The Ghost Bus That Forgot kids ebooks

The Ghost School Bus That Forgot Its Way

Every town has its strange little secrets, and the quiet town of Pinebrooke was no different. Most people just didn’t notice — or didn’t want to. But eleven-year-old Max saw everything. He noticed how the streetlamp near Maple Drive flickered every night at exactly 9:17. He noticed how the bakery clock always ran five minutes late. And

he noticed, most of all, that every Friday evening, at precisely 6:03 PM, an old, faded yellow school bus drove slowly down Sycamore Street… with no driver. Its headlights were dim and flickering, its windows fogged up from the inside, and the number “27” was barely visible under years of rust. It never stopped for anyone. It never picked up kids. It just drove by

with a low, lonely hum. Max had asked his parents about it, but they’d just smiled and said, “There’s no bus on Sycamore Street anymore, sweetie. Must’ve been your imagination.” But Max knew what he saw. So one chilly Friday evening, just before sunset, he packed a flashlight, his notebook, and a peanut butter sandwich, and waited by the corner of Sycamore and Elm. His

heart pounded as the clock struck 6:02. Then… 6:03. The air grew colder. The wind went still. And then, like a whisper out of time, the bus appeared — just as it always did. But this time, something was different. As it passed Max, it let out a slow squeal… and stopped. The door creaked open. Max stared at it. It smelled like old pencils

and dust. Every bone in his body told him not to step inside. So of course, he did. The moment his foot touched the floor, the door shut behind him, and the bus gave a soft rumble. The lights flickered. The seats were old and torn, but somehow clean. And in every seat sat… a ghost. Not scary ghosts. Not ugly or creepy. They were

children — pale, glowing softly, their eyes gentle and curious. Some looked confused. Others looked sad. None of them spoke. Max slowly walked down the aisle. One boy near the back had freckles and old-fashioned clothes. A girl by the window clutched a book that looked like it belonged in a museum. A tiny boy with glasses waved at Max and smiled nervously. Max sat

beside him. “Hi,” Max said softly. The ghost boy nodded. “Hi.” “What… is this?” The boy looked out the window. “We’re lost. We’ve been riding this bus for a long time.” “Why?” “Because we forgot where we were going. And no one came to find us.” Max’s heart sank. “But… don’t you remember who you are?” The boy shook his head. “Not really. Just little

pieces. I remember liking chocolate milk. I think I had a sister. But my name… I forgot that too.” Max looked around. None of the ghost kids had name tags. None of them had backpacks. They all looked like they were waiting for something — or someone — but didn’t know what. Suddenly, the bus shook. A shadow passed over the windows. The lights dimmed

again. Max heard a deep groan, like something heavy and sad crawling beneath the bus. “What was that?” he asked. The boy whispered, “That’s the Fog. It follows us. It feeds on memories. The longer we ride, the more we forget.” Max stood up. “Then we can’t stay here. We have to help you remember.” He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Tell me everything

you can.” The boy thought hard. “I liked dinosaurs. And I used to… I used to hum when I was scared.” Max wrote it all down. Then he went to the next ghost. And the next. He listened to every tiny detail — a favorite toy, a lunchbox color, a pet’s name. With every memory shared, the child glowed a little brighter. And the Fog

outside hissed louder. Suddenly, the bus jerked left. The windows blackened. The aisle tilted. The bus was sinking into darkness. Max grabbed the rail. “We’re not giving up!” He turned to the front. The driver’s seat was still empty — or so he thought. As he stepped closer, he saw a figure sitting there. It was a woman. Her hair was tied back, and her

eyes were tired but kind. “I… I used to be the driver,” she said softly, her voice like wind through trees. “But I lost them. I got distracted. One wrong turn. The crash was quiet. No one found us.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve been trying to take them home ever since. But I forgot the way.” Max looked into her eyes. “You remember

now. That’s enough.” He held up the notebook, glowing with the light of all the memories. The Fog screamed. The bus trembled. “Quick,” the driver said. “Say their names. Say them out loud.” “But… I don’t know all of them,” Max said. “Say what you do know,” she whispered. “That’s how you make them real again.” Max stood in the aisle and shouted, “You loved

chocolate milk! You had a dog named Peppers! You built sandcastles! You had two baby brothers! You liked spelling bees! You loved green socks! You— you hummed when you were scared!” As he spoke, each child lit up — brighter and warmer than ever before. The shadows melted. The Fog shrieked and pulled away like smoke in sunlight. The bus rose upward. It passed through

a wall of light. And landed softly on a hill… overlooking Pinebrooke Elementary School. It was morning. Real morning. The doors opened, and one by one, the children stepped off the bus. As they touched the grass, they smiled — not ghost smiles, but real ones. Their feet made footprints. Their hands held each other’s. They looked at Max, full of peace. “Thank you,” they

whispered in unison. Then, like the morning mist, they faded — not with sadness, but with a gentle goodbye. Only the bus remained. Empty now. Still and quiet. The driver turned back to Max. “You gave them the way home,” she said. “Now it’s time for you.” Max blinked, and suddenly, he was standing on Sycamore Street again — the sky turning orange, the air

warm. The bus was gone. He ran home, notebook in hand, heart full. He didn’t tell anyone. Not because they wouldn’t believe him, but because it was something he wanted to keep safe — a truth that was gentle and quiet, like the children on that bus. From that day on, Max always carried a notebook. He wrote down stories. He asked people about their

favorite color, their dreams, their favorite song from childhood. He listened. Because memories are powerful. They’re light in the dark. And sometimes, they’re the only thing that can bring someone home.

Moral: Every memory matters. When we care enough to listen, we help others remember who they are — and remind ourselves who we’re meant to be.