still static, but it is very quiet. Had this thing reacted to its presence? Could it be…responding to the presence of those creatures? How could a broken radio do something like that? They don't know how to explain it, but they can't dismiss it as rubbish. Whatever the reason, if it can help them protect themselves, it is definitely worth having around. Turning toward the doorway of the Diner, they grip the handle and push it open, stepping out into a world unknown. The dinner stands on a corner, a medium-sized restaurant, eighty feet long, an aluminum and glass structure with two large arch doorways in the far wall, separated by a glass wall. They pull out the map. Though this one is only for this section of town in particular (which is designated as "Old" Silent Hill), it is highly detailed in locations. Places of note are the elementary school, the convenience store, the Café that they currently have their backs to, a church, and a number of other likely irrelevant locations. One area of interest catches their interest on the map. The alley… The alley they entered upon first coming into town. That seems like the best place to start. They don't fancy going in there again (or anywhere for that matter), and it could very well be another deathtrap, but there might be some kind of clue there. And either way, this time they have the means to defend themselves if they somehow got cornered again. That dead end still makes no sense. The alley is just northwest of here, so they cross over to the left side of the road and began walking north on Bachman. As they are walking, they keep their eyes and ears open for anything that might be roaming the streets besides themselves. They should also keep along the sidewalk to help navigate better, and also to keep potential ambushes down. If these monsters really are everywhere, they don't want them to have the advantage of being able to attack from any possible angle. Having a wall to one’s side puts them at ease a little, but only a little. Darkness: If one should return to the dinner when darkness falls, read the following:

They have been inside the dinner before, and it looks like a restaurant. Inside it is something entirely different. At first glance, it resembles a vast cavern. But instead of stone, the walls are slick, as if some thick liquid coats them, running down the sides, dripping here and there to form viscous, fluid stalactites. They are as pink, you note with a shudder, as the inside of some giant maw. And the stench is almost overwhelming. The interior is a long room, dark and steam-drenched, the walls made from pure hanging muscle, dark red and quivering, while hanging loops of vein and artery pulse and shake as currents of blood blast through them from a vast shaking heart hanging down from the ceiling on thick ropey arteries like some kind of monstrous dripping spider. A child's fear of the mystery of guts and innards come alive. A canal filled with acidic bile runs down the length of the room away from the arch entrance, and curves around to the right at the end, disappearing behind the other side of the right-hand wall towards who knows what horrors. To either side of the river, thin shelves act as walkways for visitors, connected by a single high bridge.

Streets: Abandonment. That is what prowls around the yards of these houses: abandonment.
There are several telltale signs that make the PCs know there isn’t a soul in them. All of the first houses they see have the morning newspaper lying on the porch, except for the next house in line for the route; and right in front of the house, inside a deep gutter, there is the paperboy’s bike, just the front wheel sticking out of the gutter. And by looking a little deeper one can see the bag with all the newspapers, dissolving in the running water. A folded newspaper lies at their feet, sodden pages merged into one soft, mildewy lump. They glance down, and can bend to retrieve it, perhaps wistful for a remnant of natural order, a memento of yesterday's comfortable existence. All crispness has long-vanished from its malty-gray pages, the midday Standard threatens to disintegrate when they picked it up. The only thing they can read is 72-point headline that said: MAYOR URGES: STAY CALM. House after house, each single one, sweating abandonment, like each house wants to known that it is empty and devoid of life. Men, women, children, entire families, gone. The wind moves the fog all over the scene. The fog is thick; almost something one can touch or feel. It looks like the fog made by liquid nitrogen. It is like the clouds have descended and settled themselves down on this town surrounded by the mountains. The trees planted at the edge of the sidewalks are completely lifeless and still. Their leaves seem not to move despite the wind. Their thin trunks and even thinner branches formed eerie skeletal silhouettes in the fog. Random Street Encounters: 01-10% Suddenly, without warning, all the payphones, car alarms, lights and everything turn on for a half minute, then silence again. Then one of the payphones in a public telephone booth will ring, loudly and simply. In the stillness that the muffling fog brings to the streets, the ringing is so loud that it seems to be issuing from the air. The ringing snakes out at them like a lariat of sound, roping them, snaring them, holding them. The ringing is beckoning, hypnotic, insistent. A strange transformation occurs in the street around them. Only three things seem to remain solid and real: the telephone, a narrow stretch of pavement leading to the telephone, and the PCs themselves. The rest of the world seems to recede into the mist. The buildings appear to fade away, dissolving as if this were a film in which one scene fades out to be replaced by another. The few cars are replaced by the creeping fog, a white-white mist like a film screen splashed

with brilliant light but with no images. Only the PCs are real. And the narrow pathway to the phone. And the telephone itself. Ringing... They are drawn. Ringing... drawn towards the phone. Their hearts hammer. They feel dizzy, disoriented. The ringing of the phone is analogous to the rhythmic, glittering pendulum movement of a hypnotist’s pendent. The sound draws them relentlessly forward. If the payphone is picked up, there is static on the line, then the mumbling of some sort of creature, an incoherent croaking that grates the ear, is heard for ten seconds, then hangs up and then there is silence again. 11-25% You hear a violent noise like a huge canvas tarp whipping in the wind. You look over your shoulder, then drop to the ground in frozen terror. The sound is the flapping of great wings on a reptilian creature with dead eyes, jagged teeth and flared claws. The creature has a long head marked by dark, glittering eyes and a bony jaw that opens to reveal rows of teeth. The wings are wide and featherless of a dark red color. The formation of bones is clear through the creature’s skin, and claws mark the forward peaks of the bone structure. It appears too heavy to fly, but it does not, and it is coming for you. You see the predator circle, keeping its gaze on you. Those eyes, cold and brutal. Finally, the monster turns and disappears behind the mist. You stare into the swirling gray where it had vanished. You rise from your knees, willing them to be strong. You run. You rise from the mud and run with the wind, but the beating of those wings grows until it fills your ears. You feel the blasts of the creature's hot breath. You smell a thousand matches lit at once---sulfur. You choke on malevolence strangled by doom. You flail your arms and fall again to the ground as the monster swoops down. The thunderclaps of its flapping wings deafening you. As you tense, the beast brushes over you. How could it miss? Is it playing with you, terrorizing you before the kill? The creature sweeps past, screaming its malice, in a broad curve, disappears into the mist, and then reappears ahead of the travelers and far off to one side. Again it sweeps towards them, but this time as it completes its approach it does not pass overhead. Instead it rears in the air like an angry stallion. Behind you hear again the whipping tarp, louder and louder. In a heartbeat the fiery breath falls on you again. You throw your arms over your head, and as you duck you feel daggers pierce you, claws penetrating the base of your neck, ripping through muscle and tendon. Jerked off the ground you scream. The beast drops the PC back to the ground, the echo of his/her cry disappearing into the merciless fog. As you get to your feet, a warmth trickles over your neck. You reach your hand to your neck, which is now dripping with blood. The wound throbs. With aching slowness, you turn your head each way. As you do, you see the winged beast circling. It plummets towards you like a rock from a cliff. You dodge the dark body, but by the time you whirl to confront it from the other direction, it is upon you, claws hooked into your shirt, its head level with your jugular vein. You feel its claws rending the flesh beneath your shirt. Warm blood runs down your belly. 26%-40%: A dust-devil formed of ash and dust suddenly forms behind the PCs (by which I mean basically a rather small tornado, about 7-feet tall). As it whirls around, it appears to move closer and closer to the PCs no matter which direction they walk in. It is as if the tiny cyclone can actually SEE them with hidden eyes obscured by the grit and ash it is picking up from the streets. As it moves closer and closer to them, little pebbles and chunks of asphalt occasionally fly out of the wind-tunnel and hit the PCs, some of them hitting hard enough to draw blood, like

being shot by a BB gun. After ten minutes or so of keeping away from the tornado, it falls apart as suddenly as it appears. If the PCs decide to investigate where the dust-devil finally discorporated , they discover a pile of ashes, pebbles, asphalt, and most disturbing of all, seven bloody body parts that have been rudely hacked apart from each other. A head, a hand, a torso, etc. If the cyclone actually is able to fully envelope a PC in the "eye of the storm", it will tear the PC into ribbons, inflicting 2D6 damage per melee round. The actual method with which it does this is hidden from the others by the dust flying around it. The wind should also sound appropriately like human screaming, wailing, crying, etc. 41-45% From somewhere down an alley echoes a low, dry, rasping cough—it isn’t repeated and there is nothing exceptional about it—but the terrible thing is, that is like the furtive, half-stifled throat clearance of a human being. 46-50% A small old-looking bicycle lying on dark paving stones. Someone has cut the tires open and ripped the chain off, rendering the bike utterly useless as a means of transport. Snowflakes fall on the vandalized cycle while one of the tires still spins around, as if the culprits have just left the scene... 51-55% Three cars have been in some sort of accident, and are piled up in the center of the street. The butt of one car blocks one sidewalk and part of the road, the nose of another blocks the other side, and the third car lays on its side effectively closing the gap between them. The engines are still ticking as they cool. There is no sign of the drivers. A more through roadblock could not have happened by design. The crash could not have more than a few minutes ago. 56-60% The shadows of that tree over there seem to be reaching for you. 61-65% Your heart rate abruptly accelerates for no reason. 66-70% A chill wind comes up from nowhere to freeze your marrow, then just as quickly disappears. 71-75% Cold sweat soaks your clothing. 76-80% Dry leaves skitter your way. As with a purpose, but not toward the others. 81-86% You feel cold breath on the back of your neck. 87-90% You freeze as the hunting screech of an Air-Screamer paralyzes you. You remain still as the scream grows louder. A shadow momentarily passes over you, and as the shriek fades in the distance, the pounding of your heart fills your ears. Metropol Theater: Once a grand movie house, the Metropol Theatre has become a shabby relic specializing in revivals. On the marquee, unevenly spaced loose plastic letters spell out the current double feature:

They slip into a service walk beside the movie palace. Behind the theater, a bare bulb in a wire cage above the back door sheds light as drab and gray as this litter-strewn alleyway. Sporting multiple layers of cracked and chipped paint, the door was a scab in the brick wall. Behind the big theater screen, the Metropol theatre features a labyrinth of passages, storage closets, and rooms that no patron has ever visited. The PCs go past crates, mildewed cardboard boxes, and moisture curled posters and stand ups that promoted old films. They arrive at a door that wears an armor thick coat of green paint. A windowless but cozy apartment lies beyond. A kitchenette is adjacent to the combination bedroom and living room. Two walls are lined with paperback books. Projection Booth: In the small dimly lighted projection booth, a sprung sofa slumps against one wall, and stacks of paperbacks stand on every flat surface. The old projector is original to the building. This monstrous piece of machinery features enormous supply and take up reels. The 35mm film has to be threaded through a labyrinth of sprockets and guides, into the gap between the high intensity bulb and the lens. Across the balcony, the mezzanine, and the lower seats, this device can cast a bright illusion of life upon the big screen. Lobby: The main foyer is gloomy and dismal, grey dust dances sadly around the lifeless room, plaster and protective plastic blanket the stained ground, items are scattered everywhere and a metal ladder is on its side, as if pleading for mercy. The glass candy cases are lighted to display their wares. On the wall behind the counter, an illuminated Art Deco-style Coca-Cola clock, frost white and crimson, is a surprisingly poignant reminder of a more innocent time. A set of double doors stands open between the lobby and the theater. The theater itself proves to be large, with both a balcony and a mezzanine. Age, grime, and chipped plaster has diminished the Art Deco glamour but has not defeated it altogether. Bachman Street: They check the map. They are on Bachman road and headed north, one of the main roads though Old Silent Hill. There is a convenience store, and the light inside is on. Maybe there is someone there. The store is more modern than the other buildings in this district. Buff brick below, white aluminum siding above, large windows covered in blinds. The Convenience Store: They stop in front of the automatic double doors. There is a large glass window next to them, and it is broken, the jagged edges of the glass covered in red. Someone had broken through the window, and is now inside, as one can tell if they look through it and see glass shards on the linoleum floor. The PCs step in front of the open doors Three narrow aisles extend to the left of the doors. To the right of door is the service counter. Everything is torn apart as if it had been hit by a riot, or looters. One of the aisles is knocked over, the cigarette packages behind the counter had been scattered off the display, bottles of jelly, baby food and other products have been broken, and there is a trail of red leading to the back.

They scan the rows of items. There is a box of fifteen handgun bullets on one of the shelves, along with a small brown bottle with a nondescript tan label. The PCs look over the label. There are no ingredients or nutritional facts listed, only a small cross and the words “Health Drink” on the front of the label. The Crashed Jeep: The Jeep appears out of the mist. It has crashed through the grate and is half suspended in the air. Stepping aside to peer through the driver’s window reveals that there is no one inside, though tufts of hair caught in the splintered windshield are seen. The darkness on the glass is blood, and the inside of the car is splashed with it. This fact may lead to the realization that there are automobiles all over the place. The PCs must have passed a dozen of them since the Saul Street tunnel alone, and there is obviously no one around, so why not commandeer one of these? However this is not so simple, as not only are car doors locked and will require breaking into, but there are no keys. Even if one is skilled at hotwiring, the darkness of the cab is due to the interior light not working, even when the switch is toggled. This, along with flicking the headlights reveals that the car is deader than dead, and that all the hot-wiring in the world isn’t going to amount to a damn thing, as each has no battery power. The Collapsed Tunnel: Before long they come to a tunnel, or at least what would’ve passed for a tunnel had it not been completely destroyed. Rubble and debris block the twin entrances completely, and smashed blocks of concrete from above are piled on the road. There is nothing they can do about it though. They turn around and start walking in the other direction. The Chasm: You catch a glimpse of it at first, spidery cracks and chunks of asphalt lay strewn in front of you. You take a step forward, but stop yourself immediately. If you had stepped forward once more, you would have fallen into a…chasm. They don't get very far before they come across something that is going to be a serious obstacle to their travels. And a few feet ahead, they see the reason why. They stand in awe, looking out across a great canyon. A massive cliff of shiny blackness drops sheerly away below them, its bottom edge invisible in a sea of swirling fog. Where storefronts have been torn open due to the chasm, metal armature is revealed, a multitude of electrical cable and the complex network of plumbing added to and subtracted from so often over the years. Black rocks of torn asphalt are scattered around its edges. They turn their heads, looking for some way around the abyss. But it is as wide as it is long. Indeed, it will be impossible to cross, for as deeply as they gaze into the chasm, they can see no hint that there is ground to walk on. It appears to be bottomless. Even if it isn’t, who can possibly cross it? And if by some miracle they do, who can even begin to climb the other side? It seems that nothing is going to be easy. It’s just one damn thing after another. The line between where you are and where you need to be is never straight and simple to follow. There are always walls you have to get around, fences you have to climb over, and when you go around and over all of them, then there’s suddenly a damn ravine in front of you, a canyon, an abyss.

Finny Street: There is a sign saying ‘food n liquor store' to their right. They run in front of it, now it looks like a large store. The PC note with some unease that most of the windows on the shop floor are smashed. Bookstore: The used-bookstore's old glass doors are divided into eight panes by thin mahogany struts. A hand-lettered yellow sign is painted over four of the panes, broken up into four meaningless pairs of letters by the struts. The bookshelves are crammed to overflowing with old pulp magazines--mysteries, science fiction, suspense, romance, westerns, fantasy—and the more recent paperback books which has been published over the last thirty years. Except for the narrow aisles, the floor space is taken up by six to seven long dining hall tables on which were stacked countless thousands of paperbacks and magazines. The books are arranged so that only their spines are showing, while the magazines—which are older, rarer, and more valuable, dating from the 1920s through the 1940s —are placed so that their glaring, luried, rainbow covers can be seen and admired: lurid, full of violence and eeriness and the coy sexual suggestiveness of a more innocent time. They can read some of the titles on the nearest table: The slightly sulfurous smell of decaying pulp paper hangs in the room like perfume drifting. The rear half of the enormous basement is no different from the store overhead. Tens of thousands of old books and magazines overflows from bookshelves and cardboard cartons. Finny Street Chasm: Slowly a car begins to revel itself though the fog, it is a police car, in the middle of the road, its trunk wide open, inside there is a small chunk of metal. They check the car, it is half dangling off the side of a hole in the bridge, the bridge having collapsed right in the middle. They check out the hood, it has a red stain all the way down it, and the windscreen is smashed. They can only guess at that happened here. There are a few boxes of ammunition on the seat. The PCs open the door, and grasp them, taking as many as they can carry. Matheson Street: Matheson street is the same as the rest of Silent Hill they’ve seen so far; empty and gray. Some of the empty buildings show signs of former grandeur: elaborate entranceways of fluted columns and marble steps give onto the street. Grotesque Victorian facades and misshapen masonry present imposing fronts to buildings filled with the same musty decay as the brick warehouses. Along the final length of the street, all of the businesses are warehouses. Some are built of concrete block covered with dust-caked stucco, stained with rust from water pouting off corrugated metal roofs during countless rainy seasons. Others are entirely metal. They can watch every shop and house they pass, to find any sign of other life, but every building remains quiet, dormant, happy family homes, homes that should have been ripe with laughter and noise, a hollow mockery of their former selves. Another intersection comes into view on the left, blocked by police barricades. What were these people trying to protect themselves from? Matheson Street Chasm: They stop as their eyes skim the break line of the jagged concrete that signifies the end of the road... or at least the end of Silent Hill. It looks like a massive sinkhole has collapsed the street and everything surrounding it. The destruction is all but total, but unsettling in a strange way. They approach the edge slowly and look down into the cold, gray nothing below.

Lindsey Street: As they cross the street, something glints in the gray light, attracting their attention. Someone has left a can of energy drink by the road. A worn marble monument on the south end of Lindsey Street had once explained the history of Toluca Prison further. Though now so weathered it is unreadable and useless, it detailed how the area now occupied by the neighborhood of South Vale had once been swampland – called Blood Swamp because executioners from Toluca Prison Camp had washed their execution tools in the water there. Lindsey Street is supposed to empty onto Nathan Avenue, but instead, it empties into a dark, empty chasm, one that goes very far and very wide, looking as though some giant shovel tore a divot right through this entire part of town, for the devastation doesn’t just take out the road, but also the buildings lining this part of the road. The line of storefronts and houses are severed just as abruptly as the street is. One of the houses is torn almost completely in half. The right half is completely wiped out, but the left half still stands more or less like it should, looking perfectly normal until the aluminum siding and roofing ends in a jagged rip that extends straight from the foundation to the roof, and still stands nice and erect, in what could only be a sick denial of several laws of physics. The fog makes it impossible to tell just how wide the chasm is, but it doesn't really matter, what can be seen is still far too wide for to even think about crossing.

Return to the Alleyway: In the alley between Bachman Road and Ellroy Street, the PCs
find a basketball court just beyond a rusty old gate, after walking to the end of the line of houses. An old rusted sign hangs from the links reading "Beware of Dog" in dark, unpromising lettering. In front of them is a brick wall that is only as high as their shoulders and to their left, is a chainlink fence. The PCs pause for a moment, eyes narrowing at the sign, as though waiting for it to come to life. That is all, though. They hear no sounds. No signs of a dog actually being beyond this fence. They force their legs to start walking, bodies was shivering from the cold, yet their forehead is beaded with sweat and breathing is labored. They are afraid, and for good reason, as their last excursion down this death trap ended with a painful encounter against some horrific creatures from Hell, and a dead end that they are at a complete loss to explain. At first every thing seems normal, just the back, or bin part, of any business, that is the first impression. They turn their heads to the side and freeze starting at a basketball hoop the plate smeared with blood.. Instead of a ball, there is a severed dog's head lying in a puddle of its own blood a few feet away from the base of the hoop. Most likely the dog that the sign had told watchers to be aware of. Blood has been splattered everywhere; against the fence that they have just stepped through, the dog house against the wall, the hard pavement on which the head is situated. Whomever... or whatever had done this certainly didn't have to beware of anything, much less a dog. One of the PCs will inadvertently nudge the dog's head with their foot as they came near. It barks loudly and nips their ankle, but when they turn back to look at it, it is still and dead.

The alley looks much the same as it did when they last came here. They enter into the alleyway in the back of yard, brick walls rising on either side of them. There are garbage cans and litter strewn up and down its length. Through the mouth of the alley one can make out a vista of broken-down and burned-out buildings under a sullen sky. The same two sets of stairs are here, and it still smells terrible. They soon find the gate. Any apprehension felt is most certainly justifiable in this manner. Will there be any more of those monsters, the skinless children things? Inside it doesn’t seem to be getting darker, so they can enter into the deeper area of the alleyway. They keep walking until it turns, and they turn with it. Unlike last time, where the alley kept going, this time it is just a dead end. The two buildings have warped together, forming an obstruction that would be impossible to for the PCs to get deeper into the alleyway where they had earlier found the mutilated body. It almost seems ironic. Walking over to the pile of rubble to examine it, reveals that there are a few objects here: a simple lead pipe which must have fallen from the ceiling, and a sheet of paper which reads "To School." written sloppily, in a slap-dash manner; almost like it was written by a child. In the bottom left corner of the map are the words ‘Midwich Elementary School’ over a boxlike outline of a building. The pipe is thin, but solid and heavy, for say gas or very small amounts of water, but it will make a good weapon when the gun runs out. Satisfied that they have seen all there is to see in this area, they turn and walk through the gate, down the narrow path, to the mangled animal corpse, and through the other door. It feels good to be out of that alley. You pray that you won't have to visit it a third time. Vachss Road: Further on, Nathan Avenue, passing over Vacchs Road, another narrow trail that is more a walking path than a road. Descending toward the lakefront, Nathan Avenue is lower now and the view of Vachss Road through the fog is clearer. Like the Wiltse greenway, it too is deserted, nothing more than an empty unpaved path between the trees and lined with barbed wire. Just as Wiltse before it, Vachss doesn't go but maybe a hundred feet before the macadam gives way to more unpaved dirt. This dirt seems drier and more firm than that of Wiltse. It seems like this area also is under construction, though whatever they were doing here, they were in a much more advanced stage of completing. There is plenty of lumber materials, construction vehicles, a cement mixer, and portable toilets. Naturally, there isn't a worker in sight. There is a gate sealing the area off, though it is slightly ajar and one is able to enter easily. Several small buildings stand on the fringes of the road, and the road itself is cordoned off by fencing and even barbed wire. The road is hardly of a uniform width. Near the apex it seems barely wide enough for three people to fit through side by side.

The underpass itself is blocked off by a wooden barricade that seems very hastily built. Though this place is clearly meant to be off limits, the only thing blocking the way is some scrap wood nailed to the tunnel entrance to form a crude barricade, which is easy enough to slip through. By stooping slightly, one is able to walk into it. One goes only a few steps, however, before they are halted by a stench so foul that one gags. Something is dead and rotting in this lightless passage. One cannot see what it is. But maybe it is better not seeing; the carcass might look worse than it smells. A wild animal, sick and dying might have crawled into this space for shelter, where it perished from its disease. Within ten yards one puts their foot in something soft and slippery. The horrid odor of decay bursts upon them with even greater strength, and one knows that they've stepped in the dead thing. Instantly, the radio lets out a deafening blast of white noise which not only hurts their ears, but seems to hit a strange nerve as well. At that moment, an unreasonable, but compulsive idea echoes though their minds: I haven't touched the volume…but the static is getting louder… Then, to their left, they first hear a sound unlike any they’ve ever heard in their lives. It is a wet, strained gurgling noise, as if someone with congested lungs were trying to breathe through a thin layer of water. The sound of feet walking over rubble and debris steadily moves closer. Out of the depths of the tunnel emerges a staggering figure. Its outline is vaguely female but that is where its similarity to a human being ends. Two legs of charred flesh poke out from beneath a torso and head that seem to be covered by a burned plastic sheet. It is thin, gaunt and bipedal but with an armless torso. Its skin is the color of dried blood; it seems to cover the thing like a tightened sheet, and the torso and head twists and writhes as if trying to tear itself free of its own skin. As if sensing someone watching it, it stands and turns to regard them. The head doesn't seem to have a face, just a very subtle bulge that might be a nose underneath the membrane of its skin. Its 'mouth' is the only exception, all of its unnatural size covered in warm, fresh blood, steam rising in delicate wisps in the chill air. It makes a deep throated gurgling noise as it straightens up and turns toward the PCs with arms unseen, still convulsing as though it is trying to escape a straightjacket made out of skin and muscle. The creature seems to advance with the sludgy, slow-motion single-mindedness of a creature in a nightmare. They stand there, staring at it. Is it what is left of this town's inhabitants? What happened in this place? The mucus-covered membrane casts off a reflection in the light along with the oftpigmentation of its colored and bruised patches. Ponderously it begins to move towards them on stiff and awkward legs, its entire body twitching unnaturally in the grip of some powerful seizure. You just can't stand letting this twisted creature exist anymore. You can't leave a dangerous monster to wander around and cause more harm. However, the true reason you hate this thing has nothing to do with any sense of justice. It is disgust. Blunt weapons make an angry, buzzing hum as it slices through the air. They slam into the

writhing monster’s skull with thunderous force, producing a very satisfying sound, something akin to what it might sound like if a sledgehammer were taken to a cantaloupe. Struck, it makes a high pitched squealing noise and staggers. Its thin legs seem ill-suited to balancing itself and the PCs strike it again before it can recover. Even more satisfying is the wail of surprise in pain that follows as the monster crumples to the ground with a thud and starts to twitch. Its head is now brutally creased and the skin ruptured. They smash it again with their make-shift weapons and it lets off one last squeal and lies still as blood the color of tar slowly drains out of its mouth and pools underneath it. The static of the radio fades. When the creature had come into sight, the radio was blaring white noise, but now that the thing is dead, it has fallen silent. They don't know how it is possible, but this encounter confirms their suspicions, that the white noise and static is caused by the proximity of monsters. It has the ability to pick up on them. The hows and the whys are lost upon them, but it is a considerable advantage, an early warning against the monsters, and for that reason they can feel blessed by their fortune to have such a thing. The PCs step over the fallen monster, holding their breath so as not to gag on all of the fantastic new odors that appears with its demise. No sign of movement. Now that it is lying on the ground in a pool of blood like this, it looks more like a slimy slug than a human being. Its featureless face is smashed pretty badly, and it is leaking fluid everywhere. There is no doubting it, the horrible creature is finally dead. They go back into town. South-Vale Street Encounters: 01-5% It is another one of those creatures from the overpass. It makes its path directly for the PCs. Its long thin legs oddly splayed as it walks jerkily nearer. The thing draws close enough so they can smell it and see the suppurating hole in its neck. Black viscous liquid pours down its front and its legs as it stumbles. It rears all over the place like a lunatic trying to get free of restraints. The moment they approach it, the fog seems to change color before their eyes, and their mouths and noses begins to burn with an acrid, rotten smell. Having momentarily lost focus, the PCs run straight into the monster and is sent sprawling in the other direction, hitting the pavement hard. The PC is suddenly struck with a violent coughing fit and one’s mouth feels numb, as if they had been injected with anesthesia. It is poison. Now these vile creatures are spewing poison into the air. How the hell can they spit poison if they don't have mouths? As the monster stumbles towards them, they look up to see that its body is split by a cavernous vertical crack running from its neck to its waist—its dark, wet entrails fully visible. The creature bends backwards as if it were taking a breath from its bizarre second mouth. The PCs have a feeling that it is preparing to spray more of the awful acidic poison, but they aren't about to stick around to find out. Swinging a leg like an axe, they kick the monster's legs as hard as they can, knocking it off its feet and leaving it squirming on the pavement. Its lack of arms

causes it to thrash about helplessly as it tries to stand upright again. Their continued kick easily break though its soft skin, leaving them covered in sticky red body fluid. The monster shrieks and convulses with every impact. Twisting around, it begins to violently thrash its legs, enabling it to crawl across the ground. At first they PCs think it is trying to escape, but in one quick movement it twists around in a u-turn and flings itself straight at them. It is trying to counterattack. Meanwhile the PCs are beginning to feel quite sick. Their whole bodies are shaking and they are beginning to feel dizzy, no doubt because of the poison. 6-10% There it is again. And again. They didn’t imagine it the first time they heard it. Shuffling footsteps that are intermittently carried on the still air of this unnaturally quiet town. Also, the faint clink of what sounds like chains being dragged. 11-15% As they walk through the swirling white silence they think they hear a pit-pattering echo to their steps. The soft noise stops each time they hesitate, so that one cannot tell if what they heard was real or just a figment of their apprehension. They feel the cold chill as a drift of the fog caresses their faces. It is then that a soft child’s voice whispers, “Tagged, I’ve got you!”, then a giggle in a high sweet laugh that seems to come from every direction at once. 16-20% They hear the yowls of a distant cat fight, which is strange because they have yet to see any animal life since coming here. 21-25% One of the PCs becomes dizzy and must sit down. 26-30% A creaking sound seems to call one of the PC’s names. 31-35% You stop dead in your tracks when a familiar nose comes from your pocket. The radio has crackled to life and is emitting static again. In the fog, blurry figures turn to face you. As they approach though the fog, it is becoming more and more clear that something is very wrong. As they walk, they twist and writhe about in a most unnatural way. They are monsters. Exactly the same as the one you'd killed earlier. 36-40% When gazing into a reflection in a pane of glass, a PC sees briefly the face of a dead loved one looking over their shoulder. Something glints farther down the alley. It moves. It lies mostly hidden; it looks like it had snuggled beneath some stray garbage bags atop itself in an effort to remain concealed, but its shining sliminess has worked against it. Exposed, it turns its head away, as if to ward them off. It has clearly been hurt, its legs look badly broken, and it gurgles in short low gasps. A dark bruise spreads like a mold over the right side of its chest. It manages to roll onto its belly and it scrabbles along the pavement in a pathetic attempt to escape.

It lets loose its cry. Calling for help? Begging for its life? The sight of it trying to flee catalyzes some deep predatory impulse. Even now, just watching the thing thrash in agony brings back the same feelings of hatred and disgust. You want to destroy them, smash their heads in just like the other one—anything to end the existence of these awful monsters. 41-46% A sound from the fog. A sob. "Who's out there?" you mean to shout, but the sound barely leaves your throat. The sobbing within the fog continues. It's unquestionably the sound of a man, weeping. There's been no one here save the PCs and the monsters. Confusion and hideous pricking fear all slither inside the PCs. Worse, they think they recognize the voice, but they can't place it. The man's sobs grow louder, the sound of someone unhinged with grief, a father finding a child's murdered body. Sanders Street:

Gonzales Mexican Restaurant: A restaurant on the corner of Sanders and Lindsey. The
red and yellow neon sign cuts through the fog: GONZALES. Inside it looks more like a bar than a restaurant. A single rectangular room with blue vinyl booths along the side walls. The center of the room is taken up by a single row of twelve tables running parallel to the bar, each covered with a red tablecloth. The kitchen is in the rear. Rough beige plasters. There is also the faint odors of hot sauce, taco seasoning and corn meal tortillas.

Lucky Jade: Lucky Jade is a restaurant in a quaint three-story brick building, in an area of
shops. A foyer with a solid wall directly ahead, archways opening at left and right. A huge Oriental rug covers the floor, its design the outline the of a dragon, obscured and fraying. Sofas and chairs are grouped along three sides beneath gilt-framed paintings, which might have once served as centerfolds for the Kama Sutra. Angled at the far corner is a concert grand piano. The next room—a bar—is a tangled of up-turned tables and overturned wooden chairs, flanked by booths on two walls and tattered drapery on the third. Along the fourth wall is the bar, with a big mirror behind it, bordered on both sides by shelves and cupboards that had once displayed bottles and glass but now only hold heaps of shards. The mirror itself is cracked and mottled with mold. The last room is starkly modern, pearl gray and black, with white linen on the thirty to forty tables. The only art object is a life-size, carved-wood statue of a gentle-faced, robed woman holding what appears to be an inverted bottle or a gourd; it is standing just inside the door. In the right corner of the room is an immense kitchen filled with ovens, cooktops, griddles, huge woks, deep fryers, warming tables, sinks, chopping blocks. White ceramic tile and stainless steel dominate.

All the doors on the second floor lead to bedrooms, each with its own indecorous decor. Here lays a round bed surrounded and surmounted by mirrors, but the sumptuous bedspread is riddled with moth holes and the mirrors reflect little. In another room stands a bare marble slab with metal cuffs and an assortment of chains hanging from ends and sides. The marble top is flecked, the attachments reddened with rust, not blood. And the whips on the wall rack dangle impotently; the case of knives, needles and surgical shears hold pain captive through the empty years.

Café Mist: The restaurant is brighter inside than out. Most surfaces are white, and in spite of
the musty air, the establishment looks antiseptic. Surfaces are dark—old mahogany, tarnished brass, wine-color upholstery.

Café Mist: The restaurant is brighter inside than out. Most surfaces are white, and in spite of
the musty air, the establishment looks antiseptic. Surfaces are dark—old mahogany, tarnished brass, wine-color upholstery. Katz Street:

Wood Side Apartments: They pass a few of run-down low-income housing projects
surrounding a well-maintained central building before coming to a small apartment complex, surrounded by a rustic fence, comes into view up ahead. From a distance the apartments look new and somewhat expensive, but on close inspection they see signs of decay and neglect. From what can be seen, this three-story apartment house on Katz Street is not yet unfit enough to be slated for demolition, but it is getting there. It is squalid-looking place, slowly falling into ruin. Its old boards and peeling paint shows its age. The red-brick sliding is crumbling in too many places to count, repeatedly patched with plaster or cement. Many of its windows are cracked or broken completely, sealed with wood or cardboard. Its fence is shut and padlocked. The gate opens with a creak. To the right, the storefronts end abruptly, replaced by a ten-foot tall chain-link fence that runs for quite a good distance. The building is large; one can't see the ends of it in either direction, though the fog is so thick that it doesn't mean much except that the building is probably more than three stories. As one walks closer, one can see that the walls around the main entrance are painted in a wood grain that has faded somewhat, appearing unkempt. There may have been a directory and intercom box next to it at some time, but they have both broken off. Maybe thirty feet down is an entrance gate, just as rusty and old-looking as the rest of the fencing, but this part is adorned with a dented metal placard which reads in faded lettering “Woodside, Blue Creak joint apartment buildings” in bold letters, and below that, “Visitors Must Register In Office!” Front Lot: It is just as bad inside. There is a main entrance and a garbage chute to the right. Garbage, stained mattresses, and torn sofas cluttered nearly every available space in the front lot. The front steps are badly cracked and hoved up, the concrete eroding away as if it is not much sturdier than loose sand. Scarred, badly weathered, the lobby door is centered with a sheet of heavy, cracked, grime-smeared glass. Its hinges creak loudly as they push the door open and

echoes throughout the room as they step inside. Lobby: It is cold inside the lobby, cold and almost pitch-black. The only source of light is from a broken window higher up, on the third floor. The lobby is very small, and just short of dilapidated. The pale light, filtered by the fog, drifts through, casting a ghost-like luminance across the empty area. The wallpaper is gouged just as much, as if during a struggle which had involved a sharp object, perhaps a knife. To one side are the tenants' mailboxes, all of them rusted, some of them broken, hanging on smashed hinges like baby teeth a few wiggles away from release. To the left of the mailboxes is a map, showing the three floors of Wood Side Apartments. The floor is a nondescript wood paneling, such as one might find in any apartment building, though it appears worn from countless feet having trodden over it. The door to the right leads to the apartments. A staircase protrudes from the wall opposite the front entrance, following it up to the second floor and branching off in two directions--one continuing up to the third floor and one stopping at the second. Courtyard: They unlock the courtyard door and pass through. The courtyard is completely enclosed on all four sides by brick walls, so climbing out of here is completely out of the question, but there is a second entrance that leads into another part of the complex. The air outside is still thick with mist and they cannot see the courtyard in its entirety. Before them is part of a grass lawn that was once well tended but its green color is now faded and a few weeds have begun to sprout. The grass is dead, too, as crisp as ancient paper, and the shrubbery is withered; a seared palm tree leans at a precarious angle. The apartment complex is abandoned, awaiting a wrecking crew. It is the pool that draws their attention. The pool has been drained, perhaps for repairing. Something is waiting for them in the pool, something which produces a sinister, wet, slithering sound. Hallway: They move from one apartment to another until they find a door ajar Room 101: The lights are on in the living room and in the kitchenette. There is a couch, a coffee table, and a rug in the living room. Room 103: It is a small apartment. The door leads into a small living room with a broken television and torn couch. The tiny kitchen to the left is disgusting: the small refrigerator is on its side and open, the bulb burned out, and unidentifiable bundles — perhaps packages of meat— litter the floor before it, Scattered across the counter, lumps that had presumably been fruit or vegetables are gray and furry. Stepping into the kitchen, the sink is full of reddish liquid: blood. A door to the left opens to a cramped corroded bathroom. The closed door to the right must lead to the bedroom. There is nothing of interest in the main area of the apartment so the PCs enter the bedroom. It is small as well and houses a twin bed, night table and a dresser. The bed is stripped and stained with substances that the PC’s don’t even want to guess at. Room 105: Room 105 is the last apartment, and opening the door brings a little hope. Obviously,

someone else is trapped in this nightmare. The PCs don't see anyone in the room at first, nor do they see any dead monsters. There is a short corridor with a kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other. Both are unspeakably filthy. There are no carpets, only stained and cracked chipboard. The wall paper, pink and silver stripe has been sprayed with scribbled tags and obscenities. It smells of urine and unwashed bodies, and moldy dampness. On closer inspection of the room proves that they are in the right place, particularly the kitchen. The tiles were an earthy brown-and-tan. At this moment, though the floor is red, and it is a wet red. And the red has a smell---a cloying, pungent, coppery smell. There is another smell in the room---the smell of feces from bowels that have gone slack at the moment of death. A small, half-size refrigerator sits in the middle of the kitchen nook. It is positioned at an odd angle and the door is wide-open. There are distinctly human feet poking past the edge of the refrigerator door. Those feet are attached to a body. The body appears human, and not quite man-sized - perhaps large enough to be a teenage boy - and is in terrible shape. It lies slumped against the inside of the refrigerator, the weight of the body has broken most of the shelves and one cannot feel any cool air emanating from inside. It is in utter ruin, and it has no recognizable features whatsoever. A thick gummy stain of blood and gore pools around the body and smears most of the fridge's interior, as though someone had tried to stuff the body inside. This slaying could not have occurred more than ninety seconds ago. The floor around it is literally soaked in dark, smelly blood. The blood is still wet, and its coppery scent is all that the PCs can smell, no rot or decay. Southwest Stairwell: The PCs walk up the stairway to the second floor. The stairway is dirty and doesn't seem to have been cleaned in a long time. Someone has written "HEAVY VIPER" on the wall near the door in the south stairwell on. Once the second floor foyer is reached the light from above offers slightly more to see, which really isn't much besides more evidence of neglect. The walls are a mess, pocked with holes, stained by water, the paint cracked and peeling. Also, there is a little intentional damage done, in the form of graffiti; a myriad of colorful slogans and designs adorning the walls, most of them illegible. The phrases are so jammed together the PCs cannot barely make out what they are. There are gang symbols in between the scribbles, that much is obvious. More than even the environmental damage, the graffiti gives the clearest concept of how long it has been since Woodside Apartments had been inhabited long-term. There is a lot of it, some of it old enough to be fading on its own. The second floor doorway is made of sturdy looking steel that had accumulated a little rust around the push-bar It opens with a creak and they step into the hall. Second Floor Corridor: The PCs find themselves in another hallway, this one much longer than the one downstairs. It is mostly dark; only two or three of the weakly blinking florescent lights seem to be on and they give off only a dim glow. But other parts of the hallway are almost completely pitch-black as if it were the dead of night. The PCs can't see more than twenty feet in either direction. Just to the left of the door, however, is an open room with light coming out from it, the PCs discover it is a laundry room. The most prevalent sound among them is a throbbing, rhythmic hum which sounds like a furnace. A building this old just might even operate on a

boiler. Another odd thing that they notice are the lights – they are working in some parts, their fluorescent illumination feeble and slightly unsettling in all this darkness. Strands of fog move across it like ghosts, like warm breath meeting cold air, and they find themselves wondering at the logic of this place: What controls the electricity? Who determines where light should shine and where it should not? And why bother making these...creatures, if there are more; are the PCs meant to be tested? Killed? This line of thought isn't comforting in the slightest. The idea that someone has created these threats, has even given them something to defend themselves with just for the purpose of watching them fight feebly against it is horrifying. What person, or what kind of god, would allow and do such a thing? What kind of person, or god, would make this place to begin with – is it connected to all the ones before? Laundry: The walls are a light blue; the light comes from two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. It holds a washer, dryer, sink and a trash chute in the corner. None of the machines are running and nor do they have any clothes in them. Indeed, it seems like the room hasn't been used in some time. The sink is dry and while not exactly clean, there are no water stains or soap scum. The word "DRAGON" is spray painted on the wall. A layer of dust seems to cover everything...except, for the trash chute. Hallway: Stepping back into the hallway will confirm that all of the creatures are gone. To their left the hall is dark, but to their right, past the stairway door, they think they can see a faint speck of light at the far end of the hall. They walk down the hall, slightly uneasy in the utter silence of the building. Darkness surrounds them as they walk down the hall and soon they cannot see anything except for the light ahead. As it gets closer they can see it is coming from underneath an apartment door. The PCs can hear an eerie ringing noise in the air, as though they had popped their ears. As they reach the hall a slow change in light source occurs, the slow change from a dirty white to a blood red. A light that comes not from the pitiful lights above but from the creature that now stands before them. At room 208's door, which is open slightly. The sound and shine of the television still emanates from within. Gripping the door handle, ready to enter, when suddenly, a blood-curdling scream cut off abruptly pierces the air. The scream disturbs more than can be adequately described. It wasn't shrill. If a man realized he was about to have his throat cut, he'd probably scream in the same way-an outpouring of shock, despair and absolute horror. Along with a different kind of static scratches at the ears, louder and much closer. It is the radio. And about now the PCs should have a pretty good idea as to why the device acts the way it does. There. Through the bars. They didn't see it a minute ago, but now they can even without the flashlight.

It is red, and it is glowing softly. A piercing burst of static bursts from the radio, screeching as if under the sway of pure terror as it spits white noise from its tiny speaker at an alarming volume. Separated from the visitors by iron bars, like those on the floor above, the silhouette of what looks vaguely like a man, a great, oddly-shaped Herculean figure, broad shoulders hunched, and hands fisted at the sides. They can see what it is now, in all its glory, horrible and grotesque yet tremendous and awe-inspiring. It is a creature born of the greatest of minds... or indeed the worst. It wears a loose garment around its waist, little more than a filthy, shredded rag, hanging down to the large creature's knees, a robe or an apron, it is difficult to tell. The disgusting rag hangs from its shoulders and falls down to its shins, concealing his manhood -- if indeed, it has any. They quickly glance at its face and wince, on its shoulders rests a brilliant and huge metallic pyramid structure. The headgear is a darker red than the rest of it, and it is enormous, shaped like a four-sided pyramid with skewed dimensions, and it ends in a point above his head that make it look a good seven feet tall. Where is its head? The creature slowly plods forward, has it a head? Can it see them? It is impossible to tell yet still the impressive and horrifying beast acknowledges their presence with a nod of its bloody, rusted helmet. With a shriek of stressed metal it turns its head to look at something on the floor. Following its gaze are bloody handprints, prints that smear the floor and lower walls around a shattered door, revealed by the creature’s unearthly red glow. This is first confrontation with Pyramid Head, here in the Wood Side Apartments, behind the iron bars separating a corridor. It is as if it is observing the visitor(s) and his/their actions (judging?), or at the very least making its presence felt. Not only does this instill a feeling of terror, it gives the distinct impression that it could attack and kill at any opportunity it chooses. Unlike other monsters, it is vastly intelligent and bides its time. Its superiority in stature is acknowledged by the pocket radio screaming with static, sensing great evil and danger (louder than anything else encountered). Yet still it waits, and one presumes, stares. Nearing the end opposite from the fire escape when the PCs come to a door—Room 205—that has a small halo of light emanating from the crack at the bottom. They are surprised to turn the knob and find it unlocked. They cautiously peek inside. Room 202: The kitchen is small and as poorly neglected as the living room had been. The cracked linoleum is stained in dozens of spots and is filmed overall with grime. A giant cockroach is feasting on crumbs by the refrigerator. It senses their footsteps and scuttles for cover under the oven. Room 205: The room's overhead lights are turned off, but there is still a single source of illumination. Behind this light stands a human shadow that the PCs take to be the apartment's inhabitant. As they approach, they see that there is no use trying to talk to the "person." Slowly pushing the door inward and stepping inside reveals that a clothing display—something like a department

store mannequin, but just the torso and no other distinguishing features—is standing dead center in this room. This particular display is draped in a cardigan sweater and knee-length skirt. At first, neither of them seems like anything special. The sweater is the pale pink color of calamine lotion, and the skirt is white with a floral motif. The figure stares back at them with a blank face. It is just a sewing mannequin. The person who lives here must work as a seamstress from home. Clipped to the inside neckline of the sweater on the intact mannequin is something far more interesting: a small black pocket flashlight with a flexible head and a clip on the side. It was the source of light that illuminated the room. It is a bit heavy, and it is hot because someone has obviously left it active for a long time, but it can't have been for very long, because how long does a flashlight battery last? A few hours, right? Who could have left it? Maybe the resident was using the mannequin to light the place because of the power outage? It is situated just right to shine over the entire room… But they have no clue why anyone would leave the light on and the door unlocked while away. Seeing as the person was away at the moment, the PCs decide to "borrow" the flashlight. They take the light from the mannequin and clip it around close to their heart. They can see now, in glorious illumination, the oppressive darkness cast away by the shining beacon. It gives a slight sensation of hope, the light seeming to grow stronger with their resolve. At least now they will have an easier time getting around the apartments. Just then, something moves. The room is dark but not impenetrable with the newly discovered flashlight. Moving the flashlight in front of and scanning everything just reveals a sewing table, a few nondescript pieces of furniture, and... A pile of severed limbs. The PCs flinch and almost cry out. Arms cut off at the elbows. Hands amputated at the wrists. Fingers spread as if reaching for help, pleading, seeking. Even as they gasp in shock, they realize that the macabre collection is only a heap of mannequin parts. Arms and legs constructed with such careful detail that it is only the eerie gray coloring and the empty sockets on their ends that gives away their artificial nature. There is a head with a porcelain-smooth face, permanently staring, dust-coated eyes with absurdly thick lashes and an eerily serene smile. She is bald and her plaster skull is marred by a water stain. The room belonged to a seamstress or tailor as mannequin parts are laid haphazardly across the floor and couch. And then they find themselves face-to-face with the most horrible looking mannequin they’ve ever seen in their lives, a hideous-looking creation that essentially looks like a torso and two pairs of feminine legs, one where arms should normally be. The PCs have all of maybe a second to register this when one of the legs on top flashes out and slams one of the PCs right in the collarbone. The kick feels like being sucker-punched, and the

pain is quite dramatic. The impact of the blow sends the PC reeling backwards, tripping over the scattered mannequin parts and smack onto the middle of the chambray sofa with broken springs and a mattress that has become a breeding ground for mold and fungus. These cold and slimy growths burst beneath the PCs, spewing spores, oozing sticky fluids and exuding a noxious odor almost as bad as rotten eggs. The light falls face up, and the PCs can see that this disgusting abomination is coated in something slick, for the light casts an oily sheen over its form—pale plastic breasts with permanently erect nipples, round thighs, tight buttocks, curving away. This thing is no mannequin. It is another monster. It looks repugnant, just as the straight-jacket monsters, but in a different way. They were vile because they looked human. The dog and the bird monsters also scared them no small amount, but a part of their rational minds tried to accept them for what they were because it wants to believe so strongly that they aren't impossible. This thing... this is something that is just impossible, a form and design that offends and contradicts every notion of reality that the PCs have. This just can't possibly exist, not a chance. As if to challenge their ideas of what could and could not be, it starts moving towards them. It is disgust, and of course, the sense of imminent death, that gets the PCs into action. The PC twists and throw his/her body off of the sofa about a half-second before the mannequin's top leg comes crashing down. A hole appears where the mannequin strikes the cushion, it is that powerful. The radio. Loud, silver static cascades from the tiny device in their pocket. One doesn’t have to wait long. Again, the arm-leg lashes out in a fast motion that chops had it been a real arm. The mannequin starts trying to pull itself back up. It isn't quite able to, missing one of its four legs, but they aren’t about to even let it have a fighting chance. The thing is like a mannequin in more than just appearance. It must really be made out of plastic, or something like it, because one’s foot goes right through the side of the monster. And plastic skin or not, what is inside is erupts in a torrent of blood and organs pouring out of the hole the blow has made. The stench is tremendous. The radio has suddenly stopped making noise. But it seems too much of a coincidence that the static had started sometime around the moment the monster had appeared and has stopped just now that the creature is dead. It is still on; the battery hasn't run out, it is just not making any noise. They can try turning its knobs but nothing will come, every station is dead, only that very faint humming and buzzing

sound characteristic of a radio when turning the dial is heard, but every time it stops at a certain frequency the radio goes mute. The kitchenette is small and fading with age: checkered linoleum bubbled and buckled at the edges under the counters; the refrigerator is squat, white, and rounded; the gas stove gray-toblack around the burners, the temperature dials worn, the raised back streaked with grease never quite removed; and the air itself, touched with the odors of food long since eaten, burned, thrown away in the tall garbage pail by the sink. Leaving room 205 behind, they proceed down the corridor that extends north from the eastern edge of the second floor hallway. Room 208: Here the first thing that catches the PCs’ attention is the television set in the corner on the opposite side of the room. It is an old console unit...static and electric snow race furiously across the screen, which is now splattered with a large crimson stain that spreads all over the top and halfway down the front, dark and evil-looking in contrast to the snowy static that blares from the screen. Dripping gore leaks down the sides and the screen, still mostly wet and fresh, judging by the sheen from light upon it. Some of it has begun to congeal though, and within it are specks of white and chunks of milky gray and pink, some of them revoltingly large. There are bloody claw marks all over the walls. There is a chair placed in front of the television, a frayed-looking old thing upholstered in ugly yellow plaid. On the floor behind it one can see skid marks left on the dirty, dusty floor, indicating that it had been dragged towards the television quite recently. But, most startlingly of all, is the human arm dangling limp over the chair’s arm. The limp arm is attached to a very limp, very dead body. Said body is soaked in even more blood and gore than the television screen in front of him. The top of his head is an utter ruin of skull shards and pulped brain. The position of his body seems odd as well, relaxed, almost comfortable. Nothing, however, is as disturbing as the man's face; the eyes are open and the mouth hangs slack, the whole face distorted in utter shock and surprise that contrasts to the absurdly relaxed look of the rest of his body. The stench of the victim's blood stirs the PCs’ blood a quivering current of fear. Something about this scene, something they can not quite identify, is extraordinary, unprecedented in their experiences, and so unnatural as to be almost supernatural. It speaks first to their emotions rather than to their intellects; it teases them to see it, to know it. Seeing nothing else the PCs can do for the dead man, they can leave the living room and search the rest of the apartment, aware again of the absolute silence that seems to cover the entire building. The bedroom contains an unmade queen-size bed with a night stand and lamp, but nothing else. The kitchenette is cluttered with pots, pans and plates; the man had probably been a bachelor. The refrigerator is broken and there is no food inside. Indeed there does not seem to be any food

at all; despite the clutter in the sink and on the counters, none of the crockery or any of the plates appears to have any food scraps or stains on them. In one of the cabinets, though, the PCs find two protein bars and a 16-ounce bottle of water. The next room is completely bare; perhaps it the owner had been planning to renovate it, perhaps not. It is a small room that is in bad disrepair, paint flaking and wallpaper peeling off of every wall. The room itself is completely empty except for a clock against the far wall. It is a grandfather clock, and an old one at that. It was probably quite a beautiful-looking item once upon a time, but now it is as much a victim of neglect and age as the room around it. The wooden frame is chipped and the glass on the doors is almost opaque with dust and dirt. Closer inspection will reveal that the section of the wall behind the clock is in considerably worse shape than the rest. It seems as though the clock is concealing a gigantic gouge in the wall, one large enough for a person to fit their body through, as the jagged edge of the demolished wall can be traced all around the frame of the clock. They can get through if they can get the clock out of the way, and that doesn't seem like a difficult task. Yet, when someone tries pushing the clock, it does not budge, not even an inch. Even throwing their weight into it, lowering their shoulder, and charging it, and this is rewarded with a sore shoulder and nothing more. Looking down at the floor to see if it has been anchored somehow reveals that there are runners on the floor, extending to the left of the clock's base, one runner for each pair of legs. It is designed to be moved, apparently, but it isn't. Nothing seems to be blocking the runners. They look pretty clean except for the layer of dust that covers everything in this whole building. Who would design something like this? The PCs are in no position to guess, but it is blocking a way out, and perhaps the only one. It seems too coincidental that it happens to be locked in a position that covers a hole in the wall that obviously is not intended to exist, but what can the PCs do except find a way to move it? Behind the clock is a seven-foot, irregularly shaped hole that has been smashed into the far wall. This building...these rooms were falling apart. This must really be low-income housing if the owner had use the clock to cover up the crumbling wall until it could be repaired. Good thing they never got around to it. Now the PCs don't have to waste their energy busting through the wall. Shining the flashlight into the hole they see that it has broken into the adjacent apartment, room 209. Stepping through, grunting as their shoulders scrape along the edges of the broken dry wall, the PCs play the light along the dusty contours of the room, finding nothing but broken furniture —table legs mostly. Room 209: The room on the other side is much like the rest of the abandoned apartments: tattered overstuffed furniture, a couch, a bed, an empty kitchenette, candles, ancient shoes (these in particular look sad and wooden), ceramic bowls as well as glass jars and small wood boxes full of rivets, rubber bands, sea shells, matches, peanut shells, a thousand different kinds of elaborately shaped and colored buttons, an ancient beer stein holding discarded perfume bottles. The refrigerator is not empty, but instead of food, it is crammed full of strange pale books. Pieces

of the wall litter the floor in the sitting area and little flecks still descend from the wall every now and then. They can hear the grandfather clock ticking away monotonously in room 208, an ever-present sound that seems to be mocking them with its constant reminder that their misery in this place stretches almost to eternity and will be counted out in millions and millions of leaden seconds. The overstuffed pieces of furniture presses too close to one another, making the ticking clock even louder and more maddeningly intrusive than it actually is. Room 210: The apartment is a close, dark place with narrow windows filmed by the soot of the fire. A threadbare black and gold Oriental carpet covers the wooden floor, which feel none too sturdy underfoot. The furniture is heavy and ornate, the kind of things kept in dusty museum basements. Everywhere there are throw pillows, and the arms of a sea-green sofa are protected with lace coverlets. The apartment odors assail the nostrils: the smoke of cheap cigarettes, a sweet floral cologne, oil paints and turpentine, and the bitter scent of sickness. In a corner of the room, near one of the slender windows, is a chair, an easel, and a canvas with a landscape in progress: a red sky above a city whose buildings are made of bones. Southwest Stairwell: At the end of the hall is an unmarked door. The PCs hope this is what they think it is. They try the knob. From this side, the door is unlocked. They open it hesitantly, afraid something might be waiting on the other side. Darkness. Nothing rushes at them. And, yes, it is what they hoped: a final flight of steps, considerably steeper and narrower than the other flights they have already conquered, leading up to a door. Third Floor Corridor: Ascending the southwest stairwell is the only direct way to the third floor of the apartment building. The third floor is a mirror image of the second. Cheap neon lighting sputters fitfully on and off casting random shadows along a long corridor lined with doors--some of them sealed over with plaster---go the length of the third floor. The place smells of marijuana, stale beer, and ghost aromas of the tenets who lived here; a commingling of sweat, dry heat, and scorched food. Cigarette butts and the remains of marijuana joints litter the floor, and tucked into the corner is a small, ripped up plastic bag that is stuffed with what appears to be cocaine. Every available surface, from the walls to the windowpanes, is plastered with graffiti and obscenities in a blaze of Day-Glo orange and purple. Most of the writing is either meaningless nonsense or offensive just for the sake of being offensive. It isn’t tomb-silent here as it was downstairs. The PCs can hear a soft sound, almost like breathing but larger and too deep to be anything living. Perhaps something is still pushing air through the vents. Considering the sad state of things, it’s difficult to imagine how, but if someone places their hand near a vent on the wall, they can feel air being expelled. It is warmer than room temperature, but heavy, tepid, probably not all that healthy, either. Their flashlight also illuminates a figure lying on the floor that wriggles and squirms in a very familiar manner. There are two straight-jacket monsters lay crumpled on the ground, and one can see that these are no threat. They are like the ones outside. They look like they have started to morph into something, but were unable to finish. The result is a straight-jacket-like deformation of the upper torso and head. These things really are running rampant in this town. First they have

infested the streets, now they have spread into the apartment building. The building suddenly takes on a whole new, intimidating demeanor. How many of these rooms holds monsters in them, waiting to attack them? The PCs shudder to think of the rooms in this building being filled with those creatures. They need to go into some of them, to figure out a way out of here. It probably isn't as easy as just taking the stairs down. But how can they do that if they are everywhere? They are beginning to feel like they will never find a way out of here, but they knew if they give into that feeling they will be screwed. They have to keep going, no matter what the obstacle. Right next to the door as they entered through is a laundry room. Looking down the garbage chute one will notice that there is a strange object lodged in there. As they explore the hallway, they see that most of it is blocked off by a metal shutter that divides the corridor. It seems a bit out of place here. Was it installed as a security measure, or was it put up to keep away the invading monsters? The catch sight of something in the blocked off section of the hallway. Under the beam of the flashlight, they see a small object lying on the floor just beyond the shutter. It is a key, sitting just close enough that they might be able to grab it if they reached far enough. Maybe it will unlock the shutter? They stand on the third floor of the apartment building, staring at a door labeled 301. Room 301: Room 301 has an unlocked door, and can be opened with a small creak. The living room of the apartment is fairly empty of furniture; the only light in this room comes from a dim bulb in the kitchenette area to their left, but there are two very odd things that immediately catch the PCs' attention. A shopping cart sits all alone abandoned in the middle of the empty darkness, bright and red as a fire engine. On the side is stenciled "Shop N' Save". What is something like that doing here? The PCs regard it a bit suspiciously—after all, it is the last thing they expected to find in this room. Much stranger and considerably more disturbing are the walls of the apartment, which are pocked and stitched with bullet holes, and not just a few. It seems like every square inch of surface is blasted. There must be literally thousands of them, and that isn't counting the larger holes where the bullets have simply torn gouges out of the drywall. Stepping into the room reveals a third piece of the room's oddity by almost tripping; shining the light on the floor causes it to glitter with spent cartridges. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny brass jackets litter the floor, stretching from wall to wall, which makes a sick kind of sense, all things considered. Those bullets had to have come from somewhere. The shopping cart, by comparison, seems like a bright beacon of normalcy in this little sea of madness, but when looked inside the PCs find that even it has something to offer, something shiny that reflects the beam of the flashlight. Creeping closer, they peer inside the shopping cart. Sitting in the child's seat of the basket is something so blatantly ironic one can almost laugh.

It is a handgun, a semi-automatic blowback Beretta standard model 89 with a .22 caliber, exposed single-action hammer and an ambidextrous manual thumb safety. The PCs can pick up the gun and admire the barrel. It is black and reflects very little of the flashlight. The gun is lightweight, with a silver barrel and black handle. It is about nine and a half inches long with a vnotch sight at the rear-end of the barrel. The Beretta is loaded with a magazine that holds ten rounds. It has a reassuring weight, a safe weight, at least until fingers touch the barrel. It is hot. Hot as if it had been fired very recently. The barrel is still warm, the smell of gunpowder fresh in the air. Upon checking the magazine it is revealed to be fully loaded, ten rounds. And what is that in the bottom of the shopping cart? Three clips of ammo, that's what. The clips sit, arranged neatly in a row, the dull charcoal color offering a muted counterpoint to the flashy color of the basket they lie in. Using a knife, slashing and gouging at another, seems to require a ruthlessness greater than that needed to pull a trigger. One can do whatever is necessary for one’s own life is on the line, but one can't rule out the possibility that one is better suited to the comparatively dry business of shooting than to the up-close-and-personal wet work of evisceration. In a desperate confrontation, a flinch might be fatal. A complacent smile comes to your face. Now they have a gun. Bullets. And the monsters are not invincible. No more running away and hiding every time a monster crosses your path. Stuffing the extra bullets into their pockets with the radio, they begin to formulate a new plan. Now that they have a proper weapon, they can keep searching the apartment building. They will have to be careful. Firing guns is addictive. The first time, one is afraid, worried about the noise, the danger, the mess. Then, one wants to do it again. One wants to do it better. Clutching the cold handgun, the PCs leave room 301. Hallway: Emerging back into the hallway, the PCs go about checking every room. Like the first and second floor, all of the doors seems to be locked until they see something duck into Room 307. Should they go in and investigate or carry on? Room 307: The door to Room 307 is swollen with mildew, and the brown paint covering it looks like leprotic skin peeling off a rotted corpse. The door screeches loudly with every harsh tug on the knob, the sound echoing down the abandoned hallways of the Woodside Apartments. Finally, with a shuddering jolt, the door swings away, free from its frame. Steeling themselves, the PCs walk inside. The door opens into a small alcove, and it prevents them from seeing the whole room right away. A few steps forward places them in the northeast corner of the living room where they can see. The sight that greets them is chilling and sickening, making their hearts skip one...two...three beats, now.

The pyramid headed creature seen on the second floor is here. Half-glimpsed before, they see it now fully revealed. Moisture glistens darkly upon its rippling and exaggerated musculature. Its skin is dirty brown in color, stained with blood. Its helmet on its head and shoulders hunches forward bullishly, muddled with dark brown and deep crimson hues. Rust clings to the corroded metal as if it had seen many countless years of wear and damage. The creature is clothed in a grimy robe and wears dark knee-high boots. It holds a mannequinite in its hands, one of those four-legged monstrosities that seems to be two sets of female legs sown crudely together. It is pressing the thing against a counter in the kitchen nook, and one can see another mannequinite behind it, lying limp against the counter. And the Pyramid Head is thrusting its body at the one that it holds, moaning as it does so, an impossibly low, almost dinosaur-like moan. It is savaging the mannequinite sexually. The mannequinite is thrashing violently, obviously not at all willing to be a part of the action. It struggles to pull away from his grip, but are overwhelmed by the pyramid monster’s strength. First the red pyramid head drops its weakly flailing victim to the ground, and that brings the PCs out of their shock enough. It still faces the sink, and then takes two steps forward, and then stops, flailing about itself. He then sees the visitors and, although no eyes can be seen, they know intuitively he is looking at them. He just stands there, not making a move or a sound, as if regarding them and deciding what to do about them. Perhaps wondering whether to continue with his current activity, raping the female-formed monsters or to bother these newcomers. He does a little of both. One of its red-stained gloved hands grabs at its odd-shaped headgear, and the other grasps out blindly in front. He groans and screams, but only for a few seconds. Then, he seems to compose himself and starts moving again, a slow, plunking movement. Slowly. Relentlessly. Heavy steps. If he is attacked Pyramid Head stops, looks down, and contemplates the wounds in its chest, and then very slowly, and painfully, the beast's body pushes the bloodied bullets out until they plink onto the floor. He will then leave, grunting in dismay, bemused by this pathetic attempt to end his existence. Does it take pleasure in your terror? You sense intelligence far greater than yours, ancient and brooding. The thought of a calculating mind in something so grotesque sends an electric wave of terror through you. The creature’s departure shouldn’t come to them as a relief; it is more a stay of execution than anything else, a postponement. This is what the PCs should feel, that at some point they will see this creature again; that they will go through all the same fear and horror, and that maybe that time the creature will not hesitate to kill them. He backs off this first time they come to blows, but from now on, their encounters will almost always end with him having the upper hand. The two creatures the PCs had seen violated lay unmoving on the floor, blood caking their inner thighs and the floor around them. The sight of the twisted corpses sends an icy chill down the PCs’ spines as cold sweat trickles down their faces.

In the blood is a glint of silver. It is a key, the attached tag identifying it as the key to the building’s fire escape. As they pocket it and make to leave, their foot sends something skittering across the floor as they do so. It is another magazine for the handgun. Hallway: They look out into the hallway to see if the pyramid head is really gone, and are satisfied that there is no evidence of anything moving out there. They traverse the area with unusual ease. There is something...unnatural about the lack of a menace, as though a place such as this demands the vicious sights and tones of inhuman aggression. Amidst this disquieting stillness burns a confounding question: where have the monsters gone? Thanks to the piercing beam of their newly found flashlight, the few yards ahead of them are brightly lit. They get to the intersection and go right, eventually finding the iron bars. A short search of the ground reveals the key marked FIRE ESCP. Fire Escape: The fire escape on the second floor seems to be the final option. The path to the fire escape leads the PCs down a dark, narrow malodorous hallway with doors on either side. The carpet is molded and missing in some places. The walls are stained, and the decay and neglect is just as evident here as it was downstairs. Trash and debris is strewn about. The PCs pass one apartment with its entrance plastered over, and another that is simply boarded shut. In some spots it looks as though the floor is about to cave in. They go up to the second floor fire escape. Putting the key in the knob and it turns with a satisfying click. They open the door and feel the cool outside air. There is no fire escape. Instead of a metal frame stairway going down as they expected, they instead see a building not more than three feet from the outside of the doorway. The wall of the building seems to be gray cement and directly across from the door is a large window, though the glass has broken away. The window’s edge is ten inches wide. At least it isn’t icy, but clean and dry. Looking below they can see an alley, three stories below. One can’t see any creatures in the alley, or any other life for that matter, just fog and snow twirling in phosphorescent sheets. One tries to ignore the chasm in front of them, and focus eyes and mind on the window of the next building. One will have to jump far enough to clear the window ledge and land on the other side of it. If they come down a bit short, on top of that waist-high wall, on that meager strip of stone, one will be unbalanced for a moment, even if one lands flat on both feet and then might fall backward into the empty air between the buildings. With muscles tense, you jump. Airborne, one knows at once that they have not put enough force into that jump, know that you are not going to make it to the other building, know you will crash into the ledge, know you will fall backwards, know that you are going to die. But what you know will happen, does not happen. You clear the ledge, land on solid wood.

Blue Creek Apartments:
Room 203: The apartment is a well of shadows, oil-black and pooled deep. Faint ash-gray light outlines the windows but provides no illumination to the room. The silence and darkness are equal in depth. Cautiously, the PCs inch towards the nearest window, which faces the balcony and courtyard. Only a few shards of glass remain in the frame, but lots of fragments crunch and clink under their feet. They trod carefully, both to avoid cutting a foot and to make as little noise as possible. At one time the room was probably carpeted but that had been torn away long ago leaving nothing but a dirty brown floor that retains the slight stickiness of the adhesive. The walls had once been a light blue but the paint has almost completely peeled and some parts of the wall are actually broken with rotted insulation hanging out. The only things in here is a broken-down old bed that reeks of urine and a closet sliding door that half hangs to the ground. Stepping over the bed they cross to a pitch-black hallway. There is a bathroom directly ahead, and the smell from it here is even worse. The bathroom is covered in dirt and dust and smells strongly of mildew. Every metal item in the room from the faucet in the sink to the shower head is covered with rust. The toilet is cracked and more rust stains streak down the sides of the bowl. The mirror has been shattered and small flecks of it lie in the sink. But there is nothing else of note. An absurdly narrow hallway empties into a dark, crummy room that is mostly empty, save for a large steel safe perched precariously on a stained armchair with most of it upholstery torn away, leaving it almost skeletal. Middle Stairwell: The door below the exit sign leads to a stairway. Inside, the middle stairwell is narrow, dark, peeling, humid, and malodorous. On the landing the PCs see a large, partly folded sheet of paper. It is a map marked BLUE CREEK APARTMENTS. They get to the first floor, there is no lobby on the map, and the PCs find that the exit door has been boarded up. Going into the narrow and poorly-lit hallway to try the side exit. Rooms 106, 107, and 108 are all boarded up, though curiously rooms 105 and 109 are not. All are tiny, dreary, the furniture tattered and worn. The side exit is boarded up and marked DANGER. Hallway: It is the smell that hits them first, one of the sewage pipes must have ruptured somewhere covering the floor in random puddles of dank, foul-smelling water. Inside the hallway the stench of urine and human feces is as thick, as complete, as the dark; the PCs gag, acid bitter taste of bile, and they hide their mouth and nose in the crook of one arm. Room 105: Room 105 is located across the hall from the stairs. Like 109, the apartment is a ruin of crumbling ceiling, chipped walls, boarded windows and rusted metal. One thing stands out however. A large oak desk sits in the living and unlike its surroundings; it gleams with a fine varnish. The desk itself is bare except for a single large drawer. The PCs walk over and try to open the drawer but they find it is locked. Puzzled, they examine the rest of the desk and find on the side five coin slots with a slide. Below them is a large brass plate on the face of the box, so

bright it might have been polished as recently as yesterday. The plate displays an inscription in an archaic cursive-like font: Like coins in the hazy aether tossed Our souls must by their sinful weight Descend to Earth with lightness lost. Three shiny bright coins in five holes be One end sits the Seducer of She. The wind from behind the woman doth play. Formless one, Null, lies furthest from they. The Old One beside the Serpent sits not. ‘Tis to the left of the Prisoner he doth rot. Within the desk is a map of Central Silent Hill that is more detailed than the one they have, and it is such horrible shape, saturated with water making it somewhat unreadable. However, it marks a very interesting location in the form of circles and arrows, with a message that says "Dog House. Levin Street." They have no idea what this is for. Room 109: Room 109 is the first to open, and the room it opens into is about as clean and inviting as any seen so far. Like 109, the apartment is a ruin of crumbling ceiling, chipped walls, boarded windows and rusted metal. The apartment set-up appears to be similar to the ones in Woodside except the rooms are larger and the kitchenette is to the right of the door, which has a large cookbook sitting on the counter. A ceiling beam is hanging from above, inches above an old TV cart and a rank old sofa. There doesn’t appear to be anything unusual in here, until one sees the door. There is one, boards nailed across it like so many others, but directly next to it is a plain white door with a glass knob. And it is what stands out, for it is perfectly white and clean to the point of being immaculate. There isn’t a speck of dirt or old water stain to be seen on it. It looks like it had been installed perhaps five minutes ago. Too intriguing to pass up. It opens to a space resembling a walk-in closet. However unlike other closets in the apartment, this one lacks outlets, sockets, witches, shelves a rod on which to hang things, or even some decorative molding. Instead, the walls are perfectly smooth and almost pure black—almost because there is a slightly gray quality. The space cannot be more than five feet wide and at most four feet long. On the opposite end, a second door, identical to the first one opens up into a small bedroom, so it is assumed from its size. There is no bed, though, no furniture except for a small table next to the door. There really isn’t much of anything except for the huge mirror stretching across one of the walls not unlike a ballet studio—that, or the person who owned this room was just particularly narcissistic. It definitely adds the illusion of doubling the room’s size. The room they step into is much larger than the other rooms. Shining the light around it and reveals that it is completely bare except for one thing. There is a human body lying in the middle of the floor. It is a woman. She is wearing a gray top and long black trousers. She has long red hair. She doesn’t answer, or move. Not even a twitch. Something isn’t right. In fact, something is quite wrong. It is their noses that pick up on that first, even before their eyes register things. There is a scent in the air, coppery and thick, and it is a scent the PCs hate, a scent that the PCs

think most human beings intrinsically hate. And fear. That’s what the PCs feel as they approach the woman. It is her face. The left side of her face looks more or less like it should. The right side of her face is an obliterated ruin. The skin is shredded and flayed, and the bone of her skull is too visible through it, bone that was smashed, broken so badly that the right side of her face is in a state of near-collapse. Her eye is completely destroyed, sunken in her head and submerged in a pool of her own viscera. Her lips are pulled and distorted, pulled by the force of the attack into a horrifying, inhuman grin. Her teeth show through, those that are left. Some of them have been knocked completely free of her jaw. It is a crumbled look; as if indented, matted with dark dry blood. The first note reads: Here is your ammo. I wanted to keep it safe for you. I really appreciate you reading my diary. It was kind. I'd say you're a lovely person. I'd love to get to know you. If I wasn't like this.... The second note reads: You can face the Keeper if you want. He might end up killing you but it's your gamble. I would suggest you just take the key and leave. I want you to take the key. You have to know where it is by now. It is so obvious. When the PCs are about to stand up and leave, the crusted eyelids of the corpse flutter. They open. Even open, these are not the eyes of a living woman: they are rolled far back in the head, so that only the whites are visible; however, the whites are not whites at all, but yellow and smeared with streaks of red-brown blood. Then those terrible eyes move, roll, bulge, and the brown irises are visible, though coated by milky cataracts. The eyes jitter for a moment, seeing nothing, and then they focus on the PCs. The corpse raises one stiff, gray hand. The rigor-mortised fingers gradually uncurl. It reaches for them. The corpse opens its mouth. With tongue and lips, it forms words. Jerkily, as if animated by a sputtering electrical current, the dead woman sits up. 'Go to room 105.' She whispers suddenly. The body doesn’t move again. It is like it never happened. Second Floor Corridor: Doors line the hall, some intact, some boarded up, one of them wide open but leading into some sort of structural collapse. The cockroaches here are larger than any the PCs have previously seen. They can hear them as they scuttle along the worn tiles of the long, long corridor. Some, intent upon a smear of filth lodged within a missing bit of broken floor tile, are reluctant to flee their approach. Hallway: The door at the very end is unique, covered with peeling sky-blue paint and featuring a small dirty window smeared with filthy, so one cannot see through into what lay beyond, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve come across the door marked "emergency stairs" which, thankfully, is unlocked. They’ve found the stairwell and the damn thing is already unlocked.

In high spirits the PCs will likely not notice the “Self Locking Door” sign on the second floor stairwell door, nor will they hear the moan and the long, drawn scraping noises coming from inside the stairway are not from the rusty hinges of the door. Second Floor Stairwell: It is very dark inside, lacking the ambient light the hallways had thanks to the odd functioning ceiling light. That is the first thing noticed. The second is a sound, a very strange sound. It is a low, guttural groaning, sounding only vaguely human, and it brings puzzlement for perhaps a second and a half, and then fills the PCs with complete terror once the flashlight pinpoint its source and they recognize it. It is a sound they’d heard not long ago. The radio chooses that moment to come to squealing life, as if to hail the coming of Death himself. It is he. As the light is suddenly blotted out, a hulking, dark shape limps into the sickly yellow glow. Standing almost seven feet tall, the creature bears a striking similarity to a human, at least in basic shape. The skin, pale and sickly, is stained with what appears to be blood, rust and other less pleasant substances. The creature slowly turns to them, wearing an oddly shaped helmet of rusted red metal, the end actually hanging down to obscure part of its pale, filthy chest, the helmet shaped like some nightmare pyramid, dark splotches and stains coating the red face, a low grill covering part of it, obviously the area for the creature to see or scent prey through. He has one pale, blood-crusted arm around a form that the PCs recognize as a straight-jacketed Patient. The slick, slender monster writhes and struggles uselessly as Pyramid Head does something to it, something that, as best the PCs can tell, seems like it is finishing what they had interrupted the last time their paths crossed. Pyramid Head seems to be shoving the straightjacket’s head into his own crotch, forcefully, and not with the repetitive motion that might have suggested sexuality. It isn’t sexual in the least. It is horrifying though, and all the more so because it makes no sense whatsoever. The other large bloodstained hand hangs loosely at the creature’s side, holding the ankle of a limp, apparently dead, mannequin creature. If they turn around and try to open the door, of course, it will not open, even as they frantically kick the door and tug on the doorknob in a desperate, but futile, attempt to escape. If they start to make a run for the stairway, they will see, to their horror that the stairway has been filled with thick, oily water all the way to the second floor. It causes the PCs to blink in confusion. What on earth could have caused water to flood an entire staircase? Maybe the rampaging monsters broke a water pipe? Either way, these stairs are useless now. They are trapped. Reluctantly, they turn around, legs so weak that they can barely feel the floor beneath their feet. Now here is a tense confrontation at the exit. He abruptly drops his victim to the floor, where it thrashes about chaotically and mindlessly. The PCs then see Pyramid Head bend over and close his gloved hands around an object on the ground. Lifting it seems to cause him quite a bit of effort.

Once they catch sight of it, one can see why. When the light reflected off of the large and sinister thing the creature is holding, the PCs could have fallen into a fit of mad laughter on the spot. From behind the beast appears a great, sharp and terrifying blade -- the largest they’ve ever seen -- as they move slowly into the dim light of the hallway. One blow from that massive blade would surely be enough to slice someone completely in half. He doesn’t bother carrying it, merely dragging it along the floor to a cacophony of grating sounds; it leaves a trail of blood on the ground. The blade screeches as it scrapes against the concrete floor. Scrapes on the floor as it is dragged, dragged towards the PCs. The creature shifts slightly, bringing the massive knife up to its shoulder with its muscular arms, before swinging it at one of the PCs’ heads, the flat of the blade crashing into their skull with a dull thud if its strike is successful. If dodged the knife comes crashing down onto the ground where the targeted PC stood just a second before. The force of the blow seems to shake the floor and sends ripples through the water. It looks like the knife is so incredibly heavy that even this giant of a monster is having difficulty swinging it. A harsh clang pierces through the locked room as the sword misses its intended victim and smashes into the concrete wall instead. If shot at, he won’t go down, he won’t even seem to be injured. Shots that hit the creature’s torso are shrugged off. Shots striking the metal helmet make a clanking noise. When the PCs have shot the creature enough times, an alarm sounds in the distance—a ringing in the ears—and Pyramid Head turns towards the flooded stairs and slowly walks towards them, dragging his knife behind him. The pyramid headed monster staggers away, but one gets the distinct impression that it retreats only because of the signal and not because the PCs are wounding it at all. He reaches the stairs and descends them, completely unperturbed by the murky water. The PC watch as the point of the creature’s head slowly disappears beneath the dark water without leaving a ripple behind it. The water is still for what seems like a minute and then it starts to slowly drain out of the stairwell. The level decreases at almost a foot every other second, and within thirty seconds, the PCs hear the wet rush as the last of it empties out to wherever the rest had gone. Their escape route is revealed to them in the form of a previously hidden back door that emerges from the murk. The PCs descend the stairs, which are slick with water and scum, careful not to take a tumble. At the bottom they find a wide open door, and this door does not lead into another hallway or room. It leads out into the outside, the fog still hanging as thick as before. There is no sign of Pyramid Head anywhere, and that only makes things better. The noise of the sirens fades and dims as they step outside, back into the town. The PCs look back at the decaying apartment complex. No mysterious red light glimmers at any of the windows; they are all as black and empty as the sockets of a skull. Blue Creek Lobby: Now free, the PCs can enter the actual lobby of the Blue Creek apartments. Pushing open the door, the PCs step cautiously inside. A tastefully decorated lobby area greets them painted in bright white and blue hues, luscious flora adorns the area scattered sparingly across the room.

