For weeks we had been travelling along a hard road. Our bones were sore, our feet ached, our bellies were empty.
Harder still to fight against had been the doubt gnawing at our minds that all the effort was for nought. There was no guarantee that our journeys end would meet success.
Such is the peril when one seeks myths like the Bridge to Nowhere. Finally, though it was before us.
It spanned the chasm just as the legends said it would. Its rickety boards and tired ropes extended out over the abyss to disappear into fog and mystery.
There was a depth of time here that yawned deeper than the plummet over the cliffs.
Sat beside the bridge's beginning was a shrivelled figure, huddled in ragged clothes, a skeletal waif. He laughed as he spoke to us.
"So, you've come to cross the Bridge to Nowhere then? Course you have. Ah the things you'll see. The wonders.
Walk on of course! But you must remember: if you cross the bridge, and come back as I have done, you can never cross it again.
Can you live with that? Can you leave all of this place behind for those wonders? Or will you take a peak and return to live in madness as I have?
Or do you leave now, safe but haunted by what you could have seen?" He laughed all the more at the terrible choice before us.
His laughter followed us as we crossed the bridge. As I turned he seemed to disappear even before the fog enveloped the cliff.
The things we saw there. My god the terrible things...
Do not search for us I beg you. I hear the old man's laughter again. I only pray this warning gets out. DO NOT CROSS THE BRIDGE.