The Hitchhiker

​There are different opinions on whether one should pick up a hitchhiker or not. During the 1960s and 70s it was quite a common practice, but something happened in the late 70s early 80s that made the practice deadly. Horror stories of people hitchhiking and then never being found again or ending up murdered were both true and a bit of folklore. Soon it was considered a dangerous thing to do that might cost you your life. It became dangerous on two accounts. The hitchhiker could be a killer but also the driver that picked up the hiker could be just as deadly. 

​One night I was driving back from a party on an acerage. And it was on this very same road that I was driving, at about the same time, 20 years to the day that there was a hitchhiker by the name of Steven Allen who was walking with his thumb out looking to hitch a ride. He was picked up and later found dead in a ditch having been decapitated with a meat cleaver. It was a cold case file now, but a crime that shocked the county. Over the next twenty years five more bodies were found; all decapitated with a meat cleaver. I got chills every time I thought of it. But I never hesitated to pick up hitchhikers and give them a ride because to me it wasn't dangerous to pick up hitchhikers it was only dangerous to be the hitchhiker. 

I continued to head down the country road when a man crossed in front of my high beams, waving his arms frantically. I slowed up; he had his thumb out for a ride. I rolled down my window and said, "Are you okay mister?"

He was nervous and sweating, unable to speak but soon uttered the words, "I was in an accident, I left my family and kids in the car, they're badly injured. I need help, please drive me to town."

"Don't you have a cell phone?"

"I lost mine in the accident, so did my wife."

That's when I realized I had left my cell phone at the party. It sounded suspicious, but what if he was telling the truth? I told him to hop in. We drove in silence and I slowed up the pace of the car as it started to swerve on the gravel road. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and he no longer seemed to be nervous or sweating. We kept driving in the silence of the night. I then sensed that he was looking straight at me. I turned my head and our eyes locked; he gave me a strange look. His face looked evil from the reflection of the neon green dashboard lights.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. He said nothing. The further we drove the more uneasy I began to feel about picking him up. I pulled the car to the side of the road.

He turned to me puzzled and said, "Did we run out of gas?"

That's when I reached for my meat cleaver in the backseat.