The Last Stop

It was 6:40 a.m. when Mr. Harris, the school bus driver, unlocked Bus No. 47 and climbed inside.

The mornings in Maplewood were cold and silent, the kind that made the windows fog up before the engine even started.

He had been driving this route for seven years. Same yellow bus, same children, same stops.

Routine. Predictable. Safe.

But this morning — something felt off.

The driver’s mirror caught a glimpse of someone standing near the last stop sign.

A man, tall and still, in a dark coat. Not one of the parents. Not anyone from the neighborhood.

Just standing there, watching.

Harris frowned and turned the bus key. The engine rumbled awake. The man didn’t move.

The Route Begins

The first few stops were normal.

Kids with messy hair and half-eaten toast climbed aboard, greeting Harris with sleepy smiles.

He liked these moments — the sound of laughter, the warmth of life starting another day.

At the fourth stop, a new boy got on.

Slim, pale, wearing a blue hoodie. He looked about twelve.

“New kid, huh?” Harris asked, marking his attendance clipboard.

The boy nodded. “Yeah. Mom said I could ride today.”

“Name?”

The boy hesitated, then said softly, “Caleb.”

Harris wrote it down and smiled. “Alright, Caleb. Seat’s yours. We’ll get you there safe.”

But when he checked the school’s passenger list, there was no Caleb registered for Bus 47.

He figured maybe the paperwork hadn’t caught up yet. New families moved into Maplewood all the time.

Still, something in the boy’s eyes — the way he avoided looking at anyone — unsettled him.

The Stranger Returns

At the next stop, Harris noticed the same tall man in the coat again, now standing further up the road.

Watching.

When Harris blinked, the man turned and disappeared between the houses.

He shook his head. “Too much coffee,” he muttered.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed — not by cars, not by people, but by something unseen.

A Missing Bag

During the lunch drop-off, one of the students — a quiet girl named Ellie — came running up to him.

“Mr. Harris! My bag’s gone! I left it on my seat.”

He walked back to check. The bag was indeed gone.

And in its place, under the bench, was a folded newspaper clipping.

The headline read:

LOCAL CHILD STILL MISSING — SEVEN YEARS LATER.

There was a picture of a young boy — Caleb.

Same face. Same blue hoodie.

Harris’s heart froze.

The Confrontation

That evening, after dropping off the last student, he parked the bus by the depot and turned to look down the empty aisle.

Caleb was still sitting in the back seat.

“Hey, kid,” Harris said, forcing a smile. “You missed your stop.”

Caleb didn’t reply.

“Where do you live, son?”

Caleb’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You drive me there every day.”

Harris frowned. “What do you mean? This is your first day—”

The boy looked up, eyes dull and tired. “You never remember me.”

The words hit Harris like a cold wave.

He stepped closer, but when he reached the seat, it was empty.

No Caleb.

Just the newspaper clipping lying on the floor.

The Investigation

Harris didn’t tell anyone that night.

He couldn’t. Who would believe him?

Instead, he started digging.

Old police reports. Archived news. Anything about the missing boy named Caleb Reed.

He found that Caleb had vanished seven years ago on his way to school — the same route Harris drove.

Bus 47 had been under maintenance that week. A substitute driver was on duty.

Still, Harris couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The next morning, he drove the same route again.

And when he reached the fifth stop — the boy was there, waiting, blue hoodie and all.

This time, Harris didn’t speak.

He just let him sit quietly.

A Hidden Route

Over the next few days, strange things began to happen.

Every time Caleb rode the bus, something went missing — a notebook, a water bottle, a scarf.

And in its place, always a piece of the old investigation file appeared.

Finally, Harris realized something.

All the missing items belonged to kids who sat in the back three rows — the same area where Caleb always sat.

He checked the bus logs from seven years ago.

The substitute driver back then? David Cole.

A man who had suddenly quit and left town the week after Caleb disappeared.

When Harris mentioned it to the current principal, she looked startled.

“That’s odd,” she said. “David Cole’s name just came up again… He applied for a job at another district yesterday.”

The Truth on the Bus

That evening, Harris drove alone. He stopped the bus halfway through the route and got out.

He checked every seat carefully, looking for clues.

Then he noticed something new — under the last bench, taped to the frame, was a metal box covered in dust.

Inside:

A broken child’s watch

A photograph of the old bus staff

And a key tag labeled 47-DC

Harris’s throat tightened.

DC — David Cole.

He called the police immediately.

By morning, they had searched the depot and the surrounding area.

Behind the old fuel shed, they found a buried locker containing several missing school items — all from the week Caleb vanished.

David Cole was arrested two days later in another state.

He confessed to kidnapping Caleb Reed and covering it up before fleeing Maplewood.

But when officers asked how the evidence was found, Harris could only say, quietly,

“A passenger helped me.”

They didn’t ask who.

He didn’t explain.

The Last Ride

Bus 47 was repaired, repainted, and put back into service months later.

New driver, new students, same route.

Mr. Harris left town soon after, his statement sealed in the case file.

But every year, on the anniversary of the arrest, the school receives an envelope with a single note inside:

“Seat 12 is always reserved.”

The staff think it’s a prank.

But the drivers know better — they never let anyone sit there.

Ending Note (Realistic & Symbolic)

Caleb’s body was never found.

Only his backpack — the one Ellie lost — turned up near the old depot.

The case file closed quietly, but Bus 47 still runs.

And sometimes, when it stops at the corner of Maplewood and Third, the automatic door opens… even when no one’s there.

Not because of ghosts — but because some memories refuse to be forgotten,

especially the ones tied to guilt, truth, and the long road home