WRITING: Gravity (Chapter 7)

[phantastus]

Title: GRAVITY
Chapter: 7 (And So On)
Author: phantastus
Fandom: Silent Hill
Rating: G
Genre: Filler Horror/Drama
Main characters: James Sunderland, Laura
Summary: With their journey finally underway but caught up in traffic, James inadvertently discovers how easily relapses to his experiences in Silent Hill can be triggered.
Notes: Chapter 7 of my ongoing, obscenely long SH2 fanfic. Set directly after the Leave Ending, but contains heavy implications of In Water. The fic is mirrored over here along with several subsequent chapters, but I will be posting the most up-to-date edits here for the time being.
This story was initially written (and is still in progress) for NaNoWriMo 2009.
Disclaimer/Warnings: In keeping with the source material, this fanfic depicts events and situations that may be considered violent or cruel. If anything in the Silent Hill series triggers you, this story may not be for you. This chapter deals with potentially-upsetting concepts including but not limited to:

-general horror concepts
-depictions of PTSD triggers and flashbacks
-sexy spooky mannequins
-Laura being a creepy child
-more butt jokes
-The Game

Please read at your own risk.

Recommended Listening:
-Will I Ever Make It Home?
-Endless Hallway
-Junkyard Chandelier



Chapter 7: And So On



The retreat of the sun and the slow takeover of deepening clouds had turned the sky overhead dark. The rainstorm that had been blowing in from the out-of-sight ocean, many miles away towards the coast, was thickset overhead now. It bathed everything below in a steady coat of blurring, translucent paint that turned the almost-immobile parade of tail-lights ahead of the car into a dazzling Expressionist painting. Every so often, the slice of the window-swipers would wipe the glass canvas clean and restore stark order to the dreary scene ahead.

They had been driving all day now, the tires licking up the road underneath them like licorice, mile by mile. James wasn't actually too sure what province they were in now— the rain had made reading the street signs difficult— but for the first time, he felt that he was well and truly leaving the house behind.

Well, not entirely.

It would never be entirely.

Even as they drove, he occasionally found his mind wandering back the way he'd come, back up the shady driveway and into the house's cryptlike quiet. But it was sealed up tight now, with everything put away in its place for a long, well-deserved sleep after standing vigil to so many years of sadness. With no one and nothing to disturb it.

He knew, of course, it wouldn't stay that way forever.

Eventually someone would come looking for him and Mary, and the house was the first place anybody would go for answers.

But that was okay. He'd done what he could do, and leaving the home he and Mary had shared through sickness and health as a time capsule (even if it was one that would be dug up and cracked open before too long) was somehow cathartic. Maybe it would hold answers for those people, or maybe it wouldn't— but though it had been hard, it had been necessary to leave it. Without Mary in it, there was nothing left there for him, and there was no point in selfishly keeping it for himself.

The memory would be enough.

It had turned into a place of grief, illness, and that heavy, spoilt-treacle feeling over the years, but somehow he'd managed to leave it with one of peace. And that was untouchable to him now.

No matter what happened to it, the sight of it growing smaller in the rear-view mirror would remain the same in his mind, like a melancholy little snowglobe with white hydrangea petals instead of snow— a tainted but painstakingy-repaired snapshot. Ravaging, curious hands could tear it apart, scour it from floor to ceiling, and maybe eventually even let some other young couple move in and make the place theirs, but in his own head, that snapshot was safe, anchored tightly in place with red thread like the squares on his coat sleeve.

He would never forget it.

But all memories and musings aside, James was pleased with the progress they'd made.

Somewhat frustratingly, though, it had ground down to a near-halt as they had entered rush hour and gotten trapped in the slowly-crawling sea of commuters leaving work.

It filled James with an impatience that was almost childish— not that there were really any time constraints on throwing your life away and hurling yourself into the unknown, but somehow being slowed down like this made him feel restless and harried. Perhaps because he was the exact opposite of every other driver out there.

This was no one-hour drive to return to the comfort of home after a long day's work.

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, James frowned at the car in front of them, which was fading repeatedly in and out of focus with each swipe of the windshield wipers. Thanks to the bumper-to-bumper traffic that went on for what was probably miles ahead, he had an excellent view of the bright yellow sticker on it, which read out proudly, "You just lost The Game!"

James had no idea what it was referring to (it was probably some stupid college football slogan), but the way it kept blurring and unblurring in neat little evenly-timed periods made him think of flashing billboards and it was annoying.

A few car horns blared and the Honda next to them started flashing their brights repeatedly, so James finally groaned and turned the wipers off, letting the rain seep down over the car like a layer of thin mucous once more. Before long, the blaring lights were again reduced to softly-glowing orbs and the obnoxious bumper sticker just a dull yellow smudge. Chances were that the line wouldn't be moving further than a few inches at a time any time soon, so visibility wouldn't be a necessity for quite awhile.

James heaved a sigh of relief.

Beside him in the passenger's seat, Laura was sitting with her legs tucked underneath her, busy scribbling away on the back of some rumpled takeout menus he'd had in the glove compartment. A set of cheap Crayola-knockoff markers that she'd picked out back at the store was open beside her Most of them had rolled down and clustered where the seat was pressed down by her weight, and the red and orange ones had already fallen off the seat entirely.

The red one was somewhere down on the crumb-laden floor and he didn't even know where the orange one had gone. Laura didn't seem to notice, though— she was engrossed in coloring a green portion of her picture so heavily that he was pretty sure it was going to bleed through the paper and leave a big colorful blotch on the car seat. But he didn't say anything. As much as his late-teenage self would have torn out his hair in dismay, present-day James couldn't really bring himself to care.

