"You know, it's funny," Harry mentioned while they poked around in a room. "I said I'd never been back here before, right?"

"Mm."

"And yet, I think I remember the cult church actually being somewhere else."

James lifted his head and lowered the file to look at him. "Are you saying we're in the wrong place?"

Harry snorted. "Obviously not," he said, holding up a ritual dagger that looked none too Catholic. "We're in the right place, but not the same place I saw. So there are different places to 'worship'," he continued, punctuating the word with the aid of sarcasm and exaggerated quotation fingers. "Which makes sense. I just can't remember where the other one was."

James scanned the contents of the folder he held, then dropped it on the desk. "I'm sure I'll get to it."

"Yeah, probably." He pivoted to the candelabra standing vigil by the door and its five dripping candles alight. "And y'know, I appreciate the aesthetics of a mysteriously-lit bunch of candles here and there," he said, putting his hand into his pocket when James returned to his side. "It's spooky, sure, but you know what kind of ruins it? The fire hazard. It's such a fire hazard. I think that's scarier than the thought of someone running around lighting candles for us."

"I guess."

"You guess a lot," Harry smirked, leading the way out to the hall. "You ever get anywhere with those?"

"I guess not."

"Oh, oooh, I think you're lying to my face. I know you've got some stuff cookin' up in that noggin. Will I ever know you at all, James Sunderland?"

His green eyes tracked his charge. "Not if I can help it."

Harry tutted. "You've made that pretty clear in the past, but I'm holding out for a little something. Maybe for.. for a hero!" He burst into song, spinning around and wiggling some dance moves at someone who wished that he wouldn't. "I'm holdin' out for a hero at the end of the ni-ight! He's gotta be strong," he flexed, "and he's gotta be fast!" his arm swept, "and he's gotta be fresh from the fi-ight! I need a her-ooooh-ooh.."

There were no words in the English language that could accurately describe the way that James felt about Harry dancing with himself and half-singing a huffy rendition of a song he'd probably heard all of twice in his life before Silent Hill, other than 'done.' He waited for this middle-aged embarrassment to finish his musical dance break with a look so flat and salty that he'd ought to rename himself 'Bonneville.' To his annoyed relief, the silliness stopped shortly after it began.

Harry gifted him a big grin and held out his arms for an applause he'd never get. "Aw, c'mon! Footloose? It's the most famous song from it! You know, Kevin Bacon, little nowhere town, 1984..?" When he got a whole lot of nothing in response, it was his turn to roll his eyes and exaggerate his complaining scoff. "Ugh!" His arms dropped soundly to his sides, giving James his back to continue their search. "Someone failed you, James. How'd you grow up so uncultured? It's Kevin Bacon, man! It was the highlight of his career back then! Footloose is a classic!"

James was anxious to meet Heather and ask her how the hell she put up with this guy as her father. "It's a musical, right? I didn't really watch musicals. Not my thing."

"Oh, don't be so close minded," Harry scolded. "Footloose was a musical, yeah, but it was like Grease - cool and iconic, and even the guys taking their dates to go see it were enjoying it. Everybody loved Grease. It had John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John; everyone had a thing for one of 'em. Or both of 'em. And Footloose had Kevin Bacon!"

"I really don't know who he is, Harry."

That got him to stop and turn halfway to regard James like he'd just told a tasteless joke. "Really? Wow. I was wrong about before, about somebody failing you. No, someone must've kept you under a rock in a basement your whole life. Seriously? You don't know who Kevin Bacon is?"

The sigh came hard and impatient. " No, I don't. And my memory's not great, if you remember."

"Sometimes. You might have mentioned it. I dunno, mine's starting to go too, now that I think of it." A smile met a glare. "When we get out of here," Harry told him, finally taking the search seriously, "I'm gonna sit you down and make you watch both Grease andFootloose. And if you like at least one of them, I won't make you watch Flashdance until the week after."

James slowly trailed him. Harry occasionally talked like that - like he thought the both of them would get out. It made his skin crawl when the veteran predicted a life outside of Silent Hill for him. He knew he was joking, because he had to be. This was just another part of Harry's overly congenial personality. Honestly he didn't know whether to feel good or bad about it. The way it prickled his skin always initially disgusted him, though once in a blue moon, it'd actually given him a little rare passing comfort of the thought of taking him up on these pipe dream movie nights.

He shook it off just in time for Harry to open a door and give a low whistle at whatever he saw within. "O-kay. Talk about a place of interest."

It was a large study. So large that it housed two tall bookcases that made an opening to a cramped aisle to the left, and even wound around two more bookcases to the wall. As has been a theme thus far with few exceptions, disarray in the form of books, loose papers, and newsprint hogged the floor space and hid the wooden tiles under their feet. Two candelabras provided some of the light in here, and the flashlights made up for their shortcomings.

