by Ranae Rose
The object was hot against his sweaty palm, a stunning contrast to the cold that surrounded him, which was severe enough that it probably would have choked him even if the headless horseman hadn’t been doing so already. His teeth tried to chatter, but the viselike hand around his neck prevented his jaw from moving much. As he thrust his fist out, toward the horseman, the bones in his neck creaked and pressure mounted behind his eyes. His old bruise twinged in protest of being covered with a new one. Fog billowed around the horseman, so thick it weighed down John’s limbs, making his task more difficult. Still, he could succeed – he had to, even if he used his last fleeting moments of life to do it. That hope fueled him as his lungs burned, the pain so intense he thought they might burst. How long could he last with busted, useless lungs – how long did he need to last? Only a moment, until—
No! Though he was beyond any hope of speaking, the word rang in his mind as the horseman jerked him out of the saddle, holding him aloft by the neck like a ragdoll. The precious object slipped from between his fingers and was lost to him as he hung, his bones groaning under the intense pressure, his lungs on fire.
Oh, God… This was it. The last thing he’d ever see would be the horseman’s broad shoulders and the space above, that terrible emptiness where a head should have been. Would the horseman take John’s head for his own after his death, which was surely only moments away? No, he shouldn’t think about that. If he only had a moment left to live, he should spend it thinking of those he loved, not fearing the inevitable. He tried to close his eyes, to devote his thoughts to Brom and Katrina, but it was impossible; his eyes were bulging too severely to close. He was forced to spend his dying moments staring back at the headless horseman, his eyes fixed on the place where the fiend’s should have been.
At the last possible moment before John’s bones crumbled and his eyes burst, the horseman relinquished his hold, and John fell, unable to brace himself as he hit the ground with a teeth-rattling impact. His lungs burned worse than ever as he drew his first desperate breath, holding on to life as the horseman swung out of the saddle, his boots sending up a cloud of dust as they touched the ground.
Perhaps nothing should have shocked John at this point, but the sight of the horseman dismounted and standing on solid ground did. After a moment of staring with aching, watering eyes, he regained his senses and forced himself onto his hands and knees, scrambling frantically, his fingers combing the earth. There was still a chance, however small – there was still hope, and it made his heart pound so fiercely that its beating was all he could hear…until the horseman laughed.
The laughter was deep and guttural, with a rasping edge, like the scrape of long-dead leaves against dry earth. It came from all directions, rushing through the trees and radiating from the edges of the forest on each side of the trail, so sonorous that John felt the vibrations in his breastbone. There was no doubt that it belonged to the horseman – the devil’s chest rose and fell with it as he strode forward, taking a deliberate step toward John.
John doubled his efforts, groping desperately for his lost treasure, his only hope.
“Fool,” an unearthly voice rumbled, causing what leaves were left on the trees to tremble and fall in a rain of decay. “Only a fool would deliver himself into the hands of death.”
It struck John that the horseman considered himself death, that he did indeed intend to reap John’s soul, to separate it from his body and end his earthly existence. Just as John had suspected – no, just as he’d known. He’d bridged the gap between suspicion and surety when he’d felt the cross burning warm around Katrina’s neck, when its touch had soothed her trembling, keeping the sickness that threatened to take her at bay. As leaves swirled around him in a blinding array, his fingers touched something other than dirt and small pebbles. At last.
He seized the leather strap of the crucifix and wound it tightly around his fingers, determined not to drop it again, no matter what. No sooner had he done so than something collided sharply with his shoulder, sending him flying onto his back.
His head bounced off the packed-dirt trail and spun as the last of the fallen leaves fluttered to the ground, affording John a clear view of the horseman towering over him, one boot planted firmly in the center of John’s chest. The pressure was so great that he could hardly breathe, let alone escape, but that didn’t matter. The crucifix was unnaturally warm inside his tight fist, and that was the only important thing.
“Suicide,” the unearthly voice rumbled, causing the bare branches to shake and the ground to tremble beneath John’s back. “That’s what this is. Just like the first time.” The horseman bent at the waist, pinning John to the ground with even more pressure as he leaned down and wrapped a hand around John’s neck, inciting a familiar pain. Just when it seemed John’s sternum would snap beneath the heel of the horseman’s boot, it was gone, and John was in the air again, hanging from the horseman’s hand, hurting, choking…
“I prefer suicides.” The very air seemed to shake with this proclamation, and the tiny reverberations intensified John’s pain. “There’s something…gratifying about watching souls deliver themselves to me like gifts, decorated with their lifeblood by their own hands.” The pressure around John’s neck tightened impossibly, and it took every last bit of his willpower and scrap of his energy to slowly raise his arm, still clutching the crucifix as if it were the last thing in the world that mattered – because at that moment, it was. “It’s almost a shame when I must deliver them to Hell.”
As the horseman’s morbid words rang in his ears, John managed to seize the horseman’s extended arm with one hand, and worked as quickly as he could, eager to be done with his task before the frighteningly solid specter realized that John was doing more than just trying futilely to fight him off. The crucifix’s leather strap was long enough to fit around a man’s neck – or forearm. John wrapped the leather around the horseman’s arm and brought the cross through the loop, pulling it tight.
