The Murder On Mainstreet

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. 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?