Published in the United States by
Turtlebug Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.
The places in this book are real, though.
Go find them, explore them, and celebrate them.
Edited by David Gatewood
Cover Design by MS Corley
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
First Edition
Copyright © 2015 Richard Gleaves
FOR DISCUSSIONS AND EXTRAS
VISIT JASON ON FACEBOOK
FACEBOOK.COM/THEJASONCRANESERIES
ALL THE LOCATIONS IN THIS BOOK EXIST
FIND THEM IN SLEEPY HOLLOW, NY
MAP HERE
DEDICATION
To all Mothers and Sons
&
To my dada, Pat Gleaves, who sat me on her lap
and held my little finger to the words
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Danny Smolenski, who made these books better
Thanks to Washington Irving, who made these books possible
Thanks to Sleepy Hollow historian Henry Steiner,
for catching mitsakes
Thanks to Jim Logan of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery,
for letting me wander his cemetery at 2:00 a.m.
Thanks to Sleepy Hollow storyteller Jonathan Kruk,
for his knowledge, humor, and passion
Thanks to the people of Sleepy Hollow, for sharing their stories
Thanks to Historic Hudson Valley,
for making sure these places are still around for us to write about
Thanks to everyone at the Philipsburg Manor, Sunnyside,
and Van Cortlandt Manor Gift Shops, even though these books
are still not displayed by the register
Thanks to Kathy Wallace, Jennifer Snow, Sal Durante, Dianne Durante, Will George and all my other friends, first readers, and collaborators.
Without you, I would be writing without a net.
~and~
Special thanks to Adam Reed
The sight of an achievement is the greatest gift
that one man can offer to another
PROLOGUE
SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE!!
The Headless Horseman stood proudly at the rail of the broken Tappan Zee Bridge, like Orion the Hunter victorious among the stars. Garish car fires lit his body so that, even far below, treading the dark waters of the Hudson, Jason Crane could read the Monster’s red football T-shirt: SLEEPY HOLLOW HORSEMEN. Follow the Hollow! Ghosts rushed to the side of their master, bowing and scraping. All the enslaved souls of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, emanating melancholy, torn from their dreaming beneath the earth and made to do the Horseman’s bidding, for he was their dominant spirit. They dragged forward the ghost of Eliza Merrick, helpless and bound by spectral chains, forcing her to bear witness. Fear grew in Eliza’s eyes. Not for herself, but for her grandson.
Jason Crane was about to die.
The Horseman chose his weapon and yanked it from the bandolier that hung across his chest. Something round, about the size of a small pumpkin. He raised it in one hand and poured his malice into it, setting it afire with tendrils of blue and orange. Jason spun in the water, splashed and struggled, but did not think to dive beneath the waves. Terror is the enemy of thought. The Horseman threw his missile with deadly star-quarterback accuracy. The blazing, severed head of Vernon McCaffrey the funeral director grew larger and larger, its dead face spinning end over end.
It struck Jason in the skull with a clap of thunder…
CRACK!
… he saw fireworks, and all the stars went dark.
Jason was floating, eyes shut, listening to the water run out. He’d fallen asleep in the tub. Yeah. That’s what happened. He’d drifted off, cradled by currents of warmth and peace. And he’d slept so well, so deeply, floating in dreamless oblivion without a care or worry, until the damn nightmare had ruined it. Another death at another bridge, just like all the others. But he let the nightmare of the Tappan Zee trickle away with the bathwater. Dreams are just dreams. Life was calling. He had places to go, people to see. Maybe Eliza would whip up a stack of waffles—brown and crisp, checkered like a Scrabble board, with a pat of butter at center. Your move, son. The beginning of a new game, a new day.
Gravity claimed him. He lost his buoyancy. Bathwater broke around his cheeks and forehead. He felt for the drain with his heel, wanting to stop it up.
I don’t want to get out. Not yet. Let me sleep. Let me prune.
But the water retreated, exposing his chin and neck to cold air. The island of his chest rose from the sea, followed by his knees and toes. Water ran down his body, except for a little pool in his navel.
Oh well. Time to leave the womb.
Jason Crane pushed the hair out of his eyes. He squinted against a harsh light and raised a palm. Where was he? The sides of the tub were missing. He wasn’t in a tub at all, but on a chipped porcelain table. A deep gutter circled the edge. It gurgled with pink water. Bloody water. What? He tried to rise, but a plastic cuff bound his left wrist, just next to his ear. Cuffs held his ankles as well. He struggled but couldn’t pull loose.
“Don’t get twitchy now,” someone said. A hand in a yellow glove pressed down on Jason’s bare chest.
“Wha—? What’s happening?”
The hand bent Jason’s free arm back and pinned it. “You just relax now. It’ll be over soon.” The drawl was familiar. Southern. No. Texas.
“McCaffrey?”
“Yup. Or else I need new business cards.” The familiar face of the funeral director appeared, blocking the light of the halogen lamp above. McCaffrey inspected Jason with professional detachment. The man wore splatter-proof glasses and a bloodstained smock. Two shoestrings of brown leather slipped from beneath his collar to dangle before Jason’s eyes: the ends of a bolo tie, weighted with two silver skulls, clicking their temples together and grinning maliciously.
