Wake the Hollow

by Gaby Triana

  Jonathan plucks a mask of a bloody ghoul from a duffel bag by his feet and puts it on. He doesn’t look all that different from before. “That’s right. Full control of this year’s thrills and chills, baby. Grrr.”

  “Wow. HollowEve,” I murmur. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”

  The annual event transforms Philipsburg Manor, another historic home in the Hollow, into an eerie landscape with more jack-o-lanterns, tombstones, and costumed characters than the world has ever seen. They also boast an annual Legend of Sleepy Hollow reenactment with an appearance by a fake Headless Horseman.

  “What parts are you playing this year? Brom Bones and his boon companions?” I snicker. Jonathan takes off the mask and smirks at me.

  Hand pressed to his chest, Bram says, “I am hoping for the coveted horseman’s role, if you must know. I’ve wanted it since I first rode Apple.”

  Apple—I remember his grandfather’s horse and how Bram would go to his ranch every weekend to ride her.

  “Felix, the usual guy, just moved away, so they’re looking for someone new,” Bram adds.

  “We’ll see about that.” Jonathan huffs. “A lot of people want that role. People older than you who’ve been volunteering even longer.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, buddy.” Bram claps him on the shoulder. “You’re too short.”

  “And you’re too ugly.”

  “Dude. How does a headless horseman need to be good-looking if he doesn’t have a face?”

  “And how does a horseman need to be tall?”

  “Guys,” I interrupt, “you’re still competing for the same stupid things, I see. As if HollowEve is worth fighting over.”

  Bram looks up at me under wilting eyebrows. “Some things are worth fighting for.”

  Jonathan stares ahead while cracking a knuckle. What did he mean by that? I swallow my bite of pancake slowly.

  “Anyway…” Bram opens the OJ carton and begins pouring juice into three glasses. “I know you never liked the whole tourist thing, but it’s the one time of year we finally get some recognition, so face it, you’re a local again, which means you’re trapped.”

  “Trapped with weirdos.” I chuckle.

  “Trapped with tradition!” He raises his fork. “Working might be an option for you, but HollowEve is not. You’re helping us. Accept it.”

  Jonathan shoots Bram a knowing look. “We’ll get her into a Katrina Van Tassel costume somehow.” His ickiness makes me cringe.

  Katrina Van Tassel, the lead damsel from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” probably wore a decent Dutch settler dress in the story, but nowadays, girls have turned her into a joke—bosoms overflowing from slutty corsets and bodices, sad versions of Irving’s original character.

  “I would never wear anything like that,” I say, losing my appetite. Especially for Jonathan. “Anyway, nothing like a couple of festival freaks to welcome a girl back.” I put down my fork and gaze out the window at the familiar treetops. I don’t have time for this. There’s too much to do. I need Bram to drop me off at my new townhouse. Hopefully, Nina has arrived with the key, and I can unpack my stuff, buy a few school supplies, and then visit my old house. Figure out why, if things were so urgent, couldn’t Mami have done them herself?

  ...

  Bram and I head into town for a few things before I meet up with Nina. After all, she wasn’t in a hurry to get here for my sake, opting to spend a few days with her older sister in Brooklyn before finally arriving this morning on the same train I took last night, so why should I hurry?

  I get the nicest gray wraparound sweater I can find at Dillard’s and a pair of autumn boots, things I would never need in Miami. If I have to be in Sleepy Hollow, I may as well allow for some excitement over new things. At checkout, I run my debit card through the terminal. A moment later, the cashier gives me a sorry look. “That one’s declined.”

  “What?” I say, even though I heard her. “I’ll try it again.” I run the card one more time, but the same thing happens.

  “Are you traveling?” The older woman smiles. “Some debit cards have that problem.”

  It’s the same card I used to check in my bags at the airport, and it worked fine there. I run my dad’s credit card instead. It goes through fine. I feel Bram watching me as I take the receipt and put it in my wallet. This happened once before. Sometimes the card companies do it to safeguard you against theft when you’re out of the country, and my dad is in Colombia.

  As we leave the store, Bram bumps shoulders with me. “Happens to me every day, if that’s any consolation.” He laughs heartily. “Hey, it’s only money.”

