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.

64. Bible

Later, James absconded downstairs to check on the machine, leaving Harry alone at the table with the ciphers to keep him company.

And they were, for the most part, terrible company. Nearly two whole days of devoted attention to them had shown the work was still as monotonous, confusing, and too-often incomplete as the very hour he began; but luckily, Harry's stubborn endeavors were bearing fruit. He'd compiled himself a tidy, albeit tentative and woefully meager translation guide to go off of for the time being, and that was at least something to be proud of.

All in a two-day's honest work, or so they say.

Yet every so often Harry found actual plain English wedged in the margins or randomly planted smack dab between the mythos and by god, what a sight for sore eyes they made. They were rare in quantity but massive in quality, as they seemed to be, more often than not, fragmented commentaries. As usual, context typically lost, yet being someone who preferred understanding what the hell he was looking at in even the smallest amount, Harry appreciated them nonetheless.

He was, in fact, actually reading one of these right now. It was the largest instance of it yet, an entire tree of information bearing ripe, juicy, succulent fruit. This was a privilege and an honor to come upon. It was a conversation between cultists, an inside look into the Order's organization (or lack thereof, in his opinion). The downside remained in lack of context - but also, because there was not a singular full name to claim. Instead the authors simply used what Harry assumed to be the first letter of their names, much like what Vincent had done. It sort of sucked in that way, but Harry always said 'thank you' and took what he got.

But the exchange he'd stumbled upon here seemed to contain a bit of civil unrest - or should he call it a catfight? Because despite appearing to have butted in during the middle of it, he diagnosed the overall problem to have origins in everyday miscommunication, but with an all-too-common twist: spite.

Harry loved it. He loved a good catfight.

But the back-and-forth's main attraction starred a certain big player that Harry was already firmly a fan of. So with that, it's definitely safe to say that Harry was pleased as spiked punch to see Vincent's handwriting pop up and make a cameo appearance after spending too long not seeing it. Harry'd been wondering what that little rascal's been up to - perhaps a tiny bit starting to miss him, if he must be frank (which he isn't, because he's Harry) - but now, he needed not wonder nor miss no more.

But let's back it up - for it is, after all, very crucial to know how the conversation began. And the conversation began with a strong opening address from 'M':

With due Respects, FV, wrote a stiff, feminine hand, We don't believe the Reagents requested are necessary to Complete this Arc in the Ritual. Furthermore, We have been unable to Reach the appropriate merchant for them. Revisions Must be allowed and studied to Continue. Please Advise. — M M, I heard you the first ten times at the past meetings. And as I'd stated at those meetings, I don't care. There are no revisions. End of discussion. — FV

(The 'FV' moniker was new, but the penmanship was not, thus decoding that 'V' stood for 'Vincent' as easy as an Easy-Bake cake - yet whatever the abbreviated 'F' replaced, escaped him entirely. Lazy sons a' bitches, Harry snarked to himself; then read on.)

There are no Funds, FV. Kindly Reconsider, for the Present and Future Needs of the Congregation. — M M - I am, and I did. End of discussion. — FV

"Oh - no funds, huh? Guess they fell on hard times," Harry chuckled, darkly. "Heh. Good for them."

But when his eyes continued the column, he was right taken aback by what he saw. There was a bigman-made redacted here in the form of an enormous black block of disturbingly violent scribbles. Harry was shocked to see it. The perpetrator's hand had been so heavy and ardent about blotting it out that it'd gouged small rips in the paper. Whomever had done it (and the whom, Harry presumed, had to be Vincent) had been furious beyond personal repair.

So what in the hell had made it so offensive that it deserved this treatment? Harry wondered, holding the page up to the tall window panes to shine some foggy light on it in hopes of gleaning the slightest clue out of the tar. No luck would be found in it though, and Harry brought it back down, stumped and spooked. "Could a pencil smudge do anything?" he conjectured aloud. But a quick glance at materials didn't provide the means to try right at the moment, and so, he didn't. Harry resolved to sigh, and simply let it be for now.

Weird. Really weird.

He looked past it for any more correspondence, and there was; and it was very interesting.

It appeared a newcomer had arrived to join the boxing ring with her gloves already cinched on (and Harry knew it to be another woman, as the flowery ink flow told him so). She was a contender of a different sort, however.

She wrote:

Father Vincent,

(Oh wait, hold ON a moment! FATHERVincent? Is that what it stood for?! Oh, that's realfucking interesting, Harry giddily thought, jotting down a note about it. Vinny, you just keep getting better and better.)

Father Vincent, I STRONGLY Advisethat you seek Wisdom from the High Council on this matter. I know you are well-aware this avenue was not what we agreed to in the last Meeting. ALL CHANGES must be Addressed To, AND Passed by the Board. Should any Esteemed Member catch wind of your performance and Abuse of your Power, you will be Met with Scorn. May I Remind you, Father Vincent, IF I may be so bold: you are already on thin ice, for past transgressions; Thus, may I ALSO remind you: any FURTHER act or form of Disobedience is ILL-ADVISED . I am sure you will Understand, and Seek APPROPRIATE Advice for what to do Next. Remain Chary (a word curiously underlined twice) and Vigilant in This Time, and Count thy Blessings; may the MOTHER GOD, Whose BIRTH Gave HER A DAUGHTER, be PRAISED. AMEN. - F.D.

Holy mackerel,what a ride! "Jesus Christ, who are you?!" Harry breathed after all that, widened eyes skimming the text again. "She really went for the throat, huh? Wow. Murder, and as per my last 'fuck you', she wrote," he joked, with half a grin. "Wow. She writes like she's his estranged wife."

Considering the harsh malcontent flavoring her very personal-sounding attack, she very well could have been. For unlike M, every word written by the new adversary unlocked here drooled with deep familiarity with the pompous little man and, most interestingly, extremely authoritative importance. Harry's good buddy Vinny here was in deep, deep trouble, no two ways beating around the bush about that; and it was captivating.

But just like M, F.D.'s (whatever the hell that stood for) written syntax and excruciatingly formal lingo made for a headache of the highest caliber. It was aggravating and dizzying to read, thus forcing Harry's swimming eyes to repeat nearly every sentence just to absorb what was here. (Seriously, though— what was the deal with capitalizing nearly every single goddamn fucking word in a row? What were they, Facebook Boomers?! It honestly would've been the death of him if Vincent had chosen to adopt the same style, but gratefully, he didn't. It's good to see at least one of you can write like a normal fucking person, Harry sighed within.)

But before he moved on, Harry had to cover his bases even if he already knew the answer. He pulled Dahlia's postcard out of the surrounding research rubble to cross-check her sample against F.D.'s.

The result? Not Dahlia. He nodded to himself. "Good; cancels that out quick. Wellllll, we still got a new knot to untwine, so let's mark ya down an' keep an eye out for ya, huh?" So then he did, and with that, Harry allowed himself to finally continue on.

What came next to his eyes was an outright glorious companion piece of art to balance the verbosity and candor of F.D.'s scathing contribution. Without so much less than a finger width distance beneath F.D.'s eloquent smackdown was Vincent's.. uh.. extremelyless-than-cordial response, that opened up with a line that brought to mind an astute, blindingly-relevant, and frequently-quoted phrase one of the world's most renowned philosophers of their time once, and many times, famously himself said:

Ruh-roh, Raggy.

F.D. - MIND. YOUR. TONE!You have NO business speaking to me like that; — and God Herself, I DESPISE your attitude as of late. Do not attempt to blackmail me, you insufferable wench— your opinion is meaningless, and tastes like soured gruel in my mouth. May I take this time to respectfully remind you of your place, F.D. I simply DO NOT CARE what YOU, OR the Council says; and may I also "advise you" on how "chary" it would be of YOU to use the time you would be spending browning your nose, and sticking its filth into no business of yours, by proving to ME that you still have your full heart in the campaign, and sodding off to go figure out something ELSE. I do so hope I make myself clear, F.D.— for if not, then I shall say it again, in plain words you will hopefully understand, for it will be the very LAST time I shall say it: THIS ISSUE. IS. VOID. And you would do WELL to FIX IT at your earliest convenience. I do not want to hear about this any more. The next we speak, you will be facing reprimand for your impertinence. Concluding with the kindest regards towards your soul, — FV

Harry sucked in air through his teeth and cringed hard.

OUCH. Ouch, and.. wow.

Just.. wow.

—Talk about oof!Harry gnawed at his lip, reading eyes falling up and down over the part again and again. Fucking yikes, he thought, unable to get enough of the scald; this sounded way beyond personal! Whatever history existed between Father Vincent and F.D. wasn't the kind anyone should admire or strive for, but they'd probably make a fine case study for toxicity in relationships. Harry was astounded and desire to know more, piqued to the peak of Everest.

But the how's and why's of their contention was only for God to know, and for time, to tell.

F.D. didn't reappear for a clapback, though. It seemed Vincent had gotten the last word in, winning the match and ending the scuffle for good (or, at least in the events on this page). Harry went over everything he'd already read anyway, just to be sure. He was so preoccupied with looking only for the now-familiar handwriting he expected to see that he almost made a grave mistake in oversight, because there was just one more thing to find.

It was located rather far down from the debacle and penned in a script so small that it almost blended in with the other official and cryptic cult nonsense. It looked male, and sort of familiar.

It succinctly read:

father vincent - see me asap. we ought to talk. MGBP, HP jim.

"At least someone knows how to sign their name around here," the father sighed, dropping his chin to the pedestal of his hand. Harry wished he could be happier about finally getting a name for once, but the presence of even more mysterious abbreviated jumble made that a little hard to savor. He focused on the detail in familiarity, though, and backtracked through the papers to figure out why.

Aha; bingo. A great big smirk slithered across Harry's face as revelation came to light. Maybe he didn't know what 'MGBP' or 'HP' was yet, but he did know that Jim-bo here had a deep connection to a lot of the jargon on these pages - because his writing outed him as one of its authors.

"Awesome; perfect. I fucking love this; that's perfect."

Boy, was this whole affair way more than Harry bargained for, in both good and bad ways. What ensued thereafter was a ton of anatomizing and pondering to eat up his time. Harry added a lot to the steadily growing docket of things he and James needed to keep their eyes peeled for during their romp around town. But eventually the well ran dry on the matter, and brought further advancements on it to a full stop.

But even though the ciphers were done, Harry wasn't. On a roll and surfing the changing tides with ease, the father neatly gathered the cipher papers together and rose to his feet, taking the bundle to the adjacent table to be packed up later. While there, he searched carefully through the litany of items still awaiting his (or James's) attention, shifting things about until inspiration hit.

