Don't move . Harry Mason swallowed hard and pressed his back flush against the crumbling brick wall. He'd read once that the most effective way to breathe nearly soundlessly was to tilt one's head skyward and drop the jaw wide. It supposedly allowed airflow to travel seamlessly from lungs to lips and would effectively diminish the noise of panting. Coupled with the effort of trying to keep both his breathing and war drum heartbeat under control, he hoped to whatever god was listening today that it wasn't as loud as it was in his ears.

He closed his eyes and focused. Breathe deep, expand your ribs. The breath came as shudders, skipping treacherously as the scraping, weighted sound of feet drew closer. Harry bared his teeth to the clammy alley stinking of mold, rust, and copper, and snapped his jaw shut. Easy. Easy. God, we should've kept running. He filled his lungs through his nose and clenched his jaw. It was unfair to have just taken a little siesta after the hell day they'd had and immediately be faced with one of the things that had made it so awful, yet here they were.

Her reappearance so soon didn't bode well, in his mind. With how gruesome and strangely important she felt, he thought that she'd have been a rarity. Apparently not.

Harry hated the idea of her becoming a regular occurrence. He really, really hated her; but not nearly as much as he did the burned man and his little girl.

It gave him a start when his sweating hand was roughly taken. Harry darted his eyes to his right to the face of a man whose deadened eyes somehow said, ' Relax .' Forcing a wry smile to his lips, he clasped the one pale and slicked with blood in return.

He appreciated that.

The abomination stopped at the mouth of the dark hall. Brown eyes were locked onto green. Harry knew that James could see past him at the vengeful old hag, yet the conduit stubbornly held the stare of this desperate father.

How unexpected of him, Harry thought, to show such compassion. Then again, reflection added, James had given him some leniency after that no good, horrible, really bad day. It was nice to think that he might be warming up to him some more, but Harry didn't dare contemplate it too hard; after all, one must never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sticky heaves from their hunter resounded in the dank alley. Her feet shuffled. The shift of her noise suggested she was looking away, but then swung back in their direction. Neither moved. Their bodies were as stiff as the rusted steel pipe that Harry bore in his left hand. Seconds were taking centuries to pass.

Her sloppy breathing spluttered a growl. Polluted blood and decay wafted like macabre potpourris in the air. Harry stared vigilantly at stony features which were his companion's face. I know , he thought loudly. I know. Relax. Don't look.

Drops of syrupy ichor splashed on the ground. Their hands were disgusting and humid, mixing wet grime between their palms. The creature rattled and hacked disappointedly. She began to put real effort into her retching, bringing the survivors' faces to contort in disgust fix at one another for the duration of her god forsaken performance.

And then, something vile and dense slopped to the sidewalk.

Harry grimaced and broke their stare, looking at the ground. They knew what it was and wished they didn't. Her improvisations combined with the fresh discharge's odor was nauseating to the point that the bile nipped Harry's throat; his stomach contracted hard, lurching him, and he struggled to restrain the first cough.

The choking alerted their deadly stalker and she took a step past the threshold of the alley. Harry drove the back of his left hand to his mouth, but changed his mind, shoving his head into the bend of his elbow to better silence himself and ward away the clench of his stomach. James's hand held his even tighter, a sharp pull on his arm ordering him to stay fucking quiet.

Harry swallowed and swallowed down the panic and sick. Get the fuck away from us, please get the fuckaway from us! he screamed within his head and by the pity from something wild and unknown, the creature lost interest and slugged down the street.

The nauseating noose around his throat was just beginning to settle when James yanked Harry, stumbling, out of the alley, taking off in the opposite direction. Harry's weakened grasp and the slip of their dirty fingers near-threatened departure, but the resident's grip was like iron as he led the escape down the road.

They ran until they reached the lawn of Midwich Elementary School. Harry, winded and queasy from the sprint, broke off from his guardian and staggered to the side on bent knees, bracing his hands upon them. James watched from where they'd parted, calm as can be. The effort of their dash, as always, neglected to affect him; it was no different than taking a stroll to the mailbox. After coughing and a dry heave from Harry yielded nothing, James tilted his head, waiting for him to finish pulling himself together.

Having caught his breath and mostly settled his stomach at last, Harry drew himself up and looked, pale-faced, to James. He exhaled hard and shook his head, taking his eyes to the abandoned school towering ahead. "I hate that thing."

"Yeah. Me too."

"I can't fucking believe we ran into her again so soon. What bullshit is that?" Harry huffed a laugh and returned to James, thudding his hand twice on his shoulder. "Thanks for taking the lead there. That fucking sucked. We did good, though." Upon realizing he'd left behind a smear on the backpack strap from his yucky hand, he grimaced and wiped his palm off on his slacks. "Ugh. Gross. Sorry."

