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Moth	By : screamer1234 Category: +S through Z > Silent Hill Views: 6878 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: I ought to make some kind of excuse for the third chapter being this goddamn late, but I have none. *grovels* Um...it's twice as long as the last chapter? Maybe that'll make up for the wait a little...anyway, the journey into mindfuckery continues. Hope you enjoy it!
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James woke up.
There was softness under his body, a greater softness under his head. He could smell a distantly familiar perfume. Talcum powder. Clean sweat.
It was bewildering.
A soft mew startled him. He jolted away, slipped over a sudden edge, and fell hard onto a carpeted floor. Covers shifted; he realized, belatedly, that he had been lying on a bed. “James?” The voice was female and sleepy and James felt his heart contract at the sound of it.
“Can’t be…” he mumbled. He stared as her face appeared at the edge of the bed.
“Honey, are you okay?” asked Mary, concern bright in her eyes.
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He was on his feet and squeezing her to him in seconds. “Oh my God, Mary—I had this dream—you were so sick, I couldn’t do anything and then you died, except you sent me a letter and I went to this place that was like Hell and I—”
He stopped when he felt her gentle arms around him. Her voice was gentle, too. “It’s all right, it was just a dream. I’m right here, see? I’m right here.” She started stroking his hair and he fought down the sudden knot in his throat.
He pulled away, in a movement that was almost a spasm. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. It’s just that…” James looked down at her lovely face. At his Mary, who he thought he’d lost forever. He swallowed. “It’s just that it was so—”
A soft kiss cut him off and he stiffened in shock. Then he returned it eagerly, gratefully, drinking in her faint flowery smell, her cool fingers on his face, every softness and sweetness he had gone so long without. There was no way he could not deepen such a kiss; that godforsaken place had all been a dream, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of having been away for years, centuries, lost in the fog and the horrible, man-eating dark without her. She smiled against his mouth, then parted her lips, indulged him, opened herself to him. She tasted just like he remembered. And just like James, just like the selfish thing he was, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more.
They kissed harder, deeper, and her willingness was like a need that went down to his ruined soul. She made a soft, wanting noise; he returned it as a deep and raspy groan. Her mouth opened to him a little more each moment, more, more, until her jaw unhinged and her teeth closed around James’ head.
He screamed shrilly and pushed and punched at her in a frenzy of fear, heels slipping on the hardwood floor, but Mary held him fast. She lunged forward to take him in up to his collarbone and everything turned dark and wet. Her throat pressed in on him from all directions and he couldn’t get his breath, he was smothering, but he couldn’t stop himself from shrieking all his air away.
He could feel her teeth closing, releasing, closing around him as she choked him down. The muscles of her esophagus rippled around his body, squeezing him to death, hauling him inescapably into the eye-aching scarlet dark. A bloody, chunky reek was filling his mouth, and James didn’t know if he’d torn his throat with his own howls or if it rose up from the airless, distended starvation inside his beautiful Mary.
James woke up again, but this time he was screaming.
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He quickly clapped his hands to his mouth. It was just a dream—just an awful, sickening, horrifying fucking dream—but this was the real world, this was Silent Hill, and that loud, piercing noise would raise every monster’s head from Rosewater Park to the lowest crumbling depths of Toluca Prison. He pressed his back more firmly against cold, rough brick—he remembered now, he’d huddled here to hide in the (dark) from a seemingly invincible pack of strange, new, tentacle-tongued dog-creatures—and for two minutes simply panted, hands firmly over his mouth to stop the hysteria that he could feel was still boiling in his stomach. He prayed that nothing had already heard him.
But, as usual, Silent Hill did no such lowly thing as listen to his prayers.
From around the corner rose the screech of metal on concrete. A heavy, booted tread. A bellowing roar that seemed to enfold all animal frustration and rage into a single solid noise. There was only one thing it could be, and in a few more steps, it would be blocking his only way out.
Don’t see me, don’t hear me, oh God, oh God, oh God oh God oh— His breath was coming in lewd pants. James tried to curl even tighter into himself, but some whimper, some beat of his living heart must have given him away because that awful red helmet was staring right at him. His eyes flinched shut in some kind of alien instinct. Running would be pointless. In a way, it was almost a relief.