But the painting that hung on the wall above the desk was the real eye-catcher. Framed in ornate brass somehow untouched by Silent Hill's grime was a portrayal of a beautiful woman donned in a flowing red dress. She was elevated before a group of kneeling, desperate worshippers, and cradled a woman's face in her ivory hands. Her hair was of spun gold and floated elegant and weightless behind her as though she were suspended in water. This woman was beloved and revered, her life and mercy genuine, and whomever painted her had done so with painstaking devotion.

Harry leaned over the messy hazard on the desk to squint at the small plaque placed at the bottom of the frame. "'She Gives Promise Of Paradise.'" He looked up at the art and stepped back again. "So, this is God."

James let a thoughtful moment pass. "She's pretty."

"I imagine most religions like to depict their saviors as attractive. Then there are the Catholics who give Jesus a real hard time, as though he didn't have it rough in the first place."

He idly bounced the shotgun. "It's interesting to see God as a woman."

"Supposedly the God everyone else talks about is neither male or female," Harry said, tilting his head. "But, yeah. She looks like a nice lady."

Another handful of time passed while they considered the artwork. Harry eventually drew in a breath and took a gander around the study. "Well, I think we should get to looking around. Maybe with God watching over us we'll have some more luck than usual."

James went to the desk while Harry predictably chose to look at the books. The surface was so covered with papers and tomes that the wood was lost underneath. There were a whole slew of interesting documents, prints, and books strewn about. He absently glanced over and slid them around to uncover whatever could be of interest. Whoever owned this workplace needed a crash course in organization, not that James had any right to criticize. Pushing aside a group of notes unveiled an aged letter. There were many of these on the desk, but this one was simple, and for some reason, felt important. He frowned, picking it up to read. "Harry? I found something."

"Yeah? So did I. Did you know the hotel burned down a while ago?"

James lifted his head and twisted slightly to fix Harry with a dubious frown. "Huh?"

The survivor waved at him a small collection of newspaper clippings of various sizes. "Yep. Burned right down. Says they were gonna rebuild it." He passed his guardian the articles. "No year on it, but it's pretty old. Funny, huh?"

Holding the clippings against the letter, James scrutinized the small, damaged print. There was even a picture of the destroyed lodge. "Yeah. Real funny."

"I knew I got Overlook vibes from the place. The movie was inaccurate in so many ways, but one of the big ones was that the Overlook didn't blow up at the end. Kinda nice, kinda disappointing, really."

He shook his head. "Yeah, I.. I don't know about this. I went to the hotel before, when I first got here," James said, lifting the first cut out to look at the next. "Some of it was burned up on the top level, like there had been a fire, but it obviously wasn't burned to the ground like this."

Harry reared his head back. "Wait, you were there with your wife, and when you got stuck in this hellhole?"

James grunted. "Yes. Not gonna talk about it more than that."

"Fine by me," he sighed, pocketing his hand and inclining his head to read along with him. "Silent Hill, right? Anyway, the other ones are about those boating accidents. Man, that doesn't seem real.. losing hundreds of people in a lake? Toluca isn't even that big, when you compare it against lakes like Lake Superior."

"Losing people in lakes is like losing crashed airplanes," he countered. "It's weird, but it happens."

"Yeah, like that Egyptian one a couple years back. And Amelia Earhart. I still can't believe it. But, you're right," Harry relented. "I wish I could blame it all on Silent Hill, but some things are just what they are." Harry looked at the piece of paper James held beneath the clippings and nodded his head at it. "What's that?"

He brought the page to the front. "'You need to re-evaluate your choices,'" James read. "'See me later.' Signed, V."

"V," Harry mused, looking up in thought. "V.. mmm.. nope.. can't think of anyone that'd be right now. V ," he whispered to himself, starting to turn. "Who the hell could 'V' be?"

James creased the page. "I'll keep looking."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, distracted. "Me too. There's a lot to look for here. Here," he said, offering his hand again. "I'll hold onto everything so we don't get all mixed up and lose something."

"Sounds good." After passing it off, James went back to work on the desk. He heard Harry rustle around behind him, mutter about the candles, then step behind the bookcases to investigate more. James rifled for something amongst the clutter that might actually help them when he uncovered a thick text. The corner of a loose page stuck out from the middle of the book and he carefully extracted it.

Curiosity unfolded the paper and his eyes fell upon handwriting that covered every space that wasn't occupied by drawings he didn't understand. He'd never seen it before and yet, he recognized it. James fingered the page, roving his eyes over it all, and then a dark, echoing pop went off in his head.

He ticked his head to the sound of Harry shuffling something about on the other side. Interested murmuring told him that he'd found a new clue. It could be mere seconds until he came back to show him. Panic leapt to his throat and James urgently spun around, instantly laying eyes on a nearby candelabra. He silently folded the page on its skewed crease and held it over a long flame. The paper sizzled on the first bite and the fire instantly ate it up in a whoosh.

