When I was 17 I lived in Ann Arbor, MI, a college town. One night I came home to discover the front door was open, but no one was there. I went to my room and saw one of my coats on the floor, ripped to shreds, with the arms outstretched. I found my fourteen year old brother hiding in the back yard; he saw someone enter the house so he fled. My parents had been next door with the neighbors.

One morning not long after, my parents woke me up to tell me a bomb had been found floating in our pool. It would have blown up my room. My mother served the members of the bomb squad coffee in her best china. No one knew what to make of the incident. A few weeks later we found a suitcase on our front porch filled with weird items: a piece of rope, broken glass, a jar of peanut butter, a tampon. A month later, someone banged on my window at 4 a.m. After that, I was hit by a red car as I crossed the street. The car sped away.

So I was understandably relieved when I turned 18 and moved out of the house to attend college, even though I was only moving across town. At my new place, the same luggage filled with oddities appeared on my doorstep. I received strange calls, and sensed I was being tailed when I drove. A few women had been murdered in the area, always after midnight on Saturday night, so the killer was dubbed "The Saturday Morning Slasher." All of the women were my age; I was worried.

I drove to my parents' house one Saturday night for my father's birthday and didn't leave until 1 a.m. I could see I was being followed home so I drove to the police station and lost the car. Then, when I pulled into the alleyway behind my apartment, the car suddenly appeared again, locking the alley. I was trapped. My heart raced a mile a minute and adrenaline flooded my body. I was shaking, but I forced myself to focus on sliding my key effortlessly into my lock -- because my life depended upon not letting my hands shake. I frantically thought, "The key. The key. The key. Don't let the key shake. Don't let ..." As I jumped out of my car he jumped out of his and we both raced to my door. I slid the key in the lock -- it slid in perfectly like a knife into soft butter -- and then I slammed and locked the door just as he had nearly reached it. If I'd been living alone he would have known it and I probably wouldn't be alive right now. But I lived with my boyfriend who had been awakened by the sound of both of our footsteps running to the door.

The next day I offered to be a decoy for the police, but they wouldn't allow it, so I pondered a handgun for the first time in my life. I never bought the handgun because I was such a nervous wreck that I imagined I would accidentally shoot a delivery person. Life became a waiting game. I was so on edge that once, when I heard a noise in my hallway when I was home alone, I executed a move worthy of one of Charlie's Angels: kicking out my living room window (the hallway -- where I heard the noise -- was my only exit), jumping out, and rolling effortlessly to the ground. I had a lot of explaining to do to my landlord later that evening, and I think he found the story a little fantastic.

I eventually grew tired of being frightened and feeling trapped, and made a conscious effort not to be a victim of my own fear. I couldn't be escorted home every night by police, and didn't want to spend every waking moment afraid of what could happen. I remained on guard, but went out of my way to enjoy life, which had suddenly became immeasurably precious.

I was relieved when the killer was arrested in Florida. He had murdered women there, in Michigan, and in Texas, and was sent to prison in Texas. When I saw his picture in the newspapers I immediately recognized him and the description of his red car. Our paths had crossed many times over the years, and he had always glared at me, yet I never suspected he was a serial killer. Once, on a foggy evening, we had been the only two people in a park across the street from my apartment. I had been reading a magazine and he had been rifling through a nearby garbage can, so I assumed he was a homeless person. He stood about 20 feet away from me, and fortunately, my boyfriend happened to arrive after a few minutes. When he was caught I was granted a new lease on life and I've been thankful ever since. I read as much about his life as I could, saddened by the gruesome childhood that created such a monster. And now no one can scare me. I don't walk through Central Park at night, but I know that if I have to judo-kick a window, jump, tumble, and roll, then ... I'll do what I have to do.

--B. Kim Taylor