by Gaby Triana
At that moment, a blood-curdling cackle penetrates the atmosphere, and every hair on my arms stands straight up. Everyone pauses to look toward the dividing forest on the edge of the property. A familiar sound heads straight toward us, the galloping hooves of a familiar black steed, only there’s nothing there. Suddenly, he materializes out of thin air. On top of the horse is the headless ghost of a Hessian trooper who protected me several times before. I watch as his ethereal shape comes charging at us, an amoeba of swirling black smoke. A dark sleeve reaches out to one side, brandishing a gleaming silver sword. His laughter echoes from somewhere unknown.
I’m not afraid. I’ve never been more thankful to see him.
“Mica, get down!” my father yells.
I don’t need to. He’s not here to hurt me, Daddy. This one is on my side.
Bram and Jonathan watch, dumbfounded, eyes wide with revulsion, as the realization settles in that the rider has come for them. Their heads, their souls. The trooper laughs an all-encompassing, maniacal cackle that reverberates throughout the property. His sword whirls in the air with lightning-quick looping motions.
Bram stands his ground, sword in hand, ready to fight, while Jonathan takes advantage of my mesmerized stupor to come charging at me. “Stay where you are,” he says.
“Mica, run!” my father screams again. Where is he?
The giant black steed is almost upon Bram, its crimson eyes glowing in the dark night. Jonathan laughs even louder than the ghost, rushing at me. Someone fires. I scream, covering my ears.
Jonathan’s bat misses me by inches. The horse is a few feet away, charging a straight line toward Bram, Jonathan, and me. Another shot fires. My dad is trying to help. But I’m tired of his help. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. As soon as Jonathan swings his bat at me again, I think of Coco, his everyday taunting of me, and what he did to my mother.
I duck, the bat whooshing over my head, and then I push, shoving my body into his torso with all my strength. He loses footing and stumbles backward.
The horseman brings his sword full circle at Bram.
Bram swings his to block the horseman.
Jonathan falls between the two razor-sharp edges like a sheet of paper between the blades of a pair of scissors. His hateful blue gaze falls wide upon his fate, and his scream is cut off sharply by a thwack.
Slice.
I cover my face. I can’t look, but I hear it. The sickening thud of his head toppling to the ground like a coconut gone rolling off a ledge. His screams echo in my mind. The horseman’s laughter heightens then fades, as do the galloping sounds, and when I dare to look through my fingers again, the ghost has vanished.
My head feels like it’s going to explode. My stomach lurches.
Bram, having fallen to the ground, struggles to his feet and surveys what happened. He shakes his head, covering his mouth. Was it the horseman who killed Jonathan, or did Bram? Or both? Doesn’t matter. He’s dead. Bram stares at Jonathan’s headless body, lying so close to my peripheral vision, and gags.
“Mica…” I hear my father’s urging tone, and I know he means it’s time to run or hide. Bram doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care, and he’s going to come for me next.
I fall to my stomach, so that my feet find the ladder behind me, vaguely aware of headlights coming down the path on the road behind them. Who’s here at this time? The guard?
I lower myself back onto the ladder. I’m scared I’m going to fall with how weak my limbs are. When I look up, my dad has one foot in the car, and Bram has decided to go get him first. Dad is in the driver’s seat, turning the ignition, but Bram grabs the car door and slams it against my father’s leg. He cries out in pain, and a metal sound chimes off the floor. His gun has fallen.
My dad reaches down for it, but Bram kicks it away. It slides across the ground and stops right at the Irving–Shelly manuscript bundle.
“Get it, Mica!” my dad cries out.
I want to curse at him for calling my name, for alerting Bram to the fact that I’m so close to both the gun and the manuscript. Bram sees me and rushes straight over. Somewhere nearby, tires screech. To my right lies the gun and manuscript. Bram locks his sights on them, too. He shifts his track slightly and heads for them.
Oh, no. I don’t think so. I am very sorry. But my mother did not die a violent death making sure her documents were in safe hands, and Mary Shelley did not haunt my family for a hundred and fifty years, only for me to let him take that.
I pull up to my knees, pushing the pain behind me, and pounce.
