I sat in the copse on the hill behind Red Witch Bridge that night, trying, for a little while, to forget what I’d learned in the library. Not the part about Scarlet, even though that was interesting. It was the information about Miles—about his mother—that had kept me from falling asleep.
The night was quiet aside from the breeze ruffling the leaves and the whisper of the stream. Most cars didn’t come down this road at night because of the bridge. People said it was because they didn’t trust the bridge’s integrity, but the real reason was the witch.
A long time ago, back in the days when people still got pressed to death, a witch lived on this side of the river. Not the misunderstood kind of witch who only wants to heal with her chants and herbal remedies, but the creepy kind who cuts off crow heads and eats children and small pets.
So the witch was fine—or so the story goes—most of the time because everyone else lived on the other side of the river and didn’t bother her. But then they built the bridge, and people started coming onto her land, and she got pissed. She would wait by the bridge at night and kill those unlucky enough to cross after dark.
Eventually she got pressed to death or something. But even now, when a car drove across the bridge at night, you could hear the witch scream. She was called the Red Witch because she was coated with the blood of her victims.
I was probably the only teenager in the state who wasn’t scared of the witch. Not because I was extra fearless or anything, but because I knew where the legend came from.
Two sets of headlights appeared around the bend in the road. I scooted farther behind my tree, cracking twigs and fallen leaves, even though I knew they wouldn’t see me. The cars pulled off on the shoulder. Doors opened and closed. Voices floated to me, words scrambled. A girl’s high-pitched giggle, a boy’s low murmur. Teenagers come to play with the witch. The headlights threw their long-legged shadows across the pavement.
There were five of them: four in the first car, one in the second. All with their shoulders huddled up around their ears in the chilly autumn air. The first four seemed to be reasoning with the fifth. The girl giggled again.
The fifth person broke away from the group and started across the bridge. His steps echoed against the old wood. Brave guy. Usually it took more persuasion. The others wouldn’t be able to see him when he reached my side because of the trees, but if he walked up the hill, the moonlight would let me see him.
He crossed the bridge and stood in the darkness, looking around. Then he started up the hill.
“Miles?”
I stood and stepped out of the trees. I should have known. I didn’t want to freak him out or anything, but he still stopped in his tracks and stared at me.
“Alex? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“No, I asked first, and since you are literally chilling here behind these trees, and no one does that at Red Witch Bridge at night, your answer is infinitely more important than mine.”
“Well, you do it when you’re the witch.”
He stared at me. “You’re the witch.”
“I’m the witch.” I shrugged.
“You sit out here at night and scare people?”
“No,” I said. “I sit out here at night and watch people scare themselves. It’s fun. What are you doing here?”
Miles motioned over his shoulder. “Cliff, Ria, and some others pooled their money to pay me to walk the bridge at night.
I didn’t bother to tell them I don’t believe in urban legends.”
“Maybe they figured if the legend was true, the witch would get you out of their way.”
“Richter! Find anything?” I recognized Cliff’s voice.
Miles looked back and sighed.
“Want to mess with them?” I asked.
I pulled him down the hill with me and we stood at the other end of the bridge, in the darkness of the trees where the others couldn’t see us. “Okay, all you have to do is yell at the top of your lungs.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Like you’re being attacked.”
Miles took a deep breath and yelled. Cliff and the others jumped, but didn’t move. Miles’s voice died out.
“Come on, Richter, we know you’re trying to—”
I screamed. A good ear-shattering, chainsaw-killer, bloody-murder scream. Cliff stumbled backward, fell over, and had to scramble to his feet again. Ria screeched. The other two fled to their car, followed by Cliff and Ria, and peeled away. Miles and I stood there for another few moments, silent and waiting. The cold bit at my cheeks.
“Do you do this all the time?” Miles asked finally.
“No. Just today.” I smiled.
He stared at me.
“What?” I said.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you—I’m the witch.”
“How are you the witch?”
I sighed and swung my arms back and forth, wondering if I should tell him. He had that look on his face again, like he understood what was going on in my head.
Around us, the wind rustling the trees sounded like thousands of voices.
“Psithurism,” Miles said, looking up at the forest around us.
“What?”
“Psithurism. It’s a low whispering sound, like wind in leaves.”