Horror - Short
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs. No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.
All rights reserved. The Bridge Home Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026
THE BRIDGE HOME
Mrs. Gramble’s house seemed to lean toward the school’s east end—cracked and yellowed vinyl siding, wasps’ nests caking the roof’s overhang at the corners, the shingles gone to moss. Mr. Gramble had looked after the house while Mrs. Gramble tended to the flowerbed and the trees. Mr. Gramble was dead, the house was on its way, but the flowerbed and the row of dogwood trees next to the sidewalk thrived.
Dogwood, red and stiff, slim branches with soft innards beneath hard exteriors. Many old timers liked them for switches.
“What does Stevie Borden have to do with my kingdom?” Mary Fischer asked Tommy, her only son. She wore a wide billowy dress and powder makeup, hair done-up high.
“Your Majesty, please pass the taters,” William Fischer said. He wore a jester’s outfit, goofy hat, goofy shoes, rosy red cheeks.
The family sat around a thrice handed-down kitchen table that had never left Hudson. It was a Fischer table, and these Hudson Fischers never left because home was a new world every day.
Mary passed the taters. “Mine jester, art thou going to entertain in mine boudoir this evening?” She lifted her eyebrows almost to her hairline.
William Fischer swallowed and looked down at his son. “Should her majesty allow me.”
“But, Mom, what do I do about Stevie?” Tommy’s hands were fists wrapped around a fork and a knife. He had marks all up his arms from the bully using dogwood on him.
—
Five days of peace, not a welt, confidence soaring, Tommy walked quickly out the backdoor of the school. There weren’t any dogwood trees on the north side of the playground, this helped, but so did going unnoticed.
Tommy was four years younger than Stevie’s thirteen. Stevie and his father shared a squat trailer and a welfare check. A mannish boy. He had a full beard and his muscles rippled under his shirt. Stevie let the other kids at school pay for his lunch.
He didn’t thump the ones who paid him.
Tommy’s parents refused to give him money, so he had to be crafty, which was why he scooted out the backdoor and had begun keeping to the library at lunch. The library was also where he came to love Miss Mogely. She was a history teacher for half the kids—the lucky ones—and was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Tommy walked quickly, imagining touching her boobs, running his hands through her hair, kissing her subtly lipsticked mouth.
“Dick stain switched his route.” Stevie stepped out from the shadow cast by one of the old bridge’s beams. It was a covered deal, wide enough for two lanes of traffic, but only used for walking these days. “Think you’re smart?”
Twenty years earlier, the mill and the bridge leading to it, became redundant. Both fell to slow decay. The mill had a rusty construction fence circling it and no trespassing signs which hung crookedly. The building itself had boards over the windows and chains on the doors, winos inhabited the place every winter. The bridge had gone grey but could easily hold the weight of foot traffic.
“I’m talkin’ to you, dick stain. Think you fooled me?”
Tommy passed Stevie and then swish, swish, swish, three bright red welts surfaced in less time than it took for Tommy to whirl around. He cried out and Stevie flipped the switch in his hand, fat side threatening, snap, snap, snap. Tommy’s hand rose and his knees buckled. Stevie had never given him the fat side on the neck before. Damp and hot, he touched the wound. Blood spotted his fingers.
“I got to catch you up. We missed what? Five days?” Swish, swish.
Tommy rolled into the fetal position.
“Ever hear of compounding interest?” Stevie laughed, flipped the branch again and snap, snap, snap. The dogwood broke over Tommy’s head.
“Stop it!”
“Shut it.” Stevie kicked Tommy in the gut and then looked around on the bridge for a new tool. Metal glinted from between boards a few feet away.
Stevie started off and Tommy took his chance. He broke for the park by the mill. Stevie stayed behind and swung a broken car antenna around the air, a glow blazed and died at his whim.
“Get you yet, pussy!” Stevie shouted and though Tommy was fifty feet away and feeling safer, he didn’t doubt it for a second.
—
Mary’s father stopped by unannounced for supper. He was a writer for The Weekly World News and lived in a cottage east of Hudson on Thimble Lake. The paper mailed him twenty strange photos a month and he made up stories to fit, attributing accounts to sources say.
“What the hell happened to you?” Despite thinking them nuts, Barney Lancaster played along with the suppertime games. He wore a green wig and grey paint on his face, grey apron covering the rest of his body.