On the far wall a freshly varnished staircase spirals up into darkness. The lights must not be working on the landings up there. Standing out jarringly against the pastel purity of the rest of the lobby is a single rotten door. Cracked wood surrounded by blacked peeling paint sat sullenly in the far corner of the room as if trying to cringe away from the light. Above the door an age-worn sign reads, 'Courtyard and Blue Creak'. The door is locked. Exit: The back door in the blue creek lobby leads to an alley at the back of the building that runs toward Nathan Avenue. Broken by the sound of radio static. Sure enough, there is something to their right. Its back is to them (a guess since it is a very vague shape) and it looks vaguely human. They are five feet away when it must've heard their footsteps because it turns to face them, and suddenly their thoughts are confirmed, in a most unsettling way. It is another winged monster, looking far too similar like the one they slew in the Café. Seeing it again brings fresh waves of terror and turns your entire body stone cold. They have an advantage this time though. It isn't airborne like its hostile cousin, but rather standing prone on its clawed feet, as if deciding what to do about it. They don't know if it is going to attack, and they don't give it half a chance to capitalize. They reach for the gun, aim carefully, and fire. A starburst of blood splotches on its chest, looking like rich rose tattoos inked across the charred skin. The twisted monster shrieks and recoils as a shower of bullets pierces its body, dark drops of blood spattering against the mist. At that moment, the PCs feel a rush of exhilaration. There is no need to turn around and flee; they can finally stand their ground and fight back. The bird monster lets out a shrill cry before falling beak-first onto the hard asphalt, not in a normal motion, but like a statue, or something really hard and weighted. The radio goes silent along with it.

The Streets: They pull out the map and look for the next closest conduit, Matheson St., just
south on Levin St., at the next turn. This is street that was marked on that map, next to the sketchbook. They don't know what that mark signifies, but they guess they will find out now, seeing as they have no choice but to give that street a try now. Levin Street is a nice, quiet little residential area. Evidently the merchants' association or the town council was engaged in a beautification project. All the doors, the window frames, the shutters, and the eaves appear to have been freshly painted. Circular holes have been cut out of the sidewalks to allow the planting of young maple trees, which are now eight feet tall and still lashed to support poles. There is nothing but pleasant old houses, perfect little sidewalks, and young trees lining the road. Gray, faintly luminous fog hangs in the trees and over the roofs of the houses on Levin Street, making the houses here into mist-shrouded hulks of wood and stone.

Each one a little different, trimmed in dark brown, blue, painted white and forest green and burnt umber, but each one similar to the other in its silence—the sort of silence, filled with unknown fear, that one usually found only in remote graveyards or in funeral parlors where a corpse lay amid flowers. The PCs mentally check off the names on the mailboxes: Haversham, Kinchaid, Rice, Demargeon. All those names of normal people, now act as headstones in a graveyard, Stipe, Buck, Mile, Berry, all names of normal people that once lived here, now they are no doubt dead or gone. You narrow your eyes slightly. Had a curtain been pulled aside at a window in the brown-andwhite two-story house two doors up the street? No; nothing had moved there. The house is a powerful attractant, similar in style to all of the other houses on the street but so different from them in some indescribable but fundamental way that it might as well have been an isolated structure rising out of a featureless plain. The clapboard siding needs fresh paint, and the asphalt-shingle roof could use repair, but the place isn't ominous by any measure, not even as vaguely Gothic as the buildings in other areas of town. Modest. Dreary. Shabby. Nothing worse. The exterior of the house looks completely normal, except that this house has a dog house on that front yard, which peaks their interest for two reasons. First, it is the only yard that has a dog house, making one wonder why someone would have one on the front yard to begin with, considering it isn't fenced in. The second detail is exponentially more unsettling. The dog house is stained with blood. They don't know if it signifies anything or if it was just meant to scare. It seems completely out of place, and for a moment. No dog. A small pool of blood has collected in front of the opening leading inside the dog house, and sitting in that pool is a small piece of metal. A key. Unforgiving silence. Silence disrespectfully interrupted by a scratching sound, a hissing sound, a radio. Their radio. They take two steps when there comes a low snarl from behind them. The PCs freeze. They didn't want to see the thing that had snarled, they don't want to run for fear it will chase them... and yet their hearts are pounding for them to move. One’s first thought is it is one of the straightjackets. But they didn't hear any of them snarling. They swallow hard and hope it is a rabid dog... rather than that thing. This sound is joined by the sound of soft steps on grass made by paws. There, on the front lawn of a house—the house just before the one where light is calling for them. Something, a dark shape is loping across on four paws, they can see, just barely, the glint of the flashlight on bare, glossy skin. If they didn't consider the deformities on its body-that are so obvious one could see them even in this uttermost fog-one would say it is some sort of canine. It is unnaturally thin and has no fur. Only fleshy pulsing muscles and oozing jaws. Its hollowed eyes are set with a milky substance that gives the dog the appearance of being blind... but the

white orbs look directly at them. Its body is ridged, its head down and glowering at them, making ready to strike. Is it worth it, risking taking on the animal just to get to the house with the light in it? It is only thirty or forty feet away and closing fast. Farther back, beyond several veils of fog and falling snow, there might be other things coming this way; perhaps an entire nightmare pack moving in for the kill. They grip the key in their fists as they tear through the darkness, the howls getting closer, the sounds of wretched little feet scraping against metal, theirs eyes focused on the simple silhouette at the end of the hall.. Hurry. It won't fit, the tissue blocking it from the hole. Steps round the corner. Hurry! Their fingers scrape it clean, plunging it deep. Howls echo in their ears. They insert the key into the keyhole, hands were shaking from panic, and turn it. HURRY! The lock disengages with a loud snap, and they turn the knob, swung the door inward.

The House: They duck inside barely a moment before their would-be mauler makes a vicious
attempt to sink its slime-coated teeth into a leg. They lean back against the door. They can hear the skinned beast clawing at the wood, trying to scratch its way inside. Beneath the crack of the door they can hear the beast's haggard breathing, a wretched howl of frustration spilling from its throat as the plodding steps moves past and with those steps, the static fades, whispers passing into the darkness. For a time they simply stand there, terrified that it will return, expecting it to burst in through the door...yet something tells them it won't, the lack of static from the radio somehow reassuring. The door has proven too much of an obstacle for the canine, and after several heart-stopping moments, they realize the creature has retreated. There is no lock on it, odd for a place like this, but they don't think it will be able to break through. It didn't even try. They can let go of the handle, put their backs to the door, and slide down. For the moment, all is better. You must have sat hunched against the door for the longest time, even though realistically it is only in the range of five minutes. You can't help it. As mortally terrified as you are, it would be useless, and you have to let your body take control of itself again. It isn't easy, probably due to the fact that the radio is still humming softly with static, and just the sound of its static is enough to turn your veins to ice. It is still picking up the dog creature that chased you into this place. And you aren't sure if there is anything here waiting to tear a piece out of your face, but since your radio hasn't picked up on anything in front of you (it would be louder if that was the case), that relaxes you a bit.

Your heart rate comes down after some time has passed and you are able to calmly and collectively stand up and wipe the sweat from your forehead. The house seems to be a refuge against the messiness of the world beyond its walls. However, in spite of conveniences aplenty, in spite of comfortable furnishings, in spite of cleanness and order, the place is not welcoming, with none of the warmth of hearth and home. The house feels not merely unoccupied but deserted, abandoned. The damp chill of the house is as epnetrating as that of the air outside. They take out the flashlight. The beam reveals that front room is small, barely recognizable. There is a small desk to the right of the door and a potted tree next to it, a fake one from the looks of it, the leaves made of wax. Further down the wall they see a door to the right, likely leading to the only bedroom and bathroom (it is a small house). The door is jammed though. The knob turns in hand loosely meaning it isn't locked, but the lock itself must've been obstructed or blocked somehow, because this door isn't opening. The house looks very normal on the inside—as normal as a house can look in this ghost town. The furniture looks fine, but a little old and dusty. The light they had seen from outside comes from two candles set on a small chandelier on a coffee table, near the window. The rest of the house is absolutely silent, an unearthly quiet filling the house. The silence is so deep that the whisper of their footsteps on the hall carpet is thunderous by contrast. Living Room: On the coffee table there is a magazine on various subjects. All the articles are cut out, except for a piece of one, which reads: "... a goldfish, for example, has a very short memory span. Their memory resets itself every 20 seconds, all through their lives. On one hand it would be nice to forget all the bad things that have happened to you after a short amount of time, and start on a clean sheet. But think about it this way: if you were a goldfish in a bowl, how would you feel if you had to go through the horror of finding out every 20 seconds that you're a prisoner? And if you were free at some point in your life before being in the bowl, you would have already forgotten about it; so as far as you know, you've been a prisoner all your life ..." Dining Room: They keep going and emerge into the dining room. A bulky old television stands on the dresser on the left wall, black jet casing and completely unremarkable. The rest of the first floor is occupied by the combined kitchen and dining area with a green Formica table that has a wide chrome edge band. The table is set with china, silverware, glasses and other adornments, but this whole place has the look of abandon, like nobody was ever here. Some bullets are inexplicably lying on a dining room table. The two large windows are covered with gauzy sheets, which further filter the ashen daylight. A hutch, buffet, table, and chairs are revealed as blocks of black and slate-gray shadows. Kitchen: The kitchen lies just beyond the dining room. The kitchen is illuminated only be the dismal light of the fog-darkened day that barely penetrates the windows. Evidently the vinyl floor, wall-covering, and tiles are of the palest hues, for in that dimness everything seems to be one shade of gray or another. There are no signs that anybody lives here—no newspapers and coffee cup on the table, no unwashed dishes on the counter or in the sink. They find a rolling pin in a drawer near the oven. One could bash in a monster’s face with a rolling pin, smash their nose, split their lips, club and club and club until one fractures the skull. They have the curious feeling that the house has been untenanted for an age, sealed tomb-tight, and that they are the first in centuries to invade its silent spaces. In one corner of the kitchen is the door to the backyard, on which hangs a gift calendar from the First National Bank. The

picture for October shows a pile of orange pumpkins in a drift of leaves. One has been carved into a jack o' lantern, and written upon it in red, that looks suspiciously like blood, are the words 'Keys for Eclipse'. They can see the back door from here though, and it takes their interest. Maybe there is a way through here after all. They go towards it, past the kitchen, and inspect it. It too is locked, but in a different way. It has three long steel hasps, and securing each hasp is a padlock, each one unique in one detail. It is then that they notice that a notepad lies on the side of the door. Picking up the notepad that, oddly enough, has someone's cursive handwriting across its crisp surface. Now I’m here and Cheryl’s gone. I’ve called her name, and I’ve gone looking for her. It has gone blacker than night outside, although I believe it is about eleven in the morning; I cannot be sure because my watch has begun running in reverse and the clock is chiming weird hours at uncertain intervals. A little while ago there was a splitting sound, and I heard things scuttling and then swarming the sides of the house; it is only a matter of time now before what is out there gets in. Basement: The basement is to the left through an arch of brick. The bulb on the landing is the only light. The bottom of the steps is dim, and through the arch, as much as they can see, it is even darker---a black mouth waiting to eat them. The basement is as dark as a cave, oozing a cold and oily odor, a floor of red clay. A few shards of muted gray light filters through small dirty panes of glass. The bulk of the furnace is like a scorched metal mask; and standing near is a mountain of darkly glittering coal. A shovel is propped against the wall nearby, its triangular head gives it the look of a snake about to strike. It is much colder here than inside the house, the shovel is heavy and cold if picked up. There are piled up boxes stacked in a corner. Old furniture, toys and tools, which have no more use for their owners except nostalgia, are placed in an orderly yet careless fashion; like they were carefully arranged and placed to never be touched or even dusted again. Attic: The humid air is tainted with dust, the crisp aroma of age-yellowed newspapers, moldering cardboard, and pungent mildew that has sprung up from the dark corners. The attic has a rough board floor but no light fixture. Pale daylight sifts through a series of screened ventilation cutouts in the eaves and through larger vane-capped vents in the end walls, revealing cobweb-festooned rafters under a peaked roof. The center offers enough headroom for even a tall man to stand erect, though nearer the wide walls it is necessary to crouch. The pink fiberglass insulation, which somewhat resembles raw meat, and the regularly spaced supporting studs, like ribs of bones, are visible. Two bare bulbs, dimmed by dust, hang from the ceiling. Shadows loom everywhere. Nothing is stored here except dust, spider webs, and a multitude of dead, dry bees that had built nests in the rafters and had died either due to the work of an exterminator or at the end of their span. Darkness Falls: A high sound fills their ears, speeding closer, the strident ring of a siren. It sounds as if announcing the coming of a catastrophe, a red alert, an evacuation, a state of emergency; one can imagine people running through the streets in desperation forming unrecognizable masses, screaming, clamoring, climbing on top of one another to escape the oncoming doom, crushing and suffocating all others that were left at the bottom, regardless of them being men, women or children. Hell is coming.

It is here that the PCs will get their first real glimpse of the Otherworld, when the sirens are heard and rain and night falls in the house. The noise is becoming unbearable, frightening, rising to a crescendo, and the house shakes as though an invisible force were running through its structure. For a couple of seconds they stand in a darkness like no other ever experienced. The darkness does not merely seem to contain a threat; it is the threat. It seems to be a living, evil, purposeful darkness that presses close around them, seeking, touching them with cold dark hands. They reach in and switch the flashlight on and a beam of light shoots out in a blinding laser of white, the crystal of light screams out then dies into the darkness, illuminating their surroundings. The floor is made with thin metal bars set in a crisscross pattern forming what looks like a grill or a grating, and beyond the floor there is only darkness, and the PCs hope for there to actually be a first floor below and not just a dark and bottomless pit. These metal bars are rusted and corroded and display hints of gore here and there, tiny pieces of what could very well be flesh stuck in a hole here, thin shreds of what could really be skin hanging there. The ceiling displays the same pattern of rusted metal, and in certain places what looks like large sheets of black leather, hanging lifelessly like misplaced and bizarre curtains that sway softly in a slight wind that can’t possibly exist inside a house with all the doors closed. And that same air carries the distorted sound of sirens. The creaking house abruptly creaks louder and with a greater number of complaints from floors, ceilings, doorjambs, window frames, walls. The bone-rattle of plumbing. The wheeze and whistle of hot breath in torquing ducts. Suddenly the place groans like a tired old behemoth waking from the sleep of ages. Surrounded by groans and creaks and pops, one half expects that the house might close around them like a pair of jaws, grinding their bodies between the splintery teeth of its broken beams, tasting them upon its tongue of floors, pressing them against its palate of ceilings, finally swallowing their masticated remains into a basement, where rustling legions will swarm over them, reducing flesh to fluid and bones to powder. As they are about to enter the hall, they hear sounds other than the monotonous and hollow drumming of the rain on the roof. A thump and the all-but-inaudible scrape of metal on stone. Perhaps they imagined it. The hall suddenly fills with a high-pitched squeal. It comes from everywhere, flooding every room. The sound is so harsh, so high, so intense, that you squint your eyes and lift your hands to block your ears. It feels like a metal claw has gripped the base of your neck and is squeezing, trying to tear your head off. Hallway: They are in the second floor hallway of the house; this conclusion made only because of the amount of framed pictures hanging on the wall in front of them and the light fixtures on the other wall. And this is already a wild guess, considering these things are unrecognizable from their former selves. The picture frames are nearly pasted to the wall by a green and black mass of mold, and the pictures themselves are distorted, like photographs that were not developed properly, and the PCs have to remind themselves these had been paintings once. The fixtures that held the light bulbs, which used to be golden and beautiful are now rusted and covered in black fungus that hangs disgustingly from them like algae from a sunken ship. The entire environment feels full of moisture and yet it is freezing, and not only freezing but extremely dark.

Living Room: Odd blue and crimson flames blaze in a misshapen opening in the wall where the fireplace had been. The roaring, snapping, and hissing of the inferno that fills the fireplace seems unnaturally like the spectral whispers one hears in a dream. It is as if a flicker of Hell has poured into the room, transforming it into a bizarre cavelike domain that blends into the rest of the house. The floor is gooey; strange growths hang from the ceiling. Dining Room: They go through the foyer, to the entrance at the foot of the stairs, and through it to the dining room. In there, chains dangle from the ceiling like vines in the jungle, clinking and chinking as they move through them. The chandelier that hung over the dinning table is just a big tangle of these chains. All the furniture looks old and deteriorated and is covered in webs as the chains are. The cobwebs will stick to hair and clothes as one moves through the chains. Large stains of blood are spread across the already bloody plastic that covers the walls here as well, like random strikes of a paintbrush. A rotting corpse is at the kitchen table as if dining. Its face is shriveled, covered in mostly in dry, loose hanging skin. On its head there are only patches of hair, and pieces of skin missing leaving the skull’s bone surface to show. Its cheekbones protrude from underneath the skin and a withered button nose lies at the center of its face. Its eyes are empty black sockets that fixate themselves on the PCs. Its lips have rotted away leaving the teeth exposed in what is more a silent snarl than a skeleton’s grin. Its limbs are all humanoid though devoid of skin. Instead its bones are covered by dried remnants of tendon and muscle. It is missing an arm, and on the shoulder the PCs can see a bloody stump with a bone protrusion coming out of it. Its only arm holds what looks like a short, thin metal bar that curves at the end like a sharp hook. All over its body are holes, blood and bruises. Kitchen: One can’t dwell on any of these things, one can just ran through the dining room and into the kitchen, where every single kitchen appliance looks covered in rust and decay. The large windows of this room seemed to have grown even wider and taller. The glass panes allow little visibility, but one can see that it is raining outside. The oven then flares to life, burning hotly for a few seconds before extinguishing itself with a sudden rush of air. Bathroom: The sink and the toilet are smeared in blood and feces, the towel racks rusted, and mold hangs from them, as well as towels darkly stained in blood. The toilet and the sink are nearly overflowing with black water that stink with such a strong odor it feels like it coats the nostrils like a sticky ointment that then solidifies not allowing them to breathe. In the soap dish, a cake of ivory soap sits in a slimy puddle; it is red-brown with blood. The bathroom tiles are besmirched with blood, and it looks as though somebody has been dragged across the floor, then up the wall, and then the ceiling, only to be dragged again down the wall at the very deep end of the bathroom into the bathtub, which is concealed by a white and pristine shower curtain that is drawn shut. For a time, the PCs stand just inside the doorway, staring apprehensively at the drawn shower curtain. They know that the curtain must be whisked away to see if anything is waiting behind it, but they dread making that move. Something primal stirs within them as they approach the limply hanging curtain, a fear inherent in every person but which one can’t explain, justify or define. They move towards the curtain, watching as the circle of light that comes from the flashlight starts to become smaller and smaller with proximity, while at the same time, the room becomes gradually darker. They now hear a strange sound behind the curtain, a sound of breathing.

They stand there, feeling like they need to see what is behind the white, clean and spotless curtain; but not wanting to see it at the same time. Regardless, they grip the curtain and draw it open. Overhead, the dozens of small metal hooks rattle-clatter along the stainless steel track in the walls. In the gut-wrenching moment as the curtains are swept aside, they know that there is a Hell and that they are trapped in it. One only sees a portion of the head because the curtains block the rest of it. Skin is stretched tightly over its facial bones. The eyes have extremely small irises, its head sprouts sparse and scraggly hair. Its ears are shriveled into hard knots of cartilage and lie flayed against the head. Its mouth displays abnormally large and long blood-stained teeth, set in an angular and equally long jaw. Desiccated lips have shrink back from the gums, giving the teeth greater prominence, creating the illusion of a wicked, perpetual smile, but its body language suggests a semi-catatonic state. The body is eerily emaciated and shirtless. It just stands there, staring at the PCs. One can hear the breathing, but the body is not moving in any way. Attic: When they reach the top of the stairs, the flashlight shines on the attic. The emptiness gives the whole place a sense of abandonment and of loneliness, which had been present all through the house, but is somehow intensified here. It is just one big, dark, empty room. The patter of rain on the roof is more than just a patter up here. It is a steady hissing, a soft, allencompassing roar. The floor is obviously chainlink, and the roof is made of rotten wood. It starts on the left side of the floor and goes up at a 45-degree angle, ending at the top of the right wall. It gives the left side of the attic a very cramped feeling. One finds two plain wood halfcoffins. Finding the catches that secure the carved lids, and heaving at the lid reveals that though heavy, they open smoothly enough and rest solidly back on hinges when it is lowered carefully down. Instead of the foul miasma expected, the breath from the coffins smell faintly of roses. The coffins contain dried out and shriveled half-corpses of a grown man and a young woman. The heads to waists are there, then an abrupt cut-off. Whoever they had been, they have been mummified in their coffins; the mottled flesh has shrunk off their bones, the skin has dried and tanned to leather that has molded itself to the shape of their skulls, the contours of the skeleton. Their hair is still glossy and black and thick, but their eyeballs are desiccated in their sockets, their lips are drawn back from the teeth, their ears have shriveled into gristly knots, and trailing spiders’ silk from their nostrils. They are almost unbelievably dusty and dressed in turn-of-thecentury Russian formal wear, which hangs loose and largely empty on their dry skeletal frames. Their bodies are infested with spiders and cockroaches and such, and they have some trinkets and books that are stored away with them, and the woman has a necklace of pale jade and opals around her thin neck. The fingers are icy and stiff and the PCs will have to pry them away from the trinkets and books. Basement: A cold, dark basement that is actually a passageway in the form of a U. The passage does continue beyond the ends of the U, but the way is blocked by a furnace on one side and a pole on the other. It is entered through two wooden doors at the tip of the U. Once they go through the doors, they close, locking them in. Once they are in something begins to slowly walk from the other side of the U shaped basement, the part they can't see, and comes around the bend. It is a human-like figure, but the skin is missing, revealing a surface of muscle and blood, and then, it attacks. In the hallway a standing lamp slams sparking to the floor. It rolls back and forth like a living thing, with a maddening hypnotic regularity. Doors slam open and closed, unlatching, snapping,

and shutting, all with deafening force. The house itself seems like an organic presence. It is alive, angry, and threatening. Backyard: They walk all the way to the opposite end of the hallway, where the door to the backyard is. The key slides in with no trouble at all, making that characteristic dull scraping noise of the key's jagged edge passing through the lock's mechanism. With all three latches undone, the door is unlocked, and they turn the knob and step through, wondering what they are going to see. The door opens into an outdoor area, and it is now completely dark outside. It is perfectly dark. It is almost silent, except for a rattle of leaves. The cold against their faces has the wet bite of fog... The backyard is a tapestry of gloom, woven exclusively from shades of black and graveyard grays, now washed by rain that blurs the details. There is a simple tree, some shrubs in the distance, and a single pane of light cast across the grass. The sky is as dark as pitch. No stars dot the sky, which is understandable considering how cloudy it had been, but it what is stranger than that is. Something else is missing. Where the hell is the moon? It isn’t there, not where it should be. Even with the clouds it should be noticeable, for the light if nothing else, but there is nothing. No light whatsoever. Flicking the switch on the flashlight to the OFF position, bathes the characters in absolute black. They can’t see the fingers on their hand two inches in front of them. The starless, moonless, utterly lightless night presses close around the house and seems to be a living thing; it snuffles at the doors and windows. The unnatural darkness of the sky fills one with a surprising and superstitious dread, for it seems to be a malevolent firmament under which mortals were meant to die—and to the sight of which they might wake in Hell. Something moves in the shadows, snapping them out of their ghastly reverie and to the danger of the present. When they pass close to the edge of backyard, their hearts almost jump out through their mouths when they think they see, just outside the dull orange square of light, a vague manshape standing there, smoking a cigarette and looking up with softly glowing white eyes, seeming to flow from the very darkness itself... At first the figure might be mirage, very nearly invisible, thanks to the mist and the rain and the darkness. The furnace heat distorts him, makes him ripple as if he were a reflection on water. Once he seems to evaporate, then reappears. When the PCs walk over to where he is, he’s already gone. Already, the encounter begins to seem unreal, increasingly dreamlike. Was there actually someone there, or had it been their imagination? They are more worried about what they saw shortly after the world was plunged into shadow the first time around, how that gurney, the wheelchair, the chained fence and that horribly mutilated and posed body seemed so out of place and in striking contrast to the environment just seconds before. They hope that isn't what is waiting for them on their immediate path. But for now, they are focused on what lies ahead. They are in a small backyard of the house, a quiet little fenced-in area with a white wooden picnic table with an oblong umbrella to their right, and two chairs, with the left fence aligned with a small raised garden, well-tended, and thick with plants, staked out professionally on posts. They give the garden a jungle atmosphere, gathering shadows, laying them deep within the greenery, that smells quite refreshing. What they also notice is that there is a small path, leading to a back gate, presumably leading out somewhere.

Incoming fog, cold at their necks, chills the PCs into a frightened turn, but nobody has followed them out of the night. The night has turned colder, and the fog has thickened into a mist that clings to every visible object, reflecting the few dim lights and gives the street a grim and ghostly atmosphere. The night is cold, dark, and silent. There is no moon and no stars. As far as they can discern in the darkness and the fog, the boardwalk beyond the patio appears to be deserted. They are at the gate; they reach for the latch and pull it to one side. The gate squeaks. In this earthbound cloud bank, the sound is muffled, too slight even to prick the ears of a cat on guard for mice. The gate is now open and they pass though it. It leads into another alley, much like the one they had come across when they first got into town, only this one runs in two directions. According to the map, the back fence they just exited from is facing west, so left will lead them south towards the school, and right will take them north to Finney. They are in another alleyway; the thick darkness is barely illuminated by the light of the flashlight. Checking the map, the PCs turn toward the north-point of the alleyway. This will lead them directly towards the school. Their eyes try to pick out any sign of danger from the various hidden crevices around them. Static. The radio, tuned to its demonic frequency, the tiny hell-raiser hums to life, alerting the PCs of the upcoming enemy. They turn around, the flashlight illuminating around them. Nothing. The static gets louder. A couple of breathless moments and then... Through the loud static, their ears pick up the soft pad of... dog paws? "Grrrr..." Two more of the flayed, red-eyed dogs, barring their impossibly razor-sharp teeth, on their hind legs, ready to pounce and rip their prey to bits. To the side, one of the hefty, slavering monsters hunches its shoulders and hangs its neck low to the ground, paws at the ground. It stares at them with hot coal eyes, its jowls quivering and slopped with crimson. It looks at them, snarled, bared teeth that are jagged and strong. Its hind legs tense, all the muscles standing out having been flayed of its skin.. The dog bounds two steps, soars into the air . . . One of the bullets hits the dog thing in its lower abdomen, and the other is just an inch or two short of its left eye. An injury that would be fatal to a normal dog, and one that the PCs hope will be fatal to this creature. And it is. The dog monster collapses on its side and lies completely still. The radio dies down at roughly the same time.


Matheson Street: As it turns out, the alley isn't nearly as long as they thought it was. Before long, they emerge onto another street, most likely Matheson. And when they look to their left, though the light doesn’t shine as far as they’d like it to, they can still see the spidery cracks in the asphalt and chunks of concrete splayed about. They know the road on this side is of a similarly ugly ruin, and that was enough for them. West down Matheson they continue. The radio phases in and out of various levels of static and white nose, like there is something out here it really resents. While making their way westward they even hear one of the unsavory inhabitants that are out here; it sounds like one of those reptilian-bird monsters. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to notice of their presence, even with the glaring light. They are surprised that the sound of the radio doesn’t give it away either, but no matter. If they can avoid confrontation, all the better. Midwich Street: Before long Matheson emerges onto another street, again running North and South. Midwich, they guess. The school is about two blocks south of here, on the west side of the street. The night seems to condense the fog, making the dark houses look evanescent. Of course, after the events of the house, everything in view raises their suspicions. Every tree looms ominously, as if it would collapse upon them. Behind every dark window at every house, a watcher seems to lurk with malevolent intent. As the PCs look, they become more and more aware of the darkness closing in, as though the street and the night together are forming a tunnel in front of them. It is less than fifty or so paces before the buildings lining their right side give way to hedge bushes, each one looking more or less identical in appearance. They are unsettling because the PCs can't see through them. Lighting Company: A large tilt-up concrete industrial building perched on the rim of a chasm that drops off into an endless void of fog. It is painted white, with the name of the company in simple peach-colored block letters, a severe-looking structure softened only a pair of ficus trees and two clusters of azaleas that flank the entrance of the company offices at the front.

Midwich School: They continue running for a nameless amount of time, their legs are starting
to feel the strain, and, then on the ground, a large gap between the grass and shrubbery appears on the right. Which means there is a building there, a large public building, a school? They run to the sidewalk and stop, glancing down at the large ornate plaque set into stone on the edge of a dingy hedge that says Midwich Elementary Isolated and somewhat gothic, Midwich is a large multi-winged, two-story structure of brick. A three-story high clock tower of dark brick is the centerpiece to several rambling wings. Even this house of learning is warped, there is no order or enlightenment to be found here only fragmentation, confusion and decay. The green chain-link fence on either side of the rusty gates are twisted and torn in several places, as if small animals have broken in. A thin strip of concrete playground runs across the front of the school and down the left-hand side.

It is a low building, in a state of considerable disrepair, the off-white plaster that clads its walls are falling away to reveal large red bricks beneath. Hedges sprout up on either side of the path to the main doors, with ebony leaves and branches that sparkle in the light and shatter at a touch. Small front lawns divided in two by a narrow walkway leading to the steps of the front porch of white and gray. The tiles of the porch are much weather-beaten. Before long, the front entrance comes into view, two single-wide doors, one on the left and one on the right. Despite the horrors that may be awaiting them inside they experience a desperate need to be safe inside his home, feeling terribly exposed, vulnerable to the luminescent night, the moon's stark glare causing the surroundings to appear frozen, the trees oddly flat as if cut from cardboard, the shadows deep and clear-edged. They get to the doors, hands shaking as they grip the handle. It is cold as ice. They turn it, holding their breaths. They push it open and enter. They can’t help but think of the horrors that await them. Entering through one of the two glass-and-aluminum front doors that barely hang on their hinges reveals the lobby. There is a symbol on the glass embedded in the door. It looks like a cross, but with more affects. Lobby: The room they are in is small, maybe twenty feet long and twenty feet wide, and seems to connect to another room, likely the lobby. The doors leading to said lobby are wood, fancy in their design, and set with gilded brass pushbar handles. Potted palm trees, long dead, flank each pair of doors; one has uprooted itself and fallen to lean on another, its fronds hanging down like scraps of moldy leather. They can see an old fire alarm above the door directly in front of them, its scarlet shell fading with age. The wall to the right is adorned with a collection of educational flyers and festive activities. The wall to their left is a little more interesting. The room is quiet and dimly lit, and the PCs’ footsteps echo as they walk in. There is one small padded bench, so short that only a child can lie down on it beneath a map of the United States. Someone has been kind enough to leave a map of the school folded neatly on the bench next to the doors inside the foyer. Double-doors, identical to those they have just walked through, lead into the hallway. According to this new map, the square room they are in is the front entrance of the school, and going out the double doors in front of them will lead them into the Reception area, with a secretarial office on the left side and an infirmary room on the right. There are many possible options to explore from there, either the double doors down the left or right sides of the lobby, leading to different wings of classrooms, or the doors directly in the middle which will lead into the courtyard. Hallway: They are in a long hallway with banks of lockers and a radiator. It is full of the cedarpine smell that comes from the crumbly green disinfectant and dust-attractor that for years the janitor had sprinkled on the floors and then swept up, until the tiles and walls have become impregnated with the scent. Several of the locker doors are calked open and remnants of personal affects from the previous owners litter the inside and floor in front of them. One of the lockers they pass has a ragged blue dress hanging from a hook. They pass posters that read "Friend in Need."and "Help those in need" showing pictures of children starving and crying.

Receptionist: There is no typewriter or computer on the desk, but there is a large, open book - a desk diary, from the looks of it - and telephones; hanging on the wall behind are sets of keys and an intercom. Blood-stained books are open on the reception desk. Upon closer inspection, they like volumes of an encyclopedia. Each is completely covered in blood, save for one small section of it; the odd thing is that there are only two lines in the entire page written right at the center of each and all contain bizarre messages. The first one reads: "10:00 Alchemy laboratory. Gold in old man’s palm. The future hidden in his fist. Exchange for Sage’s water." The second: "12:00 A place with songs and sounds. A silver guidepost is untapped in lost tongues. Awakening at the ordained order." And the third: "5:00 Darkness that brings the choking heat. Flames render the silence awakening the hungry Beast. Open times door to beckon prey." The messages are cryptic, not only in their manner of appearance but in their meaning, and trying to figure out their importance, if any, is lost on the PCs at the moment. The rest of the office contains eight gray filing cabinets, a cash register, an electronic calculator, a photostatic copier, a typewriter, a long pine worktable, and two straight-backed chairs in one corner, a large metal desk with a sturdy swivel chair, a calender, several telephones, stacks of company pamphlets, a radio, and the United States flag in a stainless steel stand. They open the first drawer and within is a large gray flashlight that looks ancient. The second is filled with stationary products, a stapler, tape, pencils. The bottom drawer is filled with old musty papers, the letters comprising the lines of prints on the documents, like the characters on the telephone buttons, are meaningless squiggles. Back Office: The office is small, compact, small even if there was not table taking up most of the space, two sofas, and a small water machine. They spot a peace of paper on the table, and walk over to it, it reads: Dear Colin, sorry you couldn't get into the clock tower, I know you wanted to correct it for some time now, you will need to get the key from downstairs, in the boiler room. They stop. Taking up the entire right wall, beside the door, is a grotesque painting depicting a rusty door with two bodies, clad in body-bags, bolted to the wall to either side of the door as if guarding it. If one looks closely, it becomes clear that there is something familiar about what the figures are wearing. What looks like body bags are actually ceremonial robes stitched in back. Robes like the one he wore.

School Nurse: The hallway has a set of double doors on the far end, leading to the east wing of classrooms. To the right of that is another door leading into the infirmary. The door is thankfully unlocked, but the room is sparse at best. There isn't much here, an uncomfortable-looking that looks sagged and stained yellow from piss, a table, and a large cabinet to the left of that with old and outdated first aid supplies, their packaging tarnished and some of it almost unreadable. They wonder if this what it is like when this place actually saw human life. The cabinet in the corner contains some bottles of peroxide, as well as some bandages, a first-aid kit. Those with the appropriate skills can treat their wounds with these, but there is nothing notable in here so they let themselves back out into the hallway. A sign says 'special thanks to Alchemilla Hospital'. Hallway: The halls are quiet and dark, the flashlight cuts a swath through the shadows and illuminates the dull tile and the occasional bank of blue or green lockers. The hall leads past a series of classroom doors, their upper panels gaping. Classroom: They open a door to their right, it is a classroom. The room is a good size, its walls are a grey white much like the walls of the halls outside. Reaching into the darkness are rows and rows of desks, that, on any normal day, children would sit in and learn, now they are just another reminder of this town’s once thriving population. The windows are unbroken, but furred with whitewash on the inside. Some of them are covered by rusty wire grids. The children who once sat here wouldn’t have been able to see the outside world from their desks, and the outside world wouldn’t have been able to see in, not that it would have bothered to look. The children must have felt they were in prison without visitors, at the absolute mercy of the staff. They walk into the room, looking at the Fall decorations, long since deteriorated. Then they notice, on one of the wooden desks, the word "WITCH" has been angrily engraved, again and again, onto the surface. Classroom: Another room with desks lined up, almost identical to the last. The teacher's desk stands to one side of the room, set with a blackboard behind it, while the rest of the room is dotted with smaller desks for the students to sit at. A bookshelf or two and a smaller sideboard set across the walls below the window side finish off the setting, and it is dark of course, to be otherwise would have been surprising. A strange smell pervades the air, like a lingering death, its very presence gives the visitors a rather unpleasant premonition of something bad to come, and like as so often their senses proved, it does. The radio suddenly comes to life, blaring out its

ever-present static as if it is the herald of sudden doom. Something runs between a PC's legs and the PC jumps. They twist, the flashlight in one hand, the gun in the other, see something darting across the floor. Stumbling from around a child's desk is one of the heinous creatures, the same grayish creatures, the size of children, which had killed them in the alley! In the glimpse of her flashlight, they see their naked asexuality, their eyeless faces. skin taut with dried blood and clawed appendages wrapped around blades, scrunching in anticipation for spilling blood. But it's not just one this time... From the dark corners of the classroom, 1D4 more Grey Children come towards them. Hallway: The rooms are beginning to make them nervous, because they realize what is wrong with them: they are too empty, and so is the corridor. Where is the dust and cobwebs and dead leaves that this building should have accumulated? Back Entrance: It is square room. The radio screams static, yet there isn't anything here. Is the thing broken? Could carrying this just be a waste, and they have been deceived into thinking it’s useful? The radios static is relentless, yet there isn't anything here. What is going on? Then they see a flicker of movement, and their blood runs cold as they see distorted air move away from the flashlight. Loud, high pitched squeaking sounds fills the air, It is an invisible body that is also in the shape of a child's body, the distorted air simply falls over, and the air settles. The radio stops buzzing, and everything goes quiet. Boy’s Restroom: It is a small, cramped affair. There are three wooden stalls lining the walls to their right, the nearest two hung open on rusted hinges, the third was shut. In front of them is a row of dirty sinks and urinals topped with a long mirror, all the greyish white of old bones. The piping and tiles are leprous with mildew and rust. Rectangular windows are set high near the ceiling. They peer left and there are toilet stalls and a sitting bench across from them. As they enter, they hear a small girl crying in one of the stalls. The PCs slowly walk over to the stalls, holding flashlight up, pushing the doors open as they go. One is stuck, so they can't get it open. Deciding that the girl is in one of the last two stalls. The whimpering becomes more audible as they draw closer to the last two toilets. The crying stops. They open the stall door and see that it is empty. One of the PCs nearly falls over as they feel something push them aside. The sound of tiny feet running across the floor towards the door is heard. It opens a small space and then slams shut. The footsteps stop. Girl’s Restroom: The insidious array of gold and green tiles on the floor are grungy and stains from water damage on the ceiling, the mirrors have black flecks where their backing is coming loose, and all the stall dividers are covered in peeling, sickly brown paint. Water drips somewhere from a leaky pipe as wind whistles in from a cracked air vent above the bathroom door. Though the building looks modern and new, using one of the faucets reveals that the pipes groan and rattle as if it were a decrepit tenement. Eventually greyish water spatters from the tap. The water is lukewarm, with a mineral tang, and has an oily texture that leaves a film on the tongue if drunken; thick and grimy, as if the rust penetrated the liquid itself and had began to decay.

There is blood on the tiles, heel marks across the floor of the toilet to the cubicle on the left. Its door is closed. A perception roll will notice an object under the stall. Crouching down it looks like some sort of book, a journal perhaps. However, it is barely out of reach, one would have to open the stall door to reach it. Pushing the door open makes a loud creaking noise revealing a whole other stall. The corpse is about child's size. It is held up to the wall by thin pipes of metal, sharpened to points. They are inserted through the flesh, piercing the skin and holding the figure upright. There is a bar through each forearm and another passing across the crucified figure's shoulders. It is too dark to make out all the facial features, but its face is twisted in a display of profound pain, a metal point appearing at both temples. Ceramic tiles have cracked under the strain of his suspended weight. Ancient grout has crumbled to the floor of the bathroom stall. The putrid smell of formaldehyde and stinking rotting flesh permeates the stall, and old stagnant blood and toilet water makes the smell, if it was possible, worse. The newly discovered journal reads: Very large butterflies were attacking my school. They were bigger than humans. As one of the students tried to run away, one of the butterflies gave chase, slowing its wings to land on the child's back. It sucked everything out of the body, leaving only an empty bag of skin. Then a butterfly came after me. Coming out of the restroom will land one on the second floor, just as the toilet lid flies open in the strongest gust yet, and this time stays open. The flood of filth thickens and the pipe creaks as something that is almost too large for them begins to force its way towards the light. Its claws rake the sides of the pipe, and the chatter of its teeth can be heard. A glistening arm is thrown up from the belching bowl, and flails around until its digits fix on the sink. Then it begins to haul itself up, its water-rotted bones rubbery. The body begins to contort itself to be fetched free. School restroom possess their own dirty secrets that no one wants to remember. Now the traces of their sins are finally calling out, though no one wants to hear. Second Floor: Classroom: The PCs enter the empty classroom and go to the table that had once served as the teacher's desk, then, thoughtfully, touched its surface, running her fingers over scratch marks and indents. Decades of teaching had been ingrained in this wood; the walls around them echo with children's excited babble, their singing, even their silence. There is still faded chalk writing on the blackboard, although most of it had been wiped. Three young rats with blackfelt hats, Three young ducks with white straw flats, Three young dogs with curling tails, Three young cats with... All of the desks are covered in a thick layer of dust and ash. But each has a pair of small handprints planted in the middle of the desk: children's handprints. There are lockers in back as well. Walking down to the end of the classroom reveals that are letters on the lockers. Out of interest they might begin to read them. 'YOU?' is clearly seen. Then on the side of that, 'ARE' and 'WHO' that makes them stop in their tracks. They combine to say 'WHO ARE YOU?' Inside the drawer on the teacher's table is a book saying, 'Year Three Register, K Gordon'. Storeroom: Inside one of the doors is a storeroom of sorts. The hinges snarl when opened. Inside, piled high with abandoned filing cabinets, old-fashioned typewriters, and stained school desks with thousands of names and figures carved into the humidity-soaked wood. A few chairs are

crowded together in the middle of the floor, beneath an empty light socket. The dimness and the small of the wood seem stale. There are shelves and crates are blurred with dust. One set of metal shelves is filled with oblong wooden boxes, a foot or so long. They might have been games equipment, or costume items for a school play. Their lids have been crudely nailed in place. Lab Equipment Room: A ten-foot-square storage room full of chemicals--- acid, glucose and distilled water---in sealed tins and bottles, some labeled with skulls and crossbones, some with DANGER in bright red letters as well as bleach, ammonia, and other common household products can be combined in ways that produce explosives, anesthetics, blistering agents, smoke bombs, and poison gases. One supposes that are ways to use the contents of this closet as a weapon, but one doesn't have the time to inventory the contents, looking for interesting substances to mix together. Unless an investigator has the Chemical: Analytical or Chemical: Alchemy skills they are not likely to know what is being kept here. Ingesting, smelling, or touching an unknown chemical is a very unwise move; the results could be fatal! Chemistry Lab: They step out of the hall, into what proves to a chemistry lab. Instead of desks, there are long black marble-topped lab tables each with steel sinks, pointy nozzled faucets, Bunsen burners and high wooden stools. Judging by the rust on the pointy nozzles and the rotting rubber hoses dangling from a few of them like dried skin from some unimaginable mine reptile, this lab has seen better days. There is a periodic table hanging on the wall, and a long list of words; 'The Rate Of Reaction' is at the top. Nowhere to hide. They can check the windows, hoping there might be roof just under them. No. A two-story drop to a concrete walk. At the end of the chemistry lab is a frosted-glass door. Hallway: It overlooks the lobby. Squeaks soon fill the air as, out of the darkness, comes an outline of something small formed by the air distorting. They watch it run around as if looking for a hiding spot before toppling over. It doesn't seem like it is a threat. Library: The library is populated by hordes of those ethereal shapes that are supposed to represent children. Wandering from side to side, walking through walls, and through each other. They are more difficult to see now in the light of the flashlight, which makes them all the more eerie. The L-shaped shelves stand in predictable ranks, metal instead of wood, bolted to the floor for safety in an earthquake. It is bleak in spite of the brightness, antiseptic, marked not by the quiet of diligent study but by the silence of stoic suffering. Classroom: They walk in, nothing is moving in here, kid's posters, and pictures line the walls looking so evil in the bleak, dark surroundings. Someone has painted an image of the disembodied head of Robbie the Rabbit, the Lakeview Amusement Park's official mascot. Walking down the gap in the seemingly endless chairs and desks, they can’t help but see a huge paper in the wall, it features an animal that looks like a child’s interpretation of a dog or cat. Underneath it, in scribbled lettering is the word ‘WOLF’.

Desks are arrayed in neat lines; their surfaces are scratched and scarred with use. A few chalk marks glimmer on the blackboard like bones hovering darkness. Despite the emptiness, something is waiting for them beyond the doors, as they stare at the desertion where ranks of desks which trapped children now stand. On one of the tables a game of scrabble is set up. The word choices bespeak a morbid state of mind. DEATH. DESPAIR. PLAGUE. BLADE. DAMNATION. NOTHINGNESS. ABYSS. TOMB. CARRION. KILL. The desk is sitting in the center of the room has words scratched, carved, nearly gouged, into the dusty wooden surface reading: "Thief. Go home. Drop dead." If they look in the desk they will find a small, plastic pencil case with a broken zipper, some playing cards and a sketching of what looks like a bat with a reptile's face. Lounge: Spacious, with a floor entirely made out of sand. Sand you’d find on the beach and wouldn’t find on the floor of an elementary school. It was as if they were standing in a huge play area. What is going on? Other than that it is normal. According to the map, this is some sort of lounge, although there are no objects inside that give it that classification. No desks or chairs, only a table a few feet in the distance. A telephone is located on a table in the center of the room. The instrument is dead when first picked up, and seems a little too heavy and feels greasy. Is every logical means of escaping put there just to fail and disappoint? The door is to the right, and there is nothing more to search for in this room. So as the PC puts his/her hand on the knob, ready to open it. Suddenly, the phone rings. ...or rather emits a harsh bray of a buzz Still, the sound the phone emits makes the PCs literally jump. They turn around, realizing it is nothing to fear. Just a phone ringing. You see the phone with uncanny clarity. That curious device. Sitting atop the scarred pine desk. In reality, it is a homely device, a mere box. But now it seems ominous, charged with the evil portent of a nuclear bomb. If they walk up to it, having no idea who is calling or why, but maybe whoever it is can help them out of this hellhole. Otherwise it keeps on ringing, the shrill sounds stabbing at the PCs’ eardrums, at their brains. Calling them to answer it. Ring. Answer it. Ring. The PC picks up the phone, and as he/she opens his/her mouth to speak, a voice comes through before he/she has the chance. The voice on the other end says: “Have you been good?” Another sound comes over the wire. Screams. Men and women and children. More than a few of them. Dozens, scores. Not stage screams; not make-believe terror. They are the stark, shocking cries of the damned: screams of agony, fear and soul-searing despair. One final scream. A child. A little girl. She cries out in terror, then in pain, then in unimaginable suffering, as if she is being torn apart. Her voice raises up and up— Silence. Suddenly, the phone starts to die again. They hear a few beeps and then nothing.

The moment it does, a gigantic frenzied roar emanates suddenly and inexplicably from the outside. It is neither a human scream nor any animal sound, yet it is unquestionably the cry of a living being. There is no mistaking the raw emotions of that alien, blood-freezing bleat. It isn’t a scream of fear or pain. Strangely, the sound has a disturbing quality of rage about it, as though it had been produced not by natural forces but by some colossus trapped in the inferno and less pained than infuriated by it. It is a blast of rage, hatred, and feverish blood hunger. The hairs on the back of their necks stand up in response as the monstrous sound echoes throughout the school with inhuman force, shaking the building right down to the foundations. The roar is soon followed by the sound of someone banging hard on a piano. It sounds like it is coming from the music room. The screaming and the banging continues in scattered intervals. Music Room: This is obviously a music room, a grand piano sits in one corner, and there is a single, strange-looking guitar in the other corner, but the piano is the main feature of the room. It has a battered console upright with gouges taken out of its faded walnut finish. A small section of the keys are stained with blood. Pressing down on a few of its red, white and black keys cause notes to be emitted from the piano, breaking the silence of the dark room. A few other keys, however, emit simple clicks. Almost no sound at all come from them. Below the keys stands a small padded bench which opens. The lid is currently lifted and inside is sheet music. If the PCs place a piece of sheet music in the stand above the keys, ghostly fingers play always that piece. If, upon discovering this phenomenon, a PCs intentionally changes the sheet music, the trick works...once. After the first time, changing the sheet music causes the music to grow even louder, rising in a painful crescendo. Locker Room: A double row of green, scratched and dented lockers, back to back, runs through the center of the large small room, with scarred benches in front of them and smaller lockers in the center. Bare cement floor. Concrete block walls with the occasional bulletin board. Exposed fluorescent ceiling lights, vaguely foul odors---sweat, urine, stale liniment, fungus and a pungent, overriding scent of pine disinfectant gives the air an unsavory richness. There comes a ferocious yell, and then a screech from the cat, the sound of something tumbling, something falling, breaking, the terrible yells of the demons, a kind of low grunt. The PCs make themselves move toward the hallway. Each step is an ordeal, but they make it. The screeching and the laughter of the gray children continuing the entire time. Hallway: When they look into the darkness of the hallway, they see what at first appears to be two tumbling shadows, but the shadows stopped rolling, what they see is the black cat, lying on the hallway, not moving. The two demons are standing over the cat with blades upraised. One of them is bent forward and examines its quarry, making a satisfied sound. It then turns its head and looks at the PCs. The PCs raise the gun. The creatures come forward at a wild run, the blades raised high in their hands. They fire the gun. The bullets knock the things winding, and they lay facedown next to the dead cat.

The PCs take a deep breath and pool the flashlight beam around the shapes on the floor. One of the things raises its hand, the one with the knife in it, and jams it into the wood flooring, pulling itself forward a pace. It lifts its head, and looks at them. It puts one knee and itself and starts to stand. Basement: As they descend the narrow steps, they notice the smells of the basement are different than those upstairs. They detect the mild lime-rich odor of concrete dust and insecticide that lends a pungent odor to the air. And, underlying everything else, a slightly damp smell, a vague but nonetheless unpleasant mustiness. They reach the bottom of the stairs, footsteps ring sharply, crisply on the concrete floor and echo hollowly in the corners. The basement is plain, metal, the walls are stone and metal, very industrial, with it is a sense of despair. The basement extends under the entire building and is divided into two chambers. At the opposite end from the stairs lies the boiler room, beyond a heavy metal fire door. More “Friend in Need” posters are stuck to the walls. A sound: playful giggling. It could’ve even been considered cute, had it not been heard in this unreal version of the school. In this darkness that numbs the senses, in the face of all this horror, of all this blood, that sound just doesn’t fit. It sends chills up the spine and makes the skin crawl. Then it is there again: a giggle, followed by some wordless, childish exclamation. Suddenly, a Gray Child leaps off the rail. It takes a few tentative steps forward and looks side to side; there is an air of uneasiness about it. Then it raises its tiny knife, shakes it and laughs. When shot, the creature stops laughing and rolls onto its back. Then it sighs. The sigh is one not of weariness but of pleasure, as though being shot in the chest has been an interesting and gratifying experience. When they are satisfied it is dead they leave it, and walk to the end of the room. Where are all these things coming from? It’s like there are hundreds of them. As they finally reach the fire door, their feet slide across a substance as warm and slimy as blood. They tell themselves it is probably only mud as the heavy metal door opens sluggishly, its weight almost too great for them to force open. The reinforced glass window in its center is blackened out with dirt and grime. They slowly pull it open with a rusty screech. Storage: A work table occupies the center, and free-standing metal storage shelves are lined up along the walls, all crammed full of books and supplies. The Boiler Room: The PCs push the door to the boiler room open, scanning the ancient rusting machinery in the narrow space. The usual water and heating pipes run overhead along with an electric line ending at a circuit box. They notice more and more that it is getting cold. They walk up to the boiler controls, and press the button. The boiler starts up. A sound comes from the deep, it is a dark growling sound, it turns and groans, then suddenly stops. Courtyard: Outside, the courtyard looks pale and scared. Snow tints the grass lighter colors, as if draining them of pigment. And once again, the radio springs to life with its wave of static. For a

second, they remain paralyzed on the threshold, considering the dark space they have to cross. They gather the strength to continue — there is no turning back. They aim the flashlight to the ground before them and progress as bravely as possible into courtyard. The PCs play the flashlight beam around the small area to check for any other creatures that might be hiding in the shadows. They walk slowly forward, small steps carrying them through gaps in the waist-high hedges. As they move they swing the light from left to right, squinting to make out shapes in the gloom. The only movement is from a small gutter that water drips from, sending pings of sound through the yard. Immediately they start sweeping the light around for any threats. They wait, but nothing makes itself apparent. There is nothing here, besides four benches, four hedges and a tree. There are a pair of squarish hedge bushes in front of them; something could be hiding behind them. The radio begins to crackle violently. They look at it, knowing what it means. They step forward, and the static grows louder. There is something here, and they aren’t seeing it. They then lift the flashlight upwards and continues to rotate — looking for the creature. They hear something familiar. It is a low, depressive giggle, almost human in a way. They have heard it before, but it isn't coming to mind immediately. They turn around to discover what it is. And when they do, they immediately find themselves wishing they hadn't. It is that damn creature they encountered in the alley the first time, that demon child thing. It looks almost exactly alike, the hole where its mouth should be, unevenly protruding sharp, rotting teeth, the gray fish belly skin, and of course, the knife it holds in its deformed hand. It is slow, not moving more than two feet a second and being about eight feet away, but to see this thing stalk, to bear down is still unsettling. It isn't fast, but it certainly feels like it. It has fallen on its face (or what passes for one, at least). At the time that they backed away, it apparently tried to lunge or tackle. It missed and overbalanced as a result. They can now capitalize on it and bring the gun to eye level, train right on the monster’s head just as it is picking itself up. They fire, and the sound is damn near concussive because of the confining walls around this courtyard, but the shot is a good one, shaky though their aim is. The bullet punches a hole in the side of this monster’s head, where its ear would normally be. It loses control of its body immediately and plants its face on the turf again, laying perfectly stock still. It is dead. They start investigating their surroundings again. There are a few benches lining the outer walls and a few placed flush against the four hedges in the center. Other than that, it is a rather dull playground. There is no sandbox, no swings or slides, no tetherball, no hop skotch court engraved in the concrete sections, not even a basketball net, or anything like that. Dull and drab. What did the children do on break, just stand around? Turning to the right reveals that there is something else in the courtyard after all. In the southeast corner, on the side of the yard that they entered from, is a building, a clock tower rises into the sky. Clock Tower: They are back in the courtyard, breathing heavy, looking at a truly imposing sight, a clock tower reaches into the air, it is the tallest point of the school. It looks completely out of place against the stark block walls of the school courtyard, like a yellow candlestick flush against a white curtain. The clock tower is crowned in white, and the winds aloft play with the snow upon its gables and cornices just as they do on the breathless ledges of the highest mountains.

They walk towards it, it is right in the corner of the courtyard, very out the way. It seems to just jump at you, and pull you in, the door is the first, and one of the only things you see when looking at it. There are steps leading up to what looks like a door, one without handles or a knob, more like an elevator’s doors. The clock is stopped at 10:00. "10:00. Alchemy Laboratory: Gold in the old mans hand." ” They grab the door and pull it open. Inside is a narrow, claustrophobic space of wooden walls that give off the distinctive smell of wet pine, also something that is most unusual, ladders heading down. Shouldn't they go up, not down? Only one way to get the answers they want heading down here, they place their foot on the first metal bar of the ladder and climb down. When they hit the floor they spin around, there is a small passage. It leads down into a perfectly symmetrical room. Bottles litter the floor. The wood is old and warped and so waterstained that is splotched like the shell of a tortoise. There is rusted wire mesh comprising the floor, and haunting the air, softly screaming, is a siren. It is the same siren they heard in that alleyway and the same one in their encounter with the Red Pyramid. It is louder now, it is really loud, their ears are buzzing and stinging hearing it. There are is another identical ladder leading up to a second clock-tower. The only difference is that this ladder has a rusted sign “KEEP OUT” over it. This doesn't make any sense, they should be coming out onto the street or into a classroom if this place has any logic. Originally there was only one ladder and one small storage area. When the visitors cross the middle of the room, into the part of the room littered with bottles, they’re actually crossing into the alternative school, like stepping through a mirror. When one climbs up the second ladder, they are actually climbing the first one; except now in the alternative world rather than the "real" world, the boundary between the two is in the middle of the room. The sirens are heard in this room, indicating the shift between realities. They put a foot on the ladder and climb up, no manhole, there is just a small room. It looks strangely familiar, it is just big enough to climb up into the leave though a heavyset door. They climb up and push the door open, and step out, and look around for any clue to where they are. They are standing at the foot of a large, imposing clock tower, there is a single building encircling them; built like a box around them. There is a large set of double doors close by. This is too weird. Something is happening. This is the thing that had been waiting to happen all night long, the tension they had sensed earlier in the night. They can't help but notice an overwhelming feeling of loss, this they just can't explain. The place the PCs find themselves inside is even worse. Far worse. A whole different world of worse. It is night. Perhaps midnight. The most perfect midnight imaginable. Inky. No stars at all. The sky is flawless blackness. Not a speak of light. And not a sound either. No wind. Even before the PCs got into town, the temperature had felt cold, wet, and damp. Even inside of the buildings it is chilly at best. Even in the damn school it had been cold. Now, it is anything but cold. In fact, it is pleasantly warm.

Rain drizzles in large drops from the darkened sky, splashing hard onto the courtyard, the blacktop glistening like a serpent’s scales. The odors of the winter are no longer perceptible. Gone is the faint, crisp, ozone-like scent of snow. The snow is gone. Day is gone. It seems as if they have only gone through one side of the clock tower to the other, and as if their time spent within it has allowed for a weather change. They are in the same courtyard they have just left. THE ALTERNATIVE SCHOOL: Courtyard: The PCs find the school children. Several rows of tables beneath overhangs of the roof line the outer rim of the courtyard, the center dominated by the small, mostly empty lot that was often used for teaching certain classes on nice days. It is little more than a dirt lot. In this dark place, it has transformed to an expanse of sand and small stones, and surrounding it are the mauled and torn corpses of what must have been at least five dozen children. Many are propped up in their seats, leaning over rotting plates of food. The rest are strewn about the courtyard, some tangled in masses of bloody tissue, broken bone and charred flesh. Many of the corpses seem to have been burned beyond recognition, while still others are dismembered lumps of flesh, or have been pounded into broken heaps of bone and tissue. The only table devoid of any corpses is the small one nearest the entrance, the table where the disabled children had always been seated. They then notice a very large symbol in the middle of the courtyard. Shining the light on it, it looks like a large triangle inside of two circles, one circle barely larger than the other, yet still leaving about a feet of space between them, the effect it makes creates an illusion of one large circle. There is a line that goes back and forth inside of the triangle, almost like a snake. Inbetween the gap of the two circles are various symbols. For a time, you just stand there in the courtyard of Midwich elementary school. Just stand on the symbol with the rain and the silence. It brings how you feel inside to the surface, standing on something more important then you, bigger then you, the plants around you all connected to each other and to the earth. The rain, water the most giving and killing element, falling on and around you. The unbroken, pure silence. It all is pure and untouched by filthy hands. The dirty steel door is there before them, almost calling to them. They can make out words in the door, though none are written or had even intended to be. The rusted steel just screams out to them . . . two simple words find their way into the PCs’ heads. . . Alternate school . . . They walk up to the door and open it slowly. The creaking sound it makes is as sickening as it is frightening. They take a step inside and gasp. allway: In the glimmer of the flashlight, they discover that the whole hallway has become hellish. A nightmarish gauntlet, a creepy, cold, shadowed walkway in which chains and hooks hang and rattle. Metal grating clanks beneath their feet, like someone has lain a wire fence down as a suitable replacement for concrete over absolute darkness, and there are wisps of fog moving through the air like smoke; the hallway is black, as black as ink, and there is the strong smell of rust and filth – and blood.

The small flashlight gives off a feeble light, more of a spotlight than anything else, but it is better than nothing – better than darkness. The wire mesh is barely supporting their weight. They can’t help but stare around the room, what is wrong with this place? What is going on here? And then they hear something. Ahead of them, the sound of a valve turning. It is a high, splitting squeak. Walking through and looking to the left... There is a creature behind the mesh. Whatever this thing is, it appears to be humanoid in form. It is wearing a thick apron and gloves, and is turning a pair of rusty red valves, creating the horrible screech that echoes in the PCs’ ears, with a pause for a second, as much time as it takes for the thing’s hand to move back to its original position and start turning again. There is a twitching growth on its back that is dripping blood. The monster stops. Slowly, it turns its head toward the PCs, revealing a smooth, blank face completely devoid of features. This whole area now has an aura of pain, despair and misery about it that make it hard not to be horribly afraid for one's life. They have to get out of there. The question is how. With so much of the place under the cover of darkness, it will be difficult to see where one is going and even harder to defend oneself successfully against these creatures. They need a guide to this place, and they need it soon, before they stumble into some place they have no idea how to escape from. The bullets for the handgun will only last so long. Suddenly they remember the map of the school they picked up a while back. Looking at school map shows that this is the same place, all right. It is dark and twisted, yes, but the complex layout is exactly the same. Looking down the long hallway, the walls, floor, and ceiling are a slimy brown, and almost feels alive underfoot. Also, the left wall of the place is steel mesh, and a loud screeching sound is echoing throughout the area. Preceded by the faint glimmer of the flashlight, they run through the frightening metal labyrinth. With each of their steps, the chain link floor stresses and sags under their feet with an uncomfortable metallic scratching sound. Hallway: They open the next door and find themselves in yet another school hall, but this one is different. The school is made of rusted metal that looks as if it had been burnt. They notice the walls are rusting and crumbling, black, brown and broken—everything is coated in dirt and dried blood, as is the chain link floor that they walk upon. They can't see anything below the chain link floor . . .just bottomless darkness. Rusted chains stretch across the ceiling—which has the structure of a steel chainlink fence—and hang down at certain places; they are coated in dry blood, making them look all the more ancient and appalling. Looking ahead, they notice yet another door, rusted and black. First Floor Storage: The walls have become lined with blood and flesh-clotted grilles, the corpses of children strung up amongst them with barbed wire. The furniture is now bloody, distorted and ripped apart. Everything is covered in brown and red, a hanging body is being held up by a lonely nose in the center of the room. Eyeing it nervously they close the door. Back Entrance: They notice a strong breeze coming from within the room. There is a number of long stools, like pews in a church. Rusted chains hang here and there from the ceiling. They look

around, trying to identify the source of the breeze. They then notice something up ahead, behind three horizontal bars: a large fan, still rotating. Suddenly, their light starts to pick up something behind the fan. They can only see something hanging and wonder what it is. The object becomes more and more visible as the PCs slowly begin to realize what it is. They then gasp. A human body torn in half . . First Floor Hallway: They emerge into a large room. The floor is completely made of steel chain link, covered in blood; and below it there is nothing but blackness and whispers. The strange grating beneath their feet makes no sound as they run, only the soft crunch of rust underfoot. They hear the same sobbing sound from before, the sound of the black ghost, coming from around a corner up ahead. The PCs know they are harmless, but something makes them slow, something in the sound. New levels, new tones in the soft, sad crying. Will they become immune to foul morbidity of the town, given time and increased exposure? Do they want to become immune? Classroom: Now it is merely a mockery of its former self, devoid of anything other than bloodstained metal grating and twisted desks. An oppressive heat pours from the doorway as it is slowly creaked open. At the center of the room is a long table with chairs around it, all of them made of rotten wood, full of holes and mold. When they get to the end of the table they notice it is covered in playing cards, there is one that stands out, it is small and yellow, with two squires cut out of it on one side and a picture of a key on the other. Classroom: Identical to the first: a large zone of darkness, littered with the remains of broken wooden desks, the only real difference are the rusted chains that hang here and there from the ceiling. A cupboard has been flung open, and the floor is littered with chips and pieces of shattered crockery. Chairs have been smashed against the wall, a table hacked apart. The smell of decay is stronger. The light picks out something scrawled on the wall: WHO ARE YOU? Written in brown paint, but no. The blood runs down the wall and gathers in a crusty little patch on the floor. And then they are found, what is left of them. They have been tied to chairs with barbed wire. Their heads, framed with blood-streaked hair, resemble a bloated pincushion punctured by an assortment of knives, forks and two-pronged handles. On the chest someone had drawn a target in blood and gone to work with a firearm. The floor around the bodies is inch deep in surging, scrambling, mutated cockroaches. Now is the time to run out the classroom, slamming the door behind them. They then feel a presence, standing over them, they look up, but all there is the endless black Lobby: If one should return to the front entrance to leave, they find that the floor in the center of the lobby is gone, leaving a gaping black abyss dominating the center of the room. The PCs can see nothing but darkness down the treacherous well. The front door’s windows are smashed out and replaced by wood and nails, everything about this place seams harsh and basic. Above the hole, bodies are strung up on the ceiling, along with oddly placed cages of heavy black iron. In a corner is a heaped, wrecked wheelchair, with something sitting comfortably on it. It is a small red vial. Lounge: They walk across the room, past the body hanging over the front door—which is still as watchful as ever—and through a set of rusted metal double doors—which used to be fine,

polished wood—into the lounge. It has the same motif as the rest of the school: the deteriorated and bloodstained pieces of furniture are on a chainlink floor over a dark pit. Rusted chains hang here and there from the ceiling. School Nurse: The bed is still here, it looks the same, but that is it. The small table is gone and the cabinet is now decaying and rotting. They step up to it, the stickers on the glass now say ‘welcome to hell' and the others say, ‘hell is coming' . They glance at the medical chart and see that it now reads: INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE AUTOPSY AND POSTMORTEM EXAMINATION OF THE AVERAGE KINDERGARTNER. What follows are simply step-by-step instructions accompanied by appropriate full-color diagrams. They then see something else . . . A statue . . . Two of them actually, looking like the ones they had seen in the painting in the teachers lounge in the normal school. The things that stand out the most, are located in the corners of the room, to the left and right sides of the door. Two figures, apparently human, dressed in some sort of white clothing that can best be described as body-bags that cover the entire body, hands, feet, as well as head and face. They are completely white, not a spot or stain on them; they are the only things in the whole room that don’t look dirty at all. Their arms are crossed across their chests, elbows to the front and each hand placed on the opposite shoulder. The statues stand tall, the figures look proud and yet somewhat tortured in a way. Playroom: Blue light streams in through the big picture-windows, but as one’s eyes adjust a solid-wood rocking horse is seen, silhouetted in the light, rocking itself by jerking its neck forward and backward. Then one notices a whole parade of toys lined up, jerking clumsily along to the rhythm, slowly approaching. As one’s gaze makes its way to the back of the line, one sees two frail arms sticking out of the shadows in the corner; literally thin skin stretched over bone with no intervening flesh. The arms are moving to the beat like a conductor, directing the whole scene. They are attached to a frail, crouched body, but the head is obscured by its huge mass of dread-locked hair that hangs down to the floor. Suddenly, as if it feels my attention on it, the arms freeze, causing all the toys to drop dead in their positions, and the head jerks upwards exposing a skull face beneath the matted hair. It then lunges across the room at the intruder. It spins as it moves, hands swirling above it, hopping from one leg to another in a kind of mad, capering dance. Shaggy hair hangs halfway down its back from its head, but otherwise the thing is naked. Its face is skeletal, yes, and thin, its chin pointed, cheekbones high and jutting from beneath leather skin. It has a mouth full of jagged teeth that are crusted with a green moss scraped clean in spots. A flap of desiccated flesh on its cheek hangs from the bone as if glances about with dark hollow orbits where eyes ought to have been. Two other items lie behind the cage. The first is a dingy gray nurse's hat with the words Brookhaven Hospital stitched in red. The second is a bloody wedding ring. Slashed deeply through the ring’s metal is a series of jagged scratches that form a name: Keeper The Stairs: The PCs move toward the stairs, the metallic clank! of their steps filling the atmosphere. The banister at the top of the stairs has turned into a series of pipes like the ones used in plumbing, fastened with large rusted bolts to the walls and the floor. The stairs themselves are likewise made of metal grating, and through the holes in them one can see the series of pipes build an amorphous structure just beneath the stairs.

Second Floor Hallway: Out on the corridor they feel sick, it is the same as before; the mesh floor, the decaying walls and the never-ending sense of fear. The walls on either side are lined with the bodies in white, now looking more like guards or wardens than ever before, as they make their presence in the room be felt. They look omnipresent. Library Reserve: It is a mostly empty room. There is a long line of L-shaped shelves on the wall with a number of heavy-looking books lining them in random placement, some are withering away to nothing. The rest, strangely, look brand new, almost perfect. They walk up to them and inspect them, there is one near the end that is laid open to the third chapter. They walk over and pick it up, the formal text reads: Chapter 3: "Manifestation of Delusions" Poltergeists are among these. Negative emotions, like fear, worry, or stress manifest into external energy with physical effects. Nightmares have, in some cases, been shown to trigger them. However, one such phenomenon doesn't appear to happen to just anyone. Although it's not clear why, adolescents, especially girls, are prone to such occurrences." The title of the book is "The Monster Lurks by Leonard Rhine". Library: The school's library is one of empty shelves, shadows and paper strewn about. It is a large, very old room with cobwebs clustered on the ceiling and the ceiling-high shelves are full of rotting volumes reaching back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. Page after page has been ripped from their crumbling binding, torn and tossed aside. Here and there, empty bindings lie gaping like gutted carcasses, the paper distorted with damp. The rest of the room has given in to decay. Curtains of dust and cobwebs drape the collapsed bookshelves lining the walls. Stuffed animal heads and other hunting trophies lay stuffed into corners like carrion too filthy even for buzzards. The sofas and chairs are mildewed and rotten, the wooden furniture is ridden with woodworm. The only book that seems undamaged, lies open at the end of the shelf, the bold letters at the top of the page reads The Tale of the Lizard. The slimy monster hurled itself out of the swamp, scaly, triangular head, with fanged jaws and darting snakelike tongue, mounted on a barrel-sized snakelike body, towering above him, while he stood thigh-deep in water, the muck of the marsh sucking at his feet, anchoring him so he could not get away, but had to stand and face the monster. He bawled at the reptile in anger and revulsion as it hung above him, hissing, dominating him, sure of him, taking its time, not in any hurry, hanging there like a stroke of certain doom while he waited with his toothpick of sword--good steel, sharp and deadly and well fitted to his fist, but so small a weapon that it seemed unlikely it could inflicts more than a scratch upon this scaly monstrosity that would eventually pick its time to strike. The swamp was silent except for the hissing of the monster and the slow drip of water from its shining hide. It had a strange unearthliness, as if not entirely of the earth nor quite yet of some place--a moment and a space poised on some freakish borderline between reality and unreality. Tendrils of trailing fog roiled above the black and stagnant water--black molasses water, too thick to be actual water, but a devilish brew that reeked and stank of foul decay. The trees that grew out of the water were leprous, their grey and scaling trunks bearing the mark of an unknown and loathsome ailment with which the entire world on the other side of the borderline might be afflicted. Then the head came crushing down with the body following, arcing and coiling and striking him as if some giant fist had descended on him, brushing aside his sword-arm, buckling his knees, throwing its smooth and muscular loops about his body, enfolding him in its strength, driving the breath out of his lungs, crushing his ribs, dislocating

his shoulders, folding him in upon himself and a voice bawling off somewhere in the distance. Then the huge creature open wide its jaws. This was what the man wanted. Calmly drawing his bow, he shot into the lizard's gaping mouth. Effortlessly the arrow flew, piercing the defenseless maw. And the lizard fell down dead. Classroom: This time it is filled with chairs that are weathering and crumbling away. Hanging to either side of the table is one of the bodies in white, just standing there, ominously. Locker Room: The locker room looks a lot like the one at the other school, but it is darker, more twisted and horrific just like the rest of the school. Each tall, narrow metal locker is rusted, dented, and some are bent out slightly along one edge, as if someone had been prying at them. The combination locks are clunky and rusted as well. Blood has seeped through the thin opening holes, creating a gruesome effect. The PCs then hear a rattling sound. They proceed down the line of lockers and around the first set. At the other end, they see one small locker door shaking and rattling. Curious, they walk up to it as quickly as they can, although still walking. There is a "no running" sign, so the PCs might fear the worst. They always have to fear the worst in this town. They stare at the rattling locker in front of them. They then put a hand on it and pull it open. Nothing inside but blood. A lot of blood at that. The locker has a small river flowing out of it. They have seen worse here. They are unmoved by the sight. What caused that rattling sound? They look deeper into, and still find no source to the sound. All they find is the gigantic red bloodstain that fills the empty locker. Nothing in the locker room. Just a worthless locker filled with blood. They start to walk away from it, deciding that all of their exploring is getting them nowhere. Suddenly, one of the lockers flies open with a huge banging sound. The PCs jump forward, not sure what came out of the locker . . . if anything at all. They then hear a hollow thump on the ground. They turn around slowly to see what it was that caused the sound. They then gasp. It is lying on the floor, is it dead? It isn't a monster, it is a body. A rotting child's body. It is completely hollowed out, a large, gaping hole in its stomach. Its pale, blank eyes drawn open in surprise. Blood seems to have been massaged into the hair. A strange mark is located on its neck. It is wrapped in a white cloth, red and black stains all over it. There is something beside it, it looks like a key. They pick it up, trying hard not to disturb the body. They hear a rumbling again, this time it is directly underneath, growling and crying. Hallway: The one that overlooks the lobby. Now a statue hangs there, identical to the others, a rope coming from the ceiling wrapped around its neck, the torso dotted with bloodstains. Girls Restroom: A watery sound grows louder — an irregular sloshing they attribute to the cistern. They walk to the seatless discolored pedestal. The instant they look down, only the thought of touching the encrusted scabby walls restrains them from supporting themselves against them. Whatever is gaping wide-mouthed at them from the black water, surely it is dead, whether it had been drowned by someone or swam up the plumbing. Surely it is the unstable light, not anticipation of them, that makes the whitish throat and pale lips appear to work eagerly. Boys Restroom: The door, marked men's room, opens very easily. The room's purpose is instantly recognizable. There is now a single large cubical at the end of the room, the door is looking at them. The bathroom floor is made of stone, unlike the metal grating outside, and it is covered in a thick coating of rust and blood. The fluid is everywhere, but it seems to be coming from the last stall in a row that lines the wall to their left.

Something is sticking out the cubical door, it looks like a handle for some type of firearm, they walk up to it. They push the door slowly open in order to reach it, and grab the handle, and lift it. It is fairly heavy at first. It looks like a sawn-off 12-gauge pump action shotgun. It has two barrels and a small handle of aged wood. Then a drip is heard. You stop breathing as your eyes shoot up, as soon as you find it, they keep moving up and up. You fall backward, staring into the face of what can simply be called, a hunk of human meat. Its red bare skin, its hacked, mangled torso that is barely holding the body to the wall, those worn blood packs hanging down from the ceiling. A long metal pole stretches across its pelvis holds the body up there. The arms are cuffed and lifted in the position of the crucifixion. A pile of organs and viscera lies in front of the toilet. The PCs cannot bring themselves to look it. Instead theirs eyes are drawn to the message daubed on rusted wall. In large, crude, childish letters word have been smeared on the wall” ‘Leonard Rhine, the monster lurks." Roof: Up the two flights of stairs, trying to outrun a foe that doesn’t exist. At every landing, the flashlight illuminate a body that has been hanged in straight-jackets, arms over their bloody chests, swinging gently in the darkness. They soon make it to the top of the stairs and end up in another hall. At the top, they see yet another rusted door. They open the door, wondering if there is anything useful out here, some way to get out of this nightmare of a school. They look around, thin rain still splashing off their clothes. They walk forward, noticing another mark much like the one in the courtyard, only much smaller. It is engraved on the wall in ash. Basement: Reluctantly, the PCs go down a stairway whose handrails are now joined by rusted chainlink with small droplets of blood sliding down through it. They reach the landing and continue down. As they make the final stair, they soon reach the bottom, ending up in a room very similar to the entrance to the boiler room, except . . . the door that they entered the boiler room with at the other school has changed. It is the same door as the one in the painting at the teacher's lounge. It has two squire indents on it, in the middle is a thin hexagonal slot. The two statues stand tall and majestic-looking, as if guarding something. They then notice a thin layer of blood spilling from one of the square shaped holes. They then hear a loud scraping sound coming from behind the door to the boiler room and they think they hear a low murmuring. The sound isn’t human; it is like the whimpering of an animal in pain. Quietly moving to the door and peering through a gap in the planked boards. Bodies lay strewn in various stages of death around the room, several impaled on meat hooks on the wall. Many still twitch from their brutal murder from the insanely large cleaver. Yet the creature in the middle of the room ignores the carnage, instead using the blade to quarter the bodies and throw them into a large furnace in the middle of the room. With each swing of the large weapon blood spurts around the room, drenching his already dripping clothing. Only a few spots show their original dingy white color. It’s him. If anything, Pyramid Head now seems bigger than before, well over seven feet tall, with massive shoulders, impossibly broad chest, his apron as voluminous as a tent. The material has a leathery

quality to it, and it is made up of several pieces of the same, leathery material crudely sewn together with what looks like hair. By slowly dragging the light further up they see the skin of the creature. It is as pale as its clothing, and just as leathery. The arms are muscular, and veins throb on their surface. The corners of the pyramidal helmet are sharper and darker, stained with a brownish-red coloring. Huge bolts hold the pyramid together, and there are wedges along each side. A carpet of cockroaches and other iridescent black beetles scuttle around his feet. Eventually, the door swings open. The area beyond the door is extremely dark. They cannot see the other side of the room inside, but step inside. They walk forward, wondering what is beyond this door that seems to symbolize something...most likely some sort of danger. They find themselves upon a strange corridor barred by two rotating gates. Like a turnstile, the gates have been designed in such a way that they resemble two poles with two sets of spikes protruding from them, so that in order to pass through, one has to rotate them so that their spikes do not interlock and block the entry way. The PCs can try to just push their way through. No luck. They then notice two valves, one on each side of the doorway. Seeing nothing else to use they turn one out of curiosity. As expected the contraption rotates with each turn of the valve. They turn the right one and the poles move. There is still a couple blocking. They turn it again, more poles move and still a few are blocking. They go to the other valve and turn it. The rest of the poles move out of the way and the path is soon clear. They peer in, it is the only place yet to be explored and the fact that no such place existed before the sirens sounded out makes them all the more suspect, but there is no choice in the matter now. The PCs walk through the grated floor. As they reach the end of the room, steel bars close off the entrance to the room and results in a ride in a creaky and dirty old lift, looking more like it belongs in a prison or underground mining pit. The Boiler Room: The dubiously constructed lift leads downwards, traveling down a shaft made of chain-links, like the rest of the school, with much creaking, rumbling and complaint as it descends, layers of rust and grime flaking off of it. The elevator sometimes passes an opening that gives a tantalizing glimpse of the basement’s interior: in the darkness of the shaft jars of marmalade with nails in them can be seen going past. Again, they have felt like something has been triggered: in front of them is a cage, the long bars covered and flaky with rust. And behind it is a fence, the metal loops likewise rusted. . . and behind that. . .is a thing. ...shaped like a human: it has a head, a neck, arms, hands, legs. But it is decidedly inhuman, a mockery of it. Its eyes. . . it has no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no opening whatsoever; the flesh is smooth and without a trace of perforations beneath the surface. Its flesh is the same color as the strange smock it wears, dirtied and tarnished beyond recognition. It might have been white, pure, at some point in time, but that point was left behind long, long ago: now it is stained, sullied. One cannot even tell where its skin begin and clothes ends. And struggling in its hands, being mangled by the creatures’s strong arms, is a writhing mass of flesh...it looks like a woman, but one isn't foolish enough to think just because it resembles something, it means that is what it is – even so. . . it looks like a woman: one can see her breasts, the nipples puckered and sore, and what's worse it seems like she is screaming, her voice muffled by. . . She is screaming, or that humanoid thing is groaning. And yet. . . as disgusting as this thing and its companion are, one can't help but feel a fascination at its presence. They stare in mingled disgust and captivation at this thing, at the woman writhing

in its hands, twitching and shuddering at its touch. What is it doing to her? Somehow. . . they know it is sacred. This thing, this humanoid twitching behind the fence, molesting and at the same time almost lovingly caressing the woman, it is something holy, a purification. . . and even though this thing is disgusting, at the same time they know it is harmless. They know it won't, can't, hurt them – shame that it doesn’t seem like that woman had any luck. They shiver as they continue down into the inky blackness. Even with the gates and bars in the way they still feel anxious at the thought of being within sight distance of it. One can’t help but feel that they are heading into a deep abyss, where the greatest horrors this place has to offer awaits them. They are comforted to see that they aren't going to tumble end over end into the spiraling void: there is something solid in this darkness, something on which they can stand, a support of some kind. The only sound they can hear is the metallic, almost mechanic, drone, like valves turning, like pathways opening. Taking a while, but eventually, the elevator begins to slow down and finally, with a loud grinding noise, shudders to a halt at what the PCs can assume is the bottom of the shaft. Numerous blades, hammers and spears mounted on clockwork gears spin and sweep along one wall. In another, sharpened metal pipes emit bursts of steam at regular intervals. With the flashlight on, the PCs take a careful step forward. Suddenly, something is noticed up ahead. It looks like another statue, only this one seems to be some sort of effigy: a straitjacket-clad body. The statue is tied to a wooden post up ahead, almost like a sick parody of an ancient witch-burning. Surrounding it is a metal barricade made up of metal spikes and grinding gears and such that prevent others from approaching it. Suddenly, the figure is engulfed in flames, which erupt from the post. The figure slowly burns, and as the figure burns, the igneous spikes surrounding it move, rotating like some sort of grinding machine. A great furnace roars to life beneath it. With the new illumination, they see that they are standing in a large circular room. They are unable to see the ceiling above, and the floor is metallic mesh bolted to thick metal strips fanning out from the center of the room where the burning body is. Sections of the steel grating making up the floor are torn away, and they can see that the supports for the mesh are formed from a fused biomechanical mass of human bodies. The heat is oppressive, and the stench is sickening You feel yourself starting to overheat. Badly. Something is very wrong here, and you want no part of it. No part at all. You just want the hell out of here but there isn't a door or anything. Nothing you can see. You feel panic rising. They hear an approaching rumble like a freight train. Then they hear footsteps . . . footsteps that cause the floor beneath them to shake. Every single step sends a huge wave of shock through the floor. The pipes—which extend up into infinity—give a seismic shudder, and a large reed-pipe tears raggedly open revealing a primal nightmare: One word comes to mind, almost like a psychic scream, and the PCs know that it has to be this living nightmare's name. The Emperor Lizard. The monster approaches slowly from the far end of the room, lit up behind the fire engulfing the body. Its eight blood-red eyes, four on either side of the head focuses on them. Its huge forearms crawl forward as the lizard draws closer to its prey. Its tongue, long, dry and forked, flickers in and out of its extravagantly massive maw. The tongue is as pink as silk. The body turns, and the stumps serving for legs begin a slow progression toward the PCs.

