San Fransisco, California. April 20 1975

Hitchhiking was part of the culture in the 1970s. Everyone did it. You had to be careful, sure, but most people were just regular folks trying to get from one place to another. It was the era of free love and open roads, when strangers could still trust each other—at least that’s what I told myself.

I was no stranger to the highways of California. By then, I had crossed the state more than once, thumb out, backpack slung over my shoulder, catching rides with truckers, college kids, even families heading north or south along the coast. So when my best friend invited me up to Santa Rosa for her birthday, I didn’t think twice. A ride up from San Francisco would be easy enough.

That morning, I packed light: a change of clothes, some snacks, a water bottle, and a paperback to pass the time. I walked out toward Marina Boulevard, near the Presidio, where the road curves and merges into U.S. Highway 101. It was a well-known spot for catching a ride north, just before you crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Cars slowed down there, and tourists often pulled over to admire the view. I’d seen other hitchhikers along that stretch plenty of times.

The sun was already warm, and the breeze off the bay carried the smell of saltwater and eucalyptus. I wore cut-off denim shorts and a suede fringe vest, the kind everyone seemed to own then. It didn’t take long before the first car pulled over—a gray Ford Escort with two middle-aged men inside. They smiled too wide, leaning across the seats to motion me in. Something about them felt off. I forced a polite smile, shook my head, and said I’d wait for another.

Half an hour passed. A blue hatchback slowed down next. The driver, an older man with a thick moustache, leaned across the passenger seat and offered me a ride in broken English. His eyes lingered too long, and I trusted my gut again. “No, thanks,” I told him firmly. He hesitated before pulling away.

Ten minutes later, the vehicle that would change my life appeared. A blue Chevy van eased onto the shoulder. In the passenger seat was a young woman with long, curly blonde hair, tan skin, and a smile that reminded me of Farrah Fawcett. She leaned out the window and asked where I was headed.

“Santa Rosa,” I said.

Her eyes lit up. “So are we! Hop in.”

Her husband, Tony, sat behind the wheel. Shorter than her, with dark brown hair and a trimmed beard, he had the kind of tan that looked permanent, as though he’d grown up under a relentless sun. In the backseat, I spotted a baby in a car seat, cooing softly. That detail—the baby—put me at ease. What danger could there be in a family?

The woman introduced herself as Jane, and Tony nodded from the driver’s seat. As the van pulled back onto 101, I settled in, smiling at the baby and feeling lucky to have caught such a perfect ride.

The first stretch of the drive was easy. Jane chatted about how they were visiting family near Healdsburg, and I told her about my friend’s birthday. She was charming, even maternal, asking if I was comfortable, if I needed water. Tony drove quietly, glancing at me in the rearview mirror but saying little.

We passed Sausalito, then climbed over the Marin Headlands, the Pacific flashing silver between the hills. As we wound through the rolling landscape of Marin County, the road grew quieter, fewer cars sharing the highway. That was when Tony muttered something about the van “acting funny.” He eased it onto a turnout near a rockfall warning sign north of San Rafael.

“Probably nothing,” he said. “Just want to check before we get stuck.”

I stayed in the back, bouncing the baby gently on my lap as Jane twisted in her seat. Tony got out, circling to the rear of the van. A minute later, he knocked on the side panel and called for help. Jane glanced back at me. “Would you mind giving him a hand?”

Of course, I thought. Why wouldn’t I? I stepped out into the warm air. The highway stretched empty in both directions, framed by hills thick with oaks and redwoods. Tony stood by the open back doors. A tire iron lay on the ground beside a spare tire.

That was when everything shifted.

In one smooth movement, Tony grabbed me, a knife appearing in his hand. He pressed the blade hard against my throat. The edge was sharp enough to sting. My body froze.

“Get in the box,” he said flatly.

I looked down. Inside the van was a wooden crate, about three feet long, two feet wide, the lid open like a waiting mouth. My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Now,” he repeated, pressing the knife closer.

I thought about running. The empty road, the trees, the silence—but Jane was still inside with the baby. Was she part of this? Would she scream? Would Tony catch me? My legs wouldn’t move.

I climbed into the box. I curled myself small, my knees pressed to my chest. I begged him not to close the lid, but he slammed it shut anyway. Darkness swallowed me. No light, no sound. Just the suffocating heat and the weight of the wood pressing against my shoulders.

Time vanished. I felt the box shift, lifted and carried, then set down again. Maybe two minutes of movement. Then stillness. My chest ached. The air grew thin. Sweat stung my eyes. Every nerve screamed for escape.

At last, the lid opened. Light burned my eyes. When they adjusted, I saw Tony standing over me. Behind him was a bedroom. Wood-paneled walls, a brown shag carpet, a waterbed rippling gently in the center. A dresser with brass handles sat against the wall.

Tony leaned close. His voice was calm, almost gentle. “Make a sound, and I’ll kill your family. Understand?”

I nodded, trembling.

He tied my wrists and hoisted them to metal hooks on the ceiling. A blindfold slid over my eyes, a rubber gag into my mouth. Then the beating began.

When it stopped, I heard footsteps—Jane’s. I heard them talking, then laughing, then something worse. They left me hanging there, helpless at the foot of their bed.

That night was only the beginning.

They kept me in that house for eight years. Eight years of darkness, silence, manipulation, and cruelty. The baby I thought was real? Just another trick. A doll strapped in a car seat.

And the worst part: no one came looking. Hitchhikers disappeared all the time back then.

I thought it would never end.

Sincerely,
Carol Sanders