At least she had finally taken her shoes off— they were down on the floor as well and one of them, like the orange, marker, was already missing. The whole car now felt like it was Laura's rather than his, with the way she had set about spreading her things everywhere and making herself at home. But in all honesty he'd prefer this to the way she'd been sitting still and silent on the way home.

Of course, now that her feet were bare, he could see that she'd been telling the truth about those blisters. Which sent another wave of guilt through him, as he recollected ransacking the first-aid kit in the middle of the living room to patch himself up while she waited.

But her small injuries didn't seem to be bothering her... so he let the subject lie.

"How's the map coming?" he asked her, inclining his head a little to look but not daring to actually lean closer because the last time he'd done that, he had wound up with a big cerulean-blue line under one eye that smelled like blue raspberry.

"Um... I need more colors," Laura said distractedly, putting the green marker down (without capping it, James noticed...) and selecting the yellow one to draw dotted lines down all the roads she'd drawn.

"Sorry, I don't have any others..." James said apologetically— as though a grown man should be expected to keep big fat kid-friendly drawing utensils in his glove compartment just in case situations like this one occurred. "Maybe we can find some more the next time we stop at a gas station."

"We'd better," Laura intoned meaningfully, before holding the paper up for him to see, with the air of someone who had just solved the chicken-and-egg question once and for all, you're welcome by the way. "This will make sure we don't get lost."

The paper was a detailed mass of squiggly lines, several green patches, what looked like a large ocean, a few buildings (one of them had a crudely-drawn Happy Burger logo on it, likely because they had passed one earlier), at least one colorful feline with a head that was as big as its body, and a couple of purple mountains towards the top of the page.

"... Oh... um, I see..." he faltered, not entirely sure how to respond.

Bluntly put, James had never been good with young children. Or any children, really. But his growing knowledge of Laura-ese suggested that, when in doubt, opt for harmless politeness.

So he nodded benignly and said, "That looks real nice, Laura."

"I know," Laura said, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she settled back down, flattening the paper back out on the seat once more.

She was still wearing the same blue dress, but had a clean new shirt instead of the filthy one she'd been running around in. James might not have been too in-tune with childrens' needs, but wearing the same clothes for days on end was something reserved for the homeless, and slobs like the one he'd been while Mary was sick. So he had let Laura go ahead and pick out some new things before they'd gone on their way.

The shirt she'd chosen first (and was wearing now) was decorated with pale pink floral print instead of the stripes she'd had before. James had a feeling she'd picked it out because it reminded her of Mary and the flowery motifs she had always loved so much. He had decided not to say anything about it. He didn't want to risk breaking down again, not this soon...

"So... where are we on your map right now?" he asked, trying to make conversation. He was perfectly happy with silence while he was driving, but now that they were trapped in a stationary line of vehicles that stretched beyond the eye could see, the quiet was starting to get to him.

"Right here."

She pointed to the off-kilter cat, which was pink and down in the corner.

James stared at it for a moment.

Then he glanced out the window, brows furrowed, before looking back to it again.

"... Uh... why are we a cat?"

"'Cause I like cats and your car is ugly, so I didn't wanna draw it."

Suddenly realizing the orange marker was gone, Laura grabbed onto the edge of the seat and leaned over to start looking for it on the floor.

James may not have had much pride left, but the remark stung just a little. He'd had it for a good two or three years past a decade— even longer than he'd known Mary. Not saying anything (he'd rather not prompt more witty remarks about his car, thank you very much), he reached out and patted the steering wheel a little bit, as though the vehicle was a living being that needed comfort.

Laura didn't notice, as she was too busy groping around under her seat with one lanky arm.

"And anyway, 'car' is practically like 'cat', 'cept it's with a 't' instead of an 'r' and— ew."

She had finally drawn the lost orange marker out from the depths, and it had brought with it a long string of hair, lint, and clumps of dust that looked more like lumpy snakes than bunnies. Making a face akin to someone who'd just stepped in something awful, she held the marker up and let its unfortunate-looking tail dangle in the air before shooting James an ugly look, as though he was somehow responsible for this.

"... Uh... sorry..." James said, swallowing. "It's... it's been awhile since I've cleaned up in here..."

He'd really let the poor thing go once Mary was in the hospital. After a time, the only places he drove to on a regular basis had been work and to the bars he'd hopped to and from one by one like a fickle alleycat, visiting each house on the street for food and leaving every time the people there started getting attached to it.

Neither were locations that were particularly conducive to a clean car. When he was drunk, he didn't even notice the mess.

"It's. Gross," Laura said, slowly and with feeling, as though James might possibly be so naive and inexperienced in the world that he might not recognize something for its grossness when he saw it.

Internalizing a sigh, James shrugged apologetically. "You can probably just pick that stuff off, I promise there's nothing too dirty under there..." he offered in consolation.

Laura shot him a dirty look before leaning over and putting the marker back on the floor pointedly, openly displaying her intentions to never touch it again.

This time the sigh escaped him audibly, and James was fortunate that Laura never really seemed to care how exasperated she made him, whether it was noticeable or not.

Oh well. If she didn't want to use the orange marker, that was fine with him. Not like she needed to. And he never sat in the passenger seat anyway, so it could sit down there on the floor forever for all he cared.

"Anyway..." It was time for a subject change. "It doesn't look like the traffic's gonna be letting up any time soon... s'probably some construction project going on... we're probably gonna be stuck here on the highway for awhile."

Reaching down to adjust the back of his seat to give more leaning space, James twisted around and reached his other arm out to rummage through the paper bags in the back of the car. They hadn't bought much— but food was the most basic necessity he could even think of and Laura's earlier suggestion had been wise.

It was nearing seven o'clock and they had last eaten before noon. His stomach was starting to get restless.

It was a strange feeling, having one's body start getting back on a normal schedule and demanding sustenance on a conventional basis. Back in Silent Hill, although he'd been hungry once or twice (such as when he'd stumbled across Eddie and his mysterious pizza), the strange, numb blurring of time had had a similar effect on his body. Like a dream. You didn't get hungry in dreams.

