Halloween was approaching. Toby hated all the pomp and circumstance. He hated wearing his police officer outfit because drunken people often thought it was a costume. He hated having to break up rowdy parties and cart teens home and give out warnings. And he hated the things that Halloween reminded him of.

The psychopaths watching from the shadows. The stepsister who made his life hell for years. The skeletons in the closets that turned out to be real.

Most importantly it reminded him of death. The dead body in the train. Watching the body bag roll down that table he knocked Noel into. Or was knocked into by Noel. Details like that elude him but rotting corpses? They're imprinted into his memory. Like his brain is a memory foam mattress they've all decided to have an orgy on. The rotting corpses he remembers. He remembers Bethany's corpse. He was assigned to the case. He saw the files on the autopsy. He saw the pictures. All the pictures. They had to ID that body after it was dug up. It wasn't buried for long but it was already decomposing. Something about the weather being just the right temperature for a swarm of maggots. Do maggots move in swarms? What's a group of maggots called?

A group of bees is called a swarm. A group of maggots? Is that a swarm too? This would be something Spencer knows, Toby noted to himself. Her brain was a repository of information. If his was a mattress, hers was a library... no, a filing center. Information was beamed straight to her brain where it was categorized and broken down into its main components, then filed away safely for future use. Her brain wasn't a library, it was an archive. She was all method, very little madness.

A maggot. That's a larvae. She wouldn't look at 'insects' she would look up 'larvae' or something like that. Insect is too broad a term. A mosquito is an insect. A spider is an insect too... no... wait, a spider is an arachnid. Spencer wouldn't have made that mistake. Toby always admired her for that. He was wise but she was smart. She retained so much information that he worried she'd burn out one day. Run out of space. How many things can one human brain hold?

Of course the question was metaphorical. He'd seen enough crime photos of people who blew their brains out to answer the literal version of that question.

Halloween reminded him of those. Of blood and guts and all the terrible things he sees on the job. The worst stuff he's come across. Bodies in barrels and swamps and chewed up human remains found in their starving pets' mouths. Old ladies who lived alone, and died the same way, found after the smell got so bad their neighbors complained. Neglected geriatrics whose diapers went without changing for seventeen hours or worse. There's the ones that didn't make it. They find them on the floor surrounded by cats and dogs and shit -actual shit- and count their fingers. Then they've gotta x-ray all the damn pets to see which one ate their owner's left thumb, just to make sure it wasn't taken as a prize by some serial killer.

He's seen some terrible things.

He checked the time again before calling in a 10-10. It was an uneventful shift and if he hurried he could swing by home depot before closing time. The paperwork could wait, the decking couldn't. If he didn't finish it soon, the weeds he pulled out would regrow and he'd waste another afternoon yanking them out of the ground. It's amazing how quickly weeds grew in this town. They were probably fertilized by hidden corpses, undiscovered as of yet, until someone tries to install a pool, or put up a gazebo, Toby thought to himself.

He wished Yvonne was still with him. He couldn't tell the difference between Dayflower and Malaysian Mist if his life depended on it. Yvonne had perfect color vision. She kept rubbing that in every chance she got. She lost a game of scrabble? Perfect color vision. She spilled her coffee on the coffee table? Still had perfect color vision. Locked her keys inside the house? At least she still had her perfect color vision. Like that would help her get back in somehow. She knew it was irrelevant but the absurdity of the statement always helped lighten the mood.

She used to be home most days when he got back from work. He was the cook and she was the cleaner, but whenever she finished work before him, she'd either cook or pick up pizza or at least ingredients that they could use to make something impromptu in just a little while. Tapas or curry, with these deep fried flat-breads that made his mouth water. Now all he ate was frozen food. There's no joy in cooking for one.

He bought a stain and a few packs of nails. Also the neighbor's dog got into the garden and he needed some more mulch again so he grabbed that too. It was really close to closing time but as he promised the cashier, he was very quick, running in and out in just around seven minutes. He loaded the mulch and stain into the trunk of his car, and shoved the nails in his pocket before he was off again, steadily making his way back home.

He didn't really consider it a home. Home is where the people you love are, and right now, there was nobody left that he really loved. His relationship with his father soured when he brought Jenna and her mother to live with them. But really they hadn't been close since his mother died. She was the only thing keeping them together and when she went away? They both kind of just drifted apart.

Toby let himself in through the front door. He set the wood stain down by the entrance, along with the mulch. Yvonne had picked this hallway table out. It had this beautiful glass bowl. Toby left his keys in it, along with the packets of nails he just got. He snapped the front door shut and locked it, leaving nothing but the flap open for his cat.

Toby's cat was six years old. A real trooper. She was the only woman in his life right now. Sometimes she'd nestle into his arms while he watched tv or read a book. She had a flair for blocking the most interesting developments with her tail.

