Stranger in the Night

November 19, 2024

I keep a running list of episodes and anecdotes to draw from for writing ideas. This particular incident has been on the list for quite some time, but I’ve avoided it—every time I think about it, I’m hit with a mild wave of PTSD. Still, despite the sweaty palms and racing heart, I’ll do my best to tell the tale.

I was a fool—an absolute imbecile. But at the time, I didn’t realize it. It took weeks for the truth to sink in.

This all happened one November, probably in 2002 or 2003. The first significant snowfall of the year had just blanketed the ground. Around 4:00 AM, we were awakened by a knock at the door. Groggy and disoriented, I got up and, before I knew it, had let a total stranger into the house. Not just any stranger, but a severely drunk one.

He explained that he’d hit the ditch in front of our house and wanted me to pull him out. I told him I didn’t have anything capable of doing that. He went on to share more details: he was traveling from Lloydminster to Blackfalds, celebrating the birth of his child. His wife had just delivered, and he was on his way to share the good news with his father. Sure, he admitted to having a few drinks, but that was all part of the celebration.

Then came his next request: could I give him a ride to Blackfalds? I hesitated. Here we were, stuck with a drunk stranger in our home in the dead of night. I reasoned that giving him a lift would be quick—it was only a short drive—and then he’d be gone. So, I pulled the car out, and we started down the driveway. Just before we reached the main road, he changed his mind. Instead of heading west to Blackfalds, he asked me to go east—to take him to a buddy’s place. I didn’t know the distance, but I reluctantly agreed.

He also wanted to stop by his stranded truck to grab something. Against my better judgment, I pulled over. After rummaging around for a few minutes, he returned, holding something I couldn’t quite see. Then we continued on.

The drive stretched longer than expected, and I began to worry. Doreen, my wife, would have seen us heading east instead of west, and she must have been wondering what was going on. Thankfully, I had my cell phone. I called her, explained the situation, and heard the concern in her voice. The journey dragged on, the stranger peering out the window into the dark, assuring me his buddy’s place was “just ahead.” Finally, near the village of Alix—more than twice the distance to Blackfalds—he announced we’d arrived. I didn’t waste any time letting him out. As he closed the door, he declared, “I owe you a million bucks.”

Relieved, I called Doreen to tell her I was on my way back. By the time I returned home and crawled into bed, it was nearly 6:00 AM.

The next day, as we reflected on the ordeal, we decided never to open the door to a stranger in the middle of the night again. If it happened, we’d offer to call for a tow or a taxi, but no more letting unknown people inside. At this point, I thought the story was over.

Weeks later, I was cleaning out the car and vacuuming under the passenger seat. That’s when I found it: a hunting knife. It wasn’t mine, and Doreen didn’t recognize it either. As the memory resurfaced, the dots connected. The knife must have been what the stranger retrieved from his truck.

Why had he brought it with him? Was it simply for his own protection, or did he have something more sinister in mind? I’ll never know. But the thought chilled me. What if I had argued with him? What if he’d gotten angry? He could have left me dead in the ditch and driven off with my car without a second thought.

Looking back, I can’t believe how foolish I was to let him into the house or offer him a ride. Somehow, though, I had an instinct not to push back on his demands. That instinct, I suspect, is what kept me alive that night.

I still have that knife. I keep it with my tools in the garage. But I should throw it away, because every time I see it I still get a mild case of P.T.S.D. Oh, and I’m still waiting for that million bucks!