Bus Stop Horror Story – Waited for a Bus That Never Cam

I never thought a bus stand could be the scariest place on Earth. But now, as I sit here shivering in the cold, waiting for something that will never come, I realize how wrong I was.

It all started one night last October. I was working late again, stuck at my desk in the city center, trying to finish a project that had spiraled out of control. My boss had promised me a promotion if I pulled it off, and I wanted it badly—badly enough to stay until well past midnight. By the time I finished, the streets were empty, the streetlights flickering like dying fireflies.

I remember stepping outside, the chill biting into my skin. The city felt… different that night. Quieter than usual. Even the traffic had vanished, leaving only silence and the distant hum of wind through alleyways. I pulled my coat tighter around me and made my way toward the nearest bus stop—a small, weathered shelter just two blocks from the office.

The bus stand sat alone under a dim streetlamp, its light casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The bench was wet with dew, and the glass panels were fogged up. I glanced at the schedule posted inside the booth—last bus was at 11:45 PM. I was ten minutes late. But still, I waited.

At first, it was peaceful. I leaned back against the cold metal frame and watched the clouds drift across the moon. But then, I heard it.

A low, guttural sound. Like breathing. Wet, ragged breathing.

I froze.

It wasn’t coming from anywhere I could see. Just… everywhere. From beneath the bench? From behind me? I turned slowly, scanning the empty street. Nothing. Just the swaying branches of an old oak tree nearby.

I laughed nervously. “Okay, you’re tired. Just tired.”

But the sound didn’t stop.

It continued, rhythmic and labored, like someone—or something—was standing just inches away, watching me.

I checked my phone. No signal. Of course. Battery at 2%. Perfect.

Then the lights above the bus stand flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And then they died completely.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

I fumbled for my phone flashlight, but before I could turn it on, I saw them—two glowing eyes peering through the fogged glass of the booth. They blinked once. Slowly. Deliberately.

I stumbled back, tripping over the bench and landing hard on the ground. When I looked up, the eyes were gone.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaking. “Is someone there?”

No answer.

Just the breathing.

Louder now.

Closer.

I scrambled to my feet and ran to the edge of the curb, looking down the road for any sign of a bus. Nothing. Not even headlights in the distance. Just blackness.

I considered walking home, but it was miles away. And the streets weren’t safe this late. Not alone.

So I went back to the booth.

Maybe the next bus would come soon.

Hours passed.

I don’t know how many. Time felt warped. My watch stopped at 12:07 AM. The same time every day since. It doesn’t move anymore.

People say that time stops when you die.

But I’m not dead.

Not yet.

The breathing never stopped.

Sometimes it faded into silence, only to return louder than before. Sometimes it changed pitch—lower, deeper, like something massive was dragging itself closer.

I tried to leave the bus stand more than once.

Each time, I took a few steps, and the world around me twisted. Streets I knew like the back of my hand became unfamiliar. Buildings vanished. Street signs disappeared. The sky turned greenish-black, like a bruise.

And always, I ended up back at the booth.

As if pulled by some invisible thread.

The second night, I saw her.

A woman in a tattered red coat stood across the street, staring at me. Her face was pale, almost translucent, and her mouth hung open in a silent scream. She raised a skeletal hand and pointed at the bench.

I shook my head. “No. I’m not sitting there again.”

She didn’t move.

I blinked.

She was gone.

But the bench was no longer empty.

Something sat there now.

A shape wrapped in darkness. A hunched figure with long limbs and fingers that dragged along the ground. Its head tilted unnaturally far to the side, and when it looked at me, I saw nothing but swirling void where its face should be.

I screamed.

It didn’t react.

It just sat there, breathing.

Ragged.

Wet.

Hungry.

I backed away until I hit the wall of the booth.

And then the bus came.

Or what used to be a bus.

It rolled silently into the stop, its headlights extinguished. The paint was peeling, revealing rusted metal beneath. Windows were shattered. The doors creaked open like a tomb being disturbed.

Inside, the seats were soaked in something dark.

Blood?

Oil?

Something worse?

I couldn’t move.

The driver stepped out.

He wore a uniform that looked decades out of date. His face was gaunt, his lips stitched shut with thick black thread. He didn’t speak. He just stared at me with hollow, pupil-less eyes.

Behind him, the other passengers began to emerge.

They moved stiffly, like puppets on broken strings. Their faces were blank, their skin sagging off their bones. One of them reached for me with a claw-like hand.

I turned to run.

But the world shifted again.

Back at the bench.

The figure was still there.

Still breathing.

Still waiting.

Days turned into weeks. Or maybe months. I can’t tell anymore.

Time doesn’t work here.

The bus comes every night.

Same time.

Same driver.

Same passengers.