part i.
The hardest part to explain was that she wasn't afraid; she was angry.
Angry that she sometimes woke up with night terrors, slept with a light on, and now stayed awake until she passed out because she was terrified of laying in bed alone.
Angry that she felt she had to cover up her back or risk exclamations, rude queries, or stares. That clothes sometimes caught on the scar tissue as she was getting dressed, and it was exhausting to even have to remember it was there.
Angry that sometimes she couldn't even explain iwhy/i something bothered her, just that when she saw men with long greasy hair she'd leave the parking lot and go to another store, or hearing a certain tone of voice would make her blanch and shake and have to shut herself in a bathroom stall or her car, leaning over with her arms on her thighs, trying to catch her breath.
She spoke in circles when she met with her therapist, or stuck to platitudes about how she was afraid of walking alone. She took pills that knocked her out or cut down on background anxiety, but couldn't help the flashbacks, the nightmares, the sudden and acute physical symptoms when she found her Robbie doll in a box in her new apartment or when she smelled rust.
She went back to work, she smiled when she didn't feel like it, she made it public knowledge that she was doing everything she should to get her life back together. Her family and friends praised her for being so proactive about healing, for having such a positive attitude.
It made her sick, all of it.
After she'd gotten out of the hospital, she'd invited Henry to the party her family had held for her, but he'd canceled at the last minute. He'd helped her go back into her apartment, pack up to leave, and carry her things to her car.
She hadn't seen him after that. She'd left him her new address; the silence on his end was confirmation that he wanted to be alone. She couldn't say she blamed him.
He was the only person who could help her with what she wanted to do, though, and it had been two years. Maybe things could be different without the immediate specter of Walter Sullivan chasing after them.
Turns out, Henry hadn't gone too far. She found him in a county phonebook, apparently working in the next town over. His personal number was unlisted, but his work number was there.
"Hello?"
Her breath caught when he actually picked up. It had been so long - but actually hearing his voice made her stomach jump.
"Henry? It's Eileen."
"Eileen?" he sounded noticeably brighter.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine. What are you doing?"
"I need your help." It was an old trick to get somebody to agree with you, but she needed this. He'd forgive her if he ever found out. "Can I meet you?"
He agreed. They arranged a meeting place halfway between their work places, and she waited on tacks for the rest of the day.
He looked a little thinner, but clean-shaven and happy to see her, which surprised her. He sounded like he'd done as well as he could, though they kept it to surface-level topics like new homes and work and new neighbor complaints.
After getting coffee, they stayed quiet for a moment, looking in different directions and searching for something to say.
"I didn't hear from you after I moved," she said, and he looked askance, sheepish.
"I lost the information you gave me. And I, uh, didn't think you'd want to hear from me for awhile, after everything that happened."
"I wouldn't have said no to seeing you." She looked down into her drink. "But about that favor. What are you doing Labor Day weekend?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"I want you to come to Silent Hill with me."
He paled.
It took some work. He'd change the subject, she'd direct it back, and he'd resist her, but she could see he was wearing down, so she busted out her trump card.
"His grave is there. I want to see it for myself, and the woods on the other side of the lake, and anything else that showed up in those worlds. It's...nothing is over until I see that it can't hurt me anymore. And I wanted to share that with you. I trust you to understand."
He paused, shook his head slightly, and coughed. "I don't know. It...it ended for me two years ago. I don't have anything to talk about."
She squeezed the mug. "I understand. I'm sorry for bringing it up -"
"But...if you think it will help..."
She looked up, smiling.
She'd already rented the hotel room before she asked him; if he'd said no she would have gritted her teeth and gone alone.
But he didn't, so they met up the Friday of Labor Day weekend and rode in the same car. She drove, clutching the steering wheel tighter as the miles went by, getting the worst when they saw the sign announcing the exit for Silent Hill was a half-mile away.