Every bullet just ricochets off of its hard skin, with some sticking very firmly in its forehead. As it moves forward, scales drop from its skin, razor-sharp, to slice and bury themselves into the chain link grating like skimmed metal shields. They can smell the carrion stink of its jaws, feel the tremor of its advancing steps. A vile pink substance oozes down its forehead. After 1D4 melee rounds of combat the Emperor Lizard stops moving. It stays still for a melee. They may wonder if the last shot fired has killed the damn thing. Suddenly, its head splits right in half. But it doesn’t stop! Its leathery green-brown skin separates where the indistinguishable head is to reveal a fourparted mouth, much resembling a flower. Rows of sharp teeth fills the petals of powerful skin until the oblivion of the throat, from which tears an ungodly roar of malice and hunger. It is as if its head is a larger mouth. Deep in its throat, in its bowels, glow innumerable souls, as tiny as the dolls of a child, as desperate and pained as victims of a torture-master. The screams of the souls fill the mind. The Emperor Lizard opens its mouth wider, simultaneously beckoning and challenging them to come forward, to test themselves against what it is showing them. Mouth agape, it streaks at them, terrifying fast. It then runs with bursts of incredible speed. Okay, just shooting it doesn’t work. There has to be some sort of weak point; a specific area they can target. But where? One thing is certain: unless they d something soon, they are going to end up as this creature’s latest meal. One can’t stay here dodging that hideous mouth forever. The mouth... As soon as the lizard opens its jaws, they open fire. Round after round strikes the creature’s mouth with deadly precision. The monster grunts in pain. Its massive jaws slam shut as it charges at the prey that has wounded it. With a final massive roar, the creature falls dead to the ground, blood leaking copiously from its disfigured mouth. Suddenly, a white burst of light immerses the entire chamber. The PCs try to block out the blinding light, but it penetrates through their eyelids, burning into their brains. Two more heavy shockwaves of light roll across, the beast’s death song; then there is nothing in the chamber but empty, blessed silence; even the gears in the cavern below have at last stopped their grinding and ticking and turning. The blinding light seems to flow over them, the corruption and filth washed away beneath the purifying tide. It swirls and congeals, the surfaces changing, the very world seeming to return to sanity with them. It is like reality itself is dissolving all around them. The intensity is too much, and they feel their consciousness fading from the assault on their senses. The fire ceases to be. All light is taken from the room. Somewhere a siren is ringing, so loud now that one’s skull seems ready to crack open.

The siren shrieks, louder than the death song, and then both fade eventually. The silence is soon broken by the distant tolling of a great church bell, stirring in the listener a compulsion to find its source. Return to Normality: The transition is jarring - the basement had been dark, rusty and bloody. This basement is a sterile and clean in comparison; well-lit and a dull color. There is the usual darkness. They have very limited options, but it is better than nothing is. They look around until satisfied that there is not anything useful in here. They glance at the door, then advance toward it. They turn the handle and push the door open, a strong light flows into the room, illuminating much of the iron boiler behind them. This is a surprise, you feel better, with a renewed sense of hope and calm coming over you. You go up the stairs feeling energized, You get up to the first floor, a dull light filters though a decaying window above your head. It is not bright and cheery by any stretch of the imagination, but it is infinitely better than what had come before. They walk up to the double doors leading to the exit and push the handle bar down, it doesn’t move, They turn the lock and the door clicks, the doors are unlocked and they can step out onto the streets of Silent Hill, the fog imparting a pleasant chill to their exposed flesh, and it suppresses most noises except for the ringing of the bell. To say things look normal would be too much of a stretch. However, everything still looks the same as it did before they entered the school and its malignant transformation. The grass is still freshly clipped, the vehicles the PCs pass look recently used, and, as they can see in the distance, streetlights are still operational; the signals to walk and to stop on the streets actually work, and properly too, along with the traffic lights. So, the interior of the school had changed, and very dramatically. So why not outside? What was so special about Midwich? The fog hangs thick in the streets of Silent Hill. The town is eerie yet tranquil when compared to the chaos of the darkness. Pockets of fog are form together and flow peacefully around the PCs. The serenity of it is enough to drive one insane. They know they must press on regardless, they know they have to hold together. Walking pass Midwich’s playground, the fog sits on the swings that hung still, as if frozen in time; and it slides down the slide, and hangs from the metal rings, and plays in the seesaw. It spins around on the wheel and settles in the sandbox, and hides behind the trimmed bushes. When it passes through a long tunnel made of concrete pipes, like the children used to do, it looks like smoke shooting out of the barrel of a gun. The snow makes the air cold and, even though it is the only thing that moves in this place, it still brings down with it a sense of complete isolation and stillness. These machineries of joy seem curiously ominous now. They loom bleakly, as if they might begin to move at any second. In the fog, the swings look like the skeletons of long-dead creatures. Sometimes it seems more like a morgue than a town, peopled by the dead. The differences are indefinable, subjective rather objective, perceptible to the spirit more than to the senses but nonetheless real. Everything looks gray and pale and incredibly bleak. You’ve all that experience of looking at a body of someone you love and knowing in an instant they’re no longer there.

Nothing in the scene is threatening or unusual, yet it seems ominous. You feel that You are looking out at a world that is no longer familiar, a world changed for the worse. There is a kind of stillness here that you have experienced before, a suspended silence as though the atmosphere itself were holding its breath. But then...in spite of the silence and the stillness, you are unable to deny the knowledge that there is another, darker reality beneath the picturesque surface: a place of ceaseless activity, of secret scurrying and scheming, a nest, a hive, in which a nightmare colony labors to some hideous purpose. You can feel the energy of this place, tremendous pentup energy, as if there's a huge hidden machine just beneath the ground...as if the houses are filled with machinery, too, all of it powered up and straining at cogs and gears, just waiting for someone to engage a clutch and set it all in motion. And the pace of that dark change is accelerating. Below the deceptive surface is a place finitely strange and inimical to human life. The school is now as obscure as a ghost ship becalmed in fog, less seen than suggested, a paleness in the lesser paleness of the snow and fog. Midwich Street: The street has only eight houses, each has twin high-peaked gables on the second storey, narrow front doors and small frosted windows. The houses at the ends of the street are in the worst shape, most of their roof shingles and sloughing off paint chips the way a tree sheds leaves. Both houses lean forward the center of the block, as if two great hands are attempting to squeeze the block from either side. Another three houses have suffered outside fire damage. The blackened boards look like permanent, arbitrary shadows. Midwich Chasm: The street lies on the slope of a barren hill, which is cut in half from left to right by a tremendous ravine. It is a yawning chasm, with shelving sides hollowed out, and it winds along the center of the road as if someone drew this little section of street and erased it from the world in a most destructive manner. The rubble and spidery cracks are so evident that they cause one side of the road they are on to sink, and the other to rise, like an earthquake. There is a car teetering over the edge. A few gaunt willows creep timorously down its rocky sides. They stand over the edge and are surprised to find that they can't see the bottom of the void, and when they look to the side, both the buildings and the fences lining the street in this direction are a jagged mess, having been torn from their foundation and sliding into the seemingly bottomless pit, but looking completely fine where the street is still erect. It makes no sense whatsoever how structures could still be standing like this, as badly as they are damaged on one side. It's almost as though the town had been torn from reality and suspended above a vaporous void. What is important is that they can't continue down this street thanks to the massive canyon that it drops into.

Grand Hotel: Around the corner, the Hotel looms in the mist. It is the tallest building on the
block---three stories. It is large and must have been wonderful to see when it wasn't condemned. The silence is absolute, the muffled sounds of their footfalls is all they hear as they near the Hotel. The structure is designed to face both sides of the street. The sign is painted in black letters on the end of a marquee that overhangs the sidewalk. The once magnificent front is dark and stagnant; cracks in the stuccoed boarders and dead creeping vines over the face of the Hotel. It is an ominous look that sends creeping shivers into the PCs as they approach the steps.

Lobby: The lobby’s ceiling is way up there in semi-darkness. Marble pillars grow like stone trees from the tiled floor. Couches and overstuffed chairs of dark brown leather are positioned along the walls, and around the pillars. The narrow registration desk is heavy dark oak. The wall behind it is sectioned into pigeon holes, each one labeled with a room number. On the desk is an open registration book with an old pen and inkwell beside it. A silver call bell rests beside the pen. The lobby looks much the same way the school looked. Ash and dust cover everything, books and papers hang off broken shelves. Long dead plants shrivel in pots that are overturned. The furniture is moth-eaten and grimy. The elevator with its illuminated dial like a clock that can never settle on the time. It is a very lavish elevator: everything about it is gleaming green marble tile that is surrounded with bronze and highly polished steel. They climb the stairs with its ornate cast iron stair rail to the second floor landing. First Floor Hallway: The hall is quiet except for their muffled footfalls. It was once lavish and decorative but now the walls are pealing and faded, the small ornamental tables are no longer gleaming, but dull. Pictures are barely unrecognizable. So faded that the paint seems to be smeared, cobwebs spreading over the woodwork like creeping vines of age and decay. The chandeliers are missing lights, only few actually work as if someone were trying to keep the place running. The only sound is the crack and crumble of plaster or wood, as slow rot performs its dance around them and under them. As you walk you consider all the countless secrets within the rooms of this crumbling hotel. Memories which are so intensely painful that they can never be swept away, lingering like the rectangular traces of the framed paintings that once hung in the barren hallways. Restroom: In the hallway, they hear something. Coming from the restroom. Cries. Much like a newborn baby’s crying. Yet so loud it’s as if the very walls were pleading to be heard by someone who gives a damn. Before they can move towards the door, they can hear the sound of an old toilet flushing, gurgling unnaturally loud and long. Cleansing and swirling sounds. Swirling and drowning. Drowning. Then the cries are no more. First Floor Hallway: They pass in front of rooms 99, 100, 101, 102...110, 112! Precisely where room 111 should be, they find the painting of a woman in typical eighteenthcentury attire, tied to a stake atop a bonfire, surrounded by puritans with piercing looks. There is a windmill in the background. The varnish is cracked, like a dried river bed, but the colors beneath - red, white, purple, blue - were bright still. Along the bottom of the stake, the puritans seem blurred out into the shadows. Only their eyes are distinct, shining with a fanatical glare. Underneath the painting is a plaque with the phrase, "Jennifer Carroll: What Hath Happened Shall Not Be Forgotten". The painting gives off a faint smell of must and incense. They suddenly lift the knife and stab it directly into the face of Jennifer Carroll, then rip down the painting. The knife has revealed a hidden recess, and a door number: 111. Room 111: The room looks like a normal hotel room, almost banal. Judging by the thick layer of dust around, it hasn't been occupied in a very long time. On a table are an abandoned plate and

glass. Under the bed is an old rag doll — so old that it frays between their fingers. Nobody has entered this room in decades, at least. The beam of the flashlight reveals dragging marks on the floor, at the foot of a large wardrobe. With difficulty, the PCs struggle to move the piece of furniture. It slowly slides aside. Behind the wardrobe, they find a large hole opening onto another broken down wall — leading into an adjacent building that was built just aside the hotel. A gap of about two feet separates the two buildings. Darkness: Looking down the their length as they turn a corner, they cannot avoid the sensation of some subtle warping of the walls, the ceiling. The doors appear unevenly matched in size and dimension. The frayed carpeting stretches unendingly like a diseased tongue, the material stained and threadbare. Like the elevator, the closed doors are hungry mouths waiting to be opened. Waiting to be fed. The hotel is a dark and crumbling building, as if designed by Salvador Dali: the corridors branch off randomly; some are very short and some are so long that the ends of them can not be seen; the walls and floors are at surreal angles to one another, and the doors to the rooms are of different sizes, some so small that only a mouse can pass through, others large enough for a man, and still others on a scale suitable to a thirty-foot giant. The further into the hotel they venture, the more ravaged the surroundings become. It is like descending ever deeper into the depths of a degenerate mind. The darkness grows thicker as the lamps illuminating the halls begin to dim. The air is so heavy that it feels difficult to breathe. It is as if the atmosphere had solidified into a barrier, trying to prevent the PCs from continuing any further. Far more troubling was the fact that the monsters seem to be lurking in greater numbers. Their snarling cries echo from their hiding places, and blend together in a dreadful chorus. The entire hotel has become saturated with madness. The PCs will be drawn to certain rooms. When them enter them they find in each a person from their pasts or current lives. In other chambers of this surreal hotel, they find dying men. The entrance to one room is a car door—the gleaming door of a blue ‘54 Buick, to be act. Inside they find an enormous, gray-walled chamber in which is the front seat, dashboard, and steering wheel, nothing else of the car, like parts of a prehistoric skeleton lying on a vast expanse of barren sand. A woman in a green dress sits behind the wheel, her head turned away from them. She turns to them, revealing that the right side of her face is caved in, the eye gone from the socket, bone punching through torn flesh. Broken teeth are exposed in her cheek, so she favors them with half of a hideous grin. Bloch Street: The creatures they had feared were lurking round every corner are nowhere to be seen, no threatening growls stalk their footsteps. They keep expecting to hear the flapping wings of the angels of death coming to take them away… but the silence only continues. But where had they gone, had they even existed? Or were they just a fevered delusion of their grief-ridden mind? They all stop at the corner, listening to the bell and staring west, toward the other end of Bloch Street. Only a little more than a block away, a brick church tower rises above the other buildings,

pressed close between tenement buildings. The church is just over a hundred yards away and its stout, weathered walls looked bleak, so very bleak, in the grey weather. The tower is painted white, and through the open shutters in the lighted belfry, the bell swings, casting a glint of brass along with its clear note. If the PCs arrive at the church at the time darkness falls, they see dozens of large black birds wheeling through the air and circling the highest reaches of the structure in localized flight about it — the only animal life thus far seen in Silent Hill.

Balkan Church:
They pass in front of the church. It is a monstrosity of marble and granite with a set of stairs leading up it. The immense medieval feeling of damnation and redemption exudes from this cathedral and the chimes that come from the distant belfries sound more ominous, terrifyingly ethereal, as if the sound were carried by disembodied wraiths from nether regions. The church seems no longer a place of active worship, but is instead a barely standing ruin that is left to rot in an urban landscape. A high window of colored glass and stone dominates the space above the door. There is a light inside. It filters out through the large, arched, stained-glass windows; its colors: the red, blue, green, and yellow imparts a rainbow glow to the thin veil of wind-whirled fog for a distance of three or four feet There is an enclosed churchyard within—a quiet garden with late roses, a leafy bower of vine, walkways and benches. A few sarcophagi of eroded stone make grey shapes above the trimmed grass. Occasional tombstone lean as barely decipherable monuments here and there; others are incorporated into the brick of the church walls. After a few minutes of getting nowhere with the pounding and yelling, it is then that it is noticed the bits of metal on the door. Realizing that this is where a doorknocker is meant to be. The doorknocker picked up at the strange grave marker. Slipping the doorknocker into the metal support bits will find that it fit perfectly. Using the knocker to knock three times is only way to open the church’s door. As the small brass monkey's fist hit the door for the third time, the lock clicks open sharply. The door can then be managed to be pulled open on its own and the inside of the church is revealed. The entrance foyer of the church is quiet and nearly lightless. The entire interior is done in dark pine—pegged pine floors, dark pine walls. When they push the door open, they glimpse a white marble holy-water font immediately to the right, but are more drawn to the scores of candles clustered at the front of the church, towards the extreme right side of the chancel railing. The PCs pass into the vast, vaulted, massively-columned nave with its rows and rows of polished pews. Beneath the archway above the aisle is a void of deep shadow. By now the light of day is almost gone. The only illumination is the afterglow throwing ghostly projections from stainedglass windows onto pews, stone columns and white painted walls. Within are the glass in the tall casements lining the sidewalls are richly colored are dark and somber. The ceiling is arched in vintage ecclesiastic fashion. Pews are arranged in sections of eight. A long, extravagant carpet of red runs from the door to the main altar which had apparently remained untouched by such decay. Everything here is big and solid-looking—the huge pipe organ with its thousands of brass pipes soars up like the spires of a smaller cathedral, the great choir loft above the front portals. The pulpit is a rude wooden platform that creaks beneath the weight of a large book with a silver

goblet and platter placed on top. There is a new yet familiar scent that is also noticed as the visitors come closer. The goblet is filled with a dark, glistening red liquid, and resting delicately upon the platter are sliced up bits of a human body, including a fingertip and an eyeball, which stares with a frightening glazed gaze. Empty: the nave empty, the transepts empty, the five small side-chapels of the ambulatory empty. It seems as if somehow the church senses fear, and the hundreds of white votive candles, which hadn't been seen before, light up from all around the decayed room in one powerful display of flame. Skulls are heaped on the ground in a poignant parody of gift giving and the white marble basin brims with gore. And above those, under a monstrous steel crucifix, there is a bulky thing hanging from the horizontal bar, gross head slumped upon a barrel chest. In the flickering light, limed by black shadows, the stone image seems imbued with strange life and one half-expects it to struggle and scream upon its cross. A psychotic rainbow enters the chapel. It dances around, and when it explodes a hundred octaves of the invisible spectrum are revealed. From the air, shrill, loathsome chimes arise, assume unnamed geometric shapes, become chimes again. The chapel walls groan and pulse like heart muscles. The melancholy peal of the bell is silent, now: the waking ears of the PCs hear only earthly noises now. It is from here which a growling rumble from the figure nailed to it is heard. Blood runs darkly gleaming down the stones from the foot of the cross and from both sides. The iconic mouth begins to move, like bad animation, making an insane sound which blasts through the pews. It will start to change as the figure becomes a beast known as the Crucifix Demon. The Crucifix demon jerks its feet free of the vertical support, a nail still bristling from one of them, a black nail hole in the other. It wrenches its hands free as well, a spike still piercing each palm, and it just drifts down to the floor, as if gravity has no claim on it except what it chooses to allow it. It then crouches like a wild animal, poised to attack. It starts across the altar platform towards the railing, towards the PCs. It is still changing as it hurls itself at the PCs, its mouth opens and an earsplitting howl rises from its throat. The Crown of Thorns seems to flow back, along the curve of its back, like a mane of razors; its teeth grows in length and turns into barbed spears. If the church is further explored, most of the other rooms are blocked by rubble and the basement is entirely flooded. In back are the church’s living quarters, which are simple rooms, painted white, with a thin-mattressed bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lam, and a sink in the corner. There is a shelf of hardcover books, most of them more political and sociological than theological: Future Shock by Alvin Toofler, The Politics of Evil by James N. Virga, Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adlers. On another, lower shelf is a toaster and a hot plate, neither of which work. Another door leads into a tiny bathroom with a noisy toilet and a stuttering shower. One room is twenty feet long and twenty feet wide, sparsely and cheaply furnished. Filing cabinets line one wall. stored with paintings, plastic statues of Biblical figures and angels, needle point samplers bearing religious messages. The top of the bell tower is a nine-foot-square platform. The bell—one yard wide at the mouth— is at the center of the platform, suspended from the highest point of the arched ceiling. A chain is welded to the rim of the bell and trails through a small hole in the floor, down to the base of the tower where the toller would tug on it. The walls are only four feet high, open from there to the ceiling. A white pillar rises at each corner, supporting the peaked, slate-shingled roof.

The heavy, single-stroke clanging had ceased even before they entered the church, and when they eventually reach the belfry itself, whoever—or whatever—had rung the bell had vanished, leaving behind only more wrecked equipment.

Streets: The streets are still thick with fog and silence, though there is now a reddish tinge to
the mist, suggesting that twilight is approaching. Nathan Avenue stretches wide and long in both directions. Another crater has opened in the pavement, consuming the intersection of Nathan Avenue and Neely Street, which leads away southward, and large portions of the buildings to either side. The façade of St. Stella’s Catholic Church still stands but most of the structure itself is gone. Across Neely Street a shorter, stouter cousin of the Ridgeview Medical Clinic building with its rust-colored brick and dormers and gargoyles seems to hover over the pit, one corner fallen away and looking as though the rest of the building will follow at any moment. They continue along Nathan Avenue at a quick pace; several times the radio makes noises but the sounds fade as they move quickly up the road. Less frequently the flapping of great leathery wings is heard overhead, and the PCs can see a shadowy form, vague and dark and menacing circle and dip and then rise again and disappear into the dank fog. The Nathan Avenue Bridge: Then, the asphalt under their feet suddenly brightens in color as it ceases being asphalt and becomes concrete and metal. They have reached the first bridge. And, they don’t get another ten feet before they finally see something distinctly unusual. They don’t really see the body, at first. What they do see is a long, pasty smear of blood that leads to it, a smear that stretches a good six feet and ends in a pulpy mass that one can only describe as human, once upon a time. The PCs notice two things about this particular unfortunate: One, he was apparently carrying a gun and ammunition, as a pistol lies on the ground about a foot away from his outstretched arm. The second is that his other hand is grasped tightly around a large piece of paper. The paper does not come out easily; it is sticky with blood and the man’s hand is stiff with rigor mortis. The PCs unfold it and find it is a map of Silent Hill much like their own. On it, Pete’s Bowl-A-Rama on the corner of Nathan and Carroll is circled in red ink. The man hasn’t been dead long, a few hours at most, but he already smells bad, and it is nasty even still. Digging through the guy’s pockets, the PC s find about thirty cents in change, a pocket knife, and two more loaded clips of ammunition. The pocket knife is cheap and dull, totally useless as a weapon, but as a tool it might be handy. The bridge ends very abruptly, the concrete bending downwards to the point where it has been torn completely off or been dislodged. Rusted steel support cables hang out limply past the edge of the broken concrete. This town is falling apart, it has fallen apart. The bridges have collapsed, the roads obliterated, those strange monsters roaming the streets, the empty cars lining the lifeless roads, police cars smashed to pieces scattered all over town where the only sign of human resistance against the demons. This town is hell itself. Texxon Gas: The pumps are rusty, this filling station is obviously disused. The sign is damaged and bloodied, the word ‘hell’ is readable. There is a single car at the pumps, scratch marks covering the hood. Whoever was in there sure didn't last long.

They can see someone moving beyond the grimy window of the front counter. They grasp the shaky handle of the door. The place is bare and deserted. Where they had taken to be someone is a torn poster, in fact several layers of posters, flapping restlessly on the office wall. Beside the door stands a red utility can marked GASOLINE. There is something else that catches their eye. It appears that someone abandoned their car here in the middle of refueling, but stranger still is what they find at the front of the vehicle. A long iron pipe has been stabbed through the front hood. There is no doubt that this had happened because of the uproar the monsters had caused. In any case, if they can kill a monster with a wooden board, then a steel pipe will be useful enough as a weapon. The PCs climb on top of the abandoned car and pull at the steel rod with all their strength. Their efforts are rewarded when the pipe is pulled free. Pete’s Bowl-A-Rama: Pete's Bowl-O-Rama is a little corner building, and it is definitely an authentic piece of vintage, judging by its size. The neon bowling pin signs are off, but the large double doors are unlocked. The doors lead into a narrow lobby area, and it is a complete shambles. The floor is littered with a million fragments of broken glass, some of it from the door, some of it once belonging to the divider from the ticket area. It seems like only one set of lights in the entire building are actually working—an amber glow comes from further inside. There are only two doors. A faded sign welcomes them to Pete’s Bowl-A-Rama; an arrow pointing left indicates “Café and Grill” and an arrow pointing right indicates “Bowling lanes (Exit only, enter through café)” The café, like almost everything in this town, appears to be abandoned. The floor is black linoleum and has a thin layer of dust. The chairs have all been put up on the white tables; they too have a thin layer of dust covering them. There is a long, granite dining counter off to his left with black cushioned stools. The security cage has been brought down and a “Closed” sign hangs loosely. There are only four lanes, and they stretch into the distance, scattered with pins. The ends are dimly lit. It is sort of surreal to watch, and strangely enough, it is calming, even dreamlike. There is something on one of the tables: a moldy, rotten pizza lay in its box, only one slice taken. It looks as if it has been there for months. The next room looks to be a storage area and employee lounge of some kind. Old bowling balls, their once-bright colors dim with time, line several specialty shelves, some of which have collapsed and spilled their contents all over the floor. This room looks like hell too, but this whole place doesn't look destroyed so much as it looks like the result of long neglect. Returning to the bowling area, the PCs can climb the stairs by the bar’s entrance. They take the PCs to a gym area, which is dark and smells serious. Punching bags hang from the gloom. There is a single regulation ring in the center of the room. The equipment is torn and scattered but otherwise the room is empty. Darkness: If the PCs should returns to this room after darkness falls they discover that the walls are now damp and patched with mold. Along with the vile stench of human flesh rotting and mildew, a morbid sight comes into view.

Bodies are hanging down from the ceiling, viscera hanging down loosely from their bloodied, opened stomachs. Their eyes are wide open, and every single one of the hung people are smiling casually. Then a green bowling bowl rolls from some place in the room and bumps lightly into a PC's left foot. Startled, they reach down and pick it up, spotting a word written in white-out across the top: OPEN. As the PCs move across the room, eyes of the hung people follow them. They twist off the top of the bowling ball to reveal a hollowed inside. There are two things inside: a folded up note and a photograph. The Polaroid is completely blackened and rather pointless. They take the note out from the ball, and unfold it: the fear of blood tends to create a fear for the flesh...

Streets: Through a door in a rusty old chain-link fence, the PCs find themselves in a small,
cramped alley. It isn't very long in either direction, and it ends not perhaps forty feet from one end to the other. The end they find themselves at is strewn with old trash and debris, prominent among which is a variety of old liquor bottles. Gradually they become aware that the scent of fog has faded, replaced by a vague but nauseating smell of rotting garbage in the dumpsters. The stench of decomposition fills them with thoughts of death, which reminds that they are on the run from someone-or something that wants to kill them. There is a gap between two of the buildings, narrow enough for a child's body, but certainly too much so for adults. Heaven’s Night: It is dark inside. The PCs walk down a dark hall at the top of the stairs, passing another large pile of liquor bottles. Although the malty residue in all the containers have years ago evaporated, the stairwell still stinks of stale beer. The PCs end up in a large room that is lit by several neon displays, some advertising beer, one of them a curvy woman in a seductive pose over the phrase “Paradise”, which one assumes is the name of the bar right underneath. The neon color scheme has faded over the passage of smokefilled time, leaving her once-electric tan lines merely jaundiced. The interior is long and low and dark, the furthest reaches of it enshrouded in greasy shadow some forty feet back. The real name of the establishment promised a view of Heaven but provides something more like a glimpse of Purgatory. It is a rotten place, to be certain. It has that same feeling that the apartments, the bowling alley, and other places around here seem to have, that air of long neglect. That feeling that every resident of the town got up and walked out of town, taking nothing with them, and leaving everything to the fickle winds of nature. The bar itself is wooden and has probably seen better days with better clientele. The bottles behind it are all empty and the stool cushions are ripped and torn. There is little light filling the room with dabs of neon only where it is dimly lit by a red neon sign that reads “Heaven’s Night” by the front door. The rest is dark with shadows. There are tables and chairs and several booths, all with ashtrays and drink coasters, and some assorted other things here and there. But

dominating the place is a small stage, and the long brass pole extending from the floor to the ceiling, with tables and chairs positioned around it, leaves no doubts as to just what type of bar it is. The sour, mellow scent of old beer is in the air, the kind that sets into any bar that sees years of operation. There is a handwritten note left on one of the tables. It is an unsigned letter, which covers two pages in lucid, cursive script of bizarre elegance which reads: I'm not happy. No one’s 's happy. I want to leave, and find a brightly colored town where it looks like everything has been colored in by a child's set of crayons. Instead of the black and white photography that Silent Hill exists in. Everyone talks about how they remember when this place was ‘nice.' What was nice? There are no youths with guns who hold up florists and Texxon stations, gangs don't roam the streets, and parents hold their children's hands extra tight. But everyone lives their lives with their doors locked and fear holding them hostage. Shoulders are looked over twice, and laughing out loud would throw a pall of silence and an uncomfortable feeling all around. Because something is wrong with Silent Hill and everyone knows it. With the fog that creeps in to sleep over night and the mutilated corpses that appear every other week. People are leaving, quietly and quickly. No one announces their plans to leave, or speaks about it quietly over dinner, because if the town knew they were leaving, it wouldn't allow them. Every morning there is another abandoned house, and somewhere a father is gripping the steering wheel tightly on some far off highway, with paranoia chasing after his car. Everyone wants to leave, and slowly, they will. When Silent Hill is a true ghost town, and everyone is saving their sanity I will stay, and walk the streets alone, for I must wait. Somehow we’ve always known there was something hidden in Silent Hill, something murmuring in a pitch not known to us, something waiting just outside our field of vision. We have obliged it with our reticent ways; we have nurtured it in our guarded, secret souls; we have made it potent with our lies; and now it is upon us all, all of us dreamers, whispering of promises we didn’t mean to make, and cold as the stars. Stepping behind the counter, they search around on the bottom shelves. As they hoped, they come across a gun kept for security, an automatic weapon that holds fifteen rounds. But with thier good fortune comes a bit of bad luck; there is no extra ammo to be found. Out the front door is a long, narrow set of stairs leads down to the ground, and a few feet in front of them, the alley opens into another street, which the map says is Carroll St. Darkness: In the Otherworld it is essentially one large, dirty room with a stage area complete with metal poles and a huge smattering of chairs and tables in front of it. Blackened gore is smeared everywhere, walls painted with its grotesque matter. The PCs enter, stunned at the horrible condition of this place. The PCs gasp and spin towards the source of the sound. The light falls on a dead thing in the corner, near the door to the exit. It had once been a man. The face is pale and bloated and sits atop a body a stained and tattered suit strains to cover. Moss grows on the suit coat in feathery green tufts and pillowy clumps. A tiny lizard emerges from the folds of a handkerchief in the breast pocket – it might have once

been white – and scuttles up and over the dead thing’s shoulder, out of sight and out of the beam of the flashlight. Its hand is groping the rotting corpse of a stripper. The dead things open their mouth, as if to speak, and reveals a writhing mass of tiny white worms and insects, that fall to the floor, where they writhe and twist and fold over and over and over themselves. The maggots reach the business corpse's eyes, and begin to eat away. His mouth seems to widen, as if trying to imitate a scream. . Carroll Street: Another street sign looms out from the haze before them that reads CARROLL ST. On it. The intersecting street leads away into another part of the town dominated by a largish building that is only half-visible for the mist and distance. There is no sound to be heard within the secluded stretch of Carroll Street. Likewise, the quality of daylight never changes from the ashy half-glow. All of a sudden, some barely-glimpsed movement at the periphery of his vision snags their attention. Bare branches of long-dead trees lining the avenue reaching up like skeletal fingers. Dried brown leaves still cling to some of them and several come fluttering down in the windless silence like tired insects. To their left, a large, shabby construction barrier has been erected, blocking access to Nathan Avenue.

Brookhaven Hospital: There is a sign nailed hastily to the huge, reinforced concrete
barricade that seems to be passing for a wall. The sign simply reads, 'Brookhaven Hospital'. Originally an insane asylum, it is now a modernized state-run facility. An iron fence topped with barbed surrounds the sprawling grounds, designed as much to keep people out as it is to keep the patients in. The line of fence suddenly ceases, and becomes a concrete path that leads to concrete steps. Up these stairs is a large gilded door, above which the sign is displayed that reads: Brookhaven Hospital, in large, beveled letters, complete with a little Red Cross insignia. Lobby: The lobby of Brookhaven Hospital----a space about eight feet square, with corridors to the right and left, and in front a sort of reception desk one might see in a normal hospital—is as silent and abandoned as anything else the PCs have seen in the last few hours. Like everything else it is completely devoid of liveliness and dominated by an uneasy stillness. The lights in the entrance hallway are all switched off, giving the area a dim and hollow atmosphere as if the building had been abandoned for years. The main corridor splits into two directions, both going farther than the eyes can see, and there is a registration desk in front of them. Footfalls echo strongly, bouncing around wildly in the emptiness, and it gives a good idea how expansive this building is, hopefully it will also help alert the PCs to the presence of any threats. On the walls are various posters encouraging health: a food pyramid, a want-ad for blood donations, and a woman giving herself a mammogram. For some reason though, this place seems to unnerve the PCs a great deal more. An empty hospital is a strange and desolate place, something that practically nobody wants to see…or wants to. It seems so much more oppressive, the air heavier and filled not only with the wonderful scents of age and abandonment, but the underlying stench of illness, of blood, shit and vomit countered by the power of cleanser, and the result is something else new and unique, and possibly more disgusting than either. That smell, that hospital smell, it is still here. You have to

be looking for it, you have to know what it was to even realize it is there, but nevertheless, it is there. Sterile was a word that might applied to Brookhaven once upon a time. Now though? Well, it isn’t the same type of decay the apartments displayed. For one thing, it is pretty dry in here. There is a layer of dust on the floor, it kicks up in little clouds when stepped on. Also, the apartments looked ripe for condemnation, both buildings looked ransacked and primed for eventual collapse. Physically, this hospital looks in better shape, like it could one day be reopened without an undue amount of trouble. You try to ignore it as you venture deeper into this cavern of darkness. First Floor: Exiting into the main hallway, the PCs now go up and down the halls of Brookhaven’s first floor, jiggling every doorknob they could find. Most of them do not lead to anything, many of them are rusted so badly that they pop the moment someone applies pressure to them. Like so much, it completely defies explanation. For the moment though, it is okay. It is less ground to cover, which means less exposure to danger, theoretically. The hospital is dark. The floors and walls are white so they get slightly better reflection from the flashlight, but nevertheless the PCs feel a sense of foreboding about the place. Reception Room: There are a lot of doors in this main hall, and surprisingly, the first one tried is a working one. It leads into a small room with a large desk on the left covered with papers, pens, information sheets, several computer monitors, a small lamp, and the like; an office. On the right are several waiting chairs and magazines. Behind the desk is a door marked “Staff Only”. On the far wall is a bulletin board with several notices on colored paper and—most importantly—a hospital map. There is a clipboard on the desk that lists patient information for three men, Joseph Barkin, Jack Davis, and Joshua Lewis, one wracked with paranoia and delusions, the second under suicide watch, and the last with a history of violence. Patient Number: 01141973 Name: Arthur Oswald Assessment: Patient has attempted suicide three times in the past. Reasons unknown. Otherwise model patient. Follows staff orders and participates in treatment sessions. Close observation still required due to pattern of suicide attempts. Treatment: Antidepressants are ineffective-discontinue. Lengthen therapy sessions. Something has to be bothering him. Patient Number: 07131975 Name: Jonathan Simpson

Assessment: Disorder appears rooted in belief that he is responsible for his daughter's death. Symptoms suggest minor psychotic break-down. Paranoid delusions though usually calm. Tendency to become violent when agitated. Treatment: Maintain antidepressants at current levels. Increase after six weeks if condition does not improve. Continue therapy sessions. Patient Number: 04091977 Name: Earl Donovan Assessment: Strong persecution complex with extreme violent tendencies. Numerous arrests for assault, assault with a deadly weapon, battery, and vandalism. Hospitalized by court order after conviction for voluntary manslaughter and assaulting an officer. Isolated in Special Treatment room 3. Treatment: Maintain isolation and sedatives. Therapy sessions TBD. CT and MRI scans needed to check for tumors, lesions or abnormalities in amygdala region. Maximum security precautions should be observed at all times. 7Room S12 Name: Lenoard Wolf. Assement: Presenting mild audiovisual hallucinations, emotional instability, obsessive ideas. Suspect mild schizophrenia. Basically clam and co-operative with a strong sense of justice. However, according to reports, becomes very violent when over excited. Treatment: Will continue observation. Room S07 Name: Stanley Coleman Assement: Usually passive and cowardly; also egotistical. Sometimes shows and acts on obsessive attachment to a particular woman. This has caused violent incidents; use caution. Just as the PCs are almost about dismiss these notes as unimportant, but then, they recall the razor wire and ten-foot fencing that surrounds the hospital grounds, and then the realization hits them. Brookhaven isn’t a just medical hospital; at least, not completely, all hospitals have medical facilities. Brookhaven was a mental hospital. The room offers little else of interest. There is a file room in the back, which features an ancient typewriter, one of those old monsters that is encased in pea-green steel and weighs fifty pounds. Next to the typewriter is what seems to be more patient notes, which has nothing interesting within. The notices seem to be general health messages, “Smoking hurts everyone,” “Donate blood today,” “Mammograms save lives.” They are held down to the desk with what is first mistaken for a strange, ugly paperweight. It is made of steel and has an engraving of a bull, rectangular in shape, at least until the bottom is seen.

There are things poking out, irregular in length. It looks like someone carved a bar graph out of the end of this paperweight. Then, a handwritten note on the last page of the notes is seen: I got the key from Joseph. It’s probably for the box. Is this object a key? Definitely a strange one, to be sure, but it makes more sense than anything else they can think of. The map proves to be more helpful. The hospital has four floors and roof access. The west wing on each of the floors seems to be dedicated mostly to patient rooms, while the east wing mostly contains administrative, supply, surgery, staff, and lounge rooms. There is a garden and pool on the first floor as well. Doctor’s Lounge: The PCs find that very few doors in this particular part of the hospital were actually in working order. One of them houses a lounge station. There are two shelves lined with files of all shapes and sizes. There is a small table, two chairs and a wood cabinet. A sheet of paper lies on the table. The files on the shelves are arranged by alphabet, but a quick glance at their dates tells that there are no recent records on the shelf. In this lounge are two things of importance. One is a code for a door lock on the second floor. The second is a six-pack of canned juice that sits atop the sink. Cracking one open and taking a tentative sip shows that is really sweet stuff, tasting vaguely like the oranges advertised on the package, but it doesn’t seem to be rancid. Nothing else turns up, and they can back out into the main hallway. Visiting Room: The room is sparsely furnished: a deep blue carpet, a somber oil painting of a vase on the white wall, two plastic chairs on one side of a scratched desk. Near the door, a washbasin and pitcher stand upon a tall stool, and near the window is a potted plant, green yet lifeless-looking. On the table is a small leather-bound notebook which reads: I write like a wild heart, My words are scripted, And my words are dark… I write like an urgent ghost, My love is a party, And my love is a host… I write constantly, My messages are short, And my messages are sweet… I leave you a gift, And I leave you a present… I leave you confused, And I leave you hesitant… I can see your eyes glare away from the doll, I can see it, It hurts me to know that you're taking a fall, It hurts me,

That all I can do is watch your feet approach the end, All I can do, Is write, my friend… I write I as your man, I write I with your trust, And I write I as Stanley Coleman, The poet with a lust… Hallway: They exit the reception area. The hospital is quiet and—like Woodside Apartments— has an abandoned look to it. The floor is dusty, the waste cans and syringe disposal trays are empty. They look out through the narrow rectangular window in one of two orange doors and see nothing in the hallway. Pharmacy: A small room for supplies and medications. Cafeteria: To their left, they see the cafeteria; it is nothing more than a cinder block room, walled with vending machines, and furnished with plastic tables and chairs bolted to the floor. There is also a stove, microwave and refrigerator. Under the flickering strobe lights it looks like extremely desolate and cold. Hallway: The doors on the first floor are nearly all locked, but not the one to the patient wing. There is a set of doors lining the 50-yard hall, like the rows of padded cell rooms but these are considerably larger in size. The intent is to try the doors one by one, but one door, labeled in white as C2, is wide open. Room C2: The room is entirely of tile: discolored acoustic tiles for the ceiling, glossy ceramic tiles for the walls, stained asbestos tiles for the floor. Several beds and gurneys stacked around haphazardly. The ceiling is falling apart with a network of exposed pipes, cables and tubes of florescent lighting dangling. Huge chunks of tile and plaster lay on the floor. Room C4: Very large with stained tile. Some of the floor tiles are missing and grime hides others. The paint is peeling. Stuck to the wall is a cookie, a toothbrush, a spoon, a Christmas card, a clock, a teddy bear, a beetle, a comb, a pen. But what is most interesting is the key stuck to it. Garden: There is a faint aroma in the air, the scent so paper-thin that the PCs wonder if they imagine it. Directly ahead, a large tree grows in the center of the garden. A short masonry wall surrounds its base. The tree appears to slouch as if weeping and its limbs hang bare and motionless. Its missing leaves, dead and brown, carpet the cobblestones beneath. For some reason, the PCs feel a wave of sadness wash over them as they look at the tree, a feeling of nostalgia. But they jerk away from the feeling before it can daunt them. They take a step forward, uncertain. There are rows of shrubs lining both sides of the stone-laid path, and tiny white flowers peek from the underbrush. They are the source of the scent they had noticed upon entering. Fog leeches most of the color here; the red brick of the hospital walls take on a muted,

russet hue. But there is a sense of calm here, of safety. Again the feeling of remembrance pulses within, but they grit their teeth and push it aside. They now near the tree and its mourning bow. The path here divides into three alleys: one that continues ahead, and the others to the left and right. Another branch snaps, louder this time and closer. Their eyes dart over the faint outline of Brookhaven's walls that appear through the gray like dried blood. They pass the remnants of a wheelchair poking through the brush, its arm handles rusty and one wheel sticking in the air like an abandoned tricycle. They spy torn papers and a doctor's clipboard hidden under a clump of pale perennials. Rivers of weeds break though the stone walkway in scraggy patches, and the leaves from the Weeping Tree look like the dried husks of bugs. The mist thickens and smells like stagnant water. When they reach the tree, they pause, considering its wizened form. Its limbs remain frozen, almost plastic looking; not a real tree at all but something masquerading as a tree. The PCs walk by, veering to the far side. For all they know, this seemingly dead thing can come alive and grab them. The tree's branches rustle then, a faint shiver rippling through its skeletal frame. The Elevator: There is an elevator about halfway down the hall. Inserting the key into the hole and turning it causes a whirring sound to be heard; the sound of its motors starting, as well as a deep, booming growl from far below; the sounds of a generator coming to life. About ten seconds later, the sound of a bell is heard, and the elevator opens, fully lit and all. The elevator is wide and long to accommodate hospital stretchers and emergency staff. It too bears the faint smell of ammonia. There are buttons for the first, second and third floors. The button for the roof has apparently fallen off. The elevator shudders as it comes to life and begins its ascent, By the time they reach the third floor, the PCs become convinced that they detect a wrongness in the sound of the elevator motor, in the hum of cables drawn through guide wheels. This creak, that tick, this squeak might be the sound of a linchpin pulling loose in the heart of the machinery. The air grows thinner still, the walls closer, the ceiling lower, the machinery more suspect. Perhaps the doors won’t open. The shaft might collapse, crushing the cab to the dimensions of a coffin. The elevator ends its descent where it is supposed to, with a hiss and snap. Then, the doors slide open to admit the PCs to the second floor. Second Floor: The PCs push the door open, wincing at the nasty creaking noise coming from the old, neglected hinges. Stepping out the empty corridor hisses with silence, a stillness so dense that it assaults the ears. No old foundation settling. No rusty pipes shrieking. Nothing. This place is ancient, dreary, in need of paint, with dust thick on the windowsills, with years of accumulated grime pressed deep into its cracked tile floors. An old gurney sits poking out from around that corner, still propped up in a reclining position, covered in moldering linens and waiting for patients that are never going to arrive. Beyond it is another hallway that seems to section off in a T-shape nearby. The second floor patient wing contains six double-bed rooms. Each room has an emergency alarm panel next to the door. They are marked with numbers and the letter M.

M5: The beds in the room have dusty sheets draped over them, and there are gouges in the wall. Bits of linoleum from the floor have been scattered about as are tiles from the ceiling. The dust on the floor is thick and there is no sign that anyone has been in the room recently. There are no sheets on the two beds, just a two-inch-thick pad that serves as mattress on the metal bed frame. One can hardly see through the barbed wire on the windows, and it is foggy, making visibility even worse. There is a red plastic box in one corner, as well as dead television set. Doctor’s Locker Room: The men’s locker room contains a rack of hospital johnnies, paper slippers, lab coats, and bathrobes next to the steel lockers. On one side are several changing cubicles with louvered doors and on the other a bank of lockers. Overhead fluorescent lamps hum behind acoustic tiles and make all too evident the yellow wax-stains on the uncarpeted floor of worn asbestos tile. A general search through all the lockers reveals a smattering of wallets, bags and related belongings. PCs indifferent to ethical concerns may be tempted to loot each wallet and purse—a total of $796.47 can be gathered in this ignominious fashion. Locker 23 contains a glossy flier, a filthy lab coat, a muddy and torn composition book, and a handkerchief with the initials “J.S.” on it. Nurse’s Locker Room: The women’s locker room is nearly identical to the men’s except the lab coats are much more neatly arranged and there is a stuffed teddy bear on the table. Picking up the bear on the table causes one to feel a prick in his/her palm when his/her hand closes around the stomach. Carefully examining the bear for the source of the pain reveals that something on the bear’s side gives off a small flash of silver in the light. Looking at it closer and one finds it is the tip of a small needle. Pulling on it and with a bit of tugging the rest of it emerges. It is a bent hypodermic needle Examination Room 3: Like the patient rooms, the floor is marble linoleum and the walls are white. There is a green privacy curtain to one side. on the stretchers is a opaque vinyl body bag, unzipped, split like a ripe pod, with a dead man nestled inside. He is about five ten, a hundred sixty pounds. They are staring into empty sockets. In the corner is a battered and scratcher metal desk, upon which are shelves are green medical journals. A clipboard reads: Background: unknown. Name/age: unknown. Not admitted patient. Found in poor mental state on hospital grounds and temporarily installed in room M4 at chief's discretion. Died late tonight from blood loss due to severed carotid artery. Was grasping own kitchen knife in right hand; assume this was cause of neck wound. Possible suicide, but wound angle suspicious. Sent to 2nd floor treatment room for further investigation. Have received no proof or corroboration of event from patient residing in same room. Have not notified police. However, for future necessity, leave victim's bed and effects intact (room M4). Third Floor: Stepping through into the third floor hallway reveals that this floor is actually filthier than the others. Age-old grime lines the floors and actually builds-up to give it a rough, disgusting texture. It smells like old sewage, but apparently the monsters are equally repulsed, as

all that comes from the radio is a thin hiss. The flashlight beam reaches the far wall, and nothing moves in its path. Satisfied that there is no immediate threat, the PCs can take a look around, and the first thing they see is a door, identical in appearance to the one below, the one with the push-bar. Said pushbars on this door are functional, yet the doors themselves do not open. Giving it a harder push does nothing. This one is closed solid. It is then that up on the wall next to the door, there is a keypad there. The code to which they found written on the whiteboard downstairs. With the crinkled piece of paper in hand, the PCs can type the four-digit code on the keypad. The keypad is filthy, covered in dust and grime like everything else, and after typing the codes their fingers now have a dark smudge on the tip. Yet, the pad is still in functioning order. As soon as the fourth key is pressed, the lock disengages with a loud snap. Now, the door opens when the pushbar is depressed, sliding open with its hinges wailing. To the left is a series of doors, the first one labeled S1, then S2 and so forth. They are odd in their placement, spaced very closely together. The rooms behind them have to be tiny, like closets or, like cells. Of course. They have to be solitary rooms, given the markings, and the fact that this is a mental hospital. The first two are secured with a type of padlock that hold a steel plate in place. Examination Room: This one tiny room off of the corridors is lined with filing cabinets and piles of reports, smelling slightly damp. The drawers of one of the tall filing cabinet is open, its contents in disarray, many of the buff-colored files soaking on the flood. Shower Room: There are six shower stalls, three on each side. The once-white tiles on the walls are still attached, though most on the floor are cracked. S3: Room S3’s padlock hangs from its loop at an awkward angle, and the metal plate is drawn open. The door opens easily, and the room within is very tiny. All the PCs see is a small bed, a window with bars, a small dresser and a bedside table. The mattress looks to be about three inches thick on old springs, and it looks pretty filthy, mottled with urine-yellow stains. The room is lit by a small light in the ceiling. Atop the dresser is a silver key. The key is marked ROOF S4: The PCs place a hand on the knob of room S4 and turn the handle, slowly pushing the door open. They step inside the room, and survey it. White walls, a window with bars blocking the way for escape. The room is tiny and consist of a single small bed and table. The bed is bare with stains of various colors on the mattress. An unlabeled bottle of pills rests on the small table. Laying beside the pills is a rusty-looking key, labeled “Main Stairwell.” S12: They stepped into a cramped room with a gross bed, one window and an old-fashioned, black phone seated on a small table. It is cold and its dank smells are laced in mold. Rusted grates cover the small window. S14: The last door, S14, is also unlocked, and it has a note taped to it that says, “If Jonathan looks calm, he can be taken out of his cell.” The tiny room is devoid of life, human or otherwise. The bed in S14 isn’t set in the corner as the beds in the other solitary rooms had been. This one is turned perpendicular to the room, nearly spanning its meager width. Resting on top of this bed is a box of some kind; an old strongbox, the kind of stuff to put valuables in and hide somewhere in the shoe closet. And whoever owned the box and its contents was, at the very least, interested in their security, though perhaps ‘paranoid’ would be more accurate. The latch is secured with a strange type of padlock, wider than most usually seen on a box like this. There is no keyhole on the bottom, but rather, an indentation on the left side with a long series of strange grooves. But

the box’s owner wasn’t just content with sealing his property with a weird padlock, he also apparently was intent on keeping the box itself right where it was, for he had somehow welded steel loops to the outside skin of the box, big ones, and looped through these rings is some hardcore steel chain, and a lot of it. The chain crisscrosses the entire bed, going under and looping around before finally coming out the other side. Crazy house or not, whoever came up with this was no idiot. He did a great job. The box isn’t moving. The chain is linked ultimately by a wheel lock, similar to the ones on bicycle locks but much larger and stronger. There are four wheels with numbers from one to nine. Pulling out that key found in the records room downstairs, the unusual-looking thing with the purple bull etched on it, and sliding the tines of the key into the lock, and pressing it as it rests, causes there to be a healthy click, and the lock shoots open. Removing it from the latch and trying to open the box… Unfortunately, that isn’t happening. The chains that hold the box secure to the bed also apparently keeps the lid from being open even when the box itself is unlocked. No matter it is tugged and pulled, one cannot get it even nearly loose enough to pry the lid. Congratulations to whatever madman came up with this. What is the likelihood that the box’s contents are in any way going to be useful? The wheel lock awaits, and taking it, turning its numbers to 9595 causes the lock to click and pop open proudly, as if to fanfare. The box is empty. Not empty, exactly, but filled with cotton fluff, stuffing. And strands of human hair, long blonde ones. Pulling out the cotton fluff, hoping against hope that the immediately visible contents aren't the only contents. Doesn’t totally disappoint, because one can did find a piece of paper at the bottom with some poorly-scribbled handwriting on it in pencil, and whoever wrote it pressed so hard on the pencil that he tore the paper and broke the pencil tip. Louise! I'll take care of you four ever. It is my destiny! Back in the hallway, outside the room is a tiny hall with three metal doors on the left side and one large set of double doors on the right. The doors on the left are marked ST3, ST2, ST1 in white lettering. The PCs can check each one of these closet-sized rooms. Most of them are still locked tight and have been for a long time. Special Treatment Rooms: A small hallway, one the PCs haven't come across yet. There are four doors, spaced sparingly apart like the solitary rooms, but there are only four here. The second to the left has a note taped to it, the paper yellow with age. Written in black marker is a single line: If Joseph looks calm, he can be taken out of his cell. Special Treatment Room 2: Opening the door removes any doubt whatsoever as to the nature of this particular hospital, for this room is one of those sterling trademarks of the mental health

business, the padded room. The walls, floor, and ceiling of this room are hung with white, canvas padding reminiscent of mattresses. Even the inside of the door is cushioned in this unusual fashion. It would be more accurate to call this a padded cell, for it is quite small. The strangeness of the room is only amplified by its macabre décor, which the PCs smell before they actually see it. It is old and dull, but it is still rich and coppery. The room is red—the walls, the ceiling, the remnants of the shattered fixtures, all dripping with red. The clots and the coppery odor that saturates the air leaves no doubt that it is blood. Blood. It soaks the left wall of the cell, a large splash that looks as though someone threw a bucket of the stuff at it. The center has been wiped clean, which is a matter of degree really. And what at first seems to be just random splashes, are in fact numbers, four of them. 9595. Numbers painted in human blood (How artistic!). Considering how much the PCs have seen in Silent Hill that makes this grotesque display seem less abhorrent then one would expect. Looking closer and the PCs see that someone had added a message to it, this written in marker of a color that is close enough to blood that one might easily mistake it for such. It is a simple message, the words are sloppy and the grammar poor; the blood has dripped some and the author’s grip on sanity is feeble at best. Nevertheless, the PCs are able to read: TERN TERN TERN THE NUMBERS. BETTER NOT FORGET THEM. SO I'LL RIGHT THEM DOWN HERE. THE OTHER ONE, MY SECRET NAME. Cryptic, to say the least. It makes no sense to the PCs now. Special Treatment Room 3: The PCs can try the doors on both sides of the bloody cell, but only the last one opens. The moment it does, the radio springs to life, hissing like a cornered cat. Over that, a piteous wail is heard, and it is one the PCs recognize even without seeing its source. They can quickly pull the door shut and back away from it, and nearly trip over some rubble on the floor. Back into the main hallway; it is still quiet here too. There are two doors out here that haven’t been checked either. One door has no marking and is locked tight. The other is at the far end of the far corridor, and this one is labeled Day Room. Day Room: The room is incredibly large and supported by several pillars. The room had once been a common area with tables, chairs, a refrigerator, two couches and a television. There are chairs set in disorderly fashion all over the place and tables with board games. Toys, coloring books, canvasses and watercolors, are also scattered around. A quick search of the hallway turns up little. There is a pair of locker rooms that won’t open, as well as a storeroom that is similarly out of commission. There is a broken elevator, and a small offshoot hallway that has a door, but there is old cleaning materials and debris alike, piled in front of it.

There is one last door, opposite of the cells, and mercifully, it does open. More merciful still is that it leads into familiar surroundings, or at least, into a location recognizable. It is the third floor hallway. Basement: The single flight of stairs is steep. Most of the basement lies out of sight to the left. In the basement, and the walls and floors are old and institution-yellow, with cracked tiles and a dingy, mildewed feel. In the middle of the room is a bathtub. Half of the fluorescent lights are out, and many of the tiles have fallen from the walls, revealing dark and oozy earth beneath. Storeroom: The storage room is filled with rows of shelves, burnt and twisted, lay tipped and leaning at wrong angles, their contents having spilled out and cascaded across the floor. In the back of the room barred windows are built into the walls. Some of the bottles are filled and others are completely empty. Searching bottle after bottle notes that none of them contain any type of useful substance, except for perhaps a bottle of disinfectant alcohol, helpful for serious wounds. Most of the small boxes of things can barely be read because they are so old and worn. Some are bars of soap, still wrapped in silver foil and smelling as fresh as ever. Most of them are hygienic supplies of various sorts, few of them worth keeping. It is the bright blue box that catches their attention, mostly because it stands out quite plainly from the rest. The box reads “Silver Bear”, and it is full of rounds. Well, mostly full. The box holds fifty and thirty-eight rounds, and the box doesn’t look too old, not nearly as old as most of the others, so hopefully it is still potent. What a full box of ammo is doing in the storeroom of a hospital, or where the missing twelve bullets went, is unknown. Having done that, it is noticed that there is still one shelf still standing. In the back of the room is some sort of bookshelf in the back, made of reddish steel and contains no books at all. Closer inspection, skid marks are noticed, indicating that the bookshelf can be pushed aside. The skid marks are deep, so deep that it could only have been that way after moving it several times. A large bloody handprint is smeared all over the side of the unit. It is a man’s print, and large—as if a butcher, exhausted from his hideous labors, had leaned there for a moment to catch his breath. Pushing it as hard as one can, sure enough, it starts moving. Continuing to push it moves it further along the room, gradually revealing to some sort of cubbyhole behind it, not large enough to be considered a doorway, nor having a door anyway, it is a small crevice just large enough for a man if he ducked his head. There is a ladder going down into inky darkness. Looking down nothing can be seen, and so far, the radio is behaving. Climbing down the ladder reveals that it actually ends about a foot and a half before it reaches the ground. It is a very small room, not much larger than the solitary rooms upstairs. It is walled on all sides in bare concrete, but the floor is covered in old wooden slats, scaly and warping with age and moisture. The room is completely naked, save for one thing. An old refrigerator lies on its back in the middle of the room, an old Amana with the rounded edges and chevrons on the front. It was white once but dimmed and dulled with time. It will require the strength of two to open it. There is a bass-like sucking sound as the door pries away from the main unit and the vacuum-trapped air within is released after countless years of confinement. The air is very stale and smells rotten. The stairs are tiled and sheathed with checkered rubber to prevent slipping. The hand rails are stainless steel and solid. As the stairs are ascended the high-pitched screeching noise from before

continues unabated and still sounds off regularly. By the time the PCs made it back up to the third floor, it has stopped being heard. Transition to Darkness: When the PCs awaken, they will be separated, each placed in an area where they will be taken over to the hospital’s dark equivalent. No sensible explanation makes itself readily available. None of this is right. Are they here alone? There is no answer from anyone. What happened to the others? Where could they have gone? Is it possible they are gone? This is all insane, but what is there to do about it? The answer, of course, is obvious. It is better to press on and die than to sit motionless in this stinking hole and spend the rest of their life (however short that is) scared and simply waiting for the merciful hand of Death.

First PC: There seems to be steam filling the spiral stairway. The brass railing begins to look
more like an uncoiled intestine. The steps are so slimy as to feel gelatinous underfoot. The overhead tunnel is oozing tendrils of gluey foulness through misshapen tiles, the rails seem to be writhing like salted worms. When the floor is reached, a new monster greets them. It has the small body of a child, but it looks like someone had pulled its skin off, revealing its pulsating flesh. It wears the same t-shirt and unbuttoned raincoat the girl had been wearing, but these clothes are filthy and drenched in blood. Its feet have grown together and it walks on crutches, making a sad noise that almost sounds like a human being, crying. Its head is wrapped in bandages soaked in a gooey yellowish liquid – Tears? Stifling a scream, the PC runs to the end of the landing and down another two flights of stairs. The lighting is out, forcing them to hold out their arms to grope along the wall. At this level, the handrails broke off years ago and were never replace. The walls were pimply, warm in the dark, like the skin of some exotic animal. The walls feel ready to give away at any instant, its moist surface almost indented by the pressure from the PC’s sweaty hands. The PC slips over something soft yet bulky lying in a corner where another section of stairs begins. The released fetid smell is nearly overpowering. Momentarily losing their balance, the PC falls against the darkened wall. Some skin scrapes off their fingers; feeling like removing a glove that is lined with dull razors. The unseen object had vaguely felt like a stuffed toy as it gave way under their foot. Another discarded plaything, left to rot where no one will see. Like so many unwanted things in this hospital, this town. As they reach the first door, their feet slide across a substance as warm and slimy as the inner walls. You tell yourself it’s only some fresh vomit as the metal door opens sluggishly, its weight almost too great for you to force in your weakened condition.

The inside of the room is dark, but thanks to the light they can make out that this had once been some sort of examination room. A tattered surgical curtain hangs from its broken pole across a rotting examination bed. Dry blood covers the bed and what might have been a hand protrudes grimly from beneath the edge of the curtain. Room C4: Like C2, it appears that this one had also been put to use as a storage area. There are medicine cabinets, old furniture, a floor lamp, a dismantled sink, and all sorts of other old junk. Shining the light in the direction, picking out the edge of an aged desk, an old mahogany relic that may have once looked nice, but is now worn and chipped in a dozen different places. It also has several drawers and the remains of an obviously broken typewriter cluttered atop it. Shuffling forward with rising dread they edge toward the desk. Bang! The PC spin back to the door, just in time to hear the sound of a lock clicking into place. Walking over to the door and trying the handle; it refuses to budge, locked nice and solid. A low rumble echoes from the far end of the room. At first, it just it seems like one of the several settling noises of the old building, a very low thrumming sound, at first sounding like a running furnace. Then, the sound intensifies. It doesn’t necessarily grow louder, but it grows stronger, more powerful and more apparent. It also starts to fluctuate in pitch, strange as the cold, mournful songs and cries of some species dwelling in the deepest reaches of the sea. But while whale songs are often melodic, this is not. Whale songs are rather beautiful. This sounds thick and phlegmy. The PC twists toward it involuntarily, to see if he/she can find the source of the sound. Nothing makes itself readily-known, everything looks as it had a minute ago. From somewhere near the back of the room, there is a slither and a snarl and the radio begins to emit a slow drumming sound. Something brushes by the PC’s ear. Whatever it is, it’s light and it prickles, but it is unmistakable, too. The surprise and fear hits at the exact same time. Desire to get away clashes with the fact that they aren’t quite expecting to need to. Thus, when the PC back up suddenly, her/his feet aren’t quite geared up for the task. He/she slips and falls backwards, yelling as he/she does so. His/her weapons falls from his/her grip and clatters noisily on the tile. If she/he aims the light in each direction around to determine what is in here with them, the light gives nothing that their eyes can tell them that anything is wrong. It might just be nerves, which are certainly taxed beyond their limits already. Nerves. He/she could have imagined being touched. Then again, perhaps some of these monsters are invisible to the human eye. So it is either his/her imagination or he/she is just missing something. And he/she can still see nothing, so they must roll a Perception roll to realize an important fact: There are ceiling tiles missing. Said ceiling is covered in insulated foam tiles, the kind seen in basically any kind of modern public building. Some are yellowed and sagging, but all of them are still intact, except for two. Had they been there before? The PC certainly hadn’t noticed two black holes above his/her head a minute ago.

In the event that the PC approaches one of the holes, it is when he/she is almost underneath it when the low sound suddenly intensifies, as if excited. The PC may duck away quickly, expecting something to come shooting out of the hole above. Nothing does, but his/her heart is racing, blood pounds in his/her ears. Yet, nothing makes an appearance so far. Movement comes out of the corner of the eye. He/she swings around to see... the vague impression of something moving across the ceiling above the desk. Feet. There are feet coming out of the ceiling. They curl and flex repeatedly, rolling around with no apparent thought. They are lowering. They are descending. Feet give way to long, thin legs that look just too small to be human. They are a sickly, jaundiced yellow color, mottled with brown and black spots, as if infected with a fungus. As they lower, the legs and feet move with greater excitement. It looks as though they are groping for something. Then a box of some sort is seen, not a box exactly but more like an iron frame, a cage with no bars that this new creature seems to be suspended in. The creature hangs vertically before the PC, the absence of skin emphasizing its abnormal muscular structure, an unnaturally thick torso and arms dwarfing its spindly legs. Iron bars have been driven through its shoulders to form the support of a cage framework that shrouds the creature's body. Its form is unlike anything the PC has ever seen before: a bizarre monster like a pendulum. Its body was a soft and flabby chunk of meat, like a half-digested human, suspended from the ceiling by the metal rectangular frame. It is nothing but a fleshy mass of decaying skin and muscles, melting away to reveal the twisted black intestines underneath. Deformed arms and legs jut out at odd angles from the wrong places. Finally, they see the top of the box, and it stops lowering. The thing on the ceiling seems to be attracted to the sounds of this intruder, and then it starts pulling its grotesque, skinless form across the ceiling lattice's and into the arc of light cast by their flashlight. It starts moving. It is coming at the PC. The door is locked, which effectively eliminates the possibility of escape, but that is all that the PC wants now. There is clang of metal and one can see the thing moving in the back. The PC’s head is throbbing and his/her frustration is growing as the monsters slowly inch closer. Grim as the situation looks, the PCs struggle to keep calm. They just need to focus on fighting. They just need to stay alive. It will be impossible to fight them off with the pipe, their bodies are too well protected by the cage-like frames. They will have to use his gun. If fired upon, the shots fill the room with percussion, the bullets cause a shower of blood to almost radiate, some of it splashing on the PC. Its wounds leak, and a puddle of crimson litter the floor. And for all that, it might as well not have even been touched, for the cage still comes forth inexorably, and the bottled bag with legs inside of it still quivers and shakes. Perhaps its increasingly frantic writhing is a sign of pain or injury, but even with that, it still comes forward, now less than two feet away. The PC hears another clang of metal and a menacing grunt from behind him/her. He/she can now see two shapes moving around in the back. Two more of the creatures loom out of the darkness to flank the first, one either side, each as twisted as the other. How in the hell are they moving? No support can be seen. Is it floating? Is that even possible?

No escape. No escape. No escape. The lead creature begins to rock itself back and forth, increasing its arc with every motion. They drift towards the PC like ghosts floating in the Ether, silent except for the occasional rattling of metal, though the drumming of the radio makes their approach seem like an executioner’s march. No escape. A loud, sharp hiss is heard, and looking up reveals that the second hole is no longer empty, either. Feet fall from the heavens and are only inches away from the PC’s face. The creature swings back, its angle of motion the greatest yet, and brings the lower bar of its cage, with explosive force, into contact with the PC’s chin. No escape. The PC’s head ricochets of the doors causing stars to explode before his/her eyes. No escape. The creature is already swooping towards him/her. He/she ducks under its feet and sprints to the center of the room, his/her heart and head pounding with the drums on the radio. The creature slowly begins to turn, but he/she fires first. There is a shriek like the wail of a banshee heralding death, and the creature before the PC suddenly stops mid-flight. Its legs convulse and then stiffen, the two glints of light disappear and its form stays still as stone. The lead creature then releases its grip on the ceiling, slamming to the floor and toppling sideways. No escape. Two more feet. Another one has come down behind while he/she were worrying about the other two. It was there all along and now the PC has stumbled right into it like a fool, though now the PC has barely enough time to register the fact. The feet lunge towards the PCs like lightning, far too fast to avoid. They grab the PCs by the throat. They are cold, ice cold. They are slick and they smell like ancient sweat, urine and oil. And they are strong, oh are they ever strong. He/she tries to tuck his/her chin in but the creature’s feet are strong and already have an iron grip on his/her carotid arteries, leaving him/her with only a few precious seconds of consciousness remaining.

No escape The PC’s head is jerked upwards with the pressure, and his/her eyes feel ready to pop out of right of their heads. The PC may try to yell for help, try to scream. There is nobody around but he/she neither realizes nor cares. They can’t yell and they can’t scream and they can’t breathe. The pressure around their necks quickly becomes pain as they feel their feet leave the ground. No escape. He/she does not have time to think his/her way through his/her next action. She/he points the gun towards the creature with a slightly unsteady hand and empties the clip into it. After he/she fires his/her last shot, he/she can feel darkness closing in around him/her. He/she does not know if he/she has killed it. His/her head is dizzy, spots and stars flood his/her vision, there is a ringing in his/her ears, and he/she is utterly exhausted. The PC feels being turned over and rough, damp, skinless hands gripping his/her ankles as the world begins to close in around him/her, the walls themselves beginning to twist and distort, screaming in pain and terror. No escape Even hitting the things with his/her hands seems ineffective, and shooting is useless as they have dropped the pistol and even still the PC can barely raise their arms. His/her lungs are on fire as she/he fights desperately to inhale that wonderful, sweet oxygen the PC is long accustomed to. Then they too swell, and the crazy thought shoots through the PC’s mind, which will go first, neck or lung? No escape The PC's mind starts to drift away. The horrible bag-cage creatures fill his/her vision, but that is fading too. A halo of gray creeps in from the edges and makes its way slowly towards the center. As the PC's mind slips inexorably away in its demonic vise, thoughts hover at the fringes. The PC can't believe it is going to end this way. Tears burst forth from his/her eyes, and the feeling of them on their nearly purple cheeks is just about the last of feeling. The gray halo marches into the center. The capital has fallen. The PC's head rolls back, completely limp, and their eyes roll back even farther. No escape.

The pain in his/her head vanishes and he lets/she silence and darkness dissolve the world around him/her...The last thing to register is, of all things, a sound. Sirens. The PC hears sound just like the ones that saved them from the red pyramid thing. They forestalled their end once. Now they announce it, wailing like a mourner, fittingly. Then, they fade as well. Then there is only nothing. Then, there only darkness. No escape.

The Transition of the Second Player Character:
Second Floor Linen Room: It is when they are halfway into the room that it happens. The broad, undefined circle of light at the end of the flashlight beam begins to dim as though it has run into a thick blanket of smoke. Except there are no swirling eddies, no gray reflected light. It is as if the beam has met something solid, something that is devouring its brightness. Something dark. You blink rapidly. It has to be your imagination. There is a movement coming towards, you but there is no shape, no substance. No, it has to be the flashlight batteries; they are dying, the light becoming dim. But there is still a bright beam along its length, only fading towards the very end. For what seems like a few seconds, absolutely nothing happens. Then, what can only be described as a wave of dread suddenly seems to fill the room, emanating from the closet door. The closet in the bedroom takes up most of the wall, and it doesn’t have an ordinary door with a knob; it is too big for that. Instead, it has two wooden panels on tracks that can slide back and forth in either direction. One of the panels is jammed and will not close completely, leaving about a two-inch gap on the left side. The two-inch space between the panel and the frame seems to stare dully at the PCs, like a dead eye. For another moment nothing happens; there is only cloying dread and silence. Then some kind of movement is detected behind the closet door. There is no sound and nothing can be seen. Then they get their first glimpse of it: the monster in the closet, the ‘Fraid. Right after they feel the movement in the closet, it becomes visible through the crack. At first, it looks like part of the

darkness seems to shift, to coalesce, forming not quite visible but nonetheless solid shapes, lumps of pulsing and denser blackness within the greater blackness. Then, four pitch-black fingers curl around the edge of the wooden panel from the inside, fingers that are eight or nine inches long and end in points. Slowly, as if savoring the moment, whatever those fingers are attached to slide the panel aside, revealing only darkness. Even with the door open, the light from the rest of the room does not enter the closet. The darkness in there is like a tangible thing—in fact, it is a tangible thing. For another endless moment, nothing happens. Then, within the amorphous blackness, two large, pure-white eyes slowly open, as if disembodied, as if floating in the air. The eyes are large, bright like tow tiny lanterns. The color is odd: white, moon-pale, with the faintest trace of silvery blue. Once the eyes appear, the darkness seems to spill out of the closet and onto the bedroom floor. There it wells up on itself and takes shape, forming a huge, slender, humanoid figure with fourfoot arms that ended in the same eight-inch fingers seen before. It doesn’t have legs; instead it tapers down to a two-dimensional shadow on the floor. The eyes move up through the thing's body, finally stopping when they reach the head. It seems to be somehow two-dimensional and three-dimensional at the same time. The ‘Fraid. Then it begins to move in a silent slither towards them, then pauses and looks down them. Slowly, it raises its arms and spread its hideous, snaky fingers. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, the ‘Fraid swarms over the PC and covers him/her like a thing layer of icy mist, a spreading flood of darkness. Its grabbing darkness has weight, which collapses, presses down, and begins to squeeze. It grows colder and denser. The PC feels that he/she is simultaneously smothering and freezing. The darkness swallows the walls, the floor, the world outside, and everything. The PC is helpless as the darkness runs up the neck, quickly spreading all over his/her head and then—revoltingly— the face. There is a squeezing sensation . A moment of unbelievable tension and horror, then— Darkness.

The Fall of the Third Player Character:
Roof: The PC reaches the top, and find that there are no more stairs. This is it. The letters ‘RF’ tells the PC that he/she found the building’s roof. The roof door is locked, but it opens with a rusty creak when the key is used. The roof is flat and it is empty. The PC is surprised to find that night has fallen without him/her even noticing. Had they really been searching that long? Actually, the hospital corridors are so dark that standing out here in the dead of night really doesn’t make much of a difference. Between the fog and the darkness, there isn’t any view to be seen; even the stars were completely obscured. The gravel footing of the roof rattles underfoot as the PC makes her/his way to the elevator room. The entire perimeter of the roof is encircled by more fencing that comes up to six feet,

which was to keep any wandering patients from walking or leaping off of the roof to their deaths. There is a pair of oil drums in one corner, ugly and rusted. There is a small building with a door marked “Electrical”, but the knob is as broken as glass on the door’s window. Turning to go back to the door he/she came in from, when he/she nearly trips taking his/her first step. Looking down he/she sees a small spiral notebook. Its cover is tattered and soaked with rain water. It has been out in the weather some time and most of the pages are stuck together and the ink has washed through. The words are a bit blurred, but still readable. It is a diary, and one that hadn’t been kept long. There are only four days of entries and the rest of the pad is blank. May 9 - rain. stared out the window all day. peaceful here. nothing to do. still not allowed to go outside. May 10 - still raining. talked with the doctor a little. would they have saved me if i didn't have a family to feed? i know I'm pathetic, weak. not everyone can be strong. May 11 - rain again. the meds made me feel sick today. if i'm only better when i'm drugged, then who am i, anyway? May 12 - rain as usual. i don't want to cause any more trouble for anyone, but i'm a bother either way. can it really be such a sin to run instead of fight? some people may say so, but they don't have to live in my shoes. it may be selfish, but it's what i want. it's too hard like this. it's just too hard. May 13 - it's clear outside. the doctor told me i've been released - that i've got to go home. i-The last entry is a depressing monologue about being trapped in illusion and how it might be preferable to reality at this point. It ends by saying that perhaps the writer was about to be released, but the entry wasn’t finished. It seems as though something surprised the diarist, for the last entry is a long, abrupt slash across the paper with his pen, as if the arm had been grabbed while still working. One wonders why this diary is on the roof, perhaps getting the impression that this patient jumped. Perhaps the patient had relapsed? Maybe they forgot the past and fell back into their world of delusion? Is their reality now to endlessly wander an inescapable nightmare? Continuing to make his/her way to the elevator room. The door of the small structure opens easily at a touch, but inside—whether there had been stairs or an elevator once—there is only a dark wall now that descends as far as they can see. The door, cab, cables, and mechanism has been salvaged, leaving a hole in the building. His/her foot kicks a piece of gravel down. It bounces against the walls as it falls, but though they listen for a long time, he/she never hears it land.

