What came out of the farmer's fields first thing in the morning fog appeared to be a herd of horses. It was like they'd been ushered in by the bad weather and ushered out as it began to clear. This happened every morning the mists came, which wasn't all too often in summer but as autumn rolled in, so too did the mists and with it the horses.
They were silent, always so silent and so still. They never tossed their heads or interacted with each other as a regular herd does. They made no move to back away or greet anyone who dared to approach them and when the mists went they backed away into the woods, weaving between the densely packed trees until they seemed to vanish entirely.
We didn't understand what they were at first, the never eating horses whose gazes didn't stray from the human onlookers the entire time they were there. When they were touched they felt cool, perhaps too cool for a living creature but this was attributed to the chill of the fog at the time.
People came from all over the nearby town to see the odd herd who hid in the forest as soon as they got the chance. So many touched them, always to gentle and timid, but it never ended well for them. It wasn't blamed on the horses until we understood them a little more. When we tried to feed them.
They didn't eat no hay, didn't drink no water and refused to open their mouths for even the juiciest apple or freshest oats. Then the farm owner's missus cut her finger while trying to peel an apple, thinking the fresh fruit might entice them only for the whole herd to snap their heads towards her.
An old woman who'd lived near the fields on her won for years began to come outside to tell us about a local legend, creatures who could only feed on what was freely sacrificed. We understood then, just what they wanted and why they'd been so patient and by god we were foolish enough to give it to them.
It started with small cuts, then someone offered their smallest finger and it snowballed. It became a mania to give a part of yourself to the horses and hope they gave you something in return. And they did. They gave a quicker death to anyone who'd given them something before the year was over. Anyone else who'd seen them and given nothing suffered an agonising death from an internal bleed so severe that the police thought the first few cases were from car crashes.
I hear the horses will be coming back tomorrow morning, the same day they first appeared out of the mists after four hundred years of hiding. I'm planning to give them my right hand as thanks for sparing me when so many others perished.
They were silent, always so silent and so still. They never tossed their heads or interacted with each other as a regular herd does. They made no move to back away or greet anyone who dared to approach them and when the mists went they backed away into the woods, weaving between the densely packed trees until they seemed to vanish entirely.
We didn't understand what they were at first, the never eating horses whose gazes didn't stray from the human onlookers the entire time they were there. When they were touched they felt cool, perhaps too cool for a living creature but this was attributed to the chill of the fog at the time.
People came from all over the nearby town to see the odd herd who hid in the forest as soon as they got the chance. So many touched them, always to gentle and timid, but it never ended well for them. It wasn't blamed on the horses until we understood them a little more. When we tried to feed them.
They didn't eat no hay, didn't drink no water and refused to open their mouths for even the juiciest apple or freshest oats. Then the farm owner's missus cut her finger while trying to peel an apple, thinking the fresh fruit might entice them only for the whole herd to snap their heads towards her.
An old woman who'd lived near the fields on her won for years began to come outside to tell us about a local legend, creatures who could only feed on what was freely sacrificed. We understood then, just what they wanted and why they'd been so patient and by god we were foolish enough to give it to them.
It started with small cuts, then someone offered their smallest finger and it snowballed. It became a mania to give a part of yourself to the horses and hope they gave you something in return. And they did. They gave a quicker death to anyone who'd given them something before the year was over. Anyone else who'd seen them and given nothing suffered an agonising death from an internal bleed so severe that the police thought the first few cases were from car crashes.
I hear the horses will be coming back tomorrow morning, the same day they first appeared out of the mists after four hundred years of hiding. I'm planning to give them my right hand as thanks for sparing me when so many others perished.
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