"There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's prying calls them just within our range."

• H.P. Lovecraft

THE BRIDGE

Many cultures believe that fortune is in the eye of the beholder. It can take the form of many things; power, money, fame... even love. But if my travels have taught me anything, it's that life is all about balance. Where there is fortune, misfortune lurks. And no, that's not some new-age mantra I picked up at a yoga retreat. It's the law of the jungle.

I sized up the Balinese rental owner and gave it to him sternly. "100k per day, take it or leave it."

"No no mister, 200k, good quality bike!" He gestured at his collection of Honda scooters looking worse for wear.

"150k," I countered. "Final offer."

He shot up a deceptive smile and shook my hand. As he sifted through dusty paperwork, I knew I fell into yet another upselling scheme. But this rickety motorbike rental was the only one for miles, so I gritted my teeth and slid him the money.

In the distance, rainclouds were rolling in above a muggy Balinese morning. I found myself in a rural area with rows of rice fields spread out in all directions. This was the Bali I wanted to see.

The owner guided my scooter along a dirt path and handed me the keys. "Om swastiastu," I said in my awkward American accent, then bowed even more awkwardly. The man stood stiffly and curled his lips. Judging by his reaction, bowing wasn't customary in his culture.

He took out a star-shaped trinket made of woven bamboo and tied it on the dashboard. What seemed like mere decoration was actually a charm, placed on objects around the island. The Balinese believed spirits inhabit all manner of things -- even inanimate objects -- and they must appease them by presenting tokens.

The rental owner wished me a pleasant trip and headed inside. Since the bamboo trinket obstructed the speedometer, I ripped it off and watched it seesaw onto the ground. I hopped on the bike, fastened my rucksack and went off into the tropical landscape.

With the breeze on my back and boundless adventures ahead, I spend the next hour zooming up and down the countryside. But as I was making my way to a temple in a remote part of the island, the scooter began to sputter. It gave three jerks forward, rattled as if pebbles were in the engine, and died.

"Shit!" I spilled on the side of the road. Great, a two-for-one special. I got ripped off and he gave me a lemon. Why'd I expect anything different? I heaved a sigh and assessed the damage. The bike made a screeching noise akin to a wounded animal.

I kicked a dirtmound far into the field and stood there weighing all my options. The road was empty with no signs of anyone around. As I blocked off the sun, a lonely village revealed itself just beyond the rice paddies.

"Thank Christ." I trudged in that direction, dragging my scuffed motorbike on one end.

The area itself was beautiful. There were green, rolling hills and sounds of a nearby creek and fluttering of sparrows could be heard. There was also Penjor everywhere; tall, decorative poles that signified the welfare of the Balinese people.

But my eyes moved to a sight that wasn't as nice. It was an old bridge just outside the village. Cracks lined the worn, gray stonework and unkempt vines twisted around its columns. It was an ugly piece of architecture. And curiously, the only place without a Penjor.

Beep beep! A villager on his scooter honked before crossing the bridge. Moments later, another motorist approached and before passing, he too beeped his horn. I stayed for a bit and noticed that whenever someone crossed the old bridge, they would use their horn even if there was no one around.

On the other side of the bridge, a far-off figure was walking clearer into view: a woman in a red dress. Her crimson silhouette glided atop the bridge's grayed beams, her side ponytail cascading just beneath her shoulder. She seemed distressed, like she was searching for something.

Beep beep! Another motorist drove by and broke my gaze. When I looked back, the woman was gone just as fast as she appeared. Thunder cracked in the distance and heavy rain began to pour. I hurried into the hamlet and came inside the first warung I saw.

A warung, or an Indonesian eatery serves delicious food day in and day out. The one I was in was no exception -- the smells wafting out the kitchen made my mouth water. So I ordered, charged my phone and waited out the storm.

The warung owner and her teenaged daughter smiled at me as I ate. You could tell they didn't get many visitors in their village, and were curious about my being there.

"Mister, you from where?" The mom asked.

"I'm from USA." I smiled back. "Saya... um, dari... dari amerika."

The daughter tried not to laugh at my pronunciation. "Where are you heading?" She joined, with much better English than I expected.

"Ramayana temple, have you heard of it?" I grabbed my phone and showed her the location. "I was on my way there but my bike broke down."

Bolts of lightning flashed across the dull skies.

"Ah yes yes. Ramayana temple, three kilometers from here." She placed a finger on the map.

I studied the route closer. "What about this path?" I asked, realizing I could cut my trip by half. I pointed to a narrow road that looped behind the village, starting from the old, decrepit bridge.

