The Hollow
By Erik Schubach
Copyright © 2016 by Erik Schubach
Self publishing
P.O. Box 523
Nine Mile Falls, WA 99026
Cover Photo © 2016 Dmytro Vietrov / ShutterStock.com license
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog, or broadcast.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Manufactured in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-9975256-8-7
Chapter 1 – Crane
I rode my mare through the twilight on a road that was all too familiar to me. The shadows of the forest swallowed the world as darkness rolled in to claim everything. It seemed like the woods had gone silent, holding its breath in anticipation of the horrors that were sure to come.
Word had reached me after I had taken down a coven of dark witches in Salem. The reports couldn't be true, but something deep down inside always knew he'd be back. My father may have stopped him, but he had never found who had summoned him from hell to terrorize the Hollow. Whoever had commanded him had never been discovered.
After father defeated him at the old covered bridge which led into the Hollow, the summoner never revealed themselves nor their motivations. And now... the Horseman has returned. Now it was my turn to face the specter of death that ruled the nights here. Like father like daughter.
Had it truly been fifteen years since I last set foot in Sleepy Hollow?
The last vestiges of the day lost their tenacious hold on the night as the moon shone through the gathering storm clouds. Like a pale crescent in the sky, it cast a silver glow across the rippling surface of the Pocantico. The small river paralleled the worn dirt road which was little more than the two worn ruts left from wagons traveling the old trail to the Hollow.
I slowed my midnight black mare as I rounded the bend which revealed the old wooden bridge that spanned the slow moving water. It appeared as ancient as ever to my road-weary eyes. The scissored timbers supported the cedar roof above them, protecting the deck from the elements. This was the horseman's downfall. Father had the specter trapped between him and the bridge, as evil cannot cross over running water.
I had snuck out of the room above the livery barn which we had been staying at while my father investigated the happenings in the small village.
My hand drifted lazily to his blade at my hip, the blade blessed by an Italian Cardinal in Boston.
I had watched my father wield the blade against the spirit of the headless Hessian soldier who rode the dark hell horse. They battled for nearly an hour until the single bell peal rang out at midnight from the steeple of the church. The resonating note echoed through the Hollow. Father kept the wraith from returning to his hidden grave after the witching hour.
When the Horseman hesitated at that sound which signaled the end of his nightly ride, weakening his dark power, Father took the distraction to plunge his blade into the chest of his foe. It somehow screeched out in rage and pain though it possessed no mouth to do so. It's hell horse staggered back, stumbled, and caught itself from falling down the bank and into the flowing river below.
In the process, the Horseman had tumbled off the saddle and into the Pocantico. The moving water undid the evil binding of the summoning, and the lifeless corpse was then washed away, never to be seen again.
Until now.
I exhaled then pulled my heavy riding cape closer around me as I descended down into the hollow toward the old structure spanning the water. The chill air, fogging at my breath, revealed the temperature change which foretold the approach of the coming rain.
The sound of my horse's shod hooves on the wooden deck of the bridge sounded too loud, echoing through the first wisps of a low lying fog rising from the river. It was as if the bridge sought to reach out and warn the specter that a Crane had come to challenge it yet again.
As I reached the opposite bank, I saw the people of the Hollow shuttering their windows, knowing the Horseman ruled the forest between sundown and the witching hour.
I rode slowly down the lane which ran the length of the village, clusters of buildings on either side. Vicar Jackson stood in the doorway of the little white steepled church which backed into the hillside beyond its gated grounds. Everyone treated the vicar as the de facto leader of the Hollow, a man of God.
As I approached, I smiled at the scowl on his face. The old man hadn't changed much. His hair was whiter and was now but a halo around his scalp instead of the semi full head of white, wispy hair he had the last time I saw him. He seemed to have cultivated even more wrinkles upon his face, which only seemed to deepen his scowl. That must have come in handy during his sermons to the God-fearing residents of the village.
I didn't see any recognition in his eyes as I pulled up to the hitching post by the trough in front of the wrought iron fence around the church with the cemetery tucked in behind it.
I dismounted and just let the reins dangle loosely, Tirza wouldn't stray, she was smarter than any horse I have ever met. She simply lowered her head to drink from the trough as I went about my business.
I slid my black riding gloves off and tucked them into my sword belt, then turned to the vicar. I strode up to him and his scowl deepened while the Vicar looked me up and down. He asked in a voice which dripped disapproval, “Are you the Cardinal's hunter?”
I could see his disdain over the fact I was what he regarded as but a woman, and not wearing a dress as was proper in his eyes. It is difficult to dispatch those who embrace Satan whilst wearing a dress.
I tried not to smile over the fact that the man truly hadn't recognized me. Well, I supposed that I could not blame the man, I had been only a gangly thirteen-year-old girl the last time he had laid eyes upon me. I offered my hand and said, “Yes, Vicar Jackson. Imelda Crane.”
