The Horror of our Love: A Twisted Tales Anthology

by Nikita Slater

  I’m not sure who rescued me and where they went. Did I faint and fall off the horse? My injuries certainly didn’t seem congruent with being thrown or falling any distance beyond the injuries I knew I had before it caught me.

  It…

  I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around this. Any of this.

  The door swung open and crashed against the side of the bench and I saw him. It. Him?

  I gasped. The cloak, the boots, the breaches, the gloves. The hood, pulled forward so I couldn’t see eyes. If there were eyes. There weren’t, because I didn’t see anything below. No nose. No mouth. No nothing. The hood was shaped as if there was a head. But I knew that there was nothing in the hood.

  I decided he must be a ghost of some sort.

  He’s tall, broad and has a muscular physique.

  No head.

  He does not have a fucking head!

  Panicking. I was panicking. Breathing hard. I felt faint.

  Don’t faint again! I couldn’t faint again. I had to keep my wits about me.

  I thought back to the story I told the children.

  “And the soldier lost his head when the cannonball sounded with an enormous ear-splitting explosion and struck. It is said by some that each Halloween, he hunts for a new head, taking the first one he sees. But, some with more romantic hearts believe he may actually be hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find, when he was instead killed just before being sent off to go to war…”

  Oh God. If he were a simple ghost, he wouldn’t be able to hurt me. He’d be a presence, I’m guessing. Not that I ever believed in ghosts. Well… I might have to amend that statement.

  He’d lifted me off the ground and brought me here. He cleansed my hands and the wound on my leg. He’s not an ordinary ghost (as if there’s anything ordinary about a ghost).

  I have to get out of here!

  I scrambled to my feet and attempted to make a run for it. I was unsteady, as unsteady as a baby colt taking its’ first steps, and as soon as I scampered across the threshold of the door, he grabbed me. I was scooped up with an arm that went around my waist. I squealed and kicked with both legs, but my left ankle was nearly useless and very sore. Holding me with one arm hooked around the middle of me, me up and off the ground, he took three paces and put me back where I’d been before, planting me with my fanny on the pillow on the floor.

  He stood there, hands on his waist for a moment and it made me feel like I’d been reprimanded. I shrank into a ball, pulling my legs to my chest and aiming my eyes at my knees.

  He twisted and moved to the door. I watched as he lugged in a big armful of chopped wood from the ground just outside the doorway. I scampered back against the chair behind me and wrapped my arms around my knees, huddling as he walked past me to the fireplace and dropped the stack of wood into a metal basket.

  He moved back to the door and slammed it, making me startle at the noise. Chilly gusts of air had already filled the space and made it an uncomfortable climate.

  He was standing there, as if regarding me a moment, then moved to the table against the wall, giving me what would be his profile. I watched as he removed his leather gloves and dropped them on the table.

  Hands. Regular hands. Nothing transparent or ghostly about them.

  Huh?

  I frowned at the sight from my place on the floor, plastered against the front of the chair. He reached inside his cloak and pulled a small cinched bag from somewhere, then un-cinched it and poured small leaves into a bowl on the table top. His movements? They were confident, graceful. He reached to an overhead cupboard and opened the door and produced a small glass bottle with a cork stopper. He set it beside the bowl, then began crushing the leaves in the bowl with a pestle. I watched him as he opened and poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bowl. He mixed it for a moment.

  I swallowed and shivered.

  What should I do? How can I run? I’m not fast. He’s already caught me.

  I wasn’t only injured, but also lightheaded. And not entirely certain what would happen if I did run again. Would he hurt me? Is he going to hurt me? Is it just a matter of time before it happens?

  He chased me. That was not a friendly encounter… at all. Is he going to take my head? Did he smash that pumpkin on the ground knowing he had a new head, because I was wandering in the area? God, this is so ridiculous…

  As ridiculous as it is, this was where I was. This was my reality.

