Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

The storm moved on, its growls softened, and as the road dipped toward the open fields beyond the woodland, Adam dove into fog so thick the falling rain had no effect on its presence. It lay on the asphalt like a layer of whipped cream over coffee and spread between the trees, creating a pallid background for their crooked forms.

But the rhythmic clop behind him wouldn’t die down and picked up its pace when the edge of the forest was only a brief jog away.

Adam bit his cheek and moved to the side of the road, trying to keep his body language casual, but when the road led him between two slopes where the air was thick with white swirls of fog, his heart sped up.

And so did the hoof beats.

He spun around, ready to defend himself, but the road was empty, as if he’d imagined it all.

Adam’s shoulders sagged. This was all his mother’s fault. She’d been the one to bombard him with strange stories about his new placement when Dybukowo was a village like any other, and he’d have never gotten so paranoid if he’d arrived in daytime.

Groaning with displeasure when the hood of his jacket rolled back and exposed his face to the elements, he faced the dark gray expanse beyond the trees, but as soon as he put one foot in front of the other, a black shape parted the fog as if the air were frozen water and the creature—an ice breaker. Adam expected horns on the demon’s head, but as the beast pounded its hooves against the asphalt, dashing straight at him, Adam realized it was a horse.

Tall as a van, bulky, with a long mane, and hair around its hoofs, the draft horse whinnied in warning, and Adam rushed off the road just before the animal could have smashed into him. He let out a strangled cry when his shoe slipped, and he rolled into a ditch filled with moss and wet ferns. But at least he was safe.

Adam’s teeth clattered when he dragged himself out of the mud, but he stopped breathing when, against the perfect blackness of the trees, he saw the horse make a U-turn, as if it no longer charged into some imaginary war it was fighting with the fog. Lightning cracked the sky again, at a distance this time, but its white glow painted the perfect gothic picture when it illuminated the massive steed as it reared uncomfortably close to Adam.

He took air in sharp gasps, watching the animal return its front legs to the asphalt. Its beady eyes focused on Adam as if it took him for a predator to be cautious of, but it wasn’t running. It just watched.

The weather didn’t seem to have much effect on the giant, though when the wind blew from behind it, the water clinging to the equine’s mane sprinkled Adam’s face.

He remained motionless, in case something about his behavior would trigger yet more aggression in the animal, but when the horse leaned closer, inhaling Adam’s smell, tension slowly left his body and soaked into the moss.

“Uh… hi there,” he said, unsure how to proceed, but when the baby-soft skin of the horse’s muzzle rubbed his cheek, Adam touched the firm neck. “Good boy.”

“Jinx! Jinx, you bastard, come back here!” a man yelled somewhere from beyond the fog, hammering heavy boots on the asphalt at a frantic pace.

Adam was so thoroughly drenched that any chances of making a good first impression on the pastor lay in the chocolates, but at least there was someone he could ask whether he hadn’t taken the wrong turn somewhere after all.

A flashlight shone into his face the moment he stepped from behind the animal, forcing him to shut his eyes. “Um… Is this horse yours?” he asked, peeling his lids apart when the bright ray pointed at his ruined shoes instead.

The stranger shook his head, his silhouette still a blur when he approached in fast strides. “The fuck you doing here at night? Sitting in ditches to scare people like some drowner? Damn…”

Adam lost his voice at the onslaught of swearing, but when he saw the stranger’s face, it became impossible to say anything even when he tried.

Eyes framed by long lashes pinned him in place so firmly, it felt as if the ferns had curled around his feet like tentacles and kept him in place. If this man said the word, Adam would have been ready to make love to him here and now. In the rain, in a ditch, with wind howling above them and lightning striking each time either of them thrust their hips seeking illicit pleasure. And for no reason at all, he was sure their kisses would taste of raspberries and blood.

The man’s combat boots were tied halfway up, and he wore an all-black outfit of sweatpants and a T-shirt, which featured the word BEHEMOTH and an upside-down cross. And while Adam at first assumed he had long sleeves, he quickly realized the black and white patterns covering his entire arms were in fact tattoos. His hair was as long as the horse’s mane, and the wind tossed it back and forth, slapping it against the man’s face like black tentacles, only to peel the damp locks back and uncover the devastating beauty of his features. It was difficult to tell how old he was, but thirty was Adam’s wild guess.