The Bride

An hour of cursed travel remained.
The black maw of night… stretched endless before me.

The storm had let up… though it had left the land shattered.
Roads drowned. Trees toppled. Every hamlet a hollow shell, devoid of flame.
Only the backroads beckoned—old and familiar—though now they seemed more graveyard than path.

I rode, wearied near unto delirium… the air rank… and heavy.

And then…

It came.

A blur—profane… incongruous.
A hulking figure, matted with hair… yet adorned with lace.
White lace!
A bridal vestment… unholy upon such a shape.

The impact was dreadful.
The carriage lurched, as though I had struck the root of a buried tree.
One lamp guttered out—its glow snuffed in an instant.
The horses shrieked, eyes wide with terror, stamping and frothing as though they had scented damnation itself.

I staggered forth with my feeble lantern.
I searched the road… the ditch… the shadowed treeline.
No carcass. No blood. No spoor of life.

And yet—lace.
Torn… sodden… clinging to the splintered frame.

I wrenched it free.
Its stench was of mildew, stagnant water, and forgotten crypts.
It trailed between my fingers like the veil of some accursed bride.

I called into the night.
“Is someone there?”

But only silence answered—
the dirge of insects…
the rustle of leaves.

No inn stood lit.
No hearth glowed.
No soul abroad… to offer aid.

And so… I pressed onward.

For a mile, naught but the rattle of wheels… the crush of wet gravel.
Then—
the dragging.

Low at first… then louder.
Malignant.
As if some revenant clung beneath the coach.

I halted…
though trembling, I climbed down the side.
With weary dread, I bent beneath the frame—

and lo… the lace again.
Hanging…
Swaying…
Knotted in the axle.

Yet I had torn it free.
I knew I had.
Once more… I scouted the treeline.

Then came… the sound.

Footfalls.
Heavy.
Relentless.
Circling me… in the dark.

Branches split.
The underbrush… convulsed.

The hunt… was upon me.

I fled to the carriage.
The horses reared—neighing shrill with panic.
With a crack of the reins… we plunged into the abyss.

But the night was not still.
Through the thicket came the pounding… of monstrous limbs—
snapping branches and thrashing brush.

I dared a glance…
and through the pines, just beyond the glow of my outstretched lamp, it kept pace.
Hulking.
Shaggy.
Draped in tatters… of bridal cloth.

My heart withered.
My hand bore the lash harder.

The horses thundered, their breath frantic.

And then—
behind me.

In the faint glow of the rear lamp, I beheld it.
Tusks glistening.
Eyes like coals… in the furnace of perdition.
A beast—yet not a beast.
A bride—yet not a bride.

It galloped, both hoof and hand smiting the road.
The gown… ragged and befouled… streamed like a banner of blasphemy.
Its pursuit was inexorable.
Its hunger… eternal.

The horses tore through the mire…
hooves striking the sodden earth…
flinging arcs of black water and filth in every direction.

Only when the road bent into emptiness… did the vision falter.
The lamp revealed… nothing… but shadow.

I dared not ease the reins…
for dread that it would crawl out once more… from the black.

At last, I reached my dwelling—
a lonely cottage… mute and unlit…
its frame intact… but spirit broken.

Within, the air hung thick and stifling.
I cast the shutters wide to the night… seeking breath.
I collapsed upon the bed—
a monument to exhaustion.
A ruin… shaped by weariness.

As the silence swelled…
sleep reached out its claw.

And then—

A sound.
Low.
Wet.
Feral.

A grunt… from beyond the choir of insects,
fainter than the rustling leaves… outside my window.

And there…
in the hour before dawn…

the hooves… returned.