Chapter 16 - Jackson
It started as curiosity. Or maybe it was obsession. I’m not sure anymore.
I wish I could say I brushed off those emails as some sick joke and went on with my life. But that would be a lie.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Dylan’s name glowing on the screen.
Every time I open them, I think of Isaac.
The nights feel longer, the air heavier, like the whole town’s holding its breath.
Maybe it’s just me. Too many late nights, too little sleep. But sometimes I swear my laptop is whispering at me when it’s shut, like it’s waiting for me to reply to the last email.
Why should I believe this is really Dylan?
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
You shouldn’t. Dylan’s dead.
I stopped responding after that. That was three days ago.
Now that I knew it wasn’t really Dylan, I told myself I was done letting some anonymous creep pull me further into whatever game they’re playing.
And, yet, all week, I’ve kept going back to that damn email thread like a bad habit, opening it when I’m sitting in the guesthouse alone, when I should be working on schoolwork instead. The blinking cursor taunts me like it knows I’m not done with this, like it knows curiosity will win.
Every time I close my laptop, wishing it would make those words disappear, they echo in my head instead.
Dylan’s dead.
And then I think about Isaac. How furious he got the first time I mentioned Dylan’s name to him. Angry enough that he steered into those rumors just to scare the shit out of me.
Was I an idiot to think he was fucking with me?
In the end, curiosity—or obsession—wins.
Tell me what happened to him.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
I can’t. But I can show you.
The next email comes two minutes later without waiting for a response.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
Harrow Bridge. Saturday night. Midnight.
Harrow Bridge. A two-lane stretch of cracked asphalt arcing over the Viridian River, just past the edge of town where the woods grow thick and the fog rolls in heavy at night. There are plenty of ghost stories about that bridge, but I’ve never believed any of them.
But maybe, come Saturday night, I’ll learn that some ghost stories are true.
I’m definitely an idiot.
Because of course I’m going.
Just before midnight on Saturday, I park my car about a quarter mile from Harrow Bridge and walk the rest of the way. My headlights cut out behind me, leaving only the faint glow of the moon to guide me down the narrow stretch of road that’s deserted this late at night.
Except for me, apparently.
And maybe whoever’s going to kill me tonight.
I shiver as my breath fogs the late-fall air. The cold gnaws its way through my clothes, and I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my hoodie.
The road curves through trees that look skeletal under the moonlight, their bare branches clawing up at the sky as if they’re trying to pull the clouds closer. Frost glints along the edges of fallen leaves, and every crunch under my shoes sounds too loud on the quiet road.
The town feels miles away, swallowed by the dark.
The rushing of the river grows louder as I near the bridge.
I parked my car far enough away so I could approach quietly, sticking to the darker shadows of the trees and keeping my steps light.
The water under the bridge is wild and swelling from last week’s rain, foaming where it hits the rocks.
The stone guardrails are weathered and chipped, and the sign on this side of the bridge is badly faded.
I stop a few yards away, cloaked by shadows, my pulse climbing with every gust of chilly wind that cuts through the trees.
Then I see him.
Not a stranger.
Not some anonymous face from the other side of a screen.
It’s Isaac.
He’s standing at the edge in the middle of the bridge, facing the river, the hem of his long, dark overcoat shifting in the wind. His shoulders are set, his head tilted slightly toward the water as though he’s listening to it.
He remains still for a long time as I just watch him, unmoving for so long I begin to wonder if maybe time has slowed or stopped completely.
Finally, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out.
I can just barely make out the shape of the flowers from where I stand.
Three white lilies. Their petals catch what little moonlight there is as he holds them in his hands.
His lips move like he’s whispering to them.
Reaching out over the stone wall, he tosses them, one by one, into the water below. The rushing current snatches them in its clutches and carries them away.
Is this what the stranger wanted me to see?
Isaac…mourning?
Or is he confessing?
I don’t realize I’m moving, stepping forward as though pulled by some invisible force, until a twig snaps under my foot. I freeze, and my blood runs colder than the breeze that blows through my hair.
