Long ago, in the misty village of Elderglen, nestled in a forgotten valley between dense forests and brooding hills, there stood an old stone bridge. It was ancient—older than memory, older than maps. Moss blanketed its weathered stones, and twisted ivy clung to its crumbling arch. The river it spanned was always strangely still beneath it, neither high in flood nor dry in drought, and the air around it always seemed cooler, like the breath of some unseen watcher.
The villagers called it simply the Old Bridge. For generations, people spoke of it in whispers, and it was avoided, especially at dusk. There were stories—fragments, really—about people who had tried to cross it. A travelling merchant in the spring of ‘72. A shepherd's son chasing a lost lamb. A young bride who wanted to take the quickest path home. They stepped onto the bridge… and were never seen again. Not a scream. Not a splash. Just… nothing.
At first, the disappearances were thought to be tragic accidents. The current under the bridge might’ve been stronger than it looked. Or perhaps wild animals had something to do with it. But over time, the pattern became undeniable: anyone who set foot on the centre of that bridge alone vanished without a trace.
No bodies were found. No footprints on the other side. The bridge simply took them.
One autumn, a professor from the city came to investigate. Her name was Dr. Clara Henley, a folklorist who’d grown tired of dusty books and yearned to chase real legends. She spoke with the elders, scribbled in her notebooks, took pictures of the stonework. She was the first outsider to take the rumours seriously.
Late one evening, she tied a rope around her waist, handed the end to the village blacksmith, and said with a smile, “Don’t let go.” Then she stepped onto the bridge.
What happened next was burned into the blacksmith’s memory forever. As she reached the centre of the bridge, the rope went taut… then slack. Not broken. Not pulled. Just limp. When he reeled it in, the frayed end looked like it had been eaten away, as if by time itself.
After that, the villagers put up signs. They built fences at either end. Still, there were those who went looking—for adventure, for truth, or for lost loved ones. Some were curious. Some were desperate. None returned.
Over the years, the story changed. Some said the bridge was a doorway to another world. Others believed it fed on souls. A few whispered it was punishment for something forgotten—an ancient curse laid on the land. Whatever the truth, the bridge stood quiet and unmoved, patiently waiting for the next footstep.
Today, Elderglen is no longer on maps. The forest has crept back, swallowing roads and homes. But somewhere, deep among the trees, the Old Bridge still stands, blanketed in moss and mystery.
And it still waits.
Good one, Wizard.
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