After Dark

When the night shadows reach the foot of the mountain, the village will be swallowed whole. Tourists desert the cobblestone streets, villagers disassemble their stalls and lock up their shops, leaving behind no traces of the handcrafted trinkets and vibrant wools. The open atmosphere dissipates as quickly as the last rays of sunlight, replaced by closed windows and footpaths so naked as if the fair hadn’t happened at all. Even the funny socks hung on the walls of the house Eliza had been staring at through the window vanished in the blink of an eye. 

A shame, she thinks. She had meant to buy her friend, Vivian, another pair. Warm, fuzzy, with eccentric patterns, it was exactly her type of thing. Maybe Eliza will give her a call on the ride back. Tell her she had a blast and that Vivian had passed on a phenomenal opportunity. 

Truly, there is nothing phenomenal about the place. There are dozens of villages similar to this one scattered throughout the northern half of the country. She had only insisted they explore because it had created buzz on social media over an old legend. Locals tell it all the time to attract tourists, like in the city where it is custom to touch statues for good luck.

Peculiar things happen when you board bus forty-seven. 

It appears once every hour. 

Don’t board it after dark.

It was something along those lines. A silly, eerie verse made to profit off foolish visitors willing to spend a couple more hours and bucks on a not so peculiar village. Eliza felt like one of those fools. She didn’t believe in supernatural stories, but she didn’t plan on staying too late. The drive back home was long, yet try as she might, the village kept conjuring things to distract her.

A yellow pole glinting near the farthest house catches her eye. The bus stop is unnaturally bright despite having no lamps surrounding it. A small group of people lounge beside it, waving at each other in an agitated manner. She doesn’t think much of it. It is late after all, and not everyone can afford to overstay. Eliza reminds herself to blink when the canary glow stings her eyes again, and suppresses a shiver. 

“More tea, darling?”

Eliza glances back at the middle-aged lady with chestnut hair and a wide grin that stretches her cheeks too high. She wonders if her face hurts from smiling so much, but the woman shows no signs of frowning or distress.  

“No, thanks. It’s getting pretty dark. Maybe I should…”

“Stay awhile more. I just got these cinnamon biscuits out of the oven. You should try one.”

Eliza looks at the clock with a grimace, “But the next bus leaves in five minutes—”

“—and you can spare two or three for a bite. Here. You seem cold, have some tea.”

The lady shoves a steaming porcelain cup into Eliza’s hands, sitting across from her in a handcrafted chair with red velvet cushions. Eliza’s chest tightens as she loses sight of the bus stop. The fire crackles in the hearth, the rhythmic flames and lull of the lady's voice soothing her nerves. It had a slight tremble to it, the shaking becoming more pronounced every time Eliza spoke of the time. After a while, she decided to stop mentioning it altogether. There was no point in doing so. 

When she remembers to look again, the pole appears rather dull. The group is no longer there. Eliza doesn’t know how she missed it. The engine is loud, and the window has been open the entire time. She sips the last of her drink and shoots the lady a polite smile.

“I had a lovely time, miss. Thanks so much.”

“My pleasure, darling.” The woman’s eyes gloss over and she gives her another of her unsettling smiles. “Have a safe trip home. Want a biscuit for the way? You ate too little, don’t want you upsetting your stomach.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll wrap it up for you.”

They say their goodbyes, and Eliza strides through the narrow street with quick steps. She pulls out her phone from her pocket to call Vivian, but gives up after the fifth ring. She won’t pick up this late. The time flashes on her screen. 10:43 PM.

Four minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness, created by a bus with large front windows and a sign above its door. Eliza has to squint in order to make out the numbers: 1047.

Peculiar things happen when you board bus forty-seven. 

She shakes away the thought and climbs the stairs, ignoring the growing pressure in her chest. It’s only a silly, old tale. 

As she walks through the aisle to her seat, Eliza’s worries ease. The inside is snug, filled with moquette covered chairs. She will have a comfortable ride. 

The vehicle drives through the highway a little too fast for her liking, but it is too dark outside to admire the scenery anyway. Eliza focuses back on her phone. The connection is failing, so she opts to scroll through her notes. Document her day travels. A way to fight the boredom and the prominent slump in her shoulders. Her head keeps leaning on the fogging glass as she struggles with the heaviness in her vision, which is spooked almost immediately when, upon entering a tunnel, the driver makes a sharp stop, and Eliza’s temple hits the glass with a furious thud.

