Kate took another swig of wine, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. She was exhausted, but couldn't bring herself to close her eyes for much longer than a minute.

Despite her best efforts in convincing herself otherwise, she was still afraid. This was a fear she had never before experienced; before Henry Townshend became her Eleven O'Clock, her biggest experience with fear had been over her credibility in college… A problem she had settled on her own terms, however shameful. This was far different: this was fear for her life, fear over a killer that lacked limitations.

Either her life or her sanity – or both – would be the casualty; hallucination or not, Walter was real enough to her mind's eye that she could cause herself, and others, serious harm in an attempt to evade him. Kate gave a precursory glance to her arms and legs, the scratches and cuts growing more agitated in appearance with each passing hour. Could she really have done that to herself…? Hallucinations could be explained away by stress – or even more troubling, schizophrenia – but physical evidence of this nature… Definitely not psychosomatic.

She made a face as she drank some more; she hated white wine, but these were desperate times. While Henry had gotten her some clothes, she had just groped in the fridge for the first bottle of liquor she could find, in too much of a need for alcohol in general to be picky about what type it was.

Kate glanced at the clock mounted just above his television set, squinting in the dark. If she was reading it right, it was around two in the morning. She had no idea she'd been laying there motionless for that long, and with a sigh she turned over on her side, hissing in a breath involuntarily as her cuts stung from the scratchy fabric of the couch. Just like she had in her younger days upon finding herself frightened in the middle of the night, she pulled the blanket up so it covered almost her entire face, leaving only a third of her vision exposed to Henry's apartment. Not that the apartment itself unnerved her – the mere notion that there was someone less than thirty feet away was comforting, even if she couldn't see them – but the numerous unknown variables in this entire situation were absolutely terrifying.

There's no way I've gone crazy... Not just out of the blue like that. It's a gradual process, and you show symptoms prior to or along with actual hallucinations... And if I were crazy, why are Henry and I seeing the same things? But... What other explanation is there? Both the little boy and Walter disappeared every time, and no one else sees them in the first place. ... If Walter really is alive, and he really is tormenting us... I'll thoroughly enjoy busting his ass.

No one made Kate Roberts feel this vulnerable – especially not in front of her patients – and got away with it.

She sighed heavily and turned on the television, putting it on mute so it wouldn't wake Henry up – goodness knows he needed the decent night's sleep. Having some sort of light in the room, however, was the only way she'd be getting some sleep of her own. She shifted yet again, tucking her arm under her head, wincing as her injuries once more whined and groaned in protest.

Kate wanted desperately to take a shower, but knew that was a bad idea. Whether she liked it or not, she knew the doctor would want to run tests on her to try and collect any possible specimens of DNA besides her own – Dateline NBC and an introductory criminology course in her undergrad years told her as much. Plus, her story would feel more and more, to her, like it had never occurred if she washed away the blood that bastard had drawn.

She sighed to herself, downing the rest of the bottle and setting it on the coffee table in front of her (her hand was swaying rather dangerously as she did so and it took her about three tries to actually get it on the table).

This is all just fucking ridiculous. Why the hell is this happening, anyway? It's not as if Henry's condition, whatever it may be, is contagious. That goes against any and every shred of logic, not to mention common knowledge. Mental conditions, with the exception of those that stem from viral or infectious afflictions, are not able to be passed from one subject to another. It's just... Not... Possible! But then... How...?

She sighed yet again, staring blankly at the television as a sitcom re-run played on, presumably attempting to tell some lame joke that cued the laugh track. "Just... Get some sleep, Kate. Try thinking when you haven't downed a ton of alcohol, and… You know. Faced death." And with that, she nodded to herself before continuing to stare at the screen until her eyes drooped closed.

Henry awoke to the smell of blood and death; he was well accustomed to the smells by now, they were hard to forget once you encountered a great deal of it. Then he remembered what had happened earlier that night and shot into an upright position, looking around groggily as his vision adjusted.

"The doctor..."

He looked around with slight alarm; the walls of his bedroom seemed... Rusty. Dead, even. Blood-stained. Not again...

