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Unbeknownst to the two men, there was another entity present during their more or less awkward conversation. This was not an uncommon thing in Silent Hill. While the town and its surroundings acted as a sort of purgatory for all who were pulled into its otherworldly confines, one could very rarely suffer in true isolation. There was always something lying in wait just beneath the cover of the omnipresent fog- a monster lurking around every corner. Countless spirits roamed restlessly through the streets and peered out windows, even swam in the sewers below their very feet. Someone was always there to act a part in or pay witness to the slow torture inflicted on both the mind and body of the unwilling visitors. There was not an exception for Henry and Arsen. With two living bodies so close to one another, there would be more than enough company for them to deal with soon enough. For now, however, there was only one who was paying them a particular amount of attention.

Of all of what could be referred to as Silent Hill's 'natives', Walter Sullivan was one of the more human. As far appearances went, anyway. He was solid and sturdy, unlike many of the other ghosts (with a few exceptions), and did not show any signs of rotting or decay. In fact, he looked rather healthy with the one exception of the grey tinting beneath each of his eyes. He appeared more than a little dirty with bits of grit clinging to his hair and unmanaged facial sprouts that couldn't quite be called new, but there was color in his cheeks. There existed a subtle glow behind each of his smokey green eyes that belied his true state. Walter had died twice now, but he didn't seem to be doing too bad at all for his appearance. It may not have been exactly a sane one, mind, but it was passable considering his competition and the sorts of people that usually ended up in this place. A good many of them deserved to be here, after all; were little more than monsters themselves.

He had been watching the current scene unfold with a sort of idle amusement from the time that it had begun. To be more exact, he had been around and observing from the time Henry had peeled himself off the street. This wasn't just any new arrival to him. This was the man who had virtually ruined everything for him and reduced him to a very lowly shade for quite some time. It was an understatement to say that he had been waiting for this day to come around, this day when the twenty-first Sacrament would make his reappearance among the eternally damned. He had worked to make sure it happened, and for a good while it was the only thing driving him to stay attached to this Hellhole. This was no sanctuary for him either, but he could still use it. Revenge seemed to be an idea that went quite a way here.

Why then was he content to keep himself within the shadow of one of the narrow alleys while Townshend made conversation with another visitor? The answer was simple: he wasn't. Inwardly, he was itching to assert his presence, and the more manic part of him wanted his Henry's neck beneath his fingers. It wanted to squeeze slowly until the struggling stopped and the bone snapped. It was likely that thought that sobered him some, and took him back to the very beginnings of his ritual killings. He had strangled Bobby Randolph and Sein Martin- Henry wasn't going to die like Bobby or Sein, or any of the other Sacraments for that matter. Walter knew he could exercise some patience for the photographer. Now that he was here, Henry wouldn't be leaving any time soon, so there was no reason to rush anything. He could wait a little more.

He got all the necessary information about the other man from the questions that were asked of him. Arsen Donovan, male, young, older newcomer. In a way, he already knew. The two didn't know each other. During the time from start to awkward interval, one of Walter's hands delved in his pocket, fingers absently stroking the meager hair on the head of a ragged little doll that would be familiar to a few others. Henry still didn't know what was going on, did he? So innocent. That was to be expected of the Receiver of Wisdom, though he had no real right to call the brunette that anymore.

Another high plume rolled by- Walter stepped out with it, giving himself some cover as he began to approach the two. It was time he clued Henry in on what was going on and what was going to be. The other man, bluntly, was more of a bystander in this, and not really being considered by the killer as relevant. This was good and bad for Arsen. Good because he had an advantage to either catch the blonde by surprise or slip away, bad because he was expendable in Walter's mind and could be another soul soon to join the ranks of the many others. The Assumption continued to walk, casually, the pistol in his jacket pocket bumping against his chest with every step like a sad imitation of a heartbeat he didn't have. Lips parted slightly, their corners curling just barely upwards.

"Henry... Henry Townshend..." He called softly into the mist, slowing so that his own cloud passed away gradually, his body seeming to materialize from the very air and rapidly become tangible. He was approaching them from down the street instead of walking diagonally from whence he'd originally stepped, as the road alone would be their only path. Mr. Sullivan continued to purr, deceptively, even though his hand was slipping slowly into his coat pocket. "Making new friends so soon? ...Don't you ever learn?"

