The rain came down hard, just like it always did on Bleaker Street. Torrents of rain flooded the roads while the wind pushed it to waves. Clouds blotted out the sun like a thick gray blanket; somewhere in the distance thunder shuddered the windows of this unwelcoming street.
In the middle of Bleaker Street sat one lone bus stop with one short bench. Its schedule was very stringent. The first transit bus arrived at 5:00 in the morning and loitered for approximately four minutes before departing at 5:04. The school bus arrived at 7:27 and departed promptly at 7:30 every morning. After this, Bleaker Street was left alone for the rest of the day, until the school bus came back at 4:15 in the afternoon, and the transit bus returned at 7:00 in the evening. One Greyhound bus made an appearance at 11:00 at night every Monday for thirty minutes, before vanishing into the unknown night for another week. The bus stop maintained no exceptions to these rules. The buses were always on time, never late, and certainly, positively, never ever early.
This morning, Margot ran to the bus stop, making it just in time for the school bus to pick her up at its rigidly punctual time. A flimsy umbrella did its best to protect her from the monsoon that surrounded her. Even with this miniscule shield, only the blouse and blazer of her uniform remained dry. Water soaked through her shoes and socks, chilling her feet; the lower end of her skirt dripped from the splash of puddles as she continued her sprint to the stop. Thankfully, the black color of the garments did its best to hide all of this. She blew her disheveled black hair out of her eyes and checked her watch.
7:26
She breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the shoulder straps of her bookbag tighter against her back. Stepping into the shelter of the tin-roofed bus stop, she looked down the road and saw no sign of the bus. Weird, since she knew the bus was always on time. Bleaker Street was a very straight street; there were no twists and turns to it except at its terminus on either side. By the same token, though, she didn’t worry because the bus was always on time. It would show.
“Pushing it today, isn’t it?” A gruff, sing-song voice said from just behind her. Margot jumped at the sound, sure she had been the only one at the stop when she got there. Turning around, she laid her eyes on the most ancient looking person she had ever seen. The head was completely bald and wrinkling in odd places. The skin was so pale it took on a translucent, yellow hue and was dotted with liver spots. The person wore black trousers over long, skinny legs and ratty black dress shoes. They were cloaked in a large black trench coat with a white turtle neck that rose up past half of their face. Speaking of the face, even though Margot could only see some of it, it was probably the most horrific part of the ensemble. The eyes were sunken almost completely into the protruding skull and were clouded like cataracts, except it wasn’t just the pupil, but the entire eye. The ears were so closed in to the head, it was like they had been cut off. The nose, on the other hand, actually looked like it had been cut off. There was only an uneven hole in its place, with jagged edges of cartilage visible.
The person sat on the lone bench at the bus stop, cross-legged, shaking a foot in the air as they waited expectantly for a reply to their comment. Eventually, Margot snapped out of her shock.
“Oh! I’m sorry, you startled me!”
“Ah, I do apologize! I was simply sitting here awaiting my bus, I did not notice you did not notice me. You must have been in quite a shock. I such case, I shall repeat myself for your benefit! In reference to the bus that is never late, I said it was ‘Pushing it today, isn’t it’,” they said. The voice Margot heard in her ears was like dull nails on a chalkboard; unsettling, with a slight accent that she could not place. It sent a chill down her spine. It was gravelly like a life-long smoker, but just high-pitched enough to have belonged to a Broadway singer; smooth as silk and rough as sandpaper. It didn’t match. Margot swallowed.
“Uh…yeah, but it’ll be here on time. It always is…wait. You said you were waiting for your bus. The next bus here is the school bus, mister…”
“Oh, heavens me! Where are my manners? I am Mr. Bartolomeo G. Moroteo, but please, simply call me Mr. Mo,” He gave a slight bow with his head, which was probably the maximum flourish he could muster with his age, “And who might you be, young miss?”
“M-Margot. My name is Margot.”
“Ah…Margot,” he rolled the ‘r’ in her name very deliberately, “Such a beautiful name. French, is it? Lovely,” he smiled, or, she thought he was smiling. The turtleneck covered the lower half of his face, but the movement under the fabric gave her the impression of an unsettling grin. The way he had said her name raised the hair on the back of her neck
“To answer your statement from before, I am aware the next bus arrives bound for the school. Do not worry about me, my bus will arrive precisely on time, as it always does.”
Margot let the sentence sit in the air. She didn’t want to stand here next to this creep, but she had no choice. The bus would be here any minute now. The bus should have been her already. She looked at her watch.
7:26
Still? The adrenaline from her run must not have run out yet for time to be moving so slowly. She resolved to just wait in silence for the bus. It technically wasn’t late yet. It was never, ever early. The silence did not last long.
“Miss Margot? Such a pretty name. Tell me, in school, have you read the story ‘All Summer in a Day’?” As he spoke, his head did not move to look at her. Instead, his eyes searched for her, scanning independently of each other, hunting for her location by sound alone.
“N-No. I’ve never even heard of it,” She couldn’t stand another second staring at the old man, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was like she was in a trance, but one that she was fully aware of. She noticed every movement he made; every twitch, every itch.
“Shame…a beautiful Bradbury story of a young woman unable to see the sun. Her name was also Margot!”
“Oh, that’s nice…” Margot tapped her foot impatiently, begging for the bus to hurry, or for the rain to stop. Really, anything to get her out from the bus stop and away from the creepy guy with the eyes that were constantly searching.
Suddenly, the wind kicked hard. Margot was knocked off balance, out from under the safety of the awning. A spray of rain drenched Margot before she could even react, and the flimsy umbrella she clutched loosely in her hand was now fifty feet away, sliding down the street, a casualty of the storm.
But Margot was not being rained on. In fact, the rain was stopping more than a few feet away from her. Margot looked up to see a large umbrella casting a large shadow around her. A stench found its way to her nose, smelling stale and expired. Her hair stood up once more.
“Terribly bad luck, Miss Margot! Not to worry, I came prepared with an umbrella myself!”
Mr. Mo towered so high above her it was a wonder that he had fit under the bus stop awning to begin with. He did not stand beneath his umbrella. There were no rain drops at his feet.
“Ah, it appears your bus has arrived! Education is key, so I must bid you adieu! Be a dear, Miss Margot, and read that story I mentioned a moment ago. I have a feeling you will relate very well with the Margot of the story.”
HONK HONK.
Margot looked up with a jolt. Her bus sat in front of the stop, the driver angrily tapping his watch as he impatiently waited for her to board. Margot didn’t remember the bus pulling up in the first place. Looking around, Mr. Mo was no where to be seen. The rain had soaked Margot’s uniform to the bone.
Confusion and unease nearly made Margot walk back home in that moment, but she gulped air and stepped onto the bus. The interior of the vehicle was silent, save for the semi-constant drip of water from her clothes onto the floorboards. She took her seat and glanced at her watch.
7:26
Margot blinked. She tapped the face of her watch a few times, just to make sure. Something didn’t seem right; the bus was never, ever early.
“I think the sun is a flower, that blooms for just one hour…” a gruff voice sang from the front of the bus. Like silk and sandpaper. Margot’s eyes flashed up over the back of her seat just in time to catch a glimpse of sunken, cloudy eyes looking back at her through the mirror above the driver’s seat. The mouth of the face was covered by the upper half of a turtle neck, but the motion gave it the appearance of smiling.
The doors on the bus slid shut, and the vehicle lurched forward. Margot sat back in her seat, watching as the eyes stared at her the entire trip.
