Nightmare of Silent Hill

NOSH 4: Aspirations of the Amorous

So here's four which takes place after Zoe's encounter in Silent Hill in an FBI office. Read on to see what happens. Five will be next. Thanks for your patience.
Kileka

"Silent Hill Disclaimer: Disclaimer: This work is a work of fiction, cooked up by my, KilekaPhoenix's brain. Silent Hill belongs solely to Konami and it's subsidaries and I do not draw any money from this work. Enjoy!

Present Day – FBI Office 30 Miles South of Silent Hill, West Virginia

Roger

“Zoe, would you like to stop and take a break?” I ask the dry-throated, weary girl across the table from me. Her dark, tired eyes look up at me. The offer is more for Judi and I's sake than hers. Judi had left numerous times during the more grisly scenes, presumably because they made her sick. I continue with my offer, “We can stop for a little while. I can get you something to eat and a soda if you would like.” I hope the niceties will bring her back to reality. She had spent the entire eight hour interrogation slumped over, looking miserable, telling her story in a whisper. I had been taking notes on maps that I had requested when she started talking about specific locations within Silent Hill. Short, glasses-wearing Judi had been changing tapes on the voice recorder. Apparently, the FBI office here in West Virginia is too damn cheap to upgrade to a digital one. I had to be transferred here from the office in D.C. to deal with this case.

Zoe speaks, still in a whisper, “Yes, a break would be nice. And just some water, please.” I let out a heavy sigh, glad she consented to the pause in the interrogation. I get up and Judi stops the tape. I can leave her in the interrogation room without cuffing her. She had been completely compliant. The crazy ones usually were until you found their crazy trigger, the thing that turned them into violent, gibbering psychos. This girl was found unconscious in the burnt-out hollow of a church. A worker at a gas station on the nearby highway reported seeing smoke coming from the town. The local fire department sent responders to ensure the fire didn't spread. At least one unidentified burnt corpse was found in the church with her. Local officials were looking for any others. Considering the town had been abandoned for decades and she was the only living thing there, naturally the girl was brought in for questioning regarding the burnt corpse. The local law enforcement sent her to the nearest medical facility for treatment, she had no smoke in her lungs but had signs of being shot, sexual assault and numerous abrasions. Her vehicle was found on the southern road out of the town. When questioned, she talked only of monsters in the town. Apparently, she confessed to killing two people, though she never specified who or gave any details. That's when the local FBI office got called and in turn called me for my special victims experience. My preliminary research revealed Silent Hill was burnt up by mine fires which are still lit under the town. They likely caused the church fire. There were several superstitions regarding the town, that is was haunted or once run by cults. There was a report involving a local cop, Cybil Bennett, who died mysteriously after supposedly following a tourist into the town. That report was vague, only mentioning that her body was found in an amusement park with a single gunshot wound.

I readjust my button-down and put my tie back on before I leave the room. I check the time on my practical watch. It reads 1:45 in the afternoon. 'Damn, we've been interrogating since seven this morning.' As I step out, I peer at the overdressed Director of the local office, Don Mesiliere. He glares at me, displeased at the interruption. I mentally flick him off as I watch Judi scurry toward the ladies room. The guy is a jerk, who thinks he's some king because he's Director. I just remind myself I don't work for him. I wade through the overcrowded offices, where agents like me are coordinating other details of my investigation or investigations similar to mine. I pitch pleasant hellos in their direction as I make my way through the office. They all respond with heys or how are yous in passing. Their assistants shuffle around them, trying to obey their bosses overwhelming commands. Cubicles line the busy room, cutting up the stale white walls and boring grey carpet. Halogen lights give the strewn paperwork and files a bluish hue, making it the only other color in the room. I dodge several busy people on my way to the employee break room. This office is awful busy for being in the middle of nowhere. The dull roar of the office dies when I enter the break room. A single table stands opposite a sink, cupboard and refrigerator. This room also shares the gray color tones of the other room. A lovely young assistant by the name of Cynthia is in the room stirring a cup of coffee for herself. Upon seeing her I say, “Good afternoon Cynthia.”
I think she's surprised I knew her name as she stiffens. “Good afternoon Agent Collins. How is that Silent Hill case coming along?”
I knew I couldn't go into specifics with her but a general answer is fine. “It's been difficult to work with the witnesses.”
Her eyes were pretty, a deep aqua color. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hear you came from D.C. How is it there?”
I lean on the counter next to her. “Too many tourists and too many politicians. But the FBI office there is huge and always insanely busy. Do you live around here?”
She takes a sip out of the Styrofoam cup. “I couldn't deal with all that craziness. I do in fact.”
I admire those eyes again as I say, “Do you like it here?”
Another sip. “Yeah. I hate all the ghost stories though.”
“I would too.”
She checks her watch. “Oh, I got to get going. It was nice talking to you, Agent Collins.”
I slip in, “Yeah. You too Cynthia,” as she leaves the room. She was a sweet gal, independent and stable. No sign of any traumatic experiences with her.

