The Concrete Lullaby

The old Conklin Bridge had been a landmark in our county for decades, but by the time I was nineteen, it was nothing more than a forgotten relic. The county had rerouted the main road years ago, leaving a gravel path that dead-ended at a chain-link fence. Beyond that, a narrow dirt trail wound through the overgrown brush until it opened up to the bridge itself, spanning the murky waters of Blackwood Creek. Folks around here called it the Wailing Bridge, because if you stood on it at dusk, you could hear the faint, terrible sound of a child’s cry. I’d never believed it, but my cousin Marcy and her husband Tom, both in their mid-thirties, swore they’d heard it as teenagers. So one sweltering August afternoon, we decided to test it out.

Marcy and Tom had their two kids with them—five-year-old Eli and two-year-old Sophie—and our friend Dana brought her kids, eight-year-old Liam and twelve-year-old Chloe. We loaded up two SUVs with snacks and water, and drove the forty minutes out to the old bridge. The sun beat down, and the air was thick with humidity. When we reached the fence, we parked and climbed over, following the trail. The bridge came into view: a decaying concrete structure with rusted iron railings, a cracked surface, and a faded sign that read ‘DANGER: NOT FOR USE’ in peeling black letters.

We all climbed onto the bridge, our footsteps echoing in the still air. Almost immediately, a strange chill ran down my spine, despite the heat. The kids seemed unaffected, running ahead, their laughter bouncing off the concrete. Tom joked, ‘It’s just the shadow of the trees.’ But I noticed Marcy rubbing her arms, her face pale. We walked to the middle and stood there for an hour, talking and waiting. The only sounds were the drone of cicadas and the gurgle of the creek below. Nothing happened. Disappointed, we decided to head back.

We turned to leave, and that’s when Eli, the five-year-old, tugged on Marcy’s shirt and asked, ‘Mommy, why is that baby crying?’ We all froze. He was pointing toward the far end of the bridge, near where the old road used to connect. There was nothing there—just empty air and the dense woods on the other side. Dana crouched down and said, ‘There’s no baby, honey. You’re hearing things.’ But Eli insisted, his face scrunching up. ‘It’s coming from the water,’ he said. We fell silent, and in that quiet, I heard it too: a thin, wailing cry, like a newborn, coming from beneath the bridge. It was faint, but unmistakable.

Chloe, the twelve-year-old, grabbed her mother’s arm. ‘Mom, I don’t like this. Let’s go.’ But Tom, ever the skeptic, said, ‘Probably a cat or some animal. Let’s take a look.’ He walked to the edge of the bridge and peered over the side. The water below was dark, clogged with branches and debris. The crying grew louder, more insistent. Then, Sophie, the two-year-old, started wailing herself, a high-pitched scream that made my blood run cold. She was pointing at the water, her tiny finger shaking. ‘Bah-bee,’ she said through her tears.

That’s when we noticed that the water was moving. Not flowing, but churning, as if something was buried just beneath the surface. A rotting log surfaced, and for a split second, I thought I saw a small, pale shape clinging to it. But it vanished in an instant. The crying turned into a gurgle, then stopped. The silence that followed was worse. The air felt heavy, pressing in on us. Without speaking, we all scrambled off the bridge, grabbing the kids and hurrying back up the trail. We didn’t stop until we reached the cars.

On the drive back, no one spoke. The kids were quiet, staring out the windows. When we got home, Marcy told me that Eli kept saying, ‘The baby wanted us to stay.’ And for weeks after, I couldn’t get that cry out of my head. It followed me into my dreams, a sound so full of loneliness and desperation that it felt physical. I tried to rationalize it—a bobcat, a bird—but deep down, I knew. That bridge wasn’t just a legend. Something was there, something that had been waiting a long time. And I fear that by visiting, we did more than just listen. We acknowledged it. And now, sometimes, late at night when the house is silent, I hear it again: a faint, distant sob, coming from the direction of Blackwood Creek.