Hello Readers, throwaway because I still drive the same route and the thought of running into him again makes my skin crawl. I’ve been wanting to post this for months but kept deleting it—part guilt, part fear, part not knowing how to explain without sounding paranoid. In August 2025, I gave a stranger a ride during a rainstorm because I’m the kind of person who can’t say no to someone who looks like they need help. Twenty minutes in my car turned into learning way too much about a man I never wanted to know at all. It didn’t end in violence or anything dramatic—just a slow, creeping realization that I’d let someone dangerous into my space. I still check my locks twice at night.
I’m 34F, single, live alone in a mid-sized city in the Pacific Northwest. I work as a project manager—mostly remote, but I go into the office a couple days a week. I drive a nondescript silver SUV, nothing flashy. I’ve always been the “nice” one—hold doors, let people merge, pick up hitchhikers in bad weather if they look harmless. My friends tease me about it. “You’re going to end up on a true crime podcast,” they say. I laugh it off.
August 12, 2025—Tuesday evening, pouring rain, the kind that turns roads into rivers. I was leaving the office around 6:30 p.m., heading home on my usual route—a two-lane highway that cuts through some wooded areas.
About five miles out, I saw a man on the shoulder, thumb out, soaked through. Mid-40s, average build, jeans and a hoodie, backpack, no luggage. He looked miserable—hair plastered to his head, shivering.
I slowed. Told myself: it’s raining cats and dogs, he’s going to get hit if he stays there.
I pulled over.
He ran up, grateful smile. “Thank you so much—are you going toward the city?”
I said yes, unlocked the doors.
He got in the passenger seat, water dripping everywhere. “I’m Dave. Really appreciate this. Bus broke down miles back, phone died.”
I introduced myself—“Alex”—handed him a spare towel from the back (I keep one for the dog).
He thanked me, wiped his face.
Small talk started normal: weather, how long he’d been waiting, where he was headed (downtown, near the transit center).
He asked what I did. I kept it vague: “Office job.”
He said he was a “consultant”—traveled a lot for work.
Conversation flowed easy. He was charming—funny stories about bad hotels, asked about my favorite restaurants in the city.
Rain pounded. Traffic slow.
Then he said, casually: “You have a nice car. Clean. No kid seats in the back?”
I laughed. “No kids. Just me and the dog sometimes.”
He nodded. “Smart. Kids complicate things.”
Pause.
Then: “You live alone?”
I hesitated. “With a roommate.”
(Lie—I don’t.)
He smiled. “Good area for single women. Safe.”
Something felt off, but I brushed it.
He asked about my route—did I take this road often?
I said, “A couple times a week.”
He: “I’ll have to remember that. In case I need another ride.”
Laugh. But my stomach tightened.
Ten minutes in, he started talking about his “ex.”
“She didn’t understand me. Always asking where I was, who I was with. Like I couldn’t have female friends.”
I made neutral noises.
Then: “Some women get jealous too easy. Think every conversation is flirting. You don’t seem like that type.”
I gripped the wheel tighter.
We hit downtown.
He directed me to a side street near the transit center.
As I slowed, he said, “You’re really kind, Alex. Most people wouldn’t stop for a stranger.”
I smiled tightly. “Just hate seeing someone stuck in the rain.”
He looked at me—too long.
“You have a good heart. Be careful with it. Not everyone’s as nice as they seem.”
He got out, thanked me again, waved as I pulled away.
I exhaled—like I’d been holding my breath the whole drive.
That should have been the end.
It wasn’t.
Two days later: a friend request on Facebook—from “Dave M. Carter.”
Profile photo: him in the same hoodie, smiling.
How did he find me?
My Facebook is private, last name common.
But I’d mentioned my dog’s breed (golden retriever) and the office neighborhood.
He’d searched.
I ignored the request.
Then messages—from Messenger, even though we weren’t friends.
“Hey Alex! It’s Dave from the ride. Found you through some mutual groups. Thanks again—you’re a lifesaver. Coffee sometime to repay?”
I blocked him.
A week later: Instagram follow request—same guy, different account.
Blocked.
Then texts—from an unknown number.
“Hi Alex—it’s Dave. Got your number from a friend at the transit center. Hope that’s okay. Just wanted to say hi.”
How?
I blocked, changed my number.
But the fear settled in.
I started varying routes.
Avoided that highway.
Checked my car for trackers (found nothing).
Told my best friend—she said, “Classic creep. You’re fine now.”
But I didn’t feel fine.
September: a note on my windshield at the grocery store.
“Missed seeing you around. Hope you’re well. —D”
No car nearby.
I called police non-emergency.
They said no threat, no crime—just “unwanted contact.”
Suggested documenting.
I installed a Ring camera.
October: quiet.
I thought he’d moved on.
Then November: a package at my door.
Small box, no return address.
Inside: a silver keychain—engraved “A & D.”
With a note: “For the next time you give me a ride. Friends forever.”
I freaked.
Police again—this time, stalking report.
They visited his last known address (from the note’s postmark).
He’d moved—no forwarding.
No priors they could find.
“Just a persistent guy,” the officer said. “Change locks, stay vigilant.”
We did.
It’s January 2026 now.
No contact since the package.
But I don’t take that road.
I don’t pick up hitchhikers.
