If asked, few of the tourists could say exactly why they’d come. They’d felt compelled to. They’d heard the name “Sleepy Hollow” their entire lives. They’d seen countless adaptations of the story—good and bad—on the TV or movie screen, but they’d never realized… that it was a real place. The evening news had spoken of killings and ghost sightings in “Sleepy Hollow, New York.” People pulled road maps from the shelves, went online, discovering an actual scribble of streets and parks. It was like discovering that, in reality, Hobbiton had been waiting just over the hill, or that the Emerald City sparkled on Route 43 just south of Tucson.
They came.
They had no idea what they expected to find. They had no guides to point out the true bridge or the original shoreline, or to sketch the Old Loop on a map of downtown. They walked in the wake of Baltus’s taxi-wagon, without knowing that they did. They passed the ghost of the Van Tassel Tavern, which was lurking behind the façade of the Landmark Condominiums, but couldn’t hear its fiddlers. If Ichabod Crane himself had tipped his hat to them they would not have known his face.
But they wanted to know.
They wanted to dig, to explore, to find their childhood story—no, to find their childhood—wherever it lay, buried beneath the strata of two hundred years of development and change. They felt compelled to dig it up, like a time capsule, and to touch its contents with their own bare palms. They searched the “Local History” shelf at Warner Library. They went on walking tours. They looked up street names. They read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving. And in secret moments… they whispered to ghosts. “Show yourself, Hessian. My nightlight’s off. Come on. I’ve missed being scared of you. Race me to the bridge? One last time?”
The ladies of the Philipsburg Manor Gift Shop gathered in the parking lot, to take one last doleful glance at the Horseman calendars and Horseman fridge magnets and Horseman canvas totes. They gazed with grief at the fire-blackened windows, the charred tchotchkes and melted merchandise. The ash of their beloved Horseman souvenirs permeated the cool Halloween air, dancing in little flurries, as if trying to gather together again.
“What now?” one of the ladies asked.
They looked to Vera, their leader, who had manned the register since the Reagan administration.
Vera took their hands, raised her chin and squared her shoulders.
“We shall rebuild. Greater and grander than ever before.”
Come afternoon, the Halloween 8K began its run up The Road, a hundred Tarrytowners in masks jogging along Broadway to tourist applause. Buddy Rittermeyer joined them this year, running to the front of the pack in his vampire costume, waving his black and orange cape, widow-peaked, his chest high and staked through with a bloody hammer-handle.
“I am the living dead!” he cried, through plastic vampire fangs, as he bat-winged along, leading the grand costume parade.
Only Jason Crane felt no Halloween Spirit. He slouched in the living room of 417 Gory Brook watching a recording of an Usher campaign rally on the big-screen TV with the sound off. It was the rally where Kate had made her first public appearance. Kate stood waving to the crowd, a smile fixed on her face. She was miserable, but only he would have been able to tell. She still hadn’t called like she’d promised to. He worried for her. He worried that she was under her father’s thumb. Or that she’d dumped him and wasn’t coming back. Could he have been… that bad?
“But it’s Halloween,” Joey whined, his voice on the phone half pleading and half accusing.
“So it’s Halloween,” said Jason. “Big deal. I’m not coming.”
“Yes. You. Are.”
“No. I’m. Not. That’s final.”
“You’re just going to sit home tonight?”
“If I want to.” Jason dipped a Ritz cracker into tuna salad and munched sullenly, hardly tasting it.
“I haven’t had a Halloween off in forever,” said Joey. “I have no lantern tour. School doesn’t start again until Tuesday…”
“So go to the damn block party! You don’t need me there. I’m just a third wheel anyway.” He scowled. He shouldn’t have said that, but he didn’t like hanging around with Joey and Zef now that they were a couple. They were always making out and linking fingers in belt loops and stuff. He wanted Kate. He hit “rewind” and watched her walk backward onto the stage.
