The Ghosts of Marston Moor

The mist clung to the roadside like a living thing, thick and unyielding in the dim October evening. Emma Thompson’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she navigated the winding road home, her thoughts lingering on the warmth of her friend’s cottage. Then, in the beam of her headlights, they appeared—three figures standing motionless by the verge, their silhouettes draped in the elaborate finery of another century. Plumed hats, heavy cloaks, the gleam of sword hilts at their sides. Her breath hitched. Re-enactors, she told herself. But as her car rolled closer, their faces turned toward her, pale and hollow-eyed, glowing with an otherworldly light. The air grew colder. And then, before she could react, they dissolved into the mist.