ONE

On this cold, windy night, leaves swirled as Rob Harper returned to his cottage after an art show. He often attended these events once or twice a week, depending on his artistic projects, and tonight he was free to set his work aside.

His cottage was tucked away in the dense forest of Flagstaff, Arizona. A two-story lodge built by his father with his own hands. They relocated there permanently after Rob turned eighteen, and later it became a summer retreat for his family. A spot for his mother and family.

Sadly, his mother died three years ago. Now, the cottage was owned by him, his wife, and their two boys. It served as their refuge from the summer heat each June through August.

There was a pond beyond the backyard where the boys spent most of their time. The small cove where he and Charlene, his wife, would watch the boys play had been demolished after his mother's passing. They moved to a newly built patio to watch the boys. The town had a gas station and grocery store ten miles to the east. It was truly a home away from home for his family during the summer, but for Rob, it was a haunting he could not escape.

He shut the door of his four-door Rodeo, stepping over small pebbles on his driveway toward the garage of his cottage. Inside, his baby-blue ’55 Chevy Bel Air gleamed amid scattered tools. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with forgotten items. Two bicycles sat beside the old Chevy. Two pairs of shoes sat by the door.

He scoffed. “Damn, you kids. How many times do I have to tell you?”

He stepped inside and flipped the light switch, but nothing happened…Squish, squish, squish under his feet, standing in a puddle of thick liquid.

A rotten odor burned his nostrils, and a dog whimpered. He hurried around the island. Jonny, his black poodle, splayed over a puddle of blood, a kitchen knife stuck in his stomach.

“You’ll be okay, boy,” he bent down and offered his fingers to smell.

Jonny growled, showing razor-sharp teeth.

“Calm down, dude. What happened, boy?”

The dog whimpered, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Rob looked away and closed his dog's eyelids and then collapsed against the island beside his best friend, whimpering.

A tumbling thud echoed in the living room.

He darted towards the crying, the staircase.

“Charlene?” He called out.

A gentle whine echoed through the cottage. At first, he thought it was him, but he took a deep breath and heard the whining again, positive it wasn’t from him.

Charlene’s body lay at the bottom of the stairs. Her blue jean shorts and a baby blue blouse were soaked in blood over a straight razor lodged between her breasts. Blood oozed onto her blouse, turning purple. Her dead eyes stared into nothing.

He bent down and caressed his lips to her forehead.

“Where are the kids?” he whispered over a sobbing cry, but she was dead.

“I love you,” he whispered, and climbed the stairs to check on his boys.

In the boys' shared bedroom, the moon shone a white glow through the window, showing the boys. Jeffrey, on the left, lay motionless, a blood-soaked sheet covering his body. Brian, in his underwear, lay against the wall beside his bed, a butcher knife stuck in his forehead, dried blood layered over his face. Bruises covered his body like chickenpox.

Rob burst into tears and collapsed to his knees before his son. “What happened, what happened, what happened?”

The room spun like a drunken haze. His stomach churned, nauseous, an anxiety only trauma could bring—

“Overpass,” a voice whispered in his head before the darkness came.