Midnight had just passed when my roommate and I approached the infamous Goat Man’s Bridge, its jagged outline cutting across the night like so many haunted places I’d visited before. The chill on my skin was familiar—a cold not just of temperature, but of something unseen. Despite my experience with the supernatural, the oppressive silence weighed on me. Goat Man’s Bridge felt different; there was an intelligence to the air, as if the shadows themselves watched us.

I’d expected the suffocating Texas heat, but instead, a wall of heaviness enveloped us with every step into the woods. Off to our left, a stagnant pool shimmered under the moon. I’ve learned to respect water in haunted places. It’s a mirror, a doorway, a keeper of secrets—I’ve seen too many things stir beneath still surfaces to ever trust a pond at night.

The forest closed in around us, claustrophobic and tense, when a pale-faced couple materialized from the gloom. Their haunted eyes told me they’d seen something that lingered just beyond the veil. “Turn back,” they urged, voices trembling. “Up ahead… a man with horns, a shadow following him.” My heart skipped, not from disbelief, but from recognition—I’ve encountered enough shadowy figures to heed such warnings. Before I could ask for details, a scream shattered the quiet, echoing in a way that sent shivers up my spine.

I felt my roommate’s hand clench around my arm, her fear as raw as any newcomer’s, but I pressed forward. Fear is a companion I know well, its presence sharpening my senses. Past another pool, the darkness grew almost sentient, heavy with anticipation. Instinctively, I checked escape routes, as I always do when the line between world and spirit blurs.

Without warning, every source of light snuffed out, plunging us into utter blackness. Strange noises—leaves crushed under heavy steps, guttural whispers, the faint tread of something unseen—rose from the shadows. Panic surged, a feeling I’ve learned never to ignore. I grabbed my roommate, my voice urgent: “We need to leave—now!”

We sprinted for the exit I’d mapped in my mind, racing down the deserted road until the bridge was once more behind us. The suffocating feeling began to lift, but the chill remained—familiar, persistent. That night, Goat Man’s Bridge reminded me that fear is sometimes the only proof we need, and escape is sometimes the bravest thing we can do.