The bridge had been abandoned for years. Its rusted beams, crumbling concrete, and gnarled vines spoke of decades of neglect. Once, it had been a bustling thoroughfare, a symbol of progress spanning the yawning gorge below. Now it was a place of shadows and unsettling rumours—whispers of people disappearing, their bodies never found, their fates left to speculation. Wyatt didn't believe in ghost stories. He was practical, a man of reason, and the bridge was nothing more than a shortcut to his destination. It had been a long day, and taking the old path would shave a good twenty minutes off his walk home. So, despite the warnings, he stepped onto the bridge at dusk.

The wind was sharp, carrying the faint smell of mildew and decay. His boots clicked against the uneven surface, the sound echoing into the vast emptiness below. He pulled his coat tighter, glancing at the darkening sky. The last remnants of sunlight clung to the horizon, but night was winning.

Halfway across, Wyatt heard it.

A voice.

At first, it was barely more than a breath, a soft, almost inaudible murmur carried by the wind. He paused, frowning, straining to listen. Nothing. Just the wind whistling through the broken metal and rotting planks. He shook his head, scolding himself for letting old stories get under his skin, and kept walking.

Then he heard it again.

Clearer this time. A voice, but not just one—several. Faint and overlapping, like the low hum of a distant crowd. He stopped in his tracks, peering over the side of the bridge into the deep, black void below.

Nothing but shadow.

The voices grew louder, a chorus of whispers rising from beneath him. His heart began to race as the words became distinct, though they were spoken in hushed, urgent tones.

"Help... please..."

"Come back... we’re here..."

"We never left..."

Wyatt's breath caught in his throat. The air grew colder, and he felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. He stepped back from the edge, his pulse hammering in his ears. It wasn’t possible. It was just his mind playing tricks on him—wasn’t it?

Then the whispers changed. They were no longer pleading.

They were angry.

"Why did you leave us?"

"Come down…"

"You belong with us."

The voices hissed, overlapping, growing louder, more insistent. Wyatt's legs trembled as he turned to flee. But as soon as he took a step, the bridge beneath him groaned, a deep, sickening creak that reverberated through the bones of the structure.

He froze.

The air around him felt thick, oppressive. The wind had stopped. All that remained was the low, chilling murmur of voices, now so close they seemed to breathe against the back of his neck.

"Join us..."

His feet felt glued to the ground, and his chest tightened with dread. He glanced around, the sky now a blanket of inky blackness. There was no sound except the whispers, rising from the abyss below.

Then something moved.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them—shadowy figures, just beneath the bridge, shifting and writhing as though trapped between this world and the next. Pale faces, their eyes wide and hollow, stared up at him from the dark. Their mouths moved, but the whispers echoed in his mind more than his ears.

Wyatt stumbled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His foot hit a loose plank, and it gave way with a snap, sending splinters into the air. He fell to his knees, his heart slamming against his ribs as the bridge groaned again, louder this time, as if it were waking from a long slumber.

Beneath him, the figures reached out with twisted, skeletal hands. He could feel their cold fingers brushing against his boots, tugging at him, pulling him closer to the edge.

"Stay with us..."

"Don’t leave…"

The whispers were relentless now, a cacophony of desperate voices pulling him into their nightmare. He scrambled to his feet, terror giving him strength, and ran. His footsteps pounded against the bridge, each step echoing louder than the last, as though the bridge itself was trying to hold him back.

The voices screamed after him, furious and hungry.

"Come back!"

"You can't escape us!"

Wyatt didn’t look back. His lungs burned, and his legs ached, but he pushed forward, the end of the bridge in sight. As he reached the last few steps, the air around him seemed to snap, and the whispers cut off abruptly, leaving only silence behind.

He stumbled off the bridge, collapsing onto the ground, gasping for breath. His hands shook, and his heart raced, but the voices were gone. He looked back at the bridge, its rusted skeleton looming in the darkness.

It was quiet now, the wind whispering through the trees as if nothing had happened.

But Wyatt knew better. He had heard them. Felt them. And as he staggered to his feet, he realized something that filled him with a new kind of dread.

The whispers hadn’t come from beneath the bridge.

They had come from within it.