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

by Gleaves, Richard

  “You okay, baby?”

  She howled, scratching her nails on the boards above.

  “You shouldn’t be up there. Can’t you get down?” Jason sighed, left the bedroom, and took the narrow steps to the attic. Darkness engulfed him. He felt a little prickle of fear and wished he still had his hand-lights. He pulled a hanging chain, but the bulb was dead. He followed Charley’s whimpering and found her at the far end, near the rocking chair and the moonlit octagonal window, scratching at a board.

  “What’s under there, mutt?”

  Charley barked.

  “I don’t care. I can’t deal with another severed head or a set of teeth made into a bracelet or a cursed amulet or a portal to hell. Just leave it. Get your furry ass downstairs.”

  She sneezed and shook her head.

  “Fine.” Jason sighed, knelt, and pulled the board up. He stuck a hand into the hole, imagining scorpions and spiders and rusty nails—and he came up with a dust-covered oblong box. Inside lay scraps of this and- that, candle ends, a silver ring—(the Horseman’s ring?)—and…

  An envelope.

  He held it to the bright octagon of moonlight. It read:

  For Katrina

  He gasped, realizing what it was: the note Ichabod had left in Agathe’s safekeeping on the day he escaped from Sleepy Hollow. The note that Agathe had never passed along. Ichabod’s farewell to his love.

  Jason hesitated. If the envelope had still been sealed, he might have let it stay sealed. Private, as it was meant to be. He might have taken it to Katrina’s grave in the woods and tucked it into the hollow of the walnut trees, for her eyes only, without reading it. He would still take it to her. Maybe it would give her some peace. But Agathe had opened it at some point. The seal had been broken.

  He sat in the rocker, and Charley curled up at his feet. He slipped the letter out. One short page of parchment, spidery with ink. He had no problem reading it, even by moonlight. The penmanship was excellent. Ichabod was a Yale man.

  My Katrina,

  I write this with great sadness and a heavy heart, for each word brings me closer to a moment which I still, somehow, hope will never come: the moment I sign my name to this page and say goodbye.

  I must leave you now. I cannot explain. Please know that I do wish to stay. I wish to stay in Tarrytown, desperately. I wish to stroll with you along the millpond on a summer afternoon, one last time. I wish to sing one last Sunday service in our church, to decipher one last grave symbol, to dance madly to one last giddy fiddle song. I wish to hold your hand and praise your beauty, for as long as I have breath to do so. But my time in Sleepy Hollow must end. I must go. I must go today, and I dare not see you, for most of all, I wish one last kiss. Yet a kiss from you would shatter my resolve, so I dare not take it, lest I be undone.

  You shall always have my heart, Miss Van Tassel, and I hope that you shall retain some fondness for me.

  I have tied a little kerchief with all my worldly goods, and I carry a wealth of memories and moments. I have been happier in Sleepy Hollow than ever before in my life. It is an enchanted place, truly. I have trod its hillsides and drunk its waters. I have fished its shores and tasted its harvests. I have taught its littlest ones and learned from its white-haired elders. I feel as though I own Sleepy Hollow, for to know a place and to love it is to own it. So I am tucking it inside the little bundle of my heart to take with me, through all my journeys ahead.

  Oh, to tarry. I wish I could.

  The dreaded moment is coming when I must sign, and go. I’ve only so much paper, and so much ink, and though I write with the tiniest letters I can, I see goodbye up ahead. I must resolve to accept it and race toward it—as the hands of my clock race toward midnight, that topmost tick-tock that bridges today and tomorrow. We must make for that bridge, you and I. Let go of what is past and embrace whatever good lies ahead. Make for the bridge of midnight, Katrina, where the past that haunts us loses all power. Cross over into tomorrow, safe and sound, and above all, my truest and dearest love, never look back.

  With devotion, always,

  Your,

  Ichabod Crane

  Jason Crane sat quietly with the letter in his hands, for many minutes, thinking. His ancestor had been chased away from Sleepy Hollow. But he didn’t have to be, did he? He didn’t have to go. He didn’t have to stay, either. He had the choice. He could run if he wanted or tarry if he chose. Sleepy Hollow didn’t own him, no. But he owned Sleepy Hollow, didn’t he? If to know a place and to love it is ownership…

  But do I love it or hate it?

