Never Cross the Old Bridge at Midnight

“Hold the bridge!” the commander had yelled. The horde had been almost upon them, their iron blades gleaming, so much darker than the gleaming bronze of the defenders. The defenders had stood there as an endless wave of barbarians surged towards them, knowing that this would be their last stand.

“Hold the bridge!”

Centuries later, the crumbling bridge still stood over the winding river. A traveller approached it at the midnight, when the moon shone bright and the stars gleamed in the black. No sooner had he set foot upon the ancient stone when he heard the whistle of the cold wind.

Rushing footsteps and roaring voices filled his ears. He cried out as they fell upon him like a pack of jackdaws, ghostly blades and fingers brushing his icy skin.

“Hold the bridge!” the ghosts howled in his ears.

In death, as in life, they fulfilled their duty.

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Word Count: 149

This is for Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Joy Pixley for providing the prompt picture!

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