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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Gang-Buster-5000 on 2026-08-08 03:51:05+00:00.

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I woke up to find a dead horse on the property.

Wasn’t my horse. Hell, wasn’t really a horse either. It was just the skin of a horse. Not the leather or the hide, but the skin. It was splayed out, legs like rubber tubing, the inside smelling of dry sweat.  It was like it was a suit that you could zip out off, or a snake’s shedding. The thing had a sweet odor of death and an aqua scent that made me vomit. By the fuzzy mold and wet smell of it, I’d say it’d been rotting for a while, but I could still make out a brand on its hind leg.

It was from the ranch on the other side of the valley. They were country folk who kept to themselves. They were my neighbors, and they didn’t speak a lick of English. I didn’t mind it all that much, though. They were too superstitious for my blood. Last I went they were dangling bone charms above their stables and blowing some sort of spirit powder on the horses to keep them from getting worms.

They refused to sell to anyone other than their kind. Their produce went directly to the south, deeper into the country, and they steered clear of the big markets that fed into the city. Can’t say I was complaining, but the ranch got lonely in the evenings. It would’ve been nice to have some neighbors I could talk to.

So, I hauled off the untreated horsehide and put it on the truck, steadying myself, trying not to cry as I drove down the earthy road.  I had a soft spot for horses, and it had only been a few weeks since I’d put down old Grace, my white Arabian. She was putting on the years, but she was the sweetest girl right until the end. She’d whine when I got on my truck, and prance around like a dog when I got home. When she was younger, she’d somehow snuck her way into my bedroom and slept beside me. I woke up to the smell of horseshit and a dumb snout sniffing at me. It was the best day of my life.

It was almost dusk by the time I got to my neighbor’s property and drove under the sign that said “ABERN RANCH”. With any luck, the youngest or the oldest would’ve been home from school, and one of ‘em would translate for me. I pulled down by their bungalow, and find the lights on. I walked on over to tell them about the hide, how I found it miles away from their ranch, untreated, and if I could bury it.

That was when I heard it.

The deafening report of rifle fire echoing through the dusk of the valley, coming from further down the road, and screaming. Frantic yells in a foreign language.

Soon enough, I saw a horse, eyes wide with fright, letting out a terrible whine as it galloped  with a sickly speed. In the dark, it seemed like a ghost flying through the air, its white majestic coat sprinting down the dusky fields like a dragon. It had no brand on its thigh, no marking or saddle. It was a horse from the steppes, as wild as they got.

Then another shot rang out. Then another.

I ran to the side of the house and see men on horseback shooting at the screaming animal. I immediately threw myself in their path, holding my arms out.

“Stop!” I yelled. One of the men wrenched on their reins, sending his horse stumbling back, whining, as the two other men continued the chase. It was Jesse, the ranch owner. “Jesus Christ, is it even your horse?” I demanded. The man began spewing out words in a foreign language. Though I did not understand him, the rapid speed of his words, and the quiver in his voice, told me he was afraid. “I can’t understand you!” I barked over the waterfall of frantic panic from the father, the two other boys far into the horizon then, still giving chase. He had four sons, and the youngest was the most fluent in English. “Where is Ayola? Your son?”

As the name left my mouth, the man’s terrified rambling began to crack, as sobs and desperate pleading bubbled up from the madness of his speech, his hands trembling as they wrapped around a rifle. He needed me to understand what he was saying, like his life depended on it. That was when I began to listen.

1. Ayola. Ayola dead. Ayola horse. I could parse those words from his crushing bombardment of terrible fear.

I did not know what else to do, so I dialed 911 and waited. Soon a police cruiser drove by.

They could not understand him either. Neither could I. So I left. Even as the old rancher pleaded with me, on his knees, tears in his eyes and white moustache.

That happening stayed on my mind for days after. Couldn’t get that man’s crying out of my head. He reminded me so much of my own dad, with the ten gallon and starched jeans, the bald head and snow white hair. I tried so many times to try and remember his words, uttering them under my breath as I went about feeding the animals and cleaning the barn. I wouldn’t have to wait long though, as word got around to me that Jesse’s youngest, Ayola, was dead. They say it was murder.

