The Dullahan by Avery Hunter

Fog thickened over the narrow road as Maeve urged her mare home.

Hooves echoed behind—slow, deliberate. She turned, breath snagging. A rider approached, head cradled in its arm, eyes glowing like lanterns through the mist. The air stank of blood and earth. Her horse reared, screaming, as the Dullahan raised its whip of vertebrae and called her name—once.

Her scream was cut short.

Villagers found the mare wandering at dawn, saddle slick with black blood. No sign of Maeve—except her face, pale and open-mouthed, staring from the Dullahan’s hand as he rode the morning road once more.