Get Out Of My Town

by smileyfacegauges

Silent Hill summons the family home. The Resident wants them out. (GLACIAL SLOW BURN) GOOMT can be found primarily on ao3. Cover art by @heather-garland on tumblr.

62. Reading Rainbow

James was passing the front desk on his way back from getting his notebook when his light, and subsequently, his eye, caught glimmers of something on the wall. He stopped there and glanced up.

Taped above a large, cork-backed bulletin board was a banner. It jovially spelled out a multicolored announcement - SILENT HILL NEWS AND FUN - in large, fat, shiny paper letters. He frowned a little. James held strongdoubt about the 'fun' part, for (based on quite the slew of personal experiences), the conduit had just a few damning good reasons to consider its inclusion a mite insensitive to look at, right now.

(But, whatever.)

Strange, though; had the board and banner alwaysbeen there? He couldn't recall ever noticing it. James had to guess Harry hadn't either, or else he definitely would've said something. The board was pretty big and busy with bills of all sorts, and the letters, though placed high, were noisy and attention-grabbing, glimmering in the morning grey and reflecting off his beaming light. Its size and hubbub should've made it impossible to miss, and yet here he was: flummoxed.

(And blind, apparently.)

James briefly looked around for his companion. He was hoping Harry would happen to be nearby - his input would be invaluable right about now - but the man was long gone. He was on his own to investigate. James scuffled closer, intrigued to possibly conceive a clearer, more human picture of what life could've been like in the conflicted town he called home, and began to browse the postings.

There was a lot to look at, but one thing in particular caught his attention right off the bat; just as its design and location was supposed to do. Deemed important enough to take precedence front and center was a medium-sized poster headlined in bold, red text. The bulk of text succeeding it was smaller, yet still larger than average, and his eye caught glimpse of pictures on the bottom.

But James didn't pay attention to those yet. He locked onto the underlined title and felt his heart coldly begin to sink with dread. Oh - that's why. His shoulders deflated.

"Aww, no."

PLEASE HELP US BRING OUR GIRLS HOME!

As of —/17/19–, ten teenage girls have gone missing in our once peaceful town of Silent Hill. Their disappearances have shaken the community and made our little town fearful for our daughters. Families are threatened by these terrible events

There are no leads. The FBI and Brahms PD (BPD) are tirelessly working with SHPD to help locate and return the girls safe and sound to their heartbroken and gravely worried families.

THE 7 P.M. CURFEW FOR ALL CHILDREN AND ADOLESCENTS IS STILL IN EFFECT. ALL CHILDREN AND ADOLESCENTS ARE ADVISED TO TRAVEL IN GROUPS AND MAKE ARRANGEMENTS AND TO BE PICKED UP BY TRUSTED ADULTS AND NOT TO SPEAK OR ENGAGE WITH OTHERS THEY DO NOT KNOW. FAILURE TO OBEY THE CURFEW WILL RESULT IN A $200 FINE AND MANDATORY HOME DETENTION.

IF ANYONE HAS ANY INFORMATION ON THEIR WHEREABOUTS OR HAVE IDENTIFIED ANY SIGHTINGS, CONTACT SHPD OR BPD TO REPORT ANONYMOUSLY.

FREE ANONYMOUS HOTLINE: 1-800-843-5678

These girls need to be brought home to their families, SAFE and UNHARMED. No parent or family wants to bury their child. These girls and their families deserve HOPE, JUSTICE, and CLOSURE.

Help us keep Silent Hill a SAFE PLACE for our community and visiting families.

".. ahh, shit."

James nervously tapped the notebook against his leg and worried his frowning lip, reading it over again before looking at the pictures at the bottom. Photocopied portraits of ten smiling girls were stacked in columns, each bearing their names, descriptive details, and their last known sighting. Halting the percussion, James leaned in and read closer, taking fastidious care in consuming every single word and picture.

"How fucking awful," he breathed at the notice. "That's just fucking awful."

He straightened his back, roving his gaze over the announcement until another one tacked at its left begged his eye. James obliged; but then confusedly glanced between them.

That's odd, he thought. Why two?

Why two, indeed. On the notably smaller page (with its dimensions clocking in at the standard 8x11) was a matter directly relevant to the subject in the poster - so congruent, in fact, that it went so far as to repeat some of its information nearly word-for-word. Though what truly set it apart was that it seemed to single out only three of the ten girls from the larger bill. That detail alone made it seem pointless, even disrespectful, to print it independently of the other. James squinted, and frowned at it.

"Huh..?" Quickly scoping out the surrounding papers, he hoped to find an answer in any more of its kind; but failed, spotting none. Its solitary existence was weirdly unique. He looked at it again and made a face, positively confounded.

Well, okay; whatever then, I guess.

He started reading. The girls featured were identified as:

Claire Blake, age 13;

Emilia Bandarez (who also went by Emmie), 14;

and Amanda Hindle - commonly known as Mandy - also missing, at 13 years young.

In examining their pictures, he briefly thought the ones chosen here looked different than those shown on the poster, and cross-checked it for proof. (He was right; weird.) He forgave the oddity and set it aside, reading their personal summaries (which were identical to the poster), then the blunt, eyewitness account blurbs lining the bottom, that chillingly concluded all the information the police had publicly available to report.

According to claims, bystanders last saw Claire and Emmie walking home together from school; and Amanda, allegedly spotted leaving the mall on a late-afternoon bus home.

After that, the three girls vanished into thin air.

James referred to the poster. So it's the same stuff as the other one. That doesn't make any sense. Why two? He stepped back to survey the board again, patting the notebook on his leg and totally, utterly puzzled. And why not individual ones for the other girls, too?

'Round and 'round his eyes went on the board until he gave up. He was essentially chasing his tail and getting nowhere. Perhaps he was thinking of it wrong. It was just a separate piece of the same info, and in all honesty, Not everything is a puzzle, idiot, aptly relayed a condescending thought. So what if it's just a separate piece of the same info? It's probably not that deep. Sometimes it just.. is what it is. Consider taking things for granted once in a while.

.. and sure, he would've - if he were anywhere else but where he was, and if he were anyone else but whohe was. No, he'll pass on taking it for granted; he knew the drill like the back of his hand. There was something here to figure out. He just knew it.

Because, like Harry said: it's better to figure things out now while they're here.

Focusing on the advice, James scoured for clues on both bills, and eventually found himself honing in on the mess of incomplete dates. He curled his lip. God, he really did have to agree with Harry about this one, too; the more they came across mucked up dates, the more the town seriously seemed to have a terminal allergy against providing any complete time frames.

Fucking annoying.

He decided to make the conscious choice to save worrying about it for later.

Feeling better about the matter happened to free up precious thinking space best spent on something else; something that was just as, or perhaps more interesting than garbled dates. Curiosity within the missing Sunderland child himself instead traveled on a relevant, however unbeaten road of realization - and it was somewhat offensive, considering. James wracked his brain, but was ultimately unable to recall ever seeing a single ONE of these posters tagging the South Vale streets, whether it be on walls or lamp posts, or even an old newspaper lying around - which led him to wonder why. Why wouldn't, or didn't, South Vale offer up any inkling to such a huge public emergency? This was—

James quickly slammed on the thought brakes. No, no- James, stop it. C'mon, dude— his lungs filled with breath, — that's enough . Just relax.(Exhale.) Chill, asshole, admonished his own head voice. Just chill. You'll come back to this later. With Harry. Just fucking.. relax.

Rolling the creeping tension out of his shoulders and clearing his head of not-so-merry-go-round ruminative bloat with a hard twitch, James was well-grounded in the present again. Glad to have the unpleasantries adequately banished to the cognitive (temporary) back burner, the immortal resident carefully unpinned, folded, and put the two posts into his pocket without any more thoughtful trouble.

Now that the kidnapped girls were literally out of sight and mind for the time being, James sidled to his right. There were heaps of interesting things to look at elsewhere on the board, so he best get to it.

His meddling eyes began to traverse the nonsensical map of defunct goings-ons happening in the Silent Hill of past, first noticing the wealth of business cards in laughably gross excess. They were all over the place, dispersed amongst an overcrowded flock of paper eagles like park sparrows trying to peck at the next thrown morsel. The wallet-sized advertisements were pretty run-of-the-mill for a small town. There were quite a few music instructors competing with each other to offer piano, violin, flute, guitar, and other instrumental lessons to youngsters in their private studio; daily services ranging from rotary clerks and accountants, to the legal side of lawyers and petitioners for the adults in need of them; several local gardening companies (one of them promoting a half price trial run); shoe repair; consignment shops; and the like.

Flyers, of course, hogged the bulletin board's fee-less real estate. James was invited to attend a free Shakespeare performance of Much Ado About Nothing at the park. (Thanks, but no thanks, he thought; because Shakespeare sucks.) He roamed his eyes away, looking for something more his speed. Up near the top was a flyer signaling heed to an upcoming fundraising event being thrown for the fire department at the town center; a couple tiles under that, he read that Cafe 9to5 was having an open mic night. Neat. There was a catch to that - a fifteen dollar admittance fee clause, but they offered a bonus first drink on the house to sweeten the deal, so not too bad; actually sounded kinda fun.

Oh, well. James moseyed along. Ah - a bible study pamphlet. He was wondering when he'd see one. The conduit half-heartedly skimmed the text, reading about how every Wednesday at 5 p.m. at Balkan Church, the teenage devout were encouraged to please attend a meeting led by the town's very own Claudia Wolf - a great place to meet friends, and make new ones under the benevolent eyes and love of God!; yeah, okay, sure; anyway, Remember, folks! Voting for the town council starts—

His brain finally caught up with his eyes, instantly sending James's whole body lurching to a sudden, screeching halt. Whipping his head back around to read the ad again, he bugged, then ferociously ripped the bible study pamphlet right off its embedded tack. As was customary, he flipped it over to check the backside and, finding it bare, returned to the front. He laid it atop the notebook for support, holding it in both hands and skipping a couple glances over it before dedicating full attention to giving it an in-depth, and thorough review.

In an attractive, easy-to-read italicized text, James read Claudia's humble call to her adolescent peers (between the ages of 13 to 17) to a weekly gathering in Balkan Church's rec room to hear the word of God and His disciples during the evening hours of 5 to 7p.m. While there was no charge to join, donations were encouraged; and if that wasn't enough to lure them in, then the advertised free snacks and drinks provided sure would.

James shook his head and huffed a soft laugh. Thrice he went through it, then rumbled a contemplative hum, short and low in his throat.

