The Hollow

by Erik Schubach

  I was able to struggle out of the headlock I found myself in when Hank paused at that. He said, “Of course.” Then he sat down heavily, all the playful fun leaving the man. It was replaced with a nervous fear I was all too familiar with as I have had to deal with good people being haunted by vile things.

  Dot winked and moved on to the other tables to run drinks to the restless residents.

  Hank attempted some lighthearted banter, “A hunter? You have some large boots to fill.”

  Did everyone know about father? He fell to the very coven I had vanquished before coming here. Five years back, on All Hollows Eve. He had prevented the sacrifice of thirteen women and children in a dark ritual, killing part of the coven and interrupting the casting. He succumbed to his wounds the following night, after reuniting the victims with their families.

  I had been there the five years later on the next Blood Moon, patiently waiting, and I took them all as they prepared for another dark ritual. Father had taught me that much of the devil's work relies upon ritual. If you determine the constraints of those rituals, then you can predict when and where to best strike at the heart of your enemy. It has been the downfall of mystical and spiritual evil practitioners for centuries.

  I had dispatched three of their coven before they even knew I was there, moving between the trees as they constructed their witch circle. I hesitated when I had my blade at the throat of the coven leader when she begged mercy. Mercy? I was still an agent of the righteous and could not kill in cold blood when my enemy lay at my feet.

  I had relaxed, and she tried to attack when I removed my blade from her neck. I had anticipated that and buried my other blade deep into her heart from the side. I whispered into her ear as I lowered her body to the ground, “I give you mercy, though God may not.”

  I refocussed to the conversation at hand and nodded at the man. Yes, I had some big boots to fill. Father was larger than life, and he showed me that there is no greater calling a man can rise to than to give everything to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

  “Vicar Jackson has shared with me that you were the first to witness the Horseman's return?” He nodded hesitantly, apparently haunted by the memory. I kept him on task, “What can you tell me?”

  He looked at his sister who nodded, and then he turned his attention to his hands clasped on the table. I could see him digging into memory. “I had never seen him the first time when you and Ichabod came to the Hollow. To me, he was the boogeyman, the specter of a Hessian soldier that the village spoke of, and hid us all away at night to protect us from the evil. He was only a concept to me.”

  I nodded understanding, children are very... innocent. Concepts like mortality and death seem like these vague horrors that the adults speak of but never touch them until reality forces it upon them. At thirteen I had seen more horrors than most see in three lifetimes, but I knew they could not hurt me. Father stood between us, and he was fierce, unstoppable because he fought for the weak.

  I never thought he could fall, even as I matured and I followed in his footsteps... until the night he did. I think I have been faced with my own mortality for the first time that day, and every day since. The great shield which stood before me had crumbled.

  So back then, I had not learned the fear I should have possessed, and I would sneak out often to watch as father time after time as he vanquished evil. So I had seen the Horseman before, and he was terrifying.

  Hank voiced that next. “I mean, I had heard the stories from all the adults back then, but the vile specter which I witnessed across the bridge a few weeks back had chilled me to the very bone.”

  He shivered and leaned in. “Though he possessed no head, no eyes, he just sat aloof on his devil stallion and just stared at me. When I had finally gathered my wits and turned to raise the alarm, he was gone when I looked back.”

  He whispered to us all, “I could feel it. The evil. It rolled off the soulless demon like a fog that felt as if it wanted to tug away my very life. It was a creature from the very depths of hell itself.”

  The vicar nodded. He had seen the Horseman on may occasions and he relied upon prayer and the natural barrier of the moving water of the river to keep the people of Sleepy Hollow safe.

  I hadn't the heart to tell the man that prayer was useless against this type of summoning.

  We all knew like father had back then. That now, once the river froze over in another few weeks, it would be no obstacle for the wraith anymore, and the Horseman would run unchallenged through the streets of Sleepy Hollow... indiscriminately taking the heads of any unfortunate enough to face his blade.

