That had been the inscription carved above Agathe’s altar of skulls, down in her lair.
Jason sighed. And I’m the seventh generation…
The nightmare came back in a flash: William Crane raised his hatchet at the bridge. He struck. Blood spattered his face. He reveled in it, his expression lewd with bloodlust and pleasure… “I have held the bridge!”
Jason shook the memory away, feeling unearned shame for his ancestor’s crime. He felt like curling into a fetal position, but that would only tempt more leg cramps. He rolled onto his side, head on his arm, and watched the bruise growing in the eastern portholes.
If I died, would all this end?
He saw himself surrendering to the Horseman, standing defenseless before him, letting him take his head. What would that be like?
He imagined it.
The hatchet swung at him from the right—a horizontal cut in excruciatingly slow motion. He had plenty of time to see death coming. Plenty of time to see how sharp the blade was.
Good. A sharp blade will hurt less.
The blade struck the front of his neck—on the level of his Adam’s apple. It passed through his carotid artery. He felt a splash of blood on his cheek. Blood came into his mouth. The blade slit the cartilage of his trachea next.
Am I dead yet?
He paused the image and considered. If the hatchet stopped there, he’d probably die. He’d bleed to death from the severed artery. But maybe not. Maybe a team of experts could sew the artery together, give him a valve in his neck like Valerie’s.
It’s the spine that’s the point of no return.
The blade cut through his spinal column, between the vertebrae. That will hurt less, Jason decided, and his imagination allowed him that one small mercy. The blade sliced the skin at the back of his neck and exited just below the hairline. He could feel the thick base of the blade sliding into him, the wooden stock. He felt his head rising and separating from his neck. The hatchet passed through, its work completed. He had been beheaded—payback for William Crane’s murder of the Horseman on Halloween night, 1776, at the broken bridge. Jason’s head went rolling, bouncing down the lighthouse steps, trailing blood, to splash into the Hudson far below.
Would Jason’s surrender and death be enough to send the Horseman back to hell forever? Would it save Sleepy Hollow and his friends? Make the Crane name safe for his descendants?
No. I’d have no descendants. I’m the last Crane.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Jason sat up, shivering. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders. The lighthouse was cold at night, though sweltering in the afternoons. He hurried downstairs. He’d been hoping to discover the source of the laughter, but he didn’t like sleeping in the room where Tamper had died. He’d swept away the doctor’s ashes and had collected them inside a yellow coffee can—a poor urn, but the best he could manage. He still talked to Tamper, now and again, in case the doctor’s ghost walked alongside him.
On the first morning after the fight with Hadewych, Jason had used Hadewych’s key to remove the shackle on his leg—exposing a bracelet of red, angry skin—and had searched every crevice of the lighthouse looking for an escape route. He’d found none.
Tamper had been living on the floor just below. Jason gasped when he discovered the washbasin and the small shower. The shower was only a trickle, but he felt a tsunami of gratitude for it. He’d washed away the ash, sponging it from his hands and arms and face. He felt a stab of guilt and nausea as the grey tendril of Dr. Tamper swirled down the drain. He forced himself not to think about it.
He could find no mirror, but one wall of the shower was of stainless steel, and his ghostly reflection stared back at him—as through a mist. He shaved with a sliver of soap and a dull disposable, losing the beard while gaining his own face, dotted with bloody cuts but recognizable again.
He found some too-large clothes and dressed himself. His thin body swam inside the T-shirt and sweatpants. Food was his next priority. He found boxes of canned goods under Tamper’s cot—Chicken of the Sea and more SpaghettiOs, mostly—searched a long time for the can opener and, just as he began to panic, found it beneath a wad of discarded clothes. He studied the can opener blade as he ate, wondering if it could be used as a weapon, then scanned the entire room for other potential weapons. He found little else, only a pharmacy bag containing OxyContin, bandages, and antibiotic pills. Hadewych had indeed been thorough.