Henry slowly rose to his feet; he was a bit wary of touching anything in the room, yet curious about what it felt like. He stretched out a hand to run against the wall, but stopped himself after remembering yet again that he wasn't the only one in the apartment; his priorities immediately shifted. Clamoring for the door as quickly as his stiff legs would allow, Henry attempted to ignore the foul odor that only grew stronger once the door was opened. "Doctor Roberts?" he called out quietly, almost afraid to draw anyone's – or anything's – attention to him. Henry rubbed his palm against his shirt from where he'd touched the grimy doorknob, heading straight for the door to his apartment. Only one thing was missing from this nightmare…

He sighed in relief; no chains blocking his way out this time.

"That's a good sign, I suppose. ...Doctor Roberts?" he called out, louder this time now that his nerves were a little less wracked with dread. Of course, he had taken his circumstances with relative neutrality before, but… This was the sort of fear that came with a recurring nightmare, or a horrible premonition that one had no choice but to play out. Not to mention he had been running on very little fuel by the time his horror began in Room 302, as his empty refrigerator had indicated.

Henry turned around after catching notice of a repetitive thumping noise, almost metallic in nature, thinking maybe he had just failed to notice her drinking the morning away on his couch. Surprise: she was nowhere to be found. He walked over to it for good measure, noticing with a frown that amidst the blood-stained carpet there was a darker, somewhat fresher-looking trail pooling on the couch and leading away from it. "What the... hell?" he wondered, slowly following the trail.

After all, he'd made much poorer judgment calls in the past year.

It led him to the bathroom, where the trail had begun to pool underneath the door. He felt his pulse begin to skyrocket, reaching a peak as he opened the door. Henry was immediately greeted with the sound of sloshing water, and he looked to his right to see his bathtub was overflowing. "The hell? Where is she?" he wondered, bending to turn the water off.

As he did so, the water rushing out of the faucet started to grow increasingly similar to blood – thick and dark and sickening in scent – until it spread throughout the bathtub, and he hurriedly turned the water off. He was just about to straighten his posture and continue his increasingly nightmarish search when a hand shot out of the water, grabbing him by the wrist. Henry struggled against the mangled, lacerated hand's grip, but found himself paralyzed with astonishment as a woman's head slowly surfaced from within the now murky water.

Her face was as cut and bruised as her hand, if not more so, and her hair was full of bloody clumps as familiar thick curls fanned out in the water.

"... Doctor...?"

She didn't respond, just stared at him. Something about her expression, the blank stare and almost glazed look in her icy hazel eyes, was more eerie and frightening than her gruesome appearance.

Suddenly she lunged at him with a scream, that blank expression contorting into one of rage and something that bordered maniacal as she pulled him under. He struggled blindly, kicking out against the rushing water, blood, and dirt that felt as if it were pushing down on him. Her hand was still on his neck, and she suddenly thrust him upwards. Pain exploded on his head, spreading from the base of his neck to engulf his skull as the faucet tore at his skin. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and he struggled even harder to keep what little wits he had at the moment about him, but it was to no avail. Sleep still tried to take him, and her hand squeezed even tighter against his throat, only increasing the burning in his lungs and ringing in his ears. Even eerier, there were no fits of laughter or screams from either of them – nothing said or shouted at all. Nothing to muffle his torment, his desperate attempts to reach the surface of that terrible water…

"Henry!"

He shot upright, his own splashing and kicking against the tub ringing in his ears. The doctor herself was standing next to his bed, which only startled him more and caused him to jump instinctively towards the other side of his bed – away from her, far away.

She stared at him with obvious concern, brows furrowed and hands on her hips. "Another nightmare," she stated simply. He nodded, swallowing hard and trying to get his pulse to go back down as she crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. "I'd ask what happened, but something tells me you'll say something along the lines of 'I'd rather not talk about it'. From the looks of it, I wouldn't wanna talk either. So instead, I'll just attempt to cook something as my way of saying thank you for letting me stay – so you'll have no choice but to be so grateful that you tell me."

And with that, she strolled out and shut the door behind her. Not long after, he heard clanging that was quickly followed by a rather loud and furious "Shit, who puts pans up like that—?"

Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he could just hide in his closet instead of facing... that. His doctor was a good person from what he could tell, sure, but often times he was… Simply at a loss of how to act around her; her demands in their sessions for more detail, more "syllables," didn't help at all. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy getting a reaction out of him, and yet other times she would regard him with such sincerity and empathy that he actually found himself relaxing and willing to comply with those "demands". After such an unnerving dream about none other than the doctor herself, the demeanor he'd at least grown relatively familiar with was… All the more unsettling.

Regardless, he'd grin and bear it; there were bigger problems afoot than a contrast of personalities.

