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Across Stockholm’s empty backstreets, rain fell in steady sheets, smearing neon reflections into watery blurs. Paused between breaths, between lives, the city held its silence. Leo Eklund hunched deeper into his hoodie as he stepped off his bike and approached the abandoned intersection. Streetlights flickered above cracked asphalt. Water pooled in the center, a mirror with no reflection.
He stopped at the puddle. Circular. Too perfect. Too still.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. No one. Just the wet hush of Södermalm sleeping through another storm.
Kneeling, he wiped rain from his cracked phone screen and pulled up Nova’s last video—fuzzy, vertical, already stitched a dozen times by teens reenacting the same TikTok dare. Her voice came through faint and brittle beneath the hiss of rainfall: “White Horse, come and see, one from the water, two for me…”
Leo scoffed. “God, Nova…” He paused the video, thumb hovering.
The puddle rippled.
Not from the rain. Though the drops kept falling, they veered off-center, drawn to something beneath the surface. Around him, the air grew thick, sound collapsing inward. Behind him, the street dimmed—quiet as a theater losing its house lights.
Leo blinked, heart punching once, hard. He looked again.
A pale shape emerged through the black water. Not bursting—rising, breath forming from vapor. First the muzzle, elongated and glistening. Then eyes—black, depthless, too large. The horse surfaced in silence, streams of water sliding off its mane in slow, unnatural lines.
Leo didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
He should’ve run. Backed away, called someone, done something. Instead, he whispered to no one, “…what the hell is this?”
The horse, half-formed in the puddle, dragged itself free from the dark water, carved from the storm. Rain poured through its mane but never hit the ground. Droplets clung to it, shimmering in slow motion before sliding off and vanishing into steam.
Leo’s breath caught in his chest. The creature was beautiful in a way that felt wrong—elegant and monstrous, a statue bleeding. Its flanks shimmered with reflections that didn’t match the street. Its hooves stirred no splash, no sound.
Its eyes locked onto his. Not the way animals look—curious or cautious. This was direct. Intentional. Known.
Leo’s fingers twitched. “You’re not… real,” he said, voice cracking, the words dissolving into the rain.
He didn’t run.
The rational part of him—the part that had survived family fights, lockdowns, and algorithm-fed lies—told him to move, to back away, to do something. But something older kept him rooted. Something beneath instinct.
The horse blinked. Water slid down its lashes like oil.
Leo’s lips parted. He didn’t know why. Speaking felt dangerous, as if the silence was a thread stretched too tight. As if a single word would snap it.
Then it leaned in—barely a tilt of the head—but enough. Enough to feel it.
Recognition. Not curiosity. Not hunger. It knew him.
Leo’s stomach went cold. He didn’t know how, but the certainty was sharp—like a name whispered in a voice that wasn’t his own.
He swallowed. “You saw her.” The horse moved.
One step—measured, deliberate. Its hoof touched the water’s surface, and ripples rolled out wide, distorting the puddle’s edge, warping reflections of streetlights and rooftops into stretched, liquid shapes. Another step, and the ripples pushed farther than they should, brushing against Leo’s soaked sneakers as if the surface tension had decided to reach out.
He flinched. Instinct snapped in. Two steps back—fast, clumsy. “Okay,” he breathed. “Nope. Nope, no—”
But the horse didn’t follow. It loomed there, tall and impossibly quiet, as if it had all the time in the world. Rain ran down its shoulders, ink through paper. Black, glinting eyes stayed fixed on his. Waiting.
Not hunting. Not chasing.
Inviting.
Leo’s lungs burned. His pulse thudded behind his teeth. The streetlight above flickered, casting the horse in stuttering silhouettes. Each blink of darkness made it seem closer.
He looked down. The puddle hadn’t grown, but it felt wider. Deeper. The ground beneath him no longer felt like pavement.
Leo swallowed. Pulled his hood back with a wet slap. Rain hit his scalp—cold, clean. He ran a hand over his face, smearing water and sweat, and whispered the name as if saying it too loud might tear it apart.
“Nova.”
The horse didn’t flinch. The puddle shimmered.
Leo stepped forward. Not far—half a pace. But enough to feel the change. The shift. As if the world had exhaled. Or maybe inhaled him.
He closed his eyes for a breath. Opened them again. “Okay,” he said, to no one, to everything. “You want me in? Fine.”
He tightened his fists, jaw locked. If the myth had made a place for her—had taken her—then he’d go after it. He’d follow the story where it didn’t want to be followed.
Because if he didn’t, she was already gone. And he wasn’t leaving her behind.
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Exciting news! Cumberland Chronicles has officially launched on Books2Read! If you're a fan of supernatural, horror, or weird stories, I’d love for you to give it a read. If it’s not quite your style, a quick share would go a long way in helping me connect with the right audience. Thank you for the support!
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