For most of the second half of his journey, he hadn't wanted to eat anything at all— not even while picking through the dusty tins and ancient packets of food in the pantry of the Lakeview Hotel during the final leg of his adventure.

He supposed he'd had too much on his mind...

But that was over now, and he was starting to feel like a normal person again... just a little.

And normal people needed food.

"It's been awhile since we ate... you hungry, Laura?"

"Uh huh." She had picked up the green marker again and was adding more 'grass' around the corners of her map.

He wasn't sure why he'd asked— she seemed to be hungry every time food was brought up.

"Well, we've got..."

James grunted as he leaned further and the back of the seat pressed on his bruised sides. Eventually his questing fingers found the glossy edge of a plastic packet and he tugged it out, holding it up in front of him.

"... Beef jerky. You want some beef jerky?"

He hadn't had the stuff since back when he was a teenager and hard-pressed to find food that wouldn't go bad for awhile. Frank had never been very good at keeping on top of the groceries— in fact, if James wanted to avoid eating expired food, he was usually the one who had to go and buy it himself. But unfond memories aside, he remembered liking jerky okay.

Laura looked up from her picture and scrutinized the bag of dried meat with a scrunched nose.

"... Ew," she observed by way of reply.

James was already tearing off the plastic tab at the top.

"No, it's good, really," he said reassuringly, thumbing the package open after crumpling up the removable strip and tossing it into the backseat. "I used to eat it a lot when I was a kid, it tastes like—"

He poked one of the strips of meat into his mouth and his face immediately reflected its effect on his tongue. His eyes watered.

"... I'sh good," he finally said, lamely, as he rolled the strip over to his teeth and tried to chew it without tasting it any more than was necessary.

Laura did not look convinced in the slightest.

"Ew," she repeated smugly, and went back to her drawing.

James winced and continued chewing as daintily as possible. Either he'd been so spoiled by Mary's cooking that the reality of his childhood diet had been masked by nostalgia, or beef jerky had seriously changed in the past ten years. He flipped the packet over and read the label, which had an extremely misleading picture of a bull giving a thumbs-up.

Tamarind Flavor.

Well, that explained why it tasted like roadkill seasoned with orange peel and agony. Not bothering to go on pretending he liked it anymore, James shuddered visibly as he swallowed the half-chewed strip of meat and re-sealed the bag, slipping it gingerly back into the paper sack it had come from. That was one thing that would be going into the trash the next time they stopped somewhere...

Suppressing another deep shiver once it was down, James went back to fishing around for something else that would hopefully be a little more appetizing. When he felt another plastic package under his fingers, he pulled it out with a hopeful look that quickly turned into disappointment when he found it was a large bag of gummy bears. Not something he'd have ever chosen to buy for himself, but Laura had discovered that a surprisingly good way to get him to do things was to threaten to do something that would make everyone in the near vicinity stare at him judgmentally for, possibly while reaching for the phone to dial 911.

All the same, he sighed and started to pull it open anyway. He didn't particularly want any, but he might as well let Laura have some. Unless she had decided that they were 'gross' in the interim, which was entirely possible.

"Want some gummy bears, Laura?"

"Okay."

She looked a lot more enthusiastic at the prospect of candy than about dried meat, and she put her (again, uncapped) marker down in order to hold both cupped hands out, eagerly.

James poured a small handful of the squishy candies out into his own palm and squinted at them in the dim, rain-speckled light. He had never found gummy things particularly appetizing to begin with, but in this light, the translucent yellow and green looked particularly murky and unappealing. Like concentrated urine and pond-scum. Shudder.

Well, Laura could eat them if she wanted.

"What color do you want? There's yellow and green."

"I don't care 'bout color. I just like bitin' their heads off and being in control of their fate."

James looked over at her, then wordlessly poured the unfortunate bears into her waiting hands.

She immediately set about doing exactly what she'd just told him and James turned his attention back to the windshield, suddenly not feeling very hungry anymore.

Laura was very different from the eight-year-old girls he remembered interacting with when he was that age, and he had to wonder if something had drastically changed in the interim, or if he was just suffering from an extremely selective memory. For the moment he went with Laura simply being an unnaturally cruel child and left it at that.

The line had shifted forward slightly, so he eased the car onwards for a few feet before re-engaging the parking brake.

It was beginning to get late, which meant that despite the frozen traffic, he'd have to start thinking about sleeping accomodations. Obviously he couldn't very well drive all night long like he had when he'd come back from Silent Hill. That had been an act of resilience brought on, he suspected, by nothing more than a deep, instinctive desperation to reach a safe haven before it shut down completely. This time, there was only the unknown ahead, and he knew better than to think that the kind of relentless battering he had undertaken in Silent Hill would go away in a couple of days. He wouldn't be able to pull that sort of feat tonight.

Still, he was optimistic— as optimistic as he could be.

The pain was already duller, and that was reassuring. Physical wounds could heal. Physical wounds would heal.

"Look." Laura was suddenly holding something fruity-smelling in front of his face. "Look what I made."

Startled, James leaned away on instinct at first and then turned meekly to see what it was.

Speaking of physical wounds...

Pinched between her thumb and forefinger were the bottom halves of two gummy bears— one that ugly ambery yellow and the other that glassy green that made him think of beer-bottles and fruitcake chunks (neither of which were pleasant associations at the moment) — devoid of their upper bodies, had been stuck together at the midsection, producing perfectly symmetrical (but headless) bear with two hind ends.

She brandished the miniature monstrosity proudly in front of his nose, her expression daring him to tell her it was not amazing.

James swallowed.

"Uh..."

"Look," she repeated. It was more of a command than a request.

