 Every town has a legend, a haunted house, an abandoned mill, an apparition that appears by a bridge. Myths and legends are symbiotic with the Midwest, and every town I've lived in had one or two peculiar locations that leave you scratching your head. Usually, these stories seem to spawn as an effect of another reason. In the case of the town I lived in in Colorado, the tales of a haunted grain factory seemed like an attempt to keep a relic of the town's history relevant. Then when I moved to Utah, the story of a main street rife probably spawned as a talking point because, well, to be honest, there isn't much of anything interesting going on in the Utah desert. Then I moved to the middle of an Arizona desert and learned of the local town's weird legend. It started four years ago. A man by the name of Jeffrey Willard came home late one day after delivering parcels, grabbed a hammer from his shed, and mercilessly beat his wife and dog to death. Nobody in town knows why. When the police found him, he was sitting on his porch peacefully. He didn't even know what happened. Yet, when they went inside, they were horrified at what they saw. Supposedly, Jeff was emotionless, telling the police he didn't remember anything about that night or why he did what he did. It didn't take long for the coroner to piece together what had happened. The evidence was clear, Willard was a murderer. A local friend of mine by the name of Dwayne Yolis, who was the responding officer that night, refuses to talk about his experiences that evening. While I was moving in, Dwayne helped me and my wife get acquainted with the town. And as a result, we've become good friends. We've talked a lot about each other's lives, my own experience in the police force, and I learned a lot about him from his stories, both funny and mundane. One evening, he briefly mentioned the Willard murder, and I asked him to tell me more about it. He outright refused. I understand why too. If you've never lived in a small community, it's hard to know how a violent crime can change things. He did make one brief note, however, which was this, Jeffrey Willard was a standout man who loved his wife and loved God. He never would have done something so heinous unless something had caused him to go mad. Despite his refusal to recount his story, it didn't take long to fill in more gaps as it was a common talking point in the local bar even four years later. Nothing anyone's ever said was that he was a normal man living a normal life, and the morning of the murder, nothing was out of the ordinary. He went to work, seemed peaceful and amiable, and appeared normal until he wasn't seen until after the murder. There was no sensible rationalization for why he did what he did. The only one who had any sort of insight was the local barkeep, Tom Davis, who recounted his experience the night of the murder to me many times. Per his story, he was closing the bar when he saw Willard's headlights coming in from the desert from the west. As he says, I already knew something strange was going on when I saw someone coming down reverie road during the night. Willard drove by the bar, and as Tom says, it was like he was entranced. He was driving slowly, ignoring stop signs and traffic lines. As he drove by, Davis says that he got a glimpse of Willard's face. To this day, Davis insists that there was no life in the man's eyes as he drove by. That brings me to the subject of my town's local oddity, reverie road. On the west side of town, there's a road that begins between the gas station and the bar. This starts by the gas station and goes straight into the desert. Nobody has any idea where it goes. There are no houses in the direction it heads off to. There are no towns. There are no lakes, no mines, no rivers. There are no hotels, schools, gas stations, telephone lines, windmill farms, power plants, landfills, cattle ranches. The road does not have a highway marker. It does not even have marks in the pavement. Reverie road is an enigma. The road does not go anywhere, but has been here even before the town. Well, why not drive down it and see where it goes? I've asked everyone in the community has their own story about how they tried. Yet every attempt ended in failure. As it turns out, if you decide to turn under reverie road, you will find yourself in an embankment after about three miles. There is a bridge that crosses this embankment, but it's fallen apart. When this was, nobody has any idea. However, crossing this trench is impossible with a motor vehicle, so nobody has been able to see where exactly the road ends. You can probably see how the murder and roads peculiar nature muddled together to form a local legend. People began to speculate. What was Willard doing on that road that night? What caused him to have an episode of extreme violence? Was it possible that something on the road provoked Willard to kill his family? Theories began to abound. One week, reverie road led to an ancient burial ground. Next week, the road was inhabited by skinwalkers. Some think that maybe there's a government mind bending facility or even Area 51. Maybe Willard had an encounter with aliens. Maybe at the end of the road, there's a cult of cannibal hillbillies or a chemical plant that produces a toxin that turns the rabbits gay. More logical conclusions abound, certainly, but even those hardly make any sense. The local area has no natural resources to mine for, and there never were plans on having a town in that direction, considering it was off