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Henry had met the superintendent’s son only once Before It Happened. Henry wasn’t good with people, but he liked old Sunderland well enough - he had seen the pictures Henry had taken of landmarks in Silent Hill and given him another one, a pretty shot of Toluca Lake taken on a rare clear day.
“Before the fog,” Sunderland had told him, cryptically.
A week later, Sunderland’s son had knocked on Henry’s door to get the picture back. The man was five or ten years older than Henry - in his thirties - fair complected: yellow-blonde and pink-faced in his agitation.
“It wasn’t his to give,” he said.
“Alright,” Henry agreed. He liked the picture, but he wasn’t about to get in the middle of some family dispute.
He left the door open and leaned over the sofa, carefully lifting the large, heavy frame of the Toluca Lake print off its hook.
“Never mind.”
Precariously balanced, Henry turned to look over his shoulder. The superintendent’s son was standing at the edge of the living room, staring down the hall that led to Henry’s bedroom.
“What?” Henry asked.
“You can keep the picture,” the blonde man said. His complexion had evened out; now he seemed calm, almost distracted.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s all about ley lines,” said Sunderland’s son. Without looking at Henry again, he drifted back into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Henry adjusted the picture, pushed himself off the wall, and stood, mystified in the middle of his living room.
When he discovered Walter Sullivan’s umbilical cord in the superintendent’s room, he wondered if maybe insanity ran in that family.
***
The superintendent’s son reappeared After. Henry was still living in room 302; the rent had dropped significantly. Before, Henry had been barely eking by on commissioned photography gigs. The industry hardly lent itself to financial success, but Henry had a good eye for places, and the portraits he took were well regarded. They captured people's characters, their truth, his clients said, but Henry had always been too shy and modest to drum up much work. Now, he wasn’t in any position, mentally, to be taking on new work at all, so he had accepted Frank Sunderland’s offer and stayed.
So what if Richard Braintree was found murdered in the shopping complex just across the street? So what if Eileen Galvin was beaten nearly to death next door in 303 and promptly moved to Baltimore, leaving Henry with a “Thanks” and a kiss on the cheek and no forwarding address even though she had promised to send one? So what if undead psycho Walter Sullivan had locked Henry in room 302 and sucked the entire building into some hellish Otherworld of his own design? Henry had fucking won it back, and he had killed that bastard, Sullivan - double, triple killed him, since he had already been dead. Henry could afford to live in 302, and it was his now, damn it. He took the fucking place by force. When he jerked off, his cock was his axe in his hand.
Henry was lying on his clean bed, back arched, imagining burying that axe in the head of a mutant primate when the knock came. He groaned and stuffed his cock back in his jeans and trudged, half put together, to the door. This time, he was the one who was flushed.
Sunderland’s son didn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t you moving out?” he asked.
Henry shook his head. “It’s my apartment.”
The other man looked him up and down. Suddenly self conscious, Henry remembered his bare feet, his cock, still part way hard, threatening to peek out of his waistband. He wrapped his unbuttoned overshirt around himself and crossed his arms over his stomach.
“You can take your picture back,” he offered, hoping to get rid of the intruder.
“It belongs here. Can I see?”
“The picture?” Henry stood aside. The other man knew where the picture was. He could probably see it from the doorway.
“Where he did it,” Sunderland’s son whispered.
Henry narrowed his eyes at him. The police and the press had been all over the place while Henry was in the hospital and, later, briefly, in police custody. There had been a gawker or two since, but Sunderland had handled them before they made it to his floor. Henry supposed that strategy wouldn’t work with Sunderland's own son.
“Fine. Whatever. It’s not the same, though.”
“That’s okay. Ley lines, remember?”
The blonde man stepped past Henry and walked straight down the hall to the room that used to be behind the wall. It was empty now. The doorway was redone, but there wasn’t a door there yet, and the whole room had been cleaned and painted. The depression in the floor had disappeared, just like the holes in Henry’s bathroom and his laundry room - those had been part of Walter’s world, and they’d disappeared back into it when their creator died. With luck, that whole world had winked out. If not . . . well, Henry would be ready. He trailed after the superintendent’s son and found him kneeling on the floor in the exact spot where Henry had stepped down into the depression.
“Here,” Sunderland, junior said, “There was a hole here. It’s gone now.” He smiled oddly.
“Yeah,” Henry agreed, “And in the bathroom, and the laundry room.”
“Really?” The other man got up and swept past Henry out into the hall. For a moment, he stood wavering, confused.
“There,” Henry pointed to his bathroom door.
The superintendent’s son rushed inside and palmed the wall, right where the hole had been. “Yes! And here!” He pointed into Henry’s shower, at the wall the bathroom shared with the laundry room.
“On the other side.” Henry wanted to ask him to leave, but he still wasn’t much good at managing people. In many ways Walter Sullivan had given him purpose and strength. Now, he was just plain, awkward Henry again. Plain, awkward Henry with people to talk to and nothing to kill. He leaned against the bathroom door frame.
The superintendent’s son smiled at him widely. He put both hands on Henry’s cheeks and kissed him on the mouth.
Henry stumbled backwards in surprise and thumped against the hallway wall just opposite the bathroom door. The other man was Henry’s height but broader shouldered, bulkier through the chest, and he drove Henry’s comparatively gangly body back against the hard surface with ease.
“What are you doing?!” Henry wasn’t used to people touching him. Kissing him. And certainly not men.
Sunderland’s son backed off a step and wiped his mouth. “You’re wonderful. I hadn’t realized. I thought that it was just the place, but you . . . You’re really not moving out?”
Henry was in over his head. He had handled Walter’s world better than this. The superintendent’s son dropped to his knees.
“I’m going to worship you,” he said, “You can close your eyes and pretend I’m whoever you want.” He palmed Henry through his pants, then pulled them down.
Henry closed his eyes. People weren’t exactly lining up to suck his cock, and things might not go too well with the superintendent if Henry upset his insane son, so he took a deep breath and decided to let it happen.
The first thing he thought of was Cynthia offering to do him a special favor. He tried to conjure up a scenario in which he’d saved her from the subway, and she’d gone down on him right then and there beside the turnstyle, but that was much too morbid. The memory of standing over her mangled corpse didn’t wilt his erection like it should have, but it made him feel a little sick. He had wanted to help her, and he felt guilty she was dead.
