The Black Mare’s Bargain

After years of scrolling through digital campfire tales, I finally decided to pen my own. I apologize if this first attempt feels bloated, but the truth demands its length.

In 2019, I was living in the Pacific Northwest, having fled the oppressive heat of Phoenix for the damp, pine-scented air of Washington State. My chronic bronchitis had made the desert unbearable. I bought a small, run-down ranch near the base of Mount Rainier, a place with a sagging barn and overgrown pastures. I’d always loved horses, and with my new acreage, I thought I’d finally get one or two to keep me company.

One crisp October morning, I found an online auction for a ‘Mystery Horse Lot’ from a seller in Oregon. The listing was sparse: a grainy photo of a dark horse, its mane wild, and a description that read, ‘Black mare, approximately 8 years old. Needs a patient hand. Will come with a halter and a warning.’ I should have heeded that warning.

The drive to the ranch was beautiful, all golden larches and crisp air. The seller, a weathered man named Silas, met me at the gate. He was skinny, with a twitching eye and a grin that didn’t reach his cold eyes. He led me to a paddock where the black mare stood absolutely still, like a statue carved from obsidian. She had a white star on her forehead that seemed oddly bright, and her eyes were the color of molten silver, unnerving and intelligent.

‘She’s a handful,’ Silas said, handing me the lead rope. ‘But she’s got a story. They say she was found wandering after a fire, and she’s been passed around ever since. She’s got a trick, though. At night, if you listen close, you’ll hear her humming. It’s the only sound she ever makes. Don’t sing back.’

I dismissed it as old wives’ tales and loaded her into my trailer. Back home, I named her Nyx, after the goddess of night. She was quiet, obedient, but always watching me with those silver eyes. That first night, as I lay in bed, I heard it: a low, mournful hum emanating from the barn. It was melodic, like a lullaby, but with a tone of ancient sorrow. I pulled my pillow over my head and tried to sleep.

Over the next weeks, I noticed odd things. The horses I later bought, a gentle bay gelding named Rye and a chestnut mare named Cinder, would always keep their distance from Nyx, their ears flat back. My dog, a loyal border collie named Pup, would whine and hide whenever she came near. And the hum continued every night, sometimes growing louder, wrapping around the house like a second skin.

One evening, I was mucking out Nyx’s stall. The lantern light flickered. I found myself humming along with her tune, a haunting melody that I’d never heard before but felt ancient, as if it lived in my bones. As soon as I matched her pitch, she turned her head and stared at me. Her eyes glowed, reflecting the lantern flame like twin fires. Then, she spoke. Not a whinny or a nicker, but a woman’s voice, raspy and old.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said.

I jumped back, dropping the pitchfork. ‘You can talk?’ I stammered.

‘I can do more than that,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been waiting for a new voice. You’ve opened the door.’

Everything went black.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground, the lantern out, the barn pitch black. I could hear Rye and Cinder screaming in their stalls, a horrible, panicked sound. I scrambled to my feet and flicked on my phone’s flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, and I saw Nyx standing in the corner. Her head was bowed, and from her mouth hung a thin, glistening thread – like spider silk – that stretched across the barn and attached to each of my other horses’ foreheads. They were trembling, their eyes rolled white.

Then, the humming began again, but this time it wasn’t just Nyx. It came from Rye and Cinder too, but in their horse voices, a grotesque chorus. And I felt a pull at the back of my skull, as if something was trying to unwind my thoughts.

I ran inside the house, slamming the door. I could still hear the hum, now coming from the walls, vibrating through the floorboards. I grabbed my phone to call for help, but it was dead, the screen showing only a reflection of my own terrified face, which slowly contorted into a horse’s head, its eyes silver.

I spent that night huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth, feeling my thoughts being teased apart like wool. The hum was inside me now, a constant vibration that seemed to hum along with my blood. I was changing.

When dawn broke, I crept to the barn. The horses were gone. Nyx was gone. But on the floor of her stall was a single black hair, long and coarse, and a note written in a spidery script that read: ‘The song was just a key. The door is you now. Find your herd.’

Days passed. I didn’t call anyone. I couldn’t. Every time I tried to speak, only a low hum came out. My reflection in the mirror seemed off, my neck too long, my ears slightly pointed and twitching. I became afraid of my own shadow, and I never slept. The song was always there, humming beneath the silence, pulling at something deep within me.

Then, one night, the door to my bedroom burst open. Silas stood there, his face cracked like dry mud, his eyes gone, replaced by empty sockets. Behind him, in the yard, I saw my horses, but they were changed – their coats were black as tar, and their eyes glimmered silver. They were all humming, a perfect symphony.

‘You’re part of the story now,’ Silas said, in a voice that was not his own, but Nyx’s, clear and chilling. ‘The song has a new verse. Come, we have to find the others. The ones who hummed back.’

I felt my own mouth open, and out came a hum, a harmony to their melody. I walked outside, the cold grass under my bare feet. I didn’t look back. The last thing I remember was the moonlight on the paddock, and my hand feeling strangely long and hairy on the gate.

Now, I write this from a small cabin in the woods, but I am not alone. I have a herd now. And every night, we stand under the stars, and we hum. And if you ever hear a horse humming in the distance, a low and ancient lullaby, do not sing back. Because the song is hungry, and it has a place for you.