After the Gloaming - 6 - Night of the Rider

Episode Date: August 12, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Night of the Rider was written by Alyson Faye.Alyson lives in the UK, is a writer/tutor/editor, currently on The Casket of Fictional Delights, where several of her stories and podcasts can be heard. She is often out on the moors with her own dog, Roxy, a rescue Labrador who inspired the hound puppy in this story.Narrator was performed by Lauren Kong - https://laurenkong.carrd.co/ Barnabas and Father were performed by Gordon WilliamsRider was performed by Everyday Eldrich - https://everydayeldritch.com/ Leonie was performed by Maddi Albregts - https://www.maddialbregts.com/ Marie was performed by Glenda Villamar - http://glendavillamarvoiceover.com/ Criminal was performed by Ray O Hare - https://twitter.com/ray_ohare Mistress was performed by Emilie Brewer - https://emilievoiceacts.com/ Housemaid was performed by Lauren Kong - https://laurenkong.carrd.co/  Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett – http://www.jamesbarnettcreative.com Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett - https://temporalrecordings.wordpress.com/ Music and sound effects were provided by: Epidemic Sound, Sound Stripe, and Freesound.org.If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a 5-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, ad-free, and a bonus episode, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcast This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons – Attribution-Non-commercial-No Derivatives license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. But by all means… share the hell out of it.Stay Horrific, everyone! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk before night falls, Gothic tales of the Macabre, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance, hold tight, and don't the lost you may become. Oh dear. Of times, the pull of life that could be,

beats the reality of the one that is. It is the eternal struggle within. But family. Is the ultimate sacrifice. Did I hear you say that this area used to be a village? Indeed you did. What happened to it? There doesn't appear to be any sign of it.

Yes, a curse. Actions of desperate people brought about its demise, raised to the ground by a malevolent force. That sounds horrible. Were your ancestors around then? Ancestors, yes. I'm sorry, Henry. Could you please direct me to the closest bathroom? Oh, yes, of course. Through that door, Just there, and second door on the left. I would not wish the curse upon anyone, let alone my ancestors.

Oh, my dear family, my dear Isabella. Did he say the first or second left on? First, yes, it was first. Oh, dear, this is an office. Now let me just... Hello? Is anyone there? Who is there? Oh, goodness.

admiring the art are you you scared me I didn't hear you walk up I'm so sorry I shouldn't be in here I thought you said first left it's absolutely fine Shelley I like to think we are past just pleasantries now

well if this storm doesn't let up soon I don't think I'll ever leave another story added to the You think? Perhaps. You said art? Oh, that is amazing, isn't it? A dark rider on the moor.

Who's the woman in the distance? Ah, now that is another story. Why don't you head to the water closet, dear, and I can tell you this one upon your return. Oh, I'm afraid the need has been frightened away. My apologies. Love, revenge, and gambling debts. This one is titled, Night of the Rider.

The brambles tore at Barnabas's skin. The wood rustled and murmured and roots tripped him, whilst animals paused in mid-forage, faces lifted, sniffing his fear-soaked sweat. In a break amidst the line of beaches, Barnabas glimpsed a sickly light. He weezed. His ribs ached. He was certain he'd cracked one in the last tumble he'd taken. The turrets of Milner House stretched craggy stone fingers towards the night sky.

Barnabas's heart pounded. Home. So close. The wind picked up on its breath. He heard a distant horn blowing. The talks! They're coming! Open the damn door! He lunged across the moon dappled ornamental lawns, a nymph perching beside a fountain,

snickered and gushed water from stone lips. Barnabas heard a volley of howls. Behind him, hooves detonated the undergrowth. Glancing over his shoulder, blood seeping through his shirt, Barnabas wished he'd never accepted the hunchback's tainted money, wished he'd walked away from the gambling tables and thrown away his below. of a dice.

The rider broke through the tree line, a massive silhouette, a topical black horse. Holt's brain. The words echoed through Barnabas' skull, although the writer had no lips with which to form speech. Instead, Barnabas sensed the writer's thoughts. Pain spiked at his temples. If at that moment Barnapus had a mirror to glance in, he would have observed spiders' webs of broken blood vessels flooding his cornea.