A wet mouth settled over his bare cock, and Henry opened his eyes and looked down at what was really happening, which was an improvement on the aborted fantasy. The superintendent’s son was handsome enough, with blunt features that went with his broad build. His yellow hair contrasted sharply with the pale skin on Henry’s abdomen and the light brown of his pubic hair. He touched that blonde hair gently; it was soft.
Sunderland, junior looked up. “I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. He removed Henry’s hand from his head and placed it, palm down, against the wall. “Why don’t you close your eyes?”
Henry meant to ask him why he was doing this now, but what came out of his mouth was, “Okay.”
He closed his eyes again. This time, he pictured Eileen. They were in the hospital closet. Henry was suggesting they go down - down to the deepest part of him. “Let’s do that.” Eileen agreed. With death and worse looming in front of them, they had a carpe diem moment. Eileen kissed him “for luck.” Then she pulled him out of his pants and got down on her knees and started sucking him.
It wasn’t very plausible; Eileen had been so badly hurt, and they had barely known each other, in spite of being neighbors. They knew each other better than Henry knew this man, however - this man whose first name Henry did not even know - so maybe it wasn’t that implausible, after all. In his fantasy, Henry told Eileen to be careful, and she said she wanted to do this in case she didn’t get a chance to later. That’s the only way anything would have happened between them: with Eileen as the aggressor. Henry was too awkward and too cautious to be forward with women. But sometimes women liked that.
Fantasy Eileen swallowed him down, and Henry fingered the numbers carved into her back. He felt himself get harder. He found himself tracing “20/21” on the wall with the hand the superintendent’s son had placed there. He held his breath and tried not to thrust. Maybe Eileen was inexperienced, too. He’d want to make it easy for her, anyway. On the wall (on Eileen’s back) his finger looped around in the shape of the numbers again and again: “20/21/20/21/20/21/20/21/21/21.” Twenty one of twenty one. That was him. He came.
Henry’s fantasy melted and he slumped, sliding down the wall onto the floor. When he opened his eyes, the superintendent’s son was in the bathroom, drinking from the faucet. Henry did up his pants.
“What . . . um . . . what do you want?” He hadn’t asked for the blowjob, but now he felt obligated to reciprocate.
The blonde man looked up from the sink, then down to where Henry was sitting on the floor. He shrugged. “Can I come back sometime?”
“I guess.” Henry didn’t know whether he wanted him to or not. He was shy. A wallflower. A loner, even. He liked wine and long walks on the beach and visiting historic towns and going to museums - things that people did on dates - but he liked doing them alone. He was a photographer. He documented other people’s lives; he did not participate in them.
On the other hand, the superintendent’s son was the first person to suck him off in years, and Henry hadn’t even had to ask him to. Maybe he would do it again.
“My name’s Henry,” he offered.
“I know. Henry Townshend. Walter Sullivan’s twenty-first sacrament.” He licked his lips.
“The Receiver of Wisdom,” Henry added. It felt right. Walter hadn’t sacrificed him, but he had received the wisdom, hadn’t he?
The superintendent’s son nodded. “James Sunderland.” He stepped back into the hallway, faced the room that had held Walter’s corpse a final time, then walked into the living room and took a sharp turn out the door.
***
Three days later, he came back with an armful of cardboard tubes.
“James,” Henry greeted him, half questioning, half fond, already. The man was clearly off his rocker. He stood aside to let him pass.
James dumped the tubes on the floor, and a few went rolling into the kitchen. He propelled Henry down the hall and into his bedroom. He must have known where it was by process of elimination, or the layout of his dad’s apartment, maybe, because he moved with confidence, like a dancer, leading as Henry followed, backwards but in front of him, with hardly a stumble at all. Henry was still trying to decide whether he liked the sensation when James pushed him down onto his bed and climbed on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress and the soft comforter. His hardness prodded Henry’s thigh through both their jeans.
“Hey, now,” Henry objected.
“I really want to have you. Can I, please?”
“Have you done that before?” Henry asked before his mind caught up with him. He wasn’t keen on some half stranger’s inexperienced extremities poking around inside him. “What?” he added belatedly, “No!”
James sat back and pouted, his full bottom lip curling pinkly over his thinner upper one. “You think about it. Maybe next time.”
“I don’t think I want to do that. I’m not really, um, gay.”
“Neither am I. That’s not the point. Ley lines, remember?” He shimmied further down, leaned his face over Henry’s groin, and inhaled deeply. “God, you’re something. I’ll show you, after.”
He started undoing Henry’s jeans, and Henry decided not to say anything else. He closed his eyes like last time, but it was difficult to fantasize. He was in his bed - Eileen had never been here. The first and last girlfriend he'd had, in art school . . . she had been very aggressive, which Henry had liked. He wasn’t sure what color her hair was except that it wasn’t black because that was the color she dyed it. She dyed it so black she looked like a comic book character. “You’re sexy, Henry,” she had told him at a party. He’d been sitting on a sofa in the corner, by himself, drinking a nasty concoction of cheap vodka and cran-apple juice; the roommate who had dragged him there was nowhere to be seen. The girl was in a couple of his classes. “You’re sexy, Henry,” she had said, “I live here. You should come back to my room so we can fuck.” This had seemed like the best chance at getting laid he was likely ever to get, so he had followed her, and they had kissed and petted for a bit, and then they’d taken their clothes off and she had climbed on top of him. “You’re not a virgin anymore, Henry. How does that feel?” They’d gone out for four months until she’d found someone she thought was sexier. She said her name was Amaryllis, which Henry did not think was true. He’d thought about looking her up in the directory and calling her on it, but he hadn’t, not even after she broke up with him. They’d tried all sorts of sexual positions, all at her insistence, and he’d even let her fuck him with a strap on, which he wasn't too proud to admit he had enjoyed. But that didn’t mean he wanted James to do it with his real cock.
Henry’s mind snapped back to the present. Amaryllis hadn’t liked giving head, so it was hard to use her as a fantasy right now.
Just like before, James noticed when Henry’s attention returned even though he hadn’t touched his head this time. He pulled off. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”
Henry blushed and didn’t answer. Blood splashed behind his still closed eyes.
“Think about that,” James suggested.
