The Last Bus on Mariposa Avenue

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I worked the 6 PM to 3 AM shift at a 24-hour convenience store on the edge of the city, a lonely outpost on a road that locals avoided after dark. The store was part of a dying strip mall, its other tenants boarded up and painted with faded advertisements. My only companion was the hum of the refrigerators and the occasional homeless man asking for change.

One night, as I was restocking the energy drinks, I heard a faint tapping on the window. It was rhythmic, like someone drumming their fingers. I turned, but the parking lot was empty. The streetlights cast pools of sickly yellow light on the cracked asphalt, and the only movement was a plastic bag skittering in the wind. I shrugged it off and went back to work. But then it came again, louder, more insistent. I walked to the window and pressed my face to the cold glass. There, on the other side, a man in a soaked overcoat stood motionless, his face obscured by shadow. I screamed and stumbled back, but when I looked again, he was gone.

The next night, I told my manager, a jaded woman named Rosa who had worked there for a decade. She didn’t blink. ‘You see him too, huh? He usually only comes when it’s about to rain. Don’t worry, he doesn’t do anything. He just taps.’ She told me a story about a bus driver who used to park his bus in the old depot behind the strip mall. His last run was on a stormy night, and he never made it home. The bus was later found abandoned, the engine running, but the driver was never seen again. ‘His name was Mr. Reyes,’ she said. ‘They say he still haunts this street, waiting for his last passenger.’

I tried to brush it off, but the tapping became a nightly ritual. Each time, I would steel myself and look, and there he would be, a silhouette against the neon glow. One night, I decided to confront him. I unlocked the door and stepped out into the cold night air. The parking lot was vast and empty. The bus depot was a hulking shape in the distance. ‘Hey!’ I called out. ‘What do you want?’ The figure didn’t move. I took a step closer, and I could see that his head was tilted, as if he were listening. ‘Are you stuck? Do you need help?’ I took another step, and his head snapped up. His eyes were black pits, and his mouth stretched in a too-wide grin. The air around him shimmered, and I felt a chill that seeped into my bones. Then, in a voice that sounded like the crackle of a dying radio, he whispered, ‘The last bus… it’s here.’

I turned to run, but my legs felt heavy, like they were weighed down by concrete. The man’s form flickered and shifted, and for a moment I saw him as he must have been: a tired man in a bus driver’s uniform, with a faded cap. But then his face melted into a mask of despair, and he pointed to the bus depot. And that’s when I saw it: the headlights of a bus cutting through the darkness, the engine growling. It was the bus, rusted and ancient, with its destination sign on the front reading ‘Terminal’. It rolled to a stop beside us, the door hissing open. Inside, the seats were filled with passengers I couldn’t quite see. They were all staring forward, their faces blank. Mr. Reyes gestured to the empty seat next to him. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘No one should miss the last bus.’

I backed away, tripping over a loose piece of asphalt. The bus began to accelerate, and the figure of Mr. Reyes faded into the night, his voice echoing in my ears. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the store, locking the door behind me. I didn’t dare look out the window, but I could feel the bus glowing outside. The next morning, I quit my job. I told Rosa I was moving to the province. She just nodded, as if she knew something I didn’t. As I drove away, I passed the depot, and I saw a bus pulling out onto the main road. It looked modern, not the rusted hulk from the night before, but the driver’s face was a pale blur, and he was tapping the steering wheel to a familiar rhythm.

Months later, I heard the news: a new convenience store employee reported seeing a man in a wet coat at the window. They said he seemed sad, not menacing. And I realized that Mr. Reyes wasn’t a monster; he was a lost soul, cursed to ferry the forgotten to their final destination. I often wonder what would have happened if I had gotten on that bus. Maybe I would have seen the truth. But I was too scared. And maybe that’s the real horror: not knowing what awaits us, but the fear of the unknown that keeps us from moving on. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still hear the tapping at my door—and I know he’s still waiting, inviting me to take that final ride.