The year I graduated from the academy, for instance, was a long, shit-pile of a year. I became a cop, then lost my family and nearly my mind. In the space of twelve months, my mother and younger sister were killed by a drunk driver and my father, Ben McDonald, went berserk and cut the driver’s throat outside the courtroom. As usual, I couldn’t do a damn thing about it because I was so loaded on smack.

My father was charged and he responded by hanging himself the night before his hearing. I discovered the body. I’ll never forget the image of his corpse swinging back and forth, the sound of the rope creaking against the rafter beam, rhythmic and maddening.

All my life I tried my damnedest to be normal. I ignored the dark fringes of the world that crept toward me and if something got too close, I stomped it dead and turned my back like nothing had ever happened. Monsters? Nope, didn’t see them. Werewolves, aliens, demons, and freaks? Just keep on walking. Don’t look.

The police academy was an attempt at normal existence, but even there I should have known it would be impossible. I could never hide or live a normal life. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to land right in the middle of Freak Central.

The academy was no exception.

It turned out that the place was built on a goddamn burial ground. Of course, the dead decided to have their revenge the week I arrived. It was a bloodbath of possession, sacrifice, and the living dead. I don’t mean living dead like Mo’Lock, soulless ghouls who can function and think; these sons-a-bitches were mindless, kill-crazy zombies.

The place turned upside down. Everyone panicked except me. The one benefit of my life is that I’m never surprised. I’ve had the crap scared out of me a few times, but I never panic. That day, I fought my way through the relentless invasion until I reached the little room used as the parish. I convinced the priest, who I found hiding in his confessional, to follow me to the basement where I told him to bless the water main. It took some convincing, and a slap or two, but eventually he agreed.

It was in the bag. I manned one of those riot control hoses and hosed the place down with a half million gallons of high-octane Holy Water. The dead and possessed withered and melted, screamed, and let loose the innocent. In the end, only a few dozen were dead and nobody except me and the priest knew what happened. Well, at least that was the official stand. The academy closed and moved to a new location a year later. Chickenshits.

Still, I refused to give in, to acknowledge the supernatural regions of life. To hide, I took more and more drugs, more and more drink, anything to blur my vision or dull my senses. It was a miracle I lived, let alone graduated. But I did, and everything was going great for awhile. I even made the effort and kicked drugs. It was hard, very hard, and not just because of my physical and emotional addictions. The more I stayed sober, the more horror I saw: strange things peering around corners, voices whispering in my ear in the dark. But I had to make an effort, had to make some sort of a stand against the darkness that threatened to overtake me.