Henry thought of his axe in his hand. He wasn’t holding his cock. “I need something to hold.” He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows.
James sat all the way back on his knees. “Like what?”
A weapon. “Maybe we could jerk each other off? I’m really not sure I want to try . . . you know. But that would be okay.”
James grinned. “I could do that.” He got off the bed and pulled his pants down just enough. He was already hard.
Henry sat up and kicked his pants all the way off. “Good. That’s good. I feel better about that. Then, you can come, too.” He didn’t want to suck his cock. If Amaryllis didn’t have to, neither did Henry. “How should we . . .”
“Come over here.”
Henry walked over to James so they were standing side by side, then James maneuvered them so Henry was against the wall again, just like before. Again, the other man’s broader shoulders, bulky chest, helped him press Henry’s slighter body back against the wall. He planted his left hand right next to Henry’s head and took hold of his cock with his right. He stroked it gently.
“Close your eyes,” he prompted.
Henry did. James let go of Henry’s cock just long enough to guide Henry’s right hand toward his own. Henry squeezed experimentally.
“That’s it,” James whispered. He squeezed Henry tighter and picked up his pace.
Pleasure shot through Henry’s veins as James ran his callused fist up and down his shaft. He pulled gently on James’ cock in turn, then started jerking him in earnest. He thought of blood and blunt force, knocking monsters to the ground and stomping on them. Dogs with no skin and long tongues. James’ tongue had felt so good, and now his fist was just as good or better because Henry had his axe in his hand. James seemed close, but he was holding off; he wanted Henry to come first. Henry remembered that final killing blow: his own blood oozing from his wounds, Walter’s brain in muddy pieces on his shoe, his skull in splinters, his red blood spreading, spreading. Henry came. Involuntarily, his fist stilled, and James thrust into it and spurted hot in Henry’s hand.
“You’re so good,” James whispered in his ear, “You’re just what I’ve been looking for. Come see. Nobody else can understand.” He wiped Henry’s come on his jeans and tucked his cock away and went into the living room.
Henry leaned back against his bedroom wall and breathed. It had been good. And next time . . . He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face. He could hear James messing with the cardboard tubes. He took his time finding a pair of sweatpants to put on and shed his button down so his outfit didn’t feel so mismatched. Was James his boyfriend now? Was he dating a crazy person? Maybe he was crazy, too, now, and that was why James was here.
“Ley lines,” James announced again when Henry wandered into the living room in his lounge wear. He looked up from the collage of overlapping maps spread out on Henry’s coffee table. He was sitting on the sofa in front of the picture of Toluca Lake he had been looking for the first time he came to room 302. “You look sexy. Is that for me?”
Henry shrugged.
“I’ve never tried this with a man before, but you are clearly special.”
“Clearly,” Henry echoed wryly. Walter Sullivan had thought so. Absently, Henry traced “21/21” on his thigh.
“Where are you from?” James asked. He unrolled a map that had curled up on the side of the coffee table. It was a map of the United States big enough to cover up the rest of his collage.
“Overland Park,” Henry answered automatically.
James stared at him blankly.
“Kansas,” Henry elaborated. “It’s a suburb of Kansas City.”
James grinned. “Great.” He pulled a pencil out of his shirt pocket and placed the point on Kansas City. “Right in the middle. That’s just perfect.” He used the side of one of the tubes as a straight edge and drew a line between K.C. and Silent Hill. It passed right through Ashfield. “See?”
Henry wasn't going to read too much into that. Silent Hill and Ashfield were so close together on that map that a line from half the cities in the country would be liable to pass through both. “Neat trick.”
“Okay,” James said, “Now, watch.” He peeled the top map away. Underneath, a map of the state had been overlaid with local maps: a detail of Ashfield that showed South Ashfield Heights, a map of Ashfield’s subway system, an old tourist map of Silent Hill showing historic sites, a multicolored fire insurance map of that same city from decades ago, detailing the types of building material used. Henry had used maps like that in college when he’d done a project about city planning as an art form for a social science requirement. The professor had called his essay “creative,” and passed him. He liked maps.
“I drew some maps in Walter’s world,” Henry heard himself volunteer. He almost never spoke of Walter’s world. The police had found White Claudia in his system - a hallucinogenic plant native to Silent Hill, which they assumed Walter had administered while Henry was unconscious, perhaps by pumping it into his locked apartment as a gas. And maybe that was true - maybe it had made him more susceptible - but Henry knew the Otherworld had not been in his imagination.
“Did you really?” James seemed excited. He did not question what Henry had meant by “Walter’s world,” but, then, he was crazy, after all. “Do you have them?”
Henry shook his head. “Evidence.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“I guess.” Privately, Henry thought so, too, but he missed his weapons more.
“Anyway, see this? Show me the places where you went in Walter’s world.”
Henry pointed to the shopping complex across from South Ashfield Heights, the subway station he could see from his window, St. Jerome's Hospital in Ashfield, Wish House on Toluca Lake, and the old tower outside Silent Hill. “What did you think I meant when I said ‘Walter’s world?’”
James drew a line between South Ashfield Heights and the Water Prison, which was the farthest point away. All of the locations lined up perfectly. He smiled as he looked up at Henry. “The world he made with his mind, of course. Did you know Silent Hill used to be a sacred place?”
“I know about the cult.” He had read a lot about them in Joseph's articles and in his journals and the papers strewn about in Wish House and the prison.
“The Order, right. That's why they're there. Because the place is magic. It's some sort of mystical convergence.”
“Ley lines,” Henry guessed.
“That's right! They're hard to find, but I can feel them if I'm on one now. After my trip to Silent Hill. It changed me.”
Henry didn't know what to say to that, so James went on:
“It was a spiritual experience. My wife died, right? And I was having trouble dealing with it - her death and how I behaved those last few awful years. I went to Silent Hill because she'd liked it there, and the magic in the place let me make up my own world with monsters there to punish me. I defeated them, though, in the end. I came to terms with everything.”
“That's nice,” Henry offered even though it wasn't. It was scary as hell. He was having sex with this person.
“Yes, it is nice,” James agreed, “I have a sensitivity to mystical things now - to ley lines and the sacred places. This apartment. You. You're special. Sullivan, he was trained by the Order, and his first sacraments were in Silent Hill, so he was able to control his world as long as he built it along the line. Mine . . . I didn't have that kind of power. I didn't even realize I was doing it at first. It was all in my subconscious.”
