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Grainy black-and-white photographs of mine elevators. Lopsided paintings of waterfront landscapes. Dusty tableware with descriptions typed out in 12-point Times New Roman. It was the kind of thing that bored James Sunderland to death. It figured he would marry a history teacher.
Said wife was hunched over a display case, both hands pressed against it as she eyed antique scalpels and hemostats. She finally noticed his stance reflected in the glass: two balled fists in the pockets of his jacket. She sighed, her hands slipping down from the case as she straightened to look at him at eye-level.
“Honey, you don’t have to stick around for my sake. I know you don’t like museums.”
He shrugged noncommittally, not looking at her and instead at the ceiling. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure? The park isn’t too far from here, you can—“
“Mary, I just said it was fine.”
Her lips pressed together, a dam against the appeasements that flowed from her mouth so readily. After a moment she exhaled, her fingers worrying together against the flower print of her dress. She turned away from the stalemate to observe a sepia photograph of a hospital. The sidewalks were streaked with the ghostly trails of pedestrians who did not sit as still as the building, too ephemeral to be captured during the camera’s exposure. She strained her eyes, looking in each window for any sign of the patients or nurses inside.
Hands came up from behind to envelop her in an embrace and lips skimmed against the back of her neck.
“Hey!” Mary admonished, though she could not keep the grin from stretching across face. “I know you’re bored, honey, but these are things I’m interested in.”
With his arms still wrapped around her waist, James craned his neck forward to read the photograph’s description, chin resting on her shoulder. “Plagues and death?”
“Those aren't my favorite subjects, per se. But with history, you have to acknowledge both the good and the bad. We can’t just ignore the past, or else we end up making the same mistakes.”
With her fingers, she combed over the cowlick at the back of his head before stepping out of his grasp to assess the rest of the room for any artifacts she had not yet perused. This time she settled her gaze on an obsidian goblet, tilting her head to watch the details of a carved snake come in and out of view as it slithered up the stem.
Mary hummed to herself, frowning just a fraction. “It’s a shame they don’t allow photography or video recorders in here. I’d love to reference some of this for a lecture.”
This received a small chuff of a laugh. “Be careful, you might scar your students for life.”
She shot him a sly grin. “Wouldn’t be a proper history teacher if I didn’t.”
“I suppose not.”
She stopped at another framed photograph of a stark concrete building.
“Interesting,” she said aloud, regardless of whether or not James would find it interesting. “It says here that Silent Hill started out as a penal colony during the Civil War. We’re actually standing in the footprint of the old prison right now.”
James looked down at the vinyl herringbone floor, one foot itching back as if he would be able to see any hint of this foundation.
“See?” Mary said. “Not so boring after all.”
“It’s uh…” James paused as he rubbed his chin. “It’s an unassuming place for a prison.”
“Maybe that’s why they chose it.”
Mary was now stooped over another display case, a stray lock of hair hanging vertical like a pointer to her next lecture.
“Due to being needed for the war, there were no Union soldiers posted in Silent Hill. Instead, the prison was maintained by local citizens. A hood was worn to protect an executioner’s identity from both the prisoners and the township.”
James walked to her side, leaning forward to get a closer look at the exhibit. Sure enough, one of the artifacts looked to be a pointed hood. It was stained brown— from dye or blood, he could not tell— but it bore no eyeholes.
“How could they see with it on?” James asked.
“They didn’t. It was a barrier so they would not have to witness the execution.”
She gestured to an opened book, the page turned to a pen-and-ink illustration. Upon it were two pairs of figures. In one, a hooded man’s hands were clenched around a prisoner's windpipe. In the other, the same cowled executioner thrust a spear into the abdomen of a man, the tip protruding from his back. James read the description: ‘An execution at the prison. Death by skewering or strangling. To choose his death is the prisoner's last taste of freedom.’
Mary leaned over into his peripheral vision, her hands clasped behind her back and a smile on her face. “Well then?” she asked expectantly, as if it were an essay prompt. “Which one would you choose?”
James said nothing, his jaw clamped and eyes unmoving from the inked figures.
Mary broke the silence with her tinkling laugh. “You’re such a softie, James.” She pecked his cheek. “It’s alright, that’s why I married you.”
The man huffed, frustration creeping into his voice. “Well, when we walked in here I didn’t expect such a glum outing.”
“Okay, so maybe Silent Hill had a dark past,” Mary said, gesturing to the memorabilia around them. “Today it’s a peaceful town.” She took his hand in hers, threading their fingers together. “Don’t you think there’s beauty in that?”
His frown deepening, James averted his gaze from the grim displays, choosing instead to stare at the wallpaper. “I think I was more at ease when I didn’t know about this stuff.”
She sighed in defeat, relinquishing his hand. “Alright, I can tell when you’ve had enough.”
“Mary we can still–”
“No, you’re right,” she insisted. “It’s about time we head back for dinner, anyway.”
She turned curtly, her flats clapping against the vinyl floor as she walked past the front desk reception.
“Thank you for visiting the Silent Hill Historical Society,” the elderly clerk rehearsed, peering up just a moment from her pulp novel as she watched the woman leave with her husband trailing behind.
James halted by the souvenir rack. “You sure you don’t want a keychain?”
Mary was already pushing out the door. “No, James, I don’t want a stupid keychain.”
Instead of walking out into a sunny afternoon, she met a misty gray sky. Wind lapped at her bare legs, and she folded in on herself against the cold. A moment later she was shielded as James placed his jacket over her shoulders.
He gazed down at her sheepishly. “I’ve never been one for souvenirs, either.”
In spite of herself, she felt a grin tugging at her lips. She pulled the jacket tighter around her small frame. “The memory is all that matters to me.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I bought that video camera for our trip.”
They crunched across the gravel to the blue Pontiac.
Once they pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road, Mary turned to her husband. “Hey… you never told me which one you’d prefer.”
“Of what?”
“Skewering or strangulation.”
James shuddered, his hands re-gripping the steering wheel. “Who in their right mind would choose to be impaled? Slow and painful...”
Smiling softly, Mary gazed out the window and watched as fog began to creep over the lake. “Maybe... if you wanted to be punished.”