Science Fiction Multi-Feature Picture Show

The Demon and Mrs. Lincoln (Part 1)

The moon kept a fleeting watch on the lone rider, peeking in shafts of silver between wispy clouds. Hooves kept an even clip clop rhythm, overriding the typical sounds of night. The wildlife carried on their normal nocturnal activity, oblivious to horse and rider. A wind picked up, rustling the warm air of late summer, a cool relief against the rider's neck. A trickle of sweat wound through his hair, matted and soaked beneath the cover of his hat, joining his damp collar line. He shrugged his shoulders, attempting to rid himself of the sensation. His horse snuffled, shuffling over a dip in the road.

"Easy Old Abe," the rider murmured, frowning as the wind turned oddly chill. Goose bumps pricked at his skin, making him shiver in the summer heat. The night sounds dropped off.

"Whoa boy." The rider drew the horse to a halt, straightening in his stirrups. He glanced about, trying to find the source of his unease. Something was watching him from the dark. He fought the urge to cross himself as whispers carried on the air. Old Abe pawed at the ground, dancing beneath him. The horse was spooked. Attempting to keep his seat on the panicking horse, he almost missed what happened next. The moon was looking out for him, choosing that moment to break through the clouds. The long gun barrel glinted within the nearby copse of trees.

Instinct took over. He ducked down, a second before the shot, spurring his white eyed horse. Old Abe shot forward as if the Devil himself swat his backside, his rider clinging for dear life. His hat tore off his head, spinning through the air. Horse and rider streaked away into the night.

The hat slowly settled to the ground, a ragged hole clean through the middle. It was a familiar hat, an infamous one, one that should have afforded a clean shot. The shooter stalked from the trees. The nightlife cowered away from him, silent, quaking in the presence of a being that stank of sulfur and smoke. Inkwell eyes glared in the direction Old Abe and his prize fled to safety, cursing his missed opportunity. Snarling he kicked the stove pipe hat, and sent it tumbling into the roadside ditch. He could not fail in his mission. He would destroy the human and shred the knotted threads of destiny. No one and no body would stand in his way. He simply needed a better vessel, someone closer to his target, someone susceptible.

Leering into the night, he tilted his head back, opening his mouth to release a plume of black smoke into the night. Empty, the body collapsed, blind eyes staring up at the helpless moon as the plume coalesced, coiling in on itself before streaking off in the same direction as the rider.

Long after the black smoke cleared out, the night sounds resumed, unperturbed by the sudden appearance of the new figure.

She knelt by the unfortunate dead man, shaking her head at the waste of life. Closing his lifeless eyes with two delicate fingers, she sighed, glancing off into the distance. She could feel the ripples of disturbed time, something amiss, something meddling where it shouldn't be. Well, two could play that game.

There weren't many options open to her. She needed someone time touched, someone who could handle themselves against a creature of this ilk. Tapping a white painted nail against her chin, she mentally checked off names. Nope, too old, no not that one, too whiney. Someone who could improvise would be helpful, no, necessary. Someone good at cheating death. The answer squatted on the tip of her tongue, an unsavory truth but it truly was for the best.

Even if he was a cocky son of a bitch.