“‘Monsters of the id,’” Henry quoted, remembering Forbidden Planet.
“Exactly.” James grinned up at him. “That's based on The Tempest, did you know? Prospero in outer space with so much power that he can’t control it anymore. The difference is the power is in Silent Hill itself, so regular people like me can make their own worlds. Their own monsters. You don't need ritual and training like Sullivan or inborn power like Prospero. Or Alessa.”
“I read some things about Alessa.”
“The cultists think her spirit lives on in some teenage girl. Did you see all that stuff just a few years ago? They killed her father and lured the girl to Silent Hill and tried to sacrifice her to their god. She got away - can't be found, now. Some P.I. is taking care of her. He's hidden her away. But look at this.”
He unrolled the U.S. map again and stuck his pencil on the dot that represented a major city in another state a couple hundred miles away - a day's drive. He drew a line to Silent Hill, calculated an angle, and continued the line on the Silent Hill tourist map, all the way across the town to the amusement park. Henry had been there, taken pictures. It was like someone's childhood preserved inside a snow globe so old that it was cloudy. The girl's line bisected Henry’s in the middle of Toluca Lake. There was an island there, he noticed for the first time.
“And you, where did you go?”
“My line isn't as good,” James admitted, frowning. On the tourist map, he circled the rest stop just outside of Silent Hill, Rosewater Park, the Silent Hill Historical Society, and the old Lakeview Hotel. Then, on the fire insurance map, he circled an apartment complex, a bowling alley, a downtown bar, and Brookhaven Hospital. The points didn’t fall in a neat line. “It doesn’t really matter, though.”
“Why’s that?” With all his talk of ley lines, James was clearly disappointed that his own path didn’t seem to follow one.
“Oh, because my whole journey was in Silent Hill. It’s a convergence.” He pointed to the island where Henry’s line crossed the other one he’d drawn. “As I understand it, the girl’s dad moved her around - he knew the Order would be after her. He didn’t know about the ley lines, though. When they moved here,” he pointed to the other city, “suddenly they were vulnerable. A priestess of the Order used the ley line to channel power there - kill the father, drag the daughter in. I haven’t been able to find her and ask, but I would bet my life that she saw monsters long before she went to Silent Hill. It’s like what Sullivan did to you, but he was more dedicated to creating his own world. The ritual - he even sacrificed himself.”
“I remember.” Henry glanced down the hall into the room where Walter’s body died.
“But look!” James took some rough measurements with his fingers and drew a line through the middle of his circles like a trend line on a scatter-graph. It met the two other lines on the island in Toluca Lake.
Henry squinted at the new line. He hadn’t done serious math since his first year of college, but, as a photographer, he had a good eye for proportions and geometry. The line seemed right. “That's . . . something.”
“Henry,” James looked up at him again. He held his gaze intently. “Henry, come to Silent Hill with me.”
Henry was startled into a laugh. “I don’t think so. I’ve had enough of other worlds.” This was not exactly true. Walter’s world had been terrible, but Henry had had such purpose there, and coming back to the mundane was difficult. Part of him would welcome tangling with monsters one more time. If he had his axe. Probably, he should see a psychoanalyst.
James pouted again, like he had when Henry hadn’t let him fuck him. “I’m sure you’d have much more control . . .”
“James, we hardly know each other. I’m not going to run away with you to Silent Hill. I’m fine right here.”
“You’re not.” He wasn’t, but that didn’t make this plan a good idea. “You’re not, but I can wait until you’re ready. We’ll do something in Ashfield, instead. Your ley line runs through Maple Park. We’ll go there and see whether you can feel it. Get lunch. Feed the ducks.” It sounded like a date.
“Alright.”
“Tomorrow, then. Eleven?”
“Sure.”
James rolled up his maps and stuffed them back into their tubes. When he left, he didn’t kiss Henry goodbye. Henry couldn’t decide whether he was more relieved or disappointed.
***
James came to room 302 at eleven o’clock sharp. This was the most social interaction Henry had had in a concentrated period of time since he left college, and part of him was starting to like it. James didn’t care that he was introverted. Outside of his morbid obsession with Silent Hill, he didn’t pry into Henry’s personal life. He didn’t care if Henry didn’t want to talk. They walked to Maple Park in companionable silence and sat eating food cart falafel by the pond. Henry tossed a piece of cucumber to a duck. After lunch, James bumped Henry’s shoulder, and Henry was surprised to find he liked that, too.
“Let’s take a walk around,” James said.
Again, in blissful silence, they walked around the park. Henry watched the ducks fight on the pond. He watched the kids swing on the swings. He looked at the bright pink and yellow roses. As they zigzagged along, he felt a tug in his center guiding him toward one path or another. The park felt like home, just like room 302 had when he had first stepped into it. It was a good place to walk. He’d walked here many times before, alone, always taking this same meandering path from the park’s southwest corner - closest to South Ashfield Heights - to its northeast. Sometimes, he’d take the subway back; more often, he would walk the same path in reverse.
“I can feel it,” he realized out loud, “I can feel the line. It’s guiding us, isn’t it? This is the way to Silent Hill.”
James smiled widely. “I knew you would be able to! Have you been there?”
“To Silent Hill? You know I have. To the lake, anyway, and the prison.”
“Before that happened, though? In the real world?”
“What? Oh. Yeah. I went there year before last to take pictures. It was peaceful. I liked it, then. Now, I’m not so sure.”
James ignored Henry’s last statement. “That’s how Mary felt about it, too. I think she was more sensitive to the convergence than I was. More consciously sensitive, anyway. It drew me back after she died. You, though . . . it drew you to the line, instead.”
“Maybe.” Room 302 had always felt like it belonged to him.
James leaned in close and whispered, “Let’s go back.”
Henry shivered. When they got back to South Ashfield Heights, he let James back him into the bedroom again. He definitely liked it, he decided. This time, the dance was slower, and they stopped to kiss along the way. Halfway down the hall, James tugged at Henry’s shirt, and Henry let him strip it off. He pulled James’ off, too. His chest and arms were scarred, but, then, Henry’s were, too. Henry put his hands on James’ chest and felt the warmth of him, and James put one of his hands on Henry’s bare back and another on his waist and smashed their lips together. When James came up for air, Henry turned his face to the side, and James’ lips sank down onto his neck.