The silence pressed itself close to their heated, breathing bodies like a cooling solace, but Henry knew that if he allowed himself to submerge in it for too long, he would drown from the unstable madness of his own thoughts. For now, it was comforting and he felt no need to shatter it with words. Instead, his eyes again flickered to Arsen, taking in his attire and allowing himself to formulate idle conclusions on the man's personality. The game controller stretched across his chest left little to the imagination about his likes, but the skirt...Well, Henry was careful not to let his gaze linger and focused again on the bloated corpse at their feet. Silence was normally a welcomed balm for his mind, but now, it only served to agitate. He felt uneasy. Surely it was just the thought of being locked back within this place, of having no way to escape this time while ghosts of his memories plagued him without restraint. That had to be it.

He didn't want to think of what else it could be.

High, peaking crests of mist swelled from the shapeless shroud that stretched itself across the town, rolling and roiling towards them in a way that was almost unpleasant. No, it was unpleasant. His polished eyes slipped back up to Arsen's face, lips parted with words that for now, remained unspoken. What exactly did he want to say? That it wasn't safe here? Neither was anywhere else. Was he attempting to bid Arsen farewell? Perhaps eventually. But Henry saw no need to immediately leave the other man, still somewhat shaken from his unexpected drop onto the chilled pavement and with little desire to wander alone through the mists.

He finally did begin to say something, a husky pulse of sound in his throat that would soon bloom into words, fragments, statements. But another voice swept forward in place of his own, a chiding note laced within the warm, almost neighborly tone as it called his name. His eyes widened for a moment, what little color he'd retained in his face soon draining until the mist seemed to stain his skin an ashen grey. It was with a sudden, strangled rasp that the man fell silent, his long, slender fingers like claws as they seized the camera cradled in his palms with a biting new emotion, strong and acrid.

Fear.

Henry barely even had to twist his head, his lips still parted with the words he would never speak, watching the tall, gaunt figure of a man stride towards them down the lonely little street. A man who'd died. A man who he'd murdered. Again that voice, that deceptively kind and nurturing voice that belonged to a man whose insanity went far beyond anything that Henry had ever known. It chided him again, reminded him of all the people he'd encountered during his last venture through Silent Hill, only so each and every one of them could be torn away, murdered. All but Eileen. And even then, he'd watched most of them die, or stumbled across their fresh, still twitching bodies only minutes, perhaps seconds after the life had been torn from them.

Walter Sullivan, Henry found himself thinking during his moment of deluded self-reflection, would have made a wonderful public speaker.

His throat was locked and dry from the sheer terror that had momentarily paralyzed him after it'd surged through his veins. The fog seemed to billow from either side of the wrathful spirit, offering him a glimpse of the hand that crawled slyly into the pockets of the man's trench. A gun, a chainsaw, a knife--it was a weapon the man was going for, Henry was almost sure of it. This realization, and Arsen's almost ridiculous question managed to snap the man from his shock.

"We need to get out of here." The tone of authority sat unnaturally on the quiet man, urgently jerking his head at Arsen as he stepped back before glancing again to Walter. "If he catches you--" Henry started to warn, then shook his head, unable to find a way to summarize the atrocities Walter had committed. The fact that Walter was dead--was supposed to be dead, that he was a ghost too, that he'd tried to murdered twenty-one people to grant an apartment room the soul of the Devil.

Henry instead focused on the fact that he needed a weapon. Badly. Fighting Walter was definitely not on his list of things to do right now, but if it would help him at least buy some time in escaping from the man...

"I know we just met," Henry started, his breathing a little rough, a little choppy, "But I need you to trust me. You don't want to be here if he's around." Oh God, he was getting closer, and Henry was beginning to feel his legs shake. "If you can get past him, then run." A weapon, a weapon, a weapon! Malachite eyes frantically paced from side to side, searching for anything heavy that could be used as a bludgeoning tool. He had a camera. That did little to help him, but if he could catch the other in the temple with it, in the throat...He just might have a chance.

Despite all this, the man found he could not address the spirit directly. He didn't know what stilled his tongue, but all he could do was silently stare down the broken, tormented shell of a man whose horrible past had been inflicted upon his knowledge. Swallowing back a hard knot that had loomed in his throat, Henry slowly began to pace to one side of Walter, not advancing, but steadily moving out of his way, ready to jerk into action should the man make any sudden movements. But if he had a gun...Henry wasn't thinking about that now. If he had a gun, then, for the most part, Henry seemed to be screwed. But he'd seemed to be screwed a lot of times. If anything, this horrible, strangling sensation that had settled itself in his chest seemed almost familiar.