The next thing I knew, it was daylight, and I was seated upright – inside the outmoded gazebo directly across from Cortland Bridge. I scanned my surroundings. No one else was in sight. I'd been left there, alone, and I had no idea how I'd gotten to the gazebo, because I didn't remember going there, myself. Though my memory of the previous night was fogged, there was one thing I remembered! Quickly, I looked to where I'd been stabbed.

Even though my sight had been restored, I was almost convinced what I was looking at couldn't be real. There was no residual stickiness of blood on my shirt, only dirt smudges – no tears, no rips ... and no pain; nothing showing that I'd been stabbed the night before. I lifted my shirt and looked at my skin. Even if the absence of pain was enough to convince me that nothing happened the way I thought it had, then the fact that I had no open wound or seeping blood, enough where I could have bled to death, was the proverbial icing on the cake, countering what I remembered happening. But, while it would be much easier to dismiss what I believed had happened, as inexplicable as it was, it would also be to ignore the truth. I'd been attacked – I'd felt the blade go into me!

As much as I hated it, if everything hadn't happened the way I'd remembered, then I'd be forced to acknowledge that only one possibility remained ... I needed a straight jacket because my mind had run wild again.

I wanted to distance myself from Cortland Bridge and go home, where I'd be safe, and then try to figure it out. I placed my hands onto the splintered bench to help myself stand and found my flashlight there, next to me. I picked it up and then carefully went down the gazebo's three rickety steps and started on my way home, glad I didn't have far to go.

Keeping a lookout for any obvious sign that I wasn't alone, my mind churned as I replayed every event – and another thing stood out ... it was clear that the bridge was haunted. The invisible person had even said it! Then there had been the strange, unfamiliar voices in the dark; the French one being the most memorable.

Preoccupied by my thoughts, I was startled when something jostled within the shrubbery at the base of a nearby oak tree at Cemetery Raven's edge. Thinking it might be the person who'd been watching me, I paused, ready to bolt if he was. But nothing happened. Chastising myself, I continued to walk faster. "Just what I need, another hallucination. I hate this place. My parents died, I moved to Mannix, and suddenly I'm losing my mind. What else could go wrong?"

The thrashing started up again.

I grasped the flashlight tighter and watched it closely as I skirted the area, prepared to dole out his much deserved punishment once he emerged into the open – and then run like hell to get away from him!

Suddenly, a swift movement ...!

I cried out and jumped back as two ravens burst from their hiding place within the brambles and flew up to perch upon the tree's lowest branch. Cocking their heads to one side, they both gazed down at me. Upset over nearly being brought down by feathered fury, I swore at them under my breath and stormed off towards home.

I rounded the corner of Craven Lane and paused. A UPS truck was parked in front of one of the houses.

My things!

Immediately forgetting everything about Cortland Bridge, I took off jogging down the street.

When I was near my aunt's front yard, I slowed and walked the rest of the way there. Cardboard boxes of all sizes littered her front yard, more than I remembered packing. Rhys' dad was there, talking with the driver, but then he turned and looked at me without a hint of judgment over my leaving the way I had the night before. "Hey, Ashe. I hope these belong to you. I've signed for them."

The driver bid us a brief goodbye, climbed back into his truck, and drove away, while the neighborhood dogs continued their frenzied barking at him.

Wearing blue jeans and a blue plaid shirt that almost matched the color of his eyes, Rhys walked out of his house and came over, looking over the many boxes. His father clapped him on the shoulder and said, "I'm volunteering you to help Ashe."

Looking like he about to say something, his father cut him off. "Remember, your mom and I will be gone, but only overnight." He looked at me. "Ashe, we have enough food for you both. You're welcome to it."

Rhys' mom came out. Eyeing the cartons, she smiled. "You two will be busy."

"I'm sorry about last night. I ..." I started to say.

She held up her hand. "It's okay. No explanation is necessary. Have fun unpacking." After some last minute instructions to Rhys, his parents walked over to their car and got in. With a wave from his mom, they drove off.

Rhys and I looked at one another. "Explanation is necessary. I know you went back out."

