Submitted by: Monique Ferguson, Author maferguson.wordpress.com
Part 3: The Search
The mist curled around the covered bridge like ghostly fingers, stretching and coiling through the trees as Alex, Addison, and Matheo stepped cautiously onto the weathered planks. Their flashlights cut narrow paths through the darkness, beams jittering with every tremble of their hands. The air was thicker here—colder too. Like the bridge wasn’t just old, but alive, waiting.
“Do you hear that?” Addison whispered. Her voice was taut, her grip on the flashlight a death hold.
A soft hum drifted on the wind. Low, lilting. Almost a lullaby.
Alex’s stomach twisted into knots. It was the same melody he’d heard in his room. The same sound that had frozen him in place, paralyzed with dread.
“We stick together this time,” Matheo said, trying to sound confident, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. “No splitting up.”
They nodded in sync, stepping deeper into the gloom. Every footstep echoed—creaking, uncertain. The bridge stretched on forever, the mist growing heavier with each step. The humming grew clearer now. It pulsed in Alex’s ears like a heartbeat not his own.
Midway across the bridge, the temperature dropped. Frost clung to the railing. Their breaths curled into the moonlight in pale clouds.
Alex’s flashlight sputtered once—twice—then steadied.
“Do you see that?” he whispered, raising the beam.
Part 3: The Search
The mist curled around the covered bridge like ghostly fingers, stretching and coiling through the trees as Alex, Addison, and Matheo stepped cautiously onto the weathered planks. Their flashlights cut narrow paths through the darkness, beams jittering with every tremble of their hands. The air was thicker here—colder too. Like the bridge wasn’t just old, but alive, waiting.
“Do you hear that?” Addison whispered. Her voice was taut, her grip on the flashlight a death hold.
A soft hum drifted on the wind. Low, lilting. Almost a lullaby.
Alex’s stomach twisted into knots. It was the same melody he’d heard in his room. The same sound that had frozen him in place, paralyzed with dread.
“We stick together this time,” Matheo said, trying to sound confident, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. “No splitting up.”
They nodded in sync, stepping deeper into the gloom. Every footstep echoed—creaking, uncertain. The bridge stretched on forever, the mist growing heavier with each step. The humming grew clearer now. It pulsed in Alex’s ears like a heartbeat not his own.
Midway across the bridge, the temperature dropped. Frost clung to the railing. Their breaths curled into the moonlight in pale clouds.
Alex’s flashlight sputtered once—twice—then steadied.
“Do you see that?” he whispered, raising the beam.
There—just ahead—stood a figure cloaked in white. Still. Silent.
Eleanor.
Her veil fluttered in the unmoving air, the folds of her dress trailing like smoke. She didn’t walk—she hovered, suspended inches above the planks.
“She’s here,” Addison breathed.
Eleanor turned slowly, tilting her head toward them. Her face was hidden behind the gauzy veil, but her presence was sharp. Intense. Like being caught in a storm without shelter.
“Why have you returned?” she asked, her voice soft and hollow, like wind through a chapel.
Alex’s throat dried, but he stepped forward anyway. “We… we want to help you.”
Eleanor’s head shifted. The movement was unnervingly slow, deliberate. “Help me?” she echoed, as if tasting the word. “You cannot help me. None can.”
“Please,” Addison said, moving beside Alex. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. But you said someone was waiting… Who?”
Eleanor raised a pale hand and pointed through the mist, toward the far end of the bridge.
“My lover,” she said. “I must find him. He waits for me.”
“Who was he?” Alex asked, cautiously. “What happened?”
Her form flickered like a flame in the wind. “He was to meet me here. We were to run away. But I was taken. Stolen from him.”
The trio stood frozen, the old stories unraveling before their eyes—not just legend, but truth wrapped in sorrow.
“Who took you?” Addison asked, her voice soft as snowfall.
Eleanor’s veil lifted ever so slightly. Just enough to reveal the hollow curve of a cheek, eyes sunken by grief. “I was betrayed,” she whispered. “He waits… but I cannot find him.”
The hum began again, louder now. Her figure wavered—dissolving into the mist like a breath in winter air.
“Wait!” Alex called. “How can we help you find him?”
Eleanor’s fading voice hung in the stillness: “Find the truth… and you will find me.”
They stood in silence as the last traces of her vanished. The humming stopped. The cold receded—but the bridge still held its breath.
“What does she mean, ‘find the truth’?” Matheo asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t even know who her lover was.”
Alex ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. “There’s got to be something. Records. Letters. Anything.”
“The library,” Addison said suddenly. “If this happened over a hundred years ago, there might be something in the archives.”
Alex nodded.“Let’s go.”
The next afternoon, they gathered in the quiet of the town’s tiny library. The scent of dust and yellowing paper filled the air as they dug through old newspapers and brittle records.
Hours passed. Shadows shifted across the wooden floor.
