by Noir, Mila
Which was, of course, when she woke up.
She lay back in her bed, heart still racing, body warm and pulsing from what might have been. It was still dark out, but she could feel morning was not far off. She was going to have to stay away from Anton Quinn for the rest of her visit.
She thought about doing something about how incredibly turned on she was but decided she didn’t even want to indulge in those sensations from a dream. It might only make the old crush resurface, and she really didn’t need that.
Taylor shifted uncomfortably in bed, feeling hot and achy. It took a lot of willpower not to touch herself and just ease the tension a little. What she wanted wasn’t a quick wank, though. What she wanted she should never, ever have.
Eventually she drifted back to a light, unpleasant sleep, full of whispers and shadows, and the sound of screams and hoofbeats in the dark.
***
At around the same time Taylor was having her odd dream and waking up more confused than when she’d gone asleep, someone who had been a kind of honorary Saint was about to have a very memorable encounter of his own.
Patrick Kelly had been drinking since the death of two of his closest friends a month before. He was essentially always drunk or hungover and he preferred it that way. He’d been with Greg and Robert and Nick when they’d…died, and he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. The way they’d screamed. How hot the fire had been. He’d told the police everything he remembered, except one little detail.
How their heads had rolled when the Rider finally cut them off.
Maybe they’d all deserved it. After what they’d done to the Coulsons, what they’d all managed to get away with calling an “accident,” maybe this was justice. But it had been so long ago. Why was someone coming after them now? And why the Deathless Rider getup?
“Fucking Quinn,” he muttered. He’d run into Anton at the bar and decided to try some good old-fashioned shit talking, like the old days. Make himself feel better. Only Quinn hadn’t felt like it and had gotten him tossed out. Like he was better than him or something. Quinns were always like that. Trash. He’d get back at him. Humiliating him like that in front of everyone, getting him thrown out of his favorite bar.
In his muddled, drunken brain, Patrick wasn’t paying much attention to where he was walking. He’d just picked a direction and gone that way. No one had tried to stop him; the rest of the bar either had been too drunk themselves or were tired of his complaining. They’d been tired of the whole lot of them, really. The Saints had stopped being popular almost the second high school had ended.
For someone like Patrick, it had been confusing to go from one of the most feared and beloved football players in Sweethollow High history, to just another guy who worked at the hardware store and had never left town. He’d been sure there were scholarships and college football in his future. Maybe even the NFL. Turned out, his grades had been too low and his skills not quite as unique as he’d thought. The rest of the Saints hadn’t fared much better, except maybe Nick and Rob. For a while. Seemed time caught up to all of them, though. Time and consequences.
They’d been out joyriding that night, like the old days. Trying to recapture some of that old glory, he guessed. It had felt…sour, somehow. Like milk that had gone off. The rest of them had been whooping it up, hitting mailboxes off their stands with bats, and he’d tried one or two. But mostly he’d just drunk his beer and pretended to be having fun.
Pat had always been more of a follower than a man of action. Even as a teen, if Rob or Nick said, “Go pick on that kid,” he’d just do it. He wanted them to like him. To think he was “cool.” And he definitely preferred being the one doing the picking than the other way around.
But lately he’d been feeling a little…bad about the stuff he’d done. Most of it was pretty harmless, he thought. Some wedgies. A few black eyes. Tricks and humiliations. But there’d be that one…prank. Something about it had never sat right with him. That girl, he couldn’t remember her name, just what they’d called her after: “Blueberry.” He’d felt bad. Sure, he’d laughed. But something about Rob and Nick, especially Nick, had seemed…crueler that night. Something wrong.
And then, after high school, Nick, Rob, and Greg had gotten…strange. Real angry all the time. They felt the world had betrayed them. They were angry at anyone and everything they wanted and didn’t have. Nick in particular, especially when it came to girls. He didn’t like it if any lady turned him down. Pat didn’t like being around them as much. They’d still pick on the smaller high school kids even though they weren’t in school anymore. Their “tricks” got even meaner. Nick and Rob would hit on women real aggressively. Nick kind of stalked one or two, Pat thought. Scared them.
And then the Coulsons. Nick had taken a special interest in the wife, and it had been…well, Pat wasn’t sure. The way he’d looked at her just hadn’t been right. He’d stood by them because he was their friend, but…it had been wrong. They’d done a bad thing.
He stumbled on some roots and looked up, confused. How had he gotten into the woods? He squinted in the dark, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Behind the old mill? Near the bar still?
Then he saw the stones, and stumbled back.
He was in the old Sweethollow Cemetery. The one that ran along the kill brook and came out near the bridge. It was full of old monuments and creepy mausoleums, many from when the area was first settled, a good century before the Revolutionary War. Somehow he’d wandered right into the middle of it.
Pat put his hand out and touched cold stone. He snatched it back like it had been burned. He whirled, stumbled, twirled, and finally fell, getting a mouthful of grass and dirt. He came up coughing and looked around wildly.
If he could get to the bridge, get to the other side, he’d be fine. Maybe the Rider wasn’t even out tonight. Maybe he had a chance.
