The journey along Nathan Avenue began as uneventful as nearly every one of their walks so far. They walked together and a man's width apart. Harry was still off kilter and jittery from last night. He didn't sleep, though his head and eyes had been heavy and begging for respite. No matter how hard he tried to focus and release his thoughts to get even a wink of sleep, it wouldn't come for him. He blamed the anxious tingle in his chest on the deprivation. He felt as foggy as the thick atmosphere that engulfed them.

James didn't appear to be affected by anything. His strides occasionally synchronized with Harry's, and the scuff and click of his shoes where their pattern shifted somehow made Harry's anxiety worse. In contrast to him, as it will always be expected of him, James was melancholy and entirely detached. He went on like a lifeless soldier, the shotgun carried in both hands, and nothing to offer but silence and defeat.

The street seemed a lot longer yesterday than it did this morning. Harry noticed a building on their right as the fog rolled around it, and interest slowed his feet. The highway borders gave way to picket fences, and beyond that a parking lot occupied with a few cars waiting for their lost owners to finish their business. In front of the cars was metal fence decorated with white donut buoys that kept guard of the forest, not that either one of them were keen on going for a hike.

It also boasted a sign:

BOAT DECK

"Hey, James? I thought there wasn't a ferry or any boats here."

James didn't look his way. "There aren't. There's only the deck. Everything else is gone."

Disappointed but taking his word for it, Harry moved on towards the building.

This was the sort of tourist attraction that he expected to see in Silent Hill. It was supposed to be a tourist town, a peaceful getaway and a great summer family trip to later gush about to their jealous friends. Harry was pleasantly surprised to see a, what he guessed to be, repurposed house. It appeared historical. Of course, the paint was peeling and disgraced with decay, and its teal roof was darkened with neglect. He was hit with the base human emotion of being disheartened by something precious being left to rot in its lonesome - even if it was in Silent Hill.

He slowed his pace. Dropping out of place beside James, he crossed the street to peer at the large sign nailed on the wall next to the double doors.

"Silent Hill Historical Society," Harry read aloud. "Huh. That's kinda neat." He stepped off the landing to lean towards the windows, trying to peer through glass that was boarded up and clouded with dirt. "I wonder if the doors are open. Have you been inside?"

Harry glanced up to find James facing him, giving him a short start. His posture and stone face seemed eerily still. Harry looked away and patted the sign, then went to try one of the doors. Locked, he tried the other. That too was locked. He rattled the handle with little hope, and had to walk away dissatisfied.

"You ever been in there?" he asked the town's informal resident. "Did you learn anything?"

"There's not much in there," James replied. "Some art. Plaques. Display cases."

"Is the art any good?"

James shrugged. "Art is subjective, I think. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe not. It wasn't really in my taste."

"Hm." Harry turned to consider the building, idly tapping his pipe in his palm. "I'm kind of disappointed."

"Why?"

"I'd like to know what's historical here," Harry said, looking at him. "Learn some history. Something that'd.. I dunno, humanize the place?"

James heard the diluted hope in Harry's voice. Silent Hill had no humanity. Whatever Harry had experienced no doubt gave him a slim chance of finding any.

"I can't imagine this town being human at all," Harry continued, confirming James's passing thoughts. "I guess I'd like to be able to link some kind of normalization to it. Make it real, and not.. this."

Harry sighed and returned to the road. James fell into step alongside him again, that previous distance between them still honored. He twisted his hand on the barrel of the shotgun, grinding his teeth. He sucked on his tongue and clenched his jaw: an effort to keep the words in his mouth.

James remembered a Silent Hill that was alive and unassuming. It was pleasant - beautiful, even. It'd be a nice town to retire to, or buy a seasonal apartment. (Nota timeshare , Mary had firmly insisted when he proposed the idea. You'll never get out of it and I won't have you ruining my love for this place with it. ) It was a destination where a visitor couldn't help being envious of its residents. How lucky they were to live in a quiet little locale like this. It must be heaven on earth.

How lucky they were to live in a place like this.

