The Skin,We Shed

The last bus of the night always smelled like wet wool, cheap lemon cleaner, and something sharp and metallic, like pennies left in the rain. ​Marcus pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the dark, jagged silhouettes of the pine trees blur past. It was past midnight, and the only other passenger was an old man three rows up, slumped over and fast asleep, his head ticking sideways with every bump in the road. ​Marcus checked his phone. No service. Not a single bar. ​"Great," he muttered, pulling his oversized black hoodie tighter around his shoulders. ​He was fifteen, and he’d missed his original stop twenty miles back because he’d fallen asleep while listening to music. Now, the bus was crawling through Blackwood Ridge—a stretch of winding highway that cut through a forest so dense the local kids called it the Green Wall. ​Suddenly, the bus lurched. The engine groaned, coughed twice with a loud thunk, and the headlights flickered out. Pitch blackness swallowed the interior, save for the green glow of the emergency exit sign above the rear door. ​"What now?" the driver grumbled from the front, his voice thick with annoyance. He slammed his hand against the dashboard. "Stupid alternator." ​The bus coasted to a grinding halt on the gravel shoulder. Outside, the night was dead quiet. No crickets. No wind. Just the massive, looming shapes of the trees crowding right up to the edge of the asphalt. ​"Stay seated, kids," the driver called out, grabbing a heavy metal flashlight from his console. "Just gotta check the belt. Be back in five." ​He shoved the folding door open, stepping out into the damp night. The hiss of air brakes echoed into the dark, followed by the crunch of heavy boots on gravel. ​Marcus waited. One minute. Two minutes. ​The silence outside was heavy, almost suffocating. The old man three rows ahead didn't move. ​"Hey," Marcus said, his voice sounding hollow in the empty bus. He stood up, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the rubber floor mat. He walked toward the front windshield, peering out into the beam of the bus's dying headlights. ​The driver was standing out there, about ten feet from the front bumper, facing away from the bus. He was completely still. ​"Mister?" Marcus called out, reaching out to push the door control button. ​Then, the driver’s head twisted. ​Not just turned—twisted. It kept rotating to the right, a sickening, clicking sound like dry bones snapping inside a bag, until his face was looking directly backward over his shoulder, staring right through the windshield at Marcus. ​In the dim emergency light, Marcus saw that the driver’s eyes weren't human. They were entirely black, wet, and wide, reflecting no light at all. ​Marcus stumbled backward, his breath catching in his throat. ​Outside, the driver’s shoulders began to ripple. His dark winter coat suddenly stretched, the fabric bulging outward as something underneath writhed and expanded, tearing the seams apart with a wet, ripping noise.