đđš đđđąđ§đđŹ đđđ«đ | James Sunderland x OC
Summary: Following the death of her husband, Rowan ends up in Silent Hill two years later after receiving a letter strangely matching her own handwriting from years ago. What could it possibly be if she had never been to that town? What was waiting for her in there?
WARNINGS: MDNI, 18+. mentions of death, tortur3, miscarriage and other traumatic events, so please do not report if you are uncomfortable reading this!
The quiet place, a town I had never visited before, why was I dreaming of it then?
I donât remember the first time I heard the voice.
Maybe it was always there, somewhere under the hum of the refrigerator at night, buried in the silence between my thoughts. But last week, it grew louder.
The first night, I dreamed I was standing in a hallway that stretched on forever, lined with peeling wallpaper and flickering lights. I didnât know where I was, only that something was waiting at the end. Thatâs when I heard it:
A whisper. No â softer than that. Like breath caught in the folds of time. I turned, heart punching against my ribs, but there was no one there. Only fog bleeding in through the cracks in the walls, and the faint smell of rust and roses.
I woke with my hands trembling and my sheets soaked in sweat.
I didnât sleep the next night.
But the voice came back anyway.
âItâs okay now⊠you can come.â
I saw a little hand reaching out from the mist â small, delicate fingers smudged with red crayon. I heard the bells of a carousel in the distance, creaking like old bones. When I blinked, the hand was gone, but I woke with tears on my face and the name Lily on my lips.
I hadnât said that name aloud in two years.
The third morning, I found the letter in my mailbox.
No return address. Just my name, scrawled in faint pink marker. Inside, a childâs drawing: a woman with long brown hair, a little girl with a yellow dress, and a man I didnât want to remember.
On the back, in handwriting I couldnât deny was my own:
âIâm waiting for you in the quiet place.
You know the way.â
I stared at the drawing for a long time. My heart tried to tell me it was a cruel joke. My mind told me to throw it away. But my hands refused. I was not insane, I was sure about that, but I couldn't recall writing that letter.
I couldnât breathe in my apartment after that. The walls felt like they were closing in â the air thick with memories I thought Iâd buried deep enough to die. I packed a bag. Just enough for a weekend. Just in case.
I didnât know where I was going until I was halfway there.
The name pressed itself against my thoughts like a fingerprint in fog. I remembered reading about it once â an old resort town with too many ghosts and too little sun. People said it had changed. Some said it vanished. Others said it changed you.
As I drove, the air grew heavier. The trees leaned in too close. The road narrowed. My GPS went black an hour ago, and yet I kept going. Like something was pulling me forward, whispering just behind my ear.
âYouâre almost here, MommyâŠâ
The fog appeared just past the county line â thick, wet, and endless. It rolled across the road like breath from the mouth of some sleeping god. My headlights barely touched it.
I should have turned back.
The sign was cracked and faded, almost swallowed by overgrowth:
Welcome to Silent Hill
A quiet little lakeside town.
I pulled over. The car door creaked as I stepped out, the cold pressing into my lungs like ice water. There was no sound â no wind, no birds. Just the dull hum of silence and the way my heartbeat echoed in my ears.
Somewhere beyond the mist, I thought I heard it again.
Laughter.
A childâs giggle, warm and weightless.
âCome find me, Mommy.â
I took my first step into the town.
==================================
The streets were almost too quiet.
At first, I thought Iâd wandered into an abandoned film set â frozen storefronts, shattered windows, signs with letters missing. The kind of silence that doesnât feel empty, but watchful. Like the town itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what I would do.
My boots echoed on cracked pavement as I passed a diner with rusted metal chairs stacked inside, their shadows bent into crooked shapes. A laundromat door hung off its hinges, turning slightly in a wind I couldnât feel. Something about it felt staged. Like everything had been left just so.
I kept looking over my shoulder.
The fog thickened around me, curling between streetlamps and broken benches like fingers. My breath came out in pale clouds. I gripped my jacket tighter.
A childâs shoe â small, pink, lying in the middle of the road. One lace untied, damp with dew. I stared at it for a long time, like it might vanish if I blinked.
Next to it, faintly etched into the concrete, was a single word written in something too dark to be dirt:
I stepped back, my heartbeat slamming in my ears. The fog ahead seemed to pulse. Shift.
