Chapter One
The house was quiet and pitched black. The sound of thunder shook the floor slightly, and the wind was wild enough to make the trees sway and the branches creak. It was the night of September 5th, 1968, in the state of Maine. One would believe everyone in the house would be fast asleep since it was midnight. However, they were wrong.
A young boy, just seven years old, was up in his room, hiding underneath the security of his covers. He peeked out with one eye, his hands holding onto the tip of the blanket. Every time a crackle of thunder occurred; the boy quickly hid back beneath the sheet.
His name was Michael Wagner, but he usually was called ’Mikey for short by his parents, friends, and peers. Michael hated thunderstorms; they frightened him. He stared at his closet door with wide eyes as the lightning flashed outside his window. The boy always felt that something terrible would happen whenever a stormy night came along.
Through the sounds of the pouring rain, Michael focused on the faint noises of the grandfather clock located downstairs, next to the staircase. He tried to align his breathing with the ticks, and it slowly began to calm him down. Letting out a long sigh, he closed his eyes.
He usually had to comfort himself, you see. His parents were strict, and even at this age, they expected him to act like he was much older. When he watched the television, Michael saw children his age being picked up and given hugs by their parents to reassure them that everything would be alright. It was never the case with poor Michael Wagner. Perhaps that was only make-believe. A worthless fantasy that he imagined was true but wasn’t.
After moments of trying to fall asleep, the sound of glass crashing to the ground stopped the process of doing so. Michael flinched and looked over at the door, but he didn’t move. Perhaps something had slipped and fallen from downstairs after being placed in an awkward position. Nothing to be worried about; it was normal.
A scream followed the noise of the crash moments after.
That wasn’t just a coincidence. Something was going on.
Michael shot up in bed at once and grabbed his glasses from his nightstand. Trying to put them on the bridge of his nose as he pulled himself out of bed, he made his way toward his bedroom door and put one ear against it, listening. The noises indeed came from downstairs, correct?
The sound of objects crashing to the ground came again.
“You bitch!” a male’s voice roared after the sounds.
No, it wasn’t his father; it didn’t sound like him. From Michael’s knowledge, his parents were staying up late to celebrate their 10th anniversary. Why would they fight on such an important date?
The sound of a strange man calling his mother a “bitch”—she was the only woman in the house—and the sounds of objects crashing and shattering onto the floor—it wasn’t right.
Michael knew one rule his parents taught him in this kind of situation: If you hear something alarming or threatening, run away and call the police. But, of course, he never needed to do that until now. However, at this moment, it was as if his brain was like a gear jammed up by a stick. So instead of running away, he did the very thing his parents would not want him to do in this position.
Moving his ear away from the door, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned it quickly before making his way speedily but silently down the hallway.
All at once, the noises stopped. The screaming, the shattering, and the voice. After a few moments, the house was silent once more. Nothing was heard besides the sounds of Michael’s breathing, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the pouring rain from outside. The wind was nothing but a soft breeze now. Michael took a moment to gather his thoughts.
What, in the name of God, happened? Was this just a false alarm, or was the television volume turned up all the way?
Michael put one hand on the rail of the hallway and walked down the rest of the way, his hand sliding across the smooth wood. The floor creaked with each step he took. Going down the stairs, he was careful not to top, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he paused. A soft glow came from the kitchen, which lit up the Roman numerals on the face of the grandfather clock. On the clock, Michael saw that the hour hand was pointed slightly past XII, and the minute hand was pointed at V. It was a quarter past midnight.
Turning his back away from the face of the clock, Michael decided to make his way into the kitchen, where the light was coming from. He felt his heart in his throat, and his hands began to tremble. As he entered the room, he saw the light coming from the chandelier above the table. Surely his parents would refrain from keeping bright lights on at this time of night?
The boy was at the kitchen table now. The glass from the counter was all over the ground, and scratches marked the edges of the sides near the head of the table. Two chairs were turned around, facing each other, and it looked like two people were bound to the chairs by rope, their hands tied back around the chairs. Michael slowly approached the first person of the two to see who it was.
When he got in front of the person, he let out a choked cry.
It was his mother.
All bloodied, eyes rolled up in shock, her long, beautiful hair now a mess, the neck of her nightgown ripped, and several cuts left oozing out pus and blood. Her mouth was left with her jaw hanging like someone had broken it.
His mother.
Michael had heard screaming from downstairs earlier; the person could have shut her up that way. However, that couldn’t have been what killed her.
He slowly lowered his eyes to his mother’s neck. A thin, extended cut, cutting the skin of the neck open. A cut from a knife. The blade went through the vocal cords and several veins. Coming out of the cut was maroon-colored goop that flowed all over her white, flowered nightgown.
This was his mother.
Next to her was another person. Turning his head slowly, Michael was not able to say a single word as he had a strong morbid feeling of who it was. It was like his throat had become frozen.
It was his father.
Only this time, instead of a broken jaw and a cut to the throat, his father’s head was hanging and touching his chest, all twisted up. His eyes were closed, and his neck was a combination of the dark colors of black and blue, like it had been grabbed and twisted until the neck gave up and snapped underneath his parents.