How lucky they were to get to visit a place like this.

How lucky he was that she loved it so much.

How lucky he was to have had her.

How lucky, how lucky, how lucky,

how lucky

how

James drew a breath - the kind that was meant to drop cycling thoughts on the cutting room floor. It drew Harry's attention, and James sighed.

"It was real," he quietly assured him. "It was a nice place to be."

That was the most revealing thing about James he'd gotten thus far. Harry's excitement almost got the better of him, tasting questions on his tongue, but last night's warning bottled them up.

James remembered his threat. He should stick to it. What he wanted to say was none of Harry's business and the less he knew the harder it could be for the town to manipulate him. It would be easier for Harry to focus on his daughter.

He'd already promised himself when they met he wouldn't let himself be discovered, and so he said, "It was pretty at the end of summer."

Harry was near bursting with curiosity. Trying to stay respectful of their agreement while toeing the line, he asked, "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

That sounded definitive.

"Peaceful."

The way it was said told Harry that James was truly done talking about it. Their conversation ended.

The road was long and Harry couldn't even be allowed to appreciate the scenic view. He wondered how long it really was, both in miles and kilometers, and how he never really got the hang of kilometers. He also thought about Heather, and how Silent Hill tried to trick him yesterday into letting some hell demon out of an apartment. While expected, the town playing ruthless games starring his daughter felt mocking.

Silent Hill always knew something that he didn't. That was the main concept. When he took Heather away, he felt like he had more questions than answers. While raising her, he always regarded her with a little fear. Heather was born from someone, something, that held incredible power. Someday, she might accidentally use it - or it'd be stolen from her. Harry hated the way that this fear sat in his gut. He hated that he always knew this was going to happen.

He felt like he failed her when he got that rusty, broken call from her cell phone number. Dad! her voice cried. Dad, I n— —elp —ack to— Silent -ill— going to— me! D-d, —ve me! Don't let them—

Harry had been in the grocery store, of all places. He was debating instant oatmeal. Heather liked banana nut and strawberries and cream, he liked cinnamon. There was a multi-flavor box on sale, but the ratio of cinnamon outweighed the other flavors - and it included blueberry, which neither of them liked. He could get three boxes, each of their preferred flavor. The generic brand was cheaper. He didn't mind the generic, but Heather knew the difference and would complain and whine all the way through their consumption.

He'd get her the name brand, at nearly two dollars more, because he loved her.

Next thing he remembered was his whole world shattering to his feet. His heart simultaneously stopped cold and plummeted into his gut, and sprang into his throat aided by the hot threat of vomit. Harry doesn't remember tearing out of the store like a man chased by death itself, nor does he remember the drive that would intimidate a drag racer straight home.

He didn't recall packing and driving here. The memory of parking and getting to the streets is hazy. The only thing that was clear are sordid, familiar businesses giving way to signs that he couldn't place.

Now here he was, trying to piece together a riddle without many clues, alongside a man that he knew, deep down, he couldn't (shouldn't) trust.

How far was this damn road going to go?

Harry sighed. He was about to pull out the map when company was announced with the distant sound of wicked life. It stopped them both. There was a woman crying in the fog. She was at their left— no, behind them— wait, maybe at their right— and she was choking. Her breath and voice spluttered through thick, wet gunk. They heard the evidence splatter on the ground. Her staggering feet were scraping, dragging on the street. The guttural retching wanted to make Harry gag.

Then, the radio tuned itself. Harry gripped his pipe tightly in both hands as he examined the thick clouds surrounding them. He felt fury building in his being. He was ready to fight. He was violently pent up. All the tension and the resentment that tormented him was given an opportunity to be put to use, and he wasn't going to miss that chance. C'mon, you bastards, he thought loudly. I'm ready for you.

Behind him, James stood at ease.

The smell reached them. It was the same they'd experienced before: burnt flesh and moldy clothes. Harry remembered what she looked like, how her arms swung and her spine could barely support her. Her flesh had been peeling, burnt to the bone in some places, and her head hung to conceal her shame. It sounded like there were more than one of these tortured women - perhaps two or three.