James looked.

It was hard to tell whether his eyes were playing tricks on him in the near-total darkness, but he could swear there was a soft glow coming from under the crack of one of the doors down the hall. It was so faint it was almost imperceptible, which was why James had ignored it at first, mistaking it for one of those eerie ghostlights that floated around the corners of your vision when there was nothing else to see.

But as he drew closer, his every muscle tensed to break into a run at the slightest sound, it became more and more apparent that there was some kind of light shining out from under there.

Not much, mind you, but any was a welcome sight as far as James and his sore eyes were concerned.

It had only been a couple of hours since he had arrived in town at all. He was still a scared, confused, and oblivious little animal blundering around in the outskirts of this desolate maze— one that, with further exploration, would prove to be infinitely more than just a strange aberration he had stumbled into by accident.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how dark buildings could get when you were used to a big house with lots of windows and a set of working power-lines outside.

But here in the Blue Creek Apartments, whatever lines had been outside were downed or broken, the hallways were tiny and cramped and completely windowless, and there didn't appear to have been a single living soul present in years. It was more disturbing to James than the eerily-empty streets outside were.

Those were disconcerting too, but it was not entirely unthinkable for people to be staying indoors on a dark and dreary day like this. Despite the lifelessness of the town, James had inwardly hoped that he'd be able to find the missing townsfolk huddled inside with the shades drawn. But as soon as he'd stepped into these old buildings, these cold ghost dwellings abandoned to decay, a chill of certainty descended over him, sending the hairs down his back all on end.

He really was alone here.

The rotting carpet squelched under his feet as he walked— there was water damage everywhere, and more than a few dips in the floor that sagged ominously as he walked over them. He was watching his step now, worried that if he was too careless with his weight, the rotten patches would give way and he'd fall clean through to the floor below.

Or worse, get his leg trapped in the soggy hole and be stuck there, an easy feast for those corpselike creatures that scrabbled around on the floor on limbs that were trapped inside their own skins, like fleshy straightjackets. Their twisted, painful-looking legs would carry them with surprising speed down the hall towards him, their gnarled, featureless faces twitching and convulsing in anticipation.

A shudder ran through James's entire body at the thought.

He might have been willing to risk a lot by coming here (and by staying here, even after the warning that something was terribly wrong with the place, delivered to him by that timid girl outside of town, had proven true), but even if his own safety was something he felt alarmingly apathetic about, he didn't want the last thing he saw before death to be the inside of that gaping hole in one of those demons' chests. Didn't want the last thing he smelled to be the acrid reek of its guts, the last thing he felt to be the awful paralyzing burn spreading over his face from the deadly spray that they spewed whenever something let them get too close.

So it was with soft steps and great caution that he moved his way slowly towards the faint film of light, feeling his way along the peeling-painted wall with one hand. In the other was the gun he'd found downstairs. It shook a little.

He knew how to load and fire it, but to say that he was an experienced gunman would be a dreadful exaggeration. He was a dumpy twenty-nine-year-old clerk and although the neighborhood he'd grown up in had hardly been ideal, he'd never before had dire cause to pick up a firearm, not even in recreation.

Still, a bullet was more effective on these creatures than the plank he'd been carrying around was.

When he reached the door with the crack of light, he paused to listen for any unwanted visitors— for the awful, rattly thumping of bony limbs flailing gracelessly against the floor to propel their owner forward in lurching lunges, or for the guttural, screechy cries they uttered from those gaping chest cavities.

He could hear nothing.

Although this didn't necessarily mean he was alone (he had been ambushed by those horrible things more than once, after all), it was still a good sign.

Now came the more important question, which was whether or not there was anything threatening behind the door. Most of the rooms he'd poked his head into were empty— disturbingly so, in fact.

But there had been more than a few that housed occupants that definitely were not the humans to whom the apartments belonged. He had learned the hard way that strolling through doorways in this dark building was only something he should be doing if he wanted to head straight into trouble.

He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob— slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until he could crack the door open quietly and peek through.

The first thing on the other side that met his eyes was a blinding light— one that made them water and blink furiously. But a greater concern was the fact that the light was hovering in midair— no. Wait. Not hovering— it was being held.

... Held at chest-height by something that stood upright and looked human-shaped!

James ducked out of view faster than a celebrity spotting a gaggle of paparazzi across the street, except that this light was potentially far more sinister than that of a flash-bulb. The grotesque, faceless creatures that infested the streets outside were humanoid too, and for an awful, lurching moment, his first thought was that it was one of them. A fleshbound demon, standing upright in the middle of the room with the ghastly hole in its chest wide open, only instead of noxious fumes leaking out of it, there was a blinding light instead— like a horrible, radiant eye.

With his heart in his throat, James waited for something to THUD against the other side of the door, or maybe just to hear that knobbly-kneed run prompting the need to brace for impact. When neither came, he breathed in deeply and peeked around the edge of the door again, his finger squarely on the trigger of his gun.

The light had remained completely stationary— there was no monster after all. Relaxing, James allowed the door to drift open wider and stepped inside, shutting it behind him to minimize the chances of any unwanted followers coming in after him in hopes of trapping him in the enclosed space.

The apartment was as dingy as the rest of them— full of ancient, mildewed furniture and walls that peeled with rust and old paint— but this one had the benefit of being lit up by the light in the middle of the room, throwing glossy highlights across the shiny ceramic of the dismembered mannequin limbs, torsos, and heads lying carelessly scattered across the floor, like the remains of a massacre. James felt a shiver run down his spine.

Even though they were obviously not real human body parts, the sight still unsettled him on a deep, primal evel.

The room must have belonged to someone who made these for a living, or maybe designed clothing to go on them. Personally, having an apartment filled with creepy life-sized people statues would have driven him to complete insomnia, but, well, he wasn't a fashion-designer. Maybe you got numb to it.

