SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  She rose unsteadily, looking for the door. A skeletal hand shot from the sepulcher and a corpse took hold of her wrist. She pulled out of its grasp, its fingers drawing bloody scratches down her arm.

  Agathe hovered over the bone boxes, her transparent head perfectly in line with the bust in its niche in the wall. All around Valerie, the sepulchers of the Van Brunts were opening, the lids falling aside, the occupants rising.

  Valerie couldn’t understand. Why was Agathe not bound? How had she failed? Maybe she’s right. I’m weak. I’m afraid. I’m nothing. I’m useless.

  But no—the gate. The gate to the tomb hung wide open. She had to close it for Agathe to be truly buried. She had to get outside and close the gate!

  Valerie ran for the exit. Skeletal hands snatched at her clothes and her hair and clawed her face, reaching out to empty her eye sockets and strip her skin. She fell hard, just at the threshold, fingernails breaking as she tried to claw her way forward. Strands of hair ripped from her scalp as the corpses worked to drag her back in, to throw her into a box of Van Brunt Quarry stone and consign her to dust forever.

  And at last Agathe had grown tired of toying with Valerie Maule. She descended on her with a sly look of contempt and condescension, as if to take possession of her body was… slumming.

  For the first time, Valerie felt the full power of Agathe’s dark vitality, irresistible and overwhelming.

  I had no idea, she thought.

  I’m sorry, Mama.

  I’m sorry, Mike.

  I never knew it was like this.

  Forgive me!

  I had no idea…

  I had no… idea…

  Agathe climbed inside Valerie—like fear cannibalizing her body—and the Van Brunt tomb went dark.

  Sparks flew from the reliquary, and Kate cried out, throwing it onto the authentic Dutch canopy bed circa 1750.

  “What was that?” said Jason.

  Kate bit her knuckle. “She’s coming.”

  “Agathe?”

  “I can feel her.” Kate pointed at the reliquary. “She can’t get that back. A lot of her power is in it.”

  “Okay.” Jason ran fingers through his hair, bewildered and overwhelmed. “Then let’s grab it and run.”

  “No,” said Kate, her face stern. “I told you. She’s coming back. If she does, she’ll take me again. Keep the reliquary away from me. She’s twice as powerful with it around.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “Just go. We’ll meet up! Trust me.”

  Jason hesitated, debating with himself, but he knew she was right. He bent to Kate and gave her a passionate, lingering kiss. “I love you.”

  “Later. Just run. Now!” She thrust the lantern into his arms and sat on the bed, hugging herself. “Hurry!”

  Jason broke from her reluctantly and sprinted downstairs. He stumbled outside and ran across the grounds, dodging flame-faced people, blinking at the burning party tent across the water and the broken dam and the face of the manor house dripping pumpkin shrapnel. Ghosts threw fists and tore each other’s arms off. He carried the reliquary in his glowing Rudolph hands past the Headless Horseman, who now wrestled with Washington Irving himself.

  The Blaze soundtrack played “The Headless Horseman Song” from Disney’s The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad. It overlapped with a surround-sound zombie whisper of “Pumpkin blaaaaaaaaze.”

  For Jason, it was a frozen moment of helpless, almost comic disbelief at his situation; a moment when he flew out of himself, hovering above it all, gaping at the strange melee like a spectator in a movie theater, or the reader of some insane bit of supernatural pulp fiction.

  Red and blue flashing lights appeared on Broadway and an officious male voice squawked, “THIS IS DETECTIVE DAVID MARTINEZ OF THE TARRYTOWN POLICE! YOU ARE ORDERED TO DISPERSE OR YOU WILL BE—HOLY SHIT, WHAT ARE THESE THINGS?”

  JASON CRANE! the reliquary screamed. And Ichabod’s heir had to laugh at the insanity that was his life.

  “Jason!” shouted Kate from the window of the manor house. “Run, damn it!”

