CHAPTER 16

TIME MOVED SLOWLY, like honey running uphill. Wake was losing ground, losing time, falling behind on some terribly important mission. If only… if only he could remember what it was.

Wake lay in bed, trying to force his eyes open, but his lids were too heavy, impossible to lift.

Don’t stop now, he told himself. You stop, anything can happen and usually something you don’t want. He twisted on the sheets, pried his eyes open with sheer willpower.

Alice stood next to the bed. She leaned over and smiled softly at him.

Wake said her name, but the word came out distorted and unrecognizable.

“Shhh, baby, ” said Alice. “You were just having a nightmare. ”

“Alice…” Wake said her name like a man in a desert saying the word water. “I… I’ve missed you so much. ” Alice melted away as Wake reached for her, became Dr. Hartman, the psychiatrist expressionless.

Hartman looked dapper in cuffed slacks and an open-necked shirt, standing there plucking at the leather buttons on his cashmere cardigan. With his smooth, bland face, he could have been an Ivy League professor or a successful attorney on vacation, but the Band-Aid taped across his nose ruined the effect. He smiled at Wake, but there was no humor in it, merely a cool appraisal. “Feeling better now, are we? ”

Wake was tightly tucked into a hospital bed, his hands folded on the covers. He looked around. A small room, very clean. An electric typewriter on a table, a stack of paper beside it. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminated a few random dust motes. It took an effort for Wake not to let the sparkling motes distract him. Another man stood just inside the doorway, a stolid brute built like a wrestler wearing crisp blue pants and a white jacket.

“Nurse Birch had to restrain you, ” Hartman said, nodding at the man. “You were having another one of your episodes. ” He idly touched the Band-Aid on his nose. “I was forced to give you a sedative. ”

“W-what? ” said Wake, still groggy.

“Just stay calm, ” soothed Hartman. “I’m Dr. Hartman. You’re a patient at my clinic, Mr. Wake. You’ve been here a while now. The shock of your wife’s death triggered a total psychotic break. ”

Wake shook his head. “You’re lying. ”

“Alas, it’s true, ” said Hartman. “You have my deepest sympathies. ”

“Alas, I doubt that. ” Wake was drifting again; he fought to stay awake.

“It’s okay, Alan. Just…” said Hartman.

“…let it go, ” said Alice. “Rest. ”

Wake stopped struggling and gave in to the darkness.

There was thunder in the darkness, thunder so loud that it woke Wake up. He was still in bed, but the room was darker now. He sat up, hanging on to consciousness until the dizziness passed. He was wearing his own clothes: black hooded sweatshirt under a sports coat, and black slacks. He carefully got out of bed, stood there, unable to feel his toes.

Whatever Hartman had pumped in him was making him numb. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Wake staggered over to the typewriter. There were only empty sheets of paper, no manuscript pages.

He looked out the window. The room was on the third floor of the Cauldron Lake Lodge. Wake had seen photos in the tourist brochures around town, a big rough-hewn wood edifice on Cauldron Lake, with beamed ceilings and knotty pine walls. He walked over, tried the door. It was locked. Wake punched the door, rattling it.

The door opened and Wake stepped back. Hartman stood in the doorway. Birch was right behind him.

“Good evening, Alan, ” chirped Hartman. “Are we feeling better now? ”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m just fine, ” said Wake. “You always make house calls with your pet gorilla? ”

“How very droll, ” said Hartman, rubbing his soft, manicured hands together. “Your hostility is quite understandable. In fact, I would be more concerned if you weren’t suspicious of me. I don’t blame you for it. ”

Wake watched him and it was Hartman who finally blinked.

“Why don’t you accompany me? ” said Hartman, beckoning. “I’ll reacquaint you with my clinic. We’ll go over everything you might’ve forgotten. A little walk and some fresh air? Yes? It will do you good. ”

Wake walked down the corridor with Hartman.

Nurse Birch followed behind.

“I encourage creativity as part of the recovery process here at Cauldron Lake Lodge. I specialize—”

“You specialize in treating artists, ” finished Wake. “I remember. ”

“Splendid, Alan. I honestly believe we can get your problems under control if we work together. ” Hartman lightly plucked a bit of lint off Wake’s shoulder. “Are you willing to try? ”

Wake didn’t answer, aware of Birch’s heavy footfalls behind them.

Hartman sighed. “From past experience, I know I need to quickly get to the heart of things after an episode, so I’m just going to say this: Alice is dead. ” He stopped, held up his hands, as if to fend off any arguments Wake might have. “I know it’s painful, but you’re going to have to accept it if you have any hope of getting well. ”

Wake stared out the window at Cauldron Lake. The late afternoon light illuminated the whitecaps. No boats out in this rough weather.