I open the fridge and snatch one of the Vanilla Cokes I had bought on the way to work. I crack it open and take a long swallow, allowing the sweet bubbly to wash my dry throat and fizz in my belly. I know better than to eat, that girl isn't done and something tells me the worst is to come. 'She can cook up some depraved shit, that one.' While in thought, my front pocket vibrates. I fumble the iphone out of my pocket and touch the answer key on the screen. “This is Special Agent Collins.”
The suave voice of my wife's divorce lawyer says, “Roger, this is Lydia Mortarse again.”
'Fuck. This is the third time this week.'
She continues, “Vanessa wanted me to tell you that you are welcome to keep the Cadillac.”
'Damn right, I can keep it. I paid for it.' It's another ploy to convince me to let Vanessa keep the house that I paid for too. I don't know why, Vanessa made plenty of money sucking cocks of the CEOs of a large bank chain. I actually think she made more than I did. I just had to put her name on the house and the car. Keeping my voice steady, “Mrs. Mortarse, I am keeping the car and the house. I'm sticking with the original cash offer. All other discussions will have to be made in the presence of my lawyer and when I'm back in D.C.” Vanessa was a doll of a gal, six years younger than me but couldn't handle my demanding work and lack of desire to have kids at 38. 'I wouldn't have married the bitch if I had known she was going to try to take everything I own in the divorce.'
Mrs. Mortarse paused, “Very well, Roger. I'll see you at the next consultation.” She hung up.
'I hate how the venomous snake used my first name. It's about time that bitch gave up hounding me.' My lawyer was going to have a heyday with her when he found out she had been calling me. I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water for the crazy before heading out into the office again. 'Maybe I should check on Judi.'

__________

Judi

As soon as me and Agent Collins leave the interrogation room, I bolt for the ladies room. I pass Director Mesiliere but he is too busy glaring at Agent Collins. After eight hours checking tapes and many bathroom breaks to puke up my breakfast, I look like hell. I need to make sure I look presentable. This is only my second week here so I have to make a good impression. My last job, while it never made me lose my breakfast, basically placed me as a personal slave to a fat, greasy CEO of a financial company. The CEO canned me for being too old and because I wouldn't do sexual favors for him. It was just wrong. This job is much better, other than that sicko in the interrogation room. Her descriptions of the monsters and the sex, it's too much for me.

I pass a couple storage rooms and more exhausted assistants. I empathize with them, knowing how demanding the Agents could be. Collins is handsome and has been very good with the interrogation so far. The Director is insulting about his demands. He brazenly called me an idiot when I jammed the printer on accident once. The Director is the my-shit-doesn't-stink kind of person. I put on perfume like I normally would the first day at the job.
After shaking my hand, he commented, “My dear, what is that retched smell coming from you?” He wrinkled his nose. Mind you, I buy my perfume from Avon.
I stumbled over my words, “Perfume, s-sir.”
He grimaced before saying, “Well, you should consider purchasing perfume from a more high end retailer in the future.” He then avoided me all day.
Panty-wearing snob. Not all of us rake in the big bucks straight out of taxpayers pockets. I shouldn't think such things, considering now my payroll comes from taxpayer dollars as well.

