Locals who frequently spend time at Old Alton Bridge and the surrounding woods often say the atmosphere during the day is completely different from the night. During daylight hours, you’ll find numerous people fishing along the riverbank, relaxing, and enjoying nature.
Some hike the trails, which I later mapped out and explored fully, while others simply come to see the bridge, stand on it, and gaze out over the river. Scenic riverbeds like this are rare in the area, especially ones accompanied by a still-standing, historic bridge rumored to be haunted.
Most visitors—whom I refer to as the “lookyloos,” the “come and goers,” or my favorite, the “5-minute men”—arrive, leave disappointed, and think, “Well, that was a waste of time.” But once the sun sets, everything changes. Back then, during the day, you might see only four or five cars scattered in the lot, and no one else around—mostly fishermen or hikers. As night falls, those people leave, but occasionally a car will pull in late. More often than not, if you visited after dark, you’d find yourself entirely alone.
Before the area experienced a massive population boom over the last 14 years, many nights passed without a single car driving down Old Alton Road. When you did hear a vehicle pull in and doors slam, it was almost predictable what came next: the loud, obnoxious laughter of teenagers heading out to “walk the bridge.” For a time, “walking the bridge” was considered a brave and heroic challenge among local youth who heard stories—true or not—about what had happened or might happen there.
What kind of story could make people so fearful that they hesitate to come here at night, let alone step onto the bridge, yet still dare to “walk the bridge”? Anyone with common sense knows this bridge has been crossed daily for decades. Even horseback riders occasionally stroll through during the day without issue.
But that comes with the territory when hearing about places with supposed legends. It’s like the childhood game where the whole class sits in a circle, and one person whispers a sentence into the ear of the next. Each child passes it along, but by the time it reaches the last person, the sentence is completely changed and far from the original.
So what’s the story so far?
Oscar Washburn, a Black goat farmer, was lynched by local Klansmen. When they checked his body from the bridge, he had mysteriously disappeared. But why is it that hardly anyone knows about this incident? Ask any local, and you’ll hear the same responses. “Oh, that’s just hogwash. I grew up here, and we used to drive right over that bridge.” Others might say, “I fish there every day with my buddy, and we’ve never seen anything even remotely spooky.” Occasionally, someone will recall, “Well, one night in the late ’90s, we were hanging out there and thought we saw a strange light in the woods. It was odd, but that’s about it.”
So how did we end up here? If you search “Goatman’s Bridge” on Google or, worse, YouTube, you’re bombarded with endless wild stories: possessions, kidnappings, satanic cults slaughtering animals in the woods so frequently that local pet stores have stopped selling pets, hoofbeats echoing regularly, glowing red eyes spotted in the distance, half-man, half-goat Satyrs appearing, bizarre tales of a KKK grand wizard who allegedly ate his wife’s face off in front of a jury and is now a demon, people being scratched, hooded cult members performing mysterious rituals, individuals being lifted into the air and thrown, and the infamous legend of honking your horn three times only to have your car pushed across the bridge. But you can’t even drive a car over the bridge—it’s been closed to vehicles for decades!It is only open to foot traffic. So what really happened here? What’s going on with the people?
It is a flood of disinformation, and that’s exactly its goal. It craves the chaos, the confusion, the fear, and the disorder. It thrives on these because you only “get out what you put in.” Back then though, it was a much simpler time. The place was just starting to gain some attention, but for the most part, it was peaceful, tranquil, and beautifully scenic. That was… until I arrived.
That night, I took Dexter on a short walk into the woods. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The moment I stepped off the east side of the bridge and onto the main trail, an eerie sensation settled over me. I kept turning around, searching for anything or anyone, but there was nothing. The silence was so complete that no one could have snuck up on me. No distant cars, no other people lingering—just me and my dog. We walked slowly down the trail for about four minutes until we reached a trailhead kiosk and a fork in the path.
We took the left fork, which opened into a wide field where the trail stretched straight ahead for quite a distance. Then, suddenly, the peacefulness returned.
