The 3:33 AM Bus to Nowhere: A Nightmare That Never Ends

The rain fell in heavy sheets as I trudged down Cedar Street at 3:15 AM, my shoes splashing through growing puddles. Another double shift at the diner had left me exhausted, but the walk home was usually peaceful at this hour. Tonight was different. The air felt thick, charged with something I couldn't name. That's when I first saw the bus.

It shouldn't have been there. The old Route 17 stop had been abandoned for years after the city cut funding. Yet there it was - a vintage 1970s transit bus, its once-bright yellow paint now faded to a sickly mustard color. The windows glowed with an unnatural amber light, flickering like candle flames in a draft. Most disturbing of all was the destination sign, which cycled through nonsense words before settling on: "NOWHERE."

As I drew closer, I noticed details that turned my stomach. The license plate read "333-AM." The tires were caked with mud that looked suspiciously like dried blood. And when the hydraulic doors wheezed open, the smell that rolled out was unmistakable - the coppery tang of blood mixed with something sweetly rotten, like flowers left too long on a grave.

A handwritten sign above the fare box read: "NO FARE REQUIRED." Below it, someone had taped a Polaroid photo. My breath caught when I recognized my own face in the faded image, though I had no memory of it being taken. The date scrawled on the white border stopped me cold: June 25, 1987.

Against every survival instinct screaming in my head, I stepped aboard. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the doors slammed shut with finality. The bus lurched forward with a groan of ancient suspension, though I saw no driver behind the wheel. The steering column ended in a jagged break, wires dangling like severed tendons.

Outside the windows, the familiar cityscape melted away. Streetlights stretched into impossible lengths before snapping back like rubber bands. Buildings warped and twisted, their windows becoming screaming mouths that vomited black smoke. My reflection in the glass aged rapidly - wrinkles deepening, hair whitening - then reversed into childhood before my eyes.

At exactly 3:33 AM, the bus filled with whispers. I turned to see every seat now occupied by doppelgängers of myself. Some were older, their faces ravaged by time and tragedy. Others were younger versions, their eyes too knowing for their age. One particularly horrifying duplicate sat clutching its stomach, black bile oozing between its fingers. They all stared at me with identical expressions of pity.

The one nearest me leaned close, its breath smelling of turned earth. "You always forget," it whispered. "This is your third time on this ride." It reached into its jacket and produced a bus transfer ticket stamped with today's date... in 2043.

Outside, the landscape shifted again. We passed my childhood home, though it burned down when I was twelve. In the yard stood a figure with my face, waving cheerfully with a hand that ended at the wrist. Next came my high school, where shadows pressed against locked classroom windows, their palms leaving bloody smears on the glass.

The bus began to slow near an unfamiliar bus stop. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw myself standing there - an exact duplicate, right down to the coffee stain on my shirt. Our eyes met as we passed, and I watched in horror as that other me boarded an identical bus going the opposite direction.

When I turned back, the other passengers had vanished. Only their belongings remained - a pair of broken glasses, a wedding ring, a child's teddy bear with its stuffing leaking out. The rearview mirror showed the skeletal hands now gripping my shoulders, pulling me toward the driver's seat.

I woke screaming in my bed, my alarm clock flashing 3:34 AM. My clothes were soaked, not with sweat but with rainwater. My hands ached, and when I examined them under the light, I found deep grooves in my palms - the exact pattern of a bus steering wheel.

The worst part? On my nightstand sat a bus transfer ticket, still damp, stamped with tomorrow's date. And outside my window, faint but unmistakable, came the hiss of air brakes releasing.