The prompt this was written for:
Western Horror? Is that a thing? Let’s see if you can write something spooky in a western setting. You have 244 words, bonus points for using the words “contraption” and “saddle”.
The night Molly Ford died, I was in Grandpappy’s barn cleanin’ his saddle. It was an old, cracked contraption, but if it sat my mare, Ruby, without fallin’ to dust for one ride, it’d suit me.
Shame about Molly. I didn’t want to kill her. Reckon I was damned either way. Reverend Matthews says soul suckers ain’t real. I guess he’s never had the pleasure. He didn’t believe me about not burning the Dalton’s mill neither, but it’s the least of my sins, now.
It was dark as the grave, just about ten, when she came amblin’ outta the fields. I hollered, thinkin’ she was one of the Dalton boys hopin’ to catch me unawares afore I skipped town. Instead she come up, quiet as a Comanche, with an awful queer look to her eyes.
“Cyrus,” she says, voice like a broken musicbox, and my blood ran cold. “Cyrus, I’m hungry.”
She weren’t lookin’ for an earthly meal. A knife dangled in her hand, and blood stained her gingham dress. Then her mouth opened wider than a viper’s, and out tore a banshee’s wail that sent Ruby screamin’. Hell, I screamed.
I ain’t one to jump to killin’ a woman. But like any man with sense, when Molly lunged, I snapped up my iron and my lucky silver bullets. Fired without a second thought. Down went Molly Ford, clawin’ and cursin’ my name. S’pose I deserve that, too. Reckon I was damned either way.