The sun has long set, and the darkness has taken over. Nolan alone walks the streets now but even he, a boy brought up to believe that all legends were nothing but myth, cannot deny that there is an uncanny feeling about the empty pathways that lead in and out of town. He has nothing to fear, yet something makes him weary. It is almost as though someone is following him. He stops once to hear the sound of footsteps behind him, but there is none.

With each step he takes, his fear mounts, but each time he stops, he hears nothing. Only once, he hears a sound and somehow, it is worse than not hearing anything at all. He listens as the sounds come closer, become louder, and fade away as they go farther away from him. The sounds reach his ears, but there is no one. Neither in front of him nor behind. It is the first time he has strayed away from home at night and now, he cannot help but wonder if the myths were true. Rumours that strange things happen after sundown.

He has seen for himself that queer things happen when the sun has receded into the dark depths of night. He had once questioned if the banshee, the spirit who had caused it all, existed too. He had heard mournful cries every night for a few days. Even without having children of his own, but knowing that the death of a child can cause such cries to spill forth from the one who brought them into the world, he had wondered if it could have been the monster's keening instead. Now he knows for a fact that it is her. It does not scare him as much, but he cannot trust her despite knowing the truth.

He knows that it is not wise to go to the woods after sundown. Even Aislinn herself had told him so, and he knows that she is right, but he has not visited her for a while, choosing instead to mend his broken trust. He has decided to seek her out today and right his wrongs. He hopes nothing will stop him from doing so. What can be more dangerous than visiting a banshee even though she wouldn't be visible to you?

For a while longer, there is no further sighting of anything queer but if the tales are true, he knows there will be more to come. The womenfolk of their town have never run short of such occurrences to speak of, and it is now that he truly hopes that such creatures do not stray beyond the land of dreams. As it gets darker, he hears sounds of wailing around him but walks forward resolutely. He will not be daunted by legends of old. Just as he reaches the path that will lead him, something else catches his eye.

Something moves in the shadows, and he strains his eyes to see past the misty veil in the air. He can make out the faint outline of a rider. A rider in black. He sits upon his black horse, his head obscured from sight. He holds something in his hand, something quite round, maybe a prized possession to take back home. On another hand he holds a whip, perhaps for his horse. Nolan does not try too hard to look into the rider's face as he knows that the man sits too high up. Moreover, it is too dark for him to decipher the man's identity.

He does not know where the man comes from. He does not know where he goes. Nobody does. The rider is merely a phantom who passes by. A phantom who neither hurts nor helps the people who come by him. Every night, he merely rides that way, or so the tales seem to tell. It does not escape Nolan's notice that the road around the rider is thick with mist. He cannot see if the rider touches the ground or merely floats. He wonders if it is the rider of the black coach that he had seen not so long ago. This man does not seem much different to him.

Nolan knows that tales speak of such a man's coming and going, yet he assumes that it could just as well be any other traveler who either knows nothing, or does not fear the myths that are frequently spoken of in town. Suddenly, the desire to know consumes him- the desire to find out if it is all an elaborate lie- and before he knows it, he finds himself walking towards the black rider. One foot in front of another, he keeps going until he can almost reach out to the rider.

For a brief moment, it does not seem as if the rider notices him at all. It is almost as if he is merely a spectator- non-existent and unreal. Suddenly, he goes still. The man does not hold any treasure. It is a severed head. Whose, he does not know, for he never gets an opportunity to look at the rider's head. All he sees is that the eyes still move around before fixating on his own with a chilling glare. Before he can observe the macabre scene in front of him any further, he notices the whip on the rider's hand. It gleams white like ivory. Ivory indeed, he thinks grimly when the indentions on it make it appear like a spine. A human spine.

The horror in his eyes grows as he tries to scamper away, but he is too late. The last thing he sees is the whip splicing through the air, coming straight towards his face. He knows now who this creature is, but it is too late to fish for his gold- not that he had it on him in the first place. He tries to murmur his prayers even as he attempts to avert his gaze, but there is no time. The whip comes closer and closer until he can see no more. There is a sharp sting of pain across his eyes and he can feel the blood spill forth freely. The pain is blinding- he cannot even call out for help. He drags himself back through the path he thinks he came from, feeling whatever he can with bruising fingers, trying to get back home until he no longer can. He can hear the faint call of his name coming from the woods. The voice is terrifying, but he does not care as he gives in to the darkness.