Matthew Warner
My name is Matthew Warner and I am a recent graduate of the University of Findlay. Horror is my genre and great passion; I like to think everyone has a unique life experience/perspective that exemplifies those fears that haunt us in the dead of night. Horror allows us to confront our darkness and battle it through the characters we create.
What scares you?
October 31st, 1993
Van Buren County, Ohio
You gaze downwards into the enveloping darkness of the chasm below. A waning moon appears and disappears behind late October shadows and blunt air columns assault your feeble windbreaker. Crashings of rocky rapids echo upwards from the Ottawa River. The old bridge creaks and shifts in the cold, electric night air. Nervous tremors wrack your extremities at the thought of the 100 foot drop.
Manny grins at you with his famous easy-going smile and beckons you and the rest of the friend group to join him at the railing. Bridgett, his gorgeous girlfriend, steps forward nervously, staying several steps away from the edge. You join them and stand there, suspended above what appears an eternal abyss, peering down at the violent rapids only barely illuminated when you shine your flashlight downwards. Only the lights of the vacant house Manny is utilizing to host his Halloween party are barely visible from your position on the Wishing Bridge.
A mere 20 minute drive through the Boonies from the University of Findlay-Bluffton (Go “Oily Beavers!”), the “Wishing Bridge” is nothing spectacular; a simple 60 foot-long mechanism for connecting the North and Southward tracks of the Lima-Freeport Railroad line across through the Ottawa Hills in Van Buren (like… the only place with any deviation in elevation anywhere in Northwest Ohio). The bridge connects two nearly vertical rock faces bordering the Ottawa River as it flows turbulently through the area. Unlike most rail bridge crossings you’ve seen, an extended observation deck complete with a railing has been added to one side of the track. This portion of the Ottawa Hills used to be a sacred Iroquois religious site… at least, according to Manny, whose grandfather has owned the North side of the bridge since the 1890s.
“Did you all bring your object?” Manny asks. You reach into your jacket pocket and clench your hand around that small item. “Legend says that whomever surrenders that thing most precious to them and releases it into the waters below shall have one wish be granted.” John silently laughs nearby and you smirk to yourself: this is exactly the type of “party game” Manny would be into. Your item slides against your fingers and you recollect casually selecting it amongst all the other rubbish in your dorm room before heading out to the party that night. “And remember… if you tell anyone else your wish it won’t come true.” Bridgett shivers and Manny hastens the suspense. “On three.” You palm your object and extend your arm out past the railing and over the abyss. “Three… two… one…” You let it fall. And make your wish.
July 7th, 2003
The package that has arrived at your front door is non-descript, held together by a neat ribbon of twine. Curiosity and a brief lapse of judgement lead you to open the small box… exposing the very same object you threw carelessly into the Ottawa River ten years ago. You nearly choke on your heart, leaping at your throat.
Suddenly, your cell phone hums. You reach into your pocket and flip open your phone. An unidentified number reads: They found John in the river. The bridge wants us back. Meet me there next week before something bad happens. Bring something precious. Please come. -M.
Your memory harkens back to that college party that night. Your friends, Manny, your wish… and finding Bridgett’s body in the river the day after.
Ryan Powell
The ocean was an unfathomably vast space and even the best radar scans could only detect another ship out to about thirty miles. One might as well try to navigate a massive, pitch black landscape with only a small lantern at their feet. Reconnaissance seaplanes could act as outside eyes and relay information back with radios, thus helping immeasurably, but those, too, were limited by their fuel range.
Captain Vindas was almost giddy with excitement. She hadn’t expected to be able to enact her battle plan so soon. Undoubtedly her plan was risky. All naval battles were. The chance of coming out of close combat unscathed was rare. A general rule of thumb was that if you were close enough to shoot the enemy, they could usually shoot back at you. Vindas scoffed at commanders that were far too cautious. All warfare involved risk. Certainly, some amount of gambling was required.
The large scale outline of the plan was to catch the Custar’s Revenge in a pincer move, with the Vanquisher to its southeast and the Barnham’s cruiser flotilla to its north. On a more close-up view, Captain Vindas wanted to attack the Revenge in a one-on-one duel. Fights between single vessels were rare in naval history. Those that did occur often became shrouded in legend. Privately, she hoped that her dreadnought could engage the Republic vessel first so she could have her duel. She paced around the bridge, listening to the chatter of the officers and their radio communications. She glanced at the rainbow of various glowing, colored lights of switches and relays across the control consoles.
A bronze-furred Cattan radioman removed his headphones. “The Barnham’s group has launched reconnaissance seaplanes. They’ve confirmed that the vessel is indeed the FRM Custar’s Revenge. They have transmitted coordinates and are continuing to shadow its position.”
The captain located the flight control officer and addressed him. “Are our Stingrays fully fueled and ready to go?”
The broad-shouldered Crocutan man answered her. “Three of our Stingrays are ready to launch. Two planes are currently still unavailable due to mechanical repairs.”
Captain Vindas tried to suppress a wince. Her plan depended greatly on the Stingray seaplanes. Having less than her ship’s full complement wouldn’t necessarily doom her plan to failure, but she silently cursed herself for not making sure that all five planes were airworthy. “That will have to do,” she stated.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”