A fox screamed in the woods, an aperitief for the hounds, starving and primed for the kill. A rangy figure loomed before the oak door of Milner House, carrying in the crook of his elbow a bulky bow shot. Faster, lad! His father's familiar voice urged him on as when he'd been a child, running after a ball in play. This was no game, though. Barnabas sobbed, choked in using his last breaths, pushed his body onwards, His broken ribs burned. He could discern the hounds panting.

Their excited whimpering. A bolt from his father's crossbow flew past his head. Its wind chafed his cheeks. The missile flew true, found its target, and behind him a dog yelped. And fell silent. The rider's fury overwhelmed Barnabas' senses. A wave of dissonance swept across the lawns. Myriad statues cracked, and the fountain's waters bubbled.

Blood flowed from Barnabas's nose and ears, but he paid it no heed. Only the dead don't bleed, he thought. Push on. I can make it. A second bolt rushed past his cheek, followed by another hound's anguished cry. Father! Barnabas lurched across the threshold. The door claimed shut. Father and son stood, staring at each other.

Faces equally grim. Will it hold? Barnabas stared at the front of the first. Five centuries old wood. His father shrugged. We'll find out. What have you done to fetch out the rider in the hunt? Something ill-advised, I warrant.

Barnabas collapsed onto the stone flags. I couldn't pay, pa. I lost it all. I'm sorry. Behind his shoulders, the doors wood throbbed and thrum, as though under assault. But it held. The rider never forgets.

He has your scent. No one outruns him and his hounds. You know as much, lad. His father turned away, shoulders slumped, sorrow etched in every gesture. You can rest here a few days, but you cannot stay longer. You have marked us

and placed this whole household and your sister in danger. Barnabas lay face down on the stone flags, riven with pain and humiliation, watching his father's boots march away from him. He was alone, or so he believed. Beyond the grounds of Milner House, on the borders of the land, the rider bided his time, masked by the tree's foliage. His surviving quartet of hounds lay awaiting his instructions.

His antlered helmet, soldiered years ago, scraped the lower branches. The iron visor shrouded his face, except for his eyes, whose irises were golden as a hawks. they perceived what mortal men never could, every scurrying animal in the woods, every bird's nest, and every human's footfall. The lad should have never escaped him. It was hardly possible. Yet it had happened.

Tugging on the black leather reins, the rider turned his horse's head around, and one by one, the hound stood up, stretched and galloped after their master. Noses to the earth, ears flopping, tails, tights, down, sorrow-struck. Above Barnabas on the landing, his sister Leone kept watch, disguised by the shadows in her usual Heidi spot. On the cusp of 18 years of age and soon to be wed, she was eager to learn more about the writer. In her eyes, this cursed figure seemed far more fascinating

than her husband to be. She had often listened to the village women chattering over their chores about the darkness at the heart of the writer and what forces drove him. Barney, you goose, you've thrown away a glittering opportunity, all because of your foolish passion for cards. She knew she would not have behaved in the same way. Leone was old beyond her years,

being motherless from such a young age and raised in a household of men, had led her to develop an inner life filled with secrets. She had heard the thundering horses' hooves come ever closer to the house. She'd been out of bed in a moment, heart thumping, dashing to the casement window, and kneeling beyond the velvet drapes,

desperate to spy on the scene below. From the vantage spot, she had watched her older brother race across the lawn, his shirt flying behind him, glimpsed the hounds at his heels and behind the pack, a mammoth figure, astride a horse, helmeted, with horns reaching to the night sky.

