The Last Stop
August 15, 2025
The bus only ran this route once a night—Route 19, midnight departure, last stop on the edge of the city where the streetlights ended.
Hannah had never taken it before, but her car had died and this was her only way home.
The driver, an older man with a wrinkled face and heavy eyes, took her ticket without a word.
Only three other passengers sat scattered through the dim interior:
- A man in a suit, clutching a briefcase.
- A woman in a red coat, staring out the window.
- A teenager with headphones, head bowed.
The bus smelled faintly of dust and rain.
Halfway through the route, Hannah noticed something strange.
They’d been driving for nearly twenty minutes without passing a single intersection, gas station, or other vehicle.
Just rows of identical buildings, over and over.
She leaned toward the driver. “Hey, is this the right way to Ashwood?”
He didn’t look at her. “Stay in your seat.”
The man in the suit turned around. His eyes were too wide, like he hadn’t blinked in a long time.
“You’re new,” he said softly.
“Yeah?” Hannah tried to smile. “Guess so.”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t get off before the last stop.”
The teenager lifted their head, removing one earbud. “Don’t listen to him,” they whispered. “Get off at the third stop. If you’re still here after that…” They trailed off, looking back down.
The bus slowed. First stop.
The woman in the red coat stood and stepped into the aisle.
Hannah noticed her shoes—wrong somehow, like the heels bent in directions they shouldn’t.
When the doors opened, she walked out into pitch-black nothingness.
No street. No buildings. Just a flat darkness that seemed to swallow the light from the bus.
The doors closed. The bus moved on.
Second stop.
The man in the suit left. He didn’t take his briefcase. It sat on the seat, humming faintly, like something inside was alive.
The driver didn’t seem to notice.
Third stop.
The teenager stood. Before leaving, they leaned close to Hannah.
“Don’t make eye contact with anyone who gets on after this.”
Then they were gone.
Two people boarded.
Hannah kept her eyes down, gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles ached.
She could still see their feet in her peripheral vision—bare, wet, leaving no prints on the bus floor.
They didn’t sit.
They stood in the aisle, facing her seat.
She kept her gaze fixed on the window, where the same row of buildings slid by again and again.
Fourth stop.
The two passengers left.
The driver said, “Almost there.”
Fifth stop.
No one moved.
Sixth stop.
Hannah was alone. Even the driver’s seat was empty.
But the bus was still moving.
She stood, heart hammering, and walked toward the front.
The windshield didn’t show the road anymore.
It showed her street.
Her own apartment building, lit by the flicker of a faulty lamp.
She reached for the door.
Behind her, a voice—her own voice—said, “Last stop.”
She turned.
She was sitting in her seat again.
The other her smiled, eyes dark as the space outside the bus.
“You made it.”
When Hannah woke, she was in her bed.
Outside, the sound of an engine idled.
From the window, she could see the Route 19 bus parked on the street.
Its doors were open.
And in the driver’s seat, someone was waving her over.