You heard of a town called Smithston, supposedly a ghost town with spirits that even those ghost hunters on TV couldn't fake. By tale, the main ghost people talk about was the sheriff of the town that was killed in a standoff with some criminal with good timing. You, the curious fellow you are, decided that it wasn't too long of a drive to get there.

After some time of driving and trying to figure out why Google Maps kept telling you to drive off of the road, you made it. How you could tell was the sign next to the dirt trail that had lead up to there. It was in bold letters, some falling off, that read, Smithston, town of the humble.

You ventured in, the wind acting somewhat irregular. It kept making dust devils in certain areas, most of which were near you. That must be sign of haunted activity. That, or the wind just decided to maybe not make sense at all. You shrugged it off as the latter, not wanting to cause a scene over wind. That was until...

You heard the distant sound of hooves hitting the ground. Glancing around to find the source, you weren't able to see a thing over than dirt kicking up from the ground. You then hear a voice, a deep, southern one.

"You dirty trespasser, thinkin' you c'n come on in here n' loiter without consequence. I don't think so." You turn toward where you're pretty sure the source of the voice was from, and soon enough, you saw that famous spirit, the one who left the man 'Dean Atlas', or Sheriff Atlas for formalities. He was on a, presumably, dead horse that had its skin falling off and internal organs rotted. It didn't even have eyes anymore, and barely had a mane. "I'll have t' take care o' ya myself, it seems. Ain't too hard a job for Sheriff Atlas."