Bridge of the Soul Collector By Amanda Thompson

Bridge of the Soul Collector

By Amanda Thompson

     Being the first to respond to a fatal car accident is always the most traumatic thing I see as a police officer. But today, when the crushed body of the little dead child boy strapped in his car seat opened his eyes and giggled at me when I tried to peel him out of the wreckage, I immediately knew that today would be my last day on the force.

     I stepped back in horror, allowing the paramedics to extricate the dead child, but not before I saw him winking at me. A chill went down my spine and I tried to compose myself by looking at the bridge high above me. The locals call it ‘the bridge of the soul collector’, and it is easy to see why.

Numerous cars suddenly veered off the bridge for no apparent reason, crashing through the guard rails over the precipice to be smashed to smithereens on the black rocks far below. There never were any survivors, and try as we might, we could not find a cause for any of these fatal accidents.

     I rubbed my hand over my eyes. ‘God, I was tired. Nothing made sense anymore, and I was sickened by the amount of misery and suffering that this bridge had caused over the years.’ Especially this last year, there has been an increase in fatal accidents off this bridge. There has been no fog, no slippery roads, nothing.

     I looked at the bridge, and I swear, it felt like the bridge was a living entity, finding endless pleasure in the carnage it has caused. I shook my head as I started the climb back up towards the road. I was becoming too old for this shit, it was time for me to retire and go live at a quiet beach far, far away from there.

     It didn’t stop the nightmares from coming though. I have been living with them since I entered the force as a young rookie, ready and able to take on the world. I was single-handedly going to change things, to make it a safer place. Huh! Yeah sure!

     The only thing that changed was my disposition. The bridge became an obsession with me, so much so that my wife left me and took my children with her. She could not handle me going on and on daily about the dangers of the bridge, of how someone should break it down.

     I instinctively knew that something was out of the ordinary, something evil was residing here. I went to town meetings and tried to convince the town folk that we should close the bridge at least, but to no avail.

     “Bridges don’t kill people, Ben. People driving like asses are what kill people!” the mayor sneered. “Really, you never struck me as a fanciful man, where did this come from? I think you need a really good vacation! How long has it been since you’ve been on one, Ben?”

     I honestly couldn’t remember. I knew I was tired, that I needed a break, but the bridge seemed to be bound to me by invisible ties. I could not, would not, walk away from it. I could not bear the thought of more innocent people paying with their lives, and of me not being there to try and stop it at least.

     Stop it?  How?  People in town started looking at me strangely, and I knew what they were thinking. “He has lost it, he has been alone out there for too long.”

     Perhaps they were right. Life was pretty lonely, now that my family had left me. Not that I blamed them at all. Hell, I would have been out of there like a bat out of hell, if the roles were reversed!

     Nobody seemed to understand though. They did not see the things I saw at these accident scenes, did not hear the malicious laughter coming from the top of the bridge. Laughter that seemed impossible, seeing that there was not a human being in sight! Perhaps I was losing my marbles after all!

     I got to the top of the road. The bodies of the parents were already there on stretchers, covered with blankets. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I wanted to lift the covers, to see whether they might also react weirdly like their infant son, but I did not have the courage.

     Finally, the paramedics brought the dead boy to the surface of the road, and thankfully, he was quiet. Dead quiet. I lit a cigarette, turned my back on the scene, and inhaled as if my life depended on it. Crushing one cigarette, I lit another, not wanting to turn around until the fatalities had been taken away.

     Once before, I did dare to stand there, looking; a woman with half a skull grinned at me from the back of the mortuary van. You will never catch me doing that again! Not on your life! For days on end I saw that grin, and at night I dreamt that she was standing next to my bed, wanting to get into bed with me. I still shudder at the thought three years later.

     I drove home slowly, opened an ice cold beer and downed it quickly. Too quickly. My empty stomach revolted, and I retched my lungs out. Food was never an option on days like these. I settled for a couple of crackers and another beer, and scanned the television for some sort of distraction.

