by Marina Cohen
Nothing made any sense.
Sam wondered again if he was under surveillance. Are the police keeping a tight lid on the information until they can pin it on someone? Out of the corner of his eye Sam studied everyone and everything he passed with a mistrusting scowl.
By the end of the school day, Sam was so exhausted that he felt dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. It was all he could do to keep himself upright. Sam called his house again, and when the voice mail picked up, he left a message, saying he was staying for extra help. He figured that would appease his parents. Then he headed to his English room.
“Welcome,” Cate Wolfe said as Sam entered. “Take a seat and get to work. Sooner your assignment’s done, sooner you leave.”
“Do you, uh, have an extra copy of the story?” he asked.
Ms. Wolfe frowned, then reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a spare. She handed it to Sam just as Cody sauntered into the room.
Sam ignored him and sat at the opposite end of the room by the window. He had to read the rest of the story before he could do the summary, but each time he tried the words blurred and his head pounded. Sam snatched bits and pieces as the ink swam around on the page:
… opening in the trees … reach that bridge … I am safe … safe ... reach that bridge … convulsive kick … pursuer … hurling his head … his head … head … tremendous crash … black steed … goblin … whirlwind …
Taking a deep breath, Sam tossed the pages aside. Ms. Wolfe looked up briefly, narrowed her eyes, then went back to grading papers.
Sam sat for the longest time, unable to form a clear thought. He kept eyeing the clock as seconds turned into minutes and minutes slipped away. Sam needed to get out of the class, needed to get home and get some sleep. He put pen to paper and wrote:
Ichabod Crane was a geeky teacher who moved to a weird place called Sleepy Hollow. He was a greedy kind of guy, and when he found out this girl named Katrina was single and rich, he wanted to marry her. But other guys, like this one named Brom Bones, liked Katrina, too.
One day Ichabod got invited to a party. He danced a bit with Katrina and then things went bad. He left the party, and while riding home, he got attacked by the Headless Horseman and disappeared. He was never seen again.
There, he thought. Done. That’s all she’s going to get out of me.
Sam picked up the story and his assignment and strode to the teacher’s desk. He held his assignment out for her to see. She glanced at the paper and frowned. For a second Sam thought she was going to make him rewrite the assignment, but then she accepted his paper and placed it on her pile of work. Sam was about to leave when she cleared her throat.
“So, Mr. McLean, did you find some old-timer with nothing better to do than to spin yarns about Sleepy Hollow?”
“Maybe. Sort of.” If you could count a senile old-timer.
“Well, I did,” Ms. Wolfe said.
For the first time that day a surge of energy zipped through Sam’s veins. He perked up and focused. “Really?”
“I heard that the houses in Sleepy Hollow are over a hundred years old, but that the community itself is much older than that.”
Sam watched her eyes grow wider as she spoke until they were two black glistening pools. There was something mesmerizing about them. Something mesmerizing about her.
“Sleepy Hollow was once a collection of frame houses dating back to the earliest settlers in the region.”
Sam nodded. Okay. It’s old. I get the picture.
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Some say those settlers, the ones that built Sleepy Hollow, they were all witches.” Her lips lingered for a moment on that last word. “A coven of witches who moved up north from New England. Came here to escape persecution.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t muster enough saliva. A coven of witches? The old lady was right!
“One of the more modern legends spoke of a witch who was killed in an accident years ago. They say that with her dying breath she cursed the place — those responsible for her accident and their descendants.” The teacher leaned back in her chair. Her voice and tone returned to normal. “That’s all I found out. Kind of creepy, eh?” She smiled and batted her eyes, stared at him a moment longer, then resumed marking the papers.
Sam was unable to move. This was nuts. Trashy gossip. There’s no such thing as a witch, he told himself.
He glanced over at Cody. The guy’s head was bent. He was scratching something onto his paper, apparently oblivious to the conversation. Sam looked back at Ms. Wolfe. She glanced up at him again and smiled.