He ran in the direction of the bridge as fast as he could, fear sobering him up a little. He kept looking over his shoulder, convinced that this time, he’d see the dark, towering shape of a man on horseback, saber glinting in the moonlight, face a ghastly mask of impending death.
Somehow he made it to the bridge, panting and huffing, breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. He sighed with relief. He’d made it.
And then, from behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, bearing down at full speed.
He looked around, mouth gaping, legs going out from under him. He knelt before the bridge in a kind of prayer.
“Please…,” Pat said, whispering. “It wasn’t my fault.”
The Rider bore down, sword swinging, and Patrick Kelly’s last thought was of how justice always seemed to find a way. The Rider watched this all dispassionately, sword cutting through the night.
A few seconds later, his body fell and his head rolled off the side of the bridge and into the brook. It bobbed there for a moment, before heading downstream, face frozen in fear and a silent scream.
***
Anton was kissing his way down a spine, his hands running along soft skin, resting on full hips. There was a feminine moan as he kissed the sweet spot in the hollow of the small of her back just above the swell of firm, plump cheeks.
He smiled against the soft skin and brought his hands around those hips to a delightfully round belly. He tickled gently, rewarded with a throaty, flirty laugh.
The body shifted, turning over, giving him full access to that splendidly round belly. He kissed around the bellybutton, let his fingers stroke up, grazing just enough to tease. They found plump breasts, claiming them as he kissed up and found a peaked nipple. It tasted sweet, puckering under his tongue. He suckled and licked it roughly, hearing a groan that made him feel a little lightheaded with desire.
“Now. Kiss me where you know I want to be kissed most,” a voice said, playful but passionate.
He moved down, taking his time, lips nibbling and gliding over skin. Delicate but firm hands ran through his hair, guiding his head down, down, down.
Soft curls greeted him and he smiled, parting warm skin. She was pink and slick and he brought his mouth to her, tasting her, sipping her. Legs draped themselves over his shoulders, hips began to thrust at him, and he reveled in her. He licked around and around, wide circles, then smaller, smaller, before he finally concentrated on that firm, sweet spot.
When he felt her start to climax, his slid a finger gently but firmly inside her. She was hot and tight and when she shouted, he smiled.
She pushed him back, hair obscuring her face. Ran her fingers down his stomach, a trail of fiery desire. She touched him where he was hard and ready. And then she laughed.
She pushed back her hair and it was Taylor, resplendent and beautiful.
“Do you want me, Anton? Do you want me now?” she asked.
“Yes. I want you. I always wanted you,” he said.
“Good,” she said.
Her lips were soft against his collarbone, he could feel her warmth against him below, but she moved away. She kissed down his chest, bit softly at a nipple, then swirled her tongue around his navel.
He watched her as she looked up and clasped him in her hand. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, pulsing against her palm. She opened her mouth and began to slowly descend over him. Down, down, he could feel her breath against the tip…she was almost there….
And then he woke up.
Anton was uncomfortably hard and he groaned against his pillow. He hadn’t had a dream that intensely erotic in years. It figured it would end without orgasm. He lay back, early-morning light filtering in through his window, thinking about Taylor, feeling himself staying hard and aching.
He was going to have to do something about this.
He was going to have to do something about Taylor Harlow. Today.
***
Sweethollow Library was a surprisingly large and modern building in the middle of town, on the corners of Main Street and Hill. When Taylor was a kid, the library had been a two-story building down the block with bad lighting and not a great selection of horror stories, Taylor’s passion. This spot now occupied by the library had been a bank and laundromat. Obviously there’d been some improvements in the last decade.
Inside was well lit, warm, and spacious. There was a children’s storytelling corner and a large area for sitting and reading for grown-ups, and while it was still two floors, they were now packed with every kind of book for anyone.
Taylor was looking for the archives and a helpful young girl with blue hair showed her to the area they kept the old newspaper files in hard copy and on the computer. She sat down and got to work.
Someone had been pretty thorough at documenting the history of Sweethollow, scanning newspapers and even local journals that had been donated, as far back as the Revolutionary War. There were all the usual sorts of pieces on the Deathless Rider, mostly cute pieces about local superstitions and tying it all to Halloween.
What was suspiciously lacking were documents about the deaths that occurred roughly every ten years. It wasn’t exact; some years went by and nothing untoward happened to anyone. But Taylor knew that strange deaths had gone back at least as far as the war and continued after. Whether it was deaths that just happened to occur around the same time or ones that were actually connected to the legend, there were almost no files, articles, or even journal entries about them. Which was very odd considering how much the town relied on the legend. It seemed like they’d want people to think it was an ongoing “ghostly” phenomenon. Upped the tourist attraction.
As she combed through files, she tried not to think about her dream or her encounter the night before. She’d woken up relatively rested, but feeling keyed up and strange. And she kept expecting to see Anton around every corner, down every street, since she’d left the inn. It was a little too much. She had to get a grip.
After a few hours she went up to the main desk and found the helpful blue-haired girl. Her name was Ellen.
“Ellen?” she asked, smiling.
“Ms. Harlow? Did you find what you needed?” the girl asked, stacking some books on a cart.
