Crime, Epic Adventures, Mystery

The Wolf

There are things I remember vividly about her. How she would occasionally tug the creases of her thin lips into an awkward smile. The sway of black hair when the October sun made it look auburn, as if it had been dipped in warm honey.

Her voice was soft and tender but she was fiercely opinionated. When my mom meet Jane, the woman was sitting in a church pew with her fingers interlaced across her lap. They shook hands as a round of introductions were made. Meanwhile, I fidgeted impatiently at my mom’s side, attempting to ignore the ache in my stomach with anticipation of our afternoon potluck.

Her husband was a pilot. A handsome man with a charming demeanor and ice blue eyes. Yet when he opened his mouth, his jokes fell flat. People around us forced a laughed to make the silence more tolerable but the words lingered out of place… even though the suit and tie fit right in with the rest of us. Phone numbers were exchanged along with an invitation to our house for dinner. My mom was queen bee of making newcomers feel welcome.

When I look back with an adult perspective, I can see things I failed to notice as a teenager. An inferno boiling below the surface. A valuable lesson in choosing who to trust with expert precision.

As the seasons changed, my mom and Jane struck up a casual friendship. Jane began writing a healthy eating column for the church bulletin and since my mom loved to cook, the two of them swapped recipes. She was invited to walk the neighborhood with us when my mom became determined to lose weight. I listened intently to the conversations between adults and watched as Jane pulled a gray cardigan taut when frost descended once more.

I would hear my mom correct her over Bible verse interpretations. She would twist the words to fit an internal narrative as she held those around her to a higher standard than she held herself. After catching a church member in the act of something she deemed unhealthy, Jane would go out of her way to bring it to light for all to see by writing about it in the church column. Jane became obsessive. Yet on more than one occasion members would be invited to join her at a seedy bar in town.

Jane’s husband and my step-father struck up conversations of their own. In no time the two of them were standing over a grill, a cold beer in one hand and a plate of steak to bring to the table secured in the other. Yet as steaming bowls of potatoes and vegetarian options were passed to our friends meal after meal, the air between the adults had grown cold and distant. Tension hung like a guillotine.

When a good person does something terrible, it eats away at them. Nights become exhausting as sleep is lost. An attempt is made at justifying their actions but they live in a prison of hell. Self-sabotage is a pleasure they seek to lighten the burden of guilt that weighs heavy on their hearts. Yet truly evil people… feel absolutely nothing.

Which one was she? As I think back to sitting next to Jane at the dinner table, passing a plate of snapped peas from my hand to hers… I can’t help wondering if she thought about what she had done. When someone smiled at her over a glass of deep red sparkling grape juice, did she flash back to all the blood she had to clean up in that tiny trailer in Alaska?

When the pastor held communion and said “Eat this bread as a symbol of my body” did Jane Reth think back to the moment when a firearm weighed heavy in her hand and she decided to pull the trigger? When she wrote the column for church members, did it conjure up a memory of the card she sent to his mother the first mother’s day after his death? Did she criticize others because she was riddled with guilt or did she do such things because she felt nothing at all?

Jane Reth is a murderer.” My step-father announced to my mom.

She waved a hand in front of her face and laughed it off. Jane hardly weighed one hundred pounds. She was pretty in an understated sort-of way. While she was at times, a little strange and off-putting… she devoted a huge portion of her time to the service of others.

Why would you even think such a thing?” My mom questioned.

Because her husband told me she killed her first husband.” He said quietly.

Maybe he was joking? Maybe he was so terrible, she joked about killing him?” My mom suggested.

Maybe… but I kind-of believe him.” He stated tentatively.

A heated discussion over religion brewed between my parents. One claiming to be agnostic and the other, deeply rooted in faith. Neither refusing to give an inch while causing both of them to feel unbalanced. My step-father never wanted our family to practice Christianity and my mom couldn’t live life without God in it. A consistent war to tip the scale was ever present in the house I called home.

