Creepypasta Origins and Stories

On the Bus

The streets, roads and dusty lanes of Colombia have been fertile territory for myths and legends since before the arrival of the Spaniards. Tales of 'La Patasola', a one-legged wailing banshee that forever sought her child, and of 'El Duende', a backwards-footed goblin that led travelers to their doom, nibbled at the corners of journeymen's ease for centuries. Although these stories mainly troubled those living in or passing through rural areas, the growth of cities brought with it a new breed of urban legend rooted in the primal distrust we still harbor, somewhere deep inside, of modern technology.

An example of this is the phantom bus that allegedly roams the city's streets at night. Supposedly, young women who board it alone are found mutilated in overgrown outlying fields a few days later, a frozen look of abject terror illustrating the moment of their last, tormented breath.

That being said, given that you're certainly not a young woman (at least not last time you checked) and that it's 5:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, phantom buses and handicapped gremlins are the last thing on your mind. You've been using Bogota's public transportation system for over two decades, and your greatest concern is that traffic levels have become all but unmanageable since the latest mayor took office. However, home is about 80 blocks away, so your only choice is to wait until the right bus comes along. Walking would certainly take longer than putting up with any traffic jam.

When the bus displaying the route sign you're hoping for shows up, its advertised fare is 200 pesos lower than the standard going rate these days. This usually indicates that the vehicle in question is older and a bit more uncomfortable than most, but no bus rider in the history of the city has ever given a damn about that. Folks that consider themselves richer and "above" this mode of transportation pay seven times as much to get around by cab, and statistically expose themselves to a higher chance of being mugged or robbed. More power to them, right?

Never one to avoid seeking further discounts, you ask the wizened driver if he'll let you on for a thousand. The wrinkled, musty-looking man's eyes never leave the road as he silently takes your bill and slides it in the purse hanging from the bony gear stick. Satisfied, you turn your attention to the cabin; what would make this ride ideal would be an empty seat.

Curiously enough (considering the time of day), there aren't enough passengers aboard for anybody to be standing. A few available spots are in sight, so you choose one on the left, towards the middle. Both the aisle and window seat are free, and you sigh contentedly as you sprawl out on one with your knee nested on the other. This particular trip should be over in no time.

The driver's radio is off and your phone's battery ran out an hour ago, so you pass the time staring out the window and watching vendors ply their wares and car drivers nod along to whatever music they're enjoying. Your position eventually starts taking a toll on your back, so you straighten up and take the chance to examine your fellow passengers. None of them seem to be riding together, given that everybody's quietly facing the front of the bus. They are also all uncommonly old—not in the sense that they're all over 100, but in the sense that nobody seems to be under 75. You find this a bit odd, and for a brief moment the idea that you don't belong there flashes through your mind. It's a silly thought, but combined with the bus's particularly strong (although not necessarily atypical) smell of must and metal it makes you look forward to the end of the trip. Nevertheless, as there are another 30 or 40 blocks to go, you look out the window again, zone out, and let your mind go where it will for a while.

The sight of Pacho's bakery pulls you out of your reverie twenty minutes later. You get up and make your way past your silent companions to the rear exit, where you hunt for the little silver button that will let the driver know you've reached your stop. As you spot it above the door, you realize that nobody's boarded or left the vehicle since you got on, which is particularly weird for rush hour. Shrugging it off as a weird coincidence, you press down on the button and grab on to the