     Instead, the news was on. The news reader unemotionally recorded another fatality on Devon Bridge. She did not call it the bridge of the soul collector, people would have frowned at that. No need, we all knew exactly where it was.

     Disgustedly I switched off the television, had a quick shower and got into bed. Man, I really was beat! This day really took it out of me. It did not help that the boy looked a lot like my youngest either. He died in an accident off the bridge too, the day his mother took him and his sister and left me. She has never forgiven me, claiming that I caused them to leave and thereby have an accident.

      I have never forgiven myself either. I always felt responsible somehow, and I guess I always would. My son was one of the few fatalities on the bridge that never came back to visit, and I found myself wishing he would have done so. I would have done anything to hold him one last time, to beg for his forgiveness. Instead I was left with an empty aching hole in my heart and a family that wrote me off for good.

     There was talk in the town about a satanic cult performing rituals under the bridge, cursing the bridge. I did not have much experience in that regard, and anyway, no concrete evidence of such rituals were ever found. I suppose it could have been possible, but I have never been intimidated by things that go bump in the night. At least, not until now.

     I found myself wondering if there was an afterlife, and if so, were the dead still around us somehow? Apart from being stark raving mad, I could not explain the experiences I have had.

     There were other rumours too; that the town had dabbled in the occult and had conjured up something they had no control over. Something that needed sacrifices on a regular basis to protect their families. I believed that even less than the Satanist cult theory. Jesus, we were long past the Middle Ages, past witch hunts and the like!

     Yet a small seed of doubt remained in my mind. I knew that what had happened was definitely not normal, not by any standards. I was determined to find out what, if anything, caused these accidents. Once I did, I could finally rest and leave the force.

     I went to the library and did some research on the history of the bridge. I wanted see if I could find something, anything, to explain this strange phenomena. Pouring through years of newspaper clippings, the only thing that I established was that these accidents had started with the engineer of the bridge. He measured the bridge and did not think the two sides would meet in the middle. He committed suicide; spattering his brains on the rocks below. The following morning the bridge came together perfectly.

     Mostly, the fatalities were people passing through town, or visiting a relative living there. I found that strange, but still had no answers. My friend Mike, a bridge engineer, agreed to look at the structure. I am convinced he did it more to put my mind at ease than anything else.

      “Sure, I will come and look at the bridge,” he said, “as long as I get a cold one when we are done.”

     I agreed, and Mike arrived the following day. After much deliberation, and with what seemed like eternal measuring and calculations, he turned to me with a boyish grin. “I can declare that this bridge is totally safe, Ben. There is no structural reason for the accidents, I can assure you.”

     I frowned, and he looked at me closely. “Let it go, Ben. You have just been on the force too long, seen too much. Why don’t you make a clean break; move to your beach house, go fishing? Hell, get a new woman in your life!”

     In spite of myself I had to laugh. We spend the evening in the only pub in town; and it was late at night when Mike finally took his leave. “I still have a long way to go my friend. I have a meeting in the morning.”

     We drove to my home and had a cup of coffee. Despite my protests, Mike drove off. When I went back inside, I realized he left his cell phone on my coffee table. He could not be too far along, so I grabbed the phone and drove to intercept him.

     There was a full moon outside, and I could see the stars. Quite a distance ahead on the road, I saw the taillights of a car ahead of me. I moved closer, it was Mike’s vehicle. Flashing my lights, I moved up right behind him. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Mike’s car started veering erratically, crashing through the guard rail and somersaulting to the rocks below.

     I think I screamed. I braked and was out of the car before the engine had a chance to die. From where I stood, it was obvious that the car was totalled. Sliding on my backside, I tore down the side of the mountain, brush scratching at my face. I slipped and slid the last few metres to the bottom. Something sharp jabbed my hand, but I took no notice in my panicked state.

     I ran towards the car like someone possessed, calling out his name as I ran. Much to my relief, I heard his voice; “Over here Ben.”

     “Thank God you are ….” The words died in my throat when I saw him. His head was all but decapitated. Blood spurted upward in a fountain. He lost a leg, I could see it lying nearby.