  Jason took off running, as fast as he could, dodging mannequins and animated corpses, a thrown hatchet, a falling branch of the Halloween Tree, and the kicking forelegs of the possessed Gunsmoke. The enormous pumpkin brontosaurus tipped in his direction. It hit the roof of the pumpkin tunnel just as he sprinted inside. Dozens of jack-o’-lanterns rained down as he dashed through. Frankenstein faces and skulls and aliens and vampires and rabbits and werewolves and butterflies and the Death Star. He dodged as many as he could, bobbing and weaving.

  And at the end of the tunnel, waiting for him with hands aflame, stood Hadewych Van Brunt. Jason had no time to think. He did what felt right, what felt natural, what he’d been wanting to do since the day he’d met the man. He swung the heavy gold reliquary as hard as he could, spinning it in a full circle, sweeping pumpkin shards from the air, gaining momentum, and with a mighty CRACK! …

  … he bashed Hadewych’s teeth down his throat.

  His beloved guardian screamed. His hands flew to his face as he fell to his knees.

  Jason didn’t stop. He sprinted out of the tunnel, leapt a fake headstone, and, grinning despite his fear, he ran for and from his crazy messed-up life.

  “That was for my grandmother!”

  Hadewych’s ears rang. Bloody saliva dripped through his fingers. He felt inside his mouth and found teeth missing. At least four, two at the top and two at the bottom. Shattered and broken. Blood filled his mouth, like a wolf after a hunt. He searched the mud and found three broken teeth there. He’d swallowed the fourth. He closed a fist around the remaining three and shoved the wad of mud and enamel into his pocket. Hot blood ran down his chin as his eyes searched out the fleeing Jason. He spit a streak of red into the pumpkin face of Speak No Evil, set both hands ablaze, and ran after, knowing that tonight, once and for all, if it cost him everything he had or was or ever would be, he was going to roast Jason Crane to ash, then piss on the little bastard’s charred and smoldering bones.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  “The Battle of Sleepy Hollow: Part Two”

  “We can’t leave this kid here!” said Zef, standing over the little boy, asleep in a pew.

  Joey waved a hand in front of the eyes of a bewitched audience member. “They’re not attacking.” He turned and looked up at the flame-eyed storyteller. “They’re just waiting for the story to end.”

  Zef looked out one of the church’s southern windows, shaking his head at the chaos across the road. “So… the Horseman’s got ghosts now. And it looks like they’re winning.”

  “I saw them—they came down from the cemetery. He’s their dominant…” Joey trailed off.

  “What?”

  “I… have an idea,” said Joey.

  “No. No. Don’t get that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That bull in a china shop look. What idea?”

  Joey slammed a muddy fist against his palm. “We’ll take his army away from him.”

  “How?”

  “It’s brilliant! Stay here and watch the kid!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Joey turned at the church door, grinning. “I’m going to dig him up!”

  He ran outside. Through the window, Zef watched Joey sprint across the burying ground and raise his hands to the shallow depression of the Horseman’s grave.

  Irving and the Horseman were not evenly matched. Agathe had glutted her Monster with magic a hundred times over, and even the former General of the Dead could not break his power, not when the Horseman had a body and Irving had none. The Horseman sank his hatchet into the Halloween Tree again, rallying his own far larger army of spirits. Reinforcements burst from the burying ground, swarming Philipsburg, bringing a cold wind and a shroud of terror and melancholy. Red-eyed Gunsmoke thrashed about on the broken milldam, gnashing its teeth at the hissing green electrical cable.

  Irving returned to the manor house, where
he appeared at Kate’s side. “We cannot hold him forever. You must go.”

  Kate squared her shoulders. “Not without my horse.”

  She ran outside, her white wedding dress whipping behind her. Gunsmoke kicked at her. She climbed the unsteady railing of the shattered milldam and put a foot on the rail. When she saw her chance, she seized a handful of black mane and threw herself onto Gunsmoke’s back, holding tight as the horse tried to buck her off.

  “I broke you once, baby. I can do it again.”

  Valerie gasped. Agathe’s hold on her had vanished! Why? Why? Valerie opened her eyes, blinking against the sting of dust and tears. Agathe hung in space above the bone boxes, writhing and screaming. A disembodied hand had seized her by the hair and dragged her out of Valerie’s body. The hand grew an arm, then a torso. Another strong arm wove itself out of spinning motes and moonlight. A face swam into view.