And hit, it did. Harry returned to his station, and flopped Cheryl's sketchbook down in the cleared space. Grabbing his notebook, he cracked the pages on the winding spine to a fresh face, pushed his sinking sleeves up past his forearms, and then sat down to part his daughter's nostalgic, scribbled seas.

It was time he tackled the problem of Claudia.

Harry found the beginning of those weird, not-Cheryl-Mason-original sketches, and smoothed the art flat. Wearing a frown as deep as his thoughts, he then folded his forearms on the table, and loomed solemnly over the first scene of three, and commenced his study.

The picture before him was drawn in crayon. It depicted two girls holding hands in front of a church: one had yellow hair, and the other had brown. They were twins in their smiles and outfits, uniform dresses colored in blue. (Harry recognized the fit - after all, it looked like what Alessa wore whenever she showed herself to him.) At their left (and thus, Harry's right) was an angry woman donned in a black dress, her head wreathed in a halo of electrified, crazy black hair. (Dahlia, of course.) Then right next to her, crouched in the safety of tall, green, grassy strikes, hid the third and final little girl shown here.

—or, rather, Harry assumed it was a girl. The thickly bunched flora's disguise did a masterful job of doing exactly what it was supposed to, but Harry thought his assumption was an educated one to lean on.

.. except for one thing. Remembering the drawings found at the church, Harry pulled them from his piles and referenced the Wish House children against the girl in the grass. It was deduced that none of them matched, but Harry put the packet of four aside within easy reach in the event he'd need to consult them again.

A blot of yellow caught his peripheral eye. Harry glanced at it. Quartered in the art's upper left hand corner there was an enormous sun, its rounded edge exuberantly decorated by a neat, alternating pattern of evenly-spaced long and short rays. It really stood out against the haphazard backdrop of the swirly blue sky, all so bright, innocent and happy. It brought a smile to Harry's middle-aged face.

God, how cute. That felt good to see. "You're missing your smiley face and sunglasses, bud," playfully chastised the father, in a sing-song voice. And though Harry had half a mind to pick up his pen and add the missing finishing touches himself, he respectfully abstained; he could never commit such an act of selfish crime like that.

(After all, for an adult to knowingly, and intentionally ruin a child's artistic vision was a crime punishable by bodily harm and death, in Harry's staunch opinion - and that was a hill he'd be glad to die on.)

The second-to-last detail on this piece was the big red arrow on the bottom, drawn beside the title, and guiding the viewer to the next page. Seeing as Harry wasn't ready yet to take its advice, he instead redirected focus to the botched description at its left.

Me and My best Friend — and Mommy doesn't Like her. We like to —- and —- games by the —.

Right.

Analysis began with deeming the brown-haired girl that, "You have to be Alessa," (which was said with a tender finger-pat); "And you," Harry said in an accusatory tone to the girl donning a yellow head, with a poignant, and strangely semi-hostile finger- tap! ), "have to be Claudia— because I can't imagine you being anyone else. And you.. I don't know about you," muttered a shred of annoyance, this time swinging tight circles around the child concealing herself away. "But if Dahlia's here, then.. you have to mean something— you're somebody important." His arms crossed beneath his chest. "But we'll get to you.

"Funny there's no Kaufmann," he noted, in afterthought. "But it's not like I'm gonna miss 'im, anyway.."

Having determined three out of the four persons, Harry carefully eyed the spread and wondered, "Now: how to do this.. I guess the first question is, is why doesn't Dahlia like her. Why don't you like Claudia, Dahlia? What did she do to you, hm..?"

Harry thought and thought, but thoughts came up null. "Shit. I don't really know where to go with–" He blinked. "Wait; where was that 'neighbor and friend of two', bit?"

A quick trip to the inventory procured the unfolded fortune teller, then Harry was back in his seat. He scoured the thing front and back, so deeply honed in on the student's predictions that he didn't even register the brown spots and smears of dried blood he'd once left behind from touching the piano. But just as he was about to lay it face down on the sketchbook, his brain finally caught up to his eyes and stopped to read one seemingly innocuous, but extremely important sentence again.

"'You'll flunk the math test at eleven-thirty'. Fuck. That's right," he grumbled. "This was where we got the clock tower puzzle, and the— aw, shit. Uuughhhh, awww nooo," the father groaned, dropping back into the chair. He smoothed his hair flat, deeply sighing irritated air from his nose as his fingers wove a cradle behind his skull for it to rest in whilst glaring judgmentally down at what'd turned out to be their very first bible clue, found so long ago.

"Fuckme; now what do I do? This means I'd have to get back to the bible shit, and.. ugghhh.. but I wanted to work on Claudi-aaaa ," he whined at it, as though it was the fortune teller's fault that he was about to switch gears. "Hmph.. .. hrm. Wait. Claudia had homework in her desk.. and it had the number on it, too," he mumbled, slowly untangling the knot in real-time. "So she knew about it; and it was the same damn quote that was in the principal's office.. soooo.."

He then spent another exhausted breath. "Well, I guess it only makes sense; she was the bible thumper, after all. Ugh.. yeah. Welp! Guess it's bible time! Lucky you, Claudia," Harry snarked, grabbing the holy - and unholy - books out of the piles. "Hope you're proud of me for finally getting around to studying your stupid fucking religion."

But seeking to prolong the inevitable as best he could, Harry delved into the Catholic's guide to heaven to see what they had to say about it, first.

Fortunately for him, the job ended apace. Harry spotted the verse near the beginning, in the famous book within a book called Proverbs.

Proverbs 11:30 read:

The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life, and the wise capture souls.

Well.. hm. The quote was kinda close to what he wanted, but still sounded like it was wrong. Leaving the section open for reference, Harry brought the Order's tome - which was of course stamped with the vaguest name imaginable ( Scriptures' , as it was) - and laid it on top.

Consulting the text was awful. The organization was messy and nothing like a normal bible. Numbering was erratic at best and almost pointless at worst, making Harry's hunt longer than it needed to be. But eventually he found the cult's plagiarized version further in near the middle, in a portion of the book that their religion called 'The Book of Paths'.

Paths 11:30 read:

The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life And the souls of the evil will be removed.

Harry repeatedly flicked glances between the two. "Yyyeaaahh.. that's pretty different," he told the room. "Context is too, duh. —uhhh.. no; no, wait," the man dejectedly sighed, reading the passages over again. "Ahh.. great. Nope; I don't get it. I think I'm gonna need The Dummy's Guide for this one. AUGH! —fuck me, I hate this shit.."

Swiftly rising to his feet, Harry began scooping the needed materials into his arms for the (bound-to-be-super-fucking-obnoxious) journey into the library's theology hoard. He was about to set off when a rogue glimpse saw the sketchbook he'd been forced to abandon, still lying open and expectant for his attention. Harry paused, feeling its pull, and slowly panning his gaze across all aspects of the drawing.

It was regrettable, but he couldn't get back to it right now. He'd been putting off the bible long enough, and since the wind had directed his sails to Bible Land, he knew he had to comply.

And that sucked. (But what else is new, when everything sort of sucked? That's right: nothing.) "Too bad I got sidetracked on that," he mumbled under his breath, deciding to turn away. "I'll fucking get back to it later."

And so with that the tired, and world-weary patriarch lumbered for the south wing where he soon disappeared, enveloped by the library's shadowy arms to trek the maze of knowledge in search of one simple thing, whilst all the while yet unaware of secrets it kept hidden in plain sight just around the corner within the wild and foreboding dark yonder, beyond.

—

Perhaps Harry would have felt a little better knowing that he wasn't the only one who'd fallen down a rabbit hole he didn't start off scampering around in.

Joining him in spirit and solidarity was none other than the one known as James: and James, while properly entangled in his own sidetracked adventures, was also surprisingly not pursuing them glued to his beloved machine. (And of which had fixed itself, by the way.) Instead, the conduit had relocated himself out of the basement and upstairs two levels high, now homing himself on the topmost floor.

As a matter of fact and dash of hilarious coincidence, it was a space James occupied a space that, if one were to view this moment from a dollhouse perspective, put him all but standing directly on top of Harry's head.

Yet despite the accidental stacking game, the mens' moods and target subjects couldn't've been more different. Whilst Harry wasted time glowering at the overabundance of theological stock a floor below him, at least what he was looking up was useful to his plot. James, erstwhile, spent his precious time passively glowering (though one could argue that 'passively glowering' was simply the default mood programmed on his face) at a field of knowledge that had exactly nothing to do with anything he'd been tasked to do on his end. (Just don't tell Harry.)

And that subject pertained to all things maritime.

How out of the ordinary; so what brought him here? Well, his initial reason was to see what the library shelves had stocked on the tragedies that'd taken place at Toluca Lake over the years (because wasn't it always about Toluca Lake?), and routine search for it in the microfilm archive came up suspiciously dry. As such, James had to look elsewhere. He went off the logical assumption based on finding it somewhere nautical; though what he should've done was overcome his antisocial tendencies and hatred for communication, and merely asked Harry for the proper guidance.

But since he clearly preferred to waste time making things difficult on himself, he happily booked that conscious mistake a one-way ticket and bid it bon voyage so that he didn't have to suffer the humiliation of needing Harry, or the torture of even talking to Harry when he didn't want to.

Off the plot map as he may be, it wasn't exactly like his time being in the wrong place was going to be totally lost and forsaken. On the contrary, James was actually in just the right place to research a long-forgotten (and almost entirely lost) piece of himself from the past that, if he hadn't've met Harry, he'd never have given second thought to ever again.

The harsh light emitting from the lost Sunderland boy's chest bathed his bony digits in a sickly, frigid white as they extended in reach for the shelf. His fingertips caught a book by its spine's topping rim and extracted it from its perch, laying his prize atop the stack he already toted in his arm. James furrowed his brow, roving his gaze over the gilded title stamped onto the canvas cover, glimmering and shiny against the backdrop of royal indigo blue that was appropriate in portraying the foreboding seas at night.

Music of The Waters

L.A. Smith

James furrowed his brow at its girth, then tucked the pad of his thumb beneath the cover's overhang and opened it. He breezed past the foreword to the table of contents to read what was there, and felt disappointed. This book was too much reading for what he was actually looking for, but though he closed it, he refused to put it away. His curious eyes scanned the row again until finally, a second choice and faith was made in a drab olive yellow tome also bound in flat and rough fabric, and discovered it just to his liking.

