1 Silent Hill

2He clambered forward, pulling himself up onto the cool, polished stone, and knew that he was
mad beyond salvation, or had died and was trapped in some terrible netherworld. He was
beneath the earth in final darkness: there could be no voices, no phantoms. There would be no
light making the steps gleam before him like moonlit alabaster.
He was running away from something, through a massive dark cavern filled with obsidian lights
and sharp edges. Reflections and scattered light made it impossible for him to see where the
walls were, and he ran into them over and over again, covering his exposed skin with painful
cuts that oozed blood onto the floor. He caught glimpses of his pursuers: small, gray children,
perhaps four years old, who appeared as washed-out albino-like cave animals. Their eyes were
sewn shut with thick cord, making him think of shoelaces. He heard no sound as they chased
him. They did not communicate or look at him, but they always seemed to know where he was.
Although he stayed ahead of them for the moment, he could not get away.
Even if he escaped, something else would get him eventually. He was alone in a hostile world—
hostile universe. Whether he lived another ten minutes or ten days, he would probably never see
another human being, would have only rasping, homicidal monstrosities like these for company
until the inevitable end.
Countless shadows passed by, his path revealed by the light still gleaming from between his
teeth, refracting off crimson windshields and broken glass, the carnage everywhere he looked.
As he ran, he could swear he treaded on flesh and bone, a disgusting crack beneath his feet, his
shoes slick with fluid and ichor... For the sake of his sanity, he didn’t dare think of it. A gore
soaked wall rose before him - a dead end.
Turning, he shined the light upon the bestial creatures as they wrestled their way through the
twisted metal, the fragments stripping flesh as they went. There was nowhere to run - nothing to
defend himself with - his gun clicking on empty.
Finally they caught him. There were too many of them to fight off. Ten or twenty strong, they
mobbed him and suddenly he was being carried through a secret passage. There was a table at
the end, in a rough cruciform shape, made of matte-black metal with nylon straps. The children
forced him onto it and strapped him down, immobilizing him. He felt a momentary sense of
relief, thinking this is about as bad as it can get. Then they all looked at him, and he somehow
knew they could see him through their sewn eyelids. They grinned, revealing mouths full of
wickedly-sharp shark teeth.
They began to feed on him, swallowing huge chunks of flesh whole.

There is an atmosphere of unutterable loneliness that haunts any ruin—a feeling particularly
evident in those places once given over to the lighter emotions. Wander over the littered grounds
of an abandoned amusement park and feel the overwhelming presence of desolation. Flimsy
booths with awnings tattered in the wind, rotting heaps of sun-bleached papier-mache.
Crumbling timbers of a roller coaster thrust upward through the jungle of weeds and debris—like
ribs of some titanic unburied skeleton. The wind blows colder here; the sun behind the fog seems
even dimmer. Ghosts of laughter, lost strains of raucous music can almost be heard. Speak, and
your voice sounds strangely loud—and yet curiously smothered. Or tour a neglected formal
garden, with its termite-riddled arbors and gazebo. The lily pond is drained, choked with weeds
and refuse. Only a few flowers or shrubs poke miserably through the rank undergrowth. Dense
clots of weeds and vines overrun the paths and statuary. Here and there a shrub or rambling rose
has grown into a wild, misshapen tangle. The flowers offer anemic blooms, where no hand
gathers, no eye admires. No birds sing in that uncanny hush.

Such places are lairs of inconsolable gloom. After the brighter spirits have departed, shadows of
despair and oppression assume their place. The area has been drained of its ability to support any
further light emotion, and now, like weeds on eroded soil, only the darker sentiments can take
root and flourish. These places are best left to the loneliness of their grief...

The ever-present mists and forbidding silence makes all endeavor seem shallow and pointless.
The area is flooded by a silence as vast and deep as the ocean itself, a silence in which
undercurrents of nervousness and suspense can effortlessly drown anyone in fear. The sense of
forbidding that hangs over this empty place is a more insidious enemy than anything composed
of flesh and blood could ever be.

It appears as a ghost town, as little signs of activity can be seen in the deserted streets or
shattered windows of its forsaken structures. It is only when someone stands amid the ruins that
he/she feels alien eyes upon him/her, or notices a shadow move at the edge of his vision. To look
upon the ruined buildings and littered streets is to see the discarded hopes and ancient fears of
tragic pasts. Everything in Silent Hill is broken and forlorn with sunlight a foreign object within
its boundaries. Even the moon with its dark secrets has departed from the sky, and only fog
dominates the scene.

To accent the unsettling environment, the town’s canyon-like streets possess weird acoustics. A
rustle on one side of the city might sound like it is right beside the listener, while a growl next to
him might sound like it’s coming from a mile away. Rain, snow and darkness impairs vision,
allowing monsters to attack them with ease.

There are actually two sides to Silent Hill, as if two realities are pulsing in and out of perception.
One is covered in a bright, white mist that moves through and over Silent Hill, but other than that
it looks relatively normal; cars are still parked, storefront windows are still intact, and things in
general seem mostly undisturbed. The exceptions being the pitted chasms and crevices of mist-
filled darkness found at the town’s edges and bisecting certain streets. These collapsed bridges
and the massive chasms surround the town, preventing escape — as if some powerful force has
been trying to isolate it. The chasms are visible every few blocks, underlying the streets like a
grid. They sometimes extend thousands of feet down. Steamy mists cover the chasm bottom,
their thick gray surface in grim waves, rolling and breaking against the volcanic cliffs. Desolate
and dim, the settlement is surrounded by an impenetrable fog, thick enough that one cannot see
several feet ahead. The buildings are dirty and decrepit, the vehicles unworking regardless of
condition. Even at noon, the fog captures most of the rays of sunlight, leaving the entire town
trapped in a fog-bound abattoir. No visible indication of why or how the town was abandoned is
visible anywhere. Technological devices for transportation and communication stop functioning,
while radios and walkie-talkies give off faint static. At times, the static grows stronger, until it is
impossible for the ears to not pick up the cacophony. Silent Hill to the soul who hears this, as
this is a sure indication that the blasphemous beings that roam this town are nearby, patrolling
the streets with a dismal gray sky hovering overhead. The air is warm, too warm for snow,
despite the cool, almost cold, breeze whipping by. Snowflakes drift down; not many; they
descend lazily, except when the wind gusts, and they seem like fragments of burnt sky, cold bits
of ash. They evaporate almost instantly if caught, strangely not even leaving moisture behind.
Everything is abandoned, barely working, and damp.

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

Visitors to one town can cross over into and out of the two towns against their will, appearing in
that location’s counterpart in the other reality. Distorted sirens in the distance mark the transition
between the misty town and the nightmare version of the town, playing every time someone
shifts between them.

The Fog: In any world, mists and fog can plague travelers, blurring senses, concealing terrors,
and leading ships to water graves.
One side of Silent Hill has such ordinary vapors as a permanent fixture, but here they are a force
more deadly than any natural phenomenon. The fog arrives, born from the lake and rising up,
obscuring the gutters, then the sidewalks, then blurring the buildings themselves. It cannot
completely hide them, but the blurring is somehow worse; stealing the color and softening the
shapes. The fog makes the ordinary look alien. And then there is the smell, an ancient odor that
works deep into the nostrils and awakens the back part of the brain, the part that is perfectly
capable of believing in monsters when the sight lines shorten and the heart is uneasy. To all eyes,
they appear to be normal fog. However it is also the home of wandering monsters, hoping to
encounter travelers.

The fog surrounds perimeter of Silent Hill, forming an embrace from which nothing, and no one,
readily can escape. A person who manages to step beyond the boundaries of the town (somehow
getting around the chasms) finds him or herself hopelessly misguided. Upon leaving the fog, he
or she finds him or herself in Silent Hill once more.

Restrictions:

Due to the mist, supernatural senses are rendered useless. The entire town radiates massive levels
of P.P.E for reasons unknown, masking the P.P.E of other creatures.

Those in the fog cannot see clearly for more than twelve feet (1.2 m) in front of their noses and
are –5 to strike perform any long-range combat maneuvers while inside the fog. Opponents are
+2 to dodge each other’s attacks and +20 to prowl. Visual details are distorted and it is hard to
tell a friend from a foe (45% chance, only sees blurred shadowy figures and shapes for another
twelve feet). Note that both radar and sonar are also impaired reduce range by one third and
impose a –20% penalty on sensing abilities.

Once the sun falls, these penalties worsen considerably as the gray curtain of fog becomes a
black wall. At 10 meters, the penalty is -7 to strike. With a source of light, this penalty is reduced
to -5. At 20 meters, sight becomes impossible and the rules for fighting blind apply. At night, if
the character does not have a light-source, then sight is impossible.

Those in the dark Otherworld will experience slightly higher gravity. Physical strength is
reduced by 1, speed by 10%, -1 to strike, parry, and dodge.

Flight and teleportation is also restricted in this place. The monsters are adapted to this
disadvantage and may travel freely.

At any given time, a visitor might experience an echo: a sound, sight, smell, or feeling that
doesn’t seem to have any cause, but seems to be connected to the location where they occur.
Visitors might encounter “phantom odor,” a smell of something that is not really there. Most of
the time it is an unpleasant odor—the smell of blood, feces, rotting or burned flesh, that sort of
thing. In rare instances, it will be a pleasant aroma such as a bouquet of flowers, a freshly baked
cake, nice perfume, etc. Other examples include a muffled female voice that sounds over the PA
system of a hospital, seeing sparks fly off roller coaster tracks even though no car rides upon
them, feeling a full-body chill upon entering an old freezer (even though it doesn't work). In all
cases, these sensations are the psychic residue of some past event at that location, usually
something involving somebody’s suffering or death. In the cases where there is a nice smell, it is
usually relates to the final thought of a dying individual, who retreated into a kind memory as
they died.

Echoes are leftover traces, vague messages that are sent from Silent Hill. Maybe these appear
due to tenuous nature of time in Silent Hill. Perhaps they manifest for an entirely different
reason.

Examples: A muffled female voice that sounds over the PA system of a hospital. Seeing sparks
fly off roller coaster tracks, even though no car rides upon them. The distinct bitter, iron smell of
blood in a spotlessly clean operating room. Feeling a full-body chill upon entering an
old freezer, even though it doesn't work.

Visitors may also see lights in the night sky, and experience hallucinations most commonly
involving moving shadows, shifting surroundings and calls for help (often from a child). Some
also see visions in dreams that warn of a coming danger that is sometimes real, sometimes
imagined). For the most vulnerable, it gets to a point where they can’t tell what is real or what is
not. Danger lurks in every shadows and the very world around them seems to twist, bend, and
close in on top of them.

Equipment:

Radio: It is a small, hand-held radio. It is rectangular in shape, with a small speaker to one side,
two knobs for the dial and the volume and a receiver antenna on top. It has a clip on the back for
fastening it and there are no earphone ports. It is a bit battered and chipped from use, and when it
is first turned on, nothing happens. No music, no static, nothing. The small plastic contraption
will make static when a creature comes within 10 meters, giving +2 to initiative and dodge, but
-4 to save vs horror factor. The volume on the highest level emits static, a metallic buzz that
sounds more foreboding than such a sound would be normally considered to be. The radio keeps
the user in touch with reality, and that when it goes static, it is like a normal radio going static,
the user is losing contact with reality. This means a monster is near, and your character is
venturing back into haziness, the unreality that is Silent Hill.

Flashlight: The flashlight provides light in dark areas. The flashlight is a hell of a lifesaver, no
question. However, it is just a small pocket flashlight. Even in a normal, darkened room, it only
helps so much. Again it seems as if the flashlight is just barely keeping one in touch with reality,
its light keeps the user from fading into complete darkness. One clings to the light to deny the
darkness. Each character has one, and they don't seem to ever run out of batteries. And it being
an actual utility flashlight, characters can always keep it near their body, specifically their heart.
Interpret that as you will.

Handgun: The handgun is a semi-automatic blowback Beretta standard model 89 with a .22
caliber, exposed single-action hammer and an ambidextrous manual thumb safety. The gun is
lightweight, with a silver barrel and black handle. It is about nine and a half inches long with a v-
notch sight at the rear-end of the barrel. The Beretta is loaded with a magazine that holds eight
rounds. Damage is 4D6. Range is 165 feet (50 m)

Hunting Rifle: The hunting rifle is a .30-06. It feels heavy and hard in hand, and it definitely
needs some cleaning, but there is a shoulder strap, and the magazine holds its full four rounds. It
is quite more powerful than the pistol. Damage: 5D6. Range is 2133 feet.

Pipe: The steel pipe is three inches in diameter, maybe a foot and a half long.

Herbs and Drugs:

White Claudia: The imbiber gets to save vs drugs/poisons. A successful save will bring out the
user’s most wonderful fantasy for several hours; reflecting their most coveted desires. After it
wears off, normal life seems drab and futile in comparison, and the victims aches to experience
the transcendent beauty of the drug-induced dreams again. Using the drug more than once a
week requires a save of 16 or higher, or addiction will occur. Addicts will begin to lose touch
with reality to the point where they take the drug two or three times a day, sleep whenever they
aren’t on it, forget to eat or clean themselves and their habits, quit their jobs, get sick and die—
usually from malnutrition, dehydration or disease.

Long time addicts who use the drugs regularly for six months or more will find that if don’t take
it daily, they will suffer hallucinations and see everything in the manner of the Otherworld.
These things are either mental delusions or perhaps the drug allows for the Otherworld to be
perceived (GM’s choice), but either way the experience seems very real to the victim. The
experiences of these nightmares are as painfully realistic as the euphoric hallucinations. Sleep
while under the influence is impossible and the victim will live in a constant state of fear,
agitation and uncertainty. Characters with an M.E. of 10 or higher will be able to understand that
this is an illusion, but are still jumpy, paranoid, and easily startled. At this stage, the addict has to
secure a daily dose or slowly become insane and often will do anything to secure a dose. Some
addicts suffer fatal heart attacks while under these nightmares.

Aglaophotis: Aglaophotis in Silent Hill is quite rare, but it is found in vials containing
approximately one fluid ounce. If one drop, no matter how small, lands upon the flesh of
someone whose body is currently possessed or otherwise inhabited by supernatural entities, the
entity will be expelled but not killed. Unfortunately, any physical damage, scarring, deformity,
or mutation that may have occurred while being ravaged by the foreign agents up till the time
they were purged remains. Of course, all symptoms, effects, penalties and potential future
damage is instantly stopped and the cause/source eliminated.

Healing Items:

Health Drink: A heavy glucose energy drink contained in a small brown bottle with a
nondescript tan label. There are no ingredients or nutritional facts listed, only a small cross and
the words “Health Drink” on the front of the label. Imbibing the entire bottle will heal the drinker
of 2D6 hit points/S.D.C of damage (if injured).
Energy Drink: Immediately after drinking, the drink raises the following attributes: P.E +1D4+2,
P.S. +1D6 and Speed is doubled, plus the character is +2 to initiative. The effect lasts for 2D4
minutes. The side effects are not too bad, aside from the fact that one’s heart feels like it wants to
blow out of the chest, it is difficult to catch one’s breath for 2D6+6 minutes, and there is a 01-
30% 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 gray of rain-
clouds, 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.
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 forest. A subtle glow is diffused
through the drifting mist, a glow that 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.

The fog is much thicker down here; they cannot see more than four or five feet ahead. Tripping
and taking a nasty ride to the bottom is a distinct possibility.

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.
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. 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. Predators overhead might be stalking them,
leaping gracefully limb to limb, silent and merciless. 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.

That's when the growl suddenly intensifies. It isn't just an animal sound now, oh no. The
growling had 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).
Those dreadful cries rise behind them again, still in the woods but closer than before. 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.

However, it seems as though the growling has ceased, and they hear no movement nearby.
Visibility is still horrendously low, and then there are no sounds anymore. 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 made 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 by the silence.

They come to the end of the trail; a circular clearing in the middle of which there a 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 click-
rustle-hiss. The creaking grows louder as well, thunderous, until the noise is painful, until the
PCs stagger, stumble, nearly fall, realize that most of the sound isn’t coming from the wind in the
trees but from their own bodies, realize that they are hearing their own blood in their ears as their
hearts pound faster and faster. Then the forest begins to spin again, and as if spins it pulls
darkness down from the sky like thread from a spool, more and more darkness, and now the
whirling forest does not seem like a carrousel but like a loom, weaving the threads of darkness
into a black cloth, and the cloth billows around them, settles over them, and one can’t see where
they are going, stumble again, and fall.
Darkness.
Blackness.
Deeper than night.
Silence....
The fields are bleached and barren-looking, the grain in some parts fallen, and where it is still
upright, then not normal in color. In other areas it seems burnt. The bark of each tree is razor-
sharp 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. Gory barbed wire can be seen
wrapped around some of the trees, or stretched between one tree and the other. The rusted metal
bars seen around the forest are also here sticking out of the ground. The yellow police tape is
here as well. Upon the raddled ground, bare of anything but the most hardy weeds and burnt and
black brackens, 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 trees or the darkness behind them close in, urging them faster along the path, yet they feel as
if they are still in the darkening thicket, not running, not moving at all. They mistake several
trees or roots beside the path for marker posts or figures waiting for them when a crumpled piece
of paper comes scraping towards them around a bend along the path.

The paper seems infinitely more human than anything else in the woods. The PCs unfold it and
stare, for a moment past comprehending. It is a map, a tracing of the carved map of the walks. It
seems a vicious joke, since they aren’t able to locate themselves on it in order to find their way.

Toluca Camp:
(optional scenario):

A road sign saying they are on the County 73rd going towards Pleasant River. They also see a
small road to their left with a big sign that reads: “Toluca Camp”.

The nearest path is marked by a yellow post. The trail of the branch crosses the path and leads
under the trees.
There are figures, or silhouettes moving there in the fog, from a trunk to the other and then are
gone after a fraction of a second, like they were never there at all. The fog has seemingly become
stagnant and this makes it look even thicker, and makes the scenery look that more deathly and
bleak.

Eventually they come to a gate; a tall wooden gate, like the ones that are customary—if not
mandatory—at camp grounds, that marks the end of the road for them.

At the foot of the door is a dog sitting patiently beside the path. When they are close enough to
see, the dog is revealed to be a tree stump with a root for a tail.

There are faint sounds in the still air, like secretive whispers full of malice, yet there are no
words being spoken, but it is certainly ominous at the very least. Then there are other sounds that
one can’t quite make sense of, they sound like chants that fade in and out; children’s voices, but
the sound is too faint and could’ve very well been anything else: a bird, some other animal, or
even the wind. The odd thing is that there is no wind at all.

Halfway along the flat stretch, on the right is a picnic and rest area. The brush has been cleared
from beneath the trees. A few wooden tables—anchored to concrete stanchions to guard against
theft—and several trash baskets are fixed at intervals under the scattered pines. A sign announces
public rest rooms.

The PCs walk towards one of the tall wooden doors and push on it. It opens with some difficulty
and its hinges creak as though they haven’t been opened for a very long time. Beyond the gate,
the PCs find the camp grounds, a series of log cabins set around a large central area.

When they reach the central circle of the camp, they see that there is the founder’s statue almost
exactly in the middle of all the cabins. The name on the plaque at the foot of the statue is Santi
Paredes; but it isn’t so much the statue that calls attention, it is the fact that there is an axe with
its blade deeply embedded in Mr. Paredes’ metallic head. They notice that there is actual blood
flowing from the crack on the statue’s head. A very thin thread of it, but it just shouldn’t be
there.

Not seeing a reason why the PCs should even bother going into any of the cabins or the
director’s room, they continue along the path, past the mess hall and they see the lake to their left
with the tiny pier where the camp’s row boats docked; there is a single boat there, rocking in the
small waves of the lake, looking very lonely. The fog that lifts from the lake’s freezing waters
just hangs motionless in the air almost accentuating the hopelessness of the situation, and the last
flakes of snow had touched the ground a few minutes ago, leaving everything unnervingly still
and motionless.

Eventually they reach the tree line at the west end of the camp just beyond the playground and
the auditorium. There is a trail leading somewhere from that point and they have no idea where.
A tall fence blocks the area and there is yet another gate, held shut with a very heavy padlock.
They don’t dare climb the fence because it has razor wire lining the top of it—not a nice sight in
a children’s camp—and they feel more apprehensive toward it when they see just barely a hint of
red on some of the blades. The image of a child climbing, trying to get past the wire, losing his
balance and getting entangled in the sharp blades that lines the wire is an image that comes into
their heads involuntarily.

They think of maybe breaking the padlock, after all that trail seems to be the only place they can
go on from here—unless boating across the lake suddenly becomes a logical option—but they
realize that the padlock is too heavy and won’t break no matter how hard they hit it.

They think maybe there is a key for it, and the logical person to have it would be one of the camp
directors. The one that they think more logical to be the director’s room is the one closest to the
lake that has windows with curtains and an American flag on a pole just outside of it. The flag is
full of holes and the fabric has become torn and moldy. The windows of the cabin are dusty and
they can’t see anything through them. They climb the three wooden steps that leads to the front
door of the cabin and push the door in; luckily it isn’t locked.

Inside, they find a big mess.

The wooden walls are smeared with blood, and it actually looks quite fresh.

The bed is a mess; the sheets are thrown all over the place and are sodden with blood. The carpet
at the right of the bed is marred by a dark stain like a Rorschach blot. Dried blood spots the wall
behind the wooden headboard. A desk to the right, by a window has a large cut in it, as if
somebody had hacked it with an axe and had pulled it out with a lot of effort. Even a ceiling fan
above overhead—which for some odd reason keeps spinning, very slowly—has its blades
covered in blood.

The silence is too deep, unnatural. Even a deserted house has some noise in it, occasional creaks
and ticks and pops from old wood swelling or contracting, a rattle from a loose windowpane
tapped by a finger of wind. But the house is so hushed, that one might think one has gone deaf,
except for the sounds the PCs make themselves.

The PCs start searching all over the room for anything that might even resemble a key for the
huge padlock—a boat to cross the lake would be a welcome finding. They search under the
broken bed, in the desk’s drawers and even in the bathroom, but there is no sign of a key.

When they lift the mattress they find something that made one gasp in revulsion. There are
pictures underneath it. The pictures are of children; apparently taken from an opening in the
girls’ bathroom and they display the little girls showering. Disgusted, the PCs let the mattress fall
back down and give up on their search for the key.

They start walking toward the cabins. They find that the boys’ dorm is locked with a padlock.
They just walk across the central area to the girls’ dorm. The door in that place is wide open.

When they look inside they are greeted by a gruesome scene: blood and gore cakes the walls, and
the beds are covered in it as well. Viscera and body pieces lay strewn all over the floor
And then they blink...

...And all the horrifying things they have just seen are gone. All they see is the inside of a dirty
and unkempt cabin.

They walk in, looking at the rows of bunk beds at either side. The cabin is very sparse, no
decorations at all; just the dusty old beds. There is just a series of horizontal logs, thick and
sturdy, set about seven or eight feet apart from each other, that supports the triangular roof.

Darkness:

The PCs walk out of the cabin and before they are able to go down the steps, everything
suddenly goes dark. Unexplainably, it has gone from day to night in a matter of just seconds.
Sirens start ringing, loud and deafening. It starts to rain and the air becomes even colder than
before. The first instinct that the PCs have is to turn on the flashlight, turn around and look at the
cabin, to see if it has changed. They turn the flashlight toward the camp’s wooden gate and it has
become a large metallic wall and at either side of it, from the ground starts to come tall metallic
fences, rusted and covered with blood that surrounds the entire camp area. The cabins and the
bathrooms’ walls disappear and now they are only structures made of rusted metal bars, which
looks like cages; and inside of them, instead of bunk beds, are stretchers with corpses covered in
white but bloodied sheets, and serum bags with intravenous tubes, hanging from hospital racks.

The statue of the camp’s founder has become a fleshy mass that resembles a female body in a
crucified position. A long metal shaft comes out of the neck, and the faceless head, which is
detached from the body, is stuck to the other end of it, giving it the appearance that the head is
floating. There are throbbing tubes wrapped around the body and syringes are inserted in the raw
flesh of the arms.

The rain stops and fog starts to form, the darkness remains, but everything around them starts to
change, to turn back to the relative normalcy. The tall metal fences recede back into the ground,
and the deserted cabins start to look like deserted cabins again.

They take out the key ring and start trying out each of the ten keys it holds. The fourth key is the
one which unlatches the padlock. The gate squeaks loudly as they push it open. Before them
there is a trail, walled by trees and bushes at either side.

Silent Hill Farms:

(Optional Scenario)
Down through the high forest to lower terrain, out of the trees to a broad, planted field.
They pass by a wooden fence, old and in need of repair, beyond which there is a large water
tank, of the type that is supported by beams high above ground, and then several structure loom,
all humble and yet mysterious. A barn, a stable, outbuildings and a farmhouse. The fence ends
upon a wide wooden gate with a big sign that reads: "SILENT HILL FARMS" and then starts
again and continues forth.
The 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 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.
Through the tunnel of the ardor, and then across more grass, they approach the farmhouse. The
two-story fieldstone house stands a hundred yards in front of the barn.
It 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.
At the back porch, brick steps lead up to a weathered plank floor.

The disturbance has no human source. It is a rat.

The filthy thing is between the PCs and the doorway. It is hissing, squeaking, glaring at them
with bloody eyes, as if threatening to prevent their escape.

It is a big rat. Its pelt isn’t smooth, but oily and matted and dull. There is something dark and
crusted at its ears, probably blood, and there is bloody foam dripping from its mouth.

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

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 trees all around them, and grass and rocks,
and a few rickety wooden fences. A cool breeze blows through their clothes and rustles the trees
slightly, bringing the fresh smell of water to their nostrils along with the scent of the trees. The
fog pervades this place; it is spread throughout virtually every inch of the grass and trees. There
is an old stone well here, too: dark and deep, and looks as though it hasn’t been used in years.
The deserted path winds on. Is there anyone in these woods besides the PCs? They hurry on,
searching for a junction to interrupt the endless silent parade of trees, trees beyond counting on
either side of them, trees massing into penetrably secret dimness.
They come to what appears to be an old building. There is a large rusted door, surrounded by a
large, equally discolored wall 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 onto the ground. The drums are piled around the lower level as well. The whole place
looks like a factory...but there are no machines or equipment or anything, just pipes and sealed
steel drums. Their only guess is that this is an old storage pit of some kind that must have been
abandoned for years if the level of dust and grime is any indication.

What seems to be an entrance to a sewage pipe sticks out from one of the walls, barred off and
dry.

They continue down the path and down another ramp when the sound of something metallic and
heavy falling nearby alerts them. Turning around they see a pipe tumble down the ramp to stop a
few inches ahead of them. The pipe is about three feet long, turned reddish orange from severe
rust and looks as if it could pack a bit of punch against someone.

As they walk further into the space, the PCs become aware of a faint buzzing sound that comes
and goes. Whenever it is nearby, they can stop and look around, but they can’t see anything.
They flinch with a shriek when they hear and feel something whir past the side of their heads,
startling them—something small. They look around, frantically-at first, they can't see it in the
darkness, then, suddenly, it is coming at them—it looks like a bat.

It is only when it is knocked to the ground that they realize that it isn't a bat at all, but a giant
black moth, which twitches on the ground, and practically spins in circles on its back as it
struggles.

Their stomachs turn as they realize what they have to do. They raise their feet, and slam it down
on the insect, crushing it. As they kill it, blood pools beneath it, actual red blood. Not wanting to
contemplate this any further, they hurry along to the next gate and go through it.

Storage Room B: 6In the next area is more concrete, more pipes, as well as huge rust-colored
plastic vats filled with some kind of foul-smelling liquid—the stench is that of rot, flesh and
blood rotting, but with a twist of chemical smell thrown in. Whatever is in the barrels isn’t
completely organic, and probably wasn’t useful for food or fertilizer or anything, but it isn’t
chemical enough to keep from decomposing. What it is and what it was used for is anyone's
guess. But, luckily (and inexplicably), they find a box of ammunition.

Through the next gate is where the concrete ends, and they are outdoors once again. One more
gate, and they are back on a dirt path. Their eyes scan the vicinity, searching for any signs of
danger. There are none. However, there is something else equally as interesting. Parked on the
trail in plain sight is an old beat-up, pale-yellow automobile (a '78 Chevy Nova). The engine is
running, spitting out clouds of gray exhaust and the driver's side door is open, as if whoever had
managed to drive it into here had just left it idling for a minute. The break pedal is engaged and
the lights are on

Through the window the PCs can see all sorts of things scattered on both the driver's and the
passenger's seat. Moving around to the driver's side, they pick up a scrap of paper that had been
written on. Bringing it to the headlights, they read:
It's been awhile since I came here to Silent Hill. Maybe I'll meet the Devil this time. -Jasper Gein
The paper doesn’t seem like it was any part of a diary, unless it was the type of spontaneous
diary where all the scraps of it were kept in a book somewhere.
There is also a memo pad:
I'm not sure what that nosy guy meant when he said: "His home is the orphanage in the middle.
The lake is northwest. So the opposite is southeast."
The nosy guy said one other thing I don't understand. "If you bring the dug-up key, you can't go
back. Put it away somewhere before you return there."

Nahkeehonan Quarry: 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 limestone ledges and formations,
with strange inscriptions on them. The letters were bright red, as if written in crayon or chalk.
The candlelight drives the darkness back only a distance of about fifteen feet.

Path to Wish House: The PCs tread carefully into the subsequent areas, which are once again
forested instead of treeless gravel. Except for another stone well, only foliage occupies the first
section. The second is a different matter.
All the way in the back of the path, they see a tall fence of corrugated metal, about eleven feet
high, encircling a substantial area of land. Two simple doors surrounded by a cobblestone border
greets any potential visitors, while a small sign next to the gate that says: "Silent Hill Smile
Support Society 'Wish House”. In the dim fogginess the PCs can vaguely make out the outline of
a large building behind the door. They grab the handle and push the latch on top—it gives easily.

Wish House Courtyard: In front of them is a large cleared-out area, surrounded on all four sides
by a corrugated fence that has to be at least ten feet tall. This area is huge compared to the others,
and with good reason. Situated in the very center of the terrain is a large, two-story Victorian
home with plain wood trim with a wooden deck for a porch along the front. The structure has
seen better days; even at a distance, the cracked walls and peeling paint of the house’s decaying
exterior are plainly visible. Its windows dark, half are haphazardly boarded shut. Only its run-
down porch is lighted and the front steps are swaybacked. The floorboards on the porch haven't
been painted in years.

7Scattered around the premises are old tire swings, crib, monkey bars, and other equipment and
toys, remains of a neglected playground long since fallen into a state of disrepair—all set along
one corrugated metal fence and toys scattered on the ground. The chains on the swings have built
up rust and they squeal like things in pain.

It strikes the PCs then, how gray everything is, the same uniform shade of gray. Neither light nor
dark, just...gray. Even the trees and the ground...they should be a deep, vibrant green or brown,
but no, they are gray as well. If not for the little pen of colorful balls sitting in front of the
building and the illegible red writing by the door, the whole scene would have looked like an old
black-and-white photograph. Would have been better in sepia tones, though.

But they also see something colorful in peripheral vision, so they turn and see that the The
corrugated fence is decorated in several places by colorful drawings done in bright crayons that
stretch from one side of the fence to the other; mainly grass, picket fences, and flowers done in
multicolored chalk. A sign on the left stone column border reads: The Outside is filled with
dangerous things. If someone goes Outside without an adult’s permission, the Master is sad.
What kind of this place was this? As they ponder that unsettling thought, another unusual thing
catches their attention. A stone with red writing lurks near one of the tire swings. The writing,
upon close examination doesn’t look like real writing so much as long lines of scribble and weird
symbols. Is it a coded language of some sort, or just gibberish done by a child?

They go up the wooden steps to the porch of the orphanage—slightly bowed and worn smooth,
from many years of use—and try the door—naturally, it is locked. A crumpled piece of paper
lies at their feet. It is a child's drawing. What appears to be a crude picture of a young woman
standing in a room. The scribbled handwriting at the bottom of the paper reads, "mommy, I miss
you. Walter."
They can go around the right side to see if it has a back door, but there is only the fence with
another gate. There are three other doors in the fence, one in each corner.

Path to Cemetery: Past the gates is a longer stretch of path that leads to a stone wall with heavy
wooden doors. There is a well there as well, a little ways in front of the wall. Like the northeast
trail they have followed, this one is also fenced off into sections, probably by the people at Wish
House in order to keep track of the children more easily.

Wish House Cemetery: At the end of the trail is a high stone wall with a door in it. The PCs
grasp the handle and enter. As they open the gate, the rusty hinges groan. Inside is what appears
to be a small, old cemetery, its headstones crumbling. Orange light flickers over the 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 and the
symbol has an outer ring and an inner circle, with pictures and symbols in both. While they stand
there looking at it, one feels an unsettling tug inside one’s head, almost as if this thing should
mean something to the PCs. But how can it? They’ve never seen it before, not ever, and they
have no idea what it is.
At the foot of the door lies a long club-like thing with its end wrapped in rags, like a huge cotton
swab. It would make a decent club, actually, given its length and weight, but its intended purpose
is obvious: it is a torch.

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. The walls are lightly veined with coal and what
might be milk-pale quartz. Massive, tar-coated support timbers are unevenly spaced along
both walls and across the ceiling as if they are the ribs inside the carcass of some enormous
creature. Though massive they are in poor condition, cracked and sagging, splintered, crusted
in some places with fungus, probably half hollowed out by rot, and some of the angle braces
are missing. One gets the feeling that if one leans against the wrong beam, the roof will come
down on them in an instant. Around a corner, into an intersecting tunnel that is much roomier
than the first, its width in part dictated by the rich vein of coal that has occupied the space.
Somewhere far above, a sullen sky roofs the world, and somewhere wind rustles trees and snow
blankets the ground and new flurries fall, but that life of color and motion exist overhead, beyond
so many meters of solid rock that it increasingly seems to be not real but a fantasy life, an
imaginary kingdom. The only thing that seems real is stone---a mountain-weight of stone—dust,
occasional shallow pools of stagnant water, crumbling timbers with rusted iron braces, coal, and
darkness.
The PCs disturb coal dust as fine as talcum powder. Nuggets and a few large chunks of coal lie
along the walls, and small islands of coal form archipelagos through the puddles of scum-coated
water, and in the walls the sheered edges of nearly exhausted veins of coal catch the frost-white
flashlight beams and gleam like black jewels.
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. 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 on the ground: a very large pickaxe. It looks like it would make
an nice weapon, so they bend over and pick it up, but as soon as one does, they are hit hard with
a terrible feeling that is hard to describe, especially because there is no real reason for it—
sadness, hopelessness, desperation. They drop the pickaxe, and as it hits the ground with a heavy
thud, the feeling stops, as quickly as it began—they look down at it and see that something is
inscribed on the handle: DESPAIR.

The place stinks horribly, like the drums from earlier, but with a freshness, as if something in
there hasn’t been dead for months.
As the PCs slowly move forward into the chamber, they can see why.

The other side of the room is not any better. Above them is a metal track, like the kind used for
track lighting, but heavier and rusted…and hanging from the track at the other end of the room
steel platforms line the walls and three hang from the ceiling. Strapped upside down in each one
lies a desiccated corpse, wrapped in thick metal industrial tubing, with legs dangling from it.
They appear nearly identical, although this was done by surgery and reconstruction, not by
coincidence or simple choice of victim. They have been wrapped in sheets of skin sewn together
down the center to fit tightly around their faces and torsos, hiding any distinguishing features,
though it seems that they are all women based on the proportions of their hips and shoulders.
Care has also been taken to ensure they are all of similar height; with a wave of revulsion, the
PCs notice that some of the corpses have had parts of their legs cut off and then reattached to
ensure a uniform length. The skin around them has dried as well and it resembles old leather.
They exude less smell than expected, in part because there is little of them left to stink.

Up ahead, the corridor widens into a dead-end chamber blocked by a giant metal door with a
wheel lock in its center. Surrounded by iron reinforcement strips and heavy rivets, the barricade
looks impregnable. Despite the abandoned appearance of the mining facility, the mechanism is
well-oiled and maintained. The metal hatch swings wide, so they go through.

Toluca Lake Overlook: Beyond the hatch is a cliff with the edge fenced off: a little scenic
overlook. The view from here is really quite nice, one can see all the way to the lake. 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. 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 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. Once they do, they realize that it is some kind of crested medallion—it looks important,
but it is also about the size of a dinner plate

Some of the monuments have the same strange red writing on them. A three-legged wooden
torch or lamp stands by the way they have come, but it is unlit. There is something bright on the
ground: a flat white box with a red cross on top: a first-aid kit.

Wish House: The Wish House again looms in front of the PCs, decrepit and abandoned.

South-East Path: There is an uninhabited area beyond, which is a relief. Beyond the far gate is a
small fenced-in space with several large trees that partially block the sky. Just in front of the PCs
is one with the bark missing from one side and more of red writing. 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.

Roots spread out all around the tree, white and ghostly in the darkness.

A hand.
Larger than human.
Pale.
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 tree roots that have been exposed by some recent disturbance of the soil.

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. It is an old key, rusty, but somehow covered in fresh blood. There is writing on it:
The holder of this key will wander for eternity.

Wish House Courtyard: 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 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. Old furniture is haphazardly strewn about
plain wooden floor, most of it crumbling from extensive decay. The air is heavily tinted with the
odors of mildew and dry rot. Ragged holes—some only as large as a hand, others nearly as big as
a door—have been knocked in the walls. Tables are tipped over, and papers lie strewn on the
floor. Kids' art supplies are scattered across one of the tables. Some of the furniture has been
smashed and has been gathered in piles. It is as if the place had been ransacked, or vacated
suddenly. A fine layer of dust covers everything in sight and spider webs are present in the
corners of the cracked, discolored walls.

The PCs step through the clutter of the living room, examining the scattered objects for anything
useful. There is plenty of evidence that children once lived here in the form of old drawings
depicting an assortment of things; flowers, people, and a few imaginary monsters. There are also
a few very old, worn-out toys. Sitting in the middle of the room is a vintage cylindrical electric
heater, still running to ward off the chill in the air. There is a bulletin board just inside the door,
too, covered with warnings about being good and obeying the adults and not going out into the
woods without permission.

A single spotlight shine from a pile of rubbish, and the PCs see with a shiver that the light has no
apparent source of electricity, since its cord is cut off. Children's drawings lie scattered on the
tables.

A short, terse memo lying at the foot of a crumbling cupboard gives a clue as to the goings on in
the orphanage: "Have you found Alessa yet?? How is Walter's progress coming along? Send me
a report." There are tapestries on the floor, a candelabrum, and a very old tattered book, all
scattered in another 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: 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 inside
has a long table set up on the opposite side, with candles and chalices and a cloth, and tall
candlesticks on either side, as tall as a man. The room is lit with a bright, flickering orange light,
but it isn’t coming from any of the candles. The room is dusty and smells vaguely of mildew, but
it isn’t littered with rubble as many of the other chambers are, there are only scattered pieces of
lath and a few chunks of plaster and a couple of ribbons of wallpaper on the floor along the far
wall. There is a short flight of steps up to the second floor.

Upstairs Dormitory: The dormitory is unexceptional in the same way the living room downstairs
was. Two rows of bunk beds are neatly arranged along the two walls, with two identical desks
positioned at the foot of the beds. Dreary curtains block out any light that might come in through
the windows and the bare floor creaks under the weight of footsteps.

There is a semi-comfortable bathroom nearby; perhaps the “Master” preferred that the children
not venture downstairs after lights out. Some of the beds have toys or scribbled drawings and
coloring books on them. All of them are sheathed in a fine layer of dust as is the floor. Little
clouds of dust rise with each step the PCs take. One must be careful not to breathe in too deeply;
there is enough grime to cause serious choking. The PCs can taste the staleness in the air each
time they inhale.
At the very back of the room is something that immediately sets nerves on edge.
It is the symbol; the same one from the altar way back in the forest. They note morbidly that it
appears to have been traced with blood.

Just as they decide to leave, the emblem on the wall begins to glow with a dim ethereal light.
Suddenly, the window panes next to the beds shatter in an explosion of glass as rusted iron bars
appear out of nowhere. The PCs instinctively cover their faces to protect their eyes from the
flying shards. When it is over, the windows are completely barred off from the balcony outside.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of grains of glass litter the floor and the mattresses. The demonic-
looking emblem is still illuminated on the wall, but now it is raining down little rivulets of red
onto the floor.

Darkness:

Wish House Courtyard:

Wish House Courtyard: As they reach the courtyard around Wish House, the smoke has become
increasingly thicker, but not as thick as to cause them to choke—however, the smell of burned
wood is quite strong. Wish House had been a moderate-sized but imposing structure before, with
two floors and windows all the way around on the top floor. Now is it nothing more than charred
rubble, the entire building having collapsed in on itself. All that remains is what was once the
floor, and is now nothing more than a raised platform, that is surrounded by stray pieces of
wood. The whole building is gone. It has burned down completely.
A half-burnt piece of notepaper lies on the ground just in front of the ramp. On it is a handwritten
message:
"Something's here but nothing's here.I feel something from the well.Something's
missing...Aaaaaaaahhhh!!!!!It has begun!!!
And strangely enough, below the written screams and panic, is a neat little signature:
Jasper"
But also on this platform is something odd and interesting: a dark figure just visible through the
smoke, sits up on the porch boards. It looks to be sitting in a chair or something...and it has no
head.
They slowly walk up the fallen boards up onto the foundations of the building. The dark figure
does not move. A closer look reveals an old-fashioned and rusted wheelchair sitting on the
surface, and on the wheelchair sits the charred, limbless and headless torso of a life-sized
wooden doll, which is also burned, but not beyond recognition. Going up a plank that has been
placed as a ramp and examining it more closely, finds 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.
At first, nothing seems to be happening; and then, the doll seems to tremble, its head begins to
twitch and shudder as it comes to life. Its hands grab the rims with hollow clunks, and it leans its
body back slowly, pulling the rims and moving the chair back smoothly. As it does, its head falls
back and it opens its mouth in what looks like a silent scream. The mouth shouldn’t be able to
move the way it does, as there are no joints in those spots—it is as if the head is made of flesh,
even though it still has the color and texture of burned wood—and it makes the display even
more disturbing. It shakily leans forward again, shuddering, takes the rims again, and repeats the
motion, backing onto a incline, at which point it rolls off and violently falls off the edge of the
raised floor as the chair collides with some of the debris, sending the doll to land on the ground,
in an awkward position, as the chair lies on its side, one of its wheels still spinning slowly and
then grounds to a stop.
It reveals a large hole in the floor where below is a stairway.
There is a two handles set into the floor, into a trapdoor in the foundation where the doll had
been. 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. In the room at the bottom of the steps, they find themselves
in what looks like an underground chapel, with a lighted altar. The tri-circle symbol is painted on
the wall behind the altar. There is a table in front of it that contains several candles, bottles, and a
book. The fire that had destroyed the rest of the building has spared this room, and the altar and
hangings are unmarked.
They an 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.

To the left is a small door, 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. Then they suddenly understand. They draw out the round plate
with the symbol that they had found at the statuette, and return it to the door. It clicks open
immediately.

The Folly: On the verge of unkempt grass between the trees and lake stands a building, a small
lodge perhaps, though its weight of stone and its leaded dome speaks of higher ambition. Ivy-
clad and strange, seemingly unwindowed and halfway at least to a folly. One last positive touch
of humanity against the dark rise of the woods, and it looks splendid from the house. The lodge
has double doors that face the water, only three low steps and half a dozen flagstones between
them. In echo of the house, there is a small pediment above the high doors, with columns to
support it in a classic portico. From the doorway, the sun throws its long and slender shadow
across an enameled iron bath. One of eight, all set in a circle, radiating; and at the center a
square-tiled pit, a plunge bath large enough for a dozen to share. There is nothing else in the
great circular chamber except for wooden slat benches around the sides, dark with mold and
damp. The walls are adorned with intricate murals, figures from history painted in the Pre-
Raphaelite style, though the light is too dim to identify the scenes portrayed. Some few cracks in
the domed roof add a little further light to what the door gives. Stepping inside one can see a
gallery circling just at the wall’s height, below the cupola’s ring of glass and the dome’s first
curving: all in wrought iron, the gallery and likewise the spiral stair that leads up to it from
behind the door. On the other side is a closet with hooks and bars for hanging clothes, its slatted
shelves for towels and other necessaries.

Water Prison:
(Optional Scenario)
The path leads to a building. They can see a corner of the wall beyond the furthest bend in the
path.

It comes into view. It is very rundown, the glass in the windows are all broken or cracked, the
roof is completely rusted and the greenish paint on the walls is peeling off. One can see a small
river leading from the lake into the side of the warehouse. There is a large square hole that
appears to have been built to allow the water to run through the building. The PCs don’t know
what the water's purpose is or even what the warehouse has been built for, seeing as there are no
visible signs anywhere.

There are three floors of cells, a shower-and-kitchen area on the first basement level, and a
second basement at the bottom. The three cell floors have eight cells each, with a small round
room in the center of each floor. This is a guard room, and it has eight peepholes, one into each
cell, so one guard could watch up to eight cells at once. It is an ingenious design. The floors are
connected by a circular staircase on the outside and by a ladder up through the middle, so the
guards could move around freely with minimal contact with the occupants of the cells. Prisoners
could have gone for a long time without seeing anybody or talking to anybody, just hearing the
guards’ footsteps and knowing that they were being watched. The cell floors could be rotated
around. The second and third floors have wheels in the guard rooms that turn the floors to the left
or right. The whole prison is powered by electricity, but the electricity seems to be partially out
when the PCs get here. The lights in the halls work, and the lights in the guard rooms, but the
cell lights are out.

Circular Cell Hallway: The inside of the structure is black, no lights, except for the one street
light outside, quiet except for the sound of dripping water somewhere in the distance. It is a ring-
shaped hall sparsely lighted, cold, and damp. The walls are covered with reddish-blackish-gray
tile, red brick and concrete, mildewed and moldy like the floor. They are curved in smooth arcs,
one inside the other, and lit by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Several feet down the corridor, they come across a small, damp piece of paper stuck to the
concrete. One is just able to peel it off of the floor without ripping it in two. It is handwritten in a
scrawling, shaky hand. It appears to have fallen out of a diary or a notebook, and the small
handwriting on it reads:
Lucky! I finally escaped from the cell. I decided to take a careful look around this building.
The scariest place was the 1st floor basement. There's a kitchen in the northeast, but next door in
the northwest is a death chamber. To get in there, you have to punch in the right numbers. I
don't know the numbers, and it was too dark to even see the panel, so I didn't go in.

Cells: There are eight metal doors along the circular walls, each with a barred window. Some of
the cells are locked, and some are open. Each is identical: a small, nearly wedge-shaped room
that has only a stone slab for a bed on the right, a small table with a stool for sitting on to the left,
and a toilet and sink. No light to speak of, and no windows, save for the one on the door, and a
small round porthole high up on the opposite wall from the door. All of the fixtures are small,
child-sized. The smell of mold is everywhere in this place, and small slug-like creatures scale the
walls. Everything is dirty and grimy and mildewed, and the sinks and toilets look as though they
hadn’t been used in a long time. Some of the cells hold old clothes; others are bloodstained. All
seem damp and moldy.
There is a noose hanging from the ceiling in one of the cells, and a note on the bed below it. The
handwriting is a bit crude, but not difficult to read: I’m sick of being watched. The idea of being
in a room where someone has committed suicide makes one’s skin crawl. As they are on their
way out, they hear heavy footsteps and a moan. A shadow passes in front of the door, all their
insides jump, the hair on the back of their necks begin to rise. Another moan, this time it seems
closer, directly on the other side of the door, the PCs’ breaths begin to quicken. They have no
idea where it could be coming from, especially with how large it seemed—perhaps the round
window. Then it is gone, and then they hurry out the door.
If they open the next cell they see something odd: about five tall fleshy brown stalks that appear
to be growing out of the floor, at the top of each one is a head that looks somewhat like a brain,
covered in red blotches, as if it were bloody. They sway back and forth, 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. They don’t do anything but stand there waving their bulbous
heads at the PCs, but if one of the PCs touches, it stings. Fortunately they will able to take
several down with a single swing of the steel pipe, so they aren’t a problem after that first one.
Once struck, they just shrivel up and disintegrate into a dry powdery substance.
The next door is locked, but the one after that isn’t. They see a box of handgun ammunition on
the bed. However, on the wall is a message: I’m being watched from the middle room. The
message is written crudely. The person who wrote it was apparently short, because it is a child’s
writing.
Why would a child be imprisoned in a place such as this? Not wanting to contemplate this
further, they leave the room.
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, and a note taped to a wall. 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.
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 grilles 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. There are also red iron ladders set into the wall,
probably for easier access up and down the levels.

Interior Spiral Staircase: Interior Spiral Staircase: There are double doors on the floor below as
well, but they are locked. At least the stairs seems to be clear of anything dangerous further
down.

As soon as they open the door to the downstairs staircase, they hear something strange. An eerie
noise floats up the hallway to them...a human voice, fading in and out. It is like singing, but
without rhythm or joy...or much pitch, either. The voice is alone, so there is only one singer.

As the PCs walk downward, their eyes catch the gleam of something metallic on the ground by
one of the pillars. It turns out to be a small silver disc, like a medallion, with a thin leather cord
to hang it by. It looks as though it has been casually dropped there and forgotten, but it still
shines, so it hasn’t been here very long. The image on the front is of a Madonna and child. It
seems like an ordinary image at first, but as one squints at it in the harsh light, one realizes that
whoever has sculpted it has produced an amazing level of detail in the faces, and it is plain to see
that they looks alike. Very alike. They seem less like mother and child and more like siblings.

The singing becomes louder and more clear. The voice is definitely a man's, and he is singing
about something that can’t quite be made out...singing listlessly and tunelessly.

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 and is two
stories tall. The walls are comprised of wrought-iron slats, colored rusty red. The steps continue
about three-quarters of the way around the room, until they meet the floor. 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.

Posted by the edge of the waterwheel well, there is a rusty old sign and a key. They pull off the
key that hangs over the sign. The sign is streaked with rust, but they can just about make out the
words. It appears to be a kind of reminder to those working at the prison. The sign reads: To turn
on the lights in the 3rd floor cells, turn this waterwheel. Remember that the water must flow in
the direction of the waterwheel. Of course, you also have to open the sluice gate on the roof. So
that means there is some kind of water machinery up on the roof of this place, and the lights on
the third floor aren’t going to do much unless it was running. Water to waterwheel to generator
equals power to the lights. The key has an “up” arrow engraved on it. The water tower prison
definitely seems to be more than just a correctional facility. From what little they have gathered,
even the guards appear confused and had a constant worry of forgetting how the tower worked.
This sign is just another reminder of how the guards at the prison wrote down everything in order
to remain in control.

Something massive is dangling from the ceiling, above the water and at about at the height of
their head. As they begin to approach it, it twitches, nearly causing them to jump out of theirs
skin. They stand perfectly still until they are sure it isn’t going to attack the PCs, 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 around then drops back down, almost as if
it are putting on a show for them. 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?

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.

Engine 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..."
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.

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 an enormous door. It isn't as
huge as the waterwheel, but it is easily twenty feet high. 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.

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.

Cylindrical Staircase Exterior: They are back on the circular stairway, but now they are outside
the building. They are standing on an inclining steel walkway that spirals to the top of the
cylindrical building. There is no railing, and as they look over the edge, they see nothing but the
whiteness of fog, as if it were somehow built in the middle of a bottomless pit, and there is
nothing below, but fog. This part of the stairway run around the outside of the building, exposed
to the elements, and when the PCs look backward they can see the whole staircase going up past
two more floors to the roof.

They climb a short ladder just by the door and find themselves on the asphalt roof of the little
room they just left. The whole tower is surrounded by water. Waves crash in the sea (sea? Or
lake?) far, far below, well below the level of the waterwheel in the basement. It stretches as far
as the eye can see in all directions. There is no ground to be seen at all, and the PCs can’t see the
bottom of the tower, either. It is as if the whole building was suspended in midair.
This is, of course, impossible, especially since they are only on the second floor. But, again, they
have to remember that logic doesn't apply here.

There is a cool breeze blowing by, and the freshness of the air is a shock to the system after the
stench one has been living with for hours. A deep breath of it makes one a little dizzy. Footholds
feel unsteady, and they fee are suddenly very aware that a strong wind could send them right off
the edge into the water.

They shiver—both from the cold, and from the fear of falling, possibly eternally—as they hug
the wall, ghostly and mottled in the thin gray fog, and climb another short ladder to the second
floor. Then they see a ladder to their right, so they climb up, being careful not to look down, as it
is just to the side of the floor, and losing their footing will be fatal.
The ladder leads to an outcropping, and another short ladder which leads back onto the inclining
path and a set of double-doors, which they go through.

Second Circular Cell Hallway: Back inside, the PCs are in another hallway. The first three cell
doors are locked.

They run into a patch of those strange brown mushroom fungi in the hallway. Fortunately, it only
takes one swing of the pipe for them to die instantly.

Just as they have finished off the last one, there is a wet splat behind them. The PCs spin around,
but there is nothing coming down the hallway at them. They have no idea what had made the
noise, but whatever it was, it is close by…so they look downward. Sure enough, at their feet is an
abnormally large slug. It was 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 something, because it hadn’t been there before.

Cells: There isn’t much else to see on the second floor. Some of the cells are locked, and some
aren’t, as they had been on the first floor. They can peer through the windows in the doors,
though, to see inside. They are dark except for the light from the peepholes on the other side, but
even in the dark one can see that a few of the rooms have large round holes in the floors that take
up most of the free space in the middle of the cells. Those are the corpse disposal chutes,
presumably. The ones who built this prison were doing something to these children that were so
horrible that they needed to build in holes to dump their bodies into, regularly.

The next room is unlocked, and looks exactly like the others seen so far, except there is a diary
on the table, which reads: I’ve been watching the surveillance room’s peephole the whole time,
and sometimes he’s there. I can tell ‘cause I see a shadow move or hear his footsteps.

The next room has something unusual—a ritualistic cup filled with black powder. It has no
smell. Hidden under the bed is a sword with a triangular handle. 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.

The next room has a shirt and a pair of pants hanging from a clothesline that stretches across the
room, and a note on the wall: I peed my pants. I gotta wash them so no one finds out. I just saw a
shadow, I think someone saw me. The unknown prisoners in the cells seem to have a peculiar
mix of obedience and rebellion; but all of them live under the oppression of being watched from
that inner room, through the portholes. Reading these messages in the cells, the PCs feel their
almost palpable presence; their fear, and also their belligerence at being locked up.
They have searched every cell on this floor, so they go out the double-doors to the spiral path
outside, where they go up another ladder up to the third floor.

Third Floor Circular Cell Hallway: Up on the third floor, there are more slugs everywhere. Other
than that, it is more of the same: dimly lit, plain brick walls, dampness and chill, along with the
unmistakable smell of mold, still looking for all the world like a medieval dungeon to the point
where you’d almost expect to see wailing emaciated prisoners in ragged clothing chained to the
walls.

Outside, in the damp corridor, they see something in the corner of the eye—in the hall, just at the
point that is within their vision, before the walls curve too far—that they think looks like a large
man wearing a black, hooded cloak. Somehow, when one knows what something is, it’s easier to
deal with it, even if all one is doing is trying to figure out the quickest way to kill it or get past it.
They turn to look at it and realize that they are quite mistaken.

What they are facing, now, is 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 hands—a startling contrast to the chubbiness of its faces.

And it is standing there...

Looking at them—despite it having no eyes, thought one has no doubt that it can see, or at least
sense their presence.
Suddenly, it raises one hand off the floor, shifting its weight to the other hand—the effect is
startlingly bird-like. It points directly at them, following their every movement, and in a deep
voice, it utters a single word: “Receiver.” But its mouths do not move.
They freeze.
Suddenly, something hits one of the PCs in the shoulder—the PCs stumbles a little and lets out a
yell before they realize it is just one of the giant slugs falling from the ceiling and plopping
against the shoulder on its way to the ground. Unfortunately, this is enough to alert the creature
and it suddenly lets out a battle-cry that sounds a baby’s scream in a low pitch, and charges at
them with surprising speed, its massive form causing a stomping sound as its hands pounds the
concrete floor.

It stops a few feet away and pulls one of its hands back. They are just able to jump backwards
out of the way before its swipe connects with the air where they had been standing. Then, to their
surprise, it doesn’t lunge at them. Instead, it turns and runs away, and stops after a few steps to
stare off into the distance as if fascinated by some shiny object.
What does this thing want?

Up close, it smells like mildew and wet fur. If attacked, all that it does is get its attention. It turns
around and stares at them, 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, faces-
down 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.

The next cell door is unlocked, but there is nothing of interest inside—only books scattered on
the floor that are too old to be readable. The next one has a huge round hole in the middle of the
floor—it is easily big enough to fit through, gaping like a huge round mouth in the darkness of
the cell. Besides, there is blood surrounding it, which didn’t help to reassure them. Just then, they
hear a footstep, and the room falls into darkness, then lightens again. Something is moving
around on the other side of the peephole, in the guard room. There’s somebody in there! Of
course, if there’s a guard room, there could be guards, and one probably doesn’t want them to
know that the PCs are here. They slip back out into the hallway and make their way to the other
cells as quietly and quickly as possible.

The next cell also has a hole in the floor, with blood surrounding it, but this one also has a blood
stain on the bed that is in the general shape of a human.

The next cell after that has clothes laid out on the bed with a note on the table: Now it will look
like I’m sleeping. Were those footsteps? I wonder if he saw me. Only a child would think this was
a good idea to sneak out of the room and lay out his clothes on the bed as a diversion for the
watcher. Only a child, and that makes them uneasy because they had been hoping to see
something that would convince that—if nothing else—at least they were wrong about the
prisoners being children, and, instead, they find evidence that convinces them that they are right
after all.

One of the cells is full of brown mushrooms, and a journal on the table in there reads: To get to
the surveillance rooms in the middle of this complex, you have to use the corpse disposal chutes
in the cells. However, on the 1st and 2nd floors, these cells are locked. That's so the kids
wouldn't discover them. So you have to get to the 1st floor from one of the cells on the 3rd floor.
I know how to do it, but it's really a pain. Also, the lights only work on the 2nd floor.

The next room is another one that has a hole in the floor. The following one has a dusty diary on
the table, that had probably belonged to the young occupant of the cell, which reads: We had
beef stew yesterday. In the cafeteria, I heard there’s a death chamber behind the kitchen, and
they take meat straight from the dead people and cook it. That really scared me.
Probably only a rumor, but still unsettling.
There is another one on the bed:
I’m in trouble. I stood in front of the surveillance room and yelled as loud as I could, but nobody
came out.

The last room is empty, save for some clothes on the floor, so they go out the double-doors
again.

Sluice Gate Control Area: The PCs climb up the ladder to the last floor. The huge metal double
doors open readily, and they are on the sunlit gray roof. The walls are tall, and edged with barbed
wire. Fog swirls within them.

Water for the waterwheel is contained in a large square pool that surrounds a small central room.
In front of them is a set of steps that leads to a door—another door with the same round symbol
as the design around the infamous holes—but it won’t open. Backing up they realize that it is on
the side of a water tower

The pool itself is four-cornered, 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. Around the other side of the tower is another set of steps that
leads to a valve.
The wheel is stiff at first, 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. .

Third Floor Cell: In a cell under the newly working lights, the PCs examine maps for the first,
second and third floors. 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 don 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 plain concrete walls. 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 shoot at 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.

Finally, it falls ... and lands on top 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.

They go through the only door.

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 hallway that ends in a large circular
room with a ladder in the middle, leading up to a hole in the ceiling.

Surveillance Room 1st Floor: Sure enough, on the next floor up the PCs find themselves in the
first-floor central guard room. 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 a chair in the guard room against
the wall, and a note on the desk: This place continues to deteriorate. The doors to a number of
cells no longer open. As a result, the kids inside can no longer go outside. But the less they know
about that, the better. I can't open the doors, but from this room, I can watch them get more and
more emaciated each day. With no food and never showering themselves, they turn into smelly
little grey lumps in there. Following the suggestion of an engineer, we've disposed of the corpses
by digging a hole below the cells. Since each floor of this building can be rotated independently,
we can dispose of the bodies without the others noticing by aligning each cell with a body in it
vertically.
P.S.: Chief, I bet you're just dying to see the interrogation room behind the kitchen.
I understand your feelings, but have you noticed? There are three rooms with bloody beds. One
is on the 1st floor, one is on the 2nd floor, and one is on the 3rd floor. If you line those three
rooms up, then it's "bingo."
This wasn't simply child abuse—this was terrible, nightmarish mistreatment of barbarous
proportions. The mind reels. Did this sort of thing really take place here, or was it some kind of
illusion? And if it did happen, then why was it allowed to continue? And how could anyone do
something like this, and continue to live with himself? And as if simply knowing this
information wasn't traumatic enough, there the PCs are, literally in the middle of where it all
happened. As painful as it is, they look through the peepholes—it is too easy to imagine children
screaming to be let out from inside of these tiny, dark, filthy cells which, in the end, would turn
out to be the last thing they'd ever see. The attitude of the guard who watched over the children is
beyond disgusting. As the children wasted away in the cells because of the malfunctioning doors,
the guards did nothing to save them; instead, they simply tried to dispose of the bodies without
letting the other kids know.

They see nothing really new by peering into the other portholes—just the same rooms from a
different angle—but they notice that the room with the bloody bed is seen through the hole that
is just to the right of the desk, and that another room is brightly lit.

That note told 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.

Surveillance Room 2nd Floor: Having seen everything in this room, they climb up the ladder to
the second floor. The second floor guard room is quiet. It is much like the first, except for two
things…the note on the 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 well-
behaved.
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 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. One of the PCs lands painfully on
something small and hard. As the PCs push 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 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.

The foul air smells of mold and mildew, of rodent urine, vaguely of vomit, of floorboards cured
with layers of spilled alcohol, of cigarette smoke condensed into a sour and underlying all that—
and more—is the faint but acidic scent of decomposition.

Fortunately, the only enemies around this time were more fungus creatures, although these
particular ones are of a different breed—whitish and more snakelike, their heads looking
somewhat phallic.

After they have dispatched them, the PCs notice a pair of double-doors to their left. When they
approach, they notice a number pad on the left door and a metal placard on the right. Removing
the placard and looking at it shows that it has the image of an eye with rays radiating out like the
sun and the word Watchfulness etched on it. There is the number pad on the door, as promised. It
is the standard three-by-four model with the last number at the bottom. A plaque, another locked
door…What are they going to find beyond it?

They enter the code into the number pad with a shaky hand, and finally they hear the sound of
the door unlocking that tells them that the door is ready for them. They aren't ready for it, but
they can’t worry about that now. They steel themselves and turn the knob. They hurry in, but are
nearly overwhelmed by the smell of mold and death.

B1 Core: The room beyond is different. Round tiles are set into the walls in a honeycomb
pattern. Huge round saw blades and metal racks and other …things hang from the ceiling. The
floor of the room is mostly submerged in scummy water that is reddish in color but for a little
space by the door and an old rusty metal walkway to its center—a circular concrete platform. On
the wall to the right hang rotary blades and other cruel-looking implements of pain and death.
Everything - the walls, the saw blades, the walkway, everything - is covered in old and fresh
blood. 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 talk 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 in the water.

On the platform’s bare steel is a white shirt.

They kneel to examine the shirt. It is wet and lying in a puddle, as if it had just been fished out
from the water. Much too small to have been an adult’s—it has to have been a … prisoner’s
shirt. They pick it up and notice that parts of it are raised and stiff. Upon closer inspection, they
can see that there is something written faintly on it in a light colored material on the back of the
shirt; he touched it lightly with a finger and found it to be waxy. They can almost make out a few
words, but in this dim lighting, it is impossible to read. 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.

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

The slate-dark sky seems to press down towards the gray granite monuments, while those
rectangles and squares and spires strain up like the knobs of ancient time-stained bones. In the
dreary light, the grass looks gray-green. There are thick-branched trees everywhere, their limbs
spidery and leafless, like twisted fingers grasping for something out of reach in the cold sky, and
seem to loom precariously, as if about to topple the visitors.

Their eyes focus on one tiny white thing that soundlessly and softly falls on the ground. Then
there is another, just a few feet away. Then another…and another. When they look up there are
dozens of these, falling from above. It is snowing. It is a small amount of snow, really; nothing to
be worried about.

Within one can see the graves with stone and marble markers, scrollwork and cherubim carved
into them by the sure hand of fate. Here at the Summerland Cemetery a canny observer can
witness the entire evolution of a technology of grave markers. In one section rise the limestone
memorials, names, dates, and fond remembrances smeared by decades of clammy weather. In an
adjacent area leans markers of slate, a sturdier proposition, inscriptions soft and worn but still
readable. And finally, the precincts of immortal granite, more permanent. Inspecting the
headstones shows that most of them look really old and well worn. Occasionally, letters are
eroded—by natural weathering, or in a few cases perhaps effaced by some offended passerby.

A successful perception roll and suddenly something shiny is noticed at the base of one of the
tombstones. Examining the shining object and wiping away the dirt that half buried the item, it is
found to be a doorknocker. The shape of the doorknocker is unusual too; it looks like a monkey's
paw curled into a fist. Tilting to the right, the tombstone is made of creamy marble, gray streaked
with white, and is topped with a blocky cross. Fat clouds of moss scudded across its face.
Reading the words engraved upon the tombstone. Herbert 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
Snowflakes still fall gently and melt on the ground.

When they are ready to leave, they first come to a small pond, which has reeds growing out of
the water. Following that until they come to a short wall. Following this leads 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 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 knife-like 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 Silent Hill,
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: The trail continues onward. The road is unpaved, but not many of these roads are.
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.

There is evidence of construction all around, equipment, barricades, and tools here and there. It
is still dirt here, though, and the same problem with footing is quite apparent.

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.

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. They disappear once you reach the
concrete flooring under the pass.

The little area here is strewn with old newspapers and garbage.

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.

It was about here that they hear yet another new noise, but this one isn't the same as the others, in
that it didn't sound like something that was an imminent threat to me. 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.

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. 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. 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 could it
be that the fog, that most desolate and ghostly of sights, seemed more alive than anything he had
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. The headline of the local paper behind the glass reads:
“Bill Skins Fifth.” 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.

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 ground 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. Cars dot the sides, never to move, just serving to make the area more
surreal. 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.
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 City 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.

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. Liquid that 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 seems 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.

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.

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 so they simply walk up the street.
They find an alley on their right with another streak of blood leading into it.

Alleyway: Fences and what appear to be portable garages line the small passageway, 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 written in blood with big bold letters, “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 alley way 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.

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. 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.

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.

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. 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 fog, 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 chain link 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 man are 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 milky-
eyed. 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. 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.

8CAFÉ 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...
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. Some papers on the window read ‘Help Wanted, Bar
Staff’ Another says something about a donation to the Silent hill Historical Society located in
South Vale

The week’s special reads “Howard J. Smith” and lists “Smith chops,” “Smith steak,”
“Smith Stew,” etc.

A red radio stands on the far left table. 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.
Behind the counter the PCs go down a narrow aisle flanked on the left by racks of pots and
utensils. 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 crackle-
sputter-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 pale-
green 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.

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. It bleeds from pustules and wrinkles covering its body. And the smell...

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.

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. 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. Moving, somewhat gingerly across the room, they
pick up the radio, which had now gone back into silence. Had this thing reacted to its presence?

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.

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.

OLD SILENT HILL: This is the northwestern most area of Silent Hill we all know about so
far (there could be territory to the west). 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.

Streets: Abandonment. That is what prowls around the yards of these houses: abandonment.
There are several telltale signs that make the PCs know there isn’t a soul in them. All of the first
houses they see have the morning newspaper lying on the porch, except for the next house in line
for the route; and right in front of the house, inside a deep gutter, there is the paperboy’s bike,
just the front wheel sticking out of the gutter. And by looking a little deeper one can see the bag
with all the newspapers, dissolving in the running water. A folded newspaper lies at their feet,
sodden pages merged into one soft, mildewy lump. They glance down, and can bend to retrieve
it, perhaps wistful for a remnant of natural order, a memento of yesterday's comfortable
existence. All crispness has long-vanished from its malty-gray pages, the midday Standard
threatens to disintegrate when they picked it up. The only thing they can read is 72-point
headline that said: MAYOR URGES: STAY CALM.

