The Caribbean broke gently against the shore of Corozal Point, a rhythm Kenrick had known his whole nineteen years. It was a sound usually tied to the fishermen preparing their nets before dawn or the children splashing in the shallows during the heat of the day.
Tonight, though, the gentle wash of water felt different, carrying an undercurrent of waiting, of something held back just beyond the dark tree line where the jungle met the sand.
Kenrick sat on the weathered porch steps of his small house, the wood cool beneath him. The humid night air clung, thick with the scent of salt, damp earth, and the frangipani blooming near the path.
Crickets chirped their incessant song, a sound normally comforting, now grating against his nerves. Every other night, the waiting began.
His mother, Isabel, moved inside, the scrape of a chair barely audible. She didn't speak of it directly anymore. None of them did, not really. What was the point? Naming the fear didn't lessen its grip. It only gave the shadows more substance.
Two nights ago, Miguel Ramirez hadn't come home from checking his lobster traps. His boat was found drifting, empty, near the reef pass. No signs of a struggle, no storm. Just gone. Like Carlos the cycle before, and Juan before that.
Strong young men. Men with fight in them, whether they knew it or not. That seemed to be the criteria.
A dog barked sharply down the lane, a frantic, high-pitched sound that cut off abruptly. Kenrick tensed, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the edge of the step. Silence returned, heavier than before, broken only by the sea and the crickets.
He strained his ears, listening for something else, the sound that haunted Corozal Point's sleepless nights.
It started faintly, almost imagined – a deep, resonant grinding. Not hooves on sand, not yet. It was more like stone complaining under immense pressure, a sound that vibrated deep in the chest cavity.
It came from the direction of the old ruins inland, the crumbling Mayan site half-swallowed by the jungle, the place elders warned children away from even before this began.
Kenrick rose slowly, every muscle tight. He peered into the darkness that pooled under the coconut palms lining the sandy track leading away from the village center. Streetlights were few and far between here, casting weak yellow circles that only seemed to deepen the surrounding gloom.
Nothing moved. Not yet.
"Kenrick? Come inside now," Isabel called, her voice strained but attempting firmness.
"In a minute, Mama," he replied, not taking his eyes off the lane. He needed to see. Needed to know if they were coming this way tonight. Every other night, the dread was diffuse, spread across the village. But when the sound began, it became sharp, personal. Who would they seek this time?
The grinding intensified, accompanied now by a low, guttural snorting that wasn't animalistic in any natural way. It sounded like air forced through cracked rock, like the earth itself drawing a ragged breath.
Kenrick felt a coldness seep into his bones despite the tropical warmth. Fear was a familiar companion these past few months, a constant low hum beneath the surface of daily life, but this was different. This was the icy certainty that the monsters were real and they were close.
He saw movement at the edge of the farthest streetlight's reach. Shapes detaching themselves from the deeper darkness. Large shapes, impossibly tall for horses, moving with a stiff, jerky gait that was utterly wrong. They weren't galloping; they were marching, inexorable.
Kenrick backed towards his door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He fumbled for the handle, pulling the warped wood open just as the first figure stepped fully into the light.
It was carved from dark, weathered stone, something like basalt, but it moved. Cracks webbed its surface, and small chips fell away with each step, clicking against the packed earth. Its form was equine, powerfully built like a destrier from ancient battles, but terrifyingly wrong.
Remnants of what looked like stone armor plates were fused to its flanks and chest, decorated with motifs Kenrick vaguely recognized from the ruins. Its mane and tail seemed sculpted from solidified shadow, barely stirring. And its eyes – they were hollow sockets, yet twin points of malevolent, burning red light pulsed within them, fixing on the village, scanning.
Another emerged, then a third. War Horses, born from nightmare and forgotten stone, animated by some hellish power. They didn't neigh. They made that awful grinding, snorting sound, their stone hooves striking the ground with heavy thuds that seemed to shake the very air.
Kenrick slipped inside, bolting the door. The thick wooden bar felt pitifully inadequate. He leaned against it, breathing hard, listening to the stone hooves approach. Thud. Thud. Grinding. Snort.
Isabel was standing in the middle of the small main room, clutching a rosary, her face pale. "They're here," she breathed, stating the obvious.
"Stay away from the window," Kenrick ordered, his voice harsher than intended. He moved towards the small, shuttered opening that faced the lane, peering through a crack in the wood.
The Stone Horses were moving slowly down the center of the track. Their red eyes swept from side to side, scanning the houses. They seemed to be searching, evaluating.
Kenrick could see the detail now – the stylized carvings of serpents and jaguars on their barding, the sheer unnaturalness of their animation. They were relics given unlife, ancient guardians or weapons twisted into predatory nightmares.
One stopped directly outside their house. Kenrick held his breath. Its head, a blocky, stylized thing, turned slowly, the red pinpricks fixing on the shuttered window he peered through.
He could feel that scrutiny, cold and assessing, penetrating the wood, seeing him. It knew he was there. It knew he was young, strong.
He jerked back from the shutter as if burned. "Mama, get in the back room. Now."