There was something distinctly different about this open area. Just moments ago, it felt like I was stepping into a place I shouldn’t be, but then I reached a turn, and everything shifted. A cool breeze now flowed gently through the space. I paused to take it all in—looking up at the stars and the vast openness—and felt grateful to be here in this moment. Ahead, the trail stretched on for quite a distance alongside a complex of warehouse buildings enclosed by a large fence. The bridge and surrounding woods sit next to Game-On Athletics and a large soccer field where youth sporting events are held. Nearby, there’s a metalworking shop and a few specialized retail stores. This place isn’t really in the middle of nowhere, despite what modern “ghost-hunters” might lead you to believe.
Back then, I didn’t know any of this. Still, I was certain I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. I knew the other trail, on the opposite side of the river, stretched far out into the countryside, but I had no idea about this one. At the time, all I knew was that it ran along the back of the warehouse complex.
I set my tripod down and captured some long exposure shots of the sky and the distant woods. The scene was stunning. The sky was clear, and with the moon nearly full, it wasn’t so dark that I needed a flashlight to see. I snapped several photos of the sky, then turned around and made my way back along the trail toward the car. As we neared the bridge, that eerie feeling returned—the sensation of being watched. It intensified as we moved deeper into the trail, where thick trees blocked all visibility. But once we reached the entrance, the feeling vanished completely.
I turned right and headed to the benches about 100 feet from the bridge, sitting down to take in the surroundings. Stillness enveloped everything—peaceful once again. After a few moments, I walked back to the bridge, halfway across, scanning the area, half-expecting to feel that eerie sensation of being followed… but there was nothing. I sat down beside Dexter, soaking in the quiet. It was just us and nature. I loved it.
I pulled out my phone and played some music for a few minutes, then took long exposure shots of the river, woods, and distant sky. The road lay empty and desolate. The warehouse complex in the distance provided the only visible light, faintly glowing through the trees. Their light poles offered a comforting reminder of nearby civilization.
“Let’s take another walk this way, Dexter,” I said, heading toward the trail I had explored that one time with my girlfriend. Dexter was all in—he enjoys relaxing at home or in the backyard, but once the leash is on and we’re out, it’s walk time, no matter what.
Stepping off the far end of the bridge, I immediately turned left, heading down the trail into the woods opposite the river. During the day, you’d occasionally hear the whoosh of nearby cars since the trail runs close to the main road for a stretch. But at night, there are no streetlights—just dense trees on both sides and pure darkness ahead.
We’d walked about 20 feet when that feeling returned. Is someone here? I thought. I stopped, turned around, but saw nothing. Pressing forward another 25 feet, I stopped again. I swear I’m being watched. Dexter stopped too, which was unusual. His beagle nose is always on the move, especially in nature, but now he just stared into the darkness, silent and still.
I knelt down and asked, “What’s out there, buddy?” He looked up at me, then ahead, then back again. I flicked on my flashlight, sweeping the path and trees—nothing. “Hello?” I called out, not shouting but louder than normal. We waited a moment, flashlight off, and Dexter returned to his sniffing routine, eager to move on. The feeling lifted, and we took another 25 steps.
Not wanting to ruin the vibe—I enjoy being out in the dark and can see fairly well, aided by the moonlight—I switched the flashlight off. But after a few steps, I stopped and spun around sharply. “Okay, what the hell?” I said, disbelief in my voice as I scanned the area. “Someone is out here with us, Dexter,” I whispered.
But there was nothing—not a sound. I stood in the dark for a minute, then called out, “Oye! I see you over there!” and immediately shone my flashlight in the direction of nothing. I strode toward that spot firmly, dragging my feet to announce my presence.
“What are you doing over there?” I demanded, loud and stern, but still, no response. I grabbed a large stick and hurled it into the woods. It hit a tree, rustling leaves as it fell. I paused, listening intently, eyes scanning every shadow. Nothing—a complete silence. No wind, no critters, no rustling leaves that would signal movement off the trail. The ground was thick with leaves, broken sticks, twigs, and vines.
