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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/myrasam79 on 2024-10-25 21:40:59+00:00.

Working night shifts on the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t a glamorous job. Most of the time, it’s just endless stretches of quiet with the occasional sound of cars whooshing by. From my small station on the bridge, the world felt hollowed out, like it had closed in around the faint hum of machinery, the gentle rock of the bay far below, and the endless coils of fog that wrapped themselves around the bridge.

I took the position mainly for the solitude. I liked the quiet hours, the chance to breathe and think without interruption. But there was something else that tugged me here: a draw that I couldn’t quite name, something about the span of this bridge with its looming towers and swaying cables, the way it seemed to slice the sky in two. There’s a mythic quality to the place, a silent authority that makes you feel small and out of time, especially when it’s just you and the water below.

On foggy nights, the bridge transformed. Thick banks of mist rolled in from the Pacific, cloaking the bridge in swathes of grey so dense that even the red towers blurred into ghostly shapes. Tonight was one of those nights. The mist hugged everything tight, muffling sound and swallowing the glow of streetlights until the bridge was little more than a collection of dim orange halos floating in the haze. It was a quiet that invited memories, and though I usually enjoyed it, tonight it felt… off, somehow.

I walked along my usual route, scanning for anything unusual, any sign of people or potential danger. But tonight felt different, as if the fog held secrets of its own, and I was an intruder. Halfway through my shift, while pacing along the northern side, I saw a figure near one of the support beams. It’s not unusual for people to find their way here, either tourists who’ve stayed too late or folks just seeking solitude of their own. But this figure seemed strange, unmoving. Their back was to me, and they were staring over the rail, body leaning ever so slightly forward.

I called out, raising my voice to cut through the mist. “Hey! It’s not safe to be that close to the edge.” My words floated out, hollow and faded by the fog. No response. They didn’t even shift, just stayed there, transfixed by something beyond the rail. I walked closer, my footsteps absorbed by the thick air, and a sense of something almost ancient wrapped around me, like I’d stepped into someone else’s memory.

Finally, I was close enough to make out more of the figure, and a jolt of unease swept over me. They wore a dark coat, the fabric looking tattered at the edges, hanging in loose, irregular strips that fluttered faintly in the breeze. Something about their stance was wrong, too—unnaturally rigid, as if they were carved from stone. The figure’s face was just out of sight, obscured by the angle and the hood pulled low over their head. But as I approached, the silence between us deepened, and I noticed that even the wind seemed to have quieted.

“Are you okay?” I tried again, louder, yet with an edge of hesitation I hadn’t expected in my own voice. The figure didn’t turn. They stayed fixated on the water, posture unchanging, hands resting on the rail in a way that seemed to anchor them, to keep them there even as the mist swirled like a restless tide around them.

I took another step forward, wondering if maybe they were in some kind of trance or suffering from shock. But before I could say another word, they moved. It wasn’t a natural motion—it was sharp, too quick, as if a string had pulled them upright. In one smooth turn, they finally faced me, and I felt a strange, cold twist inside.

Their face was shrouded, not by darkness or the shadow of their hood, but by something that seemed impossible—a perfect, empty void. No features, no eyes, nose, mouth. Just a blank, hollow surface where a face should have been, like a mask made of sheer emptiness. Yet, somehow, I felt their gaze upon me, and it was sharper than any stare I’d ever felt. I was rooted to the spot, words dead on my tongue. The air around us felt like it was pressing down, thick with something I couldn’t name.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if assessing me, an odd curiosity in that faceless gaze. I felt exposed, like I was being laid bare under a microscope. The moment stretched, silent, my heartbeat loud in my ears. Every instinct told me to turn and walk away, but I couldn’t move. I was locked in place by that faceless stare, by the unnatural presence that seemed to seep from it, filling the space between us.

