Ghost Ride

by Marina Cohen

  A loud crack of thunder blasted his ears and shook the ground beneath him. It rumbled for several seconds. When there was another flash of lightning, Sam thought he saw a headless figure crouched near a distant tree trunk, but then darkness swallowed the world again, leaving him believing it had been nothing more than a trick of the light bouncing off a rotting stump.

  Sam pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear even the faintest sound, but nothing came. He lifted it to his eyes and studied the screen. The call hadn’t dropped. He was still connected … to someone … somewhere …

  “W-who is this?” he asked, trying desperately to force a semblance of courage into his voice.

  Another few seconds passed before he heard something. The words were slow, stretched out like taffy. “Meet me … at the old willow … tonight …

  Sam’s pulse raced, and his mind sprinted to keep up. The old willow? Tonight?

  He wanted to say something, anything, but his voice had deserted him. Finally, he cleared his throat and sputtered, “Who … who is this? What do you want from me?”

  Silence.

  Sam tried again, louder, more forceful, but it was no use. He checked the phone. The caller was gone.

  His thigh muscles gave out, and he plunked himself onto the ground, letting the phone fall into his lap. He rubbed his face with trembling hands. Why was this happening to him? Why would someone want to meet him at the old willow? Why now in the middle of a storm?

  At the same time Sam scanned his memory. That voice — there was something weird about it. Weird and … familiar. Who was it? Was it his father? No. Sam shook his head, spraying drops of rain from his hair. Surely, he’d recognize his own father’s voice.

  Was it Walter? Was that creep still taunting him with stupid games? Was it Cody? Or was it …? Could it be …?

  Sam’s stomach lurched, and before he knew what was happening, he was on his knees, spewing his insides onto the damp earth and decomposing leaves. He coughed and spat several times until he regained control of his stomach and nerves. He took several long breaths, his fingers clawing the ground. Sam had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He wanted to race back to the Tenth Line and head south, run away from home and never look back. He was a coward. A chicken. He hated himself.

  The vault inside his brain, the one he’d kept locked for what seemed like forever, snapped open, and a river of unwanted memories gushed forth, nearly drowning him.

  There was Sam picked last for every game. There was Sam standing alone in the playground, kids fleeing from him as if he had some kind of disease. Kids laughing at him. Teasing him. Calling him names. Looking at him with disgust in eyes that said: “You worthless piece of trash. You don’t deserve to be treated any better.” And the worst part of all, the saddest, most pathetic part, was that he, Sam, agreed with them. He had let them do it because deep down he believed they were right.

  Sam hung his head. He was so disappointed. He thought he’d escaped that person. He thought if he wore the mask long enough it would fuse to his face and become him. But, no, he hadn’t changed. He hadn’t stood up to Cody. He should never have gone with him in the first place. And when everything had gotten out of control, he hadn’t done what his instincts had told him to do. He should have stayed and called the police.

  You haven’t changed, he told himself. You’re that same stupid kid. You want Mike to save you, like always.

  “No,” he whispered to himself, making a fist and pressing it into his thigh. The incessant rain drowned out his voice. “No!” he cried a second time, this time slamming his fist so hard into the fleshy part of his leg that he knew there would be a purple mark there the next day.

  Sam spat and dragged a sleeve across his mouth. He picked up the phone that had fallen into the dirt, shoved it into his pocket, rose on trembling legs, and studied the darkness. Beyond the wooded area the rain was a thick grey curtain lit by flashes of lightning. Sam braced himself. He had a long walk home, but there was no turning back now. He’d have to face the ghosts of his past sooner or later. And his father. And whoever was sending him the messages.

  “All right,” he said, tilting his chin upward, “let’s see who you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sam slogged through the muck, heading toward the Tenth Line. He had to face this whole thing down — whatever it was — or it would haunt him forever. When he reached the road, he stopped briefly at the spot where he’d last seen Javon, where he’d last seen his father. Taking a deep breath, Sam forced both images from his mind and kept walking, hiking north along the shoulder of the road. It was the second time in less than a week that he found himself making this long trek. The first time he’d been running from something. This time he was moving steadily toward it.