“You’re not a third wheel,” said Joey. “You know I need an audience.”
“I’m just not up for it, man. Not this year. I’m done with ghosts and monsters. Just done. If I see another pumpkin, I’ll throw up. I will. I think… I think I actually hate Halloween.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t you?”
“Of course not! It’s gay Christmas.”
“It’s nothing personal. That’s just how I feel. Have fun tonight.”
Jason hung up, cutting off Joey’s reply.
The phone rang. Joey again, calling to nag some more. Jason ignored the call and a text popped up.
Suit yourself Ichabod Scrooge!!!
He threw the phone down, got up, and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Bah, humbug.”
His mood had grown blacker as the house had grown cleaner. The past year had caught up to him. His shoulder hurt. His ankle hurt. In the last week, a string of awful anniversaries had come and gone: the first anniversary of Eliza’s death, the eleventh of his parents’ death… and today, the first anniversary of Eliza’s funeral and his flight through the graveyard. How could he not hate Halloween? This annual celebration of death? To hell with it! Screw this costume parade for babies and immature kids! Bah!
He poured himself a glass of prune juice.
He would be eighteen tomorrow. He was on his own now, and had responsibilities. Hadewych had left a snarled paper trail. Who knew what the final losses to the estate would be? Probably millions. And what about the Crane Foundation? Mr. Smolenski had called, looking for funds to excavate the millpond mud before the village patched the dam. They’d found artifacts from the era of Vredryk Philipse, a large enough trove to keep Smolenski busy cataloguing for the rest of his life. Jason planned to honor Hadewych’s seven-year commitment to fund village landmarks. It was the right thing to do, though Sleepy Hollow didn’t deserve squat from him. Once he got full title back, he’d sell this shithole house and go.
He sat at the breakfast table, staring at the file folders and boxes.
Is that my decision? To go? Go where? Chase Kate to Boston? Run back to Maine?
How could he stay? The house felt empty without Eliza. They hadn’t had time to build good memories here. He’d see little good if he read the place, and lots of evil. Even cleaned up, this was still the Van Brunt, not the Crane, homestead. The house that Brom! Brom! Brom! built. The House that Shouted. Sell it? Pass it off to some unsuspecting family?
He should burn it to the ground.
Nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
But there had been bright spots. He’d found Eliza’s most cherished possessions, right where he’d left them, untouched beneath blankets in the garage. Including her laptop, with gigabytes of genealogy work, and the Crane files that Hadewych had burned, a decade of Eliza’s life unexpectedly restored, like the decade of Valerie’s life, and Jason’s own lifetime ahead.
He finished his prune juice and reached for a box, poring over his inventory. He took out the red anichitis that had summoned his parents to New York. He was out of leads on that mystery. His father had mentioned other time capsules, though, like the one burned into the comic book. Where might those be?
Someone rang the doorbell. Charley barked hysterically. Jason cringed, in no mood for snotty little kids begging for candy. He had no candy. Ring someone else! He hid in the dark kitchen, hoping they’d go away. He felt like garbage and was ashamed for people to see.
“Jason?” It was Valerie.
He sighed. He’d been dreading this conversation. He crossed the living room and opened the door. Sh
e wore purple ribbon across her forehead, dangly earrings, a sequined black dress, and a spangled scarf with stars and crescent moons, like a con artist from the psychic hotline. He guessed it was a costume, but you never knew with Valerie Maule.
“Happy Halloween,” she cried, in her bizarrely normal new voice.
“Yeah, come on in. Uh, don’t smudge the salt line.”
She crept over the threshold and looked around. “I haven’t been here since the day we all met.” She saddened and, out of long habit, brought a hand up to engage her valve. She realized what she’d done and dropped it again. “I miss her.”
“She left you money, you know. In her will. Thirty-five thousand. I don’t suppose Hadewych ever sent a check?”
“I’d no idea.”
