It was conceivable, certainly, that at least some of the voices in the din that made up Walter Sullivan's mind were not his own.
He had taken to himself a number of victims, a number he scarcely remembered as, having what? failed at completing the 21 Sacraments? or perhaps, succeeding but being unaware of the fruit of his success? he did not know if he had in fact taken all 21 or perhaps less.
Times were he could make out the voices of his victims; they flitted around like dull gray shadows, trapped in there. The bats in his belfry. Some of them sobbing, reliving their deaths and their pain, others unbelieving, residing inside as tho still alive. None of them liked him very much, obviously.
All of them believed if Walter could be somehow broken, they still had a chance at redemption. Therefore they echoed and amplified his emotions, the scared ones shrieking at his fears, the angry ones stirring up his angers like hornets.
But one voice was strident, clear about the others.
Rumor had it the voice was Valtiel's; that once, some time back The then-priests James Stone and George Rosten had chosen Sullivan as a vessel and had, after dosing him on the white claudia based drug PTV, somehow introduced the god into his consciousness. Possession? or just some drug trip taken too far? Walter had never been the same after.
Wasn't the same now.
He had been lounging about in one spot or another of the town, observing, from quiet corners, the convergence of the others.
As when he had been homeless, sleeping in the subway station in Ashfield, he could exude a sort of mild invisibility. For who truly notices the homeless, the mad? Who looks at them for more than a moment's glance. They are seen in peripheral, judged, forgotten. Pity or derision or most, often indifference their lot.
So it was with Walter, and he preferred it this way.
all the better to bleed you with, he thought as he rose from the grating he'd slept warmly upon. He rolled up his blanket in an almost military fold- tight, so it took up precious little space- and stuffed it down the small of his back. There was an interior pocket back there in his famous blue raincoat; these pockets were usually only found in hunter's coats.
A pouch for game.
Walter began to walk.
He was good at that too; if you belong nowhere, you have to be somewhere, and oft as not if he was noticed he'd be run off for loitering. It was so much easier, in the small city of Ashfield, to drive away the transients than actually get to know and help them...
But this. Silent Hill. It was different.
There was plenty of ground to cover in Silent Hill, and a goodly amount of it vacant. Even if there wasn't this strange fog, these odd creatures, the town was often empty in the off-season; no reason to be in Silent Hill if it wasn't time for the resort to do business.
Walter didn't mind. Less people meant more places for him. This town was his; a vast playground he was free to twist to his own purpose.
Well. except, now as you mentioned it, the monsters.
Walter'd seen monsters before. After all, he'd been young, yeh, but he remembered Alessa. He knew what had happened to her, too; he hadn't been there of course, but like most of the others that fateful night he had borne witness to what could be seen from the place that he was.
When he'd think back on it, he remembered what he called it: The Night of the Insane Sky.
It felt...well, when he smelled the air and thought about the emptiness of the streets, it seemed to him maybe another night like that was coming on. Soon, maybe. Maybe real soon.
Walter wasn't quite religious in the way the Order had intended him to be, but he had a real reverence for his own twisted sense of the Mother. If he was here for another ill formed apocalypse, he'd be honored to have seen such things.
Better still if this was the great moment which he'd been waiting for.
See, beastly upbringing or nae, Walter hadn't had to be told by Dahlia Gillespie he had some importance. In spite of every beating, every psychological damage dumped upon him by the Wish House guards, Walter knew he was special. Chosen, for something. Maybe not greatness but...something.
Walter was waiting for his great moment. He would seize the moment. And squeeze it til it bled.
Walter was walking down Nathan Avenue. His path would take him past the motel soon.
He wondered if there was anyone there.
If it's empty, like everywhere else? Walter thought, maybe I shall sleep in a real bed for once..
He moved now with intention.