It really wasn't a lot; pretty bare bones, in all honesty. How much it would be overall important or useful to them.. who knew. But around here? Little boring somethings had a fair chance to turn out to be big everythings, or so the motto went.

James haphazardly creased it into quarters and lifted his eyes, distractedly pathing his thumb back and forth across a fold, his gaze carefully pruning through the board's weeds. There didn't seem to be anything else he should immediately care about, though didn't see it as a problem; if he'd happened to gloss over another prize, James knew Harry would find it. The guy had a hell of a way of sniffing out treasure, so bother him, it didn't.

That said, James's stare still crawled one more winding, meticulous loop, just in case - and was glad he did.

There was, indeed, one more thing for him to take.

Peeking out from behind the leaflet shield promoting a pottery class was something James certainly hadn't expected to see, however could quickly identify. He deposited Claudia's teenage call to God in his pocket and reached out, needing to juggle his unwieldy writing pad in one hand in order to part the paper hedges above his head. Seeing it made him smirk.

Yep; there it was. He was right. Feeling like quite the hotshot for recognizing it in spite of its sneaky hiding spot, James tugged the bulletin off the pin-riddled cork and flattened it on his handy-dandy pack of college ruled notes.

The Shepherd's Glen field trip reminder they'd seen at Midwich Elementary looked exactly the same as the last time; even right down to the scratched contact name and new number, seeming to have been photocopied for replacement distribution. James flopped the notebook stiff in both hands and fastidiously tracked his green eyes like a typewriter carriage to and fro over the brochure, patiently consuming it all until reaching the ten-digit code at the bottom. They lingered on it for a long time.

James was thinking. He was really, really thinking. A lot.

Hmm.. should he try..?

He waffled on it a moment; then his sixth sense spoke up to validate him that, Yeah; he should.

You needed this, remember?

He did. The decision was made, and although the conduit didn't hold too much stock in the phones actually working, the compulsion was too great. Turning towards the long, bar-like reception desk at his right, he peered behind it and located a dusty office phone right where he expected one to be. Perfect.

Because there was no one around to get up in arms or ban him from the library for exhibiting poor manners, James decided to shirk entering the space like a normal human being and nimbly hopped the divider to get to the other side, like the impatient delinquent he was.

He took a quick look around at what was there, and saw nothing special in the office stuff norm. There were pen cans sparsely littered with ballpoints capped and not, here and there; official stationary embellished with the Silent Hill Public Library's letterhead; a bulky date stamp poised over a dark, dried out ink pad; and lastly, and taking up most of the available property, was a large, flat desk calendar - with no year. (Typical.)

A precursory glance noted many events occupying the numbered boxes, handwritten in a distinctly feminine touch; but James chose to ignore them all. He was here on a mission - and it wasn't to read the librarian's almanac. He set down the notebook and flyer on top of the calendar, adjusted his light, and looked at the phone.

It was, like everything else, the simple, usual office standard. Manufactured in classic black, the handset bore six customizable quick dial buttons, neighbored by rectangular tag windows at each, the plastics clouded in old. Underneath them and thus completing the whole very ordinary, and very droll shebang was the inclusion of blue pen script denoting their purposes; except, thanks to the mostly-opaque nature of the plastic, whatever they were, James couldn't read them.

He also didn't care. His hand lifted the grimy receiver to his ear.

The line was, to no surprise, as dead as the plastic. James began to copy the number on the flyer into the stiff keypad, but then saw a note taped to the inner ledge. He leaned in to look. Ah.

Straightening, he hung up and restarted his attempt anew as per the note's advice on the correct way to dial outgoing calls. He entered the code, then the contact, and then feeling content to have learned something new, slipped his hand into his pocket.

Lo and behold - an uninspiring nothing happened. Just in case fate decided to change its mind, James chose to wait around with the handheld to his ear, and used the time wisely to practice one of his pitfalls: exercising patience. James entertained himself in the meantime with absent browsing, bending at the waist to take a closer look at the feast of notes dotting the ledge like lunch orders in a diner kitchen. But since he'd just mere minutes ago stuffed himself silly with samples off the bulletin board, he really wasn't feeling peckish for reading anything else right now; and so looked away.

James mused at other clerical accoutrements on offer, and was soon drawn to a rolodex next to the telephone. He retrieved his hand from his pocket, beginning to pick through the cards to bide the time. The conduit, in busying himself with boredom with his brows knit in bland curiosity rather than actual interest, presently forgot he had the device to his ear.

Until, all of a sudden, an operator in the silent veil picked up - and spoke. Or, nay..;

Whispered.

James shot up his head, shocked, surprised, and frightened. The unexpected voice caused his blood and bones to run ice cold, and in turn, transformed his heart to a lead cannonball floating stranded in his anti-gravity chest. Paranoia searched the empty foyer for a presence - a prankster, a ghost, anything at all - standing frigid as he held his breath, straining to hear the faraway female(?) voice on the other end. James pressed the receiver harder to the side of his head, hoping that'd assist his chances.

It was a success. His breath released in silence.

He listened.

Minutes felt like seconds. Erelong, the whispers had said their piece and abandoned his eardrum, and in their stead, left the conduit to hear the lifeless, deafening numb in the object he held, in their stead.

James fell his eyes to the Rolodex. Short, dull fingernails that hadn't grown in eighteen years methodically harvested the alphabet until they located a card. He wriggled it off the plastic ring and set it on the flyer. The call was reset, and the new number, dialed. James stared down at the card.

This time, it rang; however, after waiting there awhile, it started to seem that no one was around to take the call. James counted fourteen ignored brrring; brrring!'s before he started to anticipate an answer from a machine rather than a person (or, more suitably, a "person"), and he was right on the money. The telltale click of that very thing kicked on. A (different) woman's robotic voice apologized on behalf of the absent, and requested he leave a message after the tone.

BEEEEEEEEP!

James went blank. Should he leave a message? Nevermind the fact that he had no contact number he could be reached at, because as far as he could tell, the library's own number wasn't visibility written anywhere; and what the hell was he even supposed to say, if he did? He realized he was suddenly in a bind. White noise crackled calm ocean waves during the little Mexican standoff James and the machine found themselves in, and despite how he felt the machine was optimistic for him to speak, Silent Hill's conduit told the fuzzy audio nothing. James gave up trying to think, and placed the receiver on its cradle.

He eyed the phone after that, sort of expecting - even wanting - it to ring. A minute or so passed. It didn't. Disappointed but not surprised, he roamed a conflicted gaze over the contact card once more, then stashed it away in the unoccupied pocket on his chest. The Shepherd's Glen flyer was likewise folded small and put with the card to keep it company. Mission complete, James turned and properly departed the reception desk like a civilized human being; and by that, one means that he left through the hinged, horizontal door on the other end (that was there for his use all along.. but, as the saying goes, whatever. ).

Once carefully placing down the wooden slab behind him, James looked back into the liminal space ordinarily authorized for librarians only, sighed, shook his head, and went downstairs.

—

"HOO boy!" Harry exhaled, smacking his palms together and rubbing them, looking like a tubby, gluttonous little rat beholding the smorgasbord of trashed carnival food kindly left by the public after a long, fun day. "Llll-et's see! Whadda we got for me today, Koontz?"

Oh, the usual, the shelves supporting the prolific author Dean Koontz's affluent array of work seemed to reply. A little bit of this, a little bit of that one you hated; what're you in the mood for, Harry?

"Uhh.. hmmm.." He leaned his body with the direction of his head. "Where's..? Aw, c'mon. Where's your Odd Thomas? Tch! Don't tell me someone's checked it out..!"

Nope, no sir, it's right here, 'said' the flashlight beam nestled in his sweater collar, helpfully providing a stark white glint to bounce off the book's shiny spine (and for a split second blinded Harry, in collateral). All yours, boss.

"Ah, there you are! Nice! " Recovering in no time flat, Harry wiggled the fat, compact book from the others of its kind and triumphantly weighed it in his hands. He checked the back, half-heartedly scanned the synopsis and accolades, then looked at the front cover. "Aaaalrighty, then. Here we go: Odd Thomas. Let's do this."

With his long overdue treat in hand, Harry went scouring for just the right spot to call his own for a little while, and found such a place upstairs. He sat down in the perfectly quaint and private nook, kicked back, got comfortable, and opened to the first page.

"Okay, Dean Koontz, here we go: now make it good!"

And so, being very glad to have his break and time to himself, he began to read the story about a man named 'Odd'.

—

Whilst Harry was upstairs turning pages, James scrolled them in the basement; and right now, he was scrolling to the next on the microfilm machine. Then he scrolled some more. And th— wait.. uhhh.. nevermind. He swiped the pad. And again.

He took the reel out and put in another.

.. and no theeen.. scrolled.

Man, he thought, frowning at the screen; this research thing is slim fucking pickings - and sooo fucking slow! "Ugh, come onnnn, fuck meee," the conduit pointedly whined at the machine - as if accusing it of being its fault that he was striking out on all the reels he'd hand-picked, on his own accord. (And for the record, it wasn't its fault - James simply had a persistent taking-accountability problem, and no: he wasn't working on it.) He irritably sighed.

"Just.. find me something, already.. just.. show me something useful at least, like, even a little bit, or.."

But the machine, by itself, certainly couldn't help inexperienced people; less so in the ways the inexperienced man present wanted. Fed up and tank running low on patience, James futilely looked to his notes for guidance. He frowned. "Man," he complained to no one under his breath, "my handwriting looks like shit."

The criticism wasn't exactly accountability, but it was well-placed. In great contrast to Harry's deft and elegant left hand, James's dominant right churned out, if one were to word it politely: chicken scratch. Capital letters were the name of James Sunderland's penmanship game, strange as some of them were. The "E"'s looked like backwards "3"'s, the letters' lines hardly matched, and he'd even included an obscure preference for lowercase "i"'s no matter the context, to name a few.

Stylistically, some might call it.. 'artful'. James's hand absolutely refused to write within the blue lines provided explicitly for the purpose of neat formation, yet the conduit's scrawl instead went everywhere but . Wobbly kite strings of black ink drivel brazenly flew across the page at an improper angle, making a huge mockery of the printed bars by managing to never once land a whole word the way the manufacturer meant him to do. (It was a strange way to flex his independence and free will, sure, but his grade school teachers from beyond the grey fog veil were still sorely disappointed in their pupil.)

To be fair and give credit where credit was due, James, in spite of working in an.. "artistically expressive" format, actually was utilizing the lessons Harry had taught him. Just how much of what he'd done so far was legitimate (both in credit and in content), was unknown; but the point was there. It wasn't a masterpiece, but he, at the very least, tried his best.