“You can. This time, you can,” Henry babbled. He was overwhelmed with lust. He could feel the ley line in his blood, now. He was floating.
“That’s wonderful. I thought you’d like it. You can still feel it, right?”
“Oh yes.”
“You understand why I want you so much?”
Henry understood his arousal, at least, so he said, “Yeah.” When James backed him up against his bed he sat down and helped pull his own pants off. “Have you done this before?”
James shook his head. “But I’m prepared.” He pulled lube and a condom out of his pocket. Had he brought them every time? Certainly the last time when he brought the maps. “Lie back.”
Henry scooted back so he was lying properly on the bed, head on his pillow, and James settled in between his legs. He still had on his jeans. He put some lube on his fingers. “Ready?”
“Sure.” Henry wasn’t exactly a virgin here, but Amaryllis had been years ago. Even so, he was hard and hot. He wanted stimulation from inside and out. He was sure his orgasm would be explosive and cathartic.
James touched Henry’s hole without touching the skin around it, first. Henry jumped, then forced himself to settle, as James’ slippery finger shoved right in. The burn was wonderful, too. Every sensation seemed amplified now that he understood his connection to the line. And 302 was part of that, and Walter didn’t have it; Henry did.
He arched his back. “More. Hurry!”
“Good. That’s right.” James pulled his one finger out and added a second, pushing in roughly. He moved the fingers around. “Where’s your prostate? Is it this?” He touched the right spot.
“Yes!” Henry cried out. “Please! You don’t need to be careful.”
“God, you’re sexy. This is what I wanted.” James kicked off his pants. Underneath them, he was muscular, and his cock was hard and pink. “On your knees?”
“Right.” Henry turned onto his hands and knees, and he felt James crawl up behind him. His hands were sticky-slick on Henry’s hips. Soon, he could feel the blunt head of James’ cock pressing between his ass cheeks, looking for the best way in. Then, it slid inside - hot, slick, and much to big. Henry sagged forward onto his elbows and buried his face in his pillow. He gasped again and again as James thrust in and out.
“Is that good?”
“It’s . . . overwhelming.” Henry adjusted his position slightly, and James’ cock slammed into his prostate. He keened embarrassingly.
“Fuck, you’re perfect. Touch yourself.”
Henry leaned heavily on his left arm and grabbed his cock.
“Here,” James said. He faltered in his thrusts for just a moment, then knocked on Henry’s elbow with the lube.
Henry took it and lubed up his cock and stroked it hard and fast. It was his axe in his hand. And James, behind him and inside him, was the line, pulling on Henry’s blood, connecting him to the place where he belonged. Henry remembered burying his axe in the shoulder of a two headed monster in the stairwell of this very apartment building. How glorious it had been! He had fought and won, and now it was all his. James was fucking him mercilessly, now; the pain reminded Henry of the satisfaction of his victory. He squeezed his axe in his hand and came, involuntarily thrusting in and out of his own slippery fist and ruining James’ rhythm. James stilled and let him fuck himself on his cock for just a moment. Then, he gripped Henry’s hips with bruising force and finished with a few more hard, deep thrusts. He kissed the top of Henry’s spine, then pulled off, out, and away, all the way off the bed. Henry collapsed on his stomach.
Water was running in the bathroom. Lying in a mess of lube and his own come and maybe other things, Henry wondered if his bedspread would fit in the washing machine he had. He would probably have to take it to a laundromat and stuff it in the oversize. If he let James fuck him again, he’d strip the bed down to the sheets, first.
After a moment, James returned with a warm washcloth. He wiped up Henry’s ass and thighs, then turned him over and cleaned up his front as well.
“Don’t sit there,” Henry indicated the spot on the bed he had rolled out of when James coaxed him over on his back.
James tossed the washcloth on the floor and climbed on top of Henry. “How about this?”
It was claustrophobic. “Maybe for a minute.”
James laid flat on top of him. He was heavier than Henry, and Henry had to concentrate to keep breathing and not panic. James nestled his soft cock next to Henry’s, buried his face in Henry’s neck, and breathed deeply in and out.
“Please,” he whined against Henry’s sweaty skin, “Please come to Silent Hill.”
***
They were going to camp on the island. Henry offered to bring firewood; it gave him an excuse to buy a hatchet. Two days after they’d had honest to God penetrative sex, James picked him up outside South Ashfield Heights, and they drove up to Silent Hill.
The road was in good repair these days. Even though Silent Hill was a ghost town, the state maintained the route for logging trucks and as an alternate escape from Brahms in case of forest fire. James drove slowly through the tunnel into town and meandered through the foggy, vacant streets. Once or twice, Henry asked him to stop, and he got out and took pictures of the buildings in the fog. The moisture cleared his sinuses. He felt rejuvenated.
When they reached the boat dock by the old historical society, Henry helped James unload their things into a rowboat: tent, sleeping bags, cooler, cooking and eating utensils, water bottles, backpacks, firewood, hatchet. Henry rowed while James took the tiller, and, soon, they were on the island, dragging their little boat ashore.
The first night, they camped by the water. After dark, they made a fire and swam naked in the frigid lake. James coaxed Henry down onto the pebbly beach and swallowed his cock. When the sun set, the fog had gone, leaving only a light mist sitting on the water. Henry stared up at the stars and stretched his arms out far above his head. His blood rushed from his fingertips down to his toes and back, detouring pleasurably through his cock, so hot in James’ mouth. He was lying along one of the converging lines. He didn’t need his axe in his hand. He came, feeling fresh and clean, and, for the first time, he returned the favor - clumsily but with enthusiasm.
The second night, they moved their camp into the woods. The forest smelled of old bark and good strong earth. Henry let James undress him by the fire. He knelt in the soft dirt, and James opened him up with his tongue, then fucked him just as roughly as before. They pressed deeper into the mud, and Henry, flat and sinking, rutted into the slick earth, pressed his open mouth against the ground, and gasped in flakes of dirt as he came, hard. Barefoot, he tiptoed carefully down to the beach when they were done and washed himself, alone, in the misty waters of Toluca Lake. It was freezing, but he brought himself to orgasm again, floating on his back in the black water. In that moment, it was bliss to be alone. He had his axe in his hand again. He was glad James didn’t mind.