"Jangan de, jangan lewat situ..." The mom whispered to her daughter with traces of fear in her voice. They exchanged a few more words that I didn't understand, but their apprehension furrowed my brows.

"No no, better you not use bridge," replied the daughter, tapping her finger on the previously-suggested route. "This road is ok. Only three kilometers."

"Wait, why not?" I pivoted, curious about the sudden dismissal. It was clearly the fastest way there. I cleared my throat, trying to fill the uneasy silence. "I kept seeing people use their horn on that bridge. Why do they have to do that?"

"If you must use bridge, you have to use... um, use--" The daughter scrabbled to find the right word.

"Your horn?"

"Ah, yes yes. You have to use horn, two times, before you go. Very important. Two times." The same fear in her mother's voice was in her quivering eyes, and I realized she was serious.

"Why?"

At this point, the mom seemed visibly spooked and wanted no part in this. After more claps of thunder, the daughter added, "There is woman, outside our village. She lives under bridge. But she... she is not really woman. She is--"

Her mom interrupted us by giving me the bill. She tried to fashion a warm smile, but her lips couldn't stop shaking. Something really got under her skin. Not thinking much of it, I scarfed down the rest of my meal while they tended to other customers.

After the rain let up, the ladies were nice enough to inspect my rust bucket. Imagine that -- warung owners and recreational mechanics. Balinese women were truly jacks-of-all-trades. They identified it as a gearbox issue and helped me realign the component.

After exchanging final pleasantries, I waved goodbye to my friendly hosts. "Thanks for everything!"

The rain had been reduced to a light drizzle and fog began creeping down from the hills. It was eerily quiet on my way out. I whipped the scooter around the bend, and there it was again. The old bridge, but much closer this time.

I stopped to inspect the menacing structure.

The fog covered much of the vines now, casting the appearance of gangly creatures writhing around in the mist. But it was all in my head, of course. I didn't care much for third-world superstitions, but for the sake of humoring my hosts, I hovered my thumb on the horn, and...

"Of course it doesn't work."

Not a single peep came out. Again -- what else could I have expected from a lemon? "Not even the scooter believes in this stuff," I quipped under my breath. I smiled, double-checked the map, and drove onward.

After riding around for a while, I realized two hours had gone by and no signs of the temple anywhere. No signs of anything, really. Only dense jungle on each side and fog that draped endlessly. "How could I have gotten lost?" The road only led in one direction and I was following it to a tee.

I kept riding, and riding, when finally -- a fuzzy shape poked out of the fog. There it was again. The old bridge. It was bigger, more daunting than before. I hopped off in search of the village but there was no trace it was ever there. Only the fog, the bridge...

And a woman.

She sat on the ledge, weeping gently while looking at the water. Her red dress was soaked and her hair fell in disheveled strands. "Are you okay miss?" I called out, inching closer and closer.

The air was impossibly still and cold sweat seeped from my pores. You know that feeling you get when you pass a dimly-lit alley? Your brain urges you to run, warning you of a threat in the shadows. That same voice was telling me, no -- bellowing for me to turn back.

Yet, like a moth to a flame, I continued forward.

Finally, I went to tap her shoulder, but before my hand could even reach her -- she snapped at my wrist and pulled me within inches of her face.

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I don't remember much after that. Kids from the village found me in pretty bad shape after I left the warung. Apparently, I ditched my bike on the side of the road and sat on the old bridge, staring down at the water. When they found me, I was muttering the words "mana anak saya" like a madman.

The kids took me to the warung owner and her daughter. Like the angels that they were, they cleaned me up and offered some food. After a bit of convincing, they told me the full story about the woman in the red dress.

Decades ago, on that very bridge, a little boy was killed by a careless motorist. His mother was so grief-stricken that she hurled herself off the bridge to be with her son. Nowadays, people passing through will always honk twice, even if no one is there as a sign of respect to their spirits. "Mana anak saya" means "where is my son."

To this day, I couldn't tell you what her face looked like. The events that happened are a big blur. I'm now a father to a precious baby boy, and every now and then, I'm reminded of the warung owner and her daughter.

The kind souls that they were.

I fully understand why the owner didn't want to talk about the bridge nor get her daughter involved. She had seen her face, as I have. The red woman's face. A chasm of longing and sorrow and grief.

Needless to say, I now have more respect for superstitions. The occasional dash of salt over the shoulder or avoiding cracks on the sidewalk held a bit more weight. But in all honesty? The damage has already been done.

Because sometimes, when I curl up with my baby boy, safe and warm in bed... I'll look at the ceiling and see pale, putrid eyes staring down at me, with so much sadness...

And they never look away.