ENGLISH FOLK-SHANTIES

HISTORICAL SONGS O' LABOUR AND MERRYMENT

ON THE ROYAL SEAS

Collected by

S.J. VILLIERS

, declared the title page inside. The preface was short, and one page after that, James was reading the two column list called CONTENTS.

He spotted a title and whipped the pages to page eight. The book was so underused that its thick, starched pages sounded like holiday sparklers when flexed on their tight binding, and crackled like popping candy when he slid his palm down the book's middle part at his destination. James then lay his hand's weight there to keep it flat, and stared down at the sheet music and lyrics printed before him, feeling a little hollow and strange.

Like Harry, James met and wed a woman who knew how to read and play from piano music; but un like Harry - who couldn't read the language - James actually could. He'd totally forgotten he could, too.. until now.

Was it cheating if he already knew how the song went? Did it matter, or did he care? No to both. James felt a jittery congestion gather in his chest - complications of emotional turmoil he would never see a doctor about - as he danced his eyes up and down over the notes strung along a musical composer's clothesline.

And then - just like that, without an ounce of trying, intending, or a smidge of anticipation withal - James heard him.

Safe and sound, at home again;

The singing tenor of his father accompanied his son's reading eyes as they landed on each and every familiar word, sounding proud and boisterous; near, and yet so far.

Let the waters roar, Jack!

Safe and sound, at home again;

Let the waters roar, Jack!

Frank's voice sounded near and yet so, so far, a thousand miles away and yet still, as though the only measured distance was merely the ten feet of carpeted hall that separated James's own bedroom at one end of the apartment, from the living room at the front.

Long we've tossed on the rolling main, now we're safe ashore, Jack!

Don't forget yer old shipmate, faldee raldee raldee raldee rye-eye-doe!

He heard Frank laugh.

James turned the page, scrolling his gaze over the verse he found (and vaguely knew) there, read its notes to hear its tune, and repeated the process. He halted his languid cruise when he saw a title that brought a long-delayed realization to finally catch up to him, huffing and puffing and asking the question:

God, isn't it such a weird coincidence that dad and Harry both know shanties?

Then his lips drew a frown. Yeah.. it was. What were the odds that James would be raised with shanties, and then meet a man who seemed to know the only one he couldn't recall his father ever belting? James wanted to find humor in it, but couldn't at the moment; not with this wee revelation adding one more point to a list of obscure similarities between the two men that he wished would never grow one bullet was disconcerting.

And weird.

James read over the lyrics and music provided for Spanish Ladies and wondered why dad, a living jukebox of shanties with quite the repertoire to choose from, never uttered a line from this one. But as his eyes and brain worked together to interpret the music, so did his memory and imagination scheme and summon up a near-immaculate forgery of Harry's cut-up baritone to sing it for him.

Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain! For we've received orders to sail for old England, We hope in a short time to see yous again! We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar all on the salt seas Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues!

Hm; it was pretty upbeat. Catchy.

It made him wonder if Harry knew more than just the chorus - which, to be fair if that was all Harry realistically knew, it made a lot of sense since it was pretty catchy, as was intended. It was also nice to see the honest lyrics after only knowing this shanty in parody. His interest in it waned and he turned the page, thus silencing the mimicked half-speech-half-song style unique of the author at once.

Pages passed until James's melancholy eyes landed on one he remembered well; so well, that he perhaps might be open to admit that the tune was.. complicated. Nostalgia, the devious motherfucker that it was, didn't much care for James's tedious acts of repression today; because as the print helped regale the conduit with times forgotten about, it also coaxed his lips apart, and invited in a preparatory breath.

"Sooooo, help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley.."

Way, hey, bully in the alley!

(replied the patriarchal Sunderland, faraway and ghostly inside of his head.)

"Help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley;"

Bully down in Shinbone Al'!

"Well, Sally is the girl that I love dearly.."

Way, hey, bully in the alley;

(They'd never done this back in the day, taking turns singing a line - or singing together.. Anyone who'd ever heard James sing always said they'd sound nice together; so this would've been nice, it were real.

.. maybe.)

"Sally is the girl that I'd splice nearly.."

(This line here was cause to wolfishly grin, and it was rather immature of him, really; but boys will be boys. Context laid in the slang, which was obviously extremely antiquated, yet by definition, meant—

It means you'd fuck her, the memory of Frank butt in. James had been ten years old at the time of heckling dad for the answer, and boy, he sure got it. There was a lot more meat on that bone to chew on, but James had already swallowed his fill.)

—Bully down in Shinbone Al'!

And the duet, half-imagined, ended there.

Anecdotes of bygone days ebbed and flowed at will as James continued to flip the pages, humming nonsense notes under his breath. Maybe I'll show this to Harry, he offhandedly mused upon reaching the appendix at the back of the book. I know he'd definitely get a kick out of it.

With that, James closed the book, stared at it a moment more, then lifted his eyes to the shelves. He decided he was done sailing for today and hoisted interest's anchor to depart for more relevant and time-worthy shores, while carrying with a bounty-prize he didn't allow himself to recognize just how much he looked forward to sharing.

—

And Time will pass into Time and Time again; and in the Cycles, Her Flock will HEAR and HEED the Words She Once Spoke. For when we Listen, we will NOT mourn the Time Gone; instead, WE WHO ARE HER CHILDREN will WALK Her Path of Righteousness straight into the Time and Times ahead. She Our MOTHER, GOD of US ALL! SHE bled for us, Her flock; Her fledglings; Her Children. Together we say, AMEN.

"No, we don't," Harry grumbled back. "Don't speak for me."

Yet as always, the Order didn't care about Harry's defiance - and also, he was back-talking to a book. As such, the printed praise continued on without his approval whether he liked it or not.

(Which he didn't, but the picture was got.)

We heel to Her Divine Story; we LISTEN to Her Daughters; for THEY are a Mouthpiece for Her. For we are thankful. And Her people, her Children, begged for visions in the Times of despair; in God's quietest hours they prayed every day and every night to hear the Voice of the Angels. And every fortnight they came together under the innocent moon to tear clothing and BEG for forgiveness. AMEN.

"Only thing I'm 'begging' for is for this shit to make sense. God, I fuckin'— rrrgghh!"

Dropping his pen, Harry soundly slapped his hands to his face and rubbed them tiredly up and down. "No more, please; no more," he whined; or, daresay, begged. "This shit just goes around in circles and makes no sense, it's written like tossed shit on a cracker, and it's not like there's not even a fuckin' Dummy's Guide for the cult either, so I–! Ugh!"

Oh, poor Harry. That's what he got for putting the bible off for so long, really: he'd only barely started to make a dent in the first act, and he was already ready to ding the bell. The only mystery solved as of yet was where M and F.D. had gotten their writing style, but that was a victory hardly worth celebrating.

But that said, bitching and moaning wasn't going to make his work go any faster (a very unfortunate fact of life that Harry wished to see someday change in his remaining years) so he knuckled down, to get back to reading.

Begrudgingly.

God has two Hands that She Used to Mold the World. With Her two Hands She Created man and Woman; brother and Sister; son and Daughter; father and Mother; husband and Wife. Her Hands not only Hold, but represent Truth and Paradise. With HER two Hands She will Cradle the BELIEVERS over the SINNERS, and welcome them to TRUE PARADISE in the form of which WE were Born. GOD, Her Presence ALMIGHTY and SACRED, the TRUE Mother Of Us ALL, will Awaken through our OWN Reverent Hunt For LIFE and MERCY, as there is NOTHING but Betrayal and HELL without HER Loving Hands. Say it with Me, Her humble Servant: AMEN.

Hey, wait a minute - Harry remembered this one. If memory served the right plate, this'd been the same one he'd opened up to on their first trip to the church. Not only that, but it bore a unique peculiarity that was, so far, still the only one of its kind, and that made it hard to forget.

Someone had taken a ballpoint pen and underlined 'Life and Mercy' as well as 'Betrayal and Hell' twice each in turn. The selections clearly signified importance, and probably only to whomever had done the job; but why? And whom?

.. and hadn't this thing been fresh-out-of-the-box new?

Harry furrowed his brows. Correct: it had been. This was going to be shipped off to Utah. What Mormon country wanted to do with a religion that was most definitely not Latter Day or saintly wasn't really his business (at the moment), but it was pretty damn weird. Other than that small factoid, he was well out of food for thought. He gave a great sigh.

"Goddammit."

There was shit-all else he could do, but continue reading.

Harry finished the Order's first book within a book (which the scriptures dubbed 'The Book of Dawning' ) just under an hour and about two filled notebook pages later, and immediately got started on the next.

And holy hell, did it open up with a banger of a line.

Before there was Sin, there was God.

"Surprised the Catholics didn't think this one up," Harry muttered, quite impressed. "Unless they did, and the Order's plagiarizing them again, but.. dang, if that's original shit, then good on you guys."

(Harry supposed the Order could have a compliment once in a century's blue moon, as a treat - so long as they didn't get greedy about it.)

The second book in the biblical sequence, titled 'The Book of Wakening', seemed to begin as a continuation of the first's creation story. But the further he got on, Harry was finally hit with the morbid and foreboding stuff he'd been waiting for.

"Here we go."

It was a story about God's settlers getting cozy in their new, however unnamed colony (though Harry could only assume the land to be the future Silent Hill). God did as gods notably do: spouted some wisdom, said She had to go see a man about a dog but promised to be back by 10, and wandered off to become an absent parent for a while, leaving everybody else at the ranch to their own devices and mistakenly, sans godly supervision. For a while, things were alright - until they weren't.

Disaster struck (because what's a good bible story without it) in the years She was gone. Efforts to expand the population started to go tragically sideways as babies were being born sickly and drenched in blood. The lucky few that weren't were coveted and spoiled, while the unlucky too-many were deemed cursed and ritualistically.. 'disposed of'. (Translation: baby bonfires, but make it excusable because they prayed, like, really hard.) Harry hated to read this, but hated worse to believe the events told here actually happened.

See, Harry was an agnostic sort; his relationship with religion was all but nonexistent and "blah" until after the events of Silent Hill circa 1999. After that trip to the circus, the particulars surrounding religion started to get complicated and hostile in his mind - and quite understandably, too. As a whole, he'd always believed biblical stories - no matter the origin faith - ought to be taken with a grain (or several handfuls) of salt, or at least be consumed with one's feet on the ground and holding firmly onto the rails of reality. (The fancier term being, "suspension of disbelief".) In the Order's case, however, Harry regretted his weakness to believe there was too much twisted truth wound around every written word they wrote because his personal history with them had shown that it was more than likely fact - heavily embellished fact, but bold fact, nonetheless.

He just didn't think they had to go into excruciating detail about their bonfire ritual.

