Martin Hale had driven the 47 night route for eleven years, and in all that time he had never been frightened of an empty bus.
Annoyed by one, certainly.
An empty bus meant discarded cans rolling beneath seats, newspapers on the floor and, on one memorable Saturday night, somebody's left shoe sitting perfectly upright on the top deck.
But frightened?
No.
At 11:58 on a wet Thursday night, Martin watched his last passenger step onto Hawthorn Road.
The man raised one hand in thanks.
Martin closed the doors.
He checked the interior mirror.
Nobody downstairs.
The little monitor above his cab showed the top deck.
Rows of empty seats.
Good.
Three stops remained before the depot.
Martin pulled away.
Thirty seconds later, the bell rang.
The red STOPPING sign illuminated above the windscreen.
Martin looked at the mirror.
“Very funny.”
He glanced at the CCTV monitor.
Every seat was empty.
The first stop
Martin stopped at Mill Lane anyway.
It was habit.
Doors open.
Wait.
Doors close.
Nobody got off.
Nobody got on.
Rain ran down the windscreen.
He pulled away.
The STOPPING sign went dark.
Five seconds later:
Martin frowned.
He pressed the radio button.
“Control, forty-seven.”
Static.
He tried again.
“Control, forty-seven, radio check.”
Nothing.
The route ahead turned away from the houses and followed a narrow stretch of road beside woodland.
There was one scheduled stop there.
Oak Cross.
Martin slowed.
The shelter appeared through the rain.
Empty.
He stopped.
Opened the doors.
“Anyone getting off?” he called.
No answer.
Martin felt ridiculous.
He closed the doors.
The moment they shut:
This time Martin swore.
Upstairs
He pulled into a lay-by and applied the handbrake.
The CCTV still showed an empty top deck.
“Right.”
Martin stepped out of the cab.
The bus engine vibrated gently beneath the floor.
He walked toward the stairs.
There was something oddly uncomfortable about looking up them.
The upper deck lights were on.
Nothing moved.
Martin climbed.
One step.
Two.
Three.
At the top, he stopped.
Empty.
Of course it was.
He walked down the aisle, checking behind every seat.
Nothing.
Then he noticed the condensation.
Every window had misted slightly from the warm air inside the bus.
Except one.
The window beside the rear seat was completely fogged.
As though somebody had been sitting beside it, breathing against the glass.
Martin approached.
Three words had been written in the condensation.
Martin stared.
Water began to run through the letters.
He wiped the window with his sleeve.
Outside was the dark line of the woods.
Then the bell rang directly behind him.
Martin spun around.
The stop button beside the rear seat was still depressed.
Stop requested
Martin went downstairs much faster than he had climbed up.
He sat behind the wheel and locked the cab door.
For the first time in eleven years, an empty bus frightened him.
He pulled away.
The next scheduled stop was the depot entrance.
He would drive there.
He would park.
Somebody else could investigate the electrics.
The onboard display changed.
Usually it showed the name of the next stop.
Instead it now read:
Martin stared at it.
There was no Bellfield stop.
Not on the 47.
Not on any route he knew.
He pressed the radio again.
“Control?”
Static.
Then a voice came through.
Weak.
Male.
“Forty-seven, continue to Bellfield.”
Martin grabbed the handset.
“Who is this?”
Static.
“Control, identify yourself.”
The voice returned.
“Passenger waiting.”
Martin released the handset.
“No chance.”
He continued toward the depot.
The display changed.
The road that wasn't there
Martin knew the junction ahead.
Left led to the depot.
Right led nowhere.
At least, it was supposed to.
There had once been a road through the woods, but it had been closed long before Martin started driving.
Concrete barriers blocked it.
Tonight the barriers were gone.
The old road stretched between the trees.
A bus stop stood twenty metres down it.
Martin slowed without meaning to.
The shelter was ancient.
Glass missing.
Metal frame rusted.
A faded sign above it read:
A woman was waiting beneath it.
She wore a pale coat.
One hand held the handle of a small suitcase.
Martin stopped in the middle of the junction.
The woman raised her head.
She looked directly at him.