James made a noncommittal noise and adjusted the grip on his shotgun. He cast his eyes to his shoulder, frowned, looked down at the wet smudges on his firearm, then also cleaned his hand on his jeans. "Whatever."

Harry swung the pipe at his side, then tried to flip and catch it in the air. The pipe bounced away from them on the grass. Clearly, he was going to need more practice. "I hate to say it, but I'm kinda glad we ditched the radio," he mentioned on the short journey to his runaway pipe. "I guess we'll see if it was really worth it to send it off like that though, eh?"

"If we hadn't broken it open, we wouldn't've gotten that die."

"Oh, yeah." Harry grunted as he snatched his weapon up, and looked to James. "I forgot about that. We'll keep our eyes peeled in here for anything that might relate to it."

"Mm."

Harry shouldered the pipe, then suddenly pointed it at him. "You know? There's a piano in one of the classrooms."

James fixed him with the usual emotionless stare that had, just minutes ago, shown Harry a morsel of empathy - if he'd read him right. It had been out of left field, but in his mind, that was worlds better than the common annoyance.

"I know. I read about it in your notes."

He hummed, dropping the steel back to his shoulder. "I keep forgetting about those. What I've written, I mean. Heh. I keep forgetting about a lot of things." A smirk accompanied the glance he shot James's way. "Except for the small, dumb little details that are, and aren't, all that important."

He expected nothing, and he got a bare tick above his expectations. "Yeah. I guess." Then James turned away.

Harry rolled his head and sighed once more. Their route was unconventional and unappreciated, but they had made it to Midwich. He stepped onto the concrete walkway and deferentially scanned the prison of time that awaited them.

Seventeen years had passed between his theoretical first day at school and his return for this alumni honor ceremony, and he wished he could've ignored the RSVP. The loyal and determined father began the ascent to the old entry of the elementary school. Boots shuffled close behind him, and when Harry closed his hand on the antique handle, he looked over his shoulder at the ashen, hollow presence of his companion.

"We best get to class before we get detention. C'mon, new kid."

Harry courageously pulled open the rigid door, and reintroduced himself to Midwich Elementary School.

The school was as dark and quiet as any other place they'd visited. Schools had a distinct smell to them, and this one was no different, save for the overlay of dust and dirt. Past the confined lobby was the welcome hall where they now stood, and before them a pair of windowed, heavy wooden doors led out into the school courtyard.

James peered at the patterned vinyl tile, fashioned to resemble hardwood, beneath their feet. A large red border snaked around each wall and corner, enclosing a floor of beige within it. He thought it would've been fine like that - classy, even - if only there weren't these spaced rows of blue squares ruining it.

James was hardly an interior decorator, much less known for having an ant's artistic eye, yet he thought more than a few people would agree with him that the addition of blue was kinda tacky. He contemplated the school's design ethics while Harry went to the reception desk.

"Yeah, hi, I'm looking for my daughter, Cheryl— uh, Heather," he fumbled to an empty office chair. "I need to take her out of class; it's a family emergency. Can you have someone get her for me? Thanks."

He brushed the grey layer settled on a clipboard holding flyers for after-school activities, then pulled the sign in ledger over to him. He started to absently hum under his breath, then bit it right off. No more of that for a while, he chastised himself. So he sniffed in its stead, reading the dates and names of parents checking in to their appointments or to take their children out for the day. The page was full, so he turned to the next - and immediately stiffened.

Harry's own handwriting was scrawled on a line beneath a few blank sections. It read:

Date: 2/23/1999

Name: Harry Mason

Relation: Father

Name of student: Cheryl Mason

Reason for visit: —-

The text was heavily scratched out.

His heart was in his throat. He didn't remember writing this at all - he needed to read his own damn notes! - but what ran him cold was what was jotted further down on the page, separated by a block of blanks:

Date: -/-/-

Name: Heather Mason

Relation: Self

Name of student: — — -—

Reason for visit: 3B

"James. I need that notepad."

The intensity of his tone was chilling. James opened the backpack on the low counter and handed him the notepad. He watched Harry anxiously flip through the pages, then eyeballed the tiny area beyond.

Disorganization clouded all available surface space, and that went for the Xerox machine in the corner, too. Clutter was everywhere, whereas the seventeen-year-old memos mentioned only a teacher directory and three books desecrated by riddles written in blood. None of those things even appeared to be here anymore. Harry hadn't seemed to think much of it. Maybe he just didn't remember.

He wondered if he'd notice it in his notes.