In any case, they wouldn't hurt him, so he ignored the gruesome display for the moment and he turned his attention to what had drawn him to the room in the first place: the light.

Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he stepped forward, edging to the side to get a better view at the thing that held it.

... A woman? A mannequin?

... No. Just a dress, hanging on a raised stand.

James relaxed at last, still feeling the lingering tingles of adrenaline racing up and down his synapses as the tension left his limbs. He lowered the gun and stepped up to take a closer look at this strange, out-of-place guardian of the empty apartment.

The silk dress was long and flowing; it shone faintly in the light from above, which illuminated the delicate floral print that bloomed across it in faint shades of mauve and minty green. There was a woven cardigan on top, its pale pink sleeves hanging stock-still in the breezelessness of the room.

Though he could not put his finger on why, something about it felt oddly familiar— oddly comforting, even, although its presence here as an eerie, light-giving specter was not as soothing as it might have been elsewhere. Still, James couldn't help but feel a touch reassured as he reached out a hand automatically to brush his fingers across the smooth fabric of the skirt. It was cool and light on his fingers, but sent little electric tingles through his hand, as though it was somehow charged with energy. He was struck with the brief, compelling urge to touch the silky fabric to his face, and almost did, but resisted.

The dress and the tiny, quiet bells that it was ringing in his head were of second interest to the thing he had come in here to investigate in the first place.

Letting his hand travel north, he reached up to grasp the source of the light, which was round and a lot smaller than he had expected from its intense luminosity, and gently slipped it out of the pocket from which it hung.

It was a flashlight.

An oblong one that curved at the end like a little pipe, allowing it to be hooked over a collar or pocket like the one from which he'd taken it. He had seen them sometimes at the hardware store where he worked. He'd always questioned the use of them a little, not seeing why a regular handheld one wouldn't be just as good or possibly better, given that you could point it around and wouldn't have to turn in place to see in a different direction. But after being in this town— in this pitch-black building that crawled with things he'd hate to encounter without both hands free— he was rapidly warming up to the idea.

He held it up to himself and clicked it on and off a few times. The light was strong, the flashlight itself seemingly brand new. It would definitely come in handy, that was for sure. None of the power in this town seemed to be working— or if it was, it was erratic and unreliable, like the stoplights outside.

In the back of his head, something wondered uncomfortably why a fully-functional, brand new flashlight with perfectly fresh batteries would be left on in a room that looked like it hadn't seen human contact in years. The rest of his head immediately shut that something out like the unpopular kid at prom. Reasonable concerns or not, it would pay to be able to see where he was going and what he was up against.

Temporarily pocketing the gun, he slipped the light into his left breast pocket and clipped it onto the flap of fabric, where it fit like a glove.

Almost like it had been meant just for him.

Now turned in the opposite direction, the beam of light illuminated the back of the room in a bold, broad circle, so bright to his light-deprived eyes that it almost looked like daylight at first. Behind the stand, there was an elderly, moth-eaten couch that had seen better days. Like the floor, it too was strewn with artificial body-parts like the aftermath of a wild night in a frat-house full of cannibals. Although the pieces were shiny and astoundingly pale, the light of the flashlight infused them with an eerie life-likeness. Almost like they could move if he let his imagination run wil— what the HELL was THAT.

A set of toeless, white ceramic feet, gleaming like neon in the beam of the flashlight, had poked over the back of the couch like curious feelers. They were quickly followed by legs. A pair of upside-down, backwards legs, bent at the knees so that the artificial shins curved down like praying mantis claws, had lurched upwards from the space behind the couch and were now regarding him like a spider might look at a fly that had just wandered into its web. James wasn't sure how the thing pulled off that look without having eyes, but it did.

Breath escaping him in a low, frantic hiss, James started to step backwards, grabbing frantically at his side for the handgun.

The legs stood higher, revealing themselves to be topping an equally upside-down torso, which joined at the waist with another pair of hips and legs, these ones operating normally for what they were. One of the lower legs (which were curvy and feminine, the feet ending in sharp, coy little tapers) started to raise itself and clamber with graceful delicacy over the back of the couch.

James finally got his hand into the pocket, instead of just fruitlessly grabbing at the bare fabric on the outside like he'd been doing, and fumbled for the handle of the gun, butting aside all the other contents with his finger hurriedly.

The strange new creature came creeping delicately over the furniture, almost spiderlike in its movements. Although nothing he'd here that he'd seen had eyes (although admittedly thus far, all he'd encountered were those lying demons with the putrid spray), it was absolutely beyond doubt that it was looking at him. Homing in on him. This one wasn't clumsy and spastic like the others. It knew what it wanted.

Finally feeling his fingers close around the gun's handle (and the trigger), James started to yank it out.

As he was doing so, he stepped squarely backwards onto a stray mannequin arm. It rolled under his foot and pain shot up his ankle as he fell backwards, letting out a hoarse, startled yell.

The gun went off with a bang and a few sorry tatters of smoking green cloth went flying into the air as the contents of that particular pocket went spilling out onto the floor through the newly-blown hole in its bottom. A spare box of bullets had broken open as the gun cracked backwards from the recoil, and the bullets within were on the floor and under his feet almost immediately.

James's back met the ground with a thud and a strained whine on his part, because the arm he had tripped over in the first place was under there too, and landing on it had sent a horrid jolt of pain up his spine. It would bruise terribly.

That is, if he survived.

The instant he'd gone off-balance, the thing had acted. Its feet hitting the floor with a clatter, it was teetering towards him surprisingly fast for something that was moving on the tips of its fake, pole-like toes.

There was no time to rise to his feet— it would be upon him before he was even able to get halfway off the floor. So he crab-walked backwards awkwardly, stumbling and slipping over the assorted limbs that were scattered in his path. He couldn't raise the gun— it was trapped uselessly in his hand as he clumsily made his escape.

