A Made Up Memory

Her ghost appeared as clocks were chiming twelve that night, and those around me said she looked the same; she hadn't altered - though, of course, she held her head beneath her arm, and didn't look as well as once before, her severed head was dripping greenish blood.  She floated, never leaving footprints in the mud, and left a grisly trail of reeking gore, the head was spitting yellow teeth, which shot with deadly force - I laughed because I knew it was to her a game, and she was set on giving them a fright. Though soaked  in blood, her dress was still a shade of white. Quite suddenly I shouted out her name, then heard the neighing of her horse; it wore a mourning wreath, and sadly carried her towards the barren moor. She hurled her head, but no one caught it. Thud! written 28th December for Constance's A Little Memory contest