He would instead begin the taxing process of getting dressed as if he had gotten excellent sleep, as if his life were still remotely close to normal – but this time, he would remain in his room long enough to place an overdue phone call. Henry had been debating it ever since the nightmares had begun, thinking that perhaps she was experiencing the same things and rather selfishly hoping she was. It would be a bit more comforting to know Eileen, someone familiar with this madness, was experiencing it with him once more. And after the hellish encounter the doctor had experienced the night before, one she had been lucky to escape without much more than flesh wounds… The urge to ensure Eileen was safe from all this was equally strong.

He waited for her to pick up, wincing as he heard more clanging and cursing from his kitchen.

"H-Hello?" she answered groggily, and Henry glanced at the clock. It was nine fifteen, not too early. Although, it was a Saturday...

"Uh, hi Eileen. It's... Henry."

"Henry?" she repeated with a yawn before laughing. "You're calling me this time? ... There's not anything wrong, is there?" she asked suddenly, her tone immediately becoming colored with worry.

"Well..."

"Henry, what's going on?" she more-or-less demanded, sounding completely awake now as he heard rustling on her end.

He sighed. "Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering about you lately… Have you been having, er… dreams? About... Walter?"

There was a pause, then more rustling. He couldn't help the twinge of guilt; she was much more sensitive about The Incident than he was, although Eileen was the one who insisted they call each other whenever they needed to assure one another about their ordeal. "Not lately, but–"

"But you had them?" he prompted, gripping the phone tighter in anticipation.

"... Of course I did. Henry, we can't just walk away from something like that and not have nightmares," she said gently, making his heart sink a little.

"Eileen, these aren't your average nightmares, these – I... I'm having hallucinations, too. And I keep seeing Silent Hill... You've heard of that town, right?"

"Of course I have, but— Wait, hallucinations? What do you mean 'hallucinations'?" she asked, her tone gaining a sharp edge to it; it always did the more concerned she grew.

"You know... Hallucinations. I see him doing... Horrible things to me, almost like he's taunting me... And it feels real, but no one else sees him. If I weren't awake, it would be just like the nightmares, but… More vivid." He decided not to mention that his doctor was starting to experience the same things, since that would just lead to more questions he'd have to answer. Was it really that hard for her to just do as he'd hoped, admit she was having them and that he and Roberts weren't the only ones, and maybe even come to see him so they could work it out together?

"... Henry, do you think... That maybe you haven't really accepted what happened yet?" Eileen asked carefully, and his heart sunk even further; she was using her own form of Roberts' analytical tone, which just made him feel like he'd gained another psychiatrist.

He jumped after hearing said psychiatrist shout, "Henry – got any powdered sugar?!"

"What was that in the background?" Eileen wondered.

"Uh, nothing, just – Could you hold on for a minute?"

"Sure I will, but –"

Henry didn't hear the rest of whatever she said, holding the phone as far away from him as possible as he raised his voice to a slight degree: "Uh, no – no I don't!"

Granted he would normally go to her and talk at his normal quiet volume, but he was scared of losing Eileen's end of the phone as well as seeing whatever sort of anarchy was taking place in his kitchen area.

"Goddammit, Henry, who eats French toast without powdered sugar? – Oh! Got any cinnamon?"

"... I… Don't know." When was the last time he went shopping for spice stuff in the first place?

"Well, if you did have it, where would it be?!" she called out with a tone that suggested she found his answer extremely unsatisfying.

Just like his mother.

Again.

"Most likely in one of the cabinets above the stove."

"And if it isn't there?! – Oh, wait, I found it. Thanks!" she shouted cheerfully, making him sigh again.

The neighbors were going to complain.

"Er, I... I'm sorry about that. What were you saying, Eileen?"

"Henry, do you have a woman over?" she asked with a hint of a laugh, making him flush. Why is that so funny to her? Henry wondered, outwardly deadpan over the entire change of topic.

He could be charming. He brought flowers that one time –

"She was... Was... Having problems with her apartment last night," he muttered, knowing it sounded lame before it even left his mouth.

Much to his relief, Eileen left it alone. "That's… Very neighborly of you, Henry." She cleared her throat to relieve some of the pressure to laugh, which just made him flush more. "So, about these hallucinations... Everyone deals with grief in their own way, you know. Maybe you just haven't properly dealt with the 'aftermath' yet," she suggested, and he winced at the accuracy of her analysis. Even so, he knew there was so much more to these dreams – and the thought of them somehow reaching her all the way in Illinois, causing her even more grief that she didn't deserve… It filled him with a different sort of fear than what he'd woken up with.

