The first thing Alex Casey noticed about the cabin was the absence of sound. No birdsong, no distant hum of the city—just an oppressive silence that seemed to crawl under his skin. The cabin sat on the edge of a frozen lake, its weathered wood blending into the snow-dappled pines surrounding it.
Casey adjusted his scarf against the biting cold and approached the door. His informant, a retired professor named Dr. Frederick Linton, had promised answers about the Cult of the Word. But when Casey's knocks went unanswered, his gut twisted with foreboding.
The lock gave way with a solid kick, and the door creaked open to reveal a dimly lit interior. Dust motes floated in the air, disturbed by the icy wind that followed him inside. A fireplace stood cold and empty, its stone mantle cluttered with books, loose papers, and a single unlit candle.
"Linton?" Casey called out, his voice echoing faintly. No response. He drew his gun and swept the room with his flashlight.
The professor's study was cramped but meticulously organized, every surface covered in handwritten notes and open tomes. Casey's eyes landed on a journal lying on the desk, its pages filled with frantic scribbles. The words "The Word is the Way" appeared repeatedly, scrawled with increasing fervor.
As he flipped through the journal, a chill ran down his spine. Linton had written about the Cult's obsession with Alan Wake's works, describing them as "blueprints" for harnessing an ancient force. "They believe the written word can reshape reality," one entry read. "Stories as spells, words as weapons. And Wake's novels are their scriptures."
Casey's flashlight caught something on the floor: a smear of blood leading toward a trapdoor partially concealed beneath a threadbare rug. His pulse quickened as he moved the rug aside and yanked the door open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
The air grew colder as Casey descended, his flashlight slicing through the pitch black. The basement walls were lined with bookshelves, their contents ranging from ancient grimoires to dog-eared paperbacks. In the center of the room stood an altar—a crude, makeshift structure draped in a black cloth and adorned with flickering candles.
On the altar lay a single book: What I Can't Forget by Alan Wake. Its cover was pristine, as though untouched by time. Casey hesitated before picking it up, the leather binding cool and strangely alive beneath his fingers.
A low growl shattered the silence. Casey spun around, gun raised, as shadows coalesced in the far corner of the room. They twisted and writhed, forming a vaguely humanoid figure with glowing, hollow eyes.
"Agent Casey," the figure rasped, its voice a chorus of whispers. "You've strayed too close to the truth."
Casey fired, the gunshots deafening in the confined space. The bullets passed through the figure, striking the wall behind it. The entity laughed, a sound that seemed to reverberate inside Casey's skull.
"You're not the author here," it said. "You're a character. And your story is already written."
The figure lunged, and Casey stumbled back, knocking over a bookshelf. Tomes and candles tumbled to the floor, their flames licking at the spilled wax. Casey grabbed a fallen candle and thrust it toward the figure. The shadows recoiled, hissing as the light seared their form.
"Not written yet," Casey growled, using the moment to scramble up the stairs. He slammed the trapdoor shut and shoved a heavy table over it, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Outside, the night had deepened, the cabin's windows framing an endless expanse of dark forest. Casey leaned against the door, his heart still racing. He pulled out his phone, scrolling to Detective Pryce's number.
"Casey," Pryce answered after the first ring.
"I found Linton's place," he said, keeping his voice low. "He's gone. But I—"
The line crackled, and a new voice cut through. "Agent Casey. Always chasing shadows."
"Who the hell is this?" Casey barked.
"A narrator," the voice replied, smooth and mocking. "And you're in my story now. Let's see how you handle the next chapter."
The call ended abruptly. Casey stared at the screen, the "No Signal" message glaring back at him. Outside, the forest seemed to press closer, the trees bending unnaturally in the wind.
He glanced at the manuscript page he'd found earlier, now crumpled in his jacket pocket. Unfolding it, he read the final line aloud:
"The darkness isn't coming. It's already here."