Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection

by L. A. Starkey

  ‘This is the girl? Are you freaking kidding me?’

  I wonder if Ben is being told my psychiatric history – though I reason that Dr. Martin-Crane is too much of a stickler for rules to breach patient-doctor confidentiality.

  ‘Are you certain it’s her? She’s the Soul Guardian? I expected her to be trained, at least.’

  Before I know it, I’m off the seat and my shaky legs are rapidly carrying me down the hallway and toward the answers that I seek. But when I arrive at the threshold of the sunlit living room, the double doors are wide open and Ben and his mom have disappeared. I don’t understand how or why. I find myself standing outside the doors listening for anything. And I stare into the empty room, suddenly terribly afraid.

  Then I hear the tapping of high heels on the creaky wooden floorboards above my head, quickly coming down the stairwell from the bedrooms upstairs, and Dr. Martin-Crane suddenly appears. She moves so quickly I barely have time to blink in reaction.

  She’s exactly the same as I remember, except that she seems shorter, or maybe that’s because I’ve grown taller. She’s as tough as nails and doesn’t give an inch, but I suspect that’s how she has to be in her profession. Dr. Martin-Crane is still youngish, probably early forties, and all angles. Her face is thin and sharp, and her jaw pointy; her eyes a hard, almond-shaped hazel; and her dark hair is cut into a sleek, no-nonsense, not-a-strand-out-of-place bob. I suspect Ben takes after his father – though I’ve never seen any evidence that Dr. Martin-Crane has a husband or partner. He’d have to be pretty brave to take on a woman like Dr. Martin-Crane.

  ‘Evelyn. I was just coming to find you to take you home.’ She gives her famous I’m-a-shrink-don’t-mess-with-me stare that still has the power to intimidate me. ‘I’ve called your mother to inform her that you’re safe. Imagine my surprise to find that she didn’t even realize you were missing from your school.’

  ‘Er … where’s Ben?’ Of all the things that could have come out of my mouth, this does. From the look on Dr. Martin-Crane’s face, it wasn’t what she expected me to say – hell, it wasn’t what I expected me to say. Since when do I prioritize a guy – admittedly, a seriously hot guy – over my soon-to-be-cut-short life? I’m totally embarrassed and wonder what’s wrong with me today.

  ‘Bentley has gone to run some errands for me.’

  In other words, forget him, Evee.

  ‘We should get you home,’ she says with a smile that’s as sincere as a checkout chick at Kmart.

  It’s obvious she doesn’t want me here or anywhere near her son.

  Well, it’s too bad that she picked the day when my rebellious streak is showing. So, I ask, my tone blunt, ‘No way. Look Dr. Martin-Crane, I’m no longer a child and I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said to Ben. I’m not going anywhere till I get some answers. What did you mean by “it’s started” and “he’s returned”? Do you mean my father?’

  She doesn’t know how to answer that. I can tell.

  ‘Evelyn, I misspoke. You startled me and I–’

  But I interrupt her with another, more important, question. ‘And what exactly is a Soul Guardian?’

  She looks at me, her eyes narrowing in predatory calculation. I swallow down the rising bile. Bad move, Evee.

  Chapter Five

  We’re sitting in Dr. Martin-Crane’s car, heading up the highway toward where I live on the other side of town, before she’s willing to tell me anything. But when she does, I’m equal parts confused and surprised.

  ‘Have you ever heard of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow?’ she asks out of the blue.

  Twisting my head round to face her in the driver’s seat, I shoot her a look like she’s totally lost it. But I don’t say anything much in response, except to shrug my shoulders. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ve probably been told the version used to scare kids around Scout campfires but, I assure you, there’s a deeper, darker version than what you may know. This is important. You probably won’t believe me – the truth is always hard to accept – but try not to interrupt me.’ Now why would I do that? And I thought I was the crazy person here. ‘I’m going to tell you the real version.’

  Nope, she’s crazy. She’s spent too much time with loonies and psychos.

