The Last Bus to Hollow Creek

It was a sweltering August night when my friends and I, bored out of our minds, decided to watch a horror film at the drive-in. My best friend Mira had just gotten her license, and she insisted on driving us in her beat-up station wagon. Her cousin Leo, a self-proclaimed skeptic, had come along to mock every scare. I was the designated nervous wreck—the one who covered her eyes during the jump scares and clutched a pillow for dear life.

The film was about a malevolent spirit that dragged its victims into a watery grave. The whole time, Mira and Leo laughed at the special effects, while I sat rigid, my heart pounding. When it ended, Mira turned to me and said, ‘That was garbage. The only scary thing is how bad the acting was.’ Leo snorted, not even glancing at the screen.

We drove home in silence, the radio playing static as we passed through the empty stretches of farmland. It was well past midnight, and the roads were slick with a light rain. I lived in a small town on the edge of the county, and to get to my place, we had to take Hollow Creek Road—a narrow, winding path with no streetlights and a reputation for accidents.

Mira dropped me off at my front porch, and I waved as they pulled away. Inside, I locked the door, did my usual routine—checked every closet, held my breath while looking under the bed—and finally climbed into bed with a book. I fell asleep with the lamp on.

I woke to a strange, damp cold. The lamp was off. My digital clock read 3:08 AM. I felt a sharp, pulling sensation at my ankle, as if something were yanking me toward the foot of the bed. My heart hammered. I tried to scream, but my throat felt constricted. The pulling grew stronger, and I gripped the headboard, my knuckles white.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. I lay there, panting, staring at the foot of the bed. There was a faint, watery impression on the blanket—two small handprints, as if a child had pressed their hands into wet sand.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. At dawn, I called Mira, my voice shaky. She laughed at first, said I was just spooked from the movie. But when I told her about the handprints, she went quiet. ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘I had a weird dream last night. I was driving us home, but we never got here. We were stuck on Hollow Creek Road, and this little girl kept knocking on the window.’

I dropped the phone. The handprints—they looked small. I shivered.

A week passed, and I tried to convince myself it was a nightmare. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every night, I woke at exactly 3:08. Every time, I felt a cold draft, as if someone had left the front door open.

Then, one evening, I was walking home from the grocery store when I saw a little girl standing at the edge of Hollow Creek Road. She was soaked, her dress dripping water, her hair plastered to her face. She was holding a toy boat. I stopped, my breath catching. She looked at me with hollow eyes and whispered, ‘You were in the movie with me.’

I ran. I didn’t look back. When I got home, I called Mira, but she didn’t answer. I drove to her house, but her car wasn’t in the driveway. Leo answered, looking pale. ‘She’s been missing since last night,’ he said. ‘She said she was going to meet you at the cemetery.’

I felt the world tilt. ‘I never called her.’

We went to the cemetery together, not knowing what we’d find. It was a small, forgotten plot near the creek. In the middle, there was a fresh grave with a headstone that read: ‘Here lies Mary, aged 8. Drowned in Hollow Creek, 1978.’

But the dirt was moved. And on top of the grave lay Mira’s shoe.

I knelt, my hands shaking. I touched the headstone, and it was cold and damp. I looked up, and I saw them—Mary and Mira, standing at the edge of the trees, hand in hand. Mary smiled, and Mira looked at me with a sorrowful expression, her lips moving but no sound coming out.

I bolted, leaving Leo behind. I drove to the sheriff’s office, but they thought I was crazy. They said Mira had been missing for a week, that they’d searched everywhere. But I knew.

Now, it’s been two years. I don’t sleep anymore. I keep the lights on. But every night, at 3:08, I feel a cold hand on my ankle, and I hear a faint giggle from the doorway. And sometimes, I see Mira’s face in the window, her eyes pleading.

The last bus to Hollow Creek doesn’t run anymore. But every so often, I see its headlights in the fog, and standing by the side of the road, a little girl with a boat, waiting for one more passenger.

I don’t know if this is my punishment or my curse. But I know one thing: the movie wasn’t fiction. It was a documentary. And I’m still watching.