He/she hears a door slam. A metal door. The one leading to the stairwell. It is like hearing a gunshot at close range in the gloomy silence. Then he/she sees him. He/she sees him at the same time he/she hear him, hear the scraping of heavy steel on concrete, the ominous sound of a heavy steel blade being dragged along across the concrete of the rooftop. The noise is drawing closer, inexorably. Fear courses through his/her veins and flood them with adrenaline. His/her heart rate increases so dramatically he/she thinks it will squeeze out of his/her ear. Never have the PC heard anything more petrifying than that grating scraping of metal on floor. Because he/she knows what it means, and there is no denying the reality of the situation any longer. It is him! The PC sees him in front of them, his massive bulk topped by that strange pointed helmet, bloodred from crown to tip, that metal head cocked to one side, in that half-bemused expression that is at the same time so horribly malevolent. The PC feels him, too. Feels that anger, that hate, that loathing, and that fear. That thick molasses of terror that keeps the PC rooted where he/her is standing for just a second too long with eyes goggling open and mouth even wider. Too long. With impossible speed, the red pyramid thing swings his oversized sword at the PC’s midsection, swinging it sideways. Leaping backwards, the tip of the blade so close to disemboweling that the PC could have bridged the gap with a finger. The PC isn’t cut, but when they do leap back, fear has given the PCs a little too much strength. The PC overbalances, falling backwards into the fencing. The fence’s metal frame is rusted and brittle and it begins to creak under the PC’s weight. It is surprising and dazing at once, and he/she has just enough time to see Pyramid Head approaching, just enough time to realize that he is going to kill him/her, when a loud snap and a squeal is heard, and the next thing the PC knows, the PC is falling backwards, into space. The PC does not even fully realize what happened when the fall is broken by something very, very hard. The PC can hear a loud, heavy crack, one that sounds like rocks breaking, and then suddenly the PC is falling yet again with a shower of busted concrete falling with them. The PC is then hit by something even harder and his/her head bashes into it, sending him/her into a void that is even darker and blacker than the unnaturally empty sky his/her eyes stare blankly into.

The Transition of the Fourth Player Character:
There is double door at the M corridor. It wasn’t there before. A large metal partition comes slamming down, sealing off the hallway behind them.

Everything is dark…and slow… The PC now stands in the middle of a dark, small hallway; a room with black walls and red lights. They look ahead and see a ladder. There is dim red light radiating onto it from the walls. They are pulsating. A deep, groaning echo of a twisted melody is in his/her ears. The PC shivers. He/she takes a step forward. The melody stays, clinging onto her/his skin as he/she moves. Breathing. The PC turns, positioning his/her body to ascend, thoughts wild and disjointed, mind screaming, begging for him/her not to go up… But desperation claims otherwise. Up, Up they go, ascending into the heart of it all, static scraping through his/her brain, hideous whispers screaming in his/her thoughts. Through the burning haze of static they can see it – see it all in the horrible glory. The latex gloves it wears seems molded to its hands, the fingertips completely red. Its head fluctuates in different sections, each part vibrating to form a constant shifting visage that makes their eyes cross just by looking at him. The creature writhes on the opposite side of the ladder, shadowing their every move with twisted contortions of its own. The valve monster is positioned before a foul, bloodred, evil-growing circle in the wall. A ghastly stench arises from the orifice, like human flesh frying on a griddle. The hole pulses like a heartbeat. With each passing rung the twisted vision obscures, his/her mind unable to comprehend the twisted corpses strung about, hanging from the crumbling supports and columns. For a time the PC stares below, teetering on that rickety ladder of iron, clinging to the rungs, thoughts dazed, without purpose… THE ALTERNATE BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL:

Arrival: The PCs think their eyes are open now. They think they are seeing something. They
know they are feeling something. They are rolling. Not like logrolling, but rather, being rolled. Being pushed. Their eyes are open but they can only roll so far on their own, and their heads aren’t willing to help out. It isn’t like they are tied down, because they would have felt the pressure of rope or straps, and the PCs do not. All they can do is lay there with their eyes open, watching the dark ceiling pass by. There is something really odd about it, though. The PCs really notice until their vision begins to sharpen a bit, but once it does, it is obvious. There is no ceiling. Maybe there is, but the only thing they see are hanging air vents, exposed piping and old, frayed electrical wiring poking out in random tufts. Its not just that everything is exposed, but everything looks old. Possibly hundreds of years old. Everything metal is covered in thick, scabrous rust that is a deep crimson hue resembling fresh blood. For an eternity it seems like the PCs are being carted along this endless corridor, from where and to where they have no idea. Their wits and senses begin to come back to them, and with that the less they feel disoriented. Though, as they see more of their surroundings, perhaps the more they wish they could return to blissful oblivion. Fear seeps back into them, filling the vacuum left behind by their subconscious detachment.

The room they awaken in is very dark, though there is just enough light to see by. At that moment each of their bodies are overwhelmed by that peculiar sensation of needles and pins as blood pours into veins and arteries and capillaries that seem to have been out of use for a length of time. Each is seized by the sudden and tremendous force of it, and their bodies convulse uncontrollably. It is so extraordinarily shocking that they collapse to the ground, moaning and wailing and wishing for it to stop. It isn’t exactly painful, but the strength and the extent of the sensation is so completely overwhelming. They are experiencing sensory overload. And, for the moment, there is nothing they can do about it except lie there twitching and allow their bodies to get themselves back in gear and get their blood flowing again. They do, but it is a slow, torturous process, and more than once they think for certain it is going to drive them over the edge of insanity. It is several endless minutes before they are even able to stand. It felt like the PCs have suffered some sort of total shutdown of the circulatory system, from head to toe. They awake slowly, an all-too-familiar pain throbbing behind their eyes and a coppery tasting liquid oozing from their noses and mouths. The PCs lay there for a long time before, concentrating solely on not choking to death on their own blood before they are ready to try and lift themselves. Letting their heads hang limply on their necks, the PCs push themselves wearily to their knees, blood dripping lazily from their swollen lips and tender noses. The area they find themselves in is very small, on all sides are high walls made of stark, naked concrete, which are faded, cracked, and stained everywhere by a combination of rust, dirt, and just plain age. The worn linoleum is peeling from the floor, revealing the bar concrete underneath. Broken bits and pieces of medical equipment are scattered everywhere, all of it covered in a layer of dust and filth. The wall behind them is adorned with a double-door, but it is in horrible shape. What color it originally was is unknown, but now it is red and brown because it is absolutely covered in rust; the surface a dark, scabrous mess that make the doors look like they have contracted some terminal form of eczema. The mattress of the cot is burned in the center as if someone had attempted to set it alight and only partially succeeded. The cot is not the only thing that has changed. The appearance of the steel door is only a prelude to what is found behind it. There is a horrid look about everything. The hospital isn't pitch-black like the alleyway and school were. The walls are absolutely caked with all manners of filth and dirt and rust, and some of that rust looks too red to be rust. Some of that rust looks far very much like blood. A viscous black smear of rot coats the floor and creeps up the walls where they meet, the texture of a diseased, emphysematic lungs. Now the air is warm and muggy, and has that sort of unpleasant thickness that makes breathing more difficult. The smell in the air is a myriad of stenches: death, decay, pestilence hangs in the air like a cloud, so thick one can almost grab it with one’s own hands. The dampness seem to breath from the wall. The air is thick, sultry, close, hot, wet, nasty and sickening. And it rippled around them. Inside of this place, the warmth and humidity only serve to amplify all of the sensual properties of the nastiness that pervades the entire area, none of which are pleasant. The floor is slick with wet filth. Yes, the PCs are still in the hospital, but what in the hell happened to it? They blacked out, that much they know for a fact. It doesn’t seem like they were out of commission longer than a few hours, at least, not to their minds. There was the almost complete cutoff of blood flow to consider, but even that couldn’t have been more than maybe four or five hours. Yet, if they are

really still in Brookhaven Hospital, and having to judge by their surroundings, they have to guess that they were unconscious for a hundred years at least. Before, the place looks neglected and abandoned, unused for several years. Now it looks like the entire building is suffering from the late stages of some kind of terminal cancer. It looks rotten, it looks diseased. It isn’t just the look of the place, either. It smells weak and sickly. The reality of the situation is that the PCs are faced with the task of searching this hospital all over again, and that was hard enough when things looked more normal. Perhaps through some impossible means they have remained unconscious for a very long time, years or even decades. There is a lot to suggest that it is possible. Everything does look severely aged compared to how it did before. The climate is also completely different. They are afraid of the hall itself, as if evil were seeping from its very walls, permeating the air with its corruptness, and creeping into them with malign intent. They want to get away from there, want to take deep, fresh untainted breaths again. First Floor: The room the PCs are in is pretty small, and blessedly empty of anything moving. There are two doors, and a small hallway that leads a few feet down, however, a gate of ancient chain-link fencing cordons it off. Trying the door in front of them first, reveals that the knob is covered in dark slime, and then turning it causes the knob to come off with a dull snap. The neck of the knob is a jagged mess, corroded with age and any number of other elements. Giving the door a half-hearted shove will not open it. The knob on the other door is not as messy, and turning requires with less muscle. When it turns, it does so with a dry grinding noise, but it does turn, and the metal door swings open slowly, its joints protesting loudly and fervently. The world beyond this door is no better than the one the PCs came from. It is another hallway of some sort, and it is just as generally a wretched shape. The moldy walls close in around them, the stench becoming almost unbearable. What a gift, there are no shambling threats, so there is all the time needed to explore this new little pocket of hell. At first, there does not seem like much to see. A few doors line one side of the hall, all of them in sorry shape, one so encrusted with filth that it holds the door sealed like glue. None of them open. The knob on the last door is bent at a painful angle. Yet, a second look at this particular door proves fruitful. There is a plate of some sort at eye level, a plate that was probably once shiny brass but is now green going on black with tarnish and crumbles with pressure. Engraved on that plate is “C1”. 8C1: Peeling paint, crumbling stucco, rusting wrought iron, sagging ceiling, and a pustulantlooking fungus flourishing in the many cracks in the tiles establishes the design motif carried out in every aspect of the hospital. C4: A gory hospital stretcher has been laid out to serve as an altar. Suddenly, the flames from the torches near the altar start burning intensely; they increase at least three times in size. The cup in the center of the altar starts overflowing with the tainted blood, which pours down the stretcher onto the floor.

Lobby: The doorknob to the lobby turns, but the door does not budge, even with the PCs throwing their bodies at it. Something is obstructing that door and it will take more than the likes of the PCs to do anything about it. The door leading to the ground level might not have been blocked by anything, but it is locked, so it might as well have been. Shower Room: The area is finished with mildewed tiles that might have once been white but are now cracked and blackened, the stains showing patterns where water has leaked through the years. The showers form a sort of large oval, ringed with rusting pipes metal pipes that are still spilling water onto the floor after all this time. The floor itself is slanted down to a large metal grate in the center. A second later, hundreds of giant cockroaches stream out of the hole, fleeing from the unexpected intruder. Stairwell: There ends up being only one other healthy door, and it leads to a stairwell. The flashlight shows a pile of wreckage on the downward case, allowing access to the basement as well as the floor above. The stairwell is not a very inviting place, to say the least. It is hot and stuffy, like an oven. Rusty water has apparently been dripping from the ceiling, leaving nasty brown stains running down the wall, and where the walls aren't rusty, they are mottled with mildew. It also has an unpleasant odor, too. It is musty, rather like a limestone cave. Mottled dark green and brown splotches of fungus cover much of the walls like a disgusting scablike growth, fringed with tiny white spores that resemble insect eggs. It isn't like the sections of the apartments that are openly leaking, but years and years of dampness take their toll, and harshly. The Elevator: The elevator looks different inside, too. The doors are scratched and dented. The walls are draped completely in white sheets, yellowed some, probably from age, but really, so far, this is the most sanitary environment the PCs have seen since waking up. Stepping inside, and the doors slide shut behind them with a smoothness one would not have even thought to expect considering the look of them. The panel inside is covered in a thin film of dust, but it is legible. And now three new buttons have appeared on the same elevator they had been on before. The only one that works leads to the third-floor basement. And they have no idea what nasty surprises are waiting for them there. You push a button, and for a moment there is nothing but a shuddering beneath your feet and the tortured whine of the motor below you. The elevator is still working, though it seems to move much more slowly.. Vision Two: The PCs are on a game show, in an audience of people who are wearing funny costumes. They themselves are dressed as hospital patients, wearing pajamas and a bandage around their heads. The host of the show stands beside them. “Hi there everybody, thanks for tuning in. Welcome to another exciting edition of ‘trick or treat!’” He says with syrupy enthusiasm. “Do you want to keep the thousand dollars you’ve already won, or do you want to trade it for whatever’s behind curtain number one!” The PCs look at the stage and see that there are three hospital beds concealed by privacy curtains. If the PCs refuse, or say nothing, the host will say “Oh, do you really think that’s wise? Are you really sure you’re making the right decision?” And then the host looks around at the studio audience, flashing his white-white teeth in a big smile. “What do you think, audience? Should they keep the thousand, considering how little a thousand dollars will buy in these times of inflation, or should they trade it for what’s behind curtain number one?” The audience roars in unison: “Trade it! Trade it!” The host—who now looks distinctly satanic, with arched eyebrows and terrible dark eyes, and wicked mouth, says “You’ll take the curtain, because its really what you deserve. You have it coming to you. The curtain! Let’s see what’s behind curtain number one!”

On the stage, the curtain encircling the first hospital bed is whisked aside, and two nurses are sitting on the edge of the bed. They are both holding scalpels, and the stage lights glint on the razor-sharp cutting edges of the instruments. The nurses rise off the bed and start across the stage, heading towards the audience, towards the PCs, their scalpels held out in front of them. The audience roars with delight and applauds. B3: They can hear the gears of the elevator turning. The elevator comes to a sudden halt and then the doors squeakily slide open. Crematorium: The room smells heavily of ashes, smoke, and rotting flesh. They slowly walk into the old, gloomy room, feet tapping on the solid cold floor. They are greeted by the strong scent of tainted meat. The smell, they realize, is coming from several perfectly aligned, covered gurneys, each with a dark number smeared onto the filthy cloth in blood. Some of them still wet, the edges congealed and quickly crusting. There appear to be human bodies beneath the sheets, and some gurneys have nothing on them at all. There is an opened oven attached to a wall opposite from where they are standing. They realize that this isn't just some kind of hospital morgue, but it is also a crematorium. Everything is very quiet until they hear a faint gasping noise. The noise begins to sound something like stuttering grunts of pain. The voice also seems as though it were trying to hold back its sounds, as though trying not to show its pain. Suddenly, it stops. They hear more sounds that echo from the walls. Remote sounds, difficult to identify and impossible to locate. A series of noises follow, giving the impression that footsteps are simply more unnatural sounds originating from the room. Something that might be a whispered conversation, punctuated by titterings and hushing sounds. Something that might be the growl of a large animal—or of an animal-like man. Human wailing surrounds them. The sound of running water, once more. A sound like that of a stream pouring over a cliff into a pool. No sounds actually originate from this room, but instead are amplified from other levels in the Dungeon. This room has become a nexus for noise and the PCs are actually hearing conversations and battles going on in other levels. The flames within the oven change, their essence altering as they thicken into an almost gelatinous substance. The dark fire flows thickly like undulating molten metal, out of the crematory door and down its side, spilling onto the floor and into a rapidly widening blue-black pool of living viscous flame. Something glimmers from inside the oven. The PCs curiously walk over, trying to ignore the smell as best they can. As they get close, they make out the shape of a key. They quickly take it, eager to get out of this nightmarish place. Second Floor: Two flights of stairs up, there is a door, painted a dirty shade of brown only made dirtier by the latent decomposition that affects everything else. “2F” is painted upon it in fading white.

If the PCs happened to hold any tiny hope that the third floor will look as they remembered it, it doesn’t last past their first view. The walls are stained green with mold and mildew, and the amorphous coverage is all but total. There is a wet stench in the air from all of it, and it is even warmer up here. The hallway is clear and the radio is silent. The second floor landing is covered in dust and broken bits of plaster and a few glass shards that had once been an overhead light. Then, heard a different noise is heard. At first, it seems like just one of the many colorful sounds that one hears if they pay attention to air circulation. After all, who hasn’t been at least momentarily surprised by the sudden activation of a furnace? But it isn’t a furnace. It is a wet sound. Wet, and nasty. And it isn’t coming from the vent. Three things happen within perhaps a quarter of a second. The radio suddenly comes to life, blaring out its ever-present static as if it were the herald of sudden doom. The wet, mushy noise becomes a crescendo, a wailing scream that skirts such a fine line between natural and unnatural, making it all the more terrifying. Finally, and definitely worst of all, is the hollow, powerful sound of a long heavy object being swung through the darkness. One can just hear the whistling sound it makes from its motion before it strikes the wall beside the PCs with a dull metallic sound. They have just enough presence of mind to see what has just been swung at them and register it for what it is: a large, rusty piece of steel piping. The business end of it tears a gaping chunk out of the wall, having been wielded with enough force to bury the head several inches into the wall. It turns out to be quite a good thing that their unseen assailant had put so much muscle into the attack, for it is trying to retrieve its weapon, and that gives them a few wonderful seconds to recover and attempt to defend themselves. Then, their eyes fall upon what had swung the weapon. At a cursory glance, the attacker appears quite human, possessing a long, slender figure, and distinctly feminine features as well, round hips, large breasts. Its thinness gives it an illusion of height, though it cannot be more than five feet and eight inches tall. It looks quite a bit more human than any of the town’s other inhabitants so far, with the exception of the red pyramid thing. Also unlike the other monsters, this one wears clothing, an outfit, more accurately. A short skirt and a top that displays some ample bosom, topped off by a little folded cap that one might see on a sailor. Or a nurse. Of course. A nurse. It is dressed in rags that had once been a nurse’s uniform though the only current indicator is the faded red cross on the dirty hat that sits on its skull. But it is hardly the type of outfit one would ever see a real nurse wear while on duty. It is a parody of a real nurse’s uniform, one that seems intentionally designed to appear sexual, something only a stripper or an adventurous lover would ever really wear. Perhaps on a real woman, it would look sexy. But what stands in front of them, struggling to retrieve its weapon, that thing is not human. Not even close. It finally tugs the pipe free from the wall, and then stands there its left shoulder droops below its right, weighed down by the large, rusty metal pipe in its left hand, not moving, almost as if it

were admiring the thing. The iodine smell is thick around the creature, like the smell of old bloody bandages. Apparently the monster realizes that it now faces a threat of its own, for it turns to face them just as they raise their weapons. The nurse’s face... It has no face. The nurse’s head is seemingly human in shape, though large and more oblong, with a less pronounced jaw, than the average human head. Yet, where a face should be there is—simply nothing. Simply smooth from ear to ear, and from hairline to the rounded bottom of the chain, the color of the rest of it is a blank expanse of skin like flesh brutally fashioned with a trowel. There is a suggestion of shallow indentations where eyes should be, and nostrils, and a mouth. It is a monster in a white dress, masquerading as a nurse. The proof is its empty face, and its gray decomposing skin that gives it the appearance of a walking corpse. The odor it carries is repulsive, like rotting garbage. Brilliant light and percussive sound fills the room for a fraction of a second as the gun fires, both of them stunning to eyes that are used to darkness and ears that are used to dead silence. The monster drops its weapon, and its arms swing wildly, as if it has lost control over them. Stranger still, stranger and significantly more disturbing, is that its head thrashes about even more wildly. Her head flies in every direction and it does so with impossible speed, faster than the muscles of anything its size should be able to operate. One half-expects the head to tear itself right off of its neck, but it doesn’t. Instead, the nurse stumbles around blindly, head thrashing as it screams a terrible, inhuman scream, one that sounds equal parts rage and pain. The unsettling noise she lets out fills the entire hallway with echoes. The creature doesn’t seem to pose a threat now, yet the morbid scene is fascinating in a terrible way, and one cannot pull one’s eyes away from it. The nurse’s blind meanderings eventually make it walk face-first into a wall, making a sound like hard plastic cracking when it does so. It falls backwards to the floor, lying prone on its back. That damnable screeching continues as its limbs flail uselessly, like an insect. Perhaps it is suffering its death throes, but there is only one means to make certain. You steel yourself, swallowing all your feelings of doubt. It has to be painful for anyone that disfigured to live. Monster or human, the best thing would be for it to die. You raise the steel pipe above your head, and swing down with all your might. A blunt object crashing down upon the nurse’s midsection causes that same crushed plastic sound to be heard. Several more times and finally, the nurse’s struggles slow, and ceases as it finally dies, letting out one long, raspy moan as it does. It is like the others in another way. It smells like strong, thick rot, like wet meat gone way over. This time, it didn’t stand back up. The pipe lies on the floor a short distance away, and the PCs can retrieve it. Even though it originally belongs to something that shouldn’t logically exist, even though it had been used to nearly decapitate them, the feel of it is reassuring, giving at least a slight sense of safety.

They turn and look at the body of the nurse, which lies sprawled on the floor, spread-eagle, looking disturbingly like an unconscious rape victim. They stand before the body of the nurse, expecting it to rise any minute; expectation so high they just know they will beat it into pulp if it just dares to move an inch; but the nurse doesn’t even show the head convulsions it had previously shown. The creature's grotesque exterior concealed surprising strength, but its decaying body was still too fragile to fight for long. M1: The room's layout is identical to the others except the bed on the left has been pushed away and there is a small niche carved out of the wall. The inside of it is painted black and there are dull red stains running down from it that could be rust or dried blood. A key glitters in the niche along with a white slip of paper. They walk over to the niche to get the key. They notice as they get closer that on the wall just above the niche someone has painted two pale hands clasped together in prayer. On the ring finger of the right hand is a small grey band, and on the left hand is a small red band. They pick up the key which has BASE STORE engraved on it. On the slip of paper, in the same handwriting as the note found in S3, is written: I was locked up inside the basement's basement. It was so small and dark and I was so afraid. I dropped my precious ring. But I will never, ever go back there. M 5: In room M 5 they find all the beds are covered in blood, like all the patients that used to lie beneath the covers had been butchered in a terrible manner, and eerie noises come from where there should've been nothing; screams; unearthly chanting and moaning; animalistic growls and snarls. The floors and walls are covered in cracked brown and black tiles, materials obviously designed to inflict pain rather than prevent it, to which the variety of bloodstains are testimony. M 5 also bears signs of the patients valuables being ransacked, suitcases and duffle bags and their contents lay strewn about on the rustic metal floor, sinewy snake-like veins pulsate like a racing heart on the walls and chains hang from the ceiling, along with huge metal cages housing remains of corpses with nurse clothing, and the occasional hospital gown. Side stepping amidst the assortment of clothing, bottles of conditioner and soap, the PCs see one bed that is completely immaculate, no blood stains. Nurse’s Locker Room: The floor of the room is a mesh grid, like a giant sheet of chicken wire. Visible beneath the grid is the metallic blur of a huge fan. On wall, hanging from twin barbed hooks, is filthy stained robe. In one corner is a wastebasket. At the far side of the room is an object. It does look like a clock at first glance, like a fine old grandfather clock in the somewhat macabre shape of a coffin. Then the door creaks open. Within the box, hung upside down, is looks like a human body, suspended by chains with hooks attached, as well as being held within a sack covered in dried blood, obscuring its details from view.

It convulses and shakes as if in pain and agony, so it isn't dead, but it doesn't look like something that would be threatening to them; instead, though they feel horrified about it, they might feel somewhat sorry for it, as if this is an actual person there being tortured. But then a speck of white catches the eye, and they glance at the wastebasket, which contains white plastic bag bearing some corporate logo and a health drink. The PCs leave the creature to thrash uselessly against its restraints and emit gurgling noises as it does so, seemingly choking on blood constantly. Doctor’s Locker Room: The suffocating humidity thickens in the locker room stink of mildew and sweat. Beneath their feet the chainlink floor clangs and quivers. Then they hear it. Off in the lockers somewhere. The sound of a phone ringing. The PCs stop. The phone keeps on ringing, its sound thin and insistent. They take a few steps forward. Another and another. The telephone keeps on ringing, demanding an answer. Stepping over the bullet-ridden bodies of several nurses, the PCs cast aside the locker to reveal a decrepit payphone heaped inside. Slowly they approach the pay phone. They stare at the receiver as if it might be a snake rearing back to strike. They do not want to answer it. Answering, they are showered with praise by a stranger, declaring “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear...Oh, I forgot your name. Which do you prefer? To give pain or to receive it? You can have the one you hate the most. Happy birthday to you.” The phone isn't even connected. Day Room: The door to the east wing is barred, but the Day Room door opens with ease. The room had once been a common area with tables, chairs, a refrigerator, two couches and a television. But, like the rest of the hospital, it is now a ruin. Burnt walls appear to pulse and grating clanks under their feet. The chairs and tables are cracked and broken and have been strewn about the floor. Wheelchairs loom like twisted art sculptures, and other strange shapes idle in the darkness, but nothing moves or slithers on the floor; no enemies or obstructions block their way. The television screen has been smashed in and the antennae are bent and rusted. The upholstery on the couches has rotted and the refrigerator lies on its back; it is dented with a large jagged concrete slab that had probably been part of the ceiling lying at an odd angle on top of it. The windows are boarded up as is the door on the far side of the room. Third Floor: Finally, an eternity later, the bell dings again, and the doors whoosh open into the pitch-dark hallways of what was once the Solitary Wing years ago. The doors shake and shudder as they open with a small squeal. The hallway is clear and the radio is silent. If the PCs happened to hold any tiny hope that the third floor will look as they remembered it, it doesn’t last past their first view. The walls are stained green with mold and mildew, and the amorphous coverage is all but total. There is a wet stench in the air from all of it, and it is even warmer up here. S Corridor Door: It isn’t the loud, squalling orgy of noise it is when the threat is imminent, but it is more than just white noise. This is the first time noticed that it is picking up on monsters through walls and doors. With the radio still sounding its muted warning of doom, the PCs

carefully turn the knob, making as little noise as possible, opening the door just wide enough, and poking their head around the corner. S Corridor: The radio starts buzzing and squealing, but the PCs can already see why. The door opens into another hallway, with this end being slightly wider and narrowing out farther down. There it is. One of them is in the corner, opposite of the door. In this little wide area, one can see another one of the nurses standing about five feet in front of them with its back facing them. It stands facing the corner. It isn’t moving at all, save for a sort of drunken swaying as it stands in place. It looks more or less identical to the one that almost killed them, wearing the same provocative nurse outfit, sporting the same grotesque shapeliness, and carrying a pipe that looks too much like the one they retrieved from the previous nurse. The combination of light and noise certainly galvanizes the monster into motion. Examining the doors along the hallway reveals that most of them still retain their padlocks. In fact, the passage of time has basically fused many of the locks to the latches they rested in. It doesn’t really matter though, because door S11, is the only one besides S3 that is left unlocked. Even S16 now has a crusty, rusty padlock preventing access and that room wasn’t there before. The plates on the doors are overgrown and illegible, but the third door from the end is still unlatched and it is the only one that is. The door to S3, like most of the metal doors, is rusted and dented. The handle is slick with what feels like fuzzy moss, but the door opens without much trouble. S3: The door to S3, like most of the metal doors, is rusted and dented. The handle is slick with what feels like fuzzy moss, but the door opens without much trouble. The room has changed considerably. The window is boarded up, the wallpaper is peeling, lengthy strips of leatherly parchment, each covered with hundreds of lines of writing have been draped over the bed and tiles from the ceiling have fallen down and lie broken on the chain-link floor. The bed is still there, but while before it looked old and piss-soaked, now it is saturated and disgusting. A huge blob of black fungus grows from the center of the mattress and radiates outward like an vile starburst, smelling like sweet, rotten fruit. However, on the bedside table, there are six prescription bottles, as well as two more on the bed. The labels are still pretty clean: Hydrocodone, Valium, Percocet. All of these bottles are empty but none of them are ancient. There isn't even so much as dust on them. They hadn't been here long at all. Outside the window, they notice a hand grasps between the holes in the chainlink, reaching out from the darkness. It is mostly bone in a shredded glove of crinkled leathery skin, spotted with mold. A couple of fingernails are still attached to the decaying hand, but they have turned black, looking like the gleaming shells of fat beetles. A wrist is visible, a forearm with a little more meat on it, the ragged and stained sleeve of a blue blouse or dress. A red-speckled black bracelet is around the withered wrist. Shiny. New-looking. The darkness is impenetrable; they can not tell if the owner of the hand dangles in the darkness, or if the hand and forearm was severed. S9/10:When they enter S9, the size of the room surprises them. Then they see the other door and realized that S9 and S10 had been combined by removing the wall between them. Rusty grill makes up the floor; they could see a Nurse armed with a scalpel strolling around in M5 below

them. A white refrigerator is seated on one of the two clammy beds in this room, #S9/10. There are shotgun shells, revolver bullets, two health drinks and a strange reddish container on top of it. S11: The first one without a lock open only after being kicked, and a wretched smell comes from within, thick and choking. It comes as no small surprise to find that the room is empty of any obvious source. In fact, the small cell looks quite clean compared to S3. There is no mattress on the bed, just an old, rusty boxspring with a deep sag in the middle. Maybe there is something in the vent shaft causing the smell. When the room is left, they note that their efforts to force the door open have broken off some of the encrusted green slop that has grown over most of the hallway and hardened like glue. Chunks of it have been torn right off, and while it is hardly much of an improvement, it is noticeable. If anyone else has tried to open these doors, they should leave similar evidence. Examination Room Four: In the center of the room is another body, wrapped head to toe in filthy brown cloth. It is hanging by barbed wire that is wrapped around its wrists and ankles; the spikes on the wire are deeply embedded into the skin; the blood from the wounds drips down and falls into a single shiny silvery bucket placed beneath it. There is a little rustling sound coming from the bucket. They can see something that looks like hair in the bucket. Inside is a man’s head, floating in a pool of blood, his eyes wide and insane, looking at the PCs. His lips begin to move, forming words, but no sound, for there are no lungs to push air through his larynx. Yet still his lips keep moving in what seems to be silent pleas. But pleas for what? And then he opens his mouth wide and screams—silently. Day Room: The red light strips everything inside the room of color, just as evenings does. There seems no shades but black and red. The chain-link floor does not stretch all the way across the room. It ends near to the center, and where a gently dangling canopy of threadbare silk is suspended over a cube-shaped metal framework that is directly above a large hole in the center of the room. Drafts of stale air drift upward from the hole and cause the canopy to waver carrying a sour smell drifts upward into their nostrils. Perhaps this is part of some alien ventilation system. The sides of the room are cordoned off with metal railings. The Storeroom: The storeroom's walls and ceiling are a gray plaster that has begun to flake and scatter. On the far wall is a large shelf that is surprisingly well stocked with cleaning supplies and medical equipment. On the wall to the right is a sturdy metal desk with a large metallic box on top. The light comes from a small lamp with a flexible head attached to the desk. They enter the room and go over to the box, which is composed of a silvery metal and seems to be welded to the desk. On top of the box are fifteen metal buttons. They are organized into five rows of three. Each button is marked either A, B, or C and the rows are numbered one-through-five. The inside of the box is lined with a light red felt and is much more spacious than it appears on the outside. Inside the box are two fifty packs of bullets and another clip-fully loaded. There is also a fourpack of AA batteries-the same kind the flashlight uses. Store Room: This little room has no purpose at all. No monsters, no items, no storyline revelations for the players, except for a good old-fashioned scare. When they have entered the room there is a feeling that something is...off.

These feelings are not derived from one particular thing, but rather a combination of many---and one item foremost. It isn’t the washbasin, mildewed and smelling like copper and mold, or the fact that they see nothing of interest--no ammunition, health items, etc. Around the corner there is full-length mirror in front of a wash basin and sink. The mirror runs the full length of the wall from ceiling to the floor, its dull surface stained and cracked, and renders reflections a little blurry. Approaching the mirror, they begin not to recognize themselves in the dingy mirror. What was this place used for? During their exploring of Brookhaven hospital, they have come across many odd rooms: some with normal hospital décor, but others just disturbing. Is it a twoway mirror? Is there someone on the other side...watching? After a while, things change for the worse. In the mirror's reflection, blood will start to seep out of the walls and floor and start running towards the sink, pouring into the drain. The blood spills over the sides onto the floor, running through the cracks in the tiles, then slowly seeping over the borders of that only to crawl up the crevices in the walls, then covering that and twisting in ways no liquid should twist, no liquid should even be able to get itself up a wall like this one is doing to the entire room and the ceiling now, everything is crawling with it except for human forms and the mirror, crawling and twisting and writhing and shivering when the lines all meet and join together as flesh bubbles up out of nowhere. None of this will be happing on the PC's side of the mirror, but once all of the blood on the other side has poured into the sink in the mirror: The liquid on the other side collects beneath the washbasin's twin. You watch the rills disappear into the cracks and crevices with sly, moist whispers, and then silence. Is it gone? Where did it go? What-Then you hear one of the most disturbing, disgusting sounds you would ever hear in your life. Your eyes fly to the washbin on your side as the basin shake and porcelain chips sprinkled onto the floor. A slurping sound chugs from the pipes, shaking them with the force of its entry. The rivulets of blood will start coming out of the drain and tendril its way across the floor on their side of the mirror with vein-like streaks of crimson, and the PCs' reflection will start to become covered in blood, while tendrils slowly seep into their half of the room. You try to ignore the sounds coming from the small washtub and the rivulets of blood-black tendrils snaking from the basin. These tendrils then spread across the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and coat everything in a thick, squirming blanket. The walls surrounding them began to pulsate violently and change from a dirty flesh color to a blood red. The veins wiggle and swell as they consume the entire room. The tendrils of blood inflict tiny bits of damage (1D4 per second of contact) to the PCs, and begin to coat the floors and ceiling of this room. The tendrils aren't flesh, but pus, which slither over everything along with the blood, making nearly all inanimate object take on the look and feel of maggot-infested, rotting meat. And the blood keeps pouring out and splashing over and mixing with the rest of it and swarming and creeping, luminous with death. If the PCs want to leave before the spectacle is over, You began edging your way closer to the exit—with one eye on the mirror and the other on the basin. And it is when the black worm-like masses ooze over the dirty rim and the sucking sound becomes thicker, wetter, you move for the door. You stumble into it with a clumsy smack and jerk the knob, turning and twisting with (of course) no luck. You stare at it stupidly for a moment; your mind unable to accept the door won't open. Did you just not walk through here only minutes ago? When did it lock? Why didn't you hear it lock?

Vaulting from the door with a croaking cry, the tendrils are everywhere now, wiggling, oozing like a nest of mushy snakes. They can't shoot these things. There are too many of them. Darkness surrounds them; the tendrils crawling over the walls and slithering over their shoes. There is nowhere to run, nothing else to do but hunch one’s shoulders, try not to pass out from revulsion. Already the membrane that covers the walls also covers the door. Eventually, the reflection of the PCs will become entirely covered in blood, and stops mirroring their images, instead simply standing still, as if appendant to the floor by the gore that has suddenly made its presence very known. Fortunately, the PCs have not met the same fate and are able to escape the room, for once the mirror PCs are immobile, the door to the Storeroom unlocks itself and they can leave, but only if they go and look at the other reflection in the mirror! If they do not watch the reflection in the mirror, they will not be able to leave the room, and the tendrils will continue inflicting damage. Main Hallway: The specialty rooms on the other side of the hall are also all inaccessible. The door leading to the main hallway is still functioning though, and opening it requires more muscle-work. Once it has opened enough to permit it, the PCs can slide through and the retractor pulls the door shut behind them with a dry, metallic groan. There is now a raging storm outside and as one walks around in the halls one suddenly sees these three little figures down one of the long halls. They also see the PCs and start running toward them. As they get closer one can better make out their features and only freeze in horror. They are child-sized, mostly human creatures. About the size of an average 11 year old. They are hairless, with light grey skin and blank white eyes. Their faces are partially rotted, in fact their noses are completely gone and small lacerations littered their bodies. They also have pointed ears. The only clothing they wear are tattered hospital gowns. They run at the visitor, each wielding a single syringe with a very long needle, filled with a glowing green substance. When they get about 5 feet from the PCs, they stop and just stare for a time. It isn’t until one turns around and runs the other way that they continue their pursuit, almost as if they are playing some twisted game. Closing the door, they then hear a muted whack, which is followed by another. A moment later, there is more and more, and soon it is a terrifying, arrhythmic percussion line as all three creatures beat furiously on the door with their pipes. They might be able to break through eventually, but it won’t be any time soon, and it doesn’t seem as though they possess the intelligence to simply try the doorknob. As long as they lean against it, it probably isn’t going to be opened. The beating eases somewhat as the bracing PCs into a standing position. Evidently, the things must have started to lose interest, because the thumping on the door becomes less intense and not nearly as rapid. It finally stops altogether as the PCs grip the handrail and started to ascend the stairs to the roof. Roof: Once they reach the top of the stairs, where the door to the hospital’s roof was...It’s gone! Not to say that meaning that there is a missing door, the door and the frame are simply not there. Instead, the PCs found themselves staring at a blank concrete wall. It is if there had never been a door there to begin with, only smooth, cool concrete. But there are also things that make them unsure of this theory, and this is certainly the most compelling of them all. A door has simply vanished. Someone would have had to actually remove that. It would require construction, and

careful construction at that, to make this possible, and considering the state of things, that might even begin to accept that as possible, but logic and common sense simply do not hold sway here. Back to the Stairway: It comes from down below. A strange noise. A sudden shrill cry. Something is squealing a sudden shrill cry, and it is squealing repeatedly. Cautiously, the PCs continue downward, listening to the strange noise. At first, the regularity of it makes the PCs think it is some kind of mechanical sound or insectile trilling, but as they get closer, it sounds more and more like a infantile whine, baby's screech, or perhaps that of a piggish screech, but the pitch is wrong, far too high to be either. It is not a sound associated with any creatures they have yet encountered. Along with the sound is a thin but noxious odor increases as they go down. Urine, feces, stale sweat. Basement: At the bottom there is a door directly in front. The hallway seems to continue further, and the shrill noise---almost like an oscillating electronic wail is stronger now. Whatever it is, it isn't very far around the corner from the PCs. The eerie warbling pulse echoes up from that shadowy corner, and in a crude way it conveys meaning: urgency, anger---hunger. That sound is so vile that it seems to possess a tactile quality; one can imagine that they can feel the cry itself, like damp spectral hands, sliding over face and body, a cold and clammy sensation. The walls are darker here, absorbing the flashlight’s glow and cutting down visibility. The bottom yields another nasty surprise. The hallway leading to the hospital’s boiler room, pump room, and—most importantly—electrical room is blocked. Someone has erected a length of chain-link fencing that covers the entire span of the hallway, secured to the wall every foot or so with strong iron bolts. The basement is a maze of tunnels and passages—some moan with distant drafts, some alive with sounds that are close and menacing. The noises behind the doors are louder, and as one is assess, something on the other side thumps hard enough to be heard. An occasional broken pipe exhales a listless plume of green steam. Some rooms have totally collapsed; others are bare, or debris-filled. In a few can be seen masses of metal - some fairly intact, some broken, and some crushed or battered. In front is a rusty door that had once been marked STOREROOM in white paint. Storeroom: There is a ladder going down into inky darkness. Looking down nothing can be seen, and so far, the radio is behaving. Climbing down the ladder reveals that it actually ends about a foot and a half before it reaches the ground. It is a very small room, not much larger than the solitary rooms upstairs. It is walled on all sides in bare concrete, but the floor is covered in old wooden slats, scaly and warping with age and moisture; the decorative equivalent of pustulent gangrenous flesh. It is almost like wading into the cesspool of a homicidal lunatic’s chaotic inner world. The room is completely naked, save for one thing. An old refrigerator lies on its back in the middle of the room, an old Amana with the rounded edges and chevrons on the front. It was white once but dimmed and dulled with time. It will require the strength of two to open it. There is a bass-like sucking sound as the door pries away from the main unit and the vacuum-trapped air within is released after countless years of confinement. The air is very stale and smells rotten. Vision Two: Now there is a man sitting in the bathtub. He's screaming so hard that his lips have torn at the corners, making his mouth appear to be larger than it actually is. He's screaming because he has wounds all over his entire body, little slits covering him head to toe, each

spewing blood. The blood looks watery and thin. There are so many wounds spewing so much blood that the bathtub is full to his waist. He screams and screams in intense, horrific, agonized pain, clutching the sides of the bathtub with both hands. Standing all around him are men and women in white coats—doctors. They look almost bored, showing no expression whatsoever as they gaze down at the screaming man. One doctor leans to another standing next to him and says, "It's just a skin condition." Everywhere you look, there are more of them. Many are old, and most are just standing. The entire building, which was a hundred years old, is like refugee station filled with the lingering images of those who died there. You see people with terrible injuries and those wasted by their suffering. You see children, bald and bloated with drubs. Babies the size of your fist float like bubbles through the air before you, trailing their bloody cords like the tails of kites. Are these just after-images? Photographs of past actions, fading slowly over time? To their left is the west stairwell door. It had been locked before and they had paid it no attention. But now it is decorated in some sort of strange fresco, a three-dimensional bas-relief of a woman with a background of dark green mist. She wears a hooded black and crimson robe. Her skin is pale and partially reflects the light. Her smile is warm but her hazel eyes are cold. It is to her hands that the eye is drawn however. The woman's face and the décor around it are contoured, but her arms are actually extended away from the door, crafted in full detail. It is rather impressive-looking, and it seems as though the overgrowth has not damaged the relief, or even touched it except on the edges. Her pale hands are outstretched with her palms facing up. The fingers of the left hand are gentle and relaxed, as if the hand were offering a gift. But the fingers of the right hand seem tense as though it were demanding compensation. Most significant though, is that the hands are not part of the painting, but sculptures extending out of the painting and into the hall. Touching, the fingers of her hand are cold like metal; slender and smooth, except in two places. There are two rings on her fingers, one made of old copper and one made of lead. One ring is made of old copper and has a spider engraved on it. The other is lead and at least three times heavier despite being the same size. Its face is shaped like a distraught skull, looking kind of like that screaming man in that Edvard Munch painting. Two old and ugly rings, both too small for human fingers. However, they are an exact fit for the slender fingers of the woman extending out from the door. Slipping the copper ring on her left ring finger until it rests in its groove, then do the same with the lead ring on the right hand. When it enters its depression, the sharp snick of the door’s lock as it disengages is heard. The PCs turn the knob and push the door open slowly, wondering just what might be found behind a door like this. Hidden Stairwell: What they find is more stairs. It is a stairwell quite like the other, maybe a little dirtier. There are no stairs going up, although really, the other stairwell doesn't need them either. The stairs are composed of concrete and the walls are a sooty black. The stairwell has a musty smell to it. Dust has collected in the corners and in the various nooks and cracks, but the stairs themselves have very little: a sign that the area has been traveled recently.

Even with the flashlight, it seems as though the darkness has gotten stronger, more palpable as they descend. The walls look less appealing with each step. And, as the PCs loop around downwards, there are no doors. Four, five, six flights of stairs without any doors leading out into one of the main hallways. There is no noise at all save for the sound of feet on the concrete and the reverberating echoes that result, yet the lower they go, the stronger the bad sensations feel. It is almost possible to believe, from moment to moment, this is an ordinary walk down a long flight of stairs, with diamond-grids underfoot. Almost possible, at any rate, in the dark, with the flashlights lighting the rusty walls. Where on earth is this leading to, anyway? Not that they have an intention of turning back. They have committed themselves to a course of action, and if there was one thing that they had learned through their adventures in Silent Hill, it is to press ahead. Always, to press ahead. Peril might lie in their path, doom might await them. But no matter what the odds, there is always a chance of success. There is nothing to be gained by turning back. Surely not now. The stairs stop looping around after perhaps eight or nine or maybe ten, the PCs have lost count. Now there is one long, straight set of stairs, old and worn, with rounded edges. By the time they reach the bottom, the bad feeling that had been growing is now so strong that there is an almostaudible buzz in the air, crackling, latent electricity. It is warmer down here, and the PCs are sweating. Eventually they will come to the end of their descent, and then they will find out what lays beneath Brookhaven. It feels like they had been going down forever. So, where the hell are they? Was this in the hospital before? The PCs have no way of knowing. There is a door of plain scuffed metal that is rife with rust and general deterioration. The knob turns, scratching and grating and finally ending with a dirty click that pierces the blanketing silence. They push it open a crack, expecting to find themselves in some sort of morgue. Pulling the door open slowly exposes a long, narrow hallway that turns a corner ahead but is naked otherwise. The glow comes from ceiling lights that run down the hallway in front of them. The wall on the right has turned into a chain link fence. The light is harsh and casts striped shadows everywhere. Up ahead the corridor turns around and heads back towards them on the other side of the fence. At the corner, the hall goes forward a few paces and then turns right again, running parallel to the first part of the hall. It runs down almost exactly as long, and then turns another corner yet. So, where the hell are they? Was this in the hospital before? The PCs have no way of knowing. It is infused with a stale, musty scent. It has a secluded atmosphere that doesn’t fit at all into the hospital setting, and it doesn’t seem likely that this hall was used for transporting deceased patients. Their footsteps echo dully through the dark, enclosed space, adding to the air of loneliness.

There is a sound. It is long and soft, like a sleepy exhalation of air, or perhaps air being shoved through the ventilation system by a distant circulator kicking in. The noise doesn’t sound like anything threatening, however… thump A new noise. Soft, but not as soft. Louder, too. thump thump Again. Louder. Louder and closer. thump thump thump Very loud. Very close. Threatening. Wheeling around... It is him. Oh no, oh no, not now not NOW NO It advances upon them down the hall they had just passed through. Lithe and tall, taller even then it should be because of the enormous pointed helmet it wears. Terrifying even in its own right. Petrifying to see it stalk you, hunt you. And not two seconds later, the horrible visage of the red pyramid thing emerges from the corner, not plodding as before. It is actually walking pretty fast. Far too fast. At first it can’t be seen why. Then, its right hand is seen... It is no longer carrying its oversized sword anymore. It now has a spear, one that is tipped with a long, menacing head and has a body made of a long, thick wooden haft. It is almost black, by chance or design is unknown. It isn’t important. What is important is that the spear is considerably lighter and less awkward to carry than that massive blade, and that means a greater danger for the PCs. It means the Pyramid Head can move. Without even slowing down, Pyramid Head uses the spear to smash each ceiling light it passes under, leaving behind a darkness. crash, crash, crash. They do not wait to see what he does next. The PCs simply turn and run down the hall as fast as they can. The PCs are not sure how fast Pyramid Head is moving or if he is even following them and the PCs badly want to turn around, but they know that any sort of hesitation on their part can be fatal. The corridor twists again and they round the corner. Now the PCs can hear Pyramid Head pursuing them. They dash through the twisting corridor around what seems like hundreds of corners until their legs ache and their breath comes in ragged, terrified gasps. The corners finally, mercifully give way to a long, straight-shot hallway. It is damnably long, disappearing into the jet-black, and yet the PCs feel the dread certainty that it is insufficient, not enough to escape that dread monstrosity that bears down on them, that leviathan with the pointed helmet and that air of hopelessness that it projects. It is almost certainly what they had felt as they descended that improbably long stairwell. It was him all along, and they didn’t recognize it even though they had experienced it several times before already.

Suddenly, the darkness is pierced by a slash of light, brilliant, welcoming light, the proverbial end of the tunnel. As they get closer, their crazy terror almost instantly transforms into crazy relief. An elevator! The end is in sight, seeming to be impossibly far away. Sprinting towards it with renewed vigor, the thought of safety and escape helping the PCs draw upon inner reserves of energy. They run for what seems like hours down this long, endless hall, the welcoming light always seeming to be an extra step ahead of them. Each step is torturously slow and punctuated almost perfectly by the sensation of blood pounding through their bodies by their tired, overworked hearts trying desperately to keep everything from falling apart and shutting down, being driven on by the sheer terror of the monster chasing them, the fear of death at his merciless hands, and before them, blinding and glorious, flows the industrial light of the service elevator, its doors open and inviting… It is the red pyramid thing’s spear, extending several inches into the elevator through the door. The obsidian head is absolutely coated and drenched in blood. For a moment it seems as though time has stopped completely, a photograph that exists for a nearly interminable moment. There are buttons for the first, second and third floors, the button for the second and third floors have apparently fallen off, so pressing the first floor button causes the elevator to shudder as it comes to life and begins its ascent, ending where it is supposed to, with a hiss and snap. The walls of the elevator are white and pristine, but the PCs won’t care. The movement is slow and gentle, but the PC do not care. The elevator stops and a small bell rings, but they do not care. Then, the doors slide open to admit the PCs to the first floor, but they do not care. First Floor: Front Lobby: The decay of the first floor’s east wing is not as profound as it had been on previous floors. The paint has almost completely peeled off of the walls and large scratches run the length of them, but there is no sign of burns or disease. The floor is intact for the most part, though it is covered in dust and black streaks crisscross the tiles. Making a left out of the elevator, the flashlight reflects off of the glass on the automatic doors and the PCs can move towards them, eager to be free of this hospital and its nurses, bodies, and memories. But not yet. The doors do not move. Despite the decrepit appearance of the hospital, a small red light blinks on the swipe card terminal. Locked. Disbelief. The effort to undo the manual lock and trying to pull the doors apart is in vain. Anger. Pounding fists on the glass reveals that it is cold, hard and does very little to alleviate rage. Firing on the doors merely wastes ammunition and slamming blunt objects against the glass of the doors makes a loud thud that seems to reverberate through the halls of the first floor but they show no signs of breaking. Even slamming it again and again against the glass it refuses to yield. There are some superficial scratches on the glass, but otherwise, little has been accomplished. Bargaining.

Director’s Office: The PCs notice the windows to the director’s room just to the right of the hospital doors. The director would no doubt have a key. The windows are the same impenetrable glass as the doors, but as they wander back to the hallway they find something unique about the director’s door. Unlike the other doors in this hospital, it is composed almost entirely of wood. Trying the knob finds it locked. This time, however, the door can be broken with a kick. There is a tiny waiting area with a broken chair and table just inside. The door to the inner office is broken off of its hinges and rests against the side of the wall. It is an office of some kind, trashed and as filthy as everything else, but still unmistakably an office. A cheap vinyl-upholstered chair is beside a large oak desk that dominates the room. There is a wooden swivel chair, two file cabinets and a pair of unlovely metal bookcases of brownishgray enamel housing a disarray of books, journals, and drug company handouts. There is also a couch of cracked brown Naugahyde, a coffee table, two folding chairs, and a spindly rubber tree leaning against the bent Venetian blinds. The expanse of oak on the desk is littered with manila chart folders and papers. Mostly they consist of financial documents and policy reviews. But a memo catches their attention: Re: Day Trip incident. Bruce, I contacted Mr. Carroll and he said nothing was missing after the day trip. So Jonathan probably made the whole thing up during one of his episodes. His doctor has requested that we keep a copy of his “confession” though. I’ll hold on to the original. I’ll also look into replacing all the typewriters with password controlled computers as long as you promise not to say ‘I told you so’. ——Phil There is a piece of carbon paper from one of the typewriters attached to the memo with a paperclip. The text is clearly Jonathan’s “confession” I too k the direk tors key the on e to the m oos eeum. I hid it be hind the prey ing woman whe n I w ent out for the day trip. I pick ed it up bu t I did not s teal it. Im not a krim minal. Setting the memo aside and continuing to sift through the papers. At the very bottom of the pile are an envelope. There is no name written upon it, but there is something inside: a map and a note written in black ink with careful hand on plain white paper. “He who is not bold enough to be stared at from across the Abyss is not bold enough to stare into it himself. The truth can only be learned by marching forward. I’ll be waiting at Neely’s Pub. There’s a letter and a wrench.” The map is of Silent Hill and a red X is drawn on Neely’s Bar. Written in black ink and in handwriting identical to the note, are the words, “They found him here.” There is something familiar about the handwriting. Then it comes to them: The man with the broken neck, the first note they found by him had handwriting like this. First Floor Examination Room: The PCs should be sickened that the surface of the wooden desk is bloodstained and there are deep cuts in it, but on top of everything else they have seen, it is nothing. Paint has peeled off of the walls and ceiling, the floor is rough and cracked. In the center of the far wall, a symbol glows sullen red, dimly illuminating the stark room. The symbols consists of a circle on the outside and another is drawn inside, with about an inch or two less in diameter. Three other smaller circles are drawn in the middle of the second circle, one on the top and two on the bottom. In one corner, jammed against the wall, is a small butcher’s block table,

upon which is a syringe, nearly empty and with the needle stained with dried blood, meaning it had been recently In addition, there is scrap of paper which reads: NOTE TO DOCTOR Dr Midkiff: Please use extra caution with the patient in room 312. He should still have his Religious freedom here in the hospital, but he shouldn't push his faith on others. I'm a victim too. Rumor has it he got here by stabbing someone over a religious dispute. Please be careful. R Crosby P.S It looks like the rumor was true, according to the head nurse. I do think he's a good person otherwise though --- easy to deal with. Day Room: They find it is blocked by an oddly placed chainlink fence that takes up the entire width and height of the room. Beyond it, are a pair of doors leading to the C wing.. Exit: Opening the front door of Brookhaven Hospital and going out into the muggy darkness of the outside, and finally leaving this cursed place for good. Seen from the outside, the hospital is now a darkly oppressive construct of stone and steel, a building that radiates menace in a way like the lair of some terrible and ancient beast. The broken windows stand out against the black night like jagged fangs, covered by a mesh brace. It doesn’t matter now, though. Brookhaven is behind them now, decrepit, diseased, and harboring what would surely come to be one of the worst memories of the PCs’ lives.

The Streets in Darkness: The fog may have cleared during the night, but the flashlight’s
range seems to be limited and visibility is once again reduced to nothing more than a few yards. The scene before them is utterly still; no lights burn in the tall, crowded buildings. The centuried, tottering houses on both sides seem alive with a fresh and morbid malignity. On and on they speed, past darkened buildings with boarded-up windows, past closed doors, past signposts cracked and peeled, the lettering illegible, the arms pointing the way to who knows where. Alien. Unfamiliar. They have lost all reference points. They have gotten used to dealing with monsters in the relatively confined space of the hospital which almost always necessitated a fight. But out on the open streets of Silent Hill, the monsters, with their strangely universal slow pace, cannot outrun the PCs. The Bridge: It isn't long before they can see the vague outline of a tower ahead, then a large road section sticks into the air. Is this the swing bridge?. They realize that it must be the tower that controls the bridge. I started to walk towards it, getting short on breath from all the running had done. The tower is much larger than previously realized, although not as tall as, say, a building. There is a set of stairs going up the side of it. The tower becomes more and more visible as they slowly approach the stairs. The PCs go though a set of barricades and at the door of the tower, and up a small metal staircase, feet clinking on metal steps that echoes though out the soulless area. The door is cold and the PC’s hand near freezes turning the handle. Inside a gust of wind blows as they enter. Inside the messy interior there is an impressive array of computers in here that sparkle with frost.

It is completely silent, even the wind outside has died out to nothing in here. They walk forward to a large control panel with all manner of buttons and levers. They look up, out of the window, the shutters are broken and falling apart from the middle. Outside they can just see the bridge. There is nothing stirring, everything is still. Grasping one of the levers, they don’t know how to work it, but they are going to make it work and do what they want it to do. All the machinery starts up and they notice certain lights are blinking on and off. They then hear a loud beeping noise. They see a button on the panel that reads lower that suddenly flips on. Through the fog, they can see the bridge lowering. It soon touches the ground, giving them access to this section at last. They look at the map, the map that unfolds to revel this next part of the town. Just beyond this bridge is the police station, and just down the road from there, the hospital. The police station should be checked for anything useful and information, to see if anyone else is alive in this town. The hospital as there could be some very useful things there.

CENTRAL SILENT HILL: This is located across the river east of Old Silent Hill. This
isn't too much of a residential area like Old Silent Hill. This is a shopping area. The shops, grocery stores, restaurants, little boutiques and offices all have an air of bleakness, and there are few, if any, signs of prosperity. This is an area where, at one time, vacationers went to go when they weren't out on the lake relaxing. Even with the empty mountains all around and much land available, the houses are crowded together, each looming over the other, most half mummified with a funereal skin of grayish snow, at least a third of them in need of paint or new roofs or new floorboards for their sagging front porches. Its Otherworld equivalent is filled with rows of square, severe-looking buildings surrounding the shopping district, and on the horizon factory chimneys belch brown smoke. Metal shields are pulled down across storefront windows, and the reek of decay hangs in the air. A black iron bridge links the shores of the muddy river that splits the town in two. Sagan Street ends just ahead at a sharp right angle where Glover Avenue launches itself northward. Summerland Cemetery follows the curve and runs north for another block before halting at Massey Street and the bridge that carries it over the Illiniwak River into East Silent Hill. The library is just north of the bridge, along the riverbank with the water to one side and the shorter edges of three rectangular downtown blocks to the other. Except that a sinkhole has opened up in the street just ahead, a crater has eaten across Sagan Street. Like the others the PCs have seen, it stretches across the street, into the cemetery to their right and under an enormous Art Deco building across the street to their left. The building is a bank housed in squat brick building, its angular stones lines cast a glowering ambience over chasm below, making its fog thicker somehow, more threatening. Its windows are shattered, but it looks otherwise untouched – take another step closer though, and the whole thing will topple forward into the hole. Random Street Encounters: 01-10% They walk down the middle of the road, the buildings arching over them, nothing is moving, the wind has died down to nothing. As the PCs progress down the street, their eyes dart

from side to side: cinemas, shops and barbers line the streets. The radio then screams static, but there is nothing around. Then a strange noise sounds, a grunt, a cry. All you have are vague impressions. The impression that it runs half erect like a monkey, shoulders sloped forward and head low, the knuckles of its hands almost dragging the ground. It is covered in matted fur not unlike that of a ape, with long arms and hunched shoulders that are definitely simian, although it appears to be stronger than any mere monkey, as formidable as a gorilla though otherwise nothing like one. 11-20% At that moment, the radio sparks a fresh wave of bone-chilling static, and they stop dead in their tracks, scouting for the source. It is one of those dog monsters, not ten feet away, lying in the middle of the street. Seeing it sends a blizzard chill throughout your body, even though you have seen it before, because it is simply something that couldn't be. You don't think it notices you, for it makes no attempt to get up and attack. It looks like it is sleeping. If they decide not to take the offensive and bother it, and walk past it then the radio stops giving off waves of static. And not five seconds later, it starts squalling again. They can't figure out why at first, there is nothing in front of them or to their sides. They turn around. The dog monster has snuck up on them. They have no idea how it is right behind them, less than 10 feet away and they didn't hear it or sense it, being stalked by this thing, but it is! It lowers its head with a predatory malicious snarl on its jaws. Then, without warning, it charges. 21-30% Things don't start to bother you until you walk past the payphones--one of them, you’re not sure which one, gives a loud, single brrrrrrring! as you approach. You stare at the line of phones. They don't move--of course they won't move--and they don't make another sound. You stand there for at least a minute just to make sure of that. You know you didn't imagine it. You know. You’d heard it–you can almost still hear the noise echoing in the foggy emptiness devoid of any other sound or feature but yourselves. You can hear it echoing inside your head, the trill on loop over and over until it becomes a whining drone, like a drill, like a siren. It makes you dizzy. Your skin is clammy with sweat, lips trembling. You are a wreck, all over a damn phone. 31-40% A dog crawls out from behind a car. You grip the pipe in your hand. It works effectively, the dog falls rather quickly with a bloody club-shaped indent in the side of its head. Before it can get up again you stomp on its neck. Looking up, you see another dog approaching you. Drawing back and away from it, you trip and fall back. Pain shoots up your spine like lightning and you stifle a cry. The dog is focused on you and did not see your companion step up from the side. Two hits from the gun and the dog falls to the ground and convulses. You continue to beat it to ensure the dog is dead—though from the looks of it, it already is that way whether or not you had purposely ended it. Nathan Drugs: The pharmacy is a small place. An apartment occupies two floors above the pharmacy; it is decorated in shades of cream and peach, with emerald-green accent pieces, and with a number of fine antiques.

The pharmacy resembles an modern American pharmacy in that it is stocks more cosmetics, beauty aids, and hair-care products than patent medicines. Otherwise it is pleasantly quaint: wood shelves instead of metal or fiberboard; polished-granite counters. The First National Bank and Trust of Silent Hill: The First National Bank and Trust of Silent Hill was the only bank in Toluca Lake and environs—constructed in 1936 when depositors needed to be reassured by a financial institution’s grandeur—did not measure up in splendor to larger banks of that period in any major city, but it was impressive in its own modest scale. The bank is cavernous marble-lined monument to money with marble floors, The lobby has six massive Doric columns of marble, a vaulted ceiling, marble wainscoting. The surrounds at the tellers’ windows are ornamental dark bronze with polished fluting and nickel inlays. They open the low bronze gate to the tellers’ enclosure, and step into the realm of money, realizing that money has no meaning anymore. At the back of the tellers’ enclosure, a low railing separates that space from a hallway. They open another gate and a carpeted passage containing five doors in the east side of the hall, three in the west side, all with frosted-glass panes in the top half. Some bear the names of bank officers. Another is labeled Rest Rooms. Two are not marked. The entrance to the walk-in vault waits at the end. Set in a steel architrave, a massive round stainless-steel door, ringed with three-inch diameter locking bolts, stands open. Behind the doors with frosted glass, the rooms are dark. They cross the three-feet-deep, curved steel jamp. They are standing in a virtual cage, with a massive steel door and gleaming bars. Farther in, they can make out walls of safe deposit boxes and more doors with complex lock mechanisms. Immediately beyond, the day gate stands open. Directly ahead, past the small vestibule, lies a rectangular chamber lined with safe-deposit boxes. To the right of the vestibule, in a steel-framed doorway, a gate stands open. Light beckons beyond. They pass the gate. To the left lies the money room—shelves laden with cash, coins and ledgers.

The Streets:
The PCs cross the street and as soon as they can, turn north, onto Olson Avenue. Just ahead is Burke Square. The old brick buildings of downtown Silent Hill sag in the fog, their windows smeared and cloudy, their awnings shredded. They pass a café with wrought iron chairs and tables rusting on the sidewalk outside its doors. The rust has run down the legs of every table and chair, and blotches the sidewalk. It looks like bloodstains. Only to find a canyon stretching across Olson Avenue short of its intersection with Massey Street. The hole has tunneled through the building to their right, on the east side of the avenue. Most of the first floor has collapsed, leaving the second floor perched atop a giant, ragged archway. The windows in the apartment on the second floor look untouched. Just before the ravine cuts off the road, one of those hairy gorilla-things pads to and fro

aimlessly, hooting and grunting to itself. The PCs raise their weapons and approach the Romper cautiously as it paces back and forth. At one edge of the ravine, the creature pauses, and looks up, suddenly aware of their presence. Before it can react, the PCs attack. Screeching and howling in surprise, the creature tumbles backwards and off the edge of the ravine, breaking branches as it smashes into trees. Its final howls echos forlornly into the dark gray skies as it disappears into the enveloping fog. The PCs don't hear it hit the ground. Police Station: A building comes into view with two police cruisers outside, each looking quite modern and undamaged. It is a tiny police station on the other side of the square. It is a squat, single-story brick building with a slate roof and all-glass front doors under a white aluminum awning. Its front glass windows are shattered. The PCs walk up to the police station entrance, past the police car and in through the double doors. The police station is dark, even more so than outside. It is also drafty due to the lack of working heater. The building looking to have been built in the 1960s, is in a slow state of decay. Paneling is cracked and fraying. Tiles are missing from the floor. Tiles are missing from the ceiling. Inside, the PCs find themselves in a typically drab, depressingly institutional room with muddy gray walls, washed-out green ceiling, fluorescent lights turned dark and a speckled, multicolored tile floor designed to conceal wear. The room smells of stale cigar smoke. A U-shaped counter separates the largest part of the main room from a waiting area, with strictly utilitarian furniture, just inside the doors. The PCs walk past several uncomfortable-looking metal chairs, past two small tables on which are stacked a variety of public service pamphlets, and go straight to the front desk, realizing there is no one here. Not surprisingly, after all, there is no one else in any other part of the town either. On the other side, there are three desks, six-drawer filing cabinets, a large work table, a bottledwater dispenser, a photocopier, a small refrigerator, a United States flag, a giant wall map of the town, and a huge bulletin board that is covered with tacked-on bulletins, photographs, wanted notices and odd scraps of paper including old posters showing teens and guns with various anticrime slogans. With the front lobby deserted, and the door to their right jammed shut, the only other door they can access in the room is the one to the left of the reception desk. Inside the cramped room there are two desks, a locker (this one locked) and another door (also jammed). The room is institutional-gray and brightened by a four-foot-square map of the immediate area. The PCs walk along the tile floor, down an aisle between facing pairs of desk, filing cabinets, and work tables, broken only for a window and an air-conditioning unit. Along the back wall of the room, there are two bulletin boards, photocopier, a locked gun cabinet, a police radio, and teletype link. On the bulletin boards are about a dozen of those little red and blue and green and yellow pegs with needle tips. One entire cabinet is filled with thick pads from which dangle black leather straps with chromeplated buckles. They aren't pads. They are heavily padded garments: a jacket with a dense foam outer layer under a man-made fabric that appears to be a lot tougher than leather. It is especially thick around both arms. A pair of bulky chaps features hard plastic under the padding, bodyarmor quality; the plastic is segmented and hinged at the knees to allow the wearer flexibility.

Another pair of chaps protects the backs of the legs and come with a hard-plastic shield, a waist belts, and buckles that connect them to the front chaps. Behind the garments are gloves and an odd padded helmet with a clear Plexiglas face shield. They make their way to a door to their left. The PCs are curious if it will open. The PCs soon find out as they turn the knob and witness the door open in front of them. The PCs then walk into the room. Everything inside is a mess. Filing cabinets have had their contents emptied to the floor. Desks are broken. Chairs are overturned. Inside one drawer is a flashlight. Flicking it off and on shows that the batteries are dead. Inside a drawer below it is a fresh pair. Popping it in causes the light to click on. The light is yellow and dim, but it is better than nothing. The PCs realize that there are many files scattered across the floor. Each folder contains a twosheet dossier on a different law-enforcement officer. These dossiers provide all vital statistics on the officers plus information about their families and their personal lives. A Xerox of each deputy's official ID photo are also attached. The PCs walk through the seats that have been knocked over, realizing that most of the files are irrelevant to what was going on in this town. The PCs walk up to a desk, realizing there is some sort of yellow notepad there. The PCs see someone's handwriting on it, and it isn't in blood. The PCs examine it, wondering what it has to say. Corner Seals called today. From his investigation, he had discovered that Officer Gucci (48) was unlikely to have been murdered. He apparently had died a natural death yesterday at Alchemilla Hospital. Seals did discover, however, that Gucci's medical records showed no prior symptoms of heart disease. The PCs wonder if this has any relevance to what is happening, and soon decide against it. The PCs realized that there is nothing else helpful on the scattered desk. The PCs then look to their left, noticing the chalk board is covered with police notes, depicting the affects of PVT on a human, and even in the worst cases the symptoms of death are described. The sloppy writing reads: Product only available in certain areas of this town. Raw material is White Claudia, which we also have discovered is the name of the drug itself. A plant native and particular to the Silent Hill area, often found near water areas, Lake Toluca? Commonly found as a green Herb, and when in processed form (PVT) white powder. Effects have hallucinogenic properties. Often described as a bad dream. Risk of addiction level is approximately the same as Nicotine. We are not sure if it is manufactured here. Is the dealer the manufacturer? White Claudia? The PCs found that drug in containers all over the school. The PCs then realize that the drug containers were probably labeled because no one expected it to be anything more than samples of the plant. The possibilities in their minds are endless and constantly contradicting each other. Their main concern isn't drugs anyway. The PCs notice, however, that there are bullets scattered around the floor. Maybe something an officer had dropped? The PCs might scoop up a handful of them and put them where the PCs keep all their bullets. There is about 30 rounds total. The PCs need to get their hands on as many as the PCs can possibly find or the PCs will never survive their journey through this town. Their pockets are now quite heavy due to the amount of ammunition contained within it, but it dosen't burden them in the slightest.

Hallway: They walk along a hallway with depressing blue-speckled linoleum and walls the color of tubercular phlegm, through a door, down two flights of stairs, along another hallway with an intriguingly stained concrete floor, through another, and into a bleak windowless room that smells of a pine-scented disinfectant strong enough to kill asthmatics, and, under that, subtly of vomit. Interrogation Room: With its gray walls, gray metal table, cheap linoleum-tile floor, battered filing cabinets, a round metal conference table and five chairs and bare fluorescent bulbs and single window narrow as a slit in a castle wall, the room at the top of the stairs seems designed to elicit confessions through despair and boredom. The chamber measures about twelve by fifteen feet. Jail: Both cells are separated by a thin concrete wall that makes it impossible to see what is inside the other. Monitor Room: They walk back a few paces and to their left there is a door, it has a sign that reads mon—t—r room. (Monitor Room?) If by any chance the monitors are working they will be able to see the whole police station and find a way to the roof; but there isn’t any electricity in the building. The elevator had worked, though, hadn’t it? The PCs enter the monitor room, like always, making sure to close the door behind them. The place is very dark, and it is covered in dust like almost everything here. The dust on the twenty or more monitors has been wiped by a hand, and quite recently, because the dust hadn’t started to settle back on them. On a small table to their left there are two newspapers, and on the wall, also to the left, there is a message board. There is a memo on it. It reads: The PCs exit the room through the door they had entered with and find themselves back in the lobby. The PCs walk back out the same set of double doors they found earlier. The PCs fling them open and step back into the foggy city streets. Darkness: The sign that reads: Silent Hill Police looks faded and rusted. Dented police cars with their paint scraped or rusted off are parked in a medium size parking lot to the side of the building. All the windows are boarded up. Yellow police tape gives the walls color, at least a color other than brown, red, gray and black. And the double glass doors leading inside appear unlocked. Like everything else in the station, the lobby looks extraordinarily dark and radically different. The light from the flashlight reveals a reception desk, a torn-up, browned-out American flag, and some bulletin boards on the walls. All the metal is rusted, all the wood is rotten and moldy, and all the concrete is cracked and crumbling. The walls are scarred at certain points by the same yellow police tape that was seen outside. There is blood on the walls and the ceiling is of bloody metal grating, through which one can see pipes and tubes that seem to throb. Behind the reception desk there is a long window, it is covered with thick grime, dust and blood, but if one looks closely an office can be seen on the other side. It is identifiable as an office because of some desks and filing cabinets and papers of different kinds scattered all over the ground; but in the middle of the room there is a piece of the strange alien machinery that plagues the streets; it seems to expand and contract, and it give the feeling that it is an integral part of the building and that with this artifact the whole police station is breathing. Instead of desks covered in files and memos, there are two rows of rusted metal tables, each one has long bundles of rusted chains sitting on top. The offices further down still stand, but its door are also heavily corroded. Sitting

near one of nearest table is a bucket of strange tools; some rusted, some stained like most of the tabletops. The windows are somehow sealed with aged plaster. The ancient-looking cracked walls, the yellow police tape, the blood smeared everywhere, the metal grating ceiling, the pipes and tubes that throb like veins.

Alchemilla Hospital: They notice that the snow starts to fall harder than it had before. It falls
down in an enormous quantity, yet still melts the second it hits the street. It makes one wonder how it could be cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to make the snow melt. The fog makes colors seem de-saturated, paints peeled, and everything is quiet as death. At last, they see the large building ahead of them. They slow to a stop outside Alchemilla Hospital’s front gate on Koontz Street. It is a large, unremarkable U-shaped , three-story building at the town limits. It is strictly of functional design, and no prettier than it has to be: cream-tinted stucco, concrete-tile roof, boxy, flat-walled, without detail. It is bordered by an abandoned storefront on its right, Sagan Street on its left, and a large water tower across the street. It has the melancholy, doom air peculiar to hospital and prison buildings. As they near the hospital, they see the road disappear in the back. If they walk to the back of the hospital, they see as soon as the building ends, the road is completely obliterated, and the hospital stands at the very edge of a sheer chasm now. One shudders at the thought of being inside the hospital and it tumbling into the foggy abyss. They go back around to the front gates with the metal spikes on the top. A large sign hung on each of the gothic metal gates with a red cross reads: Alchemilla Hospital. They can peer through the steel bars for a moment, and they notice it is a small courtyard occupied with a few trees and a light layer of snow. An ambulance is also parked, leading them to believe this was used as a parking area for hospital staff. They can examine the courtyard...or parking lot further, wondering if there is any danger that lurks beyond the gate. Unfortunately, there is. Two dogs walk aimlessly around the courtyard of the hospital where the ambulance is parked. They snarl at the PCs through the gate that holds them apart. The PCs push open the large iron gate and step into a small, plain courtyard.. It has a pathetically small strip of grass with one withered-looking tree and a broken-up bench, and nothing more. There are just two doors leading onto it so wouldn't call this building safe, but after all that has happened, architecture is the last of one’s worries. One locked door reads ‘Staff Only' and the other is a double entrance which has a large red cross painted over the top. They push open the double entrance doors and step into the dim lobby area of the hospital. Waiting Room: When the PCs enter the hospital's reception they actually didn't expect it to be this well-lighted. Some of the fog seems to have seeped in, and now the entire building has an eerie, pale white aura to it. It is a bleak light, but it is light nonetheless. Outside, the wind keeps howling. The walls are done in shades of forest green, with cherry dark wood borders. The furniture and waiting couches match the décor, and is slightly pleasing to the eye. There are ashtrays and all kinds of magazines set on a checkered coffee-table: gossip and celebrity rags. A coffee machine, a soda machine. A bulletin board covered with notices about bowling leagues, garage sales and car pools. Several waiting chairs line the walls, done in the same colors. To

their left there is a long counter that starts from the wall to the left side of the door, stretches into the room, straight for about six feet, and then curves to the left until it meets the left wall, where a white sign reads: INFORMATION. Behind it, the unmanned receptionist's counter is in one corner of the room and has a summoning bell, a coffer mug, a broken telephone, and a hospital map on it. There is also a wooden shelf behind the desk containing what look to be pamphlets and a small portable TV set. To their right is a long waiting bench that goes towards the corner of the room. On the wall at the back of the room is something written in big, black letters. It is a strange writing that makes absolutely no sense, and the PCs can find no meaning for it. Up on the wall is a small map of the hospital. This could be useful. Though it is strange that so many places they have visited in this town, have maps for them to direct themselves around, it is very coincidental. They lift the pin on the map and it floats gently down. They bend over and recover it. According to the map the hospital is quite a bit bigger than they had imagined: three stories tall as well as possessed of a basement area. Hallway: They walk past the lobby, turn left and start down the small hallway towards a door on the left wall that, according to the map, leads to an examination room. The place is unnaturally quiet, hushed, even for a hospital, as though the heavy snowfall exerts a muffling influence through the walls. One cannot get comfortable with the smell of the hospital, no matter how many times they smell it. The excessively clean odor is not reassuring. Nothing good has ever come from an encounter with that mix of bleach, disinfectant, peroxide, and floor wax. Around a corner are a pair of payphones. On the way there they see filing cabinets, wheeled shelves, stacked boxes and oxygen tanks, all neatly arranged against the right wall. Examination Room: The dark contents of the room soon become apparent to the PCs as the door opens more and more. One of those winged monsters is lying in a pool of its own blood. Its lifeless body sprawled on the ground; a fresh bullet wound to its side. They see on the scales of this filthy, emaciated beast the dried residue of sickening drool. The white on white resembles an operating room, and the anatomy doll on the gurney almost confirms that until one realizes it is made of plastic. There are plastic organs on a rack underneath the bed: heart, liver, kidneys, lungs, stomach, and intestines. Placing them within the doll's plastic chest causes the eyes to open. The glass eyes are strikingly realistic compared to the plastic face. "The blind need eyes to see." Where did that voice come from? The door they came though is still closed, and the only other exit is a door boarded up with twoby-fours. The rest of the room is all dirty white tiles with two plain white hospital beds, a single window and an IV dropper. There is a desk cluttered with some files, as well as three doors: the one they have entered from, one straight ahead and one to the right.

Atop the desk is memo is spotted among the paraphernalia. To all staff, It is strictly forbidden to enter my office unaccompanied until further notice. Trespassers face serious consequences. Dr. Kaufmann "The blind need eyes to see." There it is again. You are still clutching the glass eyes, and you examine them as the phrase is heard again. The eyes are icy blue in color, with realistic detail. First Floor West Corridor: There is a long hallway with lots of doors with nameplates on them. Vending machines for snacks and soft drinks stand ready to dispense high-calorie, high-fat, high caffeine treats to absent medical workers. The first floor has the doctors' private offices, for patients who actually had appointments. Beyond that door is the kitchen, the first floor rest-room, the conference, the storage area-and the stairs that lead to the basement. They are actually looking in the doctor's offices because a doctor's office seems like the least scary place in a hospital one can be in looking for something unknown; when compared to, say, the morgue. The hallway is decorated the same, with a quick turn left leading to a corridor with four doors on the right side on one straight at the end Men's Room: Water drips in a sink. Women's Room: In one corner is a bucket on wheels with a mop in it, and the sink counter below the mirror is covered with scattered bathroom and cleaning products. Sitting on the sink is a white purse, maybe belonging to a nurse working here, and they spot a tag attached to a key, which reads Staff Lounge scrawled in pencil. A check of the map shows the room is only one door away, in the corridor to the right of this restroom. The door on the first two stalls are slightly ajar, not fully closed and latched. The PCs feel certain they are concealing some kind of monster, waiting to jump out at them. There is nothing in any of the stalls, much to their relief. Someone has written Amy, 31 in red liquid upon the door of the middle stall, while the last stall has had its door removed. First Floor East Hallway: The door-lined hallway is L-shaped that makes the building nearly encircle the hospital courtyard. There is a second waiting area here with a wooden bench and pair of pay phones next to. Further down, a potted flower is on the floor, next to a bulletin board which has a notice about a fund rasing event. This place has been deserted for a long time, and the plant looks green and lively, like it is frozen in time. But everything else is covered in that ever-present, thin layer of dust. A contradiction if there has ever been one.

