Crybaby Bridge

By: Travis Williams

There was only silence when she was born. Even through the nurses and doctors talking. Murmuring. Scurrying. Snipping. Through the monitors beeping. My heavy breathing. My voice hoarse from the screaming. Pleading.

“Is she okay? Wait. She’s not crying. Is…Is she okay? What’s going on?”

There was only silence. Through all the noise.

Silence.

“Hey.”

I snap out of the moment. Blinking my eyes back to the present.

“Huh?”

“You went away again.”

“…Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Birds chirp somewhere outside. A car drives by. The woosh of its tires. Rubber against road fading into the distance.

“I’m here if you need to.”

“I know.”

He looks at me. His eyes pleading. Not in a helpless way. Just concerned. Everyday. Concerned. Watching me. Wanting me to say something. Anything comforting. With heart. But I can’t. I won’t.

“I’m gonna start making us some dinner. Unless you feel like ordering out?”

“I’m not hungry.”

His eyes don’t look away. I reach for my phone. I pull up the screen and look at nothing. I wait for the wall I put up to become unbearable. For his kindness to get the better of him. It doesn’t take long. He turns without another word and heads downstairs. The sound of each footfall bringing me ease the further away he gets. I put the phone down. Stare at the ceiling.

Everything is muted. Colors seem dull. It’s as though everything is coated in overcast. Grey. Cold. I look to the window. The golden sun setting. Pinks stretch into purples that stretch into shadows. It’s a once in a lifetime natural painting. A masterpiece. But I feel nothing. Think nothing. Nothing except for the sound of silence. My daughter’s silence. Casey’s silence.

I grab my phone and turn over on the bed. I pull the blankets up to my chin. I click the screen and pull up videos saved. The sound of a baby crying blares from my phone. I click my phone off. Look to the bedroom door. The sound of a pan is set on the stove below. The click of a burner. Good. He didn’t hear. I turnover. Grab my headphones from the nightstand. Pop them in.

I don’t watch the video. Just listen to the sound. A baby crying. I close my eyes. The tears come. I bundle the blankets into my fist. Bring them to my chest. I stay like this for a while. Then the clip stops. I open my phone again. And scroll. I comb through message boards of women and men going through this too. I read their posts. Their comments. Nathan comes back with a plate in hand. Brings it to my nightstand. I don’t look up. The smell of garlic and meat twist my stomach. He leans in. I put the phone to my chest. Not wanting him to see. Not wanting to let him in. He kisses my head. I can smell the bourbon on his breath. I give a slight smile. Just enough to be regarded as thanks. He rubs my shoulder. Then leaves. To go drink more. Always to drink more. Till he blacks out on the couch. Spinning in another drunken dreamless sleep.

Back to my phone. I scroll through more threads. More message boards. People post videos. Direct addresses. Discussing their grief. Discussing their need to hear their baby cry again. A pinch in my chest burns. It happens often with this. The guilt of being reminded. That I never got to hear my baby cry. I listen to other people’s baby’s cry. Never knowing the sound of my own. I pull the blankets up over my head. Sink into the bed I haven’t left for days. The meal Nathan cooked grows cold. Becomes inedible.

It's two in the morning when I come across a comment. One left on a thread. Seemingly innocent. But could be taken as rage bait.

“I know a place where you can hear your lost child cry.” Author unknown.

Comments below seem to ignore the post. Not take the bait. But I stare. I read it and reread it again and again. The comment was over 6 years ago. I click it. I type.

“Where?” I delete. I type again. I delete. I put my phone down. Stare into the dark of the room. Turnover. Look out the window. I watch the moths flock to the yellow glow of the streetlight outside. I dig my fingers into my palms. I pick up my phone. Type again. “Where?” I hit send.

They won’t respond. Definitely not. They likely won’t see it. My heart races for a moment then settles. I take out my headphones. Put my phone to the side. I close my eyes. Then. My phone vibrates. Waking me from the edge of sleep. I snatch it up. Scan. A response. From unknown. A link. I click it. My eyes scan. Its old. Very old. A blog post. With a picture of a rusty bridge. CryBaby Bridge. My eyes scan more. It’s an urban legend. Local too. Salem Ohio. I vaguely recall the story. Something from high school. I can’t remember. I read on. A woman throwing her child from the bridge. The baby’s ghost can be heard crying on certain nights. I clench my jaw. Slam my phone into the bed. Raging tears bloom. The phone vibrates. Another message from unknown.