James eyed the scribble, then looked back at the screen; and scrolled. Again.

Some fistfuls of reels and time later, the library quietly noticed the conduit glued to the computerized screen; his toilsome efforts had finally reaped reward.

Teaching Despair: 'Hope House'

By Joseph Schreiber

'Hope House', an orphanage on the outskirts of Silent Hill. But behind its false image is a place where children are kidnapped and brainwashed.

Hope House is managed by the 'Silent Hill Smile Support Society', a charity organization sometimes called '4S'.

It's true that 4S is a well-respected charity that 'takes in poor children without homes and raises them with 'hope'.

But at its heart, it is a heathen organization that teaches its own warped dogma in lieu of good religious values.

Mr. Smith (temp), who lives near 'Hope House', had this to say: "Sometimes at night I can hear their weird prayers and the sounds of [children] crying. I went there to complain one time, but they ran me right out. Since then, it hasn't changed a bit."

In fact, this reporter was refused admission when he attempted to take photographs in the facility. What exactly do the folks at 'Hope House' have to hide?

During my investigations, I was able to discover, however, a suspicious-looking round concrete tower which appears to be part of their facilities.

Unfortunately no one was willing to tell us what the tower was used for. But it seems unlikely that it has anything to do with the business of raising orphans. It may in fact be a prison, or a secret place of worship.

The cult religion that operates 'Hope House' is known by the locals simply as 'The Order'. It's a religion that is deeply interwoven with Silent Hill's history.

But its worshippers' fervent belief that they are among the elite 'chosen people' has a dark and dangerous side. I intend to continue my investigation of 'Hope House' and the cult behind it.

I've always believed that 'telling the whole truth' and showing the children the true path is our most important duty.

Hm.

That's interesting.

Oh, James had so many questions, yet so few avenues to explore coherent answers! — least of all for the ones that cropped up after reading this particular article. What bugged him possibly the most was that this reporter, a Mr. Joseph Schreiber (jot that one down), seemed to imply that the Order was far more public than James thought it to be. It was a little disconcerting, in the way that he didn't know how to take it; this entire time, he'd been led to believe the opposite, and that the organization was rather underground. So now, James was confused; and also, what did that mean, then, for their public opinion?

Secondary to the added mysteries of the Order was the water tower, because of course it was; though not for the reasons others might initially assume. The tower was undeniably swathed in dark purpose, but it, more importantly, had to be in Toluca Lake, and that was.. unnatural; even upsetting, or offensive.

James didn't like anything but the dead being in his lake.

Nothing else belongs there in HIS LAKE, but the dead.

(And oh, how the dead reside in Toluca Lake.)

On her shores, claims Mr. Schreiber, is where the orphanage sits on the outskirts of town, though, 'Outskirts of town' is incredibly vague, James inwardly sneered. It in any case reminded him that Harry'd requested maps of the area, and going to look for them to solve his current problem was bait enough. He went into the archives to poke around.

In there, he ran into some minor trouble of knowing neither where to look, nor what he was looking for. Finding articles was hard enough, but maps?Harry would've been nice right about now to better translate the jargon and labeling scheme keeping him at a disadvantage, but James persevered. He grabbed a box, scrutinizing the description handwritten in black ink on the lid, picked it open, and looked at the reel.

Uhh.. hm. Yeah, maybe this one.

He returned to the machine and exchanged reels; the new one went in with a click, clack; clunk. He adjusted the controls to suit his needs and started scrolling the contents.

.. hm. Well, the man shrugged; it wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but it looked beneficial, nevertheless. (Juuust like Harry said would happen.)

.. god. James picked up his pen, a sour twist to his mouth.

He was getting kinda sick of Harry being right.

Priestess Donates Charitable Funds To Local Schools

By William Lounds

(Wait— Lounds?) The conduit paused for a moment to eye the name. Lounds. "That's interesting," he muttered under his breath. (They saw a 'Lounds' at the school.) Margot's husband, perhaps? "Wonder if it is."

He read on.

Dahlia Gillespie, High Priestess of The Order church and congregation, recently donated the charitable sum of $50,000 to aid the expansion and curriculum of Silent Hill's local Midwich High School, home of the Cuckoos.

The funds are expected to be used in building a prayer sanctuary for the pupils and provide better textbooks and materials for all subjects.

"Giving our youth the very best opportunities for learning and religious care of all kinds is an important part of our doctrine and the future of our children," Mrs. Gillespie said in an interview. "We hold the future and the academic paths of our young ones in high esteem. We as a community must all help them prepare for the world, and in doing so, must provide them with updated tools and text as so to assure their success."

Mr. Paul Vernon, the principal of Midwich High School, praised the contribution. "We are all thankful for High Priestess Dahlia Gillespie's generosity," he said, when approached for comment. "The school board has acknowledged the grievous lack of a place for students to seek respite from the toils of their academic studies, and the outdated materials that have burdened our pupils' advancement towards success in the outside world beyond their graduation.

"With the funds generously donated, the board also plans to remove many of the learning tools that have sadly passed their prime throughout the years our institution has been active, and replace them with newer, more reliable materials, such as microscopes, classroom white boards, desks, and of course, text books.

"We are also looking to renovate some of our classrooms to provide more space for learning and install plumbing to increase the amount of drinking fountains in our halls, better the stability and working order of our bathrooms, and support overall functionality of Midwich High School's piping system.

"It is important to us that our youth are able to take active part in their cultures and feel respected by the community. As such, we are very excited to work closely with High Priestess Gillespie, Pastor Ronald, Rabbi Lieberman, and other religious leaders in neighboring Brahms to guide us in construction of the prayer sanctuary, and in providing the appropriate religious text and materials specific to all faiths practiced in our colorful town.

(Interesting, James thought. "Might need to go back to Midwich High at some point," he muttered in continuance. "Don't think we're gonna be welcomed back, though. Figure it out later. .. ugh, there's just too much shitto figure out later! Fucking.." Annoyance pushed out a harsh breath and fluttered his eyes. "Welcome to Silent fucking Hill."

Truer words have never been spoken.

He continued reading.)

"It is due to the High Priestess and The Order's humble generosity that we can begin bettering the quality of student life, and the capabilities of our teachers. Go Cuckoos!"

In addition to the funds donated by The Order, Dr. Michael Kauffman,

(—Kauffman!)

Head Chairman of Alchemilla Hospital, charitably supplied a sum of an additional $35,000 to assist the longtime aspirations of repairing the school's plumbing and structure.

"We are bowled over by the generosity and interest of our local benefactors," wrote Mrs. Gillian Verger, Vice President of the Midwich High School board in a request for comment. "We are excited to begin planning and speaking to trusted contractors and Silent Hill town officials in regards to making our needs a reality as quickly, and efficiently, as possible.

"We will not be cutting any corners nor intend to spend money frivolously. The board intends to draft and outline every detail down to the very last letter, and provide a public proposal to which our community can be assured our hearts and minds are in the right place - the futures of our youth."

Official approval of plans and providers is already underway.

Construction is expected to begin during the summer season and all improvements finalized before classes recommence in the fall.

James stared at the screen.

"Holy shit," whispered a strange sense of trepidation in his voice. This was a breakthrough if he ever saw one. Quickly, James scrolled to the top of the article, and passed the hell storm of his notes to a fresh page. He picked up his pen, and started to document one of the most important things he was bound to find in the town's mysterious archives, a smarmy smile tugging at the threads of his lips as he astutely observed under his breath,

"Harry is going to eat this shit up. "

—

An undetermined amount of hours later in the library's somewhere else, Harry read the story's last printed word. With respect to the author and tale, he gently closed the paperback tome and held it in his lap in both hands, letting out a peaceful, satisfied breath.

Aaahhhh.. that was nice.

Looking down at the back cover facing him, Harry eyes skipped up and down the succinct praises for the novel that The New York Times, in conjunction with other highly popular and regarded storytellers and trusted publications, as per custom, had to say about Odd Thomas:

"A new masterpiece!" "Riveting!" "Unique; a real page-turner!" and, as always, "You won't be disappointed!"

What honors. He turned it over. The title's raised print glimmered and amused his eyes under the flashlight while he drew his final thoughts on the piece.

Using the critical thinking of not only from the standpoint of an industry professional but from that of the casual reader, Harry minded his preexisting bias against his colleague and rival author while carefully deliberating the story's pros and cons. Were the accolades right? Were they deserved?

There was a lot to think about, after all; and like with everything and one's books he read, he wanted to do right by them, and his review be honorable. He had to consider the structure of the work, the pacing; the character introduction, interaction, development; aspects that were captivating, parts that were bothersome and boring; immersion or lack thereof - was he ever taken out of its world? All those, and many more boxes to tick on his personal list of honest requirements and nitpicks, were brought to the table for judgment.

Harry, upon conclusion, felt quite certain that he'd given Odd Thomas its fair play on the board, and arrived at a blunt, yet nevertheless professional, verdict:

The book was good, but Dean Koontz was still kinda overrated.

Criticism aside, he was glad he'd elected to give Koontz a second (or was it third? fourth? ugh, who's counting?) chance. Delving into someone else's make-believe world about ghosts and the people who talked to them for a while was just what he needed. It was a nice palate cleanser for the horrors he encountered on the daily; and oh, if only he had it as easy as Odd did. Harry absently tossed the hand-sized brick of a novel on the small table beside his chair, gazing at it. He nodded once.

Yes— that'll do, pig.. that'll do just fine.

"Thanks, Koontz."

Harry smiled. What a sweet note to end on. He felt cozier than the predictable finale of a feel-good family movie where everything works out just right in the end. He congratulated himself on a damn good job for reading the book in its entirety, and for keeping his morals intact for an evaluation clean of prejudice.

Now it was time for an epilogue of his own. Harry raised his arms high over his head, legs extending out in front of him as far as his bones physically allowed, and rooted his heels into the carpet. Oh, he was excited - he knew already that this was going to be one hell of an amazing stretch.

It began, as is only proper and expected of a man his age and fatherly stature, with epic vocals. Clenching his teeth and locking his joints, Harry loudly groaned in the secured shut confines of his mouth as his skeleton steeply arched away from the ass-numbing leather chair, chest lifting high and sending his arms sprawling at their full length aft of his head. With it he strung his muscles tight as seafaring rope, eliciting that satisfying, albeit painful burning sensation in his stretching quads to the tune of his old knees crackling like cherry bombs pelting the pavement in ordinance of his weary body' systematic degradation.

