I Work at a Bus Station. This is my SCARIEST story.

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I took the job at Greyhound's Overnight Depot because they paid cash and didn't ask why I'd been through six different gigs in the past eight months. That was pretty much it for me. The manager who hired me looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, which worked fine since I felt the same way about most job interviews.

The terminal sat out where the city kind of gave up on itself. You know those areas where warehouses turn into empty lots and the street lights get further apart? That's where they stuck this place, a concrete box that looked like someone designed it to be forgotten. The whole building processed maybe 30 passengers between midnight and 6:00 AM when the real station shut down.

Late night travellers heading to places that probably didn't want them either. My shift started at 11:30. I'd grab my supplies from a closet that smelled like industrial disinfectant and something else I couldn't place. Something metallic. The waiting area had those plastic chairs bolted to the floor in rows of four, a couple vending machines that hum too loud, and fluorescent lights that flickered just enough to make you think something was wrong with your eyes.

Henry King ran the overnight crew. He'd been working graves for 15 years and looked like every single one of those nights had left marks. Stocky guy, maybe 6 feet, with graying hair and hands that always smelled like cigarettes. Even when he wasn't smoking, which wasn't often, he kept a pack of Marlboros in a shirt pocket and another in his jacket, just in case.

Job's not complicated, Henry told me during my first shift. He walked me around the terminal while I tried to memorize where everything was. Clean the bathrooms every hour, mop the waiting area twice a night, keep those vending machines stocked. And here's the crucial part. He stopped walking and looked at me directly.

You see passengers who want to be left alone. You leave them alone. Don't try to help, don't try to talk. Some people travel overnight because they don't want to be seen. I figured he meant runaways or people dodging.

Something made sense. What about lost property? Log it. Everything goes in the book. Henry pulled out a thick notebook with a blue cover.

The pages looked like they've been handled by a lot of different people. Date, time, location, description. I'll show you the storage room later. The first two nights went exactly like Henry said they would. I mopped floors that didn't need mopping and cleaned bathrooms that maybe two people used all night.

The passengers kept to themselves. Most of them look tired in a way that went deeper than just staying up late. They'd sit in those plastic chairs with their bags clutched tight and stare at nothing until their bus showed up. I kind of like the routine. No customers asking stupid questions, no managers checking on me every 10 minutes.

Just me and the terminal and the sound of buses pulling in and out of the Bay doors. Third night, change things. I was doing my rounds around 2:00 AM when I spotted something under bench 17. A leather suitcase, brown and expensive looking. The kind of luggage that belonged in airports, not bus stations.

Someone had shoved it way back under the bench like they'd tried to hide it. I checked the waiting area first, 3 passengers total, all sleeping or pretending to sleep. Nobody looked like they owned high end luggage. The woman by the window had a backpack that had seen better decades. The old man near the bathroom clutched a plastic grocery bag.

The guy in the corner had nothing at all. Protocol was simple. Log it, store it, move on. I grabbed the handle and lifted. The cold hit my palms like I'd grab dry ice.

Not just cold, burning cold that went straight through my work gloves and into my skin. I dropped the case immediately, but the damage was already done. My palms felt like someone had pressed them against a freezer coil. When I looked down, there were frost patterns spreading across my gloves. Actual frost in a heated building in October.

What the hell? I said, probably louder than I should have. That's when Henry appeared. I swear he just materialized from somewhere behind me, moving faster than a guy his age should be able to move. He took one look at my hands, then at the suitcase, and his whole face changed.

Not surprised exactly, more like someone who'd been waiting for this to happen. Don't touch it again, he said. He pulled what looked like emergency blankets from his jacket pocket. The silver kind they give you after accidents. Henry wrapped the suitcase carefully, using the blankets like insulation, and picked it up with no problems at all.

How are you holding that? My hands still felt like I'd stuck them in a snowbank. Experience, Henry said. He was already walking toward the back of the terminal, carrying the wrapped case like it weighed nothing. Come on, time.

You saw the storage room? I'd walked past that hallway dozens of times during my first two nights. I thought it just led to more bathrooms or maybe an office. But Henry stopped at a door I hadn't noticed before. Not that it was hidden or anything.

