Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  The New Jersey Palisades had swallowed the setting sun. The sky was hazy and dimming. A fierce wind blew across the water. He saw Jennifer from the Horseman Restaurant. She’d lost control of a roll of paper towels and it was bouncing away, a ribbon of white across the brown grass. The rot had reached the park. Everything was dry and dead. Only the people looked alive. Where was Joey? All Zef wanted was Joey, to find him before the light was totally gone, before Hadewych showed up to steal his son away. The moon was out, impatient for sunset, full and romantic. This would be The Night. Zef would declare himself, come wrack or ruin.

  He passed Kidd’s Rock, a promontory of brown stone that jutted over the water. Old Vredryk Philipse himself had been accused of consorting with the notorious pirate Captain Kidd, of using that rock to light signal fires, calling to the Blessed William, beckoning it to dock and deliver its illicit cargo. Tonight, a cherub-faced Guatemalan boy sat cross-legged there, a tiny flag in his hand, comfy in his Captain America windbreaker.

  Zef thought he saw Joey but it was Jim Osorio and his wife Pat stretched out on folding chairs with a cooler between them. He’d never seen the cemetery director in shorts before. He’d never noticed how much father and son looked like each other.

  “Happy fourth,” he said, breathless. “Is Joey here with you?”

  “No, he didn’t come,” said Jim, popping a Sprite.

  “He did too,” said Joey’s mom, holding her straw hat firmly with one hand and lowering her sunglasses with the other. “He’s down by the lighthouse, honey.”

  “Thanks,” said Zef, turning away.

  Pat slapped her husband’s shoulder. “Honestly,” she whispered. “He’s a nice boy.”

  Zef pushed through the crowd, reached the southern end. The gate was locked. The fireworks would be launched from the concrete slabs of the old GM plant. The lighthouse was too close to the firing area. Off-limits. But all Sleepy Hollow kids know how to bypass the fence. He climbed over the railing. A rusted wagon wheel protruded from the seawall. He used it as a ladder, found a strategically placed stump with his foot, and lowered himself onto a stretch of sandy beach. He crossed the little inlet, climbed back up, and skirted the General Motors property, following the dark walkway, buffeted by intensifying winds. He watched for security, hoping someone wouldn’t order him away.

  The lighthouse was dark but beautiful. The moon and the Tappan Zee Bridge hung behind it like a set dressing. Of course Joey would be there. Where else would he be? This was Zef’s lighthouse. Where else could this finally happen? The only disappointment was the handful of kids milling around on the landing. He wouldn’t have Joey to himself and they might be overheard. Joey stood at the railing of the lighthouse bridge, looking away over the water. Zef tapped him on the shoulder.

  Joey’s face lit up and then, just as quickly, darkened. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Ta-dah. You found me.” Joey’s brow knit. “Is Jason okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Can we talk?”

  “We are talking. What?”

  Zef stared at Joey dumbly. He had nothing, only… “I love you,” he blurted.

  Joey went still. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “And?”

  “And… That’s it.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Just like that.”

  “You are unbelievable.” Joey turned away, walking back to shore.

  Zef followed him. “I mean it.”

  “I’m sure you think you do.”

  “I’m sorry. I just—I had to get it out. I don’t have much time.”

  “Let me guess. Your dad’s on his way.”

  Zef nodded. “But meet me later. When he’s asleep.”

  “Shut the hell up,” said Joey. Zef pulled him into a secluded corner and tried to kiss him. Joey pushed him away. “What are you doing?”

  “Just kiss me.”

  “Okay. Sure. But where everyone can see.” Joey walked back into the jumble of kids. Nathan, one of the Sleepy Hollow Boys, was there with his girlfriend, Sally Blatt. Jimmy Puleo was pacing the rail. Zef knew them all. None of them knew him. Not really. “Well?” said Joey.

  Zef shook his head and beckoned.

  Joey crossed his arms.

  Light blossomed on the far side of the river. The Hudson River towns coordinate their fireworks. The community firework displays travel northward, town by town, so as not to overlap. These were the South Nyack fireworks, on the far shore of the Hudson, at the foot of the Tappan Zee. They would be followed by the Sleepy Hollow display, then the Nyack display across the river. The South Nyack fireworks were dim and small, like prom carnations remembered by an old man. A grand lightshow if you were close up, but unimpressive from a distance.