Scott Coville was an only child who disappeared out of his family’s life in 1988. It took Reta (Scott’s mother) over twenty years to find out what happened to her son. In that time, Scott’s father passed on having never received the closure he justly deserved. It broke both of his parent’s hearts.

I have witnessed first hand the rage that can blossom out of the rot where love once bloomed. Money and power are the most common motives for murder. Yet, nothing says I loved you quite like a brutal, premeditated end to someone’s life.

In a small fishing town called Sitka nestled near the state capitol of Alaska, collage sweethearts Jane and Scott decided to begin their lives together. Scott made money for his little family through work he picked up while fishing and canning and Jane felt she found the love of her life. It didn’t take long for the honeymoon phase to come to a screeching halt.

The endless disagreements became too much for Scott to handle, so he reached out to his mother in Fairbanks for support. The couple made strides to seek out church counseling yet it left the pastor feeling increasingly uneasy about the well-being of this match. As Scott began discussing divorce, something toxic ruptured inside of Jane.

If you’re wearing your Sabbath best, with your shoes shined and white blouse freshly pressed. Even though your hands are covered in red… do you sound like a sheep, or howl like a rabid wolf instead? As Scott slept in their bed, Jane shot her husband with a 357 magnum point blank in the head.

Petite Jane cut Scott’s body into pieces. She parked his car at the airport nearby and meticulously cleaned the home they had once shared together. Since Sitka was a fishing town, garbage was incinerated rather than taken to a landfill. Scott was picked up with the trash and never found again.

Grown men are allowed to leave their wives and travel elsewhere. Jane and Scott had been married for only a few months. His mother Reta had lost all hope of finding her son but she suspected Jane all along.

A three page letter was written to Reta by Jane explaining how the marriage went wrong. She fabricated details about choosing to go separate ways and moving on with their lives. Yet the first mother’s day after Scott had been murdered, Jane sent Reta a card in her handwriting and signed Scott’s name next to hers.

In 2007 Jane’s second husband provided a tip to police in regard’s to the disappearance. She wasn’t officially arrested until 2010. 20 Years had gone by since Reta reported her son as a missing person. Through taped phone calls, detectives were able to get Jane to admit what she had done on record. Without evidence of a body, the majority of the prosecution rested on obtaining a confession.

A video of Jane’s interview with police can be found on YouTube or by watching the episode created by the popular TV show called Snapped. Reth finally took responsibility for what she had done. While various versions of this story can be found online, I believe that I am able to add a unique perspective because I personally knew her. She wasn’t just a murderer, she was a friend.

When Mr. Reth told my step-father about the murder… it was long before the Reth’s had gotten divorced. The police had not yet become more involved in the case. It seemed too fanatical to be factual, especially when we had no knowledge of Jane being married to anyone other than the husband she had introduced us to. It was for that reason we never told anyone or gave it a second thought.

The police didn’t find any evidence of drug abuse between Jane or Scott with the exception of recreational marijuana. She had no criminal history before or after the murder of her husband. A passing rumor was overheard about a plea for self defense, but it wasn’t supported by the evidence.

Only Jane could attest to her state of mind. The district attorney motioned to charge Jane with first-degree murder. When she decided to plead guilty, the charges were reduced to second-degree murder. She is currently serving thirty-six years behind bars which will lessen to Twenty-four years with good behavior.

When news of Jane’s arrest and transport back to Alaska was released to the press, my mom made a call to her childhood best friend. Joy Wiebe was a petite woman of faith who shared her life as an ice road trucker with a significant number of followers on Instagram. When she wasn’t risking her life, she was working on her farm… in Fairbanks, Alaska. To our shock, Joy was close friend’s with Reta and her son Scott.

Joy described the Coville’s as a kind and loving family. She was enraged over the devastation Jane’s presence had inflicted upon them, while my mom (having known Reth) remained skeptical. Yet the question lingers ever present in my mind… if you’re wearing your Sabbath best, with your shoes shined and white blouse freshly pressed. Even though your hands are covered in red… are you a sheep, or a wolf instead?