I pace into the bathroom, realizing I'm grumpy due to the grueling interrogation I've had to sit through. Before barging into the stalls, I notice how dirty they are. Dirty, like the janitor hasn't cleaned them in days. Dust clings to the gray-painted metal and the handles are filmy with oil. I skip the stalls and move to the sinks. They are just as filthy with the mirrors coated in dust. I lightly tap the hot water spigot on. I look at my gaunt, malnourished appearance. My gray hair is disheveled. Dark lines trace circles under my glassy eyes. My flesh is white, pulled tight against my bones. I splash hot water on my face, smoothing my hair and being careful not to get any water on my silk blouse. I dry my face. I look much better afterwards. It must be my negative outlook affecting how I see things. I adjust my blouse, tucking it into my pencil skirt. I pull my tights up snug around my thighs. I puff out the sleeves on my blouse. I let my hair down before curling it back up into a bun at the nape of my neck.

When I look back up into the mirror, a face is behind me. I jump and yelp, the presence surprising me. Only once I realize it's Director Mesiliere does my heart rate come down. I turn to face him. His finely tailored figure blocked the door out of the bathroom.
He asks, “When you're finished, can you come to my office, Judi?”
I stutter, “Y-y-yes, sir.”
He leaves out the door again. I quickly double check my appearance before gathering my things and leave the bathroom. I walk through the busy center office to the stairs. I tromp up the stairs leading to the executive offices of the building. The decor undergoes a complete change up here, the carpet is a plush brown. The walls are painted in tan and deep sienna. There is art on the walls. Each office has a wood door with glass and the name of the executive in monotype print. The one on the very end and the largest is the director's. His office has a pair of double doors with his name in cursive on the wood. The doors don't have glass. I knock politely on the door.
From inside, “Come in.”
I enter the office. I had never been up here before. It was extravagantly plain. A cumbersome oak desk before oak shelves lined with books. A large wood filling cabinet lined the opposite wall. Wood and leather chairs sat in front of the desk. The director looks at me expectantly as I enters, from his chair behind the desk. There is nothing personal in the office, no pictures of family, no mementos of the director's likes. It's odd.

He starts the conversation, “Judi, I've been wanting to talk to you about you work performance.”
It was the conversation I dreaded. I nod, sitting down to brace for the words I didn't want to hear.
He get up and walks over to the door, “Normally, your performance is grounds for termination,” - he clicks the lock over on the door - “but I'm willing to make an exception if...” He pauses.
'Why me?' I know what's coming. But I need this job so badly. My savings from the last job just ran out. My husband died just over a year ago. I had a mortgage to pay, a son in college and a car payment.
I try diplomacy first, “I apologize, sir. I will correct any errors I have been making.”
He looks down, “Yes, of course I would expect nothing less of you. However, I still need incentive to keep you on board, dear.”
Bile rises in my throat for the fifth time today. At least he is attractive and can't be more than five years older than me, unlike the CEO of the last company I worked for. He is still a prick.
He must have seen the horror on my face, “Don't worry, dear. You only need to do three things. Do as I say, don't make a sound and don't tell anybody about this. Not so hard, huh?”
Putting my head down in defeat, I mumble, “No sir.”
He comes closer to me, asking with satisfaction in his voice, “So do will you do it?”
I feel like crying. 'Exploited again, poor Judi. It'll be alright, I'll just imagine it's my husband or something.' I nod.
He states flatly, “You have to say it aloud, dear.”
Gritting my teeth, I murmur, “I'll do your favor for you.”

