Sleepy Hollow: Rise Headless and Ride

by Richard Gleaves

  He’s raised – He’s raised –

  The Horseman had raised the spirits of the dead. Jason remembered a passage from The Legend that he had read earlier: “The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head.”

  The dead stood at attention, awaiting orders from their general. He must have given some silent command because the ghosts turned and pointed upward – toward the place where Jason was hiding.

  The Horseman seized the hatchet.

  Jason bolted, choosing a path at random. He knew that if the Horseman found him again…

  I don’t want to die young.

  But where? Where? Where to hide?

  jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE, sang the crickets.

  Where?

  He slipped between two tombs, sideways, holding his breath. The Horseman rode up to the crossroads, searching. Jason wriggled through to the other side and found two ruts of gravel that snaked uphill like a trail of dim blue breadcrumbs leading him into a forest of marble.

  His first step on the gravel was deafening. He avoided the ruts as he ran. He wished desperately that he knew the direction. Two moths circled each other and vanished.

  jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE…

  He slowed as the tombs pressed in. The shroud of melancholy still wrapped him. Everything warm and wholesome and human felt unreachably distant.

  I might as well be on the moon.

  No. Even the moon gets sunlight…

  …and there are no dead things there.

  He tried to calm down, but he felt an empty dreadful sense of panicked helplessness. The doors of the tombs yearned for him. Through the barred gates he could sense forsaken things. They whispered: A visitor… a visitor… stay awhile… we’ll tell you our stories…

  He sidestepped a broken column – symbol of a life cut short. He wished desperately that Eliza hadn’t taught him to read such symbols. His mind raced. A fallen tree means mortality. The winged skull announces ascension. Thistles mean earthly sorrow. Dogwood means eternal life. Harvested wheat laments the elderly dead. Empty shoes grieve lost children.

  He smelled something putrid here: a mixture of allspice and mold and sympathy flowers and candy-sweet formaldehyde – of powder and clay and his own ripening underarms. And bone dust.

  He passed statues with worn away faces, an angel with skeleton ribs, urns that trailed marble drapery. A nude male statue twisted in spiritual ecstasy, head thrown back and reaching for Paradise; a daddy longlegs crept across the man’s face. Jason’s skin crawled. Stone eyes followed him as he passed by.

  He was so tired.

  Why not just stop here and become a statue? Stand here till morning. Stand here till winter. He imagined snow collecting on his body. His fear felt like frost on his shoulders.

  No.

  He pushed the hair from his eyes. His forehead was wet, though the wind was cold.

  No. Something’s trying to hold me here, to drain me so I can’t get away. Keep going.

  jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE… jasonCRANE…

  The bugs were calling.

  clippetyCLOP… clippetyCLOP… clippetyCLOP…

  The Horseman was coming.

  Jason quickened his step.

  If only I knew which way to run.

  A mournful note sounded, behind and to the left.

  The train. The train runs along the Hudson. I know where I am.

  But as he turned south he heard music rising ahead – the voices of children, singing a jump-rope song. He stopped short.

  What? What?

  Fireflies began to flicker in the tombs. He heard stone scraping within, the clank of chains and the squeak of gates. Something groaned behind the bars to his left. A skeletal hand reached through and found the knob…

  He hid behind a headstone. In all directions, fireflies rose. The Horseman had called his army. A whole army of the dead. Dead adults and children and old men and women… all their spirits had risen from sleep to search for a terrified boy. Jason sprinted across the grass. He heard the clopping… the gallop… louder, ever louder, echoing across the hills of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

  clippetyCLOPclippetyCLOPclippetyCLOP

  He ran, losing himself in his terror, weeping.

  His knees struck metal and he spilled over the top of a wheelbarrow. A shovel broke beneath his body; his shoulder struck the ground and he rolled. A board flipped beneath him and he fell hard in muddy water.

  At first he thought he’d gone blind. Something prickly wrapped his head and upper body. It smelled of bug repellent. He struggled, pulled it free and threw it aside. It was a length of Astroturf. He pulled his throbbing, pinched arm from beneath his body. It came up wet and black. He reached out and felt cold earth in every direction. Above, he saw a rectangle of sky torn by branches. A single star hung there, distant and dim.