The third night, they were planning to camp on top of the hill in the center of the island. All day, they carried their gear around in circles, looking for the best way up. There were sheer cliffs on every side, which had been hidden from a distance by the trees. At last, they found a little staircase carved into the granite.
“See,” James smiled, “These are ancient. Didn’t I tell you that it was a sacred place?”
Henry nodded and followed him up. By the time they reached the top, it would be dark.
There was no moon. By flashlight, they could see a few large rocks, a nice, flat area to pitch their tent. They didn’t light a fire. When their beds were made, they sat on the big rocks eating cheese and cold chicken, drinking wine in almost utter darkness. It was the first time Henry had tasted alcohol since Walter, and the sensation of drunkenness felt freeing. He laid down on the cool, hard surface of the big, flat rock and stared up at the sky. James filled up his glass again and again, smiling. Henry saw three shooting stars.
Alcohol buzzed through Henry's blood stream, and he felt himself getting hard. He could feel two ley lines, now, and their point of convergence, thrumming with mystical energy, just a few feet away. Sex with James seemed messy and exhausting, so Henry took his cock out of his pants and stroked it on his own, imagining killing a monster in the fog as he looked up into a suddenly clear sky. He had his axe in his hand.
“You’re sexy, Henry,” James sighed from his spot nearby. Wasn’t that what Amaryllis had said? Maybe it was true. “You’re perfect.”
***
Henry woke up before dawn. His head was spinning. Had he drunk too much wine? He must have fallen asleep on that rock because he was outside. Everything ached. His stiff back screamed, and his chest stung. The sky was rosy, but heavy clouds were gathering. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning! Soon, it was going to rain. Henry shivered as an early morning wind swept over his damp skin.
He was naked. Henry sat up fast. He didn't remember taking his clothes off. He was so dizzy.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” James’ voice. Behind him.
Henry twisted in his seat to look. His aching back spasmed, and his chest cried out in agony. He touched it. There was blood. “What’s wrong with me?” The inside of his mouth felt like cotton.
James was standing next to another, taller rock. There were four objects laid out on it: two books, a vial of something white, and a black goblet. They were all familiar. “Everything’s perfect, Henry. Don’t worry. Didn’t I say you were perfect? Lie back down.”
James looked as he usually did, but everything else seemed dead and rotten. There was blood on all the rocks, and maybe on the ground. The soil was black. Was all this Henry’s blood? He touched his chest again. Through the pain, he was able to distinguish separate, fairly superficial cuts. On his own chest, they seemed backwards, so it took his dizzy mind a moment to recognize the numbers: “21/21.”
“What are you doing? What have you done?” Henry tried to shout at James, but it came out as a mumble. He toppled off the rock onto the ground and landed in a patch of small, white flowers. He recognized them from the picture the police had shown him. “Did you drug me?” No wonder he saw so much blood.
“Shush,” James was right there, dragging him back onto the rock. The altar. “I’ve never tried this with a man before. We have to be careful. But you’re special. This time, I’m sure that it will work.”
Henry looked around wildly. Maybe the blood was real. Here and there around the rocks were bones and decomposing corpses, partly overgrown by grass and the White Claudia. All around the altars and the point of convergence, the ghosts of six women hovered morosely. All but one were naked, and blood oozed from obvious and unseen wounds and caked their faces, breasts, and thighs. Three had clear stab wounds in their chests, and one had had her face bashed in. The fifth woman’s head flopped gruesomely from side to side; her throat was slit. The sixth woman was clothed in beige pajamas. She showed no obvious wound but looked more withered than the rest. Henry was too woozy already to discern whether the ghosts were making his condition worse the way they had in Walter’s world. How odd he hadn’t seen them there at first.
“You knew how to get up here all along,” he accused, slurring his words badly, “You came up in the dark on purpose. You fucking set me up!”
James had him on the altar now. He stroked his hair. “You’re beautifully suggestible. This place: it caught you right away. I bet you can’t go twenty miles from the ley line before you’re compelled to come back. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. How pleased Sullivan must have been when you moved into that apartment! He knew it was time to finish the sacraments as soon as you were there.” He traced the numbers he had carved in Henry’s chest. “He did so much work. I thought I’d finish, just in case.”
“You’re missing number twenty,” Henry mumbled.
“No, I’m not." James kissed Henry’s forehead and went back to the main altar.
Henry looked up at the six women once again. The one with the slit throat: she was Eileen. She floated in a circle, so Henry could see the numbers on her back. He must have killed her before she ever went to Baltimore, just days before he came to Henry’s door. The day before, even. He choked.
The choke triggered a larger bodily reaction. He convulsed, and his body folded up and in on itself, aggravating his sore back and bleeding chest. He rolled and ended up on his knees on the ground leaning his stomach over the top of the rock. He vomited into the black soil on the other side.
“Come on, Henry,” James’ voice was floating towards him. He sounded exasperated but fond.
Henry took a deep breath. He felt better now. The symptoms of the overdose were fading, and now he was left with the effect he had grown used to in the days when Walter held him captive in his world. All the blood that had been spilled here - by James and those who had performed these rituals for centuries before - was leaking off the rocks, into the ground. The trees were hung with bits of human skin. The ghosts, faded and grey before, were vivid. Eileen’s green eyes shone now, unmistakable, out of her poorly attached head. It wasn’t fair that they were naked, Henry thought suddenly. He loved the female form. He had taken several lovely nudes of Amaryllis - artsy pictures, not pornography - a few were still in his portfolio. But that had been her choice. Eileen, these other women . . . Henry closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the women were all clothed. Even the one in beige pajamas was dressed differently; now, she wore a light sundress. Henry had changed them or helped them to change themselves. They were all looking at him now, and their presence wasn’t hurting him.
This wasn’t James’ world.
Henry was the Receiver of Wisdom. He began to understand: James didn’t care about his victims, didn’t want them to continue to suffer in his service the way Walter had. James had lost his wife. He’d said he'd come to Silent Hill to come to terms with everything. He’d said that he’d found magic in the place, that it had changed him. He’d said he hadn’t tried this with a man before. He had been killing women, trying one of the Order’s old rituals over and over again to bring his wife back. What would happen if he killed Henry, too? Would Walter’s ritual and his combine and bring back Mother? It hardly mattered because Henry wasn’t going to let him. This wasn’t James’ world. He didn’t care about his victims. Henry did.
