Windkill

A concrete bridge stood tall over Cynthia. She felt small, the pendulum held in her hand inadequate for the task.

She tried not to look in the camera pointed at her face. It had to be a horrid view. Looking up her nose with a small light that was annoyingly distracting.

There were supposed to be ghosts here. She laughed softly with relief. The people at the gate had made so much fuss about a valley of desolation that she had expected worse. The bridge only appeared worn by time, its spans as strong as the day constructed, the rails passing beneath bright from use and the tar road solid.

She should have known those people were only setting them up for a scare. Most of the stuff they did was probably fake, a bunch of special effects designed to make the contestants think they were seeing ghosts.

Slowly working her way through the brush, she made her way west to where the bridge touched the ground. Climbing over a low concrete rail, she stood in the center of the road and used her flashlight to search for anything unusual.

High overhead, the moon broke from the cloud cover and bathed the valley in cold light. As it washed over the bridge, Cynthia thought she saw the solid surface shimmer. Just as quickly, the moon disappeared behind the next cloud and all was as it had been. With an even tread, she began walking up the bridge.