We Went To The Abandoned Town That Inspired The Silent Hill Movie

In 2006, Konami followed in Resident Evil's footsteps by adapting its own horror franchise, Silent Hill, to film. The result is a horror movie that should be seen, though many consider it bad. After all, it utilizes Sean Bean without even having the decency to kill him off in a gruesome manner! But the most interesting thing about the Silent Hill movie is not the film itself, but its source material--and I don't mean the game franchise.

Screenwriter Roger Avery (Pulp Fiction) took the real ghost town of Centralia, Pennsylvania and used it as inspiration for the 2006 film's Silent Hill setting. The real story is a tragic tale of destruction and loss, and it's a story that has still not reached its conclusion.

Centralia, as it existed for much of the 20th century, was a coal-mining town located about two hours northwest of Philadelphia. Rich deposits of anthracite coal beneath the town fueled its growth and economy for 100 years, and it was this same anthracite coal that would be its demise. In 1962, a fire--set deliberately in order to clean a landfill--accidentally ignited the anthracite under Centralia. The blaze spread into nearby mines, eventually necessitating an evacuation. Poisonous gas fumes poured from openings in the ground, and temperatures rose to the point of nearly detonating a gas station in the fire's path. The fire, still burning today, could continue for hundreds of years and threaten surrounding towns. As of 2020, there were only five people still living in Centralia. The remaining few who refused to leave after eminent domain was declared are not allowed to transfer ownership rights to someone else. When they die, their homes will be destroyed.

Avery and director Christophe Gans used some creative license with Silent Hill, depicting a coal fire in the movie that is fully visible from the town's streets--not to mention all the spooky monsters--but Centralia has still held the honor of being the "real" Silent Hill since the movie's 2006 release. Seeing as Halloween was quickly approaching and I needed something to do with my weekend, my wife and I ventured to Centralia to see what horrors awaited us. We didn't find any monsters, but we did find an eerily empty row of streets along with the graffiti of many past Silent Hill enthusiasts.

For most of the four-plus hours it took to reach Centralia from the outskirts of Pittsburgh, there was nothing that unusual to see. Other cars became more sparse as we drove further into rural Pennsylvania, replaced by livestock and crops. But as we entered the home stretch of our trip, we saw some spooky stuff. Despite the very small number of cars driving into the town, it seemed there were exponentially more leaving, like they had been too scared to stay. And before we had reached the anthracite fire, a thick fog appeared on the road in front of us--like a final warning sign to turn back.

In actuality, there was likely construction or a road being repaved on the other side of the median, and it had just rained on a relatively warm day, causing the thick fog to appear so quickly. Like all Halloween activities, however, it's best to suspend your disbelief and allow yourself to be scared. I didn't travel this far to be a stick in the mud.

When we first arrived in Centralia itself, we almost immediately left. This wasn't because we were too scared to stay but because the town is so barren that we didn't even realize we had driven to the other side. In the Silent Hill film, the town is fairly large, and its location in the middle of Appalachia meant it was hilly. Stairwells invited visitors into dark corridors where nothing good could happen. The threat of being blindsided in Centralia is pretty small, as it's entirely flat and only shrubbery can block your view of one side of the town from the other.

Today, there are only a couple of structures standing, including a municipal building, a church (in pristine condition), and houses for the remaining few residents. Entire blocks are empty, replaced by trees and shrubbery. Roads are covered with messages, letting future visitors know where they traveled from and when. There's an eerie calmness, despite the fire raging under the asphalt and dirt. Aside from one other pair of camera-holding adventurers, who didn't want anything to do with us, I didn't see another soul within Centralia's borders.

But we did see where they had been. Centralia's status as a full-on tourist destination was evident quickly. Entire guardrails on the few roads were covered in drawings, including a--dare I say cute--picture of Pyramid Head. Some tried to scare later visitors with ominous messages like "TURN BACK" and pentagrams, while others had made large campfires and left the charred remains in the back of a spooky pathway. During the daytime, it was a neat thing to stumble upon, though finding it at night probably would have been a lot more terrifying.

I didn't see any anthracite smoke or steam anywhere within Centralia itself, and this would have been a disappointment, but I knew where else to look. By chance, I reconnected with an old friend, YouTube documentarian Tom Lynskey, just before I left. He had published a short film on the history of Centralia and its current state just a few weeks earlier, and he spotted a sizable smoke vent just east of the town in a place called Byrnesville.

Calling Byrnesville a "place" is a bit of an exaggeration today, as unlike Centralia, its population is 0. The only way you'll even know you've reached it is by putting in the coordinates on a GPS, and as far as I could tell, there were only two pieces of evidence that the town ever existed. The first, and the saddest, is a shrine of the Blessed Mother, built by a local family more than 70 years ago and still maintained by them despite their house being demolished.

The second is a concrete building that looks like it was ripped straight out of a horror game, with tubing exposed and a bunch of small holes peppering the walls--like someone had tried shooting it. Nearly every inch is covered in "artwork" ranging from detailed skulls to more vulgar insults. A doorway, though no longer necessary because one of the walls was destroyed, leads to a mess of brush and dying flowers. It was arguably the most stereotypical "horror game" element I saw on the trip, more so than anything in Centralia itself.

The only spot I could see anthracite smoke and steam rising from the ground was just a short walk away from the building and the shrine. A hole in a small boulder, only a few feet across, is still wildly active. Smoke filled the air above my head as I examined the area, but this wasn't an unusual moment here. Birds chirped and leaves rustled from the wind. This enormous plume of poisonous anthracite smoke will likely be a staple here for years. As the fire continues to stretch north, it may finally stop spouting smoke, but another vent will surely take its place.

For now, this area will retain its status as the "real" Silent Hill, but the day will eventually come when that coal is no longer burning and someone can start anew. Many tourists will have their fun before that, but eventually, I hope this area will cease to be the Silent Hill movie and can be Silent Hill: Homecoming… or maybe just the "homecoming part."