Here is the third and pentultimate installment of The Haunted Bridge. Parts one and two are below (6/11 and 5/30). Enjoy.
Brenda fell asleep waiting for Gary, and that night Brenda had the most awful dream of her life. She never remembered it, of course, because what happened on waking in the tangly darkness was much worse. But she knew it was awful even as it unfolded. She was with Gary on the covered bridge. They were not entirely clothed. She looked out under the arch to the south and saw not the parking lot of the fairgrounds but only a dark and impenetrable forest. Moonlight lent an unreal, dreamy quality to the landscape. An owl hooted somberly.
She moved against him, aware that it was a dream but completely incapable of influencing it in any way, awash in the inevitable. She felt the warmth emanating from inside her, the terrible thrill of losing control. She moaned his name as she came. She was still in the throes when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
A cold hand.
She turned and two people stood silhouetted in the moonglow, a man and a woman. Both were naked, both were covered in dried blood and something that smelled much worse, but what made her scream was the look in their eyes, a look that was somehow both dead and awfully alive, vacuous yet hatefully and damnably hungry. They were the eyes of lunatic corpses. She felt the warmth of sex turn cold, suddenly felt gooseflesh rise over every inch of her, realized that it was the most vivid dream she had ever had. She tried to scream but felt her fear strangle it away. She turned to Gary. Gary was gone, replaced by a man without a face, only a bubbling blood mask, who sprayed her as he laughed, a horrible, haunted laugh. Her mouth gaped open and the man kissed her. She swam up to wakefulness as she felt cold lifeless blood squish into her mouth.
She woke with a strangled scream and blood in her mouth. Moonlight poured ferociously into the room. She looked over and saw that Gary wasn’t there and felt the cold on the sheets that announced that he hadn’t been there for quite awhile. She turned on the lamp, nearly knocking it over in her panic, and called his name. It came out gurgly. She tasted blood. She reached into her mouth and it came away red with blood, but it was warm. She realized that she must have bitten her lip or tongue or mouth while she was having her nightmare, the one who’s memory was already thankfully quickly fading.
Gary didn’t answer, and she felt gooseflesh again rise on her back and arms. She listened. She called again. Nothing. All she heard was the tick of the clock and a steady dripping coming from the bathroom; just the mundane sound of a dripping tap. She got up and called again, louder this time. Again nothing. She walked through the kitchen and living room, turning on lights. There was no sign of Gary. She opened the bathroom door and flicked the light on. It flickered, nearly died, then came on completely, flooding the room.
Flooding Gary’s vacant eyes with light.
He lay in the empty bathtub, naked, covered in blood that had spilled from his slit wrists and throat and then rapidly congealed. The sink tap dripped indifferently. On his face was the most terrible smile she had ever seen. In blood on the white-tiled wall Gary had written “Gary and Brenda, 1976” and under it, almost as an afterthought, he wrote “and Zeke.” She covered her eyes and quickly shut off the light, leaving her in near darkness. She started to cry. She heard the sound of the bedsprings in the bedroom creaking and the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet just as she realized that Gary couldn’t have slit his wrists and his throat, and through the window came the deliberate and always beautiful song of the crickets.
The bridge burned down a couple of years ago, the victim of a particularly jagged bolt of lightning after a particularly dry patch of summer weather. But there are plans to build a new one. The planners even located, by a great stroke of good luck, the original blueprints.
The End.
Brenda fell asleep waiting for Gary, and that night Brenda had the most awful dream of her life. She never remembered it, of course, because what happened on waking in the tangly darkness was much worse. But she knew it was awful even as it unfolded. She was with Gary on the covered bridge. They were not entirely clothed. She looked out under the arch to the south and saw not the parking lot of the fairgrounds but only a dark and impenetrable forest. Moonlight lent an unreal, dreamy quality to the landscape. An owl hooted somberly.
She moved against him, aware that it was a dream but completely incapable of influencing it in any way, awash in the inevitable. She felt the warmth emanating from inside her, the terrible thrill of losing control. She moaned his name as she came. She was still in the throes when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
A cold hand.
She turned and two people stood silhouetted in the moonglow, a man and a woman. Both were naked, both were covered in dried blood and something that smelled much worse, but what made her scream was the look in their eyes, a look that was somehow both dead and awfully alive, vacuous yet hatefully and damnably hungry. They were the eyes of lunatic corpses. She felt the warmth of sex turn cold, suddenly felt gooseflesh rise over every inch of her, realized that it was the most vivid dream she had ever had. She tried to scream but felt her fear strangle it away. She turned to Gary. Gary was gone, replaced by a man without a face, only a bubbling blood mask, who sprayed her as he laughed, a horrible, haunted laugh. Her mouth gaped open and the man kissed her. She swam up to wakefulness as she felt cold lifeless blood squish into her mouth.
She woke with a strangled scream and blood in her mouth. Moonlight poured ferociously into the room. She looked over and saw that Gary wasn’t there and felt the cold on the sheets that announced that he hadn’t been there for quite awhile. She turned on the lamp, nearly knocking it over in her panic, and called his name. It came out gurgly. She tasted blood. She reached into her mouth and it came away red with blood, but it was warm. She realized that she must have bitten her lip or tongue or mouth while she was having her nightmare, the one who’s memory was already thankfully quickly fading.
Gary didn’t answer, and she felt gooseflesh again rise on her back and arms. She listened. She called again. Nothing. All she heard was the tick of the clock and a steady dripping coming from the bathroom; just the mundane sound of a dripping tap. She got up and called again, louder this time. Again nothing. She walked through the kitchen and living room, turning on lights. There was no sign of Gary. She opened the bathroom door and flicked the light on. It flickered, nearly died, then came on completely, flooding the room.
Flooding Gary’s vacant eyes with light.
He lay in the empty bathtub, naked, covered in blood that had spilled from his slit wrists and throat and then rapidly congealed. The sink tap dripped indifferently. On his face was the most terrible smile she had ever seen. In blood on the white-tiled wall Gary had written “Gary and Brenda, 1976” and under it, almost as an afterthought, he wrote “and Zeke.” She covered her eyes and quickly shut off the light, leaving her in near darkness. She started to cry. She heard the sound of the bedsprings in the bedroom creaking and the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet just as she realized that Gary couldn’t have slit his wrists and his throat, and through the window came the deliberate and always beautiful song of the crickets.
The bridge burned down a couple of years ago, the victim of a particularly jagged bolt of lightning after a particularly dry patch of summer weather. But there are plans to build a new one. The planners even located, by a great stroke of good luck, the original blueprints.
The End.
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