“But… New Year’s at Stone Barns. I saw you die.”
McCaffrey took a drag off his cigarette. “Die? Me?” He blew smoke right into Jason’s face. “Funeral directors don’t die, boy. It’s too much like work.”
Jason’s coughing cleared the cobwebs. “No. The Horseman cut your head off! I saw it!”
“Quit your wiggling!” McCaffrey barked. “You’ll yank out my hoses.”
“Get off me!” Jason realized his nakedness and tried to cover himself, but now both wrists were cuffed, pinned like butterfly wings behind glass. “What the hell is this?”
“Settle down. It’s not hell.”
Jason’s eyes darted back and forth, taking in the room. The rows of evil-looking instruments, the rusty sink with its box of Brillo pads, the drop ceiling and cinderblock walls. He was naked and vulnerable, strapped to… an embalming table… in… in McCaffrey’s morgue. He recognized the place at last. The basement morgue of Vernon McCaffrey’s funeral home. He’d been here once. With Eliza and Hadewych and Valerie. This was where they’d opened the coffin of Absalom Crane. McCaffrey’s little Empire of the Dead.
“Sorry, kid,” said the funeral director. “It was just your time.”
Jason’s voice became small and uncertain. “I’m not. No. I’m—I’m not.”
“Yup. You are. Horseman got you in the river, remember?”
“No. That was just a…”
“It’s no dream. Not this time. You died, boy. They dredged you up from the bot
tom of the Hudson. You’re lucky they found ya. The fishies were gonna getcha.” McCaffrey clacked his teeth and grinned.
“No. Wait. I’m breathing. I’m talking.”
“That’s normal. All your trapped air’s got to come out. But look at yourself.” McCaffrey pulled down a makeup mirror on a swinging arm. Jason gasped and pressed his eyes shut, but an instant too late. The face in the mirror had been grey, bloated, torn…
“No no no no no no…”
“I hear you. You’re gonna need a lot of TLC.” McCaffrey sighed. “You think people want to see that at a funeral? You’d scare the horses. We’re gonna burn the midnight oil, you and me. Putty and paint. Putty and paint.”
“No. This is another nightmare. Wake me up. Come on. Grandma, wake me up.”
McCaffrey held Jason still and whispered in his ear, his voice solemn and conspiratorial. “Did you think you were the exception, son? Everybody goes through this. Even the pharaohs. King Tut. Nefertiti. Got their brains yanked out through their noses with an iron hook. Every king and queen you ever heard of met somebody like me in the end. Every street rat and ditch digger. From Wolfgang Mozart to Johnny Cash. Everybody. There’s nothing for it. I gotta open you up, see? Pump you full of chemicals and sew your eyes shut. It’s nothing personal. Now lie still.”
Something pierced Jason’s jugular vein. Fluid pulsed into his neck. Hot as burning tar. Sharp as the hatchet last Halloween. Bright as the cigarette Eddie stubbed out on his neck all those months ago. Jason screamed and cursed.
McCaffrey held him down. “It’s just formaldehyde. You get used to it. Try to enjoy it.” McCaffrey shoved the hose in deeper. “I said enjoy it! It’s the last pain you’re ever going to feel. After today, after this… Hell, you might as well be marble.”
Jason went limp, the fight going out of him. Tears ran down his cheeks. Salt water, or… embalming fluid? Was he dead? Could he be dead? A great ‘Y’ incision ran down his chest, an erratic zipper of haphazard staples. He could feel no heartbeat. He sobbed, grieving for his life. He wanted to hug himself but couldn’t.
“Aw! Ain’t you pitiful!” McCaffrey killed his cigarette in the trickle of pink. “I hate it when it’s a young person.”
Jason gave a slow nod. So—he’d arrived at last. The morgue had claimed him too, as it had claimed his grandmother. Of course it had. He hadn’t been able to protect her from it. Now it was his turn. How could it be otherwise? This room had been waiting for him. It waits for everybody. This was his greatest fear. This room. This man. Waiting, waiting, waiting… somewhere on the road ahead.
But deep inside, Jason grew taut and steely. He wouldn’t end up here. Not like this. Not now. The Horseman was still out there. His friends were in danger! His grandmother needed saving and Hadewych couldn’t win. Kate waited up ahead. Kate. Not death. Kate in her white dress, walking up the aisle of the Old Dutch Church. He’d seen it. He’d seen it in a vision. He still had a future. He still had a future!
“I’m not dead!” Jason screamed. His heart lurched and galloped, like a racehorse bolting from a standing start. He fought his restraints, fists balling, back arching. “No! No! No! I’m not! I’m not!” He tore his left arm from its cuff and struck McCaffrey in the face. He ripped the tube from his neck. It whipped like a snake, spitting formaldehyde. He knocked the lamp and mirror away. He flailed, his fist a wrecking ball to batter the whole damn room out of existence.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Jason froze. He’d struck only air, but the morgue reverberated with a hollow booming sound.
THUMP! THUMP!
