“Dark grows near, sense the fear,” a voice, possessing the deep rasp of death, croaked in the sing-song tempo of a nursery rhyme. “Cloak of night, brings Horseman’s plight. His pricy toll, will be a soul. Run and hide, before his ride. Or the dead—“ The face of a haggard old woman peeked around the back of the chair, her mouth open in a wide, toothless grin. A shock of white hair framed her ghastly face, falling to gaunt shoulders in wiry wisps. “—Shall claim ye head.
2
 - Stacey Rourke)
