Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  “What do you think?”

  Debbie Flight leaned on the doorframe.

  “It’s amazing.”

  “It’s better at sunset. If you dangle out on a clear night you can see New York City. And look down there?”

  She pointed at a building by the near edge of the Hudson, a whitewashed box on the edge of a round pond. He could see a mill wheel and a narrow bridge.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Philipsburg Manor.”

  She saw no recognition in his face.

  “It’s a very historical building,” she said. “It’s three hundred years old.” Her smile teetered somewhere between civic pride and condescension.

  “Sounds cool.”

  “It is cool. They have tours in period costume and they show you how the Dutch settlers lived…” Jason’s face must have betrayed him. “…and the Haunted House! They do the best Haunted House: ‘Horseman’s Hollow.’ It starts in a couple of weeks. You’ll see. Too scary for me, but you’ll love it.”

  He raised the windowpane to gaze south. He thought he could see New York, barely. And to the north…

  “Is that a cemetery? Past those trees?”

  “The cemetery. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. And the Old Dutch Church burial grounds. Haven’t you seen them?”

  Jason shook his head.

  “They’re in The Legend,” she said, eyes rolling.

  This, Jason would learn, was the way of the village. For over a hundred years this patch of Westchester County had been “North Tarrytown.” Nothing special. But the residents took a vote in 1996 to change the name to “Sleepy Hollow” in honor of Washington Irving’s story (and as a bid for tourist dollars). Once they made that decision, the entire machine of civic life turned toward Legend booster-ism; the Horseman galloped endlessly, and the former North Tarrytown-ers were keen to show him off.

  “You need a tour guide,” Debbie bubbled, “and I am happy to volunteer.”

  Charley barreled into the room, snuffling and scrambling. She spun, her nails clicking on the hardwood and her back legs overshooting the turn. Her tongue lolled out in chaotic joy. Then she stopped, swallowed, her face went blank, and she howled. She cocked her head toward the ceiling and let out a long low keening moan.

  Jason looked up, and saw on the ceiling a four-foot-wide ring of darker color. It looked like the house had once been upside down and a small puddle had settled there, tea-staining the plaster.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Your grandmother knows about that. It’s just a water stain. We can fix that. A storm came through about six weeks ago. Branch fell off the big sycamore out front and put a hole in the roof so the rain got in. Roof is fine but the plaster needs a little paint.”

  “Charley, stop that noise,” Eliza said from the foot of the stairs.

  In a flash, the poodle lit up again and ran downstairs.

  “Cute dog,” said Debbie.

  Jason shook his head. “It hates me,” he whispered.

  #

  The Debbie Flight Guided Tour of Sleepy Hollow and Environs is very informative, particularly if you have a keen interest in property listings, which houses are on the market, which are bank-owned, which she sold to whom and how cleverly she marketed them. Her phone rang and she kept stopping at intersections to answer it. Jason tuned her out.

  Eliza had chosen to stay behind, in case the movers showed up.

  “Wait for me before you go to the Old Dutch Church, okay?” she had said. “Stay on this side of the bridge.”

  What bridge? Jason didn’t remember a bridge.

  The bridge?

  As Debbie drove and bubbled, he remembered his dream from the night before, and the details of The Legend came back to him.

  He imagined the pharmacy, the auto-supply, the dry cleaners, the kosher deli all becoming transparent and vanishing. Grass grew where they stood. He pictured a small Dutch farming village circa 1790. He pictured it in detail. He saw fields of cabbages and corn, houses tucked into little coves carved from the woods, husband behind the ox, wife spinning.

  This was a talent Jason had possessed since he was a boy, his favorite trick of imagination. He saw beneath. He could look at a city and imagine dinosaurs tramping through it. He could look at old women and imagine them as little girls. He could stare at his own driveway and see, with perfect clarity, his father’s Chrysler pulling in and his parents emerging with armfuls of Christmas presents.

