The Last Bus to Hollow Creek

The summer I turned nine, my family moved to the town of Hollow Creek, a place so small the only road in was also the only road out. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and beyond the chain-link fence, the woods pressed in like a held breath. The neighborhood kids were friendly enough, but they all had the same warning: ‘Don’t ride the last bus home.’

The bus was a rusty old school bus that took the older kids to the high school in the next town, but the rumor was that a kid had died on it years ago, right on the last run of the year. They said his ghost still sat in the back seat, waiting for someone to sit beside him. I thought they were just trying to scare me, because I was the new kid. But my mother, overhearing, pulled me aside and said, ‘Listen, honey, just don’t. Take the earlier bus, or I’ll pick you up.’ Her voice had a tremor I’d never heard before, and that scared me more than any story.

One afternoon, I missed the early bus. I had stayed after school to finish a project, and when I got to the stop, the parking lot was empty except for that old bus, engine growling. The driver, a man with eyes like cracked marbles, waved me on. I hesitated, but the alternative was calling my mom, and I knew she’d worry. I climbed the steps, the floor trembling under my feet.

The bus was half full, but everyone seemed quiet, staring out the windows. I walked down the aisle, and the only empty seat was the very back one, right by the emergency exit. As I sat down, the bus lurched forward, and the kid next to me, a boy with a pale face and wet hair, leaned over and whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have sat there.’

I looked around, but nobody else seemed to notice. The bus drove through the woods, the trees bending close, the windows fogging up. I felt a cold draft, and when I looked at the seat beside me, there was a dark, wet patch, like someone had been sitting there dripping. I told myself it was rainwater. But then the boy next to me said, without turning his head, ‘He’s here.’

Suddenly, the bus began to slow. The driver looked in the rearview mirror, but his eyes were wide, and he was mouthing something I couldn’t hear. The bus came to a stop in the middle of nowhere, the doors hissing open. Nobody got on. But I saw a boy standing at the side of the road, and he was not like the other kids. His clothes were soaked, and his skin was pale, and he was smiling. He walked up the steps, and the bus didn’t move, and he walked all the way to the back, and he sat down right next to me.

I couldn’t move. My body felt like it was made of stone. He turned to me, and his voice was like gravel and water, and he said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

And then the bus started to move again, but we weren’t going toward my house. We were going into the woods, deeper and darker, and the driver was crying, and the other kids were chanting, ‘Don’t look back, don’t look back.’ But I couldn’t help it. I looked at the boy, and he was gone. Only the wet patch remained.

When the bus finally stopped, we were in front of my house. The doors opened, and nobody else moved. I stumbled out, and as I reached my front porch, I turned around. The bus was still there, idling, the lights off, but I could see a figure in the back window, watching me. And then it gave me a slow wave.

I never rode that bus again. I took the early one, no matter what. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a bus engine outside my window. And when I peek through the blinds, I see that old bus parked under the streetlight, its door open, and the boy from the back seat is standing there, waiting. And I know that one day, he’ll get his ride.