The director's mood shifts. With gaiety, “Splendid. I was worried I would have to twist you arm.” He moves directly in front of me and removes a gold ring from his right hand. He places it on the desk in front of me. He motions for me to stand. Reaching under the topcoat of his suit, he unbuttons the front of his pants. He pulls the zipper down, reaches in and pulls out his limp member. With a grin on his face, he asks, “With you deal with this, dear? We obviously can't proceed without him paying attention to the situation.” I probably visibly cringed but got down on my knees. After my hesitation, he caresses my cheek willing my mouth near the flaccid member. I'm not entirely certain how to proceed. I haven't given oral in a few years and even then it was infrequent. I take it in my hand and lick the tip. I rub up and down on the soft cock until it stiffens up a bit. After that I take the entire thing into my mouth. I pull out and push back in, allowing his cock to rub along the top of my tongue. His penis was getting harder as I continued sucking on it. I sucked it my cheeks a little to put suction on the cock as I bobbed in and out onto it. The director was moving with me, driving his hips toward me. His cock touched the back of my throat. My gag reflex activated and I choked. I held the cock in my mouth continuing to suck his cock but not allowing it to touch my throat. The director put his hand behind my head. I worked more vigorously, bobbing my head back and forth quicker and with more force. The director then pushed my head in, forcing his cock into my throat. I gagged and sputtered. Tears came to my eyes. I hated this. I couldn't breath. He finally let up and I stopped.

He grabs my arm and drags me up. He throws me onto the desk face first, forcing me to catch myself with my arms. I didn't know how I am going to handle that retched girl after this. The director wrenches up my skirt. He yanks down my undergarments. With each movement, I stiffen, cringing. I feel his perfectly manicured fingers prod at my arid pussy. I don't find this situation arousing one bit. He seemingly doesn't mind, as he simply runs his hands up my body. Those hands grasp my breasts through the silk blouse and padded bra. He fondles and pinches them until he gets a squirm .His hands then find their way back to my ass. One hand perches on my left asscheek as the other plays with my labia. He plays until I squirm again, signifying that he found the right spot. His other hand assists the first hand on, fingering my lightly moist hole. He continues with this until I am wet enough for him. I am in a hurry to get this over with but disappointed with how little time it took to get me excited. I hear him unbutton, unzip and pull down his pleated slacks. I clamp my jaw shut when I feel his cockhead against my engorged pussy lips. I brace myself against the desk, readying for his forced entry. He pushes slowly at first, the tip working itself into the folds of my only partially moist cunt. Once past the initial barrier, he rams into me. I swallow a yell as thigh hits thigh, and he bottoms out within me. He pauses before pulling out slowly. When the head hits the barriers, he pushes roughly back in. He is slow, hard and precise. Every time he pushes back in, it rattles me, forcing me to swallow another scream.

I feel him get anxious, his hands grip, his breathing becomes heavy and he bottoms out harder with every stroke. He quickens his pace, fucking me faster. It mellows the force of each stroke, making it more pleasurable. With each stroke not causing excrutiating pain, I actually start to enjoy the feeling of him inside me. My breathing picks up and I push against him. He is working vigorously now, his balls slapping against me with every stroke. I hear grunts come from him in exertion. He is working up to his orgasm, something that relieves me greatly to hear. He grasps at my breast again, drilling me faster with every moment that passes. I glance up into the mirror. He adamantly watches himself fuck me. I look down in disdain but not before noticing my expression is warped by pleasure and pain. He reaches his crescendo, going up onto his toes and silently bellowing. His dick twitches, spewing hot fluid into my dripping cunt. It spills four loads into me before quitting. He pulls the limp member out and I crumple to my knees. He calmly puts his flaccid member back into his slacks as he pulls them up. He moves over to the sink and scrubs his hands vigorously before putting the gold ring back on. He looks looks at me lovingly before cooing at me, “No telling, okay love? Oh dear, and do clean yourself up before proceeding with the interrogation.”

