My reflection in the window stares back at me as I look out at the falling rain. The tall woman I see is dressed in leggings and a stretch top. Her long black hair, streaked with gray, falls to her shoulders, framing a long-suffering face. I can see I’ve lost weight over the past six months. It’s been that long since my husband of twenty-five years died of cancer. That’s when walking became a routine. The empty sidewalks in the evening ease my pain and renew my spirit. But on this evening, it will have to wait. At least for now.
In the background, I could hear the TV news announcer vividly describing the brutal killing of a young woman in the city. The police believe it is the same person who has cut the throats of ten young women over the past five months. The announcer adds that the police have no leads. A sense of anger washes over me.
The press calls him a ‘present-day Jack the Ripper.’ Social media calls him ‘The Slasher.’ I call him a serial killer. My age gives me safety. The most vulnerable women are in their twenties. He seeks them out. To him, they must be easy prey, given their recklessness, weakness, and lack of wisdom. They show carelessness when they are out partying. Oh, to be young again.
Outside, the rain has finally stopped. The clearing skies reveal a full moon, full of promise and tranquility. Despite the city’s lurking dangers on the street, I decide to take an evening walk, as I have so many times before. Maybe tonight I can shake off the loneliness and come back in a better mood. Maybe I will stop at a tavern for a glass of wine. Maybe I will do many things out of the ordinary. I might just go a block or two and then come back. Just maybe.
I grab my coat and scarf, take a deep breath, and step out the front door into the cool autumn evening. I stand on the stoop for a moment, glancing up and down the quiet street, where only the occasional barking dog breaks the silence. The sidewalk is dimly lit, with the moon’s orange light filtering through the trees’ stark branches as wisps of clouds race across its face, momentarily dimming its glow. I take another deep breath, pull my scarf tightly around my neck, and step onto the wet brick sidewalk. For some reason, despite the melancholy that surrounds me, I feel strangely unafraid.
The smell of decaying leaves permeates the damp air as I walk. Rain gives the sidewalk bricks a polished sheen. I walk with determination, my head slightly bowed, passing neighbors’ houses and hearing them talk as they eat supper. It stirs a longing for family. Some families are watching TV; others have their drapes drawn, hiding from peering eyes like mine.
I pause at the street corner under a dimly lit streetlamp, listening to the evening’s quiet. The city’s sounds are muffled by the heavy, damp air. I breathe in deeply. I do not feel depressed so much as pensive, a feeling I associate with my sadness, the same feeling I felt when my husband died. The starkness of the doctor’s words, as he spilled them out, left me numb. I try not to think about it, but it haunts me. I scrutinize the sidewalk ahead, shrouded by the overhanging trees. I can’t help but think someone is watching me. I try not to pay attention to it. Maybe it’s just me, maybe the damp air.
Crossing the street and onto the dark sidewalk, I pass more houses, some with toys left in the yard, others with white fences standing in the stark darkness. The moon’s glow begins to dim as clouds thicken, and the streetlights cast an even fainter light. Suddenly, a twig snaps, shattering the silence. I want to look back, but a surge of fear holds me. Too terrified, I fold my arms, pull my coat tighter, and walk a little faster.
At the end of the block, a small flashing red sign in the window read ‘Sam’s Bar.’ Feeling a little relieved, I walked in. The warmth inside gave me a sense of reassurance and safety. Only a few seemingly drunk patrons sat at the far end of the bar. I took a seat at the other end, near the door.
“What’d you have?” the bartender asked in a deep, gravelly voice, his large hands gripping the bar’s back edge.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” I said.
“Coming up,” said the bartender.
He came back with my wine, and I paid him. Taking in the tavern’s rustic atmosphere, the smell of old beer, and the stale cellar air, I noticed the pictures of boxing matches on the wall were of the bartender. Brightly lit beer signs hang behind the bar, and deer heads stare straight ahead. I finish my wine and walk out the door into a fine mist.
An icy chill settles in, like a winter night. It takes a moment to get my bearings, then I walk quickly along the wet sidewalk bricks. They are uneven, making it hard to keep a steady stride. The wine took the edge off, but not enough to dull my hearing. I am sure footsteps follow me. I stop and look into the darkness between the street lamps. I strain to see, but there is no one. It must be my imagination. I take slow steps forward—one foot, then the other—watching and listening. A breeze rustles the wet leaves, startling me. I pull my scarf tightly around my neck and quicken my pace, glancing from side to side. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is near, someone lurking in the shadows.
I keep walking, though at a faster pace. I look ahead at the dimly lit blocks. My house should be nearby, or haven’t I gone far enough yet? Did I take the wrong way out of the tavern? I can’t remember. My mind feels foggy. Then, from the deepest shadows of the evening, a figure emerges into the dim light of the street lamps: a tall man with his hands tucked into the pockets of his long, dark coat. A stranger. He wears a double-breasted coat. His face is hard to make out. His wavy gray hair lies flat against his head. He steps slowly closer as I step back. His face comes into view under the dim light. His black eyes are wide and unblinking, with an intense glare. He smiles, and his teeth shine brightly behind his ruby-red lips. Then I realize. It’s red lipstick. No! It’s a woman. Her face wears a cold smirk.
I feel confused, gripped by a fear I’ve never known before. I feel weak and vulnerable. My legs begin to shake. The thought of running back to the bar crosses my mind. I look back down the long, dark sidewalk. I can see the red glow of the ‘Sam’s Bar’ sign at the end of the block. It’s so far away, but I decide to go despite my fear. I start walking, hoping she might just be a stranger out for a walk. I hold back my fear, trying not to show it, but I’m terrified. I want to scream, but sheer fear keeps me from it.
The entrance to ‘Sam’s Bar’ draws nearer. I hear the sharp, staccato click of her heels on the bricks as she approaches. A sudden, overwhelming fear grips me. I can’t think clearly. My heart races as I pull my hands from my pockets and quicken my pace. I won’t give up; I am stronger than that.
The bar sign looms ahead, then the footsteps stop; curiously, I glance back. I secretly hope she wouldn’t be there. But she stood no more than two feet from me. That same face with a stoic disposition. She steps closer, and then pulls from her pocket a long, gleaming blade and raises it above her head. I froze. Then, with one swift motion, I felt the cold steel across my neck, followed by a burning sensation. Warm, wet blood trickles down my chest. I gasp for air only to hear a faint gurgling sound. I look up at her, her smile broadening as she wipes the blade on my coat. I collapse to my knees, grabbing my neck and feeling warm liquid run between my fingers. I can hear her laugh as I fall to the sidewalk. I lay there, clawing at the sidewalk as if to escape, feeling the warm liquid pool beneath me. My head rests on the wet bricks as I stare down at the bar entrance. It’s funny, I think; I just wanted to go for a walk.