Call it a twisted sense of humor by the universe. Call it Karma. Or perhaps just the worst contrived coincidence possible. It doesn’t change what happened. No amount of prayer or good luck will miraculously grant you a way out. No amount of plain introspection will give you answers.

No. That’s a job for the town of Silent Hill.

At first, when you found yourself here, with little memory on how, it looked like a normal, if not desolate town. Fog hung low like a funeral shroud. Ramshackle buildings served as hollow shells for a once-thriving resort town. Missing posters and mayflies and ads for some strange church of The Order cover the streetlights. It’s as if the town itself is being warped by something malignant.

Soon, the pervasive feeling of being watched becomes more than just paranoia. You had learnt that the hard way as you stand over the bludgeoned remains of some twisted humanoid thing; the torrential rain washing the crimson onto the street.

The fact is crystal clear and as on-the-nose as one could get-- in order to get out alive, you have to fight.

The monsters. The ever-changing, labyrinthine geometry itself. And most importantly, your own psyche.

Some that fail don’t get the mercy of passing on.