Although Kip was only seven years old, he was smart enough to know that the graveyard in which he was standing was inappropriately named. The archaic entryway read “Morningside Cemetery,” but the land sloped westward, favoring the sun’s light in the evening and not the morning. He arrived at the hallowed grounds promptly at seven o’clock on his flashy green mountain bike, one of many routine trips he made every Friday. He had made it weekly for years and, as long as his memory served him, he had made it alone.

Kip liked the cemetery because nobody talked to him there. He was overly timid, avoiding conversation whenever possible and, under all circumstances, never made eye contact. Other people at the cemetery were not there to chat; they were there to grieve. Kip liked that and found Morningside a nice place for him to relax and watch the sun set. Besides, Kip was also there to mourn and, like the others, did not want to be disturbed.

The grave Kip was standing near was old compared to many others. It was in the fifth row from the front, unadorned by flowers or anything else that would suggest that people paid it any attention. Through its mossy shield, the name carved into the stone read “Henry R. Anderson,” and the long decomposed body buried beneath it was all that remained of Kip’s father.

Kip thought Henry was a very affectionate and loving father to all three of his children. His job on the board of village trustees left him ample time for his family. Jackie, Gee Gee, and Kip were always his top priorities, ranking well above his wife Leona. Even in the last seconds before his horrific murder, the only words he could muster in the face of his killer were, “I love you.”

Kip then moved to the next grave, which belonged to Leona Anderson, his mother. She was murdered right before her husband, in the same room. Kip remembered her soft, petrified crying as she clutched her husband’s arm, refusing to let go. He remembered how easily she died, and worse, the awful sounds that accompanied her death.

The next two graves were smaller, the size of small children. The stones were practically identical and were wrapped in slithering vines. He looked at them, but not for long. His head soon fell into his hands, letting the last of the orange dusk lightly paint his skin. He knew it was time to go.

And so, as darkness swept the small New England town, Kip rode his bike back to the house as he did every Friday night. He hated the sight of the structure, with its unmistakably colonial feel and chipping white paint, but no matter. He went inside, up the staircase, down the long hallway past where the others slept, and into his bedroom. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the terrible moments to come, but to no avail.

The time was 9 p.m. Kip heard the first door slam open from down the hall, followed by silence. This is when he got up, snuck into the hall and hid in the closet. He heard little feet running frantically in his direction, turning into his bedroom. Poor Gee Gee. She was only five years old. Bigger, slower footsteps followed her in moments later and Kip heard his bedroom door slowly close. That’s when he jumped out of the closet and ran down the long, unlit hallway into the master bedroom. When he entered, his mother was clutching his father’s arm as he clutched the telephone, trying to reach an emergency operator. But before he could get through, the sound of quickening footsteps paralyzed them.

Kip stood rigid against the corner of the wall in tears as the door to the room creaked open. There, in the dim rays of light given off by Henry’s alarm clock, stood their killer: an expressionless 16-year-old Jackie Anderson. She raised the gun to her mother’s chest, and shot once. Kip watched her sink to the floor with a few last attempts of breath before falling silent. Jackie turned the barrel immediately to her father. Henry stood up unafraid, not exhibiting the least bit of confusion. He looked into Jackie’s eyes and whispered, “I love you.”

“You sick son of a bitch.” Jackie had started crying, and her reply came out between choked sobs. The gun sounded and Henry dropped to the floor. It was then that Kip wished he had been killed with the others. He was terrified and alone. Jackie looked at him, raised the gun, and before firing one lethal shot into his heart, said, “What they did to us was very wrong, Kip. I can’t let you and Gee Gee grow up to be this fucked up. I love you.”

The following Friday, Kip rode his bicycle to Morningside Cemetery at seven o’clock. He started to ascend the hill to the fifth row from the front, but stopped abruptly upon seeing three people standing in his path. Two of them looked like guards and the other was a woman dressed in plain white with shackled ankles. They soon carted her off and Kip watched her awkwardly fumble her way to a large blue truck.

After they were gone, Kip went to the spot. He stopped first by his father’s grave, then his mother’s. They were covered in moss and whoever had been there did not pay attention to them. Then he moved down to the smaller ones. On top of Gee Gee’s there was a necklace and an old, torn blanket. Kip noticed something had also been left by the other stone. Leaning on it was a rusty old bicycle that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. There were small patches of faded green in the places where rust had not consumed it.