Another book, another town, but with the same girl who couldn't be tied down.

For how many years has this been a part of her routine? Searching for something intangible, for an occurrence which was meant to waltz in out of nowhere naturally into the strange, undissected dimension that was her mind. Alas, this wanderer was never fond of the word 'wait', so she prowled for the very thing difficult to force out, one that takes time to fully blossom. Inspiration.

Inspiration for what genre exactly? Looking at the town of Ashfield, you'd get a sense of mellow gloom. Nothing major really happened in that town in order to gain any fame or recognition, other than being a bit close to Silent Hill, which was the rage amongst tourists as well as those who loved to spread conspiracy theories. On most days in Ashfield, clouds would darken, it was their own way of frowning upon the world as if they were angry gods, provoked by wrongdoings of the denizens of their land. Somehow, it seemed perfect to the young writer. She just needed to figure out which exact structure would fit. Maybe crime should do it…

"Ok, before I give you the keys, I just gotta make sure you're absolutely certain about living in Room 302." The superintendent known as Frank Sunderland raised a brow, regarding the girl before him as if she was asking to enter the gates of hell, which, once upon a time, used to be the case for certain tenants, unknownst to his knowledge. Prior to this moment, no one had been living there for almost two years since the last tenant moved out. He couldn't explain the enigma behind this apartment in particular, no one could. Consequently, this subject needed to remain untouched until he found the right answers.

"I've never been more sure in my life." she chirped "This is it. I have a good feeling."

Both of them turned their eyes away from each other to glance at the door before sealing the deal. Breaking his gaze first, Frank fished for the key in his pocket; the jingles echoed in the disturbingly quiet hallway. Pulling out the corresponding key, he handed it to her.

"Just making sure, Margaret. This apartment… it's not something you'd call ordinary. " he sighed, his voice laced with uncertainty. Every other room had no vacancies apart from this one, which didn't surprise him in the least. The super didn't have the heart to turn down the girl's wish to live here, especially after being told she had nowhere else to go. As of this moment, he needed to be sure nothing would go wrong in that apartment by checking on her from time to time. Hopefully Margaret won't succumb to 302's inexplicable influence. This time, he wasn't going to be so careless.

Gingerly, she accepted the key as a smile graced her face "Are you sure no one got murdered here?"

"No, but there was 'something' going on for a long time. I'm not sure if it's some sort of possession or something else." lying to her didn't feel right, if he was going to build trust with her, he might as well lay out everything he knew, so that it wouldn't be too late to change her mind, unless the room had already found a way to calm its 'spirits'. "You should know, the fella who previously lived here, was shut inside. While I was patrolling around the hallway I didn't see anyone come in or out and finally at some point he was able to show his face. When I asked him about it, he mentioned 'being locked from the inside' I didn't really get it. He didn't tell me much due to the fact that he and the girl from 303 moved out together in quite a rush."

"Locked?" Margaret eyed him curiously "Did he do that himself?"

Frank shrugged "Dunno. Same thing happened with the guy who lived here before him. Except there's one thing; he disappeared without a trace years ago. Sometimes I wonder if he's still alive. He was an oddball, but a decent fellow."

"The apartment made them go insane?"

"I didn't say they'd gone crazy, it's most likely 302 that has some…issues, if you'd call it that. I remember hearing strange noises coming from it. I once saw a suspicious man waltzing in and out, carrying some tools, but even he stopped showing up."

"Well then," the writer looked him directly in the eye and beamed "I'll still take it regardless!"

The super silently prayed to the heavens that no strange forces within this apartment dare consume her. They had known each other briefly, however, Frank could tell that she was a good kid. According to the summary of her life story, Margaret seemed to be moving everywhere without setting out for a final destination. To her, there was no such thing as 'a true home', only shelter until it was time to go elsewhere. In a way, she reminded him of his daughter-in-law, Mary. Both had this relentless need to travel to any place their hearts yearningly sang for. An escape to nowhere in particular. He smiled at the thought. Some people weren't meant to be tied down to one place.

What Margaret heard just now about the room and its previous tenants didn't actually bother her in the slightest. Anyone else that received this kind of information would've most probably backed down while there was still time, yet she really didn't want to, she couldn't either. All those royalties from her last novel were specifically saved just for this town. She hoped her investment would pay off until she could figure out what to do next. As for the previous occupants, Margaret assumed the stories about those people were either rumors or just a simple misunderstanding. Maybe they went a little stir crazy. Agoraphobia could've also been the case too.

Once the key was inserted, the sound of a single click indicated the opening of Room 302 for the first time in two years. The door creaked loudly, almost like it celebrated the fact that it still had its use.

Upon entering, with Sunderland following from behind, Margaret was greeted with, what she'd describe as the most monotone interior she'd ever seen. Almost seemed like all the life and its vibrance got sucked away.

Needs more yellow…

Almost every piece of furniture had been left by the previous occupant, by the looks of it. Space-wise, it was minimalist, yet perfect for her. After all, she wouldn't know what to do with so much space at her disposal.

"Well? What do you think? Sorry about the dust, by the way." Frank apologized, nervously rubbing the back of his head as he made his way to the kitchen counter to pick up a pen and a notepad. He began to write.

"You know, aside from the overall color, I like it. It's cozy." she eyed the center of the room with approval, coupled with a slight nod of her head.

"In case you need anything, here's my landline or just swing by my apartment, you know where it is." finished writing, the super placed the pen back on the table and wished Margaret a happy stay at Room 302, regardless of the seed of doubt that slowly began to spur in the back of his mind.

"Thank you so much! I'll take good care of it."

"Hope this place returns the favor."

With that said, they shook hands in conclusion; Margaret Elizabeth Hoyle was officially the newest occupant of South Ashfield Heights.

She wasn't going to do any writing this day as she had initially thought, given that all her luggage and boxes wordlessly pleaded for her to start sorting every belonging. And not to mention the cleaning this place needed.

Damn… is this place so haunted to the point where they just had to neglect it like that? I don't even know what's a bigger crime, the dust or the paint job.

Once all the laborious chores were finished, she sat down on the ground, resting her head against the window as a sigh of relief escaped her lips moments before she shifted her body in order to get a better glance of the apartment wing across her. Even though the moon claimed its dominance over the Sun this fateful hour, the residents were in no hurry to snuff out the lights. With half-lidded eyes she tried to analyze what was going on in other rooms and in addition to that, get to know her new neighbors indirectly.

First thing that caught her eye was the erratic movement of a very hyperactive young man, who appeared to be in a trance, as he painted a picture in his mind that he was performing on stage with a guitar in hand, while his headphones helped maintain the illusion. She giggled watching him strum invisible strings for a while before darting her tired gaze to the next one.

There were some mischievous children on an upper level, a bit far on the left, playing like there was no tomorrow, with one of them doing the same thing as Margaret. They shortly locked eyes and she gave the kid a small wave which was returned with an even more enthusiastic one directed at her. In all honesty, she couldn't ever imagine having that many kids, even two seemed like it would be too many for her to handle, as someone who rather enjoyed being alone. Still, she wished the parents goodluck with their six or possibly more little ones.

