In the shadowed hills of Germany, there is a bridge older than memory, known to all who dare speak its name as The Devil’s Bridge. Stone arches rise from the river like darkened bones, and the current below churns with a depth no eye can measure. The villagers tell that the bridge was never built by mortal hands alone.
Long ago, a master builder sought to span the river, but the task was impossible. They say the devil appeared in a swirl of smoke and flame, offering completion in exchange for a soul. Which soul was claimed, no one knows, though the villagers speak in whispers of a traveler who vanished the night the bridge was finished. Some say it was the builder, others insist it was a stray animal, or a child, or a beggar.
From that day forward, the bridge has been cursed. Those who cross it at night hear stones groan beneath their feet. Mist rises from the river, thick and cold, curling around ankles like fingers. Shadows move where no shadow should fall. Some swear they have seen figures standing at the far end, waiting, smiling, patient.
They say the bridge tests the courage of those who walk it alone. Time bends, steps repeat, and whispers drift from nowhere, speaking truths no living soul can bear. Travelers who survive speak little, only returning with eyes hollowed and voices trembling.
Generations have passed, yet the bridge endures, untouched by repair or decay, a monument to bargains made long ago. And though few dare approach its stones after dark, all know the truth: The Devil’s Bridge waits, and it always collects what is owed.