The Bridge on Porter Street 3/10

November 23, 2009
After dinner I waited for Tim to show up. An hour later when he did not show up I called him but nobody was home. My mother sent me out with a flashlight to walk over to his house to make sure everything was fine. I strolled down my driveway and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I shook off the creepy feeling; I shined my flashlight down the street and got the reflection from the crooked, rusty stop sign. I could see other houses lights shimmering and guiding me in the distance. Between my house and the stop sign there is nothing but dark and twisty oak trees surrounded by a gloomy swamp. I finally reached the stop sign and stopped to catch my breath.
The bridge was just down the hill behind all the homes. The road is a dark, misleading curve as I entered the blackness. I could hear the rippling stream up ahead as I walked up onto the bridge. I stood there and waited a moment but no sign of Tim. I stared at the closest residence to the bridge, which was Mark Borden. Mark Borden was a mysterious man who never left his place. People even don’t know his real name so we made one up. Nobody has ever seen him before. His yard was filled with gargoyles and eerie statues. As I stared into his window I saw a figure. It looked like somebody was watching me out the window. I thought in my head that it was probably just a lamp’s shadow.

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