The rider. He was told. taller than the tallest man in the village, broader in the chest exuding a force which shattered the statues in his path. A glimpse in his golden eyes is all it takes for a maiden to fall, the village women used to say with a wink between themselves, look up. Oh, please look up at me. Leone begged, and to her amazed joy, the helmeted head paused, sniffed the air and did look up towards her bedroom window. The rider's gaze seemed to fix her face onto his retinas,

her hair blowing in the breeze, her rosy cheeks and parted lips. His eyes held hers. The cursed, lost man within the rider reached out, and Leone answered. Though no words were spoken, there was a communion. When she peeked over the sill once again, the only signs of the rider's visit were the shattered stones splaid across the lawn. The forest had swallowed him whole. Leone cornered her brother after supper in the study, where he was relaxing, sipping brandy, his ribs freshly strapped and bandaged,

the alcohol dulled the pain in his fear. Tell me please, Barney, what is the big city like? Is it true a woman can be as free as a man there and she doesn't have to wear corsets? You can love Whomever you wish? Barnabas laughed at his sister's wide-eyed face and glowing cheeks. He knew he should reprimand her for not being in her bedroom asleep, but in truth, he wanted company.

Despair ate at him. He patted the stool by his knee for her to perch upon, and Leonie nestled against him. How sweet and lovely she is, he thought tenderly. Warm affection replaced the pain, mixing with the brandy,

a drug to his damaged pride and body. No, what rot you talk, Leone? Women marry whomever their fathers tell them to, or else they're thrown out onto the streets, which I can promise you are not paved with gold, to become nothing but common whores. Leone perked at the illicit word. Have you met any, hoars, Barney?

She too whispered the word and glanced at the door to ensure her father was not hovering in earshot. One or two. In fact, that's why I ended up. He trailed off, staring gloomy-faced into the fire. Leone wriggled closer, resting her right cheek on Barnabas's thigh. Do tell, Barney. She used his childhood nickname deliberately.

He was five years older than her, and she'd adored him as a child, following him everywhere, until it was deemed unsuitable for her to do it. do so, and the tedious lessons in how to be a lady began. Barnabas's mouth took on a firm line. No, no more idle chat, sweet sister. There was a pause, whilst the logs crackled under the onslaught of flames. When is your marriage day? The summer solstice. Lione announced all traces of light and joy vanishing from her face. Barnabas noticing shook his head. Jacob hardcast. vessel is a solid man from excellent stock. Leone shrugged.

He is old. He is barely 30 years old. If that. His family is well to do. He can provide you with a comfortable home in life, Leone. These are important matters. Leone gazed around at the heavy oak furniture, the wooden wall paneling and the glowering gazing of the family portraits.

Many be whiskered. and her eyes brimming with disapproval. How depressing well-to-do is, resentful thoughts surged through her. Tell me, why is the rider hunting you? She waited, fingers crossed, hoping Barnabas would leak some more secrets. Her brother touched his ribs. I made a mistake, Leonie. Accepted a bet. I couldn't.

wouldn't pay But I've learned my lesson It's the end of my gambling days I promise you Leone had heard of this particular promise off times So she remained unimpressed However, shrewdly She stroked his hand and pushed for more details

They say the rider has powers No human man has They say he lived as a man once But was altered by the dark magic And betrayed by the woman he loved They say he is doomed to ride for eternity with his hounds or until the curse is broken. Her cheeks were flesh to rosy pink. Her lips were slightly open.

Who's been telling you such nonsense, Leone? Is this women's idle gossip? From the village? Leone pouted, which had the effect of turning her pretty face silky and dull-like. He made you bleed from your nose and ears. I saw it last night. Barnabas brushed off her hand. Furious now, he stood up. remembering the intense pulsing power, swamping his mind, and smashing the garden statuary around him. Little baby sister, you ask too many questions. Time for bed.

He patted her blonde hair absent-mindedly and pushed her away, albeit gently. Reluctant, but knowing their shared intimacy to evaporated, Leone gathered her tafted dressing gown around her and left Barnabas alone. He remained by the fire, deep in his thoughts, recalling the sequence of events that had caused his downfall into debt and debauchery in London and led the rider to his family's door. I was a fool!

He whispered and flung his glass at the fireplace. It did not make Barnabas feel any better. Nothing would. He was doomed to die. No one could save him. He knew that it was just a matter of days. London. God, what a magical, fascinating city had it appeared to his eyes. A young man fresh from the Bucalic countryside, sporting a thick, brogue, heavy whiskers, and a bulging wallet.