House after house, each single one, sweating abandonment, like each house wants to known that
it is empty and devoid of life. Men, women, children, entire families, gone. The wind moves the
fog all over the scene. The fog is thick; almost something one can touch or feel. It looks like the
fog made by liquid nitrogen. It is like the clouds have descended and settled themselves down on
this town surrounded by the mountains. The trees planted at the edge of the sidewalks are
completely lifeless and still. Their leaves seem not to move despite the wind. Their thin trunks
and even thinner branches formed eerie skeletal silhouettes in the fog.

Random Encounters:

01-10% Suddenly, without warning, all the payphones, car alarms, lights and everything turn on
for a half minute, then silence again. Then one of the payphones in a public telephone booth will
ring, loudly and simply. In the stillness that the muffling fog brings to the streets, the ringing is
so loud that it seems to be issuing from the air. The ringing snakes out at them like a lariat of
sound, roping them, snaring them, holding them. The ringing is beckoning, hypnotic, insistent. A
strange transformation occurs in the street around them. Only three things seem to remain solid
and real: the telephone, a narrow stretch of pavement leading to the telephone, and the PCs
themselves. The rest of the world seems to recede into the mist. The buildings appear to fade
away, dissolving as if this were a film in which one scene fades out to be replaced by another.
The few cars are replaced by the creeping fog, a white-white mist like a film screen splashed
with brilliant light but with no images. Only the PCs are real. And the narrow pathway to the
phone. And the telephone itself. Ringing... They are drawn. Ringing... drawn towards the phone.
Their hearts hammer. They feel dizzy, disoriented. The ringing of the phone is analogous to the
rhythmic, glittering pendulum movement of a hypnotist’s pendent. The sound draws them
relentlessly forward. If the payphone is picked up, there is static on the line, then the mumbling
of some sort of creature, an incoherent croaking that grates the ear, is heard for ten seconds, then
hangs up and then there is silence again.

11-25% 9You hear a violent noise like a huge canvas tarp whipping in the wind. You look over
your shoulder, then drop to the ground in frozen terror. The sound is the flapping of great wings
on a reptilian creature with dead eyes, jagged teeth and flared claws. The creature has a long
head marked by dark, glittering eyes and a bony jaw that opens to reveal rows of teeth. The
wings are wide and featherless of a dark red color. The formation of bones is clear through the
creature’s skin, and claws mark the forward peaks of the bone structure. It appears too heavy to
fly, but it does not, and it is coming for you. You see the predator circle, keeping its gaze on you.
Those eyes, cold and brutal. Finally, the monster turns and disappears behind the mist. You
stare into the swirling gray where it had vanished. You rise from your knees, willing them to be
strong. You run.
You rise from the mud and run with the wind, but the beating of those wings grows until it fills
your ears. You feel the blasts of the creature's hot breath. You smell a thousand matches lit at
once---sulfur. You flail your arms and fall again to the ground as the monster swoops down. 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 trickled 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.

1026%-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% The PCs hear violent, gut-wrenching coughs echo through an alley.

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.

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 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 prove to be large, with both a balcony and a mezzanine. Age, grime, and
chipped plaster diminished the Art Deco glamour but do not defeat 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. One of the aisles is knocked over, the cigarette packages behind the
counter had been scattered off the display, bottles of jelly, baby food and other products have
been broken, and there is a trail of red leading to the back.

They scan the rows of items. There is a box of fifteen handgun bullets on one of the shelves,
along with a small brown bottle with a nondescript tan label. The PCs look over the label. There
are no ingredients or nutritional facts listed, only a small cross and the words “Health Drink” on
the front of the label.

The Crashed Jeep: The Jeep appears out of the mist. It has crashed through the grate and is half
suspended in the air. Stepping aside to peer through the driver’s window reveals that there is no
one inside, though tufts of hair caught in the splintered windshield are seen. The darkness on the
glass is blood, and the inside of the car is splashed with it.

This fact may lead to the realization that there are automobiles all over the place. The PCs must
have passed a dozen of them since the Matheson 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 skill at hot-
wiring, the darkness of the cab is due to the interior light not working, even when the switch is
toggled. This, along with flicking the headlights reveals that the car is deader than dead, and that
all the hot-wiring in the world isn’t going to amount to a damn thing, as each has no battery
power.

The Collapsed Tunnel: Before long they come to a tunnel, or at least what would’ve passed for
a tunnel had it not been completely destroyed. Rubble and debris block the twin entrances
completely, and smashed blocks of concrete from above are piled on the road. There is nothing
they can do about it though. They turn around and start walking in the other direction.

The Chasm: You take a step forward, but stop yourself immediately. If you had stepped forward
once more, you would have fallen into a…chasm.
They stand in awe, looking out across a great canyon. A massive cliff of shiny blackness drops
sheerly away below them, its bottom edge invisible in a sea of swirling fog. Where storefronts
have been torn open due to the chasm, metal armature is revealed, a multitude of electrical cable
and the complex network of plumbing added to and subtracted from so often over the years.
Black rocks of torn asphalt are scattered around its edges. They turn their heads, looking for
some way around the abyss. But it is as wide as it is long. Indeed, it will be impossible to cross,
for as deeply as they gaze into the chasm, they can see no hint that there is ground to walk on. It
appears to be bottomless. Even if it isn’t, who can possibly cross it? And if by some miracle they
do, who can even begin to climb the other side?

Finny Street: There is a sign saying ‘food n liquor store' to their right. They run in front of it,
now it looks like a large store. The PC note with some unease that most of the windows on the
shop floor are smashed.
Bookstore: The used bookstore's old glass doors are divided into eight panes by thin mahogany
struts. A hand lettered yellow sign is painted over four of the panes, broken up into four
meaningless pairs of letters by the struts.
The bookshelves are crammed to overflowing with old pulp magazines mysteries, science
fiction, suspense, romance, westerns, fantasy—and the more recent paperback books which has
been published over the last thirty years. Except for the narrow aisles, the floor space is taken up
by six to seven long dining hall tables on which were stacked countless thousands of paperbacks
and magazines. The books are arranged so that only their spines are showing, while the
magazines—which are older, rarer, and more valuable, dating from the 1920s through the 1940s
—are placed so that their glaring, luried, rainbow covers can be seen and admired. They can read
some of the titles on the nearest table: The slightly sulfurous smell of decaying pulp paper hangs
in the room like perfume drifting.
The rear half of the enormous basement is no different from the store overhead. Tens of
thousands of old books and magazines overflows from bookshelves and cardboard cartons.

Finny Street Chasm: Slowly a car begins to revel itself though the fog, it is a police car, in the
middle of the road, its trunk wide open, inside there is a small chunk of metal. They check the
car, it is half dangling off the side of a hole in the bridge, the bridge having collapsed right in the
middle. They check out the hood, it has a red stain all the way down it, and the windscreen is
smashed. They can only guess at that happened here. There are a few boxes of ammunition on
the seat. The PCs open the door, and grasp them, taking as many as they can carry.

Matheson Street: Matheson Street is the same as the rest of Silent Hill they’ve seen so far;
empty and gray. Some of the empty buildings show signs of former grandeur: elaborate
entranceways of fluted columns and marble steps give onto the street. Grotesque Victorian
facades and misshapen masonry present imposing fronts to buildings filled with the same musty
decay as the brick warehouses. Along the final length of the street, all of the businesses are
warehouses. Some are built of concrete block covered with dust-caked stucco, stained with rust
from water pouting off corrugated metal roofs during countless rainy seasons. Others are entirely
metal.

They can watch every shop and house they pass, to find any sign of other life, but every building
remains quiet, dormant, happy family homes, homes that should have been ripe with laughter
and noise, a hollow mockery of their former selves. Another intersection comes into view on the
left, blocked by police barricades. What were these people trying to protect themselves from?

Matheson Street Chasm: They stop as their eyes skim the break line of the jagged concrete that
signifies the end of the road... or at least the end of Silent Hill. They approach the edge slowly
and look down into the cold, gray nothing below.

Lindsey Street: As they cross the street, something glints in the gray light, attracting their
attention. Someone has left a can of energy drink by the road.

A worn marble monument on the south end of Lindsey Street had once explained the history of
Toluca Prison further. Though now so weathered it is unreadable and useless, it detailed how the
area now occupied by the neighborhood of South Vale had once been swampland – called Blood
Swamp because executioners from Toluca Prison Camp had washed their execution tools in the
water there.

Lindsey Street is supposed to empty onto Nathan Avenue, but instead, it empties into a dark,
empty chasm, one that goes very far and very wide, looking as though some giant shovel tore a
divot right through this entire part of town, for the devastation doesn’t just take out the road, but
also the buildings lining this part of the road. The line of storefronts and houses are severed just
as abruptly as the street is. One of the houses is torn almost completely in half. The right half is
completely wiped out, but the left half still stands more or less like it should, looking perfectly
normal until the aluminum siding and roofing ends in a jagged rip that extends straight from the
foundation to the roof, and still stands nice and erect, in what could only be a sick denial of
several laws of physics. The fog makes it impossible to tell just how wide the chasm is, but it
doesn't really matter, what can be seen is still far too wide for to even think about crossing.

Return to the Alleyway: In the alley between Bachman Road and Ellroy Street, the PCs
find a basketball court just beyond a rusty old gate, after walking to the end of the line of houses.
An old rusted sign hangs from the links reading "Beware of Dog" in dark, unpromising lettering.
In front of them is a brick wall that is only as high as their shoulders and to their left, is a chain-
link 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.

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.

They enter into the alleyway in the back of yard, brick walls rising on either side of them. There
are garbage cans and litter strewn up and down its length. Through the mouth of the alley one
can make out a vista of broken-down and burned-out buildings under a sullen sky. The same two
sets of stairs are here, and it still smells terrible.

They soon find the gate. Any apprehension felt is most certainly justifiable in this manner. Will
there be any more of those monsters, the skinless children things?

Inside it doesn’t seem to be getting darker, so they can enter into the deeper area of the alleyway.
It looks like the place had been caved in, however. The two buildings have warped together. The
PCs can’t 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, for say gas or very small amounts of water, but it will make a good weapon
when the gun runs out. .

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 path between the trees. 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. 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. 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.

Then, to their left, they first hear a sound unlike any they’ve ever heard in their lives. It is a wet,
strained gurgling noise, as if someone with congested lungs were trying to breathe through a thin
layer of water.

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.

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 oft-
pigmentation 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.

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. The creature falls straight to the
ground and starts to twitch. 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.

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, and go back into town.

South-Vale Street Encounters:

01-10% 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 walk 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.

11-20% There it is again.

And again. They didn’t imagine it the first time they heard it.
Shuffling footsteps that are intermittently carried on the still air of this unnaturally quiet town.
Also, the faint clink of what sounds like chains being dragged.

11-15% As they walk through the swirling white silence they think they hear a pit-pattering echo
to their steps. The soft noise stops each time they hesitate, so that one cannot tell if what they
heard was real or just a figment of their apprehension. They feel the cold chill as a drift of the
fog caresses their faces.
It is then that a soft child’s voice whispers, “Tagged, I’ve got you!”, then a giggle in a high sweet
laugh that seems to come from every direction at once.

16-20% They hear the yowls of a distant cat fight, which is strange because they have yet to see
any animal life since coming here.

21-25% One of the PCs becomes dizzy and must sit down.

26-30% A creaking sound seems to call one of the PC’s names.

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.

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. in the middle, kitchen in the rear. Rough beige plasters. 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 painted, which might have once served as
centerfolds for the Kama Sutra. Angled at the far corner is a concert grand piano.

The next room—a bar—is a tangled of up-turned tables and overturned wooden chairs, flanked
by booths on two walls and tattered drapery on the third. Along the fourth wall is the bar, with a
big mirror behind it, bordered on both sides by shelves and cupboards that had once displayed
bottles and glass but now only hold heaps of shards. The mirror itself is cracked and mottled with
mold.

The last room is starkly modern, pearl gray and black, with white linen on the thirty to forty
tables. The only art object is a life-size, carved-wood statue of a gentle-faced, robed woman
holding what appears to be an inverted bottle or a gourd; it is standing just inside the door.

In the right corner of the room is an immense kitchen filled with ovens, cooktops, griddles, huge
woks, deep fryers, warming tables, sinks, chopping blocks. White ceramic tile and stainless steel
dominate.

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

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

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. 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: From what can be seen, this apartment house on Katz Street is not yet unfit enough to
be slated for demolition, but it is getting there. There is a main entrance and a garbage chute to
the right. 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.

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.

Stairwell: 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. 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.

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, revealing unidentifiable former food products. Stepping into the kitchen, the sink
is full of reddish liquid: blood.

A door to the left opens to a cramped corroded bathroom. The closed door to the right must lead
to the bedroom.

There is nothing of interest in the main area of the apartment so the PCs enter the bedroom. It is
small as well and houses a twin bed, night table and a dresser. The bed is stripped and stained
with substances that the PC’s don’t even want to guess at.
Room 105: Room 105 is the last apartment, and opening the door brings a little hope. Obviously,
someone else is trapped in this nightmare.

The PCs don't see anyone in the room at first, nor do they see any dead monsters. There is a short
corridor with a kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other. Both are unspeakably filthy.
There are no carpets, only stained and cracked chipboard. The wall paper, pink and silver stripe
has been sprayed with scribbled tags and obscenities. It smells of urine and unwashed bodies,
and moldy dampness. But a closer inspection of the room proves that they are in the right place,
particularly the kitchen. 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. 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. The PCs can't see more than twenty feet in
either direction. Just to the left of the door, however, is an open room with light coming out from
it, the PCs discover it is a laundry room. The most prevalent sound among them is a throbbing,
rhythmic hum which sounds like a furnace. A building this old just might even operate on a
boiler.
Another odd thing that they notice are the lights – they are working in some parts, their
fluorescent illumination feeble and slightly unsettling in all this darkness. Strands of fog move
across it like ghosts, like warm breath meeting cold air, and they find themselves wondering at
the logic of this place: What controls the electricity? Who determines where light should shine
and where it should not? And why bother making these...creatures, if there are more; are the PCs
meant to be tested? Killed?
This line of thought isn't comforting in the slightest. The idea that someone has created these
threats, has even given them something to defend themselves with just for the purpose of
watching them fight feebly against it is horrifying. What person, or what kind of god, would
allow and do such a thing? What kind of person, or god, would make this place to begin with – is
it connected to all the ones before?
Laundry: The walls are a light blue; the light comes from two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. It
holds a washer, dryer, sink and a trash chute in the corner. None of the machines are running and
nor do they have any clothes in them. Indeed, it seems like the room hasn't been used in some
time. The sink is dry and while not exactly clean, there are no water stains or soap scum. The
word "DRAGON" is spray painted on the wall. A layer of dust seems to cover
everything...except, for the trash chute.

Hallway: Stepping back into the hallway will confirm that all of the creatures are gone. To their
left the hall is dark, but to their right, past the stairway door, they think they can see a faint speck
of light at the far end of the hall. They walk down the hall, slightly uneasy in the utter silence of
the building. Darkness surrounds them as they walk down the hall and soon they cannot see
anything except for the light ahead. As it gets closer they can see it is coming from underneath
an apartment door.

The PCs can hear an eerie ringing noise in the air, as though they had popped their ears. As they
reach the hall a slow change in light source occurs, the slow change from a dirty white to a blood
red. A light that comes not from the pitiful lights above but from the creature that now stands
before them. At room 208's door, which is open slightly. The sound and shine of the television
still emanates from within. Gripping the door handle, ready to enter, when suddenly, a blood-
curdling scream cut off abruptly pierces the air. The scream disturbs more than can be adequately
described. It wasn't shrill. If a man realized he was about to have his throat cut, he'd probably
scream in the same way-an outpouring of shock, despair and absolute horror.

Along with a different kind of static scratches at the ears, louder and much closer. It is the radio.
And about now the PCs should have a pretty good idea as to why the device acts the way it does.

There.

Through the bars.

They didn't see it a minute ago, but now they can even without the flashlight.

It is red, and it is glowing softly.

A piercing burst of static bursts from the radio, screeching as if under the sway of pure terror as
it spits white noise from its tiny speaker at an alarming volume.

Separated from the visitors by iron bars, like those on the floor above, the silhouette of what
looks vaguely like a man, a great, oddly-shaped Herculean figure, broad shoulders hunched, and
hands fisted at the sides. They can see what it is now, in all its glory, horrible and grotesque yet
tremendous and awe-inspiring. It is a creature born of the greatest of minds... or indeed the
worst. It wears a loose garment around its waist, little more than a filthy, shredded rag, hanging
down to the large creature's knees, a robe or an apron, it is difficult to tell. The disgusting rag
hangs from its shoulders and falls down to its shins, concealing his manhood -- if indeed, it has
any. They quickly glance at its face and wince, on its shoulders rests a brilliant and huge metallic
pyramid structure. The headgear is a darker red than the rest of it, and it is enormous, shaped like
a four-sided pyramid with skewed dimensions, and it ends in a point above his head that make it
look a good seven feet tall. Where is its head? The creature slowly plods forward, has it a head?
Can it see them? It is impossible to tell yet still the impressive and horrifying beast
acknowledges their presence with a nod of its bloody, rusted helmet. With a shriek of stressed
metal it turns its head to look at something on the floor. Following its gaze are bloody
handprints, prints that smear the floor and lower walls around a shattered door, revealed by the
creature’s unearthly red glow.

This is first confrontation with Pyramid Head, here in the Wood Side Apartments, behind the
iron bars separating a corridor. It is as if it is observing the visitor(s) and his/their actions
(judging?), or at the very least making its presence felt. Not only does this instill a feeling of
terror, it gives the distinct impression that it could attack and kill at any opportunity it chooses.
Unlike other monsters, it is vastly intelligent and bides its time. Its superiority in stature is
acknowledged by the pocket radio screaming with static, sensing great evil and danger (louder
than anything else encountered). Yet still it waits, and one presumes, stares.

Nearing the end opposite from the fire escape when the PCs come to a door—Room 205—that
has a small halo of light emanating from the crack at the bottom.

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 belonged to a seamstress or tailor as mannequin parts are laid haphazardly
across the floor and couch. Slowly pushing the door inward and stepping inside reveals that a
clothing display—something like a department store mannequin, but just the torso and no other
distinguishing features—is standing dead center in this room. This particular display is draped in
a 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. 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 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?

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.
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.

And then they find themselves face-to-face with the most horrible looking mannequin they’ve
ever seen in their lives, a hideous-looking creation that essentially looks like a torso and two
pairs of feminine legs, one where arms should normally be. The PCs have all of maybe a second
to register this when one of the legs on top flashes out and slams one of the PCs right in the
collarbone. The kick feels like being sucker-punched, and the pain is quite dramatic. The impact
of the blow sends the PC reeling backwards, tripping over the scattered mannequin parts and
smack onto the middle of the chambray sofa with broken springs and a mattress that has become
a breeding ground for mold and fungus. These cold and slimy growths burst beneath the PCs,
spewing spores, oozing sticky fluids and exuding a noxious odor almost as bad as rotten eggs.

The light falls face up, and the PCs can see that this disgusting abomination is coated in
something slick, for the light casts an oily sheen over its form—pale plastic breasts with
permanently erect nipples, round thighs, tight buttocks, curving away. It looks repugnant, just as
the straight-jacket monsters, but in a different way. They were vile because they looked human.
This thing... this is something that is just impossible, a form and design that offends every notion
of reality that the PCs have.

It is disgust, and of course, the sense of imminent death, that gets the PCs moving. 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.

One doesn’t have to wait long. Again, the arm-leg lashes out in a fast motion that chops had it
been a real arm.

The mannequin starts trying to pull itself back up. It isn't quite able to, missing one of its four
legs, but they aren’t about to even let it have a fighting chance. The thing is like a mannequin in
more than just appearance. It must really be made out of plastic, or something like it, because
one’s foot goes right through the side of the monster. And plastic skin or not, what is inside is
erupts in a torrent of blood and organs pouring out of the hole the blow has made. The stench is
tremendous.

The radio has suddenly stopped making noise. But it seems too much of a coincidence that the
static had started sometime around the moment the monster had appeared and has stopped just
now that the creature is dead.

It is still on; the battery hasn't run out, it is just not making any noise. They can try turning its
knobs but nothing will come, every station is dead, only that very faint humming and buzzing
sound characteristic of a radio when turning the dial is heard, but every time it stops at a certain
frequency the radio goes mute.

The kitchenette is small and fading with age: checkered linoleum bubbled and buckled at the
edges under the counters; the refrigerator is squat, white, and rounded; the gas stove gray-to-
black 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.

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. Written in blood over the TV are the words WE'LL FIND YOU
NEXT.

There is a chair placed in front of the television, a frayed-looking old thing upholstered in ugly
yellow plaid. On the floor behind it one can see skid marks left on the dirty, dusty floor,
indicating that it had been dragged towards the television quite recently. But, most startlingly of
all, is the human arm dangling limp over the chair’s arm.

The limp arm is attached to a very limp, very dead body. Said body is soaked in even more blood
and gore than the television screen in front of him. The top of his head is an utter ruin of skull
shards and pulped brain. The position of his body seems odd as well, relaxed, almost
comfortable. Nothing, however, is as disturbing as the man's face; the eyes are open and the
mouth hangs slack, the whole face distorted in utter shock and surprise that contrasts to the
absurdly relaxed look of the rest of his body.

The stench of the victim's blood stirs the PCs’ blood a quivering current of fear. Something about
this scene, something they can not quite identify, is extraordinary, unprecedented in their
experiences, and so unnatural as to be almost supernatural. It speaks first to their emotions rather
than to their intellects; it teases them to see it, to know it.

Seeing nothing else the PCs can do for the dead man, they can leave the living room and search
the rest of the apartment, aware again of the absolute silence that seems to cover the entire
building.

The bedroom contains an unmade queen-size bed with a night stand and lamp, but nothing else.
The kitchenette is cluttered with pots, pans and plates; the man had probably been a bachelor.
The refrigerator is broken and there is no food inside. Indeed there does not seem to be any food
at all; despite the clutter in the sink and on the counters, none of the crockery or any of the plates
appears to have any food scraps or stains on them. In one of the cabinets, though, the PCs find
two protein bars and a 16-ounce bottle of water.

The next room is completely bare; perhaps it the owner had been planning to renovate it, perhaps
not. It is a small room that is in bad disrepair, paint flaking and wallpaper peeling off of every
wall. The room itself is completely empty except for a clock against the far wall. It is a
grandfather clock, and an old one at that. It was probably quite a beautiful-looking item once
upon a time, but now it is as much a victim of neglect and age as the room around it. The
wooden frame is chipped and the glass on the doors is almost opaque with dust and dirt.

Closer inspection will reveal that the section of the wall behind the clock is in considerably
worse shape than the rest. It seems as though the clock is concealing a gigantic gouge in the wall,
one large enough for a person to fit their body through, as the jagged edge of the demolished
wall can be traced all around the frame of the clock. They can get through if they can get the
clock out of the way, and that doesn't seem like a difficult task. Yet, when someone tries pushing
the clock, it does not budge, not even an inch. Even throwing their weight into it, lowering their
shoulder, and charging it, and this is rewarded with a sore shoulder and nothing more.

Looking down at the floor to see if it has been anchored somehow reveals that there are runners
on the floor, extending to the left of the clock's base, one runner for each pair of legs. It is
designed to be moved, apparently, but it isn't. Nothing seems to be blocking the runners. They
look pretty clean except for the layer of dust that covers everything in this whole building. Who
would design something like this? The PCs are in no position to guess, but it is blocking a way
out, and perhaps the only one. It seems too coincidental that it happens to be locked in a position
that covers a hole in the wall that obviously is not intended to exist, but what can the PCs do
except find a way to move it?

Behind the clock is a seven-foot, irregularly shaped hole that has been smashed into the far wall.
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.

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, a 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 thrid floor, and the cracked plaster
walls scream with graffiti in a blaze of Day-Glo orange and purple. 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.

It isn’t tomb-silent here as it was downstairs. The PCs can hear a soft sound, almost like
breathing but larger and too deep to be anything living. Perhaps something is still pushing air
through the vents. Considering the sad state of things, it’s difficult to imagine how, but if
someone places their hand near a vent on the wall, they can feel air being expelled. It is warmer
than room temperature, but heavy, tepid, probably not all that healthy, either.

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.

They stand on the third floor of the apartment building, staring at a door labeled 301. When they
have finally worked up the courage to come up here after discovering the first floor fire exit
locked they see something duck into Room 307. Should they go in and investigate or carry on?

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 in the middle of the floor, bright and red as a fire
engine. On the side is stenciled "Shop N' Save". 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. 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 v-
notch sight at the rear-end of the barrel. The Beretta is loaded with a magazine that holds ten
rounds. It has a reassuring weight, a safe weight, at least until fingers touch the barrel.

It is hot. Hot as if it had been fired very recently. The barrel is still warm, the smell of
gunpowder fresh in the air.

Upon checking the magazine it is revealed to be fully loaded, ten rounds. And what is that in the
bottom of the shopping cart?

Three clips of ammo, that's what. The clips sit, arranged neatly in a row, the dull charcoal color
offering a muted counterpoint to the flashy color of the basket they lie in.

Using a knife, slashing and gouging at another, seems to require a ruthlessness greater than that
needed to pull a trigger. One can do whatever is necessary for one’s own life is on the line, but
one can't rule out the possibility that one is better suited to the comparatively dry business of
shooting than to the up-close-and-personal wet work of evisceration. In a desperate
confrontation, a flinch might be fatal.

Now they have a gun. Bullets. And the monsters are not invincible

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 hunch
forward bullishly. 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.

First the red pyramid head drops its weakly flailing victim to the ground, and that brings the PCs
out of their shock enough. It still faces the sink, and then takes two steps forward, and then stops,
flailing about itself. He then sees the visitors and, although no eyes can be seen, they know
intuitively he is looking at them. He just stands there, not making a move or a sound, as if
regarding them and deciding what to do about them. Perhaps wondering whether to continue
with his current activity, raping the female-formed monsters or to bother these newcomers. He
does a little of both. One of its red-stained gloved hands grabs at its odd-shaped headgear, and
the other grasps out blindly in front. He groans and screams, but only for a few seconds. Then, he
seems to compose himself and starts moving again, a slow, plunking movement. Slowly.
Relentlessly. Heavy steps.

If he is attacked Pyramid Head stops, looks down, and contemplates the wounds in its chest, and
then very slowly, and painfully, the beast's body pushes the bloodied bullets out until they plink
onto the floor. He will then leave, grunting in dismay, bemused by this pathetic attempt to end
his existence.
Does it take pleasure in your terror? You sense intelligence far greater than yours, ancient and
brooding. The thought of a calculating mind in something so grotesque sends an electric wave of
terror through you.

The creature’s departure shouldn’t come to them as a relief; it is more a stay of execution than
anything else, a postponement. This is what the PCs should feel, that at some point they will see
this creature again; that they will go through all the same fear and horror, and that maybe that
time the creature will not hesitate to kill them. He backs off this first time they come to blows,
but from now on, their encounters will almost always end with him having the upper hand.

The two creatures the PCs had seen violated lay unmoving on the floor, blood caking their inner
thighs and the floor around them, and in the blood is a glint of silver. It is a key, the attached tag
identifying it as the key to the building’s fire escape. As they pocket it and make to leave, their
foot sends something skittering across the floor as they do so. It is another magazine for the
handgun.

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.

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.

Fire Escape: The fire escape on the second floor seems to be the final option. The path to the fire
escape leads the PCs down a dark, narrow malodorous hallway with doors on either side. The
carpet is molded and missing in some places. The walls are stained, and the decay and neglect is
just as evident here as it was downstairs. Trash and debris is strewn about. The PCs pass one
apartment with its entrance plastered over, and another that is simply boarded shut. In some spots
it looks as though the floor is about to cave in. They go up to the second floor fire escape. Putting
the key in the knob and it turns with a satisfying click. They open the door and feel the cool
outside air.

There is no fire escape. Instead of a metal frame stairway going down as they expected, they
instead see a building not more than three feet from the outside of the doorway. The wall of the
building seems to be gray cement and directly across from the door is a large window, though the
glass has broken away. The window’s edge is ten inches wide. At least it isn’t icy, but clean and
dry. Looking below they can see an alley, three stories below. One can’t see any creatures in the
alley, or any other life for that matter, just fog and snow twirling in phosphorescent sheets.

One tries to ignore the chasm in front of them, and focus eyes and mind on the window of the
next building. One will have to jump far enough to clear the window ledge and land on the other
side of it. If they come down a bit short, on top of that waist-high wall, on that meager strip of
stone, one will be unbalanced for a moment, even if one lands flat on both feet and then might
fall backward into the empty air between the buildings.

With muscles tense, you jump. Airborne, one knows at once that they have not put enough force
into that jump, know that you are not going to make it to the other building, know you will crash
into the ledge, know you will fall backwards, know that you are going to die.

But what you know will happen, does not happen. You clear the ledge, land on solid wood.

Blue Creek Apartments:

Room 203: The apartment is a well of shadows, oil-black and pooled deep. Faint ash-gray light
outlines the windows but provides no illumination to the room.
The silence and darkness are equal in depth.
Cautiously, the PCs inch towards the nearest window, which faces the balcony and courtyard.
Only a few shards of glass remains in the frame, but lots of fragments crunch and clinked under
his 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 retained 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 and crossing down 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.

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.

Room 109: Room 109 is the first to open, and the room it opens into is about as clean and
inviting as any seen so far. Like 109, the apartment is a ruin of crumbling ceiling, chipped walls,
boarded windows and rusted metal. The apartment set-up appears to be similar to the ones in
Woodside except the rooms are larger and the kitchenette is to the right of the door, which has a
large cookbook sitting on the counter. A ceiling beam is hanging from above, inches above an
old TV cart and a rank old sofa. There doesn’t appear to be anything unusual in here, until one
sees the door. There is one, boards nailed across it like so many others, but directly next to it is a
plain white door with a glass knob. And it is what stands out, for it is perfectly white and clean to
the point of being immaculate. There isn’t a speck of dirt or old water stain to be seen on it. It
looks like it had been installed perhaps five minutes ago. Too intriguing to pass up. It opens to a
space resembling a walk-in closet. However unlike other closets in the apartment, this one lacks
outlets, sockets, witches, shelves a rod on which to hang things, or even some decorative
molding. Instead, the walls are perfectly smooth and almost pure black—almost because there is
a slightly gray quality. The space cannot be more than five feet wide and at most four feet long.
On the opposite end, a second door, identical to the first one opens up into a small bedroom, so it
is assumed from its size. There is no bed, though, no furniture except for a small table next to the
door. There really isn’t much of anything except for the huge mirror that dominates the opposite
wall. It definitely adds the illusion of doubling the room’s size.

The room they step into is much larger than the other rooms. Shining the light around it and
reveals that it is completely bare except for one thing. There is a human body lying in the middle
of the floor. It is a woman. She is wearing a gray top and long black trousers. She has long red
hair.

She doesn’t answer, or move. Not even a twitch. Something isn’t right. In fact, something is
quite wrong. It is their noses that pick up on that first, even before their eyes register things.
There is a scent in the air, coppery and thick, and it is a scent the PCs hate, a scent that the PCs
think most human beings intrinsically hate. And fear. That’s what the PCs feel as they approach
the woman.

It is her face. The left side of her face looks more or less like it should. The right side of her face
is an obliterated ruin. The skin is shredded and flayed, and the bone of her skull is too visible
through it, bone that was smashed, broken so badly that the right side of her face is in a state of
near-collapse. Her eye is completely destroyed, sunken in her head and submerged in a pool of
her own viscera. Her lips are pulled and distorted, pulled by the force of the attack into a
horrifying, inhuman grin. Her teeth show through, those that are left. Some of them have been
knocked completely free of her jaw. It is a crumbled look; as if indented, matted with dark dry
blood.
The first note reads: Here is your ammo. I wanted to keep it safe for you. I really appreciate you
reading my diary. It was kind. I'd say you're a lovely person. I'd love to get to know you. If I
wasn't like this....
The second note reads: You can face the Keeper if you want. He might end up killing you but it's
your gamble. I would suggest you just take the key and leave. I want you to take the key. You
have to know where it is by now. It is so obvious.
When the PCs are about to stand up and leave, the crusted eyelids of the corpse flutter.
They open.
Even open, these are not the eyes of a living woman: they are rolled far back in the head, so that
only the whites are visible; however, the whites are not whites at all, but yellow and smeared
with streaks of red-brown blood. Then those terrible eyes move, roll, bulge, and the brown irises
are visible, though coated by milky cataracts. The eyes jitter for a moment, seeing nothing, and
then they focus on the PCs.
The corpse raises one stiff, gray hand. The rigor-mortised fingers gradually uncurl. It reaches for
them.
The corpse opens its mouth. With tongue and lips, it forms words. Jerkily, as if animated by a
sputtering electrical current, the dead woman sits up.
'Go to room 105.' She whispers suddenly.
The body doesn’t move again. It is like it never happened.

Second Floor Corridor: Doors line the hall, some intact, some boarded up, one of them wide
open but leading into some sort of structural collapse.

The cockroaches here are larger than any the PCs have previously seen. They can hear them as
they scuttle along the worn tiles of the long, long corridor. Some, intent upon a smear of filth
lodged within a missing bit of broken floor tile, are reluctant to flee their approach.

Hallway: The door at the very end is unique, covered with peeling sky-blue paint and featuring a
small dirty window smeared with filthy, so one cannot see through into what lay beyond, but it
doesn’t matter. They’ve 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 realize the 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. The radio chooses that moment to come to
squealing life, as if to hail the coming of Death himself.

It is he.

As the light is suddenly blotted out, a hulking, dark shape limps into the sickly yellow glow.
Standing almost seven feet tall, the creature bears a striking similarity to a human, at least in
basic shape. The skin, pale and sickly, is stained with what appears to be blood, rust and other
less pleasant substances. The creature slowly turns to them, wearing an oddly shaped helmet of
rusted red metal, the end actually hanging down to obscure part of its pale, filthy chest, the
helmet shaped like some nightmare pyramid, dark splotches and stains coating the red face, a
low grill covering part of it, obviously the area for the creature to see or scent prey through.

He has one pale, blood-crusted arm around a form that the PCs recognize as a straight-jacketed
Patient. The slick, slender monster writhes and struggles uselessly as Pyramid Head does
something to it, something that, as best the PCs can tell, seems like it is finishing what they had
interrupted the last time their paths crossed. Pyramid Head seems to be shoving the
straightjacket’s head into his own crotch, forcefully, and not with the repetitive motion that
might have suggested sexuality. It isn’t sexual in the least. It is horrifying though, and all the
more so because it makes no sense whatsoever. The other large bloodstained hand hangs loosely
at the creature’s side, holding the ankle of a limp, apparently dead, mannequin creature.
If they turn around and try to open the door, of course, it will not open. 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.
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.
From behind the beast appears a great, sharp and terrifying blade -- the largest they’ve ever seen
-- as they move slowly into the dim light of the hallway. He doesn’t bother carrying it, merely
dragging it along the floor to a cacophony of grating sounds; it leaves a trail of blood on the
ground.
The blade screeches as it scrapes against the concrete floor. Scrapes on the floor as it is dragged,
dragged towards the PCs.
The creature shifts slightly, bringing the massive knife up to its shoulder, before swinging it at
one of the PCs head, 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.
If shot at, he won’t go down, he won’t even seem to be injured. Shots that hit the creature’s torso
are shrugged off. Shots striking the metal helmet make a clanking noise.
When the PCs have shot the creature enough times, an alarm sounds in the distance—a ringing in
the ears—and Pyramid Head turns towards the flooded stairs and slowly walks towards them,
dragging his knife behind him.
The pyramid headed monster staggers away, but one gets the distinct impression that it retreats
only because of the signal and not because the PCs are wounding it at all. He reaches the stairs
and descends them, completely unperturbed by the water. The PC watch as the point of the
creature’s head slowly disappears beneath the dark water without leaving a ripple behind it.
The water is still for what seems like a minute and then it starts to slowly drain out of the
stairwell. The level decreases at almost a foot every other second, and within thirty seconds, the
PCs hear the wet rush as the last of it empties out to wherever the rest had gone. Their escape
route is revealed to them.
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 read, 'Courtyard and Blue Creak'.
The door is locked.

The Streets 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. The houses here are mist-shrouded hulks of
wood and stone. Each one a little different, trimmed in dark brown, blue, painted white and
forest green and burnt umber, but each one similar to the other in its silence. The 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-and-
white 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. This house had a dog house on that front
yard. No dog. 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.
Unforgiving silence. Silence disrespectfully interrupted by a scratching sound, a hissing sound, a
radio. Their radio.
They take two steps when there comes a low snarl from behind them. The PCs freeze. They
didn't want to see the thing that had snarled, they don't want to run for fear it will chase them...
and yet their hearts are pounding for them to move. One’s first thought is it is one of the striaght-
ajckets. But they didn't hear any of them snarling. They swallow hard and hope it is a rabid dog...
rather than that thing.
This sound is joined by the sound of soft steps on grass made by paws. There, on the front lawn
of a house—the house just before the one where light is calling for them.
Something, a dark shape is loping across on four paws, they can see, just barely, the glint of the
flashlight on bare, glossy skin. If they didn't consider the deformities on its body-that are so
obvious one could see them even in this uttermost fog-one would say it is some sort of canine. It
is unnaturally thin and has no fur. Only fleshy pulsing muscles and oozing jaws. Its hollowed
eyes are set with a milky substance that gives the dog the appearance of being blind... but the
white orbs look directly at them. Its body is ridged, its head down and glowering at them, making
ready to strike.
Is it worth it, risking taking on the animal just to get to the house with the light in it?
It is only thirty or forty feet away and closing fast.
Farther back, beyond several veils of fog and falling snow, there might be other things coming
this way; perhaps an entire nightmare pack moving in for the kill.
They grip the key in their fists as they tear through the darkness, the howls getting closer, the
sounds of wretched little feet scraping against metal, theirs eyes focused on the simple silhouette
at the end of the hall..
Hurry.
It wouldn'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.
HURRY!

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.
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
because all furniture had been removed. It is barren from wall to wall. 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..
The house looks very normal on the inside—as normal as a house can look in this ghost town.
The furniture looks fine, but a little old and dusty. The light they had seen from outside comes
from two candles set on a small chandelier on a coffee table, near the window. The rest of the
house is absolutely silent, an unearthly quiet filling the house. The silence is so deep that the
whisper of their footsteps on the hall carpet is thunderous by contrast.
Living Room: 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.
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: 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 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. Some bullets are inexplicably
lying on a dining room table.
Kitchen: The kitchen lies just beyond the dining room. The kitchen is illuminated only be the
dismal light of the fog-darkened day that barely penetrates the windows. Evidently the vinyl
floor, wall-covering, and tiles are of the palest hues, for in that dimness everything seems to be
one shade of gray or another. There are no signs that anybody lives here no newspapers and
coffee cup on the table, no unwashed dishes on the counter or in the sink. They find a rolling pin
in a drawer near the oven. One could bash in a monster’s face with a rolling pin, smash their
nose, split their lips, club and club and club until one fractures the skull.
They have the curious feeling that the house has been untenanted for an age, sealed tomb-tight,
and that they are the first in centuries to invade its silent spaces. In one corner of the kitchen is
the door to the backyard, on which hangs a gift calendar from the First National Bank. The
picture for October shows a pile of orange pumpkins in a drift of leaves. One has been carved
into a jack o' lantern, and written upon it in red, that looks suspiciously like blood, are the words
'Keys for Eclipse'. The door is barred shut with three long steel hasps.
Basement: 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. 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.
For a couple of seconds they stand in a darkness like no other ever experienced. The darkness
does not merely seem to contain a threat; it is the threat. It seems to be a living, evil, purposeful
darkness that presses close around them, seeking, touching them with cold dark hands. They
reach in and switch the flashlight on and a beam of light shoots out in a blinding laser of white,
the crystal of light screams out then dies into the darkness, illuminating their surroundings.
The floor is made with thin metal bars set in a crisscross pattern forming what looks like a grill
or a grating, and beyond the floor there is only darkness, and the PCs hope for there to actually
be a first floor below and not just a dark and bottomless pit. These metal bars are rusted and
corroded and display hints of gore here and there, tiny pieces of what could very well be flesh
stuck in a hole here, thin shreds of what could really be skin hanging there. The ceiling displays
the same pattern of rusted metal, and in certain places what looks like large sheets of black
leather, hanging lifelessly like misplaced and bizarre curtains that sway softly in a slight wind
that can’t possibly exist inside a house with all the doors closed. And that same air carries the
distorted sound of sirens.
The creaking house abruptly creaks louder and with a greater number of complaints from floors,
ceilings, doorjambs, window frames, walls. The bone-rattle of plumbing. The wheeze and
whistle of hot breath in torquing ducts. Suddenly the place groans like a tired old behemoth
waking from the sleep of ages.
Surrounded by groans and creaks and pops, one half expects that the house might close around
them like a pair of jaws, grinding their bodies between the splintery teeth of its broken beams,
tasting them upon its tongue of floors, pressing them against its palate of ceilings, finally
swallowing their masticated remains into a basement, where rustling legions will swarm over
them, reducing flesh to fluid and bones to powder.
As they are about to enter the hall, they hear sounds other than the monotonous and hollow
drumming of the rain on the roof. A thump and a soft scrape.
Hallway: They are in the second floor hallway of the house; this conclusion made only because
of the amount of framed pictures hanging on the wall in front of them and the light fixtures on
the other wall. And this is already a wild guess, considering these things are unrecognizable from
their former selves. The picture frames are nearly pasted to the wall by a green and black mass of
mold, and the pictures themselves are distorted, like photographs that were not developed
properly, and the PCs have to remind themselves these had been paintings once. The fixtures that
held the light bulbs, which used to be golden and beautiful are now rusted and covered in black
fungus that hangs disgustingly from them like algae from a sunken ship. The entire environment
feels full of moisture and yet it is freezing, and not only freezing but extremely dark.
Living Room: Odd blue and crimson flames blaze in a misshapen opening in the wall where the
fireplace had been. The roaring, snapping, and hissing of the inferno that fills the fireplace seems
unnaturally like the spectral whispers one hears in a dream. It is as if a flicker of Hell has poured
into the room, transforming it into a bizarre cavelike domain that blends into the rest of the
house. The floor is gooey; strange growths hang from the ceiling.
Dining Room: They go through the foyer, to the entrance at the foot of the stairs, and through it
to the dining room. In there, chains dangle from the ceiling like vines in the jungle, clinking and
chinking as they move through them. The chandelier that hung over the dinning table is just a big
tangle of these chains. All the furniture looks old and deteriorated and is covered in webs as the
chains are. The cobwebs will stick to hair and clothes as one moves through the chains. Large
stains of blood are spread across the already bloody plastic that covers the walls here as well, like
random strikes of a paintbrush.
A rotting corpse is at the kitchen table as if dining. Its face is shriveled, covered in mostly in dry,
loose hanging skin. On its head there are only patches of hair, and pieces of skin missing leaving
the skull’s bone surface to show. Its cheekbones protrude from underneath the skin and a
withered button nose lies at the center of its face. Its eyes are empty black sockets that fixate
themselves on the PCs. Its lips have rotted away leaving the teeth exposed in what is more a
silent snarl than a skeleton’s grin. Its limbs are all humanoid though devoid of skin. Instead its
bones are covered by dried remnants of tendon and muscle. It is missing an arm, and on the
shoulder the PCs can see a bloody stump with a bone protrusion coming out of it. Its only arm
holds what looks like a short, thin metal bar that curves at the end like a sharp hook. All over its
body are holes, blood and bruises.
Kitchen: One can’t dwell on any of these things, one can just ran through the dining room and
into the kitchen, where every single kitchen appliance looks covered in rust and decay. The large
windows of this room seemed to have grown even wider and taller. The glass panes allow little
visibility, but one can see that it is raining outside. The oven then flares to life, burning hotly for
a few seconds before extinguishing themselves with a sudden rush of air.
Bathroom: The sink and the toilet are smeared in blood and feces, the towel racks rusted, and
mold hangs from them, as well as towels darkly stained in blood. The toilet and the sink are
nearly overflowing with black water that stink with such a strong odor it feels like it coats the
nostrils like a sticky ointment that then solidifies not allowing them to breathe. In the soap dish, a
cake of ivory soap sits in a slimy puddle; it is red-brown with blood.
The bathroom tiles are besmirched with blood, and it looks as though somebody has been
dragged across the floor, then up the wall, and then the ceiling, only to be dragged again down
the wall at the very deep end of the bathroom into the bathtub, which is concealed by a white and
pristine shower curtain that is drawn shut.
For a time, the PCs stand just inside the doorway, staring apprehensively at the drawn shower
curtain. They know that the curtain must be whisked away to see if anything is waiting behind it,
but they dread making that move.
Something primal stirs within them as they approach the limply hanging curtain, a fear inherent
in every person but which one can’t explain, justify or define. They move towards the curtain,
watching as the circle of light that comes from the flashlight starts to become smaller and smaller
with proximity, while at the same time, the room becomes gradually darker. They now hear a
strange sound behind the curtain, a sound of breathing.
They stand there, feeling like they need to see what is behind the white, clean and spotless
curtain; but not wanting to see it at the same time. Regardless, they grip the curtain and draw it
open. Overhead, the dozens of small metal hooks rattle-clatter along the stainless steel track in
the walls.
In the gut-wrenching moment as the curtains are swept aside, they know that there is a Hell and
that they are trapped in it.
One only sees a portion of the head because the curtains block the rest of it. Skin is stretched
tightly over its facial bones. The eyes have extremely small irises, its head sprouts sparse and
scraggly hair. Its ears are shriveled into hard knots of cartilage and lie flayed against the head. Its
mouth displays abnormally large and long blood-stained teeth, set in an angular and equally long
jaw. Desiccated lips have shrink back from the gums, giving the teeth greater prominence,
creating the illusion of a wicked, perpetual smile, but its body language suggests a semi-catatonic
state. The body is eerily emaciated and shirtless. It just stands there, staring at the PCs. One can
hear the breathing, but the body is not moving in any way.
Attic: When they reach the top of the stairs, the flashlight shines on the attic. The emptiness
gives the whole place a sense of abandonment and of loneliness, which had been present all
through the house, but is somehow intensified here. It is just one big, dark, empty room. The
patter of rain on the roof is more than just a patter up here. It is a steady hissing, a soft, all-
encompassing 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 half-
coffins. 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-the-
century 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. They unlock the door and
pull it open.
The door opens into an outdoor area, and it is now completely dark outside. The backyard is a
tapestry of gloom, woven exclusively from shades of black and graveyard grays, now washed by
rain that blurs the details. There is a simple tree, some shrubs in the distance, and a single pane of
light cast across the grass. The sky is as dark as pitch. No stars dot the sky, which is
understandable considering how cloudy it had been, but it what is stranger than that is.
Something else is missing. Where the hell is the moon? It isn’t there, not where it should be.
Even with the clouds it should be noticeable, for the light if nothing else, but there is nothing. No
light whatsoever. Flicking the switch on the flashlight to the OFF position, bathes the characters
in absolute black. They can’t see the fingers on their hand two inches in front of them. The
starless, moonless, utterly lightless night presses close around the house and seems to be a living
thing; it snuffles at the doors and windows. The unnatural darkness of the sky fills one with a
surprising and superstitious dread, for it seems to be a malevolent firmament under which
mortals were meant to die—and to the sight of which they might wake in Hell.
Something moves in the shadows, snapping them out of their ghastly reverie and to the danger of
the present. When they pass close to the edge of backyard, their hearts almost jump out through
their mouths when they think they see, just outside the dull orange square of light, a vague man-
shape standing there, smoking a cigarette and looking up with softly glowing white eyes,
seeming to flow from the very darkness itself...
At first the figure might be mirage, very nearly invisible, thanks to the mist and the rain and the
darkness. The furnace heat distorts him, makes him ripple as if he were a reflection on water.
Once he seems to evaporate, then reappears.
When the PCs walk over to where he is, he’s already gone.
Already, the encounter begins to seem unreal, increasingly dreamlike. Was there actually
someone there, or had it been their imagination?
The house behind them fills with smoke and the intense heat makes it hard to breathe. Down the
staircase the bottom floor is a churning sea of flames. Then a swelling pressure is felt, and the
ordinary fabric of the house—the redbrick walls, the wrought-iron balcony, the slate roof—is
overlaid by a filmy black wave, like a photograph blistering in the heat of a fire. Things seethe
within its, shadows on shadows.
The small backyard is fenced in. There is a picnic table with an oblong umbrella to their right,
and a small path leading to a gate at the back.
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.
They are at the gate; they reach for the latch and pull it to one side. The gate simply slides open
and they pass though it. 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.
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.
To the side, one of the hefty, slavering monsters hunches its shoulders and hangs its neck low to
the ground, paws at the ground. Its hind legs tense, all the muscles standing out having been
flayed of its skin..
The dog bounds two steps, soars into the air . . .
WEST SILENT HILL:

11Midwich Street:

Lighting Company: A large tilt-up concrete industrial building. 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: 12They 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 meant 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. A three-
story high clock tower of dark brick is 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.
Entering through one of the two glass-and-aluminum front doors that barely hang on their hinges
reveals the lobby.
Lobby: The room is quiet and dimly lit, and the PCs’ footsteps echo as they walk in. 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. 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.
Hallway: 13They are in a long hallway with banks of lockers and a radiator. It is full of the
cedar-pine 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 has 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 past posters that read "Friend in Need." and "Help those in need" showing pictures of
children starving and crying.
Receptionist: It 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 calendar, several telephones, stacks of
company pamphlets, a radio, and the United States flag in a stainless steel stand.
The letters comprising the lines of prints on the documents, like the characters on the telephone
buttons, are meaningless squiggles.
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."

Back Office: Taking up the entire right wall 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. 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.

School Nurse: The door is

thankfully unlocked, but the room
is sparse at best. An
uncomfortable-looking cot, a
table, and a shelf is all that is in
the room. The shelf contains some
bottles of peroxide, as well as
some bandages.

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.

Classroom: 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." They don't seem to correspond to
any puzzle. 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.

Classroom: 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 did. The radio suddenly
comes to life, blaring out its ever-present static as if it is the herald of sudden doom. Stumbling
from around a child's desk is one of the heinous creatures, skin taut with dried blood and clawed
appendages wrapped around blades, scrunching in anticipation for spilling blood.

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. 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.

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?

Boy’s Restroom: As they enter, they hear a small girl crying in one of the stalls. 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.

Chemistry Lab: They step out of the hall, into what proves to a chemistry lab with black marble-
topped lab tables with steel sinks, faucets, Bunsen burners and high wooden stools. 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.
Lab Equipment Room: A ten-foot-square storage room full of chemicals in sealed tins and
bottles, some labeled with skulls and crossbones, some with DANGER in bright red letters. One
supposes that are ways to use the contents of this closet as a weapon, but one dosen’t have the
time to inventory the contents, looking for interesting substances to mix together.

Music Room: 14This 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.

Library: 15The 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.

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. Crouched 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.
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 creaked
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.

Lounge: Spacious, with a floor entirely made out of sand. Sand you’d find on the beach and
wouldn’t find on the floor of an elementary school. Other than that it is normal. According to the
map, this is some sort of lounge, although they 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.

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.

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. 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.

Basement: As they descend the narrow steps, they notice the smells of the cellar are different
than those upstairs. They detect the mild lime-rich odor of concrete dust. insecticide 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 extends under the entire building and is divided into two chambers. At the
opposite end from the stairs lays the boiler room, beyond a heavy metal fire door.
16More “Friend in Need” posters are stuck to the walls.
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 they are satisfied it is dead they leave it, and walk to the end of the room. Where are all
these things coming from? It’s like there are hundreds of them.
17Storage: 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. 18The 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. The PCs play the flashlight beam around the small area to check for
any other creatures that might be hiding in the shadows. There is nothing here, besides four
benches and a tree. There are no swings, no slide, not even a basketball net. What did the
children do on break, just stand around?
They walk slowly forward, small baby 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.
Turning to the right reveals that there is something else in the courtyard after all. A clock tower
rises into the sky.
Clock Tower: 19They 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. 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.
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 is another identical ladder leading up to a second clock-tower. The only difference is that
this ladder has a rusted sign “KEEP OUT” over it. This doesn't make any sense, they should be
coming out onto the street or into a classroom if this place has any logic.
Originally there was only one ladder and one small storage area. When the visitors cross the
middle of the room, into the part of the room littered with bottles, they’re actually crossing into
the alternative school, like stepping through a mirror. When one climbs up the second ladder,
they are actually climbing the first one; except now in the alternative world rather than the "real"
world, the boundary between the two is in the middle of the room. The sirens are heard in this
room, indicating the shift between realities.
They put a foot on the ladder and climb up, no manhole, there is just a small room. It looks
strangely familiar, it is just big enough to climb up into the leave though a heavyset door.
They can't help but notice an overwhelming feeling of loss, this they just can't explain. They
climb up and push the door open, and step out, and look around for any clue to where they are.
The place the PCs find themselves inside is even worse. Far worse. A whole different world of
worse.
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.
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 snow
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. In-
between 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.
Hallway: 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, 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.
And then they hear something. Ahead of them, the sound of a valve turning. It is a high, splitting
squeak.
Walking through and looking to the left...
There is a creature behind the mesh. Whatever this thing is, it appears to be humanoid in form. It
is wearing a thick apron and gloves, and is turning a pair of rusty red valves, creating the horrible
screech that echoes in the PCs’ ears, with a pause for a second, as much time as it takes for the
thing’s hand to move back to its original position and start turning again.
There is a twitching growth on its back that is dripping blood. The monster stops. Slowly, it turns
its head toward the PCs, revealing a smooth, blank face completely devoid of features.
This whole area now has an aura of pain, despair and misery about it that make it hard not to be
horribly afraid for one's life. They have to get out of there. The question is how. With so much of
the place under the cover of darkness, it will be difficult to see where one is going and even
harder to defend oneself successfully against these creatures. They need a guide to this place, and
they need it soon, before they stumble into some place they have no idea how to escape from.
The bullets for the handgun will only last so long.
Suddenly they remember the map of the school they picked up a while back. Looking at school
map shows that this is the same place, all right. It is dark and twisted, yes, but the complex
layout is exactly the same. Looking down the long hallway, the walls, floor, and ceiling are a
slimy brown, and almost feels alive underfoot. Also, the left wall of the place is steel mesh, and a
loud screeching sound is echoing throughout the area.
Hallway: They open the next door and find themselves in yet another school hall, but this one is
different. The school is made of rusted metal that looks as if it had been burnt. They notice the
walls are rusting and crumbling, black, brown and broken—everything is coated in dirt and dried
blood, as is the chain link floor that they walk upon. They can't see anything below the chain link
floor . . .just bottomless darkness. Rusted chains stretch across the ceiling—which has the
structure of a steel chainlink fence—and hang down at certain places; they are coated in dry
blood, making them look all the more ancient and appalling.
Looking ahead, they notice yet another door. rusted and black.
First Floor Storage: The walls have become lined with blood and flesh-clotted grilles, the corpses
of children strung up amongst them with barbed wire. The furniture is now bloody, distorted and
ripped apart.
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: Rusted chains hang here and there from the ceiling.
A cupboard has been flung open, and the floor is littered with chips and pieces of shattered
crockery. Chairs have been smashed against the wall, a table hacked apart. The smell of decay is
stronger. The light picks out something scrawled on the wall: WHO ARE YOU? Written in
brown paint, but no. The blood runs down the wall and gathers in a crusty little patch on the
floor.
And then they are found, what is left of them. They have been tied to chairs with barbed wire.
Their heads, framed with blood-streaked hair, resemble a bloated pincushion punctured by an
assortment of knives, forks and two-pronged handles. On the chest someone had drawn a target
in blood and gone to work with a firearm. The floor around the bodies is inch deep in surging,
scrambling, mutated cockroaches.
Now is the time to run out the classroom, slamming the door behind them. They then feel a
presence, standing over them, they look up, but all there is the endless black
Lobby: If one should return to the front entrance to leave, they find that the floor in the center of
the lobby is gone, leaving a gaping black abyss dominating the center of the room. The PCs can
see nothing but darkness down the treacherous well. The front door’s windows are smashed out
and replaced by wood and nails, everything about this place seams harsh and basic.
Above the hole, bodies are strung up on the ceiling, along with oddly placed cages of heavy
black iron. In a corner is a heaped, wrecked wheelchair, with something sitting comfortably on it.
It is a small red vial.
Lounge: They walk across the room, past the body hanging over the front door—which is still as
watchful as ever—and through a set of rusted metal double doors—which used to be fine,
polished wood—into the lounge. It has the same motif as the rest of the school: the deteriorated
and bloodstained pieces of furniture are on a chainlink floor over a dark pit. Rusted chains hang
here and there from the ceiling.
School Nurse: The bed is still here, it looks the same, but that is it. The small table is gone and
the cabinet is now decaying and rotting. They step up to it, the stickers on the glass now say
‘welcome to hell' and the other say, ‘hell is coming' .
They glance at the medical chart and see that it now reads: INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE
AUTOPSY AND POSTMORTEM EXAMINATION OF THE AVERAGE
KINDERGARTNER. What follows are simply step-by-step instructions accompanied by
appropriate full-color diagrams.
They then see something else . . .
A statue . . .
Two of them actually, looking like the ones they had seen in the painting in the teachers lounge
in the normal school.
The things that stand out the most, are located in the corners of the room, to the left and right
sides of the door. Two figures, apparently human, dressed in some sort of white clothing that can
best be described as body-bags that cover the entire body, hands, feet, as well as head and face.
They are completely white, not a spot or stain on them; they are the only things in the whole
room that don’t look dirty at all. Their arms are crossed across their chests, elbows to the front
and each hand placed on the opposite shoulder. The statues stand tall, the figures look proud and
yet somewhat tortured in a way.
Playroom: Blue light streams in through the big picture-windows, but as one’s eyes adjust a
solid-wood rocking horse is seen, silhouetted in the light, rocking itself by jerking its neck
forward and backward. Then one notices a whole parade of toys lined up, jerking clumsily along
to the rhythm, slowly approaching. As one’s gaze makes its way to the back of the line, one sees
two frail arms sticking out of the shadows in the corner; literally thin skin stretched over bone
with no intervening flesh. The arms are moving to the beat like a conductor, directing the whole
scene. They are attached to a frail, crouched body, but the head is obscured by its huge mass of
dread-locked hair that hangs down to the floor. Suddenly, as if it feels my attention on it, the
arms freeze, causing all the toys to drop dead in their positions, and the head jerks upwards
exposing a skull face beneath the matted hair. It then lunges across the room at the intruder.
It spins as it moves, hands swirling above it, hopping from one leg to another in a kind of mad,
capering dance. Shaggy hair hangs halfway down its back from its head, but otherwise the thing
is naked. Its face is skeletal, yes, and thin, its chin pointed, cheekbones high and jutting from
beneath leather skin. It has a mouth full of jagged teeth that are crusted with a green moss
scraped clean in spots. A flap of desiccated flesh on its cheek hangs from the bone as if glances
about with dark hollow orbits where eyes ought to have been.
Two other items lie behind the cage. The first is a dingy gray nurse's hat with the words
Brookhaven Hospital stitched in red. The second is a bloody wedding ring. Slashed deeply
through the ring’s metal is a series of jagged scratches that form a name: Keeper
The Stairs: The PCs move toward the stairs, the metallic clank! of their steps filling the
atmosphere. The banister at the top of the stairs has turned into a series of pipes like the ones
used in plumbing, fastened with large rusted bolts to the walls and the floor. The stairs
themselves are likewise made of metal grating, and through the holes in them one can see the
series of pipes build an amorphous structure just beneath the stairs.
Second Floor Hallway: Out on the corridor they feel sick, it is the same as before; the mesh floor,
the decaying walls and the never-ending sense of fear.
The walls on either side are lined with the bodies in white, now looking more like guards or
wardens than ever before, as they make their presence in the room be felt. They look
omnipresent.
Library Reserve: It is a mostly empty room. There is a long line of l-shaped shelves on the wall
with a number of heavy-looking books lining them in random placement, some are withering
away to nothing. The rest, strangely, look brand new, almost perfect. They walk up to them and
inspect them, there is one near the end that is laid open to the third chapter. They walk over and
pick it up, the formal text reads:
Chapter 3: "Manifestation of Delusions" Poltergeists are among these. Negative emotions,
like fear, worry, or stress manifest into external energy with physical effects. Nightmares
have, in some cases, been shown to trigger them. However, one such phenomenon doesn't
appear to happen to just anyone. Although it's not clear why, adolescents, especially girls,
are prone to such occurrences."
The title of the book is "The Monster Lurks by Leonard Rhine".
Library: The school's library is one of empty shelves, shadows and paper strewn about. It is a
large, very old room with cobwebs clustered on the ceiling and the ceiling-high shelves are full
of rotting volumes reaching back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves.. Page
after page has been ripped from their crumbling binding, torn and tossed aside. Here and there,
empty bindings lie gaping like gutted carcasses, the paper distorted with damp. The rest of the
room has given in to decay. Curtains of dust and cobwebs drape the collapsed bookshelves lining
the walls. Stuffed animal heads and other hunting trophies lay stuffed into corners like carrion
too filthy even for buzzards. The sofas and chairs are mildewed and rotten, the wooden furniture
is ridden with woodworm..
The only book that seems undamaged, lies open at the end of the shelf, the bold letters at the top
of the page reads The Tale of the Lizard.
The slimy monster hurled itself out of the swamp, scaly, triangular head, with fanged jaws and
darting snakelike tongue, mounted on a barrel-sized snakelike body, towering above him, while
he stood thigh-deep in water, the muck of the marsh sucking at his feet, anchoring him so he
could not get away, but had to stand and face the monster. He bawled at the reptile in anger and
revulsion as it hung above him, hissing, dominating him, sure of him, taking its time, not in any
hurry, hanging there like a stroke of certain doom while he waited with his toothpick of sword---
good steel, sharp and deadly and well fitted to his fist, but so small a weapon that it seemed
unlikely it could inflicts more than a scratch upon this scaly monstrosity that would eventually
pick its time to strike. The swamp was silent except for the hissing of the monster and the slow
drip of water from its shining hide. It had a strange unearthliness, as if not entirely of the earth
nor quite yet of some place--a moment and a space poised on some freakish borderline between
reality and unreality. Tendrils of trailing fog roiled above the black and stagnant water--black
molasses water, too thick to be actual water, but a devilish brew that reeked and stank of foul
decay. The trees that grew out of the water were leprous, their grey and scaling trunks bearing
the mark of an unknown and loathsome ailment with which the entire world on the other side of
the borderline might be afflicted. Then the head came crushing down with the body following,
arcing and coiling and striking him as if some giant fist had descended on him, brushing aside
his sword-arm, buckling his knees, throwing its smooth and muscular loops about his body,
enfolding him in its strength, driving the breath out of his lungs, crushing his ribs, dislocating
his shoulders, folding him in upon himself and a voice bawling off somewhere in the distance.
Then the huge creature open wide its jaws. This was what the man wanted. Calmly drawing his
bow, he shot into the lizard's gaping mouth. Effortlessly the arrow flew, piercing the defenseless
maw. And the lizard fell down dead.
Classroom: This time it is filled with chairs that are weathering and crumbling away. Hanging to
either side of the table is one of the bodies in white, just standing there, ominously.
Locker Room: The locker room looks a lot like the one at the other school, but it is darker, more
twisted and horrific just like the rest of the school. Each tall, narrow metal locker is rusted,
dented, and some are bent out slightly along one edge, as if someone had been prying at them.
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.
Boys Restroom: The door, marked men's room, opens very easily. The room's purpose is
instantly recognizable. There is now a single large cubical at the end of the room, the door is
looking at them. The bathroom floor is made of stone, unlike the metal grating outside, and it is
covered in a thick coating of rust and blood. The fluid is everywhere, but it seems to be coming
from the last stall in a row that lines the wall to their left.
Something is sticking out the cubical door, it looks like a handle for some type of firearm, they
walk up to it.
They push the door slowly open in order to reach it, and grab the handle, and lift it. It is fairly
heavy at first. It looks like a sawn-off 12-gauge pump action shotgun. It has two barrels and a
small handle of aged wood.
Then a drip is heard.
You stop breathing as your eyes shoot up, as soon as you find it, they keep moving up and up.
You fall backward, staring into the face of what can simply be called, a hunk of human meat. Its
red bare skin, its hacked, mangled torso that is barely holding the body to the wall, those worn
blood packs hanging down from the ceiling. A long metal pole stretches across its pelvis holds
the body up there. The arms are cuffed and lifted in the position of the crucifixion. A pile of
organs and viscera lies in front of the toilet.
The PCs cannot bring themselves to look it. Instead theirs eyes are drawn to the message daubed
on rusted wall. In large, crude, childish letters word have been smeared on the wall” ‘Leonard
Rhine, the monster lurks."

Roof: Up the two flights of stairs, trying to outrun a foe that doesn’t exist. At every landing, the
flashlight illuminate a body that has been hanged in straight-jackets, arms over their bloody
chests, swinging gently in the darkness. They soon make it to the top of the stairs and end up in
another hall. At the top, they see yet another rusted door. They open the door, wondering if there
is anything useful out here, some way to get out of this nightmare of a school.
They look around, thin rain still splashing off their clothes. They walk forward, noticing another
mark much like the one in the courtyard, only much smaller. It is engraved on the wall in ash.

Basement: Reluctantly, the PCs go down a stairway whose handrails are now joined by rusted
chainlink with small droplets of blood sliding down through it. They reach the landing and
continue down. As they make the final stair, they soon reach the bottom, ending up in a room
very similar to the entrance to the boiler room, except . . . the door that they entered the boiler
room with at the other school has changed.
It is the same door as the one in the painting at the teacher's lounge. It has two squire indents on
it, in the middle is a thin hexagonal slot.
The two statues stand tall and majestic-looking, as if guarding something. They then notice a thin
layer of blood spilling from one of the square shaped holes.
They then hear a loud scraping sound coming from behind the door to the boiler room. Quietly
moving to the door and peering through a gap in the planked boards. Bodies lay strewn in
various stages of death around the room, several impaled on meat hooks on the wall. Many still
twitch from their brutal murder from the insanely large cleaver. Yet the creature in the middle of
the room ignores the carnage, instead using the blade to quarter the bodies and throw them into a
large furnace in the middle of the room. With each swing of the large weapon blood spurts
around the room, drenching his already dripping clothing. Only a few spots show their original
dingy white color.
It’s him.
If anything, Pyramid Head now seems bigger than before, well over seven feet tall, with massive
shoulders, impossibly broad chest, his apron as voluminous as a tent. The material has a leathery
quality to it, and it is made up of several pieces of the same, leathery material crudely sewn
together with what looks like hair. By slowly dragging the light further up they see the skin of
the creature. It is as pale as its clothing, and just as leathery. The arms are muscular, and veins
throb on their surface. The corners of the pyramidal helmet are sharper and darker, stained with a
brownish-red coloring. Huge bolts hold the pyramid together, and there are wedges along each
side.
Eventually, the door swings open. The area beyond the door is extremely dark. They cannot see
the other side of the room inside, but step inside. They walk forward, wondering what is beyond
this door that seems to symbolize something...most likely some sort of danger. They find
themselves upon a strange corridor barred by two rotating gates. Like a turnstile, the gates have
been designed in such a way that they resemble two poles with two sets of spikes protruding
from them, so that in order to pass through, one has to rotate them so that their spikes do not
interlock and block the entry way. The PCs can try to just push their way through. No luck. They
then notice two valves, one on each side of the doorway. Seeing nothing else to use they turn one
out of curiosity. As expected the contraption rotates with each turn of the valve. They turn the
right one and the poles move. There is still a couple blocking. They turn it again, more poles
move and still a few are blocking. They go to the other valve and turn it. The rest of the poles
move out of the way and the path is soon clear. They peer in, it is the only place yet to be
explored and the fact that no such place existed before the sirens sounded out makes them all the
more suspect, but there is no choice in the matter now.
The PCs walk through the grated floor. As they reach the end of the room, steel bars close off the
entrance to the room and results in a ride in a creaky and dirty old lift, looking more like it
belongs in a prison or underground mining pit.