Notes from the Author:

When Autumn leaves are dropping, I love curling up with a spine tingling mystery and a hot cup of tea… don’t you? This true story was written from my own perspective. I have painstakingly gathered research to share this final product with all of you. Names were removed to obscure identities. The only sources I’ll be sharing are the ones I discovered online. If you enjoy a good mystery, it may shock you to know more than one murder occurred within the church I attended. I can’t wait to write about the other one.

If you’re wondering where I’ve been while my blog has remained dormant, I sincerely apologize. I agonized over being gone for so long! An early frost arrived on our little farm that set into motion a long to-do list. Farm work will forever take priority. So what have I been up to? Mending fences, building a greenhouse, planting lots (and lots) of bulbs, washing buckets and blankets, buying and storing feed, taking care of my kid, mucking out and preparing stalls for winter, going trick-or-treating, hiring a new farrier to trim hooves, and attempting to balance normal house work and appointments.

Whew! I’m trying to get back on schedule, bare with me. For now, I’ll be thrilled to post once a week even if it doesn’t fall on a Tuesday. Next to spring, Autumn is the busiest time of the year for us. We’re preparing garden beds so our farm is overflowing with blooms. On a positive note, I snagged three AMAZING frosted windows for the greenhouse build… they came out of a mansion! I am DYING (figuratively) to walk you through it on video when it’s all finished. Once winter rolls in… I’ll be spending almost all of my free time avoiding the cold by writing blogs in front of our wood burning stove. Don’t give up on me yet!


Cover Image of the Joker: Makeup was done by Kayla @FacesByGremlina, Photography was done by yours truly.


A Small Thing Like Me

I was walking down a city street in Chicago. Garbage littered the edges of the hot pavement, and there was a smell I couldn’t quite identify. The blacktop was so poorly maintained that it was broken up into large chunks which I nearly tripped on, yet there arising from the cracks was a lone flower. The purple upturned petals lifted skyward, it had taken root in the smallest patch of soil and despite being engulfed by skyscrapers… it had bloomed. This tiny little thing among giants was a marvel of strength to behold.

When I wrote my story titled “The Night I Had to Save Our Lives”… I decided to post it because I felt that it might make me feel better. I was reliving what happened to me as if it was permanently locked into my brain and I felt compelled to find a way to pour it out. In a world where women’s rights and gun rights are a hot topic, I felt a lot like that tiny flower. A small thing among the giants who more than likely voted towards whatever swayed their hearts and lined their pockets. Yet it’s impact negatively effected my life.

Just a few short weeks later, Russia invaded Ukraine. My husband and I stared at our smart phones while checking for updates about the war on a daily basis. We watched videos of mothers clutching their children while rockets zinged over their heads. We saw images of a father weeping over the lifeless body of his son. We heard stories about brave families who fled the country but left loved ones behind to defend their homes. As more and more media piled into news feeds and the shock of the unjust radiated through the comfort of American homes… people were overwhelmed with the question of “How could something like this happen to someone like me?”

Meanwhile, alone on my laptop I browsed through stories that total strangers shared with me about horrific events that happened to them in their own homes. The messages in my inbox on Facebook discussed the topic of being empowered over taking back the control and responsibility over one’s personal safety rather than leaving it in the hands of others. Women reached out to me and talked about being raped, beaten, and many times caught off guard by an intruder within their own homes. What happened to me was a nightmare and yet many had stories that were so much worse than my own.

Some days ago a clip rolled around of the Ukrainian government giving out weapons that had been shipped straight from American soil. These firearms were being placed into the hands of grandmothers, CEO’S, mothers, and even stunning debutant winners. Soldiers helped prepare these brave people by setting up targets in alley ways to show them how to use their weapons to defend what’s rightfully theirs. Over here in America we continued to take our children to school and live our lives almost untouched by such traumatic events with the exception of the rising cost of oil and gasoline.

