Kenya Nairobi horror story: the black mold bus that only dead people ride

"Every night at 11:45pm, there's a last bus that runs from Nairobi out to the villages. It's not at any stop. Not on any official route. And if you get on it, you don't come back."

Okay so. Back in college I did a volunteer program in Africa. Small village on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya. Six months at a local medical center, slowly getting used to the culture, the pace, everything.

Then one day this local nurse, Mbaya, says something weird to me.

"Don't take the 11:45 bus. No matter how urgent it is."

I asked why. He didn't answer. Just said:

"That bus smells like mold and the windows have frost on them. In Kenya. You understand? That's the sign."

And I was like. Okay. Sure.

But that night I had to know if it was real. Dumb decision, I know. I went to that rural stop anyway. No streetlights, total darkness, just the sound of mosquitoes going insane.

11:45pm.

And an old bus just... appeared. Quietly. No engine noise I remembered, it was just suddenly there.

The outside was darkened and peeling. The windows were fogged from the inside. The door opened. The driver and the passengers were all just sitting there. Silent. Nobody moved.

I got on. I don't even know why. It was like I didn't decide to.

The inside was COLD. Wrong kind of cold. Kenya nights are warm, you know? This was refrigerator cold. Every single passenger had their head down, and on their hands there was something dark and spreading.

I leaned in closer.

Mold. Black mold.

I froze completely. My breath hit the window and frost actually formed. Then the person next to me, their eyes. Black liquid started running down their face.

Then a hand grabbed my shoulder.

"Get off."

It was Mbaya. Standing right there. He hadn't gotten on the bus, I KNOW he hadn't gotten on the bus, but he was right in front of me.

Next thing I know I'm on the ground at the bus stop. Face up. The smell of mold still in my mouth. And on my wrist, a black mark.

The next day a village local who had also seen the bus at that hour told me:

"That bus carries dead people. The driver takes them somewhere no one knows. Sometimes a living person gets mixed in."

Few years later I went back to Kenya. The whole village was gone. Ruins. The medical center, the bus stop, everything.

But on the ground at the stop, the black spreading stain was still there.

And written on it:

"Next stop is your turn."