Anyone who lived in Southern California and/or the greater Los Angeles area during the months of June 1984, through August 1985, will immediately freeze, hunch, and have a story to tell if you mention the words “Night Stalker.” Who we originally referred to as “The Walk-In Killer,” The Night Stalker became a terrifying part of our lives for over a year, leaving us sleep-deprived, fearful, anxious prisoners to a reign of terror not seen in California since the Manson Family murders. It began during the summer of my transition from fifth grade to sixth. And it was tortuous.
For those who don’t know (though I find it hard to believe anyone could be unaware of one of the most notorious serial killers in recent history), Richard Ramirez was convicted of murdering 13 people, as well as 14 burglaries, 11 sexual assaults, and 5 attempted murders. I don’t like to refer to these types of people as monsters, because it gives them some element of fantasy instead of the cold, hard reality that awful people exist. This was a human man so filled with hate; he took it out on others who didn’t deserve it. Some people are just…bad. Without a conscience, without a heart, without a second thought for others and their humanity. He was a selfish waste of space. Monsters aren’t real; HE was real.
I can remember my classmates and I coming to school with black circles under our eyes because we couldn’t sleep the night before. There was so much lore surrounding him, such as: he looked for yellow houses off the freeway; he never went after kids, only their parents; he left a Satanic symbol at every kill site in the hopes of cursing any survivors (that one was actually true). He would kill in San Francisco one night, then Los Angeles the next (a 10-hour drive one way). We never knew where he was going to be, and the amount of anxiety it caused was unbearable.
At the time, I had a custom-made, wood canopy, single-sleep waterbed (I say custom because they typically did not make single waterbeds – they were a pain in the ass. All waterbeds were!) Because yes, waterbeds were DEFINITELY a thing! My parents had one, my brother had one, and I had one. With a waterbed comes a lot of pumps and gadgets and tubes, etc. These things are typically hidden under the bed, which is then enclosed by a wooden box for aesthetic reasons. All this to say, there is no space under the bed to hide or store things, because the space is taken up by all of these accoutrements. While no child (or even adult!) should have to map out an escape plan from a serial killer, in order to calm my mind, it was essential. I completed a full-scale drawing of my room, including where my bed was located, in order to carve out an escape route during the middle of the night, should he stumble upon our house. I decided that, because I was short and small, I could potentially cut into the side of the wood under my bed and hide myself amongst the waterbed paraphernalia. He would never think to look there, and I would outsmart him.
Ever elusive, he continued to terrorize our state for months on end. We sort of got used to it, because it was simply our reality. But none of us were the same. Always looking over our shoulder, always suspicious, and (to this day), always waking up at the same time every night when he would typically attack, hoping we weren’t next. As the months dragged on, we capitulated and went on about our normal lives.
As I’ve said before, both of my parents worked in education. My mom was a reading specialist who worked with myriad kids to bring literacy to life. At the end of the school year, educators are often given gifts by their students and parents to show their appreciation for the successes gained during those nine months. One year, my mom was gifted a fabulous gold key ring adorned with a whistle. It was old-timey and huge. It almost looked like a jailer’s keychain: it was a big round ring, with a whistle that dangled. It announced its presence with authority! I loved it so much and convinced her to put not only her school keys on it, but also her house and car keys, because if there was one thing my mother ALWAYS misplaced, it was her keys. I figured this thing was so big and so prominent, she’d never lose her keys again! Surprisingly, she agreed, and from then on, this big, gold-ringed keychain was canon.
Like most boys his age, my brother was a faithful Boy Scout, and my dad was one of his Scout leaders. Every year, they would travel to Camp Tahquitz for their annual week-long pilgrimage, with extended family (mom and sister in our case) welcome for the final night. This also meant that mom and sister were home alone for four nights during the week they were away. This was nothing new; they’d been going to Tahquitz for a few years already, and we appreciated the time without the boys in the house, if even just for a few days. I would always sleep with my mom in their glorious, king-sized waterbed, with the caveat that I was doing her a favor, when in actuality, it was one hundred percent for my peace of mind. This was amped ALL the way up when my brother and dad left during the killer crisis of ’85.
My dad was a depression baby. Though my grandparents were well-off for the times, my dad still had that mentality of waste not, want not. Save. Don’t spend what you don’t have, and don’t tax the environment by abusing its resources. He was the quintessential environmentalist, and did not take lightly to the Earth being abused. He was all about nature, and had been recycling and fighting for sustainability long before it was En Vogue. I can remember crushing cans with the “can crusher” since I was six years old. It really mattered to him, and I’m so grateful, because he passed it on to not only my brother and me, but our kids as well. In the same vein, he was vocal and clear about not using electricity when unnecessary. If he thought a light needn’t be on, he turned it off. Air conditioning? Only when temps hit 85 degrees Fahrenheit. Pool heater? NEVER.