Through his anger he knew that these weren't actual women. He would never lay a hand on a real one. In fact, he was reluctant to even beat a monstrous one. The wash cycle of morality versus survival drove his rage ever higher, and deafened his ears to a sound that would have blown a mystery wide open.

Harry's arm was suddenly hooked by unchallengeable strength, and he was running with James. He knew better than to protest, trying not to trip over their feet, but he was infuriated and frustrated by James's forcible interruptions. This time, James's hand was locked on his arm in a grip that tickled that new fear of him at the walls of his stomach, and the tempest that roared within him would soon trickle away.

The grotesque women choked on themselves and scuffled behind them, around them as the men ran their clumsy, inefficient race. The radio's static soared and hurt Harry's ears when it stubbornly tried to find a missing channel. His thighs and lungs were burning and James had been right not to let go of him. James's speed suddenly surged, and his hand slid from Harry's tricep to his wrist. For a moment, Harry thought he'd be abandoned, but James didn't betray him. He clung to his wrist and pulled him along like a bull with a runaway cart.

Harry was losing his legs and his breath. He thought he'd collapse from exhaustion (really, he needed to stop wasting his gym membership and go in already) until luckily James's sprint became a jog, and decreased to a stop. Harry gulped for air, bending over with his hand on his knee. Everything hurt. He was laughably out of shape. Hopefully they wouldn't have to make a mad dash again today because he'd need some real recovery time, or else these old legs weren't gonna be useful.

When he was able, he stood straight, and continued to catch his breath. This is when he realized that James was still holding on to his wrist, extending both his and Harry's arms while he stood a couple feet in front of him. A little annoyed but mostly amused by it, Harry wiggled his arm to get James's attention and let it go.

When James didn't respond to it, Harry tried a different tactic. "Hey, buddy. Can I have this back?"

James fixed on him, and dropped his arm. Harry shook it out and tugged at his sleeve, trying a chuckle. "You're kinda handsy, huh?"

"Huh?"

"You're kinda handsy," Harry repeated with a smile. "You keep grabbing me and dragging me around. You know, you could make good money as a personal trainer."

James actually seemed embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "I just panic."

"It's okay. It's a pretty effective method of getting me to go."

"Yeah.. right."

James turned from him and slowly walked ahead. Harry took little mind of how James didn't seem to be winded from their run. He was still gathering himself. He caught up to him and that's when he noticed something strange.

James spoke for him. "We're back at the park."

Harry sunk into despair. "Aw, no," he groaned and turned around and sure enough, the street was lined with the businesses that faced the lake, and the hedges that invited the street. James exhaled his disbelief, walking east past Harry to see the impossibility for himself.

They had looped right around to where they started. They didn't even see where they were until the fog parted at the park. Now it was dissipating, gleefully exposing its rotten trick.

Harry ground his fists into his forehead. He was so tired. So frustrated. How could they have run in a circle when the circle was literally paradoxical?

He shook his head and defeatedly dropped his arms to his sides. "The town doesn't want us to leave yet," James was saying. "I guess we aren't ready to."

Harry sighed through his nose and frowned at James. "Great. That both makes a lot of sense and makes me feel better."

"I don't know what else to tell you, Harry. We're missing something. It's too early to leave."

"And how do you know that it's 'too early to leave'?" Harry bristled, breaking their contract. "What are you? Who are you? How do you know what the town does or doesn't want?"

James set his jaw against Harry's outburst. They stared each other down, James on the defense and Harry on the offense.

The friction between them could start a wildfire.

Crackling began anew. Harry slammed his hand down on his pocket and shook the radio within. "Would you shut the fuck up for five minutes!" he yelled at it, only to realize that the static wasn't coming from the broken red box.

No, the noise was coming from the fog.

Forgetting their standoff, both men looked around in surprise. Something was mimicking the radio. The pitch dipped and screeched a garbled melody. They couldn't tell where it was coming from until a body parted the fog and ambled towards them.

Finally, the radio itself joined the noisy fray. Harry clutched his pocket and jerked up his pipe to his protection.

