DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. I merely borrow Labyrinth, the Goblin King and other characters to entertain myself and hopefully my readers. I earn nothing from this other than reviews, which I adore.

The Thirteenth Rider

Prologue Part 2

Panting, she races through the dense trees, black trunks stretching into the sky, to twist and entwine around each other. Her breath rasps harshly through her lungs as she runs, a lone white figure dodging sharp branches and vicious thorny limbs. All around her, the sound of stomping hooves echoes. Surrounding her. Consuming her. Seeming to rip through her very soul, as her heart pounds in panicked time with the galloping hoof-beats that crash through the underbrush, breaking twigs and snapping vines in their pursuit.

With a desperate scream, Sarah glances over her shoulder, only to lose her balance, falling into the needle-like embrace of a nearby bush, the thorns piercing her flesh, tearing and ripping at both skin and fabric before she can free herself. And still the horses draw nearer, accompanied now by the sound of baying hounds. Hungry. Fierce. Haunting.

Wincing, she grasps at her arm, only to pull her hand away with a whimper, a crimson stain sticky on her hand as blood drips lazily down her arm, seeping into the torn linen of her sleeve. The hoof-beats roar in her head as they close in. Moaning, she lurches to her feet once more, her green eyes widening as the sound gets louder, boring its way inside her body, each thudding hoof-beat acting as a whip at her back, making her keep running. Pushing her on as she struggles to run faster. Knowing that she has to run. Has to escape.

But she knows it is all in vain.

He is coming.

Coming for her.

And he will not be refused.

Tired feet slap wetly against the ground with every frantic step. Twisting, she dodges around a gnarled mass of roots and tree trunks, searching desperately for a place to hide. Then she sees it. A hole in the base of the knotted ball of trees and roots and petrified darkness. An inarticulate plea of a prayer falls from her cracked lips as she dives into the hole, hoping and praying she is hidden and safe. Backing herself into the hole, she crouches down, wrapping her arms around her folded legs. Shivering amongst the rotting mulch under the tree, Sarah shuts her eyes tightly, the last defense against all childhood nightmare creatures – if it can't see you, it can't hurt you.

Her frightened words a mantra of abject terror, "He isn't real. He isn't real. Oh God. He can't be real."

She hears the hooves draw nearer, slowing as they approach her hiding place. Her lungs burn painfully as she holds her breath, frantically attempting to still her panting, lest she be found. Her heartbeat rages in her ears, thundering as if every demon from hell were chasing her – but there is only one being chasing her. And he is no demon.

But he is her worst nightmare.

Come to life.

A puff of white steam blasts through the entwined vines and roots masking her hiding place, his horse pauses, practically on top of her now. Sarah shrinks smaller, the heated feel of the horse's breath washing over her icy flesh. A creak of leather, ominous in the now silent woods, signals the rider's dismount, a wraith swathed in darkness. A nightmare made flesh and bone – seeking blood.

Hers.

As the black gloved hand reaches through the gnarled roots, Sarah's eyes open wide, her mouth open in a silent scream from which no sound escapes. When his hand circles her throat, squeezing, crushing the very life from her, she finds her voice - but finds it a second too late.

"Jar….!"

The rest of his name dies on her lips, lips now stained crimson.

But blood looks black under a moonless sky.