Bridge of No Return

(Author’s note: This story was spoken aloud to the metronomic beat of 86 beats per minute to emulate the rhythm of the window-shield wipers guiding the reader through this adventure; Incorporating the sound of the 86 beats per minute in the background will assist to immerse the reader and adds to the element of this tale.)

(This story is inspired by the historic haunting of Emily’s Bridge in Stowe, Vermont.)

Sensitive Content Warning: Drowning; Suicide. Car Crash.

Synopsis: Through the fog-drenched hills of Vermont lies a bridge the locals fear to name—a place where the rain hides more than the road ahead. Some bridges take you home. Some carry you across. But one, on this cold October night, ends the same way for everyone. Welcome to Emily Stanwick’s, “Bridge of No Return”.

Bridge of No Return

It was 4:00 in the morning. The metronome of the windshield wipers kept time on the misty stretch of Route 47—steady, patient, unhurried. Each swipe cut through the fog, the mechanical sound mimicking a heartbeat in the quiet world beyond the glass. Street lamps drifted by, one after another, to spill a dull glow on the pavement that pulsed and faded, pulsed and faded.

Within minutes of the commute, the driver rounded the bend just along the side of the river, but was met with a sight most peculiar this early in the morning. Off to the right was a dirt overlook where locals could park and walk the trail that led to the Gold Brook River or stop to turn around if they lost their way—that spot was familiar to the driver. The nostalgic memories of his youth when he went on fishing trips with old friends and told scary stories over the campfire were held in fondness with each passing reminiscence to start off his mornings. It was the foreign sight of bright headlights being beamed onto the main route that gave him pause. The man presses on the brakes to focus his gaze through the side window for a closer look.

One.

The car appeared to be an early 2000’s mundane, grey sedan. The man squints to adjust from the blinding light to inspect through the darkness, another blink and he sees only one headlight was working before the full picture comes into view. The car was off kilter, the driver side was down on the ground, laying with the right side protruding up towards the sky—the headlight must have shattered when it rolled in the rain. The passenger wheel had not come to a halt, rotating on the axle with no place to go. A tree trunk slid past the driver’s field of view to block the sight of the wreckage—the temporary pause pulled him away from the scene and reminded him that he was still behind the wheel.

Two.

The state of the sedan was disastrous, a crumbled ruin of metal and glass twisted in a similar manner to the demolition derby car that won in the local state fair, the displayed winner was marked in town with the lucky number ‘23’— its triumph long since rusted away.

Three.

The driver had only four seconds to take everything in—to piece together what might have happened. The glowing red brake lights continued to shrink and fade away in the rear view mirror as man drove onward with these troubling thoughts.

How could this have happened?

The driver’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles blanching white as the question repeated itself over and over in his mind. The steering wheel was smooth and cold beneath his palms, but slicker than it should’ve been. Ten and two. Ten and two. The mantra steadied his breathing, syncing with the slow, hypnotic rhythm of the wipers.

The image of the mangled sedan clung to the back of his mind like an afterimage burned behind his eyes.

How could this have—

Skreech.

The rear tires screamed against the slick road, snapping out of thought. His heart sank, feeling the car fishtail and jolted to a stop at the red, reflective sign. Oh. That’s how, the man answers his own question, breath catching as the connection clicks in his mind on how the other car must have lost control.

But it didn’t make sense, even the slightest touch of the brakes had sent the tires sliding. Was that normal? The tires were brand new—installed only last month. He frowned at the idea.

Fresh rubber wouldn’t slip like that. Not in a drizzle this light.

It just didn’t make sense.

Another, more pressing question was beginning to fester as he drove on the empty road.

What if someone inside needed help?

Images flashed through his mind—blood pooling in the rain, someone pinned beneath the dash, the silence after the crash.

He glanced at the glowing digits on his dashboard, the numbers read 04:15. The idea of going to work without knowing the state of the other driver felt heavier than the pale morning light struggling through the mist, because the dawn didn’t merely bring a new day—it brought the weight of what he hadn’t done.

I can be a few minutes late, he told himself, watching the time slip by as he searched for a place to turn around. For a fleeting second, he could’ve sworn the curve of the road looked familiar—too familiar—as if he’d already taken this turn before?

A trickling sense of déjà vu?

The wipers kept their steady rhythm—skrrch, thump, skrrch, thump—till he spotted a dirt road on his left. He looks at the clock again to see 04:17 illuminating the screen.

The headlights of his car captures the slats of an old wooden covered bridge dead ahead, its frame swallowed in the misty void. He hesitated only a moment before pressing forward, already short on time. The tires thudded over the timbers, the bridge groaning under the weight of the car.

On the other side of the bridge, he makes a K-turn and pulls forward inside the covered bridge—and only then did he realize where he was, once the old frame swallowed his car whole.

Emily’s Bridge.

Locals told stories about the bridge—his friends told the story on an old fishing trip about some girl who waited for someone at this bridge, who never came, and then she drowned in the river below. The driver never believed such tales, though the memory of those childhood stories coaxed a nervous laugh out of him as he rolled the car over the bridge with the intention to return back at the crash site a mile from where he came.

But halfway across, something scrapes against the car.

His head snaps forward at the sound—he hits the brakes, peering over the wheel, trying to spot what hit his car. There was nothing but the bridge’s wooden ribs being illuminated by the high beams—nothing in the side mirrors either. A frown tugs at his lips when he glances in the rearview. Nothing. Just darkness swallowing everything behind him, the dim red glow dissolving into the hollow cavity of the bridge.

Silence pressed in. Then, the headlights flickered—once, twice—each blink plunging the car into total darkness, returning weaker, as if the bulbs themselves were tiring. The bridge groaned again, this time it sounded less like wood and more like a voice—a long, guttural moan rolling through the beams.

