In the mid-1980s, I was attending a teachers' college in a small town called Springfield. I shared an apartment with three other girls from my program, renting from a retired schoolteacher named Mrs. Gable. She was incredibly social and would often come into our room in the evenings. We'd sit around the table until late at night, lost in long, heartfelt conversations.
Mrs. Gable treated us like her own daughters. She raised us, lectured us, gave us life advice, and did her best to keep us out of trouble. We were so young back then—only seventeen or eighteen—and incredibly naive. We didn't know the first thing about the world, especially since we had all moved from tiny rural farming communities where life for teenagers was worlds away from the "big city" rhythm of Springfield. Mrs. Gable would get terribly anxious when we had to walk home from classes after dark. She always insisted we never walk the streets alone, only in a group, and she'd tell us harrowing stories about young women who had met unfortunate ends.
At the time, the town was buzzing with terrifying rumors about "card game marks." People said that professional criminals and high-stakes gamblers were betting on unsuspecting girls. They would play for a blonde, or someone with curly hair, or a girl in a red jacket or a white beret. Then, they would track down and kill whoever matched the description to "pay" the debt.
They even played for names. They said someone could be killed just for reflexively looking back when a name like "Sarah" was shouted in a crowd. We listened and debated these stories intensely, but none of us ever imagined it could actually happen to us.
***
One weekend in May, as the school year was winding down, I headed home to see my parents as I usually did. I remember it clearly: I was wearing a light, thin coat, a black velvet capelet—those were very trendy then—and black stilettos. Just the day before, for the first time in my eighteen years, I had dyed my hair a chestnut brown with a copper tint. I felt beautiful as I walked. My fiancé, Jeff, was supposed to meet me at the bus stop on his motorcycle back in our hometown.
The station was packed as always. I joined the line at the ticket window. Suddenly, cutting through the noise of the crowd, someone shouted:
"Heather!"
Several people instinctively turned around, including me. I couldn't tell who had shouted, so I immediately turned back toward the window. Just then, a short, blond guy approached me. I didn't know him, but he leaned in and looked me right in the eyes.
"Heather?" he asked.
"No," I said, shaking my head and offering a small, apologetic smile, thinking he had simply mistaken me for someone else.
The guy stepped back and stood off to the side. Several times, I felt his eyes on me. I just kept smiling to myself, thinking he was interested and looking for an excuse to strike up a conversation. But I loved Jeff, so I wasn't looking for any new company.
After finally getting my ticket, I boarded the bus, which was crowded as usual. My parents' house was about six miles off the main highway. From the bus stop, you could get there either by cutting across a wide meadow or taking a path along the edge of the woods. The meadow was much shorter, but local farmers kept their cattle there, and I was deathly afraid of bulls and farm dogs, so I always stuck to the woods.
I got off at the stop, but Jeff wasn't there yet. I figured he'd been held up at work. A group of young guys was loitering near the stop. I assumed they were waiting for the bus, but they stayed put. Instead, a few more guys got off the bus with me—including that same blond stranger from the station—and joined the group. They started talking loudly, laughing, and swearing. The other passengers who had gotten off with me quickly steered clear of them and headed toward their respective homes.
I started walking toward the woods. At the bridge over the local creek, I paused for a second and, for some reason, looked back. The guys were still by the bus stop, but they were gesturing wildly and looking in my direction. Suddenly, the blond guy broke away from the group and started walking toward me. I thought, Oh, he must be a local! Feeling no fear, I kept walking. I knew most of the guys from our town, so I figured he must be from the neighboring village, Oak Ridge. At the fork in the road, I would go right and he would go left. When I reached the fork, I glanced back, but he was nowhere to be seen. Lost in my own thoughts, I trudged on.
I was walking along the edge of the woods, and as I rounded a small marsh, I looked back again mechanically. A man was running across the meadow from the highway, trying to cut me off. He was far off, but I easily recognized the blond guy. A farmer was moving his herd nearby, so I assumed the guy was running to help him—maybe it was his father or grandfather. I calmly continued on my way.
Near an old water pump, the path split in two. I heard a rustle or a hurried footstep behind me. I spun around—nothing. Just my imagination, I thought.
The woods were finally behind me. My parents' house was only about three hundred yards away. Suddenly, I heard the sound of someone running behind me, gasping for breath. I turned and saw the blond guy. He was closing in fast, and for some reason, he kept one hand in his trouser pocket, even though it made it awkward to run. In two leaps, he reached me and knocked me off my feet. I fell onto my back, hitting a rock hard. He lost his balance too and tumbled down beside me, but he scrambled up instantly and lunged at me, pinning me down. I saw a knife clenched in his hand.
Out of pure terror, I let out a scream so piercing that he flinched for a split second. I scrambled to my feet. He tried to lunge at me again, but then, the sound of a motorcycle engine sputtered nearby. Jeff came flying around the bend. The guy bolted like a rabbit, shoving the knife back into his pocket and disappearing into the woods.
When Jeff pulled up, I couldn't cry or even speak. To this day, I don't know what that man wanted—to kill me, rob me, or worse.
***
Exactly a week later, I saw the blond guy at the bus station again. I was in line for a ticket once more. When he saw me, he walked over and stood right next to me. I pretended not to recognize him and turned away. He circled around to the other side, leaned in again, and stared into my face, trying to catch my eye.
My blood turned to ice, but I summoned every ounce of willpower to remain outwardly indifferent. He eventually walked away without a word. I don't know how long he stood there watching me. I never looked in his direction again. From then on, I never traveled home alone—only with friends. After that incident, Jeff did his own investigation, talking to the guys at the bus stop, and found out the guy was from the next town over. He wanted to settle the score man-to-man without involving the police, but he never got the chance.
Shortly after that, the blond guy died under mysterious circumstances. Some said he was killed; others said he took his own life. Maybe he really had "lost" my life in a card game, and his criminal associates punished him for failing to settle the debt. I don't know. All I know is that Jeff arriving at that exact moment was nothing short of a miracle.
0 comments