“Email me your new Salem address. I’ll get one to you.”
“I don’t need—”
“I’ll get one to you. Sit. I have something else. Two secs.”
Valerie took a chair and bent to scratch Charley’s head. Jason entered Eliza’s old bedroom and slid open the secret panel in the wall. He cracked the safe, drew out Mother Hulda’s grimoire, and returned.
Valerie’s eyes went wide. “I thought we lost it.”
“Nope. In Joey’s dirty clothes hamper.”
She reached for it.
Jason drew it back. “Not yet. I have questions first.”
She straightened and crossed her ankles. “Ask, then.”
He sat across from her and steeled himself. “What do you know about… necromancers?”
Her smile tightened. “Not much. They’re rare. One in a century, if that.”
“And they frighten you.”
“The Gifted fear the Deep Witches, but we fear the Necromancers. They’re boogeymen for us.”
“Why?”
“Necromancy is an unnatural… an unholy… physical power. The opposite of ours. Witches summon spirits. Necromancers summon…”
“What?”
She glanced away. “Corpses.”
“And I’m a necromancer.”
“No,” she said, immediately.
“Agathe thought so.”
“She was wrong. You’re a good person.”
“Necromancers can’t be good people?”
Valerie winced. “Necromancers can’t… stay good people. It’s a power that no one can handle. Would you decide life and death?”
“To bring Eliza back? Or my parents?”
“Would you?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“No. Think about it seriously. Are you willing, right now, to take a shovel and dig up your mother? To lay hands on her bones and force her to life?”
“No.” Jason felt a cold chill. “That’s more… Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein is about necromancy. That’s the model. Body parts, lightning… insanity.”
Jason’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This is a big deal, isn’t it?”
“When a person gets every Major Arcana in a row? Oh, yes.”
“We haven’t seen the last one. The World.”
“Do you feel complete?”
“No.”
She touched his hand. “It’ll turn up.”
“When did you suspect?”
“Christmas Eve. I told you a healing Gift and a restoration Gift never happen together…”
“That no one can heal both living and inanimate things.”
“But I started thinking. A corpse is both. A living thing, and inanimate.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I hoped I was wrong, or that the potential would never manifest. I warned you not to get more powerful, didn’t I? Necromancers go bad because the Gift takes over their lives. It becomes an obsession. And what would happen if the world learned you could raise the dead? Even if they weren’t cursed, you wouldn’t know a moment’s peace. Who could this have come from?”
“Ichabod.”
“I can’t see how.”
“I can. Agathe did miss something. She didn’t understand why Ichabod got the Gift he did. But—see—it’s not a schoolmaster’s Gift. This isn’t about knowledge. It’s not a history Gift. Ichabod wasn’t a history buff, even if I am. The essential Ichabod was… his love of ghost stories. Agathe was close to the answer. She wrote in her diary that ghost stories are a form of history, the past bleeding into the present. So I don’t have a schoolmaster’s Gift. I have a… ghost story Gift.” He raised his hands. “I don’t raise what’s past. I raise… what’s dead.”
Valerie hugged herself. “Put it out of your brain. You and Kate split the power between you. It’s gone. You’re no necromancer.”
“What if she and I worked together?”
“Listen to me. I can’t stress this enough. Let it go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Yes! I promise! I won’t dig anyone up!”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, feeling uncomfortable suddenly, thinking of that long-ago grave-rubbing visit to a hillside Bridgeport cemetery, when his imagination had slipped its leash and he’d wanted to dig up Annabel Crane, wife of Absalom, mother of Jesse, just to meet her. Hello, Annabel. Guess who I am. He shivered, wondering if that impulse… had been a sign.
“No,” he said. “You’re right. The dead stay put.”
“Good.” An uncomfortable silence fell. She slapped her knees. “So! We’re all going to the block party tonight. Come out and have some fun.”
“No, thank you. Halloween is stupid.”
