RESTLESS STEED by Kyle Newton

Kind stranger, come this way, enter my home, for you must take heed. Continue this road tonight, and I fear you shall cross, the Restless Steed. Allow me to hang-up your coat—your hat as well, and a century’s old story is what I’ll tell. Please, come warm yourself by my fire, for this tale lingers in a blood-stained mire. I know you must wonder why I warn you of a lone stallion, I shall begin in a time of a blue and red rebellion. No, it holds no connections to a man with a pumpkin-head, or a young woman-thought witch-then left for dead. We begin with thoughts of a new nation forming with words such as freedom and liberty; but an ocean away, a king devises plans of killing it in infancy.

This king sends a general, one whose name time has long forgot. Yet his steed still gallops through these streets, displaying where it was shot. Like a banner on its left side, glimmering crimson stains this clyde. They say its rider was satisfied-nay-took pleasure when charging over those wearing blue and brown. It’s believed he counted his trampled victims—thirteen-before being killed in this very town.

From the look on your face, I see you think this as nothing more than myth, simply words of a liar. I do not blame you, many passers-by say it is a stray horse that escaped from its briar. But nine have been found, ribs broken and spines snapped, with evidence pointing to a horse. I’d hate to see a passing stranger have little warning and yet continue their course.

No, I understand, do not let me keep you a moment more. Yes, your hat and coat wait for you at the door. Please promise me you will at least remember my warning. And if you hear the gallop of a steed, don’t stop running. For should you make it past the coveted bridge that marks the end of our little town, you should be on a safe trail. But, then again, none have gotten past our haunted landmark to return and spin their own version of this very tale.

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b6c42b_888fa8ede93444f0933caae8b47cc2d1.png_srz_p_263_272_75_22_0.50_1.20_0.00_png_srzGrowing up in New England, Kyle Newton has found a taste for writing about the fantastical, often merging it with key moments in history. However, recently he has gained a growing taste for horror and the macabre. His personal site is located here.

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About Bosley

Bosley Gravel is a hack.
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