Something Wrong Son?

Upon further inspection of this man, he saw he was anything but young. To an old man such as him anyone in their 40s seemed positively baby-faced, but the sullen face looking at him seemed to sag slightly in the wet haze of the road. It was like looking at a totem of regret.

“Saw this place grow up son. When I was a pup, why, South Vale was nothin’ much more than the ol’ hospital an’ a bit of housin’ for the doctors up in there. An’ this, the south eastern town? Hell, this was a whole other town ‘till they changed the town borders.” His good natured laugh was soft and gentle as the sodden concrete he stood on.

"Sunderland? Don't hear a name like that much." Sad names for sad faces. "I'm Howard, ol' postmaster here. Though the title's fallin' outta use these days. All computers and such."

His face embraced the dim light of the street once more.

Upon further inspection of this man, he saw he was anything but young. To an old man such as him anyone in their 40s seemed positively baby-faced, but the sullen face looking at him seemed to sag slightly in the wet haze of the road. It was like looking at a totem of regret.

"Saw this place grow up son. When I was a pup, why, South Vale was nothin' much more than the ol' hospital an' a bit of housin' for the doctors up in there. An' this, the south eastern town? Hell, this was a whole other town 'till they changed the town borders." His good natured laugh was soft and gentle as the sodden concrete he stood on.

..I dont remember…seeing Silent hill’s houses like these before..? -he looked around at the homes- So..different..

Veins punctured violently from either side of the forest path, outstretched towards the bright blight of the sky that shrouded the very tips of the wooden blood-tracts in terrible sunlight. It felt like years since the old, leathery dark-skinned man had perceived a world outside the fog. It did not bring comfort, nor did it drown any sense of loneliness he may have . Quite the contrary; fog was it’s own company and Silent Hill always had visitors, but when the world was as suddenly clear as this and you could see with your own eyes that nothing stirred: that was true loneliness. 

The basic, black waistcoat with diamond hand-stitchings felt a size too tight, not much to be visibly uncomfortable but enough to force him out of his usual hunched posture and make him feel countless years younger. The brown leather of constricting gauntlets, loose stitching of soft, frayed fabric britches and hard boots made him feel even younger than that…a count of centuries seemly lifted from his shoulders, submerging him in some sort of new place.

Having lived this life for a time that didn't seem to conform to logic or reasoning; any occasion where a place offered him no remorse or nostalgia, any emotion firmly routed in the past made him uncomfortable.

Speaking of the past.

"Jus' lost is all ma'am. Not seen a soul for days an' I hailed as soon as I saw a livin' folk. I'm sure a rider of your range has some direction to share." 

He tried to look into the shadow she cast of and over herself, but he found it difficult. People still continue to surprise him, he thought to himself.

Mary watched from her window as the world shifted and changed. She couldn’t see much beyond her window, but she could feel… something. Something that made her afraid to leave the motel to try and find out what it was. What was happening? Was someone new in town? That didn’t seem that odd. There were new people showing up more and more these days. So what made this feel so different?

Sighing, Mary walked towards her chair and sat down, leaning over to idly rearrange her skirts into a more pleasing pattern. It was a nervous habit. Try as she might she could not truly relax, but she also could not work up the courage and energy to venture outside her sanctuary. At least… not yet. 

Addressed to no-one, the envelope sat and waited. He delivered a lot of letters like this; meant for anyone, asked for by no-one. The town was full of paradoxes, of unknown things. Many of them were much stranger than his letters.

He often puzzled over these unmarked buildings with no address, sometimes over the simple details like if it was a house or a shopfront. Sometimes it’d be the more personal specifics he begged of them; how long had it stood? Who was it built by? Were the owners dead now?

Mary sat up slowly, listening. Had she heard something? Shakily, she stood and limped towards the door. Her illness was more pronounced today. Not a good sign. Swinging the door wide open, she called down the stairs.

“Hello? Is someone there?” 

“Bunch’a letters ma’am!”

He buttoned his coat right up idly.

“I hate to intrude miss, but if y’a insistin’…” The postman stepped apprehensively through into the musty hall. Flaked wallpaper curled up to greet him with outstretched leafs of material and plaster. He bent down briefly to look at the unmarked letter. “I can’t say I know ‘bout the letter.”

Peering into the murky living-room his old eyes scanned over piles of old photo-albums and stacks of old records stacked up behind furniture still in it’s plastic lining. Their unmolested, pleasing shades of black and brown seemed to defy the ghostly twilight the rest of the room inhabited.

“Is, eh…anybody else home?” Howard queried as he looked ahead to see a young woman descending the flight of stairs at the end of the hall, the brittle banisters seemed barely fit to support the conspicuously absent rats.

"Ain't exactly born n' raised but I'm a long-time feature." He answered warmly. "Lotta buildin's goin' empty these days, always good t' see younger folks comin' in to fill 'em up. Brings this ol' town to life."

Hunching over, he wrestled the sack-strap around his head. Howard held the bag in one hand as the other nursed the aching bones of his shoulder-blade, relieved of it's paper and parchment burden.

"No more rain miss, but it still ain't too invitin' even with this godamn coat...eh, if you'll pardon the language Miss Sunderland."

Idly he Dropped the bag by his feet for a second as he rubbed his hands together, trying to find what warmth could be found in this place.

Mary watched from her window as the world shifted and changed. She couldn’t see much beyond her window, but she could feel… something. Something that made her afraid to leave the motel to try and find out what it was. What was happening? Was someone new in town? That didn’t seem that odd. There were new people showing up more and more these days. So what made this feel so different?

Sighing, Mary walked towards her chair and sat down, leaning over to idly rearrange her skirts into a more pleasing pattern. It was a nervous habit. Try as she might she could not truly relax, but she also could not work up the courage and energy to venture outside her sanctuary. At least… not yet. 

Addressed to no-one, the envelope sat and waited. He delivered a lot of letters like this; meant for anyone, asked for by no-one. The town was full of paradoxes, of unknown things. Many of them were much stranger than his letters.

He often puzzled over these unmarked buildings with no address, sometimes over the simple details like if it was a house or a shopfront. Sometimes it’d be the more personal specifics he begged of them; how long had it stood? Who was it built by? Were the owners dead now?

Mary sat up slowly, listening. Had she heard something? Shakily, she stood and limped towards the door. Her illness was more pronounced today. Not a good sign. Swinging the door wide open, she called down the stairs.

“Hello? Is someone there?” 

“Bunch’a letters ma’am!”

He buttoned his coat right up idly.

"I hate to intrude miss, but if y'a insistin'..." The postman stepped apprehensively through into the musty hall. Flaked wallpaper curled up to greet him with outstretched leafs of material and plaster. He bent down briefly to look at the unmarked letter. "I can't say I know 'bout the letter."

Peering into the murky living-room his old eyes scanned over piles of old photo-albums and stacks of old records stacked up behind furniture still in it's plastic lining. Their unmolested, pleasing shades of black and brown seemed to defy the ghostly twilight the rest of the room inhabited.

"Is, eh...anybody else home?" Howard queried as he looked ahead to see a young woman descending the flight of stairs at the end of the hall, the brittle banisters seemed barely fit to support the conspicuously absent rats.