  He’d fallen into an empty grave.

  Involuntarily, he made a strangled, whimpering sound. He stood up slowly, water trickling from his hair and down his spine. His body felt battered and unsteady. He slipped, fell forward and muddied his nose and lips.

  Beyond the hole, the gathered shadows that had once been alive stood sentinel at their various graves. He could feel them keening, moaning silently, sending out their webs of melancholy to snare him. If the Horseman came now, he would be defenseless, trapped. He listened for the hoofbeats; strangely, they had gone silent.

  Jason wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  He leapt and clutched at the earth but fell back holding double handfuls of mud. He stretched and reached for the wheelbarrow handle, for the board he had flipped, but he couldn’t snag them. He knelt and tried rolling the Astroturf into a bundle to stand on, scraping dirt from the wall to make a step, but both just sank down into the water and mud.

  Desperation fueled him. He began hopping, turning circles, panicking, looking for any way out.

  The narrow end of the hole seemed slightly lower. He gathered his strength, crouched, and jumped as high as he could. His chest hit the dirt, he stumbled backwards, teeth clacking. He flailed his arms. His ankle twisted and he fell over hard into the water, clutching his foot, trying not to scream.

  Something sharp stabbed him in the shoulder blade and drew blood. He winced. He had almost impaled himself on the broken shovel handle. It must have rolled in with him. He threw it aside and cradled his injured ankle, shivering, gasping, sobbing. He rolled over onto his side.

  Trembling, he drew the Astroturf back over himself like a shroud.

  The sky disappeared as he covered his head. Waves of desolate emotion poured in from above like falling dirt, burying him. He fell into thoughts of death, of pain, of loss. Wood covered his heart. Nothing seemed worth the effort of action.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die. To… end, to go, to… evaporate. Would it be like falling asleep? Like falling asleep, maybe to dream?

  Now who’s Hamlet, Joey?

  Joey would find him here in the morning. White and dead and waterlogged and silent. Silent forever. Decapitated like Absalom, probably.

  Had Absalom known he was going to die? Did he feel like this, in the end? Did he give up and give in to some beckoning grave? Yes, Jason decided. He’d probably welcomed it. Why not? It wasn’t so bad to die, really.

  This will be my own grave. I won’t be getting out again. I’m done. I tried. It’s over. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Eliza.

  Eliza had always been his strength. She was the one who’d rescued him when he’d given up on life. She was the strong one. She would never give up, oh no, not her.

  But she was gone. Gone forever. And that was that. He had nothing anymore.

  Jason’s breathing came in short bursts. Then it slowed. He went numb inside.

  He stopped caring.

  Let the Horseman come. Let me die. Let me be with them. With her. With my parents. I’m not stron
g enough to go on alone… not strong enough…

  He hugged himself tightly, closed his eyes.

  Let the Horseman come… I’m ready.

  “What kind of talk is that?”

  He heard Eliza’s voice in his mind, as he had at graveside. He heard her as clearly as if he were late for school and she were standing at the foot of his bed, shaking his leg.

  “Get your be-hind moving, Honey.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “Of course you can. What do you think I raised? A quitter? Just shoot me now if my boy’s going to give up and lie in the mud. You’ve got to live.”

  “Why? Why bother? I’ll end up dead someday, in the end.”

  “Well, boo-hoo. Aren’t you pitiful. And what will you have in your grave but your memories? What will you have to keep you warm through eternity if you’ve got no memories of sun and wind and dances and drinking and laughing? No achievements or failures or love? Didn’t I teach you anything about life? You’ve got to be tough, boy-o.”

  “I’m not tough. I’m a nerd and a geek and a loser and I’m going to die.”

  “Bullshit. You’re my grandson. If you’ve got anything of me in you, you’ll climb out of this goddamned hole and pop that Horseman a good one.”

  “How?”

  “How? That’s what your brain’s for. Figure it out. Find a way to live, honey. Get through the night. Pop the spook like you popped Hadewych. Make me proud. Just get up.”