The Boiler Room: The dubiously constructed lift leads downwards, traveling down a shaft made
of chain-links, like the rest of the school, with much creaking, rumbling and complaint as it
descends, layers of rust and grime flaking off of it.
The elevator sometimes passes an opening that gives a tantalizing glimpse of the basement’s
interior: in the darkness of the shaft jars of marmalade with nails in them can be seen going past.
Again, they have felt like something has been triggered: in front of them is a cage, the long bars
covered and flaky with rust. And behind it is a fence, the metal loops likewise rusted. . . and
behind that. . .is a thing.
...shaped like a human: it has a head, a neck, arms, hands, legs. But it is decidedly inhuman, a
mockery of it. Its eyes. . . it has no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no opening whatsoever; the flesh is
smooth and without a trace of perforations beneath the surface. Its flesh is the same color as the
strange smock it wears, dirtied and tarnished beyond recognition. It might have been white, pure,
at some point in time, but that point was left behind long, long ago: now it is stained, sullied.
One cannot even tell where its skin begin and clothes ends.
And struggling in its hands, being mangled by the creatures’s strong arms, is a writhing mass of
flesh...it looks like a woman, but one isn't foolish enough to think just because it resembles
something, it means that is what it is – even so. . . it looks like a woman: one can see her breasts,
the nipples puckered and sore, and what's worse it seems like she is screaming, her voice muffled
by. . .
She is screaming, or that humanoid thing is groaning.
And yet. . . as disgusting as this thing and its companion are, one can't help but feel a fascination
at its presence. They stare in mingled disgust and captivation at this thing, at the woman writhing
in its hands, twitching and shuddering at its touch. What is it doing to her? Somehow. . . they
know it is sacred. This thing, this humanoid twitching behind the fence, molesting and at the
same time almost lovingly caressing the woman, it is something holy, a purification. . . and even
though this thing is disgusting, at the same time they know it is harmless. They know it won't,
can't, hurt them – shame that it doesn’t seem like that woman had any luck.
They shiver as they continue down into the inky blackness. Even with the gates and bars in the
way they still feel anxious at the thought of being within sight distance of it. One can’t help but
feel that they are heading into a deep abyss, where the greatest horrors this place has to offer
awaits them. They are comforted to see that they aren't going to tumble end over end into the
spiraling void: there is something solid in this darkness, something on which they can stand, a
support of some kind. The only sound they can hear is the metallic, almost mechanic, drone, like
valves turning, like pathways opening.
Taking a while, but eventually, the elevator begins to slow down and finally, with a loud
grinding noise, shudders to a halt at what the PCs can assume is the bottom of the shaft.
Numerous blades, hammers and spears mounted on clockwork gears spin and sweep along one
wall. In another, sharpened metal pipes emit bursts of steam at regular intervals.
With the flashlight on, the PCs take a careful step forward.
Suddenly, something is noticed up ahead. It looks like another statue, only this one seems to be
some sort of effigy: a straitjacket-clad body. The statue is tied to a wooden post up ahead, almost
like a sick parody of an ancient witch-burning. Surrounding it is a metal barricade made up of
metal spikes and grinding gears and such that prevent others from approaching it.
Suddenly, the figure is engulfed in flames, which erupt from the post. The figure slowly burns,
and as the figure burns, the igneous spikes surrounding it move, rotating like some sort of
grinding machine. A great furnace roars to life beneath it. Visitors can see that it is formed from
a fused biomechanical mass of human bodies.
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. The heat is oppressive, and the stench is sickening
You feel yourself starting to overheat. Badly. Something is very wrong here, and you want no
part of it. No part at all. You just want the hell out of here but there isn't a door or anything.
Nothing you can see. You feel panic rising.
They hear an approaching rumble like a freight train. Then they hear footsteps . . . footsteps that
cause the floor beneath them to shake. Every single step sends a huge wave of shock through the
floor. The pipes—which extend up into infinity—give a seismic shudder, and a large reed-pipe
tears raggedly open revealing a primal nightmare:
One word comes to mind, almost like a psychic scream, and the PCs know that it has to be this
living nightmare's name.
The Emperor Lizard.
The monster approaches slowly from the far end of the room, lit up behind the fire engulfing the
body. Its eight blood-red eyes, four on either side of the head focuses on them. Its huge forearms
crawl forward as the lizard draws closer to its prey. 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.
A vile pink substance oozes down its forehead. After 1D4 melee rounds of combat the Emperor
Lizard stops moving. It stays still for a melee. They may wonder if the last shot fired has killed
the damn thing.
Suddenly, its head splits right in half.
But it doesn’t stop!
Its leathery green-brown skin separates where the indistinguishable head is to reveal a four-
parted 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 is showing them.
Mouth agape, it streaks at them, terrifying fast.
It then runs with bursts of incredible speed.
Okay, just shooting it doesn’t work. There has to be some sort of weak point; a specific area they
can target. But where? One thing is certain: unless they d something soon, they are going to end
up as this creature’s latest meal. One can’t stay here dodging that hideous mouth forever.
The mouth...
As soon as the lizard opens its jaws, they open fire. Round after round strikes the creature’s
mouth with deadly precision. The monster grunts in pain. Its massive jaws slam shut as it charges
at the prey that has wounded it.
With a final massive roar, the creature falls dead to the ground, blood leaking copiously from its
disfigured mouth. Suddenly, a white burst of light immerses the entire chamber. The PCs try to
block out the blinding light, but it penetrates through their eyelids, burning into their brains.
Two more heavy shockwaves of light roll across, the beast’s death song; then there is nothing in
the chamber but empty, blessed silence; even the gears in the cavern below have at last stopped
their grinding and ticking and turning.
The blinding light seems to flow over them, the corruption and filth washed away beneath the
purifying tide. It swirled and congealed, the surfaces changing, the very world seeming to return
to sanity with them. It is like reality itself is dissolving all around them. The intensity is too
much, and they feel their consciousness fading from the assault on their senses.
The fire ceases to be.
All light is taken from the room.
Somewhere a siren is ringing, so loud now that one’s skull seems ready to crack open.
The siren shrieks, louder than the death song, and then both fade eventually.
The silence is soon broken by the distant tolling of a great church bell, stirring in the listener a
compulsion to find its source.
Return to Normality:
The transition is jarring - the basement had been dark, rusty and bloody. This basement is a
sterile and clean in comparison; well-lit and a dull color.
There is the usual darkness. They have very limited options, but it is better than nothing is. They
look around until satisfied that there is not anything useful in here. They glance at the door, then
advance toward it. They turn the handle and push the door open, a strong light flows into the
room, illuminating much of the iron boiler behind them.
This is a surprise, you feel better, with a renewed sense of hope and calm coming over you. You
go up the stairs feeling energized, You get up to the first floor, a dull light filters though a
decaying window above your head. It is not bright and cheery by any stretch of the imagination,
but it is infinitely better than what had come before.
They walk up to the double doors leading to the exit and push the handle bar down, it doesn’t
move, They turn the lock and the door clicks, the doors are unlocked and they can step out onto
the streets of Silent Hill.
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?
Walking pass Midwich’s playground, the fog sits on the swings that hung still, as if frozen in
time; and it slides down the slide, and hangs from the metal rings, and plays in the seesaw. It
spins around on the wheel and settles in the sandbox, and hides behind the trimmed bushes.
When it passes through a long tunnel made of concrete pipes, like the children used to do, it
looks like smoke shooting out of the barrel of a gun. The snow makes the air cold and, even
though it is the only thing that moves in this place, it still brings down with it a sense of complete
isolation and stillness. These machineries of joy seem curiously ominous now. They loom
bleakly, as if they might begin to move at any second.
Sometimes it seems more like a morgue than a town, peopled by the dead. Everything looks gray
and pale and incredibly bleak. 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 pent-up 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.
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. There is a car teetering over the edge. A few gaunt willows
creep timorously down its rocky sides.

Grand Hotel: Around the corner, the Hotel looms. 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
once magnificent front is dark and stagnant; cracks in the stuccoed boarders and dead creeping
vines over the face of the Hotel. An ominous look that sends creeping shivers into the PCs.
Lobby: 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.
They climb the stairs 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 performed its dance
around them and under them.
The Grand Hotel holds a secret in room 111, which is hidden behind a painting of "the first
burning."
Darkness: 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 PCs will be drawn to certain rooms. When them enter them they find in each a person from
their pasts or current lives. In other chambers of this surreal hotel, they find dying men.
The entrance to one room is a car door—the gleaming door of a blue ‘54 Buick, to be act. Inside
they find an enormous, gray-walled chamber in which is the front seat, dashboard, and steering
wheel, nothing else of the car, like parts of a prehistoric skeleton lying on a vast expanse of
barren sand. A woman in a green dress sits behind the wheel, her head turned away from them.
She turns to them, revealing that the right side of her face is caved in, the eye gone from the
socket, bone punching through torn flesh. Broken teeth are exposed in her cheek, so she favors
them with half of a hideous grin.

Bloch Street: The creatures they had feared were lurking round every corner are nowhere to be
seen, no threatening growls stalk their footsteps. The silence is deafening. 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 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.

Balkan Church:
They pass in front of the church.
It is a monstrosity of marble and granite with a set of stairs leading up it. The immense medieval
feeling of damnation and redemption exudes from this cathedral and the chimes that come from
the distant belfries sound more ominous, terrifyingly ethereal, as if the sound were carried by
disembodied wraiths from nether regions. The church seems no longer a place of active worship,
but is instead a barely standing ruin that is left to rot in an urban landscape. A high window of
colored glass and stone dominates the space above the door. There is a light inside. It filters out
through the large, arched, stained-glass windows; its colors: the red, blue, green, and yellow
imparts a rainbow glow to the thin veil of wind-whirled fog for a distance of three or four feet
There is an enclosed churchyard within—a quiet garden with late roses, a leafy bower of vine,
walkways and benches. A few sarcophagi of eroded stone make grey shapes above the trimmed
grass. Occasional tombstone lean as barely decipherable monuments here and there; others are
incorporated into the brick of the church walls. After a few minutes of getting nowhere with the
pounding and yelling, it is then that it is noticed the bits of metal on the door. Realizing that this
is where a doorknocker is meant to be. The doorknocker picked up at the strange grave marker.
Slipping the doorknocker into the metal support bits will find that it fit perfectly. Using the
knocker to knock three times is only way to open the church’s door. As the small brass monkey's
fist hit the door for the third time, the lock clicks open sharply.
The door can then be managed to be pulled open on its own and the inside of the church is
revealed.
The entrance foyer of the church is quiet and nearly lightless. The entire interior is done in dark
pine—pegged pine floors, dark pine walls. When they push the door open, they glimpse a white
marble holy-water font immediately to the right, but are more drawn to the scores of candles
clustered at the front of the church, towards the extreme right side of the chancel railing.
The PCs pass into the vast, vaulted, massively-columned nave with its rows and rows of polished
pews. Beneath the archway above the aisle is a void of deep shadow. By now the light of day is
almost gone. The only illumination is the afterglow throwing ghostly projections from stained-
glass windows onto pews, stone columns and white painted walls. Within are the glass in the tall
casements lining the sidewalls are richly colored are dark and somber. The ceiling is arched in
vintage ecclesiastic fashion. Pews are arranged in sections of eight. A long, extravagant carpet of
red runs from the door to the main altar which had apparently remained untouched by such
decay. Everything here is big and solid-looking—the huge pipe organ with its thousands of brass
pipes soars up like the spires of a smaller cathedral, the great choir loft above the front portals.
The pulpit is a rude wooden platform that creaks beneath the weight of a large book with a silver
goblet and platter placed on top. There is a new yet familiar scent that is also noticed as the
visitors come closer. The goblet is filled with a dark, glistening red liquid, and resting delicately
upon the platter are sliced up bits of a human body, including a fingertip and an eyeball, which
stares with a frightening glazed gaze. Empty: the nave empty, the transepts empty, the five small
side-chapels of the ambulatory empty. It seems as if somehow the church senses fear, and the
hundreds of white votive candles, which hadn't been seen before, light up from all around the
decayed room in one powerful display of flame. Skulls are heaped on the ground in a poignant
parody of gift giving and the white marble basin brims with gore. And above those, under a
monstrous steel crucifix, there is a bulky thing hanging from the horizontal bar, gross head
slumped upon a barrel chest. In the flickering light, limed by black shadows, the stone image
seems imbued with strange life and one half-expects it to struggle and scream upon its cross. A
psychotic rainbow enters the chapel. It dances around, and when it explodes a hundred octaves of
the invisible spectrum are revealed. From the air, shrill, loathsome chimes arise, assume
unnamed geometric shapes, become chimes again. The chapel walls groan and pulse like heart
muscles. The melancholy peal of the bell is silent, now: the waking ears of the PCs hear only
earthly noises now. It is from here which a growling rumble from the figure nailed to it is heard.
Blood runs darkly gleaming down the stones from the foot of the cross and from both sides. The
iconic mouth begins to move, like bad animation, making an insane sound which blasts through
the pews. It will start to change as the figure becomes a beast known as the Crucifix Demon.
The Crucifix demon jerks its feet free of the vertical support, a nail still bristling from one of
them, a black nail hole in the other. It wrenches its hands free as well, a spike still piercing each
palm, and it just drifts down to the floor, as if gravity has no claim on it except what it chooses to
allow it. It then crouches like a wild animal, poised to attack. It starts across the altar platform
towards the railing, towards the PCs.
It is still changing as it hurls itself at the PCs, its mouth opens and an earsplitting howl rises from
its throat. The Crown of Thorns seems to flow back, along the curve of its back, like a mane of
razors; its teeth grows in length and turns into barbed spears.
If the church is further explored, most of the other rooms are blocked by rubble and the basement
is entirely flooded. In back are the church’s living quarters, which are simple rooms, painted
white, with a thin-mattressed bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lam, and a sink in the corner.
There is a shelf of hardcover books, most of them more political and sociological than
theological: Future Shock by Alvin Toofler, The Politics of Evil by James N. Virga, Drawing
Down the Moon by Margot Adlers. On another, lower shelf is a toaster and a hot plate, neither of
which work. Another door leads into a tiny bathroom with a noisy toilet and a stuttering shower.
One room is twenty feet long and twenty feet wide, sparsely and cheaply furnished. Filing
cabinets line one wall. stored with paintings, plastic statues of Biblical figures and angels, needle
point samplers bearing religious messages.
The top of the bell tower is a nine-foot-square platform. The bell—one yard wide at the mouth—
is at the center of the platform, suspended from the highest point of the arched ceiling. A chain is
welded to the rim of the bell and trails through a small hole in the floor, down to the base of the
tower where the toller would tug on it. The walls are only four feet high, open from there to the
ceiling. A white pillar rises at each corner, supporting the peaked, slate-shingled roof.

Streets: The streets are still thick with fog and silence, though there is now a reddish tinge to
the mist, suggesting that twilight is approaching.
Nathan Avenue stretches wide and long in both directions. Another crater has opened in the
pavement, consuming the intersection of Nathan Avenue and Neely Street, which leads away
southward, and large portions of the buildings to either side. The façade of St. Stella’s Catholic
Church still stands but most of the structure itself is gone. Across Neely Street a shorter, stouter
cousin of the Ridgeview Medical Clinic building with its rust-colored brick and dormers and
gargoyles seems to hover over the pit, one corner fallen away and looking as though the rest of
the building will follow at any moment.
They continue along Nathan Avenue at a quick pace; several times the radio makes noises but
the sounds fade as they move quickly up the road. Less frequently the flapping of great leathery
wings is heard overhead, and the PCs can see a shadowy form, vague and dark and menacing
circle and dip and then rise again and disappear into the dank fog.
The Nathan Avenue Bridge: Then, the asphalt under their feet suddenly brightens in color as it
ceases being asphalt and becomes concrete and metal. They have reached the first bridge. And,
they don’t get another ten feet before they finally see something distinctly unusual.
They don’t really see the body, at first. What they do see is a long, pasty smear of blood that
leads to it, a smear that stretches a good six feet and ends in a pulpy mass that one can only
describe as human, once upon a time. The PCs notice two things about this particular
unfortunate: One, he was apparently carrying a gun and ammunition, as a pistol lies on the
ground about a foot away from his outstretched arm. The second is that his other hand is grasped
tightly around a large piece of paper. The paper does not come out easily; it is sticky with blood
and the man’s hand is stiff with rigor mortis. The PCs unfold it and find it is a map of Silent Hill
much like their own. On it, Pete’s Bowl-A-Rama on the corner of Nathan and Carroll is circled
in red ink.
The man hasn’t been dead long, a few hours at most, but he already smells bad, and it is nasty
even still. Digging through the guy’s pockets, the PC s find about thirty cents in change, a pocket
knife, and two more loaded clips of ammunition. The pocket knife is cheap and dull, totally
useless as a weapon, but as a tool it might be handy.
The bridge ends very abruptly, the concrete bending downwards to the point where it has been
torn completely off or been dislodged. Rusted steel support cables hang out limply past the edge
of the broken concrete.
This town is falling apart, it has fallen apart. The bridges have collapsed, the roads obliterated,
those strange monsters roaming the streets, the empty cars lining the lifeless roads, police cars
smashed to pieces scattered all over town where the only sign of human resistance against the
demons. This town is hell itself.
20Texxon 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.

Pete’s Bowl-A-Rama: Pete's Bowl-O-Rama is a little corner building, and it is definitely an

authentic piece of vintage, judging by its size. The neon bowling pin signs are off, but the large
double doors are unlocked.
The doors lead into a narrow lobby area, and it is a complete shambles. The floor is littered with
a million fragments of broken glass, some of it from the door, some of it once belonging to the
divider from the ticket area. There are only two doors. A faded sign welcomes them to Pete’s
Bowl-A-Rama; an arrow pointing left indicates “Café and Grill” and an arrow pointing right
indicates “Bowling lanes (Exit only, enter through café)”
The café, like almost everything in this town, appears to be abandoned. The floor is black
linoleum and has a thin layer of dust. The chairs have all been put up on the white tables; they
too have a thin layer of dust covering them. There is a long, granite dining counter off to his left
with black cushioned stools. The security cage has been brought down and a “Closed” sign hangs
loosely.
There are only four lanes, and they stretch into the distance, scattered with pins. The ends are
dimly lit. It is sort of surreal to watch, and strangely enough, it is calming, even dreamlike.
There is something on one of the tables: a moldy, rotten pizza lay in its box, only one slice taken.
It looks as if it has been there for months.
The next room looks to be a storage area and employee lounge of some kind. Old bowling balls,
their once-bright colors dim with time, line several specialty shelves, some of which have
collapsed and spilled their contents all over the floor. This room looks like hell too, but this
whole place doesn't look destroyed so much as it looks like the result of long neglect.
Returning to the bowling area, the PCs can climb the stairs by the bar’s entrance. They take the
PCs to a gym area. The equipment is torn and scattered but otherwise the room is empty.

Darkness: If the PCs should returns to this room after darkness falls they discover that the walls
are now damp and patched with mold. Along with the vile stench of human flesh rotting and
mildew, a morbid sight comes into view.

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

Streets: Through a door in a rusty old chain-link fence, the PCs find themselves in a small,
cramped alley. It isn't very long in either direction, and it ends not perhaps forty feet from one
end to the other. The end they find themselves at is strewn with old trash and debris, prominent
among which is a variety of old liquor bottles. Gradually they become aware that the scent of fog
has faded, replaced by a vague but nauseating smell of rotting garbage in the dumpsters. The
stench of decomposition fills them with thoughts of death, which reminds that they are on the run
from someone-or something that wants to kill them.
There is a gap between two of the buildings, narrow enough for a child's body, but certainly too
much so for adults.

Heaven’s Night: It is dark inside. The PCs walk down a dark hall at the top of the stairs, passing
another large pile of liquor bottles. Although the malty residue in all the containers have years
ago evaporated, the stairwell still stinks of stale beer. The PCs end up in a large room that is lit
by several neon displays, some advertising beer, one of them a curvy woman in a seductive pose
over the phrase “Paradise”, which one assumes is the name of the bar right underneath. The bar
itself is wooden and has probably seen better days with better clientele. The bottles behind it are
all empty and the stool cushions are ripped and torn. There is little light filling the room with
dabs of neon only where it is dimly lit by a red neon sign that reads “Heaven’s Night” by the
front door. The rest is dark with shadows. There are tables and chairs and several booths, all with
ashtrays and drink coasters, and some assorted other things here and there. But dominating the
place is a small stage, and the long brass pole extending from the floor to the ceiling, with tables
and chairs positioned around it, leaves no doubts as to just what type of bar it is. The sour,
mellow scent of old beer is in the air, the kind that sets into any bar that sees years of operation.
There is a handwritten note left on one of the tables which reads: I'm not happy. No one’s 's
happy. I want to leave, and find a brightly colored town where it looks like everything has been
colored in by a child's set of crayons. Instead of the black and white photography that Silent Hill
exists in. Everyone talks about how they remember when this place was ‘nice.' What was nice?
There are no youths with guns who hold up florists and Texxon stations, gangs don't roam the
streets, and parents hold their children's hands extra tight. But everyone lives their lives with
their doors locked and fear holding them hostage. Shoulders are looked over twice, and
laughing out loud would throw a pall of silence and an uncomfortable feeling all around.
Because something is wrong with Silent Hill and everyone knows it. With the fog that creeps in
to sleep over night and the mutilated corpses that appear every other week. People are leaving,
quietly and quickly. No one announces their plans to leave, or speaks about it quietly over
dinner, because if the town knew they were leaving, it wouldn't allow them. Every morning there
is another abandoned house, and somewhere a father is gripping the steering wheel tightly on
some far off high way, 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.
Out the front door is a long, narrow set of stairs leads down to the ground, and a few feet in front
of them, the alley opens into another street, which the map says is Carroll St.

Darkness: In the Otherworld it is essentially one large, dirty room with a stage area complete
with metal poles and a huge smattering of chairs and tables in front of it. Blackened gore is
smeared everywhere, walls painted with its grotesque matter. The PCs enter, stunned at the
horrible condition of this place.
The PCs gasp and spin towards the source of the sound. The light falls on a dead thing in the
corner, near the door to the exit.
It had once been a man. The face is pale and bloated and sits atop a body a stained and tattered
suit strains to cover. Moss grows on the suit coat in feathery green tufts and pillowy clumps. A
tiny lizard emerges from the folds of a handkerchief in the breast pocket – it might have once
been white – and scuttles up and over the dead thing’s shoulder, out of sight and out of the beam
of the flashlight. Its hand is groping the rotting corpse of a stripper.
The dead things open their mouth, as if to speak, and reveals a writhing mass of tiny white
worms and insects, that fall to the floor, where they writhe and twist and fold over and over and
over themselves. The maggots reach the business corpse's eyes, and begin to eat away. His
mouth seems to widen, as if trying to imitate a scream.
.
Carroll St. To their left, a large, shabby construction barrier has been erected, blocking access to
Nathan Avenue.

Brookhaven Hospital: There is a sign nailed hastily to the huge, reinforced concrete
barricade that seems to be passing for a wall. The sign simply reads, 'Brookhaven Hospital'.
Originally an insane asylum, it is now a modernized state-run facility. An iron fence topped with
barbed surrounds the sprawling grounds, designed as much to keep people out as it is to keep the
patients in. The line of fence suddenly ceases, and becomes a concrete path that leads to concrete
steps. Up these stairs is a large gilded door, above which the sign is displayed that reads:
Brookhaven Hospital, in large, beveled letters, complete with a little Red Cross insignia.

Lobby: The lobby of Brookhaven Hospital----a space about eight feet square, with corridors to
the right and left, and in front a sort of reception desk one might see in a normal hospital—is as
silent and abandoned as anything else the PCs have seen in the last few hours. The main corridor
splits into two directions, both going farther than the eyes can see, and there is a registration desk
in front of them. Footfalls echo strongly, bouncing around wildly in the emptiness, and it gives a
good idea how expansive this building is, hopefully it will also help alert the PCs to the presence
of any threats. On the walls are various posters encouraging health: a food pyramid, a want-ad
for blood donations, and a woman giving herself a mammogram
For some reason though, this place seems to unnerve the PCs a great deal more. An empty
hospital is a strange and desolate place, something that practically nobody wants to see…or
wants to. It seems so much more oppressive, the air heavier and filled not only with the
wonderful scents of age and abandonment, but the underlying stench of illness, of blood, shit and
vomit countered by the power of cleanser, and the result is something else new and unique, and
possibly more disgusting than either. That smell, that hospital smell, it is still here. You have to
be looking for it, you have to know what it was to even realize it is there, but nevertheless, it is
there.
Sterile was a word that might applied to Brookhaven once upon a time. Now though? Well, it
isn’t the same type of decay the apartments displayed. For one thing, it is pretty dry in here.
There is a layer of dust on the floor, it kicks up in little clouds when stepped on. Also, the
apartments looked ripe for condemnation, both buildings looked ransacked and primed for
eventual collapse. Physically, this hospital looks in better shape, like it could one day be
reopened without an undue amount of trouble.
You try to ignore it as you venture deeper into this cavern of darkness.

First Floor: Exiting into the main hallway, the PCs now go up and down the halls of
Brookhaven’s first floor, jiggling every doorknob they could find. Most of them do not lead to
anything, many of them are rusted so badly that they pop the moment someone applies pressure
to them. Like so much, it completely defies explanation. For the moment though, it is okay. It is
less ground to cover, which means less exposure to danger, theoretically.
The hospital is dark. The floors and walls are white so they get slightly better reflection from the
flashlight, but nevertheless the PCs feel a sense of foreboding about the place.

Reception Room: There are a lot of doors in this main hall, and surprisingly, the first one tried is
a working one. It leads into a small room with a large desk on the left covered with papers, pens,
information sheets, several computer monitors, a small lamp, and the like; an office. On the right
are several waiting chairs and magazines. Behind the desk is a door marked “Staff Only”. On the
far wall is a bulletin board with several notices on colored paper and—most importantly—a
hospital map.

There is a clipboard on the desk that lists patient information for three men, Joseph Barkin, Jack
Davis, and Joshua Lewis, one wracked with paranoia and delusions, the second under suicide
watch, and the last with a history of violence.

Patient Number: 01141973

Name: Arthur Oswald
Assessment: Patient has attempted suicide three times in the past. Reasons unknown. Otherwise
model patient. Follows staff orders and participates in treatment sessions. Close observation still
required due to pattern of suicide attempts.
Treatment: Antidepressants are ineffective-discontinue. Lengthen therapy sessions. Something
has to be bothering him.

Patient Number: 07131975

Name: Jonathan Simpson
Assessment: Disorder appears rooted in belief that he is responsible for his daughter's death.
Symptoms suggest minor psychotic break-down. Paranoid delusions though usually calm.
Tendency to become violent when agitated.
Treatment: Maintain antidepressants at current levels. Increase after six weeks if condition does
not improve. Continue therapy sessions.

Patient Number: 04091977

Name: Earl Donovan
Assessment: Strong persecution complex with extreme violent tendencies. Numerous arrests for
assault, assault with a deadly weapon, battery, and vandalism. Hospitalized by court order after
conviction for voluntary manslaughter and assaulting an officer. Isolated in Special Treatment
room 3.
Treatment: Maintain isolation and sedatives. Therapy sessions TBD. CT and MRI scans needed
to check for tumors, lesions or abnormalities in amygdala region. Maximum security precautions
should be observed at all times.

21Room S12
Name: Lenoard Wolf.
Assement: Presenting mild audiovisual hallucinations, emotional instability, obsessive ideas.
Suspect mild schizophrenia. Basically clam and co-operative with a strong sense of justice.
However, according to reports, becomes very violent when over excited.
Treatment: Will continue observation.

Room S07
Name: Stanley Coleman
Assement: Usually passive and cowardly; also egotistical. Sometimes shows and acts on
obsessive attachment to a particular woman. This has caused violent incidents; use caution.

Just as the PCs are almost about dismiss these notes as unimportant, but then, they recall the
razor wire and ten-foot fencing that surrounds the hospital grounds, and then the realization hits
them. Brookhaven isn’t a just medical hospital; at least, not completely, all hospitals have
medical facilities. Brookhaven was a mental hospital. The room offers little else of interest.
There is a file room in the back, which features an ancient typewriter, one of those old monsters
that is encased in pea-green steel and weighs fifty pounds. Next to the typewriter is what seems
to be more patient notes, which has nothing interesting within. The notices seem to be general
health messages, “Smoking hurts everyone,” “Donate blood today,” “Mammograms save lives.”
They are held down to the desk with what is first mistaken for a strange, ugly paperweight. It is
made of steel and has an engraving of a bull, rectangular in shape, at least until the bottom is
seen.
There are things poking out, irregular in length. It looks like someone carved a bar graph out of
the end of this paperweight. Then, a handwritten note on the last page of the notes is seen: I got
the key from Joseph. It’s probably for the box. Is this object a key? Definitely a strange one, to be
sure, but it makes more sense than anything else they can think of.
The map proves to be more helpful. The hospital has four floors and roof access. The west wing
on each of the floors seems to be dedicated mostly to patient rooms, while the east wing mostly
contains administrative, supply, surgery, staff, and lounge rooms. There is a garden and pool on
the first floor as well.

Doctor’s Lounge: The PCs find that very few doors in this particular part of the hospital were
actually in working order. One of them houses a lounge station. There are two shelves lined with
files of all shapes and sizes. There is a small table, two chairs and a wood cabinet. A sheet of
paper lies on the table. The files on the shelves are arranged by alphabet, but a quick glance at
their dates tells that there are no recent records on the shelf.

In this lounge are two things of importance. One is a code for a door lock on the second floor.
The second is a six-pack of canned juice that sits atop the sink. Cracking one open and taking a
tentative sip shows that is really sweet stuff, tasting vaguely like the oranges advertised on the
package, but it doesn’t seem to be rancid. Nothing else turns up, and they can back out into the
main hallway.

22Visiting Room: The room is sparsely furnished: a deep blue carpet, a somber oil painting of a
vase on the white wall, two plastic chairs on one side of a scratched desk. Near the door, a
washbasin and pitcher stand upon a tall stool, and near the window is a potted plant, green yet
lifeless-looking.

On the table is a small leather-bound notebook which reads:

I write like a wild heart,
My words are scripted,
And my words are dark…
I write like an urgent ghost,
My love is a party,
And my love is a host…
I write constantly,
My messages are short,
And my messages are sweet…
I leave you a gift,
And I leave you a present…
I leave you confused,
And I leave you hesitant…
I can see your eyes glare away from the doll,
I can see it,
It hurts me to know that you're taking a fall,
It hurts me,
That all I can do is watch your feet approach the end,
All I can do,
Is write, my friend…
I write I as your man,
I write I with your trust,
And I write I as Stanley Coleman,
The poet with a lust…

Hallway: They exit the reception area. The hospital is quiet and—like Woodside Apartments—
has an abandoned look to it. The floor is dusty, the waste cans and syringe disposal trays are
empty.
They look out through the narrow rectangular window in one of two orange doors and see
nothing in the hallway.

23Pharmacy: 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.

24Room C2: The room is entirely of tile: discolored acoustic tiles for the ceiling, glossy ceramic
tiles for the walls, stained asbestos tiles for the floor. Several beds and gurneys stacked around
haphazardly. The ceiling is falling apart with a network of exposed pipes, cables and tubes of
florescent lighting dangling. Huge chunks of tile and plaster lay on the floor.

Room C4: Very large with stained tile. Some of the floor tiles are missing and grime hides
others. The paint is peeling. Stuck to the wall is a cookie, a toothbrush, a spoon, a Christmas
card, a clock, a teddy bear, a beetle, a comb, a pen. But what is most interesting is the key stuck
to it.

Garden: There is a faint aroma in the air, the scent so paper-thin that the PCs wonder if they
imagine it. Directly ahead, a large tree grows in the center of the garden. A short masonry wall
surrounds its base. The tree appears to slouch as if weeping and its limbs hang bare and
motionless. Its missing leaves, dead and brown, carpet the cobblestones beneath. For some
reason, the PCs feel a wave of sadness wash over them as they look at the tree, a feeling of
nostalgia. But they jerk away from the feeling before it can daunt them. They take a step
forward, uncertain. There are rows of shrubs lining both sides of the stone-laid path, and tiny
white flowers peek from the underbrush. They are the source of the scent they had noticed upon
entering. Fog leeches most of the color here; the red brick of the hospital walls take on a muted,
russet hue. But there is a sense of calm here, of safety. Again the feeling of remembrance pulses
within, but they grit their teeth and push it aside.
They now near the tree and its mourning bow. The path here divides into three alleys: one that
continues ahead, and the others to the left and right. Another branch snaps, louder this time and
closer. Their eyes dart over the faint outline of Brookhaven's walls that appear through the gray
like dried blood. They pass the remnants of a wheelchair poking through the brush, its arm
handles rusty and one wheel sticking in the air like an abandoned tricycle. They spy torn papers
and a doctor's clipboard hidden under a clump of pale perennials. Rivers of weeds break though
the stone walkway in scraggy patches, and the leaves from the Weeping Tree look like the dried
husks of bugs. The mist thickens and smells like stagnant water.
When they reach the tree, they pause, considering its wizened form. Its limbs remain frozen,
almost plastic looking; not a real tree at all but something masquerading as a tree.
The PCs walk by, veering to the far side. For all they know, this seemingly dead thing can come
alive and grab them. The tree's branches rustle then, a faint shiver rippling through its skeletal
frame.

The Elevator: There is an elevator about halfway down the hall. Inserting the key into the hole
and turning it causes a whirring sound to be heard; the sound of its motors starting, as well as a
deep, booming growl from far below; the sounds of a generator coming to life.
About ten seconds later, the sound of a bell is heard, and the elevator opens, fully lit and all. The
elevator is wide and long to accommodate hospital stretchers and emergency staff. It too bears
the faint smell of ammonia.
There are buttons for the first, second and third floors. The button for the roof has apparently
fallen off. The elevator shudders as it comes to life and begins its ascent,
By the time they reach the third floor, the PCs become convinced that they detect a wrongness in
the sound of the elevator motor, in the hum of cables drawn through guide wheels. This creak,
that tick, this squeak might be the sound of a linchpin pulling loose in the heart of the machinery.
The air grows thinner still, the walls closer, the ceiling lower, the machinery more suspect.
Perhaps the doors won’t open. The shaft might collapse, crushing the cab to the dimensions of a
coffin.
The elevator ends its descent where it is supposed to, with a hiss and snap. Then, the doors slide
open to admit the PCs to the second floor.

Second Floor: The PCs push the door open, wincing at the nasty creaking noise coming from
the old, neglected hinges. Beyond it is another hallway that seems to section off in a T-shape
nearby. 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.
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.
M2: The room has a marble linoleum floor. The beds are standard adjustable hospital beds and
are situated near power outlets on either side of the room. There are, however, no intravenous
set-ups or heart monitors, nor are there any charts on the beds or anything to suggest that the
room has been in recent use.
M5: The beds in the room have dusty sheets draped over them, and there are gouges in the wall.
Bits of linoleum from the floor have been scattered about as are tiles from the ceiling. The dust
on the floor is thick and there is no sign that anyone has been in the room recently. There are no
sheets on the two beds, just a two-inch-thick pad that serves as mattress on the metal bed frame.
One can hardly see through the barbed wire on the windows, and it is foggy, making visibility
even worse. There is a red plastic box in one corner, as well as dead television set.
Doctor’s Locker Room: The men’s locker room contains several lab coats, a table and a mirror
but no papers or notices and none of the lockers are unlocked.
Nurse’s Locker Room: The women’s locker room is nearly identical to the men’s except the lab
coats are much more neatly arranged and there is a stuffed teddy bear on the table. Picking up the
bear on the table causes one to feel a prick in his/her palm when his/her hand closes around the
stomach. Carefully examining the bear for the source of the pain reveals that something on the
bear’s side gives off a small flash of silver in the light. Looking at it closer and one finds it is the
tip of a small needle. Pulling on it and with a bit of tugging the rest of it emerges. It is a bent
hypodermic needle
Examination Room 3: Like the patient rooms, the floor is marble linoleum and the walls are
white. A cushioned examination table lies at angle on the right side of the room. On the left side
is a sink with a medicine cabinet above it and a white desk next to it. On top of the desk is a
black typewriter with sheets of carbon paper stacked next to it and a dim lamp..

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 push-
bars 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 push-
bar 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.
One tiny room off one of the corridors is lined with filing cabinets and piles of reports, smelling
slightly damp.
Shower Room: There are six shower stalls, three on each side. The once-white tiles on the walls
are still attached, though most on the floor are cracked.
S3: Room S3’s padlock hangs from its loop at an awkward angle, and the metal plate is drawn
open. The door opens easily, and the room within is very tiny. All the PCs see is a small bed, a
window with bars, a small dresser and a bedside table. The mattress looks to be about three
inches thick on old springs, and it looks pretty filthy, mottled with urine-yellow stains. The room
is lit by a small light in the ceiling. Atop the dresser is a silver key. The key is marked ROOF
S4: The room is tiny and consists of only a 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. Lying beside
the pills is a rusty-looking key, labeled “Main Stairwell.”
S12: They step into a cramped room with a gross bed, one window and an old-fashioned, black
phone seated on a small table.
S14: The last door, S14, is also unlocked, and it has a note taped to it that says, “If Jonathan
looks calm, he can be taken out of his cell.” The tiny room is devoid of life, human or otherwise.
The bed in S14 isn’t set in the corner as the beds in the other solitary rooms had been. This one is
turned perpendicular to the room, nearly spanning its meager width. Resting on top of this bed is
a box of some kind; an old strongbox, the kind of stuff to put valuables in and hide somewhere in
the shoe closet. And whoever owned the box and its contents was, at the very least, interested in
their security, though perhaps ‘paranoid’ would be more accurate. The latch is secured with a
strange type of padlock, wider than most usually seen on a box like this. There is no keyhole on
the bottom, but rather, an indentation on the left side with a long series of strange grooves. But
the box’s owner wasn’t just content with sealing his property with a weird padlock, he also
apparently was intent on keeping the box itself right where it was, for he had somehow welded
steel loops to the outside skin of the box, big ones, and looped through these rings is some
hardcore steel chain, and a lot of it. The chain crisscrosses the entire bed, going under and
looping around before finally coming out the other side. Crazy house or not, whoever came up
with this was no idiot. He did a great job. The box isn’t moving. The chain is linked ultimately
by a wheel lock, similar to the ones on bicycle locks but much larger and stronger. There are four
wheels with numbers from one to nine.
Pulling out that key found in the records room downstairs, the unusual-looking thing with the
purple bull etched on it, and sliding the tines of the key into the lock, and pressing it as it rests,
causes there to be a healthy click, and the lock shoots open. Removing it from the latch and
trying to open the box…
Unfortunately, that isn’t happening. The chains that hold the box secure to the bed also
apparently keeps the lid from being open even when the box itself is unlocked. No matter it is
tugged and pulled, one cannot get it even nearly loose enough to pry the lid. Congratulations to
whatever madman came up with this.
What is the likelihood that the box’s contents are in any way going to be useful?

The wheel lock awaits, and taking it, turning its numbers to 9595 causes the lock to click and pop
open proudly, as if to fanfare.
The box is empty. Not empty, exactly, but filled with cotton fluff, stuffing. And strands of
human hair, long blonde ones. Pulling out the cotton fluff, hoping against hope that the
immediately visible contents aren't the only contents. Doesn’t totally disappoint, because one
can did find a piece of paper at the bottom with some poorly-scribbled handwriting on it in
pencil, and whoever wrote it pressed so hard on the pencil that he tore the paper and broke the
pencil tip.
Louise! I'll take care of you four ever. It is my destiny!

Back in the hallway, outside the room is a tiny hall with three metal doors on the left side and
one large set of double doors on the right. The doors on the left are marked ST3, ST2, ST1 in
white lettering. The PCs can check each one of these closet-sized rooms. Most of them are still
locked tight and have been for a long time.

Special Treatment Rooms: A small hallway, one the PCs haven't come across yet. There are four
doors, spaced sparingly apart like the solitary rooms, but there are only four here. The second to
the left has a note taped to it, the paper yellow with age. Written in black marker is a single line:
If Joseph looks calm, he can be taken out of his cell.

Special Treatment Room 2: Opening the door removes any doubt whatsoever as to the nature of
this particular hospital, for this room is one of those sterling trademarks of the mental health
business, the padded room. The walls, floor, and ceiling of this room are hung with white, canvas
padding reminiscent of mattresses. Even the inside of the door is cushioned in this unusual
fashion. It would be more accurate to call this a padded cell, for it is quite small.
The strangeness of the room is only amplified by its macabre décor, which the PCs smell before
they actually see it. It is old and dull, but it is still rich and coppery. The room is red—the walls,
the ceiling, the remnants of the shattered fixtures, all dripping with red. The clots and the
coppery odor that saturates the air leaves no doubt that it is blood. Blood. It soaks the left wall of
the cell, a large splash that looks as though someone threw a bucket of the stuff at it.
The center has been wiped clean, which is a matter of degree really. And what at first seems to
be just random splashes, are in fact numbers, four of them. 9595. Numbers painted in human
blood (How artistic!). Considering how much the PCs have seen in Silent Hill that makes this
grotesque display seem less abhorrent then one would expect. Looking closer and the PCs see
that someone had added a message to it, this written in marker of a color that is close enough to
blood that one might easily mistake it for such. It is a simple message, the words are sloppy and
the grammar poor; the blood has dripped some and the author’s grip on sanity is feeble at best.
Nevertheless, the PCs are able to read:
TERN TERN TERN THE NUMBERS. BETTER NOT FORGET THEM. SO I'LL RIGHT THEM
DOWN HERE. THE OTHER ONE, MY SECRET NAME.
Cryptic, to say the least. It makes no sense to the PCs now.
Special Treatment Room 3: The PCs can try the doors on both sides of the bloody cell, but only
the last one opens. The moment it does, the radio springs to life, hissing like a cornered cat. Over
that, a piteous wail is heard, and it is one the PCs recognize even without seeing its source. They
can quickly pull the door shut and back away from it, and nearly trip over some rubble on the
floor.

Back into the main hallway; it is still quiet here too. There are two doors out here that haven’t
been checked either. One door has no marking and is locked tight. The other is at the far end of
the far corridor, and this one is labeled Day Room.

Day Room: The room is incredibly large and supported by several pillars. The room had once
been a common area with tables, chairs, a refrigerator, two couches and a television. There are
chairs set in disorderly fashion all over the place and tables with board games. Toys, coloring
books, canvasses and watercolors, are also scattered around.

A quick search of the hallway turns up little. There is a pair of locker rooms that won’t open, as
well as a storeroom that is similarly out of commission. There is a broken elevator, and a small
offshoot hallway that has a door, but there is old cleaning materials and debris alike, piled in
front of it.

There is one last door, opposite of the cells, and mercifully, it does open. More merciful still is
that it leads into familiar surroundings, or at least, into a location recognizable. It is the third
floor hallway.

Basement: The single flight of stairs is steep. Most of the basement lies out of sight to the left.
In the basement, and the walls and floors are old and institution-yellow, with cracked tiles and a
dingy, mildewed feel. In the middle of the room is a bathtub. Half of the fluorescent lights are
out, and many of the tiles have fallen from the walls, revealing dark and oozy earth beneath.

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

The stairs are tiled and sheathed with checkered rubber to prevent slipping. The hand rails are
stainless steel and solid. As the stairs are ascended the high-pitched screeching noise from before
continues unabated and still sounds off regularly. By the time the PCs made it back up to the
third floor, it has stopped being heard.

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

First PC: There seems to be steam filling the spiral stairway. The brass railing begins to look
more like an uncoiled intestine. The steps are so slimy as to feel gelatinous underfoot. The
overhead tunnel is oozing tendrils of gluey foulness through misshapen tiles, the rails seem to be
writhing like salted worms.

When the floor is reached, a new monster greets them. It has the small body of a child, but it
looks like someone had pulled its skin off, revealing its pulsating flesh. It wears the same t-shirt
and unbuttoned raincoat the girl had been wearing, but these clothes are filthy and drenched in
blood. Its feet have grown together and it walks on crutches, making a sad noise that almost
sounds like a human being, crying. Its head is wrapped in bandages soaked in a gooey yellowish
liquid – Tears?

The inside of the room is dark, but thanks to the light they can make out that this had once been
some sort of examination room. A tattered surgical curtain hangs from its broken pole across a
rotting examination bed. Dry blood covers the bed and what might have been a hand protrudes
grimly from beneath the edge of the curtain.

Room C4: Like C2, it appears that this one had also been put to use as a storage area. There are
medicine cabinets, old furniture, a floor lamp, a dismantled sink, and all sorts of other old junk.

Shining the light in the direction, picking out the edge of an aged desk, an old mahogany relic
that may have once looked nice, but is now worn and chipped in a dozen different places. It also
has several drawers and the remains of an obviously broken typewriter cluttered atop it.
Shuffling forward with rising dread they edge toward the desk.

Bang! The PC spin back to the door, just in time to hear the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Walking over to the door and trying the handle; it refuses to budge, locked nice and solid.

A low rumble echoes from the far end of the room. At first, it just it seems like one of the several
settling noises of the old building, a very low thrumming sound, at first sounding like a running
furnace.

Then, the sound intensifies. It doesn’t necessarily grow louder, but it grows stronger, more
powerful and more apparent. It also starts to fluctuate in pitch, strange as the cold, mournful
songs and cries of some species dwelling in the deepest reaches of the sea. But while whale
songs are often melodic, this is not. Whale songs are rather beautiful. This sounds thick and
phlegmy.

The PC twists toward it involuntarily, to see if he/she can find the source of the sound. Nothing
makes itself readily-known, everything looks as it had a minute ago. From somewhere near the
back of the room, there is a slither and a snarl and the radio begins to emit a slow drumming
sound.

Something brushes by the PC’s ear. Whatever it is, it’s light and it prickles, but it is
unmistakable, too. The surprise and fear hits at the exact same time. Desire to get away clashes
with the fact that they aren’t quite expecting to need to. Thus, when the PC back up suddenly,
her/his feet aren’t quite geared up for the task. He/she slips and falls backwards, yelling as he/she
does so. His/her weapons falls from his/her grip and clatters noisily on the tile.
If she/he aims the light in each direction around to determine what is in here with them, the light
gives nothing that their eyes can tell them that anything is wrong. It might just be nerves, which
are certainly taxed beyond their limits already. Nerves. He/she could have imagined being
touched. Then again, perhaps some of these monsters are invisible to the human eye.

So it is either his/her imagination or he/she is just missing something. And he/she can still see
nothing, so they must roll a Perception roll to realize an important fact:

There are ceiling tiles missing.

Said ceiling is covered in insulated foam tiles, the kind seen in basically any kind of modern
public building. Some are yellowed and sagging, but all of them are still intact, except for two.

Had they been there before? The PC certainly hadn’t noticed two black holes above his/her head
a minute ago.

In the event that the PC approaches one of the holes, it is when he/she is almost underneath it
when the low sound suddenly intensifies, as if excited. The PC may duck away quickly, expecting
something to come shooting out of the hole above. Nothing does, but his/her heart is racing,
blood pounds in his/her ears. Yet, nothing makes an appearance so far.

Movement comes out of the corner of the eye. He/she swings around to see… the vague
impression of something moving across the ceiling above the desk.

Feet. There are feet coming out of the ceiling. They curl and flex repeatedly, rolling around with
no apparent thought. They are lowering. They are descending. Feet give way to long, thin legs
that look just too small to be human. They are a sickly, jaundiced yellow color, mottled with
brown and black spots, as if infected with a fungus. As they lower, the legs and feet move with
greater excitement. It looks as though they are groping for something.

Then a box of some sort is seen, not a box exactly but more like an iron frame, a cage with no
bars that this new creature seems to be suspended in. The creature hangs vertically before the PC,
the absence of skin emphasizing its abnormal muscular structure, an unnaturally thick torso and
arms dwarfing its spindly legs. Iron bars have been driven through its shoulders to form the
support of a cage framework that shrouds the creature's body.

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 these intruders, and then it starts
pulling its grotesque, skinless form across the ceiling lattice's and into the arc of light cast by
their flashlight.
It starts moving. It is coming at the PC.

The door is locked, which effectively eliminates the possibility of escape, but that is all that the
PC wants now. There is clang of metal and one can see the thing moving in the back. The PC’s
head is throbbing and his/her frustration is growing.

If fired upon, the shots fill the room with percussion, the bullets cause a shower of blood to
almost radiate, some of it splashing on the PC. Its wounds leak, and a puddle of crimson litter the
floor. And for all that, it might as well not have even been touched, for the cage still comes forth
inexorably, and the bottled bag with legs inside of it still quivers and shakes. Perhaps its
increasingly frantic writhing is a sign of pain or injury, but even with that, it still comes forward,
now less than two feet away.

The PC hears another clang of metal and a menacing grunt from behind him/her. He/she can now
see two shapes moving around in the back. Two more of the creatures loom out of the darkness
to flank the first, one either side, each as twisted as the other. How in the hell are they moving?
No support can be seen. Is it floating? Is that even possible?

No escape. No escape. No escape.

The lead creature begins to rock itself back and forth, increasing its arc with every motion. They
drift towards the PC like ghosts floating in the Ether, silent except for the occasional rattling of
metal, though the drumming of the radio makes their approach seem like an executioner’s march.

No escape.

A loud, sharp hiss is heard, and looking up reveals that the second hole is no longer empty,
either. Feet fall from the heavens and are only inches away from the PC’s face. The creature
swings back, its angle of motion the greatest yet, and brings the lower bar of its cage, with
explosive force, into contact with the PC’s chin.

No escape.

The PC’s head ricochets of the doors causing stars to explode before his/her eyes.

No escape.

The creature is already swooping towards him/her. He/she ducks under its feet and sprints to the
center of the room, his/her heart and head pounding with the drums on the radio. The creature
slowly begins to turn, but he/she fires first.

There is a shriek like the wail of a banshee heralding death, and the creature before the PC
suddenly stops mid-flight. Its legs convulse and then stiffen, the two glints of light disappear and
its form stays still as stone. The lead creature then releases its grip on the ceiling, slamming to
the floor and toppling sideways.
No escape.

Two more feet. Another one has come down behind while he/she were worrying about the other
two. It was there all along and now the PC has stumbled right into it like a fool, though now the
PC has barely enough time to register the fact. The feet lunge towards the PCs like lightning, far
too fast to avoid. They grab the PCs by the throat. They are cold, ice cold. They are slick and
they smell like ancient sweat, urine and oil. And they are strong, oh are they ever strong. He/she
tries to tuck his/her chin in but the creature’s feet are strong and already have an iron grip on
his/her carotid arteries, leaving him/her with only a few precious seconds of consciousness
remaining.

No escape

The PC’s head is jerked upwards with the pressure, and his/her eyes feel ready to pop out of right
of their heads. The PC may try to yell for help, try to scream. There is nobody around but he/she
neither realizes nor cares. They can’t yell and they can’t scream and they can’t breathe. The
pressure around their necks quickly becomes pain as they feel their feet leave the ground.

No escape.

He/she does not have time to think his/her way through his/her next action. She/he points the gun
towards the creature with a slightly unsteady hand and empties the clip into it. After he/she fires
his/her last shot, he/she can feel darkness closing in around him/her. He/she does not know if
he/she has killed it. His/her head is dizzy, spots and stars flood his/her vision, there is a ringing
in his/her ears, and he/she is utterly exhausted.

The PC feels being turned over and rough, damp, skinless hands gripping his/her ankles as the
world begins to close in around him/her, the walls themselves beginning to twist and distort,
screaming in pain and terror.

No escape

Even hitting the things with his/her hands seems ineffective, and shooting is useless as they have
dropped the pistol and even still the PC can barely raise their arms. His/her lungs are on fire as
she/he fights desperately to inhale that wonderful, sweet oxygen they are long accustomed to.
Then they too swell, and the crazy thought shoots through their minds, which will go first, their
necks or their lungs?

No escape

The PC’s mind starts to drift away. The horrible bag-cage creatures fill his/her vision, but that is
fading too. A halo of gray creeps in from the edges and makes its way slowly towards the center.
As the PC’s mind slips inexorably away in its demonic vise, thoughts hover at the fringes. The
PC can’t believe it is going to end this way. Tears burst forth from his/her eyes, and the feeling
of them on their nearly-purple cheeks is just about the last of feeling. The gray halo marches into
the center. The capital has fallen. The PC’s head rolls back, completely limp, and their eyes roll
back even farther.

No escape.

The pain in his/her head vanishes and he lets/she silence and darkness dissolve the world around
him/her…The last thing to register is, of all things, a sound.

Sirens.

The PC hears sound just like the ones that saved them from the red pyramid thing. They
forestalled their end once. Now they announce it, wailing like a mourner, fittingly.

Then, they fade as well.

Then there is only nothing.

Then, there only darkness.

No escape.

The Transition of the Second Player Character:

Second Floor Linen Room: It is when they are halfway into the room that it happens.
The broad, undefined circle of light at the end of the flashlight beam begins to dim as though it
has run into a thick blanket of smoke. Except there are no swirling eddies, no gray reflected light.
It is as if the beam has met something solid, something that is devouring its brightness.
Something dark.
You blink rapidly. It has to be your imagination. There is a movement coming towards, you but
there is no shape, no substance. No, it has to be the flashlight batteries; they are dying, the light
becoming dim. But there is still a bright beam along its length, only fading towards the very end.
For what seems like a few seconds, absolutely nothing happens. Then, what can only be
described as a wave of dread suddenly seems to fill the room, emanating from the closet door.
The closet in the bedroom takes up most of the wall, and it doesn’t have an ordinary door with a
knob; it is too big for that. Instead, it has two wooden panels on tracks that can slide back and
forth in either direction. One of the panels is jammed and will not close completely, leaving
about a two-inch gap on the left side.
The two-inch space between the panel and the frame seems to stare dully at the PCs, like a dead
eye. For another moment nothing happens; there is only cloying dread and silence. Then some
kind of movement is detected behind the closet door. There is no sound and nothing can be seen.
Then they get their first glimpse of it: the monster in the closet, the ‘Fraid. Right after they feel
the movement in the closet, it becomes visible through the crack. At first, it looks like part of the
darkness seems to shift, to coalesce, forming not quite visible but nonetheless solid shapes,
lumps of pulsing and denser blackness within the greater blackness.
Then, four pitch-black fingers curl around the edge of the wooden panel from the inside, fingers
that are eight or nine inches long and end in points.
Slowly, as if savoring the moment, whatever those fingers are attached to slide the panel aside,
revealing only darkness. Even with the door open, the light from the rest of the room does not
enter the closet. The darkness in there is like a tangible thing—in fact, it is a tangible thing. For
another endless moment, nothing happens. Then, within the amorphous blackness, two large,
pure-white eyes slowly open, as if disembodied, as if floating in the air. The eyes are large,
bright like tow tiny lanterns. The color is odd: white, moon-pale, with the faintest trace of silvery
blue.
Once the eyes appear, the darkness seems to spill out of the closet and onto the bedroom floor.
There it wells up on itself and takes shape, forming a huge, slender, humanoid figure with four-
foot arms that ended in the same eight-inch fingers seen before. It doesn’t have legs; instead it
tapers down to a two-dimensional shadow on the floor. The eyes move up through the thing's
body, finally stopping when they reach the head. It seems to be somehow two-dimensional and
three-dimensional at the same time.
The ‘Fraid.
Then it begins to move in a silent slither towards them, then pauses and looks down them.
Slowly, it raises its arms and spread its hideous, snaky fingers. Then, with a sudden burst of
movement, the ‘Fraid swarms over the PC and covers him/her like a thing layer of icy mist, a
spreading flood of darkness. Its grabbing darkness has weight, which collapses, presses down,
and begins to squeeze.
It grows colder and denser. The PC feels that he/she is simultaneously smothering and freezing.
The darkness swallows the walls, the floor, the world outside, and everything. The PC is helpless
as the darkness runs up the neck, quickly spreading all over his/her head and then—revoltingly—
the face. There is a squeezing sensation . A moment of unbelievable tension and horror, then—
Darkness.

The Fall of the Third Player Character:

Roof: The PC reaches the top, and finds that there are no more stairs. This is it. The letters ‘RF’
tells the PC that he/she found the building’s roof. The roof door is locked, but it opens with a
rusty creak when the key is used.
The roof is flat and it is empty. The gravel footing of the roof rattles underfoot as the PC makes
her/his way to the elevator room. The entire perimeter of the roof is encircled by more fencing
that comes up to six feet, which was to keep any wandering patients from walking or leaping off
of the roof to their deaths. There is a pair of oil drums in one corner, ugly and rusted. There is a
small building with a door marked “Electrical”, but the knob is as broken as glass on the door’s
window.
Turning to go back to the door he/she came in from, when he/she nearly trips taking his/her first
step. Looking down he/she sees a small spiral notebook. It has been out in the weather some time
and most of the pages are stuck together and the ink has washed through.
It is a diary, and one that hadn’t been kept long. There are only four days of entries and the rest
of the pad is blank.

May 9 - rain. stared out the window all day. peaceful here. nothing to do. still not allowed to go
outside.

May 10 - still raining. talked with the doctor a little. would they have saved me if i didn't have a
family to feed? i know I'm pathetic, weak. not everyone can be strong.

May 11 - rain again. the meds made me feel sick today. if i'm only better when i'm drugged, then
who am i, anyway?

May 12 - rain as usual. i don't want to cause any more trouble for anyone, but i'm a bother
either way. can it really be such a sin to run instead of fight? some people may say so, but they
don't have to live in my shoes. it may be selfish, but it's what i want. it's too hard like this. it's just
too hard.

May 13 - it's clear outside. the doctor told me i've been released - that i've got to go home. i--
The last entry is a depressing monologue about being trapped in illusion and how it might be
preferable to reality at this point. It ends by saying that perhaps the writer was about to be
released, but the entry wasn’t finished. It seems as though something surprised the diarist, for the
last entry is a long, abrupt slash across the paper with his pen, as if the arm had been grabbed
while still working. One wonders why this diary is on the roof, perhaps getting the impression
that this patient jumped.
Continuing to make his/her way to the elevator room. The door of the small structure opens
easily at a touch, but inside—whether there had been stairs or an elevator once—there is only a
dark wall now that descends as far as they can see. The door, cab, cables, and mechanism has
been salvaged, leaving a hole in the building. His/her foot kicks a piece of gravel down. It
bounces against the walls as it falls, but though they listen for a long time, he/she never hears it
land.
He/she hears a door slam. A metal door. The one leading to the stairwell. It is like hearing a
gunshot at close range in the gloomy silence.
Then he/she sees him. He/she sees him at the same time he/she hear him, hear the scraping of
heavy steel on concrete, the ominous sound of a heavy blade being dragged along the ground.
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, blood-
red from crown to tip, that metal head cocked to one side, in that half-bemused expression that is
at the same time so horribly malevolent. The PC feels him, too. Feels that anger, that hate, that
loathing, and that fear. That thick molasses of terror that keeps the PC rooted where he/her is
standing for just a second too long with eyes goggling open and mouth even wider.
Too long.
With impossible speed, the red pyramid thing swings his oversized sword at the PC’s midsection,
swinging it sideways. Leaping backwards, the tip of the blade so close to disemboweling that
you could have bridged the gap with a finger.
The PC isn’t cut, but when they do leap back, fear has given the PCs a little too much strength.
The PC overbalances, falling backwards into the elevator shaft. 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 they are falling yet again with a shower of busted concrete falling with them.
The PCs is then hit by something even harder and their 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.
25The Transition of the Fourth Player Character:

There is double door at the M corridor.

It wasn’t there before.

A large metal partition comes slamming down, sealing off the hallway behind them.

Everything is dark…and slow…

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

THE ALTERNATE BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL:

Arrival: The PCs think their eyes are open now. They think they are seeing something. They
know they are feeling something. They are rolling. Not like logrolling, but rather, being rolled.
Being pushed. Their eyes are open but they can only roll so far on their own, and their heads
aren’t willing to help out. It isn’t like they are tied down, because they would have felt the
pressure of rope or straps, and the PCs do not. All they can do is lay there with their eyes open,
watching the dark ceiling pass by.

There is something really odd about it, though. The PCs really notice until their vision begins to
sharpen a bit, but once it does, it is obvious.

There is no ceiling.

Maybe there is, but the only thing they see are hanging air vents, exposed piping and old, frayed
electrical wiring poking out in random tufts. Its not just that everything is exposed, but
everything looks old. Possibly hundreds of years old. Everything metal is covered in thick,
scabrous rust that is a deep crimson hue resembling fresh blood.
For an eternity it seems like the PCs are being carted along this endless corridor, from where and
to where they have no idea. Their wits and senses begin to come back to them, and with that the
less they feel disoriented. Though, as they see more of their surroundings, perhaps the more they
wish they could return to blissful oblivion. Fear seeps back into them, filling the vacuum left
behind by their subconscious detachment.

The room they awaken in is very dark, though there is just enough light to see by.

At that moment each of their bodies are overwhelmed by that peculiar sensation of needles and
pins as blood pours into veins and arteries and capillaries that seem to have been out of use for a
length of time. Each is seized by the sudden and tremendous force of it, and their bodies
convulse uncontrollably. It is so extraordinarily shocking that they collapse to the ground,
moaning and wailing and wishing for it to stop. It isn’t exactly painful, but the strength and the
extent of the sensation is so completely overwhelming. They are experiencing sensory overload.
And, for the moment, there is nothing they can do about it except lie there twitching and allow
their bodies to get themselves back in gear and get their blood flowing again. They do, but it is a
slow, torturous process, and more than once they think for certain it is going to drive them over
the edge of insanity. It is several endless minutes before they are even able to stand. It felt like
the PCs have suffered some sort of total shutdown of the circulatory system, from head to toe.

They awake slowly, an all-too-familiar pain throbbing behind their eyes and a coppery tasting
liquid oozing from their noses and mouths. The PCs lay there for a long time before,
concentrating solely on not choking to death on their own blood before they are ready to try and
lift themselves. Letting their heads hang limply on their necks, the PCs push themselves wearily
to their knees, blood dripping lazily from their swollen lips and tender noses.

The area they find themselves in is very small, on all sides are high walls made of stark, naked
concrete, which are stained everywhere by a combination of rust, dirt, and just plain age. 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. The smell in the air is a myriad of stenches: death, decay, pestilence hangs in the air like a
cloud, so thick one can almost grab it with one’s own hands. It is hot, wet, nasty and sickening.
Now the air is warm and muggy, and has that sort of unpleasant thickness that makes breathing
more difficult. Inside of this place, the warmth and humidity only serve to amplify all of the
sensual properties of the nastiness that pervades the entire area, none of which are pleasant. The
floor is slick with wet filth.

Yes, the PCs are still in the hospital, but what in the hell happened to it? They blacked out, that
much they know for a fact. It doesn’t seem like they were out of commission longer than a few
hours, at least, not to their minds. There was the almost complete cutoff of blood flow to
consider, but even that couldn’t have been more than maybe four or five hours. Yet, if they are
really still in Brookhaven Hospital, and having to judge by their surroundings, they have to guess
that they were unconscious for a hundred years at least. Before, the place looks neglected and
abandoned, unused for several years. Now it looks like the entire building is suffering from the
late stages of some kind of terminal cancer. It looks rotten, it looks diseased. It isn’t just the look
of the place, either. It smells weak and sickly. The reality of the situation is that the PCs are
faced with the task of searching this hospital all over again, and that was hard enough when
things looked more normal. Perhaps through some impossible means they have remained
unconscious for a very long time, years or even decades. There is a lot to suggest that it is
possible. Everything does look severely aged compared to how it did before. The climate is also
completely different.

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”.

26C1: Peeling paint, crumbling stucco, rusting wrought iron, sagging ceiling, and a pustulant-
looking 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 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. The elevator is still
working, though it seems to move much more slowly and the doors are scratched and dented.

Vision One: The PCs are on a game show, in an audience of people who are wearing funny
costumes. They themselves are dressed as hospital patients, wearing pajamas and a bandage
around their heads. The host of the show stands beside them. “Hi there everybody, thanks for
tuning in. Welcome to another exciting edition of ‘trick or treat!’” He says with syrupy
enthusiasm. “Do you want to keep the thousand dollars you’ve already won, or do you want to
trade it for whatever’s behind curtain number one!” The PCs look at the stage and see that there
are three hospital beds concealed by privacy curtains. If the PCs refuse, or say nothing, the host
will say “Oh, do you really think that’s wise? Are you really sure you’re making the right
decision?” And then the host looks around at the studio audience, flashing his white0white teeth
in a big smile. “What do you think, audience? Should they keep the thousand, considering how
little a thousand dollars will buy in these times of inflation, or should they trade it for what’s
behind curtain number one?” The audience roars in unison: “Trade it! Trade it!” The host—who
now looks distinctly satanic, with arched eyebrows and terrible dark eyes, and wicked mouth,
says “You’ll take the curtain, because its really what you deserve. You have it coming to you.
The curtain! Let’s see what’s behind curtain number one!”
On the stage, the curtain encircling the first hospital bed is whisked aside, and two nurses are
sitting on the edge of the bed. They are both holding scalpels, and the stage lights glint on the
razor-sharp cutting edges of the instruments.
The nurses rise off the bed and start across the stage, heading towards the audience, towards the
PCs, their scalpels held out in front of them.
The audience roars with delight and applauds.

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. 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. 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.
Then, heard a different noise is heard.
At first, it seems like just one of the many colorful sounds that one hears if they pay attention to
air circulation. After all, who hasn’t been at least momentarily surprised by the sudden activation
of a furnace?
But it isn’t a furnace. It is a wet sound. Wet, and nasty. And it isn’t coming from the vent.
Three things happen within perhaps a quarter of a second.
The radio suddenly comes to life, blaring out its ever-present static as if it were the herald of
sudden doom.
The wet, mushy noise becomes a crescendo, a wailing scream that skirts such a fine line between
natural and unnatural, making it all the more terrifying.
Finally, and definitely worst of all, is the hollow, powerful sound of a heavy object being swung.
One can just hear the whistling sound it makes from its motion before it strikes the wall beside
the PCs. They have just enough presence of mind to see what has just been swung at them and
register it for what it is: A large, rusty piece of steel piping. The business end of it tears a gaping
chunk out of the wall, having been wielded with enough force to bury the head several inches
into the wall. It turns out to be quite a good thing that their unseen assailant had put so much
muscle into the attack, for it is trying to retrieve its weapon, and that gives them a few wonderful
seconds to recover and attempt to defend themselves.
Then, their eyes fall upon what had swung the weapon. At a cursory glance, the attacker appears
quite human, possessing a long, slender figure, and distinctly feminine features as well, round
hips, large breasts. Its thinness gives it an illusion of height, though it cannot be more than five
feet and eight inches tall. It looks quite a bit more human than any of the town’s other inhabitants
so far, with the exception of the red pyramid thing. Also unlike the other monsters, this one
wears clothing, an outfit, more accurately. A short skirt and a top that displays some ample
bosom, topped off by a little folded cap that one might see on a sailor.

Or a nurse.

Of course. A nurse.

It is dressed in rags that had once been a nurse’s uniform though the only current indicator is the
faded red cross on the dirty hat that sits on its skull. But it is hardly the type of outfit one would
ever see a real nurse wear while on duty. It is a parody of a real nurse’s uniform, one that seems
intentionally designed to appear sexual, something only a stripper or an adventurous lover would
ever really wear. Perhaps on a real woman, it would look sexy. But what stands in front of them,
struggling to retrieve its weapon, that thing is not human. Not even close.

It finally tugs the pipe free from the wall, and then stands there its left shoulder droops below its
right, weighed down by the large, rusty metal pipe in its left hand, not moving, almost as if it
were admiring the thing. The iodine smell is thick around the creature, like the smell of old
bloody bandages.
Apparently the monster realizes that it now faces a threat of its own, for it turns to face them just
as they raise their weapons.
The nurse’s face...
It has no face.
Simply smooth from ear to ear, and from hairline to the rounded bottom of the chain, the color of
the rest of it.

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. It flies in every direction and it does so with impossible speed, faster than the
muscles of anything its size should be able to operate. One half-expects the head to tear itself
right off of its neck, but it doesn’t. Instead, the nurse stumbles around blindly, head thrashing as
it screams a terrible, inhuman scream, one that sounds equal parts rage and pain. The creature
doesn’t seem to pose a threat now, yet the morbid scene is fascinating in a terrible way, and one
cannot pull one’s eyes away from it.
The nurse’s blind meanderings eventually make it walk face-first into a wall, making a sound
like hard plastic cracking when it does so. It falls backwards to the floor, lying prone on its back.
That damnable screeching continues as its limbs flail uselessly, like an insect.
Perhaps it is suffering its death throes, but there is only one means to makes certain.
A blunt object crashing down upon the nurse’s midsection causes that same crushed plastic
sound to be heard. Several more times and finally, the nurse’s struggles slow, and ceases as it
finally dies, letting out one long, raspy moan as it does. It is like the others in another way. It
smells like strong, thick rot, like wet meat gone way over.

