The Devil of Woebegone Bridge (Original Short Fiction)
Martha Fischer strolled casually down a worn dirt road through the countryside, taking in the fresh air and reveling in the beautiful fall foliage. She had tried many walking paths over the years, but this one had quickly become her favorite. It meandered slowly, at an easy pace, over hills and beside streams -- through thickets of trees and between rolling fields of wheat. It was an easy walk, but one of considerable variety in its sights and smells, and one which rarely crossed paths with other people. That was until it came to Lover’s Gorge.
There was something of a local legend surrounding Lover’s Gorge -- or, more accurately, surrounding the rickety wooden bridge that spanned it. It might well have been called Lover’s Bridge, or likely nothing at all, were it not for a grim oddity: the bridge, called Woebegone Bridge by the locals, was a favorite place for people to commit suicide.
It had started decades earlier with the deaths of a young couple, the eponymous lovers. According to the story, the young man had tripped on a loose plank and fallen to his death while walking with his fiancé. Unable to bear the thought of living without him, the young woman had thrown herself in after him. Since then, so the story went, a devil had taken up residence at the bridge, and lured people with sorrow in their hearts to throw themselves over.
It was a story that Martha had heard repeatedly growing up, and one which she disregarded as complete rubbish. However, it was true that the bridge was a hotspot for suicide, and this was ultimately why Martha had settled on this particular route as her favorite; in the three-odd years that Martha’s feet had beaten a unique impression into the dirt road, she had talked down twenty-seven would-be jumpers.
Martha closed her eyes and counted them again. Twenty-seven. She could see each and every face as clearly as though they were right before her eyes. Some had blue eyes, others brown; some had long hair, others short; some were male, others female. But each and every one of them had left a unique indentation in her mind. It gave her an incredible amount of satisfaction to peruse them -- studying them carefully, one after the other, as though she were flipping through a catalogue. The nuances of each face -- the contours around the mouths and eyes, clearly conveying the emotion each of them had felt at that precise moment when they had decided not to jump -- were exquisite. Martha walked that path each day in the hopes of finding another person waiting there for her, but most days she was not so lucky. This was not one of those days.
As Martha came around the bend in the trail that led to Woebegone Bridge, she saw a young man standing at its edge, staring down into the deep abyss. She casually strolled up to him, hands in her coat pockets, and leaned her head over the edge. The young man started suddenly, not having heard her approach.
“I don’t see it,” Martha said. The young man’s face contorted from a look of surprise to confusion.
“See what?” he asked, Martha stepping back and drawing a thin cigarette out of an inside pocket.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for.” Martha struck her lighter and inhaled slowly, relishing the flavor. The young man studied her a moment; she had long, full-bodied blonde hair that curled down past her shoulders; she was tall and slender, her coat and pants clinging tightly to her figure; she held her cigarette delicately between her fingers as her ruby-red lips left a light stain on the filter. In a different place -- a different time -- she would have likely earned the title of femme fatale, and worn it as well as the stylish-but-reserved emerald studs in her ears. She was captivating, to say the least -- but the spell was shortly broken as the young man turned back towards the gorge.
“It’s there,” he said grimly. “I’ve tried to ignore it, but I can’t any longer.”
Martha tapped her cigarette once, a small bit of ash being swept over the side of the bridge in a sudden gust of wind. The young man watched as it dispersed and faded away below him.
“Do you know the legend of this bridge?” she asked casually. The young man stood in silence. “Of course you do. That’s why you’re here. You think you’re being called here to jump.” The young man turned his head slightly, his lip turning up in a sneer.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“Of course not,” Martha said, blowing a bit of smoke into the air. “You’re a grown man. The idea of a devil calling people here to kill themselves -- it’s preposterous.” She took a step towards him, his shoulders tensing up slightly. “But you don’t have to believe something to be affected by it. Whether you believe the story or not is irrelevant; it’s still the reason you chose this spot.” The man turned an eye towards her, his brow furrowed in discontent.
“What of it?” The words were sharp and defensive, almost a snarl, as though he were an animal backed into a corner. Martha eyed him over, then turned away, gazing at the sun setting behind the trees.
“Maybe the story drew you here for a different reason. Maybe you weren’t drawn here so you could jump. Maybe you were drawn here to meet someone. Perhaps a beautiful young woman who could take your breath away.”
The young man laughed wryly. “I already said I don’t believe in fairy tales. What you’re suggesting is fate -- the hand of God driving me to the brink of despair. What kind of God would do that?”
“Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps not. Perhaps God brought you here. Or, perhaps, I was the one who was brought here. You assume I’m just some passer-by, but the fact is that the legend drew me, as well.”
The young man looked up in surprise. “You? The way you’re dressed, I thought perhaps you were on your way to a dinner party or banquet.” Martha winked at the young man seductively.
“Leave a pretty corpse,” she said. The young man let out a chuckle, then turned his head away -- but not down.
“You shouldn’t joke about that. A beautiful young woman like you has plenty to live for.” Martha clasped her gloved hands together against her chest.
“O, gallant knight, who comes to me with words of encouragement in my time of need. Perhaps this is a fairy tale after all.” The young man laughed again. “But, oh,” Martha continued, placing the back of her hand against her forehead dramatically, “what shall I do if my gallant knight quits himself of this life? I should have no choice but to throw myself after him, just as the poor young girl did all those years ago. Truly, this must indeed be fate that has joined us together, that we might imitate those young lovers in an eternal sign of our undying devotion to one another.”
The young man sighed as he rubbed his eyes, a smile on his face. “I suppose I wouldn’t be much of a knight if I allowed that to happen,” he said quietly, the tone of his voice audibly shifting to a more relaxed and hopeful one.
“You certainly would not,” Martha said with a playfully stern voice, watching the young man carefully. He raised his head up and took a deep breath, his eyes closed.
“May I ask your name?” he said, the wind whistling in the gorge below.
“Martha.”
The young man turned away from the ledge with a smile.
“Thank you, Martha,” he said as he faced her. He looked down in surprise as she placed the palm of her hand firmly against his chest.
“No,” she hissed, her teeth bared in a look of sick pleasure, “thank you.”
The young man’s eyes widened in horror as he felt the violent shove. His feet flew out from under him and he fell silently, breathless from shock, into the gorge. The twisted smile of the devil of Woebegone Bridge was all he could see as his body came to a thunderous stop, broken on the rocks below.
Twenty-eight.