The whole town was nuts!
Sam had the sudden urge to leave. Get away. Get out of the class. Out of the school. Out of Ringwood and out of Sleepy Hollow.
He darted from the room and raced down the hall. It was almost four-thirty. The school was nearly empty except for a few stragglers hanging around their lockers. Sam’s head pounded. He felt as if the entire world were spinning around him.
Stupid. Ridiculous. There’s no such thing as a witch …
Sam stopped in front of his locker, opened it, and reached inside to grab his backpack. He yanked it out and heard something tear. Sam was about to slam his locker door when something fluttered to the ground. It was a torn piece of paper with a note scrawled on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sam picked up the torn slip of paper and held it in trembling hands. His eyes flew over the words etched in jagged letters:
I know the truth.
I know what really happened.
Sam’s knees wobbled and nearly gave out. He fell back against the row of lockers. The world was spinning again.
Who was after him? Who knew the truth? He quickly scanned the halls, but none of the stragglers seemed to be paying him any attention. One kid was tying his shoelace. Two girls were giggling near the doors to the gym. Then, suddenly, he caught sight of a figure as it darted around the corner at the far end of the hall.
It was Walter. Sam was sure of it. He’d know that frizzy black hair anywhere.
He’s gone too far. He’s not going to get away with this!
Sam crumpled the note in his fist. His knuckles were white. He’d show Walter. He’d ram the paper down his throat and make him eat his words.
Leaving his locker wide open and letting his backpack drop to the ground, Sam tore down the hall. He nearly ran into the guy who was tying his shoelace but sidestepped him at the last second.
“Watch it!” the guy shouted.
But Sam just kept running.
He spun past the girls, who stopped giggling. He ignored their gasps and charged forward, reaching the end of the hall in a matter of seconds. He took the corner too fast, swung wide, and almost slammed into the wall on the opposite side.
“Walter!” Sam roared at the top of his lungs.
He didn’t care that he was at school, didn’t care what might happen to him if he got caught shrieking in the hallway. All he cared about at that moment was grabbing Walter by the throat and choking that smug smile off of his face once and for all. But before Sam could finish his thought, he came to an abrupt standstill.
The hall was empty. The figure — whoever it was — was gone.
Sam kicked wildly at a locker door, slamming his foot into it so hard that he dented the metal. He dropped to the ground, cursing and grabbing his foot. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed the throbbing pain, trying desperately to get hold of himself. He was furious, frustrated, exhausted, and confused. Part of him wanted to lie on the floor for the rest of eternity, while the other part wanted to put his fist through a wall. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, and opened his eyes.
The principal, Mr. Gordon, was standing three feet away, staring down at Sam. The short, bald man scowled, then motioned calmly for Sam to follow him.
Sam sighed. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. He scooped up the crumpled ball of paper he’d dropped an
d shoved it into his back pocket.
“Robert McLean,” the principal said when Sam’s father entered the office a half-hour later.
Sam glanced up from the chair he’d been slumped in, and for the first time in his life he was ashamed of his father. Totally ashamed.
His dad was wearing three layers of clothing that looked as if he’d slept in them. He was unshaven. It seemed as if he hadn’t had a shower in days. His face was starting to show what appeared to be some sort of weird disease — all white and blotchy, with dark greenish rings around bloodshot eyes.
This wasn’t his father. Someone had kidnapped Mr. Perfect and left Zombie Dude behind.
“Norm,” his father said, nodding in acknowledgement.
Sam’s spine straightened. His father knew the principal? He actually knew him? Somehow Sam had forgotten that his father had grown up in Ringwood, that he likely knew a lot of the people.
“Surprised to see you here, Bobby,” the principal said, eyeing Sam’s father with a mixture of amusement and contempt. “Thought you’d left Ringwood for good.”
Bobby? No one calls Dad Bobby.
“What’s this all about, Norm?”
