Just a little prompted writing...
Something I wrote in March for DWP.
“There’s a ghost wind blowing.” Seraphina said to herself as she stood on her decaying porch looking out at the turbulent twilight sky. An icy breeze spawned and picked up momentum, howling and whistling its way through the ancient oak trees. As she studied the swift movement of the gray clouds overhead, the thick black curls of her hair lifted and twisted wildly. The tasseled ends of her shawl and the hem of her flamboyant gypsy-like dress flapped violently against her back and legs as the gusts grew in ferocity. The foretelling signs did not bode well. Seraphina sniffed the air; the current carried on it the scent of damp earth. Quickly she turned her back on the scene, briskly walking into her small chalet and closing the door behind her. She hurried to the windows intent on closing the shutters before the rain began to fall. The mist had arrived before she’d even managed to secure the first of the windows and tendrils of a dense fog were crawling ever closer.
She ran to the second window and froze, paralyzed with fear; all she could do was watch as the four riders galloped into visibility one after the other. The Victor passed the window first on a strong white horse, bow in hand and crown planted firmly upon his head. The second rider appeared to be a bloodthirsty brute. He carried a large sword and was battle ready, his headstrong mount, a fiery red. A scale swung in the hands of the rider of the thin black horse, he spoke but its words were inaudible over the rushing of the winds. The riders paid her no attention, they kept moving, pushing onward toward some unknown destination.
Panic set in and Seraphina willed herself to move but her feet wouldn’t budge. She tried to gain control of her wits, to look away but she was bewitched and could not turn. Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest, her breathing quickened and neared hyperventilation as the fourth and final rider came into view. Slowly the emaciated pale green horse and skeletal rider reached the window.
The horse stopped and Death turned his skull to face Seraphina through the glass-less window. She looked into the deep black void of his eyeless sockets and was mortally terrified, her legs buckled as her heart burst in her chest. She crumpled and fell to the floor where she lay dying of fright. Death turned and continued riding on the fog, following his brethren through the isolated wood. Moments later the spirit of Seraphina rose and took to the icy winds howling and whistling her way through the ancient oak trees.