Alan Wake

and lumbering earth-moving equipment, the gigantic mining facility with drill bits bigger around than his waist, even the pickaxes and sledgehammers of the Taken seemed meant for a larger world, a bigger reality. Wake was used to skyscrapers, but it was easy to feel small and insignificant here.

Water dripped from some of the metal pipes, ran downhill in muddy rivulets that they trudged through, their boots making sucking sounds with every step. The wind stirred, bending the tops of the trees. An owl hooted in the forest.

“Wait up!” called Barry, splashing through the muck, not wanting to be left behind.

Wake and Breaker stood in front of a large sliding door to the power plant. A symbol had been painted over the doorway, a crude drawing of a torch. Wake had seen the same symbol painted on rocks and trees all around Bright Falls, the paint oddly iridescent, seeming to increase as light shined on it. Wake grabbed the handle of the door, tried to pull it open, leaning into it, but even with Breaker’s help it wouldn’t budge.

“Now, what?” said Barry.

“I don’t—” started Wake.

Creaking and clanking, the door slowly opened without any of them touching it. As they entered the building, a blinding light shined on them through the doorway. Wake threw his hand up to shield his eyes from the floodlights that caught him, and he could see Breaker and Barry doing the same thing.

“Hold it right there!”

“Miss Weaver!” called Wake, squinting in the glare. “I’m a friend.”

“Prove it!” said Weaver.

“He’s telling the truth, Miss Weaver,” said the sheriff, shading her eyes.

“Sheriff Breaker, that you?” said Weaver, invisible behind the floodlights. “I didn’t expect you to be paying me a visit.”

“I’m Alan Wake, Miss Weaver.”

“Who’s the other one?” said Weaver. “The one in the ridiculous red parka.”

“I’m Barry Weaver.” Barry patted his pockets. “I’ve got a business card somewhere—”

“Why is he wearing Christmas lights?” said Weaver.

“Miss Weaver,” said Wake, still trying to get a glimpse of her, “we know about the Dark Presence. Barry’s wearing the lights for the same reason you’ve got this place lit up like the Fourth of July. You knew Thomas Zane. You’re the lady of the light in the song that the Anderson brothers wrote. We came here because I thought you could help me.”

Silence.

“The Dark Presence has my wife, Miss Weaver,” said Wake. “We need your help.” More silence, and for a moment Wake was afraid that he had been wrong, that the song was just a song, that Weaver was as crazy as the townspeople thought she was. If Weaver couldn’t help him, then Alice was lost forever.

“Well, it’s about time, young man,” said Weaver. “Come in. I’ve been waiting a very long time for you.”

There was the sound of a heavy switch being thrown, and the glare faded, replaced by normal lighting. Even without the floodlights, the place was very bright.

The door clanked shut behind them. They were in an industrial warehouse with a metal-beam ceiling and unpainted concrete walls. An open office built of gray Sheetrock stood nearby, searchlights mounted on top of it, one on each corner. The office was set up as a living area, and in spite of the surroundings, it appeared surprisingly cozy, with a hooked-yarn floor rug and small kitchen. Newspaper clippings were taped to one wall, and stacks of newspapers and magazines sat beside a red reading chair with a floor lamp beside it. There was also a rolltop desk and a neatly made bed with a quilt. Bottles of water and cans of food were carefully arranged under a round wood table. There were lamps everywhere, and all of them were lit. Bare lightbulbs were strung from the ceiling all around the office. It was bright enough in that room to do brain surgery.

Cynthia Weaver stood there looking them over, carrying the lantern that accompanied her everywhere. She wore a prim, brown tweed suit with a dark suede collar and a matching light brown blouse. She looked like an old-fashioned librarian, her hair pinned back, her expression severe.

“Thanks for letting us in, Miss Weaver,” said Wake.

“Nice to see you, Sheriff,” Weaver said to Breaker, ignoring Wake. “Not surprised, though. You were always one of the smart ones. You and your father.” She nodded to herself. “We used to drink coffee together at the diner sometimes, and I’d tell him about Thomas, and how much I had loved him, and your father… he never laughed.” She moved closer to the sheriff. “Why aren’t you in town? Things are very bad tonight.”

“We’re well beyond rowdy, Miss Weaver,” said Breaker. “The Dark Presence swept in… half the town is ruined.”

“I thought so, yes indeed, I thought so,” said Weaver. “I tried to warn folks, but no one listened. I saw it coming. This last week, seemed like the darkness just kept getting stronger and stronger.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it this bad.” She peered at Wake. “I remember you now. You were in the diner that day. You were looking for Mr. Stucky.”

“You tried to warn me,” said Wake. “You told me to not to go down the corridor. You said the bulbs were burned out.”

“You didn’t listen, though,” said Weaver.

“I didn’t,” admitted Wake. “Barbara Jagger was waiting for me—”

“That thing is not Barbara.” Weaver stuck the lamp in Wake’s face, turned up the wick so it was even brighter. “It just wears her skin to fool the foolish.”

“I know that now,” said Wake.

“It cost you though, didn’t it?” said Weaver. “The lesson didn’t come cheap.”

“Yes,” said Wake, and the word was like a stone in his stomach. “It cost me the person I care most about in the world.”

Weaver nodded, lowered the lamp slightly. “It’s in the Well-Lit Room.”

“Excuse me?” said Wake.

“What you need to drive back the darkness,” snapped Weaver. “It’s in the Well-Lit Room.”

“What is it?” Wake said eagerly.

“It’s not for talking, it’s for showing,” said Weaver.

“Where is the Well-Lit Room, Miss Weaver?” Breaker asked gently.

Weaver eyed Breaker. “When you were a little girl, you made up a nasty rhyme about me.”

“Yes… yes, I did,” said Breaker. “I’m sorry—”

“You used to say the rhyme under your breath when I walked past, thinking I couldn’t hear, but I have very good ears,” said Weaver. “I don’t miss a thing. Then… one day you stopped. You were nice to me after that. Scared, but nice.”

“Where’s the Well-Lit Room?” said Wake.

“He’s impatient,” Weaver said to Breaker. “Most men are. They can’t help it. My Tom was the same way.” Her eyes teared up, moisture caught in the nest of wrinkles. “The Well-Lit Room is inside the dam,” she said to Wake. “The thing you’re looking for is in there. I built the room to keep it safe.”

Wake had no idea what she was talking about. “Will this thing help me find Alice? Will it get me back to the cabin?”

“Are you a brave man, Mr. Wake?” said Weaver. “You’ll need to be.”

Wake walked quickly to the sliding door, grabbed the handle. “Let’s go get it and find out.”

“Not that way!” said Weaver. “Not outside, not at night. Never at night. That’s rule number one.” She wagged a finger at him. “You’ve been breaking the rules, young man, and look what’s happened. No, I have a secret route, a lit route through an old water pipe.” She headed into the office. “This way, we always have to go through my little house.”

Wake followed her upraised lamp, Breaker and Barry close behind.

“This way,” said Weaver, beckoning as she walked out the other side of the office and into the warehouse. “Follow me.”

The walls of the warehouse were daubed with messages in the same iridescent paint that Wake had seen over the door, but the farther along they went, the more distorted and uneven the letters became, paint dripping