On the far side, the restless wind harries snow through the broken windows. If winter had a heart, inanimate and carved of ice, it would have been no more frigid than that of this place, nor could death be more arctic. Beyond the windows are two Art Deco paintings, nighttime cityscapes reminiscent of some early work by Georgia O'Keeffe, are the only art. At the end is the public elevator, past more piles of wooden crates and cardboard cartons that are stacked on pallets. The elevator is so old and rusty, with a decayed and archaic look, just like the whole hospital. Office A: They make their way through a door on the left wall that leads to a small office. On the right and left are shelves that seem to have been filled with brochures at one point, as well as slots for punch-cards. A few of the pamphlets are still in their labeled slots, however, there is nothing of interest that the PCs can make out. Medicine Room: Its window broken and pills scattered across the tile floor. On the other side, a waiting room with empty seats. In front of them is a reception desk with yellowing papers scattered about. To one side is a row of bookshelves, which contain volumes on surgery and medicine. They also notice a newspaper clipping at the end of the reception desk. They can't make out most of it because it is a part clipped out from a larger section. A loving father and mayor died recently in Alchemilla general hospital located in the small tourist resort town of Silent Hill, the town the man also governed. The mayor, Mr Richard Bachman (54) of Silent Hill was apparently in good health when he died and his death has been described as mysterious by the local police. His death has noticeable parallels with an earlier case of the same nature. The death of the local police officer and loving father Hubert Gucci. The police chef had this comment, “We believe these deaths are both tragic and unforeseeable. There is no evidence suggesting murder or corruption of any kind, every one involved has done their job to the letter and the dedication and commitment of our forces and services are something to be proud of”. There is some speculation stating that the deaths where related to the trading and manufacture of the drug White Claudia (PVT) it is a hallucinogenic drug that is notoriously traded in the Silent Hill area by organized criminals. However, no police official would comment on the continuing effort to stamp out the illegal trade of this drug. The PCs can’t help but wonder, was that newspaper lying here just a random page, or is it a sign of some sort? Sometimes the picture of this town is like looking at 10,000 puzzle pieces. Some of the pieces fit together quite nicely and depict part of the over all picture. But other pieces are fragments that one can only guess at and many of the pieces are missing. From there to the area behind the reception counter. A small table is against the wall to their right, and the drawer is unlocked. It contains a first-aid kit and a small box of handgun bullets. Lounge: They move quickly to the adjacent hallway, surprised to now find the lounge unlocked and the key useless. Someone has already been here. One doesn't know whether to feel happy or afraid. What if they are still inside? They open the door, looking into the quaint staff room that is totally empty. No money had been spent on the reception lounge: institutional-green paint, chairs with brown leather pads, and a steel-legged coffee table with a wooden top holding textbooks atop burnt beige carpeting. A coffee table is situated next to a loveseat and couch, neither of which match, although their loose cushions are of the same design and color. The pine-slate blinds are drawn at both large rectangular windows, the fog diffusing most of the

light before reaching inside. In a turquoise rock ashtray is a cigarette butt still smoking, another sign someone has been in here recently. In one corner is a small tiled kitchenette with knotty-pine cabinets and a red Formica countertop. Stacked beside the sink is a single dinner plate, a bread plate, a soup bowl, a toaster a coffee mug---all clean and ready for use. One drinking glass stands with the dinnerware. Next to the glass lie a dinner fork, a knife, and a spoon, which are also clean. In another corner is a threeshelf bookcase filled with reference works, a soda machine, and a small table upon which stands a coffee maker. On a bulletin board is a notice: STAFF PARTY! Worry not! The staff party is still on (our recreation budget is locked away where no one can tamper!) Everyone meet at Annie's Bar at 8pm on Friday. Alcohol (medicinal of course!) and food will be free. Arrive early to grab a trainee nurse: they go quick! Office B: The door is unlocked, and the room within is relatively normal. There are four chairs in sets of two's, each set opposite a small coffee table. Beyond that are two desks connected to a row of cupboards lining the wall at floor-level. There is a desk lamp, but it cannot be turned on. Conference Room: A door is open to the right, which leads into a small cramped conference room. The huge marble table takes up almost all of the space in the room, and there is barely enough room for the four armchairs to be pulled out for someone to sit down. A ingle flower sadly sits in the center, the room is illuminated by the window. However, all that can be seen outside is the deadly white of the fog. Glancing back at the tiny doorway, one realizes that it would have been impossible to fit the table through that door to get it in here, as if the walls were built up around the table. The table is bare save for a small key in front of the spot where the nicest chair is, more than likely the hospital director’s. The key reads Basement on the label. Doctor's Office: Bleached-wood paneling reaches halfway up the walls. The shutters are the same variety on the windows, a contemporary desk, armchairs covered in an airy green print. The condition of the doctor’s office is evidence of an obsessive-compulsive personality. No papers, books, or files clutter the desk. The blotter is new, crisp, unmarked. The pen-and-pencil set, letter opener, letter tray, and silver-framed pictures are precisely arranged. On the shelves behind the desk are a few hundred books in such pristine condition and so evenly placed that they almost appear to be part of a painted backdrop. Diplomas and two anatomy charts are hung on the walls. Everything in the offices looks neat and tidy, there are documents on the desks but they are not scattered around, and there is no sign of anything out of the ordinary. But that is out of the ordinary in itself, because it was like all the doctors had been working and doing the things of their normal everyday routine and all of a sudden everyone had just vanished, leaving things the way they were during that fateful second. Just like that. In this particular doctor's office, in fact, there is a cup, half-full, with cold coffee in it; and a plate with a sandwich on it, only one bite has been taken from it, and it doesn't look spoiled at all. Isn't the town supposed to have been deserted for a long time? This sandwich looks like it has been left here just a minute ago. Just like the plant in the reception. Odd. But nothing else of interest is in this office.

Kitchen: It is a large, typical restaurant-style kitchen with metal countertops and a whiteceramic-tile floor. Pots and pans still rest on stoves; the air is thick with the smell of rotten vegetables and meat. Within the working refrigerator are several chocolate-flavored health drinks. Stoves, refrigerators, racks of pots, pans, and knives are jammed into any nook or cranny that can accommodate them. A white board is on the wall to their left, and contains notes on food allergies different patients have. Along the sink are several clear plastic squeeze bottles. Of course, they wouldn’t want to use glass bottles here, in case the patients broke them and cut themselves. Director's Office: It is larger than the other office down the hall, but not by much. It is in a terrible state of disassembly. Cabinet doors are open, books are lying across the floor as if they had been thrown off the shelves, chairs are flipped over. A large oak bookcase with hinged glass doors stands open along the left wall, and all the contents of the bookshelf have been pulled out, opened, and thrown aside. A handsome desk, that appears to be made out of mahogany is at the back of the room. The name plaque reads: Dr. Michael Kaufmann, Ph. D. The window is smashed, allowing a slight breeze to enter the room. The PCs walk over to the desk and see that all the drawers are opened, their contents torn about as well. There is a memo on the desk that reads Lauren, please remind me to phone D Nicholas about the Walter Collide deal, urgent, I must speak with him and Mr Wolf. Signed director M Kaufman. On the floor near the foot of the desk is a shattered glass flask and a crimson-colored liquid is splattered all over the floor. It looks smashed on purpose. It has an odd smell to it. The unknown liquid looks thinner than blood but has the same color and texture of it. There are no plantlike particles in it, which indicates there is no White Claudia in it. This substance is also differently colored, and isn't as thick. This is what whoever did this ransacked the room was looking for, and if they tried to destroy it, it must be important. Nothing more needs to be examined in this room. Second Floor: Elevator Corridor: The elevator opens with a small creak and they are greeted with the smell of bleach. The abandoned corridor stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the hospital. The walls are a harsh plaster color and the floor is tiled. The lighting is darker than usual, lights and windows both absent from the small room. In one corner sits a wooden ladder, next to a pair of payphones and some construction supplies—ladders, sheets, paint—almost covering an elegant love seat. Second Floor East Corridor: Some attempt has been made to brighten up the corridors in this old building with posts and bright paints, but walls are unadorne with decoration of any kinds; beyond a thin coat of mousy gray matt emulsion. The corridor has an unfinished look. A tiled bench stands to one side. At the far end a huge mess of hospital beds, racks, carts and stretchers is in the way; so much that even if one tries to remove it would take at least an hour to make enough room to even slip through. Room 205: The room is square, low ceilinged, and bleak. It is tiled at shoulder-height with white tiles, some are missing leaving black gaps, others are cracked. There is a cleanser, a sink, a

commode. And in the center is gurney—the sheets are in tangled disarray, trailing onto the floor on the right side of the gurney. On the left, the linens are caked with mud and soaked with blood, and a wet spray glistens in an arc on the floor. Privacy curtains in one corner beside a chart listing ideal weight according to height, age, and sex. In a medicine cabinet by the door, they find alcohol, an unopened package of liquid bandage, and an array of pharmacy bottles with caps that all warn CAUTION! NOT CHILD RESISTANT. One wall has a bulletin posted with medical pamphlets, flu shots, and diseases. In one corner is a metal One of the long walls is dominated by a mirror. Hung on the mirror is a note that reads: Preliminary Diagnosis: Third degree burns, patient is unconscious... Something has prevented damage spreading to the internal organs...Tissue damage is limited to the epidermis and extremities of limbs... How is this possible? The room's image in the mirror differs from reality, the reflection is altered! Their reflection is as it should be, but everything else in the mirror is wrong. Behind them lies not the same white hospital room; instead there is blood and rust. In reality, the room is the same as it has always been. In the mirror, however, stained walls are textured by blood or rust. The tables look skeletal and metal, and the floor is wire grating. Everything is crumbling and decrepit, a frightening sight into that horrific Otherworld. Leaving the room, you can’t help but feel that the mirror waits. You can no longer think of it as a mere inanimate object, as a harmless sheet of glass with silvered backing. It waits. Or, rather, something within the mirror waits to make eye contact with you. An entity. A presence. Men's Room: Women's Room: Operating Prep: There are many chipped and missing tiles along with a stained ceiling. Outdated hospital equipment is scattered around, old beds, body monitors, and wheelchairs. A whole corner is crowded with unrecognizable devices, equipped with worn leather wrist and ankles restraints that appear to be from a Middle-Age torture chamber. They pass a body-sized metal tube: an iron. Operating Room: The theater itself is a large room of the standard white-tiled variety. It possesses pieces of machinery common to operating theaters, with low central light and white tile on the walls and floor. Some variety of cutting toll is suspended on a long metal arm over the operating table. To one side is a small porcelain sink stained with blood. With very little imagination, one can see blood dripping down the white sides, hear the rasp of saw through bone. Second Floor West Corridor: Here, the cleanliness is replaced by utter squalor, the dirty floors checkered with missing tiles, and the corridors pervaded by the smell of something dead and rotting.

Basement Stairs: A narrow set of concrete stairs lead down into complete darkness. At the bottom of the steps is a tiled floor and a door barely visible in the shadows. Why in the hell did it get so dark? They head down the steps, opening the door to the basement. Basement: They turn on the flashlight and check the map. There is a morgue, a storeroom, a boiler room, and a generator room. They have just located the generator when they hear a strange sound behind them. A hissing-scrabbling-muttering noise. They whirl. As far as they can see, they are alone. The problem is that they can not see everywhere. Deep shadows coil under the stairs. In one corner of the room, over by one of the doors, shadows have claimed this area. Furthermore, each unit of metal shelving stands on six-inch legs, and the gap between the lowest shelf and the floor is untouched by light. There are a lot of places where something small and quick can hide. The PCs wait, frozen, listening, and ten long second elapse, then fifteen, twenty, and the sound doesn’t come again, so one wonders if they’d really heard it or only imagined it, another few second tick away as slowly as minutes. Just as they start towards the foot of the stairs, they stop abruptly when they hear other noises up there on the landing. The tick and scrape of movement. Then a new sound. A thump. And then again: thump! Again. It sounds as if something is throwing itself against the wall at the head of the stairs, bumping mindlessly like moth battering against a window. Thump! In the darkness, movement is detected. There isn't merely one unseen, unknown creature in the basement with them; there are many of them. Something brushes by one of the PC's foot, then darts away into the subterranean gloom. Something big in the basement dark. Seeing nothing, they continue to scan the area around them until one of them feels a sharp pain in his or her foot and they remember about the cockroaches. Jumping backwards with a yelp, they stamp on the two cockroaches who have been attempting to feed on their feet. Holstering their weapons once more, they cross the hallway and try the two doors on the facing wall, which leads into the morgue and the storeroom. Turning from the storeroom door, they try the door on the opposite wall, the plate on the door reads: Generator Room. That is the hint they need. If the generator is operational, which is a rather long shot; it can power the elevator to get them upstairs. Generator Room: The generator room opens easily. Inside it is chilly, and the machinery that powered Intensive Care rooms, service elevators, heat, lights, and the public elevators isn’t on. The generator is a great, lurking beast. It seems to tower over the PCs as if they were mere ants in comparison. The great height is partially caused by its intimidating position: a huge machine in the confined space of a dark, silent, eerie room. The panel is open on the generator, there is only one button. The generator looks old and rackety, but once the switch is hit it turns and starts humming and shaking and roaring. The room stays in darkness.

On the wall to the right is a small case, written in red letters are the words, ‘In case of emergency break glass.' Inside is a large and menacing-looking hammer. The hammer is a three-pound rather than a five-pound model. Nevertheless, strength and balance are required to wield it with the desired devastating effect. You repeatedly swing the hammer high and drive it down smoothly, with calculated rhythm. It feels glorious in your hands. A sweet current of power flows through you, a gratifying sense of being in control for the first time since you came to this horrible place. Each solid thud of the hammerhead thrills you, the hard reverberation of the impact, traveling up the long handle, into your hands, along your arms, into your shoulders and neck, is deeply satisfying, almost erotic. You suck air with each upswing, grunt when you drive the hammer down, issue a wordless little cry of pleasure each time that something bends or cracks under the pummeling weight--—until abruptly you hear yourself and realize that you sound more animal than human. Boiler Room: The reinforced door to the boiler room swings open with a metallic creak. A large filthy cellar, cluttered with arcane equipment and lit by flickering firelight. Shadows dance in distant corners. Reflected light gleams off metal edges and glass dials, looking like eyes. The air is hot and close, despite th basement’s size. The light issues from the door of a large furnace on the far side of the room. The PCs approach the massive metal bulk of the furnace. It emits a powerful subsonic rumble as it digests coal and turns it into heat for the antiquated buildings above. Pipes circle it like metal ropes, attempting to contain the terrible pressure in its guts. It has the air of something about to break free and lumber around the room, crushing everything in its path. The furnace’s small door is made of toughened glass, smudged black from year’s of service and as wide across as one of the PC’s outstretched arms. A heavy iron bar and a shovel rests nearby. They pull the bar and tug the door open. It is like looking into hell. A blast of heat rolls over them. The low-frequency rumble increases. The space within is as large as an industrial oven. Tortured air makes chaos of its contents. Glowing lumps of coal and ash in fiery drifts are gradually discerned, all in shades of orange. The barrage of flame and superheated air tantalizes with hints of things tossed into the furnace for disposal, including syringes and empty drug containers. Morgue: When the light is switched on, eight tables used for autopsies are revealed, some of them have bloodstains on them, as well as various tools and knifes; this is the hospital morgue. It is a cold room of solid metal walls, glistening steel and tile, under glaring spotlights. The room itself is broken into two levels, one only a bit higher than the other, connected by a staircase with about three steps. The other room is a small foyer on the other side of the room with a window. On the main table is a large stone tablet engraved with hieroglyphics. The room has several hundred large steel autopsy tables, air vents that cycle the odors of rot and formaldehyde upward and out, and metal tables upon which surgical instruments are displayed, and drawers filled with various slides, trays, tubes, and jars so that samples can be taken and properly preserved and labeled. The room has two exits: a metal door that opens outward, and a small opening in the wall nearby. This opening resembles a pet door, but without the usual little rubber flap covering it. There stands, in the room’s center, a stainless steel table, with channels grooved in its surface for fluids to drain away. On the surface lays yet another corpse, mostly covered by a ratty old sheet that is thick with filth, with only its legs visible. It is certainly whole; the PCs can see the contours of its face and arms through the soiled linen, but most will have no desire to know any

more. Worse yet, the body is very small. It is a child, or at best, an undersized young man. No, the last thing they feel like doing is touching one of them. If the PCs walk to the other end of the room and enter the small foyer, it looks like a small office containing a vent fan of its own, and the air is relatively fresh. Books are jammed in the shelves every which way. The brown vinyl upholstery on the chair is scarred, creased, and mottled with age. The two standard-issue metal desks are scratched and dented, as well as heaped with files in a classic example of managed chaos. The desktop overflows with papers, notebooks, folders, photos. Reading them, they seem to be on various autopsies that had been done recently in the hospital, nothing of real interest. Except for one bizarre note which reads: After the patients have been evacuated, the hospital is free to succumb to its own mortality. In the throes of its disintegration it makes a mockery of the order and hygiene formerly attempted within. The buildings themselves give in to their contamination. Behind closed curtains, the hospital changes into its own funeral parlor. Confronted with remnants of suffering, the task of performing a hospital autopsy can be grim. Yet its anatomical model provides an unprecedented insight into the machinery that awaits our own deterioration. As it was forbidden centuries ago to peek inside a dead body, we are likewise now told that the innards of these institutions are things we are not meant to see. But here we like to not just create our own rules but invent an entirely new game. Alchemilla Hospital Hopscotch, for instance, could be played by reassembling as many layers of this corpse as are available: a patient's gown, a vial of blood agar, a half-completed Rorschach test. Death leads to renewal. From the stained base of the autopsy table, perform a one-legged leap into the more colorful recesses of your imagination. Where you might end up, only you can know. When they decide to leave the room, they don’t even want to look at the bodies, either. All they want to do is get out... Just seeing this little room is bad enough. Seeing things like that corpse on the gurney... It is gone. The body is gone. Just an empty tray with a small pool of blood, even the sheet is gone. And now is the time to panic. You exit the room and enter the hall. This isn’t the same hall anymore, well it is the same hall but it’s all covered in rust. Nothing is wire or dark yet, but the walls are covered in blood and rust, and the couch is skeletal looking and decayed. You feel a cold wind blowing from your right, you turn you head and notice the missing corpse behind some metal bars, standing there, or hanging, it’s hard to tell it’s still completely covered in the white sheet. It’s like it’s staring at you, though it’s completely motionless... Darkness: Stairs: You switch on the pocket flashlight, a small blessing in this hellhole. In an almost trancelike state you look around, stunned at how everything is in fact the same, just transformed horribly. Your eyes dart from side to side, taking every last detail. Once again you can sense the evil of this world around you. Once again, the ‘Otherworld' has called you back into its heartless domain.

Once it smelled of bleach and sickness but now it is filled with the stench of dust and madness. The stairs are splattered brown, as though someone had spilled a bucket of paint. Except it isn't paint. It is ages and ages worth of dried blood. The walls in the stairwell are slick with condensation. The metal railings have corroded to black sticks. The air is thick with the smell of blood. A light fog dances helplessly about the place. The PCs move on, going up the broad, rickety staircase carefully. Elevator: The doors to the elevator sit gray and monolithic, without rust along the edges of the doors like the other floors of the same shaft. They open for them and they step inside. However, the first thing their wide and wild eyes lock immediately onto is a disgusting old gurney and the old blood-stained linens atop it. There are only a few buttons on the control face; open and close door buttons, an emergency stop, and B, 1, 2, 3. Elevator Room: They step out into a tiny room with a few chairs identical to those in the lobby, and a bare table. There is a withered set of double doors to one side. There are a few posters on the wall, and one has a nurse cupping her exposed breasts in her hands. The message above her leering face warns readers to get checked regularly for breast lumps. Tearing their eyes away from this unsettling poster, they cross to the rusty double doors at the back left of the small room. The doors look old, like the slightest touch could destroy them. First Floor Hallway: They go through the double doors and are now in a connective hallway of the hospital's first floor. The floor no longer sports a pale green carpet lined with mildew yellow, but now exists as a rusty, grated pathway down a hallway now lined with gritty walls and sprayed with unidentifiable human stains. The vending machine next to the elevator is burnt as well. The floor is made of reddish steel and walls are a blend of all these colors, burnt and disfigured. In front of them, to their right is one door to the doctors' area, and further ahead there will be another set of double doors leading to the hospital's main hallway and the exit. There is an empty stretcher to their left placed against the wall, next to the double doors that lead to the kitchen. As they reach the end of hall, they realize with horror that the entrance is now blocked with insurmountable wire, fences of barbed chain link. Director's Office: Darkness shrinks from the flashlight beam, and a college appears on top of a desk: an artful scattering of envelopes, invoices, and a sheet of postage stamps against a deskblotter background; all of it unevenly glazed with a lacquer once bright red, now red-black and rust and purple. Upon entering the room, the PCs gasp. The room is completely—and that is completely— painted in blood and gore. The walls, the roof, the window, all the furniture, everything is red. There is not one inch of the walls and the furniture that isn't covered in it, not one. There is only one thing in the whole room that is not red, at least not completely, and that is a white paper sheet (letter size). It is pinned to the blood-red memo board with a blood-red tack. And written on it is: Room 203.

The floor is blood-stained rusted steel; the windows are grated and covered in ragged strips of curtains. The broken remains of a lamp stand between the bookshelf and table. Near the door is a counter with cabinets; all blood-stained. The floor is also hard rusted steel, chain-link, therefore the clanking sound of footsteps is amplified. Then the hinges on the door squeal. Standing at the very end of the hall is…something. It looks human. It is… A nurse? What the hell? As the woman shuffles into view, they see she is wearing a nurse's outfit- a white apron like dress with a green long sleeved turtleneck underneath and white nurse shoes. They notice a slash of blood across her leg - she's wounded. There is something on her back. At first glance, it looks like some sort of malformed hump. The nurse lets out an inhuman groan. She brings herself up some more revealing that she does, indeed, have a grotesque hump on her back. She looks up at the PCs - with her blood-red eyes. As the nurse shambles, the PCs see the hump pulsate, the membrane-swollen skin shifting. Blood is all around the area that it is attached to; probably the nerves in her spine. Blood pours down the nurse's nose, spilling out onto her cotton coat, staining it with the crimson liquid. Your mind start to race. Is there anything you can do to help her? You could potentially excise whatever that is in her back with a few tools around the hospital. Thoughts of saving her end once the nurse reveals a scalpel clutched in her right hand, and she seems to grow even more excited, shambling faster, waving the sharp little instrument like a demented child. The nurse lurches forward, knife in hand ready to stab, moving faster than an animal in heat. She doesn’t think you’re a monster. She is a monster! But if that’s true, then why are you so reluctant? It’s just a monster. Something that’s going to kill you if you don’t kill her first. But what if…what if she really isn’t? Could she really be a normal nurse who was unfortunate enough to catch a disease from an infected patient? And now, driven to a state of madness, she wanders the hospital’s halls, too scared and confused to tell if people are trying to help her or hurt her. And if anything was to be gathered from her appearance, she’s probably suffering immense physical pain as well. If you look at the situation that way, it almost seems pitiable. Then, at most, it’d be nothing more than a mercy killing, right? The nurse is standing again with the rusty scalpel still clamped firmly in her hand. The PCs clutch the pistol. Two shots straight into her skull. But the nurse doesn't stop. Re-aiming the pistol, the PCs point the gun towards the nurse's heart. BLAM! The nurse sinks to her knees, groaning, falling to the mesh-wire floor: lifeless and dead. You stand silently for a moment, staring at the slain nurse. Dark blood pools under her crumpled body. Something has bored into her, nestling deep into her flesh and bones, into her heart and liver and brain, establishing a hideous symbiotic relationship with her body, while taking firm control of

her nervous system from the brain to the thinnest efferent fiber. You made the right choice…didn’t you? Even if you could make yourself believe that, the whole situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Kitchen: They continue onward and reach the double doors. It seems to be in the best shape out of all the rooms seen so far. Here, things seem merely old and abandoned rather than hideously transformed. The walls do not look as if they had been painted in a decade. The kitchen appliances and utensils are dented and scraped and yellowing with age. Everything is either cracked, shattered, rusted, or a combination of all three, and the floor in is strewn with glass. There is also a spent packet of blood in one of the sinks. Office B: The room is square. The floor is grated, bloody metal. Besides the new decor, there are a few other unsettling details. Like the overturned chair. It is lying on one side, a few feet from a wheeled table; on it are a pair of leather straps and two loaded syringes. The desk is at the back of the room, barred windows of rusted metal behind it. The top of the desk is gone, broken away, and it lies against the room’s lone window like the cracked shell of a dinosaur egg. Another bloodstained bookshelf stands to one side, next to a singular broken lamp. Store Room: Rotting tables line the sides of the rooms. Things that are smeared against the walls, looking oddly like blood and intestines. Sections of the grated floor are missing, the singular window is a cross design. The shelves prove to have nothing but empty bottles, unknown brown liquids in syringes, and some disinfectant. Medicine Room: In their line of sight is a man standing, his back to them while his front slumps forward towards the door that leads to the hall. The hospital coat he wears is ripped near his neck, and blood stains the white from that area down. In the center of the tear, where normally smooth flesh would be revealed is a lump... a living, writhing lump that looks to be continually fighting to break the skin and be free. His body moves much slower in comparison as he starts to shuffle his feet around so he can face the PCs. Once he has done an about face, they see him fully. His name tag does nothing but glitter occasionally. The rotting walls are covered in black blood, the stained floor of before has been replaced by the wire mesh. There are four overturned chairs. The whiteboard is bloodstained. There is another lamp, this one also broken. They notice that the same bookshelves are lined up to their right and left as the other hospital, only now burnt and bloodstained. The PCs walk pass them, realizing that the books are all burnt as well. Reception: The reception room looks hideous. The metal walls, with rusted rivets nailed through them; the desk is wrecked, as if someone has dismantled it with a rock-breaking hammer; the ceiling, as well as the floor are made of grated metal, and all the papers on the memo board on the wall are stained with blood and most of them have all sorts of obscenities written on them. There is a memo lying on the floor which reads: Doctor Jacob Singer called in today. Apparently, another member of the hospital staff has been killed. He did mention, however, that the woman seemed to have died naturally, although no previous symptoms to heart attack have been shown. The local police department has also been baffled by the loss of one of their own for the same reasons. We are currently trying to track down the source of the deaths of our medical staff. Second Floor Elevator Room: There are two chairs, and a single set of double doors.

Second Floor Hallway: The long hallway before them is decayed, and the dense foggy light is sparse since the windows now have rusty bars on them. The floor is still made of red-colored steel as if bloodstained, but now it has sections missing in it. It is too dark to see if there is indeed a floor beneath them, however. They hear an unseen burst of desperate breathing: wet and ragged gasping, explosive and shuddery exhalations, as of someone is deathly ill. There is a single overturned hospital cart in one part of it and another corner has a collection of bent metal girders piled up. The few windows possess the same cross design. At the end of the hall is a blank slate. Nurse Center: Simply a single walkway of rusted red grating facing a door to the right. On the door is a large stonelike box cut into four segments, there is one space empty, the other three spaces have been filled with beautiful marblelike stones with a symbol on each one. There is one of a young woman in a large dress, a cat with spiral stripes on its fur, and a card with a face, arms and legs. What is with this place? Why is this even here? It does seem strange. Why? What is the point? It is very strange. Room 201: Pipes crisscross the void revealed by gaps in the grated floor. In the back of the room barred windows are built into the walls. There is a single gurney and a hospital bed with bloodstained sheets. Room 202: The sound of their steps making contact with the floor is metallic. Looking down they see that a length of evenly horizontal bars make up the floor. The walls are the same, bloodstained tile. Three windows are set to one side, lined with rusted barbed wire. The only sound is that of water dripping from a metal sink on one side of the room, the opposite wall is covered with blood-stained rusted metal grilles. The sides of the floor are lined with blood and fleshclotted drainage vents. They spot two things on the sink: a slip of paper and what looks like a hen’s egg. Curious of the out-of-place object, they walk over to examine the items; surprised to see it is a highly decorated piece of orange metal, shaped like an egg, with yellow flames whipping alongside the bottom of the trinket. They next pick up the paper, finding some parts of it purposefully obscured with black marker. Worry not. I have used the Fl---- to contain her power. No one can possibly come to her aid now. one of the five pie----. Hide them. Protect them. It is a jumbled mess, and only adds to the pool of confusion in your brain. Room 203: Inside the walls are coated with thick red fluid, making sickening slurping sounds as it is forced through the cracks in the tile. At the far end is a white box sitting atop a lone gurney; a methodic rhythm of a heartbeat penetrating the otherwise eerie silence. Sturdy locks seal the small white box. Room 204: There are five hospital beds, arranged in two rows. An overturned medicine carts sits next to two I.V. stands.

The pit-vine fills the back of the room. The plant is supported by a frame of hausers, to which it clings with rope-like tendrils. At first glance, the tendrils look like ropey human intestines, but gray and mottled as if corrupted, infected, cancerous. Then the PCs see that these coils and loops are slowly moving, sliding lazily over and around one another. They become dozen questing tentacles much quicker than worms, connected to something unseen at the center of the wall, as quick and jittery as spider legs, frenziedly probing the edges of its space. The frenetic lashing of the small tentacles subsides. They continue to move quickly, but now in a more calculated manner. The rapid movement, the ability to flex at will and manipulate appendages indicates animal life, not plant life. A pinkish ooze seeps from the tips of some of the busy appendages as if the thing is drooling. Men's Room: It is covered in red. There is a small window at the end of the room; blackness is all that can be seen. There are urinals and sinks on one side of the room. There is a large stone slap on the windowsill; light green, like emerald. Women's Room: The floor in the bathroom is made of grated metal, underneath which they can see all the piping to and from the toilets and sinks. They walk past the sinks, which look as though they have overflowed with blood and then emptied, leaving dried reddish stains on them. The mirror above them is smudged with blood and deteriorated at different portions. There are three stalls all look rusted like rusted metal cages with thick bars and no doors.. . Operating Prep Room: The floor in the center of the room is gone, turning the room into a vertical shaft. They have to stop abruptly as they come upon the end of the chain link floor and now stand before a huge black gap. Looking up they see that the bed and all other hospital appliances—which are dirty and rusted, as is the norm—are on the ceiling, as if this room is upside-down. The only way around the hole is a chain link walkway, an extremely narrow walkway, roughly two feet wide surrounding the pit on both sides. Operating Room: They walk by an open room that immediately drives the radio insane. It is an O.R. there is an operating table in the middle of the rusted grating floor and all sorts of gadgets and machinery and medical tools—most of them sharp and bloody—and there are at least three nurses and two doctors in here. They immediately notice the shine of the flashlight and start making all sorts of awful noises as they move towards the door. The other two nurses are much closer now. One wields a scalpel that glints, reflecting the flashlight’s beam of light, and the other one holds a huge cattle syringe. The nurse raises a scalpel, and violently swings it. Struck, she staggers backward. They hit her once more. She falls to the ground, the huge lump on her back wobbles. The room’s design is like the previous room’s inverse. Now the sides are exposed to the void, while the center contains a rusted grated platform. Intensive Care Unit: There is a single gurney with heavy restraints. Next to it is an I.V stand and three metal carts with bottles and jars on top, with unreadable labels. At the back of the room are two rusted, grated windows.

Room 205: The once-white tile walls are stained dark with blood, and it was quite liberally applied. The tiled floors are likewise swamped in a coat of thick, disgusting grime. In a very dark corner of the room is a sink white though dirty and stained with the usual fluids. The bulletin board has been replaced by a rusted metal grill. The sink is leaking profusely, and has graffiti on the side, scrawled in blood. One can't quite tell if it reads BitCH or BirTH. Either one doesn't make sense. Inside the sink however is something that makes one's stomach churn. It is a pair of human lungs, covered in a glistening layer of slime. They look deliberately placed. If touched, they are soft, warm, and moist, and one jerks one's hand away, gagging and turning away as bile burns at the back of one's throat. The gurney, once stained with fresh blood, is now dried and crusty. On the floor next to it are several bizarre operating instruments. On the gurney itself is something useful, a sharp scalpel. Stainless steel. Sparkling. Room 206: Third Floor Elevator Room: Third Floor Hallway: The walls look menacing, even more tainted than ever, more covered in the despicable filth of the Otherworld. The second floor is still there, but all the windows are shattered despite its metal reinforcements. Each window opening looks like a large, blackened mouth; some have the scorched remains of window blinds hanging out of the opening at crooked angles, dangling in the light breeze, like teeth held in place by the last, jagged remains of fleshy tendons. Everything is completely alternate now, but if it is the same as the school and other places, the layout should still match the map. There are rooms 301-307 with two storage rooms, a linen room, and male and female restrooms. Parts of the center of the floor is gone, exposing the blackness. The PCs will have to walk around the gaps on walkways extending around the perimeter. There is a slate next to the door engraved into it is: The Grim Reaper's List 35 Lydia Findly 60 Trevor F. White 18 Albert Lords 45 Roberta T. Morgan 38 Edward C. Briggs Linen Room: If they go through the linen room they can get to the other wing with the rest of the rooms and a storage room. Here it is filled with three yellowed rusty washers and two dryers, all standing on the chainlink floor. The PCs walk past the machines slowly, eyeing them. As they reach the door something crashes behind them. They spin around, raising their weapons. Everything is still except for an overturned washer. The washer closest to them rumbles, and the door flings open, then it slides across the room and crashes on its side. Men's Room: One notices now, at the open top of the toilet stalls, human legs stick out, upward and together, hanging from barbed wire that come from the holes in the grilled roof. At the deep end of the bathroom, there is what used to be a small window; now covered in chainlink and there is naught but darkness beyond it, and rain blows through it from outside.

They walk towards one of the stalls pushing the door open with a pathetic squeak. Inside is a faceless male body, rotten and covered in dried blood, hanging upside down. It has no arms and the legs are pressed together tightly, making the body look like one long trunk without appendages sticking out of it and a head at the very bottom, that just hangs over the bowl of the bloodstained toilet below. Women's Room: Storage Room: The storeroom looks moderately normal, except everything is dark, wire mesh, and covered in blood and rust Store Room: Inside are some rusty carts, trashed wheelchairs and hospital beds. Seven wheeled shelves are set in rows, each containing white bottles, cases and small boxes. There are two grated windows. Room 301: A rusted old hospital bed, with its white sheets stained with blood and excrement here and there; a tray near the door where dirty scalpels, medicines and instruments lay, and a bag of serum hanging from a hook on a hospital rack, with the tube coming out of a bag and the needle at the other end lying on the bed over spots of blood. Room 302: Room 302 opens. Inside is a nurse call station, old hospital bed, IV Dropper, and a TV/VCR on a little rusty wheeled stand. On the bed is a video cassette tape. It is unlabeled, with a few dried blood splatters on the front. The glass on the VCR display is shattered and the TV does not look as if it is in good condition at all. They push the power button and a red light turns on. They switch the television on and it hisses to life with crackly white static, drawing unpleasant reminders of the radio. Pressing the channel button only causes static to fill the screen. Then the PCs can put the tape into the VCR. It accepts the offering with a happy series of mechanical hums and clicks. Then, the snow disappears and the tape begins to play. The screen is nothing but static, but the video still plays. They only catch bits and pieces of the audio. It is a female voice but the static in the background is too loud to make out what she is saying clearly. “Still has--------------, eyes do------------tting a puls--------------er skin is------------when I cha-----------------blood and---------ooz--------Why? Wh----------------------I won--------please..” The image goes up and down and the voice becomes both amplified and distorted. Pressing a few buttons on the VCR causes nothing to happen, the bad tracking seems to be part of the recording itself. Apparently the thing doesn’t work as good as previously thought. Perhaps this is just another piece to the nightmarish world they are trapped in. They go to the door and are about to open it when they stop and remember the tape is still sitting in the VCR. They go back to it, push the rewind button, and wait impatiently while listening to the humming of the VCR. The tape stops with a series of clicks. Pushing the eject button and looking at the tape shows that the write protect tab has been pulled. Day Room: There is a large barrier in place, blocking further entry into the passageway. The wall is flesh toned with organic-like textures, and seems almost like a feature in some living organism. The PCs can stab the barrier with her knife and slit downwards, ripping the skin-like substance and exposing some pink, fleshy textures inside the vertical opening. The image it presents is of things the PCs would rather not think about, but they have no choice. They squeeze

through the makeshift opening, cringing at the moistened textures rubbing against them, and enter Room 303. Room 303: A large square-shaped room. There is no real difference between this room and the rest of the hospital, the floor is still metal, though two of the walls are appear to have throbbing. The walls make it seem like the hospital is alive and these tubes are its internal organs. Room 304: In here is nothing too special, although a steel plate screwed to the wall puzzles the PCs. There is no way of getting it off without a screwdriver. They leave the room. Room 305: Wheeled stainless-steel tables like hospital gurneys line one wall. Room 306: The place smells vaguely of Lysol. There are two grated windows, a single gurney in a corner. Five hospital beds in rows, though one appears to be warped. Basement Hallway: There are more overturned carts on wheels. The floor beneath them is made of stone instead of thin chain links and thus there are no more treacherous gaps that poise any threat. Generator Room: The concrete floor now contains bloodstains. Storeroom: The storage room is filled with rows of shelves, burnt and twisted, lying tipped and leaning at wrong angles, their contents having spilled out and cascaded across the floor. Some of the bottles are filled and others are completely empty. Searching bottle after bottle notes that none of them contain any type of useful substance, except for perhaps a bottle of disinfectant alcohol, helpful for serious wounds. Most of the small boxes of things can barely be read because they are so old and worn. Some are bars of soap, still wrapped in silver foil and smelling as fresh as ever. Most of them are hygienic supplies of various sorts, few of them worth keeping. It is the bright blue box that catches their attention, mostly because it stands out quite plainly from the rest. The box reads “Silver Bear”, and it is full of rounds. Well, mostly full. The box holds fifty and thirty-eight rounds, and the box doesn’t look too old, not nearly as old as most of the others, so hopefully it is still potent. What a full box of ammo is doing in the storeroom of a hospital, or where the missing twelve bullets went, is unknown. Having done that, it is noticed that there is still one shelf still standing. In the back of the room is some sort of bookshelf in the back, made of reddish steel and contains no books at all. Closer inspection, skid marks are noticed, indicating that the bookshelf can be pushed aside. The skid marks are deep, so deep that it could only have been that way after moving it several times. A large bloody handprint is smeared all over the side of the unit. It is a man’s print, and large—as if a butcher, exhausted from his hideous labors, had leaned there for a moment to catch his breath. Pushing it as hard as one can, sure enough, it starts moving. Continuing to push it moves it further along the room, gradually revealing to some sort of cubbyhole behind it, not large enough to be considered a doorway, nor having a door anyway, it is a small crevice just large enough for a man if he ducked his head. Secret Storeroom: They look into the next room, wondering what is down here. The room is fairly empty and nothing harmful is in here. They walk in, wondering why someone would hide an empty room. They close the door behind them, continuing to scan the area. The only objects they see are some red boxes are scattered across the floor and some sort of square shaped brick formation ahead.

They are most curious about the square. They walk up to it. It looks like some sort of pit covered with vines. They kneel down, examining it. They wonder if the thick layer of vines can be removed. They can tug on them, but they barely budge. They soon realize that the vines can not be torn. There is nothing they can do to remove them. They also notice that, through the holes in the vine layer, there is a staircase going down. They feel the vines once again, more desperate then ever to find out what is beyond those stairs. They crawl into the pit and walk down the stairs. Secret Basement: The room they end up in is very narrow: The ceiling is just high enough so they don't have to lower their heads. The walls are no more than an arm's length apart, and are no longer strangely burnt. Rather, they are made of stone, a gray concrete, not unlike the outer walls of the hospital. This produces an uneasy feeling of claustrophobia in the PCs. The area is otherwise empty. The floor beneath them is still made of chain links with eternal darkness beyond, but the rest of the hallway seems fairly normal. Somehow though it feels right, like even if the hospital wasn't alternate, this part of the basement's basement would still look like this. At the end of the hallway is an empty wheelchair and a door that probably leads to yet another area of this secret labyrinth they have discovered. They go down the narrow hallway until they finally reach the door. They then open the metal door in front of them. Secret Basement Hallway: The room inside is very dark; it seems the pitch blackness that fills the rest of the hospital has increased if that is possible. The room is still made of the same cracked, gray stone. Normal probably isn't the word, as where it is still dark and the gloomy atmosphere still had its effect, but it is certainly more "normal" than the twisted, burnt parts of the hospital above. Maybe this was for storage use and nothing else. Maybe the vines and shelf covering the entrance were part of the nightmarish transition from one world to the next. There is a door not far from a stretcher. The door is composed of metal and rust and it takes some effort to open. It finally does so with a low squeal. Room 001: The door, unlike the walls and ceiling, is made of metal. They open the door slowly, stepping inside. They suddenly hear glass shatter. They leap in fear, losing control of their limbs. They feel a shockwave go through their bodies, rippling through their arms and legs. The sound has startled them that severely. As soon as they have regained control of themselves they hear glass shatter once again. The PCs aren't nearly as startled the second time, though one's mind continues to wander as to what creature can possibly be making these sounds. They notice that the sound echoes through the room continually as if it were a tape on repeat. They try to ignore it as they walk forward, but are still feeling uneasy. Room 002: Room 003: Room 004: Room 005: They notice a metal stretcher with wheels. On top of it is a video tape. They examine it momentarily, realizing a thin layer of blood is splattered on it.

They suddenly hear footsteps behind them. They spin around and stare right into the face of an infested doctor. The doctor fall forwards, he groans and breathes into their faces. The smell of death occupies his breath, bringing them to the point of sickness. Much like the nurse they encountered before, this is a slow-shuffling, knife-wielding human. Struck, the doctor falls backwards, groaning with pain, the knife skittering across the floor to the other end of the hall. Three shots straight into the hideous hump in his back. The doctor groans again, and then all is still. Room 006: Slowly the next door comes into focus. They place their hands on its handle, it is strangely warm, and dry, all the other doors in this godforsaken place were usually ice cold. The floor is once again made of stone, and blood and rust is splattered on it. There is a chair, a framed painting on a wall, a shelf with medicines all surrounding a hospital bed with stained sheets in the middle of the room. There is nobody there. There is a ventilator and EKG next to the bed, as well an I.V. bag hanging from a hook next to the bed, the little needle just hanging there from the thin plastic tube that comes out of the bag. The EKG to is grinding and rattling, its lung bellow rising and falling with dry pant. Cardiac system and brainwave monitors purr aimlessly. It is odd that a bed would be down here. Who were they taking care of in a storeroom? It looks like someone had been here and the hospital didn't want anyone to know it. They notice a shining object on the edge of the life support machine and next to it is a picture frame. Perhaps the picture of the patient the hospital staff had attempted to hide in here? They walk up to it and examine it for a moment. The photo is black and flaked around the edges, and several spots on the photo are burnt. There is a gold casing that surrounds the picture. The little girl in the photo didn't look directly at the camera. Her gaze was averted to the side. Her chin length hair is neat and parted to one side, this makes full view of a pale forehead. Her expression could be described as calm. They then notice small white letters near the bottom of the picture: Alessa. There is a small key next to the picture frame. It is the key that opens the examination room. They can finally go through that room to the exit! First Floor Hallway: There is a men's and women's restroom here, with the lobby across from them. There is a plaque on both, however. The men's restroom's plaque is gray in color and shaped like a hollow pair of eye sockets. There is an inscription underneath. The blind need eyes to see. The women's restroom door's plaque is done in gold, the recess about the shape and size of an egg. Underneath is an inscription as well. Even in the inferno of flames I saw life born anew. Pulling the decorated egg out and slipping it into the indentation results in a resounding click. Women's Restroom: The skeletal stalls are one side, and they turn their interest into the main prize of the room---another mirror.

It is crusty, outlined in red haze, but the reflection looks into a clean, safe-looking restroom on the other side. Lobby: The floor has become meshed iron grating, covered in blood and gore, and underneath it are all sorts of pulsating tubes and machinery which seems to be alive and breathing, over a black pit with no apparent bottom. The walls are also made of the same grated metal that composes the floor, and held together by a structure of narrow and rusted metal beams wrapped in barbed wire. This time some of those tubes are coming out of the walls and are pumping their contents at an intermittent rhythm down through the grilled floor. Nurse Center: They lift the slab up and carefully place it into the last remaining empty segment. It fits perfectly into place. They try to open the door. Examination Room: Within, the room is exactly like the other examination room, only the objects are made of burnt, rusted steel...much like the rest of the hospital. The rotting walls are covered in black blood, the stained floor of before has been replaced by the wire mesh. A rusted sink in the corner catches their eye, but it is what is off to one side that catches their attention. There is a reclining figure in what appears to be the black metal frame of a hospital bed, though it does not reflect the light, casting shadows over body itself, making it difficult to see for certain. You aren't shocked at first, thinking that it is the doll again. But the flashlight twinkles off the skin, and it isn't because of plastic. You make your way slowly to the homicidal scene, seeing that the skin is in fact absent and instead glistening muscle. She is horribly burned and it looks as if an autopsy has already been made on her, since long cuts are sewn shut with black surgical thread. The corpse is bruised and there are spatters of dried blood all over it; the side of its torso is mauled into a bloody mess of torn flesh and exposed bone, and there is a very obvious gaping hole in its chest, dried blood all around it---the girl had been gutted open and had her internal organs torn out as well, which were probably the ones they had seen throughout this place. Her face is blistered and blackened. Her eyes have been scooped out of her head. Not neatly like a surgeon's job. They have been wrenched out, leaving a trail of optical nerves down her skinned cheeks, And the black sockets of her eyes bleed rusty fluid. You bring a hand to your mouth and step back so quickly that you stumble and fall against one of the tiled walls. You slide to the floor, retching along with the descent. You want to be sick, for heaving mess that rises from stomach to chest would have been better out than in, but it won’t come; the bile just churns and lifts without making the full journey. You reach blindly behind you to find the door handle, but are dumbfounded to see the door isn't even there anymore. The door that was boarded up previously is open, however it looks like a large gaping wound instead of a door or doorway. According the map, this should lead to the director's office. You squeeze yourself through, stumbling into the dark chamber. The walls and floors were all white at one time, now stained with dark red and brown spots. The salty smell of blood hits your nostrils hard, and the sudden jerk of something in the corner startles you.

They turn, the flashlight beam falling on the crouched figure. It is the shape of a man, but as it slowly stands you see the arms are pinned tightly around the creature as a skintight sheathing is seemingly stretched around the monster. The head is falling and twisting erratically, and the face is obscured by infected, bleeding sores. A hole is located in the chest of the beast, and foul-smelling liquid drips from the edge. Before they can react a steady stream suddenly shoots out. The putrid black acid singes and smokes as it eats through whatever it touches. The PCs move keeping eyes locked on the straight-jacket. It tries to screech something inaudible, the cyst on its face only distorts the muffled sound. They raise their weapons as it begins waddling towards them, walking bowlegged in a disturbing fashion. Shot, it collapses to the ground in convulsions, and one eagerly stomps on it to ensure a solid death of the abomination. A burst of light erupts from the floor, and in its wake there is the same strange symbol. In the center there is a fist-sized triangular object. They pick it up, the weight not matching the size at all. It is a good five pounds. There are odd designs etched all over it. It is then they can feel the darkness around them expanding-the feeling they had after leaving the school and the other hospital, when the nightmare invaded, is going in reverse, was rewinding itself and retreating. The world opens wide, as is the light and the air-they can feel themselves moving between the worlds without ever taking a step. It makes one's head spin, the taint receding faster than it had even come on, and the PC reel, eyes pounding in their sockets, hearts sinking down. Return to Normality: Examination Room: When they awake, they are on examination tables. As their sight returns, a hospital room coalesces about the PCs: pale-blue walls, stainless-steel fixtures, otherwise white on white and bathed by the pallid light of day, it gives off an uncomfortable impression of unreality... They see the scrub sink, stool, an eye chart, a light box covers a third of the north wall and provides backlighting for dozens of X-ray images: various grinning skulls from various angles, chests, pelvises, spines, limbs. The only illumination is provided by a single window: an ashen light too dreary to be called a glow, trimmed into drab ribbons by the tilted blades of a Venetian blind. Most of the room lies in shadows. There is a padded examination table that is protected by a continuous roll of paper sheeting, which now contains an anatomy doll. The antiseptic smell is unmistakable, as are the half-drawn institutional curtains, before which dust motes dance in slanted light as thick and golden as honey. Two leaky sinks stand against one wall and a green-leather desk stands to one side of a medicine cabinet. The tiled-paneled walls, the bookshelves with neatly ordered tomes, the array of degrees and chart, the warm multicolored light from the Tiffany-style lamps and the tasteful furnishings exerts a calming influence, glowing in a sort of friendly way, or maybe they are just projecting some of their hopes onto this world. The place has no more charm than the morgue, but one is welcome to it after the nightmare. All the odors are wonderfully clean and bracing—

antiseptics, floor wax, freshly laundered bed sheets—without a whiff of rust or various bodily fluids. Waiting Room: They step forward. Nothing. Stillness. They take more and more steps and their pace quickens. It is when they turn the next corner does their heart miss a beat. A sound shatters though the air, there was no mistaking it, it is burst of static erupting from the corner of the room, and they spin to face the reception desk. The small, portable TV that is behind the desk has suddenly come on, the screen filled with the white noise. Through the white noise, they distinguish the enigmatic image of a door, bearing the number "312". It seems to be a hotel room door. The image fades and the TV suddenly dies and goes black as if the plug was pulled. The Streets: The PCs follow the brick wall enclosing the courtyard of Alchemilla and on to Canyon Street. A couple of beauty parlors go by, next to a rundown cake shop and a ruined pizzeria. Everything is lifeless. The air around them, shrouded in fog, is the same. The buildings are no different. Canyon Street Chasm: There is a four-way intersection to cross before reaching the road leading to Cedar Grove. But there is a problem. The center where all four roads should meet is just…gone. Just like an earthquake had it, the jagged edges have been violently ripped open and obliterated from the ground below. It appears like a bottomless chasm with the thick fog. Disturbingly, the cracks have spread ever so slightly and they hear the rolling sound of pebbles falling into the endless ravine. It causes them to retreat slowly, looking around the edges of the road for another way across. Butcher Shop: Next to the intersection, dangling dangerously close to the edge is a butcher shop. The sign overhead is weatherbeaten and peeling, with the large logo and insignia of the small meat packing store readable, but only with concentration. "The Family Butcher". It appears to continue over to the street that they can take to the sanitarium, but the ravine is a ghastly sight to behold, especially with the building teetering so close to a fatal plunge. The front desk, complete with a cash register and papers, is mostly useless; the electronic cash register looks as if someone had slammed a sledgehammer into it; somehow, a current of life remains in its battered circuitry, and one red number flickers in its cracked digital readout window, an inconstant 6, which seems analogous to a dying victim's last word, as if the cash register were trying to tell them something about its killer. The PCs can go over and rifle through them. There is a thick metal door in the back, and several empty rows of shelves. There are traces of a red substance that dots the dirty white tile of the floor, and everything looks as if it hasn’t been touched in days or longer. Moving around the front desk and towards a slab of meat hanging from a hook overhead, they see that there is a meat hook embedded into the slightly decayed remains of what appears to be a slaughtered pig. Back Room: The shadows are suffocating enough, but they open the door anyway. The flashlight offers a fair view of the next room, which appears to be a storage corridor. It is a frigid, windowless, claustrophobic place, about twelve by fifteen feet. Mist from the coolant system swirls around the room, reminding one of the forest at the edge of town. The air

is thick with the smell of coolant and raw meat. A painted concrete floor. Sealed concrete walls. Fluorescent lights. Vents in three of the walls circulate cold air around the sides of beef, veal, and slabs of pork that hang from the ceiling racks. Their breath catches in their throats when they see it, when they see the thin and shapely, yet crusted and disgusting legs sitting on a bench, the parody of female attractiveness, all the way up to the head. Which, of course, has no face. How the hell did it get here? It is a Brookhaven nurse, all this way away from the hospital. Its head wobbles insanely to all sides, like in an epileptic seizure. Then they realize that it isn’t convulsing, it is shivering. It is afraid. A figure steps into their field of view. The PCs hear the scrape of metal on metal, the rustle of leather cloth, and for just a second, the thought crosses their minds with a solar flare of panic: It’s him.... No, it’s not! The mistake was understandable. The figure standing before them might well have been cast from the same mold as Pyramid Head. The figure looks like man, a very tall man, wearing white leather. He wears a similar stitched-up butcher's apron that falls just past his knees to tangle around his shins. But there are differences. While the Red Pyramid’s shape was tall and lithe, this creature’s exposed arms and chest are enormously muscular, and a metal, bell-shaped face mask covers one side of his head. His bald half-dome of its head gleams as white as a dead fish belly, though from this angle they cannot see much of his masked face. The scraping sound was caused by a cleaver the length of his torso and half the width long. The figure lifts the nurse monster up. They see the gleaming cleaver, the uplifted and then descending arm of the thing, the struggle of the arms, and the quivering and writhing of the nurse's body. He then presses the end to her chest and holds it a moment-then pushes, the blade slicing neatly into the flesh with a wet squishing sound. But he isn’t done yet. Just as the creature he was impaling starts to squirm, black fluid pouring from the gaping wound, he forces the cleaver down in one swift movement. Like a rag doll the nurse splits in half, settling to the ground in a pool of her own blood. You can feel the violence radiating off in invisible waves; a death-cold, hate-hot, soul-withering feeling that makes you feel both physically and spiritually ill. There is no sadistic joy here, just frustrated rage and cold-hard hatred finding release by this calculated act. His victim disemboweled, the man turns away, down an unseen hallway, his cleaver dragging behind him. He hadn’t seen the the PCs, who stand stunned, waiting until their hearts start to slow before breathing again. You blink several times, as if the corpse or gore would disappear. But it doesn’t; in fact it makes the scene all more vivid. The smell hits you next, another reminder that what is happening is indeed real and that you need out. They peer down the hallway for any sight of the killer and are satisfied that there aren’t any. But will it be safe now to leave through the same exit as the monstrous being that split the nurse monster? Gripping their weapons tighter and inching down the hallway, they see that there is one other door that opens onto a parking lot for the easy receival of meat deliveries. They crack the door slightly once they reach the end. Outside the air is chilly, and aside from the fog they see absolutely nothing.

Lumber Yard: Huge piles of supplies: stacks of lumber; carefully arranged pyramids of short steel beams; hundreds of bristling bundles of steel forcing rods; dozens of sacks of concrete; several large piles of sand and gravel; car-sized spools of thick electrical cable, smaller spools of insulated copper wire; at least a mile of aluminum ventilation duct. The equipment and supplies are arranged in evenly spaced rows with aisles between. City Hall: Silent Hill City Hall is the most medieval building of them all; a four-story pile of sandstone and granite, which housed city government. It is a cross between a fortress and some sort of vast sepulchral institution. It is a brick riot of towers, dormers, and turrets, that spreads its complicated facade along the west face of the square. Iron bars shield its narrow, deeply-recessed windows. Its flat roof is encircled by a low wall that looks like a castle's battlements, complete with regularly spaced embrasures and squared-off merlons. The merlons—which are the high segments of the stone crenelations that alternate with the open embrasures—boast arrow loops and putlogs holes, and they are even topped with pointed stone finials. City Hall is not merely architecturally forbidding; there is, as well, a feeling of malevolent life in the structure. One can get the disturbing notion that this agglomeration of stone and mortar and steel has somehow acquired consciousness, that it is watching them as they go inside. They push through a set of walnut-framed, frosted-glass doors, into an antechamber encircled by a wooden railing. Beyond the front desk is a large open area that holds a dozen desks, a score of tall filing cabinets, a photocopier, and other office equipment. The mealy light is barely sufficient to reveal the metal filing cabinets, worktable bearing hot plate and coffeepot, empty coatrack, enormous wall map of the county, and three wooden chairs with their back against one wall. The desk is a shadowy hulk, neatly kept, currently untenanted. The door to the inner office is ajar. Beyond it is light. They see a surprisingly simple room—gray walls, white Venetian blinds, utilitarian furniture, no photographs or paintings on the walls, almost as drab as a cell. Double doors, with red leather tacked to their surfaces leads to the Mayor’s Office Mayor’s Office: The mayor's office is not plain, locatrf on the highest floor of the West wing, filled with dark mahogany, with law books on heavy shelves. The room beyond has tall wingback chairs of red plush facing a long divan of the same material across a coffee table made of a slab of green marble. There are trophy cases on two walls, filled with cups and plaques, and stuffed and mounted fish hanging high near the ceiling. The walls are festooned with civic awards and photographs. Above the divan is a truly enormous swordfish. There are two narrow arrow slits between the trophy cases, letting thin slivers of light into the otherwise dark room. There are two clocks, one to either side of the door leading to the inner office. They are half a second out of synch, so that one loud ticking noise seems to be jumping back and forth between them; first one will tick, then the other will, then the first again, then the second again, in endless monotony. Both clocks are oblong, tall and thin, but are slightly wider in the upper half, before narrowing again at their crowns. The massive desk is of oak. The elegant desk is mahogany, and the other pieces of tasteful and expansive furniture---in the English style of a first-rate men's club, upholstered in hunter's-green leather---stands on plush gold carpeting.

The growl almost always comes like the rustle of a high mountain wind on the trees. It is heard first in the distance, a gentle rumble, slowly growing louder as it descends, until finally it is all around the listener, sweeping over, and then past, until it is gone impossible to follow. They are now tired, their bodies ache from the constant cold, their nerves are eviscerated by the constant darkness. The walls are uniformly black with a slightly ashen hue. There are no windows to the outside, moldings, or other decorative elements. The size and depth of the rooms and halls and corridors vary enormously, the whole place can instantly and without apparent difficulty change its geometry. Within there is no light, no humidity, no air movement (i.e. breezes, drafts etc), and the temperature remains at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. There are no sounds except for a dull roar that arises intermittently, sometimes seeming far off, sometimes sounding close at hand. Suddenly immutable silence rushes in to replace the growl that had momentarily shattered it. Unfortunately the winding stairs offer no landings or exits. After interminable hours, they reach the last step, finding themselves in a small circular chamber without doorways to passages. Just a series of black rungs jutting out of the wall, leading up into an even narrower vertical shaft. The walls are endlessly bare. Nothing hangs on them, nothing defines them. They are without texture. Even to the keenest eye or most sentient fingertip, they remain unreadable. No mark or trace survives. The walls obliterate everything. They are permanently absolved of record. Oblique and forever obscure and unwritten. Now however, it is perfectly clear that the hallway, which was little less than ten feet, is now well over sixty feet, but cannot be more than seventy feet. Except when they swing around, they suddenly discover a new doorway to the right. It was not there before. Pointing the flashlight in the new direction will reveal an even longer corridor. Stepping in reveals a still larger corridor to the left. It is at least fifteen feet wide with a ceiling well over ten feet high. The length of this corridor is impossible to estimate, as the flashlight proves useless against the darkness ahead, dying long before it can ever come close to determining an end. As they move deeper and deeper into the hall/house/labyrinth/building they eventually pass a number of doorways leading off into alternative passageways or chambers. It seems colder now. The flashlight skitters across wall and floor, stabs into small rooms, alcoves and spaces reminiscent of closets. Still no matter how far they proceed down a particular passageway, the light never comes close to touching the punctuation point promised by the converging perspective lines, sliding on and on and on, spawning one space after another, a constant stream of corners and walls, all of them unreadable and perfectly smooth. Finally they stop in front of an entrance much larger than the rest. It arcs high overhead and yawns into an undisturbed blackness. The flashlight finds the floor, but no walls, and, for the first time, no ceiling. As they take their first step towards that immense arch, they are suddenly a long way away from the warm light of the building they left behind. The beam of their flashlight scratches nothing but the invariant black. The floor can no longer be taken for granted. Perhaps something lies beneath it. Perhaps it will open up into some deep fissure.

Searching out more hallways, more turns, eventually leads the way down a narrow corridor ending with a door. Opening it reveals another corridor ending with another door. Slowly they make their way through a gauntlet of what must be close to fifty doors, until they discover for the first time a door without a doorknob. Even stranger, as they try to push the door open, they discover it is locked. As they pull away to re-examine the obstacle, they hear a whimper coming from the other side. Taking two steps back one of the PCs throws his or her shoulder against the door. It bends but does not give way. Trying again and again, with each hit straining the bolt and hinges, until the fourth hit, at last, tears the hinges frees pops whatever bolt held it in place, and sends the doors cracking to the floor. A series of left turns eventually leads to an apparently endless corridor, which again to the left, offers entrance into a huge space, with a ceiling two hundred feet overhead. And then they see a shadow in the distance, standing dead center. And then, just as they lift their weapons, they hear a series of sharp cracks. All those door behind the figure are slamming shut, one after another, after another. The last thing they see is this dark form vanishing behind a closing door, the last one finally hammering shut, leaving the room saturated in silence. The next hallway is narrower, the ceiling a little lower, and some of the rooms look larger. Should an attempt at scratching, stabbing, and ultimately breaking through a wall succeed, what is discovered is another windowless room with a doorway leading to another hallway spawning yet another endless series of empty rooms and passageways, all with walls potentially hiding and thus hinting at a possible exterior, though invariably winding up as just another border to another interior. Despite its corridors and rooms of various sizes is nothing more than corridors and rooms. When minutes pass, they have still failed to find the entrance or the arch. They instead find a doorway; only this one is much smaller and has a different shape than the one they originally came through. Through it is another corridor, one much narrower and ending very quickly in a T. Then the faint growl returns, rolling through the darkness like thunder. They have no idea where to go, and they slowly make their way through an incredibly complex and frequently disorienting series of turns. Eventually they step right through a low passageway and discover a corridor terminating in warm yellow light, lamplight, with a tiny silhouette standing in the doorway.

The Streets:
Acadia Street Chasm:

Cedar Grove Sanitarium: Cedar Grove is a sprawling facility located on the extreme
eastern edge of southern Central Silent Hill, occupying a large lot at the intersection of Acadia Rd. and Midway Ave. It is a mental home, a place for lost causes. In the olden days it would have been called a lunatic asylum. Before the PCs stands a dark stone wall crowned with a row of vertical iron spikes. A heavy gate, also fashioned from iron, fills the archway. A brick path leads through the gate, vanishing into the mists. Here and there, strands of flowering ivy ascend the wall, helping to give a less severe appearance and adorning the breeze with a hint of perfume.

Inside the walls, twin wooden fences square off the brick path leading from the iron gate to the stocky shape of the sanitarium atop a large hill. When they reach the middle of the yard, they stop, struck by the starkness of the scene revealed primarily by the ghostly radiance of the fog; a luminescence akin to moonlight but more ethereal and more serene. Marking the northern end of the yard are six to eight leafless old maples, stark black branches spearing the fog; windhammered snow has begun to plate the rough bark. Except for these and a few benches, no landscaping is evident, no softening grass or flowers, or shrubs. Thin tendrils of mist wind between the oak trees and the iron streetlamps. In the still air, the creeping mist seems to be alive, advancing with silent menace. The further they progress, the more detail comes into view. An expensive looking car is parked in front of the main entrance. The desolate sanitarium, which appears to be one of the older buildings in Silent Hill, is just as empty and quiet looking as the streets were. The sanatarium is a squat manor house, with projecting wings on either side, hence the gables, and is comprised of three storeys, the windows on the ground floor high and elegantly framed. Clearly this is not a new place. The white stonework is cracked in places and a fresh coat of paint would not have been amiss, yet it is still a grand structure and it is easy to imagine its former glory. Dirty red-brick walls with blackened buttresses and lancet arches, a peaked roof with finial-capped pinnacles, swollen turrets, miserly windows, and all of the long facade stippled black with ancient filth. Set within a walled parkland, dense with oaks, the enormous building is Gothic without the grandeur, looks punitive, devoid of mercy. At one time, perhaps in another century, it had obviously belonged to a wealthy landowner or nobleman, a private mansion house now given over to treatment. Lobby: The front lobby is spacious, with velvet sofas that look comfortable and expensive looking tables. The architecture is tipping slightly toward a gothic feel, and nothing hangs on the bland colored walls. Palmettos, graceful though slightly dusty, frame the lobby's battered wood reception desk. There is no one behind the reception counter, the chain glass windows only casting ghostly shadows. Foyer: The foyer itself, dirty and darkened, is a large, circular but spartan area with painted murals on the walls. There is a rather complex mosaic floor, a swirling circular formation, but more than a hundred of the tiny tiles are missing. Their flashlight is the only source of illumination the further they go in. With every step their footfalls seem to echo endlessly, for there is nothing to absorb the sound. And with each echoing step, the lobby seems to grow in the increasing darkness. If you’ver ever paid a visit to a lunatic asylum (perhaps been a resident at some time?), you know the stale heaviness that hangs in the air like floating decay. For some peculiar reason it clings more stagnantly in the shadows than the in the light. Possibly its sick brain cells crumbling from their hosts to permeate the atmosphere in the way skin flakes from flesh. At the perimeter are a few blue sofas, notes on posted boards, vending machines, pay phones, waste baskets and the like. They can try lifting a payphone from its cradle, but are not surprised to hear dead silence, and they move on. There are four doors, four different paths they could take, all only visible thanks to the beam of light. There is a set of double doors next to a jammed door on the adjacent wall.

With your hand on the handle you froze; something skids to the floor somewhere back in the lobby. You turn your head slightly, only moving your eyes-and you see nothing but darkness, hearing now a crumbling sound from above. Dining Hall: Just past the vending machines is a small cafeteria. A coffee cart sits in one corner, a small kitchen at the other end of the room. There is no food in the cafeteria and no coffee. There are bottles of flavoring behind the coffee bar, the contents dried up. Round blue plastic tables with chrome legs and matching chairs sprinkle the room Day Room: Six clusters of chairs, each centered around a small table, are spaced evenly about the room, possibly intended to allow a large assembly to break up into smaller groups. Paintings are evenly spaced along the walls, each depicting tranquil landscapes. You stare at the poker, your eyes move as if drawn to it. It is made of iron, painted black. A machine or man has twisted its end into a right angle. There is a coil-like handle on it. And that is all it is—a simple, functional object, without menace to the eye. Doctor’s Office: The PCs have entered a well-furnished office dominated by a large, hardwood deck and an elegant, plush chair. A trio of smaller chairs face the desk which, although they look comfortable, fall well short of the standard established by their counterpart behind the desk. There is a metal artifact on the desk, resembling an ankh and has the word Jocasta etched on its base. On the desk is a note: The new patient, Helen Grady arrived today. I was surprised to see how calm and well behaved she was. After reading her notes, I was worried that she might be something of a handful. The woman is in complete denial and claims no recollection of the incident which saw her committed. Indeed, she has asked repeatedly to be allowed to see her son! I have agreed with her husband that it is best that the boy be kept away from his mother. While there seems little hope for any long term recovery, I look forward to spending some time with Mrs. Grady -- her condition is most fascinating. Cloak Room: This small closet is packed with clothes of all colors, designs, and sizes, shoes beyond naming, and coats beyond counting stacked up like blankets on a trader’s post shelf. Patient Belongings: Lit by overhead fluorescent lights, it is a large room filled with rows of wooden tables with low benches between aisle after aisle of floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves jammed to capacity with hand luggage, rucksacks, attaché cases, boxes, packages, purses, and moldy, mildewed articles of clothing. On a table are boxes of shotgun shells, and a memo: Status Report, 2/7/1961 Patient: Mrs Grady. Age: 35 Examining Doctor: Dr. Harris

Notes: Mrs. Grady’s condition has degraded dramatically in the last few months. Her fantasies of a "mirror world" have become more acute, and she spends more and more time in an apparent catatonic state. She claims that during this time she is in the "other world." She now has full recollection of her attack on her son, but shows no remorse for the incident. Indeed she seems proud, almost smug of her attempted filicide! I am worried that this behavior could be a side effect of the increased doses of Epolineum that the patient has been prescribed. I have asked for her dose to be halved and hope to see positive results shortly. West Solarium: The room doesn’t look as if it had been cleaned for months. Plants with gray fur wilt in pots; cobwebs hang beneath the round table, draped in lopsided chairs. It is funny (funny in a peculiar sense) how some of the shadows when you look away and then back, seem much darker than before and somehow take on slightly (you’d only notice if you concentrated hard) different shapes. And the shifts in air inside here are surely unnatural; the coldness that regularly brushes by your legs is more like the ephemeral touch of icy fingers than the passing of draughts from a window or the crack beneath the floor. East Solarium: A wheelchair with some kind of doll sitting upright on the seat, is discarded in the corner, and although the room is large it is basically empty. And dilapidated. They spot a map on a dusty oak desk, rifling through other papers to no avail, and then exited the room through the only other door available. Constructed of two floors and a basement, the sanitarium's first floor appears to be meant for those patient who were mentally ill. The first floor's west wing is where the male population was housed, while the east wing housed the female population. Each wing has a sick ward, a pair of non-specialized wards, dorms, an infirmary, and a section designated as either Male or Female Seclusion. A pair of solarium (or sun rooms), a dining hall, cloak room, day room, and a room for patient belongings can also be found on each floor. East Hall: The walls are painted a lifeless grey. There are cracks in the plaster and there are scuff marks and scratches along its length as if the inmates had struggled all the way when being taken to their rooms or padded cells, as well as cobwebs in the corners. They pass banks of gray filing cabinets. Storage: Meal shelving holds dozens of boxes and crates stuffed with papers, most of them white and shapeless with age and damp. Others have broken open and spilled yellowed sheaves of paper onto the stone floor. There are stacks of newspaper tied up with rope. Some boxes contain what look like medical journals or ledgers, and others contain invoices bound with rubber bands. Storage: Locked. Laundry: The enormous main room of the laundry smells of soap and bleach and steam. It is a damp place, hot and noisy. Industrial washing machines thump, buzz, slosh. Huge driers whir and rumble monotonously on the gray-and-red-marbled vinyl flooring that looks like day-old raw meat. A mild dizziness overcomes the PCs, inspired by the vileness of the pattern in the tile and by the fearsome glare. The clacking and hissing of automatic folding put one's teeth on edge. Female Ward A: A1-10: Dim, caged lights use to light this hallway, the kind of lights you get in prisons (and asylums of course), themselves incarcerated behind metal grilles to prevent human incarcerates from getting at the glass. There are narrow, shadowy doors on either side, low doors, the kind that, if you were just over normal height, you’d have to stoop to enter. They are shadowy because they are deep-set into the walls. From where the PCs stand, they can see that the first few are numbered. There are no sounds coming from any of the rooms they pass.

Female Ward B,B1-B10: Female Sick Ward, S 1-9: Matron: The matron’s office is narrow, with a single porthole window. The desk chair had fallen or been pushed over, and faded documents and files, in stacks upon the cluttered desktop, are collated with geometric rigor. Except for a faded, framed swatch of needlepoint—red letters on a blue background: HOME, the walls are all dourly unadorned. A jar of potpourri smells like mold. Women’s Restroom: Green metal toilet stalls are lined up on the left, chipped sinks and ageyellowed mirrors on the left, showers at the far end. Streaks of blood run down the mirror and across. As the PCs focus more, they see something is written, but it isn’t legible. They suddenly realize why it is...a message written backwards. But the handwriting is chaotic, like it is written in a rush by someone who was hurt...or worse. Looking to the left at the other mirror to get a glimpse of the writing in the reflection of the opposite mirror will suffice. Their blood runs cold as they read: Bring me my son— It is simple, but maybe that’s what makes it so powerful. Female Dorm 3: Female Dorm 5: There are gaps between the vertical boards on the windows, they can see light shining on the dusty floors. One wall is a white sink. On three sides of the room are metal hospital beds with mattresses. Female Seclusion: The entire ward is locked. Written across is the phrase: Dr. Haris has the key Storage: One can see that the battered shelving carries an inventory of heavy duty cleaning supplies—degreasers, floor waxes, window solvents, mop buckets, floor polishers, and a rug and carpet cleaner. Storage: This room contains used and broken electrical equipment and some broken devices are hung on the walls. Laundry: Yanking at the doors again. They don’t seem to be locked, only stuck, the wood swollen by the laundry room’s humidity. Male Ward A: A1-10: They come to a rough, but strong-looking door ahead. Maybe this will lead to a more sanitized area. One would expect so if they kept patients here. They go to the door and find a sturdy bar across it that fits into an equally sturdy slot mounted on the surrounding frame. Below this is a lock. The PCs pull back the bar, then use one of the keys they found in the director’s office upstairs. It turns stiffly at first, but soon yields under pressure. The door moans open. Male Ward B,B1-B10: Male Sick Ward, S 1-9: Hallway: Like the rest of the sanitarium, this ward is run down. There are scratches on the walls, some of which show rotting fingernails that are still embedded in the plaster. Somewhere down the hallway a rustic squeaking is audible as the wheel of an overturned wheelchair spins slowly, as though its occupant had abandoned it just moments ago. And next to it an IV stand whose bag of plasma has been ripped open and drained. Around a corner, the PCs stop: the hallway before them is full of terrifying figures,

The nurses line the hallways, though they take no notice of the visitors. They still wear their uniforms, though they are soiled beyond repair and the skirts are shorter, the tops tight. Sometimes they will twitch as they pass, the waxy flap of skin that obscures their faces pulsating in an inhuman manner. They twist themselves into impossible positions, their arms flailing desperately as if they were searching for something to keep them upright. The occasional noise escapes them; a small sigh or a quiet gasp. They move like broken dolls. Some wield scalpels, some just brandish rusted surgical instruments. But all are irresistibly attracted by the light from the flashlight. The Nurses move towards the PCs. Their gait is that of a broken automations. Infirmary: Men’s Restroom: Male Dorm 3: Male Dorm 5: Male Seclusion: Long ago, these rooms were reserved for the most disturbed patients. Stairway: The stairway is painted with flay gray wash that the years have laced with cracks and gouges. Dust seems to hang perpetually in the air, tickling one’s nose and stick in their throat. Something else eases their senses here—an odor of mildew or age that seems familiar, but which they are unable to give a name to. The first flight is easy, and the PCs can take it at a run, but the original Victorian section of the sanitarium had high ceilings and the ascent soon takes the breath out of them. They are panting by the time they reach the second floor. Second Floor: The second floor appears to be where those who are contagiously ill are kept. Many of the rooms were used to care for either specific diseases, such as Tuberculosis or Polio, or were used as a means to keep contagious patients separate from the general population, depending on the severity of the contagion. As with the first floor, the second floor is divided in half, with the west wing housing the male population, while the east wing houses the female population. Lobby: Girders and struts stand in a ring in the center of the lobby, a monstrous scaffold rising to the roof. Pylons and trusses rise on all sides like the bars of a cage. Director’s Office: The office had been ransacked, all the books that were on the shelves had been thrown down on the floor, as were the folders and papers that were in a file cabinet. The desk's drawers were open, and all sorts of papers were scattered throughout. A plate on the door reads: "Dr. Edgar Mitchum – director" T.B. Ward: The ward is the same size and décor as the others but differs by having in it several seven-foot-long, horizontal cylinders mounted on wheels. They stand about waist height; The huge, rusted oxygen tanks and the dolly cradling them seem to weigh a ton. Such monstrously sized tanks seem to fit in which the overall antique atmosphere of the place. The rest of the room is filled with full-sized tanks of various gases, chained together in upright positions and secured to steel posts embedded in the linoleum floor. A gray, rust-spotted metal dolly for transporting individual tanks stand next to a busted cabinet and two, green, high-back chairs, one of which has a leg broken.