“Alan? ”

Wake didn’t believe Hartman, not for an instant, but he could still feel the drugs he had been given, some cocktail of tranquillizers and antidepressants that left him passive and vulnerable to suggestion. He had to fight with all his will not to agree with everything the doctor said.

“Alice drowned, ” said Hartman. “She drowned, and you couldn’t face that. You’re torn apart by guilt, suffering from hallucinations, paranoid delusions, an obsession about light and darkness. ” His smile showed small, even teeth.

“Like any artist, you’re a bit of a narcissist. Everything revolves around Alan Wake, yes? Me, me, me. However, in your current state you have taken it to a grandiose level. You’ve constructed an elaborate fantasy in which your writings are actually affecting reality. You believe Alice has been kidnapped. That supernatural forces of darkness are trying to stop you. It’s understandable. Better that she be alive and kidnapped, than dead and drowned, yes? ”

Wake nodded involuntarily, his legs rubbery.

“Better that you have the power to save her through your work, ” said Hartman, “your wonderful work, than that you be helpless in the face of her death. It is a powerfully seductive scenario for a grieving man; you must not blame yourself for grasping at it, for wanting to believe it to be the truth. Unfortunately, Alan, you are not a god, just an extremely gifted writer. You will have to be content with that. It is what Alice would want for you. ”

Wake leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead while waiting for the dizzy spell to stop. The terrible thing, worse than the disorientation and nausea, was that there was a part of him that almost believed Hartman.

“This pain you are feeling—it is progress. ” Hartman led Wake through a glass door, to a stone terrace that offered a breathtaking view of Cauldron Lake. A storm was brewing behind Mirror Peak, lightning leaping in dark clouds. They stopped beside a large bronze sundial. “You should understand that apart from the tragic accident with your wife, no one has been killed. ”

He stared at the waves rising in the lake, his voice catching. “It… it seems there’s a storm coming. ” The lake was reflected in his eyes, and Wake saw something else: fear. “Odd, I… I don’t recall there being a mention of that in the weather forecast. Well, no matter. ”

Hartman’s concern, and his attempt to hide it, broke the spell, Wake’s momentary acceptance that Hartman might be telling the truth. That Alice really was dead. That everything else—the Taken, the woman in black, Bird Leg Cabin, all of it—was a product of his anguished imagination. He knew better now.

Hartman led Wake through another door into the main hall of the lodge, a huge room with high, raw-beam ceilings. The walls were covered with antlers and deer heads.

“You were impressed by my trophies when you first arrived here. Remember? ” Hartman waited for a response, finally shrugged. “I do love to hunt. ”

A scrawny man, quite clearly visible, evidently thinking he was hiding behind furniture in the main hall, darted from one armchair to another, muttering to himself. He jumped out behind a coffee table as Wake and Hartman passed.

“Yah! ” He pointed a finger at them. “I got you! I got you both! ”

“Emerson, please, ” said Hartman.

“I got you good, ” said Emerson.

“You sure did, ” said Wake, humoring him.

Emerson looked pleased for a moment, then snarled at Wake. “I’m a bad dream, mister. You should be afraid of me. Don’t want to run into me at night, that’s for sure. ”

“Please, Emerson, ” chided Hartman, “Mr. Wake is upset enough as it is. ”

“Okay! Okay, sorry, sorry, sorry. ” Emerson looked at Wake. “Boo! ” He dashed away, hid behind a table lamp.

“We’re actually making some progress with Emerson, ” said Hartman as he and Wake continued their stroll across the hall.

“I could tell, ” said Wake.

“He works on… video games, ” said Hartman, mouth tightening. “It’s trash, of course, but it does involve some small creative effort, which makes him receptive to my therapeutic methods. ” He pointed at a pair of closed double doors. “That’s the entrance to the office wing. Staff only, I’m afraid. ” He nodded to a bulky female nurse on the other side of the room. “You might have noticed the typewriter in your room, Alan. You’ve been writing as a part of the therapy. As soon as you feel up to it, you should continue. ”

“I’d like that, ” said Wake. “Can I see what I wrote before? ”

“Of course, ” said Hartman, not missing a beat. “Once you are writing again and show signs of progress, we can discuss that. ”

Hartman opened another set of doors and took Wake into the dining hall. A sign on the wall read: WELCOME TO THE CAULDRON LAKE LODGE! PLEASE ASK FRIENDS AND FAMILY TO SCHEDULE VISITS BEFOREHAND TO ENSURE THEY DON’T INTERFERE WITH YOUR THERAPY AND/OR PERIODS OF CREATIVITY.

