The phone burns cold in my palm. And the timestamp—17:48—matches the clock on the bus dashboard. Exactly. One hour ago. The voicemail came from here. From inside Black Hollow.
But the driver’s fingers twitch on the wheel. His milky eyes lock onto mine in the mirror. Too still. Too knowing. I lower the phone, my pulse hammering. The fog outside thickens, pressing against the glass like wet hands. Then I see it—the reflection in the window. My father’s face, pale and dripping, staring back at me from the fog.
I spin around. Nothing. Just the empty bus. But the air smells like salt and rust. The driver’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Almost home," he says. His voice is dry, cracking, like something long dead.