STT. Churchgoing Woman Seriously Injured in Unprovoked Chemical Attack, Suspect at Large
She had just come from church.
The Christmas lights were still glowing in her memory.
The hymns were still echoing softly in her ears.
Ashley Wasielewski believed the night was ending in peace.
She had attended a Christmas program at a nearby church, sitting among familiar faces, singing familiar songs, feeling that quiet warmth that only faith and community can bring.
At forty-six years old, Ashley was not searching for anything extraordinary that night.
She was simply walking.
Walking laps around Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia.
A habit she had kept for years.
A moment to clear her thoughts.
A way to breathe before returning home.
The park was calm, bathed in the muted glow of streetlights and winter air.
It was the kind of place where people believed they were safe.
The kind of place where mothers walked, couples talked, and strangers passed without fear.
Ashley walked alone, her hands tucked casually by her sides, her car keys resting in her pocket.
She had no idea that someone was watching her.
She never heard footsteps approaching from behind.
There was no warning.
No shout.
No argument.
No demand.
Only the sudden sensation of liquid pouring over her head.
At first, she was confused.
Her mind reached for the most harmless explanation.
“Why are you pouring water on me?” she asked instinctively.
And then the pain came.
Not discomfort.
Not irritation.
Pain so intense it felt unreal.
Her skin began to burn as if it were on fire.
The liquid was not water.
It was toxic.
Corrosive.
Relentless.
It ate through her clothing.
It scorched her face.
It burned into her scalp, her hands, her legs.
In seconds, her pants began to disintegrate against her skin.
The key fob in her pocket melted.
Ashley screamed.
A blood-curdling scream that shattered the quiet of the park.
People nearby would later say they had never heard anything like it.
A sound of pure agony.
A sound of terror.
A sound no human being should ever have to make.
The attacker did not rob her.
They did not speak.
They did not hesitate.
They did not stay.
They simply walked away, leaving her burning in the darkness.
A random act of cruelty so calculated, so deliberate, that it defied comprehension.
This was not a crime of desperation.
It was a crime of intent.
Ashley collapsed, screaming for help as the chemical continued to destroy her skin.
She clawed at her clothing, trying to escape the burning sensation that would not stop.
Her mind struggled to understand what was happening.
She had done nothing wrong.
She had harmed no one.
She was just walking.
Strangers rushed toward her when they heard her cries.
One of them, a good Samaritan whose name she may never know, called her son.
Westley Wasielewski answered the phone.
What he heard on the other end will haunt him for the rest of his life.
His mother’s screams.
Her voice filled with pain so severe it barely sounded human.
He could hear her suffering through the phone as strangers tried to help her.
“She was screaming,” he would later say.
“There was nothing anyone could do to stop the pain.”
Emergency services arrived quickly, but time felt meaningless in those moments.
Ashley was rushed to the Augusta Burn Center.
Doctors assessed the damage with grim urgency.
Second-degree burns.
Third-degree burns.
More than half her body affected.
Her face.
Her scalp.
Her hands.
Her legs.
Areas that define identity.
Areas that carry memory.
Areas that cannot be hidden.
Ashley was sedated as doctors began the long process of treatment.
Skin grafts would be necessary.
Surgeries would follow.
Pain would be constant.
Recovery, uncertain.
Her family was left reeling.
Her son could not understand why this had happened.
“She doesn’t have enemies,” Westley said.
“She is a friend to everyone.”
And it was true.
Ashley Wasielewski was known in her community as a giving soul.
She volunteered.
She helped the homeless.
She provided essential items to those who had nothing.
She attended church.
She showed up for people.
She believed in kindness.
That kindness did not protect her.
The news of the attack spread quickly.
Fear rippled through the city.
Police described the assault as deeply troubling but stated there was no indication of a broader threat.
Still, extra patrols were stationed in parks.
The FBI joined the investigation to identify the chemical used.
Surveillance footage revealed a person of interest wearing blue jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt with a white cartoon rabbit.
A hauntingly ordinary image.
A faceless figure capable of unimaginable harm.
No arrests have been made.
The attacker remains at large.
Ashley lies in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages, her body bearing wounds inflicted by someone who chose violence for no reason at all.
Her life has been divided into before and after.
Before the walk.
Before the scream.
Before the burn.
Now, her days are measured in pain management, medical procedures, and whispered prayers.
Her future is uncertain.
Scars will remain.
Trauma will linger.
But so will her strength.
So will the love of her family.
So will the quiet truth that even in a world capable of such cruelty, goodness still exists.
It existed in the strangers who ran toward her screams.
It exists in the doctors fighting to save her skin.
It exists in a community refusing to forget her.
And it exists in Ashley herself, a woman who went to church seeking peace and walked into a nightmare she never deserved.