"I don't know what's tougher: either when they're young or when they're teenagers. Think I'll pass." She almost laughed at herself, realizing how old she sounded just now, though she was only 27 and only had her career in mind, she considered all her work as "children" in a way.

Right below the gaggle of energized kids, she spotted a young couple sitting on the bed. She couldn't see the man's face, however the girl next to him was looking at him fondly. It was plainly visible, even from this view, that they were madly in love, which made Margaret question herself and also remind her how she never contributed any effort into her past relationships. Unafraid to admit it, most of the mistakes and downfalls were her fault; mainly for the reason of refusing to try new things in life i.e meeting new people, whom she'd eventually end up never seeing again due to her need for distance. Snapping back from her self critical thoughts, her eyes widened in shock and realization that things were starting to get "hot and heavy" with the couple across.

"Ok! That's enough looking for tonight!" embarrassed, she stood up to get ready for bed. "I'm not here to gather notes for a trashy smut novel anyway; especially by peeping."

Half an hour or so of freshening up has passed, most of the credit goes to Margaret's shower thoughts for taking up so much time. Several of those thoughts morphed into sceneries familiar to her brain; some colorful, others monochromatic or just pitch black. Revisiting the darkest corners of her mind helped oil the rusted cogs that started to work at last. Maybe, just maybe, she could start outlining her work with a few words in, before going to sleep.

Sitting down at her newly polished desk, the writer started up her laptop and began to type in an empty document. For now, the idea was to pour out everything she mentally stored no matter how disconnected those notes would be; tidying up the clutter was always saved for later. The common misconception about drafts or outlines was that they had to be written flawlessly during the first try which some writers tried to tackle head on. There wasn't ever such a thing as the perfect outline without any mistakes. Maybe in rare occurrences, however, those were pretty much as common as a genuine UFO sighting.

Soon enough, the dots were starting to connect, cubes began to stack themselves; a lot of pieces fell into alignment. Yes, her wrestling match with inspiration was coming along nicely. Another battle in her favor; a crime novel with some fantastic elements and a dash of mystery. Those few words she promised herself to write before bed turned into paragraphs. Though, as they say, even the happiest of things had their expiration date, so did Margaret's laptop.

"What?!" her heart began to pound in fear and anger, both emotions doing their tango as the girl's world shattered around her helplessly.

The now-deceased laptop didn't respond to her violent tapping on the keys. Margaret was trying to revive a dead horse by beating it at this point.

"This is worse than being haunted. If there is a ghost, then that bitch just murdered my work!"

Margaret had given up hope on resuscitating this dead piece of technology. Her only comfort and method of preventing self-destruction was to have a stern conversation with herself as she normally would in moments like these where she found herself to be stuck.

"Look, you fucking idiot! I told, I TOLD you you couldn't trust technology. You knew this would happen. That's what you get for not doing things the traditional goddamned way!"

"SHUT UP! I know, ok?! Look, I didn't expect this thing to die on me right now!"

"After five years of using it, what else did you expect, dumbass?! These things haven't even evolved yet!"

"Ugh! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I'll find someone to fix it!"

"Where are you going to find an ad? Through a toaster?"

Suddenly, a knock on her door was enough to bring her back to reality. She was convinced it had to be an incoming noise complaint, which she couldn't really argue with. It was about 1 AM and Margaret had to take other neighbors' sleep schedule into consideration since she obviously wasn't the only person living here.

Making her way to the front door she braced herself for the inevitable complaint from an angry neighbor, only to find no one present on the other side. Confused, the girl stepped into the darkness. Turning on the lights in the hallway, she squinted, adjusting her eyes to the brightness, then turned her head in every direction to check for any presence. The only thing she managed to spot was a rust colored note on the ground on her side of the room. Picking it up suspiciously, she closed the door behind her and turned on the lights to read it.

"What seems to be the trouble that's making you lose your beauty sleep?"

Margaret would be lying if she said she wasn't lost regarding what was going on right now. A thousand questions were running through her head like it was a marathon up there. Why didn't anyone show up? Are they scared of facing me? I don't get it.

She felt ridiculous standing around and pondering the mystery of the note's sender. It could've been someone's way of pranking her, with this first note being the build up. Were people really that bored? Or it could've been from a person who was genuinely mute, which made her feel sorry considering the thought. Sighing deeply, Margaret decided to write them back using the notepad on the counter, next to the piece of paper containing Sunderland's number.

"I know I'm being a bit loud and I do apologize, but for the record, I'm having some shitty luck right now, so please understand. Also, I swear I'm not a crazy person, I was just venting out my frustration over something."

Slipping it under the door, she waited for a response. A few seconds passed until there was another new note from the stranger, yet she didn't hear any footsteps, not to mention, she noticed the lights were off in the hallway while looking through the peephole. Weird would be an understatement to describe this situation. Without questioning it further, she read the note.

"Sorry you're having trouble. What are you doing if I may ask?"

Margaret tightened her lips, recalling how childish her actions were when the unexpected black screen turned her vision red. Subconsciously, she picked up her pen and notepad, along with a pillow, then walked towards the front door to sit down with her back resting against it. I'm not tired nor am I going to be writing anything else so what the hell. She also needed to listen closely for anyone present outside. Maybe there was a chance to catch the person trying to communicate with her.

"Been writing a story that was supposed to be my next masterpiece. My stupid old laptop died on me and now I feel like dying too."

Margaret stared at the note she slipped, hoping to see it disappear from her sight, though as she waited and waited, without breaking her gaze, the note from her remained still. A yawn fought to escape her lips. Without thinking, she rubbed her eyes before shifting them back to where the note was. Just like that, it was gone like the wind.

"What the flying hell?!"

She swiftly stood up to open the door again and peered into the dark hallway. Even with the help of the light from her room, she still couldn't find anyone, no matter how hard she searched. Something about this felt off.

Rolling her eyes at, yet another, failed attempt to get ahold of this person, her tired body begged her to give up, her mind however, had other plans.

"Fuck this! I'm going to camp out here!" Margaret declared, hurrying towards the kitchen to make some coffee. She was going to get to the bottom of this, sleep deprived or not. Who and why on earth would anyone go out of their way at 1 or possibly 2 AM to talk to a stranger that just moved here? Reporting it to Frank could be an option, but disturbing him at this hour was out of the question. Margaret's brief burst of madness caused enough ruckus for one night. Now her cup of coffee, with the coaster as its plus one, joined the late night soiree. And Oop- what a surprise! Another note without me noticing! How Marvelous!

"Ah, it's always nice to meet a kindred spirit. Which branch do you partake in? As a fellow writer myself, I understand most difficulties that come with our job. I've never been too keen on meddling with technology myself either. That's why I use my typewriter as my trusted tool of trade. I've always been somewhat of an old-fashioned guy despite not actually being an elder."

Margaret giggled at the pleasant surprise. Another writer? What are the odds?