  We head to his car when his phone rings. He sees who’s calling and sighs, debating whether or not to answer. He mouths the name Mom, shushes me, and plants the phone to his ear. “Hey, Mom,” he says. “Yeah, I’m gonna go pick her up now. No, I don’t know. Probably take her to her nanny at the new place.”

  “She’s not my nanny,” I whisper. Nina Whitman is my father’s assistant. She might sometimes cook, do laundry, and pretend to keep me company while my dad is out of town, but we both know it’s only a formality, since I’m eighteen.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I think he’ll be here any day now. I don’t know,” Bram says. I can hear Mrs. Derant’s voice growing agitated on the other line. Bram’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as he backs out of the parking space. “Why don’t you call her and ask her yourself? Yes, yes, whatever. Bye.” He hangs up and blows out a big breath. “Holy shit.”

  “Someone got an earful.” I laugh.

  Bram shakes his head and begins imitating his mother’s voice. “Why’s that girl here? She needs to go back to where she came from. Blah, blah, blah.”

  I pick at my cuticles without comment. Some things never change. What did I ever do to that woman?

  Bram stops at the parking lot exit, staring at the street signs. “Where is this place again?”

  I show him the address on my iPad screen, and he takes off toward the nicer part of town. We reach a neighborhood of neatly lined-up townhouses, fresh stamped concrete driveways, and baby trees held up with sticks. Bram helps me carry my stuff, while I stomp up the steps and ring the doorbell. “Nice place,” he says.

  “Your mom’s not happy I’m here, is she?” I scoff. “Maria Burgos’s evil daughter, back in town to try and steal the imaginary family fortune.” Wish they would let it go already.

  “Don’t worry about her. I’ll fend her off.” He bumps my shoulder, checking his phone. “I would stay and check out the place, Princess, but I have to get going. Work starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “I know. Hey, I’m glad we got to spend some time together.” I give him a big hug, still not used to Bram being so much taller than me. “Thanks for taking me shopping. And for breakfast. It was awesome.” It really was. He could’ve easily bought a box of doughnuts, but he cooked. That was really sweet of him.

  “My pleasure.” He taps my chin with a fingertip and stares at me a long moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Call or text me when you get your schedule to see if you’re in any of my classes.” Slowly, he backs down the steps. “And stop looking so damn hot, Mica. Jeez.”

  “You stop.” I laugh, feeling myself blush. I watch him get into his car, answer another phone call, and drive off. He waves out his window.

  I face the house. Here goes nothing. I ring the doorbell again and wait. The door opens, and short, nervous, red-haired, ponytailed Nina steps back to let me through. “Micaela!” She’s out of breath, stepping out of the way, so I can drag my bags into the foyer myself. “How was your flight? LaGuardia, right?”

  “Good, and yes. Then, I took the train from the city late last night, only to get your text that the place wasn’t ready. Thanks for letting me know sooner.”

  “Oh, you are so welcome,” she says, completely ignoring my sarcasm. “So, which motel did you stay at?”

  “I didn’t. I stayed with Bram. Didn’t feel like being alo
ne at a motel. Know what I mean?” Not that Nina would care, as long as I’m alive and she’s getting a paycheck.

  “Oh, okay!” She fakes an interested smile, but she’s doing that thing where she’s not really listening to anything I’m saying. She points up the carpeted stairs. “Your room’s the one on the left.”

  So much for pleasantries. “Is there one down here?” I see through her intentions to keep me in the tallest tower, as per my father’s orders.

  “There is, but it’s for your dad’s office.”

  “My dad’s not here yet,” I remind her. Seeing the blank stare on Nina’s face, I add, “Just stating the obvious. You can tell him I was being difficult.”

  “You? Difficult? Don’t be silly. Fine, take it, I don’t care.” She flips a hand and looks around. “What was I doing? Right, phone company, rental car, refilling allergy prescription…” She disappears down a short hall, muttering, “How I’m supposed to do all that with what I’m given, I swear, I don’t know…”

  With what she’s given. I do nothing to quiet my scoffs. Like she doesn’t make enough money. Bram or Jonathan would kill for a fraction of what my dad pays her.