Then I heard the giggle again.
âCome play with meâŠâ
I turned toward the sound â but there was nothing. No one.
Just an alley I hadnât noticed before, narrow and yawning, like a throat.
I donât know why I walked into it.
Maybe I thought Iâd find her.
Maybe I thought Iâd find myself. Myself?
The alley was tight, the walls pressing in with flaking brick and rust-streaked pipes. It smelled of damp metal and something older â like rotting flowers.
About halfway through, I noticed the graffiti. It wasnât spray paint. It was scratched in â deep gouges, like someone had carved them with their bare hands.
âFORGIVE ME.â
âSHE WOULDNâT STOP CRYING.â
âTHE BABY WAS NEVER REAL.â
The air turned colder. My throat closed. I kept walking.
At first, I thought it was just in my head â a buzzing, like an old television set warming up. But it grew louder, crackling from the bottom of my bag.
No. I didnât bring it. No signal anyway.
I reached inside and pulled out my flashlight.
Taped to its handle, where I never put anything, was a small old-fashioned radio. Not mine. I donât know how it got there.
The static grew violent. Screeching. Like it was warning me.
I spun around, heart punching my ribs â just in time to see a figure move at the alleyâs mouth.
Small. Thin. Unmoving now.
It looked like a child. But⊠wrong.
I aimed the flashlight. The beam stuttered in the fog.
Arms too long. Head tilted at a broken angle. Skin smeared in something dark. It didnât have a face â just a void where one should be, twitching like static. No eyes. No mouth. But I felt it watching me.
I stepped back. It mirrored me.
It tilted its head again, like it was trying to understand me.
Then it whispered, in a voice layered over with a hundred echoes of my own:
I donât know how I found the motel. Maybe the town wanted me to. Maybe it was giving me a place to hide â to breathe, for now. I slammed the door shut behind me, locked it, then double-locked it. The static stopped the second I crossed the threshold.
Inside was silence. Dusty light. Peeling wallpaper and a mirror I didnât want to look into.
I sank onto the bed, shaking. My hand still clutched the radio.
On the nightstand was another childâs drawing.
It hadnât been there before.
Me and a little girl in a red playground. She was holding my hand.
On the back, written in small, trembling letters:
âIâm still waiting.â
I saved the drawing in one of my pockets, along with the letter that had brought me there, I knew there was no reason to do so, but I needed answers. I wanted answers.
==================================
I didnât sleep. I just sat on the edge of the motel bed, waiting for the fog to crawl under the door and smother me.
The static didnât return. Not right away. But something else did.
Slow. Deliberate. Just outside the window.
I stood up too fast. The floor groaned under me. I froze, heart hammering. Through the thin curtain, I saw a shape move past the window â tall, heavy-footed, dragging something behind them. For a second, I thought it was one of them.
But when the figure passed through a slant of gray light, I saw denim. A green jacket. A tired kind of slouch.
I donât know why that made me feel more afraid.
I slipped outside with my flashlight in hand, half-expecting the figure to vanish into mist. But there he was â standing at the end of the walkway, turned away from me, staring down a narrow side street like he wasnât sure it existed.
I took a few steps toward him, careful not to make a sound. But the moment I stepped off the motel stoop, the radio crackled faintly in my bag again. Just once. A burst of white noise like a breath being held.
Not fast. Not startled. Just⊠gently. Like he already knew someone was there.
He looked at me with eyes that had forgotten what they used to see. Hollow and worn-out, but not cruel. He was younger than I expected. Early thirties, maybe. But his face looked like it had spent a decade under water.
âAre you real?â he asked.
His voice wasnât accusing â just... tired.
âDepends on what day it isâ I said before I could think better of it.
He gave a soft exhale. Not quite a laugh. He looked down at the pavement, then back at me. âYou hear the radio too.â
I nodded, loosening my grip on the flashlight.
For a moment, we just stood there, two ghosts trying to remember what it felt like to be alive.
âI thought I was the only oneâ he said finally, like it hurt to admit it.
âNot anymoreâ I murmured.
He hesitated, then stepped a little closer. He looked over his shoulder once â not like he heard something, but like he felt something.
