Nestled among the snow-capped peaks and misty valleys of Switzerland lies the wild and winding Schöllenen Gorge. Today, it's a marvel of engineering and natural beauty—but once upon a time, it was the site of one of Switzerland's most chilling and enduring urban legends: The Devil's Bridge, or as the locals call it, Teufelsbrücke.
The legend begins centuries ago, when travelers and traders desperately needed a way to cross the treacherous gorge. Every attempt to build a bridge was met with failure. The rocks were too slippery, the current too wild, and every new construction crumbled under nature's fury. Frustrated and hopeless, the townsfolk gathered at the edge of the roaring Reuss River and cursed their bad luck.
It was then, according to the legend, that a dark figure appeared—a tall man cloaked in black, with eyes that gleamed like burning coals. He offered them a deal.
"I will build your bridge," said the Devil, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder, "and it will be so strong that no flood, no storm, will ever tear it down. But in return..." He smiled, a slow, chilling grin. "The first soul to cross the bridge will be mine."
Desperation clouded their judgment. The villagers agreed, and the Devil went to work. By the next morning, a beautiful stone bridge arched gracefully across the gorge, defying the laws of nature and man.
But when it came time to pay the price, fear took root in their hearts. None of them wanted to be the first to cross, to be claimed by the Devil.
Finally, an old woman—clever and cunning—came up with a plan. She led a goat onto the bridge and shooed it across, tricking the Devil.
The Devil was furious. Enraged at being outwitted, he grabbed a massive boulder, intending to smash the bridge and curse the villagers forever. But as he heaved the stone toward the gorge, a holy man appeared—some say it was a priest, others claim it was an angel disguised as a traveler—and made the sign of the cross.
The Devil howled in rage and dropped the boulder where he stood, unable to cross the sacred blessing. That boulder, known as the Teufelsstein (Devil's Stone), still rests there today, a silent witness to the battle of wits and wills.
—
I visited the bridge on a cold, misty morning. The air was thick with moisture, and the river below roared like a wild animal. Standing at the center of the ancient structure, I could almost feel the presence of the past—the desperate villagers, the grinning Devil, the goat trotting nervously across the stones.
Locals still speak of strange things happening here. Some claim to have seen a shadowy figure watching from the rocks at night, a presence that vanishes when approached. Others tell stories of hearing hooves on the bridge, even when no one is around. Every so often, the mist seems to shape itself into something—someone—waiting at the edge of the stones.
I heard one final story before leaving. A young couple, visiting late one evening, decided to cross the bridge hand in hand. Halfway across, the girl felt her hand grow icy cold, as if clutching something far older and far more malevolent than her lover's palm. When she looked beside her, she found herself alone—the boy had stopped on the other side of the bridge.
The girl never spoke again.
—
The Devil's Bridge is more than a feat of engineering; it's a testament to the power of fear, faith, and cleverness. And maybe, just maybe, it still carries a fragment of that ancient, infernal bargain.
Even today, if you stand on the bridge at sunset, with the mist curling around your feet and the river raging far below, you might hear the soft click of unseen hooves—or feel the burning gaze of something waiting in the shadows, still angry, still hunting for a soul it was promised long ago.
And it might just choose you.
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To be continued...
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