"Back!" he yelped ineffectively. His own weight brought the hard metal of the gun cutting into his fingers as he came down too hard on the floor.

Towering over him with its legs arched, as though peering down at its prey through the tips of its feet, the creature was surprisingly intimidating for something so effeminate. He braced for pain— and didn't have long to wait.

One of the legs came flashing down in a blur and hit the floor with a sound like a hammer striking a board— directly between his legs. The place where it would have hit if he hadn't been scrambling backwards was enough to make him let out a high-pitched yelp at the very thought, even though it had missed.

"WAIT!"

The loose bullets went scattering as his foot hit them. Maybe if he could JUST get to the door and through it somehow, it wouldn't be able to follow him. It sure as heck didn't have any hands to turn the doorknob with.

But his thoughts of escape were put on hold as the thing thrashed its legs downwards. Ironically for all its grace and poise as it crawled over the back of the sofa, there was nothing elegant about its movements now. The legs on top of its body kicked and flailed wildly, raining blows down upon him. Crying out, he lifted an arm to shield his head and fell flat on his back once the support was gone.

A blunt, wood-tipped leg clubbed his ribs. His vocal chords tried to holler, but all that came out was a thin whine.

James had led a mostly-sheltered life when it came to physical violence. He'd been roughed up in high school a few times, sure, but for the most part he had been free of that particular kind of unpleasantness. Nobody had given enough of a rip about him to think he was worth the bother, he supposed.

But now it was occurring to him that this was probably what being beaten with a two-by-four felt like, and it was a lot harder to get away from than he had previously imagined.

One of those elegantly-shaped feet came down right between his eyes, making stars and enormous, juicy splashes of color burst across the room. His head rocked backwards painfully from the impact, but he couldn't allow himself to become dazed. The next blow could potentially come down on his skull and he had no doubt that if this thing decided to stomp on him with all its weight, it would burst his head like a rotten grapefruit.

So, squinting through the explosion of colors that was still glimmering in front of his eyes like time-lapsed footage of flowers, James threw his gun-bearing hand upwards and pulled the trigger blindly. He could hardly see where he was shooting, but the thing was right above him. He'd have to be drunk to miss.

Sure enough, the beast let out a guttural sound that rattled its joints, and something lukewarm splattered onto his shirt. He could hardly see through the lights still dancing in his vision, but he thought it looked red.

Pulling the trigger again and again, James pulled himself into a sitting position and scooted backwards hurriedly for a few feet until he was able to roll over, stagger upright, and dash for the door.

His seeking hand thunked into the wood several times before it could find the knob, but when it did, he threw the door open, hurled himself through it, and yanked it shut behind him so fast that he almost closed his own fingers in it. Staggering away from the door and into the hallway, he spun around to see if he was being followed.

Beyond the closed door, he could hear the clatter of its hard footsteps— like a man on stilts— as it pursued.

The steps halted and the doorknob rattled in place without actually turning. It was pawing at the smooth, round object that it had no hope of manipulating even with both of its smooth appendages. He could hear the beast's low, frustrated growls, dribbling out from it despite the lack of mouth.

The doorknob-jiggling ceased and was almost immediately replaced by an explosive WHAM that made the entire door shudder in its frame.

James backed up, sucking a breath into his sore, newly-battered chest. What... what was it doing?

WHAM.

The wood creaked dangerously and a few tiny showers of dust came pit-pattering down from the ceiling above it, lit brightly by the bam of his new flashlight.

James swallowed hard.

It was trying to kick the door down.

Of course something with two sets of legs was going to try and kick the door down.

WHAM.

There was a series of tiny, brittle snapping sounds that accompanied that one. The wood might have been hard and solid once, but now it was old and a little bit rotten.

Sure enough, with the next blow, James could actually see it a little of it bulge outwards, paint chipping away and pattering down to the soggy, carpeted floor of the hallway.

WHAM.

He could have run away down the hall and get right the hell out of there, but he hadn't finished checking all the rooms yet. What if Mary was in one of them? He couldn't keep searching the building with that... that thing following him. It would catch up, and while he supposed it wasn't as bad as dying choking on the hazy fumes of those patient demons, he didn't particularly want to be bludgeoned to death, either.

WHAM.

The wood in the center of the door started to splinter.

Throat bobbing, James raised his gun slowly, aiming at the place where the one barrier he had between himself and the monster was beginning to crack. He couldn't afford to shoot hysterically. Half the bullets he'd been carrying were lying back on the floor in that room and he didn't know where or when he'd be able to find more. Or if he even would.

The scraps of paper he'd found in the road outside flashed back to the front of his mind's eye again.

If you're going to fight them, the most important thing to do is relax. It's dangerous to fire a gun when you're all crazy with fear.

Take good aim... then squeeze the trigger.

Don't forget to finish them off.

James had learned that the first part of that advice was true, back there in that room.

So, hands shaking feverishly, he lifted the gun and aimed it squarely at where the battering limbs would come bursting through the door.

WHAM.

Someone outside was slamming their car door angrily— the person behind them had bumped them while moving forward a little too quickly.

"You're not laughing," said Laura. Her voice was accusing, and her gaze even moreso.

James blinked and shook himself out of his flashback— the motion sent pangs through his head and he lifted a hand to press against his brow in response.

"I— what?"

"You're not laughing," Laura repeated. "It's funny."

When James gave her a questioning look, she rolled her eyes and held up the gummy bear monstrosity again.

"It's funny," she explained very slowly, as though piecing together some abstract concept to a mentally-disabled child, "cuz it's got two butts."

"... Oh. Uh— ... hah," said James, feeling as though he was one.

