The Concord Covered Bridge, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, is one of just 16 covered bridges left in Georgia.Courtesy of The Friends of the Concord Covered Bridge Historic District Despite being an author of horror novels, I was not born spooky. Like every “final girl” in a scary movie, I have an origin story, and it begins on the historic Concord Covered Bridge in Smyrna. My family lived in Smyrna the first four years of my life, and our daily drives passed through the almost-two-centuries-old, 131-foot-long covered wooden bridge. Those trips through the dark, nearly-windowless tunnel sparked my enduring love of all things that go bump in the night. The site dates back to around 1840, when an open bridge made of timber piers was built across Nickajack Creek to provide access to the various water-powered mills nearby. In the 1890s, after years of flooding damage, a sturdier bridge was rebuilt on stone piers and covered with a timber roof. The bridge has been renovated and reinforced over the decades, surviving arson, floods, and the passage of time. It’s by far the most trafficked covered bridge in Georgia. Unfortunately, since it has one lane and a seven-foot clearance, accidents and closures are common. Inside, a few small windows barely mark the way through the seemingly endless tunnel. In my memory, the bridge is always dark. Its wooden mouth threatened to swallow whoever dared cross it, its rattle under our wheels a reminder it could snap its teeth closed at any moment. Even without its supposed ghosts, the bridge terrified me. And there are ghosts, according to the legends that surround the bridge that have been passed from generation to generation. Long ago, the stories say, a child or group of children drowned beneath it. Drive to the center of the bridge at night and turn off the engine, and you’ll hear their footsteps. Some recommend placing a Snickers bar on your car hood as a gift; others will tell you the ghosts aren’t picky, so any candy will do. My father knew the stories, and because he delighted in scaring his children, he made certain we knew them too. Every time we crossed the bridge in his Datsun pickup, he’d drop his voice and ask me and my brother if we’d ever heard about the children who drowned in the creek. Of course we had, but we wanted him to tell us again. Deep in the tunnel, my father would often cut the headlights and slow to a halt. “Hear that?” he would ask. I’d listen for footsteps, heartbeat thick in my ears, the dark so complete I thought there would be no light again. He’d tap his nails over the driver’s side window—the sound like footsteps—and ease off the brake so the truck crept forward. I’d scream, terrified and thrilled as he roared with laughter and brought the truck back to life. Safe at home, I’d remain awake long after my bedtime, envisioning ghostly faces staring back at me. The fear, the exhilaration, the sheer joy of being scared—all of that stayed with me into adulthood, so much so that I’ve made a career out of telling my own scary stories. The historic Concord Covered Bridge is always with me, too. The shiver in my memory. I am forever grateful for its ghostly, guiding hand. This article appears in our October 2026 issue. The post A love letter to Smyrna’s Concord Covered Bridge appeared first on Atlanta Magazine. ...read more read less