Alan Wake

“Then why didn’t he retrieve the car?”

“I don’t know. We… we should go,” said Alice, turning away from him, practically running through the underbrush now.

Neither of them spoke again until they were back in their car, Alice grinding the ignition in her haste to get it started.

“We’ll go into town first thing tomorrow,” said Wake. “We’ll ask around.”

“I should have taken more photographs,” said Alice, the car roaring into life.

“We can come back tomorrow—” Wake’s comment was cut off as Alice peeled out from the dirt shoulder and onto the blacktop.

Fifteen minutes later, driving into the sunset, the fright in the woods seemed long ago and far away, the abandoned car a mere anomaly, a spooky story to be shared with friends amidst laughter and drinks. Maybe turn it into a book when the writers’ block finally lifted. A short story anyway. “The Mystery of the Marooned Convertible.”

“Maybe it was a UFO,” said Wake, straight-faced. “Aliens beamed up the convertible, kept the driver for their intergalactic zoo, and tossed back the car.”

“Or maybe a group of medieval enthusiasts launched the car into the woods with a catapult,” said Alice. “Then reported the car stolen and used the insurance money for suits of armor and siege engines.”

“That’s got to be it,” said Wake. “What other explanation could there be?”

Alice smiled, kept driving, window down, her hair floating on the breeze. “Wow,” she said, pointing, as the lake came into view. “That’s what we came here for.”

Cauldron Lake stretched out for miles, surrounded by steep cliffs and tall trees. The lake was so vast and deep, so blue that it was almost black. No fish broke the flat, opaque surface, no gulls drifted overhead.

“It’s a caldera,” she said, “that’s where they got the name. A volcanic eruption thousands of years ago collapsed the earth’s crust into a gigantic bowl that eventually filled with water.”

“Thanks for the tourist board version,” teased Wake. “It looks like a witch’s cauldron to me.”

“Thanks for the melodrama,” she shot back, slowing now. She nodded at the cabin below. “Is that it?”

Wake checked the crude map that the woman at the diner had given him. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Alice drove down a gravel road and parked, turned off the ignition. The two of them got out, stood looking at the cabin which was built on a tiny island just offshore, connected to the mainland by a staircase and a rickety wooden bridge. The cabin was unnerving somehow, not from its raw, unadorned construction, but because the foundation was made up of twisting branches and roots jutting out from the bottom like the legs of a monstrous bird. As though seeking to acknowledge any squeamishness visitors might have, a hand-carved sign over the last bridge announced: BIRD LEG CABIN.

“Is this what you expected?” said Wake.

“Not really. The brochure said that the cabin was near the lake,” said Alice. “Not on an island. Not that I’m complaining. It’s—”

“Creepy.”

“It’s gorgeous,” said Alice. “Our own private island.”

They walked down the weathered wooden staircase, stopping on the slatted bridge that led to the island. Alice stood there, hands on her hips, the bridge swaying under them, the wind colder. She pushed her sunglasses back onto the top of her head, taking it all in. The cabin was a small, two-story structure made of raw wood shakes with a wraparound porch, and a pile of cut logs next to the door for firewood. A radio rested on the porch railing. If it wasn’t for the grotesque nest of raw branches it sat on, it would have been perfect.

“Interesting architectural decision,” said Alice.

“It looks like Frank Lloyd Wright went nuts with a box of pickup sticks,” said Wake. “Not exactly the perfect place to stay for a man with an overactive imagination.”

“I think it’s distinctive,” said Alice, pulling out her camera.

“That’s one word for it.” Wake’s phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Al, how’s my favorite bestseller doing?” said Barry. As always, he sounded out of breath, talking in staccato bursts.

“Fine, Barry.”

Alice rolled her eyes at the mention of Barry’s name. She couldn’t stand his agent. Didn’t like his thick New York accent, his incessant namedropping and pushy bluster, his loud sport coats. Barry was an agent. She might as well have not liked a leopard because of his spots. He was also Wake’s oldest friend.

“You there yet?” said Barry. “Plane didn’t crash?”

Wake stared at the phone. “No Barry, the plane didn’t crash, I haven’t had a heart attack, and the world hasn’t exploded.”

“Don’t be so touchy,” said Barry, sounding genuinely wounded, which must have taken years of practice. “I’m just worried about you, Al. Want to make sure nobody’s messing with my superstar.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m totally behind this little vacation of yours, Al. Totally. Just get away with the little woman and recharge the creative juices. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” said Wake. “We’re just settling in, so—”

“I get it,” said Barry. “Listen, I’ll call you back later and see how you’re doing—”

“No need for that,” said Wake.

“Hey,” said Barry, “I don’t look after you because I have to; I do it because I want to.”

“I love you too,” said Wake, breaking the connection.

“Couldn’t you block his number while we’re here?” said Alice, on one knee to get a close-up of the tangled branches the cabin seemed to rest upon, some of them no thicker than twigs.

“He called you ‘the little woman.’”

Alice stood up. “You can’t be serious.”

Wake shrugged. “The man likes to live dangerously.”

“So do you.” Alice kissed him. “No more talk about Barry. Just get the lights on, handsome. It’s getting dark.”

Wake took the small flashlight out of his jacket and handed it to her. “There’s an electrical line running from the cabin to that shack in the back. Must be a generator in there. I’ll get it up and running before it gets dark, don’t worry.”

“You take care of it, and I’ll check out the cabin,” said Alice.

Wake went behind the cabin, walking toward the shack. A big stump off to one side of the path had a heart carved deeply into the bark: TZ + BJ. He’d have to show it to Alice later. She’d like that, think the cabin had a romantic history. Couldn’t hurt. He knocked on the stump for good luck, then traipsed over and opened the door to the shack.

A generator covered with a sheen of dust filled half the space. He checked to make sure it was topped up with gasoline, primed it, and tugged on the start cord. It started immediately, and just as quickly died. He repeated the process. Again. Again. Thing must not have been started in a long time. He kept jerking on the cord, aware that the sky was rapidly darkening. On the twentieth try, the generator started up. He adjusted the throttle, made sure it was humming along, and went back to the cabin. The front door opened smoothly. Even though it was barely dusk, Alice had every light in the place on.

Alice wasn’t afraid of crowds or rats or the boogeyman. She once found a tarantula in their hotel room in Phoenix, and released it unhurt outside. She drove fast, flew without fear, and slept through thunderstorms… as long as the lights stayed on. Darkness was the only thing she was scared of, and it utterly terrified her. She had tried all kinds of therapy without success, accepting it as part of who she was. He had gotten used to carrying a pocket flashlight with him, just in case the one she carried with her failed for any reason. It was a small price to pay. He listened again to make sure the generator was running smoothly, and went inside the cabin.

The kitchen had all the amenities: coffeemaker, refrigerator, gas stove, blender, and a toaster. The living room had a braided carpet over the wood floor, a rocking chair, and a sofa facing the large stone fireplace. A grandfather clock ticked away in one corner. A bookcase contained old paperbacks and a stack of board games. He