There was an end of summer celebration in the sleepy town, marking the end of their peak tourism season. It would be safe. Nothing bad would happen there, with so many other people.
She'd still booked a hotel twenty minutes outside of the town's limits, but check-in wasn't until 4 and she'd overestimated how long it would take to get there. They drove in first.
They got within sight of Toluca Lake before she had to stop, pulling into a lot overlooking it. The way Henry was clutching his knees in the passenger seat told her it had been a long drive for him, too.
They got out of the car, stretched, stood on opposite sides of the car, looking out over the water, at the woods.
The trees were tall and dark, reflecting ominously in the water. It was an overcast day, giving everything a gray tinge, and the mugginess made her regret ever getting out of the car.
"Does it look like what you remember?" she said.
Henry shrugged. "Sort of. This isn't the side I'm familiar with. I think I see one of the outcroppings we stood on, though."
"With all the monuments with writing," she said, and he nodded. Neither of them needed to elaborate; the vague sketches were more than enough for their memory.
"Should we go over there?" He pointed to the side they'd wandered through back in South Ashfield.
She hesitated. "Not right now,"
Soon. Tomorrow. But not right then.
"I think the hotel will give us an early check-in now."
They drove back, and she breathed a little easier once they left the town's limits.
"I used to like Silent Hill," Henry told her later that night, lying in his separate bed while she searched her bag for her toiletries. "I visited here when I was younger. It was my family's vacation spot, and I used to take photos of all the old buildings and landmarks. Threw them all away after South Ashfield."
"I wondered why you were familiar with the area," she said.
After dropping their things off, they'd returned to the town with a renewed sense of purpose, and wound up spending most of their time wandering the streets, Henry pointing out historical places or things he'd taken photos of. They couldn't come up with anything concrete to do, and wandering was productive enough.
Still, sometimes she would think things like 'Did he ever walk this same street?' or 'Am I standing in the same spot he was?' and she'd suddenly feel freezing in the late summer. If Henry noticed her acting strangely, he didn't say anything. At least somebody wouldn't. It was nice to hang out with somebody who didn't act like her every hesitaton or change of mood was related to one incident two years past (even when it was).
In the bathroom, the mirror was inconveniently huge and right across from the shower, and she tried not to pay it any more mind than the one she had at home. If she caught sight of a faded mark on her back as she was undressing, it wasn't going to bother her.
Hot water tended to relax the skin there, and she exhaled as it poured down her back and shoulders, pooling around her tired feet.
She wasn't regretting coming here yet. That was something positive to take away. And bringing Henry had been a good choice and so far, not a huge strain on either of them. That was another good thing.
She was glad he was here, honestly. And when she went to bed in her separate full, tucked between sheets that smelled but she couldn't identify what exactly, she rolled to face where she knew he was in the dark, snoring lightly, and felt perfectly fine falling asleep in the darkness.
part ii.
That morning they set out for the other side of the lake.
She had a headache when they went down the slope, leading them into the woods, dark with mist clinging to the ground. The way Henry would rub his temples subtly suggested he might too.
"Where are we going?" he asked her as she forged ahead into the shadows.
"I'm not sure." She looked back at him over her shoulder.
He was standing there, holding his forehead, but looked at her with eyes clear and trusting and reliable.
"Let's head inland. I think the outcropping is that way, right?" She pointed where she thought it was, and Henry considered it, holding his chin for a moment, before pointing slightly East of her path.
They climbed.
They were silent, but it didn't bother her; it was companionable. Sometimes she'd turn her head to see if he was still following her, and he'd look up at her like he'd been waiting. Sometimes he'd smile, or look away quickly, or have a hard-set gaze looking past her. She wouldn't ask.
It was when they were deep within the forest that they considered that perhaps this had been a bad idea.
"Do you know where we are?" Henry asked her, and she looked around. Everything looked like trees, trees for miles, and the mist had gotten thicker, obscuring what little trail there was.
"We're fine," she said, because it was easier than admitting she'd gotten them lost. "There's nothing in here, anyway."