A second later, I hear a whir, and the silver of Bram’s sword flashes at me. I hit the ground. The blade just misses my head. My fingers wrap around the warm metal of my father’s weapon, and I aim straight at him.
So it’s come to this…him or me…
One last blast tears through the night.
I think of home—the little house on Maple Street, my beautiful mother, the father I love, Coconut’s soft belly, holographic stickers, and an idyllic life by the river, a woeful life I left behind for an even lonelier mirage by the sea.
The boy I once loved falls to the ground, his face mere inches from mine, brown eyes leaking life, looking right at me, or past me. His gaze goes vacant, and then…he’s gone. I stare at the gun in my hands.
But I never pulled the…
Someone moves just behind my father’s car, elbows poised on the hood of a blue Eclipse, driver door flung open. Gun barrel smoking in his hands. Black pants, black jacket, demon mask gone. Even in the dim light, I recognize the familiar icy blue gaze, conflicted with love and duty. Dane stands to his full towering height. “Sorry, Micaela. I had to.”
Chapter Thirty
“And it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire.”
Kingsland Point Park two weeks later, I’m on a bench listening to Dane’s soothing tone with a heavy soul. I’d forgotten how cold Novembers are here. “Your dad needed that journal money to pay off his debts. And he had a lot of them. He owed the whole town. A Ponzi scheme.”
I hear him, but his voice is miles away. The seagulls over the river screech and swoop into the water. “I had a dream that made me think he’d killed my mom.”
“Your father?” He pauses, but I don’t answer. “Well, we’re looking to see how much involvement he had. He might have paid Bram, sent him to hurt your mom, promising half the journal’s value. Don’t really know yet. But he was definitely in financial trouble. He filed for bankruptcy a couple of months ago after getting hit with a lawsuit from the Engers hoping to reclaim the funds they lent him.”
“How did you know it was Bram who killed my mother?”
“I didn’t at first. We only suspected. We didn’t know for sure until the shirt you found. His DNA matched. The results came the morning of HollowEve. One reason why I followed you all night.”
The words chill me more than the freezing air around us. “You tried to warn me,” I tell him, staring out at the river. “But I didn’t listen.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, “You were giving him the benefit of the doubt. Hey, he was your friend. I know, it’s hard. But your father was on his way. His phone bill showed calls to his assistant, and then he bought a plane ticket. Something bad was going to happen. I couldn’t leave you alone.”
My eyes are cold, wet. I blot them with my sleeve. I guess this leaves me with nobody. My shoulder still hurts. I’ll be wearing the cast another few weeks. I know I shouldn’t say or think this, but I miss Bram. I know it was all an illusion, but still—it’s hard telling that to my heart.
“Mica, I’m going to be leaving town soon,” Dane whispers. His hand covers mine lightly on the bench. Long, slender fingers lightly caressing mine. His skin slightly paler than mine. His eyes reflect little bursts sparkling from the water. I turn my hand in his and hold onto it.
Will I ever see you again? I want to ask, but I shouldn’t. I know what he does for a living now—a real living. Beside
s, what if he doesn’t feel for me the way I’m starting to feel for him? What if this is just protective affection? I focus back on the water, the boats, anything but him.
“When do you take the cast off?” He touches the wound on my shoulder.
“Two weeks.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. I wonder how long before I sound like myself again.
“Who’s going to take care of you, now that your dad’s in custody?”
“I can take care of myself.”
He laughs softly. “You can, huh? I don’t know about that.”
I shrug and try not to care anymore. Seems all I’ve done the past two weeks is cry in isolation at Betty Anne’s. “I’ll go back to Miami, maybe move in with Em, graduate, go to Yale, be a lawyer, live out the rest of my days in disbelief. Whatever. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“I believe you. You’re stronger than you think you are.” He squeezes my hand hard then lets go. It slips away, and I suddenly feel forsaken in a frozen wasteland. He stands up slowly. “Well, I guess I should be going.”
“Wait.” I stand to face him. Do I really want to move in with Em? I feel like she belongs in a different time and place. Can I really live with someone so far removed from everything I experienced here? I wish I could keep Dane around, always protecting me. “If it wasn’t my dad who hired you, then who was it?”
