The first time I saw the bus, it was already too late to stop it.

I was working the night shift at a convenience store on the edge of District Seven—a quiet, industrial zone that sleeps heavier than the rest of the city. Only the refinery lights move there, winking across the fog like they’re signaling to something that doesn’t belong on maps.

At 2:23 a.m., the security shutters rattled, and the front window caught a flash of white. A bus—no number, no ads, no scratches, just white. Its headlights didn’t illuminate the road. They absorbed it. The street outside is a dead end, meant for delivery trucks, yet the bus rolled in as though the asphalt had unrolled itself for it.

No passengers. No driver. Just a faint hum, like a ceiling fan trapped inside the skull.

It stopped across the street from the store and waited.

I told myself it was an afterimage, maybe a test vehicle from the depot, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was staring. When I blinked, it was gone. No engine noise. No taillights. Just the echo of tires that didn’t exist.

By morning, I had convinced myself it hadn’t happened. I even joked about it to my coworker, Lena, who had been in the district longer than me. She didn’t laugh. She just said, “You saw it too.”

Then she told me the story everyone in District Seven learns eventually—the one you don’t mention unless you’ve been working too many nights.

They call it the *White Bus*. It only appears on foggy roads, always after 2 a.m., always near a dead end. The locals say it’s a transit line that never got canceled properly. Some blame the 1996 refinery explosion that took out half the district. Others say it started before that, back when the factories still ran three shifts and the workers took buses home at dawn.

According to Lena, those who see the bus once dream about it. Those who see it twice disappear.

I didn’t believe her until the next Friday.

I had stayed late to restock shelves. The fog was thicker that night, heavy enough to make the lampposts look like candles under wet glass. I was sweeping near the door when the streetlight outside flickered out. The darkness moved in a circle, widening, until the white bus emerged from it—exactly where it had been before.

But this time, there was someone inside.

A woman sat near the front, her head against the window. Her face was pale and tilted just enough for me to see that her eyes were open. She didn’t blink. Her mouth moved, slow and deliberate, like she was whispering a word I couldn’t hear. Then the bus doors folded open with a sigh. No air moved, no sound but that soft mechanical breath.

The clock behind the register froze at **2:23 a.m.**

I wanted to run, but something about the open doors felt *expectant*. Like the moment after your name is called and before you answer.

Lena’s words echoed: *Those who see it twice disappear.*

So I did what I always do when I’m scared—I talked to myself. “It’s not real. It’s a dream.” My voice sounded like it belonged to the store’s speakers.

The woman in the bus smiled, as if agreeing.

Then a horn sounded in the distance. A real one. A city bus rounding the corner for its last loop. The white bus shivered—literally blurred—and then vanished in a blink.

The clock started again.

I didn’t sleep that day. Instead, I searched. There are no official records of a white bus line in District Seven. But the city archives do mention a **Route 717**, discontinued in 1996 due to “loss of equipment.” The accident report says one bus was never recovered after the refinery blast. They assumed it was destroyed in the tunnel collapse near Riverway Street.

I checked the coordinates. My store sits exactly one block from where that tunnel used to be.

The next week, I quit my job. Lena didn’t show up for her shift. Her locker was empty, and the manager said she’d resigned without notice. I tried calling her, but her number disconnected mid-ring—like the line had fallen asleep. 

Two nights later, I couldn’t help myself. I drove past the district just once, just to see if the story was real or if I had just inherited someone else’s nightmare.

At 2:23 a.m., my headlights caught a shape in the fog. The bus was waiting again, engine humming. This time, it wasn’t empty.

The passengers were all sitting perfectly upright, their faces turned toward the windows, their skin faintly gray under the bus’s sterile glow. The woman from before sat in the front row, eyes half-lidded, lips still moving. Next to her was Lena.

I swear it was her. Same uniform. Same badge. She looked peaceful, though. Like she’d finally punched out.

The doors hissed open again, and a voice—thin and mechanical—came from nowhere.  

**“Next stop: District Seven Terminal.”**

I pressed the accelerator so hard my tires screamed. When I looked back, the road was empty. The fog parted for a second, and I saw only my own taillights chasing themselves.

That would’ve been the end of it, except the next morning, I found something taped to my apartment door.

A bus ticket. White paper. Route number: **717**. Date: *Tomorrow*.

No origin. No destination. Just a single printed line at the bottom.

**Boarding begins at 2:23 a.m.**

They say the White Bus still runs the late route through District Seven, collecting anyone who’s still awake when they shouldn’t be. It doesn’t take you home, and it doesn’t take you to work. It takes you somewhere that used to exist—and maybe still does, if you’re willing to ride long enough.

If you ever see its headlights through the fog, don’t wave it down.  

Don’t wait for it to pass.  

Just turn away and keep walking.  

Because once the doors open, you’re already on board.