Henry woke up in bed, flailing his arms in an effort to fan away the smoke and dust that weren't there. He soon realized he was back in his own room. "Wow! That last world wasn't even haunt-- I mean, uh…hainted!" he said. He then went about the usual business of stashing the notes he'd collected away in his scrapbook before exiting the bedroom.

The first thing he noticed upon stepping into the hallway was the sound of running water coming from his bathroom. "I knew it!" he said under his breath. "Someone is in here!" He decided there was only one thing to be done about it. He went into his kitchenette and retrieved the only appropriate weapon for assaulting people in the shower: a butter knife. Thusly armed with his dull-bladed weapon, he made his way back to the bathroom.

Slowly, he eased the door open, but the hideous creaking of the hinges didn't do much for maintaining stealth on his part, nor did the fact that he was trying to mimic the screechy violin music from Psycho as he snuck up on the shower stall. The water was shut off as he approached, but he didn't care. He was going through with his little charade whether circumstances were right or not. With knife grasped firmly in hand, he reached out and threw the curtain open.

There was nobody in the shower, but the tile surface had been completely stained red. "Dammit," Henry grumbled, disappointedly lowering his knife. "Norman beat me to it…" He looked down at the tub, which had a good couple inches of the red fluid in it. "I guess that's what you call a bloodbath," he said wryly. He then noted the smell. "Actually…" he said as he dipped his finger in the fluid and brought it to his mouth to taste. "Hmm… Tomato soup…" he said, then spat. "With just a hint of soap scum." He groped around for the drain, but was surprised to find it was already open. "Aw, hell," he griped, "the drain's clogged…" Being that there was nothing within the extreme limits of his capabilities that he could do to fix the problem, he left the tub of soup for the moment.

The first thing he did upon entering his living room was take note of the distinct absence of any news reports like he'd received every time after stumbling upon the grisly murder scenes he'd played spectator to in the other worlds. "Come on," he said as he made his way over to the stereo, "there's gotta be something interesting on!" He pressed the power button, and was greeted with a news report.

"And now, something completely different," the anchorman said. "Police arrested a Mister Suguru Murakoshi today."

"Ah, the director!" Henry said. "I wonder what he's been up to lately…"

"Mister Murakoshi had reportedly been found all nekkid, standing on top of a utility pole while pissing on pedestrians below."

"Behaving suspiciously, as usual," Henry added as he turned off the stereo.

The next thing he did was manage inventory, which was a snap, considering the only thing he had to drop off was the Vigilance Placard. Once that was done, he turned his attention toward the front door, where he noticed another red piece of paper had been slipped underneath. He took it up and read it.

I've found something really nifty that works against spookables and the like. It came in handy, it did.

It was a sword stuck into the huge rock (no King Arthur comments, please) in the woods near the orphanage. It's got a slipshod, triangle-shaped hilt with some kind of magical nonsense written on it.

As a weapon, it's heavy and hard to carry (though I guess that guy with the spiky hair's got it even WORSE, considering the size of his), and the dumb-ass design of the hilt makes it even more awkward to wield. But somehow it changes in response to the spook-victims' aura of migraine. Strike when the sword is energized! Use the Force, Luke! Oh, wait. Wrong bit. Anyway, if you don't give 'em a beatdown first, you can't stick 'em with it.

As far as I know (and I'm not sure exactly HOW I know…), there are only 5 such swords in existence with that kind of power. It's extremely valuable. I'd hawk 'em off for cash if my life didn't depend on them.

July 23

It was then that Henry heard some mumbling going on just outside his room. He decided to investigate and smashed his face against the door to look through the peephole, where he would've seen that an eighteenth handprint had been added to the collection on the far wall had his attention not been immediately drawn to Frank Scanderlund and Irene, who were standing just outside his door.

"How goes it with Room 302?" Irene asked.

"Well…" Frank hesitated, "I, uh, just tried to open it up, but it looks like somethin's, uh…blockin' it from the inside. The tightwad musta barricaded himself, uh…inside, or, uh…somethin'."

"Is there any particular reason you're stammering so much?" Irene demanded.

"Not really," Frank muttered. "Anyway, like I was sayin', this isn't the first time it's happened."

"What? You stammering?" Irene said. Frank sighed.

"No," he said, "the thing with the room!"

"Really…?" Henry said, suddenly interested. "Do tell…"

"You mean…the guy who lived here before…?" Irene guessed. Frank just continued rambling on.

"Yup," he said. "And it wasn't just him, either. There's, uh, somethin' wrong with this whole apartment…" Irene rolled her eyes.

"Gee, that's really reassuring," she said as Frank ducked down out of sight of the peephole for a moment.

"Well," he said, standing back up, "I just slipped a threatening note under his door. If that miser thinks he can get out of paying the rent, he's got another thing coming!" He nodded emphatically. "Don't worry about it too much," he added to Irene. "There are a…lot of strange things in this world…"

"Really…?" Irene said flatly.

"Yep," Frank nodded again. "Like me, for example! I keep an umbilical cord in a box in my room! Lately, it's started to smell god-awful!" Irene was now looking at him with a rather uneasy expression on her face.

"Uhm…wha…?" was all she could manage to say.

"Wait a minute…!" Frank said, suddenly realizing what he'd told her. "I didn't just… Damn…!" He palmed himself in the forehead. "I meant to tell you about my son and his toilet-trawling habits." Irene's jaw dropped. "Tell ya what," Frank said, "just forget I said anything…" And with that, he took off down the hall before anyone could press him on the matter any further. Irene just stood and stared in utter stupefaction for a moment.

"That's almost more disturbing than those weird noises coming from in here," she said as she started moseying along on her way.

"So that's what this is all about!" Henry said in light of the recent revelation as he took up the note he'd been slipped. "Forget lowering the rent! Frank's in for one hell of a lawsuit when I get outta here!" He turned and started back, but froze dead in his tracks after the first step. "Waitaminute…!" he said as Frank's words came back to him. "Toilet trawling?" He thought back to that weird guy he'd happened across in the prison. Frank did say his son and daughter-in-law went missing in Silent Hill some time ago. Could that possibly have been…? "Nah!" Henry shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought as he regarded the note Frank had slipped beneath his door.

Whatever the threat was, he found he couldn't read it for all the blood smeared all over the paper. Either that or the blood was the threat. Or maybe Frank just got a massive paper cut. Anyway, Henry decided it would look good in his scrapbook and stashed it there with the journal entry he'd just received. Once that was done, he entered his bathroom again.

Sure enough, as he had expected, the Hole had gotten bigger, and he thought he could hear what sounded like a lady sniveling pathetically inside. "Those termites are starting to creep me out…" Henry said as he climbed into the Hole…

--------------------

When he woke up, he found himself at the end of a long alley with a conveniently-placed Hole in the wall to his right. When he looked up to see how high the walls were, he found an open door with a light shining through in the wall at the end of the alley. The only thing was that it was about ten feet above the floor. With no stairs. "Well, that's real convenient," he said sarcastically as he started down the alley.

As he went, he could hear some obnoxious squeaking noises, and had he been more attentive, he would've seen numerous gray figures leaping across the alley from the top of one wall to the other. Imagine how badly they could've ambushed him if they hadn't been just as inattentive as he was.

When he got out of the alley, the noise just got louder, and was joined by what sounded like gunshots and grunts of pain. It was as if someone were waging an all-out war against squeaky toys. And losing. And if that weren't strange enough, the layout of wherever he was was really something else. Like the architect was under the influence at the time he'd designed the place, or something.

After descending a few flights of stairs, he found himself on what appeared to be a rooftop. A sign just beyond the guardrail at the edge to the left identified the place as being Hotel South Ashfield. Apparently they had gone under some heavy remodeling since he'd last seen it, but the handiwork was hardly up to Bob Vila standards. But what was really strange was what he saw sitting just a few yards away. "What the hell!" he said as he approached the object in question. Upon further inspection, he found that it was indeed a car. "What's this doing up here on the roof!" he shouted. "Better yet, how the hell did they get it up here!"

"Nwaaaaaaaaaa--" the voice shouting paused long enough to take a breath, "--aaahhhhhh!" The scream drew Henry's attention upward just in time for him to see someone who looked a lot like Dick Crabtree fall from somewhere a great distance above. Actually, it was Dick Crabtree; there was no mistaking that ridiculous tie or that obnoxious pink shirt anywhere. Anyway, he fell flat on his face with such great force that he ended up lying sprawled out, half-imbedded face down in the asphalt roof. Then, he peeled his right hand out of the indentation he'd made and, taking a handful of his own hair, yanked his head free. "Ouch! Dammit…" he cursed as he pulled himself out of his self-made full-body mold. "I suddenly remember why I didn't take up bungee jumping…" He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at the strange surroundings. "Where the hell am I…?"

"There's a sign over there, dumb-ass," Henry muttered in reference to the nearby Hotel South Ashfield sign. This only startled Dick, who wheeled around on him and pointed a revolver right at his face. "Hey!" Henry said, backing off with hands up. "I was just saying…" Dick went from alarmed to relieved.

"Ah, you're a real person…" he said as he shoved the gun back into his belt and stood up.

"You were expecting your imaginary friend?" Henry smirked. Dick responded by drawing his revolver again and sticking it in Henry's face faster than he could say Clint Eastwood. "Just kidding! Just kidding!" he said.