  The octagonal window burst open, trembling the page in Jason’s hand. Charley barked. Jason pressed the letter to his chest so that it wouldn’t fly away, and he rose to shut the window again. The sharp night air smelled of funnel cake and pumpkin and the rise of autumn leaf. He could hear the crowd at the block party, the bass guitar, the laughter. Here was the moonlit town of Sleepy Hollow. He knew this place, down to its roots, from its past to its present, from its bottom to its top. He knew its people and places, its names and dates, its truths and myths. He did own it, he did—and he—

  The sound system far below blared a song. It was… oh, yuck! It was “Monster Mash.” He hated that song, but…

  That was the trigger.

  Every year it was something. Every October it happened. Some switch, some lightning bolt, some spark. It was a little late this year, but it hadn’t failed him.

  The Halloween spirit rose from the coffin where it slept and bit him hard.

  It’s Halloween, Jason realized, as if the idea was utterly new.

  It’s Halloween! What the hell am I thinking? It’s Halloween and I’m the last descendant of Ichabod Crane and I’m in Sleepy Freaking Hollow and I live in a cool spooky house! My friends are waiting! The night is waiting! How could I have been so stupid? But there’s still time, right? I still have time!

  Yes, he was Ichabod Scrooge, the morning after his ghostly visitations, hanging from his window, rubbing his eyes, playing out the scene with Cockney Joey. (“You! Boy! What day is this?” “Coo! Blimey! It’s Halloween Day, suh!”)

  “Aaah!” Jason cried, shivering with excitement and nervous energy. “It’s Halloween!”

  He slipped the letter back in the box and made for the stairs, then realized he’d left the window hanging open. He sprinted back, stuck his head out, and shouted as loud as he could, “I love Sleepy Hollow!”

  And, as if the crowd far below had heard his cry, they let up an answering walloo.

  He slammed the window shut and ran from the attic. He took the steps two at a time, head spinning, trying to think of where to begin.

  I should have found a costume days ago! I have no props! There’s no spider web in the sycamore or skeleton on the porch!

  He turned a circle in the living room, trying to make a plan. Was Walgreen’s still open? He could buy a cheap mask—that would be something. He could get, uh, glitter spray and antennae and make himself, uh… My Favorite Martian. He could… oh, hell. Just go go go!

  The doorbell rang, and he froze. Shit! More trick-or-treaters! And he had no candy!

  “Two seconds!” he shouted, running to the kitchen, throwing open cabinets, searching for chocolate, or cookies, or… anything edible, actually.

  The doorbell rang again. He felt so guilty!

  “Stay, kid! Don’t go away! I’m not boring! I swear!”

  He threw drawers open, seizing a golden roll of Halls honey-lemon cough drops, hoping the gesture would be enough, or that he’d luck out and get a little Medusa with a head cold. He tripped over the coffee table, struggled back up, jumped over a hysterical Charley, threw open the door and…

  “Happy Halloween!” they shouted.

  On the front porch of Gory Brook stood a knot of adults. He didn’t recognize them at first. They all wore costumes and they all carried dishes of food or gift-wrapped packages.

  They were his friends.

  “Since you wouldn’t come to the block
party…” said Joey.

  “We brought it to you!” cried the others.

  They came in, one by one. Valerie in her psychic costume, followed by Fireman Mike in full gear. Zef was Luke Skywalker in a too-short bathrobe. “I didn’t want to come,” he whined, “’cause I was going to Tosche Station to pick up some power converters!” Joey was next. He was dressed as… well, Jason had no idea what Joey was. He wore zombie makeup and a prison uniform and had an electric-chair cap on his head. He hit a button. The cap lit up and played “I Got the Power,” and he danced. It kind of worked for him. “I’m Zef’s power converter!” Joey laughed. “Get it? Get it? He picked me up! God! Nobody gets it!” He pushed a red and blue package into Jason’s hands. Adult Ultimate Spider-Man Costume. “Suit up, Spidey!” Behind Joey came Nathan Whatsisname and Page the cheerleader and a few Jason didn’t know from school and then… last across the threshold…

  … was Kate.

