A Short Ghost Story
The Night Rider
By August W. Derleth
"Up, Madonna!"
There was a silence.
"Bah! The old crone has fallen asleep."
Messer Morini rose, walked over to the sleeper, and shook her vehemently.
"Up, Madonna Lucrezia, up!"
"Eh? eh? What is it, Messer Morini?"
"Up, Madonna. Can you not hear the hoof-beats of some rider in the distance on the highway?"
"You dream, Messer. There is nothing. Away with you. Let me sleep."
He moved away, grumbling. Madonna Lucrezia's head sank upon her breast and she drowsed. Messer Morini vanished through the heavy curtains at one extremity of the room. He walked through an ill-lighted passageway to where a heavily paneled door loomed before him. He unlatched the door and walked quietly out into the still, summer night, through the court to the iron paling separating him from the highway, which stretched itself far in the distance on either side, a ghastly white in the moonlight. The sound of hard riding came to him and he stood still, listening. The sound came nearer and nearer, and he wondered who rode so close to the hour of midnight. There was a low mumbling sound behind him, and he heard the heavy door swing softly to. He turned. Madonna Lucrezia had followed him. The hoof-beats sounded nearer. He turned to the old woman at his side.
"Now tell me that I was in error, Madonna!"
"You dream," she answered, and smothered a yawn.
"Dream, Madonna! Bah! You are yet in your sleep."
And he turned away and looked up the road to where he could discern a dark speck moving swiftly toward him.
"There, Madonna," he indicated the rider, "there, can you deny the evidence of your eyes?"
The woman stared at him suspiciously and remained silent.
"Dreaming? I, dreaming? Now say that I dream, Madonna."
Still the old woman did not answer. She frowned and glanced up at him, her thin, bloodless lips twisted into a sullen grin. The rider was almost up to them.
"See the superb white steed he rides, Madonna. And his wondrous silver cloak! His doublet, too, is silver, but there is a stain, as of blood, upon it. His face I can not see. It seems a mist is before it."
The rider swept by, but still the old woman said nothing, staring at Messer Morini gesticulating and pointing at the night rider fast disappearing down the road.
Messer Morini swore softly under his breath.
"By the Madonna, but he looked like my son, my Alessandro. If it
were not that I could not see his face!
