The Last Bus Home

I pull my hoodie tighter around me as I step out of the school doors. The parking lot is almost empty, just a few cars left under the flickering streetlights.

Great. I stayed way too late.

I check my phone—9:47 PM. My stomach drops. My usual bus left over an hour ago, which means I’m stuck taking the last bus home.

The one nobody ever talks about.

I swallow hard and start walking toward the bus stop. The streets are too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being watched. My footsteps echo on the pavement, and the air smells damp, like it’s about to rain.

By the time I reach the stop, the bus is already there, waiting.

Its headlights cut through the mist, too bright against the darkness. The windows are oddly clean, reflecting the world around them like a mirror instead of glass.

I hesitate. Something about it feels wrong.

Then I shake my head. I’m just tired. Overthinking.

I step onto the bus, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. The cold night air clings to my skin, and the mist outside makes everything look fuzzy, like a dream I haven’t fully woken up from.

I stayed late at school finishing an essay, which means I’m stuck taking this bus—the last one of the night. The one nobody likes riding.

The driver doesn’t even look at me. He just stares straight ahead, hands floating above the wheel like he forgot how to drive. His uniform is all wrinkled, and his nametag is scratched up so badly I can’t read it.

Something about him feels off.

The doors screeches shut behind me.

I glance around. A few other students are scattered across the bus, but nobody’s talking. Nobody’s moving.

Then I see Victoria Santos, my best friend, sitting a few rows down.

Relief washes over me. I hurry over and drop into the seat next to her. “Vee! I thought you left with your brother.”

She doesn’t react.

I frown. She’s just sitting there, staring ahead, her fingers lightly curled around the straps of her backpack. She’s not asleep, but she’s not… awake, either.

I nudge her shoulder. “Vee? Hellooo?”

Her head turns way too slowly, like she’s fighting against something.

“Hope,” she mumbles. Her voice sounds weird—hollow, like she’s talking in her sleep. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A chill creeps up my spine.

“Huh?” I let out a nervous laugh. “It’s just the late bus. We’ll be home soon.”

Victoria doesn’t answer. She just turns her head forward again, staring at nothing.

Something feels wrong.

I shake it off and look out the window. At first, everything seems normal—streetlights glowing, the old diner Vee and I used to stop at, the gas station near my neighborhood.

Then, ten minutes later, we pass the same gas station again.

My stomach twists.

The diner comes next. The same sidewalk cracks. The same flickering streetlight.

We’re going in circles.

I sit up straighter, my pulse picking up speed. I turn to Vee. “Do you see this? We just passed that gas station twice.”

Nothing.

I glance around. Nobody has moved. The other passengers just sit there, heads tilted down a little, faces completely blank. No one’s checking their phone. No one’s shifting in their seat. They’re not even blinking.

My hands grip the edge of my seat. My chest feels tight.

I look toward the front. “Uh, excuse me?” I call to the driver. “I think we missed a turn.”

He doesn’t react.

My throat goes dry. I push myself up, stepping into the aisle. “Hey!” I try again. “Where are we—”

Then I see it.

His hands aren’t on the wheel.

But the bus is still moving.

My breath catches. My skin goes cold. I turn back to Victoria, my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Vee, we have to get off this bus.”

She finally speaks, but her voice is so empty it barely sounds like her.

“We never get home, Hope.”

The lights flicker.

The bus keeps going.