A ghost story entitled, ‘The Face of the Horse’
Some say the horse’s face never really appeared and that any claims to the contrary are nothing but fictional fancies. Had they seen what I saw, high on Bone Hill in the dead of night, they would soon change their tune.
It was bitterly cold with a swirling mist, silvered by milky moonlight shrouding the moor, when that ghastly and ghostly face met mine. And yes, it was indeed ‘making it’s will’ deep into the turf, pawing curses on each of those drunken sots whose weight, combined, had hastened the creature’s demise and caused it to collapse. It is said there were eight, but assuming ‘and all’ be true, we shall never know how many madmen mounted that burdened back.
Small wonder, on winter nights in the Rugglestone Inn with the Widdecombe wind sweeping down from the moor, the haunted face of that horse still stares up from my glass.
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