But there came no rapid steps, no roar, no thick metal bludgeoning through his fragile flesh and bone. No deliverance. James waited, trembling. Finally, certain all he’d see would be the blackness inside the monster’s helmet, he opened one eye.
The Pyramid Head was watching him, as if it were waiting. As if it had been waiting for him to look at it again. Then it inclined its head and gestured towards itself with one gloved hand.
James’ jaw dropped. There was no mistaking that gesture: Come here.
The monster began to walk away. James stumbled to his feet and followed.
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It led him through the foggy streets of Silent Hill, turning this way and that onto streets James knew were ruined or blocked, but his radio was dead quiet and even the fog seemed to part for his demon. So why not the roads—why wouldn’t they mend themselves for it? Hell, why wouldn’t they raise up into the air, rearrange themselves, and come back down in a new labyrinth every time he closed his eyes?
Thinking about it made James want to lie down on the grimy asphalt and wait to die. So he stopped thinking about it.
At last they came to the blocked-off construction tunnel where he’d picked up his plank. The silence was oppressive; the only thing that swirled the fog was his own fidgeting. James looked over at the pale demon, trying to ignore how the fog lay peacefully around its feet. It was staring at him again.
The nervous exhaustion already trembling his muscles suddenly threatened to pull him to the ground. Frustration added itself up in a rush. Fuck the Red Pyramid. Fuck this cryptic puzzle shit. “There’s nothing here!” he nearly shouted, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.
The monster just kept staring. Cold sweat prickled at the nape of his neck; it itched. He didn’t dare move. Finally, it raised its free arm and pointed straight into the dark maw.
Of course.
A good, clean bullet through his own soft palate would be better than what had to be waiting for him in there—and not only would he have to walk into that blackness, he’d have to turn his back on his deadliest, most persistent predator. But the town had never taken his hand like this. Everything ahd always been sticking his hand in toilets and solving puzzles devised by mental patients. Always searching every filthy room, panic and despair rising up in him like bile, for whatever ridiculous, dumbass clue or key this place had seen fit to dangle in front of him. To require of him.
He’d have to be a moron to pass this opportunity up. So he took a shaky breath, and another, and another, and when he thought he might pass out he strode in quickly before he could change his mind. The shadows and the smell of fog-wet dirt deepened the further he went in. He thought of little teeth, a tight, rolling throat, the scent of perfume, and somehow managed not to scream.
The tunnel was longer than he remembered. Darker, too…something was hanging on the chain link fence in the back, silhouetted, blocking the little light that could struggle through the fog. James didn’t want to know what that something was. He looked anyway—and it took all his self-control to keep down what little there was in his stomach.
Angela had shrunk from his hand and backed away up a burning staircase, Eddie was…Eddie was gone (gotwhathe deserved), and he’d sworn that he’d be damned if he let another one go.
But here he was. Damned, apparently.
Laura was bound tight to the fence by barbed wire, looped around her limbs and through gaps in the chain link. Her body was laid open completely, each muscle and nerve carefully peeled and pinned until bone glistened white under red. The cuts were clean and surgical from her forehead to her chest, where they began to grow ragged. Her lower legs were a barely-ordered mess, as if the horrible artist had been unable to hold back any longer and simply mutilated her in one long orgasm of violence. Her arms ended in soggy red stumps, and as he gazed longer at her face in the dim light, he realized that small fingers protruded from her eyes and mouth.
No. This wasn’t happening—was it, was it punishment, was something like this waiting for him? Laura had called him stupid, stepped on his hand, locked him in a room full of strangling monsters, and generally been a high-pitched irritant of the highest caliber, but she was still a little girl.
The little girl his wife had always wanted.
James retched. Even as he cowered away, backing deeper into the dark, he was fumbling rounds into his gun. Even the crush of filthy grief and horror and guilt like lead poisoning, even the painful certainty she was already dead (nono didn’t you hear that noise?)—all of it was overwhelmed by the frenzy to just kill it before she spat out those fingers and gaped her mouth wide for him like he knew she would. This wasn’t anything special. Just something else. Just something else for him to dream about.
A smooth voice right fucking behind him purred, “Do you like it?”
Without a thought James whirled, punched Walter hard in the gut with pistol still in hand, and hauled him by his coat collar into the tunnel wall. He panted for a moment, harshly swallowed back his nausea, and snarled, “You sick fuck!”
