That breath exhaled a cleansing, predictable sigh. He looked left and right. The place had been crafted for the intent of its visitors to easily navigate its general mapping and leave all worries at home. So far he found it as intended - pretty straightforward. That said, the issue he had involved a problem the hotel's heyday guests didn't have to tolerate: a defunct electrical system. Harry felt like they were at a bit of a navigational disadvantage here in the mostly-dark. (Not to say this wasn't the norm in Silent Hill; he simply had different feelings about the hotel.) Thankful as he might be for two flashlights, their radius outmatched their distance, and pinned to two separate people meant some inconsistencies.

To their credit they were doing pretty well keeping aware, as they usually did. Harry forlornly examined the double bulbed light mounted on the wall. The hotel would feel worlds livelier illuminated, to be sure; but on the downside, he'd seen The Shining. He grimaced. On second thought, lights on in an enormous hotel would be exponentially worse. Its visible emptiness could play sneakier tricks on the mind, and if the lights failed altogether then they'd really be in a pickle.

Overthinking situations and likening them to fiction truly happened to be one of Harry's strong suits. As a writer, it counted as a blessing. As a survivor, it posed a hazard. For the sake of their time and safety he crammed his imagination into a box and concluded that getting used to the hotel in darkness would be much more comfortable and beneficial.

Still, Harry felt lost. He genuinely didn't expect them to get caught up in here, and boy was he rewarded for his sweet stupidity. Presently, he mused, they needed to be smarter about exploration, and referred to James for the thing he should've thought of first. "Is there a map of the place?" he asked, earning a glance. "I didn't see any, though I wasn't really looking."

He hummed a reply. "No. I don't think so."

"Really? Huh." Harry frowned ahead at the entrance to the lobby. "I would've expected at least one. Maybe several."

"We can look, but I didn't notice any." He shrugged. "Not that I was particularly looking for one, either."

"We're both real winners, huh." Harry turned around and unhooked the flashlight from its pocket, shining it freely over the walls. They were bare. The color and pattern of the wallpaper was sort of nauseating, though. "Welp. Nothing here. Guess we'll make the rounds again for one, so keep an eye out. I wanted to go back upstairs and listen to the tapes again, anyway," he added. "I wanna see if I can make any further hide or hair of them."

James had nothing to contribute, and so was decided. It took less than two minutes to make and finish the search in the immediate vicinity. All doors declined solicitors and even a last-resort push on the elevator button snubbed them. Wholly ostracized and only a touch upset about it, Harry led the way up the zig zag of stairs to the third floor.

Half a flight shy of their destination, Harry's previously robust climb came to a halt. James knew by now to expect it. The author had settled comfortably into fatherhood at some point and to prove it, he gained a bit of weight over the years. It made him stocky and terrible at running to keep up with James, and he had to learn not to overexert himself in a fight. On the flip side, it added a good two handfuls of strength to make up for it, and though Harry joked about not working out, James suspected there was more muscle than he let on. Harry demonstrated an impressive knack for swinging that favored pipe of his (which led him to entrusting James with firearm duty and stowed the handgun away). He'd done a fair share of running around up and down stairs that day, anyway. For that, James excused his penchant for ignoring his cardio days - on a case by case basis, of course.

Tonight, Harry received forgiveness. They achieved the journey to the third floor and reached Room 319. There, the backpack changed hands and allowed James to settle into the upholstered, bland chair in the corner. He set his foot on his knee and loosely folded his arms, glad to get a break. As the drone of the recordings faded into the background, the civilian plunged into his thoughts.

A cult? After all this time, after all the joyous years of repeating the spinning wheel of torture with little nuances peppered in for flavor, after all the guinea pig testing, all the strong insinuations that he was so important to the future of Silent Hill that it made him its rechargeable battery - and there was a whole goddamn cult that held control over the town, and not once did it think to clue him in? By the way Harry talked (or yelled, rather) about it, they were a big fucking deal and enough of a threat that James read unmistakeable raw terror in his face.

James fumed. Aided by his ignorance and an ego that Silent Hill not-so-lovingly bestowed upon him, he'd been made a mockery of in that fight. He refused to take responsibility for something he didn't know, no matter how Harry twisted it. Now long after the fact, he realized it went precisely as planned. Silent Hill played a long con designed to humiliate him, and he didn't appreciate the gag.

