CHAPTER 3: Get The Fuck In!

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When I opened my eyes, everything was… quiet.

Too quiet.

For a moment, I just lay there, blinking up at a cracked ceiling I didn’t recognize.

Where the hell was I?

I pushed myself up slowly, wincing as my muscles protested. The floor under me was hard and rough, littered with dust and old paper cups. I glanced around, and that’s when I realized — I was in a bus station.

Or what used to be one.

Rows of empty metal benches stretched out ahead of me, half-bent and rusted. The ticket counter was shattered, its glass cracked in spiderweb patterns. Faded posters clung to the walls, their corners peeling. One of them still read “Travel the Country!” in cheerful red letters, but the colors were so washed out it looked like a ghost of its former self.

And there was no one else here.

Not a single fucking soul.

Just the faint whisper of wind sneaking through broken windows.

I swallowed hard, my heart thudding faster.

“What the…” My voice came out hoarse as I spoke, almost foreign to my own ears.

I stood up carefully, brushing dirt off my clothes, though it didn’t really help. My work blouse was torn at the sleeve, my knees scuffed. The last thing I remembered was the car...

Then darkness.

And now… this.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, taking a slow step forward. My heels clicked softly against the dusty floor, echoing around the hollow space.

The faint smell of rust and old rain hung in the air. Somewhere far off, I thought I heard dripping water, a slow, steady…

Plop.

Plop.

Plop.

That made the silence feel even more uncomfortable.

I looked around for a door, a sign, or maybe something that might explain where I was. At the far end of the room, I spotted a blinking light bulb hanging by a frayed wire, casting weak light over a faded schedule board.

Every destination name had been wiped clean — just faint outlines of letters that used to be there.

A chill crawled up my spine.

What the hell is going on?

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to rub some warmth into my skin. “Hello?” I called out, louder this time. My voice bounced back at me.

No answer.

I walked toward the entrance — or where it should’ve been — but instead of sliding glass doors or a waiting crowd, there was just… fog.

Thick, white fog pressing against the doorway like a wall. I could barely see past it, just faint shadows shifting now and then like the fog itself was breathing.

My chest tightened. “Okay,” I whispered. “This is creepy and scary.”

I took a cautious step closer, then stopped. I couldn’t even hear my own footsteps anymore.

Was I dreaming?

Yes, that was only the logical explanation.

I pinched the inside of my arm and winced. It hurt.

So… not a dream.

Or maybe it was one of those hyper-realistic ones, the kind that feel real until you wake up screaming.

I turned back toward the benches, scanning for my bag, my phone, anything that might tell me what was going on. Nothing. Just layers of dust, old newspapers, and silence so deep it made my ears ring.

My pulse quickened again. “There has to be someone here,” I whispered, more to myself than anything.

I started walking — past the ticket counter, past the broken vending machine, past the rows of seats that all faced one direction like they were waiting for something that was never going to arrive.

And then, just as I was starting to think the place was completely empty, I heard it — a faint sound.

Tires.

Crunching on gravel as it drove from behind me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I turned around sharply, my eyes darting toward the sound, but all I saw was fog curling at the edges, moving like smoke.

“Hello?” My voice cracked a little. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Only the faint hum of an engine now, low and steady, rumbling somewhere within that wall of mist.

I backed up instinctively, my hand brushing against one of the cold metal benches. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might shake my ribs loose.

Then headlights appeared — two faint, glowing orbs cutting through the fog.

I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes as the beams grew brighter. The low hum of the engine grew into a steady growl. The air smelled faintly of diesel and dust.

Bit by bit, a shape started to form around them.

A bus.

Old, dented, its paint faded and streaked with dirt. The kind of bus you’d see in a forgotten town somewhere off the map.

It rolled forward slowly, almost cautiously, the engine growling under its breath. The fog swirled around it, parting just enough for it to slide through before swallowing the space behind it again.

My hands felt clammy.

But I didn’t move. Didn’t dare. I just stood there watching as it came to a stop right in front of me.

The brakes hissed softly, releasing a puff of white steam that mingled with the fog.

Then suddenly the door creaked open with this long, metallic groan that echoed in the quiet like something straight out of a horror movie.

I froze.

Every muscle in my body just… locked up.

My breath caught halfway in my throat. I could feel my own pulse pounding behind my ears, loud enough that it drowned out everything else.

“If this is some kind of prank, please stop,” I said, my voice coming out shaky and smaller than I wanted it to sound.

I tried to laugh, but it came out weird — thin and nervous, like I was trying to convince myself that everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

I wrapped my arms around myself and stepped back, one foot hitting a chunk of gravel that made a sharp crunch under my shoe. I glanced around again, hoping, praying maybe someone would pop out and yell “Gotcha!” or something.

But there was no one.

Just that busted-up bus sitting there, engine still running like it had been expecting me.

Then I heard a voice come from inside.

“What the fuck are you waiting for! Get the fuck in!”