Chapter 7: Midnight at the Old Bridge

The bridge waited in Ethan’s dreams before it waited for him in reality.

By nightfall, the clouds had broken into thin strips that dragged across the moon, turning it into a dull, wounded eye. Ethan sat in the darkened living room of the house on Blackwood Hill, the photograph and letter spread out on the table like evidence at a crime scene.

Taken the night before.

The words burned into his mind.

He checked the time on his phone.

11:42 p.m.

His chest tightened. He didn’t know why, but he did know this—if he stayed in the house, the walls would keep whispering. If he slept, the dreams would finish what the day had started.

The bridge was calling.

Ethan grabbed his coat and left without turning on a light. The door shut behind him with a soft, final click, like a warning he chose to ignore.

The walk to the river felt longer at night. The road narrowed, trees closing in, branches swaying gently as if signaling one another. Fog gathered low, sliding across the ground and curling around his ankles.

The old bridge emerged slowly, its wooden planks dark with moisture, its railings bent and scarred by time. A single streetlight flickered at the entrance, buzzing faintly.

Ethan stopped at the edge.

The river surged below, black and fast, carrying reflections that broke apart before he could understand them. He remembered standing here once before—older than a child, younger than a man—heart pounding for reasons he’d never fully remembered.

He stepped onto the bridge.

The wood creaked beneath his weight.

Halfway across, the air changed. Colder. Thicker. Every sound felt amplified—the rush of water, the whisper of wind, his own breathing.

Then he heard it.

A voice.

“Ethan.”

He spun around.

No one stood behind him.

The fog thickened, rolling across the bridge like a living thing. He took another step forward, then another, drawn toward the center where the river roared the loudest.

His watch buzzed.

12:17 a.m.

Ethan stared at it, heart racing. He didn’t remember setting an alarm.

As the seconds ticked forward, his head began to throb. Images surfaced without warning—rain pounding down, shouting over the sound of the river, Lucas standing too close to the edge.

“You promised,” the voice said again, clearer now.

“I don’t remember,” Ethan whispered.

The fog parted slightly.

Someone stood near the railing.

A boy—no, a memory shaped like one. Thirteen years old, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. Lucas.

“You left me,” Lucas said, his voice steady, accusing.

“That’s not true,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—”

“You did.”

The watch vibrated again.

12:17 → 12:18

The sound of rushing water grew deafening. Ethan stumbled forward, clutching his head as the memories crashed harder—hands grabbing his jacket, panic, a shove that might not have been intentional.

“I tried to help you,” Ethan said, though the words felt uncertain.

Lucas smiled sadly. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

A sudden beam of light cut through the fog.

“Ethan!”

He turned just as a flashlight blinded him.

Sheriff Cole stood at the far end of the bridge, breath fogging in the cold air.

“Step away from the railing,” Cole ordered.

The image of Lucas flickered.

Then vanished.

Ethan staggered back, gasping. His watch stopped buzzing. The fog thinned, retreating as if disappointed.

Cole approached slowly. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Not at night.”

Ethan laughed weakly. “Funny. That’s exactly when you’re here.”

Cole’s jaw tightened. “We got a call.”

“From who?”

Cole hesitated. “Anonymous.”

Ethan looked back at the river. The water rushed on, indifferent, hiding whatever it had taken.

“What really happened here?” Ethan asked quietly.

Cole didn’t answer.

The streetlight flickered once… then went dark.

And for just a moment, Ethan could have sworn he heard a splash beneath the roar of the river.

Something had fallen.

Or something had been pushed.

And the bridge, like Blackwood itself, remembered everything.