There was a bus. It was different from the others that lined the street. Its dark, rusted frame seemed out of place against the brightness of the afternoon sun. The windows, grimy with dirt, reflected the faces of children who stood around, waiting to get on. The bus had been there for as long as anyone could remember, but no one ever talked about it. Not really. They just ignored it, like it was nothing more than a part of the background, blending in with the others. Except, it was never like the others.
Maggie had seen it plenty of times. She never rode it, never even thought to. She had a kind of rule—don't get on that bus. It was simple. It worked. The other kids always whispered about the bus, said things about it they couldn't quite explain but all of them agreed on one thing: the kids who got on it never came back. They didn't say it out loud, not to the adults. But they knew. Maggie knew.
She had no reason to doubt it.
Then one day, it happened.
Maggie was late. She was always late, but this time was different. She didn't know why, but something was wrong. She hadn't planned to miss her regular bus, but there she was, standing at the stop, hoping for someone to appear.
And that's when she saw it.
The other kids had already climbed onto the usual school bus, but there was the strange one. It sat idly across the street, dark and still, its engine off, its doors closed. The bus had never been this close before. It had always stayed a little further down the street, just far enough for the children to ignore. But now, it loomed, waiting.
Maggie stood frozen, unable to move. She looked at the bus, and then at the usual one, now pulling away, leaving her behind.
A few other kids were standing nearby, one or two from her class. They were looking at the strange bus too, their faces blank, like they had seen it a thousand times before and were used to it.
Then, it happened. One of the boys, Adam—someone she'd never spoken to—took a step toward the bus, his eyes wide, yet absent. Without saying a word, he climbed up the steps, disappearing inside.
Maggie's heart thudded. She had heard the rumors. Everyone had heard the rumors. But there he was, walking straight into it.
The bus stayed silent.
Then another kid, a girl from school, went up the steps, just like Adam, her face showing no sign of hesitation, no sign of fear. And one by one, more kids joined them. Every step they took toward the bus seemed deliberate, their movements slow and almost mechanical.
She wanted to scream. To shout at them to stop. But her voice was stuck. She couldn't move.
And then, just as quickly as it had started, they were all gone. The bus doors closed, the engine roared to life, and it sped off—too fast, too sudden. Maggie's hands trembled. The bus was gone.
She turned to the other kids who had watched, who had seen it all happen. None of them said anything. They just stood there, like they hadn't even noticed.
Maggie didn't know what to do. Her mind raced, the sinking feeling in her stomach growing heavier with each second. She had never been one to listen to rumors or superstition, but this felt different. She ran home.
It wasn't until the next day that the stories began. The parents were frantic. They shouted at each other, asking what had happened. But no one had an answer. The bus had disappeared, and the children who had gotten on it hadn't been seen again. It was like they had never existed.
Some said they had run away. Others said they were taken, but no one could explain how or why. The rumors swirled, but there were no answers. It was like everyone had forgotten.
But Maggie remembered. She always remembered.
Every night, the bus would return. It would sit there, silent and waiting, across the street. Maggie would see it, even though it was never spoken of. She would hear the sound of its engine, distant and eerie, long after the other buses had left. Sometimes, she would catch a glimpse of someone standing at the window, staring out at her.
And then, like a bad dream, it would be gone.
More children started to go missing. The authorities came. They searched, but the bus was nowhere to be found. The streets were empty, save for the strange silence that hung over the town. People stopped talking about it. They just wanted it to go away, as if pretending it wasn't there would make it disappear.
But it never did.
One evening, Maggie's brother, Noah, came home late from his friend's house. He was about the same age as her, and he'd been at the park all afternoon. He was sweaty, tired, and irritated when he got inside, but there was something else too, something off about him. His eyes were wide, a little too wide, and his skin looked pale, almost gray.
He didn't say anything. Just handed her a note, a crumpled piece of paper. When she unfolded it, it was written in a neat, but shaky hand: Don't go to the bus.
Maggie didn't need to ask where he had gotten it. He had been to the park. He had seen the bus.
The next day, Noah was gone. Vanished. No note, no warning. It was like he had disappeared into the air, his absence so complete that even the house felt empty. Her parents were beside themselves, frantic, calling the police, asking every neighbor if they had seen anything. But no one had.
The bus had come again.
Maggie couldn't breathe. She stood at the window, staring at the street below. The bus was there, right at the corner, just waiting. It had always been there, lurking, hidden in plain sight. But now it was her turn.
The doorbell rang. Maggie froze. She couldn't move.
It was her parents, standing at the door with wide eyes, saying something. They looked...different. Their faces were drawn, their voices distant, as if they were no longer really there. She couldn't hear them. She couldn't hear anything. The door opened.
Her feet carried her to the street, as if she had no control over her own body. Her parents followed her, silent, their footsteps heavy. They said nothing. They just followed.
She stepped off the porch and walked down the steps. The air felt wrong, too thick, too oppressive. She didn't want to go, but it was like something inside of her was pushing her forward, forcing her to step closer to the bus.
The doors opened.
She stepped inside.
The bus smelled of stale air, old leather, and something else she couldn't place. The seats were empty, but she could hear something faint, something that made her skin crawl. The hum of it, barely audible, like a heartbeat. A low, steady pulse.
Her parents didn't follow. They just stood on the curb, their faces pale, their eyes wide, frozen in place. But they didn't stop her.
She took a seat by the window. The bus began to move, slow at first, then faster, until the world outside blurred. The trees, the houses, everything faded into one dark smear of color. And still, the hum remained, a constant thrum against her chest.
The city was gone. The bus moved through an endless field, its lights the only things visible in the darkness. And then she saw them. The children. Hundreds of them. All of them. Adam. The girl from school. Noah. They sat there, their eyes blank, staring straight ahead.
Maggie reached out to them, her hands trembling, but they didn't respond. They couldn't.
The bus sped faster. Maggie closed her eyes, the air growing colder. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
It was Noah.
She turned to look at him, but he wasn't there. No one was. Only the endless road, the hum, and the silence.
Then the bus stopped.
Maggie looked out the window and saw the darkness. The world outside had disappeared. There was no going back.