It took a moment for his eyebrows to drop from where they had tried to raise to the top of his head as he shook my offered hand. He stuttered out in shock, “I-Ichabod's little girl?”
I smiled at the old coot and nodded. Then the scowl returned to the Vicar’s face as he looked me up and down again. “You're a hunter? But you're...” His voice trailed off.
I cocked an eyebrow and asked, “A girl? It's good to see you are still in command of all of your faculties, Vicar. It's 1791 man. We approach a new century, a woman can be anything she puts her mind to.” My hands went to my hips, I brushed back my riding cape, and I drew my twin balanced daggers and spun them in a complex pattern in my hands before I re-sheathed them without ever looking away from the man.
This succeeded in coaxing the smirk from the man that I remembered. He shook his head in disbelief then said, “You are your father's daughter.” He froze then said rapidly, “My condolences. I heard of Ichabod's fall five years back.”
I shook my head, attempting not to feel the loss all over again, and with a bravado, I didn't feel I said, “He died in the service of the church, protecting the people of this new country of ours, these United States. He faced the evils that others could not. Now I stand in his stead.”
He regarded me for a moment then just gave a knowing nod. I asked, “Where can we talk? I need to know what has been happening and if it truly is the...”
He nodded and finished for me in a voice only a man of God can muster when speaking of a vile evil, “The Horseman.” He nudged his chin toward the bridge. I looked toward the rise above the river at a clearing in the forest and could see the red eyes of a hell horse glowing in the darkness.
I could just make out the hazy outline of the steed and its rider as the fog crept ever higher up into the hills. The sight caused my blood to run cold in my veins. I couldn't quite see him clearly, but I knew it was him, holding siege to the Hollow once again. Nobody would be able to cross the bridge without enduring his wrath between nightfall and the witching hour.
I exhaled a shaky breath as my hand drifted to the pommel of my father's blade again. I steeled myself and nodded. Then said with more confidence than I was feeling after seeing my personal boogeyman again, I turned my head back to the vicar, “Right then, let's get to it then shall we?”
He moved his eyes from the rise and back to me, and his eyebrows rose again as he seemed to reappraise me. He gave a half-hearted smile and offered, “Let's go to Jefferson's. Hank was the first to see the specter again. The smithy, Brandon Watts, had gone out that night and never returned. We found his head laying at the approach to the bridge the next morning, and his body up on the ridge. God rest his soul and save him from eternal damnation.”
I nodded, then followed the man down the lane toward the Jefferson's little two-room inn that doubled as an eatery and tavern. I absently wondered if Dorothy Jefferson still lived in the village. We used to be holy terrors in the hollow during the year my father hunted the Horseman here. Two peas in a pod.
We, and her little sister Mary followed her brother Hank around all the time, getting into mischief.
I glanced at the livery as we passed it. It had been my home for the better part of a year as father investigated the Horseman and ultimately sent the specter to its demise. I exhaled wearily. If only we had been able to recover and burn the corpse, the hell-spawned mockery of a man wouldn't have been re-summoned to terrorize the people here I had grown to love.
It still sickened and saddened me to know that one of the people here, whom father and I had called friends, was communing with Satan and directing the Horseman's wrath.
Vicar Jackson knocked me out of my musings by laying a hand on my shoulder and said, “We've made the room above the stables available to you while you investigate. I'll have your horse moved to the stable.” I looked at him and the livery again and nodded with a reminiscent smile.
Everything looked the same to my eyes as if time had forgotten to progress here in Sleepy Hollow.
We stepped up to Jefferson's with its thatched roof, the only building in the village which didn't possess a cedar shingled roof. I could already hear the sound of people talking and a muted fiddle playing. Inside were the people who dared to be out when the Horseman rode just on the other side of the river.
Jackson reached out and pulled open the heavy timber door, sending light and sound pouring out from inside to greet us. All of that sound ceased, and the fiddle music came to a hesitant stop as we stepped in. All eyes were flickering between the man of God and myself.
The vicar chuckled, just low enough for me to hear, “Welcome home, Imelda.”
Chapter 2 – Investigation
I glanced around to the nine or ten people staring at us with quizzical looks on their faces. All but one were familiar to me. Including a couple who were naught but teenage children when I last saw them. I saw no recognition in their eyes.
The vicar spoke loudly with the tiniest hint of an Irish accent which seemed to sneak out whenever he was upset or bringing to bear a sermon of condemnation. “Have none of you ever seen a hunter before? Now go about your business.”
There were some murmurs exchanged, then the fiddler, old man Jasper, started up again. Everyone slowly turned back to their drink, one eye still upon us.
A woman I would know, even if I had lost most of my senses, stepped out of the kitchen with a tray of drinks and some sort of stew in a bowl. She glanced toward the door and froze. I saw instant recognition on her face as she placed the tray down on the nearest table and covered her mouth in surprise.
