The route from the terminal to the paper mill only had seven stops, yet it took a full hour to get there. In our line of work, we called that a "short long-distance."
If Old Tang hadn't warned me over dinner, I wouldn't have had the slightest hesitation about driving it.But seeing how serious he looked, I couldn't treat it like a joke—especially knowing that one of the stops, Tangwa Reservoir, was right along the way.
That reservoir had been built more than ten years ago by some rich villager who wanted to run a fishing park. He lost money, skipped town, and the place had been abandoned ever since.It was about a mile away from Tangwa Village, and hardly anyone lived nearby.
All I could hope was that no one would be waiting at that stop, so I could just breeze past with one foot on the gas.
Not long after leaving the terminal, a crowd of villagers began boarding. They came in groups of two or three, balancing bamboo poles with baskets of unsold vegetables, chatting happily.
That actually calmed my nerves a bit. I thought, maybe this route wasn't such a bad thing after all.
These folks had been selling produce all day. Without this night bus, they'd have no choice but to sleep in the city. Considering how little they earned, they could never afford a hotel—probably just curl up in some alley corner until morning.
Once we left the city limits, no more passengers got on.The bus grew quieter; the villagers, worn out from a long day, began dozing off.
Across from me, in the front row by the driver's seat, sat an old man, at least in his late sixties. His skin was weathered dark from the sun, and he wore a dirty white towel wrapped around his head.
Even though it was already past 11:30 p.m., the old man looked energetic. He pulled out a long tobacco pipe, glanced at me, and asked:
"Son, mind if I light up?"
I glanced at him and replied, "Go ahead, sir. Just crack the window."
He nodded, struck a match, lit the pipe, took a puff, then said:
"You seem like a decent young man. So tell me—how'd you end up with this job? Didn't study hard enough in school, huh?"
That rubbed me the wrong way. I muttered, "What's wrong with my job? It's fine."
The old man exhaled smoke and chuckled dryly."Fine? What's fine about it? Sitting here all day, risking your life, and for what—pennies?"
That stung. To many people, driving a bus wasn't a "respectable" career. It was my sore spot.Because of it, I'd had several blind dates fail—the women (and their families) didn't want to marry a bus driver.
Thinking of that, I grew impatient. "If I didn't drive this bus tonight, you'd be sleeping under a bridge, wouldn't you?"
The old man seemed to hear the edge in my voice. He fell quiet for a moment, then tapped his pipe against the window and said:
"Slow down, son. We're coming up on the reservoir."
Truth was, I'd already eased off the gas. After what Tang told me, I wasn't about to take chances.
There was a bus stop sign right by the reservoir. No one was waiting, so I didn't bother stopping.But when the headlights swept over the sign that read Tangwa Reservoir, a chill ran straight down my back.
I decided to bring it up. "Grandpa, I heard from a coworker that something… happened here before. Is that true?"
The old man seemed to have expected the question. He nodded slowly."Mm. Something happened. A driver once went off the road—straight into the reservoir. Took a whole busload of passengers with him."
It was exactly what Tang had told me, but hearing it again, spoken so calmly by this old man, sent a shiver through me.Still, my curiosity pushed me further.
"But how? I mean, this road looks fine, barely any traffic. How could he crash like that?"
The old man took a long drag, then said flatly:
"He saw a ghost."
The words hit me like a hammer. My foot nearly slammed the brakes to the floor.The bus jolted hard, waking several of the dozing villagers.
"What happened?!" someone shouted groggily in the local dialect.
"Sorry! Pothole!" I yelled back, trying to sound calm.
But the passengers weren't convinced. A few muttered angrily:"Driver must be crazy—should get his head checked!"
Normally, in broad daylight, I would've snapped back. But at midnight, with a bus full of tired villagers, I just swallowed it.
After that, I didn't feel like chatting with the old man anymore. I had another hour to drive, and I didn't need to spook myself worse.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him still puffing away. The strange thing was, he'd been smoking that same pipe since he got on—yet it never seemed to burn down.
By midnight sharp, we finally reached the paper mill, the last stop. The villagers filed off the bus.I stretched, ready to turn the bus around, when suddenly—
BANG BANG BANG!
Someone pounded on the window.
A pale-faced old woman stood outside, staring straight in.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Everyone had already gotten off. Where the hell had she come from?
I clenched a wrench from the toolbox in one hand and shouted, "What do you want?!" as I opened the door.
The woman shuffled on board, her wrinkled face so creased it was hard to even make out her features. She looked me over, then said in a faint voice:
"Forgot my basket."
I glanced back—and sure enough, there was a vegetable basket on one of the seats. Relief flooded through me.
She picked it up and started off the bus. But then she paused, turned, and said:
"You're a young man. Decent lad. But you don't look so good—something wrong with your spirit?"
I frowned. "What do you mean? Just because I braked a little hard and jostled you folks? You've been chewing me out since then!"
She shook her head, pointing to the empty seat across from me—the one where the old man had been sitting.
"All the way here, you kept looking at that seat. Muttering to yourself. It was scary, you know."
A chill swept over me. My back went clammy with sweat.
"What are you talking about? I was chatting with the old man smoking his pipe. You didn't see him?!"
The woman's face darkened."Don't mess with me, boy. My eyes are fine. That seat's been empty the whole ride. You're the crazy one."
Muttering curses, she hefted her basket and shuffled off into the dark.
I sat frozen. My whole conversation—self-talk?The night was deathly still, blacker than pitch, the bus headlights barely carving out a small circle in the darkness.
My hands shook on the wheel. My back was drenched.
It was 12:10 a.m. Another hour back to the depot. For a second, I seriously considered calling a tow truck to haul me and the bus back together.
That's when my ringtone blared—the same obnoxious Most Dazzling Ethnic Trend melody. I nearly leapt from my seat.
It was Tang. I snatched up the phone.
"Well? You make it there? Heading back yet?"
My voice trembled. "Tang… I just got here. I'm so damn scared I can't even shift gears."
He must've heard the panic, because he rushed to say:"Relax, brother. Nothing's gonna happen. I even asked a fortune-teller for you. He said your fate is iron-strong. Said with your birth chart, even digging up graves at night wouldn't bring ghosts near you!"
The words hit me like sunlight breaking through clouds. Relief flooded in.
"Seriously? He really said that?"
"Of course! He said your Five Elements are pure Yang water—no trace of Yin in your chart. Ghosts wouldn't dare come near!"
A grin spread across my face. Suddenly the world felt bright again.
"For real?? He said that??"
Tang snorted. "Look at you, all scared. That fate of yours is wasted on a coward like you. Now get back here—I've got drinks waiting."
He hung up.
That phone call felt like a lifeline. My fear vanished. I slammed the gearstick forward and shouted into the night:
"Come on, ghosts! Let's go!"
Humming a tune, I drove all the way back without a hitch.
When I returned to the dorms, everyone was asleep except Tang, who'd laid out food and drinks in my room.I hugged him tight.
But instead of looking happy, he just sighed."Brother, thank god you made it back."
Something in his tone unsettled me. "What's that supposed to mean? With my fate, what's there to worry about?"
Tang hesitated, then admitted softly:"I was afraid you'd psych yourself out. There was no fortune-teller. I made that up."
The smile froze on my face.
I wasn't ghost-proof. Not at all.
And then he added, almost whispering:"I asked around today. Ten years ago, before those three drivers crashed into the reservoir… each of them had a passenger—a frail old woman who left behind a vegetable basket. You didn't see her tonight… did you?"
At his words, the chill wasn't just on my back. It seeped down to the soles of my feet.