The PCs walk through the dark ward and approach the old-fashioned ventilator. It had appeared light gray, but they get closer they can tell it is yellow. Along its sides are small, round, glass viewports. The end facing out into the ward is hinged and contains a central, black rubber collar to fit around a patient's head to make a seal. Just above the collar is a small mirror oriented at a forty-five-degree angle. Below the collar is a platform for the patient's head. There is a constant eerie breathing sound. Dt: Records Room: Along one wall sits a film projector and screen. The PCs play their light towards them; beyond lies rows of shelving housing numberless black film reels. The acidic smell is stronger in this room than it had been out in the main hallway. They move slowly, their flashlights playing upon equipment, pipes, desk, scattered remnants of paperwork that has been spilled onto the floor amid demolished office furniture and machines. Something has happened here and the dim light emanated by the flashlights isn't bringing out the mystery. Administration: Library: It is a huge, old library, with titles on the floor and wooden carvings on the doors. It is a dark, musty place with large bound volumes of patient reports that date back to the 18th century. In the center of the room is a large oak table with six chairs. Office: SD: Staff Lounge: Storage: The rotted remains of shelving line the walls of this small room. Some of the shelves haven fallen atop others, crushing whatever items were displayed on them in their wake. Hallway: As it happens there is no shortage of signs: a new one appears every time they turn a corner, and they turn many of them. Following their prompting, they cover a lot of ground. Female Nurse Rooms, F1-F8: Here is where the nursing staff, few and far between once stood ready to receive the questions, compliments and complaints of the visitors, or hastened about, dutifully providing bedpans for the relief of the patients and water-filled vases for the garlands of flowers. Female Actue Ward: They pass two large wards on their way to hydrotherapy, and all of them are locked. Female Infect Ward: Female Therapy Room 1: Female Hydrotherapy: The air of this room is thick with unpleasant moisture, smelling faintly sweaty. Steam curls to brush the ceiling in delicate licks, its ascent stippling the tiles of the walls with moisture. The only sound is that of water lapping. The bathtubs are huge, the enamel stained deep brown beneath old upright taps, their clawed feet squat, as if covered under the great weight. One tub is filled with scalding hot water that causes 1D4 damage to those rash enough to touch it with bare flesh. ECT:

Female Treatment: They stand at the threshold of the treatment room. Bleak fluorescent light. White walls. White sink. White ceramic tile. The walls are of drywall construction, not plaster; a white pebbly surface, white, freshly painted. The sink stands in the middle of third wall; above the sink, the mirror fills in from the backsplash to the ceiling; misted opaque. On both sides of the sink and the mirror, the walls are perfectly even in texture, unmarked, normal. To one side is a wooden desk with a dark green blotter. This is a two-bed unit. ICU 2: Prep Room 2: The prep room is especially stark, with a rusted steel table, a porcelain sink, and one ancient glass cabinet full of instruments. Operating Room 3: The operating theater is a large room of the standard white-tiled variety. The walls, floor and ceiling of this room are covered with clean, white tile, while a skylight and halfdozen large lights assure that it will always be brightly illuminated. There are many chips and missing tiles along with a stained ceiling. On the whole, though, it possesses the useful bits of machinery common to operating theaters. At the center of the room is a long, metal table with leather restraints. Glass cases line all the walls, some of which hold clean, crisply folded linen. Others are stocked with gleaming arrays of medical instruments, while a single cabinet near the door is filled with an assortment of glass vials and jars, each clearly containing some manner of drug or chemical. Whether the latter cabinet leaks or not is impossible to say from a casual examination, but the sharp, acrid odor that hangs in the air certainly makes you suspect that this is the case. Operating Room 4: Polio Ward: Storage: Long rows of pegs and a gallery of shelves flank either side of this spacious storage room. A thick dowel runs the length of one side, but whatever clothes were stored have been long since removed. Male Nurse Rooms, F1-F8: Male Actue Ward: Male Infect Ward: Male Therapy Room 1: Male Hydrotherapy: ECT: Male Therapy Room: The physical therapy room is well equipped with old exercise equipment circa 1950, a wooden rowing machine, barbell, a medicine ball, an exercise bicycle, a set of hand weights from two to twenty pounds, calibrated in two-pound increments, and exercise mats. It smells more like a hospital than like a gym. ICU 1: Prep Room 1: Operating Room 1: Operating Room 2:

Basement: They stand on a narrow staircase. The concrete stairs descend beyond the light's range, the walls made of cracked gray cinder block. The visitors go down, into a place that smells as damp and musty as a long-closed crypt. There has been a sound of movement over on the right. They come to the bottom of the stairs, darkness surrounds them. It is dusty and even more smelly down here, obviously the neglected part of the sanitarium. The basement of the Cedar Grove Sanitarium is every bit as dank, dark and musty as one can imagine. The basement was used primarily as storage space. Rooms are spread across the basement and are connected by a series of corridors to stairs that lead upward into the wards. In addition to storage, rooms designed to allow maintenance on the building's piping rest on both the east and west sides of the basement, while access to the boilers is made possible through the boiler room to the south. The basement is unfinished, with a pitted cement floor and a maze of low pipes hanging from the ceiling. Numbers are painted on the walls every hundred feet, to mark routes, and at intersections there are even signs with arrows to provide better directions. There is total darkness. Without the flashlight, even a sane man, in feeling his way along the cobwebbed corridors in an effort to get out, would, in short order, be driven to madness. At the bottom of the stairway, they find a passageway whose walls are of crumbly brickwork and where cobwebs drape from cracks and rafters. The concrete floor is damp, as though water freely flowed through on occasion. Here and there are clods of mud where dust has collected and congealed. In all probability there is an underground spring beneath when rainfall was particularly heavy. The PCs half expect a rat or two to scurry by; fortunately, that doesn’t happen, although they do hear scraping and scratching noises from behind the walls at certain points. Storage: There are doorless doorways on either side of the passageway, and when they poke their heads into one or two they see rooms filled with bric-a-brac — odd bits of furniture, several bags of cements, stacked pictures, some with frames, others without, as well as unidentifiable piece of machinery. A veritable basement junkyard. Storage: The smell is putrid: wet and decaying paper. They take a few steps forward, reaching out to both sides; arms brushing what feels like a stack of magazines or newspapers. Newspapers are everywhere, bundled and banded and boxes. Other cartons are marked records or Invoices or receipts. The smell is moldy. Some of the cartons are falling apart, spilling yellow flimsy sheets that might be decades old onto the floor. The Sanitarium's entire history might be here, buried in these rotting cartons, but the PCs don't have time to read it. Hallway: It is a relief when they finally come to the end of the passage, even though the next one is only a minor improvement. This is wider, paralleling the other one, but when they see it, it is almost as dingy as the one behind. A heavy, dull thrumming means there is a boiler room nearby. Boiler Room: The boiler stands on four cement blocks, a long and cylindrical metal tank, coppercovered and patched together. It stands beneath a tangle of pipes and ducts that zizag upward into the high, cobweb-festooned basement ceiling. To the right, two large heating pipes come through the wall. Storage Room:

AMBER INCIDENT REPORT Reporting Staff Member: Simons Incident Description: A male child entered into the sanitarium unchallenged and got through into female seclusion (doors were left unlocked). He entered Female Seclusion Room 5, at which point Orderly Michaels observed him and alerted me. The boy was the child of a visitor and was taken away by his father. Failures: The doors to Female Seclusion were left unlocked by the orderly, and the staff in the lobby failed to notice the boy when he arrived in the mezzanine area. Recommendation: All staff to be reminded of the importance of locking ward doors. Review of staff to be conducted by duty managers. West Pipe Room: Storage: They come across a door with a padlocked iron door. The vault? Is this where they keep hairlooms and treasures? But no, this is a rest home, not a family mansion. They can try any key on the ring, but none of them fit the lock. They move onwards, choosing one of the corridors that lead off, hurrying their steps now. East Pipe Room: A dented Warning sign stands to one side of the door. Down a concrete stair with rusted metal railing, and around a maze of sewer pipes leading from the obsolete old steam reciprocating engines and boilers. The steep steps are slick with moisture, and water seeps from between the stones of the walls. Pools of water have collected on the uneven stone floor. There is a trickle of greenish sewage water leaking from an exposed down into a vent. Darkness: Around them, the basement starts to change, and though the floor remains cold, plain concrete, the rest of the basement takes on the horrifying look of the otherworld. As if in some sort of twisted magical/chemical reaction, the walls start to become a sick, translucent, opaque green, and blood and pus and urine starts to flow down the walls. Part of these fluids dries and sticks to the walls that have become of plastic, and the remainder of them keep trickling down this plastic; which then starts to wrinkle, finishing the disgusting look of the walls. The basement stairs, which are made of wood, start changing. Small holes start to open in them, and the material starts to morph into rusted metal. The holes that open take on the symmetrical shapes of the holes in a chain link fence, and there it is now: the stairs have turned into metal, as does the ceiling, from which chains dressed in cobwebs start descending. Foyer: The room is octagonal in shape, with a high ceiling. The floor is nothing but a fleshcotted mesh-wire grille, nothingness extending out below it. Cobweb-covered chains coming from the walls are attached to each side of the floor, so the floor is hanging in the air, swinging softly from one side to the other. It takes the longest three seconds of their entire life to cross the span of the lobby and reach the opposite corner. The PCs turn around, not at all sure what they expect to see. There are two doors on the walls to the left and right and a set of double doors in the far wall. To call the two on the sides ‘doors’ is probably not very accurate. They are large, heavy slabs of water-rotten wood propped up in the doorways, but they aren’t doors, for there is no handle or knob on any of them, nor do any of them have hinges. Lobby:

Dining Hall: Day Room: Doctor’s Office: Cloak Room: Upon entering the room, the PCs find the closet much smaller than expected from outside. Those who stay inside for more than one minute see the walls closing in around them. The effect causes no harm and lasts only two melees. Patient Belongings: West Solarium: East Solarium: Storage: Storage: Laundry: The tall chamber is long and crammed full of cages, coops and sturdy wooden crates. Like supplies, many stood stacked in rows three or four high. Others sprawl in haphazard piles as if they'd been thrown together. On a metal shelf is a note, next to a box of shotgun ammunition, which reads Attending Officer's Report 11/4/1959. INo: VA4545-10. When I arrived at the House, the ambulance was already at the scene. The neighbor Mr. Bryant (who first called in the incident) had restrained Mrs. Grady and the paramedics were tending to the child. The husband, Mr. Grady had not yet arrived back from his place of work. Thanks to Bryant's intervention, the gas had been turned off and the house ventilated -- however, there was still a strong smell and I deemed it necessary to call the fire department as a precaution. It appeared that Mrs. Grady had attempted to gas herself and her child. When I spoke to the suspect, Mrs. Grady, she was uncooperative and seemed enraged. She demanded I release her so she could "kill the devil child." She was clearly not in control of her mind. Mr. Bryant commented that several times in the previous weeks, he had heard loud arguments and screams from the house. He said "Helen has not been well for a while." Female Ward A: A1-10: Female Ward B,B1-B10: Female Sick Ward, S 1-9: Matron: Women’s Restroom: The first thing noticed is the obvious change in the bathroom. Everything looks rusted and decayed—bloody and unsightly. They round the corner, and glancing towards the door. It seems so much farther away now. They also notice the last stall has had its door replaced by strands of barbed wire.

Female Dorm 3: There is a battered chest of drawers to one side, atop of which is a box of handgun ammunition. On three sides of the room is a bedframe, twisted and rusted; black leather straps falling to the floor. Female Dorm 5: Female Seclusion: Storage: Storage: Laundry: Male Ward A: A1-10: Male Ward B,B1-B10: Male Sick Ward, S 1-9: Infirmary: There is an ornate cabinet with five dolls in filthy finery screwed into its top, horrid ugly things attired in garments. All the faces have been mutilated or modified. The small figures each wear different expressions, different states of dress and undress, but they are all equally hideous. The PCs might be convinced that these dolls can actually see, or that awareness glimmers in their terrible eyes. Although none of them move—or even shift their gaze---they have an aura of life about them. Men’s Restroom: Male Dorm 3: Male Dorm 5: Male Seclusion: The first cell’s sink is encrusted with blood. There is nothing but blood splashed all over the walls It has pooled in the corners, and the walls and floor, and even the bed is splattered with it. It has even soaked into a roll of toilet paper. The stink is familiar by now. Atop the bed is scattered with razor blades. Strewn on the floor around the bed are clumps of crumpled toilet paper, as well as a crushed foam cup, some dirty latex exam globes, and a couple of capsules of unknown medication. The second door will not open. The outside is scorched black and it looks warped by intense heat. The third cell has a dressmaker’s dummy standing in a corner. Foil stars glitter from the stained wherever the beam of the flashlight touches. Before them are locked glass display cases: one of them is full of wigs on faceless mannequin heads; the next holds bottle of perfume used as props; in the next case there are shelves of paste jewelry, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. The fifth cell has dirty dishes in piles all over the bed. Second Floor: Lobby: A square construction rusted mesh arises from a circular pit in the center of the floor. Director’s Office:

T.B. Ward: Dt: Records Room: This file room holds all the sanitarium records, including patients’ records, deeds, and so on. There are twenty boxes of files of case files, a table and two chairs. Administration: The Library: The door looks to be made with aluminum sheets, dented and with a long bloodstain that stretches downward from a bigger stain in the shape of a human hand, as if somebody had been killed violently and had tried to cling on to the door, but had slid down it. They open the door and see a huge mess of bookcases and scattered books, all damaged with moisture and blood. All of these things are piled up on a corner and a big library table is turned over diagonally, leaning on the pile. The library's windows are barred, and the bars rusted. If the flashlight is placed just right, one can still see the rain pouring down hard outside, in the moonless black of this endless night. Above, hanging from the ceiling there is an enormous fan, spinning ever so slowly, as if its mechanism is rusted and in dire need of oil; tiny strands of mold hang from its bloody blades. Carefully positioned at the very center of the room is a long library desk. Placed exactly at the center of it is an open book. They walk towards the table and stand there, looking at the book. The sound of the wind and the rain outside is loud, and the raindrops blown in through the windows without glass, and the water falls to the floor and through the holes in it. It looks like some sort of medical dictionary. It is completely covered in blood, save for one small section of it; the odd thing is that there are only two lines in the entire page written right at the center of it. Basement: The floors and walls are disgusting, covered in foul ichor. Just standing in this room should make the PCs feel ill and their shoes squish the detritus beneath their feet. The left way is blocked by a security gate composed of heavy metal bars. Despite being completely covered in rust, the bars are as solid as the concrete walls around it. Storage: Along one wall of the foyer stands a great mirror with a golden frame. East Pipe Room: The walls are lined by twisted metal tubes, through which unspeakable substances course, and they look like veins, distended and ill; throbbing as though the liquid inside them is being pumped through by a black and putrid heart through which not blood but filth would run. Boiler Room: Steadying yourself with one hand against the jamb, you pause in the doorway to the huge mechanical room. You grimace at the ruined but still hulking boilers and the other machines that are revealed as yellow curves and planes among way too many shrouds of shadow. Pipes run across every surface, while much of the floor is mix of metal plates and grills, with gaps between them hinting at further levels below. Huge sections of machinery are visible through the dials and control panels coated in grime, rust and oil. Row after row and tier after tier of hulking old machines, any one of which would crush him if it tipped over, busted-out boilers, discarded tools with sharp edges, rotting machine platforms with splintery boards, loose ends of electrical conduits bristling with bare wires that might or might not carry enough live current to electrify one’s eyeballs in one’s own body fat, more rust than an acre of junkyard cars, mold and mildew, rat skeletons and therefore ancient powdered rat droppings, lots of bent nails, and

broken glass. In other circumstances, it would have been the intriguing place ever to explore. Other circumstances meant without monsters. The ancient boilers are choked with sediment and the steam lines sprout leaks with unpredictable capriciousness. Infirmary: A dozen metal bunks are anchored to the floor along the walls, each adjacent to a table with saws, sharp knives, and other instruments that could be used for either surgery or torture. The towels are stained with dried blood. The counters, strewn and knocked over the floor. More doctor’s tools, forceps, scalpels and other such equipment are on the floor. Female Patient Room 5: More than any other room in the sanitarium, this room is stiflingly close, as if it has not been opened in a hundred years. The heavy door groans on its hinges, stirring up clouds of dust and an odor. The stink that wafts through is of a different kind; it is of things gone bad, cream that has been curdled, meat that has molded. You wrinkle your nose. You shiver. You aren’t happy at all. The outside had been nasty, but this is foul. Her form, levitating near the ceiling, is disfigured; barely resembling a woman, in wrapped in cloth, much like a mummified corpse and wearing a transparent garment resembling a plastic dress smeared with blood, and appears to be restrained by a large, suspended, iron-cage apparatus. She is a dull, grayish green color and appears to be covered in grime. Her mouth is permanently held open wide as if she is screaming, and where her eyes should be are only deep empty sockets; a void the black of a moonless midnight. The sight of this eyeless woman fills them not merely with terror and revulsion but half crushed by an inexplicable sense of loss as heavy as the world itself. They point their guns up at her and fire. The PCs run to the other corner as they replace the spent magazine. It's not much, they note, but if they can keep this pattern up, they should be able to kill her. A foolish thought.

The Streets:
It drags itself on the ground. The PC feel a creeping sensation spread through their bodies as they watch it. It is moving its body with its hind legs. It is unnatural. It leaves a trail of thick gooey blood behind it as it follows them. It doesn’t seem to be able to move that well, so one might figure that it will die just trying to chase them with all the blood it is losing. They start to walk away, but keep their head pointed back to the cattle-like beast, to see what it will do. They are not at all surprised to see it turning slowly on its side to face them as they walk. They may allow themselves a slight laugh at how foolish the thing is, but the laugh is then strangled with a gasp of shock and renewed fear. The creature charges after them alarmingly fast. The creatures drags on with unearthly defiance. Shredding skin and flesh as it moves over the abrasive material of the street. The blood trail, in spatters and occasional puddles, suddenly veers to the left, towards a tiny alley that runs between the Lutheran Church and what appears to be a large apartment building. Cemetery (optional encounter): Passing the graveyard, one of the PCs feel an urge to go there and lie down on one of the graves. If the character goes there, they find a freshly dug grave and

a headstone matching his own name—for real. (This belongs to a recently deceased namesake. Pick the character with the most common sounding name).

Greenfield Apartments:
A black, iron, switchback fire escape descends to the alley in a zigzag path along the rear face of the building. It leads to an open doorway, from which comes a strange yellow glow, sour and sulfurous, almost more like the product of a gas flame than the luminescence of an incandescent electric bulb. At each landing on the fire escape, they pause to look down at the alley, and each time they expect to see strange, threatening creatures loping through the snow towards the foot of the iron steps. But each time, they see nothing. They enter the first apartment and go on through the dingy little kitchen area. The tiny kitchen is cramped and dreary but completely equipped, the green kitchen linoleum is cracked and discolored. Seeing nothing threatening they enter the living room. The living room is small; white drapes with orange spots, floral-pattern light tan burlap wallpaper and matching carpet, a green sofa and two matching armchairs facing a television set. An end table holds a phone. The illumination comes from a large floor light in the living room, bathing everything in a relaxing amber glow. . The bedroom measures ten by twenty feet and has large windows, yet it seems like a closet. They enter the room and keep the gun raised. Still nothing. The corpse of one of the straight-jackets lies on the bed, gutted. The bedcovers around the corpse is saturated with blood, but the battle hadn’t been confined to that small portion of the room. A trail of blood, weaving and erratic, leads from one end of the bedroom to the other, then back again; it is the route the straight-jacket had taken in a futile attempt to escape from and slough off its attacker. They push the door open and enter the hallway. When they are all in the alleyway, they turn right, away from the apartments, and run as fast as they can towards the cross street. Nothing follows them. Nothing comes out of the dark doorways they pass. 9Lutheran Church: It is not a grand house of worship, but a wooden structure with plain rather than stained-glass windows. It sits in its own verdant grove, an oasis of green amidst the buildings. The grounds comprise two acres, an eighth of which is occupied by the cemetery. The church itself stands, as it had for over a century and a half, on the long north side of the cemetery wall. The exterior is plaster, and still bears a coat of whitewash. It is not a grand house of worship, but a wooden structure with plain rather than stained-glass windows. It is also not a large church. The sanctuary, which might seat five hundred parishioners naturally takes up the greater part of the building. It is painted white with dark brown trim on the timbers and the

ornaments and hard wooden seats of the pews. The windows are white and translucent, with borders of colored glass around the edges. Pulpits stand on either side of the altar, all as old the church itself. Two pews are behind the righthand pulpit. Th ceiling is lower than that in most modern churches, and there is no balcony nor choir loft. A small wing adjacent to the sanctuary holds the pastor’s office, two Sunday school rooms, rest rooms, and robing rooms for the choir. The whiteness of its spartan and colonial interior makes it appear Bauchausian, and it is always present and fresh surprise for those used to dark, gothic arches, or the soft pastels of suburban churches. This lightness, however, is undercut by the presence of the cemetery, although adjoining cemeteries are quite common, indeed the norm, in churches of this area. But what people find more oppressive than the cemetery is that the small crematory that crouches at the cemetery’s western wall. The crematory's external design is similar to that of the church, through the whitewashing of the smaller building occurs far more frequently, since even the hint of soot is disquieting when one is aware's the building's purpose. Fortunately the system is arranged so that the smoke is recirculated through heat chambers, so that hardly any is visible coming from the chimney. The building is surprisingly small, but its needs to be no larger. Within is a tiny chapel capable of seating only twenty people, for crowds are never large are cremations.

Artaud Theatre: The theatre has seen better days. The water-stained brickwork looks tired
and faded. Several windows on the second floor have been boarded over, and the others are dark. When they try the door, it swings inward. They step into the lobby. Lobby: The interior contains a finely appointed lobby. Sconces once spread radiant amber fans on the walls, but now the lights are dim and shadows dominate. Taking out their flashlight(s), they head across the lobby in the general direction of the theater. Auditorium: The vast auditorium is darkened, except for those on stage. The aisle sweeps down towards the stage. Row upon row of seats surrounds them like a herd of round-shouldered creatures huddled in deep shadows. The entire theater seems to be enclosing them like an immense vault, a dark hollow tomb. You know there is something here with you. Acid boils in your stomach, your throat caked with chalk. There are seats for approximately 500 guests inside. While it is not opulent, neither is it colorless and drab. Its gold-stitched curtains and padded seats dispel any aura of dinginess. However, there is something in the air of the theater that lends an ambience reminiscent of decay and rot. There is no one discernible factor that creates this atmosphere. Hallway: Here, stretching away is a hallway that apparently runs the length of the building. Storage: They step into the room. And see, sitting in a dusty chair, a dead man. It gives them a bit of fright when they see it. Then you see that the figure in the chair is not a man at all. Nor is it dead. It had never been alive. It is puppet, resting against the wall at a slight angle. The room is the electrical closet, where was stored the extra lighting equipment. Stage: Totem poles extend from either side of the stage, majestic, crude, and yet beautiful, the gnarled faces peer straight ahead or glare down at whatever puny mortals dare to enter the theater.

Curtain Control: The panel with all the buttons and toggles that control the stage, the curtain and the scenery which would rise out of the boards or descend from the ceiling on wires has been here a long time. The PC’s finger the topmost row of toggles. They flip the switches with quick fingers. The footlights pop on all across the stage, the dullest of the white set, barely casting any illumination. Hallway: There is chest of drawers, on which are old theater programs. Hallway: Director's Office: Men's Dressing Room: A windowless dressing room. Its walls are plain cinderblock. There are benches, lockers, and two long steel rods festooned with coat-hangers. Women’s Dressing Room: Another left turn and they pass a door marked Dressing Room. Front Lobby: West Balcony Corridor: Balcony Corridor: One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skill: twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps, leafless trees with coaly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet, a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and lacetrimmed bed sheet. Second Floor East Corridor: East Stairway: Ahead and to the right a staircase begins its ascent, pauses at a landing and doubles back on itself, then rises higher to the second floor. At the landing, picture frames are stacked next to windows of stained-glass. East Balcony Corridor: The PCs freeze in panic as they realize they are caught between the two straight-jackets. But instead of spraying, the left straight-jacket begins to shuffle forward. They notice a padded display case in the middle of the carpeted floor. I am child torn by twin desires, I stand before a door, My right hand calls to the light, My left hand ushers in darkness. Third Floor Corridor: Costume Storage: Orchestra Storage: South Catwalk:

Stage: The ceiling is more than 50’ high; if it is illuminated, the PCs see the exposed machine— an intricate conglomeration of bronze and iron gears, wheels, rods, and pulleys Darkness: Lobby: They continue down the staircase, descending to the once-elegant lobby. The doors leading to the street are all locked and covered with metal grating, while those that access the auditorium are closed over. East Stairway: One gargantuan oak’s twisted branches have grown through the windows, like tentacles Virtually all of the glass is gone from the tall stained-glass panels, but the steel mullions remain. Much of the lead came that defined the original patterns remains between the mullons, though in many place it is bent and twisted and drooping tortured by weather or by the hands of vandals, rendering the outlines of the original religious symbols and figures unrecognizable, and in their place leaving teratogenic forms as meaningless as the shapes of melted candles. Upstairs: The floor is covered with roots, vines, and vegetation that hampers their every movement. Some of the vines cling to the walls, which are covered with a thin layer of green and yellow lichen. When they first notice it, the moss only flourished in widely scattered patches. But the farther they walk the larger those patches become and the closer they are to one another-until the stuff finally sheathes every inch of the inside walls. The hallway is spongy, damp and blue-green, and it shimmers prettily in the flashlight. Once it has claimed all the wall surface, it stops growing laterally and begisn to thrust tendrils into the air space; as thick and often as long as a young girl's hair. It is cold to the touch, unnaturally cold for plant life. In places it thrives so well that the PCs are forced to squeeze through a narrowed tunnel, sometimes on their hands and knees, the wet moss dragging over them like the hands of a corpse. Close examination of the hair-thin filaments show that they are in a constant sate of agitation. They twist through one another, abrade one another, braid one another...They slither like snakes, writhe, wrap together and pulse as if fornicating, extricating themselves only to form new entanglements. The moss appears to have the life energy and some of the mobility of an animal, as if some crude intelligence were at the core of it. Forest Scene: The next sight utterly astounds them. They are standing in what appears to be a forest. Gory barbed wire can be seen wrapped around some of the trees, or stretched between one tree and the other. Rusted metal bars stick out of the ground and are twisted around some of the trees. Library Scene: The smell of moldering parchment, old leather as well as a heavy mustiness, fills the large room, giving it an ancient, scholarly odor, which is distinct and somehow unpleasant. They now in the depths of an immense library. A maze of dilapidated bookshelves confronts the PCs. The air in the library is utterly still, heavy with the dust of ages. The walls of this dark room soar upward and are filled with literally thousands of books, scrolls and tablets and the musty odor of ancient tomes, inks and crumbling papers. Many of the books are supported by strange bookends. Most of the shelves are tilted forward or back, left or right, threatening to topple from the weight of their burden. Some of the wooden shelves, however,

have succumbed under the weight of time and crumbled. The many volumes held by these rotted and broken shelves have fallen on top of others to the dusty stone floor below. Hundreds of yellowed volumes, ancient, curling parchment, and unsealed scrolls are scattered upon the floor or piled upon one another in the remaining bookshelves. Books cover the dusty floor of the place, some lying open, their spines bent and broke; others are piled neatly, one atop another, in a corner or against the wall. The PCs kick through the books on the floor, traversing the maze of shelves to the back of the silent library. As they walk along the narrow aisles, they scan the titles of the books all around them, but the letters remain blurry and refuse to come into focus, as if their eyes rebel of their own volition. The contents of the books are written in Latin, and are decorated with alchemical annotations and cryptic diagrams. Reading desks and heavy wooden tables are arrayed haphazardly about the room, piled with open books and ancient, musty scrolls. In the center of the room, a trio of mahogany tables, partnered with high-backed leather chairs are scattered throughout the room. Two of the tables are set with inkwells, stacks of paper, quill pens and charcoal pencils---all perfectly ordinary items for a library. The third table holds something equally appropriate for a library, a massive tome fully three feet long and more than a foot thick. It is covered with gleaming black leather, free of dust, and is sealed with an ornate golden clasp. Strangest of all is the shimmering blue aura surrounding the tome. Every know and then the aura sparks and glimmers with fragments of light, all glinting off the silvered shard of glass lying atop the book. Chapter 2: Repression & Coercion. It is a fact well known to intelligence services and military agents: the more controlled a mind, the more a mind censors itself, the easier it is for outside influences to take hold and piggyback such mental programming. This is why these agencies choose for their pawns those individuals most compromised by their own mental issues. Those young men who go to war with no well-formed moral beliefs are clay in the hands of manipulative superiors, capable of being induced to commit any atrocities without questioning their orders. Caliban Cave: Suddenly it starts heaving itself up, and the huge bulk just keeps getting bigger. The thing is the height of an elephant and about as big as a pickup truck. The Streets: 01-10% There is a movement in the mist, a dark bulky something that the PCs at first think that it is a building itself given life. Then it strides forward out of the fog on two huge legs. 11-20% More silence, more time, and the voice raises again, no less frail than before, so ephemeral that one cannot tell if it is a man or woman. Indeed, it might have been the mournful cry of a bird or an animal, repeated three times again, with a damped quality similar to that provided by a filter of fog.

Public Records Office: A white tiled room. The off-white walls are bare, unadorned by even a single painting. Something moves, back beyond the room in which they stand. There is a quick rustling sound of papers being disturbed…then silence. Papers are everywhere—stationery, forms, small sheets from a note pad, bulletins, a newspaper —all rustling and skipping this way and that, floating up, diving down, bunching together and slithering along the floor with a snakelike hiss. More cabinets stand in rows down the center of the room, and to one side is a scarred worktable with three hardwood chairs. The cabinets are all labeled. The section to the right contains birth certificates and death certificates. On the left is health department records, as well as bar and restaurant licenses. Against the far wall are carbons of the draft-board records, then the minutes and budgets of the city council going back thirty years. Depending on the contents, each drawer is primarily organized either alphabetically or by date. The room contains only an inexpensive desk, a typist’s chair, an electric typewriter, a jar bristling with pens and pencils, a deep letter tray that now contains nearly two hundred manuscript pages, a telephone. The PCs exit the Office, the silence of the street and its rolling mists and snowflakes envelope them. Green Pharmacy: Taco Shack: Simmons Street: Wilson Street:

Andy’s Books:
General Store: There is a general store advertising dry goods, groceries, and hardware. The shelves of merchandise follow the rectangular shape of the store; therefore, the aisles are long, and the displays prevent them from seeing the front windows. This end aisle is short, leading directly to the front of the store, which in total offers only three long aisles formed by two islands of tall shelves.

Riverside Hotel:
Reception: It is a small square lobby with brown linoleum on the floor and three plastic-covered occasional chairs, a blond coffee table and an artificial palm tree. In the far corner is a small hotel desk, with the key rack behind, and next to it is a mounted deer head. Its glass eyes stare back at them in silent resignation.

For curiosity they can rang the bell. It doesn’t seem to have an echo. It is a little unsettling. There is a rack of picture postcards at the reception desk, most of them dull, deckled-edged black and white images of the lake. It is a landscape that remains stuck in a photographer mind no matter where he goes. Something about the raw depth of the both the water and the sorrow it carries with it burns in into mind almost to the point where he can't take a photograph of a different lake from the weight this one has for him. Manager’s Office: On the wall is a faithfully ticking wall clock. Two of the walls are occupied by massive wooden filing cabinets. Another has several stuffed and mounted animal heads. 201: The wall nearest the door is lined with eight rusting animal cages, stacked on top of each other or hanging from the ceiling.. 308: The large creature, which seems shapeless at first but then became sort of describable as it steps out from the closet. The first thing they think of as it comes out is a horse, because its body definitely resembles one; then, of a centaur as there is a human body rising from the back; but this thing is too deformed to be considered as such a mythological creature. It has not a horse’s thick hair, instead it seems to be completely covered in human skin. It’s not a horse at all, but two humans. At least parts are human. The heads, bald and mottled roll around on their necks as if the thing or thing are sem-conscious. It looks to be two bodies or parts of bodies fused into one. The PCs draw their weapons as the creature steps completely out of the closet. (How did that huge thing fit in there?) Now that the monster is completely out and exposed, the back legs can seen. They come from something attached to the first part’s abdomen. It looks like a human body, bent backwards, its pelvis buried or melted into the portion just below the place where the ribs come together. The rest of the body is also melted into the abdomen. 306: The room consists of a double bed, a battered greasy dresser and chair, rusty washstand and drawn blinds. On the bedside table is a phone and purple-shaded lamp. 505: There is no blood here, but the walls and floor are pasted with photographs and sketches, arranged without order or reason, just slapped on chaotically. There are also reams and reams of paper taped to the walls and covering every surface. Each page is an endless snarl of words, sometimes twisting into meaning, sometimes into nothing at all, frequently breaking apart, always branching off into other pieces the PCs will find later---on old napkins, the tattered edges of an envelope, once even on the back of a postage stamp; everything and anything but empty; each fragment completely covered with the creep of years and years of ink pronouncements; layered, crossed out, amended; handwritten, typed, legible, illegible; impenetrable, lucid; torn, stained, scotch taped; some bits crisp and clean, others faded, burnt, or folded and refolded so many times the creases have obliterated whole passages. 500: The flashlight illuminates Polaroids strewn about the walls and the ceiling. Closer inspection reveals that these Polaroids are black-and-white pictures depicting men wearing coned hats skewering prisoners with long spears. Also taped to the walls is a cavalcade of articles, memos, and scratched up paper, one of which reads: "...ruthless executions were held without the decision of court during a sinister period of U.S. history called The Reconstruction. Prisoners were given the option of being hanged or skewered with a sharp iron pole. So many skewerings

were held in Silent Hill town-square that the neighboring river eventually became enveloped entirely in blood." Hanging on a wooden rack is a bloodstained butcher's apron, five incredibly huge butcher knives, a suspiciously stained ax and hatchet. A framed painting of a medieval beheading is hung upon the wall. The painting possesses a quality of tainted eroticism, the fanciful and unnerving impression of a piece of ancient history leaked into the present. It gleams darkly from its alcove, insinuating the permanence of lust and wickedness and the mortal fascination with such corruption. Beside the bed is half a dozen books. Each volume is a heavily illustrated, privately printed collection of pornography; the main subject is sadism, and the beautiful women in the pictures appear to be suffering in earnest; handcuffs, chains, some gagged, some blindfolded, the blood looks real. 106: Another hotel, identical to the others. A kitchen knife is on the bed. 108: The walls are wallpapered in purple with delicate patterns. The only color in the room is provided by a full-size Confederate flag stapled to the wall: the red field, dark X, and white stars of the flag. They see the gun is nestled in the groove of a green-padded box expensively lined in velvet, the half-dozen bullets beside it. It is a 44 Magnum—a hand cannon capable of blowing a hole through just about anything. Laundry: The flavor is distinctly supernatural, the texture otherworldly, and the laundry detergent smells like burning incense, and the cloying air seems thick with unseen presences. There are several contemporary washing machines and an ironing board with folded laundry on it. Outside, they find a trash area, with a green dumpster under an aluminum roof. Kitchen: The darkness is complete, but the PCs can still see. They are in a kitchen large enough to serve a small restaurant. It has a stone ceiling, Mexican-tile floor with brown grouting and restaurant-quality equipment such as two large freezers, two double-sinks, an island cooking surface hung with iron pans, a built-in appliance centers yard-square grille, two standard ovens, microwave, and array of a dozen other labor-saving appliances, tools, machines, and gadgets. He is clad in a white tee and butcher’s apron, with part of an odd, bell-shaped helmet attached to one side of his face. The side that isn’t covered looks horrible, with the lips gone to expose teeth and the eyeball glossed over with a milky white color. Before the PCs can react, the Butcher swipes the two-back with its large blade, slashing a wide, hard arc across its body. To their utter surprise, a spray of blood erupts from the fleshy body. The table in the middle of the battle room leaves little room to maneuver, but makes it easier to run away from him. Despite the fact that the PCs can run faster than The Butcher, the monster is still quicker than most creatures, and can close distance on them surprisingly quick if they aren’t careful. Further examination reveals the kitchen is filled with moldering corpses hanging from beams, large chunks of meat cut from them and simmering. Diner: The diner, with its big window and neon sign, is at the western end of the complex, detached from the motel, faces the pool area.

Games Room: It is filed with pinball machines and electronic games. There are no lights on, save for the creepy blinking of a pinball machine. Maintenance Room: The door opens with a small creak and they are greeted with the smell of bleach. The maintenance room stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the hotel. The walls are a harsh concrete color and the floor is stone. In one corner sits what looks like a water heater and a series of pipes traveling up and down the ceiling. There is a fuse box on the far wall and three lockers next to it. Assorted mops and brooms lay in the corner on their right. Storage Room: The storage, illuminated by a single bare bulb dangling on a brown plastic cord from a crossbeam, is filthy and musty, a badly cluttered repository of old and poorly maintained maintenance equipment plus a lot of things that is just common refuse: rusting buckets; tattered brooms; ragged, moth-eaten mops; a broken outdoor vacuum cleaner; several motel-room chairs with broken legs or torn upholstery, which the previous owners had intended to repair and put back into service; scraps of lumber; coils of wire and coiled hoses; a bathroom sink; spare brass sprinkler heads spilling from an overturned cardboard box; one cotton gardening glove lying palm up like a severed hand; cans of paint and lacquer, their contents almost surely thickened and dried beyond usefulness. This trash is piled along the walls, scattered over portions of the floor, and stacked precariously to the ceiling. Maintenance Corridor: Looking at the map, it is noticed that the Riverside is typical of those long and narrow two-story motels where the rooms on side face outward and the rooms on the other face the heart-sharped swimming pool. The rooms facing outward, however, do not directly abut the rooms facing the pool. This interior maintenance corridor runs through the middle of the building, built for use by housekeepers and other hotel employees. That doesn’t seem important, unless one realizes that the walls in the corridor are a paper-thin sheet of plaster-board, and a hole has been poked into the walls between each of the rooms, perhaps to satisfy an employee’s perverse curiosity. The guests of the hotel staying in those rooms would be completely unaware of this. The incredibly tacky brown, orange, and yellow floral-print wallpaper would make it impossible to detect any holes in the wall that separates the room from the maintenance corridor. Maintenance Room: The door is marked MAINTENANCE. It looks like it hadn’t been quite closed—like the doorframe is slightly crooked and it had stuck with the door just slightly ajar. One has to look close to see it is open. Here lays a maze of copper and PVC pipes, electrical conduits, duct work, and equipment related to heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. There is also an old vacuum cleaner with price tag still on it, and bottles of cleaning fluid, all of them full, and a push broom. The PCs might consider seizing the broom, judging that stiff bristle jammed in the eyes would be as effective as any thrust they might make with a knife, which in any case is not as near at hand as this more domestic weapon and would require a closer engagement with the denizens than they might relish. 500: Calendar: 501: Photographs are scattered everywhere; sheet film, rolls of negatives, transparencies. 500: It had once been blocked by yellow hazard tape, but that has long since torn away and only a few scraps are left around the opening. To the right a desperately overgrown lawn sweeps up to bushes and small trees planted along the front of the hotel. The second story has fourteen rooms with glossy green doors.

312: The restroom’s curtains are still there. 316: Wedding dress, sagging cake, tuxedo. Bottles of champagne. The suite may once have attractive, but it is long past its prime. Strips of peeling wallpaper dripped from a stained ceiling, and the furniture is faded and timeworn. A musty odor hangs in the air. Cleopatra Room: Beside right wall is rack of magazines and paperback books. A sign above the shelf reads: TONIGHT, WHY NOT READ YOURSELF TO SLEEP? Darkness: The PCs watch, as if hallucinating, as something seeps out of the mirror and starts leaking along the wall like black water, filling the room. The darkness! As it oozes over things they become distorted and corroded. Everything in the bathroom turns into the rusty metal hell briefly seem in the mirror! And on the other side of the mirror they now see the world as it was...they have crossed over to the other side — or the other side has crossed over to them! Through the mesh-covered window they can see the playing fields; the goal posts have moved and are lined up beside each other, forming a long, continuous gibbet. Three bodies hang there, hanging grotesquely, their heads lolling to one side. 306: If they peer through the narrow spaces between the bars of the grille, they see the cast-iron bases of what appear to be huge machine housings. Dinner: Coming into the intersection, the PCs stop short before a display of horrid objects. Beside a massive gibbet are flaying stocks stained with blood. Poles hold aloft a pair of impaled men. From a derrick swings a small cage; inside crouches a naked, fire-blackened corpse, barely recognizable as a man. Stuck in his chest is what looks to be a knife or dagger. The dagger from the dead man is an intricate silver ceremonial item. Its blade is serrated, it has no guard, its handle is covered with supple black leather, and a large ruby completes the pommel of the weapon. 500: The corridor is cold and dark, and there are disturbing, undefined smells in it. There are brown stains, in places: big splashes of dried blood. Wires hang from gaps in the ceiling; the occasional pipe. In the narrow beams of light the dangling wires look like filaments of living tissue. And the darkness itself seems to squirm, hinting at shapes just beyond classification. The odor of death blasts into the room with the thing, and the PC’s stomachs heave. The smell of death is subtle yet cloying, elusive but all around. It is fresh, unlike the heavy, pungent odor of stale corpses. You peer into the gloom and see the bloated face above the grotesquely stretched neck, the ridiculously small loop of plastic flex, no more than three inches in diameter, biting into his flesh as though someone had tugged at his legs to pull it tight. It is now nauseating, leechlike creature with a horrendous, sucking mouth! To either side hang the mutilated torso of a man. The mouth is a large, wet gray suction cup, like the underside of a leech.

The Streets: Nothing is here in Central Silent Hill that is left to investigate. The police station
was useless, the lines were down. There is no communication with the outside world. Silent Hill is completely cut off from any form of reality or sanity. What the hell happened to this town? It has tricks, this town: ways to lead visitors round and round in circles, so that they burn up all their energy coming back to the place they started from. It puts colors before your eyes that are so bewitching that you end up turning round and round on the spot to catch them. And sometimes it goes into your head and finds the voices there that are most comforting, then makes them call to you.

Central Silent Hill in Darkness:
The street is now made from chain links as if they were over a void that goes on forever. Vehicles are dark and shining, and are more like massive instruments of torture, barbed and sickled. Lampposts have become rusted metal windmills that have torn through jagged gaps in the grating that makes up the ground, overcasting all, as if some kind of titanic machinery that is "eating" the whole town. The buildings are either burnt, by what looks like hellfire and they are all made of red-colored metal as if bloodstained, or at least dark and decaying. Plants hang limply or exist as nothing more than brittle brown twigs. Every tree has been replaced by a mass of twisted iron with rust coating it. The benches have been replaced by hulking ruins that might have once been cars. At the far end of the road a massive edifice rears up, like an ancient factory or a prison. It might be a mental institution or a temple to a dark god. Its severe outline speaks of despair. Whatever this world is, it seems like an industrial wasteland, like an image of a none too pleasant future. There are a few trashbins lying around, what is disturbing about them is not that they are diminished to nothing more than decay and rust like everything else in this awful world, but that they are perfect. Looking clean and new. It is a bizarre contrast between this decaying world around them and the pristine quality of these things. Suddenly a strange rhythmic whump...whump...whump...strikes up. It is the sound of a wide flat object cutting the air. Whump. Like a blade. Whump. A large blade. Sharp. Cutting the air. Enormous. Whump. Though the darkness comes a blade spinning. It is flying at them. Then it flies up into the sky. It is a huge windmill. The building they were running beside has disappeared. What the hell is going on?!”

A windmill. You are staring at it, but you don’t stop to figure it out. You instead start running faster. The sound of those blades beating the air is rattling around in your ears. This is crazy. It just couldn’t be true. What is with this place? The blades of the windmill swing past, trailing rusted edges of its sides. Creaking and thudding. The windmill is just one of many. Rusted, skeletal structures, like oil derricks. It is even worse than you remembered. A night dark as despair, silent as the grave. Everywhere you look, there are buildings fallen into rubble and ruin, whole areas burned down or stamped flat. As though a mighty fire storm has passed through Central Silent Hill, leveling and charring everything it touched. The end of the world, the end of life, the end of hope. It is muggy, warm. All around are derelict and stained ruins where once had been proud, buildings. Shattered brickwork, hanging chainlink, cracked and broken stone stained from the smoke of old fires, windows covered in barbed wire and empty doorways like gaping mouths or wounds. Street Encounters: 01-10% And yet you aren't alone. You can hear something, vague sounds off in the distance. Something large, crashing through an empty street. The air is still, lifeless. The sounds grow louder as they draw closer. Until finally they come to the edge of an intersection, they see it. It lurches across the open square, its weight cracking the ground with every step, huge and bulging like a living cancer growth, all red-purple striations, with rows of swollen eyes and mouths dripping pus. It stalks unsteadily forward on tall stilt legs that might once have been legbones, once upon a time. It stops abruptly as something else enters the square from the other side. The two monster howl and squall at each other, terrible sounds, like two great beasts disputing territory. The hideous racket calls others. They burst out of side streets and the shells of broken buildings, huge monstrosities that could never have survived and prospered in a sane and rational world. All their movements are sudden, erratic, disturbing. Their raised cries are awful, actually painful to the human ear. They strike at each other, or at nothing, or charged each other head-on, like rutting stags. They do not move or act like sane things. One only has to watch them to know that their minds have gone bad, their spirits broken by this terrible place, this end of all things. They look as though they are sick inside, everything gone to rot and corruption, dying by inches. 11-20% It has the same anatomical features, body frame, and the shape of its head is vaguely similar as well. But this is not a dog. Its fur and skin is bloody and charred and writhing with maggots. It's as if it had been skinned alive and thrown in an oven. The whole sight is fantastically repulsive.

EAST SILENT HILL:: East Silent Hill’s commercial district is a ribbon of shops and
restaurants running north to south, gathered on the street that faces the riverside park and the Illiniwak beyond that. Beyond, the grand Victorian mansions look down on the squares, and to the north, lines of 1920's bungalows unroll along the streets to the edges of Paleville National Park. A handful of tiny corner groceries are scattered among the houses. East Silent Hill was the

most upscale part of the city, where the wealthy lived in their Victorian palaces, and the upper middle-class in their eighty-year-old bungalows. They cross Denyer Avenue, which runs north from Massey Street in front of the library.

Silent Hill Library: The library is much bigger than one would expect for a town as small as
ours, a handsome limestone structure. The library is as wide as the block of shops that face it across a square in which a dried-up fountain stands, its basin weedy with graffiti. THE CENTRAL LIBRARY OF THE CITY OF SILENT HILL is carved on the arch above the great double doors. An elegant pair of lampposts, each with six white globes, stand to either side in a narrow strip of land running along the front of the building; a waiting invitation. Holly bushes planted along the front have run riot and bulge out over the sidewalk, shoving one another aside and fighting for space. Their green bulk mostly hide the first floor windows, which are square. The second floor windows are tall and rectangular and those in a row along the third floor are tall and arched, and a wide and very tall window divides the building in half, rising from just above the arch over the door to just beneath the roofline. The copper mansard roof, pierced at intervals by dormers shielding round windows like beady eyes, have long ago turned green and the green has run in streaks down the gray marble walls. At each corner of the roof copper eagles spread their wings and above each arched window on the third floor marble faces peer from keystones, staring with carved eyes at nothing. The doors are sheathed in copper as green as the roof, studded with rosettes, panels inset into panels, with two pillars on either side, guarding it like sleeping sentinels. A plaque on the wall with golden writing decrees again the building as the Silent Hill library. Straight away the PCs notice the smell of musty old books and mildew, hitting their senses like a full speed train. It smells as if the place had been abandoned for a long time. To the left one sees an old wood checkout desk, swollen, warped, and splintered. A stack of books left behind has ballooned in size from constant moisture and have grown mossy. To the right is the check-in desk where patrons returned their books, and more books lay scattered there, all of them mossy, fat, and ruined. Three stories above, the odd snowflake makes its way into the library through holes punched in a great glass dome. What could possibly have broken the glass? The snowflake floats down, past the third and second floors, each ringed with columns and iron railings, and it melts on the floor, where the tiles, in red, brown, black, and cream, form a sunburst pattern with a thousand rays. Dark light permeates this great hall the visitors find themselves in. Attached to the ceiling, oldfashioned light fixtures sway to and fro, cobwebs cling to them while below row upon row of shelves cover the floor space.

The huge room is filled with books shelved in the walls and bookcases on both ends, these flank a few reading tables, a librarian’s desk in the middle of the room. Moss grows on the books. Most are green with mold. The shelves had once been made of oak or some other noble wood, but at some point they were replaced with steel bookcases painted a bland gray – rust has blossomed everywhere. Several of the floor tiles have cracked, and wherever a tile had shattered, water puddled. There are just over a quarter-million books in the library. The town had been proud of that fact, and advertised it in the brochures they printed up for the tourists. The vast majority had resided here at the main branch, while the other two branches had tended to only stock the most popular books. Past a bank of shelves is a study area with wooden tables and chairs in orderly rows, though a shelf to the right has toppled and now rests against one of the tables at an odd angle, its cargo of books molder on the floor. The light from the window and glass dome fades away this far back into the ranks of shelves, and the flashlight will need to be switched on. At the rear of the library, beyond the study area and beyond row upon row of shelves stands a long table with a line of ruined computers and twelve chairs on each side. The reference desk lies behind, in front of windows that show a view of rolling mist. In a central room on the first floor the card catalog is contained in three huge banks of long wooden drawers. The Library isn’t silent anymore. All kinds of strange muffled noises – children shrieking with laughter, demons grunting and snarling can be heard. The Illinois Room lies to the left, while the Toluca Room is to the right, both buried in their corners against the back wall of the building. Their doors are closed. The Illinois Room: A window in the Illinois Room has shattered, and had been broken long enough to allow vines and plants from outside to come in. The walls are wrapped in vines, and moss and a green algae coats every surface not hidden by leaves. An azalea bush has taken root in one corner where a shelf appears to have collapsed and spilled its books to the floor. Toluca Room: The Toluca Room looks much better. Through the glass set into the door, it looks dusty but untouched. Trying the knob shows that it turns easily. The Toluca Room is smaller than the Illinois Room, wide enough to accommodate one window to the right and two along the back wall. The PCs step inside and close the door behind them. It can’t be locked. Old wooden bookcases fronted with closed glass doors stand along the left wall, but just to their left is a counter with three microfiche machines and three chairs collecting dust. A waist-high bookshelf runs along the far wall under the windows and along the wall to the right. Dead houseplants in pots have mummified in front of every window, sitting atop the low shelves. A round table with four chairs fills the center of the room. A large laminated map of Silent Hill is tacked to the wall above the microfiche readers.

The PCs look at the map. The town forms an inverted “u” around a body of water called Toluca Lake. South Vale, Paleville, South Park, Old Silent Hill, Wrightwood, downtown, the Windowbox District, East Silent Hill. In the middle of the blue are the words ‘Toluca Lake'. The Historical Society and the boat loge are what they see next. The parks and cemeteries are marked in green. The largest is Jesperson Park downtown, Yorkshire Park along the lakefront in East Silent Hill and Midwich Park on the south side of Old Silent Hill, running along the west side of Bachman Road until Old Silent Hill gives way to South Park. Then comes Rosewater Park in South Vale and Settlers Park, bisected by I-55, holding at bay the tangled streets of Wrightwood, which looks like a dozen spider webs haphazardly strung together, from the tiny but orderly grid of Old Silent Hill. There is Silent Hill Wetlands Gardens sandwiched between downtown and the Windowbox District, spreading up from the Toluca riverside to the elbow where the grid of the Windowbox District meets the streets of the north side of downtown, which runs at forty-five degree angles. There are the orderly squares, nine of them, of East Silent Hill, where the Victorian mansions look down into green oases modeled on the famous squares of Savannah, Georgia. There are the narrow bands of green along every riverside, where the greenways run and can be reached by staircases leading down from every bridge in town. Jesperson Park bleeds into the Wetlands Gardens by way of a greenway. There is the Lakeside Amusement Park, a gigantic swath of green in the Paleville neighborhood. Lakeview Hotel is just down the road from the amusement park. There is Summerland Cemetery on the south side of downtown, and Springwood Cemetery, where members of Silent Hill’s Jewish community were laid to rest, on the north side of the Windowbox District, separated by only a few blocks from the national park. There is Swan Point Cemetery (formerly the Colored and Indigents Burial Ground) on the northern edge of Wrightwood, where the poorer people had lived. It is not located on a point and is not especially a haunt for swans, but it was separated from Paleville National Park by nothing more than the width of Shelley Road. Shapes flickers past the high windows, casting shadows down. There is a sigh from the shadows, echoing across the empty space in the center of the library. Something flits across an aisle. There is another noise from behind, and as they turn more shapes move, darting from shadow to shadow, shelf to shelf. The sighing comes again, rising and falling, echoing back and forth. They are surrounded in the middle of this room. In the labyrinth of shelves, monsters both human and not abide between the covers of so many books. Perhaps one beast prowls not in those paper worlds but in this one, breathing not ink fumes but air, waiting for someone to find it along one turning or another of these quiet aisles. Making cover in the shelves, the paper in the books rustle, shadows lurch crazily in the distance. The shuffling noises start again. They are coming from the next aisle along. Up ahead is a gap in the shelves. When the PCs enter the second floor reading room they are met, to their immediate right, by the book check-out desk where some shushing spinster in her late 40’s, wearing huge glasses, with a plastic bead chain hanging from them, might have sat. The room is illuminated by white light coming from the windows, located also to the right of the PCs, which illuminate the long row of

reading tables that stretch toward the far back of the large room. One of the windows next to the edge of one of the tables is open. Transition to Darkness: Everything immediately starts to rot and putrefy. Leather bindings snap and crack, paper blackens, wooden floorboards and shelves turn dry and powdery. Darkness: When consciousness is regained, the Library has been transformed into a dark version of what it used to look like. The blackness has invaded the library. It lurks in every aisle, between every shelf. In fact, it is so dark that one can’t see anything until they stand, pulling the flashlight out and switching it on. The first thing observed about their new surroundings are the lamps. The round modern lamps are gone – instead, small round, rusty cages hang from the ceiling, each containing a lump of flesh that looks a deformed fetus. Whatever is trapped in those cages, it is undesirable to examine them closely. Another room full of bookshelves. Words escape them as they realize they haven't gotten to the roof, but the third floor. The bookshelves are disarranged, dirty, bloody, with scarce books scattered in them here and there. Some bookshelves are leaning against others. Reading tables are also part of the mess; this looks like a war zone. There are bloody sheets thrown over the shelves and tables, and police tape drapes the roof. From the staircase they've just come from, dirty water starts to rise, and it quickly floods the whole room up to just above ankle height. The shelves are empty. Where there had been hundreds of books, CD’s, movies and games just before, there is now only dust and a few (luckily motionless) stains of blood. The walls and floor are filthy and all the windows had been boarded up.

Silent Hill High School: The mist is thick enough to blot out the red brick bulk of Silent
Hill High School rearing up across Ferris Street from the block that Berkowitz’s filled with its parking lot and store. The school fills the next block up as well. Though south of Massey Street, the blocks that front Pickton Street and the Illiniwak River are mostly very narrow, most of the blocks all along Ferris Street are as wide as two of the blocks along Pickton. The high school fills an entire large block, and from where the PCs stand, the old main building is to the right, and the gymnasium, library, and auditorium to the left, one behind the other. The PCs look to the left to see fog sighing softly over a handful of cars left behind in the lot. Four cars can be seen, scattered here and there, and a couple of dark shapes in the distance that might be more. Large trees line the edges, along Hilley Street to the left, Ramsey Avenue to the right, and Ferris Street at the far end of the lot, straight ahead. Between them and the trees in their planting squares alongside the street, the sidewalk is little more than a tunnel. In their growth, the trees’ roots have buckled the sidewalk and it rises and falls like frozen ripples. It is cold and slick, and water drips from the branches above as snowflakes melt there. Hilley Street runs between Pickton and Ferris for only that single block. Across Schaefer, the next street up from Hilley, is what had once been one of the large open squares that were the soul of East Silent Hill. At some point, it too had been claimed by the school, and was home to Silent Hill High School football field, soccer field, and baseball diamond. Silent Hill High School is a beautiful old castle of rust-red brick erected in 1925, and while it had

been repeatedly modernized, the school still retains some of the quirks expected of an older building. It stands four stories high, and is shaped like a long, fat letter I. A long, straight hallway runs from end to end on each floor of the school, with an entrance at each end. On the first floor, the hall ends at the door to the cafeteria and its kitchen, which lies ahead beyond the school offices. The elevator, north staircase, and north entrance to the school are located inside the cafeteria. Language classes fills half of the first floor, with offices and the school cafeteria occupying the remainder. Stairwells are located at either end of the building, and at the north side of the building is an elevator that was only to be used by teachers, and students who were not physically able to climb the stairs. The second floor is home to science, math, history, and all the civics courses. On the third floor is where the fine arts, business, computer, home economics, and elective courses are located. The gym next door to the main school building is newer, and is built of brick the color of dirty phlegm. There is the Ferris Street entrance, on the south end of the fat letter I. On the second and third floors above the wide set of double doors are large windows that seems to have all their glass intact. There are smaller windows to the right and left, in sets one above the other. The PCs move across the street and up a set of broad cement steps to the south entrance of Silent Hill High School. Main Entrance: The doors are made of thick steel and each had a square window threaded through with wire mesh and a handle and thumb-bolt. Book molds, old wood. School is an insular senorium, a self-contained universe of smells, sights, sounds: the feel of fresh, slick textbook paper, the smell of its ink; the waxy odor of crayons and the musty one of pencil shavings…the slant of afternoon light through rows of classroom windows. The left-hand door is locked. The thumb-bolt refuses to give and rattles in place with an indifferent metallic click. The door to the right is unlocked. The door opens, amazingly, silently. The bottom floor has been remodeled to provide an acoustically perfect music room. The second floor is given over to classrooms. The business offices and records room are on the fourth floor. One is now being stalked through a narrow hallway on the campus by a man walking on the ceiling. He is dressed in a white suit and keep nodding his head up and down with each step. No matter where one runs, every time one turns, one will see him a distance off glanced, even though it looks like he is walking very slowly. Assembly Hall: They have peered into at least a dozen rooms, which seem more and more like huge pitiless cells, when to the assembly hall that divides the corridor from its twin. The hall would hold several hundred children. Hallway: The PCs walk along one of the many decaying halls. Nameless materials mixed with books, papers and all other details having to do with a school house. Toppled lockers and over turned desks were hastily thrown about. As they pass some of the lockers that are still standing, several of the door are calked open. Remnants of personal effects from the previous owners litter the inside and floor in front of them.

Gym Restroom: They push open the heavy wooden door, only to find that the bathroom is barely lit. The lights flicker, some of them dying out completely. The bathroom is mostly shadow and strangely damp. There are puddles of water on the floor, as if a sink or a toilet has overflowed, and the mirrors seem dirty. Cafeteria: Food smells, cafeteria, the unmistakable effluvium of rancid meat and reheated gravy mixing in the hallways with bathroom disinfectant and the faintest whiff of old vomit dusted up by the janitor long ago. Classroom: Eventually one comes to a classroom and opens the door, only to what looks like a hotel bathroom inside is a bloody skeleton in tub filled with murky water. The skeleton is dragging its fingers across its face and reaching out like it wants to pull the visitors in close to whisper something in their ears. Completely petrified the PCs turn to the door of the classroom, faces wet with sweat. They shiver from the sudden cold. Then they notice the window door. A small corner of the glass begins to fog with precipitation, then disappear. Then it fogs again, then it disappears. It's almost as if somebody behind the door is breathing on it... Your eyes are wide, unblinking, unmoving. Your entire body quivers with terror. Very, very slowly, a face emerges from behind the door, revealing itself through the invisible glass barrier. And what the PCs see is horrifying. The head is bald, with silver teeth, resembling fangs. Yellow eyes, that are silted like a cats, and chalk white skin stretched painfully over a bald skull with an almost hooked nose. Its cat like eyes are obscene and demonic, and they possess a menacing glare unlike anything the PCs have ever seen. Its blood red lips are forever curled up into an unsettling smile a grin of decaying fangs, each of the two canines looking more likely to hurt itself more than any victim. The entire visage resembles one of an incredibly delirious, homicidal clown. He stares at them, perplexed. His already twisted smile contorts into a horrifying ear to ear grin. He's enjoying this. His ghastly face stares madly through the glass. He opens the door, revealing his tall, skinny figure dressed in a formal tuxedo. His feet aren't touching the ground, he merely glides into the lounge, his legs are not moving at all. He doesn't carry any weapons, yet the mere look of him could send even the most hardened criminal crying for his mother. Behind him comes a shorter creature, this one with a stooped gait and swing their arms about. Its back is huddled over, adding to its apelike demeanor. Its face looks identical to the first creature, except for a bloody gash ripped across its forehead. Its torso is bundled up in a straight jacket, but the arms are not tied. Both the Gentleman and the Lackey do not talk or acknowledge each other, they're just aware that both of them must work in tandem in order to get the prey...the PCs. The Gentlemen never removes his eyes from the PCs. He brings up a skinny, twig like finger to his mouth, in a gesture akin to shushing.

The Robert Black Memorial Auditorium: Across Olson Avenue, an enormous building
of dark brick and tall pointed windows looms unharmed, with the canyon reduced to little more than a wide crack snaking under its walls. Regularly spaced along its walls, brick columns shoot

skyward and narrow to points like tiny church spires high above the roof, but from where they stand, the mist obscures even the roof, and the fancy brickwork at the tips of the pillars are invisible. Robert Black Memorial Auditorium had been home to Silent Hill Community Theatre ("Be Shocked by SHCT!" had been their motto), one of the finest small theater groups in the Midwest. In between their wildly popular performances, the auditorium hosted graduations and lectures, especially contentious city council meetings whose crowds couldn’t fit into the tiny auditorium at City Hall, and performances by Silent Hill Symphony Orchestra and Silent Hill Community Band. Like Silent Hill itself, the auditorium had always been so full of life, and like the city, it is decaying in the wet darkness now. They cross the street and discover that even at its narrowest point, the sinkhole in Olson Avenue is still too wide to jump across. It is then that they notice an alley running between the auditorium and the neighboring building. Unless it too has collapsed somewhere along its path to Jones Street, the next street parallel to Olson Avenue, they can use the alley to find, hopefully, a clear path north to the square then east to the library. There is no time, and as they dart through the alley, the PCs realize an open pair of metal doors has slipped by on their right. They skid to a halt, almost panting, and stare at the doors for a moment. They can find their way through the building to its grand front entrance on Burke Square. It will save time, and if they slam the doors shut behind them, and lock them, it might slow down anyone or anything following. Then again, there might be something inside as dangerous as anything outside on the streets of Silent Hill in the mist and falling snowflakes. So they step inside and close and lock the doors behind them. Lobby: The latch clicks as the lock catches and the PCs have sealed themselves into a dank black silence that rings in their ears and sting their throats with the tang of mildew. They turn slowly in the dark, putting the steel doors behind them, and trying to make as little noise as possible. Anything might be scuttling about inside the auditorium. They can use a flashlight to make their way safely through the darkness, or should they try to slip silently through that darkness and hope not to attract the attention of something gruesome and shambling? Or, have light enough to see to run away from anything inside or to kill it, or fall off the stage and break their necks in the orchestra pit? They switch it on with a reassuring click, and the PCs discover they stand in a narrow hallway behind the auditorium's main stage. There are several passages here at the back of the building, each lined with dressing rooms, offices, and storage closets, and their walls are covered with bulletin boards and posters. Each board once sported a colorful slew of playbills, photos, and schedules tacked in place, though now, years of damp pouring in through the open doors (had they really been open all this time?), the bulletin boards are swollen and bowed. Everything they had once displayed have been reduced to soggy, tattered scraps. It seems somehow unutterably sad.

The floor is gritty with the accumulated filth and grime of abandonment; dried carapaces of dead beetles and roaches crunch underfoot. They pass by offices and dressing rooms where everything inside is rusted and decayed. In one, they see a dressing table spread beneath a giant mirror, now blackened, ringed with bulbs. Jars of cosmetics, theatrical makeup, cluster on the tabletop, as though huddling together for safety. Their contents hardened to the consistency of cement. Everything seems to have been left untouched here, as it had been in Brookhaven, Midwich, and in every store and apartment they had passed by. Curtains left hanging in windows, paperwork left scattered on desktops, a playbill from a show five years ago on the floor in front of them. There is something strange about it. Playing the light over it and they see a gleam bounce off its glossy paper, then picking it up. Under their fingertips it feels new, with only the slightest bit of grit from the floor adhering. It couldn’t have been here for long, less than a day even, because it hadn’t wrinkled in the damp at all. It reads: “Emmy-Nominated Actress Lisa Groft Presents a One-Woman Show: The Tears of an Adult – Why my Mother Died Alone and in Pain” Below is a picture of a stunningly beautiful blonde, unsmiling, with her chin in her hand, gazing into space. The PCs open the flyer and begin to read. Apparently, Lisa Groft, presenter of the one-woman show, was from Monticello, Illinois, between Decatur and Champaign-Urbana. From childhood, she had always aspired to be an actress, and began her ascent in high school when she appeared in every performance that had room for her, including ‘Peter Pan’ (as Wendy) and ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ (as Titania, Queen of the Faeries). The PCs don’t care. They skim onward. Degree in drama from the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem, leading roles in ‘Anything Goes’ and ‘On the Night of January the 16th’ while enrolled there... Performances at this playhouse and that theatre throughout the Southeast for a few years after graduation... Moved to Los Angeles at age twenty-eight and immediately found work in a supporting role on a sitcom. Still performed in plays and shows, throughout Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco. Let her mother die alone. Here it is. “While Lisa pursued her career, garnering accolades every step of the way, her mother, Geraldine Miller-Groft, remained behind in the tiny town of Monticello. Mrs. Groft was especially proud of her daughter’s accomplishments because, when her husband abandoned the family when Lisa was still an infant, she had been forced to raise Lisa in a poverty-stricken, single-parent household. Eventually, however, Mrs. Groft’s health began to falter and then to fail due to a combination of diabetes and, later, stomach cancer.

While her diagnoses grew more bleak, Mrs. Groft’s attempts to contact her daughter were always unsuccessful. Cards and letters from her mother were usually thrown away unopened by Lisa, and messages left on her answering machine were deleted immediately the moment Lisa first heard her mother’s voice squawk from the speaker. Lisa was uneager to be reminded of her childhood in a town and a state she considered beneath her talents. She would have liked nothing more than to have been born and raised in Hollywood by two glamorous parents who had scores of glamourous friends and acquaintances with connections in the movie industry. She was, and remains, a selfish bitch –“ The PCs pause. What is this? Who could have written this? “– who would rather die than allow the tabloids to sink their talons into a juicy story like this, especially after her role as the kindly Sister Mary Ambrose in last year’s box-office smash, ‘Nun of Your Business’, though most especially after her mother’s death in April of this year. Lisa would prefer it not be known by the public that not only was she unaware that her mother had died, she was also ignorant of her mother’s colossal suffering and loneliness in the last years of her life. Until now. “Join us as Lisa discusses her feelings and her motivations for allowing her mother to die a slow and painful death all alone. Don’t worry that Lisa might not show up to appear in this rollicking performance – she’ll be here if she doesn’t want her mother’s agony screaming from the front page of every tabloid in America. Not to mention People Magazine, and the lips of a thousand news reporters who love nothing more than a nice tidbit of gossip. We guarantee you’ll get your money’s worth. Lisa wouldn’t miss it for the world. We know you wouldn’t, Lisa. We know you’ll come and put on a FINE show. Love, La Llorona” Turning it over, one sees on the back nothing more than a tiny map showing the location of the Robert Black Memorial Auditorium in downtown Silent Hill marked with a bright blue star, as well as the auditorium’s daily hours of operation. Below is the address as well as the legend inscribed in colored marble inlaid into the floor of the auditorium’s regal lobby: Robert Black Memorial Auditorium 1 South Burke Square Silent Hill, 61723 “Let the Magic of the Stage Sing to Your Soul”

But what is most offensive is that the flyer looks so normal. The same shiny, high-quality paper, the same tiny map on the back, the dates and times and the legend from the lobby floor right where they should be. It is unusual to find so much information about a single performer in a flyer Lisa Groft, like so many others, had been called to Silent Hill to suffer for a sin, however. Who summoned her, though, the PCs wonder – her mother? Someone else? But would a mother, even one as mistreated as Lisa Groft’s had been, call her child here to this wet hell and have her suffer through all the nasty surprises it could vomit out for her to find? Does it make sense? Does anything make sense in Silent Hill? And what is La Llorona? At the end of the hall is a single door, open now, but which was always kept closed during performances to halt any errant noises that might issue from the offices, or the bathrooms, opening onto the hall where the PCs stand. For quick costume changes, actors and actresses hurried to private booths in the wings backstage. The stage itself is actually a giant circular platform, divided down the center by a high wall. It could accommodate two sets at once and could revolve to reveal one set as another spun out of view. The stage and the clockwork used to turn it are both actually very old, original to the auditorium, which had been completed some time in the 1890's, and when completed, the stage had been regarded as something of a minor engineering marvel. To turn the stage a crank off to one side backstage, out of view of the audience, has to be turned by hand, and actors and actresses scurried into the wings in the darkness between scenes as the gears clanked and caught the pegs underneath the stage and passed them from one to another to turn the stage and reveal the next scene's set. They suddenly hear the grind of gears as the stage beyond the door begins to move. Who is turning the crank and why? Then suddenly someone shrieks in pain and horror and the auditorium beyond the door erupts in applause. The PCs run toward the door; someone out there might need help. But who the hell can be clapping? It sounds as though the auditorium is filled to capacity. Great cloth walls of blackout curtain hang from steel rods high above on the other side of the door. Most are fuzzy with mold and moss, and one has torn away from its rings and lies on the warping floor in a heap. Sounding far away, someone on the stage is sobbing in hoarse screams. The PCs run to the left to skirt the blackout curtains, and the flashlight beam bounces wildly off stacked moldering set pieces in the wings – a wing chair with rusty springs bursting from its seat, a grim oil painting peeling out of its gilt frame – and the dressing booths tucked against the far wall. Most of their doors hang askew. As the PCs move the floor squeaks and bounces under their feet; it is hardwood and the boards have peeled up and swollen. The beam of the flashlight reaches up to disappear in the blackness amid the rafters high above. "Mother, I'm so sorry," howls the voice, that of a woman, from the stage. From the audience comes a sound that suggests it has just collectively seen something utterly adorable. A sort of sighing, "Awwww..."

"I didn't mean for this to happen," says the voice. "I didn't mean for it to end up like this." Laughter, great gales of hysterical screaming laughter pours from the seats of the auditorium, but as it dies away another voice murmurs a reply to the crying woman. They then realize there were two people on the stage, and considered perhaps she should stay hidden. Maybe Lisa Groft and her mother are talking, and the PCs suddenly see, perfectly clearly, that it is not their place to interrupt. It is almost as if a voice had spoken audibly, "No." Whatever is happening on the stage is meant to play itself out without interference. "Mother, I'm sorry. I love you, and I always did... It's – It's just that the life I lived here and the life I live now don't fit together and–" The audience boo enthusiastically. "SHUT UP!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The PCs imagine Lisa Groft spinning around, through from what she didn't know, her blond hair flying out in a golden fan, to face the seats in the auditorium, which are almost certainly empty. There is silence for a moment, then laughter from the auditorium and helpless sobs from Lisa Groft. "Please be quiet..." begins the voice. More laughter. Helpless sobbing, then, "Please, mother, will you forgive me?" A murmur, weak and barely there at all. A scream that crumbles into weeping: "MOMMIEEEEEE!!" Wild applause from the audience. Hoots and whistles and cheers. Suddenly there is silence broken only by Lisa Groft's weeping. Then a loud click that the PCs recognize as a spotlight being switched on, as the barest slants of light spill over the tops of the blackout curtains and light her hiding spot with a dim glow. A unfamiliar voice, and the PCs feel their heads swim. "And the award for Best Actress goes to...why, YOU, Lisa Groft! What a performance! Very impressive." Spirited applause from the audience. The voice becomes a menacing growl. "Your mother may forgive you, and in fact a lot of people might forgive you, but I won't. You're here because you're damned, girl, and I'm the one who'll see to it that you're properly punished for being such a heartless, selfish, wretched, stinking cunt." The applause grows louder. "Come here, Lisa Groft." A strange, gasping, high-pitched scream. "Who are you?" "La Llorona." Above the clapping and cheers comes a sound, like high heels clicking across a stage, then a thump and a squeal, as though Lisa Groft had tried to back away, then fallen hard. A muffled scraping as though Lisa Groft is scooting backward across the floor. The voice giggles. The high heels click smartly on the floor. The audience roars its approval. A screech, and then gunshots. Perhaps Lisa Groft has a gun. "COME HERE, WOMAN," The voice roars, and it shakes the walls and floor. High above, dangling rusty chains and ruined banks of lights clink lightly together. From the audience comes cheers and whistles, and the applause rises and falls like waves crashing on a beach.

Lisa Groft begins to scream and seems unable to stop. The voice laughs, and then there is the sound of something large being dragged. The laughter grows louder, and the PCs realize with horror that the source of the voice is approaching. "NO, NO, PLEASE, NO... OH DEAR GOD, NO, PLEASE..." the screams become words. More applause from the audience, and a shout for an encore. It can't be right to hide here. It can't be right to hide while La Llorona does... whatever... to Lisa Groft. La Llorona comes closer, and the PCs tighten their grips on their weapons, and prepare to leap out at her. If they can surprise La Llorona, maybe. Then the scent of roses washes over them. The PCs feel tears slip down their cheeks. Lisa Groft's screams ceases, as does La Llorona 's malevolent chuckling and the applause from the audience, when the door behind the hanging blackout curtains slams loudly, violently shut. The silence is shocking, and the PCs twitch in surprise. In an instant, the sensation of the Blue Lady's presence, and the PCs leap to their feet, hurtle forward and spin and switch on the flashlight to see that there is no one behind them. The Blue Lady is gone. The PCs stare, blinking and feeling their breaths huff out in little gasps. A single blue rose lies on the floor where they had hidden. The knob of the door refuses to turn, and when one puts an ear to the door, they hear nothing from the other side. La Llorona is gone, and with her, Lisa Groft. There is nothing they can do. They have to get out of here. The PCs run away from the door, around the curtains to the wing chair. They shine their light on the rose on the floor. The PCs walk forward, kneel, and pick up the blue rose. As they hold it in the beam of the light and gaze at it, a feeling of peace swells inside them, a nub that becomes a bud that blossoms into a magnificent flower. A blue rose, perhaps. They walk down the stairs from the stage to the orchestra pit. The auditorium is silent now, and their footsteps on the warped wooden risers echo and re-echo. The PCs want to be somewhere else. The light can guide them to the doors at the back of the theater, and when they push them open they howl on rusty hinges. The PCs cringe, and look behind them quickly but the auditorium is quiet and black and decaying peacefully. They leave it behind and track clean footprints through the dust and filth on the lobby's vast marble floor, patterned with black-and-white checkerboard tile. Here the light from outside filters half-heartedly through dirty windows, and fancy sofas and settees sag and mildew in shadows. A giant chandelier, its brass tarnished and its crystal pendants dulled by dust, dangles above, suspended from a long chain in a mirrored dome where most of the panels are still intact. Two or three have crashed to the floor at some point, however, and the PCs step around their shards, scattered across the great central circle of white marble where the tiles are inset with colored marble letters: LET THE MAGIC OF THE STAGE SING TO YOUR SOUL


On the southern side of the lake is Southvale. There are two parts to Southvale: East Southvale and West Southvale, but just Southvale is fine. Southvale was a district of town still in development, as evidenced by the amount of construction still being done on the town. It is basically Old Silent Hill with a pinch of Lakeside topped with some Central. There is a park to look at the lake, a fire department, and a lot of restaurants.

The Streets: There is a change in the town, not recognizable immediately. Outside, it is still
warm going on hot and still muggy out here. Fog has been traded for darkness, but there is something else. No fog, no snow, no nothing. The sky isn't the strange gray of the storm clouds, but pitch black, no stars, no clouds. A void. The first hint is the sidewalk. There are cracks in the pavement and it is uneven, with some segments being higher than others, some being lower and many of them are loose. Then there is the mailbox that they pass. The blue paint has completely flaked off of it, replaced by brown rust. It is badly dented and stands at a crooked angle. Maybe it’s just the one, then again, maybe not. As they cross a street a metal pole that would probably have been attached to the stoplight is scratched, twisted, and spotted with rust. Where there had once been a pedestrian walk button, there is now nothing but a jagged hole with wires hanging out. The wires do not have the shine one normally sees in exposed copper, instead they are dull and crusty, like a coin that has been covered in dirt for years. The flashlight does not give sufficient illumination to see the top of the pole, but the base is littered with rounded pieces of shattered safety glass. Decayed metal grating has replaced the ground and blood stains the walls. The stench of flesh and smoke fills the air, overpowering. Below the mesh, huge bleeding pipes stretch into infinity. Somewhere in the distance, a constant thump and hum. The metal is rusted and dented. The ground, even where there should be dirt and grass, has been replaced by the metal mesh, the pipes disappearing over the horizon, the payload of what seems to be blood leaking in several places. The only sound is the drone of machinery and the constant thunderous pounding over the horizon. Rendell Street: It is perhaps another two hundred feet before Rendell Street is reached. The PCs turn the corner and stay on the left sidewalk as they move east. Chain-link fencing lines the edges of the sidewalk, cordoning off various lots. Some of them have parked cars, and looks to be a service station. An auto-parts store, a hardware store to the left, and abandoned cars lining the street to the right. Munson Street: Crossing over as the road empties onto Munson, which they also cross. Saul Street is but a few feet further. The corner here is obscured by high slat fencing, and there is a car parked halfway on the sidewalk. While walking Munson Street twice the radio wakes up for a moment and then goes back to sleep. They never see what triggers it, either time.

Jack’s Inn: 10 A small motel located just south of Rosewater Park. The two-story, U-shaped building embraces a swimming pool, with the open end exposed to the street. Weathered-wood trim in need of paint. Stained, cracked, pocked stucco. A tar-and-crushed rock in need of restocking. A few windows broken and boarded over. Landscaping overrun by weeds. Dead leaves and paper litter drifts against one wall. A large neon sign, broken and unlit, hangs between twenty-foot-tall steel posts near the entrance drive, swinging slightly on its pivots as the wind wails in from the lake. The motel’s small office occupies the northeast corner of the U-shaped structure. Through the big plate-glass windows, one can see only a portion of the unlighted room: the dim shapes of a beige sofa, one chair, an empty postcard rack, a wall rack holding about forty paperbacks, another rack full of free travel brochures, an end table and squat, fluorescent lamp with a flexible neck, and the oak check-in desk with a green felt blotter. There is a frosted-glass ceiling fixture too with two bulbs. The door is locked, as expected. Moving into the courtyard, where the dark blue painted doors to the motel rooms lay on three sides. A battered aluminum awning overhangs the cracked walkway that serves all three wings, forming a shabby promenade. The swimming pool has been drained. A soda machine stands just outside the office door, humming and clinking to itself. Forty to fifty rooms, all alike and spaced as evenly as the slats in a fence, are set into undistinguished red-brick walls. The rooms are large, clean, and tastefully decorated. The furniture has white washed wood, rattan side chairs with cushions upholstered peach and pale-blue patterns, seafoam-green drapes. Only the mottled-green carpet, evidently chosen for its ability to conceal stains and wear, spoils the effect; by contrast, the light hued furnishings seem not merely to stand on the dark carpet but to float above it, creating spatial illusions that are disconcerting, even slightly eerie. There is a sofa, two beds and a television set. There is green carpeting, floral wallpaper and a spinning ceiling fan. Baldwin Mansion: The Baldwin Mansion is well within the South Vale city limits, yet it is separated from the rest of the town, as if everyone were afraid to build nearby. The house is dark in its valley, built of stone washed dark by rains and rains. Even where the sun touches, it keeps its shadow. A huge holly tree grows beyond its stone wall. A long front and small windows, three stories, a mansard roof with dormers; in the center a small portico sheltering a high door, with the implication of wings turned back behind, with the house full-face and staring down. There is not much of a yard: a forty-by-twenty-foot plot of thin grass, formal gardens wrecked by growth, rampart hedges and choked beds stand between visitors and the house. But the hedges and beds stand only as a frame to water. Long stone-lined pools are cut strict and square at the corners, though they are green and stagnant now and the jutting fountainheads are still; and below the gardens, lapping almost at their feet lies the deeper, darker waters of a lake. Where the gardens; gravel walks end in a stone balustrade a set of steps lead down to the lake. At the far end of the lawn is the garage, and beyond the garage is a litter-strewn alley. In one corner of the Baldwin property, up against the garage wall, stands a corrugated metal utility shed with a white enamel finish and a pair of green metal doors.

