This is not my story but my friends who wishes to remain anonymous so the details may be a bit wonky. So be for we start here is some background info. This takes place on a bridge going over a manmade lake in our county. Now this lake is a known place that the Russian mod dumps bodies. I know it sound crazy but it’s true I swear. The bodies are found with there hands and heads cut of to keep them from being identified. Now that the background info is out of the way it’s time for the story.
This takes place about a week after my friend, who I will call Q, lost and Uncle who he was very close to. In Q’s family there’s a tradition were when someone die in the family the other family members would drop a rock of the bridge at night to honor the deceased. But the thing is that not many people in the family liked that uncle other than Q. So after a week of trying to get the others to the bridge with he gave up and went alone
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There are a lot of scary bridges in Maryland. I mean, you can actually pay someone 30 dollars to drive you across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge if you can’t stomach the howling winds and the sharp turn on the western side. But hands down, the scariest bridge is Decoursey Bridge over a small river in Greenbriar Swamp.
Being the paranormal junkie that I am, I had convinced a friend, let’s call him Jack, to finally take me to the Seven Gates of Hell. Located on a barely there dirt road that would sometimes be flooded out by the tides, the Gates are a local legend. Now I know a bunch of states have their own version, but ours has the particular distinction of also being a favorite haunt of Big Liz, the Ghost of a decapitated slave, and to even reach the Gates you have to travel a few miles along a road haunted by ghost lights. Spooky, right? Well this summed up our itinerary for that particular summer night. But we had one issue, neither of us had a car at the time.
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A little backstory before I get into things, back when I was in year 10 of secondary school, our Religious Studies class got taken on a trip to the Holocaust centre, we had to go around writing down any information that might come in handy for our upcoming exams. The trip was actually very interesting, our class even got to sit with a real concentration camp survivor, listening to his story from all those years a go was certainly a very moving experience. At the end of the trip we all got to go and have a quick look in the gift shop, I decided to buy a rubber red wrist band, the kind of thing you might see people who work for charity’s giving out, they usually have the name of the charity or their website on them to help raise awareness for whatever it is they’re raising money for. Anyway this wrist band had the words ‘Genocide- never again’ written on it, I figured it’s a nice, fitting souvenir. I put it on my wrist as we walked out and that was that.
About a year and a half or so later, that red wrist band had never left my wrist, it wasn’t hugely sentimental or anything, I just never really saw the need to take it off, after all it was water proof and I just kind of forgot it was even there. The reason for me telling you about this wrist band will make sense later on.
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“Hurry up slow poke!” I said laughing, talking to my cousin Zoe. We were walking to the bridge in South Haven from my great grandmas house. As we started talking about god knows what, when I noticed that the wildlife stopped being noisy.
Zoe was procrastinating because she had a “bad feeling” honestly I always trust my gut, and I felt fine. So I just kept walking, because I knew she would follow eventually. As I was looking at the bridge, I saw my old best friend, Conner. He was my OLD best friend because when we were 9 he died in a train accident, so it was weird seeing his spirit. He looked like we could be twins! Fraternal of course ’cause he is a boy and I’m a girl. Blonde hair, and blue eyes, although he had no glasses.
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Hello, I’m a huge fan of your Channel and I’ve always wanted to submit something to you but until now nothing I’ve had was long enough.
There’s a Ghost Story a friend of mine told me about called Goatmans Bridge. The long and short of a story is way back when there was a Goat Farmer who had a wife and children, but due to him being Black and his wife White the others didn’t take to kindly to their family due to the Racial issues at the time. They lived a normal life and never bothered anyone but one night they were taken out to the bridge by angry Farmers and were hung; the man was forced to watch as his beloved wife and children were murdered before being hung himself. Though he didn’t die right away; those who had hung them made sure the Noose was tied in such a way that caused a slow death.
Naturally as a huge Paranormal fan me and a couple of my friends had decided to go check the place out. It’s said at night if you go and stand on his bridge one of many things might happen: you might hear the rope swaying with a body clearly still attached to it, you might see him hanging off of the bridge, the sound of voices or the urge to jump off into the river below. The bridge itself was near a wooded area, naturally of course these things seem to always happen near a wooded or abandoned area, and was a good ways above a river with fallen trees and rocks scattered about in the dark water. The bridge had Graffiti on it clearly showing others had been there before who thought it would be a good idea to leave their mark on the place where a family lost their lives.
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