The Midnight Bus to Nowhere
The storm had been creeping over Seattle since evening—thick, gray clouds rolling in from the Sound, and rain that refused to stop. Ryan Matthews hated working late shifts, but the pay was good, and he needed it. By the time he locked up the small tech shop where he worked, the streets were empty except for reflections of neon signs trembling in puddles.
He spotted the last bus of the night waiting by the corner. Route 47. Headed north, toward Everett. A small relief washed over him. He jogged through the rain and climbed aboard, shaking off his hood.
The driver, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a Seattle Mariners cap, gave him a small nod. “Cutting it close tonight, huh?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, breathless. “Barely made it.”
The bus was nearly empty—just three passengers. An older woman clutching a grocery bag, a young girl in headphones staring at her phone, and a man in a dark coat by the window, motionless.
Ryan slid into a seat halfway down and exhaled. The doors hissed shut, and the bus rumbled forward through sheets of rain.
For the first half hour, the ride was ordinary. Streetlights passed by like orange ghosts, the hum of the engine a steady lullaby. Ryan scrolled aimlessly on his phone—no service, as usual on the backroads.
He leaned against the window and closed his eyes. The heater blew a warm, dusty air, and the driver hummed faintly along to an old song on the radio. Everything felt calm—until it didn’t.
When Ryan opened his eyes again, something was different.
The girl’s seat was empty. So was the old woman’s.
He looked around. The man in the dark coat was still there, head down. Ryan frowned. He hadn’t felt the bus stop. No sound, no announcement. Just… gone.
He stood up and glanced toward the front. “Hey, did we drop anyone off?”
The driver didn’t answer. The radio had gone silent.
“Sir?” Ryan tried again.
The driver’s voice came, low and even. “Might wanna sit back down, son.”
Ryan blinked. “What? Why?”
“Road’s rough out here.”
Ryan hesitated but returned to his seat. His reflection in the dark window looked pale under the flickering overhead light. He told himself maybe he just hadn’t noticed the stops. Maybe he’d drifted off.
But the road outside didn’t look familiar anymore.
The rain had slowed to mist, thick and milky, swallowing everything past the headlights. No trees. No signs. Just a tunnel of white.
Ryan checked his phone again—still no signal. The clock read 12:07 a.m., same as before.
He looked up at the driver’s mirror. The man’s face was expressionless, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Are we still on Route 47?” Ryan asked.
The driver didn’t blink. “This is the only road left.”
Ryan’s stomach tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “You’ll see soon enough.”
The bus rattled as it took a hard turn. Ryan grabbed the seat handle.
That’s when he noticed—the man in the dark coat was gone too.
Every seat behind Ryan was empty now.
The silence pressed against his ears until he could hear only his own breathing.
He stood, moving toward the driver. “Where did they go? Those people?”
“They got off,” the driver murmured.
“When?”
The driver looked at him in the mirror—and Ryan froze. The man’s skin was gray, like ash, and his eyes looked glassy, hollow.
“You don’t remember,” he said softly.
Ryan stumbled backward. “What are you talking about?”
The driver’s mouth curved slightly, but not in a smile. “You’ve ridden this bus before.”
Ryan’s throat went dry. “No. No, I haven’t.”
The driver turned back to the fog. “Everyone says that.”
Ryan’s pulse raced. He ran to the back, scanning the windows, desperate to see something—anything—but the fog outside looked almost alive, shifting and pulsing in slow motion.
He pressed his face close to the glass, but there was no road beneath them. Only a faint blue glow that seemed to ripple like water.
He turned around—and froze.
The three passengers were sitting behind him again. The old woman. The girl. The man in the coat.
But their faces were different—drained, colorless, eyes sunken.
The girl spoke first, voice soft and hollow. “You shouldn’t have stayed on.”
Ryan’s voice cracked. “What do you mean?”
“No one ever gets off the last route,” she whispered.
The bus lurched violently. The lights flickered, the walls groaned. For a moment, Ryan swore he heard the sound of metal crunching, glass breaking—like an accident happening again, echoing in time.
When the lights steadied, the seats were empty once more.
He ran forward and grabbed the driver’s shoulder. “Stop the damn bus!”
The driver turned to him slowly, face now completely gray.
“This bus doesn’t stop,” he said. “It never did.”
Ryan’s world blurred—the fog outside turned into flashes of white, then black, then silence.
He woke up on a bench. Cold morning air hit his face. The rain had stopped. The sky was pale and washed out.
He was sitting by a rusted signpost that read:
Route 47 Memorial Stop — Service Discontinued.
There was no bus. No driver. No road. Just a cracked pavement and the sound of wind moving through the trees.
Ryan stood up, dizzy. His clothes were dry, but his shoes were soaked, as if he’d walked through deep water. He pulled out his phone—signal bars. The clock read 12:08 a.m.
He turned in every direction, but the road behind him faded into mist.
Somewhere in the distance, an engine hummed.
He stepped forward, squinting through the haze, but the sound faded like a dream.
The next morning, a local patrolman driving down Highway 9 reported seeing a lone figure standing by the old memorial stop. The man didn’t react to the headlights, didn’t move when the siren blared—just stood there, staring into the fog.
By the time the officer turned around, the man was gone.
All that remained was a damp footprint on the gravel and the faint smell of rain.
End of Story
