Oh, I remember that blue house! Yes, it used to watch over Hasel Valley like a sentinel, standing alone on top of the highest hill. As kids we would race from the river at the bottom of the valley to the Blue House and the loser would buy everyone ice cream floats.

I never saw anyone go into that house; no cars outside or moving shapes in the window. Not until it happened.

That night we raced as usual, and I staggered up that hill first, but there was a car in the driveway. The driver’s door was open and I could see one shoe on the passenger seat. The other kids were too far behind, and I wanted to explore.

I wish I hadn’t. A man was dead on the floor, blood gushing from his head. One by one the others filtered in. Some screamed, some cried, but I stood staring. I don’t remember much else after that.
Flashing lights.
My mother’s arms.
The police said there was a woman cut into pieces in the other room.

Yes, I remember that blue house. I don’t think any of us will forget.