Hollow Blood

by Austin Dragon

  "Where's your father?" he asked as soon as his wife crossed his path, moving quickly with candelabras in her hands. "Let the servants do that."

  "He's sitting on the porch," she answered, ignoring his last statement and continuing on to the dining room.

  Brom walked out on the porch and saw the man with his favorite evening pipe. He sat right next to him as Old Van Tassel exhaled a puff of smoke.

  "It's going to be a fine party tonight, son."

  "Yes sir, it will. They seem to get bigger every time we have one."

  "Tarry Town will soon have to be called Tarry City with all the new people and families. Fifty years ago it was nothing but me and the Indians."

  Brom had heard the story of the first days of Tarry Town and the Hollow from his father-in-law more times than he could count. The stories tended to go all night, especially when he was sitting comfortable with his pipe in mouth and his favorite cup of ale at his side.

  The front door opened and Katrina popped out. "Abraham, and you, too, father, come on in and help us get ready. The first guests will be here any minute."

  "I thought I was the man of the house," Brom said as he reluctantly stood up.

  "I thought I was old," Mr. Van Tassel said as he reluctantly followed.

  Even the field hands were in their best dress as the carriages began to arrive. Two men were at the main gate, and there was a whole system in place to direct the carriage drivers, open doors for passengers, and lead guests to the main house.

  Three carriages arrived together. The couples exited and immediately greeted one another.

  "Have you heard about this stranger inquiring about the Horseman's last victim?" one of the women asked.

  "What was his name?" a man asked.

  "Ichabod Crane. He was the schoolmaster. They closed it down when he disappeared," another man answered.

  "Who is this stranger?" another man asked.

  "Wasn't that seven years ago?" the man asked.

  "He says he's working for some estate in New York City, or it might be Connecticut, to find Ichabod Crane so as to settle an estate. There's supposed to be some kind of compensation involved."

  "More like ten years ago," a woman corrected.

  "How much?"

  "I haven't heard what the total amount is, but it's supposedly paid out whether they find him to be dead or alive."

  "How about whisked away to hell? Do they have a third category for that?"

  "People need to be careful about bringing up any of the Horseman's victims," another woman warned. "Next, the Horseman himself will return and poor people will start to disappear all over again."

  The warning ended the conversation as they walked to the front door.

  Arriving guests were greeted by manservants, coats and hats were taken, and they were directed inside to be attended to by more servants. Brom stood inside with his wife on one side and Old Man Van Tassel on the other. The trio greeted arrivals in unison. The Old Man was still considered the chief patriarch of the Hollow. His daughter, Mrs. Van Brunt, was known far and wide for her charm, grace, and charity. Mr. Van Brunt was popular for another reason, besides the family wealth. He brought along family and friends alike as he moved up the social ladder and he was at the center of the region's new commercial growth. The children of the humble Dutch explorers that settled Sleepy Hollow long ago were now among the "who's who" of business in the state of New York—statehood had only been granted twelve years ago.

  Brom chatted up the men, and Katrina gossiped with the women. People remarked on the finely carved furniture, but especially the food! The best culinary displays of Dutch New England food were everywhere—duck and turkey, sausages and sauces, bacon and hams, pies and cakes. Old Van Tassel made sure everyone had a hearty glass of wine or brandy, his ritual before he took a seat to smoke at one end of the piazza and gossip through the night of past times and old war stories.

  Brom knew that any secrets of the stranger in town would soon dissipate. The chief female rumormongers of the town, a half dozen of them, had already cornered Katrina. He had his own contingent to deal with.

  "Surely, Mr. Van Brunt, you have heard about this stranger," said one of two men with him, talking and sipping his drink.

  The loud laughter of Old Man Van Tassel frequently dinned above the conversations of the crowd, over sixty couples, and even the music of the pianist, a German-born man from outside of Sing Sing. The men were in their best and most expensive coats and breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes, while the women were in their most expensive hooped dresses or frocks.

  "I heard," Brom answered the man. "It's a free country. He'll come and he'll go. I have more important things to concern myself with."