Soho was his choice of location for his digs, and he spent his days drinking and gambling with a crowd he knew his father would never allow over the threshold at home. Amongst Barnabas' hedonistic circle Or few who fancied themselves artistic Who painted, wrote poetry, and visited the theater How Barnabas adored the glamour of the shows The songs with their witty, filthy lyrics, The wine which flowed and the girls who fluttered around him Like vivid, glorious dragonflies.

One in particular, Mari, who danced nightly in the chorus, Caught his roving eye. vibrant and waist-length red hair and shapely legs, which she exposed to the advantage in the brief costume she wore on stage. Night after night, Barnabas watched her frolic on the boards. Then together they frolic till dawn, in and out of his bed. His money flowed like wine and whiskey, rivers of the wonderful stuff.

Until one day, it stopped. Dead. Damned at the source, his father cut him off with a nigh. no notice. Barnabas pleaded, begged, wrote letters, but to no avail. His father stood firm. Barnabas slid swiftly into debt, and Mari, he discovered, had expectations of a certain lifestyle, trimmed with clothes, shoes, meals, and pretty key cause. By then, Barnabas loved her, or at least he believed he did. Barnabas's face soured the memory. He briefly wondered where Mari was now, and with which fool.

He didn't flatter himself. She wouldn't be alone, crying over his departure. Not her. Of course I love your darling. She crooned, sitting on his knee fiddling with her hair, all the while kissing him. But I've got expenses too. Dressmaker, wigs, shoes.

It all adds up when you're a stage star like moi. Mari fancied herself part French, but it was just a fancy. as was her claim to be a star, for in reality, she had chorus stamped all over her. Barnabas remembered how for a brief, blissful spell, yet a winning streak at the cards and dice. But that's how you were drawn in, he'd realized later.

Next, they ensure you lose huge amounts, more than you could ever win back. Night after night he returned, hooked, wriggling, strangling under the weight of the mounting debts. He wrote promissory notes by the handful, till he owed thousands and thousands of pounds. In desperation, he pawned nearly everything he owned. One night, caught between his landlord's violence and the debt collector's waiting fists. He'd done a bunk into the squalid alleyways of the city, sleeping, in a piss-drenched doorway next to an undertaker's premises.

The irony of this being possibly the last stop for him did not go amiss. So he turned Amari. The love of his life for assistance. I have a friend. He can help you, sweetheart. Trust me. Fool that he was, he'd taken her at her word. The friend turned out to be a twisted hunchback fellow

with a sallow tint to his flesh. He lent Barney oodles of money, at first with smiles. But a few weeks later, when it was apparent there was no chance of repayment, he offered Barnabas a new deal. Barnabas shuddered at the memory. It still sickened him. He could not face the pain of the procedure or what it would mean for him. At first he thought it was a joke, in poor taste, but still a jest.

Just let us take your teeth, sir. Yes, the whole mouthful. I have a client, rich, elderly. We could fashion the most desirable dental plate with your strong white. teeth. Here, allow me to look inside. The hunchback levered Barney's lips open with a spatula and peered inside, counting his molars and incisors. He wrote down the number in his account ledger. Oh, yes, that should clear the debt satisfactorily. You're jesting, sir. Barney pulled away from the hunchback's questing fingers. I'd be eating slop for the rest of my life. I'd be an old man

with a withered mouth before I was twenty-five. Worse still, he thought. No decent lass would ever kiss me again. My courting days would be done for. Better to be old than dead, my friend. The hunchback responded and extracted a pair of blood-stained pliers from his leather apron pocket. He waved them in Barney's face, as of taunting him. Acting on instinct, Barney punched the hunchback full in the face.