Both of his parents were dead.
Dead?
Not only dead, but they were also murdered.
Michael stood between the freshly mutilated corpses of his parents, slowly shaking his head in utter disbelief. Instead of crying, he just stared. His throat was in his mouth, and he could not talk. He knew that the only thing he could do now was call the police.
Looking around for the telephone, he remembered it was on the wall behind the living room couch, right next to the kitchen. Backing away from his parents, he turned to the doorway across the stairs and went in. The telephone was on the wall to the left of him, so he grabbed it, put the receiver up to his ear, and dialed 911 on the rotary dial.
However, before he finished dialing the number, he heard the loud, blaring sound of sirens from outside his house. Someone must have called after hearing the commotion from inside. He heard the sudden knock on the door, and Michael knew it was the police. Running out of the living room and to the front door, he unlocked it. Several police officers barged into his home with flashlights that almost blinded Michael. One turned to Michael and crouched to his level.
“Hey, kid,” the officer said softly, making eye contact with Michael. “I’m Officer Williams, your neighbor heard some noises from next door and called us to make sure everything was alright. Where are your parents so I can speak to them?”
The boy tensed up by the officer’s question, his heartbeat gradually becoming louder with each second. His lips quivered, and he looked down at his feet. “I...I...I’m...”
He could barely make out a sound when he spoke, his voice croaked when he attempted to say anything. Along with the inability to speak, he barely could process what happened altogether. It was like a whole fever dream to him; nothing was real, nor felt real.
Officer Williams noticed Michael’s growing shock and his expression softened even more. Turning slightly to the other officers behind him, he barked orders for them to search the house before turning back to Michael. “Can you show me where they are?”
Letting out a slow, shaky breath, he was able to nod and gestured to take the officer’s hand. The officer allowed him to take it, hesitant to interrupt what the boy was showing him, and Michael guided the man to the kitchen, and froze in place to point at the mortifying sight.
Williams followed where Michael was pointing with his eyes, and as soon as he laid eyes on the two figures, his breath hitched, and his eyes widened. He wanted to turn away and vomit at the sight of the bodies of the boy’s parents, but that would make the boy feel even worse. So instead, he just stood there, his mouth slightly agape and his stomach churning, and raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
He pressed the button before speaking, his voice wavering.
“Johnson, Randy, come to the kitchen, immediately. Over.”
It was only a few moments before the two officers went over to the kitchen, and Williams nodded to one of the officers, gesturing to Michael. The policeman took the boy gently by the shoulders and steered him away from the sight of the kitchen, Williams, and the other officer that stayed with him. All that Michael could do was walk along with him; he was like a rag doll at the moment. While they walked to the door, the officer holding onto him spoke.
“I’m going to escort you to one of the cars, okay? We’re going to get you somewhere safe while Officer Williams and the rest of his team handle the situation.”
The officer smiled softly, but Michael knew the smile was out of pity for him. Bending down just like Williams did previously, he continued speaking: “I’m Randy, or Officer Randy. I’ll be taking care of you until then.”
Standing back up, Officer Randy held his hand out for Michael to take it, and after a moment of hesitation, the boy did. Nodding quietly to himself, Randy opened the front door and led the boy outside.
Several cars were parked on the side of the lawn to his house. An ambulance with its lights still flashing red and blue was pulling up. Randy led Michael to the second parked police car and grabbed the key on his belt. Looking through the keys, he found the one that opened his car and put the key through the keyhole on the driver’s car door handle. Turning the key, he opened the door and reached inside the car to unlock it. Guiding Michael to the other side, he opened the door to the other front seat.
“I don’t have a car seat, and I’d doubt you’d want to sit in the back where it’s dark, so I’ll have you sit in the front just this once.”
Michael nodded. His parents could have never allowed him to sit in the front, but they said they would allow him to once he became a “big kid”. Perhaps this one night, he was.
The officer helped him into the seat and put the seat belt over his shoulder, locking it in place. The seat was big, and Michael barely was able to see over the dashboard. Randy closed the door on the boy’s side and went around the front of the car to sit in the driver’s seat. After closing the door, he sat for a moment to look over at the boy.
Michael was clearly shivering. The kind man took off his coat and put it on top of Michael so that it covered his legs and torso. Buckling himself in, he put the key into the ignition and turned it. After the car started, he turned the wheel, pressed the gas pedal, and pulled the car onto the road, driving slowly away from the house.
“What’s your name, kid?” The officer prompted after several moments of silence between the two of them. He looked through the rearview mirror, tilting it slightly down to get a better view of Michael.
The boy took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. He looked away from the window to see the officer’s eyes through the mirror. “Michael. W-Wagner.”
Silence.
“...ah,” the officer murmured. “You’re six? Seven?”
“Seven’s right, sir.”
Smiling sadly, Randy nodded. “Well, Michael, we’re going to the police station for now. I’m going to see where you can stay for now while we figure out what to do. You’re a brave kid, braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”
