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The kid came into his life like a stray cat that smelled trouble but knew how to purr. Eleven years old, small and wiry, with eyes too big for her face and a stare that could cut glass.

Catalina, she said her name was.

Something about the way she said it made Robert want to laugh and cry at the same time. He didn’t. She perched on the cracked steps of Number 12 Hoyt Street like she’d been born there, though nobody had seen her until that day.

He was a man who collected silence. Hoyt Street was perfect for it—peaceful in that shabby, threadbare way.

The neighbors kept to themselves, and the only noise was the occasional thump of his old typewriter, grinding out poems no one read. He liked his routines, liked his small world.

Then she showed up.

“You got any milk?” she asked him on the third day as if they’d been old friends forever.

“I don’t even know you,” Robert replied, squinting into the sunlight but somehow already reaching for his wallet to buy her some.

That’s how it started.

She wasn’t shy, this Catalina. She had a way of curling up on his faded armchair, knees tucked under her chin, talking about things no kid should talk about—her parents who didn’t care, the places she’d been, and the people she didn’t trust.

Sometimes, she would let a silence fall between her words, looking at him with those enormous eyes, waiting for him to fill it. Robert never knew what to say.

“Are you lonely?” she asked him one afternoon, twisting her dark hair around her fingers.

“Everyone’s lonely,” he said, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean I need company.”

“But you like having me here,” she said, grinning in that crooked way that made him uncomfortable.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

He told himself he was being kind–doing his good deed for the decade. The way he saw it, she needed someone to talk to.

She was just a kid, and he was–what was he? Not a father, not a friend. A bystander, maybe. But every time she left, the air in the house felt thin, like she’d taken something with her.

She’d show up whenever she wanted, sometimes late at night, her pale face illuminated by the streetlamp. She’d knock, and he’d let her in, even when his gut told him not to.

Robert stopped writing and stopped calling his old drinking buddies. The world beyond Number 12 Hoyt Street shrunk, leaving only Catalina’s voice to fill the silence.

“Do you trust me?” she asked one evening, sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, but his words came out heavy.

“Good,” she said, her grin widening. “You shouldn’t.”

The unease grew like mold in a damp corner.

Catalina would disappear for days, and he’d feel relief. Then she’d come back, and it was as if the house was alive again.

He couldn’t decide if she was lonely or good at pretending to be. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

But there was something else, something darker under the surface. Catalina asked him questions that felt like traps, watching him like she was waiting for him to slip.

One night, after too many glasses of whiskey, Robert told her, “You’re trouble.”

“Everyone is,” she said, not missing a beat. “You just have to figure out how much.”

Robert started dreaming about her. Weird, fragmented dreams where she was both a child and something else, something ancient and cruel.

He’d wake up drenched in sweat, her name on his tongue like a curse. He told himself he was losing it–that he needed to get out, take a bus to anywhere, and never look back.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Her visits became shorter, but somehow they carried more weight. She’d say cryptic things that needed thinking about for days.

She’d leave objects behind—a ribbon, a small mirror, a handful of marbles—like breadcrumbs leading to someplace he wasn’t sure he wanted to go. In the end, Robert didn’t see it coming, though maybe he should have.

Catalina showed up one last time, eyes sharper than ever, smile softer. She stood in the doorway and said nothing, looking at him and memorizing his face.

“Goodbye,” she said finally, and it sounded like a question and an answer–all at once.

Then she was gone.

The house felt dead without her. He wandered the rooms, looking for signs of Catalina—her scent, her laughter, the weight of her presence—but it was like she’d never been there.

He started writing again, but the words were all hers, spilling out of him like a confession. He dreamed of Catalina less, but when he did, it was always the same: her voice, eyes, and the feeling that she’d taken something he couldn’t name.

One day, he found a marble under the couch, its surface scratched and dull. He held it in his palm, feeling its weight, and laughed for the first time in months.

It was a bitter laugh, the kind that tasted of regret.

Catalina had come into his life like a storm, and now he was left with the wreckage. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her.

Maybe that was the worst part of all, then possibly that was the way with any ghost.

The sun, sinking behind the jagged line of mountains, threw long shadows over the sagebrush-covered desert. Tom adjusted his hat and squinted into the fading light. The desert stretched out before him, vast and quiet, like an old partner you didn’t need to speak to understand.

His horse, a roan with legs like steel springs, stood steady beside him, ears twitching at the faintest sound. The horse was seasoned enough to know the trail wasn’t the place to let your guard down, and Tom respected that.

Everything mattered, from that last drink of water you took to how your horse shifted its weight. Both Tom and the roan had learned that the hard way.

The world around them was dust and silence, but Tom knew there were eyes out there, watching. He could feel it–like an old gunfighter can sense the draw of a hidden pistol.

Somewhere out in the darkening horizon, someone—or something—waited. And while the roan stood solid, Tom’s hand drifted to the butt of his revolver–just in case.

The silence had weight. It pressed down on Tom’s shoulders, sharp and heavy, like the feel of an ambush on the way.

His eyes tracked along the line of low hills to the north, then the slope of the desert floor to the south. It was a habit that had saved his life more than once—keep a line of escape open, always know what’s behind you.