  Today he imagined himself to be Ichabod, the new schoolteacher, riding into Tarrytown. Tipping his hat to all the ruddy-cheeked blonde farm girls. Good day, ladies. He smiled. His schoolhouse would have been… there, where the big brick high school stood. It would be a little cabin of logs, where he would lord over the local children as their schoolmaster. He’d have to strip a birch branch at his first opportunity. Spare the rod, you know. Anything less would make him derelict in his duty to their parents. And the manor house of Old Van Tassell? Down thataway. Bulldoze those condos and put it there: a big old farmhouse, the larder brimming from the harvest. He would ride up, tie off his horse, straighten his wig, and knock. Is Miss Van Tassell at home? And there would be a giggle from inside, from blooming Katrina, a country coquette with vast expectations.

  “Are you getting out?”

  He pushed his hair from his eyes.

  The car was stopped. Debbie Flight held the passenger door open and was staring down at him. How long had she been standing there?

  “Sorry,” he said.

  They left the Suburban and walked. Debbie’s phone rang. Another realty emergency. Her ring tone was “We Are the Champions.”

  Jason lost the thread of his thoughts and the past slipped away again. He took his own phone out and began taking pictures. For Eliza. They stood on the corner of Broadway and Beekman Avenue. Beekman sloped steeply toward the river. Sleepy Hollow was tricked out for tourist season. Next to the pedestal clock in the center of town, a pumpkin-headed scarecrow menaced traffic; a green witch smiled from the window of a Sushi restaurant; over the street hung a banner announcing in orange and black:

  The Village of Sleepy Hollow Presents

  HAUNTED HAYRIDE & BLOCK PARTY

  October 26-28th, 5:00 – 11:00

  Hidden behind clouds, the sun could have been mistaken for the moon. Jason took a photo of it, with the banner in the foreground.

  “You folks looking for the Horseman?”

  A man in a red fleece and jeans was walking up the sidewalk. He was blond-headed, affable-looking. “Oh. Hi, Debbie,” he said. Debbie Flight ended her call in the middle of someone’s sentence.

  “Hello, hot stuff! Where’s the fire?”

  The man blushed easily. He practically burst all his capillaries. He extended a hand to Jason.

  “Mike Parson.”

  “Fireman Mike Parson. He keeps us from burning up around here.” Debbie was more bubbly than usual.

  He shook the man’s hand.

  “Jason.”

  “Jason Crane,” Debbie added, and he wished she hadn’t. “He’s one of mine. And with a name like Crane he’ll feel at home in no time, huh?”

  “I saw you taking pictures and I thought you might be looking for Horseman stuff? Yeah?”

  “Sure. Great.” Jason nodded. This was the Sleepy Hollow pride again. The Legend-boosting.

  “We’d love it. I’m giving Ichabod here the grand tour.”

  “Come on, then.”

  They jaywalked across the street. A car squealed to a stop, the driver shouting something unintelligible behind glass.

  “You just yield to pedestrians, mister!” Mike said with authority, pointing a finger.

  Mike disappeared into the small firehouse. Debbie tugged at Jason’s sleeve.

  “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

  She didn’t. Her phone rang again and she switched it to vibrate.

  Steel doors rolled up with a clatter. Jason got his camera out. Mike was behind the wheel of the fire engine. It r
umbled and rolled into the street, blocking traffic.

  “Great, huh? The other one’s out on a call. It’s even better.”

  On the rear of the engine was a cartoon of Ichabod, terrified, clinging to his equally terrified plow horse. Under the ladders, a hurled pumpkin flew down a forest path toward them, eyes and jagged mouth trailing flame. And on the cab reared the Headless Horseman. He was all in black – his steed pawing the air, its hooves heavy as hammers. He brandished a sword in one hand, the other outstretched, having just thrown the pumpkin. Between the two wings of his collar lurked a small wedge of purple: the hollow where his head should be.

  Inside the cab, the radio began squawking.

  Mike held the pickup to his mouth. “Parson here.”

  A distorted paragraph. Jason made out “water” and “extra pair.” Mike’s face turned redder.