Yet still, he took note of every single step, and felt sick to do it.

In short, it was pandemonium. Offspring was being born wrong, crops were failing, the whole nine yards. It'd been five years now that God hadn't returned from Her doing god-knows-what, and Her people were struggling harder than ever before. Her lack of guidance and presence skyrocketed the settlers' fear for the future to an all-time high, forcing their leaders to react in the only way humans knew how:

By going balls-up stupid.

In an uninformed effort to "save the fertile candidates" (a phrase that disgusted Harry on an extremely deep personal level) from passing curse and sin to their unborn, a new list (though Harry thought it more apt to call it a "butcher's bill", because it was) of strict laws and ordinances based on idiocy and fear were drummed up on God's behalf. Do's and Don't's ranging from diet and prayer, to how to conduct oneself in public and private were established within the colony as a way of life to get immediately used to and were regularly, and - morbid pun intended - religiously enforced.

(The full list in its entirety was a sight to behold, too. Harry was shocked to find how massive it was, and wished he could be less shocked over how massively ridiculous it was, too. It stank heavily of worst-case-scenario old wives tales and medical misconceptions straight out of the Victorian era - honestly, was not eating cornbread on weekend evenings, and taking two hours' silent bed rest with your spouse per day really going to help ward away a bad birth? Really?,Harry wanted to know - but as an outsider of the present looking in on the past, Harry Mason could only grieve for the unfortunately human way things turned out for these misbegotten souls.

May they rest in peace.)

But the rules were the least of Harry's worries. What became of the helpless women and men who created the "cursed" newborns was strangled in pain and sorrow. For along with changing how general life was now to be led, gruesome punishment laws were crafted to hold the parents of the rotten brood accountable for what they couldn't control, and if Harry thought that enforcement of the laws mentioned prior got a little too out of hand, then he ain't seen nothin' yet.

So your baby is born wrong; what happens now? Well first, spouses were separated. The fathers were walked barefoot for miles far into the woods until they reached a "cleansing house" where they were stripped, made to kneel, and tightly bound to that position by salted rope. Over the course of seven grueling days they were subjected to torture including, but not limited to: sleep deprivation; starvation; genital flogging; bathing said rawed genitals in wooden tubs of boiling water for minutes at a time; blood-letting; screaming prayer; the worst game of tug-o-war Harry's ever heard of (but one the torture device manufacturers from the medieval days would unfailingly love); and being force-fed water from the lake (Toluca? wondered the note Harry jot down) to allegedly, "flush their soured seed from their wicked organs".

Sure, Order.

The women, in the awful meanwhile, were kept in (read: strapped to) their birthing beds and endured a regimen just as cruel. Punishments overlapped in sleep deprivation, blood-letting, and ruthless prayer, among others; then there were examples of direct opposites, such as the women being denied drink, instead suffering through hourly force-feedings of several pounds of butter a day for reasons bafflingly unclear. But amidst all that, they of course had to face horrors uniquely tailored for the female body; an example of which, being tourniqueting their breasts for an hour with milk-soaked rope, followed by rock compressions to "extract her curdled poisons". However, despite each and every one being insanely inhumane (and again, in Harry's opinion alone, rather misogynistic for a matriarchal religion), the boiled water douches to "scald the womb of impurities" was probably the most heartbreaking of them all.

Harry didn't have a medical degree, but he was certain noneof these approaches did any help to "cure" these poor women and men of anything, other than their mortality; and many - too many - did die for the cause. Should a husband or wife pass the cleanse but the other did not, the widowed was seen as tarnished and untouchable for a year before eligible for marriage to anyone brave enough to risk it. Should both halves of the couple make it out alive, the survivors were welcomed back into the community with open-armed praise and congratulations for their squeaky-clean souls, and best of all, the thumbs-up to start trying making babies again.

As for the failed dead, their bodies were thrown to melt and char on the same pyre as their children had before them until there was nothing left of them on earth but greasy ash, yet their souls could forever rest together, at last reunited as the family they should have allowed to have been.

But when God finally decided to return with the milk and cigarettes and saw how everything had gone to shit, She was, to put it too kindly, horrified. She'd also arrived in the nick of time (for once in Her life) to bear witness to one of these cursed births, and snatched up the child as soon as it left its mother and swathed it within the folds of Her own holy robes.

God Cradled the flayed Babe in Her Loving Arms and Rocked it, Dearly Smiling at its Ugliness. The Blood Child opened its Deformed eyes and Stared at its TRUE Mother, and did not fuss Once, at all. You will Soon Pass to Paradise Gates, My Child, God said to the Babe; And when you Die in My Arms, I will TAKE you Unto Me, and You will BECOME Me, as I will Become YOU. We will JOIN TOGETHER, in Spirit and Soul, My Beloved One; And as You were You BORN to Your Mortal Mother from her Mortal Womb, YOU were also Born from MINE; And thus, YOU are MY DAUGHTER TOO; WRETCHED art Thou, My DEAR CHILD OF MY DAUGHTERS' WOMB, but I am YOUR HOLY AND TRUE MOTHER, and the Next Day YOU are Birthed, YOUR SOUL shall be Intertwined with MINE: and Thus, You will BE REBORN AGAIN, as ME. So do not fear Death, Mother Our God SAID to the Red Infant: for She, the Walking Shadow of The End of Life, is as Natural as the Triumph of Birth, the Event that GIVES Life. And the Babe did not Cry; not for ITSELF, nor her MOTHER, nor her PEOPLE. God Smiled, and the Babe closed its eyes, and Her TRUE MOTHER watched as HER BABE died at peace in HER MOTHER's Tender Arms. And with her Soul thus departing the World as it was Known, so thus She became the First Daughter of God. The Robes of God in which She, THE FIRST BLESSED DAUGHTER OF GOD was Swaddled in Her short Life, was worn by Her Mother 'til the Next Babe was Birthed in the Safety of Her Lake's GREAT waters, as Commanded by Our Mother. And the Child was Healthy, just as SHE, Our Mother and God OF US ALL Proclaimed; and Her People saw NO MORE ILL NOR OMEN in the Children born Thereafter, as the Curse was GONE. And so We lift PRAISE to OUR MOTHER, THE HOLY; SHE OF CRIMSON SPOTTED GARB AND MERCY, TO WHOM WE REVERE, TO WHOM WE THANK AND PRAY, FOR TOGETHER WE ARE HER CHILDREN AND FOR WITH HER, AND TO HER, WE SAY, AMEN.

.. hm.

Well, isn't that all just so.. enlightening.

Harry recognized that finding this story was a breakthrough moment in the journey of dissecting the Order's faith, as the connotations involved here blared brighter than Las Vegas billboards in the dead of night; but it'd been so taxing to read that he hardly felt accomplished. It seems to me like poor Alessa was doomed from the startof the start, the father grimly observed during a second full re-read. Oh, that poor, poorgirl.

This shit just fucking sucks.

Harry Mason then hunkered down, and got to work.

Hours of toiling over God's storybook of horrors later, Harry's brain felt as nutritious and useful as a wet loaf of bread. He decided to throw in the towel, dog-eared his place, and dropped the book onto a pile. "Fuck this shit. I need a fuckin' break. "

Planting his hands on the table, Harry stood up, groaning out all his middle-aged aches and complaints. He went through a routine stretch to get back some semblance of feeling human again, raking an absent review of the notes currently open to him on the table. Not bad, Harry concluded, liking what he saw; not bad at all. "Cool. We'll go with that."

Despite this stamp of approval, Harry anyway resolved to make break time short and sweet - there was tons more to do, and really, he'd been really cookin' before the ol' meatloaf got all burned up in its tin. Half an hour - or, half an hour best judged without a clock - should be plenty.

Yet just as he set sights on turning heel and spending precious time filling his head with ideas he liked a whole lot better than the Order's, there came an echo reverberating off the towering walls that made his heart dreadfully sink. Harry stopped, tilted his head back, and looked to the glass-domed sky to ask God to grant him Her empowering strength.

Click-clack, spoke the sound that heralded the impeccably-timed arrival of the one singular person Harry knew to possess an unspeakable talent for choosing to his timing unwisely: and that, of course, could only be none other than the one, the only—!

Dammit,James Sunderland, you are such a dick, Harry privately grumped to himself, and the sky. Of course you'd show up just as I was about to leave! You fucking asshole, how do you do it?!

(Yeah - that guy.)

"Howdy, James!" greeted Harry, spinning a half moon and brandishing James a big, jovial smile to hide just how annoyed he was with him. "Long time no see. What's new in your neck of the woods?"

James shrugged, coming to the end of the trail and standing post barely half an arm's length away from Harry. "Nothin'."

Oh, not again. "You're a liiiitle too close, bud," Harry teased, gently putting a guiding hand on his shoulder and easing James a step and a half back. "Theeere ya go. Gotta give me some breathing space, yanno."

James looked a little offended at the audacity of being touched, howbeit had no sights set on picking a fight over it. "Sorry."

"S'okay! I know you like checking out my pores," Harry forgave. "Though if they really interest you that much, I think we should look into signing you up for a beautician's school after this."

"Mmf."

"So what's up? How're you comin' along?" Harry looked down, only now noticing the armful of books nesting in James's hold. He nodded upwards at the haul. "What's that?"

"Books. And research. I was just—"

"Books? Wow, you coulda fooled me. Gee, you got me kinda bummed out, now; I thought you were coming to show me a litter of kittens, not some crummy old books."

James lowered his chin, bestowing a courtesy glare upon Harry from beneath his thick brows. "Shuddup. I was just coming up to get the bug book. I'm still working on the moths."

"Cool beans! The book's over there on the table," Harry said, another upwards tilt of his head indicating the place. "I haven't touched it."

"Okay." James stared at him, then fell a glance to the table. The district curl his lip painted said a lot on what he thought about Harry's work ethics. "You still working on the cult bible?"

"Yeeeee-up! I've about had it, though," sighed the man in questionable criticism, passing a hand over his hair. "M'ready for a break."

"Cool."

"Yeah, I thought so too; I even came up with the idea myself. What about you? You taking a break anytime soon?"

The younger man's shoulders performed their famous noncommittal pump. "Nah. Not yet. Kind of in the middle of getting stuff done."

"Neat. Well, good luck with that."

"The machine's acting fine now, by the way," the conduit added, stopping Harry a second time. "You were right; it just needed a break, too."

"Yeaah, f'course it is.. I figured as such," Harry again sighed. "Well that's good news, at least. Kudos to the machine." He smiled slightly. "Any more good news? I could always use it."

