The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (Free edition, with exclusive excerpt from A Soul to Steal)
Page 4
LH File: Letter #1
Date Oct. 1, 1994
Investigation Status: Closed
Contents: Classified
Dear Mr. Anderson,
Some of what I tell you will be lies. I don’t mean to get us off on the wrong foot, but I thought I should make that clear from the outset. There is, at least, a good reason for this caveat. Within the day, this letter will be in the hands of the police and they will pore over every detail, real and imagined. If I only offered truth, it might provide them with a roadmap to me and I’m not quite prepared for that. Yet.
I am a longtime reader of the Chronicle—that part is no lie, I assure you. In particular, your work has captivated me. It’s something in how you write about crime. It seems pedestrian in others hands. But you offer me enough details that I can almost hear the squeal of tires at a roadside accident and smell the smoke from the fire. You are very talented and I have no doubt you will go far.
So allow me to hand you the biggest story of your career.
Approximately 6.7 miles from here to the northwest, just past Waterford on Clover Hill Road, lying in a shallow stream bed, you will find a body. While it’s possible some local urchin will spot it first, it’s sufficiently fresh that I think it likely you could be the first on the scene. Whether you want to see it yourself, or call the police, I leave up to you.
The name of the victim is Henrietta Verclamp. I had nothing against her. She was an attractive 37-year-old artist given to painting nature scenes and we chatted quite amiably shortly before her death. Even when she saw the knife, she didn’t really understand. And why should she? Monsters lurk in the dark, not the daylight, and most don’t stop to chat.
To help you with color for your story, I will tell you this: She attended George Mason University and studied history. Art was something she took up to pass the time when she returned home to Leesburg, Va., while she decided what she wanted to do with her life. On a lark, she entered one of her paintings into a competition and the rest, as they say, is history. She won. In the 15 years since, she has never achieved widespread fame. But I think you will find her reputation was good and growing.
She had wonderfully red hair, an easy laugh and a certain twinkle in her eye when she smiled. Oh, in case it’s relevant, she screamed delightfully when I sliced into her. Unfortunately, I cut a little too close to the left lung and she began choking on her own blood, which rather diminished the effect.
No one heard her. She died at 11:33 a.m. this morning. Her parents, whom she mentioned still live in Leesburg, undoubtedly think she is out painting. Can you call them and tell them yourself, or is that too tacky? I really wish I understood more about the niceties of reporting. I mean, that way you would get a great scoop, right? Be able to tell all about their reactions right as they hear their only daughter has been murdered? That would make for great color, I would think. God, I wish I could see it, but I’ll have to rely on you to convey what you can. I leave it to you to best judge the situation. I can’t know everything and your work has left me sufficiently impressed that I’m confident you will know the best way to handle it.
Now for your questions. I suppose the biggest one is: Why? As you know, it’s the hardest question for anyone to answer. Why does a man feel like watching football on a Saturday afternoon, a cold beer in his hand as he kicks his feet up on the couch? No, that’s a bad analogy.
Why does a woman enjoy a good game of tennis with her best friend on a Sunday morning? That’s better—more active. Believe me, murder is an aerobic workout.
My point is: You do these things because on some level, they are a lot of fun. A way to relax. A way to blow off steam after a hard day’s work. And I figured it was a good way to start the month off right.
There are other reasons. I wouldn’t want you to think I murdered her just for fun. I did it because I wish to prove a point: the world is changing. It’s something indefinable in the air and water. History is a cycle of the rise and fall of civilizations and individuals. There comes a certain point where the apex has been reached and everything begins slipping into darkness.
That point has now come. When it turned, I can’t exactly say, but I feel it under my skin. Underneath the perfume of the roses, you can begin to scent the rot and decay setting in.
I don’t mean this just at a national level. You can feel it here too. Maybe you already do. You are a perceptive man.
Loudoun County has stayed much the same as it has for 200 years. But that is beginning to slide. Fairfax County is growing and expanding. Pretty soon, the future will be at the door. There will be immigrants, developers and yuppies flooding through our gates. And that will bring with it the enemy of all humankind: change.
Change is inevitable, but there are times in life when we must make a stand. I intend to do so. My medium is the one best understood by every being on this planet, from the lowly maggot to us—fear.
Don’t worry, I won’t single out immigrants or minorities. I’m not prejudiced and—in all honesty—that would be trite and predictable. For terror to be most effective, it has to be indiscriminate. You can’t ever believe you are safe. You have to always be looking behind you, wondering who is there in the shadow beyond the streetlight. So, starting today, everyone is up for grabs.
I will be the thing people fear. And for all time, my name will send a shiver down everyone’s spine. It will become synonymous with the creeping darkness.
Today is the first day of October. By the end of it, five women, five men and five children will be rotting in the ground. You cannot stop me, just as you cannot stop change. I am night. I am cold. I am flesh rendered and torn. I am steel. I am the harbinger of fall: I am death.
You can call me Lord Halloween.
Chapter 2