the path of an already established highway. There are no bodies of water, and the land is not arable. There is no consensus on where this road goes, and hardly any history on its construction. The only thing that's certain is that if you stand on the edge of the dilapidated bridge, reverie road continues on indefinitely into the desert to a destination that's impossible to know. A few curious adventurers have tried to find out where the road goes. However, the Arizona desert is harsh, and as established, you can't drive past the embankment. So, after months of speculation and a little bit of exploration, an urban myth was born. There's a mysterious road in the desert, and a man drove down it and came back and killed his wife and dog. Insert your own reason why. Eventually, time eroded the myth, and people began to forget about reverie road again. The story of Willard's violent act silently became a bruise in the town's history. Life began to return to normal, and only fragments of the original fascination with this street remained. There were still believers, but for the most part, nobody cared to speculate further. Reverie road was just a road. That was until yesterday morning. There's no way to cut to this. I was minding my business, filling my car up at the gas station. It was a typical Monday morning. My wife was in the passenger seat when she suddenly tapped on the window and pointed out into the desert. I turned towards the road and quickly saw a shape moving towards the town. I watched as it drew nearer, and eventually those that were nearby stopped what they were doing to see this mysterious figure emerging from the desert. Soon, the shape came into focus as it got closer. It was a man limping, and he was dragging something behind him. As it got closer, I could hear my wife scream from inside the car, and my heart dropped. It was Tom Davis, the barkeep. He was shambling up Reverie Road, a chain wrapped around his torso as he walked laboriously towards us. Behind him, something heavy dragged on the pavement, streaking it red. I ran up to him, the small crowd of people coming with me. I called out Tom's name, but he didn't respond, instead continuing to move forward. Then when we were no farther out than a few meters, I stopped, and I could feel my body freeze. Tom Davis was dragging a body behind him. The crowd stopped moving. In the Arizona heat, I could feel goosebumps form. I stood awestruck as I watched the details slowly emerge. Tom's torso was bloodied, and his clothes were ripped, exposing deep wounds. The chain that surrounded him was the same chain he usually had in the back of his truck, the one he volunteered to people when they needed to tow something. Tom's face was blank. Despite the oppressive sunburn he'd acquired, his lips were dry and peeling. As he got closer to the intersection, his face began to show some signs of lucidity before finally erupting into a confounding blabber as he stepped off the road. People surrounded Tom, and screams filled the still air as people began to see the condition of his son. What happened, Tom? Slowly, Tom turned around and let out a shriveled scream as he saw what he was dragging. I told my wife to drive home, and the police were immediately called. People started moving away from Tom, watching in silent horror. As it appeared he regained consciousness. He dropped to the pavement, crying into the air, and screaming louder than any man I'd ever heard scream. I watched a father try to remove the chains from his son. I watched a father try to administer CPR. I watched a father endlessly call out his son's name. And I finally watched a father hold his son's corpse as his wails were not returned. I could only stand with a stiff hand covering my mouth, keeping my distance from the scene as I realized what I was witnessing. Sirens blared from the distance, and in no time Officer Uly stepped out of his cruiser, placed his hat to his chest, and covered his mouth in horror. The officer stood there, shaking. I watched his knees wobble before he turned around to the cruiser, nearly falling against the door. After a few minutes of abject panicking, he calmed himself before approaching Tom slowly. Tom Davis was apprehended. The body was examined by the responding officers. Nobody had a question about what happened. Then within the hour, the legend of Reverie Road returned. After Tom was apprehended, the officer organized a search party to find their vehicle and Tom's wife, as well as any supporting evidence about what might have happened. I volunteered, as did many of the townspeople to help. Businesses closed as the community gathered at the edge of the road to help in the search. People began to speak as we began to walk into the desert. This was just like the Willard murder. The road turned him mad, too. The most common question churning through everyone's mind, why? So we walked down Reverie Road to find out. We combed the desert for tracks or any sort of clues as to what went on. We found no tire tracks or other evidence that Tom's truck went off-path. We found no footprints, no clothing, no weapons. No sign of a struggle. The search was beginning to appear fruitless. Then we made it to the dilapidated bridge. The bridge was still broken apart in the middle as anyone would come to expect. But something caught us by surprise. Tom's truck was on the other side of the trench. There was no evidence he drove into the trench. The ground and dry brush was undisturbed. Instead, it appeared as if he somehow drove