Jason tried not to think of all that had occurred, tried not to hear his own voice screaming, “Pump him full of bleach!” The memory was shameful to him.
What would Eliza think?
Hadewych’s eyes had flooded with shame when he’d been reminded of his Oma. Is that all that keeps us from turning bad? The fear of disappointing our grandmothers? Shaming our mothers, embarrassing our fathers? What went on inside Hadewych’s head? What blinders allowed him to evade knowledge of his own evil? What would happen if he ever lost those blinders? If he saw himself as he truly was? Could you be Hadewych Van Brunt and not go insane?
Jason had certainly changed over the past year. Once upon a time, he had stood over Hadewych with a shovel in hand and had chosen not to kill the man—because he couldn’t believe that evil existed. He hadn’t been able to believe that anyone could be so evil as to murder his sweet, trusting grandmother. Like all young men who have a conscience, Jason had expected others to have a conscience too. He’d shrunk from the sight of evil, denied it, because he had to live in the world—and how can you live here if monsters are real? How can you stand to live on Earth if men like Hadewych can exist and thrive?
Now he knew. He had seen. He believed. Some monsters are real. Men like that do exist. They do have consciences. And… they feel the same way about their own existence. They shrink from the sight of their own evil, evade it—and that’s how they manage to soldier on.
If I’d hit him with that shovel, he would have deserved it.
If I’d pumped him full of bleach, he would have deserved it.
He deserves everything that’s coming to him.
But he would have died thinking himself a victim. And that’s the horror of evil men.
Jason knew, deep down, that he’d have to kill Hadewych, and that he’d never be the same afterward. He’d already seen so much, suffered so much. He could feel himself becoming… merciless and hard. Just as your hands grow calloused from manual labor, your soul grows callous from facing down evil. And your powers surge too, in tandem with your indignation. Jason’s hands glowed all the time now. Not bright enough to signal with, just a soft white light. He didn’t know what it meant, but he was glad of the light after nightfall.
That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
Or at least… tougher.
He made the decision to forgive himself in advance for anything he was forced to do. This was a lifeboat situation—like… those soccer players who crashed in the Andes and resorted to cannibalism. If Jason had to eat the copilot to survive, he would. Morality goes out the window in situations like this. All you can hope for is to reach the other side with your soul intact, or at least recognizable…
Jason began to worry as the days ticked down and he hadn’t formulated a plan. He spent most of his time walking up and down the stairs, forcing his muscles to move. On the first day he managed a single pull-up on the spiral staircase, but it left him trembling. The next day he did two. And then five.
The stairs below Tamper’s third floor room ended in a solid steel door. It had an opening at the bottom with a plastic flap, a doggy door through which Hadewych delivered food. Jason attempted to squeeze through and almost made it. He was skinny as a beanpole, but unless he was willing to dislocate his shoulder, it didn’t seem possible. And honestly, he didn’t even know how to dislocate his shoulder, or whether that even worked outside of action movies. He wasn’t willing to go there. Not yet. After all, he couldn’t heal himself if he failed.
With his head through the hole, he
could see the stairs down to the first floor—and the door that led outside, to the landing, the bridge, and the world beyond. The door was tantalizingly close, but he could see the big bolt from here. Even if he could get down to the first floor, he’d have to get through that last lock to escape. He could also see into Hadewych’s second-floor bedroom. The man had set up an apartment for himself, palatial compared to the floors above. It contained an easy chair and comfy mattress, a refrigerator (God, Jason would kill for a cold soda), even a stately grandfather clock—unwound, for it never chimed. Hadewych’s room had electricity, too, probably from those solar panels outside. An iPhone charger dangled from a socket on the far wall. Jason wondered if the cord could be used as a garrote.
Could he harness the electricity to start a fire? Someone might see it—a passing boat maybe—and call 9-1-1. Might the current extend to the floors above? He ran upstairs (only huffing and puffing a little, which gratified him), found an outlet in the fourth-floor porthole room, and pressed Hadewych’s little key into it. Nothing. Just as well. If he started a fire, how would he survive it? He had no ventilation. Every window was barred and boarded. The smoke would gather in the porthole room, unable to rise farther unless the trap door was opened.
What was up there, anyway?
Jason found boxes of clippings in a third-floor cupboard beneath the staircase. Four dusty boxes of laminated newsprint, exhibits of lighthouse history, some framed. He read the articles. Dick and Agnes Moreland had been the last keepers here, sometime in the sixties. One article read:
ALONE AMONG MILLIONS
Though thousands pass their house every day, no one calls on this couple who lives in the middle of the Hudson River.
The article was full of homey anecdotes about fitting square furniture in round rooms, making sure the children didn’t fall overboard, and the fun the Morelands had tying ropes around their waists and swimming in the strong currents of the Hudson. Agnes had spent her time at embroidery. A dusty sample of it hung on the wall. She chafed at the lack of company, so far from shore; the GM land had been a half-mile off in those days, before the landfills. Dick rowboat-ed to town for supplies. A picture showed him hard at oars. A good-looking fellow in his twenties, in a dark coast guard uniform, white hat on his head. Agnes stood at the railing of the lighthouse, waving to him. The caption read, “At least there’s no door-to-door salesmen!”
Jason studied an exterior photo of his prison. Six floors in total. The first floor, with its big tantalizing door, the second with Hadewych’s apartment. The third, where Tamper had slept, the fourth-floor porthole room, and the fifth floor, through the trap above. It was tiny, like the top tier of a wedding cake. The sixth-floor lantern room sat perched at the very top, small and black, like a skinny groom left at the altar. Metal-railed catwalks circled both the fifth floor and the lantern room.
If he could get up there, could he jump? No. The lighthouse was ringed by jagged rocks, protecting it from the waves. He’d never clear them. But… on the lower, fifth-floor balcony, a huge copper bell sat in a metal cradle. He’d found it mentioned in an article. A backup warning system in case the light went out. Big enough to warn ships away from the shoals of the Tappan Zee, loud enough to be heard for miles. Hadewych couldn’t have removed it. If Jason could get up there, he could call for help. The bell might be his salvation.
He returned to the porthole room and sat on the floor, staring at the trap. A man-sized scorch shaded the red brick nearby—the shadow of Dr. Tamper.
“That’s our way out, Doc.”
He stared at the trap until the western portholes grew bright blue. He would find a way through, he would ring that bell…
… and he’d find out who was up there, laughing at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“The Funerals”
Joey hesitated in front of the big gothic-peaked door. The little gold plaque read CEMETERY DIRECTOR. He knew his dad wouldn’t yell or anything—his parents had been waiting on him hand and foot since the massacre—but he knew there’d be an argument. What could he do though? He had no choice but to make his case and hope for the best.
He gave a little rap and entered.
Jim Osorio sat at his desk, looking over paperwork. He wore a sharp black suit and tie, and his eyeglasses caught the light of the green-shaded lamp at his elbow. His hair was a little mussed today; he sported a cowlick in back ’cause he’d been out in the wind all morning, preparing the ground crew. Today was the big day. The day of the ten funerals. Nine for the slain kids of Sleepy Hollow High. One for Coach Konat.
“Can I talk to you?” whispered Joey.
Jim looked up, the reflections in his eyes shifting. “Oh, hey, Joe. What’s up?”
Joey closed the heavy door behind him. “I’ve got a problem and… I don’t know how to fix it.”
Jim waved him in. “Don’t get too close. I’m sick as a dog. Swell day for it, huh?” He snatched a Kleenex and blew. His whole desk was cluttered with pill bottles and vapor rubs. The air of the office smelled… pharmaceutical. “Damn weather. Got cold real fast this year.”
Joey slipped into a chair. “I need a favor.”
“Anything, kiddo. Shoot.”
Joey took a deep breath. “I can’t work the funerals today.”
Jim sniffed and reached for another Kleenex. “Don’t worry. I can handle things. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
Joey had been grieving all week. He was having nightmares, too. Waking up in the middle of the night to find his cheeks wet with tears. His parents didn’t know about those. Neither did Zef. Only Booger knew. Joey just sat watching his turtle eat lettuce, until dawn rose or the screams went away.
“That it?” asked his dad.
Joey looked up. “No.”
“Then what? Spit it out. I’m kind of under—”
“I can’t let you do these funerals.”
Jim straightened and scowled. “Why not?”
Joey cursed himself for having to do this. “These kids… shouldn’t be buried here.”
“Where else would they go?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere else. Valhalla maybe. That’s close.”
“Why would Valhalla be better than us?”
Joey balled his fists in his lap. “It just would.”
Jim put his elbows on the desk. “What are you talking about, Joe?”
“We have to refuse these services. I’m sorry it’s last minute, but… these parents have to take their kids somewhere else.”
Jim leaned back in his chair. He took his eyeglasses off and set them down on the blotter, rubbing bloodshot eyes. “Okay. Why?”
Joey steeled himself. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“I do.”
Jim cocked an eyebrow. “Gravediggers don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Ghosts are real, Dad. I’ve seen them.”
Jim’s voice went flat. “You’ve seen ghosts.”
“Yeah. A lot of them.” Joey raised a hand, gesturing to the framed photos that covered every free spot on the office wall—framed black-and-white art photos of the cemetery. His dad had a talented lens and a keen eye. “In Section 77, and the receiving vault. And… they’re all over the cemetery.”
Jim held up a finger, pausing the conversation, as a sneeze built up. It came out in an explosion, “AIT-CHOO!” and Jim wiped his nose again. “Why don’t you just go home and get some sleep?”
“I’m serious. Ghosts are real and… our cemetery is like a city of them.”
“A city of them.”
“Yeah, and everybody in the cemetery has got to answer to the head ghost.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s called the dominant spirit. He controls all the other ghosts.”
“Joey…”
“The dominant spirit. It’s in the Legend. Hell, even I’ve got it memorized now. ‘The dominant spirit that haunts this enchanted region and seems to be com
mander-in-chief of all the powers of the air is…’” Joey trailed off, unable to continue, and gestured to a framed photo—the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head.
“The Headless Horseman,” said Jim. “Don’t tell me you believe in him now.”
“The whole town believes.”
“That’s not true.”
“People saw him. He killed those…”
“Joey,” said Jim, his voice sharp. “People did not see the Horseman.”
“He’s real. He killed those kids and…” Joey’s voice broke.
“You okay?”
“One second.” Joey collected himself. “He killed those kids. That was bad enough. But this. Burying them here… No. I can’t let them be his slaves.”
“Whose slaves?”
“The Horseman’s. I told you. He’s the dominant spirit. We bury those kids in our cemetery and…” He started trembling. “… and they’re going to rise up… and…”
“Hey. Hey.” Jim took Joey’s hand and squeezed it. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. It’s true.”
“Come on.” Jim gave his hand a pat. “Don’t let all this weird talk get you upset. Just tune it out. People are a little crazy right now. They need to blame someone.”
“He’s real, Dad.”
“He’s not real. There’s no Horseman.”
“Were you at homecoming?”
“You know I wasn’t.”
“Well, I was, and I saw him. I’ve seen him twice. And once on film. He attacked Jason at the bridge.”
“Jason… Crane.” Jim shook his head, putting the famous name with the famous ghost.
“Yeah. Don’t look at me like I’m an idiot.”
“I didn’t say anything. But… we’ve been here before. I told you last Thanksgiving. If you need to believe in the Horseman, then I’ll trust that you believe. But you can’t expect me to.”
“He attacked me on Halloween. He hit me in the head.” He pulled out his phone and hit buttons, showing his dad the blurry picture he’d taken that night. “See? This is the pumpkin he threw at me.”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 25