He walks out. I punch the wall, wanting to scream. 'Fucking sadistic son of a bitch.'

_______

Don

I smooth out my collar as I leave my office. She is a tad older than my usual pursuits, but was overall complacent. Her cunt is nice and tight as an added bonus. I need the stress relief. That crazed sexual deviant in the interrogation room has put me through a personal form of hell. The rape scene between her precious Alessa and the janitor was especially torturous. I had to hide my erection the entire time she was telling the scene. I want her, Zoe, unlike anyone I have ever desired after in my existence. She is mad, no doubt, she belongs in a mental health facility for the rest of her life. I pray I get some alone time with her before they put her there.

I walk back to the office area just outside the interrogation rooms. Agent Collins is no doubt still dawdling about. I watch the busy agents and assistants tense as I pass them. A few even stop and acknowledge me. They better. I hold all of their jobs in my hands. In this office, I'm god. I watch two security guards haul a ratty-looking man toward the interrogation rooms. He's rambling loudly, echoing across the office. I ignore him, spotting Roger at the vending machine. He's fighting the machine over a dollar bill. I approach him and he notices me. He addresses me, “Director.”
I ask him, “What are your impressions of the case thus far, Collins?”
He stops fighting the machine and faces me. He rakes his hand through his hair. “Zoe's delusional. She's experienced a severely traumatic event, but this has to be paired with a mental illness. She needs to be evaluated by a psychologist for this, though.”
I agree with him, nodding. “We should allow her to finish her statement. Then it should be read by a specialist, afterward.”
He furrows his busy brow. “Should I be the one to finish the interrogation, considering her mental state?”
I hear the rambler get louder. “Yes. You're trained to deal with trauma victims. It will suffice,” - I am interrupted by the rambler. Roger and I pay attention to the commotion. I don't know Roger that well, just enough to know that he cannot be aware of my sexual pursuits in the office. He is not fond of me much, the feeling is mutual.

The guards are trying to fruitlessly silence the ratty man. Between their loud shushes and the man's yelling, I have trouble making out any words. The one word I catch freezes me in place. “Alessa,” echoes across the office loud and concise. I unflinchingly tromp across the room toward the ratty man. The guards notice me, stand at attention and address me. The tattered man calms at my presence, eyeing me. I take in his appearance. He is in worn black t-shirt and jeans with graying work boots. This is all covered in a dark tan modern trench coat. He appears clean, though his brown hair is whipped around his head out of a loose ponytail. His features unsettle me. Attractive high arched eyebrows, defined cheekbones and thin lips are warped by a mask of insanity. This is further enforced by a single velvet glove on his right hand.
I ask the guards shortly, “Name and reason for questioning?”
The one on the right answers, “Edgar Dale. Wanted for questioning as a person of interest in a string of brutal murders along Virginia and DC.”
I bring my attention back to Mr. Dale. He stares back at me with rust-colored eyes. That one is a companion investigation that was taken over by a profiling group out of the DC office. The file did come across my desk at some point. The murders were seemingly random people butchered like cattle. It was delightfully gruesome. I care more about what Mr. Dale seems to know about the Silent Hill case.

“How do you know that name you called out, Mr. Dale?” I ask him.
He stays silent for a moment. Finally in a rushed babble, “The bricks told me of her, of her savior, of your doom.” He stops again.
I did not immediately dismiss it for mad rambling, instead I bid him continue.
He does, giving a long speech,
“She's much too old for me now.
Quickly, she grew, I don't really know how.
Cute young things, cooing in my ear.
SHHS ensigned on their wear.
The screeching rats clawing on rusted walls.
The wire has barbs, clanging it's retched call.
The rats burn a pretty green color.
I can't see through the fog.
The Church makes puppies into dogs.
The dark and iron hides the moon.
You're all gonna need your tetanus shots soon
Have you seen the man with the iron box on his head yet?
Don't worry, he'll soon make you all his pet.
He still owes me a ham sandwich.”
Something strange then happens with the mad man. His expression straightens, fixing into a sane look. His eyes become severe and his mouth forms a line. He leans toward me. He whispers with a stern voice, “You are all going to die.” He leans back up with the same severe look on his face.