"Let's try this again," Dick said, pocketing the gun again. "Ah, you're a real person…"

"Yeah," Henry said, then quickly turned away. There was a plainly audible spitting noise before he turned back and offered a handshake with a grin so toothy it was like a neon sign announcing that he was up to something along the lines of no good. "My name's Henry…"

"I'm Dick Crabtree, from 207," Dick replied, ignoring the handshake. "What the hell's happened to us?" he continued as Henry disappointedly wiped his hand on his pant leg. "That hole, and this world…it's like a really bad White Claudia trip…" A light bulb suddenly appeared over his head and somehow turned on without electricity before vanishing. "I got it!" he said. "If you're here too, then that means the entire apartment building's screwed up!" Henry threw his hands into the air.

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes!" he said with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I'll bet you figured that out all by yourself!" Dick nodded in affirmation.

"That's right!" he replied with a huge, self-satisfied grin. "My detective skills are second to none! That's another reason why everybody calls me Dick!"

"I think I can guess what the other reason is," Henry muttered under his breath. He once again found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. "I mean, I didn't say anything!" he quickly amended.

"Anyway," Dick said as he shoved his gun back into his belt, "I'll bet this explains what happened to that other guy." This statement piqued Henry's interest.

"Who is this 'other guy' of whom you speak?" he inquired. Dick rolled his eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh.

"The guy who lived in 302 before you!" he said. "Boy, you're real dim, aren't ya?"

"Don't change the subject!" Henry said. "What about that guy?"

"A journalist…" Dick said. "He disappeared one day. Holed himself up in his room towards the end, got all crazy and stuff… Just like you." Henry took offense at this and made as if to draw a pistol on Dick, who reflexively threw his hands up to shield his face. After a brief moment, he lowered his hands just enough to take a look at the threat, but was amused to find that Henry was only pointing his finger at him. "Sure that finger's loaded?" he said, pointing at Henry's weapon of choice with one hand while the other fell to his side. Henry just sulked as he slowly lowered his hand and shoved it into his pocket. "Anyway, I'm gettin' the hell outta here!" Dick said, jerking his thumbs to the side in the direction of a nearby door. "You should too -- if you know what's good for ya." Henry felt affronted.

"Oh, a threat!" he demanded, readying his pipe. He was about to chase him down and hit him over the head when he suddenly noticed something funny. The words BAD MAN were spelled out across the back of Dick's shirt in large black letters with white trim. "Bad man?" he sniggered. Dick shot him a hostile look over his shoulder.

"You say somethin'?" he snapped.

"I, uh…" he desperately fumbled for a recovery. "Watch out for that kid," he said. Dick just gave him a dismissive gesture and went on about whatever it is he does all day.

The loud squeaking suddenly picked back up once Dick had left. Henry didn't know why, but the noise had been considerate enough to stop while he and Dick had their conversation. He didn't have time to consider that much before something jumped down to his level. Two somethings, actually. Henry wasn't quite sure what they were. They looked like George C. Scott if he were a gray-skinned, bowlegged, knuckle-dragging steroid freak with a latex glove pulled over his head and a huge goiter. Not only that, but they were hooting like monkeys with oboe reeds in place of vocal cords. Something about the inquisitive way they looked at him disturbed Henry; perhaps because their entire heads bent in the middle instead of hinging on the vertebrae when cocked to the side. Henry didn't bother to ask questions, he just readied his pipe and swung straight at the skull of the first one to approach.

The pipe struck the thing in the temple, the creaturesnarling in painas it sustained the blow. Its head stretched out a bit as it was knocked to the side, and then snapped back in place, where it bobbled and bounced a bit on its shoulders, almost as though it were made of rubber. As amusing as that was to see, Henry decided to brace himself for the expected retaliation, but was taken completely off guard by how the Rubber Head responded. Instead of smacking him around, the thing just started doing the Funky Chicken, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Henry assumed it was mocking him and decided to teach it a lesson by further assaulting it. This prompted the Rubber Head to take a swipe at him in retribution, and from there it deteriorated to the two of them mindlessly exchanging blows. This continued for a while, and Henry eventually emerged the victor in the skirmish of attrition, if only for the fact that the Rubber Head couldn't always decide whether to taunt him or hit him in return for the blows he delivered.

Once he delivered his mighty boot-stomp to the prone Rubber Head, Henry celebrated his victory by pumping his pipe in the air and grunting like a deranged howler monkey. He then realized his celebration was premature and turned to face the other Rubber Head, which had been polite enough not to interfere with or ambush him while he was occupied. But now that its partner was dead, it decided to take a tentative offensive and started walking, rather waddling in his direction. "Ah, screw it!" Henry said, deciding he was too tired to go another round and therefore opting to try out his newest weapon. He withdrew the stun gun from his pocket and pressedthe electrodesagainst the surviving Rubber Head's goiter.

ZORCH!

The ape-thing dropped like a sack of fertilizer and, after delivering the obligatory stomp, Henry was finally able to gain access to the door it had been guarding.

Hell Count: 6
Total Hell Count: 49

A/N: I hope Hometown notices my fic soon. I've decided I'd like to dedicate it to her.