James paused to think. If he did have any more good news as requested, he seemed to have drawn a blank about it. "Uuuhhhmm.. nnnno. But here," he said, picking the book crowning his hoard and offering it out to Harry, "I found this getting sidetracked, earlier. I thought it's something you might like."

Harry blinked, taken by dumb surprise. "Oh, yeah? What is it?" he asked, accepting it and looking over in both hands. James made a dull noise.

"Sea shanties."

" Sea shanties?" Harry parroted, lifting a befuddled face up at James. "Well that's the last thing I'd ever expected! Where'd you find a book on sea shanties?"

Yet another bland noise. "In the nautical section."

"In the nautical..? What were you doing up there?" Then Harry's concentration consumed a beat, his lips downturned and eyes sent off to the side. "Wait, is the nautical section up or—"

"Up. Last floor," corrected James, thumbing past his shoulder. "Doesn't matter. I was just up there looking at stuff, saw the book, and thought you might like it."

Harry smiled warmly. "Well, gee. Thanks.. I appreciate that."

The conduit nodded awkwardly, his neutral expression unchanged. "Yeah."

"So what, you a hobbyist mariner?" Harry joked, lifting the cover to look inside. James hesitantly chucked, shifting his weight between his feet.

"Nah, um.. not me. My, um.. m-my dad was, though. Or– o-or sorta was, I guess," he clumsily added. "He— he uh, spent a lot of time out on the seas."

"Oh yeah?" asked a slightly higher pitch Harry doused in interest. "Why's that, if I can ask?"

At least he did ask. James sighed soft, looking away from Harry's inquisitive stare. "Yeah, sure.. um.. my dad— m-my dad was a commercial fisherman, before I was born," he said. "He worked up off the coast of Portland. — um, Maine. Portland– Portland, Maine."

Fascination breathed from the older man. "Wow.. y'don't say? Huh. That's kinda neat; that's a pretty hard job."

"Yeah, I guess, yeah."

"So.. what; your dad sang shanties? I didn't think they did nowadays, or even on this side of the pond," Harry curiously remarked, with a stunted laugh. "But hey! Whadda I know? Makes sense that they would. It's a cool tradition to keep alive, either way."

James found the gumption to peek at Harry from the corner of his eyes. "Well, yeah— I mean, I gotta guess so, since he knew some."

A dose of embarrassment on Harry's end was timidly laughed off as he looked back down at the book. "Yeah, yeah, true that.."

The conversation seemed to dwindle off after that, permitting James to relax a bit. That was nice. Impressively nice, might he add. Harry really did take his promise to work on niggling James for information seriously. He appreciated being asked for permission first, but not only that - he had reason to be impressed with himself, too. Talking about Frank was no walk in the park, much less willingly offering any private information at all. The progress made here was outstanding, by both mens' accounts.

James was glad the conversation ended there, though; it was truly amazing how speaking so little took so much out of him, and now felt almost exhausted in its wake. He sighed, ready to move on from it to other things, and opened his mouth to change the subject.

.. but then—

"Dad had a bunch of friends and drinking buddies he knew and made from the docks," James said unprompted. The writer raised attentive eyes. "They came around drinking a lot. They liked to meet up at the bar and get drunk. They'd get bawdy."

Harry quietly chuckled, lowering his gaze to the page again. "Sailors are known for that."

"They'd sing shanties then. Naughty ones."

— and then once more immediately looked up, suddenly on red alert.

Something was off.

"Yeah, I imagine," Harry casually said, testing the waters. "They usually were."

"They liked to sing kind that talked about fucking women and drinking themselves stupid in an alley," James replied, staring him through. "So yeah, I'd say so."

Mmnn.. no, I'd say you say too much, Harry warily thought, scrutinizing each and every living detail to be seen (or surprisingly, not seen) on his companion's face; and the red flags were everywhere. It made Harry's heart burn cold as dry ice. Something was off, here; and he's seen it before. Twice before.

Just this time–

"They'd go nearly all night," he said when Harry didn't respond, "and dad would stand up on the tables when he was really into it. Usually about five beers in. Never when he was on hard liquor, though. He always drank the handles at home."

Yeah, no; this was no good, everything about James's entire face was wrong,and the red flags Harry's gut instinct was going absolutely nuts over could fill a football field.

Shit and fuck, Harry hated this. Despite how this deep and intensely private information was seemingly coming straight from the conduit's mouth, he knew that it wasn't, because Harry knew he wasn't talking to James; or, rather, that James wasn't talking to him.

And Harry had no desire to hear what he wasn't supposed to.

But what really got razors slithering about under Harry's skin was the wrongnessin his whole face. The offbeat language and un-James-like stilt raised the hair on his forearms, but still didn't compare to the details present, and missing in his cohort beside him - namely, those that were supposed to be found in his eyes.

The professional author locked on to that set of deadened green eyes, and saw something sordid in the glassiness that wasn't normally there.

I knew it.

It was always about his eyes.

"That's typical of shanties," the father casually replied, pasting on a smile. "They always liked to let loose."

"He–"

"Anyway, James," Harry cheerfully interrupted, supporting the slim open tome in his left hand while he dropped the right to his hip, a friendly smile plastered on his face. He left no room for response, however, instantly snapping the book shut with a loud, sound CLAP!.The library acoustics snatched up the noise and flung it booming throughout the room like the first crack of lightning in a summer storm.

James sharply flinched. Harry, of course, did not. He kept up the smile, watching the conduit instantly rebound, spooked back to earth. Good: the trance appeared to be broken. He hoped that was the last time it'd happen; but sometimes, it was just easier to openly play the fool. "Thanks again for the book," he warmly said, moving on nevertheless. "I'm gonna get a real kick outta reading it."

".. yeah. No problem."

"Neat! Well–"

"Hope you like it."

"Oh, I will! Lucky for you, I probably don't even know next to half of them, or how they're supposed to go, so I can't drive you nuts with it," the veteran chuckled, absently using the stiff book to fan stale air cool into his face. "So at least you got that goin' for ya."

".. I guess."

"You said you were gonna work on the moths?" James blinked again and nodded. Harry did, too. "Book's over there on the table."

"Yeah, you already said that," James sassed, rolling his eyes and departing to fetch it. "You're a broken record, Harry."

"At least I'm predictable!" (Unlike you. ) "Count your blessings, and all that."

James found what he wanted from the inventory table, the unique bug book taking the place of the shanty anthology on the top of his cradled pile. "Yeah, whatever. You need anything from here?"

"Nah. I'm taking a break, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

Harry's voice shrugged, "I'll look at it later."

"Mm'kay."

"Alright! That's my cue to leave," Harry announced, waving his gift in the air and sticking it under his arm. "Toodle-pip, James!"

"'Kay. I'm gonna go work on this downstairs, so–"

He stopped mid-turn, stared, and blinked blankly at Harry. The man he faced stood before him as a caricature of military attention, his spine adopting a posture tall and rigid, his chest hoisted puffed and pigeon-ly under his chin (or rather, chins , with an 's', for the chin he deliberately burrowed there squished out maybe four more around his neck). The not-army veteran satirized the determined scowl of an overeager and obedient recruit that was practically all but lost in the comedic pool of skin plumped and squashed like dough around his face.

It was funny, and would've gotten a typical chuckle and eyeroll out of James if it were not for one thing about it: the salute. It wasn't right. James stared quizzically at the discrepancy in an otherwise familiar American sight, the busy hive of rapidly multiplying question marks in his head blotting out half of whatever Harry was then saying.

"Godspeed, landlubber!" the idiot barked in a voice nearly an octave deeper than his normal tone. "May the lucrative entomological studies be swift and with ye."

But James didn't reply. Silence occupied the space between them and left Harry hanging as the resident scrutinized his hand. The gesture of respect performed defied the American standard, poised with the palm facing out, instead of in. Harry waited for James to hurry up and say something. He was committed to the bit until the end, but his neck was really starting to hurt all turtled like this.

James finally reacted, making a face and inquiring, ".. what the hell is that?"

About time! Harry dismounted the signal from his forehead and went at ease, fluidly stowing both hands into his pockets. "What's what?"

"That salute; that's not how you do it."

A grin appeared. "Ha, says you! The Brits would beg to differ, though. Jeez, James, some Ally you are."

James only grew visibly more confused at an answer he didn't really know how to take. ".. huh? Why the—? You're not British, Harry."

"Not directly, no, but history says the Mayflower would also beg to differ."

A small scoff. "Whatever. But why the British salute?"

"For fun!" Harry chirped, grinning still. "Cuz it looks ridiculous. Doesn't it?"

"Yeah. It does." James, curious enough to linger another minute and hear more, cocked his hip and casually sat some weight there for the meantime. "I don't think I've ever seen it before."

"No? Huh! Well, now ya know. I'm always happy to teach something new."

"Where'd you learn it?"

The father peered back at him, starting a lazy back-and-forth sway on his heels. "In high school! Drama club, actually."

Considering his by-now infamous track record, James didn't seem all too surprised to hear that. Even so, the tidbit just contradicted Harry's constant claim on how he felt about taking up the job, thus bringing cause for James to flavor his reply with a dash of tonal salt. "I thought you didn't like acting."

The rocking continued unperturbed. "Ohh, I don't. It was just an elective to fill the time. I actually learned it there that I didn't like acting, but it was alright. It was a fun experience I'm glad I had, anyway— and it was a great way to meet girls too, yanno."

The look on James's face was mocking. "Yeah. Of course it was."

"I reckon you wouldn't know."

"Nope."

He shrugged. "Sucks for you!"

The disdain melted down into curiosity, however. "Why? .. did it work? "

Harry cheekily teetered back and forth, peppering a youthful bounce into his heels and grinning like a fiend. "Yeah, here and there! Chicks love a fearlessly sensitive man. Not a lot of guys have the guts to join the drama club, so hey! More for the nerds."

James's lips tipped a little frown. Ugh; he hated when Harry got that cavalier attitude. "Yeah.. I'm sure you were a regular Casanova."

Harry heard the scold loud and clear, but openly shrugged it off. "Mmmn, not entirely. I was kind of a weird kid and definitely one of the nerds, buuut conservative parents will do that to ya. Anyway, it was fun while it lasted," he said, bringing his motion to a clean end as his grin downgraded to a smile. "I was just lucky enough to find a couple of girls willing to kiss me back then."

"Hmm. Lucky them."

"Hey, and me! Hmph, you're mean. Soooo," Harry broached, changing the subject and giving James a once-over. "You wanna know what I learned about why the Brits salute like that? Cuz I imagine you don't wanna hear any more about the girls I enchanted and wooed over a semester."