The pipe lies on the floor a short distance away, and the PCs can retrieve it. Even though it
originally belongs to something that shouldn’t logically exist, even though it had been used to
nearly decapitate them, the feel of it is reassuring, giving at least a slight sense of safety.

They turn and look at the body of the nurse, which lies sprawled on the floor, spread-eagle,
looking disturbingly like an unconscious rape victim. They stand before the body of the nurse,
expecting it to rise any minute; expectation so high they just know they will beat it into pulp if it
just dares to move an inch; but the nurse doesn’t even show the head convulsions it had
previously shown.

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.

27Nurse’s Locker Room: 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 covered in dried blood, trapped
by a grid of barbed wire. 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.

Doctor’s Locker Room: The suffocating humidity thickens in the locker room stink of mildew
and sweat. Beneath their feet the chainlink floor clangs and quivers.
Then they hear it.
Off in the lockers somewhere.
The sound of a phone ringing.
The PCs stop. The phone keeps on ringing, its sound thin and insistent.
They take a few steps forward. Another and another.
The telephone keeps on ringing, demanding an answer.
Stepping over the bullet-ridden bodies of several nurses, the PCs cast aside the locker to reveal a
decrepit payphone heaped inside. Slowly they approach the pay phone. They stare at the receiver
as if it might be a snake rearing back to strike. They do not want to answer it.
28Answering, 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.
29Day Room: The door to the east wing is barred, but the Day Room door opens with ease. The
room had once been a common area with tables, chairs, a refrigerator, two couches and a
television. But, like the rest of the hospital, it is now a ruin. Burnt walls appear to pulse and
grating clanks under their feet. The chairs and tables are cracked and broken and have been
strewn about the floor. Wheelchairs loom like twisted art sculptures, and other strange shapes
idle in the darkness, but nothing moves or slithers on the floor; no enemies or obstructions block
their way. The television screen has been smashed in and the antennae are bent and rusted. The
upholstery on the couches has rotted and the refrigerator lies on its back; it is dented with a large
jagged concrete slab that had probably been part of the ceiling lying at an odd angle on top of it.
The windows are boarded up as is the door on the far side of the room.

Third Floor: Finally, an eternity later, the bell dings again, and the doors whoosh open into the
pitch-dark hallways of what was once the Solitary Wing years ago. The doors shake and shudder
as they open with a small squeal. The hallway is clear and the radio is silent. If the PCs happened
to hold any tiny hope that the third floor will look as they remembered it, it doesn’t last past their
first view. The walls are stained green with mold and mildew, and the amorphous coverage is all
but total. There is a wet stench in the air from all of it, and it is even warmer up here.

S Corridor Door: It isn’t the loud, squalling orgy of noise it is when the threat is imminent, but it
is more than just white noise. This is the first time noticed that it is picking up on monsters
through walls and doors. With the radio still sounding its muted warning of doom, the PCs
carefully turn the knob, making as little noise as possible, opening the door just wide enough,
and poking their head around the corner.

S Corridor: The radio starts buzzing and squealing, but the PCs can already see why. The door
opens into another hallway, with this end being slightly wider and narrowing out farther down.
There it is. One of them is in the corner, opposite of the door. In this little wide area, one can see
another one of the nurses standing about five feet in front of them with its back facing them. It
stands facing the corner. It isn’t moving at all, save for a sort of drunken swaying as it stands in
place. It looks more or less identical to the one that almost killed them, wearing the same
provocative nurse outfit, sporting the same grotesque shapeliness, and carrying a pipe that looks
too much like the one they retrieved from the previous nurse.

The combination of light and noise certainly galvanizes the monster into motion.

Examining the doors along the hallway reveals that most of them still retain their padlocks. In
fact, the passage of time has basically fused many of the locks to the latches they rested in. It
doesn’t really matter though, because door S11, is the only one besides S3 that is left unlocked.
Even S16 now has a crusty, rusty padlock preventing access and that room wasn’t there before.

The plates on the doors are overgrown and illegible, but the third door from the end is still
unlatched and it is the only one that is. The door to S3, like most of the metal doors, is rusted and
dented. The handle is slick with what feels like fuzzy moss, but the door opens without much
trouble.
30S3: 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.

31Examination Room Four: In the center of the room is another body, wrapped head to toe in
filthy brown cloth. It is hanging by barbed wire that is wrapped around its wrists and ankles; the
spikes on the wire are deeply embedded into the skin; the blood from the wounds drips down and
falls into a single shiny silvery bucket placed beneath it.
There is a little rustling sound coming from the bucket. They can see something that looks like
hair in the bucket. Inside is a man’s head, floating in a pool of blood, his eyes wide and insane,
looking at the PCs. His lips begin to move, forming words, but no sound, for there are no lungs
to push air through his larynx. Yet still his lips keep moving in what seems to be silent pleas. But
pleas for what? And then he opens his mouth wide and screams—silently.
Day Room: 32The 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 grey 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 four-
pack 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. Around the corner there is full-
length mirror in front of a wash basin and sink. Approaching the mirror, they begin not to
recognize themselves in the dingy mirror. But 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, it will start coming out of the drain and
tendril its way across the floor on their side of the mirror, and the PCs’ reflection will start to
become covered in blood, while tendrils slowly seep into their half of the room. 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, they are
out of luck, because the door to the room has locked behind them and the membrane that covers
the walls also covers the door. Eventually, the reflection of the PCs will become entirely covered
in blood, and stops mirroring their images, instead simply standing still, as if appendant to the
floor by the gore that has suddenly made its presence very known. Fortunately, the PCs have not
met the same fate and are able to escape the room, for once the mirror PCs are immobile, the
door to the Storeroom unlocks itself and they can leave, but only if they go and look at the other
reflection in the mirror! If they do not watch the reflection in the mirror, they will not be able to
leave the room, and the tendrils will continue inflicting damage.

Main Hallway: The specialty rooms on the other side of the hall are also all inaccessible. The
door leading to the main hallway is still functioning though, and opening it requires more
muscle-work. Once it has opened enough to permit it, the PCs can slide through and the retractor
pulls the door shut behind them with a dry, metallic groan. There is now a raging storm outside
and as one walks around in the halls one suddenly sees these three little figures down one of the
long halls. They also see the PCs and start running toward them. As they get closer one can
better make out their features and only freeze in horror. They are child-sized, mostly human
creatures. About the size of an average 11 year old. They are hairless, with light grey skin and
blank white eyes. Their faces are partially rotted, in fact their noses are completely gone and
small lacerations littered their bodies. They also have pointed ears. The only clothing they wear
are tattered hospital gowns. They run at the visitor, each wielding a single syringe with a very
long needle, filled with a glowing green substance. When they get about 5 feet from the PCs,
they stop and just stare for a time. It isn’t until one turns around and runs the other way that they
continue their pursuit, almost as if they are playing some twisted game.

Closing the door, they then hear a muted whack, which is followed by another. A moment later,
there is more and more, and soon it is a terrifying, arrhythmic percussion line as all three
creatures beat furiously on the door with their pipes. They might be able to break through
eventually, but it won’t be any time soon, and it doesn’t seem as though they possess the
intelligence to simply try the doorknob. As long as they lean against it, it probably isn’t going to
be opened. The beating eases somewhat as the bracing PCs into a standing position. Evidently,
the things must have started to lose interest, because the thumping on the door becomes less
intense and not nearly as rapid. It finally stops altogether as the PCs grip the handrail and started
to ascend the stairs to the roof.

Roof: Once they reach the top of the stairs, where the door to the hospital’s roof was...It’s gone!
Not to say that meaning that there is a missing door, the door and the frame are simply not there.
Instead, the PCs found themselves staring at a blank concrete wall. It is if there had never been a
door there to begin with, only smooth, cool concrete. But there are also things that make them
unsure of this theory, and this is certainly the most compelling of them all. A door has simply
vanished. Someone would have had to actually remove that. It would require construction, and
careful construction at that, to make this possible, and considering the state of things, that might
even begin to accept that as possible, but logic and common sense simply do not hold sway here.
Back to the Stairway: It comes from down below. A strange noise. A sudden shrill cry.
Something is squealing a sudden shrill cry, and it is squealing repeatedly. Cautiously, the PCs
continue downward, listening to the strange noise. At first, the regularity of it makes the PCs
think it is some kind of mechanical sound or insectile trilling, but as they get closer, it sounds
more and more like a infantile whine, baby's screech, or perhaps that of a piggish screech, but the
pitch is wrong, far too high to be either. It is not a sound associated with any creatures they have
yet encountered.
Along with the sound is a thin but noxious odor increases as they go down. Urine, feces, stale
sweat.
Basement: At the bottom there is a door directly in front. The hallway seems to continue further,
and the shrill noise---almost like an oscillating electronic wail is stronger now. Whatever it is, it
isn't very far around the corner from the PCs. The eerie warbling pulse echoes up from that
shadowy corner, and in a crude way it conveys meaning: urgency, anger---hunger. That sound is
so vile that it seems to possess a tactile quality; one can imagine that they can feel the cry itself,
like damp spectral hands, sliding over face and body, a cold and clammy sensation.
The walls are darker here, absorbing the flashlight’s glow and cutting down visibility. The
bottom yields another nasty surprise. The hallway leading to the hospital’s boiler room, pump
room, and—most importantly—electrical room is blocked. Someone has erected a length of
chain-link fencing that covers the entire span of the hallway, secured to the wall every foot or so
with strong iron bolts.
The basement is a maze of tunnels and passages—some moan with distant drafts, some alive
with sounds that are close and menacing. The noises behind the doors are louder, and as one is
assess, something on the other side thumps hard enough to be heard. An occasional broken pipe
exhales a listless plume of green steam. Some rooms have totally collapsed; others are bare, or
debris-filled. In a few can be seen masses of metal - some fairly intact, some broken, and some
crushed or battered.

In front is a rusty door that had once been marked STOREROOM in white paint.

Storeroom: The decorative equivalent of pustulent gangrenous flesh. It is almost like wading into
the cesspool of a homicidal lunatic’s chaotic inner world.

Vision Two: Now there is a man sitting in the bathtub. He's screaming so hard that his lips have
torn at the corners, making his mouth appear to be larger than it actually is. He's screaming
because he has wounds all over his entire body, little slits covering him head to toe, each
spewing blood. The blood looks watery and thin. There are so many wounds spewing so much
blood that the bathtub is full to his waist. He screams and screams in intense, horrific, agonized
pain, clutching the sides of the bathtub with both hands. Standing all around him are men and
women in white coats—doctors. They look almost bored, showing no expression whatsoever as
they gaze down at the screaming man. One doctor leans to another standing next to him and says,
"It's just a skin condition."

To their left is the west stairwell door. It had been locked before and they had paid it no
attention. But now it is decorated in some sort of strange fresco, a three-dimensional bas-relief of
a woman with a background of dark green mist. She wears a hooded black and crimson robe. Her
skin is pale and partially reflects the light. Her smile is warm but her hazel eyes are cold.
It is to her hands that the eye is drawn however. The woman's face and the décor around it are
contoured, but her arms are actually extended away from the door, crafted in full detail. It is
rather impressive-looking, and it seems as though the overgrowth has not damaged the relief, or
even touched it except on the edges. Her pale hands are outstretched with her palms facing up.
The fingers of the left hand are gentle and relaxed, as if the hand were offering a gift. But the
fingers of the right hand seem tense as though it were demanding compensation. Most significant
though, is that the hands are not part of the painting, but sculptures extending out of the painting
and into the hall. Touching, the fingers of her hand are cold like metal; slender and smooth,
except in two places. There are two rings on her fingers, one made of old copper and one made
of lead. One ring is made of old copper and has a spider engraved on it. The other is lead and at
least three times heavier despite being the same size. Its face is shaped like a distraught skull,
looking kind of like that screaming man in that Edvard Munch painting. Two old and ugly rings,
both too small for human fingers. However, they are an exact fit for the slender fingers of the
woman extending out from the door.

Slipping the copper ring on her left ring finger until it rests in its groove, then do the same with
the lead ring on the right hand. When it enters its depression, the sharp snick of the door’s lock as
it disengages is heard. The PCs turn the knob and push the door open slowly, wondering just
what might be found behind a door like this.

Hidden Stairwell: What they find is more stairs. It is a stairwell quite like the other, maybe a
little dirtier. There are no stairs going up, although really, the other stairwell doesn't need them
either.

The stairs are composed of concrete and the walls are a sooty black. The stairwell has a musty
smell to it. Dust has collected in the corners and in the various nooks and cracks, but the stairs
themselves have very little: a sign that the area has been traveled recently.

Even with the flashlight, it seems as though the darkness has gotten stronger, more palpable as
they descend. The walls look less appealing with each step. And, as the PCs loop around
downwards, there are no doors. Four, five, six flights of stairs without any doors leading out into
one of the main hallways. There is no noise at all save for the sound of feet on the concrete and
the reverberating echoes that result, yet the lower they go, the stronger the bad sensations feel.

It is almost possible to believe, from moment to moment, this is an ordinary walk down a long
flight of stairs, with diamond-grids underfoot. Almost possible, at any rate, in the dark, with the
flashlights lighting the rusty walls.

Where on earth is this leading to, anyway? Not that they have an intention of turning back. They
have committed themselves to a course of action, and if there was one thing that they had learned
through their adventures in Silent Hill, it is to press ahead. Always, to press ahead. Peril might
lie in their path, doom might await them. But no matter what the odds, there is always a chance
of success. There is nothing to be gained by turning back. Surely not now.

The stairs stop looping around after perhaps eight or nine or maybe ten, the PCs have lost count.
Now there is one long, straight set of stairs, old and worn, with rounded edges. By the time they
reach the bottom, the bad feeling that had been growing is now so strong that there is an almost-
audible 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.

There is a sound. It is long and soft, like a sleepy exhalation of air, or perhaps air being shoved
through the ventilation system by a distant circulator kicking in. The noise doesn’t sound like
anything threatening, however…
thump
A new noise. Soft, but not as soft. Louder, too.
thump thump
Again. Louder. Louder and closer.
thump thump thump
Very loud. Very close.
Threatening.
Wheeling around...
It is him.
Oh no, oh no, not now not NOW NO
It advances upon them down the hall they had just passed through. Lithe and tall, taller even then
it should be because of the enormous pointed helmet it wears. Terrifying even in its own right.
Petrifying to see it stalk you, hunt you.
And not two seconds later, the horrible visage of the red pyramid thing emerges from the corner,
not plodding as before. It is actually walking pretty fast. Far too fast. At first it can’t be seen
why. Then, its right hand is seen...
It is no longer carrying its oversized sword anymore. It now has a spear, one that is tipped with a
long, menacing head and has a body made of a long, thick wooden haft. It is almost black, by
chance or design is unknown. It isn’t important. What is important is that the spear is
considerably lighter and less awkward to carry than that massive blade, and that means a greater
danger for the PCs. It means the Pyramid Head can move. Without even slowing down, Pyramid
Head uses the spear to smash each ceiling light it passes under, leaving behind a darkness.
crash, crash, crash.
They do not wait to see what he does next. The PCs simply turn and run down the hall as fast as
they can. The PCs are not sure how fast Pyramid Head is moving or if he is even following them
and the PCs badly want to turn around, but they know that any sort of hesitation on their part can
be fatal.
The corridor twists again and they round the corner. Now the PCs can hear Pyramid Head
pursuing them.
The corners finally, mercifully give way to a long, straight-shot hallway. It is damnably long,
disappearing into the jet-black, and yet the PCs feel the dread certainty that it is insufficient, not
enough to escape that dread monstrosity that bears down on them, that leviathan with the pointed
helmet and that air of hopelessness that it projects. It is almost certainly what they had felt as
they descended that improbably long stairwell. It was him all along, and they didn’t recognize it
even though they had experienced it several times before already.
Suddenly, the darkness is pierced by a slash of light, brilliant, welcoming light, the proverbial
end of the tunnel. As they get closer, their crazy terror almost instantly transforms into crazy
relief.
An elevator!
Sprinting towards it with renewed vigor, the thought of safety and escape helping the PCs draw
upon inner reserves of energy. They run for what seems like hours down this long, endless hall,
the welcoming light always seeming to be an extra step ahead of them. Each step is torturously
slow and punctuated almost perfectly by the sensation of blood pounding through their bodies by
their tired, overworked hearts trying desperately to keep everything from falling apart and
shutting down, being driven on by the sheer terror of the monster chasing them, the fear of death
at his merciless hands, and before them, blinding and glorious, flows the industrial light of the
service elevator, its doors open and inviting…

It is the red pyramid thing’s spear, extending several inches into the elevator through the door.
The obsidian head is absolutely coated and drenched in blood. For a moment it seems as though
time has stopped completely, a photograph that exists for a nearly interminable moment.

There are buttons for the first, second and third floors, the button for the second and third floors
have apparently fallen off, so pressing the first floor button causes the elevator to shudder as it
comes to life and begins its ascent, ending where it is supposed to, with a hiss and snap. The
walls of the elevator are white and pristine, but the PCs won’t care. The movement is slow and
gentle, but the PC do not care. The elevator stops and a small bell rings, but they do not care.
Then, the doors slide open to admit the PCs to the first floor, but they do not care.

First Floor:
Front Lobby: The decay of the first floor’s east wing is not as profound as it had been on
previous floors. The paint has almost completely peeled off of the walls and large scratches run
the length of them, but there is no sign of burns or disease. The floor is intact for the most part,
though it is covered in dust and black streaks crisscross the tiles.
Making a left out of the elevator, the flashlight reflects off of the glass on the automatic doors
and the PCs can move towards them, eager to be free of this hospital and its nurses, bodies, and
memories.
But not yet.
The doors do not move. Despite the decrepit appearance of the hospital, a small red light blinks
on the swipe card terminal. Locked.
Disbelief.
The effort to undo the manual lock and trying to pull the doors apart is in vain.
Anger.
Pounding fists on the glass reveals that it is cold, hard and does very little to alleviate rage. Firing
on the doors merely wastes ammunition and slamming blunt objects against the glass of the
doors makes a loud thud that seems to reverberate through the halls of the first floor but they
show no signs of breaking. Even slamming it again and again against the glass it refuses to yield.
There are some superficial scratches on the glass, but otherwise, little has been accomplished.
Bargaining.
Director’s Office: The PCs notice the windows to the director’s room just to the right of the
hospital doors. The director would no doubt have a key. The windows are the same impenetrable
glass as the doors, but as they wander back to the hallway they find something unique about the
director’s door. Unlike the other doors in this hospital, it is composed almost entirely of wood.
Trying the knob finds it locked. This time, however, the door can be broken with a kick.
There is a tiny waiting area with a broken chair and table just inside. The door to the inner office
is broken off of its hinges and rests against the side of the wall.
It is an office of some kind, trashed and as filthy as everything else, but still unmistakably an
office. A cheap vinyl-upholstered chair is beside a large oak desk that dominates the room. There
is a wooden swivel chair, two file cabinets and a pair of unlovely metal bookcases of brownish-
grey enamel housing a disarray of books, journals, and drug company handouts. There is also a
couch of cracked brown Naugahyde, a coffee table, two folding chairs, and a spindly rubber tree
leaning against the bent Venetian blinds.
The expanse of oak on the desk is littered with manila chart folders and papers.
Mostly they consist of financial documents and policy reviews. But a memo catches their
attention:
Re: Day Trip incident.
Bruce,
I contacted Mr. Carroll and he said nothing was missing after the day trip. So Jonathan
probably made the whole thing up during one of his episodes. His doctor has requested that we
keep a copy of his “confession” though. I’ll hold on to the original. I’ll also look into replacing
all the typewriters with password controlled computers as long as you promise not to say ‘I told
you so’.
——Phil
There is a piece of carbon paper from one of the typewriters attached to the memo with a
paperclip. The text is clearly Jonathan’s “confession”
I too k the direk tors key the on e to the m oos eeum. I hid it be hind the prey ing woman whe n I
w ent out for the day trip. I pick ed it up bu t I did not s teal it. Im not a krim minal.
Setting the memo aside and continuing to sift through the papers. At the very bottom of the pile
are an envelope. There is no name written upon it, but there is something inside: a map and a
note written in black ink with careful hand on plain white paper.
“He who is not bold enough to be stared at from across the Abyss is not bold enough to stare
into it himself. The truth can only be learned by marching forward. I’ll be waiting at Neely’s
Pub. There’s a letter and a wrench.”
The map is of Silent Hill and a red X is drawn on Neely’s Bar. Written in black ink and in
handwriting identical to the note, are the words, “They found him here.” There is something
familiar about the handwriting. Then it comes to them: The man with the broken neck, the first
note they found by him had handwriting like this.
First Floor Examination Room: The PCs should be sickened that the surface of the wooden desk
is bloodstained and there are deep cuts in it, but on top of everything else they have seen, it is
nothing. Paint has peeled off of the walls and ceiling, the floor is rough and cracked. In the
center of the far wall, a symbol glows sullen red, dimly illuminating the stark room. The symbols
consists of a circle on the outside and another is drawn inside, with about an inch or two less in
diameter. Three other smaller circles are drawn in the middle of the second circle, one on the top
and two on the bottom. In one corner, jammed against the wall, is a small butcher’s block table,
upon which is a syringe, nearly empty and with the needle stained with dried blood, meaning it
had been recently In addition, there is scrap of paper which reads:
NOTE TO DOCTOR
Dr Midkiff:
Please use extra caution with the patient in room 312.
He should still have his Religious freedom here in the hospital,
but he shouldn't push his faith on others.
I'm a victim too.
Rumor has it he got here by stabbing someone over
a religious dispute.
Please be careful.
R Crosby
P.S It looks like the rumor was true, according to
the head nurse.
I do think he's a good person otherwise
though --- easy to deal with.
Day Room: They find it is blocked by an oddly placed chainlink fence that takes up the entire
width and height of the room. Beyond it, are a pair of doors leading to the C wing..
Exit: Opening the front door of Brookhaven Hospital and going out into the muggy darkness of
the outside, and finally leaving this cursed place for good. Seen from the outside, the hospital is
now a darkly oppressive construct of stone and steel, a building that radiates menace in a way
like the lair of some terrible and ancient beast. The broken windows stand out against the black
night like jagged fangs, covered by a mesh brace. It doesn’t matter now, though. Brookhaven is
behind them now, decrepit, diseased, and harboring what would surely come to be one of the
worst memories of the PCs’ lives.

The Streets in Darkness: The fog may have cleared during the night, but the flashlight’s
range seems to be limited and visibility is once again reduced to nothing more than a few yards.
The scene before them is utterly still; no lights burn in the tall, crowded buildings. The centuried,
tottering houses on both sides seem alive with a fresh and morbid malignity.
They have gotten used to dealing with monsters in the relatively confined space of the hospital
which almost always necessitated a fight. But out on the open streets of Silent Hill, the monsters,
with their strangely universal slow pace, cannot outrun the PCs.
The Bridge: It isn't long before they can see the vague outline of a tower ahead, then a large
road section sticks into the air. Is this the swing bridge?. They realize that it must be the tower
that controls the bridge. I started to walk towards it, getting short on breath from all the running
had done. The tower is much larger than previously realized, although not as tall as, say, a
building. There is a set of stairs going up the side of it. The tower becomes more and more
visible as they slowly approach the stairs.
The PCs go though a set of barricades and at the door of the tower, and up a small metal
staircase, feet clinking on metal steps that echoes though out the soulless area. The door is cold
and the PC’s hand near freezes turning the handle. Inside a gust of wind blows as they enter.
Inside the messy interior there is an impressive array of computers in here that sparkle with frost.
It is completely silent, even the wind outside has died out to nothing in here.
They walk forward to a large control panel with all manner of buttons and levers. They look up,
out of the window, the shutters are broken and falling apart from the middle. Outside they can
just see the bridge. There is nothing stirring, everything is still.
Grasping one of the levers, they don’t know how to work it, but they are going to make it work
and do what they want it to do. All the machinery starts up and they notice certain lights are
blinking on and off. They then hear a loud beeping noise. They see a button on the panel that
reads lower that suddenly flips on.
Through the fog, they can see the bridge lowering. It soon touches the ground, giving them
access to this section at last.
They look at the map, the map that unfolds to revel this next part of the town. Just beyond this
bridge is the police station, and just down the road from there, the hospital. The police station
should be checked for anything useful and information, to see if anyone else is alive in this town.
The hospital as there could be some very useful things there.
CENTRAL SILENT HILL: This is located across the river east of Old Silent Hill. This
isn't too much of a residential area like Old Silent Hill. This is a shopping area. The shops,
grocery stores, restaurants, little boutiques and offices all have an air of bleakness, and there are
few, if any, signs of prosperity. This is an area where, at one time, vacationers went to go when
they weren't out on the lake relaxing. Even with the empty mountains all around and much land
available, the houses are crowded together, each looming over the other, most half mummified
with a funereal skin of grayish snow, at least a third of them in need of paint or new roofs or new
floorboards for their sagging front porches.
Its Otherworld equivalent is filled with rows of square, severe-looking buildings surrounding the
shopping district, and on the horizon factory chimneys belch brown smoke. Metal shields are
pulled down across storefront windows, and the reek of decay hangs in the air.
A black iron bridge links the shores of the muddy river that splits the town in two.
Sagan Street ends just ahead at a sharp right angle where Glover Avenue launches itself
northward. Summerland Cemetery follows the curve and runs north for another block before
halting at Massey Street and the bridge that carries it over the Illiniwak River into East Silent
Hill. The library is just north of the bridge, along the riverbank with the water to one side and the
shorter edges of three rectangular downtown blocks to the other.
Except that a sinkhole has opened up in the street just ahead, a crater has eaten across Sagan
Street. Like the others the PCs have seen, it stretches across the street, into the cemetery to their
right and under an enormous Art Deco building across the street to their left. The building is a
bank housed in squat brick building, its angular stones lines cast a glowering ambience over
chasm below, making its fog thicker somehow, more threatening. Its windows are shattered, but
it looks otherwise untouched – take another step closer though, and the whole thing will topple
forward into the hole.
Random Street Encounters:
01-10% They walk down the middle of the road, the buildings arching over them, nothing is
moving, the wind has died down to nothing. As the PCs progress down the street, their eyes dart
from side to side: cinemas, shops and barbers line the streets.
The radio then screams static, but there is nothing around.
Then a strange noise sounds, a grunt, a cry.
All you have are vague impressions. The impression that it runs half erect like a monkey,
shoulders sloped forward and head low, the knuckles of its hands almost dragging the ground.
It is covered in matted fur not unlike that of a ape, with long arms and hunched shoulders that
are definitely simian, although it appears to be stronger than any mere monkey, as formidable as
a gorilla though otherwise nothing like one.

Nathan Drugs: The pharmacy is a small place. An apartment occupies two floors above the
pharmacy; it is decorated in shades of cream and peach, with emerald-green accent pieces, and
with a number of fine antiques.
The pharmacy resembles an modern American pharmacy in that it is stocks more cosmetics,
beauty aids, and hair-care products than patent medicines. Otherwise it is pleasantly quaint:
wood shelves instead of metal or fiberboard; polished-granite counters.

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

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

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. 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 bottled-
water 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 anti-
crime 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 chrome-
plated 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, body-
armor 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 two-
sheet 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. 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.
Interrogation Room: With its gray walls, gray metal table, cheap linoleum-tile floor, battered
filing cabinets, a round 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.
Both cells are separated by a thin concrete wall that makes it impossible to see what is inside the
other.
Monitor Room: They walk back a few paces and to their left there is a door, it has a sign that
reads mon—t—r room.
(Monitor Room?)
If by any chance the monitors are working they will be able to see the whole police station and
find a way to the roof; but there isn’t any electricity in the building.
The elevator had worked, though, hadn’t it?
The PCs enter the monitor room, like always, making sure to close the door behind them. The
place is very dark, and it is covered in dust like almost everything here. The dust on the twenty
or more monitors has been wiped by a hand, and quite recently, because the dust hadn’t started to
settle back on them. On a small table to their left there are two newspapers, and on the wall, also
to the left, there is a message board. There is a memo on it. It reads:
The PCs exit the room through the door they had entered with and find themselves back in the
lobby. The PCs walk back out the same set of double doors they found earlier. The PCs fling
them open and step back into the foggy city streets.
Darkness: The sign that reads: Silent Hill Police looks faded and rusted. Dented police cars with
their paint scraped or rusted off are parked in a medium size parking lot to the side of the
building. All the windows are boarded up. Yellow police tape gives the walls color, at least a
color other than brown, red, gray and black. And the double glass doors leading inside appear
unlocked.
Like everything else in the station, the lobby looks extraordinarily dark and radically different.
The light from the flashlight reveals a reception desk, a torn-up, browned-out American flag, and
some bulletin boards on the walls. All the metal is rusted, all the wood is rotten and moldy, and
all the concrete is cracked and crumbling. The walls are scarred at certain points by the same
yellow police tape that was seen outside. There is blood on the walls and the ceiling is of bloody
metal grating, through which one can see pipes and tubes that seem to throb. Behind the
reception desk there is a long window, it is covered with thick grime, dust and blood, but if one
looks closely an office can be seen on the other side. It is identifiable as an office because of
some desks and filing cabinets and papers of different kinds scattered all over the ground; but in
the middle of the room there is a piece of the strange alien machinery that plagues the streets; it
seems to expand and contract, and it give the feeling that it is an integral part of the building and
that with this artifact the whole police station is breathing. Instead of desks covered in files and
memos, there are two rows of rusted metal tables, each one has long bundles of rusted chains
sitting on top. The offices further down still stand, but its door are also heavily corroded. Sitting
near one of nearest table is a bucket of strange tools; some rusted, some stained like most of the
tabletops. The windows are somehow sealed with aged plaster.
The ancient-looking cracked walls, the yellow police tape, the blood smeared everywhere, the
metal grating ceiling, the pipes and tubes that throb like veins.
Alchemilla Hospital: They notice that the snow starts to fall harder than it had before. It falls
down in an enormous quantity, yet still melts the second it hits the street. It makes one wonder
how it could be cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to make the snow melt. The fog makes
colors seem de-saturated, paints peeled, and everything is quiet as death.
At last, they see the large building ahead of them. They slow to a stop outside Alchemilla
Hospital’s front gate on Koontz Street. It is a large, unremarkable U-shaped , three-story building
at the town limits. It is strictly of functional design, and no prettier than it has to be: cream-tinted
stucco, concrete-tile roof, boxy, flat-walled, without detail. It is bordered by an abandoned
storefront on its right, Sagan Street on its left, and a large water tower across the street. It has the
melancholy, doom air peculiar to hospital and prison buildings.
As they near the hospital, they see the road disappear in the back. If they walk to the back of the
hospital, they see as soon as the building ends, the road is completely obliterated, and the
hospital stands at the very edge of a sheer chasm now. One shudders at the thought of being
inside the hospital and it tumbling into the foggy abyss.
They go back around to the front gates with the metal spikes on the top. A large sign hung on
each of the gothic metal gates with a red cross reads: Alchemilla Hospital.
They can peer through the steel bars for a moment, and they notice it is a small courtyard
occupied with a few trees and a light layer of snow. An ambulance is also parked, leading them
to believe this was used as a parking area for hospital staff. They can examine the courtyard...or
parking lot further, wondering if there is any danger that lurks beyond the gate.
Unfortunately, there is.
Two dogs walk aimlessly around the courtyard of the hospital where the ambulance is parked.
The PCs push open the large iron gate and step into a small, plain courtyard..
It has a pathetically small strip of grass with one withered-looking tree and a broken-up bench,
and nothing more.
There are just two doors leading onto it so wouldn't call this building safe, but after all that has
happened, architecture is the last of one’s worries. One locked door reads ‘Staff Only' and the
other is a double entrance which has a large red cross painted over the top. They push open the
double entrance doors and step into the dim lobby area of the hospital.
Waiting Room: When the PCs enter the hospital's reception they actually didn't expect it to be
this well-lighted. Some of the fog seems to have seeped in, and now the entire building has an
eerie, pale white aura to it. It is a bleak light, but it is light nonetheless. Outside, the wind keeps
howling. The walls are done in shades of forest green, with cherry dark wood borders. The
furniture and waiting couches match the décor, and is slightly pleasing to the eye. There are
ashtrays and all kinds of magazines set on a checkered coffee-table: gossip and celebrity rags. A
coffee machine, a soda machine. A bulletin board covered with notices about bowling leagues,
garage sales and car pools. Several waiting chairs line the walls, done in the same colors. To
their left there is a long counter that starts from the wall to the left side of the door, stretches into
the room, straight for about six feet, and then curves to the left until it meets the left wall, where
a white sign reads: INFORMATION. Behind it, the unmanned receptionist's counter is in one
corner of the room and has a summoning bell, a coffer mug, a broken telephone, and a hospital
map on it. There is also a wooden shelf behind the desk containing what look to be pamphlets
and a small portable TV set. To their right is a long waiting bench that goes towards the corner of
the room.
On the wall at the back of the room is something written in big, black letters. It is a strange
writing that makes absolutely no sense, and the PCs can find no meaning for it.
Up on the wall is a small map of the hospital. This could be useful. Though it is strange that so
many places they have visited in this town, have maps for them to direct themselves around, it is
very coincidental. They lift the pin on the map and it floats gently down. They bend over and
recover it.
According to the map the hospital is quite a bit bigger than they had imagined: three stories tall
as well as possessed of a basement area.
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.
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.
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.
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 two-
by-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: Inside the next room is a row of bookshelves, which contain volumes on
surgery and medicine. They also notice a newspaper clipping at the end of the desk. They can't
make out most of it because it is a part clipped out from a larger section.
A loving father and mayor died recently in Alchemilla general hospital located in the small
tourist resort town of Silent Hill, the town the man also governed. The mayor, Mr Richard
Bachman (54) of Silent Hill was apparently in good health when he died and his death has been
described as mysterious by the local police. His death has noticeable parallels with an earlier
case of the same nature. The death of the local police officer and loving father Hubert Gucci.
The police chef had this comment, “We believe these deaths are both tragic and unforeseeable.
There is no evidence suggesting murder or corruption of any kind, every one involved has done
their job to the letter and the dedication and commitment of our forces and services are
something to be proud of”. There is some speculation stating that the deaths where related to the
trading and manufacture of the drug White Claudia (PVT) it is a hallucinogenic drug that is
notoriously traded in the Silent Hill area by organized criminals. However, no police official
would comment on the continuing effort to stamp out the illegal trade of this drug.
The PCs can’t help but wonder, was that newspaper lying here just a random page, or is it a sign
of some sort? Sometimes the picture of this town is like looking at 10,000 puzzle pieces. Some
of the pieces fit together quite nicely and depict part of the over all picture. But other pieces are
fragments that one can only guess at and many of the pieces are missing.
From there to the area behind the reception counter. A small table is against the wall to their
right, and the drawer is unlocked. It contains a first-aid kit and a small box of handgun bullets.
Lounge: They move quickly to the adjacent hallway, surprised to now find the lounge unlocked
and the key useless. Someone has already been here. One doesn't know whether to feel happy or
afraid. What if they are still inside? They open the door, looking into the quaint staff room that is
totally empty.
No money had been spent on the reception lounge: institutional-green paint, chairs with brown
leather pads, and a steel-legged coffee table with a wooden top holding textbooks atop burnt
beige carpeting. A coffee table is situated next to a loveseat and couch.
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 three-
shelf bookcase filled with reference works, a soda machine, and a small table upon which stands
a coffee maker.
On a bulletin board is a notice:
STAFF PARTY!
Worry not! The staff party is still on (our recreation budget is locked away where no one can
tamper!) Everyone meet at Annie's Bar at 8pm on Friday. Alcohol (medicinal of course!) and
food will be free. Arrive early to grab a trainee nurse: they go quick!
Office B: The door is unlocked, and the room within is relatively normal. There are four chairs in
sets of two's, each set opposite a small coffee table. Beyond that are two desks connected to a
row of cupboards lining the wall at floor-level. There is a desk lamp, but it cannot be turned on.
Conference Room: A door is open to the right, which leads into a small cramped conference
room. The huge marble table takes up almost all of the space in the room, and there is barely
enough room for the four armchairs to be pulled out for someone to sit down.
A ingle flower sadly sits in the center, the room is illuminated by the window. However, all that
can be seen outside is the deadly white of the fog.
Glancing back at the tiny doorway, one realizes that it would have been impossible to fit the
table through that door to get it in here, as if the walls were built up around the table. The table is
bare save for a small key in front of the spot where the nicest chair is, more than likely the
hospital director’s. The key reads Basement on the label.
Doctor's Office: Bleached-wood paneling reaches halfway up the walls. The shutters are the
same variety on the windows, a contemporary desk, armchairs covered in an airy green print.
The condition of the doctor’s office is evidence of an obsessive-compulsive personality. No
papers, books, or files clutter the desk. The blotter is new, crisp, unmarked. The pen-and-pencil
set, letter opener, letter tray, and silver-framed pictures are precisely arranged. On the shelves
behind the desk are a few hundred books in such pristine condition and so evenly placed that
they almost appear to be part of a painted backdrop. Diplomas and two anatomy charts are hung
on the walls.
Everything in the offices looks neat and tidy, there are documents on the desks but they are not
scattered around, and there is no sign of anything out of the ordinary. But that is out of the
ordinary in itself, because it was like all the doctors had been working and doing the things of
their normal everyday routine and all of a sudden everyone had just vanished, leaving things the
way they were during that fateful second. Just like that. In this particular doctor's office, in fact,
there is a cup, half-full, with cold coffee in it; and a plate with a sandwich on it, only one bite has
been taken from it, and it doesn't look spoiled at all. Isn't the town supposed to have been
deserted for a long time? This sandwich looks like it has been left here just a minute ago. Just
like the plant in the reception. Odd. But nothing else of interest is in this office.
Kitchen: It is a large, typical restaurant-style kitchen with metal countertops and a white-
ceramic-tile floor. Pots and pans still rest on stoves; the air is thick with the smell of rotten
vegetables and meat. Within the working refrigerator are several chocolate-flavored health
drinks. Stoves, refrigerators, racks of pots, pans, and knives are jammed into any nook or cranny
that can accommodate them. A white board is on the wall to their left, and contains notes on food
allergies different patients have. Along the sink are several clear plastic squeeze bottles. Of
course, they wouldn’t want to use glass bottles here, in case the patients broke them and cut
themselves.
Director's Office: It is larger than the other office down the hall, but not by much. It is in a
terrible state of disassembly. Cabinet doors are open, books are lying across the floor as if they
had been thrown off the shelves, chairs are flipped over. A large oak bookcase with hinged glass
doors stands open along the left wall, and all the contents of the bookshelf have been pulled out,
opened, and thrown aside.
A handsome desk, that appears to be made out of mahogany is at the back of the room. The name
plaque reads: Dr. Michael Kaufmann, Ph. D. The window is smashed, allowing a slight breeze to
enter the room. The PCs walk over to the desk and see that all the drawers are opened, their
contents torn about as well. There is a memo on the desk that reads Lauren, please remind me to
phone D Nicholas about the Walter Collide deal, urgent, I must speak with him and Mr Wolf.
Singed director M Kaufman.
On the floor near the foot of the desk is a shattered glass flask and a crimson-colored liquid is
splattered all over the floor. It looks smashed on purpose. It has an odd smell to it.
The unknown liquid looks thinner than blood but has the same color and texture of it. There are
no plantlike particles in it, which indicates there is no White Claudia in it. This substance is also
differently colored, and isn't as thick. This is what whoever did this ransacked the room was
looking for, and if they tried to destroy it, it must be important.
Nothing more needs to be examined in this room.
Second Floor:
Elevator Corridor: The elevator opens with a small creak and they are greeted with the smell of
bleach. The abandoned corridor stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the hospital. The walls
are a harsh plaster color and the floor is tiled. The lighting is darker than usual, lights and
windows both absent from the small room. In one corner sits a wooden ladder, next to a pair of
payphones and some construction supplies—ladders, sheets, paint—almost covering an elegant
love seat.
Second Floor East Corridor: Some attempt has been made to brighten up the corridors in this old
building with posts and bright paints, but walls are unadorne with decoration of any kinds;
beyond a thin coat of mousy gray matt emulsion. The corridor has an unfinished look.
A tiled bench stands to one side.
At the far end a huge mess of hospital beds, racks, carts and stretchers is in the way; so much that
even if one tries to remove it would take at least an hour to make enough room to even slip
through.
Room 205: The room is square, low ceilinged, and bleak. It is tiled at shoulder-height with white
tiles, some are missing leaving black gaps, others are cracked. There is a cleanser, a sink, a
commode. And in the center is gurney—the sheets are in tangled disarray, trailing onto the floor
on the right side of the gurney. On the left, the linens are caked with mud and soaked with blood,
and a wet spray glistens in an arc on the floor.
Privacy curtains in one corner beside a chart listing ideal weight according to height, age, and
sex. In a medicine cabinet by the door, they find alcohol, an unopened package of liquid
bandage, and an array of pharmacy bottles with caps that all warn CAUTION! NOT CHILD
RESISTANT. One wall has a bulletin posted with medical pamphlets, flu shots, and diseases. In
one corner is a metal
One of the long walls is dominated by a mirror.
Hung on the mirror is a note that reads:
Preliminary Diagnosis:
Third degree burns, patient is unconscious... Something has prevented damage spreading to the
internal organs...Tissue damage is limited to the epidermis and extremities of limbs...
How is this possible?
Their reflection is as it should be, but everything else in the mirror is wrong. Behind them lies
not the same white hospital room; instead there is blood and rust. In reality, the room is the same
as it has always been. In the mirror, however, stained walls are textured by blood or rust. The
tables look skeletal and metal, and the floor is wire grating. Everything is crumbling and
decrepit, a frightening sight into that horrific Otherworld.
Leaving the room, you can’t help but feel that the mirror waits. You can no longer think of it as a
mere inanimate object, as a harmless sheet of glass with silvered backing. It waits. Or, rather,
something within the mirror waits to make eye contact with you. An entity. A presence.
Men's Room:
Women's Room:
Operating Prep: There are are many chipped and missing tiles along with a stained ceiling.
Outdated hospital equipment is scattered around, old beds, body monitors, and wheelchairs. A
whole corner is crowded with unrecognizable devices, equipped with worn leather wrist and
ankles restraints that appear to be from a Middle-Age torture chamber. They pass a body-sized
metal tube: an iron.
Operating Room: The theater itself is a large room of the standard white-tiled variety. It
possesses pieces of machinery common to operating theaters, with low central light and white
tile on the walls and floor. Some variety of cutting toll is suspended on a long metal arm over the
operating table. To one side is a small porcelain sink stained with blood. With very little
imagination, one can see blood dripping down the white sides, hear the rasp of saw through
bone.
Second Floor West Corridor: Here, the cleanliness is replaced by utter squalor, the dirty floors
checkered with missing tiles, and the corridors pervaded by the smell of something dead and
rotting.
Basement Stairs: A narrow set of concrete stairs lead down into complete darkness. At the
bottom of the steps is a tiled floor and a door barely visible in the shadows. Why in the hell did it
get so dark? They head down the steps, opening the door to the basement.
Basement: They turn on the flashlight and check the map. There is a morgue, a storeroom, a
boiler room, and a generator room. They have just located the generator when they hear a strange
sound behind them. A hissing-scrabbling-muttering noise.
They whirl.
As far as they can see, they are alone.
The problem is that they can not see everywhere. Deep shadows coil under the stairs. In one
corner of the room, over by one of the doors, shadows have claimed this area. Furthermore, each
unit of metal shelving stands on six-inch legs, and the gap between the lowest shelf and the floor
is untouched by light. There are a lot of places where something small and quick can hide.
The PCs wait, frozen, listening, and ten long second elapse, then fifteen, twenty, and the sound
doesn’t come again, so one wonders if they’d really heard it or only imagined it, another few
second tick away as slowly as minutes.
Just as they start towards the foot of the stairs, they stop abruptly when they hear other noises up
there on the landing. The tick and scrape of movement.
Then a new sound. A thump. And then again: thump! Again. It sounds as if something is
throwing itself against the wall at the head of the stairs, bumping mindlessly like moth battering
against a window.
Thump!
In the darkness, movement is detected. There isn't merely one unseen, unknown creature in the
basement with them; there are many of them.
Something brushes by one of the PC's foot, then darts away into the subterranean gloom.
Seeing nothing, they continue to scan the area around them until one of them feels a sharp pain
in his or her foot and they remember about the cockroaches. Jumping backwards with a yelp,
they stamp on the two cockroaches who have been attempting to feed on their feet. Holstering
their weapons once more, they cross the hallway and try the two doors on the facing wall, which
leads into the morgue and the storeroom. Turning from the storeroom door, they try the door on
the opposite wall, the plate on the door reads: Generator Room. That is the hint they need. If the
generator is operational, which is a rather long shot; it can power the elevator to get them
upstairs.
Generator Room: The generator room opens easily. Inside it is chilly, and the machinery that
powered Intensive Care rooms, service elevators, heat, lights, and the public elevators isn’t on.
The generator is a great, lurking beast. It seems to tower over the PCs as if they were mere ants
in comparison. The great height is partially caused by its intimidating position: a huge machine
in the confined space of a dark, silent, eerie room.
The panel is open on the generator, there is only one button. The generator looks old and rackety,
but once the switch is hit it turns and starts humming and shaking and roaring. The room stays in
darkness.
On the wall to the right is a small case, written in red letters are the words, ‘In case of emergency
break glass.' Inside is a large and menacing-looking hammer.
The hammer is a three-pound rather than a five-pound model. Nevertheless, strength and balance
are required to wield it with the desired devastating effect. You repeatedly swing the hammer
high and drive it down smoothly, with calculated rhythm. It feels glorious in your hands. A sweet
current of power flows through you, a gratifying sense of being in control for the first time since
you came to this horrible place. Each solid thud of the hammerhead thrills you, the hard
reverberation of the impact, traveling up the long handle, into your hands, along your arms, into
your shoulders and neck, is deeply satisfying, almost erotic. You suck air with each upswing,
grunt when you drive the hammer down, issue a wordless little cry of pleasure each time that
something bends or cracks under the pummeling weight---
—until abruptly you hear yourself and realize that you sound more animal than human.
Boiler Room: The reinforced door to the boiler room swings open with a metallic creak. A large
filthy cellar, cluttered with arcane equipment and lit by flickering firelight. Shadows dance in
distant corners. Reflected light gleams off metal edges and glass dials, looking like eyes. The air
is hot and close, despite th basement’s size. The light issues from the door of a large furnace on
the far side of the room. The PCs approach the massive metal bulk of the furnace. It emits a
powerful subsonic rumble as it digests coal and turns it into heat for the antiquated buildings
above. Pipes circle it like metal ropes, attempting to contain the terrible pressure in its guts. It has
the air of something about to break free and lumber around the room, crushing everything in its
path. The furnace’s small door is made of toughened glass, smudged black from year’s of service
and as wide across as one of the PC’s outstretched arms. A heavy iron bar and a shovel rests
nearby. They pull the bar and tug the door open. It is like looking into hell.
A blast of heat rolls over them. The low-frequency rumble increases. The space within is as large
as an industrial oven. Tortured air makes chaos of its contents. Glowing lumps of coal and ash in
fiery drifts are gradually discerned, all in shades of orange. The barrage of flame and superheated
air tantalizes with hints of things tossed into the furnace for disposal, including syringes and
empty drug containers.
Morgue: When the light is switched on, eight tables used for autopsyy s 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.
In the center of the room is a hospital gurney, which holds yet another corpse, mostly covered by
a ratty old sheet that is thick with filth, with only its legs visible. It is certainly whole; the PCs
can see the contours of its face and arms through the soiled linen, but most will have no desire to
know any more. Worse yet, the body is very small. It is a child, or at best, an undersized young
man. No, the last thing they feel like doing is touching one of them.
If the PCs walk to the other end of the room and enter the small foyer, it looks like a small office
containing a vent fan of its own, and the air is relatively fresh. Books are jammed in the shelves
every which way. The brown vinyl upholstery on the chair is scarred, creased, and mottled with
age. The two standard-issue metal desks are scratched and dented, as well as heaped with files in
a classic example of managed chaos. The desktop overflows with papers, notebooks, folders,
photos. Reading them, they seem to be on various autopsies that had been done recently in the
hospital, nothing of real interest. Except for one bizarre note which reads:
After the patients have been evacuated, the hospital is free to succumb to its own mortality. In
the throes of its disintegration it makes a mockery of the order and hygiene formerly attempted
within. The buildings themselves give in to their contamination. Behind closed curtains, the
hospital changes into its own funeral parlor. Confronted with remnants of suffering, the task of
performing a hospital autopsy can be grim. Yet its anatomical model provides an unprecedented
insight into the machinery that awaits our own deterioration. As it was forbidden centuries ago
to peek inside a dead body, we are likewise now told that the innards of these institutions are
things we are not meant to see. But here we like to not just create our own rules but invent an
entirely new game. Alchemilla Hospital Hopscotch, for instance, could be played by
reassembling as many layers of this corpse as are available: a patient's gown, a vial of blood
agar, a half-completed Rorschach test. Death leads to renewal. From the stained base of the
autopsy table, perform a one-legged leap into the more colorful recesses of your imagination.
Where you might end up, only you can know.
When they decide to leave the room, they don’t even want to look at the bodies, either. All they
want to do is get out...
Just seeing this little room is bad enough.
Seeing things like that corpse on the gurney...
It is gone. The body is gone.
Just an empty tray with a small pool of blood, even the sheet is gone.
And now is the time to panic.
You exit the room and enter the hall. This isn’t the same hall anymore, well it is the same hall
but it’s all covered in rust. Nothing is wire or dark yet, but the walls are covered in blood and
rust, and the couch is skeletal looking and decayed.
You feel a cold wind blowing from your right, you turn you head and notice the missing corpse
behind some metal bars, standing there, or hanging, it’s hard to tell it’s still completely covered
in the white sheet. It’s like it’s staring at you, though it’s completely motionless...
Darkness:
Stairs: You switch on the pocket flashlight, a small blessing in this hellhole. In an almost trance-
like 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: It is a very lavish elevator: everything about it is gleaming green marble tile that is
surrounded with bronze and highly polished steel. 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.
Director's Office: Upon entering the room, the PCs gasp. The room is completely—and that is
completely—painted in blood and gore. The walls, the roof, the window, all the furniture,
everything is red.
There is not one inch of the walls and the furniture that isn't covered in it, not one. There is only
one thing in the whole room that is not red, at least not completely, and that is a white paper
sheet (letter size). It is pinned to the blood-red memo board with a blood-red tack. And written
on it is: Room 203.
The floor is blood-stained rusted steel; the windows are grated and covered in ragged strips of
curtains. The broken remains of a lamp stand between the bookshelf and table. Near the door is a
counter with cabinets; all blood-stained. The floor is also hard rusted steel, chain-link, therefore
the clanking sound of footsteps is amplified.
Then the hinges on the door squeal.
Standing at the very end of the hall is…something. It looks human. It is…
A nurse? What the hell?
As the woman shuffles into view, they see she is wearing a nurse's outfit- a white apron like
dress with a green long sleeved turtleneck underneath and white nurse shoes. They notice a slash
of blood across her leg - she's wounded.
There is something on her back. At first glance, it looks like some sort of malformed hump. The
nurse lets out an inhuman groan. She brings herself up some more revealing that she does,
indeed, have a grotesque hump on her back. She looks up at the PCs - with her blood-red eyes.
As the nurse shambles, the PCs see the hump pulsate, the membrane-swollen skin shifting. Blood
is all around the area that it is attached to; probably the nerves in her spine.
Blood pours down the nurse's nose, spilling out onto her cotton coat, staining it with the crimson
liquid.
Your mind start to race. Is there anything you can do to help her? You could potentially excise
whatever that is in her back with a few tools around the hospital.
Thoughts of saving him 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..
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.
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.
Kitchen: They continue onward and reach the double doors. It seems to be in the best shape out
of all the rooms seen so far. Here, things seem merely old and abandoned rather than hideously
transformed. The walls do not look as if they had been painted in a decade. The kitchen
appliances and utensils are dented and scraped and yellowing with age. Everything is either
cracked, shattered, rusted, or a combination of all three, and the floor in is strewn with glass.
There is also a spent packet of blood in one of the sinks.
Office B: The room is square. The floor is grated, bloody metal. Besides the new decor, there are
a few other unsettling details. Like the overturned chair. It is lying on one side, a few feet from a
wheeled table; on it are a pair of leather straps and two loaded syringes. The desk is at the back
of the room, barred windows of rusted metal behind it. The top of the desk is gone, broken away,
and it lies against the room’s lone window like the cracked shell of a dinosaur egg. Another
bloodstained bookshelf stands to one side, next to a singular broken lamp.
Store Room: Rotting tables line the sides of the rooms. Things that are smeared against the walls,
looking oddly like blood and intestines. Sections of the grated floor are missing, the singular
window is a cross design. The shelves prove to have nothing but empty bottles, unknown brown
liquids in syringes, and some disinfectant.
Medicine Room: In their line of sight is a man standing, his back to them while his front slumps
forward towards the door that leads to the hall. The hospital coat he wears is ripped near his
neck, and blood stains the white from that area down. In the center of the tear, where normally
smooth flesh would be revealed is a lump... a living, writhing lump that looks to be continually
fighting to break the skin and be free. His body moves much slower in comparison as he starts to
shuffle his feet around so he can face the PCs. Once he has done an about face, they see him
fully. His name tag does nothing but glitter occasionally.
The rotting walls are covered in black blood, the stained floor of before has been replaced by the
wire mesh. There are four overturned chairs. The whiteboard is bloodstained. There is another
lamp, this one also broken. They notice that the same bookshelves are lined up to their right and
left as the other hospital, only now burnt and bloodstained. The PCs walk pass them, realizing
that the books are all burnt as well.
Reception: The reception room looks hideous. The metal walls, with rusted rivets nailed through
them; the desk is wrecked, as if someone has dismantled it with a rock-breaking hammer; the
ceiling, as well as the floor are made of grated metal, and all the papers on the memo board on
the wall are stained with blood and most of them have all sorts of obscenities written on them.
There is a memo lying on the floor which reads:
Doctor Jacob Singer called in today. Apparently, another member of the hospital staff has been
killed. He did mention, however, that the woman seemed to have died naturally, although no
previous symptoms to heart attack have been shown. The local police department has also been
baffled by the loss of one of their own for the same reasons. We are currently trying to track
down the source of the deaths of our medical staff.
Second Floor Elevator Room: There are two chairs, and a single set of double doors.
Second Floor Hallway: The long hallway before them is decayed, and the dense foggy light is
sparse since the windows now have rusty bars on them. The floor is still made of red-colored
steel as if bloodstained, but now it has sections missing in it. It is too dark to see if there is
indeed a floor beneath them, however. They hear an unseen burst of desperate breathing: wet and
ragged gasping, explosive and shuddery exhalations, as of someone is deathly ill.
There is a single overturned hospital cart in one part of it and another corner has a collection of
bent metal girders piled up. The few windows possess the same cross design. At the end of the
hall is a blank slate.
Nurse Center: Simply a single walkway of rusted red grating facing a door to the right. On the
door is a large stonelike box cut into four segments, there is one space empty, the other three
spaces have been filled with beautiful marblelike stones with a symbol on each one. There is one
of a young woman in a large dress, a cat with spiral stripes on its fur, and a card with a face,
arms and legs.
What is with this place? Why is this even here?
It does seem strange. Why? What is the point? It is very strange.
Room 201: Pipes crisscross the void revealed by gaps in the grated floor. In the back of the room
barred windows are built into the walls. There is a single gurney and a hospital bed with
bloodstained sheets.
Room 202: The sound of their steps making contact with the floor is metallic. Looking down
they see that a length of evenly horizontal bars make up the floor. The walls are the same, blood-
stained 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 flesh-
clotted drainage vents.
They spot two things on the sink: a slip of paper and what looks like a hen’s egg. Curious of the
out-of-place object, they walk over to examine the items; surprised to see it is a highly decorated
piece of orange metal, shaped like an egg, with yellow flames whipping alongside the bottom of
the trinket.
They next pick up the paper, finding some parts of it purposefully obscured with black marker.
Worry not.
I have used the Fl---- to contain her power.
No one can possibly come to her aid now. one of the five pie----.
Hide them. Protect them.
It is a jumbled mess, and only adds to the pool of confusion in your brain.
Room 203: Inside the walls are coated with thick red fluid, making sickening slurping sounds as
it is forced through the cracks in the tile.
At the far end is a white box sitting atop a lone gurney; a methodic rhythm of a heartbeat
penetrating the otherwise eerie silence. Sturdy locks seal the small white box.
Room 204: There are five hospital beds, arranged in two rows. An overturned medicine carts sits
next to two I.V. stands.
The pit-vine fills the back of the room. The plant is supported by a frame of hausers, to which it
clings with rope-like tendrils.
At first glance, the tendrils look like ropey human intestines, but gray and mottled as if
corrupted, infected, cancerous. Then the PCs see that these coils and loops are slowly moving,
sliding lazily over and around one another. They become dozen questing tentacles much quicker
than worms, connected to something unseen at the center of the wall, as quick and jittery as
spider legs, frenziedly probing the edges of its space.
The frenetic lashing of the small tentacles subsides. They continue to move quickly, but now in a
more calculated manner. The rapid movement, the ability to flex at will and manipulate
appendages indicates animal life, not plant life. A pinkish ooze seeps from the tips of some of the
busy appendages as if the thing is drooling.
Men's Room: It is covered in red. There is a small window at the end of the room; blackness is
all that can be seen. There are urinals and sinks on one side of the room.
There is a large stone slap on the windowsill; light green, like emerald.
Women's Room: The floor in the bathroom is made of grated metal, underneath which they can
see all the piping to and from the toilets and sinks. They walk past the sinks, which look as
though they have overflowed with blood and then emptied, leaving dried reddish stains on them.
The mirror above them is smudged with blood and deteriorated at different portions. There are
three stalls all look rusted like rusted metal cages with thick bars and no doors.. .
Operating Prep Room: The floor in the center of the room is gone, turning the room into a
vertical shaft. They have to stop abruptly as they come upon the end of the chain link floor and
now stand before a huge black gap. Looking up they see that the bed and all other hospital
appliances—which are dirty and rusted, as is the norm—are on the ceiling, as if this room is
upside-down.
The only way around the hole is a chain link walkway, an extremely narrow walkway, roughly
two feet wide surrounding the pit on both sides.
Operating Room: They walk by an open room that immediately drives the radio insane. It is an
O.R. there is an operating table in the middle of the rusted grating floor and all sorts of gadgets
and machinery and medical tools—most of them sharp and bloody—and there are at least three
nurses and two doctors in here. They immediately notice the shine of the flashlight and start
making all sorts of awful noises as they move towards the door.
The other two nurses are much closer now. One wields a scalpel that glints, reflecting the
flashlight’s beam of light, and the other one holds a huge cattle syringe. The nurse raises a
scalpel, and violently swings it.
Struck, she staggers backward. They hit her once more. She falls to the ground, the huge lump on
her back wobbles.
The room’s design is like the previous room’s inverse. Now the sides are exposed to the void,
while the center contains a rusted grated platform.
Intensive Care Unit: There is a single gurney with heavy restraints. Next to it is an I.V stand and
three metal carts with bottles and jars on top, with unreadable labels. At the back of the room are
two rusted, grated windows.
Room 205: The once-white tile walls are stained dark with blood, and it was quite liberally
applied. The tiled floors are likewise swamped in a coat of thick, disgusting grime. In a very dark
corner of the room is a sink white though dirty and stained with the usual fluids. The bulletin
board has been replaced by a rusted metal grill. The sink is leaking profusely, and has graffiti on
the side, scrawled in blood. One can't quite tell if it reads BitCH or BirTH. Either one doesn't
make sense. Inside the sink however is something that makes one's stomach churn.
It is a pair of human lungs, covered in a glistening layer of slime.
They look deliberately placed. If touched, they are soft, warm, and moist, and one jerks one's
hand away, gagging and turning away as bile burns at the back of one's throat.
The gurney, once stained with fresh blood, is now dried and crusty. On it is something useful, a
sharp scalpel. Stainless steel. Sparkling.
Room 206:
Third Floor Elevator Room:
Third Floor Hallway: The walls look menacing, even more tainted than ever, more covered in the
despicable filth of the Otherworld. The second floor is still there, but all the windows are
shattered despite its metal reinforcements. Each window opening looks like a large, blackened
mouth; some have the scorched remains of window blinds hanging out of the opening at crooked
angles, dangling in the light breeze, like teeth held in place by the last, jagged remains of fleshy
tendons.
Everything is completely alternate now, but if it is the same as the school and other places, the
layout should still match the map. There are rooms 301-307 with two storage rooms, a linen
room, and male and female restrooms.
Parts of the center of the floor is gone, exposing the blackness. The PCs will have to walk around
the gaps on walkways extending around the perimeter.
There is a slate next to the door engraved into it is:
The Grim Reaper's List
35 Lydia Findly
60 Trevor F. White
18 Albert Lords 45 Roberta T. Morgan
38 Edward C. Briggs
Linen Room: If they go through the linen room they can get to the other wing with the rest of the
rooms and a storage room. Here it is filled with three yellowed rusty washers and two dryers, all
standing on the chainlink floor. The PCs walk past the machines slowly, eyeing them. As they
reach the door something crashes behind them. They spin around, raising their weapons.
Everything is still except for an overturned washer. The washer closest to them rumbles, and the
door flings open, then it slides across the room and crashes on its side.
Men's Room: One notices now, at the open top of the toilet stalls, human legs stick out, upward
and together, hanging from barbed wire that come from the holes in the grilled roof. At the deep
end of the bathroom, there is what used to be a small window; now covered in chainlink and
there is naught but darkness beyond it, and rain blows through it from outside.
They walk towards one of the stalls pushing the door open with a pathetic squeak. Inside is a
faceless male body, rotten and covered in dried blood, hanging upside down. It has no arms and
the legs are pressed together tightly, making the body look like one long trunk without
appendages sticking out of it and a head at the very bottom, that just hangs over the bowl of the
bloodstained toilet below.
Women's Room:
Storage Room: The storeroom looks moderately normal, except everything is dark, wire mesh,
and covered in blood and rust
Store Room: Inside are some rusty carts, trashed wheelchairs and hospital beds. Seven wheeled
shelves are set in rows, each containing white bottles, cases and small boxes. There are two
grated windows.
Room 301: A rusted old hospital bed, with its white sheets stained with blood and excrement
here and there; a tray near the door where dirty scalpels, medicines and instruments lay, and a
bag of serum hanging from a hook on a hospital rack, with the tube coming out of a bag and the
needle at the other end lying on the bed over spots of blood.
Room 302: Room 302 opens. Inside is a nurse call station, old hospital bed, IV Dropper, and a
TV/VCR on a little rusty wheeled stand. On the bed is a video cassette tape. It is unlabeled, with
a few dried blood splatters on the front.
The glass on the VCR display is shattered and the TV does not look as if it is in good condition
at all.
They push the power button and a red light turns on. They switch the television on and it hisses
to life with crackly white static, drawing unpleasant reminders of the radio. Pressing the channel
button only causes static to fill the screen.
Then the PCs can put the tape into the VCR. It accepts the offering with a happy series of
mechanical hums and clicks. Then, the snow disappears and the tape begins to play. The screen
is nothing but static, but the video still plays. They only catch bits and pieces of the audio. It is a
female voice but the static in the background is too loud to make out what she is saying clearly.
“Still has--------------, eyes do------------tting a puls--------------er skin is------------when I
cha-----------------blood and---------ooz--------Why? Wh----------------------I won--------please..”
The image goes up and down and the voice becomes both amplified and distorted. Pressing a few
buttons on the VCR causes nothing to happen, the bad tracking seems to be part of the recording
itself. Apparently the thing doesn’t work as good as previously thought. Perhaps this is just
another piece to the nightmarish world they are trapped in.
They go to the door and are about to open it when they stop and remember the tape is still sitting
in the VCR. They go back to it, push the rewind button, and wait impatiently while listening to
the humming of the VCR. The tape stops with a series of clicks. Pushing the eject button and
looking at the tape shows that the write protect tab has been pulled.
Day Room: There is a large barrier in place, blocking further entry into the passageway. The wall
is flesh toned with organic-like textures, and seems almost like a feature in some living
organism. The PCs can stab the barrier with her knife and slit downwards, ripping the skin-like
substance and exposing some pink, fleshy textures inside the vertical opening. The image it
presents is of things the PCs would rather not think about, but they have no choice. They squeeze
through the makeshift opening, cringing at the moistened textures rubbing against them, and
enter Room 303.
Room 303: A large square-shaped room. There is no real difference between this room and the
rest of the hospital, the floor is still metal, though two of the walls are appear to have throbbing.
The walls make it seem like the hospital is alive and these tubes are its internal organs.
Room 304: In here is nothing too special, although a steel plate screwed to the wall puzzles the
PCs. There is no way of getting it off without a screwdriver. They leave the room.
Room 305: Wheeled stainless-steel tables like hospital gurneys line one wall.
Room 306: The place smells vaguely of Lysol. There are two grated windows, a single gurney in
a corner. Five hospital beds in rows, though one appears to be warped.
Basement Hallway: There are more overturned carts on wheels. The floor beneath them is made
of stone instead of thin chain links and thus there are no more treacherous gaps that poise any
threat.
Generator Room: The concrete floor now contains bloodstains.
Storeroom: The storage room is filled with rows of shelves, burnt and twisted, lying tipped and
leaning at wrong angles, their contents having spilled out and cascaded across the floor. Some of
the bottles are filled and others are completely empty. Searching bottle after bottle notes that
none of them contain any type of useful substance, except for perhaps a bottle of disinfectant
alcohol, helpful for serious wounds. Most of the small boxes of things can barely be read because
they are so old and worn. Some are bars of soap, still wrapped in silver foil and smelling as fresh
as ever. Most of them are hygienic supplies of various sorts, few of them worth keeping. It is the
bright blue box that catches their attention, mostly because it stands out quite plainly from the
rest. The box reads “Silver Bear”, and it is full of rounds. Well, mostly full. The box holds fifty
and thirty-eight rounds, and the box doesn’t look too old, not nearly as old as most of the others,
so hopefully it is still potent. What a full box of ammo is doing in the storeroom of a hospital, or
where the missing twelve bullets went, is unknown. Having done that, it is noticed that there is
still one shelf still standing. In the back of the room is some sort of bookshelf in the back, made
of reddish steel and contains no books at all. Closer inspection, skid marks are noticed, indicating
that the bookshelf can be pushed aside. The skid marks are deep, so deep that it could only have
been that way after moving it several times. A large bloody handprint is smeared all over the side
of the unit. It is a man’s print, and large—as if a butcher, exhausted from his hideous labors, had
leaned there for a moment to catch his breath. Pushing it as hard as one can, sure enough, it starts
moving. Continuing to push it moves it further along the room, gradually revealing to some sort
of cubbyhole behind it, not large enough to be considered a doorway, nor having a door anyway,
it is a small crevice just large enough for a man if he ducked his head.
Secret Storeroom: They look into the next room, wondering what is down here. The room is
fairly empty and nothing harmful is in here. They walk in, wondering why someone would hide
an empty room. They close the door behind them, continuing to scan the area. The only objects
they see are some red boxes are scattered across the floor and some sort of square shaped brick
formation ahead.
They are most curious about the square. They walk up to it. It looks like some sort of pit covered
with vines. They kneel down, examining it. They wonder if the thick layer of vines can be
removed. They can tug on them, but they barely budge. They soon realize that the vines can not
be torn. There is nothing they can do to remove them.
They also notice that, through the holes in the vine layer, there is a staircase going down. They
feel the vines once again, more desperate then ever to find out what is beyond those stairs.
They crawl into the pit and walk down the stairs.
Secret Basement: The room they end up in is very narrow: The ceiling is just high enough so
they don't have to lower their heads. The walls are no more than an arm's length apart, and are no
longer strangely burnt. Rather, they are made of stone, a gray concrete, not unlike the outer walls
of the hospital. This produces an uneasy feeling of claustrophobia in the PCs. The area is
otherwise empty.
The floor beneath them is still made of chain links with eternal darkness beyond, but the rest of
the hallway seems fairly normal. Somehow though it feels right, like even if the hospital wasn't
alternate, this part of the basement's basement would still look like this. At the end of the hallway
is an empty wheelchair and a door that probably leads to yet another area of this secret labyrinth
they have discovered. They go down the narrow hallway until they finally reach the door. They
then open the metal door in front of them.
Secret Basement Hallway: The room inside is very dark; it seems the pitch blackness that fills
the rest of the hospital has increased if that is possible. The room is still made of the same
cracked, gray stone. Normal probably isn't the word, as where it is still dark and the gloomy
atmosphere still had its effect, but it is certainly more "normal" than the twisted, burnt parts of
the hospital above. Maybe this was for storage use and nothing else. Maybe the vines and shelf
covering the entrance were part of the nightmarish transition from one world to the next.
There is a door not far from a stretcher. The door is composed of metal and rust and it takes
some effort to open. It finally does so with a low squeal.
Room 001: The door, unlike the walls and ceiling, is made of metal. They open the door slowly,
stepping inside.
They suddenly hear glass shatter.
They leap in fear, losing control of their limbs. They feel a shockwave go through their bodies,
rippling through their arms and legs. The sound has startled them that severely. As soon as they
have regained control of themselves they hear glass shatter once again.
The PCs aren't nearly as startled the second time, though one's mind continues to wander as to
what creature can possibly be making these sounds. They notice that the sound echoes through
the room continually as if it were a tape on repeat. They try to ignore it as they walk forward, but
are still feeling uneasy.
Room 002:
Room 003:
Room 004:
Room 005: They notice a metal stretcher with wheels. On top of it is a video tape. They examine
it momentarily, realizing a thin layer of blood is splattered on it.
They suddenly hear footsteps behind them.
They spin around and stare right into the face of an infested doctor.
The doctor fall forwards, he groans and breathes into their faces. The smell of death occupies his
breath, bringing them to the point of sickness.
Much like the nurse they encountered before, this is a slow-shuffling, knife-wielding human.
Struck, the doctor falls backwards, groaning with pain, the knife skittering across the floor to the
other end of the hall. Three shots straight into the hideous hump in his back. The doctor groans
again, and then all is still.
Room 006: Slowly the next door comes into focus. They place their hands on its handle, it is
strangely warm, and dry, all the other doors in this godforsaken place were usually ice cold.
The floor is once again made of stone, and blood and rust is splattered on it. There is a chair, a
framed painting on a wall, a shelf with medicines all surrounding a hospital bed with stained
sheets in the middle of the room. There is nobody there. There is a ventilator and EKG next to
the bed, as well an I.V. bag hanging from a hook next to the bed, the little needle just hanging
there from the thin plastic tube that comes out of the bag. The EKG to is grinding and rattling, its
lung bellow rising and falling with dry pant. Cardiac system and brainwave monitors purr
aimlessly.
It is odd that a bed would be down here. Who were they taking care of in a storeroom? It looks
like someone had been here and the hospital didn't want anyone to know it.
They notice a shining object on the edge of the life support machine and next to it is a picture
frame. Perhaps the picture of the patient the hospital staff had attempted to hide in here? They
walk up to it and examine it for a moment.
The photo is black and flaked around the edges, and several spots on the photo are burnt. There
is a gold casing that surrounds the picture. The little girl in the photo didn't look directly at the
camera. Her gaze was averted to the side. Her chin length hair is neat and parted to one side, this
makes full view of a pale forehead. Her expression could be described as calm.
They then notice small white letters near the bottom of the picture: Alessa.
There is a small key next to the picture frame.
It is the key that opens the examination room. They can finally go through that room to the exit!
First Floor Hallway: There is a men's and women's restroom here, with the lobby across from
them. There is a plaque on both, however. The men's restroom's plaque is gray in color and
shaped like a hollow pair of eye sockets. There is an inscription underneath.
The blind need eyes to see.
The women's restroom door's plaque is done in gold, the recess about the shape and size of an
egg. Underneath is an inscription as well.
Even in the inferno of flames I saw life born anew.
Pulling the decorated egg out and slipping it into the indentation results in a resounding click.
Women's Restroom: The skeletal stalls are one side, and they turn their interest into the main
prize of the room---another mirror.
It is crusty, outlined in red haze, but the reflection looks into a clean, safe-looking restroom on
the other side.
Lobby: The floor has become meshed iron grating, covered in blood and gore, and underneath it
are all sorts of pulsating tubes and machinery which seems to be alive and breathing, over a
black pit with no apparent bottom. The walls are also made of the same grated metal that
composes the floor, and held together by a structure of narrow and rusted metal beams wrapped
in barbed wire. This time some of those tubes are coming out of the walls and are pumping their
contents at an intermittent rhythm down through the grilled floor.
Nurse Center: They lift the slab up and carefully place it into the last remaining empty segment.
It fits perfectly into place. They try to open the door.
Examination Room: Within, the room is exactly like the other examination room, only the
objects are made of burnt, rusted steel...much like the rest of the hospital. The rotting walls are
covered in black blood, the stained floor of before has been replaced by the wire mesh. A rusted
sink in the corner catches their eye, but it is what is off to one side that catches their attention.
There is a reclining figure in what appears to be the black metal frame of a hospital bed, though
it does not reflect the light, casting shadows over body itself, making it difficult to see for
certain.
You aren't shocked at first, thinking that it is the doll again. But the flashlight twinkles off the
skin, and it isn't because of plastic. You make your way slowly to the homicidal scene, seeing
that the skin is in fact absent and instead glistening muscle.
She is horribly burned and it looks as if an autopsy has already been made on her, since long cuts
are sewn shut with black surgical thread. The corpse is bruised and there are spatters of dried
blood all over it; the side of its torso is mauled into a bloody mess of torn flesh and exposed
bone, and there is a very obvious gaping hole in its chest, dried blood all around it---the girl had
been gutted open and had her internal organs torn out as well, which were probably the ones they
had seen throughout this place.
Her face is blistered and blackened. Her eyes have been scooped out of her head. Not neatly like
a surgeon's job. They have been wrenched out, leaving a trail of optical nerves down her skinned
cheeks, And the black sockets of her eyes bleed rusty fluid.
You bring a hand to your mouth and step back, reaching 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; 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. The place has no more charm than the morgue, but one is
welcome to it after the nightmare. All the odors are wonderfully clean and bracing—antiseptics,
floor wax, freshly laundered bed sheets—without a whiff of rust or various bodily fluids.