I started to tell him how difficult it was to sit down to dinner with his parents so soon after burying my own, when a cold breeze blew and I shivered.

He looked at me oddly. "What's wrong?"

"You didn't feel that?"

"No."

"Never mind. Let's get these boxes inside where you can unpack them."

"I can?"

I didn't answer.

He groaned. "That wasn't really a question, was it?"

I shook my head.

"I was afraid of that."

I went to unlock the front door while Rhys picked up a big box and started up the porch steps behind me. "For the record, this isn't the way I'd wanted to spend my weekend."

"Then, 'thank you' for your sacrifice." I opened the front door wide and came down to collect two medium-sized boxes while Rhys started up the stairwell to my bedroom. Piling one box on top of the other, I followed.

Finally, after multiple trips, I retrieved the last box and carried it upstairs.

When I walked back into my bedroom, Rhys was in the center of it, his phone in his hand, pointed to the right side of my bed. I heard a digital click. He then continued to turn in a circle, snapping panoramic photos of my room, until he reached where I'd gone to sit on the mattress to watch him. Aiming it at me, he said, "And ... the last one." He snapped the photo. Looking absurdly proud of himself, he smiled. "Done."

"Do you have a creepy new hobby I should know about, like taking pictures of girls' bedrooms?"

"Nope. I just decided to take the 'before' pictures to show you just how much stuff you have, which, by the way, is a lot."

Although I'd never admit it, he was right. With the number of boxes that had arrived, I thought some of my parents' things had come, too. But, taking a closer look at them, I saw my writing on the outside, stating what was inside of each box. "I could easily argue that if we hauled all of these boxes next door and filled them with your things, it'd be close. We might even need more. Your collection of 'stuff' easily tops mine," I said.

"I doubt that." Rhys stuffed his phone back into his back pocket and we started the chore of unpacking.

Hours later, and stopping only for lunch, we finally finished. "Seriously, what started out as a joke ... I can't believe one person could own this much stuff," Rhys said. "It took all day. It's already dark outside."

"You sound like you're complaining."

"That's because I am."

I sat down on my bed and reached for the last, small carton, marked 'Miscellaneous.' Inside were family photos and a few other things. I opened it and took out a framed picture of my dog, Buddy. Then, I took out my calendar and red pen, flipped it to the month of September and circled the last Saturday in red ink before placing both on top of my nightstand. Then, closing the box, I put it on the floor between the mattress and nightstand where it would be out of my way, but still easily accessible. I got up and walked over to the dresser and placed Buddy's picture there. "Now, it's dressed up."

Rhys sat on my bed and picked up one of the few books I had there. "Poetry?"

"You sound surprised. I have depth."

He smiled. "To go along with your big words."

"I've always liked it, especially the second wave of Romantic poets, in particular Byron, Keats, and Shelley – and one who was in a class all his own, but is in no way a Romantic poet, unless the person reading it is into the macabre – Poe. My dad used to tease that I was too easily influenced by their 'poetic flair.'"

While Rhys lazily flipped through its pages, I looked around the room. It was bittersweet. Having my things there was nice, but it signified a new start in my life, without my parents being there – and I felt guilty about it, like I'd left them behind as I moved on. Crossing my arms, I leaned against the dresser. "Have you ever thought what it'd be like to be dead – just not?"

Rhys' eyes slowly rose to mine. "No," he said, dragging out the word. "Why? Have you?"

I instantly regretted asking him. "Don't get morbid on me. It's just a question."

"Not a normal one, and as for being morbid ..."

"Define 'normal'."

"Not asking if someone has considered what it'd be like to die."

"Not what I asked."

"Close enough."

At that moment, for the first time since we'd met, there was a distance between us. It was justifiable, though. Our situations were completely the opposite of the other. Unless they suddenly, and tragically, became the same, he wouldn't be able to understand what my question really meant or how I felt; okay one minute, but a complete wreck the next.

"Want to come over tonight? We can eat dinner and just hang out."

"I'm not in the mood for real food. I want junk," I said.

"Pizza it is. Do you still like the same slop on yours?"