"Too bad now I'm facing the consequences for trying to keep up with the times now that I have no backup of, what I thought would be, the next hit. I write novels, by the way. So... Mr. Writer what kind of content do you make anyway?"

Even though the girl felt like a zombie, she was on a mission to know more. Who knew this apartment complex had such enigmatically colorful people? Taking a sip of her coffee, she turned her head to find another crimson piece of paper next to her. This time, she wasn't going to bother searching for the author behind it.

"I'm an expository journalist. If you're from around these parts you might have eventually come across some of my articles. What kind of genres do you dabble in?"

Man, this guy is curious.. When it came to journalists, Margaret didn't often consider their work as "honest "; most of their revenue was built upon the foundation of sensationalism. They were bad news in most cases, however she figured it was too quick to judge this man just yet. Context was a requisite for such a thing, first and foremost. How ironic..

"You know, discussing our wonderful jobs would be a lot easier if you could actually show up at my door where I can see you and communicate with you vocally."

She wasn't exaggerating, though. This writing session created small blisters on her index finger. Definitely a sign that she needed to take a break from typing and pick up a pencil more often. Albeit, a simple visit would have sufficed just fine. On the other hand, this is kind of entertaining on some level. Kind of.

"Inviting me to your apartment already, miss? At this hour? What would the neighbors say? You never know who could be watching out there. People are prone to gossip."

Ok. I take it back..

Her cheeks ignited to such a high degree that the heat spread to the surface of her skin, coloring it almost the same shade as the mystery guy's paper. Margaret reread his note with disbelief a few times over to make sure that she wasn't being delusional and that he had the actual nerve to tease her in this manner. Taking a deep breath in and out helped with her composure before continuing to respond.

"Keep teasing or you're never setting foot here. Pick your poison."

"I was just poking fun. I never had the chance to send letters short distance so I'm utilizing this moment. I'd like to know more about you this way, if you don't mind."

"You're a strange one and a little nosy, I'll give you that. I've never met anyone like you."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. It's common in my line of work as you may guess."

"I'm Margaret Hoyle. Got a name I can remember you by, nosy stranger?"

"For now, call me J."

"That's it?"

"With further communication, time as our companion and God as our witness, I shall reveal more to you, Margaret."

Narrowing her eyes, she couldn't help but think that she just got outplayed by whatever force of nature this J person was. He knew a lot more about her than she knew about him: her voice, name, occupation, address and lord knows what else.

"You're not being fair, you know. Can I at least hear your voice? I wanna make sure I'm not going insane from all this coffee I kept ingesting for hours. I feel like I'm talking to a ghost or something."

"I'm as real as the notes that are binding us."

"You're not actually a Jehovah's witness are you? My stepdad's a priest, so I've heard plenty about Christ already."

"I'm not, trust me. I'm just making conversation without selling any propaganda."

"Why did you come by to pass notes with me?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm bored and you seem like an interesting person to talk to, especially after hearing your outburst."

Embarrassment came back to plague her again, as if she wasn't flustered enough.

"Can we not talk about that please? I forgot that other people live here, ok?"

"Don't worry about it, I'm not going to report you or anything."

"Thanks."

"I take it you're living alone?"

She rolled her eyes at J's attempt to interrogate her with all these questions. Margaret couldn't help, but snort from laughter. Damn, he really is a journalist.

She decided to play around a bit.

"Who wants to know?"

"A potential friend."

"Or a serial killer."

"If I were a killer, I wouldn't pick a building packed with people to commit murder."

"That's a good point. You even know which patterns not to follow, a bit suspicious if you ask me."

How painfully ironic would it be if she was talking to a murderer this whole time, especially by passing notes like kids during class.

"Maybe investigating serial killers affected my way of thinking."

"That's actually intriguing. So, if you were a killer (not saying you are) how would you end my life?"

It took a few minutes longer than usual for him to respond. The idea of her question freaking him out was a hilarious concept to her.

"Who would kill such a lovely creature?"

"Are you making fun of me, guy?"

"No ma'am, I speak the truth and nothing but the truth."

Oh, how she wanted to get mad at him, but the lack of tone in his words gave her no reason to be harsh.

"You haven't answered my question, J,"

"Nor have you, M."

"I live alone, but I can take care of myself. Make no mistake."

"I have no doubts, but to answer your question; you're too charming to kill, so I can't really say."

Rolling her eyes, she sighed loudly.

"I bet you say that to all the girls you pass notes to."

"Charm is the root of your character. Lately, I haven't had the pleasure of encountering any ladies who are as radiant. I mean what I say."

A sheepish smile spread to her blushing face, thanks to J's incredible way with words. Not many men knew how to get these reactions out of her, yet this bizarre man did it so effortlessly, regardless of his intentions.

"If you wanna ask me out for dinner, then you've picked the wrong time. I gotta go to bed. Tomorrow I may or may not be mourning the death of my laptop. Depends whether I find someone who could fix it."

"I'm not a firm believer of the effectiveness behind prayers, but I'll keep your deceased companion in my thoughts. I wish you goodnight and a welcome to South Ashfield Heights."

"Thanks and goodnight to you too, J."

Not expecting any more note exchanges, Margaret sat up from the ground, finally departing from the front door while picking up her things. The pen and notepad were once again on the counter, her trusty coffee mug sat squeaky clean in its place and the notes from J were going to a new place, a box she had sitting in a desk drawer in her bedroom. She figured it wouldn't hurt to keep them around; maybe even ponder them some more when she found the suitable time for it.

Right before heading off, there was the matter of performing a little ritual Margaret had for every place she resided in. Grabbing a permanent marker, she sat in front of the bed. In small neat letters, she wrote on the frame: House of M

At long last, all the lights were out and her head hit the pillows after hours of tidying up the apartment and talking to this strange guy- a journalist, as he claimed to be. It was hard to figure him out, especially when all these puzzle pieces had no picture to reveal no matter how perfectly the shapes fit. Those times she tried to catch him red handed were so futile that, at some point, Margaret thought it was all in her head. In all her years of moving to different places, she never experienced this kind of welcoming committee. In an odd way, she found their whole conversation quite entertaining. A small smile crept up to her face as her eyes closed. What a weirdo. I'll give him props for originality, though. Perhaps Frank might be able to provide some answers tomorrow.

- J -

When was the last time this troubled spirit felt human in a husk of a body which no longer breathed? Joseph found it hard to believe that he was no longer a participant in Walter Sullivan's rusty carnival of death and despair. Despair… the very word that contributed greatly to both Joseph's death and second existence that molded him into a pawn for a demented game. Since the 21 sacraments and the portal to the Otherworld within 302 ceased to exist, what was his new purpose? His role as The Giver Of Wisdom has been the only source of light, a flame extinguished by fulfillment. That flame used to guide him, give meaning to this cold, lonely unlife. By no means did he want to partake in a prophecy created by a monster clad in man's clothing. In death, however, a choice in the matter was too much of a freedom to have. Joseph's only way out of the abyss was to share the ultimate truth, by fulfilling that, he had enough grain of hope to pray for one thing he thought his spirit would allow: to finally rest.