  That is why evil coveted winter, it brought down all natural barriers and allowed the impure to migrate to lands they could not set foot upon during the milder months.

  I nodded and then asked, “Was it just you who saw him that first night? What about Gus, Mary, or Dot?”

  He hesitated a moment searching my eyes, then his went slightly wider as he asked, “Oh... you didn't know? Pa died a couple months back. Smallpox.”

  I blinked. Cantankerous old Gusterson Jefferson was dead? My heart started aching again in sympathy for the man and his sisters. Why hadn't Dot said anything? Well, I guess that isn't a topic starter, “Hi Imelda, Pa died a bit ago, how are you?”

  I knew the pain and the hole in their lives that they had to fill, I still hadn't fully come to terms with my own father's death, and theirs was relatively recent. “Oh Hank, I'm so sorry.”

  He brushed it off trying to act aloof. “He was a mean and cranky old man. I'm sure he's raising hell wherever he moved on to.”

  I looked around and asked, “The Inn?

  He shrugged. “Dorothy and I run her now. Mary helps out from time to time.” I smiled, remembering the little girl in her little sack dresses. She had been only four back then, and she followed Dot and me everywhere.

  I asked in earnest, “She'd be what? Nineteen now? How is she?”

  He exchanged a look with the vicar then said in a strained voice, “Not good. She recently found out about how mother died. We don't know who spoke of the Hollow's shame to her, but she's been a little... unhinged since father died.”

  Vicar Jackson patted his hand. “She'll come around.”

  Hank nodded then looked at me. “So Imelda, I see no ring.”

  I socked his shoulder, and he mimed pain. “What? Can a woman not be respectable lest she is wed? I've had more pressing matters to attend, the Horseman is part of that lot.”

  He smiled smugly at being able to ruffle me. I socked him again, harder. He rubbed his shoulder, “Ow. You don't hit like a woman.”

  I rolled my eyes but couldn't help but smile. Then I asked, “When you saw him, did you see anything else out of place? Anyone else about? Where exactly were you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I was alone, heading home from the Inn, close to the witching hour, when I heard a horse at the bridge. It was foggy so I couldn't make the figure out and I didn't know why they didn't just cross over into town.”

  He exhaled and pursed his lips a moment then said, locking eyes with me, “I went to investigate, to see if he required aid. When I reached the bridge, I could make him out. It was the Horseman. I swear he was looking right at me. I froze, and he just sat on that damned horse looking my way with that void atop his shoulders.”

  He looked away and to the windows. “It wasn't until the spirit reached up to absently touch his shoulder that I snapped out of it and ran for the church to rouse the Vicar, to raise the alarm.”

  He looked down at his hands. “It was minutes till witching hour when we returned to the bridge. That unnatural fog had rolled in so thick that we couldn't make out our own hands in front of our face.”

  Then Jackson finished for him, “We retired, knowing the witching hour would send the apparition back to its resting spot. We found Brandon the next morning. He must have stumbled upon the Horseman on his way back to town from shodding horses down the next village.”

&nb
sp; Hank sounded mad. “I know the head had not been laying there when I had gazed upon the Horseman, so it happened in the minutes before I could bring back Vicar Jackson. If only he had been a half hour later, he would still be alive as the Horseman would have been at rest.”

  The man blamed himself. I reached over and laid a hand on his arm. “There was nothing you could have done.”

  He exhaled loudly then straightened and stood. “Doesn't feel that way.”

  I asked before he departed, “There was nothing else?”

  He shook his head and said, “That was it.” Then he added with a sad smile, “It's good to see you again Imelda, I'd better get back to the kitchen.”

  I nodded and then turned to the vicar. “I'll head out to the bridge to look around before I retire.”

  He nodded and stood. “Finish your meal, try not to be foolish. Wait until after the witching hour to investigate.”

  I gave the man a crooked smile and held up my tankard of ale. “I'll try.”

