“This stallion,” said Grandpa, a twinkle in his eye, “will bewitch those Nightmares and keep you safe.” The charm was bone white; whittled from the wood of a skeleton tree.
“Nightmares are part of growing to Witch-hood,” huffed Grandma, but she let me keep it.
That night I clasped it tight and when sleep finally came my stallion appeared, and I wound my fingers through its mane, and rested my head against its sturdy shoulder, and knew peace.
The night Grandpa died, my stallion came again; a white knight upon his back.
That night I knew Grandpa was gone for good.
This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers. See the other stories here on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site.