The man fell back. and his skull cracked on the stone table's lips where the ledgers lay. Barney fled, not waiting to check if the grotesque freak still drew breath or not. Returning to his newer, dingier lodgings, Barnabas learned Mari had stolen the two remaining items of value he kept hold of, his father's 18th birthday gift, a gold pocket watch and his mother's silver picture frame. His mother's image lay on the carpet, ripped in half,

staring up at him as if to say, I warned you, Barney, I tried. He sat on the carpet, tears falling. He believed nothing worse could happen to him, but within a few days, he discovered this was far from the truth. However calamitous, the situation appeared, it could always get worse.

In his desperation, Barnabas had overlooked the evidence of the hunchback's foul trait. He'd chosen to ignore the contents of the bottles arranged on the shelves the grisly remains of illegal surgeries, the floating body parts, unwanted fetuses. Varied internal organs Barney didn't know the name of. He preferred such things to remain unnamed. The hunchback sold his trophies to a network of rich, powerful clients. God knows, while in all likelihood the devil knew what these wealthy buyers did with them thereafter.

It was one of these well-connected, but less than upright gentlemen. who passed on Barnabas's name and varied items of his clothing, acquired from the pawn shop, all carrying his scent to those in the countryside who could for coin, contact the writer. A whisper in London, a rumor in the towns beyond. But in the countryside, in the forested areas, the writer was a myth come to life. No one who worked the land or lived in a remote village doubted for one moment he was real. His horns woeful notes filled the nights. His hounds bang followed after,

and if you were fortunate enough to linger too close, you would feel the massive black horse's hooves at your heels. Out of options, Barney fled from London, hoping his father's distant, lonely country house would provide him with sanctuary. He would rather be dead, however, than share this sordid, sorry tale with his sweet untouched sister. He had to protect her.

It was his role. The writer retreated into the nighttime, camouflage offered by the forest. This was his domain, his senses heightened by the long ago loss of his speech, scented every animal's spoor. His hawk's vision discerned every movement around him. He wore the darkness like a cloak,

a familiar friend, his only friend. He experienced few defeats. The lad's last-minute flight to safety, thus being a rare recurrence. Prey, once targeted, became dead meat for his hounds within hours. Barnabas carried the charm of the truly blessed. However, the rider knew it was a temporary setback. Dismounting, he tethered his horse and built a campfire

before skinning and cooking a rabbit. Not for his evening we passed, but for the hounds. The dogs should, by rights, have feasters. on the lad's spilled guts, but it had been denied them. They were restless, frustrated, and unwilling to settle at his side. They missed their slain brethren. The pair felled by the bolts. The rider unstrapped his helmet, allowing himself a rare opportunity to relax.

The iron helmet dropped to his side, the antlers scraping patterns in the dirt. The hounds stared at the face of their master. silenced, tails and ears lowered in terror at what they saw. It had been many generations as the rider had lived and breathed as a man. The centuries of dark magic had warped and distorted his features beyond recognition. He had no use for mirrors and no desire to look upon his visage. The curse do not need to see the evidence of their damnation. Once, many seasons ago, he had been handsome,

and the prime of his life with thick hair the color of chestnuts and eyes just as brown. Now his scalp was bald, the hair eroded by the pressure of the helmet, and his eyes sunken in their sockets. His nose had collapsed inwards, and to ensure he could never plead for help or tell his tale, his mouth had been removed, leaving a tight, shiny carapace of skin in their place. His flesh was the color of a dying candle, waxy, and curdled. He stripped off his weaponry, the metal-linked shirt, his heavy gloves and revealing hands, brutal in strength, incapable of ripping a rabbit in half. Great fortitude, stamina, and endurance had been gifted to him. He could ride for days without rest. It was his curse. Across his chest,

an elaborate pattern had been burned into his flesh. A tattoo of intertwining shapes, diamonds, and pentagons overlaid each other. It was precise and elaborate, but it was also the mark of ownership. He belonged body and soul to the dock, and they could do as they pleased. He lay down upon his wolf's skin cloak, whilst one of the youngest,

the most foolhardy of the hounds, hardly more than a puppy herself, slunk into his side to nestle against him. The older dogs observed, waiting for the whack of a hand, slamming away the intruder. It did not come. The rider touched the pup's head, stroked her soft velvet ears, then put his hand around her furry torso. The master and pup slept.