There was nothing out there. Or anywhere, for that matter. I told myself firmly, I would hear if something was moving. Stop being such a scaredy-cat.
Back then, I was usually fearless and brimming with confidence, and very little could rattle me. Dexter and I often ventured into places we weren’t supposed to be, all in the pursuit of capturing great photographs, no matter the time of day or night.
“Oh, I was just out taking some photos when my dog got loose, and I had to chase him in here. I just caught him! Where am I even?” I always imagined that’s what I’d say if I ever got caught. Over the years, I realized no one really bats an eye or questions a guy walking his dog in the middle of the night, carrying a camera bag and tripod. Maybe it was my overconfidence, my passion for capturing unique shots, or most likely, it was Dexter. He had a way with people. Whenever someone passed by and saw him, it was always the same reaction: “Awww, what a sweet beagle,” with adoring eyes fixed on him. Me? I was invisible. “Look, look—a BEAGLE!” everyone would exclaim when they saw Dexter. People adored him, and for the first few years after we adopted him, more then the average dog and I never understood why. They reacted like they were witnessing a rare, magical creature.
But it made me happy—the joy he brought to everyone he met. He was truly special, already my best buddy, though I didn’t realize just how extraordinary he was—until now.
Overwhelmed by fear and paranoia, I seriously debated whether to go any further. The bridge was in sight, and faintly, I could still make out the dim lights of the warehouse complex across the river and parking lot. I told myself, “I’m right by the road, just a stone’s throw away. If something happens, I can easily take fifteen steps off this trail and rush back to my car. Stop being a coward. What’s wrong with you?” Determined, I approached confidently and quickly, moving with purpose toward the other side of the trail. Shining my light into the woods across the area as I headed back toward the bridge, I began yelling, “HEY! I SEE YOU, you fucker! You want to mess around? Let’s go!”
Now, I have ZERO violent tendencies, am extremely non-confrontational, and have always identified as a lover, not a fighter. I’ve only been in one fight, back in my freshman year of high school, and it was rather foolish. While I will defend myself if necessary, I have since honed and mastered self-defense to a fine art. I made it my mission to intimidate and psychologically scare anyone who tried to scare me first or intended to harm me, assuming I was unaware of their intentions or presence first. When overwhelmed by fear, sometimes the best tactic is to act unpredictably. A strong defense can be a sudden, aggressive, almost unhinged offense. This was simply acting on my part. I had no idea what would happen when I confronted someone or something out there, but I told myself, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it”—pun intended.
“HEY, oh hell no, you picked the wrong one today, boy!” I shouted as I quickened my pace to run alongside Dexter. I released his leash, and he followed without hesitation. He probably wondered, “What the heck is going on? Why is he yelling, and why did he let go of the leash? Is there a threat?” I imagined him thinking, “No worries, I’ve got his back!” I glanced back to make sure he wasn’t bolting into the woods, never to be seen again with that nose of his. No leash tugging keeping him on the trail for once? I know Dexter — normally it’d be more like, “FREEDOM! WOOHOO, I’M GONNA EXPLORE ALL THE SMELLS! If you need me, I’ll just be over here checking out this bush… wait, sniff sniff, DEER?”
“SEE YA!“
But no, I glanced back and he was right behind me, hauling butt. We ran full speed and stomped onto the bridge. I stopped and took heavy, deliberate steps toward the right side of the railing, just past the tree line where I could see deeper into that part of the woods. Leaning over the railing, I shone my light into the area and yelled, “Come on out, you can’t hide! You want to play games? Let’s play.” I shut off my flashlight and started banging it against the side of the bridge, shouting again in a creepy, rhythmic tone, “YooOoo-Hoooo, come out, come out and playyy-ayyyy.” Dexter didn’t get the memo and kept running, dragging his leash past me down the bridge as if we were leaving. “DEX!” I quickly stepped on the handle loop of the leash to stop him. “Wait, buddy!” I said. I repeated, “Wait,” while giving him the hand signal. He excitedly stopped and locked eyes with me. “Wait,” I said again, this time in a calmer tone, emphasizing the “a” sound. “Waaaaait,” I softly drew out the sound, knowing he understood what was coming. I slowly lowered my hand, pausing for several moments, maintaining eye contact with him.
