The Last Stop

I never thought I would write this, but I need to share my story with someone. Maybe it will help me cope with what happened, or maybe it will serve as a warning for others. Either way, I can't keep it to myself any longer.

It all started on a cold night in December, when I decided to take the last bus home from work. I had been working late at the office, trying to finish some reports before the holidays. I was tired and hungry, and all I wanted was to get home and sleep.

I boarded the bus at 11:45 pm, and paid the fare to the driver. He was an old man, with a grizzled beard and a weary look in his eyes. He nodded at me and handed me a ticket. I took a seat near the front, and looked around. The bus was almost empty, except for a few other passengers: a young couple cuddling in the back, a middle-aged woman reading a book, and a man in a suit talking on his phone.

The bus started moving, and I put on my headphones and closed my eyes. I tried to relax, but I couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. Something felt wrong, but I didn't know what. Maybe it was the dark streets, or the silence of the night, or the fact that I was alone on a bus with strangers.

I opened my eyes and checked the time on my phone. It was 12:15 am. I looked out the window and saw that we were still in the city, passing by familiar buildings and landmarks. I wondered why it was taking so long to get home. The bus should have reached my stop by now.

I got up from my seat and walked to the driver. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him where we were going.

He turned his head slowly and looked at me with a blank expression.

"Where do you think we're going?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"Home," I said. "I need to get off at Main Street."

He shook his head and smiled faintly.

"No, no, no," he said. "This is the last stop."

He pointed ahead, and I followed his gaze.

My blood ran cold as I saw what he was pointing at.

It was a cemetery.