knew that, up ahead, three bends in the road away, was the old wooden bridge. People who didn’t know about the bridge always went over it faster than they should and often came close to losing an axle or two. David slowed down in anticipation of the bump he would hit going onto the bridge.
As he rounded the last corner before the bridge, David smiled as he remembered Old Man Troll. Old Man Troll lived underneath the bridge; a slimy, foul-smelling man who ate fish and algae—whenever he couldn’t get anything more suited to his taste. Old Man Troll would get you as you crossed the bridge if you were off your guard. Every day, when he walked home from school, David would stamp his foot three times on the bridge planking just to let Old Man Troll, waiting in the dark shadows under the bridge, know that he knew he was there. Then David would cross the bridge at a run, not daring to look back until he was a good hundred feet down the road. Even after he had gotten his driver’s license and long stopped believing in Old Man Troll, David would always tap his foot three times on the car floor whenever he crossed the bridge. He did that now just as his front wheels hit the upgrade of the bridge with a loud thump.
After the first curve in the road beyond the bridge, David knew just where to look to get a glimpse of the old family home. The trees had grown up a lot and now obscured the view, but he could still see a peaked corner of the roof pointing against the sky. The road wound along for another half mile before the entrance to the driveway. David felt a knot of excitement in his stomach as he got closer to the house.
As he approached the driveway, David saw someone walking along the side of the road. He caught just a glimpse of the figure before it rounded the next corner. There was something vaguely familiar about the person, and David pressed down slightly on the gas pedal. When he took the curve in the road, he remembered the figure he had seen the night before, walking along the roadside and throwing the thing he was carrying—Billy Wilson’s body—off into the brush. Was that what seemed so familiar about the person he had just seen up ahead on the road, or was he now elaborating on the memory?
He felt his stomach tighten when he finished the curve and saw the person still there, walking along the road; David had almost expected that this person would dash off into the brush as had the person last night.
A shape—a man’s shape—suddenly loomed up out of the darkness.
David eased up on the gas as his car started along the straightaway. The person walking in front of him was an old man. He swung his walking stick out in front of him with each step as he moved along briskly. David noticed, though, that the old man was favoring his left leg, and if the man’s back hadn’t been familiar, the limp was; David immediately recognized his uncle—Marshall Logan.
Should he stop and offer the old man a ride? He wondered. He was obviously on his way home. David saw the folded newspaper under his arm, and he remembered that Uncle Marshall had always walked into town on Saturdays to pick up a copy of the Holland Daily Times . This was something about Holland that had not been changed in the fourteen years he had been away, and that made him feel good. But, in spite of that, David did not really feel pleasure at the prospect of meeting with his uncle after all these years. They had never been close while David was growing up. In fact, David had always felt as though his uncle more or less had it in for him—especially after that night long ago when he had gotten lost in the Bog . . .
—a man’s shape suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. Stumbling backward, David had reached behind his back and grabbed a tree limb. As the black shape of the man towered over him, blotting out the night sky, he swung the stick with all of his ten year old strength. The deafening chorus of spring peepers drowned out all other sounds,
As he rounded the last corner before the bridge, David smiled as he remembered Old Man Troll. Old Man Troll lived underneath the bridge; a slimy, foul-smelling man who ate fish and algae—whenever he couldn’t get anything more suited to his taste. Old Man Troll would get you as you crossed the bridge if you were off your guard. Every day, when he walked home from school, David would stamp his foot three times on the bridge planking just to let Old Man Troll, waiting in the dark shadows under the bridge, know that he knew he was there. Then David would cross the bridge at a run, not daring to look back until he was a good hundred feet down the road. Even after he had gotten his driver’s license and long stopped believing in Old Man Troll, David would always tap his foot three times on the car floor whenever he crossed the bridge. He did that now just as his front wheels hit the upgrade of the bridge with a loud thump.
After the first curve in the road beyond the bridge, David knew just where to look to get a glimpse of the old family home. The trees had grown up a lot and now obscured the view, but he could still see a peaked corner of the roof pointing against the sky. The road wound along for another half mile before the entrance to the driveway. David felt a knot of excitement in his stomach as he got closer to the house.
As he approached the driveway, David saw someone walking along the side of the road. He caught just a glimpse of the figure before it rounded the next corner. There was something vaguely familiar about the person, and David pressed down slightly on the gas pedal. When he took the curve in the road, he remembered the figure he had seen the night before, walking along the roadside and throwing the thing he was carrying—Billy Wilson’s body—off into the brush. Was that what seemed so familiar about the person he had just seen up ahead on the road, or was he now elaborating on the memory?
He felt his stomach tighten when he finished the curve and saw the person still there, walking along the road; David had almost expected that this person would dash off into the brush as had the person last night.
A shape—a man’s shape—suddenly loomed up out of the darkness.
David eased up on the gas as his car started along the straightaway. The person walking in front of him was an old man. He swung his walking stick out in front of him with each step as he moved along briskly. David noticed, though, that the old man was favoring his left leg, and if the man’s back hadn’t been familiar, the limp was; David immediately recognized his uncle—Marshall Logan.
Should he stop and offer the old man a ride? He wondered. He was obviously on his way home. David saw the folded newspaper under his arm, and he remembered that Uncle Marshall had always walked into town on Saturdays to pick up a copy of the Holland Daily Times . This was something about Holland that had not been changed in the fourteen years he had been away, and that made him feel good. But, in spite of that, David did not really feel pleasure at the prospect of meeting with his uncle after all these years. They had never been close while David was growing up. In fact, David had always felt as though his uncle more or less had it in for him—especially after that night long ago when he had gotten lost in the Bog . . .
—a man’s shape suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. Stumbling backward, David had reached behind his back and grabbed a tree limb. As the black shape of the man towered over him, blotting out the night sky, he swung the stick with all of his ten year old strength. The deafening chorus of spring peepers drowned out all other sounds,