âJames... I'm James Sunderlandâ he said quietly, offering his name like it might dissolve in the fog before it reached me.
âRowan Reevesâ I replied.
We didnât shake hands. People donât do that in places like this.
He looked past me, toward the motel room. âYou staying here?â
âToo quietâ I said, before realizing how stupid that sounded.
But he didnât laugh. He just nodded like he understood something I hadnât said aloud.
James looked down at his hands for a moment, like they didnât belong to him. Then he glanced toward the side street again â that narrow path heâd been staring at when I found him. âI was looking for someone.â
I almost asked who. But the answer was already in his face.
Me too, I wanted to say. But I didnât.
Instead, I asked, âWhere does that road lead?â
He shook his head slowly. âNowhere I want to go.â
We stood there in the fog for a while â strangers pretending not to be lost, holding onto each otherâs presence like the last solid thing in a world unraveling at the seams.
Then, faintly, the radio flared again.
This time â not just static.
A childâs voice, barely audible:
âHe doesnât belong here...â
James stiffened. I clutched the radio.
He didnât ask what it meant. He just looked at me like I already knew the answer.
And the worst part was... I did.
==================================
James and I didnât speak much as we walked.
The fog did most of the talking â brushing against our skin, tugging at our clothes, whispering things we pretended not to hear. Every so often, the static in our radios buzzed faintly, like something was pacing just beyond the veil. Following us.
I felt it first â not the sound, but the wrongness.
The air changed. Grew heavy.
James stopped. âDo you hear that?â
Wet. Twitching. Something dragging itself across concrete.
From the mist behind us, a shape emerged â crawling, slow and crooked, its limbs twisted like broken doll parts. Pale skin shimmered under the flashlight, stretched too tight over its back. Its head lolled with every jerking movement; legs bent the wrong way. It moved like it had never walked before. Or had forgotten how.
James tensed beside me. The static screamed.
The creature lurched forward â faster now â hands slapping the pavement, leaving behind streaks of something dark and tar-like. When it reared up, I saw the seam down its middle. No face. Just skin stitched together, quivering like it was trying to tear itself open.
I lifted the pipe Iâd picked up earlier â some rusted metal I didnât even remember grabbing â and swung as hard as I could when it lunged. The impact rattled up my arms. It shrieked.
James stepped forward then, bringing down a board heâd been carrying like a guillotine. The thing crumpled. Twitched once. Then stilled.
We stood over it, panting, the fog slowly curling back around us.
âThatâs notâŠâ Jamesâs voice cracked. âThatâs not human.â
âNoâ I said quietly. âBut it used to be something.â
He looked at me. âHow are you so calm?â
âIâm not.â
I was shaking. My throat hurt. But Iâd learned how to hide it a long time ago.
We found a bench outside a shuttered convenience store and sat there in silence, the fog swirling around our ankles like smoke. The radio was quiet again. For now.
James reached into his pocket and pulled out something small â creased, worn. He held it like it might break.
âA letterâ he said. âFrom my wife.â
I turned to him. âSheâs here?â
âSheâs⊠supposed to be dead.â His voice was hollow. Like he was still trying to believe it himself.
âShe died three years ago. But the letter said she was waiting here. In our special place.â
I watched him unfold it â his hands trembling in the quiet.
âI didnât want to comeâ he whispered. âBut I had to know.â
I didnât answer right away. Instead, I reached into the inside of my jacket and pulled out my own envelope. The paper was bone white. Marked with my name on the outside, scrawled in pink. Inside, one page. A child's drawing and on the back a message handwritten.
James glanced at it, then looked up at me, startled.
âIt wasnât signedâ I said. âBut I recognized her handwriting. My daughterâs.â
He didnât question it. Maybe he didnât want to. Maybe, like me, he knew some truths are worse than monsters.
âShe was never supposed to be hereâ I added. âShe died before she could breathe. But I saw her in my dreams. She kept calling me back.â
He stared down at the letter in his lap.
âMaybe this place⊠brings us here for a reasonâ he murmured.
âOr maybe we bring ourselves.â
We sat there, two strangers united by grief that ran too deep to speak aloud. And yet â for the first time since I arrived â I didnât feel alone in it.
