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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 didnt 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 ruina 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 debrislike 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 loudand 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 towns 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 its 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 towns 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 towns 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 isnt 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 locations 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 others 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 doesnt 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 odorthe 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 somebodys 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 cant 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 users 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 arent 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 dont 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 (GMs 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 ones heart feels like it wants to blow out of the chest, it is difficult to catch ones 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 lakes 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 isnt 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 cant 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 hunters horn snaps from a momentary daze; at first the PCs arent sure theyve 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 arent 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 customaryif not mandatoryat 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 cant quite make sense of, they sound like chants that fade in and out; childrens voices, but the sound is too faint and couldve 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 tablesanchored to concrete stanchions to guard against theftand 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 havent 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 founders 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 isnt 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 statues head. A very thin thread of it, but it just shouldnt be there. Not seeing a reason why the PCs should even bother going into any of the cabins or the directors room, they continue along the path, past the mess hall and they see the lake to their left with the tiny pier where the camps 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 lakes 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 dont dare climb the fence because it has razor wire lining the top of itnot a nice sight in a childrens campand 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 hereunless boating across the lake suddenly becomes a logical optionbut they realize that the padlock is too heavy and wont 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 directors 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 cant 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 isnt 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 overheadwhich for some odd reason keeps spinning, very slowlyhas 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 padlocka boat to cross the lake would be a welcome finding. They search under the broken bed, in the desks 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 camps 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 camps 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 floors 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 isnt 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 hasnt 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 cant see anything. They flinch with a shriek when they hear and feel something whir past the side of their heads, startling themsomething small. They look around, frantically-at first, they can't see it in the darkness, then, suddenly, it is coming at themit 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 liquidthe stench is that of rot, flesh and blood rotting, but with a twist of chemical smell thrown in. Whatever is in the barrels isnt completely organic, and probably wasnt useful for food or fertilizer or anything, but it isnt 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 doesnt 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 topit 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 houses 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 disrepairall 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 adults 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 doesnt 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 orphanageslightly bowed and worn smooth, from many years of useand try the doornaturally, 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 itit 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 ones head, almost as if this thing should mean something to the PCs. But how can it? Theyve 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 stonea mountain-weight of stonedust, 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, its 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 itsadness, 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 beganthey 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 hasnt 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 medallionit 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 treethere 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 dont 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 languagethey 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 ones eyes and confusing their minds. Shrugging it off, they run through the area into the next one. And the next one. It isnt 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 keys 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 doorhave 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 isnt coming from any of the candles. The room is dusty and smells vaguely of mildew, but it isnt 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 chokehowever, 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 operationit 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 PCs 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 PCs 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 shouldnt be able to move the way it does, as there are no joints in those spotsit is as if the head is made of flesh, even though it still has the color and texture of burned woodand 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 eyeit 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 dont 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 hadnt 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: Im sick of being watched. The idea of being in a room where someone has committed suicide makes ones 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 PCs 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 seemedperhaps 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 dont 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 arent 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 isnt. 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 childs 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 childs handwriting. Im 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 hasnt 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 cant 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 arent 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 dont 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 cant 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 shocknot enough to make them jump but just enough to give them a feeling of discomfort. Electrical discomfortand 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 signs 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 cant 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 shiverboth from the cold, and from the fear of falling, possibly eternallyas 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 slugblind 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 hadnt been there before. Cells: There isnt much else to see on the second floor. Some of the cells are locked, and some arent, 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 PCs see that it is yet again a child's handwriting. Educated, certainly, but still a child. It reads: Ive been watching the surveillance rooms peephole the whole time, and sometimes hes 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 unusualseveral 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 hereor 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 youd 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 eyein the hall, just at the point that is within their vision, before the walls curve too farthat they think looks like a large man wearing a black, hooded cloak. Somehow, when one knows what something is, its 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 themdespite 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 handthe 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 shoulderthe 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 babys 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 doesnt 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 creatures 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 floorit 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 didnt 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. Theres somebody in there! Of course, if theres a guard room, there could be guards, and one probably doesnt 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 arent 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 Im 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 thatif nothing elseat 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 theres 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: Im 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 cant 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 dooranother door with the same round symbol as the design around the infamous holesbut it wont 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 cant 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 rooma 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 abusethis 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 peepholesit 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 portholesjust the same rooms from a different anglebut 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. Thats how the place was designed...the observation holes are high up in the walls, so that the prisoners could be seen, but they couldnt 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 moreis 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 breedwhitish 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 cant 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 centera 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 chainsa 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 bloodsuch 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 platforms 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 adultsit has to have been a ... prisoners 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 doesnt 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 erodedby 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 doesnt 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 isnt 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.

CAF 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 weeks 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 beresponding 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 Caf 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 ones 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 isnt 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 paperboys 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 hypnotists 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 creatures 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 coughit isnt repeated and there is nothing exceptional about itbut 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 drivers 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 isnt 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 wouldve 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 achasm. 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 isnt, 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. Its 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 theres 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, fantasyand 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 magazineswhich 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 theyve 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 doesnt 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 doesnt 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 volumebut the static is getting louder Then, to their left, they first hear a sound unlike any theyve 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 monsters 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 ones 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 waistits 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 didnt 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 childs voice whispers, Tagged, Ive 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 PCs 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 oneanything 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 rooma baris 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.

Caf 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 darkold mahogany, tarnished brass, wine-color upholstery.

Caf 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 darkold 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 PCs dont 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 creatures 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 doorRoom 205that 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 displaysomething like a department

store mannequin, but just the torso and no other distinguishing featuresis 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 theyve 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 formpale 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 doesnt 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 arent 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 ones 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 chairs 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 isnt 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, its 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 suspiciouslyafter 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 ones 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 monsters 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 creatures departure shouldnt 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 buildings 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 windows edge is ten inches wide. At least it isnt icy, but clean and dry. Looking below they can see an alley, three stories below. One cant 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 doesnt 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 isnt 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 blackalmost 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 isnt much of anything except for the huge mirror stretching across one of the walls not unlike a ballet studiothat, or the person who owned this room was just particularly narcissistic. It definitely adds the illusion of doubling the rooms 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 doesnt answer, or move. Not even a twitch. Something isnt 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. Thats 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 doesnt 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 doesnt matter. Theyve come across the door marked "emergency stairs" which, thankfully, is unlocked. Theyve 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 theyd 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 straightjackets head into his own crotch, forcefully, and not with the repetitive motion that might have suggested sexuality. It isnt 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 creatures 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 theyve 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 doesnt 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 wont go down, he wont even seem to be injured. Shots that hit the creatures 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 distancea ringing in the earsand 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 creatures 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 Caf. 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 silencethe 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. Ones 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 housethe 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 insideas 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 hereno 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 monsters 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 Im here and Cheryls gone. Ive called her name, and Ive 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 cant 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 skulls 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 skeletons 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 cant 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 cant 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 isnt 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 cant 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 dieand 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, hes 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.

WEST SILENT HILL:

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 doesnt shine as far as theyd 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 doesnt seem to notice of their presence, even with the glaring light. They are surprised that the sound of the radio doesnt 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 cant 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 mans palm. The future hidden in his fist. Exchange for Sages 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 towns 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 wouldnt have been able to see the outside world from their desks, and the outside world wouldnt 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 its 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. Boys 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. Girls 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 cant help but see a huge paper in the wall, it features an animal that looks like a childs 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 youd find on the beach and wouldnt 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 isnt 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 couldve 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 doesnt 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? Its 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 arent 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 monsters 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 monsters 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 elevators 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, theyre 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 serpents 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 cant 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 things 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 brokeneverything 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 ceilingwhich has the structure of a steel chainlink fenceand 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 doors 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 doorwhich is still as watchful as everand through a set of rusted metal double doorswhich used to be fine,

polished woodinto 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 dont 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 ones 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 ones 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 rings 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 doesnt 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 isnt 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. Its 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 basements 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 creaturess 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 doesnt 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 cant 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 pipeswhich extend up into infinitygive 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 doesnt 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 doesnt 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 creatures latest meal. One cant 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 creatures 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 beasts 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 ones 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 doesnt 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 Midwichs 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. Youve all that experience of looking at a body of someone you love and knowing in an instant theyre 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 lobbys 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 babys crying. Yet so loud its 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 doorthe 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 withina 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 churchs 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 pinepegged 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-lookingthe 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 churchs 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 bellone 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, whoeveror whateverhad 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 faade of St. Stellas 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 dont get another ten feet before they finally see something distinctly unusual. They dont 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 mans 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, Petes Bowl-A-Rama on the corner of Nathan and Carroll is circled in red ink. The man hasnt been dead long, a few hours at most, but he already smells bad, and it is nasty even still. Digging through the guys 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. Petes 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 workingan amber glow comes from further inside. There are only two doors. A faded sign welcomes them to Petes Bowl-A-Rama; an arrow pointing left indicates Caf and Grill and an arrow pointing right indicates Bowling lanes (Exit only, enter through caf) The caf, 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 bars 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. Heavens 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 Heavens 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 ones '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 weve 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 didnt 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 things 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 hospitalis 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 seeor 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 isnt 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 Brookhavens 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 andmost importantlya 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 isnt 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. Its 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. Doctors 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 doesnt 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 andlike 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 wont 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. Doctors Locker Room: The mens 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 pursea 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. Nurses Locker Room: The womens locker room is nearly identical to the mens 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 bears 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 S3s 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 isnt 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 boxs owner wasnt 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 isnt 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 isnt 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 boxs 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. Doesnt 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 dcor, which the PCs smell before they actually see it. It is old and dull, but it is still rich and coppery. The room is redthe 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 authors 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 havent 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 wont 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 doesnt 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 mans print, and largeas 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 hospitals 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 PCs 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 its 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 doesnt 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 PCs ear. Whatever it is, its 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 arent quite expecting to need to. Thus, when the PC back up suddenly, her/his feet arent 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 hadnt 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 PCs 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 executioners 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 PCs 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 PCs chin. No escape. The PCs 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 creatures 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 PCs 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 cant yell and they cant scream and they cant 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 PCs 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 doesnt 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 thingin 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 doesnt 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 thenrevoltingly 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 buildings 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 doesnt make much of a difference. Between the fog and the darkness, there isnt 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 doors 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 hadnt 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 wasnt 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 insidewhether there had been stairs or an elevator oncethere 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 PCs 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 isnt 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 fences metal frame is rusted and brittle and it begins to creak under the PCs 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 wasnt there before. A large metal partition comes slamming down, sealing off the hallway behind them.

Everything is darkand 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 arent willing to help out. It isnt 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 isnt 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 ones 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 doesnt 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 couldnt 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 isnt 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 youve already won, or do you want to trade it for whatevers 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 thats wise? Are you really sure youre 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 whats behind curtain number one? The audience roars in unison: Trade it! Trade it! The hostwho now looks distinctly satanic, with arched eyebrows and terrible dark eyes, and wicked mouth, says Youll take the curtain, because its really what you deserve. You have it coming to you. The curtain! Lets see whats 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 animalor 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 doesnt 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 hasnt been at least momentarily surprised by the sudden activation of a furnace? But it isnt a furnace. It is a wet sound. Wet, and nasty. And it isnt 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 towns 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 nurses 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 nurses 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 nurses face... It has no face. The nurses 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 issimply 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 doesnt. 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 doesnt seem to pose a threat now, yet the morbid scene is fascinating in a terrible way, and one cannot pull ones eyes away from it. The nurses 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 nurses midsection causes that same crushed plastic sound to be heard. Several more times and finally, the nurses 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 didnt 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 shouldnt 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 doesnt 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. Nurses 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. Doctors 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 doesnt 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 isnt 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 isnt 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 doesnt 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 wasnt 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 mans 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 screamssilently. 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 isnt 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 dcor, 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 exitwith 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 ones 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 isnt 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 wont be any time soon, and it doesnt seem as though they possess the intelligence to simply try the doorknob. As long as they lean against it, it probably isnt 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 hospitals roof was...Its 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 flashlights glow and cutting down visibility. The bottom yields another nasty surprise. The hallway leading to the hospitals boiler room, pump room, andmost importantlyelectrical 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 passagessome 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 lunatics 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 coatsdoctors. 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 dcor 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 doors 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 doesnt fit at all into the hospital setting, and it doesnt 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 doesnt 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 cant 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 isnt 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 didnt 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 things 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 wont 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 floors 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.

Directors Office: The PCs notice the windows to the directors 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 directors 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. Ill hold on to the original. Ill 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 Jonathans 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. Ill be waiting at Neelys Pub. Theres a letter and a wrench. The map is of Silent Hill and a red X is drawn on Neelys 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 butchers 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 doesnt 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 flashlights
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 PCs 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 dont 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, youre 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. Youd heard ityou 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 deadthough 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 environsconstructed in 1936 when depositors needed to be reassured by a financial institutions grandeurdid 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 roomshelves 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 caf 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 montr 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 isnt any electricity in the building. The elevator had worked, though, hadnt 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 hadnt 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 Hospitals 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 ones 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 dcor, 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 cant 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 directors. 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 doctors 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 wouldnt 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 suppliesladders, sheets, paintalmost 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 gurneythe 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 cant 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 doesnt come again, so one wonders if theyd 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 isnt 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 basements 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 furnaces small door is made of toughened glass, smudged black from years of service and as wide across as one of the PCs 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 rooms 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 dont 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 isnt the same hall anymore, well it is the same hall but its 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, its hard to tell its still completely covered in the white sheet. Its like its staring at you, though its 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 completelyand 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 issomething. 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 doesnt think youre a monster. She is a monster! But if thats true, then why are you so reluctant? Its just a monster. Something thats going to kill you if you dont kill her first. But what ifwhat if she really isnt? 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 hospitals 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, shes probably suffering immense physical pain as well. If you look at the situation that way, it almost seems pitiable. Then, at most, itd 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 choicedidnt 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 rooms 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 hens 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 applianceswhich are dirty and rusted, as is the normare 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 toolsmost of them sharp and bloodyand 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 flashlights 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 rooms design is like the previous rooms 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 doesnt 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 doesnt 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 mans print, and largeas 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 wont 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 sheetswithout 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 justgone. 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 hasnt 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 isnt 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: Its him.... No, its 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 Pyramids shape was tall and lithe, this creatures 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 isnt 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 hadnt 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 doesnt; 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 arent 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 merlonswhich are the high segments of the stone crenelations that alternate with the open embrasuresboast 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 roomgray 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 Mayors Office Mayors 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 youver 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 isa simple, functional object, without menace to the eye. Doctors 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 traders 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, attach 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. Gradys 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 doesnt 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 (youd 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, youd 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 matrons 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 needlepointred letters on a blue background: HOME, the walls are all dourly unadorned. A jar of potpourri smells like mold. Womens 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 isnt 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 thats 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 suppliesdegreasers, 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 dont seem to be locked, only stuck, the wood swollen by the laundry rooms 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 directors 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: Mens 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 ones nose and stick in their throat. Something else eases their senses herean 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. Directors 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 dcor 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 doesnt 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 arent doors, for there is no handle or knob on any of them, nor do any of them have hinges. Lobby:

Dining Hall: Day Room: Doctors 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: Womens Restroom: The first thing noticed is the obvious change in the bathroom. Everything looks rusted and decayedbloody 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 moveor even shift their gaze---they have an aura of life about them. Mens Restroom: Male Dorm 3: Male Dorm 5: Male Seclusion: The first cells 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 dressmakers 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. Directors 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 ones eyeballs in ones 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 doctors 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 arent 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 doesnt 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 namefor 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 hadnt 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 pastors 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 cemeterys 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 PCs 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. Womens 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 oaks 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 disturbedthen silence. Papers are everywherestationery, 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 typists 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:

Andys 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 doesnt 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. Managers 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 horses thick hair, instead it seems to be completely covered in human skin. Its 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 parts 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 Magnuma 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 butchers apron, with part of an odd, bell-shaped helmet attached to one side of his face. The side that isnt 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 arent 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 doesnt 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 employees 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 hadnt been quite closedlike 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 restrooms 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 PCs 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 dont 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 couldnt 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 Hills 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 librarians 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 isnt 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 cant 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 Hills 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 40s, 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 cant 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, CDs, 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 Berkowitzs 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 shavingsthe 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 couldnt 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 couldnt have been here for long, less than a day even, because it hadnt 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 Nights Dream (as Titania, Queen of the Faeries). The PCs dont 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 daughters 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. Grofts 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. Grofts 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 mothers 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 years box-office smash, Nun of Your Business, though most especially after her mothers 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 mothers 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. Dont worry that Lisa might not show up to appear in this rollicking performance shell be here if she doesnt want her mothers 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 youll get your moneys worth. Lisa wouldnt miss it for the world. We know you wouldnt, Lisa. We know youll 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 auditoriums daily hours of operation. Below is the address as well as the legend inscribed in colored marble inlaid into the floor of the auditoriums 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 Grofts 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

SOUTHVALE

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 its 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.

Jacks 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 motels 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 widetwenty-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 Ricos Disquitionum Magicarum, and a rather fine copy of Casianos 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 childs 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 closetshirts, slacks, sweaters, shoes, suits, ties, and morelays 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 theyd 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 rooms 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 itit 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 risesthe house. Of everything that had been there, of nature or contrivance, the house still standsbut 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 isnt 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 doesnt 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 doesnt 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 doesnt 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 isnt in front. It isnt 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 dont 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 doesnt 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 didnt 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 isnt on top, the sound is close enough now to make that clear. It isnt 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 thats 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 dont 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 creatures 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 creatures 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 holestheyre 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, Dont. 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 cant 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 isnt 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.

Neelys 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. Neelys 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 Neelys 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 bars 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 floors 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 selfexplanatorygin, scotch, whiskey, Bordeanux, and English rumand others tell them nothing Belle of Anderson, Crown Prince, and Old Cabin Still. The pedestrian liquorsthe whiskeys, the gins and rumsare at the front, while the middle of the room is filled with more exotic beveragesbrandies, 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 Neelys Bar the PCs turn right and travel up Neely Street until they reach Katz. With fresh batteries the flashlights 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. Locanes 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. Stellas Catholic Church. A sign on the building reads: Locanes 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 butchers block tables. You sigh with relief when you see that nothing lies on any of them. You wouldnt be surprised to have seen the store managers 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 faade 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 nauseamthe 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 substanceyou. 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 timea 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 familys 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 cant 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 Clinics 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 Lakes 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 patients medical records using the offices 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 wouldnt 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 themhow 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 babiesor rather foetuses. One cant 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, theyve 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 theyve 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 didnt open before, it didnt 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, ones hand jumps away, as if shocked. It isnt, 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 doesnt let go as easily as it should. It is so bitterly cold that the sweat on palms of the PCs 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 theyll 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 wont 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 doesnt 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 cant 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 doesnt 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. Caf 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 radios 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 dont 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 parks 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 intermittentlyhigh, 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 womans 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 cant 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 Hills many interesting inhabitants. They walk away from the lawn, leaving the box behind. Jennifer Carrolls 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 devils 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 doors 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 cant 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 theyve 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 its so strange. Nothing here makes sense! Its like everything is inside out... Nothing has made sense since they came to this place. Nothings 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 Ladys hair are roses. It is impossible. Blue roses dont 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 cant 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 womans 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. Im sorry.

The man throws his axe aside and drops to his knees to beat the womans 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 womans 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 cant 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 Ladys 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 cant. They cant move. They cant see and they cant 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 arent 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 womans voice is frantic and pleading; she is upset to the point of hysteria. I cant do that, she wails, I swear to God I cannot! Joshua, please believe me... Please dont 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. Youre beginning to look like a zeppelin, and people are asking questions. You know as well as I do that Carl and you cant produce a child together and God knows youve tried enough times. What will people say as you get bigger and bigger?

But youre asking me to kill! sobs the woman, Deanna, I cant do that. Im sorry this happened, but I cant tear this life out of me. It didnt 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 familys name wont 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 its 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 cant cope with and no one would have to know. It wont matter what the doctors have said about Carl. Things like this happen all the time husbands and wives who arent supposed to be able to have children do have them! The mans voice is tinged with disgust now. Just because you want something to happen doesnt mean it can or will. You cant 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 dont care. I will not commit murder to protect your precious family honor. I dont care if you all cast me out and leave me penniless for the rest of my life. I dont 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 wont 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 youve 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 wont 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 familys 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 wouldnt, but I knew it would come to this. Im 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 Carls bedroom. Hit me, kick me, strike me again and Ill 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 hell 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 hell 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, thats a fine idea if I do say so myself. I hadnt even thought of it until you mentioned it. Perhaps youre right. Youre not as frail-minded as you seem, my dear. She chokes in his grasp in the air. But Carl wont 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. Alchemillas at the newest, most modern hospital in the state. And whenever Im working there, when the suns shining on the water, in between the ailing Ill look out over the lake, and Ill think to myself: under that water sleeps a whore and her bastard child. And Ill hope youre both burning in hell. He drops her, and the PCs hear and feel the jolt of Deannas skull striking the plush arm of the velvet sofa. Deanna Blackwell slides to the floor, mewling in pain. Youll 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 hadnt 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 Joshuas 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 hes gone mad! she gasps, Hell 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 cant stop staring at the ruined woman. Help me, please! she screams, Hes crazy! He says he wont 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells hands surface, but having served their purpose, retreat into the Ghoul in Scarlet. Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 PCss skin crawls and they shiver. The PCs dont 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 dont 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 cant 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 wont die at least it will stay in pieces, and if it stays in pieces, its 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackells 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 Blackwells head snarls and snaps, rolling back and forth. Joshua Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 giants 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells 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 Blackwells family are still strewn about the dining saloon. Theres 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 cant 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 Parks main feature is a long brick promenade walling off the parks 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 Lincolns 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 promenades 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 cant 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 wont 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 isnt 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 dont 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 Blackwells head inside might have dropped through such a hole and sunk to the bottom of the lake. As the boats 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 bridges 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 isnt 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 doesnt try using the key, and as far as they can tell, it probably wont, 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 doesnt 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 childrens 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 curators 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 towns expansion in the nineteenth century. Many of the towns 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, doctors 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 artists 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 towns 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 someones 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 isnt 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. Hes here. Hes 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 isnt 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 wayas 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 isnt 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 isnt 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 isnt 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 isnt going to find a moaning beast waiting at the bottom. That thought should sound soothing, but it isnt 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 worsethe 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 dont 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 doesnt 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 cant 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 Neelys 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 cant. 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 dont 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 likeone 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 dont 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 dont 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 arent 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 hadnt, 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 hairs 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 creatures 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 doesnt 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 cant 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 dont 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. Everywhereon 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, centipedesof the thick black kind with orange legs, and the other type as well; it doesnt matterthose 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, its 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 wallwhich 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 doors 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 doesnt come from the flashlight, and when they moved it away from the source, one notices that it doesnt 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 isnt 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 isnt 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, thats 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 doesnt 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 PCs 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 PCs arm continues plunging earthward, and the PCs 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 PCs elbow, stopping only because the PCs 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 doesnt take long before they reach the dark facility. Falling down those HOLEs has certainly ruined any sense of direction, and now one cant 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 prisons 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 prisons 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. Ones 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 PCss 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 artists 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 ones 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 dont 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 windowswith 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 isnt 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 mans 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 mans 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, not much larger than a postage stamp. There is an engraving on one side: a humanoid creature with a pigs snout is depicted sitting in profile with what appear to be two rectangular clubs in its hands, though they are perhaps meant to symbolize food as the name Gluttonous Pig is engraved in the bottom. There is a double door at the end and just to the left of it, behind the last table. Stepping over a rusted coffee dispenser and moving around a cart stacked with dirty trays they can exit through the ancient steel door. West Corridor: They are in a hall of some kind, and it ends very close to the right. Before even that is a set of venerable bars and a locked gate. There is a door beyond, but there is no way that it can be reached. The hall extends much farther in the other direction. Rough, dark walls catch the light and absorb it, giving the hall a strange appearance akin to tunnel vision. In the distance one can see another gate, this one quite closed also. They enter this hall only to be greeted again by radio static. Looking at the barred gate, and sure enough, the straight-jacket monster they had heard earlier has decided to come on down to this side and check out the commotion. It paces back and forth along the length of the bars, and once it realizes they are there, it goes into a kind of frenzy. It bashes its own body against the gate, groaning and screaming in unison with the radio, providing a grotesque back-beat to the madness. Then, without warning, it sprays that damnable acid at them. The PCs are just too far away to be hit, thankfully, but they don't realize it at first, and will likely jump backwards. It falls short of them, hitting the concrete and stone floor. Tendrils of smoke rise from where the corrosive mist lands. It screams its strangled scream and spits again, and again, despite the PCs being safely out of range. The monster seems aware of that fact, and it appears as though the knowledge drives it insane. It keeps spitting at them, repeatedly, non-stop, once every second or so. None of it reaches them, but that doesn't seem to faze the monster. A thick haze of smoke from the acid-burned floor begins to cloud the vicinity. The PCs watch it thrash about like a thing possessed, for it is both fascinating and frightening at the same time. One can only watch for so long though, because one keeps having nasty little thoughts about how utterly painful life would have bee if one had been a step or two closer when it lets loose like that.

There is a doorway right across from the shower room, but with the acid rain falling so close by it will be impossible to reach it. There is one other door back the other way. If it doesnt lead anywhere, they can shoot the creature behind the bars and then try it. Then turning their attention down the hall ahead of them, the PCs tread down into the depths of the visitors hall. Faintly the sound of dripping water can again be heard. On the other side of the gate is a wooden desk that has managed to survive underground fairly well. On top of it are clipboards and documents with tedious details about the prison. One does not come up completely empty-handed however for when the desk drawer is searched one finds a map. The paper is old and slightly stiff, but the ink has not faded and it will still fold conveniently into a pocket. Unlike the apartment and hospital maps, this map is not intended for visitors; there is no You are here mark and it takes a few minutes to figure out just where they are. They can locate the cafeteria and from there they are able to trace their steps to their current position which is roughly two thirds of the way up the west corridor. There is no exit visible on the map, though there is a room in the basement marked DOWN. Given that the building seems to be underground, one doubts that any exit door will open. That leaves them with the basement. Around the right corner, the hall ends a few lengths ahead, with three more branches to the left, each spaced very closely together. The first has a sort of wooden door, this one smashed in the center and folded across whatever was behind it. The door doesn't touch either the floor or the ceiling, and though not much can be seen, it doesn't look like a very large space. A toilet stall, perhaps? Showers: Showers: But it isn't. The entirety of the little stall is covered in tile, tile that was probably white, once upon a time. Now, it is moldy, and dimmed yellow where it still shows through. The grout has been stained a deep black from floor to ceiling. There is no toilet. On the wall in the back, one can see a pair of faucet handles, and a few feet above them, a long, curved pipe hangs out and ends in a large, bell shaped device. It is a shower. It certainly isn't in working order. Just seeing a shower reminds one of dirty, sweaty and covered in blood in a few places one really is. On the floor is a tablet, not unlike the one they found in the cafeteria. This one has a slight greenish cast to it however. The engraving is again done in a style that reminds them of Aztec artwork. It depicts a woman lying or perhaps sitting on a throne or bed with her arms open and enticing. Her hair flows out from behind her to cover the entire upper half of the tablet. She is completely nude from the waist down and her legs are bent and spread apart. No genitalia have been engraved though, making her legs little more than an inverted V. Seductress is carved at the bottom. South Cell Block: The door down here does open, thankfully, and the horrifying sound dies when the door closes behind them. Now the PCs find themselves in yet another hallway. This one is quite long, as is the one they just left, though more narrow. In this hall, there are no doors, there are cells lining the entire left side of the hall, one right after another, as far as one can see. The concrete wall on the left has been stained black from the dirty water that has been oozing in from the windows and cracks in the ceiling. On the right are the thick, rusty bars of the first six-

by-twelve foot cell. There is no number on the outside, but the map labels it S1. They can shine the light in the cell. The walls, ceiling, and floor are completely black, though whether this is by design or simply the ravages of time, one cannot tell. The light is not able to reach the full length of the cell so the only object that can be seen is a small cot. As the PCs look around; peaking every now and again into the different cells for any signs of life or unlife, there isnt much to see, really, looking in the one closet to them. They are all different, yet the same: disgusting and unfit for humans to be caged in. The inside looks as wet and filthy as the outside does. A cot on the wall, suspended by old, rusty chains can be seen. A rather foul odor comes from within, though one cant see any visible source. All the cells are locked and stairs are blocked. The emptiness of the cells gives one an eerie feeling, perhaps generated by their knowledge of the prisons history; in times long past, the inmates lived here; thieves, rapists, and murderers all touched these bars and slept in cots like the one they sees before them. They sat, stood, slept, and excreted behind those bars until the day a parole board decided they had paid their debt to society and released themor perhaps not... Perhaps this was Death Row and men waited here, counting off the days until their last appeals were rejected, all the while listening as each day, the guards came and took one of the others to the gallows, until, finally, their turn arrived and the hangmans noose carried them from this world to the next. Clank. Down the hall further, the PCs hear it. Clank. Clank. Their hearts kick-start again, ramped up by a seemingly never-ending supply of adrenaline from the stomach. It has been pumping out gallons of the fear juice all day. Clank. Not going to dwell on it too long, though. Hands trembling as they hold the pistol at the ready. The experience with the monster out in the main hallway has nerves on an absolute hair-trigger, and all that is needed is half an excuse to blow one of them away if one is here. Because while they were able to keep a safe distance out there, one doesn't have that same luxury now. The hallway is simply not wide enough. Quietly, creeping along the length of the hallway, stepping sideways as they do. They pass one cell after another, each one so far as empty as the first. Clank. Clank clank. And then the radio joins in. Their blood pumps even faster, throbbing in their veins. One can feel it in their neck and in their forehead, as well as the onset of another headache. CLANK! Arriving at the last cell on this block, for there is nothing but a door beyond it. The radio hisses and squeals, and while they can't see exactly what is behind the bars, they don't need to. Between the noise of the radio and the bashing noise against the old steel, one can hear the trademark mating call of the straight-jacket. They had been so relieved to get away from that one back in the main hall, yet here they are again facing one down the same way. Then, one can see it as it comes towards the bars and strikes them hard, almost as if it had taken a diving leap into them. If so, it recovers well, for it faces them directly. The flashlight's glare reflects, from several distorted angles, off of its putrid sack of flesh. It stands still for a moment, writhing in place as if trying to break out of its case of skin. For just the slightest of moments,

one wonders if perhaps it is having some sort of seizure that would find more of a concern than their presence. Then, without warning, it rears back. Panic digs its icy claws in the PC's necks. Scuttling sideways, willing themselves out of the way of the acid spray that is sure to come. In doing so, one of the PCs will likely slip on the wet floor and fall hard. This monster doesn't seem as maniacally inclined to melt the flesh off of their bones as the last one was. It isn't spitting at the moment and seems disinterested. It looks like its back is turned to them, but considering that its features, if it possesses any at all, are amorphous at best, it is impossible to tell if it is or not. If the PCs decide to squeeze the trigger the gun jump in hand as it spews its fire and cordite. The monster seems to heave away from the bars, as the bullet tears into its neck, leaving a gaping hole that bleed so darkly it almost looks like crude oil. The straight-jacket staggers, and for a moment the PCs are sure it is going to go down. It leans, and the PCs wait for it to fall. Except, it doesn't. It stops before it falls. Then, horror washes over the visitors in a cascade. They suddenly know why. It isn't leaning back. It isn't about to fall. It is rearing back. It is going to splash them with acid. But the kiss never comes. They hear the creature screaming its phlegmy scream, and then a hard clonk is heard. Then they hear nothing. Nor do they feel anything. The straight-jacket leans forward against the bars of its prison, the head dangling lifelessly to the side. It is still propped up, having landed on its knees, but it isn't going to stand up again. It is quite dead. Clank. Oh hell no. Clank clank clank. It isn't coming from in front of the PCs. It is coming from behind them. Turning to face the cells they pass... Clank clank CLANK CLANK CLANK They are rattling. All of them. The radio chooses this moment to inform them of the fact, but it doesn't need to. The PCs can hear the choking and bubbling noises of straight-jacket monsters, some of them screaming in fury, all of them bashing furiously against the cell doors. Even glancing at the cell next to the one that held the dead monster, reveals that sure enough, they can see its slick, glistening form angrily banging against the bars. They were all empty! Where did they come from? Impossible. The PCs saw them all for themselves. Yet, the banging and screeching continue, a testament to just how fine the line between the impossible and the possible really is in this wretched place. As if to underscore just how wrong it was, one of the cells down near the end bashes again, and this time, they can hear a shrill metallic squeal accompany it. Escape. One of them escaped! And then another. And another. Their homicidal cries renew. They can hear the tapping of their hard feet against the concrete. Can hear them coming. Can hear them coming at them. But only when the last cell near them bashes open do they finally break out of the stupor. They can see the monster amble out of the cell and turn to face them. It isn't close enough to spray them yet, but it will only need maybe three seconds to be close enough.

A pitiful, strangled cry of terror clenches in your throat to join the cries of the damned souls that approach you. With no time to spare, you turn and grab the door handle so fiercely it feel like an attack. It opens. Uniform Room: As soon as they are through the frame, they can turn and slam the doors shut. It isn't but a second or two later when the first of the monsters begin throwing their weight against the door, and it is joined by others in no time. They can hear the sound of spray hitting the back of them. There is a metal bar to hold the doors and, even though it is unlikely that the armless things can possibly open the doors as they are, they can pull the bar in place and let out a sigh of relief as silence comes over the radio. The pounding in their hearts subsides and their breathing returns to normal. North Cell Block: The door to the north cellblock area was once black, but time and water have now added the red tinge of rust to it. The door is heavier than it looks; having been built with intention of containing rioting prisoners, every measure was taken to augment its strength, making it heavy and difficult to open. And to their dismay, it seems almost like deja-vu, but they know it cant be. It only makes sense that is simply another cell block. The hallway beyond is almost identical to the south cellblock. There are probably several more besides these. They can shine the light into the first cell on their left, N10, just to see if there are any differences. But they find none. The radio hisses like a cat smelling something it doesnt like. The PCs keep at the ready and trying to listen over the radio static for any sound that might betray the identity of whatever is truly here. Of the creatures they had encountered in this town, most of them that they had seen several times and they have now picked up on their distinctive noises. That knowledge is often as useful as the radios warnings. Whatever is here was definitely not anything natural, but it is also keeping the PCs in the dark. Wait, there! Now they do hear it. Just barely, mind, but they do hear it. Thump thump thump. It sounds really strange though, and not just because it is unquestionably one of Silent Hills lessEuclidean residents. It sounds large and heavy, for each thump is fairly percussive. Yet, it is also soft, as if all that weight is being cushioned by something. And, it is walking at a pretty brisk, even clip pace. Yet, from where the PCs stand, one can see both ends of the cell block and they are alone, at least out here. So then where is it? The thumping and the radio fight over that which makes the most noise. The radio is squalling like a thing possessed, and maybe it is, because they cant see a damn thing that makes it act this way. The thing has been so reliable that one doesnt even want to consider the possibility that it is acting faulty. The PCs are very dependant upon it now. If they cant count on its warnings, they are as blind to the monsters as if they lost the flashlight. They might not see one until they are already on top of it. The radio almost always gives then enough time to figure out a plan. If it

now gives warnings when no danger is present, might it not neglect to warn them if there is a threat? There is something here though, something stomping around. They cant see it but they can damn well hear it even without the radio. But where is it? Then, overtop the frantic squealing and thumping, they hear a voice. Rrrritturrralll The voice isnt human, of that it is certain. But no other monster that theyve met yet has even an attempt at speech, if that is what this is. It sounds like it is trying to say the word ritual, though it is spoken in a way that someone would pronounce a word written in an unfamiliar language. It repeats that same word over and over again, quite loudly and with the exact same stress, stretching and slurring the R and the L at both ends. Is it trying to communicate with them? Certainly, it would be the first non-human life form around here to try, the rest being less interested in conversation and more interested in causing the visitors bodily harm. Rrrriturrralll it responds, and continues its muffled movement. They pass cell N6 which is open, but they need only glance in long enough to see that whatever is making the sound is not in that cell. They can shine the flashlight in the cell, but they cannot see much. Scraps of paper lay strewn about and there is a drawing pad lying at the far end of the cell. The very back of the cell contains a metal toilet that has completely turned to rust and a sink that has aged no better than the toilet. On top of the cot is an old picture frame. It once contained a photograph, but the damp atmosphere has not been kind to it and if it were not so thin, one could call it mush. Propped up against the wall are two watercolor paintings. The first is done completely in black and shows a stick-figure girl with long hair and a cape. She is flying over several vertical rectangles that are meant to be buildings. The brushwork is amateurish and the distorted proportions make it look as though it were painted by a child. And, in a way, it was. The artist titled it Girl in Flight. Rrrriturrralll The sound intensifies, is guttural. It seems to be trying to articulate, with great difficulty, some kind of human sound. The second painting is of a house. It consists mainly of black lines, showing a two-story home with a triangular roof. Unlike the last painting, the lines are perfectly straight and the house itself almost looks like an architectural blueprint done in black. But in one of the windows is another stick figure. Its circular head hangs out of a second story window. Its mouth is a frown and dots representing tears come down from its eyes. The house has been painted over with what looks like blood, though real blood would have dried brown and this substance has retained its red sheen. The paint curls up into pointed spires above the house, resembling flames. And indeed, the painting is titled Burning Girl. At the bottom of the painting, roughly on the houses front lawn, are three damp spots. They only strike the PCs as odd because as far as they can determine, there is no water dripping into this cell. Moreover, they are circular; they landed on a completely perpendicular angle to the painting, which could not have happened if it had been propped up the whole time it was here. Someone else has touched this painting recently. Rrrriturrralll Between the two paintings lies a small square tablet. Picking around shows that it depicts a man in a cloak with some sort of crown made of vines or possibly leaves. His hands push on a nude figure crouching below him. The face of the figure suggests a woman, though its hands that beg

for mercy also hide its chest, and its knees are pressed together, giving no indication of gender. The tablet reads Oppressor at the bottom. They can take and turn to leave. The radio is now silent, as is the voice in cell S5, leaving the occasional creak and droplet of water the only sounds in the dark hallway. Leaving the cell, they hear it again. Rrrritturrralll Above them. Directly above them. The ceiling is made up of a framework of iron bars, and the thing, whatever it is, is walking above them. They can go as close as they dare to the top of the bars and strain their eyes to try to see something in the looming darkness between the bars. But there is nothing; nothing other than that ominous voice. There is the extremely disconcerting fact that it cant be seen, but one doesnt need eyes to be convinced that it is there. For the moment, at least, it is trapped behind these rusty old bars (or so it is fervently hoped). For whatever reason, perhaps intrigue overcame fear, if the PCs attempt to slide something through the rusty old bars, to perhaps poke or prod at the seemingly empty air. If they do, the object will be jerked out of their hands in one sudden and powerful movement. Then they can watch, completely stupefied, as they see the object flying maniacally around he ceiling. The monster is no longer stomping or speaking the one word it seems to know. The only sound coming from in there now is the angry hum of the object as it is swung madly about, as if to pulverize some pesky flying insect. Then, without warning, the thing launches the object back through the bars. It happens so fast and suddenly, flashing across the gap and striking the wall barely three inches from one of the PCs head. The impact is so powerful that a small shower of sparks erupts from the point of contact. The object bounces skyward and clatters to the floor right in front of them. All of this calls for a save vs. Horror Factor of 14. After the PCs have recovered a bit, they can retrieve the object and hurry down the hall, wanting to get away from the stomping thing, Opening the door at the end of the hall, they can leave this cellblock, and its single inhabitant, to their own devices, hoping as they so that this first encounter will also be their last encounter. Once is plenty bad, and this one was only able to attack when it is allowed. The thought of more of these things stalking the open halls and rooms is not something that one has any desire to entertain. Rrrriturrralll! Oblivious to these thoughts, the unseen thing continues stomping around and repeating its disturbing three-note song, as if nothing had ever interrupted in the first place.

East Corridor: The PCs continue down the hall of cells until they reach the door at the end. Continuing up the hall to the final door on the left, pulling the handle, opening, and walking inside as the door closes back behind them, and all is silent once again. They are now in a hall similar to the one they are in before they escaped into the southern cellblocks. Going forward and not three steps in, white noise tickles the eardrums. Looking down the dark hall, trying to catch sight of the source, and sure enough, there is a glint of light shine on something down there. It looks to be a straight-jacket, and it sounds like one as well one can barely make out the tapping footsteps as it meanders around. It doesnt seem to be focused on anything in particular, and there is a good distance between the PCs and it. They can explore the branch, and perhaps avoid it altogether. These straight-jackets are quite dangerous, after all. So far, the PCs have managed to avoid accepting the free acid baths they all seem so willing to provide, but only a fool mistakes luck for skill, and only a fool thinks neither can fail him. If they dont get close enough to get skinned, they cant get skinned. Simple as that. They turn the small corner leading to the main part, and the moment they do, the radio squawks its warning with renewed intensity. And, sure enough, it is that straight-jacket, satisfying its curiosity and taking a look down their way. Fortunately for the PCs, they have that warning, and the advantage. They can hear it tapping along, just around the corner, and with a rather controlled pace. It doesnt seem to be in a hurry, or aware of its own danger. They see the first glimpse of it poke around the corner, and even though they know that they have the initiative, and even though the PCs have come across at least two dozen of these damn things today, the sight of it can still make ones blood freeze in ones veins, still makes the flesh prickle and the stomach light the world on fire with adrenaline. And whats more, one can be glad to still react this way. What would it say about ones mental state if one really starts taking this sort of thing for granted? Regardless, it certainly is aware of the PCs presence, and it starts towards them, tapping along in a broken sort of trot. These monsters are deadly and remorseless, but they are also rather simple-minded. Several have walked right into bullets or a swinging pipe or wooden plank. It is their eagerness to attack, and their apparent lack of concern for their own well-being that gives the PCs a very simple answer to their problem. If they aim carefully, they can take it out in one shot. If the monster has the mental facilities to realize the danger it is in, then its killer instinct and bloodlust seems to be in command, because it doesnt stop moving, nor does it even hesitate. And, sure enough, once there is about four feet separating them, it bends backwards like a gymnast, keeping balance with back muscles that have to be quite strong and flexible, given the ease in which the motion is accomplished. The PCs fire. A white-eye flash, a roaring staccato, and metal death burst forth. The bullet hits the straightjacket monster at a short angle, tearing a strip-mine furrow that nearly disembowels the creature before finally disappearing beneath its oily, flesh. A person would undoubtedly die from something like that. The very inhuman monster does not die, but the tremendous impact is far more than enough to shatter its precarious balancing act and sends it plummeting to the ground backwards.

The wretched thing hits the ground flopping and writhing and screaming its dreadful scream, angry and mournful. Its legs kick furiously, like pistons, but it cant catch enough friction to move. Suddenly, the air above the monster is filled with a dark brown mist, and at first it didnt register what is going on. The visitors hadnt seen any of the others do this before. Some of the droplets rests on their hand, and then a few seconds later, their hands are stinging. It is spitting up even though it was prone! And it is doing so with a fury. It is unknown if the things breathe the way they do, but the geysers of corrosive seems to heave upwards with the same rapidity of someone taking sharp, deep breaths and exhaling quickly. Most of the acid, especially the really concentrated stuff, falls right back down upon the monster. Under the glare of the flashlight one can see its strange, mottled skin bubble and blister with its touch. Some of them burst, popping like enormous pimples and spraying thick, mustard-yellow pus. The stench is terrific and cloying. It takes a long time to die, if the characters do nothing. Even after it lies there, stock-still save for bleeding and leaking open sores. The PCs can step around it, gingerly avoiding contact as they do. The creature thankfully stays down as they walk away. In the distance, the PCs can hear the monster, still stomping around, but no longer reciting the only word that it seem to know. Perhaps he witnesses the scene unfold and was stunned into silence. It is certainly within viewing distance of his cell. rrrriturrralll. He keeps on stomping, and the PCs leave it alone to do it in peace. The hall outside the cell block is now quiet and free of troublesome threats. They see two doors to their right. There is also a desk is identical to the last one. The papers on the desk are mostly reprints from the previous desk; no doubt each guard needed their own copy. The drawers of the desk are unlocked but empty. Turning their attention to the stairs on the right as well as the doors one each side of its entrance, leads to the realization that the stairs are sealed off with iron bars; allowing no entry into the upper levels of the prison. About halfway down this new hall the PCs then come to two doors: one on the left, and one set of double doors on the right. Storage is to the left, and Courtyard is to the right. Storage Room: Twisting the knob, they walk inside and look around. The shelves are littered with various things. Metal shelves lined all of the walls. They find several garments, all of them filthy and some of them bloody. It is then that in one of the corners the PCs find a wooden baseball bat. Main Courtyard: The PCs then look at the doors of the courtyard with an air of uncertainty. Not as if the whole building isnt unsettling enough, but there is something different they feel beyond the doors. It is cold, and familiar. The first thing they notice is that the air no longer smells of rust. Indeed, it almost smells as though they are outside. They can take a slow breath of the fresh air. There is a touch of stagnation in it, but compared to the prison it is nothing. According to the map, this is the courtyard. But if the prison sank, why is the courtyard still outside?

Underneath them is grass. Soft grass, but it is not green and healthy, but brown and dead. It is also soggy and squelches as they step on it. There is also rocky soil, with a deep, earthy smell: fresh and fertile and moist. The PCs can feel a soft breeze, feel it brush through their hair and kiss their cheeks. The PCs can smell the earth and the mineral scents of the lake that carry upon it. The breeze is soft, and they can see no trees or foliage around to catch the wind and make noise for them. Not that one would expect to see trees or shrubbery here, but then again, one also didnt expect to feel lakeside breezes down here, refreshing though they may be. They can shine the flashlight above them but they cannot see anything resembling a ceiling. Maybe it is part of a large cavern, thats why it looks like an open area. Circling the perimeter of the area reveals that the courtyard is enclosed by a high wall. Eventually following the wall all the way around leads back to the doors through which they entered originally. Gallows Yard: It is still totally silent, save for the soft crunch of their footsteps on the gravelly soil. No screams, no moans, and best of all, no radio static. Something looms in the dark like a gigantic, spidery wraith. Support beams reach into the air about ten feet or so, but there is no roof, and no walls, all supported by four thick posts reinforced by darkened concrete. There is a set of steps, and the PCs can climb them carefully, for they do not know how sturdy it is. It holds their weight easily, though. Once at the top of the handful of steps, the PCs are on a platform that extends no more than four feet. And that is it. It looks like a trumped-up diving platform constructed of wood that has been painted black., which of course it isnt, but regardless of what it is, it seems quite out of place. At first, one cant really see a point to the structure. Why would such a tiny, useless little construct be sitting in the middle of a huge and otherwise empty courtyard? As soon one of the PCs steps to the edge of the platform, they then almost fall off. Something brushes against the PC, something light, but it is such a surprise to his/her tattered nerves that they are a hairs breath away from panicking right off the platform. But then it brushes again, and lies flat against them. Whatever it is, it is light, but dead weight. If it is nudged away it comes back a second later, tapping the PC softly and coming to a rest. Reaching over to touch it reveals that it is thin and rough, with a threaded texture. A rope. And as soon as that fact registers, their hand unconsciously moves down along the length of it, feeling a dread certainty mounting. First there is the knot, just larger than a fist. Then the rope goes in two directions, looping outward and coming back in a small circle, which they can trace with a finger. Now they know the nature of the platform upon which they stand. They are standing upon a scaffold. A gibbet. And that means that what is held in their hand is the centerpiece of such a construction. The hangmans noose. The feeling of peace and quiet that they might have been felt while walking around this courtyard vanishes like smoke on the wind. This isnt just a courtyard, it is an execution yard.

Looking below them, they can see the outline of the trapdoor atop which many men took their last step, spoke their last word, and breathed their last breath. The realization makes one seize up, and suddenly one cant get down fast enough. The PCs will probably leap off of the front of the platform. And in the time it takes them to do so, or at least, for a fraction of it, they have this sudden and completely irrational thought, that they wont ever touch the ground, that somehow that noose has worked its way around one of their throats somehow, and that the fall will only be broken because their neck will be, too. Now, of course, it is an insane thought. The noose is still hanging from the gibbet, and certainly wasnt around their neck. That their feet are both planted firmly in the soft dirt without incident is evidence enough. Yet, even as they land, their hands shoot up to their neck, reflexively tugging at a rope that isnt there. Realizing that it isnt there is something that doesnt happen nearly as fast as it should have, and even once the PCs are certain that the whole thing is just overactive imagination making a bad situation even worse, it takes a little while to calm down. With the radio quiet, they have no rational fear, but the ominous color and silence of the scaffold makes them nervous. It still seems really strange for such a large execution yard to feature only one scaffold and nothing else at all. One cant help but wonder if this is a message for them, somehow. It doesnt seem possible, but then, none of this seems possible. Sure, it could be a message for them. Perhaps their nameless friend came down and arranged things for them. He seems to enjoy making his points with emphasis. Who else would bother? Examining a little ways beyond the scaffold behind them reveals that it has a sort of decoration: the shining object, is a large slate plaque on a short stone post, engraved with a design that is quite crude. The plaque depicts two two figures facing each other, standing straight and tall. They carry spears in their hands. Between them is an L-shaped gallows pole where a hooded man hangs. There is an inscription below the plaque: Bring unto me three false testimonies that I may hang this man for a true one which shall pay thy way to the Labyrinth They also both wear helmets, or headgear of some kind, and it is that headgear that makes the two figures eminently recognizable. It is that headgear that makes hair stand on end. It makes such horrifying sense that one can almost laugh in spite of it all. The simplistic design shows both little stick-figures wearing distinctive triangular helmets, the flat base extending from shoulder to shoulder. Who else could it be? But, if his image is on this plaque, then that means some not-so-good things for the PCs. They havent come across the bastard since the basement of Brookhaven. They had a scare while in the Historical Society, but it turned out to be a false alarm. One thing is certain: they will encounter him again. And again. And again. Until either he kills the PCs, or they find some way to kill him. So far, he definitely came closer than they did. Somehow, they have survived several direct attacks, but definitely not for his lack of trying. The plaque on the scaffold makes one strongly suspect that he might try again right here if they remain here for long and let him. It is

definitely time to get back indoors. At least they will have a chance inside to get a closed door or two between them if he shows up. They can continue to look around the courtyard. Apart from more concrete walls and dead grass, the courtyard otherwise is empty. So, the PCs walk back towards the lonely door, and while they do, they kept alert to catch the sounds of footsteps that arent coming from them. It isnt too difficult, as the area is as still and silent as a tomb. Then they do hear something, and it confuses for a second. It is a sort of low rumble, the likes of which one doesnt recognize at first. Then one realizes it isnt coming from the other side of the door. And in the same moment that it is realized the sound comes from behind them, they are able to identify it. Hooves. Horse hooves on dirt. It is running, and fast. Pounding...pounding... Pounding towards them, even though they can not see any horse. At least, it is hoped it is a horse, and not some new breed of four-legged abomination eager to tear a throat out. Suddenly finding it quite prudent to chance a possibility of a painful encounter against one that is heavy and loud and flying in their direction at considerable speed, the PCs will likely almost trip scrambling through the door, and darting back fast to yank it shut. They wont even get the chance to breathe a sigh or relief, assuming they have one, because as soon as the door is closed tight, they will likely have their gun(s) out and looking. Sweeping in a complete circle, ready to hair-trigger the dozen or so monsters that one is already certain has them surrounded. The PCs are too high-strung for the inevitable result to fully sink in, and in a way, it is liberating. A shot rings out, filling the tight quarters with concussive sound. They hadnt expected it. They are so high-strung that one of the PCs didnt realize that she/he had pulled the trigger. It seems to help serve as a much-needed reality check, because it sure as hell didnt serve as much of anything else. East Corridor: The hallway is completely empty. The PCs hear nothing and see nothing. The double door comes into view before long, and they already have a hand on the knob when they remember the veritable army of straight-jacket monsters that had been trying to batter their way into the connecting hallway when they had last been around. It is terribly possible that they might have managed in the time they spent out here. Pressing an ear to the door, hoping to be able to hear movement inside. If the monsters do manage to break in, the PCs are trapped. The PCs cant go in, and certainly wont let them out here. If the monsters get out into the open, they will flank the PCs in a heartbeat. If they do get through, their only hope will be to rush through them, up the other side of the hall, and hope that there is another door up there, and that it is open for them. It is a lot to ask for. But as they listen, nothing is heard from the other side. No banging, no muted screeching, not even the sharp tapping sound they make while walking. Maybe luck has decided to cut them a break this time and

They can stalk towards the door that they are certain will be bashed in by now. The radio keeps to itself, and lo and behold, the door does still stand firm. They werent able to break it down after all. And, the stony silence indicates that they arent much interested in trying anymore. Or maybe they never were. Maybe they were never there at all. Maybe youre finally letting your imagination run away. Maybe youre going insane. Maybe you They were there. It was all far too vivid, too real, to be stupid imaginative fancies. Maybe they did give up. Maybe someone else shot them all to hell and is on the other side of the prison laughing about it. You dont know and you dont care. You know what you saw, and you are glad you arent seeing it now. North Visiting Room: Crossing over to try the first door it opens into a very small room. At first, it seems like a closet or a storage area of some kind, and a few random boxes and cans litter the floor helps fuel the misconception. But looking to the back, one see that it is in fact one of the more recognizable things one would find in a prison that isnt a cell. It is a conversation box, a visitation booth, and an old-style one, too. There is but only a single chair that faces a wooden bar with a pane of glass dividing the room in half. Instead of the telephone that one would see in a modern version, there is just a small shuttered hole in the thick dividing glass. There is nothing of interest on this side of the glass, yet on the other side of the glass lying on the oak banister, is a torn photograph. The PCs will have to press their temples against the dirty window and shin their flashlight down in an attempt to see what it is. West Corridor The PCs find themselves in another hallway, though this one looks very different from the last. Gone is the stark, utilitarian look and the plain steel doors. Instead, this hall is lined with paneled wood doors, and a few little items of dcor. The walls are covered with paint and wallpaper, which is faded but is nowhere near as filthy and decrepit as the interment block. In the distance, one can see another barred gate, but besides that, there is no immediate evidence that this still is a prison setting, which probably meant that this is the administrative area. Walking up the hall, taking in the sights shows that the next door on the left is certain to lead to the visitors side of that other conversation booth. None of the three doors directly opposite will open. South Visiting Room: Recalling the picture in the last visitation room and deciding to try the door directly in front of them to the right, reveals that, thankfully, it is open. As the PCs walk inside, their eyes instantly dart to the picture. Now upon closer inspection as they pick it up and hold it to the light, they can see the image it holds. There is a man, bound to a chair with chains. He is dressed in an auburn colored suit with cuts in the fabric here and there. It appears he has been cut and beaten mercilessly by whatever put him there. There is also blood all around the floor as well as coated on the mans chest. His identity, however, is still a mystery since the picture is torn diagonally upward from right to left, cutting the mans head from view. Turning the picture over reveals that something is written at the bottom Hinkley, J. - We still couldnt find the rest of what was missing. The small sounds of creaking can be heard from behind outside in the hall. Spinning around and aiming at whatever it is that is behind them. The PCs are able to make out the back of something in a wheelchair rolling by, but that is all.

At last, fear finally returns to the PCs. With the hairs on the back of their necks upright, the PCs exit out the door and is not long before they can hear what they have prayed they never would hear again. The sound of canine growling. That is only the briefest of warnings. To their left, the skinless beast leaps unto one of the PCs knocking him/her off him/her feet and onto the floor. Snarling and chattering its teeth, blood drips from the animals jaws as the PCs try to push the animal away. Then another from some unknown direction joins the feeding frenzy. Visitor's Corridor: The door at the east end of the hall is identical to the one at the west and it too is slow to open. But this gives them plenty of warning as white noise erupts from the radio. There are two straight-jackets just on their right. They can shoot them down. The gun blasts are loud, but the wax takes the edge off them. With the straight-jackets dead and the voices in the cellblocks silenced, the walk to the visitors hall is strangely pleasant. The ambient sounds of the sinking prison, while eerie in nature, are a welcome relief to the silence that has permeated the town. It leads to the south visiting room. South Visiting Room: The other door also leads into a conversation booth, which can only be figured out because one can see pieces of it in the wreckage that litter the entire room. The whole place has the look of a room that suffered obliteration at the hands of a loaded freight train. The booth and window both are a shattered ruin from floor to ceiling. On the bar is a battered Zippo lighter with Patent Pending printed on the bottom. The ruin is total enough that one is able to easily step across the debris and exit the booth from the other side. Visitor's Corridor: Continuing to the door at the end and exiting the room leads to a larger, longer, and much filthier hallway with even fewer doors. Women's Restroom: The next one past the second booth does open, though, and it opens into a restroom. Its condition is not much different than the mens. The first thing that is seen is a dirty old urinal, its porcelain white stained an infected yellow by age and, probably, stale old urine. The floor is cold and littered with, what feels like pieces of broken glass and tile. Soon enough their ears detect a scratching noise coming from one of the stalls nearby. It is stealthy noise at first; soft, barely audible, but it quickly grows louder. The radio doesnt have anything to say, but that didnt mean there isnt a threat here. The whole time, they hear the scratching. It is there, and it is unnerving. Like fingernails. Clawing at wood. The PCs can approach the stalls carefully. There are three, and the first two are caved in. The scratches come from the last one. The nails scratch furiously for perhaps half a minute, then pause. Then scratch again, but languidly this time. Looking at the lock handle one sees fresh scrapings on the metal, done with a very sharp object. Holding the gun ready with one hand and reaching for the handle with the other. The fingernails seem to be picking determinedly along the edges of the door, exploring the cracks between the door and the frame, as if purchase and

leverage might be found there, sufficient to tear the door open or rip it from its hinges with one mighty heave. The moment the handle is touched, the scratching ceases abruptly. They are still holding the handle. It moves in their hand. Someone is holding is holding it from the other side. They wait. Their breath comes to them more easily now. Time passes at a measured, plodding pace, and their hearts slows, and the silence continues without interruption. But as yet they are unable to relax their grip on the doorknob. The hand holding it is sharp and bloodless. The fingers looking like talons curled around the metal latch. Even rapping on the door a few times anyway, there will be no answer, no scraping, no response of any kind. Just silence. Whatever it is, it is certain to be bad anyway, so it is best just to leave WHAM! Something screams and throws itself at the stall. The PCs can hear it rattle and vibrate. One can almost feel it, it is so strong. And at the moment of impact, whatever attacks the door screams. The impact noise alone is a shock to the system because one is unprepared for it. The scream, oh, it doesnt sound like a monster at all, and that is what makes it so utterly terrifying. It sounds like a woman. Very strangled, very short, but so close to human. Racing out of the restroom, slamming the door behind them, and leaning on it. They have to. They have to regulate themselves again. If they survive this, one is a certain candidate for hypertension, to say nothing of all the psychological damage this is surely causing. This is all far too much for any one to bear. Whatever is going on this room, they want no part of it whatsoever. They haul out of the ruined lavatory as fast as humanly possible. Unbeknownst to them, the worst has yet to arrive. Men's Restroom: This is the mens restroom, inferred from the urinals on the right wall. Were it not for the dirt and water bleeding into the room, this would be one of the cleanest bathrooms they have ever been in. There is no smell of feces or urine or anything to suggest that the toilets have been used since they were last cleaned. That is not to say the bathroom is at all pristine. The stalls are made of rotten wood; blackened and ancient. To the left is a concrete wall containing a large mirror. It is, like the display window in the waiting room, covered in mold and caked in red, but it still has a reflection. Every metal surface in this room is dented and covered in rust. Two of the three urinals, which have a dark-yellow and green stain on each them as if they had never been washed, are missing handles, the doors to all four stalls have been ripped away, and a sink is missing. The toilets themselves are dry and dirty. Still, the PCs diligently search all around for a key or even coinage of some sort. But there is nothing. Visitor's Corridor: Once under control again, the PCs can cross over to the next door, hoping at least one of them leads somewhere. The visitors hallway is almost identical to the other hall, though there was an effort to make it a little more aesthetically pleasing by painting the walls a

light blue. Unfortunately, a combination of neglect and the underground environment has destroyed most of it and there are only the odd spots here and there that are visible. They can still hear the sound of dripping water some where in the distance. They proceed cautiously, but the radio stays quiet. The stairs going down are blocked by another security gate. Unlike the others however, these bars are shiny and new. They can test the gates strength. It does not budge or even wiggle. They turn to their right and try the exit door. Nothing. Looking back at the security gate shows that there is a grey box on the wall next to it marked Emergency Release. Walking over to it and examining it shows that there are a few rust spots and it looks as though it were meant to be pulled open. On the top is what appears to be a thin, narrow coin slot. Then they see letters carved into the wall next to the box: I like not this prison where I have been laid Therefore I'll open not until I am paid Thy common currency I never shall need I care only for coins ill-gotten by greed They have no coins on them nor do they know where they can find any. Still, there is the lock on the door. Theres got to be a key somewhere here. Looking at the map shows that the wardens office is the first door on the left back up the hallway. They go up the hall, but none of the doors to the remaining visitor rooms will open. There is no key here; it was probably taken away before the building sank beneath the ground. That only leaves finding something to put in the emergency release box. The one door on the west side is unlocked. Guards' Lounge: The door opens easily enough, but the radio immediately begins to emit static. Of course, they see the problem as soon as they hear it; a straight-jacket stands wobbling in the opposite corner. There is a door right behind it, or rather, in front of it, since it has its back facing them. They dont need to hesitate this time. Instead, in a strange, uncharacteristic display of bravado, they can march right up to this one and shoot it in the head at point-blank range before it can even turn around. One shot is enough. It pulps the monsters head and it falls to the ground in a crashing heap. It shudders violently for a few moments, then the shudders lessen, and finally, it lies dead and still. Right then and there, my adrenaline-fueled courage leaks out of them, and they realize that some of the gore has splattered on them. Combined with the rank stench of the monster, it is all making one nauseous. For a moment it seems as though they will have to move the monster out of the way to get the door open, and it is an immense relief to see that the door opens inward. The PCs can step over the inhuman corpse. The door is wood and from the smell, it has begun to rot. There is still a brass plaque with Warden engraved on it, though the brass has lost its shine. Wardens Office: The wardens office has withstood the test of time better than the rest of the prison. The walls are spotted with rust, probably from pipes built inside them and the white paint has faded into grey, but there are no signs that the walls themselves have begun to crack. Apart from the dirt and the blood from the straight-jacket, the floor is in relatively good condition. In

addition to the rusty sink, the room contains an old television, an oak desk and a mahogany shelf. There is a rusted metal door across from the sink. Something is written on it but the rust makes it difficult to read it from the sink. The shelf contains a clue and the desk holds a red herring, but they have no way of knowing the difference yet. It is a magazine article titled STRANGE TALES OF SILENT HILL: Local folklore alive and well. LEGENDS OF THE LAKE Toluca Lake is the towns main attraction. But did you know that this clear, beautiful lake has another side as well? It may seem like just a typical ghost story that you might find in any number of old towns across the country. But in this case, the legend is true. Excursion cruises on Toluca Lake have had a long, proud history, starting in 1906 when an enterprising banker from St. Joseph, Missouri who summered in Silent Hill discovered a decrepit steamboat built in 1885, unfit to sail and listing badly to one side, for sale on the St. Louis riverfront during a trip there. He had immediately bought it, dismantled it and shipped the pieces by train to the Toluca County station in Ashfield, then by truck to Silent Hill, then reassembled and refurbished the boat, christening her the Little Baroness when finished, and officially creating the Toluca Lake Steamboat Company. Originally designed to carry up to a hundred passengers, only a handful of private suites remained. The rest had been gutted to create a grand dining saloon, though the wealthy could rent a suite and dine in private luxury as the boat cruised Toluca Lake, from Silent Hill to Pleasant River, and up and down the Toluca River to the reservoir dam and the Illiniwak to a waterfall that, while small, was still impressive for Illinois. From 1910 when the rebuilding was complete, to 1918, throughout spring, summer, and fall, the Little Baroness had offered relaxing excursion cruises and unparalleled dining in its exquisite dining room. It had been among the cant-miss experiences for visitors to Silent Hill. On a fog bound November day in 1918, the Little Baroness disappeared. She had set sail from the dock in South Park, carrying a wealthy South Ashfield family celebrating a birthday, who had chartered the boat especially for their occasion. She never returned to the dock, and was never seen again. No trace of the Little Baroness or any of her passengers or crew was ever found, and investigators could only conclude that the river boat must have sunk. A newspaper article from back then simply says, It most likely sunksic for some reason. Despite an extensive police search, not a single fragment of the ship or any of the 14 bodies of the passengers has ever been recovered to this very day. In 1939, an even stranger incident occurred when in the month of December, nineteen babies were born in Silent Hill with a horrific birth defect known as harlequin fetus, whose medical name is ichthyosis fetalis, and which typically presents only in one out of every several hundred thousand births. There are no external environmental causes for ichthyosis fetalis. Harlequin babies are born with their skin replaced by a hard shell of keratin, the same substance that makes up fingernails and hair, and take their name from the look of their faces. The mouth is grotesquely deformed, as the inflexible keratin pulls it into a parody of a harlequin clowns grin. Harlequin babies typically live no more than a

few months, if that, though one man whose wife had given birth to one of the harlequin babies murdered the child, then his wife, and then committed suicide himself while in custody for the crimes at Silent Hill jail. Several pages of the magazine have been torn out and the article is almost finished by the time an intact page is reached: Many corpses rest at the bottom of this lake. Their bony hands reach up towards the boats that pass overhead. Perhaps they reach for their comrades. The shelf contains mostly financial records for the prison, and medical and criminal histories of the inmates. Most are worn and faded. The clue comes in the form of a diary; no name is given, and many pages are missing, leaving only one entry: Prisoners do not feel remorse. In fact, they do not feel themselves to be villains at all. Even the most uneducated brute will use what little words he knows to justify himself. And such trifling dreams they have, flourishing even in the darkness. Prisoners, too, are no exception. No matter how foul or loathsome ones life and existence may be, human nature is abiding. They walk over to the rusted door. They feel some excitement when they read the word on the door: ARMORY. Like most of the rusted doors, this one puts up some resistance when they initially try to open it, but after a little bit of force it gives easily. Armory: If the PCs were expecting this door to lead somewhere special, then they will be sorely disappointed. They will feel doubly disappointment because the room, for the most part, has been picked clean. What is this room? A good thing for once: another storeroom, this one not much more spacious than a walk-in closet. A weapons and ammo storeroom, to be specific. The armory room itself is not all that small, but numerous lockers, shelves, and desks crowd the room, leaving a very cramped floor even for one person alone. There is a crack in the ceiling and the air is too damp for mere dust so everything is covered in a thin layer of grime. It is even smaller than it looks, thanks to the large shelves lining every wall. Some of them are actual cases and cabinets, with glass doors. Most of them are broken, and almost all of them are empty. They have set off some sort of silent alarm by opening the door, because there a red light flashes on the wall; how an alarm can be working without electricity is beyond their understanding or concern. The pulsing crimson glow seems eerie, mysterious, supernatural. Nearly everything in the storeroom is water-damaged, or too old and deteriorated to be used. The case on the back wall, however, is not. In fact, it holds something that one finds immediately and completely fascinating. It is a gun rack, though one only see two actually remaining inside. The smaller of the two is a pump-action shotgun, the barrel bent at a painful upward angle, as if someone locked it into a vise and pulled on the stock. Very broken, very useless. The larger of the two is a hunting rifle. A really nice one too, 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. Checking the other shelves, hoping to find some more rounds reveals that one of the shelves has more than a dozen boxes of ammo stacked in a neat pile, and each one is fat and heavy. Of course, it every one of them holds twelve-gauge buckshot rounds.

Scouring the shelves some more, hoping desperately to find more ammo, but the dusty coffers arent in the mood to cooperate. Finally, as the PCs have just about given up hope, one feels one in a very deep corner. It is a box of .30-06. An empty box. The PCs can stare longingly at the boxes of shells that, mock them with their uselessness. They hold the rifle in their hands, considering whether or not to burden themselves with it, since it only has four rounds. If the PCs almost leave it right there, remind them of their old friend, the red pyramid thing. They hadnt seen him in a good while, but he is out there somewhere, and a pistol is like a mosquito bite to him. The .30-06 will pack a hell of a bigger punch. Maybe even enough to kill him. That is enough to convince them to strap it across their shoulder. The lockers are empty of the equipment one would expect correctional officers to carry. No riot gear or body armor, pepper spray or mace. They are about to leave when they notice a handle on a bottom drawer seems to be completely devoid of grime. Pulling the drawer open the PC find inside is a black metal cylinder, roughly ten inches long. It sits inside a nylon pouch with a belt loop attached to it. Before they examine it closer though, they see a box of bullets in the upper left corner; unfortunately, when they reach for it, they find it is nearly empty, containing only seven bullets, that they can add to their supply and then turn their attention back to the object in the drawer. They can take it out of its pouch and examine it. It has black foam sheathing, making it comfortable when held. There is a small line at one end that travels around the circumference of the cylinder. Suddenly it occurs to the PCs what this object is. They hold the cylinder with the line end out and quickly flicks their wrist. With a snap and a click, the end of the cylinder extends about another sixteen inches. Its a collapsible baton. They can take a few practice swings; the baton makes a satisfying whoosh each time. A button at the base of the extension collapses it back down. They can go back to the drawer and take out the nylon pouch and attach it to a belt and tuck the baton securely into it. The gun is still the preferable weapon, but if they should run out of bullets or lose it somehow, the baton will make a convenient back-up. Wardens Office: They might want to step back into the wardens office where they have more space. This recent success is short-lived however. A thorough search of the wardens room reveals nothing else. The papers appear to be only administrative documents. Searching the rest of the drawer, the PCs find nothing. The file cabinets are empty and there are no other compartments in the desk. No key to the basement or any thing resembling coins ill-gotten. Not a single thing to open the doors and let them escape this nightmare. Guard's Lounge: Opening the door, reveals that their timing is just a little late. The radio squalls and they look up to find themselves face-to-something with another straight-jacket creature. Only, they see that it isnt a different one. It is the same one they had capped execution style not five minutes ago. For one horrible second they can see right into the ruined cavity of its skull Why the hell is it still alive? And it must have seen them and been waiting for them this time, for it leans back almost immediately...

One look at it makes one dead certain that it isnt going to pull a second resurrection act. The shell hit the monster right where its neck would be, and the head is almost completely torn off, attached to the rest of the body by a few savagely-torn shreds of oily flesh. Shouldering the rifle again they can exit the room. Kitchen and Mess Hall: The room was once a modest cafeteria, with pillars here and there, and large tables. The smell of cooked meat is strong in this room; and the smell of blood. Searching the kitchen finds a dead man on the floor behind the counter, one of his legs missing, his arms turned around backwards. Another dead man crammed into an oven, face outward, shoved into a space far too small for a human body, as if into a trash compactor. Someone had switched it on high. He is completely cooked, eye sockets emptied, mouth charred back to expose his teeth. Here is the smell of the cooked meat. The Yard: Officers Housing: A dark room with humid air that smells of mold. A pair of uncomfortable wooden chairs stand on opposite sides of a card table. Open Inner Courtyard: A large courtyard garden. Trying to hide his surprise at seeing a garden in the midst of a prison, they swing the light in a tight circle to check for any other creatures that might be hiding in the shadows. The light, small as it is, reveals nothing. Turning to the radio, they release a small sigh of relief when it only crackles dimly in the night . They walk slowly forward, small baby steps carrying them through holes in the waist-high hedges. As they move and 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. The Garden: They've nearly reach the center of the garden when the light illuminates a vague form a few yards ahead of them. At this point, the wound up characters just might fire a shot. If so the courtyard is instantly illuminated by the burst of fire before again falling into gloom. In the brief flash of light, they see the figure standing in front of them jerk to the side, but still remain standing. If a second shot follows the first, it again rips into the figure's body, and still they remain standing. This time, however, they see something by the flash. In any case, taking a few steps closer, the light plays up the figure. The light reveals bloodied Nike shoes, torn and tattered pants, a shredded shirt, and a face that grins as if the figure had enjoyed the torture. Torture is an apt word for what the figure has gone through. Held to a metal cage by bits of rusted wire, nails, and a rope around his stomach, the person has been hurt beyond anything they had ever seen. Numerous cuts mar his skin, the blood now dry and crusty, limbs hung at an odd

angle from the snapped bones within them though several had been broken so savagely as to rip through the skin. What they had originally thought to be a rope around the man's waist now reveals itself to be his intestines, now holding him eternally to his cage. Then their eyes play further up, to the slashed and bloodied throat and finally to the faceor what remains of it. The lower jaw is missing, and shards of teeth poke through where the lower jaw should have been. Cataracted green eyes stared out from their sockets, with missing lids that will never again cover them. They move closer to the man to look at the debris. As they do, they notice color stains on the mans sleeves and under his fingernails. They span a variety of colors: crimson, turquoise, blue, brown, and green. Below the man is a pile of worn paintbrushes and a palette that has been broken in half. The brushes are of varying sizes but all have black wooden handles. Picking through the pile, there is something strange about the material of the bristles. Then their eye catch something poking out from just underneath one of the palette halves. Something thin, round, and metallic. A coin. Tossing the palette half aside and picking up the coin shows that it is old and crusted with dried blood. They can manage to scrape some of it away, but it is not enough to reveal the surface of the coin. But they do not care. They know they have possession of a coin ill-gotten by greed. The coin goes in their pocket and they leave the executed artist to his eternal sleep above the ground and below the earth. Jail: Staring into the gaols darkened recesses, the PCs feel the gnaw of anxiety. The bittersweet smells of damp hay, sweat, and bodily functions come drifting out into their faces, along with the sense of what it must be like to be caged in that stifling and humid environment. It is not a large place. Past the entrance room there are four iron-barred cells, two on each side of a central corridor. The floor is covered in hay. Visitors' Corridor: They arrive at the emergency release box. They can take the bloody coin out and insert it into the slot. There is a rusty click and the box swings open revealing a red switch. Flipping it causes a latch release on the bars that block the stairs. They can walk over to them and slide them open with a loud clang that seems to reverberate beyond the bars and into the floor below. Looking at the frame one sees fresh scratch marks. Behind them, the release box closes and the security gate slides shut and locks. But their thoughts are elsewhere as they descend the stairs. The Basement: The steps are crooked and uneven, and the walls and ceiling are badly cracked. The basement itself is slightly better despite having to bear the weight of not only the earth but also that of the prison. Temporary supports have been put in anyway to keep the ceiling from collapsing, but one can see from the bend in them that it is a battle that they will not win. The PCs make their way down the hall slowly. The going is tough, for the water and dirt join forces to create some kind of slippery slime. It is hard to distinguish on the floor, filthy as it is, but one knows it one steps in it. The stuff is as slick as oil, and will send a visitor flying if one

isnt careful. The water comes down from everywhere, like a soft drizzle, but they are at least several dozen feet underground, and it is rather surreal to see such a thing. Basement Cell Block: And, this one doesnt have the same sort of activity the other had. No rattling cages, no bashing on bars, no hideous screeching. Just the sound of water dripping from the ceiling and onto the floor, and the PCs own footsteps as they trod along, passing cell after empty cell. Eventually, they hear a murmur. The voice is faint neither because it is whispered nor because it is feeble but because it arises from a great distance, so fragile that it might have been merely a mirage of sound. Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss The murmuring sound grows louder both on the radio and in the hall. It is coming from cell B10. With such proximity the sound is no longer a murmur but a chant. Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss The voice possesses a plaintive quality. Although unable to grasp the words and deduce their meaning, the PCs can detect an urgent and beseeching tone, and perhaps a yearning sadness. It isnt until the last cellblock that something is noticed. The cot is there and the bench is there, but there is no sign of the cells occupant or even that the cell is occupied. Nothing except a slow deep voice. Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss The sound comes from the darkness at the back of the cell. The thing simply responds with the same chant. Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss The basic set up is much the same as N1, but this cell is littered with books. They are old and the damp air has not treated them well; many covers have rotted and their ink has run. Some are no more than slimy wads of paper with ink stains. Some though, are in reasonable condition. They looks at a few titles. Summoning of the Demon, The Blood Swamp Grimoires, and Introduction to Black Magic. Another book has an illegible title but contains a pentagram on the cover. They can thumb through a few of them, but for the most part the text seems to be in a language they cannot understand. There is one other thing in the room. A wax doll sits on the cot. It is supposed to be a man, but with its bloated head, small undefined arms, large blank eyes, and hunched posture, it resembles a grey fetus more than anything else. A puddle of red is on the floor with what looks like meat at the center. As the PCs come to it, kneeling down for a closer look. The meat appears to be a bearded severed bottom jaw. Then there is dripping, there isnt enough time for him to try. It is upon them as they come to the conclusion as to who the jaw belongs to. Something wet then coils around their necks like a pink noose of flesh; pulling them off the floor and higher into the prison rafters, pulled towards what looks like a small pool of black, the bubbling crude of the void. The PCs head stops but inches from the tarrish puddle above him/her as the tip of a head peaks out from the black fluid to meet his/her frightened gaze, accompanied with two arms clawing at the surface. Then comes a sound of strained moaning with cracks in its sound. The PC meets the eyes of Hell. The bottom of the mouth had been ripped off of his face, leaving only his tongue and broken upper teeth behind.

With a shriek, it sinks upward back into its pool and releases the PC; sending him/her crashing back to the floor. Ignoring the pain of the fall, the PCs coughs as he/she tries to suck air back into his/her raped lungs. And then it wraps around another PCs right ankle. The PCs look down to find yet another black mass is bubbling into the surface, the pink, slimy muscle that clutches the PCs is a tongue! It begins to make that same skin-crawling sound as before as the mutilated form crawls across the floor in jerky, mechanical movements as it dragged its feet from behind. You dont want to die. It is clawing up your legs. Not in this place. Its teeth are now scrapping across your stomach. Not now, not alone. The tongue coils around their throat once more; its fingernails now digging into his face and eyes. At last, it leaves them, but not from the gunshots. Something is dragging the creature back into the pool of blackness! Once the PCs eyes come back into focus, they struggle to see what it is that is dragging the spirit back into the abyss. They see nothing but the panicked look on the twisted half-face as it is dragged back down into the depths of Hell by an unknown force. The PCs sit there for a moment as they watch the black spiral in the floor close up and disappear again. They dont even have time to think about what had happened. It doesnt register until they actually strike the floor, which they do with their elbows first, followed by the rest of their bodies. Said elbows crack hard against the hard concrete. Panting in surprise and terror, the PCs roll over on their backs and push themselves away from the last cell with their legs, looking like beached fish flopping uselessly out of water. The floor is too slick for it to really help much. Providentially, they always seem to be far enough away that it cannot reach, but that doesnt sink in right away. They hurriedly get to their feet. Morgue: The air in the morgue reeks, but the source of the smell is obvious and disturbing. There are dozens of bodies rotting inside. The refrigeration units have failed long ago and all the unclaimed bodies of the condemned men were left to rot in this damp atmosphere. The morgue of the prison is a windowless room in a sub-basement with not even an airshaft. Only a few dozen or more of the steel beds stand dark and bare; the others all display anonymous shapes bulging beneath blotched sheetssome protruding at curious angles, as if these restless dead struggle to burst free of the coarse white folds. It's obvious by the methods of execution and disposing of the bodies that the prisoners were thought of as less than human. Toluca Prison Archive: The door opens into a large room with thick walls of plaster, containing absolutely nothing except metal shelves that reach to the ceiling. There are no pin-ups, no calendars, no charts, no slogans or decorations. Each shelf is filled with identical tan rectangular cardboard boxes, on end, containing files. All the boxes are marked with several sets of numbers. From two sides of this room, doors lead to similar room, each with shelves of files on executed

or imprisoned people reaching to the ceiling. How many lives are recorded in this library of death? The number of boxes alone is clearly in the tens of thousands, and the boxes each contain several cases. Hallway: There is a rather ornate door at the end of a short branch of the hallway, painted green and gold, but its knob has that same limp, dead feeling that so many others had when they are turned. So, that leaves the barred gate. Third Hole Room: Which, surprisingly, opens without a hitch. Directly ahead is a hatch in the floor. And here, they find another hole in the floor Another HOLE. They now realize why their unseen friend laid so much emphasis on that word when he scrawled that message on the window of Neelys Pub. Did he see something like this in the bar? He did mention odd things in the Historical Society, and he was correct about that. Where does his HOLE lead? One wonders if even he knows. He clearly knows something about their nature, yet it doesnt seem as though he actually experienced it first-hand. He claimed to have avoided the Historical Society, and how could he mark the disappearance of the hole in the bar if he had jumped in it? That, of course, is the HOLE here. Only, this one isnt immediately accessible. The barred gate in this small corridor doesnt have doors, but there is another barred gate covering the HOLE, and this one does have doors, doors that, by the look of them, are latched and quite locked. The latch doesnt look very strong. If one stands on the door and jumps up and down, the force of impact would almost certainly break it before long. The PCs walk towards the locked gate and its HOLE with a stutter. With a queer sort of detachment, they can lean over and twist the spiral writing key in the latch lock. As soon as they do, the double doors fall open, and the HOLE gapes wide and inviting, opening to reveal nothing but empty blackness. Staring down that HOLE causes the numbness to give way to anger, anger at how unfair it all is. The anger leaves quickly. There is nothing to do about it. Holding it will only make this painful experience all the more so. Now there is nothing but this HOLE, which cost so much upstairs to access. After having to go through all that terrifying difficulty to open the gate, they now stand at the cavernous maw of the HOLE, resolved to go wherever it decides to take them. Warm air wafts up from below, and there is a strange odor as well, a strange smell. Sweet, but not in a pleasant way. It smells like overripe fruit, but not as strong. Without a doubt, the PCs have discovered yet another HOLE, and even though there are a few doors nearby, the PCs must know that they are supposed to take yet another plunge into this Abyss they are already in up past their necks in. They know this is where they have to go, what they have to do. Then the PCs leap forward, and down the narrow open HOLE, into the warmth and embrace of the darkness. Time stops for the PCs again, and there is more of that same darkness. Unlike last time, one can't distinctly remember the sort of rush that brings unconsciousness, yet the slight awareness the PCs do possess does not notice the sensation of falling. They don't remember hitting the ground, either. No hole in the world is truly bottomless.

Are any of these HOLEs bottomless? They are now engulfed in other kinds of sensations. Some of them are warm and pleasant, some of them are cold and evil, but even the good ones seem tainted. Nothing seems to change, here, there, or anywhere. All those swirling, whirling colors, all formless and amorphous, fade slowly, become shades of gray that all turn white slowly, dissolving and dispersing like smoke in a windstorm. Then, the whites change direction, turning gray again, and then black. Feeling comes back. The PCs can feel their feet and hands even before eyesight returns to them. The PCs move them, feeling strange, as if they had never possessed extremities before. What a novel concept, hands and feet. Finally, the lights and flashes of their mind mist away, and they find themselves staring at yet another concrete ceiling, this one just as dark and putrid as any other the PCs have seen down here. You stand, massaging a back that is sore but blessedly undamaged. Your understanding of these HOLEs is hardly near comprehensive, but now you are beginning to at least form a theory or two. Whatever their nature, one is twice able to jump into one, fall quite a long way, land on hard ground both times and live to tell about it, so obviously, there is some kind of unnatural property involved. How many more will you have to go down, though? How deep do the holes go? Your mind is rife with possibilities, and none of them are pleasant. Fourth Hole Room: This time, when the PCs come to, they are already in an upright position, their hands propping up their upper body. They face yet another set of bars, and through them, a set of stairs lead up; clearly they are not out of the prison yet. Getting to their feet and trying the grate, shows that it wont even budge. Behind them is a short hall with a pair of doors on each side and a larger double-door between them on the facing wall. According to the map, the two doors on the left lead to infirmary bedrooms. One door on the right leads to the doctors office and the other leads to an examination room. Doctors Office: On one side of the chamber stands a timeworn desk and chair, next to which is a bookcase of what looks to be old medical tomes, by their thickness and the dark solemnity of their bindings. Opposite these furnishings is a long workbench built to waist-height. Atop the bench, which have perhaps a dozen small drawers with ivory pulls constructed along its length, are various instruments and measuring scales, as well as beakers, jars, and bottles. On the wall, too, are mounted shelves that hold more bottles and jars, many of the vessels murky with fluids and potions. Then there are the double-doors. They are actually doors, complete with a handle. Before approaching them, and opening it, though, there is the scent of something bad, something wrong. It is the same noxious odor emanating from the hole when the hatch cover was opened, and there is a faint trace of it all over down here, but it is far stronger right here by the doors; a nasty, sour smell.

When the door is pushed open, the stench intensifies dramatically, drifting and washing over the PCs like a thick, evil cloud. The smell is so putrid that it feels like it solidifies in their nostrils. The characters must roll under their Physical Endurances number once every minute to avoid vomiting from the stench (even characters with a P.E. or higher must roll a 17 or lower to save, despite their high endurance). The intensity incites open revolt in their insides, and it brings tears to their eyes even when they try filtering their breath, even though this provides +3 to save. But if the smell is horrible, it isnt even a warm-up for what the PCs see through watery eyes. When they realize what the source of the malodorous air is, the stench, by comparison, might have been a field of fresh springtime daffodils. When they have managed to control their nausea, they pull the flashlight out and light the inside of the room. The room is full of human corpses. There are literally dozens of dead human beings in this very small chamber of horrors. The room is large enough to have been at one time two separate enclosures, made into a whole by the removal of a partition, and both sides of the room have holes bored into the walls, three feet high and three across, each one stuffed full of rotting cadavers. Rotting feet and emaciated legs stick out of each opening in the wall at odd angles, and the awful stench comes from the holes. Their skin is mottled and either fish-belly white, or green and brown where mold and fungus has consumed the flesh and muscle. There, in the center of the room, upon a gurney, under a sheet of ancient and very dirty canvas lies a thing infinitely more horrible than any heap of decayed human bones. A long, bonehandled knife is stuck upright beside it in the table. The PCs can almost hear them squirming, there are so many. It is a vista out of anyones worst nightmares. It appears that a lot of blood and innards are smeared about, as if bodies were thrown down there. Just who the hell were they? What horrible fate brought them to this unholy resting place? Maybe they are ancient victims of the plague mentioned in the caption of the Brookhaven Painting in the Historical Society. Of course, that couldnt be true, as much as one wishes it were. For one, the corpses are far too fresh, still meaty and decaying. That plague struck the town over a century ago. Any of those bodies would be decomposed to bones or mummified by now. But that line of thought causes something else to nag at them. The bodies show many visual signs of putrefaction. But being underground and in a damp environment, they should also have signs of consumption by the various creatures that thrive on carrion. Maggots, ants or even types of fungi should be abundant given the plethora of nutrients offered by a single cadaver. But it seems these have all been left to the microorganisms. A more obvious tell-tale sign of their fate lies at their feet. The once-white tile is stained dark with blood, and it is quite liberally applied. Through the puddles of dried gore are tracks. A wheelbarrow. And they lead to

The far wall has no holes in the wall. However, there is a very large hole in the floor, and the blood-stained tracks led right to it. They fan out in several directions, making it obvious that the trip has been made many, many times. It is a dumping pit. They stand there on the precipice of that HOLE, staring down into its depths, wondering just what on earth they will land on when they jump down. And, despite the certainty that they have free-fallen several hundred feet and landed on hard stone or concrete every single time, they havent yet been killed or seriously injured by these leaps of faith. But what they should be worried about is landing on a heaping mound of rotting corpses. That is the sort of thing that they just really do not ever want to experience. The imagination is already being far too vivid in the imagery it provides in regards to the possible outcome. Having to see it for themselves, with real eyes and not the minds eye, they dont know if they could take that. There is no way to be certain without jumping, but they surmise that if the bottom is cluttered with corpses, the smell rising out of the pit should be even stronger than the smell in the morgue. The PCs cant take any more. They are choking and if they stay any longer, it will turn into dryheaves. Over the last twenty-four hours the PCs have seen a lot of terrible, horrible things, things no one should ever have to see, and probably things no one had ever seen. Things that defy physics and nature, things that violate every notion of reality and order the PCs have ever held all their lives. But not one of them, not even Pyramid Head himself, could have prepared them for this. None of them compare. And, the worst thing about it all is that this isnt impossible. There is nothing impossible about it. It involves no creatures from the dark abyss or warped perspectives. The mind is numb, there is so much death. Reality seems warped as the fingerprint of true evil stands, beyond which all fictions pale. It is the realism, the abject possibility behind the scene that makes it strike so hard and so violently. It mightve been that way all this time, they dont know, but something in the back of their mind say it hasnt. Something is not quite right. (Did that corpse just move?) The right leg of the corpse shifted, sliding to the side a few inches. A sigh is heard, well, the PCs think that they heard a sigh or exhalation of some kind and they know they saw the leg move. What if they all come to life? There are dozens of them! The PCs would never be able to fend them off, and might they follow them if they try to escape down the HOLE? They start moving very slowly; step-by-step, careful not to take their eyes off them until they are absolutely sure they are not moving. They stand before the hole, not wanting to jump down it. Not because just because they are afraid, exactly-they have made it through alright, last time, after all-but because the thought of jumping down a corpse chute is just a little too unsettling. But, again, it has to be done, if only because it is the only way out. They take a deep breath, close theirs eyes, and down they go. They disappear into the dark. They feel air rushing around them and their stomachs rise to their throats.

Fourth HOLE Room: Just as they are about to let out a scream suddenly, it is all over. There isn't really much to see. It is a cold, rocky place. Slabs and shards of slate and shale litter the ground, chunks of what seems to make up the walls and ceiling as well. Ancient wooden supports line the short, rough shaft. It ends with a door in front of them, and three empty walls of rock and silt everywhere else. No guessing or experimenting required. It is a long, torturous wait to feel right again, in that way, anyway. Every second they spend waiting for that throbbing distraction to leave is a drawn-out eternity. Though the PCs feel drained, they have enough strength to finally trek forward and open the door in front of them. Because it is the only door it will have to open. And, thankfully, it does. And when it does, the door opens into a small room that might have once been a latrine of sorts once upon a time, as there is a hand sink attached to the wall. Opposite it is a painting of a rather nice little subdued landscape, though yellowed and ruined by its environment and the ravages of time. And spanning the distance is absolutely nothing. They can see a ceiling above, from which a plain old light fixture is suspended. But below? Nothing but a void. By looking at the walls, one can see that there had been a floor here in the past, but now it is gone. All four walls, instead of coming to a conclusion near their feet, continues ever downward, finally disappearing into the wide-open maw of oblivion. Maybe they took it in to get it cleaned. There was a floor here. Now there is a HOLE. Another fucking HOLE. This is starting to get ridiculous, damn it. Is this to be the PCs' fate? Will they meander around here forever, far beneath the earth, exploring dark and forgotten places until they find a HOLE that just takes them to the next one? And now looking into a HOLE that will only take them deeper. They will leap into this HOLE, no doubt about that. And, as they fall, they will black out. When they wake up, they will be disoriented but unharmed, presented with yet another nightmarish artery to explore. As they fall, they can wonder just what sort of new nightmarish artery they will be exploring when they awaken at the bottom. They can also try to ignore the sensation of freefalling, attempt to hold their concentration instead. Hopefully, that will allow them to remain conscious, and perhaps then they will be able to witness whatever sort of weird transition takes place when they fall down these HOLEs. The flashlight shows the texture of the HOLE's side flashing by in a blur, and it is this upon which they keep their attention, keeping an eye out for a change or alteration that will Elevator Room: Their eyes open. They close them again right away, because they emerged to find themselves blinded by the glare of the flashlight. It lies on the ground next to them, and it is aimed directly at their faces. It must have fallen out of their pocket as they fell. Once again the PCs have landed safely, despite all logic.

You close your eyes and drop your head back against the floor. You lay that way for a long time, limp and unmoving. How long will this dizziness last? You clutch your head, trying to will it away. After a while you try to stand, and are pleased to find that your feet are willing to stay underneath you. After standing up and examining themselves, they find all of the bumps, cuts and bruises that they have gathered throughout their adventure, but nothing that hadn't been there the last time they check. Their clothes are slightly damp from the trace moisture on the ground, but that is it. They haven't stayed aware long enough to notice any sort of transition. They have landed on loose, damp ground that feels like gravel beneath their feet. The flashlight reveals that it is, in fact, gravel; though it is comprised of mostly flat, brittle rocks that crack beneath their feet. The walls around them are rock and the roof is held up with wooden support struts. Bizarrely, there is no hole above them for them to fall through, none of any sort at all, all that is seen is a rocky ceiling. Either they have to find a way to transmute through solid bedrock, or there is far more to these HOLEs than human logic can account for. This time they find themselves in what looks like part of a mineshaft, sort of like what had been above, though this part looks far less rough. The walls are tiled with old granite slabs and braced with wooden beams. To their right, the tunnel dead ends into a solid stone wall; to their left, it continues for another thirty feet, eventually turning into a dimly lit room. There is also a door to the side, a very heavy wooden door so old that most of the paint has flaked and peeled off. What is left gives the door the appearance of a burn victim. The door is sealed shut and barred with a giant board. Years of water and mineral runoff combined to form some kind of cement-like deposit that has fused the bar beam to the iron bands that holds it. There is one that actually has no door, and walking towards it, peeking inside, it seems to lead into a cage, one apparently designed to keep whatever is contained from escaping through the top, for while the sides are thick steel screens with two large, metal cross beams, heavily barred and laced with chain-link fencing, one can see only chipped, dirty shale rock behind those bars. Lighting comes from dim bulbs in the corner of the ceiling, which is nothing more than a metal grate. Looking through the ceiling bars, one sees nothing but darkness. Stepping inside slowly, wondering if they can find something here that will allow them to move on. The cage itself is completely empty, and each of the other three walls shows nothing but naked rock behind steel bars. There is no escape hatch for the ceiling, and the only way up is by scaling untold heights of completely vertical rock. A dead end, in other words. There is still that door with the calcified beam. There might be some way to pry it open. It doesnt seem likely, but neither does this weird-looking cage. SLAM! The PCs jump even as they spin around to see what the noise was, landing awkwardly and nearly falling over themselves. No movement catches their eyes, but they immediately see something else that grabs their attention like a vise grip. Oh shit! The door has closed itself. And it is locked tight, which was surmised even before reaching it. A few hard pulls and twists to the handle only confirmed their fear.

A series of successive bangs and clanks issue from the darkness. Searching for the source of the racket, results in the floor giving way beneath them. Opening, so as to dispense them into yet another HOLE? But that isn't the case this time. Instead, it is just a bounce, but it was strong enough to knock them off-balance and send them to the floor. The room jerks again, and with it, the noise. And before they can devote any attention to it, they feel another completely unexpected sensation: descent. Not a free-fall down the HOLE this time, though. A controlled descent, like an elevator ride. And then, through the locked gate in front of them, they see the small shaft rise, moving up and out of sight within seconds. Looking ahead now shows them nothing but more of that naked rock, moving steadily skyward. It isn't a cell or a cage at all. It is an elevator! One without buttons or controls of any sort that can be seen, but the evidence can be seen through the gates and mesh. The PCs can look for some sort of elevator controls, but there is nothing. The floor is made of heavy steel and from the looks of it has carried its share of mineral loads. They are going down again, though this time, they are taking the easy way down the HOLE. Maybe this time they will manage to stay awake and observe the process. Maybe, maybe not. They can try, though. The elevator motor hums loudly. With an unnerving amount of creaking and rattling, the cage descends. Looking through the bars as the elevator seems to endlessly fall, they see a bare stone wall pass by, like the shaft is carved out of bedrock. Eventually they feel the elevator shudder. The machinery, operating despite every shred of logic that say that it shouldn't and couldn't, squeals and shrieks like a banshee or a straight-jacket, as it applies the brakes and comes to a stop. Soon enough, the PCs see a new room come into view from the bottom of the lift. Once lined up, the elevator hisses and comes to a quivering rest. The PCs look up at the rusted iron bars of the elevator in front open on their own with a dry shick! Stepping through them, musing that if they had indeed gone down a HOLE while on the elevator, this is the first time they managed to stay awake. Although it is difficult to gauge the distance, they can calculate that they have dropped roughly seventy or eighty feet before coming to a stop at the next level of this hell. And the PCs enter a realm of darkness. Behind them, there is a loud rattle as the elevator cables begin to tear away. The bars slam shut, the cable breaks with a loud, ringing twang and the elevator plummets with a shriek down the shaft, once again leaving them with only one way forward. There is no longer an elevator beyond them; nothing but a dark shaft that smells of oil and dust. They can take the flashlight out of their pocket and shine it around the shaft. They can see the top of the passage just above them, but they cannot quite make out the bottom. They see no sign of the elevator; indeed there is no cable running the length of the shaft as far as they can see.

THE LABYRINTH: By voluntarily jumping into the HOLES in the Historical Society and
Prison, not knowing where it will take them or what lurks once they are there, the PCs eventually enter the Labyrinth which is seemingly an alternate reality and outside the veil of time and space. It is a new place, all right, and it is ten kinds of different from Toluca Prison or the strange mineshaft area. Obviously by this point one can be certain one isnt really falling down through the HOLEs they have jumped through, at least, not in a strictly physical sense, because if one were, this would without a doubt be the deepest place, and also perhaps the strangest because of that. The new surroundings at the bottom of the earth are markedly different than the elevator's upper terminus. Whereas that room looks like a slightly more livable mineshaft, this place here looks even more civilized, in a strange sort of way. The floor is still rough rock and gravel and soft earth, but the walls and ceiling are another matter altogether. The walls and ceiling are plaster, colored a dim tan cream, though the paint is faded. The texture is rough and irregular, as though rather than scour the peeling layer of paint off, someone had just added another coat and then another after that one started to peel and another after that, leaving the walls texture pockmarked but its color seamless. Nondescript wood paneling, such as one might find in any apartment building, comes up to waist-height. Old copper and lead pipes run along the ceiling join, come out of the walls in various places and reenter in front of them, above a simple wooden door standing before them. This door is unlike any that they have seen in awhile, looking exactly like any one would find inside of a building, or perhaps in the administrative area of a prison, painted to match the walls. There is an electrical box next to the door with a large light switch. Flipping it causes nothing to happen, but it is still strange to see such a thing down here. An odd sort of ambience can be heard. It sounds hollow and metallic and completely atonal and seems to cycle, almost like a sinister heartbeat. It is punctuated periodically by a sharp hissing noise, like pressurized air being ventilated through a pipe. It could be bee some kind of air circulation system, another quick look at the walls does reveal a rusty old vent by the ceiling, but the air feels very still and very stagnant. It sounds like the air is moving, but nothing can be felt. The PCs can puzzle over whether this is part of the mine or part of the prison. It possesses an unfurnished residential look. The PCs do not recall housing units being built for the guards or for the miners. But maybe there are some constructed and then they sank below the earth with the other buildings. But that would not explain why it is connected to a mining elevator. Additionally, the structure is even further underground than the prison and yet the walls show absolutely no signs of stress. A wooden structure like this should have been crushed long ago; more questions and still no answers. The PCs might like to stay and ponder this more, but the Labyrinth calls to them and the PCs are not in a position to resist. Nothing to do but go forward. The door is the only one here, and the only way to go unless the PCs fancy another elevator ride. The brass knob on the door turns, and pulling the door open reveals...

One first might think that one might somehow found have found a way back into the Woodside Apartments. One certainly couldnt be faulted for the first impression. Even though one is able to quickly disabuse oneself of the notion, this place does have a slightly similar feel. The general appearance is similar to that of the previous room, though there is an actual floor now, made of some rather venerable wood laminate. Directly in front is another doorway. Someone had taken it upon themselves to string lines of thick steel cable across the entrance, from the floor to the ceiling. They werent even but they are plentiful, and they are far too firm for the PCs to even think they can force them off the wall, nor are they likely to possess any tools that can cut through them. Octagon Corridor: A hall branches off to the left, and then it too branches, one of them going to the right. The branch itself has a turn ahead, and one can approach it slowly, listening for a warning from the radio. None is forthcoming, which can give one a little confidence as they turn the corner, into a new part of this strange hall which turns out to be one hell of a short one. Dead end. That is it. A dead end. A whole section of hallway and a turn, built for what? No door. That would be logical. This is not. There is no door, no window, no nothing, just more naked, clay-colored wall, which is spotted with what seems to be water damage, and that ever-present waist-high wood paneling. An electrical outlet rests about a foot above the floor, its wiring running through a steel tube that spans the entire distance of the wall from the box to the ceiling. The outlet is dead, even if they have something that can be plugged into it. The PCs can turn around and retrace their steps, guessing they will have to forge ahead the other way anyhow, and theyd probably have to take out whatever is waiting down there for them. The hall branches again perhaps fifty feet down. Both directions are devoid of monsters, but neither shows anything except corners. To the left is another twenty feet and a corner is reached; still no noise, which is good, and then the hall splits again. Just what the hell is this place, anyway? It is starting to look like a maze. A maze of the mind? Or a maze to bewilder the one who would try to uncover the mysteries of Silent Hill? Since the PCs have gotten off that elevator and through that door back there, they have seen one straightjacket monster, one doorway cordoned off by steel cable, and a whole lot of nothing. The appearance of this place is odd. Of course, one wouldnt have called much of anything seen in Silent Hill normal, but everything so far seems to at least have a basis in things known. Even when in Brookhaven Hospital and it shifted from looking halfway-normal to stylized decay, there were still things that at least inferred a shadow of logic behind it all. The prison was perhaps even more hellish, but it was still a prison. It served a purpose of some kind, as did even the evil side of Midwich. Underneath the disgusting faade, it was still a school. The prison was still a prison. They were still grounded in reality, even though they had blossomed far outside of it. This place, though the outward appearance isnt amazingly abnormal. It is very bland, and in a pretty poor state of disrepair, to be sure. The paint on the walls is scabrous and peeling in many places all along the halls they walk, and that which isnt peeling is spotted and stained and discolored. The paneling and the floor laminate and the ceiling all show the same kind of longterm neglect and abuse. As stated earlier, parts of the apartment complex looked like this too.

But, the apartment complex was an apartment complex. There were doors to the apartments, even if most of them didnt open. The insides of many of the apartments featured furniture and appliances, most of them old, all of them dirty and useless. They had trinkets and adornments, too. Framed paintings, old china, books and newspapers, that sort of thing. Signs of life, of human habitation. Thats what is missing here. There are no adornments of any kind. The walls are completely bare. There are no doors, no signs, no windows, nothing but empty hallways, and at least one of them leads absolutely nowhere. There arent even any lights running across the ceiling! Sure, there is no chance in hell that theyd work anyway, but their complete absence is quite unnerving just because they should be there. It is as if someone came and built this place, finished at least some of it, and promptly abandoned it. There is no sign that any human being has ever walked down these halls before. There is just no logic to the design. It brings to mind that long, twisting basement in the hospital, the one that seems designed to confuse and slow anyone who was unlucky enough to tread its path. It seems so unnatural, like a mockery of logical thought. And, this mockery of logical thought is offering the PCs another choice: left or right. When they arrive at the junction, they can look in both directions to see if perhaps now there is anything that would help aid their decision. Not this time. At least they do not lead to dead ends. Both segments lead somewhere. They lead down. The Ladders: Rising up to the edge of the paneling are holes carved in the walls, both on the short ends. Looking over the edge, an abyss of darkness greets their eyes. Inside both holes are ladders leading earthward, both painted a dull and flaking red, both of them basically identical in appearance, and both spilling down the side into the shaft. The ladder is riveted to the floor by thick bolts. It is covered in a thin layer of orange rust, but it seems solid enough. Kneeling down in front of the ladder and cautiously poke a head through the manhole, while shining the light down there to hopefully expose any threats, reveals that the ladder is not a very tall one. The floor seems to be roughly twelve feet below, though the PCs cannot make out any details about it except that it is not wood paneling as it is above. It looks different, too, like it is made of textured iron. It is rusted, but not in scaly patches, the whole thing is wearing away slowly. One can see that it leads a few feet, and there is another divide, going in opposite directions. Listening, they hear only the sounds of their breathing. The PCs may have their doubts about the width of the manhole and fear it will be a struggle to squeeze through it. When the PCs put their feet through it though, the PCs find their fears unfounded. While it gets extremely narrow, it never requires any contortion on their part. Second Octagonal Corridor: Climbing down the ladder, the metal under the PCs hands isnt cold, and it occurs to them that it does seem warmer now, since they got off that caged elevator. It isnt hot, and it isnt even really warm. It is temperate, and perhaps that would have been a nice thing if there were some moving air, or at least if it didnt smell so stale. The rungs feel dirty from the rust and the PCs have to brush quite a bit of it off their hands when they get to the bottom. Pushing off at the last rung, and feet hitting the ground, making a sharp rasp as they do so, reveals that the floor isnt solid metal, it is sheet metal, and when it is tapped, the noise it makes is loud, and it reverberates. It is sheet metal. Thick sheet metal, for it doesnt sag under

their weight, but sheet metal it is all the same, and by the sound of it, there is something concreteunderneath. The walls around them have turned into rough, gray cement, just like the floor. The ladder has deposited them in a small alcove that is just off of a larger hall. Looking both ways down the hall shows them to be identical either way. The branches both run in opposite directions initially, but one can see that both of them jut off at 45-degree angles, perhaps a dozen feet down. Both angle in the same direction, seeming to lead behind the ladder theyve just descended. If the PCs chose the left path this time, the corridor is very narrow. The PCs can fit through easily, if they do not walk side-by-side. The hall turns a corner almost immediately and the cement on the floor disappears, leaving nothing between them and the darkness below except the grate. The holes in the grate are triangular and large enough to snag a foot if the PCs are careless. Stranger still is that while parts of the floor are the same solid iron plating they landed on, much of it is steel mesh, and it is not as sturdy, sagging under weight but not enough that it is cause for concern. There is nothing beneath the mesh except darkness, but it smells like old water, a rich, dirty mineral scent, with sour undertones, as if slightly polluted. It isnt crystal clear Toluca lake water. The hall goes another twenty feet and then turns a corner again. The corridor keeps turning at the same angle every few paces. Before long, the PCs have passed another ladder; certainly the one they saw opposite of the one they descended. They can go back up, but will most likely go ahead anyway. Perhaps it branches off further down or something. As it turns out, it does not branch, but halfway between the two ladders on this side is a door on the inside of this odd little octagon. The size and color is intimidating, but something about the door fascinates them immensely. The PCs can walk up and examine it closely. The door is made of thick steel and looks very secure. Unlike nearly every other metal door the PCs have seen thus far, this one shows absolutely no signs of ruin or neglect. The flatter surfaces on it almost shine, it has neither dents nor rust spots and the hinges are well oiled. A large handle is on the right hand side with a latch button just above it. When the handle is tugged, the bolt slides effortlessly. Gripping the handle and pressing the latch button, reveals that handle is cool to the touch and, with their body temperature elevated from their increased pace, it is actually quite pleasant. The door is extremely heavy and even with the hinges perfectly oiled the PCs must pull it open, straining a bit because of its weight It finally opens without a sound, revealing that it is on a retractor, and the door closes behind them. Main Lair: This room is dimly-lit inside, lit by tinted lights above the ceiling that turn nearly every color inside into some shade of red. It is the first place they have seen in that has its own functioning illumination, though one might wish that it doesnt. If it were dark, or even if they had just the flashlight, they could have made themselves not see what they are seeing here. Here there is light indeed, but only just sufficient to realize the horrible surroundings of the place. For an instant it seems that the PCs have somehow stumbled back into Brookhaven. There is a glitter of halogen light on steel, distorted reflections thrown back at them from curved glass surfaces; the abrasive odor of isopropyl alcohol and the fainter tinny scent of blood, like metal in the mouth. There are counters and a medical examination table, some stacked with goreencrusted linens.

That terrible mausoleum they had seen near the prison, that was some nasty shit, morbid shit. That room was horrible, but it was also passive. Sure, there were tons of corpses and rotting cadavers in that space, and a few gallons of blood staining the floor, but it was passive. They might have been the victims of any number of atrocities, but those murders didnt happen in that room. That was merely where they stored and disposed of the castoffs. The room the PCs have found themselves in now? This is where those atrocities take place; the distance and the HOLEs that separate this room from that room makes no difference. This chamber of horrors here is another world of grotesque from that above, yet they belong right next to each other. It smells fantastically cruel. The PCs lungs scream in protest. It is like that mausoleum, but far worse, because everything here is so much fresher. When meat spoils, it smells worst right away. Whatever demonic butchery is taking place here, it hadnt been finished long. It smells of blood. Not rotting flesh or other forms of decomposing proteins, but the metallic smell of blood and blood alone. The floors, the walls, even the ceilings are literally drenched with blood. Great splashes and splotches mark every last foot, like some overly-enthusiastic abstract painter grabbed buckets of rust and crimson and had a field day. Globs of clotted and dried gore pile on the floor. Ragged strips of flesh, muscle, flecks of brains, bones, shards of skulls, all in various stages of decomposition, litters the entire span. High overhead, behind a metal screen, an industrial fan rotates with a rhythmic swoosh, giving the room some ventilation and a cooler temperature. On one side of the room is a metal tub on wheels, within is a dark red liquid. And there are bodies: everywhere, bodies splayed on gurneys or suspended from gleaming metal hooks, laced with black electrical cord and pinned upright onto smooth rubber mats. The chiaroscuro of pallid bodies and black furniture, shiny with sweat and here and there redstreaked, or brown; the mere sight of so many bodies, real bodies spilling over the edge of tabletops, too much hair or none at all, eyes squeezed shut in terror or ecstasy, and mouths open to reveal stained teeth, pale gumsthe sheer fluidity of it enthralls. Hanging from the ceiling are several framework cages, rectangular in shape. Large hooks with sharpened points hang at the ends of similar chains. One of them holds a body. It is very dead, blackened and mummified. There are still bits of flesh and muscle clinging to the bones, and its eyes are red holes of crusted blood and tissue. A hook has driven through its back, and its mouth gapes open. The moment it is seen, one of the PCs has a flashback of the monsters that fell from the ceiling in the Brookhaven hospital, the ones that killed him/her, right before he/she entered the Otherworld. The memory is harsh and unwelcome, like someone drawing a straight-razor across ones forehead. This one looks to be in far worse shape than the flesh-bags they faced then, but one shouldnt assume it is harmless. But then they see one of the tables, straight ahead, on the far wall of the room where a bright light shines down, and it grips the attention fiercely and painfully. On the right side of the table, sits a pile of tools. Though their instincts tell them otherwise, the PCs approach the table to examine them. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh

The smell of blood lessens when the PCs get to the table and they can feel the cool breeze of the fan turning over their heads. The tables natural color is white, though there is very little of that visible anymore. It is stained with gore and flecks of entrails, like the others. It is also covered in fresh blood. It glistens in the light and so much has been spilt that it has started to drip off the table and pool onto the floor below. But despite the reprieve from the smell, a new wave of nausea hits them as the PCs see the tools scattered about the tabletop. Medical clamps. Needle-nose pliers. A broken scalpel, its edge worn smooth with use. A vintage autopsy saw. A corkscrew, its business end disgustingly clotted. Scissors, two filesone large and one small, pliers, spools of surgical thread and sewing needles lie jumbled together. Mundane tools, most of them, put to use as torture devices. The edges, points, and teeth of every object is soaked in blood, apart from the spools, which have been placed carefully so as not to be soiled by the contents of the table. In the halogen light, ten knives of different shapes, glitter on wall hooks over a long, dark stained table; the knives range in size from one as thin as an icepick to one with a curved saw-toothed blade, while the table is smeared with thick, encrusted scarlet clots. All are very sharp and well-carved for. Next to the table is a grinding wheel to sharpen the knives. In a corner of the room is a large, rectangular metal box with a hand-crank on it. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh Their flashlight penetrates under the table and it is there that the PCs find items more disturbing than the gory tools. The objects themselves are innocuous; a black metal bucket which contains a bloodstained rag, a floor brush with bristles caked in dried blood, an unmarked aerosol spray can, and a plastic bottle filled with a pink colored fluid that smells like bleach. It is their mere presence here that disturbs them most. The brutality shown to the bodies is terrifying enough, but that some thing could be so vicious and yet show such care for the tools of its trade and the place in which it works as to keep cleaning supplies about is almost incomprehensible. What could do this? The PCs wonder. And then, the PCs see the answer leaning against the left side of the table. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh None of them even begin to compare with the largest item on the table. It is a gigantic blade, long and heavy. It is rusted black and blood-soaked like everything else. Its handle is long enough for two hands, and one would need them; the thing has to weigh a good sixty pounds. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh Of course theyve seen this blade before. Twice. How could they have stared at it that long without instantly making the connection? Once it does, everything falls into place. The blade is the most recognizable, but backing up and scanning the room again, and as the PCs take in the horrifying sights a second time, it finally all makes a sick sort of sense: the cages hanging from the ceiling, the instruments of torture, the slaughterhouse dcorand, that Great Knife. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh Now, it all makes sense. Now they know what this place is. And then a more urgent concern hits them. The tools have not been washed and put away and the table still runs with blood. Why keep cleaning supplies around if youre not going to use them before you leave...unless, of course, youre planning to come back sooOh shit.

Now is the time to run. Their hearts begins to beat loudly in their chest as the PCs turn and run back to the door. The PCs struggle with the latch on the door, and for a single petrifying moment, one is certain that the door is locked, that they are trapped like a rat in a ghoulish cage. Sweat seems to burst out of their pores and saliva drip from the corners of their wide-open mouths as they attack the handle, finally depressing it and pushing it forward with all their might. Such is the desire, the intrinsic need to get out of that room and as far away as possible in the most expedient fashion. Octagonal Corridor: Dashing ahead and down the terribly constricted corridor, the PCs are likely to be anxious like hell to get up that ladder and out of this pit of death. Footsteps are like sharp hammer blows to the thin metal beneath, and the sound bounces angrily off the walls, giving off echoes so close that it sounds almost like stereo feedback. They know that the ladder isnt far, couldnt be more than twenty or thirty feet. It seemed as though there were hundreds of angles instead of just three. Desperate to get away, beyond desperate, and perhaps that is why, if the PCs even do see what is in front of them, they dont have even a quarter of a chance to slow down and avoid it. The collision is sudden and painful, and it sends the first PC careening backwards. The other PCs arent even likely to notice, for their eyes are fixed forward, feeding visual information at a fevered pace to brains that are too deadlocked to even hope to process it. Something stands in front of them. It is man-sized and man-shaped and dressed in white from neck to toe, not unlike an angel. But this angels holy whites are stained and filthy with dirt and mud and guts and blood. One cant quite see the head, not at first. Not until this filthy angel turns to face them, which it does slowly and deliberately. Now the PCs can see it all. One can see the front of the angel, which is same kind of white but with a much redder tint. It holds a gigantic staff in its right hand. No, not quite a staff. A spear. A spear with a needle-tipped obsidian point. And the helmet, that is the trademark. It is pure crimson, as if soaked in blood for weeks at a time. It is shiny, a sort of mucus-like slickness that reflects whatever light it doesnt devour. A helmet that comes to a point at the top, making it look taller than almost any man alive. Fear vanishes, its place taken over by sheer, unadulterated hysteria and completely mindless panic. Several times lately they thought he was nearby and he wasnt. Not this time. Apparently no longer willing to be contemplative, Pyramid Head suddenly reverses his grip on that massive spear and draws it back, his arm taut like a catapult. It is when that arm is stretched out to the limit that adrenaline tears out of the PCs stomachs and rocket through their veins. The fallen PCs can perhaps manage a quick and clumsy crab-walk. The steel mesh scrapes the palms of their hands (1D4 damage) and yes, they stung, but that would be like mothers kisses compared to what that spear will do. Pyramid Head cant speak, as far as the PCs know, but when it attacks, it does make some kind of vocal noise. A grunt, maybe. And he doesnt just thrust that spear, he seems to launch it like a trebuchet. The razor tip strikes the mesh between, and it hits with such tremendous force that sparks cascade from the tip.

Over the din of the screeching radio the PCs can hear their breath heaving in and out, making a labored huh-huh-huh noise. They see the spear-tip, and with fresh horror realize that Pyramid Head has thrust it at them with such inhuman force that he punched a hole in the steel mesh! He pulls upon the staff, twisting it in an attempt to free it from the trap. The PCs watch him do it in dumb amazement. And now they have an opportunity to resist the Horror Factor when he jerks it free. Now is the time for the PCs to scramble to their feet and take off in a full run, even though there isnt enough room. They wont care, it doesnt matter, all that matters is getting the hell away from Pyramid Head, getting away from that evil spear and the painful death and torture he is sure to inflict upon them if they get caught. This is his home, it can be certain. This is his playground, his place, and if they fall, if they trip and twist an ankle, if he catches them, they can only hope that they will have enough time to turn the gun on themselves, and to have the time to end it on their own terms, because whatever notions they have held about what this place is like has just been replaced five minutes ago by something beyond their worst nightmares. They run and run and it seems even longer this time, as Pyramid Head is close on their heels. The PCs can remember how deftly he gave chase back in Brookhaven. In their running they bounce off the walls, not taking the time to slow down, for to slow down is to die. After 2D6 melees, they round the final corner and the ladder comes into view and the PCs are momentarily overcome by the sweet wave of heavenly relief. They practically jump at the ladder and pull themselves up with sheer will and overworked muscles. Labyrinth Corridor: They reach the top yanking their extremities away from the hole, so as not to be grabbed by a bloodstained gloved hand. The PCs climb out another narrow manhole and find themselves in another wooden floored hallway. The PCs can feel relief again, the sweet satisfaction of escape and safety. If they look at the other ladder, their eyes will catch the glint of something rising from that end. Something sharp and red. Maybe a helmet. Maybe a spear-tip. Maybe nothing. Only a fool would stick around to verify. They take off running down the hallway, not knowing where they are headed, and not caring. Wherever it is, it is away from him. The only place in the world they want to be. This place, whatever it is, it is like a maze, constructed without even the slightest semblance of logic. It of course doesnt help to be locked in panic mode. Wherever the PCs go, it is away from the red pyramid thing. It is all they care about right now; the more distance, the better. The hallway ends after twenty feet at another manhole with a rusty ladder going down. They carefully approach the manhole. They have no desire to descend back down to Pyramid Heads lair, and the possibility of them standing underneath the manhole with their spear, waiting for someone foolish to stick their head over it before impaling them will likely not sit well with them. The manholes are narrow, and the PCs are almost certain that even if his helmet is removable, Pyramid Heads shoulders are too broad to fit through them. So, at the very least, the PCs have

some time to let the burn of their muscles subside without worrying about the crimson executioner coming for them while the PCs are alone in the dark. Shining the light below, however, reveals no predators lying in wait. Indeed, the ladder descends to a completely separate area; the reflection of the flashlight ripples on the floor below. They climb down the ladder and step into water. The Trench: There is a sort of gorge torn out of the floor, and one has to climb down to span it. One can see in the distance where another ladder leads back up out of the hole. And, since turning back isnt a viable option, the ladder may be mounted. It is cold and damp, and every step taken raps harshly against the old iron, sending a sharp report echoing about. As one lowers oneself, the rotten old laminate floor disappears, replaced by something a little more natural. This ladder is bolted to a wall of rock that is wet and well-worn to a fine shininess. The ladder has fifteen rungs, and on the fourteenth step ones foot plunges into water up to ankle-height. The water is tepid and warm, and it has a faint chemical smell similar to what was earlier noticed outside of Pyramid Heads lair, but not as strong or acerbic. The distance between the two ladders, at least from above, doesnt seem that great, but the path isnt as direct as it seems. They have entered an old sewer. Or at least, what looks like an old sewer. The walls around them were built with rough grey bricks, though they have darkened with time and dirt. They can see the occasional thick pipe built across the ceiling or up and down the wall. The signs that this was never an actual sewer are more in the feel and smell. There is nothing remotely resembling a current in the water which an actual sewer would possess. The smell in the air is definitely the water, but it is not the smell of sewer water which carries with it the stink of everything mortals discard, be it their excrement, urine, refuse, and the occasional inconvenient corpse. Even if the sewer has been abandoned for decades, buildup in the cracks in the walls should have fostered various molds or fungi that would produce their own unique scent. However, there is nothing as unpleasant as that; just a mere twinge of soil and mineral. One false step and theyTheir feet come down, and it does not rest against slippery rock, as expected. It is slippery, but pliable, like soft rubber. Or, like flesh. The tunnel seems damn near endless, made worse by the water. To walk through it is to feel like trying to run through drying cement. Finally, the end of the tunnel is seen. Dead end! But it isnt. A few more slushy steps brings another rusty red ladder into view, and the sight makes ones heart climb back into its designated seat. Statue Head Room: The ladder brings them into a new area, one that seems immediately bare of threats. The PCs step off of the ladder and onto a dirt floor, dry and dusty. There is no stream of foul water running over their feet. It is a mostly-empty room walled in pitted old concrete. The only thing in the room is a large pedestal. It is a strange-looking thing, to be sure. A cube about the size of a 10 gallon drum sits upon an iron hinge sculpted into the shape of hands. Each side

of the cube bears the sculpted face of a man, who sports a flowing beard and a stern, commanding gaze. It seems to be made completely out of sandstone, except for the eyes. The piercing look comes by way of colored semi-opaque crystal. Each face on each side has crystal eyes of different colors, and they all sparkle brilliantly against the light. Red, green, blue, and other colors as well. All of them are doubtlessly semi-precious stones. Even the iron hinge is trimmed with gold, though it seems dimmer and less dazzling than the stones in the eye sockets. It is perched upon a square pedestal that is ornamented with ceramic engravings on each side, all of them in a queer sort of cartoonish style that is quite reminiscent of Aztec art. It is rather nice, if a little gaudy-looking. The expression of the face doesnt show even the slightest trace of mercy or compassion. It looks like it is in a tightly-controlled state of rage and righteous fury. Behind the little tableau is a portal to another room. This one looks considerably stranger. The walls, floor, ceiling, everything are paneled in thick steel plates, as if it were some kind of cubical battleship. It is completely unremarkable but for that. It is also a dead end. But there is that unusual hinge: the one like a golden human hand with long fingers that holds the cube aloft, and that seems to allow for movement. The display rumbles as one moves the cube completely. A much more powerful rumbling sounds from behind, and the PCs turn around and see why. Nothing at all is seen, except a blank concrete wall where once was a steel-plated chamber. Turning the cube again causes the sound of a minor earthquake and the door reappears, and the chamber along with it. And this time, there is another portal on the other side. It leads into another room, this one considerably smaller, and similar in appearance to the long, twisted corridors from before (just when they thought they'd seen the last of them). The room is divided by iron prison bars. On their side is nothing but a few old seat-stools scattered about. On the other side, the room is lit dimly from a fluorescent on the ceiling, is a dingy old bed and a chair with gaudy, floral cushions. A dull, throbbing echoes nearby, a patch of circular light emitting from a slowly turning, rust-pitted fan mounted into the nearby wall. The chair is empty, but the bed is not. On it, the body of a beautiful woman lies motionless. Her hair is bleached blond, although the roots are beginning to show; the very ends of her hair are dyed a light purple. She wears a short, burgundy blouse with only two buttons done, leaving her midriff bare. Around her neck is a black choker with a small gold circle. Her miniskirt is purple and leopard spotted. Dark stockings cover her legs and she wears elegant leather boots on her feet. Her eye shadow matches her blouse and her lipstick matches her skirt. There is that ugly chair, and a ratty old bed in the corner. The room has a funny smell, a sterile smell if one can believe it. When they make it to the other side of those bars, they might find out. In the mean time, all they can do is dismiss it as a fancy and concentrate on other matters. Matters like, where they are supposed to go now? There could be other branches of this chaotic old hallway that they hadnt meandered down yet.

They pass through the steel chamber and are within sight of the stone head, when they see the room illuminated by a flash of light. It is very brief, but it is there. Before one has a decent chance to be confused, the light flashes again, this time repeatedly, before winking out for a moment. It gives the room a sort of strobe-light effect. It is the noise in the room that alerts them to what is going on, a series of sharp, harsh pops that are as perfectly clipped as the flashes. When one looks past the pedestal, the source of both can be seen. Near the alcove and ladder is an electrical box wired on the wall, similar to several already seen in this strange labyrinth already. Only, this one is wide-open, and damaged. Sparks shower forth from within, and it is bright enough that one can see why even without the light. Something is jammed into the circuit box, a tool of some sort. It looks like a pair of pliers or clamps, but one cannot tell for sure, and even though there are moldings over the handles, perhaps it is best not to grab them, but given everything encountered so far, one never knows when one might need something like this. The PCs can take the rifle (or some other object) and hold it by its handle. Carefully, the PCs can tap the handle of tools with the barrel. It takes several attempts, but finally the box give a angry shower of electricity and the tool falls to the floor. Once the PCs get a look at what it is, it makes a sick kind of sense. Wire cutters. It is so obvious, so blatant, that one cant think of it as anything else but a gift. Whatever or whoever it is, they have just recently departed, because the box had been shut and completely inconspicuous the first time the PCs passed it by. Labyrinth Corridor 1: Sure enough, the PCs soon find themselves looking through the creativelyblocked doorway. The PCs press the blades of the wire cutters against one of the steel cables and squeeze. The cutters bite into the cables, but they are fairly thick, and the PCs have to really put some power behind their efforts. On the third attempt, the blades finally win the battle, and the cables snap with a loud crack. They have been pulled so tight that the tensile wire lashes away once freed. The PCs must repeat this process several more times, not clearing the entire entrance, but at least enough for them to duck through, and that is just fine, because clipping thick steel cable with simple wire cutters makes for some very sore hands before too long. The wires obscured access to another ladder going down, and thats where the PCs go. Water Corridor 2: This one leads to an area that is, thankfully, more like the last one, and less like the metal corridor before that. It is flooded with the same kind of slimy water, but here it is only ankle-deep, which makes it far less likely that any enterprising creatures will conceal themselves. On the contrary, this little parcel of territory seems blessedly uninhabited. What it isnt is direct. The PCs feel almost certain that they have turned themselves around in complete circles while navigating the damp undergrounds, and that provides a level of discomfort to replace the intensity and fright of an encounter with a straight jacket. The PCs splash down the flooded tunnel to the other ladder and climb out. The radio is alive. There are two of them; the water allows them to count the number of footsteps in the corridor. One set seems to be off to their left somewhere, the other set is further away.