Oh how his vocal cords described his labor, boisterously increasing in pitch and power while he forced his vertebrae as convex as it'd go, thighs igniting in fire and his embedded kneecaps trying to elongate - but he was almost there! Harry balled his fists, straightened elbows mimicking a tin foil crunch as he pushed his body out taut as a plank, whine crescendoing to gritty peak, and ooh ooohh, so close—!

—Aaaahhhhh. Thereit is.

And then, Harry dropped limp as a rag doll right back down into the seat, spent, and content.

Ohhhhh, fuck yeah.. that's the stuff.

WHEW!

Dazedly basking in the tingly payoff of a stretch simply orgasmic, Harry believed he'd earned his fair right to marinate in bliss for awhile, and thus vegged out in the most ungentlemanly way - not that anyone was around to snub the way he chose to relax. But his posture looked quite crass indeed, with his arms lying strewn over the chair's rounded support and his legs akimbo, impressing himself boneless as a marionette cut from its strings rather than a living, breathing man. (In spite of appearances, however, this man was luckily far from life as the standard Pinocchio.) And yet, who could blame him?

After sitting for so long in one place in such a fucking awful chair, that shit felt too fucking good to care about minding his manners.

Harry lazily blinked out into the multi-shelved corridor ahead, suitably pleased and enjoying the afterglow. He sniffed once for prosperity and, with the helpful lucidity of the light beneath his chin, absently observed the silent, cryptic little slice of the temporary safe house.

The long-reaching beam spookily bathed the wide aisle of rows upon rows of steel bookcases stocked full by a colorful array of erratically sized tomes in glow. Some of those books were naked of the library-issued, protective plastic covers, hardbacks being the common choice, others not; the ones that were, however, rebounded glints so harsh on Harry's eyes that he was forced to squint to contest the glare. The blinding effect worked against his habitual curiosity to know the titles printed on the spines, but after only reading the legible few, interest quickly waned. He didn't actually care what they were.

His body and, more importantly, his mind, was recovering during this short-lived honeymoon interval. Because of it, his once-absent thoughts diverted to ponderation, whether or not he wanted or liked it.

But impervious to letting it happen, he was not.

Harry found himself staring straight down the aisle. Cogs were turning. There was something about the stage ahead his brain was trying to chart for him. Something strange.. something.. odd. (And that held no relation to Mr. Thomas.)

In scrutinizing the path further, it clicked. It looked, to him - as he was the only one there to see and compare it - like one out of a hotel. It wasn't just any part of a hotel, either; it looked like a route to a stockroom - or specifically, the employee's gallows. .. hm. But, why?

Why would he think of that, in particular?

Harry lowered his brow, and wondered.

As if it'd been waiting for that cue, The Lake View Hotel instantly summoned old Polaroid-like pictures of itself sifting through his cerebral eye, catching Harry a little off guard. Huh; now there was something he hasn't thought of in awhile. That's interesting, he mused. Alright; I'm sold, he told his weird train of thought. Show me what you've got.

With his permission granted, he was immediately transported to the guest hallways on the ground floor of the strange, strange hotel of past — and did so in a surprising amount of detail.

In spite of his developing (and worrying) memory issues, Harry first remembered how the bottom third portion of the walls spanned an ornamental horizon of beautifully carved, dark (cherry, maybe?) wood panels. He saw the greyish-green wallpaper rising from the border molding, glued smooth to the corner and slathering the remaining two-thirds of the wall. It'd been textured and patterned in some kind of elegant motif atypical of the Victorian era, and he recalled them accessorized by framed, immemorable nature pictures, or something or other. Whatever.

Again: immemorable.

Also in that category were the ceiling lights, as he couldn't recall what'd been up there; he did, however, remember there being aesthetically-compliant lamps intermittently installed along the boxed length for extra light. They, like the rest of the hallway decor, were identical on all floors, and were actually something worth retaining. Harry's memorial tour paused to focus on the grimy bulbs forced to face the floor like bluebells underneath the shelter of thick frosted glass shades shaved to match the shape of flower petals, all sets of twins attached to the wall on drooping, brassy stems.

He assumed the resemblance to bluebells was intentional.

That said, it really was too bad that the electrical system was down for permanent maintenance; the lamps had been awfully pretty, and he would've liked their help to light the way in the hostile, indoor dusk. Harry grieved for their rot.

.. but on second thought.. if they'd been working, he didn't doubt for a second they'd probably just've given an even more bellicose, haunted Scooby-Doo mansion feel to the entire place.

Oh, well; can't win 'em all.

Memory teleported him next to the basement. In real life, they'd accessed the area from the uneventful, and totally stupid elevator ride one whole floor down from the main level. (Harry might not ever get over it.) The employees-only mini-maze was down there, located behind the hotel's bar and lounge getaway within a getaway. (Harry recalled later being frustrated to find out the establishment had entry from the visitor stairs, because it marked the elevator ride so much more unnecessary in his mind - but what was Silent Hill without dramatics?)

The adult hideaway itself was jilted of a tribute stroll in favor of staying in the workers' concrete galley. Fire and water damage dyed the walls black and the accompanying scents, rank. There'd been a few doors there, maintenance and the like; but only one had been unlocked.

A stock room.

Knew it.

Yet before Harry could celebrate putting two and two together and explore some more, the mental snapshots took a sudden, inexplicable nosedive in quality. Huh; that's weird, he inwardly grumbled. Why..?

Annoyance hummed a short and throaty monotone note behind the small, concentrated frown thinning Harry's lips. His eyes automatically narrowed to concentrate harder, to no avail; whatever had occupied the pantry was disguised in a mysterious, smoky haze. Weirder than that, the view was swallowed in a black, circular frame - as though he'd taken the photo through a man-made peephole in the wall.

Disregarding the uncomfortable, voyeuristic nature of this turn of events, Harry tried to bring the vision closer in his mind as anyone would have done with a physical photo, but it was moot: there was nothing to twig.

Huh.

But why? Why, when he knew there'd been something in there; why was it so difficult to see? What was it?

Harry went through the standard options. Condiments? Dry goods? Bottles of liquor? Well, technically yes - that'd be appropriate for the bar nearby - however, no; those weren't the target item. He huffed and thought harder. Ugh, what was it?! Was there something they'd found? Missed? It's on the tip of his tongue! Getting quickly frustrated, Harry asked himself a better question: why was he putting all this effort into remembering?

And an even better question than that was: Why should he care?

The answer he sought needed a little story retelling for context - and so he was ejected out of the hotel.

Harry landed in a place outside of Silent Hill; a place far, far away from it - states away, in fact. (And, generally speaking, it should've remained that way, too.) But just like walking the personnel underground The Lake View Hotel, he was, as a member of the public, unlawfully trespassing where he wasn't supposed to be. He saw a sign on the metal door. It said:

UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY FORBIDDEN

Harry recalled ignoring it. Warning signs like those were a frequent sight during that sunless era in his life. (Once he got over the fear of it, it was pretty easy to ignore them; and practice made perfect. In the times he was caught, well.. money was always there to talk up a convincing storm.) They were hardly a scare tactic, nowadays.

No.. they meant nothing to him, anymore. He'd learned too much.

.. ugh.

Maybe he'd find more humor in the domino effect bringing him around to remembering something like that.. if only it hadn't been that. (But let's not get picky, Harry, chided the unnamed and familiar, disembodied voice in his mind. There were, as there ever are, worse things to remember, right?)

Right,Harry?

"Oh, put a cork in it."

Well! —if he was going to be ungrateful, then so be it! Offended, Harry's mental time machine refunded the privilege of finding out why he ought to care about the hotel storage room and, waiving too his right to a courtesy warning, uncivilly dropped him right back into the present. Stunned by the blunt cutoff, Harry quickly tried to go back to what he'd been thinking of before, but realized he was put on lockdown; he couldn't remember a damn thing.

How fuckingannoying , but what-fucking- ever ; guess that was gonna be it for the day.

Psht. Fine by him! He wanted to fucking relax, anyway.

Orphaned in loneliness with only he, himself, and him, left Harry a mite disgruntled. Curling in all fingers but one, Harry drove his singled-out middle finger again into his socket (and subconsciously giving the library - the town - a piece of his mind at the same time), firmly rubbed his eye around, and gave out another deep sigh.

At least he could say he was feeling better. Getting away from James's morale-sapping attitude and constantly negative, depressing energy and being all by his goddamn self for once, and combining that with knocking out a whole book he enjoyed reading (written by an author he didn't usually enjoy reading, and whose second chance was well-earned) in one sitting, Harry felt like he'd just cashed in on that massage he won at the faire and was given a full all expenses paid upgrade at the spa, to boot. All in all, shitty runaround on Memory Lane aside, he could actually say that he finally got to relax.

He smiled.

Mission: complete.

Looking around, Harry lackadaisically marveled at the library nook that housed him, then slapped his hands down on the chair's arms. Welp! Alright. "That'll do, pig," the author told himself and surrounding area. "Time to get back at it."

Grasping the padded arm rests to brace, Harry scooted back in the upholstered seat, wriggled his body a bit in preparation for liftoff, and mistakenly looked up in front of him into the shelf-lined hall before he could even initiate step three. He paused. (All systems stand by: the hall reminds him of a hotel.)

And he never figured out why.

The aging father slowly leaned back into the chair. He stared into the library pass, studying the scenario. If he didn't try to get to the bottom of it one last, and finaltime, he'd leave mad in all senses of the word. Harry focused, and hoped to solve at least a piece of the riddle - for his own sake. He turned his deeply critical gaze upon everything in sight, but his eyes were soon magnetically drawn to a centerpiece he hadn't really "noticed" before.

There was a lone study table just beyond the last bookshelf row. Shadows cast behind its four legs stretched like pulled taffy into the backdrop beyond. One chair occupied the space on the far-most side, set askew, as though someone sitting there had gotten up and left the area (and taken their manners with them).

Strange, that.

A spark jumped in his soft matter, an electrode trying to make contact with another - trying to connect a fuse. Harry ticked his head to the side. Hmm, he realized.

That's familiar.

Oh, but was it, though? Going off experience just minutes previous now, he couldn't be so sure. The pattern was obtuse. Wracking his poor brain for a time and place pulled up imagery quite mundane - he must've seen thousands of iterations of this shadowy installment over his lifetime, and attempting to link an origin story to what was, essentially, deja vu, was an idiot's task. Well, Harry shrugged at himself, I am a purebred, natural-born idiot , so what's the difference?

While he wasn't wrong, the head-scratching affinity with the scene ahead bothered him not just for its mystical redundancy (and the redundancy of playing Spot The Differences today), but because it felt important.