Sighing, James flicked his head to dash the long blond bangs out of his eyes and resigned to finishing what he actually started. "Yeah, sure."

"Which one?"

"About the salute, you idiot."

"Takes one to know one, and I'm glad you asked! So as you probably already know, the knights way back in the medieval days had a flap on their helmet to go over their eyes, right?" James nodded. "Well, whenever they came riding up to a fortress or castle, the guards needed to see their eyes so they could identify them as friend or foe.

"The problem was, was that it was a pain in the ass to remove the helmet; it wasted time, and, most importantly, taking it off meant the knights were left open and vulnerable to sniper attack. So instead of going through all that trouble every single time, the visor flaps were attached on hinges so all the knights would have to do was lift it to say hi, and be safe in keeping their head on their neck at the same time, too. But lifting it put the palm outwards, like so." Harry pantomimed. James watched, and nodded. "And from there, it just caught on as a form of salute. The end."

"Huh. .. interesting."

The father beamed. "Isn't it? And, to think! You didn't even have to pick up a book to learn it."

"Yeah," James blandly agreed, "thanks for that. Saves me a whole lotta time looking for something I wouldn't otherwise think or care enough about to go looking it up."

Harry chuckled, right chuffed with the deadpan humor. He liked it; it was so suiting and charming on him. "Ahh James, you know how I love to help expand a brain! I'm always happy to oblige, anytime you need it; I'm just chock full of useless information, as you know." The conduit watched him incline his head, his brown-eyed gaze shooting up to the ceiling to consult it for a second opinion. "Ehhh.. and some useful. It's about evenly split half-and-half," Harry then amended. "I gotta give myself credit where credit is due; I do know a ton of useful crap, for what it is."

James expressed some doubt. "Yeah, that's up for debate, but sure - whatever you wanna believe, Harry."

"Oh, please; why, I never! Go on and try me, ye of little trust," Harry swiftly rebuked in return. "Go on and try me! I have an answer for anything you've ever wanted to know."

"Oh I'm sure, but it probably won't be correct. "

"How're you gonna know unless you ask and wait around to hear it, eh? Riddle me that, smarties."

James smiled, although Harry would better call the tilt on his lips a 'smirk'. "You sound so sure of yourself."

"I sure am," he boasted. "I've got no reason not to be, and you can even quote me on that."

He took a moment to think about it. "Hm. Okay," the resident said, haughtily tipped up his chin. "If you're gonna be so sure, then let's bet on it, then."

The writer instantly looked excited. "Sounds good to me! I love robbing a bank. How much you wanna put down?"

"I got five bucks in my wallet."

"Ooh, big spender. You wanna put down all of it?"

"Yeah. It's my entire life savings."

"I love the way you think." Harry promptly thrust out an open hand. "Alright, cough up the moolah, first - I want proof of payment."

James shook his head. "Nuh-uh. You either gotta convince me you're worth it first, or you cough up some money, too."

Chiding disappointment clicked Harry's tongue. "Aaww James, whaaaat; don't you trust me?"

"No."

"That's fair." The author escaped his unfulfilled hand back into his pocket, and grinned. "You might be smarter than you look."

"Wish I could say the same."

"Oh, don't worry; you will. Alright! Fine. Guess we're honor-bound now," Harry announced with grandeur, "so don't disappoint me!"

"Same could be said for you."

Harry smiled. "At least you can say something's the same for me. So c'mon, hit me with your best shot: whadda you wanna know?"

So it seemed Harry may have been right to diagnose that "smile" James had as a smirk. The expression plastered on his lips gained a wicked edge as a question was formulated in his blond head, eliciting a new rush of excitement in Harry, and an imagined wealth of prospects to go scampering amuck in his own. He grinned deviously to match the heat James put out, and patiently waited for the question he knew would come to butter on a slice of solid gold bread.

"Okay, hot shot," James said at last. "Think fast: how do we get out of here?"

"You turn around and head down that hallway back there behind you and take the door on the right," Harry said in the start of a bullshit response thought up faster than the speed of light, and sweeping his finger up to point out the location past James's shocked head. "It says 'EXIT' on the door, ya honestly can't miss it. Just remember to push, not pull - unless you wanna look stupid, so which in that case, then I highly recommend pulling on it to your heart's content; it'll take a little longer, but you'll still get it open one way or another. But if you're in a big hurry and wanna be a square, just push it open like I said and you'll be outta here a lot faster in no time flat, and then you can go off on your merry little way to do whatever it is you do frolicking about in the fog."

Then Harry grinned, stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, and gave a cheeky little shoulder-wiggle. "And that, my dear friend, is how you get outta here."

The Mason patriarch, who was preemptively swelling up smug and proud as can be and gearing up to throw a one-man parade in honor of winning, was about to discover he was preparing for the wrong thing. For the sheer unprecedented nature of the event that followed whisked the arrogance right out of him like wind to a candle flame, and catapulted him shocked, stupid, slack-jawed, and powerless into the sandbox dumped directly out of his wildest fucking dreams.

Because what happened then, was that James laughed.

Take heed, so none be mistaken about the weight of this laugh: this laugh wasn't chuckle or a pretended one, nor tried to sell itself as the type of snort or breathy nose-laugh that James commonly defaulted to. It was neither of those, nor did it fit in those categories, nor in any offshoot form of them thereof.

Because the laugh James suddenly, uproariously gave, was honest-to-god real:it was a brilliant and fully-fledged, fantastic and loud, genuine, and genuinely beautiful..

Laugh.

Harry stood there stone-still, staring at James in what felt like a worldless room. Tangibly he knew that the younger man - whose isolated universe separated them far beyond reality's three years difference in birth dates and shackled him forever twenty-seven - didn't stand past five feet ahead of him; and yet the tunnel that swallowed them placed James ten miles away, and also right where he was, clutching his books to his chest, his head thrown back, elation splitting his pale mouth a grin and bearing Harry his teeth in the kindest snarl a human was known to muster.

A laugh.

For once, Harry was quiet. His face showed nothing: not a smile; not a frown - pure neutrality, like the roles he and James had been seamlessly switched. The aging veteran watched his tragically depressed companion laugh and didn't know how or what to feel. He did feel an emotion padding his self, but it lingered without a name; and perhaps English couldn't invent one.

But that didn't matter. What did, was this beautiful fucking moment happening right in front of him that demanded reverence in observation - and for the approximate fifteen seconds unanimously judged too short by all potential and standing authorities great and small in any living world, Harry paid his respectful dues in surplus, and as a result, felt fantastically at peace.

And those fifteen whole, earth-shatteringly-wonderful seconds, the town of Silent Hill didn't seem like such a bad place to be stuck in, after all.

All because he - Harry Mason, father of Cheryl, and Heather Mason, the Order's Daughters of God - got the town's conduit, James Sunderland, to laugh.

The sound was so fucking beautiful, and Harry didn't want it to everend.

But, as good things always must, it gradually did when those precious fifteen seconds of joy were up.

"Okay, wiseass," James finally rebuffed, calming down and bearing a grin that toothily reflected on Harry, "that's not what I meant, but–"

"Hey!" Harry shrugged as big as his pocket-locked hands allowed. "You asked!"

James snorted this time. (Harry felt sad to hear that was all it was.) "Yeaaah, I did."

"And since I delivered, I don't see a problem here! I held up my end of the bargain, soooo.. maaaaybe you should consider being more specific in your wording next time, mmmm..? Now. A- hem. " Harry magically reappeared his expectant left hand in a series of grandiose twists and flair. "My five bucks, if you please."

Then in an all un surprising turn of events, James derisively glanced at Harry's presented hand, looked at his face, and called Harry a dumbass via the flattest stare to be ever witnessed and documented by mankind. "I actually don't," he said, shamelessly blowing him off and turning away to flee the scene, "because I don't have it."

In ditto to unsurprising events, Harry took instant and loud offense, balling his previously open hand to a fist and jerking it down to his side. "AUGH! I knew it! " he lamented to the back of the resident's retreating head. "James Sunderland, you scammer! You cheapskate! "

"Bye, Harry."

"I trusted you!"

"You shoulda known better!" he called over his shoulder.

"I knew I shoulda made you prove it first!"

"Sucks for you!"

"You know what? I'll add it to your tab!" Harry informed the man still nonchalantly walking further and further away. "You know you owe me somany Cokes by now, James, and now you got five bucks you gotta scrounge up before I can call you even!"

James shot him back a look. "Not on your life, you moron."

Harry mocked him, too. "And you're mean for no reason, name-calling and all! I should start charging you interest just for that!"

"Bye, Harry."

"Bye, James!" lifted Harry's voice. "Keep a watch out for KARMA!"

And with no response to follow, Harry had effectively gotten the last word in while the town's young conduit in green faded into the south wing's awaiting dark, while strangely wishing that victory hadn't also been his, too.

He sighed and shook his head, dipping it forward and tiredly rubbing the back of his neck. The massage continued in distraction as he pivoted on his heel, intending to exit stage right for the north wing. Harry's escape attempt didn't get him far, however, as he'd barely trekked two steps when he was startled by something falling down his side, and landing thunderously on the floor with a pants-browning SMACK!.

Appropriately terrified, Harry jumped back and spun to the noise in black trousers still blessedly clean. He set a soothing hand over his racing heart and looked down at the bland, title-less book cover staring up at him from the floor. It confused him a moment, wondering what it was and why he had it; and then he remembered; and then, Harry's shoulders fell.

Wow; speaking of karma, dully fucking noted, the father thought. There was a sigh, then after the songbook's reluctant retrieval, he stood there staring at it with something changed weighing heavy in the center of his chest. He didn't like the feeling, because this one had a name in the language he knew, and thus, too upsetting to bear.

God, he really didn't want to do this anymore.

Harry Mason then sighed, looked the book once more over, and slowly turned towards the tables.

Break time was over.

It was time he got back to work.

—

Some hours later night had fallen, and Harry was still reading by the help of his light. James hadn't resurfaced in awhile. Harry didn't know where he was or what he was doing; and really, couldn't interrupt himself to wonder. Studying the Order's scriptures ate all brain power and he needed every last percentage. He was way behind in bible progress, and that was his own fault. Harry probably shouldn't have prioritized the ciphers over the bible these past couple days, but subconscious avoidance was a hell of a drug.

At least he recognized it. Harry scrambled to catch up with lost time, cannonballing himself into the cult's biblical pool like was getting paid six figures for it (which would've been a nice way to soften the blow). Yet all these hours later, it was pretty discouraging to notice he'd only advanced to a place maybe fifty pages shy of the middle of the book, but it made a little more sense after factoring in all the mandatory cross-referencing involved, which all exponentially hampered his desired progress rate.

