Recently I drove over the relatively new concrete bridge that crosses the murky swirls of chugging chocolate water coursing its way down to Pensacola through the thick woods of Lower Alabama. I had taken my teenage daughter down to the bridge of my youth to tell her of the strange happenings and rumors and scary tales that used to cause kids to talk in hushed tones about this para-abbynormal place.
On moonless nights, the Prestwood Bridge Witch was said to come out from the deep, piney gorge below the rusted, sagging, arched metal structure to torture any traveler who dared cross the muddy Conecuh River. She was said to be as strong as 20 men and uglier than “a bucket of buttholes” (I don’t make them up, I just tell what I heard). I never heard exactly what form the torture took, but a butt-ugly, superhuman witchy woman could probably deliver a pretty convincing evening of memorable unpleasantness.
Another story told about Prestwood Bridge induced teenagers to park their car in the middle of the old bridge on a full moon, turn off the ignition and yell “cow!” three times, which would cause a white panther to emerge from under the rickety span and paw the car in a violent attempt to empty the passengers into its hungry path. Now,this sounded more plausible to my teenage mind. I’d seen panthers in the swamps before, and our pets were subject to getting buffeted by one of the big cats if they weren’t careful.
These two stories circulated around Andalusia, Ala.,during my youth and, on more than one occasion, I attempted to witness both of these frightening specters. Maybe I was stupid. Maybe I just didn’t believe the tall tales. I could never get the witch to show up and the cats were always on vacation when I “cow-ed” and “cow-ed.” Then one night, a car drove recklessly around Courthouse Square and screeched to a halt in front of the Martin Theater. Two wild-eyed teenage boys tumbled out of the vehicle and stood in shock as they ran their hands over the vinyl roof of the car. It was ripped to shreds and spritzed with tufts of jet-black hair.
The story they told made the hair on our necks stand on end. They’d gone to Prestwood Bridge and parked. They yelled “cow!” three times and nothing happened. As they cranked the landau’d LTD and were about to drive away, something attacked the car. They said they couldn’t see exactly what it was.
“It was on us fast!”
“Thing was huge! The car rocked!”
“It pounded the roof, scratching and hollering like nothin’ I’ve ever heard!”
“Was it the witch?”
“Don’t know!”
Was it the panther?”
Couldn’t tell!”
“What was it?”
“It was something!”
Something big!”
“Something not from around here!”
They spoke in hurried sentences; the driver was sweating profusely. The passenger stuttered so bad he could hardly push the words off his tongue. I studied their faces to see if they were lying, like I was an expert on determining if someone was telling the truth. These boys were scared
crapless.
Fast forward 30 years. I relayed all of this information to my daughter as we drove to the bridge in the dark. The long dirt road looked like it did 30 years ago; the concrete sides were now covered in garbled graffiti; the trees arched over the narrow road, dead and naked in the winter night
fingering the half moon in the Alabama sky. We parked on the bridge, turned off the lights and shut down the engine. It was so dark we could hardly see each other in the car. I could hear the Conecuh below us gurgling through the flooded stumps.
“Let’s don’t do this,” she pleaded. “I want to go.”
“Come on,” I said, acting brave. “You always thought I was lying about this old story. Let’s see what happens.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and looked around in the blackness. Her head pivoted back and forth, looking out the windows into the silent night.
“I don’t like this,” she mumbled under her breath.
She made sure the doors were locked. I strained to see if anything was around us and yelled “cow!” three times and waited. Abby looked at me, her eyes wide as CDs. I must admit, a chill brushed my core as old memories blew past me, prickling my arms and hands as they gripped the wheel.
Suddenly we heard something in the distance. Abby screamed.
“What was that?” she blurted out. “It sounded like ‘Oooooooooo!’”
“Shhhh,” I said. “Listen.”
We sat stunned in the dark as I reached for the ignition, thinking maybe this was not a good idea after all.
“Go!” she screamed. “Let’s go!”
“Be quiet!” I said sternly. “Listen!”
I listened to hear the witch or the panther. Abby patted the windowsill nervously and bounced in the seat. Then we heard it.
“Moooooooooooo,” echoed in the dark. We looked at each other.
“It’s a freakin ‘ cow!” she yelled as she hit me in the arm, shaking her head. “You yelled ‘cow’ and a stupid cow heard you!”
I was laughing as we drove away. Beside the bridge on the other side was a hunched old cow standing in the shadows. No evil witch, no violent panther, just an aged bovine, mooing in the night.
“Maybe that cow was meaner 30 years ago, I said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Bull,” she said.