  ‘The legend tells the story of a love triangle.’ Okay, I’m prepared to listen; this doesn’t sound too bad. ‘In 1790, in a small settlement of New York called Tarrytown, Ichabod Crane, a school teacher by profession, fell in love with eighteen-year-old Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a wealthy agriculturalist. Crane, a Yankee and an outsider to Tarrytown, wasn’t the only man in the town interested in Katrina. Abraham Van Brunt, the town’s “bad boy” figure, also had his sights set on the wealthy heiress. Ironically, he’s often depicted as the hero of the story.’ Sounds a bit like Twilight or The Hunger Games to me. ‘Abraham or Brom, as he was known by all, vied with Ichabod for Katrina’s hand in marriage, playing a series of silly pranks on Ichabod to get rid of his rival that, as they continued, became darker and more sinister.’

  ‘Like what?’ I can’t help interrupting, even though I was told not to.

  But Dr. Martin-Crane doesn’t seem to mind as she follows the street signs and turns off the highway, slowing the speed of the car to a leisurely pace. ‘The area of Sleepy Hollow was noted for its spooky atmosphere; its ghosts and witches. Brom played the usual tricks or pranks on Ichabod that we’ve come to associate with college hazing rituals and Halloween, such as pretending that Ichabod was being haunted by a vengeful spirit and leaving dead animals for him to find. But then he did something no one could have anticipated.’

  By now, she has my complete attention.

  ‘On the night of the Harvest Feast, Brom, who was no longer content to invent hauntings and play upon superstitions but suffused with a lust for power and wealth, did a deal with the Devil. You see, many historians and critics think this tale is about Ichabod but actually it’s a tale about Brom.’

  Afraid to interrupt, I give a small nod, listening intently.

  ‘Ichabod, though many people thought him irrational, eccentric and superstitious, was a Hunter. I know you kids all watch vampire or witch shows or whatever it is now, but being a Hunter isn’t make-believe. It’s real; an inherited role. It’s in the genes. And it’s very dangerous.’ She flicks me a sharp look. ‘Ichabod knew that Brom had crossed a line and that his intentions were ill-fated. He knew this the evening of the Harvest Feast and so, though Katrina agreed to marry him when he proposed to her that night, he left the party preoccupied and heavy-hearted, knowing what he had to do. Passing through the woods between the Van Tassel farmstead and the Sleepy Hollow settlement, Ichabod tracked Brom to the lightning-stricken tree where he argued with him to give up. But Brom refused to listen and ran off toward the swamp. Ichabod gave pursuit but, instead, encountered a cloaked rider. It was the Hessian, the Headless Horseman, sent to collect the souls that Brom had promised the Devil in return for the power and wealth he craved.’

  By now, I’m craning my neck forward, happy to remain silent for once as I’m riveted by the story she is weaving around us.

  ‘In a frenzied race to the bridge, adjacent to the Old Dutch Burial Ground, where the Headless Horseman was said to vanish in a flash of fire and brimstone upon crossing it, Ichabod goaded the Horseman to try to capture him and his soul. The Horseman, wise enough to see through Ichabod’s strategy, clambered over the bridge and, rearing his horse, hurled his severed head into Ichabod’s face to prevent him from reaching safety. But Ichabod had brought with him in his saddlebag a carved pumpkin with a pillar candle which he lit in desperation, using it to keep at bay the harmful spirit – the light from the Jack-o’-Lantern was a way of identifying the undead and, once their identity was known, they would give up their hunt. It’s claimed that the Headless Horseman was Brom himself, though I doubt we will ever know the truth of who or what Ichabod encountered that night.’

  ‘What happened then?’ I ask, immensely
curious. I’m not certain I completely believe the reality of the tale, but it makes for a good story.

  ‘The next morning, Ichabod mysteriously disappeared from the town. He was believed to be dead; the only evidence of his midnight flight were his wandering horse, trampled saddle, discarded hat, and a shattered pumpkin. But these were merely used by Ichabod to throw Brom off his scent. The story not widely known is that Ichabod went to New York where he studied the occult under the guidance of a powerful coven, hoping to find a way to defeat Brom and his devilish pact. Sadly, Ichabod also left Katrina to marry Brom.’

