The Last Passenger

In the summer of 1987, my family and I were traveling through the highlands of Guatemala. We had spent a week visiting villages nestled among the volcanoes, and now it was time to return to the capital. Since we had taken only public transportation, our plan was to catch the overnight bus from Huehuetenango, arriving in Guatemala City by dawn. The terminal was a bustle of vendors and travelers, but we found our bus easily, a hulking blue machine with worn seats and a faint smell of diesel and old leather. My mother and I settled into seats near the front, by the window, while my father sat across the aisle, a row behind us. The bus was only half full, and I remember feeling relieved that we’d be able to stretch out a little.

As we pulled out of the terminal, the sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple. The driver, a stocky man with a thick mustache, announced that we would make only one stop before reaching the city. My mother soon dozed off, her head resting against the window, and I was left to watch the landscape turn from farmland to dense forest. The road wound through dark ravines and past sleepy hamlets, the only light coming from the occasional flicker of a lantern in a doorway.

About two hours into the journey, the bus began to slow down. I saw a small cluster of houses ahead, and the driver pulled over near a dimly lit cantina. The doors hissed open, and a few passengers shuffled off. I thought we might stay for a few minutes, but the driver seemed eager to go, and as he started the engine again, I noticed an old man standing on the roadside, waving his hand. He looked frail, wearing a tattered poncho and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face. The driver hesitated, then opened the door, and the man climbed aboard with a slow, creaking gait.

He walked down the aisle, and I felt a strange chill despite the warm night air. He passed my father without a word, and then stopped beside me, hovering in the aisle. ‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked, his voice a dry rasp. I shook my head, and he lowered himself into the seat directly behind mine. My mother stirred, glanced at him, then went back to sleep. The bus lurched forward, and I tried to ignore the unease that had settled in my stomach.

The man began to hum a tune I didn’t recognize, a mournful melody that seemed to echo in the silence. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching the dark trees blur by. I felt a breath on my neck, and I turned slightly. The old man was leaning forward, his face now visible in the dim light. His skin was papery, and his eyes were dark, nearly black, but they held a glimmer of something that made me look away.

‘You’re going to the capital?’ he asked. I nodded, not trusting my voice. He continued, ‘I go there often. But I always take this bus. The driver is good. He knows the road well.’ He paused. ‘He knows the mountain pass. Some drivers avoid it at night, but he goes through it every time. There’s a place up there where the fog rolls in thick, and the road narrows. You have to be careful.’

My father, who had overheard, leaned forward. ‘Is it dangerous?’ The old man let out a dry laugh. ‘Dangerous? No, not if you know what you’re doing. But there are stories. People say that sometimes, on the foggiest nights, you can see a figure standing by the roadside up there, waving for help. But if you stop, you’ll never get going again.’

I felt a knot tighten in my chest. My father glanced at me, and I could see he was trying to suppress a smile, thinking it was just a traveler’s tale. But the old man’s tone was serious. ‘I’ve seen it myself,’ he said. ‘Once, many years ago. I was young then, and I laughed at the stories. I told the driver to stop, thinking we could help the poor soul. But as we approached, the figure vanished into the mist. The driver was furious. He said we were lucky to get away with our lives.’

We fell into silence, and the old man leaned back, his humming resuming. I closed my eyes, hoping to sleep, but my mind kept replaying his words. The road began to climb, and the air grew thinner. Outside, a thick fog started to curl around the buses’ headlights, reducing visibility to a few feet. The driver slowed to a crawl, and I could hear him mutter under his breath.

Suddenly, a shape emerged from the mist ahead. A man, standing on the side of the road, his arm raised as if thumbing a ride. He was wearing a dark suit, well-dressed, but his face was obscured. The driver cursed and shifted gears, but instead of slowing down, he sped up, steering the bus to the far side of the road. As we passed, I saw the figure turn its head, and for a moment, I glimpsed a pale face with no eyes. My breath caught in my throat.

The bus rumbled on, and the fog began to thin. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, but the seat behind me was empty. The old man was gone. I scanned the bus, but there was no sign of him. The other passengers were asleep, and the door had not opened. I looked to my father, whose eyes were wide. ‘Did you see that?’ he whispered. I nodded, unable to speak. He got up and walked to the back of the bus, but found nothing. The driver, when questioned, only said, ‘We don’t stop for anyone on this road. Not at night.’

We arrived in the capital as the sun began to rise, the old man’s tune still echoing in my head. He had never existed, they said, when I described him to the driver. But I knew what I had seen. As we disembarked, I noticed a small object on my seat—a dried flower, purple and wilted. I pocketed it without a word, and to this day, I still wonder about the old man who boarded the bus that night, and the faceless figure in the fog who was left behind.

Years later, I took that same route during the day, and I saw something that made my blood run cold. At the edge of the road, in a place where the fog had been thick that night, there was a small cross, old and weathered, with a faded name. The locals told me it marked the spot where a bus had gone off the cliff, decades ago. The driver had been a stocky man with a thick mustache, who had a habit of picking up a mysterious old man on his last trip. They never found his body, nor the old man’s. Some say he still waits for a bus that will never come, warning travelers of the dangers ahead.

I never rode that route again, but I often think of the old man, and the whisper of his melody in the dark. And sometimes, when the fog rolls in over the mountains, I imagine I hear his voice, saying, ‘You have to be careful.’ And I am. I always am.