“The lore is a lie. The mother is a guide. She will beckon your child for you to hear their cry…But…Do not get close. The lost will drag you below the undertow. I hope this helps you find peace.”

I read it once. Then it’s gone. I reloaded it. Nothing. No unknown. No link. Not even my comment. I clicked my history. The old blog remained. At the bottom were the crossroads. I copied. Pasted. 30 minutes away. No traffic. My heart flutters. This was crazy. This couldn’t be real. Could it?

I slowly make my way downstairs. Shoes on. Sweater buttoned. Nathan’s sleeping in front of the glowing screen of the silent TV. I watch him for a moment. Listen to his breathing. Then slowly leave. Closing the door softly behind me.

The roads are bare. Not another soul behind a wheel. The screen on my phone lays the blue path before me. Each mile I put behind. Another minute falls from the time. I think to turn back. Think and rethink. But I’m close. And what harm could it do? Make me feel like a fool? More than I already do? And what if it were true? What if I could hear—

The phone buzzes. “You have arrived.”

The gated road comes into view. A rust covered sign. “NO TRESPASSING” Overgrown trees and weeds cover the road beyond. But there…Right at the edge of where the headlights reach…The metal frame of the desolate bridge. Silence. All around. Silence. Not a chirp of a cricket. Not a bird. Or Beast. No wind. Nothing. I step out. Close my door.

I bend under the gate. Approach slowly. My shadow stretches up among the leaves, out across the concrete in front of me. My footfalls step from road to metal mesh. My heart races. The sound of water flows below. I wait. In the middle of the bridge. I wait. I look back to my car. The headlights beam. I look at my feet. Through the metal mesh. There’s only dark.

“What am I doing?” My voice cracks. Tears swell. “You need to go home. You need to go back—”

The headlights dim. I turn. The bright beams flicker. Then fade to orange. Then black. The sound of the flowing water below goes silent. Through the open branches above. Moonlight casts down onto the edge of the bridge. My eyes adjust. I freeze. A woman stands. Staring down into the dark waters below. I don’t speak. Can’t speak. This can’t be real. Can’t be. The woman turns slightly. My breath catches in my chest. She’s translucent. Her clothes appear old. Fit for another time. The moonlight shines through her yet she’s whole. I can’t make sense of it. My eyes try and adjust. She knows I’m here. I can feel her stare.

“I’m…I’m here because…I lost my child.” The tears come quick. “My…baby girl…I never…” My voice quivers. “I never got to hear her…cry.”

One of the angelic woman’s eyes goes milky white. Then the other. A cloud passing over head blotting out the moon’s rays. She turns back to the edge. Looks down to the waters. I take a step closer. My fingertips digging into my palms. A splash is heard below. Then…

The clouds above lift. The woman turns again. This time…in her arms…Wrapped in soft light. It’s...it’s…My legs shake. I slowly drop to one knee then the other. The ghostly woman takes a step closer. The moonlight above shining through my…

My…child. My girl. My Casey. Then…

She cries.

My heart swells. I weep. Uncontrollably. Hands shaking. It’s her. Casey’s voice. Not a recording. No. I weep with joy at the sound of my daughter’s cry. Joy and sadness.

The ghostly woman steps closer. I feel her white eyes never leave mine. I cross my arms to my chest and squeeze. Casey calms. She coos. The ghostly woman extends her arms. Offering me what I want more than anything. The silver moonlight reflects across my Casey’s cherub cheeks. Her white eyes stare back at mine. The moment halts all of time. If I reach, I know. I will never go back. This will remain my…our…home. I feel the moment grow cold. The silence filling all. My clenched hands lift from my chest. They open slowly. They reach. The ghostly woman’s face shifts. From a stranger. To mine. I smile back at me. The moonlight shines through me. The sound of water rushes all around. It takes its hold of me. I feel no pain. No hunger. No cold. I bring Casey close. Squeeze her tight. I take her hand in mine. She cries. Then calms. We look at one another.

“I’m here.” I whisper to her. “I’m here.”