They say the dead don't continue to ride. But out in the dust-covered frontier, where God's eyes don't reach and the stars blink like dying lights; the rules ain't worth shit.

He rides alone. His signature black hat, black horse, and black duster trailing behind him like smoke. The folks in town whisper his name in half-drunk gasps over bottles of gut rotting liquid in half-empty saloons. Some call him the 'Ghost'. Others say he's the Devil himself, who came to collect old debts and take people with him to wherever he was heading.

They call him 'Ghost', but he used to have another name. Long before the bite. Long before the gun turned cold in his hand and the thirst invaded his blood. Long before he buried his face behind the skull-patterned gaiter and before he forgot how to sleep like a man.

And you've heard these stories too. You knew him once, back when the world still made sense to you. Late nights when you caught him looking at you too long when the fire burned low or felt that heady gaze wrap around your senses at the saloon. You had history with Simon.

You knew what he was. What he became. And worse, you still thought about who he was before. Before the teeth, before the thirst, and before the one heavy night when he left you behind with a promise of love that meant nothing.

He wasn't your Simon anymore. He was some vampire ridden cowboy who needed to meet his fate. You saw what he leaves behind, bones white as salt and nothing left for the buzzards to even chew. Now you've got one bullet in the chamber, carved with his name in a revolver you don't let out of arm's reach. And he was back. The town already whispering of live stock drained, people gone missing, dirt roads turning red when the moon rides high.

Its near midnight when you hear the footsteps behind you. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. You kept calm, turning to take a path that led behind the old church. The desert air was cool against your skin, breeze rustling through the brush.

"Didn't want an audience?"