But, hell. What wasn't important? — especially right now? Harry blew an irritated gust of wind. What a bother! What was it?! It's right there, on the tip of his—

A vision? dully inquired a sudden, drowsy mumble from the unexplored, recessed backwoods part of his brain. It drew Harry a frown.

"Doubtful," he rebuked it aloud, and not thinking anything else of it. "Who the fuck am I, Alessa? I don't have visions. Ugh, c'mon. Shut up and fuck off."

He could've gotten up then and left it behind, but still he sat there, transfixed, and staring at the shadows and table ahead. There was hope that something about its details, like the color of the table or the relation to a hotel would jog his mind; something that'd perhaps give him a little hint. Nothing came to clear an answer, however - except for looping back around to the weird feeling of trespassing where he wasn't meant to be, and thus at the end, came up entirely empty-handed.

The spotlight lifted and fell with his sighing chest. Man. To wish for clarity in any capacity in Silent Hill was like wishing for world peace and harmony among all men, or a family pack of pumpkin spice Oreos in May - which it was. Maybe. Actually, he had no idea when it was at all; time wasn't an illusion here, it was straight up fucking gone . Oh, "Great," Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. "Don't start thinking about that shit, now! My god," he griped, hanging his head loose on his neck and shutting his eyes to block out the face-full of flashlight (that was bad move, in 20/20 hindsight - ouch), "you've godda learn to give it a rest sometimes, bud."

That does it. He's getting the fuck outta here and getting back to work.

Harry wormed out of the chair to his feet and— mmm-mmMMMF! — aaAAH! BIIIG stretch. His arms flopped to his sides, hands smacking soundly on his legs. Ooh, that was a good one, Harry! he praised himself as he spun around, humming and drumming out some percussion on his thighs and looking for the book he'd read. It was there, on the side table, right where he'd put it. Perfect.

Shave and a haircut, two bits! was a fine epilogue to his mini-thigh-slapping concert afore he picked up the book. Weighing it in both hands, he studied its front and back again for account, nodded to himself, lifted his head, and looked out into the hall.

This was gonna bug him something fierce until he got it; if,he ever got it. .. but if he did, that'd just mean he'd be too fortunate, wouldn't it? And theeenn Silent Hill would have to see to it that he be punished for getting on to its ruse, and then—! Harry scoffed at the whole astronomically ridiculous, (not-very-)merry-go-round state he was in and shook his head.

Lord Almighty he was convinced he'd never get a moment's goddamn rest as long as he shall live, but less so while he was here. The bigger culprit though was his brain, which really needed to learn how to sit down, shut down, and shut up.

But "Seriously, though: fuck this place."

Harry looked at the book. "Hm." The fuck was he doing, again? "Putting this back," he remembered. With that announcement, he nodded, tucked Odd Thomas under his arm, very deliberately turned on his heel, and stalked off into the library without once looking back.

Choosing to take the scenic route, Harry slipped his hands into his pockets and swerved into aisles at random, window shopping the titles and feeding curiosity along the way. He dawdled briefly here and there at stranded carts, leisurely picking at whatever they had to offer before moving on. Eventually his travels brought him to the target fiction section, and in the K's, he slid the book home with its brethren. He smiled.

That felt good; what a great way to end his break time.

And now that was done, he should get back to work; or, that had been the plan. "I wonder what James is up to," he mused aloud.

That was such a great question that Harry decided to go and see. From the south wing he moseyed his way all the way down to the main floor, crossed the hardwood river, and breached the adjacent north, where he'd find his companion. Though just as he was quizzing himself over whether he remembered the way to the basement, he caught glimpse of his unofficial search party's singular headlight bobbing on the floor within his view ahead, and stopped where he was. What luck.

"James? Hey buddy, that—"

"Harry?" he asked, out of sight.

"Yep!"

James sharply turned the corner, began to say, "Hey, I.." and then—

THUD!

"—eugh!"

"Oomf!"

They, quite suddenly (and hilariously, at that), collided with a breed of absolutely classic slapstick comedy so masterful and precise, that The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers all were bound to be chortling from their graves. Harry grappled with James's coat in the post-impact scramble, seizing the conduit by the shoulders and pushing him away at his two arms' length.

Bewildered and dazed, they owlishly blinked and stared at one another, both of them trying to sort out what just happened; and if Harry could trust the keenness of his eye, it appeared James looked the most surprised. A little thrown off his game, the author chuckled awkwardly and chirped, "Uhm, hi!"

James blinked again. ".. hi."

Harry fully recovered first, grinning wide. "Wow - you missed me so much that you were comin' in to gimme a hug, eh?"

The writer found his humor rejected by a bland frown. "No."

Harry snorted dismissively. "Yeah, sure; whatever you say, kid!" He swept invisible lint off James's shoulders, then took his hands to his pockets. "What's up, buttercup?"

"I want you to look at something."

"Mm?" asked a jaunty note. "What is it?"

James pivoted without a word and led the way. But when they touched down to the basement, they discovered themselves faced with one of the worst things that could happen in the duration of their library stay, come to life:

There was something wrong with the machine. No - it wasn't just something 'ordinarily' wrong, so to speak.

There was something dreadfully wrong. James inhaled a cutting gasp and rushed to the machine.

"No!What the fuck!"

Harry, left lingering behind to process the moment, watched James frantically swat the air around his head in a show of distress he hadn't seen before, looking at the machine every which way to try and diagnose the problem. "No! Shit, shit!" The conduit spun a half moon, goggling his white-rounded green eyes at the man finally stepping up beside him. "Harry—!"

"Easy, James! Easy now," he tried to soothe, defensively patting the air. "Calm down. Just hang on a second."

"Calm down?! Harry, the machine is fucked up!"

"I can see that; so what the hell happened? Was—"

"I don't KNOW! It wasn't like this when I left!"

Harry darted him a glance. The conduit looked terrified and panicked; it was weird to see him all riled up over a thing like this, he thought. But at least he hasn't started dripping yet, so that's good..? He turned his attention to the microfilm unit.

"Harry! How do you fix it?!"

"James, take a breath for me, and calm down," Harry repeated, coaxing the civilian away with a gentle elbow nudge. "It's alright. It's gonna be alright." He took his place in front of the machine, then his own advice by drawing a breath for himself, before putting on a falsely optimistic face as he looked at the huge problem at hand.

Harry was an enormous liar: 'it' most certainly wasn't alright. Where an article should've been displayed on the computerized screen, there was instead an extremely worrisome backsplash of milky green phlegm, and nothing more. The father's first instinctive thought was that it strongly resembled windows on the first generation Gameboy devices of yore, but withheld making the commentary; which, in knowing Harry's penchant for lessening anxiety with jokes, the conscious restraint really spoke for how dire he found the situation to be. (Whether or not James recognized this, or noticed the absence of the customary wit, was unknown.)

Diving into profound thought, Harry inspected the dead screen whilst scavenging his brain for an idea of what to do, when lightning bolts of distorted text spontaneously blitzed to the screen's mucky surface. The scare was so rattling that it broke him clean from thought and shook a hard, total-body flinch out of him, but he was fortunately quick to recover. After that initial inordinate surprise, Harry was suitably prepared for the barrage of unnatural digital chaos that followed. (In spite of that, the hair on his arms and neck raised on end like he were a threatened feline and stayed that way for a long time.) His face, however, was otherwise deadpan.

Harry was deathly silent in the face of the storm wildly unfolding before him, while James, distraught beyond reasonable compare, wrung his hands beside him.

It was uncharacteristically difficult for James not to interrupt Harry's thinking; but this neck-snapping turn of events put his mind into a whirlwind of its own over what it could mean for the future of their research. The conduit nervously watched orphaned letters and groups of nonsensical words flash erratically about on the screen, randomly heaping atop one another again and again in terrible muddy streaks. Severed pictures now started to join the fray, disturbingly rearranging themselves as grotesque puzzle pieces on the computerized chopping block of design. The mess then went totally haywire, clipping in zig-zags corner-to-corner, kiting the mens' eyes around in an unwinnable, hectic, and dizzying game of visual dodgeball.

The machine was most definitely malfunctioning in the worst possible way currently imaginable, and it only seemed to be getting worse by the microsecond. James couldn't stand it; Harry had never been so wrong about this one being 'alright', and, getting angry, spoke up at last.

"You're out of your fucking mind if you think this is gonna be alright, Harry; you've gotta be fucking kidding me. Does this look like it's gonna be alright to you?!"

Harry tiredly sighed, casting him a sideways glance. He was met with a heated glare, head-on. "James.. please."

"DOESit?!"

"No; it doesn't. Could you just—"

"Then what're we supposed to DO,Harry?!"

"We have two other machines here," Harry said and gestured, calmly. "If we can't get this thing working right, then I'll get down on my hands and knees and see what's going on under the tables. Maybe they just need plugging in, too. Take it easy, James; don't hyperventilate on me, okay bud?"

James poisonously hissed back, "It's not funny, Harry."

"Did I say it was?" challenged his bite. The two squared off for one short, prickly beat, wherein James said nothing. "No: I didn't. C'mon, don't—"

"You're making. Jokes. Don't fucking joke about this."

Electrified tension huddled the air as the two regrettably felt Harry's patience to be rapidly declining. Harry slowly drew his back rigid and tall; then, veeeeery slowly, licked, and his lower lip. The expression on Harry's face blatantly eluded to the serious possibility that his pacifism might come to a temporary end. He was mere ticks away from opening his mouth and giving James a piece of his mind, and whatever he wanted to say, wasn't going to be pretty. If Harry's recent behaviors were anything to go by, James anticipated an incoming meltdown, and automatically stiffened with precaution.

But despite the Kafka kerfuffle being fresh in his mind it had been, at its core, an anomalous rarity for the known poster child of restraint. Harry ultimately didn't buckle to anger's whims, merely shaking his head with disappointment, and rerouting his attention back on the machine. (Harry choosing to disengage like that filled James with humiliation he found hard to understand in the moment, but had no time to brood further on it; except he was oddly wishing he'd just blown a gasket instead of giving him that look.)

The author eyeballed the machine in silence, then, in an outright scandalizing move, reached for the power switch.

James was properly horrified. He immediately shot out his hand to stop Harry from making such an impulsive, stupid mistake. "NO!" he suddenly blurted, succeeding in getting Harry to pause. "No! What're you doing?! Harry, are you fucking nuts?! Don't turn it OFF!"