A cult. Harry called it the Order and claimed they practiced religious demon god worship. James could've rolled his eyes out of their goddamn sockets. It reminded him of the kind of hokey stuff teenagers get into to make themselves seem mysterious and interesting. It was asinine. Though his opinion remained uninformed, James wisely chose to keep it to himself. The Order obviously meant too much to Harry to go about making unnecessary waves.

One night in their downtime they sat down and James listened to the abridged version of Harry's first visit.

The year was 1999 and Harry had a seven-year-old daughter who had nightmares about a town called Silent Hill. He decided to make a trip there to show her that a sleepy tourist town was nothing to be scared about, and oh, what he would give to eat his words.

They'd gotten a late start, there was traffic, and so it meant arriving in the dark of night. Harry crashed his Jeep to avoid hitting something in the road and when he came to, Cheryl was gone.

He became a goose in a wild chase after a trail of breadcrumbs that kept blowing away. There were people he met whose names and purposes went mostly unexplained. The rest of the heavily censored story told him that Harry went through hell to find his little girl with short black hair. For an easygoing guy who liked to talk and share stories, James noted that Harry was oddly defensive and rigid the whole time, choosing his words cautiously. Omitting the hows and whys, Harry told him that Cheryl was for all intents and purposes killed and reborn. Harry was given a baby, instructed to raise and love her, and then told to run. So he did. And now he was a father to a teenage girl about to graduate high school.

I know it sounds completely, totally crazy, Harry sighed. I'll be the first person to say that it is. I'm not gonna pretend I understand it. Just believe me. I know you can. But I can't tell my therapist about this stuff. She'd commit me and I'm not ready for that step in our relationship.

You're right. It sounds crazy. You should keep that to yourself.

Thanks. I appreciate the validation.

It snowed in Old Silent Hill. Harry decided to make his reservations for August. The summer had been hot, and what better way to cool off before the school year but by a pretty lake? It was August, Harry said. And it was snowing . Where it fell it dusted the ground and never melted, but also never piled on inches. There was no breeze for it to dance in. The flakes were fat and their descent unhurried. If the fog hadn't hung so thick or was absent altogether, he doubted the not-so-wintry drift would've impaired his vision. For what it was and where he was, Harry recalled taking his face to the sky and letting the flakes rest on his skin.

I've tried to feel ashamed for finding it beautiful. Ethereal. Seventeen years later having nightmares every goddamn week and I still can't do it. Heh, is it fucked up of me that when I think about it, it kinda calms me down? A big part of me knows that it is. What do you think, James? Am I just that fucked up?

The temperature felt about the same as South Vale, Harry reckoned. He couldn't remember it getting any colder. And it was August. Naturally, these facts checked another one of Silent Hill's list of quirky impossibilities: snowfall where it didn't belong.

In the streets flew skinned monsters, diseased and rotting dogs that chased him, shadow people that liked to huddle 'round him, enormous worms, and a huge moth, among many more. James thought it ridiculous. These creatures appeared to be random. Judging by their quick summary, the only real theme was bugs, and he asked if Harry had any bad history with them. Nope! he'd replied. I actually kind of like bugs. Just.. not too crazy about some particular ones anymore, not that I was a huge bug enthusiast to begin with.

(This information made him uncomfortable. Harry's demons didn't line up to the rules of creation James came to know and understand. He figured the system would be universal across the map, and inwardly grumbled that Harry had, by his standards, gotten off easy. Going by their descriptions, they were run of the mill and boring. They plagued Harry's nightmares, sure, and they also fell short of laying hot iron on exposed nerves. James was wrong to compare their experiences. He was just doing it because he was jealous.)

James felt chuffed just the same. The story told had intentional manholes by the dozen, and tonight, Harry filled one. Funny, that. Looking back on the road so far, there had been no point in withholding that information from him. James assumed it was understood that unless forcibly separated, he was going to see Harry through to his reunion, then promptly shown the door. He couldn't remember how long ago that talk was. It possibly had been still too early then, before Harry had proof that James would keep his mouth shut if he spilled all the details. That sounded like him, so James gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Some time ago, the town had started stockpiling its reserves not unlike a conspiracy nut prepping a bunker. Its powerhouse had his critical energy sucked dry then chucked swiftly onto the backburner like a child disinterested in their old toys. James became alone, really and truly alone, and at the time he'd felt hurt by the abandonment.