A family of trees.
Tommy shrugged. Some of the welts had swollen to split. Paint covered most of it.
“You have a bully? You know about this Mary?”
Mary looked up from her plate. “Did someone carve their name in your trunk?”
Sometimes Barney wanted to shake his flakey, weirdo daughter. He looked to his son-in-law. “William, you’re not doing this are you?”
“I am but a tree!”
“Forget the game a minute. Look at him. Someone’s putting a wallop on him. Who did this to you, Thomas?”
Tommy shrugged again—snitches got stitches.
“Tell me, I mean it.”
“Your creaky branches are ruining our night,” Mary said, rustling her leaves.
Barney ignored her, squinting at Tommy. Then it hit him. “It’s a goddamn Borden kid, ain’t it?”
Tommy didn’t shrug, couldn’t move or he’d breakdown.
“Barney, this talk is very un-tree-like,” William said.
“Bordens are trouble. Remember those wannabe gangsters?”
William rolled his eyes, they’d all told the lie to each other so much it became a truth. “That was just an accident, everybody knows that. Craig Borden didn’t even get charged.”
Barney shoved his plate across the table, it clanked against a gravy boat and a pitcher of iced tea. “Accident, bullshit.”
—
“It’s Tommy.” A low whisper, his hand over the phone and his mouth. “Will you tell me about the accident?”
“Mary and William know about this call?”
Tommy paused, he didn’t like lying, especially not to his grandfather. “No, sir.”
“Good, they have their heads up their arse holes.”
Twenty years prior. 1994. Summertime. Three local boys had spent entire days leaning on the nose of an old Cadillac Brougham. They wore white tank tops, fake gold rope chains, and baggy Dickies, hanging low so their boxer shorts puffed out like crinoline on a prom dress shoulder.
Story went, they sold enough pot to cover the gas in the car and a few cans of spray paint. Wezzide Boyz started showing up on walls and signs all over town. The chief took the boys in, slapped wrists, handed out fines, and things settled for a time. Soon enough Wezzide Boyz 4 Lyfe and Bordenz eat cox started appearing. Cops seemed to mind this less and none of the locals complained.
Still, the act caught attention. Late November and warmer than normal, winter had only just begun poking through the autumn vale. The river wore a layer of ice like frost. The Wezzide Boyz parked their Caddy a few feet from the bridge. The windows cracked, smoke poured out alongside the rumblings of DAS EFX. They’d been out painting again, this time they gave the rusty rims of Craig Borden’s lifted Dodge a splash of color.
The Dodge’s engine was loud enough that it crept over bum-stiggety-bum stiggety pa-rum-pa-pum-pums, but by the time the Wezzide Boyz noticed, the huge Dodge bumper was about to make contact with the back of the Caddy.
—
Halloween came around and Tommy felt pretty good; Stevie seemed to have disappeared. He had to dress-up so often that he decided to go simple for Halloween and wore a bed sheet with eyes cut out. For most of the kids, the order was to be home by 8:00 PM and that was fine. Tommy didn’t have a curfew. His parents were having a jungle night.
Tommy and his friends parted ways at the school. They lived to the west and didn’t have to take the bridge. Rather than rushing back, he sat and inhaled goodies.
Snickers.
M&Ms.
Doritos.
“Save some for me, dick stain.” It was full-dark and the moon rode low behind clouds. “I didn’t give you permission to eat my candies.” There was a swishing sound, like a dogwood switch, but firmer.
Tommy couldn’t yet see Stevie and jumped up, leaving the candy sack behind. He tore toward the park, stuffing the bed sheet into his pocket. He didn’t get far when he met the open arms of a smiling boy named Buford Vroon—Buff to Stevie and his friend’s.
“Gotcha, ass face.” Buff wrapped his arms around Tommy.
Tommy shot out a knee, connected with testicles. Buff squealed and dropped. The swishing got closer. Swish, swish.
On the third swish, Tommy cried out. “Owee!” The old car antenna hit Tommy right in the eye. He dropped.
Swish.
Swish.
Tommy tried to roll away from the pain, the laughter. He couldn’t. Buff got up and punted Tommy in the gut. There was a hollow sound and then Tommy wretched up a soggy orange mess and pissed hot gold simultaneously.
The running stream caused more laughter. “Pussy boy pissed.” This voice belonged to Val Roudin. His parents were Russians a decade landed in Canada.
