Bump

CW: Contains themes of sexual violence, assault, and psychological distress.



    As she lay awake at 1:00, and 2:00, and 3:00 a.m., a breeze ruffled the leaves of the grapefruit tree outside her bedroom window. At least she hoped it was a breeze. It made pretty patterns on the curtains that she thought—prayed—were completely closed. So that no one could peer in and see her lying in bed. So that he couldn’t see her.

    Because if it wasn’t a breeze, it might be him. The man she’d been reading about, the East Area Rapist, called EAR in the news media for short. She was still new in Sacramento, but already she recognized some of the neighborhoods that he’d been preying upon. Arden Arcade. Carmichael. First floor single family homes, usually women living alone or with children. In conversations about the EAR, most people focused on the horrific things he did to a victim. Sudden footsteps in the night, a flashlight in her eyes. The ski mask had a dual purpose—to conceal his identity, but also to frighten the bejeesus out of her. The big knife, cuts made on her neck. Him pushing into her, his smell in her nose. How he’d finish with a grunt of satisfaction. Then he’d get up and go quiet to make her think he was gone, only to suddenly burst out of the darkness again. Sickening details replayed again and again in the media reports and women’s nightmares.

    But she found herself thinking more about a different aspect of his crimes. What he did before the actual attacks. How he prowled the neighborhood days or even weeks ahead of time, looking for the right kind of victim. His footprints left in the dewy grass outside their windows. How agile he was, able to jump gates and fences. He’d even been seen—and heard—up top on the roofs. How fast he could sprint away if anyone looked at him suspiciously. There was speculation that maybe he broke into some of the homes before the night of a planned attack, opening window locks that no one would notice. So he could slip in easily later bwhen the fever came on him. Once he’d even drilled a hole in a window, small but big enough to reach the latch and open it. How could someone sleep through that? But they did.

    That’s what kept her up at night, wondering what she might have done that could compromise her safety. She tried turning over to her other side, but her back to the window and its moving shadows was just intolerable, so she turned over again, and her mind continued its nightly catalogue. Were the front and back door deadbolts locked? What about the security screen doors? Her mind went over how the security doors in her rented home had to be unlocked with a key from either side, whether inside or out. Supposedly illegal because of the fire danger, but her landlord said the rental had been inspected and nothing said about the locks. They meant she was safer from an intruder who was on the outside. But terrible if there was a fire and she needed to get out quickly. Maybe even worse if he somehow got in and she was trapped in there with him. How long would it take her to break free, fumble with the key and unlock the door? Too long.

    Going over the terrain of her back yard came next. It was fenced and bolted and the fencing on the two sides was pretty high. The crossbeams for the fences were also on the inside so an intruder had no foothold. But apparently, he was physically fit—how high a fence could he actually scale? Plus, the fence in the back of the yard was older, shorter and had cross-beams on the outside that he could step on. That outside fence faced the neighbor’s yard in the back. What if he could sneak into that yard, easily leap that lower fence and suddenly be at her back door? The security screen door wouldn’t allow entry (assuming she had locked it upon closing). But the two windows in the back of the house would. She had walked past that house behind hers to try to see what the yard was like, but a garage blocked her view, damn it. She meant to creep into her back yard one night after dark to see what she could see of that neighbor’s yard. But she had forgotten—or maybe she just didn’t want to. Because what if she crept back there only to come face-to-ski-mask with him?

    Now she looked at the clock: 4:21. They said he struck between one and four a.m. But was 4:21 safe? She couldn’t imagine why 20 minutes would make a difference to someone like him, driven by such an obsession. She’d read that he had a mommy fixation too; maybe he had to wait until Mother was asleep before he could sneak out their front door. Maybe Mother stayed awake to try to keep him home.

    Oh! What was that bump? She lay still, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Bump … bump … bump … Until finally that too quieted.

    She plumped her pillow, pulled the blanket up. Had the thought that came to her every night. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted her own mind to be strong enough. Every night she tried to resist. But almost every night, especially if she heard a noise, she failed.

    She turned her phone on and tapped on Safari. Went to her favorites, and there it was:

“Golden State Killer—once known as Sacramento’s East Area Rapist—sentenced to life in prison.”

    He was locked up. It had been decades since he had raped women in her town. It only felt like he was still out there because books and movies and her own night terrors kept the story alive. But he wasn’t walking and stalking freely anymore.

    Maybe now she could finally get to sleep. Except.

    He had never been the only rapist, the only killer, out there.