I see you. Even when you think I don’t. I hear your jokes and conspiracy’s about the world. Sometimes I even let out a chuckle at the sarcastic things you say. I see when you lean down to fix your hair in the mirror, you always missed that one curl. I seen when you got your first boyfriend and when you had your first breakup. Ive seen your highest of highs and lowest of lows. I see you. Even if you don’t see me I see you.

You try to fit in were you don’t belong. You hold on to your dying friendships a little too long. You have a heart of gold and a mouth of steel.

Ive watched you grow up for years. But this one seems a little different. Your words and short and quick like a bullet. Your eyes full of a depth never once reached. And your mouth doesn’t seem to move unless spoken to.

Maybe its just a phase. Or a facade. But whatever it is I see it. On you and the rest of the faces of bus 121. Each year they’re drained of their youth a little bit more, but this year, it has sucked them dry.

Even though I see everything, I say nothing. I try to fine a nice line between what is and isn’t my business. I help as much as I can with a “good morning” and a nice warm smile, but nothing more. Because I am too, drained of my youth and respect.

I was once that young girl with a head full of curly hair and a dream. A dream to be more than what I was shown, to be more than what Ive always known. But, dreams end, and you wake to an empty house and bills you can barley afford to pay.

Dreams are only dreams to people like me. But her, she was different. When I would look into her hurt filled eyes I didn’t see a dreamer, I saw an inventor. An inventor of her own happiness and sorrow. Even though her smile was never full and the lines around her mouth came from a cigarette, she was never really sad. Just hurt, and tired. And that doesn’t make you sad, just makes you hurt and tired. The one thing I could relate too. So tired, yet so young.

There must be someone at the wheel, because that's the way it has to be, with a bus. The bus knows where it's going, though, so as long as I keep my hands on the wheel, I'm free to watch. We get people from all kinds of places, here. Men with wide, transparent wings and gossamer gowns I need to warn to watch their step as they come aboard. Women with horns, fangs, and eyes that flash red when they catch me staring. Lines of little people who climb on each other's shoulders to reach the fare box. They all pay in different ways, too - in clattering coins and brightly-colored bills with symbols on them I can't read, in whispered secrets and blown kisses and drops of silvery blood. They don't need me to tell them when to disembark, thankfully, because I don't know where we go. The bus takes care of it. It welcomes everyone inside and gets them where they need to go. I've only known the bus to reject one would-be passenger, only once in all the time I've been the driver. They looked like a little kid, standing there on the curb, with golden curls and a suit the same shimmering hue, hands behind their back. The bus stopped in front of them, like it always did, but the doors did not open. The pause went on long enough for me to wonder how to open the door, but then the bus began to move again, and as we pulled away, the kid's arms moved, and I saw the long piece of metal, sharp and serrated, perfect for slashing tires.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, and I would have blown right past that stop if the girl’s navy blue umbrella didn’t swing around in the wind just before I pulled up. I took notice and brought the bus to a slippery halt by the gutter. The girl was wearing a dreary gray jacket, blue corduroy pants, and black rubber boots, dripping in rainwater as she stepped onto the bus. I nodded at her in an almost automatic gesture as she met my eyes from underneath her hood, swiping her sopping metro card. In a small yet powerful shift, the dismal air of the day gave way to something greater. There was nothing dreary about her gaze as she beamed up at me with a smile that could have dried the rain right off of her. I let out a small chuckle, catching myself by surprise, and turned my eyes back towards the road. The next few stops were empty, and I let my mind wander for a moment. My mornings are always full of people. Mostly, I don’t pay anyone too much attention so I can stay focused on getting people to work and wherever else. I don’t mind it. But nothing beats a rainy Sunday afternoon, quiet except for the rumbling of the bus as it rolls alongside my thoughts. It’s comforting. I glanced back at my passengers, breathing in a respectful curiosity to see the girl again. A small, elderly woman a few seats behind me had a green grocery bag on her lap, her arms wrapped tightly around it. She was swinging her feet and watching the window beside her. Further back were two young boys, probably fourteen years old or so, looking at a cellphone and speaking in a low murmur. I would almost have missed the girl again with how well she blended with the bus’s blue interior. Strange, how vivid a presence can be, when not hidden in its surroundings. Had I looked straight ahead as she stepped onto the bus that day, I never would have seen that smile. I drove on for another minute before I spotted a man holding the hand of a tiny figure by the playground. I wondered if the little one had been playing in the rain, and how much fun that must have been. As the pair came on, I smiled at each of them in turn and they smiled back. “Say hi to the bus driver, kiddo” said the man. “Hi mister bus driver.” “Hello there! Find any deep puddles?” “Oh yeah!!” The kid gushed. “Lots.” The two walked on to take their seats as I rolled ahead, the kid now giggling and talking excitedly. A beep rang out, signaling a requested stop, and I glanced at the overhead mirror to see the girl in the gray jacket headed towards the back door. She met my eyes in the reflection, grinned and gave a small wave before hopping out of the bus, hitting the ground just like a drop of rain. I sighed contentedly, watching the rain paint the windshield for a moment, and then pressed onwards. It’s nice to notice people.

