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Alice Wake is in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a sauce while her husband, Alan Wake, boils pasta. The knife slips, diverts sharply, and a tomato rolls over the edge of her cutting board and splatters against the floor. The pulp gets everywhere, hitting both Alice and Alan. While Alice looks for a cloth, Alan wipes the mess off his clothes. It only makes it worse. Wet crimson now stains his pale denim jeans like a fresh bloodstain.
Alan sniffs his tomato-sodden hands. He licks the juices off. “Alice,” he says, “are we doing Bolognese?”
Alice doesn’t respond at first. She stares at Alan’s hands, big and calloused and slightly pink in the nails from the tomatoes. The glinting blade is firm in her hand, trembling. In its reflection, her darkest thoughts speak to her.
This won’t count, her brain whispers. This isn’t Alan. Alan hates raw tomatoes. It’s just one flick. Cut him open. See what true darkness really looks like. Bring forth the resolution and—
“Alice?”
She forces out a breath. Swallows tightly. Breaks out an unnaturally gentle smile. “It’s my secret recipe, Alan. Now grab me the ground beef, will you?”
Alan nods diligently, none the wiser, and retreats to the fridge. Alice goes back to cutting the rest of the tomatoes. As she brings the blade down again and again, the same thought echoes in her head.
That is not her husband.
That is not her Alan.
When they emerged onto the shores of Bright Falls, cold and shivering but alive, they had only a few moments to themselves. Alan had embraced Alice fiercely, kissing her on the lips and whispering, “I’ve done it. We’re here. We’re safe, Alice.” Over and over again like a loop.
“You did it,” Alice sighed. She could not say much more before FBI agents Anderson and Casey brought them to a nearby shelter to warm up. Inside, the FBI agents warned them about what was awaiting them, of the people that had mobilised here to see them. Alice knew how famous Alan got after his disappearance, yet even she was overwhelmed when the researchers and reporters arrived in droves, clogging the streets around Cauldron Lake. They had questions, and they wanted answers from Alan. As soon as they could stand without shivering, they were subjected to interview after interview. With the reveal of Alan’s next book, Return, Alan had turned his dire circumstances into a press tour.
He promised Alice that they were safe now, that nothing would come for them anymore. He made sure of it with Return, his final masterpiece. As proof, he gave her a copy and read aloud the final sentences of the final chapter: Return 10: The Final Draft.
And so I return. With me I bear the torch of knowledge, the light, the miracle illuminated. The master of two worlds. No... the master of many worlds.
The words were meant to comfort her. They’re the last things he said before they reunited. Alice clung onto the words. Tasted them on her lips. “And so I return,” she whispered to herself like a mantra.
“And so you return,” Alan often whispered back, lips tilted in relief and awe.
The reunion was bliss.
If only this Alan wasn’t an imposter.
Alice doesn’t know how the idea implanted itself in her mind so firmly, like a barnacle to her brain. Perhaps it was Alan’s strange enthusiasm for the press tour. Maybe it’s the fact he prohibited her from passing through the study door he adorned with a painted black spiral. Maybe it’s his affection, or maybe it is just the tomatoes.
Her friends thought she was insane. Clearly, he’s still recovering from his disappearance. More than 10 years have passed since they saw each other and he might have changed. Maybe he was always some of these things and she just never noticed.
But she does notice. Alan doesn’t smell the same. Doesn’t smile the same. She’s convinced it’s not him. But then, who is it?
One thing she’s certain about is that this thing is not quite the same monster wearing her husband’s face from before. This Alan doesn’t terrorise her nightmares and stalk her halls, hovering over her like a dark shadow. No, this Alan is nice and polite and slightly awkward and easily frustrated and perfectly Alan. In fact, it’s his quintessential essence, his Alan-ness, that first had her questioning everything.
In her dreams, she sees Alan—the real Alan, her Alan—begging her to release him as he stands before a cliff.
In her nightmares, she reaches out for him, but he falls, breaking his back against the rocks, shrieking as his bones snap and his face is a bloody pulp like tomatoes , and she looks down at her outstretched hand and sees that it is Alan’s, and she will feel her face and find Alan’s beard and hollow cheeks, and when she screams Alan’s voice escapes.
When she wakes up in a sweat, decidedly in her own body, it is always in the middle of the night. Alan is usually fast asleep by her side, undisturbed. She tiptoes out the bedroom, preps her camera equipment and flashlight, and keeps watch before Alan’s study. She glares at the little black spiral, darker than the night, and recalls how Alan warned her of the dangers of this study. She feels that danger now, in a way she does not understand, in a way unlike the monster from before, and that frightens her. Deep into the pitch black night, Alice waits for the moment the monster reveals itself with snarling teeth and sharp fangs, just like before. Just like last time.
But no monster ever emerges.
When dawn comes, Alan wakes up and prepares Alice a mug of lavender tea.
Alice sips it. It tastes fine.
Her Alan couldn’t make a decent cup of tea.
Alan’s interviews become more frequent, but he never leaves New York. He always carries a copy of Return on him, with the black glossy cover and the swamp-green title. It is his baby, more than any other story, and he holds it preciously tight. When they first escaped the Dark Place, Alan had been utterly remorseful. Said his stories were affecting everybody, not just him, and he was going to stop writing altogether. But now, Alice would sometimes catch him locked behind the spiral door, the clickety-clack of his typewriter a disturbing melody amidst the soft orchestra of traffic.
Whenever he leaves the apartment, Alan always locks his study. The one time Alice saw the key—silver, reflective like a knife, small, custom—Alan avoided her for the rest of the evening. He is obsessive over it, the one oddity among oddities that is this false Alan. The one thing everyone can admit is strange.
Alice latches onto that. There’s something about the study. Something wrong with it. The evidence to blow her case wide open.
She has to act. She’s losing sleep.
She first tries to steal the key, but Alan always has it on him, even when he’s sleeping. Alan’s not a light sleeper, but he’s not heavy either, and any attempts to grab it off his person are met with a yawn and a curious smile. Trying to slide in while Alan enters the study also doesn’t work. He’s too quick, and she cannot try too often without looking suspicious. Every day Alice wonders if she should just give up and accept her fate. But then Alan will do something unusual, like changing the temperature of the AC, or using a different toothpaste brand, and her conviction hardens.
It takes several weeks, but eventually, Alice gets her opportunity. Alan is off doing a late night interview for a talk show and said he would get home around ten. This is the longest time Alan has left Alice alone in the apartment, and she’s not leaving it to chance. She has to act now.
She puts the TV on, sets it to record Alan’s interview, and then grabs her camcorder and the lockpick kit.
As she walks past the kitchen, her eyes catch on the kitchen knife in the corner. In the reflection, her dark thoughts stare her in the face.
Alice takes the knife and puts it in her pocket. She makes her way to the study.
The door is as it always is, with that mocking black spiral. She places her hand on the wood, and feels an odd chill, like ink. On a whim, she tries the door handle.
Locked.
Doubt creeps into her head, like a foreign intrusion. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself why she’s here.
This is for Alan.
This is for herself.
It takes a few tries and an online guide or two before she hears the door click. She turns on her camcorder and gingerly opens the study. A part of her expects a trap. A threat in the darkness. But it’s just Alan’s study—messy, but otherwise exactly as she remembers it. The room is only lit by the hallway behind her and the drapes of moonlight hitting the desk, making it glow in blue-white light.
A patch of light on the desk beckons her forward. There is danger here. And truth. Monstrosities. Fear. Visions of her nightmares suddenly invade her head, and she squeezes her fists tight, trying to banish the images from her mind. She barely succeeds, feeling exhausted for her efforts. Is this what Alan meant? Is this why he told her not to enter?
She takes the knife from her pocket. Her grip is tight. Shaking.
Alice slowly walks over to Alan’s desk. Here is his typewriter, a small mountain of typed pages, and some fiction novels. To the side of his typewriter, close to heart, is Return. That very same black cover with the pale blue-green text, one she’s read over and over. She flips the cover, sees Alan’s signature, and knows this is his original copy. The first Return.
So why is there another?
Alice picks up this second copy. The most striking difference is the cover. The original is black with swamp-green text, but this one is black with vermillion text, the complete inverse. It’s also slightly thicker than the original. And there, inside, is Alan’s signature. An original.
Her Alan would never keep an older copy of his work.
Her heart pounds. Against every instinct, she flips the book open and skims through. The contents feel largely the same, and the chapters are an appropriate length. The pages fly past her until she gets to the very end.
A new chapter. Return: Epilogue. A chapter that does not, and should not, exist.
Now that multiple worlds were at Wake’s fingertips, he had a path to his happy ending. He could go back to his wife, Alice. They could be together. He could protect her.
But in his world, Alice was gone. A sacrifice. None of the power he had could ever bring her back. He would not make the same mistake as Tom Zane. He knew not to bring the dead back to life.
But through his adventure he had seen other versions of Casey—other versions of himself. Echoes of an individual. Going through their own spiral.
If his Alice was gone, what about the other Alices? Do they need saving?
Would they know?
A sudden thud makes the camcorder fall from her hand. She readies her knife just as the figure steps forward. It’s Alan, looming over the door frame. He’s draped in shadow.
Alice grips the knife tightly in her shaking hand. It’s impossible for him to be back so soon. Literally impossible. “S-stay back.”
“Alice, honey, I…I’m sorry.”
“You’re not Alan.”
“I am Alan,” he insists. “I’m just not your Alan. But I promise you, I love you all the same. You’re still the woman I married.”
“What did you do to my husband?”
“I am your husband,” he insists.
“What did you do to my husband?!” Alice shrieks.
Alan blinks. His face shifts, jaw clenching and unclenching. “He…he didn’t make it.”