Like many parents (and me, now), he’d often say, “We’re not trying to power the whole neighborhood! If you need light, go outside!” We were very much in the practice of having only the lights on in the room we were in, and turning them off when we left said room. Our laundry room was part of the detached garage, and he wouldn’t even let me turn the floodlights on in the back when it was my turn to take the wash out of the dryer, even though I was deathly afraid of the dark! Call me Forrest Gump, because I never moved so fast as when the laundry was done at night and it was my turn to bring it in.
To bring this all together, after a year of exhaustion, still gripped with fear, the upcoming trip to Tahquitz had my mom and me on edge. The boys were leaving us for five whole days and four whole nights while there was a psycho killer on the loose! Qu’est-ce que c’est? My tummy was full set to rumble, and I figured I’d puke at least one of the days they were gone due to my wildly unregulated nerves. And I did. But I had a good reason!
My mom and I devised a plan that the second my dad and brother were out of sight, we would turn on every single light we had, including the garage lights and the backyard floodlights. She said we’d worry about the aftermath later, but we were going to be so lit up that the Walk-In Killer wouldn’t dare approach our house because he’d be seen immediately. We had a very long driveway, with a carport next to the equally long porch to the front door, then a garage at the end of the drive. On the porch, there was your standard porch light, as well as a very bright emergency floodlight that pointed straight at the door, so there would be no trouble finding the doorknob and lock if necessary. We enabled that one, too. We did this during daylight hours, so we didn’t realize just how bright our house appeared until the sun went down. It looked like the house from Christmas Vacation on steroids. I’m surprised none of our neighbors complained!
We were feeling good! I actually breathed a sigh of relief for the first time in what felt like a lifetime and was not afraid to go to sleep for once! I was sure that for the first time in a year, I wouldn’t wake up petrified between the hours of 2am-4am (which is when he would typically strike). Being in the dark was bad, being in the light was good! No throwing up for THIS gal!
We went about our normal day, ran some errands, had dinner, watched TV, all the normal things you do on a boring summer day. When it was time for bed, I assured my mom I’d keep her safe by sleeping in her room with her, and she let me have the win. Hoo boy, when I tell you the true and glorious rest I got that night! I woke up so happy, feeling refreshed, knowing my next sleep would be the same because I felt.so.safe. I made my way into the kitchen for some cereal and was at the dining table when my mom came in and asked if I’d seen her keys. Her giant, gold, jailer’s ring keychain containing her car and house keys. I hadn’t seen them, but I wasn’t surprised. Like I said, she was always misplacing them and frantically looking for them (she usually didn’t realize they were missing until it was time to go, so she was always in a mad panic to find them. Saint Anthony can only do so much!)
We turned the house upside down and inside out and just couldn’t find them. We checked everything twice! They were simply nowhere to be found. Then I had the idea that she may have locked them in the car after we arrived home from our final errand the previous day. It wouldn’t have been the first time (and certainly not the last). We decided to walk out to the carport and check the two-toned Vanagon for signs of the big ol’ keychain. When I opened the front door, I heard a jingle.
My heart dropped and I immediately developed nervous toots. I knew exactly what that jingle was.
There, perfectly situated in the lock to the house, with the brightest floodlight possible shining directly on it, was her keychain. IN THE DOOR! Nothing says, “Welcome! Bienvenue! Come on in! See these lights shining on the locks?The DOOR IS OPEN! And when you’re all set, go ahead and take the Vanagon! It’s yours!” like leaving your eye-catching keyring with the keys to every bit of safety and security you have in your home dangling from the door.
I immediately threw up. And then I started to cry. Shout out to my inherent and ever-present panic and anxiety disorder!
We were both stunned and could do nothing other than look at each other, mouths agape. At the time, I had never been so mad as I was right then. My mom knew it and tried to smooth things over by saying, “well hey…we left him an open invitation and he left us alone! We live in a super safe neighborhood, so it all worked out, amirite?” I couldn’t WAIT for my dad to get home!
We continued with the lights for the next three nights (and I made sure to have eyes on my mother’s keys at every moment), and we made it through. But that security I felt that first night never returned. I was back to waking up between 2am-4am, planning my hiding spot, and sneaking into my brother’s room to sleep on his floor.
Richard Ramirez was arrested on August 31, 1985, in downtown Los Angeles after residents recognized him from the wanted pictures blasted across every media outlet and telephone pole. He had no idea he had been identified as the Night Stalker, and these HERO residents chased him and beat him senseless until the police arrived. He died on June 7, 2013 and every single person I grew up with who understood our shared Hell rejoiced. This sigh of relief was REAL. It was over. Finally.
Still, I will never have an unlocked window, I will always know where my keys are, I’ll never live in a yellow house by the freeway (just in case!) and have accepted the fact that I will instinctively wake between the hours of 2am-4am for the rest of my life.
A Day Leighton, A Dollar Short 