I’m not a believer in the paranormal. Ghost stories, strange coincidences, prophetic dreams — all just brain chemistry and storytelling, right? Every mysterious encounter must have a reason, right?

But this thing that happened to me two years ago? It still keeps me up at night.

It was an ordinary Tuesday. Cold. Gray. I had missed my regular bus because I stayed late at work to avoid going home to my empty apartment. I was at a new stop, barely lit, surrounded by industrial buildings and the occasional flickering streetlight. The bus was supposed to arrive at 9:12. I remember that clearly because I kept checking my phone.

At 9:11, a man walked up beside me.

Tall. Worn coat. Leather gloves. His face was… familiar, though I couldn’t place it. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, too close for comfort. I shuffled a step away, pretending to check my phone again.

Then he said, very calmly:
“You shouldn’t be afraid of the dark. You were never meant to stay in that apartment anyway.”

My heart stopped. My name isn’t on my mailbox. My lease isn’t public. Nobody at work knew about my anxiety, about the night lights I still kept on.

I turned to him, but before I could say anything, headlights cut through the fog — the bus. I looked away for just a second.

When I looked back… he was gone.

No footsteps. No sound. No doors nearby. Just vanished.

I got on the bus, shaking. Sat in the back and tried to convince myself I’d imagined it.

That night, when I got home, the power was out. A fuse had blown in the box, and one of the outlets had melted — right next to the heater I always left on.

The fire inspector later said if I had come home on time, I might’ve been electrocuted. Or worse.

Since then, I’ve moved. New city. New job. But sometimes, when I’m alone at a bus stop late at night, I still wonder:

Who was he? And how did he know?