Riders of the High Bridge

Under the light of a rising buck moon, when owls made doleful cry from the darkened timbers of the forest, and the very air itself seemed clothed in mourning, there issued fourth three Riders of Shadow. Their steeds moved as though borne of smoke, yet their iron hooves struck terror upon the earth. The night grew thick with the burden of their sorrow. A shroud of grief did trail their passage between the trees.

They entered the village by way of Main Street, where honest folk in the tavern gaped, tankards held in palsied hands. The riders’ cloaks caught the moonbeams. Their gaunt forms cast shadows, long as gallows ropes, upon the  stonework of old buildings half-consumed by decay. Past the iron mill they thundered, and across the great wooden bridge, whose beams uttered groans uncouth, as though some ancient Crone did whisper "Pass not… pass not…"

At Lake Solitude, where waters gleamed like quicksilver beneath the molten moon, the house of the caretaker lay hushed. Yet his goodwife, rising at the sound, drew back her curtain. She beheld them with eyes half-veiled by sleep and murmured, “Saints preserve us, am I dreaming still?” But the echo of hooves upon the cobble was too true for fantasy. She crossed herself in haste.

The riders descended into the ravine, where the rain-swollen cascade thundered so mightily that no mortal voice could be heard above it. The caretaker himself, lantern in hand, pursued, his light glancing among rock and tree. As if governed by some dark power, beyond the pale of the living, the horses moved in unison, dissolving into mist. The lantern shone on, held in his trembling hand  as he called faintly, his tongue faltering with dread, “Who rides there?” Receiving no answer but the rush of the river, he turned back at last, whispering to his wife that the riders were swallowed by the waters.

Scarce had he spoken thus, than the spectral troop burst forth from the veil of moonlit mist, charging through the meadow with such furious speed that the very grass did bow beneath their passage. The caretaker, upon seeing them, fell upon knees and begged mercy of heaven.

The river, ancient and wild, carved its passage between the cliffs. The cloaked companions ascended into the gorge. Their horses' hooves fell with a measured beat, soft upon the rocks, as though striking not stone, but the very bones of memory. The pale sycamores glimmered like sentinels, their trunks slender and white on either side of the ravine.

The hour waxed late. 

Two vile grave-robbers, intent upon unholy gain beheld the shadowed forms above the chalk road. Their spade and lantern fell as one, for the riders laughed then, the sound cruel as the toll of funeral bells. The rogues fled into the thicket, and spoke nevermore of what their eyes had seen.

Onward the riders coursed, until the cliffs opened wide, and the old trestle bridge lay before them. The moon poured down in ghastly flood, casting their shapes in dire relief. Their eyes glowed like coals in a dying hearth, and their faces bore a strange acquaintance, as though seen etched upon weather worn gravestones.

At last they came upon a great estate set into the hillside, its many windows all ablaze with desperate flame, a fortress of shuddering light. Every candle in every room was lit, a vain attempt to keep the darkness at bay. The lord of the manor, was roused by the baying of his hounds, whose backs were bristled with fear. He strode through his chambers with pistol in hand, yet found no trespasser. Passing a glass, he perceived, if but for a breath, the fleeting image of three riders reflected behind him. He whirled about, but the hall lay empty.

The hoofbeats dwindled into silence, and the village lay uneasy. Ere the dawn, a grievous truth was revealed. The lord of the manor had perished in his bed, struck dead without wound or mark. Upon his chest lay three river stones, slick with water, chill as death itself. None could say from whence they came.

This lord was no beloved figure amongst the folk. Whispers told that he grew fat upon rents pried from struggling tenants, hoarding coin while his laborers starved. He was said to trade in secret with strangers, selling timber and stone to unknown men, and taking payment from smugglers who slipped along the river by night. His temper was feared, his wrath slow to abate, and many a villager had seen him turn away the needy with naught but a sneer. Children were warned never to linger near his gates, and travelers swore the air grew colder as they passed his estate. When his death was made known, few mourned. Many muttered that the Riders had exacted a justice long withheld. 

Thus the tale of the Riders of the High Bridge was born, whispered by hearth and tavern fire. Some declare them spirits of grief. Others, messengers of vengeance. A new tradition arose in the village. When the buck moon rises, and the trusses of the bridge groan in warning, the people perform a solemn rite. They leave offerings at the bridge, scatter salt upon the trusses, and light three candles in silence, in atonement for sins they dare not name. Doors are barred, and children kept close, lest the riders return and claim another soul for the river.

It is said that those who neglect the ritual shall soon find hoofprints burnt upon their thresholds, and that death will visit the household within three days. Those who keep the rites faithfully shall hear only the distant thunder of hooves fading into mist, the dark riders appeased for another turning of the moon.