A nearby poster advertised Hartman’s book: “The Creator’s Dilemma: The engaging new book by Dr. Emil Hartman, the author of the best-selling Creative Flow. His groundbreaking techniques, Engagement Therapy™ and The Flow™ explained in his own words! Now available in bookstores across the country. ”

At a small table sat the two white-haired old men Wake had met at the diner his first day in Bright Falls. They were playing a homemade Night Springs board game. The board was a map of a small town. Two white game pieces sat in the middle, surrounded by many black pieces.

“And these two are the Anderson brothers, Odin and Tor, ” said Hartman. “They had a heavy metal band in the seventies and eighties, called Old Gods of Asgard. They even adopted new first names to complete the image of Viking gods. After the band broke up, they moved to a farm nearby. ”

Wake waved to the brothers. “Nice to see you two again. ”

“My rheumatism’s killing me, ” said Odin, oddly dapper with his eye patch, his bright blue eye glaring at Wake. “There’s a storm coming. A big -ass storm. ”

“I remember you, ” Tor said to Wake, plucking at his white beard. He beat on the table with a toy plastic hammer, the thing squeaking every time it hit the surface. “You played the coconut song for us. ”

“The brothers are in advanced stages of dementia, ” said Hartman. “They are well cared for, but there’s nothing more that can be done. I’m afraid that the rock-and-roll lifestyle has left its mark. ”

Thunder rumbled the windows, the storm dark and threatening, closer now.

“Toldja! ” Odin called to them. “A big-ass storm! ”

Tor beat on the table with the plastic hammer. “I bring the thunder! ”

The lights went out for a moment and then flickered back on.

Hartman looked around, worried.

Lightning crashed.

“What’s wrong? ” Wake said.

Hartman acted as though he hadn’t heard him. “I’m… I’m so sorry to cut this short, Alan, but the power has been acting up. I’d better go check on it. Meanwhile, when you feel up to it, return to your room and try to write. It really is for the best. ”

Wake watched Hartman scurry off. Noticed that Birch had stayed behind, blocking the doorway.

“I’d like to bash nursie’s head in with a hammer, ” said Tor, pounding the table, squeak, squeak, squeak. He looked at Wake. “He’d love to fish out our secrets, but he has no clue. He’s not crazy enough, not crazy like us, sonny. ” He jumped up, did a jerky little dance. He was well over six feet tall.

“Being crazy’s a requirement, sonny, ” said Odin, peering at Wake. “Who else could understand the world when it’s like this? It takes crazy to know crazy. ”

Wake nodded. “That’s the sanest thing I’ve heard in a while. ”

Tor slapped Wake’s back. “Zane! You’re all right, Tom. Hey, we like him, don’t we, bro? He’s gotta go to the farm. ”

They thought Wake was Thomas Zane, confusing one writer with another one. He went along with it. Tor was strong for an old man; his slap on the back almost knocked the wind out of Wake.

“The Anderson Farm! ” grunted Odin. “Valhalla! ”

“We wrote it all down lest we’d forget, ” Tor whispered to Wake. He glanced over at Birch. “A crash course. All you need to know to get your head right. You need to find the message. ”

Odin reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here, sonny, ” he said, handing it to Wake. “Here’s something for you. Gave me a rash, but I kept it safe from these bastards. ”

Wake unfolded the piece of paper. It was a manuscript page. One of his manuscript pages. He looked into Odin’s bright blue eye.

Tor nodded. “Don’t let Hartman find it. ” He leaned closer to Wake. “Hey, Tom, you got any booze on you? ”

Wake shook his head. “Wish I did. Does Hartman—? ”

“You’re in luck, Tom, ” said Odin. “We have a stash of the special stuff at the farm. Our own formula. Local ingredients. Medicine. Clears your head right up… makes you remember, like… moonbeams, on the brain…”

Tor flicked the leather patches on Wake’s sport coat. “Leather patches on the elbows? That’s not very rock and roll, ” he grumbled.

“Tom’s just lost, is all, ” said Odin. “Baba Yaga got to him too, the damn witch! ”

Wake looked from one to the other. “Baba Yaga? The woman in black. ”

Odin spat on the floor. “Barbara Jagger, that’s her. ”

“She took my thunder, the witch, ” said Tor. “She took something from you too, didn’t she? ”

“Yeah, ” said Wake. “She did. ”

“This place, the lake, it gives you power, ” said Odin. “If you’re an artist! ” His face darkened. “Musician, writer, poet, painter, she doesn’t care. But she makes sure everything you create comes out twisted and wrong. Just ask the Lamp Lady. She knows what happened to that other writer. ”

Tor glared at Wake. “She’s been using you, boy. And you let her. You went and opened the door for her, didn’t you? ”

“No, I didn’t, ” said Wake.