  Something told Brom to glance at his wife. She shot him a look as she continued talking with the women, pretending to be hanging on their every word.

  "Does anyone know where he's from?" Brom asked.

  "Someone said upstate New York, or maybe it was Connecticut?"

  "Meaning, no one knows."

  The front door opened and a manservant greeted him.

  "Your hat and coat, sir?"

  Julian handed them to him.

  "Who may I say is here, sir?"

  "No need, sir. I'm a surprise for the man of the house. Just show me the way to good ol' Brom."

  The butler smiled. Only a true friend of Mr. Van Brunt would call him Brom.

  "Yes, of course, sir."

  Brom and Katrina had joined each other again with many other couples listening to the latest and hilarious stories from Mr. Peters. The man had become the center of the party, and Old Man Van Tassel, the usual honoree of that position, was as eager to hear as anyone else. What gathering at a home in the Hollow would be complete without a good ol' nighttime ghost story?

  "It was the Ghost of Raven Rock. A temptress that haunts that dark glen and can be heard shrieking on winter nights before a storm." Mr. Peters lifted both hands up, contorted his hands to make them seem like claws, and widened his eyes in fake horror. Everyone else drew near with smiles and laughter.

  Brom barely noticed the man walk into the room, and he wouldn't have noticed him at all, if not for the cold stare. He had never seen the man before, but there he stood looking directly at him.

  "Who is that man?" Katrina asked. She had already noticed the man, too.

  "I don't know. I shall find out."

  Brom excused himself and set his drink on the corner table, which was promptly picked up by one of the servants. As Brom approached the man, he had an instant thought of as to who the stranger might be.

  "Good evening, sir," Brom said. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you. Who might you be?"

  "No, but our accounts have preceded us both." The young man's tone had a tangible anger to it.

  "I don't like to have my simple questions answered by riddles. Who are you?" Brom decided to match his rude tone.

  The man continued. "Abraham Van Brunt. Known more commonly as Brom Bones—"

  "Who are you? And why are you in my house? You are not an invited guest."

  Brom's outburst brought every conversation in the mansion to an abrupt halt. This was another thing that he was known for—his volcanic temper whenever it was provoked. He was the embodiment of a bull ready to charge its prey as his face reddened and fists clenched.

  The man yelled back, "My name is Julian Crane! And I'm here to hunt down the foul murderer of my uncle, the late Mr. Ichabod Crane! That foul murderer is you!" Julian pointed a finger at him. "You, Brom Bones! The death blood of my uncle is on your hands! You, Brom Bones!"

  Trouble

  "Run this Julian Crane out of the Hollow! And do it in a way that he shall never, ever return!"

  No one had ever seen such an expression on Brom Bones. The color had left his face and he transformed from a projectile ready to launch to that of a proverbial, derailed wagon capable of no further movement.

  The partygoers all stood there with mouths ha
nging open, speechless and shocked. The color had even left the rosy cheeks of Katrina Van Brunt, who also stood frozen.

  Brom glanced at crowd, turned and marched out of the mansion's front door.

  Everyone looked at one another. Now all eyes were focused on the man.

  Katrina's voice started softly at first, but grew in intensity. "Mr. Julian Crane, if that is truly your name." She approached him as she spoke. "You are to leave my house this instant without delay, or I shall have you snatched by the throat and thrown off my property."

  Julian paused a moment. A manservant walked up to him as if on cue and handed him his hat and coat. Julian turned to Mrs. Van Brunt and said, "You shall be seeing me again."

  "Oh yes, Mr. Julian Crane, I have no doubt of that. But, I suspect, it will be at a time and a place and in a manner far from your liking."

  Julian had only walked a few steps when he turned back to her. "I believe this is how it transpired for my poor uncle. He left this very house, probably at this very hour, only to have the misfortune of coming upon your husband on a deserted road in the night masquerading as this imaginary Headless Horseman. Tell your husband, Mrs. Van Brunt, that should I come across any ghost or goblin on my way, I shall greet it with a blast from my rifle, and I never miss."