The corridor turns right after thirty feet. The footsteps of the first straight-jacket grows quieter, but the other straight-jackets get louder. The hallway angles right after fifteen feet. The PCs start to move more slowly, trying to get a fix on the second straight-jackets location. Another right turn. The straight-jacket has to be somewhere ahead now. They can hear it splashing in the water. They might have to fight it if they do not find another exit. The relief the PCs feel when they finally see a ladder is damn near palpable, a cool liquid salve, which of course lasts only until reason reminds them that each new path is a thousand possible disasters in the making. Labyrinth Corridor 7: The PCs are back in the dirty, pitted, old-building look, but this time in a small area, with a door in front of them. It is not very large and in some ways resembles the entrance room in its size and the plain wooden door across from the manhole. The paint in the room is peeling and scraps of it line the floor next to the walls. Strangely, the paint on the door is perfectly intact; in fact, it almost looks fresh. Small as it is, the moving threat assessment stage of the routine is quick, but although this little space isnt presently inhabited, there is a messy red splash staining the laminate floor, and the PCs didnt need to touch it or even look closely to know it for what it is. Closer examination does reveal that whatever painted the floor with lifeblood wasnt here too long ago. The stain is still wet and tacky. Some of the more concentrated areas are congealing, and disgusting black clots dot the scene like islands. More compelling though is the newspaper, dropped in the middle of the mess as if some slothful attempt at cleanup, and it is firmly adhered to the floor because of that. It is the Community/Local section of Silent Hill Chronicle. VICIOUS SLAYING IN SOUTH VALE, the headline screams. The gore has soaked through so severely that parts of the article are illegible, the blood spots having blotted out many of the letters, but they are able to make out most of what it says: The bod f a man later identified as Thoma Oro a lumb jack in his late thirties wa ound in the wreckage of his ho s where he lived w his family. A fire bro out in the e around st night. The remains of Mr.sco s s , d, ge were found in his bedroom clo . Firemen managed to s his daugh , Ang , age , who was brought out scr ming, Come out! Come out! The unusual thing about this se is that Mr. Or cause of dea was not rela ed to the fire. H suffered multiple stab wounds to the front of the neck and the upper torso. The coroner beli es that there were more wounds that re obscur

by burns on the corpse. The estimated ti of deat s just bef e the fire broke out. Police are considering this a homicide investi on. Preliminary evid shows the fire started next to sco though the accelerant in fire was a fau y gas pipe which sugge s the f e its lf was an accid t. A spokes n for the lice howev r, said it is too ea to rule ou arson. Mr. Oro had a history f alcohol related arrests and veral assault charges. Polic believe the motive may have been per nal. Mr scos wife was visit a rela e at the time of fire. She could n t be reached for comment. They cannot make out any other text in the newspaper. Labyrinth Corridor 8: Opening the door and stepping into a long hallway, and immediately, the PCs can tell that the scene in the room behind them is sort of an iconic prelude to what the PCs find here. The cream color of the walls begins to give way as newspapers are plastered over the walls and ceiling, but the ink has run and they are all illegible sheets of newsprint. They all have the same headline: MURDER BY FIRELIGHT The PCs walk slowly down the papered hallway, still scanning some of them to spot any different ones. The PCs race over to the door. Like the hallway, it too, is completely covered in newspapers with that same prominent headline. The PCs feel around for a knob, and the PCs find it, a pulppapered lump. They tear the paper turning the knob, and opening the door rips several pages apart. They quickly turn the knob and force the door open. Flesh Room: The PCs enter an octagonal room completely unlike any other theyve yet seen. The footing is spongy, and makes a revolting squish under the weight of footsteps. The final room is wide, and seems to be made of stone, but the walls are lined with what looks like veined and pulsating flesh. There are a number of large square holes carved into the top of the ceiling, as if something lives there. At shoulder height, a row of holes lines all four walls. At regular intervals, the bronze disc of a pendulum swings through them, making the tick tock of a grandfather clock. In the corner of the room is an old, rabbit ear television set resting on a small table. There is a door nearby, and it is as good a start as any. This door is different from the other doors they have encountered. Whereas the walls surrounding it are solid concrete, this door seems to be a bit more...organic looking. The outline of a horrific beast is plunged through the fleshy door, so much so that they begin to realize that the door and the gory outline is a monster.

For a moment, the PCs think it is a straight-jacket. It is definitely similar in some ways, but what the PCs see in front of them right now is easily double the size of the straight-jackets the PCsd seen, far larger, far more muscular. It wheels around, turning on a dime and doing so far faster than its bulk suggests it can. Seeing it from the front immediately cancels any notion that this is a straight-jacket. For one, it has two stubby arms (or front-legs? It doesnt really seem like it is naturally bipedal) and a head, of sorts, though its head is nothing but an enormous, circular mouth. Fleshy lips oscillate like a readout of radio waves. It looks hungry. Pleased, perhaps, for now it has a multiple course meal. The PCs pull out their weapons and aim at the mouth just as the monster charges. The bullets leave small holes in the membrane that ooze dark red blood. The things mouth widens in a snarl. The creature is low on the ground and does not seem to move all that fast; they should have little trouble fighting it with blunt weapons. TickTock But the thing surprises them. It begins to raise itself off of the ground with two humanoid legs extending out from underneath it. The skin on them has been burned away and, except for a few charred patches, They can see its muscles and tendons flex and pull as it moves. It rises almost to their height and growls that watery growl. The legs are located almost at the very back of the creature, which should give it poor weight distribution and a slightly comical appearance. Indeed, it seems to wobble back and forth as it takes a tentative step towards the PCs. But it only fools them for a second. They notice the creatures movements follow a regular pattern, left-back-right-forward, and they realize the reason for the wobbling is not to correct its balance, but rather to camouflage sudden movements. TickTock Blood fountains from the first two shots, some of it splashing them in the face and chest. the PCs stagger back away from the monster, hurriedly wiping the mess from their faces with their good sleeves. The door-monster moans and growls, though now the sound is a definite octave or two higher in pitch, and even wetter than before, no doubt because it is choking on its own blood and viscera. It falls to the floor in a lump, coming to a rest in a turtle-like position. The mass on its back thrashes about in agony, as if trying to escape from within, but soon it slows, moving as if drunk or drugged. It doesnt cease completely, but it definitely seems to have the fight knocked completely out of it. The PCs fall back against the spongy wall, collecting themselves and trying to catch their breath. TickTock The creature burbles weakly and then lies still, blood flowing out in a ring around the remains of its head. TickTock The PCs lie still, staring up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and listening to the ticking of the pendulums in the wall. The room really stinks. The PCs hadnt noticed before so much because the PCs were busy fighting for our lives against the Doorman, but with the excitement over for the moment, their senses takes in the more subtle details, and primary among those is the reeking stench of this room. The PCs look over at the Doorman, but he isnt saying anything anymore, and while he

doesnt bring to mind the scent of fresh-cut roses, the stink is more than just him. And, the PCs think it is the walls, because they are very soft and pliant to the touch, to a very unnatural degree. The PCs find this out to a small extent by just walking around, because the floors are the same. The footing is fairly solid, but it feels like there is an inch of cushioning between the soles of their shoes and the base of the floor, whatever it is. Whatever it is, indeed. As of late, their minds have been opened, by force, to concepts and ideas that until today would have been completely alien and beyond absurd to them. The PCs have seen a lot, learned a lot, and for that, the PCs were more accepting of certain things. Yes, their minds are open. They have to allow these alien concepts in, frightening as many of them are, because if their minds were to simply block out and deny all that it was being exposed to, it would collapse like a house of cards. When the PCs see the bullet hole in the wall, though, that presents a particularly horrid challenge in this regard. One of the bullets that the PCs had fired at the Doorman had gone wide, and struck the wall. There is a bloodstain marking the wall where the bullet entered, and at first, the PCs think that means that the PCs had in fact not missed when the PCs fired that errant shot, that perhaps the PCs had grazed him and he lost a little skin. Had that been the case, the PCs would be okay with things for the moment. What ruins that illusion is the bloodstain. For you see, even with their relative inexperience, the PCs knew that if the Doorman had been stitched by their bullet, the bloodstain would have been a spatter. It should look like a star-burst. Shooting other monsters has shown them as much. This bloodstain looks nothing like that. There is no spatter at all. It is a leak. Blood drips from the hole, running in thick red rivulets. As the PCs stare, they can see that it is still dripping. Impossible. Impossible unlessUnless the wall is bleeding. The enormity of what the PCs have just deduced does not hammer itself home immediately. Just another silly, fanciful notion from the mind of people trapped in this hell, thats all. Nothing to worry about and nothing to see, because, you see, walls cant bleed. The PCs have never seen walls bleed, because they dont. Walls dont bleed. They cant. They wont. A bubble forms over the hole. The red is deep and rich, coppery as well. The smell is there, as if to spite their very notions of what is and what can not be, the bubble expands, to about the size of a silver dollar. It hangs there, weighty, for several seconds, then it pops. The PCs then can simply turn and walk out of the room, leaving the tick-tock of the holes behind them, soon back in the relative sanity of the newspaper-covered hallway, and for that brief moment, all feels better. Labyrinth Corridor 8: The newspaper decorations taper off as the PCs approach the end of the hall. There, the PCs find another ladder, and can climb down. The icy rungs feel scarred with rust, which flakes away beneath their fingers.

Labyrinth Corridor 9: The Labyrinth of peeling walls and scuffled wooden floors. There is another plain door at the end of the hall to their right. They pass through it and enter another hallway. There are two metal doors, one on the left, one on the right, and at the end of the hall, a set of large, shiny, stainless-steel bars. They can go to the bars first, but by now, they should know better than to expect to be able to pass them without going through the other two doors, but they need to see what they should be looking for. The bars are part of a gate that is designed to rise through the ceiling. Turning a steel wheel located on the wall just next to the gate raises the gate. However, thick chains have been wrapped between the spokes of the wheel and then around through the bars, preventing the wheel from being turned enough to raise the gate. The chains are held tightly together by a large antiquated lock which, in contrast to the shiny metal of the bars, wheel, and chains, is old and rusted. Water Corridor 6: They get to the bottom. The water has gotten deeper again; it rises to the middle of their shin. The corridor again runs left and right. Each cumbersome step the PCs take through the soup seems crashing and loud in the silence, and the strange acoustics provides echoes that reverberate all along the underground passage, away and back to them The effect is decidedly unsettling, because it gives the illusion that perhaps there are other things getting their feet wet down here, as well. Of course, that is hardly mere illusion, there are other things down here and up there and seemingly everywhere, but life in the present would be that much easier if the PCs didnt have to jump at shadows in addition to the real threats that lurk around. Like the others, this under-passage is unnaturally and illogically-twisted, and the PCs have to make five consecutive right turns, without reaching any sort of intersection. There is no apparent reason behind any of it, up or down, but this one seems particularly unwilling to conform to logical design. The PCs feel like they are walking through an Escher sketch, with every pathway intersecting another at an impossible angle, and each surface a direct contradiction of known physics. It is a long way, much longer than any of the others before. By their guess the PCs have covered close to five hundred yards. Their thighs and ankles are dull fire from so much carefullycontrolled movement, and any injuries are even worse. It hits them then. Something is wrong, and it is something beyond the impossible layout of the tunnel behind them. This is something stronger and more primal. It is also something that the PCs finally recognize, because it hadnt been that long since it last took over their senses. The PCs have come to rely very heavily on the small pocket radio they found, way back when the PCs first got here, way back when small matters like unseasonable chill and the distinct lack of human life on the streets of Silent Hill were of a primary importance. The radio has, without a

doubt, saved their hides several times. The PCs dont know how or why it works, but it does, and it is almost a sixth sense, a danger sense, that the PCs have by this point come to depend upon as much as they depend upon their eyes for sight and their ears for hearing. There is another sort of sixth-sense that the PCs have come to experience, though, and this one doesnt require the use of a transistor radio or man-made technology of any sort. This sense is also attuned to danger, but only a specific kind. It is a dark, palpable feeling of hopelessness and despair, like some outside force is bombarding their brain with thoughts and notions someone might feel if they were in the throes of severe clinical depression. It is a seizing fear and it seems to override their other senses. And the first time the PCs experienced this, the PCs were walking down a filthy apartment hallway, following the source of a persons scream. the PCs felt it when the PCs came to a set of bars separating one side of the hall from that which the PCs were in. They felt it when they saw what was on the other side of the bars, when the PCs first laid eyes upon the most horrifying of the monsters the PCs have seen in this town, before or since. This sense of theirs, whatever it really is, is attuned to the presence of the red pyramid thing. And right now the PCs are feeling it in waves. There is no question. He has tracked them down, but he doesnt need to follow them as the PCs thought he would. Why, he does it the easy way; he just takes advantage of this Labyrinths unusual properties. He found a way. And, why not? This is his domain. This is where he set up shop. It makes perfect sense that he would know how to manipulate a silly thing like reality to get a leg-up. Just what is Pyramid Head? Why does he seem to be levels above these other monsters? Why does he illicit a level of terror in the that none of these other monsters are able to bring about? It would probably help the PCs sleep better at night if they didnt know, and the PCs havw no desire to keep going down this path and ask him. They walk down the hall. The walls are not as dark as they had once been and the air somehow seems relatively fresher. It is another hundred yards, but this time it is straight and seeminglyendless. Their legs grow ever more tired and their feet drag thanks to the extra weight of their soaked shoes, making the whole experience that much more fun. The monotony of tepid green water and rocky walls is finally broken by another intersection, similar to the other but with the junction this time on their right. This time, there will be no decision though, for this junction is sealed off. Iron prison bars, as if the PCs hadnt seen enough of them already, crosses the narrow pathway. There is a gate, and the gate itself isnt locked, but a thick, serpentine chain loops down the entire vertical span of the gate, finally coming to an end near the bottom, just above the water line. The chain is secured with a padlock, one of those gigantic steel monsters, and it was very old and rusted. If the PCs had to, the PCs could use the rifle to shoot the lock, but with its ammunition so precious, the PCs will probably decide they will consider that only as a last resort. There is still some ways to go ahead, and it is prudent to explore them first.

It turns out that the corridor is not endless, after all. It is only another fifty yards or so, when the watery underpass comes to its conclusion, though this conclusion is decidedly different from any other. Instead of a ladder, there are steps leading out of the water, up to their waists, and then there is a door. The door itself looks completely out of place down here. One would expect to see a door made of metal or at least in some way industrial in appearance. Not so. This door looks more likely to fit in with the upstairs interior of the Labyrinth, though even then, not entirely. The doors the PCs have seen up there were similar in appearance in that they were made of molded panel wood, much like one would see inside of any building. This one is noticeably lighter in color, though. What differentiates it from any other in this place is that the door had a number, etched in black. 208. Cell: From their angle the PCs can see her knee-high boots and some of her pale legs poking past the high headboard, the tip of the left one almost touching the strange steel stand next to the bed. She is lying down. She comes into full view. And once she does, their revulsion, their fear, and everything inbetween crashed together. When all the PCs see her feet, the PCs thought she is asleep. Not an outlandish assumption to make, what with her lying on a bed and all. But now the PCs see all of her, from the carmine tips of her hair to the points of her toes. And now, the PCs know for sure that she is asleep. The kind of sleep from which you dont awaken. There is an enormous, hideous splash soaking the sheets of her bed, as red as the sweater she wears. Her throat has been cut; a torrent of blood flows from the wound. Without warning, the body on the table bolts upright. The frail woman clutches at the wound in here throat. Her efforts to stop the torrent of blood prove futile, however. As her eyes catch sight of visitors, she staggers off the bed and stretches an arm toward them. Her mouth opens as if to speak, but utters no sound. Instead, another stream of blood runs through her lips and down her chin. She takes a step forward, staggers, and falls. As her body hits the floor blood is runs from her nose and ears as well. Almost certainly, one or more of the heroes try to aid her. Nothing that they can do, however, stops the bleeding. No medical care or magical spell provides the least bit of respite from her terrible suffering. Before long, the full importance of this fact becomes apparent. As blood continues to pour from the tormented woman, she ought to lose consciousness and die-but this does not happen. She continues to bleed and bleed, never passing out and never dying. The whole while, she is also in a state of absolute panic. She claws at her wounds (or bandages) and thrashes about wildly. She is in extreme pain and terrified beyond belief. Again, however, the heroes can do nothing to stop this. After a short while, the adventurers should realize that she has lost more blood than any human being possibly could have. Amid all the confusion and chaos in the place, a second passes before you notice that something has splashed on your cheek. A moment later, the sensation returns. It's almost as if the first drops of rain were falling to announce a looming storm. Above you, blood drips between the

bricks in the ceiling. Within seconds, the scattered droplets become a steady drizzle that coats everything in a slick layer of crimson. Strangely, none of the blood ever seems to dry or congeal. It remains fluid and slippery for the duration of the party's time in the room. They count to ten before looking at her, not wanting to see some last bubble of gas find its way to the surface of her throat. Her face, pale before, now has a slight bluish tint. The front of her blouse is completely soaked in blood. Her eyes have rolled back into her head and her mouth is agape. They do not want to leave her like this, her body dirty and disjointed. But there is little they can do. There is nothing they can use to wash the blood away; they will have to let it dry. Water Corridor 6: They descend the stairs and they are faced with another water-filled corridor stretching off in either direction. They step down into the dark water and slosh forward to the other corridor where the floor turns to cement. There is a rusty security gate like the ones they saw in the prison. Fortunately, this one is open and just beyond is a metal door, the last one they will see in the Labyrinth.

Graveyard Scene: Back in the wood and old-building interior, but there is a difference this
time and it isnt even subtle. The odors of musty wood and dusty neglect probably arent completely gone, but they are certainly overpowered by something else; the rich aroma of earth and fresh mineral. Soft soil. It is very reminiscent of the prison courtyard. The PCs can hope that analogy didnt go much beyond sensory similarities. The PCs turn the corner and soon encounter the source of the scent. The hall opens into the outside. Or at least, it seems like it is outside. Grasswell-tended, green grasspatches the landscape as well, and even the odd patch of crabgrass here and there, though only how it is able to grow down here is a mystery. The air is the freshest they have breathed in a long time. But it still does not quite feel like the outside. Pointing the flashlight up, one can see the ceiling some twenty feet above their heads. They notice light fixtures on the ceilingsome sort of special ultraviolet lights to nourish the grass. So it is a very large room, one very different from any other in this labyrinth but similar to that odd underground courtyard, in that there is indeed damp soil beneath their feet instead of rotten old laminate. The PCs can reach the walls of the room on both sides. They look like gray cement, but a touch tells them they have simply been painted to appear like cement. A very old garden hoe is leaning against the far wall. Its handle is dry and brittle, and the iron head is so old it would probably crack like glass if it were actually used for what it was made for.

Gradually, as your eyes adjust, you see a gray slab of stone about two-feet tall, just in front of you. It reads Jedediah Briggs. Called to Glory April 30th 1770. Underneath it is a rather puzzling inscription much smaller letters: Great though it is to lie in darkness, even more glorious is it to walk abroad at the noontime hour. They shine the flashlight right and left, seeing more gravestonesif that is indeed what they are. and a pile of wood poles, the kind that are used to mark grave plots. Fog floats in patches near them. It is a cemetery, an underground cemetery. Mystified, the PCs walk along the rows, gazing at the epitaphs inscribed upon the stones. Off to their right, though, is a worn black gravestone. Despite appearing older than the others, they can make out part of a name: Miriam K., Traitor They move on, past two more blank stones. The next headstone is covered in lichen, but someone has very recently carved Walter Sullivan, February 18, 1970 March 9, 1994 Here Lies The Thief of the Ten Hearts onto the stone. Is this part of the prison? And finally they come to their exit at the center of an open area, although the exits are seldom obvious to them at first. The last row has the freshest graves and the cleanest headstones. A dark three-by-six foot hole gapes before it. The mist is following a distinct pattern. It seems to be slowly spiraling toward the gravestone, disappearing down into the hole before it as if it were being drawn by some unseen force. The open grave is filled with thick mist that has a slight, sweet smell. On the gravestone itself are the following words: Here lies [name of PC], forever lost to this world. May [he or she] rest in peace. Looking around them, the PCs can see a grave site for each of one of the PCs; each marked with their own name. The PCs can see flecks of blue-gray dust around the letters and numbers, the small streaks of white inside the bevels that, on the other headstones, had been taken away by age. Despite all they have been through, seeing ones own name chiseled on that stone sends a shiver down their spine. Just how deep are they, and why? Furthermore, the room is a dead end, just as the PCs have suspected earlier. Now all that is left is toNo. This is where the PCs are supposed to be. Clarity lets a ray of light through the dirty window of their minds. This is where the PCs are supposed to be, as repugnantly morbid as the truth is. The graves may be graves, but they arent just graves. They are more. It makes perfect sense, now, and the PCs should realize it. The grave is a HOLE.

And there is really no question to ask or decision to mull over. This is the way. The PCs have to go down. This will be the fifth HOLE the PCs have encountered, so obviously they are no strangers to the concept and by now the PCs are relatively secure in the knowledge that their odds for surviving the drop are better than even. The other HOLES didnt have gravestones on them, though. Gravestones with their names. After they disappear into the hole, the earth around it slowly moves together and covers the grave with a fresh mound of soil. Misty Corridor: The world around them is supposed to be the bottom of their graves. Well, apparently, the bottom of their graves is a long, naked concrete tunnel of some kind, and the PCs are at one end of it. Behind them is a fuse box, though if the PCs open it they find the switches are all missing. There is also a power outlet in the corner and on the ceiling the PCs can see shielded wiring being run down the length of the hall, and that is something they have seen throughout the Labyrinth. But wherever they are, it is certainly quite different. There are no doors on the walls around them, just stairs leading into the inky void. As the PCs walk down the hall they begin to feel a sharp chill in the air. Whereas the Labyrinth was actually quite temperate and still, this cold isnt like the cold of the town, though. That was a sort of pre-wintery chill. This is very different. The PCs are who knows how far underground by this point, making exceptions for all the insane, non-Euclidean geometry, and taking that into account, it is not all that unnatural. Yet, the PCs dont think it is just the chill of seclusion. It does not feel natural, or even supernatural for that matter, but man-made. The PCs presume the chill is caused by some sort of industrial refrigeration unit, though to produce that amount of mist it must be damaged in some way. It makes one shiver rather violently, and the PCs have to stand up because it is making their skin numb. There is no railing along the walls, so the PCs will have to step carefully as they descend the concrete stairs. It isnt long, but it seems like it, since their bodies are still in the process of recovering. Finally, they reach the bottom, still concrete all around, and now they face a tunnel that seems to be a straight shot, at least, as far as the flashlight allows them to see. This corridor is long, if the flight of stairs were not. It is like being in that flooded tunnel again, though they have admit, being dry makes it far less unpleasant to navigate. It is cold, though, and getting colder. Near freezing. Their breath comes out in wispy clouds, crystallizing in the chill. And soon, the PCs see why. There are holes in the walls, on both sides of the PCs, knee-high. Clouds of very cold air pour out of them, as visible as their breath is. Freezing air. It is freezing, now. They can see water vapor condensing around the holes, which has turned to frost. They can also see some of that

condensation turning into drops of water that freeze solid as they go down the wall. There are more of these as the PCs continue down the tunnel. Every six feet or so, there is another set of them, pumping arctic air into this concrete grave of theirs, making eyes water rather violently, and the PCs might want to pick up the pace, hoping to find a way out of here and into more agreeable climate. At first, the PCs think that their flashlights are dying, because everything seems to darken. Not suddenly, but dimming, a gradual loss of what little vibrance they had. Of course, that is a frightening enough prospect on its own. Realizing what it really is, now that is far more frightening. Because you see, it isnt their flashlight at all. It is still working perfectly fine, far as can be told. No, it only seems darker because the walls are no longer pale white concrete. They are still concrete, of that the PCs can be certain of. White, however, they are not. Not anymore. One moment, they are. The next moment, they arent. The next moment, they are red. Horrible, menacing red. The transition isnt neat and clean, either. The PCs probably would be so terrified if it were. The transition from white to red is splotchy, splashed cascades of mess. It isnt paint, either. The PCs know that without looking or even wondering. Looking close only confirms their suspicions. The red isnt uniform, but patchy, darker in some places than in others. Some of those darker places are lumpy. The whole wall is lumpy. It is blood. The dark parts are clots. All of it is frozen solid, and there is a thin layer of frost over the grotesque decor. Thankfully, that keeps it from smelling. Very thankfully. Because, if the PCs had to smell it, if their noses were invaded by that stinking, cloying irony-coppery blood smell, they would start gagging and heaving and they might even pass out, as much as there is here. If it were to thaw, the PCs would go out of their fucking minds, because to see these walls drip and puddle and pool, that would without a doubt be far too much for their brittle little minds to handle. It is barely enough even as it is. No matter how many utterly reprehensible things the PCs encounter, it doesnt seem like they finally reached the point of no return, the point where they cant be bothered or disturbed by what they are seeing. If the corridor seemed long before, it seems near interminable now. The macabre, artificial shadow makes things even worse. Generator Room: A metal door is normally cool to the touch, but this one is beyond cool, it is cold, practically freezing. A blast of even colder air greets them as their destiny reveals itself, frigid streams of ghostly vapor snaking into the corridor and dissipate in the warmer air..

They might have expected this room to be part of a walk-in freezer, but it appears to be the generator room instead. The room is rather large and spacious. There is light inside, which is an unusual sight lately. Dim fluorescents cast a sickly green pall over the scene. Switches and fuse boxes adorn the left wall and there are various huge flexible pipes hang from the wall, drooping towards the floor like defeated serpents. In one corner is what looks like an overturned food cart and a pile of metal bars. On the far wall is an airtight metal door, probably the entrance to the actual freezer room. The chill in this room comes from six ventilation tubes that have broken off of the wall, the super-cooled air wafts from their open ends and pumps cold air into the room The chill is really unnecessary, though. What they see behind that door could have made them shiver if the temperature had been up to a hundred. The mist swirls around, hovering just above the cold, concrete floor. A cold, concrete floor which is littered with corpses. There are five bodies, lying sprawled about, lifeless and boneless, some even draped over others. Their deaths were all uniformly violent. Great, sticky starbursts of blood paint whatever surfaces are nearby, and are quickly congealing and solidifying from the low temperatures. They havent been simply killed, they have been savaged, they have been brutalized. They have all been killed recently as steam is still rising off of their inert forms. Freezer: The new room beyond is far larger and even colder, as it was originally a freezer, but the damage to the ventilation tubes has made it more of a refrigerator. The air is absolutely frigid, as if one is walking through death itself. It chills them to the bone, making goose bumps rise on every portion of exposed skin. A patch of fog lingers in the air with every breath they take. The first thing they see as they move forwards, as currents of frost undulate before them, they can make out several enormous bulb-shaped objects hanging from the ceiling, arranged in rows. There are a lot of them, all over the room, and they provide ample room for obstruction. Going up and examining one of the objects shows that it is heavy and smells musky, and seeing it up close, the PCs almost choke on their breath. They are gigantic slabs of meat. What kind of food animal is this LARGE? It looks like a raw and bloody side of beef that had been strung up to dry, and in fact is hanging from cords that are supported further up in the rafters. There is a clear path from the entrance door to a set of double doors some forty feet across the room; most likely intended to allow food carts to pass through. The light comes from six fluorescent tubes spread evenly over the ceiling. The glass on the lights is tinted slightly, giving the room a greenish cast. Even so, the temperature amplifies the chill in the damp shoes and lower pants of the PCs and creates a thin layer of frost on the surface. Steam issues from their mouths with every breath they take as they look around. Nothing is heard but the rumbling, muted roar of the refrigeration system. SLAM! Their hearts jolt right up their throats and bounces around their skulls. The PCs spin around, their guns thrust flush in front of them, ready to blaze away. Nothing. It was just the door closing behind them.

Something movesa slow, slow shiftingthere on the left. Whatever hangs there, it is just another slab of flayed meat with neither arms nor legs. Steam rises off of it and merges with the coolant mist that permeates the air. Perhaps they made a sound. A moan, a gaspsomething. But slowly the scalped and bloodcaked object on that slab of meat moves. It lolls to one side and then the chin lifts. The eyes are there, bulging from their sockets in that hideously swollen, black-bruised and blackbodied face. He has no eyelids. His nose has been cleaved off, as has his lips and ears. A thousand tiny cuts have been administered to the battered torso, the genitals had been burned away and the wound cauterized to leave a glistening ebony crust. Likewise sealed with a terrible fire are the hacked-off stumps of arms and legs. The cords had been tied and knotted around those gruesomely axed ruins. The motion of that lifted chin is enough to cause the torso to swing slightly on its cords. They can hear the ropes squeak up in the rafters. Back and forth, and back and forth. The lipless mouth stretches open. His tongue had been spared, so that he might cry for mercy with every knife slash, hatch blow, and kiss of flame. He speaks, in a dry rattling whisper that is almost beyond endurance to hear. Dad? The words are as mangled as the mouth. Wasnt me who killed the dog, was Jamey done it. His chest shudders and a wrenching sob comes out. The bulging eyes stare at nothing. His is the small, crushed whine of a terrified child: Dad please...dont hurt me no more... He was placed in this position. He was arranged. He was framed in this place like a grotesque museum piece, intentionally arrayed for their viewing pleasure. And there is no question who planned and executed that idea. None at all. It is sickening, and right up his alley. There is a set of doors, far larger than the one on the other side. They look like massive cargo doors. The PCs start towards them, eager to get out of this room with these freakishly large, alien-looking sides of meat. Exit: The door is old, heavy, and the PCs have the damnedest time pulling it open. A lot of that effort is just from being spent. The PCs are pretty worn out. They have been through things that were considerably more strenuous than they are used to. The PCs are sore in a dozen places, as well as being also exhausted. The PCs have no sense of time at all anymore. The weirdness that they experienced in Brookhaven, Midwich, and all of those blackouts from falling down the HOLEs has really disoriented them. The PCs could have been out all night, easily. Yet, what the visitors see when they finally wrench that door open is nothing short of a complete and massive surprise. Sunlight! Well, not great, warm, beaming rays, no. But sunlight! They are outside again! Escaping the Labyrinth has banished the night and they find themselves once again surrounded by the thick, grey mist of Silent Hill on what would have otherwise been a beautiful morning. That omnipresent fog is still very much in attendance, and it is still unseasonably cold, but it is outdoors. It is out of the claustrophobic confines of the labyrinth. It is fresh air. And, it is warmer than the meat freezer.

They have been traveling in the dark for so long however that, even with the mist clouding the sun, it takes their eyes several minutes to adjust to the light. When they finally do, they look around to find themselves on ancient loading docks, evidenced by the cement in front of them with red and yellow traffic arrows and cargo circles permanently graffixed into the stone floor, which quickly gives way to a wooden overhang and the waters of Toluca Lake reflecting the gray around it. How in the hell? The PCs might want to know, how in the hell are they outside? Did they not fall down hundreds of feet through those HOLEs? That sounds logical, but even before the PCs saw daylight, they must have had some serious questions about the nature of those HOLEs, and what the PCs see now, well, it doesnt quite confirm anything, but it certainly might give them some ideas, ideas that have been slowly taking root over the last few hours. They go to their right, this being the industrial section of the docks they are unlikely to find a boat to the hotel here. There are several unmarked crates and barrels stacked to their left. They have a layer of dust that has been moistened into dirt by the fog covering them, but there is no other indication of neglect. On the wall to the right is a large sign that reads. WARNING! AIDING IN THE ESCAPE OF A PRISONER IS A FELONY OFFENSE. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED! in bold, menacing letters. And then another reads PASSENGER DOCK in black letters and points to a set of metal stairs. Next to them is a small building that was probably some sort of ticket stand. A security gate has been pulled over the front and a CLOSED sign has been put out. They note that this building too, is not in a state of decay. They can try opening the side door, but it is locked. There is no longer a look or even a feel of ruin around them. The wood is in good condition and the railing along the edge has no sign of rust. The doors behind them are strong and there is no sign of corrosion or abuse. Ever since they awoke in Brookhaven it seems they have been in a world that is rotting away and they have become so accustomed to it that the buildings normality seems almost alien to them now. With nothing else of interest there, they descend the stairs and find themselves on a small wooden pier.

TOLUCA LAKE: The PCs step out onto a wooden platform, and it is completely
surrounded by water, which spans in every forward direction as far as the fog allows them to see. The PCs walk along the dock, and carefully, because the beams and planks are quite old, and there might very well be a rotten board or two. Who knows? How long has it been since human feet last trod upon them? For that matter, have human feet ever trod upon them? It rocks slightly as they initially puts their weight on it, but it soon stabilizes. The PCs have no sense of time, other than it seems that they spent the entire night underground in the prison and labyrinth. Or did they? It just doesnt make any sense. The PCs went down that first HOLE in the Historical Society and four more before all was said and done. Hundreds of feet into the earth, easily, and they couldnt accurately measure their walking distance with any sort of accuracy but it could not have been less than two miles. But no, instead, the PCs emerge out of the rear of the prison, right at the boat launch. The PCs came to the Historical Society because their mysterious, unseen friend left them a note that pointed them there. The PCs also came because they saw the Boat Launch marked right behind the Society on the map, and since the Nathan Avenue bridge spanning one of Tolucas tributary streams is completely demolished, crossing the lake on a boat seemed like a very logical solution to their problem. And, after their excessive detour, the PCs find themselves maybe fifty feet from where they started. Maybe. What is going on here? Just where in the hell are they really? The PCs turn away and walk the length of the pier. The PCs do not know for certain what they are going to find at the end, but a part of them knows. The prison is behind them, so the sign appears to indicate. Yet, if the PCs are to take everything pragmatically, it should also be several hundred feet tall, built into some enormous sheer rock face. There is no way the PCs can see that far in any direction, skyward included, but they dont need to. The PCs know it wasnt that tall at all. The PCs are beginning to think they know where they are. The lake. The PCs are somewhere on the lake, Even though they hiked twenty miles through the labyrinth, they cant believe they have emerged upon the shores of any lake besides Toluca. Though there are places to dock the boats on the pier, none seem to be there. However, they need not despair yet; the pier is long and mist obscures most of it. It isnt settled in their minds though until they reach the rickety end of the short pier, and find several small rowboats, lined up as if waiting in queue. They are tied to the struts along the length. The lake is lined with gigantic stone blocks, green with ancient slime, they rise higher into the mist than can be seen. The fog is extraordinarily thick and clammy. When a vessel sails into the mist-haunted body of water, time seems to stop. An unnerving silence sets it as the fog deadens all sounds chills visitors to the bone. Visibility is reduced to a few yards, forcing all vessels to drift helplessly at the mercy of the currents. Except for their little group, there are no signs of life, Earthborn or otherwise. Toluca lake lies bound in stillness, wrapped in muffling mist, as ready for eternity as a pharaoh embalmed for the tomb.

Above the water is the mist, rising like a cliff to merge with the gloomy sky. Beneath the water, hidden in the sinuous rills of seaweed, sightless eyes, blind for centuries, stare out from the abyss. Something splashes out on the lakes surface. They catch the motion in the corner of their eye. A hand! It is a hand that thrashes the water! And a head! A face breaks the surface. A mouth opens in an almost soundless scream before the apparition goes under again.

Boat Ride: A boat. That is exactly what the PCs need. There is no getting to the hotel via
Nathan Avenue, but the hotel is right at the lakeside, and it too has a boat dock. The dock spans about thirty feet and then angles left, towards the water. Then the PCs see it, in the distance, something breaking through the gloom. At first it seems just some trick of the eyes. A single orb of white light hovers high in the air some distance away from the pier. The light they see in the sky isnt like that. It isnt fluid at all. When they close their eyes and reopen them, the light is still there. Likewise if they turn their heads away and back. The light is still in the exact same position, twinkling brightly and clearly in spite of the viscous fog. Given its direction, there is only one place it can be coming from. Lakeview Hotel is built on the shore almost directly opposite the pier The light itself is not particularly brilliant, but amongst the grey of the town, it stands out like a beacon in the night. A beacon. They are being called over, being guided. Rowing across the lake in such poor visibility would be dangerous, if possible at all. But someone wants them to make it safely. True excitement is difficult for them at this point, but the dampness in their shoes and the aches in their joints grow faint as they stare at the light. They have come so far and their goal seems almost at hand. Now, of course, the PCs arent completely nave, nor are the PCs stupid. The PCs might be all too aware of how possible it is that something else is calling them across the lake, something with perhaps with blood-stained butchers whites, a six-foot spear, and a horrible love for irony. But even now, even after seeing so little to sustain their hope, it is still there. Hope has been bent rather violently over the last few misadventures, but it has yet to break. The pier seems devoid of boats in the beginning and as they near the end they begins to worry that swimming may be their only option. But after escaping the Labyrinth, they deserve better than that. So, as the mist parts for them at the end of the pier, they find a lone boat moored to the dock. It is small and wooden with two thick oars. They might have hoped for something motorized, but they can manage the oars. They carefully step into the boat and try to keep their balance as it rocks back and forth. For a split second, they fear falling down and turning the boat over, as their muscles do not seem to possess the strength to keep them upright. But the waters of the lake are placid and their weight does not make the boat draw enough water to make capsizing a real risk. They are able to steady it after some careful shifting.

The rope is tied tightly around the strut, in a large knot, but it is frayed along its length. The wire-cutters will make short work of it. There is also the pocket-knife from the slain man at the end of Nathan Avenue. Its edge is dulled a bit, but it can still chew through the wet cord of the rope without a great amount of difficulty. Kicking away from the dock and paddling out into the open waters of Lake Toluca, which is as dark and ominous as a thunderhead. The PCs row the boat slowly, trying to keep as even a trajectory as possible. Thankfully, the shining light in the sky remains a constant, and is still perfectly visible. The mist is thick and chilly and damp. The water is black and nearly opaque, and as to what creatures lurk in its blackness the PCs are reluctant to speculate. Within two melees even the pier behind them has completely faded from view, leaving nothing for their eyes except their boat, the lake, and the beacon of light. The PCs pump their arms, keeping them in a steady rhythm. It is pretty strenuous at first, but once they have settled into a pattern, it is okay. Lift, push, drop, pull, lift, push, drop, pull, lift, push, drop, pull. The only sounds around them are the splashing of the oars in the water and their thoughts begin to drift away once again, but there is no place they really settle. And then the flashlight hits a faint, ill-defined object off the starboard side. It looks like the rotten piling of a dock, with gray fungus all over it. A single piling has been sunk into the muck. Bound to that piling by rotting ropes is a skeleton, immersed up to its sunken chest. A bit of scalp and gray hair remains on the skull. Twined around the skeletons neck is a noose of heavy wire, and attached to the wire is a metal sign. In the light, small red crabs scuttle in the skeletons eye sockets and peer out between the broken teeth.

Hermit Island: There is an island in the west of Toluca Lake. It is south of the Lake View
Hotel and north of Silent Hill Historical Society, equidistant but completely masked from both points within the fog. From the dock on the northwest side of the island, it is a five minute walk down a weed-ridden path to the mouth of a cave. The mouth opens to a tunnel, and that tunnel leads to a large cave in the center of the island. The stone room is vast and round; its floor is flat and its walls arc up to form a domed ceiling with a hole broken through its center. The light that makes its way into Silent Hill comes down to the platform in the middle of the cave. The platform was placed there many, many years ago; it is a large oblong rock, nearly four tons of granite, which rises a few feet off the ground.

Lakeview Hotel:
You have shut your eyes, and draw deep, exhilarating breaths. Exhausted, you ship the oars, let out a soft groan and lean forward, kneading the muscles of your arms. Now that the clack of the oarlocks has ceased, you shudder at how silent the lake has become. You want to sleep, but the Hotel is just ahead. It must be, for youve been at the oars for what seems like hours. Reluctantly, you take them up again, fingers closing achingly about them, the blisters upon your hands burning. The agony of rowing claws at your shoulders, and tears at your back until the pain itself becomes the sedative that numbers your body and mind. The

repetitious motion seems to become strangely detached from reality. Finally the pain fades into a fog of unreality as you drift in and out of consciousness. Sometime, you haul in the oars, letting them thump hard into the bottom of the boat, and slip off the seat and stretch out on the bottom of the boat, hardly aware of the wooden ribs digging into your side, At once, you are sleep. A sound pulls you awake. It sounds as though something is being dragged through the water; not swimming, for it is a wet, slithering noise, stopping for a few seconds, then starting again, the water gurgling, but no air bubbles reaching the surface. For a moment you are disoriented. You stare down at your feet as you feel a bump underneath the boat, your heart pumping madly, hands clenched tightly on to the plank seat, the knuckles white from your grip. This pier is wider and sturdier than the one on the opposite shore. The hotel chartered boat rides, a nice little distraction. Not quite a party boat, but for fifty dollars, one could go for a spin around the lake on the hotels yacht. The light draws closer, but because of the mist they are almost at the hotels dock before they can see its source. It emanates from a replica of a nineteenth century street lamp attached to the dock. During the night when it was the only light out on the lake, it did seem to have an inviting presence that conjured in them the image of old innkeeper awaiting the arrival of their favorite guests. There is something different about the light today. It is white now instead of a soft yellow, perhaps because the white penetrates the fog better. But the black iron frame that surrounds it makes for a more ominous appearance: a horned sentinel who, though expecting the PCss arrival and instructed to let them pass, silently thinks it would have been better if the PCs had never arrived at all. They row up to the dock and throw the rope around one of the moorings. They have little concern for the boat drifting and the knot is done emphasizing speed rather than quality. They hop off of the boat when they are finished and walk up a short flight of stone steps as the ironframed light watches them from behind. The PCs walk its length, absorbing the atmosphere until the woodwork becomes a cobbled pathway. There are stone fountains to their left and right and the lawn continues in both directions. The front lawn is green and lush, even in the fog. The PCs continue walking, noting the pair of circular fountains that stand facing each other on opposite sides of the path. Both fountains are completely dried up, and a dried-up fountain is as dead as anything else. At the top of the steps, the mist has thinned enough for them to vaguely see a large, brick building looming above. The cobblestones end where the deep-finished wooden steps begin. The PCs look up, and if there was any question about it before, it is answered now. The grand majesty of the Lakeview Hotel stares back at them with the blank, unseeing eyes of sixty guest-rooms. Not a one gives a glimpse of light or human habitation, but they werent really expecting that. If anything, it seems a little fitting. The PCs can only hope that it is similarly devoid of life forms of other, less-natural stripes.

The Lakeview stands in a five-acre estate at the waters edge, with a backdrop of more than one hundred towering pine trees; and it seems to rise naturally from the landscape rather than intrude upon it. The PCs walk up the porch steps and place a hand on the doorknob of the large, ornate French doors of oak that leads to the rear lobby of the Lakeview Hotel. The knob turns easily, and the PCs pull the door open. The PCs are here. Within the hotel smells of must and could have been beautifully decorated at one time. It now appears as if it had been abandoned for many years. How long has it been since anyone existed here? They frown briefly, wondering why they are not in the lobby, but then realize that despite its outward appearance, they were looking at the back of the hotel when they came up from the dock. The door the PCs entered was the hotels rear courtyard entrance, and it leads into the rear access hall. It would have probably been a more dramatic entrance to have entered through the front door, which led into the Lakeviews large, beautiful lobby. But, sometimes the mundane wins out, and the PCs find themselves in a hallway running left and right instead. It is dark, but the place is lit well-enough by the outside daylight. It is enough that to be able to skip on using the flashlight for awhile, as there wont be many places in here that arent near windows of some kind. The walls have been painted a light blue and are decorated with various landscape paintings. The carpet is burgundy and has an Indian design on it that is meant to depict a flower. The place is quiet, except for a slight under-hum buzzing lightly in the lower ranges of the human audible range. The hum reverberates and picks up periodically, the faint pulse of moving air, which means that the boiler in the basement is still operating. The hotel itself shows signs of its own sort of life, but there is no evidence of human presence. On the wall to their left is a floor by floor roster and a map of the hotel. The PCs gave it a look. Something there makes their hearts race. The very bottom of the directory showcases the third floor, in which the grand suites are located. Room 312 has been circled with a red pen. Next to it, in delicate looping cursive is written: Waiting for you! That's where the PCs have to go. It isn't simple logic that brings them to this conclusion, not so much as it is a sort of pull they feel, leading them up the stairs and to the room, the room. They quickly take the map down from the wall, fold it, and tuck it away. There are two doors to the lobby in the hall; each one comes out along side a grand staircase in the lobby that leads to the second floor. There is an elevator right next to them, one that would deliver them almost right to the door. Would, anyway, if it actually worked, and this one does not. The PCs can push the button several times, but it just sits there, dead and silent. Directly in front are two sets of staircases: one going up, the other going down to the basement. It is down there where one would find the Venus Tears. The grand staircase dominates the lobby, leading up to the second floor and its forty guest rooms. It is an impressive thing, if one is

considered to be an admirer of staircases. Large couches and cushioned chairs line the walls for guests to sit at while waiting for the porters or even just to lounge while enjoying the centerpiece of the lobby, which stands just in front of the grand staircase. It is a large antique clock, though it is not used to keep time anymore. Attached to the front of the clock is a music box, but not one of the small wind-up tabletop things. This one is almost as tall as a man, encased in rich chestnut and featuring a large brass melody disc set inside the upper compartment. There is a track at waist level, a circular thing which runs inside the casing and back out again. Three little ornate statuettes sit on the runner, made of fine glazed ceramic and depicting figures from some famous fairy tales. It is a handsome thing, to be sure. The key is right below the glass door. The PCs turn it slowly, over and over again. It takes a full twenty turns before the tension coil reaches its limit. Then, they let it go and stand back. The entire thing seems to come to life once the key is released. The large brass disc turns slowly, and the first notes sounds as the grooves brush against the melody tines. It isnt exactly loud, but the sound is full and rich, and it seems to fill the entire lobby with its chorus. The song itself is unknown to them. It is quite pretty, but it also sounds somewhat mournful, like there is just a slight, underlying sadness in the notes. It evokes memories of childhood, of going to bed after a long day of playing in the backyard with friends. One imagines listening to this music while slowly drifting off to sleep covered in warm blankets. But the tune is also a haunting one, for its emphasis is not so much on the memories themselves, but rather on reminding them that those memories are just that: memories and nothing more. Those times are long past; they have grown up and moved away from the yards in which they used to play and the bedrooms where they used to sleep. Not long after the melody begins to play, the figurine turntable comes to life. The table begins to rotate and the figurines twirl and raise themselves in a mechanical dance, sending the likes of Snow White, Cinderella and the Little Mermaid sliding along the runners and into the concealed interior of the music box. The Snow White figurine raises and lowers the apple to her mouth, Cinderella wiggles her shoe, and the Little Mermaid flicks her tail. More figurines emerge from the other side, each of them readily identifiable. Sleeping Beauty comes first, followed by Rapunzel with her long locks, and finally, the slight figure of Little Red Riding Hood. They are just as beautifully-crafted as the first three. A wood cutter hews at a tree stump, three gnomes in pointy hats run in a circle, a dog wags its tail, and three ballerinas spin, one in an arabesque pose, another in a one-legged pirouette, and the last, a demi-pli. Something else emerges along with the figurines, something simple and black and completely out of place amongst the displays, perhaps as an omen of what is to come, there is another fully loaded ammunition magazine for the gun. The light plays along its form, making it look sleek and sinister. Every extra bullet is that much more insurance. Lobby: The heavy chrome-and-oak doors stand wide open to the outside. The lobby of the Lakeview Hotel is simple in its magnificence. This room is massive and looks as though it could have been impressive before it was left in such a state. The ceiling is tall and grand, and the north wall is all windows and the front door, so even in the dreary weather, the lobby is filled with sunlight. The staircase leading to the second floor is huge, dominating the entire area. Yet, for all the space in this lobby, there is relatively little to see. The front corners feature waiting chairs

and side-tables stacked with local-interest magazines. Overhead, a huge chandelier with electric candles once lit up the entrance foyer with a rich golden glow. The only sound in the entire building seems to be the ticking of a large grandfather clock at the far end of the central corridor where a wide marble staircase with black cherrywood banisters curved gracefully up to the second floor. Hallway: Today the place is in lockstep with the rest of Silent Hill. No people. No camera-toting tourists walking these halls, no chambermaids pushing laundry carts, no aroma of late breakfast or early lunch coming from the caf down the hall. Nothing. Depressing, but also welcome. There are also no signs of creatures, though, and that is decidedly acceptable, for however long it lasts. Footfalls are soft upon the carpet, but in the oppressive silence, each is loud. Oppressive is the right word to describe the atmosphere. The PCs walk past the double doors leading to the front lobby and stop at the end of the hall. In front of them is another set of double-doors, these leading to the staff areas. It is cordoned off with velvet rope. To the right of that is another set of double-doors of beautiful dark mahogany. These doors have gilded brass handles that span much of the vertical length. To the right of these doors is a large brass sign with a name in embossed script, Lake Shore Restaurant. The PCs stand and walk over to the restaurants double mahogany doors, stepping through soundlessly. Lakeshore: The Lake Shore was the hotels in-house dining establishment, a nice, low-key place. The restaurant is well-lit, spilling muted light onto the neat rug, which looks to be patterned after some M.C. Escher design. This is thanks to the huge window and the even larger sliding-glass door, which, on a clear day, offered the diner a majestic framed view of Lake Toluca. The walls are lined in paneling up to waist-height, and soft, pale pastel wallpaper up to the raised ceiling. The flambeaux-style wall-lamps are all dark, but they arent necessary. Most of the tables are arranged to the left, packed closely together and blocking access to the kitchen in the back. Chairs sit upon most of them, inverted. Those closest to them are on the floor, pushed under their tables instead of perched atop them. Most of the tables are bare of anything, even the decorative vases. One of them is set with a fresh white tablecloth. A plate and utensils are set upon it, but there is nothing else there. A thin, fine layer of dust has settled upon the plate. Strange, no ones eaten here in awhile. But is that really so strange? Certainly not. No reason to expect that the Lakeview is exempt from whatever is going on all over town. None at all. The wall opposite the restaurant entrance contains mostly glass doors and on a clear day it offered a pleasant view of the lake and patio seating. The sliding-glass door leads to a balcony, and through the fog, more tables and chairs can be seen, though they appear blurry, as if not completely there. It is quite a bit warmer in here than out there, to be sure, and the temperature has created condensation on the glass inside, further obscuring the view. But they have not come for the scenery. Near the door is a paneled half-wall divider, upon which is a display of broadleafed decorative plants. The plants are real, and it was more clearly evident now than ever. Many of the leaves still retain their healthy green, but some are drying out, and their green is leached by a sickly pallor. Some have fallen off, and the perimeter of the display is littered with them, some of them completely brown and brittle. Behind this is another pair of tables, brightly

illuminated from the ornate window. On the wall above them is a trio of paintings, each of them depicting a local landscape. Then, there is a lounge area off to their right, in the opposite corner, containing several cushioned benches. Tables and chairs span across the entire floor space, while the faded scenery paintings of the town hang loosely on the walls. An exquisite-looking piano sits by a corner of the room. a Baldwin baby grand. There is a brochure on the piano keys. LakeView Hotel Welcomes You. Simply purchase any five Robbie the Rabbit merchandise within a single receipt at the LakeView Hotel Souvenirs and Gifts Shop and you will get a limited edition Cinderella Music Box absolutely free (while stocks last). Visit us at the LakeView Hotel Souvenirs and Gifts Shop next to the Reception Counter As the PCs continue to explore the remaining part of the restaurant when something catches their attention. On the glass window at the far end of the room is a childish-looking hand drawn picture of an animal resembling that of a dog. Caf Toluca: A glass-walled membership-only restaurant. The restaurant holds thirty tables on two tiers, with seating for four at each tables. No expense has been spared. The tables are all large and comfortable, and they are all laid with white linen as perfect as the day it had come from the stores. The china and silverware are of fine quality, complemented by a stainless steel and two rosesone white and one redon each table. Every chair is a captains chair with padded arms and studded leatherette upholstery. The tight-nap carpet is not as luxurious as something found in a private home, but it is the most expensive all weather carpet available, a deep red color that gives the room warmth. On the right hand wall the carpet goes all the way to the ceiling; thus it acted not only to please the eye but to further deaden any sound. The inside of the main door to the caf is perfectly soundproofed. The other walls are paneled in mahogany, and the suspended ceiling is done in yard-square pieces of dark cork hung on a chrome frame. Gift Shop: The gift shop is bolted up tight. There is a little picture window next to that door, one that used to display all sorts of gaudy little trinkets, like Silent Hill shot glasses and t-shirts, but is now completely empty. Perhaps the proprietor did the smart thing and got lost before things went to hell here. The souvenir shop is somehow different from the rest of the places in the hotel. Toys and symbolic gifts are neatly stored on the many racks and shelves while beautifully crated fixtures stand gracefully around the place. The pastel-colored wallpapers blend in nicely with the sweet scents from the bottled perfumes at the counter. It is a sight that is at least refreshing and appealing apart from the rest of the place the hotel has to offer. Reception: The reception desk is located on the other side of the room, just ahead, empty. It consists of a large window in the wall with gold-painted trim. The desk itself has been painted a very dark shade of burgundy. On the wall behind the desk is an array of cubbyholes, each marked with a room number. There is almost an instinctive urge to reach for the little desk-bell, as if it would summon anything the PCs have any desire to encounter. They can move through the wooden Employees Only door to the right of the desk. There is another door to the supervisors office in front of them and the other side of the reception desk is on their left.

The lower part of the desk contains a phone, several pens, a piece of paper with the hotels letterhead and nothing else. They search the drawers and cabinet below the desk for any master key, but find nothing. They are about to turn to search the cubby holes when they see there is writing on the paper: It is hotel stationery. LAKEVIEW HOTEL 3200 Sanford St. Silent Hill, James 04235 Mr. James Sunderland, It was discovered that you left behind a video cassette. You may claim it in the Manager's Office on the first floor. MGT. Managers office. Not very far away at all. The PCs can slip the stationery into their pocket. The PCs dont know the precise location of the managers office, but there is a door leading to a restricted STAFF ONLY area right next to the Lake Shore Restaurant. They start searching the cubbyholes. Behind the desk, the PCs see the cubby rack in which room keys are stored. Each slot is numbered, 101-120, 201-240, 301-320. Every last one is empty. Except for one. They find nothing in them until they get to beneath it, on a small brass plate, 312. Waiting for you Office: The PCs exit the reception office and out of the lobby, back to the main hallway. Employee Hallway: The door isnt locked, and opens onto a dim hallway where lamplight glows between the slats of wooden blinds. Not very far away, the hall intersects with another and there are signs on the wall there pointing the back way to the restaurant and kitchen. They go to the intersection, and look left and right to see a hallway stretching ahead to the far ends of the building. Along the way they notice glass cases set into the walls holding fire hoses coiled on metal frames, and see that at each end there are large doors like those of a cabinet that probably open onto laundry chutes. There are more doors that must open onto offices. Kitchen: At the end of the corridor stands a pair of metal-faced swinging doors with an Employees Only sign marking the entrance to the kitchen. It is fitted to swing both way and it pushes open easily. The kitchen seems unusually small. It could not contain more than one or two short-order cooks. There is a small stove, two sinks, a refrigerator, two cutting boards, and a washing station. They are puzzled at first; the kitchen does not seem large enough to serve the restaurant. But on the wall next to the refrigerator is a very large, square metal plate with a small handle. Pulling it up, they find a large insulated dumbwaiter big enough to transfer at least eight or nine entre plates. They can wash themselves at the sink and finds clean plates and glasses below it. The refrigerator gives off a steady hum, and it still produces cool air when they open it. It is reasonably stocked, though not everything is edible. A garden salad has turned to slime despite the plastic wrapping over the bowl. Another bowl of something that appears to be some

kind of batter now has mold growing on its surface. A pack of hard boiled eggs exude a sulfur smell. But a vacuum-sealed package of smoked salmon shows promise and the water bottles are unopened. A quick search of the cabinets reveals nothing of interest; the three loaves of bread are all moldy, the cracker box is empty and the rest of the contents are all spices, flour, and cooking oils. Telephone Operator Room: There is a small reception area to the right, with a telephone propped on the desk. It starts to ring all of a sudden. Laundry Room: A set of utilitarian metal stairs leads them to a huge room where towering shelves are stacked with sheets, blankets, and towels, and where gigantic industrial washers and dryers are fit in amid a forest of metal columns supporting the floor above. To their surprise, they find that almost all of the washers and dryers are churning and tossing loads of linens inside. Some slosh behind glass doors in sudsy water, others tumble through hot air. It feels like a furnace in here, but large fans spin behind grilles, most of them turned toward a ventilation shaft. They seem to be trying, but failing, to force the hot air toward the vent, whose shaft likely runs all the way up to the roof. First Floor Employee Hallway: There is a single functioning ceiling light that gives the hallway a sort of off-white look to it. Being the employee wing, appearances are of less concern and, though it has been well cleaned, the hallway has a much cruder look to it. The paint on the scratched walls is old and mismatched. The left side is painted in a dull-white color; the righthand side is a rusty brown although it was most likely mahogany when it was first painted. The doors leading in to the guest wing are just to their right and the hallway runs north and south, though the light makes it difficult to tell how far. A bulletin board is on the wall just to their left. It contains many of the same notices that decorated the walls in the maintenance room, plus a blank duty roster and, most providential, an employee map, showing all the facilities in the employees section. Managers Office: The PCs reach for the doorknob. thump A noise? The PCs think they heard it, and they strain their ears. They hear nothing. If any noise has been made, it isn't repeating itself. The PCs can take a quick look behind, but all they will see is the hallway, retreating into darkness. The PCs turning back to the door... The doorknob does not turn. It is locked. Damn it. So close! Why can't things just be easy once? Only once! That's all The PCs ask! If thump Their thoughts are severed clean as they hear the sound again. thumpthump Louder, now. Closer, too. The PCs spin around, their weapons in their hands. There is nothing there, at least, nothing the PCs can see. The PCs reach for their flashlight and flick the switch. The PCs aim it down the hall as they walk slowly back towards the lobby. It doesnt really help much, but only because there is mostly-sufficient ambient lighting to begin with. The PCs can clearly see the doors at the end, which lead to the first-floor guestrooms, but there is nothing between those doors and themselves. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The events of the last twenty-four hours have had them jumping at shadows even when there arent any shadows to see. thump...thump Behind? The PCs turn again, their gun raised in spite of the self-admonition made just seconds ago. Only, this time, there is something. The radio chooses this moment to come to life, but a fat lot of help it is now. The PCs can see it quite clearly without the radios help. Their first thought upon seeing the creature is that it is a straight-jacket hunched over, though one that is larger than most. Of course, that cant be. Each one theyve seen so far was almost of an identical size and shape. So... Thats when it comes to them. The PCs have made such a mistake before. It isnt a straightjacket monster at all. It is that hideous, deformed thing they had seen in the Labyrinth. This is the first time theyd encountered this monster since leaving at the Labyrinth. It stands, squatting on its haunches, its disgusting fleshy lips in constant, wordless movement; as if speaking in a voice and language only it can hear. And with an impossibly-low, guttural yell, it charges. The floor seems to shudder under the monster's thundering gallop. It is only five feet from them when it stops, as if perplexed by their decision to hold their ground. It rears back on its haunches again. If it is anything like the last one, then killing this thing should be easy. It is their amount of ammo that really concerns them. The unsightly bed-fused monster crawls closer. They crouch down on one knee and carefully aim the rifle. Relying on the minimal lighting, they set their sights on what they hope is creatures head and pull the trigger. It stutters and lets out a horrific wail as the bullet tears through its flesh. The monsters legs folded underneath it, and it slumps to the floor. However, it still twitches and moves. They smash the pipe onto the monsters arm again and again. Finally, its claws releases, and it loses its grip. It emits a low moan as its body withers like a balloon losing air. This time it is truly dead. Managers Residence: Mens Locker Room: Womens Locker Room: Securitys Office: The securitys office reveals quite literally nothing. It appears to have been cleared out sometime ago and only a bare desk, two sets of file cabinet, chair, and empty wastepaper basket remain. Mens Restroom: A strong piney scent rises from the perfumed cakes in the two urinals. The piney smell makes one think of the hospital, long dim corridors that lead nowhere. Under that astringent fragrance, the odor of stale urine persists. The room has three inner doors. Two offer access to toilet stalls. Womens Restroom:

Refrigeration Room: Approximately eight feet wide and ten feet long with a door at the farther end. This space is also cooler, with perforated-metal storage shelves on both sides. The shelves hold half-gallon plastic containers of orange juice, grapefruit juice, also cartons of eggs and blocks of cheese. Freezer Room: The PCs shudder as they feel the cold emanating from the room before they enter, recalling the previous freezer room and its hideous occupant all too clearly. Fortunately, this one just looks like a mundane freezer that would be in any restaurant. The air is chilled as smoke is exhaled with their breathing. The room is empty except for a few boxes of various frozen foods in one corner. It's more gray and drab then anything. Pantry: The pantry has a large door of solid steel. The interior is large, professionally equipped, and packed with food. There are rows of canned goods, jars of preserves, bags of flour, boxes of pasta, bottles of sauce, household supplies and other staples. . Kitchen: The main kitchen is large and brightly lit by fluorescent lights above. There is ample room for several cooks to work, a stove, an oven, a deep fryer, and a metal door that is probably a walk-in refrigerator. The crockery is all in place and appears clean, though a layer of dust on some of the cutting boards suggests the kitchen has not been used in some time. They open the refrigerator door and find it empty inside and the air does not feel as cool as it should. Dish Room: Employees Cafeteria: The PCs passes through the dinning room, empty and silent now, where the staff and their guests once ate. There is a china cabinet on one wall. In the center of the room is a long table. The white tablecloth has been covered with a sheet of tough clear plastic. The rug is rolled up and stands in a corner. Room 101: Room 102: Room 103: Room 104: Room 105: Room 106: Room 107: Room 108: Room 109:

Room 110: Room 111: Storeroom: Stacked with cartons of napkins, toilet tissue, cleaning fluids and floor wax. Towards the back, along the wall, are barrels of industrial cleaning compounds: soaps, abrasives, floor waxes, furniture polish. There are also electric floor waxers and buffers, a forest of long-handled mops and brooms and window washing sponges. Two riding lawn mowers stands in the middle of the room with a host of gardening tools and huge coils of transparent green plastic hose. At the front, closer to the doors, are the workbenches, carpentry tools, a standing jigsaw, and a small wood lathe. To the right, the entire wall is covered with pegboard; the silhouettes of dozens of tools have been painted on the pegboard and the tools themselves hang over their own black outlines. The gardening ax is missing, but everything else is clean and hung neatly in places. Basement: A large, carpeted set of stairs in the middle of the first floor hallway leads down to the basement hall. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, they can smell a rotting dampness. The basement level is pitch-dark, and the PCs are glad for the flashlight that counteracts the eerie darkness. Despite being on the basement floor, the hallway is furnished just like the upper floors. An excellent painting of the mountains beyond Toluca Lake sits on the wall in front of the stairs. The painting depicts them in winter and the snow-capped peaks glisten in the light. To their left are two doors leading into the bathrooms. On their right the hallway bends around a corner with a small table adorned with another bouquet of fresh flowers. Most of the basement is staff area, but there is a bar down there as well, a neat, dark little place. It is just around the corner. The radio hisses its warnings again, but this time the PCs are going too fast to even realize. The PCs have only a split second to see what is waiting for them, and it is something familiar, though the PCs hadnt seen one in quite some time. A mannequinite. It isnt moving. The PCs have just enough presence of mind to catch that much. It isnt moving, standing stock-still as if frozen in place, suspended by invisible puppet strings. Nor are the PCs likely give it enough time to try. The monsters upper legs flail in place as it finally realizes what is going on, but it is too late. Their attacks have struck it dead in the torso. It gives a strange, hollow cry as the impact sends it flying down the hall. It crashes into the wall and fall, striking a small buffet table as it does. Down on the floor, it writhes and thrashes with maddening speed, as if desperate to relieve some kind of full-body itch. The PCs stare at it for a second, still mystified by the strange behavior of these things even though they have been around them for much longer than they would like. The elevator at the end of this hall is the same one that the PCs unsuccessfully tried to summon upstairs. The door to the bar is not far. A sandwich board rests outside a door. In carefully painted cursive letters it reads, Venus Tears. The solid wooden door to the bar is a rather ornate thing, unlike most in the hotel. It has a large window with faceted glass arranged in a geometric design and the wood appears to have been varnished recently.

Venus Tears is a small bar, decorated in a fishermans motif. Several ornamental rods adorn the walls, along with numerous photographs of prize catches made in the lake. A display showcases a number of colorful lures, each with a legend behind them. Yard ropes and fragments of net hang from the ceiling in one corner, and a replica of a ships tiller is a centerpiece on the long wall. It is dark, the walls covered with odd band posters. Small round tables, three or four chairs to each, are scattered across the floor. There is a dance floor in front of the stage. There is a jukebox next to the door, with a varied playlist featuring the likes of Johnny Cash, the Everly Brothers and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Beside that is the bar itself, along one wall with a door leading back to the kitchen, still stocked plenty well with glistening beer taps and all sorts of familiar faces on the shelves behind. Jim Beam, Stolichnaya, Jacky D, Woodpecker, Southern Comfort, Jose Cuervo and dozens more, all twinkling in the muted light. The chairs and tables are all upright, but appear water-damaged. The room smells musty and moldy, as if it had been flooded at one time. Stepping behind the bar. There is a door back there, and it is certain to lead into the kitchen area, if it is unlocked. Kitchen: It is nothing like the one behind the Lake Shore. The kitchen is small and consists of a grill and several cupboards. The pantry to the right is stocked mostly with old dry goods, and the kitchen itself is smaller than those at the Apartments. There is nothing of any interest here, except for another door. All the food is rotten and bad, while the canned goods have expired. A small shiny object on the grill catches their attention. It is a hairpin. The search of the kitchen yields no results. They note the dumbwaiter leading up to the Lakeshore kitchen is on the wall to their right. There is however, nothing of true interest to them here, other than the door to a service hallway on the far wall. They go through it and leave the kitchen behind. Service Hallway: Now the PCs find themselves in the branching hallway, narrow and dark, with little in the way of decoration. Certainly not an area intended for guests. The PCs feel a little twist of good cheer. The managers office is upstairs, but there had to be an employee stairwell here somewhere. No way would the basement only be accessible through the back of the hotels watering hole. The basement is warm and humid, and the low humming and throbbing of machinery nearby can be heard. The humidity is probably from the boiler, which feeds the radiators in the upstairs guestrooms as well as the commons areas. The PCs wander around, looking at the door plates. Electrical Room DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE, one says, and right after that, Pump Room and Boiler Room, both with cautionary warnings of their own. There are twists and turns abounding down here. The hall ahead of them turns at a right angle, and hopefully, that's where the PCs can find stairs, because they have yet to find any others yet.

Liquor Storage: It is the door to the right that leads to the liquor storage. Anyone with the lock picking skill can attempt to use the hairpin to unlock the door. With a sharp push the lock gives a soft click. Before the lock picker can stand up, the door swings open as if something heavy has been leaning against it. The force knocks that person to the floor. A straight-jacket lumbers out of the liquor storage and, catching the PC off-guard, receives the initiative and spews a brown, acidlike liquid. Within the storage room, cleaning tools and products are set upon a shelf on one side, but what abounds in this place are boxes full of bottles of wine, whiskey, vodka, and a lot of different other types of liquor, as well as several kegs of beer. There are also glasses and cups stored in boxes on another shelf, napkins, coasters, plates; it looks like the bar's storeroom. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs, and seems to have been untouched for years. Storeroom: Storerooms line the narrow hallways leading away from the kitchens, and are full of tall cupboards for brooms and mops, buckets and soaps, linens for tables, and other assorted things. The utility room adjoins the lobby and backs against the elevator shafts. The lights are off. There are no windows. A faint odor of cleaning fluids clings to the place. Pinesol. Lysol, Furniture polish. Floor ax. Janitorial supplies are stored on shelves along one wall. In the righthand corner, farthest from the door, is a large metal sink. Water drips from a leaky faucetone drop every ten or twelve seconds. Each pellet of water strikes the metal basin with a soft, hollow ping. Boiler Room: With each step the pulse grows louder, more forceful, grinding at their bones and chipping away at their teeth as they ease against the knob. With a peek and a nudge it opens, the sound erupting in their ears without mercy. Pounding. Grinding. Churning. The colossal machine fills the room, valves and outdated displays rife with figures they cant understand not that they need to look. Laden with corrosion and duct tape, pieces of it strewn about in disrepair the hideous racket alone is enough to tell the damn thing is on its last legs. By the light of the flashlight, one can see through the countless pipes and valves, interwoven as a web of iron that extends ever deeper into the complex, lagged with dusty whitewashed bandages. Chaotic, mangled together, almost as if a trap...from which there is no escape. It stinks of sweat, smoke, grease, paint, fuel oil, steam, and strangely, hot linoleum. Sparks fly and iron flays as if flesh from bone, the generator busting open as concentrated heat seeps from its corroded shell. Fixtures sparks. Bulbs pop. The surge stretching the length of the tunnel outside...and the halls deep within. Pump Room: Its door stands open. The room itself is about ten feet by ten feet, most of it taken up by a large air-processing machine. It is a large box, taller than a man and half again as wide. Two wide rubber vents are attached to the rear of the machine, each leading up and out through the ceiling. A large fan under the unit sucks old air in. Three pipes emerge from the body of the machine and head off in various directions through the walls of the room ending in output nozzles around the hotel where the fresh air is released. The fan unexpectedly goes from a throaty growl to a near-deafening roar.

Electrical Room: The narrow room is lined with telephone and power company equipment. The ceiling and walls are unfinished concrete. It contains several computers, televisions with black screens and a generator. Two bright red fire extinguishers are hung where they can be reached quickly. A pair of yard-square metal cabinets are fixed to the wall, each housing twenty-six small letters, circuit breakers in a fuse box. There is a black bag is lying on a desk. Trying to open it reveals that it is locked. Four small golden wheels with symbols engraved on them constitutes the lock: an hourglass, a hand, an eye and a sun. They slowly start walking toward the other end of the room, across the rows of screens when they notice the monitors starting to flicker. White lines of electricity of different widths move up and down the screens black surface. The visitors stop just as all the monitors come on at the same time. First the screens are a shimmering, bright white, and then images start appearing in every single one. As two-thirds of the monitors display a black background with a red symbol made of two concentric circles with about an inch of difference in diameter, inside of which are three smaller circles and all sorts of strange hieroglyphics drawn all over. They notice some monitors have images in color; they all show people in different situations, people theyve never met before, and what they are doing or why are they seen in these images is beyond their understanding. They see one image of a man wearing a green jacket, in a large room; he is sitting on a couch in front of a television that is between two huge windows; his head is down and the television shows nothing but static. Another image shows a blond girl, a teenager, looking very distraught as she goes down in an elevator with all sorts of bizarre things that look like monsters, moving around each floor she passes. Yet another image shows a man walking through an alley and crossing a gate on a snowy day, when all of a sudden it goes dark and instead of snowing, it starts raining, shortly before he finds a broken wheelchair on the floor. Another monitor shows a man with a white shirt, in a houses bathroom, crawling into a hole in the wall above the sink. In another one there is a man, a woman, a little girl, and a tall man with a hat, in a room surrounded by glass jars containing what looks like human fetuses. The Stairs: The PCs turn the last corner in the hallway, and again the radio in their pocket awakes. It is another mannequinite, standing just like the one outside the bar, frozen still in a position that seems impossible to balance so evenly. The PCs can see an open door behind it, and inside, stairs. The PCs have to get past the mannequinite first, though, and it is more responsive than the last, finding life and stalking towards them with its upper legs dangling forward like grotesque antennae. Managers Office: The PCs find themselves in another hallway, but this time, their destination is in no doubt whatsoever. Almost directly across the short hall is a blinded window with David Kennedy, Manager stenciled across the glass in black lettering. Bright light filters through the blinds, and the door is unlocked. They turn the knob and open it cautiously. The radio stays quiet and they enter the room. The office is surprisingly cluttered, considering that the reception supervisors office appeared to have been almost cleaned out. At one time, this had been used as

a proper office. The walls are the same dull-white color as the outside hall and there is a large wooden desk at the back of the room with an old swivel chair. The desk top is now completely bare, except for a blotter, a telephone, a Tensor lamp, and an IN/OUT basket. Both sides of the baskets are empty. The light comes from a hanging ceiling light with a bulb that is clearly on its last legs. At some point however, the office had begun to be used as some kind of storage room. Sealed cardboard boxes are lined up against the far wall, stacked on desks and tables, piled all the way up to the ceiling. Another desk is to their right. Stacks of papers have been spread indiscriminately across the desk. The PCs continue to search the office. Not even a minute later, the PCs come across a small, square safe, sandwiched between a stack of boxes and the desk. Someone had forgotten to close it, as its door hangs open just a crack. They immediately go to the safe; if there is anything important in this room, it will have been kept in there. The PCs pull it all the way, revealing an object to them. A black, rectangular VHS tape sits on the bottom of the safe. They take it out of the safe and examine it. It is a storepurchased blank, and on the side, Silent Hill is written in black marker on the white sticker on the face of the tape. It isnt flowery cursive, just simple manuscript. Lifting the back end to examine the actual reel shows that the glossy, black surface is smooth and unblemished despite the number of years it must have spent sitting in that safe. It should still play just fine though. They leave the cluttered office behind, holding the door open long enough so they can use the light to locate the stairwell entrance near the office. Second Floor: Then, the PCs walk up the grand stairs and towards the second floor guest rooms. The music boxs sweet, sorrowful song still floats in the air like a ghost, even as the lobby doors are closed behind them. At first they are unsure of where to go; the map gives them two immediate possibilities. Visitors would sometimes leave suitcases in the cloak room and they could try there. However, most baggage in the hotel would be kept by the guests in their rooms, and to get into the rooms they will need keys. The front desk did not have any room keys, but they might reason either the housekeeping or maintenance staff would have keys to the rooms. As they ascend the stairs they can hear the distant echo of a womans voice crying out, and then is silenced. This section of the second floor consists of the economy priced rooms, which are much smaller than the third floor rooms. Directly to their right is the stairwell. There is another set of doors down the short hallway in front of them. There is also a branching hallway on their left which has doors to a reading room, a lounge, and the cloak room. The PCs make passing glances at every door they encounter, and predictably enough for a second floor, all doors are marked with a "20" prefix. Room 201: The room is a fair size. It features a king-size bed on the right wall and a small couch. Room 202: A single, unmade bed sits underneath the small window. A wooden table at the other end of the room is covered with scattered pieces of paper, quills, candles and oddly shaped pieces of metal. The metallic fragments range from simple razor blades to more complex spring-

loaded devices with jagged jaws. Close inspection reveals traces of dried blood on almost all these devices, and on the wooden floorboards. There is a green leather suitcase, locked with a four-letter combination. On the bed are several pictures. First Picture: A man and a woman. Next picture: A different woman on her wedding day. The photographer, whoever that was, caught the delighted woman in mid-laugh. Next Picture: The entire photograph is in shades of red as crimson shattered through the depicted universe. Hoary, pregnant clouds hung from the sky via twine and threatened to sink and swallow up everything. Toluca Lake is filthy and hot, caught in the middle of boiling away with decay and grime. The trees are broken and dying, their bloody shattered branches screaming and clawing at the merciless heavens for just a single chance at redemption. The same woman is there, but the only things that are facing the camera are her eyes. Her right hand is out and pointing at the death in the lake and her eyes are laughing as if to say, "Look! Look what I've found! Oh, oh, please, come and see what I've found!" Following her finger to the lake, reveals nothing. Next Picture: A valve. Next Picture: A man in a chair. His chest has been torn wide open. Next Picture: Misty Day, Remains of the Judgment. The body in the cage closest to Pyramid Head belongs to her. Her hair in tangles, her pink dress torn and covered in blood. She is smiling. Her eyes are gone. Next Picture: A wall with the word, "Missionary," carved on it. Next Picture: A girl with short blonde hair and brown eyes. On the back is something is something in one of the PCs handwriting "Find the Holy One. Kill her?" Next Picture: Blank. There are words written in blue on the picture itself. The same handwriting, once again. "Leonard Rhine. The Monster Lurks." Next Picture: An empty car. Next Picture: A small, unidentifiable creature clawing at the backdoor of a house with bleeding, shrunken fingertips as if it were begging to be let out. Blackened flesh hangs off the thing's body like ribbons. In the picture, the house is on fire. Next Picture: A creature lying on the floor. It is trying to get back up and its neck looks broken. Next Picture: A woman with long hair falling down the stairs. The house is still burning. The woman is bleeding from every pore on her body. Next Picture: The same woman from the second photograph pointing at the polluted lake again. When they follow her finger this time, they can see a boat. Next Picture: Her finger again. There is a boat. A large, painfully phallic, angry-looking worm is rising out of the water behind it; reminiscent of an embodiment of pure violence. Next Picture: The same woman is staring straight ahead at them and pointing at the bathroom door. Next Picture: A wheelchair. Next Picture: The same woman pushing a wheelchair. Next Picture: The same woman in a wheelchair. Next Picture: Someone's left hand. Next Picture: The same woman. Next Picture: The same woman; sun-drenched hair pulled back into low bun, soft eyes that are as sweet as the chocolate their color is spirited away from, her cheeks so rosy and healthy that it makes the clammy hand holding the picture look like that of a ghost's.

Next Picture: The same woman; sweat-soaked hair matted to the fragile skull, red rimmed, watery eyes as disgusting as the vomit that cakes her cracked, bleeding lips, her flesh so purple and swollen that it looks like her face is about to explode with blood. You feel disgusted, as though you saw something private you never wanted to see. Room 203: A rather simple and plain hotel room, consisting of one large bed, a television set, some chairs, and a balcony. Fog patrols the outsides of the hotel, swirling past the balcony doors as if it were an entity of its own. Room 204: Room 204 is nearly at the end of the hall and the number is dimly illuminated from the window at the end of the hall, though the heavy, dark red curtains drawn across it let in very little of the meager light outside. They pull the key out and unlock the door; the metallic clunk satisfying but not reassuring enough. There is a dresser, a queen sized bed and a small bathroom. The curtains across the windows here are much thinner, lighting the room a little better, though they keep the flashlight on. Several open suitcases are strewn about the floor and black and white photographs of the town have been scattered across the bed, but otherwise, there is no sign that the room has been occupied. The duvet on the bed is undisturbed and the towels in the bathroom are unused. Amongst the photographs on the bed is a small, metal suitcase with an internal combination lock. They pick it up tentatively. It is somewhat heavy though very little of the weight comes from its contents. Something rattles inside as they move it. Is this the suitcase of mist? They wonder. They are stymied on how to open it. Breaking it does not seem feasible; the metal is strong and can probably withstand a gun blast; that also rules out the baton and any other physical means; the amount of force required to smash it open will likely destroy its contents. They do not have a combination of any kind. They were able to open the box behind the statue in Rosewater Park by unscrewing the hinges and they turn the suitcase around to have a look. Alas, the designer of this suitcase has thought of such measures because the hinges are welded onto the main body. They consider other options. The combination is only four digits and, given the circumstances, means it might have some significance; they can probably find it by trial and error. But as they take a closer look at the combination dials, they suddenly realize that instead of numbers, they contain letters. Okay, its a word, not a number. Room 205: Room 206: Room 207: Room 208: Room 209: Room 210:

Mens Restroom: Dull grey tiles along the floor, dull grey stone make up the walls. The walls are chipped here and there, looking at them from far enough away to see them all at once makes the PC's eyes water. They seem to shimmer and shake into a symbol, a hissing noise fills the room until the PCs look away to find that the cause of it is a faucet that was left on, one of those motion-sensing ones that should only turn on for ten seconds or so. The rest of the room is unremarkable, just depressingly ill-maintained. The ice cubes put in the urinals have long since melted into lukewarm standing water with dust floating along the top. The pipes are rusty in some places, but the actual plumbing works well enough. Womens Restroom: The womans room is large and clean, with four stalls and sinks. The floors and walls are covered with white ceramic tile bordered by dark blue tile around the edge of the floor and around the top of the walls. Lounge: The walls are canary yellow: the chairs are bright red; the carpet is orange; the magazine racks and end tables are made of heavy purple plastic; and the two large abstract paintings are done primarily in shades of blue and green. There are strange slithering noises in the sitting room. Reading Room: A single large, rectangular room with a door at each end. In this library-style reading room the walls are lined with books. The top shelves are stacked with magazines, Womans Own and House and Garden and What Car. On the lower shelves there are some paperback spy thrillers and crime novels, also a clutch of guide books and town histories, most of them long out of data. Hidden among these are volumes about medical oddities, sadomasochism and other dark topics. There are tables and comfortable reading chairs scattered about. In the midst of their walk around the dimly lit reading room, the PCs come across a dusty study table next to a set of windows. Resting on top of the table is a piece of paper, which reads: LakeView Hotel Memorandum Pad Dear David. Please take note that the guest from Room 304 had borrowed some reading materials from the Reading Room. Below is the list of the titles being taken out on loan: (1) Magazine on Finance, Accountancy and Management Planning (2) Book of Crimson Ceremony Please remember to account for the mentioned reading materials when the guest checks out from the hotel next week. Have a nice day! Signed, Brent Anderson" Cloak Room: The carpeting inside is just plain burgundy and the walls are a dark brown with lighter-colored stripes. Two-thirds of the room is behind a mahogany desk. The walls beyond the desk are lined with coat racks, though they all appear to be empty at the moment. They climb over the desk and find the lower part of the walls contain shelves with a few suitcases. Their hopes rise but begin to fall as they open each suitcase only to find them empty. When they have gone through them all, they tosses the last one in disgust. The suitcase they are looking for is not here. They could try the reading room and the lounge, but if they come up dry there, they

will only have the rooms left and they have no keys. It occurs to them though, that they can break into the rooms using the baton or the gun. But using the baton will take time and energy; most of the rooms have a dead bolt in addition to the door lock. As for the gun, with twenty rooms on the floor and needing an absolute minimum of two bullets for each door, that is far too many bullets for them to spare. Before they completely resign themselves however, they see a glint in a cardboard box marked Lost and Found that sits below the desk. They pull it out. The box is empty except for a small key on a ring with a plastic chip marked with the number 204. No longer believing there is such a thing as coincidence in Silent Hill, they ignore the reading room and lounge and instead find Room 204 on the map. It is located in the west wing of the hotel, the same as the cloak room. They go back into the short hall with the stairwell and take the doors on their left. Second Floor Hall: They pass through a set of doors. The hallway is decorated the same as the first floor, though the paintings seem to be spaced out more evenly. There is a guest elevator just to their left and a small table with a decorative bouquet of flowers. The smell of lilac touches their nostrils and they realize the bouquet is real. It stops them for a moment. The hotel, like the rest of the town, appears abandoned, but there is nonetheless a set of fresh flowers sitting on the table. Hall Guestroom: Service Room: Bins of dirty sheets crams most of the room from wall to wall. Next to a window someone has written on the wall in three-inch-high letters using blood or red pain, Im not done yet. Storeroom: Cleaning tools and products are set upon a shelf on one side, but what abounds in this place are glasses and cups stored in boxes on another shelf, napkins, coasters, plates. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs, and seems to have been untouched for years. Room 211: Second Floor Hallway: The long empty hallway greets them. The lights are all almost burned out, giving the area a dim brownish tone that makes it hard to read the raised numbers on each door on shiny brass plaques. It does not truly matter if any of the PCs could read them, as none of them seem to be capable of opening. They will not give at all no matter how much they push, and trying to cut or smash the doors open just reveals an infinitely large expanse of wood, as if the door itself was dozens of meters thick. Room 212: Looking on the bottom of the first door, the PCs can notice something if they look closely: a series of punctures and scratched into the wood with something sharp and filled with black felt pen, the word "FREEDOM" has been scrawled. Room 214: Looking at the door beside it reveals the same message, although slightly deeper, the carving makes large gouges in the doors through which splinters the length of a pinky finger extrude.

The word seems strangely appropriate here. Room 216: And then on the next door there are traces of blood in the curved scratches and a pale crescent: a broken-off fingernail, as if the unknown writer's fingers had begun to be used in concert with the wood-carving knife. The door is thick, tough, oak or pine, and extreme pressure would have been required for fingernails to puncture it. Room 218: In yet the next door, they notice pieces of steel embedded in the wood, as if the knife being used was starting to shatter from repeated use. Room 220: The PCs crawl into pandemonium. The closet door near the entrance to the room has been smashed into splinters, a single toy monkey holding two cymbals rattling around at the foot of the otherwise empty closet. The bedding has been thrown everywhere, a mattress cut until it is almost hollow and then its inside filled with thick packets of hundred?dollar bills in kitchen plastic wrap sealed with clear tape. The bills, upon even cursory inspection, are obvious counterfeit. A stench of decay and burnt flesh invades the nostrils of the PCs, directing them to look at the large window that faced the lake. The glass is broken, shards littering the floor around it. A body is lying half-in and half-out of the window. The PCs reach across the body's back and grab the corpse and pulls it up. The body wears a linen suit with a tie, but it is blackened and welded to his immense, fleshy girth. The shoes are like puddles of black tar. But it is its face and head that grips the PCs. It is a face made featureless by flames' killing caress. It has black holes where had been lips and a nose. It has no hair, and no ears, only two obsidian eyes, bulging black orbs that glisten like marbles. The hands are black skeletal claws that have been utterly stripped of flesh. But even with all the flesh gone, the wooden splinters along the fingers are plain to see. All the while, the toy monkey's cymbals sewn to its paws clash together and clash again, making a clanging noise that pierces the eyes. Before the PCs can reach it, a small puff of smoke appears above the monkey's head and in an instant it is engulfed in flames. Upstairs: Up several staircases is the third floor, consisting of two suites and an observation room. The rooms on this floor are much larger and somewhat more expensive. Third Floor: To their right is the real point of interest, the stairs leading to the third floor. These stairs are nowhere near as grand and dominating as those in the lobby, just a simple double-back up to the top of the Lakeview Hotel. Standing just four steps below the landing, partly under the flight that leads into the unseen upstairs hallway, the PCs become convinced that something is waiting for them on the third floor. It is not necessarily Pyramid Head up there, not even anything alive and hostilebut something horrible, the discovery of which will shatter them. The feeling of being on the brink of a monstrous revelation becomes so overwhelming that their hearts hammer. When they swallow, they find lumps in their throats. They draw breath with a startling, ragged sound. They hesitate on the landing, but then continue to ascend. The hotel is as silent as a soundless dream.

Third Floor Hallway: The hallway there is identical to the guest hallways on the other floors. Observation Room: But at last they reach the top. They arrive in a circular room with a dirty glass ceiling. Above them, gray skies hangs down like a filthy bag. There are plants oozing out of broken pots, sending greedy feelers across a floor of broken orange bits. Ahead of them, two doorsFrench doorsstand open. Room 312: There is, of course, the brass numbers on the door, identifying it as that of Room 312. The room beyond has more of a green coloring to it than the others and is perhaps the brightest indoor dwelling the PCs have seen in the entire town. The drapes on the wall across from them are a darker green, to keep the room dark when closed. They are, however, open at the moment, and the sparkling white walls amplify the light in the room, making it seem bright despite the gloom outside the windows. The enormous windows catch every last possible ray of light, filtered as it is through the thick, smoky fog. On a clearer day, one would be treated to a fantastic view of Toluca Lake, and one doesnt even need to view it from behind glass, for the window is actually a door that leads to a short balcony. The carpet and the duvet on the king-sized bed are both a light green, though both contain similar Indian symbols like those on the carpeting in the hall. The bed is made up with a floral comforter and fresh linens. In the corner of the room, between the bed and the window is a small circular writing table with two green cushioned arm chairs. There is a full living room set against the far wall, a couch and easy chair surrounding an expensive-looking coffee table. Between the two palatial windows is a beautiful old-fashioned television set with a black VCR below it in a full cherry-finished console. The door to the bathroom is on their right. For all the aesthetic pleasance of the room however, they feel a surge of disappointment in the pit of their stomachs. Apart from a noticeable lack of dust, there is no evidence to suggest anyone has been in the room recently. They walk over to the VCR. They put the tape into the VCR. They then push Play and sit down in the chair to watch. The screen goes black for a few seconds and then an image appears. It is the hotel room and the camera is pointed at window next to the table in the corner. Standing in front of the window is a woman dressed in her pink button-up sweater and white skirt, though someone has forgotten to adjust the cameras contrast and much of the color is washed out because of the relative brightness of the window. She turns and looks at the camera and rolls her eyes. Are you taping again? Yes. She rolls her eyes again. Cmon James Its our last day, its nice outside and we should use up the rest of the tape. They hear someone respond from behind the camera. She sighs and sits down in the arm chair and looks out the window, a dreamy expression on her face. I dont know why, but I just love it here. Its so peaceful.

She smiles and looks at the camera. You know what I heard? This whole place used to be a sacred area. Really? Yes, to the Indians that used to live here. She looks backs out the window. I can understand why. Its too bad we have to leave. I know. She looks back at the camera. Promise me youll take me here again. I promise. She smiles at the camera. Good. And remember, if you get any second thoughts, Ive got you on tape. Her smile ends in a short cough that becomes a long rasping cough that turns into a series of five long rasping coughs. The footage suddenly stutters again, becoming gritty and static, as if some other footage has been recorded over it. This next footage is in black and white, slightly grainy and the only sound is the steady, wheezing rhythm of the same womans breath. They can see a hospital bed and on it rests the womans pale body, clad in a hospital gown, hair long and stringy. They then see someone enter the frame. He gently strokes her cheek and seems to say something to her. He puts his hand on the pillow above her head. Then the tracking on the tape seems to lose control. The PCs can make out the image of the bed and they can see a dark shape that is probably the figure standing over it. It moves its arms in a jerky fashion and the breathing speeds up. The jerking motion of the arms becomes more violent and suddenly the breath turns into a choke. Then the choke suddenly cuts off and the arms relax. The tracking on the tape goes back to normal. The figure stands there carefully replacing the pillow underneath the womans head, placing her head back on the pillow, her eyes and mouth are wide open in a silent scream. On the video, the man closes her mouth and brushes his hands over her eyes. He rests his hand on her chest for a moment and then leaves the frame. The grainy image stays on the womans lifeless form for perhaps another ten seconds. Then it fades to black. Room 313: The suite features a king-size bed, a couch facing a large television, a small dining table and a few plush chairs. A set of French doors leads to a spacious patio. The bathroom is large enough for the toilet, sink and a Jacuzzi tub. Compared to the state of the rest of the hotel, room 313 seems barely touched, except for the supplies, which consist of blankets, water and cigarettes. The windows face Toluca Lake. One can hardly see the water because of the fog. There is a pen and a pad of paper. On the paper is a single one word, Sorry. They put a hand on the knob, which is suddenly very cold, open the door, and step into the world beyond.

The siren seems to come from everywhere. Soon it is loud, even piercing, and falling away swiftly in pitch. Then it subtly changes into something infinitely nastier and bone-shaking, altering into a musical diatribe, only possibly produced by the mentally disturbed or tone-deaf. An omen that the end of the route is near and the final horror of this monstrous funhouse of sick jokes is waiting. Darkness: It happens again, just like before. Everything changes. It isnt nearly as dramatic as the transformation witnessed in Brookhaven or Midwich, nor do the results seem to be as virulent, but the overall effect is undeniably similar. Again one is visited by the distinct notion that time is a factor, although what they see and feel now isnt merely the results of age and neglect. Something takes place, some event, that causes the change they now witness. In the hospital, it looks like the place had been left to rot for decades. The hotel doesnt show that kind of decay, at least, not in the same fashion. Unlike in Brookhaven, however, the shift is very obvious right away. But they have been expecting a change like this. Observation Room: The double doors swings open as you twist the key, and what you are met with is an unusual -- no, horrifying -- sight. The smoke in the air disappears as well, as does the faint scent of decay. The burned-down hotel has completely changed into a sterile, efficient little world by the time they have entered the doorway. There is, before you, a large room, covered in shiny metallic paneling, with a large control panel on one side, the surface filled with colorful, glowing, blinking, shining buttons. The floor is coated with black rubber and there is the polite rumble of the air-purifying system drawing cleansed air through small metal grilles in the walls. There is also a large video screen on the wall -- and your own faces on the screen, along with what looks to be a map, perhaps of the area surrounding Toluca Lake. This, however, is not the most amazing discovery -- beside the control panel is a silver chair, and in that chair, sitting up on its hind legs and pushing buttons with its front paws, is a small dog. There is even a pair of headphones over the dog's ears. He barks happily, playing with the mechanics in front of him, wagging his tail. You take a few steps into the room, mouth and eyes wide, trying desperately to comprehend. Third Floor Middle Corridor: The walls, the carpet, the ceiling, everything is drenched with water. It leaks from the ceiling in rather amazing amounts, making one feel like one is standing in the middle of a light rain shower. On top of that, all up and down the hallway are signs of very heavy damage. The wallpaper is pocked with ashy gray scars. The carpet is blackened and destroyed in many places. The source of such damage is obvious, and it can be known without even looking, for the smell makes it clear: a thick, gagging odor hangs in the air, burning the lungs even though the source seems to be eliminated. It is smoke, the heavy, acrid smoke that only comes from a building fire. It seems to have been extinguished, or so one fervently hopes, and the underlying scent of moldering ash seems to suggest as much, but it hadnt happened long ago, not if water is still leaking through the rafters.

It is lighter in the hallway. The floor groans under weight, and from above ashes shift down like black snow. A layer of debris crunches underfoot. The smell and haze arent quite as thick. Smoke curls up around the PCs in sinuous tendrils, but it is more annoying than threatening. Breathable air is in good supply, and they dont even cough much. A layer of soot spreads across the upper part of the wall. It grows thicker as it travels down the corridor on their right and the far end of the hall looks as though it has caught fire sometime in the recent past and they now notice many spots on the carpet are singed. A multitude of smells permeate the hall, wet ash seems the most prominent, but there are also traces of damp earth and old sawdust. The reason is a myriad of cracks and holes in the ceiling that run the length of the hall allowing slivers of the gray light outside to seep into the corridor. The Cloak Room doors have been reduced to ashes but for a few burnt chunks of wood clinging to the hinges, which have partially melted. The third floor is dark, puddled with ashy water, clogged with burned, unidentifiable shapes. It is not pitch-dark in here. Some ambient light makes visibility possible, if not exactly easy. The security gate on the stairway is gone and with part of the doorframe beginning to rot, there is no evidence to suggest it was ever there in the first place. The fibers of the carpeting on the stairs are worn and the color has completely bled out, leaving it a dirty gray color. The carpet squishes underfoot as the PCs take the stairs down to the second floor. The steps creak loudly as they descend them and many feel alarmingly frail beneath their feet. They leave the stairwell at the second floor. Second Floor: The smoke and fire seems to have done more damage down here than upstairs. The wallpaper is peeled and in many sections it has been stripped bare leaving the brown wall exposed. The carpet is mostly intact though the colors have darkened and bled, giving it a dirty, mottled coloring. The hallway is filled with a dusky gray haze. The smoke makes their eyes red and dry, and it occasionally makes them cough. There is also the door leading to the west wing guest rooms that might be a dead-ends as well. They cross over and go through the double-door. Downstairs: If they intend to enter the lobby from the grand staircase, but as they come out the stairwell and turn to the left, they are stopped by a wall that shouldnt be there, sort of like the firewall seen upstairs, but only in the manner of its effect. The wall here is definitely not a safety measure mandated by any building inspector. It is made of brick. Wall to wall, carpet to ceiling, someone or something has erected a brick wall across the entire hall, blocking access to the first floor stairs. Or, perhaps no one erected it. All times are one, of course. Who knows where and when it came from? It doesnt matter. It is here, and they have to get around it. The wall is dirty with traces of black soot, but the wall itself seems to have withstood the ravages of time and, despite the grime, it has no scratches or dents. There are only two options left, and neither seems likely. There are the cloak rooms and reading room to the left, but all might be dead-ends. Reading Room: The moldy smell of damp carpet lingers strongly in the air. The wallpaper on the walls is peeling badly. Rotting shelves stand haggardly all over the place and traces of water marks are seen on all the books and other reading materials. Tables and chairs are suspended

from the ceiling by metal wire and the books lining the walls are full of illegible scribbling. There is a pair of headphones on the desk. The heap is made up of every sort of paper; some of it looks like papyrus; some like parchment, scribbled on by quill; others are brushed in a delicate hand, lettered in Chinese; there are illustrations, pages ripped from antique manuscripts; there are modern pages. No sequential pages lie together, each one is lost from its parent book. And they then move, shuffling themselves, they seem to be reordering within, faster and faster, rustling furiously, blurring, sorting a sheaf of papers, as the pile of trash paper is printing, organizing, some portion of itself into A book lies at their feet. The book cover does not say The Necronomicon; neither is its title in Latin or Greek or in some cipher as is usual for grimoires. The title, brown on red leather, in English, is: The Crimson Tome. Second Floor West Corridor: They make a right and enter the double doors that lead to rooms 201 to 210. The hinges on the doors creak as they are opened. The hallway beyond is bleak. The walls, at best, have been stripped down to the wood with patches of rotting insulation poking through. At worst, they are completely torn away, the ceiling being held up by temporary support columns. The door to room 210, across from them, has been boarded up as has room 209. The door to 208 is missing and in its place faded yellow caution tape crisscrosses the doorway. The walls are torn out where 207, 205, 206, and 203 should be and the arrangement of the support columns gives no indication of where the doors would be. The walls inside the rooms probably contain large holes as the gray light from outside streams in to illuminate the hallway, which is perhaps the only upside to all this ruin. Indeed, the ruin is advantageous as the light allows the PCs to easily spot the mannequin standing almost on the far side of the hallway, approximately where room 204 is located. The radio hisses, and they raise their weapons. The mannequin turns to face them and rubs its legs together. Strangely, it makes no move to attack them, but holds its ground. The PCs move a little further down the hall, if the mannequin is not going to move, they want to get a better shot at it. They stop just before reaching the section near 207 because, with the wall gone, another mannequin can easily ambush them from inside the room. They take the mannequin down in three shots. It makes no verbal sound; it simply drops to the ground. The radio is silent. They walk over to the body. It lays sprawled on the floor, blood seeping out of the three bullet holes in its mid-section. They stand up and then notice the door the mannequin stood in front of. It is room 204, but unlike every other door on this floor, it shows no signs of ruin. It stands in sharp contrast to the building around it, the numbers almost gleaming on their own. They try the door knob and find it unlocked.

East Wing: Instead of peering into a burned out guest room as expected, the PCs instead look back into the same hallway they were just standing in. Only no, it isnt the same. They found that out the moment they step through. It is another hallway. Light pours in through a window with tattered curtains on their left. What they find makes it no less strange, however. The first thing they see is another sooty guest room door just across from, only on this one, the brass plaque says that Room 220 lies behind it. The door they just stepped through reads 219. Somehow, the door to Room 204 opened into a small rift across the hotel, or something like that, and now they find themselves standing in the east wing. The map confirms this. Elements of the town have changed on them before and while they find this strange, they have become too accustomed to the strange to dwell on it. Even without the room numbers to give it away, there is no mistaking this new hallway for the one they just left. None at all. The evidence is all over the place. The west wing was in deplorable condition with the smoke and all. The east wing is in absolute shambles. Without a doubt, the fire broke out somewhere very close by, because the damage is exponentially more drastic over here. The walls, once covered in nothing but creamy-white wallpaper, are now hideously scarred. Scabrous black patches mar the entire hallway where the wallpaper has seared and roasted. What little of the wallpaper remains bubbled and crisped, likely as the glue beneath melted and boiled from the heat. Some of the doors seem more or less intact, but others look like they have been flash-fried, one of them looks like nothing more than a deformed black slab. The doorknob sags limply from the jamb, as if it has lost the will to live. The hotel is now a burnedout husk, a corpse of the subtle beauty before. Now that they are in the east wing, they reason they can try to get to the lobby via one of the entrances to the elevator shaftassuming of course, that there is a concrete wall blocking the entrance to the grand staircase on this side as well. The carpet is black with small patches of gray ash and it crunches slightly underfoot. The double doors at the end of the hall have metal frames that are warped from the heat and they emit a loud groan as they are opened. Second Floor East Corridor: They make right for the lobby doors, the boards making a loud, dangerous crack when one places weight upon them, and one can almost feel them giving way beneath their feet. They have a lobby to find. They find themselves in the short hall that contains the maintenance room. When they try going down the stairs to the first floor, they are met halfway with a massive metal firewall, which is locked in place, and no amount of jerking even makes it budge. The doors to the center corridor, like those in the west wing, are similarly sealed. They are locked, but there is more to it than that. Even a locked door will give slightly if pushed, this one does not budge, not even a fraction of a millimeter. It is as if they arent meant to open, that perhaps they are fake doors, built into the wall.

Why not? After all, did the PCs not just walk directly from one wing of the hotel into the other, even though they were several dozen feet apart? They did, and if they can do that and accept it as possible, then a fake door where once a real door stood is, by comparison, easy to realize. Yet, coming to grips with this doesnt solve my problem. They have to get to the lobby, and as far as they can tell, every option seems to be unavailable. If Ding! They turn at the sound, and while they cant say they are positively shocked, they can say that they certainly did not expect to see what they are seeing. The elevator behind them is operational. They have no idea how that can be. As horribly damaged as the place is, how can the elevators mechanisms not be in a state of fatal disrepair? They turn to their right and see the shiny brass doors of the guest elevator for the first time. The doors and the small panel with the call button seem completely impervious to whatever inferno had raged here before. The doors open with a quiet whoosh, as if to openly disregard such silly notions. They reveal an empty car. It sits there as they stare at it, open and inviting, showing none of the ravages of the room around it. They get the feeling that this is not coincidence. It is here because it is supposed to be here. No question about it. Elevator: They step inside, curious as to where they might find themselves. The inside of the elevator is neat and polished, with wood paneled walls and brass railing. Certainly, there is a good logical chance that the mechanism would find this a perfect time to fail and send them plummeting to the basement. Turning to the panel and pressing the button for the first floor, and. nothing happens. Even pressing it several more times, each getting no response. The third floor is out, there is no way to access the lobby from up there. That leaves only the basement The elevator exits right next to Venus Tears, and the lobby is just a short jog up the stairs and around the corner. The PCs can push the button marked B, which lights up like a small ember, and let loose a sigh of relief as the elevator shudders and comes to life. They feel the dip of the floor as the car begins its steady, controlled descent to the basement. A few seconds later, they feel the descent slow. Not a split second later, the lights inside the elevator suddenly die, and it is filled with the shriek of complaining machinery. There is a loud CRACK, and they know the cable snapped. The car hits the bottom with squeal and a crash. They lose their footing and fall backwards, striking the walls. The railing hits them, shooting lances of pain through their bodies, leaving them momentarily stunned. Their feet falls out from below them and they go down.

They quickly regain themselves and stand. The door is open just a crack, and a very dim light pokes through. The open button is useless. They will have to pull the doors open themselves. Thats when they feel something cold on their feet, all of them. They are all as good as blind in the elevator car and they have only their imaginations to help them guess what is happening. At first, their imaginations go right for the most fantastic answer, something along the lines of a new monster of some sort, perhaps waiting at the bottom of this elevator shaft for some fool to happen into an elevator and fall right into its embrace. They all leap backwards, again colliding with the rear wall of the car. When their feet come down again, they make a splash, and then the cold envelopes them again. It isnt a monster at all. It is water. Just water. It smells strongly of ash and has a slightly gray cast to it, reminding them of the mist outside the hotel. Relief does not last long, though. The water isnt just up to their feet any longer. This time, it comes halfway up their calves, and they can feel it creeping up, inch by inch. The elevator car is sinking. One kind of terror is replaced by a new kind, the kind involving drowning. They push away from the rear wall and jam their hands through the small opening. It is perhaps an inch, but it is enough. They grunt as they pry the doors open. For a moment, they dont. They merely stay in place, mocking their every effort. They attack the door now, letting adrenaline take command. Inch by excruciating inch. The door is opening, but it is so slow. The chilly embrace climbs ever higher now. The PCs shudder as it closes over the sensitive nerves in their waists, and fear struggles within for control. They must not allow it. They fight the fear with their minds as they fight the door with their bodies. Inch by inch, the door opens and they retain control. Inch by inch. Enough now to fit a head through, but that isnt enough. Inch by inch. Up past their waist now. Inch by inch. Almost. Almost enough. Another three, another two. Over their navels. Inch by inch. Another one and Finally! The car is sinking, and the PCs along with it. The floor of the basement level is flooded too. They cant see it, but they can feel it, about a foot or so beneath the surface. The bottom is solid, but soft to the touch. Carpet. You tense for a moment, and then jump, angling yourself so that you at least get your upper body above the floor line. You heave forward, and then you are completely submerged. The pressure against your chest almost makes you blow your breath out, but you keep control. You shoot your arms out and push against the elevator door and wall, at the same time lifting your right leg. You whip your head up to the surface to catch a sharp breath, then plunge back underneath. Again you kick your leg up and push with your arms. Inch by inch, you get enough leverage and you feel your shoe touch the elevators door frame. It slips. Immediately you shoot forward again, and this time you get a foothold. You again let adrenaline go and thrust your right leg, as if you are trying to kick something. You use your arms to aid, and you propel forward through the stinking little pool. You kick, again and again. You feel your leg clear the floor, and now you use your knees along with your arms to get free of the doomed elevator. Once you are sure you have enough leeway, you turn and fall, near exhaustion. Then, you prop yourself back on your arms and watch the top of the elevator car sink beneath the surface and

out of site, wondering just where it is going to come to its final rest, and glad that you dont get the opportunity to find out firsthand. You stand, taking stock of where you are. The only light comes through the door to the bar. Basement: The water reaches to the tops of their calves before finally leveling off. It has a strange, oily feel to it and, despite it soaking their feet, they feel no significant change in temperature. They wade out of it and into the hallway. The guest elevator has dropped them off in the short hallway near Venus Tears. They are hoping to get through the stairway up to the first floor. But those hopes are quickly dashed when they see that a fence built out of metal construction rods blocks the hallway just before the turn blocks this hallway. They tug at one carefully, it does not budge. They carefully pull out the map. The PCs can still access the first floor if they can get to the employee staircase, though they may worry about the upper passages being blocked off. They turn back and splash through to the door of Venus Tears. The door is locked again, but it is so badly scorched that it splits open with a quick ram of a shoulder. They push aside the pieces of the door and enter the bar. Venus' Tears: The door opens without a hitch. Surprisingly, apart from the water, a few blackened spots in the corners and the charred doorframe, the bar appears untouched by the fire itself. Time and water however have attended to what fire could not. The liquor bottles behind the bar are all empty, broken, and dirty. Stools and loose chairs bob and float, along with other kinds of debris. Four bar stools protrude up from the waters surface and they can see the tops of the booths. There is no sign of the jukebox or lure display. If they survived the fire, they must be underwater. A look up at the ceiling reveals several skillfully conceal water sprinklers. As they wade around the bar and to the kitchen, they pass a few nearly-empty bottles, an ashtray or two, papers, and even a few of the lures from the display case near the door. One can speculate the flooding was caused by a malfunction in the turnoff valve and poor drainage. Speculation is secondary however to the white noise on the radio. They point their guns around, searching for the straight-jacket. But they see no movement in the room and the kitchen door is closed. They move cautiously into the room. One of the PCs feels something brush against their ankle. The foot connects, but the feel of the object against the shoe identifies it as a fallen bar stool. They are uncertain what it is they are looking for in the misty ripples until they see a series of waves curl in a place near the far corner of the room. If they shoots into the water, there is no shriek, so they assume he have missed

The surface of the water ripples and flows, and a shape rises up from it slowly, looking vaguely like a hooded figure. The PCs look up at the shiny blackness taking shape. A head and two arms, glistening, take form, but below what should have been a torso, the shape is anemic and thin. The shape pulls the puddle from the floor into itself as ripples, almost tiny waves, race up and down. The PCs shoot it in what should be its chest. The bullet passes through, throwing out droplets that hang in the air for a moment, then fly back into the mass, as if it can't bear to part with even the smallest bit of itself. It begins to blanch and, spreading out from the hand with its grip like a vise, harden, slick water thickening into something like leather. The head turns toward them, and two eyes open, showing white. Kitchen: They barge into the kitchen. The door is hard to move because of the water. The light in the ceiling is out, but the double doors on the far wall are open and there is enough ambient light from the hallway to let the PCs navigate the kitchen. It is more of the same, except there is more debris in here. Aside from perhaps hitting a foot against a submerged soup pot, they make it to the hallway without incident. Employee Basement Corridor: The maintenance corridor door is open and they go through it. The hallway outside seems untouched by the fire as well, however age seems to have taken its toll. Apart from the water, there does not seem to be a smooth surface anywhere. The walls are scratched and warped and the ceiling lined with cracks, some of which allow light from the outside in. The doors to the liquor storage, electrical room, boiler room and pump room are all sealed off. They slog through the water until making a left into the hallway where the mannequin used to patrol. It is darker here and the smell of rotting wood is mixed in with the wet ash. They plod down the hall, noting that the employee elevator doors have been sealed. They are however, fairly certain that the employee stairs will be intact; that area is mostly concrete and metal which should fair better against fire, water, and time. They continue down the twisted corridor until they find the stairs to the first floor through which they can reach the lobby. Unless, of course, the door is locked or jammed, or if it is perhaps a fake, as the one upstairs appeared to be. It is not. The door is dented, with spots of rust on it, and it will be difficult to open because of the waters resistance. But a slightly welcome sight beyond makes it worth the effort. The stairs, while a little darkened and dented, rise up to the first floor platform where the door waits. They trudge up the first few steps and clear the water. They stop while it drains out of them. They put their hands on the handle of the door, it is surprisingly warm but the significance of this does not occur to them until they unwittingly enter the conflagration beyond. It opens, and they step through. Fiery Stairs: Entering the basement stairway, they find themselves at the bottom of a much different scene. Suddenly, there is no water on the floor. The PCs look down in alarm, and then

behind them. The blue steel door is gone, replaced by a wooden one closer in appearance to those found upstairs in the guest areas, though nowhere near as fancy. In front of them is something far more fascinating. Heat. Fire. Are they now seeing what devastated the Lakeview Hotel? Why here and nowhere else? Because all times are as one, of course. But that isnt the case here. It isnt the hotel now. It is a house. The wallpaper is different. Simpler. Cheaper. It bubbles and sears from the heat just as the expensive stuff upstairs did, though. There are stairs leading up, far up, so far that one cant see what is at the top. It is a long, high staircase, the stairs rising and stretching all the way up into an unknown blackness that seems to go on forever. They are not carpeted, but they are strange. They seem far steeper than they should, as if someone designed them with the sole purpose of making ascension difficult. The stairs are on fire the sides and parts of the floor and ceiling are completely ablaze. The ceiling glows red as if the fires from the gullet of Hell are heating it up. The fire is creating tremendous heat. But something is strange. Though uncomfortably warm, the flames do not seem to be generating as much heat as they should. There is also something wrong with the air; fire grown and fed like this should be producing thick clouds of black smoke, which should fill the entire stairway. But instead, what little black smoke is produced rises to the ceiling where it forms a very thin layer that travels up the stairs, collecting itself at the top and only then thickening to obscure the landing. Daring a closer look at the walls and they see that while the fires rage, they do not consume. The smoke isnt heavy, but it has an acrid stench. On the wall to the left is a large picture frame, and the picture is something quite grotesque. It is nearly six feet tall. A pale pinkish material is pinned overtop of some sort of mass, like someone trapped under a cloth that seems to have been sewed to trap the victim inside. It is very large and vaguely star-shaped, though the shape beneath the skin is clearly humanoid and does not move. There are dark patches all over the covering. They are either dark red or black, in the light of the fire one cant tell, but they knew what it is when they realize what the covering is. It is blood, and it is covered in human skin. They can tell by the edges, themselves encrusted with gore, ragged from a deep, imprecise slash. The dried blood and charred spots appear more as stains rather than injuries. It is hideous, the sort of thing no sane human being would ever hang on a wall. It, in fact, isnt a picture at all, it is more like a relief of some kind, a nasty kind. As they examine it they realize the figure is actually three-dimensional and juts out from the painting as though the person beneath the ugly membrane is actually fixed to the wall. The flames themselves halo the painting and cover the walls on both sides of the stairs. There is someone else here, though, and she is also examining the macabre objet dart, oblivious to the flames around her. She is familiar to them. She ignores them completely for a moment, keeping her gaze on the ugly thing on the wall. She stands transfixed. Then, her head snaps back, as if coming out of some sort of trance, and she turns to them. Her eyes are wide with surprise, and she takes a step towards them. Surprise isnt all they see in those eyes. There is something else, too. Something like insanity.

Lastly, to their surprise, she turns around and takes a step up, then another, begins to ascend the burning staircase. She moves gingerly onto the fire-ringed landing, which creaks under her. The fires suddenly rage, flashing across the stairs and making the PCs stumble backward. It is as though they responded to her thoughts, her desire to not be saved. The entire stairs and upstairs hallway is, from where the PCs can seewall to wall, floor to ceilingengulfed in a scorching sea of flame. Numerous tongues of reddish orange lick away at the wooden banister and crumbling walls. The flames engulf the path between her and the visitors, crawling lizardlike up the steps one by on, and it slithers up the rail posts. There is no saving her, as she has finally learned that she is resigned to her damnation. She turns back momentarily. "You see it too?" she says. She swallows hard, her pale face shimmering in the heat waves. "For me, it's always like this." There is a brief trace of curiosity in her voice, but she shakes her head. Then, she takes another step, and another, and another, into the fire and the unknown. Refracted and diffused by the smoky air, the firelight glows on all sides of her, creating the illusion that she is crawling through a narrow tunnel of flames. At the rate the blaze is spreading, the illusion would soon be fact. The PCs stand there for a long time and watch her carry it out, one step at a time, until finally she is out of sight. Will she die from the fire? Will she die at all? Or is her doom of a different kind? Is her fate to climb those endless stairs for the rest of eternity? They have no way of knowing. They dont want to know. All they can do is hope that wherever she ends up, it is better than where she came from. She is gone, up that stairway to hell. They are alone here now, alone with the flames and a strange sense of defeat. The PCs study the painting from where they stand. The figure has been scaled to fit the entire six foot frame, but the PCs notice from the proportions of the limbs and the head, that the body beneath the shroud is not an adult. There is a wood door on their right. The air is becoming less breathable by the second. Their sinuses aches and burn. Their mouths fill with the repulsive, bitter taste of the smoke. First Floor: The fire that murdered the Lakeview Hotel did a very thorough job, but even as bad as the east wing looked upstairs, it is nothing compared to the devastation they find here. Up there, things were burned, and burned badly. Down here, one is treated to a scene of utter annihilation, but it seems to be of a completely different kind. One would think with certainty that the fire started down here, but it didnt seem that way. Something else happened down here, something that wrecked doors, destroyed windows, gouged the walls, tore apart the ceiling, and generally caused a massive amount of physical mayhem. Several doors are missing, revealing rooms in only slightly varying states of destruction. Yellow caution tape has been laced across each of them. One of the rooms has a collapsed ceiling, but all of them are certain to hide potentially fatal hazards such as exposed electrical wire or further structural damage. Very few doors remain intact, and each one tried refuses to open.

East Employee Corridor: There is a chill in the air as they step through the door, although this may merely be the shock of the sudden dissipation of the heat from the stairway. They are in the employees section of the ruined east wing, where they should have come out when they went through the basement stairway door. They move to their left, noting that the walls and floor are damp, perhaps from the mist. The silence of the hall is broken by periodic dripping sounds of water somewhere in the tattered ceiling. They stop before rounding the corner. One of the rooms has a collapsed ceiling, but all of them are certain to hide potentially fatal hazards such as exposed electrical wire or further structural damage. Very few doors remain intact, and each one tried refuses to open. The walls are covered in grime and have damp patches on them where the walls had obviously let in water. There is a massive boarded up window at the end of the room. It would be pitch black if not for the flashlight. If they turn around and go back past the stairway door, they find that the hallway is being held in place by several support beams, but they notice through the broken doorways that parts of the ceiling have collapsed in the rooms beyond. Indeed, with the inner walls and ceiling broken, and the doors missing, it is difficult to tell where one room begins and the other ends. The PCs continue down the halls, marveling at the damage as they look for a way to get away from it. The ceiling above them is in no better shape than anything else. This area is cordoned off with good reason. The whole place is a shambles, and it has the silent look of a bomb's aftermath. Such a thing would explain the extensive fire damage upstairs, but One wonders if the hotel fire had originated here as the fire damage seems most extensive here and there has been more salvage work here than in other places. The damage is even worse at the far end of the staff section. One room in particular is almost totally blown out, absolutely gutted. Massive chunks are missing from the walls, as if something large and angry exploded from within. The rest of the wall is a crumbling mess, and the smell is fantastically awful. They consult the map again. Their options are running low, but they know there must be a way through to the lobby. There is an emergency exit to the hotel next to the security office. They had not been able to get to the office before, but with the floor in this state of disrepair, they could easily break down the doors blocking it off, assuming theyre even in one piece. The door to the Security Office is directly across from one of the gouges, and it is nearly folded double by some tremendous impact. If so, the debris that caused it was removed, but to think of the force required to cause that kind of damage, it had to be large and heavy and very, very deadly. Worn yellow hazard tape has taken the doors place. But they ignore the office and instead look to the emergency exit door. Near the demolished door is a shattered black lump of plastic, but not so ruined that it can't be identified for what it originally was. It is an EXIT sign. Managers Office: The office that once held the safe where they found the video tape is now just a skeleton of its former self with the windows smashed out and the walls burned away, leaving

only warped wooden posts like blackened ribs. Through those posts they can see to the other side where there is no first floor door, but another immutable concrete wall, standing in defiance of time, heat and the PCs themselves. Exit: The EXIT sign once hung over this last door, made of steel and labeled Garden/Equipment Shed/Topiary. It was painted blue once, but the paint has been chipped away and all that remains is the rust-spotted metal of the door. Strangely though, they notice the wall surrounding it is not the wood of the hotel, but rather the cement of the wall that bars them from the lobby. It might be possible to go out and around, and enter the lobby from the front of the building. One is quite curious as to what the outside looks like now. They put a hand on the door and push. It opens easily, but when they step through, they do not find themselves outside. From Below: The door that should lead to a small outside access area instead leads into another hallway, one that looks completely out of place in a hotel. The new surroundings are very stark. The walls and ceiling are completely naked, devoid of any decoration or device, nothing but cold gray concrete. Only underfoot do they see something different, and if the fact that they should be outdoors isnt enough to alert them that something is amiss, this certainly is, because there is no floor. The concrete walls continue down past their feet into a black, empty hole, and it spans the entire length of a narrow corridor with ceiling and walls constructed of concrete. A thin layer of mesh, like chain-link fencing, is all that stands between the PCs and oblivion. As they step in the hall and close the door behind them, they hear a small click. Frowning, they put a hand on the knob and turn, but the knob refuses to move. They turn back to the hallway, ill at ease now that their only way out is forward. Taking a tentative step on the mesh, and one is satisfied that it holds weight, but the PCs are still very careful as they take their first few paces. Walking on unstable footing is never an enjoyable experience, and having a vast, bottomless pit below doesnt help matters. It makes no difference that the PCs have willingly jumped down several such HOLEs recently, because its not something a person can ever really get used to. And besides, there is a distinct notion that whatever is below isnt like the HOLEs, and that only makes it more worthy of fear. A mostly laughable amount of light comes in through the door behind them, but once they are ten feet in, there is nothing. No light at all. The hall is now quickly cloaked by an equally-black layer of creeping terror, which grows thicker with each uncertain step. Twenty paces. Thirty. Each one slow and each one careful and each time their feet come down, it has to make sure there is something to come down upon. It is something of a help that the corridor is narrow, and one is able to use both hands to keep balance, but it is a small comfort, very small. They are vulnerable, more vulnerable now than perhaps ever before in their lives. Fifty paces. It is a bit of a surprise to suddenly find that the wall has disappeared to their left, until another has appears in front of them. The floor continues in that direction, and so do the PCs. They can try their best to figure out where they would be in relation to the Hotel, but they cant.

Just a step at a time and they eventually find the end of the hallway. The possibility that it might lead to somewhere just as dark and even more dangerous goes unmentioned. They will deal with that if it comes to be. Right now, they have enough to concern. It is just a blessing that they have passed unmolested for so long, because if.. cha-chunk cha-chunk Oh no, not now cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk Something is coming, and whatever it is, it is on the move. Its footsteps send the dull clatter bouncing off of the close quarters, and each one brings it a few feet closer to their position. It is moving faster than the PCs have been. To turn tail and run will likely result in them losing their footing, and making for an easy kill. cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk Their minds race, but there doesnt seem to be any solution. They are at a complete disadvantage. It is only a few feet away from them now. It wont be long now. They hear the monster keep right on walking for a moment, and then pause. And thats when they figure it out. Theyve been in this position once before. It is the floor that gives it away. It is one of those damn hanging things, the ones that the PCs encountered in the tunnel after escaping the hospital. It is underneath the PCs. And that is no relief at all, because they remember quite well that being under the floor does nothing to make them less of a danger. The image of that long, black spike coming up through the floor, inches away from their feet, is still very much in attendance, and it is what flashes across their minds eyes as they hear this underhanger reverse course. Now is the time to run. cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk

It is gaining. Now this is the time to throw caution to the wind and sprint. Terror drives them, but preservation instincts keep them aware enough to stay steady. It is a battle against balance, against the uncomfortably soft footing, and against their own fear. Have to run, have to run fast, but they have to be careful. The hall turns left, and it is a lucky one. They are doing well, but the Closer is determined, and is keeping pace. Whether by sight or by hearing, the creature is unconcerned with bashing into walls. It know where it is going. The PCs do not, and the necessary hesitation in each step allows it to cover the distance quickly. It is only a few feet behind and gaining fast. It might have to stop to try and impale them. It might not. It might not matter either way because it can just overtake them and get the PCs as they come past. They have to run faster, but to run faster is to fall, and to fall is to die. The grate beneath their feet seems to wobble more and more with every step the PCs take. You suddenly run right into the wall, and fall Your feet begin to slip out from under you; your arms pinwheel forward trying to regain your balance but to no avail. This is it. It was all for nothing. Youre going to die right before the finish line right onto solid concrete. Up ahead, the floor has turned back to concrete, giving them a reprieve from the hanging creature. The PCs managed to clear the grate, but they land on the concrete poorly. The PCs tilt their heads back to avoid smashing their face on the floor. The PCs hit the floor and pain shoots through their chest and arms. Fortunately, apart from being temporarily stunned, the PCs are unharmed and the flashlight is undamaged. You roll over onto their backs and look back down the corridor. You hear the underhanger pacing a few feet away, unable to get any nearer. The PCs have only a very strong desire to get out of this hallway before it finds a way to emerge from underneath. It cant quite get them from down there, but can it come up? They remember wondering that the first time, and they remember not wanting to find out. That same urge is just as strong now as it was then. Turning around there is something just as hard and just as cold as the rest of the concrete, but decidedly different in texture. It is made of steel, not concrete, and a doorknob is in front it. The corridor has ended in this metal door that has been painted a dark gray to match the surrounding walls. The knob is metallic but, eager to escape the corridor, they pay little attention to this or anything else about the door as they pull it open. Somewhere behind him, the creature cries out to them one last time. Don't leave me

The PCs yank it open and rush through, pushing the door closed behind them. Then, they throw the deadbolt. They dont know if the monster has a way of defeating it, but the PCs might feel better for it being there. A Safe Place: They are now in a small room, blessedly empty and blessedly lit, though there is little else inviting about it. The walls are still concrete, as is the floor beneath the PCs, but it isnt as constricting as the hallway. Their attention is immediately taken by the source of the light. On the wall opposite them is a strange display made of nine perfect squares, three rows of three. They glow bright red, bathing the entire room in a blood-colored hue. Approaching them, the glow seems to grow stronger as one does, yet it does not seem any brighter. The middle square is at eye level, and when one gets close enough, one sees that the squares are actually mirrors, or at least made of a material that gives the same effect. As dirty as the walls are, the red mirrors are perfectly clean, free of so much as a speck of dirt. Looking into them, one can see ones face quite clearly. The corridor that led them here is not on the map and, after their encounter with the Closer, they cannot remember which way the corridor turned. But they neednt be concerned as they have been brought to the right place. On the right are the crumbling walls and burnt timbers of the hotel. On the left is the ubiquitous concrete wall, but this time it holds doors. Then there are the doors. They hadn't noticed the doors before, as the glowing red squares had them enthralled. The doors are enormous, absolutely massive, and were once solid black cast iron, but time has slathered it in a layer of rust, making it a dull burgundy. They are adorned with a strange diamond pattern that runs in columns up and down the length of the door. Each door's four large hinges are each as thick as a wrist. The handle and latch are large, black and rough. There is something ominous about their size. They tower a good five feet above overhead and they must be at least six feet wide. The handle's size will require two hands to work the latch. It is as though this door is not meant for a mere human to enter. The PCs grab the handle and pull. They open more smoothly than their appearance suggested, but they are still very heavy, and it takes no small effort just to get them open enough to slip through. Lobby: The lobby area, once brilliant and breathtaking, is covered in tarnish and blood. In the blackened remnants of the lobby, furniture has been charred into lumps. A tangle of pipes leak dirty water, and the narrow staircase, warped by intense heat, ascends along a sooty wall, underneath twisted pipes and dangling timbers. In a crazy flash of clarity the PCs find themselves examining the carpet that has been laid there on the floorit was once a rich oriental weave. The carpet is the same composition of fibers, but like on the third floor, the colors have bled leaving it a mottled burgundy, dingy and wet, and spots of mildew and mold are scattered about its surface. They also see something else; a single pattern replicated hundreds upon hundreds of times in golden threads against a background the color of blood. It is very vague and difficult to see.

The Seal of Metatron. From across the room, the PCs stand, listening. As the ticking clock sounds from here. They approach, crossing the room, coming finally to a stop before the ancient grandfather clock. All but its minute hand has fallen off its corroded face, but from inside it emits a weak though steady ticking. Water seeps down from above and lays a half-inch deep around the objects on the floor: charred ribcages, arm and leg bones, unrecognizable shapes that might once have been human beings. Around them, like black barbed wire, is a metal framework that has been welded together by intense heat. The grand staircase is now gone but the floor above remains, like some raised stage. A very short, dark gray altar sits in the center. She is hung upside down suspended from the ceiling on this upper level. She thrashes about, and she is swinging on a rope of some kind, tied around her ankles, and she is encased in a sort of wire-frame cage, roughly three feet long and made of solid steel And, she isnt alone. The shadows on each side of the floor spawn two looming figures, and once the PCs see them, and what they are, it is all they can do to avoid flying into a panic themselves. There are two of them. Pyramid Head. Or Pyramid Heads, because there is indeed a pair of them now, one on each side. They look at one another, and then the one on the right turns and lifts up some object in his right hand. It is long and dark, but even in the poor light, one can see what it is, and Oh no It is a spear. They both carry black-bladed spears held in front of them. They walk in unison, with a measured executioners pace. She sees it too, and now she howls, terror completely taking hold of her. The PCs are also likely to be terrified, just as they were every other time they had the misfortune of encountering these pointy-headed hellspawn. This time, though, there is something else, another feeling to temper the fear. It is anger. The Pyramid Head merely moves into position behind her and raises his weapon. She cant see what he is doing, but the PCs, and she can read it on their faces. Her cries grow even shriller, a sound of fear and agony to match their own. There is no way they can stop it. There is no way

they can save her. The handgun wont even make him blink, and there is no way they can get the rifle out and aim it in time. They are helpless. As helpless as she is. Her screams intensify even more for a split second as Pyramid Head throws his arm forward and his instrument of death plunges into her body. Her last cry is choked as she looks up and sees the head of the spear exit the front of her chest, having destroyed everything in its path. Then, her strength and her life suddenly evaporate, and her head falls, hanging as limp as the rest of her body. They stand there, at each others sides, each with a spear in their hand. For the first time, you feel as though the tables are turned. Now, you feel confident, and they seem uncertain. You feel stronger than you ever had, and powerful. Youve been through too much, suffered and experienced too much. Soundlessly, the Pyramid Heads leap in unison down onto the floor and begin to flank the PCs. The Pyramid Head to their left, the first one they saw, grips the spear in both hands and advances with the point forward. The second one, on their right, does the same, though he maintains a single-handed grip. The PCs know what to expect. Every previous encounter with Pyramid Head had invariably ended with the PCs definitely left holding the short end. The PCs have managed to either defeat or avoid every other monster in Silent Hill, but Pyramid Head is clearly something quite different from the rest. Pyramid Head is darker, immeasurably stronger, and impossibly persistent. Perhaps he is immortal, the PCs dont know. What the PCs do know is a rather simple truth; the PCs are still alive only because Pyramid Head had never taken it upon himself to kill them. Oh, there were some near-misses, to be certain. On three occasions, Pyramid Head has specifically attacked them. Yet, he could have attacked at will, wherever and whenever he pleased. If Pyramid Head truly wanted them dead, well, the PCs have no doubt that it would have already happened. He had them in the corner of that stairwell in the apartments. Their weapon didnt even faze him. The PCs had nowhere to run, and no way to defend themselves. If Pyramid Head really wanted them dead, the PCs would have died right then and there. Instead, he retreated. The PCs lived to fight another day, but the point is clear; the PCs are no match for even just one Pyramid Head. And now there are two. They are on both sides, converging upon the PCs directly. The PCs can move backwards and slightly to either direction, and both Pyramid Heads turn as the PCs move, as if magnetically drawn to their position. Their movements are in a queer sort of synchronization. When the Pyramid Heads take a step, they do so in unison, like soldiers marching in parade. The PCs are faster than they are, but it is a small advantage at best. The Pyramid Heads dont need to be as fast as the PCs are. There isnt enough room for speed to matter. The PCs can dart out of the way, but the Pyramid Heads seem content to stalk. Neither of them try to rush the PCs, neither tries to be deceptive. The PCs have the advantage of numbers, and the Pyramid Heads have the advantage of reach. Their spears are both perched, both ready, and both quite long. They arent fast but they are methodical. They waste no energy. If the PCs turn, they turn to match. If the PCs suddenly double-back, they follow their move in a heartbeat.

