The bridge had always been there, a quiet sentinel over the creek, its weathered planks and sagging rails blending into the landscape like a forgotten relic. By day, it was nothing more than a shortcut, a place where kids dared each other to cross and farmers muttered about its disrepair. But at night, it transformed. The shadows stretched long, the air grew heavy, and the water below whispered secrets to anyone brave?or foolish?enough to listen.
Noah Reyes had heard the stories. He'd laughed at them, dismissed them as the kind of nonsense small towns clung to when there was nothing else to talk about. But tonight, as he pedaled his bike down the dirt path toward the bridge, he felt the weight of those whispers pressing against his chest. The moon was high, its pale light barely cutting through the thick canopy of trees. The air was still, too still, and the usual hum of crickets and frogs had vanished, leaving a silence that felt alive.
He slowed as the bridge came into view, its silhouette jagged against the night sky. The boards creaked under his tires, the sound echoing like a warning. Noah stopped at the center, his breath fogging in the cool air. He glanced around, half-expecting to see the Finkley twins, or Old Man Hale's dogs, or even the man himself, shotgun in hand. But there was no one. Just the bridge, the creek, and the endless dark.
Then he saw it.
