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. It was around midnight—one would believe everyone in the house would be fast asleep. However, they were wrong. A young boy, around seven years old, was up in his room. Hiding underneath the safety of his covers, he peeked out with one eye, and his hands held onto the tips of the blanket. Every time a crackle of thunder happened, the boy quickly hid back underneath it.

His name was Michael, but he was usually called 'Mikey' for short by his parents, friends, and peers. Michael hated thunderstorms; they frightened him. He stared at his closet door in front of him with wide eyes as the lightning flashed outside his window. The boy always felt something terrible would happen whenever a stormy day came.

Through the sounds of the pouring rain, Michael focused on the faint noises of the grandfather clock located downstairs, next to the staircase. He started to align his breathing with the ticks, and it slowly started 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 Michael watched the television, he saw kids his age getting picked up and hugged by their parents to assure them that it was okay. 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. A scream followed it. 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 towards his bedroom door and put his ear against it. The sounds indeed came from downstairs, right?

The noise of things shattering to the ground came again.

"You bitch!" a male's voice roared after the sounds.

Michael knew one rule his parents taught him: 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.

Then, all at once, the noises all stopped. The screaming, the shattering, and the voice. After a few moments, the house was silent once more. Nothing was heard but 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 just always that loud?

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 made. Going down the stairs, he was careful not to trip, placing one foot carefully in front of another. 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. He felt his heart in his throat, and his hands started to tremble. As he entered the room, he saw the light coming from the chandelier above the table. Surely no one was awake to turn that on?

The boy was at the kitchen table now. The glass from the counters 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 chair. Michael slowly approached the first person to see who it was. When he got in front of the person, he let out a short cry.

It was his mother.

All bloodied, eyes rolled up in shock, her hair 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 her jaw. 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.

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Michael slowly lowered his eyes to what was on his mother's neck. A thin, extended cut. A knife. The amount went through the vocal cords and several veins. Coming out of the cut was maroon-colored blood that flowed all over her white flowered nightgown.

Next to his mother was another person. Turning his head slowly, Michael was not able to say a word. It was like his throat had become frozen. It was his dad. Only this time, instead of a broken jaw and a cut to the throat, his father's head was hanging, all twisted. His eyes were closed, and his neck was red like it had been grabbed and twisted until the neck gave up and snapped underneath the pressure.

Both of his parents were dead.

Michael stood between his parents, slowly shaking his head. Instead of crying, he just stared in shock. His throat was in his mouth, and he couldn't talk. He knew 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 next to the kitchen. Backing away from the bodies of his dead 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 of sirens from outside his house. Someone must have called after hearing the screams. 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 house with their flashlights. One turned to Michael and crouched to his level.

"Hey, kid," the officer said softly. "I'm Officer Williams, and I'm here to help you. Is there anyone else living in this house?"

Michael sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his pajamas. "No, sir," he croaked. He found it hard to process everything, but he tried his best. "Just me n' my momma and papa."

"Your neighbor heard some noises from next door and called us to make sure everything was okay. Could you tell me what happened?"

The boy couldn't speak. So instead, he slowly shook his head and started tearing up, just thinking about his dead parents.

His expression became softer, and the officer frowned. "Could you show me what happened?"

Michael nodded. He gestured to hold the officer's hand, and the officer allowed him to take it. Then, turning around, Michael guided the man to the kitchen, where his dead parents were. His heartbeat slowly increased in volume. "I was scared of the lightnin', sir. I-I heard- when...my Momma and Papa were..." The more he spoke, the more he knew he couldn't face the situation.

The officer nodded slowly. He knew that the kid was emotional about it, and he didn't judge him. It was cruel to judge a boy who'd just lost his parents. Then, looking around the kitchen with his eyes, he turned back to Michael. "May I look?"

The boy nodded and allowed Officer Williams to walk around the kitchen. The man walked up to the table and let his hand slide across it. Michael noticed the gun the officer had in the other hand. He quivered at the sight of it. The boy heard someone walking up to him from behind, and it was like his heart had stopped for a moment. He whipped his head around quickly, holding his breath. When he recognized the badge on the man's coat, he sighed in relief. It was only another policeman.

"I'm going to escort you to one of the police cars, okay? We're going to get you somewhere safe while Officer Williams and his team handle the situation." The officer smiled softly, but Michael knew the smile was out of pity for him. Bending down just like Officer Williams, he continued speaking: "I'm Officer Randy. I'll be taking care of you until then." The man held his hand for Michael to take it, and when he did, he led the boy outside.

Several cars were parked on the side of the lawn of his house. An ambulance with its lights still flashing red and blue colors was on the road. Officer Randy led Michael to the second police car parked and grabbed the keys 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. Reaching inside the car, he unlocked it and guided Michael to the other side. He opened the door, which led to the other front seat.

"I don't have a car seat, and I doubt you want to sit in the back where it's dark, so I'll have you sit in the front just this one time, okay?"

Michael nodded. His parents would have never allowed him to sit in the front. But they said they'd let him sit up front when he became a big kid. Perhaps this one night, he was a big kid.

The officer helped him into the seat and put the seat belt over his shoulder, locking the seat belt in place. The seat was big, and Michael barely saw over the dashboard. Officer Randy closed the door on Michael'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.

Michael was shivering, and Officer Randy noticed. 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 the key. After the car started, he turned the wheel, pressed the gas pedal, pulled the car onto the road, and drove slowly away from the house.

"What's your name, kid?" The officer asked after several moments of silence.

The boy took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. "M-Michael. Wagner."

"Ah. You're six? Seven?"

"Seven's right, sir."

"Well, Michael, we're going to the police station for now. I'm going to see where you can stay while we figure out what to do. You're a brave kid."