  Katrina looked at him with contempt, but it was just a mask over other emotions. Where was Brom?

  "My husband did no such thing ever!" she yelled.

  "Sir, please leave now," the manservant said to Julian, as he motioned him to the door. "We do not want to resort to forcibly escorting you off the Van Brunt land."

  Pandemonium! Guests vacated the mansion as fast as their feet could move. Field hands got their drivers. Drivers rode their horse-drawn carriages and wagons from the spacious Van Brunt stables and barns to the front of the mansion, and then, with their passengers aboard, raced out to all points in the Hollow and beyond, with drivers holding lanterns to illuminate the darkness.

  Dutch and his men returned. They rode up to the main gate as one of the guest carriages flew past. Dutch dismounted and quickly walked to Ace, who was in a frantic state talking with a couple of house servants, one holding a lantern.

  "What happened?" Dutch asked.

  "Where were you?" Ace yelled at him. "He was here!"

  "Who? The stranger?"

  "Yes! He's Ichabod Crane's nephew! He waltzed right into the middle of the mansion and accused Brom of killing him, right in front of a hundred people!"

  "Killing who?"

  "Ichabod Crane! He accused Brom of killing Ichabod Crane!"

  "What did you do?"

  "Me? I was out here. We only learned of him when everyone started rushing out for their carriages." Ace shook his head in distress. "People are going to spread these lies all across the entire eastern seaboard."

  "I got to see Brom now," Dutch said.

  Ace jumped in front of him. "He's not seeing anyone. Not a living soul. Mrs. Van Brunt shouted at everyone to leave, and she even told all of the house servants to get out."

  Dutch stopped and scratched his chin.

  Ace pointed at him. "You were supposed to take care of him and now look what's happened. He may have stolen our horses, but you let him ruin Brom's name. He'll never forgive you for this."

  Dutch gave him a look of casual disregard and jumped back on his horse. "We'll find him. How far can he get on a night like this? A stranger, unfamiliar with our roads. He won't get far at all."

  None of them saw it coming. The projectile flew out of the night and hit the man in his face. Dutch screamed out as he fell off his horse.

  His seven riders galloped in and surrounded him with guns drawn, frightened. Ace grabbed the lantern from the two servants. Both servants didn't wait and quickly ran away. Ace had barely pulled his own pistol when another orange projectile landed near the lead horseman, startling all of the men again. They looked out into the night, ready to shoot, but saw no one.

  "I know this is how you did my uncle!" a voice yelled out from the darkness. "But I'm watching all of you! If you step anywhere near me, no one is going to say you were 'taken' by the Horseman! They're going to say you were shot stone dead by my rifle! Last time I took your horses! Next time our paths cross, it will be your life!"

  Julian's voice was gone.

  Dutch stood from the ground, his face wet and covered with fragments of the shattered pumpkin lying at his feet.

  They could barely make out hoof sounds in the distance. The full moon was bright in the sky.

  Julian rested on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His coat was thrown on the chair near a small desk, and his hat hung on the back of the chair. His boots were still on, the heels hanging slightly over the edge of the single bed. The desk had his satchel and a few more fist-sized pumpkins—his newfound projectile of choice. He hadn't slept a wink last night, and doubted he'd be sleeping now or any time tonight, no matter how tired he might be. But he wasn't tired.

  It was a simple single-occupancy room for rent on the second floor of the inn. He could hear voices in the room next to his, beyond the wall nearest his head on the pillow. The window was open and he could hear the comings and goings of people, horses, wagons, the whole lot, outside for a new morning day.

  Knock! Knock!

  Julian's eyes slowing turned to the door. His hand tightened around his rifle right next to him in the bed.

  Knock! Knock!

  Julian didn't open the door slowly, he threw it open violently. The man in the hallway was startled as he nervously stood there. It was innkeeper. He held out his arms to his side, his hands clearly visible, and his hat tilted back so his face was fully visible. There were no weapons on his person.

  "I'm just the messenger, mister," he said. "I don't want any trouble in my place of business." He waited.

