"Steinhart, what do you see on the board? Am I missing something? Steinhart?"<br/><br/>Lt. Redgrave pointed to the evidence board as she looked for her partner. "Steinhart?" she called again. He wasn't there, and neither was she. Although her current location was that of a police station, it was not the Bangor police department. Small in comparison to her place of employment, Alex, for currently unknown reasons, found herself in something out of a nightmare – a darkened police station made of pale, yellow paint-chipped walls, moldy old wooden desks, overturned trashcans, checker-board flooring, and lingering dampness.<br/><br/>The Lieutenant refocused on the evidence board. Gone were the photos of possible murder suspects and tidbits of clues. Instead, she found old, salted prints and Daguerreotypes taped to the wall. Although the people seemed familiar, Alex could not place a single person in any portrait.<br/><br/>"Seriously, what's the gag, guys?"<br/><br/>No answer came from the five vacant desks, and the Lieutenant started to panic. "The 'shrooms from evidence. You guys put them in my coffee. Ha Ha, very funny. I'll shake it off and –" The only coffee cups in the room were either covered in mildew or shattered on the floor. Alex closed her eyes and pinched herself hard. When she opened her eyes again, there was no change. She was still in that little, dingy police station with no recollection of how she arrived there.<br/><br/>Frightened, Alex knew adding some light would help matter, so she clicked the switch on the wall. Nothing happened. She tried another button, then another. None of the lights in the station worked. The only light at all came from the outside. A quick peek out the window told the Lieutenant that the street lights provided the illumination.<br/><br/>Briefly, Lt. Redgrave thought to investigate her surroundings, but as she doubted her sanity, the detective bolted to the exit. The door flew open. She ran down the steps. Fog. The fog was nearly all Alex could see at the moment. That explained the dampness. A quaint but shambled main street came into view as the haze began to lift.<br/><br/><i>What kind of fucked up Stephen King shit is this?</i>Alex asked herself. Where was she? What was that sound or that smell?<br/><br/>At that moment, Alex's only thought was to get home. She had an apartment in Bangor, somewhere. Had she moved? That didn't matter. Alex had to go home. Once on the road, she would remember, so the woman scouted for her car. But, like her apartment, she couldn't recall the make or model of her car. That didn't matter. She could steal one. Quickly, the Lieutenant smashed the window of an old Plymouth. Or was it a Buick? Once inside the vehicle, Redgrave looked for a set of keys or a screwdriver to hotwire the automobile. Nothing. Leaving the car door open, Alex ran to the next one. Again, no keys and no screwdriver. There would be a screwdriver in the police station. She ran back to the steps, but it was gone. Had she gotten turned around in the fog?<br/><br/>Alex ran to the door. She was outside a church or a cathedral or something. She ran to the door. Through a stained-glass window, a dim light illuminated the pews. Was there someone in there?<br/><br/>"Hey! Open up!" Alex cried and banged loudly on the door.