Sam studied his father’s expression. It was stone-cold, almost sinister. Sam knew right then and there he could kiss his iPod goodbye. And his computer. And his cellphone.
Almost out of reflex Sam gazed out the window of the office. The sun was low in the sky. A golden haze bathed the football field. In the opposite direction, darkness brewed. A storm approached in silence.
“Your son went berserk, Bobby. Kicked in a locker and was cussing at the top of his lungs. Thing is, there wasn’t anyone else around.”
Sam was waiting for his father to look over and shake his head, roll his eyes, do something to demonstrate disappointment, but he didn’t cast him even a sideways glance. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the principal, as though Sam wasn’t even in the room.
“I’ll pay to have the locker repaired,” he said with a calmness that was frightening. “And you won’t be hearing any foul language coming out of this boy’s mouth again.” He paused, then added, “That’s a promise.”
Sam swallowed a lump the size of a baseball. That was no promise. That was a warning.
The principal studied him for a moment as if he were taking great pleasure in deciding his fate. Finally, he said, “All right. I’ll cut him some slack, Bobby. But keep a tight rein on your boy. I’ve seen him hanging round with Cody Barns. You, of all people, should know that can’t come to any good. In fact, just today the police were here. That’s all I can say.”
Sam’s eyes grew wide, and his pulse quickened. The police. Cody. They must know. Everything.
“Sam won’t be seeing the Barns boy anymore,” his father said, smiling. It was a thin grin, barely noticeable, but Sam caught it. Then he added, “That’s another promise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They walked to the station wagon without saying a word. Sam dragged two paces behind his father, steering clear of the firing zone. The air was thick. The storm was moving toward them quickly. Sam could taste it at the back of his throat.
The car ride was torture. Sam’s father refused to look at him, let alone say a single word. Sam felt as if his head were on the chopping block and that at any second a razor-sharp axe was going to drop. He opened his mouth once to speak, but then thought better of it. Instead, he studied his father for a moment, then leaned back into the cool leather seat and closed his eyes.
As the car sped up the Tenth Line, Sam’s mind drifted. Bobby. No one ever calls Mr. Perfect Bobby. No one that doesn’t have a death wish, that is.
Something was worming its way through Sam’s subconscious, struggling to free itself. Bobby. That name. That person riding the bike … the Kronan …
Sam opened his eyes. The Volvo was headed uphill. They were at the spot where he’d last seen Javon, where he’d first seen the riderless bike.
He had so many things he wanted to say to his father that he didn’t know where to start. “Dad,” he began tentatively.
His father didn’t respond. He merely stared out the windshield at the country road and beyond it.
Sam took a deep breath and tried again. “Dad?”
It was as if he wasn’t there.
The third time Sam couldn’t contain himself. The questions gushed out of his mouth as the dam he’d built in his mind burst. “Dad, remember that bike we saw coming down the hill? Do you remember it? Was it a red bike? An old bike? Did it have the word Kronan written on the crossbar? Did it look like something Grandpa would have ridden?”
Sam wasn’t expecting what happened next. His father slammed a foot down so hard on the brakes that the car screeched to a sudden halt in the middle of the road. Luckily, Sam had his seat belt on or he’d have gone right through the windshield. His father threw the car into park and drilled Sam with bloodshot eyes. For a moment Sam didn’t recognize his father. His face was distorted with something more than rage.
“Who told you about it?” His voice was deep and gravelly.
Sam was wide-eyed. Who is this guy?
His father leaned in closer. “Who told you?” Spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly, Sam was reminded of the frothing Doberman on Cody’s blog.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time, Sam,” Robert said, trying to force calmness into his voice. The effect was opposite. It was like a quiet hysteria.
It’s as if he’s under some kind of evil spell . . . a witch’s spell! The witches of Sleepy Hollow!
“How do you know about the Kronan? Who told you? Was it that Barns boy? What lies has he been telling you about me?”
