Silent Hill Fan Fiction ❯ Lost Traces of Amber ❯ 3 o'clock ( Chapter 1 )

 

It was barely three in the morning when the sirens went off. Their screeching howl echoed throughout the town's empty streets and still alleyways. Its volume slowly increased as its filtered moan rang in the ears of the sleeping. The townspeople awakened with a startle and ran through their houses to collect their kin. They burst through doors like explosions and plucked crying children out of their beds. The strong men carried the sick and the elderly to the safety of the church upon the hill. The skies rumbled like an angry god and the thunder shook the ground as the lambs ran through the doors of the sanctuary into the protection of their holy Savior. More then fifty families piled into the stone church and began to panic like a herd of headless beasts. The ministers and council members tended to the injured, for the slow were trampled upon as if they were the very wooden planks on the church floor. Children wept softly as their parents sought to dry their falling tears.

The younger men of the pack pushed the giant wooden doors shut to block out the coming evil as a young women cloaked in black entered the church. One of the men eyed the girl curiously and asked where her family was. The women made no attempt to answer and proceeded to enter the holy house. The floors were soaked with water as she walked down the isle into the core of the sanctuary. The congregation began to quiet and turned their attention the stranger in the cloak of the night skies. The candles that dimly lit the large room began to weaken and shake, as if in fear of going out. The air in the church grew heavy and damp as the rain outside began to pour with a ravenous fury. The wind picked up great speed and pounded against the painted glass windows of the Holy Virgin. The glass window of a man holding a cross in his hand appeared to hold back the hammering downpour and looked on as the clergy entered the area from their chambers. They donned their white robes and purple tall hats with authority over the weeping populous. The Arch Bishop walked up to the lecture and raised his hands to the large chandelier overhead. The congregation lowered their heads in respect and pressed their hands together. The apprehension in the air seemed to disperse as the calm smile of the Bishop seemed to warm even the most frostbitten worshiper around. His eyes glowed with a luminosity that outshined even the brightest of the candles on the centerpiece behind him. He asked the worshippers in the pews to come forward to him and share a drink of refreshing water from the sacred well. The clergy looked to each other in confusion and let down as their most respected leader broke the most consecrated of contracts with the un-named God.

“Brother Felix, I understand you wish to help the populace of our proud town, but to give them a drink of the holy well water…” one of the clergy whispered to the elderly man. His voice seemed to trail off as the old man turned his head slowly to the objecting member and smiled empathically to him. The member then stepped back and turned his head away in shame, for he felt overwhelmed by a presence that may be of a saint. The members of the council offered the water in the ceremonial goblet and allowed not more then two gulps of the blessed liquid per person. When the goblet approached the women in black, the council member withheld the cup from her hands. He could not see her eyes under the cloak and was highly suspicious of her presence. The member shoved past her, knocking her to the floor and went to the next worshipper.

The Bishop spotted the act of discrimination and walked down from the clergy chairs to the fallen women. The worshippers gasped as their holy leader bent down to offer the women a helping hand. The women looked up and took the hand of the holy brother. She brushed off her cloak gently and the members watched, as it turned from its raggedy cloth to a most beautiful fabric of silk. The women then thanked the clergyman for his kindness and the old man's docile smile seemed more captivating then ever. He got up slowly from his kneeing position and groaned as his back cracked painfully in multiple spots. Felix moved slowly over to the gentlemen with the goblet and gave him a most sorrowful frown. The council member flinched slightly as he felt the disappointment of the Bishop wash over him; like a twig against a mighty wave.

“We are to do to others as we would do onto ourselves. Just because she is not of our family, does not mean that we are allowed to treat her like an outsider.” Felix spoke with his deep, raspy voice. He looked the young man in the eyes and watched as his words pierced his arrogant heart.

“If we were to deny her the safety of this church and its provisions, what example does that set for all of us who live by the teachings of his Grace?” His hands reached out and grasped gently over the goblet. The young man then released the urn to the clergyman's wise hands and fell to the ground in utter defeat. His eyes looked over the man with his o forgiving smile, he hoped that the young man learned his lesson. Felix then turned to the staring crowd and smiled happily.

“We must accept anyone if we are to stay happy and obedient to the Lord. It matters not of their sex, color, origin or what faith they harbor close to their hearts. A person in need or in a state of suffering must be helped; it is our duties as worshippers and as fellow human beings.” His voice then fell back slightly as if he was reflecting upon his own lifetime trials.

