0 reactions
The bus stop across the street is supposed to be abandoned. Something still pulls up at 3:17 AM
Getting the job in the other city felt like a blessing at first.
It gave me a reason to get out of my hometown, out of the unemployment slump I'd been stuck in, and to change my surroundings for a while. The pay was better than I had expected. But I needed to start as soon as possible, which is how I ended up with an apartment in the outer part of the city.
It was an old one-bedroom in a building whose façade was crumbling, a relic from the communist era. Decent enough and cheap, but most importantly, it was available immediately. Even if it turned out to be a dump, I could move in a few months once I'd settled. And it had one more thing that was good for me, a bus stop right across the street. At least, that's what Google Maps said.
Now, I'm from the southern Balkans, and for those of you who aren't familiar, I'm guessing you picture a bus stop as some glass-paned sanctuary. Maybe a digital board with arrival times. A bench. Well, out here, a bench is a luxury.
The stop was nothing but a rusted husk of metal, crumbling at the corners, covered in graffiti from the local football ultras. To think that my biggest worry back then was running into a group of hooligans.
I settled in over a few days, and the night before my first day at work, I pulled up the arrival times on my phone. I found the stop easily, tapped the icon and waited. It took forever to load. A weak signal out here, I figured, so I refreshed a few more times. Nothing. Then, it clicked. There were no lines passing through it at all. The next nearest stop was a ten, fifteen minute walk. Not everything can be perfect, I guess.
My first weeks went how anyone's first weeks in a new city go. Work, home, work. Some weekends I went back to my hometown; my coworkers weren't the going-out type. Other nights, I just stayed in, watching TV and playing games, not tired enough to sleep because I hadn't done anything to get tired from.
And on one of those nights, pouring a glass of water in the kitchen, I glanced out the window and saw a bus at the stop. Huh. Seems to be working after all. I checked the clock: 3:17. Honestly, it made me mad. I have to walk fifteen minutes in daylight, and the one line that runs does it at this ungodly hour?
And again, for those not from around here, our government making a stupid decisions was not uncommon. Though, there was an industrial zone nearby, so maybe it was a privately hired bus for some factory's night shift. It was one of the old timers, with an accordion joint in the middle, another relic of communist past. I hadn't seen one of those in years. Just showed how much the factory, or the state, didn’t care about their people.
I didn't think much more of it, not that night, not for the next couple of weeks. I caught a glimpse of it here and there. And one thing slowly stopped adding up: the seats were always empty. Curiosity got the better of me, so when I caught it again one night, I stood at the window and waited. The bus sat for a few minutes. Nobody got on, nobody got off, and it still pulled away. And the timing was never the same. Some nights it stood for two minutes, some nights a quarter of an hour. For a loner, it was an interesting enough thing to fixate on.
While heading to work and riding the normal buses during the day, I noticed they were all new. Modern, spotless, courtesy of the politicians and the upcoming election. So, I started looking. Watching for the old model, the one with the sharp edges and the accordion joint. I never found it. Not one. Yet, there it was in front of my building, every night, 3:17 sharp.
I had to know more. I never brought it up with my coworkers as I didn't want to be labeled as insane new guy, but one morning while heading out, I ran into Mile, the old man next door coming back from the store. If anyone knew anything, it'd be him. That man loved talking.
"How's it going, Mile?"
"Worse than ever. Did you see the match last night? We played like a bunch of old women."
"Ha, yeah, they did." I had no idea what match he meant. "Listen, can I ask you something? Do you know the schedule for the stop across the street? I can't find anything online."
"There is no schedule, boy. That stop hasn't run since, God, before you were even born. I went down to the city council to complain many times, but–"
"The thing is," I cut in. If you let him, Mile could talk your ear off, "I saw a bus there last night."
Mile frowned at me and I noticed he clutched his cane.
"When?" he asked.
"Middle of the night. Around three —"
"Listen to me, boy." He stepped in close. "If you ever see it again, don't look at it. Go back to bed and pretend it isn't there."
I blinked, taken aback.
"Mile, what do you—"
"You hear me? You see it, you go back to bed. And you stop asking about it!" He turned on his heel and shut the door behind him.
I didn't get answers. Just more questions. Mile was a sweet old man. He'd trap you in a half-hour conversation, sure, but I'd never once heard him raise his voice or seen him rattled.
There could have been only one explanation. You don’t warn someone with such specificity if you haven’t seen the thing yourself.
His words should have scared me. They did scare me. But for some sick reason, I only got more obsessed with that bus, even more after I knew I wasn't supposed to look at it.
That very night I was at the window before 3:17.
It came exactly on time.
Watching it actually arrive, I caught something I had missed. Before, I'd only ever noticed it once it was already at the stop, sitting under the lone streetlight, the pitch-black of a barren field stretching out behind the stop. Now that I’ve seen it come in, I noticed it came with no headlights. There were no lights inside either. The cabin was a pocket of black. Though, with streetlights piercing through windows on the back side, I could make out the furthest seats. Empty as ever.
People out here tend to drive like maniacs, but I've never seen anyone drive at night with no lights on. I was so fixed on that, I forgot to check the one thing I'd meant to. So, the next day I went out and bought a pair of binoculars.
