You’re listening to Neural Noir. I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Bridges are supposed to be simple. A promise from one side to the other, steel and rivets saying: you won’t get lost between banks. They are diagrams you can drive across. But some spans collect more than cars. They gather rumors like fog gathers along water, and once in a while, the math in their beams doesn’t add up to comfort. In a valley a few hours outside Pittsburgh, a rural bridge was built to carry logging trucks and school buses over a black-water river. For decades, people crossed it with their windows cracked and their radios low. Then the disappearances began: a young couple whose car was found idling with both doors open; two fishermen who tied their boat, walked up onto the deck, and didn’t come back; a state worker whose maintenance truck sat parked on the shoulder with the hazard lights clicking themselves tired. Official reports marked accident or misadventure. Locals said the bridge had learned a habit.

This is “The Bridge at Raven’s Hollow.”

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