Dedicated to Silent Hills. Kojima, Del Toro, Reedus... please...please... bring it back. :(
Beyond the darkened room is a seemingly normal corridor. The wooden floors are slightly scuffed, small nicks and notches of the footsteps that had been before. In a small alcove, beneath the smiling portraits of summer vacations, award ceremonies and birthdays is a digital clock. It blinks 11:59pm.
The dresser by the window shows signs of a struggle. A small doll lies haphazardly to one side, now forgotten and alone, red flecks marring its pale fabric. Candy and marbles are scattered about a framed photograph of charming couple on their wedding day. The phone is slightly off the hook, a woman’s voice calmly devoid of warmth announcing that there is no one on the other end.
Further down the corridor, around the corner, past a closed bathroom door to the right, sits a radio filling the entryway with static. The front door is locked tight. Beyond the entryway are three steps and another door, swallowed in darkness.
A second dresser sits presentably against the wall. The happy family photograph is damaged however, a smeared hand print sliding down the side. The eye of the woman is gouged, a red cross obscuring her features.
The radio begins to speak. It’s cracked. A man, a boring man, frustrated with his life, had destroyed his content family. As it drones on, describing a gruesome scene in dispassionate detail, the tang of copper blood increases. The bathroom door begins to shift, cockroaches crawling under and around the frame.
“…The police found the body of the mother in the bath, along with her child. The older daughter was later discovered in a fridge in the basement. During the investigation, the man was reported to have been heard repeating a sequence of numbers, 924586, 924586, 924586…” the radio announcer’s voice changes, becoming cracked and disjointed, the sequence of numbers repeating over and over, its volume washing through the hall.
From behind the bathroom door, strange gurgling noises can be heard. The light flickers slightly, the numbers repeating on the radio quickening in pace. The smell of blood is overwhelming. The walls begin to change, the frames morphing into pulsating eyes, frantically searching. The gurgling from the bathroom morphs into the tormented squeals of a baby, fighting the cacophony of never-ending, demonic numbers on the radio, repeating over and over and over.
Footsteps can be heard approaching, slowly, as if unable to walk properly, a silent footfall followed by a sharp clip of a heel. The panicked thumps of fists against the bathroom door punctuate the squeals of the child, a strange chuckle underlying the horror of noise…
The telephone rings. Nothing moves. Everything is silent. The phone rings again. Despite there being no one to answer, there’s a click.
“Turn around. Do it. Just turn around.” It says simply. The line is dead once again.
Passed the now still bathroom, beyond the ever-patient radio, down three steps, the locked door opens with a creak.
In the small alcove, beneath the smiling family portraits, is a digital clock. It blinks 12:00am.