Sometimes he'd imagine himself as one of those people who died alone in their house. The smell so horrible they'd need a hazmat suit just to fetch him. How his partner would walk in with a rag across their nose and mouth, and count the number of his fingers. How the cats and maggots would start eating his dead body until it's found. His dad not being able to recognize him. The closed casket of disgust.

He wanted something quick tonight. He grabbed a plate and stacked two slices of bread, mustard, mayo, cheese, ham and salami in a haphazard sandwich, before grabbing a beer and slipping it in his pocket. He popped a gherkin in his mouth as he shut the refrigerator door closed, and poured himself a glass of water before walking through the quiet house back into the living room.

There wasn't really anything on. Wrestlemania...old reruns and shitty B-movies. He checked the news real quick, finding no mention of anyone he knew. He whispered a quick 'thanks' to the powers that be for allowing him to get through another day without seeing any more familiar names in the news. He doesn't have fond memories of the time his old group of friends would dominate the local news cycles.

He popped the tab on his beer can and pushed his shoes off with his feet. He smiled when he stumbled on an old Humphrey Bogart movie, and turned the volume up. His night was finally picking up. He took a sip of his beer with his left hand as he googled the movie on his phone with his right.

"Angels with dirty faces" he read off the small screen. "A priest tries to stop a gangster from corrupting a group of street kids."

Toby really liked Humphrey Bogart. He thought the guy looked like he'd seen it all. Like nothing could surprise him. Especially when he was older. He had this worldly look, and this maturity. Toby really looked up to him. He looked like the epitome of a gumshoe. A real tough guy. But also had this depth. It was his eyes. The rest of him looked tough as nails but they seemed rather gentle.

He was the kind of guy that Toby would imagine he was when he'd close his eyes as he played cops and robbers as a child. An overcoat and a fedora. A pipe even. And a Colt 1903.

Toby idolized the guy.

He shouldn't have been surprised that things ended up the way they did, with him sitting for his police exam and joining the police force.

Toby settled further into his armchair as he took a bite out of his sandwich. The sauce spilled out the back of it, and landed on his plate. He wiped the few drops that remained on the side of the bread with his finger and licked the sauce off before taking a sip of his drink and swallowing the mixture down. The movie had only started a few minutes before Toby got home and he didn't have much trouble catching up with it. He was too distracted by the lights and sounds to notice the fridge being opened and a jug of water being extracted from it.

Something made his food go down the wrong way and as he reached for his beer, he was surprised to find a glass of water sat in front of it. He almost knocked it over in his surprise. But having enough time to react, he reached over and grabbed it before it fell on the floor. Toby shook his head before gulping down the water, finally freeing the piece of bread that was jammed in his throat.

He remembered pouring himself some water, but he was sure he left it by the sink. He had a plate in one hand and a pickle in the other, so how did this cup of water end up over here? Did he forget it there last night? He couldn't have, he ate out yesterday, and besides, this water was still cool.

As he ruminated on the drink, the room suddenly seemed to grow darker and quieter. He looked up to see that the tv had been switched off. Confused, he reached around his seat for the remote but it was nowhere to be found. He figured maybe he dropped it while he was choking, so he got up to look around, turning a nearby lamp all the way up, but sure enough, the remote was nowhere to be seen.

He rubbed his eyes. Clearly, his fatigue had gotten the better of him. He decided to skip the movie and go to sleep. He scarfed down half his sandwich, then guzzled down his beer. He grabbed the other half of the sandwich with one hand as he balanced his glass and his beer on the plate with the other, and made his way back to the kitchen where he polished off the rest of his food in a couple of bites before chucking his beer in the recycling bin, and dumping his tableware in the sink, rinsing it out a bit before shaking the water off his hands and starting for his room.

He hung his jacket by the door, and his keys on the little hook he'd installed just for them. He rarely looked through his mail, and today was no exception. He'd simply dumped it all on the entryway table that morning, and apart from a coupon for donuts, nothing stuck out to him so he'd let it lie there. He usually went through it after work, but he couldn't muster up the energy so he just emptied his pockets into the bowl on the table before shuffling up the stairs.

The carpet felt soft under his socked feet. Soft and warm. It reminded him of home. How he used to tip toe around in the mornings to make his mom tea. Happy memories of a life that felt so foreign to him. He shuffled upstairs, groaning and rubbing his eyes as the drink started to wear on him. He wasn't what you'd call a lightweight, but he'd had a very long day.

He undid the buttons on his shirt as he let himself into his room. He left it hanging, open, as he started undoing his pants. He welcomed the cool wind on his thighs after a long constricting day, as he entered his ensuite, throwing pants and shirt alike into the hamper in the corner before reaching for his toothbrush.

He brushed for ten... maybe fifteen seconds. His night routine took but a minute or two, his pajamas consisting of a pair of old sweatpants and his undershirt or the old college jersey. When he'd slept alone he'd usually end up wearing a few more layers. When women shared his bed, they had a tendency to steal his favorite tops. He supposed getting to wear them again was one of the upsides of being alone.