“Oh, no. You can’t say that to an old Salem girl. You’ll come up to visit me and I’ll show you a real Halloween town.”
“I don’t want a Halloween town!” Jason said, too sharply. “Sorry. One Halloween town was enough. I hate Halloween! I hate Sleepy Hollow. Don’t you?”
“No. Horrible things may have happened to me here, but Sleepy Hollow is still a beautiful place.”
“If you say so.”
She looked away. “I’m seeing my mother tomorrow. Going to the Kirkbride to see how she’s doing. First time in years.” Her fingers trailed to her throat again. “I can almost pretend this… never happened. Thanks to you.” She smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “Almost.”
“Here.” Jason laid the grimoire on the coffee table between them. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Study it.” She picked it up and turned the pages. “Maybe I’ll find a clue.”
“To what?”
Valerie took off her scarf and wrapped the grimoire in it. “My ancestor cast a spell that’s brought death and pain and hiding to our entire world. If it takes the rest of my life, I’m going to fix that.” She held the star- and moon-spangled square to her sequined heart. “I‘m going to break the Great Curse.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
“Ichabod’s Farewell”
Trick-or-treating began in earnest around dusk. The doorbell of Gory Brook rang and rang. Little fists knocked on the nail-studded door—witches or ghosts or fairy princesses—but all left empty-handed, because Jason didn’t open up. He kept the porch lights off, hoping they’d leave him alone. He killed the house lights and fled to the second floor, where he drew back the drapes of the big picture window and stood, hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the bell.
“I hate Sleepy Hollow,” he whispered.
But did he?
He had every reason to hate it, and no reason to stay. Yes, Joey and Zef were here. But they had each other now. Eliza was gone, Kate was gone, Valerie was going. Why would he stay? It was time to go. This might be where his path began, but it wasn’t where his path would end.
“Sleepy Hollow doesn’t own me, Hadewych. Just watch me go. Your head’ll spin, I’ll be gone so fast.”
But Hadewych was gone, too. And Agathe. And the Horseman. And… the view from this window was really beautiful. The Tappan Zee Bridge was up and running again, though a new bridge was planned. Its lights traced the night sky, making graceful swoops. The Hudson was a m
idnight blue ribbon sequined with ships. Nyack glittered on the far shore, like jewels on velvet. He could see the cemetery, far over on the right. His eyes traced his Halloween run, from Irving’s grave and down the hill. The gothic-peaked windows of the church glowed with soft candlelight. The storyteller would be at work inside, spinning the Legend to a bigger crowd than ever. Philipsburg was dark, but the intersection of Beekman and Broadway blazed with lights and activity. The annual Haunted Hayride and Block Party. A gazillion tourists milled about down there, in fright masks and cat whiskers and pirate hats. Kids would be laughing in Dracula’s bouncy castle. The air would smell of corn dogs and be alive with laughter and raffle number announcements, thumping with bass guitar, and shivering to the Thrilling, Chilling Sounds of the Haunted House. And his friends would be there.
Jason could see Halloween down below. The good Halloween, the fun Halloween. But he couldn’t smell it, or hear it, or feel it.
The bell rang.
He spun and shouted. “Get lost, you damn kids!”
He felt ashamed of himself. Is this what life does to you? Is this what being an adult is like? We’re told to put aside childish things and get serious. Do we have a choice, though? Hadn’t it been chased out of him, all his Halloween-ishness? All that electric current of joy and expectation, that feeling of mystery and power he’d had at thirteen, dressed up as Galactus, Eater of Worlds, stalking the moonlit streets of Augusta, looking for planets to chew on? Or in freshman year, standing in line at some spook house in Bangor, getting that first cotton-candy whiff of fog machine?
He envied those kids hanging on his bell. Those days were gone for good. Jason Crane had grown up. How cool… and how sad.
Charley began whining, overhead, in the attic. He looked up and noticed that the stain had disappeared.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 84