  He stopped and lifted a wet cloth out of a bowl and began wiping his hands. Strong-looking tanned hands. They didn’t look remotely ghost or ghoul-like.

  He turned, the bowl in his hand, and moved toward me.

  I gasped as he got close, which didn’t take long as the whole cabin was maybe 15 x 15, roof sloped on one side only, where the loft was, and I’m being generous with that guess.

  He got to his knees and reached with his right hand for my leg. He gestured strangely. I was still huddled. Frozen. Petrified. He stretched out one leg and pointed at it. He then gestured to the bowl in his left hand.

  I stared, frozen, and his hand grasped the ankle of my sore leg (sore ankle, too) and tugged, gently. His hand felt warm, normal, but the ankle hurt because I’d twisted it, so I winced while gasping and his hand went up, palm facing me. And then he signaled for me to straighten my leg by showing me that he was straightening out his own leg, pointing down as he did so.

  I sat there, shaking so hard, my eyes on his hand, but I managed to mimic his leg movement and straightened my leg. He sat, spreading his legs and taking my heel into his hand. He placed the bowl on the floor and then undid my boot laces and pulled the boot off. My ankle looked pretty swollen. He hauled on the cuff of my tights on my left leg, separating the upper piece from the rest, making the fabric drop to rest around my ankle. He yanked off my sock, took the ripped part of the tight off, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal tin and opened, rubbing that cloying salve on it. It looked clear, like Vaseline, and the aroma was like a cross between a Christmas tree and Vicks VapoRub.

  Immediately, my ankle started to warm up, the salve actually soothing the pain. He kept rubbing my ankle with both hands and then placed the lid on top of the tin and shoved it back into his pocket.

  His index finger poked my big toe strangely. I looked down from the emptiness of the hood, at my toenails, which had been painted pumpkin orange with jack-o-lantern happy face decals on the nails of my big toes.

  Have I amused him? Or have I insulted him with my toenails?

  He put my foot into his lap and reached for the bowl and then lifted the fabric of the top of my tights further, tearing them to better reveal the full gash on my thigh.

  I winced. A nasty gash. And it hurt. He slathered the wet, green paste from the bowl onto it and then held his finger up in a one-second gesture, lifting my foot and placing it on the floor. He reached for the damp cloth that fell when I tried to bolt and appeared to inspect it. He rose and went back to the table and dropped it into a bowl. I heard it plop into liquid.

  He reached into a drawer and fetched another cloth just like it, then poured from a beige ceramic pitcher to drench it, holding it over the basin, and then wrung it out, returned, squatted, and gently placed the wet cloth across the gash. He ripped my tights even further upwards, in an annoyed motion, getting them out of the way, making me startle at the sound. I was more than uncomfortable physically, and also with my state as he’d ripped the tights to just where my underwear started to show at my hip.

  I swallowed nervously. Nervous? What an understatement. He was leaned over and if I didn’t know better, he would look like any other person bent over. The hood sat over what would be the shape of a head. His shoulders were broad, and his back looked strong. His hands? They appeared absolutely human. Adult. Not old and wrinkled. Just… ordinary male hands. If I’m honest, they look good. Attractive. A working man’s hands.

  The hood rose as if he was looking at me, but I saw nothing bu
t darkness. I stared where his face would be if he had one.

  “Th-thank you. That feels better.”

  The hood tipped, as if in acknowledgement, and he moved to the fireplace and began to move more logs into the flames. He poked at the fire and then hung the poker from a hook beside the fireplace. He moved back to the counter again and rinsed his hands in the basin, then dried them and lifted a glass decanter up and removed the stopper. It looked to be antique, like everything in this cabin. He poured into a big and fancy but slightly tarnished silver chalice that he’d fetched from the cupboard.

  He returned, squatted, and passed the chalice to me.

  I accepted it, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers touched mine. He moved back a few inches and simply stood there.

  I held the cup, looking up at his empty hood.

  He waited.

