Maya Sharma never believed in ghosts.
At 22, she was logical, sharp, and deeply passionate about architecture. Bridges were her obsession—symbols of connection, courage, and crossing into the unknown. She believed every bridge had a story.
But this one had a curse.
Her father, Rahul Sharma, had worked for the Department of Rural Infrastructure for over two decades. He had built roads, towers, tunnels—but never something like this.
The site was isolated. Deep inside the district of Darnipura, not even marked on Google Maps. The only known settlement nearby was Viran Gaon, a village with barely ten families, all of whom locked their doors before the sky turned orange.
At the heart of it stood a bridge.
An old, decaying structure that hung above a silent stretch of water. The villagers never crossed it. Children were warned never to play near it. They said if you listened closely, you could hear footsteps on it at midnight… even when no one was there.
Maya's father was sent to lead the reconstruction project.
He left with ten men.
Six came back—scarred, shaking, and silent.
None of them would say what happened. And within a week, they disappeared from their homes. Gone. As if the bridge had followed them.
Rahul never returned.
Maya filed reports. Pleaded with officials. But everything was buried. Ignored. Forgotten.
Then, on a storm-choked night, she received a package at her door. Wrapped in cloth. No address. Just her name.
Inside it:
A cracked voice recorder.
And a nail—bent, rusted, and stained deep brown.
She pressed play.
> "Maya… I was wrong. This bridge… it was never built by men alone. They say the original workers gave sacrifices... human ones. They buried the bodies inside the beams."
> "The water under it—it doesn't move. I looked over the edge. I saw my own reflection blink at me. Blink, Maya."
> "They're still there. All of them. They never left. And now they want… you."
The tape ended with a squelch, like something wet being crushed.
And then came the whisper.
> "Maya..."
Not her father's voice.
Something else.
Something far colder.
That night, Maya packed her bag, her flashlight, and her courage.
She didn't believe in ghosts.
But whatever lived inside that bridge…
already knew her name.