I heard a voice—soft at first

It was late evening, and the bus was nearly empty except for a few scattered passengers. The city was quiet, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. I sat near the back, headphones in, staring out the window, lost in thought.

Then I heard a voice—soft at first, then louder.

“Do you see them?”

I turned slightly, unsure if the voice was meant for me. A man, sitting a few rows ahead, was speaking, but no one responded. He had a vacant expression, his eyes unfocused, yet his voice carried through the bus.

“They’re watching,” he continued. “They never leave.”

A chill crept up my spine. I tried to ignore him, assuming he was just another eccentric night traveler. The bus rumbled on, the driver oblivious, the few passengers pretending not to hear.

“I know you can hear me,” the man said, louder this time. “Your breath changed. You’re listening now.”

My stomach twisted. I hadn’t reacted, hadn’t moved, yet he seemed to know. I kept my gaze fixed outside, the world blurring past.

“You see them too, don’t you?” he whispered.

I felt something shift in the air around me, heavy and cold. My reflection in the window—was it my own? Or did something flicker behind it?

“You can’t ignore them forever,” he said. “They know you now.”

I clenched my hands, suddenly aware of how quiet the bus had become. No hum of conversation, no rustling of bags. Just the low drone of the engine and the man’s voice, which was growing softer, as if fading into the night.

Then, the lights flickered. The bus jolted as if it had hit something, but the driver didn’t stop. I stole a glance at the man—his seat was empty.

My breath caught. He had been right there.

I turned back to the window, my reflection staring at me, unblinking.

And then—it smiled.

I got off at the next stop, not waiting for the doors to fully open. As I stepped onto the pavement, the bus pulled away, its interior lights dimming until all I could see were shadowed figures staring out from inside.

I never took that route again.