It was easy to listen to his blood. Some of it was out of his body, already, and the White Claudia was helping. Henry could feel his ley line and the girl’s - James had said he couldn’t find her; Henry hoped to God that that was true - he could feel the convergence. It wasn’t at James’ tall altar or on the rock Henry was bent across; it was between the two where the white flowers were most prevalent. Henry forced himself to fall back across that spot.
James stood over him with his hands on his hips.
“Can you feel it, James?” Henry rasped. His throat hurt from vomiting. “This is the spot. Right here. This is the convergence.”
“Is it?” James exclaimed in an excited whisper. He bent down on one knee and petted Henry’s hair again. “You see how beautiful it is that you’re so sensitive?”
Henry looked up into Eileen’s glowing eyes. “Beautiful,” he echoed. The way her head flopped to one side made her look curious. “Am I still sexy?”
“God.” James traced the numbers on his chest.
“Are you sure you need to bring her back when you have me already?” He kept his voice very small.
“Oh, Henry, it was a hard choice. I have to bring her back, though; it’s because of me she’s dead, you see? And it’s too late, now. You might tell.” He shook his head sadly.
“I understand,” Henry whispered, “I miss Eileen. I’ll be with her.” He reached up, and Eileen’s ghost flitted through his hand. It did not hurt. Henry forced himself to finish. “James, make me feel good one last time?”
James let out a long breath, and he smiled. He stroked Henry’s cheek and leaned down over him. Would a kiss be enough? Henry closed his eyes and concentrated. The convergence thudded in his head. James’ lips met his, but Henry couldn’t figure out what to do next, so he forged onward, kissing back and fumbling with James’ pants. With the convergence just beneath him, his own arousal was inevitable now that he felt less ill. If he seemed eager, James would surely follow suit.
He did, and he was naked in a flash and on he knees, kissing down Henry’s bloody chest. His tongue came out and tasted Henry’s blood. “I gave her my blood, first,” James whispered against Henry’s mutilated flesh, “I gave her so much I passed out, but when I came to I was still alive, and it was not enough. I gave her whole bodies of blood, but still the ritual is incomplete.” He looked up into Henry’s eyes. His lips were red. “You’re perfect, though. You’re in tune with the magic of the place, and Walter’s ritual will help.”
There was no point in arguing. The Ascent of the Holy Mother would not bring James’ wife back, but it might do something much, much worse. Henry tried to put that thought out of his head and concentrate on how his blood thrummed in tune with the convergence: outside his body, on his numbers, in his veins, in his hard cock.
“I’m perfect,” Henry echoed, and it felt true. Henry felt complete. “Take me right here,” he moaned. Careful not to reveal the strength that he was gaining back, he rolled onto his knees and propped himself up.
James didn’t bother to look for lube. He shoved right in, but the pain Henry expected did not come. James had prepared him while he was unconscious, Henry realized, and maybe even fucked him, too. He had been out deeply enough not to wake when he sliced numbers in his skin.
Henry pushed his disgust aside, and it sat there, beside his anger, in the back part of his mind. He was perfect. He could do this. He breathed carefully, relaxing every muscle, feeling the convergence in his blood. His own heartbeat already matched it; perhaps it always had, at least since he first came to Silent Hill. He felt his cock throb in time to its beat, still hard in spite of everything. Gradually, James’ thrusts shifted to match the pulse. Almost.
“You’re the one, Henry,” James moaned in his ear. He was deep in Henry’s body.
“I am the Receiver of Wisdom,” Henry enunciated clearly. He grabbed his own demanding cock, and the two men came in unison.
Henry yanked James into his world.
James screamed and collapsed, hands on his head. He moaned into the flowers.
Henry pushed him aside and stood only a little shakily. “Do you see what you’ve been doing? You were right; I do have good control, and I can see. I am the Receiver of Wisdom.”
Still clutching his head, James looked up and saw the blood. He saw the ghosts. He collapsed again and, for a moment, he held his head tighter and buried his face in the White Claudia, inhaling deeply. The ghosts were hurting him. “I’ll finish it,” he moaned, “Then it will stop!”
He looked at Henry with red, bloodshot eyes and leaped toward him, screaming. Henry ducked away, but James caught his shoulder, and he fell and grazed his head on one of the large rocks. Dizzy again, he stumbled to his feet.
James turned around and lunged for a long dagger sitting in the grass. There was blood already on the tip - Henry’s. At the same time, Henry dove towards the tent. Their cooler and their firewood were piled up nearby. The hatchet was still there. It was a new tool from a big brand hardware store with a rubberized purple handle, but Henry could feel the weight of the heavy iron blade. It was not as heavy as the full sized axe he’d found in Walter’s world, but it would be faster to use. He held it up behind his right shoulder.
“I have my axe in my hand,” he announced.
James Sunderland didn’t stand a chance. Henry was fast, and he was better with an axe than James was with a knife, and the ghosts were on his side, for once. Left hand outstretched to ward off James’ attack, Henry put all his might behind the hatchet, swinging it first up then downward like a tennis racket. It stuck in James’ skull. The long knife, which had skewered Henry’s palm, slipped out as James’ limbs went limp. Heedless of the pain, Henry moved both hands to the rubber grip of the hatchet and yanked it out of James’ head. Blood slimed through his yellow hair. Bone and pink brain stuck in flecks to Henry’s hatchet blade. James fell, face down, at the convergence point.
The sun rose through the gathering fog, and all the flowers turned red.
Henry’s first instinct was to panic, so he fled. He stuffed his bare feet into his hiking boots, grabbed his backpack from the tent, and ran, hatchet in hand, down to the beach. Shaking, he made a pile of his things upon the pebbly shore and then plunged, naked, into cold Toluca Lake.
