The Last Bus to Hollow Creek

It started with a note. Not the kind you leave for your mom or tape to the fridge, but a scrap of paper, yellowed and rough as if pulled from an old book. My friend Marco found it tucked into the frame of his locker, and the handwriting was cramped, looped, and oddly familiar, like a voice you think you’ve heard in a dream. ‘Do not take the last bus,’ it read. ‘It is not for the living.’ He laughed it off, showed it to me and Leila at lunch. We were juniors at Westbrook High, and the last bus was the 10:40, the one that took the kids who stayed late for drama or detention or just couldn’t get a ride. We were all on it at least once a week.

But that note was just the beginning. Over the next few days, more notes appeared. In Leila’s backpack, in my gym locker, even slipped under the windshield wiper of Marco’s beat-up Honda. Each one had a different message, but the same strange handwriting: ‘The driver knows your name.’ ‘The seats are stained with more than mud.’ ‘The lamplight flickers for a reason.’ We tried to ignore them, but the notes felt fresh, as if just placed, and the paper had a faint smell, like wet earth and rotten leaves. We started to joke about it, but the humor wore thin when Marco pointed out that the driver of the last bus, a wiry man named Mr. Kessler, had been at the school as long as anyone could remember, and he never spoke a word to any student. He just drove, staring ahead, his face a mask of indifference.

One night, after a late rehearsal for the school play, I missed my ride and had to take the last bus. It was nearly empty, just me and a freshman girl in the back, and the air was thick with an oily smell. Mr. Kessler drove with jarring stops and starts, and the bus’s lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced like spiders. I noticed the upholstery was not the familiar blue fabric but a dark, mottled pattern, and in the dim light, I could have sworn I saw stains that looked like old blood. I felt a cold draft even though the windows were shut, and I heard a low humming, like a swarm of flies, coming from the engine. But the worst was when we passed under a streetlamp, and I saw the reflection in the window: Mr. Kessler’s face was not his own. It was a hollow, eyeless mask, and the mouth moved as if whispering, but no sound came out. I got off at my stop, my heart pounding, and I swear I heard my name spoken in a dry rasp as the doors closed.

I told Marco and Leila the next day. Leila’s face went pale, and she confessed she had taken the last bus the week before and had felt a cold hand on her shoulder, but when she turned, no one was there. Marco was skeptical, but he couldn’t deny the notes or the strange occurrences. We decided to investigate. We went to the school’s old records and found a ledger from the 1970s, listing bus routes. There it was: the last bus, route 13, with a note in the margin, ‘Retired after the accident.’ But the bus was still running, and the driver was the same name listed on that page: Mr. Kessler. But that wasn’t possible, because the Mr. Kessler we knew had only been there for ten years. We dug deeper and found a newspaper clipping in the library archives. It was from 1974, about a school bus that crashed into Hollow Creek, drowning twelve students. The driver was listed as one of the survivors, but the article said he was never the same, and he moved away. The photo in the clipping was blurry, but the man in it looked exactly like our Mr. Kessler, unchanged after four decades.

We were terrified, but we needed proof. We decided to stay after school and wait for the last bus, not to ride it, but to watch it. We hid behind the gym dumpster as the disgorged its nightly passengers. The students who got off looked dazed, as if in a trance. Their eyes were glassy, and they walked stiffly, not making eye contact. I recognized one of them, a sophomore named Chris, who had always been full of energy. He shuffled past us, and I saw that his wrists had bruises, like the grip of a hand. The bus pulled away, and as it passed under a streetlight, I saw through the window that there were not two or three passengers but a dozen, pressed against the glass, their faces pale and blank, and among them, I saw the faces of children from the 1974 yearbook, their mouths open in silent screams.

The next day, we decided to stop the bus before it left. We waited by the curb as Mr. Kessler sat in the idling bus, reading a newspaper. We walked up to the door, and as it hissed open, a blast of cold air washed over us, and the smell of rot was overwhelming. Mr. Kessler looked at us, and his eyes were black, like bottomless pits. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said, and his voice was a dry whisper. ‘But you are. Get on.’ We backed away, but our feet felt heavy, and the bus’s engine revved. ‘Get on,’ he repeated, and the sound echoed in our heads. ‘The last bus is waiting. For you.’ We ran. We ran across the parking lot, and the bus followed us, slow and deliberate, its headlights like eyes. We reached the school, but the doors were locked. We pounded on the glass, and I heard the bus stop right behind us. I turned, and the doors were open, and inside, I saw Marco and Leila sitting in the front seat, their faces pale and blank, staring straight ahead. ‘They’ve been waiting for you,’ Mr. Kessler said, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s time to go home.’

But I didn’t get on. I stumbled away, and I heard the bus’s wheels screech as it peeled out, and then it was gone, as if it had never been. I found myself in the empty parking lot, the lights of the school flickering out one by one. I walked home, and I didn’t look back. For weeks, I searched for any trace of Marco and Leila, but the school said they had moved away, and their lockers were cleaned out the next day. I never saw them again. But sometimes, late at night, I hear the sound of a bus engine idling outside my window, and I see the silhouette of a wiry figure standing at the end of my driveway. And in my dreams, I am on a bus, sitting next to Marco and Leila, and the driver turns around with a smile, and his face is a mask of stitched skin, and he says, ‘You’re almost home.’ But I can’t wake up, and the bus keeps driving, through streets that don’t exist, past houses that are dark and hollow, until we come to a creek, black and still, and the driver says, ‘This is your stop.’ And I look out the window, and I see my own face, pale and blank, pressed against the glass from outside, looking in.