Josh Hogan‘s first short story is a hint that he is going to write some great things in the years to come. Have a read of The Ghost on Bus 27!
The Ghost on Bus 27
Another Tuesday, another ride on the 27, the bus line that seemed to exist solely to remind me of life’s thrilling monotony. I was 18, armed with a backpack full of textbooks and a soul full of existential dread, which, let’s be honest, is pretty standard for an 18-year-old. The bus groaned, smelling faintly of stale coffee and forgotten dreams, as it trundled down Elm Street. I had my headphones on, blasting some angsty indie rock, trying to create my own personal bubble of cool, when a voice cut through the noise.
“Excuse me, young man, is this seat taken?”
I glanced up, ready with my usual, “Yeah, my invisible friend Bartholomew is sitting there,” but my retort died in my throat. Standing over me was an old woman. Or rather, floating over me. She was translucent, shimmering faintly like a heat haze on asphalt, and her hair was in curlers. Curler-shaped, spectral curlers.
My first thought wasn’t “OMG, a ghost!” It was, “Seriously? Even in the afterlife, people can’t find a seat on the 27?”
“Uh, no, ma’am,” I stammered, pulling my bag off the seat beside me. She drifted down, settling with a faint whoosh that only I seemed to notice. The few other passengers, engrossed in their phones or staring blankly out the window, didn’t bat an eye.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “These bus routes are simply dreadful. Always late. And don’t even get me started on the lack of proper ventilation. I mean, you’d think after a hundred years, they’d figure it out.”
A hundred years? My eyes widened. “You’ve been riding this bus for a hundred years?”
She sighed, a sound that rustled my hair. “Off and on, yes. Ever since… well, ever since I missed my stop here and got hit by a rogue ice cream truck. Tragic, really. Best double scoop vanilla cone I ever had, too. Still haunts me.” She paused, then added, “No pun intended.”
I stifled a laugh. This was… unexpectedly normal. She complained about traffic, about the price of spectral real estate, and how her great-great-grandnephew never called. I even offered her a piece of gum, which she politely declined, explaining it would “pass right through.”
As my stop approached, I felt a strange pang of something akin to friendship. “Well, it was… interesting meeting you,” I said, gathering my things.
“You too, dear,” she replied, her translucent hand patting my arm. “Oh, and one more thing.”
I leaned in. “Yes?”
“Could you tell the driver to slow down? I’m trying to catch the 3:15 to the Spirit Realm, and I’m already running late.” She pointed a wispy finger towards the front of the bus. “And tell him Mrs. Henderson says he still owes her for that fare she paid in 1947. He knows the one.”
I nodded, utterly bewildered. “Mrs. Henderson… got it.”
As I stepped off the bus, I glanced back. Mrs. Henderson was still there, a faint, shimmering outline, shaking her head at the driver. I chuckled, pulling out my phone to text my best friend about my bizarre morning.
Suddenly, the bus lurched forward, accelerating rapidly. I watched, aghast, as it veered sharply, jumped the curb, and plowed straight into the front of the local library. Books exploded, glass shattered, and then, silence.
A moment later, the bus driver, looking perfectly fine, stepped out of the wreckage, dusting himself off. He looked directly at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Finally,” he muttered, “I’ve been trying to get off this route for a hundred years.” He then shimmered, faded, and vanished into thin air.
I stood there, mouth agape, as the sirens began to wail in the distance. It wasn’t Mrs. Henderson who was the ghost. It was the driver. And he’d finally gotten his revenge on the 27.