She lets out a low curse, rubbing her head as the bus door opens. 

Three girls in flowing dresses run through the aisle as the vehicle drives off. Long, brown and fibrous hair cascades down their backs. They are all the same length, same height, something Eliza can’t help but find odd. Even their step pattern sounds the same. The driver doesn’t lecture them or force them to sit, but they quiet once he extends what Eliza thinks is some sort of food wrapped inside a cloth.

“He likely has no patience working such a late shift.” Eliza murmurs to herself as she takes out one of the biscuits she had saved for the trip. 

One of the girls stops near the passenger sitting ahead and smiles. Eliza knows she smiled, even if her back was turned to her, because the man mirrors the girl’s expression. She bites down on her last biscuit, stifling a groan as a child-like melody fills the space. Nobody else seems bothered by the children’s singing. The four other passengers seem to find it enjoyable, going as far as encouraging them. The driver just stares ahead absent-mindedly. 

Outside, the tunnel seems infinite. It stretches far beyond her view with no spotlight visible at the end. Eliza tells herself it is because of the pitch-black night, but the occasional flickering of white LEDs on the tunnel’s ceiling remind her that the loop isn’t over yet. She rubs a hand over her face, trying to chase away a spinning headache. It could be from the pale glimmering or the lullaby on replay in her ears. The girls have calmed down, now standing beside other passengers. Looking dull but eager. 

“Want a biscuit for the way?” One offers something in her hands to the smiling guy. 

Eliza catches a whiff of spice. Her face drains of colour, and she suddenly finds herself wanting to throw the wrapping the lady from the house gifted her out the window. It smells unmistakably of cinnamon. She’s lost her appetite.

“Gee, thanks.” The man goes to take a bite. 

“You sure you want to eat that?” Eliza says, alarmed.

He pops it into his mouth, “They're offering, n’ I'm hungry. Haven’t eaten since the sun was out.”

One of the girls turns to the window with a yawn. Teeth. Rows of blades elongate inside that mouth, ready to pounce. That wide, rotten smile. Her expression grows closer on the glass, and Eliza swallows another knot, keeping her attention on a stain below. 

Not on the half-eaten biscuit in the man’s hand. 

Not on his twisted face and stammering speech as the girl stalks nearer. 

A horrid scream. A crack. Spice and a pungent, metallic scent cling to her surroundings, crawling up her nostrils and through her lungs with burning speed. She stares at her reflection, immovable. Red speckles dot her fair, tired features and taint her short blonde hair. It will stain. Although, it might not matter anymore.

Eliza doesn’t utter a sound, glued to her seat and the now blood-covered stain. She casts the driver an oblique glance. He’s still staring at the highway, unflinching. The girls pay him no mind, gorging on the passengers with deep grunts and bone-licking satisfaction. Eliza stifles a cry, right as the bus exits the tunnel into a well-lit road. The girls stride up to her, sated and drenched, and Eliza stretches out a trembling hand. One of the girls reaches for the biscuit in her palm.

***

“So? Was it as bad as the legend says?” Vivian asks.

Eliza sets down her lemonade and relaxes in her wooden chair. The city street is overflowing with people and tall, monotonous buildings under the weak sun. A cloud intercepts the warmth soon after, engulfing them in shadow once more. 

She shakes her head, “It was the average village experience. But you really should visit sometime. If you’re lucky, someone will invite you in for dinner.”

“Lucky me. Still, I don’t know if I’m convinced. The weather might be to die for, but the bus stories still give me the creeps.” Vivian grimaces.

“I didn’t know you believed in ghost stories.”

“I don’t.”

“Then go for it. Do it for the hideous socks.”

“For the socks,” Vivian laughs, “and what’s with that smile? Average trip, my ass. I’ve never seen you smile so much in such a short time. How are your cheeks not dying already?”

Eliza forces a chuckle and looks at her friend for a moment, like she’s contemplating something. 

“When you go make sure to try their cinnamon biscuits. They’re the best. Take some for the way.”

“I thought you said you’d saved one for me.” Vivian says.

“I gave it to someone on the bus.”

“I could never share food. I’d accept it from someone else, though.”

Eliza gives her an ominous smile, “I know.”