his
SUV, driving ahead to the small parking lot on the darkened south side of the bridge.
He rushed back out of his car and down a small incline to the edge of the water. A biking trail wound near the river, under
the bridge. The sound of trickling water falling off the bridge and spattering onto the sidewalk below caught Dennis’s attention.
Maybe she got out of the water. Maybe she’s under the bridge.
Dennis called out a few more times, scanning the water. He walked closer to the bridge that loomed above him. He squinted
in the misty rain as he edged closer, entering the bridge’s shadow, still unable to make out anything.
“Is anybody there?” he called, wondering if he had really seen the girl jump into the river at all.
He paused partway under the bridge. He heard something. A heavy, distorted, wet sound. Not from rain or from the river, but
from something else.
Breathing.
Someone was breathing, the haggard, sick panting of someone not well.
“Who’s there?” Dennis asked.
The sucking sounds continued as he edged farther under the bridge. He stopped for a second, his eyes watering. There was stench
unlike anything he had ever smelled. Something rotten. Something dead.
I’m smelling death. That’s what I’m smelling. That’s what I’m hearing. No…
Two flames glowed at him.
Demon eyes.
He turned and sprinted out, never looking back. He ran up the hill, almost slipping on the muddy bank as he neared his car.
He tore into the car and revved the engine, locking the doors and putting it in reverse even before catching his breath.
Those eyes from the pit of hell. Red glowing embers pulsing with rage and fear.
I didn’t see anything. It’s just my imagination.
As he pulled back onto the road, he looked back at the bridge where the bike had been—where the girl had stood on the edge
and dropped—but saw nothing. He thought about calling the police. But what could he say? The bike was missing and the girl
was gone and whatever was below the bridge…
“No,” he spoke out loud to get some sense of balance and reality. “No way.”
What could he tell the police? After a day of watching football and drinking and taking his drunk buddy home, he saw a girl
hop over the side of the bridge and jump into the Fox River? They’d probably assume he was drunk as well.
Am I?
He took a deep breath and knew he’d seen something. He hadn’t made this up.
The images came back to his mind. The girl was one thing. But what had he seen under the bridge? What had he imagined?
“I’m just tired,” he said out loud, speaking for the sake of his sanity.
A drop of sweat lined his cheek. He opened his window and let the breeze cool him. As he replayed the events that had just
happened, Dennis couldn’t shake the feeling that they had happened once before.
It took just a few minutes to realize the truth.
He hadn’t experienced the events that had just happened.
He had written them.
2005
The big guy staggered out of the car, looking up and down the street. This was surprising. Why would this disheveled, bulky,
anxious man in his thirties think he was being watched?
Cillian wondered what secrets the man held.
The guy wore khaki pants—he always wore khakis. They looked like they never got washed. They were loose except around his
gut, which stuck out past his button-down, un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt. His cap and black glasses made him look ordinary,
forgettable. He walked with a slight limp in his right leg.
Cillian watched the big man go inside and found it interesting that a guy living in Geneva would drive twenty minutes to this
hole-in-the-wall bar. There were plenty of others between where he lived and here.
The tavern smelled like peppers. Peppers and body odor. The air was thick with smoke, the lights dim, a television in the
corner playing an old movie. The bartender appeared bored as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
Cillian ordered a beer, then sat
SUV, driving ahead to the small parking lot on the darkened south side of the bridge.
He rushed back out of his car and down a small incline to the edge of the water. A biking trail wound near the river, under
the bridge. The sound of trickling water falling off the bridge and spattering onto the sidewalk below caught Dennis’s attention.
Maybe she got out of the water. Maybe she’s under the bridge.
Dennis called out a few more times, scanning the water. He walked closer to the bridge that loomed above him. He squinted
in the misty rain as he edged closer, entering the bridge’s shadow, still unable to make out anything.
“Is anybody there?” he called, wondering if he had really seen the girl jump into the river at all.
He paused partway under the bridge. He heard something. A heavy, distorted, wet sound. Not from rain or from the river, but
from something else.
Breathing.
Someone was breathing, the haggard, sick panting of someone not well.
“Who’s there?” Dennis asked.
The sucking sounds continued as he edged farther under the bridge. He stopped for a second, his eyes watering. There was stench
unlike anything he had ever smelled. Something rotten. Something dead.
I’m smelling death. That’s what I’m smelling. That’s what I’m hearing. No…
Two flames glowed at him.
Demon eyes.
He turned and sprinted out, never looking back. He ran up the hill, almost slipping on the muddy bank as he neared his car.
He tore into the car and revved the engine, locking the doors and putting it in reverse even before catching his breath.
Those eyes from the pit of hell. Red glowing embers pulsing with rage and fear.
I didn’t see anything. It’s just my imagination.
As he pulled back onto the road, he looked back at the bridge where the bike had been—where the girl had stood on the edge
and dropped—but saw nothing. He thought about calling the police. But what could he say? The bike was missing and the girl
was gone and whatever was below the bridge…
“No,” he spoke out loud to get some sense of balance and reality. “No way.”
What could he tell the police? After a day of watching football and drinking and taking his drunk buddy home, he saw a girl
hop over the side of the bridge and jump into the Fox River? They’d probably assume he was drunk as well.
Am I?
He took a deep breath and knew he’d seen something. He hadn’t made this up.
The images came back to his mind. The girl was one thing. But what had he seen under the bridge? What had he imagined?
“I’m just tired,” he said out loud, speaking for the sake of his sanity.
A drop of sweat lined his cheek. He opened his window and let the breeze cool him. As he replayed the events that had just
happened, Dennis couldn’t shake the feeling that they had happened once before.
It took just a few minutes to realize the truth.
He hadn’t experienced the events that had just happened.
He had written them.
2005
The big guy staggered out of the car, looking up and down the street. This was surprising. Why would this disheveled, bulky,
anxious man in his thirties think he was being watched?
Cillian wondered what secrets the man held.
The guy wore khaki pants—he always wore khakis. They looked like they never got washed. They were loose except around his
gut, which stuck out past his button-down, un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt. His cap and black glasses made him look ordinary,
forgettable. He walked with a slight limp in his right leg.
Cillian watched the big man go inside and found it interesting that a guy living in Geneva would drive twenty minutes to this
hole-in-the-wall bar. There were plenty of others between where he lived and here.
The tavern smelled like peppers. Peppers and body odor. The air was thick with smoke, the lights dim, a television in the
corner playing an old movie. The bartender appeared bored as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
Cillian ordered a beer, then sat
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