She realized a moment later that was not the wisest thing to say.
They walked on; Henry began regarding the trees with suspicion.
"Did you hear that?" he asked her a bit later, and she looked back from considering the high slope in front of them.
"What?"
"Just...sounded like footsteps." He shrugged, uncomfortable. "Don't you hear it?"
"No..."
A crack sounded in the distance, not unlike a gunshot.
They shared one look, and then they ran, mounting the slope in seconds and didn't have time to catch their breath at the time, as suddenly every noise and shape was Walter Sullivan.
Running. Running until her lungs burned and she still ran, because she could now, because she wasn't covered in injuries that made it impossible to move, or wearing heels, or -
They burst out onto a path, and she missed the large rock in her way until she tripped and fell hard on the packed earth. Behind her, Henry barely skidded to a stop before he could fall on her.
The group of hikers they'd run out in front of were surprised, to say the least.
They were also pretty nice, and from Maryland (with accents that they explained were Baltimorean) and helped them find the path out of the woods. When asked what they were running so fast for, Eileen lied flimsily that they'd been exercising, and the tourists ignored that they weren't dressed for it.
"Are you okay?" he asked her when he noticed her rubbing her wrist once they were out of the woods for good.
"I landed on my wrist,"
"Oh,"
"It's fine,"
He looked out, over the water, considering for a moment, before he said: "Sorry,"
"For what?"
"For panicking. I really thought..." He shook his head. "Never mind."
He didn't need to explain. There were times that, though she knew it should be impossible, she still felt him, saw him, out of the corner of her eye or in the shadow of her entryway or in a million impossible scenarios.
"'It ended for me two years ago,' huh?" she said instead, and he frowned, not looking at her.
She folded her arms, looking at him for another moment, and when he wouldn't speak, turned back to the car and pulled a map from the interior. Henry could lie to himself if he wanted to. She wasn't going to let him distract her from her purpose here.
"The cemetary where he's buried is adjacent to the historical society building," she said, and he nodded.
"Right. Do you wanna go?"
"Of course."
They drove into town.
"It's somewhere around here." She looked one way and then another down the row they were standing in, and didn't see it.
Now that they were in the cemetary, in arguably the closest proximity she would ever be to Him again, she was surprised to feel calm and in control of the situation. No matter where He was now, He was a corpse who couldn't hurt either of them.
Henry didn't look so sure, but he followed at her heels duitfully. She felt bad for snapping at him earlier.
"Wait, Eileen -"
She turned, and he was pointing to the grave. She'd hurried past it, not seeing.
"Oh,"
They stood in front of it, staring for a moment - yes, that definitely had "Walter Sullivan" printed on it, and the dates of his life and death. Well, 'death.' But did the details really matter anymore?
"It feels anticlimactic," she told Henry.
"Yeah..."
As she looked at it, she didn't feel any sense of finality, or relief, or closure. Instead, she just felt irritated that she didn't feel anything close to that. She felt like she was standing in a foggy graveyard during early September - chilled and wet. She felt like she'd dragged somebody out on a wild goose chase. But she didn't feel safer for having done this.
Decisively, she lifted her foot and kicked his headstone.
Henry looked at her, but she didn't look back. She just felt the solid connection of the side of her foot with the stone, a little painful but a little satisfying as well. She kicked it again.
She continued, alternating sides of her foot, sometimes switching to her other foot when she worried about tiring out. When her feet started to ache, she settled for stomping on the dirt where his head might be, making little noises of anger and exertion, until Henry held a hand out in front of her, gesturing her back.
She looked at him, about to say something, when he plowed his foot soundly against the engraved "Walter Sullivan."
He looked at her, a perverse satisfaction lighting his face that she knew mirrored her own, and they laughed, awkward, insane, and desperate.
He continued kicking the stone while she dug her heels into the dirt, thinking curses and ill will until she was running out of ideas, and she didn't know how much time had passed by the time they were both out of breath, sitting on either side of the plot and panting.