  “What’s the matter?” said Debbie.

  “I’ve got to cut it short, guys. Did you get your picture?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for showing me the truck.”

  “Welcome to town, Ichabod. Don’t let the Horseman getcha.”

  Ugh. Adults.

  The fire truck rolled into the street, Mike waved, turned onto Broadway, and disappeared.

  Debbie took Jason by the sleeve.

  “Come on,” she said.

  #

  “Oh, God,” Debbie gasped. “That’s Philipsburg. You think it’s on fire?”

  “What’s Philipsburg?”

  Jason was trying to keep up. Debbie was power-walking down the hill.

  “The Manor. The old farm on the millpond. You saw it out your window. Please let it be okay. Oh, please, please.” She was crying. This wasn’t just about property values. She was frantic.

  “I don’t see any smoke,” Jason said.

  Under the trees of the parking lot, the fire truck and a couple of police cars sat by a building that might have been a gift shop. A patrolman blocked the parking entrance and waved them on. Debbie clopped past, toward a low stone balustrade where Broadway spanned the stream that fed the millpond.

  “Do you see anything?” Jason said.

  “It looks okay,” she said, calming down.

  He caught up.

  Philipsburg Manor was a nondescript square box with four dark windows on each side, like one half of a giant pair of dice. A peaked grey-shingled roof and two bright white chimneystacks bore down upon it. An ancient brown gristmill nestled by the water, the wheel dipping into the murk. The setting made the building beautiful. The millpond yawned, wide and sinister, choked with leaves, yet peaceful somehow. A narrow walkway spanned it at the far end. Trees loomed on all sides, gathering the site in. The only gap in the canopy occurred where they stood, on the bridge.

  A spot of bright red caught Jason’s eye and he tugged on Debbie’s sleeve. Mike Parson had joined a few other men on the far shore near the millwheel.

  Jason put his camera to his eye and zoomed in on the group. The lens struggled to focus. The sun had come out, and it distorted the image. He saw the bald patch at the top of someone’s head. A blond man in a red fleece and jeans. Mike. A policeman in dark blue. And a third, between them. Dead.

  His finger must have pressed the shutter by reflex. A still image of that face was frozen on the screen. He turned, his back to Debbie, and looked at it. He’d caught the image of the corpse in the moment when its head rolled over Mike’s arm, a pallid white fishy color against the red fleece. One eye was open. No – it was gone. Missing. A void.

  “What’s wrong?” said Debbie.

  “I think… I think they found somebody dead in the pond.”

  “What?” She whirled toward the water.

  “I saw a body.” He was about to show her the picture when he thought better of it. What if it was someone she knew? “It was a man. He was wearing a suit.”

  “A suit? What color suit? What did he look like?”

  She was straining to see. He left her, and walked up the sidewalk. Beyond the bridge, to the north, Jason could see a church building on a hill.

  He fought the urge to look at the picture again. He was thinking of his parents. They had also been pulled dead from water.

  He reached the other side of the stream. At the end of the balustrade he found a historic marker.

  The Headless

  Horseman Bridge

  Described by Irving in the

  Legend of Sleepy Hollow

  Formerly Spanned This

  Stream at This Spot

  Jason turned, and looked behind. Debbie Flight stood on the Horseman Bridge, talking on her phone.

  He had crossed over to the other side.

  5 THE RUNAWAY

  Jason didn’t tell Eliza what they’d seen.

  He and Debbie returned to the house and found the movers unloading. A dresser and nightstand came off the truck, along with boxes of books, some filing cabinets, and clothes on racks. Debbie didn’t come in. Some women smile when they’re frightened, and Debbie’s smile had grown broad and bright. She shook Jason’s hand.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that… Hell. These things don’t happen every day.”

  “I know,” he said. “I promise not to hold it against the town.”

  “Is that your bike?”

  A mover had lowered it off the truck. Jason nodded.

  “Okay, then. See there?” She pointed to the trail that led into the woods. “You’ve got some of the most beautiful country right at your front door. That’s the Old Croton Aqueduct trail.”

