From Walton-on-the-Naze to Clacton-on-Sea

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It began, as many local legends do, on an otherwise ordinary night.

The last bus from Walton-on-the-Naze was running late. The 97 was always a little unpredictable after 10 p.m., especially in the colder months, when the mist came in from the sea and blanketed the roads in a wet, shifting veil. Only the truly desperate or local dared ride it that late—pub-goers staggering home, teens avoiding a cold walk, or the odd night shift worker heading to Clacton.

On this particular night, a young driver named Lewis was behind the wheel. Fresh to the route and relatively new to the area, Lewis didn’t know the stories that hung around this particular stretch of Essex coast like seaweed on a tide. It was his third week driving the 97, and his last run of the night.

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He stopped in Walton, idling at the station for a few minutes. A few regulars climbed aboard—an older man with an old duffel bag, a young couple whispering to each other with wide, tired eyes. Then, just before he pulled away, a woman stepped on.

She was dressed in outdated clothes: a pale blue overcoat, thick tights, and black buckle shoes that might’ve come from a 1950s catalogue. A hat, wide-brimmed and feathered, obscured most of her face, but Lewis caught a glimpse of her eyes—bright, almost too bright. She didn’t speak as she boarded. She held up an old bus pass in a cracked leather wallet. He barely glanced at it before nodding her on, distracted by his timetable.

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She moved to the very back of the bus, her feet silent on the floor despite the echoing thuds of everyone else’s. Lewis pulled away.

The journey was uneventful at first. Stops came and went—Frinton, Kirby Cross. People got off one by one. The young couple alighted at Kirby-le-Soken, arms wrapped tight against the mist, and the old man grunted his way off near Holland Haven.

By the time they passed through Great Holland, the bus was empty… except, Lewis thought, for the woman in blue.

He checked his rearview mirror. She wasn’t in it.

Strange, he thought. She was sitting in the very back row when he last saw her.

He glanced again, longer this time—still no sign. The mirror gave him only the dim interior of the empty seats and the flickering reflection of overhead lights. He flicked on the internal camera screen. The feed showed the aisles, the doors, the driver’s cabin, and the back rows.

Nothing.

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Thinking perhaps she’d gotten off at an earlier stop without him noticing, Lewis muttered to himself, "No way… I’d have seen her walk past."

But the bus’s digital ticket system told a different story. It logged everyone getting off. Everyone except her.

At the final stop in Clacton-on-Sea, he parked and did his standard sweep of the bus—checking for lost belongings, cleaning wrappers, that sort of thing. He walked all the way to the back.

The air grew cold.

The far seat—where she had sat—was oddly damp, as if someone had been there moments before, but no windows were open. No leaks. The seat bore a faint indentation, like someone had just risen from it. And on the seat beside it was a glove.

A fine, leather glove. Pale blue.

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He took it back to the station with him, unsure what to do with it. He asked around. The next day, he mentioned it to a supervisor.

The man looked at the glove, then at Lewis.

“She’s back again,” he said quietly. “You’re not the first to see her.”

Lewis frowned. “Who is she?”

“No one knows,” the supervisor replied. “We just call her the Vanishing Lady. Always boards late at Walton. Always wears the same coat, same shoes. Never gets off. Sometimes leaves something behind—a glove, a scarf. Once a brooch, I heard. But no one’s ever seen her leave.”

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Lewis blinked. “Is it… a ghost?”

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The supervisor shrugged. “Some say she died on that bus decades ago. A widow heading to Clacton to see a son who never came. Others say it’s just a prank, but I’ve driven that route twenty years. I’ve seen her twice. Never heard her speak. Never saw her get off.”

Lewis didn’t sleep well that night.

The glove vanished from the station's lost property box within a week.

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And though he stayed on the job, Lewis made sure to call in sick any time he was assigned the late run from Walton-on-the-Naze. Especially on misty nights, when the sea whispered, and the road curved in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural.

Locals say she still rides.

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If you take the last 97, sit near the front. And if a quiet old lady in a blue coat boards near Walton and walks silently to the back of the bus… don’t stare. Don’t ask questions.

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Because she’ll never get off.
And sometimes, she leaves the seat warm.