Back and forth the pages flipped while the father and darted his eyes over the cursive. Finally, he expelled a hard exhale and looked at James. "Did you read anything about the sign-in book?"

James wrinkled his brow. "Like what?"

"Like, did I say anything about my name written in it?"

After thinking about it, he slowly shook his head, the creases deepening. "No..? I don't even think you mentioned it at all."

"Fuck!" Harry hissed, pushing the pad back to James. "Fuck."

"Why?"

"My fucking name is written in here," he exasperated, flattening the page to show him. "It's in my own fucking handwriting, but I didn't write this. And Heather's down here too," he pointed. "That's her handwriting. This is fucked. Fuck me. 3B." Harry quickly checked the empty pages beyond, then the list of prior ones names he didn't recognize. "3B. We've got our first stop."

Understandably angry, Harry expended some of that in shoving the book off the edge to the other side, where it caught on papers and slid them all to the floor. James watched him snag his pipe and march around into the narrow office. "We need a map of the school," he muttered. "So let's find one."

While Harry messed with the disorganized space, James packed up and checked the walls. A bulletin board right behind him and facing the reception hung over a long blue bench. Numerous tacked, overlapping papers advertised a bake sale and after-school tutoring; another reminded parents of the parent-teacher conference coming up; Balkan Church currently offering "afterschool" bible study on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday; Don't forget to sign up for the field trip to Shepherd's Glen!

He softly frowned. Shepherd's Glen. The name was new to him, but James felt an odd familiarity about it. Chewing on his lip, he read the details (Meet Judge Margaret Holloway and learn about the four founding families of Shepherd's Glen! Tour includes the town hall, town courthouse and garden, and —-! Lunch will be provided by Happy Burger!) then dropped his eyes to the contact number. Whoever was in charge of the event was etched out, yet the numbers remained.

James wrinkled his nose. It struck a chord, as though it might be important. He warred with whether or not he should take it. Harry came up next to him and looked over the signs.

"What're you looking at?"

"Nothin', really."

There was a rest while Harry inspected the board for himself. "Mm. Fun. Fun stuff." His eyes lingered on the parent-teacher conference notice, then saw the field trip announcement. "Oh, cool. Shepherd's Glen."

"You know it?"

"Not at all." He tapped the blacked out name with the edge of the hollow steel. "And not very organized. Must've changed hands last minute, though it's weird to keep the number there. Oh well."

James flinched when the rod bumped his calf. He flashed Harry's back a mild glare. "C'mon, James," he said. "Couldn't find a map back there, and the door was locked, so it's time to go hunting for one."

He looked back at the reminder. Take it, his intuition whispered. You'll need it.

"James? You spacing out over there, or..?"

"Calm down," he retorted, walking over to him. Harry considered him a moment, then mockingly wagged his head and started off.

Harry leisurely wandered the hall alongside his guardian, losing himself in some idle thoughts. He gave a small start when James spoke.

"I wonder if we'll see the shadow children around here."

He looked at him. "Maybe. I hope they've lost their knives if we do. Ankle biters turned knee stabbers... didn't anyone teach them not to walk around with knives held straight up?"

"You mentioned they squeaked."

"They did! Like you know how leather jackets make that squeaky sound?" Though his was beat up and had lost its gloss, Harry did what he could to mimic the noise. James eyed him blandly. "Like that. Or squeaky toys... y'know, like for dogs?"

"I get what you mean."

Harry blew him a terse raspberry. "I'm setting the mood, James. Spoilsport."

"You expect to run into a dog?"

"Uh, no. Not one of the ones around here. Hm. Now that you mention it, we haven't seen any dogs around at all."

"There was the dead one in the alley."

Harry tipped his head and wrinkled his brow. "Hm. Was there?"

"Yeah."

"Hm." He shrugged, then turned the corner with James to head up to the second floor. "Then scratch that, we've seen one dog."

"I meant to ask," James broached as they reached the next hall, "what happened to Cybil?"

Harry straightened his spine, eyeballing him tensely while they meandered down the wide corridor. "After Silent Hill? We kept in contact for about a year, then I stopped hearing from her. I figured she wanted to sever all ties with the place. Can't blame her at all."

James hummed. "So she's alive."

"As far as I know, and I wish her well." He glanced to his right at him again. "What made you think of her? Oh, let's check in here," he added, cutting off in front of James to enter an open classroom. James curled his lip, and naturally followed.

"Because of the alley." The conduit stood at the head of the classroom, looking very much like a stern teacher the way he tracked Harry weaving through the rows of small, dusty desks. "The body we found strung up. I was thinking about it before while I was reading."