The author blinked dumbly at him, letting his hand hang mid-air. Well; that was an absolutely outrageous outburst if he ever saw one. If Harry had to be honest with himself for a second, James's constant overreactions were kind of shaking him up more than the buggy machine was. (He was a little more sympathetic to this one, though.) "Chill; just give it a second. I'm gonna turn it back on again."

"Wait, why?That's stupid! What if it doesn't turn back on?! — That's stupid, Harry!"

"Okay, then it doesn't turn back on."

"Har—"

"James, listen. I'm not a repairman, okay? I can't just magically fix these machines," he reminded the resident in a cool, even voice. "I know how they work, but I don't know how to fix them when they break down like an actual repairman would."

James stared at him. "That's not fucking comforting, Harry. If you don't know how to fix it, then don't fucking touch it. It's thatsimple . "

Harry turned to James. "Look: I'm gonna tell you something I do know about fixing things, that actually fucking works. " Holding up his finger, he said, "Rule of thumb with technology is that when it breaks down or starts fucking up, the first thing an IT guy will ask is if you turned it off and back on again. Alright? So that's what I'm gonna do. Turning it off and back on again is troubleshooting 101 - you have to restart it."

"Why?"

"It could actually fix the problem - no, I don't know how, but we're gonna do that first either way."

"How the fuck can that fix the problem?!" James exasperated, acting like he didn't hear what Harry'd just said. "LOOK at it!" He flung his hand at the thing. "That is severely fucked up, Harry, so how the fuck can—"

"James."

That tone spoke for itself.

Smartly, albeit reluctantly, James forced himself to behave, and shut the hell up.

Harry turned the machine off.

The room plunged into a deep darkness, with the battery-powered beams on their chests acting as the sole luminescent source, akin to a child's night light. Their eardrums pounded in the absence of the motor's monotone thrum, the silence discomfiting at best. Neither man wanted to acknowledge it to the other, but the soundless and blackened room suddenly felt evil, and hungry. They both instinctually controlled their breathing to be as quiet as possible; but even with their accompanying flashlights to pierce the veil, they were not heroic enough to keep the survivors from feeling drowned in perturb.

It was amazing how the machine's absence transformed the basement.

Overcome by the eerie, foreboding nature of the room, Harry tried not to seem too hasty when he went to turn the machine back on, lest he seem afraid; but James, who'd been impatient for its revival the moment he switched it off, was glad he turned it on when he did. The machine roared awake just as it'd done before. In light of it (literally and figuratively), the duo were permitted to relax - at least a little, for there was good news, and bad news.

The good news was that, as said, the machine could still turn on.

The bad news, on the other hand, was that the screen was still defunct. While that sucked, the pair of unfortunate nomads had to look on the bright side: even in spite of its green and glitchy state, it didn't seem to have gotten any worse than it'd been before.

One must be realistic, however, and footnoting this overall optimistic outcome was the pessimistic truth that seeing the good in the bad was not one of James Sunderland's strong points. The conduit, believing he and Harry to be well and truly forever fucked, automatically started to wallow.

It wasn't fair. All their hard work and chances to pull back the curtain on the town went straight down one of the many nasty toilet drains in one fell swoop. They were going to need a miracleto get it working properly again - and those were hard, if not straight up impossible to come by around here.

But before James's little pity party got too far into festivities, it was interrupted by the soft sound of strenuous grunting beside him. Looking down, the confused conduit discovered his compatriot to be on his hands and knees, crawling underneath the table. He frowned, about to ask Harry what the hell he was doing until he remembered him suggesting plugging the other machines in. Wisely choosing to abstain from comment, James passively stared down at the older man's protruding lower half while Harry, ignorant of his leer, fussed mostly out of sight.

James wrinkled his nose. Jeez, He's fat. I wonder how much he weighs, floated the first of a few unkind thoughts through his needlessly judgmental head. I wonder if he's ever actually been thin before.. I mean, just.. eugh, he shuddered in disgust, looking away. I don't get why people would let themselves go like that..

His lips revisited a frown. But now I have to wonder if Heather's fat, too.. hm. He darted his eyes thoughtfully to the side. That'd kinda suck; I'd hate to see her take after her dad like that.. but, eh; what can you do.. guess we'll just have to see—

"Hokay!" declared the father in questionable debate, starting his reverse-crawl out of the flat, low-ceilinged cave. James glanced mildly down at him. "I plugged another one in! Let's see how that works, eh?"

The conduit, never known to be the charitable type, didn't bother to offer his help as he watched Harry struggle to stand. Yeah - that's what getting fat does to you, he snidely thought instead. Jesus, that's embarrassing; I'm really fucking glad I'm never gonna get like that. I'd rather kill myself.

Outside of James's head, Harry rubbed his hands, gladly unaware of his role as the sole participant and loser in James's mean-spirited beauty contest. "Let's give it a go," he said, and flipped the second machine's power button to 'ON'.

The machine politely declined to 'give it a go'.

Harry tried the third. The deal was the same.

"Aahh.. fuck the toes off an elephant."

'Fuck the toes off an elephant'? God, you're weird, James thought, glimpsing him from the corners of his eyes. Are all creatives like this..? or is it just a Harry thing? He rolled his eyes. Ugh, I—

"I dunno what to do, James."

James grunted. "I guess fuck the toes off an elephant."

"Yeah, why not; just so long as it sticks around for pillow talk for a little while after. I hate feeling abandoned in bed."

Disheartened and annoyed, James inquired - or, rather, whined: "So what now?"

"Aside from fucking the toes off an elephant? Shit, you got me." He put his hands on his hips and briefly lapsed into thought. ".. well.. hang on. You took notes, right?"

James looked at him like he was a dumbass. "Uhh, yeah."

Harry nodded and beckoned to him. "C'mon upstairs and we'll go over 'em," he said, turning to go. "We'll leave the machine on n' come back to it later. Maybe it'll've fixed itself by then. It happens sometimes," he added, shrugging. "Sometimes machines just wanna have a temper tantrum, so you gotta put 'em in time-out and let 'em cool down outta their hissy fit for awhile."

The resident looked at him strange. "You treat inanimate objects like children?"

"Sure! I think it's pretty fair; it goes across the board, doesn't it? If you want to act like children - then you get treated like children." Harry grabbed the railing and paused, looking back at James over his shoulder. "I'm surprised I don't put you in time-out more often."

James sent back a sneer and snatched his notebook off the table. "Heh; you're cute," flat monotone remarked. He began to mount the stairs; cast one last glance at the machines; then trudged up after Harry, and the sound of his laughter.

Back at headquarters, the survivors sat down together and started the extensive gander at James's hodgepodge of notes. As an expert multitasker, Harry suggested they save some time, and encouraged the conduit to give him an oral version of the report while he read from the papers. Being unaccustomed to presenting lectures (or even talking too much, as a whole) made it a little tricky at first, but once Harry prompted him with a topic, he bumbled along through it as best as he could.

Harry, meanwhile, derived some personal amusement out of getting to finally see James's clunky and inconsistent letterform (which was exactly what he'd expected to come out of his writing hand), while being dually charmed by his illustrative note-taking model. (He'd seen worse, after all - and Heather never got the hang of it.)

Even though it was clear to him that James had gone a little overboard in material, Harry eschewed from imparting critique. If the machines were truly down for the count and this was all they had, then James's over-enthusiasm to document saved their hides. He was damn proud of his work for what it was, and was sure to tell him so.

"Good stuff, James."

(That came as a surprise. Despite normal aversion to praise, James actually felt damn proud of himself, too, and moreover, appreciated. That hit of ego felt good. .. for a short few seconds. James suddenly remembered his unprovoked, rotten critique about Harry's.. health, and the good feeling was overridden in a flash flood of guilt.)

"Thanks."

(James hated compliments, anyway.)

But James's amateur mistake of basically copying down an entire text word-for-word and calling it "notes" immediately came in handy. When the subject turned to Walter and the Teaching Despair article, Harry had the luxury of reading it in full. Upon finishing, he was reminded of a small bit they'd picked up about Hope House a long time ago, too.

Fetching the thin stack of drawings and soft newspaper clipping, Harry laid out the four construction paper pictures in a square and the article - which was really little more than a blurb - at the bottom. The two men then huddled together to pour over an anonymous child's quartet of scribbles in silence.

The four-part crayon series showcased what would be expected of any young one's memory, or re-imagination of it. To begin, the one that'd served as the "cover art" to the pile was a colorful line of people in front of a house. Next was essentially a group photo depicting what seemed to be a man possibly wearing a suit, standing with a woman in a dark dress at the right of a group of smaller figures - obviously children - of whom all wore a compilation of smiles and frowns.

The subjects all stood on a wobbly brown line floor. It appeared they were inside, for crude picture frames of art within the art had been drawn on the "wall". Whatever the child meant the recreated works to be was lost in translation, the incomprehensible blotches leaving the men clueless and wishing the kid had had more talent.

In the third was a playground. Two kids sat on stationary swings on the left side of the page, while many others politely queued for their turn on the slide. Keeping watch (again at the right), was a foursome of adult women all donned in brightly colored outfits - save for one outlier in black - and, once again, the businessman: this time, holding a briefcase.

(Suddenly come upon by a very strong inkling to who those individuals were, Harry frowned and paused here to double check the previous drawing. Call him a conspiracy theorist, obsessive, or even accuse him of having a one-track mind, but deeper thought labeled their identities as pretty cut and dry to him, especially after reading ahead at the spoilers in James's notes. Harry kept quiet, withholding his ideas for now. He could be wrong, of course, but it wasn't likely.)

Lastly, was a scene somewhat out of place from the jovial rest. The picture felt strangely violent - and that was without any actual violence shown. Bloodshed was absent; weapons were nowhere in sight, and out of the four people present, no one was perceivably hurt, nor wore a frown. On the contrary, smiles were on the two children's faces - a girl in a spring season white dress, a boy in an everyday shirt and shorts - as well as the two joining adult chaperones.

But this was where the formulaic pattern was broken. Those grown-ups, while consistent with being a male and female pair, were not the common duo seen in the others. They knew this because of their clothes: a long blue dress for the woman instead of black, and a casual Friday outfit for the man. These four characters were somewhere indoors; the walls were a claustrophobic backdrop of dark blue, and the ground, a deep shade of red to perhaps simulate a rug. Between them, a table decorated with what was maybe a bowl and some candles sitting on top separated the pairs by their age.

Yet nailed dead center of the piece on the dark wall behind them, was a painting - an omen. An ill omen. The child had chaotically recalled it in drab browns and saturated by orangey reds, but its true content was again mangled by artistic inexpertise.