  ‘Wait! What? Why did he allow that to happen?’ I demand, my eyes widening in shock.

  ‘Because Katrina’s soul had already been given to the Devil; hers was one of the souls Brom had promised and, unknowingly, Katrina had been tricked into consenting. His love was lost to him. So, instead, Ichabod vowed justice.’

  I shake my head, trying to sort out the story, fact from fiction, in my mind. ‘And did he get his justice?’

  ‘Of a sort. You see Brom’s pact with the Devil was to curse all his children and his children’s children; each of their souls, the price for his enormous power and wealth.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the recent attacks that have resulted in two women hospitalized?’

  I nod suspiciously. ‘Yeah. Ben said they’re both in hospital in a coma.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dr. Martin-Crane looks grim-faced and I can tell she actually believes what she’s telling me. ‘Both of those women are descendants of Abraham Van Brunt.’

  Intuitively, I know where she’s going with this. Some pathetic ghost story.

  ‘Epic fail,’ I mutter under my breath, skeptically.

  ‘You don’t believe me. You think it a coincidence that both women, no matter how distantly related to Abraham Van Brunt, are attacked within days of each other and now lie in a coma?’ she states. I look at her and don’t answer.

  ‘Well, what if I told you that Bentley is the last of Ichabod Crane’s descendants? And a Hunter? What would you say then?’

  Chapter Six

  I don’t say anything. Instead, I wonder, that at the speed the car is moving at, whether it’s safe to open the passenger door and jump out without being injured. I have a feeling though that if I so much as move a muscle, Dr. Martin-Crane will go as far as putting an arm across to block me – a you’re-not-getting-out-of-this-car-or-going-anywhere arm. Of course, she doesn’t have to – she’s engaged the child locks on the doors.

  I could humor her. I could pretend to play along. After all, I’ve perfected the art of the fobbing-off nod. But the whole thing about the women in a coma and Ben being a Hunter is just too weird, even for me – and I’m like the hugest fangirl of Supernatural.

  Besides, I’m doing my very best to ignore what happened in Principal Shore’s office this morning and convince myself that I’ve been overdosing on Dean and Sam – as if that’s even remotely possible! – and if I admit that what I experienced was real – really real – then I’d have to admit that anything is possible, including my dad coming back from the dead and a soul-collecting Headless Horseman. Not.

  ‘We’ve had both blood moons and blue moons this year. Some people believe these cosmic occurrences are a sign of the end of days. Armageddon,’ Dr. Martin-Crane says after a moment. ‘The members of my coven have our hands full with all these omens and the chaos they’re causing.’

  ‘Wait! What?’ I say, almost accusingly. ‘What d’you mean coven? You’re a witch?’

  I make this sound like a bad thing, despite the fact that I’m pretty open-minded and a firm believer in equal rights and religious freedom for everyone.

  ‘I prefer the term Wiccan,’ she says calmly, glancing over at me. ‘And, yes, we’ve been trying to correct the balance. The Earth has been going through a purging process recently. Unfortunately, it’s a hard time for Wiccans.’

  I open my mouth to argue with her, not buying any of it and feeling the pressing ache for greater understanding. Different emotions battle within me, threatening to overwhelm me; fear, panic, confusion, curiosity. But Dr. Martin-Crane is still talking.

  ‘–I want to take you, just a short detour. It’s quite near. It might help to clarify things for you.’

  Her words finally register and I realize that I’m her hostage. But maybe that’s just my overactive imagination at work because Dr. Martin-Crane did say that she’d called my mother to let her know I’m still alive. I just hope it wasn’t for a ransom demand.

  But, even if her intentions are good, I am trapped in the car with her and I can only pray that she isn’t taking me to some derelict, haunted asylum.

  *

  I should have prayed harder.

  I feel like I’ve been asked by Buffy’s Watcher to accompany him to the graveyard, because that’s where we are – the cemetery where my dad is buried. Except that he’s not. It’s an empty grave. My mom needed what she called “closure”, so she held his funeral two years after he disappeared, cried over the poignant eulogy given by his oldest friend, and threw grave dirt on an empty coffin. I was nine at the time and had been in therapy for two years by then, which meant I had cried all the tears I was capable of crying, reliving his disappearance every week until I suppressed it from memory – which is why I remember almost next to nothing now.

