I never thought my decision to become a night shift bus driver in Chicago would open up a gateway to unending horror. I chose this job simply because it was the only one that fit my schedule after my daytime classes. I was in need of the extra income to make ends meet. But in the city that never sleeps, not every night is an ordinary one.
My shift started at eleven in the evening, as it always did. The cold winter night seemed unforgiving and desolate. I found solace in the constant hum of the bus engine, the flickering neon lights, and the occasional late-night traveler seeking shelter inside the warmth of the bus. There was a sense of camaraderie amongst us night owls, a silent understanding that we were in this together.
One particular night, as I was driving my usual route, I noticed an old woman waiting at the bus stop near Michigan Avenue. The sight of her was unusual because she was alone, and at that hour, Michigan Avenue was usually empty. The woman wore an old, tattered shawl wrapped tightly around her thin frame. Her face was almost hidden under her wide-brimmed hat.
I stopped the bus and opened the door for her. She got on, her movements slow and calculated. Her eyes, obscured by the shadows of her hat, never left the ground as she fished out the exact change. Once settled in a seat at the back, she stayed quiet, her gaze fixated outside the window.
Over the next few nights, the old woman became a regular. She was always waiting at the same stop, always paid in exact change, and always sat in the back, staring out the window. There was something about her that felt unsettling, but I dismissed it as the creepiness that comes with the night.
One night, the weather turned bad, snowfall making the roads slick and visibility almost zero. I was surprised to find the old woman at her usual stop, undeterred by the harsh weather. Concerned, I asked her where she was going, but she gave no answer. She just moved to the back of the bus as usual.
The streets were nearly deserted because of the snowstorm. The snowflakes falling on the windshield created an eerie, rhythmic pattern, the wipers working tirelessly. A thick fog was rolling in, blanketing the city in a chilling hush. That’s when it started – the knocking.
It was a faint, rhythmic knock coming from the back of the bus, like a code being tapped out. I looked into the rearview mirror, but all I could see was the old woman, her back to me, still staring out the window. The knocking continued, growing louder. It seemed to coincide eerily with my heartbeat, making my skin crawl.
I wanted to confront the woman about the knocking, but something held me back. I was alone in a moving bus with her, in the middle of a snowstorm. I decided it was safer to ignore it and focus on driving, but the knocking continued, like an ominous soundtrack to the snowstorm outside.
Then, abruptly, the knocking stopped, and a cold silence filled the bus. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But the relief was short-lived. I heard a sound again, not a knock this time, but a voice. A soft, fragile voice humming an unfamiliar tune. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The old woman was still facing the window, her body swaying slightly to the rhythm of her song. The tune was hauntingly beautiful, yet filled with sorrow. It echoed through the bus, intertwining with the howling wind outside.
The hum became my companion through the deserted city streets. The world outside was a blend of white and grey, the snowfall getting heavier. The melody inside the bus was a sharp contrast, a thread of eerie calm amidst the brewing storm. The song, the snowfall, and the old woman together painted a chilling scene.
As I approached the final stop, a sense of dread washed over me. Something about the humming and the solitary woman didn’t feel right. I parked the bus and announced over the speaker, “End of the line, ma’am.”
The humming stopped. There was a silence that felt heavier than the night itself. The bus lights flickered, casting long, monstrous shadows. When I glanced back, the woman was standing, facing me. The sight of her face sent a chill down my spine. Her eyes were pitch black, devoid of any emotion. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and stretched tightly over her skeletal features. She smiled, her lips pulling back to reveal teeth that were unnaturally sharp.
“I know it’s the end of the line, dear. I’ve been waiting for this.” Her voice was smooth, but there was an underlying menace to it.
I watched in horror as she moved slowly down the aisle. With each step she took, the temperature inside the bus dropped. Her black eyes never left mine. Fear gripped me, but I was frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights.
She stopped in front of me, her inky black eyes boring into mine. She tilted her head and whispered, “It’s time.” I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I was paralyzed with fear. Her smile widened, revealing more of her sharp teeth.
