Here's **another very long story—number 33**—in the same style, dark, elaborate, and full of the atmosphere of English legend:---

# **33. "The House of Fourth Bridge in Durham"—A Story of Those Who Leave the Bridge But Don't Always Return**

The River Wear, winding through Durham like a dark serpent, has witnessed strange happenings for hundreds of years.

Numerous bridges rise above its banks—each with its own history, each with its own shadow.

The most ominous is **Fourth Bridge**, an old, stone, moss-covered structure.

Located off the beaten track, rarely traveled, yet still standing at an odd angle, as if it had been jostled too many times… from beneath.

Beneath the bridge, on a narrow ledge, sits an abandoned, damp house known as **The House of Fourth Bridge**. Durham residents say one thing about it:

**The living don't live there.

Those who have been summoned live there.**

---

## **I — A Young Teacher and the Bridge That Called Her**

In 1932, **Rebecca Milbury**, a literature teacher, arrived in Durham.

She loved the city at first sight—its Gothic cathedral, its nooks and crannies, the mists hanging over the river.

But she didn't understand why everyone advised her against walking toward the Black Path, leading to the Black Bridge (as the Fourth was locally known).

"Don't go there alone," the landlady said. "You'll hear something you shouldn't."

Rebecca, curious and skeptical, only smiled.

One evening, she heard a soft sound outside her window, like a distant song.

A melody she had never heard before.

She couldn't sleep.

And in the morning she wrote:

> "This singing wasn't human.

> It was sad. Calling. Like a stone siren."

--

## **II — First Descent Under the Bridge**

Rebecca decided to investigate the source of the sound.

The path was narrow, winding, and damp, leading down—to the river and the bridge.

The Fourth Bridge looked as if it was about to collapse.

The stones were covered with a green coating, and the air beneath it was several degrees colder.

Before Rebecca realized what she was doing, she had descended—all the way to the ledge beneath the arch.

There was a house.

A house… that seemed to breathe moisture.

The roof was sagging, the windows black as fish eyes.

The door was ajar.

And from inside—a faint sound.

As if someone were humming.

Rebecca felt an icy draft on the back of her neck.

--

## **III — In the House That Refused to Be Abandoned**

She entered.

The door slammed slowly behind her, as if closed by an invisible hand.

There was one room inside.

One table.

One chair.

And in that chair—a woman.

She sat with her back to the room, her hair wet and matted, as if she had just emerged from a river.

Rebecca said,

“I’m sorry…”

The woman lifted her head.

Her neck moved unnaturally slowly.

Then Rebecca noticed that the woman wasn’t touching the chair.

Her feet dangled a few inches from the floor.

And a soft, trembling melody emerged from her lips—the same one Rebecca had heard during the night.

The woman turned slowly.

Her face was pale.

Too pale.

And her eyes—two black holes, completely devoid of light.

Rebecca fled, stumbling over the threshold.

The house slammed the door behind her with a bang.

Above her head, on the bridge, she saw a shadow moving unnaturally fast.

A whisper resounded like a breath:

**“Return to me…”**

---

## **IV — The Old Librarian’s Tale**

Rebecca went to the university library, trembling with every step.

There, in the archives, she met the old librarian, Mr. Traverss.

When she told him what she had seen, he looked at her for a long time.

“The house under the Fourth Bridge is not abandoned,” he whispered. “He is searching.”

“What?” Rebecca asked.

“People who hear the song of the river.”

Before Rebecca could ask more, Traveress added:

“Everyone who followed that song… didn’t return the same. Some didn’t return at all.”

--

## **V — The Song Returns**

At night, Rebecca heard the melody again.

This time it was closer.

Outside the window.

On the roof.

In the walls.

As if the House of the Fourth Bridge… was approaching.

She drummed rain on the window, but the melody overpowered the sounds of the storm.

Rebecca stood, drawn into a trance.

As if someone were guiding her on invisible threads.

She found herself on the street.

Then on the path.

Then—under the bridge.

The house waited with the door open.

And inside—a woman.

This time, her hair almost touched the floor, it had grown so long, wet and heavy.

Her arms hung like branches.

Her eyes were still empty holes.

And she spoke.

For the first time—with words.

**—You are like me. The chosen one. I drowned in this river a hundred years ago. And he…”**

The voice trembled.

**—“…he won’t let me go.”**

“Who?” Rebecca whispered.

Then the entire structure of the house shook.

Drops began to drip from the ceiling—black, like oil.

Under the bridge, out of the very darkness, a huge figure emerged.

A shadow so thick it seemed material.

Long.

Too long.

Too tall to be human.

The river water rose like a curtain.

And the shadow spoke with the voice of the river:

**“What I took belongs to me.”**

---

## **VI — The Last Moments of Rebecca Milbury**

The next day, the residents found A teacher by the shore.

Alive, but absent.

Her wet hair clung to her face.

Her lips continued to move silently, as if singing.

And then, after a minute, she began humming a melody.

The same one.

The old women knelt and began to pray.

Rebecca looked toward the bridge.

She said one sentence:

**—He sees me. He has always seen me.**

Before they could stop her, she headed toward the Black Bridge.

And disappeared beneath it.

--

## **VII—A Certain Place You Must Not Visit**

The house under the Fourth Bridge still stands today.

though sometimes it looks ruined, sometimes… as if restored.

Anyone who goes down there after dark can hear:

* a woman singing

* footsteps on the bridge

* splashing water

* a voice that sounds neither male nor female

Some say they saw Rebecca.

Walking by the river, with wet hair, humming a melody.

But the worst part, they say, is that sometimes, when you look at the Fourth Bridge from just the right angle…

…you see a shadow that isn't human.

A shadow standing on the bridge, peering down, as if guarding its home.

It watched over its victims.

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