Maya woke up, choking on dust and air that stank of rust and rot. She wasn't on the bridge anymore.
She was beneath it.
The space was cramped, almost like a hollow belly of wood and stone. The walls pulsed like living skin, damp and dark. Her breath echoed, and the air felt thick—so thick she could almost hear it breathing back.
The whispering hadn't stopped. It was louder now, surrounding her like a circle of invisible mouths. She crawled forward, trying to escape, but her hand struck something hard.
A bone.
A human skull, cracked down the center, with empty sockets staring straight into her soul. She gasped and stumbled back—but there were more.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
The floor was a graveyard. Bones, still wearing rusted construction uniforms. Helmets melted into skulls. Hands clawing at the wooden walls as if they had died trying to escape.
Maya's heart pounded in her ears. She realized the truth: This place was built on death.
Suddenly, she heard a thud above her.
Then another.
Footsteps.
Someone—or something—was walking above her on the bridge.
Maya crawled toward a jagged crack in the wood above her, peeking through. What she saw froze her in place.
The shadowy figure was back—but this time, it wasn't alone. There were three others, each standing still, faces covered with black veils, chanting something in a low, guttural language.
Then, without warning, the fog parted—and in the center of the bridge, a pit opened.
From it rose a wooden idol, soaked in old, dry blood. The idol had dozens of eyes carved into it, all looking in different directions. At the base of the statue was something worse:
A book.
Bound in what looked like skin. It pulsed slightly, like it was alive.
One of the veiled figures picked it up and read from it in a deep, growling voice. The bridge trembled. Screams rose from the pit—not human screams, but twisted, tortured wails of the damned.
Maya clutched her mouth, holding back a scream. Then the vision shifted.
Everything changed.
She wasn't beneath the bridge anymore.
She was standing in a flashback—a living memory. The world around her turned grey and shadowy. She was invisible, watching.
The year was old. Maybe pre-independence. The same bridge, freshly constructed. Dozens of workers stood around, panting, exhausted. Their faces were pale, eyes dull.
Then came a man, tall and dressed like a priest—but he wore no holy smile. His eyes were dead, and he carried a knife carved from bone.
He raised his hands and spoke in a booming voice:
> "To strengthen the bridge, a sacrifice must be made."
Maya watched in horror as they dragged a child forward. A girl. Screaming. Her mother begged and wailed, but no one stopped it. The priest chanted. The girl was tied to a pillar of the bridge. And then…
The knife fell.
Blood soaked the foundation. And the bridge drank it.
The people didn't resist. They obeyed. Every month, one worker would "go missing." One child every season. All to please whatever lived beneath the bridge.
The last sacrifice was made by the workers themselves.
One by one, they slit their own throats—leaving behind a cursed structure powered by human souls.
The vision ended.
Maya collapsed to the floor of the real world, breathless and sweating. Her body trembled. She looked around and saw carvings on the walls—names of those sacrificed, scratched in fingernails. Including one fresh name:
"MAYA"
She screamed and backed away, but a cold hand touched her shoulder.
She spun around.
The little girl was back—the same ghost from before.
But this time, she spoke clearly.
> "Break the curse… or you'll stay here forever."