Footsteps in the Dark

Ann had come to dread arriving home after dark, but her twice a week dance classes made it unavoidable. She had lived in the Haight a year and had never had a bad experience, but her friends kept voicing concern. "The low rent is not worth the risk," they would say. "The bad guys will notice you eventually," they would also say. Her answer was always, "I'm careful." Nevertheless, their concern was getting to her.

It wasn't just the low rent. She loved her apartment. It was on the top floor of a Victorian building on Page Street. It was just four units. The bottom was two garages, but the other tenants had those. The first floor apartment had its own entrance, which must have been the entrance for the apartment just below hers as well. Her entrance was a set of external stairs to the front door, then a long flight of stairs up to the third floor. The landing at the top was for two apartments, hers to the left and the apartment manager's to the right. He was a creepy little guy, but he kept his distance once she let him know they were not going to become best friends. Plus, she had three locks on her door, one a deadbolt which could be locked and unlocked only from the inside. She felt safe.

The apartment was in bad shape when she moved in, and she had worked hard to make it beautiful. Soot had covered the walls and ceiling in the living room from a fireplace insert burned with the chimney flue rusted shut. She fixed that and painted every wall and stick of woodwork. The refrigerator had been painted purple. She restored it to white. The kitchen had a built-in ironing board frame that someone had converted to a spice rack. The bathroom was split with bathtub and sink separate from the toilet. Both little rooms had windows that looked out on the roof of the building next door. Someone had pounded in large nails strategically so that the windows could open only about six inches. The living room and bedroom each had the triple windows opening to the back looking down onto an overgrown empty space below. There were no lights back there, so even with just lace panels on her windows, her bedroom was dark at night. She needed that to sleep well.

She was cruising the neighborhood looking for a place to park. She always felt lucky when she found a space close, but tonight was not lucky. She finally found a space about four blocks away. Had to take it.

Before getting out, she scanned the street in all directions. All clear. She looped the long strap of her handbag cross-body and opened her door. She scanned the streets again before closing it and then started walking. After about a block, she heard footsteps. Uncertain where they were coming from, she turned around and again scanned the streets. She saw no one, and the footsteps had stopped. She positioned her keys between her fingers in a fist and resumed walking. The footsteps started also, and she felt certain they were behind her. She spun around quickly and thought she glimpsed a movement, like someone slipping into the shadows. The footsteps had stopped again.

Ann was beginning to feel real fear. She quickened her pace as she walked. The disembodied footsteps quickened as well. She didn't bother to turn around again. With just a half block to go, she broke into a run. With running footsteps matching hers, she made it up her stairs, key ready, and was inside the entry door. She turned the lock and listened. Nothing. "So, screw you!", she thought. She was breathing hard, not just from the run. That had been a close call.

It was late, and she had work tomorrow, so she wasted no time getting into bed. She was almost asleep when she heard a "clunk." It awoke her enough for her to analyze it, that it had come from outside or maybe a neighbor's apartment. She went back to sleep.

From deep sleep, she was suddenly and completely alert. There was a sound...a creaking...creaking...creaking. This was inside. Someone was walking down her hallway toward her bedroom door. Her first thought was the creepy apartment manager, since he had a key, and she didn't remember if she had locked the deadbolt. Impulsively, she got out of bed and slipped behind her bedroom door...passing the bedroom doorway...directly in front of HIM. Stupid! In an instant, there was a gun lodged under her left cheekbone. It was not held by the creepy little apartment manager.

He was tall and lean, black, with a bandana twisted and tied around his forehead. This was bad. He was in her home. He pushed her onto her bed. Knowing what was coming, she told him, "I have my period," foolishly thinking that might deter him.

"Take it out!" She quickly did, wrapping it in her panties and putting it aside. He started kissing her. Are you kidding?! He got nothing from that! He had the gun in his hand, on the pillow beside her head. That scared her more than anything.

"You don't need the gun. I'll cooperate." Surprisingly, he laid it off to the side.

Things did not go well. She was dry, of course. He complained.

"I'm sorry. Sex isn't easy for me even under good circumstances." This was close to the truth. She was young with not much experience.

"Why?"

"I don't know." He had a mean intensity, and she did not want to find out how short his fuse might be. "There is some baby oil in the bathroom."

He picked up his gun and went to the bathroom. She lay there perfectly still. She considered what she could possibly do to help herself. She saw nothing, nothing that would not just make matters worse. She resolved to stay as calm as she could. That had worked so far. She must not panic.