  I tentatively took a small sip. Brandy? Cherry brandy, I think. I’m not much of a drinker.

  It went down warm and the warmth spread through my chest.

  “Thank you.”

  He tipped his hood again.

  I took more, a bigger gulp. Now I truly understood the meaning of the term liquid courage. I understood it; I just didn’t feel any braver.

  What should I do? What to say? I’m in a cabin in the woods with a headless man who has tended to my wounds…wounds that I have because I ran from him.

  He walked to the door and stepped outside again. Seconds later I heard the whinny of the horse and it chilled my blood. Scariest horse ever. Had he left? I sat, frozen still. I strained to listen. I heard nothing. No sound of hooves or rustling of horse tackle or anything else but the crackling fire inside the cabin.

  It dawned that I must be quite a sight.

  Ripped witch’s costume with one striped muddy leg with one boot on, sitting on the floor of a cabin drinking brandy from an antique chalice in front of a roaring fire wondering about my headless captor who I learned about (from a children’s book!). Oh, and his demonic-looking horse.

  I took another mouthful of the brandy, set the cup down beside me, and got to my feet. I tested pressure on my sore foot. It was definitely a little bit better than before he put the salve on it, but not great. I walked to the front window slowly, hunched over so I could hold the damp cloth to my thigh. This cloth wasn’t a typical fabric, not terry cloth or plain normal cotton. Thick woven, it wasn’t very soft, and was an off-white color. It made me think of antique fabric we saw at a pioneer museum when I was a child.

  I got to the window and peered out, but saw nothing but dark.

  Did he go?

  I sidestepped to the door and carefully opened it to look out. Nothing. River straight ahead about thirty or maybe forty paces. There’s a pathway leading off to the side and it looks like it rounds the cabin. I decide I should go investigate. I carefully limped back to the chair, putting as little pressure on my ankle as possible. My bag had been unzipped. Had it been rifled through?

  I had nothing much of any real value in there. A bit of cash. I checked and found it was still there. My cell phone. Useless. A stocked makeup bag, a bottle of Advil.

  Oh. Advil.

  I decided I should take two. Half a dozen pens of different colors. My car keys. My phone. Some receipts. A little notepad with a cute black kitty on it.

  I got my missing sock and other Doc on, leaving the laces loose and tucking them into my boot. It was not very pleasant. My ankle really hurt. I sent a silent prayer up that I’d get away without running into it…him. I hoped that following the river actually lead somewhere and that the somewhere it leads would help me escape.

  I looked down at my one mostly bare leg.

  This was not ideal with it being frigidly cold out there. But, to stay here? This can’t end well with me here and him potentially returning.

  What if he left me in here to be warm and dry until morning? What if he’s some sort of angel? A headless horseman angel? I’m so ridiculous. I have to get out of here. I have to try.

  I put my jacket on.

  I’ll look. I’ll look outside and if it looks like there’s no escape that I can safely do on foot, I’ll come back and stay where it’s warm and guard myself with that hot poker over there and hope he doesn’t try to hurt me.

  In fact…

  I grabbed the poker because I can use it a bit like a walking stick, stabbing the ground for stability as I try to hobble away on this bad ankle and as a sword-like item if I need to defend myself. Holding it, I slowly moved out the door. I winced and moaned with every step. Oh, this wasn’t my best idea. But, it sure isn’t a good idea to stay.

  I headed outside and carefully and painfully made my way around the building to the other side.

  Shit. Shit!

  There was a single-stall paddock built to lean against a smallish woodshed and I spotted him there. There with the horse. His body twisted, and he faced my direction and a split second later, was running in my direction.

  Fuck!

  “No! I need to go!” I shouted and held the poker out.

  He closed the distance in what seemed like a flash and I swung wildly, tearing his cloak at the chest. I didn’t know if I caught his body or not, because in a flash, I was up and over his shoulder. The poker fell to the ground. He crouched to lift it, with me over his shoulder and oddly, it felt like there was something under the hood, a neck, a head, though I couldn’t see it. It was as if I could feel it against my side.

