It's an old tired thing. Maybe it once had a lot of life but now it just looks possessed. The window drapes are all curling out of the broken windows like long skeletal fingers. The soup of mist that clings to the garden is so thick I can't even dream about walking through it without wondering what I might step on. Hypodermic needles, rusty camping equipment, maybe some combination of crushed glass. If I fall on that grass I'll tear my hands wide open. I get my gloves out the dash and put them on, the leather caressing my palms like an old friend, and for a moment I feel better about the whole thing. But then looking back at that hell I don't. So I put the brandy bottle to my lips and realise: I'm so shook-up I forgot to remove the cap.

"Fuck," I utter, unscrewing the cap, getting angry, and tossing it into the garden. I hear it bounce against something; and then I see the kids bikes.

There's three of them all mangled-up in the driveway, and all three of them are wrapped around the undercarriage of a used-up silver Peugeot 206. For some reason, the car looks familiar, but I'm too far gone to figure out why. The car is parked on a slant, still rolling in neutral. The brake lights are on and the front dash is all lit up in yellow, and when I stagger towards it, it gives a last, dying breath and stalls. I take a wary walk towards the driver's side door. I see the skid marks leading up to the garage. For a moment, I expect to see a couple of bodies, maybe some blood, but there's nothing. I'm stunned to see there's no one inside but that the doors are wide open; and the whole thing has a nasty, stale air of something gone wrong happened very recently. I reach for my gun, then realise I left it in the car.

"Fuck me," I say, then hurry back to the police cruiser. I reach in, turn on the headlights, see one of them is wrapped around the garden fence, then slam my fist into the dashboard. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse as I reach for the radio and practically rip it out of the socket.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over." The window drapes of the house flutter here and there, and I think I see a stroke of mist walking across the garden in the shape of a woman. A cold shiver runs down my spine and I briefly glance at the moon. It's so full and eerie I feel a little unnerved. I take another look at the bikes wrapped around the front end of the beaten-up 206 and speak again.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. I'm at the cabin at Stillwater Basin, I need a unit out here immediately. Possible 10-54. I'm going in to inspect the house. Do you read me, over?"

I'm looking at the house again when I feel my hand drop to my side and realise there's no resistance from the black box. I look down and see the headset is hanging disconnected from the socket. The wire must've got caught when I ripped it out of the holder. Now it is hanging around the cigarette lighter, disconnected. I try to plug it back in, then realise the wire is too badly damaged to be of any use to anyone.

"2-Adam-3, what is your status, over?" The radio operator says to another patrol car, and I slam my fist into the black box and realise: I'm alone out here.

I look back at the house and the car, hearing the sirens go off in my head. A sort of dull whining sound that I heard not too long ago while staggering drunk and alone along a terrible winding road not too far from here.

They found me one and a hours after incident, too far gone to remember my own name, too uncooperative to explain how I was a police officer. It was only when they recovered the body from over the side of the cliff and found my gun and badge in the offending vehicle that the cover-up started. I was lucky. They'd put me in the drunk tank to cool off and didn't have an officer question me until I'd sobered up. At that point the husband had come to identify the body and I'd had to look him in the eye on the way back through the station. I remember my eyes being puffy from crying. I never told him I was sorry. To do would've been an admission of guilt, and cops don't cop an easy plea. I still remember the look on his face, though. I'd never seen a man so desolate with grief. He looked a nice sort of guy too. The kind of guy you'd have nightmares about if you just so happened to kill their wife whilst driving 80 mph in a 45 zone.

I look back at the bikes. I'm in the police cruiser again, leaning out the side door. I feel my stomach roil, then let out another round of vomit and wash away the taste with brandy. I feel so weak and tempermental that I can barely stomach the strength to look at the cabin. The last thing I need is to go into that house and find three more bodies. I doubt I could take it. I'd probably crack, like one of those cops you hear about on the evening news. A guy who gave up on his wife, his family. A schizophrenic loser.

I look back at the driveway. In this sort of situation, you'd usually find the perp moping about and regretting their lives, too in shock to leave the car. The fact there's no one in the vehicle and no sign of the kids doesn't speak well of the situation. You don't just crush half a dozen bikes then leave your car in neutral with the doors wide open if you don't intend on running; or at the very least, hiding something. 

I'm not certain what I'll find inside the cabin, but I'm half-tempted to start-up the cruiser and drive away. It's only when I see the guilty eye of the moon staring down at me that I feel the weight of responsibility hanging over my head.

If one of those kids is in pain, won't it be just the same thing all over again? I tepidly reach for my gun, straying it into my hand, then weigh the baseplate against my head, knocking it there a few times before easing myself up to make the walk through the garden....