"James?" Harry leaned out from around the corner, looking worriedly at the conduit shifting through the desk work, then at the disturbed, dancing flames. "What was that? I smell burning."

The resident lifted his head, frowned softly, then eyeballed the candelabra. "Yeah. I do too."

"What is that? Did something happen with the candles?"

James shrugged. After a short sigh, Harry approached him with a stack of construction paper. "Great. I love phantom smells. Take a look at this, though," he said, showing his companion the floppy prize. "Children's drawings, and one more article. It has to do with the Walter Sullivan case," he continued. "You hear about that?"

He partially turned as Harry came over to share his findings. James accepted the small stack of large drawing paper filled with colorful pictures of a house and people in a row made by a child's hand, and the article with it. "Not really. I was under a rock in a basement, if you remember."

"Oh, yeah. I do kinda remember you briefly mentioning that." Harry idly rubbed his throat as they looked at it together. "I kind of want to take it with us to study it later, but we've gotta be careful what we take so we don't end up hoarding a bunch of shit again." He scrunched his nose thoughtfully after James's non-reply. Twisting, he looked back at the study, trying to go over their options and make a decision that would be sound and productive. "Let's.. maybe.. hang out here for a spell. There's a lot to look at, and maybe something else is here all tucked away."

"Whatever you want to do," James said, giving the drawings back. Harry took them with some reluctance.

"James?" His gaze lingered on the papers, though he knew the conduit was listening. "You ever wanted to have kids?"

An awkward moment followed. "Uh.. that's kind of a weird question."

Harry tipped his head with some sheepish agreement. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, just.. looking at these.." He fingered the paper, partially flipping the corner to look at the one behind it. James observed awkwardly.

"I don't really want to talk about that, Harry."

The wayward, weary father nodded. "No problem. Sorry, I just.. I miss my little girl."

Watching him seek solitude in the small maze of books, James felt a tug of pity and shame on his hollow soul. He faced and placed his palms upon the desk, hung his head, then looked up at the tall painting of God swathed in rich reds. She didn't see him, only the humbled people at her feet, holding a poor woman's face in her promising hands - a blonde woman, who clasped God's wrist, and stared in loving awe at Her blessed form.

He wished he were a praying man.

After a while, they decided to keep the pictures and articles and moved on. Along the way they encountered a small indent into the wall where an altar had been set up beneath a dark painting depicting a being in a meditative position in the middle of an arch of incomprehensible scripture. Horns long and black rose from a goat's head, and wings that flared behind its robed shoulders. A hand was raised while the other lay open upon its human knee. This thing on the canvas was, as Harry dared to say, unholy.

His expression was grim. "I recognize this," he told James. "Now that I think about it, I think.. I'm pretty sure this is what I was told God was. Sure goes against what we've learned and seen so far, huh?"

"A little."

"Dunno how I feel about it." Harry ran his hand over his hair. "To be honest, I actually feel like I blocked a lot of this out, which, for something like this? Not good. Really not good. Kinda feeling like a newbie here, and that doesn't.. man," he muttered under his breath. "I don't know what's going on. I should've remembered this."

James eyeballed him. "Yeah, I'd expect you to remember something more like this than a small detail like the way that corpse in the alley had its arm hanging off the side of the stretcher."

A frown appeared on his lips as well as his brow. "Did I?"

"Yeah. That's how we found the key to the auto shop. You don't remember that?"

"No, not.. not at all," Harry grimaced, rubbing hard at his eyes. "Damn. It was a while ago, though, right? It's been a few days, or more. How do you remember it?"

James shook his head. "I don't know, Harry. It's just one of those things that stuck with me, I guess."

He made a small noise. "I'll try not to think about that. C'mon, let's not get stuck in here like idiots again." Harry peered up at the painting. "Kind of ugly, but it gives off pagan vibes, and I'd hate to insult the pagans like that."

"Perhaps blasphemy isn't the greatest idea here," James reminded him, receiving a flippant scoff.

"If God has a problem with it, She can come fight me Herself," he said, turning to leave.

"Careful. She might take you up on it."

"If we're lucky. I have more than a few bones to pick with Her."

Though the church itself wasn't large from the outside, the interior, with its lit hallways and shadowed rooms, gave the impression that the inside was even smaller. The layout itself contradicted both; it felt like there was far more space than the building should've allowed as a whole. At the back of the church they found the kitchen - a small, pathetic thing - and by the pantry was a cellar door. It was unlocked and patiently awaiting their curiosity. Naturally, they regarded it with distrust.

