(ALAN WAKE beholds an echo vision)
CASEY: The room had been the site of a true bacchanalia, in every sense of the word. Initiates of the Cult, preparing their victims for a festival. In the darkness between the cultists you could see the shadows of their dark mystery gods, old things — old enough to know better. Sipping cocktails, licking their lips. Soon a victim would be served up, coated in black red candy syrup, a grim sundae. In the end, even the most sanctified of priests... is just a divine caterer.
ALAN WAKE: This was the murder site. Dark energies steeped here, like a stagnant pond in reality, where things unspeakable laid their eggs. I would lay them too, let them hatch into the story. Like a sacred grove of old, this place was significant. I had to go deeper. The story would grow darker. But that just meant I was moving forward.
(ALAN WAKE turns to open a door): It could not be opened from this side!