“Now, now, ” said Odin, “it was already open a crack. ”

“What door? ” said Wake.

“Doesn’t mean he had to open it all the way, goddammit! ” Tor said to his brother.

“What exactly are you talking about? ” demanded Wake.

“We… we built the farm close to the lake, ” said Odin, beating on the table again with the toy hammer. “A place of power. That’s what we wanted. ”

“The parties we had there, man, ” said Tor, raking his fingers through his wispy white beard. “You… you should go there. Have a party of your own. ”

“See you later, ” said Wake.

“I’m serious, ” said Tor. “You should go there. ”

He could hear the Anderson brothers shouting behind him, bellowing at each other, but he kept walking. Wake needed to get into the Staff Only wing. Hartman had the manuscript pages that Wake had collected. They would be in his office. Wake just needed a key.

Lightning crashed outside.

Birch intercepted him by the door. “You going to give the writing a shot, Wake? The typewriter’s in your room. ”

A female nurse walked over, a thickset woman with wiry brown hair and big hands. Her nametag read: Sinclair. “Hey, Birch, ” she said. “We may need to put a lid on the Anderson brothers. You know how storms send them off the edge. ”

Lightning flashed again, froze the room for an instant with hot light.

Odin howled.

Tor joined him.

Birch looked past Wake toward the brothers. “You stay here, Wake. We got to take care of this. ”

Wake looked back, saw the two nurses moving quickly toward the brothers.

“Children of the Elder God! ” cheered Odin. “Scourge of light upon the dark! ”

“Everybody calm down, ” said Sinclair. “You boys need to go to your rooms. ”

“Do it, fellas, ” ordered Birch.

“Children of the Elder God! ” shouted Tor, bringing the hammer down. A chunk of wood flew off the table.

Wake stared, moved closer, not believing what he had seen.

Outside the storm was rising, the lake a sea of whitecaps, the wind shaking the windows of the hall.

“Put the hammer down, Tor, ” said Sinclair.

“Why don’t you come here and take it from me? ” said Tor, hefting the hammer. It wasn’t a plastic hammer anymore. It was a small sledge with a wooden handle. “Come on, what are you waiting for? ”

“Where the hell did he get a damn hammer? ” demanded Birch.

“I don’t know… Mister Anderson, would you please put down the hammer before someone gets hurt? ” said Sinclair.

Tor waved the hammer. “Oh, it’s Mister Anderson now. ”

“Put it down, ” ordered Sinclair. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness. ”

“Oh, I’ll put it down, all right, ” said Tor, shaking the hammer at her head.

“Afraid of the crazy brothers, are ya? ” shouted Odin, capering wildly around the table as the lightning crackled.

Tor slammed the table again with the hammer. “Rock and roll! ”

“Tor, you put that thing down right now or I’m gonna beat your wrinkly adult-diapered ass, ” said Birch.

“Give him a shot, ” said Sinclair.

“A shot? ” said Tor. “Here’s a friendly poke from Mj& #246; llnir, wench! ” He suddenly jumped forward and bashed Sinclair in the head. Wake winced at the sound it made.

Sinclair crumbled to the floor.

“Down she goes! ” cheered Odin. “Down for the count! ”

Tor charged Birch, who fled across the room.

“Bye bye! ” shouted Odin. “Thank you, come again! ”

Tor raised the hammer into the air, gave a triumphant shout to his brother. “We’re on a comeback tour, baby! ”

Wake bent down over Sinclair and checked her pulse. She was still breathing but she already had a lump on the side of her head. He rifled through her pockets and pulled out her keys.

“Tom Zane’s making a jailbreak! ” called Tor.

“Tom? ” Odin stared at Wake, shaking trying to hold himself together. “You get out of here… go to the farm. Have yourself a party. ”

“Jailbreak! Jailbreak! ” shouted Tor.

Wake ran to the door of the Staff Only office wing. The first key didn’t work, but the second one did. He closed the door behind him, raced down the hallway. Dr. Hartman’s door was ornate, his name in nameplate bronze. Wake unlocked the door. First key he tried.

The lights in the office flickered, went out, then came back on. They didn’t seem as bright as they had been.

Thomas Zane knew he had to remove all that had made this horror possible, including himself. That was the only way to banish the dark presence he had unleashed and now looked at him through the eyes of his dead love. But he also knew that despite his best efforts, it might someday return, so even as he wrote himself and his work out of existence, he added a loophole as insurance, an exception to the rule: anything of his stored in a shoebox would remain.

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