In his dreams, the rider lived out his first life, his human life. He revisited his village, his wife, his children, the smithy where he'd worked, and finally the mistress he'd seduced in a moment of drunken lust. The next morning, sober, and regretful. He had rejected her, and she had sworn vengeance upon him. He'd had the arrogance to laugh at her. What a fool he had been. She hissed and spat in his face. Do you know with whom you meddle, blacksmith? Laughing, he had named her and shamed her. Yes, I meddle with you, and I do not care to any longer than I have, whore.

Outside the sky blackened, though it was barely midday. The air turned thick and hot as the steam coming off as anvil, and all the while her lips spat words at him. But she did not understand, but he guessed were ancient. Perhaps even from the days when dragons roamed the land, then in front of him, in a whirlwind of dust and wind, she vanished. He searched for her for days, to plead for forgiveness, and to offer to make amends in any way he could.

With gold or the human child she had begged him for during their one shared night, he could not find her. She disappeared and no one in the surrounding villages had glimpsed her passing their way. It was as if she had never existed. But he knew different, for he had kissed her all through that one blasted night

in his treacherous lips, rotting now under the power of her spell. The changes came slowly over the next few months. For a short period, he was able to hide them. But when his mutation became too obvious, he holed up indoors, wrapped in blankets, venturing out only under the cover of darkness. He heard the villagers whispers and understood their fear.

He knew he did not have many days before they came for him. And when they did, he guessed, and their bloodlust, they would slaughter his family. Talia, his wife, tried to stay loyal to him, but he didn't blame her for finally breaking down and fleeing from his wrecked, stinking body. He disgusted himself. He was an aberration.

One night, midsummer, he took his blackest, sleekest horse and rode away. He vowed to ride the length and breadth of the land, searching for his mistress, searching for her absolution. He would beg on his knees before her. It had been so long ago, so many generations had been born and since died. His children had birthed their own families many times over, and he was still compelled to ride and hunt.

There was no forgiveness for him to be found anywhere. The rider stirred in his sleep. A single tear fell from his eye onto the pup's charcoal fur. The pup snuffled and turned over, displaying her pink stomach to the tree's unseen gaze. Leone lay sprawled in her bedroom on the third floor, directly above Barnabas still brooding in the study, on her duck feather at her down,

leafing through the pages of a miniature book. She had retrieved it from under the floorboards, where she kept her cachet of forbidden materials, bought or traded from the village's womenfolk and from the markets, where she regularly sought out the unusual, the weird and the magical. Raised with her father acting as both parents and her brother being her only surviving sibling,

she missed a mother's guiding hand. There had been a sad string of dead babies or stillbirths, but she did not remember them, nor did she remember her mother who had swiftly followed the last dead babe into the grave before Leone celebrated her third birthday. Perhaps a mother might have tamed Leone's interests and energy, encouraged her to walk a more traditional and safer path.

Left to her own devices, Leone explored far and wide in her reading, her activities and leisure interests. Her father, too occupied by his own business activities, proved unable to supervise her every hour of the day and night. She had been escaping from Milner House after dark since she'd been eight years old, roaming the woods, collecting animal bones, feathers, quartz, ferns, and frogs, spawn, all of which she was adept at hiding from the adult sight. The miniature book represented her most precious possession. She remembered how the dark-skinned merchant swore it was fashioned

from human skin, with the spells inscribed in human blood. The handwriting was looping and faded to a pale rust, so his story could be true. Leone loved to stroke the cover, wondering who had worn the skin. A child, perhaps, a puny, sickly baby, like the ones her mother had lost. Leone muttered the twisting, complicated syllables of the spells, trying to get as close to the exact pronunciation as she could. Accuracy mattered, or so the merchant had told her, as did the use of blood in the ritual, her own. From under her mattress, Leone extracted an elegant kitchen knife she had stolen earlier that evening. If it can slice a whole chicken, it can cut me easily. The thought gave her power. Holding the handle in her left hand, she pressed the blade firmly

