Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters on Buses Creepy Strangers, Disturbing Drivers, and Close Calls PART2 #4

Episode Date: October 18, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #bushorrorstories #creepystrangers #disturbingdrivers #closecallhorror #truefear  Part 2 of Terrifying Encounters on Buses escalates the tension and fear. Creepy strangers become bolder, unsettling driver behaviors intensify, and close calls leave passengers shaken. These real-inspired stories highlight how ordinary bus rides can quickly turn into situations of panic and dread, showing that danger can appear when least expected.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, bushorrorstories, creepystrangers, disturbingdrivers, closecallhorror, truefear, unsettlingrides, chillingencounters, busnightmares, publictransporthorror, scarytrueevents, realfearstories, nightmarefuel, darkencounters, dangeronbuses

Horror. The creepy bus driver. My mom's terrifying ride back in the 1970s. Let's go back in time for a minute, really far back, before smartphones, before GPS, before parents could just check an app to see if you were on the corner or already in the house. I'm talking early 1970s America. Bellbottom jeans, shag carpets, cheap gas, classic rock blasting from car radio, and a kind of small town freedom that now seems almost impossible to imagine. Kids back then ran wild, seriously wild. Parents would tell you to ride your bike to the store and be home before dark,

and that was the end of it. Seat belts were optional, hitchhiking wasn't scary. It was just something people did. There was a kind of innocent bravery in it, a trust that no one would disappear, that nothing truly dangerous would happen. the reality, without constant monitoring, without the safety nets we have today, danger could, and did, exist quietly, sometimes hidden in plain sight. This story isn't mine, it belongs to my mom.

And even after decades, there's a tremor in her voice every time she tells it. She doesn't exaggerate, doesn't add flare. She recalls it exactly as it was, and it's like a scar etched into her memory, always there, alive, undeniable. Listening to her, it's easy to feel like you're on that bus with her, the dusty windows fogged with the heat of children's bodies, the roar of the engine under your feet, and your heart hammering in your chest. She was in sixth grade at the time, 11, maybe 12 years old, that in-between age where you feel like you're starting to grow up, but you're still completely a child in almost every way. Old enough to have crushes, to have little daydreams about who you'll grow up to be, but still young enough to get scared by shadows on the wall or by an unkind comment in class.

She lived a couple of miles outside town, not in the middle of nowhere, but far enough that the school bus was her daily lifeline. That yellow metal chariot carried her into the world of friends, classes, and the little adventures that made her ordinary school days feel like something more. Now imagine this bus, not one of the modern, shiny, camera-equipped monsters with padded seats and seatbelts that click. This was a real bus, old, loud, rattling, and probably puffing smoke from the exhaust like it had a cough. Inside, it smelled permanently of gasoline, crayons, and a mixture of nervous children's sweat. The vinyl seats stuck to your legs in the summer heat, the windows rattled if you knocked them, and the whole bus shook whenever it hit a bump. Inside it was chaos, kids yelling,

laughing, tossing paper airplanes, pushing each other for the good seats, or arguing over who should sit next to whom. Amid all that chaos, there was one bright spot for my mom, the boy she had a crush on. Let's call him her sixth grade boyfriend. And yes, I put that in quotes, because, let's face it, sixth grade love is about as serious as a cloud. Mostly it was holding hands when no one was looking, passing notes, maybe blushing when someone teased you, and doodling each other's initials on a notebook. Sometimes they shared snacks, or she might sneak a glance at him when he wasn't looking. That was it. Innocent, small, tender, the purest kind of puppy love. But then, things started to go wrong. The bus driver noticed them. Not in a harmless, ah, kids being kids' way.