My story proved to many of my personal friends that the complacency of the thought that “This won’t happen to me”… was a dangerous precedent. How can we swell with pride for Ukrainian mothers over defending their own and yet ridicule American women for protecting their homes and children at the same time? How can we readily ship firearms overseas to make them more accessible in the hands of law abiding citizens and yet create antigun laws within cities like Chicago? The average man is capable of overpowering the average woman and a firearm in the hands of a law abiding woman is the only equalizer she has.

Weather you’re comfortable with firearms or not, most people can physically see how itty bitty Ukraine is bravely giving Russia a reason to reconsider entering their home and country… one bullet at a time. A tiny Ukrainian woman went viral for going nose to nose with a Russian soldier who was twice her size. She handed him sunflower seeds to put in his pocket “So that flowers would grow when he died on Ukrainian soil.” If the power of that statement and the bravery of what that implies doesn’t move you to tears I don’t know what will.

We all have to live and survive within this great big world. I pray that the voices of humanity will echo throughout world history loud enough so that there is a brand new movement for the right to bare arms. There is a reason why the second amendment was written into the American constitution and Ukraine is the perfect example of that. To be able to defend our homes, our loved ones, and to neutralize any threat both foreign and domestic. If history teaches you nothing, I hope that you will allow it to teach you this: Don’t get too comfortable. What happens to a small thing like me… can happen to you too.

Nikolai and our peach tree

A Joyful Morning

You ever have one of those days when after a storm in your life has passed, you’re finally overcome with an overwhelming sense of peace? Almost like God and nature just wrapped their arms around you and hugged you until you had no choice other than to smile again? The last couple of days have been like that for me. Wandering around the farm, grinning, and counting my blessings.

There’s this pressure in the spring time to hurry up and get the next batch of baby chicks, to rush to get seeds started, and to mend pasture fences in a timely manor. Farms, homesteads, and gardeners are in a race with the seasons until harvest time. This winter has been especially challenging for my family, but the sun is finally out again. The decay from winter is seeping nutrients into the soil of the forest and new life is springing into motion. The process is as humbling as it is healing.

I myself have been fighting with time to overcome the trauma and decay that we have endured. I have been searching for my peace of mind and the harder I push, the longer it takes. One moment I think I’m feeling like my old self and the next, like a sneaky final frost… something will trigger that overwhelming feeling of terror that I had when I found the hooded stranger standing in my bedroom. I’m starting to learn that healing and happiness is an awful lot like slow feeding fertilizer. The damage has been done and it will take a while for me to bloom again, but I can enjoy the sun while it’s shining.

In the last couple of weeks I have struggled with depression, hypervigilance, insecurity, flash backs, and PTSD. I have blamed myself and made lists of things we can implement to make us safer. I’ve had nightmares that even kept my husband up late into the night with concern, and I’ve had to help Nikolai through nightmares of his own. Then out of nowhere, like a spring rain I almost feel normal again. I’m able to smile and to laugh again. I embrace feeling that way and hold on tight. Sometimes it lasts for a day or two, sometimes just a couple of hours but it’s a wonderful glimpse of what I know is to come.

I had to read the police report over the phone to the insurance company. It sounded easy enough but it ended up being a detailed retelling of the events of that terrible night through the eyes of the arresting officers. They mentioned that my hands shook with fear as they were speaking to me. That I told them over and over again how afraid I was for our lives. They mentioned that both Nikolai and I were traumatized. As I read it, I found myself stumbling over their words and choking back sobs.

Later that night a brand new furry of nightmares began. It left me getting a total of 6 hours of sleep over the length of 3 days. My eyes were bloodshot, I was angry all over again, and back to feeling depressed. It took five days from the moment I read the report to feel the sun on my face and to find my smile again. I went to church with Rob even though I didn’t want to go and hadn’t been to church in a long while. The pastor whom I had never meet, handed me a Bible verse that I kept in my pocket. I’m sure I gave off the worst impression but the verse was about hope and healing. It was exactly what I needed and it took my breath away. It was another beautiful reminder that this season won’t last forever.

