He was after the ultimate bounty, after this thing, but after all his years of preparing, he had reached the end of his means.
That's what he lacked—the money. He didn't have the means to see his hunt to the end. He had the desire, born from his vengeful hatred. He had his "secret weapon" to use against it, but no more. He lacked the means to put everything together in a final package to make it happen. As he sat at the table, he realized he didn't know what that package should be, except to know he didn't have it. He had met all the men he knew that could help him succeed in his supernatural hunt, but they had no more regard for him and his goals than they did for a nameless chicken crossing the road. He didn't have the means, but he was taunted in knowing that the means were within his reach. Simply, he had no ability to grab it.
Another man walked up to the table. Morgan was an irritable, easily provoked, and fidgety man, but he was also an exceptional gunman. He could be annoying, but today Shaunessy found his company welcoming.
"I never met an Irishman who drinks as little as you." Morgan sat down in the chair next to him. "There's no point getting sad about it. Unless you can make it worth everyone's time and expense, I don't see what else can be done but go home."
"I have to find a way. I must. The thing killed my father."
"Shaunessy, I'm going to say this to you, not to be mean, but I don't care. Nobody does. You care because you're supposed to. But the rest of us don't. If I were in your place, then I'd be doing the exact same thing as you, but I wouldn't expect you to care one bit. You gotta come up with a worthy incentive or it ends. I'm sorry."
Morgan watched the distress on Shaunessy's face.
"Will you stick around a few more days?" Shaunessy asked.
"Only a day or two. I have to eat same as the next man."
"That's fair."
Morgan had nothing else to add.
"I suppose I have to pray for an answer," Shaunessy said.
"Or pray for someone to come along and give you a bunch of money so you can pay people. That's an incentive I can get behind. Revenge for you, and money for the rest. You'll need more than just two for sure. That would work."
"If only there was someone in Sleepy Hollow who could finance the hunt."
"Have you tried? Have you even been to Sleepy Hollow yet?"
"No."
"Then that's what you should do. I can't go with you, but you should go and see what you can make happen. That's what you should do. Pray for that, Irishman."
From the back of Caleb Williams, Julian watched the violent sight from the hill. The coyotes had returned in force, but this time Marshal wouldn't be shooting at them or anything else ever again. The beasts were fighting amongst themselves—growling, biting, pushing, and scratching—for the body of the madman. Like the black vultures days before, these beasts were also a foreboding black in appearance that he could now see in the daylight. They, too, had taken to dragging the corpse away as they feasted. Like the black vultures, their group behavior was unlike he had ever seen before. Julian had to get away from this unnatural place.
He could see the glint of his tomahawk's blade protruding from the Marshal's fleshless skull. The tomahawk was a gift from one of the Indian braves General Washington had introduced him to as a boy-soldier in the Continental Army. He was so proud of the weapon because unlike a regular man's musket, he could easily brandish it. The brave told him to keep it with him at all times "in battle" and it would protect his life. The brave was right. Julian had a special pocket in his coat made for it, and he always had his coat. He had never used it until today. He watched with sadness as the weapon was dragged away into oblivion along with the Marshal's corpse by the coyotes. He knew he would never see it again.
Julian was disgusted with himself for watching the carnage for so long. As he rode out, he realized why. He wanted no part in the supernatural. It was an easy thing to hunt a man, but an apparition? He still wondered if he believed in the thing. There were plenty of people who did and would swear on a bible about its existence. He just wasn't sure if he was such a person yet.
Marshal told him two miles due northwest, so that is where he went.
Julian realized that he was heading towards where he had seen the glowing behind the mountain before the storm came. He was sure he had covered at least five miles already but there was nothing but locust trees, and the mountains were still in the distance off to the side. He heard the rushing flow of water and slowly rode towards it. There he found a river with dark opaque waters. Instinctively, he rode Caleb Williams over to its bank for him to get a drink. The horse sniffed the water and then jerked its head up and turned away. That was a first—his horse refusing water. Julian looked down at it and decided he didn't want it either.
He noticed an old-looking bridge wide enough for two horses to ride side-by-side. As he neared it, he realized that he was mistaken. It looked brand-new, but its entire structure was entangled with unsightly vines and brush. He remembered what the old man on the wagon train said about the Horseman's power. Assuming the Marshal told him the truth and this was the Horseman's domain, its power would only exist on the other side of the bridge, on the other side of this dark river. However, he remembered the other thing the old man said: the apparition could throw its deadly pumpkin projectile well past the river's boundary.
Julian had used pumpkins in his Sleepy Hollow investigation to be prankish and provocative. But he didn't find anything amusing about them now. He noticed that the ground across the river was covered thick with pumpkins, with smaller ones close to the water and increasingly larger away from the riverbank.
He took a deep breath. "Caleb Williams, let's cross the bridge."
Caleb Williams was gripped with a terrified hysteria as it sprinted faster than its legs had ever done before. Julian hung onto him with all his might until somehow the reins broke. Then he frantically wrapped his arms around his horse's neck to stay on. The crushing fear had turned Julian's face pale as he fought the impulse to look back. He mustn't, he kept repeating to himself, yelling to himself. If he looked back, it would get him. But he was losing the battle not to do so.
They reached it! They were upon the bridge and about to cross. He relented and looked back. The pumpkin projectile filled his entire view as it came hurtling at his face. He jerked his head to the side, but the impact smacked his jawbone, threw him from the horse, and smashed him into the bridge itself with a deafening thud.
A terrified Caleb Williams continued across, picking up speed rather than slowing for his master. Julian, empowered by sheer adrenaline alone, rose up and ran across the bridge too, oblivious to his pain or injuries, as he was running for his life. Julian made it across and followed the dust trail left behind by his no longer visible fleeing horse. He glimpsed back across the river as he sprinted over the hills.
Through a haunting mist, the Headless Horseman sat on its black horse of death. Every pumpkin on its islet domain was glowing.
Hollow Blood (Book One of the Sleepy Hollow Horrors) concludes in The Devil's Patch (Book Two).
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Austin Dragon is the author of the After Eden Series, including the After Eden: Tek-Fall mini-series, the classic Sleepy Hollow Horrors, and the upcoming cyberpunk detective series, Liquid Cool. He is a native New Yorker, but has called Los Angeles, California home for the last twenty years. Words to describe him, in no particular order: U.S. Army; English teacher; one-time resident of Paris; political junkie; movie buff; campaign manager and staffer of presidential and gubernatorial campaigns; Fortune 500 corporate recruiter; renaissance man; dreamer.
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COPYRIGHT
Published by Well-Tailored Books
Hollow Blood / Sleepy Hollow Horrors (Book 1)
978-0-9909315-0-8 (ebook)
978-0-9909315-1-5 (paperback)
978-0-9909315-2-2 (hardcover)
http://www.austindragon.com
Copyright © 2015 by Austin Dragon
Book cover design by Whendell Souza
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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