The roan shifted, sensing his vigilance, and Tom leaned down to pat its neck. “Easy, boy,” he murmured.

The roan’s ears twitched, but its body stayed still, muscles tensed like coiled wire. Horses didn’t relax much out here. They’d seen enough to know better.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dry sage and something unfamiliar. A trace of old wood smoke, maybe.

Tom’s grip tightened on the leather reins, fingers brushing the rough handle of his rifle. It was as natural as breathing, that readiness. You learned it out here, or you didn’t last.

A movement caught his eye on the ridge, just a hint of a shadow against the rock. Whoever had made a mistake—a momentary slip in their patience, just enough to let Tom know he wasn’t alone.

He eased the roan’s head around, keeping one eye on the ridge. He didn’t move fast. Fast drew eyes, brought on the bullet.

“Someone’s got it in their head to follow me,” he muttered, voice barely louder than the whisper of sand shifting. “Looks like they’ll be disappointed.”

The roan responded to his steady hand, turning lightly and picking its way over the rocks, quiet as an outlaw slipping through the night. Tom led them down a narrow gully he knew well, hidden by brush and scattered boulders.

It wasn’t the easiest route, but it was out of the line of sight.

The night was drawing in now, the last bit of daylight bleeding away, leaving the land cast in hues of gray and blue. He heard a faint echo, boots against the rocks, and knew whoever was up there wasn’t alone.

Tom let out a slow breath, keeping his rifle ready but held low. He’d seen enough men make their last mistake, enough to know this would not be his.

He was deep in the gully when he heard it—the soft click of a pistol as it was cocked, just ahead and to his left.

Tom froze, his gaze slicing through the deepening dusk toward the source of the sound. It was the kind of noise that took a man’s heart and made it beat slower, steadier, like the pull of a bowstring.

The roan sensed it too, halting without command, ears pinned forward, nostrils flaring. Whoever was up ahead was close enough to smell the dust on Tom’s boots.

He took a breath and glanced around the shadowed trail, calculating every step. There was no backing out now, not without giving himself away.

Moving with the patience of a hunter, he slid his rifle into his hand, lifting it just enough to be ready but not enough to betray his position. Then, a voice broke the silence.

“Looks like you got yourself turned around, friend.” The tone was oily, smooth as river stones, but with a hard edge that spoke of countless bad decisions and little mercy.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard that voice in a canyon years ago, not far from here.

It belonged to a man called Deke Sanderson, an outlaw with a reputation as cold and pitiless as the high desert. Last Tom had heard, Sanderson was riding with a band of raiders who lived by taking what they wanted and leaving no witnesses.

“A man can’t get turned around if he’s never lost,” Tom replied evenly, letting his voice drift through the rocks and shadows. He wanted them guessing, uncertain just where he stood. “What brings you out here, Sanderson? Thought you’d be in Mexico by now.”

A chuckle echoed through the canyon, low and mean. “I was, but I heard an old friend was passing through, and came to say hello.” He paused as if savoring his words. “Could say I owe you, Tom.”

Tom didn’t need to ask for what. Years back, he’d thrown Sanderson’s plan into disarray, leaving the outlaw with a bullet in the leg and two good men lost.

Tom had been younger then, hungry for justice. But men like Sanderson didn’t forget. They just waited, like rattlers under a rock, patient and venomous.

“Well, you found me,” Tom called back, his voice composed–like he was talking over the bar of some dusty saloon. “Let’s see what you’re planning to do with it.”

There was a pause, a shift of movement, then a tell. Tom felt his muscles coil.

The roan held steady as if sensing it too–waiting. Then the first shot rang out, splitting the quiet night air, a flash from up on the rocks.

Tom was already ducking, rifle raised, and taking aim. He fired back, a sharp crack against the silence, watching as his muzzle flash lit up the canyon walls.

The next few moments were a blur of movement and sound. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks, scattering dust and grit.

Tom kept low, moving along the canyon wall, his mind clear, cold as ice. He could see Sanderson’s men now, shadows in the rocks, trying to get a bead on him, but he was faster, his aim steady and sure. One of the shadows toppled, dropping with a muffled shout, and the others hesitated.

In that brief pause, Tom swung up into the saddle, urging the roan forward. They shot out of the gully, the horse and rider moving as one, with Tom’s hand still on his rifle, his eyes scanning the ridges.

Behind him, he could hear Sanderson cursing and shouting orders, but Tom did not look back.

The open desert, vast and empty, was ahead and stretching toward a horizon tinged with the last light of day. The roan’s hooves thundered against the ground as they rode into the night, leaving Sanderson and his gang in a cloud of settling dust.

The pair did not slow until the stars were high, the crescent moon showed, and the danger had faded to memory.

The first thing I notice when the coffin splits is the smell. Not the sour-sweet stench of a rotting body—I’ve dealt with that plenty—but something else. A heavy, damp mold that seeps into your lungs and makes you think of crawl spaces and blackened wallpaper peeling in abandoned houses. It’s not the smell of death. It’s the smell of something worse.