But such was life. Reading the bible couldn't possibly get any worse than this, right?

.. right?

Harry, blissfully unaware of his own total ignorance, turned to the next page.

— uh oh.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Harry sat up straight, gawking down at the book, and immediately started to panic. "Oh, fuck– no, no no no, NO!" he squawked with growing alarm and skipping feverishly through the thin pages one after the other, desperation taking him by storm as he suddenly found himself plunged into a whole new world of trouble. "NO, come on, what the— what the fuck happened?!"

Well, what seemed to have happened looked to be a tremendous manufacturing error, for starters - or, if that's what logic would want to call it.

But what befell Harry right now was that the book was suddenly rendered almost entirely useless, with hundreds of pages - and counting! - being devastated by blackout puddles of ink absolutely everywhere. There were unsoiled chapter pieces further into the book, but even they succumbed to the inky plague all over again. The belief that this was a manufacturing error rather than intentional censor was one Harry shirked in record time, because at the rate this was it, he truly struggled to believe it wasn't unintentional.

There was just no way.

"Who the hell approvedthis?! Did nobody fucking check for bum prints?!" he angrily shouted. "Jesus Christ, you have GOTto be kidding me."

It was ruined. It was all absolutely, totally, irrefutably and irredeemably, ruined.

What a load of horseshit.

"No, I'm done. I'm fucking done with this, I'm not even gonna go look for another copy," Harry seethed under his breath, slamming the book shut and tossing it skidding across the table with agitation and defeat. "Fuckyou."

Harry jabbed his elbows onto the tablet and clawed his fingers into his hair, then held his skull between his hands like a jeweler's claw, breathing slow and trying to cool anger's flames.

This library stay was really not going as hoped or planned. But Harry was a survivor as well as a stubborn motherfucker, and that was a fact he tried really hard to channel at the moment to help calm himself down and convince himself to switch gears, and continue with work he knew he had yet still to cover.

He could pick up work on the sketchbook. Harry retrieved it, opened it up; and did exactly nothing, his eyes and grey-matter vacantly glazing over almost at once.

No, Harry decided after a moment, blinking away the haze; this wasn't going to work. He was done. Like, done, done. He hadn't cashed in on the break he'd intended to earlier, and partaking in this Order-blessed shitshow was the nail in the coffin. Harry felt no better than a gummy, fried calamari Monday Special from head to toe, and that's how he knew it was time to throw in the towel for good.

Harry felt lighter in a flash. He rode the high while taking the time to collect, sort, and organize his things, and, setting aside the books he needed to return to the shelves - which was a job for later-Harry - his shop hours were effectively closed. Then, with a satisfied smile and ideas bouncing around for what sort of literary fun he was soon going to get into as a reward for all his hard work, rose to his feet.

.. and guess what: the fun was going to have to wait. Again. Harry sighed, dismayed shoulders drooping low as James's light was spotted emerging from the south. The patriarch slid his hands into his pockets, and dutifully stood there in anticipation for James's arrival.

James arrived. "Hey, Harry."

"Hi, James. Guess what."

The conduit hesitated, peering into his face. ".. you, were.. about to take a break?"

"Bingo!" Harry's cheer was false. "How'dja know? Didja set a timer or somethin'?"

Annoyance fluttered over green eyes. "Yeah, anything to make your life harder, Harry."

"Aw, James, you card. And you do such a great job of it, too."

"Yeah, and you too. Listen," James said, seriousness deepening his tone, "I found some out shit about the moths."

Harry ditched his pettiness streak, and blinked at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

James turned to, and began to unload the books his arms carted onto the table. Harry picked his light from his sweater collar and helpfully shone it down on the array while James started spreading out evidence for presentation. "Jeez, that's as much stuff as you had before," Harry remarked. "Is this the first time you're putting it down?"

"I actually have some history with moths in town," James said, ignoring the quip. "I met a bunch of them in South Vale. Didn't know what they were called, or— or what type they were, or why I saw them for the longest time, because I didn't give a shit; but then I came across them in this book, so I went to look them up."

Harry set his unoccupied hand on the table to brace for his lean in. He cast a surreptitious glance at his companion at left, gauging to make sure the James presently talking to him was James, at all; and he seemed okay for now. Still, Harry wisely stayed on guard.

"This is the black witch moth," James said, dropping his finger on the color photograph in the library's book, which drew Harry's attention to it. "It's nocturnal, and huge. Comes from Brazil; and I guess the southern states, too."

"Mm, okay."

"But there's folklore that associates it with death or misfortune."

"Ah, so that's why you're showing it to me," Harry nodded. "So what you're telling me is, is that Silent Hill's symbolism strikes again, is that it?"

The civilian exhaled a snort. "Yeah. A little."

Harry judged him briefly. "I imagine you're not gonna tell me why, either."

"Yeah, no, keep dreaming."

"Makes me wonder why you're mentioning or showing this to me, then."

A stern temper regarded Harry. "Because Alessa, it's the bug books, and it has importance - to me. One of our main problems, if you recall, is that what happened to me in South Vale and what happened to you here in Old Silent Hill tend to have an overlapping pattern.. yeah?"

A performed thought, then a shrug. "I guess."

"No, not 'guess' - there is. And since I found the black witch moth mentioned in the bug book, I just found another connection that ties it."

Harry studied the picture, ticked his head to the side, and then looked over at James. "I've never said I'd seen this one before - and before you ask, no, it doesn't look familiar - but I get your point. Alright. So what about butterflies?"

James's brows furrowed. "Huh?"

"Alessa had butterflies; it was kind of a big thing for her. Did you see any butterflies while you were in South Vale, too?"

The question had an answer that shook his head. "No. Just the moths, I think. Things were kinda dark, Harry.. and I mean that literally. I also want to mention that a lot of the moths and butterflies look the same," James dryly continued, "and I really wasn't paying attention to what genus and species the bugs I saw there were supposed to be, at the time. But yes, I know Alessa had an extensive collection. You mentioned them in your notes."

"Yeah, which was why I saw 'em. Beautiful things. I gotta admit something to you though, now that you've brought it up," Harry said, to the other's surprised confusion. "Back at the Midwich insect gallery show, there was a shadowbox case of butterflies and moths we saw there, next to Leonard's one-armed donation moth. You remember that?"

"Uh.. yeah. I think I do."

"We found the key under it. Anyway, that was Alessa's." Harry looked thoughtful. "Pretty sure of it, at least."

James's eyes, in an expression fitting for the scenario, bugged out. "Wh— why didn't you say anything?!"

Harry dismissively shrugged it off. "Why should I? I dunno, James. I just.." He gestured vaguely. "I was in a state. Don't worry about it."

That didn't seem to fly. "Harry, that could've been import—"

"What were we gonna do, take it with us? Hell no," Harry correctively sneered. "There was no way we were gonna make it out of there with that huge fucking case with it or us still in one piece. No damn way. Besides.." His eyes averted, looking down at the books. "I don't want to move it either, and don't think we should, unless we really, really have to."

James acted submissive to that, backing off a little. ".. fair. But we should go back to look at it. I need to look again at Leonard's donation moth, anyway."

"Okay, that makes sense.. but why's that?"

"To make sure I've identified the right one." The conduit's hand reached to unveil new pages in the books while Harry watched on, his smile pleasantly impressed.

"You identified the moth? No shit."

"I think I did, so let's call it partial shit to be safe," James replied, gesturing at the entries. "Going off my own memory and what I found in the bug book, it looks to me like the Midwich might be the giant Bombyx silkmoth, or otherwise known as the 'Bombyx mori moth'. 'Mori' means 'death' in Latin."

"Hmph. Because of course it does," Harry muttered.

"The cult's book calls it the 'Floatstinger'. Ring any bells?"

"Mmn.. mm-nn," responded the author, in negative. "Can't say it does. Did my notes call it that?"

"Not that I remember. But look," James said, pointing to some writing in cult book's margins, "there's some mumbo jumbo that's written in, like.. I dunno, your ciphers I guess, and shit. I dunno if they're something you can decipher, but.."

"Ah, great, love it, and I just closed up shop," Harry sighed, taking it up for a gander. "Mmm.. ahhh.. sssssoooome look familiar.. wait, was this all you found out about the moth, or was there more to it?"

"There's a little more to it, but I don't think it's important enough to go over right now," James replied. "I took down a lot of notes, Harry. I'll show 'em to you later."

"Alright. Sounds good.. that's neat. Really good shit, James, good job," he said, absently panning his view over the pages he held open. "Didja have anything else?"

James eyed Harry carefully, and hesitated. There actually was something else, but upon second thought and reflecting upon how haggard Harry looked, he decided to lie, "No."

It was believed. "Solid." Harry shut the book and set it down with the other, trying to disguise the relief he wasn't aware his companion had already clocked. "Great work, James."

"Yeah.. thanks."

Harry then nodded, folded his arms over his chest, and looked at him. "Well.. before I go to take that break I've been meanin' to do, I wanna talk to you about something real quick, first."

James frowned, instantly on leery defense; after all, everyone knew that nothing good could come out of a conversation starter like that. "Uuhhmm.. yeah, what's up?"

Harry turned his body to face him straight-on. "I'm beat to shit, James. I'm tired. I'm drained, and I think I'm done here. We should think about packing up and leaving tomorrow," he said to him, noting the blank surprise on his face. "We've gotten a lot done, and I think we should be damn fucking proud of ourselves; but I don't know about you, but I feel like things have gotten a little screwy around here."

Grimness drew a thin line on his mouth. "Yeah.. you, too?"

"Yeah. And I don't know if you simply acknowledging it like that without asking or needing me to elaborate on it makes me feel any better or not," the conduit's ward sighed, taking his frown to the floor. "But something's up, and I think it's best that we not push our luck."

"I agree."

"Cool. So let's look forward to that: we'll pack up and head out tomorrow."

"Mmn."

A mutual pause came between them. Harry hadn't looked up from the floor, and James was watching his every not-happening move. The air hanging over their heads was stuffy and odd. The longer neither spoke a word or made to do anything, the more that it seemed this strange cloud was the culprit in holding them captive in silence; but its motive for doing so, was unclear to both. One of them would have to budge eventually and play the hero, and free them; and the hero they were holding out for tonight finally, and boldly, stepped up to the plate without a cape.

Though he did have immaturity, if that counted towards anything.