Laura shook her head in silent disgust and went back to crafting the gummies into mad-scientist creations. She was clearly too appalled at his lack of humor to continue speaking with him.

It was a blessing in disguise. James's heart was pounding and he wasn't sure he could take a confrontation at the moment. Turning back to the steering wheel, he decided to take advantage of her huffy fit and take a moment to calm himself back down.

He was starting to get used to being mentally yanked back into that town— he had never really thought that he'd be the same as he'd been before just because he'd managed to get out of Silent Hill in one piece. No, some part of him had known, even before he'd made it home, that things would never be simple or easy again. That was something that had gone away the moment Mary had gotten sick and he'd bid it farewell a long time ago.

But the power of the memories was frightening. Whenever an episode came on, it was like having his whole body gripped tightly by a giant fist, all seized-up and held in place where he couldn't escape.

It was a scary feeling.

He wondered how long it would be before that paralyzing error stopped ensnaring him at the slightest provocation— before the memories stopped pouring back in front of him as though they had just happened five minutes ago. Was this what everyone felt like after undergoing something like that, something terrible? Why didn't anybody talk about it? Was it normal? Was it more evidence that he was just crazy? He supposed, in a pinch, it couldn't hurt to go with that last one. As much as it made him want to slump in shame, there was no denying it. He was crazy. Normal people didn't do what he'd done, and if they did, they didn't force themselves to forget about it so completely that it took the concentrated efforts of a town to set their brains straight.

But at least from now on... he wouldn't do that. If he was going to be crazy, it was going to be the honest sort. And it would be the kind of crazy that didn't hurt anybody. No more lying.

He owed Mary that much.

The arguing people outside were shouting muffledly in the rain. He couldn't make out words, but the hostility and anger in them was able to make it through the blurry windows more clearly than the specifics. It was enough to make him shiver and turn on the heat.

The traffic was finally starting to move— far ahead of them, the seemingly-endless parade of red and yellow tail-lights was beginning to drift forward haphazardly, like a box of dominoes being shaken out by a too-tentative hand. Time to come back to the real world. Pausing briefly to lean on the steering wheel and pinch the bridge of his nose, James took in a deep breath and then straightened up. He flicked the windhsield wipers back on and took the parking break off with a loud grind.

"We'll turn off at the next exit and stop for the night, okay?"

Laura looked up from her drawings. She had moved on from (or maybe just grown bored of the map and was now working on something new. Several gummy bears were stuck to the page in a rough circle like some tribal gathering around what looked like either a blue giraffe or a brontosaurus. Whatever it was, it appeared to be eating a small figure that was dressed in green and had a head drawn in yellow. She also happened to be in the middle of uncapping the red marker.

He decided he'd rather not see the outcome.

"Where're we gonna stop?" she asked, sitting up a little so that she could peer out at the sluggish (but now moving) traffic.

"Probably a hotel," James said, a little distractedly. He was trying to read the pale green signs above the road that indicated how far away the next exit was, but between the dark and the rain, it was hard to decipher.

"Won't you get 'rrested if we go to a place like that?"

"Huh?" James looked back over to her, blinking. "... Well... yeah, the point is to get a little rest..."

"Arrested," Laura corrected, giving him a dirty look that indicated that she wouldn't have had to say it twice if he'd only been smarter.

"... Oh," James said, lamely. "... Uh... Oh. I don't... I don't THINK so."

He certainly hoped not, anyway. It was too soon... wasn't it?

If the law eventually figured out what he had done and caught up with him somewhere down the line, that was one thing. Even if he didn't consider jail a worthy punishment of his crimes, it wasn't as though he deserved better. But still, he didn't want to wind up being arrested right now... so soon after his journey had begun.

Not before he'd even had a chance to try and keep his unspoken promise to Mary.

He eased his foot onto the gas pedal to keep up with the increasing flow of traffic. What would happen, would happen.

"We'll find somewhere."

~*~

The somewhere was a little motel— fairly ugly, but not unwelcoming— nestled between an Italian restaurant and a liquor store, which something in him watched longingly as it passed, but he quashed that craving before it had a chance to go anywhere. There would be no more of that. ... Or at least... he'd try to make sure there would be no more of that.

As James pulled in, the headlights lit up the side of the office at the head of the building, which wound around the parking lot in a snakelike U. It was too early to be completely dark out. There were still legions of cars rumbling up and down the roads and overpasses that crawled past the sprawl of stores like tame rollercoaster tracks, still people heading in and out of that restaurant in clumps.

They had made it far from the quiet little neighborhood with its sleepy houses and think canopies of leaves blanketing the ground from the sky like a down comforter.

Despite the earliness, James was already aware of his eyelids drooping as he got out of the car, taking one of the duffel bags with him.

"We just gotta— go into the office and sign out for one of the ro—roo—" And he trailed off there, unable to stifle a yawn. At long last, his periodic spans of forced unconsciousness were no longer able to sustain him. The mere knowledge that there were beds lying beyond all these closed doors was like a siren's song, and his mind was already in one of them the entire time he was signing in. Even as he scribbled on the form and was handed a key over the counter, all he could really think about was lying down.

Laura trailed after him as he exited the office and headed back into the little cul-de-sac, scanning the numbers on the rooms blearily as he went.

"So you didn't get 'rrested?" she inquired, not looking nearly as tired as he was. "Even though you had to sign and everything?"

"I guess nobody's looking for me yet," James said dully. Maybe the doctors calling for updates on Mary's status would be the ones to eventually realize that something had gone amiss, but even they had been silent ever since he'd picked her up from the hospital for the last time. Perhaps they hadn't wanted to disturb her last days. He had a feeling that neither they nor she expected to make it back to the hospital alive in the first place.

It wasn't something he wanted to think about for the moment.

If he woke in the morning to police hammering on the door, he'd deal with it then.

