"It's an hour before dawn."

Silence.

"Are you going to be able to get up?"

A soft moan.

Heather grinned down at him, leaning over him with her palms resting on either side of his head. "Five," she purred. "Five times. What have you to say for yourself?"

A hazel-gray eye peered up at her blearily. "Aren't you sore?" his voice crackled.

"Like I sat on shrapnel," she agreed. "But way too happy to care." She ran her hand over his hair and back, scratching gently over his scalp and rubbing his skin. He mumbled softly and incoherently. "I was joking when I mentioned 'sexual frustration' at dinner."

He made a contented noise, and in a quiet voice mumbled something like, "The sounds you made were to die for."

Heather pinched his rump and he jumped, clutching at the fabric around him. Then he shot her an evil look over their blankets and slumped back down against the pillow with a groan, draping his forearm over his face. She laughed, ecstatic and positively glowing with energy. "I was always under the impression that men got more out of this than women," she teased him. "You must be a defective model."

He lifted his arm and gave her a look; the sort of look he'd given her the first time they'd discussed the subject of cuddling. Heather laughed. "How did you amass all this bedtime knowledge? How many women have you slept with exactly?" she asked.

He closed eyes and lowered his arm again. "Why any woman would ever ask that..." he muttered.

"That was wonderful," she cooed to him.

"Did I hurt you?"

She made a derisive snort, indicating she'd had worse bug-bites. His attempts to mitigate her discomfort had been successful. "Did it sound like you were hurting me?"

"The Internet," he answered her previous question sleepily, already not thinking clearly and trying to roll over.

"Wait, what?"

He realized what he'd said and opened his eyes, looking at her in alarm. "Just- research-!" he blurted out, before realizing how stupid that sounded in context and slumping back down with a groan. "I mean...!"

Heather was grinning broadly. "I see, I see. And what 'key words' were you researching, exactly, hmm?"

Miserable that he was having this conversation, her partner mumbled out through a buffer of blankets, "How to hit the G Spot."

Heather burst out laughing and snuggled up against his back, wrapping her arms around him. He listened to her heartbeat against his skin for a minute or so, before turning slightly and looking up at her. "We've got to get up," she reminded him.

He reluctantly nodded. "No regrets?" he asked tentatively.

She smiled and kissed his mouth. "None."

As the two slowly pulled themselves out of bed, Alex paused and looked curiously at the bedroom door, where a flash of bright color caught his eye.


Henry waited till he heard Eileen's breathing level out before he sat up and extracted himself from her side. He spent a moment watching her, listening to the small sounds of life she made, observing the rise and fall of her chest. Then he turned and carefully teased open the zipper of his luggage. A glanced showed him his wife hadn't stirred. Elle was still unconscious. He carefully extracted something wrapped in an old plastic bag- something he'd kept secret for a very, very long time. He stood up as quietly as he could, tiptoed across the room, and then eased open the old door and closed it behind him. He had to exert a little pressure upwards on the door handle to keep the hinges from squeaking; it was an old building after all.

Once he was outside and the door was shut quietly behind him, he made his way over to Heather and Alex's room, and peered inside. There was nothing within, no luggage, but the neatly folded bed had been creased lightly, as if someone had briefly sat upon it. Mr. Townshend looked around, observing the many tiny details such as paintings on the wall and hairline cracks that signified this room as the same one he'd visited in his dream.

There was a very old cedar chest to his right. The metal bands of the chest were heavily worn, but an etching of a German ship could be seen, next to a faded date formatted as Day - Month - Year. The dashes and part of the year had been worn away, but Henry reasoned the trunk was almost two hundred years old. It had probably been manufactured in 1821, on the twenty-first of January. Very conveniently, the only numbers still visible were 21 1 21.

It took Henry a moment to gather his courage, and then he set the bundle down on the bedspread and carefully untied it. From within, he extracted several pieces of bright red paper, a black marker, and a very old ragdoll.

Quite suddenly he was struck by the oddness of what he was doing. Why was this doll significant to Heather Mason's current predicament? Why did Henry feel like he had to get it to her? A shudder rushed through him. The Otherworld and all things Silent Hill had a very unplesant, dream-like quality to Henry Townshend. He made nonsense logical jumps as easily and effortlessly as if he were really going through a dream. If he saw slips of red paper, of course it made sense to push them them under his own door so that later they would have messages on them, right? Sometimes he wondered if he was a little crazy.