His pulse kicked up. He slammed the gas.

The bridge spat the car out into the mist—the sudden openness of the road ahead felt like a gasp of air after drowning in a black abyss. The driver let out a shaky laugh, the kind a person gives themselves when fear feels foolish in hindsight.

See? Just an old bridge. Just some old wood and nerves.

The driver eased his foot off the gas, his shoulders sinking back into his seat while listening to the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic beat of the wipers. The heater sighed, breathing warmth into the cabin, yet it couldn’t shake the unease that lingered in the man’s chest. The road stretched out—calm, familiar. For a few blessed moments, everything was normal again.

Then—The air shifted.

Heat blasted from the vents, thick and suffocating, crawling up the nape of his neck as the windshield blurred and the road ahead dissolved into a smothering grey. He leaned forward, squinting through the fog, his hand halfway to the controls when he froze. A single handprint stained the glass, the palm broad, the fingers long—too long—thin and warped like the twigs of a drowned branch. The driver’s breath caught in his throat. He blinks hard, half-convinced it was a trick of the light. His hand trembled, but he pushed it forward across the fogged stain, smearing the handprint into a streak of clarity. For a moment, in that smudged clear patch, a face seemed to emerge—one that wasn’t his own.

A woman’s face. Her hair hung in dripping ropes, water trailing down her cheek like tears. The image wavered—shimmered—as though a ripple passed through the glass. Her features blur. Folding inwards—not disappearing, but dissolving as his face surfaced in her place. Only his reflection was staring back, warped by the fog and shifting glass. The driver’s heart drummed against his ribs. The air inside the car felt wrong—thick, humid, almost alive. A pungent smell of rotting wood hung in the cabin, wet and sour, like something had drowned and lingered.

In the back seat, something moved. He couldn’t breathe. Slowly, he met it in the rearview.

The mirror rippled and a pale face surfaced—edges of the figure wavering like a drowned reflection on disturbed water. Black strands plastered to her hollow cheeks like wet kelp. Her skin was bloated, as if she had just crawled from the river after weeks submerged. A cloth of white clung to her shoulders, the dark tendrils of hair a stark contrast, catching the light like a ghost drifting toward him.

Those eyes—bottomless, black, ancient—locked onto him in the mirror. The stench of river water flooded the cabin: stagnant, metallic, thick with decay. The air grew dense, heavy, as though the car were drowning too.

Emily’s mouth opened wider for her jaw to unhinge, skin stretching and folding in ways no living thing should allow. She trembled as though she were still entangled in the river’s grasp, lips parting in desperate, choking sobs slipping into wet, rattling moans. Each inhale felt like a mouthful of the wet rot and muck of the river, dragging him down to the memory of her drowning.

His chest seized. Panic flared. His foot slammed down on the brakes. The tires screeched on the slick road, a high, keening wail swallowed by the roar of the rain.

The world outside the windshield warped. The white lines of the road twisted like ribbons. The curve came too fast. The road turned without the car. Metal shrieked as his car careened onto its side, then lifted—airborne. Gravity vanished for a heartbeat, leaving nothing but suspended weight—then slammed back with bone-jarring force. Rain and shards of glass spun around him in a blinding, chaotic whirl.

When the wreck finally stilled against the damp Earth, all he could hear was the rhythmic Skrrch—thump. Skrrch—thump.

Just the wipers scraping across fractured glass, a hollow pulse echoing over the ruin. Rain hissed against the crumpled hood, steam rising, thin ghostly fingers waving in the night. One headlight was out, the world tipped sideways, knives of glass glittering faintly across the asphalt like broken teeth.

The driver’s body slumped forward against the seatbelt, lungs heaving for air. A high, piercing ring filled his ears, drowning out the storm. His hands trembled against the wheel, knuckles torn and gushing, but the pain felt far away—muted and dreamlike.

For a moment, disorientation blurred everything: he could see the glimmer of wet grass through the cracked windshield in front of him, taste the sharp tang of copper on his tongue. Then something steadier, colder, pulled his attention— the light from the dashboard.

Amidst the ruin of plastic and smoke, one small square of light glowed, a soft blue defiance against the destruction. The digital clock—its numbers sharp and merciless, cutting through the haze.

04:07.

A shock wave rippled through the driver, stronger than the crash itself. His breath caught, stuttered, and refused to leave his throat. The number seared into his mind, impossibly bright, impossibly final.

I have been here before.

The image of the car he had passed earlier that morning on his way to work flared in his mind—the twisted sedan in the turnout, its brake lights glowing through the mist.

And now, here he was.

His own taillights cast the same glow, unwavering in the rain, casting a sickly red across the wet leaves, the same image that slowed him down in the first place. The man’s stomach turned. A thin, strangled noise clawed its way up from his throat, but it was muffled by the steady rhythm of the wipers.

Skrrch—thump. Skrrch—thump.

Each pass screeched and scraped, slicing the air into flickering fragments. Time didn’t move forward—it twisted, looping back onto itself with every grind of the glass. The driver’s breath came in ragged bursts, sharp and bracing, his chest heaving as if he’d been dragged under and was finally breaking the surface. The clock still read 04:07. Somewhere down the road, headlights would soon crest the bend. Another driver. Another witness.

The realization consumed him, dragging him back into the river that had claimed Emily—weightless, relentless, inescapable. Salt and river rot lingered in the back of his throat, the memory of submerged cold clinging to his lungs, as if the current had never let him go.

He wasn’t escaping. He was arriving.

Waiting.

Skrrch—thump. Skrrch—thump.

The windshield wipers kept time for the next driver to come around the bend.

At 04:07.

On Route 47.

On the night of the 47th anniversary of what happened at Emily’s Bridge.