When he returned, he managed to enter her. She tried to put her mind someplace else, her attention anywhere else. Then he lay on top of her, looking into the big round mirror from a dresser that she used as a headboard.

"Why the mirror?"

"I'm a dancer. Dancers need a mirror when they practice."

After a while, he got up and started walking around her bedroom. For what seemed like a long time, he stood in front of her dresser staring at the carved wooden box she used as a jewelry box, but he did not open it. He left the room. Was he tempting her to try something? Was some resistance what he wanted? Her analysis had not changed. There was no move she could make that would be successful.

He returned and stood in the bedroom doorway, inches from her head. In her peripheral vision, she saw the twisted bandana hanging from his hand. She thought, "...so now he is going to strangle me." Again, she concluded there was nothing she could do. "I have no control over whether I live or die. All I control is how I live or die." She chose peace and acceptance, closed her eyes, and remained motionless. He turned and walked away.

She heard him on the area rug in the living room. He asked, "Do you have any money?"

"Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"Just what's in my purse. About $7.00."

He grunted and didn't bother to find her purse.

She heard him on the kitchen linoleum. "Do you have any drugs?"

"Sorry. I don't use."

"Alcohol?"

"There might be some wine in the refrigerator."

He didn't look for that either.

After prowling from room to room again, he finally decided to leave. She heard him on the wood floor of the hallway. He went to the door and turned all three latches. It didn't open. Since she had not locked the deadbolt when she came home, when he turned all three, he locked one. He jerked hard on the doorknob. He turned all three again, this time unlocking one, locking two. He turned latches again. To Ann's surprise, she could tell by the sounds which latch he was turning and whether it was locking or unlocking.

She felt him start to panic. "You'll have to come and unlock the door." She stood up; he quickly backed into the bathroom. "No, lie down again." She did.

She could feel his fear. He felt trapped. She wanted him gone. "Turn the latch above the doorknob to the right." He did. The door opened, and he tore down the stairs, out that entry door, and into the street, leaving the door wide open. She had to go down those stairs, close that door, and lock it. Her bubble of calm broke. She was shaking. She was crying. She heard his footsteps again, pounding in a fast escape down the street.

Back in her apartment, all three latches locked, she ran from room to room. How did he get in? How did he get in? Was it through the door from her kitchen to her neighbor's back porch? It was locked. Wouldn't he have gone out the way he came in? Did he manage to squeeze through the six inches of a bathroom window from the roof of the adjacent building? Was that the clunk she heard? How did he get in? That she could not figure that out was terrifying. He could come back. Any sense of safety was gone. She called the police.

Two young, uniformed officers came to take her to a hospital. There was some waiting involved. The one kept trying to talk to her. His girlfriend was a rape counselor. He kept trying to convince Ann to take her card, to call her, talk to her. Ann was less than receptive. He kept pushing. The pushing made it worse. She had been forced enough. She felt shut down. She did not want to be pushed; she did not want to debate him; she wanted him to stop. It occurred to her to say, "Maybe if you put your gun in my face, you can get me to comply." But she didn't. Instead, she took the card and shoved it into her coat pocket with no intention of ever using it.

The doctors did what doctors do. Rape kit. Tests for STDs. The test for syphilis needed to be some weeks later. The two officers drove her home.

The quiet officer walked her up to her apartment. He sat down at her little kitchen table. Ann concluded that this was a good man. He was big and muscular, brown hair, nice mustache. Under other circumstances, she would have found him extremely attractive. Under these circumstances, she didn't know what to do with him. Why was he sitting there? Where was the other one?

Ann sat down at the table and looked at him. "How did he get in?"

"Detectives will come tomorrow. They'll take your statement, get a description, collect evidence, fingerprints, and try to determine that." She knew that would do little good. She could not give a description. A black man in a dark room, and she had made sure to not even look where his face would have been. But if they could tell her how he got in....

The officer was settled back in his chair, as though he was prepared to stay. Did she want him to?

"You don't have to stay."

"Really?"

"Really. I'll turn on all the lights...find something to do."

He looked at her, searching her face to make sure she meant it. She did. He slowly stood up, hesitated, then walked to her door, and headed down the stairs. She followed him to lock the door behind him. He opened the door, turned to look at her again, giving her one last chance to keep him there. She didn't take it. He left. She locked the door. She listened to his footsteps as he walked away.