"So... Eileen, you aren't having the same nightmares and hallucinations?"

"I'm sorry, Henry... No, not anymore. Want my advice?"

"... Yes."

"Try to find... Closure. I found mine in spending time with my family and visiting Richard's grave, seeing as I knew him before The Incident... That helped a lot. Maybe if you get yourself closure, the nightmares and hallucinations will start to go away," she said gently, and her reassuring tone managed to actually make him feel a little better.

"... Thank you, Eileen. I hope you're right."

"You're welcome. ... Henry, do you want me to come visit you?"

He wanted to kick himself for saying it, but knew it was the right thing to say, "No, not... Not yet. Maybe after I get that closure."

"If you're sure. But so help me, if I don't hear from you within the next week, I'm coming," she warned, and he found himself chuckling.

"I promise you'll hear from me... Thank you again," he repeated sincerely.

"You're welcome again. I'm here if you need to talk to me some more, Henry," she informed him, her tone implying that he do just that.

"I know... Goodbye, Eileen."

"Bye... Take care of yourself," she warned before hanging up, and he got the distinct feeling that her intuition told her something wasn't right.

She couldn't be more right...

Henry sighed heavily, already wishing he'd told her that a visit was much overdue. No matter how much he wanted her to, Henry knew that he couldn't let her drag herself back to Ashfield until it was over and done. He was starting to wonder if Doctor Roberts having the same hallucinations, and even getting attacked by Walter, was something he passed on to her somehow. The last thing he wanted was to do the same to Eileen if she wasn't already suffering, no matter how much he wanted a familiar face – and a friend – to help him figure it all out.

"It's alive! It's… Alive!" came the triumphant cry of the doctor, a cackle soon following; he genuinely hoped that was only a metaphor.

Henry slowly walked towards said kitchen, immensely surprised to see she was already cleaning up what little mess she'd made. He noticed she'd put longer pants on since earlier that morning, much to his relief; it had been a bit jarring to see this woman he hardly knew in not only one of his longer shirts, but his boxers as well. But what else was he supposed to do as far as giving her clothes went? She had nothing on but a robe when she'd ran to his apartment last night, and that in itself was a small miracle considering she had, by her account, been showering when the attack began.

He couldn't help but wince ever so slightly when she turned around to grin triumphantly at him; in his momentary panic this morning, he had been too busy convincing himself she wasn't the demonic corpse of his nightmares to notice her cuts and bruises looked worse. He was most definitely taking her to the doctor as soon as he could, but in the meantime, she seemed hellbent on this dish of hers. … Plus, he couldn't deny he was hungry.

"I swear I can cook, I just… Choose to get takeout daily."

Well, that's comforting, he thought dryly as he cautiously cut a piece off the french toast with his fork before eating it. An audible sigh of relief soon followed upon realizing it was actually edible. Good, even.

After giving a small nod as his seal of approval – earning an "I'll take what I can get with you" from the young psychiatrist – he proceeded to eat and watch in silence as she continued to clean the kitchen. A glance upwards had him in deep thought; more specifically, pondering how she managed to get what looked like some sort of dough on his ceiling. Although it was admittedly amusing to watch her use a chair with several books as a stepping stone, along with the nearest counter for balance, to reach the ceiling.

His amusement turned into worry when her stretching to reach it not only caused her to hiss in pain, but brought his attention to a rather deep gash on the front of her right calf. It occurred to him that she hadn't even bathed or showered since the attack, and she was probably uncomfortable walking around with dried blood caked on her skin.

"Doct – ... Kate," he corrected, remembering what she'd said about her name last night. She glanced over at him, whacking the dough with a rag as best she could.

"Yeah?"

"Let me take you to the doctor now... Don't worry about that dough, it'll fall off eventually," he added as she pointed to said dough and opened her mouth to protest.

"Fine, fine," she muttered, giving the dough one more whack with the towel as Henry moved to help her down from her rather haphazard stepladder. The dough just barely missed his head as she grudgingly accepted his help, waiting by the door as he grabbed his keys and wallet.

"Well, this works out. You can tell me about that nightmare of yours while you take me," she suggested innocently as he opened the door for her, locking the door behind them.

"Still not the time."

"Well, it'll be later by the time we're on the way."