“The Bride Who Never Made It Home: The Haunting of the Zaječar Bridge”

In eastern Serbia, not far from the town of Zaječar, there’s an old, forgotten bridge crossing the Timok River. By day, it seems ordinary — rusty railings, overgrown surroundings, the sound of crickets and the occasional passing truck. But at night, the bridge changes. Locals avoid it after dark. Some even drive ten extra kilometers just to stay away.

Because of her.

They call her “the bride on the bridge,” “the white lady,” or simply “the ghost in the gown.” No one knows her real name. No one — except maybe those who gave her their final ride.

I didn’t believe the stories, of course. I'm from the city — raised on asphalt, not superstition. I was driving from Niš to Negotin for work, and sometime after midnight, my GPS led me down the shortest route — straight across that bridge. I was tired, but blasting music and coffee in my thermos kept me awake.

Then I saw her.

She was standing by the roadside, a few meters before the bridge. A girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, pale as snow, dressed in a long, white wedding gown that shimmered under the moonlight. Her hair, long and black, covered most of her face. In one hand, she held a bouquet — wilted, wet, and streaked with something dark… like dried blood.

I hit the brakes. Thought she was lost, or maybe a runaway bride. I rolled the window down.

“Do you need a ride?” I asked.

She slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were black. Hollow. Her voice barely a whisper:

“To my home. Across the bridge.”

She got in and sat in the back seat. Not another word.

I started driving, but an icy unease crept over me. In the rearview mirror, I tried to glance at her, but shadows seemed to cling to her face — and at one point, I could’ve sworn her wedding dress looked soaked, as if she’d just climbed out of the river.

Once we crossed the bridge, she pointed toward a small village. A narrow road led to a crumbling old house. I stopped the car. She didn’t move. I turned to speak—

She was gone.

No sound. No door. No footsteps. Just… gone.

Except for one thing left behind on the back seat:

A wet, blood-stained bridal veil.

I thought I was losing my mind. But I kept the veil. The next day, something pulled me to that same house.

An old woman answered the door. Barefoot. Wearing a white scarf over her head. She stared at me without blinking.

“I’m sorry... last night I gave a girl a ride,” I began. “She said she lived here. She left this in my car.”

I held up the veil.

The woman’s hands trembled. She stared at it like it was a ghost itself.

“You’re not the first to come here,” she said quietly. “You’re not even the tenth. That veil… belonged to my daughter, Nataša.”

I stood silent.

“She died... on her wedding day. Seven years ago. On that bridge. She was crossing it at night — in her wedding dress, heading home from the church. A truck lost control. Hit her. The river swept her away. They didn’t find her for three days.”

Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled with something darker than grief.

“Every year since… someone picks her up. A driver. A stranger. She gets in. And when they reach the house... she disappears. But that veil always comes back. Wet. Cold. Stained. And you — you only brought her home again.”

She shut the door.

I drove away without saying a word.

Since that night, I haven't slept the same. Sometimes, I hear a knock on my car window in the dark, even when I’m alone. Sometimes, I smell the river — mud, cold water, rotting leaves — even when there’s no water for miles.

And the veil? It vanished from my car the very next morning.

---

If you ever find yourself driving through eastern Serbia at night, and come upon the old bridge near Zaječar — don’t stop. Don’t open your door. And whatever you do, don’t pick up the bride in white.

Because maybe… she’s not looking for a ride.

Maybe… she’s waiting for you.

---

If you enjoyed this story and love eerie, spine-chilling tales inspired by Balkan legends — leave a like, share it with your friends, and hit that subscribe button.

Your support keeps me motivated to write more terrifying stories from the forgotten corners of our region.

See you soon… maybe just around the next bend. 👁️‍🗨️