The Rider Who Never Came for People – The Last Road Home

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Nobody in Grey Hollow knew the rider’s name. They simply called him Death, mostly because anyone riding a black wolf beneath a full moon while carrying a scythe should expect misunderstandings. Every few years someone claimed to have seen him crossing the northern moor. Doors were locked, curtains closed and candles extinguished. What nobody noticed was that the rider never entered the village. He always passed around it. On this particular night he was accompanied by two small skeleton dogs named Rattle and Bone. Rattle ran ahead, chasing patches of moonlight. Bone followed behind because one of his back legs had a habit of falling off. “Leave it,” the rider called when Bone stopped to retrieve the missing leg. Bone picked it up anyway and continued on three legs with the fourth between his teeth. The great black wolf sighed. “Do not encourage him, Morren.” “I said leave it.” “You used the voice that means he may ignore you.” Morren looked down. “Since when do you understand voices?” “Since before you started calling yourself mysterious.” They crossed the moor beneath a moon bright enough to turn the mist silver. Morren removed a small black book from his cloak. Only one name remained on tonight’s page: TILLY — GREY HOLLOW — HOME BEFORE DAWN. “A cat?” Midnight asked. “Dog.” Rattle immediately stopped chasing moonlight. Bone dropped his spare leg. Both stared at Morren. “No,” he said. Their tails began wagging anyway. “We are finding her. We are not keeping her.” The trail led toward Grey Hollow. Morren frowned. “That is inconvenient.” “People again?” “People.” “Terrible creatures. Always screaming when they see you.” “I have considered changing the cloak.” Midnight glanced back at the enormous scythe. “Yes. The cloak is definitely the problem.” Near the first cottage they found the tracks of a small dog. They wandered along the road and ended beside an old stone bridge. There the footprints stopped. Morren dismounted. Rattle sniffed beneath the bridge. Bone sniffed a rock, sneezed and lost his jaw. “Concentrate.” A faint whimper came from the riverbank. Beneath tangled roots lay a little brown dog, wet and trembling. One paw was caught between two stones. Morren knelt. “Tilly?” The dog bared her teeth. “Excellent. You still have opinions.” He freed her paw and wrapped her in part of his cloak. The moment he lifted her, a lantern appeared on the bridge. A girl stood there in a nightdress and boots. “Tilly!” Morren froze. The girl froze. Rattle sat down. Bone attempted to attach his jaw backward. “Put my dog down,” the girl said. Morren looked at the dog, then at the child. “I was returning her.” “You’re Death.” “Common mistake.” “You have a scythe.” “Occupational equipment.” “And skeleton dogs.” Rattle wagged proudly. “They are complicated.” The girl descended the bank. “My grandmother says when you appear, someone dies.” “Your grandmother is mistaken.”