Tomorrow it arrived without mistake at 3:17.
This time I was ready.
I saw no license plates, which I could almost explain, as private factory buses sometimes ran without them. Still, it sat wrong with me. What I could, however, was to finally read was the number board up top. White numbers on a rusted blue plate. 58.
Bingo.
Now we were getting somewhere.
I pulled up my phone and typed in the city and the number. Nothing on Maps, so I switched to a plain search and dug for a while, losing track of time. The lines running in the city now only went up to 32. Eventually, I found it. 58 was an old line, very old, discontinued about thirty years ago. As Mile said, before I was born. There was no starting point listed. No destination either.
I look up from the phone. The bus was still there, engine just barely audible through the closed window. I checked the clock. 3:42. For nearly half an hour it had been there.
Where did it come from? Why did it sit there for a different length of time every night? Why– why so many things. I had questions, and now I finally knew how to get answers. I put the phone in my pocket and grabbed the jacket, then ran down the stairs, doubting myself with every step.
Was it smart? Not at all. I did check if I had enough battery to call the police, because, who knew? They could be traffickers or something. I'd seen enough films. Out of the building, the chill of the night hit me, feeling way colder than it should have been.
The bus waited under the funnel of the streetlight, a silhouette against the black behind it. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. It was waiting, in the truest sense of the word. I don't know how I knew that. I just did.
It was waiting for me.
I came closer, circling toward the front, and then I stopped in the tracks. My legs felt as if they were cut off. I was close now. Close enough to see.
There was no one in the driver's seat.
And the engine was still running.
I was back inside the building before I understood I was moving.
I know the bus was out of my sight for some time there, while I looked at the phone and when I went down the stairs. The driver could have gotten out, gotten back on, anything, without me seeing him. That's what I kept telling myself. But the gut feeling, Mile's words and agitation, none of it fit. I couldn't explain what was wrong with that bus. I still can't. But there was.
I looked out the window, hoping it would be gone. It was still there.
It sat, abiding. And as the sky began to go blue at the horizon, the accordion joint let out a hiss and the bus pulled away.
Every night after that, it came at 3:17, exactly as before. The difference was, now it stayed almost until dawn, every night, without fail.
Every night it sat there, waiting. Staring at me. Believe me, I know how that sounds. But I swear, the bus was staring right at me, and I couldn't stop but stare back as well.
Every night it came. Waiting, I think, for someone to finally take the driver's seat.
And lately I've caught myself thinking it might as well be me.
#entertainment
source
Getting the job in the other city felt like a blessing at first.
It gave me a reason to get out of my hometown, out of the unemployment slump I'd been stuck in, and to change my surroundings for a while. The pay was better than I had expected. But I needed to start as soon as possible, which is how I ended up with an apartment in the outer part of the city.
It was an old one-bedroom in a building whose façade was crumbling, a relic from the communist era. Decent enough and cheap, but most importantly, it was available immediately. Even if it turned out to be a dump, I could move in a few months once I'd settled. And it had one more thing that was good for me, a bus stop right across the street. At least, that's what Google Maps said.
Now, I'm from the southern Balkans, and for those of you who aren't familiar, I'm guessing you picture a bus stop as some glass-paned sanctuary. Maybe a digital board with arrival times. A bench. Well, out here, a bench is a luxury.
The stop was nothing but a rusted husk of metal, crumbling at the corners, covered in graffiti from the local football ultras. To think that my biggest worry back then was running into a group of hooligans.
I settled in over a few days, and the night before my first day at work, I pulled up the arrival times on my phone. I found the stop easily, tapped the icon and waited. It took forever to load. A weak signal out here, I figured, so I refreshed a few more times. Nothing. Then, it clicked. There were no lines passing through it at all. The next nearest stop was a ten, fifteen minute walk. Not everything can be perfect, I guess.
My first weeks went how anyone's first weeks in a new city go. Work, home, work. Some weekends I went back to my hometown; my coworkers weren't the going-out type. Other nights, I just stayed in, watching TV and playing games, not tired enough to sleep because I hadn't done anything to get tired from.
And on one of those nights, pouring a glass of water in the kitchen, I glanced out the window and saw a bus at the stop. Huh. Seems to be working after all. I checked the clock: 3:17. Honestly, it made me mad. I have to walk fifteen minutes in daylight, and the one line that runs does it at this ungodly hour?
And again, for those not from around here, our government making a stupid decisions was not uncommon. Though, there was an industrial zone nearby, so maybe it was a privately hired bus for some factory's night shift. It was one of the old timers, with an accordion joint in the middle, another relic of communist past. I hadn't seen one of those in years. Just showed how much the factory, or the state, didn’t care about their people.
I didn't think much more of it, not that night, not for the next couple of weeks. I caught a glimpse of it here and there. And one thing slowly stopped adding up: the seats were always empty. Curiosity got the better of me, so when I caught it again one night, I stood at the window and waited. The bus sat for a few minutes. Nobody got on, nobody got off, and it still pulled away. And the timing was never the same. Some nights it stood for two minutes, some nights a quarter of an hour. For a loner, it was an interesting enough thing to fixate on.
While heading to work and riding the normal buses during the day, I noticed they were all new. Modern, spotless, courtesy of the politicians and the upcoming election. So, I started looking. Watching for the old model, the one with the sharp edges and the accordion joint. I never found it. Not one. Yet, there it was in front of my building, every night, 3:17 sharp.
I had to know more. I never brought it up with my coworkers as I didn't want to be labeled as insane new guy, but one morning while heading out, I ran into Mile, the old man next door coming back from the store. If anyone knew anything, it'd be him. That man loved talking.
"How's it going, Mile?"
"Worse than ever. Did you see the match last night? We played like a bunch of old women."
"Ha, yeah, they did." I had no idea what match he meant. "Listen, can I ask you something? Do you know the schedule for the stop across the street? I can't find anything online."
"There is no schedule, boy. That stop hasn't run since, God, before you were even born. I went down to the city council to complain many times, but–"
"The thing is," I cut in. If you let him, Mile could talk your ear off, "I saw a bus there last night."
Mile frowned at me and I noticed he clutched his cane.
"When?" he asked.
"Middle of the night. Around three —"
"Listen to me, boy." He stepped in close. "If you ever see it again, don't look at it. Go back to bed and pretend it isn't there."
I blinked, taken aback.
"Mile, what do you—"
"You hear me? You see it, you go back to bed. And you stop asking about it!" He turned on his heel and shut the door behind him.
I didn't get answers. Just more questions. Mile was a sweet old man. He'd trap you in a half-hour conversation, sure, but I'd never once heard him raise his voice or seen him rattled.
There could have been only one explanation. You don’t warn someone with such specificity if you haven’t seen the thing yourself.
His words should have scared me. They did scare me. But for some sick reason, I only got more obsessed with that bus, even more after I knew I wasn't supposed to look at it.
That very night I was at the window before 3:17.
It came exactly on time.
Watching it actually arrive, I caught something I had missed. Before, I'd only ever noticed it once it was already at the stop, sitting under the lone streetlight, the pitch-black of a barren field stretching out behind the stop. Now that I’ve seen it come in, I noticed it came with no headlights. There were no lights inside either. The cabin was a pocket of black. Though, with streetlights piercing through windows on the back side, I could make out the furthest seats. Empty as ever.
People out here tend to drive like maniacs, but I've never seen anyone drive at night with no lights on. I was so fixed on that, I forgot to check the one thing I'd meant to. So, the next day I went out and bought a pair of binoculars.
Tomorrow it arrived without mistake at 3:17.
This time I was ready.
I saw no license plates, which I could almost explain, as private factory buses sometimes ran without them. Still, it sat wrong with me. What I could, however, was to finally read was the number board up top. White numbers on a rusted blue plate. 58.
Bingo.
Now we were getting somewhere.
I pulled up my phone and typed in the city and the number. Nothing on Maps, so I switched to a plain search and dug for a while, losing track of time. The lines running in the city now only went up to 32. Eventually, I found it. 58 was an old line, very old, discontinued about thirty years ago. As Mile said, before I was born. There was no starting point listed. No destination either.
I look up from the phone. The bus was still there, engine just barely audible through the closed window. I checked the clock. 3:42. For nearly half an hour it had been there.
Where did it come from? Why did it sit there for a different length of time every night? Why– why so many things. I had questions, and now I finally knew how to get answers. I put the phone in my pocket and grabbed the jacket, then ran down the stairs, doubting myself with every step.
Was it smart? Not at all. I did check if I had enough battery to call the police, because, who knew? They could be traffickers or something. I'd seen enough films. Out of the building, the chill of the night hit me, feeling way colder than it should have been.
The bus waited under the funnel of the streetlight, a silhouette against the black behind it. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. It was waiting, in the truest sense of the word. I don't know how I knew that. I just did.
It was waiting for me.
I came closer, circling toward the front, and then I stopped in the tracks. My legs felt as if they were cut off. I was close now. Close enough to see.
There was no one in the driver's seat.
And the engine was still running.
I was back inside the building before I understood I was moving.
I know the bus was out of my sight for some time there, while I looked at the phone and when I went down the stairs. The driver could have gotten out, gotten back on, anything, without me seeing him. That's what I kept telling myself. But the gut feeling, Mile's words and agitation, none of it fit. I couldn't explain what was wrong with that bus. I still can't. But there was.
I looked out the window, hoping it would be gone. It was still there.
It sat, abiding. And as the sky began to go blue at the horizon, the accordion joint let out a hiss and the bus pulled away.
Every night after that, it came at 3:17, exactly as before. The difference was, now it stayed almost until dawn, every night, without fail.
Every night it sat there, waiting. Staring at me. Believe me, I know how that sounds. But I swear, the bus was staring right at me, and I couldn't stop but stare back as well.
Every night it came. Waiting, I think, for someone to finally take the driver's seat.
And lately I've caught myself thinking it might as well be me.
#entertainment
source
| 3,000 mlx | |
| 3 | |
| 0 |