# Weird Tales/Volume 9/Issue 1/The Night Rider

​A Short Ghost Story
The Night Rider
By August W. Derleth
"Up, Madonna!"
There was a silence.
"Bah! The old crone has fallen asleep."
Messer Morini rose, walked over to the sleeper, and shook her vehemently.
"Up, Madonna Lucrezia, up!"
"Eh? eh? What is it, Messer Morini?"
"Up, Madonna. Can you not hear the hoof-beats of some rider in the distance on the highway?"
"You dream, Messer. There is nothing. Away with you. Let me sleep."
He moved away, grumbling. Madonna Lucrezia's head sank upon her breast and she drowsed. Messer Morini vanished through the heavy curtains at one extremity of the room. He walked through an ill-lighted passageway to where a heavily paneled door loomed before him. He unlatched the door and walked quietly out into the still, summer night, through the court to the iron paling separating him from the highway, which stretched itself far in the distance on either side, a ghastly white in the moonlight. The sound of hard riding came to him and he stood still, listening. The sound came nearer and nearer, and he wondered who rode so close to the hour of midnight. There was a low mumbling sound behind him, and he heard the heavy door swing softly to. He turned. Madonna Lucrezia had followed him. The hoof-beats sounded nearer. He turned to the old woman at his side.
"Now tell me that I was in error, Madonna!"
"You dream," she answered, and smothered a yawn.
"Dream, Madonna! Bah! You are yet in your sleep."
And he turned away and looked up the road to where he could discern a dark speck moving swiftly toward him.
"There, Madonna," he indicated the rider, "there, can you deny the evidence of your eyes?"
The woman stared at him suspiciously and remained silent.
"Dreaming? I, dreaming? Now say that I dream, Madonna."
Still the old woman did not answer. She frowned and glanced up at him, her thin, bloodless lips twisted into a sullen grin. The rider was almost up to them.
"See the superb white steed he rides, Madonna. And his wondrous silver cloak! His doublet, too, is silver, but there is a stain, as of blood, upon it. His face I can not see. It seems a mist is before it."
The rider swept by, but still the old woman said nothing, staring at Messer Morini gesticulating and pointing at the night rider fast disappearing down the road.
Messer Morini swore softly under his breath.
"By the Madonna, but he looked like my son, my Alessandro. If it were not that I could not see his face! ​Did he not resemble my son, Madonna?"
The old woman made no answer, but turned and entered the house, crooning softly to herself. He followed her, grumbling.
"Bah! The old hag walks in her sleep."
In the house she sat again by the fireplace, still crooning as she watched the flames lick at the stones to the sides. Messer Morini sat near.
"I wonder, Madonna."
He lapsed into silence. The old woman chuckled a bit, but gave no hint of having heard Messer Morini, and went on with her crooning.
"I wonder what my son could be doing riding near here. Could he have deserted the army? Or could the invader, Charles, have defeated and routed our troops? It is not likely so."
He mused.
It was high noon. The hot sun beat down upon the court, wilting even the blades of grass. Messer Morini dozed in the shade of a huge tree near the iron paling. A bird chirped shrilly as it hopped merrily about on the sun-dial near by. No breath of air stirred the leaves above Messer Morini's head.
Suddenly the distant clatter of hoofs resounded in the courtyard. The bird ceased its chirping and stood quite still in the shadow on the dial. Messer Morini raised his head. A breath of air came and rustled the leaves of the tree. The hoof-beats sounded louder. From somewhere in the house came a muffled sound. The horseman came nearer. Messer Morini rose and leaned over the gate to stare up the road. A sharp edge caught and tore his doublet a little. Madonna Lucrezia stood in the doorway. The rider appeared up the road. The bird on the sun-dial flew up into the tree and hid itself among the leaves. Madonna Lucrezia moved forward and took her stand at Messer Morini's side. The rider came on, slackening his pace as he approached the two leaning over the gate.
"He is of the army," Messer Morini whispered.
Madonna Lucrezia grunted in reply.
The horseman pulled to a stop before the two.
"Ho, Messer. Is this the house of Messer Morini?"
"You address him."
"I am instructed to inform you that your son, Alessandro, was killed last night just before the midnight hour in an encounter with the invading Charles. He received a poniard stab in the breast."
He bowed to Messer Morini, put the spurs to his horse and turned away in a cloud of dust.
"My son! Alessandro! Dead!"
Messer Morini shook his fist at the fast-vanishing figure.
"Bearer of ill tidings. A curse on you!"
He turned to the woman.
"You heard him, Madonna?"
The old woman nodded assent.
"Aye, I heard him."
"I would have sworn it was my son who rode last night!"
The woman turned on him.
"You were mad last night, Messer Morini."
"How, mad?"
"Mad! For, while you pointed, gesticulated, shouted descriptions into my ears of some rider who you affirmed passed, I neither heard nor saw a solitary living thing upon the road!"
And she moved toward the house, chuckling.