As I round the curve on the far side of the lake, the oppressive feeling of fear is like a net thrown over me. The air has a charged feel, the tingly feel of static just before it rains, though there is not a cloud in the sky. Stars hang in the night sky as if they know something is not right, twinkling expectantly. I run faster, regretting my earlier decision to venture out alone. Every hair on my arms is at attention, every pulse of my heart crashes in my ears. The metallic taste of panic fills my mouth.

Just three weeks ago, it seemed the trouble was starting all over again. The message on my voicemail said “Hi Andrea, just hoping you’re doing well. Been thinking about you a lot recently, not sure if you still think about me. I still want you, but I know you don’t want me. I like the way you’re wearing your hair now. Red is a good color for you…” The air rushed out of my body; my stomach contracted into the familiar knot. I mashed the STOP button on the machine and immediately called Detective Drake. How did he know my hair was red? How did he find me? How can this be happening?

The nightmare began almost ten years ago. It started innocently, or so it seemed, with notes on my car, gifts in my mailbox. Then the phone calls started - in the middle of the night, during the day at work, to my cell. An unrecognized voice, claiming to love me, promising to cherish me and lavish me with everything a woman could desire. Suddenly the tone changed. Menacing, desperate, threatening to punish me for ignoring him, rejecting him. I changed my phone numbers, but in just days he called again. He seemed omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, and determined. The police traced the calls several times to various phone booths. Finally, after months of tormenting me, he was caught trying to break into my car. His prints matched those on the notes, and he was arrested. He was just a boy! Alex Kelso, a student at the high school where I taught English, but never one of my students. Only sixteen years old, but completely obsessed and deluded, living in a fantasy world that revolved around me…

Finally Detective Drake answered. He assured me that my tormentor was still in the inpatient mental health facility, receiving treatment for his illness. I was not comforted by this news.

If my high school had a 'Least Likely to be Stalked' award, I would certainly have won. The most accurate, though unflattering, description of me would be 'mousy.' Never a slave to fashion, I would rather shop for books than clothes or makeup. My passion for books led me to write. First silly adolescent love stories, then poetry. In college, several of my poems and short stories received awards. When the phone calls began, my muse abandoned me, leaving my novel half finished.

I've always been fiercely independent, a loner, really, but being alone now is still unnerving at times. My small but loyal circle of friends, Whitley, Karen and Brandon, have similar interests, and have taken to 'babysitting' me since this latest episode. They know me well, and know I hate admitting I'm afraid to be alone. As days and weeks passed with no further unsettling contact, I began to venture out into the world again, resuming my activities, trying not to let this one call lock me back into the prison I’d been sentenced to when the nightmare began.

Tonight I marveled at the clarity of the night sky, the sharpness of the stars and the clean, cool feeling of the night air as I ran my route around the shimmering lake which reflected the full moon like mirrored glass. Preferring to run after the sweltering heat of the day subsided, I usually ran at the same time every evening with my friend Brandon, but he unexpectedly had to work tonight. I was uneasy about running alone, but didn’t want to interrupt my routine. After I began, the beauty of the night calmed my nerves, and I quickly achieved my usual rhythm.

Yet in just a short time, I began to feel edgy. Small noises in the night were amplified in my head, and the sound of my own breathing was like waves crashing against rocks. The brilliance of the moonlight cast eerie and grotesque shadows all around me, and the slight breeze through the trees caused the shadows to move menacingly. Panic forced me to run faster and faster until I felt as if my heart would burst in my chest. Then I spotted a shadow in a small clearing that did not move with the breeze. The shadow raised its head. In the fierce light of the moonlit sky I could see his face. Terror combined with shock, as I saw the face of Detective Drake.

I stopped, barely able to breathe. Why was he here? The sight of Detective Drake, in the shadows, was so unexpected and out of place, I did not know what to do. How did he know I would be here?

He started toward me, slowly at first, then faster. Clouds moved across the night sky, uncovering the moon. Silver moonlight illuminated his face. As he moved closer, his face transformed into a feral grin. I turned and ran back along the trail, choked with terror.

“Andrea, why are you running?” He ran after me shouting, “I just want to talk to you. Andrea, I need to talk to you.”

I ran as fast as my legs could go, grateful for all the nights running with Brandon, building up my stamina, but I heard him running behind me. I didn’t dare look back, but kept focused on the trail ahead of me. Suddenly my foot caught on something and I lurched forward, sprawling onto the trail. I quickly scrambled up but could hear Detective Drake breathing. If I can only make it back to my car! Then I heard the sound of footsteps on the trail ahead. I cried out, “Help! Someone help me!” The shadow of a man appeared ahead, running toward me, just as Detective Drake grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me roughly to the ground. I struggled to get away as he pinned me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Brandon emerging from the darkness.

Brandon ran over to Drake, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him off me. Drake rose to his feet and swung wildly at Brandon, allowing me to roll out of the way and hide among the trees. As I peered out I saw Brandon, face down on the trail with Drake sitting astride him, wrenching Brandon’s arm behind his back. Without thinking, I grabbed a large rock and crept as quietly as possible behind Drake, and smashed the rock down on his head. He slumped forward heavily, rolling off of Brandon. Realizing what I’d done, I threw the rock to the ground. Illuminated by the bright moonlight, blood flowed from Drake’ head and pooled on the hard packed trail. Brandon staggered to his feet, staring at the scene, wiping sweat from his eyes.

Struggling to comprehend what had occurred, I fell to the ground in shock. “Oh my God. I think I killed him!”

Brandon ran over and knelt on the ground beside me. “I can’t believe what just happened. Who is that guy?”

“He was the detective on my stalker case. I don’t know what he’s doing here. He started chasing me.”

Brandon pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called 911. “We need an ambulance, and the police.”

* * *
Brandon and I sat in the back of the police car, not really believing or understanding what we'd been told. When the police searched Drake’s car, they found rope, duct tape, a large hunting knife, a detailed map of the area, cases of canned food, and bottled water. The cops speculated that Drake planned to abduct me and keep me somewhere, maybe in a secluded area, based on the provisions found. If Brandon hadn't switched his shift with someone tonight and decided to catch up with me...I shuddered, realizing my life could have ended horribly.

When they searched Drake’s home, they found a virtual shrine to me. Pictures everywhere. Most were snapshots taken with a telephoto lens, and printed out from his computer. The computer contained thousands of pictures of me, leaving my apartment, with friends from work, running along the trails. And letters, hundreds of letters written, but never sent, detailing his love from the very beginning. From the moment he began investigating my case, he knew we were meant to be together. Chronicling in vivid detail the innocent beginnings, then the spiral from obsession to madness.

I don’t know what’s next for me. How will I ever learn to trust, not be afraid? The chances of being stalked even once in a lifetime are miniscule, but twice? What is it about me that attracts this kind of psychotic obsession? All I know is I have to get away from this place. Too much baggage, too many negative associations.

As I’m packing up my meager possessions, preparing to move to the other side of the country and start a new life, it’s clear that one good thing has come from this recurring nightmare: I’m writing again.

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