Despite my inner turmoil, I smiled. "Mushrooms and pineapple on pizza is not slop."

"You're entitled to your opinion. Let's go to my house."

For a brief second, it sounded like a good idea ... but then, I changed my mind. Suddenly, going to hang out, safe, in a house, with my best friend ... wasn't what I wanted to do. Although I couldn't understand why, what I wanted was to go back to Cortland Bridge, despite how scary it had been. When I was there, standing before it, contemplating the risks I'd run by going inside, I'd felt different ... not myself, but preternatural, in the truest sense –part of something greater than me – something secret ... unnatural; only I hadn't known what it was, and still didn't. But even with that, I'd left both it and the gazebo feeling unsettled. Maybe because I'd thought I was dying, and hadn't.

Even if it wasn't immediate, I decided I'd go back. It was the only way to try and uncover its secrets and to see if there were other ghosts inside – because if I didn't, being as recently preoccupied as I was with death and ghosts, I wouldn't be able to let it go.

I left with Rhys for his house. We walked inside and I went to sit on the sofa while he called in our pizza order. He hung up and then walked past me to sit at the opposite corner of the sofa, turned on the TV – and I was instantly sorry. He paused too long on a ridiculous program with bad acting. With his eyes glued to the television, Rhys leaned back against the cushions, laughing.

Forced to endure the show, the instant the doorbell rang, I was up like a shot. "I'll get it."

"The money's in the cookie jar in the kitchen."

I retrieved the money and then walked back to the front door, ready to shove it at the delivery person and take the pizza ... but when I opened it, no one was there. I stepped out onto the porch to look to see if the driver had gone back to his car for our food.

No car.

Prepared to tell Rhys the wiring was bad, I started to go back inside when I saw a single white rose petal on the porch. It was rocking gently in the slight breeze. Intrigued by its aloneness, I paused to pick it up and carefully held it between my finger and thumb to caress softly. I loved the feel of their petals – so different from other flowers – silky smooth, yet thickly veined with a gradual thinning toward the tip.

Then I remembered ... Rhys' yard didn't have any roses, and the wind was barely more than a soft breeze. Wondering how the petal had gotten there, or where it might have come from, I started to look for others. But my search was cut short when a car with a distinctive sign pulled into the driveway and parked.

Looking like he wished he was someplace else, the pizza delivery person got out, opened the backseat door, and pulled out two pizza boxes. He slammed the door shut and started on his way over.

"What's the hold-up?" Rhys asked from behind me.

"Pizza's here."

"I know. The doorbell rang, you got up – why is it taking so long?"

Walking up the porch steps, the driver said woodenly, "One pizza with mushroom and pineapple, the other with pepperoni and sausage." He handed me the pizza boxes and then took the money. "Want your change?"

Rhys said, "Keep it."

The guy went back to his car, got in, and drove off.

"He obviously hates his job," I commented.

"Who cares? Our food's here." Rhys took the boxes from me and carried them inside, but I stayed at the doorway a moment longer to gaze at the rose petal I still held – and then released it. It twirled semi-gracefully to the porch, softly landed, and then came to rest on its back. "A petal, isolated from any other, and because of that, so tragic," I whispered.

I left the petal where it lay and went back inside the house and closed the door. I sat next to Rhys. He was watching the TV in a semi-trancelike stare, chomping away at his pizza, laughing occasionally at something stupid the actors either said or did. I opened my pizza box, and hoping the show would end soon, I picked up the first slice and bit into it.

Finally, it did. Rhys handed me the remote. "I know it wasn't what you'd normally watch, so – your turn."

I debated what I should do. I'd promised to spend time with him, just hanging out, but I was restless. I didn't want to watch TV all night. I wanted to go back to Cortland Bridge.

The stranger there had said I was drawn to them. Maybe it was because I'd been there that he guessed it, but he was partially right. I was drawn, but I didn't know for sure if it was them, or Cortland Bridge, that I was more interested in. Or both. But what really intrigued me was, while the two misty forms hadn't seemed to notice my presence, the scary one had. My natural curiosity being piqued over something unnatural, maybe more than it should be, made me decide to go back – that night, alone ... despite the pain, confusion, and how terrifying it had been.

