WARNING: Disturbing Content
The content you are about to read is a work of historical fiction. You may find it disturbing as any person with morals should.
You know how sometimes you look back at a moment in your life and think, What the actual hell was I doing?
That’s me every time I replay this story in my head.
Except this isn’t one of those oops, I texted my ex moments...
It’s the time I met Ted freaking Bundy.
Before you freak out, let me clarify.
Obviously, I’m here typing this, alive and well.
But if I’m being honest, he did “kill” something in me: my sense of invincibility, my faith in my judgement, and my ability to trust a good-looking guy with charming words.
It’s all gone.
Poof.
Anyway, let me back up and tell you what happened because I promise you, it’s a ride.
The Meeting
This was back in the late ‘70s when hitchhiking wasn’t just for psychopaths and people in indie films.
I had just finished a shift at my job, waitressing at this little diner where the tips were terrible but the stories were gold!
I was dead tired.
My car had been acting up all week, so when it refused to start in the parking lot, I just stood there, swearing under my breath, kicking the tire like that would teach it a lesson.
That’s when he showed up.
He looked… normal.
Like, ridiculously normal.
Preppy, even.
He was tall, clean-cut, and had this slightly awkward smile that made him seem harmless. He reminded me of that guy in every rom-com who gets friend-zoned because he’s “too nice.”
“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice smooth but not too smooth.
“Yeah,” I sighed, trying not to sound annoyed because, hey, maybe this guy could help.
“Want me to take a look? I know a little about cars.”
Red Flag #1: I didn’t ask for credentials.
What does “a little about cars” even mean?
Could he change a tire?
Rebuild an engine?
Or was he just going to stand there nodding like he understood the mysteries of the internal combustion engine?
I’ll never know because, like an idiot, I said, “Sure!”
After poking around under the hood for about thirty seconds, he shrugged and said, “Yeah, this is out of my league. But I can give you a ride if you need one.”
The Ride
Now, in hindsight, getting into a stranger’s car is basically the opening scene of every horror movie.
But back then, it felt different.
People hitchhiked all the time. Plus, he had this polite, almost dorky energy that put me at ease.
Red Flag #2: Bundy was notorious for coming across as totally harmless.
So, I said yes.
His car was a beat-up VW Bug, and as soon as I sat down, I felt this tiny, instinctual twinge of unease. Like when your dog growls at someone, and you’re like, Oh, that’s weird.
The passenger seat was weirdly low to the ground, and there was a faint smell of…
I don’t know, something metallic. But I brushed it off.
We started driving, and he asked me about myself. Where I was from, what I did, if I had a boyfriend.
Red Flag #3: Sir, why do you care?
He was chatty, but not in a creepy way, just enough to keep me distracted.
Honestly?
I ate it up. At the time, I wasn’t used to guys paying attention to me without, you know, trying to grope me or lecture me about Led Zeppelin.
But then the conversation shifted.
“Have you ever felt like you were just… invisible?” he asked, his tone suddenly darker.4
I laughed awkwardly, unsure where he was going with this. “I mean, yeah, who hasn’t?”
“No, I mean really invisible,” he said, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “Like you could do anything, anything, and no one would even notice.”
Okay...
Red flag #4: I should’ve been yanking on the door handle at this point.
I made some nervous joke about how that sounded like the plot of a bad sci-fi movie.
He didn’t laugh.
The Moment
We were driving along this dark, empty stretch of road... when he pulled over.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, even though my stomach was doing gymnastics.
“Just need to check something,” he said, flashing that awkward smile again.
He got out of the car, and I sat there, frozen, my brain screaming...
RUN!
My body glued to the seat.
He opened the trunk, rummaged around for a second, and then came back holding…
a crowbar.
A. Crowbar.
I don’t know what kind of primal survival instinct kicked in at that moment, but suddenly, I was fumbling with the door handle, my hands shaking so hard I could barely get it open.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone calm but with this undercurrent of menace that made my blood run cold.
“I—I just remembered I left something at the diner,” I stammered, practically falling out of the car in my rush to get away.
He stepped toward me, and for a split second, I thought I was done for. But then another car appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the darkness like some kind of divine intervention.
“Wait,” he said, his voice soft, almost pleading.
But I didn’t wait. I ran.
The Aftermath
I made it to the road just as the other car slowed down.
It was this older couple, probably in their 60s, and I must’ve looked insane, panting, shaking, waving my arms like a lunatic, but fortunately they pulled over.
“Are you okay?” the woman asked, her voice full of concern.
“No,” I gasped, glancing back to see the VW Bug disappearing into the night. “That guy… he was going to kill me.”
They drove me to the nearest police station, where I filed a report.
But honestly?
I wasn’t even sure what to tell them.
I didn’t know his name, his license plate number, or even if he really intended to hurt me.
All I had was this overwhelming sense of dread and the image of that crowbar burned into my brain.
It wasn’t until years later that I saw his face on the news.
Ted Bundy.
One of the most notorious serial killers in history. And all I could think was, That could’ve been me.
The Lesson: Ted Bundy Killed Me A Little On The Inside
So, yeah, Ted Bundy didn’t kill me.
But he killed the version of me that thought bad things only happen to other people.
He killed my trust in strangers and my belief that I could spot danger from a mile away.
And honestly?
I’m okay with that.
Because now, if my car breaks down, I don’t wait for Prince Charming to swoop in with a toolbox and a smile.
I call AAA, lock my doors, and wait like the paranoid person I’ve become.
Better safe than sorry, right?
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