After a bit of whining, Harry lifted the door and pointed his light into the dark, the beams of which reflected upon still water. Perplexed, he edged around to the side to open it further, and looked down into the small, black sea. "Oh. I guess someone hasn't been checking up on the pipes. So much for that, huh?" He hummed and gently shut it. "While that's kind of unsettling, at least we don't have to go down there, right? Hope there wasn't anything important we needed."

Looking at James, the resident was seemingly ignoring him again, staring down at the heavy wooden door. Harry let him chew on whatever was going on in that strange head of his and surveyed the kitchenette. It was assembled in the corner with a serving window cut into the wall that looked out into a dining room. That wall itself extended a fair bit past the kitchenette, but allowed for easy comings and goings from one room to the other. A few large windows decorated the mess hall that allowed the foggy outside to provide some natural atmosphere, giving the area a spacious and, perhaps in better circumstances, a welcoming feeling.

He scuffed his feet and drummed his weapon on his calf. "Kind of a cozy little place, eh? After you're done supposedly praying to Jesus, you can come back here and have a luncheon with all your good buddies on a happy Sunday afternoon. It gives such a good sense of community, of togetherness," Harry facetiously preached. "Sit amongst families and friends, and welcome new ones as you find your favorite supermarket cold cuts and off brand orange—"

The long squeal of a door in desperate need of oiling echoed from the other side. It sounded near their position and didn't close immediately after, its hinges creaking and the push bar clacking against something having trouble entering. Whatever had come to join them, though, brought along deep, contained crying. They stood stone still as the door noisily caught again and again on the arrival, then closed for good.

In a grossly unsettling way, the weeping sounded genuinely mournful. Following the shuffle of slow steps inching into the room was the gritty scrape of something being dragged along. Gathering up his courage, Harry silently rounded the dividing wall and beheld a scene that stole the color from his face. James soundlessly went to his side, then instantly lowered the shotgun he'd prepared on his shoulder.

A lean man teetered on exhausted legs. Because his entry only allowed them to view him from the side, from that angle they saw he wore a brown leather jacket discolored by smoke stains and was torn at the shoulder. The jeans on his legs were tainted and ratty, and his shoes only held together by determination.

From what could be told of his profile, this man's face had retained most of its features, despite the crusty, black skin covering every inch. His dark hair lay flat on his head, save for a wispy few strands that fanned loose over his brow. Misshapen scarring created a thick, blinding patch over his visible eye. And lastly, the reason his nonstop weeping was muffled was due to a mouth sewn shut so many times that it was replaced by nothing but a bulky, knotted mask.

But this visage was nothing compared to his cargo. In his hand he held a smaller one attached to a thin, tiny arm, of which was connected to the raw and burned corpse of a little girl. She was on her belly, her head hung like a sack of sand between her shoulders, obscuring her face, and her stringy, oily black hair dangling and swaying with every move the man made. On her body was a tattered blue dress, perhaps once long-sleeved as suggested by the remains of ripped fabric at her elbow, and black shoes over white socks patched by dried orange blood and char. Wherever she was forced to go, she left a wet streak of black and crimson in her wake.

James scrutinized this gruesome new monster hard while it shuffled directionless and wracked with demoralizing sobs. It didn't seem to know they were there and moved at such a slow pace that James figured they were in no immediate danger. He looked at Harry for guidance.

Harry, however, was in no state to do anything but remember how to breathe. His face was contorted in grief and oddly, recognition. James eyed him, somewhat disturbed by it but moreso uncertain, then took his stare back to their visitor.

The victim of a fire unknown changed his direction, somehow having noticed they were there and faced them. Wherever it could be seen, his skin was indeed blackened, cracked, and flaking like bark, and revealed that both of his eyes were blindfolded by the scarring. Beneath the leather jacket, which sported a broken replica of their flashlights, was a sweater vest that bore a royal blue color somehow notable under the charcoaled damage. It was frayed at the hems and layered over a shirt that was once white. But now that he had confronted the resident and veteran full on, James could have never been prepared for what brought it all together:

The bereaved's left hand which, until now, had been hidden on his other side, was not empty - and never could be. His arm hung lifeless and his fingers welded, forever clutching, a long, rusted, and bloody steel pipe.

James's lips parted, and his heart dropped like lead straight through the floors.

Neither moved, and the man, at his snail's pace, sought to meet them. The next garbled cry caused Harry to twist his bludgeon so hard in his white-knuckled fists that his arms briefly trembled. Each step drew the walking corpse a little bit closer, and still, they couldn't find their feet. With the pieces having fallen together, the implications of what was before them pulled the ropes in James's stomach tight enough to make him vaguely nauseous.

James heard himself utter a whisper of his companion's name. His voice seemed to shake Harry out of his stupor, and in time to choke back sob of his own before it began.

He didn't even feel his vocal cords nor his tongue move when he spoke again. "Is that.."

"It's me," Harry said thickly. "Yeah. That's me."