Reciever of Wisdom indeed. Wisdom didn't necessarily imply understanding; only experience and intuition. Why was this going to work? He couldn't explain it. But it would.

He quickly wrote a message on a red slip of paper. "Check the cedar chest. Something tells me you'll need this. - H. Townshend." Then he opened the old chest, placed the doll carefully inside, and slipped the red piece of paper under the bedroom doorway.


Heather regarded the old doll curiously as she settled down at the breakfast table. Lisa was not present that morning, and Kaufmann would glance worriedly in the direction of the Lighthouse staircase at every little creak they heard from upstairs.

"How is she?" Alex asked, still not sure if he trusted these two 'ghosts' or manifestations or whatever they were.

"Angry," Kaufmann decided, "and very sad."

"What exactly do you remember of... of before you... 'died'?"

The doctor hesitated. Breakfast that morning was toast and fried eggs with yogurt and some fruit. It wasn't as artistic as it might have been had Lisa prepared it, but given that Michael Kaufmann rarely cooked, it was still something of a success. "Memory like that is... hard to explain. I don't remember what it's like to be that man, because he's barely part of me anymore. So it's like a collection of things I've forgotten, that require a certain environmental triggesr to pull back to mind. And then it's like watching some horrible first person video of my body under someone else's control."

Heather tucked away the doll into a shoulder pack she was wearing for the day's journey. "It's kinda like that with Alessa's memories too," she said aloud. "As much as I look like her, I'm not."

Kaufmann nodded. "Do you know why you are still in Silent Hill?" he asked. Alex glanced at her but didn't say anything.

"I... I'm not exactly sure," Heather said slowly. "The only times we've ever seen anyone get pulled into Silent Hill, the Goddess was trying to be reborn, or memories were being repressed. I haven't repressed any memories. Does that mean Edwin is after me for the Goddess?"

They both ate a little of their food as Kaufmann considered her question. Then he looked at her. "Do you have a destination in mind?"

Heather hesitated and then looked to the doctor. "I dunno. There's a startling lack of cultists popping up to give me misleading clues. This all feels really creepy. Like having the same dream a second time, and wondering if you can just skip straight to the ending. I know where all the cult hideaways are already, I could head straight for this bastard Edwin. But... but this place has always been like a maze... An intricate maze..."

"Every person who comes into Silent Hill does so with a goal. Yours was to find Claudia Wolfe. Harry's was to find his daughter. James was drawn to search for remnants of his dead wife. Why are you looking for Edwin?"

Heather hesitated. Then she quickly scrambled for her shoulder pack and pulled out the shabby old doll.

Alex looked at her over his toast. A look of uncertainty, frustration, loss, and fear flashed over her face. She seemed as if she felt exceptionally guilty; her face mirrored the one he'd seen back in Canada, before she'd told Henry much about... The soldier took in a slow breath and then took the blow for her; he looked to Kaufmann.

"What do you know about the thing she calls Valtiel?" he asked. Heather jumped a little.

Kaufmann blinked, surprised by the question. He stirred his eggs about for a moment and then settled his silverware down on the plate and clasped his hands in front of him. "Why do you ask, Alex Shepherd?"

"It revived Elle. So what is it? Some doll of Alessa's? A demigod? Or just a strange nightmare?"

"In cult lore, Valtiel is one of the deities created by the Goddess to help her bring order to the world. When I first saw him, he intended to unmake me. Some instinct told me he was protecting Heather, so I plead for my life, promising him I only intended to help her. He seemed to listen." Kaufmann thought a moment. "The name that came to my lips was 'Lobsel Vith,' the Yellow God. As Valtiel he is titled 'Metatron' or 'Attendant to the Goddess.' And he is the patron of the Sect of Valtiel, the cult's executioners. In that aspect, he is more commonly associated with the color 'red;' the cult's beliefs tend to blend and melt and merge around sort of indistinctly. That's what happens when a religion is several thousand years old. Some would say he's in charge of healing and childbirth, others like the Sect of Valtiel insist he is a deity of death; still others associate him closely with their symbol, the Halo of the Sun, and the complete cycle of life and rebirth."

"He's still a Silent Hill monster, though? Like anything else, like... like the dogs and the numb bodies and..."