'Fucking crazy.' I wave at the guards to take him away. Mr. Dale stares at me while the guards drag him away. He got under my skin, that one. I shake it off and look at Agent Collins. He is entranced by the girl in the interrogation room.

______


Zoe

I manage to shake off the cloudiness in my head after the Agent leaves the room. The sterile featureless room mocks me. I escape one prison just to enter another. I can't even think about that place right now. I had been telling my story on autopilot, letting the words come out without thinking about them. The Agent was a nice man, with far too many demons of his own to be of any solace to me. I could tell he thought I was sick and absolutely nuts, but at least he seemed to credit it to the apparent trauma on my body. His assistant however was sickened by the words I said, excusing herself frequently. She thought I was just plain crazy. It's the look in people's eyes gives it away when they address you.

I feel so numb. My face, my hands. I can hardly believe I'm alive, let alone still aware of myself. Part of me wants to curl of in a ball and never speak again while the other wants to run free under the moonlight, laughing. 'What now? What will I do if these people let me go? Go back to college, back to my parents, my few friends. Kyle.' Thinking of him physically hurts me. I cringe and double over. I should of told him where I was going and why. I didn't because I didn't want him to follow me. It's like I knew something horrible was going to happen. 'Can I tell him what had happened? Can I repeat this story to him?' I would have to explain all this to him somehow. I could use what the FBI was likely to declare this as: Girl assaulted by group of mysterious individuals in small abandoned town. There would be no mention of my statement except to support that I was suffering from psychological trauma as a result of the attack. That's if they didn't pin the dead body on me and lock me in a white room for the rest of my life. I can't think of that either. Another jolt of pain strikes me as Alessa's face comes to my mind. This one doubles me over to the point of putting my forehead to the table.
I stand abruptly, forcing the thought out of my head. I face the giant mirror on the wall. At first, I see the sterile plain room with dead-looking desperate me sitting in the middle of it. I look away to see something out of the corner of my eye. It's me but twisted. Corpsely pale with my hair in my face. Rust-colored eyes stare back at me with gleeful malice. A shudder rushes through my body as I stare at the twisted me. It, she, me mouths the word “Mine.”
I gasp and turn away.

­-----------


Roger

When the Director walks away to deal with the unruly man in the office, I begin thinking about the crazy I have to continue to interrogate. I walk over to the interrogation room she's in. She's sitting quietly, probably lost in her own thoughts. 'Gawd, I'm tired.' I think as fatigue hit me. We probably still have four more hours of interrogation, as well. It's not like I have anything better to do other than sleep. I'm staying in a hotel about 15 minutes away from the office. 'What's the point? She's going to get an insanity plea regardless.' I look down at the water bottle I brought for her.

When I look back up at her, she starts to change. I furrow my brow, confused. Her hair starts to darken, from root to tip, turning pitch black. Her skin loses its color fading to white. I look back down and shake my head. 'I must be exhausted if I'm seeing things.' I look back up and everything is back to normal. I feel a tap on my shoulder that makes me jump. I whip around to see the Director looking rather impatient at me.
He says, “I didn't mean to startle you but I would like to continue with the interrogation now.”
I nod, wondering where Judi is. I can technically start without her but she is probably still in the ladies room not feeling well. I enter the interrogation room without her. Zoe notices me but doesn't say anything. I settle back down in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs. I place the bottled water on the table. The girl timidly takes it and unscrews it. She takes a deliberate swig before putting it back down. Judi comes in shortly, looking slightly less ill but more tired. She sits down and fiddles with the recorder. When she starts it again, I take that as my queue to talk to the girl. I ask her, “Zoe would you like to continue where you left off?” She nods and begins to speak again.