“So where’s my bar of gold?” Jason asked, looking at Hadewych.
Piebald’s eyebrows rose. “Bar of gold?”
“Yeah,” said Jason. “I had a bar of gold in the glove compartment of the RV. It’s gone. Where is it?”
Hadewych smiled easily. “You put that there? I was wondering.” He threw his hands into the air. “The boy left a kilo bar of gold in a glove compartment! This is why you need a guardian, Jason. What were you thinking? It was very careless of you. Of course I took it. It’s the executor’s job to secure the assets of the estate.”
“Fine. I want it back.”
“Of course,” said Hadewych. “When you’re eighteen.”
Jason looked at Piebald, who nodded, sagely.
Hadewych leaned forward, his face full of fatherly compassion. “When we can be certain you won’t leave it on the playground at recess.” Jason balled his fists. “You’re just a child. I know, you’re seventeen so you’re a grown-up. I hear that from Zef all the time. But you’re too young to handle a fortune this large. Eliza knew that. You’re too immature. Too careless. I think we’ve proved that today. That’s why your grandmother chose me to take care of these things for you.” Hadewych put a hand on the document. “And I will take care of you. I promise.” Hadewych smiled—his toothpaste-commercial smile—and Jason’s blood ran cold. “Believe me, Son. I will take care of you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Exodus”
On the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Joey locked the doors of the Washington Irving Chapel and checked the windows from the outside, making sure that the cemetery offices were dark. Satisfied, he donned a knit cap and trudged uphill to the employee parking lot. He hadn’t intended to work so late but a woman had telephoned from Albany, begging to inspect the Irving chapel before her sister’s memorial service. He’d scheduled a morning appointment but had found the chapel pews loaded with files earmarked for digitization. He’d lugged the boxes back to the records room, supervised by the stained-glass images of Ichabod and Washington Irving. Afterwards, he’d had to scrub the muddy impression of his own butt from one of the red pew cushions. Another glorious day in the Dismal Trade.
He’d forgotten how desolate the grounds became at night. A fog had gathered, blurring the moon and stars. His rusty Volkswagen Beetle—christened “Ladybug” by Jason—sat in shadow alongside his dad’s white van, which bore an image of the Horseman and the cemetery’s web address. Joey swept a palm-full of condensation from Ladybug’s windshield and fumbled for his keys.
He heard a laugh. High and young.
He froze.
“Hello?”
Traffic whirred on Broadway, down beyond the main gate. He shook off gooseflesh and found his key. The interior light came on and he remembered how muddy he was. He fished a brown blanket from the back and covered the driver’s seat. He started the engine and backed out, headlights off, praying not to knock over a headstone—again. A marble cross loomed in his rear window, haloed by brake lights. He spun the wheel and nudged the gas. The cross dwindled and he relaxed. Iceberg averted.
A child stood on the hillside amongst the graves.
He hit the brakes and rolled the window.
“You okay, kid? Cemetery’s closed.”
He turned on his headlights. The child vanished.
Joey idled in the drive, frowning. What had just happened? He turned off the headlights and waited for his eyes to adjust. The silhouette reappeared. The child stood in the road, now, blocking his way.
He and the ghost stared at each other. He bit his tongue and squinted over the steering wheel. He couldn’t resolve the ghost’s features, only a tiny body in… ruffles? Yes. A dress. A little girl with shoulder-length hair. The figure crouched, threw its arms over its head and skipped away. A giggle followed after. The ghost skipped up the hill, turned around, and beckoned through the fog.
Please come…
Joey shook his head. No way. Ain’t gonna happen. Fear had nibbled his courage to nothing. His foot left the brake. He would turn right, head downhill and out of the cemetery. But the figure lay down in the road, sobbing. Joey turned left on impulse. Ladybug crept upward, lights off, toward where the little girl lay.
I’m safe enough if I stay in the car, he thought.
The figure raised its head. She leapt to her feet and skipped across the graves, waving for him to follow.