Back when I was mostly bedridden, I learned that the best way to find joy was to create it myself. A quiet moment stolen to sip on a hot cup of tea and listen to the birds sing. Taking some precious time to lean against a fence post and hear the sound of my horse thoughtfully grinding the hay left dangling between his lips. A hot bath full of bubbles, my favorite scent, and a good book did wonders for my mental health on a night when I was in too much pain to sleep. When I can’t feel joy naturally, I know the recipe to create it.

It will probably become more challenging when my husband leaves for work. He will be gone for a couple of weeks. He has been the glue holding me together on my roughest days. It won’t be much longer now until he has to return to help the life-flight helicopters and airplanes so that they can continue flying people to major hospitals. His job matters and we make sacrifices as his family so that he is able to serve those who need him most. I’m not looking forward to his departure but I know that we will be okay.

This past weekend I visited one of my best friends and she loaded my car up with enough plants to jump start the garden of my dreams. I filled the planters on my porch with stunning cold hearty bulbs. The sun was shining as dirt found it’s way underneath my finger nails, smeared across my arms, and Georgia clay stained my blue jeans. I was humming to myself, grinning, and completely filthy. Yet there it was… happiness again.

“Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” Psalm 30:5

Nikolai on a beach in Florida

The Night I Had to Save Our Lives

Tallulah had been whining, she was running from one window to the next and I heard my roosters stirring. It’s a sound that I hear a lot when something is trying to eat them. The scuttle of feathers and wings slapping together… it was nothing new. The hair on Tallulah’s back stood up, but no alarm bells rang in my head because we live among bears. So I let the dogs out to make noise, to sound threatening. If I had decided not to let them out, Tallulah would have pestered me until I caved. She would run to me, then to the door, then back to me again like always.

Nikolai and I did our usual routines. We were in bed by 7:30 PM because it was a school night, but I couldn’t sleep for some reason. I stayed up laughing at videos posted on Facebook and browsed the headlines. It was around 11:30 pm by the time I had decided to let the dogs out and it was as dark outside as it normally is. No lights flashing through the darkness, just the wind slapping gently on tree branches. I was finally feeling the full effects of exhaustion and my chest had been aching but I planned on letting the dogs back in again before going to sleep, so I closed the the door but I left it unlocked. I- left-the-door-unlocked.

I had dozed off in the middle of a TikTok video and woke sleepily when I heard Tallulah and Moose barking like crazy. I smirked before tucking my phone underneath my pillow and drifting back to sleep again. I figured they had something cornered out there and were on the brink of annihilation. The last peaceful thought that I had that night was that my chickens were safe due to the watchful eye of my amazing dogs. When I woke up again, it was to the sound of Tallulah’s feet pounding on the floor throughout my house. Down the hallway she galloped and right into my bedroom. I felt disoriented and I was trying to connect the conscious thoughts together that were swirling around in my head as she launched her body on top of mine.

I was lecturing Tallulah on her etiquette while loving on one of her ears with one hand and simultaneously fumbling to grab my glasses and locate my cell phone with the other. I wanted to see what time it was. That’s the moment I realized… I wasn’t the one who let the dogs in. It took a second to grasp the weight of it, but the feeling that something was horribly wrong crept over my body like ice. I tried to rationalize with myself that perhaps Tallulah had gotten the door open on her own somehow but I knew that just wasn’t possible. I had to get up and I HAD to get to my firearm as quickly as possible.

After mashing my glasses onto my face, I sat up in bed and hit the button on the side of my phone that illuminated the room. I glanced over at Nikolai (who always sleeps on daddy’s side of the bed when my husband isn’t home) to check on him. To my horror there stood a man wearing a dark blue hoodie pulled down over his face who was looming over my sleeping son. My ability to scream was tangled in my throat. I tried to adjust my eyes to the light and reason with my brain that the man had to be my husband. Who else would let themselves into a house that wasn’t their own? Who else would stand over a sleeping child and his mother in the middle of the night? I was forced to face a sickening reality when I discovered that this man’s skin color and my husband’s were not the same.

Shock and terror overtook my limbs as they shook with what felt like chills running though me. My body pumped adrenaline into my chest with every thundering heart beat. This was real. This was happening and it was happening to me. Every mother’s worst nightmare was my waking reality, my child was between me and this man rather than the other way around.

