A few who still enjoyed their slumber seemed particularly strong. They didn’t rise when summoned. They couldn’t fight the Horseman, but they didn’t answer to him, either.
And some coffins were empty of ghosts, and contained only corpses.
The others spoke of these “abandoned” graves with suspicion and envy both. Many saw them as evidence of some punishment, some final oblivion that would take them all. Others spoke of souls that had “moved on,” that had reached some level of refinement through years of dreaming, that had made peace with the triumphs and failures of existence and had embarked on some new adventure. Who knew what had happened to them?
Kate blinked, realizing that she’d lost the ghost hunter. She did dream like other ghosts, in her own way, and she’d done so just now. She fell into reveries—into memories and musings. Sometimes it was difficult to cast them off.
She wondered how much time she’d lost. She searched the road, the bushes, then remembered the man’s mention of going down to the jeep, somewhere below. She found it parked in the clearing in front of the receiving vault, the very same place where she’d been thrown from her body by Agathe. She found the ghost hunters there—Keegan and Brennan—arguing with another man she recognized: Jim Osorio, Joey’s dad.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Osorio said, putting a finger to Brennan’s chest. “I expect you to erase every one of those tapes.”
“That footage is our property,” said Keegan.
“Not if you had no permit to shoot here.” Osorio took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Pack up your equipment and bring it to my office.” He gestured up the road with his flashlight. “We’ll lock it up until we get this sorted out.”
“No way,” said Keegan.
“We’ll just go,” said Brennan. “If you have a problem with anything that airs on our show, you can sue us.”
Osorio scowled. “Don’t worry. We will.”
Brennan sighed. “Pack it up, Keegan.”
“I set up remote cameras down by the church, and over at—”
“Get them.”
“I can wait,” said Osorio, popping a cough drop.
“Do it,” said Brennan.
Keegan slapped his hands against his legs and stomped away.
“I’m here!” Kate cried, following. “I know you heard me! I’m here! I’m here!”
“Let them go, little one.”
Kate spun, and the world canted, dizzyingly. An elderly ghost sat nearby, perched atop a headstone, cross-legged, his chin in his hand. He was gentlemanly, wearing an old-fashioned suit with a waistcoat and brass buttons. The chain of a watch fob even dangled from one pocket. Kate paused to admire the detail. He’d certainly pulled together a fine figure for himself. When he smiled, he produced dimples among the wrinkles. He reminded Kate of Professor Marvel, the flim-flam man in The Wizard of Oz.
“Did I startle you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My apologies. Why are you chasing that fellow?”
“He heard my voice.”
“Ah! He apprehended some small glimpse of your existence? That happens often. It’s futile, of course. Don’t pursue him. It never works out and you’ll just be disappointed. I’ve seen Undertowners throw stones, whisper to their loved ones, and achieve some tantalizing puncture of the veil, as you have. They come to believe that they can rip the fabric wide, step through the curtain, and return to the stage. But we are a troupe of retired actors here. The stage is not for us. Not anymore. Go to your grave, child, and read your reviews.”
“I don’t have a grave.”
He cocked his head. “No?”
“I’m still alive. My body was stolen. By Agathe Van Brunt.”
“Her,” he muttered, with disgust.
“You know her?”
“I did. In life. Briefly. An evil woman. Though her son was a friend. Is.”
Kate neared, ready to pose a question, but she lost equilibrium for a moment. The old ghost had flipped upside down. No. She had. He stretched out a hand and righted her. “Thank you,” she said. “How did you do that?”
“I still have some influence.”
“What do you mean?”
He spread his hands. “The Horseman was not always the dominant spirit here. Before the Horseman rose, I was that spirit.”
“Who are you?”
The man grinned. “Geoffrey Crayon.”
“And you ran the cemetery before?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Sorry. It’s just that… you seem nice.”
“High praise. But can only evil be dominant? Is good so weak? I do like to think of myself as good. Every man must do so, even—no, especially when it’s not true. Evil is not strength. Quite the opposite. Evil spirits do not naturally dominate.”
“Who does, then?”
“A dominant spirit is almost always a man or woman of some goodwill—one who would gladly stay behind if called onward. To see to the order of things, to keep the bad in their boxes and the good tucked beneath their coverlets of earth. Their role is to keep the peace, to shepherd the dead in their journey. Not to command, but to guide and protect.” He stood, turning to look sadly at the blighted hills. “This was such a beautiful place before he returned. You should have seen it. A still harbor in which a soul would gladly lay anchor. Now look at it. Such a shame.”
“If you’re a dominant spirit, couldn’t you drive him out again and take over?”
Geoffrey spread his hands. “As long as the witch continues to fuel his ego and bloodlust, the Horseman will remain our general.”
“He’s not mine.”
“Indeed, if you have no grave here. He doesn’t command his witch for the same reason. A pity. Agathe couldn’t command him if he commanded her, could she?” He winked.
“Where is she buried?”
“No idea. I don’t think she is buried. I’m told her bones are somewhere in the aqueduct.”
“Do you know where?”
“I don’t. The spirits in that dark place do not appreciate visitors.”
“I want my body back!” Kate turned a circle. “We’ve got to do something. We’ve got to fight her.”