"I think I hurt my toes," Henry said, rubbing his foot that he'd taken out of his shoe. "Worth it, though."
She laughed louder than she meant to. It pierced the quiet and gloom of the graveyard, sounding disrespectful of the place, but fuck this ground where He was buried. He didn't deserve to rest.
"I don't actually think he's buried here," Henry continued. "Joseph's notes said something about finding a murder victim's body in the coffin instead."
"Still worth it," she said.
"Yeah."
She pulled her knees to her chest, and watched as he struggled to put his shoe back on without further injuring his foot.
"Henry?"
"Hm?"
"Sorry for what I said earlier."
"Oh," he furrowed his brow. "It's fine."
She wanted to push it, say no it isn't, but he looked suddenly sad, and she thought maybe there was a reason he didn't talk about his own fears.
Suddenly, something cold alighted on her cheek, and it took her a moment to recognize it: Rain.
"We should go." She stood up and held out a hand to help him up, which he took.
He'd just stood up when an enormous thunderclap shook overhead, and an uncharacteristically icy deluge came in a blanketing wave, falling right on their heads.
"Well, this has been a successful day," she shouted over the noise, and she saw his mouth contort into a chuckle, even though she couldn't hear it.
It took them longer than before to get back to the car because Henry was now walking with a slight limp, and by the time they were sitting inside it, they were both drenched to the bone.
They sat in their respective seats, shivering, while she fumbled with a car heater that only wanted to work half of the time. When it stubbornly decided it wasn't going to sputter to life for her, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
"This was a stupid idea," she said, and realized that it was something she'd meant to say for most of the trip.
"I liked the part where we kicked Walter's grave," Henry said, and she tilted her head to look at him. Even sideways in her vision, he looked a little brighter now, and she noted the easiness with which he said Walter's name. Like he was just a person now.
Which he was, really. A ghost who'd haunted them but that they'd exorcised two years ago, who only hung on in their memories.
It was then that Eileen realized she'd gotten what she came for after all.
Henry bought them white wine and they drank it in the semi-dark of the hotel room, congratulating themselves on a job well done, on a good time, on survival.
They'd planned to do a real tourist thing and go to the lake, but being on the lake without a boat kinda sucked. They skipped it and drank instead, talking and laughing at their stories and at the television they watched.
She fell asleep in her day clothes, on top of the blankets, a warm pit in her stomach.
Early in the morning, when it was still dark outside, she woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps, and she shot awake until she remembered where she was.
Not in danger. Just Henry.
Just Henry retching in the bathroom.
She laid there, listening to running water and hurting for him.
"Are you alright?" she said, rolling to face him when he came out.
"Y-Yeah. Drank too much," He held his forehead.
He laid facedown on a side of his bed. After a moment's thought, she slid over and laid down next to him. He didn't look up.
They slept deeply, and didn't dream.
part iii:
Monday morning she woke up with an aching back and a keen pinch in her temples.
Beside her, Henry was snoring in soft huffs of air, still laying on his stomach, face relaxed.
He was cute when he wasn't worried or running for his life. Back then, she'd been focused on staying alive, and making friends was an afterthought. She'd tried to keep their spirits up, but now there was nothing like that in the way.
She touched his face, and that made him stir.
"Hey,"
He mumbled.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah..."
"Not sick anymore?"
"No more nightmares," he said as way of reason, before falling back asleep.
She rolled closer to him and fell asleep near his warmth.
Henry seemed bemused when they woke up, and she didn't explain, just got up and took a shower. He didn't ask when she returned, a soft burn of embarrassment on his face.
She couldn't explain why she'd laid next to him besides a sense of kinship, a way of explaining that she knew he wasn't sick from drinking.
That was all gone this morning, and they returned to separate sides of the room to pack. Well, she packed. Henry sat on the foot of his bed because he'd never taken half of his belongings out of his suitcase. He was unusually tidy for a bachelor.