  Ever since he’d moved to Sleepy Hollow, Sam had felt as though something had been stalking him. Whichever way he turned, whichever way he moved, there was something not quite there, fluttering around him, following him, clinging to him like a foul stench. This night was no different. He kept his eyes and ears open.

  The sky was a box of steel wool. The rain had let up. Drops no longer blasted his face but buzzed past him like a swarm of tiny insects. The lightning and thunder were behind him now, distant, less threatening.

  More than once Sam resisted the urge to call Mike. Cold seeped through his skin and flesh, right into his very bones. He moved with slow, steady strides, his brain stuck on one thought: This all ends tonight.

  Even for the usually quiet Tenth Line the road seemed strangely deserted. After almost two kilometres, not one single car had passed Sam in either direction. He had cleared the hilly area and was now in the straightaway, less than a kilometre from the old weeping willow that stood guard beside the entrance to Sleepy Hollow.

  Sam checked his cell. It was almost 8:00 p.m. Sam wondered what state his father was in, if he’d calmed down yet, but decided not to think about him yet. He knew his mother was probably worried sick. What had his father told her? Had they called the police, or did they figure he’d have no choice but to come home eventually?

  “Home,” he muttered softly to himself. The word stuck in Sam’s throat like someone else’s chewed-up gum. It had been ten days since they had moved into the old house, and it felt less like home now than it had that first night. How he wished they had never left his old house in Toronto, and yet, somehow, with each step he took along the gravelly shoulder of the desolate road, he sensed more and more that he was meant to come here, to Ringwood, to Sleepy Hollow, that this was all somehow meant to happen.

  Sam had felt his entire life as if he were standing on the brink of a dark pit — an endless chasm. Don’t move! Don’t breathe! One wrong step, one false move, and he’d plunge into darkness for eternity. Fear had him paralyzed.

  Now, for the first time, he had a new thought, a simple notion. Why hadn’t it come to him before? Step back, he told himself. Just step back and walk away.

  Tonight that was what he would do. He’d take a step back, face the past, fix it, and then move on in a totally new direction. Simple.

  When Sam reached the old willow, he stopped. He stood for a moment, studying the graceful crown of branches that swept the ground. The enormous trunk was grey and cut deep with fissures. For the first time he noticed the tree was twisted — three separate trunks winding around one another to form a single massive trunk. There was something majestic about this tree, he thought, majestic and at the same time eerie. Wind and drizzle flew through the air, and Sam thought he heard an eerie melody whispering through the half-bare branches.

  “This tree must be two hundred years old,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Older,” said a voice that Sam at first didn’t recognize.

  Sam watched as the dark figure peered out of the tangle of branches. Those hooded eyes, that sheepish grin — this wasn’t who he was expecting.

  “What do you want from me, man?” Sam demanded, taking a step toward the figure. Even in the faint slive
r of moon that now peeked through the black clouds, Sam recognized confusion seep into Cody’s eyes.

  “You tripping or what? You’re the one who wanted to meet here, Maestro. I should be asking you the same question.”

  Sam took another step closer. “You called me. You asked me to meet you here. What’s going on?”

  Cody also moved forward. The two were now standing face to face. “I didn’t call you, man. I thought you called me. Someone did. They said: ‘Meet me at the old willow tonight.’ If it wasn’t you, then who was it? Who wanted us both here?”

  Sam knew the answer. It was him. The blackmailer — Walter. Instinctively, Sam scanned the forest. Walter was out there somewhere, waiting, watching.

  “Walter!” he called, his voice thick and hollow. “We know you’re out there, so you might as well show yourself.”

  There was a rustling in the leaves to Sam’s right. Someone was definitely there. He’d bet his life on it.

