Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  37 THE GOBLIN CHASE

  Jason woke to the sound of hooves.

  The cemetery had grown dim and blue. The shadow of every headstone had lengthened, flattened, and reached up the hillside.

  The book still lay open in his lap.

  I should have read “Rip Van Winkle,” he thought. He closed it.

  Something stirred. Two eyes watched him from a few feet away. Gradually he made out the form of a red deer, male, with fuzzy antlers and powerful hindquarters. The hooves of the deer had awakened him. It nibbled on a flowering bush. Jason sat still, careful not to scare the thing. He watched the animal eat. He imagined the life of this deer, trying to survive in the forest, slipping in here to nibble on grave bushes. Where did it sleep, where were its babies, what would happen to it?

  What will happen to me?

  But Jason’s ass was cold and wet. He shifted. The deer’s white tail shot up. It leapt backwards, spun, and bounded across the headstones. Jason watched it run. It clattered over the road. It found some bolthole in the chain link and disappeared.

  Wish I could leave that way. I have to take the long way ’round.

  He found the crude map Joey had drawn in the mud. He squinted at it. Jason had never worn glasses but his night vision was poor – especially now, at twilight, when the sky was bright as midday but everything on earth disappeared behind a widow’s veil.

  Okay. Go down the road and go back over the bridge. Hang a left and walk to the Old Dutch Church. Cross over the old burial ground and you’re on Broadway. Got it.

  He put the Sketch-Book back in his bag. He was about to stand when a tiny green-yellow light streaked past the corner of his eye.

  A firefly? In October?

  He’d only seen fireflies in the heart of summer, drifting in the tall grass. It lit again near the ribbon of Eliza’s coffin spray. Other fireflies appeared. Each lighted near the base of a headstone, drizzled upwards, and vanished. The effect was eerie yet somehow relaxing. Jason felt himself leaning forward as if to list and topple down the grass and into the river. He righted himself and shook his head to clear it. What was wrong with him?

  He stood, shouldering his backpack and wiping his pants.

  “I have to go, Eliza,” he said. “I’ll… be good.”

  He glanced back when he reached the road. He kissed his fingertips, raised them, then walked on. He had to hurry or else he would be caught in the cemetery when night fell. It was already becoming difficult to see. He could hear the river to his right, though, which assured him of the direction. He mounted a small rise. Branches thickened overhead. He felt the road dipping down again, bending towards the woody dell where the bridge passed over the river.

  The fireflies followed him as he walked, making him blink with surprise. He didn’t bat them away, though. Weren’t they endangered or something? Or was that just the bees?

  He stopped in the road, not knowing why he did it except that instinct had stilled his feet. Two red eyes stared at him from the slope ahead. They hung near the ground, crouched among the graves, surveilling him with anxious interest. He shrunk to the far side of the road as he neared the spot. The strange watcher followed him with its gaze. But the eyes were only vigil lights – electronic candles staked into the ground to signify eternal remembrance; for convenience they lit automatically at dusk (which kind of defeated the purpose).

  Jason sighed. He was beginning to spook himself as usual.

  The sky shone ice blue but the trees above had closed in. He viewed the sky as if through a caterpillar-eaten leaf. He hurried his steps.

  Just get home.

  Just get home.

  Headstones drifted past on his left.

  Reynolds

  Abramowitz

  Stephens

  Vadas

  Xie

  Crane

  Crane?

  Jason stopped to look. A firefly lit as he approached the stone.

  Crane?

  It was a double headstone. The names read:

  Andrew Crane

  Dianne Crane

  His parents? His parents weren’t buried here. They were buried in Valhalla Cemetery. Weren’t they? A firefly blazed across his vision again. He swatted it away violently. His eyes had to adjust afterwards.

  Now the stone read:

  Ichabod Crane

  “No,” Jason said. This was –

  Another firefly blinded him.

  Absalom Crane

  “But – ”

  Another light. He blinked.

  He lurched away as the next name appeared.

  Jason Crane

  And the date beneath the name is… today.

  He started to shiver. What in the name of Carl Sagan was he doing in the cemetery on Halloween? What was he thinking? He – he hadn’t been thinking of danger, only of Eliza. He whirled, expecting the Headless Horseman himself to be waiting on the road ahead. Or was he lurking behind?

  He saw only desolate road in each direction.

  And if he attacked Ichabod and Absalom, does this mean he attacked my parents too? They died only a few miles from here. And, oh, has Hadewych decided to summon the thing and kill me too? Tonight?

  He pushed the hair out of his eyes. The headstone read

  Isadore Plochman

  now. A few little stones sat on the top edge.

  Maybe he had imagined the names?

  The hell I did.

  He wanted to run, but now the bridge ahead worried him. Doesn’t the Horseman haunt bridges? He trotted downward and to the right. He stopped at the foot of the bridge. Could he avoid crossing it somehow? It terrified him. Why? It was just a stupid bridge. A phony modern thing made to look old. Probably a steel frame underneath. Not a scary bridge at all.

  Keep telling yourself that, kid.

  The gloom beneath could have been the lair of a troll.

  Billy Goats Gruff. Mama used to read that. The troll waits beneath for the fattest, sweetest goat…

  Stop it.