over the bridge. Weirder yet, the white Ford was still running as if it had been suddenly abandoned. One of the tires was flat with a knife sticking out of it as if sabotaged. The ground surrounding the vehicle was disturbed and blood painted the windows and hood. I heard a woman from beside me sputter out pointing at the side of the car. Oh my God. I looked to see what she was pointing at and I quickly pulled her away as I covered her eyes. There was a hand dangling from inside the car, blood dripping down the arm. Officer Ulyss called in that they found Tom's wife shortly after. Then without pause, I saw him turn to us, terror in his eyes. He told us we should turn around and that the search was concluded. On the way back, nobody spoke. Last night, I went to go drink. I think after everything I had seen, I needed it. There were more people at the bar than usual. Good for them. There was a heavy air as one of Tom's friends was managing for the night, but he acted solemnly and talked very little, only servicing people's request. Surprisingly, Officer Ulyss showed up as well. He was still in uniform and sat in the corner without talking to much of anyone. After an hour of talking with some of the other locals, I decided to check up on him to make sure he was all right. He saw me approach, nodded and stared at the window at the road. I sat down, prying my eyes to see what he was looking at, and eventually I spoke. You all right? He stiffened up, laid back in his chair, and nodded. Yeah, yeah. I ordered a drink for both of us, and I brought the topic to the Cardinals and their current season. Ulyss seemed mildly interested, but the conversation didn't go anywhere. I was preparing to leave to give him some time, but then he spoke to me. You know, the night of the Willard murder, I... He sighed, gathering his thoughts, then continued, Well, you know I don't like talking about that night. You don't have to, I assured him. No, no, I think I do, he said. At that moment, I saw a level of conviction on his face and determination to power through whatever reservations he had about the topic. I need to tell someone. That night, when we found Willard's wife, I remember distinctly how horrific and merciless the crime scene was. I mean, Christ, one moment you got this man and his loving wife, and by the next she was barely recognizable. Nobody had any idea what could cause a man to... He choked for a bit before continuing. And so, I asked around the town about the local gossip to see if I could piece together an affair or a motive. There was none, and Willard himself was as confused as we were. But then, Tom told me about the night he saw Willard return from the desert on Reverie Road and die. He began to hold his hands tight to his mouth, a look of anguish splashed against his now reddening complexion. I drove down it. I paused, waiting for him to continue. What did you see? His eyes looked at me and spoke straight and without hesitation. Nothing. There's nothing down that road. Do you understand? I nodded. He turned over his shoulder at the crowd on the other side of the bar who were oblivious to the conversation. He glanced back at me, bringing his face close to the center of the table, before whispering, What I tell you next, it stays with us, you understand? I nodded again. When I came back from the road that night, I began to have nightmares. I could feel the sweat in my palms and the anxiety in my limbs. In the entire time I've known Jolies, I'd never known him to be anything but level-headed. I was beginning to believe that the trauma of the morning had caused something inside him to finally come out, a side that I've never seen. I had nightmares that I drove past the bridge. I took a drink from my glass, not sure what to say. At first hearing, it didn't seem strange that he dreamed about the road after feeling his mind with thoughts, but there was one word that stuck out to me. He said, nightmares. What was on the other side? I don't remember. I never remember, but I dreamed I was Willard that night, that I was the one with the hammer and that I was the one who he paused, trying to collect himself. I dreamed that I did what Willard did. I placed my hand on his wrist. Look, you had a nightmare after a traumatic event. There's nothing abnormal about that. No, he said, no, it wasn't just a normal dream. He said, I had another one last night and it wasn't about Willard. I froze, you're not saying I am. He said, nodding slowly, Tom, I saw it all. I was Tom Davis in my dreams. I saw the man and his family take a turn on the road. I saw him drive through the dark desert. I saw him approach the bridge and he gulped when he was on the other side. I saw what he used on the sun. I saw what he did to the wife. My mouth just hung open. I didn't know what to say. Yolise was letting tears stream down his face at this point. And I sat silently, you didn't see the wife's body. He continued, but I did, and it was exactly as I, as Tom left it, weapon and all. Another long pause, how can someone do those things? I could have stopped him. I saw it coming. I could have stopped it from happening. I wanted to try and calm him down, try and tell him there was nothing he could have done. Instead, I sat silently, taking in everything I'd heard. The conversation turned back to other things, and I tried my best to keep his mind off of whatever was eating at him. We only hung around for another hour before the bar closed, and I wished him farewell. He said goodbye, a faint optimism