It was the early 1970s in Des Plaines, Illinois. Back then it was not uncommon to hitchhike. My dad and my uncle (his younger brother) enjoyed doing this, as they were quite the adventurers. They were both pretty young, in their early teens. They had just gone fishing, when they had made their way to a nearby coffee shop parking lot, in search of a ride to get close to home.
A middle aged man stopped to pick them up. There was nothing really striking about this guy, he just looked like a typical guy. So they got into the car with him. My dad sat in the passenger seat, while my uncle sat in the middle back seat. Everything was fine, until the driver reached his arm towards the back of the car, and put his hand on my uncles knee. My dad’s creep-o-meter sounded right away, and as soon as they came to a stop light, my dad got out of the car, took his brother by the arm, and got the hell out of there.
Fast forward a few years. It’s 1978, and my dad catches a glimpse of a familiar face in the Chicago newspaper. It’s the man who had picked them up a few years back. The article states that this man was arrested after police found 33 teenaged males buried in various parts of his home, including the crawl space. This sick man would find teenaged boys wherever he could, to rape, torture, and kill. His name was John Wayne Gacy.
When I was 6 and my bro 10 we came to notice that we always had a cop car following us around. This went on for a couple of months during the summer. We did not know what was going on until later when we moved far away. My mom explained to us that for two or three months, some weirdo would call the house (when my dad was not home) and tell her how he would rape and kill us.
Now people may ask: but why would the cops take this so seriously?
1) The man would be aware when my mom was alone with us 2) He would tell her what we were wearing and doing on the particular day. 3)He knew our names! 4)He would call from random phone booths around the city where we lived, sometimes from really far away. He took time to drive to the other ends of the city to make a phone call. ** edit 5) The fucking Montreal Boy Slasher was active at the time.
After we moved, it stopped and nothing ever happened. Still makes my mom go fucking mental because she says the first time he called he was very polite and had a very pleasant tone in his voice.
At my last apartment I lived with another mid-twenties fellow who was in college. One night he had a few friends over, and after a drink or two I headed off to bed because I had work the next day.
Around 3 in the morning I woke up to my door being opened by a middle-aged man. He smiled as I sat up and said “Oh, no, don’t get up, I just wanted to let you know your door was unlocked!” I just replied with “What?” And he closed the door. I sat there for about thirty seconds before jumping up and grabbing a screw driver (I’m OG gangster) and walking out of my room, but he was already gone. He didn’t steal anything, but nevertheless I definitely did not enjoy meeting him.