Stevie rolled the wheel on his lighter and lit a cigarette. “Eatin’ all my candy.” He clicked his tongue.
“Take it,” Tommy begged and then appealing, “You got my eye, please.”
Swish.
Swish.
“That’s enough, don’t ya think?” Buff said.
“Only getting started.” Stevie swung the antenna over his shoulder four times, aiming for the light flesh in the dark of night.
Tommy moaned.
“Stevie, come on man, he’s had enough.” Val lowered his gaze, peered into the abyss between the slats of wood underfoot.
Buff put his hands into his pants pockets.
Stevie took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled as he spoke, “You’re just pussies.” Swish. Swish.
“You’re nuts,” and “Fuck this,” turned the trio assault into a one man show.
“You’re both dick stains!” Stevie shouted as the other boys started away.
Swish, swish, Tommy’s body didn’t flinch. Stevie kicked Tommy’s side.
“Wake up, pussy!”
Tommy didn’t. Stevie shortened the antenna and shoved it into his pocket. The smell of vomit and piss was so strong it made Stevie gag.
“I know what’ll wake you up.” Stevie lifted the small boy onto the sill. The water beneath the layer of ice rolled gently. The bed sheet from Tommy’s pocket snagged on a nail as his body dropped. His unconscious form splashed and thunked.
—
Four weeks passed, the river froze solid and snow lined the streets. Nobody had seen or heard from Tommy since Halloween.
So when Tommy showed up on his familial doorstep, all were surprised, but didn’t question it much. Only his grandfather pressed him, but he was so happy, he didn’t press very hard. Tommy had no explanation for the absence, only recalling the smoky car and the three boys who’d dropped him off.
“Who were they?” the old man asked.
Tommy simply smiled.
—
“Dick stain, where ya been hiding?” Stevie followed Tommy onto the bridge.
“Leave me alone.”
“Don’t be like that. We’re old pals, ain’t we?”
Tommy quickened his pace, stomping through a light crusting of snow that slickened the wood floor. Stevie kept up, feeling around his jacket pocket for the broken piece of antenna. He found it and began to pull it free.
“Hey, Tommy, you all right, homie?” a voice called from the bridge’s entrance, just beyond the cement parking blocks enforcing the strict no vehicle policy.
“You fuckin’ with Tommy, bro?” another voice added.
Stevie stopped and turned. A long brown Cadillac with shiny chrome rims sat idling, some old rap track played low in the background.
“How about you dick stains mind your business?”
Stevie turned back to Tommy and he’d taken off like a bullet into the park. “You scared away my buddy,” Stevie looked over his shoulder, “you—” The Cadillac was gone.
—
The news was all over school the following morning: Buff was dead. Found on the sidewalk, never made it home after yesterday’s final bell, his throat bruised and marked, a fat imitation-gold rope necklace had choked out his airways. The police questioned everyone that might’ve or should’ve seen something, but nobody saw a thing.
Losing Buff ruined part of the half-formed plan in Stevie’s head, but he thought he’d make do yet. He could just see the little bitch stripped naked and left in the gym for the seventh grade girls’ class to come in the next morning.
At lunchtime, Stevie warned Tommy that he’d catch him after class.
—
Tommy was different. He told Miss Mogely in the library what Stevie said. Miss Mogely called Craig Borden and demanded his son be picked up immediately. Sent home like any other troublesome bully would be.
At home, things were different too.
“That scary Borden man called.” William was in drag, sequins painted beneath his eyes while he sat at his desk, translating a repair manual to be sold in Mexico. “I wish you wouldn’t pull us into your problems.”
—
At school, Tommy smacked at a licorice, potato chip, and chocolate cookie lunch. Stevie strolled up to his table. Four boys scooted away in fear. Stevie picked up a cookie, took a bite, dropped the cookie and spat a gooey wad of melted chocolate and softened doughy mess, it oozed onto Tommy’s head, slow like a sticky cow patty.
“Not a healthy lunch, dick stain.”
“So?” Tommy shook off the chewed cookie. He attempted to stand. Stevie pushed him back down onto his seat.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Tommy looked around the cafeteria for help. The room usually loud with life, was quiet as a funeral. Miss Mogely walked past the entrance and then reversed. She had a box in her hands and tears dampening her cheeks. Like a bull, she entered the cafeteria.