  Jason thought he saw something on the far end of the bridge. A shape of some sort. He faded left, trying to make the thing out.

  Stop being stupid.

  He stepped onto the bridge and gripped the knotty railing. He felt the ground drop away beneath as he edged forward. His eyes remained on the shape.

  It’s nothing.

  It’s nothing.

  Is it nothing?

  A branch broke behind him; he whirled, half expecting to see the Horseman.

  The red eyes were there again. The vigil lights. But hadn’t he left them far behind? As he watched, the lights drifted rightward. They passed through the fence and disappeared into the woods.

  Jason let out a string of curses at the top of his lungs. A bird answered from the branches of the forest. Jason spun and stomped over the bridge. No troll attacked him and he reached the other shore. The looming shape was only a stupid stairwell opposite the bridge that climbed up the hill and into the main cemetery. He glanced back. The lights had been some animal. And the headstone had been an illusion.

  Like hell they were.

  He turned left and ran, admitting defeat and letting the fear take him over. He ran southward down the long dark road. His initial burst of adrenaline ran its course and he slowed, then walked again, limping a little. His damn dress shoes were already biting his feet and he was sweating. He pulled off his tie and stuffed it in the backpack. He didn’t like the way it reminded him of his neck.

  Headstones slipped past on the right. He still had enough light that he caught his reflection occasionally in the polished stone. He looked very young and very thin. He could feel his vulnerability as he walked along. To his left, the river dropped away into the ravine. He missed its rushing energy. The road felt very quiet and gloomy, with only his own steps to keep him company. The leaves made a faint oceanic rustle all around. The insects sang their three-note songs.

  jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE…

  He grew aware of his own body: his
cold wet backside and his biting shoes, the touch of his starchy dress shirt and his jacket and the soft weight of his backpack. He saw himself reflected in the headstones – just a container of warm fluids, flimsy work for a blade or a hoof or a sword. He felt shatter-able and transient and his next breath was not guaranteed, oh no.

  Jason sang a wretched pop song as he walked – something about having no self-control and no bitches and not enough money. He sang it softly, absent-mindedly, as if reciting a psalm.

  He passed

  Reese

  Finarton

  Bane

  Ekdahl

  Forrest

  Black

  Small

  There.

  He saw the gate at the end of the road. It had an actual traffic light hanging beyond. He felt safe now that he was within sight of the modern world. But the gate would be locked, he remembered. He would have to climb the embankment and cross over the churchyard. He could see the spire of the church above and the weathervane spinning against the sky.

  He would rather climb this gate than face that churchyard, but the spikes on top made leaping the fence impossible.

  Okay, just be quick.

  Something caught his ear – a brittle, clipping sound. He scanned the crest above and saw a horse silhouetted among the graves. It looked to be tied to a branch of the locust tree. He had heard its hooves as it shifted from foot to foot. It… rustled, somehow.

  His breath caught. He forced himself to be calm and rational.

  Some Halloween thing… maybe? For some event?

  He found the stairs and ascended, sideways, ready to bolt if necessary. He watched the horse, but when he neared the top he saw The Rider, standing upon the shallow depression of the Horseman’s grave. The figure was motionless, a dim shape that absorbed light and gave nothing back. He could make out the shape of the boots and the legs and two arms held away from the body, palms down. Just a man? But the cape of the thing was not normal. It contorted painfully, twisting in the air even though the wind wasn’t blowing. It wrung itself and billowed and whipped, slowly, as if the figure wore a wave torn from a black ocean. And above its shoulders…

  Is he headless? Is he headless?

  Jason peered over the retaining wall. The black figure looked to have a head but… as Jason shifted his position the head drifted away from the body. No. The head was merely the stub of a headstone on the knoll beyond.

  Jason dove behind the wall, trying not to breathe. His nerve endings were jangled as if someone had begun to scream silently in his ear. He felt the energy of a scream, making him shut his eyes tightly. His own scream? Or were all the spirits in the burying ground screaming because the thing had awakened? The soundless noise made him stiffen painfully. He covered his ears, though the night was silent except for the distant breathing of the horse and the faint tearing sound of cloth whipping in wind.

  It’s – It’s –

  No. Could it be – Zef? Someone in a costume?

  Something in the back of his brain knew better. Alarm bells rang through him. A snake. A spider. Death itself.

  No. This is happening. Go. Go.

  Jason scrabbled down the stairs as silently as he could. He had seen the Headless Horseman. The actual Headless Horseman. Had the Horseman seen him? Had it? Could it see with no eyes? Could it hear? Could it feel his quickening breath? His heartbeat? Jason slipped over the road and into the bushes.

  He crouched painfully still, wishing himself into the shadows.

  He couldn’t see the rider now. He watched the horse. He thought he could hear its moth-wing breathing.

  Okay, the gate blocks the way to the south. The river is behind me. Only thing I can do is go back the way I came.

  Not on the road, though, you’re too exposed on the road.

  Something touched his back and he jumped. He’d retreated into a tree. He stepped around it, his eye never leaving the horse. But a branch rotated beneath his foot. His weight came down and it cracked like a starting pistol. Jason looked down and steadied himself.

