Boy on the Bridge

Like all stories that are worth telling, this one is true. Granted, an absurdity, as you will soon come to see; a true story that cannot possibly be, yet one that I have a first-hand account of. My own first-hand account. Twice, so far.

It begins on a Tuesday, if I recall, sixteen years ago. I was fourteen and in the last week of school before the summer holidays began. At the time I lived in a house with quite the reputation for otherworldly happenings. An old house, made from sandstone, sunbleached grey and church-like in appearance. The doors and windows arched, the fireplaces were open, and the stairs wound around her old bones. All around her, ancient, twisted oak and chestnut trees clawed at the sky, reaching above her pointed slate roof, sending dappled shadows through the windows.

Everything about my childhood home added up to be a place ripe for a haunting, and it did not disappoint. It would become a daily occurrence; chess pieces would move around the delicately detailed greco-roman board that sat on display in the parlour; chandeliers hanging from the tall ceilings would, from time to time, sway in a breeze that was not there; doors would suddenly open or close, followed by the creek of centuries-old floorboards, as if marking the passage of some faceless person wandering about the house.

Often school friends would come around, though for the majority it would be a one-time occurrence. Occasionally I would have a guest who, like me, would simply pay the oddities no mind. The occurrences happened with such frequency that if allowed I would always have a story to tell and have many that I have never bothered to share. There are even a few that I have never had the inclination to speak for fear of being laughed at, or worse - believed. What follows is a story that falls into the latter category. It has spanned almost two decades of my life, and may not yet be over.

As should be with all tales of this nature, I will not be hurt if you look upon it as a ridiculous and fantastical notion. In truth, I doubt its validity myself.

The walk from the train station to my home was just a little over a mile. It was a pleasant walk and one that I always enjoyed. It passed by the only shop in the sleepy village of Aughton, and if I had spent carefully on my lunch break at school I would have enough to buy myself a treat, as schoolboys are wont to do. This particular Tuesday sticks in my mind because upon arriving at the shop I discovered it surrounded by yellow tape, the window smashed, and police standing about scribbling in notebooks and talking to the proprietor, Mrs Bebbington. The weather was hot, and the points of glass out on the road reflected the sun in a most annoying fashion. I walked on, disappointed by my full pocket and empty hand.

There were two routes home from Mrs Bebbington’s shop; following the winding country road which I usually reserved for bad weather, or crossing through the common and then trekking through the countryside. Of course, I chose the latter, with the sun beating down on my neck as it was.

At the far end of the common, past the Aughton Cricket Club, lays a narrow old footbridge that crosses what I can only suppose is an irrigation ditch, as it leads onto farmland. At that time of year, the farmer's fields were thick with wheat. I enjoyed watching the breeze blow through the field, turning the bobbing heads of crop into an ocean of rippling waves. Beyond that field lay woodland and it was in this woodland that I spent much of my childhood.

The woodland was dense, and like my old home somewhat otherworldly; no matter how alone I was in there I always felt a presence. It was not a menacing or threatening one, but rather inspired the feeling of simply being watched. The product of an active imagination? Perhaps so, but that did not detract from how real it felt.

This feeling would start as I entered the woodland and would persist until my departure. I had passed through that woodland a thousand times and was well accustomed to it, so it was a shock to me that sunny Tuesday when, upon crossing that well-worn footbridge, the feeling of being observed was truly justified.

Twenty or so meters to my left and into the woodland stood a man. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence in itself; often I would cross paths with a dog walker or elderly couple on a stroll. But there he stood, broad of shoulder, and with brown hair and stubble to match, simply staring at me. It was not a casual glance, nor the sort of look one has plastered on their face when distracted by a thought, with no attention paid to where their eyes fall. No, this was an intense gaze. There was an odd expression on his face as he stood there studying me, not threatening, not insidious, but some sort of curiosity mixed with surprise. There was more to the feeling that this man gave off, but I doubt there are the words out there in the world to truly describe it. I did not recognise this man, I was confident that I had never seen him before, but still, I felt that I knew him. It was as if his name were on the tip of my tongue, and if I could just figure out what it was all would be well in the world. It was a deeply uncomfortable sensation. After what felt like a lifetime, but in reality must have only been a few seconds, I decided that it was best to just walk on, and so I did.

An odd feeling? Is that all this was? So far, yes, but this encounter burned itself into my mind and stayed with me for the next sixteen years. Occasionally it would creep into my dreams, leaving the taste of unease in my mind when I recalled them, or otherwise thought back on the whole affair. There was nothing more to add to this strange afternoon, and I realised that it wasn’t a particularly interesting story, and so did not share it with my fellows.

A few years later my family moved on from that beautiful house on the edge of the woodland. At the point of telling this tale to you I am now thirty, and with my own house and family; though the latter consists only of a wife and three dogs.

Last summer was hot and long. My wife and I would lay together on the grass of our back lawn, watching the clouds pass by overhead and recounting some of our childhood memories to one another. I told her of the wheat fields, of the wooden bridge, and of the woodlands surrounding that great old house. That house has always been a part of me and so it wasn’t new information to her, but she got a peculiar look in her eyes, of misty memories and unhad adventure, and with that it was set in stone; the very next day we were to take at least one of the dogs with us out to revisit my past haunt.

We took the same route I did back in my school days, stopping at Mrs. Bebbingtons (now a chain convenience store), the yellow police tape and shattered window now replaced with hooded teenagers having a scuffle, their friends smoking and jeering at them. We crossed the road quickly to avoid the youths, and heard glass shattering as we did so. Yes, this had my mind racing.

The rest of the walk was a pleasant one. The sun followed us as we crossed the common, the dog running up and down, chasing birds’ shadows and winding her way in between our legs when we stopped to look across at the golden sea of wheat before us. When we got to the first footbridge at the end of the common it was clear that nothing had been done in the way of maintenance in all the years that had passed between now and my last day of school. Crossing into the field filled me with memories, and we waded through that golden sea, racing like children to reach the cool shade of the woodland.

Going into those woods was strange. Like every time before, I felt as if I were being observed. Perhaps it was because of how long it had been since I had last felt it, but I admit it was a touch unsettling. We went off the path, down into the secret ways that I had found as a child, following a meandering stream deeper into the thick undergrowth. I still knew the place inside out. For an hour we played, throwing sticks for Laika the dog, laughing at my recollections of a youth well-spent, before it was time to head home.

About twenty or so meters from the rotting wooden bridge and Laika, always too smart for her own good, decided she didn’t want to come home just yet and bolted back into the woodland. My wife darted after her before I even knew what was happening, and even when I did realise what had happened I found myself rooted to the spot, just helplessly staring in the direction they had gone. I don’t know what gave me the urge to turn away from them and look back towards the path, but I did.

He was there, on the footbridge, looking right at me.

Coincidence, no doubt, and if you think otherwise then you have a better imagination than I! I was spooked, taking in this strange apparition, and I knew that I needed to disprove his existence. I gave him a hard look, taking in everything I could about him. The uniform he wore was for the school that I had attended when his age, but I was sure that I had read that it had closed down well over a decade ago. His eyes - blue, like mine - widened slightly and he took off down the path as quick as a hare.

The breath caught in my throat slightly longer than it did his, and I was still reeling from the experience when my wife and dog returned. I didn’t mention the boy on the bridge to her. My head was spinning as we waited for the train, only having a split second of clarity when I noticed that an old man was staring at me with amusement in his blue eyes. His jacket was the same as mine, and so I thought nothing of it.

After writing this I looked back through records of my school and found that Ormskirk Grammar, the school that I had attended, closed down the year after I left.