The Last Commute

Marta had always prided herself on her routine. The 5 a.m. alarm, the quiet exercise, the shower that woke her more than the coffee ever did, and the 6:30 departure into the grey Toronto suburb. It was a rhythm she had perfected over three years of public transit, and today was the final performance. By noon, she would be the owner of a modest sedan, a gift from her brother and mother, who were even now driving to the dealership to finalize the paperwork. Freedom, she thought, as she stepped onto the Durham bus, was the smell of new upholstery and the promise of no more waiting in the cold.

She settled into her usual seat, window side, and watched the familiar, nondescript streets of Ajax slide by. The bus was sparser than usual, a handful of early commuters, each lost in their own pre-dawn haze. Marta found herself staring at a man a few rows ahead, his reflection ghostly in the dark glass. He was a large man, wearing a heavy brown coat that seemed out of place for July, and he clutched a cardboard box on his lap. The box was nondescript, the color of wet cardboard, with no markings. She couldn’t see his face, but something about the way he sat, utterly still, made her uneasy. She shook it off. Friday the 13th. People were always saying something odd happened on that day, but she had never believed in that superstition. Yet, a shiver ran down her spine as the bus pulled into the GO station.

She disembarked, the cold morning air a stark contrast to the warm bus, and joined the stream of commuters heading toward the GO platform. She found her usual spot, near the shelter but not under it, and leaned against the cold metal railing. The sky was a pale, bruised purple, and the platform lights cast long, distorted shadows. Across the tracks, she saw the man from the bus again. He was standing alone, his box still in his arms, his back to her. He was facing the tracks, not moving, not looking at the approaching train. The train arrived, its headlights cutting through the gloom, and the doors slid open with a hiss. Marta stepped inside, found a window seat, and watched as the man, in a motion too fluid for his bulk, boarded the same car, taking a seat at the far end. The box was now on his lap, and she could have sworn it moved.

The train lurched forward, and the city unfolded outside the window. Marta tried to focus on her book, a worn paperback she’d been reading for weeks, but her eyes kept drifting to the man’s reflection. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t looking at his phone, just sitting there, staring at the box. She noticed his hands, thick and calloused, resting on the lid. In the flickering fluorescent light, she thought she saw a thin wisp of smoke curling from the seam of the box, but when she blinked, it was gone. She forced herself to look away, to read a paragraph, to count the stations ahead. She felt a cold draft, colder than the air conditioning, and looked up to see the man now standing beside her seat. His face was hidden, but she could see the box was now open, a yawning black void inside. ‘Miss,’ he said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, ‘do you know when we arrive?’ Marta, her heart hammering, stammered that it was about twenty minutes, a few more stops. He nodded slowly, and then, in a whisper that seemed to come from inside her own head, ‘I have a delivery. The last one. For the little girl.’

He shuffled away, and Marta felt a wave of dizziness. The train car suddenly felt too warm, too close. She looked at the other passengers, they were all silent, staring straight ahead, their faces blank as if lost in a trance. The man was nowhere to be seen, but the box was on the floor in the aisle, lid open, and from it, a faint, sweet smell, like rotten flowers. She wanted to move, to scream, but her legs felt like lead. The train slowed to her stop, Scarborough Town Centre, and the doors slid open. She willed herself to stand, to move, and she stumbled off the train, feeling eyes on her back. She glanced back as the doors closed, and there he was, standing again, the box closed, his head tilted as if watching her. The train pulled away, and she was left on the platform, shaking.

She tried to shake the experience, telling herself it was just stress, the excitement of getting the car. She boarded the TTC bus, the last leg of her journey, and took a seat near the back. The bus was mostly empty, and she had a clear view of the front. As the bus lumbered through the suburban streets, she saw a woman get on, an elderly woman in a floral dress, who sat across from her. The woman smiled, and Marta forced a smile back. Then she noticed the woman was knitting, but her needles were moving impossibly fast, and she was knitting something that look like a grey, formless shape. Marta’s eyes grew heavy, and she felt a drowsiness wash over her. She fought it, but soon her head was resting against the window, her vision blurring.

She woke with a jolt as the bus came to a stop. The elderly woman was gone. In her place, a child, a girl of about eight, with pigtails and a red dress, sat staring at her. The girl held a small, grey, knitted object, like a doll, and she said, ‘She says to tell you: you shouldn’t have taken the bus today.’ Marta’s blood ran cold. She looked around, the bus was empty except for the driver, who was now looking back at her, his face pale and his eyes wide. He shouted, ‘Everyone off! This bus is out of service!’ Marta scrambled to her feet, and as she rushed off, she saw the girl was gone. She ran all the way to her office building, not daring to look back, her legs burning.

At work, she tried to explain her morning to her colleague, but the words came out jumbled, and her colleague just laughed, calling her ‘superstitious Marta.’ She tried to focus on her tasks, but the image of the box, the man, and the girl haunted her. At lunch, she got a call from her mother, saying they had the car and would meet her after work. Marta felt a wave of relief. She would drive home, away from the buses and trains, away from whatever had followed her.

She left work that evening, walking to the parking lot where the car was waiting. It was a silver sedan, gleaming under the streetlights. Her mother and brother were there, smiling, and she hugged them, feeling safe at last. She got into the driver’s seat, and the smell of new car filled her nostrils, calming her. She said goodbye to her family, who would take the bus back, and drove off toward home. The traffic was light, and she took the highway, her hands steady on the wheel. Halfway home, she saw a cardboard box on the side of the road. It was the same dull brown, the same size. A chill ran through her, but she forced herself to keep driving. She turned onto her street, and as she pulled into her driveway, she saw it again in her rearview mirror: a figure standing at the end of the street, a large silhouette holding a box. She killed the engine, her heart pounding. When she looked again, the street was empty.

She went inside, checking every lock, and sat in her living room, trying to calm down. She turned on the TV, but the sound seemed muted, distant. She made herself a cup of tea, but the tea tasted bitter. She decided to go to bed early, hoping sleep would dispel the lingering dread. As she climbed the stairs, she paused. In the hallway, on the floor, was a small, grey knitted doll, the same one the girl had held. She screamed, stumbled back, but when she looked again, there was nothing there. She convinced herself it was a shadow, a trick of the dim light.

She locked her bedroom door and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent. Then she heard a soft, rhythmic sound, like something knocking on wood. It was coming from the closet. She sat up, her breath shallow. The knocking grew louder, more insistent. She reached for the light, but the switch clicked uselessly. The room was plunged into darkness. A voice, the same low rumble, whispered, ‘The last one. For you.’ The knocking stopped. And then, from the closet, came the sound of a child’s laughter, high and cold, followed by a final, chilling whisper: ‘You have the car now. But we still have the box.’ Marta’s hand reached for her phone, but the screen was black. She pressed the power button, and the screen lit up, but the background was a photo she had never taken: a picture of her, asleep, with the man from the bus standing over her, holding the box, and the little girl in the red dress smiling beside him. And at the bottom, in a small, neat handwriting, were the words: ‘You should have stayed on the bus.’