Rubbing his brow wearily to scratch an itch under the bandages, he mumbled, "We're in room thirty-three, help me look..."

"We just passed that one," she informed him matter-of-factly.

James paused, then walked backwards until the little sign bearing the number '33' came into view. Glancing dully down to the tag on the key in his hand, he was relieved to find that they matched.

"This one's ours, then..."

The lock clicked open easily, surprising him with its smoothness. It had to be the first door he'd opened in quite awhile (and he had opened a lot of doors in that time) that hadn't caught the key in the lock like a stubborn boot refusing to relinquish a foot, hadn't screeched or scraped when it came open, hadn't creaked or threatened to bend the very key unlocking it just out of spite.

Laura dashed into the room ahead of him. He assumed she was in a hurry to find something that was wrong with it so that she could start blaming him for the flaws as fast as she could, but it was possible she was just excited.

He stepped in after her, setting the bag down on the floor and starting to pull off his coat as he nudged the door shut behind him with one foot. Most of the groceries had been left in the car. He didn't figure they'd need them during the night, anyway. And in the morning, they would be on their way again.

The room was fairly typical. There was a small bathroom next to the door with the fan on, gently whirring, and two large beds beyond that. A television sat on the other side of the room, facing them. The shades were drawn. It was neat and clean, with thick, quilted comforters on the beds pulled up tightly over the pillows and folded. Shiny cardstock brochures sat on each one, and there were a few towels nearly folded on the dresser. The carpet was thin and a mirror hung on the wall by the television.

It didn't feel like home at all.

But then, he supposed nowhere would anymore.

"These beds are gi-normous!" Laura squealed, looking thrilled despite all expectations. She clambered up onto one of them. "They're like ten times bigger than the one I had before!"

James noted that she was still wearing her shoes— complete with all the grit and dried mud she'd tracked onto them. He winced.

"Laura... you shouldn't be up on there with your shoes, um..."

Completely ignoring him, she got to her feet and started to jump up and down, making the springs in the mattress whine and twang.

"... Oh... uh... well, okay," James mumbled deep under his breath. She could just... have that bed for herself, then.

Moving past her, he headed for the other bed and sat down on the end of it, hoisting one leg up to untie his sneakers. He'd been temporarily forced to opt for them over his boots because trying to cram his sore feet, blistered and raw from the extended period of time they'd spent tightly jammed into wet socks and leather, back into them had proven impossible.

"Are we gonna live here?" Laura asked, still springing up and down. The mattress apparently had some pretty good springs on it because she was achieving heights that were honestly a little frightening. If she misjudged her jump and went flying off the bed...

"No, we'll just stay here till morning. Then we gotta keep going." He tugged the laces loose on one of the shoes and yanked it off, wincing.

"Oh. Well, I like these beds. We'd better stay at more places with nice beds like this."

Finally deciding to cease her bouncing, Laura kicked her legs up with the next leap and came back down to earth (or at least to bed) in a sitting position, still going a foot or so into the air for the first couple of bounces before coming to rest completely.

"Is there a bathtub? I'm gonna take a bath."

"Probably," James said, leaning down to pick both shoes up and set them off to the side with another sigh. Getting them off was a relief. "Go ahead. Just, uh... make sure to uh..." He tried to think of some advice to give, but nothing came. Baths were pretty simple. He was sure she could manage half an hour alone in the bathroom without needing any kind of informational input from him. So he just waved a hand. "Just try not to splash around too much, I guess... and if you—er, need anything or something..."

He wasn't sure why he offered. Unless she was dying in there, there was no way he was going to set foot in a bathroom while Laura was in it. For one, it would be creepy, and for another, it was a blatant temptation of fate to be anywhere near Laura while there were bottles of shampoo in grabbing range.

"I know how to take a bath," she informed him haughtily, tossing her ponytail as she hopped off the bed. "Only babies don't know how to take baths."

"Okay... have fun..."

Once he heard the bathroom door shut (and lock itself with a click), followed by the gush of running water, he stretched his arms slowly over his head, listening to the symphony of snaps and clicks his own body made as he did so. The TV remote was lying on the bed-stand by the lamp, and he briefly entertained the thought of turning the television on, but decided not to. He didn't want to wake up hours later to the sound of staticky white noise blaring form a channel that had reached the end of its broadcast day.

So instead he just pulled the covers back and crawled underneath them after shedding his jeans.

He could not remember the last time he'd been under a proper set of sheets and blankets, with a real pillow under his head. It had not been nearly long enough ago to justify not being able to remember, but it seemed almost as far away as the days before his world had gone gray.

But it felt good to melt into the sheets at last, like his entire body was letting out a sigh of relief. He let his head sink into the pillow, not caring that the friction pushed the bandage that bound his brow over one eye, and listened.

From outside came the sounds of life.

The purring of motors as cars warmed up or shut down, the distant roar of the highway, the clamor of voices as people passed by in the parking lot outside, the distant music of the restaurant nextdoor.

James could not truly say that he wasn't still alone. He had been alone long before the vast and terrible underbelly of Silent Hill had sunk its claws into him and dragged him into itself.

But in the cold, lonely depths of that place, the only sounds were distant, inhuman cries and the deep, lonesome sounds of unseen industry grinding and pulsing below. The rest of the world had ceased to exist and he hadn't known if it would ever come back into being for him again. The sounds he was hearing now were ones he'd never given enough of a damn to listen for before, but now they were a beautiful heartbeat starting up again after being terrifyingly absent. They were the muffled sound of a television and a dim glow down the hall to a child trying to fall asleep, listening fearfully for signs that a parent was still alert and watchful elsewhere.

The world was telling him that it wouldn't be going anywhere without him while he rested his weary brow.

He shut his eyes.

For the first time in too long, James Sunderland slept.