SLEEPY HOLLOW: Bridge of Bones (Jason Crane Book 2) by Richard Gleaves

Author:Richard Gleaves [Gleaves, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Turtlebug Publishing
Published: 2014-10-17T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Dylan’s Tale: Part Two”

The Horseman came for me within hours. I was walking through the woods between Woolfert’s Roost and the future site of my father’s stone manor house. The house would eventually stand on what had been old Baltus’ pumpkin field—the land where I had found my grandfather’s head. Father had chosen the spot for its view of the Hudson River. “Knoll” was to be a grand mansion in the Gothic revival style but at the time the mansion was but a few foundations of Van Brunt stone. I had become fond of the place already, the idea of it, and I spent many a night alone in a shack on the property. My mother disapproved. She would have me sleep in the room across from hers in our townhouse. But I was fifteen and did not answer to her.

I kept a bottle of spirits hidden in the crook of two walnut trees, near old Baltus’ grave. I thought he would approve of the gesture. I had stopped along my way to fetch it out. At the moment the first pull of liquor touched my throat, I heard a ghastly, inhuman laugh. I was not alone in the woods. Had God sent the Horseman after me? Had I sinned that terribly?

I ran through the wood and found the field where Knoll was to be built. The outline of the foundations was barely discernable beneath the snow. An apparition stood there. Though I have seen him many times since, I shall never forget my first glimpse. Gaunt in moonlight, headless, exuding power and malice. A magic thing in the land of the ordinary.

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. What chills those words evoke.

It charged at me, hatchet raised.

I stood transfixed, unable to move, unable to even imagine escape. This was the servant of God, after all, sent to strike down sinners. I hurled the bottle from my hand, ashamed that I had become a drunkard as Baltus had been. It shattered against the foundations of Knoll.

I stretched out my arms and awaited judgment.

A piercing white light broke the darkness. The Horse reared.

“Not my Dylan!” cried Agathe, appearing from the wood. She held a skull in her hand. It shone brightly as a diamond. And in that moment I understood. The Horseman did not serve God, he served my grandmother. Perhaps in that moment I came to see Agathe and God as one and the same.

The unholy spirit fought her command. A foreleg of the demon horse struck my head with such power that I fell backwards with a cry and knew no more. I carry the scar to this day. A slight indentation in my temple, barely noticeable. In my days of courting I was told that when I am angry the patch of insulted skull bone will stand out in a disturbing manner. I have never had occasion to see this phenomenon, however, as I am generally well-pleased whenever I pass a mirror.

After the Horseman struck me down, I fell into a deep sleep and did not awaken for many weeks.

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