When he'd sensed Harry arrive, the town was simultaneously excited and peeved; stay and enjoy the party, but a bouncer will be right with you to toss you out onto the street. James kept working that one out in the background, for in the forefront beside the cult, there was Heather.

Heather meant a lot to Silent Hill. She was supposed to be alone , it screamed in the form of skull-splitting pressure and agonizing racket in his brain. She was supposed to be alone. James glanced at the tape recorder. The man's broken voice wasn't playing at that moment, but he didn't forget what he said, and what Harry deduced. If that big player cult hired the man to find and deliver her, wouldn't it be expected that he'd accompany her into Silent Hill? The town threw an unreasonable tantrum over a plan it should've known about and put him through the wringer like a janitor's ratty towel for a comforting snack. Heather better be worth it. He'd be bitter about that for awhile.

James's questions offset his answers. His frustrations were put aside as Harry ejected the tape and returned both to the backpack. James flicked his eyes up to him. "So, learn anything?"

"Nope. Not a damn thing more. I kind of wish I had headphones or something."

James grunted noncommittally. Harry rubbed his forehead. "I also really wish I could sleep," the older man groused. "I'm so fucking tired and I don't even get to have a depression nap." He dropped his hands to his thighs and looked at his guide. "Seriously, don't you miss it? I think that'd be the first thing I'd miss."

"Eh. It's a nice way to pass the time, sure. I guess I don't really remember what it's like to sleep."

Harry side-eyed him dubiously. "You are such a fucking mystery, bud."

There was a shrug. "Don't forget, you're more vulnerable when you're asleep. Maybe it'd be nice to sleep some of the hours away, but in the long run, it's not very good for your mortality rate."

Harry's laugh came short. "Yeah, I'd have to agree on that one. I'm not really a, uh, interested in dabbling in what new monstrous killer I could wake up to like I'm a disposable side character in some horror movie. I get enough excitement as it is here."

James idly scratched his neck. "Mm. Yeah. Stuff here kind of makes it hard to contend with horror movie plots."

"No joke. Hell, it's hard to enjoy horror movies anymore. You know," he said, wagging a finger at his companion, "out of everything that Silent Hill did to fuck me up, I'm pretty damn mad about it taking the fun out of horror movies. They're just not the same. Yeah, some of them have their moments, but.. I guess I got spoiled here, in a way."

Harry brought up a lot of things he'd forgotten about in the outside world, and movies were no exception. James never really had a taste for horror flicks to start with, so his special place made sure that it'd ruin any potential he had for it. "I'm surprised that you'd even go to see scary movies after getting out of Silent Hill."

Harry shrugged. "Me, too. Call it coping, I guess. I'm not gonna pretend that some of it doesn't trigger me, especially if it's one of those psychological thrillers. My therapist calls it 'exposure therapy'. I put myself in situations that could trigger me so I can learn how to control my reactions. It takes a while, but I guess it works." He glanced thoughtfully to the recorder. "Hm."

He took in this information blandly. Therapy sounded complicated. James had steered from the idea when people suggested it in the worst three years of his life. The idea of going brought shame. Harry's tidbits and desire to talk about it made James wary of his potential to hold it together. If he was weak enough to need a therapist in the first place, it confirmed his belief that the survivor was indeed too soft for Silent Hill. At any rate, none of this mattered yet. They were wasting precious time, a habit that needed to be nipped in the bud.

James dismissed the subject and re-centered their priorities. He had to play catch up and he needed a concrete run down - hold the black outs. He tucked his folded arms snugly on his chest and focused on Harry. "So. Since we have some downtime, how about we talk about the Order?"