 “Oh my God!” I started retching for what seemed like an eternity. “Oh my God, you are dead Mike, dead!”

     Mike grinned, his head lolling where it was attached to a tiny shred of skin. “Yeah mate, it seems so, but what the hell, it is not so bad!”

     I must have blacked out, for I came to with a paramedic asking me whether I was okay. I looked over at Mike, but he was covered by a blanket. Wordlessly I stumbled to my car and drove home in a daze. It is one thing to peel complete strangers out of their wrecks, quite another when it is the closest thing to a brother you have in the world. Had. Mike was dead. I felt numb inside.

     After the funeral, I went back to my job, more determined than ever to find out what had happened to Mike. Frustrated beyond comprehension, I struggled to put the pieces of the jigsaw together. Nothing made sense. I was there, there was absolutely no reason for Mike’s vehicle to suddenly veer off the bridge. There seemed to be no logical explanation for his accident.

     I withdrew even further into myself, tortured by the unanswered questions, and the nightmares. The nightmares were the worst. The victims always sought me out in the early hours of the morning, accusing me of not preventing their deaths. I jerked awake perspiring, my heart thumping between my ears. Why do they come to me?

     I started investigating the occult rumours, more out of sheer desperation than belief. What I found was more than I bargained for. Intrigued, I delved into old history books about the town. My focus was on solving this puzzle; I took no time to eat or shave. In the early hours of the morning, I would wake from yet another nightmare with my head buried in my research.

     The locals started reacting strangely to me; either avoiding any contact with me at all, or crossing the road when I walked down it. I did not question their behaviour; I must have been a strange sight. Wild-eyed, unshaven, mumbling to myself.

     I went to my superior’s office and tried to haltingly explain that I needed time off work. He just sat there and stared at me until I finally totally lost it and stormed out of his office. If he wanted to fire me, then so be it! If I didn’t solve this, I would end up in the looney bin soon anyway!

     According to legend, a man by the name of Peter Townsend came to the town many years ago. He was a recluse and eccentric. Shortly after he came to live in the abandoned mansion on the hill, people started disappearing. Not locals, only travellers on the road that now leads to the bridge.

     Police investigated the disappearances, but no traces of them were ever found again. Legend had it that locals could hear screams, roars and demonical laughter ensuing from the mansion late at night. Most of the locals were quite superstitious. None of them ever ventured near the mansion, instead making the sign of the evil eye when they were forced to go anywhere near the place.

     The disappearances took place every year on the winter solstice. Locals called it the night of the dead. Peter Townsend never came into town for supplies. A maid went up to the mansion once to apply for work. She came down from there, muttering madly about death and decay.

     The poor girl seemed terrified of her own shadow, looking over her shoulder as if the hounds of hell were after her. A week later, she committed suicide, jumping off the bridge. The pets of the locals started disappearing, and there was talk of clandestine meetings at the mansion. Locals noticed cars converging at the mansion, always on the night of the winter solstice. They also noted that all the cars were from out of town.

     The locals never saw the occupants of the cars. They arrived under the cover of darkness, and left before dawn the following morning. No local would dare go close enough to investigate either. They knew how to keep their mouths shut, and how to stay out of trouble. As long as their own families were safe and sound on that night, it was none of their business.

     There was a lot of speculation about the meetings of course, giving rise to the tales of occult sacrifices that I rubbished before. As I read more and more reports, I had the uneasy feeling that there might just be something to the story after all. Too much was unexplained, and my experiences were definitely not normal. Something was going on, and I decided that I was going up to the mansion on the winter solstice to do my own investigation.

     I did not know whether the mansion would be locked or not, but I have been a detective for long enough by then to know that there was always a way to get in if you wanted to badly enough. I badly wanted to find answers, it was imperative that I solved the riddle for once and all.

     I knew that I could not ask any of the locals for assistance, they would have refused point blank. What is more, they would have probably had me committed to the nearest asylum. Before I lost my best friend, I definitely would have agreed with them. So much had changed though, I wasn’t sure how I felt anymore. I felt driven, as if something was drawing to that place, to the final conclusion of the puzzle.

