The tavern broke out into roaring laughter and cheers as Roger and Tom stumbled off the stage, bowing to the applause.  They reached their table and fell into their chairs as their friends slapped their backs.

“Which one of us sang worse?” Roger asked choking with laughter.

“Too bloody close to call”, Herbert said.

“That were a fine performance gentlemen”, said Beatrice the barmaid.  “Can I get you another pint of beer?”

“You can indeed!” Tom said.

“No, no, no”, Roger said,  “I should get home. I have to be up bloody early tomorrow. I have to go to Bristol”.

“Bristol!  What in the name of bloody Jules are you going to Bristol for?” Tom asked.

“Business, old boy, business and all that nonsense, but I will be back within a few days and we’ll have to do this again”.

Roger said his goodnights and left the table and then the tavern.  The fresh night air invigorated him and as he walked home he looked up at the stars. The town was quiet and it was these quiet nights that made him glad to be alive.  When I get home, Roger thought, I shall kiss that woman of mine and tell her how much I love her, and maybe I shall take her to Bristol like she asked.

He rounded the corner and saw his home and saw, standing before it, a horse.  Its magnificent white body shone like a pale opal in the otherwise dim street. It had neither saddle nor reins, so it was unlikely that someone would’ve ridden in on it. Rather it must have bolted from the local stables, and no doubt the stable master was out in the town this very night with a lantern looking for the escapee. In his youth, Roger had played Polo and this experience with horses gave him the confidence to approach the rogue steed. The stables weren’t far after all, so returning it wouldn’t be a problem.

The horse turned its head to Roger. He stopped his approach and smiled.  “There’s a good girl”, he said.  “Fancied a stroll around the town, did you? Well, we’ll have you home in no time”.

The horse snorted.

“Good girl”.

Then it charged at him.

The sight was both impressive and terrifying–this white organic train, powering towards him with both elegance and speed.  Roger staggered backwards and stumbled over a step. As he hit the ground he threw his hands over his head and tucked his knees into his stomach. His nerves failed him as the sound of the hooves became louder.

“No! Help me! Help me!”

He expected the blow to come at any moment. The hooves would crush down against him, likely killing him. He sensed it close and whined.

There was nothing. The hooves passed so close he felt the rush of air against his hands, but there was no impact.

He looked up trembling, and saw the horse vanish around a corner far down the street. No one had heard his cries; the town was still quiet except for the music coming out of the tavern. Roger got to his feet and dusted himself down. He continued towards his home, turning mid-stride to check the horse wasn’t behind him, but there was only an empty street.

As soon as he stepped into his home, Roger forgot all about the horse. He slid off his shoes and placed them under the table, and slipped on his slippers. He crept upstairs, trying not to wake his wife. When he reached the bedroom he pushed the door open and stood motionless.

Catherine was lay on her side, facing away, he could tell that from the curves under the sheets. Her large hips created a hill out of the blanket. He crawled onto the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder. He intended to ease her gently to her back and kiss her as she always liked. But when he did move her, her head flopped to the side so that she was now facing him and something trickled down the back of his hand.

He reached for the lamp on the bedside table and lit it. An orange glow cut through the dark and shone on the blood on his hand. He stared it at confused for a moment before looking up at Catherine.

She blinked and smiled wanly. She released the knife and her pale fingers crept to the edge of the bed, reaching for him.

“Catherine!” Roger said in a wisp.  He tried to move, but found himself transfixed by her bloodied throat. “Catherine, what have you done?”

He turned his head and saw, about thirty yards away, another night wanderer. “I’ve found her”, the old man called out. The night wanderer rushed towards him, navigating the hill’s sludgy curves. “Go find a doctor”.

But the other man was upon them now and he shone his torch over the young woman. “Dear God”.

“Get a doctor”, the old man waved his hand at the new arrival trying to break the spell the girl’s body had over him. “She needs a doctor. Go find a doctor”.

The night wanderer turned and ran away while screaming at the top of his lungs.  “He’s found her! She needs a doctor!”

His cries set the hills ablaze with the glow of two dozen swaying lanterns. The people who came stopped just behind the old man and looked at the girl, their faces a mix of sorrow and worry. Some turned and whispered lines that the old man couldn’t quite hear, but he was able to pick out a few words, one in particular: murder.

A woman pushed through the crowd and fell besides the young woman. She was wearing a dress most inappropriate for this type of marshy environment, but she cared not as she scooped the young woman up in her arms and patted her face.

“Rose! Rose can you hear me? Rose, please say something”.

The old man backed away from the mother and removed his cap from his head. He cast his gaze to his shoes and closed his eyes in silent prayer. The mother’s cries were excruciating to hear as slowly the truth that her daughter was dead dawned upon her. He looked down the hill and saw the women of the village climbing up to the crowd. A few of their men moved downwards to intercept them and turn them back and save their virgin eyes from this wicked sight.

The doctor arrived at last. He plucked Rose from her mother’s bosom and examined her. But there was no hope, and soon he released her back to her mother and stood beside the old man.