In the mid-1980s, I was studying at a teacher training college in a small town called Brookfield. Along with three other girls from my group, I rented an apartment from a former teacher named Margaret Johnson. She was a very sociable woman, and in the evenings, she would come to our room, and we would stay up late at the table, having heartfelt conversations.
Margaret Johnson treated her tenants like a mother would. She guided us, gave us advice, and shared life lessons, trying to protect us from troubles and mistakes. After all, we were just young girls—17 or 18 years old, naive and inexperienced. We didn’t know much about life, especially since we came from small villages and rural areas where youth life was quite different from the city. Margaret was particularly worried when we had to return from classes in the evenings. She always warned us not to walk alone on dark streets, only together, and told us frightening stories about young women who became victims.
At that time, the town was abuzz with talk of horrific incidents—cases where girls were gambled away in card games. Professional criminals would bet on blondes or curly-haired girls, or those wearing red jackets or white hats. Then, they would kill the unfortunate ones who matched the description.
They even gambled with names. They might kill someone who turned around on the street after a loud shout, like, “Emma!” We listened to these stories, discussed them heatedly, but none of us could imagine that something like this would ever touch us.
One spring day in May, as the school year was coming to an end, I went to visit my parents in the village, as I often did on weekends. I still remember what I was wearing: a light, thin coat, a black velvet cape—those were in fashion back then—and black high-heeled shoes. The day before, for the first time in my 18 years, I had dyed my hair a chestnut color with a coppery tint, and I felt good about myself as I walked. In the village, my fiancé, George, was supposed to meet me at the bus stop on his motorcycle.
The bus station ticket counter was, as usual, crowded with people. I joined the line. Suddenly, someone shouted over the noise of the crowd: — Emma!
Many people instinctively turned around, including me. I didn’t figure out who was shouting, so I quickly looked away. Then a short, blond-haired guy approached me. I didn’t know him, but he leaned in and looked straight into my eyes.
— Emma? — he asked.
— No, — I shook my head and smiled, as if apologizing that I wasn’t Emma and that he had simply mistaken me for someone else.
The guy stepped aside and stood at a distance. I caught his gaze a few times. I just smiled, thinking he might have liked me and was looking for an excuse to strike up a conversation. But I was in love with George, so I wasn’t interested in new acquaintances.
After waiting in line for my ticket, I boarded a crowded bus. Our village was about six miles from the main road. From the bus stop, you could get there either by crossing a meadow or by taking a path along the edge of a forest. The meadow was much shorter, but it was where the collective farm’s herds grazed, and I was terrified of bulls and herding dogs, so I always took the forest path.
I got off at the stop. George wasn’t there to meet me for some reason. I figured he must have been held up at work. A group of young guys was loitering near the stop. I assumed they were waiting to catch the bus, but they didn’t board. Instead, a few more guys got off the bus, including the blond guy who had been staring at me at the station. He joined the group, and they started talking loudly, laughing, and swearing. The other passengers who got off with me quietly avoided them and headed toward their respective villages.
I started walking toward the forest. At the Kingston Bridge over the Willow River, I paused for a moment and, for some reason, glanced back. The guys were still at the stop, but they were animatedly discussing something, gesturing 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 local!” Feeling no concern, I continued walking. I knew all the guys from our village, so I figured he was probably from another village, maybe Greenvale. At the fork in the road, I looked back, but the blond guy was nowhere to be seen. Lost in my thoughts, I kept going.
As I walked along the edge of the forest and rounded a small marsh, I instinctively glanced back again. Across the meadow, cutting straight toward me from the main road, someone was running. He was far away, but I easily recognized the blond guy. The herdsman was driving cattle across the meadow, and I thought the guy might be running to meet him—maybe it was his father or grandfather. So, I calmly continued on my way.
At an old water pump, the path split into two. Then I heard something behind me—either a rustle or hurried footsteps. I looked back—no one! It must have been my imagination.
The forest was behind me now, with only about a thousand feet left to the village. Suddenly, I heard someone running behind me, panting. I turned and saw the blond guy. He was closing in fast, one hand oddly tucked into his pants pocket, even though running like that must have been awkward. In two leaps, he caught up to me and knocked me to the ground. I fell on my back and hit a rock, pain shooting through me. He stumbled and fell beside me but quickly jumped up and lunged at me, not letting me stand. I noticed a knife clenched in his hand. I screamed so piercingly that he flinched for a second. I scrambled to my feet. He tried to grab me again, but then, nearby, the sound of a motorcycle roared. George sped around the corner. The guy leaped back like a startled rabbit, shoved the knife into his pocket, and bolted toward the forest.
When George pulled up, I couldn’t cry or speak. To this day, I don’t know what that creep wanted—to kill me, rob me, or worse.
Exactly a week later, I saw the blond guy again at the bus station. I was in line for a ticket again. When he saw me, he walked over and stood nearby. I pretended not to recognize him and even turned away. He moved to my other side, leaned in, and stared at my face, trying to catch my eye.
My blood ran cold, but I managed, with every ounce of willpower, to stay outwardly calm. He stepped away without a word. I don’t know how long he stood there watching me—I didn’t look his way again. After that, I never traveled home alone, only with friends. My fiancé, George, did his own investigation, talking to the troublemakers at the bus stop, and found out the guy was from a neighboring village. He wanted to deal with him man-to-man, without involving the police. But he didn’t get the chance.
Soon after the incident, the blond guy died under mysterious circumstances. Either he was killed, or he took his own life. Or maybe he had gambled my life in a card game, and his criminal friends punished him for failing to follow through? I don’t know. But I’m certain George was sent to save me by God Himself.
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