I Survived a Serial Killer

I still remember the smell of his car—that mix of cigarette smoke and something sharp and metallic, like blood on iron. That night, I should’ve died. But I didn’t. And the reason I survived still haunts me every time I close my eyes.

It started with a simple decision: I missed the last bus.

It was past 10:00 PM, and I had stayed late at the library preparing for my nursing exams. My phone was dead. My friends weren’t answering. So, when a kind-looking man in a beat-up silver Honda Civic pulled up near the curb and offered me a ride, I hesitated.

“I saw you at the bus stop,” he said through the open window, smiling like a concerned uncle. “It’s getting cold, and this area’s not safe after dark.”

I looked around. He wasn’t wrong. The streetlights flickered. A stray dog howled in the distance. Against my better judgment, I got in.

The Smile That Lied

At first, he made small talk—asked about school, where I was from, if I lived alone. That last question felt wrong. I lied and told him I was staying with my brother.

He nodded silently. His hands gripped the wheel tighter. That’s when I noticed the scratches—deep, red gashes along the side of his right hand. Fresh. Painful. He saw me looking and quickly turned up the volume on the radio. A jazz tune filled the silence.

I gave him directions to my neighborhood. He nodded again. But we didn’t turn.

“Sorry,” I said, “You missed the left turn back there.”

He didn’t answer.

The Wrong Road

We were headed away from town, into a stretch of road lined with trees and no houses—just blackness outside the windows.

“Excuse me—hey! Where are you going?” I said, louder this time.

His voice was calm, almost cold. “I thought we’d take the scenic route.”

Every instinct screamed at me: Run. Scream. Jump out.

I fumbled for my bag and quietly slid a metal pen between my fingers.

“I need to pee,” I said. “Pull over.”

He laughed. “You’ll be fine.”

That’s when I noticed the knife in the side pocket of his door.

The Moment Everything Changed

He pulled off onto a dirt path, barely visible in the moonlight. “Just a quick stop,” he muttered.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, pretending to adjust my coat. He leaned over to grab something from the backseat—something wrapped in a trash bag. That’s when I struck.

I jammed the pen into his neck and yanked open the door.

He screamed, choking on blood and surprise, and lunged after me. I ran. Fast. Barefoot. Into the woods. My legs were burning, branches slicing my arms, but I didn’t stop.

I heard him crashing through the brush behind me, cursing, then—silence.

I hid behind a log for what felt like hours, shaking, bleeding, praying.

The Morning After

A hiker found me at sunrise—muddy, bruised, and barely able to speak. The police were called. They searched the area.

They found the car. Empty.

They found a buried tarp near the path. Inside were women’s clothes, jewelry, and ID cards. One of them belonged to a girl reported missing six months earlier.

His name was James K. Miller. He was a wanted fugitive, suspected in at least four disappearances across three states. My description helped authorities track him weeks later—dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in a motel in Oregon.

The Aftermath

People called me lucky. But luck doesn’t explain the nightmares. Or the way I still check the backseat every time I get into a car. I can’t hear jazz music without shaking. And I never, ever miss the last bus anymore.

I was almost a name on a list. Almost a cold case.

But I survived a serial killer.

And now, I live for every woman who didn’t.