• I stand in front of the dingy mirror, looking at my greasy reflection. I see tired eyes, eyes that have seen horrible things, death. Before I tell you what happened in this god-forsaken town, I should tell you why I am here. I am James Sunderland. I am 29 years old. I am married. Or should I say was married? My wife… poor, lovely Mary… she contracted a horrible disease three years ago. I took her to every doctor and specialist in the state. The doctors were baffled, and so my sweet Mary… she died. Every day since that dismal day, I have been in mourning. I have hardly slept; I wandered back and forth from town to town. I was lost. Last week I received a letter in the mail. On the envelope there was a name written. Mary Shephard-Sunderland. My wife. The letter begged me to return to our “special place”. I knew at once that I should return to the town where Mary and I were married. Silent Hill. I was nearly there when my car spluttered and died. The engine wouldn’t turn over, so I got out and went into the small public restroom on the side of the road. After seeing nothing was there, I walked out to my car and picked up the map of Silent Hill. Folding it carefully, I pushed back the tears once more as I thought, Could Mary really be here? The dead can’t write letters, but here I am because of what the letter says-- and who it is from. Is Mary alive somehow? Does she know I’m here? I walked through the fog (thick and choking, can’t see through it) toward the highway that led toward town. As I drew near, I saw that the road was blocked with what was either a construction project or the scene of a major accident. I turned and returned to my car. I sat on the dented hood and pulled out my map. There has to be some way into town besides the highway. I remembered the path before I saw it on the map. It wound through the forest near Toluca Lake, and came out near Vacchs Road. The reason I remember is that I walked that path with Mary when we were children and even as teenagers. We used to go up and down that path all day, just talking… I took one last look at my car, our beaten-up old Honda, and turned towards the stairs that led to the path. I paced down the concrete stairs and reached the bottom. My car was now about fifteen feet above me, staring me down as if I should not go there. I shivered a little bit and continued down the rain-sodden trail. After walking for about five minutes, I opened and crossed through the familiar iron gate, signifying that I had officially entered my worst nightmare.