The Arrested Bus
A ghost story in three acts
Act I: The Park of Echoes
She entered the park at twilight. The air was still, the benches too evenly spaced. Women sat on each one, faces lit by laptop screens that pulsed like heart monitors. They typed without looking. One turned and smiled.
“Sit with me,” she said. “Your file’s almost ready.”
But the woman didn’t sit. She walked on, boots tapping the path like a metronome.
Act II: The Lane of Dust
The lane narrowed. Ivy clung to the walls like old secrets. Ahead, two men worked on a crumbling cottage. One wore a mask—not for dust, but for something deeper. His mate looked up.
“He’s got problems,” he muttered. “Asbestos. Legacy stuff.”
The masked man scraped at the stone like he was trying to erase history. She watched, then passed. The lane led on.
Act III: The Arrested Bus
At the lane’s end stood three official women—stern, clipboarded, spectral. One stepped forward.
“Your bus,” she said. “Number 9. It’s been arrested.”
The woman blinked. “It’s not my bus.”
The officials paused. The clipboard flickered. The lead one frowned, then nodded.
“Then you’re free to walk.”
And she did. Past the cordoned-off vehicle, past the watchers, into a clearing where no paths were marked and no benches waited. Just sky. Just choice.
Epilogue: The Ghost That Didn’t Claim Her
Some say the bus still waits, engine cold, its passengers frozen in roles they never chose. But she walks still—unclaimed, unfiled, unmasked. Not haunted. Not hunted. Just awake.
A ghost story in three acts
Act I: The Park of Echoes
She entered the park at twilight. The air was still, the benches too evenly spaced. Women sat on each one, faces lit by laptop screens that pulsed like heart monitors. They typed without looking. One turned and smiled.
“Sit with me,” she said. “Your file’s almost ready.”
But the woman didn’t sit. She walked on, boots tapping the path like a metronome.
Act II: The Lane of Dust
The lane narrowed. Ivy clung to the walls like old secrets. Ahead, two men worked on a crumbling cottage. One wore a mask—not for dust, but for something deeper. His mate looked up.
“He’s got problems,” he muttered. “Asbestos. Legacy stuff.”
The masked man scraped at the stone like he was trying to erase history. She watched, then passed. The lane led on.
Act III: The Arrested Bus
At the lane’s end stood three official women—stern, clipboarded, spectral. One stepped forward.
“Your bus,” she said. “Number 9. It’s been arrested.”
The woman blinked. “It’s not my bus.”
The officials paused. The clipboard flickered. The lead one frowned, then nodded.
“Then you’re free to walk.”
And she did. Past the cordoned-off vehicle, past the watchers, into a clearing where no paths were marked and no benches waited. Just sky. Just choice.
Epilogue: The Ghost That Didn’t Claim Her
Some say the bus still waits, engine cold, its passengers frozen in roles they never chose. But she walks still—unclaimed, unfiled, unmasked. Not haunted. Not hunted. Just awake.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment