SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  This was getting seriously… World of Warcraft. Next thing you know, he’d be Jason Soulflayer, a level-10,000 Night Elf with a bazillion hit points and a gritroot staff, known throughout Azeroth as the vaunted possessor of the legendary Gauntlet of Perpetual Silliness.

  Not my genre. Not my genre. Not my genre.

  He sighed, wishing the universe had just given him a lightsaber instead.

  Hopefully he could use his powers to escape the lighthouse. Was there some new aspect to his Gift now, waiting to be unlocked? He tried to guess what it might be. He had inherited a history Gift from Ichabod, the ability to pull things out of the past—to pull the past into himself as a vision, or to pull the past into an object and restore it. Maybe he could… what? Send himself into the past now? Change history? That would be cool. Jason Crane, time traveler. He pressed his glowing palms to his chest and wished to be magically transported back to last September and his grave-rubbing trip with Eliza. He would go back and refuse Hadewych’s proposal. Leave the Van Brunt tomb sealed and spirit his grandmother back to Maine, to live out a few more precious days with her boy and puppy dog.

  He willed himself there—but it didn’t happen. He just read his own shirt, and got immobilized, forced to watch a two-minute featurette of a K-Mart shelf-stocker folding irregular tees for the remainder bin.

  So. No explanation for the glow. Apparently, his Gift had just added a flashlight extension. If this kept up, his hands would be a Swiss army knife, with a different power for each finger. He imagined raising the middle one and turning Hadewych into dust.

  Jason’s palms itched too. A maddening poison ivy itch. It was driving him nuts. Reading objects seemed to help, but he’d run out of things to read. His Gift kept building up, needing release. He’d read the bricks, the stairs, everything on the third floor. He’d watched the old lighthouse keepers play Yahtzee with their kids, seen Agnes knitting in the porthole room and Dick snaking a drainpipe. He’d watched tuna get netted off a Chicken of the Sea can and a Chinese girl sewing the tongue into his sneakers. But now everything had gone dark, and his palms glowed so brightly he slept with socks for mittens.

  He heard a grating noise and a clank downstairs. The sounds brought fear and optimism both. Maybe Hadewych had come to kill him, though a day remained before the ten ran out. Maybe rescue had arrived.

  “Hello?”

  Jason descended and found an oblong box wriggling through the doggy door. Somewhere below, the well-hated-bastard-who-killed-the-doctor-and-locked-me-in-a-lighthouse voice said, “None of this is my fault,” and the front door slammed shut again.

  Jason recognized the box from his own closet back at Gory Brook: Hadewych had brought him his comic book collection. Jason couldn’t understand it. Was the man buttering him up? He’d rather have a damn newspaper. It was killing him to be out of the loop. He wanted to know what the hell was going on out in the world.

  He carried the box to his bedroom and sat on the floor with it. A letter hung taped to the side.

  Dear Jason,

  It is my sad duty to inform you of the passing of John Dawes, former husband of your grandmother Eliza Merrick, of heart failure on September 25th. He did not suffer and died in his sleep, peacefully.

  My brother spoke often of his marriage to Eliza, calling those years the happiest of his life. Please know that you were one of the reasons for that happiness. He loved you as a son. He regretted not accepting your request last year that he become your guardian, but his health made it impossible.

  The funeral will be held on October 1st at 10:00 a.m. at Bridewell funeral home in Augusta. I will provide transportation for you. He would want you there. I look forward to seeing you again. We met once, when you were very small. I’m sure you’ve become a fine young man.

  My brother certainly thought so.

  Cecelia Dawes

  Jason howled with grief. Grandpa John had stepped up when his parents died, teaching him to be brave, as a father might. Now he couldn’t even attend the man’s funeral. What was today’s date? He had no idea. He’d probably missed the funeral already, and he couldn’t even send a message to explain why. His breath caught. He hadn’t attended his parents’ funeral either. He’d missed so many goodbyes.

  He kicked the wall. One more thing Hadewych would pay for.

  He hated the comics now. He left them on the floor and turned his back to them. He made lunch, stirring cold peas into Chef Boyardee, and stared at the white box as he ate. Hadewych had opened the letter, obviously, and had felt guilt. The comics were a gesture of apology, one Hadewych would never make aloud—not because Jason would hear the words, but because he would. To apologize was to admit wrongdoing, and that was something Hadewych could never permit himself to do.

  As if comic books could make things right.

  Jason’s hands did itch though. Reading the books might provide a happy escape, into the stories and into the past. He finished his lunch and opened the box.

  He could feel the light years between himself and the boy who’d cherished these things. Little Jason was so far away now, not a single ray of light could travel the distance, like light from a star out beyond the Hubble volume, forever invisible to Earth.

  Jason removed each comic book, envying Superman for his power of flight, envying Nightcrawler who could BAMF! and teleport through walls. Envying the boy who’d had no experience with real evil, only three-color soliloquizing villains. Like Doc Ock, talking and talking while Spidey devised his escape plan. He removed Fantastic Four #49 from its protective Mylar sleeve. A very old book. 1966. Cover price twelve cents. The first appearance of Galactus, Eater of Worlds. Our intrepid heroes fled an enormous horned figure, and Stan Lee shouted, “If this be DOOMS—” The “–DAY!” had been ripped off. Little Jason could never afford clean Golden Age books. But—Big Jason grinned a little—he could fix that.

  He pressed his palm to the paper, reciting the words Valerie had given him. “Everything that is… contains the seed of what was.”

  His hand flashed. He blinked. He was now the proud owner of Fantastic Four #49 in mint condition, hot off the presses. The pages were white, the staples tight. A collector’s dream copy. He might actually do good business someday. He could open CRANE’S COMICS AND COLLECTIBLES and make a fortune selling rare, suspiciously pristine Spider-Mans.

  He did the trick on book after book, the itch lessening with every flash, until a pile of perfect Alpha Flights and Thors and Defenders lay scattered all around. He saved the best for last—the top dog, the king of the hill, the Dominant Comic Book of Jason Crane’s collection—his near-mint copy of Giant-Size X-Men #1, acquired at the Augusta Flea Fair ten years ago, in that last glorious summer before his parents died. It was surprising, in retrospect, that his dad had spotted him three hundred dollars to buy the thing. He’d made Jason promise to take care of it forever.

  A little rip had appeared near the middle staple. That made Jason feel guilty, like a museum guard discovering a wad of Juicy Fruit on the Mona Lisa. He removed the book from its sleeve, reverently, and pressed his right hand to it.

  And that was when he discovered a new aspect to his Gift. His palm didn’t flash. It shone brighter, ever brighter, until he thought it might burn the book. The room filled with sharp shadows. His stomach lurched, like an elevator in free-fall, and he plunged into the past.

  The lighthouse vanished.

  Jason sat on a gold carpet in a middle-class living room, his back against a plush white sofa. The vision was unique in its total clarity—not vivid and rapid, just… real. If not for the immobility, Jason might stand up, flip the TV on, and water the plants.

  I know this room.

  This was… his childhood home in Augusta, next to Three-Cornered Pond. Giant-Size X-Men #1 lay on the coffee table, his glowing palm pressed to it.

  Another hand joined his, pressed to the same book, their fingers overlapping and passing through each other, like ghosts shaking hands. The form opposite grew more distinct. An
arm in blue denim. A chest. Shoulders. A man with auburn hair and familiar features.

  Jason began to tremble. “Daddy?”

  Andrew Crane smiled. “Hello, son.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “The Summons”

  Jason stared incredulously at his father.

  “How can you be here?” Jason gasped. Had he actually fallen into the past? “Daddy? Talk to me.”

  “Dianne!” Andrew Crane shouted. “I’ve got the time capsule going. Hurry up.”

  “Did I say I was ready?” Jason’s long-dead mother appeared from a hallway, brushing her hair.

  “You know this gives me a headache if I do it too long.”

  “Start without me.”

  Andrew made a face. “Your mother is never on time.”

  “I heard that!”

  “So…” he continued. “This is, what? Our sixth of these? Seventh? You’ve probably heard this before, but who knows which one you’ll find first. Forgive the boilerplate. Today is October twenty-seventh, and in five days you will be a glorious seven years old. I’m sorry we’re missing your party. It can’t be helped. You won’t even get this message until you’re sixteen or so—that’s when I got my Gift. Sixteen. Wow. Goes quick, right? I’m probably a fat middle-aged schlump by now. I wish you could stay six forever but—”

  A lump rose in Jason’s throat.

  “Happy birthday in advance, slugger. Like I told you, this comic book is your early birthday present. I’m also burning this message into it, since you promised to keep it forever. Uh, boilerplate: if you’re seeing this, you’ve got your Gift. Did I say that already? If we focus it, we can record a vision like this. A time capsule for later retrieval. Do not take your hand from the comic book. It’ll go dark. You’ll only see this once. Then, as they say in the movies, this message will self-destruct. Your eyes only, Mr. Bond. Hopefully we’re there and you’ll learn all this from us, but in case we’re not—”

  “Don’t say that,” said Dianne, fiddling with an earring as she entered. She took a seat on the floor next to her husband, to Jason’s left.

  “It’s just insurance.” Andrew cocked an eyebrow. “So. We have a special treat this time. Your mom is joining us for a change.”

  “Hi baby!” called Dianne.

  “You don’t have to yell.”

  “Sorry.”

  “If we’re not there, son, then you might be freaked out. Here are the basics. Never reveal your Gift to someone who doesn’t have a Gift themselves. When normals find out, they die. Yes, die. So this is really important. If you accidentally curse someone, then Mom or another Pyncheon can undo it. Okay, uh, your mom’s got a Gift too, in case this is news. You’ve got Pyncheon on one side and Crane on the other, but if you’re seeing this I guess you take after me.” He cupped his free hand to his mouth and whispered, “I knew you would.”

  Dianne harrumphed. “I bet he’s got some Pyncheon. At least the alarm bell.” She raised her voice again. “Whatever you are, we love you, honey.”

  “Dianne. You don’t have to shout.” Andrew waved the air. “He’s right here, somewhere. Talk normal. So—the Pyncheons are telepaths. They can make the person forget. That’ll undo the Curse.”

  “Your grandmother’s figured me out seven times.”

  “Eight.”

  “She’s a snoop. If she does it again, wipe her hard.”

  Andrew wagged a finger. “Don’t curse your grandmother, young man.”

  Jason almost tore his hand away, recoiling from the guilt. If only he’d seen this message earlier! Had he cursed Eliza? Hadewych had accused him of it. Even his parents had suspected he might. He steeled himself to hear the rest. Emotions were for later. He had to soak up every moment before this message went dark.

  Andrew sighed. “The reason we’re doing this tonight is because tomorrow we’re driving down to New York.”

  “Sorry to miss your birthday, honey.”

  “I told him that. We’ve got no choice, slugger. Mom found this in the mailbox yesterday.” He raised an object—a red stone, oddly pockmarked. Jason recognized it. He’d seen that stone at the bottom of Eliza’s genealogy cabinets, last November, while looking for the Crane files.

  “This,” said Andrew—and by chance he met Jason’s eye directly—“is a summoning stone.”

  Valerie patted Joey’s back and rose from the chapel pew. “Let’s go see your father.” She felt something hard in the pocket of her suit and drew it out—a small stone, red and pockmarked and… familiar.

  She cried out, throwing it away like a hot potato, and stumbled to her feet, knocking the Styrofoam cup out of the hymnal rack and spilling cold coffee down her skirt. She lost her footing and fell into the aisle.

  “What happened?” said Joey. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t touch it!” Images swarmed her mind. She drew her knees to her chest.

  “I have one too,” Joey gasped, producing a twin from his pocket. He looked at empty air, uncomprehending, then cried, “Ah!” He dropped the stone onto a side table, where it sat atop a stack of So-You-Have-Cancer pamphlets. Joey’s jaw dropped and he stared into space. “Why do I see pictures in my head?”

