My Seductive Passenger Is Dead

They say the night bus doesnt just carry the living.

I didn't buy into that kind of urban legend. Not until I took the wheel for the graveyard shift.

A few months ago, my life was totaledliterally. I survived a wreck that left my skull fractured and my memory full of holes. I knew who I wasMason, born in the Rust Belt, blue-collar rootsbut the accident itself was a blank tape. I just knew it was bad.

After they cut me loose from the hospital, I was desperate for cash. Thats when I saw the flyer fluttering on a wet sidewalk: Transit Authority Driver Needed. Night Shift. Rural Route. High Pay.

I used to drive rigs before the crash. Figuring it was fate, or maybe just dumb luck, I made the call.

When I pulled up to the depot, my optimism died a quick death. The place was a concrete scar on the edge of town, half-swallowed by dead ivy and stained with years of water damage. A few buses were scattered around the lot like discarded toys, their doors rusting, their bodies dented.

I couldn't figure out how this fleet passed inspection.

The supervisor was a man named Hank. He looked like he was carved out of graniteforty-something, stiff, eyes that didn't blink enough.

After a test drive, he gave a curt nod. He pointed to the saddest vehicle in the lot, a beat-up 17-seater shuttle.

"You start tonight. Thats your rig."

He laid out the route. 10:30 PM sharp. Depart from the Central Terminal, drive out to the turnaround at Blackwood Creek, rest for twenty minutes, drive back.

"Five grand a month. Full benefits. Extra thousand for the night differential. You good with that?"

Good? It was a lifeline. It was too good to be true.

I walked into his office, ready to sign my life away. Hank stopped me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Mason, we run a tight ship. There are three rules. You break them, youre out."

I nodded, desperate not to blow this. "Name them."

"First," he said, deadpan. "You need to be unattached. Celibate. No women, no dating while you hold this contract. Purity of focus."

"I... Im single. Haven't been with anyone in a long time."

I was weirded out. I expected safety protocols, not a morality clause.

"Good." The tension in his forehead smoothed out. "Second: From the Terminal to Blackwood, there are five stops. You do not stop unless you are at a designated station. You hold at every station for exactly three minutes. Understood?"

"What if a passenger is running late? Or needs extra time?"

Hank shook his head. "Irrelevant. Stick to the protocol."

"Okay."

"Finally. Once the clock strikes midnight, you drive straight back. Doesn't matter who flags you down. You do not stop."

He grabbed his coffee mug, signaling the end of the discussion. "Agree to these three, and the job is yours."

"Done."

I needed the money too badly to ask questions. I signed the paperwork, moved my stuff into the grim employee dorms that afternoon, and by 10:00 PM, I was heading to the bay.

The bus was even worse than it looked in the daylight. The door hung loose on its hinges, and there was a jagged hole in the floorboard that whistled when the wind hit it.

I checked my watch. Ignition.

The outskirts of the city were brutal. No streetlights, just potholes and shadows. It took fifteen minutes to hit the first stop, a desolate patch of gravel called Willow Run.

A guy with a briefcase became my first passenger.

He was young, dressed like a junior associate at a law firm, but his face was slack, expressionless. He climbed on and walked straight to the back row without a word. No fare, no pass.

"Hey, buddy," I called out. "You gotta pay the fare."

He froze. He looked at me like I was speaking a dead language. After a long, awkward pause, he fished some loose change out of his pocket and handed it over.

Something about him felt off. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. He didn't look at his phone. He didn't close his eyes. He just pressed his forehead against the cold glass and stared into the blackness.

Probably just burnout. Were all hustling just to survive these days.

The road was washboard-rough. It took half an hour to rattle our way to the second stop. Before the wheels even stopped rolling, the Suit stood up.

As he passed the driver's seat, he turned his head.

"You should leave early. No one is getting on at this stop."

"Can't do it. Policy says three minutes."

I answered automatically. By the time I turned to ask how he knew, he was gone. Swallowed by the night.

"Fast walker," I muttered.

I waited. He was right. No one showed up at that stop, or the next three.

It wasn't surprising given the hour and the location, but it settled a heavy feeling in my gut. I finished the route, arriving back at the depot around 2:00 AM.

The next morning, Hank cornered me while I was grabbing coffee. "First night go okay?"

"Fine," I said. "One weirdo in a suit. Tried to stiff me on the fare, but I made him pay."