He nestled into the crook of his arm and shut his eyes as he let the scent of clean linen fill his senses. He always loved this scent the best. It reminded him of family picnics, laying a great big tablecloth down with his mom and dad, either by the sea or at a park, and running through the sheets his mother hung to dry in the backyard on a hot summer's day, feeling the cool fabric against his skin. Memories of his dad reading him stories and his mom tucking him in and giving him a kiss goodnight. Clean sheets would bring him memories and sometimes hope.

He spent a lot of his free time fishing and crafting things out of wood, and when your hands are busy like that, but your mind is not, it tends to wander. His would wander down the line to when he'd have a house of his own, and a family to share it with. He would have a small dog, and a cat, that would compete for space on his lap. He would have a cabin in the woods they'd vacation to, and a little rugrat to tell stories to and fish with. He'd smile in the middle of whittling or carving a chunk of wood, or while he sat by the pier, waiting for the fish to bite and he would think about the family he wished he'd one day have.

He thought about getting a dog to keep him company but didn't think it fair for the poor thing. He worked long hours and was hardly ever home. A dog would go mad sitting around on its own like that all day, all alone, waiting for someone to walk through the door and end its misery. And while it might be better than sitting around in a shelter, hoping to be adopted, he was just not ready to add another thing to his life that he could lose. Another thing he'd mourn, like his wife, and his mother before her.

He sighed and turned on his side. Sleep was harder to come by these days. He'd toss and turn and flip the pillow to get to the cold side, then flip it again when it warmed up. He'd take off his top, throw the blanket on the floor, and then a chill would cause him to backtrack and drape it over himself again. He would screw his eyes shut and grunt and he would toss and turn again, trying to find some sense of peace.

He flipped the pillow twice before the room became unbearably hot that night. He was about to rip the blanket off of himself and chuck it on the floor when he decided to instead crack open the window. It hadn't been that warm outside, had it? Surely the odd breeze would flow in and grant him some relief. A zephyr would be a godsend right now so he stalked over to the window, rubbing his eyes, and flicked the sash lock open. He grabbed the bottom rail with both hands and lifted it with momentum, managing to get it a quarter of the way up before it snagged. He'd been meaning to fix this window for months now, but could never just find the time.

He figured this was adequate, as he craned his head level with the opening, and felt the night breeze caress his cheeks. He didn't ask for much, just that the weather would hold long enough for him to fall asleep. He sighed before making his way back to his bed.

The sheets felt colder now. Far colder than he anticipated. He'd barely lifted the window two seconds ago. The room itself didn't really change much, but his sheets felt like they'd been sitting in the freezer. He thought about shutting the window but figured he'd eventually warm his bed up. He shut his eyes and snuggled into his pillow. But the bed didn't warm. The room didn't warm either.

A few moments later he started to shiver. He rest his arms over the blanket and to his dismay realized that the coolness wasn't coming from the blanket, but rather, the atmosphere. His room had cooled so much in a few short moments that he was practically shivering. He cast the covers aside and started for the window again when he thought he heard a laugh.

"Who's there?" He called out as he switched the lights on, jumping out of bed and reaching for the gun he kept in the nightstand.

He cocked the gun as he began to search the room. A cursory glance showed nothing out of the ordinary, and even searching his bathroom and wardrobe didn't reveal any hints so he figured the noise must have come from outside. He lowered his gun as he set out to close the window when a sharp gust of wind burst through, knocking the lamp off his bedside table, and shorting the lights.

"Fuck." he cried, jumping at the noise.

The lamp itself was fine but the globe had shattered into a million pieces. He tried switching the main lights on but there was no response, and even when he tried the hallway lights he got nothing, so Toby slipped on a pair of slides and made his way down to check the fuse-box in the basement.

The lower floor was silent and dark, and he could barely make heads or tails of it. He grabbed his phone off the charger and used it as a torch but it was barely shinning through, Toby forgetting it had a torch mode and only using the back-light of the phone's touch screen as an impromptu light. He had actual torches but they were all in the basement. He figured it'd be quicker to just go for the fuses and hope for the best, so instead of looking around the middle floor, he turned and headed straight for the basement.

It was colder down there. So cold he wished he'd brought a jacket with him to keep him warm. He considered doubling back to prepare but convinced himself not to cow out and just get the job done. He approached the fuse box, walking gingerly across the concrete floor, and felt around for the opening on the side of the box. Casting it open, he used the phone-light to check the fuses and to his surprise he'd found that they were all intact.

That wasn't possible, he thought, as he began switching them all off and on again. There must have been some sort of mistake, he told himself as he felt each switch, flipping it from side to side until he got a response.

It took a while, but after the first two or three, suddenly the dinky lights in the basement came on.

Toby sighed, wiping at his forehead. This night was starting to wear him down. He finished flipping the switches before shutting the box and switching his phone off. He started turning towards the basement door when all of a sudden he felt another gust of wind and the lights went off.