Naturally, it was never that easy. He felt like a fool, believing his soul would be granted the gift of relief, even without that nightmare holding him in its clutches. If all the monochrome walls ,that Joseph came to be so familiar with, successfully shattered, then why was he still trapped?

At least now, he was back to how 302 usually was in its regular state. He'd grown so accustomed to a world devoid of any sound or color, it was akin to a prison without any wardens where the only inmate was him. He endured so much punishment for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All this agony..all this pain.. Just because I had chosen the wrong apartment. He couldn't help but chuckle at the way his predicament sounded. At least now, the deceased journalist had the chance to remind himself what it was like to have a regular conversation with a living, breathing human being. Although, he had to live with watching her every move in this apartment as a part of his everlasting curse.

Examining this turn of events, it reminded Joseph of his last few months of living, when he watched and begged for Eileen to notice the grave danger he was in. She never did; until she had learned about his fate, right as he completed his role. He recalled how much time he'd spent clawing his way out, screaming while desperately holding onto the little strength his body had before deteriorating at the hands of Walter's sleeping mother. Joseph wasn't sure whether he was mad at Eileen or himself for not being able to escape; in the bitter end, he settled with the fact that his destiny was inevitable the moment he set foot in 302, once upon a nightmare. Monitoring her safety through that hole was his only means of staying in touch with reality. It was the confirmation he needed to know it was only his world that was falling apart while everybody around him resumed to their own mortal coil.

This girl, Margaret; she wasn't Eileen. Room 302 remained no longer possessed. And now, Joseph was no longer alive with no truth to cling to. With Margaret living here, there wasn't any danger she needed to be aware of, no ancient prophecy to prevent from happening. He wished to talk to her because he missed that simple pleasure in life. Exchanging banter with someone like him, in a way, awakened something deep within. Something which he'd thought to have been long gone. Perhaps it was hope for a newfound companionship. Joseph may have been dead for several years, with his consciousness intact, however, that didn't mean he hadn't any right to fraternize with Room 302's newest captivatingly interesting occupant. After all, I don't need a beating heart to know I'm alive.

- M -

When the morning came Margaret wasn't surprised to wake up without her apartment turning against her. The day before, in a whole new town, proved to be a lot more eventful than the writer had initially hoped. It wasn't often one would hear that their apartment had been previously haunted by demons or whatever supernatural being the locals believed in. Seemed like they shared the same kind of superstitions as the residents of Silent Hill. Not even her father could fathom the various stories he had heard whilst visiting that town. Margaret was no stranger to said stories. The more tales he revealed to her, the more esoteric they sounded, like it all belonged in a twisted fairy tale, where, through God's eyes, blood and decay shaped their realm of living. Being a non-believer herself, she figured the townsfolk made those stories up just to scare off the myriad of tourists that kept wandering there.

On top of that, a complete stranger with unknown identity reached out and had a full blown conversation with her for no reason in the middle of the night.

I feel like I'm the one experiencing a novel.

Speaking of which, her project hasn't received any attention since the sudden death of her laptop, a huge hiccup in her progress, which frustrated her beyond belief upon remembering it. Exasperating as it was, there was the matter of asking around for a computer technician as the first objective. Therefore it was time to go.

Right as she got ready to head out of the apartment, a most peculiar thing caught her eye, making her gasp. A bright red typewriter stood right in front of the surprised girl with a familiar crimson note attached to it.

"No way!"

Bending over Margaret picked up the object and brought it to her room for further investigation. Setting it on the counter, she then examined the note. It read:

"I know it's not the appropriate time for gifts yet, but I want you to have it. I want to thank you for staying up late to talk. Anyway, this typewriter served me well throughout my career, hope you'll find it just as useful.

P.S. please don't give me anything in return, I mean it. -J"

She couldn't believe it; J nonchalantly gave her a trinket that most likely meant a lot to him. It looked to be one of those Royal manual typewriters; something most vintage collectors and writers alike would kill to own, yet now it was in her clutches, albeit, Margaret couldn't help but feel strange about accepting it. It wasn't right, however, she doubted J would take it back, especially after insisting she'd have it instead. In all honesty, this was a better bet than relying on today's technology that everybody flocked towards. It wasn't difficult to say that it was one of the best things she ever received. Such a kind of gesture warmed her heart, making any previous traces of guilt slowly dissipate. If he insists, then… I guess there's nothing wrong with taking it. Thanks, J. I promise I'll give you something in return, after I find out more about you.

On the desk of her bedroom was the typewriter's new place and it couldn't have looked more perfect. She couldn't contain the joyous squeal anymore as she marveled at the gift's perfection.

Right as Margaret wanted to give it a whirl, the sound of her telephone halted every potential action. She went to answer it, as much as every nerve in her body begged to ignore the call and jump straight into writing. Unless...

"Yes?"

"Hey, it's me, Frank."

For a moment, there was a tiny amount of disappointment looming over her. She shouldn't have been expecting the very guy that was fond of staying in the shadows.

"Oh, hi! How's it going? Is there anything I can help you with?" she politely offered.

"Nah. Nothing like that. I just wanted to check if everything's alright."

Margaret smiled at the sentiment, but still couldn't help but feel that the history of this room was exaggerated just a teensy bit. She appreciated it nonetheless.

"I'm still alive, well and totally not possessed nor is 302." She joked

"Thank god for that. I was starting to kinda lose it from worry this morning, but I didn't want to call so early." the super gave a sigh of relief. He wished for this kind of peace in his building to continue. All these years ago, his paranoia almost made him want to demolish the room entirely. Fortunately, everything seemed fine for now. Nevertheless, that didn't mean he was going to trust 302 to be a hundred percent safe as it once was.

"It's fine, don't worry about it." Margaret assured "Hey! Listen, Frank. I wanted to ask you about someone. Do you know anyone with the initial J? A tenant maybe? Anything you can remember about him."

"J, as in initial for a first name or last?"

"I don't really know."

"Why do you ask?"

Guess there's no point in hiding it..

"Um, well.. I communicated with this person through notes last night and that's all he revealed about himself, pretty much. He also mentioned he was a journalist, so I'm wondering if anyone like that lives here."

"A journalist? Hmm.. not sure if I can recall someone like that. My memory isn't what it used to be." Sunderland paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing "Could it be?... no, it couldn't possibly.."

Margaret bit her lip, the suspense for getting at least one helpful clue about this man was suffocating her.

"Yes? What is it?" she urged.

"Look. If I find some information, I'll call you, alright?"

"Alright. Thank you so much. Bye!"

"Anytime. Take care!"

The line went dead as she hung up. Margaret felt irritated for being stuck in the same square, almost like she was meant to be chained there, with every information she was looking for fading before her. For a minute there, it sounded like Frank was onto something. Guess I'll try digging the next time we talk, I'll do it more subtly. He's definitely gonna try and reach out to me, I feel it.

"But, until then," with a spring in her step she bounced to sit at her desk, ready to try out her new present, however, not without cracking her fingers as a part of her tradition before starting on a project. "It's time to write."