Not a tiny smile in the rearview mirror. No, this was something else entirely, something that makes your skin crawl just hearing about it. At first, it was small. A comment here, a chuckle there. Holding hands again, huh? You two are cute. Nothing overtly dangerous, maybe even meant to be funny. But soon the comments escalated, shifting into something much darker. Sharper, invasive, far too adult for two 11-year-olds. He asked things a sixth-grader shouldn't even know about. Do you kiss? Do you use tongue? He laughed when they blushed, but his eyes didn't laugh. One day he even asked her little boy friend if he had ever sniffed her underwear. Stop for a moment and think about that. Kids, literal children. They didn't fully understand the words he was throwing around. Most of the time, my mom just stared at her

friend, unsure what he even meant. But even without understanding, there's that sinking gut feeling when something is wrong. That invisible alarm bell that shouts at you, danger. This is not right. And so the unease grew. What started as awkward comments became a shadow over every ride. The bus, once just a noisy, chaotic vehicle, became a place where my mom didn't feel safe. The rattling engine, the sticky vinyl seats, the smell of crayons and gasoline, all of it became a container for tension. Fast forward to the last day of school. Everyone knows that day, right? that crackling energy in the air, a mixture of relief, excitement, and impatience. Summer is right there waiting.

The halls echo with laughter, chaos spills out into the classrooms, and kids are bouncing off the walls because the weight of assignments is finally gone. The smell of sunscreen, freshly cut grass, and ice cream floats through the warm air. It should have been perfect. But for my mom, it became a day she never forgot. a day that would stay with her for the rest of her life. She packed her bag, got her books ready, expecting to hop off at her usual stop. The bus didn't slow, didn't hesitate.

At first, she thought maybe he missed it. Maybe the driver was distracted. Kids get missed stops all the time. But then it happened again at the next stop. She tried to get off with her friend and the driver barked. Sit down. No explanation. No smile, just a sharp command.

Her stomach dropped. Stop after stop, the same thing repeated. One by one, other kids jumped off, waving to parents and running into their yards. Each time she tried to stand, the driver ordered her back into her seat. Slowly, the bus emptied until she was the only one left. She broke, tears rolled down her cheeks.

She later told me she didn't know if she prayed out loud, or just whispered in her head, but she begged for help, begged for someone to save her. The driver glanced at her through the mirror and said, Come sit up front, right behind me. Her body screamed no. Instead, she walked as far back as she could. She dropped her books, pencils, her bag, everything scattered across the aisle. She thought fast. If he tries to make me move, maybe he'll trip over the mess.

Maybe she'd have just enough time to reach the emergency exit at the back. By now she had a plan. If he took her somewhere isolated, she would run. Sure enough, he turned off the main road, onto a dirt path, then another, narrower, bumpier, leading them deep into brushland where no one could see them. Her heart pounded, her hands clenched the backrest in front of her. Her eyes locked on the red handle of the emergency exit. ready to leap. Then relief. Dust rose in the distance. Headlights glinted through the back window.

Her dad's truck. Her older brother sitting beside him. Adrenaline surged. She jumped up, screaming, stop the bus. That's my dad behind us. The driver hesitated. Door squealed as the bus pulled over. Her father climbed aboard, silent but commanding. He didn't have to yell. The tension alone made the bus feel like it was holding its breath. My mom bolted past him, trembling, rushing into the safety of her brother's arms. Through the back window, she watched her dad lean in, speaking in low, furious tones. She never learned exactly what he said, but the driver's face went pale. That man never drove her bus route again. Later, my mom found out why her dad had been there. Each child who got off at their stops, told their parents what they saw. My mom crying, the driver refusing to let her off. Her grandparents

immediately called her father, who jumped in the truck and intercepted the bus just in time. But here's the heart-wrenching part. The police were never called. No formal report was made. It was handled quietly, the small town way. Threats were made, the bus company removed him, and that was it. Case closed. Years of later, during some casual conversation, my mom overheard a chilling story. A relative mentioned someone in prison for impregnating his 14-year-old stepdaughter. Oh yeah, they said casually. He used to be a school bus driver. Then it clicked. The same man, the same driver. The one who had asked my mom's friend about underwear, the one who drove her deep into the woods while she cried. The one her

father confronted face to face. He went on to hurt someone else. If her grandparents had gone to the police back then, maybe that other child could have been spared. But times were different. They thought they were protecting her, keeping things quiet. Silence seemed safer. And that's the part that still haunts my mom. Because sometimes monsters aren't lurking in dark forests or abandoned houses. Sometimes they sit behind the wheel of a yellow school bus, smiling in the rearview mirror. The end.