The PCs have the rifle. The PCs know it is powerful, and the PCs have likely been saving it just for such an occasion. The pistol is slightly more effective than nothing, but not by any appreciable amount. The .30-.06 might actually do some real damage. It might actually kill. But the PCs have a problem. The Pyramid Head are too fast. Maybe the rifle is powerful enough to put an end to Pyramid Head, but the PCs will never get the chance to find out unless the PCs have enough time to aim steady and take a clean shot, and the PCs have a very small margin of error in that regard, because the PCs still have, at best only three of the four shells that the PCs found with the gun itself. Three shots. If the PCs miss even once, the PCs are in serious trouble. If the PCs miss a second time, the PCs wont live long enough to regret it. The Pyramid Heads will try backing them into a wall, keeping at just the right angles to prevent a dartback. If this keeps up much longer, the PCs will be screwed. Either the PCs will make a mistake, a small lapse of concentration, that will have them end up trapped in one of the corners, or the PCs will simply tire out and slow down long enough for the Pyramid Heads to get them. Either possibly is likely, because the Pyramid Heads seem untiring and unyielding. Every last step is perfectly synchronous. They are like machines. They have time on their side, all the time in the world. They start forward, but it doesnt matter now. Now it is time for a reckoning. The PCs train the sight on the Pyramid Head of their choosing. His helmet makes a chest shot impossible, but his abdomen is completely unprotected. It is an easy shot. He is moving, but making no attempt to dodge. All the PC sees is the target. All the PC feels is the trigger. The PC fires. The rifle shouts triumphantly. The crack that issues forth is as powerful as it is loud. The recoil is equally powerful. Thankfully, the PCs stance was decent, but even so, the PC is tossed back a full step with the sheer force of it. The rifles butt slams their shoulder. It stings. . With the first boom, Pyramid head stops as if he has been run head-on into a brick wall, and with the second boom, he is half-lifted off his feet and sent staggering backward, and with the third he spins and sways and almost falls, the slug blasting a fist sized hole in its stomach and splashing thick red all over itself, more than blending it with the crusty old blood that already stains its outfit. The PC doesnt hesitate. The PC brings the rifle up again and aims at the other one. The sudden retaliation delivered upon his partner has made the Pyramid Head pause again, and this shot is even easier. Again the rifle spits fire and a cacophony of deafening cracks, multiplied by the close quarters and the echoes they generate. The aim is again true. This Pyramid Head is blown backwards as well, striking the wall with a hollow clang. You can not recall a sound that was so damned satisfying. Hell, all of it is satisfying. You are the one dealing out the hurt now. You are the one in control. You stand tall and these butchers slouch in defeat. All the fear, all the mortal terror youve have been subjected to at the hands of the Red Pyramid are now reversed. These creatures are mortal; strong, and they are hellishly intimidating, but they can be hurt, too. They can be killed. You feel like laughing. You feel like raising the rifle over their heads and shouting you victory out loud, and and he moves. First the one on the right pushes himself to his feet. He stands in place for a moment, and wavers on his feet, as if trying to regain his balance. You stand there in dumb amazement as the creatures composes himself.

Then, he takes a step towards you, spear at the ready. He never even dropped the accursed spear. Pyramid Head has always been invulnerable to bullets; the PCs have only survived previous encounters through evasion or by Pyramid Heads own accord. They cannot run here, there are no bars or elevator doors to keep them safe, and the Pyramid Heads will most certainly not withdraw. And so the GM is left to dictate the rules of engagement to make their task daunting, but not impossible. They can try the pistol now. Settle on a number of pistol shots. There is no particular significance to the number to it, merely choose one that will allow the PCs a small margin of error given that they will not have an opportunity to reload. Firing, every round appears to hit the Pyramid Head, because he jerks, twitches slightly with each impact, but his pace does not slow and the bullets do not seem to cause any other physical injury. The PCs grunt and empty the rest of the clip into the monster. They drop the magazine and let it fall to the floor as they shove its replacement in. They quickly move to their left, leaving the dropped clip behind. They know that Pyramid Head will never give them time to reload it. The PCs begin to fire the gun at the first Pyramid Head. He double overs, but then snaps upright as if in response to the impact of another slug, executes a limb-flapping, marionette-like spin, and at last goes down. It is then that the Pyramid Heads break their rhythm and the PCs has gotten off only 1D4 shots when the first Pyramid Head charges. The PCs can quickly sidestep and avoid the thrust. But Pyramid Head is faster than the PCs expect and he recovers from the thrust quickly enough to take one jab at the PCs before they can move out of range. They fire 1D4 more shots. Pyramid Head again twitches with each hit, but the bullets open no wounds. They stop. Both of them. Stop right where they are, not even three paces away from the PCs. They stand there, staring the PCs down, but neither makes any attempt to advance, or to attack. Just standing there. They walk away from the PCs. Towards the center of the lobby. Once there, they move in a turn, finally coming to a stop and then turn to face each other, so close that the fronts of their pyramid-shaped helmets almost touch. They raise their spears, but then bring them back down, reversing grip and striking the floor with the butt. They land at an angle now, both spears jutting out enough that they cross each other with the tips almost touching, looking almost like a sextant.

They both stand, facing each other and holding their spears at an angle. Their heads jerk suddenly, as if they are nodding at each other. Then, in a perfectly synchronized motion, both Pyramid Heads lurch forward. Then, they fall still, perfectly stock still. For, you see, they have done the absolute unthinkable, the one thing they could have done that was so far beyond their most positive fantasy that the PCs have tremendous difficulty accepting what they have just witnessed. They positioned their spears on the ground with the pointed end nestled under their chins. With one forceful thrust, the spears impaled their throats and exited through the back of their necks. Propped against the spears, the points jammed underneath the jamb of their headgears and into their throats, the Pyramid Heads spread their arms and remain still. Then, all is silent, except for the small dripping noise as dark blood streams down the shafts of the spears. They have thrown themselves upon their own spears, The PCs couldnt kill them, but they can die. They can and they did. They are dead. They are no longer a threat to them. The PCs were finished. The PCs were dead. The PCs felt that so strongly, the concept gaining a sort of reality that felt almost physical, very similar to the sort of poisonous malice that the PCs felt every time Pyramid Head was nearby. It was so real, so suddenly omnipresent that the PCs felt they could reach out and touch it. Certainly, it was going to reach out and touch them, and it was going to be none too gentle about it. And then, death decided to turn around. Death decided to visit itself, instead. It is the twin Pyramid Heads who stand transfixed upon their horrible weapons, instead of the PCs. It is they who died, and as far as the PCs can tell, they died by their own hand. What else can explain such an incredible phenomenon? This place is crawling with the supernatural and the metaphysical. This place takes the idea of normalcy, gives it a good, savage beating, and parades it naked through the streets. No matter what sort of wild, improbably explanation the PCs can come up with, the PCs cant discount even one of them with total certainty. Even though they look dead, there is no way the PCs are going to take for granted anything their eyes tell them. But, the closer The PCs got, the more reassured The PCs became. The PCs feel no small amount of natural apprehension by their mere presence, but it is nothing like what the PCs normally get from them. There is a mild, cautious unease, and nothing more. They are dead. And, they are holding something. Both of them are. The PCs reach over and pluck it out of the waiting hand, still half-expecting him to come to life the minute the PCs remove the prize. The PCs are pleasantly disappointed. It is an egg, or something shaped like one. It is made of stone or perhaps porcelain, and it is scarlet-colored and satiny to the touch. The PCs circle the Pyramid Heads, keeping eyes on them the entire time, until they are able to reach for the other object. It too is an egg, same size and weight as the other, but quite different in appearance. This one is ugly. It resembles a regular white egg, but the shell is flaky and scabrous, and underneath the flakes The PCs see red. Not the soft, pretty red of the scarlet egg, but rusty, dirty red. Nasty red. The egg looks infected, and just touching it makes one feel uneasy. As far as the PCs can tell, the Pyramid Heads are carrying nothing else of note. All the PCs want is to get out of here, away from these monsters, and well, wherever it is the PCs will go.

Remembering her, they look to the floor above. The altar still stands, stained with blood. But she herself is gone and that in turn reminds them that their ultimate goal is the roof. There are two other doors in the lobby besides the one through which the PCs entered, which would have led to the rear hallway. They are both supposed to lead to the same place, so the PCs can pick a door. It is locked, but there is a small slot above the doorknob, one shaped quite like an egg. It doesnt make sense, yet at the same time it makes perfect sense. The PCs insert the scarlet egg. Some unseen mechanism makes it stay in place, and the PCs hear a click from within. Other than that, there seems to be no effect. The door is still locked. But, there is another door It too is locked, but it too has an egg-shaped indentation, and into it goes the diseased egg. The PCs hear more clicks, and this time, the locks are disengaged. The PCs open the door. Rear Hall: The doors do indeed lead back to the rear hall, or whatever passes for it these days. It looks more or less like it used to, and lacks much of the damage found in other parts of the hotel, but it has not escaped completely unscathed. There are some damaged patches of wallpaper, and others stained with something that looks too much like blood. Fire gates are drawn in both hallways, leaving only the back door accessible. A thick haze permeates the area, and the acrid, dusky scent of smoke is in the air. Together with the dim lighting, it is a surreal sight. They make their way to the rear exit, knowing they have to go through those doors but not having any idea what they might find behind them. Their last attempt to exit the building had them wind up in a corridor that certainly didnt exist in the other world, and how likely is it that this door will lead them to a similar place? Only one way to find out. Caf Toluca: There are holes in the floorboards where burning debris from above has settled and gone through. The couch is a burned tangle of springs, and the piano is a horror of keys and wires. Kitchen: Spattered, rusted metal counters run up and down the room, with various tools too degraded to identify from a distance strewn about. Dishes and the like litter a counter near a rusted sink on one side of the room, while a radio/tape player - presumably for the staff to listen to while they worked - is plugged into the wall opposite. There are twin doors to the room - both in the corners at the far end of the room, one in the left wall and one in the right wall. Pipes some over a foot in diameter, others as thin as her wrist - jut out of the walls at random, turning sharply. At the far end of the room, directly across from the door, a huge chunk of unidentifiable meat sits on a counter against the wall. Last but not least, there is a solitary health drink sitting on the kitchen counter. Upstairs: The PCs must ascend the stairs carefully. The stairs themselves are solid enough apart from the odd chip here and there, but the railing wobbles and probably cannot take their weight. Long Hallway: As it turns out, their presumptions are correct. They do not find themselves on the porch, overlooking the garden and the docks on the lake. Instead, the PCs are in another hallway. It isnt stark and utilitarian like the other one, and there is actually solid ground underfoot, and carpeted as well. It actually looks much like any other hallway in the hotel. Same

style of wallpaper, same paneling, same decorative arches on the ceiling. The walls are intact and though unadorned, still have a slight blue cast to them. And they might wonder briefly if they have been transported back to the old hotel. But the illusion is broken as they notice small traces of the fire here and there. There are small pockets of soot in the corners where the floor meets the wall and the carpet, while undamaged by flames, has that same mottled color. It seems this hallway was deliberately protected from the fire, as though to ensure it would be fit for passage. A layer of mist still swirls about the hall, maintaining that feeling of gloom and obscuring the end of the hall. It is also different in two distinct ways. The first is that the hall seems very bare. There are no doors, no paintings, no flambeau lighting, no decorations of any sort. Strange enough, yes, but not unreal. Unreal comes when the PCs look down the hall and they find that they cant see the end of it. It is long. Is it overly strange that the PCs are beginning to take for granted each new flagrant violation of physical law the PCs encounter? Not that the PCs havent wondered about that before. The PCs go for a walk. They are tired from the fight and they walk up the hall slowly, trying to conserve their energy, though they can feel adrenaline building inside them. A faint smell of fresh air tells them that there must be a hole to the outside somewhere and they can draw some encouragement from this. They want to plan on what to do when they reach the roof, but in truth, they have no idea of what they will find up there. An hour ago, they would have guessed Pyramid Head, but the confrontation in the lobby tells them it will be something new and something dangerous, or else they would not have been given the bullets. But as they move on, they can feel their anxiety subside and boredom set in as the mist refuses to part, leaving them walking in a seemingly endless hallway. They see nothing for a long time. The PCs keep a steady pace, not too quick, not too slow. At first, the PCs can aim to keep alert, or take note of any oddities outside of the obvious, and eventually, for any changes. It is perhaps fifteen minutes into their little stroll that the PCs give up even on that. By that point, the PCs can study the little details on the wall, things like patches and stains, little cracks, anything that show even the slightest deviation in what seems like an endless pattern. At first, the PCs notice similarities. One little discoloration on the wall will repeat itself twenty feet down. Then it will repeat again another fifty feet, and then again, this time only ten feet down. There is a pattern, and some kind of really weird repetition going on, but there is no consistency. They keep walking, and the hall keeps going, and eventually the PCs gave up trying to make sense of it. The PCs have no idea how long it has been since theyve entered this hall, but they guess that the PCs have covered well over a mile, if not two. Even those kinds of concepts are slipping into periphery, though. Their bodies are moving, the steps coming one after another, but their minds are elsewhere, absenting itself from the excitement. It is something in-between simple daydreaming and full-blown introspection, but at first the PCs cant exactly name the sensation, and the PCs arent entirely certain it is important to give it a name anyway. All that matters is that the PCs are walking down this interminable hallway. The passageway is filled with a quiet commotion, like snatches from a thousand radio stations, all incomprehensible, coming and going as the dial was flipped and flipped again. The passageway ends ten yards ahead, but with every yard the din increasesnot in volume but in complexityas new stations are added to the number the walls are already tuned into. It is not

music, but a multitude of voices raised as a single sound, and there are solitary howls; there are sobs, and shouts, and words spoken like a recitation. The mist in the hall finally parts and reveals a plain brown door, slightly warped from the damp air. They have reached the end of this impossible hallway. Going through, they find themselves in an even stranger place. It is an enormous room of sorts, though this room has no ceiling and very little floor. The center is dominated by a pit, and it is filled with churning black water. The lack of roof is obvious even without looking, for the surface of the black lake ripples in a thousand different places. They can also feel it on their faces and hands. Rain. It is raining. The walls are tall, bare concrete, reaching skyward several stories. The PCs can see something up there, but what it is, they cant tell. There is a long, twisted steel scaffold leading up to it, though, and they must mount the stairs to reach it. They go up the first set, the heavy clang of their footsteps breaking the silence in the air. The stairs groan under weight, and all around shifts a curtain of gray smoke. As they get to the top, they find that they are on rather a narrow platform running the length of the building. Overhead is another such platform and one can be somewhat grateful for the stairs. They go up the next flight of stairs, taking them to the third floor. They have to walk along the platform a little ways before they find the next set of stairs. They stop at the halfway point and look above them. The steps bypass the roof and instead lead up to an enormous platform composed of steel girders and a metal grate nearly twenty feet above the roof. Apart from the stairs, the platform is surrounded by steel fencing and thick pipes. As they look at it, they decide it is not so much a platform, but rather the skeleton of what was intended to become the fourth floor, though as with all construction in Silent Hill, there is no sign that any work has been done on it recently. Through the grate they can see a large rectangular object seated near one side of the fencing, though the holes in the grate are not big enough to show them anything other than its silhouette. Their hearts pound and, ignoring the burn in their quadriceps, they race up the last part of the steps. When they reach the top they see that this was definitely intended to be another floor. They notice metal crossbeams connecting massive girders in each corner of the platform. The fence is nearly eight feet tall and built solidly enough to prevent any sensation of vertigo. The whole of it makes one think of the platform as more of a room, despite the feel of the open air. At any other time, they might have wondered how such a heavy structure could be supported by a building as old as the hotel, but this is not any other time, as something of far greater interest waits for them. The object they saw below sits across from them next to a square hole in the fence that is meant to become a window. The object is a simple bed, a small full-size with a curled-arch wooden headboard and footboard painted a pale cream. The sheets are similarly-colored, though the rain has started to darken them a bit. A rather nondescript bed. And when the PCs look over at a nearby window, they see the other shape, one that they hadn't been able to see from their belowground vantage point. The figure is looking out the window as if seeing through the fog and into the woods, lake, and mountains beyond.

It is a person. A woman. A woman dressed in a button-up sweater, pink as pale as the sky at sunrise, and a white, kneelength skirt decorated with a floral pattern. Her deep, auburn hair is drawn up in a bun. She stands leaning on the window sill, and her back is to them. A pair of white slippers cover her feet. She hums a nameless tune until she hears their first few footsteps on the grate. She stops and turns her head to them. Her skin is white but the contrast with the even whiter skirt and blouse give it a healthy, tanned look. Her eyes are a deep blue and she smiles a small, but warm smile at them. I mean, after all, what is left to fear? You have already won. You have survived Pyramid Head. Hell, you have survived two of them how many were there this whole time and though it was technically a victory by default, you are still alive and they are not. You have survived them, and all the other amazing horrors of this town. You are stronger than you thought you were. Then, she changes. They see her there, still staring at them with that evil rage in those eyes, and then an image appears, imposing itself over that of the woman. It is a weak image at first, flickering like a fluorescent light that is about a minute away from death. Then, it gradually gets stronger, more defined, until finally, the mirage disappears completely, replaced by something different, something horrible. Her face is still there, though now it has darkened, and now it is dirty and dead. Beneath the ugly brown scum, her face is a pale and bloodless white, and it is dry and cracking. Her lips have turned black, her teeth vanish, and the corner of her mouth extends almost to her ear in an exaggeration of her characteristic lop-sided grin. She is now dressed in a shapeless robe or dress of some kind, and whatever color it might really have been, it too is in a serious state of filth. It makes her look like some hideous parody of a Catholic nun, and the illusion is accentuated by the hood that appears on her head an instant later. The black, steel frame of the bed rises up to surround her like a cage but her clothes and hair stretch out and turn into a dirty brown membrane, not unlike the webbing that covered the straight-jackets. It binds itself to the frame, as if it were adorning armor, not at all unlike the ones theyve seen on those fleshbag things in the hospital, except that this is larger. She herself is inside something like those fleshbags, but not completely as they were. Her body, and all the disgusting accents, are visible, but they seem to be halfway trapped inside of this enormous, stinking pile of skin that is clamped at the corners and stretched across the span. The rotten flesh surrounding her is in a serious state of decay. Maggots squirm all along the visible surface, and there are these strange pustules, nasty white things that grow right in front of the PCs eyes. Worst of all are her eyes, because she has no eyes, just dark, empty sockets. One look into those empty sockets is all one needs to fully realize a very unwelcome truth. This was your enemy all along. This is the tormentor. She is something hideous and terrible, something not human. It is as if the evil in human nature had been distilled and concentrated and reconstituted into a being of pure malignity, the quintessence of it.

She suddenly shoots up into the air, hovering overhead in a way one cant even begin to understand. Then, with a scream of rage that sounds far too human, she comes towards the PCs. They step backwards, partially to give themselves some space, but mostly because they cant stand to be near this monster, the worst monster of all, the monster that pretended to be human. Persona, Transformed, I.Q. 16, M.E. 17, M.A: 24, P.S 28, P.P. 23, P.E: 21 P.B 7, Speed 8..S.D.C: 225. Armor Rating: 9, strike rolls under 8 have struck the framework, and has inflicted no damage. Bonuses: +6 to strike, parry, and dodge. +3 to save vs magic. Horror Factor: 16. Powers: Blinding Swarm: She can create a massive, living cloud of moth-like insects and, even though the insects are harmless, they will fly and crawl up the nose, into the eyes and mouth, collide with the face and crawl on the body and under the clothes of everyone in the swarm cloud. Unprotected victims in the bug cloud will be pelted and covered in insects are -5 to strike and -9 to parry and dodge, as well as lose initiative, reduce speed by half, and lose one melee attack swatting away insects. The victims can barely see or hear. The overall sensation is disgusting and debilitating and reduces visibility to about 10 feet (3 m). This swarm causes a horror factor roll of 12. Tentacle: A twelve foot tentacle, which has a strength of 14 and 50 S.D.C. When it strikes it inflicts 1D6 damage. Two successful strikes causes the tentacle to entangle an opponent in a strangle hold that inflicts 3D6+6 damage for each melee round the opponent remains in its grasp. For a victim to get loose of the entangling tentacle, the combined P.S. (If more than one person is trying to pry the tentacle loose) must be two points higher than the tentacle (16). She is still about a dozen feet away and moving slowly. The room is very large, so they have plenty of room to dodge. It all seems too easy. At the rate she is going, one can empty an entire clip into her face before she can even think to avoid it. They reach for the rifle, and then bring the rifle to a shoulder and aim to do just that, thinking they have plenty of time to make that one shot count. But of course, it is too easy. They dont even see it at first, dont even know it happened, dont even know that she had made a move, until the rifle is snapped out of hands and sent flying across the room, landing in the corner almost fifteen feet away. They stare at it in shock, breaking their fugue just quickly enough to dart out of the way as something large and black flies towards their faces. It is a tentacle, a very long and dark tentacle, coming from the bottom of the demon. It is thick and veiny, and it ends in a long, sharp barb. The tentacle hits one of them in the front and sends them rolling backwards. But, having been so close to the ground already, momentary disorientation and another superficial bruise are the only injuries the PC sustains. They dart aside, going for the rifle. They dont even make it halfway. Her tentacle lashes out again, striking one of them in the leg with tremendous force. The PC goes flying sideways and lands on the steel floor. She is slow to turn and they are beyond the reach of her tentacle.

Even though it seems like every bone and joint in your body is on fire, you force yourself to your feet and stagger away from the she-demon, trying to get as much distance as you can while her back is to you. The rifle is on the other side of the room now, but you still have the pistol and handgun. You have no idea how effective they will be, but it is all you have. They must keep moving so that they can stay far enough away, and they fire again and again. Dark splotches of blood blossom on her twisted, inhuman body. She cries out in pain, and you are again disturbed by the distinctly non-monstrous quality of it. The last shot hits her square in the chest, and she howls in pain and rage as she keeps trying to spear the PCs with the business end of her new appendage. Several times it comes far too close for comfort, and one must be all too aware that it wont be very difficult for her to trap them in the corner. They have to prevent that from happening at all costs, but there are precious few ways to do so. Escape is not an option. Even if they can make it back to that staircase, they cant consider it. This has to end, and it has to end now. The knowledge is completely intrinsic, but if there is one lesson Silent Hill has impressed upon you, it is that sometimes it is best to ignore rationality and embrace instinct. And besides that, a defensive stand also seems likeliest to produce results. That is the hope, anyway. It has to work, because if they cant run, these bullets are all they have left. They bring their guns up to bear upon her, but when they do, they immediately notice something wrong, very wrong. It looks as though a massive black cloud has appeared within the room, swirling and twirling. Only, it isnt a cloud at all, it is realized as it comes towards them. It is a swarm of insects. Each has the shape of butterflies, the color of beetles, the sound of cicadas, and the fury of hornets. There must be tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of these evil little black faeries, already filling most of the room and multiplying further by the second. They are so thick that the PCs can no longer see the she-demon through them anymore. Suddenly, as if directed by a divine hand, the swarm attacks them, the entire insect collective converging directly upon the PCs. They run at first, fearing they might have some venomous bite or sting, but they are simply too fast for them to escape. The first one hits their jacket and they turn and instinctively begin swatting at them. In an instant they are covered by a cloud of insects. Failing at the surge of insects, they stumble blindly across the room. The moths envelop them completely, grey wings beating at their faces, bodies fluttering in the air. They have no means to ward them off any more and the insects land on them and crawl around on their skin and bury themselves in their clothes and hair. There are so many they can feel the vibrations of their angry buzzing in their teeth. They cloud vision and they can feel some of them creeping inside of their clothes. Trying to scream, only causes the moths to fly into their mouths. Moths fly into their ears. Their dusty wings whip frenziedly against their eyes. Their bodies are delicate like a moth's, and feel like powdery fiber as they are crushed. Discharging the gun has an unexpected benefit. The insects' bodies prove extremely flammable, and the muzzle blasts can disintegrate large pockets of the creatures, allowing the PCs to get a clear view of her. She hovers towards them, her movement appears relatively slow, though they

have no way of knowing if she is capable of moving faster or not. The only other thing they note before taking aim again is that she flies too high above the grate to make attacking with the blunt objects feasible. Their guns will be their only weapons. They hit her and she shrieks at them. As she does, another swarm of insects fly out of her mouth and descends on them. Now that they know them to be relatively harmless, they can run to the far corner of the room. They still surround the PCs and cloud their vision, but they resist the urge to stop and fight them off, although they do swat at them while they run. They reach the corner, crouch again and then starts fighting off the butterflies in earnest. They move as fast as they can; with the insects clouding their vision, they have no opportunity to size up their opponent, no opportunity to analyze her strengths and weakness as a predator would. The insects catch up to them. Two well-placed shots ignite most of them and they quickly swat away the rest. They point their guns up, but the demon has already released another swarm. It seems larger and louder than the others and they do not have enough time to move before it catches them. They can use their hands to ward them off at first, but they are so thick, they end up shooting the gun four times to rid themselves of them. When they clear away, they bring the gun up again, but she is not there. They are puzzled only for the briefest of moments, but it is still long enough for the black tentacle to come from behind and wrap itself around a PCs midsection. They turn over and see her entire body writhing inside her web of flesh. There are bullet holes running up and down her body. Black slime oozes out of them. She shrieks again and then the steel frame begins to rock back and forth in the air. It finally teeters over and crashes violently on the grate. The she-demon lies on the ground, staring straight up as they are. She is still alive, but injured badly. A veritable fountain of blood leaks from the steel grating beneath her hideously malformed body. Her tentacle writhes and bounces upon the floor, but with no real strength. The head still twitches, though its movement seems restrained. The tentacles lay splayed out near the lower end of the bed frame. She is motionless except for the occasional spasm. They keep their guns trained on her. No exit for the platform has opened and they are uncertain of what to do. The PCs push themselves to their feet, feeling the crunch of dead and dying moths beneath their hands. They might grab onto the bed and use it to balance themselves for a moment, as theirs legs are weak and wobbly, and they fear the limbs might collapse. They look around and see the floor is absolutely covered with the tiny corpses of the nasty little insects, as if the place has been the recipient of a black snowfall. They arent all dead yet. Some of them still flutter around aimlessly, but they wont last long. Even now, they drop from the from above. The butterflies are dead and the PCs begin shaking them out of their clothes and hair as fast as they can. There is one place that isnt submerged in insect death, though, and their breath catches in their throats when they see it. An object lies there, and they take several crunching steps toward it, bend down, and pick it up.

It is a spear, as long as a man is tall, black from end to the nasty pointed tip, a tip which looks remarkably like the end of the demons tentacle. The PCs know who it belongs to, but why? Why would such a thing be here, now? He was showing you what you needed to do. They realize suddenly that they arent holding a spear at all. It is the rifle. There is only one shell left in it, but after seeing what it did to Pyramid Head, one can be pretty certain one shot will suffice. The she-demon has no bulletproof helmet. One well-aimed shot will turn her brains into a thick paste. She raises her head and looks at them with her vacant eye sockets. She smiles a toothless, lopsided smile. And then she speaks: PLEASE the she-demon screams, Please! Dont hurt me! Dont kill me! Im sorry! Now it is using a human voice again. Dont do it. You cant do it. Im hurt. Im suffering. Dont hurt me any more, dont do it. You cant do it. Im hurt. Im suffering. Dont hurt me any more, dont do it. You cant do it. Im hurt. Im They stand beside the she-demon, looking into that horrible parody of a womans face and those empty lich-eyes of death, and they know the voice is false. They know the illusion lies before them, and the only way they can save themselves is to destroy it, utterly and completely. Depressing the trigger, and the she-demons shrieks and pleas are first interrupted and then completely severed by the thunderous blast of the .30-.06 as it sends its final brass-jacketed messenger of death into the travesty that lies prostrate before them. The last thing they see is that stolen mask of a face deflate and then explode as the rifle shell tears a path of destruction through it. Then, they lower the rifle as the PCs look up to the sky, which is still an amorphous blob of dusk and gray. Then, the gray approaches from the edges of vision, expanding towards the center, but before it closes in completely and erases vision altogether, the dismal gray brightens, transforming into a brilliant and dazzling white. The white becomes all-encompassing, and consciousness escapes before one ever has the chance to find out. The PCs feel raindrops on their faces and they force their eyes back open. They are staring straight up, into a sky completely obscured by clouds and thick fog. When one looks to my left, they see a yellowed, dingy cloth inches from them, and metal legs poking from underneath. A bed. The bed. And when they look to the right The mattress of the bed turns black and rots away. The headboard crumbles into ash that falls through the grate. Seen from outside, the hotel is a scorched three-story building with the letters AKE IEW HO remaining painted in dark red just under the rooftop, which has collapsed during the fire. The windows are rimmed with black, and rooms and narrow corridors have been exposed when part of the apartment's black skin had slid down to the ground. Smoking rubble has been piled up all over the street. The gardens have changed to a pale gray, faded ash, as if a fire has swept through them while they were in the hotel.

The Valve Monster stands on the path, somehow larger and more intimidating than it had appeared through metal grating and glimpsed dragging corpses off into the darkness. The fog makes its mottled skin glisten more red than brown, and makes his white smock dirtier looking as it clings to its thighs, stained and bloody from who knows how many victims. 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 it. Slinky, yet, powerfully built, its body faces sideways, its stance relaxed but holds a hint of readiness. It stares at them, sightless gaze somehow piercing despite the lack of eyes. They watch as its hands unfurl and then clench, unfurl and then clench, its breathing deep and even as if itas if it--It's restraining itself

LAKESIDE SILENT HILL AND PALEVILE: Lakeside Silent Hill borders the
southern area and across the river to the east in Central Silent Hill. Lakeside was arguably the heart of Silent Hill's important tourist business, extending for a few miles along Sandford Street. In spring, summer, and autumn or on any warm day in the winter---tourists and sun lovers strolled this promenade. Newlyweds, elderly couples, spectacular-looking young women in bikinis, lean and tanned young men in shorts, and children walked-skated-rollerbladed among veterans in wheelchairs and babies in strolled, enjoying the glitter of sunlight on water, eating ice-cream cones, roasted corn from Kountry Corn, Popsicles, cookies. Laughter and happy chatter mingled with the music from the carousel, the putter of boat engines, and the ceaseless ring-beep-pong-bob from the game arcades. Numerous gift shops, ice-cream stands, arcades offered video games and pinball and skee-ball, boat rental operations, bumper cars, a Ferris wheel, Lazer tag, docks for various companies offering guided-tour cruises, and other diversions lined Toluca Lake, with views of the dazzling harbor and its islands to be glimpsed between the attractions on the north side. Now the fun zone is deserted. The shops and other attractions are shuttered and dark but for an occasional security lantern. On summer evenings, when augmented by the neon and the sparkling Tivoli lights of the arcades and rides, the old bronze lampposts with frosted-glass globes---some round, most in the form of urns with finials---provided an appealing and romantic glow; then everything glimmered, including the great mirror that was the lake, and the world was scintillant, effervescent. But now the lamplight is strangely bleak, cold, too feeble to prevent the crushing weight of the night from pressing low over the fun zone. Doorways are padlocked and boarded over; behind rusted gratings, windows show rotting planks and dirty shards of glass. The waterfront street seems to be completely abandoneda deserted row of ancient buildings enclosing forgotten wares. The streets have not been deserted by the rats. Once the PCs begin to notice them, it is realized that there are more and more of themcreeping boldly along the street. Huge, knowing brutes larger than cats. They dont appear to be afraid of the PCs, and at times it seems as though they are gathering in packs to follow them. They will likely wish to escape the street, for there seems to be more rats in the darkness behind them that can be safely ignored. Perhaps they might find an alleyway between buildings that will allow them to flee this neighborhoodfor it becomes increasingly evident that this street has

long become derelict. Peering closely at each building finds that there is not a gap between them. For some while they hear a scramble of wet claws and fretful squealings from the darkness behind them. Located south of Old Silent Hill is the lakeside resort, north of the Toluca Lake. This was once a vacationing area. There is an old watching lighthouse on the lake, as well as an island, Hermit. The lake is also used as a dock, with warehouses on it. The amusement park and hotel are in a smaller sub-district called "Palevile." West Sanford Street is plagued with a series of bottomless black holes.

The Lakeside Shopping Center:

A ring of torches light the night, burning around the perimeter of a huge parking lot surrounding the mall. The shopping mall is approximately three hundred yards on a side, a large square structure of pebbled white concrete and gleaming glass doors. There are no gaudy billboard out front, no sign advertising stores and special sales. A single line of parking spaces flank the tree-shrouded walk in front of the building. Each face of the mall contains an entrance precisely midway in its length. The structure of the shopping mall is a concrete torus shape. A ring of stores and eateries around a gap in the middle so that one can look up or down from one store to another and not feel crowded in. Each set of its heavy glass doors opens onto a wide terrazo-floored corridor. Beyond the glass front and doors, the cavernous interior is filled with hard fluorescent light. Flanking the entrance are small shops that sold clothing and books, and records and health foods on both sides. A sign near the entrance has complementary maps and pens. A map of the Lakeside Shopping Center shows that it is split into three separate sections, one for each floor. Eventually they make it out of the passageway and find themselves in that yawning emptiness of the shopping-mall floor. Full-length mirrors are set at regular intervals in the walls. The lounge contains more planters and plants that do the corridors, providing a fresh, natural, relaxing atmosphere. In the very center of the lounge is a deep pool, another circle, this one about forty feet in diameter. It is sided with lava-like stone and low green ferns. Hundreds of water jets fountain out of hidden nozzles in these stone, make patterns in the air, rain down on the surface of the pool with soft shushing sounds. It is elegant; two well kept escalators ascends to the next floor above, and surrounding green plants and flowers frame the large glass windows. Along one wall is a row of huge, black elevators interspersed with tiny waterfalls. They pass dozens of stores.

Happy Burger: Such an assuming name really, a deceptively simple boast of the owners belief in his store. Perhaps if anyone had been there to appreciate the irony of the empty restaurant, it might have made the name less of a lie... There isn't much inside, though. The diner is a clean well-lighted place, cozy and warm. Delicious odors fill the air: French fries, onions, fresh hamburger sizzling on the griddle. The tables are neatly arranged with the usual condiments, table mats and napkins. A health drink is on one of the countertops. The restroom features four stalls from which arises the cedar smell of disinfectant cakes, two sinks with a built-in liquid-soap dispenser at each, and two paper-towel dispensers. A pair of wall-mounted hot-air dryers. The vending machine offers pocket combs, nail clippers, disposable lights. There is a blood-red circular stain branded on the mirror over one of the wash-bowls. As they approach they notice it is a symbol of some kind, like an emblem or a design but it isn't one theyve ever seen before. It is a strange circular motif, centered around a triangle and what might be an eye, strange runes surrounding the circumference of the circle, a mottled group of crazy geometric designs, spiraling into still more circles. Circles, circles in a circle, with a trio of pictures between them and rune-like writing covering the gap between the outer and inner spheres. The ink or whatever kind of paint that was used to sketch it on the mirror still trickles down the glass, hitting the top of the sink whoever had done it, they only could have done it a few moments ago: the paint is still fresh. Outside Alleyway: The double doors swing open into a long, narrow alleyway, lined with bins. The air is thick with the smell of rotting vegetables. Spindly fire escape ladders crouch overhead like giant praying mantises, waiting to snatch them up into their jaws. Behind them, the distant sky is deepening to blood red. The way to the street is blocked and barred by heaps of steaming trash and sopping wet cardboard boxes that have been soaked by rain enough times it is difficult to tell exactly where one ends and another begins, but to the right the alley extends into the clear, traced by winding trails of moss amidst the tall fence and brick siding of the mall. Rammed, dead center is a hefty white van, dripping oil from its filthy under-works, blocking the way entirely. Staff Service Corridor: Stepping inside, the PCs find themselves standing in a weakly lighted gray hallway; one of the employee sections of the mall. The hallways is blissfully deserted. The silence inside is just as complete as that outside, and just as deafening. No sound can be heard, no footsteps, no voices, no muffled sounds of music or sign of life anywhere. Dull neon lights illuminate the inside and fall down on the PCs with faint light beams from the ceiling. The hallway in front of them is completely empty; a few metallic lockers are standing at the walls. Thoughtfully they move on, their steps are echoing through the emptiness and they can't hear anything beside some working ventilators, somewhere above them. Cardboard boxes and memos line the dull gray hallway, as well as dozens of nondescript doors leading to the back rooms of various shops and restaurants. And as far as they can tell, they are all locked with chains and padlocks. Rattling a few of them shows that they are sturdy and refuse to open. They go on. Finally they reach a forking. To their left is a short hall, at the end of which is an emergency exit, leading back inside the actual mall area, the clothing section to be exact. They push the door open and step back into the mall. Mall East Wing: They enter a large hall and, as expected, they find themselves between a set of dark stores closed by large, steel grates pulled over them, which is standard for malls after

closing hours. The area is dark, a few lights flickering in the darkness. A big double gate made of glass is on one side of the hall and a few locked doors, as well as shop entrances with different names. They look at the normally clean white tiles covered with dirt streaks and mud smears. Their eyes study the surroundings and their ears listen after suspicious sounds. But there are none. All they can hear is their own breath and the buzzing of ventilation. The main shutter that separates the east wing from the center at one end of the hall is firmly closed by a massive blind with the description Lakeside Shopping Center, starring back at them with inanimate glee, immovable and mocking. They then see a nearby light of a partly-opened store. Boutique Marguerite. Hopefully, they walk towards it and then stop. They hear a strange noiselike someone mumbling. Someone is in there. One anti-theft barrier isnt lowered to the floor but has stopped just two feet above, barely letting a spray of light shine through on the floor. They crouch down, attempting to lift the shutter up a little more. It will not budge. They have no choice. This is the only exit. They bend down and crawl inside. They must belly crawl through the partly open entrance, grimacing at the germs that are surely scattered over the sticky, dirty floor. Women's Clothing Store: But it isnt a good idea to do it. As they crawl inside the room, they can feel their bare palms touching something wet and slimy. Once their eyes accustom themselves to the dim light they see what they already expected. It is fresh dark blood. The whole tiled floor is covered with a mass of red and brown liquid. Blood. Everywhere. Spattered upon the shelves and soaking deep into the fabrics, pooling at the floor, seeping down the walls, even at the ceiling! Everything is stained black with gore, the stench of death assailing their nostrils as the sight poisons their minds. Then they recognize a smacking sound, followed by a loud and a quiet, but very deep, growl just few steps away. They feel cold sweat cover their bodies and a rising shiver. Their hearts sink and begin to beat faster again. It is followed by a sucking, rushing noise, like something being peeled, wet and sticky, like something eating. -suddenly, a crash makes them jump and turn to their left. A mannequin doll has fallen over and next to it is-----their mouths go dry as they try to come into terms into what they are seeing in the center of this carnage. Larger than any conceivable human being, the giant mass of flesh and bone hunched over the floor is the very definition of inhuman. The thing, and thats what it must be called, because it matches no archetype their struggling brains can find, is vaguely female, even to the point that it seems to be wearing a dress of burnt plastic, but it is powerfully muscled, twice as tall as a human being, each thick, ape-like arm almost as wide as its torso, and ending abruptly without hands, they do not seem to belong to the flimsy, rather frail body. It is like elephant whose legs were replaced with disjointed, fleshy piping; piping made from muscle. Its skin is a disgusting fleshy-brown color which glistens sickly crimson and its head, a cylindrical shaped thing quivering and slurping at something bloody. The impossible body it possesses twisting and heaving in the most disgusting way with every instance of movement, its bizarre limbs bent at unnatural angles as it looms on its thin legs on the blood-greased floor.

Its shaft-like face immersed into the almost unrecognizable face of a completely disemboweled corpse, surrounded by puddles of red slime and gunk of dread brown blood. It is tearing at the victim's face, splashing blood and chunks of skin over onto the floor, tearing a large chunk off the face and chewing on it in its large, gaping mouth. Thats a human body! It is feeding on a dead body, splattering dark blood all over the floor, all over the walls It tears and rips aggressively at the bloody visage of the dead human form laid on the floor, tearing long flesh strips out of it. The puss-filled, bulbous stump sputters and slurps greedily, latching onto the husk and sucking the flesh right off the bone, the crimson rivulets drip from the horrid abrasion that serves as its mouth! Blood drips from its mouth and gristle hangs in strings as it devours the female corpse on the floor. As the monster hears them approach it lets go of its victim, turns around and rears up in its full shape, balancing itself on its gorilla arms, and allowing them to see the torn corpse it has been feasting on, and the twisted, cone-like, travesty of a face that seems to be just a mouth and a blob of burnt, cancerous flesh where the rest of its features should be. It twists its broken neck, and looks upon them with the limp, bloody stump that serves as its head. The eye twitches rapidly in circles as the flesh twists upon itself, focusing to them, zoning in on them. The creature is huge, easily seven feet, its willowy frame and gargantuan arms supported by impossibly spindly atrophied legs. You cant move. You cant think. All you can do was watch in silent horror, unable to tear her eyes away from it, even as the thing raises its quivering head toward you and begins to come closer. The long, blood-soaked, bone spines that slide out of its arms making its intent perfectly clear, it is going to kill you, and then feast on you as it had the other poor soul who had happened across it. The creature advances on the PCs, rising to a daunting height of at least nine feet, on those thin legs. As it lumbers towards them it clumsily swings its massive upper body and gigantic arms for balance, the blood flowing down the long, sickening arms and pooling at bulbous stumps where there should be hands. Its head twitches and writhes, its mouth quivering in the center of flat tips, moving as if it has jelly for a neck and no bones at all, walking towards them with a purpose, blood dripping down its front and smeared in its every step. The PCs want to run. It is between them and the door now, it has them cornered, and it is right on top of them. This thing ate the womans face and now it wants to eat theirs. They are taken aback at the sheer size of the thing, they can feel its stench burning their nostrils, its oppressive shadow overcoming everything around them, but this is no time to hesitate. They quickly pick up the handgun and act on instinct, aim at the creatures skull and fire. Jumping in their hands with a deafening crack, the bullet rips from the barrel and into the beast, tearing through its spongy flesh in a sickly cloud of gore. The shot hits the thing in the lower abdomen and it staggers. Dark blood spills on the floor and the monster continues to advance. The bullet found its mark, and blood sprays from the small wound. However, the monster doesnt appear to be fazed in the least. Its head continues to twitch with in seizure-like spasms as

it approaches. It swings its thick, heavy arms and twists its head, almost as if it were amused, laughing at them, a silently sneering predator honing in on its prey. The PCs squeeze the trigger, again and again and again. Shot after shot hits the thing in the chest and limbs yet it didnt slow down. Blood sputters from its abrasive lips as round after round is pumped into it, hammering its innards to pieces. But the monster is still approaching them. It growls in pain but doesnt even stumble. Again and again they pull the trigger, their fear turns to hate - they want it to die, they want it to suffer, they want to see its tortured body sink into the earth and be devoured forever! Unyielding, it walks into the stream of shots one after the next, its single minded purpose to kill that all that it desires. The gun goes dry, the hammer slamming against metal as the last casing strikes the floor. It is upon them now, reaching for the PCs with one long arm. It never comes. Just when the creature is going to strike, the strength suddenly leaves its body. The monster stands before them, silent, unmoving, dripping fluid from its every pore, its head still twitches, still writhes, it still beholds them with its ruptured eye Sssssshhplurrbblsssss The monster falls to the floor, the thin legs seem to give out first, leaving it to balance for a second on its oversized limbs before it collapses under the pain and its own great weight. It squirms in a pool of its own dark blood. Finally, it lies still, limp and lifeless, dead. They shake their heads and look away from the bloody pile of flesh on the floor lying in a smear of gore and grime on the floor. They don't want to get any closer to it than they have to: they can tell from here that it is dead. Their hearts are pounding, mind reeling and lungs aching with the force of each breath they take in and let out. Then finally they can sense the surroundings. Blood is everywhere, even at the ceiling and it drips from almost every cloth or furniture in the room. Tiptoeing around the fallen monster, the PCs look around to see if there is anything useful. Briefly, they glance at the body the beast had been munching on. From what they can tell, it is, or rather had been, a woman in her late twenties, possibly early thirties. This definitely had been a clothes shop. Clothes lie all over the floor, blood-soaked and torn apart. The monster must have raged here like a berserker. The whole room is a mess. A sales counter is in the back of the room. Behind it is an emergency exit for the employees. On the counter stand two cash boxes and a few tats of bloody clothes as well as a few hangers. Piles of trousers and overalls laid in the shelves, a few of them even not damaged. They spot a set of changing cubicles near the counter, the curtains stained with brown blood. A line of shelves in one of the shop corner is damaged and sprayed with black blood. They then notice a modestly sized knapsack. Next to the handbags is a box of handgun bullets, a few feet away from the corpse. They honestly don't want to move any closer to it, much less pass around the monster, worried it is only playing possum and will lash out when they are least expecting it. Bracing themselves for the stench and the feeling of warm, rising bile shooting up to their throats, they walk as fast as they can over to the bench and snatch up the box of ammunition.

A trio of clear plastic mannequins greets them at the first aisle, wearing long, brightly patterned dresses and matching jackets, now faded and moldy. They hold their arms above their heads in someones idea of an artistic pose, with long strings of pearls looped and draped like a garland, drooping from wrist to wrist to wrist. Jewelry displayed in little black velvet cases and bottles of perfume stand on squat, fancy plaster columns spotted with black mildew and patches of fuzzy mold. As they circle the aisle, passing by the dulled bronze doors, there are racks of dresses hanging limp and dusty and draped with ropy cobwebs loaded with insect husks.. They move behind the counter and leave the room. Second Back Hallway: Silently they follow the hallway. A massive door is to their left which they can open from this side but they almost know where it will lead them to. It is the same door which they couldnt open from the other side. They follow the hallway until they reach the end, where there is a set of elevators but there seems to be no energy as they are dead. On the wall is a pin board with a map of the shopping center. Store Room: There is one more thing on the shelf that catches their eye. It isnt an object though. Rather, it is a drawing on the side of a cardboard box. Concentric circles, with arcane symbols scattered in between, are etched in exquisite detail on the box. Three small circles are arranged in triangular formation at the center of the symbol, along with four indecipherable characters. The symbol is crafted in luminous red paint, and stands out vibrantly against the drab gray of the merchandise shelf. The red paint almost seems to glow and it looks fresh. It is almost hypnotic in a way. You find yourself kneeling and turning your head, studying it carefully. There doesnt seem like a proper way to read it, no front or reversed face as far as they can tell. It fascinates themthe way it seems to twinkle in the light, how it is so neat and carefully ordered despite the smears, as if someone's hands had moved further than they needed to shape the symbol. Your fingers press lightly into the outer circle, barely grazing it, and you gasp as they make contact. It is cold, colder than you imagined it to be, like a snowbank that resists the thaw. More than that, the minute you touch it your head starts to throb, aching and horrible, like someone has slammed an ax directly in the top of your skull and cleaved your brain. Your head swim and pounds as you fall onto your backs, hands pulling at your hair, clawing at your face, nails running down cheeks and chin to squeeze at your throat, gasping and screaming for air through the pain. You feel another throb but it isn't from your headit is in your stomach. No, near your heart. Now in your arms, spreading down to your fingers, a pulse like thousands of tiny, beating hearts. There it comes again, the red all that red, red red red the nurse's sweater, red the bandages just minutes after being changed, red like the dress of the woman, stained and stuttering, falling back as she clutches at herself and screams, red, your mother's lips, her cold smile, her yellowing teeth. Red, your hands after being clenched for so long around the edge of your desk, red the face of the boy who had moments before been laughing at you, throwing stones and words that hurt worse than anything, red, the strawberries your father had bought for you, your one indulgence, slipping between his lips and ripped as his teeth digs into the soft flesh. The pain, the images, the throb that runs all over your body as if it weren't your own, and the ringing, a loud buzz like so many bees hovering, wings fluttering faster than sight could see, surrounding you.

Snap out of it. Pull yourself together! You grit your teeth and howl, head twisting from side to side. Red, the strawberries, your father's hands, his mouth, how it spread into his smile, a smile he shared only with you. Your father, dad, daddy, daddy where are you? A child's voice crying out against the static and the dark, terrified and alone, more alone than any child deserves to be, aching for the one thing that could protect her. It is like being wrenched from the edge of a cliff you were teetering on. Just as suddenly the pain lifts, the throb in your head and body stops, so many hearts silenced and the buzzing of wings and thoughts and agony now muted, far enough away so that you can start to function again. Your hands flex at your sides and you lift them gingerly, staring at your trembling fingers, at the stains on your right hand from when you touched the symbol. Rubbing your fingers together, spreading the red across the whorls of your fingerprints, it seems less and less like paint the more you study it, honing your mind to this oddity as your pulse slows to its usual pace, your head gradually clearing. This can't be paint. It isn't all that sticky for one thing, and this stuff has a weird sap-like consistency to it. Your fingers start to get stuck as the liquid dried and you rub out the excess ink on your clothes to get rid of the stain. You stand up, frowning again, steadying your against a nearby crate as you get used to your own two feet again. You glare down at the symbol, at the now malicious-like glint to its coat, the strange circles and runes. Whatever this thing is, you don't like it. You don't like looking at it, you don't like that it is here, and you sure as hell don't want to step on or across it, not if touching it means going through that pain again. You try not to be too superstitious, but this is just the sort of thing that looks like it came packaged with a curse to anyone who trespasses over it. And judging by what had just happened you are pretty sure you are right to be wary. Playing it safe, even if they are well past the point of having that do them any good, they edge very carefully around the symbol, glaring at it as they do so. Once they are clear of straying across it, they turn their backs on the symbol and pretend it doesnt existit was a delusion they take great comfort in, as long as it means they can stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding the horrors that lurk ahead. Of course, their new found determination to ignore the symbol and its effects on them does not stop your mind from wandering, trying to place some sense of familiarity to the world you are thrown in to and don't seem to be able to escape any time soon. Second Store Room: The warehouse is as large as any store in the mall, larger than most of them. It is fully four hundred feet long, sixty feet wide, with a twenty-foot ceiling. The floor is marked off into nineteen sections of varying size, one for each of the retail outlets in the mall, and every section is stacked with cartons, crates, and drums of goods that will eventually be taken via electric-powered carts and fork lifts to the many stores under this one roof. These electric vehicles are parked in a row beside barrels of cleaning supplies and floor waxes. Two corrugated steel garage doors, each as high as the room and wide enough to admit the back end of a large

truck, are set in the east wall. The warehouse has no windows. With the garage doors closed and dogged down tight, as they are now, all light comes from fluorescent tubes framed in sheet-metal reflectors twenty feet overhead. This cold, blue-white glare, combines with the cinder-block walls and plain cement floor, too closely resembles the decor of hospitals and prisons. Second Back Hallway: It is dimly lit and strewn with a mess crates, garbage bags, wooden pallets. Then they spot another door with an exit label near the broken elevators. Finally...relieved, they open it. Stairwell: The door leads to a staircase leading up to the next floor of the mall. The door to the stairwell is metal and cool to the touch. They open it cautiously. The radio is silent, but the area beyond is remarkably dark. They stand in the open doorway for several minutes, letting their eyes adjust. Eventually, they are able to make out the steps and the railing in front of them. Second Floor Back Hallway: They quickly make their way out into the service ways again, taking a kind of comfort from their neon lit simplicity. They have barely opened the door to the second floor, when they hear a noise coming from a passage to their left. The radio trills louder as the footsteps draw closer, the PCs hands tremble as they pull out their guns and steady it straight ahead, wrapping both hands around the bottom as their fingers slide over the triggers. The patter of little feet Beyond the dim fluorescent lights, they can sense something in the hall moving towards them shifting their balance, the PCs steady themselves against the locked door at their back, their weapons ready, eyes wide, searching for the threat. Immediately they recall the long armed thing from the clothing store, the one with the twisting, tubelike head and neck. It is their next thought that saves them from fear, when they realize there is no way something that big could fit into this corridor. But as that means that this thing isn't something they'd seen before it is a fairly useless comfort. Abruptly, the odd distortions from earlier return with a vengeance. Only now, they sound more like groans mixed with a horrid wet ripping noise, as if flesh is being torn from someones body. A flash of white flesh... They saw something move between the halls, but it was so sudden they couldnt get a bead on it. They can hear it coming closer and closer still, the grating sound of what had to be it tracking their scent. They try in vain to prepare themselves for what is coming, their minds working to put together a definite picture, but nothing even comes close to what crawl into view... It is small; barely the height of a seven-year old child, but it looks the furthest thing from human theyve ever seen. Its black orifice trails against the filthy floor, a slick, spindly form loping into their sight. Its sleek, elongated, body is of a stark, virgin white, its skin transparent and gleaming

beneath the buzzing lights. The white rotten skin is carved with scars and is as pale as if it were frozen and so thin that one can see every vein pulsating underneath it. It has no arms, but its small faceless head has a strange humanoid form, covered with dark-blue veins throbbing with blood. Its back has two spike-like arches like small wings. It is approaching them headfirst in a bulky posture, making strange deep noises and moans. It walks, or rather, waddles toward them, slow and clumsy on bent, frail looking hind legs; another high pitch whine erupting from the hole one would have to call, its head. Whining pitifully, it raises what has to be its head from the floor, the black, dripping orifice staring right back at them. Its steps are uneven and its body tilts from side to side, almost as if it were top-heavy and unused to the force of walking something else reminiscent of a baby. They stare and pity it for being pathetic, and seemingly useless-until it suddenly leaps at them. It attacks, scratching with sharp talons. They have no time to react. Only the pain of ribs cracking, the agony of arms scraped wide upon the pavement as it pins them, a limb squeezing the breath out of lungs, heart exploding in chest. White. Gleaming. The thing leers over the PCs, its phallic body disgustingly slick, orifices dripping with spittle as it lowers to devour the PC's face, to suck eyes from their sockets and glee in the fluid gushing between its gums. -Fire. A spark, a crack, a shot of force tearing the disgusting thing's face wide. The noise of the shot echoes through the emptiness of the hall. The bullet ran straight through its head, drilling a clear hole into its soft skull. Dark blood spurts out painting the floor and wall dark-red, drains upon the PC, but it is still moving. They shoot one more time, hitting its shoulder dramatically. But it is still approaching as if the deadly wounds are nothing. The heavy, wounded half-dead creature finally reaches them and kicks with its long pale leg at them. They jump aside and see its toeless feet hit the metal door behind them, denting it. Sliding to the side, they jam the barrel of the gun into the sickly soft tissue and fire, the horrid stench of waterlogged flesh assailing them as the vessels in its skin burst, the bloody trauma staining its entire form in crimson. It flails horribly as it lies on its side, whining, screeching, its orifice spurting flecks of tissue as it struggles to right itself in futility. It is pitiful. They can only stand there, trying to make sense of the thing as it flails in its apparent death throws. It continues to shriek and writhe, kicking its legs as it tries to right itself without the aid of arms; its head moves up and down, sounding more like a distressed child than anything else. Finally it barks one final, rattling cry and sinks to the floor before them, shivering, gurgling hopelessly and thrashing in silent agony, blood spreading around it like a lake. Carefully and slowly they step through the hallway, passing past a lot of closed doors; rooms for employees. On some of them are pasted labels or paper sheets with some descriptions or signs, but the most of them are unclear and unreadable. Almost every door similar as in the other shopping halls is locked down or is rusted shut.

Passing the many damaged or locked rooms the PCs hope that one of them will be open. And again they are lucky. One of the doors is open and leads them into a dimly lighted storage room. Store Room: A growling noise comes from inside, as they open the heavy metal door. They gasp in shock, as they see a dog-like thing, trotting on four short and crooked legs. The middle of its snout splits open, revealing sharp canine teeth struggling with some kind of a piece of foul flesh laid in a shelf. As it hears their admission, it spins around legs, grunting as it peers at them with flaming red eyes and tries to run towards them. They raise their guns and shoot. The bullet stops the creature from its run; it howls in pain and falls back. Another painful bullet drives into its dead body and lets another fountain of blood cover the floor and shelf behind it. It sinks howling to the floor, still fighting to get up. Their glazed eyes watch as the wretched thing spasms back to its feet, its dog-like legs flailing, its split skull flapping, spitting, vomiting up disgusting chunks from its horrid throat as its wretched body strains against the wrappings that hold it all together The small closet-sized store room is filled with many wood boxes and smells strongly of feces and urine and food which the dog had pulled down from the shelves but been unable to eat. This room is also a dimly lighted storage chamber. It has a few piles of boxes set one on another, a few piles stand on holders which are made of boards ready to transport with the help of a lift. They look around and find two sets of bullets for their guns and two bottles of health medicine on a shelf, as well as a fresh peace of meat probably the reason of which this dog-like creature was attracted. Looking underneath a high stack of heavy-looking crates in the dim light, one can see the faint glimmer of something silver and long. Kneeling down to investigate, they realize that the object is a key, caught beneath a wooden pallet. They can attempt to pull it out, to no avail. One can stretch their arm as much as possible, but the key remains an inch or two firmly out of reach. Second Floor Back Hallway: The PCs head outside to the where the stores on the second floor are located. One of them is certain to have something they can use to get that key. A spare key wouldnt just be laying around this place for them to find for no reason. There is a purpose to it. The door has opened into a narrow corridor, mint-green concrete walls and a low concrete ceiling, and they follow it to its endsno more than thirty feet at the mostpast empty rooms that might once have been offices or stores. Only the steel door on the far end of the hall, which is marked with the label "no smoking" in faded orange letters, tacked to the back of it, is unlocked. Second Floor Circular Court: Decorated with rectangular stone planters full of miniature palms and ferns and other tropical plants, the public corridors all converge under the peaked ceiling of the malls lounge. The core of the building is this circular lobby of slightly more than a hundredfoot diameter, with its dark wood paneling and its sloped ceiling coming to a dramatic point fifty feet overhead. There are padded benches here where weary shoppers could pause and regain their strength.

Barely do the PCs open the heavy double door, when they hear the familiar deep dead sound in immediate nearness. Slowly they step out on a circular corridor surrounded with a metal balustrade. But before they can perceive their surroundings they smell a dreadful odor of foul dead flesh. Slowly, almost in slow motion they turn to their right. A shadow looms over them. "Sssssssshllllrup" Only as their eyes realize the big slimy ugly fist with the silver and blood-covered blades at the end coming their way do they wake up from their trance and throw themselves aside rolling on the dirty tiled floor until they collide with the banister. Not a second before where they had been, the dead weight of the creature's arm slams into the tile, shattering it into a thousand fragments. Dripping, rancid, a long bony spike slides back into its elongated arms, the pussy knubs of flesh retracting. In terror they see the filthy mass of dead flesh in front of them. It is of one of the huge long and clumsy humanoid creatures, which they remember from the underpass. Its blood-covered, redbrownish body with the melted ugly skin and the unbelievably large and handless arms moves slowly its thin feetless legs towards them, moaning and half-dead. Its outstretched arm had almost hit them, but fortunately they were fast enough to dodge the deadly attack. Its fist smashes into the balustrade of the court, driving a hole through the metal poles with its razor-sharp blades, which rotate on the ends of its melted arms. Its sick lips smack in anticipation. The bullets prick through its soft skin, riddling its body. It moans with every strike. Its blood spurts in all directions, forming pools of dark liquid on the floor. The fiend moves as fast as it can, almost running on its big inhuman arms. But before it can reach them, it sinks on the floor, as a final bullet drills into its body. It lays there moaning and too weak to get on its feet again. In order to leave the mall they will have to walk through the shops and try to find a way to the escalators. They walk around the court towards the first shop: Sunshine Princess. They can try to open the door but it is damaged. They go further towards the Blue Sell, but this door is also corrupted, as is the entrance to Natalie Shoes. They round the corner of the circuit. A large blind is pulled down, blocking the entrance to the hallway that leads to the escalators. The next shop with the label Beststellers is also shut but the door isn't broken or damaged like the other shop entrances are. Fleetingly they pass past the closed Caf, round the corner of the court on which is also a blind pulled down to block the entrance to the escalators like on the opposite side. They pass past the boutique Marquerite, past the Key of Beauty which is just next to it and find the entrance to Helen's Bakery on the far corner of the circular corridor. Sports Shop: Shoes give way to a dozen bicycles of various colors posed in a row. Immediately, one wonders how much easier it will be to navigate Silent Hill by bike; inspecting the display only finds each bicycle is chained to the mount that keeps it upright. Skirting the display, the PCs begin to weave through the stacks and shelves of items behind.

There are two long shelves stocked with everything one might need for tennis, with an aisle running between them; holding racquets, boxed kits for setting up tennis nets, cans of balls, duffle bags in every color, wristbands, an entire line of videos entitled Play Better Tennis Now!and much more. Dust drifts through the beam of the flashlight and the cobwebs hanging in strings from the merchandise dance in the air as they pass. Guns and hunting supplies lie at the back of the store, in locked glass cabinets lined up along the wall where doors here and there open into stockrooms. Beyond is another long aisle between shelves holding enough racquetball supplies to line the aisle halfway along one side, and racks of skateboards, along with kneepads, helmets, elbow pads, and more lining the remainder. Make it Yours Customize Your Board Today!, said a sign. Past another aisle there are shelves of inline skates. Helen's Bakery: A small comfortable looking store located on the second floor of the shopping mall. They gaze down as the store flier. "Crisp toasty Bread delivered right to your door! Only at Helen's Bakery!" The heavy double door is only ajar. The smell of fresh bread and pastries surrounds them as soon as they entered. The counters are stacked everything from varied loaves of bread to a wide assortment of bagels, donuts, tarts, cookies, pies, cakes, and other superbly tasty snacks. Most of them are displayed behind glass or sealed in wrapping, but a considerable number are in the open air on trays and baskets, to entice customers into sampling the goods. All of which are stale, goods which they can't eat even if they are hungry. The back door behind the counter is unlocked, and there is light and warmth beyond it. Lying on a tray on one counter, next to a loaf of sliced bread, is a pair of metal tongs. Thinking of the silver key in the storage room back in the employee hallway they take it. The tongs look just the right side to fit under that box in the storage room. Then they leave the bakery and follow the circuit back to the employee hallway without making any further encounters. Second Back Hallway: The PCs make their way back to the storage room. Storage Room: Back in the storage room the PCs find that someone has been in here recently and shattered the mirror. There are thousands of tiny pieces strewn across the floor, none large enough to cast a reflection, even if it does mean they have to be careful not to cut themselves while retrieving the key. They kneel down at the crate holder, pull out the tongs they found in the bakery and force them sideways between the boards. Carefully they grab the small metal key with the tongs and pull it out through the slit. It is indeed a key. A key to the entrance to the "Bestsellers" bookstore. Second Back Hallway: Thinking about it they leave the storage room and hurry back to the shopping circuit. It is then that they hear the scratching noise. Soon they meet the reason for it; two of the filthy small numb pale creatures are approaching them as if from nowhere, perhaps called by the death cries of their brother. Quickly they use their guns and shoot at the first of it, letting dark blood drip on the floor. Soon it goes down to the floor and lays there, still moaning.

The second one has almost reached them and is already jumping with its bony long legs in their direction. Shot, it squeals and shivers. The heavy, wounded creature collapses at a wall, letting a pool of blood form on the floor. They then they leave the employee hallway to the shopping court. Second Floor Circular Court: A sign glows at the corner of their eyes- My Bestsellers - a tacky storefront bookstore, the wood framed doors shabby and inlaid with glass. Through the big display window, the PCs see that the fluorescent panels toward the front of the store are dark; only a few at the back are lighted. My Bestsellers: A chain of brass bells dangles from the ceiling just inside, and they chime loudly when the PCs open the door to the small, heavily cluttered bookstore; a cold silvery sound lasting but an instant. Inside is a mass of books and magazines that fills twelve-foot-bookshelves lining the big, unpartitioned showroom that comprises the store, most of them paperbacks and publications. There are a few shelves containing hardback volumes, and even some filled with music CDs. They pass the shelves and boxes not even interested in the books which lay there. The counter is also covered with more of the same. Two sets of bullets lay there. The PCs can take them and watch the wallpapers and advertisements which can be seen on the walls and the backsides of the shelves. A door behind the counter with the label "employee only" has a complicated electronic keypad with a four-digit code lock. Is a second-rate bookstore really in need of a secret code to protect its merchandise? Next to that, a note scribbled on a sheet of loose leaf is pinned to the wall. Their eyes skim over the contents, eyebrows arching in mild disbelief as they read a most unusual and very cryptic memo: "In here is a tragedy --- art thou player or audience? Be as it may, the end doth remain: all go on only toward death. The first words at thy left hand: a false lunacy, a madly dancing man. Hearing unhearable words, drawn to a beloved's grave---and there, mayhap, true madness at last. As did this one, playing at death, find true death at the last. Killing a nameless lover, she pierced a heart rent by sorrow. Doth lie invite truth? Doth verity but wear the mask of falsehood? Au, thou pitiful, thou miserable ones! Still amidst lies, through the end cometh not, wherefore yearn for death? Wilt thou attend thy beloved? Truths and lies, life and death: a game of turning white to black and black to white. Is not a silence brimming with love more precious than flattery? A peaceful slumber preferred to a throne besmirched with blood? One vengeful man spilled blood for two; Two youths shed tears for three; Three witches disappeared thusly; And only the four keys remain. Ah, but verily... In here is a tragedy---art thou player or audience? There is nothing which cannot become a puppet of fate or an onlooker, peering into the cage." They step between the shelves and spot two of large hardback volumes that someone carelessly knocked off the shelves. They bend down and examine them. It is the second and fourth volume of Shakespeare. On the thick spine, there is a fresh trail of ink, forming a long curve. The first and fifth are standing on the shelf. They put the book on an empty shelf next to volume four; the only book left on the shelf, and note that a number has formed: 3.

They place each of them back on the shelf, reading off the titles one by one: Volume 3: Macbeth, Volume 2: King Lear, Volume 5: Othello, and Volume 4: Hamlet. Soon enough, the Shakespeare Anthologies are once again lined up in their rightful place on the bookshelf. Each volume number pertains to a different digit of the code. It is the only thing that makes any sense. The only question is: what is the correct order? The PCs reread each part of the cryptic memo. The first words at thy left hand: a false lunacy, a madly dancing man. Hearing unhearable words, drawn to a beloved's graveand there, mayhap, true madness at last. The first clue is obviously Hamlet. The references to false lunacy and "unhearable" words gives it away. That means the first digit in the combination has to be 4. As did this one, playing at death, find true death at the last. Killing a nameless lover, she pierced a heart rent by sorrow. This one is pitifully obvious: Romeo and Juliet. The second digit is 1. Next clue: Doth lie invite truth? Doth verity but wear the mask of falsehood? Ah, thou pitiful, thou miserable ones! A mask of falsehood? Plenty of Shakespeare characters could lay claim to that particular trait. . Looking at the next two descriptions means that neither of them suit the tragedy of a king who fell to his own ambition and deceit. The third digit has to be 3. Next is a hint that would have also confused the PCs, had it not been for the last line in the passage. Still amidst lies, though the end cometh not, wherefore yearn for death? Wilt thou attend to thy beloved? Truth and lies, life and death: a game of turning white to black and black to white. Black and White? Othello. The fourth digit is 5. Only one more play remains. By process of elimination, the choice is very clearly King Lear. The fifth digit has to be 2. There it is, spelled out plainly by the hints. 41352. Or is it? One vengeful man spilled blood for two; Two youths shed tears for three; Three witches disappeared thusly; And only the four keys remain. Ah, but verily In here is a tragedy

art thou player or audience? There is nothing which cannot become a puppet of fate or an onlooker, peering into the cage. No, that number isn't the code. It still needs something more. One vengeful man spilled blood for two that means it has to be Hamlet, since he was taking revenge for both himself and his murdered father. But what does that have to do with the code? Spilled blood for twodoes that mean they have to add two to the first digit? That would make the first digit 6, and by the same logic, the second digit 4. Three witches disappeared thuslyis a clear reference to the witches in Macbeth. For them to disappearone has to take out the number. The last hint states that only four remains. Those "keys" are clearly the digits for the keypad, and the code is obviously composed of four digits. Subtracting away the 3 for Macbeth's volume, they are left with the following code: 6452. Slowly they shove the missing books back on the shelf in the right order. Then they read the red painted number: It is strange but could it be the code? They go back to the sealed door and enter the number onto the electronic keypad. After typing the last number they hear a sound and the door moves a bit. Slowly and carefully they step back and swing it open. A second employee hallway lays before them, but something seems to be wrong. Back Hallway: The twisting corridor ahead of them ends in a small cul-de-sac, multiple doors lining both sides. A majority of them are locked, others have missing doorknobs. They can force their shoulders against them but they won't budge, the knobs twist mockingly in their sockets, the contents of the rooms denied to the PCs. Nothing comes out of the faultlessly clean corridor's many turns and twists to assault them. Elevator: The only way they can go up or down is an elevator that sits wide open on their floor. Their eyes rest on the silver, glossy doors well, if the lights still worked in a place like this, why not an elevator? Even if it doesn't go anywhere they can still sit down, maybe get some rest, before trundling on in search of the exit. They note the floor is covered in stains and grime, and the far back of the elevator is concealed in shadows. Above, thick exposed cables encrusted with darkness. There is no panel. The entire section is sealed over, as if someone has plastered on top of it. They hear the warbled, piercing howls of static. They wince and nearly scream when they hear a crash! from behind them, the sound of hard plastic falling and skittering across the floor. They glance down to see a radio, a small, red thing that can fit nicely into their pockets. It is the source of all that yowling. What was this doing falling down from the ceiling? They cant see holes from the top of the elevator or any noticeable place from where this thing could've fallen. Deeper into the service area is a security office. Security Office: Outside the window is just more rolling fog. This place has a handgun, some more handgun bullets, and an employee map of the place. The map shows a hardware store back

on the first floor, and a sports goods store up on the third. A basement door is also displayed on the first floor map, but the map of the basement level had been scrawled out with a marker pen. A comment is written next to the scrawl "way out? guess again! The handwriting is shaky, and turning the map over reveals bloody fingerprints on the back of the shiny card map. Transition to Darkness: Then a voice suddenly says, "I'm always watching you!" jerking them out of their reverie, startled and shocked. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, and at the same time, from nowhere at all. Scanning the room at first revels nothing. The security monitor has its back to them, the room is empty, and the window is shut tight. Their own reflection shows nothing, and the room is barren, a flaw in the glass looks something like a figure just on the other side of the desk. The flaw shifts, making it look as though the figure has nodded. If the characters turn around to face...whoever it is shows still a barren security office, still with a switched-off monitor and a uniform locker. Nothing interesting. A smudge on a window? Turning back, they see that the flaw has moved. Now the flaw is reflected as being by the locker, a figure, female-looking, swaying from side to side, facing them. Looking back, still they see nothing. Turning back to the window, they see the flaw swaying faster, arms out to the side now, definitely a human figure, definitely female. She dances like a dervish, swaying and writhing, hips and chest pulsating, hair flying with the movement of her head. Then BANG! she slams the locker with her hips, and they hear it jump, see it settle with their own eyes, not just the reflection. Quickly, back to the reflection BANG! again, and a third time bang. Her convulsions and pulsations are somewhere between violently sexual and insanely berserker, like she is trying to dance herself to death. And still BANG! at every chance she gets. Her hips, her elbows, and now she is stepping and spinning, but still only visible in the window, still just a silhouette on a glass screen. Her hair whips round with her movements, her hips convulsing like the throes of passion have possessed her, some insane incubus dancing in the dark, and still bang! and bang! and bang! One final crash, and she shrieks, right behind them, the sound of a thousand women's voices, all anguished, all young enough to fear and hurt, and old enough to know why, all shrieking out into the air behind them, and she rushes at them, arms spread wide, hair flying out. To spin round is to see her, having no more control over their bodies than a puppet over its own, and they see...they see all of them, all the women theyd ever known the women they'd slept with, the ones they'd always wanted. Girlfriends, mothers, sisters, aunts, acquaintances. All in one body, all rushing forward with such a fierce expression. They want to consume, to devour, to be possessed of them and to possess them, and against that ferocity the sun itself must surely fail. Her shrieks mix with them, and then with the sheer power of her lust, the locker door explodes outward in a gush of ruby gore, they fall to the floor and the world goes black Darkness: When they wake up they panic. It is so dark! Had they been unconscious through what was left of the day? Is it nighttime already? Why is the floor suddenly made of metal when it had been thick, soft carpet before? And what the hell is that dripping sound? The source of the dripping sound is obvious immediately. The locker has spilled its contents

when the door burst. Or, its content. A single mauled body with a hat. No, not mauled, mangled beyond all recognition. A mall security guard, judging by his uniform. The baton is bloodstained, the walkie-talkie radio emitting nothing but a faint hiss, and his face... oh dear God his face. What is left of it is alive with maggots and worms, the rest has simply been torn off. His left arm is lying on the floor, close to the shoulder, it has what looks like stitches that have ripped apart, like the arm had been cut off and sewn back on, but not very well, and the arm fell off On a bloodstained shirt pocket something gleams, something metallic. (Of course) The key to the double doors. Fighting hard to overcome fear, they start walking toward the desk, very slowly, until they are standing right in front of the corpse. Now they can notice all the gory details of it. This man has been dead for a long time. Through the skin they can see the outline of the skull and inside the eye-sockets they can see maggots filling up the head and crawling out of the mouth. The key is right there, in the pocket. One shiny, silvery thing; all they need to do is reach in and take it. A simple task if one werent so afraid. Afraid of what? It is just a dead man. It isnt like he can suddenly reach out and grab them as they take the key from his shirtor can he? You start going for the key, trembling nervously. You breath through your mouth to avoid inhaling the foul smell of the rotten body. Your fingers are now at only one inch from the pocket, from the key. The corpse remains still. You feel a shudder climb through your whole body as you put your hand out once again and start going for the pocket. Your fingers move, inch by inch, closer. Its going to move, its gonna grab you as soon as you reach for the key. The corpse doesnt move; it is still staring upward into the ceiling with its empty eye-sockets. It hasnt moved, so far. WHOOMPH!! The sound startles you into a screaming fit. You stumble back against the wall opposite the desk. It was a booming sound, mixed with a crackling noise, like uncooked rice, falling on a concrete floor after a wedding. You scream desperately, with a terrified, sobbing voice, imagining the body standing up from its chair and starting to walk toward you, lurching towards you, as the maggots flow like pus from its rotten mouth and through the holes where its eyes shouldve been. But it had been the sound of the wind, crashing like a cannonball into the thick glass doors of the entrance, carrying tiny particles of snow with it. It was a booming noise. With heart pounding, you look back from the doors and toward the dead body. It is just as it had been since it appeared: immobile, sleeping, still, quiet. Dead. You just reach into the shirt pocket, quickly; the hand goes in and out, taking the key with it. But

when you pull the hand out, the corpse loses its balance and falls down on the floor. The skull cracks and a horde of maggots spreads on the floor like spilled milk. By the light of the flashlight, the window has become a mirror, showing nothing but the decay and ruin within. When they turn to leave the room and are almost to the door when a harsh electric light floods the room, and a loud grating of static burst in on their ears. The monitor is on. The writhing static lights up the maggots in the dead man's face, making him grin in a grotesque imitation of life. No picture, no sound, just that horrible static hiss. Checking the power cord and finds that it is raggedly severed a couple of inches from the box. From the front, the dead man's contorted grin looks even worse, the worms within his eyes making him appear to stare at them, the flies crawling up his cheek broadening his grin. It would be far preferable see the screen; a screen that is on when it shouldn't be might show something even without a signal. The screen doesn't disappoint. The static flickers once, twice, and resolved into an image. . . . the Seal of Metatron. There it is again: the same eerie symbol from the courtyard. And once again, the PCs shiver under its luminescent glare. The first floor is shown quite clear. No other floors have a fountain in the middle, though why the water has gone dark is unknown. A passageway leads straight out of the mall, it is obviously just a question of getting there. As they turn to leave, a movement on the screen catches their eye. The screens image fails, implodes, and the monitor bursts into flame violently. The flies from the dead man's face then go into the warmth of the fire, dying horrible, painful deaths. The ceiling blackens but doesn't catch, being metal. Back Hallway: Where the PCs are sure there had once been a normal employees area, the corridor is obscured in shadows, but the light is strong enough for their eyes to ascertain greater insight, and for the first time, the PCs behold the profound transformation the shopping mall has undergone in all its unmasked glory. The first floor of the mall is now desolate, all grimy and filthy, like the cleaning crew hadn't so much been fired as set on fire and then been rubbed all over the place, ashes, blood and oozing burn wounds combined to redecorate. The atmosphere feels a little colder, as though the air has chilled several degrees further. The stench of death lingers in the hallway, no doubt the work of those atrocious beasts. The stench of dead and filth works its way through their nostrils into their bodies making one almost vomit. The walls seem to cry bloody tears they seem not only being old but also damaged and dirty the dark liquid dripping from every corner, covering the floor and ceiling. It is strangely quiet here...well, apart from the terrible growls growing louder and louder Medical Room: They have found themselves in what seems to be an infirmary. The traditional Red Cross is emblazoned in fading glory on every bit of glass that remains intact and there is

even a wheeled stretcher/bed, though it looks as if someone has given birth on it and it has never been replaced since. The stain looks almost fresh. Most of the cupboards are bare, and those that arent only have age-rotted scraps of what once might have been bandages, a few bottles of various evil-looking fluids, and something that looks, alarmingly, like a syringe. Scrawled. . . no, painted, deliberately painted, on the sheets of the bed, is the same symbol theyve seen in the bathroom: the same two circles, with runes along the top of it, and three smaller circles in the center. The same color: redder than red, almost glowing. Storeroom: Only one door opens, allowing them into a small storeroom. Light dazzles them as they open the door, but one must retain enough sense of mind to close the door behind them. In the near perfect darkness of the mall, any light will attract unwanted attention. When their eyes have finally adjusted to the sudden intrusion of light that requires they actually work once more as they would normally, they see that the light is actually much smaller, and nowhere near as bright as previously thought. There isnt much to speak of here. A few shelves, some boxes set on the floor, and a long table cluttered with random miscellaneous items. It certainly smells like a storage room, musty and dry, the air stale with the scent of dusty boxes and shelves. For all intents and purposes, it is an ordinary run-of-the-mill storage room. However, they spot a small case of ammunition laying on one of the shelves. Thirty handgun bullets: not a lot, but definitely a lifesaver given the circumstances. There doesnt seem to be anything else, until they notice a most peculiar sign posted along the wall near the entryway. Warning: When leaving the room, please do not turn off the lights. It will be obvious if they are not switched on. The warning is clear as can be. Common sense dictates that they listen to said warning and leave the light switch alone. And so when faced with a dilemma such as this, they do the only logical thing there is to do in this type of situation. They turn the light switch off. Immediately the storage room becomes enveloped in a beam of iridescent white. They turn around to find the source of the beam and there it is: another pocket flashlight shining brightly from between two empty shelves, like a beacon of comfort standing out amidst the darkness. Investigating, hands sifting through the awful mess of corruption, they bring the small green plastic light to bear. Stepping forward, as ready as they will ever be, the PCs slide the lock from the door and step out into the corruption that is the Shopping Center once more, the radiant light showing the way. Central Square Shopping Center: Unlike the previous section of the mall, this area of Central Square is somewhat slightly lit. They hear nothing but the pounding of their own tormented hearts as they tear through the darkness, hideous wails seeming to echo from all angles as they pass down the ghostly storefronts, the empty walks, the entire promenade a vast, endless road to oblivion. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! It is coming from their right. They turn towards the place the sound came from and start walking backwards, away from the sound. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! It is coming closer, they can hear it approaching. Whatever it is, they dont want to see it.

A moan. A decrepit female moan of ecstasy, the voice rising and falling with the climaxes and falls of lust. Your chest rises and falls. Your breathing rate increases. Your eyes focus on the blackness beyond what the flashlight will show you. Ears tuning up to the slightest noise, and right now, the only noise is Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! What is it? What is coming? What is coming? Another moan. Still female, but coming from the depth of the throat. A tortured sound. Why cant they see it? Its the flashlight, it doesnt show them what they want/dread to see. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Another deep, extended moan. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! There it is. An old shopping cart rolls out of the darkness, its wheels squeaking as they turn. And behind it, pushing it along is a hideous creature. It pushes the shopping cart slowly and steadily toward the PCs. It keeps coming. Rolling its cart steadily, patiently. No rush. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! A long moan that ends in a gurgling sound is heard as the shopping cart moves followed by the revolting shopper. It moves so slowly, so calmly, making its way into the room. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! The creature keeps coming. Step by step the shopper is getting closer. Squeek-uk! Squeek-uk! It stops. It stands right in front of the PCs, the front end of the cart just three inches from them. The shopper just stands there, emitting its awful moan of a tortured soul, spontaneously bursting into head convulsions and then stopping, at intermittent intervals.

Why is it waiting? Why doesnt it kill them? Can it be that it doesnt see them? Can it be that in this darkness, this thing is as blind as they are? The creature just holds the cart in front of the PCs. Not making one threatening move. The PCs can even try to attack it, but it still doesnt move. What does it want? Why did it scare them as bad as it had just to stand there, staring at them, holding that ugly shopping cart before them? Suddenly a howl emanates from aheadguttural screams erupt from the darkness, animal-lie as if wolves caught in traps. In the darkness, they sense nothing but raw need and horror, undying thirst without a drop of water. The PCs freeze in their tracks. Are there dogs down here? There are sounds of growing and rumbling coming from ahead. The PCs shudder at the thought of going ahead. What if the dogs are able to get to them before they are able to draw their guns? There is no choice to be made, though. They have to go there. Gripping their weapons tightly, they descend the hall. It is barely three seconds before the nightmare strikes. The two bandaged dogs rise from the shadowy halls, growling, their disgusting faces gnashing their own teeth as they glare hungrily upon the PCs. Frantic, they whirl about - and two more are behind. All around them they can hear them approaching, an entire pack of hounds sputtering, howling in ecstasy as they descend upon them. If there is one thing to be grateful for about these undead dogs, it is their predictability. They always do a loop before attacking again. And just when the dog turns to charge again, it finds itself the recipient of three shots in the head that ends its life permanently. The other creatures whirl their gaze on them, ready to pounce once again. When the dog is a mere few feet away, the PCs strike hard, connecting with a sickening crack. The dog crash to the ground, writhing in agony. Another howl joins the cacophony, followed by a growl as another dog tries to take a chunk out of them. Storage Room: Though the storerooms might have held something useful to the stores once, now they hold little but broken cardboard boxes, empty husks of their former selves, and rotting wooden crates. Men's Restroom: Every inch of the restroom is a warped and ruined version of its former self, eaten away by advanced rust and an absolutely nauseating reddish-brown substance. The visitor doesnt expect to find much here; it is a bathroom, after all. And yet, to their complete and utter disbelief, their eyes fall on something that is most definitely out of place in the dreadful setting. A colorful orange bottle of bleach. They pick up the plastic container. It is full too, they note as they hold the bleach in their hands. For a moment, they consider whether or not to take it.

What are the chances of finding an item laying around like this for no specific reason? It seems even less likely than even finding the bottle of bleach in the first place. Maybe they can use it to blind someone, or something, in an emergency. They glance at the hastily boarded window, cursing the barbed wire that threatens to tear away the flesh of anyone who dares to tamper with it. The stall in the back is closed. It is the only one of the three that does not have its door open and its interior displayed to the PCs eyesalmost as if it were hiding something. And now that they focus on it, they sense an unusual aura around it. Something isnt quite right. They approach cautiously, firearm in hand. With a blend of hesitation and curiosity, they knock tentatively on the door, the echoing in the dilapidated restroom. Three knocks answer back. They jump back from the stall in shock. Even with their current train of thought, the response still takes them by surprise. Somebody couldnt possibly still be in there, could they? One supposes it isnt implausible to use the restroom as a hideout from the monsters, but who in their right mind would hide in a place like this for so long? And in a filthy stall as well? Certainly no one normal. They can rap on the door again, and sure enough, three more knocks answer their inquiry. They can call inside. Silence. There is no response. Unfortunately, it seems this is one mystery that will remain unsolved. The door is locked. No matter how much the PCs try they cant get it open. For a moment they can consider shooting out the lock, but then they think better of it. Depending on where it is placed, it might take more than one bullet to dislodge it bullets one cant afford to waste on a door with all those creatures out there. Ducking below, they search for the telltale sign of feet, finding only shadow. But this place isnt done with them yet, even as they attempt to leave. Barely have they taken any steps before the sound of a door being unlocked startles them. *Creeeeeeeeeak* They swirl back just in time to hear the sharp whine of the doors rusted metal hinges moving just a bit. Steeling themselves, they creep one step at a time towards the ominous stall, intent on putting an end to this sick little joke. With weapons at the ready in their white-knuckled grasp, they slowly push the door to the stall open and peer inside. And when they see what awaits them inside, they gasp in horror. Blood. Everywhere. Even in the faint light, they can see it, coating the toilet bowl, dripping from the walls, pooling at the floor, the entire stall soaking with blood. They suppress a wretch as bile rises into their throats, the sickly wet stench clouding theirs senses, inducing a thousand dirty thoughts. Women's Restroom: The PCs go inside and are hit with an almost physical wall of stench, as if all the pipes in the public bathroom had simultaneously burst, and spewed their feted contents all over the floors. Like everything here there is decay and rust covering every surface, and the room is lit solely by a sputtering street lamp, somewhere beyond the bar-covered windows. Nothing is here however, or rather, nothing living. Torn shreds of what might once have been human flesh cover every inch of the stall, and tiny groves, possibly made by scrabbling fingernails covers

much of the wooden walls where gore fails to prevail. The mash of blood and gore is too much; one cant stare at it any further. They feel the bile rise in their throats, and they clutch at their stomachs as they struggle to contain the nausea trying to overwhelm them. Through sheer force of will they manage to keep themselves from vomiting. Wrenching away from the decaying stalls as if they were the plague, they spit the wretched fumes from their lungs, hands wafting in front of burning nostrils just to avoid the stench. They stumble out of the bathroom dry heaving and force to use the wall for support as they move. They are back in the hallway, the door slamming shut in their wake. They can only breathe, backs pressed against it, strained lungs sucking in the oppressive air. Square Shopping Center: The shutter in front of them at the end of the way, previously sealed, has been somehow bent, curving inwardly and upwardly, not pried or jacked, but wrenched, the lower section bent in the middle as is something had simply grabbed hold and torn it free of the locks that held it in place. In their current state, the PCs don't question how this has been done in complete silence with them mere meters from the shutter, nor do they really register the faint crimson stain that the pass over to duck under the ruined shutter, like some gory arrow, as if something has forced its way through, stripping its own flesh as it went. The crimson path, a voice at the back of their minds whisper, full of fear, respect and sorrow? They creep onward, their minds screaming at them not to go beyond, but they silence the futile cries of reason, knowing there is no other way. Stalking through the darkness, they pass beneath the dismal shadows of the light, lowering themselves through the gored opening while casting a quick glance in both directions - it is thankfully clear. They force themselves onward, maintaining a nervous glance over their shoulders as they pass into the light, sliding once more beneath the familiar shutter as she pressed the slight opening of the door apart, casting eerie rays into the murky shadows beyond Women's Clothing Store: Slipping through and into the cozy alcove of ruined stores, a distant light caked in filth cast shadows upon the half-open shutter leading into a familiar boutique, the clothing store where they killed that thing. Standing silently in the subdued shadows, they wonder if it is still here, wonder if IT has somehow wriggled its way out and is lumbering about even now, just out of sight. Glistening in horrific crimson is the twisted remains of that nightmarish monster; its body ripped apart, innards and hunks of flesh and tissue sprayed about wildly. Even in this faint light, they can see how its form is disgustingly splayed about, trails of blood leading behind the counter. Nothing but the soft whine of a broken air conditioner echoed in the oppressive air, hints of dust and mildew falling through the fading lights They step over the heaped remains of the monster, covering their noses to avoid sucking in the diseased stench as they take in their surroundings. The boutique is but a mere shadow of how the PCs left it. Indeed it is difficult to tell what this

store had been used for, it is empty save for the usual array of gore and decay, the only thing that hints at the original purpose of the store is the single clothes rack that remains, containing a rather frumpy floral print dress and matching peach cardigan. It is dark, and filthy, a few overturned tables covered in a sickly muck. Despite the darkness, they can clearly see the mottled shapes of mannequin busts located neat the display windows, draped with a few remnants of tattered clothing, hanged skirts and blouses stained with dark patches of what they can only assume to be blood attached to what is left of their bodies. They spot something pinned to an unused wire hangar: a leaflet advertising the Happy Burger. The PCs remove it from the rack, turning it over and scanning the leaflet for anything else. They aren't disappointed: Ascend from the masses the mighty use the simplest tools It is vague on purpose, but clear on destination, just like every other clue' they have found. Who ever the sick bastard was who was causing all of this he sure enjoyed his little games, and liked to make sure his puppets' stuck to the routes he had lain out. They are dealing with someone or something that can twist reality to its will, if playing this stupid game was what they have to do to escape, then that's what they will do. Happy Burger: The former Happy Burger is completely destroyed. Where once there were tables, chairs and booths, there is now an open dilapidated space with only one splintered table in the center. The countertops and condiments are gone, replaced by vacant decay and corruption. Indeed, the entire area behind the order counter is sealed off by sheets of rusted tin. One can only imagine what lies inside. Were someone to examine the restaurant without seeing its prior state, they would have no way of telling it was ever a lively fast food shack where people relaxed and indulged their appetites. Taking one last look at the relative safety of the ruined diner, a strange shadow catches their attention: a pair of bars hanging down from the top of the collapsed ceiling: an adjustable ladder just beyond their reach, hovering several feet over the lone table in the room. The ladder is rather jarringly obvious, seeing as the table had been placed directly beneath it, as if the casual passer-by could fail to notice the gaping hole in the ceiling, or the rusty metal rungs that hang down from said hole. Something tells them that this is the only way out, and the more they think about it, they come to realize it is the truth. The diner's "ceiling" also doubles as the floor of the above area, where the escalators would be. Uncoiling the coat hanger they had been, more or less, given, they straighten it out into a single long wire, then twist the end on one side into a suitable makeshift hook. They survey their improvised tool approvingly. Straightened out, the hanger can reach a good 2 feet - just enough to reach that ladder if they stand on something They climb onto the rickety table, pressing on it to test stability *CcccrrraaACCCCK* Their hearts sink as it splinters into a thousand moldy pieces before their eyes. It takes a couple tries, but eventually, the makeshift tool hooks successfully onto the end of the ladder and one is able to pull the ladder down to the accompaniment of several surprisingly loud groans of steel on steel considering the ease with which the ladder move. They rattle it, but it seems firm, and capable of holding their weight.

Once it is secure, they are ready to climb up into another area of the mall. They cast one last look around the empty room and set one foot on the first rung. The metal rungs feel cool beneath their fingers, as they climb up and are actually soothing. Although the new atmosphere of the mall is quite cold, they've worked up a sweat from dealing with the monsters, either from physical activity or from stress. They climb higher, their heart thudding almost as loud as the resounding clang each foot makes on the steel rungs. It leads up to a tear in the building, a giant hole, a new path ripped open in the sky. They reach the top with startling swiftness, and poke their heads over the lip of the hole and look around. Outside Alleyway: At the edges of the alley, gouges, deep and erraticsmears, stainsall of them red. With each step the trail become more, and more vivid, it is definitely blood, they can smell it. It pervades the entire alley, almost overwhelming, the smears thick and dripping. White The darkness parts to reveal the main drag of the Shopping, the alley now behind them and before them is the wrecked remains of a stark white van, trails of crimson smeared beneath. They can see a hand, stripped of flesh and twisted, reaching from beneath the toppled van, the rest of the body undoubtedly crushed. It doesn't matter how many times they see things like this, it still brings on terrible feelings. Second Floor: Getting through the top wasn't so difficult: despite being ripped apart, the floor feels surprisingly sturdy. It supports their weight with ease, and when they are assured one won't go toppling down into nothing they take a look around, squinting in the near darkness. The flashlight is feeble, but at least it helps a little bit. It is exactly similar to the floor theyd just been on, except even filthier. Trails of rust and steel gleams before their vision, dried crimson stains reflected in the light. Even as they stand up, they almost immediately notice a hospital stretcher; a white yet dirty sheet covering something human in shape. This isn't a hospital. . . . It has no place here. There is no mistaking the mound beneath the fabric: someone is under there. They can look at it and try to tell themselves it is just a coincidence, that there isn't anything under there, they don't sense anything, don't feel anything: there is no way a corpse can be here, a dead body just left, neglected, deposited, in the mall of all places. But this isnt reality: this is a bastardization of it, a cheaply, hastily made nightmare, pieced together from things that are familiar and things that distort it, contort it into something hellish and wrong. Wrenching away, they plod onward, the oppressive blackness a tremendous weight on their shoulders, pulling more intensely with every step they take. Soda Can. Newspaper. Baby Bottle. This place. It is a ghost without humanity to nourish it, to give it life and meaning, and here they are, just creeping through the remains, a silent monument to deaththe sheer loneliness of it all overpowering.

Casting the light down the walk, they can see the opening of the third floor escalator nestled next to the dull remains of another clothing store, and just beyond that a dilapidated storefront of electronic appliances, the display window strung with barbed wire, the gritty lamps casting faint light upon blown TV sets, all else is coated in darkness and filth. The path is obvious. They step past the haunted storefronts without a second thought, past the mute gleam of metallic shutters pressed across the entrances, the windows boarded and sealed and into a hall, dismal and empty, a subtle shape illuminated just beyond They grimace as the prone form comes into view; a corpse laid out and covered in tattered rags, suspended before a sudden drop on another gurney like the others, they can't tell if it was even human, only the shape is familiar. Keeping a weary eye on the body beneath the sheet, they come to the only open storefront in that empty hall, the glass-inlaid doors creaking open with some effort, rust screeching on the hinges as they peek a careful eye into the room beyond Caf: Or rather, the ravaged remains of a Caf. They turn their weary eyes to their surroundings, dark, dank, and devoid of life. The little caf lies empty, every table and seat thrust carelessly against the walls or overturned, covered in mildew, an unbearable humidity hanging in the air, lingering, sweltering. The floor is flooded with the water pouring from a long broken piece of piping sticking out of a wall. Wiping their brows, their eyes fall on the source - a broken pipeline jutting from the wall, searing steam dissipating into the air. Static. The little devil spouts curses as it hisses to life.. Something is coming. Steeling themselves, their eyes dart at once to the opposite entry, a shadowy form approaching beyond, the light, just barely defining it CRASH The door splinters apart as cracks spider along its frame, that split face wriggling through, thrusting its body again and again. The doors finally shatter, the wretched canine screeching through as the glass slices its already mangled form wide open, blood pooling at its legs. Adrenaline pounds through their veins, the static screaming through their brains, every muscle tense and ready to strike. The radio blares with a strange intensity, the frequency dividing Their eyes widen, two twisted forms speckled in crimson hobble into view The hellish chorus resounds in their ears as the first leaps upon them. The shelf collapses as dead weight slams into it, the plates falling atop the broken husk as its brethren howls in vengeance. Helen's Bakery: The shop is empty, and save for the glow of the banked furnaces and a single bare bulb dangling over the ovens, dark. Fan Hallway: It is the hallway behind one of two doors, situated opposite each other at a dead end. The wall directly across from them is covered in filth, looks like it hasn't been washed or cared for in years, and the floor isn't in any better shape: the tiles. . . they are horribly stained, like rust and dirt, or worse, blood, has been smeared over its surface. There is an exhaust fan out

in the corridor, on the upper center wall. Storage Room: Empty Shop: Later on, after exploring the entire childrens department and finding no more useful items or exits, they reach an area between the departments for kids and adults. This is where there used to be some counters, desks and a floor unfortunately; none of these three things are present now. All that is left is a large, dark gap. Standing at the edge, peering down, one cannot see the bottom of the chasm. The only way to get to the adult department on the other side is a narrow bridge above the middle of the hole, stretched out between the two departments like a crude metaphor for the puberty years of a mans life. The bridge appears to be made of gory flesh and it looks slippery. Sports Shop: They have entered the torture room, staring in revulsion at the devices encircling them in the large, octagonal chamber. This foul chamber smells of blood and is lit by tinted lights above the ceiling that turn nearly every color inside into some shade of red. The area outside was bad, with its pitch black darkness and fearsome assortment of beasts, but this particular room has an even grimmer aura about it than usual. It is obvious what this place is, and there is no doubt as to the use of the contraptions within. The charred and blood-soaked tables speak of horror almost as chilling as those they have previously encountered. Tiny grooves are set into the wooden restraints indentations left behind by victims whose agony was so intense, they literally sunk their fingernails deep into the wood. Bones and scraps of meat are piled against the walls. Around the chamber, placed in sorts of irregular ways, are many implements of torture which make one's heart ache to seechairs full of spikes which give instant and excruciating pain: chairs and couches with dull knobs whose torture is seemingly less, but which, though slower, was equally efficacious; racks, belts, boots, gloves, collars, all made for compressing at will; steel baskets in which the head could be slowly crushed into a pulp if necessary; watchmen's hooks with long handle and knife that cut at resistance; and many other devices for man's injury to man. There are machines, all designed to main and kill with a maximum of agony; one of them, a bizarre cross between a printing press and a rack made of glass, seemingly to have materialized from a nightmare of Kafka's. The room reeks of old, dead terrorand a brooding malevolence, as if the instruments of torture are merely biding their time. One can almost imagine the victims strapped down to the tables, being operated' on by the devices scattered around the room. Each pit and scar on the tables hints at a malevolent will bent on drawing the pain from another living creature. Coated with dust and marked here and there with patches dark stain which, if the walls could speak, could have given their own dread memories of fear and pain. Hung on the walls are thumb screws, clamps, a cattle prod, dental tools, and high-voltage batteries. Barbed hooks, slender scalpels, and other dastardly implements of torture are also casually strewn around the room, as if their user might select or discard them at random. These are human artifacts, created and utilized by men who sought to take out their sick, perverted fantasies of pain on innocent people. They were trying to generate pain. They weren't simply killing their victims but deliberately hurting them in the process, hurting them as badly as the human body could stand, squeezing the pain out of them like an evil seepage of blood, hurting them again and again until all the pain had been extracted.

At the very center of the room is the symbol they have seen painted over various sections of the town. The ancient crimson crest looked very out of place before, but in here, it actually seems to blend into the ghastly environment. It is fitting, one supposes, given the hideous nature of this chamber. Beneath the crest is perhaps the most interesting' contraption in the room: a rusted iron vice. The PC's are not naive. They can imagine the type of damage a vice can, and probably has done, to countless body parts. The thought of someone's skull being crushed by the unyielding grip leaves one cold all over. However, the vice is the only object in the room with an actual practical purpose to it. There has to be a reason for its presence then. Escalators: They come to a wider space. To their right and left, just a little way ahead came the familiar drone of escalators, each at first appearing to ascend or descend away from the stark corridor whose floor is currently at face level with the PCs. They would have, had they not had the bottom half of their sections torn off. Based on the twisted wreckage of their remains, it seems that some incredible unknown force has literally ripped the lower halves of the escalators off. The escalators just end, descend into nothing, into oblivion. The area below is ominously dark, and one shudders to think what would happen if they fall. No matter how hard they look, their eyes can't pierce the boundless darkness, the rays of light too feeble, slowly strangled out of existence as they pass beyond... As they ponder what to do next, the silence is broken by another noise, the static hiss of white noise. A quick and panicked scan reveals no sign of any monsters, and after pulling themselves up to sit on the ledge, pistol in hand, a check reveals that the pocket radio is completely dormant as well. The source of the static turns out to be a bank of TV monitors. Black and white static flash across the screen and as they stare at it, one feels drawn to it, almost hypnotized. Within a few moments, images begin appearing on the screen. Each is but a flicker of something indiscernible until the pause between each one is short enough for one to distinguish the barest of details. "Daddy..." A plea. A cry. A whisper so faint that they barely understand it. Before their eyes, a brief image plays, sudden, spastic, no definite focus through the haze of dancing dots.... Eyes. . . There is no mistaking it: there is a picture beneath all that fuzz. They keep staring, hoping that they can force the image to come in clearer, and soon enough the eyes give way to a face, a horrified, twitching, little girl's face. Her head is thrown back and rigid, her eyes opened wide, her mouth stuck in a reverse scream. . .and through the static her voice breaks though, tiny and soft, pleading, calling out, begging. Then it is gone. They cant hear anything, they can't see anything... This is not for you, a voice echoes, seemingly from around them, not coming just from the speakers. The PCs rear back in shock, split seconds before the screen in front of them explodes, gashing them as shards of glass fly past at high velocity. 2D4 damage. They cup their wounds with trembling hands, watching in horror as the image dissolves back to static, static overlain with the symbol they have seen so many times already. The symbol hovers over them in digital menace, somehow still looking just as intimidating even incomplete due to the missing screen. They waste no time, eager once more to be as far from that

symbol as possible they all but run for the nearest of the dirty, broken escalators, the one leading up further into this twisted maze, ascend the hollow, metal steps. Third Floor: They ascend the ruined escalator and onto the emptiness of the third floor hall, the stained metal flashing before their eyes. More chain links make up the floor. Reaching the top they are immediately forced to open fire as something soundless loom up over them, catching the Closer faster than it can unsheathe its bone spikes in their adrenaline fueled state and introducing a variety of its organs to hot lead before it drops, making the only noise these creatures ever seem to make. As their steps strike the floor, they make a clang of metal. A single shaft of light, glorious light, gold and warm, inviting and a great relief intersects with their own from the right, the glass doors illuminated and ajar, inviting them, welcoming them and at that moment, they want nothing else but to bathe in that light. Restaurant: They thrust the doors apart, and as a tide it spills over them, glorious, radiant, the light of the evening sun illuminating remnants of a humble restaurant. Without a thought they cross the threshold to the window, yet the light holds no warmth, no life - as empty as everything else. Their bloodshot eyes struggle to make sense of the desolation beyond, the empty windows of the adjacent buildings, the mute, faded shapes of the streets and signs Rubbing their eyes, they turn away from the desolation, their weak knees collapsing as they fall against the table bench. They have to rest, to recuperate from this constant strain - every lucid moment spent fearing for their lives, wondering when something will rise from the shadows, its hot, fetid breath on theirs neckthere is no denying the toll on their sanity. Despite the corrosion and decimation of Silent Hill, the restaurant suffers none of these circumstances. There are no signs of destruction: each of the tables is set with expensive china and rich blue linens, the elegant candles are lit in the brilliant chandelier and soft instrumental music lingers in the background. Every part of the building is tastefully decorated in reds, golds and subtle natural wood colors, giving everywhere an air of sophistication that would have seemed out of place in any mall let alone one recently converted to serve the purpose of demonic labyrinth. The decor is supposed to be reminiscent of an alpine inn: low beamed ceilings, rough white plaster walls, a brick floor, heavy dark pine furniture. The windows that face onto the mall promenade and outside are leaded glass the color of burgundy, only slightly translucent. Around the walls are upholstered booths. Small groups of tables are gathered here and there in an informal fashion, to create a relaxed air of quiet intimacy, with linens and china. There is a large cabinet in the back filled with bottles of wine, brandy and other alcoholic beverages. As if waiting that moment to push the PCs over the edge the smell drifts over, not hit, or assaults them as everything has since they have found themselves here, but wafts, gently tickling their nostrils with the most delectable sensations. It didnt take long for them to track in across the room to the large silver serving tray, complete with silver cover that is the only not standard dcor at any of the tables. Their stomachs growl loudly, as if they hadnt eaten in days rather than hours and they are having a hard time not salivating at the wonderful smell. Deciding that no one is likely to miss whatever culinary delight might be lurking under that

cover, they pull it aside eagerly, and feel their stomachs lurch violently as the steam parts, allowing them, clear view of their meal. They do a double take, theirs eyes taking in the disgusting sight. Splayed atop the platter of fine silver, back arched and face stretched in a rictus of pain, as if it had still been alive when cooked, is a smallish dog. They can only stare at it, unable to grasp the sheer absurdity, the implications, wild thoughts dancing through their mind as to just who the hell would even do such a thing! What kind of sick, demented human being would do something like this? This is monstrous and despicable, and it matches nearly anything they have seen thus far. And if that isnt enough, whoever did this had gone to the trouble of laying out the poor animal in the manner of a gourmet meal, as though he or she really intended to eat their gruesome victim. There is even a large chunk of flesh carved from the middle of the body, ready and eager to meet someones approval, its stomach precisely cut open, its innards strewn about the plates as fine silverware lay ready for the one so dining. Disgusted, dismayed, one can almost laugh at ones own strange priorities. Why do they even give a damn? It is just a dead dog! Turning to look at it again, probably out of masochistic curiosity and not genuine interest, the flashlight's beam catches a glimmer, a small sheen... Protruding from the charred husk of its chest is a carving knife, used to pin yet another note in place: Getting to the heart of the matter With that it ends and the visitors cant help but shudder at the obvious implications of the note. Something is buried inside this dogs chest, something they will probably need to go on any further. They grasp the knife, dry wrenching even before they begin the first sawing motion around the intestines and the arched, bloody ribs that shine like glass through the muck and gore. They reach into the newly sawn cavity and feel around, wincing every time their hand comes into contact with the creatures rotting organs. It is warm, still smoldering...fresh, in other words. Suddenly they brush something hard and metallic, and they reach back, clasping their hand around it and yanking it clear with a minor eruption of gore. Blade clinks against metal as the slender item falls onto the plate and into theirs hands, encrusted, still faintly warm to the touch. There is no label on the key, nor any numbers inscribed. The surface is a little charred, but none the worse for wear. SKKKKKKKRRRRZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTZZZTTTT Something moves. Hinges squealing in its wake. Their blood runs cold. They can see it, see its disgusting split jaws dripping along the floor as it creeps towards them, its haggard throat gurgling, spouting flecks of spittle as it finds its prey Screaming in horrid rapture, it leaps. Brutal impact. Shattered glass. Ripping flesh.

These hideous sounds play in their ears, expecting to find themselves being torn apart - yet they are still standing, unscathed and untouched. At their side the table lies in pieces, the linens stained with crimson as the beast feasts as a cannibal, rending charred meat from the husk of its brethren. Their minds scream at them to run, but they can only stand there in shock, watching it heave chunks down its bleeding throat. Run The beast closes its haggard face, the blood-soaked snout turning Run A strangled growl escapes its throat, its body tensed and ready RUN They explode full sprint through the doors and into the hall. Food Court: They plow down steps in the rear of the food court, through sets of heavy glass and steel doors, and find themselves, outside, in the cold, on a gravel path. Behind them is an old black granite wall laced with sharp, jutting edges. Directly ahead is a fifteen foot wide canal of yellow brown brackish water, that, through a series of locks, leads nowhere. On the other side of the canal stands high, red brick walls. Jewelry Store: It is a small jewelry shop and it is barren, its display cases violently destroyed, glass shards scattered across the floor. They walk over the glass, feet crunching the larger shards. There is nothing more than a pair of shattered showcases before them, the fragmented glass reflecting in the light off the decaying wood floor. Nothing of value remains in the display, yet somehow they don't care; it is all useless to them now. To think that once possessions were among the important things on theirs minds. Not for the first time they feel like this very world around them is mocking them with these images, destroying all that they hold familiar. A red pillow with something resting comfortably in its center catches their attention and they walk over to have a look. It is a pearl. Noa white stone of some kind. Their bloody fingers grasp the odd stone, the pure virgin white stained a sickly crimson by their touch. The Employee Hallways: At one point the PCs hear a girl yelling someplace else in the building, and doors opening and closing just behind them. Every time they turn, though, it is like they'd just missed someone, or something. The metal plates clank horribly underfoot as they make their way past the security office, the storerooms, and whatever else all these locked doors hide. This is it: the end of their journey through the mall. Higher, higher they go, theirs steps echoing into the infinite as a solitary door seemed to rise from out of nothing, the threshold looming before them, , dark and terrible, the many gears and levers at its hinges binding it solid. The large door in front of them is decorated with a moon and stars motif scrawled in subtle red ink.

Piling up the 300th day and night from beyond the threshold...Cries of pain are heard, and the final destination has become real Though not a blessed beginning...By the light of the moon shall this door be opened, and the Guardian unveiled from his lair. Words scribed in crimson dance before their eyes, the meaning lost on their lips. They know not why they are standing before this ominous threshold, yet here they are, wavering on bleeding legs, fingers wrapped as a claw around rust-coated steel. Moonstone Mooncrimson moon The blood on their fingers Cries of pain from beyond the door A test. A trial. It all makes sense now. Their fingers trace the unusually warm steel, warm like blood, the mechanisms flowing into a single point at the apex of the Crescent Moon There. A depression, circular and slick: a pocket for a small round object. They clench the bloodstained stone in their fingers, pressing it deep, the stray piece of the puzzle reunited. CRASH Something thunders behind the door. They back away as hideous sounds reverberate within the corrupt steel of the threshold, warped gears grinding into motion, clicking, jarring the hinges free Grinding. Churning. Reiterate. Grinding. Churning. Reiterate. Immediately after they set the stone, a massive roar sweeps through the area with uncanny force. Suddenly, the grated floor beneath them breaks away from the rest of the platform. They scream as they fall down with it, toppling into the abyss that seems to have opened while they werent looking, Mall Basement: Then they hit the ground beneath them with an impact that inflicts a surprisingly little amount of pain. They soon get up and look around. No wonder it hadn't hurt . . there is a mountain of sand that has broken their fall. Sand covers the entire area, a deep hole that seems to have been gouged right through every floor of the mall, ending just perceptibly somewhere below its basement as a sand-filled crater. The foundation is composed of huge sandstone blocks that had probably been evenly cornered when the building new, but which are now at every zigzag, drunken angle. It makes the wall look

as if it were inscribed with strange, meandering hieroglyphics. And from the joining of two of these abstruse cracks, a thin spill of sand running, as if something on the other side is digging itself through with slobbering agonized intensity. The groaning rises and falls, becoming louder, until the whole room is full of the sound, an abstract noise of ripping pain and dreadful effort. There is a hole in the wall now, about the size of a coin. Then the spill of sand stops. The groaning increases, but there is a sound of steady, labored breathing. "Go slow," a dragging, clotted voice says from within the wall. The Static. It wont stop. The PCs force their aching bodies to stand, eyes searching for their weapons they have cast down amongst the debris as the grating noise grows stronger, reaching a horrible crescendo then collapsing upon itself, transforming into something hideous SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHH Like twisting metal the cries bleed into their ears. Something is coming. They can feel it in the corrupt earth, taste it in the stagnant air They look down, realizing that there is indeed something in the sand that is moving. They then notice some sort of antenna poke out of the sand. So this thing, is probably some sort of insect. The thing, the grub, crashes to a halt on the other side of the room, slithering around to face them, its face dripping unspeakable fluids everywhere. They scramble back, handgun pointed at the monster, and fire two shots, each piercing the soft flesh of the exposed mouth. They press themselves against the wall, breathing heavily and clinging to their weapons tightly. The bullet have torn into the sensitive flesh of its mouth and the worm roars in pain, instinctively baring away from them and retreating into the safety of the sand. The ground under them rumbles and the PCs move away, screaming as sand is ground into their wounds. The caterpillar bursts through the sand, jaws snapping at empty air, and it lets out a screech of frustration, rearing up to look down on their prone forms as the PCs raises their guns. Fear weakens their already loose grip, fear of dying, fear of the worm. Nevertheless, they begin to shoot, releasing all of their fear and anger as they pull the trigger over and over, each nine-millimeter bullet slamming into the soft flesh of its cranium at a new angle, each one shredding more of its brain. It screams. It bleeds. It writhes in futility -and it is dead, the grub sighing one last breath as it settles heavily onto the floor, raising large quantities of sand. The PCs lean on their knees, sucking in large mouthfuls of airand immediately regret it; the sand is clogging their lungs and the unbelievably powerful stench of decay from the dead creature gets to them. -and then they are pushed back by a blinding light. It clouds their vision, and cuts off their air

supply. They try to yell, but they cant hear anything except a loud hum. They have no air, they are blind, deaf and completely oblivious of their own surroundings and their world darkens. Somewhere amongst the pain and relief, just before oblivion reaches out to claim them, they think they hear a voice whispering to itself. Maybe it would be better this way Then the darkness claims them. Return to Normality: White tile. Bleeding Grout A fountain. A black hole. Closed storefronts and fluorescent lights. Boarded windows and tainted shadow. It isn't long before the kaleidoscope begins. Images swirl at the periphery of the subconscious, appearing and fading too quickly for the PCs to identify. They feel like they are flying, bodies floating across a limitless void. They rub their temples, bewildered, the twisted images falling through their fingers as they fade, as if waking from a bad dream. Gradually the pictures coalesced into one solid canvas, upon which is painted a familiar setting, a place that was in total contrast to the dreary nether region they'd just left. The walls here are spotlessly white, the floor white-tiled and equally pristine. Neon tubes, like pointers, light the way ahead. The Lakeside Shopping Center is just like before. The air is sweet. The light is heavenly. They can breathe. They can see. All around them, the corruption has vanished, the lingering shadow of darkness dissipating. Everything has been returned to the way it once was. The stores are back to their original conditions, unmarred by the corruption of the Otherworld. The monster they have killed is nowhere to be seen. The sand beneath their feet has disappeared, and the tunnels through which the monster burrowed are long gone from the surroundings. The mall is blissfully silent and their steps echo in the silence. Somehow, it sounds so serene, so peaceful - unlike the menacing void they have just left. Their eyes drift upon the tile, pure and white as the day theyd been wrought and they bask in the comfort of it, enjoying the totally mundane, normal scenery. Even the potted plants bring a great comfort to them. One wants to run ones hands over the leaves carefully as one walks past, noting that many of the stores' shutters are drawn and locked. The floors are clean and newly buffered everything is as it should be, all in its right place. Clear. Pristine. As if nothing had ever happened. There is something off about seeing the stores in picture perfect condition. It feels wrong somehow, as though the shops should be more unclean than they are. It is a strange sensation, to say the least. Why should one feel that the stores would look better rundown and...corrupted.

Striding forth, passing beneath the balcony and under the arch, the PCs drift through the main walk, the storefront windows empty and still. They can shine the light into them, eyes fearful but nothing leers back, nothing stirs in the darkness. Only shadows. The mall is just like it was beforethe shops are barred with metal cages and shields, the fountain sit quiet and empty, its collection of pocket change glittering at the bottom. Nothing moves, nothing stirs Before them looms the main exit, the many glass door, the lights beyond the glass double doors seeming to dance and flicker as they gaze upon them. It isnt such a bad idea, leaving this place; they are bound and certain something terrible will happen to them if they stay a moment longer. Not another moment. Not another second. They thrust themselves through the doors and into the brisk foggy air, leaving the empty halls and haunted storefronts behind without a second thought. There is nothing left in this place. The show windows in every store are undamaged and behind their glass stand all manner of goods, undisturbed. Here is an art gallery with paintings on easels and small sculptures on pedestals. Here is an antique shop with a red velvet fainting couch in its window, along with a pair of fancy end tables and lamps with stained glass shades. Here is a fabric shop with a display of drapes that were probably much nicer than anything its customers could create, no matter how much expensive cloth they might buy here. Here is a candy store.. J. Porter and Sons' Candy Kingdom: There are blocks of fudge and homemade chocolate bars in the window, protected from sunny days by the shade of broad, dark-green awnings, now hanging in tatters from their frames, which somehow isn't surprising. Now and then, a snowflake drifts down through one of the ragged holes. Looking through the glass, the candy catches the eye. It seems to be moving undulating, with tiny bits and trails trundling away, then back again. In the dimness they can barely see, but finally realize the candy is swarming with ants and fat centipedes and other insects. They eat their fill and crawl away, and others replace them. And there are dead flies, a multitude of dead flies, in the window, and the tiny white cards on which the prices were marked are blanketed with dust. There is something unutterably frightening about the candy store, with its treats and goodies left to decay. Had the ants and insects been feasting here for years?

Construction Site:
(Optional Scenario) The moist earth is a scattered conglomeration of dirt and mulched construction debris. Scattered pilings and construction materials carelessly lie about in the dirt, the rain, falling endlessly upon the empty paint cans with an almost musical tone. They watch the droplets spatter and flow, turning black as they touch corruption.

With a tired sigh you drag your battered body onward, hands slapping at the bulky bits and pieces still clinging to your skin as you regard the abandoned building with prying eyes, those blank, empty windows, that cold exterior seeming to glower in return. Everything is a complete mess, scattered about the side of a bleak concrete wall. It is fairly obvious as to where they are. A construction site. The general shape of the ugly building towering before them, the makeshift catwalks suspended by metal skeletons wrapped about the buildings higher elevations, and at their backs, the towering perimeter barriers draped in tarp and stained with paint and filth. The building is clearly still half under construction. They see building materials scattered around the site. The ground around it is wounded and raw. Ridges of asphalt rise in a ring behind a run of yellow warning tape. A bulldozer squats on the side. Entryway: They follow the building's perimeter, weaving between an alley stuffed with boxes and construction equipment, eyes following the catwalks suspended overhead like some kind of wild tree fort, spanning to an office building beyond the perimeter wall. The buildings are so close together the construction catwalks practically touch! They will just have to go inside the construction site, ascend a few floors, and they will be able pull a window to window stride and be on their way. They step beneath the awning, the patter of raindrops fading behind as they lay hands at the knobs of the double doors, easing apart with a metallic squeal. Only shadows rise to confront them in the dilapidated hall of gray, which is thankfully clear. It is also filthy and a faint smell of alcohol fills the area. Its source, ten or twelve empty or halfempty bottles that lie scattered on the concrete floor or sit on some lopsided cardboard box. They reach a junction only to find that the right-hand alley is blocked by a rusty bedstead. Before long they have to turn aside several times. Piles of chains and bollards, and in one place a door jammed between the walls, blocks some of the routes; sometimes they have to retrace their steps. One alley is blocked by a heap of rubble and twisted metal. They go up to the other floors via the stairs, since it is obvious the elevator was not working. Stairwell: One can grow to hate these lulls, the sensation that something terrible is going to happen at any moment, mind already forging the terrors that lies around the next corner. BANG! Thoughts shattered beneath the grind of metal reverberating throughout the ruined halls and vacant rooms, their hearts skipping a beat. With wild eyes and clenched teeth they turn, dreading what beast will come yet all they see is worn stairs and blank concrete, a single metal pipeline rolling from its broken pile. Hallway and Bathroom: You are frustrated as you go up the stairs. All the doors are locked, preventing the exploration of those floors as a way to get out of here, leaving only the top floor

as the only option. The last thing you want is to go to the top floor of the building, but it seems that you have no choice. You keep your senses ready in case there are any unpleasant surprises waiting for you. Thankfully, that isn't the case. There are a few boxes around of building materials around, and a bathroom for the employees that they see as they drift past a barren corner, the glimmer of a bathroom faucet and ivory shine catching their eyes. Strangely, the bathroom shows signs of use. It isn't what they expected to find, considering this is another dimension. They may want to use the sink to clean up, but there is no water coming out of the faucets. It looks like they will have to stay caked with dirt and sweat for a while longer. They go through a blue door close to them and finds themselves on a floor that is still under construction. The gray walls of the floor have not been painted at all, and framework is still sticking out of the walls. They come at last to an open room. Like everywhere else in the place, the flooring is still just raw slabs and the ceiling isnt even insulated, water pipelines and air conditioning ducts zigzagging between the few dangling wires and empty fixture mounts. The walls too are bare, not even painted yet, the windows are blocked by sheet metal. Parts of the wall had been torn away, wiring and metal framework exposed like the skeleton inside a massive creature. Their eyes drift from oil drums filled with unused wood to the piled refuse lining the back wall, hoping there is some kind of tool...but as they near, the light illuminating the pitiful mess, the PCs come to realize it isnt just a pile of junk. There are small things here and there to show that someone had made this place into their home. Not a nice one by the smell of it, but nice enough to survive. A squatters den lies before them, the makeshift tent of cardboard boxes and old blankets nestled next to the support pillar at the back wall, the whole mess held together by duct tape. Insulation of old newspapers lines the floor surrounding it, a single box serving as a table for meager meals of dog food and booze. Cans are everywhere. Bottles lie scattered and broken about a filthy mattress used as a couch, dangerously close to the verge of a collapsed section of floor. The PCs take a look at the small makeshift home set up nearby and the collection of bottles surrounding it. Whoever has called this place home no doubt is living here until recently. They must have left in a hurry too from the way things are still scattered about, and on closer look, the PCs realize those things are bullets; a smashed box of self-defense munitions tossed carelessly at the wall. Several wooden boxes are stacked in one corner, and despite a filthy, moth-eaten mattress; that seems to be the center piece of the display; a hammock has been set up in one corner, its bulk swinging lightly in the air. One feature that doesnt appear to be part of the design is the large hole in the middle of the room as if part of the floor has collapsed away, opening into darkness. Another is that one of the walls appears to be of a distinctly different color than the others, and a different texture. The PCs get closer to it and their eyes widen at the sight before them. This is definitely not something one expects to find at a construction site. The pair of legs sticking out of the cement wall makes it clear just what had happened. Someone had been buried completely inside the cement wall. The PCs hope....pray they weren't alive when it happened, but they have a sinking feeling that isn't the case. Shaking away the thoughts of murder and disposing of bodies, they focus on what they need to do, ignoring the thoughts of people suffocating under a thick layer of cement. The PCs peer over the edge, holding the flashlight down and turning it this way and that, trying to make out any details of the room below. All they can tell was that it'll be a big drop and they definitely don't want to sprain or break anything.

They need to get down to the lower floor. The floor is not anywhere close to them, though. It is at least twelve feet in the drop. The PCs know they can't risk going down from that height, or else they will break a leg or worse. They will require some variety of padding. And then, the idea occurs to them. The person who was living here had set up a makeshift tent for their home, but they weren't sleeping on the cold hard floor. Their only chance is the mattress in the roomthe gross, filthy mattress that looks like it should have been stored away in the evidence room of a police department. They sigh and stow their weapons away, and crouch down to tug at the mattress. They try not to think what it is covered in or what they are possibly touching. They drag the mattress the squatter had been using to sleep on inch by painful inch, and then throw it down the hole with no small effort. They hesitate to touch the thing, but they need something to cushion the fall. Praying that they dont break their necks, the PCs jump down to the mattress below. The consequence is actually rather anticlimactic. Each PC lands perfectly, using the mattress to cushion the jump. Breathing a sigh of relief, they move off the mattress and look for an exit. The door is locked, as usual. Their hearts sink as they realize there is only one exit out of this place: a hole torn into the concrete of the wall, leading to the outside of the building.

The Radio Tower:

(Optional Scenario) A broken AM radio tower that once might have broadcasted a tasteful selection of light jazz and classical music, now constantly pumps out static over every channel. The antenna is atop the roof, of course; but that doesnt mean that's where the radio room is. One might wander around every floor to find it. The radio station beneath the antennae is a nightmare-infested building. Something else heightens this effect --- a misshapen insect-type hive or nest that covers the upper floor of the radio station. Like a spiders nest, this bulging, ridged mass looks and feels like silk. A swarm of giant moths nest beneath the antenna, which is now a mixture of web and human entrails across the tower's base. Creatures that might have been albatrosses but are almost certainly giant moths bank over a radio tower. The tower's delicate dishes have all been dashed to the roadside far below. The First Floor: The whole inside of the building, every floor, is alive with insects: mosquito swarms, newly hatched giant cockroaches, and at least a million centipedes, wasps, beetles, and houseflies to feed the resident monsters. The terrestrial insects feed on the human carrion that lies in every office. Flyspecks and blood marks dot every wall. A noxious smell of rotted meat pervades the building. And there are worse adversaries throughout the building. The Lobby: Rows of desks and computers fill the large felt carpeted office. Here, creatures (one for each PC) guard the shattered entrances. Just inside, piles of dead Hell Hounds litter the floor, providing food and hatching grounds for horsefly maggots. The PCs go to the stairs and climb. Ascending, they hear the whirling wash of noise in the walls suddenly organize into a rhythmic tide. The repetitive ebb and flow brings them to a halt at the landing. In the metered susurrations of the thousand-voice sigh, they detect intention, meaning, and something like desperation. The rooms length distorts the chants beyond understanding, though

a few words carry undeformed, repeated like the repetitive response to the verses of a long litany. Listening more closely, they twitch with surprise when the soft cadenced rustling resolves into words: Time to murder...time to murder...time to murder...time to murder... Although the voices of this malicious choir are many, each registers hardly louder than a breath. The cumulative effect is a whisper of such insidious subtlety that it almost seems to arise within their minds, less like a real sound than an auditory hallucination. Although the voices are in English, the PCs think they can detect others speaking a different language. The PC cannot determine whether this is a threat or a command meant to mesmerize by repetitionor something else entirely. Then the rhythm breaks. The metered waves of sound collapses into a wordless rush of thousands upon thousands of crisp little noises, the pitapatation and swish, the tick and buzz, of a busy nest. You can hear the whispers, through the walls, tearing away at the fringes of thought in effort to reach you. Though there is nothing in sight, their presence is definite, a bloodless sensation of dread seeping into you. Last Drop Caf: Elberton Life Insurance Meeting Room: A round table, covered in flakes of dry wall and plaster that slowly drift downwards, like a person with a bad cause of dandruff, dominates the room. The carpeting is spongy and damp. There are little trails here and there of some kind of crumbs that prove to be marching lines of black ants upon closer inspection. A small portable projector that would normally be attached to a laptop is activated, the light still burning bright enough to momentarily blind if one was to look directly at the bulb after who knows how long. The light is splayed upon a projector screen that has been pulled down and is peppered with mold along the edges. It shows a single large color picture of a dead Hispanic man in his early twenties placed naked in what appears to be (from what can be seen of the surroundings) an alley covered in detritus. The man has been killed recently, if the blood is any indication, from six stab wounds to various parts of his body. If the PCs turn off the projector, then the picture will still be barely visible on the projector screen, burnt into the material after what must have been years of the image being shown. Around the table are six moldy business chairs with rusted wheels that are mostly too decayed to move. There is a single piece of paper in front of each chair on the table. A pencil drawing of one of the six stab wounds is on each piece of paper. The drawings are incredibly detailed, looking like something out of Greys Anatomy. Hastily written notes on the angle necessary to cause the wounds, bone, skin, muscle tissue, and veins that would be visible afterwards are also labeled with surgical precision. Accompanying each piece of paper is a single rusted butcher knife. By now, the edges have been dulled to uselessness by time. Some scabbed and flaky blood particles show up in a louder red along the blades Elevator Shaft: Within the industrial cage lies a grim memento, a wheelchair, symbol of doom and disease, the crimson leather of its seat flush beneath the supple weight of a single doll, its skin scorched, the remains in mummified tatters. Walking into the elevator and it will take the PCs down. A thunderous impact sends them to the floor, hands bleeding on pitted steel as the chains above hoist the archaic elevator upward through the twisted shaft.

