A smothering silence fell upon the air, the trees and the dark.

Swallowing, I gripped tighter on the rains, slowed my breathing and strained to see the source of the struggle.

Squinting, my eyes fell upon an imposing soldierly figure.

There, silhouetted against the harvest moon was his jagged, headless neck.

He got Ichabod…

Ross Coppage.

A Witness to the Horseman is a post from: Timeless Writing