  Jason remembered the gate with the letters O.C.A.

  “That goes to the Rockefeller land. Acres and acres of old forest. You can bike, or hike. Or horses. There’s a stable just over… well, it’s a good town for young people. All right. Enjoy the house. Call my office if you need anything.” She reached into the back seat of the Suburban.

  “Don’t you need to talk to my grandmother?”

  “Oh no. No. She has my number. Take care now.”

  Debbie Flight pulled on a long leather coat and, with a wave as quick as the flash of a hummingbird’s wing, she jumped behind the wheel and drove down the hill.

  #

  That night Jason slept in his own bed.

  The movers had done little more than carry the larger pieces to their places. They’d stacked most boxes in the downstairs living room, eyeing the house warily as they worked, and hadn’t even waited for a tip. Jason spent the rest of the day unpacking under Eliza’s direction, putting dishes in cupboards, hanging clothes, setting up beds, and carrying the unneeded things to the garage. He had no intention of descending into the basement again. It was too wet for storage anyway.

  As he worked, he thought about The Picture. He didn’t want to look at it again. He didn’t have to. He could still see the hollow eye socket, the grey skin, the mud caked as if the man had been riding motocross in a pigsty. He pushed the image out of his mind.

  Why had they moved here? Why wouldn’t Eliza tell him? He posed questions from time to time, but she’d change the subject. She spent the evening leafing through her archive, locking the filing cabinets when she was satisfied.

  Eliza would want to know about the millpond death, Jason knew. He could imagine her morbid imagination chewing the material. He didn’t want to discuss it, though, so he didn’t tell her. He helped her to bed, put food out for Charley, and staggered upstairs.

  He’d exhausted himself. His arms were sore from lifting. But he couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back staring at the stain on his ceiling. He hadn’t hung curtains yet, and a full moon filled his window. A tiny reflection of it glinted off the distant millpond at Philipsburg Manor.

  He rolled over.

  On his dresser, alongside his keys and a few wadded dollar bills, sat the camera phone. Oh, God. He thought of the face again. The face as white as the moon. The head dangling over the red fleece, a pumpkin slipping from a red wagon, a hollow for an eye.

  He
flipped onto his stomach.

  He thought of what that man’s body would look like on an autopsy table. The mortician sawing off the top of the skull, slipping a candle inside. He saw a human jack-o’-lantern grinning on the mortician’s front porch, a nasty surprise for Spongebob and the Little Mermaid.

  He put his pillow over his head.

  He saw the mortician again, bounding onto the porch a few days after Halloween, scooping the softening head into a bag, dumping it for the trash men. Holiday’s over. Time to start thinking about Thanksgiving. Gobble gobble!

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling again.

  He heard a cough downstairs. The door of Eliza’s bathroom opened, closed again. Silence.

  The stain on the ceiling had spread. In the blue light, it was darker than it had been that morning. (Really? Just that morning? Not a thousand years ago?) It loomed above his bed, a tunnel inviting him to rise up and pass through it, the way people claim to rise when they lie dead on an operating table.

  He pressed his palms to his eyes. Stop thinking about death.

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it…just stop it…

  He was just seven when his parents died.

  On October twenty-eighth, almost exactly ten years ago, Andrew and Dianne Crane motored down to New York City for an anniversary trip. Dianne wanted to see The Phantom of the Opera, so they took a couple of nights at the W Hotel in Times Square.

  Jason hoped they had a great time. He hoped they got drunk after the show, ran up a tab at a nice restaurant. He hoped they had amazing sex. He hoped the maid came in the next morning to find a wrecked room and an empty minibar. He hoped they had the time of their lives.

  Because their time, and their lives, ended the following night.

  The police concluded that Andrew lost control of the car while crossing Kensico Dam. The car tumbled over the retaining wall and into the deep black far below. When the bodies were found, after days in the water, the coroner had ordered a toxicology report. It came back negative. No drugs or alcohol. The police were satisfied that the event had been an accident.