Part I: A Way to Lose your head over A Dullahan

They say love can make you lose your head.

In my case, it was quite literal.

The first time I saw her, the Dullahan, she rode through the fog like a wraith wrapped in shadow. Cloaked in tattered black velvet, her stallion’s hooves struck sparks from the cobbled road. Cradled in her arm was her own head—eyes glowing like dying embers, lips parted in a knowing smile.

Every night she passed through Greyhollow, and every night someone vanished. No blood, no scream. Just silence, and the next morning, another headless corpse slumped in the alley or wilted in a pew. The village elders whispered that looking her in the eye sealed your fate.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist.

I was a scholar of death, you see. A connoisseur of the macabre. I studied folklore, dissected legends, and lived for the thrill of unmasking monsters. I wrote light novels of horrors that although didn’t match Stephen King, the ones who read were deeply disturbed. When I first saw her from my study window, I didn't feel fear. I felt infatuation.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It was her grace, her tragedy. The way her fingers lovingly brushed her own cheek as if remembering something lost. She wasn’t a creature. She was aching beauty cloaked in shadow.

So I followed.

Each night, I stood closer. I sketched her in journals, recorded her route, counted the seconds between the flicker of her eyes. I mapped every turn of her wrist as she raised her lantern of spine and flame.

People noticed, of course. Called me mad. Warned me. Prayed for me.

I can’t tell you how many intervention sessions I attended.

And on the thirteenth night, she turned.

She saw me. Not just looked at me—saw me. Through and through. Her lips curved into that same smile I’d drawn a thousand times, but this time it was for me.

The gaze I had been warned not to make. But it felt so natural, so peaceful.

And she whispered without sound:
“Follow.”

I did.

Through the sleeping woods, past the churchyard, into the ancient crypt where light breathed like dying lungs. She stood beneath the old arch, holding her head close to mine. I reached out. Her hand was cold, yet trembling—like a girl in the rain.

"I don’t want to die," I said.

“You won’t. you’ll simply live another life,” she replied, voice echoing from the lips in her hand.

She kissed me.

The world fell away.

When I awoke, I was lying in the same place. My body numb, vision doubled. I felt lighter. Too light.

I stood and turned to leave—and saw my body still lying there.

My head was gone.

And in her hand, she held it gently, like a rare treasure.

"Love is a curse," she whispered to the head. My head. "But with you, I feel differently. Because suddenly breathing seems so hard to do."

She mounted her horse and rode into the mist, carrying me with her.

Now, I ride too—behind her, without a body, just a floating echo of who I was. I couldn’t say I wasn’t warned. So many times.

But like fools who think they are in love.

They never listen.

They always think they’re the exception.

They always fall in love.