ROUTE TO DARKNESS

The metallic sound of the TransMilenio turnstiles mingled with the muffled murmurs of the few passengers waiting. Ricaurte station was eerily empty, especially for a Friday night. Camilo, his eyes filled with anxiety, checked his watch for the third time in less than ten minutes: it was already past eleven at night. The red light display indicated that the last G43 service bound for Portal Sur would arrive in three minutes.

The station's pale lights flickered with an unsettling rhythm as the cold night air seeped through the gate the security guard had just closed. A homeless man, with gray, curly hair and skin scorched from constant sun exposure, walked by singing an unintelligible song. The loud noises he made by banging a can with his hand startled Camilo, who turned to look at him.

Finally, the red articulated bus appeared, screeching to a stop and sending shivers down his spine. The doors opened. Camilo, along with two other people, boarded quickly, seeking refuge from the cold and distancing themselves from the noise outside.

The air inside the bus felt thick, as though someone was watching from a corner of the vehicle. Most of the seats were empty, and the dim lights created an uncomfortable atmosphere. Camilo sat by the window, avoiding any corners where the shadows seemed to move with a life of their own. But something caught his attention: the thin screen displayed the name of the next station, and a blurry "66" appeared briefly before vanishing.

The bus started moving. The scenery outside blurred as they advanced. The streetlights and houses were replaced by a monotonous gray that became more indistinct as the speed increased. Camilo paid little attention. His tired eyes closed slowly, and he fell fast asleep.

A scream woke him abruptly, and he saw a shadow dart from the corner of his eye. He quickly looked back, but there was nothing. He looked forward: only the driver was visible. The latter's figure was barely distinguishable, opaque in the reflection of the windshield. The bus kept moving, swaying irregularly from side to side. The outside landscape had turned completely dark. Camilo couldn’t orient himself. He only knew he was still on the bus route.

The scare had left him with a racing heart, a dry throat, and heavy eyes. Still, he rose from his seat to approach the driver and ask for their location. First, he glanced at the elongated screen: it only displayed "G66" in an intense red.

—Excuse me?— Camilo asked softly, unsure if the driver could hear him.

There was no response.

A creaking noise echoed from the back of the bus, like a metallic scrape, forcing him to turn his head toward the last seat. There, sitting, was a man completely still, staring at him intently. The dim light made it hard to distinguish him, but something about his shape was strange. Camilo tried to clear the image, but a pungent smell forced him to cover his nose.

It wasn’t just the air that felt heavy; the silence was oppressive, and it made him uneasy. He looked out the window, hoping to see the city lights reappear, but all he found was emptiness. Something was wrong. He took a deep breath, but the feeling of being watched overwhelmed him.

When he looked back again, the man in the seat was gone. In his place, an empty space and the sensation of something slithering down the aisle, close to him. His hands started to sweat. He looked at the driver, but his posture remained rigid, as though he wasn’t moving at all.

Camilo tried to get up, but something held him back. The heavy air inside the bus felt almost tangible. The sound of his footsteps mingled with a low hum, as if something was within the vehicle’s walls, watching him. Lights appeared and disappeared, like thousands of eyes blinking beyond the windows. Camilo decided to move toward the driver, but as he approached, he noticed his hands were covered in a strange liquid. It wasn’t blood, but he couldn’t identify it either.

The screech of the doors opening reverberated in his ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Camilo stepped back, not daring to turn around. The bus continued speeding, seemingly without direction. The doors suddenly swung open, letting in a strange gust of air, as though something were entering the vehicle.

Inside the bus, the air abruptly changed, as if the temperature had dropped to impossible levels. An icy breath brushed Camilo’s neck, almost tangible, sending a chill down his spine.

His mind tried to rationalize it: «It’s just the cold air coming in through the open doors.»

But deep down, he knew it was something else. Fear anchored him to the ground, paralyzing him. Every fiber of his being begged him not to look, to ignore the presence behind him. But the urge was stronger. Very slowly, trembling more from fear than cold, he turned on his heels, opening his terrified eyes.

In front of him, the dim bus light illuminated a horrifying figure. A colossal being, so massive it had to hunch to fit inside the vehicle. Its body was cloaked in a dark robe that seemed made of living shadows. One skeletal hand held a long wooden staff adorned with golden ornaments at the tip that jingled like bells when it moved, while its other hand, with elongated, twisted fingers, rested on one of the seats. But the most terrifying feature was its face—or what replaced it.

A mask dominated its features: bulging, orange eyes that didn’t blink, tracking him with inhuman precision; a grotesque smile carved into what seemed neither wood nor metal; and a spiral pattern that adorned the mask’s entire surface. Two long horns rose from its head, brushing against the bus ceiling, and every slight movement made the shadows around it dance.