It just looked like part of the wall until you really focused on it. Gray metal, no window, no sign. Henry pulled out a key ring with more keys than any maintenance job should require. The lock clicked three times before the door opened. Lost property goes in here, Henry said, stepping inside.

I followed and immediately wished I hadn't. The room was bigger than it should have been, stretching back further than the building's exterior walls would allow. Shelves lined both sides, filled with suitcases, backpacks, boxes, and things I couldn't identify in the dim light. Everything was wrapped in those emergency blankets, and the whole space hummed with a sound like electrical interference.

Henry placed the wrapped suitcase on an empty shelf and wrote something in a different notebook, this one black, with pages that looked older than the building itself. What is this place? I asked. Henry closed the notebook and looked at me. Part of the job you're ready for now.

Some lost property needs special handling. My hands were starting to warm up, but I could still see the frost patterns on my gloves. Special how you'll learn as you go. Henry locked the door with that same three click sequence. For now, just remember the protocol.

Anything that feels wrong, anything that doesn't act like normal lost property, you call me immediately. Don't try to handle it yourself. We walked back toward the main terminal. The passengers were still sleeping or pretending to sleep. The vending machine still hummed too loud.

Everything looked exactly the same, but something had shifted, like I'd been working in a different building this whole time and only now was seeing the real 1. Henry. I said as we reach the supply closet. How long have you been doing this? Long enough.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Welcome to the real job, Vernon. Henry sat down on the plastic chair next to the supply closet and pulled out another cigarette. I figured he was done talking, but he just lit it up and kept going. That suitcase tonight, he said.

That's the easy stuff. Cold luggage, hot briefcases, bags that won't stay closed, those are just holding on to whatever their owners left behind. I was still rubbing my hands together. The feeling was coming back, but slow. Left behind emotional residue.

Henry took a long drag. Some people die on buses, Vernon. Heart attacks in the bathroom stalls, overdoses in the back seats, suicides in rest stop parking lots. And sometimes when they go, their stuff doesn't want to let go of them. He pointed his cigarette toward the hidden storage room.

Most of that junk in there belonged to dead people. The really problematic pieces become anchors. Anchors for what? Remnants. Henry said it like that, explained everything.

Fragments of the dead who can't accept their trips ended. I probably looked confused because he kept explaining. Think about it, these people bought tickets to somewhere else. They were in transit moving towards something different. Then they died before they got there.

Some part of them get stuck in the in between. This sounded like complete bullshit. I mean Henry seemed like a straight shooter, but this was getting into ghost story territory. I figured it was some kind of elaborate hazing thing. New guy gets the supernatural orientation speech.

Everyone has a laugh later. So you're saying the Depot is haunted? Not haunted, occupied. Henry flicked ash onto the floor. There's a difference.

I nodded. Like that made sense, right? You'll see one eventually. Probably sooner than later, since you already handled a charged item. He stood up and crushed the cigarette under his boot.

When you do, don't try to talk to them. Just call me. That was it for the supernatural briefing. Henry went back to checking the vending machines, and I kept mopping the same section of floor until my shift ended at six. The next few nights were normal.

Well, normal for a bus depot. Tired people, weird smells, the occasional drunk guy who needed to be redirected away from the bathrooms, no ghost luggage, no dead passengers. I started thinking Henry was just messing with me. Then I saw her 315 on a Thursday morning. I was doing my hourly bathroom check when I came back into the waiting area and there she was. middle-aged woman sitting in seat 12, hands folded in her lap.

She had on a brown wool coat that looked like something from the 80s, maybe earlier. Her hair was permed tight to her head and she wore thick rimmed glasses. Nothing weird about that. Except she was completely still. Not fidgeting, not checking her phone, not doing anything, just sitting there staring straight ahead at the departure board.

I kept cleaning, figured she was just tired, but after 20 minutes of mopping around her, I realized she hadn't moved once, hadn't blinked, hadn't shifted in her seat or adjusted her purse or done any of the tiny things people do when they're waiting. That's when I noticed the ticket in her hand. It was yellow.

Our tickets are white with blueprinting. Always have been, according to Henry. This one looked old, like it had been sitting in a drawer for years. I walked closer, trying to be casual about it. The ticket was dated November 15th, 1987.

Departure time, 3:30 AM, destination Nashville. I checked the clock, 328. The woman's lips were moving slightly, like she was whispering something. I couldn't hear what. Her eyes never left the departure board, even though Nashville wasn't listed anywhere on it.

I should have called Henry right then. That was the protocol, but I wanted to be sure I wasn't losing my mind first. Excuse me, I said. Are you waiting for the Nashville bus? She didn't respond, didn't even look at me, just kept staring at the board with that ancient ticket in her hand.

I waved my hand in front of her face. Nothing. She might as well have been a mannequin. That's when I called Henry. He showed up in about 30 seconds, carrying one of those unmarked bottles from his pocket.

This one was clear liquid, looked like water. He didn't seem surprised to see the woman at all. Step back, he said quietly. Henry walked right up to her and sprayed the bench with whatever was in the bottle. The smell hit me immediately.

Ammonia mixed with something metallic. The woman flickered like ATV with bad reception, then just dissolved. One second she was there, the next she was gone. All that was left was condensation on the plastic seat and the smell of copper pennies, diluted ammonia and silver nitrate. Henry said, wiping down the bottle.

Breaks the connection. I stared at the empty seat. She was real, real as anything else. Henry pocketed the bottle. That was Margaret Henley.

She shows up every few months, always trying to catch the 3:30 to Nashville. Been dead since 1988. How do you know her name? Looked it up after the first time she appeared. Bus crash outside Knoxville January 3rd.

She was going to visit her sister. Henry sat down in the seat next to where Margaret had been. The plastic was still damp. This place exists in transitional space, he said. It's not an origin and it's not a destination.

It's permanent. In between, that attracts certain types of dead people, the ones who got stuck between worlds. I was having trouble processing this. So they just show up cyclically, same dates, same times, trying to catch buses that don't run anymore. Henry lit another cigarette.

Margaret comes around every two or three months. There's a guy named Frank who appears on Sundays, always looking for the route to Chicago. A woman with a baby who died in the bathroom in 2006. How many are there? Dozen or so regulars, plus the occasional one timer.

Henry blew smoke toward the ceiling. The trick is learning to spot them before they become disruptive over the next few weeks. I got good at it. Henry was right. They had tells.

The tickets were always wrong, either too old or for roots that didn't exist anymore. Sometimes the dates were impossible, like February 30th or the 32nd of a month. Their clothes were off, too. Not obviously, but when you paid attention, you'd notice things. A woman wearing a dress style that went out of fashion in the 90s.

A man with a briefcase that looked like something from the 70s, Shoes that were too shiny or coats that were too new for their apparent age. But the biggest tell was how they moved or didn't move. Living people fidget constantly. They scratch their noses, adjust their clothes, shift their weight. They blink every few seconds, and their eyes track movement naturally.

Remnants didn't do any of that. They sat perfectly still, focused on whatever phantom departure they were waiting for. Their eyes didn't follow you when you walked by, they didn't react to noise or changes in lighting, and they never, ever blinked. Once you knew what to look for, they were pretty obvious. The hard part was getting used to the fact that they were there at all.

Henry had a different bottle for different types. The ammonia mixture worked on most of them, but some needed salt water. One particularly stubborn guy who appeared near the bathrooms required something that smelled like vinegar and made my eyes water. Different anchors, different solutions, Henry explained after I watched him dissolve a teenager who'd been sitting in the same spot for three hours.

Trial and error, mostly. I asked him once how long this had been going on since I started working here. He said probably longer. This building's been a transit point for 70 years. A lot of people died passing through.

That was the part that got to me, not the supernatural stuff. I was getting used to that. But thinking about all those people who never made it to wherever they were going, all those interrupted journeys, Henry seemed to read my mind. Don't get sentimental about it, he said. They're not really people anymore, just echoes.

Helping them move on is the kindest thing you can do. I figured he was probably right, but it still bugged me sometimes, watching them disappear. Henry spent the next week teaching me the ammonia protocol. That's what he called it, anyway, made it sound official. The chemical disrupts whatever energy lets them stick around, he said, holding up one of his bottles during a slow Tuesday night.

Don't ask me how, I just know it works. He showed me how to mix the solution. Three parts water, one part ammonia. Couple drops of the silver nitrate stuff he kept locked in a cabinet behind the lost and found desk. Had to shake it just right too.

Not too much or it'd separate. Not too little or it wouldn't bind properly. Bindings crucial. Henry said The silver is what really breaks the connection. Ammonia just carries it where it needs to go.

I figured he'd learned this through trial and error. Probably spent years trying different combinations until something worked. That was Henry, though. Practical, he'd test a theory until it broke or proved itself. The work became routine after that.

Kind of surprised me how fast I adapted to it. See a remnant. Document the siding, spray the affected area. Log everything in Henry's private Ledger. He kept it separate from the regular lost property book.

Black leather cover pages, yellow with age. The Ledger tracked patterns going back to when the depot opened in 1952. Names, dates, locations where they appeared. Most showed up in cycles. Margaret Henley every few months, Frank on Sundays.

The woman with the baby appeared quarterly, always around the anniversary of her death. Helps to know what we're dealing with, Henry said one night, pointing to an entry from 1978. Frank's been trying to catch that Chicago bus for 43 years. Always sits in the same spot, always has the same conversation with himself about being late for work.

I started recognizing the tells faster. Wrong ticket colors, outdated clothing. The way they held themselves too perfectly still. Living people fidget, they shift weight, scratch their nose, check the time remnants just existed in whatever position they locked into. The logging became automatic.

Date, time, location, description, method of removal. 3 weeks in, I could handle most sightings without calling Henry. Spray, document, clean up the residue. The copper penny smell always lingered for about 10 minutes after then everything went back to normal. I thought I had it figured out.

That was stupid. Thursday night, 247. AMI was checking the women's bathroom. Like always, Henry insisted on hourly checks after midnight. Something about the bathroom being a convergence point never explained what that meant exactly.

I pushed open the door and stopped. The kid was standing by the sinks, Maybe 7 years old school uniform, white blouse, blue skirt, little tie, clutching a stuffed rabbit against her chest. The rabbit was grey, well worn, missing one eye. My hand went automatically to the ammonia bottle on my belt protocol document spray log.

But something felt different about this one. She wasn't perfectly still like the others. Her head was tilted slightly, like she was listening for something. I reached for the bottle and that's when she spoke. When's my mother coming to pick me up?

I froze. Remnants never spoke, not directly anyway. Margaret sometimes moved her lips but never made actual words. Frank mumbled to himself. But it was always the same loop about being late.

This was different. This was a question directed at me. I've been waiting a long time, the kid said. Her voice was small, confused. Miss Peterson said she called my mom, but that was after the assembly.

My radio was in my hand before I decided to grab it. Henry, need you in the women's bathroom now. On my way. The kid looked at me with these big dark eyes. Are you supposed to help me find her?

I don't know where the office is from here. Henry showed up 30 seconds later, took one look at the kid, and went pale. Actually pale. I've never seen Henry rattled by anything before. Jesus Christ, he said quietly.

What? I kept my voice low. What's different about this one? Henry stepped back into the hallway. Motion for me to follow.

The kid stayed by the sinks, still holding her rabbit. That's not a remnant, Henry said. That's a wanderer. What's the difference? Remnants are echoes stuck in a loop, playing out the same moment over and over.

Wanderers are different. They died so suddenly they don't realize they're dead yet. I look back through the bathroom door. The Kid was examining her reflection in the Mirror Now, straightening her tie. Why is that worse?

Because Wanderers can become aware of their condition, Henry said. And when they do, that awareness changes them, transforms them into something hostile, something that doesn't want to move on. The Kid called out from the bathroom. Excuse me, do you know what time it is? My mom gets worried if I'm late.

Henry rubbed his face. We need a specialist for this, someone trained to handle Wanderers without triggering awareness. You don't know how I know how to disperse remnants. Wanderers require a different approach entirely. Wrong move, and we could have a real problem on our hands.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through contacts. I've got someone I can call, but they can't get here until morning. The kid appeared in the bathroom doorway. Are you talking about me? I can hear you whispering.

Henry and I both went very still. We're just figuring out the best way to help you find your mother. Henry said carefully. The kid nodded. OK, I'll wait here then.

She always finds me eventually. She went back to the sinks. Henry was already dialing. Carmen, it's Henry. I need you at the depot.

We've got a Wanderer situation. He listened for a moment. No, I can't handle this one. Kids already talking, already aware something's off. Need you here first thing.

Another pause. Fine, 6:00 AM. But if this goes sideways before then, I'm calling emergency protocols. Henry hung up and looked at me. We're going to babysit until morning.

Keep her calm, keep her from asking too many questions, and for God's sake, don't let her figure out what really happened to her. The specialist couldn't arrive until morning. That meant six hours of keeping a dead kid entertained without letting her realize she was dead. I figured it was going to be a long night.

I'll stay with her. I said. Henry looked relieved, and I figured he had backup plans to work on anyway. The kind of backup plans you need when a 7 year old ghost might figure out she's not supposed to be here. Keep her talking about normal stuff.

Henry said. School, friends, whatever she wants to chat about, don't let her think too hard about where she is. That was the plan, simple enough. I walked back into the bathroom. She was still by the sinks, holding that Gray rabbit.

Cotton, she'd called it. One button eye missing. Probably loved half to death before she died the rest of the way. Hi again, I said. She looked up at me with these big brown eyes.

Is my mom coming soon? Should be. You know how traffic gets. I leaned against the wall, trying to look casual. What's your rabbit's name again, Cotton?

She held him up. I got him when I was 4. Mom said I could pick any toy in the store and I picked him because he looked lonely. That's nice of you. He used to have two eyes, but one fell off.

Mom said we could sew a new one on, but I told her Cotton likes being different. Don't you, Cotton? She made the rabbit not. This was going OK normal kids stuff. I could handle normal kids stuff for three hours.

What grade are you in? I asked. Second, Missus Patterson is my teacher. She's really nice, but she makes us do multiplication tables every morning and I'm not very good at those yet. She swung her legs a little.

Do you know multiplication tables? Some of them. What, 7 * 8? I had to think about it. 56 Wow, you're smart.

She smiled. I can only do the easy ones, like 2 * 2 is 4 and 5 * 5 is 25. We talked like that for maybe 20 minutes. School stuff, her friends Sarah and Jessica, how Cotton had gotten his name. Normal things a normal kid would say to kill time while waiting for her mom.

But then she started looking around more. This place is kind of old, isn't it? She said. Yeah, been here a while. She pointed at the pay phone mounted on the wall by the door.

Why do they have those old phones? The ones with the curly cords? Shit, I hadn't even noticed those. They probably put them in back when the depot opened and never bothered updating. Some people still use them, I said.

But everyone has cell phones now. Not everyone. She tilted her head. My mom has a cell phone. It's pink and it flips open.

Do you have a cell phone? I pulled mine out. Basic flip phone, nothing fancy. Yeah. She stared at it.

That's not like the ones at school. The ones kids have are different. They're like little computers. My phone was maybe 5 years old. Not exactly cutting edge, but not ancient either.

But if she was comparing it to whatever kids had at school, there are lots of different kinds. I said. I guess she didn't sound convinced. I tried to change the subject. Tell me more about Cotton.

But she was looking around again, really looking this time. Where is everyone? She asked. What do you mean there's no other kids here? If there was an assembly and parents had to pick kids up, wouldn't there be more kids waiting?

My mouth went dry. Maybe you're the last one. But Miss Peterson called lots of parents. I heard her on the phone. She was calling and calling.

She hugged Cotton tighter. Where are all the other kids? I don't know. Maybe they got picked up already. All of them.

Could be. She was quiet for a minute, then she asked. What year is it? The question hit me like a punch. What?

What year is it? I know it sounds dumb, but I feel all mixed up. Like when you wake up from a really long nap and you don't know what time it is. I opened my mouth, closed it. What the hell was I supposed to say?

I couldn't tell her the year she died in 2006, according to Henry, it was 2024. Now, 18 years later, it's I started. You don't know, she said. Not a question, a statement. Of course I know.

Then what year is it? I just stood there like an idiot. Her eyes got wider. You don't know what year it is. I'm just tired.

It's late, but grown-ups always know what year it is, even when they're tired. Her voice was getting higher. Why don't you know? Cotton's remaining button eye seemed to stare right at me. Something's wrong, she whispered.

The temperature in the bathroom dropped like someone had opened a freezer. My breath started misting. Everything's fine, I said, but my voice came out shaky. No, it's not. She stood up, still clutching cotton.

Nothing's right. The phones are wrong, and there's no other kids and you don't know what year it is and why is it so cold? Her form flickered, just for a second, like when the cable goes out during a storm. There one moment, fuzzy the next, then solid again. I want my mom, she said.

I want my mom right now. Cotton's button eye started bleeding, black liquid thick as tar oozing down the Gray fabric. I want to go home, she screamed. I fumble for the spray bottle, hands shaking, but I got it out and aimed it at her. The ammonia mixture went right through her like she was made of smoke.

Henry, I yelled. Henry, get in here. The bathroom door slammed open and Henry charged in, carrying a different bottle. Clear liquid, but I could smell it from across the room. Sharp and clean.

Holy water, maybe salt. But it was too late. The kids fingers were stretching, getting longer and thinner, turning black at the tips. Sharp Cotton's eye wasn't just bleeding now, both eye sockets were empty holes leaking that black stuff all over her white school blouse. Her jaw started unhinging like a snake getting ready to swallow something too big.

She opened her mouth and screamed. Every mirror in the bathroom exploded. The one over the sinks, the little round one by the paper towel dispenser, even the scratched up metal one someone had stuck on the back of a stall door. Glass everywhere, tinkling down like deadly rain. Henry and I just stood there, watching our careful plan fall apart in real time.

We'd blown it completely. I didn't think about it, just moved. The fire extinguisher hung right outside the bathroom door, one of those red metal ones that probably hadn't been serviced since the Clinton administration. I grabbed it off the wall mount and felt the weight in my hands. Heavy, solid, real.

The child, whatever she'd become, had her back to me, still clutching that rabbit cotton. Her fingers had stretched into these black claws and her jaw was unhinged like a snake, but she held that stuffed animal against her chest like it was the only thing keeping her together. Which maybe it was. I'd seen enough weird shit in the past month to know that sometimes the obvious answer is the right 1.

Henry always said remnants needed anchors, something to hold them here. And this kid? She'd been carrying that rabbit the whole time, talking about it, protective of it. Cotton likes being different, she'd said. That rabbit wasn't just a toy, it was her lifeline.

I raised the extinguisher over my head. The child turned toward me, and I got a good look at what she'd become. Her eyes were gone, just empty sockets leaking that same black stuff that had been coming out of Cotton's missing button eye. Her mouth stretched impossibly wide, filled with rows of needle teeth.

But her arms. She still held that rabbit like it was precious. I brought the extinguisher down hard. The metal base connected with Cotton's Gray fabric body and there was this wet tearing sound. Not like cloth ripping, like something organic giving way.

The rabbit split open and this black icor poured out, thick as motor oil stain the white bathroom tiles. The effect was instant. The child's scream cut off mid shriek. Her stretched fingers snapped back to normal size. Her jaw clicked shut, the empty eye sockets filled back in with brown eyes.

Normal little girl eyes. Confused and scared. She looked down at the torn rabbit in her arms. Cotton stuffing was mixed with that black liquid, creating this gross Gray sludge that smelled like copper pennies and something rotten. Cotton.

She whispered. Then she looked up and saw herself in the broken mirror, fragments scattered across the floor, dozens of reflections, each showing the same thing, the translucent little girl flickering like a bad TV signal. I'm see through, she said, matter of fact, like she was observing the weather. I dropped the extinguisher. It hit the tile with a loud clang that echoed off the bathroom walls.

I'm dead, she said. Not a question, just understanding. Finally hitting her, Henry stepped around me, moving carefully through the broken glass. He had a small leather pouch in his hands and was pulling things out of it. A piece of white chalk, some kind of dried herb that looked like sage.

A small bottle with clear liquid. What's your name, sweetheart? He asked the child. Emma. She said, still staring at her reflection.

Emma Richardson. Emma, I need you to listen to me very carefully, Henry said. He was drawing something on the floor with a chalk, a circle with symbols inside it that hurt to look at directly. You've been waiting here for a long time. Too long.

I want to go home, Emma said. I know you do, Henry said. And you can, but not the way you think. He lit the herb with a disposable lighter. It didn't burn like normal sage.

The smoke was silver and it moved wrong, flowing upward in perfect spirals instead of drifting naturally. This is going to help you find your way. Henry said. He opened the bottle and poured the liquid into the chalk circle. It hissed when it hit the cymbals, like acid on metal.

Emma looked at me. Will cotton be OK? I glanced down at the destroyed rabbit. The black ecore was already starting to evaporate, leaving just regular stuffing and torn fabric. Yeah, I said cotton will be fine.

It wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't exactly false either. Henry started speaking. Not in English, not in any language I recognized. The words felt heavy in the air, like they had physical weight. They made my teeth ache and my vision blur at the edges.

The silver smoke from the burning herb began to swirl around Emma. She didn't look scared anymore, just tired. I remember now, she said the assembly was about stranger danger and after I was walking to the pickup area and there was this van. Her voice got quieter as the smoke thickened around her. Mom must be so worried, she said.

Henry kept chanting. The words seem to pull at something in the air itself, creating this pressure that made my ears pop. Emma's form started to fade, not flickering this time, just gradually becoming more transparent, like watercolor paint being diluted. Tell my mom I wasn't scared at the end, she said. And then she was gone, just smoke and the smell of silver and the echo of Henry's words fading into silence.

Henry sat back on his heels, breathing hard. The chalk circle was gone like it had never been there. The herbs had burned completely away, leaving no ash. Jesus, I said she's at peace now. Henry said.

He gathered up his supplies and put them back in the leather pouch. She was stuck in that moment of confusion right after death, couldn't understand why no one was coming for her. I looked at the broken mirrors, the glass scattered everywhere, the torn remnants of cotton. We should clean this up before the next ship arrives.

I said. Already handled, Henry said. He pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Carmen. Yeah, it's done.

Emma Richardson, seven years old, died 2006. She's moved on. Yeah. Vernon figured out the anchor solution. 6:00 AM.

Works back bathroom. He hung up and looked at me. Carmen Oliver. She's with an organization called the Threshold Society. She'll want to meet you.

Why? Because what you just did? Henry said. That was good thinking. Most people would have tried to fight the entity directly, spray bottle, physical force, whatever.

But you went for the anchor. That shows understanding. I picked up a few pieces of broken mirror, careful not to cut myself. I just saw how she was holding the rabbit, I said. Exactly.

Henry said. That kind of intuition can't be taught. We spent the next few hours cleaning up, swept up all the glass, mop the black stains off the floor, replace the broken mirrors from a supply closet I hadn't known existed. By the time we finished, the bathroom looked normal again, like nothing had happened.

The depot started filling up with early morning commuters around 5:30. People heading to work, travelling to visit family. The usual mix of tired travellers with normal problems and normal destinations. Carmen Oliver arrived right at six. She didn't look like what I'd expected.

Mid 30s, professional clothes, carried herself like someone used to being in charge. Had this leather satchel over her shoulder that looked expensive. Henry introduced us in the break room. She shook my hand with a firm grip and studied my face like she was reading something written there. Henry tells me you handled the Richardson situation well, she said.

I just broke her toy. I said you identified the anchor and neutralized it without harming the entity, Carmen said. That's not instinct everyone has when dealing with threshold entities. Threshold entities, beings caught between states, Carmen said. She sat down across from me at the small break room table.

Living and dead, here and elsewhere, past and present, the depot sits on what we call a soft boundary, makes it easier for things to slip through and report coffee from the ancient machine in the corner. Carmen's organization specializes in boundary work. They handle situations too complex for local protocols, and we're always looking for people with natural aptitude, Carmen said.

