Now that I knew it wasn’t really Dylan, I told myself I was done letting some anonymous creep pull me further into whatever game they’re playing.
And, yet, all week, I’ve kept going back to that damn email thread like a bad habit, opening it when I’m sitting in the guesthouse alone, when Ishouldbe working on schoolwork instead. The blinking cursor taunts me like it knows I’m not done with this, like it knows curiosity will win.
Every time I close my laptop, wishing it would make those words disappear, they echo in my head instead.
Dylan’s dead.
And then I think about Isaac. How furious he got the first time I mentioned Dylan’s name to him. Angry enough that he steered into those rumors just to scare the shit out of me.
Was I an idiot to think he was fucking with me?
In the end, curiosity—or obsession—wins.
Tell me what happened to him.
From:Dylan Ross
To:Jackson Ellis
Subject:Re: Hello, Jackson.
I can’t. But I can show you.
The next email comes two minutes later without waiting for a response.
From:Dylan Ross
To:Jackson Ellis
Subject:Re: Hello, Jackson.
Harrow Bridge. Saturday night. Midnight.
Harrow Bridge. A two-lane stretch of cracked asphalt arcing over the Viridian River, just past the edge of town where the woods grow thick and the fog rolls in heavy at night. There are plenty of ghost stories about that bridge, but I’ve never believed any of them.
But maybe, come Saturday night, I’ll learn that some ghost stories are true.
I’m definitely an idiot.
Because of course I’m going.
Just before midnight on Saturday,I park my car about a quarter mile from Harrow Bridge and walk the rest of the way. My headlights cut out behind me, leaving only the faint glow of the moon to guide me down the narrow stretch of road that’s deserted this late at night.
Except for me, apparently.
And maybe whoever’s going to kill me tonight.
I shiver as my breath fogs the late-fall air. The cold gnaws its way through my clothes, and I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my hoodie.
The road curves through trees that look skeletal under the moonlight, their bare branches clawing up at the sky as if they’re trying to pull the clouds closer. Frost glints along the edges of fallen leaves, and every crunch under my shoes sounds too loud on the quiet road.
The town feels miles away, swallowed by the dark.
The rushing of the river grows louder as I near the bridge. I parked my car far enough away so I could approach quietly, sticking to the darker shadows of the trees and keeping my steps light. The water under the bridge is wild and swelling from last week’s rain, foaming where it hits the rocks. The stone guardrails are weathered and chipped, and the sign on this side of the bridge is badly faded.
I stop a few yards away, cloaked by shadows, my pulse climbing with every gust of chilly wind that cuts through the trees.
Then I see him.
