September 1964:

The mid-morning sun shone on the uniform lawns on Juniper Street.

The area, in an affluent Sacramento suburb, was lined with brick houses and bordered by two large bushes, marking its separation from the outside world.  To Martha Baxter, this was the place those with materialistic desires loved to call home.

At eleven o’clock, Martha cleaned the front porch. That was when she first noticed the kids strolling on the sidewalk. The supposed leader was a thirteen-year-old boy. He had black hair, wearing a red shirt that was too short for his tall frame, but his confidence showed that he didn’t care.

A shorter, blond lad in a blue polo walked beside him, eager to impress anyone, at least, that’s what Martha thought.

Two brunette girls followed. One wore a sleeveless floral dress; the other, a lavender sweater, slacks, glasses, and sneakers-uncommon footwear for young ladies.

Meanwhile, Martha paid no attention to her previous work, even as she poured too much polish onto the table. A sharp uneasiness burned inside her, gnawing at the edges of her composure. Classes had started two weeks previously; she’d never seen those kids here. Witnessing possible delinquents wandering the neighborhood, like on a seaside boardwalk, was unheard of for her.

Finally, she could take it no longer and tore down the steps down to where the kids were walking.

The leader, unbothered, spoke first. “Can we help you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Baxter gripped the polisher and declared, “You should go to school now.”

The youths looked at each other, then stared back at the middle-aged woman.

“Didn’t you listen to me? You should be in class. It’s September.”

“We know.” The blonde said, bored.

“Then why are you not in class?”

“It starts later.” The girl in the dress said.

“What? The time is almost noon.”

The female in slacks pushed her glasses up. “Different school. Why do you care? We’re just walking.”

Mrs. Baxter turned a bright ruby red, her heart pounding in her chest. “Children shouldn’t be outside at this hour.”

“Why not?” they all asked.

“It’s not right.”

“Why?” they asked together.

“I shouldn’t have to explain. Go home!”

The youths stared, then broke out in a chorus of laughter.

“Stop that or I’ll call your parents.”

“Lady, you don’t even know us.”

“Leave before I-“

“What? Turn into a lobster?”

More laughter. Martha’s cheeks burned as she slammed the polish down and rushed onto her porch.

The children, perhaps used to being dismissed, rolled their eyes and continued on their way, leaving Martha standing alone on the steps.

That evening, after the unsettling encounter on Juniper Street, the Baxter’s resumed their daily routine.

Mr. Baxter returned from work, and the couple had their dinner. Afterward, they settled down for bed.

Harry Baxter patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach those little punks a lesson.”

“Thank you, honey; those brats were infuriating.”

Harry’s voice hardened. “Kids these days, no respect. We’ll keep at it till this street’s the way it should be-clean and proper.”

“Everyone will thank us for that.”

After awhile, loud scratches sounded in the basement, sharp enough to make Martha flinch with fear.

“Harry, did you hear that?”

“Yeah, I’ll put out rat traps in the morning.”

The sound became louder.

“Is there some kind of rodent party down there?” Harry grumbled.

Soon, the scratches changed to faint yelps.

“Could it be a stray cat?”

“Whatever it is, it’s too loud to ignore. We’ll get rid of it.”

The couple took two brooms and made their way into the basement. Darkness met them as they descended the stairs.

As Martha and Harry got further down, the sounds grew louder to Martha’s ears, the basement swelling with the ominous noise.

“I don’t like this, Harry. Let’s call the police.”

“You worry too much. A few swipes with the brooms and the pests will clear out.”

In an instant, screams filled the room.

“HARRY!” Martha called out, her voice raw with terror. Blood-stained hands shot out of the abyss and pulled the husband and wife apart. Panic and helplessness flooded them as their screams echoed in the blackness.

“MARTHA! No, NO! Get away from us! I thought you were gone! NOOOOOOO!”

Years passed, and Juniper Street changed.

September 1977:

The street was no longer the envy of the poorer passersby. Many of the neighbors had moved to either coastal California towns or more affordable areas. This morning, two construction workers arrived at the old Baxter house.

“So the old couple died?”

“No, they’re in a mental institution. This house has stood empty for a long time.”

“Hard to believe Juniper Street was wealthy a decade ago.”

“I know, but that new shopping center made a killing in the deal.”

Just as the words left his mouth, a loud yell erupted from a worker.

“Charlie, what’s up?”

Charlie ran toward them, looking as if he were going to be sick.

“T-There are bodies down there!”

“WHAT!?”

The three men looked down at the hole Charlie had excavated. They saw the decomposed remains of four small skeletons.

Months later, the story took another turn.

January 1978:

On a cold winter evening, the local news show was finishing up.

And to end this report tonight, closure may finally come to one of the area’s darkest chapters. Throughout the fifties and sixties, Sacramento faced an unknown child murderer, whose crimes left several children missing. The perpetrator left letters at the scene of his crimes, stylizing himself as a crusader for correctness and claiming that he “cleansed the world of riff-raff and whippersnappers who didn’t know their place.” Police have identified the killer as Harry Baxter. He and his wife, Martha, lived in the then-opulent community of Juniper Street. Authorities report that Martha Baxter aided her husband. Over a decade ago, both were found mentally unstable, insisting torment by demonic ghouls, and have been in a local institution. The couple, apparently, had gone insane one night.

Recently, workers uncovered the victim’s bodies at a construction site. This happened to be above the old basement of the Baxter’s residence. Authorities determined they were eligible to stand trial for their crimes. As a result, they’ve been found guilty on all counts and sentenced to life in prison without parole. More at eleven.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero