Creepy - Day 22 - On The Bus

Episode Date: December 13, 2017

Every day, millions of people use public transportation. It is a day like any other. You are a passenger, like any other...right? You are sitting in your seating, facing the front of the bus***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod***Music composed by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This episode of creepy is presented by Patreon supporters, Teresa Tabar, and Shera Rosashan. Patreon supporters get early access. Choice of what stories will be read and exclusive personalized narrations. To help support the podcast, please visit patreon.com slash creepypod. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban,

legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents The Bad Days. Day 22 On the bus. credited to Lucas Linnaeus Munera The streets, roads, and dusty lanes of Columbia have been fertile territory for myths and legends

since before the arrival of the Spaniards. Tales of La Pardistola, a one-legged wailing banshee that forever sought her children and of El Duente. The backward-footed goblin that led travelers to their doom nibbled at the corner of journeyman'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 streets in night. Supposedly young women who board it alone are found mutilated and 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 had 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 wise and 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 shift. Satisfied, you turn your attention to the cabin. What would make this right 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 aisle and window seats are free, and you sighed 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 passed the time, staring out the one. window and watching vendors ply their wares and car drivers nod along with 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're all also all uncommonly old. Not in the sense that they're all over 100, but in the sense that nobody's. seems to be under 75. You find us 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 is particularly strong, although not necessarily atypical,

smell of must and metal, it makes you look forward to the end of the trip. Nevertheless, 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. This side of Paco's bakery pulls you out of your reverie 20 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 spotted 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 is a weird coincidence. You press down on the button and grab onto the... You're sitting on your seat facing the front of the bus. What? What the hell just happened? You look around and see that everybody's still where they were a moment ago. Trying to make eye contact with them as fruitless

since they all seem to be lost wherever it is that old minds wander. Without a same. Saying something runs through your head, but you decide against it. What would you say, anyway? You were probably so zoned out that you simply imagined getting up to ring the driver's bell. That's probably it. Your daydreams are occasionally so vivid that leaving them is downright startling. Besides, you're already two blocks past your stop.

Call it a weird thing that happened on your way home, or whatever. but for now you should just get off the bus. There's no point in having to walk back too far. You, once again, get off your seat and head for the rear exit, somewhat unnerved by the other passengers' stoic disinterest and everything around them. There's the button, right where you remember it. Except that you can't remember it, of course, since you've never actually been back here. You probably just saw it when you got on.

After grabbing onto the handrail, these bastards occasionally decide to stop on a dime when you rang. You look towards the driver, put your thumb on the button. You are sitting on your seat facing the front of the bus. A piercing chill runs down your spine and instead of fading away, it spreads through every one of your extremities. It's not a shift in body or ambient temperature. It's the chill you feel when suddenly consumed by the level of fear that slightly preceding. It's terror. Something really messed up is going on here.

You don't know what it is, but you want out. You don't want to be here anymore. A feeling of bitter solitude is now gnawing at your mind. Whatever these people around you are thinking, they clearly don't give a damn about what's going on with you. Therefore, you once again decide to avoid saying anything and simply lift yourself off the seat, processing the fact that you did it with less agility than should have been the case. All you want right now is to get off the bus.

Besides, it's already advanced more than 10 blocks past your street, which feels like a distastefully long distance to walk. This is all secondary to the point at hand. However, you have to get off this damn thing. As you make your way back, an old lady in the back row looks up at you. Her expression tells you nothing. but the way it fixes on you, on your torso to be precise, as if you were just another chunk of the vehicle,

further spikes to almost overpowering a sense of dread now coursing through your veins. Whatever. You can't panic, not now. You stand at the back of the bus, and instead of going for the button, yell at the driver. You yell at him to stop, to let you off. That you've already rung twice, but nothing comes of it. You curse at him, telling him what he will die of and wish great evil upon his kin.