Then the bell rang.
Martin shook his head.
“No.”
The woman didn't move.
The bus display changed.
Martin turned left.
Toward the depot.
The engine cut out.
The steering became heavy.
Every light inside the bus went dark.
Martin hit the brakes.
The bus rolled to a stop.
Silence.
Then footsteps sounded above him.
Slowly crossing the upper deck.
One step.
Another.
Another.
They reached the stairs.
Martin stared into the mirror.
Nothing.
A step creaked.
Then another.
Something was coming downstairs.
Martin tried the ignition.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
The footsteps reached the bottom.
Martin didn't look behind him.
Then somebody leaned close to the driver's screen.
A man's voice whispered:
Martin turned.
There was nobody there.
The engine started.
Bellfield
Martin sat frozen for several seconds.
The old road waited to his right.
The woman still stood beneath the shelter.
He could drive away.
Every instinct told him to.
Instead, Martin turned the wheel.
The bus entered Bellfield Road.
Branches scraped against the upper windows.
The road was barely wide enough for the bus.
He stopped beside the shelter.
The doors opened.
The woman climbed aboard.
She looked perhaps sixty.
Her pale coat was soaked.
Her hair clung wetly to her face.
“Thank you,” she said.
Martin swallowed.
“Where are you going?”
She looked toward the staircase.
“Home.”
“What stop?”
The woman smiled faintly.
“You'll know.”
She climbed upstairs.
Martin watched the CCTV.
She appeared at the top of the stairs.
Walked toward the rear.
Sat down.
And disappeared.
The seat was empty.
1974
Martin did not move the bus.
He called control again.
This time somebody answered.
“Forty-seven, go ahead.”
Martin almost laughed with relief.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Receiving you fine, driver. What's the problem?”
Martin looked through the windscreen.
The shelter had disappeared.
There wasn't even a road ahead of him.
The bus stood facing two concrete barriers at the edge of the woods.
Beyond them, weeds grew across a crumbling strip of tarmac.
“Where am I?” Martin whispered.
Control paused.
“GPS has you at the Bellfield turnoff.”
Martin's hands tightened around the wheel.
“Is there a bus stop called Bellfield?”
Another pause.
“Not anymore.”
Martin said nothing.
The controller continued.
“Old route. Closed in the seventies, I think.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. Hang on.”
Martin heard keyboard clicks.
Then the controller's tone changed.
“There was an accident.”
“What accident?”
“November 1974. Last bus of the night skidded off Bellfield Road in heavy rain.”
Martin looked toward the trees.
“How many?”
“Driver survived. One passenger didn't.”
Martin already knew what the answer would be.
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
The controller hesitated.
“Apparently she'd rung the bell, but the driver missed the stop.”
The passenger upstairs
Martin drove directly to the depot.
He told nobody what had happened.
Not the footsteps.
Not the writing on the window.
Not the woman.
He parked the bus beneath the inspection lights.
Before leaving, he checked it himself.
Downstairs first.
Empty.
Then upstairs.
Empty.
The rear window was still fogged.
The words NOT THIS STOP had disappeared.
Something else had been written there.
Martin stood looking at it for a long time.
Then he smiled.
“Any time.”
He wiped the words away.
Three months later
Martin was driving the 47 again.
It was late.
It was raining.
But he'd stopped thinking about Bellfield.
Mostly.
At Hawthorn Road, the final passenger stepped off.
Martin checked downstairs.
Empty.
He checked the CCTV.
Empty.
He pulled away.
The bell rang.
Martin's hands froze on the wheel.
The display above him illuminated.
He expected Bellfield.
It showed something else.
Martin knew that name too.
Everybody who had worked the route long enough knew it.
St. Anne's had closed in 1989.
The building had been demolished twelve years later.
Martin slowly looked at the CCTV monitor.
The top deck was no longer empty.
A little girl sat alone in the very front seat.
She wore a red school coat.
Her feet didn't reach the floor.
She looked directly into the camera.
Then she raised one hand.
And pressed the bell.
Martin indicated left and began slowing down.
He wasn't going to miss another stop.