Don’t do it, Joseph. You’re being stupid. You have school tomorrow. Turn around. Haven’t you had enough of ghosts?
Ladybug crested the hill and drifted onto a one-lane road. Now Joey saw no place to turn back. Hell with it. He should abandon the car, run back to the cemetery offices, call his dad, and beg a lift. But he felt compelled to follow. What could a little girl do to him, after all? He would keep a safe distance. He could never get lost, even in fog, not in his own cemetery. The gravel sounded like soft rain beneath his tires. It drew him helplessly, past weeping cypresses and mausoleums blue with moonlight. He followed the giggle, the skipping ribbons, the little body made of shadow and quicksilver.
The north end of the cemetery grounds rose to a steep wooded slope. Another curve of the aqueduct trail. He’d jogged along the top many times, looking down on endless rows of headstones through the chain link. The ghost had led him to section 77, the northernmost boundary of the cemetery, but he’d lost her. He killed the engine, summoned his courage, and climbed out. The night air brought him fully awake.
“Where are you?” he whispered, scanning the graves.
Something flew from the shadows and struck his cheek. A clod of dirt. A John Deere backhoe sat parked nearby next to a pile of turned earth. The ghost jumped from behind the pile and skipped away, leapfrogging the headstones. Joey brushed the dirt away and followed.
A row of diseased hemlock trees stood at the fence line. Joey knew them well. They were dying, infested by some parasite called… he fished for the name… wooly adelgig. His crew had cut them back many times, lopping off limbs and heads, trying to save them. The hemlocks had grown back twisted and tormented. They stood as a row of grotesque sentinels guarding the threshold of the forest. The ghost climbed the slope, spun at the fence, and sat hugging her knees. The black mass of the Rockefeller State Park Preserve loomed behind her.
“What do you want?” Joey whispered.
Play…
He stepped forward, hands shaking. He just wanted to see her face. The face of a real ghost. To see the curve of her cheek, the sparkle that might have been her left eye…
Come and play, Joey.
He froze. The sound of his name terrified him. She pointed over his shoulder.
Play with us.
He turned…and realized his mistake.
He’d driven with his eyes on the girl, trying not to lose her, never looking behind. They had been followed. Forty or fifty spirits marched up the road. Their bodies were of blue and silver and smoky black, like the negatives that haunt a photographer’s darkroom. They marched as if going to the gallows, with silent resignation.
Joey cried out. He ran back and threw himself inside the car. He turned the key but flooded the engine in his panic. Ladybug sputtered and died. He locked the door, found the blanket, and pulled it over his head. Something pattered against the roof. He twisted and crouched into his seat. Sadness washed over him. Such sadness. Ghosts passed his window. Face after face after face…
He thought he recognized Mrs. Lakeland, his piano teacher. She had died last summer. He’d read a poem at her graveside service: “Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room.” He pressed a hand to the glass and whispered her name. She paused, as if recognizing him, but walked on.
The spirits marched past, one by one by one. Finally they thinned and passed over. Joey rose and chanced a look. The crowd of ghosts had gathered at the fence line. The little girl met them. She twinkled and a yellow-green firefly took her place. It rose and curtseyed aside, hovering among the hemlocks. The other ghosts
transformed into similar will o’ the wisps and slipped through the chain link. They drifted into the deep, winking away as the forest swallowed them.
The firefly giggled.
Come and play. Come and play, Joey.
It drifted towards the car, circling hypnotically like the curl of a ribbon.
Come and play in the woods with us…
Joey hit a switch. His headlights blasted the tiny spark from existence. He blinked and shook his head. He saw no ghosts, no little girl, only a row of scraggly trees, a field of marble stubs, and a yellow backhoe. But the pile of earth had vanished and something blackened his side window. He climbed out, wiping the glass. An inch-deep blanket of dirt covered the car, as if the dead had tried to bury the gravedigger.
Joey darted behind the wheel.
He brought Ladybug to life and flew away home.
