The Fourth Loop at Blackwater Bridge

The summer of ’98, I was walking back from the all-night pharmacy on Meridian Avenue, just past midnight. The air was thick with the smell of rain that hadn’t come yet. My apartment was a mile east, across the Blackwater Bridge, and I cut through the old industrial district to save time. The streetlights were sparse, and the cracked sidewalks were slick with a film of moisture. I passed the shuttered textile mill, its windows like empty sockets, and the air grew colder, as if the building was exhaling.

At the bridge approach, I saw a figure standing at the midpoint, leaning against the railing. As I drew closer, I recognized her—Mara, a woman I’d met at a bar a few weeks back. She was dressed in a thin summer dress despite the chill, and her face was pale under the lamplight. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Hey, you’re out late,’ she said, her voice oddly flat. I asked if she was all right, and she shrugged. ‘Just waiting for someone.’ She fell into step beside me as I crossed, and we chatted about nothing. But something felt off. Her steps made no sound, and the air around her smelled of damp earth and old leaves.

About a third of the way across, I noticed a woman standing at the far end, under the archway. She was tall, with hair that moved like seaweed in the wind, though the air was still. As we approached, I saw she was facing the bridge, as if waiting. Mara’s hand clamped on my arm, her grip ice-cold. ‘Don’t look at her,’ she hissed. But I did. The woman’s face was a blur, like a photo smeared in rain. Her mouth opened, and a sound came—not a scream, but a low hum that vibrated in my chest. Mara dragged me forward, muttering, ‘Keep walking, don’t stop, whatever you see.’

We passed the woman, and the hum grew louder, a thousand bees in my ears. Then it stopped, and the silence was worse. I glanced back; she was gone. Mara sighed, releasing my arm. I looked at her, and her face was ashen. ‘You saw her too, right?’ I asked. She nodded. ‘I’ve been walking across this bridge every night for a week,’ she said. ‘She appears when I near the end. And every time I cross, I wake up back at my door, and I have to do it all over again. But this time, you were here. This time, I think we broke it.’

We reached the end of the bridge. The street was empty, the streetlights buzzing. I turned to thank Mara, but she was gone. A cold wind blew, and I heard a faint hum behind me. I looked over my shoulder. On the bridge, under the arch, the tall woman was watching me. She raised a hand and pointed at my chest. Then she faded, and the bridge was empty.

I hurried home, my heart racing. I unlocked my apartment, slammed the door, and pressed my back against it. I flicked on the lights, and there, on my kitchen table, was a Polaroid photo. It was me, standing on the bridge, my face blurred like the woman’s. On the back, in shaky handwriting: ‘You’ll come back tomorrow. They always do.’