"Sooo.. hey; Harry," James said, jostling the author out of his reverie, and into looking up. "Can I hear it?"

Hesitating to dissect the prideful change he sensed in his demeanor, Harry razed acute study over James twice-over, then cautiously asked him to clarify, "Can you hear, what?"

"That I was right."

Oh; that. Sucking in a deeeep breath, Harry proceeded to whoosh out a loud bunch of raspberries straight from his mouth, mimicking the very ripest of crude, and unclean whoopie cushion sounds to reward James's listening ears, and performed the biggest eyeroll his muscle control could muster, before at last his voice drawled forth the white flag James so abso lutely deserved to hear. "Ooohh-kaaayyy, Jaaaaames, yooooouuu wiiin," said Harry, dragging every word and syllable through winter molasses, "yooou weeerreeee riiiiiiight.."

" Thank you."

Harry heaved another hefty sigh, looking at the younger man with a lighter grin. "Alright, go on, now: let me hear it, since I just know you're chomping on the bit dying to say it, too."

Oh, vindication tasted sweet as apple pie, and he was happy to oblige. "I toldjaso."

The weirdness in the air was cleared out. It felt good for Harry to chuckle. "Yeah buddy, ya did. You feel better now?"

"Hm. Marginally," James replied, relaxed and unreadable, as usual. "It'll do for now."

"Heh. It better! You gotta take what you get while you can get it. Alright! Geddoutta my face," Harry said, sidestepping from James and playfully swatting both hands at him like he were a fly to shoo away. "I'm outta here on my last break away from YOU for awhile, so I wanna get on and enjoy that. Alright? So unless you end up losing a limb somehow or figure out your ass from your head, don't come lookin' for me, capiche ? I'm gonna be busy probably reading something weird. Now scram."

James flinched, but Harry'd only otherwise gotten him to look somewhat baffled. "Oh, shit. That's right."

"Yeah, you forgot that packing up means we're about to be right up each other's asses all over again pretty soon, eh?" Harry taunted, grinning at him like a scamp. "Uh huh. Better start runnin' now if you squeeze in savoring every last moment away from me while you can, James."

"I think I might go back to the machines and finish some stuff up," James said, quickly gathering his materials together.

"Do whatever you wanna do, I won't stop ya. Just don't forget to come up and check on the fog now and then," Harry gently reminded. "I'll be keeping an eye out too, but if I don't see you around later, I'll come down to the basement and getcha."

"Okay. Sounds good."

"Alright." The patriarch of the two sent James a wink and a grin. "Say 'bye for now, buddy'."

"I'll see ya later, Harry."

"Close enough!" accepted Harry, now facing the north. "Smell ya later, James!"

"Yep," acknowledged the conduit, whose front was turned to the south. "Bye-bye."

Then, in opposing directions, the town's two favorite surviving cockroaches men departed the hall.

—

Harry found himself nestled in a chair in a nook different from the one he'd shared with Odd Thomas and Koontz, some minutes later. A particular favorite story by a particular favorite, and self-recommended author was perched open on his knee; and it was a morbid choice, from top to bottom.

Cope with what you know, he thought. And who else knew best, than Edgar Allan Poe.

Heh. He rhymed.

THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had been ever so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal — the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleedings at the pores, with dissolution. But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless, and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair from without or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The price had provided In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think.

This made Harry quickly grow frustrated. His brain tried, and wanted to continue the story, yet his eyes just kept fucking jumping back to that one line of text like the strongest magnets.

The prince had provided all the appliances of In the meantime it was folly to

"Jesus Christ," he sighed, hard. "Don't do this to me now." He just wanted to relax; was it really so hard?! But unwilling to give up and determined not to give in, Harry tried to read through the paragraph again, one more time:

The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballêt-dancers, there were musicians, there were cards, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death." It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think.

Harry stared at the text.

In the meantime,

It was folly to grieve.

or to think.

Yes; it was folly to grieve.

.. or to think.

To think.

Think.

Think.

To think of it as an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince(ss)'s own eccentric yet august taste; to consider the walls as strong and lofty, and call them only gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered from a place of nightmares, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair from without or of frenzy from within, because that was what she'd wanted. The town wasn't amply provisioned, and was rife with contagion. In the meantime, it was folly to grieve, or to think of the external world, for it did take care of itself - because it was safe on the outside, where it wasn't in a place called Silent Hill.

But in the meantime, it was folly to grieve, or to think of the "Red Death" that had HARRY! devastated her (STAY BY ME, HARRY!) sad, pretty face; and yes, the pestilence that'd also devastated the town had been ever so (PLEASE!) fatal, and so hideous. There had been sharp pains (how do you feel?) and sudden dizziness (like i've been run over by a truck, but i'm alright, i guess), and then dissolution (HARRY) caused by profuse bleeding (help me) at the pores (harryPLEASEstaybymei'MSOSCARED) and, lord (i am too, lisa) how the scarlet horror of blood (and i've never stopped being so fucking scared.) did stain his hands.

Out, damn spot! Out, I say! Shakepeare once wrote, for Lady Macbeth to cry. (Harry hated Shakespeare, but that wasn't the reason why.) Yet the scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim (a girl lying in a hospital bed for seven years, dying and and stripped of her flesh), were the pest-ban (an official declaration of plague, he immediately recalled) which shut her, and her, (not him; for it was never meant to be him ) out from the aid and from the sympathy of her, and her, fellow-men (like he had physically done to HER, that poor woman, her nurse; the poor woman, whom he'd shut in a room and then leaned on the door, and whom he'd then forced to die in there, alone).

Alone.

It was simply folly indeed to grieve— and to think, and Harry wasn't sure he could do any more of it. He'd done more than enough of bothduring the library stay, but'd especially been stupid to wish he might catch an easy fucking break, for once. He closed the damn book and put it off to the side. Hopefully James was having a better time with whatever he was doing downstairs, Harry wearily thought; but after that thought, chose not to ruminate on James any longer than that.

Because the patriarch was tired. Harry Mason was tired; he was tired in a way that he wished no one ever felt tired, and he felt tired of feeling that tired. He felt tired and he hopeless, and he just wanted to go home. Harry Mason wanted to go home and crawl under the covers, and go to sleep for a thousand years, and to forget this living nightmare. He wanted to forget Silent Hill; he wanted to forget James Sunderland; he wanted to get his (second) daughter back, and wanted his first little girl back, too. Harry Mason wanted to sleep, and sleep, and sleep; and sleep, and sleep the tired away.

(But he'd lived through that car crash; and he'd never pulled the trigger, and that was why he was still so tiredto this day.)

Wishes, however, went sour in Silent Hill; and the dreams dreamt were only nightmares; and the last well of hope it had, ran dry long ago.

But despite all his wants, un-wants, and inescapable reality of the here and now, what Harry Mason really, actually neededmost in this moment, more than anything else in the world.. was just one simple, singular goddamn hug.

But it wouldn't come; and it wasn't deserved. The harsh fact was that he was right now, in this moment, serving justice for how he left Lisa through a taste of his own medicine, for he would have no comfort from anyone in a town that kept its back turned to him; but even though he's lived it for twenty-four years already, being alone here in this hellish place felt harsher than ever.

It was clear enough now that reading wasn't an option anymore; and so, it was forsaken. Harry Mason switched off his light and sat there alone in the dark, unable to commit folly; and so he did not think, or grieve, or sleep, nor wish or hope. All he did was what he could do, and so sat there in the chair, deep in the gallows of the Silent Hill Public Library, and waited patiently in the dark for the fog to dawn, alone.

He was always, always, just so.. fucking..

alone.

—

Conduit..

James looked up from the screen, and over at the archive shed in the back corner.

Conduit..

The skin on his lower lip was dry and cracked. James scraped it with his teeth, staring ahead at the space over there. The feelings-words swimming around in his head like piranhas were louder than the sting he felt ripping a flake of dry flesh from flesh with his teeth, leaving behind a raw tile of red(-but-not-red) on his lip.

The fishies he felt in the water said,

Come here,

my child.

And its servant was obedient. James abandoned the microfilm machine and walked into the archival cave without question or fuss, like a good little soldier (although he hadn't wanted to be; but his autonomy wasn't exactly his alone, anymore). Upon entry he smelled dampness and rot, and when he tread down the aisle floor, saw the moldy black perforate, and sweat its disease out of the walls like blossoms on vines. One foot in front of the other he stepped and traveled further into the dingy and transforming dungeon, hearing and feeling the carpet become mushy and waterlogged with sick, squelching and hiccuping beneath boots that remained dry.

At the end of the narrow hall that looked and smelled like a grave, the young-and-yet-old resident stood in front of the closed door that led to a secret room stored away in the wall; but didn't knock. He didn't knock, and he didn't try the knob. He looked up and down and across at the threshold, but he didn't knock. Instead, he waited at the door like a night vagrant outside a kitchen, or a patron to an illegal speakeasy; waited in the indoor back alley, in the cold, damp, heavy air, to be let in.

And he waited.

The passcode, Conduit.

James, in his restless dream-like state, felt a little taken aback. The.. the passcode..? Since when was there a..? "M.. mary."

But he was denied. That's not the entire passcode, Conduit . The town's plaything searched his brain, and came up with nothing that sounded right. "I.. I don't.. know."

Yes, you do. Now think.

He thought. He thought. He thought, and he didn't know.

"I don't know."

THINK.

He did as he was told, and he thought some more.

"Mary may I come in, and.. put you to bed?"

The door approved, and slowly creaked open.

Good boy, Conduit. Yes, you may finally come in; because WE(we) need to have a chat. There's something ( else,that) we (all of us, we) need to show you.

James gingerly lifted his hand, and applied his fingertips' touch to the door panel. His flashlight flickered as he pushed it inward, haunted house attraction-esque strobes that made him flinch. Another dazzling bouquet of turbulent light made him squint, and for a moment, gave James a very strange and uneasy feeling about it. Why did it feel sentient? he vaguely got to wonder, before feeling his autonomous thought violently silenced by a zipper; and then the light from his chest shone bright, brighter than ever.

James saw what was beyond the threshold this time, and his eyes grew wide.

He wanted to scream, but he wouldn't even squeak. Before he could even utter a gasp, the outside fog stuffed his mouth and throat with its dense cotton cold and stole his breath, the water latched like tiny imp's teeth into the soles of his boots, and the black water-rot ooze on the walls strangled a lasso around his neck, to threaten him stone-still.

No. Not yet, this town of his warned. Silence is the best policy here, my c– my Conduit; you know that. Hush, hush. Don't cry, now. Come in, because you, and I..

We need to talk.