     On the night of the winter solstice, armed with my pistol, a flashlight and a flask of whiskey, I started trudging up the mountain to the mansion. The climb was steep, and soon I was panting with exertion. To make matters worse, a storm started brewing in the East. Roiling clouds obliterated the moon, and the wind was howling like a banshee. Every so often lightning would fork down, making the ground under my feet shudder with the impact.

     I took no notice of the storm; I wanted answers, and by God, this was the night I would either find them or die trying! The rain came suddenly, in a great torrent of grey icy sheets that seemed determined to push me all the way downhill again. I hunched my shoulders, shivering at the icy drops pelting me, and continued making my way to the top.

     The road to the mansion could hardly be called that. Forests lined both sides, and soon muddy rivulets made walking almost impossible. I became convinced that I was being watched. Once or twice my flashlight broke through the downpour to reveal malignant yellow eyes, but I convinced myself it must be some sort of nightlife caught in the beam.

     Lightning flashed close by. I could feel the hairs on my neck bristle. For just a moment, I could have sworn I saw a hooded figure next to the road. When I flashed my beam that way again, there was nothing. I had the distinct feeling though that I was heading for trouble in a big way.

     The mansion suddenly appeared in front of me. The building was dilapidated and weeds were threatening to invade the stone building. A fountain stood in the front yard, grey and forlorn, and the water was covered by a sickening green slime. I swear I saw something moving under the water, but it could have just been the wind across the water. I did sidestep the pond in a hurry though. It just felt off.

     Leaves were blown onto the porch and right up against the massive wooden front door. I tried the handle, and to my surprise, it opened quite easily. Once I was inside, the door slammed shut behind me, giving me a jolt. Well, the wind was blowing at gale force, it is to be expected. I tried to convince myself of that anyway, not wanting to give in to the sensation of being trapped in that place.

     The place was still furnished. The beam of the flashlight revealed large chandeliers covered by cobwebs, and the grandfather clock still chimed. When I went to investigate, I found that it was running backwards. Could this night become any weirder?

     I became aware of voices. Chanting voices. Coming from the basement. My adrenaline level increased proportionately as I moved down the stairs to the basement door. My mouth was dry, and fear was a scratching creature in my midriff. Yet I had no choice, I had to see it through. It was either that, or succumb to the madness that was threatening to overtake me.

     A thin line of light showed under the door. I cautiously opened it. A group of cloaked men turned as one to look at me, and I had to resist the urge to turn and run right then. The leader of the group approached me and smiled. “No need to be afraid. Come, join us.”

     Falteringly I stepped forward. The pistol shook in my hand. Who were these people? Before I knew it, the circle closed around me. As one they chanted; “The sacrifice has arrived.”

     Before I could react, they disarmed me and wrestled me to the altar in the middle of the basement. I yelled at them, whining in fear. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

     The leader smiled coldly. “We are surprised you have not figured it out yet. Peter Townsend was your uncle, he offered your soul to the Dark Lord a long time ago. It is time to pay your debt.”

“I don’t want to die!” I cried. “I did not sell my soul to anyone! I just wanted the madness to stop!”

     The men all laughed derisively. The leader turned to me. “Do you remember the night your son died Ben? You said you would give your soul if only your son would live. The Dark Lord took note of your words. Now it is time to give him his due.”

     “Please just let me go! Anyone in my position would have said that! I am not ready to die!”

     The leader sighed. “Why do you think all this happened to you Ben? You can see the dead and communicate with them, because you killed yourself on the night your boy died. You jumped off the bridge because you could not face the fact that your obsession was the cause of your son’s death. This sacrifice is just a formality, I have been waiting a long time for you!”

     With that, he removed his hood. Standing in front of me was a creature with pus filled sores breaking open on his face. His eyes were ebony black, and I swear I could see flames rippling in their depths. He moved towards me, and I screamed long and loud. Screamed until the air was sucked out of my lungs and I plunged into an abyss of all-encompassing blackness.