I met his eyes. âIf youâre still looking for her, Iâll go with you.â
He nodded slowly. âSame.â
We started walking again, further into the fog, deeper into the rot. The signs became harder to read, the streets more fractured, like the town was forgetting its own shape.
It rose from the mist like a prison half-swallowed by time. Crumbling brick, dark windows, rusted gates yawning open like teeth.
A place that had witnessed too much silence.
We stopped at the foot of the stairs. James stared up at it.
âThis was on the mapâ he said quietly. âShe mightâve come through here.â
I gripped the letter in my coat pocket, feeling the weight of it like a heartbeat.
And together, we stepped inside.
==================================
The air inside Woodside Apartments was different.
Thicker, like smoke after a fire. It clung to the skin, heavy and wet, and smelled of mildew and something else â sweet, almost sugary, like rot pretending to be perfume.
James and I didnât speak as we crossed the threshold. We didnât have to. The silence was its own kind of language here.
The doors moaned on rusted hinges as we entered the lobby. Every step echoed like a memory trying to claw its way back to the surface.
The walls were flaking. Old wallpaper peeling like sunburned flesh. We passed a row of broken mailboxes, each one hanging open, empty except for a few scraps of yellowed paper that looked like warnings no one read in time.
On the second floor, the flashlight caught a smear of blood along the hallway wall. It wasnât fresh. But it hadnât been there long, either.
James moved ahead of me, quietly. Protective, though he didnât say so. I followed, trying not to look at the open doorways â most of them led to empty rooms. But now and thenâŠ
Now and then I saw something move inside.
Not quite human. Not quite gone.
We stopped outside Room 208.
James hesitated. âShe liked apartments. Before she got sick, we talked about moving into one. Something quiet.â
He sounded like he was talking about a different life.
I reached out and touched the edge of the doorframe. The paint was peeling. I donât know why that mattered.
âYou donât have to go in alone.â
He looked at me â grateful and afraid.
We pushed the door open together. Inside was decay and dust and water damage â and something else: the smell of disinfectant.
It hit both of us at the same time.
Hospitals.
Death.
Memories.
âI used to clean her room every dayâ he said, barely above a whisper. âBefore the nurses came. I wanted her to see that I still tried.â
I didnât say anything. I didnât need to. His voice carried the weight of someone whoâd lived years inside one moment.
My eyes fell on something glinting under the cracked window: a key. Half-submerged in dirty water pooled in a broken dish. I pulled it out. The tag read: Fire Escape â 3rd Floor.
Something screeched outside the window just then â metal dragging across metal.
We froze.
James turned to the door. âWeâre not alone.â
Back in the hallway, the radio started again.
Not static this time â a mechanical moan.
Wheels turning.
A sharp, wet hiss.
But they werenât human. They were too fast. Too insect-like.
Something burst around the corner â a creature crawling on what looked like mannequin legs turned backward. Its torso was fused to a gurney frame, arms replaced by blades that scraped along the walls as it moved.
Its head twitched violently, spasming between sudden lurches.
We slammed the door to Room 209 behind us and pressed our backs to it, panting. The thing shrieked from the hall, metal shrieking against metal. Then â silence.
James sank to the floor, rubbing his hands through his hair. âI didnât think they could be worse than that last one.â
âThey get worseâ I said quietly. âThe deeper we go.â
He looked up at me. âYou sound like youâve been here before.â
âI dreamt about this place for months. Before the letter. Before I even knew what it was.â
Instead, he reached into his jacket again. Held out the letter from Mary.
âI keep reading itâ he said. âLooking for something I missed.â
I knelt beside him and handed him mine â my daughterâs.
He looked at it, brows furrowed. âSame handwriting?â
âNo. But⊠it feels like her.â
I paused. âShe was never born. Not really. I was six months along whenâŠâ
My voice caught. I didnât finish.
James didnât speak for a long moment.
âI used to wonder if⊠if the hospital made her sicker. Or if it was me.â
We were quiet together. That kind of silence that hurts in the chest.
Then:
âWe keep movingâ I said softly.
He nodded, folding both letters and tucking them away like fragile truths.
We reached the third floor using the fire escape. It groaned under our weight, the metal warped and rusting. The fog outside had thickened, pressing against the glass like a living thing.
Inside Room 307, we found something stranger than monsters.