  After he’d recovered he looked up again.

  The horse was gone.

  Where is it where is it where is it…

  Just go. Go.

  He moved as silently as he could. The forest engulfed him. He found a path parallel to the road. He hurried along, looking back occasionally to the swath of light that fell through the gap in the canopy where he had entered. The path descended as he walked, diverging from the road. The trees above him swayed, creaking like a roomful of rocking chairs.

  He was terrified. Sweat trickled down his spine. He thought he heard the sound of snarling dogs somewhere in the night. A gnat buzzed in his ear and he slapped his own cheek, regretting the sound and glancing back again. The path slipped down into the ravine and he heard the river. The branches ripped apart above the water. He dimly perceived a massive shape ahead. He drew near. It was a pier of stone alongside the path. He stepped onto it.

  The other half of the broken bridge.

  He shivered. He was standing on the spot where Ichabod had been struck by the pumpkin. He felt as if he’d been drawn there, as Valerie had been dragged to the pier on the opposite shore, to be the midnight blood that fed the Horseman. He pulled back from the edge, and a piece of the bridge broke under his step and fell into the water. A bird leapt from the bushes with a startled cry.

  Jason hurried back to the path. A log blocked the way. He had thrown his left leg over it when he saw – far down the path, at the place where he had left the road –

  – a shape had ridden into the light.

  The Horseman sat high in his stirrups, searching.

  Terror overcame Jason. He swung his leg over the log and ran. His backpack caught in the clutching branches and he left it dangling there. He kicked through the twiggy mass and ran upward. He heard the thing laugh far behind – crazy laughter that sounded like hysteria and chopping wood. Jason pushed through a thicket that smelled of juniper and black walnut and rotted leaf. He tumbled onto the road again.

  At the far end, back at the cemetery gate, the figure of the Horseman rode out of the forest. He drew his hatchet.

  They regarded each other across the vast distance.

  The Horseman kicked the horse and it whinnied like the slaughter of animals. It reared and kicked the air. Its front hooves slammed against the road and sparks flew. Jason cried out, turned and ran.

  The chase was on.

  He felt the Horseman gaining immediately. He couldn’t outrun a horse on foot. He flew blindly down the road. He saw nowhere to escape: the hill to his left was too steep and the woods to his right thinned with every step. Jason zigzagged in desperation. The thing was playing with him. He was going to die. He could already see his own head rolling up the asphalt. But he’d reached the glade where the bridge crossed. He could go back over, climb the chain link and reach the aqueduct trail and –

  The black shape of the Horseman thundered up, blocking the bridge. The Horseman’s hatchet whipped through the air an inch from Jason’s face.

  Jason spun away and fell – on the stairs.

  The stairs.

  He leapt them three at a time, hoping the horse couldn’t follow.

  He gained a landing and it veered left but he jumped the low wall and fell up the grass and over a curb. This road ran parallel to the road below, overlooking it. He heard no hooves following on the stairs. He saw a memorial bench with a circular balustrade to his right. It hung from the hill like a balcony. He threw himself behind the bench and froze there.

  He heard the shuffle of hooves below, a faint heave of horse breath. The sounds drifted away to the left…

  Is it over? Is it over?

  His own breathing came labored; his ribs ached; his capillaries flushed and prickled his scalp and cheeks. He wiped his tears and a thread of snot. His breathing slowed. He shed his suit jacket and threw it under the bench, loosened his collar and rolled his sleeves. He would be cold, but agile.

  He
rose a little and peered over the balustrade. The road below was empty. He drew back and looked behind… to his side, the name on the memorial bench read:

  Baby Boy Crane

  A lump rose in his throat. He crouched and circled the bench. The hillside road was empty too but it drifted downward – maybe joining the road below.

  If the Horseman follows, he’ll come from that direction.

  Jason scuttled over the road and onto an incline thick with grave markers. He kept low and began climbing the rock wall of headstones, heaving himself upward and catching their granite edges as his feet caught in mud. His fingers slipped and he almost fell backwards but he dug his fingers into a mound of turned earth.

  “You’re running out of time…” something whispered. He whirled.

  “Hello?” he croaked.

  Was that a woman’s voice? A child’s?

  A firefly swept the air.

  He fought through a thorny hedge.

  He stood at a crossroads now. Sinewy paths curled away in every direction, each leading into a void. He had lost all sense of direction. He couldn’t hear the river… only the branches rocking above… and the three-note cricket song… sawing through a fizzle of cicadas…

  jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE…

  Another rhythm answered from the darkness.

  clippetyCLOP… clippetyCLOP… clippetyCLOP…

  The Horseman galloped onto the road below, stopping near the place where Jason had hidden.

  He’ll know I was there… my jacket… my footprints…

  Jason couldn’t force his legs to move. He gripped the thorny hedge and watched.

  The Horseman rode to the side of a black oak. He raised his hatchet and thrust it into the wood. He let it hang there and waited among the graves, his black cape whipping in the air. Fireflies rose at the horse’s feet. Around each yellow light shadows gathered together to form human figures. Jason felt waves of inexplicable melancholy and grief.