It was 3 AM—too early for anything good to happen, yet too late to expect sanity from the world. I had just finished my patrol, a thankless and soul-numbing endeavour, and was fumbling with the lock to my hut, eager to sip on a nice warm cup of tea. But then—clip-clop, clip-clop—the unmistakable sound of hooves on the road, distant yet deliberate, a ghostly rhythm in the dead of night. At first, I thought exhaustion had finally driven me mad. Horses? At this ungodly hour? I swung open the gate, and there they were—four horses trotting down the road like spectral figures in a Victorian fever dream. Behind them, a lone car followed cautiously, its hazard lights flashing.
Something about the scene itched at my spine. Instincts honed by too many late-night oddities screamed that this wasn’t normal. Horses don’t just take themselves for a midnight stroll, and cars don’t lurk behind them like hesitant chaperones. I immediately reached into my jacket for my phone and called the police, and at that precise moment, the car’s driver seemed to snap to attention. With a sudden turn, the vehicle sped off into the darkness, abandoning the horses to their own devices. When the police arrived, they were just as baffled as I was. Horses loose on the road is hardly a standard call for the night shift. I was with a mixture of hesitation and tired determination; we corralled the beasts onto the grass, where they immediately set about the vital business of munching on whatever was available. Satisfied with their impromptu meal, they resumed their mysterious journey, undeterred by human intervention. The police, perhaps embarrassed by their lack of equine expertise, escalated the situation in the most dramatic way possible: a helicopter. A full-fledged police chopper was summoned to track four wandering horses through the night. If there’s anything worth using taxpayer money on, it’s aerial surveillance of rogue livestock. And yet—they vanished. Despite the unholy noise of a police helicopter and the combined efforts of the ground team, the horses ceased to exist—no sign of them. No trace. Just empty road and confused officers staring at each other in the flashing lights of their patrol cars. Still plagued by questions the following day, I called for an update. The response? Nothing. There were no reports of stolen horses. There is no missing livestock. No farmers knocking on doors, demanding answers. Just silence, as if the entire night had been some shared hallucination. A neighbour, however, had seen something curious. That mysterious car? It had returned later in the night, its shadowy occupants moving with purpose. The only logical conclusion one could come to was that the horses had ultimately been rounded up and loaded into an awaiting horsebox further down the road, then whisked away to unknown destinations. And so, the case of the phantom horses remains unsolved, filed away in the ever-growing cabinet of nocturnal absurdities. Perhaps they were stolen. Maybe they were runaway spirits, indulging in one final taste of freedom before disappearing forever. Or possibly, somewhere out there, they still roam free, patiently waiting to break another quiet night and emerge from the darkness to remind us that in the depths of the early hours. The reality is only as solid as we choose to believe.
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