This is a disclaimer

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It was always something with Alessa.

Vincent leaned over the beaten desk, examining carefully the angular letters scratched deep into the wood. He shook his head as his eyes scanned over the hateful remarks.

GO HOME.

DROP DEAD.

THIEF.

Did that poor child have to endure this every day?

Vincent sighed. Couldn’t someone else handle this? Superb(though he did say so himself) financial clerk he was, child psychologist he was not. Frowning, he thought back on all he had done for The Order. He had built this church, kept it from ruin, but no. No, no, it could never be enough. He was scorned for it, accused, shunned, and now. . . now he was being demoted to nanny.

Not that any attempt to worm out of it would work. Not that he hadn’t already tried.

He looked again at the letter the teacher, Mr. Gordon, had written him.

So. . . the children saw Alessa as a witch. Saw her for what she was, really. But children can be the perfect little herd animals, and he knew it. Unshackled by adult formalities and the programmed politeness the grow to conform to, the truly embody what it is to be human. Mortal, fallible, they single out and attack anything differing from the norm. God, how he knew that all too well.

He smiled, though. Time to go visit the little witch, then.

He walked down the long corridors to where he knew the child’s room to be. Reaching the door, he paused, almost nervous. But that was not quite the word for it. Seven years. . .

Seven years he had lived within the same church as his dear, beloved mother of God. Seven years in which he had never seen but glimpses of her. No, not nervous. Awe filled, maybe. That sounded about right.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door and murmured, “Alessa?”

He heard a thud accompanied by a giggle, the shuffle of footsteps and then the door swung open.

A small pale girl stared up at him with silvery eyes. He knew this one.

“Hello, Claudia, I need to speak with Alessa.”

Her large eyes never left him as she stepped out of the room and watched him enter, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

He did not see her at first as he glanced around the room. It was small and square like all the others in the church, including his own, but seemed. . . sadder somehow. His eyes fell upon two dolls who must have at some point been white, but were now patched up and fraying. Cards lay on the floor and bright, gossamer winged butterflies were pinned to glass covered cork boards.

At the soft noise of the rubbing of crayon on paper, he turned and saw her.

As if feeling his eyes on her, she asked, “Are you Vincent?” without once looking up from her sketchbook.

“That’s right.” He paused awkwardly, not really knowing what to say to this child, this. . . creature masquerading as one, dressed in a pale blue sundress, barefoot with legs swinging as they dangled over the edge of the mattress. She set his teeth on edge.

“May I look?” he asked, and when she said nothing, he elaborated, “At your sketchbook, that is.”

She looked up.

A witch?

Entirely impossible, he thought, gaze held fast by the pair of pale blue eyes in a paler face. They seemed to him like the endless dense fog that so often encased the quiet town of Silent Hill, hugging the ground, caressing the buildings, hiding the monsters. . .

What monsters lurked behind those eyes, he wondered.

He realized belatedly that she had been holding the notebook out for him the past few moments, a faint pout on her face. Taking it finally, he sat on the foot of her bed and flipped through the pages.

He smiled at the colorful doodles of houses and bunnies, sunshine and people labeled in childish script as “Dad” and some other names he recognized and some he didn’t.

He stopped, horrified though, after closing the page on a large and colorful butterfly.

“When did you draw this?” he gasped, staring at the blood colored mess that couldn’t be mistaken as anything but a monster(1).

She leaned in closer for a look. “Oh, last week when Daddy was out and Claudia couldn’t come play.”

When she saw he was speechless, she continued, “I only drew what I saw.”

Vincent swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry and cottony. “Where did you see this?”

She pointed at the door opposite the one he had come through. Strangely enough, he had overlooked it when he had first entered.

“This is back there?” he asked, standing and cautiously stepping towards it. He let his fingers trace the rectangular indentions, and then, heart beating a bit faster, he tried the handle. It was locked. Relieved, he turned back around. “The door is locked, Alessa.”

She just looked at him with her fog colored eyes.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then said, “Hey, how about I tell you a story?”

Alessa sighed. “Okay.”

Not having fully expected her to say yes, though in retrospect he asked himself why, she was only seven, after all, he cast around his mind for a fairy tale of some sort. Then he smiled(2).

“I know just the one. Once upon a time, there was a monster living at the gates of a village. It was a very scary and bad monster. I would catch people and—”

“Wait!” Alessa interrupted, “Where are the pictures?”

“. . .What?”

“I want to look at the pictures,” she stated simply.

Bewildered, Vincent said, “There aren’t any.”

Alessa pouted at him and he hastily said, “But I’ll bring some tomorrow, okay?”

He could have smacked himself. What had he just gotten himself into? But she smiled and said, “Okay. Can you go ahead and tell me the rest of it, though?”

Vincent smiled. “Of course. Where was I? Ah yes, the monster would catch people and crunch them up with its big teeth.

“The villagers were afraid of the monster, and no one would dare approach the gates. Everyone was stuck inside the village.

“When the King heard this, he summoned his knights. The knights eagerly rode out to defeat the monster.

“ ‘Ha! Take that!’

“Their swords slashed and their spears flashed, but the monster wouldn’t die. The monster tossed the knights into its mouth one by one, horses and all.

“What was the King to do? He fretted and fussed and paced the floor, but could think of no solution. Soon after, the village priestess came to the castle. She was a very kind and good person. The King asked her to defeat the monster guarding the gates.

“The priestess—”

His watch started beeping. It was 2 o’clock then, and he had work to do. Damn that annoying little piece of mechanics on his wrist. “I have to go, Alessa,” he apologized, “but I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“With pictures?” she asked hopefully.

Vincent smiled. “Yes, yes. With pictures.”

Once out of the little room, out of the presence of that being, he felt drunk and dizzy, high off the memory of fog blue eyes.

What the hell was wrong with him?

---

He came back the next day― with pictures. He was no artisit(3), but the look of pure delight on her small, normally gloomy face made him flush with pleasure. And how long had it been since he had felt that? He supposed the emotions such as pleasure and contentment were far and few between here.

She grabbed her two ratty dolls, introducing them to him as Scarlet and another name which he forgot, and curled up next to his side, tiny and warm, exclaiming at the art, rushed and careless as it was.

She was asleep before he reached the middle of the story.

He looked up at a small noise by the door.

“She tires easily now, doesn’t she?” Claudia asked. “It’s God. I saw it.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked cautiously.

“You know what she is. God is coming soon. Her paradise will soon be realized. . .” she paused, staring at him. “I have seen you, too, Vincent. And so has God. You will not interfere.” And with that, she left, leaving him on edge and irritated.

He had to go speak to Leonard.

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1- If you take note of the drawings on Alessa’s floor, you can see one that looks a great deal like a Closer. When you examine these drawings, Heather will say that she used to draw monsters when she was alone. Hrm. . .

2- Heather mentions that she thinks she’s heard the first part of the fairytale found in the office building, but that’s the first time she’s heard the ending. So, what if Vincent made it to help her out?

3- This was written before I met Father Vincent. So, no offense meant to him. (On the off chance that he reads this.)