"Ooh! I know!" Her mouth shaped into a cheeky grin.

She slid a sheet of stationary paper she found lying around and placed it at the back of the platen to keep it straight. The silence that dominated the room was overthrown by the sound of Margaret's fingers hitting the keys with the occasional ding joining in.

"All work and no play makes Margaret a dull girl."

"God, I always wanted to do that!" she chirped. "Ok! Ok! Now it's back to business for real."

Grabbing another sheet of paper, she began to work on her novel. Hopefully the cartridge won't die on me too soon. Hate to have another freakout because of God being offended by my ambition. Sorry, big man, but I am publishing this when I'm done.

The amount of focus she was pouring into this paper "cauldron" was immeasurable. She paid close attention to balance out the details whilst keeping an eye out not to go overboard. Writing was almost exactly akin to following a recipe; adding or removing the wrong amount of "ingredients" could make or break the whole thing. Although, when it came to achieving literary greatness, there were no strict rules to follow by any book. Finding a pattern that clicked with you, as the author, was the only requirement.

Progress has been skyrocketing so far; luckily there were no bumps on the road. Occasionally, Margaret had to take small breaks in between to eat, which made her stop to think about the fact that she still hasn't left the apartment to do some sight seeing or to grow accustomed to the town in general. Going alone didn't bother her in the slightest, in fact, soaking up the atmosphere was best done without any distractions. The next time she planned to go out wouldn't be for the sake of chasing inspiration; oddly enough, staying cooped up for almost two days provided her creativity with great aid. As thankful as I am for the progress, I need to get out more. I'm starting to feel like a hermit.

Right as Margaret was about to return to her own written realm full of mystery with a touch of horror, the sound of the doorbell announced someone's presence outside. Just as she scraped all the gold she found inside her head.

Her steps came to a halt when she saw another red note stuck under the door.

"Well, look who it is…" she said to herself in a hushed tone.

Plucking the note, she didn't waste time reading it.

"Did you like the gift?"

A smile found its way to the surface. The young woman couldn't recall the last time she felt so jubilant. That typewriter was more than she had hoped for, there was no better replacement for her old laptop, so she couldn't wait to thank him properly. Without wasting any more time, she grabbed her essentials, then went to settle down at the same place as last night. Once again, she began to write:

"You have no idea how much I love it, truly! Thank you so much, J! I'd hug you if you weren't so afraid of talking to girls face to face."

It was now her turn to tease him. Giggling at her own response, she waited for him to reply back.

"First of all, you are more than welcome. Second, I'd accept your hug if you weren't so pushy."

"Ah! Mr. Nosy and Miss Pushy.. boy, aren't we gonna give Mr. Mrs. Potatohead a run for their money."

"We'd make quite a team if you think about it. Exploring the hidden truths of our wonderfully demented world together and creating our own based on that."

Margaret's dark brown eyes glittered with interest upon imagining the two of them working as a duo at some point. It sounded like a quirky comic book series waiting to happen. Two writers: a journalist and a novelist using their imagination to write their way into a dimension where they rule as gods, far away from here… I need to save that one for my notes.

"I bet you have a lot of stories of your own to tell. Got any juicy intel you wanna share? I swear I won't plagiarize it, honest."

"I have a variety of them: funny, happy, bizarre, harrowing and downright depressing."

"Let's start with your life first. How'd you summarize it?"

"The cruel cards I've been dealt with in life made me believe I could cheat my way out of the gaping hole of despair. That shred of hope I clung to was supposed to be my means of escape. As I was approaching the summit, everything disintegrated before my eyes and so I crashed to the bottom. Now the bottom is the only place of comfort I know."

The girl pursed her lips while rereading his statement over and over for some time. She could grasp what he meant, but the picture in her head was distorted like a mosaic that's been scrambled. Whatever he went through, it must have made an emotional dent on him. Her life was no bed of roses either, especially at a younger age, moreover, she sympathized with him nonetheless.

After several minutes of pondering his piercing words, Margaret once again picked up her pen to respond.

"Hey, I don't know exactly what you went through, but I want you to know that it's not too late to recover from what's eating you. You may not be as trapped as you think. As long as the pit you're in isn't sealed, there's still a chance to climb out. The fact that you're still alive proves that, right?"

"I suppose so. Thank you, Margaret. There's truth in your words, although I'm afraid that my salvation snuffed itself long before I could reach it in the cold, lonely darkness. I would say that my life has been pretty average until a few years ago. I have some lighthearted stories too, so it's not all bleak, don't worry."

And worry she did. Margaret still knew nothing of the man, yet she couldn't help but feel his silent pain, which was beyond her grasp of understanding. This dismay he kept inside himself was unleashed onto the notes he wrote. It spread contagiously, all the way to her heart. It's not like he'll let me do anything about it, I'm just a stranger to him as he is to me. Though, I wanna try to help him out. Maybe brighten things up a little.

"By all means, I'd love to hear a funny anecdote as a change of tone, though I am a pretty macabre person myself, in all honesty."

"Alright. I've got a good one: Whenever I went to Silent Hill for an investigation, I'd usually visit Heaven's Night for a little RR during my breaks. So this one time, I had my back turned to the stage and this dancer's high heel accidentally collided with the back of my head and now I have a permanent scar as a consequence. Still didn't stop me from going. Got a few free drinks out of it as compensation. Worth it, if you ask me."

Unable to contain herself, she burst from laughter at his tale of a messy night out. It was hard for her to picture a journalist who took himself seriously to be a frequent visitor of a strip club. Damn, J, you're a wild one, aren't you? What else can you tell me, I wonder? Before she could reply, another letter made its way to her side.

"I'd tell you to stop laughing if I didn't find it so mesmerizingly melodic, but believe me, when you take a 12 inch pump to the head, your sense of humor loses its will to live."

J's written words, not only rekindled the flame on her cheeks, but also caused her to resume to her state of whimsy. She waited for the dizziness from her laughing fit to die down until she was ready to reply with a clear head. Margaret couldn't begin to imagine just how silly this very image of her laying against her front door, sharing euphoria with a person she couldn't even see must've looked like to another point of view. Even if there was an auditorium packed with a billion pairs of judgeful eyes slicing her, she'd still continue to spite them. After all, it has been a while since she enjoyed a conversation to this extent.

"I wouldn't have guessed that you're into these types of clubs."

"Don't blame me for being a man. Besides, Heaven's Night is as classiest as they come."

"Would you say the same about the girls too?"

"There was this one who had something about her, quite an enigma I never got to figure out. She'd always come up to talk to me; I think Mira or Marina was her name, but I can't remember."

Her pen's pressure, while writing a reply, increased without her realizing. Each contact with the paper surface grew slightly louder.

"So, I take it she's your type?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."

Margaret rolled her eyes at his accusation.

"A girl that has everything she needs is immune to something as petty as jealousy."

"Everything, huh? A significant other as well?"

"Oh, please! If I hated my solitude, I'd already have a ball and chain leeching off me. Anyways, let's talk about something else, if you don't mind."

