“What do you think of your cake?” said Valerie, setting it down. Jason’s birthday cake bore a wreath design around the edge, and at the center, a beautiful woman, barely covered in a length of white cloth, twirled a baton in each hand. “The last Arcana,” Valerie whispered, rubbing his back. “Your new significator. The end of one cycle, the beginning of the next. A moment of rest and completion, before it all starts up again.”
“And then I’m back to being the Fool?”
She pulled away with a wise smile. “That’s how life works.”
He bent and blew out his candles, to applause and backslaps, but he didn’t wish for anything. He felt… complete.
“Who wants ice cream?” called Fireman Mike.
Joey took Zef’s hand and threw his free arm around Jason’s neck. “You do realize,” he whispered, “you just inherited over a hundred million bucks.”
Jason blinked. “Yoinks. You’re right, Velma.”
Joey squeezed hard enough to pop off Jason’s head. “Never call me that again.” He kissed Jason on the noggin. “Proud o’ you. You made it, man.”
“I guess I did.”
Kate slipped an arm around his waist. “So what now, Shaggy?”
Jason Crane pushed his hair out of his eyes, grinned, and reached for a plate.
“Now cut me a piece of the World.”
EPILOGUE
“All Saints’ Day”
At sunrise on the morning of November 1, Lisa Mayfair woke in the back seat of her car with The Hangover from Hell. She sat up, frowning, wondering why her hands were green. Oh, yeah. She was a witch last night. Block party. Where was she? Parked at Philipsburg Manor and in deep shit with her mom probably. Great.
She wriggled out of the car, snatched a dark purple shawl from the driver’s seat, and wrapped it around her neck, throwing the ends over her shoulders like bat wings. She flopped herself down at a picnic table by the muddy basin of the millpond and re-laced her Victorian shoes. She hated them, but sneakers didn’t go with a black dress and antique cameo and pointy hat. Lisa Mayfair knew better than to mix periods. She prided herself on perfect costumes. She was a professional. She would be a great actress. She sighed. Never gonna happen, is it? She didn’t have the talent or the dedication. She didn’t like networking. She didn’t like… people. She’d die in Tarrytown, swallowed by the Hollow. She’d have a couple of surly children and a fat straight husband who hated show tunes. That was her future.
She walked alongside the millpond, finding it half-empty.
Life sucks.
Everything was so hard. And unsatisfying. Never complete.
A sudden whip of steely air rippled her skirts. She gathered the shawl around her shoulders—
—and froze.
She felt… eyes… upon her skin…
She spun, searching the manor grounds. Nothing stirred. The wind pushed ripples of dark water across the mud, to distort her view of the depths, to stir a cauldron of ancient rot, choked with silt and blood-red leaves.
Who was staring at her? Who?
She sensed him. Him? Yes, him. Definitely a he. This was the gaze of a lover. Like yearning eyes in a smoky bar.
There. To her right. Somewhere over there.
She skirted the millpond. Dark lanterns hung along the path, strung on rope. She tapped them with her fingertip as she walked. Tap tap. Tap tap. Like a captured fly striking glass. She sang softly to herself… “Magic to do,” from Pippin.
A stockade fence obscured the morning sun. The fence bore arcane symbols and devil’s marks. Lisa could read those symbols, as if the language was inside her. It was a spell of power, a spell to raise the dead. She spoke it aloud, and the branches of trees gathered her in, like the arms of an old woman.
The eyes were just ahead. She could feel their call somehow. Their gaze pulled her, summoned her.
She reached the stone bridge where Broadway crosses the Pocantico, right where the river feeds the millpond. The path had risen, and the river breathed twenty feet below. A picket fence separated her from the descent. But she couldn’t turn away. She had to go to him. Now, before she lost him. She put a hand around the throat of a weeping willow, bunched her skirt, and swung her legs over the fence, through a shroud of spider web. She descended the far side, holding tight, testing the mud with the tip of one black shoe. Slimy and steep, the vine-tangled slope plunged treacherously into the waiting slough. She flicked a trickle of cold sweat from one eye and lowered herself. Her toe sank an inch. Her foot slid. Her breath quickened and her heart raced. What was she doing? This was so dangerous!
But she had to see.
Lisa leaned forward, gripping the fence with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other. She bent her body over the open maw and craned her neck, squinting, searching the tunnel under the road. There! Through the arch, hidden in the darkness of the hollow. Tangled roots pushing through red brick, clutching her lover, lifting him from the clotted current and offering him up to her. Something glowing, round and white but for a splash of clay, something the size of a small pumpkin. What was that? Were those teeth? An eye socket? Surely not.
Lisa Mayfair, it whispered. Lisa Mayfair. Lisa Mayfair. Lisa Mayfair.
The spell-scrawled picket she clung to broke free, and a rusty nail raked her wrist, drawing a spurt of deep blood. She lurched forward, panicking. She grabbed a string of the willow but it snapped and… like Hamlet’s Ophelia called to her fate, betrayed by an envious sliver, she fell helplessly, to be snared by her own fantastic garlands, by long purples and dead men’s fingers, until her garments grew heavy with their drink—a poor wretch pulled from her melodious lay to muddy death.
Yet even as she fell and fell and fell and fell, her eyes remained fixed on the tunnel; on that dark sleepy hollow, still bewitching her imagination.
She couldn’t help herself.
She had to know what was down there, gazing up at her with haunted eyes from the murk beneath the Headless Horseman Bridge…
The End
Author’s note
I have a confession to make. I was the Halloween Scrooge. In the autumn of 2012, I realized that, in my forties, I’d become boring and had stopped celebrating the holiday. I hid from the doorbell and never had plans. I decided I had to do something about that and, on a whim, I scrounged up sofa change and took a three-day trip to Sleepy Hollow, NY, in search of my childhood favourite, the Headless Horseman.
