Some stories do not leave you. They linger in the shadows, surfacing when the world starts piecing together truths you wish weren’t real. This is one of those stories.

It was 1993 or early ’94. I was living on Long Island, working in the city. Like so many of us, I relied on the Long Island Railroad to get me home after long days and longer nights. One of those nights, I came home tipsy—not blackout drunk, just that slightly hazy state where the world slows down a bit and your instincts go dim. I missed my stop—Lindenhurst—and ended up at the end of the line: Babylon.

I was alone. It was late. And cold.

I did something stupid. I accepted a ride from a man I thought was a conductor. He had a look about him that felt official—maybe it was the way he held himself, maybe he said something that made me drop my guard. Back then, we did not have Uber, cell phones, or safety nets. Just our gut. And mine? It was off duty that night.

Still standing on the platform, trying to gauge if this guy was legit, I asked him if he knew my friend’s dad—an actual conductor on the LIRR. Without missing a beat, he said, “Yeah, great guy!”

But something in the way he said it… too smooth. Too quick. Like he had learned to disarm people with charm. That is when my senses snapped into focus.

I got in the truck.

At first, it seemed fine. We were heading back toward Lindenhurst. But then, he started asking strange questions.

“Do you have a gun?”

“Do you have a knife?”

Over and over. Like he was assessing me. Probing. Not concerned about his safety—no, he was trying to find out if I could defend myself.

As we neared my stop, I told him to let me out. He slowed down, but when I reached for the door—it locked. He tried to trap me. As I lunged for the handle, he reached across me to hit the lock, trying to stop me from escaping.

But he was not expecting me to bolt. I yanked the handle, forced the door, and jumped out.  At that moment he stepped out of the truck on his side. As I hit the pavement, I called out, “Hey, I don’t want any trouble!”—trying to defuse whatever was about to happen.

I moved to the passenger-side rear, keeping the full length of the truck between us. I kept my eyes locked on him, making sure he did not come any closer. For a second, it felt like a standoff—but he did not chase me.

But it was not over. He did not just leave. He then walked up the stairs to the elevated platform. From up there, he stood watching me as I walked down the dark street toward where my car was parked.

My heart was hammering. I had to make a left turn into the parking lot—out of his line of sight. The moment I rounded that corner, I sprinted. Full throttle. The best Usain Bolt impression of my life, straight to my car. I jumped in, locked the doors, and did not stop shaking for hours.

Even as I sat there, catching my breath, my mind raced with fear. What if he followed me? What if he was waiting for me to leave so he could trail me home? I had these terrifying visions of him pulling up outside my place, of the nightmare continuing. Every headlight behind me felt like a threat. I drove home with my heart in my throat, checking my mirrors the entire way.

But my one overwhelming thought that still haunts me to this day is this: What if he never intended to take me to Lindenhurst at all? What if that stop was just a lie to get me into his truck, and something far worse was waiting down some dark, empty road?

I never got his name. Never saw his license plate. But I never forgot his face.

A few months later, I was living in Wantagh. I was sober, sharp, and very much on alert. I got off the train at Seaford one night and started walking down the platform.

There he was.

Same guy. Same creepy energy. Walking toward me like nothing ever happened.

But this time, I was not the guy who got in the truck.

I stood tall. Looked him dead in the eye. And I let it rip:

“I know who you are. I remember what you did. If you come near me, I will fuckin’ kill you. Understand? I will fuckin’ kill you.”

He froze. Just for a second.

Then he turned and ran.

I never saw him again.

For years, I filed that night away. Chalked it up to a bad decision and a lucky escape. But when the news broke in 2023 about Rex Heuermann—the Gilgo Beach suspect, the architect from Massapequa Park, the alleged killer who may have stalked vulnerable people across the very same LIRR line I rode daily—everything came rushing back. And one detail hit hard: the man who tried to trap me was driving a truck, not a car. Just like Heuermann. That single connection has gnawed at me ever since.

I do not know if it was him.

But I know this: I looked evil in the eye. I sat in its truck. And I walked away.

Not everyone got that chance.

And for years, I have kicked myself for never reporting it. I was embarrassed—I had done the one thing parents always warn you about as a kid: never get into a stranger’s vehicle. But I was an adult. In my 30s. I should have known better. Maybe it wouldn’t have led anywhere, maybe it would’ve been dismissed—but maybe, just maybe, it could’ve made a difference. That thought follows me, just like that night always has. And again, one detail hit especially hard: the man who tried to trap me was driving a truck, not a car. I remember it clearly—it was a light-colored truck, not dark. That detail always stuck with me. And while the truck Rex Heuermann was linked to years later was dark green, I still wonder… what else did he drive back then? That single connection has gnawed at me ever since.

If you ever feel something is wrong, listen to that whisper inside you. It might be the only warning you get.

This is not fiction. This is not drama.

This is survival.

  • Don Schmidt/The Book Kahuna

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