"Silent Hill's religion isn't the only vague thing around here. The Otherworld adds a whole new level of complication. Is anything here 'real,' or does it all come from the human mind? I cannot answer that question. What I do believe is that the 'Valtiel' boogieman we've seen is altered by Heather Mason. Whatever explanations we accept, religious or psychic, this boogieman's benevolent disposition is highly significant. Heather, if you need to find him, then follow the impulse. It's not as insane as it sounds."

Heather looked up at both of them, at the psychiatrist who was a ghost and at the man who'd voluntarily accompanied her back into hell. "So," she said slowly, "'My semi-imaginary evil-god monster-pet got kidnapped and I want to rescue him,' is an acceptable reason for being stuck in Silent Hill?"

Kaufmann smiled and then stood up. "Come with me, Heather, I want to show you something."


The top of Toluca Lighthouse was completely exposed to the elements, and a chill wind was blowing in from under the lake. The globe of clear air extended for fifteen or twenty feet above the tower, but then an impenetrable wall of fog blotted out the sun. Heather pulled her coat tight about her shoulders, her blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind. Alex was just about to put his arms around her when Kaufmann gently took her elbow and led her away from the staircase.

"So what's up here?" Heather asked. Kaufmann paused almost dead center and looking around them both.

"Try to remember back to your father's journal," he told her. "Harry was only at Toluca Lighthouse for a very short period of time, but this place was significant."

Heather frowned, trying to remember. She'd read that journal a thousand times, but she had that unpleasant feeling in the pit of her gut that she was just barely dodging one of those things she didn't truly want to know.

"What do you mean?" Alex asked, coming up to join them. "You forgot your scarf," he noted to Heather.

Kaufmann smiled at this little show of affection between them. "This is one of the only places Alessa Gillespie physically appeared to Harry Mason." Heather frowned, not liking where this was going. The doctor caught her expression and his face softened a little. "Normally I would be most content to let you heal at your own pace, Heather Mason. But... now isn't a time to hide."

The blonde looked up at his face. Then she closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and reached into her pocket.

A wave of heat rippled up around her legs, and a ghost of orange light cause her to blink her eyes open rapidly. Alex and Kaufmann were looking around themselves, at a burning Mark of Samael. IT was enormous, encompassing the entire top of the lighthouse. Within seconds, snow had melted and water was running down the sides of the lighthouse. Heather took in a strangled breath. Both men look to her.

"Heather," Kaufmann explained as gently as he could, praying that she would be able to hold herself together. "You are not Alessa Gillespie. But you do have her gift."

At the terror on her face, Alex took a protective step between her and the psychiatrist. Heather grabbed his arm. "It's okay," she gasped.

"It's not," Alex perceived. "This hellhole isn't your fault."

"Please," Kaufmann begged of the soldier to listen. "I am saying this because I want to protect her." Alex kept Heather behind him, facing down the doctor. Feeling strangely like he was pleading to Lobsel-Vith all over again, Kaufmann tried to make his case. "It is only after they destroyed Alessa's innocence that she gained the tools to defend herself. I don't want to see the same thing happen to Heather."

"What do you want? For her to remember what it means to be Alessa so she can tap into these abilities? If you've forgotten, the little Gillespie girl did all of this!" he gestured around at the fog.

Kaufmann took a deep breath. "Alex Shepherd, if Heather could walk away this moment, would you advise her to?"

"Of course!"

Kaufmann nodded. "You don't see what she sees."

Alex scowled angrily.

"If she goes back, she will spend her entire life living in fear of this place. She will always have to live on her toes. She will never feel safe bringing children into the world. And she will never live a day of her life believing she will actually make it to old age." Alex shrunk back, surprised. Kaufmann smiled sadly. "She has waited all this time to come back. She's here to kill Silent Hill. Part of her wants to believe that scattering the cult again will be enough. But the truth is that if Alessa made Silent Hill this way, then Heather Mason stands a reasonable chance of unmaking it."

Alex frowned, looking back at Heather. His partner was staring at nothing in particular, eyes wide. He looked back to Kaufmann. "Alessa was a badly damaged and very angry little girl. Her childish sense of justice turned this place into a slaughterhouse."

