As some of you may know, I am a bus driver in a pretty large Arizona city. One night, while driving my usual route, I passed a familiar stop where strange things had started happening—something I now call the bus stop shadow figure incident. This area is just beyond the busier parts of the city, where traffic lights are sparse and street lights only appear at a few intersections. Across from one of my regular Thursday and Friday night stops, there’s a large memorial—possibly marking where someone passed away. It’s much bigger than any other I’ve seen around the city. I’ve seen people gathering there, even having picnics. The site includes a large crucifix and memorabilia for someone’s favorite NFL team. I’ve never had time to stop and learn more about the person.
One night, I thought I saw someone rise from the bench at that bus stop, walking toward the street as if to catch a ride. But as I got closer, the figure disappeared into the shadows. I dismissed it, thinking it was just a trick of the poorly lit area.
Curious, I began paying more attention every Thursday and Friday night. I pass the stop at about 5:00 p.m., 7:30 p.m., 9:25 p.m., and 11:20 p.m. I noticed that nothing strange happened during the first three trips. But on that fourth and final run of the night—when the streets are almost empty—I often spotted something unusual when no one else was waiting there.
Week after week, I tried to focus harder on what I was seeing. Eventually, I realized it was a small creature, about three feet tall, with black hair covering its body—like a short, stout version of “Cousin It” from The Addams Family. The bus stop shadow figure would hop off the bench and slip behind it just as I approached. It didn’t seem threatening—more mysterious than anything. I couldn’t make out its face or limbs, and it never looked directly at me.
I ruled out nearby objects casting shadows; the headlights of the bus illuminated everything clearly. Yet this figure remained—silent, fleeting, and always there when the bench was otherwise empty.
About 500 feet past the stop, I have to turn left at an intersection. Every time I passed the bench and saw the bus stop shadow figure, I felt a strange sensation—as if I were being watched. It was like it knew I had seen it, and now it wanted to know more about me. That feeling vanished the moment I turned the corner.
To this day, I still don’t know exactly what I’m seeing. But every time I do my late-night rounds, I can’t help but look for the bus stop shadow figure, wondering if one day it might come a little closer.