The false radio buzzed and warbled. This aberration was feminine, too: it was short and slim, swallowed in black and writhing so hard it was difficult for it to keep its balance. It left inky footprints in its wake, smearing under the unstable drag of its feet.

This monster was more aggressive than the ones that taunted them from the white shadows, and the one they'd briefly encountered long before. She - no, it - lurched for them as its electricity peaked, magnetically drawn to Harry.

It swung its clawed hand. James attacked from behind, driving the butt of his shotgun into its head. Its weight bowed under the force, but she (it!) was not thrown to the ground despite her violent convulsions. Now her vengeance was on James, and she whirled to strike him, her voice shrieking so high he recoiled in pain.

There were no nails on her black fingers. When her hand connected with James's face he yelped and staggered to the side. James cradled his cheek in his hand, obscuring the damage from Harry's view. Later he'd come to find out that he was scraped as though he had a brush with sandpaper, and James had forgotten about it altogether.

Though Harry's head was ringing and pounding, the adrenaline was kicking in. He took the advantage and heaved the pipe into her ribs, flinging her to the asphalt. It broke her horrible radio howl, and when Harry made to keep her down under his weapon, he too fell to the hard ground.

A squirming figure had bowled between his legs and forced him to collapse. He gasped and painfully threw his body onto his back, and was confronted by the thing that had tripped him. It was a figure that was faceless and armless, hooded by disgusting pale skin that stretched over its shoulders and bound its arms to its filthy chest. The legs were spread and bent like a frog, propelling its unnatural skittering across the road on its belly. Harry couldn't waste time studying it. He scrambled to his feet and quickly withdrew from the girl wreathed in black, whose recovery coincided with his.

He heard the shotgun go off behind him. The squirming creature crunched and grunted inhumanly in pain. Harry bobbed the pipe in his grip like a batter ready for the pitch, and with it smacked the girl's arms away from their reach.

She was angry, and quick. She lunged at Harry, her mimicry mixing with the radio's yowling and clawed at his jacket. He guarded his face with his arm and tried to push her off him, but she was a torrent, and surprisingly heavy. "James!" he shouted through the racket. "Get her off!"

He struggled with her. She smelled like industrial fumes and her body was boiling hot; he thought she'd burn him through his clothes. Her sound threatened to burst his eardrums, and when he managed to strike her again, another voice wailed amongst her static.

Harry clobbered her again and again. He beat at her until a bullet went off and she shrilled in pain, and her flailing ceased. In her crackling he thought he heard a woman's voice - a real woman - sobbing in agony. James flew in front of Harry to drive his gun twice into her head, assuring that she'd be flung to the ground again. Harry took over this time and brutally beat the inky, disgusting, caterwauling figure with every ounce of his pent up and wrathful energy.

He didn't notice that James had made a retreat. The creatures barked their pain as the shotgun's cock and blast resonated in his ears along with the sickening crunch of bones and meat mashing together. His bloody pipe, flecked with gore, whaled on his target as the radio in his pocket wildly tuned. The imitation's electricity burst, and it died. In its fading gurgles the woman within it was anguished and begging for mercy, though her words were incoherent.

Lifeless, it laid in a gross puddle of its death. Harry's chest heaved from exertion and he turned to aid James. Two of those crawling bodies were dead in the tracks of blood they slithered in, their heads caved in from the heel of James's boot.

There was one left that was chasing James as he was backing away from it, hastily trying to reload shells into his gun. Harry advanced and delivered a blow to its stitched spine. It cried out, and so Harry pummeled it again, and again and again as it tried to twist to attack him. Harry instead leapt to straddle the creature between his feet, and brought his pipe down on its head until it stopped moving.

The radio switched off. Harry wearily disengaged from the corpse and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. James, too, was struggling to catch his breath, but Harry wasn't looking at him yet. He was staring at the creature, now finding the time to examine it. His nose wrinkled with disgusted confusion. The thing was rather sexual: a dirty thong was hitched over its bony hips and tightly wedged in its leathery ass. The legs, as he'd noted before, were spread in a vulgar position that would be tantalizing in a different situation, but made him feel uncomfortable and humiliated for it. His eyes moved to its feet. They appeared bound and welded to platform boots that would give it at least six inches advantage if it had been standing.

