it was someone who noticed her pattern and had a plan.

When I was small, a man named [Clifford Olson], who was known to me and my classmates as "The Bad Man", showed up in my neighbours driveway and stared at me from his van. I had been playing in a pile of leaves in our front yard. When I saw him, I instinctively froze. I don't know what came to life in me, but I looked at my house (which I knew was empty), and yelled, "Daddy, do you want me to clean up this pile of leaves?" given that I had messed them up playing around. He just sat there for another moment, looking over at me. Then he slowly put his van in reverse and pulled away. He showed up on another instance (not sure if it was before the first I recalled here?) at the tree which covered the bay window of our home. I had looked out and saw him crouched and watching (I was home alone - latchkey kid). I curled up in a ball, frozen. In a few minutes, my older brother walked in the back door (He, at the time, would have been attending either Montgomery Junior Secondary or Centennial High School which was further away than my elementary school on Austin Ave. down the street). I can't recall what happened, I only remember feeling immense relief that he arrived home.

I tried to tell my mother about this but she, sneered and brushed it off (she was/is a very self-centered person) as being "probably one of my older brother's friends". My brother's friends weren't adults with mustaches and they didn't drive vans. As long as it didn't effect her and I wasn't to be a nuisance as she often treated me, right?

Please, if your child is trying to tell you something is wrong - fucking listen. Don't treat them like a pain in the ass and take them for granted. It takes less than a few minutes for a kid to be snatched up and out of sight.

Years later, compelled by both curiosity and a want of healing, I undertook the a journey in genealogy (we all want to find out that maybe we don't come from complete shit roots, right?). I discovered through my father's maternal line that I partially descended from a man named Thomas Weaver. He'd have been my great-great grandfather. In fact a lake had been named after him (as well as a few surrounding ones after some of his daughters). I had daydreams about starting a nice, quiet farm life in the area whereabouts his had been, for my kids and I. I found out this was an area where Olson had dumped the bodies of one of his victims. Completely crushed that dream for me. I can't separate it from thinking about the terror the young boy went through after he was sweet-talked then probably tortured then killed by Olson. I can't even go visit the area. Fuck you, Olson, you cowardly piece of sub-human shit. I hope he's being tortured in hell.

Despite my derisive talk about this "man", if I was offered a chance to spit on his grave (I know...he was apparently cremated ? and whether or not he even has a gravesite is not necessarily known), I'd frankly be frozen. The piece of shit is dead and I'm still terrifed of him.

I know that everyone has there own ways of dealing with things that frighten them, but any time I see someone who has some dark adoration or worship of serial killers, I want to smack them solidly upside the head. They generally have no idea the terror and pure evil they're dealing with. Fucking idiots.

I fucking hate people.

Sometimes there's reasons a person is an overprotective helicopter parent. If mom or dad isn't going to be there to protect and watch over them, who will be?

I'm sorry for the length of this post. I don't like to think or talk about Olson. It's like I want to scream "Somebody fucking help me!" although the boogey-man is dead anway. I'm sick to my stomach.