Basement: A long shaft that leads from the top down to the basement. Every other conventional access is blocked with rubble and corpses. Office Floors: The dcor here was once cool, gray, and dignified; now each floor is ruined. Most windows are shattered. In the openings, spawn of moths maintain their webs. Two or three of the giant moths maintain clearly marked territory on each floor. The few hallways not blocked with webs leads to empty offices. Hallway: The shrill cries are left behind as they dash into the depths, through twisting bends and open paths, each passage exactly as the one before. Fixtures dangle from broken ceilings, debris marking the scoured routes. Chaos. Spiraling deeper and deeper still, the paths before their eyes becoming more decrepit with each step taken into the heart, the hive of the waiting beasts. They can hear their wails, their incessant cries, pining for them, thirsting for their blood. They undoubtedly have the scent Reason spurn them forth, doors torn aside as they find themselves in the more familiar confines of an office building, posters and notices slapped to the narrow hallways walls as they go past door after door, into the open junction, eyes wild. The floor is wet and mildewed, the doors warped and slimy. At the far end, beckoning blue light pulses from the door of the office-suite to their left. The Second Floor Landing: Open. Wide. Inviting. Third Floor: Mannequin Company Office Room: They cast a cursory glance around. The room is oakpaneled, with neatly arranged bookshelves, black-leather chairs, framed paintings. In one corner is a thermal carafe on a stand. From the papers for ordering pieces of them, and boxes of them stacked high in the office, they can see that this is a mannequin store. This is their headquarters, and one presumes they have a display room around here or something. They don't really know anything about how a company like this would really run, or what they require for their business. The PCs just want to get out of here. West Hallway: They roam the halls searching for any room that is open, noticing how little space there is available for them to defend themselves. One can't help but notice all the memos and notes posted along the walls, indicating that this building is very much in use. They try door after door in the hallway, until they find one that is open and duck inside. Only a minute too late do they realize they have wondered into a mannequin storeroom. Mannequin Storage Room: You jump back a bit, startled by the sight of plastic and limbs scattered before you. You don't jump easily in fright, but the sight of a plastic mold with limbs outstretched in the form of a person is something that can easily startle one into thinking there is someone in the room with them. You imagine there is a display room for them, but you didn't expect to run headlong into it. You repress a small shudder as you look at the rows of shelves stacked with mannequin parts. All these disembodied hands and legs--how could anyone stand to work in this place? It almost feels like they were going to come alive suddenly and grab you. The PCs stare at the rows of mannequins arranged on the shelves: male dolls with feminized pouchlike groins, nipple-less female models, each an unpleasant charred green. They stand in

corners, laid out on desk, mounted on pallets with limbs akimbo---here a leg, there an arm, and heads and torsos aplenty. It feels like the eyes are literally alive as you stare at them. You can almost feel them following her, as you walk around the room. There is one in particular: a bottomless mannequin with no legs, settled in the back on a stand, but the top half seems like it is almost alive. It's just a group of mannequins. That is all they were. Plastic body parts, in the shape of wellproportioned females and males, unsettling perhaps, but only body parts nonetheless. When the PCs are ready to leave, read the following. Suddenly a scream startles you out of your wits and causes you to raise your gun in alarm. You see that the mannequin has settled over a pool of crimson, and it is headless. Somehow, something has knocked the head right off its shoulders; an invisible force has decapitated the thing instantly. And it is bleeding... You feel your heart seize in your throat. No, it wouldn't be. Looking at the puddle, your stomach begins to churn. It is blood. Human blood. You would recognize that coppery smell anywhere. Somehow, someone has filled this thing with human blood in order to frighten someone, or... At that thought you feel a nauseous feeling beginning to take you over. You back away from the gruesome sight, fighting to keep the contents of your stomach under control. The images forming in your mind unwontedly: pale white bodies...bleeding as they are slashed...flesh under the guise of plastic... You can't get out of there fast enough. You turn and walk out of the room, eyes never once looking back to the rows of mannequins behind you. Main Area: They are in the main hall of the floor. The strobe lights above them shine a freezing white light on them. Specifically the one that is right above them flickers eerily on and off with an uneven electrical buzz. The air is so heavy and the environment itself feels so oppressive and suffocating, it is as though the walls are closing in. Dance Studio Office: They find themselves in a typical set of offices, smelling of synthetic carpets and ozone. Probably a rest-station for the studio next door With no air-conditioning, whirring printers or computer fans, the air is breathlessly still. Stacks of paper litter the desks, along with computers and other office equipment. The offices for the dance studio don't yield much, except for a is a pin-up board, with a map stapled awkwardly in its center. A big help that is, considering half the doors are locked in here. They note that there are five floors to the tower. Strange. Why would someone leave it tacked to the side of a wall, when chances were that no one would need it anyway? Dance Studio Locker Room: By mere chance, they stumble into the locker room of the dance studio. They examine their surroundings closely, hoping to find something useful inside the lockers. There are two magazines sitting on a table top nearby, left behind by some employees. One of the magazines features a scantily clad woman in a risqu pose, and the other is a periodical about fashion. Unfortunately, there was nothing else worthy of notice in the room. Disappointed, they leave the locker room.

Dance Studio: The next room they gain is named "Monica's Dance Studio" and is located in the corner of the building. They turn the knob carefully, although there doesnt seem to be much danger in this particular room. The door opens into a gym large enough to accept an array of exercise machines that would allow circuit training. No machines are present, but three entire walls have been paneled with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Such vast mirrored surfaces bring the PCs to a halt. Fourth Floor: One Stop Imports Store Room: Fifth Floor: The fifth floor is deserted like the others, but it may prove to be a bounty among the leftover debris and scattered remnants of business that defines the others here. Fortunately for the PCs, the business here proves to be more useful, or at least one of them does, and they may be able to find quite a treasure in the most unlikely of places. There is a door at the end of one hall, which the PCs stare at curiously: the sign reads "Gallery of Fine Arts", and is something they definitely didn't expect to find in a drab office building like this. Gallery of Fine Arts: Curiously stirred, they go inside, hoping to find something wondrous and beautiful to distract them from their current troubles, for a moment or two; curious to see what kind of paintings the artists here have gifted the galley with. Beyond the huge wooden doors is a rectangular chamber lit only by the soft glow of the emergency lights close to the ceiling, but mostly bathed in darkness. The room is small, like others in the complex. The PCs may be disappointed as there are only a few paintings in the gallery. The PCs survey the objects around the room. There are a few ceramic vases on display. One of the paintings is a nice green and white, grassy, hilly scenery called "Mountain", and radiates a nice calm and soothing effect to look at. One of the paintings instantly catches their attention: a dark backdrop dominates the canvas hanging on the wall, and a detailed image of a beautifully crafted nude woman with flowing dark hair and piercing brown eyes stands out from the swirling shadows, in an almost reclining pose against the void. Whoever painted this picture did exquisite work. It is so lifelike... Staring at the lifelike image of the gorgeous, mysterious creature in the painting. The painting was called "Harbinger of Midnight", and the creator was apparently an up-and-coming artist on the art circuit. They move on to the next painting. The small frame is nothing more than a colorful collection of squares, a collection of Navajo weaves that go down for several rows about a foot in length. And there is one more thing that captures their attention. The area where the next painting should have been is a blank fifteen-foot canvas on the far wall, with only a faint outline visible on the wall. Beneath it centered on the parquet floor is an immense viewing octagonal viewing divan to serve to seat patrons while they admired the upcoming masterpiece. Wherever the painting had gone to, there is only the name plaque left. "Flame Purifies All." There is one more painting to review, hanging near the registration desk. The painting is a mass of swirling green and black colors, with the almost-shape of a human in the middle obscured by all the chaotic colors around it. The title of the painting is "Repressor of Memories".

There is a corkboard with upcoming gallery shows posted. They can check the registration clip on the desk. There are a few names written there, but no one that they are familiar with. They brush past the directory, going through an exit from the art gallery, casting one final look at the blank space on the wall where a painting should be. Art Gallery Back Hallway: They find themselves in a small, cramped corridor. It seems that this whole area back here belongs to the art gallery, apparently serving as a storage space. Almost all of the doors are locked, except for a single door that leads to a storage area. Art Gallery Storeroom: The PCs wander into the room, drawing their weapons in case it is necessary. The storeroom is not dank and dreary, but seems more like a mahogany-paneled lounge. The room is filled with wooden crates and cardboard boxes, stacked on shelves and set on the floor for storage. Art objects covered in tarps and fragile vases line the room. The shelves are full of paintings, and large frames are stored close together on the bottom shelf. Canvases are stacked on metal shelving on all sides, and others stand against one wall, at least a dozen altogether. The PCs can use a crowbar in the room to pry open the lid of the huge crate in the middle, not sure what to expect. Some antique statues, perhaps, or some vases and collectibles. They reach through the shreds of packing material and pull out a beautifully crafted sword, completely with a black ornate handle and gleaming from the metal sheen. It is a long katana, complete with a sheath to strap the sword on back. Their eyes widen and their jaws fall open in awe. They never expected to find such a thing in an office building! You swing the sword around experimentally, holding it reverently in your hands. It is a katana. You can't believe it. It is a katana, and you have actually found it here in a deserted office building. You needed a break, and you found one in the most unexpected of places. Someone has to be looking out for you to find a weapon like this. Your lips twist in a smirk as you stare at the gleaming blade and hold the sword carefully. Oh yes, this will do to turn the tide against those creatures, very well indeed. You smile at the carnage you could wreak with this thing. They can strap the leather sheath onto one of their backs. One slides the sword into the sheath, suddenly feeling a bit more emboldened than one was before. Main Area: Back Hallways: KMN Auto Parts Office: Here is stored everything needed to wash, wax, and mechanically maintain an automobile collection. On the shelf is a jack, some car rims, a wrench, and some oil bottles. East Hallway: The PCs look around for any clue where to go next. The fifth floor had been useful so far, but they are on their own now. They pull out the map to see what is on this floor. They are caught between a mental clinic and a furniture store. Naturally, all the exits are locked; it won't be that simple. Green Ridge Mental Health Clinic Office: It is small and intimate, reminiscent of the womb. Two walls hold bookshelves floor to ceiling sagging with medical books, law books, pathology books, philosophy books, books on clinical medicine, and physiology; one wall is dressed with paintings of tranquil country scenes, and the fourth is all windows. The bookshelves contain a

handful of expensively bound volumes - and perhaps three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller. The rest of the room's decor consists of a battered desk covered with books, medical journals, scraps of paper, manila folders filled with loose pages, and a telephone, high backed heavily padded armchairs, and foot-scarred coffee table. If they try the telephone in the living room, it proves to be out of order, like the others. Echo Interiors: A solitary set of doors marked "Echo Interiors" illuminated. ECHO Interior Display Room: It is an antique stores open showroom containing musty chairs, old antiques, various ornaments, stuffed animals, canopied beds, night-stands, and useless trinkets line the walls with kerosene lamps, dark wood bureaus, high-backed chairs. It all smells strongly of mothballs. The lights are turned off in the furniture shop, save for some small lamps on the walls in the form of antique lights. The floor is done in all mahogany boards, fitting for a floor and furniture shop. They step into the room, noting the thick layers of dust that has been cast upon the shelves, and objects themselves under the small light beam of their flashlight. This is obviously a display center for the company's various pieces, rather than someplace for buying them off the floor, but everything here needed a good cleaning over. As far as they know, this stuff hasnt been touched in months, maybe even years. Their shoes clack loudly on the wooden boards as they walk. No footsteps, not a cough nor a muffled voice in the distance. There is nothing but silence, that horrible noise that isnt and still is at the same time. The nothing has become something in this place, the nothing was normal for this place, but it would never be normal for the PCs. They hate this absolute silence. There is something unnatural in not hearing anything: any speech, the ticking of a clock, activity of any kind...it just isn't right for things to be so quiet. It makes one feel like something is going to jump out at them out of every corner. The assorted pieces of furniture positioned about the room include: a colorful striped couch, a reddish brown reclining chair, tables, bookcases, and other home furnishings. There are two dog statues beside the couch, in the shape of Dalmatians. There are no windows of any kind. ECHO Interior Storage Room: The next room in the furniture shop is for bathroom fixtures. The PCs survey the fixtures in mild approval: they made good bathtubs, one has to admit, staring at a bathtub in the middle of the room, although they could certainly use a good cleaning too. They can go into a nearby bathroom hoping to get some fresh water and to their surprise water actually comes out of the sink! They drench their faces in the purifying liquid, feeling it running through their fingers in a cool sensation they have missed and feel a lot cleaner afterwards. Although there isnt any soap, at least their hands aren't drenched in blood anymore. Their faces feel sticky with the stuff, too. Only for a moment they do not she stop to question why water would come out of this place when so many other places were completely dead with regards to functionality. ECHO Interior Tub Room: The final room in the furniture store's neck of the office building doesnt hold much, just some shelves lining the walls and some stacked cardboard boxes scattered across the room. This is obviously a storage area, and not one that has seen much recent use, judging by the level of cleanliness. The room is just as grimy and dirty as the rest of the store, and for some strange reason, there is one large clawed-toothed bathtub in the center of it all, like the last room. They look about the storage room. There is no way out of the room, beside the one they came through. Their attention turns back to the bathtub. There is something about it that is unsettling to them. Oddly, there is no dust on the tub, and it looks like it has been used recently. It is actually, quite clean, and still smells like cleaning chemicals. They stare at it for a moment, feeling vaguely uneasy. Kneeling down to examine the tub, it seems to have no extraordinary features of any

kind, and for all intents and purposes, is just a regular bathtub. The drain cover is unplugged, but other than that, there is nothing unusual about it. They get up to their feet. There is nothing in here for them. As they turn away, they hear something drip. They turn their heads slightly towards the sound. They peer closely into the bathtub, wondering what is happening. It seems like something is coming up. It is then that dark blood spews from the unplugged draining hole, and gushing from the tap, as a burst of black sludge rises up from the drain, bubbling, and begins to rapidly fill up the bathtub's white form. The smell is awful, and immediately strikes their senses with an almost physical blow. If they try to get away, they find the door is locked. They can only watch in absolute terror as the bathtub swells with chaos, rivulets of tainted crimson and bleeding puss flowing along the pearly surface in spiraling patterns that scorch their eyes. The blood overflows the tub, small bloody tendrils forming all over the walls...the floor...covering everything and pumping, like veins... Suddenly, a knifing pain assaults their minds. They cry out as the most painful headache theyve ever had tears throughout their brains. They are knocked to their knees by the force of the effect, and watch, in horror, as all around them---the storage room begin to decay. A powerful wave of rotting effect sweeps throughout the building, layers peeling off the walls in a dripping organic mess, as the effect reveals a hideous decayed atmosphere underneath and the building literally rots itself from the inside out. No, not again! You cry out mentally in feverish denial. You aren't going to go through that again! You try to get up, but the pain is simply too great. You can't even draw your weapon, in case something attacks you. You cry out in anguish, holding your head and trying to stop the blinding pain that is literally bringing tears up to your eyes. You feel as if your head is going to explode, and you sob as you feel your stomach doing wrenching turns from the pain. The room sways, blurs, disappears, to be replaced by a flood of sound and images: smoke fills their lungs, heat redden their skin. Their eardrums vibrate with the wails of the dying and damned. Mercifully you pass out before the pain becomes even worse, and the last thing you see is Hell above you, welcoming you with its blood-red walls and all encompassing rust that defines its gruesome characteristics. The darkness overtakes their conscious selves. A voice makes its way into their minds, sounding distant and clear simultaneously. "It's being invaded by the Otherworld. By a world of someone's nightmarish delusions come to life They give themselves over to complete sleep, as the brief moment of subconscious clarity slips away from them. Radio Tower Darkness: ECHO Interior Tub Room: They don't know how long theyve been out; how long theyve laid there on the dirty building floor. Eventually their senses return to them, gradually making them aware of their surroundings. The PCs wake up in a haze of disorientation, wincing when they realize that they are touching the bloody storage room floor, drawing back in disgust. They push themselves up tiredly, straining as they stretch their ravaged bodies into standing position.

And it was then the PCs awake to the nightmare. The normal world has evaporated, the dimension of hell taking its place.... The darkness encompasses the room all around them, leaving their flashlight as the only source of light in the room. The walls papered with tiles rather then paint or wallpaper and on top of that some one has conceived the idea of splashing the walls with blood, an inordinate amount of it, not one tile appears to be devoid of the hemoglobin substance. The bathtub is just as filthy as the rest of the store, with rust and grime staining its porcelain white body. The room has turned into a dark, imposing corridor; a metal forms a small hallway a few feet long leading to the rooms exit. There is a picture of a white-toothed smile, hanging on the wall behind a grating. Strange. That smile seems familiar, for some reason. You tremble as you walk towards the exit, shaky with a bone chilling feeling of dread. Something nasty is about to happen, you know it. You hold your guns firmly in front of you, ready to blast it in case something jumps out to slash at you. ECHO Interior Storage Room: The room leads into another office that was once the display center, now transformed by the reality warping power of this realm. Like the previous room, it is now tiled and all the previous furnishings have vanished. There is now a wheelchair in the room, sitting there as if it is the most normal thing in the world. There is a doll sitting in the wheelchair, and it appears to be a baby, wrapped in bandages. You shudder; something about the bandaged thing is unsettling you. This couldn't be a real baby here, could it? Not even this place would be this sick, you hope. But that is nothing compared to the centerpiece of the room, which lays right ahead. Situated in a section of the wall between two chain-link gratings is a corpse hanging from its left arm, dressed in the ceremonial robes of a priest and knee-high black boots. Its head is melted off into a grotesque parody of a human skull, and in its right hand it holds a much smaller figure, dangling over the bottomless hole. The bandaged doll holds the hand of the much bigger body, like a parent holding the hand of a child. You involuntarily bring a hand over your mouth, gasping in shock from the sheer macabre nature of the sight. This is horrible; you have no other term for it. The melted face, the baby hanging off its left handit sparks something that is familiar to you, but you don't want to know what it is. It is just too disturbing. Fifth Floor Main Area: The floor is dark on the other side as well. A slight discernible noise catches your attention. The noise grows in strength the more the PCs listen to it. The noise sounds like the crumbling of paper, or the sound a bird would make, if it were warped to a monstrous degree. It becomes a crescendo as something grows closer. The halls play host to decrepit firms and gutted studios though in spirit, that of something else, a corpse inhabited by a vengeful ghost. The floors are of scorched wood, creaking beneath every step, the walls of curled and yellowed paper, and the ceilings are broken away to reveal the snaking pipelines falling from the woodwork. It all seems like some kind of twisted faade, reality transfigured into a stage in which the heros will play out their drama... Rushing towards them out of the darkness is a rapidly crawling creature that has surely escaped from Hell. It lets out a shriek of madness and hunger.

In spite of the flashlight, the PCs do not get a clear look at the attacker. The beam wavers, and the hateful beast is moving fast, and they are too scared to understand what they are seeing. Nevertheless, they see enough to know it is nothing they have ever seen before. There is a cylinder covering its face like some type of mask, preventing them from looking into its face. Not that they want to, but the presentation is made even more disturbing because of it. There is a protruding tubular orifice where the mouth should be; fine, sharp teeth rim the edge of it, and it makes a disgustingly wet, vacuuming sound. The creature is shaking uncontrollably, as if it were wracked with spasms of some unending excruciating muscle pain. They try to hit it, but the creature moves faster than expected. With the initiative, it hits a PC hard enough to knock the breath clear out of her/him. The sudden burst of power has allow it to succeed, and has caught them completely off guard. The PC falls, and the creature comes down on top of her/him. Its probing tongue is at the PCs face, and they can feel its hot rank breath washing the PC over, smelling blood and decay and worse. The PCs have to struggle to keep its misshapen limbs away from, the shaking of the creature's body making it extremely difficult. Summoning strength with their legs, they are able to throw the creature away from and rapidly rise to their feet, quickly getting their bearings. Backing away, they get a good look at the creature. The grotesque creature skitters around on the ground, trying to encircle the PCs apparently to gain an advantage. This close in, they have a great view of it. The creature has a human-like shape, with some type of garment covering its lower regions and large sandbag-like appendages for arms. How it possibly worked, the PCs have no way of knowing, but it is obvious it is incredibly adept at hunting down prey. Despite being human shaped, it seems slightly smaller than the average grown person. But its speed makes up for that. The PCs know they have the overhead advantage, with it being low to the ground, but theyll have to move fast. When struck, the creature doesnt seem receptive to pain. It continues skittering. They fire once at the monster, making it cry out in pain. The monster slows down, temporarily knocked down to the ground in a stunned position. They fire again and the monster howls in pain, thrashing around in agony on the ground. They fire again, until the creature finally falls dead, spilling its lifeblood onto the floor. The PCs breathe a sigh of relief, backing away from the corpse. That was a close one. That creature was a challenge, more so than many of the other monsters they had encountered thus far. It moved quickly, and it seemed it was able to detect their position through the darkness. They don't want to think about what would have happened if it had climbed on top of them, and sunk its hooks into them. They will have to be careful in the future. They are so relieved about the creature no longer being a threat that they miss the other one coming out of the shadows, and the shock jolts them out of their complacency in a hurry. The dog comes out of the darkness with its jaws ready to thrash, causing the PCs to roll out of the way to avoid its dangerous bite. The PCs push themselves up from the ground, picking up the handgun and aiming it as the dog turns around to do another sweep at them. They fire two shots at the dog, putting the animal out of its misery, as they get up from the ground. They wipe the sweat off their brows, shakily breathing a deep breath in and out to calm themselves. They are getting tired; their muscles aren't responding as quickly. They are going to be in trouble soon, if they keep this up for much longer. They need to find a way out of here, and soon, before they get overwhelmed by the dangers in this place.

They need to get to other floors. There has to be a way of reaching the first floor, without breaking a window and trying to climb down some fire escape, which isn't even an option at this time considering most of the offices are locked. They explore the hallway further. There are two bathrooms nearby, both are locked and there is no point in exploring them further. Green Ridge Mental Health Clinic Office: This seems to be the mental health clinic before the world had changed. In the confines of this Mental Clinic, little more than a psychiatrists glorified scheme, it has been transformed like the rest of the office building, overtaken by the disease of rust and decay that afflicts this entire building. Inside is what appears to be a small office as decayed as the outside walls, the darkness has greedily devoured all surfaces, the trails searing rich crimson as they flowed along the surface of the ornate desk. The soft light of the lamp has an orange hue, the shade heavy with dust, and the picture frames beside it frayed into blank images. The wallpaper is browned, curled as if set aflame. The shelves have become wracked with decay, the many books and texts on the pseudo-science of the mind rotted at the spine. An adjacent cabinet seems to have folded upon itself, collapsing beneath its own archive of deviants, and the floor below, of supposedly expensive wood, has striped bare to reveal nothing more than cheap tile. Mental Clinic Supply Room: The room they find themselves in now is an office of some sort, with shelves and a desk located around the space of the room. The floor is stained with blood and rust, as are the surrounding walls. There isn't much of interest on most of the shelves, only knickknacks of various sorts scattered around on the shelving. Lamps, pens, mugs; common items that are nothing of any use to the PCs. Then they notice that there is a thick textbook on the center of the desk, and it is open to about the halfway point. Taking a good close look, they realize that it is a junior high school biology textbook. That is when they realize that there is a passage that is outlined on the page in a circle, in a deep purple marker. They start to read from it, eyes skimming down all the lines of text on the page. When you pour diluted hydrogen peroxide onto manganese dioxide, oxygen is produced. Although oxygen will not burn on its own, it will help other things to burn. It is then that they notice that there is a bottle on the desk next to the book, darkly toned with some type of liquid inside it. Picking up the bottle, and note that it is something labeled Oxydol on the front. They look back at the medical cabinet, taking in the fact that this is the only substance of any importance that is available here. Second Hallway: Soon afterwards, they notice there are tiny black specks floating in this second corridor. They arent sure what they are until they get a closer look...close enough for one to brush their arm with a distinctly fuzzy wing. They instantly draw back as if burned by a flame. They are moths. Hundreds of them, congregated in a menacing black wall that makes it impossible for them to pass. Elevator: They go up to the elevator. In the glimmer of the flashlight, the PCs can see that the inner walls of the elevator are covered in rust. The elevator is now more like a mesh cage, descending past wire mesh floors constructed of twisted metal. There is no way to know what is on each floor, so they just press the button to the floor above them. The PCs simply hope they haven't missed anything of value up here. Whatever is down there, they will have to make do with it. They are nearing the end of this little journey. All they have to do is find a way down to the first floor and find the exit, and they are out of here. They jump as a rusted gate slams down over the doors as the elevator goes up. Fourth Floor:

East Hallway: The elevator doors open up into another darkened corridor. They step out, wondering what is next. They observe the environment around them for any signs of danger, noting how different it is from the usual floor. For some reason, this segment of the building looks slightly different from the others in the building, looking more like a dirty kitchen filled with grime and blood stains, rather than an office building. Overall it is rather gruesome and leaves them feeling even more disgusted with this place than usual, feeling like it is going to contaminate them with its grime. The hallway is empty and seems to continue along forever, and they see some disturbing things on the way. There is a large cage on the side of the hallway, or at least that is what the wall separating them from the void looks like. What look like human hands stretch out from gaps in various walls...as if trying to grab them. The PCs pay them no mind, simply marveling at the odd structures of this place and its lack of sensibilities. They continue walking however...trying each door. They seem to be all broken. After a while, they find one that can open and move inside. One Stop Imports Store Room: It is a child's room. Enveloping them, the crimson bulb casts broken shadows as they regard the almost barren space. A rickety mattress stained and without sheets lies on a jagged frame at the room's center, a strange sort of divide separating it from the rest of the room. A chainlink fence halved, its shadows cast resembling that of a spider's web beyond the red glare of the light. This ambience resounds in their ears, ringing endlessly. There is a Slurper underneath the bed. The stupid creature thinks to hide underneath the bed in an attempt to ambush them. They grab the first aid kit that is on top, which had been their true objective all along. One Stop Imports Office: The first thing they notice is a heap of silver and gold coins located on one of the many tables, so many in number that they are overflowing onto the floor. Then, they see the humming and softly clinking soda-vending machine in one of the corners, away from the table mass of coins there. There is a message on the wall next to the vending machine. "Thus one's life turns to riches: What was a bag of silver coins is now the number in a book. Yet faith hath no priceAh, but do people know this?" They stare at the vending machine a little while longer. One supposes that here it means that there is no risk in taking a chance, with this unexpected find. They suppose the fact that it is in this place also means that it is vending something other than the normal items one would find. They are thirsty...but what will be in it? Blood? Will it even work? Picking up one of the many silver coins; they walk over to the machine and put it in. Nothing happens. They kneel down, looking at gap where the drinks are meant to appear. CLUNK! They jump as drinks from the vending machine clatter and fall. It looks like it works after all. Crashing into the bin at the bottom, they reach down and bring them out. There are two of them, one an advertised nutritious health drink and the other a canned energy drink. The can is empty of any liquid, as is made evident as the PCs hold it in hand. It is light, and rattles if they so much as shake it. There is no soda inside, but something else...

A metallic key falls out. They pick it up. The key is small and silver colored, with a small tag attached to it. There is something written on the tag. Looking closer, it is a simple name. It reads Elberton Life Insurance. Elberton Life Insurancethe life insurance office that is on the end of the first floor! Standing in the light of the vending machine, the nutrition drink they hold has not yet passed its listed expiration date. It certainly looks normal. There is no tint of rust or anything. The can is heavy with a sloshing sound, indicating there is something inside. A vague sense of thirst and hunger that had been repelled crawls back at them, and they have the urge to drink it to keep the feelings at bay. You pop the top of the bottle open. You smell a whiff of the liquid inside. It smells normal too. Bringing the brown bottle to your lips, you drink tenderly. It is quite tasteless, but thick and somehow refreshing for only being lukewarm. Your mouth was getting dry, so you definitely welcome the drink. At least this place was kind enough to provide a drink for you. The only question is whether it will do something hideous or transform you in some grotesque way. You leave through the door you came through. Fifth Floor: Main Area: The PCs look around, analyzing every inch of the new area. There is a billboard nearby. It doesn't seem to have any important information, though they note a few names. Michael F., Lisa R., Willard L., Leonard R., Sam B., John K. Curious. There is something about those two names before the last that touches off something in them, but they don't know what. There are only two doors to go through, and one is locked, so they take the left. They look around, once again analyzing every inch of the darkness they find themselves in now. The walls are some kind of wood, reminding the PCs of something from long ago that they long to forget. The walls and floor look bloody, like it had dried into the cracks long ago. There are blotches of blood on the wall boards. The air is stale. Suddenly, they detect a familiar sound, like the crumbling of paper, making its way around in the darkness. They are back, and it sounds like there is more than one of them. The PCs ready their weapons. They see the creature coming around the corner. The creature gets up again; it is apparently only stunned. The PCs shoot it again, downing it once more. The creature gets up a second, struggling to regain its bearings. They shoot it once with her handgun, putting the creature out of its misery. There are other two monsters in the hallway. They come out of the darkness, hunting them as usual. But by now they have figured out their routine, and can take them out quite easily. They come out of the darkness looking for food, only to be met by their guns instead. Maybe things aren't getting worse, after all. Maybe they can overcome this and come out through it all alive. They are becoming less of a threat the more they move on. They are gaining the upper hand here. This world will have to throw a lot more at them than these, if it wants to throw them off-track.

Now that the threat is eliminated, the PCs explore the rooms in the area. There are only two doors that are available to be opened, so they take them one by one. Once again, they can't help but wonder why so many locks are broken in this world. After all, if the rooms behind them are the same as in the real world, then it should be all right, presumably. Do they want them to stay on course, or is it that the world just can't replicate everything that is in the real world? KMN Auto Parts Office: The PCs look around at the room they find themselves in. There is a large table in the center, with a few chairs surrounding it over the chain-link floor, and a partition of chain-link in the back that allows them to see into the darkness beyond. It appears that to be a bedroom as neat and bare as a nuns cell. There is single iron bed, white pillows, white coverlet pulled up tight. One wooden nightstand, empty save for an overflowing ashtray, a book of matches and a crumpled cigarette package. The cigarette butts are ringed with bright red lipstick. They pick up the book of matches. Maybe they will come in handy. They leave the empty room. There is nothing else there. Hallway: Through these hallowed halls drift the faintest of illumination, a beacon to the wandering spirit. The PCs look at the hallway they find themselves in. There is an amber colored partition of some sort blocking off a part of the hallway, sectioning it away from the rest of the place. It is transparent, and is apparently made of a glass of some sort, allowing the PCs to see into the hallway beyond. There is a wheeled chair several feet ahead of the glass, lying immobile among the shadows at the entrance to another room. Despite the overwhelming darkness, it is bathed in light, a golden glow from the threshold illuminating the forsaken silhouette of the chair. The light seems to be emanating from somewhere in the vicinity. It is a haunting sight - yet strangely beautiful in its sorrow. You wonder what the meaning of it is. There seems to be some meaning to it, but you can't figure out what it is. You feel a little strange as you stare at the other side of the window. Your gaze is fixated on the chair, and for some reason, you can't look away from it. There is something like a howl, emanating from somewhere in the background as you stare at this transfixing image. There is something in there, on the other side. It is calling you. You stare transfixed at the dark passageway beyond, unable to turn away. The more you stare at it, the more you feel like you are being sucked in. It is an eerie, disorientating feeling. The world around you seems to fade or take on an air of non-existence, as only the tableau of yellow glass exists. You feel yourself being drawn in, as the world rushes by around you, closer and closer. As the proverbial moth to the flame, they follow this wavering light, dodging cruel shadows and pressing through to the other side. You pull back from the frozen moment in time, rushing to catch your breath. What just happened there? It is like you were in a trance, unable to do anything except look at the scene before you. You didn't know what is behind that wall, or why it was calling to you, but you know it is probably best to look away. You know, somehow, that if you had continued to stare into that void and got fully enthralled into whatever was waiting there, you would never come back. The PCs can't break the glass, try if as they might; whether out of a desire to confront the thing or just curiosity. It doesnt work. The wall that was placed here is obviously no ordinary structure made of glass (if it is even glass or if it is some substance that it is unknown to them or anyone). Some things are just better to just walk away from, though the questions remain. What is on the other side that needs such protection, or was it intended to keep them out? And why does it seem so familiar to her, almost like they have met it before or experienced it? Something is there in that other side of this world, and the more they think about the unbreakable wall and what had almost taken place here, the more unsettled they become.

You walk away from the confounding thing. You don't want to know. Sometimes it is just better not to ask. Gallery of Fine Arts: The art gallery lays transformed before them, turned into a shabby and decayed version of its former self. The PCs survey the new environment. Most of the paintings are missing in the area, their frames laying empty. There was only one left, and it is the worst one. There is a picture, large and imposing in its frame, of a maiden of virgin white, wreathed in holy light, the halo of the sun burning beyond her visage, its golden wrath searing to the mottled souls of surrounding nonbelievers. There is a being of white light behind her. The golden glow washing over them, the pilgrims eyes behold the savior. There are flames surrounding the woman in the painting, as followers kneel before her and worship her as a goddess. It is only a faded image, the painting seeming to glow beneath the false flames flickering within the twin rickety florescent lamps at the wall to either side of the painting. Their empty light drifting through the far reaches, these fixtures cast warped shadows on twisted iron. Cruel tools lay strewn about a butchers table cast in the center of the art gallery where the viewing divan was, the scattered trunk of an unfit swine left to rot, jagged blades still buried in its snout. The pig has been carefully cut into sections, its neck cut, the head almost severed from its body. There are only stumps where its legs had once been and the stomach is punctured with large holes from which its insides had been dragged through, presumably harvested for a profane purpose. The PC now realize that the terrible stench had come from corrupted flesh. The pig has been dead for a long time. While examining the large (and only) painting carefully, they take some notice of some kind of entrance sealed behind it. It looks like a way out. Removing the painting by force is not an option; as it has been stuck onto the wall. The paintings inscription reads Flame Purifies All By these remains would the path to paradise be revealed. To ignite the spark of destiny, to be taken in its searing grasp! Or to deny the cruel hand, and burn forever in the abyss... The decision was never yours to begin with. There is a bucket under the painting, apparently waiting in anticipation of burning something in it. Over the rim of a rusted pail gleams the pigs slick intestine, fetid vapors rising from within it, discoloring the painting above with corrupting stench. Chemical vials and crude liquors lie shattered at the sordid offering, the contents mixed into a ghastly concoction. The smell scorches their nostrils, like that of something volatile... They are obviously expected to burn the painting. They need it to be small, something that wouldn't create a blazing flame. So they do what the plated inscription had suggested. Using a match book they had taken from the counter, they manage to set the thing on fire. A match struck in the confines brings light to the corruption, the feeble flames dancing between careful fingers.

At first, they arent sure if it will catch alight so easily...but the slick oil used to bring out the glossy colors on the picture's surface reassures them. The match is cast into the deadpool, greedy tongues of flame lapping at their finest offering. A slow flame begins to roil inside the bucket, and the PCs take a step back as the flame expands. It burns quickly and they step back, the dark smoke makes their eyes water. As expected, the flame consumes the painting. At once the firestorm spreads, dancing amongst the volatile liquids; scorching into vapors that sting the eyes and choke their lungs, driving the PCs away to watch as the glorious portrait smolders and peels with the rest of them, like burning flesh. With skin flush beneath the spreading heat that devours the oils of the painting, the beaming, spirited eyes of the saint turning to those of death as her consecrated body wilts to ash. The hundred faces of sinners becoming those of porcine devils, their greedy maws open in horrid cries before dropping away to melt with the bodies of others. With lungs wracked by choking breaths, the PCs feel this hell bearing down, the oppressive atmosphere of this forbidden gallery heavy on their shoulders as the smoke begins to spread, black tears weeping from their stinging eyes. Cant breathe... Cant run away. Cant breathe. All instincts fight to free you as your eyes reflect upon that terrifying purity, the lies of a false god being burned away... Even if you burn. YOU CANT BREATHE! You cant run away. A nebula of fire, swirling in wondrous chaos, scorching them beneath its terrifying brilliance. They can see it, those cruel shapes forming in twisted oils of the painting, the very source of their sorrows burning brighter than the sun. A crimson halo, glowering amidst the flames. After it appears the fire has burnt itself out the painting disintegrated from the charring effect, until there is nothing left of the frame. They move in close, coughing a little. It is just as they thought. There is a door behind the painting. The two twin doors sit on the middle of the wall in the form of pull-away doors, like a vent leading to some other part of the building. The entrance is small though, barely enough for someone to get through and also, high up, like a window. Where will this path take them? The question burns in their minds as the flames that had scorched the painting moments before. They push the small double doors open, and host themselves up onto the ledge, crawling on their stomachs into the passageway to whatever is waiting on the other side. Stairway to the Sixth Floor: When they finally reach the other side, they edge themselves out slowly, landing on metal grates with a clank. They immediately raise their weapons, as they think that a monster has found them. But it is just a picture. They sigh in relief. That relief immediately turns to being disturbed as they see the body next to the picture.

Oh. There is another hanging body, no surprise there. This one is a little different, though. It is hanging by a cord wrapped around its neck, entangled in the pipes of the construct. It seems to have been burned all over, but the hanging cord seems to be the main cause of death. And there is something squiggling all over the body, like some kind of blood flowing all over its skin. That same thing is also on the bars and beams surrounding the picture. They stare at their new surroundings. There is no paradise to be found. It is a staircase. It looks like it only goes up one floor....the sixth floor. They move down, listening to the weird inhuman noises all around them...everything has really changed.... They look at the picture. There is something about that smile that is familiar, but they can't figure out what. Where had they seen it before? It is supposed to be a positive image, but instead it looks downright disturbing and creepy in this place. And there are so many of them too, little ones encircling the big picture. Why? What is the purpose of it? The room is obviously a sub-section behind the art gallery. They go down the stairs and as they are descending they spot something to their left. They step off and see a group of papers on top of a desk. They stop before leaving the ledge, moving toward a desk with some scattered papers on it. They look like part of some storybook. Someone has ripped them out. The pages look like they were written by a child, with drawn illustrations to match. Where had they come from? Once upon a time, there was a monster living at the gates of a village. It would catch people and crunch their bones between foul lips. The villagers were afraid of the monster, and no one would dare approach the gates. The knights eagerly rode to defeat the monster. Their swords slashed and their spears flashed, but the monster would not die. It merely tossed them into its mouth one by one, steed and all. It was then a solitary priestess came to the castle. Trusting in her faith, the king asked her to defeat the monster guarding the gates of the beleaguered village once and for all... A child's dream. A fairy tale. These pages strewn before their eyes weave forgotten realms into being. Looking through this dismal span, the PCs know that now and forevermore they will be part of this horrid fantasy... They search for more of the fairy tale among the pages, any other scribbling from the same author, but there are none. Sixth Floor: Out of the stairwell, along the hall, to the meeting hall, they are accompanied by the rising chorus of frenzied, fluttering within the walls, a rustle, a bustle, an urgent quickening, as if the horde senses its tender prey are escaping. Throughout the building arises a subtle creaking from floorboards, wall studs, ceiling joists. The building sounds like a ship at sea, riding out the steep swells of a storm fringe. Broadcasting Booth: On the other side of the door, the broadcasting booth is small but functional. The door, walls, and ceiling are soundproofed with acoustical tiles. A console in the middle of the room has a microphone on a tabletop stand, various tape players, gauges, dials, and dozens of buttons. In front of the console is a comfortable office chair, on wheels, the kind that someone could sit in for hours without having to leave it.

But sitting in the chair is no man. A figure is there, to be sure. Its mouth is moving, and incantations come out of it. But the words being spoken now are not words that any human mouth has ever voiced, or ever could. And though the figure in the chair looks as if it might once have been human, it isn't now. A checkered shirt and blue jeans litter the floor at the base of the chair, shredded as if they had split and fallen off when the body at the console had swollen to twice human size. The expose flesh is the sickly color of spoiled fruit. It bulges and swells in places humans don't, and it ripples, as if there was something squirming about underneath it. The thing lifts its head slowly, as if to look at them. When it does, the PCs realize that even though its mouth still moves in imitation of humanity, and words issue from it, its eyeballs are gone. The thing regards them with empty sockets. As the PCs watch, its forehead bulges and then flattens again, very much as if a fist has been pushed against the flesh there from the inside. The thing just continues uttering syllables into the microphone that sound meaningless but no doubt are not. Penthouse: This is a long, low-ceilinged room with walls that drip slime. Blood is painted on the carpeted floor in strange ritual symbols like the PCs have seen elsewhere. Webs in the corners hold desiccated bodies of those that once worked here. There are smells of blood and vinegar and various human wastes. Ripping aside the wall may drive vulnerable characters over the edge. Beyond it, indolent and repulsive in its slimy splendor, lies the Insane Cancer: huge, bloated, pale, and doughy, like a tremendous mound of flesh. It is human-sized at least, possibly bigger than the tallest in their group by several inches. As they enter, the Insane Cancer has just removed from the top of some poor victims skull; it moves munches on his exposed brain while his still-living body twitches uncontrollably. The Insane Cancers small mouth is smeared with neural tissue and blood. Its whole body seems to pulse spasmodically; it is almost hairless, a few grey threads clinging sparsely; it is completely white, or perhaps grey-pink, impossible to tell in the poor light, and its veins show through obscenely, throbbing in time with the body movement. The PCs quickly shoot one round after the other into the monster, but the creature keeps coming through the hail of bullets. Its silence is almost the worst thing about it. No screams of pain when it is shot. No shrieks of rage. Finally, a shot to the head is enough to bring it down. The PCs take a closer look at the monstrosity. What is this? They wonder in horror. It looks like it is infected by something. Grotesque tumors are scattered over its body, covering the brown neck and torso with a horrid mass of pustules. It looks like a mass of tumors in human shape or one giant tumor in the form of a human. The skin beneath the chest isn't much better. The legs and stomach are visibly inhuman, and there are no distinguishing features of male or female gender. And its face - there is barely one to begin with. The skin is stretched so taut, one can barely tell where the skull ends and the neck begins. The smell is horriblelike a piece of meat that had been left rotting out in the sun. Is it dead? The radio doesnt indicate it, but the thing isn't moving. Looking closer, they see that it is twitching. Is it still alive?

And then the creature stands up, nearly startling the PCs out of their wits. They quickly steady their guns. Without hesitation, they fire at the upper part of the mass in front of them. The explosion is deafening, and it almost sends the PCs reeling. Its patient and silent recovery, its deliberate continuation of the assault, mocks their hopes of triumph. The monster is far more affected, falling to the ground in a wounded mass of flesh and fluids. Before it can recover, the PCs smash down on its head. The monster gives one final shudder and falls still, after an unearthly death growl. It is dead. To their surprise, it literally deflates after its demise. Like... Like a tumor drained of its liquid. Behind the plaster, the teeming hive has fallen silent. Taking one last look at the heap of obscene flesh, they turn and stagger to the stairs, glancing at the body of its victim as they pass, feeling drained of emotion. First Floor: First Floor Entrance: Bodies, crucified hideously behind grated dioramas regard the PCs with hollow expressions, their limp forms illuminated in broken shadows, dead hands still clutching blades of profane origin, gleaming with murder. Were it not for the strands of convulsed wire and metal between them, one fears that these things will set upon the PCs in an instant. With careful steps the PCs follow the trail around the corner, eyes on the storybook pages that lie on the ground, strangely compelled to see how this drama will end. "The Priestess accepted the king's request and went to the village gates. But when she saw the monster, she tried to convince it with words instead of killing it. "Shut up, you! I'm going to eat you up!" The monster didn't listen to a word the Priestess said. But she kept trying to convince the monster to give up. "It's wrong to eat people you know." The monster grew very angry at this and attacked her, killing her with a single blow." Words crackle from the radios speaker in blasphemous tongues: There is no such thing as a happy ending. A guttural tongue flares at their ears. Rounding the corner, they see something shifting in the distance. They peer through the darkness, inching ever closer towards the source of the noise. And then they see it. Lurking the end of the hall, completely covering the entrance is a monstrous bulk of abstract flesh entwined in a cylindrical structure laid out over the expanse of the corridor, with some type of circle twitching spasmodically in the center. The flashlight plays over python-like appendages, across other more repulsive and baroque features, which they dare not stare at if they ever hope to sleep again.

The PCs stop, unwilling to go any further. A trinity of giant pillars of flesh writhe their bloated bodies like the sprouts of some corrupt forest from the rift in the earth. With eyes climbing those spires of flesh, the PC tremble in revulsion as their stares are returned. The eyes watch without sight, whisper without tongues, putrid lips smile in response. The thing almost looks like it is laughing at them. Diseased breath whisper to the PC's ears, the scores of empty eyes staring to the pits of their souls in accusation, cursing them, damning them. Breathless laughter bellows in their ears, mincing, raw, the trio of gluttonous faces bearing twisted smiles. You are not a child anymore. You should know this truth, squeals a broken neck, flailing in rapture. The second chimes in, its whispers grating at their hearts: Are you so naive? . The third bellows with laughter, There is no escape for us. For you. They draw back in shock. They have seen some strange things on this journey, but none of them are quite like this. They aim their guns straight at the beast, ready to shoot. This thing is huge! If it chose to charge them, they will be forced to hightail it back to the elevator and hope the doors can stop themselves from being forced open. They are panicking now, ready to run for their life if it is necessary. But them they realize the creature isn't approaching towards them. In fact, it isn't moving at all. They take a closer look at the thing and realize the reason for its lack of movement. It is bonded to the wall. They timidly tiptoe towards the foul nightmarish creature, never letting their careful grip fall from their weapons too much. The worst part is the noise the creature makes as it stands there. It sounds horrible; there is a hissing sound that sounds deep and disturbing, like a snake, or some monstrous predator hissing at its prey, and the PCs feel themselves shake all over in fear, despite not wanting to. They keep their distance, even though the creature is immobile. They know, somehow, that if they try to approach it, the creature would try to eat her. She just knew it. There was no how or why. It just wasn't a question. She could almost imagine the tentacles coming towards her, dragging her body towards the monster so that it would eat her slowly, painfully. They were probably stored in those two fleshy columns that surrounded the monster, side by side alongside the wall. Pulling out the map, to their surprise, it turns out that they are near to the exit of the building, and this monster is standing in their way. They have finally found the exit to this place, and now this monster is blocking their path! The monster is obviously a stand-in for the creature in the story, and the tale is obviously a message to tell them that they can't defeat it by normal means. They will have to find the other pages of the story in order to figure out how to get rid of it. They will to be calm about it, and find another way to defeat this monster without brute force, by figuring out how the priestess did it in the fairy tale. If they attack it or get too close to it, dark tendrils of tainted sinew and bleeding bones will emerge like diseased flesh closing on a thorn to engulf them. Cancerous maws intent on their meal will open on the thing. Last Drop Caf: They finally locate a room they can enter. There is a large counter wrapping

around the room, made of oak of some kind. This is obviously a bar or food service area of some kind, though now it is dusty and destroyed. The booths are wrecked, the bar is stained with blood and flesh. There is something that is definitely unexpected, though. There is a large amount of cash spread all over the counter, like someone had robbed the register and smashed it open. It is then that the PCs notice that there is a light coming from an open fridge in the far corner of the room, sitting on its side and open. The PCs approach the appliance and draw back in shock at what is inside. There is a steak sitting in the fridge, but it is rotten to the core and sitting among what appears to be a sea of blood amongst other unidentifiable former food products, some of them leaking thin rivulets of dark fluid. It looks like someone has bled to death in the refrigerator, or something had exploded in a mass of blood, or blood has seeped out of the bag the steak was in. The stench is horrible. Picking up a box of shotgun shells from a nearby table, they to leave the room, past the dirty glasses on the counter. In fact, they can't get out of there fast enough. They vacate the area as soon as possible. West Hallway: They into the hall, casting the gleaming beacon through the darkness. They know they are still out there. The creatures that have resonated through the hallway, whatever they are the PCs can hear them as they scramble through the area. Whether they are one or two or ten, the PCs don't know. But they are in for a rough time when they try to get past them. They feel fear overwhelming them little by little. They don't want to go out here, but they aren't going to let it overcome her. They stop it in their tracks and take the next step forward. The noises grew closer and close in proximity, step by step, as the distance between them is closed. They ready their weapons, waiting for the creatures to reveal themselves. It is hunting them they can tell, scrambling about in the darkness trying to sense their prey. Finally, they see what one would imagine hell to be like. Dozens of the slurpers, scores even, their shadows pulsing along the golden thresholds, a hundred slurping tongues scouring the floors for nourishment. The sound of their feeding, the gnashing guzzling is a sound that the PCs will carry as long as they live. The cacophony grow in power as they approach the creatures, filling the area with that horrible sound. Only one stands out among the orgy of feeding, its greedy snout sucking on the spine of a book. The PCs stride amongst the disgusting scene, ginger steps passing between piles of bodies feasting on misplaced carrion. Not once do the slurpers turn their eyeless faces in their direction, as if accustomed to their presence... Why aren't they attacking you?! Desperate thoughts scream through the insanity, the PCs are unable to keep their eyes on these things. Aren't these all just MONSTERS? Here to KILL you?! A beast seems to laugh as it sucks upon the remnants of a wheelchair, tearing dry leather into its snout. Before them, they can see the end of the hall, blocked by raw furniture and shelves, a lump of carrion greedily devoured by a pair of those disgusting denizens, a door beside them ajar. As the estranged monster with the book slithers inside. Elberton Life Insurance Meeting Room: A strange bloodied room, with small tables positioned around the entire length of the room, circling the expanse of it with a chasm in the center and a few chairs surrounding it. The light catches something white, reflecting brightly. They walk up to it curiously. Walls of white linen, smothered in filth and blood. The slurper is here, holding the book.

A single shot resounds in the depths of this room as the PCs fire. The book falls to the ground, released. Only the sound of slithering limbs can be heard as the creature vanishes into the darkness. Finally they hold the tome in hand; the end to the fairy tale they've been reading earlier. The king and his people shed tears at the death of the kind priestess. God took pity upon them, and, granting their wishes, healed the priestess. The priestess opened her eyes just as she had done every morning of her life. She went once more to the monster's lair. The priestess had come to defeat the monster once and for all. With sadness in her heart, she saw to it the deed was done. Neither sword nor bullet could pierce the monsters hide, yet the priestess used neither weapon of man. She chanted but a single spell. "TU FUI, EGO ERIS" Do you know what happened then? The monster let out a huge cry, and then died and vanished! Thus the villagers were able to use their gates once more. Everyone lavished their gratitude upon the Priestess and they lived happily ever after. You put down the pages. That's it? All that work and fighting, all the suffering and close calls with creatures, all for a spell from a children's story? "Tu Fui Ego Eris?" you read aloud in confusion. You knew it: you should have just shot the damn thing. No sooner than the breath leaves their lips, do the cries resound. Fierce, shaking the very pillars of this world, the death cry of a trinity of horrors bleeds into their ears, their mocking voices silenced once and for all. The PCs draw back in shock, shaking a bit in startled befuddlement. First Floor Entrance: First Floor Entrance: The PCs go to the hall only to find emptiness. The hallways outside are quiet, and the noises coming from the floors above have disappeared, like all of the monsters were gone. You grip your gun tightly, searching for any signs of trouble. You are about to run into that monster that was troubling her with its inconvenience, and dread the thought of glimpsing it thoroughly again, when you realize the monster is gone. The glass doors of the office building stand out proudly amid the drab walls and stained floor of the building, beckoning for someone to cross their threshold. The monster is no longer blocking it with its body, and had apparently been destroyed by that uttered spell you had poached, unwittingly, from the fairy tale book. You stare in disbelief. It can't be that easy, could it? The only weapon that was needed to kill that gruesome monster was a set of words from a children's story? But it is sound as you look across the area, realizing that the monster is completely gone and no trace of it whatsoever is left. The other monsters are gone as well, somehow you sense it. You rejoice silently in triumph, glad beyond belief more than you had been at any time in the past few hours. You waste little time in getting moving out of this place, finally letting the grip on your weapons ease into cautious relaxation. It had taken a long time, but finally you have your wish. The building still hasn't changed back,

but that will probably happen gradually over time. With all the monsters gone and no tasks left for you to accomplish, the Otherworld will recede gradually over time. That dosen't matter, though. Finally, they are free. The masses of monsters, the carnage beforehand cleansed as if they had never been. Even as they walk, their steps become more clear, the textures of the building slowly crumbling away to reveal that which they once were. The glass doors of the exit for this building are awaiting you, gleaming like a reward for all your hard work and the struggles for survival you have done in this place. They cross them gladly, never once looking back as they gladly leave behind the dank blood and darkness of this place. The PCs emerge through the glass doors of the office building in a rush, stepping onto the sidewalk outside. They look back at the building. To their surprise, the exterior of the building appears normal. There isn't anything wrong with it, or anything that appears odd. They don't go back inside, to check whether the Otherworld has disappeared. There isn't any need to go back there. Simmons Street: The fog makes everything look a milky white, the snow is falling all around, it looks so peaceful, peaceful enough for you to envy it, it is like the fog was trying to swallow everything up into its dull gray body. The merchandise in every store is filthy, old, and decayed. A shop that sold fine wines, the bottles coated with dust and displayed amid scattered dead insects, and a shop with leather jackets in the window that have all grown white, furry coats of mold. At a jewelry store, the display windows are shattered and lie in splinters on the sidewalk. If they pause to look they notice a diamond necklace is still draped around the neck of a bust made of black marble. Lines of scum have tricked down from the eyes of the bust, and dried on its cheeks. It looks like old blood. More necklaces, along with bracelets and rings, have been lifted from their beds of moldy black velvet, but has been dropped on the ground among the shattered glass from the windows. There are smears of blood on the sidewalk. They look old. Someone has broken the windows of the jewelry store, then for whatever reason, crawled away on all fours, their hands bleeding. The PCs study the smears, then cautiously follow them around the back bumper of a parked car, track them across the pavement of Simmons Street, then stop short. A body lies in the middle of the street, on the yellow lines that divide the northbound lanes from the south. It is impossible to tell if it had been a man or woman, though its clothing looks like that of a man. Its flesh is gone, reduced to a few patches of gluey brown sludge. It lies sprawled as though it had died making a snow angel, except its arms below the elbows were missing. The bones dont look as though they have been cut through, but rather as if they had dissolved. A large metal stake was driven through its forehead, pinning it to the ground. Impaled on the stake, nailed to the skull, is a small wooden plaque with a single word burned into its surface. THIEF Nearby stands a large wagon heaped with rusted VCRs and a couple of ruined televisions. They look as though they have been sitting in the wagon, in Simmons Street in the mist, for a very

long time. Public Parking: Wide enough to hold hundreds of cars, its ceiling low and vaulted in heavy concrete like a tomb. Similar to any indoor parking structure, the garage floor maps out dozens of parking spaces in white paint. A half dozen spaces contain parked and empty cars of various makes and model. The sedans and SUVs resemble sarcophagi placed neatly in rows, regularly polished by some macabre undertaker. They seem to be resting, biding their time for the opportunity to swarm---driverless, empty windscreens as blanks as a madman's stare---out of their parks and into the eerie streets.

The Antique Store: An innocuous-looking antique store sits across the road, the sign above
the door reading "THE GREEN LION." Narrow lengthwise rectangular windows glow soft yellow against the silhouette of the oddly medieval turret atop it. The display window, protected from the rain by an awning, of royal blue-and-gold holds a battered mauve couch, an opulent, gold-leaf-covered chair, a phonograph, a large red vase, an undistinguished-looking saddle. In front of the building is an open door that leads down . . . down steep stairs made of stone, but well built with solid-looking railings on both sides. It smells musky inside, and the dirt covering the walls is almost repulsive. Despite this, the age of the wood is clear as it creaks loudly with every step one takes. The door at the bottom of the small staircase is made of wood chipped with age. The PCs stand in the beige-carpeted display room filled with gleaming antiques: a polished rosewood piano, a brass bed, a lamp with bulbs shaped like roses. Objects of silver, brass, and gold. The way to the office at the back of the store is blocked by a maze of such items, from which rise a collective must-metal-rotted-dusty smell. Emerging from this morass of riches, the office lays open to the rest of the store like an oasis of sparseness. Five steps lead down to its sunken carpetingcrimson with gold threads and a simple rosewood desk whose only flourish are legs carved into the shape of writhing squid. A matching chair, two work tables against the far wall, and a couch for visitors round out the furniture. To the left of the office space stand two doors. The first leads to a private bathroom. The desk lies beneath an organized clutter of inventory books, a blotter, a selection of fountain pens, stationery with the store logo emblazoned upon it, folders full of invoices, a metal message capsule with a curled-up piece of paper inside. The inventory books are bound in red leather, the off-white pages are thin as tissue paper to accommodate as many sheets as possible. When opened they see that their handwritten contents are arranged symmetrically; two columns to each page. Almost three-quarters of its pages are written on, sometime in the two-column configuration, sometimes simply filled up from top to bottom. On the left-hand side of the pages is a column of names; on the right hand, a column that is far harder to make sense of. Occasionally there are names, but more often letters and symbols, some of them resembling obscure mathematical equations. There are eighteen others, as massive and unwieldy, which have been wrapped in a blanket and carefully hidden beneath the floorboards of the office. Two separate notebooks to record unfortunate dealings with Alchemilla hospital, are suitably yellow and brown, have been tossed into an unlocked drawer of the desk.

The last entry had been slowonly five items sold, two of them phonograph records. Descriptions of the buyers as Short Lady with walking stick. Did not give a name. She examined a very expensive Occidental vase and commented favorably on a bone hairpin, a pearl snuffbox, and a watch once worn by a prominent Truffidian priest. However, she only bought the hairpin and Man looked sick. Took forever to make up his mind. Bought one record after all that time. The hall contains the following items, some of which are cataloged on faded yellow sheets constrained by blue lines and anointed with a hint of mildew: The hall contains the following items, some of which are cataloged on faded yellow sheets constrained by blue lines and anointed with a hint of mildew: < 24 moving boxes, stack three high. Atop one box stood 1 stuffed black swan with banded blood-red legs, its marble eyes plucked, the empty sockets a shock of outrushing cotton (or was it fungus) the bird is merely a scout for the 5,325 specimens from far-off lands placed on shelves that placed on shelves that ran along the four walls and into the adjoining corridorslit with what he could only describe as a black light: it illuminated but did not lift the gloom. Iridescent thrush corpses, the exhausted remains of tattered jellyfish floating in amber bottles, tiny mammals with bright eyes that hinted at the memory of catastrophe, their bodies frozen in brittle poses. The stink of chemicals, a whiff of blood, and 1 Manzikert-brand phonograph, in perfect condition, wedged beside the jagged black teeth of 11 broken records and 8 framed daguerreotypes of the family that had lived in the mansion. On vacation in the Southern Isles. Posed in front of a hedge. Blissful on the front porch. His favorite picture showed a boy of seven or eight sticking his tongue out, face animated by some wild delight. The frame was cracked, a smudge of blood in the lower left corner. Phonograph, records, and daguerreotypes stood atop 1 long oak table covered by a dark green cloth that could not conceal the upward thrust that had splintered the surface of the wood. Around the table stood 8 oak chairs, silver lion paws sheathing their legs. The chairs dated to before the reign of Trillian the Great Banker. He could not help but wince noting the abuse to which the chairs had been subjected, or fail to notice 1 grandfather clock, its blood-spattered glass face cracked, the hands frozen at a point just before midnight, a faint repressed ticking coming from somewhere within its gears, as if the hands sought to move once againand beneath the clock 1 embroidered rug, clearly woven in the north, near Morrow, perhaps even by one of his own ancestors. It depicted the arrival of Morrow cavalry in Ambergris at the time of the Silence, the horses and riders bathed in a halo of blood that might, in another light, be seen as part of the tapestry. Although no light could conceal 1 bookcase, lacquered, stacks with books wounded, ravaged, as if something had torn through the spines, leaving blood in wide furrows. Next to the bookcase

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1 solicitor, dressed all in black. The solicitor wore a cloth mask over his nose and mouth. It was a popular fashion, for those who believed in the "Invisible World" newly mapped by the Kalif's scientists. Nervous and fatigued, the solicitor, eyes blinking rapidly over the top of the mask, stood next to 1 pale, slender woman in a white dress. Her hooded eyes never blinked, the ethereal quality of her gaze weaving cobwebs into the distance. Her hands had recently been hacked off, the end of the bloody bandage that hid her left nub held by 1 pale gaunt boy with eyes as wide and twitchy as twinned pocket watches. At the end of his other arm dangled a small blue-green suitcase, his grasp as fragile as his mother's gaze. His legs trembled in his ash gray trousers. He stared at 1 metal cage, three feet tall and in shape similar to the squat mortar shells that the Kalif's troops had lately rained down upon the city during the ill-fated Occupation. An emerald green cover hid its bars from view. The boy's gaze, which required him to twist neck and shoulder to the right while also raising his head to look up and behind, drew the attention of 1 exporter-importer, Robert Hoegbotton, 35 years old: neither thin nor fat, neither handsome nor ugly. He wore a drab gray suit he hoped displayed neither imagination nor lack of it. He too wore a cloth mask over his (small) nose and (wide, sardonic) mouth, although not for the same reasons as the solicitor. Hoegbotton considered the mask a weakness, an inconvenience, a superstition. His gaze followed that of the boy up to the high perch, an alcove set half-way up the wall where the cage sat on a window ledge. The dark, narrow window reflected needlings of rain through its tubular green glass. It was the season of downpours in Ambergris. The rain would not let up for days on end, the skies blue-green-gray with moisture. Fruiting bodies would rise, fat and fecund, in all the hidden corners of the city. Nothing in the bruised sky would reveal whether it was morning, noon, or dusk.

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In the corner of the room there is a large cupboard. Remembering the hospital's basement, they walk up to it. They look at the side, the floor has been disturbed, it is scratched a wooden white. They push the cupboard, this one is far easier to move than that one in the Otherworld, or are they stronger this time? They really don't know any more. Behind the cupboard was a sizeable hole in the wall. Where does this lead? The Otherworld again? There's a large hole in the back wall - it appears as if it's been torn in there. They are in a tunnel heading toward an unknown destination. The flashlight sways and jumps as they press further down it. This is a long tunnel it seems. Touching the floor, it appears to give like flesh, as the lathing separates away from the Sheetrock due to its age. Above the wainscoting, the walls are Sheetrock, unlike the plaster elsewhere in the store. On one of them hangs an axe. But not any regular axe - this is a gigantic, double-bladed battle axe that looks worthy of conflict, not some tiny broom closet. The two blade plates are twice the size of a man's face each. The gigantic handle stretches a meter long. It has a distinct gothic, medieval look to it.

Next to the axe someone has scrawled NOGOD. Great anger is apparent in the way that the uneven, red block letters had been drawn on the wall in hard slashes. But the lettering looks like the work of a calm and rational mind compared to what had been done after the word was printed. With some sharp instrument, probably the axe, the same someone has stabbed and gouged the red letters, working on the wall with such fury that two of the letters are barely readable anymore. The Sheetrock is marked by hundreds of scores and punctures. Judging by the smeariness of the letters and by the fact that some had run before they dried, the writing instrument hadnt been a felt-tip marker, as first thought They smell blood. But whose blood? If the writer had cut himself accidentally, his writing on the wall indicated a hair-trigger temper and a deep reservoir of long-nurtured anger. If he had cut himself intentionally for the express purpose of writing the name in blood, then the reservoir of anger was deeper still and pent up behind a formidable dam of obsession. In either case, printing the word in blood is a ritualistic act, and ritualism of this nature is an unmistakable symptom of a seriously unbalanced mind. As the PCs study the stained and ravaged wall again, a cold and quivery uneasiness settles insectivally onto their scalps and down the back of their necks, quickly bores into their blood, and nests in their bones. The double doors open wide, revealing the altar within. A severed goat's head dominates the center, its horns stained with blood, its red eyes glistening with an unnatural light. Black candles stand in candleholders made from human skulls; small bones are scattered in seeming patterns near an ancient and well used chalice. A small rag doll protrudes from the goat's obscene lips, its little arms and legs flop past the yellowed teeth and blackened tongue. The doll has the face of the little girl seem earlier in the fog. A red tapestry is laid out onto the floor beneath it and two tall, golden candles stand on each side of the altar. Behind the altar is a giant painting of the hideous, crucified body of the corpse from the school! In addition to the obvious theatrics of such a setting, you feel an undeniable presence in the room. Something deeper and with more meaning than these trinkets. The sensation of doom, darkness and absolute evil is nearly overwhelming, as if all the horrible events that had taken place here continue to exist, lingering in the air like foul odors. The chalice contains White Claudia, and ingesting it results in a hallucinatory experience for any PC that does so. The red tapestry sweeps up into gloom from the lavishly altar to become a banner leading into a side hall. Vision Three: Sheets of red flame, spirals of orange and yellow, and the sharp pop of sap bubbles exploding in burning rafters. Priceless antiques, cardboard, packing paper and combustible memorabilia disappear in silent rising curtains of smoke, with a papery crackling like the manic applause of millions in some dark and distant theater. And there, on top of the fire in the middle of the flames, stands a dark shape. The fire should be illuminating it, but the figure seems to be capable of tyrannizing over light itself. The figure is a woman wrapped head to toe, leaving nothing showing and no slack, in dirty bandages. She is on fire, but her bandages show no signs of igniting. As she walks down from the fire towards the PCs, swiftly and easily stepping from bench to bench, she decides that she will let them see the

rest of her body and the flames obey by illuminating it entirely, revealing more bizarre details. The flames seem to ignore the being as she walks right through them without burning itself, almost like Moses wandering through the Red Sea without drowning. Darkness: Now an empty room with walls that have turned into atrocious partitions of metal each burned with Seal of Metatron. The floor is open to the void beneath, except for a small cat walk leading to a small crumbling door hidden in the corner leading to the streets. They advance towards it and push it open, parts of the framework crumble and disintegrate in hand. Once outside they are greeted by heavy warm rain. There is only one way to go. A single catwalk heading into the darkness, which is now made of wire, hanging over disturbing metallic structures. Apprehensively they start to walk down it, wondering where it is leading them.

The Streets: There is nothing but this eternal walkway.

There is a strange sound echoing. It is like a deep growling, like a demon crying. They pull out their weapons out and spin round. There is nothing. From here, the walkway changes direction. It is now heading right. Buildings soon begin to reappear around them. Unfortunately, so do the flying monsters. They now fill the sky, screaming hellish cries at them below. This time, they are flying at them, heading down to strike them. They hear a screeching behind. Darkness: The siren still blares across the transformed town almost as if it were attempting to warn of the oncoming darkness that swallowed up the stillness of Silent Hill and replaces it with this dark, metallic hell. Chasm: The streets mesh floor simply ends. Looking down one can only see the darkness of oblivion.

UFO Encounter: (Optional Scenario):

Out of the west comes a light in the overcast. The fog diffuses it, obscures the source, but the brightness approaches across the besieged town. The nearer it draws, the more evident its shape becomes: a disc or perhaps a sphere. At the heart of the surrounding corona burned the more intense light of the object itself, which approximately defined it. They have no doubt that it would prove to be a vehicle. As the UFO draws near, it slows, appearing to glide with the gravity-defying ease of a hot-air balloon. It comes to a full stop directly above their little group, where they stand in the street, and there it hovers soundlessly. If they consider fleeing, remind them that if the pilot of the craft wished to find them, they would be found. Surely these ETs can track ground targets by infrared surveillance, by body-heat profiling, by sound-spoor detection, and by other means beyond the

capabilities of human science and technology. Neither the hover transports powerful light nor the effect of its silent propulsion system, to any degree burns the fog beneath it. If anything, the mist thickens, conspiring to keep hidden the contours and every detail of the machine. One expects to be incinerated, reduced to burning tallow in a boiling pool of blacktop, or to be atomized. Alternately, the prospect of the craft descending to the street, of being taken aboard, of coming face-to-face with inhuman master and subjected to unknown what experiments and humiliations makes atomization almost appealing. Instead and unexpectedly, the luminous object moves away from them, receding rapidly. In seconds, every glimmer of its golden glow has been extinguished by the overcast. The thick mist is as gray as before, and the street cast into dusk, as before.

Float-Stinger Battle:
The PCs walk forward, they are now at the other side of the street. There are no paths, no places to go. There is a ladder ahead of them, and that is it. How did they even get here? This is impossible. They walk up to the ladder and place a foot on the lowest bar then look up. There is nothing but black. Where does this go? The PCs mount the ladder and climb, though it feels arduous, like they are dragging themselves up the ladder with only their arms. Their feet seem disinterested in cooperating. The PCs feel lethargic and only a small part of them seem at all determined to break it. That part of them knows they have to let it go and push it aside, that it isnt smart to dwell upon it, that it isnt safe. The PCs have to be alert and as lively as they can be if they have any interest in staying alive. If they let themselves get sluggish, the PCs might be ambushed or overpowered. So, the PCs try their best to quash it, consciously. The PCs are at the top, and the PCs push off the ladder, at least pretending to feel alive and alert. They didnt want to think about how high it is. It is just a small area, aside from them is a small, badly mangled step ladder up to a water tower. Like everything here, rust holds sway. The corrugated tin of the water tower has turned to a burnished red beneath all the rust. Four stilts holds it off the ground, nudging the lip of the tank in line with some of the taller buildings. What are you doing up here? A dark, fluttering shape descends from the dark sky above. Even glances of the fluttering monstrosity is too much. Something out of a fever dream. It has a wingspan of twenty feet, an insectoid head, short, quivering antennae, small, pointed, and

ceaselessly working mandibles, a segmented body with numerous multi-jointed legs dangling from its underbelly, sharp-tipped and ready to strike. The body is suspended between the pale wingsa moldy, sickly grayand fuzzy and moist-looking. The eyes are huge, ink-black, multifaceted, protuberant lense that catch the light, refract and reflect it, gleaming darkly and hungrily. It squeals, making a high-pitched, keening sound. The impossible insect's huge pale velvety wings flap and fold and spread with horrible grace and beauty. It floats directly above them and for a second they have a clear view of the thing's exposed underside. The tail hanging beneath its main body is a good deal longer than first thought, extending the entire length of its dirigible-like upper body. Twin rows of small, vestigial segmented legs are held close to the underside of its anterior. Also visible now is the thing's head, tucked deep into the mass of protoplasmic lumps with a set of insectile mandibles working in a chewing motion. The motile tip of its tail squirms and seems to lock onto them. The length of the tail quivers, thickens like a flexed bicep and then They jump clear of the landing-spot just in time as a thick stream of ashen fluid spews from the twin glands on the thing's tail. The splatter quickly eats a deep groove into the floor, hissing and smoking balefully. The substance burns into the ground, which soon sizzles with a terrible smoke and crackling sound, and the PCs watch in horror as they realize that had they been a second slower, their extremities would now be things dissolving under the fluids alarming acidity. The floating monstrosity changes course easily, maneuvering itself to follow their evasive motions. It does this in an eerily silent and graceful manner. They can run in the opposite way but the hovering behemoth beats them to it. It descends down to their eye-level, putting itself between them and escape and its tail spews another stream of the corrosive excretion at them which they just barely dodge. The thing is clearly not going to let them escape easily. The creature readies itself for another corrosive blast, and the PCs know they have no time to waste. They reload and shoot. It is pushed backward, but there is not a great force that they had hoped for. Now it is close. Where had this thing came from? It is like a moth or butterfly. That thing in the shopping center was like a lava too. Could this be the same creature as in the shopping center just at a later stage of development? That has to be it. Even firing both barrels just take the insect aback but it is still coming for them. Coming in for the kill. They shoot at it again with both barrels. It is infuriated. It is wounded, they can tell. It is coming toward them. They shoot at it. It screams. It is dying. They shoot again and again. This new demon is coming for them. There isn't much time left. It is coming to kill them. They fire and it screams horribly. Every little part of the PCs surroundings start to glow a perfect white, and they are blinded. The white light has consumed them. They catch a glimpse of the moth falling, then they are totally perplexed. Darkness, total darkness is around them. They couldn't feel anything. Ringing in my ear. What is going on? Their ears slowly stopped screaming. The white light is persistent yet still the darkness lingers. They can only close theirs eyes against the dark, and then they open them, wondering

where the blinding light came from, the light that grew from nothing and washed the area on which they stood with its vivid radiance, scouring out every rut and crevice with its brilliant intensity, making every brick and stone shadowless, casting out the darkness. They feel a rush of air across their chests. They can't be in the Otherworld still. They open their eyes slowly, there are bricks on the floor, a large water tower to one side. They are still on the rooftop. Huh? What about that monster just now? The Otherworld? They look over the ledge of the roof, where the demon fell. There is nothing there. Are you back in the real world? or at least back in some normal' world? What about the fog? They look around. The fog lifts and sways about in a light breeze. The other rooftops peer out of the layers of fog, like the peaks of a distant mountain on the horizon. You have returned to the foggy world. They look down over the street. It is completely empty. Milky white fog has collected in the corners of the street. It is odd that that street would look perfect and show no sign of distress. However nothing moves. It is enough to drive one insane. They walk over to the stairs. They just have to get off this rooftop. It is a stepladder. They climb down. The street is bitterly cold. A snowflake falls onto your sleeve. You touch it. It is freezing cold and your finger is wet.

EAST TOLUCA RETIREMENT HOME: (optional scenario)

The walk to the retirement home is uneventful. No monsters show up on the way there and no bizarre occurrences plague their way. There is just the town, empty and eerie. They walk up the front steps of said premises. It was a private facility, operated without government funds, and its architecture eschewed all of the standard institutional looks. Its two-story Spanish facade of pale peach stucco is accented by white marble corner pieces, door frames, and window lintels; white-painted French windows and doors are recessed in graceful arches, with deep sills. The sidewalks are shaded by lattice arbors draped with a mix of purple- and yellow-blooming bougainvillea. The main entrance, an incongruously modern addition to the original structure with its plate-glass doors and side windows, framed in mahogany, seemingly 'stuck on' to the main building itself as if the architect or builder had no concept of architectural harmony. A gentle wheelchair ramp leads up to the doorway and inside potted plants brush against the glass on either side. Craning ones neck to get a better view they see that beyond this conservatory-type vestibule is a long, wide hallway stretching towards the back of the building, a screened receptionist's desk positioned a little way along its length. They go through the glass doors at the front. Inside, the floors are gray vinyl tile, speckled with peach and turquoise, and the walls are peach with white base and crown molding, which lends the place a warm and airy ambience. The walls are hung with wonderfully reproduced giltframed prints, the glorious works of Ingres, Reynolds, Renoir, Cassatt, all depicting beautiful women, perhaps chosen to cheer the home's elderly residents (although one would think such reminders of youthful loveliness might depress the more age-sensitive among them). They notice a Titian print on the wall to the receptionist's left, the print depicting a naked woman reclining while a dark figure seated before her showers her with gold dust. Again, the nude's

form is beautifully defined, the colors rich and adding to the sexual luster. Now, they are in a hallway, in front of them, the Directors office. Tom Amenabar is the name on the offices nameplate. Absolute, ominous silence prevails. When they walk their footsteps echo loudly, the sound bouncing off the hallway walls. The doors at each end of the hallway are locked; as are all others, save for what looks like a meeting room for staff and family members of the inmateswhatever meaning one chooses to give that word. The only door left to check is the Directors office, which wasnt initially checked because there seemed to be no need for it. The door is open. Inside is a desk with a reclining chair behind it; in front of a window with the blinds shut. On the desk are folders with papers in them, pens, a newspaper, a desk lamp with a green stained-glass shade, a coffee mug with Worlds Best Dad written on it, a small cigar box, and a phone. To the right is a filing cabinet and next to it a large painting on the wall, portraying a tigress with her cubs. Resting against the wall to the left is a long seat, draped in black leather, and on the wall hangs a map of the whole building in a frame. The PCs walk towards the map and stand right in front of it. The building is square-shaped and composed of four main hallways: the front hallway where the officeslike this oneare; Hallway 1 is to the left of it and contains rooms 100 through 120. From there, another door leads to Hallway 2 at the back of the building, containing rooms 200 through 220, all looking toward the street and the lake, at the other side of the block; and from there, another hallway, Hallway 3, containing rooms 300 through 320, stretches until it connects back to the right side of the front hallway. The four hallways surrounds a relatively large area in which there is a large dining room, and several recreational areas; like a sewing room and tea room, a library, a TV room, a ballroom, and other areas like the kitchen and the laundry room. A door in Hallway 3 leads to a large, green area at the right of the building, where the elderly went to sit in the sun. But the visitors interest is in none of those places; it is focused on Hallway 2, specifically. They step out of the directors office, they are alerted by the radio of the presence of something in the hallway. When they look to their right, they see what they initially recognize as a person, but then they know it isnt. This thing looks like an old man, hunched over, with its hands resting on a walking cane; it sways from side to side like a drunken person. It has no hair, except around the ears, and its face looks as though it were made of soft, skin-colored clay, and it had been smudged into a shapeless mass that barely retains the traits of a face. It is naked except for one sandal it wears on its right foot. Its skin looks unnervingly human and wrinkled, and has white hairs at different spots. Throughout the institution the floors---gray vinyl speckled with peach and turquoise---are immaculate. Peach walls with mold moldings contribute to an airy- welcoming atmosphere. Despite all the ornaments on the walls, and the plants on the floor, and the attempts to make the place look as normal and homey as possible, it looks like a mixture between a hospital and a prison, just due to the fact that there are numbers on the rooms doors. People dont normally have numbers on their bedroom doors at their homes. Just that little detail makes this place completely alienating and unfamiliar. Hallway: The smell of disinfectant, nauseatingly familiar, reaches them before they open the door. The smell is meant to hide the odors of ages, sickness and death, of hopelessness, but for those who called this place home, it is a constant reminder that they are the creatures from which the terrible stench originates, things better hidden away so the world can spared the

inconvenience of looking at them and seeing its future. Ballroom: The beam from the flashlight sweeps about the room, briefly illuminating the lofty, richly brocaded walls and red velvets draperies, as well as the musicians alcove at the far end of the room. This large barren room is dominated by a huge painting hanging on the western wall below a large shrouded window. The painting is better than ten-feet long and almost as tall and it is framed in heavy, carved oak which has been painted gold. The painting depicts a stag hunt in the woods. Dogs maul the stricken beast while a dark, powerfully-built man riding a black warhorse leans in to deal death with his sword. The artist has reproduced the mans maniacal grin to a frightening degree. Time has barely touched this painting, for it looks to have been tended with great care. The vision of the stag, rearing before frothing mastiffs, all eyes black and wild, the horns and the swordthis visceral image looming over the floor is a disquieting prospect. The window above the painting is also large but it, and the other windows, are hidden by heavy dark drapes and curtains. The ceiling is high but the shadows above hint at a strangely shaped ceiling. To the east is a balcony from which hangs a dark tapestry woven with abstract designs. Between the two windows in the south wall stands an old battered upright piano. This rooms marble floor has been worn into paths by the passing of many feet. As if in response to their presence, there comes a tinkling sound high above their heads. They point the light at the paneled ceiling and see the three immense crystal chandeliers swaying gently in some sourceless breeze. Tea Room: This is perhaps the sunniest room in the building. No draperies or curtains hide the door in the east wall. The door is made of yellow glass, allowing plenty of amber light to filter into this room, but heavy iron bars prevent anyone from smashing the glass and entering the home. The door leads outside onto a raised wooden deck The room is furnished as a tea or breakfast room, with a small round table surrounded by four wooden chairs. Dust coats the table like a fine gray linen. Hallway 2: 249: The room is small, neat, painted in neutral hospital beige. It has a high hospital bed and a window that looks out over well-tended grounds to the lake. There is a bathroom that looks out over well-tended grounds to the lake. There is a bathroom with stainless steel fixtures. On the wall hangs a large print of a snow-capped mountain. A 15-inch color television set rests on a small table. The bureau top holds a few personal effectsnotebook, a pen, a wooden-handled spring device for strengthening the grip. All are arranged neatly and geometrically. 250: The only life in 250 is the false life of static on the television. The bed is disarranged, dresser drawers open and empty, a bathrobe rumpled on the floor. Darkness: The walls are draped in thick, wrinkled plastic, which seem to have been soaked in blood, pus and other bodily fluids, before actually being hanged to the wall. There is also dirt, caked and adhered to the plastic by the blood and pus. Thin lines of such fluids slide slowly through the small wrinkles on the plastic, which were nailed to the walls by large, rusted metal rivets, lining the top and the bottom parts of this bizarre and grisly wallpaper. Some rivets are driven randomly throughout the wall. The acrid smell of urine and feces hangs in the air. The walls, they notice, there seems to be faces inside the walls, behind the filthy plastic. Dead

faces with white eyes and painful expressions seem to fade in and out of sight. There are also hands, legs, and bodies, but, when they try to focus their eyes, they are gone. Maybe it is the millions of wrinkles and the stains in the plastic, mixed with the darkness and the reflection of the flashlight, playing with their eyes, toying with their minds. But why, then, do they disappear from one spot only to reappear later elsewhere? The room shows no signs of life, except for the strange optical illusion of faces forming behind the wrinkles of the plastic as the flashlight moves through them, like those times when one starts making out faces and shapes forming in the cracks and the stains on a concrete ceiling or a wooden floor, only it doesnt feel like that; it feels like they are actually there.

THE WATERWORKS: In the Misty world, dozens of tunnel systems wind through the
concrete crust beneath the town. Some provide access to gas mains and power lines; others are sewers. The huge storm drains that lay beneath the tainted community, made of stone and mortar and slimed with thick coats of moss and fungus, are the apotheosis of everything that a person most fears: unrelieved darkness on all sides, stench, dampness, the unknown, the presence of things whose genetic backgrounds are radically damaged and unclean. Here, perverted life crawls beneath the moss, feeds off the fungus, clings to the ceiling, skitters silently away from visitors as they advance. Entrance: It is a small place surrounded by a large metal fence, presumably there to stop children from getting in. The PCs walk up the little path to the padlocked gate. They stare at it. That's not a problem. They lift the gun, load some shells into the barrels and fire at the gate. It is too much for it to handle. The gate literally lifts off the ground and smashes into the wall of the building on the other side of the courtyard area. There is a door in the far corner. They walk over and push it open. Inside there is the eerie smell of still air. There is a piece of paper on a nearby desk: a map. It has the sewer grid lined out in perfect order. They can use the sewers to get anywhere in Silent Hill, even all the way to South Vale if they want to. There is a short ladder sticking out of a hole in the ground. Inside there is only black. The snow floats gently into the hole. They put a hand on the ladder's top step and begin to climb down. The ladder is starting to rust over at this point, flakes of it are rubbing off in hand and it hurts to keep a firm grip on the rungs. The darkness seems to contract, closing in as the space narrows and they find themselves staring inches away from a metal wall. The only signs of age are cracks, hairline and deep, and the same rust that coats the ladder and now their hands. In the background, behind every clunking step they make on the ladder, they can hear this steady tapping, like rain falling on a roof. The ladder descends through a short section of vertical pipe, then into a main horizontal drain. The PCs reach the bottom, their feet making hard, flat sounds when they strike the concrete floor. The flashlight reveals gray concrete walls, telephone and power company pipes. A large number 89 is painted in large orange letters on the wall. Not being a sewer technician, the PCs dont know why it is there. A little moisture. Some fungus here and there. The soft dripping sound of water. Nothing else. They start walking. There is a feeling of being alone that the PCs don't like at all. They never expected to find themselves in a place like this, and even without the demonic aspect of the

situation, who knows what could be lurking down there? They aren't sure they should be down here at all, regardless of whether it is the only way through. The ice-cold stonelike surroundings seem like a chilling mockery of their resolve. They are in a tunnel walking down. All that they can see as they look into the unknown is complete darkness, the flashlight isn't working as well as hoped. They can hear, strangely, the sound of running water. Up ahead, an opening appears and for a few meters the tunnel width widens, there is another ladder on the left hand side in this opening. On the opposite wall is the number 88. Soon the tunnel narrows once again and the feeling of paranoia settles in. The area illuminated by the flashlight seems to reduce, to close in and the darkness creeps forward. A soft clicking sound is heard and the PCs stop to listen. It is definitely a clicking sound. Something ahead is moving, tapping. What is this? They step forward, footsteps echoing throughout the lonely tunnel. The tapping has stopped. Whatever was making that sound is now listening, listening for more evidence that the PCs are here. They step forward again, the footstep still echo. The clicking starts again. It has gotten louder. Whatever it is it is coming this way. It gets louder and louder. Nothing comes out from the darkness yet the clicking gets louder and louder. You wait, the clicking gets nearer and louder, but still no demon shows. This was nerve racking, I could feel my hands shaking as I lifted my weapon. Nothing was moving, the stillness was insane. How? shouldn't this mysterious pursuer have shown it's self? The clicking stops abruptly; suddenly one of the PCs is forced to the floor with the feeling of a hammer smashing the back of his/her head. Heavy breathing sounds from above. They look up at the ceiling. There the monster is, hanging down. It is totally bizarre. It is like a lizard, a giant lizard that looks similar to a praying mantis with a white line down its head and chest. They watch it drop down off the ceiling and crawl up to me. The PCs are stunned (roll to save vs horror factor), almost completely perplexed, only their hearts allow to continue beating. It begins to crawl over to them. They watch it, terrified. They can see its compound eyes dart up and stare at them coldly. Striking it, the creature doesnt make a sound as it is pushed over. They grab the handgun and shoot it. The demon makes no sound at all as its life drains away from it, almost as it were wanting death. They continue on the tunnel's path, not glancing back at the creature lying dead on the floor. The sound of running water became more and more apparent. It is soon out on the side on an underground river heading left, toward the lake. It is dark and cold, the continuous dripping of water is all that can be heard in this place. At their feet slow currents move around islands of brown sludge. Now they come to two tunnels splitting off in opposite directions. The ceiling drops dramatically here, and they move on with bent backs. Occasional currents swirl over their shoes, the odors of sewage are nothing short of gruesome. They come to the end of the narrow tunnel and step out into another large one. At the bottom of this tunnel, the water is deeper, perhaps a foot or so, and swirls around every manner

of dank, unidentifiable debris. Shrill Rats chitter in the darkness, and the PCs can hear them splash in the water like birds in a birdbath. There are more tunnel entrances over at the far wall, each one bleeding out little streams of water. You look at the river, seeing how it is dark and dirty. These are the sewers. There is a turning up ahead. You look at the sewer map, this turning lead straight to downtown Silent Hill, and you have no interest in going back there. You have to continue on your path and the last opening before the mouth to Lake Toluca will be station number 68, and points 67 and 66. A drip sounds somewhere far behind as you walk closer to the turn. The drip of water falling from the ceiling echoes from the unseen walls. A furtive, scratching noise tugs at the edge of your hearing. The sewer plays strange games with the sounds, making it impossible to tell if whatever made them is smaller than a rat or larger than a dog. As you reach the corner, you start to hear clicking. You know another monster is approaching. This is insane. The thing could be anywhere if it can climb on the ceiling. Your eyes dart around in a fit of panic. You see it then. It is crawling along the floor, you have little time to kill it. You raise your weapon; your hand shaking so much that you fear you might miss. After what seems like an eternity the creature appears. You shoot at it, again and again as it screeches in pain as a hail of bullets rains down on it. It falls over, but you aren't sure it isn't dead. As you move up to it, it springs to life and jumps at you, its claws at your face. It yelps and screams in agony but it is pulling you over. You fall to the cold stone ground. It is on top of you. It jumps up, but it isn't enough. It is just enough for you to grab the knife. With it you stab the hellish fiend. It falls over, but it still wasn't dead. They roll on top of it. its mouth is ready to bite. You cut its face with a slash and hit it again in the neck. There is a spraying of fluid that hits your clothing. You strike it again with the knife. It doesn't make a sound. The thing is finally dead. Drip Drip Drip The walls seem to sing to you. Drip Drip Drip They are chanting to you, singing to your eternal soul. As you continue on you feel more and more anxious, more and more unwilling to continue on. The drip of water echoing enormously, like the ticking of a great clock. The trickle of the underground is what you are concentrating on. The dripping is more like water torture. The walls are covered in green slime, the air is rich with the smell of human waste. Every now and then you hear a noise behind you, a tap? A footstep? What it is you have no idea but you fear what would it could be if you turn around.

The path turns into a bridge and underneath their feet, the running of a dark river is genially flowing by. You stand there watching the water pass by. There is something beautiful about it, amongst this madness and horror this underground river was allowed to peacefully flow, move on its own way. Your thoughts are interrupted by the radio. It is silently crackling. Not sounding, but not making noise ether. Your senses are on high alert, darting from corner to corner, ceiling and floor, scanning every area to see where the enemy is. Slowly the tension from the radio dies and soon there is nothing. They continue down the sewer tunnel. As they feel more tense their footsteps become louder, so loud that they seem to echo within the cavities of their heads. It is strange, the further they venture down the tunnel the more wet and misty the air is. It is like they are standing next to a waterfall. Droplets dance in the air then run to their face as if attracted by magnetism. On the wall they notice the number 74'. Checking the diagram of the underground passages reveals that station 74" leads into the school's sewer system. It is the next station they need. There is a boat moored next to them, floating in the river. Drip Drip Drip That sound again, as if being chanted. The dripping continues, filling your world. Drip Drip Drip It is like a song. There is a turn ahead. When they reach the corner they look down perhaps expecting to see total darkness. Instead there is a huge blockage of mud as if the earth had just collapsed and made a makeshift dam here in the sewers. Is this why the roads on the surface were demolished? A sound haunts the air: the radio. When did it start? They look around. There is one on the ceiling. One of those lizard things. Shooting at it, its arm is thrown backward then dangles pointing to the ground. It has stopped moving. For now. It growls and throws itself into life one again and charges at them. Now or never. You shoot at it wildly. You scream with anger, and even feel a sick form of pride as you watch the demon drop from the roof, and are tempted to run over to the thing and kick it. This thing is not getting up. They turn around, suddenly fear as they have no idea which direction they were heading in. There are two passages but both are identical. The PCs now have no idea what to do, or where to go. They will have to pick one direction and run down it.

Soon they see an old boat. Like the one they had seen before. They must be heading backward. They turn and run in the opposite direction. They pass the demon's body. They can hear a clumping. It is like a wood smacking against something. They press forward fearing the worst. Fearing another boat. A few seconds later, they stand, staring in terror. Staring in disbelief at a second boat. Of course it isn't the boat that scares them. But the fact this boat is here means one terrible thing. You are lost. You can't believe it. How could this have happened? Your eyes dart about your surroundings. There isn't anything really identifiable about them, the slime covered walls are indifferent, the river isn't much help. It is impossible to determine which is the right direction to go down. Drip. Drip. Drip. That is all that can be heard. The PCs wonder how long it had been since they have entered this town. Hours? Days? They have no way of knowing for sure. They remember countless hours of running down empty streets, black outs, visions. All have sapped their sense of time. They look and move around, shining the light in the direction their eyes are looking. They are lost in the underground, in the sewer system. A droplet drips down from the ceiling and lands by one of their feet. They take a moment to stare at it. They realize that they can't linger, soon they will have to make a move. They are still lost and time is running out. They don't like the idea of being lost, no one does, but they hate the fact that they are standing about doing nothing. They walk in a random direction, hoping for the best. The boat clatters against the stone sewer tunnel as it disappears into the black behind them. Drip Drip Drip That sound pounds on. It is getting colder, wet air; the lake isn't far away. It is at that moment that a sound is heard behind them: footsteps. They stop and turn around shining the flashlight into the black of the tunnel but there is nothing. It is then they notice a slight ringing in their ears. They simply have not noticed it before but now it is evident. Firing a gun in an enclosed area like this would not be very advisable. The echoing of the walls would make the gunshot echo and it would be hell on a person's ears. That is why their ears are ringing. That is what is annoying them. They turn around and continue down the passageway. They hear no signs of life. Even if this is the sewer, nevertheless, one finds it strange how little human corpses they have. It is worrying. If there were pitched battles against the demons, running gun battles involving police and armed locals, there is very little evidence of it. They had not even seen a policeman's body. And that is something that sticks out in your mind, and not just a policeman's body, but the corpse of anyone. They had found only a few corpses in this whole town that could be safely called

Human.' Drip Drip Drip That song never ceases. Your feet crunch on a metallic ground as you look down to see another small bridge across the sewage river. You must be near the lake now. Looking around the sewer water is a murky green and quite unpleasant to see. However, it is nowhere near as unpleasant as the smell. The feeling of hunger you felt before has disappeared; the need for food simply washed away by the appalling smell. There is a tunnel up ahead with a large white number beside it. As they reach the tunnel entrance they glance at the number painted onto the wall: a large 68' Station 68? They must be at the journey's end. They apprehensively stagger down the new passageway. The chilly air is strangely bringing to warm up. Their footsteps pound on the ground. You know something is out there. You feel being watched by alien eyes. The air is thick with the scent of death. The scent of your own death. Then the silence is crushed by the shrill hiss of the radio. It is loud, fast and sudden. You look into the distance. There is the outline of something there, just out of sight. You step forward to see what it is. The radio is still buzzing. Your mind can't take it in. You don't want to take it in. You hear an inhuman scream and you are thrown to the ground. The impact of the ground on your body is immense. It feels like you have shattered a rib. For the PC on the ground: You hear heavy breathing. There was something on you, something on my back. You don't know what it is, but it is there, and it feels like it is slowly killing you by slowly squezzing the air out of your lungs as you lay under its immense weight. Its damp breath is breathing down your neck, a smell worse than anything you can have imagined. It is the smell of rotting bodies, of death. You can feel it looking at your head with hungry eyes, those hellfire eyes of pure evil. You don't want to die here. You're not going to die here. It seems futile. All you manage is to get the thing's arm to press on your right hand, a thick, brown, fury arm had been stained black with dirt. A horrific experience. A shooting pain rips up your back making you scream in agony. As another spike of pain shoot up from your back, you tilt your head to your right, it can reach its arm. It also makes the monster unsteady as it balances on your back. You fit your mouth around the demon's arm and bite it with what little strength you have left. It immediately stops what it is doing and lets out what must be a Yelp' of pain. Even though the taste of its flesh and fur make you sick, you bite harder, knowing it is working. You hear it scream and it pulls its arm away from you. Now is your chance. It lifts its arm high into the air with immense strength. Placing both hands firmly onto its torso, you push it off of

you. You have only seconds to act. I pulled my kitchen knife out and fell on top of it. It was one of the giant monkey things I had encountered downtown, near the hospital. It lay on the floor swinging from side to side, screeching in agony, the knife still buried in its thought. I was just standing, watching it die. Then you think, the gun! It had been on the floor when you fell. You drop it when the monster jumped onto your shoulders. You look around the sides of the struggling beast. There it is, at the monster's right hand side. You run over to it and scoop it up with your hands. You raise the gun and aim at its head. The gun fires, and its head seems to just fall to peaces, the insides smashed violently against the wall. Its back seems to curve up as it lets out a final scream, then it falls to the floor and dies. Your heart feels like it is your head, pounding, You feel completely sapped of strength. your breathing has intensified greatly and you are hyperventilating. You are lost. You know where you are heading, but you don't know where you are going. Are you heading to salvation? To your own demise? You can't say, nor do you really want to know. You need a rest, need something to stop yourself from going insane. Or have you already gone insane? Your head pounds from being so close to death, ears still ringing from the gunshot. That thing almost killed you. Where did these things come from? You now look up at the opposite wall, in towering letters is '67.' Just out of sight is station '66.' Your goal. You lift myself up off the ground and pull the knife out of the beast's neck, stained red with blood as it is. The flickering lights of their torches send odd shadows scurrying in all directions. The tunnel walls are slimy to the touch, the footing slippery. Lying on the bottom arc of the immense concrete pipes is an endless series of large pools that the PCs have to take care to circumvent. The still surface of the water gives off odors more noxious than that of the blockage they'd had to remove in the first place, while the basins are deep enough in places to easily drown a man. Jerking your head up and out of the water quickly, coughing and sputtering, the water tastes bitter and nasty in your mouth, and stings you nose also, for you inhaled some of it. That is almost as frightening as falling into another hole, since you have no idea what is in the water, but you quickly shrug off that tangent. If there is something dirty in the water and it is going to harm you, it is beyond your ability to control now. Getting to ones feet and looking around, it seems as though they are in a flooded corridor of some sort. It looks very old and unused for ages. The walls are rough and look to be hewn right out of solid rock. The water underfoot is dark and murky, and it comes almost halfway up to the PCs knees. They can feel it soaking their shoes, then their socks. It feels quite a bit colder down here, for some reason. The PCs can trudge off to the left, but they dont get very far going this way. Old iron bars, thick and dark from years of rust, prevent further advancement. As weakened as the bars look, they are set very solidly, and dont even so much as twist when griped. There is no door or latch, either. The corridor goes on behind the bars, farther than the flashlight can reach, but they arent going to see any of it. That is okay, it doesnt look particularly inviting anyway.

Of course, the open corridor behind them doesnt exactly instill feelings of warmth and joy either. Yet, that is the way to go, and thus the PCs go, their shoes are completely saturated by this point, as were the legs of their pants. The soak is spreading up, and it is very uncomfortable. One never realizes how difficult it is to walk in a foot of water until theyve actually doing it. They have to hold onto the wall for balance as they splash their clumsy way down the corridor. This isnt very easy either, for the walls are slick and slimy, and dont allow for much of a hold. It is better than nothing, however. The tunnel is utterly black. A vague, dank odor clings to the place. The squeal of the rusty gate hinges and then the sound of their own footsteps echoes down the tunnel ahead of them. The beam of the flashlight is powerful; it carries over half the length of the passageway. When they are halfway through the tunnel, they suddenly feel...something odd...a tingle, a cold augural quiver along their spines. About thirty feet down, one comes to a corner. Not a second before the edge of the rock wall is reach, that the radio bursts into a sudden orgy of noise. With all this water, it would be very difficult to maneuver. This portion of the sewer is lower and filled with waist deep water and raw sewage. The water is murky. The walls, though rough, are rather even, and so far, the ground beneath them is the same. One has to be careful not to land in a rut and twist or sprain an ankle, as well as careful to avoid falling into a deep rut or hole, because there would be no way of seeing it. The PCs presence and movement upset the still waters, but they are also thick and full of sediment and runoff, and even though it isnt quite high enough to crest to their knees, one can not see through it to terra firma. The stench is horrendous, nearly unbearable, just as they expect a sewer would be. The underground passage above wasn't this bad, but this is absolutely hellacious. The smell is horrendous and induces coughing and a watering to the eyes. Speed is reduced by 50%. There is a chance of vomiting (roll to save vs poison/toxin; lost two melee attacks if vomiting occurs). There is also a chance that a character will succumb to the fumes (roll again to save vs poison/toxins), pass out, and slip under the raw sewage. He/she will drown unless saved and then given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The raw sewage and fumes run 2D6x10 yards. The PCs feel nausea, dizziness, and an insufferable lack of air hit them all at once. They wince as they walked over the muck, their boots making squishy, disgusting sounds as they step on the sewage. The slimy water flowing past feels warm and clinging. They can't get out of there fast enough. Eventually the tunnel mouth opens out into a vast room where multiple tunnels meet, heading in directions that seem unnatural, the perspective all wrong. Hundreds of drainpipes empty liquid sludge into the center. It pools on the floor before whirling down an unseen drain. The stink of human refuse and dank water fills the narrow hall. The stench was awful; the ground is spongy beneath their shoes. They don't even want to contemplate the filth they are wandering in, but the growls and rumblings of the monsters tell them there are greater things to worry about. The cracked plaster walls reveal a rusted web of leaking pipes. Cockroaches and rats scurry away from the flashlight beams. Strange symbols and shapes are painted on the stairs and walls, which are made of stone and

mortar that crumbles underfoot. Maybe two dozen feet beyond, the ground raises up some. It isnt a particularly gradual incline, and the PCs soon find themselves out of the water and back on mostly dry land. Up ahead, the hallway comes to a conclusion, with two doors leading in different directions. The one directly ahead has a knob that wont turn, not even a little. It isnt locked, but rather fused solid somehow. Water residue, sediments and rust caking up the lock mechanisms, perhaps. Another clang rings out, this one loud and just below. The source: a towering, rusted, slimestrewn gate with six huge bolts holding it shut, looking designed to admit a giant. There between the bars, in the deep gloom, a glimpse of the creature is seen. There in the muck, chained to the far wall is a coiled snake. It appears to sleep, although parts of it jerk and thrash as if it experiences a nightmare. The thing is thin and weak, obviously starved. The chains hold it tight and chafe its scales. It sits on a bed of its own dead skin, shed over a period of years. A long hallway, its high stone ceiling and wall glisten with damp and are streaked by odd shadows. They lay in contorted strips, stopping as abruptly as they begin, too dark for the light between them. Other hallways cross this one at odd angles, sometimes descending, sometimes climbing. Cautiously, peeking around the corner, holding the flashlight in hand and stretching it, trying to see what is responsible for the radios racket. It isnt easy. Now, they have been in dark places almost constantly since they came to Silent Hill. In this place, though, this rancid, dripping cavity far beneath the town, the darkness is thicker, stronger somehow. It seems to laugh at the luminance from their piddling little pocket light. It seems to consume it, to remove it. Therefore, the radio is the only reliable equipment they have at the moment. You step down the tunnel slowly, the flashlight's beam spread across the area, revealing a small concrete room, the number 66' is painted on the wall. A soft dripping of water echoes behind you. As you step toward the ladder you notice it is an oily black that is ice cold when you touch it. You look up, the sky is an evil black, and it is easy to see the snow that is falling upon you like manna from heaven. Darkness: Rungs lead into a large tunnel flowing with muck and water, stretching in two directions until it dead ends in T sections. They land feet first on the corrugate metal floor. The tunnel is dirty, rusted and spotted with luminescent gray-green moss. In both directions the tunnel bores away into unrelieved darkness, an artery in the earth. You finally come to a chain linked floor. your footsteps ringing. You stare at it for a moment, realizing there is some sort of liquid flowing beneath you . . . like the waterworks. You look down through the chain links, wondering what it is below you. You gasped as you realize that is blood. A river of blood is flowing beneath your feet. As the not so calm realization sinks in, You begin to smell it . . . and it makes you sick. The Otherworld has taken over the sewers. Prison bars emerge from the sewage and blood has replaced the water running down the walls and drips from the ceiling, thick and with a coppery smell. The floor has gone from concrete to metal grating and below it there are all types of pipes and unearthly machinery made of metal, or rubber, or flesh, or all of the above, that seems to be alive and breathing.

Another fifty steps, and they think they can make out a light in the distance. If the flashlight is switched off, one finds that there is still just enough illumination to allow them to make their way down the sibilating tunnel. The tunnel seems to extend into infinity. The PCs footsteps echo in the shadowy space, the lonely drips of falling water his only companions. The radio suddenly emits a short, violent burst of static before going completely dead. The PCs stand absolutely still, keen ears receptive to even the slightest noise so that the faint droplets of water from above are like the clashing of cymbals. It comes again. The static increases in volume, building from a faint hiss to an angry roar until it is pierced by something shrill and unsettling. A muffled, keening sound. The tears of a child. The dark is now full of the chafing of rust against their feet. Farther in, where dimness and dark flickers together, there is a hole in the floor of the tunnel, surrounded by bricks and earth and something that squats. It squats at the edge; its hands dangle into the hole, its dim face gapes. It eyes gleam like bubbles of mud. There is more movement farther down the tunnel. Dwarfish figures are stepping from black openings into the main sewer. Others are in the water, wading toward them. This branch of the sewer network must have measured least twelve feet across and the curved ceiling is high at apex. The causeways on each side of the channel are enough to walk along comfortably. In a depression of shallow liquid, three sunken horses, hand-carved from wood, garishly painted, perhaps attractive at one time but now cracked, weathered and peeling. They reach the ladder at the sewer exit. They had seen the flashlights beam reflect upon the ladder on the wall. The metallic gleam, though rusted, looks glorious, signaling the way out. The culvert opens up a bit, so they can straighten, and they discover that the light is coming from above: a rainwater grate and a manhole up there, side by side. The light is mostly coming through the grate. It looks like street light. They cross to the metal ladder and climb the rungs that are sunk deep into the damp concrete wall, thinking This is it! I am finally getting out of this stinking hole!

LAKESIDE AMUSEMENT PARK: The long trek across the parking lot is uneventful.
The PCs might keep expecting that Pyramid Head or the Air Screamers would reappear. They keep scanning the area around them, monitoring for any movement. There is none. On their right is a huge sign decorated with a clowns cheerful face in the upper corner: LAKESIDE AMUSEMENT PARK FUN DAYS FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! in fancy, curlicue script. Entrance Area: Finally, they stand before the entrance of the amusement park on Sandford Street,

squinting into the thick fog. It is a large wooden construction, made of wide planks that stand twenty feet high. A massive crossbeam, which normally would have set across hooks in front of the doors; to bar access, lies askew on the ground. One side of the gates stands open a few feet just enough of a gap for them to squeeze through. They can feel the otherworldly energy return, a warm rush flowing from the heels to fingertips to the head. The main courtyard of the park was devoted to greeting the crowds and emphasizing the change from the mundane, to the extraordinary. Overhead, lines of plastic pennants hang limp in the muggy air between the limited space available between neighboring stalls that had once contained every sweet treat imaginable. They were once bright triangles when touched by sunshine or splashed in the dazzling glow of ten thousand carival lights, but are bled of color now, so they seem like scores of sleeping bats suspended above the concrete concourse. Brightly colored flags had hung from lines of string attached to the sparse poles that elevate the announcement megaphone system above the general hubbub of the crowds and everywhere one goes, one is never far from the parks friendly mascot, Robbie the Rabbit. A new scent drifts in with second breath, the smell of decay, quickly banishing such trivial thoughts from a visitor's mind. On the bench in from of them, the mouth of what is assumed must have been part of some sort of mascot costume covered in blood, is the source of the smell. The mascot is in the image of a giant pink rabbit in comically oversized red dungarees, the name Robbie Rabbit emblazoned on the pocket underneath the words Lakeside Amusement Park written in cursive. The getup would be funny if not for the splattering of crimson fluid that plasters the mouth and front of the mascot as if the man inside has been torn apart inside his costume, or perhaps he has. That suspicion is confirmed if they nudge the body: to their horror, the huge rabbit mask rolls to the side, giving it clear. This isn't just an empty costume lying by the wayside. No, there was someone inside of that thing, and whoever it was had not gone pleasantly. The faintest hint of rotting flesh drift from inside; they probably hadn't been dead for long, or else the smell would have been stronger. But it is the grisly sight of the mutilated neck jutting out from inside the rabbit head that finally drives the PCs over the edge. Onwards, the amusement park is through a wooden gate with "Souvenir Avenue" written on the sign above. There are restaurants and shops lined up to the right, a huge black pit to the left, and in the area between several Dolls floating around with their strings going up into the night sky where unseen Gods are undoubtedly having fun controlling the abominations. There is a large building to the left with the words "Huey's Hullabaloo House" and a grinning horse's head painted on the sign above the double doors. A large tent with yellow and red stripes looms before them, rippling and thrumming and snapping in the wind, pulling at the anchor pegs. The familiar rabbit's face laughs next to the words "Robbie's Circus" on the sign above the entrance. Bar & Grill Lakeside: It is a cement-block building painted bile-green. Faded red enamel is peeling off the front door, and though the windows are free of frost, they are heavily streaked

with grease and grime. There are shackles hanging from the rear wall, shackles that have been welded to steel plates about five and a half feet off the ground. Theres a blackened, grease-caked barbecue set up in the left corner of the shed, underneath a tin-plated smoke hole. The grill is hooked up to a couple of gas bottle with LA RIVIERE PROPANE stenciled on the sides. Hung on the wall are oven mitts, spatulas, tongs, basting brushes, and meat forks. There are scissors and tenderizing hammers and four keen-bladed carving knives. One of the knives looks almost as long as a ceremonial sword. Staff Only: Dinas Tea Party: Candy Pot: Sweet Factory: It is a gift shop where one could buy postcard, chocolate, T-shirts bearing supposedly funny slogans, books about Silent Hill, candles shaped like the lighthouse, china plates painted with scenes of Toluca, and a wide variety of useless junk. Imports Toy Shop: Teddy bears of all sizes cluster near the stairs as though they have gathered to watch, and all of them bleed stuffing from wounds gnawed open by rodents. Their eyes, some made of buttons, others of marbles, glittered under a layer of dust. They sit on wooden pedestals painted to look like the blocks a child would play with. The teddy bears, and the displays of toys stacked in shadows behind them, are replaced by racks of tiny dresses. Baby girls' dresses of moth-eaten velvet and lace, and not far away on a pedestal stands another mannequin, clear plastic like all the others, but tiny, and modeling a little girl's long-sleeved dress. They turn away from it, find the bears' watchful button eyes upon them again. Mountain Coaster: Once inside, they can take note of the huge striped canvas that flutters in the breeze, the gargantuan frameworks that climb to dizzying heights and swoop down again at steep angles, the multi-colored banners and signs that hang outside the row of buildings and huts: "Hall of Mirrors" (in warped Day-Glo letters), "Bumper Cars," "House of Horror" (in black, tapering letters that look as if they are bleeding to death). They are in an amusement park, and it is deserted, by the looks of it. Their footsteps echo hollowly through this place that had once been filled with the voices and laughter of multitudes. Laying on its side, sprawled as if it had fallen there after receiving a serious injury, is another large, pink rabbit, blood smeared around its face and pooling around its head. Its cartoony expression looks totally ridiculous in this setting, not to mention down right disturbing considering all the blood covering it and worse still is the next train of thought that pulls into their mental station: There's a person in there. Borley's Hullabaloo House: Within is a walled-in garden with fake headstones. The yard has ivy-covered walls with reddish vines, lit by pumpkin-shaped lanterns. They go up the steps of the House of Horrors and push aside the heavy black felt curtains. As they move forward the wooden floor creaks under their steps. Screams, groans, shrieks and

insane laughter spills out from the loudspeakers. Bellows and screams were overlaid with inhuman screeches and hateful whispers, and the painful squeal of scraping metal blurred with the relentless pounding of hammers and gears, the sound of flesh being rent by steel, the roar of the fires of hell and the plaintive weeping of children. Deep red lighting gives the entryway a sinister, hellish appearance. Ahead of them, a set of wooden swinging saloon doors stands swaying slightly. Beyond them, the PCs can see only darkness. A particularly loud scream from the sound system startles, and they can push through the doors. They clap back and forth behind them as they take in their surroundings. Turning the corner in the corridor, they find themselves momentarily disoriented. Everything is upside-down. They are, in fact, still in the correct orientation with respect to true gravity. The room, however, has furniture affixed to the ceiling, and lights and a ceiling fan protrude from the floor. The result is quite nauseating. The next chamber is a slowly rotating tunnel. They have to make some compensation for its slow spin, but can make their way through with no problems. The cackling and spooky sound effects intensify in the next room. They can't make out anything in the pitch-blackness. Fiery but not fire. The hellfire-red of a nightmare, scarlet ocher overlaid on aniline black. An orange-red, muddy-red radiance with the bristle-at-your-eyes texture of the light. The dire-red hungry-red glow in the eyes of a night-hunting snake. This has all of those qualities, but none of them adequately describes it, because it defies description. How odd that mere light can instantly make one gut's clench, chest tighten, and heart gallop. Here is a peculiar luminosity that appears nowhere in nature, this is not quite like anything they have ever seen before in the works of man, either, and therefore it snags at every fiber of superstition in the fabric of the soul. As the light draws near, they discover that when this glow touches them, they are able to feel it, and not merely as they would feel the heat of the sun when stepping out of the shade of a tree. This light seems to crawl on their skin, to bustle like hundreds of ants. They know that this fresh-prickling effect of the light represents a danger. The light is betting brighter with every passing moment. The PCs can feel its corrosive energies on their skin. What would the fire's luminescence do to you if it touches you fully? Cook the marrow in your bones? Boil away all your blood? Oh, God in Heaven. This isn't a game: it is life or death. Theyll have to find a way out, before the light of the haunted house gets so hot it cremates them. Exit: Save for the lights of some nearby rides and shops, the area is pitch black; not a star to be found in the sky. An ominous looking mist swirls around the are, making it difficult to see beyond a few meters ahead of them, in any given direction. They see that the concrete is coated with some crusty reddish mixture of rust, mold, and blood The unknown being approaches in the darkness. The fog shifts ever so slightly to accommodate the intruding mass, and as the vaguest of forms becomes discernible, the PCs realize that this is no man or woman. No human being could be as large as this thing is. They feel their hearts almost stop when they see it. Monstrous dosn't even begin to describe the lumbering beast that emerges from the shadows. The creature is huge, towering over the tallest of them by at least ttwo feet. Its shape is vaguely humanoid, but its arms are absolutely enormous, more than compensating for the creature's slim

torso. Shambling on two slender legs, the PCs barely have time to react before it lashes out with one of its huge sandbag-shaped arms. Acting on pure instinct, they drop to avoid the swipe, glancing around to see a long blade retreat back into the creature's arm. Swing Rocket: Star Travel: The PCs go between two rocket-shaped ticket booths, toward a twelve-footdiameter tunnel of steel that penetrates the ride wall. In blue neon, the words STAR TRAVEL promise more escape then they need. The massive pipe is two hundred feet long. Tubes of brilliant blue neon curve up the walls, across the ceiling. They blink in rapid sequence from the entrance to the exit, creating an illusion of a funnel of lightning. The half-blinding surges of light are effective. The eyes of the PCs throb and one can almost believe that they are been transported to a distant star. Stage: The huge hall is set up like a rock concert, with elevated speaker's platform and lectern at one end, elliptically encircled by steeply rising stadium seating and fronted by a special audience on the main floor. Just below the speaker's stage is a row of tables. Tea Cup: Fortune House: A doll's white face, eyes haunting and coldly blue, lies on a round pine table that stands in the center of the round room. From the ceiling, pin spots wash the walls with arcs of white light. To the right a notepad lies on the side table with a lamp still lit. Picking up the notepad that, oddly enough, has someone's cursive handwriting across its crisp surface, which reads: Client: Claudia Wolf. Request: Searching for (then infant) Alessa Gillespie kidnaped by man named Harry Mason. No word from police. Kidnap location unknown. Old Silent Hill newspaper article: Alessa Gillespie (7) dead in fire. Links to current case? To be investigated. Priority low. Using alias 'Heather'. Neighbors do not know real name. What is she hiding? According to records, 24 years old. Client says looks 17- Plausible? Lived in Portland 'til 12 years ago. Got wrapped up in a murder case; Harry shot suspect. Justifiable self-defense, so no punishment. Moved away immediately after, started to use alias. Apparently no connection with the criminal. Just some occult freak, slightly off from way back. Originally from Silent Hill? The gypsy woman raises a hand and points further down the midway, towards the next large building. "You shall the answers you seek there." Then the cackling starts again, and the head resumes its slow, rhythmic bobbing up and down. Just as the PCs are considering how trustworthy the fortuneteller might be when a cluster of brightly colored balloons sailed over the top of the booth and slowly drift in their direction.

Something about the slow, methodical way they move arouses their suspicion. One is almost tempted to reach out and grab one of the strings, to pull it close and examine it. Two of them explode with a loud "pop!", and a small burst of flame. The PCs jerk back in surprise, and the balloons slowly float after them. Another one detonates, with a larger discharge. They move several paces down the midway. The balloons seem to be corralling them in the same direction that the gypsy woman had pointed. Marchen Travel: Dragons Cave: As in a fairy tale, there is a dragon here to one side of the chamber, lashing its yellow and orange and vermillion tail, spreading huge carnelian wings, scales scintillant, scarlet eyes flashing, roaring a challenge to all knights and would-be slayers. The head itself is larger than a horse, and covered in thousands of gnarled, rough edged scales; its teeth are the size of short swords, wickedly sharp and yellowed with age. The dragon's eyes have been replaced with large spheres of smoky glass, hooded by heavy eyelids rimmed in spikes as long as a dwarf's hand. Magic Ice Cream House: Happy Carousel: A carousel occupies the area immediately in front of them. The row of tiny lights along its edges are dark. As they pass by the silent carousel, its frozen stampede of horses and other animals gleam dully in the foggy light. The carousel is more disrupting than the stalled Ferris Wheel: painted midget horses halted in mid-gallop with their teeth bared and steel poles rammed through their guts. The metal poles pump up and down, up and down, gleaming. The wooden stallions and mares gallop backwards, tail-first, around and around. Like a thin spray of metallic paint, traces of light adhere to the brass poles that transfix the horses, but in that eerie radiance, the brass is silver and cold. The Hall of Mirror is on the right side, and an old hotdog and cotton candy booth is on the left. Although the entire park looks to have been abandoned for years, one can detect the faint aroma of corndogs and the sweet odor of the pink confection. As they pass the food stand, a sense of extreme caution comes over them. Behind them, a flood of lights erupts, and a barrage of caliope music fills the air. Spinning abruptly, the PCs look around. The carousel has sprung to lifedancing twinkle lights on the top and bottom, and all along the poles. Horses and swans lurch up and down as they slowly revolve, in time to the shrill pipe organ music. One by one, clusters of fluorescent lights come to life up along the midway. Sky Rover: Ferris Wheel: They continue on, walking towards what they had seen from across the parking lot. It is a Ferris Wheel. The wheel spins slowly around on the other side of the fence, towering

over them with its massive height. In the tendrils of fog, the huge wheel-framework thrusts up like a prehistoric skeleton, weird, mysterious, its lines obscured and distorted and made fantastic by the mist. From this angle, it faces them directly, bedecked in lights. The slowly rotating cars sway as they struggle to keep equilibrium on the giant wheel A few of those rabbit costumes sit in it, their wide smiles implying that they are enjoying the ride. Darkness: The siren wails in the distance, grows louder, louder. It pauses for breath, resumes its pitiful rise, mourning its own obscenity, mounting to obliteration. It is everywhereit makes all places into the same places, turns everyone into the same person. It says, Run to where there is no shelter. Their surroundings are made up of impervious darkness and silence. The world seems to be adrift in an abyss, an incredibly deep, bottomless abyss of fear and horror. Like the constant stroke of a gong, but it is growing to the sound of an enigmatic warning siren. Gradually their attention is turned outwards and the world around them comes into focus. Entrance Area: Broken stalls, covered in grime, splintered supports clawing jaggedly for release from their torment lies everywhere. For a moment the world seems to be filled with absolutely perfect, tomblike silence. Then there is the soughing wind once more; it carries with it the distorted music of a calliope-crashing cymbals and blaring trumpets, horns and tubs, all piping energetically-snap them out of the darkness of their thoughts. The clang of their footsteps echo in the eerie silence. The concrete from before is gone, replaced by sheets of rusted metal linked together to create a makeshift of rusty grids on the street with an endless darkness through its chinks. Entire sections of it are missing in some places, allowing the PCs to peer into the darkness below. They can discern nothing save a bottomless void. The air is no longer redolent with cooking food. It now smells of wood shavings, grease, and gasoline. The place is all over surrounded by a rusty massive fence and looks as if it were floating in the darkness. They look up and see a rusty dim street lamp throwing a pale light shine on the scene. It looks dirty; scraps of paper are flying over it in the slow, nearly dying breeze of wind. Behind the PCs are two grid doors, rusty and dark. A wall made of dark red brick is to their left and right, scribbled with graffiti and dry blood. Some tattered wallpaper with some artists on it are also pinned to the walls. Two more pink bunny suits lay on the floor. A third is sitting on a nearby bench, his head tilted to one side. All three are sprayed with blood but still they look somehow lively. Those are definitely no normal wounds on their throats. They are properly ripped apart like as if they were bitten by a large animal. Pieces of human flesh and tissues of muscles and ripped wires can be seen on either side of them- all over blood and death. The PCs look away from them and their gaze catches the mighty support pillars in front of them, made up of numerous cage-like boxes planted into the ground a good twenty or so feet apart. Inside the pillars, behind a grid, one can see something is hanging in them. The closer they walk the more detailed the figures become: human. They are humans. The PCs cannot see their faces.. .not that they particularly want to, but their positioning makes it hard to look at their

features: there is a thick, black stain where a face should be, as if it were burned off completely; their arms are extended, painfully, behind them at an angle that suggests suspension: they are being dangled by their wrists. They wear weird, flesh-colored smocks long, shapeless bags of dresses now stained heavily by a multitude of bodily fluids, which blends in perfectly with their skin, their horrible, blotchy skin. The stench emanating from the corpses leaves little doubt that they have been burned to death. In one corner is a small building. The walls are mostly brick, thickly stained with grime and various filth. Something wooden catches the eye two doors, small, wooden ones. They barely stand out, though they are of different material, thanks to the total state of disrepair this whole place is in. In one of the doors is a warning sign with the mark of electricity. A few deep holes can be seen in the grid on the floor in the corners of the place, seemingly bottomless and dark. They step carefully around them and reach a door, wincing when their fingers touch the slick, cool metal. Holding their breath, they pull it wide open enough to slip through and step across... Shopping Area: Souvenir Avenue: In front of them is a dimly lighted circuit, sem-circular area just as dark as the one before, but more horrible. The walkabout rounds some kind of large bottomless hole, which is surrounded by a rusty fence. They have a moment to look around and suddenly they can hear a muted sound of a sudden, hissing wail bursting out from the radio. They look around, focusing more on their right since there is nothing but a wall and a trash can on their other side, wondering what caused it, where it had come from. . . and then they hear hauling and a few growls coming out of the shadows to their right. It sounds as if an animal is fighting with something. Footsteps. Four at a time, the soft, padding sound of what seems like an animal. Then they see it. A canine if not for its deadly wounds and moldering flesh parts. The flashlight lights up its head first or rather, its heads. It looks like someone has cleaved a dog's head right down the middle, splitting the jaw, the snout, and between the eyes all perfectly even: fine, menacing sets of fangs sneers from either side of the monster's mouth, its nose is wet with snot and blood, and its eyes they are black, they were horrible. The gaping, scarlet interior isn't much of an improvement. Its behavior is similar to a hungry street dog; it is dragging a bloody piece of flesh out of a dark corner of the street. Its bloody red riven head shakes violently while the creature is struggling with its booty, gurgling sounds come from its dead throat. When its dead senses of instinct feel their presence it lets go of the flesh part and growls at them before attacking. It moves just fine, despite its traumatic head wound, and it is coming right towards them, running speedily on its legs, barely making a sound as it rushes closer, snarling and growling. Glistening, its body revealed in all of its hellish glory, falling apart as it lurches into the light on spindly legs, its hound-like faces dripping with gore, splitting at the seams as it lets its hoarse, throaty howl fill the diseased air It stares them down and snarling; rivulets of drool ooze from its impossibly functioning jaw and pools on the grating.

Now that the threat is, temporarily, disposed of, they take a good look around them, directing the beam of the flashlight to take in their surroundings. There isn't much to look at, truthfully: They turn, uncertain if to take the left or the right way in order to round the large hole in the grating. The left passage is blocked by a large pile of garbage. Taking the right path, the PCs pass a few sleazy restaurants and stores with dirty showcasesall boarded up as if their owners had expected a hurricane to pass by, all the windows are black and empty, and the few doors that aren't covered up won't open. No matter how hard they push against them, none of the doors budge. Their knobs spin futilely in their frames. Some old torn ads are pinned at the walls or pasted at the dirty window glass of some of the stores. Slowly they walk past them looking in every window but nobody is there. There is a white door further down the curving sickle of the path a light is shining above it, as if whatever constructed this place is giving the PCs some kind of clue: You can hide out in here for a while. Sure enough, when they try the knob it gives under pressure and opens. Finally they have reached a door which isn't shut. On a shield near it they read "Sweet Factory". Under the headline is a small picture of a pink bunny. Sweet Factory: The radio is quiet, and the flashlight doesn't highlight anything particularly gruesome in fact this place seems almost. . . normal, considering the rest of it. It is just a souvenir shop. Little stuffed rabbits, not just pink but yellow and green, too, sit on fat square shelves in front of a long row of various trinkets shirts, posters, all of them advertising the amusement park at happier, much more functioning times. On the high green shelves behind the shirts and posters are boxes of cookies and sweets. Their stomachs turn again, reminding them of hunger, and though they may think twice about trying their luck and eating anything this place has to offer. Who knows how long it had been sitting on the shelf, or what the transformation from reality to nightmare had done to it? They keep walking, eying the boxes with a mixture of longing and tempered restraint. They make it to the back of the shop more dolls here, more posters. Two locked doors are also here but nothing more. There is nothing else in this room for them. Stepping over the strewn boxes and candies, they cross over towards the door and walk out. Finally as they round the whole circuit and meet again at the pile of tat they find a door which leads them to a new area. Rest Area: They step through the door. It is still dark and it takes a few seconds until their dim flashlight breaks through the darkness. The beam of the flashlight hits the horrible face of an unnatural mutated creature, almost twice as tall as a human form. It has a foul moldered red-brown skin color, also damaged by horrible wounds and encrusted with blood. Its legs and arms are as long and wide as a man's whole body and it has neither hands nor feet. Its face is nearly indescribable. The back of its head is like the skull of a human, only covered with dirty pieces of flesh and dried blood. But its face is strange. It seems it has no eyes, no nose and no real mouth, because whatever face it has is entirely covered by what looks like a caul, like a newborn child's, it looks like it is being smothered by it. In the place of its neck is a big, driveling kind of a shaft which nearly covers its whole head. At the end of it is an opening with razor sharp teeth. The monster moves very slowly but makes the grating shake with every step it takes. It balances awkwardly and heavily on its long legs, thick as tree trunks. It growls, seeing its victims struggling with its shock and observes

them a few seconds. Then it stretches its long left arm in their direction. It is very close, they realize the intent of the monster and see the bloody blades at the clumpy end of its mutilated arm. You face the monster and begin backing away slowly, delighting when your finger finds the trigger, other hand steadying the base of the gun as you take aim at its chest and fire the gun barks loudly, the recoil sending a jolt through your arms. It sinks into the swollen flesh and spatters a jet of blood onto the floor you are surprised to see, in the weak light, that it is red, like a human's. You didn't expect it, nor will you let it stop you. You keep firing two rounds, three, four when will this thing go down?! - five, six how many bullets are left in the gun? And the monster shuffles forward, moving unsteadily on its long, thin legs. On the seventh bullet it pauses, shivers, and falls forward. You feel your throat tighten as you hear it moaning, rattling, its limbs and head twisting from side to side as it tries to push itself back to its feet. You know it is in the throes of death, that it will only take perhaps one more bullet, or a few hard kicks, to the head to snuff it out for good, and with a grim, hard expression you walk closer to it, staring at the wide stretch of mouth that is its only facial feature as its lips parts and gasp, retching and shrieking with all its might, before you lower the gun as close as you dared to get and pull the trigger. It splatters into the monster's skull, shattering it, sending a spew of blood that stains the toes of your feet. The bones in its head crack and it jerks to a halt, its death rattles halted, its moaning ceases. The radio has likewise shut up. Soon enough they realize that they are standing on a large platform far higher than they had previously thought. To their left is another large support pillar of the same sort they had seen in the entrance. The floor of the platform is made of grids and is surrounded by a fence, broken at a few spots. Under their feet they see impenetrable gloominess. There is no fence here, no protective grating, nothing keeping one from stumbling into the abyss below. Their eyes catch a small double door of rusty grating in the fence in front of them with a sign displaying Mountain Coaster Platform. The gate howls as they push it forward and walk ahead, deeper into the amusement park Mountain Coaster Entrance: On the other side of the low gate is a similar platform made of metal grids surrounded by a broken fence. It looks very dangerous, especially because they seem to be somewhere very high above. An exanguinated corpse hangs down from a street-lamp on the other side of the abyss to their right. Gasping they step back in alarm, their steps echoing on the strange steel grate that had been used as a platform over the gaping dark pit beneath their feet. Scattered over the ground are a number of holes where the floor has collapsed into ruin. They watch their step carefully, not wanting to fall headfirst into the void. The metal grating feels unbearably shaky underfoot. They hoped it won't choose this opportunity to give out under them. They hope it won't choose this opportunity to give out under them. They are about to cross the platform into the darkness before them, when a faint hum grows in their ears. At first it seems that their ears are ringing, until they realize the sound is growing in pitch. They search for the source of the noise, but it is all around them, and getting closer by the second. It first sounds just like a swarm of bees approaching them. and that is when the static begins. They can hear the radio sputtering violently, as it had in the past. At once hairs stand on end, every nerve blazing with raw fear.