  I find the downstairs bedroom, close the door, and plop down on a box, trying not to think about this life. I was supposed to start my senior year surrounded by friends at Carrolton, and now I’m back here, of all places. How quickly things change.

  Better start unpacking. After making a decent bedroom out of this white cube of a room, I clock in some face-to-face time with Nina, but as soon as she starts on about the alarm company not receiving the deposit, how she hasn’t rented a car yet because she’s waiting for the transfer to go through, and more bitching, I throw on my new gray sweater and head outdoors, if only so I can breathe again.

  First stop—the old house on Maple Street.

  Chapter Four

  “However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air…grow imaginative…dream dreams, and see apparitions.”

  Cutting through downtown, I have to admit I’d forgotten how the Hudson Valley is its own brand of gorgeous. Treetops dance underneath clear blue skies, and the breeze coming off the river smells of sweet autumn leaves. If I hurry, I’ll have time to visit both the house and Betty Anne all before the sun goes down.

  See me…

  I look behind me for the source of the voice.

  Nobody there. As usual. It’s worse when I haven’t slept. “I need one decent night,” I mutter to no one.

  Crossing Beekman Avenue into Sleepy Hollow city limits, the street signs change from green to blue and feature the ghostly galloping horseman who rides each night in search of his head. On the corner of Broadway and College, I pause to stare at a dark bronze statue of the legendary Hessian trooper. When I was little, he gave me the creeps. I felt like he could see me, even though he had no head. Standing here facing him again, a memory filters into my mind, an exchange between my parents once, while I hid in the pantry—

  “Maria, let it go. It doesn’t exist. How are we supposed to ever have a life if you don’t get over this?”

  “I don’t want to get over this, Jay. I have a life, and it’s here.”

  “It should be wherever I am, your husband. You’re killing me, I hope you know that.”

  Even at eleven, I could empathize. I absorbed my father’s anguish as though it were my own. Yes, my mother loved the Hollow, its history, culture, everything…but how? How could she love it more than us?

  Less than a year later, my father left. He moved to Miami to take advantage of the international market, just as a lot of people in town started investing in his medical diagnostic equipment business. The move ended my parents’ marriage. Most wives would’ve jumped at the chance to live the good life in a beautiful tropical city by the sea, but no…not Maria Burgos. My mother had to be different.

  The statue could jump off its pedestal right now from how hard I’m staring at it. I almost hear the horse neigh in ethereal protest. Across the street, church-goers gather under tents behind the chapel. Kids run amok. Then, I see someone that stops my gaze. Standing apart is a man wearing a white buttoned-down shirt, jeans, and a brown coat. Older than me by maybe four or five years. Tall and exceedingly lanky, Irving would’ve said.

  Eyes solidly fixed on me.

  Do I know him? Is this another childhood friend I barely recognize? Maybe my ruffle skirt is too showy for this small town. I have to remember I’m not in South Beach anymore. I march on, taking the occasional glance back. He’s still staring, only now, he smiles. Despite a towering build that should probably intimidate the hell out of me, he just seems friendly.

  I barely smile back and hurry off.

  At the split in the road near my old neighborhood, the chatter and smells of barbecue melt away. Here, the trees rustle, and the valley whispers breezily all around. I almost hear the voices of Dutch settlers choosing this hallowed ground as their hideaway from their homeland’s troubles.

  I keep my head down, just in case any of my old neighbors outside think they’re seeing my mother’s ghost. I do look exactly like her in the face and with hazel eyes, only younger and blond.

  At the end of the street, a brown and white pit bull appears from the side of a yard and starts yammering, ramming his short snout into the chain link fence. I gasp, holding onto my heart. Suddenly, the barking dog cowers and backs off, apologetic. “Nice doggie.” I scoot past him as quickly as I can.

  Jeez, even the dogs hate me.

  As I turn the corner, my stomach sinks like dead weight in the river. There it is—150 Maple Street. The little blue house has faded to a light gray. In my mind, I remember my parents and I standing on the front lawn years ago while Betty Anne took a photo of us for our annual Christmas card. Me in my red and black gingham dress, big bow at the waist. I remember how much I loved that dress. We stood so proudly, so united as a family. Or so I thought.