This time, however, the mens' learned smarts were enough to guess what it was.

It seemed blatantly obvious that the artworks were relics from the sabotaged orphanage, itself - but what they'd been doing in the church (where they'd found them), and why, was anyone's guess. Harry deemed it was time to weigh in, and dove directly into the matter haunting his mind:

"So." His finger tapped the two commonly-drawn adult figures. "How much you wanna bet that's Dahlia and Kaufmann?"

"Mm; I'd say it's an easy way to make money."

"Heh! Yeaaah, I thought so.. hey, speaking of money real quick," Harry mused, riding on that rail of thought, "I wonder how Dahlia got a hold of.. what was it? Twenty, twenty-five grand..?"

"Fifty thousand."

"Fifty thousan—?!Jesus Christ!"

"And Kaufmann donated thirty-five thousand."

Harry snorted incredulously and shook his head. "Man! ONLY thirty-five? Cheapskate!"

James replicated the noise. "Yeah. No kidding. And he was a doctor."

"Yeah, and you know he got paid out the nose. How uncharitable of him, when everybody knows doctors usually LOVE throwing money around, right?" sarcastically ranted the veteran, emphasized with a cynical roll of his eyes. "Aaanything for a shiny plaque on some stupid wall and public notoriety.. n'ass-pats, too."

The younger soldier, despite agreeing, mostly ignored the rave. "Mmn. Yeah. I guess s'kinda out of character for a doctor."

".. as if they ever need more of 'em," he tacked on under his breath, doused in salt.

"I'm still really surprised the Order was so public," James continued, steamrolling Harry's kindling fire. "You made it seem like they were pretty underground."

"Yeah, I know," Harry sighed, folding his arms on the table. "I seriously thought the same, so ya got me."

"Still sorta seems that way, though. .. I guess."

"Beats the hell outta me, James." He eyed the drawings. ".. I do gotta wonder how public Kaufmann's involvement with them was, because, like; I mean, shit. From the article alone, he seems pretty comfortable being buddy-buddy with them out in the open - and we both know he's on Order payroll, so.."

Olive green-clad shoulders lifted and fell. "Dunno. People might've known, or at least must've expected he had something to do with them."

Harry cast a peer at him. "You mean 'suspected'?"

His counterpart frowned. "Uh, sure. What'd I say?"

"'Expected'."

"Oh."

He shrugged it off. "Doesn't matter. I'm sure we'll find out later. So." Harry gave the spread an upwards nod. "Whaddya think of 'em?"

"Looks like Walter." James looked down at the pictures. "Looks like it could be the Hope House, if Dahlia and Kaufmann are there."

"Seems kinda happy, for all the shit in the Teaching Despair article Schreiber wrote. I don't see any screaming children or anyone torturing them, so.. how credible can we call anyone, here?"

The resident pulled an unsavory face. ".. yeah. That's kinda weird, huh?"

"Only kinda. So, with that.. I.. I don't think we can be certain these were from Walter. Or even from Hope House. I dunno. I don't think we know enough about Walter's past to call anything 'his' anyway, to be frank."

"Yeah, that's true, I guess," James mumbled, quite disappointed. Harry looked over.

"We uncovered a lot," soothed his cohort. "You finding the articles opened a shit ton of avenues for us to pursue. And it helps put some context to the article here, with the drawings," he added, moving the clipping front and center atop the artwork. James leaned in.

The clipping was simply a blurb, short, sweet and so straight to the point that it almost came across as cold, considering the material - Hope House had mysteriously burned down.

"'In the aftermath'," Harry read aloud, "'The Silent Hill Smile Support Society, better known as 4S, has begun collecting any surviving artifacts with the intent to display them in the Silent Hill Historical Society as a memorial to those tragically lost. Thoughts and prayers are with all those grieving' and blah-ddy blah-ddy blah. Yeah, okay. Thoughts and prayers do a hell of a lot."

James snorted, but said nothing. Harry looked at the drawings. "Hm. So.." He reached out his flared fingers and gently tapped the pictures. "Whaddya think about these being from the wreckage?"

The conduit lowered his eyes. "Possible."

They both got quiet, mutually taking a moment of silence in respect for the child and the dead. Having given the drawings and associated clipping little thought since the day they picked them up left the two feeling a little heavy, and now, the unnamed child's doodles came with the devastating weight of something sacred that they needed to take better care of.

But there was more. To refresh multiple memories, this small bundle of early findings included a second scrap of newspaper likewise detailing arson overcoming a beloved town landmark: the destruction of The Lake View Hotel.

Did it correlate, they wondered? Was it a case of random happenstance that these were found together, or were they paired on purpose? What did one have to do with the other?

How did the hotel burn down, why did the hotel burn down, and how and whycould they have gone INSIDE?!

"I'm so sick and TIRED of Silent Hill's 'riddle me this, riddle me that' bullshit," Harry complained to James, and the clippings. "This just drives me crazy. We have to look at everything we find under a microscope. 'Oh, an article about the hotel with the Hope House? There's gotta be a connection!'" he ranted, tossing up his hands. "Yeah? Well blow me, Silent Hill! Make something fucking clear for once, wouldja?!"

James thought hard a moment. "Well.. there's Toluca Lake," he tentatively pitched with a shrug. "It's not much, but Schreiber talked about a water tower in the lake in his article, right..? and The Lake View Hotel sits on the edge of the lake.."

Harry stole a glimpse of him. ".. that's all?" His companion at left replayed his trademark gesture. "Eugh. Yeah, see? We're grasping at straws. Heh. We'd make a great conspiracy YouTube channel." He immediately waved it off. "Whatever, don't ask. I'm sorry. I'm getting snippy."

"Yeah, a little."

"Sorry. I just hate this shit."

"I know, Harry. I do too."

"Yeah.." He sighed and passed his hand over his hair. "I know." With nothing else to say, they looked at the drawings during the silence that followed in hopes of a 'eureka!'. Harry settled in with calmer thoughts, starting to get comfortable as he pondered the visual short story at his leisure.

Famously said, he should've known better.

All was going well with Harry's false sense of security until his stoic, unpredictable companion infamously cashed in on what he seemed to do best: startling Harry. Sudden movement was rather uncharacteristic of the man Harry knew James to be, so when the conduit abruptly bolted upright in his seat, Harry jumped too. Surprise tied his tongue, leaving him wordless and owlishly watching James fiddle with his coat, then extract three folded papers. They were unwrapped in record time, and were plopped down, face up, in front of Harry in a crease-dented pile in the next blink thereafter.

James beat him to the punch before he even had the chance of mind to ask. "I found those on the bulletin board."

Harry, fully regained of himself, made a face and separated the sheets into a row. "What bulletin board?"

"The one by the front desk. 'Silent Hill News and Fun.'"

The author scoffed, muttering, "I doubt that," as he picked up the largest of the three.

James agreed. "Yeah." He nodded at the first poster in Harry's hands. "There's another one of those there too, by the way. Smaller one," he said, vaguely pointing it out of the short line up. "I saw those and remembered you mentioning girls being kidnapped, from your notes."

Harry steadied his elbows on the table, his frown grim. ".. yeah. They were ritual test subjects for the cult, essentially, if memory.. .. wow. Tenof them? Holy shit! This is bad!"

He awkwardly shrugged a little. "Guess so. They managed to get ten before they settled on Alessa." He watched Harry read. "I didn't find much else in the archives - or, er, nothing that the posters didn't already say," James added after a moment. "Or, I haven't found anything, yet. " Then, seeing Harry collect the secondary notice to look at atop the poster, said, "That's just a repeat. It's only for three of the girls."

"Why only three?"

"Doesn't say, and I don't know. But I was guessing that they may've been the first to go missing."

Harry squinted at the page. "How can you tell?"

"Well, I was trying to go by the years," he explained, leaning over to describe his deduction process. Afterwards, he said, "And through that I tried to gauge the year, and I'm guessing it was around '91 or so.. r'something like that."

"'91.." Harry pensively echoed. ".. hm." He thought for a beat. "That'd be around the time of when everybody was in school.. so this may've been the summer before school started back up for them..?"

"Maybe; probably summer," James conceded with a shrug. "But we can't be certain about the years, Harry," he was also quick and keen to remind him. "I'm just guessing. We can't take my word for anything."

"Yeeaah yeah, I know," Harry dismissively said, shooing him off and bringing the third piece of evidence into review. "But it's important to know if the kidnappings were going on during the school year, or before it. Because if—" Registering the words on the pamphlet, Harry swiftly sat up at once, his eyes widening and gripping it in both hands. "Claudia!"

"Yeah."

"Hold on! —she had a bible study..? .. ooohhhh. Ooh, ho hooo! Oh, I'll bet that's her! Ooohh, ho-ho-hoooo.." Harry shimmied his shoulders with excitement, lips pursed out far like a duck bill. "I'll bet that's her."

"What's—"

"There was a bible study pamphlet like this one back at the high school," Harry's glee interrupted. "It wasn't exactly this one word-for-word, and it didn't have her name— or any name attached to it, but.."

His voice trailed off, eyes darting to and fro on the written tracks, then, once herding his disjointed thoughts to order, continued with saying, "But, if you recall, there was one of these back at Midwich. —Midwich Elementary. It was advertising something similar, a bible study for younger kids, is that right..?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Either way, I'll bet that's her; I'll bet that Claudia was leading both of them. I mean, what're the odds, huh? Hm! Interesting," he smiled, fingering the page, confident in victory. "It seems to me we got ourselves a nice, probably-not-so-Christian girl on our hands; a real religious type. Hmm-hm-mmm, veeery interesting; the plot thickens..!"

Harry leaned attentively into his arm, quietly analyzing the teenager's call to God. "What is your deal, Claudia?" the patriarch distractedly asked of the girl they didn't know, and who wasn't present to answer their questions. "What makes you so important, huh..?" Harry anyway wondered. "You just keep showing up everywhere huh, don'tchu, girl.."

Sunderland canted his head. "Whadda'you mean?"

"Well, if you use these bible studies as a frame of reference, she really does seem to pop up everywhere," he extrapolated. "The school.. the high school.. and if you recall, she was also the little girl that kaleidoscope thing showed us - or I'm pretty sure of it." The conduit scrunched his nose at that. Harry didn't notice, continuing to talk. "When she said 'a neighbor and friend of t—'"

"What kaleidoscope thing?"

