It was August 1999, right in the midst of the Chicago Blackout. Surprisingly, most of the citizens seemed to be too overcome by the stinking heat and in mourning for the spoiled goods in their useless refrigerators to loot anything. Lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet that had overcome the North Side, an acquaintance and I went to go see The Blair Witch Project, at one of the local theaters that was unaffected by the loss of electricity.

We quite enjoyed the film, especially the final shot featuring the corner of a room (yes, I'm tip-toeing around any spoilers for the five of you that have avoided seeing it). After the movie, we travelled back to my apartment, or at least we tried to. See, the funny thing about blackouts is that without electricity or some portable source of illumination you can't see anything inside a building (say, a building such as an apartment complex). Prior to leaving for the movie, my pocket flashlight (a promotional item from a lesser film) worked just fine. Upon walking into the stairwell of my building, it no longer functioned; its last breath seemingly beamed out inspecting the numbers on a crumpled piece of paper. We shuffled our feet forward, trying not to trip over the first step in the apartment stairwell while I futilely rattled and shook the small flashlight, trying to eek a few more gasps of illuminating life to assist our trip up four floors of absolute darkness.

Then, right before uttering 'Um, I have no idea which way is north, much less where the stairs are' the flashlight kicked on, but all I saw in front of me was murky grey. I turned my head, trying to orient myself in relation to my friend when it dawned on me: I was standing, facing the corner of the stairwell, mirroring the final shot of The Blair Witch Project. My blood went cold and I froze for a moment, at least until my companion started laughing at me.

It was September 2004. I had recently moved into a spacious, new apartment with unitdaisy - a severe departure from my old, cramped studio apartment. It had been years since I lived in an place where I couldn't see every nook and cranny from any spot in the apartment, and now that I lived in a space containing more than one room I felt more than slightly exposed. By the time I received my Silent Hill 4 pre-order, only the living room and my computer had been furnished and liveable; the rest of the apartment remained stacked to the ceiling with unitdaisy's boxes (she wasn't due to move herself in for another month).

At the time, the real bed was playing host to hundreds of pounds of boxed possessions so I was sleeping on the pull-out sofa bed (note: a sofa bed. Not a Futon.) Well, at least I was trying to sleep. If I stare directly up, the ceiling fan fills my vision. A ceiling fan not unlike the ceiling fan displayed in Twin Peaks, shortly before we see the visage of BOB at the bottom of Sarah Palmer's bed. BOB isn't what's keeping me up though, although he might have provoked a slight chill down my spine many years ago.

Silent Hill games had never prevented any nocturnal slumber of mine (although it is guilty of keeping me tense and slightly nervous). The games's over-arching tales of guilt and redemption resonate deeply to my sensibilities, mostly because I'm often racked with self-reproach and self-induced neuroses. A laundry list of personal failings and faults often pick at my consciousness as I toss and turn under my bedding but games, much less Silent Hill have been able to break the monopoly of potential dereliction that seizes my mind at nighttime. Well, at least that was before the ceiling fan.

Silent Hill 4 opens with a ceiling fan. It's the first image in the game and in all but three cases, it's the last thing you will see. It's a signifier of the end of an act, and the beginning of a new one. In all cases, you see this ominous fixture when you wake up and possibly, the last thing you see before you never wake up again (depending on your interpretation of Silent Hill 4's world). It's a haunting sight, if not through its meaning or visceral image then through the sheer conditioning of waking up to the fan pre, post and admist horrors.

Prior to moving to this new apartment, I had never lived in a place that contained a ceiling fan, much less one hanging directly over my head. Its warped fins, the hanging chains, the darkness between the ceiling and the base of the fan ... all I can do is try to avert my eyes, which sadly orient towards the window facing an apartment wall that looks uncannily lit, and just feels like the South Ashfield apartment building. The ivy crawling up the brickwork reminds me of veins.

It was 1985. I was in grade school at the time, and my entire class was murmuring about Bloody Mary with some more daring students sneaking into the bathrooms between class periods not to steal a lungful of smoke, but to try and see the vision of Bloody Mary reflected in the facility's expansive mirror. I'd hear occasional screams and even crying coming from the bathrooms, reports of those who saw Mary's haggard face, hands reaching out to grab and pull the children to her. Letters were mailed home to parents, scoldings were given and eventually my class grew out of testing the legends veracity. Myself, I could never muster the courage to make a date with Mary but to this day I hesitate a slightly before walking into darkened bathroom, my mind racing to recreate what some believed to see. By now I don't need to attempt to call her forth, since my mind relives all reflective possibilities before I flick the washroom light switch.