My ability to safely retrieve my firearm had been cut off. It was too late because it sat in the safe on my husband’s side of the bed between my son and the intruder. I had forgotten to move it over to my nightstand after my husband left and if I managed to get to it, there was a good chance that my son would have been in the way or it could have been taken from me. I was sitting in bed wearing only my T-shirt and a pair of panties while gawking at this man who was standing in my bedroom over my child.

Did he want to kill us? Was he here to take my son from me? Rape me? Steal from us? I didn’t know but I felt like I had to cover myself and I had to save my sleeping son who was waking up. My number one priority was to position myself between him and Nikolai, and then fight my way out of it to protect us. There was no other option. My husband was taking a call for a helicopter that was down in a city on the other side of Atlanta, there was nobody else here to save us. I had to save us. “I HAVE TO SAVE US!” was the thought that I was screaming in my brain even though I had yet to find my voice to speak.

I leapt from my bed and shrieked “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! GET OUT NOW! GET OUT!”

I searched in the dark for something to cover my bare legs with while the figure made his way down the hallway. Tallulah who was sitting on my bed, came to realize that all of her service dog training that I had drilled into her head to be accepting of strangers was now void. As I wrestled to put pajama bottoms on and race down the hallway after the stranger, she was hot on my heels. We made our way into the living room where the man stood. I had hoped I scared him off but I was wrong. He wasn’t leaving and I could smell the heat of alcohol on his breath.

“I crashed my car into your creek.” his words slurred together so that I barely made out what he was saying.

“There is absolutely nothing you can say that would excuse the fact that I woke up to you standing in my bedroom over MY son. GET OUT!”

“I got lost. I crashed my car.”


He walked onto the porch and stood there, the glass door some-what between him and myself but largely agape.

I clutched my cell phone like a weapon and tried to call my neighbor with the volume on low so the man couldn’t hear and then sent her an SOS in text:

Send your husband.”



“Get a gun. help.”



I once saw an ambulance search for a man who needed medical attention off of my dirt road. They never found him and he died of a heart attack. I knew that my neighbor was a lot closer than any police officer would be so she was my first call and my first text while I occupied the man in the blue hoodie with conversation. Talking my way out of it was the only option I had, he was twice my size and I had to protect my son at all cost.

“You know your dogs allowed me to let them inside your house right?” he slurred some more.

“They let me let them in… you can trust me. I can come in.”

“I would never trust someone that I caught leaning over my son in my bedroom in the middle of the night. I have no idea who you are but you’re not coming back into my house.”

“Your dogs wont bite. I pet them earlier.”

“You want to make a bet?” I taunted, I could hear Tallulah snarling at my side a deep growl rattled her chest.

“I need a phone. Give me your phone.” he demanded as he reached in to grab my phone from out of my fingers. Thankfully Tallulah took this opportunity to lunge forward placing herself between him and I while biting towards the hand grasping the other end of my cell phone. Her warning made him recoil from taking my phone from me and also stopped his attempt to get back inside my house.

If he had gotten a hold of my phone and taken it from me and if my neighbor hadn’t gotten my message due to a lack of cell reception… then no one would have been available to help us. My cell phone was the only lifeline I had to protect my son and I. By this time Nikolai was awake and sobbing in the bedroom because he heard everything, right down to Tallulah snapping at the stranger within our walls. I had yelled at him to stay put, to hide and to not come out no matter what.

The man still stood there on my porch in a stand-off with Tallulah and I.

“Where is YOUR phone?” I asked shakily.

“I lost it in your creek.”

“What’s your number? I’ll call it for you so you can find it.” I had no intention of sitting around to help him find his phone. I knew that he was drunk and that a ringing phone may draw him away from the house so I could close the door and lock it without being overpowered. He rattled off the numbers and I was pretty sure I got them wrong because I couldn’t understand him but I called it anyway.