CHAPTER SIX
“The Dominant Spirit”
“This is where you saw them?” said Jason, looking around section 77. It didn’t look scary during the day. Not at all. The rows of headstones were neat and orderly, facing downhill with shoulders squared. Dappled grey, pink, and yellow-white. Some held flowers at their throats like bridesmaids. Some stood forlorn and forgotten. Some watched over lumps of Astroturf or rectangles of freshly turned sod. But Jason knew damn well how terrifying a graveyard at night could be. Damn well. He shifted his backpack and shuddered, thinking of Halloween.
Joey crossed his arms, as if comforting himself. He looked rattled. “Please don’t say ‘I told you so.’”
“I did tell you so.”
“Aargh. I said don’t do that.” He kicked a headstone, winced and hopped, rubbing his foot. “So now what I do? Am I safe here during the day at least? What if I have to stay late again? I really don’t want to quit.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Joey frowned and scratched his head. “It’s like the one thing my dad and I do together. Weird, right? We don’t have anything else in common. I’m not the little straight boy he planned for. I couldn’t catch a ball if it had Elmer’s glue on it. That was a quote from A Chorus Line, by the way. He reads the business section, I read BackStage. He watches Fox News, I watch Great Performances. We don’t do sports, we don’t fish. We… grave-dig. It’s our common ground, so to speak.”
“He’d understand, wouldn’t he?”
“Sure… but…” Joey stared off. “I’d miss spending the time with him. I’ll be leaving when I graduate.”
“I know. Future Academy Award winner.”
“Grave-digging may be in my father’s blood but it’s not in mine. I’ll quit when it’s time. No matter what he offers. But for now… I’m not ready.”
Jason pointed down the road. “Hey. Maybe you won’t have to quit.”
A grey BMW approached. The woman inside raised a hand and waved as she parked. It was Valerie Maule.
“What’s she doing here?” said Joey, frowning.
“I thought she could help.”
“Help how? She’s creepier than the ghosts.”
“You don’t know her like I do. She’s really into all this supernatural hoo-hah. I figured, why not? Maybe she can tell us what’s—”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” buzzed Valerie, walking toward them, careful not to cross over any graves. Jason tried not to make a face. Valerie’s voice was hard to bear at first but you got used to it. She had a tracheostomy valve in her neck—she’d been brutally attacked by her mother—and had to press her fingers to close it when she talked. The effect was unnerving, like listening to a radio not quite on the right station, full of static and buzz and pop. It didn’t stop her from dressing fashionably, though. She wore a tasseled cashmere scarf, a chocolate-brown sweater and skirt, and had color-coded her shoes, purse and valve to match.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” answered the boys.
“Thanks for coming,” said Jason, glancing at Joey. “We’re really grateful.”
Valerie engaged her valve. “I understand we’ve had—another visitation?” Her eyes held a trace of fear.
“A big one,” said Joey.
“Show me.”
Valerie listened intently as Joey told his story. When she had heard enough, she walked the grounds, “To feel the vibrations.” The wind shook the hemlock trees. A scattering of leaves and twigs broke through the chain link fence and fell across the graves of section 77. Valerie turned her back to the wind and covered her valve.
“Are you okay?” said Jason.
She coughed a bit, held up a hand and nodded. She shut her eyes again, concentrating. She wandered from headstone to headstone, touching each with a tiny bundle of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. She engaged her valve and her voice buzzed softly, “Oh, Spirits of the Dead. We come to you—with reverence and love. Be at peace. Be at peace. Be at peace.” She turned a circle and traced figure eights in the air with the herb bundle. The tassels of her scarf danced crazily.
Joey tugged Jason’s sleeve and whispered, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
“Shh,” said Jason. “She’s doing us a favor. This stuff scares the crap out of her. Cut her some slack.”
Valerie stopped her ritual after a few more passes. She opened her eyes, shook her head and buzzed, “There are no ghosts here. At least—not anymore.”
“So it’s safe?” said Jason. “Joey won’t have to quit his job or anything?”
“I don’t know—about that. Show me. Where was—the dirt pile?”
Joey pointed. “Over there. Any ideas what that was all about?”
