"Phantoms of Route 88"

Late one foggy evening in London, a double-decker bus rattled through the empty streets. It was the last route of the night, driven by Harold, a man who’d been on the job for nearly thirty years. He knew every curve of the road, but tonight, something felt off. The fog was unusually thick, swallowing the city in eerie silence.

At one stop, Harold spotted a figure in the mist—an old man with hollow eyes, wrapped in a dark overcoat. The man boarded without a word, dropping his fare into the machine. Harold glanced in the rearview mirror as the man climbed the stairs to the upper deck. When Harold looked again moments later, the old man was gone.

Harold’s grip tightened on the wheel as he continued his route. As the bus rolled past familiar landmarks, passengers appeared and vanished in the reflections of the bus windows. Their faces were pale, distant, and always slightly distorted. Every time Harold checked the upper deck through the mirror, he caught fleeting glimpses of shadowy figures seated in rows—silent, unmoving.

His heart raced as the temperature inside the bus plummeted. Then, from above, a rhythmic tapping started. It was faint at first but grew louder, like footsteps pacing back and forth on the upper deck. Harold slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. He rushed upstairs to confront whoever—or whatever—was there.

But the top deck was empty, save for a chilling breeze that whispered through the seats. The old man, the shadows, they were gone. All that remained was an ancient newspaper lying on a seat. Its headline sent a shiver down Harold's spine: "Tragic Crash Claims Lives of 15 on Route 88."

That was his route. He realized, with growing dread, that the accident had occurred fifty years ago to the day. Harold, shaking, hurried back to the driver’s seat and revved the engine. The bus wouldn’t start. The lights flickered, and in the rearview mirror, he saw them again—ghostly passengers filling the seats.

One by one, they turned their heads to stare at him, their eyes empty, their lips murmuring words he couldn’t understand. The fog outside thickened, and the bus, now filled with its spectral passengers, rolled onward through the silent streets of London, destined to forever carry those lost souls.

And Harold was now one of them.