Addison’s gasp broke the silence.
“Look.”
She held up a newspaper clipping from 1912, the edges crumbling between her fingers. The photo was grainy—faded—but unmistakable. A young woman on a bicycle, veil tucked behind her.
Local Girl Disappears: Mystery at the Covered Bridge.
“It’s her,” Alex breathed.
The article recounted her sudden disappearance and plans to meet a suitor whose name was never revealed. But one detail stopped Alex cold.
“Witnesses reported seeing her father riding toward the bridge shortly after she left.”
Matheo’s brow furrowed. “Her father?”
“It fits,” Addison said. “If he found out… maybe he tried to stop her.”
“But there’s nothing about him after this,” Alex said, scanning the rest. “No follow-up. Just that she was never found.”
“What if…” Matheo started, his voice tight, “he killed her? And buried the truth?”
Alex shook his head slowly. “But she said he’s still waiting. What if… he never knew what happened either?”
Addison stared at the photo, her eyes shining. “She’s stuck, Alex. Caught between grief and unfinished love. If we can prove what happened—if we can finish her story… maybe we can set her free.”
They sat in the golden hush of the library, the weight of the past pressing down. Somewhere, Eleanor was still waiting.
And now, they had a way to find her.
Eleanor.
Her veil fluttered in the unmoving air, the folds of her dress trailing like smoke. She didn’t walk—she hovered, suspended inches above the planks.
“She’s here,” Addison breathed.
Eleanor turned slowly, tilting her head toward them. Her face was hidden behind the gauzy veil, but her presence was sharp. Intense. Like being caught in a storm without shelter.
“Why have you returned?” she asked, her voice soft and hollow, like wind through a chapel.
Alex’s throat dried, but he stepped forward anyway. “We… we want to help you.”
Eleanor’s head shifted. The movement was unnervingly slow, deliberate. “Help me?” she echoed, as if tasting the word. “You cannot help me. None can.”
“Please,” Addison said, moving beside Alex. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. But you said someone was waiting… Who?”
Eleanor raised a pale hand and pointed through the mist, toward the far end of the bridge.
“My lover,” she said. “I must find him. He waits for me.”
“Who was he?” Alex asked, cautiously. “What happened?”
Her form flickered like a flame in the wind. “He was to meet me here. We were to run away. But I was taken. Stolen from him.”
The trio stood frozen, the old stories unraveling before their eyes—not just legend, but truth wrapped in sorrow.
“Who took you?” Addison asked, her voice soft as snowfall.
Eleanor’s veil lifted ever so slightly. Just enough to reveal the hollow curve of a cheek, eyes sunken by grief. “I was betrayed,” she whispered. “He waits… but I cannot find him.”
The hum began again, louder now. Her figure wavered—dissolving into the mist like a breath in winter air.
“Wait!” Alex called. “How can we help you find him?”
Eleanor’s fading voice hung in the stillness: “Find the truth… and you will find me.”
They stood in silence as the last traces of her vanished. The humming stopped. The cold receded—but the bridge still held its breath.
“What does she mean, ‘find the truth’?” Matheo asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t even know who her lover was.”
Alex ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. “There’s got to be something. Records. Letters. Anything.”
“The library,” Addison said suddenly. “If this happened over a hundred years ago, there might be something in the archives.”
Alex nodded.“Let’s go.”
The next afternoon, they gathered in the quiet of the town’s tiny library. The scent of dust and yellowing paper filled the air as they dug through old newspapers and brittle records.
Hours passed. Shadows shifted across the wooden floor.
Addison’s gasp broke the silence.
“Look.”
She held up a newspaper clipping from 1912, the edges crumbling between her fingers. The photo was grainy—faded—but unmistakable. A young woman on a bicycle, veil tucked behind her.
Local Girl Disappears: Mystery at the Covered Bridge.
“It’s her,” Alex breathed.
The article recounted her sudden disappearance and plans to meet a suitor whose name was never revealed. But one detail stopped Alex cold.
“Witnesses reported seeing her father riding toward the bridge shortly after she left.”
Matheo’s brow furrowed. “Her father?”
“It fits,” Addison said. “If he found out… maybe he tried to stop her.”
“But there’s nothing about him after this,” Alex said, scanning the rest. “No follow-up. Just that she was never found.”
“What if…” Matheo started, his voice tight, “he killed her? And buried the truth?”
Alex shook his head slowly. “But she said he’s still waiting. What if… he never knew what happened either?”
Addison stared at the photo, her eyes shining. “She’s stuck, Alex. Caught between grief and unfinished love. If we can prove what happened—if we can finish her story… maybe we can set her free.”
They sat in the golden hush of the library, the weight of the past pressing down. Somewhere, Eleanor was still waiting.
And now, they had a way to find her.
 Image of Monique Ferguson, provided by the author. |
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