Valerie inspected the spot, shrugged again. “Spirits can be—playful. You said it was—a little girl? I doubt if she—meant you any harm.”
Joey frowned. “But you’re not sure?”
“No. These things are never sure.”
“Great.”
“Here. I brought this for you.” Valerie took an object from her pocket. Joey accepted it and turned it over in his palm. He showed it to Jason. It was an old coin with Greek lettering. On one side it bore an image of the goddess Athena, on the other side a wide-eyed owl. A string of leather threaded a hole at top, making a necklace.
“I’m not really a jewelry guy,” said Joey.
“Wear it under your shirt,” said Valerie. She hung the talisman around Joey’s neck. “It will turn aside—any minor spirit.”
“And what about major ones?” Jason asked, hopefully. “Would it stop the Horseman?”
Valerie shook her head.
“Major. Minor. What’s the difference?” said Joey.
Valerie considered. “I’ll show you.” She took Joey’s hand and led him through the graves. Jason followed. The wind had quieted. The cemetery had fallen into a hush. There were no traffic noises here. They were far from Broadway. Far from anything. They could have been walking in an ancient glen. They passed a great Celtic Cross of green copper, a combination of the Christian Cross and the pagan sun deity, if Jason remembered his grave symbols. An old design, from the days when Western religions were first passing the mythological baton.
Valerie stopped beside a lush sepulcher. Even this late in the year, a thick growth of glossy ivy covered the stone. She ran her thumb over a heart-shaped leaf. “Have you ever noticed that—some graves are greener than others?”
“Sure,” said Joey. “The ones I spray fertilizer on.”
“There’s a fertilizer, yes,” she said, touching her fingertips to a tiny chrysanthemum growing valiantly in the urn by the door. “A beautiful spirit lives here.”
Joey looked skeptical. “If you say so.”
“But look at this one.” She led them across the field. This gravestone read T. J. Beck. The date was 1890 but the grave could have been dug yesterday. Nothing grew on it. It was a perfect rectangle of clay, a depression two inches deep, the surface dry and cracked like the skin of Death Valley. The headstone had fallen over. The roots of brown grass snaked across it, swallowing it. The letters themselves were full of clay. Jason’s nos
e wrinkled. This area even smelled bad.
“Tell me,” said Valerie. “Why do some graves—sink in—while others don’t?”
“That’s common,” Joey said, condescendingly. “Sometimes the vault breaks and the ground sags. Or, for an old grave like this one, the wood rots away and there’s an air pocket to fill. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“And why does nothing grow?”
“Sometimes there’s a lead lining, or other issues. And, you know—” Joey glanced around, making sure there were no mourners to overhear. “Embalming fluid isn’t that great for the environment.”
“No,” said Valerie, firmly. “Nothing grows because—an ugly spirit—lives here.” She waved her little bundle of herbs over the spot and turned away. Joey rolled eyes at Jason, who made a rotating gesture with his pointer finger, prodding his friend to go along.
Valerie led them to the crest of a hill. Jason felt a stab of incredulity. A vast acreage of graves spread below. The size of it was hard to fathom. So many people under the ground. The field of headstones felt bewildering and frightening and sad—like an empty playground littered with abandoned baby shoes.
“Look at it,” Valerie said with distaste. “I have never liked cemeteries. Too physical. All those mortal remains—bound to a patch of earth. Hemmed in by a fence. Spirits caught in a trap—like dogs in a kennel.”
“Hey,” said Joey. “That’s my cemetery you’re talking about.”
“This cemetery—doesn’t belong to you.” She patted Joey’s shoulder. “Not to anybody living. It belongs to the dead.” She raised an arm. “Cemeteries are cities. Cities for ghosts. It’s their land. Not ours. And in every graveyard—like every city—there’s a leader. All others answer to him. Or her. To the—”
“The dominant spirit,” whispered Jason. “That’s what Irving called him. In the Legend.” He snapped his fingers, searching for the quote. “‘The dominant spirit 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.’”
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 5