Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my uncle. I’d always ask for a scary story before bed, and I’d typically get my request. Whether it was a convoluted fable about why you shouldn’t pick your nose, or a moral about brushing your teeth before bed, it would do the trick and put me to sleep.
However, at times, due to the excitement of the adventures I’d had with him that day, sometimes sleep would evade me after the first story. That’s when it would be time to beg and plead for another. The second story would occasionally be the story of Trowbridge, and a boy my uncle grew up with in the 1960s. This story would almost always do the opposite, and make the shadows in my room seem larger.
Sleep would be nearly impossible to me after my young ears would hear the tale of Trowbridge.
This is my attempt to retell the story, and explain why it came back to my mind again after many years.
My uncle Tommy grew up in a well-known Midwestern urban sprawl. In the 1960s, this place was like the Wild West, but with snow. Uncle Tommy was a proud local to the area, running around with slicked-back hair and a leather jacket. Tommy and his friends would harass business owners and snatch cartons of cigarettes from party stores. My uncle was a petty thief and a small-time criminal.
Lots of people lived life this way at the time, and almost all of them ended up moving on in life and becoming more than what they were as delinquent teenagers. My uncle had a guy he ran with in his group of adolescent thugs. His name was Jeff, and he’s somewhat of a local legend.
Jeff was a lot softer than the other boys, but his family had money. With that money, Jeff would treat the guys to beers and other fine things that were harder to get their grubby hands on. So even though Jeff didn’t have a penchant for tomfoolery and being a general nuisance, he was accepted among the guys and my uncle.
There came a day when Jeff hadn’t been around with my uncle and his friends, so they decided to try and squeeze a case of beer out of the local party store. Unlike the other store owners, though, this one was no pushover. When the group of teenage boys exited the store with the beer, the owner chased them out with a shiny new double barrel shotgun.
The portly man couldn’t keep up with the spirited teenage boys, but he did take note of their dark hair and crisp leather jackets. Later that night, the man was driving home down Trowbridge, toting that brand new shotgun in his Pontiac.
On that particular evening, Jeff happened to be sitting on Trowbridge, smooching with a girl from a nearby neighborhood. The store owner saw red, as he recognized the jacket, and slammed the brakes. The man stepped out of his car and descended on the couple. They both sat, legs dangling over the edge, holding hands. The man began to shout and shoved the gun in Jeff’s face as he turned around. In shock, the girl screamed, and when she attempted to get to her feet to scramble away, lost her footing and fell 70 feet below.
This did not kill the girl Immediately. Jeff screamed her name as he watched her writhe below. It was the last image he saw before the shop owner blew Jeff’s brains out all over the rusty metal bars of the bridge. They would both die that night at the bottom of that bridge, according to local legend.
Months went by, and the man escaped justice. My uncle found himself walking that bridge every so often, thinking of Jeff and his girl. My uncle had come to learn her name was Penny, and they’d been seeing each other for quite some time.
According to my uncle, it was the first Halloween after the pair had met their end at the bottom of that bridge, when he found himself stumbling drunkenly down the bridge. As he ascended onto it, my uncle saw stationary headlights staring back at him. Drawing closer, he noticed the vehicle they belonged to never moved. When he made it to the car, he recognized the bright red Pontiac as belonging to the owner of the party store he’d robbed with his friends the day Jeff died. Blood boiling, my uncle looked around, ready for a fight. Looking over the edge, my uncle spotted the man.
The store owner was laying at the bottom of the bridge, splayed out over the train tracks below. Next to the man was a spectral pair of bystanders, holding hands and staring intently at my uncle. Uncle Tommy wasted no time running as fast as he could over the bridge and back home.
It’s been 60 years since then, and the town we live in has changed a lot. Urban legends have come and gone, but this one has stayed the same. I’d always doubted my uncle’s actual involvement in the story, as it didn’t make a lot of sense to me. However, recently the train tracks below the bridge have been converted into a bike trail. I ride under it several times a week.
We also lost my uncle this year, and tonight was my first Halloween without him. Or, it would have been. As I made my way home after a long night out with my friends, I decided to take the bike trail. As I approached Trowbridge from below, I saw something unmistakably paranormal.
Four alabaster white figures stood on that bridge looking down at me, with black cavernous holes in place of eyes. A young boy, a young lady, a portly man, and a familiar elderly form. I gulped as I stared up at them, and they seemed to flicker in and out of existence. Whispers began to fill my ears, and the temperature dropped.
Like a glitch on a film, the quartet flickered out of existence on the bridge and reappeared before me. I let out a guttural moan and took off running in the opposite direction. I ran like never before, glancing behind me, checking to make sure I wasn’t followed. I wasn’t.
When I made my way to the street, I called my boyfriend to pick me up. When he did, he asked me if I’d had too much to drink. I just nodded and stared ahead numbly.
I will never go to Trowbridge again, and next Halloween, I’m staying in.