Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

Wake remembered now where he had seen the man’s name: on a shelf of books in Bird Leg Cabin. He grabbed Randolph’s arm. “This island of Zane’s… was there a cabin on it? A cabin sitting on a nest of sticks?”

Randolph shrugged off Wake’s arm. “Don’t know, mister, I only moved here thirty years ago. Folks were still talking about the volcano under the lake erupting in 1970. Sank the island. Sank Thomas Zane along with it, that’s what they said.”

“The story gets better, Al,” interjected Barry. “Local girl Barbara Jagger and Zane were lovers. She drowned in the lake just a week before the island sank. Told you this place was spooky—”

“You city folk will believe anything.” Randolph coughed, spat at Barry’s feet. “Barbara Jagger’s a bedtime story mamas tell their kids to scare ’em straight.” He hacked up phlegm, swallowed it this time. “Folks around here call her the Scratching Hag, comes for you in the dark. Or Granny Claws, that’s another one of her names.”

He flung his open hands at Barry. “Boo!” He laughed loudly when Barry jumped.

“That’s not funny,” fumed Barry.

Randolph limped on.

Barry beckoned for Wake to hang back. “A lot of the articles about the history of weird things going on in Bright Falls were written by Cynthia Weaver.”

“Who?”

“Some crazy lady that walks around all day carrying a lantern,” said Barry. “Apparently, she knew both Jagger and Zane. After they died she had some kind of a breakdown.”

“Barry… I met Cynthia Weaver my first day in town,” said Wake, trying to put things together. “She was at the Oh Deer Diner. She tried… she tried to warn me about the dark corridor, but I wouldn’t listen. I went into the corridor to find Carl Stucky, to get a key from him… but I met this other woman instead. A woman in black who sent me to Bird Leg Cabin.”

“Geez, Al—”

“Randolph?” A woman staggered over from one of the trailers, barefoot, her bathrobe flapping around her. “Have you seen Ellen?”

Randolph shook his head.

“Damn.” The woman smelled of bourbon and cigarettes, half of her mousy hair pinned up, the other half falling around her face. “I got up a while ago and couldn’t find her. She supposed to do the laundry and change the sheets today.”

“Maybe that’s why she made herself scarce,” said Randolph. “You check the library? She’s always got her nose in a book.”

“Yeah, miss junior scientist. You see her, you tell her to get her ass home,” said the woman, trying to hold her bathrobe down in the wind. “Kids,” she said, walking back to the trailer. “God charges too high a price for sex, you ask me.”

Randolph jabbed a thumb at the next trailer in the row. “We’re here .”

Rose’s trailer was small and neat with flower boxes on the front porch and wind chimes dangling from an awning. A young woman making the best of things.

“Thanks,” Wake said to Randolph.

“She’s a good girl, like I said,” said Randolph, not moving, clearly uncomfortable leaving two men about to knock on Rose’s door.

“Mr. Wake.” Rose opened the door, stared blankly out. “Glad you and Barry could make it.” She waved to Randolph.

“You let me know… you give a whistle if there’s a problem,” said Randolph, shuffling back toward the front of the park and the weeds that awaited him.

Rose ushered them into her trailer, closed the door, and locked it behind them.

For decades, the darkness that wore Barbara Jagger’s skin slept fitfully in the dark place that was its home and prison. Hungry and in pain, it dreamed of its nights of glory when the poet’s writing had called it from the depths and given it a brief taste of power and freedom. Years later, the rock star brothers had stirred it again from the deep sleep, but it had not been enough. They had not been enough.

When it sensed the writer on the ferry, the darkness opened its eyes.

ROSE STOOD NEAR the door to the trailer in her red cap and red waitress uniform, her eyes unfocused, as though she had just woken up. “Oh, Mr. Wake… welcome. I’m… I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Hi, Rose. Barry said you have my manuscript?”

“Barry?” said Rose.

“Gee, thanks,” said Barry, “glad I made such an impression.”

Rose didn’t take her eyes off Wake. “Your manuscript? Oh. Oh, yes.” She stepped out of the way. “Please… come on in. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“You ask me, she could use a quadruple-espresso,” Barry said under his breath.

Wake looked around. The trailer was cramped but neat and tidy, with pillows on the small sofa and a menagerie of stuffed animals that overflowed their display case. A cozy breakfast nook took up part of the living room. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out most of the daylight; the room had a murky quality, as though they were underwater.

Barry pushed aside a heart-shaped pillow, sat down on the couch, “I feel like I’m drowning in estrogen,” he muttered.

“What?” Rose called from the kitchen.

“You have a nice place here,” said Wake, sitting on the couch besides Barry. The handful of manuscript pages he had found rubbed against the inside of his jacket, but he left them there. He liked knowing they were right beside him.

“Thanks,” said Rose, carrying in two mugs, still dreamy-eyed. “Rusty… he used to call it my little nest.”

“I’ve never been inside a trailer,” offered Barry. “It’s not at all like I thought it would be. It’s more like the inside of a yacht than a tin can.” He saw Wake’s expression. “What? What did I say?”

“I’m sorry about Rusty,” said Wake, taking a mug from Rose. “I know you two were close.”

“Yes,” said Rose, looking past him. “Rusty really loved… my coffee.”

Wake glanced at Barry. She was acting so strangely. He looked around the trailer, hoping to spot the manuscript. She was going to drag things out before she handed it over, probably ask Barry to take a picture of her and Wake for her Facebook page. Fans. Wake didn’t care. He just wanted to get the manuscript and trade it to the kidnapper for Alice.

Barry stared at his I ♥ Teddy Bears mug. He blew at the steam and took a sip. Looked up at Rose. “Hey, this is really good.”

Wake sipped from his own floral-pattern mug, thinking of Rusty and how the ranger had looked so happy sitting in the diner, drinking coffee and chatting with Rose. He remembered the last time he had seen the man, the Taken that had been Rusty, covered in shadows and trying to kill Wake. He drank more coffee, waiting as Rose drifted onto a chair opposite them, demurely smoothing the hem of her uniform. On the wall behind her was a collage of Wake’s book covers and photos of him from magazines and newspapers. Another life-size publicity standup of Wake stood gloomily in the corner, identical to the one in the diner. He wondered how many of them she had, if she talked to the standup while she made breakfast… wondered if it talked back to her.

“I like your shrine to Saint Al,” said Barry, taking another sip of coffee.

Rose looked confused. “I’m… not…”

“No, I meant…” Barry plucked at his lower lip. “My tongue feels numb.”

“Rose?” said Wake.

“Umm?” said Rose.

“My manuscript?” said Wake. “I really need it.”

Rose nodded slowly. “I know what you need.”

“Yes?” said Wake.

“A muse,” said Rose. “A muse to inspire you.”