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Silent Valley Chronicles: The Secrets of the Valley
墨書 Inktalez
Thick fog serves as a gateway to another world. It swallows light, distorts direction, intertwining reality and illusion. Have you ever wondered what might happen if you found yourself lost in such fog, inadvertently stepping into a strange little town? Arthur's experience may provide the answer.
The " Silent Valley " he stumbled upon was no ordinary town marked on a map; it was shrouded in an eerie atmosphere, concealing secrets unknown to most. Everything began with the brittle crack of tires rolling over dry twigs.
The sound of tires crunching over the branches echoed like a bone snapping. Arthur checked his navigation for the seventh time, the blue-lit screen persistently displaying "Recalculating Route." The fuel warning light on the dashboard had lit up at some point, and he realized with a jolt that the fuel gauge had already dipped below the red line.
The fog seemed alive, seeping through the gap of the partially open window and crystallizing into frost flowers on the passenger seat. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel just as his headlights swept across a rusted road sign. The faded blue paint barely formed the words " Silent Valley 3 miles," with an arrow pointing to a left fork.
Arthur stared at his reddened eyes in the rearview mirror, his palm slick with cold sweat as he gripped the steering wheel. The rubber and leather squeaked in an unsettling manner. The asphalt road transformed into gravel as he entered the town, and a series of sharp knocks echoed from beneath the car.
The wrought-iron archway at the town's entrance was entwined with dark purple vines, wrapping around a sign that read "Welcome to Silent Valley " like veins. Arthur rolled down the window, and the briny mist instantly choked him—like inhaling crystals evaporated from seawater. "Is anyone there?" he called out, but his voice was swallowed by the fog.
On either side of the street, Victorian buildings stood as silent spectators, shadows flickering behind stained glass windows. A hardware store displayed a 1950s-style lawnmower in its window, while a copper bell on the revolving door handle was ensnared in cobwebs. As Arthur reached out to touch it, the web vibrated violently, as if every spider in the street was sounding an alarm.
A brass doorknob at a restaurant bore a sign reading "Open," but when he pushed through the door, the rusty hinges groaned like they were dying. Fifteen small round tables draped with lace tablecloths sat empty except for one—an elderly woman poking at mashed potatoes with her fork.
The tips of her fork clinked rhythmically against the porcelain plate, pausing every seven strikes like the chime of a clock.
"Today's special is creamy stew," the waitress announced, having appeared behind Arthur without him noticing, her apron embroidered with the name "Maggie."
Her gaze remained fixed on a point just beyond Arthur's left shoulder as she spoke, the curve of her smile measured and precise.
When Arthur inquired about the gas station, Maggie's movements came to an abrupt halt, the clash of knife and fork producing a jarring screech.
A burly man emerged from behind the bar, clad in a butcher's apron stained with dark red that bore no resemblance to ketchup.
"The road out of town?" he asked, twisting a cloth between his thick fingers. Arthur noticed the smooth edge where his left pinky was missing.
"We've never left the valley since we were born."
Arthur's fork hovered mid-air.
Carrots floated in the stew, perfectly carved into heart shapes, while the cauliflower was arranged in a mandala pattern.
Excusing himself to the restroom, he discovered a whole slab of beef in the kitchen freezer, its veins pulsing with a silvery liquid.
Upon returning to his table, he found Maggie using a ladle to reshape the stew into a sunflower design, each onion slice perfectly curved.
As the sun began to set in the west, the street was suddenly filled with the sound of doors slamming shut.
The bookstore owner hurriedly pulled down the iron gate, while the bakery owner knocked over an entire tray of baguettes in her panic.
When the last ray of sunlight vanished behind the ridge, only one window on the second floor of the inn remained lit by a flickering kerosene lamp.
"Your room is at the end of the hallway," said the innkeeper, whose keyring had three fewer teeth than usual; he licked his empty gums as he spoke.
The pine floor groaned painfully beneath Arthur's feet, while mold patterns on the wallpaper resembled a map.
In the nightstand drawer lay a guestbook from 1947, with the latest signature dated three days ago—identical to his own name.
As the Midnight Bell Chime echoed from the clock tower at the town center, Arthur was prying open a sealed window with his Swiss Army Knife.
The second Tolling Bell rattled dust from the window frame; by the third chime, the flame of the kerosene lamp on his bedside turned an eerie bluish-white.
When the twelfth resonance faded away, silhouettes emerged from within the thick fog—those residents who had been stiff as puppets during daylight were now waltzing toward the clock tower under moonlight that stretched their shadows like marionettes on strings.
Arthur's fingers dug deeply into the windowsill, splinters of pine digging into his palm. He pulled out the silver button he had found in the restaurant, examining the hexagram pattern etched on its back in the moonlight. Suddenly, laughter from children echoed from the direction of the clock tower, so bright it could pierce through the thick fog, causing all the dancing figures to freeze in place like marionettes.
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