Every day, freeing myself from work pressure, I close my eyes on the bed. Sleep gradually approaches me, enveloping me, and then a wave pulls me under, and suddenly, I see a spooky road with no finishing line.
I am sitting on a bus.
I know where I am. However this is not a place I recognize, nor have I ever been here before. It’s also not a place where I want to go. Yet, every night, I find myself stuck in the cycle of The Midnight Loop, without knowing how.
The bus is from an old era. The seats are rusty, with cotton sticking out of them, while the rest of the seats are slowly disappearing over time. The front overhead light flickers deliberately to let a faint glow fall on the narrow alleyways. There’s a strong smell of old oil and gas everywhere, so sharp that it feels like it’s penetrating my skin. The sound of the engine feels like a heavy rock pressed against my chest.
The windows are so dusty that in the summer heat, they feel no less than frosted glass like in winter. What’s outside? There’s nothing outside. Endless darkness stretches out. The road slowly fades into emptiness, as if an invisible string is pulling the bus forward, but that string remains unseen even in the dim light.
I sit in the same seat every day, the back-left seat by the window. Not that I choose to sit there; it just happens.
There’s other passengers too. They sat in such a way that it was difficult to tell whether they were alive or dead. They were scattered all over the bus. Sitting in a place that looked like someone had forced them all there. They don’t speak, they don’t move. They just sit, heads lowered, and their faces are covered in shadows.
At first, I thought it was just an abnormal dream, I convinced myself that all this was happening because of work stress, and that, it would pass.
But nothing changed. Every day, the same dream, same place, same people, same scenes, same sounds, same bus, and the same seat.
That’s when I realized this was not just a dream.
The passengers are truly strange. Initially, I thought they were just fragments of my imagination, so there was no need to bother thinking about them. However, as the nights passed, I started noticing certain things.
They aren’t random passengers, truly.
A man seated at the very back on the right side has his face obscured by a hand. He sits so comfortably, almost reclining, but I noticed him glancing at me from behind his hat. Something about him gave me the feeling that I might know him. His suit was old, with torn sleeves, as if it had been in that state for years. He resembled my old boss—the one I betrayed by leaving the job without any notice, leaving all the work burden on him. I never thought it was important to apologize to him.
In the front corner sits an elderly woman, her hands trembling as she clutches the front rod. Her skin is paper-thin, and her posture is bent as if carrying an unbearable weight on her back. Seeing her reminded me of an old woman I once walked past. She asked me for help because she was lost. But I ignored her words and walked away as if I hadn’t heard her.
There were a few more whose faces looked familiar. But I don’t remember seeing them anywhere before. They all sit silently, without a single movement or sound.
But I recognize them.
One night, gathering all my courage, I decided to speak.
“Where is this bus going?” I ask a woman.
She doesn’t look at me, not even a glance.
For a moment, there is nothing but silence, the kind of silence that feels oppressive. Then, as I start to give up and look away, she softly says, “You don’t belong here.“
Her words were sharp, like blades, slicing through me entirely.
Suddenly, the bus begins to change direction.
It happens very slowly. The shadows outside the windows flicker like light on water, sometimes sinking, sometimes floating, and it feels as though the entire sky is bending. But then, even stranger things start happening.
Gradually, I recognize the places where the bus travels.
One night, I saw my old high school. The corridors are completely dark, the lockers covered in rust. I couldn’t recognize myself when I saw my reflection in the glass doors. Something was very badly wrong, and I could feel it in the air, in the unsettling coldness that made me feel as if time had frozen and wouldn’t move on again.
Another night, the bus slowed down, and I found myself in a hospital corridor. My stomach churned as I remembered the moment when I stood there, arguing about whether I should visit someone important. I had promised to return, but I never did. Never.
And then came that road.
At first, I couldn’t recognize it. The place was pitch dark, rain pouring heavily, the entire alley soaked. The streetlights flickered, and their faint glow occasionally reflected on the wet ground ahead. The reality grew heavier every time; I couldn’t quite place it, but each night it became clearer, triggering a distant familiarity.
It felt like an old memory, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fully recall it.
Every day, I try to resist. I try to stop myself from falling asleep.
I stay awake as long as I can, keeping myself away from the bed. I drink coffee—bitter enough to keep me alert, the horrible aftertaste helping me fight off sleep. I listen to music, watch movies, and do whatever I can to avoid falling asleep and ending up on that cursed bus.
But nothing works.
Every night, no matter what, no matter how much I resist, I wake up on that bus. The same scene every night. The same faces. The same silence. The same sound as the bus engine.
Every night, it becomes harder. I feel more distant from the real world.
The passengers are no longer passengers. They’ve become something else. When I look into their eyes, they aren’t entirely empty. They shout that they know me as well as I know myself-they consume even my thoughts.
Gradually, I felt I was sitting in a circle of ghosts, each of whom had a claim, each of whom had a judgment, things they have kept in their hearts for a long time.
One night, the bus stopped.
At first, it seemed like just another narrow alley, the engine quieting, and an unusual silence settling over the surroundings. But then, with a faint hiss, the doors opened, and someone stepped in.
It was me.
But not entirely me.
It was a much younger version of myself—perhaps around 20—clean and neatly dressed, yet with the same dark circles under the eyes and a tired expression. Still, there was something more innocent about this version of me.
He didn’t sit down. He walked silently down the aisle, straight toward my row. Though he hadn’t looked at me yet—not even once.
“You should get off” he said softly, yet firmly.
The bus slowed further, almost imperceptibly. The engine noise began to fade entirely, and an eerie heaviness filled the air. I noticed that the other passengers were all silently staring at me now, their empty eyes fixed, making me sink further into my seat.
Then, for the first time, the driver spoke.
“This is your stop.”
The bus suddenly halted, and the doors creaked open.
Outside, I saw a road.
This was the same view that I had constantly previewed through the window night after night. It was that of rain-soaked surroundings and pitch darkness with emptiness. The streetlights left feeble flickering trails on the wet pavement. I could not say where I had seen it already, but I was sure I had.
And the figure stood in the middle of the road.
The figure was hunched, head bowed, body trembling in the cold. I couldn’t see its face, only a hazy outline through the rain.
I stepped off the bus.
The figure lifted its head.
It was me—or someone who looked exactly like me. Older, frail, with hollow eyes filled with regret and sorrow.
“You have to stop, there’s no escape,” he began, his voice trembling. “You must face what you’ve done.”
I just stood there, unable to move, as if unknowingly paralyzed.
I did not understand what was happening. It felt like the ground beneath me had slipped away. Each raindrop grew heavier, striking me harder, as the wind lashed against my skin.
This figure—my older version—grabbed my hand and helped me stand. His eyes were filled with unspoken words I couldn’t describe.
“I’ve waited so long,” he said. “Waited for you to stop running from your past.”
I looked at him. “What should I do?” I asked.
“The answer is simple: confront it.” he replied.
Before I could say anything more, he vanished.
Everything was silent again. The bus was gone.
The next morning, I woke up, already dreading how to escape the recurring nightmare. But then I saw it—a crumpled ticket in my fist. It looked old, the ink nearly faded, but the smell was unmistakable. My hair reeked of diesel, though I hadn’t boarded any bus the night before. My clothes bore stains from the rusted seats…
“What does it mean?“
[Blackout]
