Play@YSDC

Murray awakens on the floor of what appears to be a janitor's closet. The room around him smells musty and faintly mildewy but there is no faint vibration of ancient fans turning nearby. There is no cloying warmth. There is just the ordinary sensation of a faintly dusty room and the sound of a radio crackling in the other room. The floor is cool and rough beneath his cheek. They certainly hadn't smoothed it out here. His clothing is roughly abraded, stained in places, but otherwise he seems intact. There is a hole in the wall that veers upward into a rusty chute. The hole itself seems roughly made, and from the outside, as though the chute itself had forced its way into this room. Murray's head aches and his mouth is dry. He's thirsty. Very thirsty. The room itself contains cleaning supplies on neat little metal benches and a large metal sink.

Murray drags himself back to his feet. I'm not crazy or suicidal enough to drink those cleaning supplies, he thinks. The sink is a better bet. He heads over to it and tries the taps.

The water sputters out rusty for a few seconds but it gradually clears. It tastes a little greasy, like it's been left to stagnate for too long, but seems otherwise okay.

Once Murray's thirst has been quenched, he goes to the door and puts his ear to it.

The soft wash of water against wooden pilings regales his ear, alongside the distant squawking of sea gulls.

It sounds more normal out there than it has in a long time.

Is this it? Has he made it?

After making sure the shotgun's safety is engaged, Murray sticks it barrel-first into an inside pocket of his trenchcoat, its grip sticking out where he can draw it if he needs it, so as to conceal it from view in case he's somewhere normal with people around. He tries the door.

...and finds himself on a fog-shrouded docks. He can see a figure - a woman judging by the dress - walking away from him along the wooden planks, her body a silhouette in the fog. Her gait seems familiar but it's hard to be certain at this distance.

Murray straightens his fedora on his head and steps outside, walking briskly after the woman in the hopes of getting close enough to identify her, yet taking silent steps so as not to alert her to his presence just yet.

The woman seems to match his pace with drifts of mist partially obscuring her here and then. She seems to be heading back toward the shoreline, perhaps toward the lighthouse whose light breaches the fog on occasion.

The lighthouse, thinks Murray. That's where Ash was. I wonder if maybe this is her. He continues following her.

He follows her into the fog toward the lighthouse but the fog seems strangely thicker as they approach the winding path by the shoreline and soon she is swallowed up by the fog. Moments later he stumbles at the edge of a collapsed pier, water lapping past him below. It looks to be a six foot drop and quite cold. He can hear hammering behind him and as he turns to look the fog clears a little and he can see the construction of a café on the other side of the road. There's a single builder up on the wooden lengths, wearing a stained pale yellow shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some canvas trousers.

Murray crosses the road, looking both ways first, and approaches the construction site. "Excuse me, sir!" he calls up to the construction worker. "I'm trying to get to the lighthouse. Do you know how I can get there from here?"

"The pier's broken," says the construction worker, shading his eyes as he gazes down at Murray. The man wears neither hard hat nor orange safety vest. The scaffolding looks a bit wonky as well. He must be doing it himself as the owner.

"Thanks, I saw that," says Murray. "Do you know any other way to get there? Is there a place I can catch a boat or something?"

"There is a boat launch by the Silent Hill Historical Society building over on Nathan Avenue," says the fellow. "You ever been down by there? A closer point is the Lakeview Hotel who sometimes has the occasional boat for romantic Honeymoons on their little pier. That's just off West Sandford Street but it's on your way to the boat launch so you might as well stop by there and see if it's got what you need." He pauses. "Why you wanna get to the lighthouse so bad anyway? You the new keeper?"

"No, I'm meeting someone there," says Murray. "Thanks, I'll head down by way of the hotel. I've been there before, but I haven't been to the Historical Society yet."

Murray is already on the right road at least. It shouldn't take him too long once he passes these two building skeletons and moves on down the road.

Murray walks between the two buildings under construction and heads towards the hotel. I don't remember seeing any construction while I was on my way to the hotel, he thinks. The town looked pretty built up already. Of course, it's been changing so much that nothing should surprise me.

