First page: some armless freak wrapped in a fleshy cocoon, no face to speak of. Flip—and there's this pint-sized straw doll in soft yellow, cute as a button but with a wicked little twist.
The rest of the pages? Straight out of Barry's journal entries, but every monster he'd scribbled about had leveled up from words to full-on sketches.
Cradling the notebook, Barry felt this weird cocktail of emotions bubbling up. Just thumbing to a page, and bam—he sucked up the info like a sponge, quick and clean.
And get this: he had this gut hunch that if the stars aligned, he could push it further. Sketch out fresh drawings—stuff he'd never laid eyes on.
Shff-shff-shff!
He ripped through the pages.
Finally, his stare locked on the one before the blank ones at the end.
Rough sketch, all sloppy lines: a black-haired, dark-eyed little girl in a blue dress.
Info on her? Just the scraps from his old life's movie marathons.
But rewind a bit, and the Silent Hill beasts he'd actually clocked and jotted down? Those drawings popped—detailed, alive, like they'd crawl off the page any second.
Whole book done, a data dump hit him from the journal, and for the first time in forever, Barry felt that old-school gnaw in his gut: hunger.
His straw body sprouted fresh stalks, wrapping the notebook tight, then—slow dissolve—pulled it right into him, inch by inch.
Once it was fully tucked away, his soul churned with shadows, like a greedy black hole revving up. Then—wham—a terrifying pull erupted.
Refined in a flash!
...
Felt like a minute zipped by, but could've been eons dragging on.
In that instant, Barry finally got the memo on his power.
It wasn't just grabbing or straight-up jacking stuff—that was small potatoes. This? Ten times greedier:
Devour!
Long as his soul could handle the load, Barry could wolf down outside junk, hijack its traits, and make 'em his own—by force.
That fire he'd yoinked from Silent Hill's dark vibes, the witchy straw doll's foresight, Jason's hockey mask regen...
All hatchlings from his devouring sprees.
The journal fusing in? That was special—his anchor, his obsession made manifest.
Ever since landing in this world, pouring his heart, his survival itch, a smidge of faith into those diary scribbles—then Alessa's dark mojo sprinkling on top? Boom: a perfect storm baked into those pages.
Endgame? Straw doll's precog mixed with Barry's devour schtick, using the journal as the vessel, birthed his one-of-a-kind ride: The Book of Urban Legends.
Y'know, like the must-have swag for any horror flick baddie—Jason's mask, Freddy's glove, Sadako's tape, Pennywise's red balloon.
Drop him in another movie set? It's like his soul-bound artifact, straight out of a D&D campaign.
By now, Barry had the Book's toolkit down pat: record, manifest, summon, foresee.
Log the deets, draw it out, borrow powers based on how fleshed-out the entry is—or peek ahead.
Right now, the Book's star pupil, most vivid and dialed-in? Crystal Lake's own slasher king: Jason Voorhees.
Mind whirring, the Book materialized in his grip—freshly smelted into his core.
Shff!
Pages fluttered open to his pick.
There: Jason, white hockey mask locked on, tank of a body, bloodied axe mid-swing, cleaving some poor sap in half. Pure murder-machine menace.
Fingers splayed on the page.
Pff!
Barry's straw frame went berserk, sprouting thousands of stalks in a blink—sprawling, twisting. Seconds later, they wove into a massive, pale-yellow cocoon.
Tick-tock—a few beats, and it imploded, shrinking down to a hulking human outline.
Details sharpened under the straw's tweaks, and just like that—Barry was retooled.
Bootleg Jason, reporting for duty!
Same mask, straw-man body all bundled up, decked in rough yellow weave like some backwoods scarecrow getup. Even the axe? Straw-braided, looking like a kid's playset prop.
One glance, and yeah—it screamed cartoon villain, good for a chuckle.
But Barry? He felt the raw power thrumming inside, no joke.
Tap that, and his strength cranked way past his pint-sized straw default—dude wasn't even basketball height normally.
No cap: this topped prime Mike Tyson, easy.
Barry clenched and unclenched, ballparking it: conservatively, half of Jason's hell-raised physique from that revival rumble.
Holy shit! Half a Jason? That's the stuff!
If he'd rocked this back at the church showdown? One-punch cult chumps, popping 'em like piñatas at a kid's birthday bash.
Clang—!
While he flexed his upgrade, a grind echoed—heavy drag of metal on floor, closing in.
Thudding steps, oppressive bulk, that monster cleaver: Silent Hill's executioner himself—Pyramid Head.
Both built like brick walls, both the strong-silent type.
Barry shouldered his axe, chin up—no more craning his neck.
Pyramid Head muscled through the tight classroom door, right arm hauling that nightmare blade like it was nothing.
Mask vs. helmet—eyes locked in a heartbeat!
Faces buried deep, sure, but Barry and Pyramid Head? They read each other loud and clear, no sweat.
Outside, the Otherworld's dark guts opened up with a downpour, rain pattering into the empty room like Morse code.
Vibe check? Prime for throwing down—no words needed.
Pyramid Head planted his feet, holding put, eyeing Barry like he was chewing on a thought.
Barry, meanwhile? Eyes lit up at the getup, like spotting a fresh skin drop in his favorite battle royale.
Why the visit? Barry had a hunch.
Probably sniffed out the off vibes—post-shift, his soul reeked of mixed-bag strangeness. Took Pyramid Head a sec to place him; no biggie.
After a good squint, the big guy sighed it off—turned to bounce. Identity confirmed, no beef.
"Hold up—let's dance."
Barry hoisted the axe, voice rumbling like a gravel truck.
Fresh level-up, shiny new skin? Gotta test-drive it!
Duel request sent—your move!
Pyramid Head froze, slow-swivel back. Under that iron pyramid? The violence incarnate didn't get punked like this often.
Quiet stretch—like he was speed-dialing the boss. Ten seconds tick by, Alessa green-lights it, and boom: full attention on Barry.
Clang!
Cleaver slammed the floor, boom echoing like thunder—challenge accepted.
Rainy day? Fight weather, baby!
Barry double-gripped the axe, body humming with muscle memory—like he'd been lumberjacking heads since birth.