  “Walter?” Cody looked more puzzled than ever. “Who’s that?”

  “You’ve seen him on the bus. Geeky. Old-fashioned clothes. Wears the same stuff all the time.”

  Cody shrugged. “No idea who you’re talking about, Maestro. Never heard of any Walter.”

  Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. Of course, he hadn’t. Why would he? Walter and Maniac couldn’t be farther apart on the similarity scale. A guy like Walter would be invisible to someone like Cody.

  “Walter!” Sam called again. “I know it’s you. Just come out and tell us what you want.”

  There was movement in the trees. A rustling of branches and dead leaves. Soft steps on soggy ground. Someone was coming closer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was still drizzling, but Sam no longer noticed the rain. He held his breath, hoping to steady his racing pulse. His legs had grown roots and were planted firmly on the ground. Each second lasted an hour. The rustling drew nearer.

  Why are you so scared? he asked himself. It’s only Walter and you can take him with one hand tied behind your back. What are you so afraid of?

  Sam shook his head. He remembered he was no longer going to sit around and let life happen to him. He was in control. He was in the driver’s seat. And suddenly he found energy in his legs and began moving step by step toward the noise until he disappeared under the canopy of intertwining branches.

  “Hey!” Cody shouted. “Where are you going, dude?”

  But Sam ignored him. He was on a mission. He’d show Walter once and for all who was boss.

  The forest was deep and dark. Sam could barely see his hand in front of his face. He listened for the snapping of twigs. Movement to his right. No … his left. Sam picked up the pace, slashing through the tangle of branches, moving as quickly as his legs would allow. Needles scraped against his exposed flesh as he scrambled toward the sound that seemed to lead him deeper and deeper into the forest.

  This is crazy! he told himself. These woods aren’t that deep. I should be coming out into the houses soon. Where are the houses?

  Sam’s lungs felt as if they were filling up with sand. He gasped for air, sputtered, and coughed, all the while flying toward the noise that seemed to move in one direction, then another, coming from in front of him, behind him, all around him.

  “Walter!” he shouted, his voice heavy and dull.

  Then he saw it. Saw him. A figure draped in shadows. A figure standing straight and tall. A figure with no head!

  Sam shuddered. He blinked hard, but the figure was still there. A shape of shoulders, of spidery limbs. A human shape with nothing but a ragged, jagged stump where there should have been a head!

  Impossible, he thought. This is so not real!

  Sam mustered all the courage he could. “What … who are you?”

  There was no reply. He repeated the question. Still no response.

  And then there was a low grow, a rumbling from deep in the earth, and something spewed out of the jagged stump where there should have been a head. Thick and dark liquid sprayed into the air as though the figure were a grotesque fountain, sprinkling Sam’s face, oozing onto the ground, flowing all around him, dripping from the trees. Blood! It was blood! Everywhere! Sam could taste it as it dripped like rain down his nose and cheeks and into his mouth. It was blood — there was no doubt about it.

  Run! Sam’s brain commanded his legs. Run!

  With every once of strength in him, Sam scrambled backward through the thick woods toward the spot where he’d left Cody. Panic seized his throat and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe. A searing pain forced his hand to his side, but he couldn’t stop. It was coming. Whatever it was, it was after him. He could hear it. Smell it. Taste it.

  The dream! he remembered suddenly. My dream! Only now Sam had the very real sense that if he didn’t outrun whatever was after him, he’d never live to wake up again.

  One line from the old legend echoed in his brain like music on a scratched CD: Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means … spirited away … spirited away …

  Sam hurtled through the woods, darting this way, then that, spinning crazily out of control. He nearly fell several times, but managed to snatch his balance back at the last second. Whatever it was, it was gaining on him. He could hear it close behind, felt an icy wind prickle the back of his neck. He didn’t want to be spirited away!

  “Got … to get … out of here …” he gasped.