She opened her leather satchel and pulled out a folder. Henry's been filing reports about you since your first week. I looked at Henry. Reports. The suitcase, Henry said.

How you handled the cold. Most people would have kept grabbing at it, trying to force it. You dropped it immediately and stepped back. It was freezing my hands off. Exactly.

You recognized something unnatural and responded appropriately. Carmen said. Then with Margaret Henley. You observed her for 20 minutes before calling for help. You were gathering information instead of panicking.

She flipped through some pages in the folder. The ammonia protocols, Henry says you learn them faster than anyone he's trained. You can identify remnants by their tells within seconds now. It's not that hard once you know what to look for. I said it is for most people, Henry said.

He sat down with his coffee. I've tried training others over the years. They either can't handle the psychological weight or they overthink everything. You just adapt. Carmen pulled out a business card and slid it across the table.

Plain white card with black text, Threshold Society and a phone number. Nothing else. We'd like to offer you a position, she said. Doing what? Boundary maintenance.

There are locations like this depot all over the country, places where the barrier between worlds gets thin. Most need someone on site to handle incidents. I picked up the card. The paper felt strange, heavier than it should be. Henry's been testing you, Carmen said.

The depot isn't just a bus station that happens to have supernatural problems. It's a training facility. We use it to identify people who can do this kind of work. Testing me how? Henry lit a cigarette.

The suitcase wasn't random. I put it there, wanted to see how you'd react to your first encounter. You set me up. I gave you an opportunity, Henry said. You could have quit after that first night.

Most people do. But you came back, asked questions, learn the protocols. Carmen leaned forward. Henry's been doing this for 15 years. In that time, he's identified exactly 3 people with the right combination of intuition and stability for boundary work.

What happened to the other two? One works a lighthouse in Maine, Henry said, handles maritime spirits. The other manages the old theater in New Orleans. Different problems, same principles. I thought about my job history.

The construction gig I'd quit after two weeks because the foreman gave me the creeps. The warehouse position that lasted a month before I couldn't stand being there anymore. The restaurant job where I kept getting distracted by shadows that moved wrong. I've never been able to hold down regular work, I said. Because you're sensitive to boundary disturbances, Carmen said.

Most jobs are in spaces that feel wrong to people like you. Too much residual energy from stress, conflict, unhappiness. It builds up over time. That made sense. I'd always felt restless in normal workplaces, like there was something off about them that I couldn't identify.

The depot feels different, I said, because it's being actively maintained, Henry said. We clear the negative energy regularly, keep things balanced. It's a clean workspace for people who can sense spiritual residue. Carmen, close the folder. The position comes with housing, full benefits and a salary that's significantly better than custodial work.

But it's not easy. You'll see things that most people can't imagine. You'll help entities crossover who don't want to go. Sometimes you'll fail and have to live with that. I looked around the break room, the fluorescent lights, the ancient coffee machine, the motivational posters about teamwork that nobody had changed since the 90s.

It should have been depressing, but it felt right. What about Henry? I'll stay here. Henry said. Someone needs to run the depot, but you'd move on to a more challenging assignment after a few more months of training where there's a hospital in Oregon that needs someone.

Carmen said. Lots of threshold activity in medical facilities, death, birth trauma, creates unstable boundaries. I thought about Emma Richardson, how she'd looked when she finally understood what had happened to her, the relief in her voice when she said she remembered. She really moved on. I asked.

She's where she needs to be now, Carmen said. That wasn't exactly an answer, but it was enough. OK, I said. Carmen smiled. Just like that, I found something I'm good at, I said.

Something that matters. Why would I say no? Henry stubbed out his cigarette. That's what I figured you'd say. Carmen handed me another card, this one with an address.

Report here. Monday morning at 9:00. We'll start your formal training. I pocketed both cards and stood up. Through the break room window, I could see the depot filling up with the morning crowd.

Normal people with normal problems traveling to normal destinations. But now I knew there was more to it than that. The spaces between the things that got stuck in transition, the work that kept the boundaries stable. I'd found my calling finally.