Isaac turns, his gaze cutting through the dark and somehow finding me immediately.
“Who’s there?”
I should turn and run while I still have a chance, before he knows it’s me. But ever since he stepped into that lecture hall when I was there after hours the first night of the semester, something has drawn me to him. Just like it does now.
My survival instincts must be worse than a damn goldfish’s.
Stepping out of the cover of the trees, I move toward the edge of the bridge, close enough to let the moon cast its light on me so he can make out my face but far enough away that I can still escape if I need to.
His brow furrows. “Jackson?”
For several seconds, we just stare at each other, the night pressing in around us.
He looks like a damn angel of darkness in all black. Beneath the black overcoat is another of his suit vests, but both it and the shirt under it are black too. Black pants, black shoes. From here, even his eyes look black.
The river sounds louder now, rushing beneath the bridge like it’s alive. The more time that passes, the darker the shadows over his face become. Surprise and bewilderment quickly transform into something else, something that probably mirrors the way I’m looking back at him. With suspicion.
“Why are you here?”
Because someone wants me to believe you murdered someone on this bridge.
Because I thought I could handle finding out.
Because I don’t know how to stop wanting the thing I’m afraid of.
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My throat tightens. I want to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a breath that fogs the air between us.
His expression shifts again, this time into something even darker, far more dangerous than simple disappointment.
“Did you follow me?”
I can hear it in his voice, the anger. I open my mouth, but my own voice continues to fail me. It’s not like I can tell him someone told me to come or that…hey, just wanted to see if this is where you murdered a student.
At the thought, my eyes flick to the river below, and I’m suddenly aware of how far the drop is. The current is furious, thrashing against the rocks like it wants to devour everything it touches. If someone went over, it would be hours before they found the body. Maybe days.
Maybe never.
The wind picks up, cold and sharp. I can’t move. Every instinct screams at me to back away, but my legs refuse.
My mind flashes to that email.
I can show you.
Show me what? A firsthand account of Dylan’s final moments? Is this what the stranger wanted? Did they know I’d be Isaac’s next victim? Or…what if it was Isaac who sent those emails? What if he was luring me here? What if this was his plan all—
“Jackson.”
He says my name like an angry snarl, and something in me flinches, the sound dragging my voice out of me before my mind can catch up.
“I-I got lost,” I lie, too quickly.
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the tilt of his head, the way his gaze narrows.
His shoes scrape the asphalt as he takes another step forward.
I take one back again, and my heel skids across gravel, sending a flash of panic through me when I realize he’s standing at the edge of the bridge now.
How many steps did I miss him take while my thoughts were spiraling when I probably should’ve been planning my escape instead?
Standing here beneath the bruised sky, with the dark water raging below and Isaac’s shadow closing the space between us, I realize…I don’t know if I’m looking at the man I want or the man I should’ve been afraid of all along.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
It sounds like a warning and a verdict all at once.
The wind whistles over the bridge. My own personal death knell.
“But since you are here,” he says as he takes one more step. This time, I’m too frozen to mirror it. His voice drops even lower with his next words. “Ask what you want to ask.”
There’s the warning.
I ignore it. I ignore the fear and danger. I’m already here, so I may as well try to find out the truth before I hammer the final nail into my own coffin.
“Wh-what happened here?”
“You mean is this where I killed Dylan?” There’s still that fury in his eyes as his lips slant into a chilling smirk. “Is that what they’re saying now? That I threw him off this bridge? That’s a new one, isn’t it?”
“Did you?” I ask, my voice so small I’m surprised he hears me.
His smirk falters, and something else flickers across his face. Or a lot of somethings.
Rage, hurt, exhaustion.
Betrayal.
All of it collides at once, too fast, too heavy. His breath leaves him in a ragged exhale, and I realize it isn’t my question that finally does it. It’s every question he’s ever been asked about Dylan. Every rumor. Every lie. Every whispered killer he’s had to bite down and swallow.
The weight of those thousand accusations press down on him in this single moment, collapsing his restraint.