Something knocked at the door, slow and ponderous.
THUMP!
“Oh, shit.” McCaffrey’s voice filled with dread. “He’s early.”
“Who? Who’s early?”
“You’ll see.”
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Jason swallowed. “Who’s at the door?”
McCaffrey wept dry dust from hollow eye sockets. “Him.”
THUMP! THUMP!
“Who him?”
“Oh, you know.” Flesh flaked from McCaffrey’s cheeks, millennia of decomposition occurring within seconds. “Him. Him. Him.”
THUMP! THUMP!
His bloodstained smock slackened as the flesh inside dissolved. “Him. Him. Him.”
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Jason fell into hysteria. He wrenched his left ankle loose and rolled onto his side, covering himself, eyes glued to the door, cheek pressed against the bitter porcelain.
“Him. Him. Him.”
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
“Good luck, kid,” drawled McCaffrey. “See you on the flip side.” His skeleton gave a little salute and, with a shiver, crumbled into wriggling dust. The smock billowed to the floor, a ghost taken by a fainting spell.
Jason lay in silence, dreading the next knock.
It never came. The overhead light swayed, throwing shadows across the wicked, toothy instruments. The bulb flickered. The crystal knob of the morgue door, glitter-bright as a cobra’s eye… twitched.
“Go away!” Jason croaked. “Go away….”
The door burst open with an acid cloud of ash and sparks. The hanging bulb flickered again.
“I said go away! Go away!”
HIM! HIM! HIM!
“I want to live!”
Death flew in, a lurching cacophony of rippling red velvet, patched and leprous with vermin and plague. Its shadow darted across the walls, like rot on the cinderblock. Coffin-nail eyes peered from beneath its hood. Jason brought an arm up to ward away the inevitable. “I want to live! I want to live!”
Death reached for Jason Crane. Its hood fell back, a rivulet of oily saliva fell, and Jason wailed as his own corpse bent to bite his lips. He caught a bony wrist and wrestled his terror, desperately, desperately, endlessly, endlessly, as the crazed light of the basement morgue flickered… flickered… flickered…
… and went out.
PART ONE
“If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.”
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington Irving
CHAPTER ONE
“The Gravedigger”
“Hey! This is Jason. Sorry I can’t pick up right now, but I’m burying my guardian in the back yard.”
Beep.
“Damn it!” yelled Joey, throttling his cell phone. “Where are you? Call me back or I’m nuking you from orbit! I’m on my way over!”
Joey threw his phone into the passenger seat and slammed his fist against Ladybug’s steering wheel. The feeble bleat of her horn died beneath the cacophony of noise from other vehicles. He leaned out his window, craning his neck, blinking against the morning sun, searching for an opening in traffic. Broadway had come to a standstill. He’d never seen anything like it. Cars clotted the Headless Horseman Bridge and snarled the Post Road in both directions. Drivers measured their progress in inches, lurching, rolling back, stuck to their few feet of asphalt, sinking into a mire of angry resignation. The summer air hung still and dead, smelling of gasoline. A ghostly haze of exhaust shrouded the millpond, like methane on a tar pit.
Joey hit the horn again, leaning into it.
“Come on! Please!” The panic in his own voice scared him. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Jason always called back. Something had happened. But Joey needed Jason. He needed Jason’s advice, even more than he feared Jason’s reprimands.
I should have listened. He warned me not to play superhero. He told me this could happen! God, I’m a freaking idiot. But what choice did I have?
People had been in danger last night, women and kids, trapped by wildfire at Kingsland Point Park. He couldn’t let them burn to death. If only his dad hadn’t seen. (“Joey? That was you?”) If only his dad hadn’t been… cursed. But he was cursed, wasn’t he? Marked for death by his own son’s foolishness.
Joey wished he’d paid more attention, had learned more about the Great Curse—the deadly spell that murdered anyone who
discovered a true witch. Ugh. Witch? Joey hated that word even more than Jason did. It made him want to wiggle his nose and call someone “Derwood.” But he had to take it seriously. He had to think it through. What were the rules of the Curse? Its timeframe? If a normal person discovers your Gift, are they targeted immediately? In an hour? A day? A year? Are squadrons of ghostly assassins waiting for dusk to fall? And most importantly… Can it be undone?
Have I killed my dad?
Another car bumped his rear fender. Joey’s eyes darted to the mirror. His black hair clung to his smudged forehead. He scrubbed his cheek with the hem of his T-shirt, almost hysterically, and punched his malfunctioning air conditioner button in vain.
Get a grip!
A high-pitched squawk sounded to his right, cutting through the din. Police lights flashed in the Philipsburg Manor parking lot, where two Wall Street types swung fists at each other between crumpled fenders. A cop grabbed one man by his elbows. The other crouched at the edge of the millpond, wiping blood from his face, bleeding in the waters.
The phone rang. Joey seized it. “Jason?”
It wasn’t Jason. It was Joey’s dad. “Where are you?” said Jim Osorio.
Joey closed his eyes and pressed the phone to his chest. Shit shit shit. He took a deep breath. “I’m stuck in traffic.”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 1