  Zef approached. “Come on,” he whispered. “You said you loved me too.”

  “And what did I get for it? When I’m seventy and somebody asks me ‘who was your first love?’, you know what I’ll say? ‘Some closet case who punched me in the nose and called me fag.’”

  “Please,” said Zef. “Don’t.”

  “That’s my story. For the rest of my life. And you can’t change that now.” The fireworks were going off behind Joey’s shoulder. Tiny white prom carnations fizzling and dying away. “And what was my first love like? Oh, he never stood up for me. He sided with the bullies. They called me ‘fag’ too. And he said nothing.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Yes. You could. Even a straight boy can stand up to bashers. All you have to do is say it’s wrong. But you don’t believe it’s wrong, do you? You think we deserve it. You think we’re bad, that you are some freak who has to hide. Well, I’m not. And I don’t. I won’t.” His voice became high, loud and exaggeratedly girly. “Hey everybody! We’re going to rock the fourth, girlfriends! Can I get a ‘fabulous?’”

  “Fabulous!” answered the crowd, laughing.

  Zef threw up his hands. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I know. That’s your problem.”

  The fireworks intensified behind Joey. Zef wanted to hold onto them but they were too insubstantial and fleeting. An inverted heart appeared in the sky, swelling, bursting into sparks. “Just kiss me. One more time. I’ll do it. Here. In front of everybody.”

  “No,” said Joey.

  “Why not?”

  “Actually… I’m here with a date.”

  The South Nyack display had reached its distant finale. It ended and the sky went dark. The crowd clapped and whooped.

  “Who?” whispered Zef.

  “You don’t know him. But he’ll be looking for me. You better go.” Joey turned away.

  Zef caught his arm. “I’ll come out to my dad. What if I do that?”

  Joey couldn’t meet Zef’s eye. His voice became small, as if the words were escaping despite all his best efforts. “Come back when you have.”

  The wind pulled them apart. Zef turned away. He didn’t see that Joey stood alone at the rail, that no date appeared, or else he might have guessed the lie. He pushed through the crowd. He would tell his father. Tonight. It was time. It was time to declare himself to Hadewych.

  “Let’s go!” someone shouted. The crowd pressed forward, excited. Now that the little South Nyack display was over, the Sleepy Hollow fireworks were ready to begin.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  “The Catacombs”

  Jason beat his fists against the iron door. He threw his shoulder against it. He felt the crevices for a knob or latch but found none. Water continued to pour from the broken machinery, falling down the stairs and splashing into the blackness. His flashlight was below, somewhere, probably shattered. But where was his phone? Could he call someone for help? No. He had laid his phone atop the wooden box while working out the puzzle. It was on the other side.

  Okay. Don’t panic. Zef knows you came down here. When you don’t show up he’ll come looking. But when? Should he sit here in the dark all night? Would Zef come in to look? Would he sho
ut? Or would he stick his head into the cellar, see no Jason, and slip out again? No, Jason couldn’t count on rescue. He had to find his flashlight and look for another exit.

  At least that’s what he told himself. What he actually did was stand very still for a very long time, letting his imagination run away with him. What if he did go down? What was down there? He’d been so intent on getting in that he’d given no thought to what he’d find. His mind raced through everything he’d read of Agathe’s lair. Her body could be down there… Well, Jason had seen plenty of dead bodies. Dead bodies weren’t so bad. And, after a century and a half, she’d just be bone and dust held together by mummification and malice. His fingers touched the brick. He pictured it. The red brick, like the cellar of the Amityville Horror house. (The Well to Hell. They come through here. Close it! Close it! Get out! Get out!)

  Stop it. You’re always doing this shit to yourself, Crane. It’s not helpful. Crap. I haven’t taken five steps into this tunnel and already I’m about to pee myself. Thanks, brain. Thanks very much.