And then, as abruptly as it had turned, the figure shifted back to the railing. It leaned over the edge, hands resting on the metal, and somehow the pose looked… sad. Like someone deep in thought, lost to a memory or a longing that only they could understand. I took a step back, forcing myself to breathe, to regain control of my body and thoughts. This was just someone playing a trick, I told myself. Some sick prank to spook the night guard. But I didn’t believe it.

The figure stayed at the railing, and despite the overwhelming urge to leave, I found myself rooted to the spot, watching them as if something had taken hold of me, some force drawing me to the mystery they represented. Finally, they seemed to take a breath, an almost imperceptible movement, and leaned further over the edge, fingers loosening their grip on the rail.

Instinct kicked in, and I surged forward, grabbing their shoulder to pull them back. But my hand went straight through, meeting nothing but cold, damp air. I stumbled forward, clutching at empty space as the figure dissolved into the mist. The patch of fog where they’d been moments before rippled and dispersed, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the bridge, my hand still outstretched.

I stood there, staring at the empty spot where the figure had been. My hand was still outstretched, fingers slowly curling into my palm as if they could grasp some part of the mystery that had vanished into the fog. The thick air settled again, reclaiming the bridge and folding around me in a heavy, suffocating quiet. I felt a tingling, an echo of the faceless gaze that had held me only moments before, still lingering in the chill of the fog.

I forced myself to breathe deeply, to shake the bizarre encounter from my mind. Rationality tried to wedge its way back in. Maybe I was just tired, maybe the long hours and endless quiet of night shifts had gotten to me, clouding my senses and making me see things that weren’t there. After all, no one could really vanish like that—people didn’t just dissolve into mist, right?

Still, the encounter refused to fade, remaining as sharp as if it had just happened. I felt an overwhelming urge to move, to walk the rest of my route and shake off the feeling that I’d brushed up against something far beyond understanding. But as I resumed my patrol, every step felt strangely weighty, like walking through thick water. The quiet pressed in, dense and absolute, and the shadows seemed to stretch, somehow more alive, almost watching.

Then I noticed something odd. As I walked, a faint, rhythmic sound started trailing behind me. A soft scuff, almost like a second pair of footsteps. I stopped, and the sound stopped too. I took a few steps forward, and the echo resumed, perfectly timed to match each of my own steps. I glanced around, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickling with awareness, but there was no one in sight—just the empty bridge, swallowed by fog.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice sounding fragile in the oppressive silence. No response, just my words bouncing back at me, swallowed by the haze. I quickened my pace, the faint echo keeping in perfect step with me, as if whatever was making the sound was only a breath away, always there but just out of sight.

Ahead, the faint outline of the bridge’s support tower loomed into view, and I found myself instinctively heading towards it, drawn to the solidity, the sense of structure it offered amidst the formless mist. The closer I got, the stronger the pull, a magnetic tug that I couldn’t resist. It was as if the bridge itself was guiding me, as though something within those metal beams held answers to what I’d just seen.

Reaching the base of the tower, I stopped, leaning against the cold metal. The echoing footsteps fell silent, but the air around me felt thick, charged, buzzing with a strange tension. I was alone—or so I told myself—but it didn’t feel that way. Something about the fog, the silence, seemed to bristle with a presence I couldn’t see, and I found myself unwilling to move, as if disturbing the air might break whatever delicate balance kept me safe.

Then, just as I was starting to collect myself, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper floated from somewhere above. It was faint, just barely audible, and I strained to hear it, catching only fragments of sound. At first, I thought it might be the wind brushing through the cables, or maybe some trick of the bridge’s natural creaks and groans. But no—the more I listened, the clearer it became. It was a voice, low and murmuring, weaving through the air in an unfamiliar language, or maybe just words too fragmented to understand.

I felt myself lean in, mesmerized by the whispering. It rose and fell like a song, an eerie rhythm that seemed to wrap around me, inviting me to listen, to understand. My pulse thrummed in my ears as I searched the shadows, but the mist was too thick, hiding everything beyond arm’s …

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