That morning, she’d stepped into class to find a note on her door and a substitute in her chair. The principal wouldn’t look at her, gave her the story that they couldn’t function with the threats and possible scandals. “I don’t believe that you’re in a sexual relationship with Tom Fischer, but I can’t deal with the media.”
Miss Mogely spent her morning on hold with the union. She was too new and they suggested they’d assist in finding her a better placement, so long as charges weren’t filed.
“You let go of him you little prick.” Miss Mogely dug her pink nails into Stevie’s arm.
“Hey, hey, don’t touch me, you twat!”
“Eat it, Borden.”
“My daddy’ll—”
“Your daddy’ll what? Make up some garbage? You worthless little prick, your daddy’s just trash.”
“You can’t—”
“I can and will. You got me canned, so I’m just a woman doing her civic duty.”
Tommy’s lunch remained on the table, but he’d disappeared during the confrontation. Miss Mogely let go of Stevie’s arm.
—
Stevie called Val nine times before he got an answer. Val was rich and had his own cellphone. There was good news, they had a third man back and they were going to make it look like Miss Mogely and Tommy were fucking. Forget Hudson District, she’d never work as a teacher again, anywhere.
“Where’ve you been?” Stevie demanded when the lines finally connected.
Some weird old rap came through and then the sound of laughter before the lines disconnected. Stevie dialed again and got the automatic mailbox voice.
Stevie figured Val was being a pussy and told his father. Craig hadn’t thought they’d need the other boys anyway—a good father-son project.
Craig had typed two notes. Short and to the point, one of which begged for Tommy to join Miss Mogely at the school after hours.
—
The next morning, seconds after Stevie slid the note into Tommy’s cubby, students flooded the hallway. News of another death electrified the masses. Someone had spray painted Val’s face and throat; drowned him in red and black Rust-Oleum.
—
At the hardware store, Barney learned of the murders and had a couple theories. The paint had to be from an ancient can, the shade of red wasn’t available anymore, the texture rubbery, an older recipe. Rust paint had advanced great leaps over the last couple decades. That was lead-based shit.
At the grocery store, folks explained the flakes of gold coming from the gold rope, it was surely cheap, but nobody recognized it. Barney thought he would’ve liked to have seen it, if only for the sake of interest.
Since in town already, he decided to pay a visit to Mary. She was usually at home, both she and her husband. They’d become shut-ins after a payout and worked sparingly. They’d been involved in some medical trial and, due to negligence, they’d be susceptible to a host of permanent skin maladies.
When nobody answered his calls, Barney searched rooms methodically, entering as he came upon them. He opened their bedroom door after he’d been around most of the house. Both William and Mary lay in bed, wide-eyed and pale, dressed as half-assed tinfoil robots. The blood drying on their chests was highly out of character.
Barney stumbled, shaking his head until the sight diminished, slightly. He dialed the police and explained the scene as best he could. At the station, he filled out a report.
He went back to the house to wait for Tommy.
—
Miss Mogely found a note on her car, begging for help from Tommy. He wanted her to come to his home. Strange, but he’d had it hard and perhaps he’d started the rumor that got her fired, could reverse the flow of the deed—she doubted it was him, but hope sprang eternal for easy answers.
Hands seemed to fire from the bushes out front of Tommy’s house. A man shouted Hey! from near the sidewalk. A cloth went over her face. As she crumbled, she heard the words You’re the fuck’s granddaddy and then a pained moan.
—
Tommy never believed the note, but he wasn’t going to let Stevie get him anymore, it was time for a stand. It’s why he came back in the first place; he knew that now.
Stevie and his father got to the school only minutes after Tommy hid in the shadows cast by a big oak tree. Craig Borden walked ahead of two figures, both hooded. He’d tied their hands and knees tight so their motions were small. Stevie brought up the rear of the party with a baseball bat in his grip.
Tommy remained silent.
The note had directed him to the gymnasium. So whatever they’d planned, it would go down there. He made his way around the back.
Miss Mogely, gagged and tied, took center stage quite literally behind a basketball hoop on the assembly platform. In the shadowy wings, Barney leaned, dazed, against a painted cinderblock wall.
Tommy took this in and let the cracked door close against his forehead. He inhaled a deep breath to build up his nerve. He pushed through the heavy double doors into the gymnasium. It was dim but for a bright spotlight on Miss Mogely’s struggling frame. Tommy raced forward, getting to the foot of the platform, looking up and then hearing the swish through the air.