Twelve years I've been driving buses, like my pa, and his pa before him. When all that new-fangled technology took over the skies and the rich started driving round in blimps just cos they didn't want to mingle with the masses, I knew my job was more important than ever. For all those old ladies, stooped like wilting flowers, shuffling onboard with their handbags clutched to their chests. For those lads working down at the docks, all bleary-eyed from their overtime, coughing clouds of dust wherever they sit. And for all those hyperactive kids, racing round the city, faster than any fancy blimp, eyes wide to all the wonders London has to offer.

I'll be honest, I thought I'd seen them all.

Until the green boy climbed onboard.

It was late, the sun blinking out on the horizon, but this boy had his cloak pulled taut over his face. That's why I noticed him. You always get a few unsavoury characters these days, spooking the other passengers. So I asked him to remove it, to show me his face.

The little bugger sighed, as if all this was just wasting his time. Then he threw back his hood and-

I gasped - I couldn't help it - his whole face was green, with scales climbing the left side of his face and eyes with thin pupils, like a snake's. His lip curled, exposing the briefest flash of pointy teeth. I've never seen anything like it in all my life.

And I never want to see anything like it again.

'Change?' he prompted, casting out his scaly palm. 'You owe me a sovereign.'

'R-right,' I stutter, counting the coins in trembling hands, 'there you go.'

The boy huffed from his nostrils, traipsing to the back of the bus, favouring his right leg.

I turned back to the wheel and gripped it tight enough to forget my hands had ever shook.

The last stop was always the dark stop.

And I’m telling the truth when I say I saw the Brierwood marsh change in an unnatural way.

Seems I’m the only one to eyeball it day in and day out, but I promise it used to be an unchecked mess of Darwin evolution near a week ago. How can I be the only one to know that? I’m not crazy! Check the maps!

4 days ago, I was on my usual route, taking a turn near the end of the day for my second to last stop. It was 8:46 in the evening when I saw him clunk onto my ride. Black buttoned coat from neck to foot, charcoal bowler on his head, and scraggly hair over his eyes. I paid little mind due to the mundane, for I’d taken that turn over 10,000 times in my life. (I did the math one day, but let’s not get off track.)

He gets off in the middle of nowhere at the last stop before I turn for the final run. Brierwood is the sad marsh on the south of town. I’ve never had anyone get off there at that time of night. Nothing is out there but gators, wetlands, and mosquitoes.

The next day, same time and stop, I notice him again. I let him off at the marsh, only the marsh is now a parking lot. I feel like ya don’t believe me. Let’s try that again — it’s paved with cement, painted white lines, and all in 24 hours. And let me say, I have nothing against progress, but the parking lot stretched on for miles. I ran the bus because I couldn’t believe my eyes. How in God’s graces did that get done over night?

The next day, I do the rounds and see less passengers than a regular week day. Again, I find myself with the dark clothed man on my bus at night.

Being the only one on the bus, I ask him if he’s new to town.

He smiles, nods, and bares his yellow teeth saying, “How nice of you to notice. I am, but I feel like I’ve been here for ages.”

As I near the mar — er… parking lot, I see a giant factory with towers the height of the clouds blowing smoke the color of ash out of exhaust pipes that seem to run in and out of the building like they’re rigged from top to bottom. The parking lot is filled to the brim with white vans.

I look back at him and say, “I don’t remember any of this from a few days ago.”

“Oh… strange. It’s been here forever,” he says.

He gets off the bus and I go home.

The next day, I notice less people on the bus than the day before. Nothing too weird, but there seems to be less on the street, too.

And he gets on, talks to me about the best bars in town, and gets off.

I see frozen boxes getting moved to the van by slender looking men in grey jumpsuits. Their eyes seemed to glow under the moon, though I assume it’s my imagination.

And now I’m here for the record. People are disappearing, a factory appears in two days, and the man. He just rides the bus?

I’d be mad with envy for money if I wasn’t going insane with fear — it’s all impossible!

The part that scares me the most is I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on in that factory. People don’t just disappear in droves over night!

The number 42 bus was driven by a portly man - named Gregor Miller - whose eyes glinted with kindness and whose lips failed to utter a single foul word.

On weekdays, at 7:52am, he would wait five extra minutes at Linton Street until the mother of four (and one on the way), would race down the hill, panting heavily with relief. Gregor would not move the bus until every child was safely seated and a space had been made for the wide Silver Cross pram.