onto her right wrist, aiming for the center of the blue Tracy veins. A weedy trickle of blood dribbled out. Tears sprang to her eyes. Its sweat beated her brow. She gasped with pain, but bit her lip and kept pressing down. This was harder than she had anticipated. The drops which fell onto the vellum of the book were instantly absorbed, and this encouraged her. She kept reciting the peculiar, ugly phrases of the magic words, which though they meant nothing to her, she prayed, held some power of their own. After a few minutes, her blood flowed more freely, and Leone let it drip onto her nightgown in the carpet. Her vision blurring, and waves of dizziness and engulfed her. Outside Milner house, the wind rose, tossing the branches around, scratching at the

windows, as if begging for entry. Absorbed in her spellmaking, Leone did not notice. However, less than two miles away, someone else's attention had been snared. Lured from his slumbers beside the ebbing embers of the campfire, the rider lifted his antlered head and sniffed the air. Blood willingly offered. He could smell desire. A woman's. His gold eyes flickered, and where his lips had once been, the shiny skin twitched into a simulacrum of a smile. In his chest flickered something new.

He'd not felt in hundreds of years. Hope. I am coming. The writer telegraphed his thoughts, and the silent syllables winged their way through the trees over the immaculate lawns up to Leone's bedroom. She received the message, hearing them in her head with a fluttering of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

The blood flowed lavishly now from her left wrist, the deeper cuts proving the most efficient. Increasing faintness was dragging her under, though. Hurry, she whispered. Leone collapsed onto her lacy bed pillows, oblivious to the blood staining the French linen. Barnabas, still pondering his own troubles, did not notice anything amiss until a shutter banged against the outside wall.

When he rose to latch it, he noted how the treetops tossed wildly. Sniffing, he smelt the air changing with a strange energy. He did not know how to describe it, but it tasted tangy, coppery and salty. He licked his lips in puzzlement. Then he understood. Lock all the doors! He yelled, running through the house. Shutter the windows! The rider is coming!

The servants flurried and flocked about, obeying the young master's instructions. Confused, but loyal. No one doubted his word. He had escaped the rider once, which was a miracle. So the young master knew better than anyone who and what was coming. The horn blew one pure note and everyone inside Milner House froze in mid-action. Shrieked the housemaid and promptly fainted, overwhelmed by the circumstances she felt. found herself in. The Cook and Butler carried her between them to the kitchen and bolted themselves inside. Cook extinguished all the lights and clutching a carving knife and a Bible, hoped she had

every eventuality covered. The bang of the hounds carried through the night air. The moon appeared from behind a cloud and Barnabas glimpsed the mighty horse with its rider standing on the lawn. He cast no moon's shadow, but around him from his mount, the fountain churned and the grassed and the grass turned black and withered. Come and face me. The rider's instructions saying inside Barnabas' skull. Behind him, Barnabas heard his father's steady tread, then felt his warm hand on his shoulder.

Stay, lad. Don't venture out there. Barnabas had never known fear in his life, not even when facing the tooth-pulling hunchback. Waiting outside was no human center, but something created by darkness and it had no conscience or compassion. You could not reason with it or bargain.

It followed its own rules. A crack appeared in the parlor windows. Barnabas watched it creep downwards, then shatter into a spider's web. Above his head, a window banged open, and he heard, to his horror, a voice he knew well. I am here, Ryder. Come for me.

I am waiting. Father and son gazed at each other in dread. Pianni! No! Barnabas raced for the stairs, leaping them in threes, and pushing open the door to his sister's bedroom. The sight which greeted him,

so appalled him, he froze, mouth open in horror. He sensed his father close at his heels. His darling sister lay in a widening pool of blood, turning her nightgown claret and her bedsheets crimson. Her blonde hair, spread wild and tangled on her pillow.

Her lips were turning blue, and she was still breathed. Her voice, though frail, was audible. I will not marry whom you choose, Father. I choose another if he will have me. If I have given enough of my life force for him. A knife rested at her side whilst etched in the flesh of her left arm, A gaping wound stretched from her elbow to rest. Behind him, their father cried out.