The Streets: The PCs follow the brick wall enclosing the courtyard of Alchemilla and on to
Canyon Street. A couple of beauty parlors go by, next to a rundown cake shop and a ruined
pizzeria. Everything is lifeless. The air around them, shrouded in fog, is the same. The buildings
are no different.

Canyon Street Chasm: There is a four-way intersection to cross before reaching the road
leading to Cedar Grove. But there is a problem.
The center where all four roads should meet is just…gone. Just like an earthquake had it, the
jagged edges have been violently ripped open and obliterated from the ground below. It appears
like a bottomless chasm with the thick fog. Disturbingly, the cracks have spread ever so slightly
and they hear the rolling sound of pebbles falling into the endless ravine.
It causes them to retreat slowly, looking around the edges of the road for another way across.

Butcher Shop: Next to the intersection, dangling dangerously close to the edge is a butcher
shop.
The sign overhead is weatherbeaten and peeling, with the large logo and insignia of the small
meat packing store readable, but only with concentration. "The Family Butcher". It appears to
continue over to the street that they can take to the sanitarium, but the ravine is a ghastly sight to
behold, especially with the building teetering so close to a fatal plunge.
The front desk, complete with a cash register and papers, is mostly useless; the electronic cash
register looks as if someone had slammed a sledgehammer into it; somehow, a current of life
remains in its battered circuitry, and one red number flickers in its cracked digital readout
window, an inconstant 6, which seems analogous to a dying victim's last word, as if the cash
register were trying to tell them something about its killer.
The PCs can go over and rifle through them. There is a thick metal door in the back, and several
empty rows of shelves. There are traces of a red substance that dots the dirty white tile of the
floor, and everything looks as if it hasn’t been touched in days or longer.
Moving around the front desk and towards a slab of meat hanging from a hook overhead, they
see that there is a meat hook embedded into the slightly decayed remains of what appears to be a
slaughtered pig.
Back Room: The shadows are suffocating enough, but they open the door anyway. The flashlight
offers a fair view of the next room, which appears to be a storage corridor.
It is a frigid, windowless, claustrophobic place, about twelve by fifteen feet. Mist from the
coolant system swirls around the room, reminding one of the forest at the edge of town. The air
is thick with the smell of coolant and raw meat. A painted concrete floor. Sealed concrete walls.
Fluorescent lights. Vents in three of the walls circulate cold air around the sides of beef, veal,
and slabs of pork that hang from the ceiling racks.
Their breath catches in their throats when they see it, when they see the thin and shapely, yet
crusted and disgusting legs sitting on a bench, the parody of female attractiveness, all the way up
to the head. Which, of course, has no face.
How the hell did it get here?
It is a Brookhaven nurse, all this way away from the hospital. Its head wobbles insanely to all
sides, like in an epileptic seizure.
Then they realize that it isn’t convulsing, it is shivering.
It is afraid.
A figure steps into their field of view. The PCs hear the scrape of metal on metal, the rustle of
leather cloth, and for just a second, the thought crosses their minds with a solar flare of panic:
It’s him....
No, it’s not!
The mistake was understandable. The figure standing before them might well have been cast
from the same mold as Pyramid Head. The figure looks like man, a very tall man, wearing white
leather. He wears a similar stitched-up butcher's apron that falls just past his knees to tangle
around his shins. But there are differences. While the Red Pyramid’s shape was tall and lithe,
this creature’s exposed arms and chest are enormously muscular, and a metal, bell-shaped face
mask covers one side of his head. His bald half-dome of its head gleams as white as a dead fish
belly, though from this angle they cannot see much of his masked face.
The scraping sound was caused by a cleaver the length of his torso and half the width long. The
figure lifts the nurse monster up. They see the gleaming cleaver, the uplifted and then descending
arm of the thing, the struggle of the arms, and the quivering and writhing of the nurse's body.
He then presses the end to her chest and holds it a moment-
-then pushes, the blade slicing neatly into the flesh with a wet squishing sound. But he isn’t done
yet. Just as the creature he was impaling starts to squirm, black fluid pouring from the gaping
wound, he forces the cleaver down in one swift movement.
Like a rag doll the nurse splits in half, settling to the ground in a pool of her own blood.
You can feel the violence radiating off in invisible waves; a death-cold, hate-hot, soul-withering
feeling that makes you feel both physically and spiritually ill. There is no sadistic joy here, just
frustrated rage and cold-hard hatred finding release by this calculated act.
His victim disemboweled, the man turns away, down an unseen hallway, his cleaver dragging
behind him. He hadn’t seen the the PCs, who stand stunned, waiting until their hearts start to
slow before breathing again.
You blink several times, as if the corpse or gore would disappear. But it doesn’t; in fact it makes
the scene all more vivid. The smell hits you next, another reminder that what is happening is
indeed real and that you need out.
They peer down the hallway for any sight of the killer and are satisfied that there aren’t any. But
will it be safe now to leave through the same exit as the monstrous being that split the nurse
monster?
Gripping their weapons tighter and inching down the hallway, they see that there is one other
door that opens onto a parking lot for the easy receival of meat deliveries. They crack the door
slightly once they reach the end. Outside the air is chilly, and aside from the fog they see
absolutely nothing.

Lumber Yard: Huge piles of supplies: stacks of lumber; carefully arranged pyramids of short
steel beams; hundreds of bristling bundles of steel forcing rods; dozens of sacks of concrete;
several large piles of sand and gravel; car-sized spools of thick electrical cable, smaller spools of
insulated copper wire; at least a mile of aluminum ventilation duct. The equipment and supplies
are arranged in evenly spaced rows with aisles between.

City Hall: Silent Hill City Hall is a four story pile of sandstone and granite, which housed city
government, is the most medieval building of them all; 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 even more
like a castle's battlements than anything they have seen thus far, complete with regularly spaced
embrasures and squared off merlons; the merlons—which are the high segments of the stone
crenellations that alternate with the open embrasures—boast arrow loops and putlogs holes, and
they are even topped with pointed stone finials. City Hall is not merely architecturally
forbidding; there is, as well, a feeling of malevolent life in the structure. One can get the
disturbing notion that this agglomeration of stone and mortar and steel has somehow acquire
consciousness, that it is watching them as they go inside.
They push through a set of walnut framed, frosted glass doors, into an antechamber encircled by
a wooden railing. Beyond the front desk is a large open area that holds a dozen desks, a score of
tall filing cabinets, a photocopier, and other office equipment.
The mealy light is barely sufficient to reveal the metal filing cabinets, worktable bearing hot
plate and coffeepot, empty coatrack, enormous wall map of the county, and three wooden chairs
with their back against one wall. The desk is a shadowy hulk, neatly kept, currently untenanted.
The door to the inner office is ajar. Beyond it is light.
They see a surprisingly simple room gray walls, white Venetian blinds, utilitarian furniture, no
photographs or paintings on the walls, almost as drab as a cell.
The mayor's office is not plain. 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 walls are festooned with civic awards and
photographs.

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 him, and then past him, until it is gone, a mile away, two
miles away, 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 doors 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.

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; wind-
hammered 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. Clearly this is not a new place. 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.
Lobby: The velvet couches look comfortable. Palmettos, graceful though slightly dusty, frame
the lobby's battered wood reception desk.
Foyer: The foyer itself, dirty and dimly lighted, is a large but spartan area with painted murals on
the walls.. There is a rather complex mosaic floor, but more than a hundred of the tiny tiles are
missing. With every step their footfalls seem to echo endlessly, for there is nothing to absorb the
sound. At the perimeter are a few blue sofas and vending machines, pay phones, waste baskets
and the like.
Dining Hall: Just past the vending machines is a small cafeteria. A coffee cart sits in one corner,
a small kitchen at the other end of the room. There is no food in the cafeteria and no coffee.
There are bottles of flavoring behind the coffee bar, the contents dried up. Round blue plastic
tables with chrome legs and matching chairs sprinkle the room
Day Room: Six clusters of chairs, each centered around a small table, are spaced evenly about
the room, possibly intended to allow a large assembly to break up into smaller groups. Paintings
are evenly spaced along the walls, each depicting tranquil landscapes.
You stare at the poker, your eyes move as if drawn to it. It is made of iron, painted black. A
machine or man has twisted its end into a right angle. There is a coil-like handle on it. And that
is all it is—a simple, functional object, without menace to the eye.
Doctor’s Office: The PCs have entered a well-furnished office dominated by a large, hardwood
deck and an elegant, plush chair. A trio of smaller chairs face the desk which, although they look
comfortable, fall well short of the standard established by their counterpart behind the desk.
There is a metal artifact on the desk, resembling an ankh and has the word Jocasta etched on its
base.
On the desk is a note:
The new patient, Helen Grady arrived today. I was surprised to see how calm and well behaved
she was.
After reading her notes, I was worried that she might be something of a handful.
The woman is in complete denial and claims no recollection of the incident which saw her
committed.
Indeed, she has asked repeatedly to be allowed to see her son! I have agreed with her husband
that it is best that the boy be kept away from his mother.
While there seems little hope for any long term recovery, I look forward to spending some time
with Mrs. Grady -- her condition is most fascinating.
Cloak Room: This small closet is packed with clothes of all colors, designs, and sizes, shoes
beyond naming, and coats beyond counting stacked up like blankets on a trader’s post shelf.
Patient Belongings: Lit by overhead fluorescent lights, it is a large room filled with rows of
wooden tables with low benches between aisle after aisle of floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves
jammed to capacity with hand luggage, rucksacks, attaché cases, boxes, packages, purses, and
moldy, mildewed articles of clothing. On a table are boxes of shotgun shells, and a memo:
Status Report, 2/7/1961
Patient: Mrs Grady.
Age: 35
Examining Doctor: Dr. Harris
Notes: Mrs. Grady’s condition has degraded dramatically in the last few months. Her fantasies
of a "mirror world" have become more acute, and she spends more and more time in an
apparent catatonic state. She claims that during this time she is in the "other world." She now
has full recollection of her attack on her son, but shows no remorse for the incident. Indeed
she seems proud, almost smug of her attempted filicide! I am worried that this behavior could be
a side effect of the increased doses of Epolineum that the patient has been prescribed. I have
asked for her dose to be halved and hope to see positive results shortly.
West Solarium: The room doesn’t look as if it had been cleaned for months. Plants with gray fur
wilt in pots; cobwebs hang beneath the round table, draped in lopsided chairs.
East Solarium: A wheelchair with some kind of doll sitting upright on the seat.
East Hall: 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:
Female Ward B,B1-B10:
Female Sick Ward, S 1-9:
Matron: The matron’s office is narrow, with a single porthole window. The desk chair had fallen
or been pushed over, and faded documents and files, in stacks upon the cluttered desktop, are
collated with geometric rigor. Except for a faded, framed swatch of needlepoint—red letters on a
blue background: HOME), the walls are all dourly unadorned. A jar of potpourri smells like
mold.
Women’s Restroom: Green metal toilet stalls are lined up on the left, chipped sinks and age-
yellowed mirrors on the left, showers at the far end. Streaks of blood run down the mirror and
across. As the PCs focus more, they see something is written, but it isn’t legible. They suddenly
realize why it is...a message written backwards. But the handwriting is chaotic, like it is written
in a rush by someone who was hurt...or worse.
Looking to the left at the other mirror to get a glimpse of the writing in the reflection of the
opposite mirror will suffice. Their blood runs cold as they read: Bring me my son—
It is simple, but maybe that’s what makes it so powerful.
Female Dorm 3:
Female Dorm 5: There are gaps between the vertical boards on the windows, they can see light
shining on the dusty floors. One wall is a white sink. On three sides of the room are metal
hospital beds with mattresses.
Female Seclusion: The entire ward is locked. Written across is the phrase: Dr. Haris has the key
Storage: One can see that the battered shelving carries an inventory of heavy duty cleaning
supplies—degreasers, floor waxes, window solvents, mop buckets, floor polishers, and a rug and
carpet cleaner.
Storage: This room contains used and broken electrical equipment and some broken devices are
hung on the walls.
Laundry: Yanking at the doors again. They don’t seem to be locked, only stuck, the wood
swollen by the laundry room’s humidity.
Male Ward A: A1-10:
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 was audible as the wheel of an overturned
wheelchair spun slowly, as though its occupant had abandoned it just moments ago.
The nurses line the hallways, though they take no notice of the visitors. 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 still wear their uniforms, though they are soiled beyond repair
and the skirts are shorter, the tops tight.
Infirmary:
Men’s Restroom:
Male Dorm 3:
Male Dorm 5:
Male Seclusion: Long ago, these rooms were reserved for the most disturbed patients.
Stairway: The stairway is painted with flay gray wash that the years have laced with cracks and
gouges. Dust seems to hang perpetually in the air, tickling one’s nose and stick in their throat.
Something else eases their senses here—an odor of mildew or age that seems familiar, but which
they are unable to give a name to.
Second Floor:
Lobby: Girders and struts stand in a ring in the center of the lobby, a monstrous scaffold rising to
the roof. Pylons and trusses rise on all sides like the bars of a cage.
Director’s Office: The office had been ransacked, all the books that were on the shelves had been
thrown down on the floor, as were the folders and papers that were in a file cabinet. The desk's
drawers were open, and all sorts of papers were scattered throughout. A plate on the door reads:
"Dr. Edgar Mitchum – director"
T.B. Ward: The ward is the same size and décor as the others but differs by having in it several
seven-foot-long, horizontal cylinders mounted on wheels. They stand about waist height. The
PCs walks 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.
The rest of the room is filled with ful-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.
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 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.
Female Nurse Rooms, F1-F8:
Female Actue Ward:
Female Infect Ward:
Female Therapy Room 1:
Female Hydrotherapy: The air of this room is steaming, thick with unpleasant moisture, smelling
faintly sweaty. One tubs 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. 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 half-
dozen 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, barbells and a medicine ball. 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.
The basement of the Cedar Grove Sanitarium is every bit as dank, dark and musty as one can
imagine. A network of tunnels connect to the storage chambers to stairs that lead upward into the
wards. 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.
Storage: This room holds old furniture, lumber, several bags of cement.
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.
Boiler Room: The boiler stands on four cement blocks, a long and cylindrical metal tank, copper-
covered and patched together. It stands beneath a tangle of pipes and ducts that zizagged 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:
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 flesh-
cotted mesh-wire grille, nothingness extending out below it. Cobweb-covered chains coming
from the walls are attached to each side of the floor, so the floor is hanging in the air, swinging
softly from one side to the other.
It takes the longest three seconds of their entire life to cross the span of the lobby and reach the
opposite corner. The PCs turn around, not at all sure what they expect to see.
There are two doors on the walls to the left and right and a set of double doors in the far wall.
To call the two on the sides ‘doors’ is probably not very accurate. They are large, heavy slabs of
water-rotten wood propped up in the doorways, but they aren’t doors, for there is no handle or
knob on any of them, nor do any of them have hinges.
Lobby:
Dining Hall:
Day Room:
Doctor’s Office:
Cloak Room: Upon entering the room, the PCs find the closet much smaller than expected from
outside. Those who stay inside for more than one minute see the walls closing in around them.
The effect causes no harm and lasts only two melees.
Patient Belongings:
West Solarium:
East Solarium:
Storage:
Storage:
Laundry: The tall chamber is long and crammed full of cages, coops and sturdy wooden crates.
Like supplies, many stood stacked in rows three or four high. Others sprawl in haphazard piles as
if they'd been thrown together.
On a metal shelf is a note, next to a box of shotgun ammunition, which reads
Attending Officer's Report
11/4/1959. INo: VA4545-10.
When I arrived at the House, the ambulance was already at the scene. The neighbor Mr.
Bryant (who first called in the incident) had restrained Mrs. Grady and the paramedics were
tending to the child. The husband, Mr. Grady had not yet arrived back from his place of work.
Thanks to Bryant's intervention, the gas had been turned off and the house ventilated -- however,
there was still a strong smell and I deemed it necessary to call the fire department as a
precaution.
It appeared that Mrs. Grady had attempted to gas herself and her child. When I spoke to the
suspect, Mrs. Grady, she was uncooperative and seemed enraged. She demanded I release her
so she could "kill the devil child." She was clearly not in control of her mind.
Mr. Bryant commented that several times in the previous weeks, he had heard loud arguments
and screams from the house. He said "Helen has not been well for a while."
Female Ward A: A1-10:
Female Ward B,B1-B10:
Female Sick Ward, S 1-9:
Matron:
Women’s Restroom: The first thing noticed is the obvious change in the bathroom. Everything
looks rusted and decayed—bloody and unsightly.
They round the corner, and glancing towards the door. It seems so much farther away now. They
also notice the last stall has had its door replaced by strands of barbed wire.
Female Dorm 3: There is a battered chest of drawers to one side, atop of which is a box of
handgun ammunition. On three sides of the room is a bedframe, twisted and rusted; black leather
straps falling to the floor.
Female Dorm 5:
Female Seclusion:
Storage:
Storage:
Laundry:
Male Ward A: A1-10:
Male Ward B,B1-B10:
Male Sick Ward, S 1-9:
Infirmary: There is an ornate cabinet with five dolls in filthy finery screwed into its top, horrid
ugly things attired in garments. All the faces have been mutilated or modified. The small figures
each wear different expresssion, different states of dress and undress, but they are all equally
hideous.
Men’s Restroom:
Male Dorm 3:
Male Dorm 5:
Male Seclusion:
The first cell’s sink is encrusted with blood. There is nothing but blood splashed all over the
walls It has pooled in the corners, and the walls and floor, and even the bed is splattered with it.
It has even soaked into a roll of toilet paper. The stink is familiar by now. Atop the bed is
scattered with razor blades. Strewn on the floor around the bed are clumps of crumpled toilet
paper, as well as a crushed foam cup, some dirty latex exam globes, and a couple of capsules of
unknown medication.
The second door will not open. The outside is scorched black and it looks warped by intense
heat.
The third cell has a dressmaker’s dummy standing in a corner. Foil stars glitter from the stained
wherever the beam of the flashlight touches. Before them are locked glass display cases: one of
them is full of wigs on faceless mannequin heads; the next holds bottle of perfume used as props;
in the next case there are shelves of paste jewelry, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
The fifth cell has dirty dishes in piles all over the bed.
Second Floor:
Lobby: A square construction rusted mesh arises from a circular pit in the center of the floor.
Director’s Office:
T.B. Ward:
Dt:
Records Room:
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.
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.
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 a cloying, sepulchral odor.
Her form, levitating near the ceiling, is disfigured; resembling a woman wrapped in bandages
and wearing a transparent garment resembling a plastic dress smeared with blood, and appears to
be restrained by a large, suspended apparatus. She has a gaping mouth 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.

33The Streets:
34It drags itself on the ground. The PC feel a creeping sensation spread through their bodies as
they watch it. It is moving its body with its hind legs. It is unnatural. It leaves a trail of thick
gooey blood behind it as it follows them. It doesn’t seem to be able to move that well, so one
might figure that it will die just trying to chase them with all the blood it is losing.
They start to walk away, but keep their head pointed back to the cattle-like beast, to see what it
will do. They are not at all surprised to see it turning slowly on its side to face them as they walk.
They may allow themselves a slight laugh at how foolish the thing is, but the laugh is then
strangled with a gasp of shock and renewed fear. The creature charges after them alarmingly fast.
The creatures drags on with unearthly defiance. Shredding skin and flesh as it moves over the
abrasive material of the street.

The blood trail, in spatters and occasional puddles, suddenly veers to the left, towards a tiny alley
that runs between the Lutheran Church and what appears to be a large apartment building.

Cemetery (optional encounter): Passing the graveyard, one of the PCs feel an urge to go there
and lie down on one of the graves. If the character goes there, they find a freshly dug grave and
a headstone matching his own name—for real. (This belongs to a recently deceased namesake.
Pick the character with the most common sounding name).

Greenfield Apartments:

A black, iron, switchback fire escape descends to the alley in a zigzag path along the rear face of
the building. It leads to an open doorway, from which comes a strange yellow glow, sour and
sulfurous, almost more like the product of a gas flame than the luminescence of an incandescent
electric bulb.

At each landing on the fire escape, they pause to look down at the alley, and each time they
expect to see strange, threatening creatures loping through the snow towards the foot of the iron
steps. But each time, they see nothing.

They enter the first apartment and go on through the dingy little kitchen area. The tiny kitchen is
cramped and dreary but completely equipped, the green kitchen linoleum is cracked and
discolored.
Seeing nothing threatening they enter the living room. The living room is small; white drapes
with orange spots, floral-pattern light tan burlap wallpaper and matching carpet, a green sofa and
two matching armchairs facing a television set. An end table holds a phone.

The illumination comes from a large floor light in the living room, bathing everything in a
relaxing amber glow. .

The bedroom measures ten by twenty feet and has large windows, yet it seems like a closet. They
enter the room and keep the gun raised. Still nothing. The corpse of one of the straight-jackets
lies on the bed, gutted. The bedcovers around the corpse is saturated with blood, but the battle
hadn’t been confined to that small portion of the room. A trail of blood, weaving and erratic,
leads from one end of the bedroom to the other, then back again; it is the route the straight-jacket
had taken in a futile attempt to escape from and slough off its attacker.

They push the door open and enter the hallway.

When they are all in the alleyway, they turn right, away from the apartments, and run as fast as
they can towards the cross street.
Nothing follows them.
Nothing comes out of the dark doorways they pass.

35Lutheran Church: It is not a grand house of worship, but a wooden structure with plain
rather than stained-glass windows. It sits in its own verdant grove, an oasis of green amidst the
buildings. The grounds comprise two acres, an eighth of which is occupied by the cemetery. The
church itself stands, as it had for over a century and a half, on the long north side of the cemetery
wall. The exterior is plaster, and still bears a coat of whitewash. It is not a grand house of
worship, but a wooden structure with plain rather than stained-glass windows. It is also not a
large church. The sanctuary, which might seat five hundred parishioners naturally takes up the
greater part of the building. It is painted white with dark brown trim on the timbers and the
ornaments and hard wooden seats of the pews. The windows are white and translucent, with
borders of colored glass around the edges. Pulpits stand on either side of the altar, all as old the
church itself. Two pews are behind the righthand pulpit. Th ceiling is lower than that in most
modern churches, and there is no balcony nor choir loft. A small wing adjacent to the sanctuary
holds the pastor’s office, two Sunday school rooms, rest rooms, and robing rooms for the choir.
The whiteness of its spartan and colonial interior makes it appear Bauchausian, and it is always
present and fresh surprise for those used to dark, gothic arches, or the soft pastels of suburban
churches. This lightness, however, is undercut by the presence of the cemetery, although
adjoining cemeteries are quite common, indeed the norm, in churches of this area.
But what people find more oppressive than the cemetery is that the small crematory that
crouches at the cemetery’s western wall.
The crematory's external design is similar to that of the church, through the whitewashing of the
smaller building occurs far more frequently, since even the hint of soot is disquieting when one
is aware's the building's purpose. Fortunately the system is arranged so that the smoke is re-
circulated 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: 36 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.
Storage: 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 the switches that operate the curtain's has been here a long time.
Hallway: There is chest of drawers, on which are old theater programs.
Hallway:
Director's Office:
Men's Dressing Room:
Women’s Dressing Room: Another left turn and they pass a door marked Dressing Room.
Front Lobby:
West Balcony Corridor:
Balcony Corridor: One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double row,
frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are obviously by more than one
artist, the subject matter, without exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable
skill: twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on which stands a
blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted against an ominous sunset, a face distorted
by a funhouse mirror, the gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where
menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps, leafless trees with coaly
limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick,
meat cleaver, hatchet, a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and lace-
trimmed bed sheet.
Second Floor East Corridor:
East Stairway: Ahead and to the right a staircase begins its ascent, pauses at a landing and
doubles back on itself, then rises higher to the second floor. At the landing, picture frames are
stacked next to windows of stained-glass.
East Balcony Corridor: The PCs freeze in panic as they realize they are caught between the two
straight-jackets. But instead of spraying, the left straight-jacket begins to shuffle forward.
They notice a padded display case in the middle of the carpeted floor.
I am child torn by twin desires,
I stand before a door,
My right hand calls to the light,
My left hand ushers in darkness.
Third Floor Corridor:
Costume Storage:
Orchestra Storage:
South Catwalk:
Stage: The ceiling is more than 50’ high; if it is illuminated, the PCs see the exposed machine—
an intricate conglomeration of bronze and iron gears, wheels, rods, and pulleys
Darkness:
Lobby: They continue down the staircase, descending to the once-elegant lobby. The doors
leading to the street are all locked and covered with metal grating, while those that access the
auditorium are closed over.
East Stairway: One gargantuan oak’s twisted branches have grown through the windows, like
tentacles Virtually all of the glass is gone from the tall stained-glass panels, but the steel
mullions remain. Much of the lead came that defined the original patterns remains between the
mullons, though in many place it is bent and twisted and drooping tortured by weather or by the
hands of vandals, rendering the outlines of the original religious symbols and figures
unrecognizable, and in their place leaving teratogenic forms as meaningless as the shapes of
melted candles.
Upstairs: The floor is covered with roots, vines, and vegetation that hampers their every
movement. Some of the vines cling to the walls, which are covered with a thin layer of green and
yellow lichen.
When they first notice it, the moss only flourished in widely scattered patches. But the farther
they walk the larger those patches become and the closer they are to one another-until the stuff
finally sheathes every inch of the inside walls.
The hallway is spongy, damp and blue-green, and it shimmers prettily in the flashlight. Once it
has claimed all the wall surface, it stops growing laterally and begisn to thrust tendrils into the air
space; as thick and often as long as a young girl's hair.
It is cold to the touch, unnaturally cold for plant life. In places it thrives so well that the PCs are
forced to squeeze through a narrowed tunnel, sometimes on their hands and knees, the wet moss
dragging over them like the hands of a corpse.
Close examination of the hair-thin filaments show that they are in a constant sate of agitation.
They twist through one another, abrade one another, braid one another...They slither like snakes,
writhe, wrap together and pulse as if fornicating, extricating themselves only to form new
entanglements. The moss appears to have the life energy and some of the mobility of an animal,
as if some crude intelligence were at the core of it.
Forest Scene: The next sight utterly astounds them. They are standing in what appears to be a
forest. Gory barbed wire can be seen wrapped around some of the trees, or stretched between one
tree and the other. Rusted metal bars stick out of the ground and are twisted around some of the
trees.
Library Scene: The walls of this dark room are covered with shelves filled with books, scrolls,
and papers. The smells of old leather and moldy parchment pervade this room, giving it an
ancient, scholarly odor. Many of the books are supported by strange bookends. 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 either fell on top of others to the dusty stone
floor below. Hundreds of yellowed volumes, dried parchment, and unsealed scrolls are scattered
upon the floor or piled upon one another in the remaining bookshelves.
In the center of the room, two high-backed leather chairs are arranged around a table.
Caliban Cave: Suddenly it starts heaving itself up, and the huge bulk just keeps getting bigger.
The thing is the height of an elephant and about as big as a pickup truck.

The Streets:

01-10% There is a movement in the mist, a dark bulky something that the PCs at first think that it
is a building itself given life. Then it strides forward out of the fog on two huge legs.
11-20% More silence, more time, and the voice raises again, no less frail than before, so
ephemeral that one cannot tell if it is a man or woman. Indeed, it might have been the mournful
cry of a bird or an animal, repeated three times again, with a damped quality similar to that
provided by a filter of fog.

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

Green Pharmacy:

Taco Shack:

Simmons Street:

Wilson Street:

Andy’s Books:

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

Riverside Hotel:

Reception: It is a small square lobby with brown linoleum on the floor and three plastic-covered
occasional chairs, a blond coffee table and an artificial palm tree. In the far corner is a small
hotel desk, with the key rack behind, and next to it is a mounted deer head.
For curiosity they can rang the bell. It doesn’t seem to have an echo. It is a little unsettling.
There is a rack of picture postcards at the reception desk, most of them dull, deckled-edged black
and white images of the lake.
Manager’s Office: On the wall is a faithfully ticking wall clock. Two of the walls are occupied
by massive wooden filing cabinets. Another has several stuffed and mounted animal heads.
201: The wall nearest the door is lined with eight rusting animal cages, stacked on top of each
other or hanging from the ceiling..
308: The large creature, which seems shapeless at first but then became sort of describable as it
steps out from the closet. The first thing they think of as it comes out is a horse, because its body
definitely resembles one; then, of a centaur as there is a human body rising from the back; but
this thing is too deformed to be considered as such a mythological creature. It has not a horse’s
thick hair, instead it seems to be completely covered in human skin. It’s not a horse at all, but
two humans. At least parts are human. The heads, bald and mottled roll around on their necks as
if the thing or thing are sem-conscious. It looks to be two bodies or parts of bodies fused into
one.
The PCs draw their weapons as the creature steps completely out of the closet.
(How did that huge thing fit in there?)
Now that the monster is completely out and exposed, the back legs can seen. They come from
something attached to the first part’s abdomen. It looks like a human body, bent backwards, its
pelvis buried or melted into the portion just below the place where the ribs come together. The
rest of the body is also melted into the abdomen.

306: The room consists of a double bed, a battered greasy dresser and chair, rusty washstand and
drawn blinds. On the bedside table is a phone and purple-shaded lamp.
505: There is no blood here, but the walls and floor are pasted with photographs and sketches,
arranged without order or reason, just slapped on chaotically. There are also reams and reams of
paper taped to the walls and covering every surface. Each page is an endless snarl of words,
sometimes twisting into meaning, sometimes into nothing at all, frequently breaking apart,
always branching off into other pieces the PCs will find later---on old napkins, the tattered edges
of an envelope, once even on the back of a postage stamp; everything and anything but empty;
each fragment completely covered with the creep of years and years of ink pronouncements;
layered, crossed out, amended; handwritten, typed, legible, illegible; impenetrable, lucid; torn,
stained, scotch taped; some bits crisp and clean, others faded, burnt, or folded and refolded so
many times the creases have obliterated whole passages.
500: The flashlight illuminates Polaroids strewn about the walls and the ceiling. Closer
inspection reveals that these Polaroids are black-and-white pictures depicting men wearing coned
hats skewering prisoners with long spears. On the tiny prison bed 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.
Beside the bed is half a dozen books. Each volume is a heavily illustrated, privately printed
collection of pornography; the main subject is sadism, and the beautiful women in the pictures
appear to be suffering in earnest; handcuffs, chains, some gagged, some blindfolded, the blood
looks real.
106: Another hotel, identical to the others. A kitchen knife is on the bed.
108: The walls are wallpapered in purple with delicate patterns. The only color in the room is
provided by a full-size Confederate flag stapled to the wall: the red field, dark X, and white stars
of the flag. They see the gun is nestled in the groove of a green-padded box expensively lined in
velvet, the half-dozen bullets beside it. It is a 44 Magnum—a hand cannon capable of blowing a
hole through just about anything.
Laundry: The flavor is distinctly supernatural, the texture otherworldly, and the laundry
detergent smells like burning incense, and the cloying air seems thick with unseen presences.
There are several contemporary washing machines and an ironing board with folded laundry on
it.
Outside, they find a trash area, with a green dumpster under an aluminum roof.
Kitchen: The darkness is complete, but the PCs can still see. They are in a kitchen large enough
to serve a small restaurant. It has a stone ceiling, Mexican-tile floor with brown grouting and
restaurant-quality equipment such as two large freezers, two double-sinks, an island cooking
surface hung with iron pans, a built-in appliance centers yard-square grille, two standard ovens,
microwave, and array of a dozen other labor-saving appliances, tools, machines, and gadgets.
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.
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: There are no lights on, save for the creepy blinking of a pinball machine. It is filed
with pinball machines and electronic games.
Maintenance Room: The door opens with a small creak and they are greeted with the smell of
bleach. The maintenance rooms stand 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 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 dosen’t seem important,
unless one realizes that the walls in the corridor are a paper-thin sheet of plaster-board, and a
hole has been poked into the walls between each of the rooms, perhaps to satify an employee’s
perverse curiosity. The guest 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.
500: Calendar:
501: Photographs.
500: It had once been blocked by yellow hazard tape, but that has long since torn away and only
a few scraps are left around the opening.
To the right a desperately overgrown lawn sweeps up to bushes and small trees planted along the
front of the hotel.
The second story has fourteen rooms with glossy green doors.
312: The restroom’s curtains are still there.
316: Wedding dress, sagging cake, tuxedo. Bottles of champagne.
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:
Through the mesh-covered window they can see the playing fields; the goal posts have moved
and are lined up beside each other, forming a long, continuous gibbet. Three bodies hang there,
hanging grotesquely, their heads lolling to one side.
306: If they peer through the narrow spaces between the bars of the grille, they see the cast-iron
bases of what appear to be huge machine housings.
Dinner: Coming into the intersection, the PCs stop short before a display of horrid objects.
Beside a massive gibbet are flaying stocks stained with blood. Poles hold aloft a pair of impaled
men. From a derrick swings a small cage; inside crouches a naked, fire-blackened corpse, barely
recognizable as a man. Stuck in his chest is what looks to be a knife or dagger.
The dagger from the dead man is an intricate silver ceremonial item. Its blade is serrated, it has
no guard, its handle is covered with supple black leather, and a large ruby completes the pommel
of the weapon.
500:
The corridor is cold and dark, and there are disturbing, undefined smells in it. There are brown
stains, in places: big splashes of dried blood. Wires hang from gaps in the ceiling; the occasional
pipe. In the narrow beams of light the dangling wires look like filaments of living tissue. And the
darkness itself seems to squirm, hinting at shapes just beyond classification.
The odor of death blasts into the room with the thing, and the PC’s stomachs heave. The smell of
death is subtle yet cloying, elusive but all around. It is fresh, unlike the heavu, pungent odor of
stale corpses.
You peer into t eh gloom and see the bloated face above the grotesquely stretched neck, the
ridiculously small loop of plastic flex, no more than three inches in diamter, 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 was a large, wet gray suction cup, like the underside of
a leech.

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 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.
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.
The blades of a 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.
37It 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 stalked unsteadily forward on tall stilt legs that might once have been
leg-bones, once upon a time. It stops abruptly as something else enter 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.
EAST SILENT HILL: East Silent Hill’s commercial district is a ribbon of shops and
restaurants running north to south, gathered on the street that faces the riverside park and the
Illiniwak beyond that. Beyond, the grand Victorian mansions look down on the squares, and to
the north, lines of 1920's bungalows unroll along the streets to the edges of Paleville National
Park. A handful of tiny corner groceries are scattered among the houses. East Silent Hill was the
most upscale part of the city, where the wealthy lived in their Victorian palaces, and the upper
middle-class in their eighty-year-old bungalows.
They cross Denyer Avenue, which runs north from Massey Street in front of the library.

Silent Hill Library: THE 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 the building as 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, old-
fashioned light fixtures sway to and fro, cobwebs cling to them while below row upon row of
shelves cover the floor space.

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.

The Library isn’t silent anymore. All kinds of strange muffled noises – children shrieking with
laughter, demons grunting and snarling can be heard.

The Illinois Room lays 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. A azalea bush has taken root in
one corner where a shelf appears to have collapsed and spilled its books to the floor.

Toluca Room: The Toluca Room looks much better. Through the glass set into the door, it looks
dusty but untouched. Trying the knob shows that it turns easily. The Toluca Room is smaller
than the Illinois Room, wide enough to accommodate one window to the right and two along the
back wall. The PCs step inside and close the door behind them. It can’t be locked.
Old wooden bookcases fronted with closed glass doors stand along the left wall, but just to their
left is a counter with three microfiche machines and three chairs collecting dust. A waist-high
bookshelf runs along the far wall under the windows and along the wall to the right. Dead
houseplants in pots have mummified in front of every window, sitting atop the low shelves. A
round table with four chairs fills the center of the room. A large laminated map of Silent Hill is
tacked to the wall above the microfiche readers.

The PCs look at the map.

The town forms an inverted “u” around a body of water called Toluca Lake. South Vale,
Paleville, South Park, Old Silent Hill, Wrightwood, downtown, the Windowbox District, East
Silent Hill... 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 Lakeside Amusement Park, a gigantic swath of green in the Paleville
neighborhood. There is Summerland Cemetery on the south side of downtown, and Springwood
Cemetery, where members of Silent Hill’s Jewish community were laid to rest, on the north side
of the Windowbox District, separated by only a few blocks from the national park. There is Swan
Point Cemetery (formerly the Colored and Indigents Burial Ground) on the northern edge of
Wrightwood, where the poorer people had lived. It is not located on a point and is not especially
a haunt for swans, but it was separated from Paleville National Park by nothing more than the
width of Shelley Road.

Shapes flickers past the high windows, casting shadows down. There is a sigh from the shadows,
echoing across the empty space in the center of the library. Something flits across an aisle. There
is another noise from behind, and as they turn more shapes move, darting from shadow to
shadow, shelf to shelf. The sighing comes again, rising and falling, echoing back and forth. They
are surrounded in the middle of this room.

In the labyrinth of shelves, monsters both human and not abide between the covers of so many
books. Perhaps one beast prowls not in those paper worlds but in this one, breathing not ink
fumes but air, waiting for someone to find it along one turning or another of these quiet aisles.

Making cover in the shelves, the paper in the books rustle, shadows lurch crazily in the distance.
The shuffling noises start again. They are coming from the next aisle along. Up ahead is a gap in
the shelves.

When the PCs enter the second floor reading room they are met, to their immediate right, by the
book check-out desk where some shushing spinster in her late 40’s, wearing huge glasses, with a
plastic bead chain hanging from them, might have sat. The room is illuminated by white light
coming from the windows, located also to the right of the PCs, which illuminate the long row of
reading tables that stretch toward the far back of the large room. One of the windows next to the
edge of one of the tables is open.

Darkness: When consciousness is regained, the Library has been transformed into a dark version
of what it used to look like. The blackness has invaded the library. It lurks in every aisle,
between every shelf. In fact, it is so dark that one can’t see anything until they stand, pulling the
flashlight out and switching it on. The first thing observed about his new surroundings are the
lamps. The round modern lamps are gone – instead, small round, rusty cages hang from the
ceiling, each containing a lump of flesh that looks a deformed fetus. Whatever is trapped in those
cages, it is undesirable to examine them closely.

Another room full of bookshelves. Words escape them as they realize they haven't gotten to the
roof, but the third floor. The bookshelves are disarranged, dirty, bloody, with scarce books
scattered in them here and there. Some bookshelves are leaning against others. Reading tables
are also part of the mess; this looks like a war zone. There are bloody sheets thrown over the
shelves and tables, and police tape drapes the roof. From the staircase they've just come from,
dirty water starts to rise, and it quickly floods the whole room up to just above ankle height.

The shelves are empty. Where there had been hundreds of books, CD’s, movies and games just
before, there is now only dust and a few (luckily motionless) stains of blood. The walls and floor
are filthy and all the windows had been boarded up.

Silent Hill High School: The mist is thick enough to blot out the red brick bulk of Silent
Hill High School rearing up across Ferris Street from the block that Berkowitz’s filled with its
parking lot and store. The school fills the next block up as well. Though south of Massey Street,
the blocks that front Pickton Street and the Illiniwak River are mostly very narrow, most of the
blocks all along Ferris Street are as wide as two of the blocks along Pickton. The high school
fills an entire large block, and from where the PCs stand, the old main building is to the right,
and the gymnasium, library, and auditorium to the left, one behind the other.
The PCs look to the left to see fog sighing softly over a handful of cars left behind in the lot.
Four cars can be seen, scattered here and there, and a couple of dark shapes in the distance that
might be more. Large trees line the edges, along Hilley Street to the left, Ramsey Avenue to the
right, and Ferris Street at the far end of the lot, straight ahead. Between them and the trees in
their planting squares alongside the street, the sidewalk is little more than a tunnel. In their
growth, the trees’ roots have buckled the sidewalk and it rises and falls like frozen ripples. It is
cold and slick, and water drips from the branches above as snowflakes melt there. Hilley Street
runs between Pickton and Ferris for only that single block. Across Schaefer, the next street up
from Hilley, is what had once been one of the large open squares that were the soul of East Silent
Hill. At some point, it too had been claimed by the school, and was home to Silent Hill High
School football field, soccer field, and baseball diamond.
Silent Hill High School is a beautiful old castle of rust-red brick erected in 1925, and while it had
been repeatedly modernized, the school still retains some of the quirks expected of an older
building. It stands four stories high, and is shaped like a long, fat letter I. A long, straight hallway
runs from end to end on each floor of the school, with an entrance at each end. On the first floor,
the hall ends at the door to the cafeteria and its kitchen, which lies ahead beyond the school
offices. The elevator, north staircase, and north entrance to the school are located inside the
cafeteria. Language classes fills half of the first floor, with offices and the school cafeteria
occupying the remainder. Stairwells are located at either end of the building, and at the north side
of the building is an elevator that was only to be used by teachers, and students who were not
physically able to climb the stairs. The second floor is home to science, math, history, and all the
civics courses. On the third floor is where the fine arts, business, computer, home economics,
and elective courses are located.
The gym next door to the main school building is newer, and is built of brick the color of dirty
phlegm. There is the Ferris Street entrance, on the south end of the fat letter I. On the second and
third floors above the wide set of double doors are large windows that seems to have all their
glass intact. There are smaller windows to the right and left, in sets one above the other.
The PCs move across the street and up a set of broad cement steps to the south entrance of Silent
Hill High School.
Main Entrance: The doors are made of thick steel and each had a square window threaded
through with wire mesh and a handle and thumb-bolt.
Book molds, old wood. School is an insular senorium, a self-contained universe of smells, sights,
sounds: the feel of fresh, slick textbook paper, the smell of its ink; the waxy odor of crayons and
the musty one of pencil shavings…the slant of afternoon light through rows of classroom
windows.
The left-hand door is locked. The thumb-bolt refuses to give and rattles in place with an
indifferent metallic click.
The door to the right is unlocked.
The door opens, amazingly, silently.
The bottom floor has been remodeled to provide an acoustically perfect music room. The second
floor is given over to classrooms. The business offices and records room are on the fourth floor.
One is now being stalked through a narrow hallway on the campus by a man walking on the
ceiling. He is dressed in a white suit and keep nodding his head up and down with each step. No
matter where one runs, every time one turns, one will see him a distance off glanced, even
though it looks like he is walking very slowly.
Assembly Hall: They have peered into at least a dozen rooms, which seem more and more like
huge pitiless cells, when to the assembly hall that divides the corridor from its twin. The hall
would hold several hundred children.
Gym Restroom: They push open the heavy wooden door, only to find that the bathroom is barely
lit. The lights flicker, some of them dying out completely. The bathroom is mostly shadow and
strangely damp. There are puddles of water on the floor, as if a sink or a toilet has overflowed,
and the mirrors seem dirty.
Cafeteria: Food smells, cafeteria, the unmistakable effluvium of rancid meat and reheated gravy
mixing in the hallways with bathroom disinfectant and the faintest whiff of old vomit dusted up
by the janitor long ago.
Classroom: Eventually one comes to a classroom and opens the door, only to what looks like a
hotel bathroom inside is a bloody skeleton in tub filled with murky water. The skeleton is
dragging its fingers across its face and reaching out like it wants to pull the visitors in close to
whisper something in their ears.
Completely petrified the PCs turn to the door of the classroom, faces wet with sweat. They shiver
from the sudden cold.
Then they notice the window door. A small corner of the glass begins to fog with precipitation,
then disappear. Then it fogs again, then it disappears. It's almost as if somebody behind the door
is breathing on it...
Your eyes are wide, unblinking, unmoving. Your entire body quivers with terror.
Very, very slowly, a face emerges from behind the door, revealing itself through the invisible
glass barrier. And what the PCs see is horrifying.
The head is bald, with silver teeth, resembling fangs. Yellow eyes, that are silted like a cats, and
chalk white skin stretched painfully over a bald skull with an almost hooked nose. Its cat like
eyes are obscene and demonic, and they possess a menacing glare unlike anything the PCs have
ever seen. Its blood red lips are forever curled up into an unsettling smile a grin of decaying
fangs, each of the two canines looking more likely to hurt itself more than any victim. The entire
visage resembles one of an incredibly delirious, homicidal clown.
He stares at them, perplexed. His already twisted smile contorts into a horrifying ear to ear grin.
He's enjoying this.
His ghastly face stares madly through the glass. He opens the door, revealing his tall, skinny
figure dressed in a formal tuxedo. His feet aren't touching the ground, he merely glides into the
lounge, his legs are not moving at all. He doesn't carry any weapons, yet the mere look of him
could send even the most hardened criminal crying for his mother.
Behind him comes a shorter creature, this one with a stooped gait and swing their arms about. Its
back is huddled over, adding to its apelike demeanor. Its face looks identical to the first creature,
except for a bloody gash ripped across its forehead. Its torso is bundled up in a straight jacket,
but the arms are not tied.
Both the Gentleman and the Lackey do not talk or acknowledge each other, they're just aware
that both of them must work in tandem in order to get the prey...the PCs.
The Gentlemen never removes his eyes from the PCs. He brings up a skinny, twig like finger to
his mouth, in a gesture akin to shushing.
The Robert Black Memorial Auditorium: Across Olson Avenue, an enormous building
of dark brick and tall pointed windows looms unharmed, with the canyon reduced to little more
than a wide crack snaking under its walls. Regularly spaced along its walls, brick columns shoot
skyward and narrow to points like tiny church spires high above the roof, but from where they
stand, the mist obscures even the roof, and the fancy brickwork at the tips of the pillars are
invisible.
Robert Black Memorial Auditorium had been home to Silent Hill Community Theatre ("Be
Shocked by SHCT!" had been their motto), one of the finest small theater groups in the Midwest.
In between their wildly popular performances, the auditorium hosted graduations and lectures,
especially contentious city council meetings whose crowds couldn’t fit into the tiny auditorium
at City Hall, and performances by Silent Hill Symphony Orchestra and Silent Hill Community
Band. Like Silent Hill itself, the auditorium had always been so full of life, and like the city, it is
decaying in the wet darkness now.
They cross the street and discover that even at its narrowest point, the sinkhole in Olson Avenue
is still too wide to jump across. It is then that they notice an alley running between the
auditorium and the neighboring building. Unless it too has collapsed somewhere along its path to
Jones Street, the next street parallel to Olson Avenue, they can use the alley to find, hopefully, a
clear path north to the square then east to the library.
There is no time, and as they dart through the alley, the PCs realize an open pair of metal doors
has slipped by on their right. They skid to a halt, almost panting, and stare at the doors for a
moment.
They can find their way through the building to its grand front entrance on Burke Square. It will
save time, and if they slam the doors shut behind them, and lock them, it might slow down
anyone or anything following.
Then again, there might be something inside as dangerous as anything outside on the streets of
Silent Hill in the mist and falling snowflakes.
So they step inside and close and lock the doors behind them.
Lobby: The latch clicks as the lock catches and the PCs have sealed themselves into a dank black
silence that rings in their ears and sting their throats with the tang of mildew. They turn slowly in
the dark, putting the steel doors behind them, and trying to make as little noise as possible.
Anything might be scuttling about inside the auditorium.
They can use a flashlight to make their way safely through the darkness, or should they try to slip
silently through that darkness and hope not to attract the attention of something gruesome and
shambling? Or, have light enough to see to run away from anything inside or to kill it, or fall off
the stage and break their necks in the orchestra pit?
They switch it on with a reassuring click, and the PCs discover they stand in a narrow hallway
behind the auditorium's main stage. There are several passages here at the back of the building,
each lined with dressing rooms, offices, and storage closets, and their walls are covered with
bulletin boards and posters. Each board once sported a colorful slew of playbills, photos, and
schedules tacked in place, though now, years of damp pouring in through the open doors (had
they really been open all this time?), the bulletin boards are swollen and bowed. Everything they
had once displayed have been reduced to soggy, tattered scraps.
It seems somehow unutterably sad.
The floor is gritty with the accumulated filth and grime of abandonment; dried carapaces of dead
beetles and roaches crunch underfoot. They pass by offices and dressing rooms where everything
inside is rusted and decayed. In one, they see a dressing table spread beneath a giant mirror, now
blackened, ringed with bulbs. Jars of cosmetics, theatrical makeup, cluster on the tabletop, as
though huddling together for safety. Their contents hardened to the consistency of cement.
Everything seems to have been left untouched here, as it had been in Brookhaven, Midwich, and
in every store and apartment they had passed by. Curtains left hanging in windows, paperwork
left scattered on desktops, a playbill from a show five years ago on the floor in front of them.
There is something strange about it. Playing the light over it and they see a gleam bounce off its
glossy paper, then picking it up. Under their fingertips it feels new, with only the slightest bit of
grit from the floor adhering. It couldn’t have been here for long, less than a day even, because it
hadn’t wrinkled in the damp at all.
It reads: “Emmy-Nominated Actress Lisa Groft Presents a One-Woman Show: The Tears of
an Adult – Why my Mother Died Alone and in Pain”
Below is a picture of a stunningly beautiful blonde, unsmiling, with her chin in her hand, gazing
into space.
The PCs open the flyer and begin to read. Apparently, Lisa Groft, presenter of the one-woman
show, was from Monticello, Illinois, between Decatur and Champaign-Urbana. From childhood,
she had always aspired to be an actress, and began her ascent in high school when she appeared
in every performance that had room for her, including ‘Peter Pan’ (as Wendy) and ‘A
Midsummer Night’s Dream’ (as Titania, Queen of the Faeries).
The PCs don’t care. They skim onward.
Degree in drama from the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem, leading roles in
‘Anything Goes’ and ‘On the Night of January the 16th’ while enrolled there...
Performances at this playhouse and that theatre throughout the Southeast for a few years after
graduation...
Moved to Los Angeles at age twenty-eight and immediately found work in a supporting role on a
sitcom.
Still performed in plays and shows, throughout Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco.
Let her mother die alone. Here it is.
“While Lisa pursued her career, garnering accolades every step of the way, her mother,
Geraldine Miller-Groft, remained behind in the tiny town of Monticello. Mrs. Groft was
especially proud of her daughter’s accomplishments because, when her husband
abandoned the family when Lisa was still an infant, she had been forced to raise Lisa in a
poverty-stricken, single-parent household.
Eventually, however, Mrs. Groft’s health began to falter and then to fail due to a
combination of diabetes and, later, stomach cancer.
While her diagnoses grew more bleak, Mrs. Groft’s attempts to contact her daughter were
always unsuccessful. Cards and letters from her mother were usually thrown away
unopened by Lisa, and messages left on her answering machine were deleted immediately
the moment Lisa first heard her mother’s voice squawk from the speaker.
Lisa was uneager to be reminded of her childhood in a town and a state she considered
beneath her talents. She would have liked nothing more than to have been born and raised
in Hollywood by two glamorous parents who had scores of glamourous friends and
acquaintances with connections in the movie industry. She was, and remains, a selfish bitch
–“
The PCs pause. What is this? Who could have written this?
“– who would rather die than allow the tabloids to sink their talons into a juicy story like
this, especially after her role as the kindly Sister Mary Ambrose in last year’s box-office
smash, ‘Nun of Your Business’, though most especially after her mother’s death in April of
this year. Lisa would prefer it not be known by the public that not only was she unaware
that her mother had died, she was also ignorant of her mother’s colossal suffering and
loneliness in the last years of her life.
Until now.
“Join us as Lisa discusses her feelings and her motivations for allowing her mother to die a
slow and painful death all alone. Don’t worry that Lisa might not show up to appear in this
rollicking performance – she’ll be here if she doesn’t want her mother’s agony screaming
from the front page of every tabloid in America. Not to mention People Magazine, and the
lips of a thousand news reporters who love nothing more than a nice tidbit of gossip. We
guarantee you’ll get your money’s worth. Lisa wouldn’t miss it for the world.
We know you wouldn’t, Lisa. We know you’ll come and put on a FINE show.
Love,
La Llorona”
Turning it over, one sees on the back nothing more than a tiny map showing the location of the
Robert Black Memorial Auditorium in downtown Silent Hill marked with a bright blue star, as
well as the auditorium’s daily hours of operation. Below is the address as well as the legend
inscribed in colored marble inlaid into the floor of the auditorium’s regal lobby:
Robert Black Memorial Auditorium
1 South Burke Square
Silent Hill, 61723
“Let the Magic of the Stage Sing to Your Soul”
But what is most offensive is that the flyer looks so normal. The same shiny, high-quality paper,
the same tiny map on the back, the dates and times and the legend from the lobby floor right
where they should be. It is unusual to find so much information about a single performer in a
flyer
Lisa Groft, like so many others, had been called to Silent Hill to suffer for a sin, however. Who
summoned her, though, the PCs wonder – her mother? Someone else?
But would a mother, even one as mistreated as Lisa Groft’s had been, call her child here to this
wet hell and have her suffer through all the nasty surprises it could vomit out for her to find?
Does it make sense? Does anything make sense in Silent Hill?
And what is La Llorona?
At the end of the hall is a single door, open now, but which was always kept closed during
performances to halt any errant noises that might issue from the offices, or the bathrooms,
opening onto the hall where the PCs stand. For quick costume changes, actors and actresses
hurried to private booths in the wings backstage. The stage itself is actually a giant circular
platform, divided down the center by a high wall. It could accommodate two sets at once and
could revolve to reveal one set as another spun out of view.
The stage and the clockwork used to turn it are both actually very old, original to the auditorium,
which had been completed some time in the 1890's, and when completed, the stage had been
regarded as something of a minor engineering marvel. To turn the stage a crank off to one side
backstage, out of view of the audience, has to be turned by hand, and actors and actresses
scurried into the wings in the darkness between scenes as the gears clanked and caught the pegs
underneath the stage and passed them from one to another to turn the stage and reveal the next
scene's set.
They suddenly hear the grind of gears as the stage beyond the door begins to move.
Who is turning the crank and why?
Then suddenly someone shrieks in pain and horror and the auditorium beyond the door erupts in
applause. The PCs run toward the door; someone out there might need help. But who the hell can
be clapping? It sounds as though the auditorium is filled to capacity.
Great cloth walls of blackout curtain hang from steel rods high above on the other side of the
door. Most are fuzzy with mold and moss, and one has torn away from its rings and lies on the
warping floor in a heap. Sounding far away, someone on the stage is sobbing in hoarse screams.
The PCs run to the left to skirt the blackout curtains, and the flashlight beam bounces wildly off
stacked moldering set pieces in the wings – a wing chair with rusty springs bursting from its seat,
a grim oil painting peeling out of its gilt frame – and the dressing booths tucked against the far
wall. Most of their doors hang askew. As the PCs move the floor squeaks and bounces under
their feet; it is hardwood and the boards have peeled up and swollen.
The beam of the flashlight reaches up to disappear in the blackness amid the rafters high above.
"Mother, I'm so sorry," howls the voice, that of a woman, from the stage.
From the audience comes a sound that suggests it has just collectively seen something utterly
adorable. A sort of sighing, "Awwww..."
"I didn't mean for this to happen," says the voice. "I didn't mean for it to end up like this."
Laughter, great gales of hysterical screaming laughter pours from the seats of the auditorium, but
as it dies away another voice murmurs a reply to the crying woman.
They then realize there were two people on the stage, and considered perhaps she should stay
hidden.
Maybe Lisa Groft and her mother are talking, and the PCs suddenly see, perfectly clearly, that it
is not their place to interrupt. It is almost as if a voice had spoken audibly, "No."
Whatever is happening on the stage is meant to play itself out without interference.
"Mother, I'm sorry. I love you, and I always did... It's – It's just that the life I lived here and the
life I live now don't fit together and–"
The audience boo enthusiastically.
"SHUT UP!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The PCs imagine Lisa Groft spinning around, through
from what she didn't know, her blond hair flying out in a golden fan, to face the seats in the
auditorium, which are almost certainly empty.
There is silence for a moment, then laughter from the auditorium and helpless sobs from Lisa
Groft.
"Please be quiet..." begins the voice.
More laughter.
Helpless sobbing, then, "Please, mother, will you forgive me?"
A murmur, weak and barely there at all.
A scream that crumbles into weeping: "MOMMIEEEEEE!!"
Wild applause from the audience. Hoots and whistles and cheers.
Suddenly there is silence broken only by Lisa Groft's weeping. Then a loud click that the PCs
recognize as a spotlight being switched on, as the barest slants of light spill over the tops of the
blackout curtains and light her hiding spot with a dim glow.
A unfamiliar voice, and the PCs feel their heads swim.
"And the award for Best Actress goes to...why, YOU, Lisa Groft! What a performance! Very
impressive."
Spirited applause from the audience.
The voice becomes a menacing growl. "Your mother may forgive you, and in fact a lot of people
might forgive you, but I won't. You're here because you're damned, girl, and I'm the one who'll
see to it that you're properly punished for being such a heartless, selfish, wretched, stinking
cunt."
The applause grows louder.
"Come here, Lisa Groft."
A strange, gasping, high-pitched scream. "Who are you?"
"La Llorona."
Above the clapping and cheers comes a sound, like high heels clicking across a stage, then a
thump and a squeal, as though Lisa Groft had tried to back away, then fallen hard. A muffled
scraping as though Lisa Groft is scooting backward across the floor.
The voice giggles. The high heels click smartly on the floor. The audience roars its approval.
A screech, and then gunshots. Perhaps Lisa Groft has a gun.
"COME HERE, WOMAN," The voice roars, and it shakes the walls and floor. High above,
dangling rusty chains and ruined banks of lights clink lightly together. From the audience comes
cheers and whistles, and the applause rises and falls like waves crashing on a beach.
Lisa Groft begins to scream and seems unable to stop. The voice laughs, and then there is the
sound of something large being dragged.
The laughter grows louder, and the PCs realize with horror that the source of the voice is
approaching.
"NO, NO, PLEASE, NO... OH DEAR GOD, NO, PLEASE..." the screams become words.
More applause from the audience, and a shout for an encore.
It can't be right to hide here. It can't be right to hide while La Llorona does... whatever... to Lisa
Groft. La Llorona comes closer, and the PCs tighten their grips on their weapons, and prepare to
leap out at her. If they can surprise La Llorona, maybe.
Then the scent of roses washes over them.
The PCs feel tears slip down their cheeks.
Lisa Groft's screams ceases, as does La Llorona 's malevolent chuckling and the applause from
the audience, when the door behind the hanging blackout curtains slams loudly, violently shut.
The silence is shocking, and the PCs twitch in surprise. In an instant, the sensation of the Blue
Lady's presence, and the PCs leap to their feet, hurtle forward and spin and switch on the
flashlight to see that there is no one behind them. The Blue Lady is gone.
The PCs stare, blinking and feeling their breaths huff out in little gasps. A single blue rose lies on
the floor where they had hidden.
The knob of the door refuses to turn, and when one puts an ear to the door, they hear nothing
from the other side. La Llorona is gone, and with her, Lisa Groft.
There is nothing they can do.
They have to get out of here.
The PCs run away from the door, around the curtains to the wing chair. They shine their light on
the rose on the floor.
The PCs walk forward, kneel, and pick up the blue rose. As they hold it in the beam of the light
and gaze at it, a feeling of peace swells inside them, a nub that becomes a bud that blossoms into
a magnificent flower. A blue rose, perhaps.
They walk down the stairs from the stage to the orchestra pit. The auditorium is silent now, and
their footsteps on the warped wooden risers echo and re-echo.
The PCs want to be somewhere else. The light can guide them to the doors at the back of the
theater, and when they push them open they howl on rusty hinges. The PCs cringe, and look
behind them quickly but the auditorium is quiet and black and decaying peacefully.
They leave it behind and track clean footprints through the dust and filth on the lobby's vast
marble floor, patterned with black-and-white checkerboard tile. Here the light from outside
filters half-heartedly through dirty windows, and fancy sofas and settees sag and mildew in
shadows. A giant chandelier, its brass tarnished and its crystal pendants dulled by dust, dangles
above, suspended from a long chain in a mirrored dome where most of the panels are still intact.
Two or three have crashed to the floor at some point, however, and the PCs step around their
shards, scattered across the great central circle of white marble where the tiles are inset with
colored marble letters:
LET THE MAGIC OF THE STAGE SING TO YOUR SOUL

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 it’s just the one, then again, maybe not.

As they cross a street a metal pole that would probably have been attached to the stoplight is
scratched, twisted, and spotted with rust. Where there had once been a pedestrian walk button,
there is now nothing but a jagged hole with wires hanging out. The wires do not have the shine
one normally sees in exposed copper, instead they are dull and crusty, like a coin that has been
covered in dirt for years. The flashlight does not give sufficient illumination to see the top of the
pole, but the base is littered with rounded pieces of shattered safety glass.

Decayed metal grating has replaced the ground and blood stains the walls. The stench of flesh
and smoke fills the air, overpowering. Below the mesh, huge bleeding pipes stretch into infinity.
Somewhere in the distance, a constant thump and hum. The metal is rusted and dented. The
ground, even where there should be dirt and grass, has been replaced by the metal mesh, the
pipes disappearing over the horizon, the payload of what seems to be blood leaking in several
places. The only sound is the drone of machinery and the constant thunderous pounding over the
horizon.

Rendell Street: It is perhaps another two hundred feet before Rendell Street is reached. The PCs
turn the corner and stay on the left sidewalk as they move east. Chain-link fencing lines the
edges of the sidewalk, cordoning off various lots. Some of them have parked cars, and looks to
be a service station. An auto-parts store, a hardware store to the left, and abandoned cars lining
the street to the right.

Munson Street: Crossing over as the road empties onto Munson, which they also cross. Saul
Street is but a few feet further. The corner here is obscured by high slat fencing, and there is a car
parked halfway on the sidewalk. While walking Munson Street twice the radio wakes up for a
moment and then goes back to sleep. They never see what triggers it, either time.

Jack’s Inn: 38 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 re-
stocking. A few windows broken and boarded over. Landscaping overrun by weeds. Dead leaves
and paper litter drifts against one wall. A large neon sign, broken and unlit, hangs between
twenty-foot-tall steel posts near the entrance drive, swinging slightly on its pivots as the wind
wails in from the lake.
The motel’s small office occupies the northeast corner of the U-shaped structure. Through the
big plate-glass windows, one can see only a portion of the unlighted room: the dim shapes of a
beige sofa, one chair, an empty postcard rack, a wall rack holding about forty paperbacks,
another rack full of free travel brochures, an end table and squat, fluorescent lamp with a flexible
neck, and the oak check-in desk with a green felt blotter. There is a frosted-glass ceiling fixture
too with two bulbs. The door is locked, as expected.
Moving into the courtyard, where the dark blue painted doors to the motel rooms lay on three
sides. A battered aluminum awning overhangs the cracked walkway that serves all three wings,
forming a shabby promenade. The swimming pool has been drained. A soda machine stands just
outside the office door, humming and clinking to itself.
Forty to fifty rooms, all alike and spaced as evenly as the slats in a fence, are set into
undistinguished red-brick walls.
The rooms are large, clean, and tastefully decorated. The furniture has white washed wood,
rattan side chairs with cushions upholstered peach and pale-blue patterns, seafoam-green drapes.
Only the mottled-green carpet, evidently chosen for its ability to conceal stains and wear, spoils
the effect; by contrast, the light hued furnishings seem not merely to stand on the dark carpet but
to float above it, creating spatial illusions that are disconcerting, even slightly eerie. There is a
sofa, two beds and a television set. There is green carpeting, floral wallpaper and a spinning
ceiling fan.