…….”COME!!!”
I drop my hand quickly, signaling “COME,” which he eagerly misinterprets as “RUN AND GET MY TREAT.” In one swift motion, I bring my hand to my thigh, giving a few loud pats and a motion over my shoulder, then immediately bolt back off the bridge and around the corner to where we just came from, knowing he will follow right behind me.
I didn’t stop. With one hand, I grabbed his leash by the loop handle and jogged alongside him, while the other kept the flashlight trained on the area until we passed it. Without hesitation, I switched off the light and sprinted further down the dark path, past the spot where we had paused, laughing maniacally. Soon, I spotted a path branching off to the left and took it, but immediately stopped. I crouched down, gently holding Dexter and trying to steady my breathing.
“Shh, shh,” I whispered, tightening my grip and stroking his head. I glanced back, listening for any sound—rustling, lights, banging, yelling—any sign of someone fleeing, thinking I was heading their way. Nothing. The forest was silent except for my own breath and Dexter’s heavy panting. I held my breath, my heart pounding in the stillness. I tossed a rock into the underbrush, which rustled softly. I listened intently for a response. Still nothing. I sat there, holding Dexter in the darkness, surrounded by the woods, trying to calm myself in the heavy silence.
We slowly got up and tiptoed back toward the bridge, still alert for any sounds or signs of movement. With adrenaline coursing through me, I realized I was no longer afraid—only curious. I paused on the path, staring in that direction, debating whether to cross with the flashlight to investigate or if I was imagining things. Suddenly, I felt it again—this time behind me. I spun around quickly, but nothing was there. I looked right toward the road, then left toward the woods and river, and finally back in the direction I had originally been facing.
Every time I stopped to look, something flickered in my peripheral vision. Not a shadow or a visible figure, but some kind of energy—no, multiple forms of energy—because it felt like it surrounded me completely. I was so focused on this sensation that I didn’t realize Dexter was reacting the same way. I glanced down at him; he snapped his head toward the right side of the woods and stopped panting. His ears perked up as he fell silent, fixated on something unseen. Then, he quickly turned his head to the left side of the trail, toward the road, locking eyes with… something. After a few tense moments, he looked back up at me, worry evident in his gaze. I met his eyes, wide and alert, when suddenly something caught his attention again in that direction. He slowly nodded his head down, as if to get a clearer look. He held that position, eyes locked on whatever he was seeing, never breaking his gaze.
I glanced in that direction, but there was nothing—just the road a short distance beyond the trees. I stared intently, scanning the horizon for any movement, but saw nothing. Looking back down at Dexter, he let out a few soft, short whines while gently pawing the ground with his front legs, slowly backing up. He looked up at me, his uneasiness clear. He trotted back a few steps, glanced quickly toward the area, then back at me, as if signaling he wanted to leave. Suddenly, something caught his intense focus on the street. He turned abruptly, perked up, and stared silently into the woods. I turned as well, and in my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of something past us on the path. I gasped loudly and immediately aimed the flashlight at where I had seen it.
Nothing. I adjusted the focus ring on my Maglite, widening it to broaden the beam while scanning the surroundings. Still nothing. Then I tightened the ring to narrow the beam, hoping to see farther down the trail—still nothing. My heart pounds wildly as I struggle to steady my breath, intensely focusing on the light’s beam, searching, hoping, fearing to catch any sign of movement. I hold my breath to listen more closely, and suddenly—BAM—something is right behind me, just over my shoulder. Every hair on my body stands on end as I whirl around, swinging the flashlight in that direction.
NOTHING!
“Okay, enough of this!” I shouted to myself. “Let’s get out of here, Dex!” I added, immediately power-walking back toward the bridge. I frantically swept the flashlight in every direction, keeping my pace steady but my nerves on edge. “No, no, no way!” I muttered in a terrified voice. Every time the light landed on a spot, the paranoia eased for a moment, a brief calm washing over me. But the instant I moved the beam away, I caught glimpses of movement in the shadows. It felt like something was darting just beyond the light, all around me.
