Shadows of the Past

Prologue

His eyes slowly opened, and the world tilted violently. Pain lanced through his skull, sharp and unforgiving, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was—couldn't remember anything beyond the chaos in his mind. The car lay still around him, the engine dead, its once familiar hum replaced by an eerie silence. Outside, the fog was thick, swirling lazily like something alive, smothering the landscape in pale gray. The dim glow of headlights cut weakly through the mist, casting eerie shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the cracked asphalt.

His chest heaved, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he wiped the blood from his brow and forced himself to focus. The car. The crash.

The kids.

Panic surged through him, snapping him to attention. He twisted in his seat, ignoring the sharp pain that shot up his spine. His eyes darted to the backseat. Empty. Seatbelts undone, his children—his little boy and girl—were gone.

"No. No, no, no..." His voice cracked, a hollow whisper. He fumbled with the seatbelt, his hands shaking, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The latch clicked, and he shoved the door open, stumbling out into the cold, damp night.

The road was deserted. The thick fog rolled in waves, swallowing the trees, the sky, everything beyond a few feet of cracked asphalt. There was no sign of another car. No sign of anyone at all. He turned in every direction, calling their names into the suffocating mist, his voice raw, desperate.

"Emma! James!"

Silence. Only silence.

He staggered to the back of the car, his legs weak beneath him. He checked the ground, as if they might be lying just out of sight, but there was nothing. No footprints, no signs of struggle. The seats were empty, as if they had vanished into thin air.

His heart thundered, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. What had happened? Where were they?

He screamed again, his voice growing hoarse, pleading with the emptiness. The mist seemed to swallow the sound, leaving him stranded in the eerie, echoing void. His mind raced, trying to grasp at memories of the crash—flashes of headlights, the screech of tires, a moment of impact. But nothing made sense. The fog made everything feel dreamlike, unreal.

Shaking, he began to walk. The road stretched ahead, barely visible through the veil of fog, winding into the unknown. He had to find them. He had to. Every step felt heavier than the last, dread tightening around him like a noose.

After what felt like an eternity, a dark shape loomed ahead. His heart leapt as he quickened his pace, hoping, praying for a sign—any sign—of life.

It was a sign. A rusted, weather-worn metal one. The words barely visible beneath layers of grime and neglect, but as he drew closer, the letters became clear:

"Welcome to Silent Hill."

The words sat there, heavy and ominous, cutting through the fog like a warning. Something inside him twisted, a deep, instinctual fear clawing at his insides.

He stood frozen, staring at the sign, a growing dread coiling in the pit of his stomach. Silent Hill.

The name echoed in his mind, unfamiliar but menacing. And with it, a cold realization crept over him: this place, wherever it was, held answers. But it also held something else. Something far darker.

He swallowed hard, his hands clenched into fists. He had no choice. His kids were out there, somewhere in the fog. And if this place was where the road led, he would follow it.