Whenever a topic such as this reared its ugly head, Margaret would build a wall around her until it went away. It wasn't that she had her heart stomped on by a typical jock or a rich boy with an attitude. In fact, she reserved all the love she had for the one thing that made sense fighting for: the worlds she built from the bottomless depths of her mind with no material to rely on, other than her sheer willpower to escape the realm her physical shell was stuck in.

"You're a tough book to read, but what I can make out of you is that you are one fascinating specimen that I'd like to further decipher. Now, I'd like to get back to a question you didn't answer last night: what genre do you write?"

Finally! Now we're getting somewhere!

"Hope you're sitting down too, J, cause this is about to take a while. I've been dying to talk about this, even if it's just in writing form."

"There's nothing more I both admire and fear than a woman's passion for her craft."

"Why fear?"

"Once you're positive about a certain dedication of yours, there is no hell on this earth that would stop you from expressing your love for it. You'd rather die than abandon it. At some point, you start to feel like it's your child that's been born from your heart and mind."

Margaret couldn't hide how beautifully accurate this man had described her feelings towards her work. No one she'd ever met had this level of understanding. Her heart sang in agreement that maybe just maybe those two were meant to be a duo of writers working together after all. Think I've just found my soulmate in writing.

Smiling warmly, with that in mind, she proceeded to write paragraphs upon paragraphs full of nothing but details about her previous novels and some tidbits regarding her current work in progress without spoiling too much. Her pen danced all over the surface of her notepad as her eyes followed its every move like a spotlight. The essence of her sheer pride was evident without the need to voice it out loud and J could sense how these novels came to be the pillars of her shelter, protecting her from the harsh winds of life. Margaret hoped that maybe someday, he'd say that to her face, to read it from his eyes instead of his notes, maybe even give him that "thank you" hug she mentioned.

Hours of discussion have flown by unnoticeably for both parties, with only the moon becoming their witness. Neither could pinpoint what the exact hour was, nor did they care to pause their conversation, until J noticed Margaret's consciousness slowly drifting.

"I adored this conversation with you, dear Maggie, but you must rest. We'll continue some other time. Please take care of yourself."

Stubbornly, with the little energy she had left, Margaret continued to push uphill despite her handwriting getting sloppy along with her vision starting to betray her.

"I adore you too, J. Also, promise me you'll-"

With that, she trailed off, before being out like a light, thus never finishing her unsent note. She clutched it between her index and middle finger as she comfortably rested against the apartment door while in deep slumber.

On the following day, Margaret woke up noticing that she was in her bed. Rubbing her eyes, she questioned how she managed to get here with no recollection. How did I end up in my room? Looking around groggily, there wasn't anything suspicious. Guess I was extremely tired.

Remembering the stack of J's notes, she rushed to her desk drawer to pick up the box which contained them. Reviewing the notes from last night, she sighed in relief upon realizing that everything was in its place. Holding up the last note he sent, she smiled warmly while rereading it. Maggie… I like it. I wonder if I wrote back to him. Curious, she went to check whether she left anything behind before going to bed. To her surprise, she found her own neglected note. Her face reddened from embarrassment from reading the first part, but then it quickly contorted in confusion as she tried to figure out what she wanted to tell him in the second half. What promise was I thinking of? Goddamn it…

Another thing that caught her eye was the lack of paper within the pad. Double damn it! At least now she had another excuse to leave the apartment. Staying cooped up was probably going to take a toll on both her creativity and sanity, furthermore, Margaret was dying to see more of what Ashfield had to offer.

Since it was fall, she made sure to dress to dress for the occasion. The writer preferred to keep things simple, so she went with an orange turtleneck, a pair of dark brown bell bottoms and some black ankle boots. Satisfied with her choice of style, Margaret went out the door into the hallway. When she reached the lobby, after descending the long flight of stairs, she heard a voice.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Raising an eyebrow, she turned around to face a man, who was presumably her neighbor.

"Yes?"

"Sorry for startling you, but I haven't seen you around here before. You live here too?" he enquired.

"Yeah, I just moved here about two days ago. I was just too busy with my work so I didn't get out much." Margaret explained, which was technically the truth. She couldn't admit what was truly keeping her occupied.

"You're in Room 302, right? Don't work too hard in there." He warned, half jokingly "One of the previous tenants was preoccupied with his work too and he just shut himself in before being presumed as missing. Now, I don't mean to scare you, but something happened and no one knows what exactly."

"Thanks, but everything's been fine so far. The only thing I find terrifying about my apartment is the paint job." Margaret cringed while remembering those dull grayish beige walls in every room.

"Not only do I paint pictures, but I also do walls, so holler at me if you need to get work done. I'm Jason Stevenson from 202, by the way." He introduced himself, offering his hand which she shook.

"Margaret Hoyle. Pleased to meet you." She smiled before letting go "And let me tell you how glad I am that you offered. I'll take you up on it soon."

Jason chuckled "Just gimme a knock on the door and we'll have things settled."

"Thanks! Now I better go to the bookstore, I'm running short on some supplies, myself."

"Supplies? What do you need? I can help you out." her neighbor kindly offered.

"No, please, it's ok. You offering to paint my apartment is more than enough."

"I insist. We're neighbors, we've gotta look out for each other. Most of us do, anyway. There are a few to stay away from, but we'll talk about that later. So, whaddya need?"

Margaret bit her lip in uncertainty, she felt bad about taking his material just like that. Well.. if he insists.

"Alright." she sighed "I just need a notepad, but I promise I'll return the favor.

"Hey. Don't stress about it. Besides, I have about twenty of them I don't even need, so you can have them."

"Oh. That's too much."

"Please, you'd do me a favor by taking them. They just clutter my workspace." Jason gestured with his hand to follow him. "Just follow me. It won't take long."

Nodding, she climbed up the stairs beside her neighbor.

"So, are you an artist that's doing a project involving miniature paper?" he asked.

Margaret laughed before answering confidently "Good one, but actually, I paint with words alone."

"You're a writer? That's really cool. So what kind of stories do you write?"

"Mystery, thriller, a bit of supernatural scifi, mostly with some horror elements."

"You know, you do have this grim, yet really pleasant aura. Your taste in fiction kinda confirms it. You're dark on the inside, but sunshine on the outside."

"You're not wrong. I'm impressed."

"Hey, even though I'm not much of a book reader, I'm good at analyzing people." Jason shrugged "Do you have at least a bit of romance in those stories? Just asking in case I need an anniversary gift for my girlfriend. She loves that kind of stuff."

"Hmm I do, but only if she's ok with the main heroine reluctantly falling for the bad guy that's a monster in every sense."

"That's actually a lot cooler than those cliches she keeps reading." Jason nodded thoughtfully. "Hell, even I wanna give it a read."

"Why thank you! I'll give you a copy if you want."

"Thanks! Sounds great!" He exclaimed before stopping his movement. "We're here."

They reached the front door of Room 202. Jason immediately pulled his apartment key to unlock the door. Afterwards, he ushered Margaret inside.