The house is a huge, rambling three-story affair of brick, pseudo-Victorian with a false tower, a slate-roof, dark shingles and white gingerbread trim but battered and weathered and grimy. It had been part of a really fine residential neighborhood. Most of the houses on this street had been converted to apartment buildings. This one has not, but it is in the same disrepair as all the others. Storms have ripped shingles from the roof. Some of the ornate trim is broken, and in a few spots it has fallen down altogether. Where shutters still survive, they often hang at a slant, but a single mounting. The paint has been weathered away. The boards are silver-gray, bleached by the sun and the constant wind, water-stained. Entrance Hall: The front door is open. The interior of the manor house is only slightly less depressing than its exterior. The main hall alone has paint faded and chipped, blue-and-gold runner dirty and threadbare, furnishings coated with thick layer of dust. There is no sense of ownership, no smell of cooking or of polish. It is a dead place. The furnishings consist primarily of a low coffee table around which are arranged four armchairs. The chairs are beige, maroon, and comfortable. The air is threaded with the sweet, elusive fragrance of lemon incense. On top of the coffee table are two boxes of handgun bullets and a first-aid kit containing bandages, antitoxin compounds, ointment for burns. Service Room: It is a well used work area. The nearer end contains two stainless-steel sinks, an electric washer-dryer, a pair of wicker clothes baskets, a table large enough for folding freshly laundered towels, and shelves on which stand bottles of bleach, bottles of spot removers, and boxes of detergents. At the other end of the room there is a workbench equipped with vises and tools. Pantry: Two walls are covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves; and these are lined with storebought as well as home-canned fruits and vegetables. A large, chest-style freezer stands against the far wall. Kitchen: The kitchen has been wrecked. The white-lacquered breakfast table and two chairs are overturned. The other two chairs have been hammered to pieces against everything else in sight. The refrigerator is badly dented and scraped; the tempered glass in the oven door is shattered; the counters and cabinets are gouged and scratched, edges splintered. Dishes and drinking glasses have been pulled from the cupboards and thrown against the walls, and the floor is prickled and glinting with thousands of sharp shards. Food has been swept off the shelves of the refrigerator onto the floor: Pickles, milk, macaroni salad, mustard, chocolate pudding, maraschino cherries, a chunk of ham, and several unidentifiable substances are congealing in a disgusting pool. Beside the sink, above the cutting board, all six knives have been removed from their rack and, with tremendous force, have been driven into the wall; some of the blades are buried up to half their lengths in the drywall, while two have been driven in to their hilts. Dining Room: The dining room is sixty feet in length, as high as it is wide—twenty-seven feet in both directions. Its ceiling is divided into a series of elaborately carved panels, its floor polished travertine. Its walls are paneled to a height of twelve feet, stone-blocked above. In the center of the west wall is giant fireplace, its Gothic mantel reaching to the ceiling. Spaced at intervals above the length of the forty-foot table in the center of the hall hangs four immense sanctuary

lamps, wired for electricity. Thirty chairs stand around the table, all of them constructed of walnut with wine-red velvet upholstery. Stairway: The narrow cone of the flashlight jumps fitfully around from place to place, freezing momentarily on hulking groups of furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries filmed with dust; a staircase, broad and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story corridor overlooking the entry hall; and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of paneled ceiling. Living Room: Its pale walls are hung with framed gold records and intricate landscapes. There is a huge white couch facing a wide screen TV. There are vases of white lilies, vases of eucalyptus branches. There is a tall bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes, mostly fake grimoires and incunabulae, although amongst the rubbish is a worm-eaten set of the three volumes of del Rico’s Disquitionum Magicarum, and a rather fine copy of Casiano’s Summa Diabolia in Moroccan leather. Playroom: To the left, through another set of doors, is a playroom, 11 by 28 feet, beautifully finished in walnut paneling, with recessed fluorescent lights in a dropped ceiling. Toys lay scattered across the floor of this room, dusty blocks and dark-eyed dolls give silent testimony to the sanity and life which once thrived in this house. The southern wall has been fancifully painted with dragons and knights, and the short but richly-carved canopy bed was never meant to hold an adult. Behind the bed, and partially hidden by its drapes, is a child’s drawing scrawled upon the wall of a stick man being beheaded. A row of exquisite porcelain-face dolls stare dumbly from the mantelpiece, glassy eyes wide beneath the long lashes, inlaid Italian cabinets with secret compartments which fly open when concealed springs are activated; samplers; delicate painted fans, feather fans, carved ivory fans. On the wall hang dark-daubed oil paintings in gilded frames. The scattered limbs of broken dolls lay strewn about the floor. Master Bedroom: In the large master bedroom, there is more destruction, though it is not as extensive or as indicative of insane fury as the damage in the kitchen. Beside the king-size bed of black-lacquered wood and burnished stainless steel, a torn pillow leaks feathers. The bedsheets are strewn across the floor, and a chair is overturned. One of the two black ceramic lamps has been knocked off a nightstand and broken, and the shade has been crushed. The shade on the other lamp is cocked, and the paintings hang askew from the walls. The contents of the walk-in closet—shirts, slacks, sweaters, shoes, suits, ties, and more—lays in a torn and tangled mess. Sheets, a white quilted spread, and feather-leaking pillows are strewn across the floor. The mattress has been heaved off the springs, which has been knocked halfway off the frame. Two black ceramic lamps are smashed, the shades ripped and then apparently stomped. Enormously valuable paintings have been wrenched from the walls and slashed to ribbons, damaged beyond repair. Of a pair of graceful Klismos-style chairs, one is upended, and the other has been hammered against a wall until it has gouged out large chucks of plasters and is itself reduced to splintered rubble. The guilty party had unquestionably been in a blind rage, violently trashing the bedroom with malevolent glee or in a frenzy of hatred. The intruder had been someone possessed of considerable strength and little sanity.

Bathroom: The lights are on in the large bathroom, the only chamber in the house that has not been dark when they’d reached it. Through the open door, the PCs can see virtually everything either directly or in the mirrors covering one wall: gray tile with a burnt-yellow border, large sunken tub, shower stall, toiler, one edge of the counter that holds the sinks, bright brass towel racks and brass-rimmed recessed ceiling lamps. Lounge: It is plushly carpeted, the walls covered with a subtle grass cloth. There is a circular redand-blue braided rug on a hardwood floor, a large, comfortable-looking sofa with scrolled arms and legs, a dark-stained coffee table where a few copies of Antique Monthly, National Geographic and Horizon magazines are neatly arranged, a couple of overstuffed chairs with clear plastic on the arms; and a brick fireplace over which hangs an upside down horseshoe. There are framed sepia-tone prints on the walls, with three Eyvind Earle serigraphs. and on the fireplace mantel a grouping of color photographs. Piano Room: Beneath an archway six feet deep, this room’s walls are paneled in walnut to a height of eight feet, rough-hewn blocks of stone above. Across from the entrance is a mammoth fireplace, its mantel constructed of antique stone. Marble statues stand on pedestals in various locations. In the north-west corn is an ebony concert grand piano, and in the center of the hall stands a circular table, more than twenty feet across, with sixteen high-backed chairs around it and a large chandelier suspended over it. Solar Parlor: There is a hexagonal solarium out back, with glass walls and heated stone floor, and beyond that a stepped terrace leading down to the canal. Attic: The hall ceiling features a trapdoor with a dangling rope handle. When they pull the trap door down, an accordion ladder unfolds from the back of it. They hear something behind them. The PCs pivot, clawing from the gun under the belt. They are alone. They have probably heard just a settling noise, an old house easing itself at the insistence of gravity. The space is finished, not rough: plaster walls, solid plank floor covered with linoleum for easy cleaning. Colonnades of massive vertical beams support an elaborate trusswork of rafters that hold up the roof. No partitions have been constructed between these beams, so the attic remains one great open room. Darkness: The holly tree is gone. There is no trace of it—it has become one with the ash. The wall too has come down. It lies scattered all over the lane, the bricks and bits of stonework disintegrating, like everything else. Behind the wall stretches a vast piece of ground that is like a bare, swept floor. It has nothing at all growing upon it, and even the dust has blown or otherwise vanished away. It is a nothingness, in color grayish. And upon this table of death there rises—the house. Of everything that had been there, of nature or contrivance, the house still stands—but not intact. Its roof has come away in broad segments: one can see the gaping joists and beams, which are in turn collapsing. Both chimneys are down, crashed inwards. On the lower floors not one window has kept its antique glass or boxed decorations. The creepers have slipped from the exterior walls and after them the bricks have tried and are still trying to come out. Yet the shell of the building, what there is of it, still juts upright. And in that spot, this makes it a thing of unbelievable terror.

The weathered gray walls look scabrous, diseased, cancerous. Rusting nails resemble old wound: stigmata. Ruined and distorted and every moment increasingly giving way, nevertheless it has so far stayed, where nothing else remains. The Shed: The snow doesn't cling to the corrugated metal storage shed. The falling flakes melt when they touch the roof and walls of that small structure. Wisps of steam actually rise from the leeward slope of the root; the pale snakes of vapor writhe up until they come within range of the wind; then they are swept away. Inside, the twelve-foot-by-ten shed is stifling hot. Heat assaults the PCs as they step inside. Although they overhead light has not been switch on, the interior of the shed isn't pitch black. The perimeter of the small, windowless room is shrouded in shadows, but a vague orange glow rises from the floor in the center of the chamber. It comes out of a hole about five feet in diameter. The excavation is shaped like a meteor crater, the walls sloping inward to form a basin. Nothing moves except the shadows. A peculiar, slightly sulfurous odor hangs in the air. If one of the PCs stares into the pit long enough, it gradually begins to appear much, much deeper than that. In some mysterious way, when one peers at the flickering light for a few minutes, when one tries to discern its source, one's perspective abruptly and drastically changes, and one can see that the bottom of the hole is hundreds if not thousands of feet below. But then, with a blink, it seems only a shallow basin once more. Harris Street: The Motor Home: Now strolling along Saul Street on the east side of town. One of the side streets, Harris, is blocked off completely by construction work, and not far after that, an old ovular motor home sits parked, not attached to any sort of vehicle. The door is open and swinging in the soft breeze. The seat swivels, clearing the console. The PCs are able to step from behind the steering wheel into the lounge area, which features built-in sofas upholstered in a hunter-plaid fabric. The steel floor is carpeted, but after long years of hard travel, it creaks softly under foot. Beyond the lounge and open to it is a kitchenette and a cozy dining alcove with a booth upholstered in red vinyl. Aft of the outer door, a short cramped hall leads along the driver's side of the vehicle. There is also a skylight, now black. On the left are two closed doors, and at the end a third stands ajar. The first door opens into a tiny bath. The space is a marvel of efficient design: a toilet, a sink, a medicine cabinet, and a corner shower stall. Behind the second door is a closet. A few changes of clothes hang from a chrome rod. At the end of the hall is a small bedroom with imitation-wood paneling and a closet with an accordion-style vinyl door. The single nightstand has two drawers. The upper contains a package of gauze pads, a few green and yellow sponges of the size used to wash dishes, a small plastic squeeze bottle of some clear fluid, a roll of cloth tape, a comb, a hairbrush with a tortoiseshell handle, a half-empty tube of KY jelly, a full bottle of skin lotion with aloe vera, a pair of needle-nose pliers with yellow rubberclad handles, and a pair of scissors.

In the lower, deeper drawer is a hand-plastic container, within is a complete sewing kit, with numerous spools of thread in a variety of colors, a pincushion, packets of needles, a needle threader, an extensive selection of buttons, and other paraphernalia. The window over the bed has been covered with a sheet of plywood that has been bolted to the wall. A couple of folded swatches of blue fabric are trapped between the plywood and the window frame: the edge of an underlying drapery panel. From outside, the window will appear to be merely curtained. When they pull the folding door aside, it compresses into pleats that stack to the left, and in the closet is a dead man. The rear of the closet appears to have been retrofitted with welded steel plates fixed to the vehicle frame for added strength. Two ringbolts, widely separated and high-set, are welded to the steel. Wrists manacled to the ringbolts, the dead man hangs with his arms spread in cruciform. His feet are shackled to another ringbolt in the closet floor. He was young---seventeen, eighteen, surely not twenty. Clad in only a pair of white cotton briefs, his lean pale body is badly battered. His head doesn't hang forward on his chest but is tipped to one side, and his left temple rests against the biceps of his raised left arm. He has thick curly black hair. His eyelids have been sewn tightly shut with green thread. with yellow thread, two buttons above his upper lip are secured to a pair of matching buttons just under his lower lip. Darkness: Acoustic ceiling tiles crawl with water stains from a long-ago leak, all vaguely resembling large insects. Sunlight has bleached the drapes into shades no doubt familiar to chronic depressives from their dreams; the rotting fabric sags in greasy folds, reeking of years of cigarette smoke. Scraped, gouged, stained, patched furniture stand on an orange shag carpet that can no longer manage to be shaggy. Saul Street: A mannequinite stands there, as the PCs turn the corner onto Saul Street without paying careful attention. Their flesh prickles and their stomach turn, so unprepared they are. But it isn’t just the presence of the thing. It stands perfectly still, as if frozen, and this is all the more unnerving because it stands frozen in a very unlikely position. Only one of its feet touches the ground, the other is lifted slightly and bent. The arms, or upper legs, or whatever the hell they are, reach to the sky like a churchgoer in a Baptist free-for-all, trying to touch God. How it is able to balance itself like that boggles the mind, it doesn’t seem possible, yet, it looks very much like a real mannequin in that it appears to be posed. At this point, the PCs will most likely draw weapons, and hold them ready, waiting for it to move so they can attack it. But it doesn’t move. It stands there, ignoring them, not even so much as twitching a muscle. The PCs do not know if these things have the ability to breathe, but if they do, there is no sign of it doing so. The PCs still stand at the ready, but seconds pass, and the mannequinite makes no attempt to attack them. At this point attacks simply make a hollow plastic knock when they strike, but they get no reaction from the monster, it doesn’t shift at all. When the PCs decide to move on ahead, taking a step to move around it, giving it a wide berth, and going past it a ways. Moving or not, the PCs are not likely to take it for granted that it is

going to ignore them forever. Once they have gone more than 20 feet beyond it, the silence is shorn by the shrill hiss of the radio, loud, fast, and sudden. The PCs see nothing in front of them, but something, instinct, maybe, tells that it isn’t in front. It isn’t to the sides, either. They spin around. How in the hell? It is there. The mannequinite is right behind them, looming large, not even being a foot away from them. The PCs don’t even have time to think or to move, and it would not have helped if they did, because the shock of seeing it there is absolutely paralyzing (loss of initiative). Just when the thick, oily chemical stench of the thing strikes their noses first, the mannequinite raises its arm/leg and throws its weight at the left shoulder of the nearest PC, it automatically strikes. When it does, it is hard and terribly convincing. The shoulder explodes in a supernova of pain, and the hit is so powerful that it literally sends the PCs spinning. He/she loses her/his balance and sense of place. When he/she falls to the sidewalk, the PCs falls on the same shoulder, and the agony is searing, and so intense that the PCs see spots in front of their eyes, teeth are clenched and breath whistles through them, hissing as loudly as the radio. A shape flies through the air, and it makes the PCs stop dead in their tracks. They hear it hit the ground in front of them with a clack. As soon as it does, the radio comes to life again. The shape is unrecognizable, until it stands and turns to face them Clack. Mannequinite! This time, from behind. Another one! The PCs can not see what the mannequinite behind them is doing, but the one in front has moved to cut them off, and they are quicker than desired. It comes close, dismayingly close, but it doesn’t quite reach them. The Overpass: The PCs now find themselves underneath some sort of overpass. The street continues, but too narrow now to be anything but an alley. Nothing on the map indicates what it is. It actually looks more like a tunnel upon closer inspection. The walls are made of old stone that had darkened with age and are covered in green moss over much of the surface. It is very damp and smelly, all the more thanks to the unnatural heat of this Otherworld. It brings the darkness a little closer to home, and the effect is claustrophobic. Fencing had been erected inside of the tunnel. The fencing has a latch-door, and upon it are several old aluminum plates emblazoned with various warnings: a construction zone. The PCs can lift the latch and enter. All that can be said about the inside is that it is dark. The flashlight seems to be unable to penetrate anything beyond the doorframe. The radio stays quiet though and, not having any other options, they steps across the threshold of the door. The macadam of Saul Street ends about five feet past the fence. Past that is a pit, a dark and bottomless pit. Unlike the scarred knife-wounds that seen over on Lindsey Street, this is excavated, but the pit extending far beyond the PCs’ field of vision. However, the pit is covered with a vast expanse of steel grating with narrow, diamond-shaped holes, and it appears to go at least as far as the PCs can see. That much they can see though at first they cannot tell if they are entering a room or a corridor or simply the other side of the wall. Taking a tentative step on the grating, then another causes the grating to sag just a bit, thin as it is, but it does hold their weight,

and it seems solid enough to walk over. Even so, they must tread carefully, a decision that is even more justified as they advance across, for there are several places where the grating is missing. The PCs hears a small click behind them. The PCs turns, the door is gone, replaced by a glossy black wall. As they move in further the echo of footsteps tell them that they are in an enclosed space; the sound of their shoes on the grating is sharp and loud, piercing the otherwise thick silence. It makes one feel exposed. Strangely, the sound changes a bit as they proceed. It sounds stronger, louder, and deeper. Chalk it up to strange acoustics. Enclosed areas do that. It is only when the PCs stop walking that they realize: The sounds didn’t stop with them. cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk Deep, rhythmic at first, and then not. Something is coming. More than one something, by the sound of it, and whatever they are, they are heavy and moving with purpose. All over again, the PCs’ bodies tense and clench. The PCs can stare hard into the distance, but while the sound gets louder and noticeably closer, their eyes see nothing that makes the sound. cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk Closer and closer. And then the radio begins to make noise. It starts as a faint rhythmic ping. But as it gets louder, the noise changes to more of a metallic rattle, like loose bars on an iron cage. The rattle of the radio grows even louder. It would have been right on top of them if it were really here. But it isn’t on top, the sound is close enough now to make that clear. It isn’t on top of them, or even in front of them. Then the rattle is not just on the radio, but in the air itself. They can feel its vibrations in the grating upon which he stands. They can now hear where it is, and when they look down, they see where it is. Something very large is hanging from the grating just a few feet in front of them. No, not hanging. Swinging. It is using the holes in the grating like a kid would use monkey bars. The PCs can not see anything but its arms, if that’s what they are. They are enormous, each one larger than a child. They both connect to some kind of body, but nothing else can be seen about what it really is or what it looks like. Its hands do not seem to be able to penetrate the grate anymore than their bullets can.

The first one is not far. It hangs below the grating with its pair of webbed, almost mitten-like hands. It swings itself towards the PCs, shaking the grate as it moves. They will instinctively point the gun at the creature though consciously it is realized that it is a pointless gesture; the holes in the grating are too narrow for them to realistically shoot through. They can watch in fascination as the creature moves under them. This anthropoid is around 8 feet tall, with large, muscular arms and a stained white apron. It hangs under the grate the PCs are standing upon. It has no fingers on its hand, yet somehow it manages to hang on. It holds its position beneath the PCs and pulls its head up until it is flush against the grate. It is a face, though its exact dimensions are difficult to see, in part because of the shadow of the grate and in part because it seems to have a translucent, brown veil of skin pulled tightly across it like a sheet. Its features seem delicate, almost feminine and when the mouth opens it even seems like the creature is wearing some dark lipstick beneath the veil. It seems about to speak and speak it does: “Aaarrrreee yooou suuurrre?” in a mucous-wet voice. And the PCs don’t have any time to sit and think about it, though judging from its slurred, distorted pronunciation, its mouth must be severely malformed.. As they pass over the grating, they see something shoot out from below. It looks like some kind of long blade dripping with black slime that extends from the creature’s arm. It is thick and black and glistening, and very noticeably sharp. It tears its way through the grate as though it were nothing more than taut paper. It extends nearly three feet in the air, not quite far enough to kill them should it connect, but uncomfortable nonetheless. The whole movement lasts less than a second but watching that spearing monster, realizing how deadly a threat it could be, how close it came to goring, makes it all go in dreadfully slow motion. The creature’s intentions no longer a mystery, the PCs run forward. There are others, the PCs can hear them as they swing beneath the grate and the PCs can feel the tremor of their weight moving across the floor. Another blade shoots up in front of them and their momentum almost slices them as the PCs try to stop before running into it. The sounds of the approaching monsters, and of the squealing radio echoes and amplifies, and together with the painful protests of the PCs’ injuries, is like being immersed in a sea of bad sensations. The PCs can hear the screech of metal all around them as somewhere in the dark the creatures stab their black dripping swords through the grate. The PCs keep running. Though the PCs can hear them, they do not see any of them anymore. Moreover, the ones the PCs can hear do not seem to be moving at all. There is a group behind them that sounds faint and there is a group in front of them somewhere that sounds a little louder. Strangely though, neither group seems to be moving towards them. Just when the PCs decide to be thankful for small favors, and are about to continue running, the PCs feel the angle of the grating shift beneath them. What the hell? The PCs wonder. Then an awful thought occurs to them. The creatures are able to stab through the grate and leave a small hole. If they were to stay in one place and make enough holes––they’re trying to cut the grate away!

Again, the timing of their escape is not particularly close to the objective observer. The grate does not collapse all that fast and at their current pace the PCs has ample time to clear the damaged section. But, all alone in the dark, the screeching grate is the sound of Death coming to seize them by its talons and spirit them away to some desolate place. The PCs will have jump over a line of holes in the grate, dodging another lance in the process and continue at a dead run with the shriek of ripping metal echoing around them as somewhere behind them the grating falls into oblivion. But of course there is another side. They can now see the brass doorknob emerge from the darkness in front of them. There is one last creature before the PCs find the door. The blade that emerges from its arm is nearly the entire length of a human body. It then disappears beneath the grating. The grating stops and the asphalt of the road begins again. There is another door here, this one with a concealed latch. The PCs will have to try to pull it, try so hard that it seems like a fight, with terror as much as the latch itself. As it does, the creature makes a verbal noise that almost sounds like, “Don’t”. The PCs pauses for a moment and then quickly sidesteps as the enormous blade shoots up again. Part of them wants to pause and analyze this but practicality overrules this and so the PCs ignore it for the moment, grab the latch and turn it. Finally it gives way and the latch-door opens. They push the door open and jumping across the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind and the radio is finally silent. Behind them, through the fencing, the PCs can hear the clattering of the under-hangers on the grating, still advancing in their direction. They can also hear the monsters themselves, grunting with each movement, a chilling sound all on its own, never mind the rest of it. After that taxing mad-dash through the hellish tunnel, it is nice to be out in the open again. The whole experience could not have lasted a whole two minutes, but it feels far longer. Carroll Street: So the PCs set off south along Carroll Street, keeping to the sidewalk and taking in what little they can of their surroundings. However, there is still a healthy element of fear present, and that makes it easier to at least pretend to ignore other worries. There are other elements such as the radio, which obviously has the ability to sense these monsters. Yet, as glad as the PCs are to have this little thing in their possession, just the sound of static sends a chill down their spine. And it is picking up now. The PCs can’t see anything, but the static has never lied so far, and they can hear an arrhythmic tapping, sharp and easily heard over the radio. They are fairly certain that it isn’t coming from anything they want to meet. Crossing over to the other side of Carroll to get away from it, and sure enough, the radio settles down. Neely Street: 11Turning the corner onto Neely Street, crossing over to the east side, the bar sits on the corner of Neely and Sanders. It is a red brick building with a large window, in front of it is a tree planted in a patch of grass in the sidewalk, next to two newspaper dispensers, one white and one green; and next to the green one there is a lamp post. There is also a payphone next to the building's service door, which is on the side. The main entrance door is at the very corner: a glass door with a blue canopy over it. Over the large window on the side, there was also a blue canopy with "Bar Neely's" written in white, and under it a drawing of a martini glass. At the corner is a crossing light.

Neely’s Bar: It features a large window, but the PCs can see nothing through it, because
someone has covered it entirely with newspaper. It is a small bar, but a nice one, a perfect smalltown watering hole. Neely’s had a reputation as being one of the more upscale bars in Silent Hill. They even served food. It was one of the more comfortable places in town. It was clean, wellkept, and had a nice atmosphere. No beer-soaked Eagle's Club-type joint, this. Neely's was a step above peddling to the average barfly. The windows of Neely’s Bar have been boarded up and in newspapers; perhaps they had been remodeling when the place was abandoned. The sign has fallen off long ago and the door has been torn off its hinges. The inside is dank with a faint smell of putrefaction. This is a bar, but it looks long abandoned and in shambles. The place is now bare of tables and chairs, of decorations and adornments. The bar is still there, and the stools are still bolted to the floor, but the place is completely denuded otherwise. It is ugly now, ugly and empty. The other stools are gone, square outlines in the floor are the only evidence of their presence. In front of them, right of the door, is a fifteen foot long counter, or what remains of it. The mahogany is now black and chunks of the surface have been torn out. There is a door behind the bar’s counter, obviously for the bartender to go inside the storeroom and bring out whatever items and bottles he needed for his customers. The “Employees Only” door to the left is gone and the walls around it are black. The area to the right was once filled with tables and plush leather booths, now it is completely barren. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all bare, pitted concrete, stained and filthy with mold and chipped and ugly, lined with cracks. Some of the plaster that coated them has fallen off and lie on the floor in pieces. The floor’s tiles are stained with age, and some are even broken and one can see the cement underneath. Two long cables hang from the ceiling forming two downward arches. Underlaying the stale-beer smell is a faint scent of disinfectant. Not all of the walls are bare, though. One of them has a message scrawled in red. In fact, there is more than one, as the PCs see when they look at the paper-covered inside window. There was a HOLE here. And beneath that, as if it were an afterthought, It's gone now. It certainly is. The place is bare of everything, and that includes holes, except for the ones that pockmark the walls here and there. It is on the side wall that the other message is scrawled, this time in smaller handwriting, for it is longer. It is also exponentially more chilling. A glance at the bar finds a small, cream-white envelope rests there. On top of it, acting as a paperweight, is a wrench. Opening up the envelope, pulling out a folded sheet of paper; another note. Or perhaps you are a fool. The truth usually betrays people. A part of that abyss is in the old society. The key to the society is in the park, buried in the ground at the feet of the statue of the praying woman. It's inside of a box, and to open that box, you'll need the wrench. My patient buried it there. I knew about it, of course, but I did nothing to prevent it. I didn't like having it near me, so uneasy it made me feel. It wasn't the truth I sought, but rather tranquility. The happiness of ignorance. I also saw that thing. I fled, but the museum was locked as well. Now, nobody tries to enter the place. Nobody even dares approach it. If you still do not wish to stop, if you wish to venture forth, then I pray to the Lord to have mercy upon your eternal soul. There is no signature, no name. Just some clues and a destination.

Backroom: Their light glows high on the walls, catching the grain of the crates in their cast. Walking through the narrow paths. The air is thick with dust and the scent of rotted pine and oak. They can pause to read the labels stenciled on the sides of crates; some are still legible, others have faded to little more than stains. Of course the names mean little to them, even if they have the mind or tongue of a coonoisseur. Among the labels they can read, they find some selfexplanatory—gin, scotch, whiskey, Bordeanux, and English rum—and others tell them nothing — Belle of Anderson, Crown Prince, and Old Cabin Still. The pedestrian liquors—the whiskeys, the gins and rums—are at the front, while the middle of the room is filled with more exotic beverages—brandies, liqueurs, and aperitifs. Further back, deeper in the maze of crates, the wines take hold. Katz Street: Enthusiasm tempered as one steps outside of the remnants of Neely’s Bar the PCs turn right and travel up Neely Street until they reach Katz. With fresh batteries the flashlight’s range has increased and, though they still cannot see across the street, this gives them a better sense of security. From where they stand now, there are two ways to get there that is known about. One is to go back the way they came, via the tunnel on Saul Street. Considering what sort of company called that particular stretch of the street home, the PCs should not be very keen about that route. And of course, there is also the route the PCs had taken to get to west South Vale the first time, that being the Woodside and Blue Creek Apartments. However, that route is much longer and almost certainly more dangerous. The option of going back through the Saul Street tunnel is dangerous, and freakishly terrifying, but it is also the quickest way. Nathan Avenue: A broad banner, barely visible in the fog, hangs from the Victorian Gothic brica-brac along the roofline, advertising “Silent Hill Lofts! Enjoy Urban Living in the New South Vale!” with a number to call. Both roads leading north to Nathan Avenue on this side are totally impractical, by virtue of them, and the buildings lining them, with a massive divot through South Vale. Locane’s Grocery: A two-story building with a business on the first floor and an apartment above, sandwiched between South Silent Hill Fire Station and St. Stella’s Catholic Church. A sign on the building reads: “Locane’s Grocery – Fresh Produce, Meats, and Cheeses.” The door is made of wood whose green paint is cracked and flaking. There is a large glass window, and an old brass handle and brass mail slot. The door is closed. A smear of blood decorates the glass and peeling paint.

The grocery store is a mess. Around the three cash registers, black metal display stands have been toppled. Chewing guns, candy, razor blades, paperback books, and other small items spill over the floor. The PCs walk across the front of the store, looking into each aisle as they pass it. Goods have been pulled off the shelves and thrown to the floor. Boxes of cereal are smashed, torn open, the bright cardboard poking up through drifts of cornflakes and Cherrios. Smashed bottles of vinegar produce a pungent stench. Jars of jam, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, and relish are tumbled in a jagged, glutinous heap. Waist-high cooler for meat, cheese, eggs, and milk are lined up along the rear of the store. Beyond the coolers lies the sparkling-clean work area where meat was cut, weighed, and wrapped for sale. Your eyes nervously flick over the porcelain and butcher’s block tables. You sigh with relief when you see that nothing lies on any of them. You wouldn’t be surprised to have seen the store manager’s body neatly chopped into steaks, roasts, and cutlets. The PC pass a barbershop, then another art gallery. Then there is nothing more. The building on the right has collapsed, with only a jagged ruin of wall, complete with a shattered window, remaining. The rest is gone, fallen into a chasm whose floor is lost deep in the mist. And so is the far side of the hole. There might as well have been nothing at all beyond it, as far as one can see in the fog and flurry. Tracing the chasm all the way across the street, one finds another ruined building spilling into the hole. Part of its façade has fallen into Lindsey Street as well, though. Amid the fallen bricks, broken beams, and shattered glass, broken bits of china and badly tarnished forks and spoons litter the street. Barber Shop: Their attention is subsequently snagged by something the first bit of property defacement they''ve seen since they've entered town: one particular door has been spray-painted with a big "X" in black paint. It is a door that had been locked, oddly enough, from the outside with a padlock-and-hasp, perfunctorily barring entry into what had been a barbershop. Aside from that there is nothing unique about it; its function proclaimed by the pole outside, the red spiraling down, and by the name painted on broad window, the letters grown scabrous as the gold paint ages and flakes away. While the most expensive hair salons offer sickening cutenesses —Hairport, Hair Today: Gone Tomorrow, Hair We Are, Headline, Shear Masters, The Head Hunter, In-Hair-itance, and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseam—the name of the shop is eminently forgottable GUCCI's. It is meant to be so. Although the glass display window might present a problem of compromised security, they can just hope that the thick layer of dust on it will lessen the risk of one of those things peering in to check what might be worth having a closer look at. At least they can come inside out of the cold and probably lock the door again from within with no difficulty, then wait and sit tight. They stick the crowbar's crook beneath the hasp's tongue and lever it free from the door's wooden frame. They pause at the entrance to the barbershop. Before entering, you pause a final moment to stare in the window. For a second you see only a reflection of the street and the silhouette of a person more shadow than substance—you. The dusty ledge of the window holds three desiccated plants and an assortment of dead flies. They go in, pulling the door closed after them. The air smells of talcum and rose oil and tonic. The floor is clean and instruments are laid out on white linen atop the counter. Light glints dully from the surface of scissors and shears and the pearl handles of more than one straight razor. A sweep of the old-fashioned salon's interior shows that the main parlor has a row of four barber-

shop chairs; they are of a sort no longer made; black leather, white enamel, a high headrest. The chairs face a dusty and tarnished wall-mounted mirror, a vinyl cushioned bench where other patrons would have undoubtedly sat while awaiting the attention of the shopkeeper as well half a dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs sitting empty and two low tables showing a litter of magazines with covered torn or missing entirely. There is a long bracketed shelf immediately below the mirror that is cluttered with all manner of barber-shop paraphernalia and piled drifts of hair trimmings. There are other mirrors on two of the three interior walls, but rather than add light to the long, narrow room, the infinitely receding reflections seem to make the space appear as if the barbershop itself were a dark reflection in an age-dimmed glass. The flashlight throws images of itself into mirrors and illuminating one thing at a time—a counter here, the four chairs in the center of the room, two sinks, a tiny little lavatory, no bigger than a closet, its door right inside the short hallway. If they open the drawers, there are bottles of hair tonic, towels, all the barber tools set neatly into top drawers, both sets arranged the same. It is here they make the lucky discovery of a wholly serviceable straight-razor with an ornately decorated wooden handle. They open it, holding the blade up so it reflects the light of the mirrors. This shop offered neither styling nor unisex cuts. If your hair was dirty when you entered it, it would be cut dirty; there are no shampoos given here. While the franchises would demand fifteen to thirty dollars for a basic haircut, the cost here would not have changed for a decade or more. The potential customer usually beat a hasty retreat, put off by the too-low prices, by the darkness of the place, by the air of dusty decrepitude exuded from both the establishment itself and from its few waiting customers, invariably silent and staring, and by a strange sense of tension bordering upon threat which hung in the stale air. There is a curtained doorway in back. Sweeping the curtain aside shows nothing more threatening than a backroom lounge. with a couch and a side-table with an ashtray containing several cigarette butts. No other doors or windows in this little room except for a vent with an exhaust-fan in one of the walls' upper corners. This is probably where the proprietor (Gucci?) slept in if he took a notion to close up late and not come home for the night. Church of St. Stella's: Then a large crucifix comes into sight, then the large set of doors that look all inspiring in its mid 1800s gothic style. It is clearly a Catholic church with yellow brick walls, a snow-covered roof, stained glass-windows and an ominous tower. The high wooden doors are open. They walk up the small set of stairs to the doors and push them open

Medical Clinic: The building is located on Lindsey Street's intersection with Nathan Avenue in
a corner lot where the overhanging trees cast black shadow-shapes. It is a large, old Victorian office building with a glass front, A simple white-on-black sign outside reads Ridgeview Medical Clinic, ten stories tall and completed in 1902. In the mist its dark brickwork and crowd of turrets and stone gargoyles loom ominously above, glowering at the shops and apartments across Lindsey Street. Dozens of Silent Hill physicians had their offices here; there were optometrists, dentists, pediatricians, podiatrists, dieticians and others. On the way they pass a modernistic-looking brick building Lobby: Big plate glass windows look out on to the street. A sofa.

Something dark and thick oozes down the glass of every window and door in the lobby. It steals the light and seals the PCs in. The last of the light is gone by the time they have crossed the lobby, and the blackness is vast. In the stillness, every move they make seems as loud as a drumbeat. Anything could be in the lobby, in the dark with them. Should they turn on the flashlight? If there is anything in the lobby it will be drawn to the light and come right to them. But if they fall down a flight of stairs while they stumble around in this huge building looking for a way out – and they have to get out and keep searching, they can't just wait alone here in the dark – and broke their necks, they'd be no better off. And if they trip over a table or chair, the noise will draw whatever might be lurking nearby to them as effectively as if they'd shot off a flare. And at least if they have some light, they might be able to see to run away from whatever or whoever might be inside the building with their. So they switch it on, and turn to look behind them at the windows... ...which are sealed with smooth, cold cement. As if it had been there all along. For years even, because if the PCs tentatively reach out to touch it, their fingertips come away coated in dust. What is this? Cement – how can it be cement? It had been glass no more than a minute ago. The entire front wall of the Ridgeview Clinic building facing Lindsey Street had consisted of giant arched windows – display windows for the Victorian department store that had originally occupied this building more than a hundred years ago. The light from their flashlight travels around the lobby, illuminating groups of sofas and chairs, and a reception desk, and a scattered forest of potted plants, all of which are dead. They play their light over large abstract paintings, still bright beneath accumulated dust, hanging on the walls, and across the gorgeously carved wooden pillars standing sentinel throughout the lobby. Nothing moves, but the light flashes off a large map of the building and a directory of the physicians who had their offices here, enclosed in a Plexiglas stand near the reception desk. It might show a way out. The PCs cross the lobby warily, listening for any sounds at all. Watching for any movement as dust swirls through the beam of their flashlight, but they seem to be alone in the lobby with the wilted, dead plants in their pots. They look down at the stand, and begin to read doctors' names before they notice something glistening on the Plexiglas – a spray of blood, fresh and wet. There doesn't appear to be much, only as much as what would result from a bloody cough – there is a runner of thick, dark phlegm as well, they notice. It too is still wet, and if touched, warm. Someone has been leaning on this directory when they coughed up their blood. Whoever it had been might still be nearby, and might be hurt. The elevators probably aren't working, but they might as well check them anyway. They move away from the directory, past the reception desk to a bank of four elevators, where they can press a button and, as can be expected, nothing happens. There doesn't seem to be any electricity at all. There is a door to the stairwell nearby. It is ajar. Anything could be hiding here, and could drop down on them at any moment. If they look up, searching with their light, they will see nothing but a dark stairway rising up through the building, so they begin to climb. Second Floor: In one office a pencil still rests where it had been left on a yellow legal pad whose paper has been wrinkled by the damp. In another a family’s smiling faces peer out from a framed photo on a desk. The examining rooms are still stocked with rubber gloves and

disinfectant hand wash. Test tubes still stand in racks in a lab. A printer and an x-ray machine, and diagnostic equipment whose functions the PCs can’t guess squat in some rooms, their buttons and dials glued in place by moisture. The PCs spot a refrigerator in one room with a sign on the door reading, “SPECIMINS ONLY! NO FOOD!!!”. Most of the doctors on the Ridgeview Clinic’s second floor were general practitioners, and when the PCs move toward the first door, they read nameplates beside each office door. DR. PRAHDEEP GHOSH, MD, & ASSOCIATES – They go toward the door and try the knob, and to their relief it turns easily and opens, it swings noiselessly inward. The offices of Dr. Prahdeep Ghosh and his associates are lined up in a row beyond the door, facing examining rooms, rooms full of diagnostic machines, bathrooms, and labs across a long hallway. To the left is the reception desk that looks into the waiting room. Computers sit silent and dead on the counter, and two swiveling desk chairs are abandoned. From the fabric seat of one chair grows a large toadstool. Waiting Room: Beyond the door is a comfortably furnished waiting room – with more dead potted plants, the PCs notice – that smell strongly of must, as if it had been shut up for five years in the dampness of South Vale, bathed in Toluca Lake’s humidity. The last room on the right at the end of the hall is full of file cabinets. There are dozens of them, all once painted a bland institutional gray, all now bearing scabs of rust. As they search the room with their light, prowling from one aisle of cabinets to another, they think that it probably would have been easier to look for a patient’s medical records using the office’s computers – were they not ruined by the same wet air that had nourishes a toadstool on a cloth chair, and rusts the metal cabinets before them. One drawer of one cabinet is open. They walk to it and inspect it, and see that it is festooned with dusty cobwebs, as though the drawer had been open a long, long time. And perhaps it has. With its information inside, perhaps it has been waiting for them. No, not for them. They wouldn’t know anyone whose records might be inside. They reach further back. The file folders feel chalky under their fingertips, and are green with mold. Spores billow up with every file they pull forward, looking further back. They lift it from its place, and marvel that it seems untouched by dampness or time. There is no mold, no mildew, and the papers inside the folder are still crisp and white, as if it had been protected all this time, then specially set aside for someone. For them? They shiver, and suddenly feel as though they are being watched again. Clutching the file, they walk quickly out of the room, and hate the shadows closing in behind them. Basement: Staff Room: It is empty like all the others, smelling faintly of disinfectant. A side door, with no glass in it, is open by a crack. Storeroom: There are pitch-black shadows inside. The strong smell of formaldehyde wafts over them. Cautiously, they push through the opening and are able to discern long bench tables running the length of the room, with cupboards, glass cabinets and shelving around the walls.

Using the light, they see there are large glass cases and jars on the work benches, all of which contain floating things of no recognizable form - at least, not from where they stand. Once inside, they able to see work benches along the windowed wall, desk lights and computers on their surfaces. There is the usual scientific paraphernalia around on other worktops, from Bunsen burners to both ordinary and electron microscopes, from flat-bottomed and conical flasks to evaporating dishes and measuring cylinders, whose purpose one can only guess at. They approach one of the long benches and shine the light on the closest glass cabinet there. With a small cry, they recoil at the sight of the thing inside. Again they feel sickened, yet they are also perversely fascinated with the huge, peculiar, unborn foetus floating in the preservative. The bulbous but only partly-formed head is tucked into tiny arms, a lizard's comb running from the scalp, over its arched back, to end in a pointed tail. Minute legs are bent and raised into its stomach, but one can see the fleshy webbing between its tiny, splayed toes. One would have assumed it was an animal or reptile of some kind had it not been for the pallid and soft-looking skin, the one visible eye, blue and very human, the growth that almost formed a natural ear. And if it were not for the glassy blankness in its stare, one might even have imagined it were alive. You pray then that it had never lived. Swiftly, as if for relief from this monstrosity, they turn the beam on a tall, thick jar standing next to the glass case and groan, for the specimen in this is as gross as its neighbor. Behind the curved glass there floats an infant's small head, its eyelids closed, its little pink lips parted. The face is not easy to look at, for it is squashed slightly and the cheeks protrude, as if it had been crushed between skull and jaw. It is attached to a trailing column of vertebrae and lengthy spinal cord; there is no body, no limbs, just a baby's flattened head drifting in pellucid liquid with a soft spine dangling from it. A green light appears from the walls all around, it is dim and eerie; and it is refracted and distorted by round glass: the large glass jars with formaldehyde in them—how could they have missed that very distinct odor that fills the room?—and swimming in the formaldehyde are fetuses of different sizes. Figures emerge from the darkness, bottled things with woeful redundancies and distressing deficits. It is a collection of preserved babies—or rather foetuses. One can’t be sure that they are entirely human. Are they deformed, or somehow a kind of hybrid? They float, blind and colorless, shivering in the unstable light. Whatever their source, they’ve born without life. Perhaps others have survived, and these were the failures. They move the light on, dreading what else they might find, but somehow powerless to stop themselves, horribly gripped by these macabre exhibits, repulsed by them, yet curious to see more, as if under their morbid spell. The next jar holds within it a large fibrous mass, a rough-shaped ball that looks like some terrible overgrown cyst, only embedded in its scabrous surface is an eye, and a few crooked teeth, and pieces of tufty black hair, all that remains of an embryo that had existed in some unfortunate woman's womb, sharing the space with, and finally absorbed into, this abnormal sac. Another large, glass case, suspended inside a tangled mass of limbs, intertwined arms and legs, two young bodies fused together in cursed embrace, heads melded by the faces, no spaces between their flesh. They thought they had seen the worst, but nothing can match these fresh obscenities. Right next to them is another set of shelves, on the other side of the narrow room is filled with murky glass jars about a foot high, all stinking of formaldehyde. Still they go on, thoughts numbed, revulsion

now strangely submissive; sensitivities have detached themselves from the observations, emotions self-protectively had hardened. This chamber of true horrors is too gruesomely awesome to remain shocking, for the normal mind cannot abide heinous repetition and will always strive to shield itself for the sake of sanity. One isn't disturbed as one progresses along these rows of outrageous specimens, displayed here like bizarre trophies: by now they are too stunned to be affected. Some have umbilical cords. Others are too distorted for anyone to tell where a cord might begin. One is a four-armed female. Then a male with no arms at all, only flipper-like protrusions and a dozen scales on the chest. One is covered in fur and bears a long pink tail. One has a single staring orb in place of eyes. One is adorned head to toe with feathery excrescences. One with brains bursting from a fractured skull. One with teeth as sharp as needle. A few look like pairs of Siamese twins, so poorly separated that they resemble the double-exposure of a photograph. Others have one head pleasingly proportioned and the other misshapen. The mummified boy, who has another head growing from the top of his own, the supernumerary head having grown upside down and ending at the neck, means nothing to them; the two small skeletons lying flat inside a glass cabinet, both of them joined together in longitudinal axis at the pelvis, so that instead of legs each has the torso of the other - none of them truly registers. The sights have all become too overwhelming, and mercifully so; they pass between them in a daze, the terrible afflictions at least muted by moonlight, the flashlight never lingering on any one exhibit. The last two are the most unnerving: a male with the face a horrid mass of naked muscles and exposed bone, and the other a male with no face at all, only a gaping hole. When they reach the end of the room and briefly swing the beam along the shelves bearing rows of various-sized containers and jars, each one of these filled with fleshy substances, they decide they’ve had had enough and a glimpse of disembodied eyeballs staring back at them from behind glass reinforces the decision. Even if they had not ventured into the store room. They are scared. Yes, their senses have become numbed against all the distressing sights in this abominable place, but fear is something that can not be denied. Katz Street: It isn't very far to Katz Street, and even as one strolls past the Woodside Apartments, one is unmolested by the creatures of the night. The fog is still thick on Lindsey and the PCs still cannot even see across the road. Anyone heading north, sticking to the sidewalk will suddenly find their way blocked by an inexplicable 400-foot tall wall composed of metal girders draped with tarps and enveloped by a chain link fence with barb-wire. The wall looks like a partially completed office building or a giant construction barrier but the tarps and fence seem worn and there is no sign that the building has been worked on recently. It is literally a skeleton of wooden beams and sheet metal covered and connected by skins of waterproofed canvas. The wall blocks West Katz Street, which leads to West Silent Hill. It spans the entire street, leaving a gap between itself and the chain-link fence no wider than a hand. The Shellfish gas station and Shopco supermarket is behind it. Surely, nobody was building anything right in the middle of a street. Is there another huge crevasse on the other side of it? Could the town's cataclysm have happened months ago, and this was evidence that someone had tried to do something about it? In any case, they are blocked off again. Whether or not there is a pit on the other side, the end result is no different.

There is something on the tarp. Someone had left a message in red spraypaint, across one quadrant of canvas: The door which opens in darkness leads to nightmares. It is an ebony door with a shiny brass knob and they know it was definitely not there before. The surface of the door is a glossy black that almost reflects the light back. The knob has a concave front, which inverts the reflection of his hand as it grips the knob. It is strangely warm, as though someone else's hand has been resting there just before their arrival. The door didn’t open before, it didn’t even seem to be functional, but it is dark now. There is no telling how many other changes have taken place here in town, even if they appear to be more subtle than Brookhaven offered. How literal is that message going to be. Will the PCs step through to find that western South Vale is the sort of pestilential hellhole that the hospital and school became? Would some sort of new toothy horror ambush them three steps in and make mincemeat of them? Would the door even open? No way to tell except to try, of course. If the knob is, one’s hand jumps away, as if shocked. It isn’t, not literally, but perhaps figuratively. The knob is ice cold. Touching it again, tapping it a bit and finally resting the loop of a hand around it reveals that it is absolutely freezing. Quickly turning the knob reveals that the first half of the message proves correct. The doorknob is no longer broken. The small hairs on the arms of the PCs raise and bristle as one pushes it open, wondering just what on earth, or not on earth, will they find behind this door. To their immediate surprise, what is revealed to is not a Brookhavenesque diseased look, nor a burned-by-hellfire motif. Things in front of them look no different than things behind them. By stepping through, and letting go of the door handle, the PCs find that the handle doesn’t let go as easily as it should. It is so bitterly cold that the sweat on palms of the PC’s hand has frozen, and fused their hand to the knob. No, there is no major, world-altering difference on this side of the door, as far as the PCs can tell. It is still dark, it is still cold, and everything has that mournful, abandoned look to it that it had since the PCs came. Going back to the opening and shining the light inside confirms that the area is passable, though some of the girders seem precariously positioned and the smell of rotten wood from somewhere inside the tunnel puts them on edge. The radio is silent. If something comes at them while they are inside they’ll have to fight it. The passageway is long and was never meant to be permanent. The rotten wood smell comes from the temporary support beams that have been put in place; the wood could easily give away and bury them under countless tons of steel. It is then that the radio begins to hiss and pop. The acoustics of the tunnel amplify noise and vibration so despite the sound of the radio, they can hear the mannequinite running from behind them. The tunnel is narrow enough that it would be almost impossible for the mannequinite to dodge every bullet. The sound of the gun is deafening and the radio is still emitting static but another noise catches their attention. A groan is heard from somewhere above them as steel girders shift ever so slightly, driven by the sonic vibrations created by the discharge of the gun. The groan travels down to the wood support beams where it turns into a mild crunching sound.

The mannequinite is forgotten as the PCs bolt down the tunnel. They can hear the static on the radio and they are certain that it is not far behind them; though whether it is in pursuit or whether it is simply trying to escape the imminent collapse of the tunnel, it is not certain. A crash is heard somewhere back in the tunnel; one of the supports has collapsed. The groan of the girders increases. Instincts say to move faster but with visibility limited by the flashlight: One small slip... They can hear more supports breaking. The groan turns into a screech as more girders shift out of position and the center of the tunnel begins its collapse. The PCs clear the tunnel with more than a few seconds to spare. Behind them, the screech of the girders turns into a roar as the whole construction caves in on the tunnel. The roar drowns out the radio and all other sounds before settling. There are a few rings of steel on steel and thumps of heavy objects hitting the ground and then all is as silent as it was before. Walking back to inspect the wreckage finds that the wall is now better described as a pile consisting of broken concrete and twisted steel girders. The tunnel is gone and one can see a pair of legs with shiny veins sticking out from beneath a collapsed girder. The wall itself may be gone, but the pile is just as impassable and it is bleakly realized that if one wants to go back to West South Vale, one shall have to find another route. Turning towards the Munson Street intersection, the PCs won’t even cover five paces when the radio belts out a fresh wave of whiny, wavy static. Immediately the PCs get on the defensive. This time, however, it doesn’t matter. This time, they hear what is coming perhaps a split second after they got warned of its presence. It is a squealing high-pitched whine, much deeper and more immediately distant than the pocket radio, like someone ran steel wool down the length of a brushed metal slab, up and down repeatedly and quickly. The sound is almost familiar, dancing wildly on the very edge of the PCs’ minds thanks to the rush of surprise, but they can’t place it right away. Not until they see the dark shape rush past on the ground, blurred by the inky darkness. It is far too fast and far too dark to even hope to follow with their eyes, but it is noisy enough that they can listen for it. It is so amazingly fast though, the PCs can barely keep up. Within the span of a second it will completely encircle them, though it doesn’t seem to be making a concentrated effort to attack. The screechy metallic noise continues as the straight-jacketed Patient darts haphazardly in random directions. Then, it pauses for a moment, and then the screeching is replaced by a loud, sharp tapping. Tap, tap, tap. It has stood on its feet now, and is ambling towards the PCs from the left. The radiance from the flashlight glares hard against the slick, snot-like coating of gunk with which it is covered. It gurgles with anticipation as it closes in, the sound as thick and phlegmy as its physical appearance. Café Mist: The small tables around the perimeter of the room are overturned, but one remains upright in the middle. A solitary light hangs above it and the PCs can see three teacups lined up on the table.

The Streets:
Before long, Munson empties out onto the much larger Nathan Avenue, the only real main road on this side of the lake. The mist has thickened again and total silence has enveloped the town again.

Once they start up Nathan Avenue though, they do not get very far before the radio’s dry, sandy hissing begins again in earnest. As the PCs move along, the radio hums in and out as the PCs come within proximity of things they would rather not meet. Twice along the way they actually see them, and once, one sees them. It is a straight-jacket, but they have plenty of room to avoid it, though. The PCs cross over to the sidewalk on the other side. A fence lines this part of the road, and following it west for a little until it opens up into a path, one lined with trees and neatly-kept hedges and paved with rusty red cobblestones. It is the west entrance to Rosewater Park, identified by a large cement slab appearing on their right that stands upright with large raised letters, spelling out its name.

Rosewater Park: The outer edges of Rosewater Park are built with flagstones and contain
benches and gazebos that offer views of Toluca Lake. The inner areas consists of grasses, benches, trees, rose gardens, concrete walkways, and the odd statue or two dedicated to various Silent Hill historical figures, which the locals had forgotten. The town had fallen on hard times, and people don’t have time anymore for sweet stories, however tragic. They mostly thought of the statues as curiosities. It carries with it the scent and sound of the lake up ahead. One can hear the ebb of the waves gently sliding against the observation deck and the shores, and the clean, earthy smell that makes a good freshwater lake enjoyable. It is nice to know that even though the whole world seems to be rapidly descending into madness all around, one can still find traces of normalcy here and there. However, the pitch-dark hedgerows of the park help keep the visitors from getting too comfortable. Never mind whatever might be hiding behind them, the hedges themselves look imposing and threatening. The hedges and bushes give way to iron railings and a concrete base. Following the main pathway past the park office and down some steps, and eventually the halfhigh brick wall opens up into the park's lush interiors hung high with manicured hedges ten feet high and ivy-strewn walkways that gives the park the appearance of palace rooms without a ceiling. There is less mist inside the park, the moisture being partially absorbed by the hedges and trees. There is no trace anyone has been here in years, despite the impossibly pristine nature of the park and all its features such as the one they stand in front of right now. They stroll along the center path of the park’s rear garden, this separated from the rest by a brickwall and lush shrubbery, they pass a small, abandoned sitting area. Ahead of them is a white-wood gazebo, and even before they reach it the PCs can see that the paint is old and cracked, the frame splintered here and there. Nevertheless it still manages to look attractive with its backdrop of rhododendrons, and plants and other flowers on either side of the path leading up to its step. They walk through the gloomy park, footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone walkway. They then pass underneath a long terrace that is overgrown with verdant ivy. They descend a flight of stone steps until they reach a broad brick landing with a stainless steel safety railing. The railing is studded with several coin-operated binocular devices are stationed every dozen feet or so where a quarter brings a view of Paleville, and the South Park section of town, downtown, East Silent Hill, and like a little green sailboat adrift, Hermit's Island lost in the great western bay of Toluca Lake. On a clear day, one can see all the way to the other side of Toluca Lake. But today

they cannot see the lake at all: a bank of dense fog has advanced as far as the railing, where it can be glimpsed only intermittently—high, gray, like a towering tsunami flash-frozen in instant before it would have smashed across the coast. The lazy mist writhes off the face of the fog bank like an eternal expanse of white nothingness. Through the murk one can just barely make out the waves of Toluca, softly lapping against the concrete below. It is beautiful and calm, even now, but a lot of the appeal is lost without bright sunlight, warm air, and the sounds of other human beings. Suddenly, a shadowy figure drifts into view, eventually revealed as a statue atop a pedestal. Statues In The Park: The first statue is that of Patrick Chester riding atop a horse, “Son of Edward Chester, who died for liberty and for the people. His memory lives on.” reads the plaque underneath the statue depicting a grim-faced solider. His statue too, is cracked and worn. The statue in the next lawn, however, is the one they have been looking for. The statue itself is about life-sized, though it is perched upon a large, waist-high block of marbleized granite. The park had been dedicated sometime in the 1880s, and both statue and base are around almost as long. The sculpture depicts a woman shrouded in a shawl and cowl, her eyes closed, her face cast downward, and her hands clasped together in prayer. Most of the fine features are worn completely smooth, and the deeper creases are already beginning to wear themselves even. Nowhere is this more evident than on the dedication plaque, for many of the letters are completely worn away. All that remains is enough to tell that the woman’s name was Jennifer Carroll and that she was a victim of persecution by the Christians, and she is now buried in the park. The plaque also says "Nothing is gained without sacrifice. Good things, it turns out, do not come to those who wait. They come to those willing to pay for what they want. A young girl named Jennifer knew that, once upon a time. She knew the nature of sacrifice and surrender, and the price she paid was very high, indeed. What happened here shall never be forgotten".

On the ground at the foot of the statue is a mound of raised dirt, bare in the midst of grass. Examining it closely reveals that the ground is soft and damp. If they have no tools to dig with, they must use their hands. The PCs can plunge their hands into the soft soil and tear away at the mound, flinging dirt to the side. Sure enough, buried about four inches is a metal box. Something inside it rattles as it is taken out of the hole. Clearing off the dirt around it and removing it from its hiding place reveals that the small metal box is made of tin, brown with rust and is fairly unremarkable save for the fact that whoever buried it seemed to really value whatever is inside. In spite of the dirt covering it, it feels firm and heavy. Shaking it gently, the PCs feel and hear something move inside. A solid steel clamp is bolted very tightly around the tin box, tight enough that only a wrench can open it. However, the hinges are held in place with screws. Had the box been left here for a few more weeks or so, the bolts would have likely rusted to the point where a wrench might not be enough. Already, small red patches clot the small gap between the clamp and the bolt, but one can still wrench off one bolt, then the other, and toss the defeated clamp aside. It takes some effort to get them moving on the rusty hinges, but once they do they come out easily. With the hinges off they are able to pull the lid open. Inside of the tin box is an old bronze key, tarnished almost completely green. It is not a modern, saw-toothed key, but a slender antique key with a slightly dimpled square head. It is larger than a normal key, and fairly ornate. The grip of the key is stamped with the design of some kind of coat of arms, and the words Silent Hill Historical Society in small, beveled letters. Looking at the map shows that the Silent Hill Historical Society is located on Nathan Avenue, though it is a long way down for someone on foot. Taking the key and tracing their steps back, still keeping a wary eye on the hedgerows and other dark spaces, it is still calm and quiet, the radio included, but the PCs can’t help feeling edgy. As peaceful as the park appears to be, there is no way the PCs can hope to take it for granted. Yet, they are able to navigate their way out of the park without encountering even one of Silent Hill’s many interesting inhabitants. They walk away from the lawn, leaving the box behind. Jennifer Carroll’s gaze follows them as they go. “Beware the Grass” a sign reads. An open green in the center of the park, and even to the color of the grass at their feet, is dreamlike. The voices have ceased. There is nothing but the green common with the trees and brush all around it but from somewhere nearby can be heard the chanting voices and they have added a new couplet. “Watch out for the fourth step.” Another sign reads “Beware the bug that has been going around town.” yet another sign reads. A mannequinite attacks them just as they exit the stone archway of the park, but the PCs have come to expect this and they can easily evade its charge. Darkness: A kind of petrified hedge sprouts up from either side of the path to the western entrance, with ebony leaves and branches that sparkle in the light and shatter at a touch.

The stagnant air picks up a little into a breeze as one ventures into the park. The park itself has taken on a foreboding darkness. The trees cast oddly elongated shadows. The only things of the park that remain in this world is the playground equipment, and even they have become twisted to the point of looking like devices of torture instead of things children would play with. The bushes no longer bloom and are really nothing more than twisting tangles of thorns. The dirt beneath underfoot actually sports random tufts of grass and low moss here and there; soft, spongy and damp.

The Little Baroness:
(Optional Scenario) A whistle shrieks earsplitting in the mist. The PCs can strain their eyes but see only the trees and bricks of Rosewater Park, and the rolling fog. The whistle sounds familiar, almost like a train, but shriller. It comes again. It is coming from the water, to which the park flows down in terraces overhung with arbors covered in flowering vines. The whistle shrills again, as though it is calling to them, summoning the PCs. They bend to pick up their weapons and walk toward its sound. Another noise dances through the air, notes, music. An organ perhaps? It brings to mind songs heard in the church. They sound so familiar. The PCs cautiously make their way through Rosewater Park, following the stairs and pathways down toward the lake. Though the whistle remains silent, the music plays on and as they draw closer they realize the music isn't an organ, but a calliope spilling a bright song into the drifting fog. As they descend a final set of brick steps to the landing along the waterfront, something takes shape in the mist ahead. It is long and bulky and must be floating beyond the black iron railings with their binoculars. More than bulky. Huge. A boat, a ship of some kind... The calliope falls silent as they reach the bottom of the stairs. It is a river boat, afloat just beyond the railing. It is painted gleaming white, with dark green railings along its two galleries and trim around its windows and doors. Small brass lanterns gleam in the murk. The PCs stand at the rear of the boat, where a giant paddlewheel sits idle, but dripping, as if the boat has just arrived to dock at the park. It seems so plain, but elegant. Simple, but beautiful. There are two decks, each with their dark green banisters. There is a staircase leading from the first to the second deck. Doors and windows march along behind the first deck's railing, large windows, some arched, behind the railing of the second deck. A set of fancy double doors with large oval windows appear on the second deck, then the windows continue. A section of the iron railing is missing up ahead, and a wide gangplank lined with brass poles and dark green velvet ropes invites anyone strolling along the brick landing to come aboard. A banner hangs from the railing of the second deck, white with large letters in fancy script.

WELCOME ABOARD THE LITTLE BARONESS LUNCHEON EXCURSION CRUISE There is the gangplank with its brass poles and velvet ropes, seeming to wait for them. There is the banner, hanging limply. The calliope that was heard is at the rear, where it once summoned passengers to their meal from the shelter of a broad roof like that of the porch of a grand mansion. The whistles to warn nearby ships of the Little Baroness’ approach are located at the bow on the second deck, where the boat was steered from a tiny bridge as encrusted with brass, gilt, and expensive wood paneling as the rest of the boat. Tiny smokestacks, like a pair of chimneys, painted dark green, jut up from the center of the boat like devil’s horns. They can barely be seen over the roofline. Music begins to play. The richness of a piano is soon joined by a feisty cornet and a mournful violin. A cello joins in and a flute trill. As the sound drifts down from the dining room, the PCs recognize it as a waltz, beautiful and flowing like a stream over smooth pebbles. Is someone there? The PCs hesitate, staring at the gangplank bridging only a space of lapping water. The music pours from inside the second deck, from the endless windows and fancy doors of the dining room, warm and enveloping and seeming to show there is nothing to worry about onboard the Little Baroness. Once aboard, one only need eat and converse, dance and stroll the decks to view the beauty of a very special place called Silent Hill on its grand lake. The PCs know better. But what else is there to do? If they step onto the gangplank, trailing their hands over the green velvet ropes, they will be amazed that they feel so new and soft. The brass poles are untarnished as they pass them one by one. Then the Player Characters stand on the deck and look back to Rosewater Park and its broad, blank brick landing, and its statues and monuments are vague shapes in the mist. Snowflakes fall softly here and there, still melting on the ground, and like the snowflakes, the waltz still drifts gently down from above. To the left a staircase sweeps upward and to the right, doors and windows of the private suites. The PCs walk up to the stairs and begin to climb, and notice the stairs and their railings alike are painted deep forest green. At the top the deck is broader than that below, wide enough for passengers to stroll and enjoy the view passing by. Behind the windows velvet drapes swoop down gracefully from valences above, bedecked with fringe and tassel. The drapes are dark green, the fringe and tassel gold. Behind the glass are the tables and chairs, each table set for a meal. To the left are the fancy double doors seen from below, their leaded glass ovals sporting an elegant filigreed design in wrought iron. Nothing can bee seen through their opaque windows. Laying a hand on the polished brass doorknob... And the whistle screams and the PCs jump or drop to their knees in terror at the sound like a keening banshee so close and so sudden after the silence. And black smoke belches from the tiny smokestacks and the paddlewheel churns to life and slaps and slaps and slaps the water as the Little Baroness begins to move. And as they spring to their feet, the PCs see the gangplank and its poles and ropes tumble into the water below them as the Little Baroness pulls away from Rosewater Park and sets sail, moving faster by the second. Inside the dining saloon, the music ceases. Wheelhouse: As the Little Baroness heaves itself to port, its paddlewheel spinning furiously, the PCs can go to the little wheelhouse at the bow. There is a dark cherrywood door with a brass

knob and large glass rectangle that allows a view of a room full of dials and gauges, brass knobs and levers, all of it beautiful in a strange, way. The wheel spins to the left by itself. When the doorknob is tried, the PCs discover the door is locked. If they consider smashing their way through the window, remind them that it is just as well – they have no idea how to steer the boat. No one is steering the boat, though plainly the Little Baroness is on the move, and seems to have a destination in mind. The river-boat had been pointed east as it sat at the landing at Rosewater Park; now it is turning and cutting a path through the water to go west. To go where? Behind them, already Rosewater Park has fallen away into foggy murk, and the trees along the lakeshore between Nathan Avenue and the water are all but invisible. Dining Room: The PCs turn and move along the deck back toward the dining saloon. They can lay a hand on the knob and study the loops and swirls of wrought iron embedded in the door’s large frosted glass oval windows. Surely there will be nobody in the dining room. Never mind the beautiful waltz they heard minutes before. If the Little Baroness can steer itself, it can probably play its own piano as well. They open the door cautiously and look in. Just in case, because even if the Little Baroness can play its own piano, it also seems that in Silent Hill now there are options beyond people and living creatures. Though it is dark, there is enough light to see its ornate opulence, tables and chairs in place near a large dance floor and orchestra well, and a magnificent crystal chandelier hanging over it all. The dining saloon is as marvelous; dark green velvet drapes with their gold trim from outside; framed tables set for lunch with dishes of china – a forest green pattern rimmed with gold – and sparkling crystal and polished silver. Peeking out from beneath lace tablecloths, the tables are made of the same dark cherry wood that trims and panels the rest of the boat. The chairs sport dark green velvet upholstery fastened with brass tacks to frames of the same dark wood. Their arms and graciously bowed legs are almost black. Rugs intricately patterned in dark green and yellow lies between the tables, but ahead is a wide expanse of polished parquet floor, an exquisite pattern in dark and light wood. Perhaps cherry and oak. The dark wood is reddish black, the light nearly blond. Beyond the empty expanse, a dance floor, is a tiny, raised stage upon which stands a piano, its black wood fabulously decorated with carvings. There are five chairs for other musicians, and five tall brass music stand in attendance, but no instruments. The silence in the dining room is absolute. Then the PCs smell food. A delicious aroma that seems to be coming from a table to the left of the stage. They look, then stare. Steam rises from something on a line of plates, and the crystal tumblers are filled with black. The PCs remember they have eaten nothing since the Apartments, and their stomachs, demanding attention, let loose a long, low growl. They step in and close the door behind them. As they cross the floor, their shoes squeaking softly on the polished wood, they study the room further, sure that at any moment something will leap out at them and scream or gibber through a ferocious grin, slobber or shed dead pieces of itself. Between every window, each framed in dark wood, is green silk wallpaper rising up to border of cherry wood and a ceiling of white plaster busy with carved garlands and rosettes. A crystal chandelier hangs over the stage, with fancy gold and crystal light fixtures casting a soft glow over the rest of the grand room. Between the windows are gold wall sconces, each with three

small light bulbs shaped like candle flames. The dining saloon blazes with electric light, and is bright, almost cheerful, despite its gloomy colors. To their left at the far end of the long room is a blank wall of the same green wallpaper above dark wood wainscoting. Three large oil paintings in gilt frames, their subjects too dingy and far away to make out, fills the spaces between four more sconces. They see what might be a staircase in the far right corner, probably leading down to the kitchen. A number of chairs have been pulled out from the table, away from what appears to be dishes familiar to the PCs. There is a place card by the plate with a message written in elaborate calligraphy. It reads: Reserved for [names of player characters here], compliments of the Blue Lady The PCs suddenly feel cold, and slowly lower the card, and study the dining room again. Again, no one is seen. There is only the long room of cherry wood and dark green. Steam disappears in the air above the food on the plates, and tiny bubbles rise and pop in the crystal tumblers. Glancing at the card again, shows that the message, though written in the same intricate script, has changed. You must eat, or you will grow weak. You have eaten nothing of worth since yesterday The message has changed again, to something much shorter. It is safe They see again that these seats at this table are reserved for the group, compliments of the Blue Lady. Blue Lady? Who is the Blue Lady? They look down at the food on the beautiful green china plate with its gold rim. Their stomachs growl again, their walls feeling as though they are grinding against one another. If they do not eat, how much longer could they go on before they begin to weaken? How long will it be before they exhaust themselves and can’t go any further? But what if their hunger distracts them? Their stomachs complain again, loudly. If the PCs sit down, pulling the chairs up to the table, and pick up the silver fork, they find that the food is as tender and perfectly cooked. Steam rises, and with it comes the wonderful aroma of blackening spices and seasonings. You bring the fork to your nose and sniff at the morsel speared on the prongs. Nothing unusual. Sticking out on your tongue and tasting it finds it to be nothing unusual. It is perfect. This is probably the stupidest thing they’ve ever done, and they eat. The meal is excellent, perfectly prepared and cooked, and every bite dances with flavor. The tumblers are indeed filled with their favorite beverages and they sip them slowly, to make them last as long as possible. When they look back at the table, they find that their plates have been joined by coffee cups, steaming and filled to the brim and setting on a small saucer, and dessert plates each occupied by a large slice of what appears to be chocolate pie sporting a dollop of whipped cream. They leap up from the table, sending their chairs crashing to the floor behind them. They whip their gaze back and forth, searching for whomever could have brought them coffee and dessert. They see no one. They stand, and shiver, then feel their gazes drawn towards the coffee and pie. Chocolate pie. What the – why not? They right their chairs and sit down, and eat the pie and drink the coffee. Like their meal before, they are perfect and delicious. The coffee has been flavored with chicory, and the pie is light and silky smooth. When finished, the PCs feel pleasantly full; the taste of chocolate lingers on their tongues.

But it’s so strange. Nothing here makes sense! It’s like everything is inside out... Nothing has made sense since they came to this place. Nothing’s makes sense since they got pulled through... When the PCs are ready to continue, they can get out of their chairs and stand, reaching for their weapons. They turn and as they look over the empty dining room, they hear only the hum of the engines on the lower deck. Then comes a piercing sob. They turn, partly in surprise, and partly in alarm, and at the far end of the dining saloon, at the green wall with its three paintings, the PCs see the Blue Lady. Her hair, like black silk, is piled high atop her head with curls hanging down to frame her face. She wears a voluminous royal blue ball gown, and in her hair are the blossoms of some type of blue flower. All around her in the air clouds of blue form and un-form, like drops of dye in water. The effect seems like hypnotism, some kind of trance as it seems the PCs are commanded to stop just as they had been commanded to walk. Drawing nearer they see that the flowers in the Blue Lady’s hair are roses. It is impossible. Blue roses don’t exist, and they must be silk, but somehow seem real. She wears a necklace and earrings of some sparkling, bright blue gem. Bluer than sapphire. Perhaps polished lapis lazuli. She wears silk opera gloves of the same color as her gown, and weeps into a dainty handkerchief the color of faded denim. There is nothing in the world but the Blue Lady sobbing pitifully, and the paintings on the green wall. As they watch, the Blue Lady points, but it is as though she can’t bear to look at the paintings, and the PCs’ gaze follows the pointing finger clad in blue silk. She points first to the painting on the left, and it is a scene of a woman in an old fashioned dress, cowering on a floor, on a rug with a pattern of vines and leaves in front of an obviously antique sofa of yellow and green velvet. A large hat bedecked with rosebuds and a veil lies on the sofa, and a man towers over the woman with an axe raised above his head. His face wears an expression of unimaginable hatred. The Blue Lady points to the middle painting, and in it the man is bringing the axe down. The woman appears to be screaming or weeping, or both. Her arm is raised as if to ward off the blow, and she already has a deep red slash across her palm. The Blue Lady points to the third painting, on the right, and it depicts the axe buried in the woman’s shoulder, where it must have cleaved through her collarbone. And the Blue Lady points to the painting on the left once again. Then to the middle, then to the painting on the right, then the left, and the middle, and the right, over and over again. Her arm moves in a blur, impossibly fast, but the PCs followed its movements, at the subject in each painting as it changes every time she points, like a flip book. The man raises the axe and brings it down, and raises the axe and brings it down, and raises the axe and brings it down. It strikes the woman on her arm, opening an artery that jets scarlet. It strikes the woman in the red canyon it has opens in her collarbone and cleaves it deeper. It strikes her on her chest, and slices open the bulge of her right breast in a spray of red. Blood pours from her wounds and she screams and cries, and begs and pleads. The man raises the axe and brings it down, and the hatred on his face never dims. The room begins to turn red. And at last the woman is bathed in red, her body and clothing in tatters, and she lies still on the carpet whose pattern is lost to her blood. Her head has lolled to the side and it looks as though she peers from the painting directly at the PCs. Her lips form words. Please stop. I’m sorry.

The man throws his axe aside and drops to his knees to beat the woman’s face with his fists. Five times. Ten. A dozen. A hundred, and when he is finished her face is a swollen ruin. He then tears aside her blouse and layer after layer of undergarments beneath, all of them wet and red. When he reaches the flesh hidden beneath, it is scored with flowing bloody trenches. She is still alive. The woman slowly closes and opens one eye, the other is gummed shut with blood. She seems to be paralyzed, the little finger on her right hand twitches, twitches, but nothing else moving from the neck not. The man thrusts his hands and arms into the woman’s belly and tears at what he finds inside. Her intestines and viscera are like ropes and he tugs and pulls them out and throws them aside, and stabs his arms deep inside again. When he is finished her belly lies open like a bright red flower, and her bones show, and her innards lie in a horrible, grotesque mound. He seems to pant, exhausted, but slowly climbs to his feet, a Ghoul in Scarlet. He wipes his hands on the green and yellow velvet sofa, but only smears the blood that has spattered there. He bends to pick up his axe, seemingly enthralled by, hypnotized by, possessed by the hideous power that he wields and walks away to the left, out of view. Dimly, in the back of their minds, the PCs realize that they should have vomited at the sight of it all. Instead they feel oddly calm, almost peaceful. The Blue Lady is still sobbing into her handkerchief, but when the PCs turn to look, she is gone. But her sobs still resounds through the air. The PCs felt daze, as if waking up from a fitful sleep. They feel they need to look at the paintings again, and when they do they have changed yet again. Together, the three of them now depicts nothing more than a fancy parlor. There is no blood, and no hideously mutilated woman on the floor. Something is different, though... Standing close enough to touch the paintings, the PCs reach out and can’t bring themselves to be surprised when one of their hands passes through empty air beyond the gilt frames. These are no longer paintings, but openings. The room beyond is quiet, still, and dim. The dining saloon of the Little Baroness is gone and in its place, blackness. They now stand on a tiny patch of parquet floor, its edges broken off in a stairstep pattern as though every wooden square beyond the remaining few had fallen away. Before them is the green wall with its gilt frames and gold sconces. The rest is a blackness pierced by unfamiliar constellations and milky swirling galaxies. The Blue Lady’s sobs sound as though they are coming from underwater. There seems to be nothing more to do but step through the empty frames and into the fancy parlor. The Parlor: When they do, clambering through the central frame, they feel the vertigo sweep over them and lose their balance. When they pause to take a mental breath, the voices begin, as if they had been waiting patiently for their full attention. They are arguing quietly, but in earnest as if they hope not to be overheard. When the PCs try to open their eyes, they can’t. They can’t move. They can’t see and they can’t move, which is somehow more horrifying than what the Blue Lady had shown them in the paintings. They feel helpless and nauseatingly vulnerable. It is as though they aren’t there at all. The voices are that of a man and woman; The PCs suppose they belong to the man and woman

they had seen in the paintings. The woman’s voice is frantic and pleading; she is upset to the point of hysteria. “I can’t do that,” she wails, “I swear to God I cannot! Joshua, please believe me... Please don’t ask me to do that.” The man, apparently named Joshua, responds coldly, venomously. “You can and you will. This is something you should have taken care of before it got to be a problem, anyhow.” The woman dissolves into tears, weeping hopelessly. “Deanna, look at you already. You’re beginning to look like a zeppelin, and people are asking questions. You know as well as I do that Carl and you can’t produce a child together and God knows you’ve tried enough times. What will people say as you get bigger and bigger?”

“But you’re asking me to kill!” sobs the woman, Deanna, “I can’t do that. I’m sorry this happened, but I can’t tear this life out of me. It didn’t ask to come into being.” There is the sound of a stinging slap, then a long moment of silence. “I am a physician, and I know every other physician in this county and they all know me. And we all know that my brother might as well be rutting with a horse for all the good his semen does. If, six months or so from now you squirt out a bouncing baby bastard, people will talk and word will spread, and when it spreads my name and my family’s name won’t be worth horse dung in the street.” “But I could go to Brahms to have the baby!” Desperation disguises as hope, interrupted by sniffling. “Or Bloomington or, if it’s ready by then, the new hospital you and that Italian fellow are building here in Silent Hill! We could say there are complications the hospital in Ashfield can’t cope with and no one would have to know. It won’t matter what the doctors have said about Carl. Things like this happen all the time – husbands and wives who aren’t supposed to be able to have children do have them!” The man’s voice is tinged with disgust now. “Just because you want something to happen doesn’t mean it can or will. You can’t go somewhere else to give birth just because you want to. And even if you did go to Brahms, or to my new hospital, people would still want to know why. There is no other choice – you cannot have this child.” “I had hoped nothing would come of it,” she says, quieter now as if dazed. “But something did come of it. And I have a reputation to think of, and a family name. Surely you know and benefit from the fact that the Blackwells are a leading family in Toluca County.” “I DO KNOW IT, DAMN YOU!” she screams with vehemence, then quietly says, “But I don’t care. I will not commit murder to protect your precious family honor. I don’t care if you all cast me out and leave me penniless for the rest of my life. I don’t care if I have to sell myself in an alley to feed and clothe myself and this child – I will have this child and I will raise it, love it, and watch it grow.” There is fury in her voice, lethal and only wanting a spark to ignite it. “And I will raise this child to be a better person than you. I will make sure it knows its father was nothing more than a rutting hog and that it should do all it can to ensure it won’t grow up to be like you.” Another slap – but it is muffled and heavier, perhaps the sound of a balled fist striking a cheekbone. Stunned silence. There is only... the hum and vibration of the Little Baroness’ engines. They are still on the Little Baroness, the PCs realize. Sailing Toluca Lake on a foggy November day in 1918 with the wealthy Blackwell family of South Ashfield that had chartered the boat especially for a birthday party. Whose birthday party?

“Go ahead and hit me,” Deanna hisses, “Go ahead and let everyone in the family wonder why my face is swelling with bruises when I step into that dining room upstairs. Go ahead and let your brother know you’ve struck his wife.” “You WHORE!!” He roars, and there is the sound of his fist striking flesh again. Deanna falls, and hits the floor with a wounded gasp of pain. He begins to kick her, perhaps aiming for her stomach, and says, “If you won’t take care of this, I will take care of it for you. You will NOT ruin my name. You will NOT ruin my reputation, and you will NOT ruin my family’s standing in this community.” He pauses, panting. The PCs can imagine his face already twisted into the rictus of hatred they saw in the paintings. Deanna groans in pain and struggles to say, “I had hoped it wouldn’t, but I knew it would come to this. I’m not as frail-minded as you suppose, Joshua.” Unbelievably, it sounds as though she is smiling. “I wrote all of what I told you into a letter this morning and left it under the bedclothes in mine and Carl’s bedroom. Hit me, kick me, strike me again and I’ll give it to him this evening when we return home. Kill me and say I fell overboard, as I know you probably want to and are capable of doing and he’ll find it anyway. Either way, I will ensure that your name is dragged through every pig lot in this county and beyond. And then, what will Dr. Alchemilla have to say about that I wonder? I doubt very much he’ll even want to admit he ever knew you, much less allow your name to go up with his on the new hospital you two are building.” Silence. Shock, then rage, becomes a palpable thing in the parlor that must be one of the private dining rooms on the lower deck of the Little Baroness. Suddenly, a strange scraping noise that the PCs realize, with surprise, is the sound of the man called Joshua grinding his teeth. He laughs suddenly, and it is a sound completely detached from anything sane, the sound of a mind snapping in two. Joshua bends down, and from the sound of it, grabs a handful of the lace that adorns the fancy blouse Deanna had worn in the paintings. He stands and hoists Deanna with him, until her feet in their high-buttoned shoes barely touch the floor. They hear her gag and gasp for air. “Kill you?” asks Joshua, “Why, that’s a fine idea if I do say so myself. I hadn’t even thought of it until you mentioned it. Perhaps you’re right. You’re not as frail-minded as you seem, my dear.” She chokes in his grasp in the air. “But Carl won’t find any letter from you. And my family will not have to endure the shock of losing a daughter-in-law and a son in a single day. There are only fourteen people on this boat

including myself and I will kill them one by one and then I will sink this little pleasure ship.” “I will be the only survivor, and it will look like such a tragic accident. I will swim to shore and will be nearly catatonic from the loss of my entire family for probably a week or more. In fact, perhaps the only thing that will cheer me any at all will be finally seeing my name etched in stone alongside good Dr. Alchemilla’s at the newest, most modern hospital in the state.” “And whenever I’m working there, when the sun’s shining on the water, in between the ailing I’ll look out over the lake, and I’ll think to myself: under that water sleeps a whore and her bastard child. And I’ll hope you’re both burning in hell.” He drops her, and the PCs hear and feel the jolt of Deanna’s skull striking the plush arm of the velvet sofa. Deanna Blackwell slides to the floor, mewling in pain. “You’ll die first. You and your bastard,” growls Joshua, low and vicious. The PCs hear his footsteps on the carpet patterned with vines, then heard a door open and close. He is leaving the room. Going to find the axe – perhaps it is a fire axe used to smash open doors on a burning boat, or it could be used to slice through troublesome ropes should they tangle and pose a hazard in the engine room. An axe has an amazing number of uses. Soon, Joshua Blackwell returns, and the door opens then closes again. The axe must have been in a narrow wooden cabinet fastened to the wall near the staircase leading up to the dining saloon. The PCs had seen it when they boarded the boat at Rosewater Park – had seen the cabinet, but hadn’t imagined what it contained. Now they know. And the PCs open their eyes. They can move again, their arms and legs tingling faintly with the sensation of returning circulation, as though they have been asleep standing up. They are all sitting on the green and yellow velvet sofa. It is surprisingly soft To their right... ...is Deanna Blackwell, cowering on the floor, pressed against the sofa. Her innards having spilled out, intestines and viscera coiled on the carpet. Her face is a black and purple mockery; swollen, bruised, and slightly misshapen with broken bones floating in the flesh beneath. Her nose is lopsided and crushed. Her clothing is shredded, where Joshua had torn it away to rip out what lay beneath her flesh and destroy the child growing within. Her body is scored with deep wounds where the axe had tunneled through her bones and muscles. Deanna bleeds copiously from every wound, from the gaping crater that had been her stomach, and from tiny cuts on her face where the skin has split and ripped apart under the force of Joshua’s fists. One eye opens wide with panic, the other glued shut just as it had been in the painting. Deanna opens her mouth, now little more than a pucker in the swollen purple destruction of her face, and speaks.

