I had just been a few weeks in on the job, and was already familiar with most of the routes through the city. I’d driven buses before, and already had some disturbing experiences. But this one I still can’t explain.
It was a late Thursday and I was almost finished, but one of the other drivers on the night route called in sick. As the new guy, I was slotted in to replace him.
It was a route I hadn’t heard much about, but was the most straightforward ride through the city. There were only two turns on the entire run.
The first turn was out of the Main North depot and onto Main St North, which led straight through the city and out the other side like a gunshot.
The second turn was into the Main St South terminal, which was on the other side and barely in the city.
The approximate travel time was supposed to be an hour and fourteen minutes. So I felt confident with it. Then my supervisor became uneasy.
There were certain routes with specific pickups that were classified as “bad stops.” They were the high-incidence ones with muggings, assaults and full out swarming’s of fully grown adults by teenagers. I was shocked when I heard about how often they happened.
My supervisor said there was a bad stop on my route that night.
It was near the end of the straightaway, just before the Main South terminal and the horseshoe back on the circuit.
It was called the Shell Beach stop. It was technically still operational, but I was told to avoid it. To always avoid it.
The stop was in front of a massive series of public-housing complexes. They’d opened up years ago but quickly went under financially due to mismanagement. There was no money or interest in tearing them down or doing anything with the property, so they were abandoned as is and became the new residences of squatters from all over.
I asked if there’d been violent situations with the squatters, blocking the road or anything. But my supervisor just reiterated to bypass the Shell Beach stop and I’d be fine.
The first half of the ride was easy for the most part. It was late so there were only a few passengers here and there. Mostly shift workers, nurses, security guards. But they were all gone midway through the city.
I hadn’t had a passenger in twenty minutes and had time to let my mind wander. I kept thinking about the Shell Beach stop, waiting somewhere ahead. There was a growing anxiety building inside me like I was driving into a storm.
I watched the bus stop names come and go, thinking about how my supervisor seemed afraid of the stop. It felt like there was a deep personal warning from him just under the surface of what he said. Like he himself had made the mistake of stopping at it.
Ahead, something was moving across the road and pulled my attention back. It was too far to see clearly, but it looked like a person pushing something.
I got closer and realized it was a lady pushing a baby carriage. She was shambling across the street and rushing up towards a bus stop. The next one on my path.
Ding. The next stop was announced.
Shell Beach.
My stomach tightened as I watched the lady hobbling closer to the stop. I was going to beat her there, which meant it would be empty as I arrived. I fought with myself, trying to convince my conscience to pretend I didn’t see the lady and continue on. To avoid the stop at all costs.
Then the lady turned and started waving back to me as I approached. We locked eyes. She saw me. And I saw her. I knew I had to stop.
So I pulled up to the stop for Shell Beach, which had the “S” scratched off, and waited for the lady with the baby carriage. The wheels screeched as the carriage got closer.
Finally, the lady and the carriage arrived at the open front door. She appeared poor and not well put together. I instinctively got up to help her lift the carriage up the steps of the bus.
The second I stepped off the bus, the air felt cooler. I looked out, passed the stop, and saw the abandoned projects. It was like a ghost town. Boarded windows and doors and random sounds from behind them.
I grabbed the lower front wheel axle of the carriage. When I did, I received a strange static shock. Not on the tip of any of my fingers, but right in the middle of my palm.
I kept my grip though, and helped carry it onto the bus. The lady was grateful for my help with the carriage and for stopping, saying the buses usually fly right by the stop.
As we set the carriage down, there was a metal rattling sound coming from inside the large canopy, which I couldn’t see into. I figured the sound was from a toy or baby rattle, being shaken by the child.
The lady fumbled through a small, dirty envelope and pulled out change for the fare. She paid in dimes and nickels, then pushed the stroller passed me. And I saw inside it.
There was no baby.
It was filled with empty cans and bottles. The cans had been stomped down, so they were just tiny saucers now. The carriage reeked of old soda and stale beer.
The lady made her way all the way down to the back right corner of the bus. But just as she sat down, she got back up and rang the bell.
I thought that was strange.
Then I saw what the next stop was.
Shell Beach. Again. And with the ’S’ scratched out the same way.
The overhead lights flickered. Only for a moment. Then sporadically in small bursts before settling.
I drove past the stop, afraid now, and looked into the rearview… but there was no one back there. The lady with the carriage was gone.
I was alone on the bus again. I pressed harder on the gas and watched the bus stop disappear behind me.
The road ahead became familiar. And I could see the Shell Beach stop up ahead. Again. I hit the gas and continued past it.
A voice called out from the back of the bus that sent ice through my veins.
“Have you seen my parents?”
It was a little girl, 11 or 12. Her long dark hair hung down covering her face. She was wearing a faded, floral dress and sat still, in the back, right corner of the bus. Right where the lady with the carriage was sitting.
The lights flickered again, strobing this time. The little girl disappeared then reappeared several seats ahead. Closer.