Henry scrubbed himself until his shivering was uncontrollable, then crawled out of the water and used his good hand to pull clothes out of the bag. The first thing he grabbed was one of his usual button downs. He tugged at it with all his might until it ripped, then wrapped the torn pieces around his damaged hand. The next thing Henry found was a white t-shirt. He pulled it on. The numbers bled through almost instantly, but those wounds were not deep. Good enough. He pulled on his extra pair of jeans, a pair of thick wool socks, and a heavy, navy blue wool sweater, which the blood on his chest would not show through. Then, he rinsed off the hatchet and rowed back to the dock. It was easy to find his way, in spite of the fog; he had the ley line helping him.
Henry got in James’ car and drove away from Silent Hill just as it started raining. As soon as he could, he turned onto a road heading northwest instead of south towards Ashfield.
James’ theory about they ley line was correct. As Henry drove, he traveled too far west for his ley line and too far north to line up with the girl’s. His head began to ache. He thought of all the reasons to go back: He had to bury James; he should contact the police; he needed to disguise the crime scene; he needed to cover his tracks; Eileen needed a proper funeral; all his things were in room 302; he owed James’ father rent . . . He drove until he felt sick. Finally, he pulled over and toppled out of the car, ready to vomit. But he didn’t. The moment he faced back towards Silent Hill, he felt much better. Henry grimaced. He got back in the car and drove all the way back to the boat dock.
James’ body was still lying face down on top of the island hill, and Henry left it there. His ghost was sitting, naked, on the rock where he had mutilated Henry. His skull was part way split and oozing, his hair and face matted with gore. The women were nowhere to be seen.
“You were right, you utter bastard,” Henry muttered, taking down the tent, “About they ley line.” He paused when he had everything packed up. “I don’t forgive you.”
James’ ghost tried to trail after him as he trudged slowly down the hill, laden with the remains of their camp. An invisible barrier at the edge of the hilltop stopped him; Henry didn’t want to be followed.
“I might visit sometime,” he promised vaguely over his shoulder as he carefully descended the ancient stone steps. The poor crazy fucker had gotten just what he deserved, but Henry still felt sorry for him. They might have had something together - if James had not been so insane.
The rain became a drizzle, then a mist. Fog settled once again on Silent Hill. Back on the mainland, Henry stuffed all James’ things into his car and dumped it in Toluca Lake. He strapped his hatchet to his backpack, threw his backpack on his back, and hung his camera on a strap around his neck. There were a lot of ghosts in Silent Hill - all people that he didn’t recognize. He snapped their pictures, curious if he would still be able to see them after he developed the film. He took pictures all the way home.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Ashfield, his feet hurt like hell. He rode the subway in. At the station near South Ashfield Heights, Cynthia was sitting on the turnstyle, her long hair floating all around her. Henry nodded at her, and she followed him for a little while, winding harmlessly through his fingertips.
Richard Braintree’s ghost was lurking on the sidewalk when Henry came up from the subway. Henry flipped him off, and a stranger, standing behind the ghost, responded in kind. Braintree left him alone.
South Ashfield Heights did not look as it had in Walter’s world, but was darker than it was in real life, and, here and there, the walls were stained with blood. A few ghosts Henry had never seen before flitted about.
Frank Sunderland limped out into the lobby. “I thought you went to Silent Hill with James.” Henry saw blood on his hands. He knew. The bastard had known all along.
“He decided to stay there.”
Sunderland eyed the makeshift bandage on Henry’s left hand. He stared at the hatchet strapped to his backpack for a long moment, unwilling to look Henry in the eye. At last, he nodded, then sighed deeply and walked slowly back in the direction of his room, shaking his head at the floor. He wouldn’t give Henry any trouble.
Henry trudged up to 302. Eileen’s ghost was waiting in the hallway. “I’m sorry,” he told her. She blew him a kiss and floated into 303. It was still vacant. He leaned against its door. “You can stay with me if somebody moves in,” he whispered.
How long would he be able to see her? The police had told him the effects of White Claudia could linger for days. Would the ghosts and other visions leave him then? Or, would he be able to see these truths if he concentrated hard enough and stayed on the ley line? It bothered him less and less not to be able to leave it. It might go all the way around the world. Certainly, it went all the way home to Overland Park; James had shown him that. Henry was beginning to suspect he’d never strayed from that line his whole life.
Henry could never forgive James for what he had done to Eileen, to all those other women - strangers - for what he almost did to Henry, too. He had betrayed his trust. And yet, a part of him was grateful. James had helped him realize who he was, helped him embrace it. He placed a kiss on Eileen’s door and opened 302.
Walter Sullivan was waiting.
“You’re not welcome here. Get out!”
Henry commanded, and Walter-the-man obeyed. His ghost floated dejectedly back into the room where he had taken his own life and through the floor where the depression used to be. His child self still lingered, sobbing. Henry could almost hear it - a high, humming sound, like ringing in his ears.
He sighed. “Try next door,” he suggested, “If you’re still looking for a mother.” Once, Eileen had been determined to save him, after all.
Alone at last, Henry stumbled to his bathroom, shedding clothes along the way. His t-shirt stuck to his bloody chest, so he left it on until the warm water could loosen the congealed blood. He cleaned his chest and hand with care and wrapped the hand in gauze. His chest he dabbed dry and left to open air. Those wounds were healing fast. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror until the steam had cleared completely.
The numbers on his chest were red and angry but not bleeding. They belonged to him, now. He wasn’t plain old, awkward Henry, after all. He saw and felt things other people couldn’t - that was what artists did. That’s what the numbers meant. He owned them. The first “two” curved around Henry’s right nipple. He raised his fingers to the center of the loop and pinched. Pleasure shot straight to his groin. He lowered his hand.
Henry felt his ley line pulse inside him. He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d never done this before - looked at himself while he jacked off. His cock was hard and pink, and his large hand squeezed it, hid it, showed it off. As he thrust, he saw the muscles in his stomach clench. His skin was pale, except where it was hidden by sparse, light brown hair, and where it was interrupted by the puffy, healing numbers, and where a soft, pink flush was blooming on his neck. His shoulders were dusted with freckles. His lips were parted, moist, his nose even and straight, not hawkish like he had always worried it might be. Four days of stubble emphasized his cheekbones. Henry pushed his wet hair off his forehead. His hazel eyes were open wide under his even brows. He was beautiful and sexy. He was the Receiver of Wisdom. He was going to come, and then he was going to go sleep in his own bed and wake up ready for the world. He was perfect.