Kaufmann gestured around them. "This was a place of power for Alessa, where she inscribed the Seal of the Metatron and where her memory still lingers. Alessa was using it to prevent the birth of God." Alex blinked, and Kaufmann nodded to confirm the younger man had heard correctly. "Heather intuitively understands something about Silent Hill that we don't.That no one else understands, not even the cult. Something important that's taken over the whole of her gut instinct. The only example of another psychic she has to learn from is Alessa herself, but that doesn't mean we want her to turn into Alessa."

The soldier considered these words. Heather was still clutching his arm tightly. After a moment he stepped back and eased an arm gently around her. "What do you think?" he asked her, concerned.

Heather seemed to come to as the sound of the question. She looked up at Alex's face, and then around her where the Seal of the Metatron was slowly receding. "I don't feel like I know anything special," she whispered. "I'm terrified."

Kaufmann nodded. "You ought to be."

Heather shook her head, rubbing her brow. "Alessa was suicidal."

The doctor nodded again. "Stop second guessing yourself. You aren't Alessa, and you won't act on her desires. Your abilities don't come through her like she's some kind of filter. They're yours. Do you still want to get to Valtiel?"

Heather looked at the doctor. She imagined a mental picture of the angel, and was hit by a wave of pain as she remembered how he was torn straight out of her arms. Then she nodded.

"Michael..." she said slowly. "I could hear what he was thinking."

The doctor blinked.

Heather closed her eyes. "Valtiel. 'Hear' is the wrong word. I knew what he was thinking. When Xipe pulled him away... ... ... He told me to let go. He promised me it would be okay, and apologized he couldn't stay longer. He... he told me to have faith."

"Have faith?" Alex asked shakily, surprised by this genuine sign that Heather was Alessa's heir. "In what?"

Heather shook her head and opened her eyes. Kaufmann was watching her strangely "Where is Walter Sullivan's grave?"

"Sullivan? The murderer? Near the old Wish House Orphanage, if I remember. But that grave's empty."

"It shouldn't matter," she reasoned.

"Why go to an empty grave?"

"Because the previous inhabitant has been trying to get my attention for a few days now. And if I avoid him any longer, he might start giving Eileen nightmares."

Kaufmann blinked and frowned. "I've been meaning to ask, Heather... Did you dream last night?"

"No, I don't think so," Heather Mason lied. Then she added a grain of truth, "Or if I did it was just a big hodge-podge of things that didn't make any sense together."


The demon was there, sculpted carefully into one of his many shapes. He stood at the end of the hallway, and there was no escape on either side. She was in a dead end, one lined with rusty hooks and chunks of human flesh. She frowned at the demon. There was malice about him, a hostility that went beyond raw power and transgressed into personal hatred. He advanced on her, blade shrieking.

Something was wrong.

His steps were not labored. The knife glided over the ground. A dark and oppressively hot aura rippled out from him like smoke, an unholy and righteous conviction, an overwhelming hatred.

Ah.

This was not a regular Red Pyramid. The walls crunched in as it walked, crumbling, tearing apart. Terrifying, bloody, fingernail scratches traced across the floor. The form of this monster was the same, but the spirit was different. She turned entirely to face him, amused by the power she saw. Where once there had been a simple machine, a cog powered by a smoldering lump of coal, now there was flame. This one was embodying the demigod. He truly hated her; hated her just because she existed- but more, hated her for all she was, all she had done. Bugs spilled out from behind him in waves, overlapping his feet, scuttling towards her.

He had reached her. She shook her head. The avatar- the Smith- lifted up the blade as effortlessly as if it were nothing but a weightless fencing rapier.

"He's mine," the raven-haired girl told him.

The demon reeled back, releasing her, smoke flaring around him like unholy wings. Alessa didn't budge, staring him down. He stumbled a step backwards.

"He is mine," she repeated. "Go ahead, try to wash my scent from him; My mark won't budge. And you? You're just another toy. Or perhaps a whore for whomever's willing to give you a momentary purpose."

The demon stepped forward again, facing her square on, smoke roiling hatefully about him. She wasn't even talking to him. She was talking to... A low growl rippled out from his chest. The helmet lowered aggressively, fingers tightening on the hilt of the giant blade. The heat was oppressive against her skin.

"Well?" she prompted. "Shoo."