On Tuesdays, at 10:28am, he would turn into Porter Drive to greet the gentlemanly Mr. Thompson. Although not on the official route, Gregor was happy to (slightly) bend the rules if it meant that it saved the elderly passenger an uphill walk to the bus stop.

On Friday evenings, at 7:35pm, he would open the doors at Mayflower Place to find a black-and-white cat waiting, quite patiently, under the bus shelter. They would greet each other with a customary nod. Then the black-and-white cat would hop onto the bus, before slinking towards an empty seat.

Gregor never knew where the cat went, or how it returned. But he also knew it wasn’t his business to pry.

Like the number 42 timetable, the bus driver’s life adhered strictly to routine. Every part of his day transpired like clockwork; rarely did he venture outside of the designated times.

It was quite unusual then, when Gregor Miller failed to turn up for his evening shift.

The black-and-white cat was the first to notice something was amiss. He was rather appalled to be greeted by a much thinner (and ruder) bus driver, who refused him entry, with a swift kick of his boot.

Nicholas Sweeney - a teenage boy who boarded the bus at 9am on Saturdays - was the next to be wronged.

When he boarded the bus with no change, for kind Gregor had always turned a blind eye, he was met with a stern look of disapproval from a gaunt beanpole of a man. Needless to say, Nicholas Sweeney did not make it to work that day.

And when the mother of four (and one on the way) arrived late to school for a full week straight - it was clear that something had to be done.

On the seventh day of Gregor’s disappearance, at 9.30am, Vera converted her tiny cafe into an official town meeting point.

The little alcove was crammed with residents from all over, each regular passengers on the number 42 bus. Unfortunately, that was all they had in common. For every person in the room possessed an entirely different opinion on why Gregor Miller had gone missing.

Elderly Mr. Thompson was of the firm opinion that the bus driver had not left of his own accord.

“That old boy would never leave us,” he said, in between slurps of hot tea. “Something has happened.”

This excited the impressionable crowd and numerous theories were speculated, each wilder than the last.

This was until young Nicholas Sweeney suggested, quite unexpectedly, that the poor bus driver must have been murdered.

Immediately, a sense of unease weighed upon the room.

“You don’t think…?” The mother of four whispered, anxiously rubbing her stomach.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

But just as quickly, the quarrel was reignited by Vera (who knew everything about everyone) stumbling out of the kitchen - clean plates in hand. She claimed that Gregor had broken his leg last week and had been admitted to the nearest hospital.

The argument grew in volume before finally reaching a crescendo. The black-and-white cat (who until now had said very little) knocked over a rather beautiful teacup from the top of the counter.

Immediately, the room was still.

The clattering of good china brought the cafe owner back to her senses. “Why don’t we ask the people at the bus station?” She said, quite matter-of-factly. “They’ll know what happened to him.”

Relieved the squabble was over, the crowd agreed to reconvene.

Upon arriving at the bus station, the passengers of the number 42 bus were puzzled to be greeted by a rather tanned, and slightly portlier, Gregor Miller.

Nicholas Sweeney was the first to speak out.

“You! What are you doing? I thought you were murdered!”

Gregor’s eyebrows raised significantly “Why on earth would you think that?”

“You disappeared! It’s not like you.”

Realisation dawned on the older man and he chuckled softly.

“I only went to the seaside for a week”

“You didn’t tell us you were going on holiday” snapped Vera.

“Nobody asked,” Gregor replied, shrugging his shoulders.

An awkward silence rippled through the small crowd.

“Well, how was it?” The mother of four asked.

“Alright, I guess. The sun was nice, but I miss my routine” the bus driver said nonchalantly.

The passengers slowly nodded in unison. They drifted apart, back to their homes now that the unusual mystery had been solved.

Gregor scratched his head. He whistled a little tune to himself, before heading into the bus station.

A brand new week went by. The black-and-white cat was reunited with his lover; Mr. Thompson’s aching knees were once again granted relief; and the mother of four (and one newborn babe) did not arrive late to school again.

I take people around the world, to wherever they want to be. Day by day, people kiss in the back of my seats. Day by day, I hear people speak; of good days and of bad, of happy days and of sad, of solemn days and of glad. Day by day I stare at the road, as people talk of times of old, as people speak and laugh and cheer, and all the sounds come to my ear. Day by day I wish I hope, that one day I’ll find more to life than sitting, staring, and feeling strife. And day by day, I still drive.

The bus careened madly down streets and made such sharp turns that soon the hopeful tourists of Los Angelas were not even sure where it was they were going. Behind the wheel of the dark blue double decker monstrosity was a man named Herman. Good old Herman had on a dark purple suit with a purple top hat covering his dark gray matted hair. He wore shades at night and was chain smoking while steering the bus with both hands. He talked into a receiver that broadcasted across the bus on both floors, so the guests could hang on to his every word.

