This is a story I heard from someone — I can't say for certain how much of it is true. Only that the person who told it said they simply had to tell someone.
In Kanazawa, there is a bridge called Kumabashiri Bridge.
Those from the area may already know it, but that bridge has long had a certain reputation. A considerable number of people, over the years, have climbed over its railing of their own accord. I won't go into detail. That is simply the kind of bridge it is.
The story concerns a man in his thirties. I'll call him Mr. A.
Around two in the morning, Mr. A was driving home from work and crossed that bridge. It was deep in the night — no oncoming traffic, only the streetlamps spaced out along the span, and a stillness that lay over everything.
When he reached the middle of the bridge, his headlights caught something white ahead of him.
At first he thought it was a bag, or some piece of rubbish that had blown onto the road. But as he drew closer, he could see it had the shape of a person. A woman, dressed in loose white clothing, standing in the middle of the lane.
Mr. A pressed the brake.
The woman didn't move. She only stood there, her back to him, head slightly bowed. Her hair was long, and that hair was swaying — slowly, gently — though there was no wind.
He thought about sounding the horn, but something stopped him. His hand simply wouldn't move. He knew he should do it. His body refused.
So instead, he did this.
He rolled the window down a little, meaning to call out to her. He was about to say, *Are you all right* — and it was at that exact moment.
The rear door made a sound. A soft click, like a handle being tried.
Mr. A said he couldn't bring himself to turn around. Not that he was unable to — he simply felt, with absolute certainty, that to turn around would be the end of something. He checked the rearview mirror instead. Nothing. No one there.
But something was touching his left wrist.
He described it as the shape of fingers. Cold, and damp, and slowly tightening — he was sure of it.
Mr. A pressed the accelerator and drove. He never saw what became of the woman in front of him. By the time awareness returned to him, he had already crossed to the other side. He pulled over a little further on and finally looked into the back seat.
No one was there.
The rear door was locked from the inside.
Afterward, for some time, a faint red mark remained on Mr. A's left wrist. The spacing of the fingers, he said, was perfectly clear.
What happened on that bridge, or who the woman was — none of that is known. What is known is only this: that Mr. A still dreams of the bridge, in the middle of the night, to this day.
In the dream, he always looks properly into the rearview mirror.
