A Haunted Bridge: Story of The Train Stop Girl

Well I guess all my problems really began at the train stop that Tuesday morning. More or less I had problems since the day I met him. Have you ever heard the term проклято? Maybe maudit or vervloekt? How about this one, cursed? Ah, there we go. I guess that’s how all of this first happened. The night was average. First he took me to the most amazing little town I had ever visited. It was a complete replica of a seaside town, even if it was only in the middle of waves of corn. From the cute little shops to the cobble stone streets, I was completely entranced by the whole effect. After that we went to a charming little bistro off the main promenade that could ever be imagined. The chairs were all made of maple, and the glass was all stained a rainbow medley of countless, gorgeous scenes. A thousand plays were being acted out through it. The aroma of the best pizza that is outside the boundaries of the Italian countryside would creep up on you, grab you by the nose, and hold you it’s captive until you had devoured the delicious taste of the pizza, which, if possible, was on a different level entirely. After that we left the gorgeous and elegant setting of that small town and rushed towards the fancy free part of the date, cosmic bowling. The alleys glowed neon, the balls an otherworldly pink or glow-in-the-dark banana yellow. He took out a highlighter and wrote I love you on his left hand, as a sign of affection and that he had, in fact, thought ahead. Sigh, what a guy. For the next couple hours life was bliss. He was a terrible bowler, there’s no nice way around it. But at least he was a good sport, too cute when he got a gutter ball that I couldn’t bring myself to tease him, even if he did bowl a 59. Soon after the lights came back on and time, well more like the managers, flung us into the parking lot and suddenly I felt as if this amazing date was coming to a bitter end. But wait, how do you feel about haunted bridges and trains he asked me. Excitement lit my eyes as I proclaimed my love for them, big mistake it turns out. After a twenty minute drive down country roads and tree lined curves, seemingly thousands of miles away from everyone else in the world. Finally we arrived to a deserted field and parked. We both got out confidently as we walked past the no trespassing sign and climbed over the wooden, weather rotten gate. This night was so perfect, and us, so young, what could possibly go wrong now, I wondered to myself as we walked through a forest by cell phone glow. After what felt like hours of walking we finally arrived at an old stone bridge, made probably a century before I was even born. Man, was it majestic. Up the muddy slope we climbed, using prehistoric rocks and tree limbs for balance. Once on top of this masterpiece we could see a lone country lane, two parallel train tracks, and trees as far as the eye could see. On the tracks there was a train only 200 meters away. Come, he beckoned, holding out his warm hand to me. My cold fingers clutched his hand in the dark, I was so naïve. I took a huge step so now I was on a stone ledge with him only inches away from the track but at least a foot above, all the time the train was getting closer. He reached in and gave me the most fantastic kiss to ever occur or be written of until now. While this was occurring the train continuously grew closer and I grew more and more nervous but refused to stop now. Suddenly he let go and with a quick thrust of both hands, pushed my shoulders so that I landed on the tracks. I was dead within ten seconds of the fall. For ten seconds I saw that god forsaken train approaching me but I just lay on the tracks, petrified. Take out your watch and watch it for ten seconds, it’s a long time when you just stare at it but I was too stunned for thought. The recent rash of teen suicides on the tracks, these tracks, now my beautiful tracks, were not suicides at all but homicides, with me being the climax, obviously for it stopped after me. Now, everyone couple that comes to my bridge, looks into my forest, or sits on my ledge watching for the train, leaves cursed. Only the broken hearted are safe, hopelessly romantic people should stay far away from my bridge, it’s that easy. I’m the un maudit, cursed one. But even now, I still say, from the new, otherworldly life I led from the mysterious top of my bridge, even after all this I still say that that was the best date of my life. Alright. Last stop, everybody off.