This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/VibratingNinja on 2025-07-11 05:28:43+00:00.

The lights of the bus hum faintly, casting an eerie glow over the empty seats. It’s just past midnight, and I’m nearing the end of my shift. My eyes ache from hours of staring through the windshield, navigating the same route I’ve driven for years. I’m ready to call it a night, park this beast, sink into a barstool, and let a cold beer drown the night.

I spot a lone figure standing at the next stop, hunched under the dim streetlights. I ease the bus to a halt, the doors hissing open. He steps aboard. He’s a tall, lanky man dragging a large suitcase behind him. The thing is bulky, scuffed, and heavy-looking, like it’s packed with bricks. He’s wearing a ragged surgical mask, probably had it since covid. It was pulled tight over his face. It obscures everything but his eyes, which dart nervously, avoiding mine. I offer my usual “Evening,” but he mumbles something incoherent, a low, garbled sound that sounded like it came from a bad dream. He shoves a crumpled bill into the fare box and lurches toward the back, the suitcase scraping along the floor.

I glance at him in the overhead mirror as I pull away. He’s sitting alone, slouched, one hand resting on the suitcase like it’s a pet. Something about him sets my nerves on edge, but I shake it off. Just another late-night passenger. This city’s a zoo at this hour, and I’ve seen every kind of animal.

A few stops later, he stands abruptly, shuffling his feet to the rear door. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word, just stumbles off into the dark. The doors close, and I’m alone again, the bus rumbling toward the end of the route. My shoulders loosen a bit. Almost done.

I pull into the depot, the lot quiet except for the steady hum of the other buses idling in the fuel line. I grab my clipboard and start my post trip inspection. Gotta make sure no one’s passed out in the back or left their phone under a seat. I move down the aisle, scanning the rows. Nothing out of place. No forgotten umbrellas, no sleeping drunks.

Then I see it. The suitcase. Tucked under the seat where the masked guy was sitting. My stomach twists. People forget things all the time. I’m always turning in lost wallets, bags, hats, but this thing? It’s too big, too bulky to be simply forgotten. I step closer, crouching to get a better look. The suitcase is old, canvas fraying at the edges, with a zipper that looks rusted. And then I notice it: a dark, wet stain spreading across the floor beneath it. My breath catches. I notice the air smells faintly metallic, like copper.

I kneel down next to it, my heart thumping louder than it should. The stain glistens in the dim light, and I lean closer, squinting. It’s not coffee or soda. It’s thick, red. Blood. A cold sweat prickles my skin. My hand hovers over the suitcase, trembling. “I should just call it in, let someone else deal with this” I think to myself. But my fingers brush the zipper, and some stupid part of me needs to know.

The zipper sticks at first, like it’s fighting to keep its secrets. The zipper finally gives way, and the suitcase flops open. Inside, packed tight, are pieces. Human pieces. Arms, legs, a torso, chopped up like meat in a butcher’s shop. The flesh is pale, slick with blood, and a hand sits on top, fingers curled like they were searching for a way out. My stomach lurches, and I stumble back, my boots slipping in the pooling blood.

I can’t look away. The horror’s too real. That masked man’s garbled voice echoes in my skull, low and twisted. Who was this poor soul? And who was he? This city has her secrets, and I feel like I just unzipped one that didn't want to be told.