“Well, yes and no,” Taylor answered.
“Oh! What couldn’t you find?” asked Ellen, coming over and looking genuinely concerned. Taylor smiled at her again. She remembered being that young and enthusiastic.
“Well, I found journals and articles going a ways back, so thanks for that. What I couldn’t find, though, was any of the stuff on the Deathless Rider that wasn’t kind of the fluffy stuff. I grew up around here, and I know there have been a lot of deaths around this time of year. It seems a little strange no one else has mentioned it in a newspaper article or something,” Taylor said.
Ellen blinked, then looked thoughtful. “That’s a good point. I mean, it’s a silly old story, but it is really creepy. And people around here sort of like to pretend it’s all cuddly, but, like…those recent deaths? That was pretty bad,” she said.
“Do you think they could be in some other files, maybe? Or maybe I’m just looking in the wrong place?” Taylor asked.
“I’m not sure where they could be, though. I mean, that’s supposed to be all the stuff we have. Mrs. Keeper, she scanned them all herself,” Ellen said.
“What, old Mrs. Keeper? She still works here?” Taylor asked, surprised. The lady had seemed ancient when she was growing up. White hair, spectacles, and the required cardigan. She’d even had a shrill little “hussssh!” she used to admonish anyone caught talking in the sanctuary of the library. It had been a popular make out spot when Taylor was young.
“Yeah, she comes in like twice a week now. Can’t get around as much as she used to. She’s mostly retired. But she insisted on doing that job herself,” Ellen said, shuffling some papers.
“Do you know where she lives? I’m working on this book, about the area, and I’d love to talk to someone who’s been around and probably seen more than anyone else. I mean, who notices a librarian?” Taylor said, grinning.
Ellen smiled back, then pointed to her hair. “Well, I get noticed, they call me Blueberry. But I’m just an assistant. You kind of stick out around here if you do anything even remotely ‘different,’” Ellen said, using quote-y fingers.
Taylor started at the nickname, feeling sick. Then she covered it with a laugh. She hadn’t been as brave as Ellen in high school, actually changing her outer appearance in a noticeable way, but she knew what she meant. Even though she’d tried to hide, she just hadn’t fit in it around there. She suspected Ellen didn’t either, though at least now blue hair was not nearly as unusual. But the nickname had been a nasty shock.
“True, but I like it. I’m a writer down in the city and I’m up here doing a little research. Maybe prove to some people that small towns can be just as weird and dangerous as the city, you know?” she said.
“Oh, cool! You’re a writer and you live in the city? Wow,” Ellen asked, eyes wide and eager. Taylor remembered that feeling, too.
“Yep. Although I have still have roommates, so it’s not very glamorous,” she admitted.
“Psh. I’d live in a shoebox there in a heartbeat if it meant I could get out of here.” Ellen snorted.
“Most apartments are kind of like shoeboxes down there,” Taylor said. They both laughed.
“Well, Mrs. Keeper is at the old folks’ home down on Chestwood. I don’t think she gets many visitors. Most of her family is gone, I think. So I’m sure she’d like the company. She’s pretty chatty, when you get her going,” Ellen said.
Taylor found that surprising, but then she’d never tried talking to Mrs. Keeper in a way that would have invited friendly chatter.
“Thanks a lot, Ellen. You’ve been a huge help,” Taylor said.
“No problem. Good luck with your book!” And the girl was off with her cart of books. Taylor hoped she kept that enthusiasm. And the blue hair.
The wind had picked up outside and Taylor stopped to check her email on her phone. Work was anxious for some updates but they’d hold on a little w
hile longer. She was avoiding talking to the police just yet because one thing she was pretty sure hadn’t changed in Sweethollow; the way they closed ranks and didn’t discuss any crimes in town. Especially this time, since two of the dead men (and former Saints) had been cops. Nick and Rob had become officers after high school, and she was pretty sure one other Saint had as well. That’s about all she’d been able to find out from the obits.
She’d go talk to Mrs. Keeper, get some scuttlebutt first. That way if the police weren’t forthcoming, she could still get her boss something juicy. She knew what they really wanted was a kind of tabloid-y piece full of small-town intrigue, innuendo, and gossip. What she wanted was the truth.
Or at least, she thought she did.
The truth was a funny thing. What was true to her might not be for someone else. The truth about the Deathless Rider could be really mundane. But Taylor didn’t think so. Otherwise there’d be no reason for people to cover up deaths or hide articles. There was no reason to treat this “legend” as a tourist attraction but also get secretive and conspicuous about deaths around that time of year. If they were just what they claimed, accidents, then that info should be open and available. It was too weird a dichotomy. Something was off.
Taylor wrapped her scarf around her neck a few more times, then pulled it loose around her mouth. She’d forgotten how much colder it got up here, north of the city. The wind had an edge, making her cheeks sting. She looked at her phone and saw that it was well past 3 p.m. No wonder she was suddenly starving. She headed towards Main Street, wondering if the Sweethollow Diner was still there. She’d practically lived there as a teen, reading, eating French fries, and watching the town.
