“Yes, sir.”
“Neither does Kate.”
“No, sir.”
Zef slipped the cellar key back onto its ring and tried to duck out.
“Stop. Turn around. I need to ask you something.”
Zef’s heart quit beating but he obeyed.
Hadewych raised a wooden spoon. “What do you think? More salt?”
Zef pretended to taste the gravy. “Father knows best,” he stammered, and fled to his room. A body bag swung on the back of Zef’s door. No, not a body bag. A garment bag. It was unzipped. His Headless Horseman costume hung inside, watching him.
He shivered. Who or what had whispered to him in the cellar?
Go into your closet and pray.
Wasn’t that from the Bible?
Zef sat on the bed and scanned his shelves. He owned an incredible number of books, all non-fiction. He had books on science, math, political history—but no Bible. Not on the shelf anyway, nor on the small desk by the window where he sat almost every night, studying. That was Dad’s rule number one. Studies first. Zef would be valedictorian, come graduation. Sometimes his father would enter wordlessly, stand at his shoulder, and watch him do his homework. It made Zef feel like a mouse trembling in the shadow of a vulture.
Go into your closet.
He turned, frowning. The sword of Dylan Van Brunt stood propped in a corner, near the closet doors. The doors were oak, heavy, with bands of metal. He stood and heaved them open. He pushed his clothes aside and tested the walls, the ceiling. He knelt as if in prayer and searched. He found a loose board and pried it up. Dust motes rose to meet him. He stuffed the magazine into the gap and pressed the board back into place. He arranged his sneakers on top and pulled the doors closed again, fastening them. He stepped back, accidentally jostling the sword. It fell against his leg.
Hadewych called from the kitchen. “Turkey’s done! Gobble gobble! Oh—and Kate phoned. She’s on her way.”
Zef picked up the sword and backed it into the corner. “That’s great!” he replied when he could trust his voice. He sat on the bed. He rocked and stared at himself in the mirror. He corralled his demons. He pushed them down into some rusting cellar and locked them away as best he could. They hissed and scratched and moaned, begging to come out. They clawed and struggled, bloodied their hooves against the metal, like animals starving for sunlight and food. He felt himself losing the battle. He pulled a flask from under his mattress and drained it. After a few minutes the demons stopped hammering and went to sleep.
He stared at himself in the mirror until he had assembled a convincing smile. The sword fell over again. And a wind must have risen outside, because the old persimmon tree raked its twiggy fingers across the window screen, whispering:
Shame…
Shhame…
Shhaaaammme…
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Thanksgiving”
Artie Rackham lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter and cracked the window of his rental car, enjoying the night air. He kept his eye on the road, afraid he’d fall asleep at the wheel. He felt like death warmed over. He’d barely slept last night. The stupid landlady still hadn’t sent a plumber and the drip-drip of his kitchen sink had almost driven him crazy. It was probably just a washer but it wasn’t his responsibility to fix things in her rattrap.
Old warty slumlord.
He scowled. He should move out of the Triboro area. His sister’s place in Ossining made his apartment look like a crack house. No leaky faucets for Natalie. But Artie didn’t have a rich husband like his sister did. No rich wife, anyway. The last few girls he’d dated were money grubbers par excellence. Men have to make their own way in the world. That’s what his father had always said.
He stubbed his cigarette out. At least he could get a proper shower at Natalie’s place. A shower, a nice Thanksgiving dinner, beer and football and Frisbee with his nephews… damn, it would be like being a human being again, not a… New Yorker.
Interstate 87 became 287, headed west. He saw the Tappan Zee Bridge coming up and grunted. He had to get off the highway or he’d be corralled toward New Jersey. He was running out of exits. He pulled off on impulse, almost as if something had tugged the wheel out of his hands. He found himself going the wrong way, somewhere in Elmsford, tried to do a U-turn, and made things worse. The road rose into the hills, hugging a rocky ledge, twisting and turning. He had no idea where he was.
The car stuttered.
No. No.
He found himself slowing, even as he pumped the gas. The dashboard indicator glowed red.
But I can’t be running out. I filled the tank back in Astoria. Damn it!
The car lurched forward as he crested a hill. He had to find a gas station but all he saw was a deep valley below and the road rising and rising. The woods grew denser. He urged the car forward, whispering to it, rocking forwards and backwards.
When I crest this hill I’ll see a gas station. When I crest this hill I’ll see a gas station. But when he made the top, his headlights found only more woods. Gravity helped a little and his momentum carried him onward, but the engine had died. The car rolled into the forest, slowing to a crawl, carrying Artie Rackham to his fate…
Joey slipped into his chair at the family dining table. He unfolded his linen napkin and laid it across his lap. He frowned at the elaborate spread, the bowls of food, and the enormous turkey.
“You should have let me invite Jason tonight,” he muttered.
Jim Osorio sat at the head of the table, carving. “Stay away from that kid.”
“He’s my friend. And his grandmother just died.”
“Some friend. If that’s how your friends treat you—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
Osorio shrugged and sawed into dark meat. “A friend wouldn’t have left you lying in the cemetery. In a coma.”
“He didn’t.”
“Thank God someone found you.”