Alice feels her heart sink. It cannot be true. Alan survives—he had to survive. This manuscript proves it. Her freedom proves it.
She swallows, struggling to find words. But they come, shaking like a leaf in the breeze. “W-what do…w-what do you mean?”
“As my manuscript said, I lost my Alice. I…I couldn’t live with myself, knowing she sacrificed herself for me. So I searched for another world, one where an Alice that’s similar to my own had lost her Alan. And I made my way over to that world. That’s how I found you.” He takes a step forward, a pleading smile across his lips. “It worked. I saved us both this time. We’re safe now, Alice.”
Alice brings her knife further forward, all to stop Alan from getting closer. He stares down at the blade in disbelief.
“Alice. Put the knife down. I’m not Scratch or a monster. I’m still Alan.”
“But you’re not my Alan.”
“But I can be.” He takes one step further, and the tip of the knife presses onto his shirt. “We got over our differences before. We can try again. Counselling, therapy, a vacation to somewhere that isn’t Bright Falls.” His face is still wrapped in shadow. His voice is so familiar. “Please, Alice…”
Her hand trembles. He just admitted he’s an imposter. The knife is at his heart, ready to cut and slice. It should be easy.
But then the light finally finds his face, and she sees the terror in Alan’s wet eyes.
She’s so weak. She can’t do this. The knife clatters to the ground. She shoves Alan hard, throwing him into the bookcase. Before he has time to react, she bolts from their apartment, runs down the stairs, and heads out into the frigid night.
She calls the one number she had been told to call in an emergency. The one person who will understand her problem. The one person who can help her in her time of need.
The phone picks up after the third ring. The voice on the other side grumbles.
“Casey here. Is that you, Mrs Wake?”
“H-help me.” Alice shudders with half-suppressed sobs. “Please. Hide me from Alan.”
Alice wakes up in an unfamiliar motel room. The curtains are drawn, the aircon whines, and there’s a faint scent of coffee in the air. Her face feels swollen. All she remembers after getting here is that she cried herself to sleep. For the first time since returning to the surface, Alice doesn’t recall her dreams.
“Mrs Wake?” Agent Casey rumbles.
Alice turns her head to find FBI agents Anderson and Casey. They are sitting on the other bed in this twin bed motel room, dressed with armoured vests and guns. Casey had been keeping guard since last night but Anderson must have arrived sometime while Alice was sleeping. Both of them are looking at something. A book.
A copy of Return with the vermillion title.
Anderson twists her head. When she smiles, it looks forced. “Alice. How are you? Did you sleep well?”
Alice doesn’t respond. There’s something off about this. Why are they both looking at her like that? Why are they holding the book? Why does she feel strange?
She swallows tightly. “Did…did something happen?”
Anderson and Casey share a glance. An unspoken dialogue starts and concludes. Whatever the verdict, Casey must not like it.
“You sure you want to hear it now? If you’re not mentally up for it, then—”
“Just tell me,” Alice interrupts. “What did Alan do?”
Casey nods at Anderson, who turns on the cable TV and flicks it through a few different channels. Eventually, it stops at a 24 hour news channel. There’s a picture of Alan, and it’s like all her other senses stop. The news reporter says some words, but Alice can only stare at the stills from found footage and CCTV. More than half of the footage is pixellated, revealing only squares of crimson red and putrid browns. There’s drone shots of the perimeter of the crime scene.
Parliament Tower.
Death count: 80. Critical condition: 22.
Her stomach lurches, like she’s fallen off a great cliff. Ready to be pummeled on the rocks.
Alice feels for the phone on her side, swallowing the bile in her throat. 78 missed calls. 76 are from Alan. Just as she notices the cellular signal is completely missing, Casey snatches the phone away.
Before Alice can respond, Anderson sits down next to her. The copy of Return is in her hand. She notices Alice staring.
Casey asks, “Did ya ever get to reading it?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We think Alan changed something in his book,” Anderson explains, “and I think you might be able to figure out what.”
Alice does. She opens the book and flips to the very last pages. As she suspected, the missing chapter, Return: Epilogue. On the blank final page, words suddenly appear, as if typed in real time by a ghost. The sound of a typewriter grinds in her brain, clickety clack.
Alice’s nightmares had come true. Alan—her Alan—was gone, and a different world’s Alan replaced him.This imposter—this monster—is all she has left. But she had allies now, and she had his manuscript. She wanted to believe the monster could be repelled. She had to.
Then Alice remembered her husband’s true power. His words became reality, and reality became his words. By reading this ending, she had fallen into his trap. She was now in the story with the monster. One hellbent on getting her back, no matter the cost.
She turned the page, waiting for more words to appear, but there was nothing. She would not get the satisfaction. Trapped forever in the uncertain ending until Alan wrote her out.
As she gazed up at Saga and Casey, she realized all too late: in a horror story, nothing was scarier than a blank page.