The Survivor
The nursing home smelled like antiseptic and boiled cabbage. Jake and Rachel stood in the doorway of Room 217, staring at the shriveled old man curled in the bed. His name was Walter Pike. According to Dr. Voss, he was the only person who had ever escaped the Big Man.
Walter's milky eyes flicked to Jake. His lips peeled back from yellowed teeth.
"You're here about the Bridge Walker."
Not a question. A statement.
Rachel stepped forward. "You saw it in 1958. You got away."
Walter let out a wet laugh. "Got away? Girl, nothing gets away." He tugged at the collar of his hospital gown, revealing a jagged scar that ran from his collarbone to his navel—a wound that looked like teeth marks.
Jake's stomach turned. "What is it?"
Walter's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Something old. Something that remembers when this land wasn't land at all."
He coughed, then pointed a trembling finger at Rachel's recorder. "Turn that damn thing off. It listens."
Rachel hesitated, then clicked it off.
Walter leaned in. "They built the first railroad bridge right over its resting place. Dug their foundations right through its bones. Woke it up." His knuckles whitened on the sheets. "Now it takes. One for every beam. One for every nail. Payment."
Jake's pulse hammered. "Payment for what?"
Walter's smile was ghastly.
"For the bridge standing at all."
The Sacrifice
The rain started as they left the nursing home—a cold, needling drizzle that seeped into Jake's clothes. Rachel gripped his arm, her nails biting into his skin.
"We need to find out how Walter survived," she said. "If there's a way—"
Jake shook her off. "Did you not hear him? It let him go. Like a fisherman throwing back a small catch." He pulled out Liam's phone, the frozen image of those bridge-beam ribs seared into his mind. "We're not dealing with some ghost. We're dealing with something that eats."
Rachel's eyes flicked to the treeline. "Then we give it something else."
Jake froze. "What?"
She wouldn't meet his gaze. "Voss's research mentioned… offerings. In some accounts, people left animals. Others—"
"Others left people," Jake finished coldly.
A beat of silence. Somewhere in the woods, a branch snapped.
Rachel exhaled. "I'm not saying we—"
"Then what are you saying?" Jake's voice cracked. "You think I'd trade some random person for Liam?"
Rachel's gaze finally lifted. "No. But I think the Big Man already chose who it wants."
She reached into her bag. Pulled out a photograph.
Jake's blood turned to ice.
It was a surveillance still from the night Liam disappeared. There, in the background, barely visible in the shadows—Sheriff Holloway. Watching.
Smiling.
The Sheriff's Secret
Holloway's house was dark when they broke in.
Jake's flashlight swept over taxidermied deer heads, their glass eyes gleaming. Rachel rifled through the desk, pulling out files marked "MISSING: BRIDGE INCIDENTS."
Then Jake found the basement door.
The stairs groaned underfoot. The air smelled like wet earth and copper. At the bottom, his light caught on something nailed to the wall—
Ribbons.
Dozens of them, each tied in a noose. Each with a name stitched in thread.
Tommy Mercer. Dean Whittaker. Liam Carter.
Rachel sucked in a breath. "Oh god. He's not just covering it up. He's helping it."
A floorboard creaked above them.
They froze.
Footsteps crossed the ceiling. Then—
"Shouldn't be down here."
Holloway stood at the top of the stairs, his service revolver glinting in the dim light. His face was eerily calm.
Jake's muscles coiled. "You son of a—"
Holloway fired.
The bullet tore through Jake's shoulder. He crashed into Rachel as they tumbled behind an old furnace. Blood seeped through his fingers, hot and slick.
Rachel pressed her hands to the wound, her whisper frantic. "We need to go."
Holloway's boots thudded on the steps. "You think you're the first to dig? The Big Man's been here longer than this town. Longer than people." His shadow stretched across the wall, grotesquely elongated. "And he always gets his due."
Jake's vision swam. He gripped Rachel's wrist. "Run."
They bolted as Holloway fired again. The bullet sparked off the furnace. They crashed through a mildewed window, landing in a tangle of limbs and broken glass.
Rain pelted their faces as they sprinted into the woods. Behind them, Holloway didn't follow.
But something else did.
The trees groaned.
The Offering
They collapsed in an abandoned hunting shack, Jake's breath coming in ragged gasps. Rachel tore her sleeve, pressing it to his shoulder.
"We can't stay here," she panted. "Holloway will—"
"He won't." Jake's teeth chattered. "He's waiting for it to take us."
Rachel's hands shook as she pulled out her phone. No signal. Of course.
Then—
A thud against the wall.
They stiffened.
Another. Closer.
The wood bulged, as if something massive was leaning against it.
Rachel fumbled for her recorder, hitting PLAY. Dean Whittaker's screams filled the room—a desperate, guttural wail.
The thudding stopped.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
"Rachel."
Liam's voice. Right outside the door.
Jake lurched forward. Rachel caught him. "No. That's not him."
The door handle twisted.
The recorder's battery died. The screams cut off.
And the wood splintered.
Something reached through.