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Legend of the headless rider

This is a true story!!!

It was the summer of 1975 when a few friends and I were gathered at my house, bored and restless. Someone suggested we go for a ride and look for the the headless rider. There were six of us girls and two girls were new to our town that we befriended at school, however, they were not familiar with the legend. We piled into an old station wagon that one friend borrowed from their parents and off we went into the night. There is a stretch of country road that begins at a four-way stop sign and crosses over a small ditch with a single lane bridge. An old withered, white, wooden house sits midway between the stop sign and bridge. Rumor has it that an old widow woman that was married to the town’s undertaker lives alone in the house. Coffins can be seen in her parlor if one dares to sneak onto the porch and look through the window, however, the old widow woman is said to dabble in witchcraft and strange things happen to those who bother her. Back to the legend, apparently, years and years before, the widow woman’s young son was riding his motorcycle much too fast down this country road on his way home late one August night and wrecked off the small bridge and was killed instantly when his head was decapitated as his body was hurled through a barbed-wire fence along the ditch bank. In fact, legend tells it that at just past midnight during the month of August, the single headlight of his motorcycle can be seen racing up and down this haunted stretch of country road between the stop sign unto the bridge. Of course, this is where we headed, giggling and telling our new friends about the legend. When we reached the stop sign, the giggling subsided as we cautiously proceeded down the road. When we reached the bridge, we turned around and started back toward the stop sign again, having to pass by the creepy old witch house in the process. Not seeing the headless rider’s light anywhere, we decided to amuse ourselves by daring each other to go onto the porch of the old widow woman and peek into her window at the coffin. At last, the two new girls and I were nominated to undertake this feat. The driver stopped the car in the middle of the road and the three of us boldly approached the old house. The air was still and even at midnight, the August temperature was well in the nineties. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on my brow as we slowly stepped onto the wooden porch steps. The wood creaked beneath our weight and we hesitated, fearing the old woman may appear in the front door with a shot gun at any time. We inched our way toward the parlor window which was draped with a tethered old lace curtain. A faint yellow glow illuminated from inside the house. Just as we reached the window and were prepared to look inside, a shadowy figure passed by the window from inside the house. Needless to say, the three of us turned and ran, leaping off the porch, and sprinted back to the car, screeching at the top of our lungs. “Go, go, go,” I screamed at the driver as we piled into the back seat. Laughter filled the car from six teen-aged girls as we burned rubber away from the house. Then to my anguish, I discovered that my purse was missing. A drivers license is the single most important document a sixteen year-old girl can possess and it was in my purse that had vanished. “Stop!” I yelled. “We have to go back.” Apparently during the commotion to get back into the car, somebody kicked my purse out onto the road. Reluctantly, we turned the car around and slowly proceeded back toward the house, scanning the sides of the road the entire way. “There!” Someone shouted. In the center of the road was my hair brush. We stopped and I hopped out to grab my brush and quickly jumped back into the car. A few yards farther, my wallet lay in the center of the road. Again, I hopped out and retrieved my possession. When we reached the house, to all our terror, my purse was leaning against the top of the porch step, as if someone or something had placed it there. Although, I begged the others to come with me, no-one volunteered. I crawled from the backseat. My heart was racing as I approached the porch step, grabbed my purse and sprinted back to the car. It was the longest run of my life. My friends were calling to me to hurry. The panic in their voices scared me to death and I could only imagine what might be behind me as I ran toward the car. They held the door open as I dove in and the driver floored the accelerator. As I sat up in the seat, all eyes were staring behind the car. Two girls were crying. “What is it?” I asked. “Look behind us,” one girl screamed. I twisted around to see a single headlight racing up the country road behind us. I looked back at the clock radio in the dashboard and it was five minutes past midnight. The motorcycle light was traveling extremely fast and my friends were in hysterics. The light raced up to our rear window and disappeared over the top of our car. It reappeared in front of us, only now it glowed red, like a tail light until it reached the bridge and then it vanished. We turned the car around and raced back to the stop sign and kept going as fast we could all the way back to my house. I have never returned to that stretch of country road haunted by the headless rider again.

(Sent in by Leachbooks)


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