Once upon a time, in ancient and forgotten days, there was a little village hidden deep within the folds of a dark forest, surrounded by hills where the wind always seemed to carry secrets. This place was called Misty Hollow, a forgotten corner of the kingdom, where the air was thick, and the nights—especially those when the moon hid away—brought with them a sense of mystery.
The people of Misty Hollow lived in a strange calm, knowing that each sunset hid something beyond what their eyes could see. The mist that covered the village from dusk till dawn was never the same. It had a heavy quality, almost as if it wanted to stop something from escaping. But the most unsettling thing wasn’t the mist—it was what happened on the darkest nights when the moon refused to shine and everything seemed frozen in a strange stillness: it was then that the ghost horses would begin to gallop.
The elders of the village said these horses were no ordinary creatures. They were spectral figures, formed from shadows and wind, with manes that seemed to be made of the same mist that drifted between the trees. They had no solid bodies, but their forms were clear under the flickering starlight. They had no riders, yet they ran as if following a call, as if searching for something lost long ago.
It was said that only those who knew no fear could see the horses, only the souls who didn’t yet understand the weight of the unknown. The children of the village would hear the legend from their trembling grandparents, always feeling like there was something in the story that was never fully told.
For the more skeptical, there were those who claimed to have seen them. The farmers who worked the farthest fields near the woods swore they had glimpsed vague shapes at the edge of their vision, just before the shadows swallowed them. And although the horses never left a mark on the ground, the wind carried the echo of their hooves galloping in the distance—a soft, steady sound that made the skin of those who heard it tingle.
Many believed these horses were the guardians of an ancient secret, a mystery buried in the hills generations ago. They said that during a time of war, when the kingdom was divided, an army of knights rode into a battle that should never have been fought. They rode the most magnificent horses the kingdoms had ever seen, powerful creatures that roared with each stride. But the war was dark, and those knights were betrayed.
Deep in the hills, on a moonless night, the knights were ambushed. They were defeated not by the strength of their enemies, but by the betrayal of those they thought were allies. Their horses, desperate, fled into the forest, but never returned. It was said that instead of finding peace, the horses became trapped between this world and the next, doomed to gallop forever, searching for their fallen riders or perhaps a way to break their cursed fate.
But the true fear wasn’t just seeing the horses—the worst thing was crossing their path. It was said that if someone came face to face with them, something strange would happen. A few days later, that person would begin to fade. First, their reflection in the water would stop matching their movements. Then, their shadow would shrink until, one day, they simply disappeared. And those who vanished left no trace behind, except for a faint impression in the grass, as if a horse had recently passed by.
Misty Hollow knew well what it meant to live under that shadow, for more than one person had disappeared in the hills near the village. First, it was hunters who ventured too far chasing their prey, and then brave travelers who ignored the warnings of the locals. And though those people were never found, the villagers whispered that the horses had taken them, galloping with them into the realm of shadows.
The village witch, an old woman named Mabel, was the only one who seemed to know the full story. No one could remember when she had first come to Misty Hollow; to the younger ones, she had always been there. Mabel, with her snow-white hair and eyes that glowed like faded embers, walked hunched through the village, speaking little and watching much. Sometimes she was seen at the edge of the forest, staring toward the hills as if waiting for something—or someone.
Mabel knew the legends better than anyone and knew they were not just stories to scare children. She said that, in her youth, she had heard of a curse much older than the village itself, a curse that involved those ghostly horses. She would say that if you heard the galloping at night and looked toward the hills, you might catch a glimpse of their silhouettes, but you must never try to follow them. They were the guardians of a realm that was not meant for the living.
On cold nights by the fire, Mabel would tell that the ghost horses were not like ordinary spirits. They could not be scared away with charms or prayers. They were creatures that fed on fear, but also on the curiosity of those who dared to challenge them. If anyone followed them, their soul would be lost forever in the deep forest, trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead, just like the horses themselves.
But there was something else she never shared in her stories, something only whispered in the dark: in her youth, Mabel had seen the horses. She had felt the cold wind around her, had seen the shadows of their manes flowing beneath the stars, and had heard the echo of their hooves in the distance. She had survived, yes, but at a cost. Since then, her dreams were always filled with distant gallops and shadows that watched her from the darkness. She knew they had not forgotten her...