It began when a garden gnome was flung into the window of the home of the Hazelbrooks family. At the time the gnome - an small, smiling ceramic creature, its cheery colours tested and drained by the elements - was projectiled into the Hazelbrooks' living room, it was past midnight and the Hazelbrooks who had been sleeping, were rudely awoken by the shriek and shatter of glass and painted terracotta. One Hazelbrook semi-consciously lifted his head but sleep warred and conquered and he plopped back comfortably onto his pillow. Another Hazelbrook blinked away her fatigue, in the still calm darkness but she too was overcome by her weariness and settled back into bed with a thumb in her mouth. One Hazelbrook startled from her dream and back into dark consciousness, laid on the bed silently. She wondering confusedly if she had just dreamt of something shattering. It seemed plausible. Another Hazelbrook, under the frightening conclusion that their household was most indefinitely being held under seige by robbers or local teenage hooligans, shook her husband wide awake. The husband in turn, after an exchange of protests back and forth, reluctantly reached for his bathrobe and then, was compelled by his wife to reach for the croquet bat stashed under their bed. One by one, they joined each other in the living room. "What in the bleeding blazes..?" demanded Mr. Hazelbrook, croquet bat in hand. Mrs. Hazelbrook simply gasped in horror at the state of her living room. Sharp-edged pieces of window and garden gnome seemed to be scattered everywhere. A dark stain had bloomed on the carpet and several slightly wilted flowers were strewn in disarray amongst glittering shards of glass. It seemed that on its journey into the Hazelbrooks' living room, the garden gnome had toppled a vase in its path. Kit Hazelbrook sleepily climbed downstairs. She stared at the mess in the living room. "What happened?" she simply asked. "Kit, don't come any closer," warned her mother. "There's glass about." "I can see that," replied Kit. On the tips of her toes, she carefully threaded across the edge of the living room, surveying the wreckage. It was loud and brash enough to slightly jolt her an inch further, out of her dream like state. Viewing it from a different angle, if anything, did not diminish the poignant shock of discovering a garden ornament in her home. It only served to further amplify the gravity of the situation. Kit whistled. Her father carefully stepped around the glass and picked up the garden gnome which had lost a leg. Unaware of its grim fate though, it resumed smiling at him jollier than ever. His arm was even raised by lieu of greeting. "Looks like it's one of Mrs. Carmichael's gnomes, from across the street," he said. He continued to inspect the gnome. Kit whistled again. "Poor Mrs. Carmichael," she said. "She loves those gnomes." Somewhere upstairs, she heard an audible thud as if somebody had fallen out of his bed and she turned questioningly just as her brother Thomas padded barefoot down the steps. He wore an annoyed expression, his eyes half-closed, his hair half-matted and daring to defy the physical laws of gravity more so than usual. "Wha's going on?" he mumbled. He scratched all over. Then he noticed the broken window. "Phwoar," he breathed, and his eyes widened. "Somebody threw Mrs. Carmichael's gnome into our living room," informed Kit. Glancing at Thomas, her eyebrows knitted together as she frowned at her brother. "Who did you set off this time?" "Right, what did you do this time Thomas?" asked his father. Everybody turned to look at Thomas, who upon being rapidly weighed upon by their suspicious stares, folded his arms and stuck his chin out, an engineering of his normal defence mechanism and only what years of teenage rebelling against the masses could perfect upon and bring about. For his part though, he still remained perfectly calm. "You think I did this?" "Or incurred someone's wrath to compel them enough to steal our neighbour's garden gnomes and throw them into our house," said his mother helpfully. "It would help to remember. Somebody needs to pay for that vase. It's an antique. It belonged to your great-great grandmother. She loved that vase so dearly." "Forget the vase, the window's broken," grumbled his father. Thomas hesistated and then looked thoughtful. "I didn't do anything to anyone," he admitted and then Kit heard him mutter under his breath, "Lately." Another thought occured to Kit. "What if somebody tried to break into our house?" She wondered out loud. The room paused. A third thought, worse than the previous thought struck her and she voiced it out less willingly: "What if, you know, they're still here?" The whole room appeared to pause, as if considering Kit's questions in slow horror, considering the implications of a break-in, the now very, very real that at this very moment, there was somebody in this house, possibly drunk and even more possibly armed with a kitchen knife or an axe. There was that very, very real possibility that each and every one of them was in danger. "I'll check the basement," her father said, brandishing his croquet bat, which, up till that very moment, had been dangling quite uselessly from his hand. "I'll see if the back door's locked," her mother volunteered, her face a pale sheen of grey, as if she had just finished forcing a ripe, unwashed sock