“I have fought. For a long time.” Geoffrey shrugged. “But I accept my limitations. I know the Horseman’s power too well. Better than any man. And the witch… She has forgotten me entirely. And that is to the good.” He pointed at the receiving vault. “Those who challenge her come to grief.”
“Somebody challenged Agathe?”
“Quite impressively. A proud old ghost. She gave that old Dutch urchin a good lesson, fit for Ichabod and his whip of birch. But she was imprisoned for it.”
“Who is she?”
“I’ve yet to make her acquaintance. The door is iron, you see. And the hill is bound by Agathe’s enchantments. But if memory serves—and mine has always been a most excellent valet—there is a small vent at the top.”
“Could I fit through?”
“I know of no other who could. You are a snowflake, young lady. Unique in my experience. The rest of these butterball ghosts would find it impassable.” He stroked his chin. “Perhaps we should put them on a diet. To slim their skeletons.”
“If she’s a fighter, then let’s break her out and team up. Maybe she can help.”
Geoffrey sighed and sat on the tombstone again, gazing at the distant lights of the village. “Sleepy Hollow has seen its last white magic. We are under his dominance now, and all will come to a tragic end.”
Kate felt a burst of annoyance and her light reddened. “Only if we give up. Like you have.”
She left the old man behind, climbed the hill, and searched for a keyhole in the grass. She found the vent and slipped into darkness. She felt the space open up, the air cooling. She was inside the receiving vault. She blinked, glowed green-yellow, as brightly as she could. The walls were of white marble, with niches to accommodate the dead.
These hollows were unoccupied
but for one ghost. Elderly and wrapped in chains. Her face was familiar. Kate had seen this woman once before: eyes shut, resting in a coffin, and wearing the same blue dress.
“Mrs. Merrick?”
“Now, none of that, Kate Usher.” Eliza raised her arms and embraced the little light. “You call me ‘Grandma.’”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“The Cauldron Bell”
They talked for a long time, Eliza and Kate. They shared war stories—the scars each had endured fighting the long battle for Sleepy Hollow. Kate relaxed, let her guard down for maybe the first time since Agathe had pushed her out.
“Tell me,” said Eliza. “How can that old witch take you over like that—so completely? From what I’ve heard it’s—almost unprecedented. Possession is easy. Staying inside is tough. And she can speak through you! It’s not just—”
“Not just physical,” Kate said, turning a little curlicue as substitute for a nod. “She knows what I know. She’s… seeped all the way in, like some virus in my bone marrow. And there is an explanation.” Her voice grew cold, despite her best efforts. “It’s Jason’s fault.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t his fault, I guess. Not really. But… we coupled.”
“You what?” Eliza said, looking appalled and delighted all at once.
“Not like that. We coupled magically. We accidentally mingled our energies. We weren’t trying to. It just happened, while we were dancing together. I panicked, pushed him away, and my energy got… locked up inside of him. I lost my—” She stopped. Years of her father’s lectures still made her hesitate to reveal her Gift. “I lost some part of myself to him. Something that could have kept her out.”
“You lost your heart.”
Kate frowned, as best she could with no mouth. Her light turned a little redder.
“I’m sorry.” Eliza raised a hand. “That’s between you two.”
“If we were in love, we would’ve been able to couple again and reverse it. But… it doesn’t matter anymore.” Kate’s light turned blue. “Whatever he took from me died with him.”
“I don’t believe that. My Jason is alive.”
“Everyone says…”
“If he were a ghost, he’d be here. If he had to steal a sheet off someone’s clothesline to show himself, he’d do it. Don’t tell me my Jason wouldn’t come. He’d find a way. He’s a fighter. He’s my grandson. He’s behind some wall and he can’t walk through it. That’s the only explanation. He has to be alive, or he would come. For both of us. He loves you, honey.”
“No he doesn’t,” she said at once.
“Are you sure of that?”
“He doesn’t love me.” She thought of her mother suddenly, but wasn’t sure why. “We barely know each other. How can he love me?”
“You don’t believe in love at first sight?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s real.”
“I—” Kate pulled away. “Whatever. I don’t love him.”
Eliza busied herself with the drape of her chains. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Jason’s not the person for me. I can’t tell you why.”
“Let me guess. He has no butt.”
“What?”
“Well, a man ought to have a butt, as I see it. Jason takes after his father. I can see where you’d be disappointed.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Are you sure? He’s skinny. Gangly, even. And too tall.”
“I… like tall.”
“Is it his breath? That has to be it.”
“No.”
“His dancing? His feet are humongous.”
“He’s a good dancer. When he lets go.”
“He must be a bad person, then.”
“He’s not a bad person. He’s just… not for me. He’s…”
“What?”
“Pigheaded! Okay? Since the day I met him. He doesn’t believe in anything. The heavens could open and the angels could sing and Jason Crane would still—”
“He’d still be Jason Crane.”
“Yeah. A big skeptic.”
“And that’s why he’s not for you.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I’m glad we got that settled. Kate Usher needs a pious man.”
“No. I don’t.”