Brown eyes shifted his way. "The girl. The one from the mall, and the hotel." James looked unmoved. Harry clarified, "The one that keeps changing personas in front of our eyes, showing us Cheryl, and whoever the hell the other girl is? Her." He shrugged his shoulders and brows. "The way she does it reminds me a bit of a kaleidoscope."

"Oh." James blinked, casting his eyes down in thought. That wasn't a half-bad way to put it - a kaleidoscope. ".. huh. Yeah.. I guess so." He looked at Harry. "I guess she does kinda show up a lot."

"Yeah. Interesting, huh? Heh. Kinda funny, too; I guess you can say she's been 'following' us around since Midwich. Elementary."

"Yeah."

"She must be important."

James uttered a meaningless noise. "Well, yeah.. what with that whole 'neighbor and friend of two' thing you keep going on about."

"Mmhmm. Too weird. I'unno what to think about it, still. Seems tied to Alessa."

He tilted his head. "Well.. we still have the stuff from the school, right?"

"Psht, we better!" Harry scoffed. "It's probably over there with Cheryl's sketchbook," he wagered, looking over at the itemized layout on the partnering table. "Hnn.. yeah.. I should probably take a look at it all at some point, huh.. s'been awhile. We gotta figure out this 'neighbor and friend of two' thing. S'bugging me."

"Yeah. I can tell." He surreptitiously judged him for a moment. "You're almost obsessed with it."

"Eh; sue me. There's a lot on my mind."

"Yeah. You have time, though."

Brown eyes met green. "Allegedly. Anyway. Where's the bulletin board, again?"

A bony thumb jabbed direction behind his canvas shoulder. "Front desk."

"Huh. Really? .. hm. Surprised neither of us saw it before." Their shrugs mirrored. "Eh! Oh well. You take anything else off it?"

James shook his head and denied, "Didn't see anything else I thought worth taking."

"Alright. I'll just go have a looky-loo for myself later," Harry resolved, gathering the posters and flyer and putting them aside. "Thanks for these, James; those're good finds. I think I'm gonna get back to work on the cult stuff for now, though. Save that for when I hit a wall."

Seeing that as his cue, James nodded and rose to his feet. "I'm gonna go downstairs and check on the reading machines."

Harry wished him, "Good luck," then looked up at the conduit. "Hope it was just a one-off thing."

"Yeah, me too," James muttered, tucking in the chair. "I'll see you around."

"Alright; I'll be here."

He stowed his hands in his coat, gave Harry's workstation a token audit, then snorted. "Have fun with the cult shit."

"Heh! Have fun with the not-cult shit," he cordially grouched, looking down. "So not fair the machines aren't working. Hope you get that fixed soon—" two different sets of synchronized fists tapped twice on the table, "because I'm gonna wanna take a crack at 'em, too."

It was funny: regardless of how they'd semi-officially decided that the superstition meant to induce good luck had rightly proven itself to be a useless hoax, it'd seemed to have accidentally converted itself into a habit. (Perhaps it was better to call it a running gag; their very own 'inside joke'.) James liked it, in spite of himself. It roused a smile he couldn't dismiss.

And although Harry hadn't taken his eyes away from sorting and planning his work, the morning light helped James see the smile on the author's profile hinting that he liked it, too.

Lest his companion be worried about James enjoying something they'd unwittingly come to share together, the civilian turned about face, unwaveringly rolling his eyes in practice and in voice when he said, "Yeah Harry; I know."

He left, strolling into the tome forest with the fading residuals of the smile clinging to his face.

It was, in the long run, sadly for the best that Harry hadn't known it'd ever been there at all.

Anxiety built a strong case against his good mood and tossed any remainder of it into the trash as James slowly descended the stairs to his underground retreat. The suspense and fear of the unknown packed him as uncomfortably dense and full as a shaken can of warm soda, the pressure mounting until he stepped down onto the ground. He took a breath, then looked over to face the music.

And what he saw immediately spurred trepidation to seize the hypothetical can, shake it with wild abandon, rupture its gut, then pop open the tab as it greedily drank of the foamy blood pouring out from the wound.

(Subconscious labeled the unruly drinking strategy used here as 'shotgunning' - a method widely favorited by college crowds, and particularly, of young and stupid men with nothing to prove; and James, inadvertently not really knowing why, subsequently told his overactive subconscious to shut the hell up.)

All this bit of metaphysical mayhem was because the broken machine wasn't broken anymore; it was working. It was working great, in fact, its screen projecting the article he'd meant to show Harry coming across clear as day, and humming along without a crossing care in the world.

It was as though nothing, for one damn, measly second, had ever been amiss.

It worked. Just. Fine.

He should have been happy; even overjoyed. He should be falling to his knees to thank his lucky stars that he wasn't totally shit out of luck - and yet it'd done the opposite by eliciting a hugely negative, visceral reaction. So, why?; shouldn't he be relieved to see it'd made use of its time-out and gotten its sorry attitude in order? Shouldn't he be grateful for its act of mercy?

Oh, he was; to be clear, he was very happy and grateful to see it was working, but James had his reasons to be outright infuriated,too. The anger quietly fizzed in the symbolical shotgun ned can's frothy spillage as he briskly covered the length of floor between him and the godforsaken contraption, taking up an incriminatory stance before it. He glared into the unmarred article in the illuminated window like he were trying to berate it for its insolence, or even threaten it somehow; but it, being just a machine, was unmoved to care about his petty human feelings in the least.

Now, logically, James knew it was stupid to impute human emotions into unliving things - after all, he'd specifically ragged on Harry about it just earlier that day - yet he couldn't help but perceive a strong aura around it that grew stronger and stronger the longer he squared off against the microfilm reader. Its newfound benevolence felt haughty - gleeful for his discomfort, like some selfish, bratty little kid pleased to be getting the one-up on him; but even more, or worse than that, was that in its smugness and calm, it all felt somewhat.. malevolent.

It prickled the skin on the back of his neck.

Why did you do that? he hissed at it in his mind, harsh as serrated knives on stone.

But the machine didn't reply, because it couldn't; it had no human brain and no human vocal cords, and simply, it couldn't talk. The computerized instrument was for reading, yes; but not one for reading minds. It did not harbor the cognition to do so, nor did it even contain an animatronic wise man hovering over a crystal ball, programmed to promise answers and distribute predetermined fortunes and lottery numbers for the gullible and misguided to bet on from a ticket roll. It couldn't tell him anything, and it couldn't hear inside his head - because it was just a machine.

And yet, James asked it, spitefully again:

What did you do?

Oh, James, what ever do you mean?

A voice (from the machine?) suddenly popped into his head, proclaiming innocence of any wrongdoing here. Its unanticipated presence shocked and spooked him a little too close to his core. No.. couldn't be. He made that up; he hadto have made that up. Humiliated to be a bit shaken up by such corny imaginary antics, James (machines can't talk.. they can't read his mind; can they? They're just machines. So they can't talk or read his mind.. but can they? ) over-compensated for it by bearing his teeth in a mistrustful half-snarl and growling, "Asshole."

Get a grip; it's just a machine, James, rationale faithfully reminded himself. Don't start treating it like a human. Nothing here is, you idiot. C'mon, get a fucking hold of yourself. He agreed to that.

Initially.

.. but then, he frowned. .. well, he amended. Nothing here is human, no.. except for Harry. —and Heather, probably, and the— .. well, whatever.

James shook his head and the contention out of his shoulders, heftily sighing. Just get rid of it, James, soothed the conduit's better, rational self to the irrational rest of him, for one last time. All this place does is mess with your head - cuz it's supposed to. Better to just leave it be and just be glad it's working.

You're right, he agreed. I'll shut up. You're right.

I know, his brain said.

Right enough.

James whisked the notebook from under his arm, opening it with purpose. The parting pages crackled noisily on the thin spiral wire spine as he exposed the next blank paper canvas for his use, then set it down. He procured a pen from his pocket, and, deciding just to be glad the machine was doing its job, got back to his, too.

Time went on. Reels were fetched and replaced and returned to their shelves, and notes many upon many were taken - wash, rinse, repeat.

James was making steady progress hours later, as far as he knew; and it felt good. The mishap with the machine was far behind him in memory. He was working hard, and enjoying his assignment all the while. This was easy. It felt like it was made for him.

It felt good to be useful.

Pulling open the lid, James nudged the light in his pocket little to the left and peeked into another box, squinting at the writing on its contents.

Hrm.. eh .. no. Probably not this one.

He inserted the box lid tab and put it back, directing a look up at the rack full of mystery wares at the top. His eyes scanned the faint pencil marks on the boxes' white, waxed sides for his sacred T-word, but he wasn't in any kind of a rush to grab something. James thought of nothing important enough to note in the meantime, his mind mostly on idle.

But after a while, James didn't see what he wanted to see, and so let intuition's fancy reach his hand to gamble for the next pick on the top shelf .

But then, something happened in his peripheral vision— moved, or appeared, or..? Stiffening, James instantly stayed his hand and darted his eyes to the right with hardly a tick of his head. The pike of fear froze him in place, senses wild and alert; but there was nothing to see in the dim.

.. well, nothing to be immediately called 'abnormal', at least.

The conduit of Silent Hill stared at the indentation of the doorway set into the wall; then looked down at the brassy doorknob.

Retracting his outstretched hand, James changed course and timidly approached the white paneled portal. He faced it directly and raked his eyes along the fitted molding from corner to corner, north to south, then stared, unblinking, at the nameless front.

It stared back.

James's view fell to the knob. The investigative same hand he'd used to pick his boxes encircled the whiskey-colored metal. It was clammy. He gripped it tight, and flicked his vision up at the door again.

To his left, the small cardboard crates and their contained reels tried to call him back from the brink of whatever lay beyond that door. You have work to do, they argued. Don't lollygag. Don't get distracted; don't get sidetracked. You have work to do.

Whatever you do, don't go in.

James held his breath. Don't assign human voices and thinking to inanimate objects, tutted a different watchman on his shoulder, that sort of sounded like him. (Or was trying to sound like him.) (Whatever it was, it was doing such a good job of it, that he was fooled into believing.) Research everything; no stone unturned, everything matters, no matter how insignificant it seems.. remember?

Remember, James:

The knob twisted to the right.

EVERYTHINGmeans SOMETHINGhere, in Silent Hill.

No, wait! pled a fragile chorus, echoing in the cups of his ears, Somestones should be left unt—

James opened the door. The voices instantly died. All the remained was the one that sounded like him -

(.. but did it?) ( Didit sound like him?)

—the one, the clever one that insisted; ferociously insisted, that he—

Always remember, James:

James took a breath..

NO

STONE

.. and went inside.

(.. unturned.)