Where Ride the Horsemen

Upon a Horse They Ride

With a sigh, Horace Macaulay pulled into his driveway, and parked his car in the small garage that was attached to the rundown old house he called home. The building was two stories tall, and a good size. Nothing to elaborate, and it was falling apart, but Horace knew he was lucky to have this much. With the amount of money he made, it was a miracle he owned even this much. The only downside was that he had to work. Usually from five in the morning to at least seven in the evening, more often than not it was later. That was the case tonight, and he had no doubt that his children were already asleep. Knowing this, he snuck inside quietly, and made his way to the kitchen.

As he entered, he sighed. It had been a hard few months, since his wife died. He missed her, and so did their kids. The were only 9 and 11. So young to lose a parent.

Horace didn't see his children, and so assumed they had gone to bed. Well, that was no surprise. It was 9:30 at night, and his kids had to work hard at school as well. Sighing again, he scrounged up a box of cereal and milk, and poured himself a bowl. He sat down and began to read a book of poems while he ate. It was just something he had picked up at the local bookstore that he worked near. "The Lays of Ancient Rome," was the title. The rest of the cover had been burned off, and so he could not find out who wrote it.

It was an enjoyable book, and with tomorrow being Sunday he didn't have to work. So, Horace decided to just keep reading it. He had barely gotten to the tenth part of the first poem, and was beginning to have more and more trouble reading it on account of the ever darkening light, when he heard a knock on the door. Unsure of who it was, he made his way to the door to check, leaving the book on the table with his empty bowl. It was probably just some prankster kid, but just to be on the safe side, Horace reached into his coat pocket and fingered the switchblade he always carried there. With this neighborhood, one never could tell what would happen. At the same time, he pulled out an old pocket watch, flipped it open, and gazed at the picture inside. In the picture sat two little girls, happily smiling at him. Horace sighed. If there was one thing he regretted, it was not being with his family enough. Another knock at the door shook him from his thoughts and he glanced at the time, 11:54, before pocketing the watch again.

He reached the door, and cautiously peered out through the window. All he could see was the pitch black of the cold Brooklyn night. Horace frowned. Pitch black? It was the middle of the night, but there should still be some light from the streetlights. Now even more wary, he opened the door, and peered slowly out. Just more inky blackness, consuming all within its great maw.

Seeing nothing, he pulled the blade from his pocket and opened the door all the way. Then Horace blinked in surprise, let the blade drop, and stared out in astonishment, going as far as to take a step backwards. In front of him stood a horse of prodigious size. It was even larger than the clydesdales he had seen in movies, and as black as the night in which it stood. In fact, had Horace been a more superstitious man, he might have thought that the horse itself was the source of the blackness which, even now, invaded his house, and poured in like water.

After regaining his composure, Horace attempted to shoo the beast away. "Get out of here. Go away. Come on, off my porch." The horse just stared blankly at him, and went right on standing. Finally, just as he was beginning to get annoyed, and started to turn around and go back inside, the horse moved. It trotted off his porch, and stepped onto his lawn. Even as it moved, the shadows began to recede, and the silhouette of a man emerged from the black.

He patted the horse on its muzzle, and made his way up the few steps to Horace's porch. Well, it was late, and Horace was in no mood to play games, so he just looked at the man, knife clutched firmly in hand. "Well? What do you want?" It was a bit gruffer than he usually would be, but then again, he had had a stressful day.