He blinks slowly. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“It was my mother, wasn’t it? She wanted to make sure I was taken care of when I came home. You were there from the moment I stepped off the train.”
He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no, either. A flock of fifty, sixty birds in the tree nearest us begins screeching. “The authentication came back, you know.”
I nod. Yes, I know. They called me yesterday. The genealogical document is solid. Real. As real as they come.
“What are you going to do with all your treasures?” He smiles.
“I don’t know.” In the morning, I’ll be gathering my belongings to meet the appraiser from Sotheby’s at Dr. Tanner’s office. Then I’ll decide what I want to do with it all. It’s a lot of stuff. At the very least, I want to share the profit with whoever helped me, the ones I know love me and have always had my best interest at heart. There aren’t many.
Dane purses his bottom lip and stares out at the river. “All right, well…” He hesitates. “I’ll be at the station another few days if you need me.”
I stare at him a long moment. Then I throw my arms around him, reaching high for his shoulders, feeling his arms enclose me tightly. His body is different from Bram’s. Strong in a gentle way. His heartbeat slower, more even. Even his breathing and scent are different. Holding him, waiting for something to happen, I realize I could get used to him.
This is killing me.
As if Dane understands, the way he seems to always know everything, he lets me go with nothing more than a smile, a tap to my nose, then walks away. I watch him go, powerless to stop him.
...
The people at Sotheby’s drool when they lay eyes on The Double Creation. Irving and Shelley’s collaborative novel turns out to be about an estranged husband and wife who raise twin boys on two different continents, unaware of each other’s presence until they fight against each other in the Revolutionary War. I don’t finish reading the manuscript penned by my two famous ancestors before accepting the five-million-dollar check, but I also know it won’t be the last time I see it, either.
Days later, I show up at Historic Hudson Library, and despite my father’s insistence that I keep all artifacts to myself, I donate ten of the rare photographs and the family tree to the Washington Irving Collection. It already served its purpose, and the old Hollow families do deserve something for keeping the journal safe over the years. It’s not their fault their sons were psychopaths willing to hurt people for that fortune.
Betty Anne won’t go without, either, and I leave her a decent-sized check on the countertop when she’s grocery shopping. Then I slip out with my bags. I suck at good-byes. The last of my reward-giving endeavors comes the day I visit the police station five days after holding a certain someone’s hand at Kingsland Point Park, a seven-figured check sealed in an envelope made to the order of Dane Boracich.
Officer Stanton comes out to receive me. “Can I help you, Burgos?” he asks, rolling his eyes at Word Puzzle Girl.
“Is Dane here? Officer Boracich? I wanted to give him something before he leaves.”
Officer Stanton shakes his head. “Sorry, he’s gone.”
“Gone?” Does he mean for the day, or…
“Yes, gone, as in, you know…gone?” His crooked eyebrows mock me. God, I dislike this man very much.
I blink at him, watching him smirk as I conjure up a response. “But—but I have something for him.” I’m on the verge of tears. Would he really leave without saying good-bye? “Where did he go?”
The police chief chuckles to himself. “You’re kidding me, right? First of all,” he scoffs, “as if that’s even his real name. Funny. And second, as if I’m going to tell you where a private detective is headed next. Come on, Burgos. Anything else I can help you with?”
I can barely believe it. Apparently, Dane sucks at good-byes too. Doesn’t he even want a slice of this pie? I look down at the envelope containing his check in my hand. Or of me? Is it because I was standoffish toward him when I really knew in my heart that I cared for him? How couldn’t I, after the way he watched over me from the moment I arrived?
“No. That’s it.” I turn, nearly losing my balance.
Before I reach the front door, Word Puzzle Girl pssts at me to come back. I give her a questioning look and return to the counter. The secretary waits until Officer Stanton closes his office door. “Dane Boracich,” she tells me, chewing on her lumpy, bitten pencil, “is an anagram.”
“An anagram,” I repeat. Yes. When letters are switched around to spell something different.
