"We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones." ― Stephen King

This month, my victim is Nomar Knight who is widely known as a talented and published author. I hope you enjoy getting to know him.

I loosened my shirt collar, annoyed that the multitude of destitute souls soaked up the air-conditioning. I decided to see if I could freak her out so I faced the woman and asked, "Excuse me Miss, but do you have the time?"

Without glancing at me she said, "It's eight o'clock."

I almost fell back when her breath hit my face. I wanted to peek inside her mouth to verify if she had a dead possum in there. Disappointment struck me again. I longed for the old days when my life had purpose. The fact she didn't react to my charred face irked me.

A starless night in the big metropolis filled my senses with all kinds of odors. Perspiration of hard workers soaking their sorrows in tequila, rum, and other assorted poisons blended into the extraordinary landscape below. Nothing stirred on the rooftop as humidity held a firm grip on the living. I stayed behind a man while he stood on a ledge of a six story building.

"Jump!"

The stench of death and decay permeates the air, though I am not sure if it is the labyrinth beneath the shack giving off such a putrid smell. My clothes are as filthy and tattered as my surroundings, a reflection of the stagnant recesses of my soul. Wounds, both internal and external, fester with raging infection that seeps through my veins. I am the embodiment of all that is dying. Like withered ivy clinging to the side of an abandoned building, I cling to the last remnants of life.

They are terrifying dreams that enter us like a cold wind and dwell there driving the dreamer to despair, madness, or even death. Most of them have never been told before because words are unworthy of the task.

This is one of those dreams.

You have been warned....

Jeremy Monahan walked through the iron gates onto the cement pathway leading through the cemetery. This was his shortcut home every night; it was much quicker than walking the ten blocks around the cemetery, along the county highway (not that he would have minded the walk, of course). He liked the peace and quiet the final resting place brought, and sometimes he would wander a little, reading the names and dates. Tonight, however, he only wanted to get through as soon as possible. He did not like the silence. Apart from the owl's brief cry, the scraping of his shoes on the cement was the only sound.

Pam and I used to sit on this front porch and hand out sourballs. They were all we could afford. We'd listen to echoing giggles of trick-or-treaters and talk about having kids of our own some day. We'd laugh and eat candies until our tongues ached. We'd stay out here until the Jack-o'-lantern candle burnt itself into a puddle, and we could see our breath in the crisp air. These are the times I'm trying to think about tonight.

A lot's changed since then. No trick-or-treaters, no candy, no giggling. Pam's still here-she was just calling for me-but she's changed, too. Halloween's a day of mourning now. Hell, every day is a day of mourning, but October 31 marks the anniversary of when it began.

"You're so pale. Ugly and pale. You know that, right?"

Agnes turned her head and glared at the raven. Its beak was closed, and its beady eyes gazed at her without emotion. It didn't even give her the satisfaction of looking smug. She turned back to the mirror.

The bird was right, though. She was ugly and pale. Pale like an apparition. Her nose was grotesquely upturned, the nostrils two unsightly ovals in the middle of an unattractive face; irises the color of runny shit, and eyelids with no lashes; lips so thin, the color of a mild bruise.

I can never sleep, because with every blink I see him. He's everything in my room. The rustle of my flower-coated curtains, the form of my chair and coat, and the hunching trees outside my window, he's everything around me. During thunderstorms, he likes to tap on my window. As the rain trickled down his face, the hideous smile never deceased as he rasped on the glass with his long, jagged nails; his smile grew wider with every tap as the lightning laminated his face.
Smiling, Tap, Smiling, Tap, Smiling.

You wake to find yourself in a strange town covered in a dense fog. Strange sounds fill the air. You catch a glimpse of some kind of strange creature shuffling by, but you're not exactly sure what it is.

There aren't any definite rules, as Silent Hill is a town that is different for each person who visits it. Those who find themselves there find themselves in a waking nightmare. You can fight off zombie nurses and other strange creatures.

What are you searching for? What guilty secret haunts you? How will you escape Silent Hill?