Writing Prompt: A Scary Thing that happened to you......

I awakened at two in the morning to the sound of footsteps on my shake roof. Recently divorced, I was sleeping alone and until then, relishing my solitary, snoreless bed. I lay terrified, afraid to breathe as rustling noises and hoarse whispers floated over the eaves and wafted into my bedroom window. 

It was 1970 and the Charles Manson trial was in full swing. Fir and eucalyptus trees surrounded my little house in Glendale, a dozen miles north of the site of the La Bianca murders. Tucked away in the hills, I'd prized my privacy. But not tonight. I huddled under the covers, my imagination running helter-skelter. Were Manson gang members trying to break in? 

My fears weren’t unfounded. Vince Bugliosi, the prosecutor in the Manson trial lived in my neighborhood a few blocks away. He was being threatened by Manson gang members still at large. I was spooked. Vince was too close for comfort. Would these fiends murder randomly? Visions of blood-smeared walls raced through my brain. 

Terror gave way to an adrenaline surge. With a dry mouth and ringing ears, I tried to think clearly. That very day, out of fright, I’d decided to quit stopping for coffee on my way to work. Manson’s lawyer, Irving Kanarek had begun sitting on the stool next to mine at the coffee shop.  I hadn't known who he was—just a guy in a rumpled suit. We engaged in the customary banal morning conversation about the weather or the L.A. traffic. Then he introduced himself. A strange person with amusing stories, at first I enjoyed his company and the information he disclosed about the infamous trial. 

He had an unconventional approach to Manson's defense, which included wearing the same suit for days on end. “Part of my strategy,” he said, “to keep the jury distracted.” Objection was another ploy. I heard on the daily news about the records he was setting in court for the number of objections raised. He even questioned people’s names. “How do you know you’re Helen McHargue?” he might ask. “The evidence you present is hearsay.” The jury, being slowly bored to death, requested No-Doz. 

As the trial dragged on, his bad reputation spilled out of the courtroom and into the press. Everyone was sick of him— the court, his fellow Manson defense team, and the general public for wasting everyone’s time and money. It dawned on me that it might be dangerous to be seen with him. My home’s location, near Bugliosi's, was problem enough. I didn’t need to increase my peril, real or imagined, by be-friending Kanarek. If there was killing taking place, as retribution by the murderous gang, I considered myself too close to the line of fire.

Back at home that scary night, I crept to the kitchen to call 91l. Atremble, I picked up the phone and whispered. “Help. Someone’s trying to break in.”

The police arrived minutes after my call. Shivering in my pajamas, I sat outside in the police car watching flashlights scan my yard and garage. The tall eucalyptus trees up on the hill cast long shadows over my roof. The scene was eerie.

“They were trying to break in lady. You were right,” the officer said returning to the car. “It’s a gang. A gang of raccoons.” 

 I was embarrassed and apologized for my over-heated imagination and for disturbing the peace. Even my explanation about Vince Bugliosi's home, so nearby, did nothing to mitigate my foolishness. 

“You’re better off close to Vince than further away,” one officer commented. “We’re keeping an eye on him.”

Soon after, Manson was sentenced and his wretched band became a historical footnote. I returned to my regular coffee shop stool and slept well. Life rolled along, until five years later when the body of Lissa Kastin, a Hillside Strangler victim, was dumped at the foot of my street. 

  
I decided to move. 

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Cakebox Tales