"It doesn't matter," Hank said quickly. "We don't rely on ticket sales for profit. Let him slide."

I swear I saw a tic in Hank's jaw, a spasm of nerves, but he smoothed it over instantly.

The second night, the Suit was there again.

Same routine. Briefcase. Back row. Staring at nothing.

This time, remembering Hank's advice, I didn't ask for money.

At the second stop, he stood up. "Leave early. No one is coming."

At first, I thought he was messing with me. But a week went by, and he was my only passenger. Every night, same stop, same exit, same prediction.

I joked about it to Hank. "Kid thinks hes psychic. Hes never wrong."

Hanks hand froze halfway to his mouth with a cigarette. "Don't talk nonsense. Its just coincidence."

Of course, the pattern broke the very next night.

It was my eighth shift. I dropped the Suit off at stop number two. I tried to make small talk. "Let me guess, nobody's coming tonight except you?"

He offered a thin, cryptic smile. "Except for me? No one will ever get on your bus."

Then he vanished into the dark.

I waited the mandatory three minutes. I was starting to feel foolish, wondering if this whole bus route was some tax write-off scheme designed just for that one guy.

Then, a voice boomed from the darkness.

"Hey! Open up!"

I jumped. A bald, middle-aged man was pounding on the glass.

I chuckled. So much for the psychic.

The bald guylet's call him Tuckerseemed frantic. As soon as the doors hissed open, he scrambled inside. He scanned the back row where the Suit usually sat, his face draining of color.

"Drive," he wheezed. "Please, just drive."

But as soon as we pulled away, his panic evaporated. He sauntered up to the front, leaning on the safety rail.

"First week, huh kid?"

"Yeah," I said, eyeing him. "How'd you know?"

"I ride this route a lot." Tucker grinned. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out. "Smoke?"

"No thanks. And you can't smoke in here."

"I don't smoke usually," he said, lighting up anyway. "Only when I'm on this bus."

I wanted to yell at him, but the bus was empty, and honestly, I was lonely.

Tucker was chatty. He asked if the isolation got to me. I deflected, asking what he did for a living that kept him out so late.

He didn't answer. He just laughed, a dry, rattling sound.

When we hit the third stop, Tucker flicked a loose cigarette onto my dashboard.

"Take it. For the nerves. You're gonna need it, seeing as no one else is gonna get on."

I took the cigarette, confused. Why is everyone repeating the same lines?

I waited at the stop. Nothing. I shook my head, ready to pull out.

Suddenly, a woman burst out of the shadows, running into the middle of the road. She was clutching a bundle in her arms.

"Stop! Please!"

I slammed on the brakes, the bus screeching to a halt inches from her hip. My heart hammered against my ribs. "Are you crazy? Running out like that with a kid?"

She climbed on, breathless, apologizing over and over.

"It's fine," I sighed. "Just be careful."

I looked at the bundle. It was a boy, maybe five or six, wrapped in layers of wool despite the mild weather. His face was visibleand it was wrong. Pale, with a bluish tint on his forehead.

"Is he okay?" I asked. "He looks sick."

She didn't answer, just hurried to the back.

The boy lifted his head from her shoulder. His eyes were dark, like polished obsidian. He blinked at me.

"Thank you, Mister."

He was smiling, but his skin looked like old bruises.

"Listen to your mom," I said, forcing a smile. "You'll feel better soon."

"Okay," the boy whispered. "But Mommy says I'm not gonna get better."

A chill went down my spine. Terminal? God, that was tragic.

I drove them to the terminal at Blackwood.

As she got off, the woman turned. She looked me dead in the eye and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile; it was seductive, unsettlingly intimate. My ears burned.

When I got back to the depot, Hank was waiting on the tarmac.

He offered me a cigarette immediately. "How was the run?"

"Fine." I waved him off. "I've got one." I picked up the cigarette Tucker had left on the dash.

Hanks eyes widened. He stared at the cigarette like it was a loaded gun. "Where did you get that?"

"A passenger gave it to me..."

I stopped. I looked at the thing in my hand.

It was wrong. The filter was black with rot. The paper was stained brown, damp, and smelled like wet earth and decay. It smelled like a grave.

I gagged and tossed it out the window.

Hank looked pale. "Throw that away. Don't take things from strangers."