“We must learn… that the past is something that we can learn from…” he paused. “To repeat the past and its failures is what we must avoid at all cost. Forget grudges, hatred, disputes and rivalries… for it will be our undoing and we will be thrown back into a world of suffering… where reality is warped and disoriented to the point where you doubt that even your own breath exists…” He spoke softly. His eyelids fluttered gently as he left his verbal dreamland and placed himself back into the reality as it was today. His eyes slowly gazed over to the women in the cloak and he smiled all knowingly.

“We know of suffering more then they do. Don't we?” The women's facial features became more apparent as she lifted her head up, taken aback by the old gentlemen's words.

“We knew of the dark world; the distant dream, the bleeding walls, the rusting floors, the monstrous figures, clinging to a hope that never really existed. We knew of this, we experienced it, we grew from it, it destroyed us, took away what little knowledge we had within us and threw us into a Hell that Satan Himself never knew about.”

His eyes gleaned with a painful vision that left the onlookers baffled. They knew not of what the old man was talking about. A Hell in Silent Hill? Balderdash, the town was an oasis of peace and prosperity.

“Brother Felix, I'm not trying to sound intrusive, but haven't you realized that what happened 40 years ago is nothing but an illusion?”

The congregation turned their attention to one of the clergy members that had approached the Bishop from the Lecture. His eyes were straightforward and had a dulled look to them; as if the light was avoid him out of fear.

“Brother Maxwell, I cannot expect you to understand what happened in those years in time long past. I doubt anyone believes this old stargazer and his recounts of a time when Silent Hill was anything but a land of joy. It was more like a sick joke, to be quite truthful, if anything else.”

Maxwell's features turned a bit cynical and he walked back to his hierarchy in the sky. The women approached the old man and looked him in the eyes. His eyes were very reassuring and gently told her that what she was about to say would stay between each other.

“Your not as old as you act to be. You can't be much older then the ripe age of sixty, am I wrong?” She asked with a soft, assured tone. The old man's eyes widen slightly from the shock but then he recomposed himself. He was expecting that question, but not so quickly. This lady was quite sharp, he gave her that much.

“I am but 63 years. I suppose you're in your late 50's, going by your logic.”

“Yes…”

“Your Father, is he of the living?”

She shifted slightly and her eyes fell upon the stone floors of the church. The old man recognized her pain and decided not to push her wound too hard.

“So… only the three of us remain in this reality: You, who stand before me, James; who has not been heard from since I arrived here 40 years ago and our dearly departed Harry, who now resigns with God, Himself.” His eyes looked worn out and tired. The old man rubbed them with his shaking hands and released a gentle sigh.

“Three of us? Then that makes you…” She cut herself off as a loud pound was heard on the church doors. It rattled throughout the convent and silenced all. The pounding increased in intensity and became more aggressive. Little children shuddered from the sound and the town dogs ran to the doors to bark at the source of the disturbance. The village men loaded up their hunting arms and tools in self-defense. For there were rumors that floated on the wind of men dressed in white cloth going around and starting up genocides in quiet communities. They were more violent when the minorities were involved and murders of grotesque proportions were often the results. Hangings were about as merciful as they get.

The families huddled together and pushed their persecuted brethren to the back. The Clergy opened the doors to their chambers and guided them to safety. Unlike other towns that abandoned their kin to the vengeful fangs of evil, they weren't going to surrender them without a fight. The doors then clasped inwards and the thunder outside crashed with fury. The Clergy then took all who were unable to fight to the chambers and locked themselves in with steel locks. The men of the town raised their rifles and man-made weapons to the intruder. The old man's eyes were startled to see that instead of a mob of white cloaks, there was a child.

A child with short blonde hair soaked in a white cloth gown. His cheeks were swollen and his eyes were dazed, as if he was asleep. The boy walked sluggishly into the monastery and collapsed on the carpet floor leading to the altar. One of the men put down his butcher knife and lifted the boy to safety as the raid siren howled again. The others then worked together to close the doors but they were faced with an abnormally strong wind. They put all of their strength together and finally cut the elements off from their sanctuary. They wiped their foreheads from the rain and fell back against the doors. The women then put the child in her arms and cradled him gently in order to prevent hypothermia from setting in. The Bishop then places his hand over the child's forehead and said a small prayer to him. He knew that for whatever the purpose that this young child came here for was beyond him, but he hoped for a better future for him. For children of the night were more prone to nightmares then others.