that maybe everything was going to be fine. I knew deep down that he wasn't going to sleep that night. So I got to my car and began driving out of the bar lot. Not long after, I made it to the stoplight at the intersection with Reverie Road. The air was warm and still, and as I waited for the light to turn green, my eyes went to the dark road that drifted into the vast desert. The street lights illuminated the entrance, but that was it. Reverie Road was shrouded in black. I turned my gaze back to the street ahead of me, staring at the main street again, continuing my weight as the light was still red. Then, like a magnet, my eyes went back towards Reverie Road. This draw overpowering and the allure indisputable. I began to wonder how much could it hurt to go down this road real quick to see if I could find something myself. It was pulling my focus, and all I could wonder was what was down there. Nothing. That's what Yulie said. There's nothing down that road, do you understand? But there was something. I could feel it. The road was sucking me in. A car honked behind me, and I looked back up to the traffic light. It was green. Without hesitation, I put my turn signal on, turned up my headlights, and I turned onto Reverie Road. I drove into the desert carefully and slowly. I had my brights on, the wheels of my car dipping and rising with the imperfect asphalt. The stars above me were faint, and the desert around me was infinite. All the while, I kept thinking to myself, there's nothing down this road. This is stupid. I should turn back. I was two miles in. There was no turning back. The loneliness was unmistakable. It felt like I was the only living thing for hundreds of miles, and even the light of the town behind me was fleeting. I turned the radio up for some company, but it eventually faded to static. Then, I made it three miles in. I slammed on my brakes. I heard the tires under the car screech, and I was kicked forward in my seat. My headlights illuminated the site before me, and I could feel my breathing become labored. I sat motionless, and I must have been wide eyed as a deer caught in the headlights. I began to shake, and I knew that something was wrong. The bridge before me was intact. I sat in my car, gripping the steering wheel. Impossible. With my car still running, I stepped out of the driver's side, placing my foot on the asphalt underneath. Removing my gaze, I eyed the bridge before me. Tom's truck was still on the other side, abandoned and lifeless, still covered in blood. I stepped forward to the edge of the bridge. The road continued into an abyss of darkness, stretched out before me in the headlights. I began to feel a breeze pulling me in. It would be so easy to step forward, to traverse the bridge, and make it to the other side. I could finally find out where the road went. I stood, continuing to stare into the darkness, when I saw two lights come on far ahead. They were like pinpoints, miles down the road. They weren't moving. They looked almost like headlights, but I already knew there was nobody on the road. Another thought popped in my mind. They almost looked like eyes. The curiosity was too great. I had only one goal, to cross the bridge and walk into the desert. I had no other drive, no other motivation. I was going to know where it ended, and I was going to know tonight. As I stood before the bridge, placing my foot forward, it was almost like I began to dream. I dreamed about walking down the road. I dreamed that I made it to the end. I dreamed about crossing the bridge once more, making it back to town. I dreamed that I went to my garage. I grabbed a drill. I dreamed that I opened the door to my bedroom. I flicked the lights on as I gripped the drill tightly, the bit spinning loudly as I stepped forward. I dreamed that my wife turned to me, fear washing over her face, and she screamed. I dreamed, no. I woke up panning, the sound of a drill ringing in my ears as I flailed around in the darkness of the desert. My eyes quickly adjusted back to the landscape around me, and I was back in the real world, standing on the bridge. The car was still running behind me, and sweat dripped down my face. I was shaking as I crawled back to my car, put it into reverse, turned it around, and I drove as fast as I could back to town. I have no idea how long I was out there for. The sun was beginning to come up over the horizon. I was shaking the entire drive back, and I soaked the seat in steering wheel and sweat. I made it home. I nearly had a heart attack before opening my bedroom, not sure what to expect. When my wife woke up, I told her I fell asleep in the bar parking lot. She was disappointed, but I could live with that. I couldn't tell her what I saw. I couldn't tell her that I was almost pulled into the other side of the bridge. She wouldn't understand. I've been shaking all morning. I can't sleep. I called into work just to write this because I need to tell someone what happened. I promise you, I'm never going back near that damn road. I can still feel its presence. It still pulls me to it. I still have to know what's at the end, but I'm fighting against it. I'm terrified of what happens if I make that cross. I know when I go to sleep, I'll find myself there again. But I have to fight it. I've cursed myself with an endless battle. So now I'm trying to remind myself that there's nothing down that road. It doesn't go anywhere. There's nothing at the end. Every town has a legend. In the case of Reverie Road, I'd rather keep it as that.