I closed my box and placed it on the coffee table in front of us. "I'm going to go."

"Already? It was the movie, wasn't it?"

"No, I'm just tired." By the way he looked at me, I could tell Rhys knew I was lying. But if I told him where I was going, he'd tell me how stupid and dangerous my plan was ... something he didn't need to say, because I already knew that. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded. "Sure."

I hastened back next door, went inside, and headed for the kitchen to retrieve the flashlight before hurriedly exiting the house again. Just as I started down my porch steps, Rhys' living room lights shut off – he was headed upstairs to his bedroom. Before he could see me leaving, I took off running down the street, but when I rounded the corner to the dead end, I paused to look behind me. My tactic worked – Rhys hadn't followed. I kept the flashlight off and continued to Cortland Bridge. Though what I was doing might be considered insane, I'd set out to prove to myself that I could face my fears while satisfying my curiosity. The consequences, if any, I'd deal with later.

Slowly, I approached the bridge and halted at its entrance. Dark, desolate, and with enough fog to justify its reputation as a place to avoid, I was suddenly indecisive about having returned alone. I started to back away ... but then stopped myself. I whispered, "Don't allow your fear to get to you. Don't quit."

I wanted to leave, but I'd gone back for a purpose – to see if maybe the 'hallucinations' I'd thought I'd had weren't hallucinations, after all. Maybe I'd been trying to ignore what was right before me, refusing to acknowledge that things outside of the mortal world could, and did, exist, and that everything 'unexplained' that I'd experienced; seeing them, sensing them, even speaking to them, wasn't as much unexplained as it was real, even if it was hard to wrap my mind around. It would explain so much ... because I'd seen them! But I'd also gone there for another reason – to see if the one who'd hurt me the night before was there so I could ask what his cryptic message meant – that my insatiable curiosity was the reason the supernatural and I would be drawn to each other.

Armed with a new determination and false bravado, I turned on my flashlight and stepped inside. It was quiet and, except for me, the bridge appeared to be free of mortal invasion. Hoping I was right, I started to inch my way in, hating that, with every step, the bowing from the wooden planking caused amplified echoing within the empty hull of the covered bridge.

I'd almost reached the bend when there was a sudden, drastic drop in temperature. I was covered with goose bumps, and I shivered. But it wasn't just from the cold. The uneasy feeling of not being alone had returned. As I debated what to do, ignore the spooky feeling and continue further in, or leave, a loud thud broke the silence, followed immediately by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. My eyes instantly locked to the place where the noises were coming from ... around the bend!

Decision made, I quickly exited the bridge ... and stopped.

With hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans, a stranger stood in the middle of the dirt path to the bridge, looking at me silently.

Refusing to show the affect his sudden appearance had on me, and without considering the danger I might face by confronting him, I gripped my flashlight tightly and snarled, "Stay away from me! I'm handy with this and I will use it!"

His stillness, more than if he had deliberately jumped out at me, was unnerving. With no change in his demeanor, even in the face of my open hostility, he said softly, "You should not be in there."

His voice ... it sounded familiar.

I berated myself for losing focus. He owed me an explanation for trying to terrorize me while I was inside the bridge! "Who the hell are you to tell me what I should, or should not, be doing?"

"I am someone who knows about that bridge, while you clearly do not."

I walked toward him, keeping a tight grip on the flashlight. Even though the stranger didn't move, as I got closer, I could see that his eyes were locked to mine ... and they were strange. Silver centers, surrounded by a bright emerald green – that ... shined in the dark!

I paused. More than just the color of his eyes was off. Whoever the guy was, he wasn't acting like a pranker or someone to fear. Instead, his presence seemed ... comforting. The whole situation was odd. Someone had tried to scare me out of the bridge, yet we were the only two there. Beginning to feel like I'd somehow just missed an obvious clue, I glanced back to the bridge and then at him again.

He continued to gaze at me in the same quiet, questioning way.

I resented his calm, collected manner. Intentional or not, it gave him an unfair advantage, while I stood