The brief startled expression on Walter’s face triggered a hot, alien clutch in his stomach that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had to fight off the urge to…to just keep going. Keep hitting him. Cave in his face and ribcage, beat him to a pulp, leave him a worse mess than
(that nurse)
He gritted his teeth. Walter looked as nonplussed as he could while his unkempt face was lit up by a bizarre, satisfied, childishly proud smile. Before James could collect his thoughts, he said, “What, you don’t like it? I thought you’d like it.”
James growled, “Why the fuck would I like it?”
“You wanted it, didn’t you? Nothing happens in this town without you wanting it.”
His hands loosened in surprise. “W…what? What are you—”
Walter took the opportunity to shrug out of his grip and walked coolly towards the back of the tunnel. James noticed a handle sticking out of his pocket and a tapering outline that could only be a very large knife. For whatever reason, he followed him. But he kept his eyes off Laura.
He slid his gun back into his pocket, letting his hand linger on the stock. “Hey,” he said quietly. Walter’s head turned.
“They showed your story on TV. You killed yourself ten years ago. They showed the—the pictures of your neck. Nobody could survive that.” James swallowed hard in spite of himself. “I don’t think you’re real.”
There. He’d said it. He didn’t know what he expected—that Walter would fall down dead, fade into the fog and never come back, scream and melt into a tarry puddle at his feet like the fucking Wicked Witch of the West.
Whatever he expected, it didn’t happen. The other man’s face didn’t even change. “If I’m real to you, then I’m real,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s not complicated.”
“Y—” James started. He tried again. “You know what I mean!” Walter just kept staring with those haunted forest eyes. There was an odd sensation in his head, almost like the red squares. Like cold fingers trawling through his brain. And a hot, slimy, red-yellow-black tongue rising up to meet them.
“If I’m not real, then why are you afraid of me?” he said.
James couldn’t answer that one. Walter turned his gaze again to Laura’s horrible parody of a face, a slight smile still on his lips.
James looked up at Laura and shut his eyes. That heavy, hateful salt was in his mouth again; the taste of ash chased it, barely, stronger than it should have been. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table after Mary would gently but firmly put her foot down and tell him to go home, you need your rest, you’ve got work tomorrow. Sitting at the kitchen table and lighting one cigarette right after the other, the way you do when time is running out. He didn’t notice Walter edging nearer until strange stagnant breath was fanning over his face and by then it was too late to stop the soft, oddly tentative kiss. It was barely anything; a touch of chapped lips to the corner of his mouth, like the brush of a wing, gone before James could widen his eyes or jerk back his head.
“We have something in common, you know.” Walter paused. He licked his lips thoughtfully. “You taste like ashes.”
James paled. After Mary died
liar liar liar such a FUCKING LIAR
he’d thrown out every cigarette in the house and flushed his lighter down the toilet. More importantly, though, he hadn’t even told this crazy son of a bitch his name, let alone that he used to smoke. Let alone that he’d been convinced he’d caused whatever made her cough her lungs out and seethe with hideous pain like hot driving nails every hour of every day. Of course, having no way of knowing his name hadn’t stopped him from using it—
He forced himself to relax, like shoving down the lid on the overstuffed trunk that was his mind. It had to be a coincidence. Walter was crazy, right? Who knew what he was even talking about?
Walter tilted his head and James got the horrible feeling he’d been watching his thoughts reel along behind his eyes, obvious as a movie.
“Mother…what’s all this?” he asked, in a strange tone somewhere between put-out and mocking. “I know a lot about you, James Sunderland.”
And suddenly the fear was like claws squeezing his chest and he jerked up the muzzle of his Beretta straight into that bloodspattered face. God (or the Devil) knew he’d been practicing long enough and abruptly, loudly, Walter didn’t have a face anymore. He slumped forward and down into the dirt with a reassuringly wet, heavy thud.
But the claws kept squeezing. Every breath came harder, shallower, more like a wheeze. James groaned and fell to his knees, then his hands, as if he were being pulled. There were shadows feeling their way up his vision, a black sleep pushing him down into the fog-wet dirt, but it was okay because all of a sudden he was just so fucking tired. He was fine with that. As long as he didn’t dream, it was fine.
The dark opened wide. Then it swallowed.
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James did not see Laura come back together like a red, red rose blooming in reverse, hop off the fence, and go on her way. Perhaps it was better that he did not.
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Moth