THE SCHOOL BUS When I was in middle school, my bus was always the last one to leave. Same driver. Same route. Same kids. Every afternoon, before pulling away, our driver would count every student. He never missed. “Twenty-three.” Then we’d leave. One rainy Thursday… He counted again. His smile disappeared. “Twenty-four.” Nobody had gotten on after the last stop. He counted a second time. Still… “Twenty-four.” One of the older kids laughed. “You forget how to count?” The driver didn’t answer. He just grabbed the radio. Static. Then a voice came through. Calm. Almost rehearsed. “Do not stop the bus.” The driver slowly put the radio down. Without saying a word… He locked the doors. ⸻ The ride home felt different. Nobody was talking anymore. Every few minutes, the driver glanced into the mirror. Not at us… At the very back row. I turned around. Every seat was occupied. Nothing looked strange. Until I noticed the last seat. Someone was sitting by the window. Head down. Wearing an old yellow raincoat. I had never seen them before. ⸻ We reached the first stop. The bus slowed… But never opened the doors. A little girl stood up. “My house is here.” “I’m sorry,” the driver whispered. “Not today.” Parents waiting outside started waving. Confused. One man stepped into the road to stop us. The driver swerved around him. The bus sped away. People began screaming. ⸻ A few minutes later… The lights inside the bus flickered. Then every window fogged over at once. Someone wrote a message in the condensation. From the inside. LET ME OFF Kids started crying. The yellow raincoat hadn’t moved. Still staring out the window. Still perfectly still. ⸻ The radio crackled again. “Is it still asleep?” The driver didn’t answer. The voice repeated louder. “DON’T LET IT WAKE UP.” At that exact moment… The figure in the back slowly lifted its head. It didn’t have a face. Just smooth skin. Like someone had erased it. Then… Every child on the bus heard the same thing. Our own name. Whispered. Right beside our ear. ⸻ One by one… Kids started standing up. Walking toward the back. Like they were sleepwalking. The driver slammed on the brakes. He jumped out of his seat and shouted, “EVERYBODY CLOSE YOUR EYES!” Nobody understood why. But we did. I squeezed my eyes shut. The bus became completely silent. No engine. No crying. Nothing. Then… Footsteps. Walking down the aisle. Slow. Deliberate. Stopping beside each seat. I could hear breathing inches from my face. Cold. Wet. Then the footsteps continued. Toward the front. The bus door hissed open. The footsteps stepped outside. The doors closed again. The engine started. The driver whispered, “You can look now.” ⸻ The yellow raincoat was gone. So was one seat. Not empty. Gone. Like it had never been installed. Nobody spoke for the rest of the ride. ⸻ The next morning… A substitute driver picked us up. I asked where our usual driver was. She frowned. “What do you mean?” “We’ve never had a driver by that name.” I looked around the bus. There were only twenty-two seats. Not twenty-three. Then I noticed something carved into the window beside me. It hadn’t been there yesterday. It read: “Next time… don’t count.” - @brayden_secret_account