  He rolled his eyes at me and chuckled, then made his way for the door. I turned back to the plate and wolfed down the food. I didn't taste it as my eyes were on Dot as she moved about the room, filling glasses and cleaning tables. She would glance up from time to time with that beguiling look of hers I remember so fondly.

  She finally put me out of my misery and flopped down bonelessly into the chair across from me. I blushed and looked down at my plate. “I'm sorry to hear about Gus.”

  She nodded sadly and said, “There's nothing to be done about it when it's your time.” I nodded in agreement, and we sat there in silent camaraderie.

  Then she reached over and laid a hot hand on mine and said, “I'll stop by after closing and we can talk.”

  My heart was racing from our contact, and I nodded shyly. I sputtered as she stood, “I missed you.”

  She cocked her head cutely and smiled a knowing smile as she said, “I missed you too Im.”

  I watched her walk back into the kitchen, then smiled and stood. It was time to get to work. I strode out of Jefferson's and headed across the lane and down toward the bridge. I could feel him somewhere out there and wondered what brought him back.

  Chapter 3 – Revelations

  As I walked to the bridge, rain began to fall, it was bone chilling, and I wrapped my cape tighter around myself as I thought of what Hank had shared about Mary. That was almost heartbreaking itself, as she had been such a sweet little girl.

  I wondered who had told her of the Hollow's shame. After everything that happened with her mother, it had been agreed that none would ever speak of it, especially to Laura Jefferson's baby daughter, Mary. Father and I had never learned the details of the Hollow's shame, only enough to know it resulted in Laura taking her own life.

  I stalked to the covered bridge as the freezing rain increased in intensity and pounded the roadway. Little puffs of dust kicked up where the first heavy drops fell were illuminated by the flickering oil lamps that tried to stave of the darkness of night in the village. The life of those wisps of dust was short-lived, as they were relentlessly knocked from the air and back to earth by the driving rain.

  The roadway quickly became a mire of mud and rivulets of water rushing down to the river to lend its strength to the Pocantico in it's slow moving journey toward the Atlantic so many miles away.

  My heavy boots splashed through the mud, the only sound I could hear over the rain that was seeping the heat from me. My riding cape was well oiled and did an admirable job of keeping me mostly dry, but my exposed face and hands were beginning to sting with the cold.

  I reached the bridge and sought out refuge under its roof. The pounding rain sloughed off of it in sheets down into the river below. I could hear the water moving much faster that I remembered as it swelled with the added volume of water coming down from the heavens. I looked up at the timbers, casting my gaze beyond and asked, “What could I have possibly done to you to deserve this punishment, Lord?”

  I got a lightning bolt slashing through the heavens in response. It lit up the world in a frozen image in time, all stark relief against the darkness of the night, like an artist painting in light and shadows. I chuckled and stomped the mud off my boots and shook the water off of myself as the thunder rolled through the Hollow.

  I clasped my hands together in front of me and blew hot air into them to gain back some feeling. Once the circulation was restored satisfactorily, I reached under my cape and pulled on my leather riding gloves. I was just thankful that there was no wind to accompany this downpour.

  I peered into the darkness at the far end of the bridge and whispered, “Where are you, bastard? I know you are watching.”

  And as if I had conjured him with my half spoken words, the world lit up again, and the visage of the Horseman, astride his hell horse, was illuminated at the far end of the bridge. He was just sitting there, watching me as his horse sidestepped nervously as more thunder shook the world around us.

  Again I was sure he was watching me, though he had no eyes. His horse's glowed an unholy red in the darkness, and I was hit with an epiphany, was the horse his eyes? I didn't have time to contemplate it, as I was intent on the fallen Hessian when he slowly raised an arm and pointed a long, rotting finger at me. His body language was that of a man cocking his head. It was a challenge that this soldier of a bygone era was extending to me.

  His time on this earth was over yet he haunted the mortal realm. A lesser person would have fled, and never looked back, but I was a Crane. I strode toward him as I wondered aloud, “Just what is it that draws you to Sleepy Hollow? There are other settlements within the night's ride to terrorize at will, between the rivers that constrain you. Who is it that summoned you, and for what purpose? And why wait fifteen years to summon you again?”

