It was a stormy night in Seattle, and Ethan had stayed late at work again. The clock was creeping past midnight, and outside, the rain was pouring in sheets, hammering against the glass windows. Thunder rolled through the skies, and lightning flashed over the deserted streets. His only worry was catching the last bus home to Bellevue before it stopped running for the night.
He rushed out of the office building, the cold wind cutting through his soaked clothes. As he sprinted toward the stop, he saw the Route 47 bus just beginning to pull away. Heart pounding, Ethan shouted and ran as fast as he could, catching the handle just in time. Breathing heavily, drenched from head to toe, he climbed aboard and found an empty seat near the window.
The bus was nearly empty. The fluorescent lights flickered, and the sound of the rain against the windows filled the silence. The driver, an old man with a baseball cap pulled low, stared blankly ahead as the bus rumbled through the dark streets.
Ethan leaned his head against the window, watching the city lights blur through the rain. He figured everyone must’ve gone home early because of the storm. Within minutes, exhaustion took over, and he dozed off.
When he woke up, something felt off—the bus was now completely full of people. Every seat was taken, but no one was making a sound. No chatter, no coughs, no footsteps—just eerie stillness. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of it. The bus hadn’t stopped anywhere. Where did they all come from?
Confused, he rubbed his eyes and looked around again. The faces seemed dull, almost blurred, like shadows under the flickering lights. He closed his eyes again, thinking maybe he was just imagining it.
When he opened them once more—the bus was completely empty again.
A chill ran down his spine. The rain outside had slowed, but inside the bus, the air felt heavy and cold. That’s when he caught the sharp smell of cigarette smoke.
He turned his head slowly.
An old man sat beside him—wrinkled face, sunken eyes, and a strange calm smile. He was lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers.
“You’re new to this bus, aren’t you?” the man said in a low, raspy voice.
Ethan frowned. “Yeah… why do you ask?”
The old man exhaled smoke and stared straight ahead. “I’ve been riding this bus for thirty years. Nobody takes it after midnight… not if they want to get home.”
Ethan gave an uneasy laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
The man didn’t respond. “One night,” he continued softly, “I saw someone sitting right there”—he pointed to the seat in front of them—“face smashed in, blood everywhere… staring right at me. Then—he vanished.”
Ethan shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe you had a bad dream,” he muttered, forcing a smile. But the old man’s tone, the stillness of his eyes, sent a strange unease crawling through him.
After a while, Ethan drifted off again. When he woke up, the old man was gone. The seat beside him was empty. The digital clock above the driver’s head read 1:03 a.m.
Then he noticed—there was someone sitting at the very front of the bus. A man in a trench coat, reading a newspaper.
Relieved, Ethan called out, “Hey, do you know when this bus gets to Bellevue?”
No response.
He leaned forward. “Hey, sir?”
Slowly, the man lowered the newspaper.
Ethan froze in terror. The man’s face was crushed, blood pouring down his neck, his eyes white and hollow. Ethan’s breath caught in his throat.
Then—he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.
He turned sharply and gasped. The same man now stood beside him, completely fine, smiling politely. “Why so scared?” he asked gently. “Here, have some water.”
Ethan was trembling, unable to speak. The man tilted his head. “Strange things happen on this bus at night,” he whispered. “If you’re smart, you’ll get off before it’s too late.”
And just like that, the man vanished.
The bus slowed as it climbed a lonely stretch of road outside the city. Ethan got up, heart pounding. From the front, a voice echoed softly—“Now’s your chance… get off.”
Ethan looked ahead. The same man stood near the door, smiling eerily through the dim light. And then, without hesitation, he jumped from the moving bus. A loud thud followed by a faint scream echoed through the rain.
Ethan panicked. He rushed toward the door and leapt out into the storm. He hit the wet pavement hard, rolling to a stop, gasping for breath.
When he looked back—his blood turned to ice.
The bus was no longer the same. Its front half was burned, the metal twisted, windows cracked. Through the flickering lights inside, Ethan could see ghostly passengers—faces pale and lifeless, staring into nothing.
Among them sat the old man and the newspaper reader, both smiling faintly through the fogged windows.
Ethan stood frozen on the roadside, watching as the bus rumbled away into the night, fading into the mist until it vanished completely.
To this day, locals in Seattle whisper that on stormy nights, a half-burned Route 47 bus still drives the roads toward Bellevue—its headlights dim, its seats filled with shadows. And sometimes, a lone figure can be seen sitting by the window.
Some say it’s Ethan.
Others say it’s the next poor soul who took the last bus home.
“Never take the last bus on a stormy night… because not every journey ends at home.”