They cover their ears to block out the jarring noise. The ground beneath them hums with the vibrations of the sound waves as they echo off the metal. Whatever it is, its presence will be known soon. Then a new soundharsh and metallic, like the scrape of metal blades against each other, at incredibly high speeds, comes from somewhere to the right. The darkness is thick and cloying. Who, or what, is making the sonancy is obscured in the tenebrosity. The sound comes again, this time from their left. On the very edges of vision, two tiny points appear. Mere motes they hang motionless before the PCs, one slightly above the other. A hint of light gleams off them, like eyes in a cocked headtiny pinprick eyes that glow silver-gray and might be looking right at them. The pinpricks sway, grow marginally brighter, then seem to retreat, as though they are stepping back to take stock. They are hard, cold and definitely not human. The eyes loom out of the darkness at them, growing from points, not into circles, but linesgleaming silver edges that flash at them with the same vicious scraping sound as before. They weren't eyes, but the tips of scissor blades are as long as a man's arm; evil points built to impale and slice flesh into ribbons. The blades snap and stab at them, cutting the air in two. The blades snip and miss, and as they do, the creature on the other end of the blades comes out of the darkness. It comes. A form somehow airborne. With its flight comes the sound, so horrible, deafening. Screaming. Grinding. Like nails on a blackboard. It will not stop. It will not STOP. The monstrous insect-like creature, about the size of a human, swoops towards them at incredible velocity, a chaotic mass of blades rotating around as the figure gyrates in the air, a living blender of turbulence. Its body is suspended grotesquely, stripped flesh entwined with corrupt steel stretching as it winded itself as if it were a crude doll on springs. The top head leers in triumph, revealing a mouth full of sharp black teeth. Its body spins on its axis like an inverted globe, with one long spike protruding from its stomach. It looks like a bee; one giant, malformed bee with blades. Huge, four-foot long blades serve as arms and legs, grinding against the corrupt steel. Every fiber of their being screams at them to run, to flee yet they can not tear their gaze away from the hulking mass thundering inexorably to the gory conclusion. Ears bleeding in agony, hands rushing at once to cover them from the onslaught as they turn tail and run. Everything is a blur before them as they stumble through the mess, the gleam of metal passing beneath the light, trailing at the edges of vision, the exit still so far awayThey can try to run, but the holes littering the floor are a problem. One can not run nearly as fast as one usually does, lest one risk falling. And that gives their enemy an edge. It is not an issue for the monster, as it merely glide over the jagged openings. The monster's eyes widen in surprise as though it had not expected such an elementary tactic. They cross the platform and reach a high metallic construction towering high into the dark sky. They step slowly up the stairs higher and higher. The gloom consumes them with every step they take. More warning signs on the balustrade of the construction. One doesn't even think about the alternative of falling down into the abyss by making a false move. In their desperation, the PCs

fail to glance down as they haul themselves up the stairs. They are barely at the halfway mark when they look down to see a ghastly sight that almost makes them fall: needles of the hospital variety, shards of glass all broken into sharp jagged pieces. But they have to go. Have to climb higher and higher. They can't see anything but the gloomy light of their flashlight cuts through the veil of darkness like a blade. The stairs round once, twice, one more time, no end in sight, but the PCs keep moving, the light bobbing and its illumination scattered due to hasty steps. It might has well have been off for all the use it does me, and this only encourages the overwhelming sense of panic and desperation that runs rampant inside them. They do not know what they will do when they reach the top hide out in the control room? Find something even worse up there? but they keep on regardless, not caring at this point but to put as much distance between themselves and the screaming monsters as they can. Then, finally, the PCs reach the top of the wooden tower-like construction, belonging to the parks trademark roller coaster. Above is one last platform and a ticket kiosk. They can try to open the gray door but it is firmly locked. Through the dirty window dim light and some bloody grease can be seen. This has to be the control mechanism for the coaster, but there is no way of getting in. Then again, it probably wouldnt be of any use even if they did have a key. They turn away from it and spot a low metallic rusty door which leads on to the broken roller coaster, which seems to be under construction, surrounded by warning posts. It stands slightly ajar, as if it were a subtle sign, an invitation. Roller Coaster Track: The splintered rails of the roller coaster lie before them. It isn't exactly the safest exit, but it is the only one. Besides, the train isn't on the platform, and though they can hear the chains rattling, it is probably roaming around on the course, perhaps already reaching the end it won't be coming back to the top any time soon, anyway, because the rest of the tracks have been completely torn away, as if a giant hand came down and ripped them off, tossing them aside. They step on it and follow the rails into the darkness. They want to keep running, their panic is at the helm and squashing any ability to reason, but the sight of all that darkness churning below them, opening wide like a mouth ready to swallow them up, makes their pace lessen to a steady walk. They are cautious to keep their footing firmly in the middle of the track. All around they see nothing except pitch black darkness, to the point where it almost seems like the track itself is floating above the amusement park rather than held aloft by support beams. Chunks of it are missing in certain places, and the path isnt exactly wide by any means. They go further. Their feet clang on the metal and wood; they neednt worry too much that it wont be able to support their weight. If it can handle the tremendous baggage of a train, it can certainly put up with them. The trails wind and curve, the PCs follow them warily and slowly, lowering down on an incline. They can hear screams in the distance, loud bursts of sound that are silenced instantly, but the radio doesnt make a noise. It may be halfway across when the PCs get the sense that something isnt quite right. Warily they tread onward, hands tensing around the gun, and they squint into the darkness ahead of them,

trying to detect a sudden drop or any sign of danger looming just out of sight. they can't see any but they think they detect a low hum in the air, accompanied by what seems to be a faint vibration beneath them. And then it happens. They come to a stop, fearing, absolutely dreading, the very thought, hoping beyond their wildest dreams, almost to the point of prayer, that it can't be what they think it is. There is no way the roller coaster is going backwards But it is. They can see the headlight ripping through the darkness like a knife, cutting into it. The only quick exit would be to jump. At the rear end of the funhouse is an exceedingly deep pool of velvety shadows. Ferris Wheel: It is visible only a series of connected, geometric black forms against the slightly less black sky. At last the PCs stop by the giant Ferris wheel to which the darkness has brought a chilling transformation: in the glow of the flashlight, it does not resemble a machine, especially not a machine designed for amusement, but gives the impression of being the skeleton of a huge prehistoric beast; dark and broken and ominous in this night seething with rain. The girders and beams and cross-supports might not be wood and metal at all but the bony accretions of calcium and other minerals, the last remains of a decomposed leviathan washed up on the lonely beach of an ancient Toluca Lake. Between the carousel and Ferris wheel, a five-foot-wide path leads back to an open space behind the amusements, the outer ring of the fairgrounds, where the restrooms are located. Towards the end of the passage way, the shadows are so dark and deep that they seem tangible, like black drapes. The music of the Carousel echoes in the night, beckoning the visitors onward Happy Carousel: The carousel cycles in a monotonous manner deep in the center of the darkness. Round and around and around, round the horses go, spinning with artificial elegance on their preset path, with no one to view their grace. Each wooden horse bounces lightly as it dances to the tinkling music that fills the air, but something is wrong. The music sounds distant, too highly pitched, giving the playful tune a vaguely sinister air, perhaps the pipes are clogged, the ride certainly hadn't been serviced in a while. What they find is a grotesque scene. The horses are covered in ancient dustsheets, sheets that have only partially protected the absorbent wood from the blood that coats the rest of the ride like thick red paintmaking it seem as if each is hewn of flesh and bone, like slabs of misshapen meat suspended on hooks. Rust covers steel where crimson stains fail to prevail, causing a low grinding, just audible beneath the faltering scream of the carousel as it spins its lazy pirouette. The axis is a cylindrical pillar, glowing red-hot and surrounded by flames. Intense, flickering light streams from circular opening window on its, throwing a hellish dance upon the ceiling.

The carousel has cycling seats, inside which are bloody skull-like pale faces. They have no eyes, just holes and bigger holes which seem to mark their mouths. They are torn open and look like living corpses with a few bloody flesh parts in their white features. Rain slants beneath the redand-white-stirred roof, beaded on and trickles down the brass poles and cools the wooden horseflesh. There is a verse inscribed into the flesh of one impaled by a spike: When 13 turns count 4, you will die from the curse. If you wish to escape, there is but one way out. To kill before you are killed: You will be saved by the 12th death. Once read the insanity begins. As the Carousel spins, so too does the PCs brains. The pain in theirs skull increases, becoming unbearable as they see the fleshy equines beginning to move with lives of their own. The horse-heads twitch and spasm manically, their mouths spouting a strange haze: poisonous gas. With their balance suffering, dizzy, it is easy for the PCs to be practically cast about by the things as they are slammed by one after another. Only by letting loose a salvo of shots, pumping round after round into the wretched things, will cause their damned cries to cease. If they run out of bullets, they can always use their melee weapons or tear the metal spike from the flesh of the first horse, and rush about causing a bloodbath as they impale and rend apart their sickly flesh. As the blood runs thick along the carousel floor, the motion jars to a still - the music, distorting horribly. Through the haze that fills their minds and vision, the PCs opens their eyes to a veritable hell. The corrupt blood of the beasts seeps into every surface, transforming it, warping it. Shock after shock rocks the carousel as the PCs realize that it is descending...spiraling endlessly into the earth. Doppleganger Battle: (Optional Scenario) In their horror they realize a shadow looms behind - and as they turn, they see a figure riding the wretched remains of one of the horses. With a maddening smile and a jump in its torturous stride the figure dismounts.. As it walks into the light it is revealed to be a ghastly, aberrant reflection of one of the player characters. This doppleganger wears the same clothing and weapons at the moment of creation, although stained with blood and covered in ash and burns. Looking every bit their twin, the thing stares its double down as if issuing a challenge. One option is to have no one else be able to seek, attack, or defend against the doppleganger; in this encounter, all others simply see the set-upon heroes slashing away at wisps of smoke. In the alternative the dopplegangers are visible to all, and the PCs can use team-work to overcome them. These imposters have all the physical and mental attributes, skills, hit points and S.D.C of the player characters. They also have one set of weapons that their counterpart possesses. They are also have Diabolic alignments. However magical weapons items are not duplicated, only faked.

Their only intent is attack their double, and they are harmless to anyone other than their duplicate. The dopplegangers fear the flames in the center and pushing them into the furnace will destroy them. The carousel is like a furnace, as the energies of slain doppleganger(s) pulse from their bodies. Already the blood on the floor is crawling away towards the floor, the beads starting to boil and evaporate. The corpses are drained of every nutritious element, the bodies convulsing as their innards are sucked out, gases moaning in their bowels and throat, the skin desiccating. Written on the ground is To those spiraling into an abyss often find the spiral thrilling, and sometimes love the promise of the depths below. People often see the romance of darkness but cannot see the ultimate terror that waits at the bottom, in the deepest blackness. Consequently, they resist the hand of truth extends, regardless of the goodwill with which it's offered, and have been known to kill their would-be benefactors.

LAKESIDE CHAPEL: Path to Paradise: The place is thick with the sweet smell of corruption, as if some ancient wrong had sunk into the stone and remained there, dormant and deadly. They notice the wall is illuminated, revealing ominous bright, red letters: Oh Lord. We will not give in to the power of temptation as long as we have you in our hearts. Oh Lord Save us, with your compassion Oh Lord Shower us with your blessings. Oh Lord Favor us with your abundance. Several more feet down the hallway, more writing appears: I give to you unreservedly, my body and my eternal soul. Whatever darkness may befall me, I will endure with you beside me. As proof of your miraculous power, guide our obedient and willing souls to the Road of Paradise, And finally: Oh Lord. We will not give in to the power of temptation as long as we have you in our hearts.

Oh Lord Save us, with your compassion Oh Lord Shower us with your blessings. Oh Lord Favor us with your abundance. At the end of the hallway, two stone staircases with stately ornamental iron railings climb to doors of ___ The double doors are ajar. They discern pews and an altar in the gloomy interior, and a figure in black moving back and forth in front of the glimmering altar. Could the church still be in use? Chapel: They see that this is very clearly a church with two rows of pews and a carpeted aisle between them. Several columns hold the tall ceiling up, and the walls are lined with paintings depicting some sort of religious story. At the other end of the church is a wooden podium on an altar with two lit candles on it. Impurities in the wicks periodically cause the flames to leap, flutter, and subside. The reflections on the ceiling swel, shrink, shiver. A book rests on top of the altar and on the wall behind it are three enormous stained-glass windows, with three people displayed, saints perhaps. There is also a black piano is to the right of the altar near the corner. Confessional: I am a weak priest. Not Gods fault. Mine. I wish I could hear a voice call me Father once more, and know that I was worthy of the name. That it was not a mockery or a rebuke to me. Oh, how I wish for that. Not you. Dont you call me Father. You know me too well for that. The things Ive donethe cruelties Ive doneI and all of the congregation. The voice pauses. If only I could be forgiven. Not by God, but by one whom Ive wronger. By one who suffered at my hands. Thank you. Thank you. The rooms have a monastic feel, as if the persons that lived them were doing long-term penance for sins. Hallways: Several robes reeking of stale blood and progressive rot, lays about the halls. A quick examination shows the PCs that the remains of their occupants are still inside them. Rather than burning to cinder, the victims have left strange pools of liquefied viscera in some places, desiccated and mummified strips of flesh in others. They see a few intact limbs. Some are pulpy, liquefying even as one touches them, while others are mummified and completely absent of any blood or liquids at all. Void: They can see it, something stirring beyond, the tortured steps thumping heavily with each stride it takes. The air grows foul as the warped shadow approaches from beyond. Their every instinct screams to flee as the PCs cast the beacon on the twisted man before them, absolute terror in their heart at the sight of his murderous blades, gleaming crimson beneath the searing light, still wet with blood. Still warm, flowing the beast of a man brandishes the stained shivs as a symbol of pride. Their sights set on that gruesome, malformed smile, a gurgle belching

from that haggard throat as the beast whets his blades in anticipation. The scream of the beast as its ugly mug caved in, only confirms that fact. Chapel Archives: Deep beneath the chapel, they are surrounded by ancient texts, artifacts, letters, and long-hidden documents. It is a place of dark secrets, hidden power. The walls of this room are lined with shelves; these hold countless books, scrolls, and stacks of paper. A single table at the far end of the room is flanked by two large wrought-iron candelabras. Candles burn brightly, casting a warm glow upon the papers that have been spread across the table. Elevator: They step over six inches of space out onto the elevator's grillwork floor. The big cage trembles slightly at their weight. Their thoughts are jerked back to reality, as the sound of squeaking gears and other machinery begins to fill the little cage that is the elevator. And it begins to sink down. They have not selected a floor after coming in, so one assumes the slow-moving hunk of metal only goes one place. And they are in for the ride. The sound of the machinery fills their ears: an erratic noise. Basement: The chapel is more vast than the PCs would have believed and the deeper they go the more convoluted it becomes. Massive bridges carved with hideous leering gargoyles leap across chasms where industrial sludge flows lava-like a hundred feet below. Enormous vaulted ceilings depict scenes that parody the interiors of churches and mock righteous dogma. Gigantic statues of cowled and masked men loom out of the clouds of steam from the heating vents. How much of this is merely a product of the Otherworld and how much a product of the warped and feverish minds of heretical cultists the PCs can not guess. Walkway: There is a point where the echoes of distant crying tells them they walk through vast space. Then, a movement of air tells them as they walk on the unrailed bridge. They hear the throbbing murmur of some unknown machinery, the groaning of wheels, the rattle of chains. Morgue: Even before you opened the door you could smell that something was amiss. Now that it is open, the smell is overwhelming. The source is more than a score of plastic-wrapped bodies piled up in the room, rotting. They are literally piled up, as if someone had tried to use them as a sort of impromptu barrier, a fortress of dead human flesh. Hallway: The PCs almost immediately notice a huge, rapidly spinning fan made of metal that is in the wall across from the double doors. It spins ominously, its blades covered in blood and small pieces of viscous flesh. And on the floor, both on this side and the other side of the fan are pieces of chopped meat, as if somethingor more disturbingly someonehad been hurled into the fan while it was on full speed, tearing itsor theirbody to pieces. Chapel: The scene before them is horrifying and beautiful, alien and endless. Built of blood and bone, of stone and sin, this place seems forged of humanity; the tales of passing, chronicled at the furthest reaches of the hall in glorious portraits, loom above so that none will escape the ugly truth. They can see far above, cracked sky-lights provide a dim illumination, augmented only by the sputtering candle-light. The ancient panes are occluded by the dust and grime of centuries. Beyond the walls, there is a thumping sound, as of vast machinery churning and grinding. Just inside the double doors stand three stone fonts filled with water. The sides of the fonts have been carved into a twisted mass of humanoid creatures who claw and scrabble at one another as

if trying to climb to the top of the font. The water inside is murky and reddish brown, as if fouled by mud. Occasionally a bubble rises through it, erupting on the surface with a faint belch that emits a smell reminiscent of clotted blood. A little further inside the chapel, just past corridors that lead away to the right and left, are carved wooden screens. These have been inlaid with ivory to form a scene in which skeletons rise from their graves. So realistic are these life-sized skeletons that their eyes seem to follow the viewer. Their outstretched hands seem ready to grasp at the clothing of any unwary passerby. The nave of the chapel, the radiating aisles and open area under the central dome is filled with shadows and whispering sounds. To either side of the aisle is a row of columns that glow with light. Although the illumination is welcome, the columns themselves are ghastly. Each has been constructed from human skulls, arranged one on top of the other to form a gruesome cylinder. Inside each skull, a squat yellow candle burns. Its dim yellow light shines fitfully out through the eye sockets and nose of the skull, flickering. The candles emit a faint but foul odor, vaguely reminiscent of the smell of burning flesh. A number of wide rectangular stones have been set into the floor. Each of these stones bears an inscription that the passage of time has long since blurred beyond legibility. A number of black, wrought-iron candelabras illuminate the area under the chapels central dome. Each is studded with spikes, upon which squat yellow candles have been impaled. Most of the lights, however, is provided by the rays of the setting sun, which slants in through the stained glass windows of the west transept. Five large windows decorate the rounded wall underneath this side dome. The rays of light cast an eerie halo about the figures, shining through their eyes and turning them the color of blood. Overhead, the interior of the central dome is painted with what look like black, boiling clouds, pierced by jagged streaks of lightning. The clouds form subtle patterns that give the impression of faces that stare down at those below with mouths distended into grimaces and howls. The focal point of the nave is a wide stone altar that looks as though it has been pierced together from the shattered remnants of many tombstones. In the middle of the nave is a ragged opening; a massive hole. They brace themselves to look over the edge of the hole. No way to guess what they might see. They can feel the strange darkness beyond, a tangible sensation, so thick no amount of light can pierce it. All their aches and pains, all their weariness, is forgotten now. They have to be ready for anything. Birthing Chamber: The HOLE has brought them into a chamber that is impossibly vast. They guess that it is twenty yards across, almost perfectly circular. Looking above, one cannot see the ceiling or the hole they came through, which is odd; considering the how short the fall was, the ceiling should not be much higher than their heads. The curved walls brim with evil, metal spikes. A wretched heat rains from the void above, the ceiling darkened to the deepest pitch, as if all outside of this hallowed space has ceased to be. It rains upon them as blood, dark and thick, this corrupted source of light masking the monstrosity lingering above that climbs the sheer faade with the alacrity of a spider. They cast light against this creeping dark, the beams bringing brilliance upon that which writhes beneath their sight. With deliberate pace the PCs inch forward, fighting the rising sense of dread with every step taken. Extreme danger; something hideous, something unhuman, something hiding in the impregnable shadows of the chamber will reach out for them, seize them in ghastly claws as big as sickles, tear them, and devour them alive with a noisy crunching of bones and splattering of blood.

Then they see it, a hulking mass of bulbous writhing flesh unlike anything they have ever seen. They watch, revolted, as the creature pulls itself on two deformed limbs, leaving deep indentations in the chamber's floor. This hulking mass, this wretched shape... could it really be that which the church worshiped? They are closer now - the heaving silhouette gaining definition to their adjusting eyes... its hoarse breathing, an affront to their senses. Such slow, torturous draughts; each shuddering exhale causes this hollow chamber to tremble and shift, its entire body coiled and poised as if to unleash tremendous violence... As outsiders the PCs watch, uncertain of what they are seeing - such sickening silhouettes entwining before them from floor to ceiling. The Valve Creature is here, a cunning shadow among shadows, not simply wedged in place and waiting to drop upon his prey, but scuttling straight at the massive shape from the right side of the chamber with all the horrid grace of a spider, diabolically nimble and impossibly silent, upside down, clinging to the ceiling by means unknowable, defying gravity, defying reason, a valet garbed of rotting flesh seeming to anoint the troubled brow of its master, its marred skull wrenching in such sweet rapture... for but an instant, the PCs feel the Valve-Creatures focus linger upon them - see its mottled shadow leer at them, fulfilled - and then it is gone, as if the being had never been. And as they obtain a closer look, they are finally sure what it is their sense of smell is detecting. It smells like burning flesh. Their minds scream at them to run, but they are frozen where they stand, rooted to the ground by the mesmerizing horror of the creature before them. They can see it in more detail, illuminated by the soft glow from inside the walls. If one were to only examine its front side, the colossal creature is vaguely human in flesh and form and yet monstrous in size, a nude woman moving along its torso with the painstaking motions of a wounded being. Its gnarled hands could easily crush their bodies, its limbs extend the full reach of the room - and yet so fragile, so faint. Its lower half however, is something out of a nightmare - legs that are little more than incinerated bones with barely any skin to them. The torso resembles a woman's chest, grossly misshapen by the injuries inflicted upon it, rip-cage exposed. The flesh is decomposed and ribcage gleams, covered in the waxy secretion that usually covers decomposing bodies. The breasts of the body are melded into the skin of the thoracic cavity as if burned into it. And most alarming of all, the long ebony hair flowing from the woman's scalp, somehow untouched amidst the ruins of living flesh. The woman's head is pulled backwards by the hair so the mouth, filled with black teeth facing the front. The mouth is breathing, exhaling a rank smell that is a combination of burned flesh and charred bone, overlaid by the stench of rot. Shuddering, hacking, this malformed being doesn't even dare to look them in the eye; it remains hunched over, cowering...? The supposed god continues retching, a slurry of bile piling upon its blistered hands as it curls into itself, tortured. The skin of those gigantic hands is horribly burned all over. The palms are two masses of thick scar tissue red, inflamed, and glistening. At once the thing rises upon its knuckles, exposing its proud breasts and raises its head, and that is when it utters a cry that shakes the PC's petrified forms to the core. It sounds like a woman's scream, warped and distorted into something conspicuously monstrous. The roar almost seems like a cry of pain and rage blended into one, as if the creature is suffering from some terrible agony no human being can even begin to imagine. The PCs cover their ears, nearly overwhelmed by the power of its fury.

And then it strikes them. All must be burned away... Whispering flames flow from its outstretched arm-thick streams of fire drudged forth from the very depths of the earth. All must be burned away. The great hot hand of the fire slaps the PCs with such fury that their faces sting, and they stage backward by the force of the blow. The odor of burned flesh and ozone leavings after the passage of power from its fingers. This was your enemy all along. This is the tormentor. They fire upon it. The creature howls in agony. Blood and gore drip from the gaping wounds on its forehead, flowing down the demon's face to pool on the ground. Stark and emaciated, all below her breasts shudders and shakes, as if on the verge of collapse. This powerful physique sits upon a ruined pedestal, her spinal column cracked and warped, her legs lacerated and malformed - not even of human origin. In shame, the monstrous deity collapses - hooves scraping to find a place, a poise to support such a burden. Its blood seeps and flows from its very fingers, the veins exposed, flayed to the full length of its limbs. So shameless...so wretched... But the creature does not fall as the PCs expected. Instead it remains upright, struggling to maintain itself on its hideously immolated arms. With rage the fallen god wails, a tremor felt in body and soul - and yet this burned and blistered mass can still stand, can still stare them down... A series of low guttural noises emerge from deep within its throat, and the PCs realize to their horror that the monster isn't just still alive, it is regenerating; refusing to die... In mere seconds, it is as if the PCs had never fired a round. The creature lunges at them with renewed vigor, striking with the fury of a monstrous array of rage. The PCs can barely sidestep the inhuman blow. It misses them by mere inches, carving out a substantial chink of the floor as the claw strikes the ground in rage. The PCs want nothing more than to keep firing at the abomination; to see its repulsive features crumble under a hail of bullets...to see it collapse into a bloody, destroyed carcass. They want to see it dead - no, annihilated! The irrational part of their brains tell them to reload their weapons and fire at this offensive representation of their misery until its very existence is wiped from the face of this world. Let it try to heal itself in vain; let it suffer and bleed just as they have! But, the logical side of them tells them that it would be foolish to stay here and fight. They will do nothing by squandering their precious ammo on this beast. The firearms are their only means of defense against the servants of this encroaching darkness. Without them, they will be left at the mercy of this insane living nightmare. They hate to leave from this confrontation. But they have no choice. It is either retreat or risk losing control and possibly their lives. It wrenches in disgust, it wails and threatens - and yet it can do nothing, tearing itself apart in the very effort to reach them. Black blood bursts from within its skull, so great is the exertion. Lungs sputter and collapse, so fierce is its loathing. The PCs swiftly flee the trap that is this section of the chapel. They can still hear struggles from a thing born of hate; feel the weight of its wretched body thundering through them and to the far reaches of this hollow, like echoes through a tunnel. The earthen surfaces crack and splinter.

The Sewers: You find yourself walking through a thicket of concrete pillars that support the
ceiling, ugly, icy glare of the halogen lamps lining the corridor filtering down on them. It lights up the tunnel ahead, eliminating all chances of shadows and the things that lurk in them. There is nothing at all but the path, the walls, the lights, and the stairs they have to walk down to reach the way out. You take a few deep, calming breaths, and began to descend. You find it strange there would be a place like this under an amusement park, at first, but then you realize this is a sewer. The church must be near or connected to an underground passageway somewhere. You are glad that at least there are no monsters following you. Silence. Silence all around you, except for the sound of your shoes clomping against the ground. Silence and nothing else, which makes you breathe easier, makes the knots of your shoulders relax. You relish these moments of solace, not knowing when or if they'd come again, taking your time slowly as you walk down the corridor. You glanced back every now and then, just to make sure nothing is following you, to make sure that the lights aren't going out, inviting something unspeakably horrible to emerge from the created darkness. No, nothing. Your minds start to wander again. They certainly have the time, considering the length of the hallwayit stretches far, far ahead, in a series of lamps and the same pattern of brick, the same paved, even floor. You can see what looks like another set of stairs on the other side, so you continue moving towards them, using them as your guiding light, knowing at least that there is another side to your wandering, that there is a way to escape. Once they have found the entrance to the town's sewer system, at hundred yard intervals, little flights of stairs the longest is only ten steps from top to bottomtakes one gradually deeper into the bowels of the earth. They hear a loud, metallic whine echo throughout the passageway. They can't tell from where it comes, or even what the source of the noise isit seems to emanate from the very air itself, or perhaps in the place inside the walls, the places on the other side that they can't see. It sounds... it sounds like the world is shifting, like they are inside a little wind-up maze whose paths can shift from normal to hellish with one, sadistic turn of a wheel, controlled by a man (isn't it always a man?) who has his own plans, a man who has his own concerns in mind, and they don't involve his victim one bit. If the world around them is shifting, they want to make sure whatever place they find themselves next will be far, far away from any grinding gears or nightmarish plagues. They want to find some semblance of normalcy, and find it fast. It is this thought that makes their steps move quicker, this thought that makes their trek down the tunnel seem shorter, narrowing the long, seemingly endless passage into one that becomes quite easy to pass. They look back over the path they traveled and see that the tunnel has shrunk behind them. What originally looked like a four and a half mile tunnel when they first descended the stairs now looks nothing more than a four and a half minute hallway. Descending the second staircase to a rusted, dented metal door set into a concrete wall, they twist the knob and push their way through to the room on the other side. A nicked and faded Danger Non Entrance sign rocks on its moorings as they open it. In the sewer, the PCs find themselves in a rather dank and dim situation. The sewers ceiling is high enough to accommodate standing and walking erect. About every hundred yards is a swinging light bulb; unfortunately every single one is broken or burnt out. The walls and ceiling are covered with pipes for telephone and electrical wires, gas lines, and steam. The walls and floors are also covered in a slippery sludge that can make travel a bit treacherous, as well as noisy. Maximum speed is reduced by 25% and player characters are 1 to dodge. Any attempt to

make a dodge, or other sudden move, or to run, means the character is likely to slip and fall; roll 20-sided dice, a roll of 12 (add in dodge bonuses or less means a fall into sludge, no damage, but a loss of one attack/action per melee). Locker Room: This is obviously in some kind of storage space for the workers to get ready before entering the tunnels. Here are the catacombs where broken spades, long-handled brooms, buckets of sand, mops, antiquated ticket machines, lost uniform caps, and stray umbrellas drag themselves to die. The mops havent been used in many years by the look of the mold growing on each mop-head. The PCs look at the workbench nearby. Near to it is a sight they never expected to see in a sewer facility. There is a mace with thick metal spikes, like the type of weapon that could cause some damage. Most couldn't even lift the thing, never mind use it as a weapon. It is super heavy, and those with a P.S of 16 or less can barely budge it beyond a few inches. Distantly, the PCs wonder who would use this as a weapon, but they have given up trying to figure out the why's of this ordeal long ago. There is one other thing of notice, though: a bloody outline outside the locker, and they can see it is crusted over the door. Had someone killed someone with that mallet and stuffed them unto the locker? It is a very likely possibility at this point. The PCs want to look inside, and yet at the same time, don't. Digging through the remains of the junk, the PCs finally find some kind of container located in the corner. They peer curiously inside, noting it holds a quantity of engine fuel. There is probably a power room somewhere. Hallways: There is a loud stomping coming from the darkness as the creature emerges from the shadows. It is huge; twice as big as the others they have killed back at the mall...No matter. They are all the same to the PCs. It even sounds more terrifying, as it stomps its way towards them. Holding their weapon in their trembling hands, they fire one thunderous shot at the creature. The monster pauses in its tracks, but it shakes it off and keeps coming. Really panicking now, the PC blast another shot at the purplish creature. The man-sized monster gives a momentary groan as it stumbles to the ground. The PCs quickly run up and step on it before it can recover. Deeper and deeper into the heart they go, the paths spiraling into utter chaos, pipelines torn askew and dangling as blackened haze seeps from within. Water squelches beneath their feet, the shadows rife with dripping corruption, pooling at every junction, draining onto them and seeping down their brow. All the while they go, every step more strained, each breath harder and harder to take. Blocked-Off Hallway: Empty. Barren. A lonely corner, a secluded passage, the shadows held at bay by a solitary bulb swinging overhead. The rustic noise plays on their ears as the fixture is tossed on a phantom breeze, the atmosphere strangely peaceful, almost inviting. With weary steps they shamble through, eyes scanning the dark for threats and finding only empty paths strewn with debris and construction materials. Wherever they have ended up, it seems fairly safe...if only for the moment. Service Shaft: Long Tunnel: The air is still very stale. The tunnel is lit by bare light bulbs, hanging from brown twisted cords like heads in nooses, one or two of which are flickering on and off like candle flames guttering in a wind. Hallways: Their eyes see no hope in their plight, no respite through the endless corridors beyond, wretched paths of brick and grout damp and sickly to the touch. At every turn, at every junction

they have been confronted with yet another hollow path, stretching out into the infinite; each looking exactly as the one before, meandering along pointless routes. It all is as a blur in their minds. Service Area: They start forward again, and the light catches something. Covered by a metal grille, a footsquare drain opening is set in the floor of the service-way. Inside the drain, something indefinable glistens, reflecting the flashlight beam; it moves. Directing the light straight down into the drain shows that whatever had glistened is gone now. The light reveals only the walls of a pipe, it is a storm drain, about eighteen inches in diameter, and it is dry, which means they had not merely seen water. This experience has been a collage of horrors that you won't recall clearly later, save in your deepest, darkest nightmares. Creatures come out of the shadows, and you struggle to evade them. Two large Numb Bodies stalk forward. Before you have time to prepare for anything else, the grunt rises to a cry and the next thing you know something heavy and wet slams into you, knocking you square in the chest. You scream as you stumble back, arms failing, hand still holding tight to the gun. That seems to excite it because it comes after you again, shoving against your stomach, trying to knock you to the ground. The thing bends back, preparing to strike again. They are ready this time at least. One of the PCs strikes out at its knees, the weakest looking point on its body, and are satisfied to hear a loud wet crunch as something in it snapsdoes it even have bones? The thing bends again but forwards this time, lowering its head and trying to adjust to its handicap as the now useless leg makes it tilt heavily to the wounded side. They sidestep to the side and spin, back to the front of the compartment as they back up carefully, putting a good distance between them but not far enough back so they can't see it clearly. They raise the gun again and aim for a fraction of a secondthe shot doesnt land where they want it to, but it does make a hit where the shoulder should be. Once downed, the things writhes on the floor just like the tiny cyclopses back in the mall. These must be their older brothers or mothers or something. Office: Another narrow passage lies adjacent to the pumping room, the door clearly marked for personnel. With no other recourse, the PCs press through, the beacon shining through a small living space, the work desks piled with clutter, a blackboard scribbled incoherently with deadlines and complaints. The shadows span the length of the comfortably sized room, stretching to an old-fashioned heater stuffed into the corner, forgotten. Hallway to Machine Control Room: They follow the twisting way, sliding through narrow halls and forgotten paths spiraling ever further into this underworld. All the while they can hear the muffled clangs of distant machinery, rumbling somewhere in these depths. This path leads to no monster, no presence; just a simple end. The pipes fades at the junction and into a single forgotten entry, its moisture soaked hinges gleaming beneath the light. Gun at the ready, the PCs approach with caution, easing it aside with their fingers, guiding the rays unto the darkness beyond... Machine Control Room: Even as they open the door, they recognize the heavy dizzying scent of oil and petrol.

Churning, turning endlessly upon their ears, the echoes of corrupted machinery drift down the length of a narrow passage carved from the wall. But something else...a scraping. So faint, yet lingering on, as if coming from the walls themselves. The PC go onward through the narrow passage, the haunting ballad sending chills down their spines. It grows closer, and closer still, the rumbling causing teeth to chatter as they part the gap. Chaos. It bleeds into their ears. Steel, scraping horridly in the air, wires, sparking as a devils tongue, the smoking mass of a machine as it strains to complete its task tearing itself apart before their eyes. It is the power room from the looks of it, a large tank occupying most of the small room. They look around and quickly note where several inspection hatches have been levered away. The paint is scored and scraped along each frame where a crow-bar had been forced in. Peering in through the open covers, they can see rows of copper-wound cells, vibrating rack-frames wet with black lubricant, sooty ganglions of insulated electrical routing and dripping, lagged iron pipes. Sprung-jawed clips with biting metal teeth have been attached to some of the cells, and wiring from these clips trail back to a small control panel which is flashing amber. They walk up to the main panel, squinting down at the controls. There is a small box opening large enough to fit a reasonably robust human being. Oily-looking water fills the hole, shimmering underneath their flashlight. To the right they can see a single ladder leading down through the haze, filthy waters frothing at the edge as the pumps draws it in, then spits it out in disgust. The drain is functional but lacks something. There isnt enough power, not enough fuel, the machine sputtering as it falls on its last breath. The ceiling of the generator room is high, accommodating the four huge machines and the largest diesel oil tank they have ever seen, its top disappearing into the roof itself. Overhead is a network of pipes, wiring and catwalks. The walls are uncovered brickwork with only piping and mounted instrument-gauges to break up the monotonous pattern. It is uncomfortably warm inside there, a factor that adds to the putridness of the atmosphere. Using the container of fuel they found in the locker room, they collect some fuel for a machine of some kind and pour it into the fuel tank. Once they pour it in, the machine drains the water from a nearby opening that had been flooded up until now. The ladder obviously leads down to the lower level of the sewer; this place is like a puzzle, with one obstacle after the other. The PCs hesitate, before venturing into the dark passageway below. Drainage Area: The tunnel extends for two blocks before pouring the flood forth into another one-block length of open drainage channel. It is empty now, but it is slick with a sheen of wetness. In the glare of the flashlight, the channel does not appear to be illuminated from above but instead from within its very structure, as though the concrete were radioactive and faintly glowing. One block ahead of them, this new section of stone watercourse feeds into another concrete culvert. That pipe terminates at the mouth of the long vertical drain at the west end of town. In the last ten feet of the main sloping line, a row of sturdy, vertical iron bars are set twelve inches apart and extend floor to ceiling, creating a barrier through which only water and smaller objects can pass. Once this great circular conduit was part of an earlier sewer-system. Deep within its depths, dozens of connecting branches converging into a gigantic single outlet and spews its waste into the Lake below.

Stairway to Drainage Area: There are greenish marks at various points and the drainage area is stained a saffron color. Stairway to Garbage Room: Garbage Room: They go down the hall and find a small room, just ten yards by seven, and in it they see... A pile of ancient paper trash. There is a light in the far corner, clipped to a pipe in the ceiling. Here and there the handle of a broken tool or a part of a piece of furniture peeks out from the morass. There is a dented filebox, against the nearer wall to the right. And in the farther corner, the heap of trash, about three feet high, sloping down to their feet with scatterings that paper the bottom of the floor. Just a pile of paper, most of it yellowed, rotting. The PCs can scrape and scrounge about the piled refuse, tearing away in vain to find something, anything that will help them. Choices seem limited. They may cringe at the thought of what lies below these murky depths, with the same horror a poor man must feel as he digs his own grave. With lowered eyes they turn away from the scattered shelves and toppled piles to see the remains of a wheelchair at their feet, a singular object laying in its broken seat gleaming in the light as if wanting. Hallways: The passage opens before them, the door left swinging on its hinges, the narrow passage beyond empty, warnings of entry pasted about the walls, impotent. They pay no heed, pressing into the confines as the lighting fades in subtle transition, fixtures few and far between, the scant bulbs swinging atop the ceiling in the false breeze of the air purifiers rumbling overhead. A growl, rumbling on in the depths of the place, louder than the purifiers, the throaty bass gripping the passage in its pulse. Looking onward, to the span at the end of the hall, they can feel it flowing from within the entry clearly marked, ajar in the slightest way. The ordeal continues, offering trials and tribulations, until they reach a room that looks like an office. Office/Surveillance Room: The watchmans room is extremely simple. The walls bleed with moist stains of brown and the air is pungent with rancid odor from the drainage beyond. There is a narrow bed on one side, not more than a cot; dirty and dusty, like it hasnt been used for a very long time. On the other side of the room is a desk with an electrical lamp turned off and a book on it. A jacket hangs from a hook on the wall, and there is a single locker full of tin hats and gas masks and a rusted sandwich box, complete with a green hairy lunch wrapped in pre-cellophane tracing paper. A row of blank security monitors are along one wall. They are pleasantly surprised to see the piece of paper is a map, the inscription on it is: Sewer System (Southeastern Portion). What they had thought was a book is a diary, the name W. Irving is written sloppily on the cover with a green marker. The PCs pick up the journal, curiously examining it. About the monster in the water There's a monster in the water. The bastard's killed 2 of my buddies. I should never have doubted that old urban legend about alligators in the sewers. That was no myth.

But no one believes me. They were drunk and slipped? We're not that damn stupid. Even calling it a monster isn't quite right. This is something else. All I know is something's in there. I'm going in now to beat that thing's head in. If you find this note, consider it my will. Revenge is futile or so you may think, reading this. But Jose and Jaime were my best buddies. Wish I knew how to do the deed. Guns won't work underwater. Even my famous knifework won't do much. If only I had a hand grenade There are other memos and papers scattered all about the room, most of them about sewage work, no doubt. And there is that symbol again, in the corner of the room. Ignoring it for now, the PCs focus on the more important thing. The PCs set the papers down with an ominous feeling. So these were pages of someone's journal. And they have an inkling about what had happened to its owner. The PCs know they will have to go into the other room. But the question of a monster being a presence in the sewers bothers them. And then there was the fact it had killed three men. The PCs aren't fazed by it, though. They will have go into the other room with the monster and kill it. However, the question of 'how' is relevant. Guns and knives don't work, obviously. They could blow it out of existence with the shotgun, but first it has to come out of the water, and there is the problem. They will have to lure it out of the water, or at least close enough to the surface for their blasts to have an effect on it. But how is that accomplished? And then they get an idea. Tentacle Bridge Room: The room is wide, an underground cavern where water from catchment basins drain into a giant cesspool. Pipes and mechanical dials are built into the walls, but the valves are old and worn and water drips through their seals. Metal grates block off some of the water courses, inching a wide spillway. A narrow fenceless bridge suspended above murky water, crossing over to the other side. Blood is everywhere, on the walls, the bridge, the water...Crimson drips from the span of pitted metal crossing the black depths, smeared along its length in tortured stains that scream in silence. The PCs stare at the pool filled with tepid brown water. So, there's something in the water. Standing at the edge of the artificial dam, they lean over the railing and peer into the waters gloom, not sure how deep it is, or if something is in it, and something long and fleshy whips itself out of the water, slapping at their ankles. The PCs stumble back instinctively, just in time to see a transparent dull-red feeler...tentacle? retreat into the waters gloom. They cant get a clear visual picture of it from where they stand. But it was bigmaybe three feet across and very long. Slipping by, like a giant boa constrictor. They could just make out that it was connected to something bigger, something that stretches down into the depths of the sewer. The placid surface stirs as the beast beneath the waters edge opens an eager eye, a thousand limbs slithering in anticipation... You stare at the object in your hands, the thing that had been lying in pile of junk while passing through a filtering chamber. As expected, the power outlet in the room provides the perfect resource. A pity the sewer worker trying to destroy the thing hadn't thought of it. You hope it works as expected. Well then, why don't we see how it handles this? And then, you throw the hair-dryer you had gotten into the water, after making sure it is firmly plugged in. The effect is instantaneous. The water sparks with electrical currents as the electricity passes through the

blower. More sparks dance among the extension cords and battered wire strung from the adjacent office, the acrid stench of smoldering flesh fills the air. As the energy courses, you marvel briefly, how electricity follows the quickest path from heaven to earth, and how it passes with pleasure through those things that stand in water. Moments later, a tentacle emerges from the pool of brown water, a lifeless husk uncoils, its flesh peeling, its skin crackling disgustingly as it seems to reach, even in death. They cross the bridge with the fallen tentacle floating nearby, barely giving it a passing glance, as they pass by the lifeless corpse. It feels its way, rising and falling, feeling to the left and then to the right, like an independent being, a pitiably and yet deadly menacing blind creature trying to find its way. On the far side of the cesspool is a small ledge, a lip of concrete a foot or two wide. Hallways: The next area is devoid of creatures, thankfully. The tunnel is brightly lit and dosen't smell as foul as the ones that preceded it. It seems that you are coming out for the sewers. And never were you more relieved than when you realize there is a ladder at the end of it. A tired breath falls from your lips as you step past the many rows of doorways through the hall, the rumble of the air purifiers overhead resounding with your own feelings. Odd Stairway/Hallway: Exit: It looks like a sewer, but mercifully does not smell like one, and after they descend another level of metal stairs, the only way out appears to be a long, rusty ladder leading up to the surface. As they step toward the ladder they notice it is an oily black that is ice cold when touched. They look up at a sky that is an evil black, and it is easy to see the snow that is falling upon them like manna from heaven. They know that they are at the end of their trip though the sewers. Even though they knew it is a necessary task, but they almost pity those who had to work down there. The lack of light, the grimy and soiled environment, and the stench, was almost more than the PCs could bear. If they had stayed 15 minutes more in that hellish tunnel system, they would have vomited all the contents of their stomachs, not just some. They know their struggles are nearly at an end. They climb the ladder with a sense of giddiness and anticipation as they focus on not losing their footing while climbing. You experience a distinct lack of light as you climb out of the passageway. You use what strength you have left to hoist yourself out of the sewer entry, as you find your footing on the ground. Standing up wearily, you breathe a considerable sigh of relief. Finally you are away from that dank, garbage smelling underground hell. Without hesitation, they pull themselves up the ladder and onto the street above. Reaching the top of the ladder reveals that the night is cold, and they can feel the snow still in their hair from the climb. Everything around them is black and eerie, nothing is moving, not even making a sound. It looks like they are in an alleyway. There is a window just ahead of them but they cant see though it. The building standing beside them is a dark, almost marble, white. As they close in on the

window ahead of them a curious feeling erupts in the pit of their stomachs. A feeling as if they should no longer be here. A feeling of great apprehension comes over them. They look though the window. There is nothing inside. It is a ruin. Just an empty building with a mattress in the middle of the unpaved floor. They look onto the street. There is a large board standing right in front of this alleyway. They walk up to it and study it. It is a tourist information stand, with a pocket with a few leaflets left in. It is a map of the neighborhood.

The Streets:
The alley leads into a street lined with auto yards, industrial-equipment companies, warehouses, and a few other businesses. One of the warehouses is an abandoned heap of cinder block and corrugated aluminum; its two windows, high above the street, are shattered. From serviceway to serviceway, from shadow to shadow, among abandoned warehouses that loom as massive and black and cold as temples to the cruel gods of lost religions, then into a broad paved area that might have been a parking lot or a staging area for trucks delivering freight. They cross the street, leaving black tracks in the undisturbed skiff of white. East and West Garage: There are two ground-floor entrances: one a man-size door, the other a roll-up large enough to admit trucks. Both are firmly locked. Around them are bare, unpainted walls, two-by-four shelves sliding through them as though invisible tracks, cans of thirty-weight and brake fluid. Darkness: The room on the other side might once have been a garage: the floor is still concrete and the walls whitewashed, while the ceiling consists of old planks. The flashlight beam reveals a discarded socket wrench that had been left behind so long ago it is orange with rust, from its ratchet handle to its business end. An empty oil can waits for wind strong enough to roll it elsewhere But if housing vehicles had once been the rooms purpose, things have changed. There is a curious scent in the air it is pungent, sickly sweet and a reddish, low-key light emanates from niches in the walls where candle flames burn. On the opposite side of the room, a grill glows orange in an oil black, furnace-like structure. Annie's Bar: Annie's Bar: It is then that they hear a flapping sound. The flying demon is coming straight for them, plunging from the sky. They see it, its blood stained mouth dripping with desire. Its horrid scream renting the air, its talons like obsidian and sharper than harvesting blades, coming right at them. They are running over tarmac. They don't know what it is exactly because they are running to a building. They leap off the road and onto the sidewalk. Glancing briefly into the large building with an old sign over it that reads "Annie's Bar" and the door is wide open. The Screamer is screaming and diving straight for them. They slam the door shut. The demon stops itself from flying into the glass and begins clawing and screaming. They walk backward in total shock and now can look at their surroundings. The tavern is a warm, cozy place. There is a rustic bar along the left-hand wall, large and mirrored, so it looks as though there is more alcohol than there actually is. The bar is a classic U, and made of expensive wood with a Formica top the color of flesh, so that it can be wiped off easily night. Each of the tables in the center of the room holds a tall candle in a red glass lantern, and an imitation stained-glass Tiffany lamp hung over each of the booths. There is a open doorway leading to another room.

Inside there are pool tables, their green baize dark with dust, an antique one-armed bandit, a darts board dusting in its frame on the wall. The balls, numbering one through fifteen, are enclosed within a triangular rack, and the cue ball is resting at one corner near a pocket. This must have been a good social scene when things were normal around here. Through another open arch is a broad, dim room walled with darkly aged wooden panels and set with upright timbers, like the ribs of a ships hold. Furniture stands here and there, draped with dusty sheets. Moving moves on the far side of the room, beside a draped chair, something black and bulky. Only a particularly deep shadow, shifting perhaps in the light of the coals. Or a coat of heavy dark fur, thrown there. Or But it stirs again. It rises slowly erect, like a black bear, gross and shaggy. But not a bear either, not with that broad flat face, those glowing pale eyes. Where the nose should be is a damp blob, like soggy brown leather, with staring nostrils. The mouth is a broad cleft. Upper and lower teeth jut, like splinters of china. The glowing coals for eyes look back. Long, knobby arms lift, spreading hands like hair rakes. Talons glint, as sharp and pale as the teeth. The mouth gapes, makes a crooning snarl. It steps forward, on long slippers of feet. Under one of the pool tables is a single peace of paper and a small silver key. They pick it up. Another key? What for? This whole place, it gets to you. It just seems like everywhere needs to be unlocked. Every inch needs to be searched. Picking it up reveals that is a receipt for a place called Indian Runner under the name Michael J Kaufman, and written on it in blue ink are the numbers 0473.' 0473? What does that mean? This town is just one big mystery. Indian Runner? Looking at the map shows that the Indian Runner is in bold black lettering over a building just at the end of this street. It is marked by an ominous small gray box on the map. The Streets: Drainpipes, trees, hedges, windows showing nothing but darkness all reminders of this town as not just a resort, but also as a place people once lived. The edge of the sidewalk is coming to a dip. There is a small car parked to their right. There is a small square building next, with a placard on the wall which simply says Private Parking Members Only. They have reached the end of this block. There is a T junction and they have to make a decision, Head south, or keep on heading forward. The map shows that The Indian Runner is straight ahead. Indian Runner: A large sign to the right of the roadway, supported by two redwood posts: INDIAN RUNNER. They pick up speed, with legs feeling like they are spinning as the PCs sprint over the road and get the first sight of The Indian Runners dull exterior. Lightly colored wood is nailed all over the place and it doesnt look all that good at holding back the elements. They walk up to the wooden door and try pulling it open. It doesnt budge. They tug again, in a vain attempt to break the wood, but the wood is anything but soft. It is hard and built well. On the lock is a small numeric padlock. They may recall the receipt. 0473. It might be the combination for this place. Spinning the dials to 0473 results in a satisfying click and the padlock is now unlocked. It is strange. In your hand the padlock is not cold like you would expect from being outside. It is warm, bizarre.

It looks just like a small black block, the four spinning dials in the center running down in a line, the numbers displayed on the dials are white to tell them apart from the rest of the device. Padlocks like this are quite common place, but made out of steel and titanium, so they are very difficult to break. They toss the padlock away and pull at the door, and enter the building. Inside, it is a clutter, a total mess, full of boxes and packages labeled Fed Ex and Silent Hill postal delivery. There is a notice. Dr Kaufman, Walter Collide is ready, he left some things that I have put in the safe. They walk around the counter, trying hard not to disturb the mountain of Fed Ex boxes to the side of it. When they get around the counter at first it is a little disappointing. There is nothing there but some drawers. However, underneath the counter, just out of sight is a large, slightly menacing, iron-gray safe. They grab the handle and tug, but it being a safe means its not going to open straight away. They look around for a key or notice of some sort. Here in Silent Hill, one gets used to the idea of the solution being nearby, even if it doesnt really make any sense. They scan the desk, look through some of the boxes, finally finding it in the top drawer that is opposite the safe. They open the safe to find two bags full of white powder in here. The label on them read White Claudia (PVT) Do Not Inhale They look at the walls, and see a shipping notice. 3 loaves of bread. 3 cartons of milk. 2 dozen eggs. Deliver to back door daily at 8 a.m. Rear entrance code, 0886. Norman Young. Why? Who would possibly want that? It seems so odd, so useless and trivial. All these things look more like ingredients than anything else. Why put it up here? Unless its for this White Claudia, unless this is what is needed to make it? Right next to the order is a photo of a chubby man with a large moustache, standing outside this very building. They can see the large, imposing wooden door they previously entered through behind him. There is a message written in fine white handwriting at the bottom of the page: Normans Motels Grand Opening The key they had found in Annes Bar had engraved upon it heads the words Normans Motel incurved. They turn around and make their way to the exit, as they do they notice a small red book on the counter. Stepping forward to investigate reveals that it is a journal, a journal that begins with April 5th: I had a dream about them, all them in those freaky gowns. My god, it was horrible, they were chasing me round this odd hellhole chanting The Girl! God will be pleased Its getting to me, all this undercover work. I hate it. Susans husband is a cop but I dont know if I should tell him. Down at the docks I seen that a young couple, they seamed so happy together. I wanted to be the same, its been so long since I last held some one in my arms. I miss that the most. August 20th She showed up...told me to sit on the package for a while. I really dont like being involved with people like that, but I fear what will happen if I didnt. That woman, Ive seen her around but I never approach her, never had the carriage. I seen a young couple in South Vale today, they

looked so attractive together. They where just lying on the grass in Rosewater Park just holding hands, staring into the water. I was so envious of them. September 12th He came by. I handed over the package that the woman left here. Im getting creeped out even more then before. Thought of leaving town, but Im afraid of what will happen if I do, to my family, to my shop. I went to Brahms to pick up some things I need for this Friday. I forgot how pretty that town is. I know it seems a million miles away from Silent Hill and these wackos. February 1st As I write this I am already dead. I have committed the worst crime of all! I talked. My tongue slipped and that was my death sentence. They came. The Streets: They walk outside, hearts still low-spirited from reading that diary. They begin to venture down toward the motel, Normans Motel. They go at a steady pace, their minds are still all shuck up after reading that journal. The darkness comes in from all around them. All they can see is the little bit of road that is illuminated by the light. There is the ground, that is all you know, the rest is like the void, its just emptiness. Soon, you come to the opposite side of the road. Across the way you can hear the gentle splashing and washing of the lakes waves against the land barrier. There is a soft clanking, it was only a boat banging in the gentle wind. Normans Motel: A small building begins revealing itself. There is a inscription on the glass reading Normans Motel Employees Entrance When grabbed the handle doesnt budge. There is a number coder next to it. Remembering the memo on the wall in the Indian Runner, the PCs type 0886 into the readout, the red LED disappears, and right next to it, a green LED lights up. They push the door open. There is a milky whiteness to the walls that seem both bright and uninteresting, the table in the center of the room is made completely out of glass, on top there are numerous magazines and newspapers scattered in a disorderly pile. A pale white sofa that half surrounds it makes the room look like a waiting area for a medical facility. On the desk is a small magnet tied to a long piece` of string. They walk out of a hollow doorway and into the reception. This too is fairly small. There is only room for a narrow, French caf style table, a small sofa and the office desk, beside which is the entrance. They exit though the receptions door and into a small car park. From what can be seen of the outline, this appears to be a typical motel. The distance from room to room is short, almost nonexistant and there seems to be a door every few meters; the numbers on the doorframes all read in the thirties. As they move along the rows of rooms and doors the numbers are dropping, 37, 36, 35, 34. They soon reach to the twenties and move along an adjacent building. As soon as they hit 30 the building started to arch in, making a kind of culdasack. Room 22: It is a normal room. Something about it is unsettling, but it is normal. A cheap bed, a small cupboard, a poster of Silent Hill as a tourist resort, that is all that is here. They move into the bathroom, where there is a shower and a sink, and that is all. They expect to find drugs, White Claudia perhaps, something that will help explain all this, but no. There is no one in the shower. Of course there wouldnt be, but after previous experience, the PCs were perhaps expecting to find a body, or a pool of blood, or something. Instead it is clean, pristine, perfect.

They walk back into the bedroom. It is then that they notice something odd, the floor is scratched and there is a depression in the floor, like a piece of furniture should be there but was moved slightly. Should they push it along a little and see why it was moved? In the floor is a large hole, something shining in the flashlights rays at the bottom. They can try reaching it, but it is too deep into the floor. Grabbing the magnet pocket and dangling it over the hole earns them a small iron key, which is labeled Bike. Outside, checking the car park reveals that there is no bike; motor or otherwise. Remind them that they had seen another door in that first room they had entered the Motel through. When they get back to the first room they see it, Yes, another door. They walk up to it and placed a hand on the handle. As they do they feel a cold breeze fly by their hand. Strange. When they push it open they find themselves staring into a small garage. There is a red sports motorcycle in the corner of the room. It nestles in the shadows like some great red and fabulous insect, parts greased and free from rust, spark plugs clean, all primed and ready for a swift start, and just a glimpse of it stirs something deep down in theirs gut. After they have checked and admired the bike, they find the gas cap and open it up revealing a small bottle inside. What is that? They grab the tiny mouth and pull it out. It is a small vial with some strange red liquid inside, rather like the liquid they saw at the hospital. When they are ready to leave, they push the door open and cold air rushes into the building with such force it makes their bones shiver. They can tell that they are on the shores of Toluca Lake, on the jetty. What mysteries does this lake hold? What secrets are locked in its still waters? They walk back onto the road. Looking at the map shows that if they continue to head west, theyll come to the docks and the light house. The radio begins buzzing and screaming. One of the PCs spins around but is smashed in the face by a claw. A screech like an air raid siren confirms what they suspected, it is a flying demon. They pull their guns up and fire at it, blasting a hole in its flesh. It screams and flies away to leave them standing, breathing heavily. They think it gone when it suddenly appears out of the darkness and flies at them again. Again they shoot at it and ready themselves for another frontal charge. But it comes at them from the side. Soon it is overhead and they shoot at its torso from below. It screams and howls in pain as a result, but it still isnt dead. One more shot into its body sends it tumbling out of the sky. They walk up to it and see that it is looking at them. They raise the gun up to its head and shoot. It doesnt make a sound as the bullet enters its head, shattering every nerve and vessel in the area of the wound.

The Light House:

Looking up ahead they notice something in the distance, it becomes more visible as they approach it. Looking up they realize it is much taller than they had originally thought. A lighthouse, a curve of a stone breakwater, can be seen at the other side. The lighthouse rears up, a wonderful monster of overlapping curved metal plates. A telescopic spiral ready to expand

or contract. It glows in the light and appears to hover just above the ground like a ghostly carousel. As the sky darkens, the lantern room high in the sky brightens with a thousand watts of halogen glare. The rays are reflected by the prismatic rings of the Fresnel lens, amplified, concentrated, and beamed out into the lake. They note the fog is rapidly thickening. A breeze springs up from the lake and churns the incoming fog, which seems to solidify from a gauzy vapor into a white sludge. High overhead, the bright signal sweeps 360 degrees. It seems to pulse as it passes out of each quadrant of its arc and into the next. The fogan optical construct with a million lenses, a billion bevels, infintie prismssteals a minute fraction of the beam and shatters it through the night. From the dark trough of each pulse the fog takes shadows, which chase the phantasms of light, which in turn chase the shadows. They have never seen this phenomenon before and one can suppose it must be particular to this lens, this landscape, and the unique nature of the fog. At the periphery of vision, figures leap, fly, fall. They are shadows from the lantern room, the consequence of the arc pulse, not cast by anything at ground level, though something malevolent and real might be moving in their cover. They chase directly in front of their eyes, too, and frequnetly fly up from the ground, as if they were dark birds. Without warning, one sees to the right a figure standing on a twenty-foot-high wall of boulders. It is what looks like a man in a gray flannel suit and a fedora. He seems tall, well over six feet, though could be a trick of perspective. Other than his outline, only his legs are apparent. For his legs are the worst part about him, though. He's got eight of them, creeping along like a spider. No, not the legs, not exactly. The face. There is no face. It is completely featureless. No eyes, nor hollows for the sockets. No nose, no sculpted cheekbones, no mouth, not even a set of jaws. It is as if the front of this things skull had grown just as smooth and solidly-fused as the back of it had. It looks almost like the head one of those artists dolls, the wooden ones that have the poseable features. A head, no face. He looks up and sees the visitor(s) and then gives a queer triumphant and hungry yelp. And then he moves. Running at them with those eight horrible legs. In seconds he will be upon them. Taken by surprise, the thing-without-a-face is deflected for a moment from its attack. The creature falls as if baffled, uncomprehending; perhaps it feels no pain, but only this profound incomprehension, as of a being who has imagined itself invulnerable to physical harm, immortal somehow, the delusion now shattered, spiraling away in dark ribbons of blood that cannot be stopped. Making a choked, guttural sound, the creatures staggers, hands pressing against the streaming blood, turning away dazed, having forgotten the PCs entirely. Transition to Darkness: Soon the ground begins to shake and stir. The ground is growling and groaning angrily. The vibrations are so fierce they fall over, but then their hands began to get

cold, icy cold, like they are on metal. The ground around them changed from it's normal tarmac black, to a dull iron rust and then into metal grille. The road evaporates beneath the power of the Otherworld as their senses and surroundings are sent screaming to hell. This no longer like reality to a nightmare like the other times, but more reality like becoming a nightmare. All over their bodies they get a horrid feeling, like something bad is about to happen. Darkness: The water is oil black and has a faint oily smell. The only sound is the continuous lapping of the lake at the dark metal pilings, the creaking of moored boars, the sinister rustling of wings as the Air Screamers soar and swoop with piercing, melancholy cries. In the lonely darkness, something hideous will rise out of the water and snatch away an unwary passengers something slimy and scaly, something with awful, insatiable hungers; something with razor teeth and powerful jaws which can tear a man apart. Behind, you can hear the relentless flapping of a devils wing, coming closer, trying to finish you off. The Boat: The boat is large and white and well maintained, but there is an unpleasant odor about ita blend of gasoline fumes and the stench of dead fish. They open the door leading towards the lower compartments and they are in a small storage lockers at the foot of the companionway; it is no larger than four meters on a side. The walls are hung with spare coils of rope; thicker hawsers are coiled and braids in stacks upon the deck. The walls are also racked with tools, including gaffs and skewers. There are four block-and-tackle sets of varying sizes, and crates of spare machine parts. They walk down the stairs, follow the tiny corridor into... A small office with the steering wheel and navigating tools at the front board, in front of it is a large window, outside, they see the dark waters. The Light House: The lighthouse itself is a round white 130-foot-tall granite tower, forty feet in diameter at the base and fifteen feet in diameter near the top. Compared the rest of the town, the lighthouse is brightly colored. The white paint is still intact all the way to the top, it seems. Entered by a short set of stairs with ornate iron railing. The dozen Screamers that had entered the lake a few minutes ago are circling overhead. There is nothing lazy or graceful about their flight. Instead, they twist and flutter and soar and dive and dart frantically among one another within a tightly defined sphere of air. They seem tortured. It is surprising that they don't collide. Screeching at one another, they perform an unnatural, frenzied dance in midair. Wheeling around, you set your eyes on the distant lighthouse, now almost completely swallowed up by the night, and start to run. You hear their screeches as they swelled in size as if emerging directly from the night. They swoop, their long, spear-topped heads turning left and right. You put on a burst of speed. The three hunters bank toward you, their hunting screech grafting on your ears. Panic exploded in your chest as you glance over your shoulder, seeing giant flyers dive out of the night, their talons stretching out. In the blackness of the night, it is impossible to see how exactly how near they are, but the mighty flapping of their long, pointed wings drums as if inside your head. Your heart feels as if it will burst through your chest. It is then that a Screamer strikes at them from behind, between the shoulders, like a hammer blow. The PC stumbles and instinctively puts one arm across his/her face. The wings beat at their back. Batter the back of the head. Thunder in the ears.

The air-screamer whoosh over you. You see one winging skyward as the others bank tightly for a second try. You scramble to your feet, ignoring the stinging pain in your dive for safety, just as the air-screamers swoop in for the final kill. As they climb the stairs, they notice that most of the bricks have crumbled and whitened, the air creating blotch lesions like leper spots all over them. The PCs open the door and step inside. The interior matches the rest of the world right now: dark, with rusted, burnt chain-linked platforms that are the only thing keeping the visitors from falling into the dark abyss down below. The cement walls are burnt to a brownish orange color. Looking up, the flashlight reveals a circular set of rusted iron stairs ascending to the top of the tower, giving access to a doorframe still painted red and a door which isn't made of rusted steel either. Outside you can hear the terrible demons gathering, scratching and screaming to get in, hacking away at the entrance. Their wings fluttering. Looking at the dirty walls and the circular pattern of stairs that lead up to the top reveals that it is a long ways up. The stairs wrap around a pole in the center, keeping them aligned all the way to the top. Finally they see the hole that leads to the roof, light shines through it. Any type of light is unusual in this town. They are the summit, in the lantern room. Against the giant lens, oval in shape, with integrated series of prismatic rings at bottom and top, which reflect the rays of a onethousand-watt halogen bulb to the center of the lens, amplifying them, lay several stringed skinned bodies, ensnared with fishing hooks and lines. They can see the entire town. Countless rooftops, fences and wires, like black daggers against the horizon. As they step onto the top of the lighthouse they notice beams of light tracing something on the chasms that had kept the town divided are more clearly marked out now, though they were still just straight-edged gouges in the land. They extend ray-like from the outskirts of the town, sharply angling in convergent lines that make three points, symmetrical all around town; a giant symbol carved into the land, marked out in gorges, in the very center of town, visible only from this height. Whatever it traces covers the whole damn topside of the entire darkened town! It is huge. They look around and then gasp, suddenly realizing what it is . . An enormous symbol of some kind. At first very vague and difficult to see. It looks like a pair of co-centric circles facing one another, making a figure 8. There is something in the center of both, triangles pointing towards each other, decorated with meaningless squiggles in the center. The PCs have seen that symbol before. It had been shaped like that. Exactly like that. The Seal of Metatron. The void is in all directions, but they are slightly bordered off by the edges of the symbol. They cant stare at it anymore. They have a feeling too much of that symbol might result in something they really dont want to experience. All the more reason to find a way out of this place, away from its hellish corridors and madness-inducing symbols. Looking up into the darkness after staring at the light... There is a girl standing in the darkness.

She is dressed in black penny loafers, white knee socks, a blue or black skirt, and a short-sleeve white blouse with two large white cuffs on both sides, dark piping on the collar and across the pocket flap, as though she were in the uniform of a parochial school. . Beyond the door there is a long, narrow chain link floor surrounding a void of darkness. This platform doesnt seem to lead to anything that can be seen. But then again, the flashlight has no more than a 5-foot radius of light. They then notice an end. A small cubical space, about seven feet tall, four feet wide and five feet in depth. The lower half of it is draped in red felt, and the upper part in wood-imitation wallpaper. On the roof of the space is a small closed door and a white light bulb that shines light into the space. Next to the entrance, on the inside, is a control pad with four numbers in decreasing order from top to bottom, and on the bottom three more buttons: one has a B on it (basement), one has two arrows facing each other, and another has two arrows facing away from each other (open and close). This is an elevator. If they turn around to face the park, they will only manage to emit a scream that echoes in the distance as they struggle not to fall down. The PCs are standing on a square portion of chain link floor, held up by rusted metal beams, covered in blood. There is nothing around the elevator, just blackness and emptiness and a black pit below, from which whispers come Out there, in the darkness they can see bloodied wind turbines, spinning, despite all the blood, rust and gore that covers them, making a creaking sound as they spin. The elevator is there, with its mouth open, waiting to swallow them, letting it be known that it is the only exit out of this place. Struggling, they pull themselves up, leaning heavily against the side rail as the elevator begins its thunderous decent.

NOWHERE:
Churning. Grinding. Scraping steel on steel. Down, down it goes, beyond the normal boundaries, the motors whirring endlessly, falling into forever. The elevator is going deep, deep, and yet it is still accelerating. The cables whine and sings in the background. They must surely have passed ground level long ago, and be speeding into the roots of the world. The walls are bleeding, sliding past the bars of the cage, the carnage twisting, sinking, falling into depths of insanity. The floor jars beneath their feet, the elevator screeching to a halt as steel reverberates throughout the endless shaft. Trembling, at wits end, the PCs brace themselves, forcing their weary eyes to watch as the towering doors part with a shrill scrape... Darkness. Silence. Lifting their battered bodies from the rail, they find themselves standing at the threshold, gazing into the crucible of another world Welcome. They can hear them. Voices, whispers, calling them, beckoning them to come closer The darkness enveloping them as they are drawn from the light

The radio sputters with insanity, the dial flying off the handle as the boundaries to the abyss are flung apart before their eyes. they can feel that darkness, that horrible darkness beyond drawing them in, wails echoing from within the crucible of deepest memories. They now know shadow can exist without light. Even with the light held in their hands they can barely see, an unnatural dark mist swirling before their eyes, clouding mind as well as vision. Stumbling as if blind and deaf, they fall against the railing, darkness rising before their eyes for an instant as they see the face of the abyss returning an empty smile. Their minds think back to the map. Pulling it out, the map is nearly illegible now, the ink blurred, the page stained and wrinkled; likewise any notes they have made. Where could this place be contained? Nowhere. Then, from the darkness on the other side of the threshold there comes a soft, infinitely sorrowful voice. The voice of a lost girl. They are lost in a place they cant fix or recognize. Everything is tainted, dirt and blood cover the black ceiling, the walls rotting. They walk slowly down the corridors of Nowhere until they come to a rusted steel door with a red cross painted thickly on the metal. Alchemilla is painted underneath the cross; the black lettering flaking in Nowhere's decayed atmosphere. Birdcage Room: The furious beating of wings almost causes them to reel backward. The PC expect a tumult of doves or pigeons. But the flock makes no appearance, and after the briefest spate of flapping, the wings fall silent. Another series of flapping sounds draws their attention to a cage. It stands five or six feet off the floor, supported by a base similar to that of a floor lamp. This empty cage with iron bars. It is incongruousnothing around it fits. It doesnt looks like it belongs at all. But although the cage is empty, it doesnt seem empty. The cover of the cage, which in the dim light appears to be sprinkled with a luminous red rust, has a drawstring and opens like a curtain. Then it is realized the cage is empty. Nothing. It contains nothing. Empty, except for some straw lining the bottom of the cage and, dangling near the back, almost as an afterthought, a perch, swaying back and forth, the movement no doubt caused by the speed with which the cover was drawn back. A latched door extends the full three feet from the base to the top of the cage and can be slid back on special grooves. Stained red, the metal bars feature detail work as fine as one ever seesintricate flowers and vines with little figures peering out of a background rich with mushrooms. As they touch the cage a sound of ruffling feathers fills the air. They look around the room but there is nothing, no bird, but the sound of a bird in flight persists in making itself heard. Returning to the door, they hear once more the unseen bird's vigorously feathered drumming of the air, as though it is demanding the freedom to fly. Faucet Room: In a very dark corner of the room is a sink whitethough dirty and stained with the usual fluidswith a tall, curved metal faucet. When they stand right in front of it, the light from the flashlight reflects on something that seems to be stuck in the faucet. Ophiel Hallway: There is another corridor, this one stretching about twelve feet ahead and ends abruptly to their right. There is a stone tablet mounted to the wall, something peculiar carved into

it. They move closer, using their flashlight to get a closer inspection, and they see that they are names engraved on a lithograph Names engraved on a lithograph The Grim Reapers List Yes, the headcount is set Young and old lined up in order of age Then the pathway opens Awaiting them the frenzied uproar The feast of death! Underneath is a list of people and their ages. Lydia Findly- 35 Trevor F. White- 60 Albert Lords- 18 Roberta T. Morgan- 40 Edward Briggs- 24 Next to it is a door with a circular crest. The alphabet is embedded at the bottom, going around the length of it. The script mentioned a headcount in order of age had been set. If that was the case, then the order is Albert, Lydia, Edward, Roberta, and then Trevor. But how can they enter that into the keyboard? What should they enter? The answer is to type the first letter of each of their names, the code then being 'ALERT'. and the door unlocks. Antique Shop: They cross to the opposite doorway, rusty metal grating their fingers as the knob twists open, the tainted light of orange fluorescents drifting beyond... The first one that opens is a sight that shocks the PCs as they find themselves right back at the Green Lion antique shop. They neednt bother to rummaging through the junk, when all they need is the massive grandfather clock. They notice that one of the hands is a key, and they smash the glass faceplate of the antiquity to reach it. A strange word, Ophiel, is carved into the handle. They take it and leave the familiar territory. Examination Room: Basement: Back in the demented hall, they finish checking the doors down the corridor, all but two jammed. One is locked, the word Ophiel embossed in bronze underneath the knob. The other door opens, leading to a long staircase downward. Classroom: By some cruel joke, they are back at Midwich, standing in one of the classrooms. They aren't in the alternate version, just the regular one. The room is clear aside from a single desk placed neatly in the center of the room. It is the same one that had the nasty writing carved into it. They see another door at the end of the ominous classroom, and they hurry over to it. Locked. They then notice something shining in the seat. It isn't reflecting the beam from the flashlight, however. It is glowing. They lean towards it and soon realize it is a key. They pick it up quickly, examining the glowing letters. Ophiel.

A key to another hallway, no doubt. There is nothing left here. They have to find this hall of Ophiel now. Before they can place their hand on the doorknob, they hear the chanting of children. They look back, suddenly in a different place and time. A vision. They see children, all girls and all wearing the same navy blue school dress, are tossing paper and notebooks at one particular girl with short black hair sitting in a desk. She looks to be maybe six years old. They are screaming at her, calling her things like "witch" and "Thief" and "Demon The poor child can only sit there with her arms over her head. They can't believe it, and as soon as the little premonition starts it is over, the classroom as silent as ever. They blink. The vision is gone. Only the dingy and abandoned classroom lies about them. They leave the room, ascending much more quickly than coming down. They use the key of Ophiel. Operating Room: Going up: Second floor: Third Floor: Phaleg Hallway: The distinctive whiff of putrefaction taints the musty air. It's as if a huge woolen shroud had been snatched from the crumbling confinement of a not-quite moldy grave and languidly shaken. A very wide hallway which is somehow dark despite its brightly-shining lamps. The gray and black of the walls and floor seem to absorb the light. Lining the walls are several bureaus and chairs in different shades of gray and black. The hallway is of a clay-like quality. Symbol Room: The chamber is enormous, with a domed ceiling rising high. A single massive symbol of deepest red and mind-bending complexity is painted on the ceiling. On the rightmost wall is painted an enormous mural of the dawn. Hundreds of sigils and runes so intricate that one can not follow any one of them intertwined with one another across the entire floor. Several shelves line the walls, some replete with heavy tomes, others contain a bizarre assortment of items. In the center of the room stands a pair of tall burning torches. The far wall boasts a painting of a forest scene; the leaves are a deep green, flowers blossoming around their trunks, and sunlight filtering through the heavy canopy. Only the leftmost wall is unadorned, and boasts a single doorway. Kitchen: Kitchen: It opens into a deteriorated kitchen, with a giant freezer directly ahead. They see nothing of use on the counters, and are startled by a banging inside the freezer. They stare at it a moment and whatever it is inside started moving around again, thrusting so hard the entire freezer starts rocking. The door to it flings open, and a tentacle emerges, snaking out, and wrapping quickly around a PC's ankle. It pulls her/him to the ground and instantly starts

dragging her/him toward the dark recess of the dank freezer. Drawing their guns and firing inside causes a high-pitched squeal to be heard from within, and a splash of something more gruesome than blood or tar splashes spurts onto the tiled floor. The flashlight starts to flicker, and the PCs are instantly terrified at the thought of it dying out. It begins to slowly get continuously dimmer, and they fire toward the thick, red tentacle, the part wrapped around the ankle, detaching from the rest. Darkness swallows the stray slivers of light which are left. The kitchen falls into perfect blackness. And the heavy thing in the refrigerator comes unseen, unheard, but with all the weight of a sack of bricks. The shock sends the PCs reeling against the kitchen wall. The PC slams against it. Somewhere nearby the thing regroups with a sound like slithering sandbags. Their ears tell the PCs that it must be hugebut is this an illusion of the darkness, of the echoing acoustics? They do not know if the thing can see them, and they do not know what it is, only that it is powerful and deadly. On the other side of the room the PC's assailant is stretching, lashing, and reaching. The thudding flump that accompanies their opponents movement sounds louder behind the PCs as they struggle to stand, to shoot. Something jagged and rough catches at a PC's right hand. A warm gush soaks their wrist and they drop the gun. The monstrous unseen thing snaps out. One fat, foul-smelling limb crashes forward, smacking another PCs thighs, sweeping his/her legs out from underneath him/her. The other PC's bleeding right hand grazes at the dropped gun, but they cant grasp it. When the creature attacks again, the PCs use their knives to slice sideways. The wet and bloody fingers of the PC's right hand curls and fastens themselves on a small shelf. The thing whips its bulk back and forth but it is not badly hurt. It gathers itself together again, somewhere off in the corner. If the PCs can trust their ears, it is shifting its attack, preparing to come from the side. The PC rotates his/her left wrist, moving the knife into a vertical position within his/her grip. The PC opens and closes his/her fingers around it. To their left, they hear the thing coming again. The PCs peer up into the darkness over their heads where they know the fuse box now hangs open. The creature scoots forward. One great limb crushes against a PC and wraps itself around his torso, ready to crush, ready to break what it found. The PC cannot breathe; there in the monsters grip the PC feels the thing coil itself, slow but wickedly dense, as if it were filled with wet pebbles. In the center of the room the beasts bulk shudders unhappily as it shifts, and shuffles, and skids. The appendage that squeezes the PC is only one part of a terrible whole. It jerks back inside, and the PC scrambles to his/her feet and they all stumble to the door. They hear it growl, and are out in a flash. Store Room: The door to the right had nothing on it, but the one to the left says "Ophiel". They quickly reach pull out the key. This is the room. They put the key into the hole and turn it. They hear the lock come undone. They are startled as they realize that the key dissolved in their hands. Nothing left of it. They open the door and step into it. This is apparently another part of the hospital. They see it is a tiny storeroom, with double doors directly across from them. There is a book lying on the floor. They approach it slowly, wondering what it is. The cover is blue and it is already attracting the dust the defiles the floor. They kneel down next to it and pick up the book. As they open it, they realized it is some sort of journal.

May 15th:The patient hasn't been getting any better. I hate working down here. No matter how often I change the bandages, the blood continues to flow. I don't know what's keeping this child alive, but whatever it is... May 16th: Still no sign of improvement. I can't take watching this child suffer any more. I want to leave, but Doctor Kaufmann isn't letting me. He says that he needs this patient taken care of. And if I tried to escape, I'd just come back where I started again. May 17th: I kept on feeling like I was going to throw up today, but I ended up only vomiting up bile. Nothing comes out... and I was determined to leave more than ever. I plan on escaping tomorrow. However, I might fall victim to my addiction. May 18th: The room is filled with insects, even with the windows and doors shut. Blood and pus flow from the bathroom faucet. I try to stop it, but it won't turn off. Need Drug. That is the last of the entries. The PCs shudder and quickly close the book, appalled by the passage they have just read. Seeing else nothing of interest, the move quickly toward the other doors, opening them to a fearful sight. Morgue: They almost turn away, realizing it is the morgue. All the containers are closed, but toward the back of the tomb are two gurneys, both home to a corpse under a thin white sheet. They do see, however, a key sitting on a table, and they snatch it up. It has Hagith engraved on it, and they pocket it before leaving. Graffiti Room: They freeze, eyes moving around the floor and walls slowly. Graffiti is everywhere, written in thick black marker. It consists of different doodles and child drawings, most of it illegible, except for Help me. Murder. Die. Can't take any more. Fire. Burning. Simple words of sorrow and hate; words from a tortured soul, no doubt. Crying directs their attention to under a desk in the corner of the room, seeing a figure huddled up and sobbing on her knees. The figure disappears soon after they see her, leaving behind another key. They move over and pick it up, seeing the word Araton carved on to it in golden letters at the handle. -and see the figure, now clearly the same girl scribbling on the wall, her movements fast and inhuman. She turns and looks directly at the PC, then just vanishes. Generator Room The Magic Door to the Second Floor:: They use the key, the door opening to the long stretch of hallway resembling the one from the secret basement of Alchemilla. The first two doors on either side are locked, and they move to the next set. One is jammed, but the other opens. Sickroom: They use the key they found in the morgue, the door opening into a small patient room; silent and dim, the ceiling a tangle of exposed pipes, the walls charred and blood-spotted. There is a TV and VCR, as well as a newspaper, both sitting on a table. On top is a thick book, bound in stiff white canvas that time has darkened, filled with thick pages of elegant type and vellum insets. already opened to a page. White Claudia

Perennial herb found near water. Reaches heights of ten to fifteen inches. Oblong leaves, white blossoms. Seeds contain hallucinogen. This hallucinogenic effect is key in ancient religious ceremonies. The illustrations are vivid and detailed renderings of shrubs and small trees, all sporting broad leaves, drooping, trumpetlike white or yellow flowers. The newspaper has several interesting articles. Investigation stalled! PTV dealers still at larg.e Suspicious deaths continue in Silent Hill. Like the anti-drug mayor, a narcotics officer (Thomas Gucci) dies of sudden heart failure. Unknown origin. The next page has a sepia photograph of a smoldering skeleton of a house; firemen and others standing about, and on the snowy ground are corpses in rows, shrouded in canvas, so many and some so small. The acompanying text reads: Devastating fire strikes Old Silent Hill Fire broke out in town, destroyed six homes. Charred body of Alessa Gillespie (7) rescued by a lone truck driver and picked up at the front of the child's home. Cause of fire currently under investigation. Source shows the antiquated boiler in the Gillespie home malfunctioned and caused the blaze. A number of the fire victims had been so badly burnt, their faces so charred, absolute identification was impossible. They see next to VCR the key of Phaleg. They pick it up then leave the confined space. Childs Room: The inside is a little girl's room. They see an outfit hanging on the wall, and they remember the vivid flashback they had experienced in the classroom. They see various things including a scattered deck of cards, collection of butterfly specimens, and coloring books, and papers scattered across the wooden floor that seem to have come from the bed. They clash with the green sheets on the bed, but none of that matters. Beyond the art desk that is parallel to the bed is a door. And engraved into it are religious objects. A star, a dagger, a disc etc. What are all these doing here? Trying to break some sort of spell? Getting through the final barrier of evil by using objects of holy value?

Paleville National Park: The light grows brighter; the air a little warmer. The relief at
climbing to the open street, at the base of a streetlight, last only till they find that they are in the park square at the center of town, till they realize the warmth is coming from great sky-licking fires consuming the entire block. They stumble across the treeless, torn earth of the park, through rolling gusts of smoke. In their ears, theres the ringing of static, the numbing feedback whine of blank horror and tireless malevolence. They see piles of bodies in the very center of the park and the other bodies being dragged there. Till they that something squats in the center of the pile of bodies. Till they see the demon. There is an open space around, what could once have been called a park. Now it is occupied by hundreds of wretched, poison-maddened souls, capering with milky eyes and flailing arms around a mound of their own dead. Some are like people in the throes of a nervous breakdown, walking around wailing, pounding their heads. Others are like people who'd flipped into a killing rage, stalking through a house of business, shooting anyone in sight. Still others are dull, robotic, as they drag their dead to the heap in the center of the carved-up park. And squatting within it is... The demon is nearly three times as tall as a man and powerfully muscled. Its skin is so utterly black it is difficult to see its features clearly, save for a bovine snout and eyes that glow with

penetrating intensity, as if all the fury of the Abyss swirls within its form. The creature sits in the midst of the insanity like the source of madness itself. It writhes, contorts and vibrates with unstoppable fury. There is something else. Something almost astronomically repulsive about it. It is pregnant. Male or female or both, it doesnt matter: this frightful, gruesome, abominable monstrosity is obviously, gruesomely pregnant. Its glowing middle is swollen, and skin stretched to transparency. The voice is by turns fruity and reptilian, mocking a human ethnicity. It laughsor makes a sound like a musical saw in the hands of a lunatic, a sound that could be taken for laughter. It is a male voice, more or less, but there seems to be more than one voice, and certainly more than one timbre The people are dancing around it as it sits on a throne contrived of a shattered, burnt-out car among the heaps of tangled, torn corpses, like a guru sitting among offerings of flowers. The bodies have gone all purplish and green and red like flowers; little fires burn here and there among them. The Incubus sits up on his wrecked car throne and raises its fists into the downpour, calling forth lightning and dancing with it as it strikes to ignite fires in the methane of the rotting corpses piled around them. Maximum firepower is exactly the kind of thing one will want against the physical manifestation of an ultimate evil. Most physical creatures can be killed by typical and conventional means if one puts enough effort into doing so. If a creature is solid enough to touch, it is solid enough to kill. Anything from a trusty bludgeon to one's preferred selection of firearms can put it down. Will gunfire alone kill the cloven-hoofed demon over there? If only it were so easy... The demon now has a few holes in its chest, nine holes where a heart is supposed to be if its torso were as human as it looks. The demon is still standing too. And the demon does not take too kindly to being shot up. To that, the demon roars and glares at the PCs. The PCs has had their change. Now it is the turn of the Incubus to bring to bring pain. A bolt of blood-red energy leaps from the demon's fingers, leaping like a wavering thread of lightning from the tip of the fingeran outburst of light and heat. A PC is lanced from head to toe with the intense electrical attack, which blasts him/her off of his/his feet. Up and turning in mid-air, the PC comes back down to hit the ground chest-first. A silhouette, a shape whose arms were outstretched as if crucified, whose flimsy robe billows and sways with unseen currents, whose black hair spreads outward in Gorgonian tresses.

Exit: A tunnel swims into existence, building itself out of ash and rust.
The walls of the tunnel are rough, like concrete. Though the tunnel curves slightly as it digs its way through the underground, light filters in from the far side, reflecting off walls now slick with moisture and moss, and shimmering off puddles collected along the tunnel floor. The entire tunnel is covered by more thick, dense fog, making the exit portal invisible. Worse, there's something evil lurking in the mist and blackness. And there comes a sudden keening sound, tremulous, high-pitched echoing up and down the chamber, suddenly dropping into the range of a human voice, in imitation of in parody of a familiar melody.

The group walks slowly as a dream, halting every few feet to wait for the light to catch up, being drawn by a keening sound that might have been an incantation not unlike music. The first stretch of the tunnel is cluttered with missiles: broken bottles crunch underfoot, tin cans topple loudly. After that the way is clear, except for odd lurking bricks. Halfway through, after hearing some strange noises and bumping into some shadowy figures, their light source goes out. Your flashlight is flickering, dying. Shaking the flashlight. Opening it with trembling fingers, removing the batteries, reinserting them. A faint glow kindling when you turn it on, but quickly fading. They shuffle onward. Cold encircles them, dripping. Their breath fogs in air gone as frigid as the dead of winter, or the bottom of the sea. The tunnel smells dank and dusty; it seems to insinuate a bitter taste in their mouths. The dimness at the end flickers, beckoning them on. It is almost as though someone is coaxing them into the tunnel with a spotlight. Beneath their feet bricks scrap and clatter. The taste fills their mouths, like suffocational dark dripping all around them; the distant exit flickers, dancing. The light flickers. The roundness of the tunnel glistens faintly; they can make out random edges of brick, a dull hint of rails. As the group makes their way through the darkness, they will become short of breath for a few moments. Your entire body trembles but you remain focused on the light ahead, blocking out the noises you hear around you, the shuffle of a phantom footstep, the wet tearing of flesh being rent in secret and the unintelligible growls that stalks your footfalls. All that matters now is the light, the light means safety, nothing exists but the light. Something brushes past your leg, the feel of rotting flesh on your bare legs making you want to scream but you don't, you remain focused. Will they reach the other side alive? Suddenly the tunnel rushes forward, engulfing them like the maw of some terrible beast. They would scream if they had mouths, but they are just presences, trapped in the cold, damp mist of unreality. As each sound disappears they sink a little deeper into the silence, where everything falls into place. They now understand why silence should be kept at bay, why one needs to make sense of everything that registers on the aural plane. One should fear silence, because silence is a related to darkness or darkness itself. Each moment elongates, blurring into the next in a dizzying kaleidoscope of pain and confusion until... it is gone. The mist, the tunnel everything gone and they are left, trapped in the obliterating white of nonexistence, sustained and defined solely by their suffering, and then, what might have been a second or an eternity later, the world rushes back in, shattering the fog before it could embrace them. Air, cool and crisp, rushes into their lungs. Lungs?, yes that is right, people need air to live, and lungs to take in the life giving gases. Their arms and legs tingle and pimple under the cold air's harsh treatment, reminding them that they need to be moved to stay warm. A hint of movement in the cloudy grey. A swirling, as of parted mists. A dancing light. The fog is dispersing, and it seems to be opening upopening to a view that recedes far into the distance. To peer back to see the way where they had come, to search for a sign of the passage through which they traveled is to see no such sign. For all that they can determine, there is no passageway. It is gone. If it exists at all, it is beyond their senses, beyond their reach. Whatever place they are now in, they will have to deal with it.

Monsters: As characters progress through many fantasy games, they accumulate a steadily
longer list of creatures they can slaughter without breaking a sweat. In Silent Hill, things are different. Although some creatures are scarier than others, there should be no pushover opponents PCs can enjoy easy victory against. There should be no Silent Hill monsters that don't pose a real threat to any human, no matter how experienced. Monsters here should be treated as they are in horror games. When encountered, they should remain enigmatic, a mystery, an enigma to keep the visitors to Silent Hill guessing at the possible nature of so strange a being. Every tangle with them is a brush with insanity as well as death, and never regard casually. They are bizarre and deeply disturbing, alien in construction, not frightening because they appear dangerous so much as that they are so unnatural. These creatures are living nightmares that have stepped out of the deepest corner of the human psyche in order to torment humankind. Some are horrors that remind one of every wound they have ever suffered, of every sickness, of every weakness. They are openly hostile to any creature they see/sense and will attempt to kill anyone in town, except (in most cases) each other. Exactly how many of these creatures and other monsters exist in Silent Hill is left entirely up to the G.M. In all cases, their numbers should be relatively low. An army of monsters is difficult to manage and would not suit the subtlety that this kind of setting exudes. BEAR-CLAW: A huge bear, twice the size of a man with metal over plates of skin, red coals for eyes. It will attempt to stab its victims on their hands or foreheads. They can sometimes be found propped up on their arms, as if in religious worship, and also tend to have arched backs as if they are bowing. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 4, M.E: 4, M.A: 6, P.S: 29, P.P: 9, P.E: 16, P.B: 6, Spd: 8 S.D.C: 50 Hit Points: 80 Horror Factor: 14 Size: Ten feet (3 m) long (or tall when standing on legs). Weight: 2,000 lbs to 3,000 lbs (900 kg to 1,350 kg). Average Life Span: Immortal until slain. Natural Abilities: Keen normal vision, resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Bear Claw will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: +4 to strike and parry. Bear-Claws never dodge! They just stand there and duke it out with their opponents until one of them drops. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat:

Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. CAGED GRILLE PRISONER: They are seen as bloated, amorphous corpses suspended within a metal frame, like a cage. The cage is a symbol for pain, torture and suffering which the occupant bound in it cannot escape from the harsh cold metal prison. The frame also looks like a twisted and sadistic interpretation for a death bed, an inescapable prison; but acts as a sophisticated wheel-and-track system that allows them to use this contraption to move around the ceiling of their lair with relative ease. Like the Patient and Lackey these are creatures with a strong association to mental patients, and as such it is fitting that these more powerful forms are dwell within the oppressive atmosphere of Brookhaven. While they wait for 'visitors', these aberrations conceal themselves inside the ceiling of the room in which they reside; when prey stumbles in, they drop into a hanging position and attack. These deformed creatures slowly slither and crawl along the ceiling. It attacks potential prey by positioning itself above the head and grasp their victim's neck with their extremely strong and dexterous feet. It then envelops the head and neck, muscle constriction slowly crushing the cranium into gory paste, which it then digests as nutrients. Two of these fiends will often work together to outmaneuver a target. Alignment: Always Diabolic evil. I.Q: 1D4+2, M.E: 1D4+4, M.A: 1D4+2, P.S: 2D6+6, P.P: 1D6+8, P.E: 1D6+8, P.B: 1D4, Spd: 1D6+6. S.D.C: 1D6x10. Hit Points: 8D6+21 Horror Factor: 14. Natural Abilities: Climbs at 98%.Prowl 65%. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Prisoner will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: Two, but typically uses a double-footed clutch/throttle strangle hold that inflicts 3D6+6 damage for each melee round the opponent remains in its grasps. Bite inflicts 3D6 damage. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Brookhaven Hospital. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. While their unique mode of transportation has its advantages, it is also very limiting. These monsters are essentially imprisoned in the examining room and must wait for prey to come to them. Prisoners can only attack in close quarters and they cannot reach objects close to the ground--these two shortcomings often hamper their effectiveness. Description: They are rectangular and first seem to hover near the ceiling, encased in what appears to be the black metal frame of a hospital bed, though it does not reflect light, casting shadows over the creatures themselves, making it difficult to see for certain. Their hands grasp parts of the ceiling. Their legs, some color of dark yellow with veins sticking out all over them, hang out below the frame and dangle slightly as the creatures move. The stance of their feet is strongly reminiscent of those of a body laid out on an autopsy table, the only part of the body

which is usually visible. Between the two legs are an enormous pair of plump, beefy lips, with which it bites with. CLOSER: The path will not open for the blasphemer. The closers of doors will stand before them, and their great arms bat away all who would defile our sanctity. Few creatures in Silent Hill are as blatantly twisted as the Closer. While most of them resemble something in the living sane world, the Closer looks very much unlike anything like that. It only bears a very passing resemblance to the human form and nothing more. The Closer is quite strong, and its size makes it a very good obstacle in hallways. Because of its large and unwieldy form, however, it is clumsy. If travelers are careful, then they duck around the creature before it has a chance to follow them. If they are not careful, then they will be smashed or impaled. Standing at well over 10 feet, Closers are lumbering, giant-armed monster with great strength and reach. They are the first encountered whilst passing through an underpass, and then later a clothes shop in the shopping center. They hang from mesh walkways seemingly hanging over the dark pitiless void, swinging like apes going from branch to branch. They gibber and shake what might be their heads as they reach for their victims with clumsy, alien limbs that gape like separate mouths. They are particularly slow but effective in tight corridors. In close combat, it attacks by swinging its arms slowly, knocking its opponent back. The large, bony spikes are hidden in their arms and cause a large amount of damage when used. The Closer are the embodiments of perseverance to reach for a certain (wrong) goal. That goal being to kill. The only unique thing about them is that they are trapped in a level that they can't go through (the ground). They will always be on the under level and won't ever achieve their objectives, their feet will never be allowed to touch a flat surface. The fact that these creatures are found hanging above seemingly bottomless expanses may also reflect the visitor's growing realization that they hang on the edge of an abyss, both mentally and physically. Though the lower portion of the body looks more like a female with a miniskirt or apron, with high heels for feet, while the ends of their 'arms' sport orifices that look similar to both lips and labia. Given that blades of bone shoot forth from these it might perhaps be another manifestation of sexual desire, i.e the labia, usually promising pleasure, in fact causes literal pain through physical injury. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 1D4+2, M.E: 1D4+4, M.A: 1D4+2, P.S: 2D6+6, P.P: 2D6+1, P.E: 1D6+4, P.B: 1D4, Spd: 1D6+6. S.D.C: 46 Hit Points: 6D6+24. Natural Abilities: Prowl 55%, climb 94%/80%. The orifices at the end of the limbs enable the creature to climbs walls, ceilings and any type of surface, porous and smooth, like an insect. Climbing speed is half the running speed. Height: 8 feet tall. Damage: +2D6 from bone-spike arm. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Underneath the grating. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light.

Description: The exact dimensions of its body 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, with very long and thick arms to propel themselves forward, at the ends of which are fleshy clubs, about the same width as a human waist. Examining the creature even closer, its common characteristic might be that of a horrifying faceless creature. No humanlooking head tops the creature's frame, as it more resembles a snout mounted on a human skull, only the snout dominates the whole of the head. At its tip is a vertical slit, from which the creature screams and devours. Its torso is more or less humanoid, but it tapers down into two legs that seem to have lost feet, replaced with rounded stilts, which the Closer can somehow use to walk. All over its body, it is covered with the trademark burned looking brown and sickly-white skin that adorns most monsters in Silent Hill. Wrapped around their waists is a skirt, or perhaps it is an apron. The faces of these giant hulking beasts almost look seem delicate, almost feminine and when the mouth opens it even seems like the creature is wearing some dark lipstick beneath the veil. It hangs below the grating with a pair of oversized webbed, almost mitten-like hands. From the ends of these stumps, a blade will jut out, stabbing the Closer's victims. CRUCIFIX DEMON: Half-again as high as a man, with something spiderish about its grotesque anatomy. Its almost emaciated limbs are so long, that one readily imagine it walking up a wall. On its back is a cruciform arrangement of rods which have been fused to its bony body. It is naked but for a loincloth and it walks with a pronounced limp. The thing bears evidence of horrific torture, deep scars on its forehead and scabs on its hands, every ribs stands out clearly as it seems to labor in agony for each breath. But there is nothing frail about it. Despite the lack of muscle, and the limp, it looks like a creature born to harm. Its expression is joyless, filled with hatred toward the world. I.Q: Unknown, M.E: Unknown, M.A: 20, P.S: 25, P.P: 20, P.E: 16, P.B: , Spd: 10 DOORMEN: A bulky and strong fusion of man and wood, quite literally a creature with a body resembling a wooden frame with flesh arms, legs, and a head that is all mouth protruding outward, all underneath an enormous fleshy mass that writhes and pulsates on the creatures back, covered by a thick membrane. They mainly resemble a wooden frame with the image of an assault played out on top of it for Doormen are embodiments of the desire to forcefully sate sexual desires, as well the simultaneous revulsion with and fear of those feelings. Its very appearance suggests rape. It looks like a walking bed, with a large humanoid figure and a smaller figure struggling under the covers. This horrid entity appears to be two reclining figures on a table-like object, stitched together and to the table. The creature uses the table legs to walk, and two humanoid hands dangle below the front. The creature lifts its body and reveals a "mouth" that is used to attack. The edges of the mouth are actually a wet pucker of flesh resembling lips. The doormans mouth is large enough to swallow a human head or clamp onto a mans shoulder and chest. Taking one look at this thing and it becomes clear that it is meant to face its enemies head-on or not at all. Ones only hope to survive is to kill the monster quickly or get to its side or on top of it where the beast cannot bite with its mouth or kick with its feet. The Doorman can only move its head in a 45 degree angle total, giving it a very limited biting range and great head on fighting capabilities. These creatures are rather slow but make up in strength. When engaged in combat, a doorman goes to the weakest-looking creature and attempts to grapple the victim. To address

enemies on its flank, the creature will make a quick hop or rear up on its hind legs and spin in which it can turn to 180 degrees. Either move counts as two of its attacks for the melee round, so the monster tries to keep its adversary(s) in front of it. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. These nasty brutes like to gore, kill and frighten others for pleasure as well as killing for food. I.Q: 3 M.E: 1D6+3 M.A: 1D6 P.S: 4D6+10 P.P: 10+1D6 P.E: 4D6+6 P.B: 3, Spd: 8. S.D.C: 6D6+30. Hit Points: 2D4x10. Armor Rating 12. Horror Factor: 15. Natural Abilities: Can leap 6 feet (1,8 m) high and 12 feet (3.6 m) lengthwise with a slow trot, increase by 50% if running at full tilt. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Doorman will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Damage: Bite inflicts 3D6 damage. A ram attack does 4D6 damage and has a 01-80% likelihood of knocking the victim off their feet, causing the victim to lose two melee attacks and initiative. Bonuses: +1 on initiative, +3 to parry and dodge, +2 to strike with ram. Dont forget, a Doorman must spend one attack repositioning itself to face opponents who have gone to its side. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Appearance: The shape of its base is almost a perfect rectangle, like a legless table or a fallen door. An oily membrane of flesh stretches over the top of all of it, giving the pulsating mass a strange, amorphous appearance, and, not unlike the Patients, there are things bulging and writhing inside of it. At times, the shapes inside appear vaguely manlike, but the shifting never maintains the same form for long. At one end is a large oval protrusion in its skin that resembles an eyeless head. Its enormous, circular mouth is a large dark hole with fleshy lips that opens and closes. Stranger still is that it looks to have an odd bone structure, one that is large and rectangular, growing out of its hips and serving as the basis for its massive torso. The things skin is covered in a layer of sticky blood and there are a series of black spots around it that resemble burns, some even still have tiny wisps of smoke rising off of them. The creature makes a noise that sounds like a growl made underwater. And, it walks at a pretty brisk, even clip pace; it sounds large and heavy, for each thump is fairly percussive. Yet, it is also soft, as if all that weight is being cushioned by something.

EMPEROR LIZARD: A lizard of gigantic proportions that lurks in the bowels of Silent Hill's Midwich Elementary School. Slow but relentless, the Emperor Lizard paces its circular lair in search of prey. The creature possesses the ability, when wounded, to split its head and neck in two, creating two gaping jaws capable of swallowing a human adult in one bite - an intimidating display, but one that also leaves its delicate innards momentarily exposed to attack. Muscular and built low to the ground. About 2-4 times the size of a human, the Lizard seems as if it were made from spare parts belonging to several different reptile species. Its body is long, thick and sinuous, like that of a monitor or Komodo Dragon, the body is long and serpentine, with tough, mottled skin; a gray or grayish brown with splashes of black and bits of course black hair. Its legs are thick and powerful but pitifully small and spaced too far apart to keep the creatures underbelly from dragging on the ground when it moves, making its locomotion something between a crawl and slither. The head seems to merge indistinguishably from the long, thick neck. Four eyes, each white orbs, line each side of the head, set under think, bony eyebrow ridges. The ears are a pair of reptilian openings on the sides of the head. Its mouth opens like the petals of a fleshy flower, petals lined with jagged teeth, strong enough to crush a mans head. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 6, M.E: 12, M.A:6, P.S: 33, P.P: 16, P.E: 32, P.B: 6, Spd: 21 S.D.C: 400. Hit Points: 80. Armor Rating: 12. Horror Factor: 12, 15 when head splits open. P.P.E: 36 Size: 20 feet long. 8 feet high from snout to hunches. Weight: 1.5 tons. Natural Abilities: Resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Bio-regenerates 1D4x10 per minute. Completely regenerates in 24 hours. Climb 74%, Prowl 80%. Keen sense of Smell 54%, 79% to follow blood scent. Gaping Jaws: normally inflicts 4D6+18 damage, 6D6+18 when head splits open. Emperor Lizard also has strong jaw muscles, enabling them to hold on and continue biting (no attack roll is necessary, inflicts normal bite damage once at the beginning and once at the end of the end of the round until dislodged or he lets go; no other combat actions are possible except for dragging. Victims are partially pinned and in pain, causing them to lose one melee attack and combat bonuses are reduced by -2). Anyone locked in the jaws is trapped unless a combined P.S. of 40 is used to pry the jaws open or the beast is slain. Fiery Claws: Adds 2D6 damage to claw attacks. Attacks Per Melee: Four Damage: Kick does 3D6 damage, tail slash inflicts 4D6 damage, head butt inflicts 2D6 damage or body ram/trample inflicts 5D6 damage. The Emperor Lizard can also slap enemies with its

broad tail inflicting 2D6 damage+P.S. attribute damage bonus, and there is a 01-60% chance of knocking down opponents who are smaller than 10 feet (3 m) tall, whereupon the victim is knocked off his/her feet, and loses initiative and two melee attacks/actions to get back on their feet (one from the fall, one to get back on their feet). Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +6 to strike, +7 to dodge, and +5 to parry, +3 to save vs psychic attack, +13 to save vs magic, +10 to save vs horror factor, +3 to roll with impact. Habitat: The Dark School basement. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, the Emperor Lizard cannot see in the dark, and is only alerted by light. Description: The entire thing fumes gargantuan strength and the complete chaotic mindlessness of a legion of beasts compressed, congealed into a tumorous, monstrous sickness that knows of nothing but devouring. GRAY GUARD: The creature is the size and roughly the shape of a large human being. Its bald, slate-colored head is disproportionately small, neckless and perfectly round, with rudimentary features that look as if they were scraped and pinched out of modeling clay, completely without emotion. A billy club upraised, the Gray Guard lumbers after visitors. The monster is always mute in a humans presence. Indeed, it looks as if it may not be able to open its mouth. They teach what is expected of others with gestures, and corporal punishment. Despite its mismatched legs, once it builds up speed the creature can lurch along faster than any human being. One arm, the one armed with the billy club, is apishly long, and its right knee is situated six inches higher than its left. It wears a poorly made rent-a-cop uniform, and up-close the grey guard has a rotting meat smell. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 6, M.E: 6, M.A: 1, P.S: , P.P: 16, P.E: 25, P.B: 1, Spd: 2D6+18 S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: Weight: Natural Abilities: Habitat: Shopping Center, Office Buildings. HANGED SCRATCHER: The Hanged Scratcher is a small, bipedal, underground creature that looks like a cross between a vulture and an insect with hooks instead of hands. These monsters can be encountered alone, in small groups, or in the company of Grey Children and Cockroaches. They often hide in dark crevices and climb along smaller pipes and conduits that hang from the ceiling or run along the sides of sewers, storm drains and access tunnels. Foul scavengers of the deep realms, Hanged Scratchers feed on decayed corpses, piles of garbage, and other refuse that builds up in underground tunnels and complexes. While it is not

uncommon to encounter Hanged Scratchers hunting on the ground, they are at their most dangerous when the unseen stalkers are planning an ambush. They are natural climbers and swimmers, and their hooks give them excellent purchase on rock surfaces. They can move at normal speed up vertical surfaces, and can hang from the ceiling like insects. They like to stuff themselves in dark corners and lay on top of hanging pipes and wait until human prey walks under them. The dexterous reptiles frequently climb about, almost soundlessly, in the overhead pipework, concealed in shadows. When a potential meal draws near, the Hanged Scratcher suddenly lashes downwards with its long arms to snatch at the victim (which, as you may well guess, is how they gained their namesake). They always know their territory, and they try to ambush unsuspecting travelers or denizens, using important items such as keys as bait, and then attack without warning. Hanged Scratchers can both climb and swim. Contaminants, chemical pollution, disease, toxic gases and raw sewage have no effect on them, other than making them carriers of disease and infection from slopping through stagnant water and sewage. Mimicking a favorite hunting practice of alligators and crocodiles, Hanged Scratchers have also been known to suddenly burst forth from pools of water, where they have been lying concealed, totally submerged except for the very top of their heads, to strike at unsuspecting prey. Although Hanged Scratchers have learned to swim to some degree, they can only swim in shallow water and only on the waters surface. Though they can swim twice as fast as they can crawl and climb, they are, at best, fair to poor swimmers. They function best in shallow water 16 feet (0.3 to 1.8 m) deep and flounder in deep water, which for them is 20 feet (6.1 m) or deeper (-20% to Swimming penalty). They also struggle against a strong current and large waves (same -20% penalty). Strangely enough, Hanged Scratchers cannot swim underwater, and if pulled or pushed under the surface, especially in water deeper than 20 feet (6.1 m), the creature is likely to sink like a stone. (Note: roll under the creatures Swimming skill with -15% penalty every melee round underwater. If the creature fails its Swimming roll before reaching the surface it sinks.) Once the scratcher reaches bottom, it crawls across the floor until it can find a way up and out, or finds its way into shallow waters where it can again Once a hanged scratcher initializes combat, it rarely leaves as its hunger and primal instincts drive it to fight to the death for its food and territory. Hanged Scratchers do not trigger the radio, nor do they have a smell to humans, but those with enhanced senses will detect a dry musty odor. When crawling on top or along the pipes and conduits, the creatures make a sound akin to a series of clicks and clacks made by the exoskeleton at their throats. In the sewers, this eerie sound can echo a long way and should alert humans of its/their approach. However, the sound of the Hanged Scratchers approach is quiet enough that if there is conversation, battle, work or ambient background noise going on, it is probably enough to mask the monsters approach. They can use this to estimate cavern sizes and distances, much like the sonic radar of a bat. The obvious penalty for having hooks instead of hands is that Hanged Scratchers cannot use weapons or tools. They can only pick up items in their beaks. Natural Abilities: The strange radio that the players find at the beginning of their stay won't pick up any static when Hanged Scratchers are nearby, but their claws make a distinctive clicking noise, when they walk on hard surfaces, that are easily recognized. Habitat: Sewers, waterworks.

Description: The hanged scratcher stands about three feet tall, and weighs almost 100 pounds. It has a tough, mottled green exoskeleton, like that of an insect. Its front limbs end in 12-inch-long hooks. Its legs end in feet that have three small hooks, like long, sharp toes. Its head is shaped like that of a turtle or perhaps a bird, as it possesses a hooked beak. Its small eyes are multifaceted. HAUNTING CHILD: Perhaps these are effectually ghosts of children killed when Silent Hill was brought into darkness, the essences of those youngsters somehow trapped in places where they had strong emotional ties, and after years have become twisted into the horrific spirits they are now. Or perhaps these are malevolent, demonic spirits who assume the form of deceased children as a mockery of human life. Alignment: By nature this entity is the closest thing to a true neutral as possible. It simply wanders without a care, desire, hope, dream aspiration or involvement in anything. Considered passive Anarchist. Attributes: Not applicable. Low intelligence and little personal identity, equal to an I.Q. of 5-7 and an M.E. of 1D6. Natural Abilities: They can pass through solid objects. Horror Factor: 13. Habitat: They are found in or around the dark side playgrounds, carnivals, parks, and the school. Appearance: The Haunting Childs natural form is the manifested form of a human child, usually between the ages of three and ten, dressed in the clothes of a style before the Transcension. They fade in and out of color with the amount of light; appearing in full color sometimes and others as a ghostly, semi-opaque, version of a child a creature of mist and color. Their voices have an eerie hollowness and echo-like quality to it. HELL HOUND:

The Hell Hounds move about the streets of Silent Hill, savagely tearing apart the damned, whenever and wherever they are found. Hell Hounds are foul creatures of the fog, preying on visitors, occasionally cooperating to bring down the more powerful specimens. They are mostly solitary creatures and attack any interlopers in their territory. They are narrowly focused on their purpose (to kill), aggressive (be alert and kill). Hell Hounds are foul creatures of the fog, preying on visitors, occasionally cooperating to bring down the more powerful specimens. They are mostly solitary creatures and attack any interlopers in their territory. They are narrowly focused on their purpose (to kill), aggressive (be alert and kill). They do not even have eyes, relying on its keen senses of smell and hearing to direct prey. Hell Hounds travel in packs sometimes, often up to six can be seen at a time, and can make life difficult for travelers if encountered during a hunger frenzy. When the Hell Hounds appear, they fall upon their victims, tearing at them with sharp claws and powerful teeth. Hell Hounds attempt to keep the victim alive as long as possible as they devour him or her, for they relish the flow of the living blood as well as the flavor of the struggling flesh and muscle. They attempt to overbear their victims, overwhelming them with sheer numbers, at which point they take turns eating. There are four varieties of Hell Hound, each acting more or less the same. Split-Head: Appearance-wise, they appear to be lean dogs, several weeks dead, wrapped in torn, bloody bandages. Most horrifically, though, this pitiful canine appears to have been neatly cleft in half lengthwise, and yap, snarl, and bite from both sides. The bark that emanates from its gaping face-maw does not in the least bit sound like that of a normal dogs. They feed on flesh, living or dead, whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself. Split-Heads let loose a bloodcurdling howl upon sighting prey and quickly give chase. Worm Head: At first glance they look as if they could have once been a large dog, before it had been skinned alive. That fact isn't the most disturbing feature of the dog, neither is that it seems to glisten with blood, nor that it smells faintly of rotting flesh. The most disturbing thing is its head, looking as if tendrils of flesh were pulled from its body and wrapped completely around what would have been a normal dog's head, leaving a large writhing misshapen mass. At the front of what is supposedly the head is a giant gaping hole. As the tendrils of flesh move on their own about the head, the hole becomes wider and smaller at random. Foaming blood leaks from the mouth, giving the illusion of the monster being like a mad dog infected with rabies. When the creature growls, the hole grows impossibly wide, seemingly threatening to split the pseudo head completely in half, and revealing row after row of irregularly sized razor-sharp teeth, along with a black tongue. Groaner: The least of the Hounds, these appear to be nothing more than medium-sized dogs which have been flayed of their skin, leaving nothing but an animate creature of muscle and bone. The teeth are made of metal, like razor blades. The eyes are stitched closed with silvery blood running from them. Sniffer: The creature is a canine with mold-infested flesh. The ribs beneath the rotting skin expand and contract with each breath, emphasizing how emaciated it is. Only a few patches of matted fur remain, but not an amount to be considered fur at all as it is worn through in places, showing raw, maggot-infested flesh beneath. Its face has been tightened enough to force its snout to distort into a gaping maw bearing only a pair of fangs and a long, red tongue-like organ hanging out. The hardened flesh about its eyelids has grown hard and heavy that the creature's eyelids are forced shut.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 5, M.E: 9, M.A: 5, P.S: 14, P.P: 14, P.E: 14, P.B: 4, Spd: 56. S.D.C: 3D6. Hit Points: 6D6. Horror Factor: 11. Size: About the size of a large dog, like a German Shepherd, coyote or wolf.. Weight: about 50 lbs. Natural Abilities: Tireless running 45 mph, leap lengthwise 20 feet (6 m; can only leap 6 feet/1.8 feet high), track by smell 70% (85 when following blood), see the invisible, immune to horror factor. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Hell Hound will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. . Attacks Per Melee: 5 attacks. Damage: 2D6+4 damage from a bite, a paw strike does 2D6, as does a leaping pounce and has a 75% likelihood of knocking a human down (victim loses initiative and one melee action). A tripping attack by striking at a characters feet with its paws, or a blocking movement with its body, doe 1D4 damage and has a 60% chance of knocking the character over (the victim loses initiative and one melee action). Bonuses: +7 to damage, +6 to parry, strike, and dodge, +7 to initiative, +1 to disarm. Immune to horror factor. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. GHOUL IN SCARLET: Real Name: Joshua Blackwell Alignment: Diabolic. I.Q: 13 (but wild, insane, focused on murder), M.E: 16, M.A: 4, P.S: 20, P.P: 16, P.E: 25, P.B: 1, Spd: 8 S.D.C: 40. Hit Points: 40. Horror Factor: 16. Size: Weight: 200 lbs. Natural Abilities: Even if blown to bits, the Ghoul will reform from the scattered pieces in 3D4 melee rounds and be unable to attack. If the head is separated from the main mass, the creature will fall to pieces with bloody pieces squirming blindly. The only way to effectively kill it is to

find the head, separate it from the rest of the body, and destroy the head completely, otherwise the pieces will find their way back to each other, and the Ghoul will be reborn.. Bonuses: +10 to save vs horror factor, +2 to initiative, and +3 to strike. Vulnerabilities/Penalties: Cutting/slicing weapons inflict triple damage. Digging/shoveling weapons inflict quadruple damage. Weapons: Possesses the blade of a fire axe, inflicts 2D6 (+5 damage bonus). If embedded in an object or surface, it takes the fiend a melee round to retrieve it. Habitat: The Little Baroness. Description: A five-sided shape, roughly humanoid, covered in reddish slime that constantly emits a hazy red glow, which further obscures its shape. Upon closer examination, there are various body parts and organs visibly floating in the muck of its body, along with mundane items such as bits of clothing, things that are reabsorbed almost as soon as they become visible. The head moves its eyes, gnashes its teeth and howls, growls and grunts as a living extension of the creature. GIANT COCKROACHES: Decay and rot take on a greater symbolic meaning. These grotesque, soft-shelled beetle-like insects accentuate the decay that fills the Dark Silent Hill, a place where goodness has all but been drained away. Very fast, remarkably agile in flight, and armed with sharp-edged anterior legs, not unlike the pincers of a mantis, still the term giant is misleading, because while some can get as large as 2-5 feet (0.3 to 0.9 m) long and weigh 3-10 pounds, others are normal-sized. These creatures feed on human and animal corpses and tack living creatures that are incapacitated, injured or ill, as well small, helpless creatures like infants. The roaches are in abundance in the dank and desolate surroundings of Blue Creek Apartment and the two Hospitals, scurrying in swarms along the flooring, leaving bloody tracks on walkways and ceilingssometimes a hundred or so drop unsuspectingly on those within the city. They are symbolic of the evil that has infested the very core of the town, and will not leave.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 1D4 (low insect intelligence), M.E: 6, M.A: 1, P.S: 5 per foot in length, P.P: 12, P.E: 12, P.B: 1, Spd: 2D6+4 (can crawl, fly and run.) S.D.C: 1D6+2 per foot in length. Hit Points: 3D4 Armor Rating: 12; against any kind of blunt trauma or crushing attack, but only 8 against stabbing attacks with a blade. Horror Factor: 9. This is more a revulsion than a fear, as these creatures are pretty gross, but, as a rule, not very threatening. Size: 6 inches to 1D4 feet long. Weight: 1-2 lbs.

Natural Abilities: Nightvision 60 ft, keen normal vision, resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Can climb walls and most other porous materials with ease (98%/95%), locate and track food by smell 75%, prowl 65%, as well as breathe underwater as well as the ability to regenerate all lost Hit Points within 2D10 minutes of being reduced to zero or less. Also, lost S.D.C. is recovered at the rate of 2D6 per minute. Remember that the creature is not dead until it falls to 20 Hit Points. So you better make sure the roach is dead before dumping it in the trash. Vulnerabilities: Light: when in darkness and exposed to bright light, the Giant Roach is penalized by -6 to the Spd and -2 to dodge. Bright lights include the flashlight, flares, naked sunlight and spotlights. Attacks Per Melee: Three. Damage: Bite 2D4 damage, Body Tackle does 5D6 damage, Bonuses: +1 to initiative, +1 to strike, +2 to dodge, no parry, +10 to save vs poisons and disease, +4 to save vs magics. Enemies: Visitors and the other monsters. Habitat: Schools and hospitals.. GRAY CHILD: Gray Children resemble small, gray, hairless child-like monsters, no bigger than human toddlers, and some are even smaller. They look frail, their bodies the size of a human child of six or so, is surmounted by a hairless, overlarge head, their exposed skin thin and inflamed. Their eyes are sewn shut with multiple strings. They first seem to have no mouth, because they rarely open them, but when they do, then just in the place where the center of its mouth should be, a small puncture appears, and it starts spreading to the sides, forming a growing slit, which then opens into a wide, black-toothed grin filled with rows of shark-like teeth is revealed, from which a mischievous childish giggle comes. The sound is amused and playful; it looks hideous and evil. The silver blades they carry glitter in the pungent air. 2D4 in an attacking group. For the most part they hide in the shadows and under objects. Some are able to reshape themselves to look like a skinless child, a cloaked figure, a doll or stuffed animal (albeit one from someone's nightmarish delusions); so that while transformed, they can torment their victims or use their shape to lure careless humans into a trap or ambush. Grey Children seem to derive extreme pleasure from the rage and frustration of larger beings, expressing it by giving a sound like a childs laughter slowed down. They will always attempt to gouge out eyes, genitals or tongues during a battle. A natural twenty indicates that it has hit such a target, inflicting double damage. They shudder with faux orgasmic pleasure in combat and they give a last, watery sigh when they are killed.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. Attributes (all have identical attributes) I.Q: 5, M.E: 9, M.A: 9, P.S: 12, P.P: 14, P.E: 22, P.B: 2, Spd: 24. S.D.C: 30 Horror Factor: 11 when their true form is seen, 15 in a group.

Size: 2-4 feet tall. Weight: 25 pounds. Average Life Span: Exist until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per minute and will regrow a lost limb within 48 minutes. In fact, a seemingly dead Gnome will regenerate and return to life within 48 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: 2. Skill: Prowl 89%, climb 76%, swim 86%, palming 80%, W.P Knife, W.P blunt. Damage: A knife inflicts 2D4 damage, a bite with their sharp teeth inflicts 2D6 damage, a grasp inflicts 1D6. Bonuses: +3 to perception rolls, +1 to initiative, +4 to strike, parry, and dodge, +3 to roll with impact, +2 to pull punch, +3 to save vs magic, immune to horror factor. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Alleyways, Amusement Parks and schools. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. HUMMERS: This nasty-looking creatures seems to be a cross between a bat and a giant mosquito. It has membranous bat wings, a short furry body, four jointed legs, and a needle-like stinger. It flies around in the air and makes a buzzing sound. It attacks by hovering over a victims head and then jabbing them with a sharp, needle-like stinger. Hummers form nest-like colonies in storehouses, copses of trees and dank places. Although they resemble birds, they attach themselves to walls like insects. Attributes: I.Q.: 1, M.E.: 6, P.S.: 3, P.P.: 9, P.E.: 5. Spd: 28 flying. Hit Points: 5. Damage: Their sting is painful and causes one (1) point of damage each time stung, but while attached, the Hummer can continue to stuck blood, inflicting an additional one (1) of damage per melee round. Victims of six or more bites must roll to save vs poison/disease. A failed roll means the individual gets sick 1D6 minutes later with a terrible fever and nausea. Reduce all bonuses, number of attacks, skill proficiencies and speed by half.. The disease can be treated with antibiotics and if left untreated, they can eventually lead to death. Also victims of six or more blood draining attacks will feel a bit weak from blood loss; -2 on initiative and -1 to strike, parry and dodge. The effects are cumulative for every six blood draining attacks. Habitat: The Radio Antennae, the Wish House.

INCUBUS: On an iron throne made from a ruined automobile broods a giant Minotaur that evokes every bad image of infernal creatures that one might imagine, with goat limbs for legs, and curling savage horns on the top of its flat broad head. The chests and arms are carved from pure muscle with vicious claws and ribs almost torn out of their flesh.

12Alignment: Diabolic. Height: Twelve feet tall. Weight: 800 lbs. I.Q: Unknown. M.E: 14. M.A: 17. P.S: 33. P.P: 14. Spd: 17 flying. P.P.E: 270 S.D.C: 360. Armor Rating: 12. Horror Factor: 15 Natural Abilities: Nightvision 1000 ft, keen normal vision. Imperious to cold, poison, gases, disease and heat. Lightning Throw: The Incubus can project a bolt of lightning from his mouth, fingertip, aura or hand with a range of 1000 feet for up to 6D6 damage. NSANE CANCER: Within the heart of the liar and deceiver grows the cancer of doubt and worry. Worse, even the righteous and saved are hounded by these tumors, for their mere presence weakens the faith of those around them. The Insane Cancer is so named because it resembles a feral-minded human with extreme stages of skin cancer. Although it usually moves slowly, shifting its weight back and forth, it will sometimes run at visitors with surprising speed, and knock them down. It is surprisingly strong and quick for its size and girth, being able to out-perform all but the most professional of athletes. The Insane Cancer may look grotesquely obese, but appearances can be deceivingit is actually a hollow creature filled with putrid gas, not unlike an inflatable balloon. When the insane cancer is slain, it makes a distinctive death-rattle and visibly "deflates," expelling a faint mist of spores and tumors from its pores. The skin of the Insane Cancer is thin but extremely rubbery and durable; it can take a lot of abuse before it ruptures. These monsters can regenerate damaged tissue at an astonishing rate simply by lying still while 'playing dead'. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 6, M.E: 6, M.A: 1, P.S: 22 , P.P: 16, P.E: 23, P.B: 1, Spd: 2D6+10 S.D.C: 84 Hit Points: 1D6x10. Horror Factor: 16 Size: Weight: Natural Abilities:

While sitting down or sleeping, it regenerates its health. The constant regeneration of tissue places such demands on the Insane Cancers metabolism that the monster must eat frequently. AThey will even eat other monsters, making them cannibals. Roughly 100 lbs (160 kg) of flesh and a pound (1.6 kg) of gray matter (brains) must be consumed every two days to function at peak efficiency. Being deprived of food for a week will cause the abomination to become fatigued, losing one melee attack and -1 on initiative. Each additional week without foot makes the creature weaker still: -1 on initiative, -1 to strike, parry, and dodge, plus reduce speed attribute and S.D.C by 5% for each additional week deprived of sustenance. All penalties are erased 1D6+1 hours after gorging itself. Vulnerability: While fierce fighters, this monstrous thug has little endurance when it comes to sprinting. It will seldom pursue an enemy for more than a few seconds before stopping to sit and take a rest. Description: This inconceivably bloated freak of nature bears resemblance of a huge, extremely tumor or cancerous growth in obese humanoid form with two beady pig's eyes sunk deep into the grotesque face, a huge mouth, and fat meaty arms. Its flabby bodies droop over ponderous legs that seem barely able to support the weight above them. It is slow and hulking, dealing out its wrath with pounding fists, hurling single punches or crushing skulls with double-fisted, overhead blows. Every breath it takes gives off a labored, buzz-like exhalation. Its purplish-grey skin, dotted here and there with warts, ranging from tiny dots to huge, oozing orbs, is barely capable of holding in the putrid gas and diseased fluids held within its body cavities. MANNEQUINITES: These hideous-looking creations are female beings that each essentially look like a single headless torsos joined by two pairs of legs adorned with high-heel shoes, one where arms should normally, this pair of legs wear soft ballerina slippers. It has no head at all, and no visible sensory organs. They are coated in something slick, for light casts an oily sheen over their form. Those long, slender legs are dead, fish-belly white and covered with thick, crusty scabs, as if entire strips of flesh had been torn off and were in the process of healing. Skin, clothes and everything is covered in filth and dark patches of red that are just a few shades north of black, the shade of old, old blood. In combat it shout in an unearthly tone not unlike that of a strangled woman screaming. Whatever orifice the noises emanate from is unclear and probably best left unknown. To walk around the creature does a handstand so it can move upright. They are equally comfortable standing upright or on all fours. Once an opponent gets over the fact that these things have no heads, he realizes that they actually have symmetrical upper and lower bodies. It is impossible to which part is the creatures upper body and which is the lower body, if it even matters. She doesnt seem to, as both are interchangeable as to which is top or bottom. This monstrosity manifests from ones natural desires, lusts, and urges. The mannequinites are rather pitiable and slow. It attacks by swinging its upper feet at hostile creatures and unfamiliar creatures. They tend to stand still and in plain sight until a visitor is about three to five feet away (twenty feet with a light source) and then they spring to life and start to attack. For legs as her arms as well, the mannequin's attack consists of a close range kick from her upper legs toward the upper body of her enemy while the bottom pair are used for walking. Mannequinites never turn around when it wants to change direction; it just does a back flip to face an opponent behind it. Performing back flips, somersaults, and cartwheels is just a natural part of their movements. Although they are not overly strong creatures, they have the advantage of stealth, as the radio will not emit any static to warn of their presence until the mannequinite moves.

