Short Scary Stories

Letter from the ritual - Part 2

Part II.

I'm still alive. I'm a diner, I guess. It's a weird diner. Like, really weird.

I'm losing it, Em.

This place - let me describe the bus first. The bus: Jesus. The bus. The pasta said I wasn't supposed to talk to anybody on the bus. Not hard. The bus was a horror movie.

The lights would go on and off in the aisle. When the lights were on, you could see the other passengers. I liked it better when you couldn't.

There were probably fifteen other people on the bus. That *shudder* thing waiting with me at the bus stop didn't get on. I had to walk past it to get to the bus door. It didn't move. After I sat down in the bus (I gave the driver a dollar, I went to the thirteenth row, I followed the directions), I looked out the window. Even in the dim not-quite morning light I could see it. It was tall and black and moved in a weird way. Like all of its bones had been broken and put back together. Or maybe like it had stolen other bones and put them inside of it.

I saw it crawl into the sewer entrance. I don't know how it fit. It bent, I think. And then the bus was gone, driving through what should have been recognizable streets. But they weren't. They weren't at all.

The pasta said my phone wouldn't work. And it doesn't. It just keeps telling me it's searching for a network. So I have to try and remember these bullshit instructions perfectly. And it sucks. All the ritual pastas I've ever read are blending together. I can't remember what I'm even supposed to say at this diner when they ask me for coffee.

But oh god: the bus.

These things in the seats. They had hoods up. Black clothes. But I saw things. Tentacles. I think I saw tentacles. I heard gurgling. One was dripping, for god's sake. And the smell. The smell. The smell.

The bus driver stopped twice. At the third stop, I remembered I had to get off. I didn't want to get off. I didn't want to walk by those things. I finally stood up. They all looked. I didn't. That was in the instructions: don't look the passengers in the face. I tried to forget the instructions added, "if they have one."

The aisle to the front of the bus felt like miles. Maybe longer? What's a league? Is that strictly an underwater measurement? Whatever. It took longer than forever.

And then one of them said my name. Quietly. Very quietly. It said my name and my birthday. It said the name of my old dog. Its voice sounded like a toy someone had left out in the rain. They all began to repeat a litany of me, all my secrets, all my stories, all my life's moments in a horrendously low clatter, and I just kept going until I got to the door.

I jumped out and the bus creaked away. The sky had gotten darker instead of lighter. I was on a street corner, surrounded by office buildings and closed storefronts. The diner I was looking for was across the street. I could hear traffic but I couldn't see any. The diner sign buzzed a dizzy neon. I crossed the street and went in.

Now I'm here, waiting for a waitress. That's the next part. There's a couple of other people in here. They're just staring at their cups of coffee. I'm not looking at anyone. The air is blue from cigarettes but nobody in here is smoking. Explain that, please. Explain anything.

I don't know what's going on. The waitress is coming. That's what she said. Ha! That's for you, girl. I'm trying to keep it together.