The Last Bus at Juniper Crossing

The rain had been falling since noon, a steady, gray curtain that turned the city into a blurred watercolor. Mira had watched it from her office window, a tedious background to the flicker of her computer screen. As her shift stretched past seven, she tried booking a ride home, but the app showed nothing but circling spinners and ‘No drivers available.’ She called her husband, Ravi, his voice tinny through the speaker, sharing her frustration. Then, a notification: a driver named Arjun had accepted her ride. He was at the Juniper Crossing bus depot, a good forty minutes away. Mira sighed, but she had no choice. She packed her bag, pulled on her raincoat, and stepped into the wet gloom.

The pickup point was a narrow lane behind the office complex, usually empty. The streetlights were out, leaving a circle of darkness broken only by the distant glow of the main road. Mira waited under a flimsy awning, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm above. After what felt like an eternity, an old, rusted cab pulled up, its wipers screeching. The rear door groaned open, and a man leaned across from the driver’s seat. His face was half in shadow, but his eyes were pale, almost colorless. ‘Get in,’ he said, his voice rough.

Mira hesitated, but the rain was worsening. She slid into the backseat, the vinyl cold and cracked. ‘Juniper Crossing, right?’ the driver said, adjusting the rearview mirror. She saw his reflection—a severe, gaunt face, and a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied, pulling her seatbelt on. The cab smelled of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood. The engine coughed, then rumbled. They pulled away, the wheels splashing through deep puddles.

The route was unfamiliar. Mira knew the way home should have taken them down the main boulevard, past the lit shops and the new housing colonies. But the driver turned left, into a maze of old, narrow streets lined with abandoned warehouses. ‘Sir, isn’t this out of the way?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Shortcut,’ he said, not looking back. His hands were pale on the wheel, knuckles white.

Through the rain-smeared window, Mira saw a procession of dark shapes—figures lining the streets, unmoving, facing her. They were human, but their postures were rigid, as if frozen mid-step. Some held umbrellas, others not, but none seemed to mind the rain. Her heart began to pound. ‘Who are they?’ she whispered, more to herself. The driver chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. ‘They’re waiting for the last bus,’ he said. ‘The one that never comes.’

Mira’s phone buzzed. A message from Ravi: ‘Where are you? You should be home by now.’ She typed a frantic reply, but before she could send, the screen flickered and died. The driver glanced at her in the mirror. ‘No signal out here,’ he said. ‘Not for the living.’

They passed a figure—a woman in a white sari, her face pale, her mouth open in a silent scream. She reached out as the cab passed, her fingers brushing the glass. Mira flinched back. The driver turned down an even narrower alley, the buildings leaning in as if to swallow them. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Mira demanded, her voice high. The driver didn’t answer. The cab’s interior grew colder.

Suddenly, the car lurched to a stop. The driver killed the engine. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rain’s patter on the roof. ‘We’re here,’ he said, turning to face her. In the dim light, his face seemed to melt, his skin going gray, his eyes sinking into black voids. ‘This is the last stop.’ He pointed ahead, through the windshield. There was a single streetlight, casting a sickly yellow pool, and beneath it, a bench. On the bench sat an old man, his head bowed, his clothes dripping. ‘That’s the conductor,’ the driver said. ‘He’s been waiting for a passenger for years. Since the accident.’

Mira scrambled for the door handle, but it was locked. The driver slowly opened his door, and the rain surged in, but it wasn’t just rain—it carried a whisper, a chorus of muted voices. ‘You’ll take his place,’ the driver said, stepping out. ‘The bus is coming.’ And indeed, Mira heard a deep, groaning rumble, not from the road, but from everywhere, from inside the very ground. A bus with black windows emerged from the darkness, its headlights like glowing eyes. It stopped beside the bench. The old man stood, his joints cracking, and turned toward the cab. His face was a ruin of scars, and his eyes were white.

Mira pressed herself against the far door, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks. ‘No, no, please,’ she sobbed. The bus doors hissed open, and a cold, dead breath flowed out. The old man walked toward the cab, his steps slow and deliberate. The driver stood outside, watching, a grotesque grin splitting his face. The old man reached the cab and pressed his face against the window, inches from Mira’s. His lips moved, but no sound came out—yet she heard him in her mind, a rasping voice that said, ‘Your seat is ready, passenger. We’ve been waiting so long.’

Mira screamed, but no sound escaped. The world tilted, and the cab’s interior darkened, the outside light fading. She felt herself being pulled, her body dissolving into the seat, merging with the vinyl and rust. In a moment, she was outside, standing on the sidewalk, her clothes dry, her phone dead. The cab was gone. The bus was gone. She was alone on a deserted street, under a flickering streetlight, the rain falling through her as if she weren’t there.

Ravi never saw her again. But in the weeks that followed, on nights when the rain poured down, passersby would report a woman in a bright raincoat standing at the corner of Juniper Crossing and Elm, her eyes hollow, her lips moving soundlessly. She would wait, they said, as if for a ride that would never come. And sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear a bus approaching from nowhere, and the sound of a door opening, and a voice saying, ‘Last stop.’