These seemingly lifeless female forms are first discovered in Woodside Apartments. Later they can be seen jumping off buildings or behind bushes outside, and while inside, may suddenly walk out of closets or dark corners after staying motionless for a few seconds. Out on the town's main road, they will also fly down through the fog from a great height, landing in the distance.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. Attributes (all have identical attributes) I.Q: 6, M.E: 10, M.A: 12, P.S: 24, P.P: 18, P.E: 15, P.B: 8, Spd: 21, running or rolling, double when cartwheeling.. S.D.C: 30. Hit Points: 4D4+4 Horror Factor: 12. Size: All Mannequinites are exactly 6 feet tall. Weight: All Mannequinites are exactly 150 pounds. Average Life Span: Exist until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost leg within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Mannequinite will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Special: Natural Gymnast/Acrobat: Mannequinites can naturally perform any of the special moves listed in the Gymnastics and Acrobatics skills with an 88% proficiency. Special: Hyperdensity: The Mannequinite is able to momentarily increase the density of its own body to point that she is as hard as diamond and incapable to movement, not even cellular. Without movement of tissue there can be no damage. The mannequinite is temporarily a totally indestructible statue. It cant move, fight, but is completely undestroyable and cannot be moved. This means the creatures takes no damage from any sources, be it physical, energy. This is usually a defensive move and can last for 3D6 minutes. Attacks per Melee: Three. Damage: Kick inflicts 2D6 plus P.S. damage bonuses, Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Apartments, streets, hotels. NUMB BODY: What does the mother heavy with child have to fear? She fears naught. Spriteangels walk alongside her, in their crooked fashion, and mewl to frighten away spirits of ill tides. Numb bodies are horrible little sacks of flesh the size of small dogs, with two bow legs and a tiny head ending in a tiny orifice that may be either mouth or eye. The creature's skin is waxen and moist, like rotting flesh, and is disturbingly cold to the touch. Numb bodies make horrible whining noises. Possibly the most desperate and pathetic creature of Silent Hill, the only advantage the Numb Body has on its side is its sheer numbers. In order to survive, Numb Bodies often travel together in groups, surrounding other monsters and unfortunate humans to wear down their prey. While weak, Numb Bodies are voracious, hunting in packs if they can surround a foe, though many will

pass on fresh meat in favor of easy pickings. Numb bodies chase after their prey as well as they can, which usually isn't very well. Numb bodies are weak but unnerving foes. Some Numb Bodies are encountered alone, but are almost always found in a location that would suit a creature of its size and be tactically appropriate; to do so otherwise would be suicide, especially in the desolate realm of Silent Hill. Some Numb Bodies have grown to exceptionally large sizes; the largest one encountered was 6 feet tall at the shoulder. The larger varieties sometimes travel in groups, but it is not as necessary to their survival as they are larger and stronger. Alignment: Always Diabolic evil. I.Q: 2, M.E: 1D4+4, M.A: 1D4+2, P.S: 2D6+4, P.P: 8, P.E: 1D8+10, P.B: 1D4, Spd: 1D6+6. S.D.C: 4D4. Hit Points: 6D6 Horror Factor: 6 for a small one, 9 for larger kinds. Natural Abilities: Track by Scent and Prowl 65%. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Numb Body will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 10 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: Two. Damage: Head-butt inflicts 1D4+3. Bites inflicts 2D6+4. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Shopping Center, Sewers, Subway. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. Description: A small, hairless biped, about 4 feet at the shoulder, its body apparently pale and frozen-looking. In place of a face, a large orifice for what could be its mouth is the only significant feature on this animals head. It has a short tail and slender legs. The creature is so pitiful and comical, that one can almost not consider it a threat, until it knocks one down and tries to tear one's face off with the teeth concealed in the puckered maw where it should have had a face. FLOAT-STINGER: A white-gray moth, five times the size of a human torso, its hairy abdomen twelve feet long, and four or five times thicker than a mans body. Apart from its gargantuan size, it is close in appearance to a commonplace moth. It has long feathery antennae and six long fine legs. Its wings are covered with tomb dust and crematorium ash. In a breeze or when the creature flies, the dust become airborne. The moth is covered with a feathery gray pelt, each faceted eye a cluster of dark mirrors. The wings are gray, almost like cobwebs woven together and sporting a pattern of intricate swirls and whorls, a maze of darkness picked out upon a field of mist, off-setting the black shiny exoskeleton of the monster. Upon the back of the abdomen, however, the exoskeleton is not entirely black, for there is a pattern picked out there in white, its resemblance to a crude death's head as unsettling as it is uncanny. When it rises up and spreads its wings, the markings on them resemble a vast, screaming face, unfolding against the background, then folding again, then again unfolding, as though reality itself is giving vent to its anguish, as beat upon beat the great creature ascends.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 5, M.E: 6, M.A: 6, P.S: 24, P.P: 21, P.E: 13, P.B: 11, Spd: 12 crawling, 20 flying. S.D.C: 60, wings have 36 S.D.C. and an armor rating of 7. Armor Rating: 12. Hit Points: 40. Horror Factor: 14. Size: 7 long, with a wingspan of eighteen feet. Weight: 500 lbs (225 kg) long, comparatively light for its size. Natural Abilities: Nightvision 1000 ft, keen normal vision, resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Winged flight and can hover and fly silently. Bio-regenerates 2D6 per hour and can regrow a wing in twelve hours. Acid Spit: The giant moth can vomit acid out to 10 feet (3 m) and is +3 to strike when doing so. Upon initial contact the acid will inflict 5D6 damage. Unless washed off, the acid will keep burning until it has been neutralized. Each melee round, the damage inflicted by the acid burn reduces by 1D6, so the second round burns by 4D6, the third round 3D6, the fourth round 2D6, the fifth round 1D6, the sixth round it does no damage; the acid is no longer potent. While the acid is burning its victim, a nauseating smoke will come off the affected area that will make all who smell it (including a victim) want to retch. Those who smell the smoke must save vs poison (12 or higher) per melee round of exposure, or they will double over and vomit until the smoke is cleared away. While sick, the victims will be at -1 attacks per melee round, all combat bonuses are in half, and all skills are performed at -25%. Stinger(s): Float-Stinger also possesses a stinger with which it can fire dozens of small poison-laden darts at prey. A single dart inflicts 1D4 damage. A burst of four 3D4 damage, or a burst of eight inflicts 4D8 damage. The stinger can also be used to spray a small area (about a 10 foot/3 m radius), but without any bonuses to strike The maximum effective range is 30 feet (9.1 m). Each single directed dart counts as one melee attack. The full radius blast counts as three. Float-Stinger automatically regenerates one full attack payload every six hours. A single dart accurately aim is +3 to strike. Skills: Land Navigation 80%, Swim 50%, Track by sight alone 75%, Prowl (when flying) 49%, Wilderness Survival 85%, and Climb (like an inchworm or caterpillar) 60%. These skills do not increase with experience. Attacks Per Melee: 4 Damage: An aerial dive attack (counts as two attacks) does 1D6x10 damage and has an 80% chance of knocking over (loss of initiative and one melee attack) victims who weigh less than the creature. Bonuses: +3 on initiative, +3 to strike, cannot parry, +1 to dodge. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Skies over the shopping district.

NURSES: These Nurses intentions are not to heal wounds. In fact, it's the complete opposite. Faceless angels of mercy that shamble the rooms and halls of Silent Hill's Brookhaven Hospital, and other locales, in search of patients that require their special brand of "care". Unfortunately for any that receive their attentions, Nurses are only interested in administering death. These demonic faceless ladies are usually found in Brookhaven hospital and walk with a limp, broken neck. Nurses wear suggestive, low-cut outfits and have a grotesquely swollen featureless head; its neck permanently fixed 90 degrees to its left, that jitters and twitches uncontrollably. The nurses are quicker on their feet than most of the other monsters and wield various makeshift weapons, but have a preference for medical tools: saw, scalpels, syringes, hooks, clamps and probes. Nurses exhibit a low cunning, lying in wait until their lust for flesh can no longer be suppressed and then they jump forth for stab or bludgeon. More complex strategies are beyond them. They are typically found in groups combining their attacks for one devastating blow. While they go for killing blows in combat, as parodies of nurses, they will take whatever opportunities to engage in the defining activities of that role. Unfortunate victims who become immobilized in combat with these nurses will find themselves at the scalpels edge in an improvised medical procedure (roll vs a horror factor of 16 in such a case). The bodies of their victims are left open, with major organs exposed, limbs removed with surgical precision, body cavities sliced, and splayed open as through examined by a mad vivisectionist. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 2D4+2, M.E: 2D6, M.A: 2D6, P.S: 16, P.P: 17, P.E: 16, P.B: 8+1D6, Spd: 2D4+2 S.D.C: 32 Hit Points: 4D6+12 Horror Factor: 13. Size: 5'5. Weight: human Average Life Span: Exists until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Nurse will regenerate and return to life within 8D6 melees provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: 3 Damage: As per strength, or weapon. Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +1 to strike, parry and dodge, +9 to save vs horror factor. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Brookhaven hospital. Weapons: Nurses instinctively seek out and use any available weapons in their environment, from wood pikes and steel pipes as clubs for bludgeoning their foes into pulp to medical tools such as scalpels and hypodermic needles, to firearms of all kinds. They do not, however, use them with any great level of skill. They drag them along the ground, making sounds of metal colliding against the floor. Description: The curvaceous fiends might almost be attractive if not for their disturbingly featureless faces, dead white pallors, and revealing nurse uniforms that seem bonded to their skins as well covered with ash and blood stains, not to mention obvious alien and murderous intent. They have the disturbing tendency of their heads to shake and wobble at high speeds in a way that suggests rubber, or broken, vertebrae. Although their chests do rise and fall with

exhalation, inhalation, they twitch perceptibly from time to time, and their throats move as if they are swallowing. Racing pulses throb visibly in their flesh. And in every case their limbs tremble. They radiate an anxiety that is almost palpable, almost keen enough to smell. As the nurse nears her prey, she unleashes a scream not unlike that of a young woman in mind-numbing pain. PATIENTS: Also known as straight-jackets they appear as a nude, vaguely female-looking but neuter humanoid, whose skin is browned and diseased. Its entire upper body is encased in a sheet of flesh resembling an organic straightjacket. They look more or less identical, both exactly the same size, both exactly the same proportions, both walking at the same pace. Even their movements are the same, but in different stages of procession, like watching a mirror that returns an image on a time-delay. The malformed things walk in a shambling gait that seems both unseemly and careful at the same time. Sometimes it bends backwards like a gymnast, keeping balance with back muscles that have to be quite strong and flexible, given the ease in which the motion is accomplished. They have no eyes no sensory organs, but seem to see just fine. As for arms, there are none, well, at least usable ones. They are somehow bound to the chest, which makes it seem that the monster is sporting a straight-jacket. The creature sports a gaping pit in the center of its chest, and the function of this is not clear at first, until caustic liquid is projectile-vomited from it. Wrapped in a cocoon of flesh, these lying figures closely resemble patients from the mental institution. These repulsive creatures walk in a crooked path and crawl along the floor, unable to move its arms in the melted flesh. Typically they are slow while standing upright, but when knocked down they stay in a lying position and move by skittering very quickly along the ground with its legs like some mindless insect. When it is on the ground, it continues to move at normal speed, apparently regardless of the pain that would ensue from grinding skin against pavement or concrete. These almost phobically avoid constrained spaces, and can be found wandering the streets of Silent Hill, in both of its versions. They may represent previous victims of Silent Hill who are desperately trying to get out. A patient is a pitiful creature, its form representing suffering and agony. It walks up to any light source or foreign creature (humans), and sprays its acid mist at it. When the creature encounters belligerent prey, it feigns death. If the enemy continues to attack it, it crawls away at an astonishing speed, tumbling through enemy space. If it has nowhere to escape, it rams into its opponent (treat as a slam), and attempts to put distance between it and its tormenter as soon as possible.

I.Q: 3 M.E: 8 M.A: 5 P.S: 20 P.P: 14. P.E: 15 P.B: 3, Spd: 7, 10 when on all fours. S.D.C: 3D6. Hit Points: 1D6 . Horror Factor: 10, 13 when screaming. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Patient will regenerate and return to life within 8D6 melees provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. 1. Blinding Cloud: From the Patients neck comes a brown cloud of stinging acidic mist. It has an effective range of 6 feet. The mist inflicts 3D8 damage to inorganic material (ceramics, plastic, metals, metal alloys, concrete and similar) but is relatively harmless to human flesh and most organic materials (skin, wood, leather, fur, etc.) as well as glass (only doing 1D4 S.D.C/Hit Point damage and causes eye irritation and blurred vision. Victims are -4 to strike, parry, dodge and disarm for 4D4 melees.). The acid burns for one minute (4 melee rounds) or until washed off. 2. Scream like Thunder: The creature can let loose a terrifying screech that can be heard for 1D4 miles (1.6 to 6.4 km) away. All who hear it are startled and a chill runs down their spine. The screech has the effect of a Horror Factor 13 when it is heard for the first time in the distance and when it is heard for the first time only a few yards/meters away, or when facing an angry, screeching adversary. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Description: Patients look very vaguely humanlike, but only vaguely. The entire upper body is encased in a slick sac-like materialsomething like a chrysalis just before the moth breaks out. only it is totally opaque. It looks like it is skin, like it is filthy human skin. Skin that has a disgustingly slick sheen to it, and it smells fantastically terrible, as if it had been left in a garbage bag in direct sunlight for a week. The head seems to be vibrating at such enormous speed that it has lost all definition. It shakes and thrashes, as if it is having a seizure, but lurches with a deliberate intensity. Its legs are slim with stockings and platform shoes. Its arms seem pinned to its torso, front or back it cant be seen, as if the limbs had been melted into its flesh, but it seems like it is trying to free them with furious yanks and tugs. It has pulled hard enough to snap its bones as its shoulders are torn apart and splinters of bone jut upward through the wound. Its legs are bowed and bent, hideously deformed, yet sturdy. When it comes in the presence of visitors, it begins to scream. a high, screeching, inhuman sound, like metal being torn apart by a giant's hand, and its head whips back and forth as it does so. It starts trying to free its hands again, bone snapping as unstoppable force hits immovable object.

PENDULUM: Have you not heard them beyond your doors? They flop head-over-head and fly with blades. Their approach is not to bring dread but to bring anticipation: greatness follows their whining path. Emerging from the shadows is a floating mass of tissue and metal, propelling itself through the air with nothing but sheer force of will. The Pendulum represents a vicious cycle, events repeating themselves, only to bring destruction and ruin to any soul who gets too close to the heart of the matter. Curbing those hidden rages are the key to escaping the sequence. Pendulums hide in the distance under the veil of the crepuscule, the maddening scraping sound reverberating throughout the entire area, making it almost impossible to pinpoint the source. The Pendulum uses this confusion to strike at its prey, flying past the victim at breakneck speed, sundering flesh and bone alike, retreating into the inky black and repeating this doomed sequence anew. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 6, M.E: 9, M.A: 6, P.S: 12, P.P: 17, P.E: 13, P.B: 3, Spd: 5 on the ground, 60 in the air. S.D.C: 6D6 Hit Points: 24 Armor Rating: Horror Factor: 13 when heard from a distance, 15 when there are two or more. Size: Weight: Average Life Span: Exists until destroyed. Natural Abilities: A Pendulum takes to the air by deploying a special set of rotating blades from its back; once deployed, the blades spin over its heads with a constant buzz of noise and rushing air. Damage: Restrained blade attack: 2D4. Full-strength strike 4D4. Body Ram inflicts 6D6 damage. Description: It is bright green, a humanoid figure curled up in a ball, with two heads and two spikes on the head and the bottom, coupled by two other barbs sticking out to the sides, capable of being bent like two impromptu legs. Although it has no wings, it revolves in midair. Its arms terminate in two giant sets of blades that snap and clash at them with a sound like cymbals exploding. It moves and attacks while the upper half of its body rotates. A propeller-like blade rotating on its bulky neck behind the heads and that is the cause of its flight. PUDDLE WRAITH: The Puddle Wraith appears as a tall, robed figure with glowing white eyes and a voice not unlike a torrential downpour, apparently sculpted out the water itself. It is a dullwitted creature of pure instinct that is just as likely to attack its own reflection as it would any mortal. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 4, M.E: 9, M.A: 6, P.S: 14, P.P: 13, P.E: 20, P.B: 4, Spd: 20 in water. S.D.C: 86 Hit Points: 60 Armor Rating: 12. Horror Factor: 15.

Size: Appears as a man-sized apparition roughly six feet (1.8 meters) tall. Actually, the demon is a formless collection of liquid able to compress itself. Weight: Roughly one ton. Average Life Span: Exists until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Doesnt need to breathe. Can fight without pause or exhaustion for up to four hours. Bio-regenerates 3D6 per melee round when in contact with water. Projectile weapons such as bullets, arrows, or thrown objects do half damage, passing right through the water being. Likewise, physical blows (hand to hand punches, kicks, cuts, stabs, clubbing, etc) do no damage. Also gases do no damage. Electricity, energy, fire, and heat do full damage. Lasers/light energy inflicts half damage. Explosions will blow the creature apart, but it suffers half damage and the being can reform within 2D6 minutes. The creature can completely merge into water and can not be seen. The creature can stay in or under the water for an indefinite period of time. Vulnerabilities: The Puddle Wrath is very protective of its lair and for good reasons. Any attack directed at the Venus Tears bar with inflict double damage to the demon. Furthermore such attacks have a 01-70 chance of stunning the demon, causing it to lose initiative and two melee attacks. The Puddle Wrath is bound to its lair in such a way that they cannot move beyond it, and if the stagnant water surrounding it ever dries up or become purified (which can be done via magic or conventional means) then the demon will instantly be destroyed. Attacks Per Melee: 5 Damage: As per supernatural P.S: 1D4 on a restrained punch, 2D4 damage on a full strength punch, or 3D6 damage on a power punch (counts as two attacks). The demon frequently drowns its victims. Bonuses: +2 to strike, +3 to save vs magic, +1 to parry, +3 to automatic dodge (works like an automatic parry although a roll of D20 is required), +2 to disarm, +4 to roll with impact, +12 to save vs horror factor (too stupid to be scared). Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Flooded Venus Tears bar. PYRAMID HEAD: A triangle has right angles and acute edge, their sharpness suggests the possibility of pain. Pyramid Head is humanoid, standing immensely tall, almost seven feet, and dressed in a stitched leather apron, robe and tough engineering gloves of white. Still the most surprising part of the creature is the warped, rusted and twisted steel pyramid that encloses the things head, nearly half as tall as the creature itself, giving off a dark and brooding light the color of rust, like the glow of a dying star. Mortals touched by this corrupt glow are plagued by fear, despair, madness and nightmares. Its neck is bent forever forward, the helmet having warped its spine. Its hunched shoulders move silently up and down, as if it were breathing, but without a mouth or nose, there is no way it can breathe. The scraping noise comes from the gigantic sword it holds in both white-gloved hands, it is so large that the tip drags on the floor, casting sparks out as the creature moves. The Red Pyramid is the embodiment of murderous intent and sexual frustration. Its acts of evil and butchery have earned it a special place among the ranks of Silent Hill, and it carries out its cold and malicious work under direction of the dark forces in control of the town. Pyramid Head is a mute and seemingly invincible killer that, despite his slow skulking gait, always seems to be

able to head off the visitor(s) at every turn. He seems exists solely to execute, to dispatch any and every creature that comes in its range. Even the other monsters of Silent Hill are not safe from him. In fact, when not engaged with visitors and is left undisturbed, it will take out its frustrations, both murderous and sexual, on the other monsters of Silent Hill if he can get his hands on them; Hell Hounds and Air Screamers will be ripped in half, while Mannequinites, Nurses and Patients will be raped or otherwise sexually assaulted, typically until they are incapacitated (S.D.C and Hit Points brought to zero), and then Pyramid Head will move on. Pyramid Heads motives are mostly inscrutable to most eyes. He is cold, quiet, and calculating. He moves slowly and somewhat clumsily, which makes him seem all the more frightening. He is also terrifying in his relentless silent resolve; ever in motion, always moving toward some new terror or perversion. Since Pyramid Head is really an evil spirit (perhaps even a minor deity), he cannot be killed, but only avoided and survived. In combat, his opponents will be repeatedly astonished and disheartened by the creatures supernatural reserves of strength and endurance. As a spirit, he might be able to be summoned and contained with mystic circles or through a medium; and can be controlled through the proper (very rare) incantations. There can be any number of them, so it can be assumed that it is the same Pyramid Head following PCs all the way until the end, when he is joined by a friend, or it can be assumed that each and every Pyramid Head they see is a different one. It doesn't really matter, because they are all the same. Pyramid Head should always be presented as remorseless, unstoppable force, player-characters should be given amble warning of Pyramid Heads approach; the radio static alone should do it, as well as the scraping sound of its sword dragging along the ground. It is also important to note that Pyramid Head can push, hit, kick, shove, or throw a human out of his way or hurt them in some small way to torment them, but Pyramid Head can only kill visitors when cornered or under the direction of a higher power. The other creatures of Silent Hill are under no such protection, and may be attacked or molested whenever available. However, the foul demon entices acts of aggression by appearing menacing. Pyramid Head seems to enjoy these little games of nerves, and will follow characters, suddenly appearing from behind or out of the shadows, kill Personas (who are often mistaken for real people), rape and kill other monsters, prowl around with malicious intent, vandalize areas of town, draw symbols and graffiti in blood, and as well as make threatening moves and then leaving when attacked. Its purpose appears to be to guide and motivate visitors to Silent Hill to go to where they need to be in town, showing them all of its horrid sights, and then after they are sufficiently tortured (mentally and physically), it is allowed to execute.

Alignment: Diabolic evil. I.Q: Unknown, M.E: Unknown, M.A: 21, P.S: 30, P.P.: 8, P.E: 28, P.B.: 4, Spd: 12. Horror Factor: 15, 19 when within the aura. Height: 6'8 feet tall. Weight: 489 lbs. S.D.C: 481. Hit Points: 140 Armor Rating: 16; any attack that is 16 or lower has struck the pyramidal headpiece and has inflicted no damage, not to the helmet, nor to the creature within. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates 1D6 S.D.C./Hit Points per minute. Does not breathe air, can survive depths of up to 1,000 feet (305 m). Radiate Horror Factor to Terrorize and Create Panic: Everyone who sees Pyramid Head and is within a 6 feet radius of the creature must roll to save vs a horror factor of 19. Characters who fail to make their saving throw vs Horror Factor either flee (01-50%) and dont stop running until they reach other people or have put 1D6x100 feet (305 to 1829 m) between them and Pyramid Head (if Pyramid Head pursues them theyll keep running until it stops and the above distance is established). Skills: W.P. Sword, Blunt, Knife and Polearm. Torture Techniques, Escape Artist, Tracking, Climb, Skin and Prepare Animal Hides, Sew, Swim, Land Navigation, and Prowl at 65%. Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +3 to parry, strike, and dodge, +4 to pull punch, +10 to save vs horror factor. Vulnerabilities: Impalement is the only means of stopping Pyramid Head, aside from atomizing him totally. A long spear, javelin, shaft thrust through the underside of his helmet will ground the monstrosity to the earth and render it completely powerless and unconscious. One grounded, Pyramid Head is locked in forced stasis. In this state he is vulnerable to normal weapons and fire, but it remains dangerous. If the impaling instrument is removed or destroyed, Pyramid Head is instantly restored to his full strength and physical mass. Favorite Weapons: Each is designed specifically to be used by Pyramid Head, and inflicts triple damage of a normal spear or sword (6D6 damage) due to its great size and weight. Anyone who does not possess supernatural strength suffers 2 penalty to wield this weapon. Anyone with less than half Pyramid Heads strength cannot use it effectively at all. Great Knife: It is an enormous knife, not a sword, of at least four feet in length, from hilt to tip and a wide black and rusted blade almost an entire foot wide. It comes to a point about a foot from the tip, the edge has been honed and sharpened. It is stained with some thick dark fluid swaying lazily in the light with each step, blood, dirt, or filth, all three and more, most likely. It has to weigh a good fifty or sixty pounds; awkward weight to carry in the form it is in. The blade sports three large, ragged holes punched through it, the purpose unknown. Pyramid Head grips it by the handle, but does not raise the blade; instead the monster drags the end along the ground behind him with a horrible metallic screeching sound. The dragging no doubt dulls the edge, but even if blunt, the sheer weight of the knife will crush a persons skull like an egg. Dragging it reduces Pyramid Heads speed, attacks per melee and bonuses by half.

Spear: A six-foot spear with a large, triangular, obsidian-colored blade and a red shaft that matches the helmet. Unlike the Great Knife, Pyramid Head can use the spear without penalty. Armor: The pyramidal headpiece acts as mind block, preventing any and all psionic probes and attacks intruding on Pyramid Heads mind. Those who attempt to read the creatures mind will see only a pool of darkness. The mind reader will find it very difficult to pry themselves away from that darkness (a save vs psionics is necessary; roll every melee round), and until he/she does, they will be unable to do anything other than stare vacantly into space. The headpiece possesses 5,000 S.D.C, and has an Armor Rating of 15. Habitat: In the Labyrinth there is an underground tunnel that leads to a red-lit chamber which seems to be the residence of the wandering Pyramid Head down there. It is filled with corpses and improvised torture devices. It is devoid of all other furnishings and other content, as its resident has no need for such things. Description: Pyramid Head looks like a tall man covered with a white, blood-soaked butcher's smock. His most outstanding feature is a large, pyramid-shaped metal helmet, covering his head completely (or is it his head?). It is pure crimson, as if soaked in blood for weeks at a time. It is shiny, a sort of slimy slickness that reflects whatever light it doesn't devour. A helmet that comes to a point at the top, making Pyramid Head look taller than almost any man alive. He usually is armed, either with the Great Knife or with a spear. SCRAPER: This monstrosity appears in every respect, human, except with one distinct feature; its head is an indescribable mass of burrowed skin stitched together from dead men and dogs, strips of diamond-backed snake hide; no eyes, ears, or any other distinguishing features on its face. It quivers slightly and it pokes with twin long black blades. Where its eyes should be theres nothing at all, blackness to put midnight at the bottom of the sea to shame. Not above murdering their foes in their sleep, the Scraper will gleefully take advantage of every attack of opportunity that presents itself, taking every cheap shot that it can.

Perhaps worst of all is that these creatures can move quite quickly, sprinting this way and that before suddenly dashing in to attack. Their targets have little time to run before the Scrapers are on them, rusted edges digging into flesh. They slash and stab their opponents with twin tonfa/switchblade devices that have a deceptively long reach when extended. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 9, M.E: 12, M.A: 10, P.S: 16, P.P: 16, P.E: 10, P.B: 1, Spd: 2D6+18 S.D.C: 4D6+4 Hit Points: 20 Horror Factor: 14. Size: Weight: Natural Abilities: Dual-Blade Proficiency A scraper's blades--resembling oversized razors with bayonettes attached to the ends--are unique to the scraper species.

Deflection (Ex): Scrapers are almost unbelievably apt at deflecting the projectiles of their foes. Scrapers lose this bonus if they are flanked or caught flat-footed. Weapons: Wicked sigils are engraved to the hilt. Description: Scrapers appear as medium-built, hunched humanoid figures, draped in blackened clothes; leather coat, leggings, and boots. Its flesh is seemingly attached to its clothes, a heavily soiled, bloodied cloth that covers a majority of its pudgy figure. Fresh blood stains the rags, making it a lot more sinister. Their bodies are encrusted in dirt and gore, and what skin shows is brown and black, looking as though these creatures were burned. It wields one slender, long dagger in each gloved hand that clang together with a rusty squeal. SCREAMERS: The creak of leathery, membranous wings alerts one to this flying threat as it wings down in a narrowing spiral, a hideous hammer-headed scavenger-reptile, blotting out the sun with its shadow as it descends. It utters a hungry, raucous cry, which can best be described as something like an eagle screeching in anguish, and its eyes seem as red as the pits of hell. The cooling fan of its great wings, with a span of twenty-five feet can be felt, as can the overpowering fetor of decay from its breath. In appearance it is a streamlined, emaciated reptilian bird, snarling from its narrow beak which opens in a leering grimace, lined with oversized, crooked teeth. Its scaly wings beat the air furiously. The back is serrated into bony ridges from their necks to the end of their long tails. The tail functions as a third limb that slashes and strikes like a whip or to entangle a limb or weapon of an opponent. Their feet are equipped with three webbed toes that end in wicked curved nails used for slashing and cutting, while from their forefeet membranous wings, which are attached to their bodies just in front of the hind-legs, protrude at a 45 degree angle toward the rear, ending in sharp points several feet above their bodies. The body is lined with small spikes or fins on the wings, back and chest. A voracious carnivore that has no fear of humanoids, a Screamer will swoop down on its victim, wrap him in its powerful wings to embrace or smother him, or tear out the throat with its teeth or claws. The beast then tears its victim from limb to limb and devours the remains. The creature is dumb in that it knows no fear and will fight against a vastly greater number of opponents. It will suffer massive damage before it will fly away to rest and heal. After their first encounter, most visitors will dive for cover and scan the mists the instant they hear the monsters cryScreamers usually let loose with a screech just before they dive in for the kill. The cry is meant to alarm and disorient its prey moments before it strikes, making the likelihood of a quick kill all the higher.

Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 6, M.E: N/A, M.A: 9, P.S: 17, P.P: 23, P.E: 19, P.B: 5, Spd: Crawls at 5, flies at 60. S.D.C: Head-25 Wing Arms-30 each Hind Legs-33 each Wing Membrane-33 each Main Body-38. Hit Points: 100 Armor Rating: 4 Horror Factor: 12. Size: Body is 5 long, wingspan is 15 feet long, a reach of 4 feet. Weight: 100-150 pounds. Natural Abilities: Flight, keen normal hawk-like vision, impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Track by sight 74%. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will

regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Screamer will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 40 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: 3 Damage: Bite inflicts 2D6 damage, ram 6D6 damage, talon strike 4D6. Swooping strike: counts as a power punch, as per supernatural P.S., but uses up two melee attacks. Bonuses: +3 to strike. +2 to parry and dodge, immune to horror factor. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, it cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. Habitat: Skies, streets.

Description: The Screamer resembles a terrestrial Pterodactyl in general shape, appearance (at least from a distance) and habits. The long, sinewy creatures has a leathery hide that is rusted-red in color and covered in horrid veins that bulge out of its skin. The batlike wings are also leathery and featherless. The eyes glow with an eerie orange or yellow energy, and seem to be oozing a viscous fluid. It has powerful talons tipped with yellow hook-like claws as well as a long, pointed nose and mouth filled with what appear to be razor blades instead of teeth. In the Otherworld, these monsters often reach six feet in length, and have wing spans of eight or more feet. As well, their weight can be in excess of 300 pounds, making it a mystery how they stay in the air, despite the obvious fact that they can, and do, with great ease and maneuverability. These beasts tend to be very dark in color, making them even harder to spot in the eternal gloom of the Otherworld. SHRILL RATS: Rats are carrion-eaters, revelers in decay, scurrying janitors that clean up in the wake of death. Shrill rats are supernatural rodents that attack in swarms, and eat anything with the aroma of fresh blood around it. They sleep until they smell blood. At that moment, they scurry to the source of the smell. They will gnaw holes through walls and squeeze through tiny opening to get there. Once they arrive, the shrill rats react with ravenous hunger, eating anything nearby that is even remotely edible. The bleeding person or animal is not always attacked right always attacked right awayanything that has even a faint aroma of flesh or blood is foot to them. They will work their way through towels, tissue, table scraps and garbage cans first. Of course, this delay will last only a few seconds, so any humans or animals should flee immediately. They are relentless, when delayed from getting to the source of the blood, they will go into a frenzy, eating everything around them, quivering as if they are having seizures, and scurry until their feet bleed. One out of every 50 shrill rats is a mother rat, able to bear a litter of 40 to 100 newborns. They are always impregnated while among the scurrying, agitated horde, Alignment: Considered Anarchist or Miscreant, because they are disgusting vermin who attack and eat humanoids and intelligent beings. Attributes: I.Q. ID6 (low to medium animal intelligence), M.A. 1D4, M.E. 2D4, P.S. 1D6, P.P. 1D6+9, P.E. ID6+1, P.B. ID6, Spd. Spd: 8 (6 mph). Horror Factor: 5 for one, but 8 for a swarm of 10 or more. S.D.C: 2D6. Hit Points: 2D6. Natural Abilities: Nightvision 200 feet (61 m), can leap four feet (1.2 m) high and six feet (1.8 m) across, are excellent at Climbing 70%/65%, Acrobatics 35%, Prowl 90%, and Swim 65%. Can smell blood and decaying matter up to 2 miles (3.2 km) away, and knows when a creature is sick, or dying. Shrill Rats can also track by scent 80% and squeeze through openings one third the size of the rat. Tail (special): The tail is not prehensile, but is constantly squirming around like a worm, and is used for balance when jumping or climbing. Damage: Shrill Rats attack by lunging for the throat, head and soft spots like the belly and clawing or biting. In a pack they may work as a loose knit team, with one rat latching onto the leg with its hands and mouth to impair movement or prevent escape while one or two others attack full force with claws and teeth. Bites does 1D4 damage. Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +2 to strike with biting attacks, +4 to dodge and +5 to roll with punch, fall, or impact.

SLURPERS: Crawling, leather-clad, anteater-like humanoids with great speed. Their faces are long and pointed, like that of a rat, and loud noises attract its attention. Slurpers are solitary blind hunters and scavengers, subsisting on dried blood and rust that permeates the Otherworld of Silent Hill. But when fresh meat enters the area, the Slurpers are more than happy to divert their atention to their new prey, attacking with hit and run methods, at first slowly crawling over, then suddenly darting forward and pulling out the preys legs from underneath, in keeping with their role as a symbol of repressed sexual energy or fear. They retreat if their adversary puts up a good fight, but eventually return to stalk their nemesis if they remain in the area. Slurpers are nothing if not territorial, seeming to possess an urge to overcome their enemy, and then to do unspeakable things with the bodies of those they defeat in combat just before eating the corpse. Slurpers feed from the mouth at the end of their snouts; the sharp tongue within punctures the flesh of its prey and then the monster sucks up and ingests fluids and tissue from the open wound. However, because these crawling monsters can't climb, they must knock down larger organisms, like humans, in order to get at them. They accomplish this by tripping their targets up with a swipe of their club like arms. Slurpers tend to play dead after suffering substantial damage. Once the attacker lets his or her guard down and investigates the 'corpse', the creature suddenly springs 'back to life' and renews its attack. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. Attributes: I.Q.: 7, M.E.: 4D4, M.A.: 5, P.S.: 4D4+4, P.P.: 4D4, P.E.: 4D4+4, P.B.: 4, Spd: S.D.C: 4D6+9 Hit Points: Horror Factor: 10 when first seen, 13 when there are more than two. Size: Weight: Natural Abilities: Heightened sense of smell which allows the Slurper to detect very faint scent traces. The thing can track like bloodhound at 50%. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Slurper will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 40 points of damage below zero. Vulnerabilities: A Slurper's need to knock large prey down to its level in order to overpower it limits the creature's effectiveness, particularly against someone that is familiar with the monster's tactics. Slurpers have poor eyesight, but can usually locate food by sense of smell. Damage: Slurpers that trip their foes will usually climb on top of them and proceed to "slurp" filaments of flesh from their foes; the feeling is best described as "having one's flesh grated off and the wound slurped by a rough tongue." They may make a grapple roll with a +5 bonus (total +6) on a prone enemy to begin worrying; on a successful worry, they deal 1D4+1 damage plus 1D4 damage as they slowly worry away flesh. They deal this damage as long as they maintain the grapple. Description: Slurpers appear to be malformed humanoids, much smaller than normal, whose heads are hidden behind fleshy anteater-head-shaped masks, and whose limbs end in blunted leather sacks. Their flesh glistens and appears semi-rotten.

THE FRAID. The creature called the Fraid lives inside the walls and it will smash through and try to snatch at intruders. Preceding his bashing through the wall will be the sound of his breathing, like someone breathing very deeply in and out through clenched teeth. It will also say nonsensical things like, icky branch!" The Fraid appears to be the very manifestation of Chaos, the corruption of the town of Silent Hill, and the madness behind the actions of all the creatures dwelling inside the town's boundaries. S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: Weight: Natural Abilities: The Fraid is a semi-liquid mass of pure darkness that can engulf and injure opponents. An engulf counts as a normal melee attack. An intended victim can try to dodge but does so with a penalty of -4. Once engulfed, the victim is helplessly confined in absolute darkness, and possibly made to suffer 2D6 damage per melee round locked within the Fraids body. The damage cannot be healed/regenerated until the victim is free of its body. While trapped, the victim loses half his attacks/actions per melee round, and all combat bonuses. The uses of spells and psionics are impossible. TWIN FEELER: Insect larva that have hatched inside Silent Hill's Town Center. Young Twin Feelers (0.9 m/3 ft in length) are carrion feeders, but as they grow, and their acid glands develop, they begin to seek out live prey to sate their ravenous appetites. However, because their eye sight is poor and they rely almost exclusively on their antennae for sensory information, Twin Feelers prefer ambushing to active hunting. They accomplish this by burrowing into soft earth or sand and lying in wait for other organisms to draw near, at which time they emerge and spit acidic mucus at the victim until it is incapacitated and can safely be devoured. When it strikes, it strikes with gnashing teeth and its stubby, slashing. clawed feet/arms. The fiend may also use its body as a blunt weapon, thumping its victims from above, hammering them from the top and the sides. The Twin Feeler may also wrap itself around its victim, but cannot constrict or hold a person like a snake. The wrap-around attack is used to get the monster's small, slashing Claws and biting maw into close combat The teeth of the grub are very sharp and arranged in multiple rows. When its mouth is closed, the teeth aim inward; biting down forces the food in, where other rows of teeth continue rending the food. The problem with this tooth arrangement is the grub literally cannot stop eating something after it is in its mouth: the object is snagged in the sharp teeth and drawn further inside with every shedding gulp. The only way to stop the chewing is for the food to be pulled of its mouth; if the victim is still alive at this point, pulling it out of the grubs mouth will tear it to pieces. When, and if, a Twin Feeler larva reaches maturity (approximately 4.6 m/15 ft in length), it will undergo a metamorphosis to become a gigantic Float Stinger moth. I.Q.: 8, P.S.: 20, P.P.: 11, P.E.: 14. S.D.C: 94. Hit Points: 2D4x10+50

Natural Abilities: Can flatten and roll up its body into a small coil or ball about three feet in diameter. Size: 3 yards. Weight: 300 lbs. Average Life Span: Immortal until slain. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, it cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. 13Description: A massively bloated caterpillar, its pillowy segments the color of yellow-white corpse flesh, with a semi-human face, tiny porcine eyes and a mouth full of jagged teeth. A moment later, as the unfolded caterpillar rolls over onto its belly and its dozens of legs stretch out to steady on the uneven ground, one notices that the limbs are all different lengths, and that many of them end in awkward hands with stump, disturbingly manlike fingers. Worse than the fingered hands is the front part of the things head, a dim parody of a human face, as though parts not meant to serve such purposes had been crushed together into a maska brow ridge above a dark, eyeless, flatness on either side of the hint of a nose, a raggedly gaping mouth framed by tiny, atrophied mandibles filled with teeth and a tongue, both resembling an uncanny similarity to that of a person, although out of place on a thing like this. The horror radiates a cloying stink of rotting flowers and sour milk. VALTIEL: The name Valtiel means attendant by way of the English word valet, its existence as a significant being is derived from suffixing -el. Valtiel shadows the PCs as if stalking them. At no point will Valtiel attack any visitors, nor can visitors attack Valtiel. He (if he is indeed male, but it would seem misguided to sexualize the creature) is the consummate bystander, the observer yet Valtiels role in the Dark World would seem to be of greater significance to the alternate realities the visitor(s) finds himself in. Both Pyramid Head and Valtiel have similarities. Compared to the other raging creatures, they appear to be methodical in movement and have their own agendas. Both will stalk visitors persistently. Alignment: Unknown. Attributes: I.Q.: Unknown, M.E.: Unknown, M.A.: 20, P.S.: 30, P.P.: 24, P.E.: 28, P.B.: 4, Spd: 16. Natural Abilities: Special Climbing: Valtiel can cling to walls and ceilings like an insect, climbing at 95% at full speed attribute. Semi-Invulnerability: The effect of this gruesome form of invulnerability is that Valtiel is effectively immune to physical attacks, taking no debilitating damage from them. Instead, knife wounds, bullets, grandes, explosives, punches (regardless of the attackers P.S.), clubs, other melee weapons car crashes, falls from great heights and any other purely physical damage mutilate and punch ghastly holes into Valtiel, but it keep on functioning as if nothing is wrong! Furthermore, those holes and damage miraculously heal in short order. Valtiel suffers no penalties or pain from physical damage, but if a limb is blown off, it will suffer the loss of that limb, at least until it can be reattached or grows back (12 hours). So if Valtiel is decapitated, it will be blinded until the head can be reattached (or grows back in 24 hours), or

Valtiel can simply look through the eyes while it holds onto its head until it can be reattached. It only takes Valtiel 1D4 melee rounds/actions to reattach a severed body part by simply holding the limb in place! A lost limb or even head will regrow in 12 or 24 hours respectively. If blown into several large pieces it will take 48 hours to pull itself back together. If the pieces are kept apart by some outside force for more than 48 hours, the monster is dead. While Valtiel is more or less immune to physical harm, its power does not provide the same protection against other forms of attack/damage. Plasmas, particle beams, other energy-based attacks, psionics and magick all do full damage. Otherworld Transition: Nearly every occasion that the visitor witnesses Valtiels presence, it is turning two valve handles with both hands, seemingly in a purposeful manner at parallel rotations, differing degree and speed. For who can speculate the cause behind the reality shifting of Silent Hill and who need to justify what is going on, it would seem that it is Valtiel that is regulating this process. Valtiel just might the 'reality shifter', and as such can be described as the guardian or sentinel of Silent Hill. Valtiel could well be the physical representation of the visitors journey through the alternate realities by the valve manipulation. Resurrection: The ability of Valtiel to resurrect violently-killed organisms would have no explanation by the scientific community. It appears that no matter how severe the physical damage to the slain corpse is, Valtiel can cause it to become live and healthy within a matter of seconds. Valtiel approaches the targeted corpse and stands in close proximity to it, assumes an erect position with its head back and hands forward, begins to emanate energy in a number of spectral frequencies, and then after a few seconds of this, the corpse it is targeting is lifted into its normal standing position. As the corpse is lifted, its body becomes fully whole and undamaged, and the formerly-dead organism comes to life once it is standing. The lifting of the corpse has been observed to visually resemble how the organism died, just in reverse. The actual resurrection takes less than a second, it is Valtiels building up of energy beforehand that takes a few seconds. Description: Valtiel is a very humanoid-looking creature that usually whips its head around in a very strange and erratic manner. Valtiel appears to be dressed in a tight, sleeveless robe bound by a small belt. The robe is made of some canvas-like material of off-white with a slight brownish cast. Its limbs are the same off-white color only slightly darker, hands encased in tough engineering gloves. It has no face to speak of - the front of its head is smoothly, utterly blank. At the back of the garment Valtiel wears, there is a mark where the cloth is stitched together. ALTERNATE RULES AND SCENARIOS: Silent Hill is mutable. What it is and how it works seems to have the potential to change, sometimes subtly, sometimes drastically, between people's experiences. THEMES: Despair: In the absence of hope, horror flourishes. The trick is in taking away nearly all hope: take it all and the characters have nothing left to lose. Take all but the last ray of hope in their lives, and they will cling desperately to it. To be clear: there is a distinction between sorrow and frustration, fear and genuine despair. While the loss of a beloved family member, for instance, is tragic, most respond to such with a period of mourning, followed by a time of healing, rather than plunging into abject hopelessness. On the other hand, despair is probably the only reasonable human response to watching one's life, and the lives of everyone a given individual

cares about, fall apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left save the promise of even greater suffering tomorrow. This is a delicate line to walk, since despair is often contingent upon a concrete belief that any action one takes is doomed to failure not a mindset conducive to enjoyable gaming. While portraying a character's descent into hopelessness can be enjoyable, not all players enjoy this sort of story. As a GM, you need to know your audience and the point at which your players will stop regarding your tale as one of the character-building process of hitting rock bottom, and begin looking upon it as a chore to be endured. Effects of Magick: Magic is a power that is strong enough to affect the fabric of the material universe, the structure of human minds, and even the laws of physics. When this magic loses its sense of purpose when an old spell's duration expires, or if a half-cast spell is aborted, all this energy doesn't just vanish. It may fade slowly away, but in the meantime it may form new and unexpected shapes and have almost any effect. Inevitably, concentrating and releasing large quantities of psychic energy in any one area is bound to have bizarre side effects. So, if large amounts of magic are cast in an area over a long period of time, that place is likely to become infested with stray or random magical effects and psychic emanations. The effects, at the G.M.'s discretion, may be unsettling, horrific, or fantastical. Below is a table of options for players and G.M.s to roll on whenever a visitor casts a spell in Silent Hill. Most of the descriptions of these extra effects are left purposefully vague as far as determining who or what is affected besides the target of the spell. Depending on the type of game your group or G.M. wants to play, these effects can occur as drawbacks or advantages. The powers given below are just suggestions, players and G.M.s are encouraged to come up with other effects they feel appropriate. As will be noticed later in the descriptions, some of the side effects inflict damage or other nasty occurrences. Most players will find it aspirating to cast a beneficial spell on a friend only to have an acidic cloud spring forth or a lightning bolt come screaming down from the sky when the spell is cast, especially when subterfuge is necessary. Some people may like to play that way, enforcing the chaotic nature of magic. It may be decided that spell side effects only affect nonliving matter, meaning a destructive spell can cause a burst of metal shards that shreds the trees and land around it, but leaves the combatants unharmed. Perhaps the caster is always the target of additional side effects. This allows those involved a free hand to play as they wish and allows a variety of different results out of a single side effect. The duration for those additional effects that are not instantaneous are variable and is determined by rolling on the Effect Duration table, unless noted otherwise in the description. 01-02%: A burst of fire erupts from the skin, dealing 1D6 points of fire damage to the initial target and 3D6 points of fire damage to anyone or anything within 10 feet (3 m). 03-04% Anyone living or staying in the area starts to have flashes of memory and ideas which are not their own, but which come from that caster's loose P.P.E. and fragments of residual thoughts and memories preserved by the unleashed energy. These may be worrying (images of horrible creatures or bloody rites flashing through the person's mind) or insidious (the person has

inexplicable and possibly depraved desires), but might on occasion be useful (the memory of a page in a book or snatches of conversation, or visions of past danger or enemies). 05-06%: The eyes suddenly gush forth a burst of blood that doesn't actually inflict any damage, but anyone witnessing the sight must make a roll to save vs Horror Factor at a 14 or better. 07-08% The area is so charged with magical energy that it literally glows. This may be a constant effect a nimbus of energy visible over the area or very dim ambient light, or, more likely, an occasional effect, such as strange lights seen in the area from time to time, or shimmering in the sky above. 09-10%: All light within a 5 foot (1.5 m) area is temporarily absorbed, including any natural or magical light, creating a blot of pure darkness. All vision, including magical, is temporarily rendered blind in the area. The flashlight goes out as well. 11-12% Strong spells and heavy concentrations of P.P.E. take on any form desired by local mortals. They appear as apparitions, visible but without physical form, for up to three hours at a time. According to the subconscious desires of the people/creatures which live in the area, they might appear as long-lost children, dream-lovers, absent fathers, monsters expected in the area, and so on. They often appear to and become friends of the lonely or wretched, adopting whatever personalities these folk wish, but although they look solid enough, they have no real form or intelligence of their own. They are figments of the persons own imagination and subconscious. 13-14%: A cacophonous blast is emitted, deafening everyone in the immediate vicinity, 2 foot (0.6 m) radius. 15-16%: Motes of metal fall from the sky in the area. The metal is irritating to skin and eyes, any such unprotected will suffer -5 to strike, parry, dodge and -10% to skill performance if exposed. 17-18% As the fading magics in the area cling to life, they try to draw health from other things and people in the area. Plants wither and die overnight, people find that it takes weeks to recover from the pettiest ailments, young people living nearby find that their hair is starting to turn prematurely gray, etc. 19-20%: Blood wells from the ground or falls from the sky, coating things in a layer of it. The blood is slick, especially when partially congealed, providing a 10% chance of slipping and falling while moving through it. The blood is permanent and does not magically dissipate. 21-22% The magic hangs heavy in the air, making the atmosphere seem muggy, oppressive. Visitors get clammy palms and find that the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. Strange chills pass through the air. 23-24% One or more magics, or residues of P.P.E., inhabit a specific inanimate object or plant, which they then attempt to control. This may be a TV set (the magics changing channels to suit their tastes, or even showing fuzzy images of the past or of other places), a doll (often gone from where you were sure you left it), or a house plant, warping the way that the plant grows to suit their tastes ever seen a six-foot tall venus fly trap? Or a jet black sunflower? And so on. 25-26%: Lightning lances from the sky, dealing 3D6 points of damage to anything it strikes. 27-28% The people living around the area are physically or mentally affected by the magics and P.P.E. in the area. If the magics were or are primarily concerned with death or undead, for example, then many people become ill or develop degenerative skin conditions. If the magics were divintional, intended to gather information, then the locals with the highest amounts of personal P.P.E. start to have visions or hear voices. If the magic was destructive, many of the people may become aggressive and violent the level of violent crimes (rape, assault, murder) may be unusually high, and so on.

29-30%: A brilliant light springs forth. All those in the immediate vicinity suffer a -2 penalty to strike from the blinding light. 31-32% The old spells in the area are lingering on, their P.P.E. forming into changing shapes as they create simple life forms or ectoplasmic constructs around them as bodies. They may try being house pets, wild animals, diminutive people, or strange protoplasmic entities. They are, in any case, only semi-visible in these forms, and insubstantial: they cannot be felt, and cannot affect the physical world. However, they do talk telepathically to the magician who created them (if he or she remains in the area), begging for guidance or advice, moaning that they have been set free in the world with no direction or understanding, and generally making the magician feel guilty. His or her negative or positive direction (or lack thereof) will help to shape these fledgling beings' personalities, purpose and appearance. 33-34%: As above, but the spells are beginning to find a way of gaining a new, human life. They are insinuating themselves into the minds of certain vulnerable folk nearby. Their victims are likely to have strange understandings and memories, and may develop multiple personalities. 35-36%: The spell's damage, range or duration is increased by 50% and appears to be bigger, brighter, nastier, etc. 37-38% The spell's damage, range or duration is decreased 50%, but the caster instantly heals 3D6 hit Points or S.D.C. and is temporarily enveloped with a red, glowing haze. 39-40% Poltergeist activity. The P.P.E. remains mindless, but is highly volatile. During prolonged periods of stress for the humans in the area, the P.P.E. becomes agitated, with probably violent consequences. This activity may range from doors slamming to objects being thrown at people, to people being hurled across a room, depending upon the amount of magic and the strength of the spells which remain in the area. 41-42%: A cyclone arises around the caster, granting a Natural AR. of 14 or a +2 bonus to AR. if the caster already has an AR. value, against light projectile attacks such as arrows or sling bullets. Vision is temporarily obscured, however, and the caster is -2 to strike. 43-44% The residual P.P.E. and magical energy of the area acts as a beacon to magical creatures, and creates an intriguing glow in the area. This often attracts curious creatures, entities, and astral travellers, who are simply intrigued by the place's odd aura. Such visitors need not be a menace. 45-46%: As above, but the magic has actually attracted one specific creature (or group of creatures) to make its home here. The creature(s) may not even realize why it is drawn here: it just feels "special," "good," or "safe." This might be a Persona who moves in next door, a monster living in the cellar, a dozen cockroaches infesting the area, using the corresponding area as a base of operations, etc. 47-48% Screams of the tormented dead fill the air, chilling everyone to their marrow; everyone loses one melee action for the round. 49-50%: A thick, caustic black fog bursts from the spell or source of the spell, blinding and causing 2D6 points of damage to everyone caught in it. Metal items suffer an additional 2D6 points of corrosion damage. 51-52% The high concentration of magical energy has weakened the barrier between the otherworld Voices may occasionally drift across the barrier, strange images constantly appear in all mirrors, and very occasionally, a person from this area may unintentionally wander across into the otherword! Crossing over is not possible intentionally, however, and seems to require

some kind of altered mental state this is a bad place to take drugs, get drunk, or go sleepwalking. 53-54%: A shock wave blasts anyone in the area, knocking them off their feet and causing a loss of initiative. 55-56% The magics have torn open a semipermanent portal to the Otherworld. The portal may be open most of the time, or only at specific moments (at the stroke of midnight, only on the nights of the full moon, summer and winter solstice, etc.). For the moment, no one on the other side knows that the portal exists. 57-58%: Everything within 50 feet (15 m) collects a layer of rust on it. Remove 1D4 points of S.D.C from any metal object within the area due to the rusting effect. 59-60% The aware P.P.E. is attempting to find form and makes itself incarnate in the form of a small animal (mouse, spider, fly, etc.; nothing larger than a rat or bird). If a lot of P.P.E. has been released in the area, many infestations can become veritable plagues, with hundreds of mice, or thousands of spiders, etc. The P.P.E. is unable to hold any form for long, however, and the animals simply disappear after 1D6 hours. 61-62%: The spell inflicts 1D4 points of damage straight to hit Points. This is in addition to any damage the spell itself might inflict. 63-64% The residual P.P.E. has coalesced into one mass, which has the personality, attitudes, and knowledge of the magician. For a couple of hours a day, the P.P.E. can even manifest itself physically (with P.E., Hit Points and other physical attributes of only 1D6) and has no magical powers of its own, but it actually thinks that it is the magician. It does not create its own plots or plans (yet?), but will react to situations in the same way as the magician. Should the P.P.E. ever meet the real magician, it is likely to be deeply disturbed and think that there is an "impostor" on the loose. If this happens, there is a 01-60% chance that a Persona will merge with the magical coalescence to form a living double of the mage. At this point, the doppleganger will either try to kill the "imposter" and continue its life as the magician or leave his home (taking many of the real mage's possessions and cash) to build its own life elsewhere. 65-66%: 2D6 random creatures appear and attack anything within line of sight. 68-69%: Metal shards erupt in a spherical blast shredding anything in a 10 foot (3 in) radius per level of the spell, inflicting 1D4+1 points of damage unless a successful roll to dodge of 17 or better is made. 70-71% The mage tries to cast the spell, a magical implosion knocks him/her (not anybody around him) to the floor and inflicts 2D6 damage. 72-73% All this wild P.P.E. and unstructured magic acts as a beacon to attract some curious and probably malignant force or supernatural creature at the G.M.'s discretion. 74-75% The attempt was a semi-success after all! It has half the usual duration and requires 1D4x10% more P.P.E. to cast it, but it works as normal 76-79%: The ground shakes violently, and anyone within 10 feet (3 m) must either roll a 14 or better to dodge or make a maintain balance roll, or immediately lose their balance and fall prone to the ground, losing one melee attack. 80-83%: All vegetation within the immediate vicinity turns a horrid black color and gives of an acrid, tangy scent. The plants live for 1D4 days before they die and turn to ash. Anyone eating fruit from a plant so affected must immediately make a roll to save vs non-lethal poison or suffer from nightmares the following night and suffer a-1 penalty to attack rolls the next day from fatigue.

84-87%: The eyes are instantaneously afflicted with a coating of rust, causing blindness. The character is at -9 to strike, parry, or dodge. 88-91%: When the spell ends the character is drained of strength, suffering from a fatigue that induces a -4 penalty to strike, parry and dodge. 92-95%: Anyone within 20 feet (6.1 m) must make a roll vs insanity or suffer from a stress disorder that mimics one of the insanities listed on the Psychosis (1-50% chance) or Phobia Table (5-100%). The character rolls randomly to determine which insanity as per the table. This stress disorder is temporary and is a less severe version of the insanities on either table. (G.M's should give their players more leeway in how the insanities affect the characters, and players should tone down how they would play such an insanity to a more subtle level. 96-00%: Roll twice on the table. Ignore any further repeat of this roll. Effect Duration 01-07%: 1 melee action per level of the spell. 1-4 melee actions. 16-23%: 1D4 1-2 melee actions. 24-31% 1D6 melee actions. 32-39%: 2D4 melee actions. 40-47%: 1 melee round per level of the spell. 48-55%: 1D4 melee rounds. 56-63%: 1D6 melee rounds. 64-71%: 1D6+2 melee rounds. 72-79%: 1D4 minutes. 80-87%: 1D4+1 minutes. 88-95%: 1 minute per level of the spell. 96-00%: The effect lasts for as long as the spell it occurred with endures. Death: Death is an ever-present threat in Silent Hill, with the graveyard nearby the least of reminders. The dangers in town can, at times, be more cerebral than physical. In fact, death is sometimes preferred to the alternatives Silent Hill offers. Except in Silent Hill, it seems life and death have little meaning now and can twist and warp themselves, meld and pull apart, in the most amazing ways. If the GM allows it, perhaps resurrection is possible within the borders of Silent Hill---the creature known as Valtiel is suited for this purpose. Dying in one world can cause one to awaken in the other. Whether this resurrection is genuine or simply the cancellation of a false death is unclear. GMs shouldnt make a habit of threatening the characters with death show them alternative horrors, and make them believe these alternatives are worse. Time: Time in Silent Hill isunusual. More often than not time in the outside proceeds straight from past to present to future at roughly the same rate. This regularity is taken for granted by most, since they have never known time to behave any differently. Silent Hill makes people stop taking regular time for granted. Time itself in Silent Hill races, hitches, and chugs, like some worn video tape. Once inside the town limits, time's procession is not noticeably different. Perhaps a second here or there is missed. Perhaps something is heard a few moments earlier than the thing that originated the sound. In game terms, when characters are walking the streets of fogbound Silent Hill, G.Ms can feel free to have events happen slightly out of sequence. Shots are heard before a gun is fired. A note is left before anyone can be seen leaving it. While in combat, however, it seems that time proceeds more or less as normal, as wounds don't appear

before a monster attacks. Despite all these irregularities, time proceeds in a more or less straight fashion from past to future. This is not true for when the nightmare world swallows the gray world, and the entire rules are broken. Time functions exactly as the G.M deems fit. If it serves the purposes of the story, then time can behave anyway. Events could occur clearly out of sequence: characters could perceive themselves walking into a the building. Only one constant applies to time on the Otherworld: this malfunctioning time only works to benefit characters in indirect ways, such as giving pieces of information, or allowing them to speak with someone who is long dead. In all other cases, it serves to make things more difficult. However, no matter how time flows, obstacles are not undone and monsters remain unchanged. The Otherworld: Out of everything that Silent Hill has to offer, the Otherworld promises to be the most harrowing. When the Otherworld falls on the town, everything goes from bad to worse. The world warps, seeming to change to reflect the depravity of the world and of those in it. 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. These general transformations are hardly the whole of it. 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. Evidence of past brutality manifests. Caked blood is soaked into a first aid office bed, around which blood has been spattered on the floor. The exact time of the violence and the perpetrator are always a mystery. 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. Other, stranger things, also appear. Bodies are hung from meat-hooks in seeming display cases fashioned from bars, making them look more like cages. Gurneys are plentiful in some locations, complete with cadavers strapped to each one. Who these people were is not readily apparent, as all are bound in sheets. If one should wish it, then their identities might be discovered, or something truly horrible could lurk beneath the cloth. In the worst of cases, travelers find themselves thankful for the 'minor' inconveniences that mild cases present. In the worst cases, the floor and ceiling become covered with twice as much blood and rust. Certain doors are covered in stretched skin, skin that is apparently human. Certain walls and floors are composed entirely of flesh that convulses and bleeds. The normal geography of structures stops applying, as even new features are added. Furnaces used for cremation of innocent prisoners appear in previously non-existent basements. These new places are dominated with rust and normal surfaces are replaced with cast-iron grills and riveted steel. Blood is omnipresent in these 'unplaces.' Whether the transformation is mild or extreme, light becomes precious on the Otherworld. Oftentimes, light sources in the environment are rare or nonexistent. Even if they are present, the darkness oppresses any light, so that any rays it may produce feebly reach far shorter than they should. As such, when travelers are in the Otherworld

versions of buildings, then the same rules apply as those walking the fogbound streets after sundown. Mirror Images: When a connection is made the area around the individual changes, perhaps becoming distorted, as if through a seen through a dark mirror; buildings may be bent, burned or twisted, rivers might be stained red, or the setting might be just so, the changes subtle and not apparent until later. Using limited telepathy, the domain is able to sense what the creature(s) most fears, what he or she is guilty of, and what they hate, and instinctively uses this information to create the appropriate setting. Whatever the scenery, it will be familiar to the individual, subconsciously or not. The terrain, the monsters, the effects of magic, and even the enemies are all reflections of the individual. Once in the realm, the victims are placed in situations where they are confronted with a past deed or feeling or feelings of regret or guilt. While traveling throughout the realm, travelers (and anyone accompanying them) will see notes that hint at the character's past. As they progress, the hints become cleearer, as the character is forced to remember the act. The theme may end up replaying itself over and over. It's also important to realize that these emotions may stem from honest feelings and things beyond the character's control, like not being present at the moment of a loved ones death, feeling responsible for an accident, etc. These can represent any wrongful deed, from a murder committed by the Active Controller, to a time when the character did nothing and allowed some evil, cruel or tragic event to occur. The recreated moments might at first be subtle, their true meaning layered in symbolism, recognizable only on a subconscious level, but they will often become more blatant and clear as time passes. In some cases the Active Controller might had already made up for his or her mistake a hundred times, yet this Silent Hill entity will dredge up the smoldering embers of regret to breathe life back into them. At the close of the visit, the traveler can expect to face a living (or close enough) embodiment of the crime. Imprisonment: Silent Hill might focus on the inner turmoil of one specific individual or two, or three, or many (but this sort of situation works best with one or a very small group). The people from the outside can be brought into Silent Hill against their will, often without their knowing what happened for quite a while. These innocent bystanders will almost certainly be forced to participate by becoming involved with the newly created realm. The availability to roam will deliberately limited because beyond that space, the universe quite simply doesn't really exist. The effect is so real that no amount of meditation, mind block, or denial can erase it (no saving throw either). All participants will feel, hear, see, smell, and taste everything as if it were real. They will also feel pain, bleed, and die as they would in the real world. Active Control: Silent Hill setting is under the subconscious control of the person who brought the universe into being in the first place. Perhaps it can also be influenced/controlled by those inside the universe after its creation. The amount of control appears to depend on the persons magical/psychic ability or force of will. Dont let the players know this, as the horror would be lost. Outside Interaction: Silent Hill can interact with the outside from which it originally spawned in a number of limited ways. The most obvious manner is that it is identical the original universe over a given area immediately after its creation. This is altered by the will of those who created it or fight for control of it. Gates between the outside world and the universe can be created, these

consist of two concentric red circles filled with mystic symbols or whichever the GM finds to be appropriate. Also, even when completely trapped inside Silent Hill Universe, it is possible to see outside into the "real" world. This is done through windows in duplicated buildings that have not yet been altered significantly. Communication may or may not be possible, GMs call. Monsters: Monsters exist in this scenario, but they are here because of Active Control. What's worse, these creatures reflect the worst in people, painting their worst flaws onto twisted flesh. However, it is not known if these monsters are created or summoned from some other place. These monsters are most likely to appear as people or things perhaps wronged by the Active Controller, or they could be the standard Silent Hill monsters imported to torment the imprisoned. In the former case these monsters can be in the image of a rejected lover, a betrayed business partner, an abused relative, they can all be duplicated and sent against their intended target, the Active Controller. All will somehow be reflections of the Active Controllers darkest fears, desires, hostilities, and traumas and will fight until destroyed, or unless the Active Controller (does not include so-called innocent bystanders) involved can somehow atone for their crimes, come to the realization that they are not guilty for those acts, or role-play something that will solve Ejection: Escaping this domain is difficult, but it is possible to be ejected from the pocket universe, but so far the only methods of this appear to be to make whomever has active control release you, true, physical death or resolution of misdeeds committed. One can seemingly die without suffering permanent death, but again this appears to be an element of active control. To somehow make amended for the wrongful deed and accept the consequences is the most obvious way to escape, as will an acknowledgment of pass mistakes and a willingness to change for the better. This can be as simple as doing the right thing in a recreation, avoiding the mistakes of the past or coming to the realization that there was nothing that they should feel guilty about. Contemporary Players In Silent Hill: Nature vs Industrialism As Silent Hill is perceived through the protagonists' eyes, it is not always clear whether what is seen by the player character is a just a deranged hallucination or if the town is truly changing into the grotesque scenes that the player characters must travel through. The player will occasionally run across clear defiance of the laws of physics and logic. For example, the player characters may enter a doorway only to find themselves inexplicably back in the same location or somehow transported to a far away place. There are also times when the protagonist is situated in a location that cannot be pointed out on the map provided. One of the true essences of Silent Hills horror factor stems from the spirituality of humankind, and the potential for this spirits corruption. Though this corruption of the spirit is recognizable internally through parental irresponsibility, marital disloyalty, and maternal infestation, the main protagonists are also thrown into an environment of external disequilibria. In this campaign the players encounter a town surrounded not only by a physical mist concealing the predatory nightmares lurking around street corners, but also perhaps a veil of secrecy trying to bury the towns nightmarish past. The most interesting conflict however comes from the geography of the town. Places of function cease in their productivity, and contemporary

mankinds sudden dependency on technology is replaced by a feral battle between instinct and animal ferocity. The players witness machines acting inappropriately, streets leading to dead ends, telephones dying, televisions displaying static, and the securities of humanity turning renegade. In a heartbeat a friendly American town is transformed into a wasteland. Hospitals no longer heal. Schools no longer teach. Shopping centers no longer sell. The commercialism of man is sucked dry and they are thrown quickly back to the stone age when his pictorial lifestyle is torn asunder. The buildings seem more like coffins than buildings, the doors and windows dont open. SOUTH ASHFIELD (optional scenario): If one should walk up the path from the forest, away from the misty confines of Silent Hill, ones experience will be much different. They find themselves near a short retaining wall guarding the edge of a very steep incline. On a clear day, one could see all the way across the lake, to what the locals call the Old Town. As it is, the PCs can just barely make out a series of undulating silhouettes, the presumably silent hills which inspired the town's founders. The fog isn't so bad up here, but the town sits in a bowl, and this scenic cliff forms a part of its edge. Looking down, one can see no more than thirty feet. Tall, weepy trees poke through, their boles lost. The tunnel, and public restrooms, a tiny parking lot for visitors to the observation deck, and even the stone staircase are here. A metal grate blocks the tunnel, evidence of construction. There is no way around the heavy, unbreakable fence that blocks the entrance. There is also a National Park Service map. The map has a finger pointing toward concrete steps where the PCs came from. The map seems to offer a squiggly outline which presumably indicates a natural trail of some kind. It is a trail which canted to the west and spills out into town. The board also points the way to campgrounds; walks distinguished by markers of different colors, the reforestation project, and a ranger station, with a caveat that hikers enter at their own risk. The gray, deteriorated restroom nearby is one of the first things they notice. It is off to one side. Its door is ill-hewn and splintery, lusterless and finger-smeared where the finish hasn't worn away entirely. The word GENTLEMEN is spelled out in eight-inch metal caps. They yank on the handle; it is surprisingly heavy, beyond its mass. They pull harder and it reluctantly gives way. The hinges give a terrible screeching sound, like a thing in pain. The small hairs on the nape of their necks stands up as the sound saws through their eardrums and rakes along their spines. They step inside into a room choked with darkness and stink. The door creaks shut. The inside wall has been used as a sort of advertising board, still displaying tattered shouters for what looks to be a gentleman's club, plus a few others aged to the point of illegibility. The stench confirms

that this place is a restroom, and if ones eyes and nose are anything to go by, this place is severely past due for a cleaning by at least a few decades. Graffiti marks the pitted walls so completely, it might almost classify as a montage, and the floor is even worse. The sinks are dry. The mirror over the middle sink sports an oily stain, but it is clear enough otherwise. The dirty urinals are caked with a yellow, moss-like substance, the sticky wet floor soaks into the soles of their shoes. Outside, the chill seems to have deepened. The public restroom can not compare to the brightness that awaits them outside. A damp wind blows. Serried ranks of ancient evergreens recede up the slopes that flank the highway, parting occasionally to accommodate sparse stands of cold-stripped maples and birches that poke at the sky with jagged black branches. As they follow the curve, the land changes around them: the slope to their right angles upward more sharply than before to form the sheet edge of the cliff, while on the far side of the road, a black ravine yawns. White metal guardrails mark that precipice, but they are barely visible in the sheeting snow. The road cuts a path through ancient mountains. The sentinel forms of countless spruce and pine stand tall over either side of the road like black tombstones, loom from beneath the gray cover of fog. The evergreens loom a mile over the road, seeming to touch the heavens themselves, beyond ability to see. They come around a bend and notice something out of the ordinary sitting off to the side of the highway, slightly skewed against the cliffside. It is a motorcycle. Wearily trudging up the long path, they see steep ravines to either side of them, cradling fog between the pine trees and dead brush. A few more minutes of walking brings them in sight of a rectangular outline in the fog rising up from the side of the road. They approach it and the details of it become more clear its a large sign on which a name is written. It isnt lit but they have only to expend a little effort to read what is inscribed on it. It simply says, in old-fashioned lettering: Welcome to Silent Hill Enjoy your Stay! Thick pines and black-trunked elms crowd against the sides of the road now, swaying gently in the spring wind. The highway descends nearly a mile. At the crest it does not slope up again but continues across a flat table of land toward another gradual slope a mile away. The forest still looms up, the tall sentinel pines in grand array, the sprawling elms like generals inspecting the troops.

Arrival in South Ashfield: It is as if someone had taken the entire city, ripped it apart into a
thousand pieces, then put it back together haphazardlythe various objects are recognizable, but their placement is completely illogical, such as cars being on the roofs of buildings. They enter the city in what looks like the middle of an alleyway at top of a building. A sole, white candle marks where they have arrived, waiting for them to pick it up and put it in their pocket. Back Alley: There are windows in the wall far above, and below them square metal heating ducts run parallel to the floor. The corridor extends about a hundred feet or so in front of the PCs before turning left. Random pieces of junk and an old lamp are piled in the corners, the shade of

the lamp stepped on and bent. Several feet off of the floor, is an open door through which diffuse white light pours in, making their shadows incredibly elongated, stretching all the way to the end of the hall. The sun was setting in Silent Hill, but here, apparently, it is still daytime. So when is a factor here, as well. There is a washed-out advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the nearest wall. The walls are stained with dirt and rust, so they can't be very new. When is this? There are noises echoing down to them from far above. They are deafening, not that they can really pinpoint what any of them are. It sounds like the whooping noises of jungle animals, but none that they recognize. At first, they are bird chirps and squawks. But as they listen longer, the noises seem stronger, and louder. If these are birds, they sound like some very large ones. If they look up, they catch a movement just barely within their peripheral vision, then another. Quick dark figures caber across the gap between the walls, far above them, in and out of the low fog layer, leaping from one tall rooftop to the next. They can't really see what, but whatever it is, there are a lot of them, and they keep leaping from right to left as if swarming. Like a flock of birds, but they don't seem like birds. Then, one jump across just above them, then another...and legs and feet can be seen. Top of Hotel South Ashfield: The weather-stained alleyway is incredibly long, but once they get to the end, and enter a more open area, the noises get even louder and are now accompanied by various bangs and a man shouting. Past the bend, the walls turn into corners, and the PCs are on an open slab of concrete with a small water tower at one corner and a door that won't open at the other. From here, steps lead down, and they can see other open areas with railings and stairs and large rooftop ventilation fans, and rusty tin chimneys with odd conical hats suggest abandoned listening posts, and the walls of buildings facing out onto those slabs. It is a strange layout, like a jumble of building parts all shoved together, a dingy, melancholy little world of tar-paper, tarred gravel, and smoky brick. The first thing they see in this new area is a car, a old sedan parked to one side, but as they look around, they realize they are on top of a massive building so they have no idea how the car got there. There is no way that anyone could have gotten anything larger than a bicycle up here, not without airlifting it, and even then there was no reason for it to be up here. But there it is, parked neatly out of the way against the wall. They can peer through the windows. Empty. No helpful notes here. The caterwauling from earlier is still ear-splitting, and now there is also a metallic banging and slamming, too. Something is screeching, and screaming, and barking...multiple some-things. They walk over to the fence by the water tower and look out over their surroundings. Superficially it is like ten thousand other drab city roofs. But now, beyond the corridor the night sky stretches above them, and blackness surrounds the buildings in a smoky half-light that is tinged with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset. It is unusually bleak and suggestive, almost beautifully ugly, though in no sense picturesque; dreary, but meaningful. So, it is night out here. A light breeze wafts the scent of old dirt and oiled machinery past their nose, but the air is cold, and they shiver a little. There is a door, but it is locked, so they go down the fire escape stairs. As they make their way down, they hear a new sound. In the middle of the noise is a faint human voice. They cannot make out the words, but it sounds like a man's voice, yelling. Then, a booming gunshot...and another. Someone is up there, being mobbed by unknown screaming

things...and he is fighting for his life. They have no way of aiding him. There are no ladders or stairs or anything that they can see that can get them up to the rooftops. So they keep going down the stairs. As soon as their feet touch the bottom step, a thing drops down from above in front of the PCs. It looks like a naked, muscular man, but with the proportions altered so that it had long arms and short legs, and a thin pointed tail was added. So that it resembles an enormous, pinkish-gray hairless ape. thing even sounds like an ape. It has a terribly distorted face that vaguely resembles a burned human with hollow eyes, but its head has somehow lost its shape, as if it has melted, and now seems to be hanging there in two smooth, distorted lumps, one with eyes and one without, connected by stretched tissue. The smaller lump growing out its chest flops around, almost bonelessly, as it moves. Both are pointed in their direction, and this thing looks as though it could beat them into a pulp without breaking a sweat. Getting around it isnt an option. Its reach is too long and its probably pretty fast. Is this...is this one of the things they saw earlier? Jumping between the buildings? If so, there are more of them around. A lot more. The thing hoots at them, looking at the PCs up and down and deciding they are either suitable prey or predators that needs to be driven out. It is close enough now for them to smell, the hot and musky scent of urine and feces and wildness, of overpowering infection. The PCs swing with the pipe, giving it a good blow to the side of the head. Flinching as if shocked for a moment, the Romper shakes its head to get a hold of itself before standing straight up, bulging its biceps out and shaking furiously, roaring at them. Unfazed the PCs attack again, earning another roar and a swing from the opponent. Although the arms are muscular and the hits hurt, they are short-ranged and cant reach the PCs at the distance they are standing, of which they can be thankful. It takes quite a few hits to bring the creature down, but the PCs persevere until they backed it up against the wall, constantly attacking it until it slides to the ground. Giving a gurgled cry it reaches out a hand towards them before it falls back down, dead. Again, there is nothing of interest nearby, so they go down another flight of stairs. There is a door and another car here, this one has crashed through the chainlink fence and is teetering over the edge. The skid marks curve from all the way back to the crooked entrance. The PCs eyes follow up the buildings that closes them in on two sides, from the few bright apartment windows to the buzzing Fuseli sign to the ledge next to the sign. Large red neon letters blaze out toward the street from the fence beside them. The letters are backwards from their perspective, ...E...T...O...H... The car might be worth looking inside. No reason not to look. As they reach for the door handle, suddenly, something dropsseemingly from the skyand lands in front of them with a heavy thump. They realize that it is another of those ape-like creatures, as a second one lands about five feet to the left, and they are stuck between two more ape-things. After dispatching the first one, to their surprise, the second one hasnt moved and simply stands there. It seems that, unlike the previous monsters they have encountered, these creatures are more honorable fighters and will only attack one at a time. The PCs arent going to give them the same courtesy, however.

They stop for a moment, stooping down to pick up an open old diary on the ground. Blowing the dust off and gently wiping the page clean. The handwriting on it is an adults, but the words are those of a child. I want to go back to that time... Things were so good then... The day of my birthday... The cute cat in the pet store... All those balls in the basket... Playing pool was fun too... The door of time was wide open... When I see four things, I cant help but remember that time... Flipping through the diary proves fruitless; there are no other entries pointing them any closer to the meaning of the first entry. None of the pages were even written on, there is just the one entry spanning the one page in the middle of the book. There was some reason the diary had lain face up and open to the entry page, however vague and unreachable that reason may be. They hope the world would present itself with an answer, as it had always seemed to do before, but at the same time they arent and can't be sure. They walk across a dark, enclosed alleyway that brings on a sense of claustrophobia between the wet bricks and the lonely lights shining over the two doors on opposite ends of the alley. Moving themselves along, they open the door on the far end. Walsh Home: Going through the door, the PCs are met with a continuous gurgling noise that is every once in a while interrupted by a moan. Walking carefully forward down a little wooden hallway to the open door at the end, they see the last thing one expects to see in this place...a cozy little room with a lighted kitchen area and a dining table. It is a smallish room that hasn't been inhabited for quite some time by the looks of it. The hallway alone has paint faded and chipped, blue-and-gold runner dirty and threadbare, furnishings coated with thick layer of dust. The lights are even dimmer than outside, like gray candle-glows, as though they, too were part of the degenerative process; but they are strong enough to reveal the grime on the ceilings and walls, the dust-filled cobwebs, the mold that spreads from corners and recesses, the long, dark cracks in the wood paneling. Strips of tattered wallpaper hang loose above the oak panels, and scraps that might have been fallen plaster from the ceiling litter the floor. The large circular table is covered with balloons, wrapped presents, colorful streamers (that were once vivid, but had faded over time) hanging from the above, and a round white cake, and plastic forks and paper plates as well. A bottle of champagne is here, unopened, with champagne flutes next to it. There is an open box of matches on the table next to the cake. Cobwebs lie heavily over everything as well as a thin layer of dust, but the cake doesnt look moldy or crumbled or anything but there is the all-pervading pungency of decay, the redolent perfume of emptiness. Quite a sad display. The entire time they have been in the room, they have been hearing an odd soundsomething like the sound of someone struggling to suck in air, a wet, burbling noise, but it is too steady and continuous to be human and after awhile, it nearly has become background noise. But as they walk around the table where one of the chairs has been knocked over, they finally realize where it is coming from and jump a little at the sight. There is a thin and lanky man in a

ratty green sweater and pants lying on the floor, twitching and wiggling slowly. Even in the poor light the PCs can discern the deathly paleness, almost as though his face and hands had been dusted with fine white powder. And his skin is withered, puckered and blemished in parts as though rotting. His neck is discolored with dark bruising, vivid against his unnatural pallor, and the flesh there is deeply indented, his head tilted awkwardly to one. The blood on his chest is the only spot of color in the whole room apart from the paper streamers. In his stomach, someone has plunged an odd-looking sword with a triangular-shaped wooden handle. The handle glows with a slow and steady pulse. The Victim is completely immobilizedunable to move, to grab them, or hurt them at all. His pale eyes that burn with pain and hatred; emphasized by his slit pupils. There is a door in front of him, which they try, but it is locked. A glint catches their eyes and they realize that the Victim is holding tightly something shiny in its hand. On closer inspection, they see that it is a key. Reluctantly they must kneel beside the flailing spectereven without the headache, it is an unpleasant experience. The thing has chalk-white skin and is covered in blood, its mouth open and its eyes are rolled back into its head, like a caricature of someone having a seizure. You gingerly reach out and touch its hand, but suddenly jerk your hand awayyou expect it to feel cold, but the sensation is still unsettling. You take a deep breath and try again, determined to go through with it this time. You pull back its icy fingers and find a key, which you yank away quickly. Standing up, you stare at the key. A light bulb hangs from a cord in front of a door leading out of the kitchen into who-knows-where. You try the key on the door, and sure enough, the knob turns. You stop and turn to look at the Victim again and pause. The ghosts eyes look at them for a few seconds, then move towards the plump birthday cake waiting untouched on the platter and stares at it longingly. Had it been his birthday party? The day of my birthday... You dig the package of birthday candles out of your pocket, rip the plastic away from the candles. Sticking the candles in the cake, and then... Nothing. Just as you should logically expect. The ghost moans at them and they turn leave the door just as the circle of candles burns to life on their own. Interior Staircase A: The key opens the locked door next to him, and then the PCs are on the landing of an enclosed metal staircases fenced in with chain link. It is large and redand filled with leeches. There are 6D6+12 giant leeches on the stairs and around the glowing red panels on the walls, but these are red slugs, not blue, and more rounded. A few are scattered across the steps, hanging from threads of slime or tracking glistening paths across the gray metal. They don't want to get near them, afraid that they might attack if they get too close, or hurt one of them but they don't want to backtrack, either. It feels like time is speeding up, like things are happening fast and faster, that they have to keep up or risk being lost. The descending stairway leads to an ivory-colored walkway that has an odd rusty red pattern on it reminiscent of a spine. What makes it even more unsettling are the sounds heardhighpitched gurgling noises alternating with a series of low, resonating growlswhich seem to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It sounds angry, as if this walkway were a huge

digestive organ that protests their presence. But at the same time it sounds as though it were groaning and stretching. In growing pains, though there is no precise way to be sure. When the PCs turn a corner, they notice a large panel on the wall that has another strange design this one has pinkish red and white forming random shapes, almost appearing runny, and it is blurry and glowing, as if it were being projected on the wall and is out of focus, but if that is the case, they cannot tell where the projector is. They come to another descending stairway and as they reach the bottom, they come to another square-shaped area identical to the last one theyve been in: the projected red and white image on the far wall. The added sound effectsthe internal sounds, along with more growling continue, confirming the "internal" feeling. . At the end of the hall is a door instead of stairs. Interior Hallway A: Outside is a little enclosed hallway with two doors. Interior Storage Room: Beyond the second door is what looks like a storeroom...or what was once a storeroom. It is mostly empty, save for some freestanding dilapidated shelves that are crumpled and listing nowapparently it was a store that had been completely cleared out a long time ago. There is a horrible smell in the room and they realize that it is coming from one of the other collapsed shelves where something is draped over the edge, something that looks like a very large piece of skin of some unknown animal, lying abandoned. It stinks terribly, but the smell is familiar by now, so at least they know what it was. Averting their eyes from the skin, they observe that most of the room is blocked off by broken shelves, most of them looking like they were tossed about by a giant. Some of them are even bloodstained, to match the one with the dead skin hanging off of it. On one shelf, the PCs findthankfullyanother red box of ammunition. As they pocket it, they see that the walls have separated in the corner behind the shelves and they can see into whatever lies beyond, but there isnt much there apart from a single low-wattage light bulb used to illuminate what is a small area throws shadows into the corners. They cant get through the shelves to the space, anyway. Also among the shelves is a white candle, which the PCs pick up curiously. It looks strangely new, unlike the rest of the storeroom, and it gives off a faintly sweet smell. Albert's Sports Store: The next place is a sports equipment storea one-room shop with no windows. There is a counter with a cash register, and shelves with assorted things on them. Like the rest of the building, it looks old and abandoned. dust collecting in the corners and settling on the scattered sports equipment. Some of the equipment is horribly misshapen, golf clubs bent at awkward angles, various deflated basketballs and volleyballs, tennis rackets torn to shreds, ripped bags crushed amongst the collapsed shelves. It is definitely in disarray and most of the shelves here are dilapidated, as if somebody had picked up one of those broken golf clubs and gone off on everything in sight. The shelves are smashed, and things are scattered all over the floor. Maybe whoever had wrecked the place had robbed it as well. They look around, thinking that they might find a decent weapon in this room. There isn't much left intact. Just shredded soccer jerseys and a basket full of volleyballs and golf bags with broken golf clubs and baseball bats. Most of the sporting goods are broken or plastic, useless as weapons. Still they can manage to collect a strong aluminum bat with a wrapped handle that are

still in good shape. The bat is battered and bent, but it is still in working order; there are also several other golf clubs in the corner that aren't ruined that will serve as a quick and useful substitution should they be needed. Both can do a fair amount of damage, better than the steel pipe, even if the golf clubs could easily break. Still they balance nicely in hand; straight as an arrow, and still fairly new. There is an air of bygone days clinging to the atmosphere of the shop, bringing with it a sort of pitying sadness. Still, there was a sort of familiarity in the sports shop that brings some ease with the pity. No blood drips from the walls, there is no underlying stench of decay, and nothing is off-color or out of place. Except for, of course, the curious unopened package of birthday candles on the counter. You havent given two thoughts about birthdays until you had read the diary on the ground only minutes before; perhaps this is part of the process of the puzzles solving themselves. You slide it off of the counter to examine it, turning it over in your hand. Pocketing the package of candles you look at the two doors apart from the one theyve entered through offers up an exit. Kicking away a volleyball, you try one of the doors to find it thoroughly locked, so they must take the one on the right. Interior Staircase B: They end up outdoors again with more grated fencing and narrow stairs it's as if the place is mostly made of fire escapes. The wall looks like it was originally white, but is now mostly streaked with red. The stairs are sparsely lit, and as the PCs descend them a deep breath exhales darkly in the blackness beyond the stairs. Old newspaper pages are scattered on the metal flooring; they are torn, but one of the articles catches their eye "According to the Ashfield police, on at approximately 8:30 in the evening, witnesses near the pet store, Garland's, reported the sound of multiple gunshots, possibly from an automatic weapon. By the time police arrived, the perpetrator had already fled and the shop owner, Steve Garland, was found dead with a probable submachine gunshot wound to the head. All of the store's animals were brutally slaughtered and the store left in extreme disarray. In addition, inside sources say that Garland's heart had been removed, and on his back 5 numbers were carved ... " The picture that accompanies the article shows the interior of the pet shop. There are no bodies, but blood is everywhere, enclosed in yellow police tape. The rest of the article is torn away, and they cannot find it among the other newspaper pages on the floor. They leave them there and descend the stairs. As soon as they start down the stairs, strange noises float up from the bottom floor. At first, one cannot tell what it is, as the sound is jumbled up-whatever is making the noise isn't alone, there are a lot of them. The sounds are high and low pitched, some are gruff and halting while others are more like mewling and whimpering. This is definitely one of the stranger sounds they have heard here, mainly because it is a relatively normal sound, setting it apart from the rest. It is the sound of animals barking, growling, bellowing, baying, grunting, yelping and sundry noises. The animals do not sound like they are in pain, they are merely in distress-it is the sound one would hear in any vet clinic or kennel. Or a pet store. Interior Staircase B: At the bottom of three flights of stairs is another creaky door.

Garland's Pet Shop: The next room is apparently another abandoned store with shelves running down the sides and middle, as well as empty cages against the far wall. There are small oval signs hanging in the aisles, and bags and boxes on the shelves and somethings claws clicking on the floor as it walks. This place is in better shape than the sports storejust old and abandoned, not torn up. There isnt much of interest in the little pet shop, just dog and cat food enough to feed an army of pets, empty cages and assorted supplies like rawhide bones and rubber chew toys, pet collars in a range of sizes and designs. There is an open bag of dog snacks on one of the shelves. Their eyes immediately fall on a plush, stuffed toy cat in one of the empty cages, complete with a pink sewn on collar. It has droopy ears that give it a sad countenance, and its once white fur is now covered in dirt. Suddenly, they are pulled out of their thoughts by the ear-splitting and repetitive banging sound of machine gun shots. The shots continue, and are soon joined by the ear-piercing yelping of dogs and the screaming of cats, along with the sounds of metal cages crashing to the floor, with many other objects, and shattering glass. The PCs reflexively stay close to the ground, holding each other, in silent terror. The sounds of the animals dying. Wretched, helpless barks and meows, terrified into oblivion, screaming in the utmost pain there is, wallowing in confusion and blood as they each die in their cages, one by one. You scream in horror and clasp your hands over your ears and hunch your shoulders, willing for the noises to stop. The animals screech and yowl for mercy in a language any creature can understand; they can only imagine the carnage, the mangled remains, and the awful smell that will soon follow as the innocent animals fall. Soon, the animal sounds taper off, followed by the machine gun sounds. A few of the unlucky animals are apparently still alive, as a weaker version of the sounds of dogs and cats whimpering returns, followed by a return of the gun sounds. Soon after the animals are silenced for good, the gun stop as well. Then there is a silence almost as deafening as the noises. Merciful, ugly silence. The PCs stand, and wait a few more seconds to make sure that everything is over. You stare at the article, dumbfounded that it is true, that it is something that happened. You stare at the door for awhile, then they cautiously reach for the doorknob. It is deadly silent inside the store now. Extreme disarray doesnt even begin to cover the shape of the pet store. The walls are now pocketed with an obscene amount of large bullet holes, and the animals cages are scattered on the floor, along with broken glass and nearly all of the various supplies have been knocked off the shelves. There are no bodies, naturally, but there is blood splattered everywhere.

Fortunately, a new sound distracts them from the horror they have just witnessed: the sound of a bell, slow, regal, and traditional. The gongs of the clock get louder as they descend the stairs, and as they open the door at the bottom the sound rings clear and precise. Clock Room: A door at the bottom of the staircase opens up into an odd-looking room. As they go through the door, they immediately notice strange thingsfirst of all, they have to step down about a foot when going through the door and once they do, they are standing on a ramp sliding down from the door to an uneven floor. To their left, a lamp is bolted to the wall, next to the door, but it is near their feet and they have to blink upon looking at it because they end up staring directly at the bulb as the shade doesn't shield them from it, as the lamp is upsidedown. They look up and see a stairway leading from the top of the door to the ceiling. It appears to be an ordinary room, possibly a hotel room, but with one major problem: the PCs are standing on its ceiling. The entire thing is upside downit is completely consistent to the point where one nearly feels a sense of vertigo, as if one might fall. They take a hesitant step forward down the ramp leading from the door (it is in fact a beam for the ceiling), which leads to a plain-looking "floor" with some grated squares that almost suggest air conditioning vents. They look up and see the couches and tables fixed above them to the chain link fences that line the "ceiling. Across from them are more ramps, and a door with a rather large upside-down clock on it - no, the clock is the right side up; they are the ones who are upside-down. Next to the door is a light with a shade that was too upside down, with little regards to gravity. The chiming of the clock is now so loud it nearly hurts their ears, and now it is accompanied by a loud ticking. The strangest thing is that the pendulum hanging down from the clock face pays no heed to gravity and stands erect as if it was held there. They approach it by climbing up another ramp slowly, feeling terribly disoriented. The clock looks normal up close; in fact it resembles the clock from 302. This one is not moving. The ringing will not stop, and the time that the clock reads doesnt even call for the gongs to ring. The hands are stopped at 10:06 precisely, and the latch on the clock face is rusted shut. The noise is loud but not deafening, however, they have nowhere else to go. Peeking behind the clock they notice the door, with a rusted knob that is also placed upside down. Reaching around the bulk of the clock, the PCs find the door knob and twist it. They push against the door it is mounted on. There was a click and the clock stops cold, from the pendulum to the sound of the bells. The door opens as the PC pull back. The door of time is wide open. The PCs leave the room together, shutting the door behind them. Exterior Staircase E: The room they enter is peculiar. The next area is another square-shaped room that appears to be on (at least) the second floor and the center of the room is nothing but a pit that sinks beyond their vision, and the pathway that borders the perimeter of the walls. The square room is lined with dozens of lockers and doors, many of which are missing door knobs and appear to not work.

The PCs walk past four doors in a row, that are only about a foot away from each other-it makes no sense, but then again, this world in particular is pretty nonsensical-but they try each one anyway, to find that they are all locked, because the only thing worse than trying every door and finding out that none of them open is not trying them, hitting a dead end and then having to go all the way back up and do it all over again. To make matters worse, 2D4 Victims are appearing from the walls. Surprisingly idle, as if the ghosts are only there to keep them on their toes, the ghosts do little to interfere or harm them, and even back away when they reach the one working door at the bottom. Around the corner, they pass another door that is also locked. To the left of the path, where there is no floor under it, is a door that is wide open, but there appears to be nothing but darkness inside (not that they can get to it anyway). At the bottom of a flight of stairs are four more doors. The first is locked, but the second and third are open-well, the third one is open, the second one has the door ripped off, which lies flat on the floor in front of the doorway. They step into it, but see nothing but darkness, almost as if the world ends here. But they reach out and feel a solid surface, a wall, only about three feet from the doorway-they can't see it, but they can feel it. They walk along until they reach a corner and can go no further. They turn around and realize that they are now where the second doorway is, so they exit through that one. They turn two more corners, passing eight more doors-none of which are unlocked-before going down another flight of stairs. Finally at the bottom, they try one more door, and this one leads out of the room. Warehouse: The next area is a large, industrial-looking room made out of concrete with a middle section that was fenced off with chain-link. The concrete walls are not painted here, and the fluorescent fixtures overhead are fewer and farther apart than in the corridor that they have just left. Beyond the chain-link on one side is a narrow spiral staircase that stretches far up the wall, and is completely inaccessible. They have no idea why it is there, or where it leads to. But of more immediate concern is hearing the annoying chattering of Rompers. As soon as they step inside, their hearts drop the moment they hear the click of the lock behind them after the door has shut. Rompersa group, no, a horde of them, and all of their soulless eyes are fixated on them. There are two running around to the left, on their side of the fence-they are far away, but have spotted the PCs, and are already beginning to make their way in their direction. The apes are armed with golf clubs, too, just to keep things interesting. The PCs do not have time to count before they roar and leap and suddenly they are overwhelmed. The shovel is quite effective in keeping the bulk of the muscular creatures back for only a moment if they raise it to chest level like a bar. Your weapon catches the head of one of the outside Rompers, and as it flinches you continue to beat it to the ground until its skull caves under the ferocity of the attacks. You hit the next one forward, but something grabs your arm.

Gasping in shock, you look in horror as a Romper sneers at you. Your eyes widens as you fear the worst and suddenly you are being dragged across the ground, pain from your biceps twisting slowly around your arm. Two other Rompers break away from the mob with the one that hold you hostage and the gravity of the situation comes crashing down on your shoulders. There are no words. You should've screamed but there are no words to tell of your predicament, to shout of your impending doom. The Romper drops you on the concrete and you choke. Another hand grabs the space between your calf and ankle, and as it raises you up into the air you claw pathetically at the concrete, causing your nails to split and bleed. It was then that you find your voice to scream. Not letting yourself go without a fight, you writhe and twist, reaching forward to try and scratch any part of the Romper you can reach, kicking out to deter any other Rompers from coming closer though you can almost sense their presence standing there, watching you. Disgusted, the Romper shake you and you scream again, partly in rage, partly in anticipatory terror. Something rough and crude grasps you, and you hang frozen as time slows down while you came to terms with what is happening. Lips trembling uncontrollably you look down and see where the grubby, malformed hand is clutching. Your screams increase tenfold. Inadvertently, ever so accidentally, your sight passes over its thighs and it is as though you was going to faint from how surreal the situation seems though the horrid fingers still dug into your body. With the last of what you can control, you fold your free leg, and whip it out. Miraculously, it strike the Romper square in the face and its hold on you releases. The weight of the shovel in your hands disappears, becoming a mere extension of your arms, and you lash out, pushing the line of Rompers back. Thrusting the shovel forward, you gut one, and with a vile swing that eviscerates it, slams into the chest protrusion of another. The other Rompers start screeching and hooting in alarm, but you ignore them. A smaller one leaps out of your way, and the largest of the three, no, the largest of all the gorillas there, growls and stand to its full height, taller and much stronger than you. Flinching in surprise from the ferocity of the attacks, the creature hops in rage, lopes forward and closes its fists together to smash down on your unprotected head. You swing the shovel, slicing a thigh and attacking the place that the monster deserves it most. Instead of screaming in pain, though, it roars in rage as it backs up, blood dripping down its leg. Your long leg curls and knees the gorilla in the abdomen. With a powerful swing of the shovel you sever its head in a spray of blood splatting in a line drawing back to you. The head rolls in front of the crowd of shocked gorillas, and the huge body crumbles. Interior Staircase F: Around the next corner is another door which leads to another fire escape area where the floors are made out of chain link, the walls out of brick, and everything else is made of old, rusted metal.

Exterior Staircase A: They backtrack to the sports supply store and the key opens the formerly locked door. It leads them back out onto the roof of the building, albeit a different part of it. Outside is a large, outdoors metal staircase, like a fire escape. Blackness surrounds the building, just as it had before, and the gap between the stairs and the building next door seems bottomless. As they are approaching the fire escape, a disturbingly humanoid-sounding howl cuts through the silence like a knife. The staircase leads, of course, to another fire escape, where they see two Rompers sauntering up the steps below them. As they walk along, to the next set of steps, another one drops down directly behind. They go around the corner to the next set of steps where the two remaining Rompers are reaching the top. They keep coming at them as they head down the stairs and run across the small concrete roof at the bottom. At the top of the first flight of stairs, there is a growl. Knowing that it is harmless doesnt help much and doesnt stop them from flinching. At the top of the second flight of stairs is the screeching sound of feedback, which is not only less threatening, but it clinches the idea that the sounds are harmless and merely meant to make them uneasyit is more of a random oddity than anything else. The yellow neon letters running down the side of the building tells them that they are somewhere near the Restaurant Fuseli. After going down two more flights of stairs, they have reached the bottom. Two more Rompers have dropped from the skyone of them is stark white and dark red in various places, looking almost as if it has been skinned. They lope after them on all fours, screeching like chimpanzees. They come to another alleythere are several doors, but they are all locked. Balcony: Down below the edge of the walkway is another open space of flat concrete, perhaps a parking lot, albeit one on top of a building. A set of elevator doors appear to be on the side of a neighboring building, on its ledge, where a narrow path bridges the gap between the two buildings, just beyond a surrounding chain link fence. In it is another car parked to the left, an old station wagon this time. There seems to be a short walkway connecting the space to the area by the elevator shafts. Maybe they can get on one of these elevators. They begin walking in the direction of the elevators, but they stop suddenly when they realize that the medallion/radio begins to hum and they feel it vibrate. They hear a strange sound coming from behind them that can only be described as a humanoid croaking sound. You jump a little and whirl around, but even before you make it halfway, the medallion/radio has suddenly stopped reacting. There is nothing in front of you, save for the asphalt ground and the way youve just walked through. They barely have time to wonder if they are losing their minds before they hear the noise and the medallion/radio begins shuddering again. They look in front of themselves, and then to the sides, and then behind, and down, and then finally upward, and their blood freezes. They then see the form of a man. He seems to be dressed in black, sharp clothes that are since tattered from use. His clothes look dirty and singed, his hair wildly messed up, and he is not wearing black, but rather the clothes had been charred black as though they had been through a fire.

They notice all this in a very brief moment, along with the fact that he already has a rusty pipe raised high. As they stand with their eyes fixed on him, he topples forward, and disappears. He touches down and begins to walk toward them, swinging his pipe and jabbering in some low growl. He is a dark figure with short, receding hair, and a striped shirt and obnoxious tie. There is an intensely hateful look in his eyes as he glares. But the humanity in his eyes has left, there is nothing on his face save for dried columns of blood that have oozed from the numbers carved on his head: 19/21 Them image of the man flickers like a blur and disappears. The PCs swing around, astonished, and they suddenly find themselves face to face with the creature. The ghost raises its arm jerkily. His movements are not jerky in a zombielike sense; rather, he looks like a video picture that would momentarily get stuck and keep shaking at a certain spot. They see bulging white eyes webbed with veins and the dark pipe before a PC feels the heavy iron bite in his shoulder. There is no warning as the crowbar rakes down your back. 19th Victim, Richard Braintree, I.Q. 11, M.E. 6, P.S 12, P.P. 15, P.B 6, Speed 8..S.D.C: 22. Horror Factor: 15. Powers: In addition to the standard Victim powers, Richard is able to make short, quick teleportation up to three feet away in any direction. Damage: Wields a pipe which inflicts 1D6 damage, plus P.S damage. More determined now, the PCs fight back, which causes him to stumble back before disappearing. Knowing what to expect this time, they whirl around, and block another hit from his pipe. He disappears again, immediately. He is between them and the elevator, and at this point, they have time to wind up and hit him hard this time. You swing as hard as you can and the man falls, shimmers, and disappears again, and immediately you bolt for the elevator, figuring that he will appear behind where you were standing when you hit him. They are literally in the process of going through the doors, when the last of the PCs suddenly feels a sharp pain on a shoulder as the pipe comes down on itthe Victim has gotten one last hit in, and this one the PC was unable to parry or dodge. You scream and stumble forward, nearly falling, but you manage to keep going until you are through the already-closing doors. Exterior Elevator Access: One is gone, but the other is present, and actually opens when the button is pressed. So they run in and the doors close behind them. The elevator is cool and dark. It is a freight elevator, with doors on either side, chain-link walls and floor, and three floor buttons on the control panel. The empty shaft next to them tells the PCs that this elevator is indeed one of a pair. The floor, much to their dismay, is grated. It is a little unnerving due to seeing that there is nothing but the grating between them and the vast, alien elevator shaft, but the elevator operates smoothly enough that if they keep their eyes off of the floor they feel fine. And the best thing about it is that they are alone in here. There is nothing running or slurping or floating along to get in their way. They can flop back against the wall and catch their breaths for a moment before the elevator suddenly starts moving downward by itself. They have several

seconds before it reaches the next floor and the doors will opena few wonderful seconds to rest and not think. After a couple of seconds, there is a second noise echoing up the elevator shaft, a noise that sounds very similar to the noise their elevator is making. Then, they see steel and chain-link on the other side, and the other elevator is passing by on its way up. Their elevator finally stops at the bottom floor. The doors opens to a fenced off corridor on the right, so the PCs have no choice but to go left. They notice that the other set of elevator doors is open, and they enter to find a ladder leading downwards. Interior Hallway B: They are now in a long, narrow industrial-looking metal hallway that turns and twists in nonsensical ways, all glowing green and concrete under the dim ceiling lights. The dimness stretches back into what seems like infinity, as if the whole world were a place of metal and scurrying machines and fear, scented with the ozone reek of terror. The narrow hallway is silent. Not even outdoor noises seemed to penetrate the walls. In a dead-end, there are three items; a Sword of Obedience, a box of revolver bullets, and a sturdy, previously owned shovel. Your eyes brighten at the sight of the shovel and you pick it up first, weighing it in your hands. It is slightly heavier than you are used to, but it looks strong and faithful. They look around and find a ladder leading downwards. Shower Room: Drains and shower heads. This is a shower room. The floors are concrete, still, but the walls are covered in dingy tile, and there is a dampness in the air. They come to a concrete room where they hear a sound that reminds them of rain. In the underground passageway, just in front of the ladder that leads back to the surface, they find the way blocked by a thick patch of some kind of fungus-like growth - except that it is taller than they are, and the individual mushroom-like stalks are waving about in what seems like a very sentient manner. They have no choice but to begin clearing them away with sword and bat. The growths give out a terrible stink as they are hit and disintegrate into the damp floor that they grew on. If they accidentally touch one of them, their skin turns a furious red and painful blisters begin to form, almost as if one has been burnt (1D4 damage). Oozing yellow fluid and the bitter scent of sulfur, the severed and burst tendrils curl and twist with great agitation and then dissolve into an inert mush. When the last of the fungi-like growths have finally turned into mush, they walk to the ladder at the end of the passageway. At the foot of the ladder is a white cue ball, the kind used in billiards or pool. The ball is smooth and hard and heavy. Somewhere out there, there's a set of billiard balls missing its cue ball. Unfortunate. One can't play a game of pool without it... A game of pool. ...somebody missed being able to play pool. It is just a memory. This whole world, like the others, feels like a world from a dream...but perhaps, it is a world of memory... They sigh wearily and climb the ladder. At the top is a wooden cover that they are able to push away easily. Exterior Alleyway A: No sooner have they climbed onto the surface, then they hear the chattering of more Rompers. They are in another long U-shaped corridor, just outside of the Hotel South Ashfield building. They can try a doorknob that is in front of them, but it is locked. They are at a dead end of an alleyway, so there is no avoiding them. They wait, perhaps too long as the first romper stands up stiffly and approaches them, broad, bulbous chest thrust outward in a stance of dominance. When the romper has come into range the PC swings the club in an overhand arc onto its head. Bits of scalp stick to the bloodied end of the

club, but the thing's skull is thick and stubborn. The PC swings again with all the force his weary torso could give the PCs time to duck to avoid being hit. There is a loud thwack, then the unmistakable sound of cracking bone, and the creature stumbles before roaring angrily. Recognizing that it is going to charge, the PC quickly swings again, driving the romper's force to the wall. The sudden short stop of the creature hitting concrete ripples through the club and up their arms. Before they knew it the club has given way and the shaft bent in an odd shape, curving back over itself. Hissing through their teeth, the PC steps back, shaking their hands vigorously to get rid of the pins and needles sensation the club has given him/her. The second PC pushes past the first, beating on the Romper before it can rise again. The crack in the skull soon becomes a hole, and with a miniature fountain of blood squirting from a burst blood vessel the muscled monster crumples and dies. You drop the club. Useless. There is still a lame shuffling in the alleyway, no doubt another of the gorilla-like creatures. Stopping just before the corner rounds, the PCs heave in deep breaths, and peer around the concrete. There it is, another Romper, with its back facing them. Good fortune. You step out and tentatively began to creep down the alley. Your companions keep their place behind you, wary. You are frozen solid, staring straight into the hideous drooling face in front of you. The gorilla allows you to stare, its almost non-existent nostrils flaring and sniffing the air. How the thing can see, you have no idea. Maybe it can't see. Its eyes are nothing more than bloody sockets, after all, and the bloody mess travels down the monster's neck and to its chest where the bulbous protrusion seems to shower in it. Its jaw is flimsy but present, if one can call ligaments and loose muscle 'present'. To contrast the blood its skin is pasty and clammy, a sharp white. You have no reason to believe its head has any skin. But you would much rather stare at its skin rather than its gouged eyes. The eyes make you uncomfortable. Like there is something more to them than just being a hideous addition to the ape-creature. If you stares at them long enough you swore that the contours of the cheeks and eyes seem to be far too familiar for your tastes. Familiar enough that you swore you saw them every time you glanced into a mirror. The gorilla falls to the floor, floundering until you crush its neck. The next two lope toward the PCs on all fours. One stops a few feet awayapparently it is the other one that plans on attacking first, while charging one tries something differentit roars to intimidate them, challenging them, calling them weak, reminding them that their lives are all in the creature's malformed hands. To prove that point, the monster rears back, exposing its bleeding stomach, and raises a tight fist above its head to crush their skulls. It even pounds its chest, causing the second head on its chest to wobblea disgusting sight. It charges at them. It is then that they realize that there is a fourth one that they havent noticed before. It crouches between an old beat-up vending machine and a pile of boxes, blocking the only door and wielding a pipe. It is hopping around anxiously, but it stays in front of the door, waiting for the PCs to get closer. You let your shoulders relax, more from exhaustion than from being at ease. Your eyes close in suit, and you breathe deeply, calming yourself down. What you had seen in the gorilla's face, what you had felt, it was an illusion. It wasn't real. Things are certainly symbolic in this world, but that, that would be far-fetched, wouldn't it be? Wouldn't it be?

They go down another path with lined on both sides by small shops, closed and shuttered for the nightthere are plenty of doors, but they are all locked. They turn a corner and hear the familiar sound of four-legged footsteps. They follow the alleyway down to its end. Something metallic glints off of a worn volleyball amongst many cardboard boxes, catching the eye. It is a small silver disk attached to a long chain a medallion of some sort. Examining the necklace shows its age, weight, and the lackluster shine of aged silver. Designs weave throughout the surface, etched along the outer rim in intricate patterns. While touching it a strange feeling of serenity overcomes the holder then, and suddenly, one feels better than they have in a long time. Whether this sensation of peace is just in their mind or emanating from the medallionthe feeling is comforting. Hanging the Medallion around ones neck, they look curiously at the volleyball. The billiard ball weighs their pocket down heavily, as a reminder. They think back to the diary they found, and the basket of volleyballs in the sports shop. What the hell. It can't hurt. They pick up the single volleyball in plain sight and roll it under ones arm. It would be cumbersome in battle but they can always retrieve it again. Now they have a billiard ball and a volleyball. They continue down the path and turn right. Another open area. Another door on the other side. By the door, the area borders a large, open gap between the buildings, and as they look up and down at the floors and floors of identical bright windows and pipes, they feel just a touch of vertigo. They go up and down as far as the eye can see, fading into blackness at both ends. It is like some mad architects personal urban nightmare. Gigantic Fan Room: The next room contains another set of descending stairs that leads to a huge square-shaped room. There are lights fixed to the ceiling, and a grating below the ceiling where a huge ceiling fan has been installed, causing a massive, constantly-rotating shadow to be cast on the floor, which is white and rust-colored with an odd pattern that vaguely reminds the PCs of the room they saw earlier with the spine-like pattern on the floor. Getting an eerie feeling, the PCs pass under its shadow, somehow feeling extra cautious. Across the room through the only door leads to yet another fire escape with two flights of descending stairs. Interior Staircase C: Just a door that leads to another three flights of descending metal staircases with 4D4 slugs in the middle. The next room, a large boxy storeroom, the walls heaped with industrial debrissmashed crates, rusting pipes, wire-encrusted panels, and rotting cardboard in the corner. The debris reveals to them that either a bar or a club is near from all the beer bottles and the stench of stale alcohol. There are also three doorsthe first two are locked, but the third isnt, so they go through. South Ashfield Bar: The next room is a bar that has seen better days, with a wooden counter on one side and a pool table on the other. The hanging lights and pool table are new; recent replacements. It is quiet...just dusty bottles and wooden floors. To the left, they see something that makes their eyes light up: conveniently placed on a small round table by the bar is an old, rusty axe. They pick it up and immediately feel at home with it, despite the blood and rust on the blade that they haven't put there. The axe is short, but fast, lightweight, as well with a solid, if rusty, blade and sturdy handle. It is easy to swing, it moves well, and can be operated with one hand. Taking it up in hand one feels a little more secureit would have more power than the bat and is sturdy enough to withstand most beatings, unlike the golf club. From the weight they can tell that it will

be a very easy weapon to handle. The door at the other side, the one that usually leads out to a balcony, is locked with a keypad. There has to be something - a clue somewhere as to how to proceed. The pool table is set up as if its players have been interrupted in the middle of a game, but it yields no clues. Feeling exhausted but no less tense, you pull the billiard ball from your pocket and place it on the pool table, watching as it rolls to a stop in what appeared to be the exact center of the table. Strange. They wait for whatever is supposed to happen to happen. Nothing happens, though, and then they remember that there is more to do. The counter of the bar is totally bare -- no, not totally. There is a memo stuck discreetly to it, probably by the bartender. It reads: The boss said we had to change our phone number 'cause of all the complaints about the weird noises. Now we have to change the store sign on the roof. What a pain. The boss said that the number this time is the last 4 digits of this store's phone number. But the phone number is written right there on the sign on the roof. Anybody could see it from South Ashfield Street. Is that really okay? There is a huge, ugly billboard on top of the building across the street, next to the hotel, with an advertisement for Bar Southfieldan image of two beer-filled glasses with the title that reads: Bar Southfield: 555-3750 in enormous white letters. Winding Staircase: The door opens not onto a balcony, but onto a large, yawning, square stairwell, covered by a layer of brick and concrete debris. The walls are red brick, and the stairs spiral up and down the sides of the space, which extend up and down as far as they can see. Well, at least they used to...the steps just below the door are gone, fallen through for several feet down. So, up is the only option. Suddenly, a horrible high-pitched scream cuts through the silence. It echoes down from above, and they groan as they look up and see countless flights of stairs that lead so high up, they cant see the top, the stairs go on that far. The only other sound to be heard is the familiar moaning of a Victim emerging from a wall. These stairs are going to take a while. They need to get up them as quickly as possible, but they will have to pace themselves to make it all the way up without stopping. Not having the time or patience to deal with it, they simply run as fast as they can up six flights of stairs without stoppingthe urgency of the situation makes the PCs forget about how difficult it is. By now, a second Victim has appeared and is also chasing themfortunately, they arent very bright about it, and, while they are following closely behind, they end up below the stairs the PCs are running up. Pumped with a new source of adrenaline, the PCs feel nothing as they begin to clamber up the steps, the ghosts behind them. Ignoring fatigue, you suck air into your lungs and listen to the sibilant, ghostly echoes of your breath rising up the empty stairwell; vanishing into dissipation fourteen stories above. The headache the ghosts are causing comes and goes depending on how close they get to the PCs, their heads are pounding fiercely, but at least they cant touch them. The problem is, they are able to just float up the middle of the stairwell, and the PCs wont able to outrun them. Taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time, their speed soon has the Victims following their dustthey float directly a floor beneath the PCs and are not intelligent enough to cut them off by

flying across the stairwell. The PCs arent in any initial danger with the ghosts aside from the occasional sting from the headaches. Enduring the side cramps, the PCs keep running up each flight of stairs. They are soaked in sweat by the time they can see the ceiling. Four more flight of stairs, and they are running along toward the end of the walkway and an ordinary-looking door. Putting hands against the door to support themselves they cough and pant, hearing the ghosts moan not far behind. Locked. A metal, blue placard with abstract lines and circles falls into their hands. Chaos engraved on its back. The lock clicks, and the door opens, and as they yank it open they see the number 207 on the outside, on a little white plaque, just like it would be on the door.

South Ashfield Heights::

First Floor: First Floor Hallway: There is a breeze in front of their faces. They are lying down on something porous. When they open their eyes, all they see at first is a vast space filled only with pipes of various sizes covered in rust and blood. Then they blink and realize they are again face down on a cold, rough, wet chain-link grating and the pipes are below. The rust smells sharp, mixed with the iron-scent of fresh blood. There is an odd feeling of familiarity, though, of comfort, as if they are somewhere that they know well. As they pull themselves up, they see red, red everywhere, and it hurts the eyes after all those hours of gray on gray. They look around and realize that they are in a hallway, but the walls are red and blotchy, looking almost like living, raw flesh. This is all red, covered in blood, the walls and ceiling and all the way down the...hallway. Large portions of the carpet is missing, leaving only chain-link floors and bare support beams, the walls are covered in red, dripping blood. Littering the floor is a dead creature, a brown canine thing with pointed ears and black tip on its tail. Its sharp teeth are bared as if it died snarling. What looks like a bullet wound is in its right front leg. Its stomach is gnawed open. Its left flank is raw. Thats not all. Its paws have awful scars as if a fire had melted the pads. Its fur is singed. Its ears have ragged edges. Its snout is deformed from having been burned. They start down the hallwayat one point the grating part of the floor ends and they come to a part where the floor is covered in several inches of raw flesh. They can feel and hear it squish under their feet and it smells terrible, like rotting meat. Not something one would voluntarily touch. Lobby: The stairs end at the foyer. The lobby is similarly disfigured as the first floor. It looks metallic and rusty, but at least there is no flesh on the walls and floor. The front door, of course, is tightly shut. They should have known there is no getting out this way. There is nothing new on the bulletin board except for the sprayed stinking blood, either. They can unlock locker number 106 with the key theyve found, and it turns out to have nothing but a pile of love letters from someone named Mike to someone named Rachael.

First Floor Hallway: They go through one of the doors that leads to the apartments on this floor, and down the hall. The floors in this area look like they are made of old wood that has been dyed red with blood. Apt. 101: In the front room is a wall covered with guns of all shapes and sizes. There are antique handguns and rifles and shotguns and automatic weaponry, expertly restored and mounted in wall display boxes. There is even a chainsaw. They are resting on hooks mounted in the wall, like museum exhibits or trophies. Other weapons are scattered on tables or sitting on chairs. The whole place looks like a gun shop, and in their current frame of mind it is a beautiful, beautiful sight. A long shotgun lies on the kitchen counter, and they might grab it greedily. It is smooth and... ...wait a minute. It doesnt feel right. Its too light to be... They can move from gun to gun, picking up each one and weighing it in their hands, and theirs heart sink into their slug-gut-covered shoes. Every single gun in the room has the exact same problem. The craftsmanship is beautiful, and the woods are smooth and fine...but thats all there is. Wood. They are all hand-carved models of guns. Not a real one in the lot. Not even the chainsaw is. Why would somebody go to the trouble of carving a chainsaw, anyway? So thats what the PCs are faced with. A room full of model weapons. What kind of useless junk is this? There is nothing good in there unless one wants to bludgeon somebody to death, and the PCs have better ways of doing that. Nothing except a single box of pistol bullets on the counter by the wooden shotgun, taunting them. At least those are real. Hung on the wall are paper targets and just beyond the wall, the PCs find a fenced in room secured with a stout padlock. It is obviously a storeroom with shelving of spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. In the backroom is a modest bookshelf and another cylindrical cage of wrought-iron. The titles on the shelf consist of nothing but books on guns, but on close examination reveals that something has been written on the back of a hunting magazine. My eyes and skin are so itchy! That stupid cat next door made my allergy to crazy. I was so pissed off, I took my converted model gun and blasted away at the thing at point blank range. It was way cool. The thing just dropped like a stone. By the way, that revolver that Richard in 207 carriesits the real thing. That guys dangerous Apt. 102: All of the rooms leading off from the hallway are bedrooms and adjacent bathroom with identical back-to-back floor plans, each a carbon copy of the last. Each living room has an radiator and a window that faces the street. Its kitchen area is uninteresting as the last few, until they notice all the slimy, slug-like creatures. These are like the brown ones they saw in the last area they were in, these are just as gigantic, only they are pink ... and they are all crowding around the refrigerator. There is a horrible stink coming from the refrigerator; bracing themselves, they open it. They see something wrapped in a pair of bloody jeans. Gingerly grabbing the very corner of the fabric, and pulling it away, reveals the rotting body of a dead cat. Something pokes out of the jeans, and they reach in carefully and pull out another crumpled piece of red paper. It is just as illegible as the others had been. In the living room they find signs of a struggle. One of the lounge chairs has been overturned. Broken dishes litter the floor. A glass sheets lies in thousands of sharp pieces against a wall. Two

wooden chairs, which appear to have been smashed repeatedly against one wall, are now only piles of kindling, and the wall is scarred. The legs are broken off the lovely antique corner desk; all of the drawers are pulled from it and the bottoms knocked out of them. Finding nothing else in the apartment they leave. Apt. 103: Apt. 104: Across the cell-like room they see 2D6 moths crawling along the walls. Finding nothing else in this room, they go back out into the hallway. Apt. 105: All of the furniture is old and worn, but seems to be in good shape. There are file cabinets in the front room with rent applications and receipts. Business cards for plumbers and electricians and roofers sit in a small card box on a table. A bank of security monitors is on top of the table by the kitchen, but the kitchen itself is fenced off with rusty iron bars, in which everything is covered with sprayed blood. The top two monitors are labeled parking lot, while the bottom are simply labeled front. On a table are two boxes full of random objectspresumably lost and found, neither of which contain anything interesting except for one-and-a-half pieces of red paper. One has been torn and is only half a sheet, and the other is intact, which reads: Found by Nurse Rachael. Return it to Room 302...together with the part. Her boyfriend (Mike?) tore off... On the wall, a little to the right, is a series of hooks, presumably where the keys to various apartments are kept when they were vacantthey are all empty except for one hook. The PCs can take the ring of keys from it and find that it holds keys to each of the apartments. They look around a little further, and discover a bookcase, which is when they notice the smell a horrible stench coming from somewhere in the room, horrible even for this place. They do not realize exactly where it is coming from at first until they find a small, square antique box, waterworn cherrywood, red with silver and abalone-shell roses inlaid on all four sides. When they bring it a little closer to their noses, it nearly brings tears to theirs eyes, almost like ammonia. Hesitantly, they lift the lid off. On a piece of surgical material is a small, shriveled piece of flesh. Down the hallway, one of the rooms is blocked with iron bars. The PCs can peer through them into the darkness. In the faint light from the hall, they can see what looks like a bedroom, with a bed, a dresser, and a small cabinet and mirror. There is a chair, too, with an old woolen coat draped over the back, as if its owner had just dropped it off and stepped out. On the wall is a discolored patch where a large picture had once hung. The room looks as though it hadnt been used in years, and it isnt covered in blood and dirt, as the other rooms had been. Everything in here looks very normal, actually. Almost as if...as if it had been preserved. The only other room they have access to (the rest are barred off) is the bedroom, which as the sense of age and smells somewhat musty. The long, narrow bed is covered with an ugly green quilt and pushed against one wall, and an ancient computer sits yellowing on a desk in a corner. A small lined book is open on the nightstand. The writing sprawls spikily across the mottled paper: The red box seems even stranger today. It's giving off a terrible smell. It's disgusting, but I just can't throw it away. It must have been around 30 years ago. That young couple was living in the apartment, but one day they just suddenly disappeared. Ran off just like thieves in the night. I don't know why. It must have been money troubles, or maybe they got themselves into some kind of danger. The problem came after that. They left their newborn baby when they took off. I even found the umbilical cord. I called the ambulance right away and I heard the baby survived, but I don't

know what happened to him. Although a few years later, I often saw a young kid hanging around the apartment. One day he just stopped coming by. And the umbilical cord I found there ... well, I still can't get myself to throw it away. Apt. 106: It is surprisingly empty with a hypnotic pattern on the wallpaper. There is nothing much here at all. Heading down the hallway, they enter the bedroom. On a bed with no mattress and broken springs is a nurses dress, the name on the lapel saying Rachael. Mike's girlfriend? Lying next to the uniform is a portable first-aid kit. A phone was set on it, with a notepad next to it saying My darlings number. There is no dial tone if the PCs pick up the receiver, but if they dial the number anyway, a phone begins ringing somewhere in the apartment building. Apt. 107: The floor is constructed of stained terrazzo, while walls are surfaced with cracked and chipped ceramic tile. Blood patterns every surface, decorates every corner: sprays of blood, streaks of it, smears and drops; bloody handprints on the walls and on the edge of the tub. Blood spots the white tiles on the floor. It seems to be a lot of blood. Giant speakers are set into the wall. In the restroom, the sides of the tub are peeling from the metal like flakes of leprous skin. They had no idea that enamel could actually do that. The whole thing resembles a fungus rather than a bath. The shelves in the back room contains an impressive and eclectic record collection and a turntable. Apt. 108: The walls had been painted abstractly, by a artist with a long reach and a large can of paint. The wallpaper has a rippling pattern of umber in wide vertical stripes, a very pale red against a dark blue background. Nothing in the wallpapers patterns are inherently ominous or menacing. Indeed, the fluid and dreamy intermingling of forms be restful. The room, in fact, has the feel of walk-through sculpture. Everything is perfectly placed. A long battered shelf stands in a corner with a portable television set atop it. In the kitchen pots and ladles hung from hooks, and a heavy, thread-bare green curtain covers the windows. In the restroom all that remains of the mirror is a tiny splinter of silvered glass wedged in the lower right-hand corner of the metal frame. In the bedroom, on a rusty metal frame of the bed, is a bloody nurses uniform. Stairs: The stairwell is in the same shape as the hall had been. As they ascended the stairs with some trepidation, halfway up the stairs, the PCs notice the air grows colder around them. Something is happening to the stairwell too. The steps feel spongy beneath their feet and they dare not look down. Somehow they manage to block out what is happening around them, amidst the growing chill that seeps into their bones. It isn't until she caught a glimpse of the nightmare lurking around them, despite their best efforts, that the PCs draw back sharply. They are veins. Lining the walls, under their feet: a nightmarish tableau of interweaved red lines numbering in the hundreds. The PCs hurry up the stairwell, partially closing their eyes to block out the nightmare around them. The stairs are awash in rust or blood. They will have to be careful to avoid slipping on them. The landing of the second floor is surrounded with barbed wire encrusted bars. As they look around, they see a strange cylindrical metal cage hanging from the stairwell ceiling, empty. Second Floor: Second Floor Hallway:

Apt. 207: The apartment is in a mess, and the windows are barred so as to resemble those of a prison. The walls are covered in ugly wallpaper. The sole piece of furniture is a throne-like chair sitting in the middle of the room, with a metal cuff at the end of each armrest. A trail of blood leads from the chair to a bloody trash bin in which some articles of ripped bloody clothinga pair of boxers are soaked and discarded along with a torn shirt sleeveare stuffed, but the PCs cannot see the significance of it. The furniture in the room is in disarray, pushed against the walls away from the chair. The arms of the chair are wide and plumply padded, with numerous punctures in the vinyl. Close examination reveals the padding beneath a puncture conceals a pale crescent: a broken-off fingernail. A closer look reveals scores of curved punctures. The upholstery is thick, tough, flexible. Extreme pressure would have been required for fingernails to puncture it. On the seat is a silver revolver, not a speck of blood or dirt on it. Looking out the window reveals that the outside of the apartment building is just as bloody and rusty as the inside, with chain-link all up the walls and across the brick. Walking down the hallway, they enter the bedroom. The walls have changed from a green and white diamond pattern to a brick pattern. In the bedroom they find a golf putter. It could possibly come of some weak use to them at some point. Apt. 206: All the while the phone rings in the distance, its shrill, thin tone grating on their nerves. The walls are dead, rotted material, which is stitched together in patches. Wallpapering the walls are childish scribbles, rushed, written over and running up, not down, into air vents at the ceiling, squashed so tightly together with such sloppy penmanship that it makes the PCs heads swim. In the front room is a dusty television still broadcasting snowy light, a radio left to broadcast static, a mesh-floored kitchen full of dishes. They turn to the hallway to find a hellhound lying down, watching them with sightless eyes. The PCs raise the axe and crush it before it can stand. There is a large bedroom divided among three bunk beds lit by florescent lights, a crib with a teddy bear in it in the front room, and two more hellhounds. Finding nothing of importance in this room they exit and move into what can be assumed to be the parents room. In the wall to the left of the hall door is a four-foot-deep, six-foot-long, arched niche into which a custom-built bed has been fitted. Behind the headboard on the left and in the back wall of the niche are recessed bookshelves. This backroom had once been an bedroomstudy, but now it is a monument to destruction and chaos. Doors are ripped from their cabinets, scraped and dented, handles twisted off; the contents are scattered across the floor. A heavy chrome-and-walnut desk is on its side; two of its metal legs are bent, and the wood is cracked and splintered as if it had taken a few blows from an axe. A typewriter has been thrown against one wall with such force that several keys have snapped off and are embedded in the drywall board. Papers are everywhere - typewritten sheets, graphs, pages covered with figures and notations in a small precise handwriting - many of them shredded or crumpled or wadded into tight balls. And there is writing and scribbles everywhere: on the floor, the furniture, the rubble, the walls, even on the ceiling. The air smells of old paper, sour ink, stale lead, and rotted wood, never mind the inherent undercurrent of something only akin to death. In the center of all of it, a dead hellhound is in there, having unsuccessfully found the door. Its life had ended shortly there after. Soon they leave 206 to itself, having found nothing useful.

