The Rider Who Was Already Dead When He Arrived

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Nobody used the old road through Hollowmere after sunset. There were several explanations for this. The innkeeper blamed wolves. The blacksmith blamed bandits. Old Mrs. Wren insisted the road itself disliked travellers and occasionally moved somewhere else during the night. Everyone agreed, however, about the rider. He appeared whenever the moon vanished behind clouds, emerging from the woods near the ruined gate. He wore a long grey cloak. No face could be seen beneath his hood. In one hand he carried a lantern whose flame never flickered. Beneath him walked a white horse with no flesh upon its bones. The rider never spoke. The horse never stopped. And anyone foolish enough to follow them eventually returned to Hollowmere from the wrong direction. Naturally, fourteen-year-old Tavin Moss considered following them an excellent idea. “Absolutely not,” said his grandmother. “I only asked whether you had ever seen him.” “And I heard the part of the question you haven’t asked yet.” Tavin looked offended. “You assume the worst of me.” “I raised you. I have evidence.” Tavin promised not to leave the house. This remained true for almost three hours. At eleven minutes past midnight, he climbed through the kitchen window. He had brought a coat, a candle, two apples and cheese for emergencies. Tavin believed most emergencies improved with cheese. He reached the ruined gate shortly before clouds covered the moon. The woods became silent. Mist crawled across the road. Then came the sound. Clop. Clop. Clop. The skeletal horse moved with surprising grace. The rider appeared between the trees, lantern glowing beneath one pale hand. Tavin swallowed. “Good evening.” The rider passed him. “Very friendly.” Tavin followed. After several minutes, the rider stopped. Tavin stopped too. Slowly, the hood turned toward him. There was only darkness inside. “I know I’m not supposed to follow you, but nobody explained why.” A hand emerged from the cloak and pointed back toward Hollowmere. “Yes, I understand the gesture.” The finger remained pointed. “Unfortunately, I’ve already walked this far.” The rider lowered his hand. Then, to Tavin’s astonishment, he sighed. “Oh, don’t do that. Ghosts aren’t supposed to sigh. It makes everything confusing.” The rider produced a small wooden sign. On it were painted the words: PLEASE GO HOME. “You carry that?” The rider turned the sign around. PEOPLE KEEP FOLLOWING ME. Tavin stared. “You’re not haunting the road?” The sign turned again. NO. “Cursing travellers?” NO. “Collecting souls?” The rider displayed another word. RUDE. Tavin laughed. The skeletal horse looked remarkably judgmental for an animal without eyebrows. “Then what are you doing?” The rider pointed along the road. Through the mist, Tavin saw tiny golden lights floating above the stones, stretching into the hills. The rider lifted his lantern. The lights brightened. “You’re following them.” A nod. “Where do they go?” No answer. The horse began walking again. Tavin followed. The rider stopped. Tavin stopped. The sign appeared. HOME. “Mine or yours?” The rider slowly lowered the sign. For the first time, the lantern flame trembled. Tavin’s smile faded. “You don’t know, do you?” The hood turned away. They continued together. The road curved through woods Tavin knew well, yet nothing beyond the trees looked familiar. Hills appeared where fields should have been. Stone walls rose from the mist. They passed a milestone reading HOLLOWMERE — 3 MILES, although they had already walked farther than that. “Mrs. Wren was right. The road moves.” The rider shook his head and pointed at Tavin. “I’m moving?” Another shake. He pointed toward Hollowmere, then toward the road. “The village moves?” The rider nodded. “That makes even less sense.” At last the golden lights ended before an iron gate standing alone between two ancient trees. Beyond it lay only darkness. The rider dismounted. His skeletal horse immediately tried to eat grass. Each mouthful fell through its ribs. Tavin watched. “That seems inefficient.” The rider approached the gate and placed his hand against it. Nothing happened. He tried again. Then he handed Tavin the lantern. The moment Tavin touched it, words appeared across the iron bars in pale blue light: ONE MAY ENTER. ONE MUST REMAIN. Tavin read them twice. “That sounds unpleasantly specific.” The rider pointed to himself, then through the gate. “You’ve been trying to enter?” A nod. “So who has to remain?” The rider slowly pointed at Tavin. “Absolutely not.” The darkness beneath the hood seemed almost amused. Then something knocked from the other side of the gate. Three slow knocks. The skeletal horse stopped pretending to eat. A voice came from the darkness beyond. “You took long enough.” Tavin raised the lantern. “Who said that?” The gate began opening by itself. And the rider, who had wandered Hollowmere’s road for longer than anyone remembered, suddenly stepped backward in fear.