For a moment nothing happened, and he began to despair as black motes danced in front of his eyes, threatening to blind him. The horseman continued his monologue, his terrible voice enveloping John with mocking words. “But that’s what you want, isn’t it? To flee this place, this life – to escape to Hell, where the flames and screams of torment will be so much sweeter than your earthly woes?” He laughed, so loud that John’s entire body vibrated with the sound, and he thought he might be deafened. “Far be it from me to deny you your dying wish.”
John was more aware than ever that his lungs were burning with the need for air and his vertebrae were surely about to crumble. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the snap of bone. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Why wasn’t the crucifix affecting the horseman as it had last time? It had burnt hot in his hand; now it hung uselessly from the horseman’s arm, as if it were a testament to the strength of the fiend’s evil. There would be no escape for John. Of course, he’d realized that death was a strong possibility when he’d set out and had been willing to make the sacrifice, but… He had hoped. Hoped to return from this nightmarish venture, to see Brom and Katrina again.
A scream shattered his thoughts, startlingly loud and terribly tortured, and just like that, the pressure was gone from around his neck. He gasped for air and opened his eyes as he crashed onto the ground, unable to look away from the sight before him.
The horseman trembled, one hand spasming as his other arm – the one with the crucifix looped around it – hung limply at his side. The fog that surrounded him was rapidly fading, revealing everything. As John gaped, he was frozen against the ground, whether from the cold or sheer terror, it was impossible to know. He remained perfectly still as the horseman convulsed, emitting the terrible scream that rushed from all angles, filling the night. The crucifix swung wildly from his arm, and he dropped to his knees and began to grope frantically with his opposite hand, trying clumsily to loosen the strap. But he failed, his shaking too violent, his gloves too thick. As th
e scream continued, climbing higher and becoming more unearthly, John’s sense of reason returned, and he scrambled to his feet.
As his knees shook, John forced them to remain steady and eyed the stream, longing for the safe haven on the other side, sure that he couldn’t stand one more moment spent in such close proximity to this spasming, terrible creature. The horseman’s scream made him want to clap his hands over his ears and drown it out with a shout of his own.
A cloud shifted, revealing the harvest moon in all its glory, and the horseman seemed to diminish in its light, fading by the moment. Still, the scream had reached an ear-piercing level. John eyed the stream. He’d have to jump for it, launching himself over the steep bank and into the safety of the water, where he could swim or wade to the other side. He scrambled toward the bank, annoyed by the lingering stiffness in his legs. But as he ran, the horseman made a sudden movement.
The fiend had given up on trying to remove the dangling crucifix, but apparently he didn’t intend to go easily. One gloved hand disappeared beneath his cloak, and when it emerged, it gripped a severed head by the hair.
John was halfway to the bank, and the split second during which he laid eyes on the head seemed to endure forever. It was a man’s head, the skin slack, a pale greyish color that smacked of the grave; the eyes were closed in death. It was impossible to tell what the face had looked like in life; time and decay had erased any sense of personality and the hair was stringy, the color of dirt. Everything about it was dead, except the mouth. The mouth… It was a gaping black hole, defying the otherwise unmistakable lifelessness of the head as it gaped open, screaming. Bile rose up and burned the back of John’s throat as the reek of long-ago death met his nostrils. As he fought the urge to vomit, the horseman drew back his arm and flung his head in a violent gesture.
It hit John squarely in the chest with all the force of a cannonball, and he flew backward, hitting the ground with a breath-stealing impact and tumbling head-over-heels down the soggy incline of the creek bank. The screaming had ceased as soon as John had been hit, and he heard only the sound of his own body slamming against the damp earth again and again. He only had time to think how relieved he was not to have to listen to the screaming anymore as he tumbled and something hard and sharp struck the side of his head, causing stars to burst before his eyes as he heard a splash, and then everything went black.
* * * * *
Katrina awoke with a start, her heart pounding fit to burst as she bolted upright, gripping fistfuls of the linens and gasping. The bedroom was quiet, such a contrast to the terrible noise of her dream, that unearthly scream… It had been a dream. She forced herself to look around the room, taking in the ordinary sights like the bedside table and the unlit candle that rested on top of it. Her heart slowed just a little as she breathed deeply, trying to cleanse the nightmare and its effects from her body and mind. She reached out reflexively for John, needing to feel him skin-to-skin, to reassure herself that he was safe.
Her fingers touched only emptiness; the bedclothes were cool where he should have been. She glanced around wildly, searching for any sign of him. He was nowhere in the room. She turned and seized Brom by one muscular shoulder, shaking him awake as she fought to control the panic that was welling up inside her, telling her that the dream had been real, that John was… “Brom!”
He woke suddenly, sitting up and gripping her by her shoulders, smoothing a lock of hair from her face as his eyes met hers, dark and gleaming with concern. “What is it?”
“It’s John.” To her dismay, her throat tightened painfully as she spoke, and her eyes stung, threatening to spill tears. The dream lingered in her memory and body, causing her to shudder. She couldn’t shake the terror, the sheer certainty that what she’d seen had been more than a ridiculous fancy.
