Story 1052: Revenant Riders

They rode in with the dusk—hooves like war drums, wheels forged from old bone, and chains that sang like ghosts in the wind.

The Revenant Riders, a spectral biker gang from a lost age, once roared across the desert highways in the late 1960s, following whispers of immortality. They called themselves The Hollow Hounds, a pack bound by blood rituals, chrome, and curses. Their last ride ended in a burning chapel, their bodies buried in a circle of salt and iron.

But now, something had disturbed their eternal slumber.

A summoning.

A ripple in the cursed winds.

The first sign was a howl, not human nor canine, carried on the twilight wind across the scorched outskirts of the town of Ragwater. Then came the smell of gasoline, rot, and brimstone. Lights flickered. Radios screamed static, then laughter. Tires screeched in the distance—though no roads led into the desert that way.

Then they were there.

Seven Riders.