"Kenrick..."
"Go!"
She scurried into the small bedroom, pulling the flimsy curtain closed. Kenrick stood frozen, listening. The grinding sound was right outside the door. A heavy snort vibrated through the wood. He pictured the stone muzzle, the burning eyes just inches away.
Would it try to break down the door? They hadn't done that before. They sought, and when they found their target outside, undefended, they took him. They herded their chosen quarry, their movements surprisingly quick when needed, driving the terrified man towards the jungle or the sea, where they vanished as mysteriously as they appeared.
A heavy thud struck the door, making the wood groan and the bolt rattle. Kenrick jumped, his hand instinctively going to the machete that hung by the doorframe, used for clearing brush and opening coconuts. It felt laughably useless against creatures of stone.
Another thud, harder this time. A crack appeared near the bolt. Panic flared hot and sharp in his throat. They were trying to get in. Why? Had they chosen him?
He heard shouting from further down the lane. A man's voice, raised in terror. "No! Get away from me! Leave him alone!"
The thudding on his door stopped. Kenrick risked another look through the crack. The Stone Horse was turning away, its attention drawn by the commotion. Two houses down, old Mateo Silva was standing in his doorway, waving a piece of driftwood uselessly at another of the stone beasts.
This one had cornered Mateo's grandson, seventeen-year-old David, who had foolishly been outside when the sounds began. David was pressed against the wall of his house, eyes wide with terror. The Stone Horse lowered its heavy head towards him, the red eyes burning. It wasn't attacking, merely... assessing. Deciding.
"Run, David! Run!" Mateo screamed, hobbling forward.
The horse ignored the old man. It nudged David with its stone muzzle, a surprisingly gentle gesture that was somehow more horrifying than violence. David whimpered, frozen.
Kenrick watched, helpless, his own fear momentarily forgotten in the face of David's imminent capture. He saw the third horse moving to block any escape route towards the beach. They were coordinated, intelligent in their horrifying way.
Then, the first horse, the one that had been at Kenrick's door, seemed to make a decision. It emitted a low, grating sound, almost like a command. The horse menacing David backed off slightly. The third horse shifted its position.
They weren't taking David. Not tonight.
Relief washed over Kenrick, so potent it left him weak-kneed. But it was instantly followed by a fresh wave of cold dread. If not David... then who?
The first horse turned its burning stare back towards Kenrick's house. It knew he was still there. It had marked him.
It began to move, not towards David, but back towards Kenrick's door. Thud. Thud. The grinding sound seemed louder now, triumphant.
"No," Kenrick whispered. He gripped the machete, the handle slick with sweat. He knew it was futile, but he wouldn't be taken without a fight. He wouldn't disappear like Miguel and Carlos, dragged off into whatever nightmare awaited them.
The horse reached the door again. It didn't knock this time. It lowered its head and charged.
The impact was immense. Wood splintered inwards, the bolt tore free from the frame with a screech of tortured metal. The door flew open, slamming against the interior wall.
Standing there, framed against the weak streetlight, was the Stone Horse, filling the doorway, its red eyes fixed solely on Kenrick. Dust and stone particles rained from its form.
Kenrick stumbled back, raising the machete defensively. The blade looked like a toy against the creature's bulk. Behind him, he heard his mother scream.
The horse stepped inside, its stone hooves cracking the floor tiles. It snorted, the sound echoing in the small space, stirring the dust motes dancing in the air. It took another step, lowering its head slightly, pinning Kenrick with those terrible eyes.
He could feel an ancient, cold intelligence scrutinizing him, judging his worth, his strength, his fear.
He swung the machete wildly, aiming for the eyes. The blade connected with the stone head with a ringing clang, sparks flying. The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder, but the horse didn't even flinch.
It simply blinked its fiery eyes slowly, as if mildly annoyed. A thin scratch, barely visible, was the only damage.
It took another step forward, crowding him back against the far wall. He could smell it now – the scent of damp earth, cold stone, and something else... ozone, like after a lightning strike.
He felt trapped, cornered. He glanced desperately towards the back room where his mother hid. He couldn't let it get to her.
"Get back!" he yelled, finding his voice, though it trembled. He swung again, a desperate, two-handed blow aimed at the creature's foreleg. Another clang, more sparks. No effect.
The horse made a low grinding noise. It wasn't aggression; it felt almost like... communication. It nudged him, hard, in the chest with its stone muzzle, forcing the air from his lungs. He staggered, dropping the machete, which clattered uselessly on the floor.
He was weaponless, breathless, pinned against the wall. The red eyes bored into him. He saw images flicker within their depths – not reflections, but scenes. Dust, smoke, the clash of primitive weapons, figures in archaic armor, ranks upon ranks of Stone Horses charging across a desolate, alien landscape under a bruised sky.
He saw men, terrified but fighting, driven forward by unseen masters. He saw Miguel Ramirez, his face streaked with dirt and blood, wielding a crude spear against a monstrous shape in the swirling chaos. He saw Carlos, his eyes hollow with despair, marching in a column of dazed captives.