Brom looked around, frowning at the empty room. “Must have gone to the privy.”
“No.” She wanted to believe it but couldn’t. “No, he’s… Something’s wrong, Brom.”
“Shhh.” Brom stroked her cheek. “He’s all right – he’ll be back in a minute.”
She choked back a sob, swallowing the feeling of tightness in her throat. “Brom, I dreamt the most terrible thing about him…” Her heart ached more with each beat, and she wrapped her arms around Brom, holding him tight, glad to have him there, though it wasn’t enough.
“Fever dreams. They can be terrible things.”
She’d all but forgotten about the fever. “I don’t think I’m ill anymore. The aches are gone, and I don’t feel cold.”
Brom donned a dubious expression, but pressed a hand against her forehead to test her claim. “John’s better at this than I am,” he said when he pulled his hand away.
“Go fetch him then,” Katrina urged, seizing the excuse. “Please.”
“If you insist.” He rose from bed, the blankets slipping from his naked body; he wouldn’t wear a shirt to bed, despite the cold – claimed he didn’t need it. Sleeping curled next to him, basking in his warmth, it wasn’t difficult to believe. He pulled on a shirt before he strode from the room, his calf and thigh muscles gleaming in the moonlight.
She waited breathlessly in bed, clutching the blankets as she listened to his every footstep, her heart racing as he checked the second floor rooms and then descended the stairs. After several moments, the kitchen door creaked slightly on its hinges, and she could imagine him standing at the threshold, peering out at the outhouse. Several more moments passed, and she could picture him braving the night clad in only his shirt, checking to see if John was inside the privy. She buried a tooth in her lower lip as she waited for the door to creak again, for his footsteps to sound against the kitchen floor.
When he returned, there was only one set of footsteps to be heard. Her heart sank then sped, and she slipped quickly out of bed, fetching a gown and slipping into it hastily, forgoing stays and petticoats and donning a pair of shoes.
The expression Brom wore when he returned to the bedroom made it obvious that he hadn’t found any trace of John. His jaw was set, and his face looked paler than the moonlight accounted for.
“We must ride to the bridge,” Katrina said, and related her dream to Brom as quickly as she could. By the time she finished telling it, Brom looked half-ill and half-angry. He pulled on breeches and stockings and stuffed his feet into a pair of shoes.
“Wait right here in bed Katrina. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
“I wish to go with you.” She laid a hand on his arm, gripping it imploringly as she searched out his eyes, locking gazes with him. She had to go, had to see John. How could she possibly bear sitting alone in the dark, the frantic beating of her heart her only company as she awaited Brom’s return?
Disapproval flickered in his eyes, then he frowned, mouth opening in preparation to protest, surely.
“I’ll be safer with you,” she said. She’d seen the headless horseman disappear, leaving behind nothing but a last wisp of cold fog and an echoing scream. The dreamed-of spectacle had left her with the feeling that he was gone, but the frightfulness of the sight remained. She glanced automatically toward the window, shivering as she remembered what she’d seen one night in her bedroom at her father’s house. Truth be told, the thought of being left alone in the house disturbed her for her own sake as well as John’s – her dream had been unnaturally vivid, and the memory of the horseman and his screaming head was still too strong to bear spending any time alone in the dark with.
“Very well,” Brom said, surely seeing the scene she’d painted for him in his mind’s eye: the mad gallop toward the bridge, the horseman’s hair-raising demise and his last act of violence.
They swept down the stairs and hurried through the kitchen door, toward the barn. Brom’s shirt billowed in a night breeze – he hadn’t taken the time to don a waistcoat or any other outer garment. Katrina’s hair swung freely down her back, and without the protection of a shawl, her shoulders prickled with cold. But it didn’t matter. Fear for John burnt
hot within her, limbering her legs and fueling her haste as she and Brom entered through the already open door and made for the stalls with long, hurried strides.
“Whoa!” As they entered the barn, a dark shape lunged out of the darkness. Brom stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body as he reached out toward it.
Several heart-pounding moments passed before Katrina realized that the shape had only been Torben and that Brom had seized the stallion by the bridle and was attempting to calm him. She pressed a hand to her chest and breathed deeply. Would she ever look at a black horse – any black horse – the same way again, or was she destined for a lifetime of double takes, of looking over her shoulder to ensure herself that its rider’s head was intact?
“Whoa, boy, whoa.” Brom held Torben firmly by the bridle and stroked him, his broad hand smoothing the hair on the stallion’s neck, but Torben didn’t want to be soothed. He stamped and snorted, a wide rim of white showing around his dark eyes, even in the dimly moonlit barn aisle. “Stand back,” Brom said sharply, barely managing to keep his own toes from being crushed by Torben’s hooves.
“John rode him,” Katrina said, eyeing the saddle on Torben’s back. Was the leather still warm where John had sat? “Torben turned and ran for home after John was torn from the saddle.”
Brom said nothing, only nodded grimly as he handled the horse, managing after several tense moments to get the animal into a stall, where he left him, still saddled.