A Disturbing Road Test Story

I'm a 21-year-old female living in Ontario Canada. This happened when I was 19 and going for my G license (the last step for a full driver's license in the province). I was on Spring Break from my university and was back home with my parents and decided to sign up at the nearest ServiceOntario to take my final road test (I know, adventurous).

My road test was scheduled for 8 AM sharp. When I arrived, it was 7:30 and still dark out from being overcast. I lined up in front of the counter to check in. A grumpy middle-aged woman with dark circles under her eyes told me to just take a seat and wait for my instructor to come find me.

Feeling a little nervous, a fidgeted in the already uncomfortable chair and waited for someone to approach me. Almost immediately, a tall stocky man wearing a beige polo shirt came up and introduced himself. Not thinking, I told him my name and shook his hand. He said he was my driving instructor and told me to call him Chuck. The guy seemed friendly enough, though I noticed he had a lopsided head with very far apart eyes - he kind of looked like Sloth from Goonies.

As we got out to the parking lot, I instinctively walked in the direction of my car.

"What are you doing?" I heard him say behind me.

I turned around, and he had an incredulous, amused smirk on his face.

He then told me we were using his car and pointed toward an old, beat-up station wagon.

Strange, I thought. For all the other road tests I had used my own car.

Too nervous to give it a second thought, I shrugged and got in. Immediately, I noticed an odd smell, nothing gross like blood or urine exactly, but more like mold or festering garbage. Again, I didn't pay it much mind; after all, this was a road test car so it probably didn't get a lot of maintenance.

We peeled out of the plaza, after some difficultly turning the engine over, and were easing our way through traffic.

This ServiceOntario was next to a very long major road, which was very busy that morning. After a few minutes, it started to drizzle, not quite raining, and I wasn't sure if I should put the wipers on or not.

That's when I realized the guy hadn't given me any directions: there were no instructions to get into the left or right-hand lane and he never asked me to go onto a smaller road, so I could parallel park, like other instructors had. He was just staring blankly out into the road, chewing on his thumb.

After ten minutes - we were now getting to the outskirts of the city - I could hear him mumbling something to himself. At first, I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, thinking he might be instructing me, but he was just mumbling endless gibberish under his breath. I could only make out one word, which he kept repeating over and over: Jesus.

By now I was practically shitting bricks. I only got more nervous as there started to be less houses and people around.

He then finally spoke up, telling me to take the next right. I did as he asked and regretted it instantly. The road didn't lead anywhere but to the side of a train track next to a bunch of metal containers and empty buildings. He then told me to park and shut off the engine. We were now far out of sight and earshot of anyone.

We both sat there for what felt like hours, the rain beginning to pour hard on the windshield. He stopped mumbling and began chewing on his thumbnail again. Keeping an eye on him, I slowly crept my left hand into my pocket for my keys.

"You're really pretty," he said suddenly. His eyes looked into mine for a moment before glaring sickeningly at my chest. "It's wrong though," he muttered, stilling staring. "You whores shouldn't tempt people like that. Jesus says it's wrong."

Just to give you an idea of how surprising this comment was, I was wearing a wool sweater - no skin showing - and I'm an A-Cup, so I wasn't expecting such brazen ogling.

"Uh…shouldn't we get back to the road test?" I asked, hearing the fear in my own voice.

Finally, he took his eyes off my breasts then reached down in front of him to open the glove compartment.

"You just have one thing left to do," he said, and I could see him take out something wrapped up in a black cloth, which he began to unravel.

My heart must have stopped. My mouth widened but the scream wouldn't come. In his hand, the point right at me, was a needle. A fucking syringe!

He then grabbed my arm with the other hand and started leaning into me, the needle's point coming closer. His yellow eyes stared into mine, a demented, amused smirk on his wet lips.

Without jerking away or crying, I slashed my keys into his eye with the other hand, miraculously avoiding getting stuck by the needle. He cried out, let go of my hand, and I immediately flew out of the car and ran.

Behind me, just louder than the pelting rain, I could hear him scream, telling me I was going to fail the test if I didn't get back there. I kept running. I ran until I was finally close to an intersection with some people around. I stayed there for a while until I saw the same beat-up station wagon speeding through a red.

After fifteen minutes of gathering my composure, I hoofed it to the nearest bus stop and took a bus home. Thankfully I had some spare change in my pocket because it was then that I realized I had left my purse, which had my credit cards and phone, in that creep's car.

I had every intention not to tell anyone about what happened (I know, stupid, but I didn't want to relive that nightmare). My plan was to go and get my dad's car later that evening when the center was closed.

But, overhearing me cancelling my credit cards over the phone, and seeing the car wasn't there, my dad asked me what had happened. I broke down crying and told him everything.

Livid, he got on the phone and called the driving center. Sitting at the kitchen table, I heard him curse out whoever was on the other end, telling them he was going to call the cops and demanding to speak to my driving instructor. My father then asked for me to come to the phone to tell them what the instructor looked like.

I told them his name and described him as objectively as I could. After a few seconds of silence, the woman on the other end told me that no such person worked there. According to her, I was supposed to take my road test with an instructor named Maggie Sumter, and that I had been rescheduled for next week since Sumter couldn't find me. I must have almost had a heart-attack when she told me this. The man wasn't even an instructor.

My father and I filed a report with the local police. Unfortunately, I could not remember the man's license plate number and he never gave me his full name. To this day, the man has never been caught - and I have yet to take my G road test.