  Sam had lost all sense of time. How long had he been running? How much farther was it? The willow tree was just ahead. He’d make it to the clearing. He’d make it, he told himself.

  A wheezing grew loud in Sam’s ears. It was right behind him. And then, just as he broke through the veil of branches, his body flew forward face first into the damp earth, twigs, and stones. It had caught him! Tackled him! It was on top of him, its weight pressing against him, clawing at him to turn him over. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed as the monster flipped him over. He didn’t want to look at it. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing whatever it was up close.

  Click.

  A small sound.

  Click.

  There it was again.

  Sam struggled, kicking wildly, but his arms were pinned to the ground. There was no way to fight anymore. He’d have to look sooner or later, have to watch as the thing ripped off his head.

  Beep.

  He lifted his eyelids. They were heavy as though they’d been stuck together with glue. The sliver of moon spilled light into the clearing, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the monster that had caught him, saw what was on top of him. It was … it was … it was … not a monster …

  Sam’s muscles went limp. He almost passed out. He felt his eyeballs sliding to the back of his skull. It was only the laughter that kept him conscious.

  Who was laughing?

  Sam immediately recognized the hyena laugh. There was no mistaking — it was Javon! And there was someone else. Cody was laughing, too, and taking pictures. And videoing. That clicking sound. Those beeps.

  Cody laughed. “What a scrub! This was the best!”

  “Insane!” Javon cackled, pulling the mock turtleneck sweater down and revealing his head. “The best stunt ever!”

  Sam watched them as though only half awake. It was starting to sink in. It had been a stunt. Everything. Right from the very beginning. They had tricked him. The accident — it was all a lie. That was why there had been no news report. That was why the cops hadn’t come looking for them. Javon wasn’t dead. He hadn’t even been hurt. He and Cody had planned the whole thing right from the start. They had set him up. They weren’t his friends. They had played him for a fool.

  But … how did they do the blood? That was real. Sam glanced at his clothes — no blood, just mud. Impossible! That blood was real! I tasted it! It was real!

  Sam’s heart still pounded, but this time with humiliation rather than fear. He shoved Javon off him and sat up.

  “I got a great vlog of you, Maestro!” Cody howled. “You sho
uld see the look on your face! You’re gonna be famous, man. Famous!”

  Sam stood. That was all they had wanted — another stupid stunt to post on Cody’s blog. Why hadn’t he listened to his father? Why hadn’t he listened to Mike?

  He thought about fighting them, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. He thought of a million vicious things he could say, but what would that really accomplish? He could try to grab hold of Cody’s phone and smash it to bits, but how would that make a difference to his humiliation? Besides, Cody had probably already sent the pictures and video off into cyberspace, anyway.

  No, Sam wouldn’t do any of those things. Instead, he decided to leave them there, laughing and slapping each other silly and making fun of him. He would simply step back and walk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  All seven houses in Sleepy Hollow were dark except one. Number four lay straight ahead, and Sam walked with steady strides toward it. There was one final thing he had to do — one last showdown.

  Before Sam could dig out his key, the front door swung open and his mother rushed toward him. Sam could tell by the redness in her eyes that she’d been crying. She threw her arms around him, taking no notice of the ragged state he was in.

  “Oh, Sam!” she sobbed, squeezing him. Her tone was a perfect balance of relief and reproach. “How could you take off like that? Haven’t your father and I taught you anything? Do you know what could have happened to you? Don’t you have any idea?”

  A smile grazed Sam’s lips. Yeah, I know.

  “I’ve been worried sick about you!” She pulled back and ran a hand through his hair. Then she hugged him again even tighter, pressing her cheek into his. “Don’t ever do that again,” she whispered in his ear. “Not ever — you hear?” Her voice quavered, and Sam knew she had begun to cry.

  “I promise, Mom.” It was a sincere response, since he had no intention of ever reliving the experiences of this evening again.