Apt. 205: There isnt a whole lot of interesting things in this roomit is stuffed to the brim with old video game consoles, computers, and various books on electronics. A stereo phonograph and tape deck are nestled inconspicuously in a corner wall unit. On the coffee table, however, is a cassette tape next to several dumbbells. What brings their attention to it is the fact that it is labeled Skinned Mike. The PCs pick it up, curious. It is a home-made tape, with an emblem that suggests a personal tape recorder. Mike had been skinned? He had talked about how his best clothes had been taken, for sure, but was he really skinned? By Richard? Apt. 204: As soon as they enter, they see there is a large rusted iron grill with a sunburst design in the center blocking the hallway. It is beautiful and delicate, like a bicycle wheel, even though some of the spokes are bent and broken. The inhabitant clearly spent a lot of time in the kitchen; it is the only room in the apartment that feels comfortable and lived-in. The kitchen consists of a small iron stove, a long wooden countertop, several narrow cabinets, and a washbasin set in a wooden cabinet. Pots and pans hang from a ceiling rack. In one of the cabinets rest pots, skillets, and dishes enough to serve eight, in addition to lots of culinary gadgets and appliances. The other cabinets serve as larders with a basket of onions, and another of potatoes. A grouping of bottles with colorful labels proves to be a collection of olive oils. There is also a dark red stain smeared on the floor, as if something large was dragged from the oven. There is mahogany furniture and plush red carpeting. They can see the window have green drapes on them, but the room is pleasantly lit by the fluorescent light that emanates from a lamb in one corner. On the table, surrounded by sofas are done in a bright yellow and green floral print are three unfinished spaghetti dinners speckled with dirt and debris. One overturned chair. Seeing nothing else apart from a few more bottle and an overturned food cart, they can leave the room. Apt. 203: Not an ordinary kitchen. The usual appliances are here. An old white-enameled range yellowed and chippedwith side-by-side ovens under a cooktop. One humming and shuddering refrigerator. It is a cluttered place, but also stark and minimal. There are tall shelves filled with cans and bottles of beer, shelves and racks and bins laden with bottles of wine and liquor, and other racks brimming with paperbacks, magazines, and newspapers. Cigars and cigarettes are stacked in boxes and cartons, and tins of pipe tobacco are displayed in haphazard mounds on several countertops. Every countertop, from the Formica surface to the underside of the upper cabinets, are packed to capacity with thousands of empty beer bottles stacked horizontally like the stock of a wine cellar. A few cabinets doors stand open; within are more empty bottles. A pyramid of bottles occupies the kitchen table. Those bottles will make effective bludgeons, lacerating scalp and cracking skull bone, if the PCs think to use them. An electric fan whirs in the front room, moving heavy air around. On the table before the stained sofa is a scatter of playing cards, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a dirty glass. There is another half piece of bloody paper stuffed inside a torn-up shirt in the back bedroom. Apt. 202: The ripe odors of rot are replaced with the raw, pungent fumes of linseed oil and varnish and paint. They enter Room 202 to find rather large oil paintings everywhere, lined up against the walls-not hung, merely propped up, probably to dry. The room is filled with paintings; the occupant was apparently an artist. It looks more like a studio than a living room. Two easels hold works in progress in the bedroom. There is also a large drawing table, stool, and artist's supply cabinet. Tall shelves are jammed full of oversized art books. The only concession

to ordinary living room dcor are two short sofas, two end tables, two lamps, a coffee table---all of which are arranged to form a cozy conversation corner. Although its arrangement is peculiar, the room has great warmth and livability. The paintings are all of the residents of South Ashfield Heights, and the artist has attached a memo to each portrait. The PCs can go around the apartment, examining every painting, which lean against the walls, stacked in some places. The first one is of a young man reclining in a chair with headphones on. There is a small sheet of paper tacked onto the upper right corner of the painting. It reads: 107 He listens to great music. But I feel sorry for him, having to live under Braintree. The next painting shows a family with many children. The memo reads: 206 How can they even sleep with so many noisy kids? Besides that, they have to live next to Braintree. The next painting show a man holding a brush, and the note on it says simply: "202. Selfportrait." Right next to it is a lovingly detailed painting of a nurse, and the note on it reads: "106. My beautiful darling. Lately she's been bothered by a stalker." The next shows a plump woman posing by a stove. 204 Shes always eating something. But I wish my girlfriend liked to cook like her. The next painting shows an old couple304. After that, is a painting of a woman holding a cat. 102 She loves cats too much and missed her chance to get married. I kind of felt sorry for her when she was mourning for one of her dead cats. The painting of the cat lady is the last one in the living room, but they spot a few more in the hall. The first one shows a dark-haired, dark-suited man that must be Richard Braintree. 207 Braintree, that prick. Hes always yelling at kids. Especially that weird one that hangs around. But he took Mike into his apartment and peeled his skin off, so hes my hero. Next is a painting of a man reading what looks like a pornographic magazine. The brush strokes making up the man's face appear frenzied. The memo on it reads: 301 That perverted stalker... He got what he deserved! They go on to the next painting. It depicts a buff young man holding a video game controller, the one who was obsessed with video games. The memo reads: 205 He's always shut in his room. It looks like he has a lot of weird interests. I heard he tape-recorded Mile getting beaten up by Richard. There is also a painting of an alcoholic from Room 203; a gun maniac from Room 101 who had a cat allergy; and next to that is a painting of Frank Sunderland, the superintendent. The note reads: 105 Sunderland, the superintendent. The super mistakenly thought that Mike was Rachel's lover. There is a large canvas in the middle of the front room with drafting outlines on it. They realize at this moment the ringing is coming from somewhere within this apartment. They go out of the bedroom and into the living room, but the ringing isn't coming from there, so they go back to the bedroom corridor and go up to the bedroom, the ringing of the phone is louder now. The source of the ringing is the closet. They approach it quickly, noticing it is slightly ajar, and are about to grab the doorknob, when suddenly the door slides open as something large from inside slumps to floor with a loud thud.

The PCs let out a startled yelp, and take a step back. The phone keeps on ringing and it rings inside whatever it is that lies before them. What fell out of the closet looks like a dead body wrapped completely in newspapers; patches of blood are soaking the newspaper in different spots. They see a rectangular bulge near the hand of the supposed corpse under the newspaper, and the ringing is coming from it; they are certain that this is the phone, though not quite as certain of what it is doing here. Reluctantly, they crouch next to the thing. They look at the closet and see nothing immediately suspicious in it; whatever horror it had held, it is now lying on the floor before them. They turn their eyes back to it. It doesnt move, and though it looks like a corpse, it certainly doesn't smell like one. The rectangular bulge keeps on ringing. Tearing the newspaper pages off, they immediately get hold of the phone which is being clasped by a hand which is not human, but is made of plastic. As soon as the PCs take the phone from the plastic hand it stops ringing. They pick up the receiver, but of course there is no one on the other end. Their eyes inadvertently go to the corpse-like thing on the floor wrapped in newspapers and the plastic hand they have uncovered. Curious about what it is and without the phone as a distraction anymore, the PCs concentrate on it. They start to tear sheet after sheet of newspaper, pieces of it are wet with blood and it has diluted the ink on them and leaves a reddish-blackish smudge on their hands. After most of the paper is gone, what lies before the PCs, in a mess of shredded and torn paper, is an odd faceless mannequin with plastic bendable joints that makes its body flexible. It looks old and portions of the plastic have blackened and are smudged with blood. In the chest area, the mannequin has a hole broken into it. There is a piece of paper in the hole. They pull it out; it is handwritten, and it reads: "The Date". The other doors are either locked or barred by more of the strange cage-like doors. Before leaving, they can pause for a moment and step back and observe this gallery of characters. Amidst the smell of linseed oil and turpentine, they notice something: all these people can be defined as a room number and a single hobby or quirk. And such...uninteresting quirks, at that: this lady has a lot of cats, this guy plays his stereo loud, this lady is a good cook, this guy plays video games, and on and on. It seems that these people did nothing but go on about their boring, private livesindulging in their hobbies and whatnot, and their only other entertainment was observing each other, as if the world ended just outside this apartment complex. Apt. 201: Third Floor: Stairway: They come to the stairway, and stop suddenly when they see a man in a blue coat is sitting at the top of the steps, with his elbows on his knees and his heavy dark blue coat billowing out around him. His hair is long, blond. His head is bowed, and there is something in his hands that he is handling gently. There is no way that the PCs can get around him without the man seeing them. They need to get upstairs and the only way is past him. There is something about this man that makes them uneasy. He doesnt look directly at them, but he turns his head slightly in their direction as a signal that he notices their presence. I got this from Miss Galvin...a long, long time ago. His voice is smooth, soft, higher-pitched than expected, and he speaks slowly as if half asleep.

She was so young back then... he continues, wistfully. He gently turns the object in his hands. They can see now that it is a fabric doll with a wide white face and a faded blue dress, and long dark yarn hair. It looks old, and it is obviously well-loved; its dress is worn and threadbare, and the embroidery on its face is fraying. It is clean, though, and the white trim on its skirt is still white. It is nearly engulfed up in his large hands. The man stares at it with a distant look, then shakes his head. She looked so happy...holding her mothers hand..., he sighs. He looks straight ahead at the wall, as if lost in memory, turning the doll over and over in his hands, seemingly mesmerized by it and then turns to them. Here. He holds the doll up for them to see, beams at them, and lays it down on the step next to him. Ill give it to you, he says in the same soft voice. He is still smiling at them, as if sharing his doll with them is the most wonderful thing in the whole wide world. Maybe for him, it is. His face has a calm and serene expression; with big, light green eyes. And then he drops his head and goes back to contemplating his hands. The huge rounded fingers twin together as he watches them move. Hands that could crush a mans neck without breaking a sweat. The old doll has a sweet scent, like incense. He is still twisting his fingers together, and doesnt look up as they start up the stairs again. He is still sitting there, lost in his own little world. Only then do they notice the spots of bright red blood on his coat. Third Floor Hallway: The walls are coated in a red, writhing, flesh-like substance, and the floor seems uneven and bloodstained, at places even giving way to bare steel. There are also hell hound carcasses scattered about the bloodstained metal floor. Who had killed the dogs? The man in the coat? All around you, the walls and floor dance with wavy heat lines, moving from you. Your vision blurs and the boundaries of the room grow more confusing, shifting in front of you. Suddenly your ears begin to ring and your balance is disrupted. On the ground, the dead bodies twist and writhe. Their heads move as though barking, but no sound comes out. Down the hall they can see that the door to Apartment 302 is strangely surrounded by a circular area of unmolested, checkerboard, linoleum flooring and white wall around it. The space looks normalimmaculate, even. The other doors are rust-stained and yellowed with age and some other substances. They look at the bottom of the door and see that a red sheet of paper has been stuck under it. Apt. 301: The door to 301 opens at the lightest touch. The room is empty, empty of people, anyway, and covered in dirt and grime. It can only vaguely be recognized as an apartmentthe walls and floor look old and dirty and there are areas that are fenced off with chainlink and places where the floor is missing that seem bottomless where all that can be seen are pipes in the darkness. The interior of the first room is drab and gray, looking exactly like a room in an abandoned building. It is a marked contrast to the red organic substance that lines the walls of the corridor outside. The first room is full of three-foot-high piles of magazines of dubious educational value. Stacks and stacks of them, on the floor and corner table, with people of all sizes and shapes on the covers doing things that one didnt know were physically possible. The mountain of magazines

is pushed up against the television. In the cabinet underneath it are videos containing much of the same. Theres no time to go looking through them, even if the PCs are so inclined. They feel uncomfortable at coming across such things in this twisted, otherworldly setting. They will be much more interested in the small, thin diary that lies open on the single coffee table in the front room. Its handwritten pages are soaked with blood. Most of it is illegible, of course, but two diary entries are left readable: The last few months, Joseph, the guy next door to me who gave me that rare porn magazine, looks like hes been working super hard. He said that if he found another rare one, hed give it to me, but he hasnt shown his face around much lately. He said he was a journalist and he is always investigating stuff. But I think something strange is going on with him. Hes been shut in his apartment and I can hear all these weird noises coming from there. July 1 Mike Oh my beautiful Rachael, whats with the note on the red paper? I thought youd written a note back to meBut I guess maybe it was somewhere elseHe took it along with my clothes. Those were my best clothes. July 2 Mike The PCs leave the living room and head down the grime-covered hallway, the walls replaced with iron bars. There are two rooms openone that is more of a single person cage than a room, and another that is also stacked with, yes, magazines. Feeling a distant sense of unease, they direct their attention to the walls, where large, vibrant black and red photographs hang loosely on nails to the walls. One of them is of a pretty, petite nurse by a window, staring wide-eyed at the camera as if taken by surprise. Scrawled across the picture in black marker are the words I love you. As they peer at the photograph in the semi-darkness of the room, the light shining from the hallway glints off of a bump in its surface. Something seems to be stuck behind the photo. Unsticking the lower corner and sliding a hand behind the picture, over the blood that somehow isnt soaking into the heavy paper reveals something hard and pointy and metal fastened to the wall with tape, but a good tug pulls it loose, and it fall to the floor. It is a mailbox key with a tag attached which reads 105 on it. The other photo is of two people standing outdoors, arms around each other, on a clear, sunny day. Behind them stretches hills and water. The face of one of the people is scratched out with that same black marker. This one also has a key, with the number 106. On a rusty bedframe is a large magazine open to an article: Teaching Despair: Wish House Wish House, an orphanage on the outskirts of Silent Hill. But behind its false image is a place where children are kidnapped and brainwashed. Wish House is managed by the 'Silent Hill Smile Support Society', a charity organization sometimes called 4S. Its true that 4S is a well-respected charity that takes in poor children without homes and raises them with hope. But at its heart it is a heathen organization that teaches its own warped dogma in lieu of good religious values.

Mr. Smith (temp) who lives near Wish House had this to say: "Sometimes at night I can hear their weird prayers and the sounds of the children crying. I went there to complain one time, but they ran me right out. Since then it hasn't changed a bit." In fact, this reporter was refused admission when he attempted to take photographs in the facility. What exactly do the folks at Wish house have to hide? During my investigations I was able to discover, however, a suspicious looking round concrete tower which appears to be part of their facilities. Unfortunately no one was willing to tell us what the tower was used for. But it seems unlikely that it has anything to do with the business of raising orphans. It may in fact be a prison or a secret place of worship. The cult religion that operates Wish house is known by the locals simply as The Order. It's a religion that is deeply interwoven with Silent Hill's history. But its worshippers' fervent belief that they are among the elite 'chosen people' has a dark and dangerous side. I intend to continue my investigation of Wish House and the cult behind it. I've always believed that 'telling the whole truth' and showing the children the true path is our most important duty. - Joseph Schreiber There are three bedrooms and a bathroom down the hallway. But they know that something is wrong the moment they step back out into the hallway. The peace and quiet cant last forever. A Victim, an old-woman hovers in the kitchen, nosing around the cabinets and drawers as if in search of a snack. Besides what possible harm can an axe do to these creatures? Yes, they have a corporeal existence; no question of that. But they areas far as the PCs understand itspirit presences made of ether and memory. These things can't die. They are already dead; long, long dead. The Saint Medallion around your neck had to work outrageously hard to protect you, and it has deteriorated greatly during the short, closed-quarters battle. Apt. 303: When they walk through the open door into the third floor apartment, they see a beige sofa liberally stained with still-wet blood, so much that in some places the cushions are almost black. Blood is spattered over a lampshade, coffee table, bookshelf, and part of the carpet. The gore is even more disgusting that it might ordinarily have been because the apartment is otherwise extremely well-kept, which make the areas of bloody chaos more shocking by comparison. There are waist-high streaks of fresh blood that has sprayed onto the wallpaper and are running thickly down the walls, and a trail of blood-soaked beige carpet is just inside the door, leading to an apparent bloody outline of a person on the living room carpet. The apartment is just like all the others, down to the wallpaper with a complex pattern of greens and yellows. The room is small, the colors cream and tan, with many pictures hanging on the wall. All display either scenic landscapes or old buildings. There is furniture, a TV, plants, etc. It is generic furniture, with neutral colors and beige carpeting. Blinds cover each window, closed, and are a shade of soft white. The kitchen is modest, nothing fancy, but it does have a good-sized fridge and a gas stove. The tile is the same color as the blinds, cracking a little next to the counter, but otherwise, is in decent shape.

The bedroom is a nice size, plenty of room for the twin bed and drafting desk to fit at the same time. Two windows sit side by side, covered in the same colored blinds as the living room and shows a nice view of the courtyard below. There is a short dresser that sits against the far wall, the inside of which is clean and dust free. It appears feminine, with flowers decorating the handles and leaves trailing along the edges. Behind you, there is a scuffling, gritty sore of noise that might be footsteps, and you spin around. A glimpse of a small figure dressed in a blue-striped jersey walks into the living room, standing in the area the junctions the living room, the kitchenette, the doorway and the bedroom hallway from which he came. He looks into the living room, half turns so the PCs can see the back of the sandy hair and navy sweater with gray horizontal stripes. The boy turns, startled, and stares with his liquid doe eyes. He cant be more than nine or ten years old, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt smeared with mud. His hair is a dirty blonde color, short, and his face has round, apple cheeks. A small, smudge of dirt blemishes his chin, and there is a tear on the knee of his jeans. The boy only regards them with timid curiosity, and then turns again to the living room, forgetting their existence. They stand in an attempt to follow the boy, but suddenly find the doorway path stretching before him for yards and yards - the kitchenette, hallway and living room shrinking in the distance. The door behind him is assaulted with a series of thuds, and the PCs groan in pain as each bang seems to hammer in their head. "Mom," a distant child's voice calls, followed by a series of louder bangs on the door, "mo-om, let me in!" The loud knocks grow more urgent, and before the trembling door the PCs lie curled protecting their heads in vain from the sharp blows that match each knock. "Mom! Mom! Let me in!" Apt. 304: Nothing, at first glance, distinguishes the room from any other room. The room wouldve been charming if it didnt resemble a dirty jail cell. It contains a tired-looking dining table around stand four worn chairs. To one side, plates, cups, bowls, and utensils stand atop a cabinet with a mirror that serves as backboard. The mirror is veined with a purplish fungus that has managed to infiltrate minute fractures in the glass. The table holds two place settings, the faded napkins unfolded and haphazard. Across the middle of the table lies a parchment of faded words, so old that it looks if might disintegrate into dust at the slightest touch. A cold pot of tea has been left out at the table set for two, and the room is finely decorated with floral print and homey objects. A bottle of port, half full, stands on the table next to a bare space in front of the third chair. Every wall needs painting, and many of the tiles on the floor are missing. Embroidered cloths cover the small tables that stand next to most of the chairs. Hidden away in the bedroom, though, the PC find another box of bullets for the handgun. Apartment 302: On the table by the chair is a red notebook. Its pages read: 1. Cynthia thought this might all be a dream...her dream. What if... 2. The places Ive been to seem pretty dreamlike. Things feel unreal. Like that huge door and engine and waterwheel in the prison...everything feels wrong somehow. Things are familiar, but out of order and moved around. Like a nightmare. 3. Richard is asleep on his bed. Hes been there since the prison. But I saw him just now, with his gun. So he cant have been there all this time unless...

4. Every time I come back here, I wake up in bed, groggy. Every single time, even when I dont go through a Hole. It never varies. 5. That note from earlier, under my door...Mom, why doesnt you wake up? 6. This could all be a dream. Next to the television is an old storage chest, leaning against the wall. The chest is vintage and wooden, about the size of a footlocker. It looks deceptively small, but can hold much when it has to. But as they examine it, they hear something shift inside the chest, and the thought enters their mind that perhaps whoever is doing all of this has somehow managed to hide in there. It is the one place large enough to hold a (small) person that they haven't looked in. They open the lid and find an array of weapons: an axe, a golf club, a shotgun, and what appears to be the tail end of a baseball bat. Then, something else catches their eyesnear the bottom of the bookcase, which is right next to the window, it appears that someone has tucked a few pages from a very old book just behind the bookcase, but sticking out at an angle so they'd be easily seen. Curious, they carefully pull out the yellowed, bloodstained sheet The paper is unevenly yellowed, as though it might be a scrap of ancient parchment, slightly oily, and splintered along the edges. It has been folded in half, then folded in half again. Opened it is about three inches square. Parts of it are completely illegible. What can be read of the faded text reads: Through the ________________________, he built a world. It exists in a space separate from the world of our Lord. More accurately, it is within, yet without the Lord's world. Unlike the world of our Lord, it is a world in extreme flux. Unexpected doors or walls, moving floors, odd creatures, a world only he can control... Anyone swallowed up by that world will live there for ____________. They will haunt that realm as a ____. How can our Lord __________ion? It is important to travel lightly in that world. He who carries too heavy a burden will regret it. The kitchen is to the left, separated from the front area by a little L-shaped counter, with a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and cabinets, the usual kitchen stuff. On the right is the door to the laundry room, beyond lies a combination laundry and storage room, a washer, an electric dryer, boxes and bottles of laundry supplies are stored in an orderly fashion on two open shelves, and the air smells like detergent and bleach. The flavor is distinctly supernatural, the texture otherworldly, and now the laundry detergent smells like burning incense, and the cloying air seems thick with unseen presences. To the edge of the kitchen counter is the front room, which has a TV, a bookshelf, and a couch, chairs, tables, and two windows opposite the door. On the right is the hallway, which ends with a bathroom on the right and a bedroom on the left. The bathroom has a sink, a bath towel, a hand towel, and a washcloth hung on a rack, a shower with a tub (not a stall shower), a toilet, and some shelves. The half-used bar of soap lies in the plastic soap dish. The bedroom has a desk, chair and chest of drawers. There is also a high yew bookcase which, instead of books is filled with old, if not antique, cameras. Those who go to sleep in the 302 will receive personalized nightmares, based on events from their past or see visions of a future that is horrific, unexplainable, and so abstract that the PCs is left unnerved and shaken for 2D4 minutes after waking. Like all of the doors in the apartment, the front door is made of solid wood and painted a varnished off-white. It shows unmistakable signs of wear and tear, and probably needs a new coat of paint quite badly. But that is not what holds their attention. Several heavy dead-bolt locks

bar now the front door, along with a web of thick metal zigzagging chains running almost randomly across it with a ridiculous amount of padlocks holding them together. Several lengths of chain are threaded through thick metal loops nailed haphazardly to the door, and to the wall around it. Plain square brass key-locks hold the rest of the chains tightly in place. Not only has someone locked the PCs in, but they can only have done it from the inside. Taped to the largest lock is a small white note which reads You don't have a choice. There is no turning back now. Remember...I can't save you from the Keeper. Don't try to undo the chains. Henry tried for five days and couldn't. You don't have that kind of time." The door has a peephole, and the fish-eye lens provides a wide view of the opposite wall. The wall is a plain, dingy off-white color and is covered in carmine stains of handprints, arranged in two rows. The hand-prints are quite large, adults' hands of various sizes. There are fifteen of them, a dark red color, like the color of old blood. Another new addition to the insanity of this place. A desperation of crimson hand prints on a wall are the victim's sign language: spare me, help me, remember me, avenge me. Their eyes wander from the peephole, looking anywhere but there until they spot a slip of paper underneath the door. Immediately they see that the writing is sloppy and childish on a crumpled colored note card. The note is soft, as if overly handled, and wrinkled, as if it was cried on. It has a few words on it, scrawled in red ink, written in a child's handwriting.Mom, Why doesnt u wake up? There is a small stand with a lamp and two picture frames on it by the couch. They notice that one of the pictures has fallen over, because someone had moved the stand slightly to the side, and away from the wall, and hastily returned it to place. By whom? The same person who was leaving them pieces of paper? Was this somebodys idea of a joke? They can attempt to push the cupboard away from its original position. Of course, on the rough carpet, it wont just slide straight backward. One has wedge ones arms into the gap between the cabinet and the wall by the stove, push it backwards and to the side, flush against the wall, and step back to pull it sideways into place and find oneself facing a huge gouge in the wall behind where the cabinet had stood until a few minutes ago. The sheetrock is chipped and cut, cratered, as if somebody had been trying to hack his or her way through, in the center of which is a little point of light deep in the gouge in the wall. If not for the shadow of the surrounding hole, one would never have seen it. But it shines and flickers. It seems whoever carved it was aiming to create a bigger hole; the area surrounding the hole is cracked and badly damaged. Maybe whoever had dug the hole had gotten all the way through. Of more immediate interest is the pistol lying on the floor just in front of the hole. It is shiny, but slightly dusty, as if it has been here for years. Who knows...it probably has. It is also heavy, fully loaded, containing twelve bullets and appears to be in good working order. Could it have been left by the previous occupant of his apartment? There is something carved into the wall to the left of the hole, between them and the stove, carved into the wall with a sharp instrument and reads: The faint hope I had is slowly changing to despair. I've somehow managed to tunnel this far, but no matter what I do, I can't get any further. The hallway, the windows, the walls... It feels like this room in stuck in another dimension. Eileen never noticed... They examine the damaged part of the wall, and the tiny hole that had been made. It is too small to fit a finger through, but there is a beam of light coming in from the other side. Was it a vile hiss they just heard coming from the hole? Perhaps it was just a breeze blowing through the tight hole. They kneel before the hole and look through.

They can see a bedroom with a pink stuffed toy rabbit on the well-worn bedspread. The pink plush rabbit sits completely upright, with blood around its smiling mouth as if has bitten into someone. It stares directly at the peephole, pointing in what might be silent accusation. It is completely motionless as if someone has put it in that position and it somehow stayed that way and yet it seems eerily alive. Assorted dresses hang from the wall, and the open closet is stuffed full of clothes. There is a phone in the bedroom. There is no dial tone, no static, not even an off-the-hook beep. Nothing at all. Then, it rings. ...the phone is ringing. Ringing! They snatch the receiver from its cradle. "Helpme" It is a woman's voice, a young woman's, with a slight lilt to it. Before they can respond, they are distracted by movement at the periphery of vision. When they turn to look at what has drawn their attention, they see that the stretchy, coiled cord between the handset and the telephone, once a clean, white length of vinyl-coated wires, now appears to be organic, pink and slick, like an umbilical cord, that rope of tissue that ties a mother to newborn baby. A pulse throbs through the cord, slow and thick, but strong, moving from the phone box on the floor to the handset that they hold, towards their ear. Then the line goes dead. They replace the receiver a little shakily, and quickly move away from it as if it were diseased. They are suddenly aware of his motion - light, floating. Almost beyond their control. A scream sounds in their ears, as if it is emitted from within themselves. However they know well their mouth aren't moving to utter such a wail. What's with this room? It's covered in blood and rust. A young sounding male voice drifts through the thick atmosphere, sounding distant, as if it doesnt come from inside the apartment. The PCs look around, but they can't locate the speaker. It sounds rather close, low like a hushed whisper, clear as a bell's ring. The walls are now red, rather like the pipes within them imploded and bled rust. The windows are fogged over with a reddish substance. Wallpaper bubbles with the buildings humidity, cracking and rotting, infested with fungus. Everything seems equally tainted with shades of crimson. Then again the smell of rust is almost identical to the taste of blood. Regardless of the physical state of the room, the atmosphere is distorted, as if the room they are in has somehow been overlapped by another room, a place almost the same but not quite. The air is so heavy... My head hurts... All of the doors but the bedroom door are shut and sealedso much that the edges are hard to see, and the baseboard extends all the way across them, like they are melting into the wall. Even the front door. There is no way out. This is my room. But what the hell has happened to it? This room - is it really my room? The pictures on the walls are different. The PCs quickly pass the series of large landscape paintings in ornate frames, which seemed almost to be windows on actual pastoral visas. Earlier, they had been bright and cheery scenes. Now they are ominous: goblin forests, black rivers, killing fields. There is one framed in the corner, a picture of an unfamiliar young man, slightly messy but still somewhat refined. Aside from that he looks mostly uninteresting. At least, compared to the picture on the left of him.

Where they were in the picture is unidentifiable, but it is clearly an unfriendly realm: twenty-one bodies strewn about in a crazy but definite pattern, within pools of their own blood. The gore and condition of their bodies is a crime that could only be committed by a fellow man. Twenty-one stacked to a point in the middle like a church spire. Reaching forfor what? On the wall above the sofa and the cabinet the photos have large patches of what looks like mold. And the doors won't open and the windows and the fridge stinks like something has died in there. The hallway is narrow - they can easily cross to the bathroom door that is in front of them. The white bathroom door greeted him, as well as noiseStatic? emitting from the living room. Three steps and they turn to observe the TV that is the source of the ruckus. The stereo on top of the book shelf participates in the chaotic symphony of white noise. Then there is a sudden awareness of a presence. It can happen sometimes that something has been present all along yet to the person not recalling such a presence, it "springs" taking the person by alarm to realize the presence of the object. Amongst the chaotic stains and peelings of the paint on the opposite wall above the cabinet by the couch is a certain pattern, a strange growth. It takes keen observation to make out something out of a random pattern of bumps. But this can't escape the glimpse naked eye. Creepy. It looks like a face. It is a profile of a weeping man, glaring and distinct, half-embedded in the rust-colored wall. More accurately it seems as if the man were trying to escape from within the walls and his face left a scar of despair on the walls that contained him. You begin to feel an animalistic fear rise in you and break through the bemusement that has dulled your emotions. There is a hypnotizing pull, a mesmerizing effect to these horrid images that forces one to stare longer than one would wish. But the spell breaks. Out of the corner of your eye, you see movement. A stirring at the door? No, it was only your hypersensitivity that lead you to believe so. Yet you are grateful your attention was brought to the door. The chains, the locks - they have disappeared. Verily they left their marks on the door. But now they are gone. You start for the door. The TV and radio go silent. The sudden silence stops you in your tracks and for a moment you thought you heard your pulse in your ears. Or not. Rather you heard something else. But you needn't strain you hearing if you only turn around towards the weeping man the wall. The face is gone and in its place on the wall behind you are two black stains. The wall is sweating...glistening. splotches of black began to appear on the wall, almost like ink being spattered on paper through a straw. Whatever liquid it is, any drop of stain normally would land on the surface and spread, proceeding to scale itself to a larger circle. But this is different. It was as if these stains spread ample veins along the wall.

More and more black stains furiously bubbles from beneath the layer of wallpaper. And then the entire wall bulges towards you, as if it is a membrane against which a great and terrible mass is pressing insistently. It throbs repulsively, like an enormous internal organ in the exposed and steaming guts of a prehistoric behemoth. Suddenly it is born out of the wall. The curve of mortared blocks splits like the spongy membrane of an insects egg. And taking shape from a core of foul muck where wall should be, is the reappeared face - except that it is movingbulging, twitching, mouth yawning open in an infinite moan and eyes glowing yellow with hatred. It pushes out, writhing, from the inky patches, followed by a pair of pasty white hands. A sick groaning emits from the hole as the hands pushes a body forward, starting with the pasty white head, thinly spread with sparse threads of hair. ,They were fixated on him. In a stupor, the PCs just stand and stare as things began to form on the hallways walls. Cracks, small at first but rapidly growing before their eyes emerged on the plaster, seeming to center around the gruesome painting of twenty-one bodies. They deepen and spread, imitating the maw of a formless monster. The wall is now mottled amber and brown, semitransparent and luminous as amber, oozing a noxious mucus, bulging as some shadowy entity struggles to be born into the room. The things thunderous three-part heartbeatlub-dub-DUB, lub-dub-DUBshudders through the room. They stare up in horror as the pulsing birth sac which the ceiling has become, and at the shadowy writhing form struggling to breach that containing membrane. The bathroom walls are untainted by the organic transformation that has overcome the rest of the apartment, but they still shake with the triple bass thud of the inhuman heartbeat. Above them, starting from the partition that the bath shares with the bedroom, the white ceiling begins to discolor as if abruptly saturated with red blood, brown bile. The sheen of semigloss paint on drywall metamorphoses into a biological surface and begins to throb in time with the thunderous heartbeat. Beyond the pregnant droop of the lowering ceiling, they see repulsive movement like the frenzied squirming of a million maggots. The thudding heartbeat increases in volume, booming around them. They hear a wet, tearing sound. A filthy sound too hideously intimate, too real for a delusion or a dream. The door crashes open, and the ceiling bursts overhead, showering them with debris. Although the ceiling had looked entirely organic when it had burst in upon them, no trace of its transformed state remains; it is only a ceiling again. The rain of debris includes chunks of wallboard, flaked, and powdered drywall paste, splinters of wood and wads of fluffy Fiberglass insulationbut nothing alive. The long glass shelf under the mirror has fallen on the right, though, and the right side of the mirror is missing, but the rest of the mirror is still on the wall. The whole side of the countertop is gone, shattered into pieces on the floor, and the towel bar is also in pieces. A hole is gaping upon the wall next to the stall, framed with a strange, red graffiti design right where the towel bar had been. It lies in the wall, black, almost perfectly round and deep, so deep, and as one gets closer, peering past the broken pipe, they hear the gentle rushing sound of a distant breeze and then... A hole is gaping upon the wall next to the stall, framed with a strange, red graffiti design. It lies in the wall, black, almost perfectly round and deep, so deep, and as one gets closer, peering past the broken pipe, they hear the gentle rushing sound of a distant breeze and then... There are sounds coming through it, echoing down to them through its length. Someone is muttering. No. Children. The soft voices of children echoing in the darkness, but are they

laughing or playing...or crying? Then there comes a short, low groan. Something had made this hole, and where else could they have come from? What if there is someone else in here with them? More of a reason to get out of here. The voices have stopped, but they are barely aware of it. The only thing in their way is a loose, broken sewage pipe protruding out of the hole. Their hands pull at the broken pipe, the grout falling into pieces as it twists loose easily. After a sharp pull the pipe breaks away, hissing at first but dying down shortly. The corroded steel feels rough and unnatural in their hands, but is also a solid, deadly weight. They don't know what waits for them at the other end of the tunnel, and a steel pipe will serve as a good weapon, so they may decide to take it with them. Climbing into the hole is easy, and when they have gotten through, they discover that it is virtually horizontal the whole way. If their orientation is correct, and assuming the tunnel is straight, it will likely lead them to Room 303. Or at least to the source of the hole. Tracing their hands on the tunnel's mouth, trying to get a rough calculation of its diameter fails. They aren't certain where it will lead to or whether they can fit in the first place. The end is swallowed in darkness. As they pull themselves along the murky tunnel on their bellies, their eyes begin to swim in and out of focus and a moaning noise begins in their ears. MMMMMM... There is something...droning...loud... MMMMM... Something mechanical...metallic...a motor...mechanical smell. ...mmmmmm... The tunnel smells old and musty, and as they move through it bit by bit, they find themselves having a little trouble breathing. But it doesnt go on forever, and as they approach the other side a light at the end can be seen. A bright light, and that can only mean that they are almost free. The buzzing in theirs ears becomes louder and they can hear that strange groaning sound they heard back in the bathroom. Sight flickers. The PCs know theirs hands or feet wouldn't have created enough force to move them as much as the distance they have crossed with each push. Rather they feel they are being "pumped" out of the tunnel, an unseen force aiding them to push forth. If they stop, they won't budge. If they attempt to move, they will find themselves being pushed forth. The tunnel width won't allow them to look in any direction but straight ahead. They see the light at the end of the tunnel clearly, but the closer they get, the more this sensation of vision failing increases, turning the circle of light into a mass of white speckles, distorting, stretching and flickering. The light is too bright, almost unnatural. But they need to get out. Growing frantic, they may try to crawl faster, but their pace won't change. It doesn't matter. In the end they will reach the end of the tunnel, and the light will consume them. Gradually, the light seems to draw closer. They are feeling ready to drop from exhaustion, but they forced are on. The light is blinding, overwhelming. The tunnel ends. There is nothing but light. Then darkness.

Subway:
(Optional Scenario) Concourse Entry: There is a mechanical drone. The light recedes as the lamp passes overhead. The darkness is so comforting, enveloping you with the promise of eternal, invigorating sleep. Your eyes refuse to open. You want to go back to sleep, though the buzzing is beginning to annoy you now. What is buzzing? Had you been asleep? Must have beenthat was why the sound seemed so loud Slowly, you force open your eyes and as you do, you become aware that you are sitting hunched over your knees. There is a long, gray stream stretching downwards in front of you, down towards a small circle of light. Blinking hard, you look again and see that you are sitting on a ribbed step, cold and partially rusted, descending amidst the gentle hum of the mechanism. Looking behind you, you see that it reaches upwards into an impenetrable darkness, making it impossible for you to see where you had begun. Does it lead back to that room? The descending escalator with all those steel steps, those hard, metallic parts working so well together, seems paradoxically graceful, fluid as a slow motion waterfall. It descends from blackness downwardby itself. Escalators usually come in pairs: either side by side, parallel, one up and one down, or crossing from opposite directions in a great X. This one is all by itself. It is a long way to the bottom, and they are able to see much of their surroundings on the way down. The area is barely lit the only source of illumination is the line ceiling lamps suspended over the escalator. Their glow brushes highlights on the trunks of pipes on either side of the escalator. The area seems to an abandoned and/or condemned industrial-looking building of some kind, as the walls, floors and ceiling are made completely of concrete, with millions of pipes in every size, running everywhere, and lamps are suspended from the high ceiling by long cordsit is merely functional and clearly not meant to be attractive or inviting. As the escalator slides into the abyss below, you realize that is where your fate lies. A long tunnel is now visible stretching gray in the dim light beyond, getting closer with each passing moment. The walls and ceiling are covered in rusted valves and broken pipes hanging down ominously. You can see the brushed metal walls on either side of you, and the grooves in the steps are deep under your fingertips...and this damn grogginess wont let you go. Hallway: Finally they reach the bottom of the escalator and get off. A single light is suspended over the bottom of the escalator, which is a good ways off. The floor is strewn with red and white barriers, long coils of black wire and the occasional pylon. They look up the still-working escalatorit only goes downward and the top is so high, that it would be nigh-impossible to run up it unless one were a superhuman runner. Not that there would be any point in going back anyway. They are at the beginning of a hallway, so they start to make their way down. They cannot see the ceiling, cant even see where the walls end, they stretch upwards into blackness. It isnt precisely bare, but not decorative, either. This is some sort of industrial building, probably. An area not meant for public use. Wherever this place is, it is all gray. Gray everywhere, with enormous pipes, valves, ducts, cables and other metal structures running up the tall walls. Lighting is sparseevery fifty feet or so, one passes by a bright, florescent light on the ceiling, but between the lights, it is fairly dark, as they dont cover very large areasit is like walking through spotlights. The lights also pick up the dust in the air, giving an eerie, ghostlike effect.

Apart from the now distant hum of the moving staircase and the shuffles of their own hesitant footsteps, there is not a sound. It seems this area is in the final stages of construction, yet has been abandoned and remained barren. There is scaffolding against the walls, as if the hallway was being repaired or remodeled. But there are no tools or dropcloths or debris or anything, like there should have been well, there is debris, in the form of large chunks of concrete lying on the floor. No dust or nails, either, just the scaffolding. The walls are misshapen and covered with years of grime, with bumps and ripples, almost as if they had been distorted by water. Concrete doesnt do that. They smell metal and dirt and greaseand it is a little cold as well. The ceiling is now crisscrossed with smaller pipes and wires, covered with years of grime. And why is it so dark? There are fluorescent lights, but their glow is faint. No, nothing makes any sense yet. Nowhere to go but forward. Hopefully, they will find some answers here. They dont have to go far. Before them stretches another long hallway. No more than a few steps ahead, they can see a sign hanging at the end of the poorly lit hallway, reading King Street line. The light leads them down a small service corridor. The doors at the end are both locked tight. They can read the papers on the little bulletin board, but they have nothing of interest to tell, just basic subway information. As they walk back down the corridor, something catches their eye on the opposite wall. It is a large round projection with a handle on the end, like a manhole cover in the wall. It is also firmly stuck closed. It is completely useless. And why is it there at all? Restroom: The door to the men's bathroom swings open slowly, compelled by the black nothing beyond. You are not the only ones here? From the dark crack, the PCs feel something squirming behind the door. Or no, they only think they see something. For a second or so, nothing happens. Suddenly with a piercing, inhuman screech a gray and red mess leaps out from the restroom door and lands twitching on the ground in front of them. The PC stand frozen with shock, but now they see a good reason to grow sick. It is a dog. Or at leastit had been, once. A dog if not for the snakelike red tongue that is so long it drags along the floor as it crawls. It has no eyes that they can see, and its skin is rotted to the point where it is greenish and red and patches of it are missing completely. They expect it to come after them, but instead, it roars in pain and collapses to the floor in a pool of blood, and lies still. The men's restroom's door swings. Two beasts, very much identical to their fallen kin trot out and approach the PCs, their red tongues down dragging and sweeping at the floors. The PCs get the impression their tongues are their way of exploring their surroundings - either these beasts don't care for their presence or they can't see the PCs. They, like the first, resemble large dogs, but their skin is just patches of ratty fur and raw flesh, oozing and bleeding. Long tongues brush the floor like a blind man's stick until they touch the carcass of the bleeding dog. They sniff their fallen comrade from head to toe, and as they do this, the PCs notice that their snouts are rodent-like, and as the nose wiggle, it causes the upper lip to peel back, exposing gums and sharp teeth.

Hissing loudly, both raise their heads and their long, ropy tongues suddenly shoot into the first dog-creature like bloodstained daggers, piercing the flesh as they jerk their heads, shaking them. Each Sniffer stands on one side of the carcass and using their probing tongues they proceed to suck the carrion's remaining blood. At some point, they pull the tongue into their maws with a swift movement; perhaps to swallow what they have absorbed, then whip out again ravenously to have more, groaning in ecstasy. The PCs stand there witnessing the gory ritual, pegged stiff and doing nothing but shaking their heads in horror, hands clasped over theirs mouth, overwhelmed by the hideous sight they are witnessing and the stench of rotting meat that these creatures emit. They realize with a sick feeling that they are in fact feeding on the carcass of their own kind - and that, when they are done with it, they might actually find the PCs to be a good choice for dessert. When the Sniffers are done, they begin sniffing the air, and finally notice the presence of the PCs. With an angry growl, they withdraw their tongues and back up slowly, their backs arch, ready to pounce. And now is the time for the PCs to gather their wits enough and generate the strength to swing the pipe, beating both canines with full force. The creature howl as it tries to back away from them, but they lift his pipe and bring it down again. They swing, once, twice, thrice. After the fourth impact, both dogs fall into a state of convulsion. The quivering beasts whimper in a peculiar manner, sounding like something between gurgling and soft moans. They twitch their huge, bloody feet, and its head lies by the toe of their foot. Without thinking, they raise one knee as high as they can, and slam down onto its skull. There is a sickening crunch and a squish. The dog collapses on its side, writhing horribly and screaming. Lesson learned. If I can knock the other one downI can crush its head. Raising one leg, they bring down their feet and stomp the other creatures neck. The creature howls before falling dead. They lower the pipe, breathing heavily after the odd events that have just unfolded before their eyes: three dead hellhounds lying in spreading puddles of thick brownish-red blood. They can't understand what these dogs are, why they are here. They are monsters, demons. And they have killed them. Everything is twisted, wrong and it has reached out from Room 302 and touched this place. They go into the restroom. To nothing. It is a fairly small space, enough to only fit three toilet stalls and sinks. The windows are small and set high up at the top of the walls. No hellhounds, no cockroaches, plenty of mold but not much dirt. The first stall appears occupied, yet when they tap it, no one answers. The next one is empty. The third one is It stares at you with empty eye sockets, extending a gray bloody hand. The expression of anguish is frozen and silent. The PCs see something out of the corner of their eye that nearly causes them to jump out of their skin. In the dim light they come to realize they are staring at a plastic female mannequin seated on the third toilet closest to where they are standing. It is life-size and completely chalk-white, and its hands are covered in bright red blood to halfway up the forearms. It is wearing a figure-hugging top, tight wraparound skirt, also chalk-white. The thing is disturbing to look at, and yet they cant

look awaythe face has a expression of wide-eyed terror, and the mouth is wide open in a silent scream. Something glints its upheld right hand in mute supplication. Resting on the open palm in the blood are several round coins with holes in the middle: subway tokens. You hesitate to touch it, fearing the mannequin is holding out bait for you to take, so it can pull your arm and reach for your eyes. Lightly you tap the hand with the steel pipe. No reaction. They gingerly reach over and take the tokens, and put them in their pockets. Fortunately, the water is running normally in the sinks, and the roll of paper towels above them is still in usable shape. But even stranger than that is what they see on the wall adjacent to the third stall: another hole. This hole is much bigger and rounder than the one in Room 302's bathroom; about four feet across and cut roughly through the concrete, perfectly round and framed by an elaborate red circle, filled with a series of strange decorative symbols, almost like hieroglyphics. At the top of the circle is red eye that glares down at the PCs, almost as though to ward them off, or dare them to enter. The hole is deep and dark like before, but there are no sounds at all coming from here. This makes no sense. The hole is in the wall to the corridor. The PCs know that there cant be a deep, dark tunnel beyond there is no way they could have missed a four-foot-wide round tunnel, the walls of which would have completely blocked the way they have just come. They leave the rest-room uneasily, feeling the mannequin's sightless eyes on their backs every step of the way. King Street Side Entryway: The hallway outside is still quiet. The dogs are still dead. Their blood is starting to congeal on the cold concrete floor. There is an odd noise emanating from somewhere. It sounds far away, like it is muted in some fashion. As they listen closely in the lobby, the noise suddenly picks up volume. It sounds so unfamiliar in the current environment that for a moment, the PCs don't even recognize it. Then they realize what it is: a telephone ringing. The phones! Much to their disbelief, there are still green lights on above most of the phones, and the central telephone is ringing with a persistent tone, becoming more irritating with every subsequent ring. By the time it hits the eighth ring, the PCs decide to take it. The moment they answer, there is the sound of someone hanging up followed by the dial tone. The PCs pull back in befuddlement. What the...? Who would call a pay phone and then intentionally hang up? This doesnt make any sense. The heavy old phone receivers are familiar, but the lack of dial tone is almost haunting in the quiet. Of course, the phones don't work. There is a strange sort of logic emerging from this place, slowly, and of course the phones aren't going to work...not here. The last receiver still settles back on its rest with a click, though. That hasn't changed. They are about to leave when yet another unexpected thing happens. The telephone rings again. The PCs stare at it. Common sense dictates that they not take it. But common sense does not account for the PCs's curiosity. Against better judgment, they do the unthinkable. They decide to answer it. There is an instance of silence, just before a blast of sound pours over the telephone. The PCs

draw back from the deafening rattle, waiting for the shock to pass. When the noise dies down, the PCs put the payphone closer to their ear. The prattle sounds like a collection of moans and gurgles bereft with pain - a cacophony of suffering ongoing in its misery. Is this someone's idea of a sick joke? It seems unlikely. What kind of people could produce those sounds? Suddenly the atmosphere changes into an almost sinister presence. The air goes down several degrees in temperature, becoming frigid in its bite. It is like a dark presence has awoken in the subway, overtaking the environment with its malice. The PCs are dismayed at the change; how the station has gone from a unsettling, quiet location into somewhere where one can literally feel the evil permeating the place. The PCs shudder from the cold, and from the dread that permeates itself into their bones. They can not identify where that dread comes from. They only know that whatever it is, the telephone call has awakened some incredibly potent and unidentifiable danger in the station. Where is that danger going to come from? The possibilities are limitless. The subway station is a huge place. A monster could come from any corner to attack them. They stumble away in a daze, feeling overcome by the sudden change in the environment. This place is radiating evil so much it is almost nauseating. They look back and see the phone is bleeding, dripping sticky streams of blood onto the ground. The PCs reel at the grotesque sight their hearts pounding thunderously in their chests. The world is spinning around them. They feel like the walls are closing in on them, and they will be crushed from the tension of the palpable menace. The PCs whimper as they drop to their knees, holding their heads in their hands, bodies trembling from the bone chilling coldness that they can't seem to resist. They are drowning in their fright, unable to breathe, certain the encroaching darkness will garrote the life out of them. And then it disappears. The PCs look up and glance around. No darkness, no monsters; the sense of menace they had felt is gone. The phone is hanging by the cord, but it is no longer bleeding. The oppressing aura they had crumbled under has disappeared. It was all an illusion. A hallucination. They can almost still hear the noise echoing in the wide, open space of the terminal void of any other sound or feature but themselves. They can hear it echoing inside their heads, the trill on loop over and over until it becomes this whining drone, like a drill, like a siren. The PCs shakily stand up. That had taken a lot out of them. They take a moment to recover, still a little unsteady on their feet. They are scared, more scared than they'd been in a long time. Somewhere further down the corridor, a slight scuffling sound is heard, and then another. The PCs don't have to ask what is causing it. There are two of them. The sounds echo down the hallway. They aren't very close by, but still...it is better see if one can get to them before they do. Past a few benches with mannequin limbs and newspapers strewn on them is a door. Whether it is unlocked or not they make a beeline for it, the ghost's moans and gurgles blocking out the sound of their footsteps. Generator Room: The door opens readily. Beyond is a small, dimly-lit gray industrial-looking room with concrete walls, filled with deserted shelves, gas tanks, small round pipes, and electrical wires. A walkway with a metal floor zigzags between the pipes across the room. Carefully the PCs navigate through the awful light until they can see better, the fluorescent bulb above the door no longer blocked out by valves and reservoirs. At the other end of the short walkway is a door with a notice board on the right and with metal shelves on the left. There is a single white candle, with a red emblem near its base on one of the shelves, the wick end of it

sticking out in the open. Barricaded Intersection: The place is filled with debris, blocking the passageway ahead. Debris is piled up in the middle of the hallway, forming a large concrete wall. It is like the ceiling has crumbled on itself. What at first appears to be a pile of newspaper and rags is in fact a slumped body. The PCs stare at the man lying on the ground from underneath the newspaper. The poor soul is covered in grime and is dressed in multiple layers of clothing, the shoes upon his feet held together with wrappings of electrical tape. It is obvious that he isn't sleeping. They may wish they can do something for him, but it is obvious he is beyond help at this point. The back of his skull is smashed in. Dried blood cakes the matted hair. There is little to note of interest. They find two health drinks and a box of handgun rounds, but that is about it. There is nothing but garbage and the victim of circumstances they prefer not to think about. They turn to walk away. Suddenly a most unusual thing occurs. Out of the corner of their eyes, they think they see something move protruding from beneath the coats hem. They short in their tracks. Their eyes fixate on the spot, waiting for another look. There is a slight movement and it appears - a long, red, fleshy protuberance. The sight of it sends shivers up. Is that a tail coming out from under the newspaper? It almost seems ridiculous. And yet, they are sure they hadn't imagined the pointy dark object slithering down on the ground. Are they going crazy? They quickly walk away. They don't know if that is their imagination and suddenly, they don't want to know. The 'dead' homeless guy can help himself... Main Concourse: They turn left and continue down the hall to the turnstiles. The other side of the concourse is just as empty and dark as the first part. Two booths are erected by the gates. Garbage bins say "STASH YOUR TRASH" on them. As they walk forward slowly, they hear no noises, no dog-like scufflings or ape-like rumblings. The area seem deserted. This was more alarming than before...much more. So far today, those noises had become familiar, but quiet has meant danger, danger for which I couldn't brace myself. This place was way too quiet. Everything looks normal, but for the odd black marks on the ground. There are dozens of thin streaks, several feet long, that trail around the side of the nearest booth and down the hallway. No, not streaks. Clumps of black thread, maybe, or smears of thick black grease. They are pitch black, and no light reflects off of them even though the fluorescents above are shining as if they were brand new. More black marks form a trail towards the lit turnstiles. They look through the metal bars and notice something. Lipstick, a compact mirror and several makeup items scattered about the floor by the ticket booth. As they move past the turnstiles, something moves on the other side. It is too dark to see clearly. At first, all they can see is a river of black flowing across the concrete, inky and shiny. Then, the river moves, and lifts, and they realize that it is hair, long, silky hair. Ending with what looks like arms and legs, and breasts in a low-cut red shirt and a revealing striped skirt all white and veined in purple and blue. There is the body of a woman lying face down just inside the King Street entrance. The body moves, uncurls, and a sobbing sound of despair can be heard from behind the veil of hair. The woman pushes herself on all fours, her head hanging low, still sobbing in a strange,

gasping way. The figure crawls forward through the turnstile bars (not between them or under them, but through them, as if they were nothing), her head and hair clearly passing through the dull metal. Every now and then her body makes spasms that suggests a deep pain. The hair hangs over her face, hiding her eyes but one can tell it is studying them, reaching out a hand to crawl forward. Her head twitching and jerking from side to side, finding her sights on them. Her skin is pale and translucent, yet her lips are still red. Her fingernails are broken and chipped. She slithers on her stomach like a snake along the ground. That explains the bundles of black thread...her hair had probably caught on things and been pulled out in clumps. She rises to her full height - and more. The PCs realize with horror that she is floating, like all those ghost-creatures they had encountered. Her hair drifts around her head, still hiding her face. As the PCs stand there, she lifts her head and faces them, and the lips part. She opens her mouth, and then they can see her teeth, broken and filled with blood. She is crying, crying out to you. Her arm reaches forward to you, and your world turns red. Her hair spreads outapparently she can control itand as it moves away from her face, they see that she has no eyes and that her jaw unhinges like a snake and opens unnaturally wide. But most of all, the PCs see the number carved brutally into her left breast: 16/21. The dark number remains in contrast to her skin and in the center of their vision until her locks of long hair cover her front as the rest of her body follows her head, snaking upward until she is floating above the floor. 16th Victim, Cynthia Velasquez, I.Q. 7, M.E. 2, P.S 16, P.P. 13, P.B 8, Speed 8..S.D.C: 17. Horror Factor: 16. Powers: In addition to the standard Victim powers, Cynthia is able to animate her hair to form into one or more tentacle-like clusters. They function very much like prehensile tentacles to grab, pick up, hold and carry things, as well as to strike out in a whipping fashion. The tendrils have a P.S. of 8 and a P.P of 7, S.D.C of 30, and inflict 2D4 damage in a whipping attack with a +2 to strike, +2 to parry and disarm, +3 to entangle. The hair can stretch out to 10 feet If struck, she gurgles and sags back but doesnt fall. Won't fall. Can't fall. Again, her hair spreads out and tries to surround youthe act is eerily Medusa-likeand again to no avail. She falls again, but it is different this time. She seems to fall more from exhaustion than from their hits, dropping to her knees, then onto her hands, then face-down on the floor, finally lying still. You drop your weapon, raise the sword and grip it in both hands. It flashes white as you bring it down, driving it through her torso in the back. She spasms and screams an otherworldly howl, and then she starts writhing and making that disturbingly steady gasping-for-air sound before laying still. The sword seems to have come to life, throbbing and glowing in the shadows of the back corner. She is stuck for good, as long as she is impaled on the sword. The PCs aren't sure which one they will take. But when they have decided, they go with the female ghosts frustrated burbles following them down the corridor. Turnstiles Stairs, (King Street Side): Turnstiles Stairs, (Lynch Street Side): They pull out the tokens and look closelythey all have

Lynch Street engraved on them, so they put one in the Lynch Street Line token box. They hear a click as the turnstile unlocks for them, so they push through it and revolve the turnstiles gratefully. In front of them is a descending stairway, which they start to go down, but they stop halfway down because they suddenly get a very bad feeling that something is waiting for them at the bottom. Your head begins to throb with a sharp, stabbing ache. Holding your hand to your head, you pause to lean against one of the walls for support. Suddenly, oily black splotches begin to form, shimmering and writhing on the wall at the base of the stairs in one large cluster. The PCs look up in shock, the pain blurring their vision a little. Then, theres a hollow sort of roar. A white hand reaches out from it, dripping with black slime. Then a head is seen, also white, with dark, sunken-in eyes. The creature emerges and pulls itself away from the wall, and moans as it begins floating in their direction, trailing thick sticky black slime. The thing in the wall squirms its way out of the black substance and slides to the floor with a wet squelching sound, strands of the shiny black substance still connecting it to the wall. It looks human, but only in shape. There is no humanity in its pale, bloated face as it reaches one hand towards you. blindly groping for you. It opens its mouth hungrily, like an infant crying out silently, blindly. It floats slowly towards them, arms and head hanging limply. And, the closer it comes, the more intense their headache becomes, until it is almost crippling. Now you know that they can hurt you without even touching you. The PCs strike out at it wildly with the pipe in terror. The force of their blow pushes the creature back, but otherwise does not seem to have any effect on it. It keeps coming with a dreadful single-mindedness, and all the while their headaches get worse. They dodge the creature clumsily, and then run down the rest of the stairs At the base of the stairs is another set of stairs slightly to the right, so they dont hesitate to take those too. Fortunately, the ghost doesnt (or cant) follow them beyond this point, and the pain subsides. There is a small side passage here, off to the left by the rubble. Nearly hidden among all of the random debris is a small chair with its back against a wall bathed in a euphoric bloodbath, random limbs and bodies of mannequins strewn about the display seemingly held together by tangled wires. A strange-looking doll or mannequin sits in the chair, and another is on floor next to it, staring at nothing. They are faceless and armless, and sit there as if abandoned by some huge toddler. Across the legless lap of the one in the chair is a book that is too faded to read and a long, narrow shaft of braided leather with a loop at one end. It is a riding crop, designed specifically for horse racing.. Surprisingly it is bloodless, untouched by the gruesome display around it. It is light, and fairly easy to whip. Even given a little force it can end up being utterly painful, drawing blood if need be. You couldnt really beat a muscled creature to death with such a thing, but it is a fine distraction, and a painful annoyance if anything else. It seems they are going through a great urban labyrinth. Everywhere they try to turn their path is blocked by a chained obstacle of some sort with hooks, shelves, tables, mannequins, and other such objects oriented in a surprisingly menacing way. One more set of stairs to go, and they are at the subway platform.

Platform 2: The platform walls are lined to a height of four feet with dark green tiles arranged in column patterns. It looks abandoned. The subway, deserted like everything else, resounds with the echoes of the visitors footsteps. Its drab, gray floors are in a state of disrepair, and rubbish lies in piles here and there. There are two paired sets of tracks, both leading off into tunnels to the left and right. The first thing they notice upon stepping off of the stairs is a vending machine that looks like it is still working. It isnt plastered with logos like most are. Painted onto the glass is a strange request. There is a 1" followed by an odd sign, what resembles a fat eight with a vertical line drawn through it. Tilting ones head to the side reveals that it is possibly a sloppily written dollar symbol, probably done by a child still learning how to write. There is merely a coin slot, an unlabeled button, and the compartment where the sodas (or whatever) come out, and it is lit up. They use the coin on the strangely marked vending machine. Instead of a soda can, a small key tinkles metallically in the dispensing compartment. They pick it up with some annoyance. Yet another key, to open yet another locked door. This key has a tag on it that reads in capital handwriting "S.A. Station Murder Scene". Platform 3-4 Entryway: Both sets of stairs are blocked: no exits. But there is a small red box sitting near them. Its label is almost unreadable under all the dirt. But it is a familiar kind of heavy in hand, and it slides open readily like a matchbox. Inside are bullets. The uneasiness grows as they proceeded, giving way to a terrible pounding headache, as if their brains are trying to burst out of their foreheads. Such an abomination grants an opening for an arm to extend. Then comes the head of a specter covered in strings of slime, like a man climbing out of a tar pit. Finally the specter, in the form of an aged bald man, is able to pull itself free from the wall and proceeds to float. Forthwith it drops on its hands and knees, falling into a series of convulsions, letting out a series of grotesque moans. When it sees the PCs, its lips work ceaselessly, even though it is not speaking; they writhe and twist, pull back over its teeth, then push out in childish pout, form a sneer, then a weird little smile, then a fierce scowl, then an expression for which there is no name. He emits breathing, shuddering, soft rasps like he is excited, breath coming fast and sudden. Platform 3 Stairway: A wide set of stairs that leads underground. The PCs see something on the ground of the stairway. Kneeling down to pick it up, they realize it is a magazine article. The souls of those who died suddenly by suicide or accident don't realize they're dead. Sometimes they stay put and haunt that particular place. These spirits have lost their human senses and memories and can only keep replaying the pain and sadness of the moment they died. The pain can get so bad that they turn to humans for salvation -- or they begrudge humans their lives. At such times they can possess humans. Places known as "famous suicide spots" or "highaccident areas" are often to blame. You should be careful when approaching such locations, especially on the day or at the time the death occurred. That is, if you don't want it to happen to you, too. The staircase empties into a short hallway, the walls covered in rows of filthy square tiles and the cement floor sticky and soiled. Platform 4 Stairway: Worn posters line the sheer walls and barred stairwells, the occasional overturned garbage bin serves as the only real form of dcor in the drab industrial gray. There are no monsters here; only the stretched expanse of the open platform, and the lonely columns that support it. The red glare of the terminal schedule shines before them upon the digital screens bolted to the ceiling.

In the distance, at the other end of the platform one of the emergency lamps seems to be working still, shading the spot it illuminates in a harsh red glow. They can hear the rumbling of a distant train and the sound of water trickling as it leaks down from the streets above. There are numerous token machines nearby, but the PCs have no use for them. There is rubbish on the floor, a scattering of discarded tickets. They notice a newspaper thrown on top of one of the ticket dispensers near the turnstyles. That is reassuring proof that someone has been around recently. Snatching it up, they notice an article that is curiously bent, as if someone had folded the top corner of it for later reading or particular interest. It isn't a very long articlesome small little space-waster between the really interesting stuff and maybe a horoscope or the weather report. It is about this station. Fatal Accident at Lynch Street At about 11 PM on the 4th, a man waiting on the platform at the Lynch Street station fell onto the tracks and was decapitated by the arriving Pleasant River University-bound train. The victim died instantly. While the police have not yet determined whether the death was an accident or suicide, witnesses report that the victim did not look inebriated and seemed to jump off the platform deliberately. The victim's identity is still unknown. He was approximately 40 years old, 5 feet 10 inches tall, and wearing a black jacket. It goes on for another sentence asking for anyone with any clues to come forward, including a number where the police could be reached (it also assures callers that any information would remain anonymous at their choice). So they aren't alone. Someone must have put the article there. But who? There isn't anyone around that they can tell. No signs of disturbance by anybody. Unless the article just appeared out of thin air? But that would lead them towards the conclusion they really want to avoid. Regardless of the circumstances, one supposes the content is the most important thing. From the discarded newspaper and the book at the station, it is clear that this is a known suicide spot. Places where a suicide had taken place and the ghosts of the individuals could not move on from the experience, exactly as the magazine said. The spirits of the dead linger after their deaths, prompting human visitors to follow the same fate. If one is not careful, the result is a neverending string of death and misery. What if...what if the presence of that victim is still there? What if it prompts them to do something they will never otherwise do, something they will not escape from? Out of the blue, the hairs on the back of their necks stands up. The atmosphere seems to chill several degrees in temperature. It is cold all around them. And there is something else too, an utter feeling of dread that tells them it will be a very bad idea to remain here. Wearily, their eyes look to the shadowy dome of the terminal path, they edge forward, unable to let go of the niggling feeling that something is lurking beyond the gap, watching their every moveDarkness. Shadow. Nothing. A filthy arch of sheer concrete, a passage clear cut for the midnight run. Aside from some dire repairs, it is perfectly normal. Hidden in the shadows that pool deeply at the edges of the station's platform is another tunnel, much like that leading from the stairwell that the PCs had descended; only this one maintains an even level. As if in response to the PC's presence, although one wonders if the timing is coordinated or merely happenstantial, a rush of cold wind is felt and a sound that grows from a soft whooshing to the scream of fast-driven wind is heard, followed by a whistle, a quick short blast of a siren. The howl is blasting their ear before they are even aware of what it is. The crackle of the rails on the track as the train roars into the station, and the oncoming slipstream of wind knocks them back. Litter and debris swirl in the sudden gusts. The

grind of metal, the scream of steel is heard as the wheels of an express train screech through the station. The walls tremble in passing, the pulse of the underground enkindled by its presence. Fixtures rattle. Fluorescents spark. As dust falls from swollen fractures, the concrete reels from the constant onslaught. The subway stretches across the platform, blocking their view of the other platform and effectively shielding them from any enemies. The rhythm of the wheels beat further apart. The train is slowing. Its brakes squeal, the windows slowly flash by. The railway is nothing like Blaine the train, nor the nearly-mythic engines of the Imperium. In design it is sleek and streamlined, pulling seven passenger coaches. The sight is a relief for the PCs, who are weary of the constant battles and having to hide finally they will get out of this nightmare. As soon as the train stops, spotlights light up the roof of each car, flooding the station with bright light. A soft mechanical click echoes throughout the station. Somewhere along the train, a door has opened, and the PCs rush into it with nary a thought. Its as acridly cool in the train as it was in the station. Moments after they step in, the doors close behind them, with a rather loud slam. They turn back in surprise, but it is too late to get out, and they dont really want to leave the train anyway. The train has barely come to a halt before it begins to draw out of the platform once more. For better or worse, they are on their way. The train lurches once before it gathers steam, pulling out slowly out of the station. The train creaks and wobbles as it gains speed and rushes through the tunnel, the tracks shifting ever so slightly with tiny changes in direction. They stare dully as the car they are in passes the last part of the platform, the one they had been standing on when the train first arrived, and though they cannot be sure they see something standing on the edge near the yellow hazard paint, something that looks like a tall man in a black coat. Blinking is enough to make him disappear, but the image stays with them. Their steady eyes look over the enclosed expanse of the car in which they are seated. A quick look around the compartment is enough for to tell that this place is filthy. Disgusting. Everything is covered in a film like dirt and sawdust, the graffiti-covered walls, the benches that shiver in their metal bolts. Sickly green paint flakes from the walls. Half of the lights are broken. The spring suspension in the seats have given way long ago, and deep hollows indicate the presence of thousands of former passengers. There are old steel poles in the center and seats lining the sides, some of the cushions are spilt open, revealing foamy stuffing or stained by something unknown. Belts from overhead handrails are strewn about the floor and benches, along with newspapers that are too faded to read, and strange bottles that look like bleach or cleaning detergent. The seat smell of mothballs, damp wood, sweat, tobacco and cracked old leather. Everything looks seconds away from crumbling, like structures preserved in ash that will fall when met with a sigh. As they move towards the end of the compartment, their reflection is faint in the windows that are scratched or broken in jagged gashes, letting in a streams of air that makes ones skin prickle. No, it isn't just the air. It is this whole situation...there is something about this place, something wrong, something horrible. In the overhead racks there are dozens of valises, all apparently without owners. Their gaze falls on a particular package, once wrapped up in a shiny red ribbon, which is spilling onto the dirty floor in a heap. The lid of the present is still firmly attached. They tug the lid off with one hand firmly--and see a pump action shotgun, a Remington model

that holds six shells at a time. Picking up the hefty weapon and checking the loading chamber reveals that it is already fully loaded, and in addition, two more boxes of shells are nestled amongst the velvet fabric, holding eighteen rounds each. Now they are ready to get past those dogs, and anything else that might threaten them. The train rocks back and forth as it speeds down the subway, providing a rather soothing feeling. A sudden compression of air in the carriage tells them they are rushing through a station. The carriage rocks back and forth. The window shades rattle. Suddenly the PCs notice that the train isnt making any stops. Instead it speeds along a neverending tunnel of darkness, lights flashing as it goes by, while never making any move to slow down. Peering through a window to the tunnel outside, they see the train enter a platform without slowing. The light from the interior of the car projects enough illumination for them to see the stunted faceless forms that haunt the shadows of passageways further backforms that shun the light, but which welcome the arrival of the train with malefic glee, chattering deafeningly in the semi-darkness. There is a crack in the train window. You stare at the fine imperfection, imagining that in a sudden wind the crack will open and everyone inside the speeding vehicle will be sucked out and killed on the tracks. Or perhaps, when the train thunders through an underground tunnel, something older than the railways will crawl inside through the crack - summoned by the flickering electric lights, the smell of human sweat and the low sound of murmured conversations, it will feast upon the commuters. The fact that the train is moving despite being totally empty seemed a clear sign that someone else is on here besides the PCs. Trains can't move by themselveswell, okay, they can but there's always a driver at the front anyway, and even if this line was deserted except for myself and monsters, there still has to be a driver here. The conductors car has to be at the front, but getting there will mean a trip through several subway doors, something they arent keen on doing. But it seems they have no choice. Their fingers find the metal hold in the door and they push it open (these doors are unusually heavy for some reason), hurrying quickly across the small path and to the next car. The door clicks shut behind them, blocking out the squeaks and shrieks of the train as it moves...wherever it moves. Something is wrong in the second car as well. The compartment is just as filthy as the last, the walls grimier and the graffiti more illegiblethough they can clearly read the words HOW LONG DOES IT WRITHE? and don't want to think about what that meansbut it is different somehow. There is also one glaringly obvious similarity. They go through sixteen deserted cars before they pause for breath. Some are almost in ruins, with seats torn out and there are even signs of fires having been started in half a dozen. They

haven't seen any monsters so far, and they know mentally they have a few more cars to go before they reach the first one. From there, they can get into the drivers cabin, and stop the stupid thing. Transition to Darkness: It is darker in here than the last car. They don't know how it is, but it just is. The lights are still on overhead; the halogen pierces their eyes and makes their head swim from momentary blindness. But it is as if the air or the atmosphere or the presence of the compartment is thicker somehow, veiled in shadow, like wisps of black fog that makes everything seem just a touch more blurry and strange. Darkness: But before another word can be said, the engine is shrouded in absolute blackness and fills with a chill that penetrates to the very marrow of its occupants' bones. As the darkness falls, enshrouding them in its chill grasp, their hearts freeze with dread. The engine shudders, but it seems still to be moving forward. The very air within the compartment seems heavy, chill and dark. Car 1: One cant help but notice the cages with the mangled mannequins insidepieces of plastic and metal meant to resemble mangled human bodies. Car 2: The first thing the PCs hear is the sound of footsteps. They stop dead where they stand, straining their eyes and ears to make out some sign of what is ahead. Just their luck, get stuck in a small train car with some thing. They really can't see anything, and they can't tell how far it is from them, but the footsteps are heavy and wet slaps like someone stomping on pavement after they get out of a swimming pool. Judging just by the way it walks this thing sounds big, probably bigger than the PCs. They can hear it nowlow grunts that extend into moans, moans deep enough to rattle in their chests and make their already panicked hearts panic just a tad more. The only thing worse than seeing a monster is hearing them. In the faint light of the car, they can just make out what this thing looks like. It is about six feet tall and armless, with long, bent legs that are covered in throbbing blue and red veins. Its trunk is likewise veiny, extending up the neck and to the strange fish-like head, coming to end in a large, bulbous eye that is trained on the PCs, staring directly at them. Can it even see? It lumbers towards the PCs, groaning again, its wails deeper and oddly robotic, like it is repeating a phrase without conscious effort. They continue backing up and aimed for the center of its trunk. They close their eyes as they pull the trigger, the gun's recoil making elbows bend from the force. It screamsor it sounds like a scream. The thing doesnt have a mouth so they have no idea how it can be making any noise unless it has vocal chords as well, and the howl is muted, not having an opening to escape from. They fire again and again, trying to aim for the center, cursing when their shots go wild or smirking as they hit their mark. Still it doesnt go down, not even with the bum leg and two

bullets stuck inside it. It takes five bullets to put the thing down, which is good timing as they need to reload. It slams against the floor of the car and makes the benches shake. Moaning and grunting, its one good leg kicking out in spasms, the thing writhes on the floor. Their shoes are a mess after they finish stomping on its head, the heel sliding through the punctured skin and knocking off a large chunk. Blood pools out from its wounds, growing thicker and wider, the smell of it making their noses wrinkle, stomachs beginning their now familiar churn. It takes them a while to calm down. Still the train move on its journey, oblivious and uncaring for the torment of its sole passengers. Car 3: At the end of the first path, they see a brightly colorful box sitting on one of the seats, abandoned. It is bright red and turquoise with plastic yellow chains wrapped around, and has "1000" written on it, followed by that same symbol they have seen on the vending machine outside. It is locked; the keyhole looks small and round, like it is meant for a toy key. The box is big, but surprisingly lightweight. On one end, it has a large W scratched into the plastic. The key turns with a hollow click in the lock. Unlocking the chains on the box, they open the lid to reveal that it is filled to the brim with hundreds of filthy, plastic coins. Plucking one from the pile, they rub the dirt away from one side until they can see faint red lines marking the coin with the same symbol that is painted onto the vending machine: the 1 along with the eight-like character with the line through it. It is also grimy with years of encrusted dirt. Car 4: More mannequins. Four of them. They are all female, wigless, bald. Three have been altered with such care that they seem to represent a ravenous craving, a rapacious need that can never be satisfied. One lies on its back, on the floor, in the center of the room. It grips two steak knives. Each knife has been driven into its throat, as if it has twice stabbed itself. A hole has been drilled between its legs. Also between its legs is a spear-point stave from a wrought-iron fence. The sharp end of the stave has been inserted in the crudely formed vagina. Instead of feet, the mannequin has another pair of hands at the ends of its legs. Both legs are bent to allow the additional hands to grip the iron stave. A third pair of hands grow by the wrists from the breasts. They grasp at the air, seeking and eager, as though the mannequin is insatiable. A second mannequin sits against a seat, legs splayed. Its eyes have been cut out. Teeth have been insert in their place. These appear to be animal teeth, perhaps those of reptiles and perhaps real. Hooked fangs and snaggled incisors. Each tooth has been meticulously glued in the rim of the socket. Each cluster appears to have been designed with much thought as to the most fearsome, bristling arrangement. The mouth has been cut open, carved wide. Wicked, inhuman teeth fill the mannequins maw. Like the petals of a Venus flytrap, the ears are rimmed with poised teeth. Teeth also sprout from the nipples and from the navel. A crafted vagina features more fangs than the other orifices. Representing all-devouring womanhood perhaps? The third mannequin also sits against a bench with its back to the side. Its hands rest in its lap, holding a bowl. The bowl is actually the top of its skull, which has been sawn off. Photographs of male genitalia overflow the bowl. A bouquet of similar photos, scores of them, bloom from the top of the open skull. Still more blossom from the mannequins mouth.

Car 5: They push back the next doorand freeze as they hear a low inhuman whine. They're here. The train is dark, more so than the last car. And as they stare into the shadows, they see them coming. There are two of them, marching along with an odd gait of theirs, their purplish skin partially obscured by the shadows. They make that strange crying sound reminiscent of a mewling baby. And they are coming straight for them. There are two Numb Bodies stumbling around the thin carriage, one the size of a pony, the other the size of a large dog. They wait until they are both within reach, and then let loose with their weapons. A blast of the shotgun brings one down. They hold the handgun at eye-level and pull the trigger as the second waddles towards them, one emitting a low growl. Bam! Bam! Bam! They lower the gun as the creatures fall to the floor, squirming helplessly in their own dark blood. They stomp on one, and then disgustedly stomp on the other. They cringe as they hear the sickening crunch beneath their boots, but they are quickly getting used to it. Car 6: Nothing else is in the car with them, thankfullynot that it would have any place to hide but the light makes them cautious and unsure. What they would normally be grateful for instead makes them suspicious. Hesitantly they walk forward, glancing around, half expecting something to pop out. Onto the next car they go, pausing before opening the door and looking through the frosted glass. Lucky for them the lights are on in this one, and the usual nothing and no one greets them. They shove yet another train car door open and slide inside, glancing around at the surprising amount of light in this part. Car 7: The interior of the train is out of damnation itself. The floor is littered with prostrate bodies. Some are hanging by their necks from knotted leather straps attached to the ceiling railsm others impaled on jagged spears of metal. All have been recently murdered and bear signs of mutilation. There are dozens of corpses packed into the carriage. Their limbs protrude at misshapen angles from the humps of flesh and clothing. Scurrying giant cockroaches leaving bloody prints everywhere on skinless bodies engaged in various sexual acts. Extreme terror and pain marks their facial expressions. The final subway car awaits... Car 8: The door closes behind. Its glass inset is painted black. Not a trace of light enters the car; it is as dark as the blackest night. No furniture, light fixtures or anything else can be seen. A step forward reveals no obstructions. Another step. Then a third and still no obstructions. It is a fourth step and then something bites their fingers, inflicting 1D4 damage. Reaching out again, to the left is an empty space, while two steps forward and a third to the left grazes against more razors. This car is a maze, a maze with walls covered with broken razors. Directly in front is a wall of razors, and a razor-studded wall to the left as well; the maze is leading the visitor to the right and he/she has no choice but to follow the passageway. The floor is littered with sticky masses resembling blood-soaked cloths. They appear trapped in a sort of labyrinth of rusted steel blades and barbed wire, one that turns sharply to the left, suddenly ceasing in a dead end. Now they will have to backtrack. The exit is a narrow corridor that turns to the right at an angle that grazes razors across the flesh of the shoulder, inflicting another 1D4

damage. But the doorway out of the car is just ahead, no more than another fifteen feet; its glass inset is also painted black so finding it is difficult. As the left-slanting corridor is moved along, the car sways at the train rounds a curve, and then the corridor straightens out. The door bursts open, flooding the corridor with harsh light, searing the eyes, making blue whorls in the brain. The razorshundreds of them on either sideglint in the glare, and some of them are smeared with crimson. The drivers feet are pierced with nails to the floor, barbed wire fastens his hands to the steering wheel. A spiked safety belt completes the arrangement. Suddenly, the train jerks violently as the dead conductor slams on the breaks. The car rattles as PCs are thrown to the side, and they grasp onto the handrail as the train grounds to a halt. The doors slide open with little fanfare, opening the gates into places unknown. Their knees, sore from all the running and their various less graceful moments, become further scuffed and scraped, and their wrists are sore from the unexpected task of supporting part of their weight. They are here. The only problem is they dont know where here is. It is evident they have reached their destination whatever place the forces behind this have chosen for them and there is only one way to proceed. They cant linger long on how much they don't want to do thisthere is no use resisting. No good will come of that, and they don't want to find out what will happen to them if they stay put and wait in this place. Hell, I didn't even know where I was. It is no station or platform either. It is a small stony ledge with a single door that is almost invisible against the thick mold that has accumulated over the concrete walls. The ledge is nearly impossible to see, wreathed in so much shadow and grime, that if they want to be sure where they are, theyll have to venture outside and look properly. They try not to feel disappointed. Really, what the hell had they expect? To see their stop outside? To find things back to the way they used to be, the way they want them to be? There is only a small amount of ledge for them to step out on. It isn't quite as dangerous, but it is enough to raise their heart rates past normal. They step out hurriedly; just in case the train speeds off again; peering at the door in disgust. Maybe...it leads to an exit? Why did the train take them here, of all places? Lynch Street Line, Southwest Maintenance Room: The room beyond is bathed in red light with a rusted metal floor. It looks to be a small supply room with another decorative hole on the righthand wall, with a ladder near the wall across from them, leading into a square shaped hatch in the floor, probably to a maintenance passage or something. The PCs lean out to look down. There is light from below, and they can see what look like more rusted metal flooring. They take a deep

breath and climb down, being careful not to lose the pipe. Maintenance Tunnel: Down the ladder it is, then. When they get to the bottom, the PCs find themselves standing in a maintenance passage, as expected. What wasnt expected is the red, throbbing walls that thrum and squirm. They are standing on a metal lattice that is bolted to the walls a few feet off the floor. One can be glad for this when they notice that the floor and walls are smooth and ivory colored and covered with dark brownish red splotchesthe effect is unsettling like flesh splattered in blood. They occasionally pulsate, expand and contract in a rhythm that mimics breathing. The constant movement of the walls and floor constricting and opening gives one a seasick nausea. They don't have much longer to swell on the scenery as more ghoststhree of them at one time emerge from the walls of the increasingly claustrophobic corridor. Down the hallway, they come to a break in the lattice that is covered with old wooden planks that creak when walked upon, so they tread carefully, then continue down the hallway, until they come to a smelly and rather steep staircase, still red and oozing like the passage, that descends into the blackness, and go down those as well, and through the door at the end. The walls seem to writhe and burble in the red light as if they were alive. Platform 3: Now they are on another subway platform, one with graffiti-covered walls, and gross floor. Rubbish is scattered across the cement platform. The steel girders are coated in grime. Bits of limbs that are indistinguishable from mannequin or human litter the place, especially where a kiosk should be. A very old looking and battered train car sits abandoned, on the tracks. The train has remained in the station, rusted and useless. They walk alongside it cautiously, wondering where to head to next and decide to try the first compartment at the south end. As luck would have it, it appears to be the control room. They can already hear moaning and feel another headache coming on, so they move as fast as they can through the driver's doorway. Stepping inside causes the carriage to gently sway. The floor is damp. The controls are to their left; a solitary red button glows in the compact compartment, indicating it is the only thing operating. Upon pressing it, a small beep is heard followed by a mechanical whir; the hiss of exhaust and the sound of sliding rusted metal. As they climb out, they notice something floating towards them. This one is different, however; it resembles an elderly white lady, wearing a faded velvet dress and hat. The sight of it chills them in a way they had never thought possible. Were these things - human, then? They can still hear the noises betraying their presence nearby. Low growls of a warped canine pitch; the grotesque chewing and slurping as the creatures consume whatever meal they have foraged. The monstrous hounds are dead ahead. There are two of them, gnawing on some indistinguishable piece of meat. The PCs are able to discern the barest of details. There is only a berth of one, perhaps two feet between them and the walls: wide enough to allow passage beside them, but not enough to allow some leeway in maneuvering. They will need to be precise to the letter. Once their legs brush past the dogs decaying bodies, there will be no turning back. The monsters are unprepared for the sudden burst of energy. Their eyes, assuming they have

eyes, are almost as ill-equipped as the PCs to handle the engulfing shadows dominating the distorted landscape. They are reliant almost entirely on their sense of hearing and smell, which is surely unbalanced by the horrid state of decay their bodies are in. There is a thunderous sound as the first gun blast strikes the dog, destroying part of its skull. The creature stands up from the blast, dripping blood and skull matter from the wound, only to have another shot put it down for good. Another dog comes at them, and this one suffers the same fate as the other, getting blown to hell by the massive blast of the shotgun. Without further hesitation, they take off running along the subway platform. After awhile, they come upon a strange metal structure hanging from the ceiling that can only be described as a cage with a mannequin inside, which is cut in half and pinned down by being impaled by several spear like weapons, and covered in blood. Even though it is merely a "decoration", one can still be disturbed in horror at what it symbolizes. There is only one train here, though. The left-hand track sits empty, while the car on the right stands open. To the left the old part of the station is secured, the fencing topped with vicious twists of barbed wire. They can grab the handles, regardless of the chains, and shake them. It is locked. They step onto the escalators under the Exit sign and hope that the sign is accurate. They cannot see the top of the escalator. It is as if one were being carried back up into that blackness from which they have descended before. Maybe that is a good thing. Grrrrrrrrrrrrgh... The PCs then glance back behind them to see what made that noise. They don't hear or see anything else. Then they hear the wet-pealing cracks in front of them. At first, the light at the top reveals nothing from in the middle. Then the PCs finally see a ovallike shape poke out from the side in front of the cage. It doesnt take the PCs long to realize that it is a...head. After it looks around, it sinks back into the dark, only for its whole body from the torso up to reemerge from the wall with the same crackling sound. The PCs lock eyes on the silhouette in sheer terror; unable to move. The partially lit creature looks at them for a moment, and then quickly sinks back into the tiled wall. They look up to realize that the walls of this place also appear fleshy, and vaguely humanoid creatures are coming out of the wall to take a violent swipe with a long slender arm tipped with a blood-red hand before retreating back into the wall. Each appears to be merely a torso with a head sticking out, faceless and bloody as the rest of the place. It is thin, almost like an insect, with long, sticklike arms, and it is entirely covered in a leathery membrane. Only its upper body protrudes from the wall, and it swipes blindly at them. They line the wall as far as one can see. Cries that are anything but synchronized and human bounds off of the narrow walls. By now, their reaction is near instinctive. They haul back and attack with their pipe and axe, hands grippiing them like a miser to his gold.. Squinting their eyes despite the dim light, they wait as the escalator carries them slowly downwards. The anticipation is eating them from the inside out. Then it appears. The wall shifts, and the humanoid torso stretches out, roaring. The PCs notice how the head has only one eye, yet no other facial features and even how it is textured perfectly with what it is trapped in, it glistens with what looks like moist like skin. For whatever reason, the PCs shut their eyes and swing with the most power they have. Almost faltering and tumbling

down the stairs, they let out a short scream that in another time and place could be considered a battle cry as they swing their weapons blindly down. The wall demon is hit in the middle of its deadly swing, and the PCs opens theirs eyes in shock to see the axe crash down bloodlessly on its head. To their surprise, after three hits, the wall mans body then goes limp and hangs loosely from the wall. The escalator passes by underneath it as it dangles down, unconscious. It then slowly slips back into the wall as the escalator brings them past, leaving no trace that it was ever there. It had worked. Fortunately for the PCs, they can clearly see when the next wall monster will pop up if they study the walls. Things go methodically. The monsters almost always show up with just enough time for the PCs to knock them unconscious. Part of the surface will bulge as the deformed head starts to pop out, allowing the PCs to run through, wait, or whack it with the pipe to at least stun it. A good swing or two for each is enough to take them down. That, and careful timing, gets the PCs up the escalator with only a few bruises. Thankfully, at the top is the turnstile. They come up the stairs, they see a number of colorful objects scattered on the ground. They are womens makeup items...lipstick, nail polish, eyeshadow, facial tissues, a compact...over a dozen of them scattered across the ground. A few are broken and leaking bright blobs of spilled makeup onto the gray concrete, making little colorful wet spots that dulled and darkened as they dried. A small handbag lies next to them, open and forgotten. You bend to look more closely, but freeze when your eye catches the window to the ticket booth. There are little pieces of paper hanging up inside, as usual, notices of whatever little bits of information that needed to be posted and there are spots of red on their edges. More red covers the rest of the window, and it is dripping downward. Suddenly, getting the door to that booth open is the most important thing in the world. The doorknob wont budge. But there is a small rectangular plate fastened to the outside of the door, like placard. It is a deep red, and bears a strange picture, of a half-naked woman dancing, with veils in her hands, along with the word Temptation. It comes off in their hands, and as they stare at it, they hear the lock click. They turn the doorknob, and the door opens. Stationmaster's Office: Inside...is covered in bright red blood. Walls, ceiling, floor, all are soaked in thick sprays of blood that still glistens and drips onto the counters, boxes and everything. There is no drain for it to flow out, so it sits there, eating away the bland colors originally placed in there. A blood stain covers a large area of the floor, a yard in diameter if not more, sinking down to about a quarter of an inch deep. The office is in disarray, as well. Chairs and papers lie on the floor, strewn everywhere, all of them soaked through with blood. Some sort of struggle has taken place in here, for certain. A mirror shards edges are caked with red, as if it had been used as a weapon either to defend or attack with.

There is a human-shaped print on the floor though, splattered but recognizable. It resembles a macabre snow angel, with no wings and a gruesome body pattern. It is the only way to tell what the body had been like at the time of death, as the chalk laid down by the police had smeared and been washed away by the standing blood. Only one corner of the small office is free of red. Their eyes wander across the floor and on the other side of the room, they see a long dark object in the middle of that corner. It is a handle, plain and simple, untouched. Crossing the blood as though it isn't there, the PCs bend down and pick it up. It is a little larger than one end of a bike handle and is smooth, hardly worn from use. The bottom end of it has scars and scrapings, as if it had been forced from its original position. A serial number is printed in the rubber casing of the handle along with a faded scrawl 'King Street', matching it up with the train that ran for one end of this station. It is large and metal and looks like it can be used in a train's controls; they have seen similar ones in the control cabins of the stalled trains at the Lynch Street Line. What it is doing here they have no idea. Maybe it can be used in the train at the King Street platform. King Street Platform: They can see the other side by staring past the twisted metal, but it's blocked. At the King Street platform, it is only a short walk to the train, which is fortunate. They wish to get this done quickly, hoping that the train handle will somehow help them and not be just a useless item found out of place. Walking beside it, they find a way into the stalled train from an open door at the back. They make their way to the other end where there is another open door on the other side, but there is a wall in the wayif they can get the train to move a little, they will reach a point where itll lead out of the train and hopefully out of the subway station. They go down the train to the driver's cabin, but it is empty, too. There is a mass of confusing controls on the console, but no visible way of moving the train forward to the lighted side tunnel that beckons so invitingly up ahead. Just dials and knobs and a weird square projection that looks like the shaft of a knob without a handle, or like a lever without a handle. Ghosts have started to crawl from the walls behind them as theyve entered the only open door. Ignoring the pain, the PCs maneuver around the restless spirits they can, they reach the driver's chair, where they find the damaged spot where a handle should be. They jam the detached train handle in the empty space, wrap both hands around the handle and pull forward. It is stiff, but after a second or two it finally gives way. The train shudders and lurches forward, sputters, and comes to a sharp halt as the wheels screech and spark against the uneven tracks. The PCs grab onto the control panel to steady themselves as the train tosses them back and forth like ragdolls. grasping the framework of the seats to stay standing. The ghosts are flung to the ground, hovering just above the floor of the subway. After a second, the motion stop completely and every last sound of metal screeching against metal ceases. The PCs uneasily let go of the control panel. They emerge from the train cabin and move down the train carriage. The entire train has moved about one car length. To their left, an open door that had shown only a blank tunnel wall now stands in front of a stairway leading down to a brightly lit side area with a small rusted door at the bottom of the staircase. There are a few boards bridging the gap between the train and the passage. Before the ghosts can rise up again, the PCs step carefully across them, and head down the stairs.

Wonder of wonders, not only is there a door...but there is a wooden Sword of Obedience leaning casually against the wall in the corner as if it was the most natural thing in the world to find an anti-ghost sword in a subway service tunnel. Accepting this out-of-place chivalry, they enter into the wider room. On the other side of the door is a short, narrow lighted hallway with wall made of rusted steel that drops into an abyss both sides of a sidewalk-sized path straight to another doorway. It is dark and quiet, and footsteps echo down its length and back as the PCs move along slowly. The PCs feel an unbelievably frigid shiver freeze their spines gazing into the dark abyss. Averting their eyes, they push forward. But as they are about halfway down the hall, they hear a sound they didnt expect: the sound of the door behind them opening and closing. The PCs are about to respond when their ears pick up another noise. It is a faint click followed by a long metallic scraping sound. It is not a harsh scrape though, more like two smooth surfaces rubbing against each other. It is the sound of a revolver being loaded. Still at an untraceable unease, they whirl around and... The man in the blue coat is right behind them, breathing down their necks. They can see every pore on his nose, see the short light blond stubble on his chin and upper lip. What strikes that at that moment is that he doesnt have a smell. You notice the weirdest things sometimes...he doesnt even smell like skin. He smells like nothing. Like there is nothing there at all. Then, there is something hard and cold poking one of the PCs ribs. Before they can figure out what it is, he smiles at them, that creepy otherworldly smile...and then, he just turns and walks away. The door swings open to reveal blank white fog. Spiral Staircase: They are outside the door now, standing on a walkway made of steel sections spiralling downward into the murky fog. The door clicks shut behind them; there is no turning back for them. The outside area is so foggy that they can barely see five feet in front of them. It is hard to see as it is, but the lamp post that is immediately set outside the door somehow makes it harder. And they know that they are outside. They have to be. There is no way that the hollow noises coming from around them wouldnt echo back, not even in this fog, unless there are no walls...so they are outside. They are on a winding, declining walkway that is made of concrete and brick, and lined with intermittent chainlink fences. The door behind them is mounted in a wall that hovers in midair, just like everything else they can see. And this place isnt merely uninviting, but frightening as well when they turn to the left. The anticipation is painful enough until a rhythmic squeaking turns their attentions to the chain-linked wall. They see a body hung high above the abyss that is within the spiral of the walkwayit is a woman encased in a metal cage as if on display, whose arms are bound behind her back and she has many sharp objects inserted into her abdomen. There is no face to display pain, only the body swinging there in the bleak grayness. In front of them stretches the beginnings of a long, open spiral staircase. It curves down counterclockwise from where they were standing; wound forever downward, or so it seemed anyways; they couldnt see how far it really went due to the fog. The steps are metal, and are covered in blood and something else damp. So, down they go with a squish squish squish. The blood is slippery, and there are no handrails

for much of it, so they have to be very careful, but the stairs themselves are stable, but their rackety look and the weakness of the railings suggests otherwise. The whiteness around the spiral is penetrated in some areas by shapes that can be barely made out through the swirling fog. They look like more inert gray female figures, perhaps corpses, sometimes hanging in locked cages, swinging in the air, in freakish tableaux or in pieces, lying on the ground, sometimes enclosed in concrete structures that look curiously urban, small tiled rooms with chain-link in front, posed like life-size dioramas. The PCs see rotting legs hanging out of holes in a wall, as if shoved in there for storage, and another time there is a room behind a pane of glass where they see a sheep the size of a horse with a huge cross behind it. The animal looks real enough, but it never movessimply standing there, thick with unsheared wool and as expressionless as the rest of its species. It doesn't move, but for some reason the PCs don't believe that it is stuffed. What is more disturbing is that it is seemingly untouched by the corruption about itno blood, no wounds, no dirt or filth even. Just a simple, wool-white sheep that stood there, uncaring and unaware. How disturbing. A scene from a nightmare. Why would something as simple as that be here? Some deeper symbolism must have been attached to the presence of the sheep, but the PCs don't want to contemplate it to figure it out. The PCs advance slowly down the spiral, not speaking; words are useless in this terrible void. After a distance, they come to fork in the way: the spiral stairway extending out to the center of the void, terminating at a suspended broken section of wall with a perfectly round hole in it. They can clearly see the fog through it, but they recognize it to be a portal by the pattern encircling it. It hangs suspended over nothing, just like the door that had brought them here, completely open and looking rather dangerous to enter. They eventually come to the end of the stairs, although more of them spiraled downward past these. At the end is a lamp post shining on a plain white door into the wall of what looks like a broken-off building section floating in midair. The PCs are by this time beyond questioning how the door and the section could have come to be there. The white of the door has been almost violated by the same circular red symbol painted on it. They merely turn the door handle and enter.

Saint Jerome Medical Center:

(Optional Scenario) Emergency Room: The PCs are in a massive room, and their eyes open lazily to see an industrial-looking ceiling lined with pipes and lights that either dont work or are turned off. The floor is neither cold nor hard...Linoleum...indoors, probably. They blink a few times and sit up. When their eyes focus, they see that they are next to a wall, and in front of them is hospital gurney. They see other hospital beds, each one containing a body covered with a heavy dingy cotton sheet, and where the bodys torso is, there is a large spot of blood staining the sheet, like the walls. The white paint is peeling off under the blood spatters. But that isnt so unusual by now, especially after the last place they have been. A familiar smell is in the air. Well, another familiar smell, in addition to the stench of old blood and rot and rust. There is a chemical smell, like disinfectant. They are in a medium-sized room, and it is white...or dingy dirty white. Or at least it had been, once. The ceiling stretches gray above them, a maze of bare pipes and beams and wires, with a

single overhead lamp with four bulbs in it. The lamp is off. As they push themselves up, they see movement out of the corner of their eye. On their right is a tall fabric screen standing between the PCs and the other side of the room. A shadow can be seen behind it, bending over a table at waist height, arms in front, moving rhythmically over a second figure lying flat on the table. All they can hear is heavy breathing, the clink of metal and the sound of wet flesh, like someone quietly and persistently licking their lips. Every once in awhile, the figure tips its head back and breathes heavily. The act, whatever it is, looks oddly sexual at first glance. Then, they notice that the other body isnt moving at all, and it is the first figures hands that are moving around the bodys abdomen, up and down, as if probing around in... The PCs cross to the table, and fight back the urge to gag when they see that a a pasty pale woman lies on the table, disembowelled. Her eyes, still open, stare up at the ceiling, and her facial expression indicates that she had been alive when she had been disembowelled. They look at the tray next to the table. All the tools are clean and bloodless. The patient on whom had been operating, stands up on long legs, towering over them, her dead, torn face staring at the ceiling as she raises a pole that she had been clutching, her guts exposed. The Patient is definitely humanoid and apparently female, going by its shape. She has chalkwhite skin and is scantily-clad with long, stream white hair. A boil bulges on one of her temples, rendering her blind in one eye. Another hideous boil writhes outward from her abdomen, mimicking some sort of parasitic pregnancy. All in all her face is smeared and distorted, and she is huge. She is also a good deal larger than a man. In her hand she holds an operating instrument, and as the PCs get closer it raises it up high, swinging it madly back and forth. The PCs raise their weapons, sickened and terrified; and as she reaches back with one hand to strike at them, they lash out. She stumbles backwards and... ...burps There is no doubt about it, this thing burps when you hit them. Seriously. They may be tall and gray, can break your arm with a single blow, and are hideous, but...they burp. Not just a little exhalation, either. It is a big, round belch. The sound brings the PCs back to their senses; she is a physical creature, and can be attacked. They smash at her again and again until she falls; and even then they must stomp on her grotesquely twisted neck to make sure she never stands up again. The corpse convulses in a final death throe, then lays still. Standing over the corpse, it is hard to tell facial features of any sort aside from basic humanoid structure. It is an abominations that vaguely resembles a woman, pale and plagued into some kind of malevolent creature. Nothing in this worlds imagination could possibly create this, even with the most twisted of minds. Lobby: They are now in a hospital lobby, or something like it. The room has doors leading off in all directions, and the same smell of disinfectant. There is less blood, though. The place is dim and dirty, the only light coming from fluorescent strips in the walls at waist level. Hospitals are supposed to be sterile, as antiseptic as humanly possible, clean, white, and at least giving the illusion of invitation, but this place has a very unclean feeling washed into every pore. The murmurs coming from other areas of the hospital continue, and the sound of doors opening and closing can at times be heard, but it is just a barely audible sound in a prevailing silence. At one end of the hall is an elevator. The cable that lifted the elevator to the upper floors had snapped and the elevators twisted carcass lays at the bottom of the shaft, seeping oil. The wall around it is torn up and like diluted blood has seeped from under the doors and has since dried. The whole

thing looks somehow organic, a monster of flesh and metal, freshly dead. Even so, they may try the button, but it isnt workingeither the button or the doors dont work, possibly both. There is a small door in the back of the elevator shaft, but it is inaccessible because of the elevator. They can try the doors at the end of the hallways, the ones that look as though they should lead out. Of course, they dont work. They are stuck...very, very stuck. Reception: A very large, but long abandoned, office. There are files on a shelf with the St. Jeromes Hospital logo on them. In the next room there is a light box on the wall that has x-rays of a skull and some limb or another, and photographs and forms of injuries stuck haphazardly all over it with various notes taped about how to treat said injuriesbloody limbs, horrible gaping wounds on the head, wrist, elbow and damaged areas around the neck, doctors' reports, scribblings of various words like "transfusion", stretch, compound and "abuse" with arrows pointing to the pictures. There is nothing else of interest. The name Eileen Galvin is written as well, circled in red and repeated on a Polaroid photo of her face from the crime scene, spiderwebbed with blood and unconscious in a way that unnaturally bent her neck. Office: A small room with shelves and papers and not much else of interest. There are a few old desks and chairs. Everything is the usual dirty and dusty, except for a single metal object on a far table. It is one of a knife with a retractable blade, the kind of edge that would break off when it gets worn to expose a new one: a paper or box cutter. It is cold and heavy in hand, and its blade flicks out readily. It might be useful as a weapon, but only if one were to run into something slow-moving, with no offence whatsoever, or for a one-time throw. In other words, it is useless. Still, one never knows when one is going to have to open a cardboard box...or not. Emergency Room 2: The operating room has a single operating table in the center of the room, with an IV drip and a tray of surgical tools next to it. A large operating light also hangs down from the ceiling. Water drizzles out of a half open tap into a scrub bowl. The doors to the cupboards are open, and the contents ransacked. Pills litter the floor, the PCs crunch over scattered capsules, grinding them to powder. Supply Room: Their wide and wild eyes lock immediately onto a disgusting old gurney and the moldy old linens atop it. It is apparently a supply room because it is mostly made up of long metal shelving that has sheets of clear plastic hanging in front of them, apparently to protect whatever was normally on the shelves. However, there isnt much on the shelves of the first wall, just some clean sheets and bandages, as well as a few bottles. In a brown glass bottle is an ampoule, a bottle of morphine of some unknown potency. The needle is included in the bottle and everything, it is a grab-and-go sort of deal, similar to an EpiPen. On the second wall, one is horrified to find body partsthe hips and legs of a woman sit with the lower legs dangling over the edge, the way one would position a doll. On a second glance, they realize it is most likely a mannequin. On the last wall is nothing again, so they leave the room. Doctor's Lounge: It is a cosy little room, actually, the sort of place where the staff probably came to talk privately or take a breather from the hectic hospital corridors. It has a couch, a glasstopped coffee table littered with magazines, a love seat and easy chairall in brown upholstery, and a small television in the corner. Two sinks. A miniature refrigerator. A bank of six metal

lockers stands below. Sitting on the desk is a babys medical chart, as if someone has left it there for them to find. Irrelevant...and useless. They drop it back onto the table, grab the portable firstaid kit that rests on the table by the desk, and head for the door, leaving the bleak, blank-walled little room behind them to enter the corridor again. Washroom: Windowless. Gray tile floor with a drain in the center. A quick check of the lockers finds one filled with assorted cleaning solutions and the other two empty. In a far corner is a filthy sink. In another corner is a tray with legs with medicines on top. Stairwell: They open the door next to the elevator and find stairs. Just a short flight, with floor labels at the landing in the middle. The gray walls, stark light, looming shadows, the metal railing, the place seems like a reflection of ones own despair. These are old and dirty like everything else, but at least the lights work; a pale light that hums like a wasp in a jar. Second Floor Hallway: The door at the top of the stairs leads to a long, long hallway that stretches out into the distance. Doors line both sides stretching in pairs far into the distance. At the far end of the hallway is a metal grillesome sort of wire barricade, roundwith what looks like a large warped hospital bed hanging in midair behind it, swinging back and forth slowly over a pit, and the hallway continues beyond it. And roaming the hallway are a half-dozen rust-colored empty wheelchairs; they patrol the length of the corridor erratically, wheeling up and down, then rearing up on their hind wheels and whirling around to move in a seemingly random, insect-like fashion. Each is moving to its own rhythm...slow, then fast, then wheeling around and coming back down the hallway, swerving to avoid the others. They are the only movement and sound in the hall, and their rattling and clanking echoes eerily off of the grungy tile and gray walls. The wheelchairs are now all coming down the hall towards the PCs. Functionally, they are mobile and unpredictable hurdles, and they will have to be sure to keep out of the way. Attacking one of them causes the chair to stop rolling for a moment, then start turning towards them. The PCs then feel the familiar red headache coming on, and realize that trying to kill them is most probably a waste of time. They have the same effects as ghosts, so they will have to dodge them carefully as if they were ghosts. So, that leaves them with a hallway of many doors. It will seem to take forever to search all the rooms in this interminable hallway; the rooms seem to be the product of a totally deranged mind. Some of the rooms seem utterly senseless and defy all logic and science. There are about two dozen or so doors on the hallway. None of them seem to have room numbers or anything helpful like that. Room 1: In the next room is only another light box on the wall with many x-rays hanging on it. There are still more hung on the walls and several more scattered on the floor, as if someone had dropped them. There is also a standing I.V in the corner. Room 2: The next room looks to be a padded cell, but it has a window of some kind on either side and each is broken. Behind the window on the right, there seems to be something behind it, but it smells. On the far wall is a wire net. Beyond this one is a massive dark roomthey see that dangling on a rope that hangs from a rafter is something shrouded with a long white cloth. The shroud's edge looks damp and slightly greasy. It isnt moving and looks like a dead body

wrapped in the white cloth. It has apparently been hanged because it is suspended from the long rope and it swings back and forth like a pendulum, as if being pushed by an unseen force. It is too dark to be able to make out any more detail than that, which is probably a good thing. Room 3: Only after they have gone through the door do they realize that the floor is covered in some kind of thick gray gooey substance. It is a small room, and there is a box of ammunition at the other end of it, and they are already standing in the gray crud anyway, so there is no avoiding it, so they may decide to go ahead and get the ammunition. It is only about six steps away, but it takes awhile to get to it because the stuff is like glue. With the first step they nearly fall forward because they havent realized that their feet are suctioned to the floor until trying to take that first step, but fortunately, they will easily be able kept their balance. Eventually, they do get to the ammo. This room is more of an annoyance than anything Room 4: On the bed is a pile of skin surrounding a slab of rotting meat impaled with stakes. It smells horrible to say the least. The packages of pills scattered about the place are unopened. There is a box of ammunition laying next to the bed. Room 5: The following room has a series of strange glass casesincubators, broken and useless with a cord of some kind strewn all over the room, draped over all the cases. Ones first thought, for some reason, is umbilical cord, but this cord is way too long, more the length of a rope. There is nothing else to see in this room, so they leave. Room 6: The next room actually looks like a hospital room. On the night stand by the bed is a medallion of some kindit is silver and oblong-shaped and it hangs from a long chain. It seems important. As they cross into the chamber, the oppressive air that had has hung in the other rooms of this place seems to lift. Then they look up and notice that there is a nice, soft afternoon light coming through the girded windowit is almost ...heavenly, and it makes the room feel oddly inviting, despite the stained bed that is stripped of sheets and the IV unit by the foot of it. The rays play through the dust in the air. It feels strangely sacred in the middle of the other hellish rooms. The PCs can allow themselves a moment to soak in the warm light before leaving the room. Room 7: There is a sort of frame made of metal hanging over the bed, and hanging from that frame is another body. 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 body convulses and this makes the spikes pierce the flesh even deeper; the blood from the wounds drips down and falls on the white sheets of the hospital bed, which are already soaked with it. It swings back and forth on the metal platform that creaks and moans in the silence. Room 8: They hear noise coming from door of Room 8 in front of them. It sounds like a person moaning, a woman. They approach the door and place an ear to it. There is indeed moaning coming from the room, and it sounds like moans that come from pleasure, ecstasy, lustfulness, and the most exquisite pain. The door is turned metal and smeared in blood, just like others are. The woman keeps on moaning and the pitch of her moans increases with each passing moment. Ecstasy turns into exhilaration and an inability to contain oneself. The moans increases and become shameless. The PCs open the door.

A scream of horror escapes from them. The face of an injured woman fills the entire space between the floor, ceiling, and side walls, the features horribly distorted as every little detail is magnifiedthe grooves in her lips, the individual hairs that make up her eyebrows, and even purple capillaries and pores are easily seen, the jaundiced eyelids flicker to reveal eyeseach probably as big as a mans head and covered in a thick layer of moisturehave green irises that have grooves radiating from the giant black pupils which follow movement and twitch and quiver unnaturally. The nose flattens and flares grotesquely, like the nose of an enormous bat; the mouth is a lipped slit ten feet long that works the air uselessly to try to speak. It has strange and grotesque-looking scars running across its cheeks and the bridge of its nose. Her left ear is swollen and bruised. She has a long cut on her left jaw. Her lips are split, swollen into thick purple ridges. It continues with its heavy breathing, which echoes through the room. Their legs nearly buckle under them and they have to stand with their backs pushing against the door to stay upright, mind and body refusing to deal with what they are seeing. They cower in this position for several seconds, disgusted as they feel its warm breath on them. The head makes no attempt to hurt themit merely stares and breathes its quivering breaths. It is ultimately neither a threat nor a clue, so they leave her alone in her room to goggle at the walls. Room 9: A single bed stands against the wall of the small, dilapidated hospital ward. Medical paraphernalia is stacked on a cart at the foot of the bed; attached to the frame are stands for holding drips. The worn linoleum has split like rotten fruit, a split as long as a man is tall, from which broken planks bulge jaggedly. The stench of earth and rot rises towards them, and so does a dim shape a hand, or just enough of one to hold together and beckon jerkily. No!says a voice from a mouth that sounds clogged with mud. It isnt true, it isnt like that! Room 10: Two nurses. There are two of them, and they are advancing rapidly. Now that they have some idea of what they are facing, the PCs are able to fight them more effective, Fortunately, the nurses dont seem to be coordinating their attacks. Not only are the nurses big and powerful-looking, but each one carries a weapon, each with a long handle with a small head of some kind at the end, almost like a hammer. Before they have a chance to use this weapon on the PCs, they can pull out the pistol and, notice the gaping hole in their mid-sections, aim for that area on the one in front. Both of them double over as apparently the bullet passes through both, and makes a disgusting sound, not unlike a belch. As the one in front is doubled over, they can fire again, aiming for the head this time. It reels back a few steps but doesnt fall until they fire a third time, and even then, it tries to get up, so they must stomped on its back. It makes a gagging sound as its spine snaps, and finally it is still. Bringing a foot down on the bloated abdomen causes the sac to explode in a fit of hissing bile and acid, steaming and full of some sort of worm parasites. They see the worms wriggle about before they shrivel and die. Against the back wall is a chain link fence and hanging from the top of it by a hook is a sheet of skin, and it can only be human skinin the middle there is still a chunk of tissue attached, and it is speared with several hypodermic needles in a circular pattern. It is an ivory color and is in the general shape of a torso, it has apparently been taken off of someones back. It is surrounded by hanging blood packets.

Room 11: The metallic smell of chemicals stings their nostrils in this brightly lit area. The walls, floor, and ceiling are covered from floor to ceiling with alternating steel tiles and mirrors. These reflect the lights, which are brighter here than in the other rooms, and give it the sterile and cold atmosphere appropriate to a medical chamber. There is a partially-drawn curtain around a bed, and behind it is a box of ammunition for the revolver. There is an antique, black wooden wheelchair that resembles a torture chair, complete with leather straps. When they turn back around they notice that there is a single, great ancient rusted storm lantern next to the wheelchair that is casting an eerie shadow on the floor. They jump when the shadow moves and they realize that the shadow shows someone sitting in the wheelchair who occasionally stands up, then sits back down again, jerkily. They look back at the wheelchairit still looks empty. This is hardly the worst thing they have seen so far, but it is still disturbing. Should the PCs return to this room, the wheelchair will be gone. Room 12: A blood-stained broken bed with a Nutrition Drink. A toppled cart and IV stand lie amongst the ruins of the bed. A clock is hang high on the wall, reading 4:00. Room 13: The next room has a grated wire mesh for a floor, supported by steel beams forming a circle in the center of the floor, allowing them to see through to the floor below. Suspended from the beams by ropes is what look like a deranged bed, broken in half in the middle so it appears to be bent at an angle. Swarming and circling around it are several of the giant black moths they have seen earlier. Looking through the floor at this scene below gives one an odd feeling of vertigo, despite how sturdy the floor seems. The moths below buzz madly in valiant attempts to attack the PCs. They cant crawl past the grating, however, and are of no threat. Room 14: Standing alone in the middle of the floor is a black, cracked vase full of dying carnations covered with cobwebs and spiders. Once it mustve been a beautiful bouquet, left here as a sad memorial. Now the plants are rotted, dead and gone. Near the vase is a white candle with red ink swathed around the bottom like an offering to some long-forgotten god. The PCs pick it up, the smooth wax giving them a sense of ease. Room 15: Inside is what look likes a room for sanitizing purposes. A clean rooms that isnt so clean any more. A clear glass wall separates the first half of the room from the second portion. Room 16: In the next room, they see more of the brown fungus creatureshere they are growing out of a mans corpse that lies on the bed in an awkward position, soaked in blood. Room 17: The next room is another one that actually looks like a hospital room, only everything is covered in grime and rust. Next to the bed is a sheet of clear plastic that acts as a wall, dividing it from another room that is next to it. One of these rooms is meant to be sterile, but neither one really looks the part. A long white tube of plastic connects both the rooms. Room 18: The next room is a white padded room where patients who are in danger of hurting themselves were kept. Ironically though there are sharp, rusty, hooks hanging from the walls, suspended by chains, pretty much defeating the purpose of this safe room. The chamber is lit by a hanging lantern. Against the far wall is a white sheet, and there is something sandwiched between the sheet and the wall, the sheet pulled taut against it so they can make out a familiar

shape. A terrible smell comes from beyond the cloth. Room 19: There is nothing in here but more fungus creaturesthey are growing out of an empty mattress this time. There is also a sink in the corner and a fallen IV stand in another corner. But there is something odd: The room is wet; there are puddles on the tiled floor where drops can be seen hitting it, causing rings to be formed, and the mattress appears to be soaked. At first it can be assumed to be a leak somewhere, but then they realize that the water is falling too evenly: it is raining in the room. Room 20: The walls are featureless concrete. The ceiling is made of metal and has about a hundred protruding rusted iron spikes at one-foot intervals all over its surface. No sooner have they entered the next room then the ceiling drops. They are nearly impaled on the huge metal shards that are attached to it ... or rather they will believe that is the case until they look again and realize that none of them are quite long enough to reach their heads, and it is merely another scare tactic. As the ceiling slowly rises back to its former position, and they take a moment to catch their breath and get their heart rate to slow back down, they realize that this hospital is more intimidating than dangerous. There is a soft click, then a loud click. Getting the message the PCs leave the room just as the spikes fall again. Maybe it is a trick of his eyes, but it looks like they wouldve been stabbed if they had stayed there any longer. Room 21: In the next room is quite a disturbing sight. Behind a sheet of glass and above a slab on chainlink is dangling a body that is under a sheet with only the legs sticking out from the bottom, lit by a spotlight. Blood has pooled beneath the feet. A toppled vase lays on the ground. They shiver and are glad that there are only a few doors left to search as they leave the room. Room 22: The next room has blood stains on the floor and in the very center of the floor is what looks like a pedestal in the middle. On the pedestal is a three-foot-tall golden snake figurine with a small shiny metal object in its mouth. The snake looks almost alive in the dim light. Its eyes glisten like jewels, and as they bend to pull the key from its mouth it seems to smile at them... It sits on a base that has protected electrical cords that extend from the back of it and crawls up the walls. They look closer at its mouth and realize that it is a key they are seeing. They reach for it cautiously; could it be a key to that locked door down the hallway? As soon as they remove the key from the statue, a metallic rattling sound fills the air, as a rusty cylindrical cage slams down around the PC from the ceiling, encircling the PC, who throws himself/herself at the bars in panic, but they are stout and made of iron, and nothing they can do can budge the cage. It is round like a birdcage and the snake and the PC are both locked inside. Does that make the PC the bird? There is a door, but it is locked. But, this key wont open this door, will it? Using the newly acquired key the door actually opens. Not much of a security device. Second Floor Hallway: Every wheelchair that had once raced down the hallway is now gone.

They step out, looking down the longest part of the hall in wonder. Usually when one thing disappeared in these worlds, it is replaced by something that was more horrifying and usually deadlier. It is then that they hear the sound of footsteps from a second party echoing in the hallway, and the PCs whirl around to see two acidic pregnant patients that are almost upon them. Shaking the surprise off easily the PCs leap forward. Bringing the axe upwards powerfully in a vague uppercut, they cleave the closest patient, splitting open her bloated abdomen. Worminfested acid sprays everywhere as the patient undulates in a spastic manner, the bile literally spewing out. The PCs skip out of the way before they are completely covered, watching as the patient falls to the ground, convulsing rapidly as the last of the acid trickles out into a sizzling puddle that eats away at the tiles. Soon it runs out of life and merely twitches on the floor before lying still. Elevator: They exit back out into the emergency hall, looking back and forth in case there are more monstrosities. The only change from when they initially found themselves here is that the elevator is now up on the second floor. This has left a large gaping hole where the elevator had been on the other side, revealing a rusted chamber of gears and body parts. An unstable chain link plank stretches across the span of the chamber over to the other side, where the tile dips down beyond sight in a staircase. Blocking the path is a simple gate, which has a latch with a very small keyhole in it. The halls are silent as a tomb. The silence is only broken by the sound of theirs footsteps as they walk along the hallway, then a sickening squashing sound as they cross the elevator machinery and find their feet sinking into the rotting bodies that lie crushed and mangled in the gears. The gate is locked, but their newly acquired key slides into the lock, and the gate swings open. They pass through easily and go down the long, long, steep flight of stairs beyond. There is a door at the other end, but between here and there, three more of the white nurses await them at the foot of the stairs in the distance. There is no way that they are getting out of here without a fight. Descending down the stairs, they give the axe their best swing, hitting the patient square on and hard with their higher ground. The patient doesnt flinch when struck, it simply stops its attack and turns its head without moving its torso, looking back at her attacker with a bloated, diseased eye. The monster crumbles immediately, tumbling down the stairs. The PCs stand at the top and watch as it falls all the way to a landing, lying still. Cautious, they both advance as the two patients below keep climbing upwards. They are just about to get ready to swing at the two patients when the previous one rises up before them. Startled, they freeze for a moment. Attacking quickly they stifle the patients attack, making it crash down the stairs again. And then the PCs are standing at the bottom, looking back up the long flight of stairs, with their backs to the door and three large gray bodies bleeding out at their feet. Beyond the nurses is a door with a strange symbol engraved on it; a symbol that resembles three circles arranged in a triangle within it. There is also red writing by the door. It is hard to read, but after a few moments it becomes clear. EVER DOWNWARD The door swings open, and they leave the hospital forever.

Spiral Staircase: On the other side of the door is the spiral walkway with the fog swirling about them. The light diffusing through the whiteness appears to be dimmer than before. It is colder, darker, as if the fog is even thicker than it was earlier, if possible. Mist and darkness together make everything look gray and lifelessbut in this area, there are light bulbs suspended from wiry metal poles that line the path, looking like street-lamps, illuminating the walkway. The PCs have gotten hot and sweaty while fighting for their lives, and as the freezing air hits their skins, they shiver almost violently, and have to cross their arms and hold themselves, as their breath creates little white clouds of condensation. It is a long time before they feel alright enough to stand and move on. The structure of the stairway is even more rusted and dilapidated than the previous parts, and they will have to tread carefully, as much of the railing is gone. There is also a long trail of blood along the path, as if someone has gone this way earlier in the process of bleeding to death. The PCs cautiously go down, slipping occasionally on the blood that covers the stairs. Aside from that, it is more of the same. Rusty metal structures line the perimeter, looking as if someone had begun constructing a building around the walkway, but didnt finish it, leaving only the metal framework. Despite the darkness, they can make out bodies hanging in the distance, but they havent a clue what they are hanging from or even if they are really there, or if it is simply the mind playing tricks on them. They run down the stairway, feeling the arms of evil caressing their bodies. At one point as they continue along the path, they come is an odd stone room, whose entrance is a tall iron door, rusted and pitted as though by acid. The doorway walls stretch out into the mists as far as one can see. Entering is difficult, as the atmosphere is icy, freezing cold and more than a bit dark and confusing; it is sending shivers down every nerve. For a moment after their entrance, their heads whirl and the PCs feel as if they are about to black out from the twisting shadows along the high ceiling above them. The room is large and smells much of warm blood. The first thing they notice is something dark bleeding through, forming shapes that the PCs recognize as letters, and then as words, a strangely neat and uniform script covering a major portion of the battered stone walls. Maybe it is paint, but more likely blood. Such sayings as Beauty is as Beauty does and Once I was Vain, Now I am Sad swirl in patterns to confuse the eye. The largest piece of writing says: HERES A LULLABY TO CLOSE YOUR EYES... IT WAS ALWAYS YOU THAT I DESPISED... I DONT FEEL ENOUGH FOR YOU TO CRY... SO HERES A LULLABY TO CLOSE YOUR EYES... GOODBYE Lullaby. It is a lullaby for a dead child. Worst of all is the bizarre collection of mannequins, wig forms and marionettes hung about the room. Dark shadows from these things give the illusion that a crowd is here, caught on strings, chained to walls and hanging from silken twine attached to light bulbs set about the room. Some few are placed in iron cages as though someone were afraid they would walk away. Shards of broken mirrors on the walls and suspended from the ceiling add to the confusing light and shadow effect. Yet the true horror of this place is what decorates these strange forms. One life-sized marionette draped in a tangle on a couch near the entrance. At first its features look carved, and then one looks closed. Its fall of rich auburn hair drags the ground, while an

incongruous yet luxurious beard of blond coils about its neck. It is a patchwork of pieces, each obviously taken from a different person. Although the figure lies limp as death, one can see the lips move, the eyelid flutter and the hands twitch as though the thing is caught in a dream. Looking at the others shows that each is a tatterdemalion of body parts, tacked to these forms in a bizarre fashion. Each part is warm and seemingly alive. Eyes move. One entire row of wooden heads beseeches them with living gazes in beautiful shades of amber, violet and green. Mouths framed by shapely rosebud lips whisper words no one can hear. The occasional mask of cat skin or horse hide stretched upon a wig form moves restlessly as one comes near, ears flickering and rotating to the sound of their footfalls. Finally their sickness at the sight is enough to send the PCs from the room, closing the iron door tightly behind them, hoping never to meet the twisted being who decorated this abattoir with trophies. They step through and find themselves on yet another staircase landing. Continuing down the spiral staircase they also see what looks like a hospital bed with a blood stain in the center of the mattress. It is behind what looks like a pane of glass, so they cannot get to it even if they desire to. Somewhere in the abyss, they can barely make out tube-like structures made of some kind of piping where cylindrical shapes move downward through them like elevators. They move on, but shortly, they see movement in the corner of the eye, and they turn to see something they rather not have. In this next room is a mannequinfemale, of coursewhose arms are bound behind her back. She is suspended upside down by her ankles, which are spread far apart. What is most disturbing is that she writhes and squirms, whether in agony or ecstasy, one cant tell, as it has no facial features whatsoever, and is completely silent, although its glossy plastic body is segmented enough to allow it to make these movements fluidly. Through the fog they think that they can see a door, closer than they would've suspected. The stairwell does indeed end in a dim gray metal door with three characters painted on it in flaky red. They don't know what the characters mean, but they know what the door means to them. The exit. They run up the last few steps and put a hand on the metal. It is freezing cold, and that is enough to make one wonder if opening it is the right thing to do. They try the knob. It turns freely. They tug it gently at first. The hinges resist. They put more muscle and weight into it. Finally the door swings open with a squeal of old metal in need of oil.

The One Truth: On the other side of the door, they are met with bitter disappointment. The
door leads not to the spiral walkway that would take them to the next world, but to a massive rectangular room out of nightmares. It looks oddly theatrical at first: the walls several stories tall with gigantic chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling and immense amounts of what looks like plain brownish-gray satin are draped over the walls, covering them completely. The satin is draped in gathers from vertical cords, like curtains, and gleam golden in the light of the huge chandeliers that hang from the middle of the ceiling far above. Across the room is a single door with the familiar tri-circle symbol faces them from the opposite side of the room apparently the exit. As they step forward, a music of drums and trumpets roars in the air above, a chord of ringing majesty and horror. As they examine the room, they find the musics source. Sliding randomly up and down the four satin-draped walls are what appear to be twelve of a new breed of wall monster. The ones they have dealt with before were generally human-sized and

took on the color and texture of the wall they emerged from. These new ones, however, are giantsat least three times the size of a man, fleshy with a golden sheen and bear a striking resemblance to mannequins. Instead of emerging from the walls, they appear to be connected to towering rectangular metal picture frames, the flesh and muscle tissue having been stretched over the frame like organic canvas, for the express purpose of sliding up and down those walls and taking out whoever would challenge them. It looks unbelievably painfulnothing in the real world could have survived such a horrible mutilation, not to mention having the anatomy required in the first placeonly nightmare could have conjured up such ghastly imagery. There are twelve large, metal frames hung from heavy cables against the walls. These panels are side-by-side, at least four on each long side wall and one on either side of the door on the shorter far room. They line the walls to the point where they cover them completely whenever they are all down. To make things worse, the middle of the floor is cut out, leaving only about a six-foot-wide walkway along the walls and what looks like a black bottomless pit that stretches down to eternity in the middle, leaving no way to avoid the monsters when they are down. A bloodsoaked ledge about eight feet wide runs around the edge of the hole, and that is all the floor the room has, creating a deep, hazardous edge a few feet wide that is going to be difficult to navigate. No sooner have the PCs closed the door behind them then there is an echoing click as it locks. As the PCs step forward, each monster is pulled up to the ceiling by four hooks, each connected to a thick black cord. The creatures strike out blindly as the PCs stop on the ledge, and then they are hauled up by the cables, only to be let down again at seemingly random intervals. Each one is easily capable of knocking the PCs off of their feet and into the hole to oblivion. Watching them slide up and down the walls for about half a minute reveals that they do seem to come down in patterns, one after the other in order, and it looks as though if one is careful, one could do a timed run past them and make it to the other side. The PCs make it around the perimeter of the room to the opposite door. The first thing they notice is a small sign on the door, just below the red sign: To reach the deepest part, you must defeat the One Truth. Do so and this door will open. If they try the door first anyway they only find that it is also locked. They can pull and push and curse and even hack at it with their weapons and it will avail them not. They have to do something to unlock it, and since they haven't found a key anywhere it seem painfully clear what that something is. Only one of these creatures is the real one and killing it will unlock the door. They will have to attack each one and whichever one that stands out somehow will be the one they are supposed to kill. A normal-sized wall monster (if anything about them could be called normal) is so strong that it can easily knock a man across the room with one good whackone doesnt even want to think about what one of these gargantuan horrors can do. The monsters begin to slide back down in a line, one by one, beginning with the one that is to the right of the exit, so they will have to act fast. They move to the left of the exit, out of its reach. The PCs strike out at the nearest wall mannequin with their weapons, being careful to keep to its side and away from its blindly swinging arms. The PCs work. And work. And work. The monster slides up and comes back down, and swipes at the PCs, and it takes everything they have to avoid getting hit. If it doesen't take a swing at

them, its neighbors will, so the PCs have to stand right in front of it and rely on timing to keep its swats from connecting with them. Some minutes later (that seem like hours), they will be sweaty and tired and they will have barely scratch the mannequin's surface. As the cables hauls the frame up, the PCs take the opportunity to dash to the next mannequin. They begin the long process of going around the room and hitting every monster. It seems impossible; nothing they do seems to have an effect on the mannequins, and there is literally have no room to maneuver, with the constant danger of being struck off the ledge and into the endless hole. What helps, somewhat, is that once the creatures are pulled back up to the ceiling, they stay there for a few seconds, before coming back down in their usual formation, and eventually catching up with the PC, so they do get the occasional breather and chance to regroup. During these intervals the things watch the PCs, waving and swinging their red palms as if they don't even exist. They find the secret of the room quite by accident. The 1D4th mannequin they try to attack shrieks as the PCs weapons make contact with it, and all the mannequins in the room stop their flailing to recoil and shriek in sympathy from their various positions on the wall, also flinching at exactly the same moment in exactly the same way. That hadn't happened before. Does that mean... The monster slides up the wall and stay up for a bit of time, then comes back down. By that time, the PCs have caught their breath, and figured out how to time things so that it doesnt have a chance to get anywhere near connecting its swing. Emboldened, the PCs strike again and again, hauling their weapons back to throw their weight behind each blow. Each time the mannequins shriek in unison, until finally all the mannequins hung limply from their frames, which are hauled up to clear the path to the tri-circle door. The only exceptions are the two that are at either side of the exit come back down where they stay, hanging limp, almost as if they are most hideous ornaments in existence. The dark music falls silent as a winding tumble of misplucked chords. And then it is replaced by the most wonderful sound the PCs have heard in hours. Click. The exit door is unlocked. Despite having no adequate strength whatsoever, it opens with just enough space for them to slip through before it shuts with an echoing boom. The Spiral Stairs: Pushed forward by momentum, the PCs nearly careen into another foggy white abyss, stopped only by the flimsy wire railing. They are panting heavily for several minutes. The fog is even darker than before, giving the impression that they are in more of an ash cloud rather than a thick fog. Everything seems more rickety as well. They are getting close to the bottom nowdespite the darkness, they can see the ground not too far below them. Stepping softly in an effort to bring an aura of calm despite the crescendo of the echoes, they keep a wary eye on the gruesome displays to the left and the right. Framed by rusted industrial steel and chain linked fences, a scene between two mannequins, one a superior, one a beggar, is depicted solemnly. The blood on the staircase seems to grow brighter the further they descend. Perhaps it is the PCs imagination, but they soon dismiss that it can't be that vivid. If anything they have seen so much blood that by now it should've faded into a dark shade of gray. They really wish it would just fade into gray. They are beginning to hate that color. The blood splotched steps continue

downwards into the fog, spanning out to the bridge that branches off precariously into nothing. In the distance is a cart of some kind that is filled with mannequin headstheir black lifeless eye sockets stare blankly in a way that is vaguely disturbing. A third room displays a gray, naked, faceless, genderless baby standing and shaking-almost vibrating-as it thrashes about with its arms in hiccupy spasm---a little jerky dance that looks more like a rhythmic seizure. You blink. And blink again. And then you realize that you aren't seeing things. There is ground down there. Real, solid ground. You can see the gray rocks and the debris lying there, far below...and the end of the stairs. Ground. This is it. Outside of the stairs, one can see a distant horizon illuminated by the last glow of evening...or is it the first glow of morning? Its strange beauty isn't frightening or unnerving...it is just there. For once it seems as if the stairs had some measure of context, one way or another. Some grounding in something, even if it wasn't reality. The PCs were making their way down through worlds of memory and dreams, through twisted nightmares, and now they have come to the bottom of the path. One can imagine how they might appear from a distance...bright figures moving slowly along the dimly lit spiral, an oasis of light in the endless dark land. It almost seems like a miracleonly a few more steps and the PCs are stepping off the ramp and onto the grassy ground. It is a round area fenced off by bars, almost looking like some kind of outdoor prison. There are doors scattered aboutat least five inside the area, some stacked on top of each other, while others are leaned against the bars or each other, with a few more just outside the bars, and each one has a peephole. The bloody trail has continued along the path and leads to an area where the grass transitions to floor tiles that surround a chunk of wall. On the wall is a door. This time the door has no red circles on it, only a peephole and a very familiar plate with a very familiar number: 302 Not wanting to contemplate this anymore, they quickly grab the doorknob and twist it. Unlike the door to the real Room 302, it opens. Room 302: It is Room 302, but it is different. They recognize the layout of the room: there is a short hallway, which ends at the door. At the beginning of that hallway and to the left is the kitchen, and directly across from the kitchen, at the other side of the hall, is the door to the laundry room. Beyond that is the living room if one goes straight, or the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom if one goes right. But it is what the room contains that is different. The entire apartment is gray. The paint is gray, the floor tile gray, the windowsills gray, as if it has been made entirely out of concrete or carved out of stone, furniture and all. Everything is gray and dead. It is neither warm nor cold, and nothing has a scent. It is all dead...and absolutely silent. The only sounds are those of the PCs breathing. The only spots of color in the room are the rows of white candles lining the walls and placed all over the furniture. They are lit, and they burn with a steady flame in the still air of the room.