And then I saw the horse again.

It was as majestic as the night I saw it, as though the memory had been pulled out of me and materialized on the grassy knolls. It was spectral, as white as angel’s wings. As white as my sweet old Grace. Looked every bit like her too. Snow white fur, dumb snout and all, save for its tail which was as long as a snake, and fraying. It reminded me of that rotting horse skin I found on the property. Old and derelict, as though it hadn’t wagged in years.

I watched her for hours. Watching that strange strut of hers as she meandered my fields. I’d never seen a horse walk like her. Her footsteps were uncoordinated, as though the hind legs and the front had minds of their own. I watched her stumble around the open empty fields. Poor horse must’ve pulled a muscle from that chase, I thought. Eventually the horse would find its way to the pond. At that moment, she sat on the grass and gulped up the water greedily.

That was when I knew I had to keep her. She sat in Grace’s favorite spot, and lapped at the water the same odd way Grace did, bobbing her head up and down, tongue flicking out like a snake. If I’d taken my glasses off, I might’ve thought it was her. And so I did, and by God she was a dead ringer for my sweet girl.

I came up to her and she nuzzled me immediately. Maybe she recognized me, maybe she thought I saved her from the folks across the valley. One second I was patting her on her snout, the next, despite never having been broken in, I was on her back riding her like the wind.

I named her Gina.

I spent the whole day with her, my eyes wet with tears, my heart glowing with a warmth I’d only ever felt with my sweet Grace. I raised Grace as a fowl, kept her in a kennel most of the time, but unlike the other horses she was sweet with me. Every time I’d set the horses to graze, she’d stay close to me like a little duckling, and nuzzled at my feet like a cat, baying softly as though I was her mother. At some point, I thought of her as my daughter. Some nights I’d take her into the home and let her eat off of a plate, sit her where my daughter, bless her soul, would’ve sat.

But then I took her to the stables. That’s when things started to get strange.

The other horses reared as soon as she stepped inside, screaming and squealing as though she was a tiger. Have you ever heard a terrified horse before? It’s loud, wet, and their fear is contagious. It’s what I imagine hell to sound like, all the whinnying  and neighing as though they were boiling in hellfire. Gina didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t mind. I watched her clamber over to Grace’s old spot and let herself in, horses crying out in terrible fear all the while.

That night I dined alone, as I have for years now. My wife left this world a long time ago, along with my daughter. Just me now. Damned house fire took them away to the great after. It drives me insane some nights, listening as the silverware clanks and echoes around the empty house. It was easier with Grace. Now it wasn’t. Wasn’t easy, I mean. Now the silence was replaced by something worse. That awful crying that roared from the stables, as the sound of horrified horses whined and screamed with restless frenzy. It was the sound of hell. Of fire. I wondered then if my wife and little girl had sounded like those horses in the barn, trapped in the attic as fire consumed our home.

I went to bed that night as that horrific sound echoed across the valley. As I did, I had terrible dreams. I dreamed of fire, of devils, of dark men in the shadows always behind me, stalking, lurking. I dreamed that every time I turned around they would sink into my shadow, waiting for something to happen, something I did not know.

That was when I woke up to find two men standing by my bed. Black as the night sky. Their eyes were snow whites, cataracts the color of clouds. The color of pale death. They stood over my bed, naked, watching, with giant smiles, teeth inhumanly white. They were listening, listening to that damned screaming. But that's when I realized it. The barn was quiet.

I blinked and they were gone. I was alone in my bedroom, heart trashing in my chest, hairs standing at attention, as though running away from my body, from the fear.

I took the gun under my bed and looked around, and found nobody. I looked out the window and saw the barn doors were wide open, swinging in the wind.

Taking my coat, I headed for the barn, the tall, dewy grass brushing against my shins. It was freezing out, the cold crisp air like needles in my throat. I find the barn empty, save for Gina.

That morning I filed a report with the police. Eleven missing horses, I said, all ...

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