She'd pushed him too far. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned the hilt of his blade against the nearby wall. She lifted a brow, then gasped as he suddenly lunged at her, grabbing her in both hand and hoisting her up. One hand held her aloft just by clutching the flesh and cloth around her collar, tearing her skin in places. The other hand pulled back and then dove forward. It plunged into her midsection, twisting into her intestines and organs. The fingers flexed. She contorted. Then they grabbed at one of her kidneys, seized hold, and ripped the organ free, jamming it up into her liver and lungs.

She spit up blood, blinking in surprise. Then a wide and vicious smile split open her face. She looked at the enraged deity, and then burst out laughing at his antics. "You're hopeless," she giggled at him.

Unbelievable rage rushed over him. He grabbed her left arm, hooked the other hand back into her internals, and then pulled her arm straight clear of her body. Ribs snapped, her spine cracked. She kept laughing, choking on blood. He slammed her into the wall of hooks, grinding his hips into her, suffocating her with his weight and smoke.

But that was not the end of the dream.

Tongues of flame grabbed him. They clenched around his limbs, his chest, with sharp inward facing barbs that burned inches deep into his flesh. They grabbed his arms and yanked them mercilessly behind him, dragging him backwards, undermining his legs. He lunged towards her where her destroyed body slipped helplessly from the hooks and landed with a grotesque splatter on the ground. She lifted her head, looking up at him in surprise as he howled and thrashed, the tongues binding his arms together, dragging him farther and farther backwards.

Wide-eyed the girl lifted up a shaking arm, covered in blood. As he was being jerked backwards he watched this gesture, watched her reach for him and then sag downward in agony.

The avatar of the demigod roared in miserable frustration because his prey was so very close. He gave a violent toss of his weight and then managed to catch himself against a ledge. The architecture cracked. He screamed in defiance and thrashed as one of his making had not done for centuries; they had never had such life, such fire, so much hate. A few of the flaming tongues snapped under his might; but more replaced them. It wasn't enough. Something vital to his makeup was simply absent.

His howls grew desperate, frantic, anguished. He was not going to be permitted to complete his task. Worse, he was going to be prevented from even trying.

Heather Mason lifted her head back out of the blood, and scowled at all the screaming. She looked angrily in his direction and then tried to wriggle forward. The lack of arm wasn't helping. "For fuck's sake stop yelling!" she snarled at him, her first genuine words. The sound of her voice was rough, real, human. "Maybe if you hadn't torn me limb from limb I'd be able to help you, you ever think of that?!"

The avatar jerked his helmet towards her, disturbed why what he'd just heard. What?

"Oh sod off!" she hissed, trying to crawl forward. "You and I both know I'll be fine!" The walls cracked more. Heather bit her lip, trying to drag her agonized and useless body just a few inches forward. Then she lay her head down and strained, reaching with her arm. A long black tongue twitched out from under the helmet, wriggling hesitantly towards her. Rubble was falling from the ceiling. Heather winced, straining with all her might. "Come on," she wheezed, using her toes to get her forward just a little farther. "Come on! You need to touch my hand!"

The tongue retracted sharply. The Smith roared hatefully at her and then ducked his head, trying to use his helmet as leverage to pull himself away from the flames. Heather loosed a colorful stream of swears. Then she stared at him, shaking her head.

"The hell are you?" she whispered to herself in confusion and awe. He writhed under the tongues of flame, skin smoldering to black. She shook her head again, not comprehending what she was looking at. "I don't even..." Actually, it was rather hard to see. Her vision was fogging up, and on top of it the flames didn't seem to be giving off any light. The only light source appeared to be centered around Heather herself. Rational thought surfaced. She was waking up. The Smith struggled forward one desperate inch, and light reflected off the edge of the flames. The fire almost seemed to be linked into words.

Heather's eyes opened wide. Instinct rushed through her, brightening her vision, anchoring her just a moment longer. She lunged forward a few inches.

"Demon! Take my hand!" she ordered the monster, stretching her palm forward.

The Smith roared at her.

"I don't fucking care!" she exclaimed frantically. "I'll help you anyway; take my hand!"

A tense moment passed. The black tongue inched forward hesitantly.

"Take my hand! There's no time! Come on!"

There was a crack as the Smith was dragged backwards several inches. A chunk of the ceiling high, high above them gave way and began to fall. He shrieked in furious despair, tongue darting out towards her, desperate not to be denied his prey.

Then the world went dark as the ceiling hit down.


Dream Logic! The monster who tore off your arm is in need of rescuing!