The furniture is scattered around the room almost randomly. The sofas themselves are different, and the photos that had hung on the walls are gone. There is a record player where the television had been, and many more books on the bookshelf. On the coffee table are two books; one has a blood-red cover slightly stained and warped as if from water damage, but its title is still legible: Crimson Tome. The other looks like a child's picture book. Parts of it are completely illegible. What can be read of the faded text reads: _____the Holy Mother" is naught but the ______ Devil. ______________ ______a world of wickedness within the blessed realm of our Lord If thou would stop the _______, you must bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the Conjurer's true body. Thou must also pierce the Conjurer's flesh with the 8 spears of "Void", "Darkness", "Gloom", "Despair", "Temptation", "Source", "Watchfulness" and "Chaos". Do so and the Conjurer's unholy flesh will become that which once it was, by the grace of our Lord. The wall at the end of the corridor is cracked and broken, but not all the way through. On either side of the dent, on the left and right walls, respectively, are writings in red: The gate to Hell, and Why must I destroy this wall? As they approach the end of the hallthe space between the bedroom and bathroomthey see that there is something sticking out of the area of the rough sheetrock wall that had been hacked away at. It is another pickaxe. They grab the handle and give a good pullat first, it won't budge, but when gripped tighter and yanking hard, it finally comes free. As it is held they look at it, then at the wall where it had been used in an attempt to make a hole. They look at the words inscribed on the wall to the right (Why must I destroy this wall?) and recall one of the memos they had seen in the bedroom (I can't break down the wall). They turn the big heavy tool over in their hands and see inscribed on the handle. HOPE. The bathroom door is wide open. Like the living room, the bedroom is familiar, but differentalso lit by candles along with unlit ones which are scattered around haphazardly. The bed is in the same position, as is the closet and desk. But the globe is gone from the chest of drawers opposite the bed; on the desk is a huge red typewriter. It is the only point of color in the room. In the typewriter and scattered all over the desk and the floor are the red-stained diary pages. "I can't break down the wall. August 3 -Joseph" The last page in the typewriter reads: "What's with this room? It's covered in blood and rust... This is my room... But what the hell has happened to it...? This room... Is it really my room...? It's in terrible shape... The air is so heavy... My head hurts...

Creepy... It looks like a face. What the hell am I writing...? August 2 -Joseph" These were the exact words they had heard in this room when that creature emerged from the wall. When the bell rings, Eileenmother's body, blood. August 4 Joseph The Crimson Tome "Bury part of the Conjurer's mother's flesh within the true body of the Conjurer." Part of the fleshsuper's room? August 5 - Joseph. There are multiple things to think about...the wall that theyd tried to get through, and the body and mother's flesh and the eight spears. Does this mean that they have to find a way to break through this wall? Or, should they try to figure out the flesh and spears? Part of the flesh in the super's room. Something is different when they return to the end of the hallway. There is a black patch on the carpet where the corridor and the living area meet, with more black liquid dripping from the ceiling. A large, black blob can be seen protruding from a similar patch in the ceiling, where the hallway joins the front area, by the corner of the kitchen island. Peering at it for a moment causes the PCs to realize that it isn't just a blobit is the head and shoulders of a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, hanging down out of the ceiling, but like the rest of the apartment, he looks as if he were carved out of black stone. He faces toward the PCs, motionless. The dripping comes from the top (now the bottom) of the head. There is a black puddle on the carpet below it. To their surprise, the figure in the ceiling speaks in a deep, emotionless voice that reverberates in the silence of the room. "You've done well to make it this far," he congratulates them. As he speaks, his lips never move, but the sound still comes mostly from himthe effect is disturbing. He looks more like a statue then anything, having taken on the texture of the ceiling. Even nowit may not betoo late. Follow the Crimson Tome, the man continues. He is talking slower now, as if doing so is a struggle. Stop him! If not wherever you run he will catch you. Find him. His true location it must be nearby. You must kill him You must kill him Kill Kill Kill Kill The Crimson Tome obey the Crimson Tome Kill him Must kill him Kill Kill Kill Kill And with that, he is silencednow reduced to nothing more than a statue that protrudes from the ceiling like some variety of abstract piece of art. Room 302: With that, the PCs go back to room 302 to retrieve the pickaxe, then they stand in the hall, facing the wall between the bedroom and bathroom. They procrastinate a bit, wondering what could be beyond that wall. They were glad to have gotten the pickaxe, at first, but now are worried about what they might find back there. You look to your right. There is the door to safety...but it is shut forever, by your own foolish hand. You had done that simply by coming here, of courseit had been waiting for you the whole time. You hold the pickaxeeven at arm's length, it is heavy, then you lift it over your right shoulder, pull it back, then you grunt with effort and pain as you move forward, swinging it in an upward arc until it connects with the wall and smashes a hole in it that is a little lower than your

head. The wall caved in cleanly, with a CRUNCH and a puff of airborne debris. It had broken a lot easier than expected, the plaster crumbles immediately. You take a long, hard look into the blackness of the hole, but you can't see much. The hole isn't big enough for you to fit through, so you repeat the motion, directly below the first hole, and it chips away enough of the wall that the hole is roughly oblong-shaped, and goes nearly to the floor. You do not let up, swinging the pickaxe rhythmically. Eventually, you make a hole half your height and wide enough for you to squeeze through. It isn't as big as it could have been, but you can fit through it if you ducked and step over the bit of wall at the bottom, so it is good enough. You lay the pickaxe against the corner, and kick the chunks of drywall out of the way and wait a moment for the dust to settle. Time to finally see what lies beyond, even as deep in the back reaches of your subconscious thinks that this place might be hell. You bend almost double and step through the hole into darkness. At first you see nothing aside from the opposite wall and some shelves to the left. The first thing that hits you is the smell. It strikes like a physical blow, momentarily robbing you of breath. You put an involuntary hand over your nose and mouth and struggle to breathe through the terrible stinka combination of very old dust, mold, and...something rotten, concentrated by years of confinement and magnified, many, many times stronger. It is so strong that it make your eyes water and nearly gives you a headache. There is no hell, though...just a beaten, wooden storage room. The light streaming in from the hole shows a freestanding rack of flimsy metal shelving that is filled with empty plastic bottles to their left, things that look like chemicals and solvents and stuff like that, all covered in years of dust. They cant read any of the labels in the dark. In front of them is another shelf, just like the first, that has fallen over. That shelf is empty, as is its twin a few feet in front of it. There is another source of light here, and it illuminates a puddle a perfectly round depression in the old wooden floor that is filled with black liquid. They raise theirs heads, seeking the source of the light, but the first thing they see is not the light source. The light comes from an open refrigerator, but they only see what is directly in front of it. Their line of vision moves upwards. Standing in the puddle is a massive cross of metal and wood. It dwarfs everything else in the room. On the arms of the cross, large oily black feathers and other decorative objects are attached with translucent organic tubing that is draped around it At the middle of the cross is a corpse of someone that they have seen twice before, once when they traversed the decrepit apartments the first and later when they first entered the hospital. The corpse is dressed in dark blue: the man in the blue coat. The body isn't exactly crucified, it looks more as if it were tied, or possibly sewn to the cross with some kind of cord, as the cord appears to be going through at least his coat. The right arm is tied into a bent position in front of him as if in supplication, the left hangs limp, and his hands, curled and stiffened in death, stick out from his body like claws. His eyes are open, bulging and appear to be looking upward. The mouth is slack and part of the upper and lower lip is missing on one side, exposing the teeth. A patch of skin is missing on the forehead, exposing the skull. But other than that, it is fairly well preserved. His stingy hair is much longer, straighter, and more blonde and hangs limply around his face.

His legs dangle over the strange black puddle. His feet are bare but for the cuts, deep red lines on pale, bloodless skin. On his right bare foot is carved 11/ while on the left is 21. His entire appearance is reminiscent of nothing more than a sacrificial bird of prey, a crow perhaps, as though he had planned to fly away, maybe to Heaven. Behind and to the right of the body is a smallish refrigerator with an open door. Inside are translucent plastic bags and bottles, their contents gleaming wetly red in the diffuse light of the refrigerator. They are neatly labeled and organized. The light from the refrigerator, that somehow didn't burn out in all those years, shines directly on the body, casting stark highlights and ominous shadows, making the scene look even more grisly and disturbing. Being in the same room with the body makes you feel uneasy, as if it were watching you, or could come alive at any moment, but you need to see what else was in the room, so you begin searching it, occasionally shooting a glance over your shoulder at the corpse, just to make sure it hasn't moved. This, then, was the Conjurers flesh. At least you know where that is. Safe and sound and very, very dead in this back room, and definitely not going anywhere soon. By the blacked-out window, there is a metal tablethe sort of table one might see in an operating roomagainst the wall, adjacent to the cross, and on it is a large saw-like knife, three or four feet long, with a strangely shaped handle. It looks heavy and imposing, more like a tool, as opposed to a weapon, but it still make one feel uneasy. The table on the wall opposite the body and cross is covered with a white tablecloth and contains several stone bowls, a carved black goblet, a mortar and pestle with some kind of residue in it, a glass vial with a milky white liquid in it, along with two candles and what looks to be a red book. They look to the left and see that on the shelves between the table and the hole in the wall are many bottles of various medicines. So many things in the roomhe was so damn thorough. You have been standing closer to the body than previously thought, and as you turn back around you brush against it, giving yourself a start. You gasp, then suddenly cover your mouth and stare at it for a moment as if waiting for it to move. You have to take a few moments to recover from the urge to retch. Your first instinct is to turn back to the relative safety of the apartment. But you have not got what you were here for. Reluctantly, you move forward until you are facing the corpse. It looks even worse up close; the eyes, veiled by a film of death, stare off blankly into the darkness. You reach out a reluctant hand and touch the dark clothes of the corpse. Something makes a faint metallic sound. One side of his coat is drooping heavily, as if weighed down by something massive. Then they notice a round bulge in the left pocket of his long blue coatsomething metallic and shiny. You take a deep breath, and wonder if you really have the nerve to reach in and find out what it is. And then, suddenly, you have an idea of what it could be. No way, it can't be. But there is only one way to find out. You sigh and slowly reach toward the pocket, hand shaking. Every once in awhile, your eyes dart towards the face, once again as if he might come back to lifeyou even move slowly as if you might disturb him somehow and wake him up. Whatever it is is cold and metallic...and has many little squared-off edges. The shape is familiar. There is a large metal ring, too, and you hook your finger through it as you draw the object upward and out. It is heavy. Heavy

enough...Once you bring it out and see it, you become so fixated on it, you practically forget about the body. You bring it closer to your face and have to look at it more closely, as if you cannot believe what it is. It glints in the light from the fridge, clinking gently as its components settled into place. Keys. Dangling from your finger is a key ring. It holds four small keys, unlabeled but for a single tag hanging off of the ring: Liberation Again, you think, it can't be. But what else could they be for? The smell is bringing tears to your eyes; you have to get out. Clenching the key within your fist, almost as if in a trance, you take the keys straight out of the walled area. The dripping grows into a sound like rain. The books in the shelves by the windows are bleeding now, and in addition to blood, some fluid that smells vaguely fishy and terribly organic is now trickling down from every shelf. The dripping grows into steady streams and the old, musty carpet begins to turn red. A sound like a heartbeat drums up through the floor. The heart beats again and the blood dripping from the books shoots into the air in great steaming spurts. It is like watching the life flow from a slashed artery. The PCs are too shocked to move, staring at the room bleeding around them and feeling the heartbeat shuddering through the walls and floor, up through their feet and legs. An enclosed place of flowing blood and some other vital fluids, and a heartbeat that seems very close but far away at the same time... it makes them think of... A womb. And at that realization, disgust shatters their reverie and they clutch their weapons and flee towards the chained front door. They have the keys, glittering dully in the reddish light of the room. With heart pounding they know what they are and so they insert them in one of the padlocks holding the chains together. The lock clicks open and the chains that it held slide to the floor, as if overjoyed to be free of its burden. As the PCs watch, another of the padlocks clicks open of its own accord, and then another. The chains go slack and slide to the floor with a series of soft thumps as it hits the carpet. The chains slither like metallic snakes through the loops and unwind themselves from the door. You gasp, feeling a sense of triumph, before opening three more padlocks, and whatever chains don't fall off by themselves, you remove. You waste no time grabbing the knob and turning it, flinging open the door to sprint through the stinking darkness beyond. As leave they hear the door slam shut behind them and if they turn around they hear jets of blood spraying against the door.

Alternate South Ashfield Heights:

Hallway: The hallway floor outside the door is linoleum, white with a pattern of black lines and squares. This hallway floor was like that for a few feet around the door, and then it degrades to bloody carpet and chain link. The wall across from the door isnt white any more. The stuff on the walls that looked like ground meat is more red and glossy and now it is moving as though worms crawl just underneath

the surface, causing it to look even more rotted and disgusting than it had before. Not to mention that the hallway feels humid, and there is a perpetual hissing sound that seems to come from everywhere. Metal bars drip like stalactites from the ceiling about ten feet down the hallway toward the stairs, blocking off room 303 and the way to the lobby. Weird bloody fabric-wrapped things twitch on the floor on the other side of the bars. They immediately notice the constant sounds of a woman crying and gaspingit doesnt come from any specific direction, but seems to echo throughout the buildingthe sounds which accompany birth pangs. Only the rhythm allowing any distinction between pleasure and pain. The sound wavers and changes pitch, but makes no sense.And in the distance, a deep-toned bell begins to chime. When they are near the end of the hall, they notice something that at first looks like a large mass of worn-out, dark brown cloth lying a few meters ahead. But a closer look reveals another detail: two arms sticking out from the cloth on opposite sides, the skin as pale as that of a decomposing corpse. That would be disturbing enough, but the arms are longer than any person's should be, with the hands to match. Whatever this is, the term "human" sure doesnt apply. And the smell coming from them makes it obvious they aren't props of some sort. And before they know the thing is moving, its right arm smacking a PC with considerable force. The blow sends the PCs flying back a few feet into two trashcans lining the walls, knocking down the barrels with a loud metallic clang. All things considered, it almost looks like the grim reaper itself. Standing taller than an average human, the dark hooded cloak it wears only makes it look larger and more intimidating. The creature balances itself on its arms, possessing no legs that the PCs can see. But it is its faces that are the unsettling part. The thing has two pale hairless heads side by side, with the visage of an infant etched on each. It is a morbid sight, and the high-pitched squeal that emanate from the creature only makes it more disturbing. And then it charges at them. As soon as its hand touches back on the floor it runs back into corner of the room. Grunting deeply from the damage, the beast turns its back on its foes and begin walking away. But the PCs have no intention of letting it retreat. They strike at the beast two more times, making it turn to face them, and then deliver a full force to its two heads that makes the creature give a piecing squeal of agony. It falls to the floor groaning and twitching. A final slam silences it permanently. Apt. 301: Since it is the only way that isnt blocked off, the PCs go to room 301. As they open the door, however ... Receivers! On top of everything else, the place is now infested with more double-heads. The PCs eyes widen and they raise the axe just in time to see a loping figure dressed in oily feathers and rags bound forward.

Stopping halfway to where the creatures are numbly standing, you raise the gun, hold your breath, and squeeze the trigger. You missed! There isn't enough time to curse your mistake. All at once the double-heads swivel on their feet and lope towards them. You stumble back. Awkwardly you retreat backwards until the double-head hits you, and hits you hard. The twin-faced monster's pasty white hand swipes out, catching a PC in the shoulder and sending him/her cartwheeling to the side. You feel a strange sensation, akin to being thrown through the air, and suddenly you hit the wall. Bringing a foot up, a PC smashes the heel of his/her shoe unto the backs of the monster's hooded skull. By now, this area looks less like an apartment and more like a killing floor...which is what it has become. There is so much blood on the ground that the PCs are leaving red footprints all up and down the corridor as they explore, and they barely notice when they nearly stumble over one of the dead double-heads. They are really starting to pile up out here, and the sprayed blood is soaking through their clothes to their skin. Apt. 201: They go down the stairs to 201, but it is deserted. The floor is bloodstained tile and everything appears rusted with giant holes punched through the walls, which appear to have curled inward from the force like metal. The hallways are now walkways over exposed ductwork that is lined with a chainlink fence that has several of the sort of black and yellow metal signs one might see at a construction site with the word CAUTION! with various messages written over the normal text in blood. They lead all the way down the hall. Any time now... Soon, soon! The ritual...The ritual... Soon it will begin... Very soon now... Soon... It's starting... Second Floor: The second floor hallway looks just like the third floor hall had; the walls seem tilted at odd angles, and all that is visible is covered with errant ribbons of twisting, writhing flesh tinted in the colors of lifeblood red, arterial blue, venous purple and flesh, random splashes of hues that would make sense only to the insane. Now that they are on the second floor, they go back out to the hall, following it until they come to a dead end where it was blocked off by identical bars. On the other side of the bars are what look like bodies wrapped in fabric, then tied up with straps and hung from the ceiling. Apt. 202: 202 is quiet, and so, so normal-looking, if one ignores the paintings piled in every available space and the huge hole in the wall in the front room where the large unfinished painting had once stood, as if someone had pushed it aside and made a hole that is about the same width as a doorway, but it goes all the way up to the ceiling. As they step through the hole

in the wall, they notice the exposed wooden beams and the thin drywall. Apt. 203: The PCs go through it to find that it leads to a room where a bloody shirt is on a cot, staining the fabric beneath it a dirty brownish-black. It is the alcoholic's room, 203, which has nothing of interest, so they follow the hallway to the door and end up back in the hall, which leads to the stairs. Apt. 204: There is a large rusted iron grill with a sunburst design in the center blocking the hallway from the rest of the apartments. As they wander past it, though, they see that it blocks a gaping pit that runs the length of the hallway, and there is a little space at the other end of the hallway that is just big enough to hold a man. And there, across the gap and silhouetted strikingly in the center of the hall, stands the man himself. Stairwell: But when they walk through the doors to the stairwell, the PCs find themselves face to face with five of the burping gray Amazons from the hospital. Fortunately they are far away and slowly coming at the PCs. Down the next hall and around the corner is another area that is blocked off by bars, keeping them from the stairs, so there is nowhere to go but room 206 where the big family had lived. Apt. 304: Waist-high streaks of blood line the front hallway and coat the kitchen counter. There is a clothes rack by the hallway with a few hangers and a skirt, a couch and TV and the other usual stuff, a few plants and an area rug. A figure stands spread-eagled in the doorway of the hall, arms outstretched, holding onto the doorframe. The head hung down and a dark liquid seems to be drooling from its mouth. The figure seems strangely slumper, for the knees are bent as if giving no support to the body. A low moaning noise comes from it, occasionally rising to an animal-like whimper. The noise also has a strange gurgling noise to it, as though blood were running down the figures throat. As he raises his head, they notice that his eyes are glazed, and red-rimmed. His eyes are not red liquid pools any longer. Instead, fire licks out of the sockets, lapping up over his eyebrows, as though he were just the hollow figure of a man, made of wicker, burning from the inside out. The facial flesh has gone pink and bubbled under the searing heat and the rest of him is charred in places where the pain would have been indescribable. Few smells attack the sense the way burned skin and hair does. The horrible stench aerates their nostrils as the PCs stands there, staring up in shock at the mockery of the sun. For some reason, his arms remained outstretched, as though unwilling to let go of the doorframe. The PCs are on their feet, legs shaky. He is now a great torch in the air, unnatural red fire soaring from its fuel as the fuel itself soars above the floor. The fuel to the flames floats closer, allowing for features to be made out. Charred to a black and encasing coals underneath its skin, the man stares with eyes that glow a bloodshot, rageful color. In his hand is a candlestick that is borderline molten, and as it swings it back and forth the numbers on his chest burn bright as he chokes and gurgles, his makeshift saliva boiling from the heat of the flames that has consumed Jasper Gein. Smoke curls out of his mouth, and fire spits from his nostrils. His hooked nose blisters and begins to melt. His mouth is open in a shout, but the only sounds he makes are the hiss, pop, and crackle of combustion. All they want to do is get out of here. Burning drapes cover the window. The man in the doorway. No exit. The freak is coming after them, a pillar of flame, totally engulfed. His bright arms stretched in front of him, blue-white tongues of fire seething off his fingertips. A tornado of blood-red fire whirls in his open mouth, dragon fire spouts from his nostrils, his face vanishes behind an orange

mask of flames, yet he comes onward. He exhales a pyrotechnic cascade, sparks in all the colors of the rainbow, and then flames shoot from his mouth. His lips curl up, turn black, and peel back from smoldering teeth. 17th Victim, Jasper Gein:, I.Q. 8, M.E. 2, P.S 13, P.P. 12, P.B 5, Speed 5. S.D.C: 71. Horror Factor: 15. Powers: In addition to the standard Victim powers, Jasper possesses an aura of fire that creates a natural protective barrier that melts many objects before they can strike the blazing horror. Attackers rolling to strike must roll above 14 to hit and do damage (S.D.C. or hit point). Any rolls of 14 or under never reach Jasper because they are burned to a cinder or the attacker pulls away before he hits (the latter is a reaction to the fire and intense heat). This applies only to solid objects such as bullets, knives, rocks, etc. Psionic attacks, energy blasts, explosions, magic and cold attacks are not affected by the flaming A.R., but pass right through, doing full damage. Unless protected in some way, attackers will take 4D6 damage each time the person punches through the flames to strike Jasper. Jasper can also create a small fire ball and hurl it at a target, inflicting 3D6 damage on impact. Jasper is +3 to strike. You feel the thing approaching, feel the heat of it pressing toward you more than you can see it. The heat, oppressive, burning oxygen and pressing down on you. At least, you won't be conscious for your own death. Through a curtain of haze you see the thing's fiery hand reaching for you. It is an unnatural wonder. It is the last thing you will ever see. The stay of execution injects you with enough fight to keep alive. Time. It was only a matter of how much---a minute, a few second---before the thing kills them all. The thing burns bright, ready to spatter fire. Ready to kill. How do you shoot something like that? How do you use a bullet against a thing that can melt lead? The thing stands unbelieving. Blood, like streams of lava, leaking from the tunnels had laced through its chest. It stands for a moment...stood...its light and fire dimmed. Then the thing goes down felled-timber hard. The PCs see snakes of flame wriggle up the wall from the dresser and onto the ceiling. In places the carpet is burning. Already the heat is tremendous. Soon the air will be full of acrid smoke. Bright flares squirt out of the bullet holes in the man's chest, red and gold fire instead of blood. The bedclothes erupt into flames as if they had been soaked in gasoline. The hallway is deserted, which is good, because the PCs don't want another confrontation with...with whatever they have just had a confrontation with, not if bullets don't work. The kitchen is to their left. They hesitate, then step in front of the doorway, gun at the ready. Fire is eating the cabinets, curtains flapping like the skirts of dancers in Hell, smoke rolling around them. They keep moving. The foyer ahead, living room to the right, where the man must have

gone. They are reluctant to pass the archway, afraid the thing will plunge out at them, seize them in its incandescent hands, but they have to get out fast, the place is filling with smoke, and they are coughing, unable to draw enough clean air. Edging to the foyer with their back against the hallway wall, facing the arch, the PCs have their weapons out. The living room is burning, too, and in the middle floats the fiery figure, fully engulfed, arms spread wide to embrace the torrid tempest, consumed by it yet obviously in no pain, perhaps even in a state of rapture. Each lambent caress of flame seems to a source of perverse pleasure to the thing. The PCs are sure that the man is watching them from within its shrouds of fire. They are afraid he might suddenly approach, arms still in a cruciform posture, to pin them against the wall. The Saint Medallion hums an urgent buzz against your chest as the floating pyre twists closer to you. Axe in one hand, Sword in the other, your heart pounds as the ghost gurgles and sputters, limbs crackling with each minuscule twitch of the finger. You suck in a breath, hoping to make this quick. Searing hot fire licks at you, and though the Medallion protects your from any mental damage you can feel the skin on your knuckles peel back and become painfully raw as you swing the axe at the ghost. The thick blade easily smashes into the corporeal body, and the ghost emits rather unsettling, watery grunts with each hit. As if you were mining into the side of a volcano, the ghost's charred flesh flake off, revealing molten rosy color underneath that soon puffs and crisps to black again. You gag, reminded of some sort of horrific marshmallow as you watch the ghost's skin boil and burn. You cough and struggles to keep bile down your throat. Jasper's protective coat of red flames diminishes with each strike of the axe. Dropping the Sword to better fight the ghost, the PCs push as much force into their muscles as was possible, emboldened by the ghost's weakening fire. Ignoring the scalds on their fingers and hands, they viciously hack at the ghost, driving it until its back is only breaths away from the walls. Their clothes feel hot against their skin, the fabric absorbing the heat. The licks of red fire die down to a small smattering of candles burning through the cracks in the ghost's skin. You could feel through the blade of the axe that the ghost was soon to fall. Your heart rate quickens in gleeful anticipation. Soon the ghost will be down and then you will take the Sword and impale it and you won't have to worry about it ever again and the Sword...the Sword! You aren't holding the Sword anymore! Faltering for just a moment, you give a frantic glance to the floor, praying for the Sword to be at your feet. The ghosts wretched hand twists outwards and grasps the PCs arm. Within an instant, their left sleeve rise up in unholy, reddish flames. The PC screeches and pulls away, stumbling backwards as the evil fire gains life again as a burning smile carves itself into the ghost's cheeks. Collapsing, the PCs begins to flail frantically, rubbing his/her arm into the floor. The pain is unbearable though they know that the shirt isn't yet in tatters the PC can feel the skin sizzle and warp under the command of the impossible heat. The hairs on the arm smolder away, reddens and splits into blood and pus. Eating at the flesh until the fire is finally extinguished, the possessed fire laps at

the flesh, a burning poison that is starving for a vulnerable bloodstream. They know its embodiment is unnatural, but for some reason they know that the pain is as natural as sticking his arm straight into a campfire. To think. The ghost had felt like that. Except, for him, it was everywhere. Between his fingers, down the small of his back, underneath his ears, between his cheeks, behind his knees, spreading over his buttocks and into the niches of his groin. The burning pain is what Jasper was for the last moments of his awkward life. The PCs gasps as though he/she has surfaced from the depths of the ocean once the horrid flame has been extinguished. If only there had been an ocean there to save the ghost's life... Another PC screams in exertion as they whip the fiery ghost, struggling to keep it away from the downed PC. All their eyes are shut against the immense heat, salty tears creeping out of the corners. Grinding your teeth together and trying to wrench your away from the pain, you twist your body and crawl to where the Sword of Obedience rests. Grasping the triangular handle with your good arm, you stand up and bring the Sword above your shoulders. The ghosts flame, though not at full strength, casts a gruesome, bloody shadow on the marred surface of the rooms wall. Gripping the handle tightly, the Medallion hums to the tune of the Sword, and the tip begins to glow with a faint holy light. The PC swings the Sword, the polished blade bursting into an inferno of yellow fire. The ghost shrieks in terror, and as the PC plunges the Sword into its chest the red flames succumb to the yellow. Sliding easily into the ghost's body, the Sword impaled the ghost to the floor, wrenching the fire from its body and leaving him a charred mess of coals pinned to ground. Glowing with a low pulse, the Sword's raging flames falls quiet, its duty fulfilled. The PCs move sideways past the archway into the small foyer, as a black tide of smothering, blinding smoke rolls down the hall from the bedroom and submerges them. The smoke is so dense that no light penetrates to the foyer even from the leaping flames behind them. Their eyes sting and flood with tears; they are forced to squeeze them tight shut. In the tarry blackness, there is a danger of becoming disoriented, even in such a small space. They must hold their breaths. One inhalation is toxic enough to bring them to their knees, choking, dizzy. But they also hadn't been getting clean air since the master bedroom, so they aren't going to be able to hold out for long, a few melees. You grab for the doorknob, can't find it in the darkness, fumble, begin to panic, but close your hand around it. Locked. Deadbolt latch. Your lungs are hot, as if fire has gotten into them. Chest aches. Where is the dead bolt? It should be above the knob. You want to breathe, you find the dead bolt, you have to breathe, can't, you disengage the lock, you are aware of the growing inner darkness more dangerous than the outer one, you grasp the doorknob, tear the door open, plunge outside into the hall. The smoke is still around you, and you have to weave to the right to find clean air.

Second Floor Hallway: The hallway on the other side of the second floor is empty but for bars between 206 and 207. Apt. 207: The furniture had been thrown against the wall, everything but the thronelike chair, and the fresh smears of blood on the checked linoleum remain. They then hear a familiar sounda cross between croaking and wheezing. Soon, the ghost from the parking lot appears, strolling down the hall, into the living room, almost casually. It then turns its head with crocodilian menace and glares at the PCs with its wild eyes cold with a fury as old as time. Hot shrapnel scatters down your shirt as the Saint Medallion shatters and you shriek, swinging your weapon in front of you just as the wave of pain crashes down on your skull. Your vision flickers to a harsh red like an old light bulb regaining its strength. The weapon swings and misses as the ghost disappears again and you crumble to the ground. This is different. The pain in your head is spastic and sharp, sometimes popping like a firework and raining static shocks from one side to the other. Sluggishly you pull yourself to your feet and glance around, holding your head in pain. The headache strengthens within a fraction of a second, and you have just barely enough sense to turn around. You see bulging white eyes webbed with veins and a dark crowbar before you feel the heavy iron bite into your shoulder. You fall again crying in pain. The headache increases, and you feel your spine overload and burn. Your cries are cut short as your jaw freezes in place, and everywhere from your stomach to your fingers and toes begins to shake and twitch, and before you know it all you can see are flashing red lights in front of your eyes and a blaring white noise in your ear. The prickling sensation on your skin is unbearable but you can't reach any of it, you can't relieve any of it. You feel the static in the air grow as his fingers reach forward, but you are frozen. His fingers are breaths away from the skin on your chest, and a tiny spark leaps from the tips to your skin. Your heart shudders and cowers from the static shock, and you inhale sharply and catch his wrist before the hand plunges into you. The ghost easily wrenches its wrist away from your hand and soon you find its fingers wrapped around your throat. Static shocks from his fingers prick your skin like white hot pins and needles, and you gasp in terror. Whatever the sparks are doing they are doing well because you find herself unable to move or resist as the ghost's head suffers multiple spasms as its fingers close tightly around your neck. Blood pools in your mouth and you cry as it silences you. Jerks and pulls tug at your limbs and soon you find yourself writhing as well as blood continued to dribble down the cold atmosphere, pooling underneath you and boiling with an unholy stench. You open your mouth to try and scream again, just one more time, just a scream of help or mercy or something. Then, miraculously, the red stops flashing in your eyes and leaves, followed by a slow creeping sensation that starts from the corners of your eyes and travels down to your fingertips and toes, releasing the prickling sensation and the complete lockdown of your nerves. There was a hollow whack and the jerks and pulls stopped. Retching and choking, you swallow down the blood in your throat. In a flood of whispers and a blur of colors, things flash to a bright white and suddenly you see the ghost. His eyes are just as fierce as they always were, but he looks very tired and weak, as though he had fallen ill. There is another hollow whack and the ghost roars in anger, raising the crowbar above his

head. You snarl and try to uncurl yourself and push your body upwards, trying to fight the flashing lights in your head. The ghost slowly swings the crowbar in front of you, stiff like a wind-up toy. You feel foam and drool slide down your chin as you uneasily stand up and raise your weapon. The ghost flickers like static on a TV before freezing in place. You swing the bat as hard as you can. It flinches and, predictably, it vanishes, reappearing in the original spot. It swings at them and they block or dodge. You swung the bat again, the hollow sound coupling with the ghost's anger. Tears of pain stream down your face, and after each swing you have to momentarily stumble back and catch your breath, blinking harshly. Weakly you step forward and drunkenly swing the bat, but the ghost's nose curls in a snarl and he flickers out of existence, then re-materializes in another spot and you strike again. This goes on for a few more times until, finally, the ghost falls to its knees, then collapses to the floor. You swing the Sword violently, pushing the ghost back. The polished wooden blade bursts into yellow flame that reaches towards the ghost, eager to exorcize it. You dont hesitate before bringing the sword down, plunging it into its back until it meets with resistance. You flinch as the blade pierces the ghost's chest with a spark of fire and a indignant escapes scream from the ghost's cracked lips. It twitches and makes a horrible wheezing, choking sound. Shaking, you push himself up. You stumble back and away from the ghost, panting and wiping a thin film of sweat from your face. You cough deeply, and bite your lip as more tears trickl out of your eyes. Your muscles feel sore and your jaw aches from clenching it so hard. Nausea swirls from your head to your stomach, after-effects of the ghost, you suppose. Second Floor Hallway: After going out the door, immediately the sound of hissing is gone, replaced by a gentle wordless tune with crisp clear chords, a new sound to join the voice of the unseen womans gasping as she struggles with birth pangs. Her voice is at one with the endless chord that reverberates here. The haunting melody echoes through the air. The music makes your soul shrivel, but it also makes you smile. It is almost peaceful. They soon reach the end of the hall where there is a stairway, which is guarded by a naked double-head. First Floor Hallway: The atmosphere is eerily poised between peaceful and restless, as though at any moment anything could happen. As they reach the bottom of the stairs, they hear a child's voice. Dad? Daaad! Wheres Dad? Daaad ... I cant see your face. Like the woman's moaning, it isn't coming from anywhere, specificallyit seems to just bounce off of every wall. At the other end of the hall is, finally, Room 105, the super's room...but there are six chains crisscrossing in front of it. The chains are old and worn, just like those on 302, and the locks are

vintage as well. They are more loosely draped over the door than those had been. Having nowhere else to go, they continue through the door at the end of the hall to the foyer and lobby. Lobby: Out in the foyer, things are also very quiet. The stairs up are still blocked, and the doors out are still stuck. There is something suspended from the ceiling: a swinging woman bound by leather and metal. The woman's body is hung by her nipples, skin white but streaked with blood that isn't her own. In place of a face is a sharp, long cone, rusted from age and nailed cruelly to the woman's head, poking through two thick wires that suspended the woman by her nipples. The body, arms crossed across the chest, swing back and forth, undulating and contorting. Sometimes it looks like the woman is in pain, at other times it looks like she is deep in ecstasy. In the very middle of the floor is a child's sketchbook. The pages are yellow and gray with age. The first page is a drawing done in pencil or something like it: a drawing of a human figure. A kid's drawing. It is a stick figure, fingers and toes pointing out like little spikes, but it is the head that catches the attention. The figure's head is almost triangular in shape. It comes to a point on top, and is filled in with black scribbled out, as if in anger. "Dad" is written on the bottom of the picture. First Floor Hallway: There are four rooms on this side, just as there were on the floor above and the floor above that. They pause for a second, as they hear something, a very low-pitched and gruff grunting and groaning, as if some unknown massive beast were crying out in pain or loneliness. This is then replaced by something else. They dont want to listen, but cant help hearing it. Cries. Much like a newborn babys crying. Yet so loud its as if the very wall were pleading to be heard by someone who gives a damn. Apt: 108: The abstract walls are now covered in blood. Even the ceiling. One finds themselves staring at a wall hidden from the entrance. It is not as gory as the others, though someone had taken great care to lay down swaths of blood in a careful pattern. That pattern becomes clear as they look at it. Apt. 105: The PCs realize that they will have to look everywhere. Since there are six locks, there will have to be six "keys" of some kind, likely scattered throughout the rooms. Apt: 104: This room is bare; sectioned off by rusted girders. Walls of bruised concrete and floors blood-stained tile. Great masses of black iron loom in the shadows. Some of the walls and ceiling have been replaced by chainlink. The PCs smell grease and oil in the air. The light of a single bare bulb glints on an apartment of steel and malice. The walls in the living room are a dirty yellow plaster with oval holes through which brickwork shows, gives the eerie conviction that they are beholding a kind of flesh; an effect only heightened by the trace bloodstains on one of the walls. They look around the bare living room and see the shiny new first-aid kit lying on the floor. They are then startled when suddenly two of the larger wall men drop from the ceiling in a

room that is connected to the living room, separated from it only by bars. The first thing they notice in the hallway is a cylindrical-shaped room with bars for walls, looking for all the world like some tiny prison cellbut it is what it contains that really gives them a start. Hanging from a chain in the middle of it is a man who is wrapped in some kind of glorified tan-colored straightjacket that covers his entire body so that he cant move an inch. It looks similar to the bodies they noticed beyond the bars in the hallway, completely enclosed in the sheet that is bound around it. Its downcast head sticks out of the top of the white cotton, and long blond hair hangs to its shoulders, and they cant make out any features because the shoulder-length blondish hair is in the way. When they go to get a closer look, they suddenly hear a voice, I TOLD you we shouldnt have a baby, DIDNT I? The thing snarls, startling a gasp out of the PCs. Immediately afterwards, it vanishes into thin air. As it does, they feel a small amount of relief. First Floor Hallway: At the junction of the L-shape, a body wrapped in cloth hangs from the ceiling like a cocoon. Back in the hall, there is another one at the very end hanging in the corner was still there, which says Stupid little crybaby! before disappearing. It startles the PCs again, but mostly because of the volume of its voice. Apt: 103: The bare room, containing only the kitchen, is infested with 1D4 double-heads. In the middle of the living room is another hanging body which says Anyway, lets get outta here, I cant stand it anymore! before disappearing. In one corner, atop a pile of wooden boxes is a single florescent tube. Apt: 102: In the next room, they find another one in the corner of the living room: Nothing happens, so they reach forward and touch its arm. It is cold. Oh, shut the hell up! You cant blame it all on me! it snarls, and disappears like the others have. Apt: 101: Just down the hallway is another of the hanging bodies, suspended in one of the round metal cages that has replaced the smaller rooms in this apartment, which says Hurry upget packed! before disappearing. If that super hears him, were in trouble. Theres just something about that guy...I just dont like the look of him, the voice whispers, intensely. Apt. 105: Six bodies on this side, and six chains on the other side. The bodies are disappearing... The door is clear now, and unlocked. The room stinks like before, but this time they are prepared for it, and so it isnt as bad. The small red wooden box is still there on the bookshelf. There had to have been a reason why he kept it. And they reach for it, hold their breathes and open it. Sure enough, inside is a tiny little string of withered tissue, set on a square of stained fabric. As they watch, though, the brown tissue begin to turn red, and... Redness floods their vision. Redness, and a blinding pain. Their skulls are full of white-hot, horrible, piercing sharp pain, as if someone shoved red-hot needles driving through the bone, and they cant see or hear or feel anything. Every muscle in their bodies lock up, and they cant move or scream. They drop the box as they fall to their knees, screaming, hands covering their faces. They slump forward until they are in fetal positions. They cannot see. Everything turns white, but once the whiteness fades, they can see many things.

A nightmare mishmash of horrible imagery; drowned babies with bloated, water-logged bodies, clawed hands plunging into basins, tangled umbilical cords wrapped about necks. And then finally a dark room, with windows at the side. Empty but for old carpet and a living, breathing thing on the floor with a huge, melon-shaped body and tiny little arms and legs and a snout and ears like an elephant...and a length of tube running from its navel. An elephant baby, lying alone on a single thin blanket, crying, always crying...Across the room, two people huddled by a doorway. The taller one, a man with short hair and an overcoat, bending toward the shorter one, a woman with long blond hair in a coat and dress. He is talking quickly, hissing at her, and she doesnt look well at all... Suddenly, it fades, and they regain control of their bodies. Everything looks the same, but then they hear the low-pitched toll of a bell echoing throughout the building and the place smells...expectant. It is time to return to Room 302. They waste no time in leaving the super's room. First Floor Hallway: On the floor outside the Super's room, there is a piece of paper that appears to have a crude drawing of some kind on it. It looks as though it might have been torn from the sketchbook. On it, drawn in the same childish style, is another stick figure: a child's drawing of a woman, sprawled across the whole paper, but with weird concentric circles drawn around its middle. At first, it looks as if she has a round body that is covered in spikes, until they realize that it is a spiky object that is cutting her into piecesthe dismembered head is just above it, dismembered hands to one side, and dismembered legs below. The drawing is done in black crayon, then scribbled all over with splotches of red to resemble blood spraying everywhere. Apt. 201: The signs in 201 have changed. It has...begun... It's finally begun. The time has finally come! It's here!!! It has commenced! It has begun... The Show is about to begin! ----Room 302: The change has been so gradual that theyve barely noticed, but now the windows have become so dirty that one can barely see through them, the walls so grimy that they have gone from off-white to nearly brown, and the air is so heavy that it is produces headaches. The stench has dissipated while they have been out. But something else has changed, too. The body in the walled-up area is gone. The refrigerator is still there, and so are the metal shelves and the tables with their weird objects, and the cross is still resting in the black puddle. The Conjurers flesh had apparently decided to take a walk. They stare at the empty cross for a while before it sinks in. The rotten corpse had disappeared. Somehow. Like that.

All that is left is the cross, with five bloody spikes in the middle. The blood is still fresh (even though it is years old), and glistening wetly. Their eyes were drawn to the circular pool of black liquid below the cross. The PCs stare at it, tightening their grip on their weapons. It is completely opaque; they have no idea how deep it is. It could be bottomless for all they know. It looks the same as before...but now the puddle calls to them, drawing them closer, and as they stare at it they feel a sudden giddiness, as if they are falling into its depths and...and what? What would be down there? It is so clear and so simple. The next step you'd been looking for is right in front of you. Just lower yourself into that pool of blackness, let it envelop you...and then beyond that would be whatever this place has in store for you. Where the man went, you are supposed to follow. That part of the overall design is clear. The realization is like a lifting up, a lessening of the weight on your shoulders. This is it, then. This is it. The end of the road that you've been waiting for so long. The finality of it all is so liberating. They can no longer hear the bell tolling any more, but that doesnt mean that time isnt passing. To just go right in after him immediately is painfully tempting, but they must hold back. Rushing in without making certain they are prepared can only end in disaster, especially since they dont know if there will be a way out if they end up over their heads. They also have somethingthe umbilical cordthat is supposed to weaken their opponent somehow. Armed to the teeth with both weapons and knowledge, they make their way back to the hole theyve made at the end of the hall. But as they stop to pick up their weapons, they are suddenly hit with a horribly uneasy feeling that seems to come almost out of nowhere. They are nearly crippled with terror. Its hard to pinpoint what exactly is on their mindsit is more of an instinctual and primal fear rather than anything specific. They worry that they will lose the fight. They worry what their last few moments of life will be like if they lose and what hideous things he might do to them. Despair threatens to take them, but they can take comfort that they have the means to defeat him it is just a matter of knowing how to use it. They check themselves to make sure that they have everything they need (and nothing they dont), and lower themselves to the floor in front of the open refrigerator, cross-legged. The blackness is seductive. The black slime is like mucus, slimy and shiny, but just a little sticky, too. Like nothing they've ever seen. They are ready. They can feel it. Then their bodies move of its own accord to step feet first into the inky blackness. Red Room: Somewhere along the way, you had lost consciousness. Then, gradually, you begin to wake up. Although your eyes remain closed for the moment, you become dimly aware of your surroundings. Suspended... Warm and comfortable, curled in on yourself. In midair, with no walls or floor in your way...just the warm happiness. The panic is gone. You feel loved and protected. You could stay here forever... Are you... There is warmth and silence, and a sense of comfort and security. Aside from the ability to breathe, the feeling is much like being completely submerged in a hot bath. You are so relaxed, you are content to just remain here. You dont want to move at all. But you know you have to.

Red light is filtering through your closed eyelids. At first, it is just a gentle illumination, then it gets brighter and annoying. You open your eyes lazily and are nearly blinded by the bright red denseness that surrounds you now that you can see your surroundings, it doesnt only feel like you are underwater, but it looks that way as well because of the foggy effect. You blink once, then again. Then, you are conscious, and you lift your head to look around. They are in a round room, if it could be called a room. The walls and ceiling are semi-transparent and membrane-like, a hazy red, and it takes them several seconds to realize that it isnt their eyes that cant focus...it is that everything else is hazy. They are floating in a warm red substance, curled up in a fetal positions---knees are under their chins, and their arms are crossed over them. Carefully, they uncurl themselves. One foot down, then the other, and they are standing on solid ground. All around them are eight humanoid figures in the wall. They are life-size and etched in red, and seem to be crucified against rectangular panels of bright white light mounted at irregular intervals on the cylindrical wall. In the middle of the floor several inches away is a yawning round hole, eight or nine feet wide. They cant see the bottom. Who is to say whether there is a bottom, anyway? There is nothing left to do but jump down the hole. They step to the edge and let themselves fall. ----No more holes, now. They come to on a hard surface, cold and rough, and it is vibrating slightly, as if connected to something mechanical. Then they hear the whirring and grinding of that large machine, and they realize that they are lying there defenseless. They quickly get their bearings and haul themselves to their feet. The place they find themselves in is like something out of a surrealist painting. They are standing in another round room. This one is much larger, and hemispherical, with an enormous brown striped dome running almost all the way down to red walls. Blinding light that shines down from the top of the spherical room onto a pitted gray metal sphere surrounded by layers upon layers of metal rings, each with its own row of vicious-looking spikes, all facing outward. The rings crisscross each other and constantly rotate independently of each other like some bizarre-looking gyroscope. The device sits in a huge pool of red liquid in the middle. It sloshes against the edges of its round pool, stirring up by a complex series of connected metal rings that spin and twirl around each other in a constant, repetitive, pattern, ending at the edge of the concrete. The rings teeth on their outer edges look as though they could grind anything or anyone to a pulp in seconds. There are steps leading down to the heaving red liquid. Around the walkway are eight outcroppings along the edge of the floor, each with a stone slab, looking disturbingly like an elongated headstone, extending from it. Each has the image of a body. They are the same eight figures they had seen in that red womb-like place before, except that now they each have a spear sticking out from their chests. They are spaced perfectly apart, as if on display. In the middleacross from the machine, with four of the headstones on either sideis a massive, horrific creature that is malformed, but vaguely humanoid. The vast white figure has a head and shoulders hung low suspended by ropes and hooks in its elbows and the skin of its back from the ceiling and wrapped in some kind of stringy white membrane. Its body is so massive

that while its head looms high above, its elongated body disappears behind the floor at just below the waist. A circular walkway separates it from the pool. It appears...unfinished, as it still has exposed tissue, its skin full of holes and barely covering its head. As they watch, the hanging white thing seems to come alive, raises its head, its white mucus-like skin exposing raw red flesh underneath, and then makes a sound. It is a whine and a snarl and a howl and a roar and a petulant squeal all tangled together, a barbed-wire sound that punctures the PCs' ears and rakes cold metal spikes across their hearts. The scream of the unknown beast becomes an eerie ululation that fills this place as completely as floodwater and shakes the foundation of this world. It is a terrible sound, an indescribable sounda dry, scratching, inhuman sound, like grinding glass and tearing paper. It goes on and on, getting louder and louder. You practically have to suppress a scream yourself. The only mildly comforting thought is realizing that with the way the creature is tied up, it is basically harmless, as it wont be able to reach you with either its hands or its mouth. But what in the world is it? They can see its long white hair and its green-yellow eyes and then they realize just what this is. It dangles just outside the floor, submerged in the blood, hanging by its elbows, and tied up with a cord, nearly appearing crucified (not unlike the concealed corpse, and they might wonder if it had slipped into this room and somehow become this creature). They will probably never know for certain. Perhaps, it is The Devil as it was referenced in the Crimson Tomeand if that is true, it wont remain immobilized for long. Regardless of what it is, it is so hideous, they can barely stand to look at it. For a moment there is no sound except the whir of the gyroscope. As horrific as this machine and beast are, the PCs are more concerned with what is directly across from them. There is a familiar tall blond figure standing not thirty feet in front of the PCs, looking back at them. From between the long locks of dirty-blonde hair, his green eyes seem to light up with satisfaction as they make contact with theirs. They immediately realize that there is no wall fencing off this area, only what looks like a endless ocean of blood, the concrete platform being ring-shaped and sitting in the middle of it. As the man looks back, one corner of his mouth goes up slightly in a smirk, pleased that he currently has the upper hand. There is a pounding coming from above that catches their attention and interrupts the stare-off. It gets louder and until it echoes through the chamber. Mom! Mooom! It sounds like his cries are swirling round and round, bouncing off walls and closed doors, like he was running somewhere far off inside the apartment, in a circle that he cant get out of. His hand gradually changes position, it looks almost as if he is reaching out to touch something that only he can see, except that his gaze moves upward, his face taking on a disturbingly serene expression. You reach for your gun, but during the split second between thought and execution, the man performs a trick that you have never seen before and had no idea he was capable of. The image of him blurs and becomes shaky. You blink several times because, and suddenly, he becomes a silhouette, laughs, and charges, his movements so quick, his body appears to leave a path of brief, shadowy imprints of itself. All this happens in a fraction of a second, and he is now to face and swinging a pipe at you before you even have time to react.

At the last possible moment, you manage to jump back and avoid being struck and immediately pull out the revolver and fire point-blank at his head. ... to no avail. Not only does he not so much as flinch, but there isn't even a wound. You had to have hit himyou couldn't miss from this close, could you? Thinking that maybe you did miss him, you fire again, and again to no avail. It is as if bullets just dissolve in mid-air before touching him. He lets you do this, smirking the whole time, knowing that you can't hurt him and finding amusement in the expression of building fear on your face as you begin to realize it as well. But he isn't invincible. He has a weaknessthe key is figuring out what it is. Then, you remember what you read in the Crimson Tome. Bury part of the Conjurers mothers flesh within the true body of the Conjurer. And what is his true body? Not the one that is currently about to kill themthat version of him seems to be merely a projection. The real conjuror is the corpse that sat in the hidden room of 302. Because the monster was somehow formed from that corpse, then it must be the Conjurer's true body referenced in The Crimson Tome. Part of the flesh (equals) super's room? ... and what did they find in the supers room? You pull out the red box. The man looks at you, baffled. You grip it tightly as if your life depends on it (which it does) and lift the lid to show him the contents. There are no headaches this time, only the horrid smell, which you are too distracted to really notice anyway. He turns white. Then, as you watch, he turns gray and black, like a photograph. He smiles at you again, and you know that the time for waiting is over. You close the box tightly and take off toward the huge body hanging across the arena from you. The man laughs, and suddenly appears in front of you. He is a specter of gray and black, swinging a metal pipe at you as you approach the body. Suddenly, one of the PCs is struck on the side of the head by the rusty pipe and he/she goes down. The PC keeps the dizziness at bay with a quick shake of his/her head before scooting backwards several feet. The PC turns, managing to balance on one knee, before launching himself/herself off the ground and runningnot away, so much as toward the captive monster. Another PC receives a rusty pipe slamming down on a shoulder; which causes that PC to scream and immediately fall to his/her knees. The PC quickly rolls over, so as not to have him at their back, just in time to roll again to escape another downward swing of his pipe. That PC jumps to his/her feet. With all the dodging one has to do, their positions have changed and the man is now between them and their target. How do you get past someone who cant even be harmed by bullets? Then they realize that hurting him isnt necessaryone only needs him out of the way long enough for one to reach their objective. They pull back their weapons, and when they see the withered look in his eyesthat expression that means he is becoming weary of the attempt attacks that won't workthey know they have him. Instead of bringing their weapons down on him in an overhead arc, they can quickly thrust it in front of them in a horizontal position, holding it between both hands, and running at him and shoving as hard as one can. He realizes what they are up to, but not until after it is too late for him to react. They knock him back and to the side, practically plowing him over, in their desperation to get to where they need to go. They don't have far to run, so they only hope they can make it there before he has a chance to stop them. They dodge his swings and run several feet towards the pool of blood.

As the thing lowers its head toward you and roars, you turn around, pull your arm back as far as you can and fling the box toward its head. Your aim is true, and the box disappears into the bodys open mouth. The creature twitches, then begins screaming as it writhes helplessly. You flinch and cover your ears to shield them from the terrible piercing noise. It howls and screams, and out of the corner of your eye you see the dark figure falter and tumble to the ground. With him down, you have a little time to think... Or maybe you dont. He hasn't died. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. Then you remember the next passage in the Crimson Tome: (Thou must also pierce the Conjurer's flesh with the eight spears of "Void", "Darkness", "Gloom", "Despair", "Temptation", "Source", "Watchfulness" and "Chaos.") There is a cracking sound that echoes around the arena. At first it seems as though nothing has happened. But then, something glints, and the spear in the figure closest sags just slightly. It isnt much, but it is enough to remind them that there is still work to be done...a lot of it. Before the man has a chance to stand, you run up the few steps to the first figure, plant a foot against it, grab the handle of the spear and pull for all that it is worth. The spear is released with a dull sucking sound as if pulled out of a body. You respond with an involuntary groan of disgust as you stumble back with the released weapon in your hands. The spear in hand is warm, not like metal, wood or plastic, but almost like a living thing. One end has a two-pronged, razor-sharp edge. Considering its size, it is obvious what it is meant for. Grasping it tightly, they notice the handle. One word is written there: Despair The PC moves past the man, skids to a stop in front of the monstrosity, grits his/her teeth, and lifts the spear in their hands. It is heavy...so heavy... The things neck stretches over the PC, thin and pulsating. The spear strikes fast, the tines penetrate the flesh as far as it will go, and the thing roars in pain. Despair will do that to you. Once again, they wince as they hear blood-curdling screams coming from in front of, and behind them. Again, just as he had stood and taken a few steps toward them, the man in the blue coat falls, weakened. The effect is most likely temporary, but it will buy them some time. Now that they know what had to be done, the rest follow in quick succession. Darkness. Void. Gloom. With some effort, one is able to reach it and pull out the spear before running back to ones target. Almost. A PC shrieks as they feel something grab his/her ankle. Naturally, it is the manhaving gained some of his strength back, but not alltrying desperately to stop them. The PC can try to pull away, but his grip is painfully strong. Despite the fact that he appears to be the one in the more vulnerable position, the way he glares up angrily, like a wounded animal, strikes the PC with a terrible unease. There is only one way out, and it is a long shot, but one has to try. The PC takes a deep breath, pulls back the spear as far as one can, and let it fly. Luck is on the PCs side: it pierces the monsters chest, if just barely enough to stay in place, and they hear the double-scream as the leg is released. Whatever is happening, whatever it is that the

spears are doing, it is hurting him...really hurting him. The PCs have never managed that before. They run back for the remaining spears from each side of the room. Each time, the man reacts as he had before, falling to the ground, weakened and in pain. The giant creature responds by flexing its hands and blindly snapping at the PCs. Its eyes stare at them with a malevolence that holds no fear, no acceptance of its inevitable fate, no surrender. Without wasting a single second, they turn to grab the other four, they see the man lifting himself to his feet again. Soon, the PCs have filled their hands again. Temptation. Source. Watchfulness. Chaos. On the way back, they manage to avoid the man this time. Then, they are back in front of the thing, and they grip each spear more tightly. Lift and sling.. Halfway between him and the monster, a gunshot rings out, and a PC has only the tiniest fraction of a second to realize what it was before a terrible stinging pain on the right side of his/her torso causes them to fall. The laughing is heard and then they realize ... .. he isn't as feeble as they had thought. He had only pretended that he couldn't move until they couldn't see him, then he attacked. They look and see that he is moving in a slow, painful lurch. He isn't completely immobilized, but he isn't at full strength either. They still have a chance. The PC glances down at him/herself and grimaces at the red blotch spreading out to stain their front. It is an exit woundthe entry would have been in back somewhere that they can't easily see. It is just above the waist, but below the ribcage. It is agonizing, but it isn't fatal. There is still a chance. It seems to take everything you have in youyou can't stop shaking, however much you convince yourself that it is all psychological and the wound isn't severe enough to stop youbut you force yourself to your feet. You look over your shoulder again, and the man is gradually getting closer already, he is beginning to straighten up and move faster as the effects from the last spear wears off. He raises his gun again, and a smirk crawls across his face, as he likely realizes he has you now. The PCs begin moving again, and they duck just in time to feel a bullet whiz past their heads. They are saved some time by throwing the spear like a javelin again, and once again, they are rewarded with screams coming from both victims. Then they realize that the last spear had fallen from their hands at some pointlikely when the PC collapsed from the bullet wound. They were so distracted that they didn't even notice. They look around and realize that the man in the blue coat had fallen on top of it. Now he is holding it tightly and shooting them a defiant glare. The PCs waste no time in accepting this challenge. With both hands on the spear, and weak besides, they know he can't pull a weapon on them. The PCs lunge for him, taking hold of the spear with both hands and pulling. He resists it, proving that despite what had happened, he is still inhumanly strong. It will require a combined physical strength of 28 to take it away from him. But, for once, they have the advantage. In an uncharacteristically savage move, they can push a foot against his head for extra leverage, and pull with all their strength. After a couple seconds, the spear is released from his grip. As the last spear enters the quivering white mass, it howls, writhing and thrashing from side to side. The double-roar rings out, nearly splitting the arena in two, signifying the end. They look up at the body hanging over them, but nothing seems to have changed. The creature's reaction is much more dramatic-it throws its head back as it gives a final cry of agony. It lowers its body and

hangs by its restraints, unmoving. It still hangs there, wrapped in its white caul, with the spears hanging out of it. (Thou must also pierce the Conjurers flesh with the eight spears...Do so and the Conjurers unholy flesh will become that which once it was, by the grace of our Lord.) But nothing has changed... Wait. The man he is several feet away, writhing face-down on the ground. His yellow hair is spread on the ground around his head like silk. Yellow hair. Blue coat. No longer gray and black. Unholy flesh...not his real flesh, hanging above them, but his unholy flesh. It is as it once was, now. Not dead, but...mortal. Mortal! He looks exactly the same, of course. But where before there had been an inhuman, relentless monster, the invulnerable master of this nightmare, now they see a man. A man. As he once was. An ordinary man. Just like any other. But then, he finally gets to his feet, and as he laughs he raises his gun. The PCs are so exhausted from the running and fighting, so distracted by the pain and the terrible despair at realizing that it still isn't over, that their minds start to cloud over when another gunshot ring out. A sharp, biting sensation originates in a PCs right thigh, causing the leg to give out. The PC feels himself/herself falling ... But by damaging him, they were at least able to slow him down a little. If nothing else, they have revealed that he is no longer immortal, which explains why he is so quick to incapacitate the PC. He knows they have a chance to fight back, and they want to take it away as soon as possible. They aim the revolver, hand shaking, mostly because the PC is becoming weak and can barely hold the damn thing up, but also because they know how much is at stake. They fire. The man groans, and staggers back as blood spurts from his wounds...for about half a second, until he straightens up and smiles again. The fact that he even reacted to it further proves that he is human again. A terrifying kind of bloodlust flashes in his eyes now, as he closes in on the PC. You swallow hard and wait. Now that he is near enough to use it, he pulls back the weapon. Several loud, if slightly muffled, bangs can be heard, as the man's face takes on an expression of shock, then rage, as he brings the pipe down on the PCs shoulder. The PC winces and nearly goes downit hurts, but not as much as it would have if he hadnt faltered. He stops and looks down. They follow his gaze, and see the holes in his coatin the middle of his chest, slightly to the leftand the dark red stain that spreads from the area. Then, he topples backwards with a WHUMP that echoes throughout the arena. He lies still for several seconds, and there is nothing but the sound of the gears grinding. Then the massive white figure howls again, thrashing in what can only be called its death throes. His blood runs out over the floor, and they drink in its warm, coppery smell through their noses and mouths. His eyes open, and so do his lips. He reaches upwards with a shaking hand, and they realize he is looking up at something. They follow his gaze to see a warm, soft, light emanating rom a large round hole in the ceiling. (Just then, a ray of light came down from the sky.) A ragged sound comes out in a voice tortured by pain and confusion and loss.

Mom... A hand waves in the air, reaching for whoever it is that his unfocused eyes see, struggling to hold his hand in the air as long as possible as if hoping that something that is just beyond his reach will somehow fall into it. He seems determined to keep it up until he expends all his remaining energy. Mom? he says again in a strained, sad, and desperate voice. His lip quivers slightly and his eyes glisten as if he might ...cry. Instead, he smiles. (The light was very warm and made the baby feel good.) The hand sags, and drops, and his head lolls sideways. He exhales one last time, and then he is still. (With the cord clutched in his hand, the baby went happily to sleep.) They stand in shock, as the full realization of what has just happened refuses to sink in. He is dead. Really, truly dead. This time. Not like before. He isnt coming back in the next room, or on the next staircase. There arent any more rooms or staircases. This is it. Dead. Dead! It is such a shock that at first they dont notice the ground moving under their feet. Then the revolver falls from their lifeless fingers and clatters along the floor for a few inches, and they realize that the whole place is shaking. The bound monster, which now hangs completely limp, begins to sink back into the abyss of redness. Then a sudden pain flashes through their heads again, and again they scream as they collapse to their knees. As they kneel there, whimpering with the pain, the ground beneath them begins to split, fine cracks appearing on the surface and widening. It is rumbling like the end of the world, and the ceiling can collapse at any moment. The last thing they hear before losing consciousness completely is a certain child banging on a door and yelling for his mother then stopping. They hear a thud, followed by the creak of an opening door. MORE OPTIONAL SCENARIOS AND LOCATIONS:

GILLESPIE HOME: A cold gray light leaks in here, as if the fog that has swallowed the town has entered with them, and its glow is seeping into this gaunt house. All furniture had been removed from the main area. It is barren from wall to wall. They trod a rambling, unpartitioned space, the interior all wall-less, while the outer walls are irregularly

recessed in alcoves, nooks and grottos. In some of these stand furniture, oddly forlorn, bulky antique piecesan armchair, a settee, an escritoire crusted with ancient papers. These stranded like settingslike fossils of foregone transactions whose participants had blown to dust long sinceseem to mark the passage of generations through this rambling gloom. The Last Supper picture and the mounted fish are all that remains, and yellowed newspaper pages cover the milk-brown carpet. There is a two-bulb light fixture in the ceiling. Bedrooms, bathrooms - everywhere has the same atmosphere of shabby luxury; of a grand lifestyle gone to seed. And everywhere, they notice, there are paintings - landscapes, religious allegories, portraits - most of them thick with dust. The place has not been properly cleaned for months, maybe years. Whoever is the owner of this home appears to have preoccupation with manuscripts and art objects certain to have gotten him or her burned at the stake during quainter times. Luxurious in an obsolete way, the corridor is decorated with a few, large religious paintings further darkened by time. Some of them, typical representations of eighteenth century sensitivity, show scenes of damnation. Hordes of demons grab unfortunate sinners, taking them into the depths of hell. The upstairs is much more elegant than the downstairs; here the wallpaper is faded, and the hallways are dark and musty. The room is sparsely furnished, with unpainted pine furniture and a threadbare green throw rug in front of the fireplace which has a witch mark carved within. Above that is a hideous painting showing a naked human body whose inverted head leans backwards towards the viewer, its face erased. A mirror is on one wall and a glass cabinet is nearby. On the cabinet's shelves are dozens of crystal spheres of varying sizes, the smallest about pebble-sized and the largest is a foot in diameter. Most are the size of baseballs and perfectly clear, though others hold tints of blue, green and yellow, picking up pinpoints of brilliance and casting them over the walls in a subtle light-show. In the basement they see shelves, a stove, potted plants in a window, wallpaper with apples and oranges and cherries on it. Besides another arch, bricked in now, which may have once led to the neighboring row house cellar, the only things in the arch are some old planks raised on bricks to make a table. The PCs step closer to make out what is on top. The surface is painted with a star surrounded with pictures. There is an unlit black candle in the center. Around the candle are small white pieces of something. When they bend to look they see that there are bones. You shudder. Bones of what? Children who'd intruded here alone? Arranged between the bones are scraps of leaves and flowers. They are already dying without water. There are bottles and vials in open cabinets. All unmarked, they hold bluish green, brown, grayish liquids, viscous-looking. There are solid substances in a few of the vials: white powder, something that looks like wet ashes, something else that looks like shards of charcoal.

So this is the druggist of Silent Hill, mixing strange and ancient elixirs here in this house, in this kitchen with the tacky wallpaper. What was concocted here? Potions of strength? Sleep potions? Aphrodisiacs? Remedies passed down from ages past, liquids distilled from nightblack roots and the marrow of mens bones? The smoky hallway flutters with firelight from the doorways of the three other rooms. The PCs run past them, crouching low, eyes watering, the smoke bitter in their nostrils, dry in their throats. Down the staircase the bottom floor is a churning sea of flames. The house behind them fills with smoke and the intense heat makes it hard to breathe. Then a swelling pressure is felt, and the ordinary fabric of the housethe redbrick walls, the wroughtiron balcony, the slate roofis overlaid by a filmy black wave, like a photograph blistering in the heat of a fire. Things seethe within its shadows on shadows.

They pass around the corner of the building, and thread their way through a scatter of old stuff lying all around. Leaning against the buildings wall to their left is a large roll of barbed wire, with some dried husk tangled in it. They try to persuade themselves it is a mass of old plant, but the tiny splayed claws testify otherwise. To their right a camper van is all but buried in a large bank of bushes. Its color is no longer discernible, the tires are smothered beneath plant growth, and the rear window is obscured on the inside by drawn curtains. The thing that spooks them the most about it is the open side door. If it had been shut theyd have thought no more about it, but open seems to suggest that the thing is still in use. That there might be someone in there. DEVILS PIT: The gorge itself is a rather large area, mostly viewed by tourists and newcomers into Silent Hill. Families used to come to the Devil's Pit constantly, and that the favorite attraction, especially among children, was the train ride in the mines below the gorge. The sky-trams run through the area, sliding right above the deepest part of the gorge. There are several small decks built into the gorge that allow tourists to lean over and see inside the chasm without fear of falling inside. The mines under the tourist area were used to obtain bedrock and limestone. The train ride to Silent Hill is located deep inside the mine. DEVIL'S FALLS: According to the informational signs that are scattered across the attraction, the Devil's Falls are the second highest continually-flowing single-drop waterfall in North America. It plunges 1,419 feet to the subterranean river below. During the spring runoff, the Devil's Falls flow at a rate of 300 cubic feet per second, or 2,400 gallons every second.

The Devil's Falls feed an underground river system that flows through over 20 miles of limestone caverns until they empty into nearby Toluca Lake. The Gillespie Coal & Iron Company put the power of Devil's Falls and the underground river to good use, using the flowing water to power various mining systems. Bat's Lament Falls: The tallest waterfall in Devil's Pit is called Bat's Lament Falls. It was named by the natives of the area after a rare species of bat indigenous to the area, known as the Weeping Bat. Weeping Bats spend the entirety of their lives in Diyu's Tusk Cave located toward the bottom of the Pit. The Weeping Bats were named by the natives, who observed that the bats secrete a special fluid from their eyes that deters unwanted parasites from infesting their ocular cavities. The natives believed the bats were weeping, saddened by being imprisoned in such a deep, dark chamber. The Weeping Bats have been known to be unpredictably aggressive and very protective of their offspring, often attacking larger creatures that also reside in Devil's Pit. However, no attack against a human has ever been reported. You step forward, feeling your way into the tunnel. You move sideways, crab-like, hands sliding along the rocky walls, your feet probing ahead. With every step you cant help but imagine a precipice in front of you, a gaping abyss. You tell yourself you are being foolish, but you cant shake the idea from your mind. Then you round a corner and suddenly see thin slivers of ice-white light limning the jags and crevices of the tunnel ahead. It is on its haunches, bent forward, its back to them. It is naked, its forehead resting against the rocky wall. It reminds you of a child playing hide-and-seek, counting to a hundred before standing up and shouting, Coming, ready or not. You are within arms reach of the figure now. You can see the nubs of its vertebrae, the white skin streaked blackly with grime. Cave of Tears: This dark cavern was originally called Diyu's Tusk Cavern. The cave contains the largest stalagmite in all of North Eastern America and was first discovered by Chinese immigrant miners in 1863. The Chinese miners believed the giant stalagmite to be a large tusk protruding from Diyu, which literally translates to "earth-prison" in English, and is considered the realm of the dead in Chinese mythology - hence the name Diyu's Tusk. The cave is also the lifelong home to the Weeping Bat. As a result, the cavern is also often referred to by locals as the Cave of Tears. From somewhere ahead of them and to their left comes a scraping, a shuffling, as if someone or something is emerging from a burrow, scrabbling towards the light. They move on down the tunnel, the light sliding across the glossy walls. Down here the world is stark and primal. A world of rock and silence, of harsh white and deep black, nothing in between.

Devil's Pit When the Gillespie Iron & Coal company established the Devil's Pit Mine in 1816, electric power had not yet been invented. In the early years of Devil's Pit Mine, mine carts were used as a transportation tool for moving materials in out and out of the Pit during the mining process. The mine carts rode on steel tracks and were initially pushed and pulled by either animals or humans, later replaced by engines. Due to the precipitous angles, inclines and declines of the Devil's Pit tunnels, it was unavoidable that the tracks would have sharp, hazardous, and often even deadly turns. Humans working in the mines were warned to avoid riding aboard the carts whenever possible, as the death rate for such a journey was estimated at 40%. Quite simply, this meant 4 out of every 10 miners who hitched a ride aboard a mine cart met an unfortunate end. As the mining operation expanded and dug deeper into the earth, hauling ore, equipment and men to the surface via man and animal power became impractical. A new system was needed. The miners began to use the power of the underground river and Devil's Falls to power simple machinery like waterwheels for hoisting ore to the surface on pulley systems. As the operation grew more complex and ambitious, so too did the machinery. By the mid-19th century, Devil's Pit utilized one of the most sophisticated and earliest applications of hydroelectric power. This collection of waterwheels, cogs, gears, and troughs was used to transfer the natural power of the underground river to various mechanical systems. This was the engineer's control hub, which allowed him to redirect the water's flow, via a series of wooden troughs, which in turn powered various mechanical devices such as the main elevator, a flood control pump, and even an early electrical generator. The elevator was one of the first its kind, using an ingenious system of gears and waterwheels to take men and equipment to the upper caverns. They see what looks like a huge, squared-off well, surrounded by a meter-high wall. The shaft of the well, a raft-sized square of impenetrable blackness, has been overlaid with a sheet of thick but rusty wire mesh. A chunky plastic box on the wall, which had once been white but is now grimed and smeared with black fingerprints. The box has a single switch in its center, and thick black wires snake out of the top of it, leading to the ceiling of the tunnel, along the length of which, they notice, are a series of dimly illuminated light bulbs. The Devil's Train Jokingly called the Devil's Train by the miners that once worked in Devil's Pit, the mine train has since been converted into a ride for visitors. Equipped with an audio commentary, the Devil's Train provides the passengers with an in-depth, educational tour of Devil's Pit, including an interactive re-enactment of much of the Pit's rich history that utilizes animatronic miners. Opening your eyes, you see the glinting thread of track, like a long zip, disappearing into the center of an approaching black arch. Dazzled by the flickering light, the arch seems to be not

quite there; it is like an absence of reality into which you are being inexorably drawn, its edges fuzzy, its heart of darkness utterly impenetrable. You blink fully awake just in time to be swallowed by blackness. A palpable ripple of fearful excitement runs through you at the sudden claustrophobic chill emanating from the rocky walls, and at the way the light the trains lamp slithers and fractures across the tunnel's myriad planes and surfaces. Illuminated by the light of a number of ersatz Davy lamps, fueled not by oil but by electricity, is a family of mannequins. There is a father, a mother, a boy and a girl, all dressed in the drab clothes of a typical mid-nineteenth century mining family. The fathers shiny, chipped face is streaked with black paint, evidently intended to represent subterranean grime. He wears a mining helmet and is resting a pickaxe on his shoulder. The wide, painted eyes of the family seem to stare blankly at the newly arrived group. The little girl is missing a chunk of plaster from the center of her face, which gives the impression that some hideous skin disease has eaten away her nose and part of her mouth. They go deeper, the engine creaking and grinding as they chug downhill. The tunnel becomes narrower, the walls more jagged and uneven, and they have to suppress a wave of claustrophobia when they look up at the black ceiling and get the impression that it is crushing down on them, closing them in. They are relieved several minutes later when the tunnel abruptly widens and they find themselves in a natural arena-like cavern, the walls and ceiling sloping away on all sides, giving a sudden disorientating sense of space. Historical Park The gorge was named a historical park by the Silent Hill Historic Preservation Society in 1945. Hillside By the light of day the homes would be embarrassments; eyesores. Front porches sagging, roofs having holes in them, broken windows have newspaper covering them. In the yard around each of these shacks lays assorted garbage and the wrecks of old automobiles. Bicentennial Building: The gray metal doors of the service elevator pull themselves apart and wait silently to suck them in. Saint Marias: The monasterys smooth stone floors have buckled and cracked as the building slowly collapsed. They are extremely uneven, with many bumps and cracks.

In some areas, the floor is littered with loose masonry debris. Belfry: This square chamber is a collection of bare beams and rafters, with nothing but empty space below. An arcade of narrow, empty arches (each no wider than a human boys shoulders) leaves the chamber open to the elements, as do a few holes in the roof here and there. One arch leads to a spiral staircase of rain-slick stone curving down. A rickety catwalk leads from the top of the spiral staircase to the chambers center, where it ends in midair. Above the catwalk, farther up than a tall human can reach, is a structure of exceptionally heavy beams radiating out from a central hub like a colossal wagon wheel. Massive bronze hangers, green with age, adorn the spokes of the wheel. Chimes and small bells dangle from some of the hangers, but most are empty. SHEPARDS GLEN: Shepherd's Glen, like Silent Hill, is a town built along the shores of Toluca Lake. A dense pine forest can be seen when approaching town via River View Road. The lake borders the town on the east while Toluca River runs through it to the west. By the appearance of its map, it seems most likely Shepherd's Glen is either south, or south-west of Silent Hill, though its exact location in relation to its neighbor is unknown. Given that it is a small town, only three large roads pass through; Main Street, River View Road, and Craven Avenue. Rose Heights Cemetery: A large cemetery near the center of town, it's filled with hundreds of graves spanning the town's history. Shepherd's Glen Town Hall: The town hall is located on the eastern edge of town. It's one of the few areas to relatively escape the effects of the disaster that struck the small burg. It houses the offices of both Mayor Bartlett and Judge Holloway. While seemingly small during Alex's first visit, A large ritual chamber and a sprawling tunnel complex lay beneath it. Bartlett Winery: Situated on the western end of town, this small vineyard and winery has been owned by the Bartlett family for years. Access is impossible, as the bridge leading to the structure is out. Shepherd's Glen Police Station: Standing across from Rose Heights Cemetery. Located in front of the Police Department stands a billboard posted with fliers of missing persons. Salvage Yard: Located to the south of town, the Salvage Yard is owned and operated by mechanic Curtis Ackers. Junked cars, junked appliances, plain junk piled all around. A rambling shack, built on piecemeal over the years, until it is a study in sprawl. Part wood. Part sheet metal. All quiet.

Dr. Fitch's Office: A clinic and office complex run by Martin Fitch. It seems to be the only operating health facility in Shepherd's Glen. The Shepherd's Inn: Resting just outside of town, this inn was once a welcoming place for strangers. In more pleasant times, it came highly recommended, affording those who visited in the past fond memories of their time spent there. Sewers of Shepherd's Glen: A system of maintenance tunnels beneath town, these subterranean structures are full of refuse.

Shattered Memories: It is so blue. Ice like fossilized snow made as hard and clear as glass as though by its own weight and uncountable years. Spires of ice rise like jagged minarets above the broken terrain. Great pillars, crystalline arches, thin translucent walls. OPTIONAL CREATURES AND NPCS: ARIEL: Far from a lifeless theater mannequin, one knows to be careful when hearing a rattling sound down the halls of Artaud Theatre. Attacking from both the ceiling and the floor, this cursed puppet is a versatile and dangerous opponent. They tend to hide in plain sight, in places where marionettes and puppets are not unusual. They can remain inanimate for extremely long periods of time, until they find a reason to exert themselves. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. Attributes (all have identical attributes) I.Q: 6, M.E: 8, M.A: 8, P.S: 18, P.P: 14, P.E: 14, P.B: 8, Spd: 7 when suspended from the ceiling, 12 when running on its hands.. S.D.C: 30. Hit Points: 4D4+4 Horror Factor: 12. Size: All Ariel are exactly 3 feet tall. Weight: All Ariel are exactly 50 pounds. Average Life Span: Exist until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost leg within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Ariel will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks per Melee: Three. Damage: Kick inflicts 2D6 plus P.S. damage bonuses, but typically uses its strings to perform strangle hold that inflicts 3D6+6 damage for each melee round the opponent remains in its grasp.

Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. While their unique mode of transportation has its advantages, it is also very limiting. These monsters are essentially entangled by their own strings and cannot leave the room where they are in. While suspended, Ariels can only attack in close quarters and they cannot reach objects close to the ground--these two shortcomings often hamper their effectiveness. When their strings are cut, they are able to move freely. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Artaud theatre Description: Ariel resembles a child-sized, unfinished marionette with a body made of wood, but with the wood grain still showing. All of their limbs are jointed and have small holes for a puppeteers strings. BUTCHER: A large humanoid creature that drags along a weapon called The Great Cleaver, slaughtering monsters and people alike throughout Central Silent Hill. While it is more humanseeming than other monsters in the town, it cannot be reasoned with, and it fulfills its tasks with grim determination. Unknown to most, there is something beyond the eyes of the mask the Butcher wears, something beyond the cold sheen of evil, something deeper, and almost human; it is something wandering and longing, forever locked away from the light and maddened like a tiger in a dark cage. It is rage stoked to atomic power. But it is something of a little boy as well, wailing and lost. Alignment: Diabolic. I.Q: Unknown, M.E: Unknown, M.A: 21, P.S: 27, P.P: 8, P.E: 23, P.B: 5, Spd: 12 Horror Factor: 15 S.D.C: 300. Hit Points: 70 Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates 1D6 S.D.C./Hit Points per minute. Does not breathe air, can survive depths of up to 1,000 feet (305 m). Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +3 to parry, strike, and dodge, +4 to pull punch, +10 to save vs horror factor. Favorite Weapons: Great Meat Cleaver: Inflicts 6D6 damage. The Butcher grips it by the handle, but does not raise the blade; instead the monster drags the end along the ground behind him with a horrible metallic screeching sound. The dragging no doubt dulls the edge, but even if blunt, the sheer weight of the cleaver will crush a person's skull like an egg. Dragging it reduces the Butcher's speed, attacks per melee and bonuses by half. Anyone who does not possess supernatural strength suffers -2 penalty to wield this weapon. Anyone with less than half the Butcher's strength cannot use it effectively at all. Damage: Description: It appears as a muscular male with a metal mask or helmet covering half its head. Held in this frame the revealed half-face is hairless, shriveled, blanched, and sightless. Genuinely sightless, for the eyelid is firmly sealed in a way that implies it can not, for whatever reason, be uplifted. It, however, appears to be able to see just fine.

CALIBAN: An extremely large creature, these giants seem to be part-man and part-beast down from its lower body. Its hind legs seemed to have stretched to the front of its body, with its hands acting as the rear end, crawling like a four-legged creature. CARRION: I.Q: 5, M.E: 6, M.A: 9, P.S: 12, P.P: 3, P.E: 16, P.B: 6, Spd: 9, +1D6x10 when charging Horror Factor: 9 S.D.C: 3D6x10+3D6 Damage: Kick and head butts inflict 2D6+P.S bonus. Description: A Carrion resembles a flayed bovine: a heaving great pink mass of meat, veins and muscle, with mountainous haunches that hump and sink as its twin hooves pummel the ground. Its head and upper body seems to be broken and slumped to the ground, dragging them as it moves. CRAWLER: Hideous pale demons attacking from the shadows of the sewer. They are bloated creatures reminiscent of a slug on two feet. The face is featureless except for a snarling mouth filled with pearly white teeth and fangs. Throbbing veins roll from the forehead down the back, while the faceless head seems to melt into the chest, skipping the neck entirely. The two fingered hands and two-toed feet are adorned with powerful suction cups on the bottoms, enabling the demon to scale walls and cling to ceilings, slick surfaces and fast moving vehicles. How the creature sees is anyones guess, and they constantly whisper incomprehensible babblings that only add to their creepiness. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 5, M.E: 6, M.A: 9, P.S: 17, P.P: 13, P.E: 16, P.B: 5, Spd: 9 S.D.C: 70 Hit Points: 8 Horror Factor: 15 Size: 5-6 feet (1.5 to 1.8 m) Weight: 200 lbs. Average Life Span: Immortal until slain. Natural Abilities: Nightvision 1000 ft, keen normal vision, resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Fair running speed, but can run or fight without pause or fatigue for 48 hours. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Crawler will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Suction Cup Hands and Feet: Small, but powerful suction ups are onto the bottoms of the demons hands and feet. They enable the creature to climbs walls, ceilings and any type of surface, porous and smooth, like an insect. Climbing speed is half the running speed.

Blood Drain: Touching or pressing against an opponent or victim for one melee round enables the Crawler to begin sucking the characters blood dry. Each draining action counts as one of the creatures melee attacks and one pint of blood can be drained per melee round, reducing the characters Hit Points by 15% per pint drained! Coma and death become very likely when six or more pints are drained by the Crawler (a typical adult human had 8 to 12 pints depending on size/bulk). Only a blood transfusion or magical healing (half the normal amount restored per touch because blood is being replenished) can save the character. Attacks Per Melee: four Damage: Bite inflicts 2D6, Bonuses: +3 to strike, +1 to dodge, +4 to entangle, +2 to parry, +2 to disarm, +4 to pull punch, +3 to roll with impact or fall, Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Sewers. Vulnerabilities: Unlike many supernatural beings, they cannot see in the dark, and are only alerted by light. DOUBLE-HEAD: A dark bulky creature that walks on two enormous arms and has a dark shaggy pelt like a yak or a mammoth but made out of a shaggy, feather-like covering. They then realize that it has two pale-skinned, human heads, each looking like an infant with chalk-white skin and eyes that are perpetually squeezed shut, and one head sits lower than the other. The heads are grotesquely pushed together and obviously grow out of the same body. Below the cloak, it has no lower body, and instead of legs, it stands on a pair of long spindly arms ending in long thin handsa startling contrast to the chubbiness of its faces. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 7, M.E: 6, M.A: 6, P.S: 15, P.P: 14, P.E: 18, P.B: 6, Spd: 20 S.D.C: 36 Hit Points: 20 Horror Factor: 11 Size: All are exactly six feet tall. Weight: All are exactly 160 lbs Average Life Span: Exists until destroyed. Natural Abilities: 30% Prowl. Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Double-Head will regenerate and return to life within 1D4 melees provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Attacks Per Melee: Three attacks per melee. Damage: +2 to damage. Punch for 2D6 damage. Bonuses: +5 to parry, +2 to dodge. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Water Prison, South Ashfield Apartments. 14LEECH, GIANT: The giant leech is a much larger and deadly version of the regular variety. They can grow as large as a mans arm, and secrete a painful toxin. The slime that coats their bodies is sticky, allowing them to climb up walls and ceilings to drop down on their victims.

Alignment: Considered miscreant, literally a bloodthirsty predator.. I.Q: low I.Q. of 1-2, M.E: 1D4, M.A: 1, P.S: 1D4+4, P.P: 1D6+4, P.E: 1D6+4, P.B: 1D4, Spd: 1D6+4 on land or climbing S.D.C: 2D4. Horror Factor: 8, +3 when encountering a group of three or more. Size: 1-3 feet long, size varies with the maturity of the organism and the availability of food.. Weight: 5-15 pounds Average Life Span: Exists until destroyed. Natural Abilities: Prowl 80%, Swim 75%. Climb 90%/85% Vulnerabilities: Regular table salt inflicts 2D6 damage per ounce and has a horror factor of 16 for giant leeches. Attacks Per Melee: One attacks per melee. Damage: .Bite inflicts 1 point of damage. Every round thereafter, the leech drains its victims of 1D4 hit points from the loss of a half pint of blood. Thats 2D4 damage per round, plus the victim is weak from blood loss; reduce attacks per melee round, combat bonuses, speed, and skill proficiency by 10% per each pint drained. Actually touching the leech with bare skin inflicts a painful burn and 1D4 damage. Bonuses: by attribute bonuses only. Enemies: None. Habitat: Water Prison, South Ashfield. THE MAN IN THE BLUE COAT: The Man in the Blue Coat is a danger best avoided, because he shrug off damage which would destroy most with little effort, and has an unbelievable capacity for killing things with his weapons. Alignment: Miscreant. Note: Numbers in parenthesis are his attributes after having his true body wounded by all spears. Intelligence: 25 Mental Endurance: 29 (15) Mental Affinity: 28 Physical Strength: 28 (14) Physical Prowess: 22 (12) Physical Endurance: 28 (14) Physical Beauty: 18 Speed: 207 (20) S.D.C: 880 (44) Hit Points: 45 (22) P.P.E: 559. (280) 15Disposition: He can convincingly portray any demeanor and emotion. When dealing with mortals, he can be very charming. He can easily seduce women and befriend men, and he exudes innocence and friendliness. His face and smile seem very trustworthy, and he usually appears to something he is not. Even when he is inflicting pain or destruction, he always seems to have a wicked smirk on his face and softly spoken words roll off his tongue. Human suffering seems to provide him with great amusement.

Natural Abilities: 16As the neigh-omnipotent master of a nightmare, it can be assumed the Man in the Blue Coat possesses immense abilities to achieve virtually any conceivable feat while within his domains. The Man can alter his surroundings in any way desired, create whatever horrors he wishes to inflict, keep tabs on the PCs or anyone else within his domain without them being aware of it, conjure any item desired out of thin air, as well as travel to any point in any of his domains instantly. Assume that he has access to all spells, superpowers, psionic abilities and special abilities, at the usual P.P.E cost, used at fifth level strength and can be used as often as twice per melee round. However, it appears he is unwilling to use such earth-shattering powers against PCs directly, as perhaps that would be less than sporting. In combat he will only resort to hand-held weapons and his own physical attacks, and not even killing him temporarily will cause him to use his other powers against his attackers. Weapons: 17He carries two handguns, a chainsaw, and a pipe. PERSONAS: Personas are not born or created; they seem to manifest spontaneously in Silent Hill, they are beings that look and act exactly like humans (typically female as guile and seduction are themes common in Silent Hill). In some cases they are exact doubles of people known to visitors. The mysterious and malevolent intelligence behind Silent Hill always seems to know what will most hurt its visitors, and thus creates the appropriate being as the situation dictates. The similarities to humanity go beyond physical appearances. Their skills, abilities, and capabilities, as well as a smattering of memories correspond almost exactly to their human counterparts (if any). While these beings look and act human, they are constructs. All possess their own personalities, and varying degrees of self-awareness, sentience, and some measure of independence in the unreality of Silent Hill. Some even have vague knowledge of general going-ons in Silent Hill, as well as a smattering of facts about the visitors themselves. All begin thinking that they are real people, and are not initially hostile to real human beings like the other denizens of Silent Hill. When encountered, the Persona will exhibit qualities that will help endear themselves to the visitor(s), such as helplessness, concern, sympathy, playfulness, politeness, etc. They will know what to say to tell the visitor exactly what theyve been waiting to hear. For the most part, (at least initially) the masquerade will be flawless, but as time increases the faade of humanity will wear away, gradually revealing the monster beneath (this can be literally true; see Transformation ability below). As a result of being flawed recreations of actual human beings, they can begin exhibiting extreme personalities, severe mood shifts, and can easily become self-serving, fearful, cold-hearted or vindictive creatures who have little or no empathy for humans beyond feelings of contempt, envy, hatred, cruelty, vengeance, and fear. Even those who do not succumb to these evil impulses will often have quirky or strange behavior, feelings and stunted emotions. In all cases they may be incredibly naive, with very limited and often warped emotions of how things are in the world. Most of these beings have spent much of their brief lives living in this hellish setting, and will find it difficult to relate to reality. Like all monsters of Silent Hill, they possess the ability to bio-regenerate and the ability to survive apparent death. These abilities shouldnt be readily apparent to others. For all intents and purposes, they are human. Though one that dies a gory death may return later, if only to spread confusion and discord among the visitors who saw them die. When confronted, the Persona will

either calmly deny that their own death and resurrection occurred, or even vehemently give contradictory accounts of the incident when the Persona died; i.e. No, I saw YOU (the visitor) die! It was horrible. All which will inspire confusion and growing unease in their query. There are never many Personas created at one time, typically only one, on rare occasions 1D4 others. On at least one occasion in the past, the entire town was provided with a population of thousands of Personas. This might be due to the complexity and cost involved in their creation by Silent Hill. Alignment: Special. I.Q: 3D6, M.E: 2D6, M.A: 4D6+8, P.S: 3D6, P.P: 3D6, P.E: 3D6, P.B: 4D6, Spd: 3D6. Physical Endurance and Physical Strength are Supernatural. Hit Points: 3D6. S.D.C: 1D4x10. Natural Abilities: In addition to the physical abilities roughly equivalent to normal human beings. Bio-Regenerates: Regenerates at a mere 1D4 S.D.C/Hit Points per hour. Damaged clothing and personal items regenerate as the Persona does, at full Hit Points/S.D.C the clothing looks pristine and fully clean. In fact, a seemingly dead Persona will regenerate and return to life within 1D4 melees provided it has not suffered more than 20 points of damage below zero. Hyper-Regeneration: This accelerated rate of generation occurs when the Personas S.D.C/Hit Points drops below zero. At this point the regeneration rate raises to 2D6 S.D.C/Hit Points per round, and lasts until the Persona is fully healed. Transformation: After the Persona has finally realized its true nature, and/or when the visitor(s) realize it, the Persona will make one last attempt to be accepted by the visitors. If the visitor(s) accept the Persona, the game of deception begins anew, leading the visitor(s) further into the denial and insanity that is Silent Hill. However, if the visitor rejects the Persona, the doppelganger will begin a horrific transformation that takes one full melee round to complete. The appearance varies from Persona to Persona, but most will seem to reflect a horrific death (covered in blood, bonded to a death bed, etc). If the Persona was based on a real person who was killed, the Persons appearance will reflect the way in which that person died. Even unnatural and artificial components can be a part of the final appearance, appearing out of nowhere or gained from its surroundings. The Personas abilities vastly increase; add 3D6x10 to S.D.C, +10 to P.S and endurance, +5 to P.P., and is +2 to strike, parry, and dodge, but it retains its human intelligence, making a very deadly combination. It will also gain 1D4 special unique abilities. These can be ones shared by other monsters, or they could be ones that havent been seen before (becoming intangible, tentacles, summoning swarms of stinging insects). In this state, the doppelganger may turn its wrath upon the visitors, or flee to take revenge on the ones who were responsible for its current predicament. Average Life Span: Varies. Most Personas have a life span measured in hours or days (1D4 days maximum). Those based on the memories of people will likely cease to exist when the visitor leaves.

PIT VINE: Lacking any kind of fixed root structure, the plant is little more than a central stem or cluster housed in a writhing mess of grasping tendrils and longer, stronger whipping vines. It is blind and deaf, sensing movement nearby purely by detecting micro-vibrations in the air. They are unintelligent and have no sense of fear or pain; they simply attack on instinct. The Vine fights to the death or until its prey withdraws, escapes or dies. Pit vines are easily distracted with weapons, the smell of blood, and can be burned by fire. Once a living creature comes within reach of the plant, it goes into action, its tentacles lashing out like a pythons to entangle, trip and hold its prey. First, it drinks the nourishing blood it spills. If the prey cannot escape, it then slices the victim into small pieces, and uses its small tendrils to pick them up and deposit them in a digestion cavity within its central stem cluster. Alignment: A hideous predator considered to be Miscreant. I.Q: 1D4, M.E: 1D4, M.A: 1D4, P.S: 2D6+12, P.P: 1D6+12 (tentacles only), P.E: 2D6+12, P.B: 1D4, Spd: 1D4+1 for the worm itself, the tentacles move at a speed of 2D4+20. Size: The central stem cluster is 5-7 feet in diameter. The creatures tentacles are 6-8 feet (6-7.6 m) long. The tentacles are thick as rope. Weight: All told, weights about 200 lbs. S.D.C: Each tentacle (8) has 2D6+16 S.D.C. If that number is depleted, the tentacle is severed and it stops moving/attacking. The main body of the creatures has 50 S.D.C. Hit Points: 100 Armor Rating: 5 Horror Factor: 13. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates damage at a rate of 3D6 S.D.C. or H.P. per 24 hours and can regrow a lost or damaged tentacle in 1D4 days. Impervious to all known diseases, resistant to cold and poisons (half damage) and resistant to charm, possession and mind control. Attacks Per Melee: Two tentacle attacks the first melee round. Four the second melee round and eight the third and subsequent melee rounds! Remember, however, that the Pit Vines goal is to snare one or two humanoids with 2-4 of its tentacles and pull them into its maw to eat, rather than engage in a prolonged battle for the sake of fighting. This means 2-4 tentacles are likely to become tied up very quickly, leaving only 4-6 tentacle attacks available to it in subsequent melee rounds. It will reach out for more attacks if there is more prey to be had. Damage: Tentacle Strike: A tentacle can strike like a whip doing 2D6 points of damage per lash, or jab and poke doing 1D6 damage.

Tentacle Grab/Constrict: The tentacles can also spend two melee attacks/actions wrapping around and entangling a victim, at which point the only defense is to either dodge the attack, possess a greater P.S. than the Pit-Vine and break free, or to hack through the tentacle before the Pit-Vine pulls its prey to its mouth. Likewise, the Pit-Vine can inflicts 1D6+P.S. damage per melee attack to those it has entangled with one or more of its tentacles (only one tentacle does the actual constriction damage). Note: Pit-Vines are not incredibly powerful, but each tentacle is the equivalent of being held by one strong man with a P.S. of at least 14. Consequently, being entangled by eight tentacles is equal to being held and pulled by eight strong men for a combined P.S. of 112, or 84 for six, P.S. 56 for four tentacles and P.S. 28 when held nu only two (adjust proportionately for each tentacle). Bonuses: For Tentacles: +1 on initiative, +2 to strike, +3 to automatic dodge, +3 to entangle, +1 to save vs magic, +6 to save vs cold attacks (takes half damage even the save fails), +5 to save vs charm, possession and mind control, and is immune to horror factor. Enemies: Anything that passes within tentacle range. Has no desire other than to eat. Habitat: Dark Side Alchemilla Hospital. Description: A screeching, writhing clump of flesh and tentacles. Veins in the tentacles throb and pulsate, and the entire body undulates when it moves, all giving the vile creature the appearance that it is in constant pain. PUPPETEER: A puppeteer is a living hunchback, an intelligent parasite, capable of infecting a host body, imprisoning the mind and controlling it as if it were a puppet. It is a small slimy creature that controls its human victim by nesting in the flesh of the carriers back, then taking control of its hosts body, operating the stolen body as if the corpus were its own. Its initial attack is quick and silent. The puppeteers little mouth bites through most clothing and even armor in a matter of seconds, then, it stretches itself over its victims skin while its head burrows into the flesh, numbing the skin as it does so. It chews and digs quietly, working its way into the area behind between the back of the neck and shoulder blades. As soon as the puppeteer is inside the skin, it fastens its nervous system to the carriers spine, inflicting 2D4 points of damage directly to hit points, which means that weak or sickly targets could die as a result. The creature then extends a number of tendrils which travel through the victims body, thus seizing complete contr of it. Once the monster controls the body, it can use it like a puppet (hence the name). The control is absolute, and the monster gains access to all voluntary functions of the victim. As a symbiotic organism, the Puppeteer secretes strange proteins into the carriers body, as well as stimulate the brain and the production of body chemicals to make the host body more resilient to damage and able to heal faster, as well as dramatically slow the aging process of the host body and fight off disease. Thankfully the Puppeteer does not have access to the victims memories, personalities or skills. They are extremely aggressive when in possession of a body and like to kill and torture. Alignment: Diabolic. Attributes: I.Q. 1D4+3, M.E: 1D4+3, M.A: 1D6. The physical attributes of the Puppeteer before it seizes control of its host are all two, except for speed which is 1D6. The Puppeteer can slither

and climb most surfaces (including walls and ceilings). It can also coil itself up and spring or leap up to 10 feet (3 m) off the ground or 20 feet (6 m) when leaping down from a perch above ground. If it hits a human body, it will begin burrowing, seeking to take control. All physical attributes are those of the possessed human; roll as normal. Reduce the hosts Spd and P.P. by 25%. Size: 4 to 8 inches for the Puppeter itself. Weight: Several pounds. Hit Points: 1D6, but once in possession to a human host, it relies on the H.P and S.D.C. of its host body. S.D.C of the Puppeteer: Zero. Under its influence the host body gets an extra 2D6 S.D.C. Natural A.R. of the Puppeteer itself: 4. Horror Factor: 8 for the Puppeteer itself, 13 when someone recognizes the person is possessed. Average Life Span: The Puppeteer itself is immortal until slain. Under the influence of the Puppeteer, the host body will not age, and can be sustained for decades or centuries, or possibly even millennia; it is unknown. Natural Abilities: The Puppeteer will move the host body in a clumsy, herky-jerky fashion, and will clearly seem to any observer that something is wrong. Bonuses: The host body is +4 to save vs horror factor, +20% to save vs coma/death, heals twice as fast as normal humans. Attacks Per Melee: As per human: two for the average human, three for those with physical training. Otherwise the Puppeteer has only one melee attack. Damage: As per human hand to hand combat or hand-held weapons. Human weaponry, particularly knives and guns, are commonly used by Puppeteer hosts. Vulnerabilities: Aglaophotis is the only thing that will force the creature out of the victim, though even this will cause 2D4 damage as the thing writhes and chews its way back out. Conventional surgery takes too long to perform and the sentient Puppeteer knows whats going, kills its victim and tries to escape (typically by burrowing completely inside the dead person and then lunging out and slithering away. Description: The Puppeteers own body is just a jumble of pink-red cartilage and sinewy skin about the size of a cat. Removed they look like disgusting, slimy, six-inch-long slugs with a circular mouth, much like that of a lamprey, which they use to bore into their victim's flesh. The slime that coats their bodies is sticky, allowing them to climb up walls and ceilings to drop down on their victims. From there the creature bites, bores into the back, and takes control. Further, when a Puppeteer takes control, its host undergoes several physical changes. The victims eyes turn red and moves in a comparatively wooden and slow, deliberate motion, occasionally, a little bit jerky. A sizable patch of blood will be visible from the entry wound, staining clothing. The area around the entry will develop into a sizable hump after 1D6 days of possession as the creature adapts to its host body, causing the host body to be hunched over. 18ROMPER: 19Their features are simian, and their arms are long and powerful with prehensile hands and thick, muscular legs with hands instead of feet, their legs comparatively short which contributes to the illusion of being related to apes. In combat, they charge their enemy one at a time. They tend to use tactics that involve surprise, ambush and overpowering ones foe. Enemies who run or show fear only bolster the Rompers

courage, whipping them into a fighting frenzy that is likely to end with the monster tearing their opponents limb from limb. (Note: under such circumstances, add on additional attack per melee round, +2 to save vs horror factor, and +1D6 to the damage they inflict per attack.) However, an enemy that manages to stand his ground, shows little or no fear, and is powerful enough to fight them off, confuses and frightens the romper. If the visitor isnt quickly defeated or frightened, the Romper loses their courage and are more easily frightened and beaten themselves. (Note: Under such a situation, the creatures are -2 on initiative, -1 one attack per melee round and -2 to save vs horror factor). If the situation doesnt change soon, they will ultimately run away. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q.: 1D6+1, M.E.: 2D4, M.A.: 3D4, P.S.: 3D6+8, P.P.: 3D6+4, P.E.: 3D6+4, P.B.: 2D4, Spd: 3D6. Size: 3-4 feet tall (0.9 to 1.2 m) Weight: Weighs 30-60 pounds (13.5 to 27 kg). S.D.C: 3D6+10 Hit Points: P.E. +10. Horror Factor: 8. Natural Abilities: Bio-regenerates lost Hit Points and S.D.C at a rate of 4D6 per hour and will regrow a lost limb within 48 hours. In fact, a seemingly dead Romper will regenerate and return to life within 49 minutes provided it has not suffered more than 40 points of damage below zero. Prowl 35%, Climb 95/90%, Attacks Per Melee: three Damage: Punch 2D6, Power Punch 4D6 (but counts as two attacks), bite 2D6 damage. Bonuses: +1 to strike, +3 to dodge, +3 to roll with impact. Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Description: All look nominally humanoid, like gorillas who as babies had been swaddled in barbed wire. They are the size of men, with the agility of macaques and capucinus, but without the playful spirit of monkeys. With hands that feature as many fingers asbut a greater complement of knuckles thanthe hands of a man or monkey, they sometimes tear at themselves as if they are in torment, though the only sounds they make are choking noises that in some instance resembles a wicked chuckling. Their eye-balls are yellow with disease, their hair is matted with nameless ooze, and from their putrid lips saliva rolls uncontrollably. SLITHERY-DEE: These are abominable squid-like beings that inhabit the canals and dock areas of Silent Hill. They are monstrosities almost beyond description in their horror. They look somewhat like huge yellow-greenish squids because of the many long, whiplike tentacles (estimated length: 40 ft) extending menacingly from the humped shoulders of the trunk, but their bodies are much more vertebrate-like. The monsters are equipped with tentacles, feelers, claws, mouths, fangsevery appurtenance imaginable, with which to horrify and then dismember its prey. Its underside is a horror all its own. A transparent membrane holding sealed a compartment in which miniature replicas of the monster floats, its young. Among these young, there are other creatures, which can only be assumed to be victims of the monster, engulfed by the parent and held as food for the horrid spawn. Above the tentacles sprouts a rounded head bearing six lidless white eyes like a coronet, with a face at its crown.

Its voracious appetite derives it to consume other animals in large quantities, and it has been known to strike at unwary travelers who do not see it until it is too late. Alignment: Considered Diabolic. I.Q: 7, M.E: 15, M.A: 12, P.S: 26, P.P: 17, P.E: 13, P.B: 2, Spd: S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: 20-30 feet in length. Weight: One ton. Natural Abilities: Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: Carcasses and remains are kept around its lair. SPLIT-WORM: The 20Split-Worm is an enormous 18-foot leechlike creature with a cylindrical, blue, scaly body. The head is larger than the rest of its body and has two flaps of skin that open to the side vertically, revealing a mouth not unlike that of a humans, filled with teeth and a tongue, both resembling an uncanny similarity to that of a person. Inside its mouth are what look to be spears or strange white hinges, preventing it from opening its jaw too wideit makes one think of phlegm hardened over time to something like a bone This mindless behemoth gives off a stench of decay whenever it roams, eating anything else in its path. The Split-Worm attacks by crawling along the dark tunnels, then suddenly bursts out, trying to bite its prey. If it gets a hold, it rends its meal apart until it cannot fight back, and then swallows its ghastly banquet. Anything the beast can swallow is fair game. This disgusting gastropod is a light blue in color and is approximately 18 feet long and 10 feet wide. The worm is aggressive and has a ravenous appetite that never seem to be satisfied. Even though its metabolism processes its food at such a slow rate that it needs to eat once every month, the worm is constantly on the prowl for food. It hunts day and night by sensing vibrations through the rock and ground it inhabits. It is smart though to discern the deliberate footsteps of a humanoid, or the random clunk of falling rock. Its amazing senses also allow them to tell whether or not the vibrations are caused by something much too large for it to take down. 21Alignment: Considered Diabolic. Horror Factor: 14. Attributes: I.Q: 4, M.E: 8, M.A: 5, P.S: 27, P.P: 11, P.E: 20, P.B: 1, Spd: 4. Regent worms can burrow through the dirt stone, rock, and other earthen obstacles at a speed of 9. Bedrock, limestone or other hard rocks require twice as long to burrow through. Average Size: 18 feet long, 8 feet wide; the worm is widest in the middle. The mouth is approximately 10 feet wide and can swallow a man whole.

Armor Rating: 7 S.D.C: 100. Hit Points: 200. P.P.E: 8 Bonuses: +1 to initiative, +5 to strike with body, +4 to save vs psychic attack, +6 to save vs poison. No parry. +3 to roll with impact, +1 to save vs magic. Combat: 2 attacks per round smashing/crushing, or 3 of attacking with head. Natural Abilities: The worm secretes a greasy substance that helps it move through rubble and dirt. This also makes them impossible to grapple with or easily restrain, and they take only half damage from blunt attacks, including punches, kicks, and body blocks. It has no eyes, ears, or noses, and therefore does not suffer attacks directed at those senses. It does have a very powerful motion detection system, however. Underground, it can sense movement up to a mile in every direction, and can even discern the size, speed, and movement pattern of the object at 95% accuracy. Underwater, their range is limited to 3000 feet (915 m). In open air, the range is a pitiful 20 foot (6.1 m) diameter, but they are still formidable hunters and combatants. The giant maw, with its great teeth, contain heat receptors that enable the Split-Worm to "see" heat signatures emanating from living prey; range 300 feet (91.5 m). This means the worms is also impervious to Horror Factor and illusions. Damage: Crush damage by rolling over somebody inflicts 1D4x100 damage, enemies run the risk of being inadvertently swallowed on a natural attack roll of 19 or 20. A bite inflicts 1D4x10 damage. A tail swat inflicts 4D6 damage. A head butt inflicts 1D6 damage. The Split Worm tries to attack by swallowing a victim whole, then disappearing underground. They can swallow a humanoid up to 9 feet (2.7 m) tall, and will swallow men in body armor or power armor. The Split Worm only fights to eat, but it is always hungry. The preferred tactic is to come up directly underneath or just behind a potential meal, break through the earth or rubble and swallow the prey whole. Another tactic is to pop up in the middle of a group, and another is to comer a group and swallow them up one after another as they try to run by it, or whimper in a comer. When done eating, or if the prey proves to be too powerful (reduces the creature's S.D.C. by half) the monster goes back underground. Being swallowed inflicts 4D6+4 damage to its prey every melee inside the monster's gullet as the worm's powerful muscles chum and crush its food. Digestion is a slow process. Doing adequate damage to kill the creature will slice it open and enable anyone trapped inside to escape. Victims who survive being swallowed can try to attack the beast from within, but any handheld weapons are almost certainly torn from their grasp by the rending muscles, and any physical attacks (punches and kicks) are ineffective (no leverage, no damage), because the arms and legs are pinned by the contracting and churning stomach muscles. However, attached and natural blades, energy weapons that are fired from the forearms or eyes, and powers may be used in an attempt to escape. A normal human will be killed in a matter of minutes, but digested in four days, while a superhuman creature or someone inside environmental armor will take up to three weeks. THE GENTLEMEN: Yellow eyes, slitted like a cats; obscene and demonic and chalk-white skin stretched painfully over a bald skull with an almost hooked nose. Its blood-red lips are

forever curled up into an unsettling smile; silver teeth resembling fangs. The entire visage resembles one of an incredibly delirious, homicidal clown minus the rainbow wig. When two or more Gentlemen meet, they coordinate their moves in a communication that isnt verbal. But strangely enough they will politely wave goodbye to one another with small, gentle hand movements. Alignment: I.Q: , M.E: , M.A: , P.S:, P.P: , P.E: , P.B: , Spd: S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: long, Weight: Natural Abilities: Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: THE LACKEY: This grotesque parody of a human being is typically first mistaken in the fog as a person wandering in the distance. Thin, hunched over, wearing a blood-soaked straight jacket and carrying an axe or sword. Its flesh a rotted brown like sackcloth, its hair unkempt and hangs in thick clumps from its head. Wrinkled eye lids drape over empty sockets, and the mangled interior of his mouth and the flapping red meat of his tongue can be seen when it smiles. Its hands are bound with flaking bandages. The Lackey doesnt wear shoes and its feet are heavily calloused. They move with a shuffle as if drugged. Alignment: I.Q: , M.E: , M.A: , P.S:, P.P: , P.E: , P.B: , Spd: S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: long, Weight: Natural Abilities: Nightvision 1000 ft, keen normal vision, resistant to fire and impervious to cold, poison, and gases. Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: THE INVISIBLE ELEPHANT: It comes from the fog ahead. There is something massive, something immense, moving about in there, and the fog drifts forward. Coming out of the mists, trumpeting its sound of horror. Alignment: I.Q: , M.E: , M.A: , P.S:, P.P: , P.E: , P.B: , Spd:

S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: long, Weight: Natural Abilities: Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: THE TRENCH-COATED KING: Between eight and nine feet tall, more or less humanoid with gray skin, its shoulders are impossibly broad and muscular, its arms longer than they should be. Only its hands and head are visible, the rest of its strangely proportioned body clothed in a yellow trench coat made from the thickest cowhide, except for what appears to be tentacles, slightly pulsing ropes of flesh that are only half tucked under its collar, their points of origin unseen. Its eyes yellow but hollow, somehow. They dilate, like camera shutters, with a CLICLICK. Its left arm is fairly normal, but its right arm terminates in a gigantic bone-spike that has two small spikes protruding from the sides, like three "fingers," the long, blood encrusted nails appear quite ready to rend living flesh. His face is a writhing mass of maggot-riddled dead flesh. His voice is the harsh, whispering rasp of a dying man, and his breath blows forth a cold puff like the putrid air from a long sealed crypt. His yellow and stained teeth are jagged and unevenly spaced in his gruesome gaping maw. Half the skin of his face is gone, revealing his skull. The odd being will open his jacket with a smooth sweep of his arms. Both flaps of his jacket flaring back in the breeze like black, silklined wings; they shimmer luxuriously in the sunlight, rippling subtly like vertical pools of black water. On his chest, some of the skin/muscles has sloughed off, revealing his bloody ribcage and a beating heart. I.Q: 10, M.E: , M.A: , P.S: 20, P.P: 15, P.E: 14, P.B: , Spd: 10. S.D.C: Hit Points: Horror Factor: Size: long, Weight: Natural Abilities: Attacks Per Melee: Damage: Bonuses: Enemies: Attacks all intruders. Habitat: THE GOD: Something big stirs beneath Silent Hill. Huge, a thousand times worse than those things above. Something else, a presence that looms like a fist trembling over a table-crawling gnat, a thing of pure thought that is nevertheless idiot-empty, a presence colder than cold, sick

and curious and powerful and completely insane. It is a nightmare that has no right to exist in the flesh, something dark and unnatural that had come from the evil areas of the mind. It is a natural being in a nightmare world, it is what the End of Time should spawn. 22Alignment: Diabolic I.Q: unknown. M.E: 14. M.A: 15. P.S: 30. P.P: 16. P.E: 23. P.B: 8. Spd: 7. P.P.E: 1500. Hit Points: 23 S.D.C: 1600. Horror Factor: 18. Height: 20 feet. Weight: several tons. Bonuses: +2 on initiative, +1 to disarm or entangle, +1 to pull punch, +5 to roll with impact,+1 to save vs mind control, +3 to save vs horror factor, +5 to strike, +6 to dodge, +2 to automatic dodge, +3 to parry. Natural Abilities: 23The God can repair itself from even the most devastating and crippling wounds at an extremely rapid pace and recovers from unconsciousness very quickly. 10 hit points and 10 S.D.C points are regenerated per melee and can also instantly recover 500 hit points and 500 S.D.C twice a day. Broken bones heal completely, without any sign of having ever been broken, at a rate 20 times faster then normal. Organs regenerate within an hour. Entire limbs, eyes, hair, grows back in a matter of hours. An arm 24 hours. A leg 24 hours. Lower body one day. Upper body two days. A severed limb or organ will dissolve into crimson mist and reform on the God's body. If a severed limb is totally destroyed before it can reform, it takes the God 1D4 days to grow a new one. Being truly atomized or vaporized means the God is temporarily dead, but if the head and one tenth of the body remains intact and put back together, the God will eventually regenerate and return to life in 1D6 days. The God has many other abilities. However, being completely insane, it cannot call upon them effectively. The following are ones that it might use when attacked. Control Over Fire: The God can fire at the ground and cause a flaming pathway under the ground that sprouts up at its target. This is not a very subtle attack and a victim has +4 to dodge. The pathway inflicts 1D6 for every one P.P.E spent. Range is 3,500 ft plus 100 ft for every one P.P.E put into it. The God can create circle of fire around itself by spending ten P.P.E points, no combustible required. The fire inflicts 4D6 if someone should walk through it, and covers 30 feet and is six

feet high for every one P.P.E point spent. The smoke and heat from the circle causes 1D6 S.D.C damage. The circle can be maintained for 3 minutes for every P.P.E point spent. Damage: Strikes with clawed hands which 2D6 on a restrained punch, 4D6 on full strength punch, or 1D4x10 on a power punch. Description: The body constantly pulses, shudders and changes shape, its limbs and torso swell and stretch unpredictably. The skin is leathery, a white-green in color and glistening with moisture, it gives off a stomach-turning odor of iodine and rotting fish. UFOnauts: The UFOnaut is a strange, giant energy being that can be as small as a car or as big as a house. It invariably appears as the classic glowing disc, usually white with tiny, blinking pulses of blue, red, yellow and/or orange energy, which resemble landing lights on an airplane or might look like window ports. The unusual creatures can hover motionless in midair, take-off at a mind boggling Mach 5 (3350 mph), make 90 degree turns and stop dead in a heartbeat. Once in a while, the timid energy beings will summon up enough courage to make a close encounter of the third kind, contact with human beings. Contact will alway take place out in the open. The massive, glowing disc-thing is probably more curious and frightened than the humans it longs to understand. It is here, with actual contact that illusion of space aliens is made complete. The UFOnaut is a powerful psychic. In an attempt to make contact simple and acceptible, it telepathically scans the persons mind and empathically feels the emotions. The UFOnaut reads the images and emotions and misinterprets that this is what the person wishes to experience. Thus if the person expects to be kidnapped for examination, thats what hell believe happened. The beings exceptional empathic and telepathic abilities are used to create a vivid, but false, experience. The UFOnaut may form a physical alien out of ectoplasm. Its eletrokinisis ability can be used to stop a vehicle or knockout lights and to affect machines, or even be used to stun or kill humans. The energy being uses a powerful form of telekinesis to move and carry objects up to it. Ironically, its use of telekinesis appears as a beam (wide or narrow) of white or violet light, usually misinterpreted as a tractor beam. The beam is often powerful enough to lift a car into the air. Sometimes, a particularly friendly and pleasant contact will create a bond between the psychic energy being and the human. In such cases, the UFOnaut may occasionally receive flashes of danger for its human friend and return to warn him/her or help if possible. Although these psychic unions are rare, where they do occur they will last for years or even decades. Alignment: Considered Anarchist. I.Q: 7 or 8. The rest are not applicable. S.D.C: None. Hit Points: 2D4x100. Horror Factor: 9. Size: 12-60 ft. Weight: Unknown Natural Abilities: Hover and fly at a speed of Mach 5, capable of almost instantaneous stops and starts and impossible sharp turns. Impervious to cold, heat, poisons, and most physical attacks. Does not need to breathe and can withstand ocean depths of 5 miles (8 km)

Attacks Per Melee: Four. Damage: Can create an electrical discharge of up to 5D6 damage with a range of 10 feet. Bonuses: +8 to initiative, +10 to dodge, +6 to save vs psionics, +1 to save vs magic. Vulnerabilities: Energy, explosives, magic and psychic powers have full effect. VICTIMS: These specters are invincible, and will creep their way through walls and gates to get at visitors, leaving a bloody, ectoplasmic residue where they pass. Some of them have eyes, some don't; some are shredded like old fish, some aren't; some float, some crawl, and some walk. Some have weapons, some don't. The other victims come in a range of styles, but all of them have numbers carved into their flesh in bloody furrows, and all of them very much want visitors dead. Alignment: Always Diabolic evil. I.Q: 1D6+6, M.E: 1D6, M.A: 1D6, P.S: 3D6, P.P: 3D6, P.E: Not applicable, P.B: 1D6, Spd: Hover up to 4 feet (1.2 m) above the ground and float silently at a Spd of 1D6+1; can walk or crawl at a Spd of 1D6+1. S.D.C: 6D6, depleting it of Hit Points causes the thing to fall to the ground seemingly dead for 1D4 melee rounds, after which it arises to begin its attack anew. Hit Points: Horror Factor: 13. Size: Human; average 5-6 feet (1.5 m to 1.8 m) tall and 100-200 pounds (45 to 90 kg). Weight: Natural Abilities: Hovers a few inches to a yard/meter above the ground, moving silently (66% Prowl). Immune to poison, toxins, drugs, disease, gasses. Bio-regenerates 1D6 S.D.C/Hit Points per melee round. Everyone is within a 6 feet radius of the creature must roll to save vs magick of 12, or suffer a severe, throbbing headache. All skills are -40%, all combat bonuses are reduced by half, -4 to save versus horror factor, mind control, drugs, and illusions. Speed is reduced by -25%, unless fleeing. Semi-Invulnerability: The effect of this gruesome form of invulnerability is that the Victim is effectively immune to physical attacks, taking no debilitating damage from them. Instead, knife wounds, bullets, grandes, explosives, punches (regardless of the attackers P.S.), clubs, other melee weapons car crashes, falls from great heights and any other purely physical damage mutilate and punch ghastly holes into the Victims body, but it keeps on functioning as if nothing is wrong. Furthermore, those holes and damage miraculously heal in short order. The Victim suffers no penalties or pain from physical damage, but if a limb is blown off, the Victim will suffer the loss of that limb, at least until it can be reattached or grows back (12 hours). So is the Victim is decapitated, it will be blinded until the head can be reattached (or grows back in 24 hours), or the Victim can simply look through the eyes while it holds onto its head until it can be reattached. It only takes the Victim 1D4 melee rounds/actions to reattach a severed body part by simply holding the limb in place! A lost limb or even head will regrow in 12 or 24 hours respectively. If blown into several large pieces it will take 48 hours to pull itself back together. If the pieces are kept apart by some outside force for more than 48 hours, the monster is dead.

While the Victim is more or less immune to physical harm, its power does not provide the same protection against other forms of attack/damage. Plasmas, particle beams, other energy-based attacks, psionics and magick all do full damage. Vulnerabilities: Impalement is the only means of stopping Victims, aside from atomizing them totally. A long spear, javelin, shaft thrust through middle of the torso will ground the monstrosity to the earth and render it completely powerless and unconscious. One grounded, the Victim is locked in forced stasis. In this state it is vulnerable to normal weapons and fire, but it remains dangerous. If the impaling instrument is removed or destroyed, the Victim is instantly restored to full strength and physical mass and can attack within one melee round. Weapons of silver, whether they be blade or bullet, are the most effective weapons to be used against the Victims. The silver must be as pure as possible to be effective. Silver diluted by impurities is ineffective. Any grade of silver that is less than 85% silver content is useless. A silver bullet piercing the middle of the torso and lodged there will incapacitate a Victim. If the bullet shoots through the torso and continues through and out of the body, the pain is excruciating, but the Victim is not immobilized and recovers in seconds (loses two melee attacks). Saint medallions will cause the Victim to recoil in apparent fear and pain. The exact nature of this trinket is unknown. Wearing it around the neck will protect one from the effects of their aura. Being in the presence of one of these items will inflict 1D6 damage to the Victim every melee, eventually causing the Victim to fall to the ground, apparently dead. However, for every 1D6 damage inflicted on the Victims, one point of damage is inflicted on the Saint Medallion (each has 4D4 S.D.C), and will cause them to break if used too often.. Attacks Per Melee: Three. Damage: Bonuses: By attribute bonuses only. Description: They still bear the markings of their method of death/murder: the man who was burned alive is eternally aflame, the woman who was stabbed to death drags her bleeding corpse across the floor, hair hanging down in her face, burbling insanely around lungs filled with blood, choking on it. They were branded like cattle in a herd, with numbers cut into their skin in the worst way and worst place possible. The one who has done this has declared that all humans are mere livestock to them, and they can dispose of them as they please, dehumanizing everything by numbers. THE LOST: Few beings have a more unfortunate fate than the Lost. Pale, sad, existing only though what they find along the way, steal from travelers or scavenge from buildings, the Lost literally cannot find their way out of the town. The Lost could have been any one of us, who by some mischance have been influenced by their time in Silent Hilland in some cases have never returned to their former lives. These people, whether traumatized by the horrors met within or drawn to the town from without, were changed in other ways by their experience. No one undeserving is ever caught by the town. The powers that be seem to judge those who invade its foggy borders. No one can understand why one person is trapped while a companion standing next to him returns safely from the journey. Cowards who run from monstrous beings, leaving friends or family to die in terrible ways, find themselves lost in the town in places far

worse than those they left. A vicious killer may seek escape from the town and find it after what seems like years, only to be ejected in the midst of his pursers only minutes after the town took him. Such people are drawn to the town as though compelled. Some speak of voices calling them. Others see letters from people they lost. Many believe the town takes these Lost as sacrifices and do not allow them to leave until they die and their life force becomes a part of the town itself. They have been on these quests forever, and their pasts are so distant from who they are now. Theyve become ageless, moving through an infernal hell. HARRY MASON: Harry Mason was always described by those who knew him as a dreamer. Born in an unremarkable town in Maine, he was a consummate writer, even in his earliest years. While he was growing up, he was considered a slacker. Going with his talent, he graduated with a degree in journalism, which he utilized immediately after finishing school. Besides starting on his career fairly early, Harry also married young. He was only twenty two when he met his wife Heather, and the courtship was brief. While the marriage was problem-free overall, the repeatedly failed in having children. This problem gradually ate at Harry, so he started working on some grand project to shut out his nagging unhappiness. It was during this cloister that he decided to take a vacation, heading to the idyllic township of Silent Hill. Before the pair even reached the town, though, they came upon an infant, laying bare and alone on the side of the road. Harry instantly took up the child, adopting it as his own, and naming it Cheryl. The pair returned to their home, having never reached Silent Hill, deciding that the baby was more important than their vacation. Several years later, Heather died, leaving Harry to raise Cheryl on his own. More and more, though, he kept dreaming of a fog-shrouded town, the town of Silent Hill. It was a compulsion which became harder and harder to shake, until he could not resist any longer, and set out on a long, night time drive to the lakeside hamlet. Just outside Silent Hill's limits, Harry swerved to avoid hitting a pedestrian in the road, and woke up in the abandoned streets of Silent Hill. Alone. Harry's sole endeavor, now, is to find Cheryl. He finds glimpses of her, or evidence of things she's left, but he always seems to be one step behind her. So he heads, determined almost to the point of foolishness, into the heart of Silent Hill's darkness. Alignment: Scrupulous (Good) I.Q: 13. M.E: 20. M.A: 14. P.S: 12. P.P.: 13.

P.E: 11. P.B.: 14. Spd: 13. P.P.E: 5. Bonus: +1 to save vs horror factor. +1 to perception Skills: Automobile (71%) Computer operation, Creative writing, TV/Video, History, Cook, General Repair & Maintenance, Research, W.P. Blunt. Disposition: Harry Mason is driven by a single urge: finding Cheryl. When he sees another human being, the very first thing which will come out of his mouth is "have you seen a little girl?". If provoked into attack, Harry aims for extremities and tries not to do any lasting harm. Description: Harry Mason is a man in his early thirties, dark and weary looking. He hasn't slept well in recent weeks, and looks to need rest now more than ever. His clothes are plain and unassuming, and his jacket pockets are filled with the implements and munitions he uses to find his way through Silent Hill. ALESSA, She has stripped off the bandages, has wound away most of the leaking bandages. They lie in sticky, loose pile at her feet, stained unforgiving shades of infection and a few bloody smears. The air is so cold that it moves slow and heavy like arctic water around her naked body, gelid thick, and redolent with the meaty, sweet perfume of rot that seeps from the burns that dont heal, from the dark, red-rimmed patches down her thighs and legs, her belly.