Spotless. Clean sheets. Fresh flowers â wilted, but still fragrant.
On the nightstand, a photo.
âThis was... our anniversaryâ he said. âHow is this even here?â
I moved toward the mirror above the bed â the only one in the apartment that wasnât broken.
In it, I didnât see myself.
I saw a version of me â pregnant. Smiling.
âThey want us to rememberâ I said. âEven the parts we buried.â
James stared at the photo in his hands like it was going to burn him.
âWe should leaveâ he murmured.
As we exited into the hallway, the radio screamed again.
And from around the corner â two Crawlers, skittering on all fours.
This time, we didnât run.
The sound of iron smashing bone. The smell of oil and rot. The radio sputtering with every hit until finally â silence.
James leaned against the wall, gasping. âI hate this place.â
Because part of me knew I belonged here.
And the worst part?
==================================
The door from Woodside Apartments slammed shut behind us, metal groaning like it wanted to keep us in.
We were back outside. But âoutsideâ didnât mean safer here.
The fog was worse than ever â thick, smothering, white like gauze soaked in moonlight. Everything beyond a few feet faded into nothing. And in that nothing, I could hear footsteps. Quiet. Small.
âDid you hear that?â I asked.
James squinted into the haze. âI thought I sawââ
âThere!â I pointed, heart stuttering.
A small silhouette stood just ahead, in the middle of the street. A little girl. Bare legs. Hair tied up in two messy pigtails. She didnât move. Didnât speak.
I took a step toward her. âWaitââ
âHey!â I chased after her, boots slapping the pavement, lungs burning with cold.
But by the time we reached the corner, she was gone.
Just that crushing fog, and a bench with a rusted plaque that read:
Welcome to Rosewater Park. Let the quiet wash you clean.
James caught up beside me, panting. âWas that⊠a little girl?â
âYeah.â My hand curled unconsciously around the folded letter in my coat pocket. âShe looked likeâŠâ
Maybe I didnât want to say it out loud. Maybe I was afraid she looked like the daughter I never got to meet.
The path into Rosewater Park was warped with cracked bricks and overgrown weeds. The trees drooped like they hadnât felt sunlight in years. Everything was half-dead.
There were rows of roses still growing in forgotten beds â black roses, somehow, as if the soil itself had stained them.
âI used to think parks like this were peacefulâ James murmured.
I glanced sideways at him. âAnd now?â
He exhaled. âNow they feel like cemeteries.â
A woman standing alone on the overlook.
James froze beside me. His entire body stiffened. âMaryâŠ?â
She didnât seem surprised to see us. Her head turned slowly as we approached, eyes bright under thick lashes. Black leather dress. Hot pink jacket. She looked like a memory dragged out of a dream and dressed in something provocative.
âNo,â he said with a confused look on his face, doubting. âYou're... not.â
Her voice was soft, though. Warm, but with something curled beneath it â something playful, something dangerous.
âDo i look like your girlfriend?â She asked with a smirk.
James seemed rather uncomfortable now, did she look so much like his wife?
"No. My...late wife..." He said "I can't believe it. Your face, your voice...you could be-"
''My name... is Maria" she interrupted James with a smile; the same smirk never left her face. "I don't look like a ghost...do i?"
She looked at me next, lips curling into something almost smug. âAnd you are?â
âRowan,â I said carefully.
Mariaâs gaze lingered on me a second too long. I had the eerie sense she was cataloging me. Measuring me up. Not out of jealousy â but familiarity.
Like she already knew who I was.
âYou shouldnât be out hereâ I said. âItâs not safe.â
Maria tilted her head. âOh, Iâm not worried. You will protect me.â She smiled at him like she knew him better than he knew himself. âWonât you?â
James took a small step back. âWhy are you here?â
Mariaâs eyes narrowed a fraction. âSame as you, I think.â
She brushed past me with a wink. âLetâs go together. You donât want to get lost out here.â
I looked at James. He looked⊠shaken. Pale, like heâd seen a ghost but couldnât admit it aloud.
And somehow, I knew â this woman was tied to him. In ways I couldnât see yet.
The park faded behind us as we walked. Fog swallowed the roses, the bench, the path. The girl â gone.
But the letter in my pocket felt heavier now.
And for the first time, I wondered if the town had sent it.
