The Wicker Bridge

 Tucked deep in the woods outside of Ashvale, Connecticut, lies one of the most haunted places in the state: The Wicker Bridge. Twisting across Blackroot Ravine like something stitched from nightmares, the bridge isn’t made of metal or stone — it’s crafted entirely of woven branches and vines, sealed together with some kind of tar-black sap that never dries. No one knows who built it. No records. No blueprints. Some say it’s older than the town itself, made by settlers who vanished without a trace in the late 1600s. Others whisper it was a gift — or a trap — left by something that once lived in the ravine and demanded offerings.

Every Halloween, thousands of tourists flood Ashvale for the annual Crossing Festival, a tradition that began decades ago. At midnight, the town picks one volunteer — always a woman under the age of 25 — to walk the Wicker Bridge alone, carrying only a lantern and a single silver coin. Legend says if she reaches the other side, she’s granted protection for the entire town for another year. They always made it. Shaken, pale, but alive. Until last year. Her name was Rachel Myles, 22, a student from Yale with a fascination for folklore. She volunteered eagerly, smiling for the cameras, waving to the crowd. She even made a joke before stepping onto the bridge: “If I don’t make it back, someone tell my cat I loved her.”

The crowd laughed. She stepped forward. The bridge creaked under her feet, groaning like something alive. Her lantern glowed soft gold in the thick fog. But something was wrong that year. The air was colder. The wind didn’t blow. And the trees were dead silent — not even a single owl or cricket to break the stillness. She walked. Step by step. Thirty feet in… she paused. The crowd saw her stop. Turn her head. Tilt it. Then she spoke. But no one heard the words. Not at first. It wasn’t until someone enhanced the audio later that they realized what she said: “Someone’s already on the bridge.”

There was no one else. She kept walking, slower now. Her lantern flickered. Then went out. She vanished into the mist. The crowd waited. Cheered when they thought they saw her silhouette near the end. But it wasn’t her. It was taller. Wrong. The body was too thin, limbs too long, and its head bent at a crooked angle, like it didn’t understand how to wear a human shape. When people screamed, it turned. And smiled. By the time police crossed the bridge, there was nothing. No Rachel. No figure. Only her silver coin, still warm, was sitting dead center on the woven path.

The festival was canceled. The bridge was sealed. But that didn’t stop the disappearances. Four people who visited the site the next week vanished. A local hunter found their shoes and phones laid neatly at the foot of the bridge — and strange imprints in the earth leading into the ravine, like something with too many fingers had dragged them down. Some nights, locals say you can still see a lantern swaying on the bridge, bobbing back and forth, glowing blue instead of gold. If you listen close, you’ll hear footsteps — not one set, but two. One light and panicked. The other is slow. Heavy. Deliberate. And just before the lights go out, a voice whispers through the fog: “Someone’s already on the bridge…”