The Two That Killed My Parents… And Me

CHAPTER 1: The Part Where They Have Company

My name is Becky Stirtzinger, and on the night of August 8th, 1925, two people killed my parents… and me.

This day started off like any ordinary day on the farm. My parents were always busy, so I’d occupy myself out back and play in the shed with my friends. I don’t know where they came from or where they live, but they’re always there. It’s nice to be able to relate to someone that I can identify with, there’s not many around here. They told me they’d always be here whenever I needed them the most. In fact, they helped me see exactly what happened that night.

Today however was not like any other day, my parents Thomas and Linda Stirtzinger were having the Quakers over at their beautiful secluded farmhouse — miles away from anything — to celebrate the new business contract of my father’s friend. This night in particular wasn’t a good night for anything to happen, but it was the only time my parents had available. It must have been cursed in a way being that it was the night of the Klansmen march In Washington, D.C. The broadcast could be heard in any province or state in North America. We were one of the very few families in the Township of Fleet, that could afford such a luxury, As our farm harvests the majority of the town’s corn supply.

“It was when the clock on the post office building struck three that the march began, 40,000 Ku Klux Klansmen marched in Washington, D.C, With their white-hooded procession filling Pennsylvania Avenue.” Blustering from the static radio.

Some people were still passionate about the march, and others couldn’t believe that this was a reality. My father believed it was all just another distraction for some catastrophic event to happen. He didn’t care much for American media. My parents were simple people and didn’t want to be consumed by the satanic white power movement. The only thing they cared to focus their time on, was when Babe Ruth was going to hit his next home run. But this particular march was a bit bothersome for my father. He believed everyone to be equal but unfortunately, not everyone feels that way it’s a shame.

My father walked into the kitchen to get a small bit of alone time after hearing this unbelievable satanic talk on the radio. He didn’t want the guests to see him exasperated. “I can’t believe America is so torn with their egos of being a white country. Why does one have to march with 40,000 people to promote white power, there are more black people doing good in this nation trying to promote peace than the white people ever had.”

My mother always tried to change subjects when it came to anything off-color. She was very good at hiding how she truly felt for the benefit of making others feel comfortable.
“It’s a distraction honey let’s just have a good night and enjoy the company of Mr. and Mrs. Quaker,” My mother whispered as she turned off the radio before they both head back into the living room where the Quakers await.

My mother being the kind loving soul she was always made sure to take care of everyone around her, In this situation, it was to make the Quakers feel comfortable in our home. “Mr. Quaker, Would you care for a glass of scotch?.”

“Of course that would be fabulous, and maybe a glass of your finest wine for my lovely wife,” Said Mr. Quaker. He looked, sounded, and was your typical up-class package, Unfamiliar with the farm life.

The Radio turned on full blast vibrating the paintings of barns and wolves on the walls startling everyone in the room. “It will not rain, We shall pray. Never yet has God poured rain on a Klan assembly.”

My mother looked over at the radio and standing in front of it was me, Becky, the Stirtzinger’s 7-year-old daughter. I had big almond-shaped eyes that almost looked sunken in, bangs cut perfectly straight, and long curly black hair down to my shoulders. I was fed up cause I never got any attention. This was my tactic that I’m sure every child has to steal all the attention in the room whenever our parents ignore us. Middle child or only child syndrome, whatever it is I have it and it’s real.

My mother never wasted a second to discipline me when if I ever embarrassed her.” Turn that radio off Becky” my mother yelled. “What did I tell you about showing off when we have company, go to your room right away.”

Tears pouring down my little plump cheeks, I left the room throwing a temper tantrum all the way up the stairs yelling, “Nobody likes me anymore AHHHHHHH.”

“I apologize Mr. and Mrs. Quaker, she often does this when people come over, we don’t have people over often and she feels a bit left out and overreacts at these times,” my father said embarrassed at what just happened in front of the guests.

“Apology Accepted Mr. Stirtzinger, it’s no problem, she’s just being a kid, am I right?” Mr. Quaker says as he snidely laughed at the way my parents have raised me thus far.

“Yeah, don’t be embarrassed, kids require a lot of our attention you see,” Mrs. Quaker says as Becky's yelling voice echoes from the upstairs.

“She’ll be done in a bit, She yells for a few minutes until she cries herself to sleep and if she doesn’t I’ll go up there and put a stop to it.”

I continued to yell from my room. “why won’t you play with me!!!! somebody listen!!! “ I grabbed a crayon and started to write the words — PLAY WITH ME — on the wall, and — LISTEN. That’s when I started to yell PLAY, PLAY PLAY PLAY at the top of my lungs, my voice carried all the way downstairs to the living room.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t normally last this long,” Says my father trying to redeem his parenting status one more time.
My mother excused herself from the conversation to come upstairs and check on me. But what she really did was go to her room to touch up her makeup. Keeping her identity was much more important to her than what people thought about her parenting during these tough times.

Mr. Quaker noticed his glass was getting a bit empty and asked for another glass of scotch. My father walked toward the kitchen as my mother went upstairs to check on me, that’s when my father noticed that Mr. Quaker may have seen the photo of my mothers’ cousin on a table near the kitchen entrance. In the photo is a husky man in his early twenties, with a charming warm smile, standing next to his new Indian brand bicycle, wearing a wool sweater complimenting his dark skin. My father grabbed the photo and placed it faced down on his way to the kitchen.

Mr. Quaker glared at my father with his bestial eyes as he placed the photo face down. He looked at his wife and whispered, “I don’t believe the Stirtzinger’s are quite like us ….. Politically speaking.”
“What do you mean not like us?” Mrs. Quaker asked.
“There was a dark fellow in the photo he just placed face down. They’re not like us.”

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**************** AUTHORS NOTE *******************

Some parts of this story are true.

Growing up, my family was haunted by a little girl named Becky. She followed around my uncle where he lived and would play with his children. She haunted my grandmother’s house when my uncle was young, turning on the stereo, and TV on in the middle of the night, usually blaring the music channel.

This brings me to her back story. I had no back story on what had happened to this little girl. What I do know is she was hit by a car outside of her home when she was young. I created this story in honor of her, as I know she always just wanted someone to play with. The rest of the story is made up.

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