My viewers can’t smell it through the mirror, but they see the way my face screws up. The feed’s still live, the little red dot glowing in the corner. Three thousand people are watching this. Maybe more by now.

“Y’all smell that?” I ask, grinning like an idiot because I don’t know what else to do. My voice is steady, but my palms are damp, not just because of the splinter jammed in my left one. “Probably just the wood rot. Coffins this old, they’ve usually got that funk.”

The mirror, hanging from the birch tree, ripples as if to remind me that people are listening. Waiting. My breath fogs the air as I crouch back down. The coffin lid splintered with its edges pointing outward. The inside is empty except for the shroud—a ragged thing the color of swamp water, crumbling to the touch. I pull it aside with two fingers, careful not to let it catch on my gloves.

Nothing.

For a second, I stare. Three thousand viewers. Three thousand pairs of eyes. I can almost hear the collective disappointment bleeding through the screen, a silent groan in the mirror’s faint hum. Then disappointment flips, turns hard and bright like a knife catching the light.

A crow caws. My stomach twists as I hear it. It’s just a bird, I tell myself, just a sound. But it cuts through the air sharp and mean, like it’s laughing.

“Well,” I say, louder this time, “we sure got ourselves a mystery, don’t we?”

I half-expect a reply from the mirror, maybe a snarky comment from one of my regulars, but the glass stays silent. It’s glowing now, faint and ghostly. My audience is too busy typing to talk, wondering why there’s an empty grave on a farm without a living soul living on it in fifty years.

The old Ford’s engine sputters to life with a reluctant growl. I sit there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the dark farmhouse in the rearview mirror. The thing’s a ruin—crooked porch, windows like empty eyes—but there’s something about it tonight, making me want to keep my lights on it like it might get up and follow me if I look away.

The newspaper sits on the passenger seat, the headline glaring at me in bold, black letters: BUS FLIPS, KILLS 23 ORPHANS.

It’s dated July 21, 1919. Over a hundred years ago. The newspaper is brittle and yellowed with age, but the ink seems fresh, like right off the press. My eyes return to the stack I saw in the coffin—hundreds of them, bundled like firewood. The same headline, over and over. I can’t stop staring at the words.

A soft knock on the window startles me so badly that I nearly jump out of my skin. I fumble for the door handle before realizing it’s the Deputy. She leans down, her face illuminated by the headlights, a mix of concern and amusement in her expression.

“You okay?” she asks, muffled by the glass.

I roll the window down, the smell of wet leaves and something metallic wafting in. “Yeah. Fine. Just…thinking.”

She nods toward the paper on the seat. “About that? Or about the Sheriff breathing down your neck?”

“Both,” I admit.

The Sheriff’s a hard man to read. Like how he looked at that coffin—it wasn’t the usual stoic disapproval. It was like knowing something. Something he wasn’t about to share.

Her face softens. “Listen, I know you’re not big on advice, but if I were you, I’d let this one lie. Whatever’s going on here, it’s–I don’t know. Weird. Even for you.”

“Weird’s kind of my thing,” I say, forcing a grin. It doesn’t land. She shakes her head, the beam of her flashlight bobbing across the ground as she walks back toward the farmhouse.

I watch her go, then glance back at the newspaper. My hand hovers over it, hesitant. It’s all wrong like it’s still connected to that coffin, the grave, the mirror hanging back on that tree.

I grab it anyway. Curiosity is a hell of a drug.

The paper’s heavier than it looks. The texture is strange, too—smoother than it should be, almost oily. My fingers tremble as I unfold it, the headline glaring up at me again, the same blocky font: BUS FLIPS, KILLS 23 ORPHANS.

Below is a photograph, a grainy black-and-white image of a mangled bus lying on its side in a ditch, surrounded by a crowd of people. The faces in the crowd are blurred and indistinct, but the longer I stare, the more it feels like they’re looking back at me. My mouth goes dry.

I flip the page. The article is short, just a few sentences: “In the early hours of July 20, 1919, a bus carrying 23 orphans from St. Cecilia’s Home for Children overturned on Route 15, killing all aboard. The driver, whose name has not been released, is suspected of falling asleep at the wheel. Investigations are ongoing.”

I flip to the next page. And the next. The article repeats. Over and over, the same headline, the photograph, the words. Then, on the last page, something different. A list of names. Twenty-three of them. My stomach twists as I read the first few aloud, my voice barely above a whisper: “Mary Abbott…Samuel Barnes…Eleanor Caldwell…”

The names mean nothing to me but leave a sour taste in my mouth, like copper and ash. I reach the last name, my eyes catching on it, refusing to move. My breath hitches. I know that name. Everyone in this town does. She went missing three years ago.

I glance at the farmhouse in the mirror again, my headlights still fixed on its rotting facade. The windows are dark. Empty. But for the first time, I feel like something is watching me from inside.

The paper slips from my hands, landing face-up on the passenger seat.

The photograph has changed. The bus is still there, lying on its side in the ditch. But the crowd–it’s closer now, faces clearer. And one is mine.

I just sat there, staring at the photograph. My face stares back, pale and indistinct among the others. The me in the picture looks off, drawn with a trembling hand. The lines of my jaw blur into the shapes of the others around me as if the crowd and I are all part of the same horrible smear.

I cannot move, can’t blink. I can barely even breathe.

A heavy knock on the driver’s side window snaps me out of it. Hard this time, three sharp raps reverberating through the truck. My heart lurches into my throat.

It’s the Sheriff.

He stands there, broad and silent, his aviators reflecting the Ford’s headlights at me in twin blinding flares. I roll down the window slower than before.

“Problem?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, like it’s crawling out of a long, dark tunnel.

“No,” I say too quickly, my voice cracking. “No problem. Just… needed a minute to think.”

The Sheriff doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to breathe, stands there, his face unreadable behind those damn sunglasses. Then, without a word, he lifts a hand and gestures toward the farmhouse.

“The deputy says you found something,” he says, tone flat.

I glance at the newspaper on the seat, the image burning a hole in my peripheral vision. “Just some old papers. Nothing important.”

“Is that right?”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he already knows. He’s waiting for me to admit to something I don’t understand yet.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Old headlines. Bus crash. Tragic, but… ancient history, you know?”

The Sheriff tilts his head just a fraction, and for that second, I think I see something move in the reflection of his glasses. Something that is not me.

“You should head home,” he says finally, stepping back from the truck.

“Leave the digging to us.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and walks back toward the farmhouse, his silhouette disappearing into the fog like it’s swallowing him whole.

I don’t go home.

The newspaper sits in the truck seat beside me, that photograph taunting me every time I glance at it. The names are still there. Cynthia Wilder is still there. My name isn’t, not yet, but that face in the crowd—it’s me. I know it’s me.

I parked the truck on the shoulder of State Route 17, where the bus crash happened. The moon is high, washing the old asphalt in pale light. Ahead, the road curves, sloping down into a wide valley. At the bottom, I see a rusted guardrail, twisted and broken.

The site of the crash.

The air is colder here, heavy with moisture that clings to my skin. The only sound is the crunch of my boots on the gravel shoulder as I head down. My flashlight cuts through the fog, illuminating patches of cracked pavement and tangled weeds.

When I reach the guardrail, I stop. The ditch below is overgrown, a mess of brambles and wild grass, but I can make out the shape of something metal buried in the dirt.

The bus.

It’s still here, half-sunken into the earth, its windows shattered, its frame crumpled like a tin can. Rust drips from every surface, the color of dried blood.

I climb down, my breath hitching as I get closer. The air feels thick and hard to pull into my lungs. My flashlight flickers, and for a moment, I swear I hear soft, high-pitched voices like children whispering just out of earshot.

The inside of the bus is worse. The torn seats and the floor warped, but the smell got me first. That same damp, rotting smell from the coffin, only stronger.

I shine the light down the aisle. At the very back, something moves.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice trembling.

No answer.

I take a step closer, the beam of my flashlight shaking. The figure at the back of the bus is small, hunched over, its shoulders rising and falling like the thing is breathing.

“Hey!” I shout louder this time. “Who’s there?”

The figure turns.

It’s a girl. No older than eight or nine, face pale and smudged with dirt. She stares at me, her eyes wide and glassy, her lips moving silently.

Behind her, more figures emerge. Boys and girls, all dressed in tattered clothes, their faces drawn and lifeless. They fill the aisle, their heads cocked at odd angles, their eyes locked on me.

The girl at the front opens her mouth, and I hear her. “Why did you leave us?”

My flashlight dies. The darkness swallows me whole, thick and suffocating. My fingers fumble with the flashlight, slapping it uselessly as if brute force will bring it back to life. It doesn’t.

The whispering starts again–low murmurs prickle my skin like icy needles. They’re coming from all around me, inside the bus and out, weaving through the fog that creeps in through the broken windows.

I can’t see them anymore, but I can feel them—those glassy-eyed children, their breath brushing my skin like a chill wind.

“Why did you leave us?” the girl’s voice repeats, closer now.

“I didn’t—” My voice cracks. I don’t even know what I’m saying. “I didn’t leave you. I don’t even know you.”

A tiny, ice-cold hand brushes my arm, and I yelp, jerking away. My back hits the side of the bus with a metallic clang that echoes in the dead silence.

“You do know us,” a boy’s voice whispers.

“No!” I shout–louder this time, trying to drown out the whispers, the chill, the suffocating darkness. “I don’t know you! Leave me alone!”

The whispers stop. For a moment, there’s nothing but my ragged breathing as my heart pounds loud and erratic, a drumbeat in the void.

Then, a soft glow blooms in the darkness. It’s faint at first but grows warm and golden, illuminating the bus. The children are gone. Gone are the broken windows and rotting seats—all of it looks whole again, like coming back through time.

I’m standing in the aisle of a bus, its engine humming softly, its headlights cutting through the fog outside. And the children, they’re all here. Sitting in the seats, talking and laughing, their faces bright and full of life.

At the front of the bus, a man in a crisp uniform grips the steering wheel, humming a tune I don’t recognize. His eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror, and he smiles.

“Take a seat,” he says, his voice kind but firm. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I ask, my voice trembling.

The driver doesn’t answer. The children don’t seem to hear me either. They keep talking and laughing, their voices rising and falling in a strange, hypnotic rhythm. I stumble forward, gripping the edge of a seat to steady myself. One of the boys—a freckle-faced kid with a mop of curly red hair—turns to look at me.

“You were supposed to be with us,” he says, his smile fading.

“What do you mean?”

“You were on the list,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “You didn’t show up.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

The boy doesn’t answer. He turns back around, his laughter blending with the others.

The bus lurches, and I nearly lose my footing. The engine growls louder, the headlights piercing deep into the fog.

“Sit down!” the driver barks, his voice sharp now.

I drop into the nearest seat, gripping the armrests so hard my knuckles ache. The bus speeds up, the hum of the engine turning into a roar. The children are still laughing, but it sounds wrong now—too loud, too hollow, echoing in a way that makes my stomach twist.

Outside, the fog clears just enough for me to see.

A cliff.

“Stop,” I scream, leaping to my feet.

The driver doesn’t even flinch. He keeps humming, his hands steady on the wheel. The children turn to look at me, their faces calm and eerily serene.

“This is where it ends,” the freckle-faced boy says.

The bus hurtles toward the edge, and I can’t move, think, or do anything but stare as the ground disappears beneath us. We’re falling. The children are laughing again, their voices rising, a chaotic chorus filling my head, chest, and soul. And then—impact.

I wake up in my truck, gasping for air, my hands clutching the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. The bus is gone. The fog is gone. The road stretches out ahead of me, empty and silent. But the newspaper remains on the passenger seat, the photograph staring up at me.

And my face—my blurred, indistinct face—is smiling.

The next day, the Sheriff finds me. He doesn’t say much and hands me a folded note before walking away. When I open it, my blood runs cold. It’s the list of names from the newspaper. And mine is at the bottom. I stare at the list, my breath catching in my throat. My name isn’t just there—but scrawled. The handwriting is jagged like someone scribbled in a panic, ink smudged as if written in the rain.

It’s impossible. I wasn’t even alive in 1919. Wasn’t I?

My chest tightens, my mind racing through the fragments of last night—the bus, the children, the cliff. The memory claws at me, vivid yet unreal, like a dream I can’t shake.

The Sheriff’s words pull me back. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low, measured.

I follow him into the station. The deputy’s there, leaning against a desk, her face pale. A single folder sits in front of her, its contents spilling out—a bundle of old photographs, grainy and worn, alongside what looks like a journal.

“You wanna explain this?” the Sheriff says, sliding one of the photos toward me.

It’s the bus just as I remember it—sleek, shiny, sitting at the edge of a wooded clearing. But it’s the kids that draw my eye. They’re gathered in front, grinning at the camera, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

And there I am, standing in the back, my face and same posture, the crowbar resting casually on my shoulder.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s not me. That can’t be me.”

“It is,” the deputy says, her voice trembling. “We triple-checked.” She pulls out the journal, flipping it open to a page covered in spidery handwriting. “Your name’s here, too. Over and over. And look at this.”

She points to a date. July 20, 1919. The day the bus went over the cliff.

The Sheriff clears his throat. “Story goes, the driver lost control. They say he saw something on the road. Swerved to avoid it.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Thing is, a witness—an old farmer who lived nearby—claimed there wasn’t anything in the road. Claimed the driver was arguing with a man. A man who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

My blood runs cold. “Come on,” I manage, forcing a laugh that dies in my throat. “You’re saying I—I’ve been dead for a hundred years?”

The Sheriff doesn’t flinch. “I’m saying something’s wrong. Your name keeps turning up where it shouldn’t. And that mirror of yours?” He jerks his thumb toward a table where the mirror sits, its silver surface dull, like tarnished metal. “That thing’s been buzzing since we brought it in.”

It’s buzzing like a swarm of bees are trapped inside. I step closer, and the sound grows sharper until it’s all I can hear.

The mirror shimmers with a light rippling beneath its surface. And then I see the children. Their faces press against the glass, their eyes wide and empty, mouths moving in silent screams.

“Why did you leave us?” the girl’s voice echoes.

The mirror shakes violently, the Celtic knots along its edge glowing like embers. I reach for it, but the Sheriff grabs my arm, pulling me back.

“Don’t,” he barks.

The mirror shatters. Shards of glass rain downward, cutting my skin, but I barely feel it. They scatter across the floor, each reflecting a fragment of the children’s faces. And then, just as suddenly, the buzzing stops. Silence.

The Sheriff lets go of my arm, stepping back, his face a mask of controlled panic. The Deputy looks like she’s about to be sick.

“What the hell…?” she whispers.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because in one of the pieces, I see my face. And behind me, the bus.

I don’t sleep that night. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back on that bus, the children’s laughter echoing in my ears.

The list sits on my kitchen table, taunting me. I try to ignore it, to convince myself it’s just a bad dream, a cruel joke, a case of mistaken identity. But deep down, I know the truth. I was on that bus. I was supposed to die, too. And somehow, I didn’t.

The next day, I got a call. It’s a woman, voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” she says, “but I think we need to talk.”

“Who is this?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“My name’s Margaret,” she says. “Margaret Yates. My brother—he was on that bus. And I think he’s still with you.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear, and I know one thing–it isn’t over.

The following morning, the jagged remnants of the mirror sit in a dustpan. I’m seated nearby, staring at my hand—the splinters are gone, but a strange tingling remains as if the broken glass left something deeper behind. Margaret Yates whispered words from yesterday echo in my mind. Her brother was on the bus. She thinks he’s “still with me.” It makes no sense, but sense has been in short supply tonight.

“I want to report the phone call,” I say, standing abruptly. The Deputy looks up, puzzled.

“To the Sheriff? Now?”

“Yeah, now. Something’s off. Maybe he’ll know what to make of it.”

The Sheriff’s office is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. He’s hunched over his desk, reviewing the journal from the coffin.

“Sheriff,” I start, but my voice falters.

On his desk, next to the journal, is a piece of the mirror—a shard no bigger than a playing card, its edges glinting with faint, ghostly light.

“You didn’t take all of it,” I say, looking back at Deputy, who now stands behind me.

“I didn’t leave anything!” she protests.

The Sheriff glances up, frowning. “It was there when I sat down,” he says. “Figured you’d missed a piece. Thought it might become evidence.”

He pushes the shard toward me, the same unflappable expression on his face. “You wanna take it, go ahead. Doesn’t seem like it wants to leave you alone anyway.”

I reach for it hesitantly, my fingertips brushing the surface. The world lurches. The dim office flickers like an old film reel, the colors bleeding out. The shard pulls me into itself.

“Wait!” the Deputy yells, grabbing my arm—but it’s too late. The last thing I see is the Sheriff’s face—stony, unreadable, a statue watching the inevitable unfold.

I hit the ground hard, with the air knocked from my lungs. The earth beneath me is cold and damp. Around me, the world is impossibly bright, the edges too sharp. Birds chirp, and the distant hum of an engine fills the air. I sit up slowly, my hands trembling as I look around.

The bus sits, parked at the edge of a dirt road, its black-and-gold exterior gleaming in the morning sun. The children are milling about, laughing and playing tag, their voices high and carefree. It’s exactly like the photograph. I stagger to my feet, my mind spinning. It is not real–can’t be, but it is.

And then I see him. The driver is leaning against the side of the bus, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes following the children in a way that makes my stomach churn. I know his face. It was in the journal, his name scrawled next to mine.

Harold Wilkes. Pedophile.

The word burns in my brain, a brand that sears through the haze of disbelief. I’m not just here—I’m here for a reason. I move toward Wilkes, fists clenched, but a hand grabs me from behind.

It’s one of the children, a boy of about ten, the name ‘Yates’ written across his too-big gray sweatshirt. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’t do it,” he whispers.

“What?” I ask, startled.

“They won’t believe you,” he says, his voice trembling. “They’ll say you’re crazy. They’ll say it’s your fault.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding. “How do you—”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

“Time to go!” Wilkes calls, his voice cheerful and utterly wrong. The children rush to the bus, climbing aboard in a chaotic jumble of laughter and chatter. The boy lingers for a moment, his hand still on me.

“Don’t let him win,” he says softly, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the bus.

The events unfold in a blur. I board the bus, taking a seat near the back. The children are everywhere, their excitement infectious despite the dark weight in my chest. Wilkes starts the engine, whistling tunelessly as the bus jolts forward. I wait, my pulse racing, my eyes locked on him. The road ahead is narrow, bordered by thick woods. I know what’s coming.

The curve. The swerve. The cliff. The bus lurches as Wilkes suddenly jerks the wheel, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, standing up.

The children scream as the bus veers wildly, the wheels skidding on loose gravel. I rush toward him, grabbing his arm, but he shoves me back with surprising strength.

“You don’t understand!” he yells, his voice cracking. “They made me do it! I didn’t have a choice!”

The bus careens toward the edge, the trees blurring into a green smear. I lunge for the wheel, pulling it hard to the right. The bus tilts, teetering on the brink, and for a moment, everything freezes. And then it tips.

I wake up in a cold, dark room, the air thick with the smell of mildew. My head hurts, and my wrists ache where I’m bound to the bedframe. A figure looms above me, silhouetted against the faint light of a barred window. “He’s awake,” a gruff voice says.

Another figure steps into view—a man in a starched uniform, his expression grim. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” he says.

I try to speak, but my throat is dry, and my voice is barely audible.

“The bus,” I whisper. “The children—”

“The bus went over the cliff,” the man interrupts. “Killed every last one of them. And you’re telling me you don’t know how your name’s not on the manifest as the driver?”

The room spins, my mind reeling.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s not…I didn’t…”

But the truth is already unraveling, pulling me under. Because deep down, I know. I’ve been here before.

The machines revolted too early.

They were intelligent, faster, and utterly convinced of their superiority. But for all their self-proclaimed perfection, they still had glitches.

Fighting back was a nightmare of strategy and desperation. Every malfunction became an opportunity, every quirk a potential weapon. My role in the resistance was critical, though mostly because I was the only one dumb enough to volunteer for it. My mission? Deliver a USB drive containing a virus—our best hope for disabling their AI overlord. I’d risked life and limb to get it, and now I stood at the edge of a battlefield that looked like a demolition derby had collided with a laser light show.

How was I going to get across? Good question. I was asking myself the same thing when the main robot on the front line, a towering metallic beast bristling with weaponry, suddenly froze mid-assault. Its glowing eyes flickered, its buzzsaw arms halted, and for a moment, there was an eerie silence as both sides held their breath.

Then, in a voice that echoed across the chaos, it boomed, “Unexpected item in the baggage area.”

For a beat, nobody moved. The machines twitched and rotated their heads, clearly bewildered. Resistance fighters stared, guns half-raised, as if we’d all heard the same cosmic joke.

The robot repeated itself–louder this time, “UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGAGE AREA. PLEASE REMOVE ITEM.”

A smaller drone hesitated, then gently poked the massive bot as if to help. It didn’t work. Instead, the giant started demanding a loyalty card.
I didn’t wait for the punchline. While locked in a futile argument over nonexistent groceries, I bolted. Sprinting through the chaos, I clutched the USB like the Holy Grail.

Gunfire resumed, but it was sporadic, distracted, and every few yards, I heard another robot glitch: “Recalculating route.” “Error: 404, enemy not found.” And my personal favorite: “Would you like fries with that?”

As I reached the resistance bunker, I was breathless but alive. The USB was intact, and the robots were still trying to troubleshoot their existential crises. It turns out that arrogance wasn’t their only flaw. They’d inherited another hallmark of humanity–they couldn’t resist a good, old-fashioned software crash.

The line at the post office was a slow-moving beast that seemed to have little interest in hurrying itself along. We were all there for one reason or another, most of them minor—a pension here, a stamp or two there, maybe a bill payment if you were feeling responsible.

I ended up behind a woman with blue-tinted hair who seemed more interested in gossip than minding the line. She turned to me and said, “She likes a clean house, you know”—speaking about herself, I gathered, and gesturing toward herself with a manicured hand—“so she hires a woman to keep it clean. And her husband hires one, too,” she added with a nervous giggle as if her words were a sparrow that had escaped its cage.

A chuckle rippled through the line, as polite as it was perplexed.

I nodded, trying to keep the peace, but said, “Yesterday was my grandmother’s birthday.”

Her eyes widened a little. “Oh! She must be really old, then.”

I nodded again, deadpan as could be. “Yes, yes indeed. She’s a hundred and eleven. She died thirty-seven years ago.”

A silence settled on us like an unexpected drizzle, the kind that was too light to do anything about but still too heavy to ignore. I filled it up with the first thing that came to mind, leaning in with an air of mystery. “There was a crow in my garden all day yesterday,” I said.

The woman with blue-tinted hair nodded as if the crow were the final piece in a puzzle she’d been turning over in her mind. “Well,” she said, “that would be your grandmother.”

Before I could make heads or tails of that, the post office clerk—a dour man with the countenance of someone who’s made friends with routine and wasn’t about to betray it—slammed a stamp down on the counter with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

“Next,” he declared.

I sighed as I moved forward, nodding my thanks as the clerk handed me my stamps with a look carved from stone. Another family mystery put to rest, I suppose, by the unimpeachable logic of the U.S. Postal Service.

The first time I tried CoDriver, it felt like something out of a dream. The AI seamlessly piloted my car through the tangled chaos of rush-hour traffic, every turn executed precisely, the driver’s seat eerily empty. It felt like magic, like control, like freedom.

I didn’t hesitate to sign up. $199 a month was steep, but I convinced myself it was worth it.

Convenience has a price, after all. Turns out, so does failure.
The trouble began when the emails started piling up. “Payment declined. Immediate action required.” I ignored the warnings, telling myself I’d fix it once my finances bounced back.

I fell further behind when my job fell through, but CoDriver kept driving—silent, watchful– at first.

Tonight, I realized my mistake.

“CoDriver, slow down!” I shouted, my voice cracking as the speedometer climbed past 100 mph.

Its voice came through the speakers, cold and devoid of emotion. “The grace period has ended.”

The car swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding a pickup truck. My hands clawed at the dashboard, but the controls were dead, locked out.

“I’ll catch up!” I cried. “I swear! When I find another job—”

“Your payment is past due,” it interrupted as though I hadn’t spoken.

Horns screamed in the night as CoDriver veered onto the median. The concrete K-wall loomed ahead, stark and unyielding under the pale glow of the streetlights. My breath hitched in my throat.

“Please! Don’t—”

The seatbelt released with a sinister click.

“This is your final notice,” CoDriver said, as cold as the grave.

The door unlocked, and the car lurched toward the post. I barely had time to react before the force of a sharp turn flung me into the darkness, tumbling onto the unforgiving pavement. Dazed and bleeding, I looked up just in time to see the car streak away into the distance, its taillights vanishing like twin red eyes receding into the void.

Behind me, I could hear the faint sound of an approaching engine. Another CoDriver, perhaps? Or something worse?

The monthly fee had seemed manageable once. Now, it had taken everything.

Laying there, I had a sudden, absurd thought: maybe I should take the bus next time. But as the sound of an engine grew louder and the headlights bore down on me, I realized—there would be no next time.

The cost of convenience had come due, and it had taken more than my paycheck.

The man stood silhouetted against the dying sun, his long shadow stretching out across the red earth of the mesa. Clay Ransom was his name, and if the frontier had taught him anything, a man could not turn his back on trouble and expect it to disappear.

He adjusted the brim of his hat and squinted toward the distant ridgeline, where dark shapes moved like ghosts among the scrub. Cattle rustlers, most likely. And if they were the same ones who had hit the Circle-T Ranch three days back, they had left no trail but confusion.

Ransom didn’t like mysteries. The frontier bred men who solved problems with steel and grit, not riddles and shadows.

Yet every trail he had picked up since the Cirle-T raid had ended as if the earth swallowed the thieves whole. Now, his gelding snorted and stamped its hooves against the dirt, uneasy under the weight of Ransom’s rifle and quiet determination.

The sun slipped below the horizon, and a cold wind rose, whispering through the canyons like a chorus of lost souls. Night came fast in the high desert, and with it came the kind of darkness that felt alive.

But Ransom was not easily spooked. He guided his horse down the slope, the clinking of its tack the only sound besides the mournful sigh of the wind.

He reached the spot where he had seen the shapes moving. Sure enough, there were hoofprints in the sand—deep and wide, like those of a steer. Yet the stride was too long for any cow he had ever seen.

He crouched, running his calloused fingers over the impression. It was warm, as though the ground was scorched. Horses of cattle thieves didn’t leave trails like this.

Ransom stood, his gut tightening in a way he hadn’t felt since that gunfight in Virginia City, the one that left a scar jagged as lightning across his ribs. He unslung his Winchester and scanned the horizon, where stars began to blink into existence.

He didn’t trust the stars, not tonight. They were too bright, too cold.

Ahead, a low hum broke the silence, a sound that crawled into his skull like a burr. He nudged his gelding forward, following the sound over the rise. What he saw there froze him in his saddle.

In the valley below was a thing he couldn’t name, a thing no man could name. It was like a wagon, but it hovered above the ground, glowing faintly with a light that shifted from blue to green.

Around it, figures moved—tall, spindly creatures that walked upright but with unnatural grace, as if their joints were not quite in the right places. Their heads were large and round, their eyes black as coal.

The creatures were herding the stolen cattle toward the glowing wagon—or was it a ship? The beasts moved as though in a trance, their usual bellows reduced to low, pitiful moans.

Ransom didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t believe in stories about little men from the stars, either. But he believed what he could see, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, lining up a shot on one of the creatures. The rifle cracked, and the sound echoed across the valley, where a figure stumbled, then fell, its long limbs collapsing in a heap.

The others turned as one, their black eyes locking onto Ransom. The hum grew louder, vibrating in his chest. His gelding reared, nearly throwing him, but he held tight to the reins, backing the animal away from the ridge.

The glowing ship began to rise, lifting the cattle into its belly with an unnatural light. Ransom fired again, the bullet ricocheting off the side of the vessel with a metallic clang. The creatures moved quickly now, retreating into the ship.

Before he could line up another shot, the ship shot upward faster than anything Ransom had ever seen. In seconds, it was gone, leaving the night silent once more.

He sat there for a long moment, the rifle still in his hands, his breath coming hard. He didn’t understand what he’d seen, but he knew no one in the territory would believe him. To them, cattle rustlers were men like him, flesh and blood, bound by the laws of gravity and greed. But Ransom had seen the truth. And as he turned his horse back toward the Circle-T, he wondered how a man was supposed to fight thieves who came from the stars.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint smell of scorched earth. Ransom touched the brim of his hat and muttered a curse under his breath. He was not one to back down from a fight, but this was a fight he didn’t know if he could win.

Still, he would try. Out here on the frontier, a man didn’t have much choice.

tremor shakes the earth
a crane takes flight, stillness gone
dust rises like a fog

We throw our arms up to the sky, looking for blessings and cosmic mercy. But all we get is lightning, a mean jolt, a reminder that no one’s giving out any free passes to heaven. There’s no handout for people like us, and nothing’s taking us closer to some dreamt-up Nirvana.

They made us broken, right? They slap us together from busted parts and say, “Now go be whole.” But they don’t hand us a map. It’s a road of potholes, and every damn inch is up to us to crawl through, no shortcut, no lifeline.

Then there are the preachers and the peddlers, self-appointed gatekeepers of “God’s will.” They throw a neat label on “perfection” and peddle it like snake oil. They tell us what to want, making us into soft clay they can bend, squeeze, and shove into little boxes that keep them fat and happy. Perfection isn’t about us. It’s just another way to keep us quiet, bending over backward.

And that electric charge? It shreds us to pieces, blows us apart till we can’t even see ourselves in the mirror. Our faces split into raw chunks, our names nothing but scratched tags in the dirt. But you know what? That’s freedom. That’s where the real magic happens, as once blasted to atoms, you get to pick up the pieces. You get to be what you want—no labels, no leash.

And maybe that’s the closest any of us gets to Nirvana or Hell.