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Ben Mott had spent most of his life trying to prove himself right. Now, he found himself answering to the beck and call of Emil Hartman, all because he needed to prove him wrong.
Hartman had appeared some months ago at the end of Mott’s driveway, dressed in a sweater vest and tie. He hovered just by the gate, taking special care not to trespass. He met Mott’s glare with a wry smile. Mott’s immediate distrust of him was no secret. Especially once Hartman began spouting about poets and powers and artists.
“You’ll see, once he’s here,” Hartman said. “I’d like you to follow Alan Wake. A writer from New York. There’s not much more I can tell you unless you accept, of course, but…”
It was hard to find any reason to reject a wad of cash. Even harder to reject a promise of more to come.
And getting to tail and rough up some rich guy? Well, that just sweetened the deal.
The ferry ride is boring. He had expected more from this man from the way Hartman spoke about him. He should’ve known a writer from the city wouldn’t be worth more than the money he earned. The man wasn’t even good at keeping his balance on the boat, even with the calm water. Mott glanced back over his shoulder, watching him and his wife with a withering eye,
They clambered out of their rental car to take pictures, the wife carrying some fancy, high-end camera. A woman like that felt wasted on a man like the writer. He cracked stupid jokes about being a city boy as she set up her shot, taking in her surroundings.
Mott pulled his attention away, looking over the man again. He went and posed next to the old man from the radio. Some fake candid shot, like they just did that naturally. Mott doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like a thing about him. The way he dresses, the way he talks, the way he does his hair, the way he smiles. It’s all inauthentic. Fake. Even he can tell, squinting against the sun.
He spun and spit over the railing into the water below. A few small fish filtered up to nibble aimlessly at the ripples in the water.
Why men like that got the money, and the fame, and the woman, he would never understand.
He tried to size him up as they disembarked. Most of the man was obscured by the thick layers hanging over his frame. Pointless layers, too, Mott thought, hands shoved in the pockets of his vest.
He figured he could fight him– a few good punches would knock him off his feet. Would’ve been easier on the boat, but not too hard on land. Or a few well-placed shots. Hands like that had never held a gun. They only typed stories about men who used them.
But Hartman didn’t ask Mott to fight him or kill him. He asked him to watch him.
Annoying. But he could do that. Hartman trusted him. Personally asked him, even.
Mott smirked. Maybe that fact alone made him better than the writer.
He’ll get his time, anyway. Hartman promised. And then he’d show him– show all three of them– what his worth is.
Weird didn’t even begin to cover it.
Sure, he now believed Hartman’s claims about the lake. Some of it went over his head (and part of him believed Hartman used complicated words on purpose, just to make it sound like a more ‘academic’ problem than it really was), but he could believe it. Everyone has a fantasy of making their stories and daydreams come true. Who’s to say this lake can’t do that, somehow? Hartman sure seems convinced, and that’s all Mott needed.
Wake and his wife disappeared off the face of the earth. Mott was sure Hartman would have his hide over it, but he seemed excited. He told him to wait and see.
Sure enough, a few weeks later, Wake stumbled back into Bright Falls, and Hartman lit up, sending Mott back out with a new plan. One that got his hands a little dirty.
But the Darkness was different. Not at all what he was expecting.
It proved Hartman right, in some ways. Wake must have some sick, twisted fantasies in that head to make stuff like this crawl out of there. Mott had been in it plenty of times, but nothing ever crawled out like this, jumping from shadow to shadow, flinging axes and screaming nonsense.
To him, it felt like some cheap movie. If the lake really was some kind of magic pool that made writing come to life, Wake must be a shit writer.
Reality is a lot less hard to accept than hypotheticals. Mott didn’t need proof, because the proof was right in front of him, axe-head gleaming in the moonlight. And reality bends to the will of a bullet, which gave him control of the whole situation. Kill darkness, threaten Wake, get the manuscript. Easy. He’d never felt more in control.
But Wake fought back. He was furious with him, demanding to see his wife. They even fought together, keeping the hoards of shadows away while they argued demands.
Mott resented him. He was supposed to be an easy target. Some weak-willed writer, crying to get his wife back, a rich boy ready to do anything to meet the kidnapper’s demands.
Hartman was furious, too. Two days was apparently too short of a deadline. But standing there, under Hartman’s withering glare, Mott felt shame twist in his stomach. He wanted the same kind of disgust he felt for Wake– the same kind of bravado that made him want to march up and jam a gun in his face. He had to prove to Hartman that he was capable. That he wasn’t just some schmuck in a mountain town. Some crazy local who doesn’t understand the real world.
He wanted his approval.
Or maybe he just wanted to prove him wrong.
Maybe it was the same thing.
But he still had a chance, running out into the night again, looking for Wake, ready to adjust the demands.
Then he met her.
She was terrible. Awful. Awe-inspiring. She brought Mott down to his knees.
He almost couldn’t look at her, but he couldn’t look away. The Darkness screamed through the forest straight to him, making demands. She seemed old and unassuming, draped in funeral clothes, like an old woman in a church pew. She towered over Mott, gripping him without touching him, seeing him without looking at him. In the dark, he felt completely exposed.
She was darkness. She was so much more. She was so much worse.
Where is she? Where is Alice Wake?
Oh, this was a mistake. He knew that now, heart stuck in his throat, eyes watering, knees shaking. They should have never messed with any of this.
Hartman was wrong. Mott should’ve never trusted him. He should’ve known better. He did know better. Hartman didn’t like him. Hartman was more than disappointed in him. He was only a tool. He knew it.
But he dove into the lake for him. He trailed Wake for him. Searched the cabins, spent a week chasing nothing, posed as a kidnapper, leveraged threats, fought monsters, and even had Wake under his threats and his control. He did everything. Everything that Hartman had asked.
And now the lake was going to swallow him whole.
What could he do but bargain? What could he do but explain his reasoning? Plead his case?
Even in the face of the abyss, he could only hope that someone would finally listen.