“Do something – he’s gone mad!” she gasps, “He’ll kill us all!” Her voice, even from the horror of her brutalized body, is undamaged and clear. You feel your mouth opening and closing stupidly, no sound escaping. It seems as though one sense at a time is returning. First sight and touch, enabling you to see and move. You can hear, of course, and suddenly they can smell and the odor of the destroyed woman is overpowering, a toxic fog of blood, shit, sweat, and a horrible scent like that of fresh, raw meat. Deanna clasps her hands over the shredded pit that had been her stomach and tries to scoot away from... what? Joshua? He must be in the room, but the PCs can’t stop staring at the ruined woman. “Help me, please!” she screams, “He’s crazy! He says he won’t allow me to have my child!” Then the PC realize there is something large in the room, and finally tear their gaze away from Deanna to face Joshua. Their minds want to retreat, to slip away to a safe place. Joshua Blackwell has become the Ghoul in Scarlet. It is an immense creature that blocks the doorway behind it, vaguely human-shaped. Or perhaps merely shaped like a star, with a head and four appendages. Blazing with a aura of red blinding light, it lacks definition, with bits of bone, skin, flesh, and clothing floating in red gore. They sink into the flowing red glare, then resurface, sink again and resurface. A face emerges, the face of Joshua Blackwell twisted into the hate previously seen in the paintings. Only, if the five-pointed shape is supposed to be a human form, the face has emerged from an arm. It quickly sinks back in and reemerges elsewhere, in the mid-section. Bones and flesh, skin and cloth emerge, sink, emerge, sink. There is a pocket watch, gold, on a gold chain. And there is a black bow-tie. A leather shoe. Part of a rib-cage. An unidentifiable stem of muscle. A hand. The Ghoul in Scarlet flows across the floor, leaving a thick red trail on the carpet, obscuring its pattern. Absurdly, the PCs notice that in amidst the leafy vines in the carpet pattern, there is are small yellow flowers seemingly spaced at random. All in all, a beautiful design that matches the green and yellow velvet furniture exquisitely. The axe emerges from an appendage that logically should have been the left leg, then is sucked back in. It reemerges where the right arm should be, and the flowing blob of the arm rears back. THE GUN! Get the gun. The axe descends and buries itself in the velvet sofa, where Deanna had been sitting. The appendage rises away from it, leaving it behind. Joshua Blackwell’s face emerges, sees the axe, and shrieks. The Ghoul in Scarlet falls upon the axe and absorbs it, lifts itself up and teeters backward. The sofa now sports a gash that vomits stuffing up between the green and yellow

bands of the velvet upholstery. Huddled against a wall near the sofa, the ruin that had been Deanna Blackwell screams. Joshua Blackwell’s face emerges, sinks, reemerges, sinks again, emerges, very quickly. Searching. It sees the PCs and grins. The axe appears where the head of the Ghoul in Scarlet should be. The creature bends backward, bonelessly, preparing to heave itself, and the axe, forward. The creature bends forward, almost as though it is bowing to a lady at a fancy ball held long ago. The axe blade whistles through the air... and catches in the ceiling with a dull chopping sound. Joshua Blackwell’s face surfaces, observes, and voices its rage. The Ghoul in Scarlet flows upward, engulfs the axe and pulls it free. A foot emerges. There is the pocket watch again, and the bow tie. Another shoe. Part of might be an arm. The Ghoul In Scarlet has oozed halfway across the parlor floor towards the sofa, has turned back, and is moving back toward the door. Though Deanna continues to scream, the Ghoul seems uninterested, paying attention instead to the PCs. Now is the time to run. To run out the door, and onto the lower deck of the Little Baroness. It is the starboard side, where the staircase leads upward to the second deck and the dining saloon. This private cabin is the furthest toward the bow; its neighbor the left faces the port side. A horrible sucking sound is heard as the oozing mass of the Ghoul squeezes through the door, in an amorphous blob that begins to take its familiar shape and reaches for them with the appendage that serves as its left arm. A foot emerges, its toes points at them, before it sinks back in. Joshua Blackwell’s face, wearing an impossibly wide grin, pops out at the end of the left appendage and leers at them. As the PCs run, they notice the Little Baroness still seems to sail through the same soupy murk that had filled the streets of Silent Hill since they were pulled into this cool, wet hell. They reach the stairs to the upper deck. Behind them, freed from the confines of the private cabin, the Ghoul in Scarlet moves surprisingly, and alarmingly, fast. The axe has surfaced again, waving from the upper appendage, where the head should be, while Joshua Blackwell’s head peers from the right appendage, face grimly set as though performing a necessary, but unpleasant, chore. The same bits and pieces of his body and clothing emerge and sink and emerge again. The PCs take the stairs two at a time, and by the time they reach the top, the Ghoul in Scarlet

quivers at the bottom. It flings itself forward and the axe cuts deep into a wooden step halfway up. Joshua Blackwell’s face frowns, and the Ghoul oozes forward, absorbs the axe and pulls it free, then begins to climb up. The PCs had paused and watched it for just a moment, then they can sprint away toward the safety of the dining saloon. Dining Saloon: Reaching the doors, with their oval windows with their ornate wrought iron designs, they yank them open, leap inside and slams them shut behind them. But before they can fumble for a lock, a large dark shape rises up behind the frosted glass windows. They can only gape at it, in the silence of the dining saloon. The shape outside slams itself against the doors, which shudder in their frames. A crack appear in the window of the door to their right, and the PCs back away. There is silence, then the brass knobs turns and the doors swing open. Joshua Blackwell’s hands surface, but having served their purpose, retreat into the Ghoul in Scarlet. Blackwell’s face leers at them, turning slowly clockwise in its frame of red slime. Though the Ghoul in Scarlet tries to fling itself forward, the PCs see the handle of the axe, and see that the blade is caught on the doorframe outside. Now is their chance.

The PCs raise their weapons and stab them forward, like a spear. The objects sink deep into the slime just beneath Joshua Blackwell’s chin. The PCs push them in, digging, then stab them upward, wrenching the handle downward, and heave and scoop. Working together they should be able to find the head and scoop out Blackwell’s head. His face wears a shocked expression. With a grunt, the PCs flung it across the room and hear it land on the piano keys, where it makes a discordant sound like an exclamation. Once its S.D.C/Hit Points reach zero, the Ghoul quivers as if suddenly confused. It drops away from the axe caught on the doorframe and falls forward. The PCs jump away. It hits the polished parquet floor with a heavy, wet smack. Red slime begins to spill away from the things – the bones, flesh, organs, and clothing – hidden inside. Bones emerges. Part of an arm, part of a leg. A lump of what can only be intestine. Something that looks like a liver. A sheet of skin, wadded and crumpled, that looks uncomfortably like leather. One hand, and then another. A foot, then a shoe, then a foot still inside a shoe. The pieces begin to move, to quiver, then skitter randomly across the floor. The slime looks more like blood than ever and runs in rivulets across the floor. The thing that might be a liver begins to roll ponderously, crossing square after square before encountering a rug, hesitating a moment, and rolling on, seeming to stick to the carpet as it moves on. A hand skitters past, like a crab, balanced on its fingertips. Bones clatter across the polished wood, their ends wet with gristly cartilage. They converge on the tiny dance floor, under the crystal cloud of the chandelier hanging overhead. The PCs hear Joshua Blackwell’s head thump down from the piano, onto the piano bench, then onto the floor, and see it roll crookedly across the stage before spilling down onto the dance floor. The face looks annoyed; its eyes find theirs and stare at them with hatred. The PCs finally get a good look around the dining saloon. The birthday party aboard the Little Baroness had been interrupted and there are bodies, several of them, in the dining saloon. Seated at tables, sprawled on the floor, all of them scored with great gaping cuts. An old woman sits at a table, her head nearly severed and held on only by a strip of skin and flesh. A young man, probably a teenager, lies face down on the floor, his back hacked open. There are so many others... mutilated, chopped to death. Plates full of food have been smashed on the floor, sumptuous meals ground into the green and gold carpets and smeared on the parquet. On one table an enormous, many-tiered birthday cake sits without a single piece carved from it, its snowy icing spattered red. The body of a little girl wearing a frilly red and black checked dress lay on the floor, halfway under the table. It is hard to guess how old she might have been because her head has been chopped off. Joshua Blackwell said there was only thirteen people aboard the ship and he would have no problem killing them all to protect his name, his standing, and his ambitions. And he had. He had. The pieces of Joshua Blackwell have collected beneath the chandelier on the dance floor and the slime that looks like blood has collected there as well. It rolls over the pieces and a stubby red

column studded with bits of Joshua Blackwell begins to take shape. It is rebuilding itself. Soon (1D4 melee) it will sprout what serves for arms, legs, and a head. Joshua Blackwell’s head rides the column as it climbs upward, wearing a smug smile. The PCs charge the growing Ghoul in Scarlet. Gripping their weapons by the end of theirs handles, the PCs can tear Blackwell’s head free, with a sound like a boot pulling from swampy mud. Doing so; the growing column will collapse, the red slime spills away from the pieces of Joshua Blackwell inside it. Joshua Blackwell’s head sails up, arcs over several tables, then down, and hits the floor with a heavy thud halfway across the dining room. So, what now? The PCs can spend the rest of the day swatting Joshua Blackwell’s head away to prevent the Ghoul in Scarlet from reforming itself, but there seems to be no way to kill it. Maybe if the PCs can find the heart and destroy it, they can kill the Ghoul in Scarlet. It can obviously survive without the head. This is good: think of something. Think of what it would nice to have right about now. Think about something or else your sanity will crack like an egg. If they follow this line of thought, the PCs search through the pieces of Joshua Blackwell thrashing about on the floor at their feet. The PCs pass something that might be a liver. Where is the heart? There is part of the ribcage, almost half of it, except for one or two of the bottom ribs, but there is nothing inside, only chalk-white bone and grayish cartilage. The PCs kick away a foot. Where is the damn heart? There is something, but too small to be a heart. Maybe a kidney. The PCs step on it and it squelches horribly underfoot. The PCs’s skin crawls and they shiver. The PCs don’t know how much more of this they can endure. There. The throbbing heart emerges from a tangle of intestines, trailing torn veins and arteries like the train of a wedding gown. The PCs pounce, slice through the coils of intestine, then through the heart. A geyser of dark blood jets out... ...and nothing happens. Hands, feet – including one wearing an expensive leather shoe, bones, muscle, things the PCs don’t want to think about, still writhes across the parquet floor, splashing through red slime that looks like blood. They can hear the wet slapping and clicking of unspeakable things moving by themselves across the parquet floor. If the PCs can’t kill it, perhaps at least the PCs can prevent it from taking form again. The PCs will have to find the head and seal it away somewhere. So where has it gone? They look over the dining saloon. There are so many bodies... Joshua Blackwell murdered his entire family.

Find the head. Do something with it. Throw it overboard, or seal it in a refrigerator, or put it in the oven in the kitchen downstairs. Even if it won’t die at least it will stay in pieces, and if it stays in pieces, it’s relatively harmless. You pause, then smile. Yes. Put it in the oven. And turn it on. That sounds like a fine idea. A thrashing rope of intestine flops by their feet. When they look up the PCs see movement across the dining room. Joshua Blackwell’s head rolls out from beneath the chair where the old woman with the nearly-severed head sits. They stumble over the pieces of Joshua Blackwell moving on the floor, and when they are finally free of them they run with long strides toward the head weaving drunkenly toward their across the floor. The PCs see more bodies lying between the tables – a man who looks to be in his thirties, his throat a deep red gully, an expression of shocked horror on his face. A woman in a dark red dress stained darker from axe blows to her stomach. Joshua Blackwell’s head rights itself and faces them. It seems to have chewed through its own tongue; its mouth froths with bloody foam as it gnashes and gnashes and gnashes its teeth. “Come on, Dr. Blackwell.” The PCs step forward, and the head tilts back and rolls away, because it knows what they are trying to do. Several running steps takes them to Joshua Blackwell’s head, which is trying to hide itself under a table. They must be wary, as it can bite, herding with a long object such as the axe, a shovel, or pipe is best. When they have forced it into the open, it launches itself out, bounces across the floor, rising and falling, skipping, and rolling on. The PCs run to catch up to it, and watch it rebound off the wall under the three oil paintings at the far end of the dining room. The PCs are almost to the kitchen; the staircase that leads downward is to their right. Joshua Blackell’s head growls as the PCs herd it around the banister, then sweep it down the stairs and watch it tumble to the bottom. Again, it bounces. The PCs will never erase that image from their memories. At the foot of the stairs, Joshua Blackwell’s head snarls and snaps, rolling back and forth. Joshua Blackwell’s head is a stupid, impotent thing at the bottom of the staircase. Keep it away from the rest of the pieces the Ghoul in Scarlet had contained and it is helpless. The PCs start down the stairs to the kitchen, where they can seal it in a pot on the stove, shove it into an oven, or kick it into a freezer. On the lower deck is a large plainly carpeted room with a large closet to one side filled with clean white waiters’ jackets hung on hooks. Two are missing. Ahead is a swinging wooden door and beyond, presumably, the kitchens or galleys or whatever they would be called. The PCs move Joshua Blackwell’s head toward the door. They step down onto the carpet, march forward and push open the door and move the head inside. It has begin to squeal high-pitched.

Beyond the door, kitchen of the Little Baroness is twenty-five feet by fifty feet, its perimeter rimmed by steel counters and dark paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove with three ovens, and a massive walk-in refrigerator. Shelves hold tins of spices and ranks of closed cabinets almost certainly are stocked with dishes. In the center of the room, like a giant’s steel-topped casket, stands a huge steam table. The room is searing hot, which means the ovens and stoves are good and ready. The ovens burn coal; in the corner to their left, a surprisingly shiny shovel hangs from a hook on the wall above a metal bin heaping with dully gleaming black lumps. They can take the shovel as a secondary weapon. Oven or freezer? The PCs wonder if Joshua Blackwell’s body parts can organize themselves enough to open a freezer without the head, and with that realize that if they live long enough to look back on this experience, the PCs will have nightmares for the rest of their lives. The oven is the best choice. If they can incinerate Joshua Blackwell’s head, the rest of him, will be as good as dead and will flop and thrash like beached fish on the floor of the dining saloon until they rot, or mummify. Joshua Blackwell’s head alternates between mewling fearfully and growling and trying to snap at the PCs as he is brushed along. Occasionally it looks up at them, snarls, and spits a gob of something noxious that misses and splatters instead on the floor. The PCs stomp hard on the head and pin it to the floor while they grab a towel from the counter and use it to open the nearest oven. A wave of heat billows out. Then, using their implement, the PCs scoop up the head, toss it inside and slam the oven door. The PCs stare at the oven door. From behind it, muffled shrieks can be heard and a very satisfying rattle as Joshua Blackwell’s head thrashes and fights to escape. A sudden flare of vertigo. They stagger and reach back to steady themselves on the counter. From the corner of their eye they see a pair of legs clad in black trousers at the end of the counter near the freezers, and a puddle of blood collected in the grout between the galley floor tiles. The rest of the body, probably that of the chef, is hidden from view. Of course Joshua Blackwell killed the chef and the waiters as well. The oven is a marvel of black wrought iron and white enamel, balanced on bandy little legs and adorned with iron curlicues and engravings – more like a work of art than a stove. Gleaming copper pots of all sizes simmer on the stove top. The PCs watch the oven for what seems like several minutes before they realize something is happening. The iron around the oven door begins to glow red. The banging behind it intensifies and the cries grow louder. The copper pots boil over, belching steam, water and sauces splash out and sizzle on the range top. The PCs back away, toward the door. As though a bonfire is raging in its center, the kitchen grows hotter. And hotter. Quickly.

Something begins to take shape on the enameled oven door. A shape, and shapes within, scorching themselves black against the white. After a moment, the PCs recognize it as the design they might have seen previously. A circle within a circle ringing a triangle, dotted with arcane symbols and letters from some dead alphabet. It is best to turn and flee, throw open the kitchen door, and run. The PCs find that pieces of Joshua Blackwell are spilling down the stairs, seeking out the kitchen and the PCs must fight their way through them, stepping over and around them, and kicking them out of their way. They are halfway across the dining saloon before the galley of the Little Baroness explodes. At the rear of the dining room, where the staircase leads down, a spume of flame erupts, spitting cinders. The Little Baroness shudders violently and the PCs lose their footing, tumbling to the floor with a gasp. Around then tables tilt and fall; china, crystal, and silver hurtles through the air, shattering on the parquet, thudding on the carpets. Above, the crystal pendants and beads in the chandelier and every light fixture sings out as they chime against one another. The massive birthday cake on its platter slides to the edge of its table, tilts like a falling tree, then cascades ponderously to the floor. The PCs lie on one of the lovely green and gold rugs, dazed but vaguely aware they can no longer feel or hear the Little Baroness’ engines. It means one of two things; either the boat had been split in half by the explosion and is soon to sink, or else the explosion in the kitchen damaged the nearby engine room enough to stall the engines. Which means the boat is damaged badly enough to sink it. Reeling, the PCs climb to their feet and pick up their equipment, looking over the dining room. From its orderly elegance before it had been shaken into a maze of overturned tables and chairs where broken glass and china crunches underfoot and the crystal chandelier swings wildly overhead, painting the room with sliding shadows. The bodies of Joshua Blackwell’s family are still strewn about the dining saloon. There’s no one to mourn them, and as if it agrees, the Little Baroness voices a sorrowful groan of bending timbers. The PCs look at the floor, blinking. Is it their imagination or has the floor begun to tilt ever so slightly downward, back to the stern? The PCs turn to search for a path to the door, and rebound off tables fallen on their sides. The PCs roll it aside and step forward. Forks and spoons on the floor bend under their weight, graceful and delicate silverware ruined as the PCs step on it. They look to their left and see, beyond the windows and their green velvet drapes, shapes slipping very quickly by in the fog. The Little Baroness must be gliding along the shore, but they can’t tell where it might be along the Toluca lakefront. Although... the shapes might be trees, at intervals as though planted in a row. Which would mean Jesperson Park, stretching along the downtown Silent Hill lakefront. Like Rosewater Park in South Vale, Jesperson Park’s main feature is a long brick promenade walling off the park’s lawns and flowerbeds from Toluca Lake. Trees grow in planting squares along the promenade, where they had shaded strollers and lovers, and dropped their leaves in the water every autumn. Further on, halfway along the downtown lakeside, a wide brick pier juts out from the promenade into the water like a fat, blocky peninsula. All along the promenade and pier are benches and at

regular intervals atop brick columns, giant Victorian cast-iron planters shaped vaguely like elaborate trophies and overflowing with flowers. On the pier itself stands the Abraham Lincoln Memorial Bell. It is huge, copper, and weighs more than one ton. Once used to alert the town to trouble, such as fires, rising waters, or accidents at the small coal mines that had once tunneled through the hills surrounding Silent Hill, it has been renamed and rung one hundred times on the anniversary of Lincoln’s assassination every year since 1865. Once it had hung in the town square in the shadow of Silent Hill City Hall, but had been moved to the park upon the promenade’s completion in 1899. Moved to the broad brick pier. The PCs feel themselves go perfectly still. If the Little Baroness is racing through the water this close to the Jesperson Park promenade, it will soon slam into the pier where the Lincoln Memorial Bell hangs. How soon will the boat collide? The pier is located halfway along the waterfront, with a long, shallow slope between the promenade and the streets and buildings of downtown Silent Hill. At the top of the hill, up from the pier and promenade there are five blocks to the west and five to the east. If the Little Baroness has sped by this much of the promenade already, how much more is left? How many more blocks? How many more seconds? The PCs shoulder their way through the upended tables. The dining saloon has only one exit, the double doors with their oval windows. What will happen if the PCs can’t get through the doors and around the upper deck to the other side of the ship to leap off before it collides? Maybe the collision won’t damage the ship severely. Then again, the Little Baroness is old and made of wood, and ramming into the Jesperson Park promenade might grind it to splinters. And it isn’t their imagination: the floor has developed a definite slope. The Little Baroness is sinking. And how the hell can the PCs get off the boat anyway? Jump from the equivalent of a two-story building onto the bricks? What if the PCs jump and catch their feet in one of the planters? The PCs could probably lose their balance, fall back, and crack their skulls on some part of the Little Baroness as it glides by – or wedge themselves between the promenade and the ship and be ground into so much raw meat as it moves on without them. Why are the PCs heading toward the doors? There are plenty of windows to their left and all the PCs need do is smash one open for a way out. The Little Baroness, the PCs discover, is much closer to the promenade than the PCs had previously thought – it slams suddenly into the promenade, crunches and grinds its way along the bricks, and rebounds, throwing everything aboard to the left, then to the right. The PCs struggle to stay on their feet and watch tables roll past. How is the boat moving so quickly? The damn thing is sinking, and sinking fast. They can cut a path toward the windows, shoving tables aside and kicking chairs away. Their feet tangle in a wadded lace tablecloth on the floor and the PCs nearly fall. Trees are still slipping by outside the windows. The PCs step over a body, that of the old woman whose head had finally pulled free of its tendril of skin and rolled away to God knew where. Any second now the boat will hit the pier and the floors and decks will peel back on themselves in a fury of flying chunks of wood and metal. Any second now. Broken glass crunches on the floor. Are the PCs running? The PCs think so and heave a table aside. Only a few more feet to the window. The floor is tilting more sharply

now and everything in the dining room is beginning to slide back toward the kitchen – the piano slides off the stage, playing an ominous chord as it drops down a step from the floor. They step over an overturned chair and smash a window. The window explodes outward in a cloud of shards into the air outside. The PCs don’t have time to brush aside the jagged chunks of glass before climbing through and feel the ragged window frame prick at their flesh as the PCs scramble through. Outside the deck is slippery with moisture from the fog and the PCs nearly lose their footing again, spinning as the PCs fight to keep their balance to see bits of glass sliding away toward the stern. The Little Baroness, however, did not appear to be riding low in the water, and for that the PCs are glad. Looking forward they see the promenade pier probably no more than a block away in the mist, and turned and bolted toward the rear of the Little Baroness where the PCs discover the water has risen to what the PCs guess is halfway up the walls of the lower deck. The engine room has to be flooded, and the kitchen as well, and the water is probably spouting up through a hole blasted in the floor, perhaps even the oven with Joshua Blackwell’s head inside might have dropped through such a hole and sunk to the bottom of the lake. As the boat’s momentum carries it along, the water pulls at the dark green paddlewheel and spins it lazily as though the Little Baroness is adrift on the lake on a calm summer day. The PCs look back toward the bow and the approaching pier; bracing themselves against the railing and one of the support columns spaced evenly along the rail and painted the same forest green. They wait. When the Little Baroness collides with the pier, the impact is even stronger than the PCs expected, and trying to hold onto the railings and pillars, the PCs wonder if their arms wild pop out of their sockets. The front of the boat disintegrates – the lower deck simply stops as though it had hit a wall, with its cabins and compartments compressing against themselves, crumpling and exploding in bursts of wood and glass. The upper deck seems to peel free of the lower deck, stretching forward as if to bridge the pier and splash down in the water on the other side, but slamming down to collide with the brick pavement. It tears the trees to shreds, demolishing benches and planters before finally falling to pieces and washing the pier in dust and broken boards. Broken bits of wood and twisted pieces of metal strike the Lincoln Memorial Bell and ring it again and again, as though playing a funeral dirge. The boat shakes furiously, like a toy in the hands of a malevolent child determined to smash it to bits against the floor. The PCs hear screaming, but momentarily realize that they are only hearing themselves. The Little Baroness sinks lower and lower as it disembowels itself on the pier and water rushes in to fill it. Looking toward the promenade, the black iron balustrade as it seems to rise up to greet them. The PCs throw their weapons – how have the PCs held on to them, the PCs marvel – and as soon as it seem safe, jump, land and slip on the wet bricks, fall and roll onto their side to watch the ship die. Still churning onward, the Little Baroness is nearly half gone, its bow chewed to pieces that are thrown up and then fall down, flailing at the air. It skips in the water, jumps up over the edge of the pier, then rolls over like a sleeper in the throes of a terrible dream. It exposes its white belly,

dripping and slick, then capsizes, and finally it seems its momentum exhausts itself. It spins, upside down in the water and sinking quickly, and the paddlewheel slides past, nudges the destruction on the pier and drops out of sight beneath the water. A final ragged chunk of torn wood falls and strikes the Lincoln Memorial Bell, playing a sad note as waves slaps against the promenade and pier. It is over.

The Streets:
The flashlight only gives them a few feet of visibility. On the other side of the ruined bridge’s guardrail there is about thirty feet or so of dry land before one reaches the lake, and it is thick with trees and small shrubbery. Just like the hedgerows in the park, the PCs feel distinctly uncomfortable being so close to something so concealing, but also like the hedgerows, there is no avoiding it. At least the monotony of it is broken every few feet by billboards. Some are fresh and clear, some are old and fading. Most advertise local businesses, a few national chains. One points to their ultimate destination. Lakeview Hotel! it says in bold letters, with a panorama view of the building and grounds, set against the backdrop of Lake Toluca with the sun setting in the west. It is almost as if it is teasing them. The path to the dock is blocked with an iron gate. There is a notice hung on the gate in red letters: PATH IS OUT. VISITORS TO DOCKS PLEASE USE MUSEUM ENTRANCE

Historical Society and Memorial Slaughterhouse: It is on the lakeside about a half a
mile up the road from Rose-Water Park. The guardrail and greenery finally give way to an open lot. A parking lot, to be exact, and there are actually a few cars occupying it. The Historical Society and Memorial Slaughterhouse is a huge, two-story, Georgian structure, built with a vast facade of dark green brick with lifeless vines hanging in despair, as if the nonexistent sun has defeated them, hidden by a thin veil of evergreen trees. A Tarmac road and two railroad lines runs through the woods to its great iron gates. Within the thick walls (designed to that the hellish sounds within can never seep out to disturb the happy meat-eating mortals who houses line back), fifty thousand animals were once brought in each day to be mechanically massacred, butchered, and wrapped. Gears whirled, bolts shot into skulls, great engines drove saws and knives and packing machines. Death had a sound here, the roar of a thousand engines. Cold iron ran red with blood. The drains ran into a huge cistern beneath the slaughterhouse, which fed the gore into the local sewage system. A hundred men worked at the slaughterhouse, loading, checking, mopping blood from the floors, sawing bones, fixing machines, and handling paperwork. The brand name reveals that the factory was built by “Murderous Blackened Soul Decay Ltd.” The front door is old but in surprisingly good condition; green and rather ornamental. But one can plainly see the old sign colorfully announcing that they have arrived at Silent Hill Historical Society. It is also locked, as expected and can be opened by the old bronze key found at RoseWater Park.

Having just inserted it into the keyhole when a distressed scream is heard from behind. For a fraction of a second it sounds human, and unfortunately, that is enough to distract and make one turn to look. That fraction of a second ends when two things happened simultaneously. The first is the radio crackle. The second is a repeat of the scream, and hearing it again makes it quite clear that it isn’t human. As if any more proof of that was needed, something comes from around the corner, just feet in front of the PCs. Their breath catches in their throats when they see it, when they see the thin and shapely, yet crusted and disgusting legs, the parody of female attractiveness, all the way up to the head. Which, of course, has no face. How the hell did it get here? It is a Brookhaven Nurse, all this way away from the hospital. Like all the others, it has a steel pipe in its hand, and it is coming towards them, no doubt intending to put it to use. While the PCs can shoot it down fairly quickly, it will distract them from the second nurse slinking in the shadows to their right and the two nurses creeping towards them from the main entrance. The interior of the door has a latch, and drawing it across just as the first sounds of pounding came from outside. Assuming the nurse doesn’t try using the key, and as far as they can tell, it probably won’t, the PCs are safe at least from this one. They can lean back against the door, catching their breath and wait for their heart to slow down. Past the doorway is a small foyer. Entering they stand in front of a wooden reception desk, that holds a cash register and numerous brochures for various activities in Silent Hill, protected by two large staircases on either side. The walls are painted in a pleasant wood stain and are decorated with assorted antiques. There is a wooden bench against the wall on the right. At the far end is another wooden door marked “Museum” Looking over the counter, one sees below a small refrigerator and various packaged snack food. Walking around to the back of the counter and opening the refrigerator. From the feel of the air inside, it has not been on for some time. It does, however, contain several undisturbed sixteenounce bottles of water. There is also a small bathroom. While the electricity is off, the water is still running and they can make use of the facility. The water is lukewarm, but their mouths are dry enough not to be bothered with mundane things such as temperature. After finishing, the PCs can take a brief look at the small map of the Society next to the museum door, though it does not tell them anything they do not already know.

To the right, through a set of double doors, one enters a hallway with three doors. The first on the left doesn’t open and neither does the one marked “History of Silent Hill.” The door on the right, however, opens into a library. Library: All of the tall bookshelves, except for one, are overturned, spilled books are scattered on the floor. The only upright shelf is empty, except for two pieces of paper found upon inspection. One is a useful map of the museum. The other appears to a page from a book of children’s nursery rhymes. Said the knave to the noble king, “Where be your heart today?” Said the king to the knightly knave, “The punishers hath stolen it away.” Consulting the map reveals that the library connects to the curator’s office. When they locate that door it is barred shut with wood and nails. The only other rooms in this area is the “History room” and a pair of washrooms. The other side of the museum consists of four display rooms: the medieval room, animal room, observatory and human body room. The other two rooms are for storage. Both storage rooms are locked but the door to the medieval room opens easily. The room has broad windows facing north, east, and south, with a display case of swords and suits of armor held on racks before each window, facing outward, weapons ready. The suit of armor to the left is rusted, as if had been there for a long time; that on the right is polished and dented, as if new and recently put to use. A few paintings hang on the wall, including one of a beautiful woman sitting in a boat. Something inside the helmet of one of the suits of armor catches their attention. Aiming the beam of the flashlight through the grated mouthpiece one can see a key hanging inside the helmet. Attempting to lift the mouthpiece reveals that it will not budge. Using the knife and jamming it where the mouthpiece meets the neck of the suit and a fair amount of pressure, manages to pry open the helmet. Examining the tag strung to the key says History of Silent Hill Room. The east wing is reached by entering the animal room. Animal Room: This room has a suspenseful quality because of all the stuffed animals. Visitors may be almost convinced that the animals will come to life at any moment and, given their current situation, they would not be surprised. The wall to the left features many different colorful and beautiful exotic birds. The wall to the right displays smaller animals such as squirrels and raccoons. The back part of the room boasts an array of wildcats, including a cheetah, leopard and tiger. There are also skeletons in this room. Skeletons of fish, birds, animals, and one of a human being, laced together with wire and standing in a corner beneath a track light's beam. Smaller skeletons, of lizards and rodents, are placed under glass display cases. Opening the door they can enter the museum.

Museum: The first room concentrates mainly on the history of the very first settlers in Silent Hill and also touches on the Indian tribes that lived in the area before. The room is twice the size of the medieval room and houses wall-length glass display tables and many paintings and pictures. There are some paintings of the lake, a scale model of the original settlements, a sketch of one of the Indian chiefs and a copy of the first treaty between the settlers and the natives. Oddly, however, nearly all the cases are vacant and only a few paintings remain, each of them set above a plaque that explains the historical significance of the person or place in question. There are dozens of photos in faded black, white, and sepia tones, all of them wordlessly showing earlycentury Silent Hill, in all its glory. A mining town, dominated by powerful and sanctimonious nobility. Pictures of coal workers in heavy, leather mining suits alongside pictures of families in dark suits posing in front of their shop or with their team. There is a portrait of one Silas Tasker, the original director of Brookhaven Hospital. Next to that is a shot of the hospital itself, what looks to be an enlarged photograph. It is dark and blurry and the building itself isn't but a shack surrounded by tents. Now it is revealed Brookhaven was originally a purely medical facility, built to care for victims of some kind of plague outbreak in the latter half of the nineteenth century that followed a wave of immigration to this area. It was originally little more than a shack, but it gradually grew and grew. Furthermore, there are several enigmatic photos depicting nothing but a deep hole. The PCs wonder if they are related to the hospital somehow, but it is impossible to tell as the pictures have no written descriptions. The second room is devoted to the town’s expansion in the nineteenth century. Many of the town’s landscape artists emerged during that time and paintings of various parts of the town literally cover the walls. In the middle of the room is a large glass casing with various antiques, such as the first “Key to the City”, hooks used by the various fishermen on Toluca Lake, doctor’s tools from the era, and a few documents. After making an inspection of the articles, the paintings, and the glass case. Amongst the landscapes they find a curious painting. It depicts no landscape, but rather just a deep, square hole carved out of a stone floor. Unlike the other landscapes, which were done with oils, this painting has been done in acrylic. The style is a very successful photorealism; were it not for the size and the framing, one can almost imagine being able to put a hand through the hole and run fingers along the rough edges; perhaps that was why it was included in the collection; the artist’s choice of material is certainly not noteworthy. Turning away from the paintings and focusing on the articles. There is information about Brookhaven hospital and the plague that hit Silent Hill in 1880 and mention of Toluca Prison which was once located near the Historical Society. In fact, most of the original docks were built by the convicts. The foundations of the original prison buildings however, had been poorly constructed and were placed too close to the lake. Consequently, most of them began to sink underneath the wet soil. A state prison opened up near Brahms in 1929, eliminating the need for an incarceration facility of Toluca's size so the sunken parts were never rebuilt. The remaining building was used as a temporary jail until 1965 when it too began to sink and was condemned. After a lengthy consultation period where various financial and environmental studies were conducted, the city council decided it was not worth the cost to tear down the building and so it was left to join its companions beneath the damp earth. Under other circumstances, the PCs would find such lore fascinating. But their minds will be on other things and so they can go into the third room.

The third room once contained information about the town’s recent history and the works of some of the local artists and authors. Now however, it just contains a single painting that covers the back wall. The flashlight shows the brown carpeting is covered in dust. So much dust that it makes one sneeze when they first step on the carpet. Looking around ones sees only the empty spaces on the walls to the left and right. Then the eye catches something, something in the dust on the floor. Footprints: the outlines created in the dust as having been made by a pair of shoes; in fact two different pairs of shoes. The first, and larger of the pair, leaves a worn tread that suggests some kind of athletic shoe. The second pair is smaller, though not by much. They do not leave any tread, just an outline in the dust and an impression on the carpet. They are roughly the same size as the first pair, but they do not leave a tread. Then there is the one on the back wall, this one all by itself, and it definitely deserves to stand out. It commands attention, and it has the PCs. All of it. Right from the moment they lay eyes on it, it has them. Under the polished brass plate into which the title ‘Misty Day Remains of the Judgment’ has been carved in cursive, is a painting, oil on canvas. The physical appearance of it is strong. What is depicted on the canvas is absolutely dominating, to a terrifying degree. What is depicted is Pyramid Head. A figure stands on a dark hill, wearing a large pyramid-shaped headpiece over its head, and a long bloody spear is clutched in one stubby hand. It stands amongst a number of strange, wireframe cages; suspended in the air and hanging at a vertical angle. Shapes in white sheets are suspended within them shapes that are vaguely but almost certainly human and they seem to dangle in the mist like corpses on the gallows. ‘Misty Day’ is an appropriate description. There is no real background to the painting, it is simply surrounded by mist. Pyramid Head stands facing the vantage point of the viewer, and even through the age of the painting (The date was unknown, but it was discovered in 1933), even though it is just the work of someone’s imagination (Stephen H. MacGregor), there is a dark, utterly repulsive sort of power exudes from this piece. Not from the physical painting itself, no, not that. It comes from the depiction of the Pyramid Head. Even this facsimile, this product of the brush gives off that rotten feeling, just like the real deal, though certainly it isn’t as concentrated coming from here. The caption is scratched, but one can make out a few words: “-cutioner-sent Hill -victims one last tast -freed-hoice -bet-ath by spe- by -nging.” Suddenly, there is a very loud blast, followed by a crash coming from the next room. It sounds like

someone had fired a cannon or something similar. Icy needles of terror needle the flesh, a dread certainty, right down to the pit of the stomach. He’s here. He’s waiting for you. They have somehow managed to escape him several times. Now he is here with a vengeance. Now he wants the blood he is due. There is nowhere to run. They have no choice but to either die, or to fight and die. Not for a second do they entertain the notion that they are able to defeat him in combat. So they wait. And wait. And he never comes. He has to be waiting for you, then. Well, if that is the case, he is patient. Turning the doorknob and pushing it open forcefully. Pyramid Head isn’t there. The rest of the Historical Society is a labyrinth of small, narrow passageways; confusing visitors by the numberless storerooms, the intersections that can not be told apart; the old glass-fronted cabinets filled with small drawers, each bears a faded label with an obscure Latin name; the lumpy shapes under grubby tarpaulins; fossil shells a yard-and-half across, blocking the corridor; there even turnings that show clearly the footprints of the last person to walk that way—as indentations in the dust. And then there are muddle additions to the buildings in later architectural styles. This maze of boxed-in walkways gives the true impression of the sprawling confusion of the museum. The room isn’t empty, but nothing in here is alive and moving. There are more paintings and portraits, and a smashed display case in the center of the room. There is also a terrifically massive hole in the wall to the left. And it most certainly isn’t supposed to be there. An entire huge chunk of it is completely blown away, reduced to rubble that litters the immediate area. It reminds them strangely of the hole in room 208 in that it looks as though something tore through the wall itself. Both sets of prints lead into the hole. The fear comes flooding back. Maybe he is here after all. Yet, the crashed wreckage of the wall looks like it has come from the opposite side, as if something from outside had tried to get in, and there isn’t anything in here. Even the radio keeps blessedly quiet. Looking into the hole, shining the light into the hole, one does not see trees and grass and the lakeside shore. That is precisely what is not seen. Beyond is a tunnel that seems to be composed of greenish brick. There are stairs; stairs that lead down, down, down into the empty blackness, far past the range of the flashlight. It is a cave, or something similar. It looks natural, or at least roughly-hewn. It looks very uninviting. The PCs can hear sounds as they take their first steps, chief among them a horrid moaning sound, far too loud and powerful to be any of the monsters they had encountered yet. It seems to come from the walls itself, voluminous to the point where it almost seems physically tangible. The moan is a strange thing, sounding both hideously angry and woefully sad at the same time.

Yet, there is this weird, dreamy certainty that one isn’t going to find a moaning beast waiting at the bottom. That thought should sound soothing, but it isn’t at all. No, the dreamy certainty is that what waits down here is going to be worse. Far worse. Tentatively taking a step inside, the air is dry, musty and cold. Moving further in, their steps are strangely quiet as they move. The tunnel slopes gently down and the air tastes more and more stale the further they go. The PCs have found the abyss, after all. This is where their nameless friend has been leading them. Now as they descend further, down an impossibly long distance, all they can do is to see where it leads.

The Underground:
The PCs go in deeper and deeper. Down and down they go, forever and ever it seems. That terrible, soulless wailing becomes stronger and more powerful by the second. Eventually it seems as though there is more than one. Then, it is a chorus of cries, the lamenting howls of the damned. Perhaps the PCs are coming down here to join them, to be a part of this hellish choir. In these close quarters, the cacophony reverberates and, if anything, intensifies as it assaults their eardrums. This descent is endless and there is no turning back. Not a chance of that. If they turn around to go back up, they go up and up forever. They feel it. They feel like they have passed through something, that they have left even the barely relative normalcy of the world above. As bad as it was up there, down here will be worse—the heart of the nightmare perhaps. This they know. Now they go into something unknown, filling them with such dread that their hearts swell and pound as if they will burst. Down, down, down into the sloping perfect darkness. The sounds they make can not even be heard over the overbearing noise. It is so bad that one feels their equilibrium slipping. Dizziness creeps into vision, and with it, the earthbound corridor shifts slightly, then more, a full turn, and finally, twists into knots. The flashlight leads them into a sort of obscene optical illusion, the kind where one end of the hallway seems a lot smaller than the end you're looking from. It is disturbing and it makes one feel very nauseous. It seems as though every time one feels certain that they are either going to lose sanity or life, one will survive mostly intact… only to find oneself in an even worse situation. Maybe this will be the case now, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it, not then. This time, it feels like the PCs are doomed to keep running and screaming and crying like lunatics in a parade until the last shreds of sanity rip away, and they collapse on the floor, gibbering shells of themselves, lying there with eyes as wide as dinner plates, drooling on the floor and shivering until they either have a heart attack or starve to death. This is the only end to this descent. There is no other. That turns out not to be the case, as is found out a few moments later. They are in such poor control of their bodies and minds at the moment that they don’t see the door and completely run into it without even attempting to stop or slow down or even absorb the blow. They run right into the door and bounce off of it hard, falling backwards onto the inclined floor, bouncing again when their bodies hit the wet, moldy stone surface. It is more shock than pain, really, but the hideous racket doesn't help matters at all. Finally, pulling themselves together, getting back on their feet, and taking stock of their situation.

Well, there is a door, and considering the dank, dungeon-like feel of this cave, or whatever the hell it is, the door looks completely out of place, anachronistic even. There is nothing really extraordinary about the door, it is standard metal that the PCs have seen perhaps a dozen times today alone. It is painted white and streaked with coppery rust stains. What is unusual is that it is here at all, a hundred feet below sea level at least. But its difficult to tell because sense of direction isn't exactly in top working order at the moment. The handle is heavy, but as it is pulled it open on joints so ancient and rusty that one can hear them over the din behind them, and very clearly. It is just as noisy closing as opening, but, when the door is closed, it closes out the sounds of the cave along with it, at least, for the most part. The door doesn’t seem that thick. Now the sound is like noisy machinery in a distant room The Office: The room it opens to could have once been a front office for the document storage area. The walls used to be white, but some neglect has caused the paint to turn grey. There is a heavy wood door on the far side of the room. There is a desk in front of it and a support pillar just to the right of a slateboard. There is something written on the slateboard, though so old and worn-out that it can barely be deciphered. There is an in-out box on the desk, with only a single sheet of very old paper sitting in the In-box, the bottom edge is torn. On the note, in faded blue ink, is written “September 11, 1820 Prisoner Number: C-221”. Next to it lays a white sticky note, written in brisk cursive, “File this back into the Toluca Prison archive. Let me know if the other half turns up.” Prisoners down here? Sure, why not? A hundred-foot-deep hole in the ground is a fantastic place to break a man's spirit. There is nothing else on or in the desk. There is a door directly across from the one they entered, and through it the PCs go. Hallway: It leads into a hallway of sorts. The part directly in front is framed in iron bars, though the cage has a door and it is wide open. So, a prison it was. The date on that memo back there, 1820, certainly wasn't a recent one, even in the relative lifespan of this prison. There are several indications that this facility was in use in considerably more modern times than the early 19th century, notable among them the lifeless florescent lights that line the center of the ceiling up and down the hall. There are several more doors leading away from the hall. Three of them don't even have doorknobs. Two do have doorknobs that don't work. Only one door opens, one that is alone at the twisty end of the hall. The PCs go to the door at the end and open it Hole Room: Beyond is a very small, very empty hexagonal room composed of rock walls and a stone floor. The walls are bare yellow, the shade of which indicates that the walls were originally white. The floor is dirty, and it is there that a singular object of interest is to be found. In the very center of the room is a deep hole carved into the stone and cut into the ground. A hole they have seen before. The walls were not there of course, but the hole is otherwise identical to the one in the painting they saw in the second room right down to the very texture of the stone. It isn't natural, for it is perfectly square-shaped. Complete darkness swallows the beam of the flashlight. If the hole has a bottom, it can’t be seen. Examining the rest of the room shows that the walls are rough and the rock is almost sharp in some places. There are a few pebbles scattered about the base of the wall. The ceiling is about eight feet high and also composed of rock. In the corner of the room is a small pile of rock and cinder. If one of them is picked up and tossed down the center of the pit, it vanishes out of sight

in less than a second, but many seconds later, they are still poised over top of the hole, listening for the sound of the rock hitting the ground. The room is perfectly silent, so there is no way they could miss it. They never hear a thing. So, now what? There is no turning back, that much is obvious. Maybe it would be possible to go back up that incredibly long passage. Maybe not. But there is no way, no chance that they would be able to make it through there anyway, not with that terrible noise. There is no way forward. Except the hole, of course. And yet, this other option is to jump down a bottomless hole. Of course, no hole is really bottomless. This one is bound to be no exception. The messages left on the newspapered window in blood-red paint at Neely’s Bar keep coming to mind. There was a HOLE here. It's gone now. Holes don't become gone unless they are filled in. That message has to mean something. There was that one directed to them, and there is the one about the doorway on Katz. They both mean something. So, does that mean the PCs are supposed to jump down here? They stand on the very edge of the hole, looking down into the endless dark and holding a furious internal debate regarding whether or not they should jump. They leap into the pit, softly enough so that they fall down the center and away from the sides. And it's exhilarating, utterly, completely exciting. So they fall. Down, down, down. Nothing but darkness below, darkness and uncertainty. You start screaming, yelling hoarsely and wordlessly as a whole slew of worst-case scenarios play out through your mind in fast-forward. All you can think about i:s “Oh my God, oh my God, what the hell was I thinking? I'm gonna land on rocks, maybe even sharp ones and they'll break my body into shattered little pieces oh God oh for the love of God whatever happens just BRING IT TO AN END!” The Well: You don't know what happened next. You sure as hell didn't feel your body hitting the ground. You don't remember anything after the fall. For that matter, you don't remember not falling. You guess you were in such a strained state of mind that you blacked out or something. When you come to, you are yelling still. Maybe you had never really stopped yelling. Your eyesight is a little crossed, and you have to blink your eyes several times to bring them back. Then, you have to actually make an effort to close your mouth and stop yelling, before you drive yourself insane. It is difficult, but you manage that much. You are flat on your back, staring straight up into the darkness through which you fell. Your mind boggles just thinking about how far you have fallen. It feels like you had only been out for a few minutes at most, but your neck feels sore and tingly, so it must have been longer. Your neck and back also feel wet, as does your hair. You must have landed in some water, though

there isn't much of it. No matter, it is time to get up and examine where you are. You try to push yourself up with your arms. You can’t. Terror shoots through you like electricity as your worst fear suddenly hits home, your fear of paralysis and a long, lingering death in this damp hellhole. Frantically, you thrash your head around, in a state of total panic. It is just then that your scream for help becomes a wordless, euphoric cry of relief as your arms and legs suddenly come to life and fly around along with your head. Quickly, you leap to your feet and checked to make sure everything is still in working order. And of course, everything is. However, it only takes five seconds of looking around at the new surroundings for euphoria to fizzle out in a most painful way. For you see, you are in a pit. Water on the ground, the vague smell of lime, and a brick wall that is completely made from blocks of stone with tight mortar joints. After a little exploration the PCs realize there is actually just one wall, a single continuous sweep of stone. No door. No window. No escape. You start looking at the stone bricks again. You go over them inch by inch this time. You still cannot see anything. A howl is heard, heard loud and clear. It is pregnant with anger, with fearful frustration, with dry hopelessness. It is strange to think what you are hearing it as an observer, for it is your own tortured, cracking voice that is echoing about the moldy confines of your prison. Where the PCs are in, a nasty, stinking wet hole hundreds of feet under the ground. What a way to go. Which isn't to say there is nothing at all here. There is a puddle on the ground and the walls are made out of brick so old and so long in this dampness that they have completely turned green. Said wall circles the entire area the PCs are in, which is round and maybe ten feet wide. It extends vertically out of sight. Given the dampness of the earth, it might have been some kind of an indoor well at one time. You wonder if desperation will eventually bring you to drink the rancid, muddy water that has collected down here. If one of the PCs puts pressure against the wall, one of the stones wiggles against the pressure. It is loose. The brick would have come loose eventually, but when it happens it comes more quickly and easily than it should. As such, a PC can pull harder than they should have and the brick slides out with practically no resistance. The excess force makes him/her overbalance and fall, and the slippery piece of masonry slips out of his/her hand. Closely examining the wall finds that much of the brickwork in this little stretch is coming apart. Some of the bricks have crumbled outright. A few of them come away when pulled on. The brick is only one layer thick. And behind that one layer is metal. Can't be. If the metal is tapped, the noise is muffled a bit, but it is still sharp. That can only mean one thing: there is nothing behind the metal. Before you even think twice, you have the pipe in both hands, thrusting away at the crumbling masonry. You mind run in neutral for who knows how long as your arms pump and the pipe chips bricks and knocks them out of the way. You do this in a horizontal line at about waist level.

The metal, whatever it is, spans only about four feet or so, because after you have gotten that far, there is more stone behind what you are dislodging. Banging the metal with the pipe, and you are thoroughly satisfied to hear a loud, barking report. Hope swells within you. There is a gap between the weak wall and the metal behind it, maybe an inch or two. Jamming the pipe into this gap, in the middle of the area cleared, can work to dislodge it. The PCs will have place a foot on the solid part of the rubble below and pull on the handle of the pipe with all of their might. The PCs grunt with exertion. It is stronger than previously thought. When the metal comes down, it comes down hard and without warning. There is no give, no bending of any sort. One second the PCs are heaving their entire weight against the masonry, the next second they are backpedaling uncontrollably, finally tripping and falling across the floor of the pit. The PCs are stunned for a second, but only about that long. Quickly, pulling themselves to their feet and inspecting the wall. What they see is a way out. The metallic object behind the wall is a door, someone had bricked over a door. It is obvious that this door is not one that is very acquainted with the motions of opening and closing. It is already thick and heavy, but untold years of rust and filth coating the hinges and gaps makes opening it a struggle. It opens into the pit, but at a glacial pace. It requires 1D4 melee rounds of tugging just to get it to the point where one can hook fingers around the edge and pull directly. Even then, it is hardly easy, and it is no less difficult for the sludgy, silt mess that serves as a floor for the place. Now that the PCs have gotten the door cracked open enough to squeeze through, though only barely, they can step blindly, tentatively and carefully. However, if for some reason, perhaps the effervescent relief of escaping the pit, step blindly through that door, the PCs will quickly find that there is no floor where one has fully expected one to be. No, instead, their foot keeps going, completely overbalanced, and that makes the PC fall. For a fraction of a moment the PC is suspended completely in mid-air, and for that fraction of a moment he is likely to be completely convinced that they have tripped right into another one of those HOLEs. The PC has just enough time to open their mouth and scream. When they hit not thin air, but liquid. Warm, tepid liquid, several inches deep. They fall facefirst, grazing their hands on the rocky bottom and submerging some of their heads. The liquid strangles screams while helping produce fresh ones, for the liquid tastes of coppery and is red in color. The ground beyond is wet and muddy. The walls are composed of smaller brown bricks and the construction pattern is different from the well. The air is not as stale as it was in the well, but it is not particularly fresh either. The new tunnel almost reminds one of a sewer, but the smell of the place gives no indication that human waste ever flowed through here. Old iron bars, thick and dark from years of rust, prevent further advancement. As weak as they look, they are set very solidly, and don’t even so much as wiggle when grabbed. There is no door or latch, either. The corridor goes on behind the bars, farther than the flashlight can reach. Within is a sizeable brick chamber, the far wall being fifty feet from the door, the vaulted ceiling twenty feet above. As they pass the stainless-steel sides of a huge feed grinder. The switch set to “off”. If the PCs should lift the main switch to “on”, the feed grinder starts up with a smooth metallic scissoring sound, like a carving knife being sharpened against steel. But in the next

instant, a hideously distorted shriek is heard---a gibbering monkey-like yammering of pain and terror that shocks the PCs into stunned paralysis---unable to understand what the shriek can be, or what they can do to stop it. The scream goes on and on, growing higher and higher-pitched, racketing from one side of the building to the other. At the end of the little used service tunnel, on the shore of this reservoir of blood, a small rowing boat is tied, allowing access to the other drains and service tunnels that run from the lake, and to a small island of brick in its center. The boat is waiting for them, a solid wooden vessel, splintery planks for seats. Carrion birds and scavengers (shrill rats and giant cockroaches) have settled in great numbers around the plant, and gives the whole place a tangible reek of death. Once the PCs are detected, the Shrill Rats attempt to look as threatening and imposing as possible, but make no move to attack. A low roar echoes through the path, mingling with the trickling sound of flowing water. It sounds like…one of those armless things. They ready their weapons and prepare for a confrontation with the monster hiding around a bend in the canal. The PCs approach their unseen enemy slowly, which is more the product of the environment than out of real caution. The PCs know the glare of the light will eventually attract its attention. The PCs don’t know if the things are able to hear. More than once they notice that they do not even seem to respond to the radio alone. They can see though, that much they can be certain of. Sure enough, they don’t go too far before they catch sight of the monster. It is one of the straightjackets, and its back is facing them. It looks more or less like any of the dozen or so that the PCs can remember encountering aboveground, but the strange cellophane-like skin that coats the thing seems bloated and distends slightly. Having to guess, it seems to have been caused by all the water, because while other straight-jackets had a sort of messy brown coloring, this one is mottled with greens and whites, pocking the thing from head to visible calves. It is infested with mildew and water rot. Predictably, the creature reacts to the light, but its ability to move is even more reduced than the speed of the PCs. It turns to face them very slowly, like a tank turning in mud. The PCs aren’t about to give it a chance to get aggressive with them, though. In fact they have enough time to bring the gun up and aim at it, very carefully, at the center of its head. The weapon belches sound and flame, which drowns out the sound of its head being transformed into a shattered ruin. Of course, even if it hadn’t, the close quarters and echoing quality of the corridor would have made hearing anything basically impossible. In no way is the eyesight of the PCs obstructed, however, and they clearly see the impossible creature and its head, which is caved-in by the impact of the bullet and seems a hair’s width from imploding completely. Before that can happen, the thing drops like a lead weight to the ground. It lands in a strange, prone position. Its ruined head lies against the wall, but the body is propped up on its knees, making the creature’s rear stick up out of the dark murk. It is the only part of the monster still visible, and while one might find that amusing in some circumstances, to the PCs, right now, it just looks pitiful, even for an impossible, inhuman creature such as this. It splashes down and lies still, now completely submerged and out of sight. Still the PCs should stand with their weapons trained on it anyway. These bastards are tricky, and if anything, even more dangerous when prone. But thankfully, this one doesn’t seem interested in playing anymore, so the PCs can eventually step over it and continue forth.

The Bug Room: The room is quite disappointing at first. It takes all of perhaps five seconds to dismiss it as pointless. There is nothing here at all, save for a keypad on the wall next to the door. It looks wholly unremarkable. The PCs are about to turn around and leave, perhaps to reconsider performing a slam-dance on the locked gate overtop of the HOLE, when a glint of metal catches the eye like a fish hook in dark water. Bending over to examine it reveals that it is a key lying on the ground. Said key itself is rather unremarkable, but the little attachment is fairly unique. It looks like a drill bit, but it is smooth, round lacking the proper grooves. It is the phrase inscribed upon the spiral that catches the attention, though. 'Tis Doubt Which Leadeth Thee To Purgatory.” The words follow the curve of the spiral all the way, and it appears on each curve. When turned, it repeats itself in a recurring litany of singsong insanity. The PCs will have no idea what the phrase is from, if anything, but it sounds perfectly menacing, and wholly fitting to their current situation. At that moment, you feel something on your foot. It is moving, and fast. For a moment you can't react, it is as if the senses are working but the brain is voting on a reaction. You can’t move, you just stood there, every muscle in your whole body tightened like a violin string; until another thing falls on your shoulder: something the size of a hand. Then you feel the movement leave your foot and reach the back of your leg, moving with lightning speed. You feel it circle your leg and climb up your side. Something is crawling up your body. It has long, small, segmented legs covered with coarse hair, slowly uncurling, finding a foothold on your skin. The realization sets it instantly, and when it does, panic follows it right through the door. You thrash about in a frenzy. Rational thought vacates the premises as pure survival instinct takes over. You swat at it, whatever it is, but it isn't helping. You can feel it moving around, deftly avoiding the blows. It is just then that you feel it scurry up your bare arm towards your hand, it being conveyed by several tiny, needle-like appendages. From the light refracting from the walls, you can see its silhouette, and when you do, terror washes over you like a wave at high tide. Roach! You moan, a toneless, haunting product of utter revulsion, and your arm lashes out, hoping to dislodge it. It works. You can feel the insect detach from your skin, and you think you can hear it strike the wall. It is certainly large enough to make noise doing so. Unfortunately, the roach wasn't the only thing you dislodge. The flashlight, the wonderful flashlight, your only source of vision in this hell, flies out of your hand as well. You can see it fly away from your panicked, outstretched grip for the fraction of a second it remains airborne. Then, with a sharp plastic crack, it smashes against the concrete wall. And your world is plunged into darkness. If you thought you knew panic a moment ago, well, let me just say that it isn't even an adequate starter course. The moment the light goes out, hell, before the thing even has the chance to hit the floor, you leap at it like cat chasing nip. Your shoulder collides with the wall bluntly, but you hardly noticed. You are way too focused on finding the flashlight and making it work again to care. Your hands scrabble around madly, reaching and sweeping in every direction. It doesn't take long for you to feel the touch of hot metal and plastic under your fingers.

You almost gasp in relief when you grab it and flick the switch. That relief, however, evaporates in a complete instant. The light does not come on. If it is broken, this is without a doubt the end of you. All these times you keep finding a way out of a predicament just keep leading you to new messes, and luck can only overcome so many of them. You don't lose it, because one of your trembling fingers manages to break through the encroaching madness in your brain to report that the battery latch is missing, and the battery with it. Relief makes an instant return, not unlike the flick of a light switch. You would laugh if you aren't so close to going mad. Your free hand continues its frenzied search for the missing battery. You have to back up on your hands and knees and turn around several times, and as you do, you can feel that relief, and your ever-tenuous grip on sanity, sliding and sliding bit by bit. Your breath is getting short and blood is being pounded through your veins, as though your heart is getting enraged from being sped up so often, and is taking its frustrations out on the blood by pumping it as hard as it can. But finally, your fingers close upon something round, metallic, and heavy for its size. That beautiful, wonderful D-cell battery which paves the way for you to see, it is back in your hands. You practically slam it in the battery compartment of the flashlight, even before you bother standing up. The back of the case is gone, but you don’t need it, and you aren't about to waste any more time looking for it. All you want to do is get out of here and--You jerk your hand back suddenly, as if it had landed on a red-hot burner. You felt that scurrying rush of that roach. The motion was so sudden that you almost lost your balance and fell over, only catching yourself at the last minute. Quickly you stand, and--There it is again, this time on your foot. Then on both feet. In several places on both feet. Up your legs! That was where one had attacked you, way back in the apartments, seemingly a million years ago. It left quite the nasty wound where it had tried to eat you from the inside out. And that was just one of them. Then there were more sounds, soft chirping sounds, and the sound of tiny, tiny legs scuttering on the ground; it sounds like taking a bag full of little rocks, marbles and dry leaves and squishing it constantly between the palms of your hands. It is a wordless hissing, a soft sound, but growing louder by the second. Relief finally leaves you completely. Now you are gripped by terror, even as your finger flips the switch on the flashlight, because you thought you knew what you were going to see. You thought wrong. Or perhaps, you didn't think large enough. What you thought you would see was four or five of those fucking nasty puppy-sized cockroaches crawling around you. The light comes on. And you immediately find yourself wishing there were only four or five. Or ten. Or twenty. Because there are fucking hundreds, thousands of them. Everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on the low ceiling. Every last inch of this little concrete tomb is a sickening, swarming, writhing, churning mass of glistening insect carapaces---a hideous insectarium: a living collection of the world's ugliest anthropoids, hexapods and arachnids, crawling toward you, attracted by the light. Many of them are the obscenely large ones you had yet to see, over two inches longs, an

inch wide, with busy legs especially long feelers that quiver anxiously. Many more still are in increasingly diminutive sizes, all the way down to what is more or less normal, the cockroaches you were used to seeing, the ones the size of nickels and quarters. Not for a moment do you view the small ones as any less a threat than the large ones. Not that you are in much of a state of mind to really differentiate. There are far too many for the difference to matter at all. The roof, walls and floor are covered in a squirming layer of bugs: cockroaches, black spiders, moths, scorpions, wasps, black and green flies, big-headed red ants, mantises, centipedes—of the thick black kind with orange legs, and the other type as well; it doesn’t matter—those long insects that look like dry branches, with thin, stretched, creepy legs; and hundreds of other types of bugs that you never even knew existed. Their shiny green-brown carapaces appear to be sticky and wet, like blobs of dark mucus. You can't scream. If you make a noise, it’s not a scream. To call it a scream would be insulting to real screams. What crawls up your throat and dies is nothing but a pitiful, terrified whine. The room is far too small to break into a run, so they leap at the door, running into what feels like a wall—which goes scrunch! when they hit it. and it rains small things on them, things which immediately starts crawling all over their bodies; there are hundreds of these things on top of them. They grip the door’s handle without any regard to the insects crawling upon it. Crushing some of them in the process, turning the knob, ready to burst out the door and… Locked. The writhing, massive horde of insects seems to intensify in response. More pour into the room. They coming out of a crack in the floor. Coming out by tens. By scores. By hundreds. There are several thousand of the disgusting things in the room already, and the chamber is no more than twenty feet on a side. They mount up on one another, five- and six- and seven feet deep, covering the walls and the ceiling, moving, endlessly moving, swarming restlessly. The cold whisper is now a soft roar. The creatures tear each other to pieces. Hisses, clicks, and squeals fill the ears; black, brown and red ichor stain the ground and splatter the face. The noise they make is deafening, and their touch revolting and unwelcome for every single part of the PCs’ bodies they make contact with. Their chittering, chitinous sounds, the soft thumps of the little bastards hitting the PCs as they fall from the ceiling, that totally unnerving sensation of them crawling on them, it is enough to finally do them in. It is plenty. That's when a small ray of light catches the eye, as it doesn’t come from the flashlight, and when they moved it away from the source, one notices that it doesn’t reflect that light, either. It is glowing on its own. The keypad! Smacking several cockroaches off of the pad, and with the faint glow from the keypad comes a faint glow of hope. Only three of the nine numbers on the pad glow. The other six are as dark as everything else. An alarm buzzes sharply several times for every wrong sequence of numbers entered. The buzzing repeats itself over and over again, and you punch the buttons faster and more furiously. With each loud denial, that faint thread of hope frays more and more. The pressure of the insects building up in layers finally causes them to spill at you like a breaking wave, in a roiling mass. They are trying to climb up your arms and chest and back. Trying to get to your face. Trying to

squeeze between your lips and teeth. Trying to scurry up your nostrils. You clamp a hand over your nose and mouth to prevent the things from slithering inside of you. Just as you are absolutely certain that it was going to snap, that the keypad was just a cruel, false hope to fuck with you just a little more before you lose your sanity and your life, you hear a different sound, this one a note of definite approval, which for all its happiness and cheerfulness, is no less loud or sharp than the denial tones. Frantically, you grab the doorknob, again crushing several of the insects in the process, and pull the door open hard enough to slam against the wall. You rush out the door in a blind panic, slamming into the opposite wall. You all throw your bodies around in a frenetic, insane dance, striking the walls and rolling on the floor and beating yourself so wildly that one would have think you are on fire. You wail as you do so, for you are so fantastically desperate to get rid of any and all insects that escaped that cell with you. No matter how you try though, you still feel the sensation of hundreds, of thousands of little monstrous bugs crawling over every inch of you. The sensation alone is driving you to the brink. Your eyes pop open as you lay on you back finally unleash a good, thick scream until you gradually stop. …and you see nothing. No insects. Not a single one. You lay on the floor with a traumatized look, unable to explain the fact that the area isn’t covered with insects. Hurriedly, you sift through the folds of your clothing, then you scan the floors and walls. Not even one tiny cockroach is to be seen. Finally you manage to get yourself under control, but it is a fight as difficult as any combat you had encountered in town. It feels like you are pushing against a solid brick wall at first, but slowly, bit by painstaking bit, it yields. Slowly, you sit up and look around, there are no bugs at all, no critters, no things. Finally, you are able to stand. You no longer weep, but your face is flushed and your mind feels numb and empty. Hole Room: You walk towards the locked gate and its HOLE with a zombie-like stutter. With a queer sort of detachment, you lean over and twist the spiral-writing key in the latch-lock. As soon as you, the double-doors fall open, and the HOLE gapes wide and inviting. Yet another pitch dark space, so deep that the light of the flashlight can't reach the bottom. You stare down that HOLE, the numbness giving way to anger, anger at how unfair it all is. The anger leaves you quickly. Now there is nothing but this HOLE, which cost you so much upstairs to access. After having to go through all that terrifying shit to open the gate, you feel much less apprehension about this HOLE than you did the first one.

Toluca Prison: An old abandoned prison was once situated further down Nathan Avenue past
the Historical Society down by the lake. At one time it served as a time capsule, where visitors could see for themselves the harsh and tortuous living conditions which the jail's prisoners suffered. The foundations of the original prison buildings however, had been poorly constructed and were placed too close to the lake. Consequently, most of them began to sink underneath the wet soil. A state prison opened up near Brahms in 1929, eliminating the need for an incarceration facility of Toluca's size so the sunken parts were never rebuilt. The remaining building was used as a temporary jail until 1965 when it too began to sink and was condemned. After a lengthy consultation period where various financial and environmental studies were conducted, the city

council decided it was not worth the cost to tear down the building and so it was left to join its companions beneath the damp earth. Two thirds of the prison is devoted to prisoner cells, the remaining third contains administration offices and a visitor area. There is also a courtyard in the east end of the building that contains the gallows and a basement to the west which contains the infirmary and the morgue. The cellblocks are divided into two sections, a corridor running east in the north part of the building and another corridor also running east in the south, both of which contain prisoner cells. There are two hallways running north and south next to the prison cell corridors. One on the east end and one on the west end. There are numerous cracks in both the floor and the walls. Loose soil has seeped into the cracks leaving the floor brown and gritty. The walls too are spotted and have large streaks of rust running down them from various metal beams and pipes in the ceiling. Somewhere in the dark the occasional creak of rusted metal and water dripping slowly from some distant crack can be heard. The air tastes damp and smells of rust. Occasionally the sound of a steam train can be heard on the wind and a steel door sometimes clangs in the distance. Arrival: The fall is uncomfortable but short. With backs rubbing against the edge of the hole as they descend and the surface is less than smooth. The landing is soft, in part because the ground beneath them is damp, almost muddy and in part because it seems like they have only dropped five feet or so. Sprawled face down on the cold ground, the PCs do not move when they regain consciousness; they wait in the hope that their confusion will dissipate. You blink eyes in an aching head. You can't see anything but white and red spots chasing each other across a field of darkness. You panic at the thought of becoming blind; but gradually vision returns. You blink, trying to focus. Veils seem to flutter within your eyes. There isn't much worth seeing. The Main Gate: Now, the PCs are underground, very far underground, possibly underneath a damn lake. It is difficult to imagine how such a structure was created, but the possibility of a large, open space isn’t outside the realm of possibility. What the PCs would never have expected, all the way down here, is to find such an open space, and find grass beneath their feet. Yet, that’s what they see, certainly not what one would expect to find in a deep hole in the ground like this. And on top of that, they feel wind. Walking down the road a little further eventually brings visitors across a dirt road from behind a flimsy guardrail. Traveling down the road leads into a few trees, and then comes a long concrete wall that stretches far around with a wide rusty-metal gate at the center. The sign by it, confirms it to be the Toluca Prison. And the chain wrapped around the handles with a lock securing it confirms that no one was allowed in. With the doors now unlocked, the PCs can pull one of the heavy doors open and walk inside. The road winds down further down the cliff and into a thick void of fog. And after taking a few steps, the heavy door immediately slams shut behind them. The PCs can then hear the loud rattle of chains and metal followed by a click. The gate door is very badly rusted, and the water that drips steadily off of it provides the reasoning behind that. The handle latch is jammed, seemingly fused solid thanks to untold decades of build-up. It doesn’t help that the handle is on the other side of the gate, either, but one is able to twist their arm enough to get a solid grip. Pushing down hard does nothing except

make the latch handle barely joggle. Another push produces similar disappointing results. The third time, it gives, yes indeed. It gives too much. The PC’s hand comes down on the handle, and one feels a moment of resistance. Just a moment. Then, the handle cracks and snaps off, too quickly for the PC to even register right away, much less prevent. Thanks to that, the PC is full of surplus movement. The PC’s arm continues plunging earthward, and the PC’s wrist is caught on the part of the broken handle still attached to the gate. It rips a long, white-hot slash all the way up to the crook of the PC’s elbow, stopping only because the PC’s shoulder struck the bars, being too large to pass through. 2D4 damage. When a person suffers a sudden injury, there's always that brief grace period, that time before the nerves inform the brain of what happened, a time where nothing feels wrong. It is during this time that the PC can pull the arm back through the bars and move away from the gate in a sort of dull stupor. Stumbling, as the PC's attention isn't focused, and falls backwards against the cold concrete wall, sliding down to the floor and siting there. Then they can rolled back the sleeve and see the exposed skin on their arm. At that instant, the grace period of shock disappears, as quickly as if it had never been there at all. Replacing it is a searing jolt of agony, drawn in a jagged crimson slash that spanned the entire length of the arm to the elbow. Already the whole arm is smeared red, and more oozes out from the wound. Really, it is the look of the slash that sends you into fits, fills your mind with fresh new horror scenarios. Tetanus, blood poisoning, any number of infections in this damp and wet hole in the groundBut thankfully, you do come to realize it isn't quite as bad or as gory as it looks. The cut is shallow from tip to end, no real lasting damage. The blood is already clotting and the flow has become a mere trickle. It still stings, but you can handle it. What choice do you have? None, of course. The further they get through this death-trap of a town, the more apparent that becomes, and even though they had long past the point where they need reminders, they come anyway. Maybe they are dead already. The thought has crossed their minds, as they struggled through the corrupted worlds. It would be such a release to know for sure if they were dead, because then all worries they had carried would dissipate as they would no longer matter. But if they are dead then this is most certainly is Hell, and thinking about living eternity in this place is a torturous thought. If they both are still alive, though, the fight to stay that way seems almost futile. There has to be some reason they are going through this hell, some reason for their suffering. The only way to find out was to press on. So, there is nothing to do but press on. As they walk down along the edges of the cliff, it doesn’t take long before they reach the dark facility. Falling down those HOLEs has certainly ruined any sense of direction, and now one can’t help but wonder if perhaps they really are underneath Lake Toluca. The Inner Gate: Gate Yard:

Reception: Opening the creaky double-doors leads the visitors into the first room of the prison. Immediately to the left is the prison’s reception desk; dirty, smashed, and ancient. As the flashlight is shined around the area the PCs are in, it resembles what would basically be a condemned building; broken marble, various trash, and even some graffiti here and there. Aside from the environment, there are several paintings on the walls to the left. For the first time, you notice the painting hanging on the walls. The first is in black and white and depicts the gallows of the prison. A throng of onlookers watch as a man with a black hood draped over him stands on top of the scaffold with a noose around his neck and his arms bound. The painting is simply titled “Prison Gallows”. The one next to it was done using a technique of mixing brown and white paints to produce shading. Ordinarily, the artist would then add color by glazing over the dried paint, but, for reasons lost to time, they did not complete that phase. It depicts one man being impaled through the neck with a spear and another man with a wire coiled around his neck. Behind them stand men in uniforms standing at attention. The painting is titled “Skewering And Strangling”. Below is a short note about two types of illegal executions that were sometimes performed during the prison’s less reputable days. The central painting seems almost abstract. It shows nothing more than a bizarre design that looks as though it had been burned onto a blank canvas. There are circles within circles, strange symbols, marks, and letters, and in the center, a large triangle. Two of the other paintings are lake views, the others are bleak, desolate landscapes. In one, the view is of the lake, dark and flat, over which broods a sky ready to burst. It is a day scene, and somewhere in the clouds the sun is obscured, leaving only a remnant of cold, metallic light. One’s eyes are drawn to something in the painting, and they glimpse a tiny figure standing on the edge of the lake, hardly visible at all on casual inspection. The moment the PCs’s eyes locked onto the figure, the true perspective of the painting grips them. The figure is dwarfed by the landscape, dwarfed and dehumanized. It might have been a portrait of hell. In another painting, a narrow blacktop road winds into a dying curtain of autumn trees, the color are truly beautiful. The artist’s technical skill cannot be questioned. But the road itself, when one looks closely, seems to be a mosaic of broken skulls. The tone of all six is dark, menacing. There is a door immediately ahead of the PCs at the end where the fork into the hallway begins. Upon twisting the metal knob of the door in front of them, the PCs accidentally pull it off the door and drop it; making a sound as it hits the floor that echoes down into the darkness of the hall to their left. Prison Cafeteria: It is almost completely dark and it smells of metal and wood. Wooden beams crisscross the span, all of them completely green, and in a brighter shade. Their field of vision comes down, which reveals that they are surrounded by tables, every side of them has them. The table to the left has a long crack at the center of the far end that runs along the grain and terminates at the near right corner. One of the benches on the table to the right has been cracked down the center and overturned. Many have chairs, parked under or nearby, several skewed and none of them neat or clean. The grey floor beneath is dirty as well, the same sort of overgrown cave like neglect evident all over, but there is more here. Chunks of material are scattered about. Most of them aren't of a size worth noting, but several are, and all of them are black as night. One of the PCs can touch one that lies near at hand. It is very dry, lightweight, and smells faintly of sweet rot.

There it is, lying on the floor. They kick a stick. A white, carved, knobbly stick that had been lying on the floor and which flips up into the air when he'd stepped onto the end of it. But no. Not a stick, exactly. It is a bone. They go down to where it lays, and crouch before it with a sick kind of fascination. It is definitely a bone, and it isn't spotless. There is old black meat sticking to it like shreds of pastedon leather, the way it might look if it had been buried in some body's garden for a month or so; practically mummified with age, and the realization makes one’s stomach churn. The longest bone in the human body; and here it is, the thighbone, looking like some elegant piece of ivory carving. The PCs have a piece of meat in hand, from animal or from human now it can't be guessed. The PCs can scan the room, looking for any threats that the radio hadn't caught. They don’t see any monsters. They do see several old pots and filthy serving trays, some littering the floor, most littering the tables. The bowls and steel pots are encrusted with the remnants of some ancient dinner. Spoons, a hand-cart, even scraps of clothing lie strewn about. It looks like a riot had broken out and nobody bothered cleaning up afterwards. The walls are thick with stains of all shapes and sizes, surely some of those could have come from these trays. After all, meat can stain as easily as anything. The knives, spoons and forks are black and lusterless, and the plates are cracked. A painting hangs on the wall behind them. Strange place to find a painting, but this one is rather interesting. It shows the very room the PCs are in— a pristine cafeteria; apart of course, from the thick, steel bars on the windows—with the viewpoint facing where they are standing. On the far wall, one can see this painting, creating a strange infinity effect. One would find it fascinating in nicer circumstances. On the wall to the left is an old blackboard that gives the menu: Main: Spaghetti Bolognaise Sides: Mashed Potatoes and peas Notice: Since your good behavior after the Coltrane incident, the Warden has decided to allow the use of metal cutlery in the cafeteria again. Any prisoners abusing this will have their privileges suspended and be confined to solitary. The cafeteria is definitely deteriorating, but at least it is dry. The place isn’t half-underwater as was the natural rock cavern, but it certainly is wet itself. Water drips from cracks in the ceiling, filling the quiet chamber with a soft litany of hollow dripping. Puddles of the stuff collect here and there on the floor. The crooks where the floor meet the wall have sunken a bit with advanced age, and the runoff pools along them. It is humid, but it is colder down here than up above. Colder, in fact, than it had felt since they entered the hospital. It makes the place feel even more depressing than it should have, and that is plenty itself. The PCs can proceed down the center of the room, shining the flashlight to the right and left, but it stops as if frozen solid when it falls upon something that is just a little more provocative than dirty tables and messy counters. The body is that of a dark haired man, probably in his thirties, sits at one of those tables, over in the far corner. He is dressed in blue jeans and an olive colored polo shirt. Upon closer inspection,

one realizes that he isn't really sitting, not so much as he is slumped over. He is resting, although it is rather obvious that it is of the eternal variety. The poor bastard's head is pulped, a complete wreck. The skull is smashed, and a macabre mess of blood, bone shards and shredded chunks of pale pink brain spread in front of him on the table, like a fan. The man’s nose, eyes, and forehead are a bloody mess, though not as bad as the man in 208 or the man in the tunnel. There are three more bullet holes in the man’s back and there is blood pooled on the bench where the man sits. The smell is thick and meaty and of rich copper. You'd like to say it is the first time you'd seen a person mutilated in this manner, but it isn't. That man on the Nathan Avenue bridge, and overall, he was in worse shape than the man in front of you. He wasn't fresh, though. Whoever this grisly corpse slumped over the meal table is, he had been dead for at least several hours. The man at the table here, he is fresh. The blood hadn't even started to congeal yet. What happened to him? And how had he gotten here? It looks like someone had taken a large gun of some kind and... Now they cross the cafeteria, again trying to ignore the body. The rows of ruined tables continue. Lying against the wall, they see a small orange square. It is a thin, metallic tablet,