Overall this thing was straight out of a BDSM fantasy, he thought, and its placement here revolted him.

"Jeez. I ask where the monsters are, and my wishes are finally granted. Next time I ask for it, tell me to shut up."

"Roger that," James lightly trembled.

"Have you seen this one before?" Harry asked, nudging the boot made of skin.

"Yeah. That's one of mine. The, uh, the ones that are around here."

"One of yours? Yikes. What does that mean?"

He looked up at James. His companion was shivering in the stilted way that one tries to keep it controlled. Concern overwrote Harry's face and focus, and he sidestepped the corpse to approach James.

In it, he discovered that James was wet. From head to toe he was drenched, his hair darkened to brown and his clothes wrinkled and stuck to him. He stood in a sizable puddle of cloudy water that reminded him of the lake. Harry's lips parted, alarmed by this and the trickles that ran down his pale, forlorn face, and dripped from his hands.

"James.. what the hell?" he asked tentatively. "Are you okay?"

"So, that was fun, huh?" James remarked through a voice stiff from a chill that wasn't shared. Harry stared disbelievingly at him.

"Yeah, it was a great time, I'd love to do it again. James, seriously, are you okay? What's going on, you're completely drenched."

"I've never seen that one before," he continued, ignoring Harry's concern. "I have no idea what that is."

Harry gave a soft whine of exasperation. "James, please, in all seriousness," he begged softly, "what is happening to you? Are you okay? "

He was met with a stretch of silence. James's eyes found Harry's. The guilt and hollow sadness that surrounded this poor, shaking young man seeped once more into his heart. He was sorry to have asked. He pitied James the way that this forsaken resident pitied himself. It reminded him that he'd promised he wouldn't ask questions, and how very serious that promise was supposed to be. James was a black hole of suffering and tragedy. When Harry looked into his eyes, he saw a man who was weak, and was his only misbegotten hope of getting out of Silent Hill.

"So," Harry trailed lamely, pressured to forget his worry and averting his eyes to the aftermath of their attack, "since we're not getting out of town any time soon, I guess we'll have to hang around." When he didn't get a reply, he forced himself to fix his eyes on James's face. "You know this town better than anyone will. You up for giving me an actual tour of the neighborhood?"

James's face mysteriously, and slowly, began to dry. The phenomenon was baffling, but occurring right before his eyes. Harry tried not to let his shock show, and whether James saw it or cared, he wouldn't know.

"Yeah. I can take you around. It's better that you get a feel for the place," he agreed. "Just in case."

"Just in case," Harry echoed, and fell into step beside James. He ignored the wet squelch the leather shoes made in their stride. He'd have to learn to stop worrying about a man that refused to care, and rejected his want for understanding. Harry was here for his daughter, and her alone. He'd better learn to disconnect from James fast, or else be sucked into the depressing, toxic, harmful drain that controlled him.

Harry wasn't sure how he was going to do that, for he was a man of compassion and empathy; a caretaker. He didn't know how to be cold, and felt a deep and terrible need to help a helpless man. Harry was plagued by it. How could he brush it all off and pretend that there was nothing wrong with James? It ate at him. Everything about James baffled him. He was shut off and cautious, and yet, Harry saw the tiniest reaches between the cracks in his wretched armor. No other man he knew was so unsettling and complicated to deal with. He was infested with the town's sickness, and Harry solemnly suspected there wasn't a cure. The bizarre watering shook him the most. James could play dumb all he liked, but Harry couldn't let that go forever.

But taking another look at the man who was pathetically buried in himself and whose lips were blue from a frigid air Harry couldn't feel, he felt ashamed to know he'd have to do it. His life depended on it. Heather depended on it.

She was more important than a cursed man that haunted Silent Hill.

He just had to keep reminding himself that.