I found him.
I’d never written a novel before starting “Rise Headless and Ride.” I didn’t know if I could, even. But something… bit me. And three years later here we are. The Hollow is my second home now, and I’ve been blessed by it. The many hours of exploration and study, my adventures meeting the people and learning the local history, are precious and unrepeatable. The climax of this novel was written in the Sleepy Hollow woods, at the site of Ichabod’s broken bridge, sitting with a tape recorder, my legs dangling over the rushing Pocantico. I hope the love shines through. Ichabod’s farewell is really from me.
Oh, to tarry. I wish I could.
While the Sleepy Hollow trilogy is at last complete, Jason’s world has plenty of room to grow. I want to explore Salem, and the Great Curse, and the House of Usher. For a start.
I need your help, though. I’m just a guy with a computer, self-publishing without an agent or publishing house or even a website yet. The Amazon marketplace is my only venue if the work is to be read.
So, if you’ve enjoyed my tale, take a moment to leave a review. I would really like for Jason to find an audience, and I kind of need to keep the light bill paid. If you’ve been frustrated by the two previous cliffhangers, well, I’ve been frustrated myself. I wanted to do this right, and I think that I have done. Don’t hold it against the earlier books, now that you’ve seen the whole design. Give ‘em a break and throw ‘em an extra star or two in retrospect? I’d appreciate it. I’ve given this work everything I had to give. Truly.
Thanks to you all for exploring th
e Hollow with me. That was a blast, huh? I have much more to tell. The ride goes on.
Oh, and if you ever come trick or treating at my house, I promise: I will answer the bell, and there will be full-sized Snickers.
Richard Gleaves
December 4th, 2015
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Gleaves is the author of “Rise Headless and Ride” and “Bridge of Bones.” He is composer, lyricist and playwright of Dorian, Oswald on Ice. He is winner of BMI’s Harrington Award for Outstanding Creative Achievement, and is composer-in-residence for New Music New York.
In collaboration with author Dianne Durante and software designer Adam Reed, Richard is editor and composer of Monuments of Manhattan, a videoguide for Android devices.
Sleepy Hollow: General of the Dead is his third novel.
FOR DISCUSSIONS AND EXTRAS
VISIT JASON ON FACEBOOK
FACEBOOK.COM/THEJASONCRANESERIES
ALL THE LOCATIONS IN THIS BOOK EXIST
FIND THEM IN SLEEPY HOLLOW, NY
Thank you.
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE CHAPTER ONE - “The Gravedigger”
CHAPTER TWO - “The Countdown”
CHAPTER THREE - “Missing Persons”
CHAPTER FOUR - “The Telepaths”
CHAPTER FIVE - “The Gift-Catcher”
CHAPTER SIX - “Found Footage”
CHAPTER SEVEN - “The Empty House”
CHAPTER EIGHT - “Wheels Within Wheels”
INTERLUDE
PART TWO CHAPTER NINE - “The Receiving Vault”
CHAPTER TEN - “Soliloquy”
CHAPTER ELEVEN - “The Deal”
CHAPTER TWELVE - “The Turning of the Fool”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - “The Good Doctor”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - “The Satanic Circle”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - “Centralia”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - “Pom-Poms and Curly Fries”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - “Halftime”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - “Sudden Death”
CHAPTER NINETEEN - “Joeyball”
CHAPTER TWENTY - “Heroes and Horsemen”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - “The Dark Man”
PART THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - “Blackout”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - “The Trap”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - “The Funerals”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - “The Ghost Hunters”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - “The Fallen General”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - “The Cauldron Bell”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - “The Deep Witch”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - “Coffee and Comic Books”
CHAPTER THIRTY - “The Summons”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - “The Hoofprint Society”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - “The Prodigal Son”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - “The Family Reunion”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - “The Water Bearers”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - “The Porthole Room”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - “The Battle of Gory Brook”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - “The Battle of Tarrytown Light”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - “The Appointed Hour”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - “Someday”
PART FOUR CHAPTER FORTY - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part One”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Two”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Three”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Four”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Five”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Six”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Seven”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Eight”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Nine”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE - “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Ten”
CHAPTER FIFTY - “Agathe’s Tale Concludes”
PART FIVE CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE - “Bumps in the Night”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO - “The Quarantine”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE - “Reunions”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR - “The War Council”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE - “The Major Arcana”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX - “The Eye of the Storm”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN - “Lightning Strikes”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT - “Scarecrow Invasion!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE - “Kate’s Choice”
CHAPTER SIXTY - “Into the Dark”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE - “At the Forge”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO - “The Two Altars”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE - “The Apology”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR - “Matriarch of the Bones”
PART SIX CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE - “The Millpond”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX - “Cowards”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN - “The March of Agathe Van Brunt”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT - “Infiltration”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE - “Bleeding in the Waters”
CHAPTER SEVENTY - “The Pumpkin Blaze”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE - “The Battle of Sleepy Hollow”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO - “The Battle of Sleepy Hollow: Part Two”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE - “Out of Options”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR - “Make the Bridge”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE - “The Kiss”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX - “The General of the Dead”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN - “The Danse Macabre”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT - “Jason Loses”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE - “The Rogues”
CHAPTER EIGHTY - “The Halloween Spirit”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE - “Ichabod’s Farewell”
EPILOGUE - “All Saints’ Day”
Author’s note
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 86