This was their destination. An endless war, fought by stolen soldiers for stone commanders.
The horse nudged him again, towards the shattered doorway. It wasn't hurting him, merely... directing him. Herding him.
"No," he choked out. "Leave me alone!"
He tried to push against the unyielding stone flank, but it was like trying to move a cliff face. The horse simply adjusted its position, boxing him in, guiding him inexorably towards the outside.
He could hear his mother sobbing behind the curtain. "Kenrick! Mi hijo!"
That sound broke something in him. He couldn't just go. He couldn't leave her. He braced his feet, shoved with all his might against the horse's neck. For a second, its forward movement paused.
It turned its head, the red eyes fixing on him with renewed intensity. A low growl, like shifting tectonic plates, rumbled from its chest.
It raised a foreleg, the heavy stone hoof poised. Kenrick flinched, expecting a crushing blow. But it didn't strike him. Instead, it stamped down hard, just beside his feet, cracking the floor tiles further. A clear warning. Submit.
Tears of frustration and terror welled in Kenrick's eyes. He looked past the horse, out the ruined doorway. The other two Stone Horses were waiting patiently in the lane, silent sentinels under the sickly yellow light.
David and old Mateo were gone, presumably having scrambled back into their own home. The street was deserted again. Only the crickets and the sea seemed indifferent.
He knew he had no choice. Fighting was useless. Delaying only prolonged the terror for his mother. He looked towards the curtain dividing the rooms. "Mama," he said, his voice thick. "I... I have to go."
The sobbing intensified, turning into a heartbroken wail.
The horse nudged him again, more insistently this time. He stumbled forward, out of the house he'd lived in his entire life, into the humid night. The other two horses turned their burning eyes on him as he emerged.
They formed up around him, one flanking him on each side, the third taking position behind him. They didn't touch him now, but their nearness was a palpable pressure, guiding him down the lane, away from the village lights, towards the dark mouth of the jungle path leading to the ruins.
He didn't look back. He couldn't bear to see his home, his mother's face at the window. He focused on the path ahead, dimly lit by the moon filtering through the canopy. The grinding sounds of the horses surrounded him, a terrible escort.
As they entered the deeper gloom beneath the trees, the air grew cooler, smelling of decay and damp leaves. The sounds of the village faded, replaced by the rustling secrets of the jungle night. Kenrick walked numbly, putting one foot in front of the other, already feeling like a ghost.
They reached the edge of the ruined plaza. Broken stelae leaned at drunken angles, covered in moss and vines. The dark shapes of crumbling pyramids loomed against the star-dusted sky.
In the center of the plaza, the ground seemed... wrong. It shimmered faintly, like heat haze, distorting the stones behind it. A gateway.
The horses steered him towards it. He could feel a strange pull emanating from the distortion, a cold draft that smelled of dust and ages past. He resisted, planting his feet.
The horse behind him nudged him sharply in the spine, forcing him forward. He stumbled into the shimmering field.
The world dissolved. Colors bled together, sounds warped into meaningless noise. He felt a wrenching sensation, like being pulled apart and reassembled incorrectly. Cold, so cold.
Then, abruptly, solidity returned.
He stood on cracked, barren earth under a sky the color of an old bruise, lit by no sun he recognized. The air was thin, tasting of metallic dust and something else, something charnel.
Around him stretched a desolate plain, littered with the debris of ancient, perpetual conflict – broken weapons, shattered armor, bones.
In the distance, vast armies clashed – figures in dark armor wielding crude weapons, battling monstrous, indescribable shapes under the command of towering, shadowy figures.
And charging into the fray, ranks upon ranks of them, were the Stone Horses, ridden by men with haunted eyes. He saw Miguel again, his face a mask of weary horror, forced to guide his mount into the teeth of the battle.
The three horses that had brought Kenrick stood around him. The red lights in their eyes dimmed slightly, their purpose fulfilled. One of them lowered its head and nudged his hand.
He looked down. A crude spear, much like the one Miguel carried, lay at his feet.
He understood. This was his life now. An unwilling soldier in a pointless, endless war, on a world that should not exist. He was not dead, but his life was over. He was a tool, a piece of equipment, his strength and potential repurposed for this horrifying conflict.
He looked at the horse that had nudged him. Its stone flank bore a fresh scratch – the mark left by his machete. A futile gesture in his old life, now the only connection back to the person he used to be.
With trembling hands, Kenrick bent and picked up the spear. Its rough-hewn wood felt alien, heavy.
The horse beside him snorted, a sound that might have been impatience or approval. It turned, starting towards the distant battle lines.
Kenrick hesitated for only a moment. There was nowhere else to go. No way back. His unique, brutal end wasn't death; it was this. Eternal servitude, conscious and aware, in a war without meaning or end.
He took a breath that tasted like ash, and followed his stone captor onto the battlefield, another lost soul swallowed by the grinding machinery of a forgotten war. The sound of the Caribbean breaking on a familiar shore was already a fading, impossible memory.