  Julian stood there with most of his body off to the side of the door entrance. The man couldn't see it, but he knew Julian was holding a weapon. It was probably the same rifle that Julian went to great care to make sure everyone saw when he checked in this morning.

  "Mister, some of the town elders would like to speak with you."

  "Why?"

  "They'll speak directly to you about their business."

  Julian backed away from the open door slowly to keep his eye on the man. With his rifle clutched firmly in his hand, he turned briefly and grabbed his hat.

  "It's not personal, but if you're leading me into a trap, I'll shoot you first, no matter what. That would be the only fair thing to do."

  "Yes, it would. But again mister, I'm only a messenger."

  "I'll follow."

  The man led Julian downstairs to the lobby desk where several distinguished-looking men waited in fancy suits, shiny shoes, and top hats.

  "Mr. Julian Crane?" one of them asked.

  "Yes?"

  "We apologize for the interruption, but as the elected elders of Tarry Town, we had to speak with you."

  "Brom Bones has many friends in high places." Julian made the comment more to himself.

  "Mister, this has nothing to do with Mr. Van Brunt. This concerns the safety and well-being of the town. We are sorry, but we must ask you to leave the town."

  "Why?" Julian asked abruptly. "I am an ex-soldier of the Continental Army, a citizen of this state of New York, and I go and stay anywhere in these United States that I please. I thought this town was on the right side in the War."

  The men were visibly ruffled by his insinuation.

  "Mister, we were all on the right side in the War," the man in the largest stove top hat said in a gruff voice. "We also have the wounds and gravesites to prove it. Our request is not meant as any show of disrespect, but as the official leaders of the town, we have an obligation to keep any trouble from it. News flies fast in these parts. You have put yourself on the opposite side of the most powerful man in the region, for what reason we do not care, but he will have more than just words with you when he finds you. We can't have any gunplay in the town. This is a bo
oming town, but it is also a quiet and respectable one with decent families, and decent folk. Surely, you can understand our position."

  "Please be reasonable, mister. Your quarrel is in Sleepy Hollow, but you're bringing it to Tarry Town," another man added.

  "That's why I came here," Julian said. "Brom Bones owns Sleepy Hollow."

  "Mr. Van Brunt owns Tarry Town, too, mister," a third man interjected. "That's why you need to leave this whole region."

  "So the murderer is a hero of these parts, is he?" Julian asked bitterly.

  "Murderer? Who did Mr. Van Brunt murder?" the largest man asked.

  "What false accusations are you bringing against him?" another man added defiantly.

  "The late Ichabod Crane!" Julian yelled at men.

  The Elders glanced at one another.

  "Do you have proof of what you say, mister?" the largest man asked.

  "Why do you think I am here?" Julian snapped.

  "Then why haven't you brought that proof to the law?"

  "Why? So a jury of his peers—his employees, friends and neighbors—could set him free? No. I'll handle this in my way, which will still be better than the way he killed my uncle, stalking him in the middle of the night as if my uncle were some defenseless animal. Probably shot my poor uncle in the back."

  "Mister, I've known Brom from the time he was a toddler, and he never shot any man in the back. If he comes for you, he'll come at you straight. You'll see him coming full on."

  "Really? And he never dressed up as this imaginary Headless Horsemen and came at people in the dark of night? Because that's not what I heard."

  The men's expression changed to nervousness.

  "Mister, I don't know who's been filling your head with tales, but even if that were true, harmless pranks are something altogether different. Every young boy has done those in his life. I have, as have all my colleagues here, and I bet you have."

  "None of my pranks ever killed anybody."

  The largest of the men in the stove top hat watched Julian for a moment and then said, "You know what concerns me about you, mister? It would appear that the reason for you taking the law in your own hands is that you don't have any proof whatsoever to take before a magistrate or jury. You have plenty of wild speculation, but no proof. If you ever yelled out such a thing in a crowded place, a gross accusation to tarnish a man's good name with no proof, you would be deserving of the mess of trouble you would receive. Go home, young man. Brom didn't kill anybody, and he didn't kill Ichabod Crane."