  Agathe struggled, gasping. “Brom?”

  The ghost of Brom Bones wrapped both arms around her body. “We’re all slaves of the Horseman now, Mother.”

  “No! No!” Agathe screamed and struggled in her son’s grip. Her marble memorial bust erupted into flame, blackening its niche in the wall.

  Brom purred, “Time for bed, old woman.”

  “Please! No!”

  Valerie pushed herself across the threshold and tumbled out of the tomb, landing at the bottom of the stone steps.

  “Brom!” Agathe screamed, as her son dragged her into darkness. “Brom! Brom! Brom!”

  The bust of Agathe exploded, throwing shards of marble across the open bone boxes of the Van Brunt clan. Valerie raised a hand, and with a full-voiced scream of anger and an echoing clang of finality, she hurled shut the rusted iron gate, sealing the tomb of Agathe Van Brunt, Matriarch of the Bones.

  “BROM!”

  Jessica blinked, the flame disappearing from her eyes and mouth. She lay in a pile of shattered pumpkin, pinned beneath the throne of Satan.

  A redheaded girl nearby rubbed her eyes. “What’s happening?” said Lisa Mayfair.

  “Help me!”

  Lisa heaved the throne aside, and Jessica stood.

  Tarrytowners woke, bewildered, in the middle of their pumpkin blaze, finding their neighbors or themselves battered or comatose or dead or dismembered. They hugged each other, pointed and wailed at the sight of the headless monster in their midst.

  “Great!” Jessica shouted, gaping at the disaster.

  Lisa gave out a shrill steam-whistle scream.

  “Shut up!” Jessica shouted.

  “But I don’t understand what’s happening!”

  Jessica grabbed the girl’s arm and seized her brain telepathically. “Nothing’s happening. It’s all really blurry. Now go home.”

  Lisa nodded blankly, said, “It’s all really blurry. I’m going home,” and squished away.

  The power cable in the water sparked, the lights on the manor died, and the music fell silent, leaving only shouts and moans… and gunshots.

  Brian Flight breathed a sigh of relief as the flames went out of the faces below. He watched from the branches of a scalded locust tree, helpless to do anything but gape.

  One of the Gifted who’d survived Van Brunt’s attack didn’t understand what had happened yet. Number Four—Chuck Tucker of the Bridgeview Restaurant—kept grabbing things off the ground, turning them to stone, and throwing them. He struck some poor woman in the temple and she clutched her head, crying out in pain.

  “Don’t use your Gift! Don’t use your Gift!” Brian flew down and shook Tucker, getting his attention. “They’re awake. You don’t want to curse people!”

  Tucker dropped his stone cider cup and nodded.

  Brian let out a sigh of relief, but heard a great groan from the direction of the concession tent. The burning framework had softened, and the bars were bending. The heavy pumpkin chandelier began to swing. The tent was falling over. He realized with horror that the woman Tucker had attacked still had her hands to her head and didn’t see the danger coming. He kicked off his lead-filled boots and went running, rising from the ground. He threw his arms around her, whipping her out of the way as the chandelier fell with a deafening clatter. They landed together in hay bales.

  “Are you all right?” Brian said.

  “Where’s my little boy?” the woman gasped, wriggling from beneath him. “Buddy! Buddy!”

  “We’ll find him.” He saw a look of suspicion and said. “What’s your name? I’m Brian.”

  She took his hand, softening. “Jill Rittermeyer.”

  The Horseman roared with triumph as he dispatched his enemies and the ghosts who had challenged him dispersed. The people of Sleepy Hollow fled from him like rats before a flood. He commanded his army to search for Jason now. The boy was out there. The Horseman could feel his own skull inside the reliquary, calling to him, clutched to the chest of his enemy. Clutched to a Crane heart. A heart that would stop beating this night.

  “Hands over your head!” cried an amplified voice.