Baldwin Mansion: The Baldwin Mansion is well within the South Vale city limits, yet it is
separated from the rest of the town, as if everyone were afraid to build nearby.
The house is dark in its valley, built of stone washed dark by rains and rains. Even where the sun
touches, it keeps its shadow. A huge holly tree grows beyond its stone wall. A long front and
small windows, three stories, a mansard roof with dormers; in the center a small portico
sheltering a high door, with the implication of wings turned back behind, with the house full-face
and staring down.
There is not much of a yard: a forty-by-twenty-foot plot of thin grass, formal gardens wrecked by
growth, rampart hedges and choked beds stand between visitors and the house. But the hedges
and beds stand only as a frame to water. Long stone-lined pools are cut strict and square at the
corners, though they are green and stagnant now and the jutting fountainheads are still; and
below the gardens, lapping almost at their feet lies the deeper, darker waters of a lake. Where the
gardens; gravel walks end in a stone balustrade a set of steps lead down to the lake. At the far
end of the lawn is the garage, and beyond the garage is a litter-strewn alley. In one corner of the
Baldwin property, up against the garage wall, stands a corrugated metal utility shed with a white
enamel finish and a pair of green metal doors.
The house is a huge, rambling three-story affair of brick, pseudo-Victorian with a false tower, a
slate-roof, dark shingles and white gingerbread trim but battered and weathered and grimy. It had
been part of a really fine residential neighborhood. Most of the houses on this street had been
converted to apartment buildings. This one has not, but it is in the same disrepair as all the
others. Storms have ripped shingles from the roof. Some of the ornate trim is broken, and in a
few spots it has fallen down altogether. Where shutters still survive, they often hang at a slant,
but a single mounting. The paint has been weathered away. The boards are silver-gray, bleached
by the sun and the constant wind, water-stained.

Entrance Hall: The front door is open. The interior of the manor house is only slightly less
depressing than its exterior. The main hall alone has paint faded and chipped, blue-and-gold
runner dirty and threadbare, furnishings coated with thick layer of dust. There is no sense of
ownership, no smell of cooking or of polish. It is a dead place. The furnishings consist primarily
of a low coffee table around which are arranged four armchairs. The chairs are beige, maroon,
and comfortable. The air is threaded with the sweet, elusive fragrance of lemon incense. On top
of the coffee table are two boxes of handgun bullets and a first-aid kit containing bandages,
antitoxin compounds, ointment for burns.

Service Room: It is a well used work area. The nearer end contains two stainless-steel sinks, an
electric washer-dryer, a pair of wicker clothes baskets, a table large enough for folding freshly
laundered towels, and shelves on which stand bottles of bleach, bottles of spot removers, and
boxes of detergents. At the other end of the room there is a workbench equipped with vises and
tools.

Pantry: Two walls are covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves; and these are lined with store-
bought as well as home-canned fruits and vegetables. A large, chest-style freezer stands against
the far wall.

Kitchen: The kitchen has been wrecked. The white-lacquered breakfast table and two chairs are
overturned. The other two chairs have been hammered to pieces against everything else in sight.
The refrigerator is badly dented and scraped; the tempered glass in the oven door is shattered; the
counters and cabinets are gouged and scratched, edges splintered. Dishes and drinking glasses
have been pulled from the cupboards and thrown against the walls, and the floor is prickled and
glinting with thousands of sharp shards. Food has been swept off the shelves of the refrigerator
onto the floor: Pickles, milk, macaroni salad, mustard, chocolate pudding, maraschino cherries, a
chunk of ham, and several unidentifiable substances are congealing in a disgusting pool. Beside
the sink, above the cutting board, all six knives have been removed from their rack and, with
tremendous force, have been driven into the wall; some of the blades are buried up to half their
lengths in the drywall, while two have been driven in to their hilts.

Dining Room: The dining room is sixty feet in length, as high as it is wide—twenty-seven feet in
both directions. Its ceiling is divided into a series of elaborately carved panels, its floor polished
travertine. Its walls are paneled to a height of twelve feet, stone-blocked above. In the center of
the west wall is giant fireplace, its Gothic mantel reaching to the ceiling. Spaced at intervals
above the length of the forty-foot table in the center of the hall hangs four immense sanctuary
lamps, wired for electricity. Thirty chairs stand around the table, all of them constructed of
walnut with wine-red velvet upholstery.

Stairway: The narrow cone of the flashlight jumps fitfully around from place to place, freezing
momentarily on hulking groups of furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries
filmed with dust; a staircase, broad and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story
corridor overlooking the entry hall; and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of
paneled ceiling.

Living Room: Its pale walls are hung with framed gold records and intricate landscapes. There is
a huge white couch facing a wide screen TV. There are vases of white lilies, vases of eucalyptus
branches. There is a tall bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes, mostly fake grimoires
and incunabulae, although amongst the rubbish is a worm-eaten set of the three volumes of del
Rico’s Disquitionum Magicarum, and a rather fine copy of Casiano’s Summa Diabolia in
Moroccan leather.

Playroom: To the left, through another set of doors, is a playroom, 11 by 28 feet, beautifully
finished in walnut paneling, with recessed fluorescent lights in a dropped ceiling. Toys lay
scattered across the floor of this room, dusty blocks and dark-eyed dolls give silent testimony
to the sanity and life which once thrived in this house. The southern wall has been fancifully
painted with dragons and knights, and the short but richly-carved canopy bed was never meant to
hold an adult. Behind the bed, and partially hidden by its drapes, is a child’s drawing scrawled
upon the wall of a stick man being beheaded. A row of exquisite porcelain-face dolls stare
dumbly from the mantelpiece, glassy eyes wide beneath the long lashes, inlaid Italian cabinets
with secret compartments which fly open when concealed springs are activated; samplers;
delicate painted fans, feather fans, carved ivory fans. On the wall hang dark-daubed oil paintings
in gilded frames. The scattered limbs of broken dolls lay strewn about the floor.

Master Bedroom: In the large master bedroom, there is more destruction, though it is not as
extensive or as indicative of insane fury as the damage in the kitchen. Beside the king-size bed of
black-lacquered wood and burnished stainless steel, a torn pillow leaks feathers. The bedsheets
are strewn across the floor, and a chair is overturned. One of the two black ceramic lamps has
been knocked off a nightstand and broken, and the shade has been crushed. The shade on the
other lamp is cocked, and the paintings hang askew from the walls. The contents of the walk-in
closet—shirts, slacks, sweaters, shoes, suits, ties, and more—lays in a torn and tangled mess.
Sheets, a white quilted spread, and feather-leaking pillows are strewn across the floor. The
mattress has been heaved off the springs, which has been knocked halfway off the frame. Two
black ceramic lamps are smashed, the shades ripped and then apparently stomped. Enormously
valuable paintings have been wrenched from the walls and slashed to ribbons, damaged beyond
repair. Of a pair of graceful Klismos-style chairs, one is upended, and the other has been
hammered against a wall until it has gouged out large chucks of plasters and is itself reduced to
splintered rubble. The guilty party had unquestionably been in a blind rage, violently trashing the
bedroom with malevolent glee or in a frenzy of hatred. The intruder had been someone possessed
of considerable strength and little sanity.

Bathroom: The lights are on in the large bathroom, the only chamber in the house that has not
been dark when they’d reached it. Through the open door, the PCs can see virtually everything
either directly or in the mirrors covering one wall: gray tile with a burnt-yellow border, large
sunken tub, shower stall, toiler, one edge of the counter that holds the sinks, bright brass towel
racks and brass-rimmed recessed ceiling lamps.

Lounge: It is plushly carpeted, the walls covered with a subtle grass cloth. There is a circular red-
and-blue braided rug on a hardwood floor, a large, comfortable-looking sofa with scrolled arms
and legs, a dark-stained coffee table where a few copies of Antique Monthly, National
Geographic and Horizon magazines are neatly arranged, a couple of overstuffed chairs with clear
plastic on the arms; and a brick fireplace over which hangs an upside down horseshoe. There are
framed sepia-tone prints on the walls, with three Eyvind Earle serigraphs. and on the fireplace
mantel a grouping of color photographs.

Piano Room: Beneath an archway six feet deep, this room’s walls are paneled in walnut to a
height of eight feet, rough-hewn blocks of stone above. Across from the entrance is a mammoth
fireplace, its mantel constructed of antique stone. Marble statues stand on pedestals in various
locations. In the north-west corn is an ebony concert grand piano, and in the center of the hall
stands a circular table, more than twenty feet across, with sixteen high-backed chairs around it
and a large chandelier suspended over it.

Solar Parlor: There is a hexagonal solarium out back, with glass walls and heated stone floor, and
beyond that a stepped terrace leading down to the canal.
Attic: The hall ceiling features a trapdoor with a dangling rope handle. When they pull the trap
door down, an accordion ladder unfolds from the back of it.
They hear something behind them. The PCs pivot, clawing from the gun under the belt. They are
alone. They have probably heard just a settling noise, an old house easing itself at the insistence
of gravity.
The space is finished, not rough: plaster walls, solid plank floor covered with linoleum for easy
cleaning. Colonnades of massive vertical beams support an elaborate trusswork of rafters that
hold up the roof. No partitions have been constructed between these beams, so the attic remains
one great open room.

Darkness: The holly tree is gone. There is no trace of it—it has become one with the ash. The
wall too has come down. It lies scattered all over the lane, the bricks and bits of stonework
disintegrating, like everything else. Behind the wall stretches a vast piece of ground that is like a
bare, swept floor. It has nothing at all growing upon it, and even the dust has blown or otherwise
vanished away. It is a nothingness, in color grayish. And upon this table of death there rises—the
house.
Of everything that had been there, of nature or contrivance, the house still stands—but not intact.
Its roof has come away in broad segments: one can see the gaping joists and beams, which are in
turn collapsing. Both chimneys are down, crashed inwards. On the lower floors not one window
has kept its antique glass or boxed decorations. The creepers have slipped from the exterior walls
and after them the bricks have tried and are still trying to come out. Yet the shell of the building,
what there is of it, still juts upright. And in that spot, this makes it a thing of unbelievable terror.
The weathered gray walls look scabrous, diseased, cancerous. Rusting nails resemble old wound:
stigmata. Ruined and distorted and every moment increasingly giving way, nevertheless it has so
far stayed, where nothing else remains.
The Shed: The snow doesn't cling to the corrugated metal storage shed. The falling flakes melt
when they touch the roof and walls of that small structure. Wisps of steam actually rise from the
leeward slope of the root; the pale snakes of vapor writhe up until they come within range of the
wind; then they are swept away.
Inside, the twelve-foot-by-ten shed is stifling hot. Heat assaults the PCs as they step inside.
Although they overhead light has not been switch on, the interior of the shed isn't pitch black.
The perimeter of the small, windowless room is shrouded in shadows, but a vague orange glow
rises from the floor in the center of the chamber. It comes out of a hole about five feet in
diameter. The excavation is shaped like a meteor crater, the walls sloping inward to form a basin.
Nothing moves except the shadows. A peculiar, slightly sulfurous odor hangs in the air.

If one of the PCs stares into the pit long enough, it gradually begins to appear much, much
deeper than that. In some mysterious way, when one peers at the flickering light for a few
minutes, when one tries to discern its source, one's perspective abruptly and drastically changes,
and one can see that the bottom of the hole is hundreds if not thousands of feet below. But then,
with a blink, it seems only a shallow basin once more.
Harris Street:
The Motor Home: Now strolling along Saul Street on the east side of town. One of the side
streets, Harris, is blocked off completely by construction work, and not far after that, an old
ovular motor home sits parked, not attached to any sort of vehicle. The door is open and
swinging in the soft breeze.
The seat swivels, clearing the console. The PCs are able to step from behind the steering wheel
into the lounge area, which features built-in sofas upholstered in a hunter-plaid fabric. The steel
floor is carpeted, but after long years of hard travel, it creaks softly under foot. Beyond the
lounge and open to it is a kitchenette and a cozy dining alcove with a booth upholstered in red
vinyl.
Aft of the outer door, a short cramped hall leads along the driver's side of the vehicle. There is
also a skylight, now black. On the left are two closed doors, and at the end a third stands ajar.
The first door opens into a tiny bath. The space is a marvel of efficient design: a toilet, a sink, a
medicine cabinet, and a corner shower stall. Behind the second door is a closet. A few changes of
clothes hang from a chrome rod.
At the end of the hall is a small bedroom with imitation-wood paneling and a closet with an
accordion-style vinyl door.
The single nightstand has two drawers. The upper contains a package of gauze pads, a few green
and yellow sponges of the size used to wash dishes, a small plastic squeeze bottle of some clear
fluid, a roll of cloth tape, a comb, a hairbrush with a tortoiseshell handle, a half-empty tube of K-
Y jelly, a full bottle of skin lotion with aloe vera, a pair of needle-nose pliers with yellow rubber-
clad handles, and a pair of scissors.
In the lower, deeper drawer is a hand-plastic container, within is a complete sewing kit, with
numerous spools of thread in a variety of colors, a pincushion, packets of needles, a needle
threader, an extensive selection of buttons, and other paraphernalia.
The window over the bed has been covered with a sheet of plywood that has been bolted to the
wall. A couple of folded swatches of blue fabric are trapped between the plywood and the
window frame: the edge of an underlying drapery panel. From outside, the window will appear
to be merely curtained.
When they pull the folding door aside, it compresses into pleats that stack to the left, and in the
closet is a dead man.
The rear of the closet appears to have been retrofitted with welded steel plates fixed to the
vehicle frame for added strength. Two ringbolts, widely separated and high-set, are welded to the
steel. Wrists manacled to the ringbolts, the dead man hangs with his arms spread in cruciform.
His feet are shackled to another ringbolt in the closet floor.
He was young---seventeen, eighteen, surely not twenty. Clad in only a pair of white cotton
briefs, his lean pale body is badly battered. His head doesn't hang forward on his chest but is
tipped to one side, and his left temple rests against the biceps of his raised left arm. He has thick
curly black hair. His eyelids have been sewn tightly shut with green thread. with yellow thread,
two buttons above his upper lip are secured to a pair of matching buttons just under his lower lip.
Darkness: Acoustic ceiling tiles crawl with water stains from a long-ago leak, all vaguely
resembling large insects. Sunlight has bleached the drapes into shades no doubt familiar to
chronic depressives from their dreams; the rotting fabric sags in greasy folds, reeking of years of
cigarette smoke. Scraped, gouged, stained, patched furniture stand on an orange shag carpet that
can no longer manage to be shaggy.
Saul Street:
A mannequinite stands there, as the PCs turn the corner onto Saul Street without paying careful
attention. Their flesh prickles and their stomach turn, so unprepared they are. But it isn’t just the
presence of the thing.
It stands perfectly still, as if frozen, and this is all the more unnerving because it stands frozen in
a very unlikely position. Only one of its feet touches the ground, the other is lifted slightly and
bent. The arms, or upper legs, or whatever the hell they are, reach to the sky like a churchgoer in
a Baptist free-for-all, trying to touch God. How it is able to balance itself like that boggles the
mind, it doesn’t seem possible, yet, it looks very much like a real mannequin in that it appears to
be posed.
At this point, the PCs will most likely draw weapons, and hold them ready, waiting for it to
move so they can attack it. But it doesn’t move. It stands there, ignoring them, not even so much
as twitching a muscle. The PCs do not know if these things have the ability to breathe, but if they
do, there is no sign of it doing so.
The PCs still stand at the ready, but seconds pass, and the mannequinite makes no attempt to
attack them. At this point attacks simply make a hollow plastic knock when they strike, but they
get no reaction from the monster, it doesn’t shift at all.
When the PCs decide to move on ahead, taking a step to move around it, giving it a wide berth,
and going past it a ways. Moving or not, the PCs are not likely to take it for granted that it is
going to ignore them forever. Once they have gone more than 20 feet beyond it, the silence is
shorn by the shrill hiss of the radio, loud, fast, and sudden. The PCs see nothing in front of them,
but something, instinct, maybe, tells that it isn’t in front. It isn’t to the sides, either. They spin
around.
How in the hell?
It is there. The mannequinite is right behind them, looming large, not even being a foot away
from them. The PCs don’t even have time to think or to move, and it would not have helped if
they did, because the shock of seeing it there is absolutely paralyzing (loss of initiative). Just
when the thick, oily chemical stench of the thing strikes their noses first, the mannequinite raises
its arm/leg and throws its weight at the left shoulder of the nearest PC, it automatically strikes.
When it does, it is hard and terribly convincing. The shoulder explodes in a supernova of pain,
and the hit is so powerful that it literally sends the PCs spinning. He/she loses her/his balance
and sense of place. When he/she falls to the sidewalk, the PCs falls on the same shoulder, and the
agony is searing, and so intense that the PCs see spots in front of their eyes, teeth are clenched
and breath whistles through them, hissing as loudly as the radio.
A shape flies through the air, and it makes the PCs stop dead in their tracks. They hear it hit the
ground in front of them with a clack. As soon as it does, the radio comes to life again. The shape
is unrecognizable, until it stands and turns to face them
Clack.
Mannequinite!
This time, from behind. Another one!
The PCs can not see what the mannequinite behind them is doing, but the one in front has moved
to cut them off, and they are quicker than desired. It comes close, dismayingly close, but it
doesn’t quite reach them.

The Overpass: The PCs now find themselves underneath some sort of overpass. The street
continues, but too narrow now to be anything but an alley. Nothing on the map indicates what it
is. It actually looks more like a tunnel upon closer inspection. The walls are made of old stone
that had darkened with age and are covered in green moss over much of the surface. It is very
damp and smelly, all the more thanks to the unnatural heat of this Otherworld. It brings the
darkness a little closer to home, and the effect is claustrophobic. Fencing had been erected inside
of the tunnel. The fencing has a latch-door, and upon it are several old aluminum plates
emblazoned with various warnings: a construction zone. The PCs can lift the latch and enter. All
that can be said about the inside is that it is dark. The flashlight seems to be unable to penetrate
anything beyond the doorframe. The radio stays quiet though and, not having any other options,
they steps across the threshold of the door.
The macadam of Saul Street ends about five feet past the fence. Past that is a pit, a dark and
bottomless pit. Unlike the scarred knife-wounds that seen over on Lindsey Street, this is
excavated, but the pit extending far beyond the PCs’ field of vision. However, the pit is covered
with a vast expanse of steel grating with narrow, diamond-shaped holes, and it appears to go at
least as far as the PCs can see. That much they can see though at first they cannot tell if they are
entering a room or a corridor or simply the other side of the wall. Taking a tentative step on the
grating, then another causes the grating to sag just a bit, thin as it is, but it does hold their weight,
and it seems solid enough to walk over. Even so, they must tread carefully, a decision that is
even more justified as they advance across, for there are several places where the grating is
missing.
The PCs hears a small click behind them. The PCs turns, the door is gone, replaced by a glossy
black wall.
As they move in further the echo of footsteps tell them that they are in an enclosed space; the
sound of their shoes on the grating is sharp and loud, piercing the otherwise thick silence. It
makes one feel exposed.
Strangely, the sound changes a bit as they proceed. It sounds stronger, louder, and deeper. Chalk
it up to strange acoustics. Enclosed areas do that.
It is only when the PCs stop walking that they realize:
The sounds didn’t stop with them.
cha-chunk
cha-chunk
cha-chunk
Deep, rhythmic at first, and then not. Something is coming. More than one something, by the
sound of it, and whatever they are, they are heavy and moving with purpose. All over again, the
PCs’ bodies tense and clench. The PCs can stare hard into the distance, but while the sound gets
louder and noticeably closer, their eyes see nothing that makes the sound.
cha-chunk
cha-chunk
cha-chunk
Closer and closer. And then the radio begins to make noise. It starts as a faint rhythmic ping. But
as it gets louder, the noise changes to more of a metallic rattle, like loose bars on an iron cage.
The rattle of the radio grows even louder.
It would have been right on top of them if it were really here.
But it isn’t on top, the sound is close enough now to make that clear. It isn’t on top of them, or
even in front of them. Then the rattle is not just on the radio, but in the air itself. They can feel its
vibrations in the grating upon which he stands. They can now hear where it is, and when they
look down, they see where it is.
Something very large is hanging from the grating just a few feet in front of them. No, not
hanging. Swinging. It is using the holes in the grating like a kid would use monkey bars. The PCs
can not see anything but its arms, if that’s what they are. They are enormous, each one larger
than a child. They both connect to some kind of body, but nothing else can be seen about what it
really is or what it looks like. Its hands do not seem to be able to penetrate the grate anymore
than their bullets can.
The first one is not far. It hangs below the grating with its pair of webbed, almost mitten-like
hands. It swings itself towards the PCs, shaking the grate as it moves. They will instinctively
point the gun at the creature though consciously it is realized that it is a pointless gesture; the
holes in the grating are too narrow for them to realistically shoot through. They can watch in
fascination as the creature moves under them.
This anthropoid is around 8 feet tall, with large, muscular arms and a stained white apron. It
hangs under the grate the PCs are standing upon. It has no fingers on its hand, yet somehow it
manages to hang on.
It holds its position beneath the PCs and pulls its head up until it is flush against the grate. It is a
face, though its exact dimensions are difficult to see, in part because of the shadow of the grate
and in part because it seems to have a translucent, brown veil of skin pulled tightly across it like
a sheet. Its features seem delicate, almost feminine and when the mouth opens it even seems like
the creature is wearing some dark lipstick beneath the veil.
It seems about to speak and speak it does: “Aaarrrreee yooou suuurrre?” in a mucous-wet voice.
And the PCs don’t have any time to sit and think about it, though judging from its slurred,
distorted pronunciation, its mouth must be severely malformed..
As they pass over the grating, they see something shoot out from below. It looks like some kind
of long blade dripping with black slime that extends from the creature’s arm. It is thick and black
and glistening, and very noticeably sharp. It tears its way through the grate as though it were
nothing more than taut paper. It extends nearly three feet in the air, not quite far enough to kill
them should it connect, but uncomfortable nonetheless. The whole movement lasts less than a
second but watching that spearing monster, realizing how deadly a threat it could be, how close it
came to goring, makes it all go in dreadfully slow motion.
The creature’s intentions no longer a mystery, the PCs run forward.
There are others, the PCs can hear them as they swing beneath the grate and the PCs can feel the
tremor of their weight moving across the floor. Another blade shoots up in front of them and
their momentum almost slices them as the PCs try to stop before running into it.
The sounds of the approaching monsters, and of the squealing radio echoes and amplifies, and
together with the painful protests of the PCs’ injuries, is like being immersed in a sea of bad
sensations.
The PCs can hear the screech of metal all around them as somewhere in the dark the creatures
stab their black dripping swords through the grate. The PCs keep running. Though the PCs can
hear them, they do not see any of them anymore. Moreover, the ones the PCs can hear do not
seem to be moving at all.
There is a group behind them that sounds faint and there is a group in front of them somewhere
that sounds a little louder. Strangely though, neither group seems to be moving towards them.
Just when the PCs decide to be thankful for small favors, and are about to continue running, the
PCs feel the angle of the grating shift beneath them.
What the hell? The PCs wonder. Then an awful thought occurs to them. The creatures are able to
stab through the grate and leave a small hole. If they were to stay in one place and make enough
holes––they’re trying to cut the grate away!
Again, the timing of their escape is not particularly close to the objective observer. The grate
does not collapse all that fast and at their current pace the PCs has ample time to clear the
damaged section.
But, all alone in the dark, the screeching grate is the sound of Death coming to seize them by its
talons and spirit them away to some desolate place. The PCs will have jump over a line of holes
in the grate, dodging another lance in the process and continue at a dead run with the shriek of
ripping metal echoing around them as somewhere behind them the grating falls into oblivion.
But of course there is another side. They can now see the brass doorknob emerge from the
darkness in front of them. There is one last creature before the PCs find the door. The blade that
emerges from its arm is nearly the entire length of a human body. It then disappears beneath the
grating. The grating stops and the asphalt of the road begins again. There is another door here,
this one with a concealed latch. The PCs will have to try to pull it, try so hard that it seems like a
fight, with terror as much as the latch itself. As it does, the creature makes a verbal noise that
almost sounds like, “Don’t”. The PCs pauses for a moment and then quickly sidesteps as the
enormous blade shoots up again. Part of them wants to pause and analyze this but practicality
overrules this and so the PCs ignore it for the moment, grab the latch and turn it. Finally it gives
way and the latch-door opens. They push the door open and jumping across the threshold, letting
the door swing shut behind and the radio is finally silent.
Behind them, through the fencing, the PCs can hear the clattering of the under-hangers on the
grating, still advancing in their direction. They can also hear the monsters themselves, grunting
with each movement, a chilling sound all on its own, never mind the rest of it.
After that taxing mad-dash through the hellish tunnel, it is nice to be out in the open again. The
whole experience could not have lasted a whole two minutes, but it feels far longer.
Carroll Street: So the PCs set off south along Carroll Street, keeping to the sidewalk and taking
in what little they can of their surroundings. However, there is still a healthy element of fear
present, and that makes it easier to at least pretend to ignore other worries. There are other
elements such as the radio, which obviously has the ability to sense these monsters. Yet, as glad
as the PCs are to have this little thing in their possession, just the sound of static sends a chill
down their spine.
And it is picking up now.
The PCs can’t see anything, but the static has never lied so far, and they can hear an arrhythmic
tapping, sharp and easily heard over the radio. They are fairly certain that it isn’t coming from
anything they want to meet. Crossing over to the other side of Carroll to get away from it, and
sure enough, the radio settles down.
Neely Street: 39Turning the corner onto Neely Street, crossing over to the east side, the bar sits
on the corner of Neely and Sanders. It is a red brick building with a large window, in front of it is
a tree planted in a patch of grass in the sidewalk, next to two newspaper dispensers, one white
and one green; and next to the green one there is a lamp post. There is also a payphone next to
the building's service door, which is on the side. The main entrance door is at the very corner: a
glass door with a blue canopy over it. Over the large window on the side, there was also a blue
canopy with "Bar Neely's" written in white, and under it a drawing of a martini glass. At the
corner is a crossing light.

Neely’s Bar: 40It 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 small-
town watering hole. Neely’s had a reputation as being one of the more upscale bars in Silent Hill.
They even served food. It was one of the more comfortable places in town. It was clean, well-
kept, and had a nice atmosphere. No beer-soaked Eagle's Club-type joint, this. Neely's was a step
above peddling to the average barfly.
The windows of Neely’s Bar have been boarded up and in newspapers; perhaps they had been
remodeling when the place was abandoned. The sign has fallen off long ago and the door has
been torn off its hinges. The inside is dank with a faint smell of putrefaction. This is a bar, but it
looks long abandoned and in shambles. The place is now bare of tables and chairs, of decorations
and adornments. The bar is still there, and the stools are still bolted to the floor, but the place is
completely denuded otherwise. It is ugly now, ugly and empty. The other stools are gone, square
outlines in the floor are the only evidence of their presence.
In front of them, right of the door, is a fifteen foot long counter, or what remains of it. The
mahogany is now black and chunks of the surface have been torn out. There is a door behind the
bar’s counter, obviously for the bartender to go inside the storeroom and bring out whatever
items and bottles he needed for his customers. The “Employees Only” door to the left is gone
and the walls around it are black. The area to the right was once filled with tables and plush
leather booths, now it is completely barren. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all bare, pitted
concrete, stained and filthy with mold and chipped and ugly, lined with cracks. Some of the
plaster that coated them has fallen off and lie on the floor in pieces. The floor’s tiles are stained
with age, and some are even broken and one can see the cement underneath. Two long cables
hang from the ceiling forming two downward arches. Underlaying the stale-beer smell is a faint
scent of disinfectant. Not all of the walls are bare, though. One of them has a message scrawled
in red. In fact, there is more than one, as the PCs see when they look at the paper-covered inside
window.
There was a HOLE here.
And beneath that, as if it were an afterthought,
It's gone now.
It certainly is. The place is bare of everything, and that includes holes, except for the ones that
pockmark the walls here and there. It is on the side wall that the other message is scrawled, this
time in smaller handwriting, for it is longer. It is also exponentially more chilling.
A glance at the bar finds a small, cream-white envelope rests there. On top of it, acting as a
paperweight, is a wrench. Opening up the envelope, pulling out a folded sheet of paper; another
note. Or perhaps you are a fool. The truth usually betrays people. A part of that abyss is in the
old society. The key to the society is in the park, buried in the ground at the feet of the statue of
the praying woman. It's inside of a box, and to open that box, you'll need the wrench.
My patient buried it there. I knew about it, of course, but I did nothing to prevent it. I didn't like
having it near me, so uneasy it made me feel. It wasn't the truth I sought, but rather tranquility.
The happiness of ignorance.
I also saw that thing. I fled, but the museum was locked as well. Now, nobody tries to enter the
place. Nobody even dares approach it.
If you still do not wish to stop, if you wish to venture forth, then I pray to the Lord to have mercy
upon your eternal soul. There is no signature, no name. Just some clues and a destination.

Katz Street: Enthusiasm tempered as one steps outside of the remnants of Neely’s Bar the PCs
turn right and travel up Neely Street until they reach Katz. With fresh batteries the flashlight’s
range has increased and, though they still cannot see across the street, this gives them a better
sense of security.
From where they stand now, there are two ways to get there that is known about. One is to go
back the way they came, via the tunnel on Saul Street. Considering what sort of company called
that particular stretch of the street home, the PCs should not be very keen about that route. And
of course, there is also the route the PCs had taken to get to west South Vale the first time, that
being the Woodside and Blue Creek Apartments. However, that route is much longer and almost
certainly more dangerous. The option of going back through the Saul Street tunnel is dangerous,
and freakishly terrifying, but it is also the quickest way.

Nathan Avenue: A broad banner, barely visible in the fog, hangs from the Victorian Gothic bric-
a-brac along the roofline, advertising “Silent Hill Lofts! Enjoy Urban Living in the New South
Vale!” with a number to call.
Both roads leading north to Nathan Avenue on this side are totally impractical, by virtue of them,
and the buildings lining them, with a massive divot through South Vale.

Locane’s Grocery: A two-story building with a business on the first floor and an apartment
above, sandwiched between South Silent Hill Fire Station and St. Stella’s Catholic Church. A
sign on the building reads: “Locane’s Grocery – Fresh Produce, Meats, and Cheeses.” The door
is made of wood whose green paint is cracked and flaking. There is a large glass window, and an
old brass handle and brass mail slot. The door is closed. A smear of blood decorates the glass and
peeling paint.
The grocery store is a mess. Around the three cash registers, black metal display stands have
been toppled. Chewing guns, candy, razor blades, paperback books, and other small items spill
over the floor. The PCs walk across the front of the store, looking into each aisle as they pass it.
Goods have been pulled off the shelves and thrown to the floor. Boxes of cereal are smashed,
torn open, the bright cardboard poking up through drifts of cornflakes and Cherrios. Smashed
bottles of vinegar produce a pungent stench. Jars of jam, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, and
relish are tumbled in a jagged, glutinous heap. Waist-high cooler for meat, cheese, eggs, and
milk are lined up along the rear of the store. Beyond the coolers lies the sparkling-clean work
area where meat was cut, weighed, and wrapped for sale.
Your eyes nervously flick over the porcelain and butcher’s block tables. You sigh with relief
when you see that nothing lays on any of them. You wouldn’t be surprised to have seen the store
manager’s body neatly chopped into steaks, roasts, and cutlets.

The PC pass a barbershop, then another art gallery. Then there is nothing more. The building on
the right has collapsed, with only a jagged ruin of wall, complete with a shattered window,
remaining. The rest is gone, fallen into a chasm whose floor is lost deep in the mist. And so is the
far side of the hole. There might as well have been nothing at all beyond it, as far as one can see
in the fog and flurry.

Tracing the chasm all the way across the street, one finds another ruined building spilling into
the hole. Part of its façade has fallen into Lindsey Street as well, though. Amid the fallen bricks,
broken beams, and shattered glass, broken bits of china and badly tarnished forks and spoons
litter the street.

Church of St. Stella's: St. Stella's Church is a building with yellow brick walls, a snow-covered
roof, stained glass-windows and an ominous tower. The high wooden doors are open.

Medical Clinic: (Optional Scenario)

The building located on Lindsey Street's intersection with Nathan Avenue is the Ridgeview
Medical Clinic. It is a large, old Victorian office building, 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.
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 was anything in the lobby it would be drawn to the light and come right to
them.
But if they fall down a flight of stairs while they stumble around in this huge building looking for
a way out – and they have to get out and keep searching, they can't just wait alone here in the
dark – and broke their necks, they'd be no better off. And if they trip over a table or chair, the
noise will draw whatever might be lurking nearby to them as effectively as if they'd shot off a
flare. And at least if they have some light, they might be able to see to run away from whatever
or whoever might be inside the building with their. So they switch it on, and turn to look behind
them at the windows...
...which are sealed with smooth, cold cement.
As if it had been there all along. For years even, because if the PCs tentatively reach out to touch
it, their fingertips come away coated in dust.
What is this? Cement – how can it be cement? It had been glass no more than a minute ago. The
entire front wall of the Ridgeview Clinic building facing Lindsey Street had consisted of giant
arched windows – display windows for the Victorian department store that had originally
occupied this building more than a hundred years ago.
The light from their flashlight travels around the lobby, illuminating groups of sofas and chairs,
and a reception desk, and a scattered forest of potted plants, all of which are dead. They play
their light over large abstract paintings, still bright beneath accumulated dust, hanging on the
walls, and across the gorgeously carved wooden pillars standing sentinel throughout the lobby.
Nothing moves, but the light flashes off a large map of the building and a directory of the
physicians who had their offices here, enclosed in a Plexiglas stand near the reception desk. It
might show a way out.
The PCs cross the lobby warily, listening for any sounds at all. Watching for any movement as
dust swirls through the beam of their flashlight, but they seem to be alone in the lobby with the
wilted, dead plants in their pots. They look down at the stand, and begin to read doctors' names
before they notice something glistening on the Plexiglas – a spray of blood, fresh and wet. There
doesn't appear to be much, only as much as what would result from a bloody cough – there is a
runner of thick, dark phlegm as well, they notice. It too is still wet, and if touched, warm.
Someone has been leaning on this directory when they coughed up their blood. Whoever it had
been might still be nearby, and might be hurt.
The elevators probably aren't working, but they might as well check them anyway. They move
away from the directory, past the reception desk to a bank of four elevators, where they can press
a button and, as can be expected, nothing happens. There doesn't seem to be any electricity at all.
There is a door to the stairwell nearby. It is ajar. Anything could be hiding here, and could drop
down on them at any moment. If they look up, searching with their light, they will see nothing
but a dark stairway rising up through the building, so they begin to climb.
Second Floor: In one office a pencil still rests where it had been left on a yellow legal pad
whose paper has been wrinkled by the damp. In another a family’s smiling faces peer out from a
framed photo on a desk. The examining rooms are still stocked with rubber gloves and
disinfectant hand wash. Test tubes still stand in racks in a lab. A printer and an x-ray machine,
and diagnostic equipment whose functions the PCs can’t guess squat in some rooms, their
buttons and dials glued in place by moisture. The PCs spot a refrigerator in one room with a sign
on the door reading, “SPECIMINS ONLY! NO FOOD!!!”.
Most of the doctors on the Ridgeview Clinic’s second floor were general practitioners, and when
the PCs move toward the first door, they read nameplates beside each office door.
DR. PRAHDEEP GHOSH, MD, & ASSOCIATES –
They go toward the door and try the knob, and to their relief it turns easily and opens, it swings
noiselessly inward.
The offices of Dr. Prahdeep Ghosh and his associates are lined up in a row beyond the door,
facing examining rooms, rooms full of diagnostic machines, bathrooms, and labs across a long
hallway. To the left is the reception desk that looks into the waiting room. Computers sit silent
and dead on the counter, and two swiveling desk chairs are abandoned. From the fabric seat of
one chair grows a large toadstool.
Waiting Room: Beyond the door is a comfortably furnished waiting room – with more dead
potted plants, the PCs notice – that smell strongly of must, as if it had been shut up for five years
in the dampness of South Vale, bathed in Toluca Lake’s humidity.
The last room on the right at the end of the hall is full of file cabinets. There are dozens of them,
all once painted a bland institutional gray, all now bearing scabs of rust. As they search the room
with their light, prowling from one aisle of cabinets to another, they think that it probably would
have been easier to look for a patient’s medical records using the office’s computers – were they
not ruined by the same wet air that had nourishes a toadstool on a cloth chair, and rusts the metal
cabinets before them.
One drawer of one cabinet is open. They walk to it and inspect it, and see that it is festooned with
dusty cobwebs, as though the drawer had been open a long, long time. And perhaps it has. With
its information inside, perhaps it has been waiting for them.
No, not for them. They wouldn’t know anyone whose records might be inside.
They reach further back. The file folders feel chalky under their fingertips, and are green with
mold. Spores billow up with every file they pull forward, looking further back.
They lift it from its place, and marvel that it seems untouched by dampness or time. There is no
mold, no mildew, and the papers inside the folder are still crisp and white, as if it had been
protected all this time, then specially set aside for someone.
For them? They shiver, and suddenly feel as though they are being watched again. Clutching the
file, they walk quickly out of the room, and hate the shadows closing in behind them.
Basement:
Staff Room: It is empty like all the others, smelling faintly of disinfectant. A side door, with no
glass in it, is open by a crack.
Storeroom: A green light appears from the walls all around, it is dim and eerie; and it is refracted
and distorted by round glass: the big glass jars with formaldehyde in them—how could they have
missed that very distinct odor that fills the room?—and swimming in the formaldehyde are
fetuses of different sizes. 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.
Figures emerge from the darkness, bottled things with woeful redundancies and distressing
deficits. It is a collection of preserved babies—or rather foetuses. One can’t be sure that they are
entirely human. Are they deformed, or somehow a kind of hybrid? They float, blind and
colorless, shivering in the unstable light. Whatever their source, they’ve born without life.
Perhaps others have survived, and these were the failure. 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 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.

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 but the tarps and fence seem worn and there is no sign that
the building has been worked on recently. The wall blocks West Katz Street, which leads to West
Silent Hill. The Shellfish gas station and Shopco supermarket is behind it. There is something on
the tarp.
It is an ebony door with a shiny brass knob and they know it was definitely not there before. The
surface of the door is a glossy black that almost reflects the light back. The knob has a concave
front, which inverts the reflection of his hand as it grips the knob. It is strangely warm, as though
someone else’s hand has been resting there just before their arrival.
The door didn’t open before, it didn’t even seem to be functional, but it is dark now. There is no
telling how many other changes have taken place here in town, even if they appear to be more
subtle than Brookhaven offered. How literal is that message going to be. Will the PCs step
through to find that western South Vale is the sort of pestilential hellhole that the hospital and
school became? Would some sort of new toothy horror ambush them three steps in and make
mincemeat of them? Would the door even open?
No way to tell except to try, of course.
If the knob is, one’s hand jumps away, as if shocked. It isn’t, not literally, but perhaps
figuratively. The knob is ice cold. Touching it again, tapping it a bit and finally resting the loop
of a hand around it reveals that it is absolutely freezing. Quickly turning the knob reveals that the
first half of the message proves correct. The doorknob is no longer broken. The small hairs on
the arms of the PCs raise and bristle as one pushes it open, wondering just what on earth, or not
on earth, will they find behind this door.
To their immediate surprise, what is revealed to is not a Brookhavenesque diseased look, nor a
burned-by-hellfire motif. Things in front of them look no different than things behind them. By
stepping through, and letting go of the door handle, the PCs find that the handle doesn’t let go as
easily as it should. It is so bitterly cold that the sweat on palms of the PC’s hand has frozen, and
fused their hand to the knob.
No, there is no major, world-altering difference on this side of the door, as far as the PCs can tell.
It is still dark, it is still cold, and everything has that mournful, abandoned look to it that it had
since the PCs came.
Going back to the opening and shining the light inside confirms that the area is passable, though
some of the girders seem precariously positioned and the smell of rotten wood from somewhere
inside the tunnel puts them on edge. The radio is silent. If something comes at them while they
are inside they’ll have to fight it. The passageway is long and was never meant to be permanent.
The rotten wood smell comes from the temporary support beams that have been put in place; the
wood could easily give away and bury them under countless tons of steel.
It is then that the radio begins to hiss and pop.
The acoustics of the tunnel amplify noise and vibration so despite the sound of the radio, they
can hear the mannequinite running from behind them. The tunnel is narrow enough that it would
be almost impossible for the mannequinite to dodge every bullet.
The sound of the gun is deafening and the radio is still emitting static but another noise catches
their attention. A groan is heard from somewhere above them as steel girders shift ever so
slightly, driven by the sonic vibrations created by the discharge of the gun. The groan travels
down to the wood support beams where it turns into a mild crunching sound.
The mannequinite is forgotten as the PCs bolt down the tunnel. They can hear the static on the
radio and they are certain that it is not far behind them; though whether it is in pursuit or whether
it is simply trying to escape the imminent collapse of the tunnel, it is not certain. A crash is heard
somewhere back in the tunnel; one of the supports has collapsed. The groan of the girders
increases. Instincts say to move faster but with visibility limited by the flashlight: One small
slip…
They can hear more supports breaking. The groan turns into a screech as more girders shift out of
position and the center of the tunnel begins its collapse. The PCs clear the tunnel with more than
a few seconds to spare. Behind them, the screech of the girders turns into a roar as the whole
construction caves in on the tunnel. The roar drowns out the radio and all other sounds before
settling. There are a few rings of steel on steel and thumps of heavy objects hitting the ground
and then all is as silent as it was before.
Walking back to inspect the wreckage finds that the wall is now better described as a pile
consisting of broken concrete and twisted steel girders. The tunnel is gone and one can see a pair
of legs with shiny veins sticking out from beneath a collapsed girder. The wall itself may be
gone, but the pile is just as impassable and it is bleakly realized that if one wants to go back to
West South Vale, one shall have to find another route.
Turning towards the Munson Street intersection, the PCs won’t even cover five paces when the
radio belts out a fresh wave of whiny, wavy static. Immediately the PCs get on the defensive.
This time, however, it doesn’t matter.
This time, they hear what is coming perhaps a split second after they got warned of its presence.
It is a squealing high-pitched whine, much deeper and more immediately distant than the pocket
radio, like someone ran steel wool down the length of a brushed metal slab, up and down
repeatedly and quickly. The sound is almost familiar, dancing wildly on the very edge of the
PCs’ minds thanks to the rush of surprise, but they can’t place it right away. Not until they see
the dark shape rush past on the ground, blurred by the inky darkness. It is far too fast and far too
dark to even hope to follow with their eyes, but it is noisy enough that they can listen for it. It is
so amazingly fast though, the PCs can barely keep up. Within the span of a second it will
completely encircle them, though it doesn’t seem to be making a concentrated effort to attack.
The screechy metallic noise continues as the straight-jacketed Patient darts haphazardly in
random directions. Then, it pauses for a moment, and then the screeching is replaced by a loud,
sharp tapping. Tap, tap, tap. It has stood on its feet now, and is ambling towards the PCs from the
left. The radiance from the flashlight glares hard against the slick, snot-like coating of gunk with
which it is covered. It gurgles with anticipation as it closes in, the sound as thick and phlegmy as
its physical appearance.
Café Mist: The small tables around the perimeter of the room are overturned, but one remains
upright in the middle. A solitary light hangs above it and the PCs can see three teacups lined up
on the table.

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

Rosewater Park: The outer edges of Rosewater Park are built with flagstones and contain
benches and gazebos that offer views of Toluca Lake. The inner areas consists of grasses,
benches, trees, rose gardens, concrete walkways, and the odd statue or two dedicated to various
Silent Hill historical figures.

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 half-
high brick wall opens up into the park's interior. 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. One passes a small,
abandoned sitting area and a gazebo, and then underneath a long terrace that is overgrown with
verdant ivy.

There is broad brick landing with a stainless steel safety railing 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 the mist is too thick to see almost
anything beyond the railing. 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.

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 statue too, is cracked and worn. The statue
in the next lawn, however, is the one they have been looking for.

The statue itself is about life-sized, though it is perched upon a large, waist-high block of
marbleized granite. The park had been dedicated sometime in the 1880s, and both statue and
base are around almost as long. The sculpture depicts a woman shrouded in a shawl and cowl,
her eyes closed, her face cast downward, and her hands clasped together in prayer. Most of the
fine features are worn completely smooth, and the deeper creases are already beginning to wear
themselves even. Nowhere is this more evident than on the dedication plaque, for many of the
letters are completely worn away. All that remains is enough to tell that the woman’s name was
Jennifer Carroll and that she was a victim of persecution by the Christians, and she is now buried
in the park. The plaque also says "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. 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 Silent Hill Historical Society is located on Nathan
Avenue, though it is a long way down for someone on foot.
Taking the key and tracing their steps back, still keeping a wary eye on the hedgerows and other
dark spaces, it is still calm and quiet, the radio included, but the PCs can’t help feeling edgy. As
peaceful as the park appears to be, there is no way the PCs can hope to take it for granted. Yet,
they are able to navigate their way out of the park without encountering even one of Silent Hill’s
many interesting inhabitants.
They walk away from the lawn, leaving the box behind. Jennifer Carroll’s gaze follows them as
they go.
“Beware the Grass” a sign reads.
An open green in the center of the park, and even to the color of the grass at their feet, is
dreamlike. The voices have ceased. There is nothing but the green common with the trees and
brush all around it but from somewhere nearby can be heard the chanting voices and they have
added a new couplet.
“Watch out for the fourth step.” Another sign reads
“Beware the bug that has been going around town.” yet another sign reads.

A mannequinite attacks them just as they exit the stone archway of the park, but the PCs have
come to expect this and they can easily evade its charge.

Darkness: A kind of petrified hedge sprouts up from either side of the path to the western
entrance, with ebony leaves and branches that sparkle in the light and shatter at a touch.

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

The Little Baroness:

(Optional Scenario)
41A 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. She bent to pick up
her shovel and walked toward its sound. Another noise dances through the air, notes, music. An
organ perhaps? It brings to mind songs heard in the church.
They sound so familiar.
The PCs cautiously make their way through Rosewater Park, following the stairs and pathways
down toward the lake. .
Though the whistle remains silent, the music plays on and as they draw closer they realize the
music isn't an organ, but a calliope spilling a bright song into the drifting fog.
As they descend a final set of brick steps to the landing along the waterfront, something takes
shape in the mist ahead. It is long and bulky and must be floating beyond the black iron railings
with their binoculars.
More than bulky. Huge. A boat, a ship of some kind... The calliope falls silent as they reach the
bottom of the stairs.
It is a river boat, afloat just beyond the railing.
It is painted gleaming white, with dark green railings along its two galleries and trim around its
windows and doors. Small brass lanterns gleam in the murk. The PCs stand at the rear of the
boat, where a giant paddlewheel sits idle, but dripping, as if the boat has just arrived to dock at
the park. It seems so plain, but elegant. Simple, but beautiful. There are two decks, each with
their dark green banisters. There is a staircase leading from the first to the second deck. Doors
and windows march along behind the first deck's railing, large windows, some arched, behind the
railing of the second deck. A set of fancy double doors with large oval windows appear on the
second deck, then the windows continue.
A section of the iron railing is missing up ahead, and a wide gangplank lined with brass poles
and dark green velvet ropes invites anyone strolling along the brick landing to come aboard. A
banner hangs from the railing of the second deck, white with large letters in fancy script.
WELCOME ABOARD THE LITTLE BARONESS LUNCHEON EXCURSION CRUISE
There is the gangplank with its brass poles and velvet ropes, seeming to wait for them. There is
the banner, hanging limply. The calliope that was heard is at the rear, where it once summoned
passengers to their meal from the shelter of a broad roof like that of the porch of a grand
mansion. The whistles to warn nearby ships of the Little Baroness’ approach are located at the
bow on the second deck, where the boat was steered from a tiny bridge as encrusted with brass,
gilt, and expensive wood paneling as the rest of the boat. Tiny smokestacks, like a pair of
chimneys, painted dark green, jut up from the center of the boat like devil’s horns. They can
barely be seen over the roofline.
Music begins to play. The richness of a piano is soon joined by a feisty cornet and a mournful
violin. A cello joins in and a flute trill. As the sound drifts down from the dining room, the PCs
recognize it as a waltz, beautiful and flowing like a stream over smooth pebbles.
Is someone there?
The PCs hesitate, staring at the gangplank bridging only a space of lapping water. The music
pours from inside the second deck, from the endless windows and fancy doors of the dining
room, warm and enveloping and seeming to show there is nothing to worry about onboard the
Little Baroness. Once aboard, one only need eat and converse, dance and stroll the decks to view
the beauty of a very special place called Silent Hill on its grand lake.
The PCs know better. But what else is there to do?
If they step onto the gangplank, trailing their hands over the green velvet ropes, they will be
amazed that they feel so new and soft. The brass poles are untarnished as they pass them one by
one.
Then the Player Characters stand on the deck and look back to Rosewater Park and its broad,
blank brick landing, and its statues and monuments are vague shapes in the mist. Snowflakes fall
softly here and there, still melting on the ground, and like the snowflakes, the waltz still drifts
gently down from above.
To the left a staircase sweeps upward and to the right, doors and windows of the private suites.
The PCs walk up to the stairs and begin to climb, and notice the stairs and their railings alike are
painted deep forest green. At the top the deck is broader than that below, wide enough for
passengers to stroll and enjoy the view passing by. Behind the windows velvet drapes swoop
down gracefully from valences above, bedecked with fringe and tassel. The drapes are dark
green, the fringe and tassel gold. Behind the glass are the tables and chairs, each table set for a
meal.
To the left are the fancy double doors seen from below, their leaded glass ovals sporting an
elegant filigreed design in wrought iron. Nothing can bee seen through their opaque windows.
Laying a hand on the polished brass doorknob...
And the whistle screams and the PCs jump or drop to their knees in terror at the sound like a
keening banshee so close and so sudden after the silence. And black smoke belches from the tiny
smokestacks and the paddlewheel churns to life and slaps and slaps and slaps the water as the
Little Baroness begins to move.
And as they spring to their feet, the PCs see the gangplank and its poles and ropes tumble into
the water below them as the Little Baroness pulls away from Rosewater Park and sets sail,
moving faster by the second.
Inside the dining saloon, the music ceases.
Wheelhouse: As the Little Baroness heaves itself to port, its paddlewheel spinning furiously, the
PCs can go to the little wheelhouse at the bow. There is a dark cherrywood door with a brass
knob and large glass rectangle that allows a view of a room full of dials and gauges, brass knobs
and levers, all of it beautiful in a strange, way. The wheel spins to the left by itself.
When the doorknob is tried, the PCs discover the door is locked. If they consider smashing their
way through the window, remind them that it is just as well – they have no idea how to steer the
boat. No one is steering the boat, though plainly the Little Baroness is on the move, and seems to
have a destination in mind.
The river-boat had been pointed east as it sat at the landing at Rosewater Park; now it is turning
and cutting a path through the water to go west. To go where? Behind them, already Rosewater
Park has fallen away into foggy murk, and the trees along the lakeshore between Nathan Avenue
and the water are all but invisible.

Dining Room: The PCs turn and move along the deck back toward the dining saloon. They can
lay a hand on the knob and study the loops and swirls of wrought iron embedded in the door’s
large frosted glass oval windows. Surely there will be nobody in the dining room.
Never mind the beautiful waltz they heard minutes before. If the Little Baroness can steer itself,
it can probably play its own piano as well.
They open the door cautiously and look in. Just in case, because even if the Little Baroness can
play its own piano, it also seems that in Silent Hill now there are options beyond people and
living creatures. Though it is dark, there is enough light to see its ornate opulence, tables and
chairs in place near a large dance floor and orchestra well, and a magnificent crystal chandelier
hanging over it all.
The dining saloon is as marvelous; dark green velvet drapes with their gold trim from outside;
framed tables set for lunch with dishes of china – a forest green pattern rimmed with gold – and
sparkling crystal and polished silver. Peeking out from beneath lace tablecloths, the tables are
made of the same dark cherry wood that trims and panels the rest of the boat. The chairs sport
dark green velvet upholstery fastened with brass tacks to frames of the same dark wood. Their
arms and graciously bowed legs are almost black.
Rugs intricately patterned in dark green and yellow lies between the tables, but ahead is a wide
expanse of polished parquet floor, an exquisite pattern in dark and light wood. Perhaps cherry
and oak. The dark wood is reddish black, the light nearly blond. Beyond the empty expanse, a
dance floor, is a tiny, raised stage upon which stands a piano, its black wood fabulously
decorated with carvings. There are five chairs for other musicians, and five tall brass music stand
in attendance, but no instruments.
The silence in the dining room is absolute.
Then the PCs smell food. A delicious aroma that seems to be coming from a table to the left of
the stage. They look, then stare. Steam rises from something on a line of plates, and the crystal
tumblers are filled with black.
The PCs remember they have eaten nothing since the Apartments, and their stomachs,
demanding attention, let loose a long, low growl. They step in and close the door behind them.
As they cross the floor, their shoes squeaking softly on the polished wood, they study the room
further, sure that at any moment something will leap out at them and scream or gibber through a
ferocious grin, slobber or shed dead pieces of itself.
Between every window, each framed in dark wood, is green silk wallpaper rising up to border of
cherry wood and a ceiling of white plaster busy with carved garlands and rosettes. A crystal
chandelier hangs over the stage, with fancy gold and crystal light fixtures casting a soft glow
over the rest of the grand room. Between the windows are gold wall sconces, each with three
small light bulbs shaped like candle flames. The dining saloon blazes with electric light, and is
bright, almost cheerful, despite its gloomy colors. To their left at the far end of the long room is a
blank wall of the same green wallpaper above dark wood wainscoting. Three large oil paintings
in gilt frames, their subjects too dingy and far away to make out, fills the spaces between four
more sconces.
They see what might be a staircase in the far right corner, probably leading down to the kitchen.
A number of chairs have been pulled out from the table, away from what appears to be dishes
familiar to the PCs.
There is a place card by the plate with a message written in elaborate calligraphy. It reads:
Reserved for [names of player characters here], compliments of the Blue Lady
The PCs suddenly feel cold, and slowly lower the card, and study the dining room again. Again,
no one is seen. There is only the long room of cherry wood and dark green.
Steam disappears in the air above the food on the plates, and tiny bubbles rise and pop in the
crystal tumblers. Glancing at the card again, shows that the message, though written in the same
intricate script, has changed.
You must eat, or you will grow weak. You have eaten nothing of worth since yesterday
The message has changed again, to something much shorter.
It is safe
They see again that these seats at this table are reserved for the group, compliments of the Blue
Lady.
Blue Lady? Who is the Blue Lady? They look down at the food on the beautiful green china
plate with its gold rim. Their stomachs growl again, their walls feeling as though they are
grinding against one another.
If they do not eat, how much longer could they go on before they begin to weaken? How long
will it be before they exhaust themselves and can’t go any further?
But what if their hunger distracts them?
Their stomachs complain again, loudly.
If the PCs sit down, pulling the chairs up to the table, and pick up the silver fork, they find that
the food is as tender and perfectly cooked. Steam rises, and with it comes the wonderful aroma
of blackening spices and seasonings.
You bring the fork to your nose and sniff at the morsel speared on the prongs. Nothing unusual.
Sticking out on your tongue and tasting it finds it to be nothing unusual.
It is perfect. This is probably the stupidest thing they’ve ever done, and they eat.
The meal is excellent, perfectly prepared and cooked, and every bite dances with flavor. The
tumblers are indeed filled with their favorite beverages and they sip them slowly, to make them
last as long as possible.
When they look back at the table, they find that their plates have been joined by coffee cups,
steaming and filled to the brim and setting on a small saucer, and dessert plates each occupied by
a large slice of what appears to be chocolate pie sporting a dollop of whipped cream.
They leap up from the table, sending their chairs crashing to the floor behind them. They whip
their gaze back and forth, searching for whomever could have brought them coffee and dessert.
They see no one. They stand, and shiver, then feel their gazes drawn towards the coffee and pie.
Chocolate pie. What the – why not? They right their chairs and sit down, and eat the pie and
drink the coffee. Like their meal before, they are perfect and delicious. The coffee has been
flavored with chicory, and the pie is light and silky smooth. When finished, the PCs feel
pleasantly full; the taste of chocolate lingers on their tongues.
But it’s so strange. Nothing here makes sense! It’s like everything is inside out... Nothing has
made sense since they came to this place. Nothing’s makes sense since they got pulled through...
When the PCs are ready to continue, they can get out of their chairs and stand, reaching for their
weapons. They turn and as they look over the empty dining room, they hear only the hum of the
engines on the lower deck.
Then comes a piercing sob. They turn, partly in surprise, and partly in alarm, and at the far end
of the dining saloon, at the green wall with its three paintings, the PCs see the Blue Lady.
Her hair, like black silk, is piled high atop her head with curls hanging down to frame her face.
She wears a voluminous royal blue ball gown, and in her hair are the blossoms of some type of
blue flower. All around her in the air clouds of blue form and un-form, like drops of dye in
water.
The effect seems like hypnotism, some kind of trance as it seems the PCs are commanded to stop
just as they had been commanded to walk.
Drawing nearer they see that the flowers in the Blue Lady’s hair are roses. It is impossible. Blue
roses don’t exist, and they must be silk, but somehow seem real. She wears a necklace and
earrings of some sparkling, bright blue gem. Bluer than sapphire. Perhaps polished lapis lazuli.
She wears silk opera gloves of the same color as her gown, and weeps into a dainty handkerchief
the color of faded denim.
There is nothing in the world but the Blue Lady sobbing pitifully, and the paintings on the green
wall. As they watch, the Blue Lady points, but it is as though she can’t bear to look at the
paintings, and the PCs’ gaze follows the pointing finger clad in blue silk.
She points first to the painting on the left, and it is a scene of a woman in an old fashioned dress,
cowering on a floor, on a rug with a pattern of vines and leaves in front of an obviously antique
sofa of yellow and green velvet. A large hat bedecked with rosebuds and a veil lies on the sofa,
and a man towers over the woman with an axe raised above his head. His face wears an
expression of unimaginable hatred.
The Blue Lady points to the middle painting, and in it the man is bringing the axe down. The
woman appears to be screaming or weeping, or both. Her arm is raised as if to ward off the blow,
and she already has a deep red slash across her palm.
The Blue Lady points to the third painting, on the right, and it depicts the axe buried in the
woman’s shoulder, where it must have cleaved through her collarbone. And the Blue Lady points
to the painting on the left once again.
Then to the middle, then to the painting on the right, then the left, and the middle, and the right,
over and over again. Her arm moves in a blur, impossibly fast, but the PCs followed its
movements, at the subject in each painting as it changes every time she points, like a flip book.
The man raises the axe and brings it down, and raises the axe and brings it down, and raises the
axe and brings it down. It strikes the woman on her arm, opening an artery that jets scarlet. It
strikes the woman in the red canyon it has opens in her collarbone and cleaves it deeper. It
strikes her on her chest, and slices open the bulge of her right breast in a spray of red. Blood
pours from her wounds and she screams and cries, and begs and pleads.
The man raises the axe and brings it down, and the hatred on his face never dims. The room
begins to turn red.
And at last the woman is bathed in red, her body and clothing in tatters, and she lies still on the
carpet whose pattern is lost to her blood. Her head has lolled to the side and it looks as though
she peers from the painting directly at the PCs. Her lips form words.
Please stop. I’m sorry.
The man throws his axe aside and drops to his knees to beat the woman’s face with his fists. Five
times. Ten. A dozen. A hundred, and when he is finished her face is a swollen ruin.
He then tears aside her blouse and layer after layer of undergarments beneath, all of them wet
and red. When he reaches the flesh hidden beneath, it is scored with flowing bloody trenches.
She is still alive. The woman slowly closes and opens one eye, the other is gummed shut with
blood.
She seems to be paralyzed, the little finger on her right hand twitches, twitches, but nothing else
moving from the neck not.
The man thrusts his hands and arms into the woman’s belly and tears at what he finds inside. Her
intestines and viscera are like ropes and he tugs and pulls them out and throws them aside, and
stabs his arms deep inside again.
When he is finished her belly lies open like a bright red flower, and her bones show, and her
innards lie in a horrible, grotesque mound. He seems to pant, exhausted, but slowly climbs to his
feet, a Ghoul in Scarlet. He wipes his hands on the green and yellow velvet sofa, but only smears
the blood that has spattered there. He bends to pick up his axe, seemingly enthralled by,
hypnotized by, possessed by the hideous power that he wields and walks away to the left, out of
view.
Dimly, in the back of their minds, the PCs realize that they should have vomited at the sight of it
all. Instead they feel oddly calm, almost peaceful.
The Blue Lady is still sobbing into her handkerchief, but when the PCs turn to look, she is gone.
But her sobs still resounds through the air. The PCs felt daze, as if waking up from a fitful sleep.
They feel they need to look at the paintings again, and when they do they have changed yet
again. Together, the three of them now depicts nothing more than a fancy parlor. There is no
blood, and no hideously mutilated woman on the floor.
Something is different, though... Standing close enough to touch the paintings, the PCs reach out
and can’t bring themselves to be surprised when one of their hands passes through empty air
beyond the gilt frames. These are no longer paintings, but openings. The room beyond is quiet,
still, and dim.
The dining saloon of the Little Baroness is gone and in its place, blackness. They now stand on a
tiny patch of parquet floor, its edges broken off in a stairstep pattern as though every wooden
square beyond the remaining few had fallen away. Before them is the green wall with its gilt
frames and gold sconces. The rest is a blackness pierced by unfamiliar constellations and milky
swirling galaxies. The Blue Lady’s sobs sound as though they are coming from underwater.
There seems to be nothing more to do but step through the empty frames and into the fancy
parlor.

The Parlor: When they do, clambering through the central frame, they feel the vertigo sweep
over them and lose their balance.
When they pause to take a mental breath, the voices begin, as if they had been waiting patiently
for their full attention. They are arguing quietly, but in earnest as if they hope not to be
overheard.
When the PCs try to open their eyes, they can’t. They can’t move. They can’t see and they can’t
move, which is somehow more horrifying than what the Blue Lady had shown them in the
paintings.
They feel helpless and nauseatingly vulnerable. It is as though they aren’t there at all.
The voices are that of a man and woman; The PCs suppose they belong to the man and woman
they had seen in the paintings.

The woman’s voice is frantic and pleading; she is upset to the point of hysteria. “I can’t do that,”
she wails, “I swear to God I cannot! Joshua, please believe me... Please don’t ask me to do that.”

The man, apparently named Joshua, responds coldly, venomously. “You can and you will. This
is something you should have taken care of before it got to be a problem, anyhow.”

The woman dissolves into tears, weeping hopelessly.

“Deanna, look at you already. You’re beginning to look like a zeppelin, and people are asking
questions. You know as well as I do that Carl and you can’t produce a child together and God
knows you’ve tried enough times. What will people say as you get bigger and bigger?”
“But you’re asking me to kill!” sobs the woman, Deanna, “I can’t do that. I’m sorry this
happened, but I can’t tear this life out of me. It didn’t ask to come into being.”

There is the sound of a stinging slap, then a long moment of silence.

“I am a physician, and I know every other physician in this county and they all know me. And
we all know that my brother might as well be rutting with a horse for all the good his semen
does. If, six months or so from now you squirt out a bouncing baby bastard, people will talk and
word will spread, and when it spreads my name and my family’s name won’t be worth horse
dung in the street.”

“But I could go to Brahms to have the baby!” Desperation disguises as hope, interrupted by
sniffling. “Or Bloomington or, if it’s ready by then, the new hospital you and that Italian fellow
are building here in Silent Hill! We could say there are complications the hospital in Ashfield
can’t cope with and no one would have to know. It won’t matter what the doctors have said
about Carl. Things like this happen all the time – husbands and wives who aren’t supposed to be
able to have children do have them!”

The man’s voice is tinged with disgust now. “Just because you want something to happen
doesn’t mean it can or will. You can’t go somewhere else to give birth just because you want to.
And even if you did go to Brahms, or to my new hospital, people would still want to know why.
There is no other choice – you cannot have this child.”
“I had hoped nothing would come of it,” she says, quieter now as if dazed.

“But something did come of it. And I have a reputation to think of, and a family name. Surely
you know and benefit from the fact that the Blackwells are a leading family in Toluca County.”

“I DO KNOW IT, DAMN YOU!” she screams with vehemence, then quietly says, “But I don’t
care. I will not commit murder to protect your precious family honor. I don’t care if you all cast
me out and leave me penniless for the rest of my life. I don’t care if I have to sell myself in an
alley to feed and clothe myself and this child – I will have this child and I will raise it, love it,
and watch it grow.”

There is fury in her voice, lethal and only wanting a spark to ignite it. “And I will raise this child
to be a better person than you. I will make sure it knows its father was nothing more than a
rutting hog and that it should do all it can to ensure it won’t grow up to be like you.”

Another slap – but it is muffled and heavier, perhaps the sound of a balled fist striking a
cheekbone.

Stunned silence. There is only... the hum and vibration of the Little Baroness’ engines. They are
still on the Little Baroness, the PCs realize. Sailing Toluca Lake on a foggy November day in
1918 with the wealthy Blackwell family of South Ashfield that had chartered the boat especially
for a birthday party.

Whose birthday party?

“Go ahead and hit me,” Deanna hisses, “Go ahead and let everyone in the family wonder why
my face is swelling with bruises when I step into that dining room upstairs. Go ahead and let
your brother know you’ve struck his wife.”

“You WHORE!!” He roars, and there is the sound of his fist striking flesh again.

Deanna falls, and hits the floor with a wounded gasp of pain.

He begins to kick her, perhaps aiming for her stomach, and says, “If you won’t take care of this,
I will take care of it for you. You will NOT ruin my name. You will NOT ruin my reputation,
and you will NOT ruin my family’s standing in this community.”

He pauses, panting. The PCs can imagine his face already twisted into the rictus of hatred they
saw in the paintings.

Deanna groans in pain and struggles to say, “I had hoped it wouldn’t, but I knew it would come
to this. I’m not as frail-minded as you suppose, Joshua.”

Unbelievably, it sounds as though she is smiling. “I wrote all of what I told you into a letter this
morning and left it under the bedclothes in mine and Carl’s bedroom. Hit me, kick me, strike me
again and I’ll give it to him this evening when we return home. Kill me and say I fell overboard,
as I know you probably want to and are capable of doing and he’ll find it anyway. Either way, I
will ensure that your name is dragged through every pig lot in this county and beyond. And then,
what will Dr. Alchemilla have to say about that I wonder? I doubt very much he’ll even want to
admit he ever knew you, much less allow your name to go up with his on the new hospital you
two are building.”

Silence. Shock, then rage, becomes a palpable thing in the parlor that must be one of the private
dining rooms on the lower deck of the Little Baroness.

Suddenly, a strange scraping noise that the PCs realize, with surprise, is the sound of the man
called Joshua grinding his teeth. He laughs suddenly, and it is a sound completely detached from
anything sane, the sound of a mind snapping in two.

Joshua bends down, and from the sound of it, grabs a handful of the lace that adorns the fancy
blouse Deanna had worn in the paintings. He stands and hoists Deanna with him, until her feet in
their high-buttoned shoes barely touch the floor. They hear her gag and gasp for air.

“Kill you?” asks Joshua, “Why, that’s a fine idea if I do say so myself. I hadn’t even thought of it
until you mentioned it. Perhaps you’re right. You’re not as frail-minded as you seem, my dear.”

She chokes in his grasp in the air.

“But Carl won’t find any letter from you. And my family will not have to endure the shock of
losing a daughter-in-law and a son in a single day. There are only fourteen people on this boat
including myself and I will kill them one by one and then I will sink this little pleasure ship.”

“I will be the only survivor, and it will look like such a tragic accident. I will swim to shore and
will be nearly catatonic from the loss of my entire family for probably a week or more. In fact,
perhaps the only thing that will cheer me any at all will be finally seeing my name etched in
stone alongside good Dr. Alchemilla’s at the newest, most modern hospital in the state.”

