My name is Lt. Trevor Roskowisk, and on June 6th of 2013 I was murdered. I remember a woman dressed like a nun wielding a sword. She told me why she was doing this while I was trying to save my own life, and I have to admit I deserved it - doesn't mean I was planning on just rolling over and dying though.
I was in Iraq. We got intel of a village helping enemy combatants by smuggling arms and hiding terrorists. I smelled something was wrong with the intel when we got to the village, I voiced my opinion to my CO, it was noted - and in the end we ended up wiping them out anyway. Of course, turns out the weapons they were supposedly hiding was just food and medical supplies.
I. . .I won't just to justify it by saying it was War and civilian casualties are inevitable. Nothing justifies what happened. When I got back to the states I contacted some people and offered to testify to make sure it never happens again - but instead we were silenced. A nun, with a sword in my case. Cut my head right off.
I don't know what the date is, all I know is that I had to claw my way out of my own grave and the first thing I saw was a full moon high in the sky. And then I wondered how I could see.
My head was still gone. I could feel the lack of weight on my shoulders, but somehow I could see and hear anyway. More then that, ghosts and spirits whispered around me. Telling me stories. Telling me about a local priest who knows the answers to questions I have - but I just want my head back so I can stay dead this time.
Father Thompson, I thought he was such a nice guy. Granted, you can tell the guy is homosexual and in denial from 30 seconds with the guy - which there's nothing wrong with that in itself. The denial is sad but if he just accepted it, I know I wouldn't have any problem with it.
The issue I had with the guy was the ghosts telling me how it turns out he was the Westport Chopper, the guy whose chopped up 8 gay men with an axe over the last 3 years. I caught him standing over victim number 9 still holding the axe. He sees me, he screams, he drops the axe. I'm not sure how I knew what to do exactly - but I know. I grab the axe, and with a swing he doesn't have a head either.
I put his head on my shoulders, it's strange - but I suddenly start feeling his knowledge and memories flowing into me. Memories of a book dubbed the Black Bible, the version they hide from the world - the version where the supernatural stuff isn't edited down. Job embraced into vampirism, Noah haunted by the flood ghosts - and the curse laid on Princess Salome by God for her part in getting John The Baptist's head cut off. Now her decendents are cursed, those of her blood who are guilty of the sin of murder and who die by decapitation, cursed to rise again and never know the peace of the grave until they find their heads again.
I learn I'm not the first. A Hessain, A German Mercenary during the Revolutionary War, who used the curse to scare his opponents into submission. A french noblewoman whose curse was used to save people during the French Time of Terror. A hippie draftee in vietnam who managed to get his head back without harming a soul - and now me.
I just wanted my head back so I could rest, but now I want answers - and the Truth to come to light. I leave the axe, get my own and my bike from my home. Looks like I'm getting some miles on the road myself.
The Headless Horseman, something ingrained into american culture forever. Now in a world where magic and black ops intertwine, one such Headless Rider seeks a bit of justice for himself and the victims of war crimes he was forced to help cover up, using his curse. For good or evil, still up in the air. . .