I turned over my shoulder, but there was no one back there. I looked back into the rearview and there she was, now halfway up the bus. She had strange marks on her face, but it was too difficult to tell what they were.
Up ahead, the Shell Beach sign was approaching again. The overhead lights strobed more, bringing the little girl closer and closer, row by row. The power started to flicker and the bus went dead. It carried and rolled forward by sheer momentum for another hundred feet… then came to a standstill in front of the Shell Beach stop.
The power was completely out, and I was sitting in blackness. The radio didn’t work either. I looked over my shoulder and then in the rearview, it looked like the girl was gone. But I couldn’t be certain. There were too many shadows.
Metal cans started rattling outside. The carriage. The lady. I could hear her shambling up the side of the bus to the entrance.
The door opened on its own, and the rattling got louder as it approached.
Then the sounds stopped. I sat there, staring out of the open door, waiting for the lady’s face to peer around the side, smiling in at me. But it never did.
The rattle started again, but this time from the back of the bus. I jumped out of my seat and saw the lady’s silhouette in the far back. She was shuffling the carriage forward, making it shake louder and louder with every step.
And the bus was packed with other silhouettes. All shapes and sizes.
The little girl’s voice came from the lady, but went raspy. Like it aged a lifetime in mid sentence.
“Have you seen my parents?”
I grabbed my cell phone and rushed out of the bus. I manually closed the door and moved under the light of the stop. I looked in through the windows, but now couldn’t see anyone inside. It looked empty again.
I checked my phone but it wouldn’t turn on. It was completely dead.
Then I noticed the bus had changed. The doors were gone. The entire side of the bus was the same metal paneling. I moved around the back of the bus to check the other side, and it was the same.
The bus had no way on or off of it. In or out.
And I was stuck outside of it. I looked up and down the street, but a dense fog had enclosed us in. There was no Main North or South terminals. There was only the vast expanse of the urban housing project behind the stop.
A scream pierced out from somewhere in the dark complex. It sounded like someone was being murdered.
The screaming got closer, moving in towards the bus stop. The metal rattling of the cans joined the screams. And the distorted, demonic voice of the little girl began asking the same question repeatedly.
“Have you seen my parents? Haven you seen my parents?”
Just as movement was appearing from the shadows, I felt a rumble behind me.
It was the bus. It was running again. And the front and back doors had returned, and were open.
I rushed to the front door and got back behind the wheel, slamming both doors shut and hitting the gas. I checked the rearview, but the bus was empty. It was just me again.
Up ahead, a new stop was coming up. Birmingham rd. I was so grateful to see anything other than Shell Beach. And it was empty too. I kept checking the rearview, making sure there wasn’t something hiding between the seats.
But nothing appeared. And I pulled into the Main South terminal to start the loop back.
But halfway through the ride to Main North… the little girl was back. She was in the back right corner of the bus again. But I could only see her in the rearview… again.
There were other people I’d picked up along the way, but none of them seemed to notice the girl. Slowly, my other passengers trickled out, until it was finally just an elderly nurse, and the little girl. The nurse got off with only three stops left.
It was just the little girl and I. And she was moving up the rows again. Only between my blinks. In those milliseconds where I couldn’t see, she’d shift forward.
I didn’t even slow down as I passed the final three stops. I pulled into the North terminal with a skid that left black tread marks at the entrance to this day.
I parked the bus quickly, refusing to look into the rearview mirror. But that didn’t stop a voice from floating in.
“Have you seen my parents?”
I fell down the stairs of the bus and ran to the employee parking lot, not looking back.
I got in my car and was so scared, I turned the rearview mirror upwards, facing the ceiling, so I couldn’t see behind me.
I pulled out of the terminal, eyeing the bus I’d just left. Still sitting in the lot with the door open. I didn’t care how I left it. I was thinking about quitting after that night.
As I drove, I felt a coolness tickling the back of my neck. Like something exhaling delicately.
My curiosity peaked and I adjusted the rearview mirror.
In the backseat, the little girl stared up at me. I could see her face now. It was covered in deep, jagged lacerations that remained red despite not bleeding.
High beams flashed, filling my windshield, and I realized I’d drifted into oncoming traffic. I swerved back and felt a jolt through my body.
I shuddered forward and realized I was in the front seat of my bus again. There was a public transit security guard shaking me awake.
I was sitting at the Shell Beach stop. I felt woozy and my vision was blurred. The guard helped me out of my seat and they got a replacement driver to come take over the bus.
I found out I’d been unconscious, completely out cold, for the past three hours. I never made it past Shell Beach on the route and for whatever reason, had stopped there, sat with my foot on the break and fell asleep.
There was an investigation. They wanted to know if I’d been drinking or on drugs while on the job. But that ended quickly. My supervisor had stepped in and cut it short. After hearing what I had to say, he told me I was lucky, and my experience was logged as one of the milder events filed about the Shell Beach stop.
I quit the job the next day and avoid the South end of the city if I can. But even now, weeks later, I still hear metal rattling every few days and wonder… if I’m still sitting in the driver seat of that bus, waiting to be woken up.