  Jason sniffed.

  “And if I don’t? Will you be ashamed of me? If I fail?”

  Ashamed if you fail? Of course not. I’ll only be ashamed if you don’t try.

  He nodded. He threw the Astroturf aside and sat up against the wall of the grave.

  “Good. Get up. Climb out of this ditch and quit wallowing. My boy’s a hero. That’s what I tell all my friends. Don’t make me a liar.”

  Jason felt steel rising in him. He rose to his feet. He could do this. He could get up and get out and survive. He was smart. He was strong. He was Eliza Merrick’s grandson. He would survive this night.

  “’Cause if I die, who would feed Charley?” he whispered.

  He cared again. He cared very much. He wanted all of it, his own eighty years of adventures and memories. He wanted his own heroic story, his own Legend to leave behind.

  He wanted to live.

  He jumped, scrambled for purchase, slipped down again. He tried again, digging his fingers into the ground. No good. It was no good! He needed something to pull, he –

  He seized the broken shovel handle.

  He leapt a third time and thrust the shovel handle into the ground beyond the hole. It held his weight, just enough. He pushed his legs against the dirt behind and managed to brace himself. He pulled the handle up and thrust it farther into the ground beyond. He pulled himself upward, legs flailing. He used the stake to claw his way back to the world. He gripped grass and heaved himself over, rolling onto his back, gasping for air, his breath ragged and labored. His ankle throbbed. He’d left a dress shoe in the water below.

  But he had done it.

  “I’m proud of you, Honey. Never, never be less than you can be. ’Cause I’ll know. And I’ll tan your little hide.”

  clippetyCLOPclippetyCLOPclippetyCLOP

  A legion of the dead loomed over him and all around, their fingers pointing at him accusingly. He leapt to his feet, spinning, trying to find direction. He caught the sound of the distant jump-rope song again. He followed it. He recognized the music now. The music came from the Horseman’s Hollow. Halloween was going on – somewhere ahead. The good Halloween – the fun Halloween –

  He dashed across the field. His arm brushed the vaporous spirit of a little girl and went cold. He shook it as he ran up the hill. Pins and needles bit his palm and fingers as if they had fallen asleep. He caught his leg on a hanging chain. He hopped, ran on.

  Keep moving. Keep moving. Go go go.

  He’d reached the highest point in the cemetery – a crest surmounted by an enormous pillar flanked by statuary. And – there. Through a gap in the trees he saw the Tappan Zee Bridge twinkling on the horizon. And… something else glowed softly just ahead. Firelight?

  CLOPCLOPCLOP! CLOPCLOPCLOP!

  No!

  The Horseman’s anger was more terrifying than his laugh had been. His cape whipped and crashed and splashed the air. He holstered the hatchet and raised a hand. A face seemed to fly out of the darkness. A burning pumpkin, someone’s jack-o’-lantern spirited from a porch. It came into his hand and he lifted it high. Jason wheeled about and slammed his skull into the extended arm of a marble Jesus. He grabbed his forehead and ran with one eye shut in the direction of the Tappan Zee – tipping forward, lurching between the graves.

  Just survive. Just survive.

  The ground became perilously steep. He spun and tumbled facing backwards, barely on his feet – and glimpsed the Horseman bounding after. A headstone knocked him around again and he saw a soft glow beyond the – beyond the what?

  Beyond the edge.

  The ground ended ahead.

  But Jason had lost control.

  His arms pinwheeled.

  He lurched forward –

  – and went over into space.

  38 THE FLIGHT OF JASON CRANE

  “And here is the highlight of our tour,” said Joey, raising his lantern.

  The small group gathered in front of a row of tombs, raising their lanterns as well. “This is the Irving family plot. That white stone in the middle there is the grave of Washington Irving himself. Can anyone tell me what he’s famous for?”

  A few of the tourists chuckled.

  “Yes,” Joey said, “Irving is most famous for The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. But he also gave us other stories. Rip Van Winkle, for one. He gave us the idea that Columbus was trying to prove the world was round. That’s not true. That’s an invention of…”

  He waited.