“We’ll find you some nice Episcopalian boy. There’s plenty of them over in the Restland area. They’re dead, but… oh, you can hardly tell the difference.” Eliza winked. “Have two. They’re small.”
“I don’t care what he believes in, as long as he believes in something.”
“And Jason doesn’t?”
Kate turned, slowly, like a dust mote in a sunbeam, thinking.
“I understand,” Eliza said. “I used to worry about him. Where would he get his morals if he wasn’t a believer? And you know what?”
“What?”
“He got them from me.” She beamed. “And from his books. And his movies. And his own thinking. I’m proud of that. That’s… thoughtfulness. That’s being true to himself. And that’s not the real problem, is it? Come on. You can talk to me.” She rattled her chains. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future.”
“He’s—I don’t know. He’s…” Kate felt herself drifting into memories again—into a ghost-reverie…
Jason, at the Spirit Dance, slapping Eddie Martinez’s hand away; Jason, at the stables, insisting that he be the one to ride out for the salt block; Jason, at Spook Rock, lying to her about Zef—keeping her in the dark for her own good; Jason, at her elbow, always trying to fix things, always available, always—
“He’s always protecting me,” Kate blurted. “All the time!”
“And that’s bad.”
“Yes. He’s overprotective, over-considerate, over… whelming.”
“He’s Jason Crane.”
“Fine. I don’t like it. I don’t need some knight to come save me. I don’t need a guardian angel. I don’t need a father!”
“Is that who you think he wants to be?”
“That’s who he acts like. It’s… stifling. It’s like I’m his little girl and he knows best and I should just play with dolls and not have a mind of my own.”
“Jason’s like that? Or your father is?”
“Both of them are.”
“I see.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“I’m not a child. I’m going to college. I’m going to Harvard Medical School, if I ever get my body back. I’m going to cure cancer. I’m going to ride in the nationals. I’ll beat my father for the nomination and run for president myself if that’s what it takes.”
“To prove it.”
“Yes.”
“To say ‘I am here!’”
Kate froze. She turned away and buzzed around the vault, darting to and fro. “Why are we even talking about them? Here we are, two intelligent women—”
“I agree. Change the subject.”
“—and what are we doing? Talking about them.”
“The enemy.”
“The enemy. We’re totally failing the Bechdel test.”
“I didn’t know there was a test.” Eliza sighed. “And me without my number two pencil.”
“The Bechdel test—it’s how you tell if a writer’s giving equal agency to his female characters. We should be talking about—”
“Municipal bonds!” Eliza shrugged. “Sorry. That just popped into my head.”
“Fine. Or windsurfing.”
“Lovely.”
“Or the plight of the Haitian refugees.”
“It’s quite a plight.”
“Don’t make fun. I’m being serious.”
“I know. But this is real life, honey. You think boys don’t talk about us? When I was a girl, they talked about me all the time. I know—I listened outside the locker room. And I liked that. ‘The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked a
bout.’ That’s Oscar Wilde. You see? I’m an intelligent woman quoting Oscar Wilde. Come on. There are worse things than being cared for. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s… old-fashioned.”
“I’m eighty. What else would I be?” Eliza leaned forward. “Now listen. I was just like you. I got my pilot’s license in 1959. That’s closer to Amelia Earhart than Sally Ride. You think there weren’t chauvinist pigs back then? I know what men can be like. I had seven husbands, you know. Number three was a pig. I also had a jackass, a layabout, two egomaniacs, and a pissant. And when one of them didn’t measure up, I packed my bags and walked away. I didn’t need them. Because I always had someone to keep me happy. Someone to have fun with, to share things with. Someone to take me dancing. Someone to call the hospital if I keeled over. Someone to hold my hand when I died. And that man was Jason.” She turned wistful. “Don’t confuse being loved with weakness. My Arthur… Arthur Pyncheon, my first husband… he rescued me.”
“How?”
“I was… seventeen. Same age you are. My mother had just died. She slipped on the steps of the Wytheville Library that New Year’s Eve. My father was already gone, so I had no one. Is your mother living?”
“Cancer. I was seven.”
“Jason lost his mother at seven. It’s hard at any age. A mother is… like the sun. We depend on them for life, for warmth. For knowing when to go to bed. Every one of us is a reflection of our mother. I was… lost, after mine died. I was penniless, sleeping at friends’ houses. I hid my circumstances from Arthur, for the longest time. I’d seen him around. I was working as a carhop. Oh, God. I’d forgotten this. I wore those roller skates. One night he pulled up in his baby blue convertible and ordered a root beer and a Dipsy-Dash… ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. I liked the look of him. Yellow sweater. V-neck. Woo, baby!”
“Did he have a butt?”
“Like a Michelangelo.” Eliza waggled her eyebrows. “And he liked the look of me, too. Wham-o. That was it. He asked me out so many times, but I turned him down, over and over. Because I was afraid he’d find out, that it would be embarrassing. I knew he’d want to help. That made me feel… weak. And I didn’t like that one bit. But he pestered me, followed me home, and he got my whole life story from Sheila Fox’s mother. I could have killed that woman. I told Arthur, ‘I don’t want your help. I don’t want your charity. I don’t need protecting. Now go!’”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 28