But the doors remain unmoved. The man is not listening. Or he doesn't care. Or he doesn't want you to get off. But you don't give a damn what he wants or doesn't want, so you grab on the bars, take a step back for momentum, and send a solid kick right into the column of hinges that... You are sitting on your seat.

facing the front of the bus. It takes a moment to register. Maybe more than a moment. Maybe it's a full minute. As you realize that the bus doesn't want you to leave, you also realize that your right knee hurts you with an unnatural piercing sharpness. It's the same leg you used against the door,

and it now feels like it's all but broken. It becomes a distant concern when you attempt to massage it, though, because that's when you notice your hands. These are not the hands of a 25-year-old. They are wrinkly, set with well-defined veins, and even slightly patched with liver spots. As you study your hands and arms, cold tear envelops every corner of your psyche.

You touch your face and feel wrinkles and whiskers that didn't previously exist upon your cheekbones. Your head is patched with a few anemic strands of hair. As your finger-tick grazes your coarse scalp, a spark of electricity shoots through it and down into the most private recesses of your being. Your eyes dry up, open wide and unbelieving, and you feel a seven-ton lump of horror coalesce in your otherwise paralyzed throat. You must leave this evil bus. You must leave it at once before it finishes what it's begun. You carefully make your way off your seat.

need for any further injury and head towards the front, towards the driver. Perhaps you can reason with them, or perhaps you can club him to death with a flashlight or something, since there are always a variety of trinkets and gadgets at the front of the... You are sitting on your seat, facing the front of the bus. It takes a good five or ten minutes for you to come to terms with what is happening to you, to understand that your life is vanishing before your eyes. Your eyes are now like those of your grandmother. Your back hurts from its base all the way to your neck. And your eyes can barely focus on the huge signs posted above the windows.

Even your mind isn't as sharp as it should be. It takes you a while to determine that you should make another attempt at the exit. Perhaps violence is not the answer. Perhaps you can gently pull it open. Perhaps if you treat the bus, bust like a living, gentle being instead of like a demonic machine it will let you out? Perhaps. The old woman is looking at you again.

You notice her blue jacket, which is much too big for her. If it were a blouse of the same size would hang loosely off her gaunt frame. A tiny, hesitant tear forms on her frail face, then follows a meandering path on her ancient features to land. on her wrist with eerie finality. There's a red total watch around her wrist, the sort that is currently all the rage with kids graduating from high school. You examine the door.

Two panes joined by a vertical line of hinges, coated on the right by a rubber pad to avoid contact damage. The door is slightly bent inwards, and as you notice, as the glimmer of hope runs through you. If you can just insert You are sitting on your seat Facing the front of the bus What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?

My hands are old. My hands are the hands of an old man. Not my grandfather of an old man. The man behind me starts when you turn to him And yell at him and grab his face and scream at him To let you off. You moll is something you don't understand. His teeth and blood. Your teeth are like tiny.

They're dust. They're all. What the hell? How long have I been here? Fuck this. I'm breaking the window with my eyes. You're gonna break, I don't want to die here no more. You are sitting on your seat, facing the front of the bus.

After a long time, you glanced down at your hands. They're gnarled, rheumatic, blood spluttered claws of a hague that's seen more than one generation's share of horrors. A haig. A haig's not the right word. A haig is a woman, right? At least so it was in mother's stories, like those of La Padasola. Your knees still hurts, but not as much as your elbow.

It feels like it's shattered. Ah yes. This bus. You must get off it. You must get off it now. You do not remember why you must, but it is imperative that you do. It is urgent. It was urgent.

You are so tired. You try to lift yourself off the seat, but you need buckles under your weight. It is by chance that you fall back on the bench. You must get off the bus. You remember these buses. They used to take you to work. You steady yourself on the bench. You will try to get off the bus.

But in a moment, you must rest. The bus can wait. You are sitting on your seat facing the front of the bus. You are sitting on your seat, facing the front of the bus. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future. episodes, please visit us at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise

stated.