"Was there anything you wanted to see before we left?" she asked as she wondered if she'd really brought this few socks or just managed to lose half of them under her bed.
"Not really - my foot is bugging me, too, so I'm not sure I could walk that far anyway."
"Wanna consider a doctor then?"
"No, it'll be fine," he mumbled.
They checked out without incident, but instead of turning for their home route upon leaving the hotel parking lot, she turned back, to Silent Hill.
"Uh -" Henry began, but she cut him off.
"I know, but it'll take a few minutes. If that. I just need to get out of the car to do one last thing."
"Okay," He paused. "Thanks for bringing me here."
"No problem,"
They waited for the other to say something. Finally, Henry said:
"Really. It...it really helped."
She smiled at him. "Good."
He leaned his cheek in his palm, looking like he was thinking of something else, before he hesitantly broached, "Can I...?"
"What,"
"Can I see you again?"
The turnoff for the lake approached sooner than she expected, giving her a moment's pause as she turned off and pulled into a parking space with more precision and concentration than was required.
She looked at her hands for a moment, and when she looked back up, Henry was looking at her, waiting.
It had never occurred to her that he'd want to see her again and she'd have to hesitate.
They'd survived Hell together. And now they had this experience as a reminder. Would it be too strange, being friends - what did he want anyway? - outside of this? Would he always be a reminder of something else?
But then. He'd come with her, and followed and done everything she asked, had protected her back then and listened to her without asking for more than she could give.
He is my friend, she thought.
And if he wanted more than that, well. She could navigate that, for real this time, not the fake efforts she'd been making to progress ever since South Ashfield.
"Yeah, you could," she said. The truth, although 'I'd like it if you would,' was too heavy for her tongue right now.
A minute later she was heading down the path to the lakeshore, and was surprised that Henry was swaying down it after her, arms out for balance as he couldn't dig his feet into the dirt to keep from tipping forward.
In her hands was a manila envelope, full of papers from two years ago - photographs doctors had taken of her injuries, after-care instructions, newspaper articles about her attack, even a few especially patronizing or misguided get well cards from neighbors or co-workers. She'd brought it on a vague whim of doing this, aware of the cliche but not caring, and after yesterday had known it was something she could do knowing they were no longer reminders she needed.
She waded out into the water up to her knees, and didn't let the chill rock her. She stood there for a moment, holding it in both hands, debating what would be the most satisfying, before she shifted her stance and hurled it like a bizarre Frisbee, watching it fly end over end until it wobbled and upended, landing in the water like a rock, with a small splash. It was heavy enough to dip below the water, bobbing back up at first, before it took on more water and slowly sunk until she couldn't see it.
Behind her, she heard clumsier splashing and turned to see Henry, wading and wobbling out to her. She extended a hand, and he took it, holding it even when she slowly lowered her arm so their clasped hands hung between them as they stood beside each other in the water.
There are five rivers in the Greek Underworld one passes through when they die.
Acheron, woe; Cocytus, lamentation; Phlegethon, fire; Lethe, forgetfulness; and Styx, hatred and death.
By Eileen's estimation, she had crossed Acheron, Cocytus, Phlegethon, and now stood at the banks of Lethe. She could wade through it and forget everything that had brought her to this point - the good and the bad - walk away from it all like nothing had happened and leave herself blank. After that was only Styx, to stagnate and ignore for eternity.
Or she could dip her feet in the water, wash away the ails and hold the good in her hands, dry and safe. The flashbacks, the memories, the nightmares - they would still be there, but they didn't have to shape her life. She could be hurt, but she would survive.
It occurred to her, standing knee-deep in Toluca Lake, having drowned all reminders of that past event, holding hands with Henry, that she'd chosen to stand in Lethe but not cross.
Maybe she would tell him what she'd found there, maybe she wouldn't.
For now, this was enough.