The Last Bus Stop on Hollow Road

My name is Elias Thorne, and I’ve spent my entire adult life chasing ghosts. I’ve crawled through abandoned asylums, spent nights in Civil War battlefields, and sat vigil in houses where people had been murdered. I’d seen cold spots, heard disembodied footsteps, and once, I even caught a whisper of a child’s laughter on an old recording. But I’d never had a true, undeniable experience. That all changed when my grandmother, on her deathbed, told me what I had said when I was barely three.

I was born in the small town of Greybrook, a place so nondescript that it only appeared on maps as a dot. The town’s only claim to infamy was a tragedy that occurred before I was born. A school bus, taking kids home on the last day of school, had swerved to avoid a deer and plunged into the murky waters of Lake Alder. Six children, all in the fifth grade, drowned. One of them was my cousin, Ava. I never knew her, but I’d heard her name my whole life.

My grandmother told me that at Ava’s funeral, I was left with a babysitter, Mrs. Kettle, while my parents attended the service. Mrs. Kettle was a kind old woman who tried to keep me occupied, but I kept wandering to the window, looking out at the grey sky. Then, without any prompting, I turned to Mrs. Kettle and said, ‘Ava says she’s sorry she can’t come to my birthday party, but she’ll send me a present anyway.’ Mrs. Kettle, who knew Ava had died, was startled and asked, ‘Ava, dear? Who is Ava?’ I replied, ‘Ava, my cousin. She’s in the water behind the big church.’

Mrs. Kettle told my mother that I had pointed down the road, towards the old stone church that had been abandoned for years. But what made her really uneasy was that I said, ‘She’s waving at me. She says the water is cold, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.’ My mother dismissed it as a child’s imagination, but the words haunted her.

Years later, after my grandmother’s death, I inherited the old family cabin near Greybrook, which had been in our family for generations. I hadn’t visited since I was a child, but I decided to go there for a few weeks, hoping to finally have a paranormal experience in a place with so much family history. The cabin was on the edge of a dense forest, near a lake that was not Lake Alder, but Lake Marrow, known for its eerie stillness and legends of suicides.

On my second night there, I woke to a strange sound—a rhythmic tapping, like small stones hitting the window. I looked out and saw nothing but the swaying trees. The next morning, I explored the property and found a path that led to an abandoned bus stop, a relic from when the old school bus used to run. The stop sign was rusted, and the bench was rotted. I felt an unexplained chill as I touched the sign, and I noticed a small, wet footprint on the dusty ground, too small for an adult.

That night, I set up a voice recorder and a camera in the living room, hoping to catch something. As I lay in bed, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway. Then a child’s voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘Elias, I’m here.’ I froze. The voice was indistinguishable, but I felt compelled to follow it. I walked into the hallway, and the light at the end flickered. I saw a small silhouette, a girl with dripping wet hair, standing at the door to the kitchen. Before I could speak, she vanished.

I reviewed the voice recorder the next morning. There were a few garbled sounds, but then a clear, childish voice: ‘Why did you stop coming to see me?’ A chill ran down my spine. I remembered my grandmother telling me that as a child, I used to talk to an imaginary friend named ‘Mara.’ I had completely forgotten about her until now. I asked my mother about it, and she said I used to have a vivid imaginary friend, but the strange thing was that I would talk to ‘Mara’ as if she were real, and I’d sometimes sit by the lake, having full conversations with her.

I began to research the history of Lake Marrow. I found a local legend about a girl named Mara who drowned in the lake in the 1920s, and her ghost was said to haunt the area, luring children to the water. But the details were vague. I also discovered that the abandoned bus stop was the exact spot where, decades ago, a school bus carrying children had crashed into the lake, and several children had died, including a girl named Mara Lynn. I felt a knot in my stomach.

Determined to communicate, I decided to spend the night at the bus stop. I brought my recorder, a flashlight, and a notepad. I sat on the damp bench as the sun set, the air growing cold. I closed my eyes and tried to focus, whispering, ‘Mara, if you’re here, show me a sign.’ At first, nothing. Then, the recorder crackled. A voice, soft but distinct, said, ‘You used to play with me.’

I asked, ‘What do you want?’ The recorder crackled again, and I heard a desperate voice: ‘I don’t want to be alone. I want you to come with me.’ Suddenly, I felt a pressure on my chest, as if a hand was pushing me, and I had the overwhelming urge to run to the lake. I fought it, grabbing the bench, my breath ragged. Then I heard a splash, as if something heavy had been thrown into the water. When I shone the flashlight, I saw ripples spreading across the lake’s surface, and a small, pale hand rising from the water, waving at me.

I snapped a photo and ran back to the cabin, my heart pounding. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I reviewed the photo on my camera. In the corner, under a tree near the lake, was a faint, translucent figure of a girl with long hair, her eyes hollow. But what scared me most was the message the voice recorder had captured after I had left: ‘I saved you a seat on the bus. We can be together forever.’

I didn’t know what to do. I called my mother and told her what had happened. There was a long silence, and then she said, ‘Elias, there’s something I never told you. When you were little, you often woke up screaming about a girl in the water. The doctors said it was night terrors. But one night, I found you standing at the edge of Lake Marrow, staring into it, whispering, ‘Mara, I’m here.’ I pulled you back, and I never let you go near the lake again. I thought it was just a phase. But now, I think that girl has been waiting for you.’

I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I spun around. There was nothing. But I knew then that I had to leave. As I packed my bags, I saw the school bus from my childhood—the one that had supposedly crashed a lifetime ago—pull up to the bus stop, its headlights cutting through the fog. The door hissed open, and a child’s voice called out, ‘Elias, hurry, we’re going to be late.’ I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. I saw the silhouette of a girl in the doorway, her wet hair plastered to her face, her hand outstretched.

I woke up in a hospital bed three days later, drenched in cold water, with amnesia. The doctors said I had wandered into the lake and nearly drowned. But I knew the truth. The ghost had let me go, but only because I had promised to return. I still have the photo, and in it, the girl seems a little clearer, a little more solid. I still hear her voice sometimes, calling my name from the water. And sometimes, when I’m near a lake, I see a small hand rise from the depths, waving, as if making a promise.

Now, years later, I’ve returned to Greybrook, not as a ghost hunter, but as a believer. I’ve built a small shrine near the lake, with flowers and toys. I bring them every year, honoring the children who died. And though I never had a solid paranormal experience before, now I have thousands. Every time I stand at that shore, I feel a presence, and I know she’s there, waiting. But I also know that I’m safe, as long as I remember to wave back.