  You’re welcome, giggled his amygdala, the fear center, the part that trembles at spiders and snakes and jet black tunnels that bleed. He shook his head. It’s just a stupid tunnel. Go down. Find your flashlight. You’ll see how scary it’s not. It’s this dark that’s getting to you. This complete dark. This total dark. This swallowing hungry dark. His hearing was already sharpening. The last of the water dripped from the shattered pipes. He rapped the door once with his knuckles and the sound was deafening. He took three deep breaths and felt for a rail. There wasn’t one. He put a hand on either side, bracing himself against the brick, and descended the wet stair, praying that he wouldn’t lose his footing, fall, bash his head open, and die on impact. Would he haunt 417 Gory Brook then? Would he whisper Kate… Kate… in the night, pining for the girl he’d lost, who would never know why he didn’t come?

  She’ll think I ditched her. She’ll think—

  His right foot slipped. He fell, landing on his hip again, bouncing down the stairs again. His feet struck cold water.

  Had he reached the bottom? He felt for the floor. No, just more steps. How deep was this tunnel? He lowered himself to sit on the last dry step. He still couldn’t feel bottom. Only bone-chilling water, all the way up to his jeans pockets. One more step and he might as well dive in and get soaked through. The water smelled foul, though, and in his mind it swarmed with rotted things and saucer eyes, with blind cave fish and Gollum and…

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. He tested the brick, trying to find some clue as to where he was. He’d left his gloves on the other side of the door as well. He rose a little and his palm closed on something metal that protruded from the wall…

  The door groaned above. Something was coming. Someone was coming. A faint glimmer of light threw mad shadows around the tunnel. He couldn’t turn his head. This was a vision. This was a memory burned into the red stone. The tunnel brightened. He could see the rest of the steps now. He was only about eight steps from the bottom, bone dry in this vision. At the bottom stood another door, to the right, banded with brute metal like the front door of the house, like Absalom’s coffin. Brom-built. The door slammed above. Something grated and thudded. A lock. Who was coming down the stairs? The light neared, flared, and a figure passed through him. A bent old woman, her hair in a tight bun, an oil lantern held in her hand. The shadow of her swooned and fell. Agathe reached the bottom of the stairs, paused, and glanced upward, her eyes narrowing as if seeing him, as if knowing he crouched there. They stared at each other for a moment, the toothless hag and the shivering young man. She took a crude key from her pocket, unlocked the door, and disappeared. The shadows followed her. The tunnel dimmed as if an iris were closing…

  The vision ended. Jason released the wall sconce. He would never get used to his Gift, not when it kept surprising him like that. But the vision had been helpful. He’d seen the entire passageway. He could reach bottom, though he’d get soaked. He wrinkled his nose and slipped into the oily water. It froze his chest and the shock stopped his breathing. He gasped. He gained buoyancy and began to float. He pressed his lips, attempting to keep the water out of his mouth, breathing through his nose, trying not to barf at the stench. He might have been swimming in the Grim Reaper’s septic tank.

  He felt something roll under his sneaker. The flashlight. He tried to snag it, treading water, toes pointed, size-seventeens barely brushing it, kicking it away, finding it again, losing it.

  Oh, to hell with it.

  He dove into the water, blindly, his body rotating, his feet kicking through the surface. He snagged the flashlight with his left hand, turned in the water again, kicked off and broke the surface. His hair streamed down his face. He searched for the door Agathe had passed through. His hand closed on a knob but it wouldn’t turn. He remembered her using a key. Oh no. He stuck the flashlight in his pocket, pushed against the door, but only succeeded in drifting away, his back thumping against the far side of the tunnel. He heard Hadewych saying, “You’ll just hurt yourself. That’s Van Brunt workmanship.”

  The thought of Hadewych brought anger and defiance. Jason braced himself against the wall, kicked the door, kicked again, and on the third strike the metal snapped, the door flew open, and Jason rode a tidal wave into the space beyond, skittering and spinning, gasping like a fish thrown to shore. The stench got the better of him. He gagged and vomited and the last of the water washed his lunch away.

  He tested the flashlight. Dead, of course. He wanted light desperately. He couldn’t bear the dark a moment longer. He took the flashlight apart, piece by piece. He wrapped his palm around each part, concentrating. His restoration Gift engaged. His hands flashed. He restored the flashlight itself and each battery, reassembled it, and thumbed the switch.

