Alan Wake - Plucking Roses

Night pressed in all around, a heavy weight that leaned on the weaknesses of the soul. With its descent came an intimate closeness that could choke, suffocate and yet still offer sanctity in a torrid of conflicting emotions. The ancient presence of darkness that fuelled the primal fears of man lurked, filling the barren aperture of their meaningless lives with a long forgotten taste of the unknown.

The Writer could feel it. Like the recesses of his innards were laden with great slithers of ice. So why then, did he defy what the Cimmerian shade offered? Only with enforced isolation and a tenebrous hold on sanity could The Writer achieve his full potential. Wasn't it obvious?

It found the trailer park to be organised chaos. The usual flamboyant colours, like so much paint dashed across a man made canvas, now lay muted in the gloom. The trailers themselves seemed idly dropped into location with no care; worn muddied paths connecting the mobile homes had formed from years of footfall. A child's tricycle, a white wash picket fence, rusted cobalt grill and a bright yellow Wendy house all lay strangled in the encroaching vegetation. But the place felt lived in, had a very human texture.

The Biggest Fan dwelled in one of the many flimsy abodes here. The perfect tool for an act of desperation, there was a plan. If The Writer could not be obtained, then It would make him come to It.

Coffee and grease stained the apron and front of the rouge uniform. The Biggest Fan pulled the grip from her hair and let the heaps of blond fall, one hand idly massaged her scalp. She kicked her shoes off one by one with practiced accuracy and locked the door behind her. It seemed an age before she reached for the light switch, instead enjoying the privacy the sombre inkiness offered. It could feel her mind, wariness pulled her down like lead anchors. There would be no struggle here, no fight to be found.

Her fingertips grazed the switches, eyes squinting at the gathering mass of shadows. It surged forward to take her. The Biggest Fan's essence, the very fibre of her being and consciousness broke beneath the pressure of the ancient menace. Everything that made her was shattered and swept away in the wake of the dark presence. It had taken her.

She became as dough in the hands of a skilled baker, pliable and manageable. Anticipation coursed through the human body which was now sensitive to It's needs. With The Writer back under control things could progress and soon It would taste freedom once more. The end goal was trivial, merely the beginning of a new chapter, the hunt was an inconvenience.

The Biggest Fan trudged over to the phone; face masked by a hollow cast of shadow, lips hovered over the receiver. Her index finger punched in the numbers and she waited for the reply.

"Barry Wheeler speaking."

"This is Rose."