The Ghost Bus of Grove Street

The final bell rang at 3:27, but I had already started packing my bag. I was a senior at Westbrook High, and the only thing on my mind was escaping the stale air of Room 204, where Mr. Pendleton had been droning on about the symbolism in some Victorian novel I couldn’t care less about. I had a half-shift at the diner starting at five, and I needed the break. My name is Alex, and I’ve never been one for mysteries, but what I saw that day changed everything.

I raced out of the building and into the crowded parking lot, weaving through clusters of freshmen and jocks. My bus was usually in the third row by the fence, but as I scanned the rows, I didn’t see the familiar big yellow machine. Instead, I noticed a girl standing alone near the back of the lot, near the old maintenance shed that no one ever used. She was tiny, maybe six or seven, with a faded red dress that looked too thin for the cold October air. She wasn’t moving, just staring at the ground, and something about her made me slow down.

Normally, I wouldn’t have approached a little kid, but there was something so still about her. I walked over, and as I got closer, I realized she was standing in front of a bus stop sign that had been there forever, rusted and barely legible. But there was no bus stop here. The school had moved the bus lanes years ago. I crouched down to her level. ‘Hey, are you lost?’ She looked up at me, and her eyes were so pale they looked almost white. ‘Waiting for my bus,’ she said. Her voice was soft, like wind through leaves. I looked around. ‘Your bus doesn’t come here. Where are your parents?’ She didn’t answer, just pointed at the ground. I followed her gaze and saw a faded yellow line painted on the asphalt, so old it was barely visible. It led from the shed to the fence, disappearing into the grass.

A chill ran up my spine. I heard a distant sound, like a diesel engine, but when I looked up, the lot was empty. The sound grew louder, closer, but I couldn’t see anything. The little girl smiled. ‘It’s here.’ I turned to see a bus pulling up, but it wasn’t like any bus I’d seen before. It was old, with a rounded front and a faded red color, not yellow. Its windows were dark, and the engine rumbled like thunder. The doors hissed open with a sound like a snake, and the girl walked up the steps without looking back. I called out, ‘Wait!’ but she was already gone inside. The doors closed, and the bus started to pull away. I ran after it, but it turned a corner and vanished.

I stood there, heart pounding. The lot was completely quiet, as if the world had held its breath. I looked down and saw a small, tarnished locket on the ground where the girl had been standing. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a photo of a little girl in a red dress, smiling, and on the back was written ‘Emily, 1987.’ I felt a cold breeze, and I heard a whisper behind me: ‘She’s been waiting for you.’ I spun around, but no one was there.

I didn’t tell anyone about what I saw. I went home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to know more. That night, I searched online for ‘Westbrook bus crash 1987.’ And I found it. A school bus had skidded off the road on Grove Street, just behind the school, and plunged into the river. Six children died, including a five-year-old named Emily Hanson. The driver was never found. The bus was never recovered.

I became obsessed. I would drive to Grove Street at night, park by the bridge, and stare at the water. I started having dreams where I was on the bus, sitting next to Emily, and she would whisper, ‘You’re not like the others. You can help me.’ I would wake up with the locket cold against my chest.

Weeks passed, and I couldn’t let it go. I returned to the spot where I had seen her, late on a Friday. As I stood there, the same old bus appeared, its lights flickering. The doors opened, and I saw Emily inside, waving. I stepped forward, and when I boarded, the bus was filled with a soft, golden light. Emily took my hand and led me to a seat. She pointed at the mirror, and I saw a reflection of the river, and beneath the surface, the bus, upside down, with the silhouette of a man trapped in the driver’s seat. ‘He won’t let me go,’ she said. ‘He wants company.’ I looked at her, and for the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.

I understood. The driver had survived and had hidden the bus, keeping the children’s souls bound to it. I had to free them. With the locket in hand, I went to the river and dove into the freezing water. I swam down and found the bus, half-buried in the mud. I opened the driver’s door, and a waterlogged corpse reached out for me. But I had the locket, and I pressed it into its hand. The body crumbled, and the bus began to rise, breaking the surface. I climbed out, gasping, and watched as the bus floated away, a spectral light emanating from its windows. I saw the children, their ghosts, waving at me from the windows, and then they faded.

The next day, I went back to the school. The maintenance shed was gone, and in its place was a garden with a small plaque. It read: ‘In memory of the children of the 1987 bus crash. Their bus found.’ I felt a warmth in my chest, and I knew Emily was at peace. I never saw her again, but sometimes, late at night, I hear a distant diesel engine, and I smile, because I know it’s them, grateful to be finally free.