It was March 2004. My jaw was slightly agape. Heather, and myself are paralyzed. I'm staring at her staring at her inert mirrored self, helpless while her body slowly becomes covered by veins or rivlets of blood. The tension is too thick, I have to escape it. I pause the game, gently place my DualShock on my coffee table, take a few heavy breaths and steady myself, shaking slightly. I lay back in my chair as my breathing relaxes, staying stationary until the only thing I can hear is the faint rotation of Silent Hill 3 in my Playstation 2's drive. This isn't fear, but my nerves are certainly rankled. I haven't been this disturbed since encountering Fatal Frame's ropes and subsequent tape recorder, or Eternal Darkness's thundering World War I ensconced church (nuts to the bathtub; it's all about the atmosphere). However, these scenes do not resonate: the reaction lives briefly after being stimulated, and then possibly retold to others like campfire ghost stories - confidently, perhaps with a knowing smirk. It's not fear.

It was November 2004. The days are getting shorter and shorter and our neglectful landlord has apparently forgotten the mantra 'spring ahead, fall back'. The automatic lights that aid walking up three flights of stairs show no sign of life. I'm stumbling up the stairwell, counting the number of stairs (six) so I don't end up having to blindly fumble with my feet again. All of the sudden I'm gripped with a familiar feeling; I can see Henry running up and down the South Ashfield apartment stairs. My apartment building always has been very quiet, very hushed but today it's as if sound has been oppressively muted. My heart quickens a few beats and I stumble over the top step (oops, make that seven). I see the rug that signifies I've arrived at the second floor; the room that hosts man with the golf clubs. Only one more flight left. I shakily make it to my door, swear when I realize that my right hand is occupied and unfit to collect the house keys from my right pocket. I reposition myself, turn the key and enter the apartment, the heavy door swinging loudly shut behind me. I think it's about time I finish this game.

Despite the chill in the room, the ceiling fan is still cycling. A chain is missing, has been missing for a week or two now. I suppose we didn't need to turn on those lights anyway. Silent Hill 4 churns sluggishly in my Xbox and I yawn, idly thumbing the analog stick with one hand, my arms bent up towards the back of my chair, controller resting on my head. It's the third time I've crawled through this level; the second time occurred when I started the game anew due to some severe inventory mismanagement. Yet another trip down this stairwell. Yet another excursion through the tunnel. Back in my room, again, just like any other day. The tedium (and that second beer) reminds me that my bladder is full. As I trudge towards the bathroom, I see it awash with light from the back porch, illumination careening off of the mirror. As I approach, the light lessens. The right wall falls into darkness, the floor decaying in front of my eyes. My hand shakes a bit while I swat towards the lightswitch, and the room returns to normalcy. I confidently shut the door behind me.

Five minutes later I open the door and slap the light off. Staring straight ahead I see my main doorway, much like Henry is seeing it now in-game (minus the now-loosed chains, of course). It looks solid. Tight. Barred. I realize that I haven't left my apartment building in several days, a stinging consequence of working long hours directly from my apartment. This door may as well have been boarded up. My mind lurches with images of portals and blockades, and I try to cut any hyperbolic connections between Henry's apartment and my own. I see light glint off of the locks and make out the slit of light coming in under the door from the outer hallway. The apartment weighs heavy with the silence of my paused sense of reflection, not to mention the game's presence in the adjoining room. I can feel my heart kicking in my chest, beating against my insides as Henry's room coalesces with my vision, the same twists and turns of his hallway are intimately familiar and my body shakes, chills bubble through my skin and my jaw clenches. I know tonight I'll be staring at that ceiling fan, facing the death of another day, another episode or act insufficiently completed - regardless of whether I finally trudge through the last landscape Silent Hill 4 has to offer. I will turn my head away from the fan, position my body away from the spectre of the South Ashfield Apartments, willfully ignore the direction of the entryway and bury my face into my pillow, blocking out any light that may impart another fearful visual experience.