The Last Bus Home

I never liked taking the last bus home, but that night I had no choice. My shift at the restaurant ended late, and my phone battery was almost dead. The bus stop was empty, quiet, and lit by a single flickering streetlight. The air felt colder than usual, and the silence pressed heavily on my ears.

When the bus finally arrived, it was almost a relief. It slowed down with a long sigh and stopped in front of me. The doors opened, and I stepped inside. The driver did not look at me. He stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. I tapped my card and moved toward the back.

The bus was nearly empty. A woman sat near the middle, staring out the window, and an old man sat in the very last seat with his head lowered. I chose a seat by the window and rested my head against the glass. As the bus moved, the city lights faded, replaced by long, dark roads that I did not recognize.

At first, I thought I was just tired.

But after fifteen minutes, I realized something was wrong. The bus had not stopped once. No traffic lights. No other vehicles. Just endless road stretching into darkness. I checked my phone, but it had already died. A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach.

I stood up and walked toward the driver. “Excuse me,” I said softly. “Is this the right route?”

He did not respond.

I tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the road, unblinking. His face looked pale, almost gray, under the dim bus lights. I stepped back slowly and returned to my seat, my heart racing.

The woman in the middle suddenly spoke. “He won’t answer,” she said quietly, still staring out the window. Her voice sounded tired, like she had said those words many times before.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She turned toward me slowly. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying for hours. “We’re not going home,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Before I could respond, the bus passed a familiar sign. My street name was written clearly on it. I jumped up. “That’s my stop!” I shouted.

The bus did not slow down.

Panic filled my chest. I rushed toward the doors and pressed the stop button repeatedly. Nothing happened. The bus continued moving, faster now. The road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing the headlights.

I turned to the old man at the back. “Do you know what’s happening?” I asked desperately.

He slowly lifted his head. His face was hollow, his eyes sunken and empty. “I missed my stop,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”

The lights inside the bus flickered. The woman began to cry softly. I felt tears burning in my own eyes as fear tightened its grip on me. I banged on the driver’s shield, screaming for him to stop.

Suddenly, the bus slowed.

The doors opened with a loud hiss, and cold air rushed inside. Outside was nothing but darkness and fog. No buildings. No road signs. Just empty space.

“This is your stop,” the driver said suddenly, his voice low and flat.

I froze. “This isn’t my stop,” I whispered.

He turned his head slightly, and for the first time, I saw his face clearly. His eyes were completely black. “Everyone gets off eventually,” he said.

The woman stood up slowly and walked toward the door. She paused beside me. “Don’t fight it,” she whispered. “That’s how it hurts more.”

I backed away, shaking my head. “No,” I said. “This isn’t real.”

The bus shook violently. The lights went out. In the darkness, I felt hands brushing past me, bodies moving toward the exit. I screamed and ran forward, throwing myself against the driver’s seat.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

I woke up on the side of the road, gasping for air. Morning sunlight warmed my face. A stranger stood over me, asking if I was okay. He said he found me unconscious near the bus stop.

There was no bus. No driver. No passengers.

Later that day, I checked the news. A short article caught my attention. It mentioned a bus accident years ago on the same route. The bus had gone missing. No bodies were ever found.

That night, my phone buzzed with a notification from an unknown number.

“Next time,” the message read, “don’t miss your stop.”