  She was Princess Leia, in a long white dress, silver belt and earmuff hairdo. Around her neck hung the silver and turquoise eagle feather he’d given her last Christmas. For the Star-Maiden of Spook Rock.

  Jason couldn’t speak. He just looked at her.

  “Do you hate surprises?” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Daddy, you know. This was my idea. I’m only here tonight, and I didn’t want to miss your birthday. It’s kind of your party. You’re not mad?”

  “Yeah, Kate. I’m furious.”

  He grabbed her and kissed her, as hard as he could. They broke apart, and she grinned, bent, and struggled to pick up an enormous pumpkin. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

  Jason put on his webslinger costume—it was a little short, showing some wrist and ankle, like pajamas he’d almost grown out of—and came back downstairs. Valerie had cooked way too much food, but they did their best to polish it off. They played Pictionary and charades (Valerie, naturally, kicked ass at it), and Jason opened a few presents. He got expensive new gloves from Zef and a leather-bound copy of House of the Seven Gables from Valerie. Fireman Mike gave him his own personal rappelling harness. Joey gave him The Complete Scooby-Doo on DVD.

  Kate gathered the three boys in the living room and sat them down. “Zef and I have an announcement,” she whispered. “It’s why my dad let me loose. I told him Zef should hear it in person from me.”

  “What is it?” said Jason, worried.

  Zef sighed. “Paul proposed. To my mom.”

  “Wow,” said Joey.

  Jason gaped at Kate and Zef. “But that would make you two…”

  “Brother and sister,” said Kate. “Well, stepbrother and stepsister.”

  “And yet…” Joey deadpanned. “You used to make out.”

  “We know,” said Zef. “And that’s why we’re…”

  Zef and Kate pressed their cheeks together: “Luke and Leia!”

  Kate covered her face. “And Jessica’s going to be my new stepmother!”

  “Wicked stepmother,” said Joey.

  “I don’t want to think about it.” Kate adjusted her buns. “Change the subject!”

  “Ooh! I have a great idea,” Joey said, producing his Scooby DVD. “After graduation, let’s fix up the RV and go all Mystery Machine with it. You know, go around to haunted amusement parks and snatch the masks off bad guys.”

  “Like one does,” said Jason.

  “Sounds awesome,” said Zef.

  Joey’s hand shot up. “I’m Shaggy!”

  “No way,” said Kate. “Jason’s obviously Shaggy.”

  Jason bowed. “And that makes Charley Scooby! Yay!” He picked the poodle up and held her in his lap. “Come on, baby, say ‘Scooby-Doooo!’”

  Charley looked up at him dubiously, and sneezed.

  “Okay,” said Joey. “I’m Fred, then.”

  Zef cocked a thumb at himself. “I am so Fred.”

  “Yeah,” Jason agreed. “Zef’s the big blond doofus with the ascot.”

  “Hey!”

  “I agree,” said Kate. “Zef’s Fred.”

  “So I’m, what?” Joey frowned. “Daphne?”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “How can Kate not be Daphne?”

  “But that just leaves…” Joey scowled. “No! I am not Velma! No no no no… Not when…” He jumped to his feet, hit the button on his LED-covered hat, and gyrated to “I Got the Power.”

  They laughed. Joey wanted to watch Scooby-Doo, but none of their various abilities could get the plastic casing open, and Jason had a better idea.

  “You’re sure?” said Kate, when he brought out the old tape.

  “Totally.”

  Jason took a deep breath and put in Disney’s The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad. Eliza’s favorite.

  His grandmother had been right. The Toad part was dreadful. They fast-forwarded to the Legend adaptation. Bing Crosby sang, and a lanky cartoon Ichabod came loping into town.

  As the group gathered and watched, Jason sat at the coffee table and carved the pumpkin. It was the first he’d carved since his parents died. It was time.

  His dad always used to cut out the plugs, and his mom, more artistic, did the faces. Little Jason got to scoop out the goopy parts and… big Jason discovered that he still loved doing it. Pumpkin guts smell nothing like pumpkin pie. They smell like earth and health and… little-league baseball. Yeah. Like eating an orange in a field of new-mown grass.

  On the big-screen TV, the cartoon Katrina and Ichabod danced together. Brom got stuck with the short fat girl and fell down a trap door into the cellar. Even Valerie laughed. A hearty laugh that Jason had never heard.

