There are places in our world where evil seeps out, but at Potter’s Creek, it flows forth. Civil War rebels hung hundreds of Yankees from oaks that shaded its banks.
During the bridge’s construction in ‘33, scaffolding snapped sending fifteen screaming souls to the rocks below. From its railing, crooked bankers, desperate farmers, and heartbroken lovers frequently leapt. In ’82, a bus full of sleeping passengers careened over the edge.
Dumping half-naked Tiffany on the bridge at midnight and driving away would have been a harmless sorority prank had the trestle not trembled and the creek not whispered her name.
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