Harry groaned in acknowledgment for its miserable necessity. "Yeah, okay. That's a good idea. Alright, let's do this. Where do I even fucking start?" He screwed his eyes up at the ceiling, absently rubbing his thighs as he tried to organize the can of worms that made up the Order. "Uhh, let's see.. jeez, uh.. phew, this is tough. How about throwing me a question and I'll do my best to—"

The pitter patter of a child ran down the hall. Their eyes shot to the door. Through the walls they heard the thud of soles playing a game of hopscotch that took them closer and closer to their room. Harry detected something strange about the tread: it sounded lopsided. One step fell heavier than the other, as though a shoe'd been lost. Playtime came to a brisk end beyond the door, and neither dared move. Impatient feet scuffed the carpet then scampered off. Within seconds, the hall's end door softly creaked open and closed.

Harry looked at James. "You ever heard of the trope, 'don't investigate the noise?'" The question was rhetorical, based on the knowledge that investigating the noise was usually mandatory here, and that he wasn't going to get a response. He stood and James followed suit. "Well, let's get going."

Harry tried to hide his rush to find out who (or what) the feet were attached to as he shed the loose leather jacket. The flashlight clipped and nestled into his sweater's v-neck and the room keys transferred from the coat to his pants pocket. James noted he took his weapon but not the pack. Assuming it was his duty again, James reached for the strap and Harry's pipe tapped his hand away. The conduit frowned. "What're you doing?"

"I'm thinking we can use this room as a safe room," Harry replied, shoving up his maroon sleeves. "Let's be reasonable, that backpack needs a serious reconsideration and it weighs us down. We have a key, we'll lock up and pretend like this is a solid plan and absolutely won't bite us in the ass."

James shook his head. "Your call." He collected shotgun shells from their hoard and dropped them in his pockets, then stepped into the hall after Harry. Room 319 was locked up.

On their way to the stairwell Harry abruptly flinched and clapped his hand over the top of his head. He stopped in his tracks and scanned the ceiling. James paused, and tracked the ray of Harry's flashlight to a murky stain above and its fat, telltale tears waiting to drop. "Aw, man," Harry whined. "We got a leak. Somebody call the maintenance guy. This looks bad."

The comedic timing was impeccable. A bomb of water exploded on a deserving nose and James smirked as Harry scoffed and sidestepped away. "Yuck," he muttered into his bicep, drying off on his sleeve.

James got to relish his own bite of schadenfreude until a snide tickle raised the hair on his neck. His eyes darted to Room 312. The event was no longer funny. It'd been a prank. Cute, sure; harmless, even. Would you stop? he asked the sniggering, haunted chamber. His lip curled, the mood briefly soured.

A sharp gasp whispered "Jesus fucking Christ!" and snapped him to attention. Spying on them from the stairwell was the obstructed view of a child's profile. They seemed unbothered by the lights shining hard on their androgynous partial features, and scrutinized them as if to say, 'Well? Are you coming?' All three leered at one another for a good moment, then the kid bolted down the stairs.

Harry exhaled hard. "That scared the shit out of me," he hissed, and instantly gave chase.

The men followed a trail of slowly closing doors. They charged across the hall overseeing the foyer and through to the east wing. Harry seized the vertical bar handle as the door to the guest rooms almost shut and flung it open. James ducked past him to be the first at the bend, and the author staggered after him. They studied the blackened hall, Harry catching his breath and the resident unmoved by the dash.

The combined power of the flashlights weren't enough. In Silent Hill the dark worked differently, but in this particular instance it felt denser, and controlled. It devoured the cones meant to improve the field of vision and compacted them into tight circles. They crept guardedly down the stretch. Step by step the morphed spotlights cast menacing shadows across the back of a girl facing the solitary window.

One of the beams shuddered over her. The little girl wore her thick blonde hair in a high ponytail gathered by a hot pink scrunchie. The tail hung to her shoulders, brushing the snug blue plaid dress pulled over a pale pink knit sweater. She stood unevenly on a pair of feet that were missing a mate to a pink Mary Jane shoe, ending the mystery of her odd stride, and so exposed the dirty sole of the white socks that reached her calves.

James heard Harry's breath hitch and hollow. The sight of the girl affected them both. James maintained his composure, and subconsciously, noticed his ward's restraint had gotten better. Good. He depended on Harry's will to keep it together.

