Last Passenger
Derrick worked the night shift driving the city bus. It was a lonely job—just him, the hum of the engine, and the scattered faces of people trying to get home after midnight. That night, he noticed something strange. At every stop, people got on, rode for a while, and got off. The usual. But one woman never moved.
She sat in the very back, pale under the dim lights, staring straight ahead. No phone, no bag, no expression. Derrick glanced at her in the rearview mirror more than once. She didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just sat there. When the bus emptied out, she stayed. Derrick finally pulled over at the last stop and turned to call back to her.
“End of the line, miss. Time to get off.”
She didn’t move. He stood, walking down the aisle, the rubber floor creaking beneath his boots. When he got closer, his throat went dry. The woman wasn’t sitting on the seat. She was sitting in the narrow space between the seat and the wall folded unnaturally, as if her bones bent wrong. Her face tilted up toward him, wide-eyed, lips pulled too far into a smile. Derrick stumbled back. And when he blinked, the bus was empty. But in the rearview mirror, she was still sitting there.
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