Whispers of Jianghe: The Haunting of the Forgotten Bridge

In the heart of Jianghe, a river that had witnessed the passage of countless souls over centuries, there stood an ancient bridge that locals whispered about with fear and reverence. It was said that during the night, the bridge would become a gateway to the otherworld, where spirits and the living would cross paths in an eerie dance of life and death.

On a crisp autumn evening, a group of friends from the city decided to explore the legend of the Jianghe Bridge. They were young, full of bravado, and eager to experience the thrill of the supernatural. Little did they know, their adventure would unravel a haunting tale that had been long buried in the annals of history.

The bridge was a stone structure, its arches reaching towards the heavens, and its surface worn smooth by the countless footsteps of the departed. The friends arrived just as the first stars began to twinkle in the sky, the mist rolling in from the river, wrapping the bridge in an ethereal shroud.

"We should turn back," one of the friends whispered, her voice trembling.

But the others, driven by a mix of curiosity and the thrill of the unknown, pressed on. As they crossed the bridge, the air grew colder, and the mist thicker. They could hear faint whispers carried on the wind, voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Suddenly, the bridge seemed to shudder, and a chill ran down their spines. The mist parted, revealing an old woman standing at the edge of the bridge. Her eyes were hollow, and her clothes were tattered, as if she had been wandering the bridge for an eternity.

"Who dares to cross my bridge at this hour?" her voice was a haunting melody, filled with sorrow and anger.

The friends exchanged nervous glances, but curiosity got the better of them. "We're just passing through," one of them stammered.

The old woman's eyes widened, and she took a step forward. "Passing through? You are not of this world. You are bound for the other side, just like the rest."

Before they could respond, the bridge seemed to vibrate again, and the mist thickened. The old woman vanished, leaving the friends standing in a cold, eerie silence.

"Who was that?" someone whispered.

"An omen," another replied, his voice filled with dread.

As they continued to walk, the bridge seemed to grow longer, the mist thicker. They could feel the eyes of something watching them, and the whispers grew louder, more insistent.

Suddenly, a figure appeared from the mist, a ghostly figure with a lantern in hand. The friends recoiled in fear, but the figure raised the lantern, illuminating a path ahead.

"This way," the figure said, and they followed, their hearts pounding with a mix of fear and determination.

The path led them to an old, abandoned temple at the end of the bridge. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of decay. The friends entered, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

The temple was filled with ancient relics and forgotten artifacts, but the most chilling sight was the large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall. As they approached, the mirror seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and the reflection within it was distorted, twisted.

"Stay back," someone said, stepping forward to examine the mirror.

Before he could touch it, the mirror shattered, and a gust of wind swept through the temple, carrying with it a cacophony of screams and cries. The friends stumbled back, their eyes wide with fear.

The temple began to tremble, and the ground shook beneath their feet. The walls crumbled, and the air grew colder. They could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, the sound of something moving closer.

In the midst of the chaos, a voice echoed through the temple. "You cannot escape your fate. You must face what you have done."

The friends looked around, but there was no one there. The temple was filled with shadows, and the whispers grew louder, more insistent.

Then, the ground opened up, revealing a chasm that seemed to yawn beneath them. The friends backed away, their hearts pounding with fear.

But it was too late. The ground gave way, and they fell into the abyss, the whispers following them into the depths of the earth.

As the story of the Jianghe Bridge spread, it became a cautionary tale, a warning to those who dared to cross the bridge at night. And in the eerie silence that followed, the whispers of the spirits of Jianghe continued to echo, a reminder of the thin veil that separates the living from the dead.