Joey frowned. “Who did, anyway?”
“They didn’t leave their name.”
Joey’s mom, Pat, stuck her head out of the kitchen. She had the phone pressed to her ear and was struggling with the cord. “Don’t let it get cold. Grandma sends her love.”
“Love you too, Grandma,” said Joey.
“Joey says he loves you too, Mom,” she repeated and disappeared again.
“What happened on Halloween?” whispered Jim. He put the knives down. He scooted closer and put a hand on the back of Joey’s chair. Joey saw himself in the mirror of his father’s glasses. “I raised you to be honest, didn’t I?”
“Sure.”
“Good.” He mussed Joey’s hair. “You know, when you came out… as gay… I was glad.”
“Glad?”
Jim nodded. “I thought ‘Wow. That is acting like a man.’ When I was thirteen I couldn’t even tell my folks I broke a dish.”
Pat raised her voice from the kitchen “Who broke a dish?”
“Nobody!” Jim rubbed Joey’s shoulder. “So what happened, Joe? Was Jason there? Tell me the truth. Was he there with you that night?”
Joey looked at his plate. He was tired of this question. He nodded slightly. “But it wasn’t his fault.”
“Yes. It was. Wasn’t it? What’s so bad you can’t tell me?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
Joey was helpless to lie. He had to trust his dad. “I was attacked.”
“By who? Bullies?” His dad scowled. “Bashers?”
“No. No. It was… The Headless Horseman.”
Jim blinked at his son. “Somebody in a costume?”
“No.”
“That boy Zef? The Horseman mascot? The one you’re sweet on?”
“I’m not sweet on Zef.”
“He’s all you talk about. The crew is making jokes about it. I hope you know better than to make a pass at some straight boy.”
&nb
sp; “It was the Horseman. The real Horseman. I’m serious.”
His father frowned and shook his head. The hand left the back of Joey’s chair. He scooted away again. “I thought we had a better relationship than that.”
“It’s the truth. He chased Jason too. I said ‘go to holy ground’ and that’s why Jason broke into the church. There. You happy? That’s the whole truth.”
Joey’s dad leaned back, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up right now.” The flat of his hand came down on the table.
“But it’s Thanksgiving.”
“Eat in your room.”
Pat Osorio entered, carrying a dish. “What’s going on?”
“Joey lied to my face.”
“I DID NOT!” Joey thundered but instantly regretted it. His father responded by going to DEFCON 2.
“Tell your mother what you told me! He says the Headless Horseman attacked him and that’s why we have a fifty-thousand-dollar medical bill.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“We have plenty of insurance,” said Pat. “You’re acting like…”
“That’s not the point! He’s hiding something!”
“I am not!”
“Everybody chill.” The air went out of the room. Pat Osorio was boss. “Joey doesn’t remember what happened, do you, Baby?”
“I remember fine.”
Jim crossed his arms. “Don’t bother. He’ll just sit there and lie.”
“I’m not going to sit here at all,” Joey spat, rising.
“Go, then! Go!”
Joey raced out, down the hall and into his room. He whirled and slammed the door, pressing his forehead to the wood, his pulse racing. He and his dad never fought. They never raised their voices to each other. It was like this… thing had come into their lives, a spreading blotch of mistrust and suspicion.
But what else can I say? I can either keep my mouth shut or lie. And I’m not a liar. He pressed his eyes to his arm, his breath hot against the wood of the door. He’s never called me a liar before. He thought of Jason’s warnings. I might have to lie the rest of my life. And I hate secrets. I’m a… a blurter.
He was fighting a battle with tears and losing. He rubbed his eyes and turned from the door.
His jaw dropped.
His bed was full of dirt. A trail of dirt fell from the mattress, across the carpet, to the habitat of Joey’s ornate wood turtle. Joey ran to the box. It was empty.
“Booger?” he gasped, searching. “Booger bug? Where are you?”
He heard a turtle-y sound of disgust behind him. He went to the bed and found Booger digging out of the pile, trying to flip back over.
“Baby bug? How’d you get over here?”
He picked the turtle up but Booger looked okay. The tiny olive head poked out and the scaly legs pawed the air.
Joey gaped at the mess. It looked like all the dirt had leapt from the habitat, had flown across the room, and had landed in Joey’s bed, taking his pet with it. He put Booger down in his now-bare box. The turtle turned a circle as if returning home to find the furniture stolen.
Someone knocked on the door. “Joey?”
Joey whirled. It was his dad. The door began to open. Joey pushed it closed and locked it. How would he explain this mess? He didn’t understand it himself.
“Don’t be that way,” said Jim from behind the wood. “Let me in.”
“No,” Joey said.
“I’m sorry. It’s Thanksgiving. Come back to dinner.”
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Joey said, feeling cornered and guilty.
He heard his dad sigh. “You can’t know what it was like, Joe, seeing you in the hospital. It’s a father’s worst nightmare. If you say it was the Headless Horseman then it was the Headless Horseman. If you think so, I’ll go with it. I do trust you. You know that.”
“Yeah,” said Joey, feeling even worse, leaning against the door and wishing he could open it.
