Your Gothic Nightmare

Death on a Pale Horse
scenario by James Wood, age 18

A lone rider waited. The sodden ground of the field was pierced here and there with stones; mud stained the skirt hems and trouser legs of those crowded there. A muted murmur hung over the throng like a dark cloud. The scent of fear was growing ever more pungent. Upon their brows He could see each individual droplet of sweat form and trickle downwards, to be blinked out of nervous eyes. His mount whinnied and He patted its neck. It could sense the approaching event as well as He could.

Somewhere on the field, a child began to cry. He drew his vaporous blade holding it straight out before him. The pale blue, wraithlike light emanating from it appeared dazzling against the grim field, yet none noticed its glow. A sharp crack sounded behind him, unheard to all but He and his mount. Turning, he saw the lesser Fiends begin to appear, drawn by the heady miasma hovering above the plain. Parasites, He thought. Turning back to the field, He kicked with His heels, setting His mount in motion.

It began.

Even as the thunderous roar boomed across the field and the crowd screamed as one, He was at work. One fell: a man. Another man, far across the field, and a woman beside him. Next a small boy, trampled by his own family as they turned and fled. Sulphurous fumes began to creep across the field, blinding them, but not Him. Now an old man, now another, now a brother and sister: He took them as one. His mount leapt over three friends, together in the End. As He swung his ethereal blade downwards to release a young girl, He sensed a look of understanding briefly enter her innocent face. Then she was gone. He rode on. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters: it mattered not. All fell, all. After all, He thought: Death is Death.

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