Neither wanted to get too close. They stopped a collective four rooms away; close enough to engage, and edging the best distance for an escape. As though sensing the tension over her shoulder the girl rotated, revealing features that both men did, and didn't, recognize. She smiled. "You're really bad at hide and seek," she cheerfully reprimanded as she swiveled side to side. " I thought I was gonna have to make it easier. Next time you get stuck like that just call 'olly-olly-oxen-free,' okay? It gets really boring if you can't use your brains."

She proved to be a sassy little punk and her voice came sweeter than candy. For each man she gave a unique, cruel gift: the individual experience of hearing her words and tone in the perfect imitation of the little girls they once knew. It kept them shocked and silent. The child stopped her fidgeting, and her smile quickly vanished, then brightly returned. "Thank you for bringing me here," she chirped, striking jolts of fear into her pursuer's hearts. "I'm having a really great time with you." Her voice welded the two distinct renditions of two different girls. Her ensuing call shifted the corridor into a reverberation chamber, converting tangled noise into a thunderous growl.

From James's damp hair ushered the first beads of water, and knotted anguish forced a full-body, lasting shiver in Harry.

They heard their names. They heard them simultaneously clear as day and as an impure mash. The radio in James's pocket earnestly gasped to life, and its too-belated warning did nothing to move them. Narrowed beams from their flashlights wildly strobed across the scourged child and witnessed a faithless transfiguration.

From head to toe her appearance rapidly cycled through no one and everyone. The father and murderer confronted their merged lifetimes of women whose lives had somehow impacted their own, and were projected as the little girls they formerly were. It didn't matter if their childhood had been foreign to them or not. She was all of them instantaneously, and in her dizzying carousel of strangers and familiars, James and Harry independently recognized every single one they knew.

Harry caught his balance by the will of Lady Luck. James's iron hand bruised his arm as he towed him like a sled dog ordered to mush back down and turned the corner, where they collided on closed doors. Tall, sleek bronze handles could be yanked and shaken all they liked, but the doors refused to entertain their freedom. Harry rolled and braced himself, quaking, against the wooden panel. James lurched around the bend where a blinding flash of unmistakable orange and red blasted him in its glare. Harry saw James squint hard against it and the gust it brought seconds before he threw the shotgun up and secured it on his shoulder. Harry dove forward to join him at his side as the gun soundly cocked.

It was hotter than hell in there. A forest of flames burned voraciously on the walls, and Harry protected his eyes behind his forearm from the fire's blaze and flying ash. Already sweating in the heat, the steel weapon he held up spiked to scorching and forced it to his other hand. James stood stiff next to him, patiently waiting for whatever was to come as the water ceaselessly trickled.

From the violent fiery dance her silhouette emerged untarnished, malevolence surging through her slow gait. Every step she took invoked impossible aging. She grew from age seven or eight to ten, eleven, thirteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen— then sped through all of them again and again. The ceiling detonated grenades of cinders and drywall. Harry was convinced they'd be cooked alive in this cage. Without the handgun he stupidly kept shoved in the backpack, he deemed himself useless in this battle bearing only a pipe that might soon melt his palm. Although James had his gun, he also feared it wouldn't be enough. His incompetence could mean failure, and he prematurely accepted the blame.

She drew closer. Harry glanced at James. The rivers borne from turbulent panic flowed unabated, soaking his clothes, and dripped from the steady hands holding the gun aloft. The water betrayed a man beyond terrified, and yet he showed the same calculated ease of a fairgoer shooting a prize balloon. A passing, unbefitting thought pricked him with its needle, and Harry's heart drew blood. He dug his feet into the floor. Perhaps he was useless here. He lowered his arm from his eyes and jumped his scalding weapon into that dominant hand, dealing with the sweltering heat head on. Or maybe, he wasn't. The civilian and survivor challenged their tormenter, equally resolute, side by side.

The shotgun fired its first shell. Her shoulder was struck. She twisted from its force, and gave no scream. The empty casing jumped and the pump clacked. Harry's lips parted; his bravery wavered. When hit, her rapid flickering made a hard stop and she embodied a girl - no, a woman - that was undoubtedly Heather.

That can't be right , Harry's brain whispered. No. That's not right. He swayed the pipe at his side like an antagonistic baseball player at home base, insulted by her error and beckoning an attack. The monstrosity recovered in a breath and the cycling resumed, only for the next shot to the opposite shoulder dip her back and revive the original image of the little girl that lured them.

