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Everything was normal when you went to sleep. You were staying at the Lakeview Hotel in Silent Hill, enjoying a weekend of rest. The room was comfortable, the hotel bar serviceable, and the view of the foggy lake dreary and calming.
But when you wake up again in the middle of the night, your room is unrecognizable. The rug is filthy and matted with blood, the wallpaper peeling away over old rotten wood and mold. Filthy heaps of rags are piled in the corners, and the bathroom door is boarded shut, with a terrible smell coming from underneath it.
The hallway outside doesn’t look any better. Everything is dark and disgusting, decaying and peeling and falling apart. Sections of the floor are simply missing, stapled over with nothing but flimsy lengths of chain-link to let you step across the darkness below. This place is more than abandoned. It’s deranged. It’s like a nightmare. How could it have become like this overnight?
As you draw near the end of the hallway, you freeze in your tracks. A figure stands stock still in the darkness before you. It’s a man wearing a filthy blood-splattered smock. His head is an enormous unnatural red shape, angled like a long sharp beak. You struggle to understand, until you realize that it’s a huge triangular helmet, bolted together from large plates of rusted red metal.
Slowly, wordlessly, he raises one blood-splattered glove to point an accusing finger in your direction. You don’t need to see any more than that. You turn and run. You hear his heavy footfalls as he follows behind you. You try doors at random as you pass, violently jiggling the rusted handles, but they’re all jammed shut.
Finally one door opens and you stumble inside. You don’t even realize in your fear and panic that you’ve returned to your own room. You slam the door shut behind you and lock the deadbolt. As you back away, something slams into the door from the other side, hard enough to splinter the flimsy wood. He’s going to break the fucking door down. And then you’ll be trapped in here with him.
You look frantically around the room. You try the window, but it’s rusted shut—and besides, there’s nothing beyond the glass except alien, impenetrable darkness. You throw open the flimsy closet doors instead and throw yourself inside, shutting them behind you with a clatter. Another slam on the front door, and this time it practically splits in half, sending splinters and broken bits of board flying into the room.
Trembling, holding your breath, looking through the slats of the closet door, you watch the butcher stalk into the room. His gait is heavy and labored, like every step pains him. The enormous helmet swings slowly left and right. You get the creeping feeling that he’s scenting the air, trying to sniff you out. But the effort fails him, because he passes by your hiding place and moves deeper into the room. Oh God. This might be your only chance.
You throw yourself out of the closet and run for the hallway. You almost make it through the door. But he grabs you by the back of your shirt and yanks you back against his body, and then his muscular arms are banded around your torso, trapping you in his unbreakable grasp. He’s incredibly strong. You claw at his arms, trying to break his grip, but he doesn’t even flinch when your nails draw blood. His powerful body presses into your back, muscles bunching with his hold on you as you try to fight him off, as he lifts you clean off your feet, kicking and screaming, and carries you back into the room to throw you over the edge of the dirty old bed, pinning you there with his hips.
You moan raggedly, and tears fill your eyes, because you can feel the overheated length of his erection, thick and heavy where it’s pressed against your backside. The more you struggle, wriggling against him, the thicker and harder it gets. He uses one large hand to pin your upper body to the bed, and he uses the other to roughly yank your underwear down your legs. You struggle harder, but it’s useless—he has you pinned completely. You feel him adjusting himself behind your back, hiking up the fabric of his bloody smock, and then you feel the thick hot head of his cock pressing against you. It slides against your lips, slipping between your thighs, and that’s when you realize that you’re already dripping wet, perversely turned on by your own desperate struggling, by his possessive, unbreakable hold on your body. He tries again, gripping himself in his thick fist, wriggling the tip in between your lips until he feels your entrance, and then pressing himself inside. He’s enormous, stretching you to your limit, and his penetration is not gentle; there’s pain in spite of how wet you are. He sinks himself into you, and his powerful body shudders with relief as your dripping wet heat clenches spastically around his cock. He groans gutturally, a deep inhuman lowing like an animal. Is he even human? What the fuck is under that helmet?
He starts to rock his hips, harder and harder until he’s brutally thrusting, one large hand gripping your hip and the other pressing your shoulders into the mattress. He bends low over your body, thrusting deeper, another inhuman groan rolling out of him, and you fall under the looming shadow of the long red helmet. Your eyes roll up to stare, trying to see into the shadowy darkness under the red triangle, but it’s too dark to make anything out.
His thrusting cock feels enormous inside you, stretching your walls to the limit and hitting deeper than you would have thought possible. Tears and snot are running down your face, and your heart aches with terrified shame, because oh my god it feels so fucking good. You barely even recognize the pressure building up inside you, all mixed together with the fear and pain, until the first shuddering spasms wrack your cunt, and you start to orgasm helplessly around his cock, transported temporarily from this hell by a burst of pure euphoria. Behind your back, he thrusts himself deep into your body and groans as he unloads himself inside you.
You lie there pinned beneath his sweating body, and you hear the heavy breathing coming from beneath the helmet. Your mind is completely blank. The heavy hand on your shoulders slides up to your neck, and the gloved fingers slip around to grip your throat. But then a sound rises in the heavy silence—the distant wail of an air raid siren.
The beast releases your throat. The thick flaccid length of his penis slides out of you as he pulls away, leaving you feeling empty, almost bereft. You hear him drag himself heavily out of the room behind your back, and then you’re completely alone.
You press your face into the musty rotten mattress and lie there in numb shock while the sound of the siren fades away in the distance. What are you supposed to do now? Even with the devil gone, you’re still in hell. But when you finally raise your head again, you’re stunned to find that the room around you has been miraculously restored to its original condition: a pristine, placid, boring hotel room. The quiet murmur of hotel activity drifts into your ears from down the hall, and through the window, the dreary gray fog rolls in endlessly over the lake.