It was a late-night drive to my grandparents’ house with the windows down and a cool Autumn breeze flowing throughout the car as my sister’s Nintendo Switch played Mario Karts and my dad frustratedly fought the enigmatic static coming from the radio.

My mum chuckled at the fuss as I lightly drummed my fingers on the car's interior. The texture made my fingertips tingle when I would brush it. My dad claimed it was due to the fine, authentically made leather material. My mum said it wasn't authentic, though kept her mouth shut after my dad went on a rant about it.

A while later, 10 minutes passed, and my mum pointed out the bridge we were to drive over with the foreboding pitch-black end awaiting us. “Mummy, I don't think it is safe”. “Yeah”. My younger brother Nicolas said, who had been fast asleep this whole time. “Kids, this is the bridge we have to cross”. “Why? There isn't a less foreboding way, or is this the only way in this remote place?” “The only way”. My father chuckled, driving on the bridge and stopping halfway.

“Why have we stopped, honey?” My mum enquired, scanning his exasperated face. “The tyre went flat”. He returned, slapping the top of his steering wheel and urging us to get out and fix it. Well, not my younger siblings. They stayed in the car and watched us.

“Can it be fixed?” “Of course, pass me the tools from the booth”. I went to get them when an eerie shadow caught my attention. “What is it?” My dad asked, my eyes unmoving from the weird shadow. “Nothing”. I reply, getting the tools and dropping the spanner in the process.

When I stood up with the spanner firmly in my grip, I screamed, and so did all of us. The eerie shadow was not just a figment of my imagination but a scary ghost demon. “Hurry, back into the car!” My dad ushered us in, made sure we clipped our seatbelts and began driving down and out of the bridge despite the struggle of the flat tyre.

We managed to escape unharmed and were never seen on that bridge again. My grandfather fixed our flat tyre and warned us of the things that lurked on and around that bridge. The remote town was known for its ghost stories. My grandfather Bill was responsible for putting indications and warnings to deter people away.

“Why isn't there one on the bridge?” I ask, giving my grandfather a quizzical look. “Each time I do, the ghost takes it down”. “Do you see it take it down?” No, but I see a disintegrated pile of ash of the used-to-be sign. My only fear is it could become a person next”. “Next?” The word reverberates through every inch of my body, making me shiver. “Yes, so stay away”.

We did so. Avoiding the bridge at all costs by driving around it. The ghost demon waved at us. Whether it was waving us goodbye or waving us a gesture of an unpleasant but expected death that'll befall us, we did not wish to find out.

I watched the ghost demon, his gaze unwavering from mine. In those eyes of his, I saw death, suffering and inconsolable pain they cast on his very victims. At that moment, I knew I was the subsequent. The pure subsequent he looked for. The next in line to die. Be nothing more but a pile of ash he deposed of in the river beneath the bridge he occupied.

Who would be next after me?