The Bridge

     As a kid, my friends grandfather was a great source of spooky stories. He had a certain conviction in the way he spoke that made every story sound completely true. We hung on every word as he would tell tales of mountain spirits, ghosts and haunted spots. One of his stories was a common one, but it still chills me to think back on it and to the night that we tried to confirm it.

     The story goes like this: There is a haunted bridge, and the dark water beneath is patrolled by an unhappy spirit. Stop on the bridge, douse your lights and simply wait. She will come. You'll hear just her footsteps at first, quiet splashes down in the gloom. But if your courage holds out, she will appear; maybe she's somehow disfigured, maybe she'll whisper some horrible words in your ear. The details of this particular story have been lost to me, but that was the gist of it. I had heard it before, or some variation of it, but hearing this gentle grandfather tell it with such conviction made me want to believe. After much coaxing, we convinced him to load us up, the grandsons and myself, and take us to this cursed bridge.

    We drove up, scared maybe but definitely excited, through dark trees and blind curves, until he indicated that we were there. To be honest, it wasn't much of a bridge. More of a large culvert with a small stream running through it. He pulled his enormous car just to the edge of the bridge and turned off the motor and headlights. Ghost or no, this was a very quiet, dark and creepy setting. The oldest of the grandsons quickly grew restless and opened his door, sliding out into the night, and made his way to the middle of the bridge, a large kitchen knife in hand. We could barely make him out in the darkness.

     This is when I'll spoil this story for you: Nothing happened. No ghoul emerged from the water; my friend wasn't dragged into the underworld. Nothing. But here's what did happen: Our host, this man who had seen war and serious health problems, began to show fear. He seemed almost frantic as he turned on the headlights. His grandson called out for him to kill the lights, that he wanted to have this experience, and his grandfather did. He turned off the lights and plunged the bridge back into gloom. But not for long. Within a minute he was reaching for the headlights and urging his grandson back into the car. We left soon after, convinced that the story was just a story. But something about the grandfathers response to the darkness has always haunted me. Was there more to it? Bridges have long been fixture in mythology; that boundary between land and water seems to blur the lines between our world and some other unseen world. Was he reacting to some deep genetic memory of this, or did he know something that we didn't?

     I've been back looking for the bridge, but it seems to be mostly gone now. New houses have been built, the road seems a little wider than before. But the creek is still down there, and maybe something still lurks, waiting for darkness and quiet and a lone traveler.