  He kept working. The jack-o’-lantern he made was unremarkable, just an impish grin under stereotypically triangular eyes. But it was his. He’d made it. It was like making a kid. Like being a parent.

  Kate gave it a nod of approval.

  She took his hand just as Brom Bones, backlit by firelight, sang about the Headless Horseman—while superstitious Ichabod shivered, over-salting his boiled egg and looking fearfully into the night. That’s when Jason realized something.

  Children got this story. Children understood. They know what Ichabod Crane faced, riding home through an absolute dark, with nothing but crickets and bullfrogs and the creaking of trees. The night is full of terrors, even for schoolteachers, no matter what they tell you. Bravery takes time to harvest, like learning cursive or growing whiskers or getting that second set of teeth. Childhood is a time of nightlights and panic attacks and dark imaginings, a time of predators and whisper-men who watch from the closet. Childhood is the haunt of the Headless Horseman, who waits for travelers on the road just ahead, lurking behind the cicada call. The brainless bully on a dirt bike, laughing as you pass his lair, calling you “four eyes,” or “retard,” or sometimes “fag.” The Monster who waits for you after school, laughing and chasing you down the road, his power broken once you’ve crossed the threshold of home.

  Ichabod Crane is the patron saint of all frightened children. He’s one of them, and that is why they love him.

  Jason braced himself for the Horseman chase. But the chase wasn’t scary. It was funny. Ichabod caught his chin on a branch, went looping end over end, and landed behind the Horseman, front-to-back on the same saddle. This was the real Legend, no matter the historical facts. No monsters. Just fun. Only the ending, the hurl of the pumpkin, the sight of it smashed, made Jason look away.

  When the cartoon ended, it was only a few minutes to midnight.

  Valerie clapped her hands. “It’s almost Jason’s birthday! Everybody to the kitchen!”

  “Wait for me!” Jason cried. “I’ve got to put my pumpkin out before Halloween’s over!”

  Alone, Jason carried his pumpkin out to the front porch, where a purple-caped Halloween night whipped its mysteries and shadows up the moonlit road. The aqueduct trail looked like a haunted glen, with plenty of spooks waiting to catch an unwary traveler there. He lit a candle in his pumpkin’s head, which is what a parent does, and turned it out t
o face the world, hoping the wind wouldn’t steal its fire away.

  Gory Brook Road was dark and lovely, and other jack-o’-lanterns grinned on other porches all down the hill. He was about to turn aside when he glimpsed an old man and woman walking arm in arm. Trees were visible through their transparent bodies.

  Eliza and Washington Irving, on their annual Halloween stroll.

  Jason raised a palm as they passed. Eliza stopped to take a long and satisfied look at her Jason. She blew him a kiss. Then she took Irving’s arm, and the pair walked on, their white heads bent in animated conversation.

  As Jason watched them fade, he repeated the prayer he’d said in the chapel on the day of her funeral, exactly one year ago. Eliza hadn’t believed in any afterlife, no, but she deserved one. She deserved to be led to heaven by Valkyries—and not because she had been some holy roller, either. She deserved another life because she’d never been bored by living. She deserved to go on, like the best stories go on. Never forgotten, always returned to, reimagined by every generation afterward. His grandmother deserved to be an immortal, or, at the very least, to be a time-honored tale passed along to Jason’s kids, just before bed. The epic grandmother. A figure of myth.

  No. A figure of Legend.

  After the pair had vanished, Kate came out of the house and slipped her arms around Jason’s neck. “Can I stay over? I haven’t given you my present.”

  “What present?”

  She whispered in his ear. “I’m wearing Slave Girl Leia under this.”

  She waggled her eyebrows and led Jason, grinning, back into the house.

  He swung shut the big nail-studded door. This had been the best Halloween ever, but the topmost tick-tock of midnight had come at last. Valerie was lighting candles in the kitchen. Jason’s friends had gathered together. They did a countdown—three, two, one—and midnight struck.

  “Happy birthday!” they cried, and they began the old song. It was like… his imagined church again. All his friends singing, candles flickering. The song doesn’t end, you just haven’t composed the rest yet.