Here is the tale of a ghostly rider—
Dead bones atop a horse named Mënahtuw—
Galloping on from village to village,
In search for some enemy scalps to hew.
A husband stood strong;
Yet, not very long—
The hatchet blade fell,
His head in a well—
That night death mounted and came to our town.
Of course, my dear one, it did not end there,
That savage rider kept coming each night,
Mënahtuw, from its nostrils, breathed hot fire,
Its huge hooves crushed large bones with lots of fright.
Little Ella died—
Hooves fell where she lied.
Crushed the girl’s li’l head.
Now she’s ‘ever dead.
Each night death maneuvered into our town.
This happened for longer than can be known—
The Lenape leveller came for gore—
People shook and they hid, sometimes they shit;
What can one do when one’s life’s to the floor?
A group of kids cried—
They screamed like they’d died—
Not for any fear,
They saw the trick clear
The night death revisited our li’l town.
Children can be so very perceptive,
Like actor scholars—seeing through the mask—
To the true heart of one’s own character,
Where angels flee and only demons ask.
The kids saw his hair—
Blonde, blown by the air
Out from his black cloak,
Rider’s a white bloke—
That night death’s face was found in our li’l town.
Following the children’s ear-piercing lead,
Villagers screamed and ran at the rider.
They grabbed at his cloak and dragged him down,
And there unmasked that awful divider.
Who it was—a shock
One could hardly block—
The town’s minister,
Dev’lish—sinister—
The night death was unmasked in our li’l town.
But what of the bones we thought were savage?
To whom did those dry things truly belong?
It turned out they were of the Lenape,
A people who loved and shared all along.
Burial ground dug
With barely a shrug—
Sacred ground disturbed—
Left those souls perturbed
The night we took death down in our li’l town.
The real savage sat sobbing before us,
A white holy man who sold out his soul—
At threat of life he confessed his evil,
Along with others who joined his bad role.
But justice came swift,
And with it a shift—
The victims own forms
Native—white—in swarms
Came that night we took lies down in our town.
That wretched parson and his evil crew
Were attacked in ways I cannot describe.
The flesh turned raw and their bones burned alive,
I swear it is true—I did not imbibe.
But—truth—I do hear,
There is still much to fear—
Each night justice might still come to our town.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, October 20, 2025.
Tittu
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: October 20th, 2025 10:11
- Comment from author about the poem: For Macabre Monday. This is the sixth part in my series, Devilishly Dreadful. Drawn from The Skeleton Horseman (1841–42), one of the more obscure penny dreadfuls, this piece rides colonial New Jersey during the French and Indian War. Here, superstition cloaks greed, burial grounds are disturbed, and the mask of savagery is turned inside out. It also marks the debut of my invented form, the Ghostly Gallop (found on tristanrobertlange.com)—built to mimic the rhythm of hoofbeats. Each opens with a full-stride quatrain, breaks into clipped couplets that strike like hooves, and closes with a shifting refrain that tolls like a curse.
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 1
Online)
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