He left my porch to look for his phone and the moment his feet touched earth my front door was slammed and locked behind him. I hung up my call and dialed 911. As suspected the 911 dispatcher as well as the police couldn’t locate our road. I grabbed my son from my bedroom and forced him to lock himself in the bathroom while I pulled my firearm and loaded a round into the chamber.

I can’t tell you how many times I practiced shooting scenarios in the woods at home. I had drills on pulling my firearm from my holster with the prayer that I would never have to use it on animals or people. The last time I shot at something other then a target was last summer when I saw a snake messing with one of our cats. I couldn’t tell if it was poisonous or not at the distance I was positioned, but once my cat ran off I aimed for it’s head anyway because it was coiled up where my son liked to play. My husband is rarely home to help me with these things so I’ve learned how to take care of myself.

I got my conceal carry license a couple of years ago. I woke up one morning and I decided that my safety was my own responsibility. Especially when you live way back in the woods like I do and you’re on your own a lot with a baby who relies on you. It was important to learn how to protect us and I practiced this skill weekly on our little farm (and still do). I know my Glock as if it were an extension of my limbs. Other than petty crimes and random drug users… my town has 750 people in it and is far safer than most. It’s easy to get complacent, to feel like this kind of thing will never happen to you. Suddenly you realize too late that you’ve made a mistake or two. Like not having your bedside safe in it’s usual place, and not locking the door because you dozed off.

Yet once that round was loaded and I was on the phone with 911, I felt safer than I had since I found the blue hooded man standing over my son at 1 AM. In the middle of trying and failing to give directions to the police, the man came back and was standing on my porch. My neighbor had texted me that she too was on the phone with 911. Her husband had tried to keep eyes on the guy in the hood but the stranger took off. Nikolai was screaming and hyperventilating in the bathroom. I could hear him sobbing while begging to be let out and praying I was okay.

The man was pounding his fist on my front door. I held my gun where he couldn’t see it below the glass window and kept it pointed directly at him. I told the dispatcher that I was armed and I knew that if he broke through my front door, I intended to fire. My mind was made up and it was the most terrifying moment of life. I’m a vegetarian. I love all living things. I believe in second chances and equality for all. I believe in kindness, but I would end my life if it meant allowing my son to live his.

I told the operator that the hooded man was trying to get back in. Through more slurred words behind my front door he didn’t ask but rather demanded to be allowed in from the cold.

Is your husband home? Where is your husband at?”

“That’s none of your business! GO SIT IN YOUR CAR.”

“It’s cold out here! You’re going to let me in RIGHT NOW to warm up.”

“I’m not opening this door. I’m not an idiot. Go wait in your car for the police.”

“You called the cops?! OH SHIT!!” Down my steps, across the lawn and into the darkness he ran.

It took a while for the police to find us, my nerves were shot by the time they arrived and arrested the stranger who broke into my house. Four or five cop cars lined my dirt road and some officers arrived on foot. The hooded man didn’t live in my town, in fact he lived almost an hour away. I had never meet him before. Police corroborated his story through his text messages that he had intended on hooking up with a woman he meet online at her place on the other side of my little town.

His cell phone fell between his drivers seat and the center console while he was driving. It was Valentines Day night and he later told one of the detectives that he had stopped drinking at 6 pm. A whole 7 hours prior to him being arrested with the smell of alcohol on his breath outside of my home. A bottle of booze rolled out of his car and landed in my creek while his vehicle was being searched by officers. In the week that followed, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the bottle. A storm rolled in and the flood of rain water in my creek washed the bottle away. The only thing I felt about it was relief.

He told detectives several lies, the first being that he wasn’t drunk by the time he arrived to my house. The second lie being that when I asked him to leave my house that he did so immediately (my call to 911 thankfully backed me up). When I went out to speak with the officers, the man’s car had run over the culvert to my creek but was in no way submerged. His drivers side was easily accessible. The blowers in his car were still running and were blowing out warm air. I could feel and hear them as I walked by and I remembered him trying to convince me to let him into my house to get warm.