  Say cheeeeese. Season’s Greetings from the Burgos Family!

  A For Sale sign droops outside of it now. My heart hurts. Something sticks in my throat. The last time I saw this house, I stood in my yellow room facing the collection of holographic stickers stuck on the wall and thanked the walls for sheltering me for twelve years. I guess it was childish, but my room had heard all my secrets, watched me grow, and withstood little notch marks on the doorframe. It deserved a proper good-bye.

  Can I do this without unraveling? Holding it together, I cross the street. The house seems so much smaller than when I last saw it. How my father ever lived here when his tastes and dreams were so much bigger, I’ll never know. The porch steps creak underneath my feet. Ginger maple leaves swish in eerie silence.

  I place a hand against the front door and close my eyes, as if waiting for a pulse. I’m home, Mami. What was so urgent? What did you need from me? I try to remember the good times here, because there were many, and after a minute of listening to the wind whistle, the house, this porch, surges to life.

  Suddenly, I’m seven again in my black cat costume my mom had sewn by hand. My father, thinner with darker hair, meticulously carves a pumpkin while Mami warms apple cider on the stove, scents of cinnamon and cloves wafting through the air. The sun melts into a tangerine glow over the river.

  “Mami, when can we start trick-or-treating?”

  “Just as soon as it gets dark, Lela. It has to get nice and dark.”

  Mami’s pretty face beams through the screened window. My father concentrates on his sawing motions, carving out the intricate spider design. There’s a chill in the air, shrieks of trick-or-treaters around the neighborhood, but most of all, a feeling that I’m where I belong.

  When I open my eyes, the image dissolves, replaced by wooden planks of the front porch and swirling leaves. But then, another vision…Betty Anne, knocking on this same door. “Maria?” she says. She holds her upper lip steady while the acrid smell of death in the flaring summer
heat emanates through the open window. She chokes, overwhelmed by the stench.

  Forcing myself back to the present, I gasp, ripping my hand off the door. “What the hell?” Before I can analyze it, something soft brushes against my legs. I scream.

  A white ball of fluffy fur, pink nose, and a sweet face peers up at me. Meow.

  “Coco?” I steady my pounding chest and crouch down to pick up my old kitty. My God, I missed this baby kitty girl! Coconut purrs rhythmically, her wet nose pressing against my face. “You trying to kill me? Who’s feeding you, chica?”

  The cat sniffs me, purrs, and bats her eyelashes in pure bliss. It broke my heart to leave her behind, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask Mami if I could take her. She was born in Sleepy Hollow and belonged here, and in a way, I wanted her to take care of my mom.

  Has anyone claimed her, or has she refused to leave the house after six weeks? With a cupped hand, I block out the light and peek through the sliver of space between the window frame and the shade. Dark inside. Where’s the furniture, the boxes of research, the collection of dolls? Sofia, the only one I didn’t hate?

  “Can we get in there?” I ask Coco. “Is that back window still a thief’s dream come true? Let’s go see.”

  Carrying the heavy cat around the side of the house, I crunch and kick leaves. I locate the office window, the one I crawled out of at least a dozen times to go meet Bram when I was supposed to be grounded, but my mother must’ve had it fixed. I try the back door—locked. The side door—locked. The basement window—locked.

  Coconut is fine in my arms, all happy and purring, until a twig cracks nearby. She hisses viciously, wriggles free of my hold, and bullets around the other side of the house. I glance in the direction of the noise, the far end of the porch where dark shapes flirt with the moving branches. The maples sway, casting shadows against the siding. “It’s just the trees, silly.”

  I could try to break in, but why? The realtor must have the key. I’ll simply explain who I am, show her ID, and boom, easy peasy.

  I call the realtor’s number on the sign. After four rings, a long tone answers followed by a short beep. “Hi, I’m inquiring about the house for sale on 150 Maple in Sleepy Hollow?” I say, not even sure it’s a working voicemail. “Please call me back at…” I leave my cell number and hang up, wondering if anyone will even listen to my message.