“For Ichabod Crane.” She waits for me to absorb this little fact and make it mean something. The darkest of clouds slides off my mind. “And you know where Ichabod Crane is from, don’t you?”
Of course. Where Doc Tanner said he met him. Plus, I’ll always be a local, like it or not, and all locals know their Irving trivia. “Connecticut.”
Word Puzzle Girl points her pencil at me and winks. “Exactly.”
...
The next day, inspection of my mother’s house passes, and I watch a real-live realtor hang a for sale sign with an actual photo and verified contact number on it. Before leaving, I stand in the middle of the house and open my mind one last time to messages, memories, visions, or lingering thoughts from another place—Mary or Mami.
Is there anything else you want to tell me? I’m leaving now.
I wait for the voices, but there are none. 150 Maple Street is quiet, for once. Quieter than the sleepy Hudson breeze blowing through it.
“Thanks for everything,” I tell the house, taking in its empty walls one last time, and step into the waiting cab. On the way to the train station, my heart feels heavy and regretful. I soak in my surroundings one last time. The swaying treetops, the gently sloping streets, same power lines, Route 9, the station itself—same log cabin from when I was twelve.
I pay the driver and pull my bags into the station. Same old wood paneling, same dusty chandelier. I move up to the window, dragging my bags alongside me. The ticket seller mumbles, “Where to, miss?”
Back to the city? To catch a plane for Miami?
No, that doesn’t feel right. Nothing does. Home could be anywhere now. Except…someone out there knows me. Could love me, I think. I could love him, too, in time. I don’t know his real name, but no matter—I’ll find him. And when I do, I’ll tell him.
“Miss?” The ticket seller’s eyebrows slope as he waits.
Excitement flurries in my belly. “New Haven, Connecticut.”
Acknowledgments
In the fall of 2008, I began writing this s
tory and “finished” it a few months later. Little did I know I’d be shaping it for another eight years. Since then, it’s been through countless revisions, but the core of it has remained the same.
Along the way were some important people who read it in its various stages, people I owe a huge thank you to, particularly Linda Rodriguez Bernfeld, Danielle Joseph, Marcea Ustler, Adrienne Sylver, Alex Flinn, Christina Diaz Gonzalez, Alexandra Alessandri, Marjetta Geerling, Jodi Turchin, Joyce Sweeney, and Curtis Sponsler who both critiqued an early version and made my kick-ass book trailers. Thank you all for your wise words and direction, for opening my eyes to what needed changing while confirming what I always felt was strong and needed to stay. Thank you also to Chris Nuñez for working two, sometimes three jobs, so I could continue toiling on this book and for believing in me. To my agent, Deborah Warren, for putting up with my emails and not giving up on me nor this story, and to my editors, Stacy Abrams and Lydia Sharp, for picking my diamond in the rough out of the miry clay and polishing it ’til it sparkled.
These acknowledgments would not be complete without a nod to my kids—Michael, Noah, and Murphy—for staying busy, being understanding, and not killing each other downstairs while I slaved away at my laptop. I adore you crazy boys. To my family and friends for asking how the writing is going and attending book signings. And lastly to my mother, Yolanda, who accompanied me to Sleepy Hollow for research and is always the first to critique my books. When finished with the first draft of Wake the Hollow, she said, “Muy bueno. From the moment Mica stepped off the train, I felt like I was watching a movie.” Those words have fueled years of hard work, Mom. I thank you and love you.
About the Author
GABY TRIANA is the award-winning author of six YA novels—Wake the Hollow, Summer of Yesterday, Riding the Universe, The Temptress Four, Cubanita, and Backstage Pass, as well as thirteen ghostwritten novels for best-selling authors. She spends her time obsessing about Halloween, Christmas, Disney World, hosting parties, designing mugs, making whimsical cakes, and winning costume contests. When she’s not writing or obsessing, she’s watching Jurassic Park movies with her boys, posting excessive food pics on social media, or helping run the Florida region of the SCBWI. Gaby lives in Miami with her three sons, Michael, Noah, and Murphy. She also has a dog, Chloe, and two cats—Miss Daisy, and the reformed thug, shooting survivor, Bowie.