By all that was holy, Dorothy had grown from a pretty young girl into a beauty unmatched. Her blue eyes burned under her flowing auburn hair. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she dropped her hand away and asked, “Imelda? Imelda Crane?”
I blushed and looked down at my hands, then back at her, and said as my voice almost cracked, “Hello, Dot.”
She strode past the other tables, hiking her skirts, slapping a man's groping hand away in her wake, and without hesitation I found myself constricted in a tight embrace. My smile threatened to split my face, and I returned her hug. I caught the scent of lavender and ale that sent me tumbling into memory so private, I have never shared it with anyone.
Dot had not only been my best friend during my stay here in the Hollow, but she was... more to me. I couldn't imagine ever being closer to another person in my life. One autumn day, we were out collecting leaves to press into a book. We had sat upon a log and spoke about Hank's new girl, the potter's daughter Abigail, and how sweet romance was.
She had cocked her head at me and then silently offered her pinky to me. I had smiled bashfully, not understanding the look on her face. The look which I would blindly follow into any mischief even today. I hooked my pinky with hers, and then she surprised me and leaned in to give me a gentle, lingering kiss on the lips.
My first kiss. It was from a girl, but that held no sway over me because it was from Dorothy. We never spoke of the kiss after that day, but I always felt warm and bashful around her after that. We only became closer.
The one regret I had after father vanquished the Horseman, was that we left Sleepy Hollow soon after, and I had to say goodbye to the girl whom I was pretty sure held my heart.
She released me and my thoughts snapped back to the present. I felt that same bashfulness I was sure I had outgrown. She smiled widely at me and asked, “What brings you to our little slice of hell, lady?”
The vicar cleared his throat, and she quickly amended, placing both hands behind her back, “Begging your pardon, Mister Jackson.”
His scowl turned into a smile as he rolled his eyes then prompted, “Miss Crane is the hunter we were expecting. We need to speak with Hank.”
Her eyes widened for a moment then settled in understanding. I could see her sadness and understanding that I took on father's calling after his death. She nodded. “Of course. Have a seat, and I'll fetch him and some food and drink. You must be ravenous after the long ride from Salem.”
I hid a smile, she hadn't been as surprised as she had looked, now had she been?
The Vicar held up a finger to say something, but she shook her head with a knowing smirk on her lips, “A snifter of brandy for you, of course, Vicar.”
The man smiled back at her, and she shot me an amused wink before dashing back toward the back, hiking her skirts.
She grabbed the tray she had placed aside and brought it with her, getting shouts of complaint from the patrons. She looked back before disappearing through the doorway. “Oh shush, the whole lot of ya. You'll get your drink. You can plainly see that we have a guest amongst us.”
I watched her disappear through the doorway and held back a self-reprimanding sigh. I had wanted so many times to come back to the Hollow to see her after I came into adulthood. I could face specters and witches, but it terrified me to think of returning to Sleepy Hollow for her, only to find her happily married. I felt the corner of my lip twitch, as I saw no ring on her finger.
“Miss Crane?”
Oh. I glanced back at the vicar, he was holding a chair for me. I smiled at him and sat. “Thank you, Mister Jackson.”
Before long, Dot was heading our way with a tray. She set it down and her eyes never leaving mine said toward the vicar, “Hank will be out in a moment.” She still had the ability to hold me captive with those deep
pools of azure radiance which seemed to dance before my very eyes.
When she seemed satisfied with her perusal of me, she said, “You look well, Imelda. The years have treated you as such? Excepting the news of your father, God rest his soul.”
I looked down at the plate of food she slid in front of me on one of the wooden platters turned by Elion, the woodcrafter down the lane. His turnings were easily recognizable with the checkerboard pattern of hardwoods.
I nodded, not daring to look up at her as I said quietly, “Good. I've been good.” I finally looked at her and said in earnest, “You're looking well.” Then added quickly, “Dot, I've been meaning to come. I've just...”
She stopped me with a hand on my arm, squeezing with just enough pressure to reassure and her voice softened. “I know. If I ever got out of the Hollow, I'd not look back either.” That almost stung. I did look back... I was just afraid she wouldn't have felt what I had. We had just been children for God's sake, it was most likely just an innocent kiss between friends to her.
I wanted to say something to her, anything to let her know it was the Hollow I left, not her when her brother stepped up to the table. The vicar set down his snifter of brandy he had been savoring and said as he moved a palm toward me, “Ah, good. Hank, please join us. I'm sure you remember...”
The mischievous older brother of Dot had certainly grown into manhood, with rakishly handsome looks. The ring on his finger made me smile, he must have married Abigail after all. They would make beautiful children. I wondered if they had any.
He interrupted as he yanked me up out of the chair and into a hug. Then the lout ruffled my hair like he had done when I was a young girl. “Imelda Crane. As I live and breathe. Dotty said you were out here, but I didn't believe her until I saw you myself.”
The vicar cleared his throat. “Hank, please release the hunter. We have some questions for you about the Horseman.”
The Hollow Page 1