One detective felt that perhaps the man was mentally off. The hooded man claimed to have knocked on my door before entering. He meet Tallulah and Moose who seemed friendly and upon not getting a response… he let himself in. He admitted to that much while being interviewed. He walked through the entire length of my house to get into my bedroom. Not once did I hear a knock or hear someone cry out. I had been teaching Tallulah to be more accepting of strangers and she did exactly as she had been taught to do, up until she realized that the situation was all wrong. My pounding heart beat and the smell of fear flipped a switch in her that gave him a reason to think twice about re-entering my house. If she hadn’t stepped in, I wouldn’t have been able to call for help since he grabbed my phone and tried to take it from me with force.

It’s possible that he was mentally off and for that reason, I’m thankful my firearm was out of reach and we all walked away alive. Yet the little things he lied about ate away at me all week long. My son was traumatized. He had a panic attack after the incident because I was going to look for his jacket for school without him and he was afraid to be left alone. He hid when Izzy came to the door later in the week to see us, and he ask me to hold his hand while we walked to lock the door together. He struggled with some nightmares, but most of it seems like it’s finally beginning to ease up. I had to notify the school about what happened in case he tried to talk about it (which he did). He told a little friend about the bad man in our house, was called a liar by his friend, and came home in tears. I tried to reassure him that to most people… the event sounds unbelievable.

I felt like I was living someone else’s life. I sobbed in front of more strangers than I care to admit. I drove myself to see a therapist and broke down in the car before making it to her office door. I’ve had more panic attacks the past two weeks than I’ve ever had in all the years I’ve been struggling with my health. I had a panic attack when a man wearing a hoodie crossed in front of my car at a stop sign. I had a panic attack when I parked away from all the other cars in a parking lot and a stranger darted by my car and ran into the woods on a walking path. I’ve dreamt vivid and violent dreams which is unusual for me.

It took me a long time to be able to sit down and write about what happened to us two weeks ago. Upon typing the first few paragraphs I was shaking so hard that I slammed my computer shut and left the draft unfinished. On week one I couldn’t stop talking about it because it was all I could think about. On week two I was having a hard thinking about it after anyone talked about it. The flip in how I felt was bizarre. I’m still flinching over unexpected visitors. I don’t sleep until I’m too exhausted to stay awake or force myself to sleep by taking a sleep aid. Every sound has my eyelids flying open and I relive it again and again while triple checking that the door I know I locked is truly… locked.

Last night I dreamt that instead of a hooded figure, it was a bear looming over my son. I had to chase him out of my house, it ripped someone to pieces, and I was forced to shoot it to death. I woke up drenched in my own sweat this morning. I have gone over the story with friends and family members as well as police and detectives multiple times. I was victim shamed on Facebook in both public and private messages with lists of things people would have done differently or better. I was told by multiple people to “just teach my son not to touch guns and leave the weapon sitting out.” Which is some of the most ignorant parenting advice I’ve ever read. I will never feel guilty about locking up my firearm because kids are kids and they make mistakes too.

Someone also said something along the lines of “Well, at least he didn’t steal anything.” Except that he did. He took my peace of mind, my sense of security, and my ability to feel safe. I don’t know when I’ll ever feel normal again. The messages have died down, I’m still consulting with the DA and the state is working on filing charges. I’m not thrilled with how some things have been handled there either. As far as I’m aware, no breathalyzer was done. No drug testing, no DUI is being filed. They never got his license and car insurance information, they never made any kind of an accident report so that I could get the property damage fixed. The man made bail the next day and I’m left wondering… if he can lie, what else is he hiding?

Meanwhile I’m seeing a therapist and trying to find my way back to happiness. Some days I just don’t feel like myself at all. What I know for certain, is that I still love where I live. My home in the woods is still my haven, I’d have to be dead for him to have taken that away from me and thankfully Nikolai feels that way too. I’m not okay today… but maybe I’ll be okay tomorrow.

*100% True story, took place on 2/15/22 at around 1:00 AM

Taken while driving home one night.
I took this image as police searched his vehicle while it was still sitting in my driveway.