My serial killer guilt

Unlike so many others, I lived to tell the tale

It was a perfect autumn day, but my patience was wearing thin.

Half an hour and still no bus, I thought, frustrated. I’d just had dental surgery and my mouth throbbed.

Then a tan Volkswagen Beetle car pulled up.

Rolling down the window, the driver smiled. ‘Where you going?’ he asked. He was cute! ‘Up to campus,’ I said.

It was October 1974, I was 21 and studying Pharmacy at the University of Utah.

‘Me, too! Hop in,’ he beamed.

Back then, it wasn’t uncommon for strangers to offer lifts.

Besides, he was a fellow student, clean-cut and handsome with curly darkbrown hair. My lucky day! I thought. Climbing in, I reached for the handle to close the door. It wasn’t there. Leaning over me, he pulled it shut by the open window. ‘I’m Ted,’ he grinned. I didn’t worry – lots of my mates’ old cars had broken bits.

After a few minutes, Ted took a wrong turn. ‘Where we going?’ I asked. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I just have an errand to run,’ he replied. Not at all, I thought. He was cute, polite – and a first-year Law student.

But the road twisted and turned, and became more and more unpopulated.

Driving in silence, Ted slowed down as we passed various picnic spots.

Is he looking for somewhere to park and fool around? I thought, worried now.

He was charming – but I wasn’t up for that.

Suddenly, Ted pulled over in a secluded spot and twisted to face me.

‘Do you know what?’ he asked me coldly, his face just centimetres away from mine. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

Before I could react, his hands were around my throat, squeezing hard.

Frantic, I tried to push him away, but he was just too strong for me.

Suddenly, he let go and his rage-filled eyes locked with mine.

Screaming, I fought back.

Ted choked me again, until everything went black.

I came to, lying on a picnic table.

Ted was slapping my face, ripping open the dentist’s stitches.

Blood exploded in my mouth.

Yanking me off the table, Ted slugged me in the stomach, over and again.

‘Don’t!’ I pleaded, vomiting, sobbing.

Shoving me to the ground, he stood over me, his fists clenched, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging.

‘You should be thanking me you’re still alive. I can kill you any time I want!’ he spat.

‘Are you grateful?’ he screamed at me. ‘Yes,’ I stammered, terrified. But the vicious attack continued until I lost consciousness again.

When I regained consciousness, Ted grinned.

‘Good girl! Don’t die yet! You wouldn’t want to miss the best part!’ he exclaimed.

Then, tugging down my trousers, Ted raped me.

Just let me die, I prayed as he strangled me again.

When I came to, face down in the dirt, it was dark.

Ted was still there, his back to me as he fiddled with something in his car.

My heart hammering, and barely conscious, I pulled up my broken body. And ran.

But my trousers were still around my ankles, and I tripped and tumbled over and over…

I plunged into a river, and was swept away.

Terror gripped me as I was thrown around the swirling water, smashing into rocks. I’m going to drown, I thought numbly.

Or perhaps he’d find me, finish the job.

Suddenly, I slammed into a metal grate and managed to scramble up onto the bank.

Petrified, I hobbled through the darkness toward the city.

But, each time I saw

‘Do you know what?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to kill you’

headlights, my heart stopped.

That bloodthirsty monster was still out there. Waiting to kill me. I must’ve walked 15 miles, battered, bruised and freezing.

But, finally, I made it back to my room.

Jumping in the bath, I soaked for hours.

I felt filthy, as if I’d never scrub away the guilt and humiliation. Whatever had I been thinking, accepting a lift in a complete stranger’s car? Red-hot shame burned through me. No-one can ever know, I thought, scared.

My mum would make me drop out of uni, move home.

Traumatised, I decided that I’d never tell a soul.

In the following weeks, I learned a girl named Nancy Wilcox, 16, had disappeared just before I’d been attacked.

She’d last been seen getting into a tan VW Beetle.

Then, three more girls went missing – Melissa Smith, Laura Aime, and Debra Kent, all 17.

And, just like me, they were petite, with long brown hair parted down the middle. It can’t be the same guy, I convinced myself.

It was simply too horrifying to believe.

But then a young woman named Carol Daronch, 18, came forward.

She’d been lured into a tan VW Beetle by a man who’d been masquerading as a police officer.

He’d tried to handcuff her and hit her with a crowbar.

She’d broken free – and, in August 1975, picked her attacker from a line-up.

His name was Theodore ‘Ted’ Bundy.

Seeing him on the news, I recognised him instantly.

Eventually, Bundy was convicted of the murder of 36 women across the US. Yet police believed he’d killed over 100.

He’d lure them into his car, rape and murder them.

If I’d come forward, I could’ve saved some, I thought, disgusted with myself. Ashamed, I locked it away. I married, and had two lovely daughters.

In January 1989, Bundy, 42, was executed by electric chair.

Afterwards, I still suffered from panic attacks, anger.

In 2011, I had counselling and my decades-old secret tumbled out.

I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, and started writing my story to help other sufferers. It gave me the strength to finally move on.

Bundy is one of the most evil, prolific serial killers to ever have lived. But I survived his terrifying attack. And, on dark days, I remember just that.

I felt filthy, as if I’d never scrub away the guilt...