  He stalked back to the cabin with me and once we were in the doorway, the door slammed and then he slapped my butt angrily! I yowled in surprise, startled at the action.

  Oh my God! What now?

  He headed straight for the ladder and then we were going up.

  Chapter 7

  THE LOFT

  What the…

  Oh gosh.

  He ducked when we got to the top. He took a step in, and dropped me onto something soft. A bed. Most of the small and low-ceilinged loft was just bed. A plush feather bed.

  I sat up. He hauled my bag off me and tossed it to the side.

  “Please, let me go. I don’t know what you want with me, but if you could let me go, I’ll…”

  He leaned over, the action making me halt, mid-sentence. His ungloved hand gave me a shove. It wasn’t a hard shove, but it made me fall onto my back. He backed away and down the ladder.

  I blinked a few times in the nearly pitch-dark space. Seconds later, he was back with a lantern in his hand. It illuminated the emptiness of his hood as well as the space, which was sparse and rough looking, having just the bed with light bedding amid the darkened unfinished slanted log ceiling. I gulped down fear, paralyzing fear looking into the emptiness of the hood, catching sight of skin below where the neck would be. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, but before I could see much, he set the lantern at the edge of the loft, and then pulled across folding wooden gates that were on either side of the upright ladder. He pulled them across and fastened some sort of metal latch to hold them closed and then lifted the lantern and used it to illuminate his finger, pointing at the gate. He wagged his finger. He was telling me not to go to the other side of the gate.

  But… he’s on this side of the gate with me. Why?

  Why? I did not even wanna think about what this could mean.

  “…hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find.”

  God, no.

  He leaned over and pushed the hem up on my dress to examine my leg, placing his hand on my knee. I lost my cloth. I’d had it in my hand when I’d gone outdoors, and I guess it fell somewhere outside when he’d hauled me back inside.

  My leg was still coated with the paste he made, glistening in the dim lamplight. I looked back up at the dark hood.

  He moved toward me, making my heart hammer against my chest wall, until he came to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Oh God. What the fuck?

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I chanted to myself.

  “Fuck, Isabella. Wake up, damn it!
”

  He sat, listening to me, I guess. No ears, but obviously hearing me.

  I slapped my own face. “Wake up!”

  He grabbed my wrist and pointed with the other hand, reprimanding me. For what? Hitting myself? For trying to wake up from this nightmare?

  There was loaded silence. He let go of my wrist.

  I thrust my hands into my hair. What the heck would come next?

  He leaned over and twisted the metal on the side of the lantern, plunging us into darkness. Not exactly pitch-black, what with the fire downstairs in the small space, but pretty darn close.

  I heard the distinct noise of boots being kicked off. And then the sounds of undressing.

  I closed my eyes and tears squeezed out of them, forcing them to trail down my cheeks. My front teeth were rooted in the tip of my tongue and I was shaking so hard.

  My eyes were shut tight, listening to the rustling of clothing. I couldn’t see what he was doing but there was no denying that I knew what this meant, what he intended to do.

  I opened my eyes to nothing. Less than nothing, because the little bit of filtering light from below was now gone. There was not a sliver of light anywhere to be seen. I lifted my hands up tentatively in front of my face, I couldn’t even see my own hands in front of my face.

  Maybe I should be glad I can’t see, because how absolutely horrifying would it be to see him, headless, without the cloak hiding the horror of it?

  What do I do? Try to fight off a headless ghost or other conjuring up in a loft without any weapons with a useless ankle and a bleeding leg?

  I’m a 25-year-old virgin who is… what… about to be raped by a headless ghost?

  I whimpered.

  “Please, let me go. Please. I’ll just go. I’m sorry that I ran. I’m sorry I even came here tonight. My car broke down and I got lost. I was just trying to find a signal for my phone, so I could call roadside assistance. Please. Let me leave.”