"Go right ahead. Don't mind the mess." the painter said as he went to one of his rooms to find the supplies for her.

Meanwhile, she scanned her surroundings with interest. His whole room was an equivalent to an art gallery with numerous paintings hanging on his walls. Jason's style seemed to have ranged from abstract, surrealism, impressionism to realism. Impressive would be an understatement to describe his talent. He did a remarkable job with portraits the most.

Taking a few steps backwards, while being lost in the beauty of Jason's art, Margaret accidentally hit a painting with her heel. "Shit!" she hissed.

Turning around to see if there was any damage, she was relieved to not have found a single dent. Oh! Thank God..

Inspecting the painting closer, she noticed that it depicted a man with a solemn look on his wrinkled face, sitting in a chair while holding a gun. On the corner, there was a note that read: Richard Braintree, 207

Her eyes hovered over the rest of the description. Damn! I guess something's always going on in this building.

The increasing volume of footsteps indicated that Jason has returned from his search. Margaret's head snapped towards his direction.

"Yo! Here they are. I put them in a bag to make it easier for you." he handed the contents to her. She silently thanked him before starting to talk about his abode.

"These paintings are phenomenal! They really suit the apartment! Plus, they do kinda influence the atmosphere, the more I look at them. I feel like I'm in an art museum!"

"Aw! Shucks! Now you made me flustered." he looked at the side bashfully. "Thank you, though. I'm really happy with how far I've come along in my journey."

"I see you paint other residents of South Ashfield too. Who's this guy? Richard?" she pointed at the canvas she stumbled on seconds ago.

Jason moved to pick it up from the ground and lay it on the kitchen counter, then blowing the dust from it.

"Yup. This mean son of a bitch here was Richard Braintree. They say he got killed by a Walter Sullivan copycat two years ago and now his son lives in 207." Jason stared at the painting with an unreadable expression "Never liked the guy. I don't think many did either, but one time he saved my darling Rachel from a stalker and for that he has my eternal thanks."

Jason gave a small smile as he reminisced "I found his revolver and buried it in his grave. It was my final salute to him. Now I kinda miss that cranky old bastard. His son is a piece of work too, let me tell you that."

"Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the Braintree." Margaret attempted to light up the atmosphere with a dry joke.

Which, fortunately for her, Jason found funny.

"That's actually a good one. I like you. I think Braintree would've skinned you too if he heard that."

"Thanks! You're cool too." her laughter faded right before processing the last part "Wait. What? Skinned?"

"Oh, it's just an old joke about Braintree. Don't think much of it." he waved his hands dismissively.

Out of nowhere, the girl was struck with an idea "Hey, Jason. Do you possibly have paintings of other tenants?"

"Sure do. I have most of them. It's actually a fun experiment I've been doing for some time now. You'd be surprised how "colorful" the people who live here are. Definitely TV show material."

Margaret pursed her lips before probing further "Have you painted anyone that lived in 302 before me"

Jason paused to scratch his head as he was thinking hard about that subject. "Yeah. I think I remember where I put them."

"May I please see them?"

"Sure. I'll be right back."

Her heart danced with anticipation, although, why it weighed so heavy was not easily understandable. Nor did the whispers of her gut manage to reach her busy mind, which was already having a different conversation with itself. Keeping up with all "the neighbors" that made up her consciousness was nearly impossible when every part of herself seemed to be shouting different things.

Once the painter had returned, with two canvases in hand, he gently laid them before her eyes on the counter. The first one depicted a man in a white shirt holding a woman's hand. They appeared to be outside of the building complex, carrying luggage as their backs were turned.

"This one's here Eileen, formerly from 303 and that's Henry from 302." Jason said, pointing to each subject. "They moved out a few years ago to look for another place. I don't know whether it's 302 that's haunted or the entire 3rd floor because I never had anything strange happen to me while living here." Scratching his head in deep thought, he continued "Eileen has always been a nice, normal, outgoing gal so I don't know how she ended up with Henry. Don't know him all too well since he was mostly cooped up in his room, but once he showed his face after so long, he decided to disappear again, only to somewhere else entirely. An odd couple, but I wish 'em the best."

"They seem cute together." She chirped as she gazed warmly at the painting. "At least that's what I'm getting from the way you painted them."

A proud grin was plastered on the man's face from her observation. "I'm very good at capturing every detail I see."

Moving onto the second painting, there was a man with a shaved head in a black sweatshirt sitting in front of a desk, his back turned as well, except his left profile was tilted to the side as if he was glancing at the viewer. Observing the subject closely, Margaret noticed a peculiar thing about him.

"Is that a scar on the back of his head?" her brow arched in suspicion.

"You have a very good eye!" Jason nodded in approval.

At this moment, the girl's eyes were as big as saucers. Then, it has to be him! This guy! That's-

"Joseph Schreiber."

She struggled swallowing the lump in her throat as she attempted to piece everything together. So he didn't disappear after all?

The neighbor continued to brief her "He lived in 302 before Henry. I think it's been about four years since anyone heard from him. I figured he left for some kind of big ass investigation he wanted to get a scoop on." he proceeded to further speculate "Or maybe he's dead for all I know. Anyway, he was a bit of a loner and an odd dude. Always busy writing something. I often wondered what type of illuminati shit he was working on exposing to the extent where he had to lock himself up like that."

Both parties seemed to be rummaging through the junkyard of their minds, hoping to find the appropriate scrap to build a solid theory.

"Maybe the government killed him!" Jason gasped out loud, believing that he found the most plausible solution. "It all makes sense now!"

As he was busy patting himself on the back, the writer, on the other hand, stood mortified with her eyes refusing to part ways with the painting.

"So, you never see him around here at all? What if he's still in town?"

"Hell if I know. Every trail about this guy is frigid. I don't think he's even publishing anymore. Haven't read any of his exposés in a long time. He was pretty well known around these parts."

Then how does he get here unnoticed? Surely someone around here must've seen him. I'll need to ask around some time.

"So, you're J." she muttered to his portrait.

"You ok, Mags? You seem kinda lost there."

"Oh! It's nothing. He just.. reminds me of someone." Margaret absently ran her thumb across the canvas where Joseph's face was. "That's all."

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she tore her eyes from the image before turning to Jason. "Thank you for the supplies and the art tour! You're insanely talented!"

"No, no. Thank you for the appreciation . "

"I have to go now. I can't remember the last time I've been to any park. I'll be seeing you, alright?"

"Oh, definitely! If you need anything else, don't hesitate to holler, neighbor."

They exchanged smiles, followed by another handshake prior to Margaret leaving the room as well as the building. This was a fine opportunity to get in touch with most nooks and crannies of Ashfield. Naturally, the gray clouds reigned supreme yet another day, which posed no problem for her. Quite the opposite, in fact; this only fueled her comfort. It wasn't overly chilly or too warm outside. The temperature level closely mimicked the rooms in South Ashfield Heights. Despite the sky looking like it was threatening to rain at any time, it never came to that and some of the town's inhabitants showed how accustomed they were to the weather by strutting in summer clothes in the middle of September.

