Murder in Castle View

This morning I awoke to the violent screams of a small girl. I had been dreaming of peppermint sticks, the good ones that you can only get at Pam's corner store in Ludlow, when her blood was spilled all over my front yard. It's quite unnerving, really, to run out at six in the morning when the red sun has just begun to rise and see your once bright green grass glinting with red speckles of your neighbor's splattered blood.
She was laying face down under my old willow tree, the one I used to climb when I was a child. One glance at her unmoving body was all that I needed to know that she would never see the age of six. I must have been jolted by that into some form of shock, for I don't remember what happened next, only resurfacing to reality when the police had finished roping off my yard with 'Caution' tape.
Sipping from a China tea cup, my hands shook violently as I peered out my living room window. "A murder in Castle View?" I asked myself. "Impossible!" But, as I watched the coroners scoop away Christina Sanderson's bloody remains, I knew that anything was possible.
Half an hour later her parents arrived. Thankfully the detective in charge was gentle with them as the coroner lifted the sheets. The woman sobbed virulently into her husband's shoulder as he nodded to confirm identity.
The news crew showed up, their greedy little minds not the least bit upset or compassionate, only eager for a story as always. They took their pictures and gave their speeches to the hungry camera. The reporters interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson, though they could get little but tears from the ecstatic woman. When they had what they wanted, they left to type up tomorrow's newspaper.
All the neighbors came out to watch as the crime scene, which used to be nothing more than my front lawn, was searched thoroughly. The weapon that had been used to carve a large hole into the back of Christina's head was identified: my pink lawn flamingo which my mother had bought me two Christmas' ago. It was sealed into a plastic bag and taken to the station in a crate marked "Evidence". I don't think I'll ever see it again.
I watched all this through my scarlet shutters, not daring to venture out or even utter a word. My brain was fully blank, observing the terror outside of my home. It wasn't until the sunlight was seeping in through my western windows, casting its eerie glow on my parlor room floor, that they finally packed up and left.
I sat there, with my empty cup of tea and trembling hands, gazing out the closed windows, until the sun diminished entirely and it was impossible to see beyond my own nose. I slowly set the cup onto the ornate wooden coffee table and unfolded my weary legs.
Never had I thought that I'd be made to watch the removal of a five- year-old child's blood from my front lawn. It was so unreal to me, so utterly unbelievable, that I could only stare ahead as I ascended the stairs and slumped down the upstairs hallway. I took a deep breath as I turned into my room, and flipped on the light switch. Immediately my eyes shut tight, afraid to take in another awful scene. What if whoever had killed Christina Sanderson was in my room, waiting to get rid of me with a pink lawn flamingo? My mind went reeling through ways that this might occur, situations which might arise, emotions I might have to feel. More than once I saw him coming towards me, flamingo at the ready, a murderous glint in his eyes, and more than once he evaporated before he reached me, nothing but an apparition of my mind.
Finally I came to my senses, gathering enough know-how to open my eyes just a tad. Just like I had feared he was before me, this time with a knife in hand, smiling evilly. I screamed, a high pitched blood curdling whine, and put my hands up to protect myself. He let out a long, low, monstrous chuckle, and charged me. My eyes were shut again, wincing at the pain I knew I was about to feel. As the cold point of the blood came into contact with my skin and I was about to call for help, I was standing in my room again, looking at a more than normal bedroom. The sheets were still a mess from the thrashing fit I had had to get out of bed that morning.
I looked around my happy bedroom and sighed. I was scaring myself for nothing. The person who had murdered little Christina Sanderson wasn't after me. I had nothing to fret about. I walked forward, pulling myself out of the trance-like state I had fallen into. I pulled myself together as I slid into the tangled sheets. There was no psycho killer lurking around the nearest corner waiting to cut me open and spray my blood on someone's front lawn. There was no one there at all.
I took a breath and closed my eyes, willing away all of the horrible images they had witnessed throughout the day. "Peppermint sticks," I though, and smiled to myself. Yup, I wasn't going to get any sleep.