He waited for acknowledgment, which he got in the form of silence and useless fiddling with the stuck lids of the compartment desks. "I thought maybe it was her."

"What was her?" Harry looked over his shoulder. His guardian frowned back.

"What?"

"What was her?"

They stared at one another. "The body," James repeated slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. "I was just talking about it. The one we found in the alley, that was strung up?" His eyes roved over Harry's blank face; it was like this was the first time he was hearing about it, and the resident couldn't believe that he was trying to make a stupid joke like this. "Harry."

"What?"

"The body—"

"Jesus Christ, James. I heard you the first five times. What body are you talking about?"

Disgust parted his lips and wrinkled the corner of a nostril. "Are you fucking around right now?"

A flush of irritation reached the author's countenance. "No, James, I'm not," he snipped. "I don't fucking know what you're talking about. What body, and why are you bringing Cybil into it?"

Disbelief slowly overtook disgust. James couldn't believe what he saw on Harry; it really did look like this was brand new to him. "Harry," he started, rather seriously. "The alley."

"Yes."

"Where we went to after we found your car."

"Yes."

"Where the dead dog was."

"Yes," he exasperated, impatiently rolling his hand. "Get on with it, hurry it up."

"Where we found the body on the stretcher, and you got the key to the auto shop."

Harry sighed hard, taking his eyes to the ceiling to ask the pockmarked tiles for mercy. "Yes, James," said his cranky tone. "Please get to the fucking point."

"At the end of the alley, there were wire fences," James described, still intent on speaking to the veteran like he had a mighty cognitive disability. The other man clearly picked up on it, and was glowering at him out of the corner of his eye. "The alley ended at a dead end, and there was a body strung up on the fence with barbed wire."

Then he took a short pause in case that jostled a pebble loose. Still nothing; Harry only looked as though he was dating the idea of tying him up and gagging him to leave him for dead. That didn't bother him. He continued, "The body was wearing clothes. Blue shirt, black pants, boots, gloves? You said in your notes that Cybil was a police officer and she rode a motorcycle. You even briefly described her wearing the same clothes."

Harry's anger washed away to that tiredness that plagued him a lot lately. "James."

"Harry. Do you remember that body at the end of that alley?"

"No. I don't. I don't know what you're talking about."

He couldn't believe his ears. "Okay, then what do you remember?"

Shaking his head, Harry dropped his chin at last and dug the heel of his palm into his forehead. "We went into the alley. We found the stretcher and the key."

"Uh huh."

"We followed it all the way.."

"Yeah?"

His eyes roved over the desk in front of him, searching for a memory that wasn't there. ".. and then.. we're back in the alley behind all the houses, by a garage."

Silence ate up the classroom. James, reasonably worried, watched Harry struggle to find the missing link in the chain. He was none too thrilled with the development, nor the implications. "You don't remember anything." Harry defeatedly shook his head. "At all. .. did you black it out?"

The shoulders clad in oversized leather drooped. "James.. I guess I did. I guess I did." Dark eyes lifted, then narrowed against the flashlight clipped to James's breast pocket. He looked so old. "I'm sorry. That sounds fucked up. I don't know what to say about it. Maybe it was Cybil, or supposed to be her, but I don't remember, James, and I'd just like to keep going."

James frowned at his ward's back while he resumed his search, then looked away. Also preferring to pretend everything was fine, he awkwardly shuffled around to face the chalkboard, himself.

The flashlight beckoned James's eyes to the chalkboard's far corner. He went to get a better look, then bent over to peer at the white scratches smushed into a small space, like a private little note. " 'I don't wanna be judged,' " James read aloud, drawing Harry to him from the back of the room. " 'So I put it in a locker.' "

The combined lights from their jackets cast a hard beam on the green chalkboard and its meek confession. "Well, there's a locker room around here," Harry mentioned, nestling his hand into his pocket. "And a ton of other lockers. Which is great."

"Really? Didn't notice. That's odd for a school."

"You're a card and a couple poker chips. We need to find a map, and 3B."

"Nothing around here?"

"We'll come back around to it. C'mon," he said, intentionally catching James by the back of his ankle with his rusty bludgeon as he passed him, and thus ignoring the glare at the back of his head. "We're not supposed to be in a classroom without a teacher, anyway."

James trailed after him. On a whim, he muttered, "Brown-noser."

Harry tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Delinquent." The smile held, then he stepped out into the checkered hall.

The conduit fell into place at Harry's right. Their time in Midwich had just begun, and to James already spelled problematic. But before he could get into thinking about it too hard, a foreboding itch tickled the back of his neck. As he was graced by a whisper from the silent masters that be, James had to lock his jaw tight to prevent himself from warning Harry against forgetting anything else.