I left the dock that day. I'd like to say that that was the end of the story but it really had not begun. I knew the where, and knew the what, but the how eluded me still. I counted the steps to the local sheriff's office: 256 in all. The lake breeze kept pushing me from behind, guiding my steps until I closed the door to the small outfit. I sat next to a man passed out, a slight bit of drool a quarter inch long pooling on his shoulder.
The man smelled like balogna. It brought me near to wretching, but I couldn't afford that. By the look of the small office, there was no wash room in sight. He began to mumble in his unconciousness. "...Emna...babul... toomeno."
I smiled in spite of my environment.
A fan and heater were going on in the same office. A portly man hunched over some files, while occasionally adjusting the antenna on his small black and white television, glanced up at me, once. The orange of his light-weight jacket screamed at me, between its fold. I began to get angry with him and I didn't know why. I cleared my throat.
"You said you are here to report a missing person?" He gruffed.
"Yes. I want to report myself."
"Yes. I don't know who I am, and for some reason, I think I'm from here, from Cabin 43 up at Dietz Lake."
He looked at me under furrowed brow. He closed the file he had been glancing over and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked three times during the minute and a half he stared at me.
"Is this a joke?"
"Are you one of them..."
"No, I've not seen a ghost."
"No, but I suppose I am."
"What do you mean?"
"Ma'am, everyone in that cabin died four years ago."
"Everyone?!" I thought there had just been one.
"Everyone." He turned around and picked up the phone. "Ma'am, I'm going to ask you to wait right here."