For a medium sized town, it seemed to be as busy as the moment she first set foot here. It reminded her of a less chaotic version of New York. So far, there are no asshole taxi drivers trying to run me over or gross catcallers lurking around. Thank Christ! Ashfield was far from glamorous, by any means. It was rather simple; with streets that were easy to remember, less flamboyant people, cleaner air and overall peaceful.

At a certain point, Margaret couldn't help but thoroughly search for men that held somewhat of a resemblance to Joseph. She hoped to catch him by surprise, however every corner her eyes swept over had nothing of interest. Her initial plan wasn't to go on a manhunt, though, a part of her mind wanted to play hunter; to find him and get to the bottom of where and why Joseph was hiding. If he did want to remain hidden, then why talk to her in the first place? Come on, you're a writer too! Think of this as a weird detective story. Every theory is plausible... except for the illuminati one probably. There was this dim hope nested within her, that she would become important enough to him in order to know his secrets. Maybe one day, he'll trust her enough to tell her the whole truth.

At the park, half of her time was spent taking mental notes of directions while marveling at how beautifully the town fit her. Already she felt like a resident that had been living here her whole life. This was nothing like her birthplace, which might've been the reason why she felt so keen on living here. Not wanting to tear open old wounds, the writer shifted her focus on appreciating her solitude. All her life, she'd been told by almost everyone who had met her, that one day, her beautiful solitude would turn into an ugly beast known as "loneliness". A thousand times she heard that it was going to sink its teeth into her; followed by the bite tainting her enough to become socially starved. Look who's laughing now, bitches! I'm still happy this way! She cheekily smiled to herself, enjoying her time.

- J -

How sick it made him feel; so lost like long ago. This was a different kind of fixation than the one he was used to when he was clinging to the last bits of his sanity. So terrifying, to be able to fall so easily even under lighter circumstances (as light as they could be for a dead man). Yet, it was astonishing how quickly he became addicted-

Why isn't she here?

- to communicating with her.

Where is she?

To watch her every move, despite it making him feel dirty all over.

Joseph never guessed that this would happen; that a new nightmare could still be able to awaken under a different disguise. Strange; all the previous numbness from that lonesome gray scale dimension, he grew so accustomed to, vanished along with those worlds altogether. Now he saw himself as more flawed than ever; it was as close to being human again. Shame, want, need and loneliness all crashed onto him, crippling everything holding him together to his emotionless self. Joseph wasn't sure whether he missed feeling vulnerable again. He had an easier time accepting his "other" form as a plain husk stuck to the ceiling. With his previous "home" gone for good, he was back to square one: Stuck again in the real Room 302 with the world carrying on without him.

As the years went by, his soul slumbered without proper rest, until someone new stepped in the den with its lions long gone. At least Margaret picked the right time to inhabit it. Joseph would've hated to see her consumed by the Otherworld and possibly killed there, especially now that he made a connection with her. That became the catalyst to how he currently viewed himself: starved from contact. He laughed bitterly at his emotional predicament, refusing to believe that he had grown so attached to a girl who barely knew anything about him, yet he had the advantage of being able to find out who she was behind closed doors. Invading her personal space by being a damned observer of her new apartment wasn't a proud feat for him. All he could do was watch and learn from making observations within her routine. There was nothing else to do in this unlife; no investigations, no ambition to pursue, no stories to uncover, no truths to share among others. He had been forgotten entirely.

At the very least, Joseph knew he was significant to Margaret in a way. It was simple to tell by her face softening whenever she re-read something from him or her suddenly having a burst of energy upon seeing another red note under the door. Finally, he remembered what it was like to be important again. In such a short timespan of knowing her, he let himself get carried away by needing to grow more close to her. To which degree, he wasn't sure.

He found her adorably charming in many ways and whenever she opened up about her work made her shine in his eyes. She quickly became a drug in human form. A healthier replacement for White Claudia. Where were you when I was crashing down?

Weeks before his demise, Joseph had one only way of coping with incessant headaches caused by Walter's powers: a stash given to him in Silent Hill by a friend, one that he'd been saving for a rainy day. Before giving in to the temptation, his time in confinement felt like an eternity with a thousand thunders cracking his skull open each waking minute. Everything around him remained topsy turvy. That white sugar temporarily hid him from reality, ever so slightly. The images that floated around him were short, sweet and unreadable. How he wished to forever remain in that state, during that time: to be the ruler of the dream castle of his mind. The safest he felt in that room was without a sober mind. Even in the end, Joseph hoped all his clues regarding the case would come useful one fateful day. Thankfully, he wasn't let down.

This world might not have been rid of every psychopath in it, but a lot of souls could rest easy, now that Walter was truly dead. To Joseph, the concept of "rest" became a lot more foreign than human contact. He came with the terms that his soul will never cross to the other side for reasons unknown to him. With a new addition to his place of damnation, he didn't feel the need to go anyways. A new reason to be awake. It was all her .

And he was going to remain hidden for the sake of not being feared for what he truly was. She'd leave Ashfield in a heartbeat, if she found out. Worst of all, Joseph knew he was going to miss her.

It's so pathetic how I lost touch with humanity to the point where I feel depraved without talking to her or even seeing her here. Is this what isolation does to a man?

Man. Entity. Joseph was aware that he was all of those things wrapped in one by suffering the consequences from both classifications.

At the sound of the front door being unlocked, he perked up while remaining hidden from sight. The door creaked open, revealing a very tired, yet content Margaret. By the look of her half lidded eyes coupled with a weak smile, she had a good time, wherever she was. He observed her usual nightly routine without being too invasive in some areas. Joseph might've been dead, but his common sense refused to go down with him. After freshening up and changing into her sleepwear, the girl wasted no time getting into bed.

He'd be lying if he said that he wasn't disappointed with the fact that they went through the day without writing a single word to each other. Naturally, there will be more chances to talk to her, therefore, there was no reason to be upset over this. Though, something within him demanded to hear from her immediately, yet even so, he didn't have the heart to initiate a conversation.

Instead, Joseph continued to quietly monitor Margaret; from organizing her clothes, taking off her makeup, brushing her hair to getting under the covers. Demented as he felt for doing this, he could not deny the fact that every movement of hers, as well as her random mutterings, intrigued him to no end.

Joseph patiently waited for sleep to overtake Margaret so his form would be near her again. When he saw that she was fully unconscious, he manifested himself next to the empty side of her bed adjacent to the windows. The dim street lights coming through them faintly revealed her face. In all honesty, he didn't care a single bit just how long his gunmetal eyes traced every visible part of her. The former journalist couldn't remember the last time he had the pleasure of looking at a woman he found gorgeous. Moreover, he had no earthly idea how long she'd be occupying 302, for that reason, he wanted to savor her image in his mind.

Even so, Joseph knew that this was only the beginning of a new chapter of his "life's" neverending tale. It would seem that in death, a new hope had the potential to be born. He felt a change in the air, for certain. Some events were waiting to unfold in the near future.

"Whenever you're here, know that I'm always watching you.."