“You know, old Frank saw a ghost in the cemetery once. Before he retired. Swore it followed him home.”
Joey frowned, looking at the dirt pile and thinking of the little girl. “He did?”
“Said it threw all his pots and pans on the floor. You know. A poltergeist. But… Frank drinks.” Jim rapped his knuckles on the door. “Come on out. We’ll wait for you.”
Joey heard his dad’s footsteps recede down the hall. Was it possible that the ghosts had followed him home? Valerie had said they were playful.
Come play with us, Joey.
He flinched at the memory. He realized his bedroom window was unlocked. He latched it and jumped away as if expecting an attack. He fumbled through his desk and found the owl talisman Valerie had given him. He pulled it around his neck and slipped it under his shirt.
“I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts,” he murmured, scanning the room warily.
He returned to dinner, wondering how he would explain the dirty sheets to his mom if she asked. His mother bowed her head and folded her hands. Joey and his father glanced at each other. Joey saw his own reflection in his dad’s glasses again. Jim took Joey’s left hand in his and they bowed their heads as one.
“Dear Father,” said Pat. “For the bountiful gifts we are about to receive, may we always be most truly thankful. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the father.
“Amen,” said the son.
Joey spooned potatoes onto his plate and reached for the gravy ladle, trying not to think about the dirty ghost.
“Natalie? It’s Artie. Listen, I’m going to be late for dinner. I ran out of gas on…” He climbed out of the car and peered at the sign. “On Sleepy Hollow Road. There’s nothing but trees and I have to find a gas station. Save me a drumstick.” He hung up his cell and stuck it in his pocket, zipping his jacket. He was going to have to walk and pray somebody picked him up.
Not in these dress shoes, though.
He opened his overnight bag and changed into a pair of yellow sneakers. He stood, checked the GPS on his tablet to get oriented, and left the car, headed west.
A black Honda whipped past. He waved his arms but it didn’t stop. He screamed at it, watching the red eyes of its taillights dwindle away. A sliver of crescent moon hung above, surrounded by clouds—like a grinning drunk asleep in a puddle. Artie walked, using his tablet as a flashlight, eyes on the gravel ahead. He crossed over a dark ravine. The trunks and overhanging branches were matted thick with wild grapevines and threw a cavernous gloom over the road.
A figure stood at a crossroads ahead. It looked pale and wan and… blue… A woman? He had an impression of fragility and age, and thought of his warty old landlady. But his landlady would not be standing at a crossroads in the dark…
“Excuse me?” Artie said, surprised by the fear in his own voice. “Do you know where I can find a—a gas station? I’m—I’m empty.”
“Then let me fill you,” the figure whispered. It rushed at him. It… entered him. He dropped the tablet, fell to his knees and lost his body to another driver.
Jason ate Thanksgiving dinner alone at the Horseman Restaurant. He had the place to himself. Everyone else had somewhere to be. He picked at his burger and fries, thinking of meals past. Thanksgiving had always been Eliza’s favorite holiday, as Halloween had always been his. She loved to cook. She made the best turkeys, the best cornbread stuffing, the best…
Quit torturing yourself. If this is how you get at Thanksgiving, how are you going to survive Christmas?
He sighed. He’d had his first supernatural experience on a Thanksgiving. His friend Owen had challenged him to guess items hidden inside a brown paper bag. That night had ended with Jason reading his father’s boot, seeing his dad drown at Kensico Dam.
He pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. He fished in his backpack and took out the Gatewood Guide. He ran his fingers over the red writing.
SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE
On impulse,
he turned to the first page, much annotated in Eliza’s spidery hand.
INTRODUCTION: Why Genealogy?
Millions of people worldwide delve into their ancestry and come out the better for it. But be careful. What begins as idle interest can soon turn into an obsession. An addiction! A mania!
At some point, everyone wonders where they came from. Maybe it’s your red hair that sets you to wondering about that long-rumored Irish grandfather! Maybe it’s a box of photos in the family attic. Or curiosity about some dark family secret. You never know what you’re going to find!
The book went on in this vein, discussing lineage and heritage, ancestor trees, inherited diseases and defects, the joy to be found in puzzles and sudden discoveries. He perused with slight interest the chapter on cousin relationships, thinking of Zef, his third cousin through the Pyncheon side. A third cousin meant that you both shared the same great-grandfather. That was nothing. He and Zef weren’t family. They were just… strangers living in the same house.
Eliza had made a note on the endpaper, underlining each sentence.
WHAT DO YOU KNOW?
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?
WHERE CAN YOU FIND THE ANSWERS?
Jason closed the book. As ever, his grandmother pointed the way. He pulled a pen from his backpack and grabbed a handful of napkins. He labeled the first as KNOWN and made notes as he thought things through.
What do I know about the Van Brunts? They’re an old family, going back to the days of New Amsterdam and the Dutch. They’re very big on their Dutch heritage. Agathe was the matriarch. The real power behind the throne. Her husband was Hermanus. No clue what Hermanus was like. Agathe is a murdering psychopathic bitch dead, so it’s a safe bet that she was a murdering psychopathic bitch alive. She died when she was ninety, so she was born… seventeen-sixty? Never mind.
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