  I also wondered how he had been re-summoned anyway, as the running water should have stripped his bonds to the mortal world... unless... was there something anchoring him here? Some... I had a revelation. His head. Could it be that simple? He wasn't pulled into the underworld upon his second death because not all of him was purged by the flowing water of the river. Had it taken fifteen years for him to recover enough to be re-summoned? All questions for the vicar later.

  A thick fog was rolling in, obscuring the limited visibility tenfold, it felt of darkness. It seemed unimpeded by the sheets of rain that fell. I had felt this fog before, on that night my father stood in front of this very bridge, engaging the specter in mortal combat. Did the hell-spawned spirit bring it with him?

  Almost as in answer, I saw the hazy outline of the fallen man dismount from his steed and draw its long blade, anticipation painting its movements. I stopped a few yards from him, being sure I was still standing over the moving water under the bridge. I noted the river was swelling at its banks.

  I crossed my arms to either side of my waist, under my cape as I stood there and just examined the specter between lightning flashes. He strode quickly toward me, placing his boots on the stout, rough-hewn planks of the bridge.

  Ten feet from me he stopped as the putrid flesh on his hand started smoking, he made the motion of looking down as I sneered at the abomination. I said, “Moving water. I'm sure you remember the folly of trying to cross it.” I took a step forward to show it I did not fear it.

  He stepped back a step then turned his body slightly and pointed. I turned slightly to see what it indicated, keeping an eye on him. I looked at the shadows of the large timber support to my right. It remembered me. It must have seen me hiding in the shadow of that beam as I watched my father fight him.

  I nodded. “Yes, I was there that night you were defeated.”

  I was momentarily disoriented by another flash of lightning directly overhead that was accompanied instantly by the deafening roar of thunder, and he moved almost faster than I could follow as I was distracted by the memory and the lightning.

  His free hand shot to his hip, and he flung the hatchet hanging there cross-handed at me. My right hand slashed ou
t from under my cape, my father's blade singing as it sliced through the air to intercept.

  With a clang and a thunk, I slapped the projectile aside with my cold steel, and the errant blade embedded itself into the railing of the bridge. My left hand whipped out as I pivoted and pulled the trigger on my flintlock pistol. A smaller flash and roar than the lightning, but still just as deadly.

  The spirit made an ungodly wailing sound from its chest as it spun back by the force of the lead ball striking it. It held a hand over the blackening wound as it spun back toward me. I got the impression of disbelief and shock.

  I gave it a cruel smile as I stepped over to the railing as I sheathed my blade and tucked the flintlock back into my waistband. I pulled on the handle of the hatchet, and it came free with a moderate effort.

  I slipped it into my waistband as well as I said plainly, “I salted the musket-ball. Do not think me a simpleton. I am here tonight to take your measure, I know I cannot stop you until I stop the man who is summoning you, but I can and will hurt you in my own defense, spirit.”

  It stalked back and forth, incensed and enraged, and I sneered at him as I heard a single bell peal ringing out from the steeple of the church. It echoed through Sleepy Hollow, signaling the witching hour. “It is time for you to go now, Horseman. Be gone.”

  It started moving jerkily as it moved to its horse and vaulted into the saddle. It pointed it's blade at me in a menacing manner then spurred his mount on down the road into the forest beyond. I stepped across the bridge and watched as the specter seemed to fade from view as it returned to its ungodly resting place.

  I exhaled a shaky breath, no need for bravado now. I let my legs shake briefly, getting it out of my system before steeling myself in the rain and returned to the bridge. I stalked back across it into town, trying to ignore the biting cold as my breath fogged the air.

  I noted people standing in doorways, and in windows of their houses, looking toward the bridge. Most likely curious about the report from my pistol, and wondering who would be foolish enough o be on the bridge when the Horseman was out.