Short Stories And Stuff

The Invisible Hand

When I got off work (this was a few hours ago) it was quite late—past midnight. I suppose I could have walked home, but again, it was late, and a shower was starting. Due to the rain, the night was darker than usual. At this point I was soaking wet, too; every step I took, there was a distinct splash! as my foot sank into a mid-sized puddle.

I live in a fairly small city, and the sidewalks are near-empty late at night. The only person I crossed paths with was a drunk man who tried to shake my hand.

I don't know how long I waited at the bus stop before I heard the sound of splashing footsteps — maybe a minute? Naturally, my reflex was to look around, expecting to find someone else on my side of the sidewalk, heading toward me. 

There was no one. No one at all. The only sign of life was a dark truck that barreled through the street and then disappeared.

The splashes didn't halt. They seemed to quicken to running pace, even. 

They were the distinct sound of footsteps.

I could even make out the whine of rubber boots, and breathing, between the splashes, though there was no disturbance on the water on the sidewalk, and no one around but me. 

When the splashes had nearly reached me, they slowed.

Splash.

A second of pause.

Splash.

Two seconds of pause.

Splash.

Real slow steps — kind of like the pace you'd take if you were admiring art at a museum. 

Splash.

The last of the splashes came from just in front of the shelter. 

I stood up from my seat (inside the shelter) and awkwardly checked arrival times; I wanted the bus NOW. Supposedly, the bus was on time. Which meant it should have arrived two minutes ago. Which did absolutely nothing to comfort me. 

Hands shaking, I looked away from the spot where I'd heard the last splash. I was oddly nervous, despite the fact that nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. No matter how much I told myself it made no sense, I couldn't shake it. There was someone there. I was sure of it.

The bus rolled in, and the rain quieted to a lull. The doors hissed open —  I can't tell you how relieved I was — and I ran toward them, completely forgetting that I wasn't alone. 

There was no bus driver. Just an empty seat.

No passengers.

There was a hollow sinking feeling within me as I registered this. It was strange. Glancing around the bus, I noted that it was empty — not a single one of the blue felt seats was occupied — but for whatever reason, it didn't feel that way. I can't explain it, but it was such a strong feeling. When I turned back to look at the driver's seat, I could feel the eyes on me — the driver's eyes. You might think I'm insane, but I swear, I SWEAR I could feel it. I just can't explain it.  

The bus was full. The passengers were whispering to each other — just too low for me to make out what they said.

It was... such a strong feeling. 

Something invisible shoved me back and I ended up sprawled on the sidewalk, but I staggered up when I heard the splashes.

Footsteps, heading toward the bus' open door.

I distinctly felt a hand press itself on my shoulder and shove me aside. The voice that spoke next was clear as day, but there was no one it could have come from.

"Excuse me, but I CAN'T miss this bus."

It sounded like the voice of an impatient middle-aged man.

Feet ascended the bus stairs — at least, the sound of them did. Then the doors hissed closed and the bus swerved around the corner. 

I ran home. I must have been on some kind of adrenaline high, because I didn't stop once and didn't tire. When I made it to my apartment, I slammed the door closed so hard that my roommate jumped out of his bed and switched on the light. He must have seen something on my face. 

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

I didn't answer. 

"I get it," he said. "You're freaked because of the stabbing. So am I, but you need to calm down."

"Stabbing?" I asked.

"You didn't hear?"

"I was working. How the hell should I know? How the hell would I HEAR?" 

He swallowed.

"A man was stabbed a few hours ago, not far from here. The cops were going door-to-door, asking questions."

"Is he dead?"

He nodded. Then his eyes got really wide, as if he was noticing something for the first time. 

"There's blood on your shirt."

I looked. Sure enough, there was a glistening hand-print, exactly where I'd been shoved. I hadn't noticed it.

Somehow I convinced him to drop it for now and let me sleep. He said he was expecting an explanation when I wake up. I've locked myself in my room, and he hasn't come to ask me any questions, but I know he will, eventually. He's a rational person. He'll want rational answers.

What do I do? Do I tell him the truth?

For r/nosleep.