“And whenever I’m working there, when the sun’s shining on the water, in between the ailing
I’ll look out over the lake, and I’ll think to myself: under that water sleeps a whore and her
bastard child. And I’ll hope you’re both burning in hell.”

He drops her, and the PCs hear and feel the jolt of Deanna’s skull striking the plush arm of the
velvet sofa. Deanna Blackwell slides to the floor, mewling in pain.

“You’ll die first. You and your bastard,” growls Joshua, low and vicious.

The PCs hear his footsteps on the carpet patterned with vines, then heard a door open and close.
He is leaving the room. Going to find the axe – perhaps it is a fire axe used to smash open doors
on a burning boat, or it could be used to slice through troublesome ropes should they tangle and
pose a hazard in the engine room. An axe has an amazing number of uses.
Soon, Joshua Blackwell returns, and the door opens then closes again. The axe must have been in
a narrow wooden cabinet fastened to the wall near the staircase leading up to the dining saloon.
The PCs had seen it when they boarded the boat at Rosewater Park – had seen the cabinet, but
hadn’t imagined what it contained. Now they know.

And the PCs open their eyes. They can move again, their arms and legs tingling faintly with the
sensation of returning circulation, as though they have been asleep standing up. They are all
sitting on the green and yellow velvet sofa. It is surprisingly soft

To their right...

...is Deanna Blackwell, cowering on the floor, pressed against the sofa. Her innards having
spilled out, intestines and viscera coiled on the carpet. Her face is a black and purple mockery;
swollen, bruised, and slightly misshapen with broken bones floating in the flesh beneath. Her
nose is lopsided and crushed.

Her clothing is shredded, where Joshua had torn it away to rip out what lay beneath her flesh and
destroy the child growing within. Her body is scored with deep wounds where the axe had
tunneled through her bones and muscles. Deanna bleeds copiously from every wound, from the
gaping crater that had been her stomach, and from tiny cuts on her face where the skin has split
and ripped apart under the force of Joshua’s fists.

One eye opens wide with panic, the other glued shut just as it had been in the painting.

Deanna opens her mouth, now little more than a pucker in the swollen purple destruction of her
face, and speaks.
“Do something – he’s gone mad!” she gasps, “He’ll kill us all!” Her voice, even from the horror
of her brutalized body, is undamaged and clear.

You feel your mouth opening and closing stupidly, no sound escaping. It seems as though one
sense at a time is returning. First sight and touch, enabling you to see and move. You can hear,
of course, and suddenly they can smell and the odor of the destroyed woman is overpowering, a
toxic fog of blood, shit, sweat, and a horrible scent like that of fresh, raw meat.

Deanna clasps her hands over the shredded pit that had been her stomach and tries to scoot away
from... what? Joshua? He must be in the room, but the PCs can’t stop staring at the ruined
woman.

“Help me, please!” she screams, “He’s crazy! He says he won’t allow me to have my child!”

Then the PC realize there is something large in the room, and finally tear their gaze away from
Deanna to face Joshua.
Their minds want to retreat, to slip away to a safe place.

Joshua Blackwell has become the Ghoul in Scarlet. It is an immense creature that blocks the
doorway behind it, vaguely human-shaped. Or perhaps merely shaped like a star, with a head and
four appendages. Blazing with a aura of red blinding light, it lacks definition, with bits of bone,
skin, flesh, and clothing floating in red gore. They sink into the flowing red glare, then resurface,
sink again and resurface.

A face emerges, the face of Joshua Blackwell twisted into the hate previously seen in the
paintings. Only, if the five-pointed shape is supposed to be a human form, the face has emerged
from an arm. It quickly sinks back in and reemerges elsewhere, in the mid-section. Bones and
flesh, skin and cloth emerge, sink, emerge, sink. There is a pocket watch, gold, on a gold chain.
And there is a black bow-tie. A leather shoe. Part of a rib-cage. An unidentifiable stem of
muscle. A hand.

The Ghoul in Scarlet flows across the floor, leaving a thick red trail on the carpet, obscuring its
pattern. Absurdly, the PCs notice that in amidst the leafy vines in the carpet pattern, there is are
small yellow flowers seemingly spaced at random. All in all, a beautiful design that matches the
green and yellow velvet furniture exquisitely.

The axe emerges from an appendage that logically should have been the left leg, then is sucked
back in. It reemerges where the right arm should be, and the flowing blob of the arm rears back.

THE GUN! Get the gun.

The axe descends and buries itself in the velvet sofa, where Deanna had been sitting. The
appendage rises away from it, leaving it behind. Joshua Blackwell’s face emerges, sees the axe,
and shrieks. The Ghoul in Scarlet falls upon the axe and absorbs it, lifts itself up and teeters
backward. The sofa now sports a gash that vomits stuffing up between the green and yellow
bands of the velvet upholstery.

Huddled against a wall near the sofa, the ruin that had been Deanna Blackwell screams.

Joshua Blackwell’s face emerges, sinks, reemerges, sinks again, emerges, very quickly.
Searching. It sees the PCs and grins. The axe appears where the head of the Ghoul in Scarlet
should be. The creature bends backward, bonelessly, preparing to heave itself, and the axe,
forward.

The creature bends forward, almost as though it is bowing to a lady at a fancy ball held long ago.
The axe blade whistles through the air... and catches in the ceiling with a dull chopping sound.

Joshua Blackwell’s face surfaces, observes, and voices its rage. The Ghoul in Scarlet flows
upward, engulfs the axe and pulls it free.
A foot emerges. There is the pocket watch again, and the bow tie. Another shoe. Part of might be
an arm.

The Ghoul In Scarlet has oozed halfway across the parlor floor towards the sofa, has turned back,
and is moving back toward the door. Though Deanna continues to scream, the Ghoul seems
uninterested, paying attention instead to the PCs.

Now is the time to run.

To run out the door, and onto the lower deck of the Little Baroness.

It is the starboard side, where the staircase leads upward to the second deck and the dining
saloon. This private cabin is the furthest toward the bow; its neighbor the left faces the port side.

A horrible sucking sound is heard as the oozing mass of the Ghoul squeezes through the door, in
an amorphous blob that begins to take its familiar shape and reaches for them with the appendage
that serves as its left arm. A foot emerges, its toes points at them, before it sinks back in.

Joshua Blackwell’s face, wearing an impossibly wide grin, pops out at the end of the left
appendage and leers at them.

As the PCs run, they notice the Little Baroness still seems to sail through the same soupy murk
that had filled the streets of Silent Hill since they were pulled into this cool, wet hell.

They reach the stairs to the upper deck. Behind them, freed from the confines of the private
cabin, the Ghoul in Scarlet moves surprisingly, and alarmingly, fast. The axe has surfaced again,
waving from the upper appendage, where the head should be, while Joshua Blackwell’s head
peers from the right appendage, face grimly set as though performing a necessary, but
unpleasant, chore. The same bits and pieces of his body and clothing emerge and sink and
emerge again.

The PCs take the stairs two at a time, and by the time they reach the top, the Ghoul in Scarlet
quivers at the bottom. It flings itself forward and the axe cuts deep into a wooden step halfway
up. Joshua Blackwell’s face frowns, and the Ghoul oozes forward, absorbs the axe and pulls it
free, then begins to climb up. The PCs had paused and watched it for just a moment, then they
can sprint away toward the safety of the dining saloon.

Dining Saloon: Reaching the doors, with their oval windows with their ornate wrought iron
designs, they yank them open, leap inside and slams them shut behind them. But before they can
fumble for a lock, a large dark shape rises up behind the frosted glass windows. They can only
gape at it, in the silence of the dining saloon.
The shape outside slams itself against the doors, which shudder in their frames. A crack appear
in the window of the door to their right, and the PCs back away. There is silence, then the brass
knobs turns and the doors swing open. Joshua Blackwell’s hands surface, but having served their
purpose, retreat into the Ghoul in Scarlet. Blackwell’s face leers at them, turning slowly
clockwise in its frame of red slime.

Though the Ghoul in Scarlet tries to fling itself forward, the PCs see the handle of the axe, and
see that the blade is caught on the doorframe outside.

Now is their chance.

The PCs raise their weapons and stab them forward, like a spear. The objects sink deep into the
slime just beneath Joshua Blackwell’s chin. The PCs push them in, digging, then stab them
upward, wrenching the handle downward, and heave and scoop. Working together they should
be able to find the head and scoop out Blackwell’s head. His face wears a shocked expression.
With a grunt, the PCs flung it across the room and hear it land on the piano keys, where it makes
a discordant sound like an exclamation.

Once its S.D.C/Hit Points reach zero, the Ghoul quivers as if suddenly confused. It drops away
from the axe caught on the doorframe and falls forward. The PCs jump away.

It hits the polished parquet floor with a heavy, wet smack. Red slime begins to spill away from
the things – the bones, flesh, organs, and clothing – hidden inside. Bones emerges. Part of an
arm, part of a leg. A lump of what can only be intestine. Something that looks like a liver. A
sheet of skin, wadded and crumpled, that looks uncomfortably like leather. One hand, and then
another. A foot, then a shoe, then a foot still inside a shoe.

The pieces begin to move, to quiver, then skitter randomly across the floor. The slime looks
more like blood than ever and runs in rivulets across the floor. The thing that might be a liver
begins to roll ponderously, crossing square after square before encountering a rug, hesitating a
moment, and rolling on, seeming to stick to the carpet as it moves on. A hand skitters past, like a
crab, balanced on its fingertips. Bones clatter across the polished wood, their ends wet with
gristly cartilage.

They converge on the tiny dance floor, under the crystal cloud of the chandelier hanging
overhead. The PCs hear Joshua Blackwell’s head thump down from the piano, onto the piano
bench, then onto the floor, and see it roll crookedly across the stage before spilling down onto
the dance floor. The face looks annoyed; its eyes find theirs and stare at them with hatred.

The PCs finally get a good look around the dining saloon. The birthday party aboard the Little
Baroness had been interrupted and there are bodies, several of them, in the dining saloon. Seated
at tables, sprawled on the floor, all of them scored with great gaping cuts. An old woman sits at a
table, her head nearly severed and held on only by a strip of skin and flesh. A young man,
probably a teenager, lies face down on the floor, his back hacked open. There are so many
others... mutilated, chopped to death. Plates full of food have been smashed on the floor,
sumptuous meals ground into the green and gold carpets and smeared on the parquet. On one
table an enormous, many-tiered birthday cake sits without a single piece carved from it, its
snowy icing spattered red. The body of a little girl wearing a frilly red and black checked dress
lay on the floor, halfway under the table. It is hard to guess how old she might have been because
her head has been chopped off.

Joshua Blackwell said there was only thirteen people aboard the ship and he would have no
problem killing them all to protect his name, his standing, and his ambitions. And he had. He
had.

The pieces of Joshua Blackwell have collected beneath the chandelier on the dance floor and the
slime that looks like blood has collected there as well. It rolls over the pieces and a stubby red
column studded with bits of Joshua Blackwell begins to take shape. It is rebuilding itself. Soon
(1D4 melee) it will sprout what serves for arms, legs, and a head.

Joshua Blackwell’s head rides the column as it climbs upward, wearing a smug smile.

The PCs charge the growing Ghoul in Scarlet. Gripping their weapons by the end of theirs
handles, the PCs can tear Blackwell’s head free, with a sound like a boot pulling from swampy
mud. Doing so; the growing column will collapse, the red slime spills away from the pieces of
Joshua Blackwell inside it.

Joshua Blackwell’s head sails up, arcs over several tables, then down, and hits the floor with a
heavy thud halfway across the dining room.

So, what now? The PCs can spend the rest of the day swatting Joshua Blackwell’s head away to
prevent the Ghoul in Scarlet from reforming itself, but there seems to be no way to kill it.

Maybe if the PCs can find the heart and destroy it, they can kill the Ghoul in Scarlet. It can
obviously survive without the head.

This is good: think of something. Think of what it would nice to have right about now. Think
about something or else your sanity will crack like an egg.

If they follow this line of thought, the PCs search through the pieces of Joshua Blackwell
thrashing about on the floor at their feet. The PCs pass something that might be a liver.

Where is the heart? There is part of the ribcage, almost half of it, except for one or two of the
bottom ribs, but there is nothing inside, only chalk-white bone and grayish cartilage.
The PCs kick away a foot. Where is the damn heart? There is something, but too small to be a
heart. Maybe a kidney. The PCs step on it and it squelches horribly underfoot. The PCs’s skin
crawls and they shiver. The PCs don’t know how much more of this they can endure.

There. The throbbing heart emerges from a tangle of intestines, trailing torn veins and arteries
like the train of a wedding gown. The PCs pounce, slice through the coils of intestine, then
through the heart. A geyser of dark blood jets out...

...and nothing happens. Hands, feet – including one wearing an expensive leather shoe, bones,
muscle, things the PCs don’t want to think about, still writhes across the parquet floor, splashing
through red slime that looks like blood. They can hear the wet slapping and clicking of
unspeakable things moving by themselves across the parquet floor.

If the PCs can’t kill it, perhaps at least the PCs can prevent it from taking form again. The PCs
will have to find the head and seal it away somewhere.

So where has it gone? They look over the dining saloon. There are so many bodies... Joshua
Blackwell murdered his entire family.
Find the head. Do something with it. Throw it overboard, or seal it in a refrigerator, or put it in
the oven in the kitchen downstairs. Even if it won’t die at least it will stay in pieces, and if it
stays in pieces, it’s relatively harmless.

You pause, then smile. Yes. Put it in the oven. And turn it on. That sounds like a fine idea.

A thrashing rope of intestine flops by their feet.

When they look up the PCs see movement across the dining room. Joshua Blackwell’s head rolls
out from beneath the chair where the old woman with the nearly-severed head sits.

They stumble over the pieces of Joshua Blackwell moving on the floor, and when they are finally
free of them they run with long strides toward the head weaving drunkenly toward their across
the floor. The PCs see more bodies lying between the tables – a man who looks to be in his
thirties, his throat a deep red gully, an expression of shocked horror on his face. A woman in a
dark red dress stained darker from axe blows to her stomach.

Joshua Blackwell’s head rights itself and faces them. It seems to have chewed through its own
tongue; its mouth froths with bloody foam as it gnashes and gnashes and gnashes its teeth.

“Come on, Dr. Blackwell.”

The PCs step forward, and the head tilts back and rolls away, because it knows what they are
trying to do.
Several running steps takes them to Joshua Blackwell’s head, which is trying to hide itself under
a table. They must be wary, as it can bite, herding with a long object such as the axe, a shovel, or
pipe is best. When they have forced it into the open, it launches itself out, bounces across the
floor, rising and falling, skipping, and rolling on. The PCs run to catch up to it, and watch it
rebound off the wall under the three oil paintings at the far end of the dining room. The PCs are
almost to the kitchen; the staircase that leads downward is to their right.

Joshua Blackell’s head growls as the PCs herd it around the banister, then sweep it down the
stairs and watch it tumble to the bottom. Again, it bounces. The PCs will never erase that image
from their memories.

At the foot of the stairs, Joshua Blackwell’s head snarls and snaps, rolling back and forth.
Joshua Blackwell’s head is a stupid, impotent thing at the bottom of the staircase. Keep it away
from the rest of the pieces the Ghoul in Scarlet had contained and it is helpless. The PCs start
down the stairs to the kitchen, where they can seal it in a pot on the stove, shove it into an oven,
or kick it into a freezer.

On the lower deck is a large plainly carpeted room with a large closet to one side filled with
clean white waiters’ jackets hung on hooks. Two are missing. Ahead is a swinging wooden door
and beyond, presumably, the kitchens or galleys or whatever they would be called. The PCs
move Joshua Blackwell’s head toward the door. They step down onto the carpet, march forward
and push open the door and move the head inside. It has begin to squeal high-pitched.
Beyond the door, kitchen of the Little Baroness is twenty-five feet by fifty feet, its perimeter
rimmed by steel counters and dark paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove
with three ovens, and a massive walk-in refrigerator. Shelves hold tins of spices and ranks of
closed cabinets almost certainly are stocked with dishes. In the center of the room, like a giant’s
steel-topped casket, stands a huge steam table. The room is searing hot, which means the ovens
and stoves are good and ready.

The ovens burn coal; in the corner to their left, a surprisingly shiny shovel hangs from a hook on
the wall above a metal bin heaping with dully gleaming black lumps. They can take the shovel as
a secondary weapon.

Oven or freezer? The PCs wonder if Joshua Blackwell’s body parts can organize themselves
enough to open a freezer without the head, and with that realize that if they live long enough to
look back on this experience, the PCs will have nightmares for the rest of their lives.

The oven is the best choice. If they can incinerate Joshua Blackwell’s head, the rest of him, will
be as good as dead and will flop and thrash like beached fish on the floor of the dining saloon
until they rot, or mummify.

Joshua Blackwell’s head alternates between mewling fearfully and growling and trying to snap at
the PCs as he is brushed along.

Occasionally it looks up at them, snarls, and spits a gob of something noxious that misses and
splatters instead on the floor.

The PCs stomp hard on the head and pin it to the floor while they grab a towel from the counter
and use it to open the nearest oven. A wave of heat billows out. Then, using their implement, the
PCs scoop up the head, toss it inside and slam the oven door.

The PCs stare at the oven door. From behind it, muffled shrieks can be heard and a very
satisfying rattle as Joshua Blackwell’s head thrashes and fights to escape.

A sudden flare of vertigo. They stagger and reach back to steady themselves on the counter.
From the corner of their eye they see a pair of legs clad in black trousers at the end of the counter
near the freezers, and a puddle of blood collected in the grout between the galley floor tiles. The
rest of the body, probably that of the chef, is hidden from view. Of course Joshua Blackwell
killed the chef and the waiters as well.
The oven is a marvel of black wrought iron and white enamel, balanced on bandy little legs and
adorned with iron curlicues and engravings – more like a work of art than a stove. Gleaming
copper pots of all sizes simmer on the stove top.
The PCs watch the oven for what seems like several minutes before they realize something is
happening. The iron around the oven door begins to glow red. The banging behind it intensifies
and the cries grow louder. The copper pots boil over, belching steam, water and sauces splash
out and sizzle on the range top. The PCs back away, toward the door. As though a bonfire is
raging in its center, the kitchen grows hotter. And hotter. Quickly.
Something begins to take shape on the enameled oven door. A shape, and shapes within,
scorching themselves black against the white. After a moment, the PCs recognize it as the design
they might have seen previously. A circle within a circle ringing a triangle, dotted with arcane
symbols and letters from some dead alphabet.
It is best to turn and flee, throw open the kitchen door, and run.
The PCs find that pieces of Joshua Blackwell are spilling down the stairs, seeking out the kitchen
and the PCs must fight their way through them, stepping over and around them, and kicking
them out of their way.

They are halfway across the dining saloon before the galley of the Little Baroness explodes.
At the rear of the dining room, where the staircase leads down, a spume of flame erupts, spitting
cinders. The Little Baroness shudders violently and the PCs lose their footing, tumbling to the
floor with a gasp. Around then tables tilt and fall; china, crystal, and silver hurtles through the
air, shattering on the parquet, thudding on the carpets. Above, the crystal pendants and beads in
the chandelier and every light fixture sings out as they chime against one another. The massive
birthday cake on its platter slides to the edge of its table, tilts like a falling tree, then cascades
ponderously to the floor.
The PCs lie on one of the lovely green and gold rugs, dazed but vaguely aware they can no
longer feel or hear the Little Baroness’ engines. It means one of two things; either the boat had
been split in half by the explosion and is soon to sink, or else the explosion in the kitchen
damaged the nearby engine room enough to stall the engines. Which means the boat is damaged
badly enough to sink it.
Reeling, the PCs climb to their feet and pick up their equipment, looking over the dining room.
From its orderly elegance before it had been shaken into a maze of overturned tables and chairs
where broken glass and china crunches underfoot and the crystal chandelier swings wildly
overhead, painting the room with sliding shadows.
The bodies of Joshua Blackwell’s family are still strewn about the dining saloon. There’s no one
to mourn them, and as if it agrees, the Little Baroness voices a sorrowful groan of bending
timbers.
The PCs look at the floor, blinking. Is it their imagination or has the floor begun to tilt ever so
slightly downward, back to the stern? The PCs turn to search for a path to the door, and rebound
off tables fallen on their sides. The PCs roll it aside and step forward. Forks and spoons on the
floor bend under their weight, graceful and delicate silverware ruined as the PCs step on it.
They look to their left and see, beyond the windows and their green velvet drapes, shapes
slipping very quickly by in the fog. The Little Baroness must be gliding along the shore, but they
can’t tell where it might be along the Toluca lakefront. Although... the shapes might be trees, at
intervals as though planted in a row.
Which would mean Jesperson Park, stretching along the downtown Silent Hill lakefront. Like
Rosewater Park in South Vale, Jesperson Park’s main feature is a long brick promenade walling
off the park’s lawns and flowerbeds from Toluca Lake. Trees grow in planting squares along the
promenade, where they had shaded strollers and lovers, and dropped their leaves in the water
every autumn.
Further on, halfway along the downtown lakeside, a wide brick pier juts out from the promenade
into the water like a fat, blocky peninsula. All along the promenade and pier are benches and at
regular intervals atop brick columns, giant Victorian cast-iron planters shaped vaguely like
elaborate trophies and overflowing with flowers. On the pier itself stands the Abraham Lincoln
Memorial Bell. It is huge, copper, and weighs more than one ton. Once used to alert the town to
trouble, such as fires, rising waters, or accidents at the small coal mines that had once tunneled
through the hills surrounding Silent Hill, it has been renamed and rung one hundred times on the
anniversary of Lincoln’s assassination every year since 1865. Once it had hung in the town
square in the shadow of Silent Hill City Hall, but had been moved to the park upon the
promenade’s completion in 1899.
Moved to the broad brick pier. The PCs feel themselves go perfectly still. If the Little Baroness
is racing through the water this close to the Jesperson Park promenade, it will soon slam into the
pier where the Lincoln Memorial Bell hangs.
How soon will the boat collide? The pier is located halfway along the waterfront, with a long,
shallow slope between the promenade and the streets and buildings of downtown Silent Hill. At
the top of the hill, up from the pier and promenade there are five blocks to the west and five to
the east. If the Little Baroness has sped by this much of the promenade already, how much more
is left? How many more blocks?
How many more seconds? The PCs shoulder their way through the upended tables. The dining
saloon has only one exit, the double doors with their oval windows. What will happen if the PCs
can’t get through the doors and around the upper deck to the other side of the ship to leap off
before it collides?
Maybe the collision won’t damage the ship severely. Then again, the Little Baroness is old and
made of wood, and ramming into the Jesperson Park promenade might grind it to splinters. And
it isn’t their imagination: the floor has developed a definite slope. The Little Baroness is sinking.
And how the hell can the PCs get off the boat anyway? Jump from the equivalent of a two-story
building onto the bricks? What if the PCs jump and catch their feet in one of the planters? The
PCs could probably lose their balance, fall back, and crack their skulls on some part of the Little
Baroness as it glides by – or wedge themselves between the promenade and the ship and be
ground into so much raw meat as it moves on without them.
Why are the PCs heading toward the doors? There are plenty of windows to their left and all the
PCs need do is smash one open for a way out.
The Little Baroness, the PCs discover, is much closer to the promenade than the PCs had
previously thought – it slams suddenly into the promenade, crunches and grinds its way along the
bricks, and rebounds, throwing everything aboard to the left, then to the right. The PCs struggle
to stay on their feet and watch tables roll past. How is the boat moving so quickly? The damn
thing is sinking, and sinking fast.
They can cut a path toward the windows, shoving tables aside and kicking chairs away. Their
feet tangle in a wadded lace tablecloth on the floor and the PCs nearly fall. Trees are still
slipping by outside the windows. The PCs step over a body, that of the old woman whose head
had finally pulled free of its tendril of skin and rolled away to God knew where. Any second now
the boat will hit the pier and the floors and decks will peel back on themselves in a fury of flying
chunks of wood and metal.
Any second now. Broken glass crunches on the floor. Are the PCs running? The PCs think so
and heave a table aside. Only a few more feet to the window. The floor is tilting more sharply
now and everything in the dining room is beginning to slide back toward the kitchen – the piano
slides off the stage, playing an ominous chord as it drops down a step from the floor.
They step over an overturned chair and smash a window. The window explodes outward in a
cloud of shards into the air outside. The PCs don’t have time to brush aside the jagged chunks of
glass before climbing through and feel the ragged window frame prick at their flesh as the PCs
scramble through.
Outside the deck is slippery with moisture from the fog and the PCs nearly lose their footing
again, spinning as the PCs fight to keep their balance to see bits of glass sliding away toward the
stern. The Little Baroness, however, did not appear to be riding low in the water, and for that the
PCs are glad.
Looking forward they see the promenade pier probably no more than a block away in the mist,
and turned and bolted toward the rear of the Little Baroness where the PCs discover the water
has risen to what the PCs guess is halfway up the walls of the lower deck. The engine room has
to be flooded, and the kitchen as well, and the water is probably spouting up through a hole
blasted in the floor, perhaps even the oven with Joshua Blackwell’s head inside might have
dropped through such a hole and sunk to the bottom of the lake.
As the boat’s momentum carries it along, the water pulls at the dark green paddlewheel and spins
it lazily as though the Little Baroness is adrift on the lake on a calm summer day. The PCs look
back toward the bow and the approaching pier; bracing themselves against the railing and one of
the support columns spaced evenly along the rail and painted the same forest green.
They wait.
When the Little Baroness collides with the pier, the impact is even stronger than the PCs
expected, and trying to hold onto the railings and pillars, the PCs wonder if their arms wild pop
out of their sockets. The front of the boat disintegrates – the lower deck simply stops as though it
had hit a wall, with its cabins and compartments compressing against themselves, crumpling and
exploding in bursts of wood and glass. The upper deck seems to peel free of the lower deck,
stretching forward as if to bridge the pier and splash down in the water on the other side, but
slamming down to collide with the brick pavement. It tears the trees to shreds, demolishing
benches and planters before finally falling to pieces and washing the pier in dust and broken
boards. Broken bits of wood and twisted pieces of metal strike the Lincoln Memorial Bell and
ring it again and again, as though playing a funeral dirge.
The boat shakes furiously, like a toy in the hands of a malevolent child determined to smash it to
bits against the floor. The PCs hear screaming, but momentarily realize that they are only hearing
themselves.
The Little Baroness sinks lower and lower as it disembowels itself on the pier and water rushes
in to fill it. Looking toward the promenade, the black iron balustrade as it seems to rise up to
greet them.
The PCs throw their weapons – how have the PCs held on to them, the PCs marvel – and as soon
as it seem safe, jump, land and slip on the wet bricks, fall and roll onto their side to watch the
ship die.
Still churning onward, the Little Baroness is nearly half gone, its bow chewed to pieces that are
thrown up and then fall down, flailing at the air. It skips in the water, jumps up over the edge of
the pier, then rolls over like a sleeper in the throes of a terrible dream. It exposes its white belly,
dripping and slick, then capsizes, and finally it seems its momentum exhausts itself. It spins,
upside down in the water and sinking quickly, and the paddlewheel slides past, nudges the
destruction on the pier and drops out of sight beneath the water.
A final ragged chunk of torn wood falls and strikes the Lincoln Memorial Bell, playing a sad
note as waves slaps against the promenade and pier. It is over.

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

Historical Society and Memorial Slaughterhouse: It is on the lakeside about a half a

mile up the road from Rose-Water Park. The guardrail and greenery finally give way to an open
lot. A parking lot, to be exact, and there are actually a few cars occupying it.

The Historical Society and Memorial Slaughterhouse is a huge, two-story, Georgian structure,
built with a vast facade of dark green brick with lifeless vines hanging in despair, as if the non-
existent 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 Rose-
Water Park.
Having just inserted it into the keyhole when a distressed scream is heard from behind. For a
fraction of a second it sounds human, and unfortunately, that is enough to distract and make one
turn to look. That fraction of a second ends when two things happened simultaneously. The first
is the radio crackle. The second is a repeat of the scream, and hearing it again makes it quite
clear that it isn’t human.
As if any more proof of that was needed, something comes from around the corner, just feet in
front of the PCs.
Their breath catches in their throats when they see it, when they see the thin and shapely, yet
crusted and disgusting legs, the parody of female attractiveness, all the way up to the head.
Which, of course, has no face.
How the hell did it get here?
It is a Brookhaven Nurse, all this way away from the hospital. Like all the others, it has a steel
pipe in its hand, and it is coming towards them, no doubt intending to put it to use.

While the PCs can shoot it down fairly quickly, it will distract them from the second nurse
slinking in the shadows to their right and the two nurses creeping towards them from the main
entrance.

The interior of the door has a latch, and drawing it across just as the first sounds of pounding
came from outside. Assuming the nurse doesn’t try using the key, and as far as they can tell, it
probably won’t, the PCs are safe at least from this one. They can lean back against the door,
catching their breath and wait for their heart to slow down.

Past the doorway is a small foyer. Entering they stand in front of a wooden reception desk, that
holds a cash register and numerous brochures for various activities in Silent Hill, protected by
two large staircases on either side. The walls are painted in a pleasant wood stain and are
decorated with assorted antiques. There is a wooden bench against the wall on the right. At the
far end is another wooden door marked “Museum”

Looking over the counter, one sees below a small refrigerator and various packaged snack food.
Walking around to the back of the counter and opening the refrigerator. From the feel of the air
inside, it has not been on for some time. It does, however, contain several undisturbed sixteen-
ounce bottles of water. There is also a small bathroom. While the electricity is off, the water is
still running and they can make use of the facility. The water is lukewarm, but their mouths are
dry enough not to be bothered with mundane things such as temperature.

After finishing, the PCs can take a brief look at the small map of the Society next to the museum
door, though it does not tell them anything they do not already know.
To the right, through a set of double doors, one enters a hallway with three doors. The first on the
left doesn’t open and neither does the one marked “History of Silent Hill.” The door on the right,
however, opens into a library.

Library: All of the tall bookshelves, except for one, are overturned, spilled books are scattered on
the floor. The only upright shelf is empty, except for two pieces of paper found upon inspection.
One is a useful map of the museum. The other appears to a page from a book of children’s
nursery rhymes.
Said the knave to the noble king,
“Where be your heart today?”
Said the king to the knightly knave,
“The punishers hath stolen it away.”
Consulting the map reveals that the library connects to the curator’s office. When they locate that
door it is barred shut with wood and nails. The only other rooms in this area is the “History
room” and a pair of washrooms. The other side of the museum consists of four display rooms:
the medieval room, animal room, observatory and human body room. The other two rooms are
for storage.
Both storage rooms are locked but the door to the medieval room opens easily. The room has
broad windows facing north, east, and south, with a display case of swords and suits of armor
held on racks before each window, facing outward, weapons ready. The suit of armor to the left
is rusted, as if had been there for a long time; that on the right is polished and dented, as if new
and recently put to use. A few paintings hang on the wall, including one of a beautiful woman
sitting in a boat.
Something inside the helmet of one of the suits of armor catches their attention. Aiming the
beam of the flashlight through the grated mouthpiece one can see a key hanging inside the
helmet. Attempting to lift the mouthpiece reveals that it will not budge.
Using the knife and jamming it where the mouthpiece meets the neck of the suit and a fair
amount of pressure, manages to pry open the helmet. Examining the tag strung to the key says
History of Silent Hill Room.
The east wing is reached by entering the animal room.
Animal Room: This room has a suspenseful quality because of all the stuffed animals. Visitors
may be almost convinced that the animals will come to life at any moment and, given their
current situation, they would not be surprised. The wall to the left features many different
colorful and beautiful exotic birds. The wall to the right displays smaller animals such as
squirrels and raccoons. The back part of the room boasts an array of wildcats, including a
cheetah, leopard and tiger. There are also skeletons in this room. Skeletons of fish, birds,
animals, and one of a human being, laced together with wire and standing in a corner beneath a
track light's beam. Smaller skeletons, of lizards and rodents, are placed under glass display cases.
Opening the door they can enter the museum.
Museum: The first room concentrates mainly on the history of the very first settlers in Silent Hill
and also touches on the Indian tribes that lived in the area before. The room is twice the size of
the medieval room and houses wall-length glass display tables and many paintings and pictures.
There are some paintings of the lake, a scale model of the original settlements, a sketch of one of
the Indian chiefs and a copy of the first treaty between the settlers and the natives. Oddly,
however, nearly all the cases are vacant and only a few paintings remain, each of them set above
a plaque that explains the historical significance of the person or place in question. There 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.
The second room is devoted to the town’s expansion in the nineteenth century. Many of the
town’s landscape artists emerged during that time and paintings of various parts of the town
literally cover the walls. In the middle of the room is a large glass casing with various antiques,
such as the first “Key to the City”, hooks used by the various fishermen on Toluca Lake, doctor’s
tools from the era, and a few documents. After making an inspection of the articles, the
paintings, and the glass case. Amongst the landscapes they find a curious painting. It depicts no
landscape, but rather just a deep, square hole carved out of a stone floor. Unlike the other
landscapes, which were done with oils, this painting has been done in acrylic. The style is a very
successful photorealism; were it not for the size and the framing, one can almost imagine being
able to put a hand through the hole and run fingers along the rough edges; perhaps that was why
it was included in the collection; the artist’s choice of material is certainly not noteworthy.
Turning away from the paintings and focusing on the articles. There is information about
Brookhaven hospital and the plague that hit Silent Hill in 1880 and mention of Toluca Prison
which was once located near the Historical Society. In fact, most of the original docks were built
by the convicts. The foundations of the original prison buildings however, had been poorly
constructed and were placed too close to the lake. Consequently, most of them began to sink
underneath the wet soil. A state prison opened up near Brahms in 1929, eliminating the need for
an incarceration facility of Toluca's size so the sunken parts were never rebuilt. The remaining
building was used as a temporary jail until 1965 when it too began to sink and was condemned.
After a lengthy consultation period where various financial and environmental studies were
conducted, the city council decided it was not worth the cost to tear down the building and so it
was left to join its companions beneath the damp earth. Under other circumstances, the PCs
would find such lore fascinating. But their minds will be on other things and so they can go into
the third room.
The third room once contained information about the town’s recent history and the works of
some of the local artists and authors. Now however, it just contains a single painting that covers
the back wall. The flashlight shows the brown carpeting is covered in dust. So much dust that it
makes one sneeze when they first step on the carpet. Looking around ones sees only the empty
spaces on the walls to the left and right. Then the eye catches something, something in the dust
on the floor.
Footprints: the outlines created in the dust as having been made by a pair of shoes; in fact two
different pairs of shoes. The first, and larger of the pair, leaves a worn tread that suggests some
kind of athletic shoe. The second pair is smaller, though not by much. They do not leave any
tread, just an outline in the dust and an impression on the carpet. They are roughly the same size
as the first pair, but they do not leave a tread.
Then there is the one on the back wall, this one all by itself, and it definitely deserves to stand
out. It commands attention, and it has the PCs. All of it. Right from the moment they lay eyes on
it, it has them. Under the polished brass plate into which the title ‘Misty Day Remains of the
Judgment’ has been carved in cursive, is a painting, oil on canvas. The physical appearance of it
is strong. What is depicted on the canvas is absolutely dominating, to a terrifying degree.
What is depicted is Pyramid Head.

A figure stands on a dark hill, wearing a large pyramid-shaped headpiece over its head, and a
long bloody spear is clutched in one stubby hand. It stands amongst a number of strange, wire-
frame cages; suspended in the air and hanging at a vertical angle. Shapes in white sheets are
suspended within them shapes that are vaguely but almost certainly human and they seem to
dangle in the mist like corpses on the gallows. ‘Misty Day’ is an appropriate description. There is
no real background to the painting, it is simply surrounded by mist. Pyramid Head stands facing
the vantage point of the viewer, and even through the age of the painting (The date was
unknown, but it was discovered in 1933), even though it is just the work of someone’s
imagination (Stephen H. MacGregor), there is a dark, utterly repulsive sort of power exudes from
this piece. Not from the physical painting itself, no, not that. It comes from the depiction of the
Pyramid Head. Even this facsimile, this product of the brush gives off that rotten feeling, just
like the real deal, though certainly it isn’t as concentrated coming from here.

The caption is scratched, but one can make out a few words:
“-cutioner-sent Hill -victims one last tast -freed-hoice -bet-ath by spe- by -nging.”

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

The Underground:
The PCs go in deeper and deeper. Down and down they go, forever and ever it seems. That
terrible, soulless wailing becomes stronger and more powerful by the second. Eventually it
seems as though there is more than one. Then, it is a chorus of cries, the lamenting howls of the
damned. Perhaps the PCs are coming down here to join them, to be a part of this hellish choir. In
these close quarters, the cacophony reverberates and, if anything, intensifies as it assaults their
eardrums.
This descent is endless and there is no turning back. Not a chance of that. If they turn around to
go back up, they go up and up forever. They feel it. They feel like they have passed through
something, that they have left even the barely relative normalcy of the world above. As bad as it
was up there, down here will be worse—the heart of the nightmare perhaps. This they know.
Now they go into something unknown, filling them with such dread that their hearts swell and
pound as if they will burst.
Down, down, down into the sloping perfect darkness. The sounds they make can not even be
heard over the overbearing noise. It is so bad that one feels their equilibrium slipping. Dizziness
creeps into vision, and with it, the earthbound corridor shifts slightly, then more, a full turn, and
finally, twists into knots. The flashlight leads them into a sort of obscene optical illusion, the
kind where one end of the hallway seems a lot smaller than the end you're looking from. It is
disturbing and it makes one feel very nauseous.
It seems as though every time one feels certain that they are either going to lose sanity or life,
one will survive mostly intact… only to find oneself in an even worse situation. Maybe this will
be the case now, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it, not then. This time, it feels like the PCs are
doomed to keep running and screaming and crying like lunatics in a parade until the last shreds
of sanity rip away, and they collapse on the floor, gibbering shells of themselves, lying there
with eyes as wide as dinner plates, drooling on the floor and shivering until they either have a
heart attack or starve to death. This is the only end to this descent. There is no other.
That turns out not to be the case, as is found out a few moments later. They are in such poor
control of their bodies and minds at the moment that they don’t see the door and completely run
into it without even attempting to stop or slow down or even absorb the blow. They run right into
the door and bounce off of it hard, falling backwards onto the inclined floor, bouncing again
when their bodies hit the wet, moldy stone surface. It is more shock than pain, really, but the
hideous racket doesn't help matters at all. Finally, pulling themselves together, getting back on
their feet, and taking stock of their situation.
Well, there is a door, and considering the dank, dungeon-like feel of this cave, or whatever the
hell it is, the door looks completely out of place, anachronistic even. There is nothing really
extraordinary about the door, it is standard metal that the PCs have seen perhaps a dozen times
today alone. It is painted white and streaked with coppery rust stains. What is unusual is that it is
here at all, a hundred feet below sea level at least. But its difficult to tell because sense of
direction isn't exactly in top working order at the moment. The handle is heavy, but as it is pulled
it open on joints so ancient and rusty that one can hear them over the din behind them, and very
clearly. It is just as noisy closing as opening, but, when the door is closed, it closes out the
sounds of the cave along with it, at least, for the most part. The door doesn’t seem that thick.
Now the sound is like noisy machinery in a distant room
The Office: The room it opens to could have once been a front office for the document storage
area. The walls used to be white, but some neglect has caused the paint to turn grey. There is a
heavy wood door on the far side of the room. There is a desk in front of it and a support pillar
just to the right of a slateboard. There is something written on the slateboard, though so old and
worn-out that it can barely be deciphered. There is an in-out box on the desk, with only a single
sheet of very old paper sitting in the In-box, the bottom edge is torn. On the note, in faded blue
ink, is written “September 11, 1820 Prisoner Number: C-221”. Next to it lays a white sticky note,
written in brisk cursive, “File this back into the Toluca Prison archive. Let me know if the other
half turns up.”
Prisoners down here? Sure, why not? A hundred-foot-deep hole in the ground is a fantastic place
to break a man's spirit.
There is nothing else on or in the desk. There is a door directly across from the one they entered,
and through it the PCs go.
Hallway: It leads into a hallway of sorts. The part directly in front is framed in iron bars, though
the cage has a door and it is wide open. So, a prison it was. The date on that memo back there,
1820, certainly wasn't a recent one, even in the relative lifespan of this prison. There are several
indications that this facility was in use in considerably more modern times than the early 19th
century, notable among them the lifeless florescent lights that line the center of the ceiling up
and down the hall.
There are several more doors leading away from the hall. Three of them don't even have
doorknobs. Two do have doorknobs that don't work. Only one door opens, one that is alone at
the twisty end of the hall. The PCs go to the door at the end and open it
Hole Room: Beyond is a very small, very empty hexagonal room composed of rock walls and a
stone floor. The walls are bare yellow, the shade of which indicates that the walls were originally
white. The floor is dirty, and it is there that a singular object of interest is to be found.
In the very center of the room is a deep hole carved into the stone and cut into the ground. A hole
they have seen before. The walls were not there of course, but the hole is otherwise identical to
the one in the painting they saw in the second room right down to the very texture of the stone. It
isn't natural, for it is perfectly square-shaped. Complete darkness swallows the beam of the
flashlight. If the hole has a bottom, it can’t be seen.
Examining the rest of the room shows that the walls are rough and the rock is almost sharp in
some places. There are a few pebbles scattered about the base of the wall. The ceiling is about
eight feet high and also composed of rock. In the corner of the room is a small pile of rock and
cinder. If one of them is picked up and tossed down the center of the pit, it vanishes out of sight
in less than a second, but many seconds later, they are still poised over top of the hole, listening
for the sound of the rock hitting the ground. The room is perfectly silent, so there is no way they
could miss it.
They never hear a thing.
So, now what? There is no turning back, that much is obvious. Maybe it would be possible to go
back up that incredibly long passage. Maybe not. But there is no way, no chance that they would
be able to make it through there anyway, not with that terrible noise.
There is no way forward. Except the hole, of course.
And yet, this other option is to jump down a bottomless hole. Of course, no hole is really
bottomless. This one is bound to be no exception.
The messages left on the newspapered window in blood-red paint at Neely’s Bar keep coming to
mind.
There was a HOLE here. It's gone now.
Holes don't become gone unless they are filled in.
That message has to mean something. There was that one directed to them, and there is the one
about the doorway on Katz. They both mean something. So, does that mean the PCs are
supposed to jump down here?
They stand on the very edge of the hole, looking down into the endless dark and holding a
furious internal debate regarding whether or not they should jump.
They leap into the pit, softly enough so that they fall down the center and away from the sides.
And it's exhilarating, utterly, completely exciting.
So they fall. Down, down, down. Nothing but darkness below, darkness and uncertainty.
You start screaming, yelling hoarsely and wordlessly as a whole slew of worst-case scenarios
play out through your mind in fast-forward. All you can think about i:s
“Oh my God, oh my God, what the hell was I thinking? I'm gonna land on rocks, maybe even
sharp ones and they'll break my body into shattered little pieces oh God oh for the love of God
whatever happens just BRING IT TO AN END!”
The Well:
You don't know what happened next. You sure as hell didn't feel your body hitting the ground.
You don't remember anything after the fall. For that matter, you don't remember not falling. You
guess you were in such a strained state of mind that you blacked out or something.
When you come to, you are yelling still. Maybe you had never really stopped yelling. Your
eyesight is a little crossed, and you have to blink your eyes several times to bring them back.
Then, you have to actually make an effort to close your mouth and stop yelling, before you drive
yourself insane. It is difficult, but you manage that much.
You are flat on your back, staring straight up into the darkness through which you fell. Your
mind boggles just thinking about how far you have fallen. It feels like you had only been out for
a few minutes at most, but your neck feels sore and tingly, so it must have been longer. Your
neck and back also feel wet, as does your hair. You must have landed in some water, though
there isn't much of it. No matter, it is time to get up and examine where you are. You try to push
yourself up with your arms.
You can’t.
Terror shoots through you like electricity as your worst fear suddenly hits home, your fear of
paralysis and a long, lingering death in this damp hellhole. Frantically, you thrash your head
around, in a state of total panic.
It is just then that your scream for help becomes a wordless, euphoric cry of relief as your arms
and legs suddenly come to life and fly around along with your head. Quickly, you leap to your
feet and checked to make sure everything is still in working order. And of course, everything is.
However, it only takes five seconds of looking around at the new surroundings for euphoria to
fizzle out in a most painful way. For you see, you are in a pit.
Water on the ground, the vague smell of lime, and a brick wall that is completely made from
blocks of stone with tight mortar joints. After a little exploration the PCs realize there is actually
just one wall, a single continuous sweep of stone. No door. No window. No escape.
You start looking at the stone bricks again. You go over them inch by inch this time. You still
cannot see anything. A howl is heard, heard loud and clear. It is pregnant with anger, with
fearful frustration, with dry hopelessness. It is strange to think what you are hearing it as an
observer, for it is your own tortured, cracking voice that is echoing about the moldy confines of
your prison.
Where the PCs are in, a nasty, stinking wet hole hundreds of feet under the ground. What a way
to go. Which isn't to say there is nothing at all here. There is a puddle on the ground and the
walls are made out of brick so old and so long in this dampness that they have completely turned
green. Said wall circles the entire area the PCs are in, which is round and maybe ten feet wide. It
extends vertically out of sight. Given the dampness of the earth, it might have been some kind of
an indoor well at one time.
You wonder if desperation will eventually bring you to drink the rancid, muddy water that has
collected down here.
If one of the PCs puts pressure against the wall, one of the stones wiggles against the pressure. It
is loose. The brick would have come loose eventually, but when it happens it comes more
quickly and easily than it should. As such, a PC can pull harder than they should have and the
brick slides out with practically no resistance. The excess force makes him/her overbalance and
fall, and the slippery piece of masonry slips out of his/her hand.
Closely examining the wall finds that much of the brickwork in this little stretch is coming apart.
Some of the bricks have crumbled outright. A few of them come away when pulled on.
The brick is only one layer thick. And behind that one layer is metal.
Can't be.
If the metal is tapped, the noise is muffled a bit, but it is still sharp. That can only mean one
thing: there is nothing behind the metal.
Before you even think twice, you have the pipe in both hands, thrusting away at the crumbling
masonry. You mind run in neutral for who knows how long as your arms pump and the pipe
chips bricks and knocks them out of the way. You do this in a horizontal line at about waist level.
The metal, whatever it is, spans only about four feet or so, because after you have gotten that
far, there is more stone behind what you are dislodging. Banging the metal with the pipe, and
you are thoroughly satisfied to hear a loud, barking report. Hope swells within you.
There is a gap between the weak wall and the metal behind it, maybe an inch or two. Jamming
the pipe into this gap, in the middle of the area cleared, can work to dislodge it. The PCs will
have place a foot on the solid part of the rubble below and pull on the handle of the pipe with all
of their might. The PCs grunt with exertion. It is stronger than previously thought.
When the metal comes down, it comes down hard and without warning. There is no give, no
bending of any sort. One second the PCs are heaving their entire weight against the masonry, the
next second they are backpedaling uncontrollably, finally tripping and falling across the floor of
the pit.
The PCs are stunned for a second, but only about that long. Quickly, pulling themselves to their
feet and inspecting the wall. What they see is a way out.
The metallic object behind the wall is a door, someone had bricked over a door.
It is obvious that this door is not one that is very acquainted with the motions of opening and
closing. It is already thick and heavy, but untold years of rust and filth coating the hinges and
gaps makes opening it a struggle. It opens into the pit, but at a glacial pace. It requires 1D4 melee
rounds of tugging just to get it to the point where one can hook fingers around the edge and pull
directly. Even then, it is hardly easy, and it is no less difficult for the sludgy, silt mess that serves
as a floor for the place.
Now that the PCs have gotten the door cracked open enough to squeeze through, though only
barely, they can step blindly, tentatively and carefully.
However, if for some reason, perhaps the effervescent relief of escaping the pit, step blindly
through that door, the PCs will quickly find that there is no floor where one has fully expected
one to be. No, instead, their foot keeps going, completely overbalanced, and that makes the PC
fall. For a fraction of a moment the PC is suspended completely in mid-air, and for that fraction
of a moment he is likely to be completely convinced that they have tripped right into another one
of those HOLEs. The PC has just enough time to open their mouth and scream.
When they hit not thin air, but liquid. Warm, tepid liquid, several inches deep. They fall face-
first, grazing their hands on the rocky bottom and submerging some of their heads. The liquid
strangles screams while helping produce fresh ones, for the liquid tastes of coppery and is red in
color.
The ground beyond is wet and muddy. The walls are composed of smaller brown bricks and the
construction pattern is different from the well. The air is not as stale as it was in the well, but it is
not particularly fresh either. The new tunnel almost reminds one of a sewer, but the smell of the
place gives no indication that human waste ever flowed through here. Old iron bars, thick and
dark from years of rust, prevent further advancement. As weak as they look, they are set very
solidly, and don’t even so much as wiggle when grabbed. There is no door or latch, either. The
corridor goes on behind the bars, farther than the flashlight can reach.
Within is a sizeable brick chamber, the far wall being fifty feet from the door, the vaulted ceiling
twenty feet above. As they pass the stainless-steel sides of a huge feed grinder. The switch set to
“off”. If the PCs should lift the main switch to “on”, the feed grinder starts up with a smooth
metallic scissoring sound, like a carving knife being sharpened against steel. But in the next
instant, a hideously distorted shriek is heard---a gibbering monkey-like yammering of pain and
terror that shocks the PCs into stunned paralysis---unable to understand what the shriek can be,
or what they can do to stop it. The scream goes on and on, growing higher and higher-pitched,
racketing from one side of the building to the other.
At the end of the little used service tunnel, on the shore of this reservoir of blood, a small rowing
boat is tied, allowing access to the other drains and service tunnels that run from the lake, and to
a small island of brick in its center. The boat is waiting for them, a solid wooden vessel, splintery
planks for seats. Carrion birds and scavengers (shrill rats and giant cockroaches) have settled in
great numbers around the plant, and gives the whole place a tangible reek of death.
The Bug Room: The room is quite disappointing at first. It takes all of perhaps five seconds to
dismiss it as pointless. There is nothing here at all, save for a keypad on the wall next to the door.
It looks wholly unremarkable. The PCs are about to turn around and leave, perhaps to reconsider
performing a slam-dance on the locked gate overtop of the HOLE, when a glint of metal catches
the eye like a fish hook in dark water. Bending over to examine it reveals that it is a key lying on
the ground. Said key itself is rather unremarkable, but the little attachment is fairly unique. It
looks like a drill bit, but it is smooth, round lacking the proper grooves. It is the phrase inscribed
upon the spiral that catches the attention, though. 'Tis Doubt Which Leadeth Thee To
Purgatory.” The words follow the curve of the spiral all the way, and it appears on each curve.
When turned, it repeats itself in a recurring litany of singsong insanity. The PCs will have no
idea what the phrase is from, if anything, but it sounds perfectly menacing, and wholly fitting to
their current situation.
At that moment, you feel something on your foot. It is moving, and fast. For a moment you can't
react, it is as if the senses are working but the brain is voting on a reaction. You can’t move, you
just stood there, every muscle in your whole body tightened like a violin string; until another
thing falls on your shoulder: something the size of a hand. Then you feel the movement leave
your foot and reach the back of your leg, moving with lightning speed. You feel it circle your leg
and climb up your side.
Something is crawling up your body. It has long, small, segmented legs covered with coarse hair,
slowly uncurling, finding a foothold on your skin.
The realization sets it instantly, and when it does, panic follows it right through the door. You
thrash about in a frenzy. Rational thought vacates the premises as pure survival instinct takes
over. You swat at it, whatever it is, but it isn't helping. You can feel it moving around, deftly
avoiding the blows.
It is just then that you feel it scurry up your bare arm towards your hand, it being conveyed by
several tiny, needle-like appendages. From the light refracting from the walls, you can see its
silhouette, and when you do, terror washes over you like a wave at high tide.
Roach!
You moan, a toneless, haunting product of utter revulsion, and your arm lashes out, hoping to
dislodge it. It works. You can feel the insect detach from your skin, and you think you can hear it
strike the wall. It is certainly large enough to make noise doing so.
Unfortunately, the roach wasn't the only thing you dislodge. The flashlight, the wonderful
flashlight, your only source of vision in this hell, flies out of your hand as well. You can see it fly
away from your panicked, outstretched grip for the fraction of a second it remains airborne.
Then, with a sharp plastic crack, it smashes against the concrete wall.
And your world is plunged into darkness.
If you thought you knew panic a moment ago, well, let me just say that it isn't even an adequate
starter course. The moment the light goes out, hell, before the thing even has the chance to hit
the floor, you leap at it like cat chasing nip. Your shoulder collides with the wall bluntly, but you
hardly noticed. You are way too focused on finding the flashlight and making it work again to
care. Your hands scrabble around madly, reaching and sweeping in every direction. It doesn't
take long for you to feel the touch of hot metal and plastic under your fingers.
You almost gasp in relief when you grab it and flick the switch. That relief, however, evaporates
in a complete instant.
The light does not come on.
If it is broken, this is without a doubt the end of you. All these times you keep finding a way out
of a predicament just keep leading you to new messes, and luck can only overcome so many of
them.
You don't lose it, because one of your trembling fingers manages to break through the
encroaching madness in your brain to report that the battery latch is missing, and the battery
with it. Relief makes an instant return, not unlike the flick of a light switch. You would laugh if
you aren't so close to going mad.
Your free hand continues its frenzied search for the missing battery. You have to back up on your
hands and knees and turn around several times, and as you do, you can feel that relief, and your
ever-tenuous grip on sanity, sliding and sliding bit by bit. Your breath is getting short and blood
is being pounded through your veins, as though your heart is getting enraged from being sped
up so often, and is taking its frustrations out on the blood by pumping it as hard as it can.
But finally, your fingers close upon something round, metallic, and heavy for its size. That
beautiful, wonderful D-cell battery which paves the way for you to see, it is back in your hands.
You practically slam it in the battery compartment of the flashlight, even before you bother
standing up. The back of the case is gone, but you don’t need it, and you aren't about to waste
any more time looking for it. All you want to do is get out of here and---
You jerk your hand back suddenly, as if it had landed on a red-hot burner. You felt that
scurrying rush of that roach. The motion was so sudden that you almost lost your balance and
fell over, only catching yourself at the last minute. Quickly you stand, and---
There it is again, this time on your foot. Then on both feet. In several places on both feet. Up
your legs! That was where one had attacked you, way back in the apartments, seemingly a
million years ago. It left quite the nasty wound where it had tried to eat you from the inside out.
And that was just one of them.
Then there were more sounds, soft chirping sounds, and the sound of tiny, tiny legs scuttering on
the ground; it sounds like taking a bag full of little rocks, marbles and dry leaves and squishing
it constantly between the palms of your hands. It is a wordless hissing, a soft sound, but growing
louder by the second.
Relief finally leaves you completely. Now you are gripped by terror, even as your finger flips the
switch on the flashlight, because you thought you knew what you were going to see.
You thought wrong. Or perhaps, you didn't think large enough. What you thought you would see
was four or five of those fucking nasty puppy-sized cockroaches crawling around you.
The light comes on.
And you immediately find yourself wishing there were only four or five. Or ten. Or twenty.
Because there are fucking hundreds, thousands of them. Everywhere—on the floor, on the walls,
on the low ceiling. Every last inch of this little concrete tomb is a sickening, swarming, writhing,
churning mass of glistening insect carapaces---a hideous insectarium: a living collection of the
world's ugliest anthropoids, hexapods and arachnids, crawling toward you, attracted by the
light. Many of them are the obscenely large ones you had yet to see, over two inches longs, an
inch wide, with busy legs especially long feelers that quiver anxiously. Many more still are in
increasingly diminutive sizes, all the way down to what is more or less normal, the cockroaches
you were used to seeing, the ones the size of nickels and quarters. Not for a moment do you view
the small ones as any less a threat than the large ones. Not that you are in much of a state of
mind to really differentiate. There are far too many for the difference to matter at all. The roof,
walls and floor are covered in a squirming layer of bugs: cockroaches, black spiders, moths,
scorpions, wasps, black and green flies, big-headed red ants, mantises, centipedes—of the thick
black kind with orange legs, and the other type as well; it doesn’t matter—those long insects that
look like dry branches, with thin, stretched, creepy legs; and hundreds of other types of bugs that
you never even knew existed. Their shiny green-brown carapaces appear to be sticky and wet,
like blobs of dark mucus.
You can't scream. If you make a noise, it’s not a scream. To call it a scream would be insulting
to real screams. What crawls up your throat and dies is nothing but a pitiful, terrified whine.
The room is far too small to break into a run, so they leap at the door, running into what feels
like a wall—which goes scrunch! when they hit it. and it rains small things on them, things
which immediately starts crawling all over their bodies; there are hundreds of these things on top
of them. They grip the door’s handle without any regard to the insects crawling upon it. Crushing
some of them in the process, turning the knob, ready to burst out the door and…
Locked.
The writhing, massive horde of insects seems to intensify in response. More pour into the room.
They coming out of a crack in the floor. Coming out by tens. By scores. By hundreds. There are
several thousand of the disgusting things in the room already, and the chamber is no more than
twenty feet on a side. They mount up on one another, five- and six- and seven feet deep,
covering the walls and the ceiling, moving, endlessly moving, swarming restlessly. The cold
whisper is now a soft roar. The creatures tear each other to pieces. Hisses, clicks, and squeals fill
the ears; black, brown and red ichor stain the ground and splatter the face. The noise they make
is deafening, and their touch revolting and unwelcome for every single part of the PCs’ bodies
they make contact with. Their chittering, chitinous sounds, the soft thumps of the little bastards
hitting the PCs as they fall from the ceiling, that totally unnerving sensation of them crawling on
them, it is enough to finally do them in.
It is plenty.
That's when a small ray of light catches the eye, as it doesn’t come from the flashlight, and when
they moved it away from the source, one notices that it doesn’t reflect that light, either. It is
glowing on its own.
The keypad!
Smacking several cockroaches off of the pad, and with the faint glow from the keypad comes a
faint glow of hope. Only three of the nine numbers on the pad glow. The other six are as dark as
everything else.
An alarm buzzes sharply several times for every wrong sequence of numbers entered. The
buzzing repeats itself over and over again, and you punch the buttons faster and more furiously.
With each loud denial, that faint thread of hope frays more and more. The pressure of the insects
building up in layers finally causes them to spill at you like a breaking wave, in a roiling mass.
They are trying to climb up your arms and chest and back. Trying to get to your face. Trying to
squeeze between your lips and teeth. Trying to scurry up your nostrils. You clamp a hand over
your nose and mouth to prevent the things from slithering inside of you.
Just as you are absolutely certain that it was going to snap, that the keypad was just a cruel,
false hope to fuck with you just a little more before you lose your sanity and your life, you hear a
different sound, this one a note of definite approval, which for all its happiness and cheerfulness,
is no less loud or sharp than the denial tones. Frantically, you grab the doorknob, again
crushing several of the insects in the process, and pull the door open hard enough to slam
against the wall.
You rush out the door in a blind panic, slamming into the opposite wall. You all throw your
bodies around in a frenetic, insane dance, striking the walls and rolling on the floor and beating
yourself so wildly that one would have think you are on fire. You wail as you do so, for you are
so fantastically desperate to get rid of any and all insects that escaped that cell with you. No
matter how you try though, you still feel the sensation of hundreds, of thousands of little
monstrous bugs crawling over every inch of you. The sensation alone is driving you to the brink.
Your eyes pop open as you lay on you back finally unleash a good, thick scream until you
gradually stop.
…and you see nothing. No insects. Not a single one. You lay on the floor with a traumatized
look, unable to explain the fact that the area isn’t covered with insects. Hurriedly, you sift
through the folds of your clothing, then you scan the floors and walls. Not even one tiny
cockroach is to be seen.
Finally you manage to get yourself under control, but it is a fight as difficult as any combat you
had encountered in town. It feels like you are pushing against a solid brick wall at first, but
slowly, bit by painstaking bit, it yields.
Slowly, you sit up and look around, there are no bugs at all, no critters, no things. Finally, you
are able to stand. You no longer weep, but your face is flushed and your mind feels numb and
empty.
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.
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. There isn't much worth seeing.
The Main Gate: Now, the PCs are underground, very far underground, possibly underneath a
damn lake. It is difficult to imagine how such a structure was created, but the possibility of a
large, open space isn’t outside the realm of possibility. What the PCs would never have expected,
all the way down here, is to find such an open space, and find grass beneath their feet. Yet, that’s
what they see, certainly not what one would expect to find in a deep hole in the ground like this.
And on top of that, they feel wind.
Walking down the road a little further eventually brings visitors across a dirt road from behind a
guardrail. Traveling down the road leads into a few trees, and then comes a long concrete wall
that stretches far around with a wide rusty-metal gate at the center. The sign by it, confirms it to
be the Toluca Prison. And the chain wrapped around the handles with a lock securing it confirms
that no one was allowed in. With the doors now unlocked, the PCs can pull one of the heavy
doors open and walk inside. The road winds down further down the cliff and into a thick void of
fog. And after taking a few steps, the heavy door immediately slams shut behind them. The PCs
can then hear the loud rattle of chains and metal followed by a click.
The gate door is very badly rusted, and the water that drips steadily off of it provides the
reasoning behind that. The handle latch is jammed, seemingly fused solid thanks to untold
decades of build-up. It doesn’t help that the handle is on the other side of the gate, either, but one
is able to twist their arm enough to get a solid grip. Pushing down hard does nothing except
make the latch handle barely joggle. Another push produces similar disappointing results. The
third time, it gives, yes indeed. It gives too much. The PC’s hand comes down on the handle, and
one feels a moment of resistance. Just a moment.
Then, the handle cracks and snaps off, too quickly for the PC to even register right away, much
less prevent. Thanks to that, the PC is full of surplus movement. The PC’s arm continues
plunging earthward, and the PC’s wrist is caught on the part of the broken handle still attached to
the gate. It rips a long, white-hot slash all the way up to the crook of the PC’s elbow, stopping
only because the PC’s shoulder struck the bars, being too large to pass through.
2D6 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 sitting there. Then they can roll 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 spans 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
ground-
But 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. So, there is nothing to do but press on.
There has to be some reason they are going through this hell, some reason for their suffering.
The only way to find out is to press on.
As they walk down along the edges of the cliff, it doesn’t take long before they reach the dark
facility. Falling down those HOLEs has certainly ruined any sense of direction, and now one
can’t help but wonder if perhaps they really are underneath Lake Toluca.
Reception: Opening the creaky double-doors leads the visitors into the first room of the prison.
Immediately to the left is the prison’s reception desk; dirty, smashed, and ancient. As the
flashlight is shined around the area the PCs are in, it resembles what would basically be a
condemned building; broken marble, various trash, and even some graffiti here and there. Aside
from the environment, there are several paintings on the walls to the left.
The first is in black and white and depicts the gallows of the prison. A throng of onlookers watch
as a man with a black hood draped over him stands on top of the scaffold with a noose around his
neck and his arms bound. The painting is simply titled “Prison Gallows”. The one next to it was
done using a technique of mixing brown and white paints to produce shading. Ordinarily, the
artist would then add color by glazing over the dried paint, but, for reasons lost to time, they did
not complete that phase. It depicts one man being impaled through the neck with a spear and
another man with a wire coiled around his neck. Behind them stand men in uniforms standing at
attention. The painting is titled “Skewering And Strangling”. Below is a short note about two
types of illegal executions that were sometimes performed during the prison’s less reputable
days.

The central painting seems almost abstract. It shows nothing more than a bizarre design that
looks as though it had been burned onto a blank canvas. There are circles within circles, strange
symbols, marks, and letters, and in the center, a large triangle.
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. Then they see the emaciated white chunk that sticks out of the side.
It is a bone.
The PC has a piece of meat in hand, from animal or from human now it can't be guessed;
practically mummified with age, and the realization makes one’s stomach churn.
The PCs can scan the room, looking for any threats that the radio hadn't caught. They don’t see
any monsters. They do see several old pots and filthy serving trays, some littering the floor, most
littering the tables. The bowls and steel pots are encrusted with the remnants of some ancient
dinner. Spoons, a hand-cart, even scraps of clothing lie strewn about. It looks like a riot had
broken out and nobody bothered cleaning up afterwards. The walls are thick with stains of all
shapes and sizes, surely some of those could have come from these trays. After all, meat can
stain as easily as anything. The knives, spoons and forks are black and lusterless, and the plates
are cracked.
A painting hangs on the wall behind them. Strange place to find a painting, but this one is rather
interesting. It shows the very room the PCs are in— a pristine cafeteria; apart of course, from the
thick, steel bars on the windows—with the viewpoint facing where they are standing. On the far
wall, one can see this painting, creating a strange infinity effect. One would find it fascinating in
nicer circumstances.
On the wall to the left is an old blackboard that gives the menu:
Main: Spaghetti Bolognaise
Sides: Mashed Potatoes and peas
Notice: Since your good behavior after the Coltrane incident, the Warden has decided to
allow the use of metal cutlery in the cafeteria again. Any prisoners abusing this will have
their privileges suspended and be confined to solitary.
The cafeteria is definitely deteriorating, but at least it is dry. The place isn’t half-underwater as
was the natural rock cavern, but it certainly is wet itself. Water drips from cracks in the ceiling,
filling the quiet chamber with a soft litany of hollow dripping. Puddles of the stuff collect here
and there on the floor. The crooks where the floor meet the wall have sunken a bit with advanced
age, and the runoff pools along them. It is humid, but it is colder down here than up above.
Colder, in fact, than it had felt since they entered the hospital. It makes the place feel even more
depressing than it should have, and that is plenty itself.
The PCs can proceed down the center of the room, shining the flashlight to the right and left, but
it stops as if frozen solid when it falls upon something that is just a little more provocative than
dirty tables and messy counters.
The body is that of a dark haired man, probably in his thirties, sits at one of those tables, over in
the far corner. He is dressed in blue jeans and an olive colored polo shirt. Upon closer inspection,
one realizes that he isn't really sitting, not so much as he is slumped over. He is resting, although
it is rather obvious that it is of the eternal variety. The poor bastard's head is pulped, a complete
wreck. The skull is smashed, and a macabre mess of blood, bone shards and shredded chunks of
pale pink brain spread in front of him on the table, like a fan. The man’s nose, eyes, and forehead
are a bloody mess, though not as bad as the man in 208 or the man in the tunnel. There are three
more bullet holes in the man’s back and there is blood pooled on the bench where the man sits.
The smell is thick and meaty and of rich copper.
You'd like to say it is the first time you'd seen a person mutilated in this manner, but it isn't. That
man on the Nathan Avenue bridge, and overall, he was in worse shape than the man in front of
you. He wasn't fresh, though. Whoever this grisly corpse slumped over the meal table is, he had
been dead for at least several hours. The man at the table here, he is fresh. The blood hadn't
even started to congeal yet. What happened to him? And how had he gotten here? It looks like
someone had taken a large gun of some kind and...
Now they cross the cafeteria, again trying to ignore the body. The rows of ruined tables continue.
Lying against the wall, they see a small orange square. It is a thin, metallic tablet, not much
larger than a postage stamp. There is an engraving on one side: a humanoid creature with a pig’s
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 doesn’t 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.
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. The
drawers of the desk are unlocked but empty.
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 isn’t 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 can’t 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 prison’s 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 them…or 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
hangman’s 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 can’t 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 doesn’t 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
radio’s 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 Hill’s less-
Euclidean 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 can’t see a damn thing that makes it act this
way. The thing has been so reliable that one doesn’t even want to consider the possibility that it
is acting faulty. The PCs are very dependant upon it now. If they can’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t human, of that it is certain. But no other monster that they’ve 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 anything. 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 the bed, 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 was painted
by a child. And, in a way, it was. The artist titled it “Girl in Flight”.
“Rrrriturrralll”
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 house’s 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 can’t be seen, but one doesn’t 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 PC’s 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 doesn’t 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 don’t get close enough to get skinned, they can’t 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 doesn’t 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 one’s blood freeze in one’s veins, still makes the flesh prickle and the
stomach light the world on fire with adrenaline. And what’s more, one can be glad to still react
this way. What would it say about one’s 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.
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 doesn’t 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 straight-
jacket 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 can’t catch enough friction to
move. Suddenly, the air above the monster is filled with a dark brown mist, and at first it didn’t
register what is going on. The visitors hadn’t 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.
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 isn’t 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 didn’t 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, that’s 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 isn’t, but regardless of what it is, it seems quite out of place. At first, one can’t 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 hair’s 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 hangman’s 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 isn’t 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 can’t 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 won’t 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
wasn’t 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 isn’t there. Realizing that it isn’t there is something that doesn’t 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 can’t help but wonder if this is a message for them, somehow. It doesn’t
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
haven’t 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 aren’t coming from them. It isn’t 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 doesn’t recognize at first. Then one realizes it isn’t 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 won’t 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 hadn’t expected it. They
are so high-strung that one of the PCs didn’t realize that she/he had pulled the trigger. It seems to
help serve as a much-needed reality check, because it sure as hell didn’t 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 can’t go in, and certainly won’t 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 weren’t able to break it down
after all. And, the stony silence indicates that they aren’t much interested in trying anymore.
Or maybe they never were. Maybe they were never there at all. Maybe you’re finally letting your
imagination run away. Maybe you’re 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 don’t know and you don’t care. You know what you saw, and you are
glad you aren’t 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 isn’t 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 décor. 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 visitor’s
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 man’s chest. His identity,
however, is still a mystery since the picture is torn diagonally upward from right to left, cutting
the man’s head from view. Turning the picture over reveals that something is written at the
bottom Hinkley, J. - We still couldn’t 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 animal’s 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 visitor’s 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 men’s. 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 doesn’t have anything to say, but that didn’t mean there isn’t 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 doesn’t 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 men’s 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 visitor’s 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 gate’s
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. There’s got to be a key somewhere here. Looking at the map shows that the warden’s
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 don’t 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 monster’s 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.