  “It’s a summons.” Valerie fell onto her side, hugging herself. “No. No. No. Not again. Once is enough.”

  “What summons? It’s a rock.”

  Valerie rose. “Do you see the message?”

  Joey tapped his temple. “Lyndhurst. Tonight. Nine p.m.”

  “Don’t touch it again. It’s called an anichitis. A summoning stone. They say a ghost—puts it in your pocket—when you aren’t looking. You touch it and—”

  “You’re summoned. I figured that out. You got one before?”

  Valerie groaned. “My mother did. Ten years ago. She was gardening, digging weeds. It came up in a—fistful of dirt. An anichitis is sneaky, like it has a mind. She saw—‘W Hotel, New York City, October twenty-eighth, four p.m.’”

  “Who sent these?”

  “No idea.”

  “Then let’s ignore it. Treat it like—I don’t know—a jury duty notice. Send it to the supernatural spam folder.”

  “We can’t ignore it. We have to go.”

  “No way! I gotta stay with my dad.”

  “We were caught—the moment we touched it. If we aren’t at Lyndhurst—twelve hours from now—if we don’t touch the sinochitis—the sister-stone…”

  “What happens?”

  “Mama and I were—on our way to New York—from Salem. We stopped off in the Hollow—to see Spook Rock. It’s famous.” She tapped her valve. “Agathe possessed her, Mama attacked me, and the police arrested her. She missed that meeting—ten years ago. At the W Hotel. If we’re not at Lyndhurst—tonight at nine, what happened to her—will happen to us.”

  “What?”

  Valerie leaned against a pew for support. “We’ll go mad.”

  Andrew Crane laid the summoning stone on the coffee table. “Obviously, I can’t let your mother go to New York by herself.”

  “I’m a big girl,” said Dianne. “He’s such a sexist pig sometimes.”

  “It could be dangerous. But we have to go. Or go crazy.”

  “You won’t. I will. I got the thing.”

  “Fine. Your mother will go crazy. Crazier.”

  “Sorry we have to lie to you, honey. It is kind of our anniversary trip. I’m making him see Phantom.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “This is why I drink. So—anyway. More boilerplate. We are sorry we have to lie, son. Or, at least—hide. I’m sure you’ll—”

  “Daddy?” Jason’s six-going-on-seven-year-old self stood in the doorway.

  Andrew winked in the general direction of his future son. “Well, this is a first.”

  Jason studied his younger self. He wore red sneakers, blue jeans rolled up at the ankles, and his official Luke Skywalker Bespin fatigue jacket, with the fan club patches Dianne had sewn on each shoulder, like the epaulets of a little general. A real squirt. So small. So…
unsuspecting.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” said Dianne.

  Little Jason ran forward. “Don’t touch my comic book!”

  “I’m not hurting it,” Andrew said.

  “You’ve got oils in your hand! That lowers the value! You’ll ruin it!”

  Andrew shrugged, grinning at future Jason again. “We better cut this short.”

  No, thought Jason. Not yet.

  Little Jason frowned. He raised a pair of dime-store vampire fangs and used them as a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Who are you talking to?”

  Jason blinked, horror and sadness filling him. Of course—this was just a few days before that terrible Halloween. The Halloween they died.

  “We’ll pick up a pumpkin on our way back,” said Dianne, artfully changing the subject.

  Little Jason lit up. “Promise? We can carve it?”

  “Promise.”

  “And scary this time,” added the fangs.

  “Done deal.”

  Oh, the pumpkin. They’d always carved their pumpkin together, as a team. But Mom and Dad never returned with that pumpkin, and Jason had never carved another, in all the Halloweens since their deaths. It had never felt right, to carve a jack-o’-lantern without his mom and dad.

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Sorry I touched your book. Go get one of your bags and we’ll put it up.”

  The kid sighed dramatically. “This is why we can’t have nice things.” He stomped away. Under his arm he clutched the green felt dragon. The dragon his older self would lose to the Pocantico River, ten years later.