On September fourth as daylight fell,
In southern Taiwan the story swelled,
Young Zhu ran fast through glass and sound,
His last ride north was leaving town.
To Taipei’s lights, a six-hour way,
He feared late seats and tight delay,
But breathless still, with ticket clutched,
He reached the bus just as it touched.
The doors swung wide, the driver stared,
Zhu climbed aboard, relieved, unscared,
He walked the aisle, then slowed in doubt—
Not one soul sat on seats throughout.
No chatter burst, no laughter rang,
Just engine hum and silence sang.
He checked the time, he checked the lane,
This was his route—yet eerie, plain.
The doors shut tight, the bus rolled free,
A private ride—just him and he.
He chose a seat near front in view,
And watched the city fade from blue
To drifting roads and highway lines,
Six hours of calm felt most divine.
A luxury ride, alone, at peace,
Until one sound broke gentle release—
A woman coughed just once behind.
His heart skipped hard inside his spine.
He whipped his head—no soul was there,
Just empty seats and stale night air.
“Wind,” he thought, or engine’s play,
Or driver’s sound that drifted his way.
He reasoned fear till fear felt thin,
Then drifted off to sleep again.
Hours passed by in drifting dark,
He woke mid-road with body stark.
A message glowed from friend back home,
“How goes the ride as north you roam?”
Zhu typed back fast with nervous grin,
“Bus is empty—just me within.”
His friend replied, “That bus is packed—
Send proof right now. That’s real suspect.”
Zhu turned his phone to snap the rear,
The image dim, the photo unclear.
So from his bag his pro cam shone,
A sharper eye than phone could hone.
He snapped once more—then leaned in close,
His breath ran cold inside his throat.
He zoomed the shot—and dread took form:
From ceiling’s dark a limb was born.
A massive arm, a reaching hand,
Bare, descending where seats should stand.
No body seen, no shoulder near,
Just flesh from shadow, bald with fear.
He checked the lens, he checked the frame,
The settings true, the image same.
He walked the aisle, back and forth,
But nothing moved of living worth.
His phone went dead with sudden chill,
No warning sign, no dropping fill.
The whisper came, not one—but many,
Soft voices thick like crowded panic.
Seat springs creaked as bodies swayed,
Yet every seat stood empty-stayed.
He dared not turn—he dared not move,
He folded tight and silent proved.
For hours he prayed through rising sound,
Through unseen weight that rocked around.
The driver drove as nothing stirred,
No sign he saw, no ghost he heard.
At last the bus slowed, lights grew bright,
Taipei at last broke endless night.
The whispers died, the air went still,
The engine hushed by terminal’s will.
Zhu rushed the aisle in shaking dread,
The driver stopped him—“You look half dead.”
At last Zhu showed the ghastly sight,
The arm that clawed from ceiling’s height.
The driver stared, then calmly said,
“You must not show this,” voice like lead.
“If word gets out of what you saw,
My business dies—no riders more.”
No shock, no scream, just cold routine,
As if this horror lived between
Each nightly run and roadside mile,
A secret dark beneath his smile.
Zhu nodded once and fled away,
His promise sealed with silent sway.
That night, red lanterns pierced the street,
A river of fire at ghostly feet.
The Hungry Ghost Festival had begun,
When spirits rise beneath moon and sun.
And then it clicked with sinking fear—
Why buses cleared the day before here.
For on that eve, the dead all roam,
And living best just stay at home.
Zhu shared the truth despite his vow,
The photo spread to millions now.
Some said, “You’re cursed,” some said, “You’re marked,”
Some urged him fast to heal the dark.
The fear grew worse, he locked it down,
Went quiet through his silent town.
Days passed with breath but no attack,
So Zhu convinced: “The danger’s past.”
But exactly one week to the day,
A headline tore his peace away:
A fatal wreck, six souls now gone,
Eleven more in blood withdrawn.
The driver’s face—he knew it well—
The same man from that haunted shell.
The bus was same, the route the same,
All screaming back the ghost’s true name.
Footage showed the final scene:
No phone, no yawn, no reckless lean.
But something drew his gaze aside—
He reached toward what the lens denied.
He grappled air—then came the blast,
Steel screamed death in seconds fast.
No one knew what seized his sight,
What pulled his hands from driving right.
Negligence was all they’d say,
A simple fault, a human way.
But Zhu still feels that reaching hand,
Still sees that arm from ceiling’s stand.
And deep inside one truth still rings:
Some buses carry other things.