The 46 Victims

In the newspaper's basement archive, you ran a microfilm reel all the way to the end and read the last record, undated: the scream of someone gripped by terror. It was a confession that, the instant their eyes met, they had seen their own death and the time they had left. The signature had faded almost to nothing. When you step out of the building, the sky over Point Pleasant is heavy and gray. The Silver Bridge is visible in the distance, and a cold wind brushes your cheek. From somewhere beyond the sky comes a mournful yet chilling metallic cry that seems to be calling you. As you walk toward the bridge, faint shadows, layer upon layer, stand gathered before the railing, as if emerging from lifting fog. They don't threaten you; they simply wait for you in silence. They are the lingering images of the forty-six who perished along with the bridge in the winter of 1967.