Suddenly, she let out a gut-wrenching scream, so loud it pierced the silence of the night. Her form started to blur and distort, her body fading into a ghostly silhouette. Then, she was gone. The only evidence she was ever there was the ice-cold air and the lingering echo of her scream.
I sat there, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to process what I had just witnessed. The bus, once a sanctuary against the cold, was now a chilling testament of the horror I had encountered. I knew then that my nights as a bus driver were forever going to be haunted by this experience. My shift ended with the dawn, but the image of the old woman with the inky black eyes remained, imprinted in my mind.
I was relieved when dawn broke, its early light dispersing the shadows and bringing a sense of normalcy. As I navigated the bus back to the depot, my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. What was that woman? A ghost? A figment of my imagination, perhaps? The cold reality was, I had no answers, only questions that hung in the chill air of the bus.
The depot was bustling with activity. The early morning shift workers were clocking in, their faces bearing the mark of another day. I parked the bus and walked to the shift manager’s office, my mind still wrestling with the experience of the night.
“Rough night, eh?” The manager said, glancing up from his morning paperwork. I nodded, keeping the night’s events to myself. Who would believe me? I’d be the laughing stock of the depot. So, I shrugged it off and focused on finishing my end-of-shift routine.
The following night, I was back on the bus, back on the same route. The fear had subsided, replaced by a gnawing curiosity. I found myself glancing at the clock, anticipating the time the old woman had boarded the bus. But the night passed uneventfully, the eerie silence of the previous night replaced by the familiar sounds of the city.
Weeks turned into months, and the memory of the ghostly encounter began to fade. The woman on the bus became a chilling story to tell, a ghost tale of the night shift bus driver. Yet, every time I passed that particular stop, a cold shiver would crawl up my spine, a grim reminder of the terror I had felt.
One night, almost a year after the incident, the unthinkable happened. I was driving my usual route, the bus nearly empty, the city silent under a fresh coat of snow. As I approached the stop where I had picked the old woman, I saw a figure waiting.
My heart pounded in my chest as I pulled over. The bus door hissed open, and a wave of cold air swept in. An old woman climbed aboard, her features hidden under a thick scarf and hood. I felt a chill creep up my spine. I wanted to believe it was a coincidence, but the air inside the bus dropped, the way it had the year before.
I watched her through the rearview mirror as she took a seat, the same seat as the old woman had. I gripped the steering wheel tight, my knuckles turning white under the pressure. The journey continued in silence, the silence of anticipation, the silence before a storm.
As I pulled up to the final stop, I glanced back. The woman sat there, unmoving. A sense of déjà vu washed over me. “End of the line, ma’am,” I called out, my voice echoing through the silence of the bus.
She stood, turning to face me. The hood fell back, revealing her face. She wasn’t the ghostly figure I had expected but an ordinary old woman, her eyes a soft blue, her skin wrinkled with age. “Thank you, dear,” she said, her voice frail but warm. “You have no idea how important this ride was.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, relief washing over me. She smiled at me, a genuine, kind smile, then stepped off the bus, disappearing into the snowfall.
As I drove back to the depot, the bus empty once again, I found myself reflecting on the ghostly encounter. Perhaps it was a reminder that the night shift, the lonely bus route, held stories untold, stories of the living and maybe, just maybe, of those beyond. And as the city slept, I was there to witness them, a night shift bus driver in the heart of the city.
From that day forward, every passenger who stepped on my bus was a story waiting to unfold, a mystery waiting to be unraveled. The city streets weren’t just roads; they were pathways to the unknown. And as I drove through the silent city night after night, I knew I was not just a bus driver. I was a silent observer, a keeper of the city’s nocturnal tales.
And so, my story spread among the late-night riders, a legend whispered in hushed tones. I became known as the Night Guardian, the driver who ventured into the unknown every night. And though fear still sends a chill down my spine every time I remember the old woman’s black eyes, I wouldn’t trade my night shift for anything. After all, where else would I find stories that could send a shiver down the toughest spine, stories of the haunted hours between dusk and dawn?