down her windpipe. "I'll look upstairs," offered Thomas. "Oh God!" cried Kit, as another nasty revelation struck her and she wished that she could stop conjuring up such realistic, horrible thoughts that could or could not be true. "Greenie's upstairs!" "I'm right here," said a small, curious voice behind them and they turned. A ten year old girl in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes, stood at the landing and the room let out a collective gasp of relief. "Well good morning," said Thomas sarcastically, although his face had softened at the sight of his younger sister. "You're up early, aren't you, Greens?" "I heard a crash," said Greenie. "What's going on?" "Somebody broke in," Thomas filled her in. He gestured at the living room. "Come over here." "No, don't - Thomas!" said their mother. "There's glass all over. She could cut herself." Greenie looked and she gasped. "They broke the window!" There was a hole in the window, a reasonable sized gap where the gnome had hurtled through. A breeze drifted through the whole and the Hazelbrooks now stood, hugging themselves in their thin robes and nightwear. Silver cracks spiderwebbed around the hole. "They broke mum's favourite vase too," added Thomas and Greenie gasped. "Not mum's favourite vase." "Your great-great grandmother gave me that vase before she died," said their mother sadly. "It's an antique too." "Was now." their father corrected. "Have we forgotten," said Kit aloud. "About our potential axe murderer?" "There's an axe murderer in our house?" echoed Greenie, her eyes shining. "Yep, Greens. He's probably waiting for you in your room right now," said Thomas. "Don't!" Greenie stuck her thumb into her mouth and reached for her mother who warned her older son, "Thomas, don't." They checked each and every room in the house, with a sort of nervousness coupled with the excitement like they were in a movie. It did not help that Thomas contributed to a horror-themed soundtrack as they slowly inspected the house. Upon assuring that their home was free of drunk hooligans and axe murderers, they returned to the living room. "What are we going to do about the window?" asked Greenie. They decided that the window was best covered up where it would then be fixed in the morning. Mr. Hazelbrook was proud of the fact that they were properly covered. They looked at the mess on the floor. Glass and broken gnome covered much of the floor. Flowers were strewn about the carpet which was wet from the vase which had been broken, and which had been Mrs. Hazelbrook's favourite. "I'll get the broom then, shall I?" suggested Mr. Hazelbrook and he disappeared into the kitchen. Thomas too disappeared, but he disappeared up the stairs, the slam of the door serving as confirmation that he had gone back to sleep. "It was my great-grandmum's," said Mrs. Hazelbrook sadly with a grim shake of her head. "Mum, can I have some coco pops?" asked Greenie. "Greenie, love, it's not morning yet. Go back to bed." said her mother soothingly. Her husband returned with a broom and a dustpan and he started sweeping the glass into the dustpan. "I know that," said Greenie, looking at her mother strangely. "I still want some coco pops." Kit looked at the broken gnome. "What about Mrs. Carmichael?" "Hmm?" said her mother. To Greenie, she said, "It's too late for coco pops, Greenie. They'll give you a tummy ache, if you're not careful." "No I won't. I'm hungry," protested Greenie. Kit carefully picked up the garden gnome, the larger part of the gnome. "Aren't you hungry for anything else?" sighed her mom, bordering on impatience. "No," insisted Greenie. "Just coco pops." "Careful there, Kit, girl." said her father. "It's sharp." "I can see that," said Kit. "What happens to the gnome?" "Well," started her father and he paused and he frowned. "I suppose I could fix it." "And Mrs. Carmichael?" "She can get it back," answered her father. "Or we could get her a new one." "She'll be devasted if she can't get her old one back," said Kit. "I'll never understand that woman," her father said, shaking his head. "It's a safety violation you know, keeping all those gnomes. It's not healthy. Look what happened to our window." "She doesn't have any children," said Kit carefully, of Mrs. Carmichael. She knew this because Mrs. Carmichael told her so. "Still," said her father. "I'll never understand what goes on in that old bird's brain. Keeping that many gnomes. Mind, if I ever start going off like that, be sure to lock me up will you, Kit?" "I'll make a note of it," said a bemused Kit. Then she thought of something and she added. "Should we give her something?" "What for?" asked her mother from the kitchen. Kit could hear the rustle of the cereal packet and the cluttered clinks of dry cereal hitting the bowl. "I think an apology should suffice." "It would be nice," mused Kit. "It would be neighbourly." "Giving back her garden gnome would be neighbourly too," siad her father and he gently pried the broken gnome from her hand. "Tell you what, I'll try and get this fixed and if it'll make you happy, you get to bring it to Mrs. Carmichael, alright?" "Okay," said Kit and she said nothing else. The gnome just smiled blankly. *** Mrs. Carmichael did not own many garden gnomes. That would've been a curtly made understatement. It was more likely that she was a host to a country of German garden gnomes.