The Hollow Span

In the biting December air of 2004, my sister-in-law Dana and I were driving back from the old Riverton Asylum’s holiday lantern tour, which was a mistake in itself. The place was a crumbling Victorian monstrosity on the outskirts of the bayou, and the tour had been more about peeling paint and eerie echoes than Christmas cheer. We’d stopped for late gumbo at a roadside diner, and now, at half past midnight, we were crossing the Atchafalaya Swamp toward the Pelican Point Bridge, the only way back to the north side.

I was at the wheel, and my brother-in-law, who shall remain unnamed for his sake, was asleep in the passenger seat, his head lolling against the cold glass. The fog had rolled in thick, the kind that swallows headlights and turns the world into a gray, dripping void. My hands were white on the wheel, and I kept glancing at the digital clock on the dash, willing the miles to pass.

About a quarter mile from the bridge’s approach, I saw a figure stumbling along the shoulder. At first, I thought it was some poor soul who’d had too much to drink, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. But as we got closer, I felt a wrongness crawl up my spine. The figure wasn’t walking; it was dragging itself, as if its legs were broken, but moving with a jerky, mechanical determination. It wore what looked like a shredded hospital gown, stained dark, and its head was bent at an angle that should have been impossible.

‘Hey, wake up,’ I hissed, shaking my brother’s arm. ‘There’s someone ahead.’

He stirred, groggy, and squinted through the windshield. ‘What the hell is that?’

The figure had reached the base of the bridge, and I thought I saw it pause, as if waiting. Then, with a convulsive jerk, it began to crawl up the steel girders, not using its hands, but dragging its body like a slug, leaving a glistening trail on the concrete. My brother’s face went pale, and he whispered, ‘Don’t stop. Don’t even slow down.’

I floored the accelerator, and the engine roared as we shot onto the bridge. The fog grew denser, and the wind from the river howled through the gaps, making the car shudder. The bridge was old, a relic of the 1930s, with a narrow two-lane deck and rusted railings. I gripped the wheel as the tires hummed over the metal expansion joints, and I could have sworn I heard a sound above the engine—a wet, slithering noise, like something heavy being dragged across steel.

‘It’s on the bridge,’ my brother said, his voice tight. ‘Look in the rearview.’

I did, and my blood turned to ice. The figure was behind us, but it wasn’t crawling anymore. It was standing, its head tilted at a grotesque angle, and it was watching us with hollow, black eyes that seemed to drink the light. Its mouth opened, too wide, and I saw rows of needle-like teeth. It raised one arm, and its fingers were too long, too thin, ending in claws that scraped the railings.

‘It’s getting closer,’ I whispered, pressing the gas, but the speedometer wouldn’t go past fifty. The engine sputtered, as if the fog was choking it. The bridge seemed to stretch on forever, the end a distant blur of nothing. I caught a glimpse of a sign: ‘Pelican Point Bridge – 1 Mile,’ but we’d been on it for what felt like ten minutes.

‘It’s not real,’ my brother muttered, fumbling with the radio, but only static hissed back. ‘It’s like the stories about the hollow span.’

‘What stories?’ I demanded.

He told me, in a shaking voice, about the local legend: in the 1950s, a busload of asylum patients had been transferred across this bridge when it collapsed, and all had drowned in the murky water below. Their bodies were never recovered, and it was said their spirits stayed, latching onto the bridge, pulling travelers into their drowning embrace. The thing we saw was one of them, a hollowed-out husk, forever seeking new victims.

As he spoke, the car began to slow despite my foot on the pedal, as if an invisible force was dragging us backward. The figure was now at our rear bumper, its face pressed against the glass, its breath fogging the window. I could see its ribs through the torn gown, and its skin was slick and gray like a fish’s belly. It smiled, a too-wide grin, and I saw something in its mouth—a glint of a metal tag, like a hospital ID, with the letters ‘R.A.’ engraved.

I stomped the pedal to the floor, and the car lurched forward with a scream. The bridge shook, and I thought I heard a low hum, like a thousand whispers rising from the water below. The fog parted, and I saw the end of the bridge, the lights of the north shore piercing through. I didn’t dare look back as we shot across the last stretch, the car’s engine roaring like it had been reborn.

We didn’t stop until we were miles down the road, parked in a 24-hour gas station lot, both of us panting. My brother was white as bone, and I was trembling so hard I could barely turn off the engine.

‘Did we just see that?’ he asked.

I nodded, and then I noticed something on the dashboard: a small, rusted metal tag, identical to the one in the creature’s mouth, with the number ’47’ and the words ‘Riverton Asylum – Property of Ward 3.’ It must have been left there, a parting gift. I threw it out the window into the night, and we drove home in silence, not speaking of it again.

But sometimes, when there’s a fog and I’m driving late, I catch a glimpse of a figure in my rearview, standing on the edge of a bridge, watching me with those hollow eyes. And I know, no matter how far I go, the hollow span will always be waiting. The tag I threw away probably washed up somewhere, but I swear, some nights I find a similar one on my bedside table, as if it followed me home. I’ve since moved far from that place, but the memory clings, and the bridge’s name—I can’t even say it without a shiver. It’s not just a crossing anymore; it’s a doorway to something that should have stayed drowned.