Leone, what have you done to yourself, child? He rushed to her bedside, weeping. The writer pronounced. She is mine. Barnabas sensed a presence behind him at the window. Turning, he came face to face with the antlered helmet and the golden eyes of myth and legend. The figure of the rider hovered, floating above his horse's saddle, and his cloak unfurling in the air, resembling nothing so much as a huge bird of prey.

It was the stuff of nightmares. Around his body, the air fizzed with sparks. A blue halo outlined his entire figure. Barnabas' father, clutching the iron bedstead frame at Leonie's side, cried out in pain as the blue sparks flew across the room, and Barnabas heard a thud as his father's body at the carpet. Then, silence. Barnabas could not move his head.

The rider would not let him. In the golden depths, he saw obsidian flecks rotating, and beyond them, he glimpsed a lifetime of hell. Barnabas's skin began to crawl, as though millions of ants were running over him. His nose and ears leaked blood. His mouth dried up, his bladder. opened and yet still he could not move away.

Leone whispered. Let him go, Ryder. I choose to go with you. Free him. He is of my flesh. Barnabas collapsed like a broken marionette to the floor, lying in a puddle of his own piss, crying and scratching at his skin.

The rider stretched out his gloved hands and Leone staggered, tiny step by tiny step, to the window cell. And there he lifted her, cradling her body, as if she were made of gold and diamonds. He lowered his antlered head and rested it upon her blonde hair, sharing her breaths and taking them into his lungs. Leonie's breathing strengthened, and the color returned to her cheeks and blue lips.

They were conjoined, his breath being hers. He stroked her gouged her gouged left arm, and at his touch the blood dried. the flowed dammed and the wound sealed over with a fine film. Barnabas, lying on the floor, gazed up and astonished at the sight of the Deathbringer, who was giving life back to his sister. Leone reached up a hand and stroked the iron helmet with such tenderness. Fresh tears sprang in Barnabas's eyes, and his sister's face was such rapture. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

She loved this monster, this cursed figure. How she could he would never comprehend, but his younger, weaker, adored but rebellious sister had saved his life. Your debt is paid. You are the most fortunate of human men. The words thrummed inside his skull, hurting at first, but then fading into a gentle hum. Barnabas staggered to his feet and silent,

stumbled to the window. He knew this would be his last chance to see Leone again in this life. Together, as one, the rider and Leone dropped into the saddle. He carried her gently before him, propping her against his chest, before urging his horse into a canter. The strange couple rode away at a swift pace across the moonlit lawns towards the welcoming forest. The hounds galloped alongside their tails upright. All Barnabas could make out of his sister was her blonde, tasseled head and her nightgown, trailing blood-stained ribbons in her wake.

Just before the trees swallowed them, the writer paused his mouth and turned. Leone raised her hand in a final farewell. Her expression was one of bliss. After The Gloming is a production of Dissinence Media and the Other Stories. Night of the Rider was written by Alison Faye. Alison lives in the UK, is a writer, tutor, editor, currently on the casket of fictional delights, where several of her stories and podcasts can be heard. She's often out on the moors with her own dog, Roxy, a rescue Labrador who inspired the hound puppy in this story.

Narrator was performed by Lauren Kong. Barnabas and Father were performed by Gordon Williams. Ryder was performed by Everyday Eldritch. Leone was performed by Maddie Albright's Marie was performed by Glenda Villamar Criminal was performed by Ray O'Hare Mistress was performed by Emily Brewer Housemaid was performed by Lauren Kong

Henry Blackwood was performed by Zander Schweig Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Elroy After the glowing script was written by James Barnett. Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett. Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett. Music and sound effects were provided by Epidemic Sound, Soundstripe and FreeSound.org. If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it, and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a five-star rating. To support the show and

gain access to all episodes now, add free, and a bonus episode. Head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons attribution, non-commercial, no derivatives license. Don't change it, don't sell it, but by all means, share the hell out of it. Stay horrific, everyone.