The Hollow Rider

I. Whispers in the Pines

The village of Black Hollow sat in the cradle of a dying forest. The trees stood crooked like bent old men, their branches clutching at the fog that never seemed to lift. Only one road led in or out, a narrow dirt path called Gallows Way. The name was no accident

Every October, when the frost crept early and the moon swelled orange, the villagers locked their doors and prayed—for Gallows Way became the haunt of something ancient. Something headless.

They called it the Hollow Rider.

A creature without a face, mounted on a steed as black as pitch, hooves striking fire against the ground. It wore the armor of a forgotten age, rusted yet unbroken, its spine visible where a neck should be. Those who saw it never spoke again—if they returned at all.

II. The Stranger

The year was 1892 when Malcolm Vane arrived in Black Hollow. He was a man of logic, a self-proclaimed scholar of folklore, hunting tales to debunk them. With a leather satchel and notebook in hand, he strode into the Hollow with the confidence of someone who believed fear was an illusion.

At the local inn—The Crow’s Nest—Malcolm questioned the barkeep, an older woman with clouded eyes and a tight mouth.

“You mean to walk Gallows Way?” she asked, her hands trembling as she poured him cider.

“I mean to walk it, ride it, and sleep on it if necessary,” Malcolm replied with a smirk.

The barkeep leaned in close. “Don’t think the Rider cares for skeptics. He doesn’t need belief. He needs blood.”

Malcolm chuckled. “We’ll see.”

III. The First Night

Malcolm ventured out just after dusk. The wind howled low, dragging dead leaves across the earth like dry whispers. He set up camp on the roadside, placing a lantern by his tent and scrawling notes beneath it.

Hours passed. Silence grew. Then came the sound—distant at first, like a drumbeat.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

Malcolm rose, heart thumping despite himself. The air grew heavy. Trees on either side of the road bowed inward as if trying to flee.

From the mist rode a figure. Tall. Armored. Headless.

The Hollow Rider.

Its mount neighed like thunder. Sparks flew from its hooves. In its hand, the Rider held not a sword—but a long-handled axe, its blade cracked and stained.

Malcolm stepped back, disbelief frozen on his face.

The Rider halted, facing him with the blank space where its head should have been. And then, it raised the axe.

IV. The Escape

Malcolm ran.

Through thorns and branches, he tore blindly, the sound of hooves behind him like war drums. He stumbled, fell, bled—but kept running.

When he reached the village edge, the sound stopped. He turned—nothing. No hoofprints. No broken branches. Just silence.

He collapsed on the inn's porch, panting, mud-streaked, eyes wide.

“I saw it,” he muttered. “It’s real.”

The barkeep only nodded. “It always is.”

V. The Legend

The next day, Malcolm demanded answers. Old Tomas, the village gravedigger, obliged. He was the oldest soul in Black Hollow, his back twisted but his mind sharp.

“The Hollow Rider was once a man,” Tomas rasped. “A soldier turned butcher. A killer of his own kin in the war. They say he wore black armor and drank from his victims’ skulls.

When peace came, he was captured and sentenced to hang. But the rope snapped—three times. So they bound him in chains and beheaded him on Gallows Way. Buried him deep.

But he didn’t stay buried.”

Malcolm swallowed. “How do you stop him?”

Tomas smiled grimly. “You don’t. You either stay out of his path—or give him what he’s missing.”

Malcolm frowned. “His head?”

“No,” Tomas said. “Rest.”

VI. The Pact

That night, Malcolm returned to Gallows Way. Not to defy the Rider—but to speak to him.

He brought offerings: a soldier’s medal, a black helm from the inn’s hearth, and a letter he’d written—an apology, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

The mist came quickly. So did the hoofbeats.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

The Hollow Rider emerged once more, looming above Malcolm.

“I don’t want to fight,” Malcolm said, holding up the items. “I want to understand.”

The Rider paused. Wind howled louder. And then… it dismounted.

The earth groaned beneath its steps. It reached for the helm with skeletal fingers, then paused. The mist swirled violently.

Suddenly, a voice—not from lips, but inside Malcolm’s skull:

“You dare offer symbols in place of soul?”

Malcolm screamed. Blood dripped from his ears.

The Rider raised its axe. Malcolm staggered back—but something inside him clicked.

“Take mine!” he shouted. “Take my peace! If that’s what you want—take it!”

The axe stopped.

The Rider lowered its weapon. Then, it vanished, sucked into the ground like dust in a storm. The forest fell silent.

Malcolm stood alone, ears ringing, heart still. He felt hollow. Not empty—but drained, as if something vital had been pulled from him.

VII. Aftermath

Malcolm stayed in Black Hollow for weeks. The Rider did not return. The mist lifted. Birds returned to the trees.

But Malcolm was changed. He no longer laughed. He spoke softly, moved slowly, and slept little. He never left the village again.

Some say he became a guardian of sorts, watching the road every October, eyes scanning the mist. Others believe the Rider took more than his peace—that it left a part of itself behind.

On cold nights, villagers claim they see a figure walking Gallows Way. A man, not headless—but not whole.

They call him the Watcher.

And the Rider?

They say he sleeps—for now.

But no one travels the road after dark.

Not ever.

"All images used in this story were generated with the assistance of ChatGPT and sourced inspiration from publicly available references on Google"