  Nothing.

  He cursed, trying to think of what to do now. The flash of light from his hands had given him a glimpse of where he was. Another tunnel. Stretching away endlessly. Why didn’t the flashlight work? Why didn’t it—

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  He opened the case, turned the batteries around, and tried it again. The light flared so brightly that he pressed his eyes shut and winced. He blinked as his pupils recovered. The spill of fetid water made a bright trail down a wide vein of red brick, like embalming fluid trickling into a corpse.

  There you go again. Stop it. Stop it. Things are better. You have light. You’ll be okay.

  But he didn’t feel okay. He felt nauseated and wet and terrified. He imagined Agathe was watching him. Of course she was. This was her home. Down here. Even more than the house above, even more than the attic.

  I’m watching you, boy…

  You don’t belong…

  You’re trespassing…

  (GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!)

  He rose, dripping and spitting, and walked on. His steps were deafening. He held the flashlight with both hands. It was freezing down here, deep under the earth, and his skin was soaked. A wave of shivers undulated through him from his elbows to his navel and up the back of his neck. He froze, not knowing why. He thought he’d seen the silhouette of a man ahead, just for a fleeting instant, as if he’d startled someone and they’d backed away, backed away into darkness.

  “Hello?” he whispered, and his voice was hollow and demonic, amplified by the stone, echoing back as if someone had returned his greeting.

  What if someone was down here? He hadn’t thought of that. Some living person? Like the Satan-worshipers everyone was talking about? Those Son of Sam types who killed puppies and performed human sacrifices? Aside from the supernatural, there were real dangers in the world. Vagrants and molesters and mole people. He searched the walls for graffiti or gang tags, found none, just endless red brick. No pentagrams or 666 or…

  “Help me…”

  He gasped. It had been a woman’s voice, from somewhere ahead. Hadn’t it? He listened hard, straining. He thought he could hear a distant murmur, like a cassette tape played backwards,
a low susurration of voices.

  Oh, I don’t like this…

  The echoes were playing tricks with his imagination. These wild acoustics. He wanted to call out but he was afraid of drawing attention to himself. He heard footsteps behind. Footsteps ahead. He whirled. Just the echo of his own feet. His teeth began to chatter. Some insect answered, a clicking noise, like a stick running along the iron fence of a graveyard.

  Oh, this is some freaky shit…

  Something caught his eye. Motion above. A fat cockroach crawling on the ceiling. He flinched but walked on, placing one foot, bringing them together, one foot, bringing them together, as if processing up an aisle. A few stalactites hung above like a dribble of candle wax. His flashlight blinked and went out.

  No. No.

  A face appeared in the darkness, growing nearer. Like the image on the Shroud of Turin in negative. Jason struck his palm with the flashlight. It lit again. The face disappeared. Nothing. Just the afterglow on his retina. Just fear of the unknown. Fear and echoes and bugs and gooseflesh and too many horror movies.

  Another door appeared, ahead and to the right. It had a window and someone was peering out at him. He raised the flashlight. No. Just a pane of smoky glass and his own reflection. The door shimmered gold, gilt and ornate but rotted. The handle was a small pewter lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. The door groaned as Jason pushed it open.

  He stepped inside and found… a tea setting. A parlor. A round table, covered with rotted lace. Threads of spider silk rippled from a porcelain cup, buoyed upward by the motion of the air like wisps of rising steam. The teapot was blue and white, with images of windmills and of boys carrying water. Dutch china. What was it called? Delft. The walls of the room were decorated with similar porcelain tiles, with country roads and rabbits and bright blue birds. Somehow the sight of these things gave Jason a greater sense of dread. It was just too much, to think of Agathe down here, drinking tea under the earth. A rotted chair lay on its side next to the table. Only one chair. Only one cup. She didn’t entertain down here. This was her private space, her little Dutch cozy. A few books in English lay forlornly on a shelf, moldy but readable. The first was Pilgrim’s Progress. The second was a treatise on medieval bloodletting, on the use of leeches and razors to drain the humours, to exsanguinate, to steal the blood and bile and phlegm. Agathe had underlined passages of the text. Jason threw the book aside.