Never Miss the Bus

You’ve always ridden the bus after school. Friends were on there. All of you would shout and jump around the torn leather seats, anxious to get home --- to get away from school. But today you didn’t ride the bus.

You’ve always listened to your parents. The look of satisfaction in their aging eyes when you come home, bursting through the wooden front door with good grades and reports of happy teachers, makes your heart jump with joy. But today they wouldn’t have that look.

Today, you’re walking home.

You feel ashamed. There’s tears in your eyes but you blame it on the cold sting of wind slapping your face. You know better than this! Mom and dad grill you to be home on time. Yes, fourth grade is hard and demanding but ... but Sam, your close friend, begged that you stay back at the school soccer field, and you fell for it! You. Nobody else. Only you.

So, you inhale the cold air, quickening your pace down the foggy road before you. Grey clouds cover the sky --- no sun --- no happy looks waiting at home. Already, your heart is extremely loud in your chest like it’s mocking you for missing the bus. You walk faster and faster, not noticing the slanted dark trees and houses around you, turning down a street that you’ve never turned down, thinking it’s quicker when really ... it’s not. It really isn’t.

Shreds of bone feel like they’re pricking around in your chest as you stop, hands on your knees, breathless. For the first time, you notice how late it’s getting. More darkness begins to menace the clouds and no cars drive around you. It’s quiet. Also, for the first time, you realize where you are. All the houses on this street are abandoned. Cracks, deep and distraught like a stab wound, hazard the road. You shiver, not from the wind, but the houses --- how odd they look as if something evil lives inside them. Paint is chipped away, windows are busted, roofs are caved in, and—

Smoke. There’s smoke.

An older brick home just a few houses to your left has smoke coming from the chimney. Your stomach turns at the thought of getting home even later so, desperate for a solution, you further shoulder your black backpack and jog to the house. Then, you pause at the driveway, pushing down a shudder from the crooked dead trees in the front yard. All the windows are curtained with black. Maybe nobody is home.

You take a steadying breath.

Mom and dad are going to—

“Hello?’

You sharply inhale.

A woman. No ... you look closer. Yes, it’s a woman but she’s old and you can barely see her through the foggy screen door.

“Hello?” she says again, sounding old like the dead trees yet soft like wettened dirt.

“Hi, um ... “You search for the words. “Can you—”

“Why are you here?”

Dryness covers your throat. Suddenly, you feel nervous and even rude for just walking up to this woman’s house. Never miss the bus.

Never.

Her wooden porch cries like an old swing set as she fully comes outside. A grey gown, old and torn at the ends, covers her hunched skinny frame. Even from across the yard you see her dark eyes. They appear black and have a look inside them that, for some reason, makes you take a step back, and another.

Never miss the bus.

“I, uh ...” Her voice is high. “Do you need something, dear?”

There’s a garage, you notice. It looks like it hasn’t opened in years which is terrible. You should probably leave.

“No ma’am.” You scratch your head, noticing how her head tilts when she stares at you. “I just sort of went down the wrong street.”

“Non-sense, dear.” She takes another step, suddenly seeming taller. You swallow.

“Would you like to come in?”

“No,” you blurt, heat rising to face. You didn’t mean to sound rude. This evening has just been terrible and, and ... you’re messing up. The bus left you because your friend wanted you to stay and you stayed and played and now ...

Now.

Now what?

A wide smile parts the old woman’s mouth, every tooth black as she says, “I like your hands.”

Your eyebrows raise. The hairs on your neck stand up at the odd admiration laced in her voice, scraping you like the dead bark on the trees. You take another step, but so does she. One of the curtains flutters, black like her teeth.

“Don’t mind him.”

“W-who?”

“That’s one of my friends. I think he would like your hands, too.”

Your hands? You shake your head and begin to turn.

“Don’t,” she almost yells, her voice suddenly deeper.

“My parents are waiting.” You glance at the nasty black teeth in her mouth, wondering how she got them. A part of you hesitates at the look of hurt in her eyes. She’s just an old woman, alone on a street. No one, except her friend, probably gives her company but ...

You missed the bus, and something wasn’t right about her. You have to go.

The house next door, old and abandoned like the many others, whines, making you stop. The front door opens and someone steps out. A woman. No ... you look closer. An old woman like the one behind you, staring. How...

“Hello,” says the second old woman.

Her voice sounds the same. The gown looks the same. Even the eyes and skin and teeth and everything about her looks the exact same. But that’s not possible.

“Why are you here?” she hums, smiling with nasty black teeth that now appear sharp.

“I like your hands,” yells the first old woman behind you. “I have a shelf for them.”

You need to go.

“Me too,” gloats the other, seeming taller and lankier with boney arms that stretch from her gown. Your legs tremble as they both take a step from off their porches, the wood moaning like a kid getting his hands ripped off, both of them walking, no... jogging as they take more lanky steps towards you.

More houses around you begin to stir. Screen doors burst open, all of them old women thirsty for you --- thirsty for your blood and hands, ready to strike like the devil himself. You can’t do it. Holding in the scream becomes impossible as fear carries you down the street. You run and run and pump your arms, feeling the old evil women quickly stalk from their porches.

Missing the bus caused this.

Everything in you panics. They get closer and you look down the street, screaming louder and louder because you’re not going anywhere. Wicked laughs surround you --- the sky becomes a looming beast of darkness, happily watching as an army of old women, black teeth in all their mouths, encircle you, grasp you with lanky arms, drowning your pleas, laughing and laughing, ripping your hands and ... and ...

You missed the bus.

Blood fills the street as they tear away your hands from the bone at your wrist. Black teeth dig into your throat. Pain --- all consuming, dark like the clouds, like the trees, like the teeth --- covers every inch of you. Every inch.

Now, you’ll never make it home. Your parents will miss you and your hands will become encapsulated in a dingy jar because you did one thing.

Never miss the bus.

Never.

--The End--