Summary: “The horseman who rides atop his alabaster steed, cloaked in crimson without a head.”
In the sleepy town of Moorwick, you are drawn into the legend of horseman when you learn it is associated with your father’s disappearance twenty years ago. When the local ghost story turns to be anything but that, and a bargain goes awry, you delve into Moorwick’s dark history with hopes of saving more than just yourself.
Chapter Eight: The mystery deepens as you confront the one person who may know more about Colson’s intentions than anyone else: Theodore Sinclair. As the nature of your relationship to the Horseman evolves, you’re left wondering what it all means.
Chapter notes: 6.9k, some grotesque imagery and mentions of abuse
It was midday on a Tuesday near the end of July when Theodore Sinclair heard your footsteps on the dock and looked up from his boat. You were an odd peculiarity from the rest of the world around him; the garish red raincoat on your shoulders was a staggering contrast to the glum, damp stone under your feet, and almost blackened clouds distending and smothering the stacked, terracotta-colored structures in town. Although Moorwick was entering the ripeness of summer, there were scarce traces of green anywhere aside from skinny wisps of tall grasses which were mostly submerged in pockets of rainwater and mud, and the looming presence of the forest well off into the distance.
The rain had tapered off today, inspiring the curiosity of many heads to peer through cracks in their doors and windows to see how else the weather fared. Within a few hours, once the downpours waned to soft pattering atop sleek canopies of vinyl, the town resumed its regular, busy scurry with plenty of fervor and delight. You were among the bustle, though reserving yourself to much more purpose than the others who were simply excited to stand outside for any millisecond of time without fearing their umbrellas may collapse beneath the weight released from the clouds.
You had made it to the docks without much issue by man or weather, unsure of how to position your feelings in discovering that Theodore was not thwarted by the elements as well. At first, you weren’t sure what you had come across those first steps onto the wood slabs; only spotting a large figure hunched over a red tackle box, seemingly garbed in black rubber suspenders, green flannel, and hat to match it. It didn’t move until the weight of your heel made the board creak, luring the dark thing enough to peek across a shoulder at you, and instantly assuaging your apprehensions.
Theodore took his time to bait a couple of fishing hooks and load the poles they were on into a rather shabby-seeming boat. It couldn’t seat many comfortably, you guessed three at most due to the engine and propeller mounted off the back of it, and had faded red banding wrapped around it. You couldn’t say you expected a wealthy recluse like Theodore Sinclair to own something so dented and worn.
He saw your expression and sniffed, giving the side of the boat a light nudge with the toe of his boot.
