Crybaby Bridge: Slaughter in a Small Town

By Denis Zilber

"Crybaby Bridge is a gore-soaked trip down memory lane. One that starts innocently enough before pulling the reader into a bible-belt nightmare that could only exist in the middle of Nowhere, America."- Caleb Stephens, author of Feeders and The Girls in the Cabin

 

It's a typical Saturday night in the small town of Somerset . . . until it's not.

When a group of unlikely teens test fate by participating in a local urban legend, they face consequences they'll carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Presented in an oral history twenty years after the fact, it's Ken Burns by way of the grindhouse in this gripping tale of a bloody October night in a forgotten and vanishing America.

 

"An excellent follow-up to The Rules of the Road, CB Jones' Crybaby Bridge enriches the urban legend with a multi-voiced documentary style presentation." —Christi Nogle, author of the Bram Stoker Award® winning first novel Beulah

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.B. Jones
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223183099

Denis Zilber

C.B. Jones is an author from somewhere in the middle of America. His work has appeared on The NoSleep Podcast and in Cosmic Horror Monthly. His debut novel, The Rules of the Road will be released in 2021. 

Book preview

Preface

My wife never talked about the accident. I only knew the barest of details: it had happened back in high school, a vehicular collision on a desolate country road. Alcohol may have been involved.

Sometimes there were nightmares. She’d wake me in the middle of the night with a hoarse scream or a series of somnolent moans. There would be nothing for me to do except hold her, waiting until she drifted off again.

I pressed for more information one time and one time only. When I did, a fog of uncovered terror fell over her eyes. She didn't speak for a very long time.

I had never seen that look in her eyes before.

I didn’t want to see it again.

I was scraping by on an advance from a book that had hit shelves several months back. Despite publication by one of the big four, the book was likely never going to earn its way into royalties. It was the result of almost a year of work, an occasionally humorous look at the cannabis industry explosion called Farmaceuticals: Reports from the Field of America’s Latest Cash Crop.

By the time the book was released, legal marijuana was old hat. The novelty was gone. I may as well have written a book on corn.

Aside from some freelance work and the rapidly dwindling advance, I was mooching off my wife. The school year had started up again and she was back teaching while I kicked around at the house, starved for inspiration.

Many times, she would come home to find me sitting at the kitchen table staring at a blank computer screen, scribbled notebooks scattered all around, my hair tugged in frustration. She’d place a reassuring hand on my back, not say anything, and I would feel a moment of comfort. That comfort would soon give way to thoughts of worthlessness and guilt, the fact that even though we were comfortable for now, I was failing as a provider.

She must’ve sensed this, too. One evening, over dinner, she let it drop casually. Like it abruptly came to her, something that randomly popped up in her mind. Yet, I knew that this could never be the case. Whether it was lurking in the corners or dancing at the forefront, it had to be something that was always there in some capacity.

I’ve got an idea about a story, she said between bites of chicken piccata. I’d been relegated to dinner duty in the wake of my unemployment, and I wondered if the mediocre outcome of this particular dish was what prompted her.

Oh yeah? I asked.

It’s about the accident.

I paused, the food on my fork suspended in midair. I looked for the traces of unearthed trauma on her face. It was a car accident, right? I asked.

Well, she started. Her face was calm, slightly scrunched in recollection. "A vehicle was involved. Kind of. At the start."

So there’s more to the story? I mean, I kind of figured there was, but . . .y’know.

Yeah. I think it’s time. There’s one thing, though, she said, looking down at her plate for a beat and then back to me.

What’s that?

It’s kind of hard to believe.

The story was so hard to believe, in fact, that she would give me no more information.

If you hear it from somebody else first, it might be easier to swallow. Not that I think you won’t believe me, it’ll be better this way. Free of bias. More organic.

But what about the expenses and stuff? It’s kind of hard to justify right now, I said.

I’ve landed a few speaking engagements this fall that pay pretty well. I think we’ll be ok for a bit.

So, what are you thinking? You want me to go to your hometown and ask about what really happened back when you were in high school? That's all you're going to give me?

Aren't you a journalist or something? Isn't that kind of in the ol' job description? Figuring out what the story is and how you want to tell it?

I guess. Just need a little more to go on.

I'll give you a few contacts to hit up. They’ll be plenty helpful.

Alright, alright, I said.

Despite my grumbling, I relished the idea and felt invigorated by the challenge. The previous months of worthlessness were already starting to melt away like a dirty February snow that had overstayed its welcome in the face of an oncoming spring. I scrounged up the last of my funds and made my travel arrangements.

With a flyover state my destination, I was to land in the nearest sizable city, rent a car, and drive two hours to the small, rural town of Somerset. My only resources were a 2003 Somerset Sabretooth yearbook, a few news articles, the name and number of a local hobbyist historian, and my partner’s parting words, Ask about Crybaby Bridge.

They say everything is relative. Case in point: how long a school year can feel to those still in grade school and how brief it can be to those of us approaching middle age. Ask a Minnesotan what cold is and how low the temperature must be for them to stop wearing shorts. Ask a Floridian the same.

Everything is relative.

We can approach the town of Somerset in much the same manner. On paper, it is a small town; its population is only about five thousand or so, certainly much smaller than what I was used to. But with its proximity to the interstate, its corridor of chain fast-food restaurants, and the only town in the county boasting a Wal-Mart Supercenter, it might as well be a bustling metropolis.

I certainly started to feel that relativity myself. The longer I spent in the town, the more miles I traveled on its back roads and side streets, the larger the town became. In sheer area alone, what was considered Somerset by the locals was massive. There were hiding places and secret spots, unique natural formations and varied terrains, neighborhoods that spanned every rung of the economic ladder and (most) demographics. Oftentimes, it felt like you could draw a map of the place in the style of an old fantasy novel, the kind of two-page spread that you flip back to at the front of the book for reference. Beware of Goblins. Here There Be Dragons. Stuff like that. (Except in Somerset, the map would most likely read, Here There Be Tweakers.)

Despite this deceptive vastness and the fact that it’s the county seat amongst an area full of one-stoplight towns, the residents of Somerset hold no delusions of its place in the world. John Mellencamp’s Small Town (the seminal love song to such municipalities), is a sort of unofficial theme song, played at the end of every home high school football game. The crowds join with Mr. Mellencamp’s recorded voice, singing along with him about how they were born in a small town and how they would likely die there as well.

Later, after I learned more details about the incident,