Without warning her body erupted into boils, and from her wounds inflated two enormous blisters to bursting. They spewed yellow ichor that smelled exactly of the charred and fermented, waterlogged flesh that roamed the South Vale streets. The gun cocked again. One shell left. James would have to make it count, for he relied on Harry to take active defense to give him time to reload. He hoped he had his back.

The girl convulsed in place and the blisters popped like gruesome bubblewrap, regrew, and ruptured again. The fire raged and consumed the end of the corridor in a torrent, and barreled for the hotel's last guests. Cold air flooded in from doors that thrust themselves open, making an offer they couldn't refuse. They raced for the lobby and threw their weight into the final set of doors, flinging themselves onto the gangway above the empty reception hall. As swiftly as the doors opened they crashed shut, containing and protecting them from the fires of perdition.

The drastic change in temperature whipped Harry's dripping face and barely soothed his overheating body. He staggered to the rail, clutching the weapon suddenly cool in his unmarred hand and gulped for air. James propped himself heavily against the wall behind him. The radio was silent. Harry lifted his chin to the ceiling and closed his salt-stung eyes. His chest heaved and shuddered. While James himself softly panted he neglected to notice this, forcing the therapeutic practices he learned on a trembling body and weakened psyche.

How unlucky they were to have their respite robbed of them so soon. Harry reopened his eyes and took them to their corners as the thrum of churning metal rose to his ears. Change below him captured his sight and he looked down into a foyer savagely overtaken by rusted, grated floors that sheltered an endless pit below. The transformation spread like an aggressive fungus and replaced the walls, stairs, ceiling - the banister he held - in bloody, rotting steel.

Harry ripped his hands away and backed up. James gaped in awed wonder as the Otherworld spilled its disease. This time it was Harry that snared James by the drenched sleeve and led the retreat, and James looked back at a barbaric manifestation constructing a torture chamber out of his special, unholy place, and found it amorally beautiful.

The safe room awaited them. James outran Harry on the last flight to the third floor to reload. He expected to be closely followed but a yelp and struggle interrupted his window, and he pivoted to discover Harry trapped in the middle of the stairwell.

A swarm of little, ashy hands stretched from a chasm that sought to swallow the man whole. Harry clung desperately to the handrail and strained to pull himself out of their innumerable grasp, to lift his legs, to defy them at all, but their strength overpowered his own. They made steady progress towards their goal by the second and he thrust back his arm to beat the hands down. He was punished for this, the hands snatching for his weapon and solely by Harry's adrenaline-fueled reflexes did they let go. Forced to clutch it and the rail together, Harry directly hampered his ability to save himself.

James shouldered the stock again. He squinted past Harry's pleading face and the hoarse whisper of his name ghosted his ear moments before he took faith in his speculative aim and fired his last shell into the shadowy horde.

The pit exploded plumes of ash and many startled hands let go. James rushed to reload to an aria of confused, gargling cries of children, and as soon as the barrel and break snapped closed he induced two additional cacophonous refrains. Harry scrambled for stable ground under his feet as the hands slid on his legs and held onto his cuffs. James hurriedly stepped down and reached for the end of the pipe, dragging Harry out of the infernal trench to the supposed safety of the third floor.

The Otherworld ascended menacingly below them. James left Harry to check the doors leading to the safe room. They were locked. He spun around furiously, his chest tight with turmoil. Water seeped from the slat beneath the doors and matched the pace of the river coursing relentlessly down his body, immersing the carpet in wet. The sodden floor squelched under his boots and James paced in front of a collapsed man shaking like a leaf in the wind chill on the only dry island on the floor. He was at a total loss. Frantic to develop a last ditch plan that wouldn't straightaway require Harry, all his needs were met when a thudding, methodical knock on the godforsaken door got his attention.

The deadbolt retracted. It went off like a rocket in his ears to the tune of the draw and click of his shotgun's pump. Open sesame, it said, and the door invitingly creaked ajar.

He had no choice. They had no safe room to run to. The threat of the Otherworld nipped at their heels and crushed the debilitated man under the deafening roar of its mechanics. He uprooted the terrorized father under the arm and held tight as the older man jerked hard in shock. James all but threw himself and Harry into Room 312 and slammed the door closed.