ˢᶦᶫᵉᶰᵗ ᴴᶦᶫᶫ was a personal Hell for many--the manifestation of a hatred gone foul when Aunty turned against her own sister and niece in order to balance the façade that kept the congregation wrapped around her finger. It was a plethora of nightmares, all, of which, surprising to be born from the imagination of a child. Contorted faces twisted to the side of the head upon small, gray bodies and burning craniums; bodies devoid of arms were speckled gray masses of flesh, stumbling around with acidic, black bile as their only means of offense; scantily-clad, faceless women dressed in the mocking tone of a nurse--breasts bouncing outwards and dresses short--bore limbs that jutted outwards, hands grasping knives that would mistakenly slice each other's throats, dark blood spewing from the wounds. The most insulting of creatures--the priestess's least favorite--was the Red Pyramid, the guardian of Alessa, the niece, which Christabella, the aunty, could only make out to be of some fatherly figure; an attempt for the girl to cover up her tracks. Had she been born under the presence of a legitimate father, none of this would have happened. But Christabella knew--
There were times when the town was at peace. The rundown buildings were constructed of cement and brick among other materials instead of rotting human flesh. The grounds concealed a pipeline nightmare overtop blazing fires below; a trapped coal mine that would forever burn in the presence of the town. An illusion swept over the entire town--ash would gently flutter from the skies, disguising itself as a gentle snowfall until it were to make contact with one's skin, black chalk marks now evident. Smoke would continually rise from the crevices in the earth, places that the congregation would normally not venture towards due to what could be lurking within such a murky area. They all learned that Silent Hill was not an area to fool around in; the Devil's Playground was far too deadly for any nonsensical act, and one would most likely find themselves dead if they had explored the area for too long or too far of a distance. They all learned quickly.
They were all scared--herself included. The only difference was confidence; they had succumbed to her power thirty years ago when she had proved herself dominant among the rest, claiming that she was their salvation. In fact, she could care less about their life states--dead or alive, it didn't matter. All that mattered was how long she could keep their minds under this state; and, given the circumstances, things were looking quite bright for her end. As long as she could survive long enough to find the vessel that would birth the new God, the one who would free the town and cleanse the world of its sins--it would create the sense of paradise, a utopia. Only having the congregation behind her gave her a better chance to do so; with the Brethren as protection and a larger population than that of the Darkness, everything seemed to be in Christabella's favor.
Silent Hill was residing in a residential state--reality was dominant. One by one, scavengers of the congregation would file out of the church doors and begin to hobble about the town in an attempt to locate food, clothing, or anything else that would prove itself useful to the group of people living within the sanctuary. They were ragged people; dirtied faces hid behind scraggly, unwashed hair, their bodies draped in black scraps of clothing that was once respected as ceremonial wear. Not many dared to leave their leader; some traveled alone, others split up into groups. As all townsfolk found themselves venturing outside at one point or another--even if that single point was to merely walk down the establishment's steps--it was only on occasion that the priestess would find herself venturing outside. Today had been one of those occasions.
Her head was held high, back erect. Bony palms were pressed against each other, spindly digits folded across their opposing hands. Auburn curls were piled atop each other, falling into stray curls that traveled downwards to the top of her back, where they blew gently in the breeze. Blue hues overlooked the graveyard that was just outside the church, examining each tombstone and cross that jutted outwards from the earth, each marking where a corpse lied just below. Slowly, she began to ascend the steps in a foreign grace; her heels clicked upon the concrete foundation below her, though such noise did not break her concentration. Soon enough, she had reached the bottom of the steps as did the men behind her, though they were quite recognizable in comparison (as was she; blue against black). Clad in the suits of the miners lost so many wears ago, their faces were concealed by helmets, goggles, and masks--unknown by face, yet known by disguise. They were a protective bunch; two angled in front of the blue-clad woman whilst two resided in tow. Loud as they were, their pace matched hers; when she stopped, so did they.
Her footfalls grew heavy as her pace quickened, now located at the edge of the metal gate separating holy grounds from darkness. Her eyes rolled to the left and the corresponding hand rose, fingers spread.
In the fog was a figure. Hard to decipher at first, it was nothing but a blur. It was tall, wide--something bigger than any of the townsfolk in Silent Hill, and they knew better than to wander into unfamiliar territory; familiar was safe, familiar was key. Christabella blinked a few times and then threw her head backwards, cranium revolving as her eyes rolled around in their sockets, searching the skies. They were void of crows--void of everything. Hazy skies and silence blanketed the town in a state of reality, yet there was something out there--something unknown.
And Christabella wanted to know what it was.
Cautiously, she stepped outside the boundaries of the sanctuary, into the real world. Her body shifted as her entire being was now facing the general direction of the foreign silhouette, almost hoping that it would see her when she knew that this was already dangerous enough. But, God, she wouldn't dare go near it.
I T would have to come to h e r.
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