The Mist of Moningsbury

Chapter Two

The Mist sheathed his sword and looked down at his left arm. It was indeed bleeding, and that made the Mist both nervous and angry.

"Damn!" he said loudly, clamping his hand over the oozing wound. For Victor was right. The Mist was not dead but very much alive. Alive and rather different. Unlike other people who occupied his daylight hours he had the ability to see and interact with the dead, amongst other things. Not that the dead knew that, and he would have preferred to have kept it that way. He could feel his anger and panic bubbling inside of him. He did not want the dead to know that he was not one of them. It would put his other, normal life in jeopardy. He ripped his tricorne hat from his head and threw it on the ground. A part of his disguise to fool the ghosts. A stupid disguise he thought, ruined by his own blood. He was about to let his fury out and stamp on the hat when he felt a gentle nudge on the back of his head. He whipped around, his grey eyes wide, half expecting Victor to be back already only to discover that it was his horse.

"I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that, Exeter." He said, still angry. The large horse quietly nickered and the Mist's eyes softened. He wiped his right hand of blood and reached out to stroke her neck. Exeter, for that was her name, was a beautiful creature. Lean and muscular, almost 16 hands high, the blue roan mare was like many her master kept company with. She too was dead.

The Mist continued wearily to stroke her neck, realising he was exhausted from both the fight and keeping himself invisible for so long. It had been nearly half an hour ago when he started following Geoff, the drunken man, and Victor. Eventually he mounted Exeter, wincing as he moved his arm. They started trotting down the path that led through the darkened woods. The sun had sunk into night and the ground crunched with the softness of newly fallen leaves under Exeter's hooves. As they rode, The Mist's fingers kept brushing over the wooden handle of a heavy pistol that hung beside his sword. Blood continued to trickle down his arm, the chilly night air numbing the pain. He had only ever used the pistol once, but he struggled in vain to think of an alternative. He could not trust Victor to keep quiet about his secret, he was sly and greedy. He would most definitely use it to his advantage. Yet he wasn't sure he could bring himself to shoot if the highwayman had forgotten once he rematerialised. Victor was clever, he might pretend to forget. The Mist could see only one solution, and so on he rode. He had about a day before the highwayman would reappear. About a day before he was going to use the only weapon he knew of that could kill a ghost.