The Legend Of Creepy Hollow

The Salem Road Bridge

It was a long time ago now that I first encountered Creepy Hollow, though I didn't know what it was called then. My cousin and I were out for a drive that day. Nancy could drive for hours and she was always looking for a place to go. She'd overheard some of the profs at the university talking about Salem Road and how long it was. "Pack a lunch", they said. That's how we ended up heading out to the country one afternoon, singing along with The Beatles, laughing, smoking cigarettes, back when they were still cheap enough to smoke. It was sometime in the summer, 1995.

Salem road runs though town like any other street - straight and boring - then crosses the highway where it becomes a twisting country lane. Not too many people live on the other side of the highway. There were fields, the occasional farmhouse and some scrubby trees..At first, it seemed fine. There was nothing unusual about the place, and I'm sure I didn't notice anything awry until it was impossible not to notice. Nancy was unperturbed as well. Mostly our minds were occupied with romance and boys and whatever love triangle was happening that week. That's the way it often is when you are young. 

We didn't see the bridge until we were very close to it. A sudden dip in the road and there it was. Nancy slowed the car. Somehow, we hadn't been expecting this. The bridge was very narrow and she hesitated. Her hands were tense on the steering wheel. She said nothing, but I could tell she was thinking hard about whether to cross. I noticed this, despite the vague horror that was creeping through my bones. Knowledge was gathering into an absolute certainty that whatever was on the other side of this bridge was like death, or worse. Indescribably worse. I felt cold all over and wanted to scream at her not to cross, we had to get out of here now but I did not - there was no obvious reason, you know? It was just a low bridge on a country lane and there was nothing visible to be afraid of.  

Nancy drove slowly onto the bridge, then stopped the car. We seemed to stay there for hours though it would have been no time at all. "Hey" she said in a high, artificial voice, "you know what? I think we'd better turn around now."  I agreed, we backed up, turned around and drove back the way we came. Nancy's face was as white as a sheet. 

It's funny, when I remember this incident, I could swear it took place at twilight, with a chilly wind and a violet tinge in the air. That's not possible of course, it couldn't have been later than four in the afternoon. But the memory is so hazy now. That's another funny thing - despite being scared out of our wits, as soon as we got home we promptly forgot the incident. That sounds silly, like something out of a bad novel, but it's true. For years, it was never mentioned again.

underneath the bridge

It was not until 2002 that a talk with a neighbor jogged my memory. She mentioned that she and her brother liked to go fishing at the creek at Salem Road, they would fish from the bridge early in the morning. The bridge? A fuzzy memory took shape in my mind. She began to describe the location, but she'd hardly said a word before the memory hit me. That place! How could I forget it? But not quite forgotten, not really. As soon as I remembered, I realized I'd been dreaming about it for years, dark and eerie dreams about loss.

I mentioned this to my boyfriend at the time. Oh, yes, he said, that bridge! It had taken 5 tries before he managed to cross it, he lost his nerve every time. It's hard to explain, he said,.there's just something wrong with that place.

It was after that that I began to ask questions of the people I knew. What was the strangest thing that ever happened to them? Was there anything about the town that made them uneasy? Had they ever been really scared? While the answers were always interesting, the name "Creepy Hollow" turned up unusually often. It didn't take long to figure out that this was the local name for the Salem Road bridge. The stories were all over the place, but very strange indeed. There were tales of witches and devil-worshipers. Ghosts. Black magic. The fishing neighbor wasn't bothered, but her girlfriend wouldn't go near the place. My friend Lawrence had seen piles of bones on the bridge. Heather had heard tales of a hundred black cats materializing out of thin air. Angela's story was most impressive - she'd been invited to a Halloween party at the far end of Salem Road, but after seeing flickering candle flames and hearing voices in the woods, she turned tail and fled. There was no way she would cross the bridge on Halloween night.

Always present in the stories was a common theme, that they simply could not cross the bridge at first. The fear wouldn't allow it. Tallying up all the stories I'd heard, from more than 20 people, the average number of tries was 5.  If you look carefully at the top photo, you'll see that the grass is worn through on the right side by cars turning around to leave.

I made it in four, though it was Angela who drove me across. She was veteran of the bridge by then. She still wouldn't go near it on Halloween night, though.

The other side

Eventually, I knew that the only way to find out what was happening at Creepy Hollow was to have a look at it myself. Already I'd met several self-proclaimed Satanists who said they had gone down there to perform rituals because the place was a "vortex of negative energy", Well, hearsay was all very nice but after so many tales, it was simply not enough. I went down on a very bright day in the summer of 2005, when these pictures were taken. I'd been across the bridge enough times by then to be prepared. I walked up, looked around briefly then crawled underneath. I saw a snake, but no signs of witchcraft or devil worship, nor anything else that oughtn't be under a bridge. On top of the structure thought, things were a little different. 

About halfway across, I noticed what appeared to be a skein of sheep's wool wrapped around the railing, splotched with red. There was a bloody rag, and a trail of bloodstains on the concrete. There were three cigarette butts lying near the biggest stains, as if someone had leaned against the railing, casually smoking while they bled profusely onto the ground. It was...odd. I didn't take a picture of this, for a now out-dated reason. These photos were taken with an analogue camera, with film that was sent to be processed. I didn't want the person who developed the photos to think I was psycho.

I crossed the bridge, went to the other side and stood there, trying to get a grasp on what it was about this place. After coming here a few times, the fear was no longer intense, but...the place felt dead. Lifeless. No birdsong, no insect buzz, the clouds didn't move in the sky. There was no happiness or sadness, just...nothing. Later, I drove a friend, a practicing witch, out to the place to see what she thought. She also noticed the lack of birdsong, and the second hand on her watch failed to work on the other side of the bridge. She said it felt like time had stopped. I had to agree. After the fear subsided, it felt like time had gone dead.

It wasn't until a couple of years after that that I saw Nancy again. I asked her if she remembered our drive on Salem Road. "oh, gods," she said with widening eyes, "That evil place, I was so scared. Why did you have to remind me?" But she was relieved to know that we hadn't been the only ones. 

...

Searching the internet one day, I came across this short piece of video, made at the same bridge:

It tantalizingly promises "more to come" but of course, it never came. It's the way of things here, I suppose. Even paranormal investigators get stymied, get bored. Despite the rumors of tragic accidents and suicides and other horrible happenings at the bridge, not a one can be proven. There is no dramatic solution. At the end of the day, all that can be said is that a lot of people have been afraid of this place.