  “Washington Irving…” a woman said helpfully.

  “Washington Irving. Yes. And you – ” Joey crouched and pointed to a boy in a skeleton costume. “What does Santa fly in?”

  The kid rolled his eyes. “A sleigh.”

  “A magic sleigh. And we get that from…”

  He waited.

  “Washington Irving…” said a few voices.

  “And the New York Knicks – and ‘Gotham,’ for you Batman fans, and – ”

  “Hey,” said the kid, immensely annoyed. “It’s Halloween. Is this thing going to get scary or not?”

  A wailing figure hurtled from the sky. It came down head over heels, flopped onto the grass and rolled to a stop. It was a muddy young man with blood on his head and one dress shoe.

  “Jason?”

  Joey ran to his friend’s side and set the lantern in the grass.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “AHHHHHH!” The skeleton kid screamed and pointed.

  The Headless Horseman leapt from the roof of the tombs above, landing like an earthquake upon the grave of Washington Irving. The rider hurled a pumpkin that burst and caught the trees afire. The tourists ran screaming into the night, dropping their lanterns behind.

  The skeleton boy ran fastest of all.

  Joey threw himself behind a tree, his mouth moving like a trout thrown onto shore. He watched, wide eyed, as the rider and steed stepped into the circle of lantern light to stand above Jason’s fallen body and straddle him from above.

  #

  Jason opened his eyes and saw the Headless Horseman clearly at last.

  The head of the horse came into the light first.

  Its nostrils were two eye sockets broken from the face of someone’s skull. Jason could see the pinprick holes where the tear ducts had been. The champing teeth were finger bones, animal bones, and chips of broken wood. The bit and bridle were an iron spike and a length of rotted rope. The eyes of the horse were wide and rabid – the eyes of a terrified thing that had been whipped and beaten. It took Jason a momen
t to realize that the eyes were snail shells. The horse’s pupils were their round, hollow entrances. The head and body were made of autumn leaves, brown and black and spoiled yellow, layer upon layer that shivered in the wind. A line of red and gold ran up the center of the snout, meeting a mane of cemetery grass that rustled down the thing’s back.

  The Horseman sat upon a saddle of human leather and braided hair. He was a thing of smoke and ash and cremated remains – a human form of complete darkness, cold as dry ice or the heart of a mountain. His cape was a black burial shroud, spider-silk and moth-eaten.

  The Horseman and his steed had gathered themselves together, Jason realized, from the land and stone and graves and hearths of Sleepy Hollow. They were the spirit of the town and the town itself. Even the sparkling eyes that Jason thought he saw for an instant, looking down at him, floating in the air above the neck – were the two brightest stars that hung over the Hudson.

  The Horseman raised his hand, summoning a pumpkin. The jack-o’-lantern’s face was a crude death’s head, a child’s nightmare. The horse-thing raised a leg and brought a hoof down on Jason’s chest, painfully, pinning him to the ground. The hoof was a shard of broken stone. The rider climbed down and stood over the boy, gloating over his victim. Jason felt waves of satisfaction and eagerness and triumph coming from the Horseman. His moment had come and he was savoring Jason’s death. He took the pumpkin in both hands and raised it high.

  Jason fumbled in the grass, desperately scrabbling for a rock, a stick, anything he could use to defend himself. His hand closed on something metal – the handle of the lantern – and with a shoulder-wrenching heave he swung it ’round backhanded. It struck the head of the horse and flung fire down its body. The leaves caught, and the horse burst into flames. It screamed and reared. Its hoof left Jason’s chest. He rolled away. The hoof came down again, hard, in the same spot. The Horseman seized the reins of the steed, but his whipping cape caught in the burning twigs and bones. Bright fire ran along it, wrapping the Horseman in its embrace. His form shivered, cracked, and with a scream that echoed over the hills he broke into dust and ash that whipped into the sky, falling as a rain of cinders and burning leaves. The jack-o’-lantern arced through the air, went dark, fell, and broke on the grass.