He doesn't walk far down West Sandford Street before an old car with a gleaming fresh coat of paint trundles past him. It looks to be a black late thirties Plymouth but it is quickly swallowed by the fog before he can make out anything more about it.

What a sweet ride! Murray thinks as he continues towards the hotel. Whoever owns that baby really restored her well. She looks good as new! You don't see many classic cars like that nowadays, more's the pity. The closest thing to it is a PT Cruiser. I ought to drive one of those.

OOC,I had a feeling! :D [b]Murray[/b]'s still clueless for now, but I'm sure he'll soon be confronted with proof he can't rationalize.

As he heads along the bridge, toward the end of it, he sees a man fishing off the bridge.

Aren't there meant to be regulations against that?

They must do things differently here, thinks Murray. He tips his hat to the man as he walks past him.

The man gives him a smile and a wave. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

He doesn't seem to notice the fog.

Maybe it's foggy around here all the time, thinks Murray, waving and smiling back. "It sure is," he says. "Reminds me of home." There's nothing like a fog coming in off of the bay to make Frisco seem even more mysterious.

"You're not from around here," says the man cheerily. "Whereabouts you from, stranger?"

"San Francisco," says Murray. "Ever been there?"

"Nope, never been out of the city," says the man with a shrug. "It nice there? Cheery? Anyway, what're you doing around these parts anyway? You looking for somebody?"

"Yeah, Frisco's great!" says Murray. "You're right, I am looking for someone. A dame named Cara Ashby. She also goes by Ash."

"Cara Ashby," says the man, musing. "Hmm, there's some Ashbys in one of the towns over ... though we've got a bit of a rivalry with that town so I wouldn't know for sure. Does she have any interests? Might be I could help you if I knew more about her."

"Yeah, she does have family in that town," says Murray. "Recently, I know she's gone bowling and been to the amusement park and a bar. She was also apparently at a gentlemen's club called Heaven's Night of all places. Last I heard she was at the lighthouse, which is where I was just heading."

"Well it seems you know much more about her than I ever could," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Women! Am I right? She your wife? Wives are always drifting about the place. My wife was supposed to bring lunch out to me but she's late as per usual." He pauses. "You're on the right path to the amusement park and gentleman's club. The lighthouse is back that way, though the repairs likely will block your way."

"Thanks. I found out the hard way that the way to the lighthouse was blocked," says Murray. "I'm heading to the hotel to see if I can get a ride on a boat out the back. She's not my wife. I'm a private detective, and her husband hired me to track her down."

"Wives, huh? If I had to pay a P Eye to go grab my wife back, I'd truly let her know I meant business. Good luck with the hotel. The boat's normally kept nice and ready for any such trips but it'll cost ya ... or rather, cost him. I assume you make him pay expenses?"

"Natch," says Murray. "And thanks."

"You got any questions about the town could help, ask away." The man pauses. "Say, this woman you're talking about ... she pretty?"

"Yeah, she's pretty," says Murray, taking out the small photograph that her husband had given him and showing it to the man. "Ever seen her before?"

"Hmm, yeah, I think I saw her go by in a hurry awhile back. She kept looking over her shoulder like she'd expected to be taken by wolves or something. Think she'd been crying too, her mascara was all runny. You'd think a woman would take better care of herself! It's shameful, though not as shameful as leaving your lawful husband in the lurch. They got kids?"

"One: a little girl named Lilliana," says Murray. "Which way was she running when you saw her, and how long ago?"

"The way you were going about, oh, I don't know. It's funny. Whenever I start fishing, I can't quite remember how long I been fishing."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," says Murray. It's like my grandfather says, the point of fishing isn't to catch fish. "The same thing happens to me when I'm on a stakeout. What points of interest are in he direction she went?"

"Bowling alley, gentleman's club, the Lakeside Amusement Park primarily." He grunts. "What'll you do when you find her?"

"Get her to go home to her family," says Murray. "Thanks, those are all places she's been known to frequent, so she's most likely at one of them. I'll just check each one as I come to it."