“Dick stain!” Stevie was gleeful as he swung back for a second strike. Tommy had fallen, but did not feel any pain. That part of his life was long gone and he’d been faking it for some time now.
Another thwack hit.
Tommy stiffened on hands and knees, a grin forming on his face.
The lights died on the stage.
“What the hell?” Craig Borden’s voice was close.
Barney heard the question and attempted to open his eyes against the swelling, couldn’t tell if he’d succeeded in the pitch-black room.
“Dad?” Stevie asked, car antenna in his hand, but no longer poised to strike.
“Microphone check, microphone checka.” The sound came from somewhere within the gymnasium. Everywhere it seemed, being loud as it was.
“Dad?” Stevie asked, fear in his voice.
“Tiggety-time to get buck wild!”
“Dad?”
The song stopped. The sound of air releasing in a tight stream hit the quiet alongside particles of otherworldly spray paint.
“Believe that’s mine, homie,” a voice said very close to Stevie’s ear, the car antenna wrenched from his hand.
“Dad?”
“Who you think you’re fuckin’ with here?” Craig said through clenched teeth. “I’m Craig-fucking-Bor—!”
“We know.” The voice breathed a cold breeze into Craig’s ear. Craig swung around with a roundhouse punch, finding nothing but air.
“Wezzide Boyz!” The words came from in front of the stage. Two bright beams spot-lit the action. The sound pumped and pounded. Miss Mogely attempted to scream, but the gag muffled most of the sound.
Craig got it then, so did Barney.
“Dad?”
The car revved behind the blinding lights. Stevie looked to the ground. His victim gone. Two more sets of laughter expelled from the wings of the platform. Craig stumbled forward. Half-drunk on confusion and Budweiser.
“Dad?”
The car revved. The music intensified, though was not as loud as before. “Microphone check, microphone checka.”
The trio of young men pushed Craig to his knees.
“You’re dead!” Craig yelled from the high gloss basketball court. “You can’t be here!”
Hands came down onto Craig’s arms and he attempted to wrench free, but for the first time since he faced off with his own daddy, he wasn’t the strongest bully on the playground. In two lightning heartbeats, he found himself in the backseat of a 1980 Cadillac Brougham with a burgundy interior. It reeked of lake water, rotting meat, and weed smoke.
“You’re dead!” Craig shouted to the figures moving him like he was stuffed with cotton.
“Wezzide!” yelled one.
“Boyz!” yelled another directly after.
The third yelled, “Come on, got something for you!” He grabbed Stevie.
Stevie fell into the front seat and felt a smallish body push in behind him. He lifted his head. Tommy grinned and revved the engine. His face paling and losing shape. Shades of green and black festering around his nose, eyes, and mouth. “Who’s the dick stain now?” Tommy threw the chrome shifter into reverse.
The car backed out of the gym, slamming the heavy doors wide open and punching a hole through a classroom wall. Bricks tumbled free in a dusty wave and suddenly they were outside.
The closer they got to that old bridge, the more Tommy’s face seemed to melt into carcass. The Wezzide Boyz were worse, nothing but bones and eyeballs and tongues. Just enough to rattle and laugh and stare.
Stevie begged the corpse to his left, doing his best to ignore the nodding, cackling skeleton to his right.
“Dick stain! Dick stain!” Tommy screamed. “I ain’t scared of you anymore, Stevie!” His tongue flapping loosely as if replaced by a land-bound fish. His foot pounded the accelerator and the skeletons all rapped along to the beat. Craig whimpered and Stevie outright sobbed.
“‘Cause we’re, jussumenthat’s on the mic.”
The front end struck the concrete blockade and launched the heavy car into the air as if hitting a ramp, time slowed but the song continued.
“…we’re jussumen…”
The heavy car roared through the night, bright as a comet soaring on the atmosphere and landing with a thud, a creak as the wood distressed, a crack as the wood voiced trouble, and then a crash as the entire bridge crumbled.
—
Miss Mogely watched this through the ruined wall. She attempted to scream and found her voice gone. Barney had gotten himself partly free and put his hand on her back, knowing Tommy was long dead, even before the night played out. Every so often there’s a good reason for ghosts to return.
“But Tommy!”
“Gone,” Barney said, “for now, anyway.”
XX