  More enemies. More blood to spill. The Horseman strode toward the voice, hatchet in hand, right down the center of Broadway, toward the Headless Horseman Bridge and the flashing, whirling red and blue.

  “Holy shit!” yelled a cop, crouching behind the car.

  “Bring it down, bring it down!” cried another.

  Weapons went up, and bullets began to fly, blowing holes out of the Horseman’s immortal body.

  He welcomed those bullets.

  He’d always loved a battlefield.

  The summer when Sophia Usher brought this horse to her daughter, she warned Kate that Gunsmoke was a wild thing, that he might not bear her, might throw her, might hurt her. And the horse did. Time and again, bruise after bruise. But Kate climbed back up, even when she was scared to, until she dominated his spirit. Not with cruelty, but with persistence, and love, and courage. She made her mother proud that summer. That last summer before she died.

  Kate would do it again. Even if her mother wasn’t here to see her. She would hold on until her Gunsmoke came back, even if he shook her body to jelly. Even if he killed her.

  He almost did.

  Kate clung desperately to Gunsmoke’s back, holding as tight as she could, eyes shut, legs wrapped around him, refusing to let her best buddy go.

  “Come back to me, Gunsmoke! You come back right now!”

  The horse whipped about, and Kate almost fell off. Her legs swung in the air with a flutter of white fabric, but she recovered. She was a stunt rider. She knew every trick in the book. Her arms were strong, and so was her will.

  “You’re my horse, not his! You know that! You know that!”

  Gunsmoke tried to throw her again, whiplashing her painfully. His hooves trampled the grinning orange heads of cartoon characters and movie monsters. Kate felt herself slipping down his sweaty hide.

  “Bad Gunsmoke! Bad horse!”

  His mane slipped from her grip.

  “Bad horse!”

  The animal calmed suddenly. It went still.

  It went white.

  His coat went truly white now, not rose-grey. White as her dress. He was a pale ghost-horse, docile and gentle and dark-eyed. She dropped to the ground unsteadily and caressed his cheek with trembling fingers. Gunsmoke flicked his tail and let out a whinny of recognition.

  “Good horse,” she whispered through tears. “That’s a very good horse.”

  David Martinez fired and fired until he ran out of ammunition. He watched the thing in the road with helpless astonishment and fear. It was the thing he’d seen at homecoming. The monster who’d killed those kids. He’d known it wasn’t the fireman, but he’d had to arrest somebody. Here was his chance to bring down the real enemy, the heartless freaky thing that had struck down so many people. The thing that had stolen his Eddie away from him.

  The ghostly scent of black powder filled the night.

  He reloaded, stepped from behind the squad car, and began firing at point-blank range. “Die, yo
u son of a bitch! Die! Die! Die!”

  Joey bent to his work, trying to concentrate even as the gunshots came nearer and nearer. He had a grin on his face. He was a genius. Why hadn’t they thought of this before? Everyone knew where the Horseman was buried: here, in this unmarked grave behind the church. It was so obvious! If the Monster was the dominant spirit, he wouldn’t be for long, not once Joey the Dirtman did his heroic exhumation and saved the day.

  Zef came running across the graves. “Is it working?”

  “Give me a minute here! What did you do with the kid?”

  “He’s still in the back pew. He’ll be fine. The people in the church are waking up.”

  Mud splattered the ancient headstones all around as Joey dug his hole. A pit opened. Two feet deep. Three feet deep. Four foot deep. Five. Six.

  “There he is!” Zef shouted, pointing to a skull brown with mud.

  “Jump down and get him!” Joey said.

  Zef dropped into the pit and clawed the skull up out of the mud.

  “Throw it here!” Zef tossed the skull up to Joey, who raised it overhead. “We did it! Take that, Horseman!”

  “Uh, Joey…”

  Joey grinned. “You know, I’ve got a gravedigger Gift, but I’ve never actually dug a grave with it! And now I’ve dug up the Headless Horseman.”

  Zef spread his hands. “You mean the Horseman who has no head?”

  Joey scowled at the skull. “Oh, yeah. Crap.” He dropped it. “Keep looking for a headless one!”