“I … I don’t know what you … you mean, Dad,” Sam stammered. Instinctively, he undid his seat belt and pressed his back against the passenger door.
The Tenth Line was dead. Darkness loomed. The headlights, beaming straight ahead, sliced through the gloom. Sam kept glancing up the road, hoping another car would approach and force his father’s attention back to the road, snap him out of this spell, but none came.
“I know you know something, Sam. I see it in your eyes. Every time you look at me. I see it. You know. You know everything. Don’t lie to me.”
Lightning flashed, igniting a flame in his father’s eyes that glowed long after the brightness had disappeared.
“I … I really don’t know what you mean, Dad. I … I just wanted to know about the bike.”
“That’s it! That bike. How do you know about it?”
Thunder groaned.
“You know how I know about it.” Sam tried to sound casual, but his heart pounded against his ribs like a jackhammer. He was scared and furious at the same time. What was his father accusing him of? Why didn’t he trust him?
“I saw it, Dad. Don’t you remember? We both saw it. Coming down the hill at us. Right here. The day we moved to this stupid place.”
Sam’s father scrunched his eyes and ran shaking hands through his hair as though he were thinking really hard about something. “Now this is the part I don’t understand.” His father stared through the windshield into the darkness. “The bike we saw coming down this hill was just a regular bike, Sam. One of those new bikes kids ride today. Not the Kronan. Who told you about the Kronan?” He pounded his fists into the steering wheel, and the horn blared.
“It’s like I told you, Dad. I saw it here. Right here.”
“You’re a liar! I didn’t bring you up to lie! I didn’t raise you to kick in lockers or get into trouble at school or —”
“No, you raised me to be perfect — like you!” Sam had reached his limit. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “Don’t you know how hard it is to try to be perfect every second of every single day?” Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt his cheeks burn. “I’m sick of having to do everything you want me to do. I’m sick of having to be perfect. And I’m sick of you!”
Robert reached for Sam, but his s
eat belt yanked him back. Suddenly, Sam knew he had to get out, had to get away. He threw open the door and fled into the field toward a cluster of trees. Sam could hear his father yelling at him to get back into the car, but he kept running with long, gangly strides, stealing quick glances back as flashes of lightning lit up the Volvo and the figure of his father beside it.
Thunder rumbled again, this time louder and closer, and the clouds split open. As Sam raced through the mud and brush, drops of cold rain pelted his face. Tall grass slowed him, but he pushed himself harder, ducking into the woods and pressing against the trunk of a huge maple. His heart thudded against his ribs. His mind was a jumble of thoughts. What was he going to do? Where was he going to go?
Sam heard his father’s voice rise over the storm. “Sam! Sam! Get back here! Sam!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sam shut his eyes and swallowed great gulps of moist air. His father’s screams started to fade behind the wall of pounding rain until finally they stopped altogether. Was his dad tracking him? Would he find him?
Slowly, Sam mustered enough courage to open his eyes and peer around the tree. Lightning flashed, and Sam stole a glimpse of the road.
It was empty. The Volvo was gone.
Like a marionette with its strings cut, Sam sank into a squatting position, his back against the tree trunk. Rain dripped through the dying foliage, bringing the odd leaf down along with it. What was he going to do? Who could he turn to?
Sam wrapped his arms tightly around his drenched body. Salty tears mingled with the rain that now streaked his face.
Mike, he thought. I’ll call Mike. He’ll know.
Shivering, Sam dug into the pocket of his jeans and found his cellphone. He flipped it open. The neon-blue light of the screen split the darkness. He scrolled through the M’s, passed Maniac, and found Mike. Sam was about to press call when the phone began to vibrate. Startled, he nearly dropped the cell. The call display read: “Unknown Caller.”
“H-hello?” he attempted to say, but no sound came out. His throat had turned to chalk. He coughed and tried again, this time managing a whispered “H-hello?”