“Let’s go, boy! Come on!” I urged Dex, picking up my pace to a jog as we headed back to the bridge. I tried not to focus on anything except getting there. That one minute stretched endlessly, time slowing down. The moment our feet touched the bridge and we made it halfway over the river, all the fear vanished in an instant.
I turned around—nothing. The familiar chirping of crickets drifted in the distance, accompanied by the steady hum of a generator near the warehouse parking lot by the soccer field fence. I faced the main road, spotting the stoplights and streetlights just over the hill. Safety and calm settled over me like a blanket; it was as if nothing had happened.
I glanced back toward the trail where we’d just been, scanning the horizon with the flashlight. No movement. No eerie shadows. No feeling that someone—or something—was lurking. Just the peaceful, quiet beauty of nature at night. It was like all signs of wildlife, insects, fish, and birds had vanished during those moments—only to return the second I stepped onto the bridge.
“What on earth was that about?” I wondered, my breathing slowing, my heart rate calming. I leaned on the bridge railing and gazed down at the river. The moon’s cool, tranquil reflection shimmered on the water’s surface, serene and soothing, reminding me everything was okay now.
The crickets’ chorus grew louder, echoing through the night. A frog croaked softly along the riverbank. As I stared into the moonlit water, mesmerized, I heard a gentle splash and saw ripples where a fish broke the surface—a familiar sound.
“The forest is alive with signs of life, as it always is,” I realized. “But where was all that just now?” I wondered, still shaken but slowly grounding myself in the night’s peaceful reality.
I glance over to the opposite side of the river to the other main path that led to the kiosk and open field area I was at earlier. “This! It felt like this as soon as we turned and got to that clearing over there earlier!” I remembered. “What the heck?”
I guided Dexter off the bridge and back toward the main gravel walkway and benches. He paused once more at the entrance to the main trail. Despite every instinct urging me to turn back, we ventured Into The Woods again. However, we hadn’t gone far—just a few hundred feet down the path—when the woods on either side grew denser. I caught movement darting in my peripheral vision, felt chills run through my body, and sensed an overwhelming stillness that made me feel completely surrounded.
“We are OUTTA here!” I said to myself, and maybe a little to Dexter too. I spun around and power-walked straight back, passing the bridge and benches without hesitation, not stopping until we reached my car. In one swift move, I practically limboed under the steel handrail gate that separates the parking lot from this area—determined as ever. The railing is about waist-high, so usually I’d have to awkwardly crouch underneath to get in and out, like I did before, instead of using the janky side V-shaped entrance. But now, I was on a mission to get the hell out of there.
I opened the car door, unbuckled Dexter’s leash, and he quickly hopped in. As I walked around to the driver’s side, I glanced back at the area and stopped. I laughed in disbelief, feeling a sudden wave of peace and tranquility. “Were we really just followed and chased out here by some… thing? By the woods? Did we step into another dimension or a vortex?” I asked myself. Why did it feel so peaceful on the bridge? What was with that clearing by the kiosk that gave off the same vibes? We had only gone about a hundred feet down that other path my girlfriend and I had walked for miles before, and I knew we were never unsafe. So what did we just experience? A million questions raced through my mind as I turned, got in the car, started it, and this began playing on the radio.
“Wow,” I chuckled nervously, shifting the car into reverse. Pulling out of the parking lot, I took a left and slowly cruised past the bridge on the main road. I rolled down the window and gazed at the bridge and the trail where it all happened. It looked like any ordinary woods you see everywhere. Turning the music down, I drove slowly, attuned to the natural sounds near the part of the trail where it occurred. “The same ambient nature sounds as when we were there,” I mused. “This is surreal.”
I continued down Old Alton Road and passed an empty lot on the left—the trail’s exit point, which I would later discover leads to another path across the lot. I pulled into the lot, made a U-turn, and headed back the way I came before finally driving home.
“I have to come back during the day and explore more… this place is definitely… special.”
