The Wrong Stop

The last bus dropped Mara at the edge of her town at 11:47 p.m. That wasn’t strange.

What was strange was that the driver never looked at her—not when she paid,

not when she thanked him. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, wide and unblinking,

like he was afraid to turn his head. Mara stepped off and the doors folded shut with a hiss.

The bus pulled away, taillights shrinking into the fog. Then her phone buzzed. Unknown Number:

Don’t move. She frowned and typed back, Who is this? The reply came instantly.

Unknown Number: You got off at the wrong stop. A cold ripple crawled up her spine.

This was her stop. She’d lived here her whole life. The cracked sidewalk, the flickering streetlamp,