Warden’s Office: The warden’s 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 town’s 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 can’t-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 clown’s 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 one’s 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
aren’t 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 hadn’t 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.
It’s 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.

Warden’s Office: They might want to step back into the warden’s office where they have more
space. This recent success is short-lived however. A thorough search of the warden’s 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 face…or
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
man’s 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 gaol’s 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
isn’t 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 doesn’t 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 isn’t until the last cellblock that something is noticed.
The cot is there and the bench is there, but there is no sign of the cell’s 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 isn’t 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 PC’s 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 PC’s 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 don’t 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 don’t even have time to think about what had happened. It doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 sheets—some 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 Neely’s 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 doesn’t 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 isn’t immediately accessible. The
barred gate in this small corridor doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 won’t 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 doctor’s office and the other leads to an
examination room.
Doctor’s 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 isn’t 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, bone-
handled 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 anyone’s 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 couldn’t 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
haven’t 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 mind’s eye, they don’t 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 can’t take any more. They are choking and if they stay any longer, it will turn into dry-
heaves.
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 isn’t 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 might’ve been that way all this time, they don’t know, but something in the back of their mind
say it hasn’t.
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
doesn’t 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.
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 isn’t 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 wall’s 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 couldn’t 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 weren’t 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 they’d 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? Since the PCs have gotten off that elevator and through
that door back there, they have seen one straight-jacket monster, one doorway cordoned off by
steel cable, and a whole lot of nothing. The appearance of this place is odd. Of course, one
wouldn’t 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 façade,
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 isn’t 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 isn’t peeling is spotted and stained and
discolored. The paneling and the floor laminate and the ceiling all show the same kind of long-
term 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 didn’t 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.
That’s 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 aren’t even any lights running across the ceiling!
Sure, there is no chance in hell that they’d 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 isn’t
cold, and it occurs to them that it does seem warmer now, since they got off that caged elevator.
It isn’t hot, and it isn’t 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 didn’t 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t sag under
their weight, but sheet metal it is all the same, and by the sound of it, there is something—
concrete—underneath.
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 they’ve 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t.
If it were dark, or even if they had just the flashlight, they could have made themselves not see
what they are seeing here.
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 gore-
encrusted 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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 red-
streaked, 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 gums—the 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 one’s forehead. This one looks to be in far worse shape than the flesh-bags they faced
then, but one shouldn’t 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 table’s 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 files—one 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 they’ve 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 décor…and, 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 you’re not going to use them
before you leave...unless, of course, you’re planning to come back soo—Oh 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
isn’t far, couldn’t 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 don’t 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 aren’t 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 angel’s holy whites are stained and filthy with dirt and
mud and guts and blood. One can’t 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 doesn’t 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 wasn’t.
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 mother’s kisses
compared to what that spear will do.
Pyramid Head can’t speak, as far as the PCs know, but when it attacks, it does make some kind
of vocal noise. A grunt, maybe. And he doesn’t 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
isn’t enough room. They won’t care, it doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 Head’s
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 Head’s 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 isn’t 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 one’s 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 Head’s lair, but not as strong or acerbic.
The distance between the two ladders, at least from above, doesn’t seem that great, but the path
isn’t 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 they-
Their 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 isn’t. A few more slushy steps brings another rusty red ladder into view, and the sight
makes one’s 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 doesn’t 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 hadn’t
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 can’t 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 creatively-
blocked 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 that’s 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
isn’t 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-jacket’s 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-jacket’s 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 isn’t presently inhabited, there is a messy red splash staining the laminate floor, and the
PCs didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 sco’s 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 pulp-
papered 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 they’ve 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 PCs’d
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 doesn’t 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 thing’s 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.
Tick…Tock
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 creature’s 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.
Tick…Tock
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 doesn’t 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.
Tick…Tock
The creature burbles weakly and then lies still, blood flowing out in a ring around the remains of
its head.
Tick…Tock
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 hadn’t 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 isn’t saying anything anymore, and while he
doesn’t 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 unless-
Unless 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, that’s all. Nothing to
worry about and nothing to see, because, you see, walls can’t bleed. The PCs have never seen
walls bleed, because they don’t. Walls don’t bleed. They can’t. They won’t.
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.

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 didn’t 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 carefully-
controlled 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 hadn’t 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 don’t 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
doesn’t 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 person’s 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 doesn’t need to follow them as the PCs thought he would. Why, he does it the easy way; he
just takes advantage of this Labyrinth’s 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 didn’t 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 seemingly-
endless. 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 hadn’t seen enough
of them already, crosses the narrow pathway. There is a gate, and the gate itself isn’t 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 in-
between 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 don’t 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 isn’t even subtle. The odors of musty wood and dusty neglect probably aren’t
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 didn’t 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. Grass—well-tended, green grass—patches 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 ceiling—some 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 gravestones—if 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 one’s 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 to-
No. 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 aren’t 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 didn’t 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 isn’t 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 don’t 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 aren’t.
The next moment, they are red.
Horrible, menacing red.
The transition isn’t 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 isn’t paint, either. The PCs
know that without looking or even wondering. Looking close only confirms their suspicions. The
red isn’t 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 doesn’t seem like
they finally reached the point of no return, the point where they can’t 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 haven’t
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 moves—a slow, slow shifting—there 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 gasp…something. But slowly the scalped and blood-
caked 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 black-
bodied 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. “Wasn’t 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...don’t 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 doesn’t 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 building’s
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 doesn’t 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 couldn’t
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 Toluca’s 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 don’t need to. The PCs know it wasn’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t 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 lake’s 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 isn’t like that. It isn’t fluid at all. When they close their eyes and re-
open 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 aren’t completely naïve, 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 butcher’s 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 skeleton’s 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 skeleton’s
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: 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 hotel’s yacht.
The light draws closer, but because of the mist they are almost at the hotel’s 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 PCs’s
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 iron-
framed 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 weren’t
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 water’s 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 hotel’s 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 Lakeview’s 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 won’t be many places in here that aren’t 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 isn’t 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 café 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 restaurant’s double mahogany doors, stepping through soundlessly.

“Lakeshore”: The Lake Shore was the hotel’s 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 aren’t 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 one’s 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 broad-
leafed 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.

Café 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 roses—one white and one red—on each table. Every chair is a captain’s 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 café 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
supervisor’s 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 hotel’s
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.

Manager’s office. Not very far away at all. The PCs can slip the stationery into their pocket.
The PCs don’t know the precise location of the manager’s 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 isn’t 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 entrée 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 right-
hand 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.

Manager’s 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.
thump—thump
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
doesn’t 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
aren’t 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 chose this moment to come to life, but a fat lot of help it
is now. The PCs can see it quite clearly without the radio’s 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 can’t be. Each one they’ve seen so far was almost of
an identical size and shape. So…
That’s when it comes to them. The PCs have made such a mistake before. It isn’t a straight-
jacket monster at all. It is that hideous, deformed thing they had seen in 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.

Manager’s Residence:

Men’s Locker Room:

Women’s Locker Room:

Security’s Office: The security’s 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.

Men’s 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.

Women’s 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:

Employee’s 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 hadn’t seen one in quite some time.

A mannequinite. It isn’t moving. The PCs have just enough presence of mind to catch that much.
It isn’t 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 monster’s 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 fisherman’s 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 ship’s 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 manager’s 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 hotel’s
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, acid-
like 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 right-
hand corner, farthest from the door, is a large metal sink. Water drips from a leaky faucet—one
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 can’t 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. Some used condoms litter
the floor. 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. 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 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.

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 they’ve 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 house’s 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.

Manager’s 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
supervisor’s 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 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 store-
purchased blank, and on the side, Silent Hill is written in black marker on the white sticker on the
face of the tape. It isn’t 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 box’s 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.

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.

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 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 PC’s 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.
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.

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.
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, it’s a
word, not a number.

Room 205:

Room 206:

Room 207:

Room 208:

Room 209:

Room 210:

Men’s 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.

Women’s Restroom: The woman’s 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 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, I’m 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 hostile—but 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.

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
doors—French doors—stand 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 doesn’t 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 camera’s 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.
“C’mon James…”
“It’s our last day, it’s 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 don’t know why, but I just love it here. It’s 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. It’s too bad we have to leave.”
“I know.”
She looks back at the camera.
“Promise me you’ll take me here again.”
“I promise.”
She smiles at the camera.
“Good. And remember, if you get any second thoughts, I’ve 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 woman’s breath.

They can see a hospital bed and on it rests the woman’s 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 woman’s 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 woman’s 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t
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.
There is, before you, a large room, covered in shiny metallic panelling, with a large control
panel on one side, the surface filled with colourful, glowing, blinking, shining buttons. 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 hadn’t 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 aren’t 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 don’t 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 shouldn’t 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 doesn’t 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 isn’t 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 burned-
out 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 shaft—assuming 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 aren’t 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 doesn’t 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 can’t 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 elevator’s
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.
That’s 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 don’t. 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 isn’t 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 can’t 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 elevator’s 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 don’t 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 water’s 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 water’s 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 isn’t the case here. It isn’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t 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 can’t 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, isn’t 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 d’art, 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 isn’t
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 see—wall to wall, floor to ceiling—engulfed 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 don’t 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 didn’t 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 they’re 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 door’s 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.

Manager’s 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t help matters. It makes no difference
that the PCs have willingly jumped down several such HOLEs recently, because it’s not
something a person can ever really get used to. And besides, there is a distinct notion that
whatever is below isn’t 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 can’t.

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 doesn’t seem to be any solution. They are at a complete
disadvantage. It is only a few feet away from them now. It won’t be long now.

They hear the monster keep right on walking for a moment, and then pause.

And that’s when they figure it out. They’ve 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. You’re 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 can’t 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 don’t 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 isn’t
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 one’s 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 needn’t 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 floor—it 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 isn’t 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
executioner’s 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 can’t 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 won’t 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 other’s 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. You’ve 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 don’t 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 didn’t
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 don’t
need to be as fast as the PCs are. There isn’t 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 aren’t 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 won’t 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 doesn’t 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 PC’s stance was decent, but even so, the PC is tossed back a
full step with the sheer force of it. The rifle’s 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 doesn’t 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 you’ve 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 Head’s 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 couldn’t 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 can’t 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 doesn’t
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 didn’t 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.

Café 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 isn’t 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 can’t 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 haven’t 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 they’ve 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 can’t exactly name the
sensation, and the PCs aren’t 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 increases—not in volume but in
complexity—as 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 can’t 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, knee-
length 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
they’ve 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 PC’s 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 can’t 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 can’t
stand to be near this monster, the worst monster of all, the monster that pretended to be human.

42Persona, 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: 43+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 don’t even see it at first, don’t even know it happened, don’t
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 don’t 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 won’t 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 can’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t 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 PC’s 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 aren’t all dead yet. Some of them still flutter around
aimlessly, but they won’t 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 isn’t 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 demon’s 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 aren’t 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! Don’t hurt
me! Don’t kill me! I’m sorry!” Now it is using a human voice again. “Don’t do it. You can’t do
it. I’m hurt. I’m suffering. Don’t hurt me any more, don’t do it. You can’t do it. I’m hurt. I’m
suffering. Don’t hurt me any more, don’t do it. You can’t do it. I’m hurt. I’m”
They stand beside the she-demon, looking into that horrible parody of a woman’s 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-demon’s 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 it…as 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.
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.

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 abandoned—a 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 them—
creeping boldly along the street. Huge, knowing brutes larger than cats. They don’t 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 neighborhood—for 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. 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 where there are
shops on both sides.

A sign near the entrance has complementary maps and pens. A map of the Central Square
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.

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…

In the restroom, there is a blood-red circular stained branded on the mirror over one of the wash-
bowls. 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. 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, 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.
Theirs 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 Central Square 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 noise…like someone
mumbling. Someone is in there.

One anti-theft barrier isn’t 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 isn’t 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 that’s 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. 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.

That’s 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 is everywhere, even at the ceiling and it drips
from almost every cloth or furniture in the room.

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 can’t move. You can’t 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, 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.

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 creature’s 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
doesn’t 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 didn’t 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 doesn’t 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.

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
someone’s 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.

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 couldn’t 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.

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 good 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 patter of little feet…

Beyond the dim fluorescent lights, they can sense something in the hall moving towards them
shifting their balance, the PCs steadied themselves against the locked door at their back, their
weapons ready, eyes wide, searching for the threat.

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 someone’s body.

A flash of white flesh...

They saw something move between the halls, but it was so sudden they couldn’t 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
they’ve 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
mothballs. 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
wouldn’t just be laying around this place for them to find for no reason. There is a purpose to it.
Only the door on the far end of the hall, which is marked with the label "no smoking" 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 mall’s lounge. The core of the building is this circular lobby of slightly more than a hundred-
foot 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, red-
brownish 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 Café, 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.

“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. 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 grave—and 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 two…does 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 thusly…is a
clear reference to the witches in Macbeth. For them to disappear…one 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.
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 can’t 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 they’d 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 blood-
stained, 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 weren’t so afraid. Afraid of what? It is just a dead man.
It isn’t like he can suddenly reach out and grab them as they take the key from his shirt…or 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. It’s going to move, it’s gonna grab you as soon as you
reach for the key.
The corpse doesn’t move; it is still staring upward into the ceiling with its empty eye-sockets. It
hasn’t 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 should’ve 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 screen’s 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 PC’s 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
aren’t 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 they’ve 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t 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 don’t want to see it.
A moan.
A female moan.
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 can’t they see it? It’s the flashlight, it doesn’t 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.

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 doesn’t 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?

They 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 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.

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
doesn’t 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 eyes…almost as if it were hiding something. And now that they
focus on it, they sense an unusual aura around it. Something isn’t 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 couldn’t possibly still be in there, could they? One
supposes it isn’t 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 can’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t 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 door’s 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 can’t 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 erratic…smears, stains…all 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 they’d 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
isn’t 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 death…the 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…

Café: Or rather, the ravaged remains of a Café.

They turn their weary eyes to their surroundings, dark, dank, and devoid of life. The little café
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 children’s 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 man’s 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. 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, seems to have materialized from a nightmare of Kafka's. The room
reeks of old, dead terror—and 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.
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.
They 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 can’t 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 explode,
gashing them as shards of glass fly past at high velocity. 2D6 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.
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 neck…there 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 didn’t 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 décor at any of the tables.
Their stomachs growl loudly, as if they hadn’t 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 isn’t 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 someone’s 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 one’s 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 can’t help but shudder at the obvious implications of the note.
Something is buried inside this dog’s 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 creature’s 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. No…a 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…
Moon…crimson 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 weren’t 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 won’t 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 air…and
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 can’t 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 dry fountain.
A black hole.
Closed storefronts and fluorescent lights.
Boarded windows and tainted shadow.
They rub theirs temples, bewildered, the twisted images falling through their fingers as they fade,
as if waking from a bad dream.
The mall 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.
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 they’d been
wrought. Clear. Pristine. As if nothing had ever happened. Striding forth, passing beneath the
balcony and under the arch, they 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.
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 isn’t 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
building’s higher elevations, and at their backs, the towering perimeter barriers draped in tarp
and stained with paint and filth.
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 a familiar 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 half-
empty bottles that lie scattered on the concrete floor or sit on some lopsided cardboard box.
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: They drift past a barren corner, the glimmer of a bathroom faucet and
ivory shine catching their eyes.
They come at last to an open room. Like everywhere else in the place, the flooring is still just
raw slabs and the ceiling isn’t 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.
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 isn’t just a pile of junk. 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. 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.

44The 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 doesn’t 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 spider’s 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. 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 repetition—or
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.
Last Drop Café:
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 colour 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 décor 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 hallway’s 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: The room is oak-paneled, with neatly arranged bookshelves,
black-leather chairs, framed paintings. In one corner is a thermal carafe on a stand
West Hallway:
Mannequin Storage Room: There are mannequins everywhere: 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.
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: It is an office, probably a rest-station for the studio next door. Stacks of
paper litters the desks, along with computers and other office equipment. There is a pin-up board,
with a map stapled awkwardly in its center. 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?
Fourth Floor:
One Stop Imports Store Room:
Fifth Floor:
Gallery of Fine Arts: Beyond the huge wooden doors is a large rectangular chamber bathed in
darkness Beneath a fifteen-foot canvas on the far wall, centered on the parquet floor, an immense
viewing octagonal viewing divan serves to seat patrons while they admired the upcoming
masterpiece. There is a corkboard with upcoming gallery shows posted.
Art Gallery Back Hallway:
Art Gallery Storeroom: The storeroom is not dank and dreary, but seems more like a mahogany-
paneled lounge. Canvases are stacked on metal shelving on all sides, and others stand against one
wall, at least a dozen altogether.
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:
Green Ridge Mental Health Clinic Office: It is small and intimate, reminiscent of the womb.
Two walls hold bookshelves floor to ceiling; 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,
heavily padded armchairs, and foot-scarred coffee table.
“Echo Interiors” : A solitary set of doors marked "Echo Interiors" illuminated.
ECHO Interior Display Room: The open showroom contains musty chairs, old antiques and
useless trinkets line the walls.
ECHO Interior Storage Room: It is an antique’s room of some kind, filled with various
ornaments, stuffed animals and for some strange reason, a bathtub. It smells strongly of
mothballs. 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. As far as they
know, this stuff hasn’t been touched in months, maybe even years.
ECHO Interior Tub Room: It also appears to be a storage room, with stacked boxes lining the
walls. There is one, large bathtub in the centre of it all, like the last room. 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.
As they turn away, they hear something drip.
They turn their heads slightly-
-and see dark blood, spewing from the unplugged draining hole, and gushing from the tap.
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...
Radio Tower Darkness:
ECHO Interior Tub Room: The normal world has evaporated, the dimension of hell taking its
place....
The walls papered with tiles rather then paint or wallpaper and on top of that some one had
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. A metal gate formed a small hallway leading
to the room’s exit.
ECHO Interior Storage Room: Like the previous room, it is now tiled and all the previous
furnishings have vanished. Left in their place is a wheelchair, and on it lies a grim memento,
symbol of doom and disease, the crimson leather of its seat flush beneath the supple weight of a
single doll standing upright, its skin scorched, the remains in mummified tatters. Hanging on the
wall some weird thing that looks humanoid in shape.
Second Floor Main Area: 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 façade, reality transfigured into a stage in which the heros will play out their
drama...
Rushing towards them is a 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 protruding tubular orifice where the mouth should be; fine, sharp teeth rim the edge of
it, and it makes a disgustingly wet, vacuuming sound.
With the initiative, it hits a PC hard enough to knock the breath clear out of her/him. The PC
falls, and the creature comes down on top of her/him. Its probing tongue is at the PC’s face, and
they can feel its hot rank breath washing the PC over, smelling blood and decay and worse.
Green Ridge Mental Health Clinic Office: In the confines of this “Mental Clinic”, little more
than a psychiatrist’s glorified scheme, 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 floor is stained with blood and rust, as are the surrounding
walls.
Second Hallway: Soon afterwards, they notice there are tiny black specks floating in this second
corridor. They aren’t 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.
Fourth Floor:
East Hallway: The hallway seems to continue along forever, and they see some disturbing things
on the way. What look like human hands stretch out from gaps in various walls...as if trying to
grab them. 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.
One Stop Imports Office: The first thing they notice is a heap of silver and gold coins located on
one of the many tables. Then, they see the humming and softly clinking soda-vending machine in
one of the corners.
They stare at the vending machine a little while longer. Well, 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 a can suddenly drop into it. It looks like it works after all. They pick it
up, and shake it. All that sounds is some kind of metal rattle. There is no soda inside, but
something else...
A key falls out. A key that reads Life Insurance.
Fifth Floor:
Main Area: Through these hallowed halls drift the faintest of illumination, a beacon to the
wandering spirit. Before their eyes looms a golden glow from the threshold illuminating the
forsaken silhouette. Haunting - yet strangely beautiful in its sorrow. As the proverbial moth to
the flame, they follow this wavering light, dodging cruel shadows and pressing through to the
other side.
Gallery of Fine Arts: The golden glow washing over them, the pilgrims’ eyes behold the savior.
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 nonbelievers.
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 butcher’s 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 organs harvested for a profane purpose.
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 painting’s 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.
Over the rim of a rusted pail gleams the pig’s 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...
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 bring light to the
corruption, the feeble flames dancing between careful fingers.
At first, they aren’t 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. It
burns quickly and they step back, the dark smoke makes their eyes water. 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.
Can’t breathe...
Can’t run away.
Can’t 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 CAN’T BREATHE!
You can’t 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, they move in close, coughing a little.
It is just as they thought.
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.
Stairway to the Sixth Floor: When they finally reach the other side, they edge themselve out
slowly, landing on metal grates with a clank. 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 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.
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...
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 victim’s skull; it moves munches on his exposed brain while his still-living body twitches
uncontrollably. The Insane Cancer’s small mouth is smeared with neural tissue and blood.
The PCs quickly shoot one round after the other into the monster, but the creature keeps coming
through the hail of bullets. 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 horrible—like a piece of meat that had been left rotting out in the sun.
Is it dead? The radio doesn’t 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 steadied their guns.
Without hesitation, they fire at the upper part of the mass in front of her. The explosion is
deafening, and it almost sends the PCs reeling. 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.
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 radio’s speaker in blasphemous tongues:
“There is no such thing as a happy ending.”
A guttural tongue flares at their ears.
At the end of the hall, completely covering the entrance is a monstrous bulk of abstract flesh
entwined in a cylindrical structure. 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.
A trinity of horrors 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.”
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 Café:
West Hallway: They into the hall, casting the gleaming beacon through the darkness – and 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.
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 a chasm to which there is no end. 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.
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.
First Floor Entrance: The PCs go to the hall – only to find emptiness. 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.
Simmons Street: 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 don’t 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.

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 carpeting—crimson 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 slow—only 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 corridors—lit 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 again—and 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
< 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.
There's a large hole in the back wall. It appears as if it's been torn in there.
45Above 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 hadn’t 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!
The chalice contains White Claudia, and ingesting it results in a hallucinary experience.

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.

The Streets:

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 transport’s 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.

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
wings—a moldy, sickly gray—and 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.

Only seconds later, their ominous feelings prove correct when a stream of ashen fluid spews over
the area where the PCs had been. 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 fluid’s
alarming acidity.
The creature readies itself for another corrosive blast, and the PCs know they have no time to
waste.

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.
46It 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.
They go through the glass doors at the front.
Now, they are in a hallway, in front of them, the Director’s office. Tom Amenabar is the name
on the office’s 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 inmates—whatever meaning one chooses to give that word. The only door left to check is
the Director’s office, which wasn’t 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 “World’s 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 offices—like this one—are;
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, 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 visitor’s interest is in none of those places; it is focused on Hallway 2, specifically.
They step out of the director’s office, and then 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 isn’t. 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 don’t normally
have numbers on their bedroom doors at their homes. Just that little detail makes this place
completely alienating and unfamiliar.
Ballroom: 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 boar 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 man’s maniacal
grin to a frightening degree. Time has barely touched this painting, for it looks to have been
tended with great care. 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 room’s marble floor has been worn into paths by the passing of
many feet.
Tea Room: This is perhaps the sunniest room in the house. 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.
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 doesn’t feel like that; it feels like they are actually there.

THE WATERWORKS: 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.
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 peace 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
don’t 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 narrowed once again and the feeling of paranoia settled 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 doesn’t 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. 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 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.
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 ç68'
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 çYelp' 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.
You step down the tunnel slowly, the flashlight's beam spread across the area, revealing a small
concrete room, the number ç66' 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: 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 PC’s 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 flashlight’s 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 clown’s 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 park’s 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. There’s 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:

Dina’s 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: 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. 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.

Swing Rocket:

Star Travel: The PCs go between two rocket-shaped ticket booths, toward a twelve-foot-
diameter 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 life—dancing 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 everywhere—it 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 showcases—all 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 sound—harsh 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 head-
tiny 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 lines-
gleaming 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 away…They 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
park’s 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
wouldn’t 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 isn’t exactly wide by any means.
They go further. Their feet clang on the metal and wood; they needn’t worry too much that it
won’t 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 doesn’t make a noise.
It may be halfway across when the PCs get the sense that something isn’t 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 paint—making 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 red-
and-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.

47LAKESIDE CHAPEL:

48Path to Paradise: 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.

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. A book rests on top of the altar, and on the wall behind it is 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.

49Confessional: “I am a weak priest. Not God’s 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. Don’t you call me Father. You know me too
well for that. The things I’ve done—the cruelties I’ve done—I and all of the congrecation.”
The voice pauses.
“If only I could be forgiven. Not by God, but by one whom I’ve wronger. By one who suffered at
my hands.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”

50Void: 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.

Darkness:

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.

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 something—or more disturbingly someone—had been hurled into
the fan while it was on full speed, tearing its—or their—body to pieces.
Chapel: 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.
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 chapel’s 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.
They can feel the strange darkness beyond, a tangible sensation, so thick no amount of light can
pierce it

Birthing Chamber: The HOLE has brought them into a chamber that is impossibly vast. They
guess that it is twenty yards acrodd, 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 façade 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 Valve-Creature’s 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. The odor of burned flesh and ozone leavings after the passage of power
from its fingers.
All must be burned away.
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 wound 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 feel 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: 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.
You find yourself walking through a tight dark corridor. The rocky ceiling is low to the ground
and the walls are tightly packed in. 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.
Once they have found the entrance to the city's sewer system, at hundred yard intervals, little
flights of stairs— the longest is only ten steps from top to bottom—takes one gradually deeper
into the bowels of the earth.
Rungs lead into a large tunnel flowing with muck and water, stretching in two directions until it
dead ends in T sections.
In the sewer, the PCs find themselves in a rather dank and dim situation. The sewer’s 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).
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 one’s 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
PC’s 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 don’t 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 don’t 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 aren’t going to see any of it. That is okay, it doesn’t look particularly inviting
anyway.
Of course, the open corridor behind them doesn’t 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 they’ve actually doing it.
They have to hold onto the wall for balance as they splash their clumsy way down the corridor.
This isn’t very easy either, for the walls are slick and slimy, and don’t 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 won’t turn, not even a little. It isn’t 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, slime-
strewn 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 radio’s racket. It isn’t easy. Now, they have been in dark places
almost constantly since they came to the Dungeon. 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.
The PCs approach their unseen enemy slowly, which is more the product of the environment
than out of real caution. The PCs know the glare of the light will eventually attract its attention.
The PCs don’t know if the things are able to hear. More than once they notice that they do not
even seem to respond to the radio alone. They can see though, that much they can be certain of.
Sure enough, they don’t go too far before they catch sight of the monster. It is one of the straight-
jackets, and its back is facing them. It looks more or less like any of the dozen or so that the PCs
can remember encountering aboveground, but the strange cellophane-like skin that coats the
thing seems bloated and distends slightly. Having to guess, it seems to have been caused by all
the water, because while other straight-jackets had a sort of messy brown coloring, this one is
mottled with greens and whites, pocking the thing from head to visible calves. It is infested with
mildew and water rot. Predictably, the creature reacts to the light, but its ability to move is even
more reduced than the speed of the PCs. It turns to face them very slowly, like a tank turning in
mud.
The PCs aren’t about to give it a chance to get aggressive with them, though. In fact they have
enough time to bring the gun up and aim at it, very carefully, at the center of its head. The
weapon belches sound and flame, which drowns out the sound of its head being transformed into
a shattered ruin. Of course, even if it hadn’t, the close quarters and echoing quality of the
corridor would have made hearing anything basically impossible. In no way is the eyesight of the
PCs obstructed, however, and they clearly see the impossible creature and its head, which is
caved-in by the impact of the bullet and seems a hair’s width from imploding completely. Before
that can happen, the thing drops like a lead weight to the ground. It lands in a strange, prone
position. Its ruined head lies against the wall, but the body is propped up on its knees, making the
creature’s rear stick up out of the dark murk. It is the only part of the monster still visible, and
while one might find that amusing in some circumstances, to the PCs, right now, it just looks
pitiful, even for an impossible, inhuman creature such as this. It splashes down and lies still, now
completely submerged and out of sight. Still the PCs should stand with their weapons trained on
it anyway. These bastards are tricky, and if anything, even more dangerous when prone. But
thankfully, this one doesn’t seem interested in playing anymore, so the PCs can eventually step
over it and continue forth.
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 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, 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 foot-
square 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.
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 devil’s
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 noted 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 isn’t enough power, not enough fuel, the machine sputtering as it falls on its
last breath.
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. 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 watchman’s 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 cot on one side; dirty and dusty, like it hasn’t 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, 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 peer
into the water’s 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 something resembling a tentacle retreat into the water’s gloom. 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.
The placid surface stirs as the beast beneath the water’s 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. At first there is nothing unusual.
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.

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: 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 can’t 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 room’s 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: It is then that they hear a flapping sound. The flying demon is coming straight for
them. They see it, its blood stained mouth dripping with desire.
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 so that it can be wiped off easily night.
about fifteen round tables of various sizes around the room, and a row of maroon leatherette
booths along the right wall. 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 ship’s 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 Runner’s dull exterior.
Lightly colored wood is nailed all over the place and it doesn’t look all that good at holding back
the elements.
They walk up to the wooden door and try pulling it open. It doesn’t 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. 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 doesn’t 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 it’s 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:
Norman’s Motel’s Grand Opening’
The key they had found in Anne’s Bar had engraved upon it head’s the words Norman’s 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’ It’s getting to me,
all this undercover work. I hate it. Susan’s husband is a cop but I don’t 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, it’s 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 don’t like being involved with
people like that, but I fear what will happen if I didn’t. That woman, I’ve 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. I’m getting creeped out even
more then before. Thought of leaving town, but I’m 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, Norman’s 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, it’s 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 lake’s waves against the land barrier. There is a soft clanking, it
was only a boat banging in the gentle wind.
Norman’s Motel: A small building begins revealing itself. There is a inscription on the glass
reading Norman’s Motel Employees Entrance’ When grabbed the handle doesn’t 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 café style table, a small sofa and the office desk, beside which is the
entrance.
They exit though the reception’s 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 non-
existant 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 wouldn’t 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 flashlight’s 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. 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,
they’ll 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t 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.
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.
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 thing’s skull had grown just as smooth and solidly-fused as the
back of it had. It looks almost like the head one of those artist’s 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.

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.

The Boat: The boat is large and white and well maintained, but there is an unpleasant odor about
it—a 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.
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 twisted 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.
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.
As they climb the stairs and 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.
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. Against the giant bulb of the lighthouse lay several stringed skinned bodies,
ensnared with fishing hooks and lines.
As they step onto the top of the lighthouse they notice beams of light tracing something on the
chasm that had kept the town divided are more clearly marked out now, though they were still
just straight-edged gouges in the land. They extended 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 . .
The PCs have seen that symbol before.
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.
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 can’t stare at it anymore. They have a feeling too much of that symbol might result in
something they really don’t 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 doesn’t 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 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.
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: This empty cage with iron bars. It is incongruous—nothing around it fits. It
doesn’t looks like it belongs at all. But although the cage is empty, it doesn’t 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 sees—intricate 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.

Faucet Room: In a very dark corner of the room is a sink white—though dirty and stained with
the usual fluids—with 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 ended
abruptly to his right. There was a stone tablet mounted to the wall, something peculiar carved
into it. He moved closer, using his flashlight to get a closer inspection.
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 needn’t 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: It opens into a deteriorated kitchen, with a giant freezer directly ahead. They se 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 dark blood spurts onto the tiled floor.
The flashlight starts to flicker, and he was 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.
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.

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.

Child’s 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. 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.
There is something else. Something almost astronomically repulsive about it.
It is pregnant.
Male or female or both, it doesn’t 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 laughs—or 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 finger—an 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.
51Exit: 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.

The group walks slowly as a dream, halting every few feet to wait for the light to catch up. 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. They shuffle onward. Cold encircles them, dripping. 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
suffocation, dark drips 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. 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. 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 up—opening to a view that recedes far into the distance.

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.

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.

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 feet. It then envelops the
head and neck, muscle constriction slowly crushing the cranium into gory paste, which it then
digests as nutrients.
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.
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: 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. 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 magnetic pads. Examining the creature even closer, its common characteristic might
be that of a horrifying faceless creature. Wrapped around their waists is a skirt, or perhaps it is a
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.

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 creature’s
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 doorman’s mouth is large enough to swallow a human head or clamp onto a
man’s 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. One’s 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. Don’t 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 thing’s
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: 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 creature’s 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 man’s 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.
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 human’s 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.
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. 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.
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. 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. They 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. 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.
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.
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 four feet tall, and weights almost 150 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 sprits they
are now. Or perhaps these are malevolent, demonic spirits who assume the form of deceased
children as a mockery of human life.
Alignment: 52By 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 Child’s 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).
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 dog’s. 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.
Groner: 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. Only a few patches of fur remain, but
not an amount to be considered fur at all. 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 character’s 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 ceilings—sometimes 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
child’s 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
victim’s 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.

53Alignment: 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.

INSANE CANCER: 54 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 deceiving–it 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 Cancer’s metabolism that the monster must eat frequently. A
steady diet that consists of human flesh and brain tissue—the primary prey of all creatures in
Woe—presumably the masters of the Dungeon have programmed them on some level to need
this type of “food” to survive. They 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 creature’s upper body and which is the lower body, if
it even matters. She doesn’t seem to, as both are interchangeable as to which is top or bottom.
This monstrosity manifests from one’s natural desires, lusts, and urges. The mannequinites are
rather pitiable and slow. It attacks by swinging it’s 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 can’t 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: 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 20 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, Subway, Sewers.
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 animal’s 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 man’s 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.
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.
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 scalpel’s edge in an
improvised medical procedure.
Alignment: Considered Diabolic.
I.Q: 8, M.E: , M.A: 6, P.S: 16, P.P: 14, P.E: 16, P.B: 8+1D6, Spd:
S.D.C: 32
Hit Points: 4D6+12
Horror Factor: 13.
Size: 5'5.
Weight:
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:
Damage:
Bonuses:
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 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. 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 it nears its prey, it unleashes a scream not unlike that
of a young woman in mind-numbing pain.

PATIENTS: Also known as straight-jackets, 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, 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. They attack by spewing a spray of acidic liquid from a hole in their chest.
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. 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:
M.A:
P.S: 20
P.P: 14.
P.E: 15
P.B: 5,
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 Patient’s 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 material—something 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 can’t 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: 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 dull-
witted 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: Doesn’t 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 thing’s 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 Head’s 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 creature’s 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 Head’s 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 don’t 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 they’ll 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 Head’s 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 person’s skull like an egg. Dragging it
reduces Pyramid Head’s 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 Head’s mind. Those who attempt to read the creature’s 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
there’s 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 monster’s cry—Screamers
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 away—anything 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 attention to their new prey, attacking with hit and run methods, at
first slowly crawling over, then suddenly darting forward and pulling out the prey’s 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 ‘Fraid’s 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 grub’s 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.
55Description: 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 thing’s head, a dim parody of a human face, as though
parts not meant to serve such purposes had been crushed together into a mask—a 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 Valtiel’s 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 attacker’s 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 Valtiel’s 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 the City of Woe 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 the City of Woe. Valtiel could well be the physical representation of
the visitor’s 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 Valtiel’s 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: The scenario above is simply one of many
possibilities. One might not even have to be transported to the town to experience its horrors.
Perhaps Silent Hill is not simply a physical place, but somewhere that could exist anywhere,
even inside one’s own head.

Perhaps Silent Hill is a mobile parasitic pocket universe of instinctive construction, moving to
occupy and embody the fears, emotions and ambitions of certain individuals. Some of the danger
and isolation might perhaps be lost, but the terror becomes so much more intimate. The
explanation for its existence could be explained away some kind psychic shadow generated by
Silent Hill’s power and horror. In any case it can be assumed to be some sort of psychic entity
that preys on any beings with past sins, remorse or guilt, empathically feeding on emotions of
guilt and shame.

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 shouldn’t 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 is…unusual. 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 non-
existent. 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 one’s 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. Don’t 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, GM’s 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 Controller’s 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 Hill’s horror factor stems from the spirituality of humankind,
and the potential for this spirit’s 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 town’s nightmarish past. The most interesting conflict however comes from the
geography of the town. Places of function cease in their productivity, and contemporary
mankind’s 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 don’t open.

SOUTH ASHFIELD (optional scenario):

56If one should walk up the path from the forest, away from the misty confines of Silent Hill,
one’s experience will be much different.

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, however, and a National Park
Service map carved on a board 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.

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 tops of countless trees, like black tombstones, loom from beneath the gray cover
of fog.

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.

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 haphazardly—the 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.

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. Several feet
off of the floor, is an open door through which diffuse white light pours in. The sun was setting
in Silent Hill, but here, apparently, it is still daytime. So when is a factor here, as well. 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.
Something is jumping across the gap between the walls, far above them, 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 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 the walls of buildings facing out onto those slabs. It is a strange layout, like
a jumble of building parts all shoved together.
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. 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. Out here,
beyond the corridor the night sky stretches above them, and blackness surrounds the buildings.
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 isn’t an option. Its reach is too long and it’s 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.
Again, there is nothing of interest nearby, so they go down another flight of stairs.
There is another car here, and a door. 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 drops—seemingly from the sky—and 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 hasn’t 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 aren’t going to give them the same courtesy, however.

Walsh Home: There is a little wooden hallway just beyond, with a few locked doors, and then at
the other end is 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 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 doesn’t
look moldy or crumbled or anything. Quite a sad display.
The entire time they have been in the room, they have been hearing an odd sound—something
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. 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 immobilized—unable to move, to grab them, or hurt them at all.
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 specter—even 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 away—you 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.
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 ghost’s eyes look at them for a few seconds, then move towards the birthday cake and stares
at it longingly. Had it been his birthday party?
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. 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 heard—high-
pitched gurgling noises alternating with a series of low, resonating growls—which seem to come
from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, as if this walkway were a huge digestive organ
that protests their presence.
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 they’ve been in: the projected red and white image on
the far wall. The added sound effects—the “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 an a little enclosed hallway with two doors.

Interior Storage Room: Beyond the second door is what look like a storeroom or what was once
a storeroom. It is mostly empty, save for some freestanding dilapidated shelves that are crumpled
and listing now—apparently 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
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.
On one shelf, the PCs find—thankfully—another 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 isn’t much there apart from a light bulb. They can’t 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 store—a 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. 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. The variety of sporting equipment seems oddly limited for a shop in
a hotel. Most of them are damaged, if not broken, but there is an aluminum one with a wrapped
handle that is still in good shape. There is also an unbroken 5-iron by the golf bags which
balances nicely in hand. It is straight as an arrow, and still fairly new.
There are two doors—the one on the left is locked, so they must take the one on the right.

Interior Staircase B: They end up outdoors again with more 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.
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 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.
At the bottom of three flights of stairs is another creaky door.
57Garland'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 something’s claws
clicking on the floor as it walks.
This place is in better shape than the sports store—just old and abandoned, not torn up. There
isn’t much of interest in the little pet shop, just dog and cat food, 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 stuffed toy cat in one of the empty cages. It has droopy ears that
give it a sad countenance, and its once white fur is now covered in dirt.
But among them, they notice a key sitting there. They pick it up and see that the attached tag
reads: Albert's Sports. Nothing else seems useful, so they must go way back to the sports shop,
where they can use the key on the locked door.

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 things—first 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. 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 upside-down. 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 down—it 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 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.
The chiming of the clock is now so loud it nearly hurts their ears, and now it is accompanied by a
loud ticking. Its pendulum swing back and forth from the "top", almost seeming to defy gravity.
They walk toward it slowly, feeling terribly disoriented. The clock looks normal up close; in fact
it resembles the clock from 302. This one is not moving. They push against the door it is
mounted on; it does not open, and there does not seem to be any lock.

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.
It 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. 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 sky—one 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 alley—there 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.
There was also a small white note lying in the middle of the space. The handwriting on it is an
adult’s, 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 can’t help but remember that time...
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 you’ve 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.
Floating down from far above them is a dark figure with short, receding hair, and a striped shirt
and obnoxious tie. His clothes look dirty and singed, his hair wildly messed up, his skin
blackened. The numbers 19/21 are carved into his forehead. There is an intensely hateful look in
his eyes as he glares. 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 like a blur.
They 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.
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.
Again, he vanishes, and immediately the PCs bolt for the elevator, figuring that he will appear
behind where they were standing when they 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 it—the 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. 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 open---a 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 an industrial-looking metal hallway, all glowing green
and concrete under the dim ceiling lights. 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 he have been burnt.
When the last of the fungi-like growths have finally turned into dust, 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. They sigh wearily and climb it. 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.
Two of them lope toward the PCs on all fours. One stops a few feet away—apparently it is the
other one that plans on attacking first.
They go down another path with lined on both sides by small shops, closed and shuttered for the
night—there are plenty of doors, but they are all locked. They turn a corner and hear the familiar
sound of four-legged footsteps.
By now, this area looks less like a walkway 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 canines. They are really starting to pile up out here, and sprayed blood is soaking
through theirs clothes to their skin.
They follow the alleyway down to its end. A single volleyball is on the floor in plain sight, not
far from a pile of cardboard boxes. A glint of metal from the boxes catches the eye. 58It 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 minds or emanating from the medallion—the
feeling is comforting.
They continue down the path and turn right.
Three Rompers are in the area. The two that are furthest away are staring and becoming excited,
waiting for the one nearest to them get its shots in first.
The third one tries something different—it tries to intimidate them by screaming and jumping up
and down. It even pounds its chest, causing the second head on its chest to wobble—a disgusting
sight.
It charges at them.
It is then that they realize that there is a fourth one that they haven’t 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.
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 architect’s 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. 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 a few slugs in the middle. The next room has nothing but garbage in one corner and old
wooden crates in another corner. There are also three doors—the first two are locked, but the
third isn’t, so they through.

South Ashfield Bar: The next room is a bar, with a counter on one side and a pool table on the
other. To the left, they see something that makes their eyes light up: randomly sitting on a small
round table by the bar is a 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.
It is easy to swing, it moves well, and can be operated with one hand.
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. The counter 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
ad for the Southfield—an 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. 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 can’t
see the top.
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 stopping—the urgency of the situation makes the PCs forget about how difficult
it is.
By now, a second Victim has appeared and is also chasing them—fortunately, they aren’t very
bright about it, and, while they are following closely behind, they end up below the stairs the PCs
are running up. Their heads are pounding fiercely, but at least they can’t touch them.
The problem is, it is able to just float up the middle of the stairwell, and they won’t able to
outrun it.
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.
Locked. A metal blue placard with abstract lines and circles falls into their hands. Chaos
engraved on it.
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. Dead Hell Hounds litter the floor.
They start down the hallway—at 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 they’ve 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 doesn’t feel right. It’s 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 that’s 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 that’s 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.
Apt. 102: 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.
Here 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.
Apt. 103:
Apt. 104:
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.
On a table are two boxes full of random objects—presumably 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.
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 vacant—they 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 red wooden box and
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 hadn’t been
used in years, and it isn’t 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. The long,
narrow bed is 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: Room 106 belonged to a nurse, apparently; a nurse's uniform lies draped over a bare
mattress in one of the bedrooms. The name tag on it reads "Rachel". Mike's girlfriend?
A telephone number is scribbled on a notepad next to a telephone on a table in the same room.
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.
Apt. 108: The wallpaper has a rippling pattern of umber in wide vertical stripes, a very pale red
against a dark blue background. Nothing in the wallpaper’s patterns are inherently ominous or
menacing. Indeed, the fluid and dreamy intermingling of forms be restful. 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 nurse’s uniform.
Stairs: The stairwell is in the same shape as the hall had been. As they look around, they see a
strange cylindrical metal cage hanging from the stairwell ceiling, empty. 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.

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 clothing are stuffed,
but the PCs can not 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.
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.
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 scribbles, rushed, written over and running up, not down, into sewer grates at the ceiling. 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, toys left out on the sofa. 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 hellhounds. 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 were recessed bookshelves. This backroom had once been an
bedroom-study, 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.
Apt. 205: Room 205 is filled with electronic consoles and games. Among the video games is a
cassette tape labelled "Skinned Mike" on a coffee table, amongst several dumbbells.
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 chipped—with 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 overflotwing 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 décor 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. Self-
portrait."
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 – She’s always eating something. But I
wish my girlfriend liked to cook like her.
The next painting shows an old couple–304.
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. He’s always yelling at kids. Especially that weird one that hangs around.
But he took Mike into his apartment and peeled his skin off, so he’s 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 doesn’t 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 lives—indulging 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 doesn’t 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 mother’s 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.
“I’ll 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. 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 man’s neck without breaking a
sweat.
The old doll has a sweet scent, like incense. He is still twisting his fingers together, and doesn’t
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
seemed 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 flooring and white wall around it. The space looks normal—immaculate,
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 apartment—the 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 grey, 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 didn’t know were physically possible. There’s 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 blank book that lies open on the single 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 read: The last few months, Joseph, the guy next door to me who
gave me that rare porn magazine, looks like he’s been working super hard. He said that if he
found another rare one, he’d give it to me, but he hasn’t 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. He’s been shut in his apartment and I can hear all these weird noises coming
from there.
July 1 –Mike
They search the back rooms, which are stripped bare of furniture. There are three bedrooms and
a bathroom down the hallway. In one they discover two pictures, large red and black
photographs taped roughly 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
isn’t 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
But they know that something is wrong the moment they step back out into the hallway. The
peace and quiet can’t 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 are—as far as the PCs understand it—spirit presences
made of ether and memory. These things can't die. They are already dead; long, long dead.

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.
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. 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 theirs 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. 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 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.

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 I’ve 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. He’s been there since the prison. But I saw him just now, with
his gun. So he can’t 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 don’t
go through a Hole. It never varies.
5. That note from earlier, under my door…Mom, why doesn’t 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, 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.
Then, something else catches their eyes—near 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, wit 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 is a sink, a shower with a tub
(not a stall shower), a toilet, and some shelves, and the bedroom has a desk, chair and chest of
drawers.
Like all of the doors in the apartment, the front doo 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 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. If you want
to escape this place, you'll have to go through it. 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.
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 somebody’s idea of a joke?
They can attempt to push the cupboard away from its original position. Of course, on the rough
carpet, it won’t just slide straight backward. One has wedge one’s 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.
"Help…me…"
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.
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
doesn’t 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 red, rather like the pipes within them imploded and bled rust. The windows are
fogged over with a reddish substance. Wallpaper bubbles with the building’s 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 sealed—so 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. 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 greets them, as well as noise—Static? 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 insect’s egg. And taking shape from a core of foul muck where wall should be,
is the reappeared face - except that it is moving. It pushes out, writhing, from the inky patches,
followed by a pair of pasty white hands. .
The white-painted drywall of the ceiling directly over the bed is no longer white or dry, but
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 thing’s thunderous three-
part heartbeat—lub-dub-DUB, lub-dub-DUB—shudders 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 insulation—but 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 were 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, the solid, deadly weight in hands. 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 doesn’t 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 been…that 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 downward…by 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
cords—it 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 won’t 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 escalator—it 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, can’t even see where the walls end, they stretch upwards into blackness. It isn’t
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 sparse—every fifty feet or so, one passes by a bright, florescent light on the ceiling,
but between the lights, it is fairly dark, as they don’t cover very large areas—it 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 doesn’t do that.
They smell metal and dirt and grease…and 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 don’t 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 least…it 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 down…I can crush its head.
Raising one leg, they bring down their feet and stomp the other creature’s 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 can’t
look away—the 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 can’t 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.
The phones!
There are still green lights on above most of the phones. 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.
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.
Generator Room: The door opens readily. Beyond is a small, gray industrial-looking room with
concrete walls, filled with small round pipes. A walkway with a metal floor zigzags between the
pipes across the room. At the other end of the short walkway is a door with a notice board on the
right and with metal shelves a shelf on the left. There is a single white candle, with a red emblem
near its base on one of the shelves.
Barricaded Intersection: The PCs stare at the man lying on the ground from underneath the
newspaper. 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 place is filled with trash, blocking the passageway ahead. 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 coat’s 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: 59They turn left and continue down the hall to the turnstiles. 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 can't tell,
the lights are too dim.
More hairs 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 squint 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, and a sobbing sound 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), her head and hair clearly passing through the dull metal.
The hair hangs over her face, hiding her eyes. 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 smiles, 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 out—apparently she can control it—and 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.
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: 15. 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
She gurgles and sags back but doesn’t fall. Won't fall. Can't fall.
Again, her hair spreads out and tries to surround you—the act is eerily Medusa-like—and 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. lay 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 ghost’s frustrated burbles following them us down the corridor.
Turnstiles Stairs, (Lynch Street Side): 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, there’s 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 don’t hesitate to take
those as well. Fortunately, the ghost doesn’t (or can’t) follow them beyond this point, and the
pain subsides.
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. Its drab, gray walls are in a state of disrepair, and rubbish lies in piles here and
there. It looks abandoned. The subway, deserted like everything else, resounds with the echoes of
the visitor’s footsteps. 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 isn’t plastered with logos like most are. There is merely a coin slot, an unlabeled
button, and the compartment where the sodas (or whatever) come out, and it is lit up. The only
mark decorating it is a number one with a symbol that looks somewhat like a number eight with
a vertical line in it.
They use the coin on the strangely marked vending machine. Instead of a soda can, a small key
rattles 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 read "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.
Platform 3 Stairway: A wide set of stairs that leads underground. The stairs make two turns
before they open onto a wide area.
Platform 4 Stairway: Worn posters line the sheer walls and barred stairwells, the occasional
overturned garbage bin serves as the only real form of décor 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.
From the discarded newspaper and the book at the station, it is clear that this is a known suicide
spot.
Wearily, their eyes look to the shadowy dome of the terminal path, they edged forward, unable to
let go of the niggling feeling that something is lurking beyond the gap, watching their every
move…Darkness. 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 PCs 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 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.
In design it is sleek and streamlined, pulling three passenger coaches. 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.
The train rocks back and forth as it speeds down the subway, providing a rather soothing feeling.
They haven't seen any monsters so far, and they knew 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.
The walls and windows are covered by a mass of graffiti. 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…..
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.
Suddenly the PCs notice that the train isn’t making any stops. Instead it speeds along a never-
ending tunnel of darkness, lights flashing as it goes by, while never making any move to slow
down. The conductor’s car has to be at the front, but getting there would mean a trip through
several subway doors, something they aren’t keen on doing. But it seems they have no choice.
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.

Darkness: As the darkness falls, enshrouding them in its chill grasp, their hearts freeze with
dread.
Rubbish is scattered across the cement platform. The steel girders are coated in grime.
Nearly invincible ghosts plague the subway system along with more gangs of vicious skinless
dogs as well as giant cancerous blobs of walking flesh.
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?

Car 1: One can’t help but notice the cages with the mangled mannequins inside—pieces of
plastic and metal meant to resemble mangled human bodies.

Car 2: They push back the next door—and freeze as they hear a low inhuman whine. They're
here.

The train was dark, more so than the last car. And as they stared 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 remisicent 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 her
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 3: At the end of the first path, they see a 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 empty inside except for a large plastic coin that has the “1” along with the eight-like
character with the line through it—the same symbol that we saw on the vending machine on the
way to the subway. It is also encrusted with dirt.

Car 4:

Car 5:

Car 6:

Car 7: The interior of the train is out of damnation itself, corpses impaled through on jagged
spears of metal, scurrying giant cockroaches leaving bloody prints everywhere, skinless bodies
engaged in various sexual acts, bleeding corpses being devoured by animalistic humanoids, and
the ever present music of the dying - blessed screams of pain and agony.

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. It 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 razors—hundreds of them on either side—glint in the glare,
and some of them are smeared with crimson.

The driver’s 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 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.
They are here.
The only problem is they don’t 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. Gathering their weapons, the PCs ready
themselves for what might come and emerge into the darkness outside.
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.
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 right-
hand 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 wasn’t 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 splotches—the effect is
unsettling like flesh splattered in blood. They occasionally pulsate, expand and contract in a
rhythm that mimics breathing
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 burbled in the red light as if they were alive.
Platform 3: Now they are on another subway platform.
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.
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.
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 oval-
like shape poke out from the side in front of the cage. It doesn’t 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 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.
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.
By now, their reaction is near instinctive. They haul back and attack with their pipe.
To their surprise, after three hits, the wall man’s body then goes limp and hangs loosely from the
wall. 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. It
then slowly slips back into the wall as the escalator brings them past i, leaving no trace that it
was ever there.
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 women’s 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 onto the gray concrete, making little colorful wet spots that dulled as they
soak in. 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 won’t 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. A
blood stain covers a large area of the floor The office is in disarray, as well. Chairs and papers lie
on the floor. Some sort of struggle has taken place in here, for certain. Their eyes wander across
the floor and on the other side of the room, they see a handle of some kind on the floor. They
step over the blood and pick up the handle—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. Maybe it can be used in the train at the King Street platform.

King Street Platform: At the King Street platform, it is only a short walk to the train. 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 way—if they can get
the train to move a little, they will reach a point where it’ll lead out of the train and hopefully out
of the subway station.
They go down the train to the driver's cabin. Sure enough, there is a hole where the handle
should have been. They insert the handle and, not sure of what to do, they turn it.
The train shudders and lurches forward about one car length, then stops. They emerge from the
train cabin and move down the train carriage. 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 lit area with a door. They
take the stairs and go through the door.
On the other side is a short lighted hallway where the walls are made of rusted steel, with another
door at the end of it.
But as they are about halfway down the hall, they hear a sound they didn’t expect: the sound of
the door behind them opening and closing.
They whirl around and, standing just inside the hall, is the man in the blue coat.

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.

And they know that they are outside. They have to be. There is no way that the hollow noises
coming from around them wouldn’t 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 isn’t merely uninviting, but frightening as
well when they turn to the left.

They see a body hung high above the abyss that is within the spiral of the walkway—it is a
woman whose arms are bound behind her back and she has many sharp objects inserted into her
abdomen.

In front of them stretches the beginnings of a long, open spiral staircase. It curves down counter-
clockwise from where they were standing.

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.

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, 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, like niches in the wall of an
alleyway. Scenes from a nightmare.

The PCs advance slowly down the spiral, not speaking; words are useless in this terrible void.

After a distance, they come to a 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 us here.

They eventually come to the end of the spiral walkway, where a door is set 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 door has that same
round red symbol on it. They merely turn the door handle and enter.
60Saint 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 don’t 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 body’s 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 isn’t 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. Heavy breathing and wet sounds, together with the clink of metal,
come from it. 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 isn’t
moving at all, and it is the first figure’s hands that are moving around the body’s 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 nurse 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 chalk-
white skin and is scantily-clad with long, stream white hair, but her face is smeared and
distorted, and she is huge. She is also a good deal larger than a man. 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 fall; and even then they must stomp on her
grotesquely twisted neck to make sure she never stands up again.

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. 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 wall around it is torn up and what
looks like diluted blood has seeped from under the doors and has since dried. Even so, they may
try the button, but it isn’t working—either the button or the doors don’t 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 don’t work. They are stuck…very, very stuck.

Reception: A very large, but long abandoned, office. There are files on a shelf with the St.
Jerome’s 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 injuries—bloody limbs, horrible gaping wounds on the head and
neck, doctors' reports, scribblings of random words like "transfusion" and "abuse" with arrows
pointing to the pictures. There is nothing else of interest.

Office: A small office-type 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.

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 isn’t much on the shelves of the first wall,
just some clean sheets and bandages, as well as a few bottles. On the second wall, one is
horrified to find body parts—the 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 coffee
table, a love seat and easy chair—all 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 baby’s 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 first-aid kit that rests on the table by
the desk, and head for the door.

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 the elevator and find stairs. Just a short flight, with floor
labels at the landing in the middle. These are old and dirty like everything else, but at least the
lights work.

Second Floor Hallway: The door at the top of the stairs leads to a long, long hallway that
stretches out into the distance. 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.
Doors line both sides stretching in pairs far into the distance. At the far end of the hallway is a
metal grille—some sort of wire barricade, round—with 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 room—they see
someone in there, but it isn’t moving and turns out to be a dead body that is hanging from
something—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 haven’t 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: Strange bed with some kind of skin on it, and some ammunition laying next
to the bed.

Room 5: The following room has a series of strange glass cases—incubators—, broken and
useless with a cord of some kind strewn all over the room, draped over all the cases. One’s 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 nightstand by the bed is a
medallion of some kind—it is silver and oblong-shaped and it hangs from a long chain. It seems
important. Then they look up and notice that there is a nice, soft afternoon light coming through
the girded window—it 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 like the other one
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 magnified—the grooves in her lips, the
individual hairs that made up her eyebrows, and even purple capillaries and pores are easily seen,
the jaundiced eyelids flicker to reveal eyes—each probably as big as a man’s head and covered
in a thick layer of moisture—have 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.
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 them—it 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.

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 don’t 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 doesn’t 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.
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 skin—in 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 someone’s back. It is surrounded by
hanging blood packets.

Room 11: The walls 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 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 wheelchair—it still looks empty. This is hardly the
worst thing they have seen so far, but it is still disturbing.

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 wire mesh for a floor, supported by steel beams forming a circle
in the center of the floor. Suspended from the beams by ropes is what look like a 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.
Room 14: Sitting in the center of the floor is a black, cracked vase full of dying carnations
covered with cobwebs and spiders. Next to it is a large candle standing on the floor like an
offering to some long-forgotten god.

Room 15: Inside is what look likes a room for sanitizing purposes. A clean rooms that isn’t 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 creatures—here they are growing
out of a man’s 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 a long white tube 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. There are sharp, rusty, hooks hanging from the walls, suspended by
chains, pretty much defeating the purpose. 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 creatures—they 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 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 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.

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. 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 bent to pull the key from its mouth it seemed to smile at me... It
sits on a base that has 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 won’t open this door, will it?
Using the newly acquired key the door actually opens. Not much of a security device.

Elevator: Where to go next? 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, 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.
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.

61Spiral 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 lifeless—but in this area, there are light bulbs suspended
from 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.
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.
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 didn’t finish it, leaving only
the metal framework. Despite the darkness, they can make out bodies hanging in the distance,
but they haven’t 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.
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 cold and more than a bit dark
and confusing. 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:
HERE’S A LULLABY TO CLOSE YOUR EYES...
IT WAS ALWAYS YOU THAT I DESPISED...
I DON’T FEEL ENOUGH FOR YOU TO CRY...
SO HERE’S 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.
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 mannequin—female, of course—whose
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 can’t 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.

The stairwell ends in a 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.

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, music of drums and trumpets roars in the air above, a chord of ringing
majesty and horror. As they examine the room, they are unable to find the music’s source.
Also 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
giants—at 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 painful—nothing in the real
world could have survived such a horrible mutilation, not to mention having the anatomy
required in the first place—only 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 blood-
soaked 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 whack—one doesn’t 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 doesn’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 haul 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 stays 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 doesn’t 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 were the 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 and the spiral stairs continues downwards.

They are getting close to the bottom now—despite the darkness, they can see the ground not too
far below them. In the distance is a cart of some kind that is filled with mannequin heads—their
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 miracle—only 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 about—at 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 hall—the space between the bedroom and bathroom—they 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 pull—at 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 different—also 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 they’d 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 blob…it 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 him—the effect is disturbing. He
looks more like a statue then anything, having taken on the texture of the ceiling.
“Even now…it may not be…too 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 silenced—now reduced to nothing more than a
statue that protrudes from the ceiling like some variety of abstract piece of art.

The Room: 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 hold the pickaxe—even 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. It had broken a lot easier than expected, the plaster crumbles immediately
You look through the hole, but you can't see much, aside from the opposite wall and some
shelves to the left.
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 stepped 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.
You bend almost double and step through the hole into darkness.
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 stink—a combination of very old dust, mold, and...something rotten. It is so
strong that it make your eyes water and nearly gives you a headache—a combination of very old
dust, mold, and … something rotten.
The light streaming in from the hole shows a rack of flimsy metal shelving that is filled with
empty plastic bottles to their left.
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 raises theirs heads, seeking the source
of the light, but the first thing he 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. On the arms of the cross, large black feathers and other
decorative objects are attached.
At the middle of the cross is a corpse 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, the left hangs limp, and his hands, curled and stiffened in death, stick
out from his body like claws.
His eyes are open and appears 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 dangles over the strange black puddle, and on his right bare foot is carved 11/ while on
the left is 21.
His entire appearance reminiscent of nothing more than a sacrificial bird of prey, a crow perhaps.
Behind and to the right of the body is a smallish refrigerator with an open door, containing bags
of blood and similar things that. 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.
There is a metal table—the sort of table one might see in an operating room—against the wall,
adjacent to the cross, and on it is a large saw-like knife. It appears to be 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 mortar and pestle with some kind of residue in it, a bottle filled with white
oil, along with 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 room—he 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.
Then they notice a bulge in the left pocket of his long blue coat—something 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 life—you even move slowly as if
you might disturb him somehow and wake him up. You grab what is in the pocket, and 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.
Keys.
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 under the windows and lined
up in ranks in the bookcases behind shattered glass doors 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 the PCs watch, another of
the padlocks click 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.
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.

62Alternate 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 isn’t 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 gasping—the sounds which
accompany birth pangs--- it doesn’t come from any specific direction, but seems to echo
throughout the building..
And in the distance, a deep-toned bell begins to chime.
63When 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 doesn’t 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 drums 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.

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 isn’t 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.

Apt. 201: They go down the stairs to 201, but it is deserted. Everything appears rusted with giant
holes punched through the walls, which appear to have curled inward from the force like metal.
The hallways are 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. 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 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: 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. 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.
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.
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 PCs are on their feet, legs shaky.
All they want to do is get out of here. Burning drapes cover the window. The man in the
doorway. No exit.
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.
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.
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 burning 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 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 sound
—a cross between croaking and wheezing. Soon, the ghost from the parking lots appears,
strolling down the hall, into the living room, almost casually. It then turns its head and glares at
the PCs with its wild eyes.
It flinches and, predictably, it vanishes, reappearing in the original spot. It swings at them and
they block or dodge. It disappears, then re-materializes in another spot and they strike again.
This goes on for a few more times until, finally, the ghost falls to its knees, then collapses to the
floor.
You don’t hesitate before bringing the sword down, plunging it into its back until it meets with
resistance.
It twitches and makes a horrible wheezing, choking sound.

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 woman’s gasping as she struggles with birth pangs. Her voice is as 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! Where’s Dad? Daaad … I can’t see your face.”
Like the woman's moaning, it isn't coming from anywhere, specifically—it 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 body that is bound in white cloth, held tightly
on with leather straps. It had apparently been hanged because it is suspended from a long rope of
some kind and it swings back and forth, as if being pushed by an unseen force. What looks like
some kind of metal helmet that comes to a long point in the front is on its head.

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.

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: They look around the 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 cell—but 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 can’t 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 can’t 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 shouldn’t have a baby, DIDN’T 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 room is infested with double-heads. In the middle of the living room is another
hanging body which says “Anyway, let’s get outta here, I can’t stand it anymore!” before
disappearing.

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 can’t
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 up—get
packed!” before disappearing.
“If that super hears him, we’re in trouble. There’s just something about that guy...I just don’t
like the look of him,” he 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 isn’t 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 can’t see or hear or feel anything. Every muscle in their bodies lock up, and they can’t 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 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 doesn’t
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.

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 pieces—the 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!

64Room 302: The change has been so gradual that they’ve 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
Conjurer’s 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 doesn’t mean that time isn’t 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 don’t
know if there will be a way out if they end up over their heads. They also have something—the
umbilical cord—that is supposed to weaken their opponent somehow. Armed to the teeth with
both weapons and knowledge, they make their way back to the hole they’ve 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.
It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly is on their minds—it 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
don’t), 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 and you feel:
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 don’t 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 doesn’t 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 isn’t their eyes
that can’t focus...it is that everything else is hazy.
They are floating in a warm red substance, curled up in 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 can’t 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 ring’s 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 middle—across from the machine, with four of the “headstones” on either side—is 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 sound—a 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 won’t 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 Tome—and if that is true, it won’t 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.
“Mom! Mooom!”
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 him—you 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 weakness—the key is figuring out what it is.
Then, you remember what you read in the Crimson Tome.
Bury part of the Conjurer’s mother’s flesh within the true body of the Conjurer.
And what is his “true body”? Not the one that is currently about to kill them—that 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 super’s 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 running—not 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 can’t even be harmed by bullets?
Then they realize that hurting him isn’t necessary—one 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 eyes—that expression that means he is becoming weary of the attempt
attacks that won't work—they 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
body’s 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 don’t.
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 isn’t
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 thing’s 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 one’s
target.
Almost.
A PC shrieks as they feel something grab his/her ankle. Naturally, it is the man—having gained
some of his strength back, but not all—trying 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 monster’s 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.
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 wound—the 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 you—you can't stop shaking, however much you convince
yourself that it is all psychological and the wound isn't severe enough to stop you—but 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 point—likely 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 Conjurer’s flesh with the eight spears...Do so and the Conjurer’s
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 PC’s 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 PC’s shoulder. The PC winces and nearly
goes down—it hurts, but not as much as it would have if he hadn’t faltered.
He stops and looks down. They follow his gaze, and see the holes in his coat—in the middle of
his chest, slightly to the left—and 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
from 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 isn’t coming back in the next room,
or on the next staircase. There aren’t any more rooms or staircases. This is it.
Dead.
Dead!
It is such a shock that at first they don’t 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.

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
puppeteer’s 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 human-
seeming 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 anyone’s 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
demon’s 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 character’s blood dry. Each draining action counts as one of the
creature’s melee attacks and one pint of blood can be drained per melee round, reducing the
character’s 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 hands—a 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.

65LEECH, GIANT: The giant leech is a much larger and deadly version of the regular variety.
They can grow as large as a man’s 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. That’s 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)
66Disposition: 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: 67As 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: 68He 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 they’ve been waiting to hear.
For the most part, (at least initially) the masquerade will be flawless, but as time increases the
façade 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 shouldn’t 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 Persona’s 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 Person’s 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 Persona’s 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 haven’t 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 creature’s 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 Vine’s 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 carrier’s
back, then taking control of its host’s body, operating the stolen body as if the corpus were its
own. Its initial attack is quick and silent. The puppeteer’s little mouth bites through most
clothing and even armor in a matter of seconds, then, it stretches itself over its victim’s 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 carrier’s 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 victim’s 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 carrier’s 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 victim’s 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 host’s 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 what’s 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 Puppeteer’s 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
victim’s 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.

69ROMPER: 70Their 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 one’s foe. Enemies who run or show fear only bolster the Romper’s
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 isn’t 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 doesn’t 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 as—but a greater
complement of knuckles than—the 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, fangs—every 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 71Split-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 human’s, 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 wide—it
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.

72Alignment: 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 isn’t
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 doesn’t 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 CLI-
CLICK. 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, silk-
lined 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.

73Alignment: 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:
74The 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: 75Once 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 person’s 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, that’s what he’ll believe
happened. The being’s 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 eletrokinistis
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. 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. 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.
76Alignment: 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
craw 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 magic of 12, or suffer a
severe, throbbing headache, all skills are -20% and all saving throws are -1.
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, explosives, punches (regardless of the attacker’s 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 Victim’s 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 magic 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 inflict 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: By P.S damage only.
Bonuses: By attribute bonuses only.