Morning in Silent Hill, West Virginia, doesn't change from day to day. It's always gray, it's always dusty, it's always -- wait for it -- silent.
Time stands still in Silent Hill. It's the seventies forever, from the rusted cars abandoned along the Nathan Avenue main drag, to the Charleton Heston double feature on the billboard outside the Rialto, to the dust-obscured Gordon Lightfoot poster in the window of the record shop.
No one's lived here for the last thirty years, except those few abandoned pets and police dogs that were strong enough to survive on their own, to breed and run wild. No one even visits except for the occasional check-in by the county police, a couple of search and rescue missions over the decades, a photographer or two.
Nothing changes. Nothing ever will.
Except.
Except if nothing ever changes, then why, as the dim light spreads through town, are there sixteen strangers lying in the middle of the road?
[OOC: OPEN! Warning, many icons, links, and...pretty much the entire adventure will be understandably squicky. Welcome to horrorland! (Today, though, the place looks normal, just abandoned and fire-damaged. There's no ash falling yet.)]
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