by Bev Vincent | Issue 1.8
Jordy lived alone in a small house on the edge of a saltwater marsh that extended to the coast. Until recently, he'd shared the house with Sarah, his wife of nearly fifty years. One morning in June, he awakened to find her gone. Nothing else was missing except for Sarah and the clothes she'd worn the previous day. The back door, which faced the marsh, was ajar.
It had been well-known around town that Sarah was unwell. Although she was too private to discuss her health, it was obvious she’d been losing weight, and her skin had taken on a sickly pallor. Before she disappeared, people had been whispering that she wasn't long for the world so, when Jordy reported her missing, the consensus was that she had decided to end her suffering by wading into the marsh. Some wondered if Jordy had assisted her, but no one believed she went unwillingly. It was a blessing, they said, both among themselves and to Jordy at the wake held in her memory.
There was a perfunctory search, but no trace of her was found. The marsh was a maze of muddy creeks. Hillocks emerged from the saltwater when the tide was low and all but disappeared when it ran high. Rich with wildlife, it was a popular destination for locals and travelers alike. Jordy had rescued people stranded in deep water on countless occasions. He knew the tides like the beating of his own heart or, until recently, Sarah’s breathing in the night—a sound that had become increasingly labored toward the end.
On a late August morning, Jordy emerged from his house to take in the fresh air that gave him the will to face each new day. He stretched, feeling his bones crack and creak. His neck was stiff, as it so often was lately. He twisted his head, first one way, then the other. It was then he noticed something unusual.
A few dozen yards from his house, a small bridge extended into the marsh, depending on a series of hillocks for support. It hadn't been there yesterday, of that Jordy was positive. He wondered why he hadn’t heard hammers driving nails or other sounds of construction in the night. It was as if it had emerged fully realized, like the knees of the cypress trees that dotted the marsh’s waters.
It didn't take long for the bridge to come to the attention of others. It was of rudimentary construction but seemed solid enough, according to the first man brave enough to try it out. Someone called it a Fairy Bridge, and the name stuck. Older folk in the area had long believed the marsh was home to fairies. Who else could have built such an elaborate structure in a single night? Certainly no one in town confessed to erecting it.
It provided access to parts of the marsh that had been difficult to reach previously, and was high enough to withstand the changing tides, so it saw heavy use in the ensuing days, until the town council met to discuss the matter. They hired an engineer, who stood before the bridge and, without taking a single step onto it, pronounced it unsafe. The council decided it presented a liability issue. Someone might sue if they were stranded or injured should it collapse. They arranged to have it dismantled, at considerable expense, a project that lasted five days longer than it had taken someone to put it up in the first place.
There was much grumbling about town, but that was the way of the world, wasn't it? Something good transpired and then someone came along and ruined it. Jordy missed seeing people enjoying the Fairy Bridge. Although he’d become increasingly solitary as summer headed toward fall, he’d found himself invigorated by the influx of late-season visitors to the marsh, although he hadn’t had the opportunity to venture onto the bridge himself.
Three days after the last plank was carted away, the bridge was back. It wasn't exactly the same as before, though. For one thing, it was closer to Jordy’s house, and its path through the marsh was slightly different. Did it extend farther than before? Jordy thought so.
The day after the second bridge was removed, a councilwoman was dispatched to ask Jordy if he knew who had built them. She didn't accuse Jordy directly, but wasn't it interesting how close they were to his house?
“Must ha’ ben the wee folk,” he said. He didn't believe in fairies, not really—that had been more Sarah’s way—but it was a mystery.
That night, Jordy tossed and turned, unable to find comfort in sleep. He arose the next morning before the sun and made a cup of tea but had no appetite for food. His health, too, had been declining lately, although no one else appeared to notice, and some of his pains had become constant companions rather than occasional visitors.
When he looked outside, he discovered the bridge had been reassembled. This time, the entrance was only a few yards from his porch. He couldn't see where it ended, it stretched so far into the marsh. He imagined fairies flitting around in the starlight, laying each plank with care and stringing together the handrails.
He decided to explore it before the council could destroy it. He took one cautious step, then another. It swayed a little but seemed sound enough. That daft engineer, he thought. There was nothing wrong with the bridge. He would have been proud if he’d built it.
He continued past one hillock, then another. Eventually, in the distance, he saw a figure. His heart caught in his chest. He recognized that silhouette, as familiar to him as his own shadow.
Jordy did not once look back, so he didn't see the fairies dismantling the structure as he moved toward the shape he knew so well. By the time the sun was up beyond the cypress trees, the Ferry Bridge was gone.
—
Bev Vincent, the author of Stephen King: A Complete Exploration of His Work, Life, and Influences, co-edited Flight or Fright with King and has published over 140 stories, with appearances in Ellery Queen’s, Alfred Hitchcock’s and Black Cat Mystery Magazines. His work has been published in twenty languages and nominated for the Stoker, Edgar, Locus, Ignotus, Rondo Hatton Classic Horror and ITW Thriller Awards.