  Mom also had this expensive black granite tombstone erected in my father’s memory. It reads: “JOHN HALE, 1974–2005, LOVING HUSBAND AND FATHER, GOD WILL GROW NO TALONS AT HIS HEELS.” Staring at the gravestone now, I’m no closer to understanding what it means.

  ‘I didn’t know Mom visited my dad’s grave,’ I say, surprised to find flowers placed against the headstone.

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  Blinking, I look at the unusual arrangement of roses, pretty yellow and bulbous lilac and some greenish-white dandelion-looking flowers.

  ‘Your mother believes that she buried an empty coffin.’ My eyes widen and, for a moment, I think Dr. Martin-Crane is going to tell me that there’s a body buried down there, but instead she says, ‘The coven managed to place a relic within the coffin before it was buried for safekeeping. Since then, we have protected the relic and, with it, the spirit of your father by placing angelica root, blessed thistle and other Wicca herbs and flowers of protection upon your father’s grave.’

  The dread hits me and I back up from the grave, and say, ‘But my dad’s body was never found. Why would you do that? And what relic are you talking about?’

  She sighs under her breath at my ignorance, her eyes hard. ‘There is something that doesn’t want your father found. Yet there is a way to reach him – but only with your help. There’s one part of the legend that Washington Irving did get right – Ichabod did indeed carry around with him Cotton Mather’s History of New England Witchcraft. This is the relic the coven placed in the grave; Ichabod’s very own copy entrusted to his children before he died, with the explicit instructions to keep the book safe until it was needed again. We feel that the time is now at hand. And these Wicca flowers and herbs have been used by the coven to ward off the evil that would stop us from recovering your father and the many souls he guards.’

  I shiver as a sudden chill wind plays a haunting theme through the tree-shaded avenues of the dead, parting the grass and hurrying between the marble and granite tombstones as if chasing down its quarry.

  ‘What do you mean? How can you reach my father, let alone recover him? How do you even know where he is?’ I demand angrily. If I wasn’t so upset by her insane claims, I’d be wiping the tears from my eyes. As it is, I am trembling from head to toe.

  But Dr. Martin-Crane is looking past me, fixed on something beyond the present, and I get a feeling like there is something really, really wrong. For a second, I think I can smell smoke and I feel the hairs on my arms singe from the lick of the flame, and it propels me forward in a flood of panic.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I feel a surge like t
he electric shock received from touching a livewire.

  ‘Something’s wrong. Something’s here with us,’ she mutters warily.

  Something is definitely wrong. I don’t need her to tell me that. There is something even creepier stalking the cemetery now; something here amongst the eerie, unnatural atmosphere emanating from the tombstones and burial plots. The surge was some kind of warning – a signal to get my butt out of here now.

  ‘Run! Go now!’ Dr. Martin-Crane’s face is flushed with emotion but I can’t tell if it’s horror or excitement.

  ‘But what about yo–?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool! Run! I’ll slow it down and give you an opportunity to escape!’ she cries, not even knowing what “it” is, then spins and runs off into the avenue of tree-lined crypts.

  I’m not certain where she thinks I’m going to go. It almost seems safer to stay near my dad’s grave with the Wicca flowers and herbs for protection. Almost. But not quite.

  I take off in the opposite direction, moving quite fast but not running yet. I’ve done so much running today, I don’t think I have much strength left in me.

  The cemetery isn’t as silent as I might expect. There’s life here in the shadows. Birds chirp and caw, hidden from sight in the branches of the tall trees, insects buzz amongst the floral wreaths laid upon the burial mounds and plots of the dead. But it doesn’t stop the feeling I get that something is stalking me.

  I’ve never been to the cemetery at night but I know I wouldn’t want to – even in sunlight it seems creepy. It’s far creepier today than when we held Dad’s funeral.