“Alright folks, for the first portion of this tour we are going to see some of your favorite slasher character’s houses. We are turning down Thirteenth street now. . .”

The bus made a hard right turn onto a quiet suburbia street. It looked like a culdesac right out of midwest America, with well kept properties and mowed lawns.

“First up is the house of Jason!” Herman the bus driver shouted as he slowed the bus down, allowing his guests to get a good look at the one story colonial ranch house with a paved driveway and a Toyota Corolla parked out front.

“When he is not off on holiday, word around town is that he throws great parties. ANYWAYS, moving on, right next to him across this tall wooden fence here we have Micheal Myers. . . Oh and look! He is standing outside on his front lawn right now!”

The bus exploded with excitement and camera flashes at Mike as he held up his knife in a stabbing pose. He held the position and didn’t flinch as they drove past.

“Now on your right we have Freddy Kruger’s house.” Herman said, swaying the bus onto the wrong side of the street.

A large dog came sprinting out from behind the house madly. It bellowed and barked and the bus, stopping just short of the sidewalk. From inside the dark house that hid behind two pine trees, a light turned on. If they listened closely they could hear a muffled voice yelling “shut up! Im trying to get some sleep here!”

“Okay, we are going to make a left here onto Elm.” Announced Herman. “They say that Pennywise the Clown lives down somewhere in the sewers around here… keep your eyes peeled for any balloons. And up next is Leatherface’s. . . Well I guess you could call it a barn. Or a shed or something…”

There was a bright light coming through cracks in the old wooden structure where a house should have been. Old rusty chains rattled against the wooden planks, and from inside you could hear a chainsaw revving madly.

“Of course his neighbor is Ash Williams.” Herman went on, as he slowly moved the bus from one house to the next. “You probably wouldn’t believe it but these two actually got into a huge dispute over a tree limb that fell on eachother’s property. It basically came down to who was going to cut it up and remove it. Had to get the police involved and everything!”

“Now down the street here is Chucky’s residence.” Herman said driving the bus along a little faster, passing a few houses before slowing down again. “Folks, I couldnt tell you how its even legal for a children’s doll to buy property but hey, its California after all.”

“Now turn your attention to the left. Its the richest and oldest one of them all. Its the moment you have all been waiting for… the man who started it all. Thats right folks! Good old Frankenstien’s Monster! Its no wonder he lives in a giant mansion. Ooo oooo and if you look wayyyyy in the back little corner theres a tiny little house for Frankenstein himself. Good on The big M to spread his wealth around.”

The bus whipped around another corner, losing a couple passengers from the upper deck over the side without stopping. It then sped off down a dark road. “Okay folks. . . That concludes our slasher section of the tour, and onto the next more terrifying leg of the tour. . . I simply call this part “Politics.”

Almost visable screams and groans could be heard from the now sickend passengers. One person even vomited over the side of the bus at the word. “Let us off now!” A few of them demanded. . . But good old Herman, was determined to terrify his guests.

At my first stop of the day, not many people get on, just the regulars on their way to work with tired eyes, and music in their ears.

At my second stop, a teenage boy with shaggy black hair and a hoodie gets on to go to school. When he sits down, he pulls out a sketch pad and starts drawing. I don’t know why he didn’t take the school bus today, but I won’t give him any crap for it.

At my third stop today, a young mother carrying a sleeping child in her arms got on. I didn’t know where she was going, I just gave her a quiet nod as to not wake the baby.

At my fourth stop, a little old lady climbed aboard and pulled out her knitting. I see her every few days, and she always has a different project with her.

At my fifth stop of the day, the mother walked back on, this time with groceries and an alert baby. The old lady, who was still on, set down her knitting and took the baby from the mother, who was about to drop the groceries, and the baby cooed at her the whole way.

At my sixth stop of the day, a bunch of kids got on, clearly just leaving school, on their way to some activity.

At my seventh stop, my morning regulars were on their way home, and a young couple got on, holding hands, and on their way to a date.

At my eighth and last stop, late night diner workers climbed on, arms covered in syrup, and their shoes coming off of their feet.

And when I got home, I was greeted by my lovely wife, and kissed my sleeping daughter on the head before I went to be myself, thinking of the people I encountered today.

Lonny hated being a bus driver, it was the same crowd everyday and he was sick of it; the only reason that he didn’t quit this lousy job was because he had no other options in life. He sneered to himself as his rude passengers boarded.

There was the fancy dressed woman that he was sure was in some kind of seedy employment, she was flirtatious in a way that suggested that she hoped she would get money out of it.

The man in the business suit who always came late, presumably from the office, but the smell of perfume indicated that he wasn’t alone and yet he had a wedding ring on…

But this night, a new man in dirty clothes came on board, Lonny could only scoff as he looked like an undesirable person and didn’t care about him…until he heard the cock of a gun in his ear.

‘Oh f-!’